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^niijcrsiitj* of iSortl) Carolina 

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in 2012 with funding from 

University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill 



Illustrated Magazine 

For Young Folks 



Part II., May, 1890, to October, 1890. 



Copyright, iSgo, by The Century Co. 

The De Vinne Press. 

Library, Univ. of 

North ' ... • 




Six Months — May, 1890, to October, 1890. 



After the Duel. Picture, drawn by E. J. Taylor 840 

Angel and Imp. Verse William H. Hayne 955 

Armorer's Errand, The. Poem. (Illustrated by G. W. Edwards) Julia C. R. Don- 749 

Audacious Kitten, The. Verse. (Illustrated by the Author) Oliver Herford 842 

August. Poem. (Illustrated and engrossed by the Author) Katharine Pyle S68 

Awakened Conscience, An. Verse. (Illustrated by Maud Humphreys). . . .Nettie H. Pelhani 619 

Baby a Prisoner of War, The. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) Margaret Forster Owen . . . 723 

Bat, Ball, and Diamond. (Illustrated by H. A. Ogden) Walter Camp 555 

667, 752, 825, 945, 1017 

Betty's By and By. (Illustrated by E. B. Bensell) Julie M. Lippmann 988 

Boat, How to Sail a. (Illustrated by J. 0. Davidson and others) F. W. Pangborn . . 772 

Boy-King, Edward VI., The. (Illustrated from a photograph) Eleanor C. Lewis _ 994 

Brownies' Birthday Dinner, The. Verse. (Illustrated by the Author) . . .Palmer Cox 976 

Brownies on the Canal, The. Verse. (Illustrated by the Author) Palmer Cox 1034 

Brownies' Yacht Race, The. Verse. (Illustrated by the Author) Palmer Cox 889 

Bunnies' Thanksgiving Story, The. (Illustrated by Culmer Barnes) John H. Jewett 620 

Butterfly Honey. Poem Edith M. Thomas 1021 

By the Roadside. Poem. (Illustrated by the Author) Margaret Jolmson 661 

Camera, Through a Detective. (Illustrated from photographs) Alexander Black 1022 

Chief Bread-Baker to the King, The. Verse. (Illustrated by the Author) Valentine Adams 1045 

" Chopping Him Down." (Illustrated by C. T. Hill) Charles G. D. Roberts 928 

Clown and the Feather, The. Picture, drawn by -\. B. Shults 806 

Copper Brazier, A. (Illustrated by the Author) Frederic Villiers loio 

Corkwells, The. (Illustrated) Frances Courtenay Baylor. . . 614 

Costumes, Some Spring. (Illustrated by the Author) Rose Mueller Sprague 624 

Costumes, Summer. (Illustrated by the Author) Rose Mueller Sprague S02 

Crooked-crabbed-cross-about. Jingle. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) William Wye Smith 709 

Crowded Out o' Crofield. (Illustrated by C. T. Hill) William O. Stoddard . . . 60^, 702 

781, 853, 957, 1048 

Cupid and Crab. Verse. (Illustrated by Albertine Randall Wheelan) Francis Randall 834 

Cycling. (Illustrated by Joseph Pennell and H. C. Edwards) Elizabeth Robins Pennell. . . . 733 

Day in the Country, A. Jingle. (Illustrated by J. McDermott) Laura E. Richards 931 

Divided Duty, A. (Illustrated by G. W. Edwards) M. A. Cassidy 684 

Elf and the Bumble Bee, The. Verse. (Illustrated by the Author) Oliver Herford 952 

Elsie Speaks Out. Verse Alice Maude Swell 613 

Eppelin, The Rhyme of. Poem. (Illustrated by Alfred Kappes) Jennie E. T. Dome 865 

Fableland Stories. (Illustrated by Oliver Herford) John H. Jnoett 874 

^ Fair Appraisal, A. Verse. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) Tudor Jenks 956 

J Fairies' Concert, The. Verse. (Illustrated by the Author) Oliver Herford 770 

J Fancy's Ferry. Poem Julie M. Lippmann 5S3 

^ FiDO AND THE DoLL. Picture 562 

0' From the Frozen North. (Illustrated) Augusta de Bubna 869 

" Grasshoppers' Croquet, The. Verse. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) Malcolm Douglas 973 



Great Ocean Waves. (Illustrated by W. Taber and J. 0. Davidson) IF. J. Henderson 904 

Great Tri-club Tennis Tournament, The. (Illustrated by V. YexaxA). . .Richard Harding Davis .... 917 

Grievous Cojiplaint, A. Verse Eitdora S. Bunistead 873 

Gwynne's Little Donkey, The. (Illustrated by F. T. Merrill) Kate Woodbridge Michaelis . 1057 

Hawks, and Their Uses. (Illustrated) H. W. Henska-cu 791 

Holmes, Oliver Wendell. (" In a Poet's Workshop") Annie Isabel U'i/lis 899 

How A Single Shot Won a Fight. (Illustrated by the Author) Julian O. Davidson 999 

How Hugh Went to the Party H. H. Ewing 801 

How TO Sail a Boat. (Illustrated by J. 0. Davidson and others) F. W. Pangborn 772 

Hurdling. (Illustrated by H. A. Ogden and from photographs) Herbert Mafes 688 

If I Were You. Verse George H. Mitrphy 673 

In a Poet's Workshop. (Illustrated) Annie Isabel Willis 899 

In the Early Summer Dawn. Poem. (Illustrated by F. V. Dumond) ... Celia Thaxter 635 

In the Lumber Woods. (Illustrated) F. F. 5S3 

Jingles 660, 709, 931, 1016 

July. Poem. (Illustrated and engrossed by the .•\uthor) Katharine Pyle 790 

June. Poem. (Illustrated and engrossed by the Author) Katharine Pyle 701 

Lady Jane. (Illustrated by R. B. Bach, .\. C. Redwood, and G. W. Edwards).. ]/;x C. V. Jamison . . . 590, 676, 

741, 815, 909, 1038 

Lesson of the Sea, .A. (Illustrated by M. J. Burns and A. J. Goodman) . . IV. J. Henderson Sii 

Little Brown Witch, A. (Illustrated by H. Sandham, A. Brenon, and \ 

F. C. Jones \ "^'"^ ^^- Hamilton 934 

Little Contraband, A. (Illustrated by W. Taber) CJiarles Mcllvaine 966 

Little-Red-Apple Tree, The. Poem James Whitcomb Riley 987 

Living Chain from Ad.\m to Abraham Linxoln, A .M. Storrs 713 

Lost Dream, The. Poem Alice Maude Ewell S41 

Lu.MBER Woods, In the. (Illustrated) F. F. 5S3 

Lyric for May, A. Poem R. A'. Munkittrick 57S 

Marjorie and Her Papa. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch, from sketches by } 

the Author) ' \ Lieut. Robert H. Fletcher -^l^^.bc)^. 


May. Poem. (Illustrated and engrossed by the .\uthor) Katharine Pyle 589 

Memorable D.w, A. Verse Jane Ellis Joy 769 

Moth, The Royal Walnut. (Illustrated) Mrs. Julia P. Ballard 616 

My Lost Jokes. Jingle. (Illustrated and engrossed by the Author) Valentine Adams 660 

My Triple Play. (Illustrated by H. A. Ogden) Tliomas Worthington King. . 943 

North, From the Frozen. (Illustrated) Augusta de Bubna S69 

October. Poem. (Illustrated and engrossed by the Author) Katharine Pyle 1007 

One Afternoon. Verse Laura E. RicJmrds 885 

On the Pond. Picture, drawn by E. C. Vogt 903 

Orie. (Illustrated by Meredith Nugent) Florence A. Merriam 662 

Oil Allez Vous ? (Illustrated by John H. Niemeyer) L. Sauveur 975 

Panther and the Boy, The. Pictures, drawn by Culmer Barnes 998 

Passing of General Bacon, The. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) Alice Maude Eivell 547 

Picture. Drawn by Joseph Pennell S85 

Pictures. Drawn by James Montgomery Flagg 982 

Pictures 562, 771, 806, 840, 885, 903, 982, 99S 

Pr.\cticing Song. Verse. (Illustrated by Rose Mueller Sprague) Laura E. Ricliards 712 

Prince, The Story of. (Illustrated by W. Taber and H. P. Share) Z. .V. Cliapin 601 

Rabbit, The True Story of a Little Gray. (Illustrated by the K\i\hm) . Ernest E. Thompson 953 

Rat's Chevau.x-de-Frise, A. (Illustrated by Meredith Nugent) John R. Coryell 1008 

Reason Why, The. Verse. (Illustrated) Mary E. Bradley 999 

Remarkable Boat Race, A. (Illustrated by H. A. Ogden) Walter Camp 832 

Rhyme of Eppelin, The. Poem. (Illustrated by .Alfred Kappes) Jennie E. T. Dmue 865 

RiNKTUM. Jingle. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) Laura E. Richards . 1016 

Royal Walnut Moth, The. (Illustrated) Mrs. Julia P. Ballard 616 

Sea Princess, The. Poem. (Illustrated by the .\uthor) Katharine Pyle 824 

September. Poem. (Illustrated and engrossed by the Author) Katharine Pyle 927 



Sister Mabel Helen A. Keller 892 

Six Years in the Wilds of Central Africa. (Illustrated by E. W. > 

Kemble, W. Taber, Frederic Villiers, and others) \^E. J. Clave . . .564, 648, 759, S43 

Some Spring Costumes. (Illustrated by the Author) Rose Ahieller Sprague 624 

Stick and Thread, With. (Illlustratedby M. J. Burns and G. W. Edwards) L. Clarice Davis 636 

Story of Prince, The. (Illustrated by W. Taber and H. P. Share) L. N. Chafin 601 

Study-hour, A. Verse. (Illustrated by Mary Hallock Foote) Laura E. Richards 563 

Submarine Ramble, A. (Illustrated by Meredith Nugent) Charles Frederick Holder . . . 586 

Summer Costumes. (Illustrated by the Author) Rose Mueller Sprague 802 

Swinging. Poem. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) Crace Denio Litchfield 674 

Tale of a Tub, The. Verse. (Illustrated by B02) Joel Stacy 1064 

Tenxis Tournament, The Great Tri-club. (Illustrated by V. Perard) . . .Richard Harding Davis .... 917 

Their Little Majesties. Picture, drawn by Rose Mueller Sprague 771 

Then and Now. Verse. (Illustrated) Laura E. Richards 740 

Three Little Birds. Verse. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) Laura E. Richards 800 

Through a Detective Camera. (Illustrated from photographs) Alexander Black 1022 

Through the Back Ages. (Illustrated) Teresa C. Crofton . . 599, 692, 862 

950, 1004 

Triple Play, My. (Illustrated by H. A. Ogdenj Thomas Worthington King. . 943 

True Story of a Little Gray Rabbit, The. (Illustrated by the Author). .Ernest E. Thompson 953 

Two Dorothys. Verse. (Illustrated by Jessie McDermott) Margaret Johnson 7S0 

Two Surprise Parties John Clover 932 

Vacation Days. Poem. (Illustrated by Mary Hallock Foote and R. B. Birch) ..^««a M. Pratt 730 

Waves, Great Ocean. (Illustrated by W. Taber and Julian 0. Davidson) . . .W. J. Henderson 904 

Wee Little Play-house, A. Verse. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) Malcolm Douglas 1003 

What Duke Did. (Illustrated by W. Taber) Heloi E. Hastings 603 

White Mountain Coaching Parade, The. (Illustrated by G. W. Edwards) . //(f/^B Marshall Nojih 836 

Will and Won't. Verse Clara Louise Burnham 1015 

Wings. Poem. (Illustrated by John Richards) Harriet Prescott Spofford. . . . 748 

With Stick and Thread. (Illustrated by M. J. Burns and G. W. Edwards) . L. Clarke Davis 636 

Wolves of the Sea. (Illustrated by Meredith Nugent) John Li. Coryell 866 

Wooden Shoes. (Illustrated by the Author) Anna Page Scott 940 


" ' Buzz-z-z,' Quoth He, as One May Mock Back at a Swarm of Bumblebees," by R. B. Birch, facing Title- 
page of Volume — " In the Early Summer Dawn," by F. V. Dumond, page 634 — " The Baby a Prisoner of War," 
by H. A. Ogden, page 722 — " Mr. Gex Gives Lady Jane a Lesson in Dancing," by R. B. Birch, page 810 — " Little 
Frenchmen at School," from a painting by Geoffroy, page 898 — "The Boy-King, Edward VI.," from a painting 
by Holbein, page 9S6. 


Jack-in-the-Pulpit. (Illustrated.) 

Introduction — When All the World Goes Maying — How Money Was First Made — A Pretty Experiment — 
A Lively Way of Setting — The Woman in the Moon — A Queer Tree-twist (illustrated), 626; Introduction — 
A Forest Tragedy — Ten Weddings to One Marriage — A Coolness Between the Flowers — Fishing for 
Spiders — The New Degree of B. H. B.— The Victoria Regia in the United States (illustrated) — Who 
Knows? — Tinker and Almanac, 710; Introduction — Sails on Bicycles — A New Eiffel Tower — How the 
Beetles Buried a Snake — Stop Thief! — John James Audubon — Puzzled Fairy-folk (illustrated), 798; 
Introduction — The Warning Cry of the Birds in Spring — News from the Vaca Valley — Another Jack — 
The Bolo Flower — The Goose Explains (illustrated), 886; Introduction — White and Red Clover — A Tame 
Butterfly — Bird Flats (illustrated), 974; Introduction — In the Nutting-Time — A Dainty Guest — The Sex- 
ton Beetle — John James Audubon — A Tame Frog — White and Red Clovers (illustrated), 1062. 

Plays and Music. An Old English Folk Song Edgar S. Keller 1065 

The Letter-box. (Illustrated) 628, 717, 804, S92, 979, 1069 

The Riddle-box. (Illustrated) 631, 719, 807, 895, 983, 1071 

Editorial Notes 717 


■" HijiKiiiiiiiiiii! 


(SEE PAGE 554.} 


Vol. XVII. 

MAY, 1890. 

No. 7. 


As Related by Master Muffet — Formerly of Babbletown — in the year 1684. 

'T WAS in September month, o' the year 1676, 
when I went back a-visiting to Babbletown, 
from Wyanoke, where I 'd made my home since 
being a married man ; an' 't was Hkewise i' the 
very middle o' the hurry-scurry, an' 'wilder- 
ment, an' goings on of the Rebellion. Some 
of you folks will be saying, I reckon, that I 
did choose time none too firiy for that my 
holiday visit, but war maketh no such odds as ye 
might suppose in such matters, unless ye be 
yourselves 'mongst the fighting ones, when, 
troth, 't is another thing. Even my wife Patsey, 
that 's a well-behaving woman as any in Vir- 
ginia, an' never speaketh a word contrariwise, 
unless she 's rough-spoken to — why, she must 
needs have at me to be putting off the journey. 
Howsoever, if one giveth in to a woman one 
day there 's no telling how far she '11 adventure 
the next. Then my mind 't was set on the no- 
tion o' going, 'fore ever that warfare was heard 
tell of; besides which reasons, there was litde 
a-doing or selling in the shop to keep me 
busy ; wherefore I set off accordingly as I had 
planned, an' my gray mare Sally, being a quick, 
pretty stepper at that time as ever you saw, we 
made it 'twixt sunrise an' dark easy enow. 
'T was peaceable, in sooth, on the road, too ; 
for ne'er a rebel, hair nor skin, did we once see. 

Copyright, 1890, by The Centltrv Co. 

nor governor's man neither, — leastwise, ne'er 
a one with worser weapon than a wagging 
tongue, belike. Some of such few bodies as I 
did meet said one thing, some t' other. Nat 
Bacon was the name to swear by now ; then 
mayhap, with next comer-along, 't would be Sir 
William Berkeley ; notwithstanding, being my- 
self (as I said afore) a peaceful body, I took up 
cudgels for neither one of 'em, in passing the 
time o' day. But the changes I did hear rung on 
those two names when I 'd got to Babbletown ! 
Now, when a man goeth back to his former 
neighborhood, where he inhabited as a lad, after 
settlement ten year or so in other places, he 's 
like to be asked a-many questions (I take it) con- 
cerning of his matters an' fortunes in general. 
For my part, it seemeth more pest than pleasure 
to be so turned inside out. I was ne'er one for 
bragging, tho' I 'd got on i' the world that far a 
bit better than some who might be named in 
comparison. Nay, nay ; I never looked to have 
all the talk mine own way, but (truth to tell) as 
a married man and a housekeeper, with children 
coming on, I did forethink to be more civilly 
asked concerning the same. I reckon 't would 
ha' been warmer welcome for a fiddle-fine some- 
body, with feathers waving in 's hat and a jingle- 
jangling spur ; but ye see I was neither general 

All rights reserved. 




nor captain, nor aught but plain shop-man Muf- 
fet (that some called Master Mufifet, in civility), 
an' for these good folks o' Babbletown, they were 
in a warlike humor that time. Truly, they 'd 
not done o'er much fighting, — as did appear 
when I made sliift to ask, — tho' how they had 
made out to stay hand from the same, with hot 
blood so a-boihng inside 'em, is a mystery in 
nature; yet, sooth (as did no less appear), what 
was lacking in action they fairly made up in 
speech, for such a babbling an' chatter, such 
wagging o' tongues an' clackety-clack, I never 
did hear the like of 

'T was a fine warm e\en, a bit past common 
supper-time, when I rode into the town — with 
'most all the townsfolk out o' doors afront of 
their houses. An' by reason that ten year or so 
makes a heap o' diflerence in such as be grow- 
ing up or getting old, there were some amongst 
'em I knew not as well as many I knew ; yet old 
ones, or young ones, or middle-aged, former ac- 
quaintance or latter strangers, 't was all one an' 
the same. "Bacon!" " Bacon!" was the cry at 

world like any wild geese in a string, or a game 
o' follow my leader. An' when I stopped afront 
o' Tib Tucker's shop, there they came round 
about me like bees in swarming-time. 

Why, then quoth I, "News! What news? 
(quoth I). Well; there be news a-plenty, I 
reckon. But as to which be the newer, my news 
or yours (saith I), in sooth, is yet to be proven 
i' the comparison." 

Then there a-sitting as I was on my mare 
Sally, with all the folks a-listening for dear life, 
I said on : 

" Truly, I know little about the matter. No 
fighter am I, nor ever was (quoth I), but a plain 
shop-keeper, an' 'tender o' mine own business. 
All I know is this : that there hath been a bat- 
tle. The noise of it I did hear with mine own 
ears ; an' with mine own eyes I saw the smoke 
o' Jamestown burning afterward.* Aye, aye; 
the long an' the short on 't is this (quoth I): 
Jamestown 's burnt up to ashes; old Governor, 
Sir William, is chased away, 'cross the water, to 
Accommack — an' him past seventy year old, 


^^ ^"^^^.fimsit 


uA,,,,'.iii''r'<v ;,,(,; /'/ 


"bacon! bacon! what news from general bacon?" 

sight o' me. Who started it, goodness knoweth I poor soul, with 's head as white as tow ; Vir- 
But up street an' down it went. " Bacon ! Bacon ! ginia is turned upside down by these warring 
What news from General Bacon ? " For all the gentry, who to my mind be 'most as savage as 

* Tliis story deals with tlie time of is known as " Bacon's Rebellion," ^^■Ilicll took place in Virginia, then 
an English colony, in the year 1676. Sir William Berkeley, the governor of the colony, was thought to be inefficient 
and was unpopular. Nathaniel Bacon, a lawyer and one of the governor's council, was called to command the 
colonists who had armed ostensibly to fight the Indians, but really to oppose the governor's policy. The " rebel- 
lion " was for a time successful ; the governor took refuge on an English vessel, and Jamestown, the capital of the 
colony, was burned. But Bacon's death put an end to it. A full account of the uprising may be found in St. 
Nicholas for July, 1S82. 



those savages they 'gan to fight over in the first 
place — an' Master Nat Bacon is cock o' the 
walk, a-riding north an' south over the country, 
to win folks his own way." 

Then they cried out, a dozen or so at once, 
saying ; " Aye, aye ! 'T is said he 's in the next 
county to ours. 'T is said he is at Gloster 
Court-house this very night. Bacon ! Bacon ! 
Bacon ! Bacon ! " 

" Is he so ? " saith I. " Then better thank your 
stars that 't is good ten miles away — an' better 
stay your shouting till ye know for certain who 's 
a-going to be hanged for this business. He 
may be a brave one, your General Bacon, as ye 
call him (quoth I), but Sir William hath the king 
to his back — aye, an' the king's armies, to boot 
— when the time cometh. A pretty piece of 
work it may be, so far, to your notions; but 
let 's wait for the end o' 't." 

Yet, for all that speech, I might see plain 
enough how the wind set in their sails. 'T was 
always more sail than ballast with the people o' 
that town, an' that 's truth ; tho' ne'er will I deny 
that I was myself bom an' likewise brought up 
amongst 'em, aye, even from a little poor child to 
a man grown. But did I remain 'mongst them ? 
Nay, not so ; not there choose me a wife, 
neither. Therefore I have a right to speak my 
mind ; tho', for all that, a man hath little good 
inside him (to my notions) who ever quite de- 
spiseth or maketh naught of the place where he 
was brought up. So, let nobody speak slight- 
ingly to me of that town's people ; yet ye see 
they were but rustical, being so far away from 
James City, and a tempest in a teapot is a 
mighty overboiling thing. As I have said 'fore 
now, I saw how the wind of rebellion was puf- 
fing in their sails, past any one man's breath, 
contrariwise, to hinder. As for Master Fanfare 
Joy, the father o' Mistress Peggy Joy, who mar- 
ried Will Steptoe, — and as for Will Steptoe him- 
self, — they had both stood by Sir William from 
the very first, an' were then gone with him to 
Accommack ; but for the rest o' the town, big 
an' litde, old an' young, " Nat Bacon ' " was the 
word. Each one was a-looking, faith, from his 
own Httle loop-hole window (as 't were) to see 
Bacon do great things. There was old Tommy 
Grill, with one foot in the grave an' t' other 
fairly hobbling — there he would be, a-saying 

with a wink, " Folks tell how he doth manage 
his wife prettily." Whereat all laughed, because 
that old Tommy he 'd always been 'counted a 
hen-pecked husband, tho' I 'm thinking he did 
more times than one, whereof ye know, get the 
better o' his wife, in a cunning way. An' 
Goody Grill, she crieth out, " Folks say he '11 
change the laws — and a good thing 't would 
be ; for of all law ever made i' this world, Vir- 
ginia laws they be the most outlandish." Which 
hearing, some smiled knowingly, as guessing 
the reason o' that speech, for she was ducked 
(as I did tell you one time), ten year or so back, 
for scandal 'gainst the law's behest. 

So they went on, each one a-fiddling the same 
tune on his own proper string, an' presently who 
doth come along down street but Grizzle Pate, 
that they called " the poetess o' Babbletown." 

Soon as I laid eyes on her I knew who 't was, 
since (Heaven be thanked) there be too few 
like her i' this world for the same to be easily 
mistook. Here she cometh, with a ballad-book, 
or some such trumpery, belike, half open in her 
hand, an' her head on one side set, an' her eyes 
rolled up for all the world like a dying duck in 
a thunder-gust. Then, quo' she, so mincingly, 
in her little fine voice, " Ah, Bacon ! Bacon ! 
Folk say he is the comeliest gentleman that ever 
was set eyes on." 

Now it pleasured my heart to give her a sly 
cut, and I minded well how she was ever took 
aback when I called her name Grizzle. She 'd 
changed it to Griselda — or some such ladyfied 
form on 't — about sixteen year after her chris- 
tening, an' most o' the Babbletown folks they 
favored the fool-creature's humor ; but she was 
always plain Grizzle to me. I reckon she 'd ha' 
been willing to change her last name for a 
more romantical, if the chance had come round. 
Howsoever, 't was a cracked pate, in sooth, 
stuck on her shoulders. Yet, as to what she 
said that time — well, there be wiser women 
than she, mayhappen, that measure a man by 
the same yard-rule. Aye, aye; let but a man 
be prettily turned on 's outside, an' see how far 
they '11 be looking within. For my part, I was 
always well enough content to be as the good 
Lord did make me. If I be a trifle under- 
sized an' short i' the legs, why, the less cloth it 
taketh for my rigging out. Green eyes they be 


as good to see with as sky-blue, I reckon — and 
if one's nose turneth a bit upward hath he not 
the freer play for his mouth ? Now, I flatter 
me that Patse}-, my wife, is a well-discerning 
woman (for the female sort), with some sense 
beyond her eyesight, and if she be well suited 
't is one an' the same to me. As for Grizzle 
Pate, poor soul I could never a-bear the look 
of her ; an' how some folks could call her pretty- 
faced passeth my notions. She was no common, 
comforting good to anybody in this mortal world. 
A high romantical way she had with her, had 
Grizzle, an' concerning the poetry-making, she 
could rhyme " fire " with " lyre," an' " love " with 
" dove," an' " wail " with jail," as prettily as the 
best on 'em, I do reck — who am, however, no 
proper judge in such matters. Howsoever, I did 
catch her up finely on her own ground that 
even, for, saith I to her on a sudden, so catch- 
ing her unawares, " Grizzle," saith I, " what 
rhymes with Bacon? " 

Then she looked up an' she looked down, an' 
she looked around about. " Bacon ? " quo' she, 
a-thinking (yet she could not think of an answer 
to that question). ''Bacon! Bacon! what rhymes 
with it ?" quo' she; an' there she stood foolishly, 
not knowing what to say. 

Whereupon spoke I, " No, Grizzle, thou canst 
not rhyme it if thou soundest the round O, quality 
fashion. But if thou callest it trippingly, after 
the manner o' common tongues, like mine an' 
thine. Grizzle, why, I myself can find you a 
rhyme, easy 'now. So — list you now (quoth I), 
make sure this Bac'n shall be taken, in 's net 
that he 's now a-spreading. He 's dreaming 
finely now (quoth I), an' mayhap King o' Vir- 
ginia in his mind a'ready ; but from his dream 
he shall awaken, when his castle i' the air is 
shaken, an' when he '11 be braken on the wheel, 
belike, or hanged as high as Haman. So, will 
he not save his bacon, mark me (quoth I), 
but there be all the rhymes you '11 want — aye, 
an' foretelling ones at that — to start you ballad- 
ing for a month o' Sundays." 

Which hearing, she tossed her head so airily, 
an' some o' the rest there hard by did look nigh 
mad enough to cut mine off ^ but old Tommy 
Grill he laughed a bit an' vowed that I 'd the 
best on 't. 

Now, it did make me right mad. m sooth, to 


hear these deluded ones so a-siding with rebels 
an' traitors 'gainst old Sir William, an' he that 
was the King's own lawful governor — so high 
in place and honor this forty years — so warred 
upon in his old, ancient days by a young upstart 
boy, and all because he was a bit slower, maybe, 
than younger blood might ha' been, about fight- 
ing the Indians. " Kill them ! kill them ! an' let 
me do it my way," saith Master Nat Bacon ; an 
few then would deny 't was the thing to do with 
an Indian; howsoever, "Wait a bit," saith old 
Sir William, "an let me do it my way." For 
all his seventy year he 'd a toughish will o' his 
own. So 't was old steel 'gainst young fire, an' 
pull Dick pull Devil betwixt 'em. For my part 
(being a peaceable man), I did always take sides 
with Sir ^^^illiam. He was a civil-mannered 
gentleman, as ever I did see, for all his grand, 
high way an' his fine velvet dress. I mind well 
one time, when I lived in Babbletown years 
agone, how I rode with a letter from Master 
Fanfare Joy to his Honor, Sir William, at Green- 
.spring Manor-house. 'T was a fair, fine house, 
outside and in, an' ne'er was I kinder welcomed 
in my next neighbor's — an' that 's truth. First 
they had me into the big dining-room, mighty 
grand an' fine, with a picture over the mantel- 
shelf o' the first King Charles a-getting his head 
cut oft"; an' there Sir William himself bade me sit 
down 'fore ever he brake seal of the letter. So 
there — whilst that he read it slow thro' his spec- 
tacles — there sat I on a cushioned, carven chair, 
the same as any lord. An' when that reading 
was done, an' the answer writ thereto, what doth 
his Excellency but thank me graciously, with 
" An' I hope you 're in good health, Master 
Muffet," quo' he, a-bowing i' the court fashion, 
belike. So whilst we were there, hobnobbing 
together (as 't were), me and the Governor, — 
with him asking me a-many questions about 
matters in our parts, — in cometh my Lady 
Berkeley, an' lo ! he must needs go commend- 
ing me to her for an honest man. 

" 'T is Master Muffet, Frances, my dear (quo' 
he), a very honest man." 

An' then, saith I, — a-making my manners, — 
" Aye, aye, my Lady. I have never stole aught, 
so far, your ladyship ; but there 's no telling, 
faith! what we may come to yet, afore we die." 

Whereupon his honor did seem mightily 




tickled ; but my Lady ne'er cracked a smile. 
Surely, it takedi your bom gentleman's tongue 
to say " my dear " with that soft-spoken a turn 
o' voice ; an' for her ladyship, I bethink me, it 
must take lifelong top-breeding to teach how 
to hold one's head so far on one side without 
getting a crick i' the neck — or keep one's eyes 
so nigh shut without the lids a-coming together. 
A fine lady she was, to be sure, but I did find out 
't was time to go, soon after her coming in. Sir 
William, he graciously walked out with me an' 
showed me his orchards, for 't was in April 
month o' the year an' fruit-trees all a-bloom. 
Aye, aye; 't was a fine, pleasant place, for cer- 
tain. Folks said how 't was mightily wasted 
afterwards, when General Bacon an' his rebels 
made headquarters there, after they 'd burnt 
James City an' chased Sir William away to Ac- 
commack. I did hear tell how that the sol- 
diers did use to go parading round, a-making 
mock in some o' my Lady's gowns, stays, tuckers, 
an' what not, that she 'd left behind her in hasty 
setting-off — with hair-powder on their heads an' 
smelling bottles in their hands. Howsoever, I 
misdoubt that tale, for I do not think they would 
be so outlandishly a-going on. 

Well, well ; that next day after I did get to 
Babbletown was a warm one as to natural 
weather, and a warmer one still as to expecta- 
tion 'mongst the folks o' that place. There was 
I ( a peaceable man as any in this mortal world ), 
catched i' the frying-pan, an' not knowing but 
what next minute it might be clean into the fire. 
Such a talk an' brabble did they keep on, con- 
cerning Master Nat Bacon — such a wonder- 
ment what he 'd be a-doing, or which way a- 
riding next. In sooth, there was he, all that 
long day thro' ( as we did hear after time ), at 
Gloster Court-house town, fairly pleading his 
very heart out, all to no purpose. You see, he 
had looked to be finely holpen by the rich gen- 
tlefolks o' that town. Ne'er a finger had they 
lifted for Sir William, but ne'er a finger, neither 
(for all that), would they Wft'gai/ist him for 
General Bacon. Neither fish, flesh, nor good 
red herring were they, in that business ( as the 
saying goeth, and as General Bacon himself told 
'em), or else too prudently mindful o' their goods 
an' chattels to risk meddling one side or t' other. 
'T was told that General Bacon had counted 

'em for certain 'mongst his favorers. Howso- 
ever, he was mightily mistook in that notion, as 
did appear — for 't was neither men nor money, 
help nor promise, comfort nor countenance, 
could he get out o' them. First, he did make 
'em a long, fine speech (as I did hear tell after- 
ward), an' then a-wa.xing hotter, mayhappen, 
as he perceived them cold, lo ! he falleth to 
pleading, with that winning tongue of his 
that 't was commonly said could tie more 
knots o' mischief in five minutes' space than 
any other in Virginia might fairly straighten 
out in a twelvemonth. Yet he could not, with 
all its winningness, tie up those men o' Gloster 
to his cause. " Let 's wait till we hear from 
England," said they, so wisely nodding one to 
t' other; an' so they steadfastly stuck it out, 
'gainst all his prayers. Whereupon, at last, he 
fell into a rage, an' with some hot flout upon 
them for coward knaves (or the like), did turn 
his back on that place. 

Now, the Babbletown folks — tho' they knew 
naught concerning all this till afterwhile — they 
had somehow catched a notion (in sooth, I know 
not why or wherefore) that he 'd be coming 
their way. Every which-a-way I went all that 
day long, a-walking round the town, 't would be 
necks craned out o' window, and eyes a-gazing 
t'wards the Gloster road. 

So it passed, till even came, an' still no Gen- 
eral Bacon, an' still they kept on to the same 
tune. In sooth, so mad it did make me (a-com- 
ing at last upon some twenty people, or so, in 
the middle o' the street), with their Bacon this, 
an' Bacon that, an' Bacon, Bacon, Bacon — so 
mad it did make me that I boiled over unman- 
nerly an' brake out upon them. 

" What ! " crieth I ; " will ye still be at it ? Can 
ye eat this bacon that ye be crying up ? Will it 
nourish you — bone or body? A pretty price 
ye 're like to pay for 't, and a merry feast }^e '11 
have on 't when the king's army cometh to 
pick the bones — some fine day, from England. 
Now, heaven knoweth (quoth I), 't is for no end 
o' mine own I would advise you. Yet, to be 
sure, a man might take shame, in day to come, 
a-telling when one asketh him, mayhappen, 
' Prithee, where were ye born an' raised ? ' — 
a man might take shame to say : ' 'T was i' that 
town where all the folks were afterward hanged.' 




meaning on 't as we went along, an' hang me 
if I knew what that outlandish word might 
mean. So I made bold to ask her, " What was 
a Muse ? " 

Now, poor Grizzle ! I 'm half thinking she 
did hardly know much concerning it herself. 
Mighty red she got — but she went on to say, 

Howsoever (quoth I), that 's neither here nor 
there — an' for your own good, I do advise you, 
let well enough alone." 

Now, at that speech they did look 'mazedly 
after me as I walked away ; but I saw 't would 
make little difference in their foolish minds. 
An' pretty soon thereafter who doth come along 
in front o' me — with 
her eyes rolled up to 
skyward, and a paper 
in one hand — but 
Grizzle Pate. 

Then I spied _: 
somewhat writ upon 
the paper, and a 
notion catched me 
on the sudden to 
see what 't was. So, 
thinks I to myself, 
how the wisest of 
men saith, "Answer 
a fool according 
to his folly"; an' 
quoth I, " Good 
day to you. Grizzle. 
An' what have you 
there ? " 

Whereupon she 
came down out o' 
the clouds, an' fell 
a-smirking so bash- 
fully, with head on 
one side. An' first 
she said 't was but 
a small thing, next 
to nothing at all, 
an' not worth any- 
body's note ; yet, for all that talk, I might dis- glib enough, how that a Muse was a kind o' fly- 
cem she was a-dying to show the same ; an' ing woman, that poets an' such always called 
presently (sure enow) she let out how 't was a upon to come down from the sky, or wherever 


poetry-ode she'd been a- writing in honor of 
General Bacon. 

Now, when that I asked her to read it out 
(for I was right curious to hear the stuff), lo ! 
she did thus begin : 

" O Muse ! descend — " an' here she was 
catched with a cough, being tickled in her throat, 
with her own fool-vanity, belike. " O Muse ! de- 
scend — " saith she, an', fetching her cough, was 

she inhabited, to help 'em with their rhyming 
business. Then I looked to skyward and all 
around, on hearing this, but no such a creature 
did I see. " I have seen many a fly-away 
woman," quoth I ; " but never one flying down 
from the .skies. Prythee, Grizzle, where is she ? " 
Howbeit, what doth the silly wench then 
(a-laughing at my plain question as 't were the 
most outlandish thing in this world) but say that 

a-going on ; howsoever, I did want to sense the nobody did ever see this flying woman at all. 




" 'T is only in a mindful sense, Master Muffet," 
quo' she ; " for you neither see her with your 
eyes nor hear her with your ears. 'T is all in- 
side your heart, as 't were," quo' she; an' 
then she went on to say, in a manner of confi- 
dence, that truly (for her part) she did never 
feel herself much beholden to that lady ; not- 
withstanding, 't was ever the right way an' the 
most truly poetic (as everybody did say), to 
begin with somewhat or other about her. 
So then she went on : 

" O Muse ! descend ; descend on flapping wing ! 

'T is Bacon's praise — great Bacon's name I sing. 

O Bacon ! let heroic verse tell o'er 

How all past use thou turnest hind part afore. 

Thou art not stuck, but slickest, and all thy foes 

In pickling brine of tears thou dost dispose. 

In smoke of their own town thou smokest them well ; 

Our state thou curest — ill humors dost dispel. 

O'er crackling blaze thou 'rt neither boiled nor roasted — 

Thyself 's the fire at which the tyrant 's toasted. 

O Bacon!—" 

Now, how much more o' the stuff she 'd 
there writ down, i' faith, I do not know ; only I 
heard no more then, for just as she spake that 
last word, the sound on 't was taken clean out 
of her mouth — as 't were — by every tongue in 
Babbletown. Soon as I heard that screeking I 
did guess who must be coming now. Zounds ! 
what a scramble and a tumbling out o' doors, 
heels over head, was there, to be sure ! with 
everybody, big an' little, singing out " Bacon ! 
Bacon ! Bacon ! " at top voice. Everybody was 
a-running one way, t'wards the main middle 
street o' the town. " 'T is he ! 't is he ! 'T is 
General Bacon himself! " crieth one to t' other. 
There came old Tommy Grill, hobbling along, 
as eager as any young sixteener among 'em; 
an' there came Goody Grill, fairly puffing for 
haste. So I went along vidth the rest of 'em 
to see what was toward now; an' Grizzle — 
there was she too — with her poetry-ode in 
hand, an' her high romantical way, a-sailing 
nigh after. 

'T was nigh on to sundown by this while, so 
that one might smell the supper a-getting in 
most houses as we went a-^own street; but I 
reckon a many folks in Babbleto\vn did eat 
burnt bread that even. If there was one house- 
wife 'mongst 'em all that stayed indoors by her 
bake-stone, my name 't is not Thomas Muffet. 
Vol. XVII.— 67. 

There we all went, a-down the crossway, hurry- 
scurry — an' just as we fetched to the main 
street the great wonderful show came along. 

Now, '/ was General Bacon himself, sure 
enow, and others of his company, a-riding back 
to York River by this nigher road than they 'd 
afore taken in going northward. Mayhap twenty 
gentlemen, or so, they counted — all a-horse- 
back, prettily armed with sword an' pistol as 
ever ye did see, an' finely set off with spurs 
a-jangling an' plumes in their hats a-waving as 
they went. Heaven ha' mercy on us all ! It mak- 
eth me right sad this day to think how many 
on 'em there faring so gallantly did swing from 
the gallows-chains in less 'n three months' time. 
Aye; for all they were but rebels, an' the law 
must be well minded, one could not help some 
pity — an' that 's truth. 

Now, as for him, their leader, Master Na- 
thaniel Bacon, I did know (some way), which 
one was he that time, the second I clapt eyes on 
him, there a-riding i' the midst. He was a 
smalhsh, slim gentleman, yet most comely- 
shapen withal, and a graceful rider as ever 
backed horse. That much there 's no denying. 
His face, it might ha' been well-favored enow, 
in pleasant humor. 'T was fair in feature an' 
shaping as any you '11 find, but zounds ! of 
all the black looks that ever I did see he looked 
the blackest then. Ye see, let alone the passion 
of 's mind that time, the fever that 'fore long 
carried him off' untimely was a'ready raging in 
his veins. His eyes they were blood-shotten 
an' the brows above 'em knitted, like any 
woman's in a rage. Surely he must ha' been 
turned 'gainst everybody and everything that 
even. His lips they 'd a mocking set. Some 
o' his comrades did off with their hats an' bow 
to the folks as they passed along — but as for 
Master Bacon, he never made sign or spake 
word. 'Way up street a-front of 'em, on one 
hand an' t' other, 't was hned with the towns- 
folk, and as they passed along the people did 
run out i' the roadway after 'em ; so that there 
was all Babbletown (so to speak), like a flock 
o' sheep getting bigger every minute, a-running 
at their horses' heels. 

Everybody hushed speaking, or crying " Ba- 
con ! Bacon ! " after the first clamor on 't, for 
all were straining to hear what word the General 



might be a-going to say next. I 've a notion that 
Grizzle was half-minded to 'gin reading out her 
poetry-ode, for I saw her look at the paper an' 
fetch breath hard, now and again — but she 'd 
ne'er quite face for 't, belike. General Bacon he 
looked mockingly, first on one side, then on 
t' other. Twice or thrice he half-oped his mouth, 
and ( I promise you ) everybody fairly held 
breath at that; but still no word he spake. I 
did hear one o' his comrades ask another, saying : 
" What is the name of this place ? " An' when 
he made answer, " Babbletown," Master Bacon 
he smiled to himself in a right curious fashion, 
but yet he said nothing at all. Mayhappen if 
he 'd seen more able-bodied men, fit for soldier- 
ing, amongst 'em there round about, an' fewer 
old, ancient gafters, women, an' lads, he 'd ha' 
been the more civil-spoken. 

Now, those poor shuttle-wits of Babbletown, 
that had been so a-singing that high and mighty 
gentleman's praises to the skies, they were a bit 
took a-back by this behavior — as one might 
plainly see. Still they kept on after him, and I 
with the rest, clean to the town's edge ; for all 
kept on a-thinking somewhat must be surely 
coming next minute ; an' so it did come, for- 
sooth, tho' 't was somewhat vastly different from 
aught they 'd run out to hear or see. Well, as 
I said afore, we went on alongside of him, 
an' hard after, as nigh as we might — to the 
open, outside the town ; and there, lo ! what 
doth he do, on a sudden, but rein in 's horse 

Then everybody else stopt too, at that, with 
mouths agape and eyes a-gazing. There they 
stood, whiles he looked round about on all. He 
smiled to himself right curiously at sight o' Griz- 
zle and Goody Grill, one so fat and t' other so 
lean, a-standing side by side ; an' Sam Crook, 
too, hard-by, with his hair blown back, clean 
forgetting the matter o' his ears. His face (I 
do mean General Bacon's face ), 't was like a 
mocking woman's, or a lad's — half mad, half 
merry in deviltry. He oped his mouth, an' he 
spoke one word : " Buzz-z-e" saith he ; just this 
way an' this loud betwixt his teeth — yet loud 
enow, I warrant, for them there a-listening to 
hear. Aye, aye ; 't was a civil, pretty thing to 
say, an' mighty fine behavior for a general, as 

they called him. What he meant by the same, 
or whether he did so mean aught of anything 
at all — goodness knoweth ! Now, I do think 
't was surely the most outlandish turn i' this 
world. Can you sense meaning in buzz ? Can 
you make head or tail on 't ? Nay ; 't is no 
sensible word, out of any spelling-book, at all. 
Ne'er another word he spake — if one may call 
that a word properly. "Buzz-z-z / " quoth he, as 
one may mock back, mayhappen, at a swarm o' 
bumblebees ; so with that he spurreth his horse, 
and off he goeth a-down the road, with his 
troop — clattering behind him. An' that was the 
first an' the last we ever did see of the great 
Master Nathaniel Bacon. 

AVell, well, well ! what a take-down it was, to 
be sure 1 I needs must laugh a bit in my sleeve as 
we all went 'long back into the town ; but I was 
half misliking it, too — such a slight as 't was 
to the place where I '11 ne'er deny I was born 
an' raised. They never said much at first, be- 
ing ( I reckon ) well-nigh past speech with the 
amazement of this set-back. One thing I re- 
member, for certain ; namely : that all the wom- 
en-folks had found out in that passage how 
General Bacon was no more comely than civil- 
spoken. For my part, I did think his looks well 
enow — yet as for the civility, that was another 
matter. His manners might ha' been better for 
mending, and that 's truth ; and if handsome is 
as handsome does ( as the old saw runneth ) 't is 
no wonder you never could pay anybody in Bab- 
bletown after that time to say General Bacon was 
aught else than the ugliest man i' this mortal 
world. There 's no mistreatment that giveth 
such offense as to be made nothing of at all ; 
yet I reckon the Babbleto\^Ti people were the 
rather holpen than hurt by that slight — and one 
thing I know for certain, they were civOer to a 
plain man the day after it so befell than they 'd 
been the day afore. 

Aye — well ! 'twas a bad, black business, that 
rebelUon — and a bad ending it came to, for 
both sides. As for the silly ones at Babble- 
town they 'd ha' been willing enow to catch on 
if General Bacon ha<l held out a finger, I reckon ; 
but I be right glad he did not, for 't would ha' 
gone 'gainst the grain with me, some way, to 
hear they were any of 'em hanged. 


By Walter Camp. 


First Paper: The Ground and the Outfit. 

While laying out a base-ball ground is quite 
a task, it is not more difficult than marking tennis- 
courts, and the result is much more lasting. 
The nature of the ground, and its surroundings, 
practically determine the general position of the 
field; and on this account it is usually convenient 
to take what is technically known as the " back- 
stop " for a starting point. The back-stop is 
usually the front of the " grand stand," or a con- 
venient fence; and the rules provide that the 
back-stop must be at least ninety feet behind 
the home-plate. There is no advantage in mak- 

ing that distance greater, so measuring ninety 
feet directly into the field from what is to be 
the catcher's back-stop, locates the home-plate. 
By fastening a tape at the home-plate, and carry- 
ing it out 127 feet 4 inches in a straight line 
into the field, the position of the second base 
is found. Taking a line 180 feet long, fasten 
one end at the home-plate and the other at sec- 
ond base. Then seizing the line in the middle, 
carry it out first on one side, and then on the 
other, and where it is taut the locations of the 
first and third bases are determined. To deter- 
mine the location of the pitcher's box, measure 
50 feet on the line from home to second; this 



point will be the center of the front line of his 
position. The principal points having been thus 
located, lay out the pitcher's box 51^ feet long 
and 4 feet wide, then the two batsmen's positions, 
one for left-handed men and one for right-handed 
men. These batsmen's lines inclose two rectan- 
gular spaces, each 6 feet long and 4 feet ■wide, 
the nearest line being 6 inches distant from the 
home-plate, and extending 3 feet in front and 
3 feet behind the center of that plate. 

Having thus marked out the field, we proceed 
to fix permanently the various points. In doing 
this, if the field is to be a permanent one, it is 
best to make use of the most improved appa- 
ratus ; but if the field is only a temporary one, 
there are various devices which save expense. 



and which answer the purpose quite satisfacto- 
rily. The home-plate is, by the rules, a whitened 
piece of rubber a foot square, sunk flush with 
the ground, its outer edges being within the 
lines to first and third bases. An excellent sub- 
stitute for rubber is a piece of board painted 
white, or a bit of marble such as can be readily 
obtained at any marble-yard. The first, second, 
and third bases are canvas bags, 15 inches 
square, stuffed with any soft material, and so 
fastened as to have their centers at the comers 
of the diamond which we already have marked 
out. They wll thus extend several inches outside 
the diamond. The customary method of fasten- 
ing the bag is by means of a leather strap pass- 
ing through loops upon the bag and direcdy 

around the center. This strap is slipped through 
an iron staple in the top of a post driven firmly 
into the ground at the comer of the diamond, 
and the strap is then buckled on the under side 
of the bag. The wooden posts and the iron 
staples can be easily obtained, and it is quite 
worth while to have them rather than to let the 
base be movable, or to use a stone, which may 
be the cause of some serious injury to a runner. 
As for the bags, they can be home-made by pro- 
curing pieces of canvas (or old heavy carpet) and 
stuffing them with excelsior or rags, or, best, hair 
from an old chair, lounge, or mattress. If nothing 
better offers, shavings from any carpenter's shop 
will answer. The straps may be obtained at a 
harness maker's, or a piece of stout clothes-line 
can be substituted. 

Next, the pitcher's box must be permanently 
marked. This is done by flat iron plates or 
stones six inches square, sunk even with the 
surface at each comer. Wooden posts of 
smaller dimensions will answer equally well. 

It is customary to have the in-field well 
turfed, and this turf should extend behind the 
lines from second base to first and third for 
quite a distance, in order that the short-stop 
and second-base man may play well behind 
these lines. The turf of the out-field is not of 
so much importance. The turf of the in-field is 
cut out from the pitcher's box to the back-stop 
to a width of about nine feet. It is also cut out 
along the base lines, about one-third that width. 
After the turf has been thus cut out, the spaces 
are filled with hard, well-packed earth until level 
with the field. All this turfing and cutring out 
of lines is intended, of course, for a permanent 
field, and where expense is of minor considera- 
tion. As a matter of fact, the j^layers will very 
soon make the base-lines and batring-crease 
quite marked on any field. Many a good in- 
field has no turf on it, and is called a " scalped " 
field. The batted balls travel faster and lower 
on such a field, but mth greater regularity. 

To make a fair division of labor in laying out 
a field for immediate use, let three boys agree 
to furnish the iron staples, and posts (preferably 
of cedar) for the bases and pitcher's position, 
seven in all. The four for the pitcher's box may 
be anywhere from three to six inches square 
at the top, and two feet long ; those for the bases 



being three inches in diameter ; and all of these 
sharpened to drive in like stakes. The staples, 
three in number, should be two inches wide. 
Let three others agree to furnish the bases : one 
boy to provide the six inches of canvas or carpet 
cut about sixteen inches square ; another boy 
to furnish three two-inch straps with buckles, 
or else sufficient rope to answer the purpose. 
These straps must be at least three feet long. 
Let the third boy see that the bags are looped 
for the straps, stuffed, and securely sewn. Let 
three others agree to furnish the home-plate 
and to bring to the ground the following imple- 
ments, to be used in laying out the positions and 
marking: a tape line 200 feet long, a supply of 
cord, a sharp spade, a sledge-hammer to drive 
stakes, a small hammer to drive in staples, 
some lime to mark out the lines, and a pail to 
wet it in. If any boy has a tennis-marker, let 
him bring it ; it will save labor. In marking out 
the field for a match, there are a few lines to be 


made which are omitted in the above descrip- 
tion, as they are only necessary at an important 
game. For instance, in ordinary games the 
imaginary line from home to third is enough to 
show the " foul " ground, as the base-line worn by 
the runners makes a fair guide. As a matter of 
actual law, however, the foul-lines are lines drawn 
along the outer edges of the home-plate, and 
passing through the outer edges of the first and 
third bags. The foul-line thus does not run exactly 
along the base-line which we originally marked 
out, but, starting with it, is 7^ inches from it 
at third and first. It is, of course, wholly within 
the cut of three feet where the turf has been 
taken out. These foul-lines should extend to 
the boundaries of the ground, and should then 

be prolonged back of the home-plate to the end 
of the field, forming the " catcher's lines," as they 
are called. 

The "coacher's" or "captain's lines" are de- 
termined by taking two points fifteen feet from 
a foul-line and seventy-five feet from the catch- 
er's line, then drawing two lines on each side, 
one parallel to the foul line, the other parallel 
to the catcher's line. 

The "players' lines " are drawn from the catch- 
er's lines, fifty feet from the foul-lines, and parallel 
to them. As both these coacher's and players' 
lines are drawn merely to keep the men in their 
proper places, where they will not interfere with 
the game, and as the catcher's lines are in turn 
drawn as points of measurement for the other 
lines, it is hardly worth while to go to all this 
trouble except for an important match. 

For the benefit of those players whose club 
treasury is in such a prosperous condition as 
to make unnecessary the home-made devices de- 
scribed above, it is well to say that a set of 
base-bags with straps and spikes can be 
purchased at any base-ball outfitter's for 
$4, $5, or $7, according to quality, while 
a rubber home-plate costs $7, a marble 
one $3, and an iron one $1. 

The next articles for our consideration 
are the implements for the players. The 
best ball to purchase is the regular 
"league" ball. These balls are the most 
uniform in manufacture and quality, 
and give the best satisfaction in the long 
run. They can be purchased for $1.50, 
with a discount for quantity. It is worth while 
to purchase more than one, because it often 
happens that wet grass ruins the cover of 
the ball. For this reason, when a base-ball 
has been used in wet weather it should be put 
aside, and the next time the nine wishes to prac- 
tice on a wet day this ball, which will be as hard 
as a rock, should be brought out. As soon as 
it is wet it softens again, and it is just as useful 
as a new one would be after fifteen minutes' 
wetting. This constant wetting rots the covers, 
but a harness-maker will re-cover the balls, and 
they may be used for practice. In the kinds 
of bats there is far more variety. The most fa- 
vored is of ash, second-growth, and thoroughly 
seasoned. These can be purchased for from 


twenty -five cents to one dollar each, according 
to the quality of the wood. Lighter bats are 
made of willow ; and the cheapest, of basswood. 
These do not last so well as ash, however. The 
rules specify that the bat shall not be over 2}^ 
inches in diameter, nor more than 42 inches 
in length. In selecting a bat, individual taste is 
the best guide as to matters of weight and bal- 
ance, but the grain should be examined care- 
fully, in order that one may not choose a stick 
that will leave him in the lurch by breaking just 
as he becomes accustomed to it. The grain 
should run lengthwise, and not cross sharply, 
particularly over the handle. A knot in the han- 
dle will often lead to a break, but one farther 
down toward the end is not of any moment. If 
a bat is varnished highly, the handle should be 
scraped, so that it will not turn easily in the hands. 
The first-base man and catcher should each 
wear gloves to protect the hands from the con- 
stant pounding of the ball which playing 
these positions involves. Any one can make a 
very serviceable pair of base-ball gloves out of 



a Stout pair of buckskins. The fingers and 
thumbs should be cut oft" at the first joint for the 
basemen, and if any extra padding is needed, 
pieces of felt can be sewn on. The catcher's 
gloves may be made in a similar way, except 

that the left-hand glove is kept whole and the 
ends of the fingers reinforced by heavy leather 
tips. A shoemaker will put on these tips, and 
they should be about an inch and a half long. 
Both gloves should have padding in the palm 
and over the ball of the thumb. This padding 
can be made of as many layers of felt as are 
desired, sewn in when the glove is turned wrong 
side out. Many of the best catchers prefer to do 
their own padding. The pads should be so cut 
that they run up into the finger a little way, and 
thus form a protection for the base of the fingers. 
By those who wish to purchase gloves, and thus 
save the trouble of making them, the catcher's 
gloves can be purchased for $3.50 and $5. The 
basemen's gloves cost about $2.50. Every man 
who intends playing behind the bat should wear 
a mask, and it is best to purchase a good one, 
as the cheaper ones are likely to be fragile, not 
well made, and may perhaps be broken by a foul 
tip. While an accident from a broken mask is 
very unusual, as the wires are so bent as to 
spring outward when broken, still it is not well, 
for the sake of a slight saving, to run any risks 
of this kind. A good mask will cost from $2 
to $4. 

A body protector is also an admirable inven- 
tion, and saves many a bruise. The cheaper 
ones are made of leather and canvas, and cost 
about $5. The best are made of rubber, and can 
be inflated so as to form a kind of air pillow. 
These cost from $6 to $ro. 

Individual uniforms next attract our attention. 
A tennis or cricket suit, or any set of flannels 
will answer nicely. A flannel shirt and an old 
pair of long trousers tied or strapped in at the 
ankles was an old-fashioned uniform, and it is 
just as serviceable to-day. The most convenient 
trousers, however, are of the knickerbocker pat- 
tern, and it is well to pad them heavily at the 
knees and along the side of the leg and thigh, 
particularly if one is to do any sliding to bases. 
This padding can be made by quilting in any 
heavy pieces of cloth. The long stockings should 
be heavy and stout, and extend well above the 
knee. The shoes should be broad and easy, 
with low heels, and may be of canvas or leather, 
the latter being the most lasting. A triangular 
spike is placed on the sole of each shoe in order 
to prevent slipping, and of these spikes, the 




broad ones are the easiest and best. Sometimes 
a smaller plate is worn on the heel as well. 
The pitcher should have upon the toe of his 
right shoe a metal plate, to prevent the speedy 
wearing out of the shoe in pitching. This plate 
is a sort of cap, and covers the inside comer of 
the shoe. Any shoemaker can put one on. A 
cap with a visor is the most 
convenient form of head- 
gear, and interferes least 
with the player's comfort. 
Complete uniforms can be 
purchased from the out- 
fitters for from $5 to $30. 
Below is a list of the sepa- 
rate articles, showing the 
range in prices : Shirts, 
$2.00 to $5.00; trousers, 
$1.75 to $4.50; stock- 
ings, 50c. to $1.50; caps, 
50 c. to $1.00 ; belts, 25 c. 
to 30c.; shoes, $2.00 to 
$7.00; spikes, ijc. to 
75 c. ; toe-plate, 50c. 

Base-ball is a game so 
entirely dependent upon 
the condition of the ground 
and weather, that it never 
can become, in our cli- 
mate, an all-the-year-round pastime. No one can 
play base-ball when the fingers are numb with 
cold, nor can there be any play upon a ground 
covered with snow. But the sport has become 
so scientific, and practice is so essential to its 
highest development, that quite a proportion of 
the players have now taken up some systematic 
winter practice. Particularly is this the case 
among college and school nines. Professionals, 
making a business of following the game, can 
travel to Southern cities, where they may antici- 
pate the Northern season by several weeks of 
outdoor practice, but those who seek it merely 
as a pastime cannot enjoy any such means of 
attaining additional skill. College and school 
boys, therefore, have recourse to gymnasiums, 
where, by a judicious use of certain apparatus, 
they prepare themselves for the regular field 
work. Some of the best equipped of these 
gymnasiums have long, low alleys, completely 
bounded by two walls and a wire netting, in 

which throwing and batting can be practiced. 
These are known as " cages." The irregular and 
indiscriminate use of the apparatus, or even of 
the cage, results in little good to the player, but 
a systematic and well-directed use of both tends 
to put a nine into the field in a superior condi- 
tion for the work required. In addition to this, 


the benefit to the general health of regular exer- 
cise during the winter and early spring is not to 
be disregarded as a factor in the problem of 
developing successful nines. The use of the 
apparatus should be directed toward the devel- 
opment and strengthening of the various mus- 
cles which are to bear the brunt of the labor 
when on the field. 

Many of the exercises really need no equip- 
ment such as a gymnasium affords, and one can 
take advantage of any room at home. A pair of 
dumb-bells, the Indian clubs, a rope fastened to 
the ceiling or a beam, an old foot-ball hung as a 
" punching-bag," another rope, on which a heavy 
" spool " shdes freely, stretched from a point 
about the height of a man's shoulder up to the 
opposite wall, where it joins the ceiling — such 
an amount of apparatus will give full opportu- 
nity for the best kind of exercise. The only 
part needing any explanation is, perhaps, the 
sliding spool. This is an admirable device for 

5^0 BAT, BALL, 

cultivating the muscles used in throwing. The 
point at which the spool would come in contact 
with the ceiling should be well padded with 
some rather inelastic substance, in order that the 
spool may not rebound too severely. By throw- 
ing the spool along the rope a number of times 
daily, any man can acquire a powerful throw. 

The winter work of a college nine will give a 
good idea of tlie methods practiced in indoor 
preparation. There are usually at least twenty 
candidates for positions, and, as it is impossible 
that all should practice the same work at the 
same time, these candidates are usually divided 
into squads of perhaps four men each. The 




times are so arranged as to give to each squad 
an allotted hour in which they can have the use 
of the cage and other apparatus. These squads 
are still further subdivided into pairs, and, while 
two of them occupy the cage, the other two 
make use of the running-track and apparatus. 
In the use of the cage the men do not attempt 
to practice violently, but rather to acquire good 

form, both in batting and fielding. One of the 
men pitches for the other to bat, and the batter 
endeavors to meet the ball squarely, with the 
bat moving on a line. He also is particular to 
accustom himself to meet the ball at any height, 
and to stand firmly on his feet when striking. 
In fielding practice one of the men bats ground- 
ers for his comrade, who stands at the other end 
of the cage, and, picking up the ball, throws it 
at a spot marked on the end wall at about the 
height of a man's chest. The batter does not 
drive the ball as hard as possible at his compan- 
ion, but at a medium rate of speed. In pick- 
ing up and throwing, the first thing to acquire 
is quickness and freedom of movement. Ac- 
curacy and force come very rapidly in this daily 
practice, so that a player soon finds it simple 
enough to take the ball cleanly and get it easily 
down to the mark. On the running-track, the 
men take a few turns to limber them up, and 
then practice quick starting, and short, sharp 
spurts at full speed, rather than the more leis- 
urely, long-continued run of the men who are 
training for boating honors. 

In connection with the running-track one 
should mention a device for practicing sliding 
to bases which has proven of the greatest practi- 
cal advantage to players. One of the college 
nines, by making use of this sliding bag during 
their winter practice, acquired such dexterity as 
to have for that year a record in stealing bases 
more than three times that of any other nine 
in the association. This sliding apparatus may 
be rigged up in a variety of ways, the only ob- 
ject to be attained being the arrangement of a 
yielding cushion upon which a man may prac- 
tice sliding until he acquires sufficient confidence 
and dexterity to make it no effort of will for 
him to plunge headforemost at the base. The 
first one of these cushions consisted of a frame 
about fifteen feet long and three or four feet wide, 
upon which was tightly stretched a piece of 

The work with the boxing-gloves is designed 
to improve the man's general muscular develop- 
ment, make liim quick and firm upon his feet, 
and rapid in judgment and action. The men 
usually devote most of the time to going through 
a certain set of exercises, rather than to indulg- 
ing in " slugging " matches. The dumb-bells, 




Indian-clubs, and other general apparatus in a 
gymnasium are used with a view to acquiring a 
uniform development as well as a considerable 
range of muscular action. Whenever any player 
is inordinately or unevenly developed in any 
set of muscles (particularly if he has over-devel- 
oped the shoulders), he is not encouraged to 
strengthen the already too-powerful muscles, 
but is so trained as to give them flexibility and 
freedom of action. Exercise that toughens the 
hands — such as swinging on the flying-rings, 
or rope-climbing — is found to be useful. 

After the men have gone through their round 
of exercise, they take a shower-bath, are thor- 
oughly " rubbed down," and then their training 
is over for the day. The amount of time re- 
quired is probably not more than an hour or an 
hour and a half, and yet the effect upon the con- 
dition of the men is quite noticeable before the 
end of a month. In no respect is the result of 
this gymnasium work more evident than in the 
improvement in throwing. Not only is it the 
exception to find men who have undergone this 
winter work suffering from lame arms when they 
begin practice on the field, but the accuracy 
and strength of their throwing is also greatly 
increased. One of the reasons for this is, that in 
thro\ving in the cage the player is compelled 
to throw the ball low, because of the low ceil- 
ing, which continually operates to improve the 
player's ability to shoot the ball along on a line 
rather than " up and over." 

The winter training outside of this regular 
gymnasium practice, is not considered to be of 
any very great importance. The men pay no 
special attention to their diet, but avoid every 
kind of excess. An outdoor cage is sometimes 
erected, in which the men may have outdoor 
practice in pleasant weather. The chief ad- 
vantage of this cage is the better light for bat- 
ting. It is also possible by its use to get a 
little real practice on taking grounders. The 
outdoor cage is usually a very crude affair, and 
consists of netting so strung on posts as to en- 
compass an alley about seventy feet long by 
twenty wide. 

With the first warm sunshine that comes after 

the frost is out of the ground, there stirs in the 

heart of the base-ball player an intense desire to 

get into the field and begin playing. I remem- 

VoL. XVIL— 68-69. 

ber a young man who used to work in clock 
factories in Connecticut. Although an excel- 
lent workman, he never seemed to secure any 
permanent position, but drifted from one town 
to another. Early one fall he applied to me for 
a position, and as he showed that he knew his 
trade he obtained employment. He worked 
admirably and well, through the winter and even 
into the spring. One day, — and it was a beauti- 
ful day, everything just turning green and the 
sun shining as bright and warm as in midsum- 
mer, — I missed him, and asked the foreman of 


the room what had become of him. " Oh, he 's 
off," was the reply ; " he '11 get his kit to-morrow, 
and you won't see him again till next fall." 
I took pains to meet the young man the next 
morning, when he came to take away his traps. 
" What 's the matter ? " I inquired. " Nothing," 
said he, "'cept yesterday I heard a blue-bird 
singin', and I don't do any work in shops after 
that." A similar yearning to be out of doors 
tempts the ball-player. Many times the fine 
weather is treacherous, and premature practice 
is cut short, or even rendered detrimental to the 
welfare of a nine, by damp, chilly winds. As 
a rule, it is wise to take advantage of only the 
very warmest days, practicing in the early after- 
noon, until the weather is fairly settled. The 
New York nine were once obliged to take a 



vacation, after a few weeks of practice in a cold 
spring, because so many of the men had lame- 
nesses of one kind or another from exposure in 
inclement weather. When a college nine goes 
on the iield for the first time, there is usually 
a superfluity of enthusiasm, which leads players 
to practice too long or too violently. Captains 
have learned this, and, unless they are carried 
away by the same tendency, do not encourage 
any long practice during the first weeks. After 
that, as the men become " broken in " and the 
weather improves, the players are allowed to 
do more work. All the men playing in the 
out-field can practice together, as the work of 
the three fielders is much the same. These men 
take positions in the out-field in something of a 
cluster (not so near, however, as to interfere with 
one another), while a batter knocks fly-balls out 
to them which they take turns in catching. A 
most important preliminar)- to this practice is 
the selection of an experienced man to bat the 

ball. There are many men who may be good 
players but to whom knocking flies to an out- 
field is an utter impossibility. Such men may 
have to hit the ball a half-dozen times before 
sending a fly-ball near any of the fielders. Again, 
it is not advisable to select a man who knocks 
only the simplest kind of flies every time, — al- 
though such a man is to be preferred to the wild 
hitter who sends the men chasing a half-dozen 
failures in order to receive one catch. The 
batter should be able to knock high flies, line 
hits, long flies, and occasionally a sharp, hot 
grounder. His object is to give the fielders as 
much practice of every kind as possible, and a 
good man will gauge the ground the fielders 
can cover, and, while avoiding "running them 
to death," will occasionally give each man an 
opportunity to make a brilliant catch. Nothing 
encourages and improves the candidates so much 
as keeping their ambition thoroughly aroused 
during the entire time of practice. 

FIDO (aside): "what is that stupid doll waiting for, I WONDER. 



By Laura E. Richards. 

Oh ! what a mystery 

The study is of history ! 

How the kings go ravaging 

And savaging about ! 

Plantagenet or Tudor, 

I can't tell which was ruder; 

But Richard Third, 

Upon my word. 

Was worst of all the rout. 

Edward Third was great, too. 

Early fought, and late, too. 

Drove the French from Cressy's trench 

Like leaves before the blast. 

But Harry Fifth, the glorious, 

He, the all-victorious, 

He 's the one 

I 'd serve alone. 

From first unto the last. 

Alfred was a hero. 

Knew nor guile nor fear, oh ! 

Beat the Danes and checked the Thanes, 

And ruled the country well. 

Edward First, the Hammer, 

Was a slaughterer and slammer; 

And Bruce alone 

Saved Scotland's throne, 

When 'neath his blows it fell. 

Oh ! what a mystery 

The study is of history ! 

Queens and kings, 

And wars and things. 

All shut within the book. 

Though sometimes a trifle bloody, 

'T is our best-beloved study. 

If you want to see how good are we, 

Why, only come and look ! 



By E. J, Glave, One of Stanley's Pioneer Officers. 

Second Paper. 

The natives credited me with possessing 
supernatural power, a belief which I did not 
correct. It assumed at times rather a ludi- 
crous aspect. I had one man with me who could 
speak just a little English and could under- 
stand a word or two of the native tongue. 
His services were constantly brought into re- 
quisition by the natives wishing to ask me 
through him some question or other. My read- 
ing a book puzzled them greatly ; they thought 
it an instrument of magic with which I could see 
far into the future, and even asked me to look 
into my "Talla Talla" (mirror) and inform them 
whether a sick child would recover; or would 
inquire concerning the success of some friend 
who was engaged on a trading expedition far 

On a few occasions I was able to turn to my 
advantage the fact that they thought me a wizard. 

For instance, one day, soon after my arrival 
at Lukolela, ten large canoes, each containing 
twenty or twenty-five men to visit the white- 
skinned stranger, put in to my beach, and the men, 
landing, crowded up to see me. At that time I 
had learned a few words of the native language, so 
the strangeness of my tongue lent interest to the 
interview and caused considerable amusement 
to the natives. They were evidently well satis- 
fied with the time they had spent with me. They 
had been deeply awed and much amused, and 
to commemorate the interview, they thought they 
could not do better than to take away with them 
something to remind them of the occasion ; but 
unfortunately they selected as mementos my 
only knife and fork. I knew that if I attempted 

to get these things back by force, there would 
be a general stampede, shots exchanged and 
blood shed, and that I might lose one of my 
men, perhaps without regaining possession of my 
property. Still, the knife and fork were invalu- 
able to me, and I was not inclined to see them 
leave the station without making one effort to- 
ward their recovery, so I set my wits to work and 
the result was a happy idea. In my medicine- 
chest there was a bottle of citrate of magnesia; 
taking a quantity of this hamiless-looking drug 
with me and assuming a grave demeanor, ac- 
companied by two or three of my men, I walked 
slowly down to the assembled natives; then 
through my interpreter I gravely informed them 
that I had discovered that my knife and fork had 
been stolen, — by whom I didnot know just now, 
but I was determined to find out. I then went 
nearer to the beach, and inviting the principal 
chiefs of the party to come and witness my 
power, I threw a little magnesia into a pool 
of still water, which efTfervesced and bubbled 
up in an alarming manner. " Now," I said, " your 
canoes are filled with people and merchandise ; 
all your wealth is in these canoes, and they can 
not live in rough water. They -will be swamped, 
will sink, and you will lose all. You see what 
I have done in this small body of water. I am 
going to extend this commotion over all the 
river from here to your village. I will make 
the water so rough that it will swamp any craft 
that ventures on it, and I am going to keep the 
water in that condition until I get back my 
knife and fork ! Now, I will leave you ; talk it 
over among yourselves. Put off from shore if 
you care to risk it. I do not wish to take your 
lives, but still I must have my knife and fork." 



They talked the matter over, and I was pleased 
to find my ruse successful. My awful threat 
remained unexecuted, for before nightfall my 
knife and fork were restored. 

With returning health my spirits revived. I 
was anxious to leave my hut and to acquaint 
myself with my novel surroundings. 

Although I had not yet been able to visit any 
of the villages in the district, I had become 
quite familiar with the faces of most of my 
neighbors. The stream of inquiring visitors 
never ceased, and my Zanzibari boy — the most 
attentive of servants — had much trouble in pre- 
venting them from disturbing the few snatches of 
sleep I obtained in intervals of fever. At first, 
I was unable to distinguish one black visitor 
from another ; their features seemed cast in the 
same mold, and there was no external aid to 

Each face was disfigured by the same scars 
cut deep in the flesh over the temples, and 
carried in three lines back to the ears ; this is the 
tribal mark of the Ba-Bangi, who inhabit the 
country in which I then was living. 

The idea occurred to me of utilizing my new 
friends by obtaining from them, word by word, 
their peculiar dialect to enrich my vocabulary. 
When the natives saw that I was anxious to learn 
their language, they evidently turned over in their 
minds the fact that I was from a new country, 
and would have some strange tales to tell when 


I was able to make myself understood. They, 
therefore, took the greatest interest in teaching 
me the words they thought would be most use- 
ful to me. 

One man, for instance, would enter the hut, 
raise his finger up to his eye, and inquire by 
signs whether I knew the native name for that 

organ. If I shook my head to signify ignorance, 
he would pronounce the name very distinctly, 
and I had to repeat it until my pronunciation 
satisfied him. He would then point in succession 
to his nose, ear, mouth, etc., and endeavor by 
constant repetitions to 
impress their names on 
my memory. When the 
lesson was concluded, 
he would gravely say, 
" Nakc mboka," which 
is synonymous with our 
" Good-by for the pres- 
ent," and depart with 
the air of one who had 
acquitted himself of a 
duty he owed to society, 
— only to reappear 
on the following day 
with a fresh string of 
names for me to com- 
mit to memory. After 
a while, my friends dis- 
covering that when I native pam^ei anu jar 

heard a new word I immediately made a 
note of it, the more intelligent among them 
would come into my room when they had any 
information to give, pick up my note-book, and, 
handing me my pencil, insist on my writing 
down in their presence all they told me. If 
suspicion was aroused that I was trying to shirk 
my duty in this matter, they would request me 
to read aloud the different words with which 
they had furnished me. 

By this means, I soon had a large stock of 
nouns at my command, and by attentively lis- 
tening to the conversation around me I added 
to these a few useful verbs, and acquired some 
knowledge of the formation of sentences. No 
tutors could be more gratified in the progress of 
a pupil. 

I very soon passed from halting sentences 
to easy conversations. And from the moment 
that I was able to explain myself in simple lan- 
guage and understand the questions addressed 
to me in return, I ceased to feel lonely or 
isolated, or to look upon my neighbors alto- 
gether as strangers. My knowledge of the lan- 
guage assisted me in obtaining an insight into 
the native character, and in understanding to 




some extent their peculiarities of manner and 

Natives who have associated much with Eu- 
ropeans become reticent. They comprehend the 
great difference separating their modes of life and 
thought from those of the white man, and they 
will endeavor to conceal as much as possible 
feelings and prejudices they know will be mis- 
understood. But my Lukolela neighbors had 
seen but few white men, — in fact, the majority 
of them had not, until my arrival, ever seen 
one, — and certainly none had met a mwidelc 
(white man) who could speak their language; 
so they chattered away with the frank unreserve 
of children, revealing in their conversation very 
many good qualities mingled with much that 
was savage and superstitious. As soon as I was 
able to get about, I made frequent excursions to 


the different villages sprinkled over the district 
of Lukolela. These villages consisted of groups 
of fifty or more low, grass-thatched houses, each 
dwelling divided into two or three rooms. In 
course of time I came to know almost every 
man, woman, and child in the district. 

My Station was separated from the nearest of 
these clusters of huts by a thickly wooded for- 
est, through which I cleared a path ; and, divid- 
ing my settlement at its extreme limit from the 
\'illage, was a stream about seventy yards wide. 
By driving piles at distances across this, I was 
able to build a good, strong bridge, which, to- 
gether with my forest path, made communica- 
tion with my dusky neighbors a very easy 
matter. It was my custom each morning to 
saunter down to the villages, and pass from 
group to group exchanging salutations with the 
natives and learning the news of the day. 

There was always something new to interest 
me : The traders loading up their canoes in 
preparation for a visit to some neighboring vil- 
lages in quest of ivory or red-wood ; the differ- 
ent artificers busily employed at their separate 
trades, working copper 
and brass into heavy 
bangles with which to 
encircle their wives' necks 
and ankles, to satisfy the 
feminine craving for finery, 
or beating iron into keen 
and sharp-pointed spear- 
heads or queerly-shaped 
knife-blades — or, with 
nothing but an odd-look- 
ing httle adze, fashioning 
from a rough log of wood 
an artistically carved chair 
or slender lancewood pad- 
dle ; the potter, equally 
ingenious and artistic in 
his way, transforming with 
his cunning hand a mass 
of black clay into vessels 
almost as graceful in de- 
sign as those of the an- 
cient Greeks. 

Pleasant sounds of busy 
life are heard from every 
dwelling, and the little 
hemmed in by forest trees, 
seemed pervaded with an air of peace and con- 

The principal employment of the natives 
near by, was fishing. This is an important in- 
dustry with the inhabitants of the riverside vil- 

clusters of huts, 




lages, as not only do they live almost entirely 
on the fish they catch, but the yield of their 
nets is bartered with the inland tribes in ex- 
change for other commodities. The early morn- 
ing the fishermen devote to repairing and replen- 
ishing the stock in trade of their calling : traps 
and nets are carefully examined, and all injuries 
repaired before the sun is well up. The river 
at this part teems with fish, of every size and 
variety. Their haunts and habits are thoroughly 
well known to the fishermen, whose curiously 
minute observations have taught them where 
to spread their nets with a certainty of the 
largest haul. There is one large yellow fish, 
the '■'mbtitii" esteemed a great luxury on the 
Congo, which lives upon the soft, succulent 
stems of the swamp grass, and, as a rule, feeds 
about eight or ten inches below the surface of 
the water. The fisherman, with spear poised 
ready for the throw, glides noiselessly along in 
his canoe, skirting the fringe of these grassy 
swamps, carefully watching to see the .slightest 
trembling of a stem of grass, which tells that a 
fish is nibbling. Suddenly he deftly plunges his 
weapon below the surface, and almost invariably 
a fat mbiitu is drawn to the side of the canoe, 
struggling on the end of the spear. All along 
the Congo and its tributaries are large bays 
where the water is invariably sluggish ; these 
places are the resorts of shoals of fish. In the 
rainy season, when the river is swollen, the na- 
tives build walls of cane mesh-work across 
the mouths of these bays; so that when the 
river falls, all the fish are securely penned in ; 
openings are then made in the netting, and a 
basket-trap attached over each. The fish endeav- 
oring to escape by these apertures are caught 
in the traps. With but litde effort, a plentiful 
supply of fish is secured at this time of the year. 
Sometimes, during a rapid fall of the river, thou- 
sands of fish are taken this way in a few days. 
Near to these fishing-grounds the natives build 
rough, temporary huts and also construct low 
tables of sticks about i y^, feet from the ground. 
The fish are placed on these tables, and are 
smoked perfectly dry by means of large fires 
placed underneath. 

The hard toil of many weeks was beginning 
to tell in the improved appearance of my Sta- 
tion. The site was thoroughly cleared of tree- 


roots and weeds. My men were working well, 
and I myself had not been idle, for I had to 
educate my Zanzibari in handicrafts of which I 
knew little, and to transform my men into car- 
penters, sawyers, plasterers, etc., as the occasion 
required. And I had now well under way a 
large house destined to supersede the little hut 
in which I had been living since Stanley left. It 
was not an ambitious structure, but 
it was lofty and airy, with walls 
composed of white clay laid 
upon a framework of timber, 
and was roofed with grass t -<, « 

While this work was m ue,'^'^'^' 
progress, I had educated 
two of my men to use 
the long pit-saw (a 
saw with a handle 


at each end, used by two men. One stands upon 
the surface of the ground and the other is in a 
deep pit below the timber which is being cut), 
and soon had a fine stock of planks made 
from the trees which I felled in the neighboring 
forest ; and with the assistance of a young West 
Coast African, who had a natural bent for car- 




pentering, I soon had doors, windows, shut- 
ters, and all the necessary wood-work, ready for 
my new house. Up to this time I had been 
compelled to make shift with my trunks and 
boxes for chairs and tables, but now I was able 
to enjoy the comfort of a table and chair of my 
own manufacture, and for the first time I appre- 

at times over extensive shoals, where we saw 
quite a herd of hippopotami huddled together 
in the shallow water. They stood motionless, 
like smooth, black rocks. There was not a 
sign of life in the herd as we approached until 
we had paddled within fifty yiirds of them, — 
then all was tumult and confusion. Suddenly 



ciated the possession of those useful articles of 

My health being thoroughly restored, I did 
not confine myself to station work, but fre- 
quently made excursions into the neighboring 
districts, learning all I could of the tribes 
inhabiting them. 

Hearing that there were several large villages 
on the opposite shore, a little lower down-river, 
I decided to visit and make friends with the 
people. Mbunga was the most important ])lace, 
so I decided to make there my first visit. I 
equipped my large canoe with twenty-five pad- 
dlers some being my own men and some being 
I>ukolela natives and started off early one morn- 
ing to seek out Ndombe, the chief of Mbunga. 
Our course lay through numerous small chan- 
nels between thickly wooded forest islands, and 

startled from their morning sleep, with loud 
snortings they plunged deep into the river, dis- 
appearing entirely from sight, and leaving only 
a stretch of troubled water in the place where 
they had herded. Sometimes we would see a 
number of these unwieldy monsters swimming 
midstream, their bodies submerged, and only 
their great heads showing above the surface. 
We would leave the river in their possession and 
skirt along the banks so as to avoid a collision 
— in which the canoe would fare badly. As 
I was anxious to reach Mbunga, I could not 
spare time for any shooting on the journey, so I 
resolved to save all my cartridges for the hippos 
I might meet on the return journey to Lukolela. 
Making all haste, I managed to reach Mbunga 
before nightfall. I found the people there very 
wild, some portion of them even hostile, and I 

i8go. ] 



succeeded in establishing friendly relations only 
by going through the ceremony of blood- 
brotherhood with the most important chief 
of the place, Ndombe. My first view of this 
village impressed me with a sense of the char- 
acteristic cruelty with which native rumor cred- 
ited these people, for nearly every hut was deco- 
rated with the whitening skull of some slave or 
victim, while suspended from the branch of 
a large tree in the center of the village was 
a roughly-made basket containing the same 
ghastly trophies. 

The natives themselves were lazy and filthy 
in their habits ; plantations were few ; and al- 
though extensive fishing-grounds were situated 
close to their villages, but little effort was made 
to reap any benefit from them. The natives had 
a besotted look, and during my few days' stay in 
these villages I noticed that, though little food 
was eaten, an enormous quantity of fermented 

early one morning, and about a mile and a half 
from the village I came upon a herd of hippo- 
potami. One of them offering a favorable shot, 
I fired, but only succeeded in wounding the 
animal. I had with me at that time a Snider rifle, 
which is not a very serviceable weapon in the 
hunting-field, its power of penetration being in- 
sufficient for big game. The sting of the bullet 
tended only to infuriate the animal ; he threw 
himself wildly out of the water and plunged 
about in all directions. A few of my paddlers 
kept cool, but most of them, not accustomed to 
this kind of thing, dropped their paddles and 
clung wildly to the gunwale of the canoe ; some 
were screaming, while those who retained their 
paddles endeavored to force the canoe in a direc- 
tion opposite from my intended destination. All 
this commotion rendered it very difficult for me to 
take a shot with any certainty of aim, so that, 
although I kept on hitting the brute, I could not 


sugar-cane juice was consumed, and toward the succeed in reaching a vital part, and each succes- 

evening of each day the villages were crowded sive bullet that struck rendered the monster only 

with noisy and intoxicated savages. the more furious. At last he caught sight of us. 

Having decided to return to Lukolela, I left and seemed, all at once, to recognize that we 




were his enemies. He came on, plowing his 
way through the water, and struck my canoe a 
blow which, nearly capsizing it, threw several of 
my men into the water. Fortunately, he did not 
follow them up, but, passing under the canoe, 
kept plunging madly on for a short distance. 
In the mean time I had managed to pick up 
the men from the water, — just in time, for he 
returned and made another charge. 

As he passed for a second time under the 
canoe, my hunter, Bongo Nsanda, dexterously 
plunged a spear into him, which, striking in the 
side, seemed to cripple him greatly. He was 
now becoming exhausted, and his movements 
became slower and slower. Each time he rose 
to the surface he presented a pitiable sight, with 
the blood streaming from his many wounds. I 
was now able, by a well-directed shot behind the 
ear, to end the poor brute's sufierings, and after 
a few spasmodic struggles he sank from sight, 
leaving the water all around us discolored with 
his blood. A hippopotamus when killed in the 
water invariably sinks; the body does not rise 
for several hours, the duration of submersion de- 
pending on the temperature of the water. Know- 
ing this, I waited patiently on the bank of the 
river, and after three hours saw my game rise 
slowly to the surface. 

By this time the inhabitants of the surround- 
ing villages, attracted by the firing of my rifle, 
had manned their large war-canoes. There 
must have been at least fifty of them, each canoe 
filled with armed warriors. I had managed 
only to get my hippopotamus in shallow water 
when these people surrounded me. I noticed 
that they had come prepared for a quarrel, 
each being armed with spear and knife. They 
thought to intimidate me by their formidable 
strength. Some of the bolder even jumped out 
of their canoes, danced wildly around the hip- 
popotamus, brandishing their knives, and invited 
the others to come on and cut up the meat, say- 
ing : " The white man has no right to this meat. 
Hippopotami belong to us. He killed it in our 
district. His men can have a small share, but 
he cannot expect to come and shoot our game 
and take all away with him." Now if they had 
simply asked me for a portion of the meat, I 
would willingly have acceded to their request; 
but, in attempting to frighten me by a display 

of force, they were pursuing an entirely wrong 
course. I immediately called off my men, ten 
of whom had rifles and could be thoroughly 
trusted, and gave them orders to load. 

Fortunately, on the sand bank where I had 
beached my canoe were several little clumps 
of grass, and an old tree or two that had been 
washed ashore. Taking advantage of this cover, 
I placed my men in safety. I then walked 
forward, and explained to the excited natives of 
Mbunga that I had come there as a friend. I 
did not wish any trouble, but that the hippo- 
potamus belonged to nobody till he was dead; 
now, as I had shot him, I considered him mine. 
Moreover, I was going to do what I liked with 
him. I would keep him all, if I chose, or I would 
sink him to the bottom of the river. I should be 
guided in the matter by my own will only, and 
if they thought they were strong enough to take 
him I invited them to make the trial. Said I, 
" These men of mine are armed with the same 
weapon with which I killed that animal. You 
have not such thick hide as he had, so I advise 
you to quickly retreat." At first my speech only 
incensed them, for some headstrong, fiery young 
men immediately proposed to take the meat from 
me by force. One even went so far as to jump 
out of the canoe and make for the hippopota- 
mus; but I covered him so promptly with my 
rifle that he saw I meant what I said. Slacken- 
ing his pace, his countenance, which at first 
denoted only savage arrogance, now assumed 
a look of intense fear, and, dropping his 
knife down by his side, he skulked back to his 

The chief, Ndombe, who had been made 
my blood-brother, happened to be in one of the 
canoes, so I called him by name, and said I was 
surprised by the treatment I was receiving at the 
hands of his followers. Also, I advised him to 
speak with the people and to explain to them 
the folly of any hostile demonstrations. All the 
canoes were then brought together, and the 
Mbunga natives appeared to have decided 
among themselves, that a white man's powder 
and shot might lend convincing force to his 
arguments, for they hastened to tell me that I 
was in the right. I then informed them that 
I had no intention of taking all the meat with 
me. I was not greedy ; I wanted some of the 




meat for my men, but I myself should decide 
how much. 

" Now," said I, " Ndombe, you are my blood- 
brother. I shall give you one leg for yourself 
and village. The remainder of the half I shall 
distribute among these people, but not one man 
is to cut up a piece of the meat. My own men 
shall do that. My gun is loaded, and what I 
say, I mean. I shall sit here, and if one of your 
men attempts to cut the meat without my per- 
mission, I shall consider it the commencement 
of hostilities, and shall shoot him down." This 
bit of bounce on my part had the desired effect. 
They kept at a respectful distance until I had 
cut up as much of the animal as I wanted. I 
did not take even half; I left them quite three- 
quarters. When I called them and handed them 
their share, they were delighted. My speech and 
show of fearlessness had a very good effect. We 
parted the best of friends, and I left this savage 
crowd to light among themselves for the re- 
mainder of the meat. For a long time after 
leaving this scene, we could hear their wild and 
excited talk as they squabbled over their plun- 
der. The sight of blood always betrays the 
savage. It is to him what the red rag is to a 

It was dark before I again neared Lukolela. 
From a great distance I could see the lights of 
many torches sprinkled about the shore. As I 
approached, a hum of voices was borne toward 
me on the still night air. All the villagers were 
gathered on the strand, anxious to hear what 
fortunes had befallen us on our journey. When 
the prow of my canoe drove sharply on the 
beach, and the hustling crowd discovered our 
freight of hippo-meat, great was their joy. All 
were eager to bear a hand in unloading the 
canoe, and a great torcl(-lit crowd of yelling 
negroes escorted us on to the Station. Most 
of the meat was distributed in the village and 
was roasted over large fires. Far into the night 
I could hear the sounds of revelry which suc- 
ceeded the great banquet. Standing on my 
beach, I watched the bonfires flaring down in 
the village, while lithe black figures crossed 
and recrossed in the fitful light, mingHng in wild 
and joyous dances. The shadows of great for- 
est trees hung ov^ them, and all around was 
intense darkness. Songs and laughter came 

echoing through the woods until the embers 
had turned to ashes and the morning light was 
glimmering on the horizon. 

1 was much pleased that my first hunting expe- 
dition had ended so successfully. The Ba-Bangi 
are bom hunters, and the surest way in which a 
stranger can gain their esteem is to exhibit skill 
and prowess in the field. Besides, I am afraid 
that in my talks with my neighbors I had been 
guilty of exaggerations that led to expectations 
of great things, which I more than doubted 
my own ability to fulfill. I felt that, in this first 
hunt, I stood on trial before the whole tribe, and 
was secretly pleased to be able to establish a 
secure reputation as a hunter by a feast of 
hippo-meat. Whenever I could snatch an op- 
portunity after this, I would scour the country 
round in search of big game. My villagers 
were equally eager for the chase, and were anx- 
ious to bring me the first news of a wandering 
herd of buffaloes or of elephants. Until now 
I had been known among the natives as Mwaiia 
Taide'le, or son of Stanley. From this day I was 
known throughout the district as " Makula " 
(literally. Arrows), a name bestowed by the na- 
tives only upon distinguished hunters, my success 
in supplying the village with feasts of hippo- 
potamus and buffalo meat having earned me 
this proud title. 

Four months of pioneer work, diversified by 
trips into the interior and hunting excursions, 
had passed rapidly away, when, one January 
afternoon, a fisherman brought news to the Sta- 
tion that, while spreading his nets in a reach of 
the river just above Lukolela, he had sighted a 
flotilla composed of three steamers floating down 
stream. It was Stanley and his followers return- 
ing from Stanley Falls. All was now excitement. 
My men were as eager as I was to give the 
great explorer a hearty welcome on his return. 
We all hastened down to the beach, and with 
cries of " Sail HO ! ! ! Afasi/a //" (boats), " Bwa7ia 
kubiia anariide ! .'" (The big master is returning), 
we hailed the first glimpse we caught of the lit- 
tle fleet as it rounded a distant point. My Zan- 
zibaris and few Houssas donned their brightest 
cloth in honor of the occasion, and presented a 
really fine appearance as they lined the beach 
to await the arrival of the boats. A strongly 
flowing current and rough weather had told on 





the little fleet, and the new paint that looked so 
bright and ga)' onl}' five months before at Leo- 
poldville had faded and blistered under the 
scorching sun. When Stanley landed, I noticed 
that he too showed signs of hard work and 
exposure, but, bronzed and weatherbeaten, he 
seemed a picture of rugged health. While I was 
saluting my chief, I noticed that he was regard- 
ing me with a curiously quizzical look in his 
eyes. At last he inquired in an anxious tone 
of voice for the poor young Englishman he had 
left at Lukolela on his voyage up-ri\-er last fall. 
He added that he feared the very worst had be- 
fallen him, for \\'hen he last saw him he was in a 
very bad way, emaciated and cadaverous. He 
feigned great surprise when I hastened to assure 
him that I was the sickly youth for whom he 
expressed so much concern, and that I never felt 
better in my life. Stanley complimented me on 
my improved appearance, and bestowed much 
kindly praise on the progress of the work on m}' 
Station. There was not very much in the way of 
improvement that I could show him as he in- 
spected my little patch of territory. But there 
had been many difficulties to be overcome, 
owing to the nature of the soil and the sur- 
roundings. He was also much pleased with 
the friendly relations that existed between the 
natives and our settlement. 

That evening Stanley narrated the history of 
his expedition on its journey to the falls. He 
told how he found the Stanley Falls region in 
the hands of the Arabs, who had made it their 
headquarters for raiding incursions into the sur- 

rounding country in search of ivory and slaves, 
and how he had founded a station at that dis- 
tant point, fifteen hundred miles from the Atlan- 
tic Ocean, and placed a young Scotch engineer, 
named Bennie, in charge. He dwelt upon the 
contrast between his cordial reception by the 
\arious tribes scattered along his route, on his 
last voyage, and the hostilities he encountered 
on all sides in his great journey in '77. 

The patience, diplomacy, and justice he had 
exercised enabled him now to pass through the 
savage and cannibal tribes of the upper Congo 
without firing a shot — tribes who in '77 attacked 
him at every turn, answering his offers of friend- 
ship by flights of barbed and poisoned arrows ; 
and where once compelled, by sheer hunger, for 
days to fight for food, the natives now wel- 
comed him with exclamations of joy, and placed 
at his disposal the best their villages contained. 

The following day, after Stanley had given 
presents of cloth and trinkets to the Lukolela 
chiefs in exchange for the goats and fowls they 
brought him, I witnessed the departure of the 
flotilla, and then returned to my work, cheered 
by many kind wishes and expressions of ap- 
proval from my chief. 

Stanley, on bidding me good-bye, had promised 
me that assistance should be sent from Leopold- 
\'ille, as the work \\-as heavy for one man. This 
was good news to me, as the presence of an- 
other white man at the station would relieve the 
feeling of isolation which sometimes crept over 
me when I looked on the black faces crowd- 
ing round me, and remembered the many leagues 




that separated me from the nearest Europeans. 
I have mentioned the friendhness toward me 
of the tribes bordering on the Station, but there 
was trouble in store from another quarter, and 
this, too, made me wish for some one with 
whom I could take counsel when unexpected 
difficulties presented themselves. 

Just below the villages of Lukolela there was 
another native settlement called Makunja, over 
which presided Mpuke. This old chief had, since 
our first landing, assumed a hostile and unfriendly 
attitude; he was continually catching and some- 
times killing the friendly natives of Lukolela, as- 
signing as a reason for this aggression the fact 
that they were friendly with me. I warned old 
Mpuke that if he continued this policy I should 
be compelled to punish him. In answer to my 
remonstrance he sent word to me that he was 
" Mokunje Monene " (the big chief) of this part 
of the country, and that he intended to fight, 
and to burn to the ground all the Lukolela vil- 
lages ; that I was an intruder, and before many 
days were past he would burn and destroy my 
Station and the huts of all who wished me well. 
He also added that his vengeance would not be 
complete until my head decorated the roof of 
his house. Mpuke was evidently in earnest, for 
early in the morning after I had received his 
ultimatum, I was startled from sleep by a crowd 
of natives running into the Station with the in- 
telligence that the villages were being attacked. 
I could hear, while they spoke, the loud reports 
of old flint-locks in the distance, and abreast of 
the villages I could see the Makunja war-canoes 
with armed warriors who were challenging the 
Lukolela villages to fight. The Lukolela men 
implored my aid in repelling this attack. As I 
was the principal object of Mpuke's wrath I de- 
termined to assist them to punish the old tyrant, 
whose threat anent my skull had put me on my 
mettle. I took ten of my men, well armed with 
rifles, and went into the villages. Here every- 
thing was in a state of confusion. Spears and 
knives were being sharpened, flint-lock muskets 
charged. The warriors were rushing here and 
there, donning their charms anfl rubbing char- 
coal on their faces, to render themselves as for- 
midable-looking as possible. The women were 
all making for my Station, loaded up with babies, 
and baskets containing their goods and chattels. 

The Lukolela villages and those of Makunja were 
separated by a mile of swampy forest, through 
which ran a narrow zig-zag foot-path. As the 
only way to effectively punish old Mpuke was to 
attack him on his own soil, I led my men in this 
direction. When we were about half way several 
volleys were fired at us by the natives lying in 
ambush, one charge just grazing my head ; and, 
from the thick cover, spears were hurled, which 
stuck quivering in the beaten ground. The sharp 
crack of our Snider rifles, however, soon scattered 
these skirmishers, who made off in the direction 
of their village, where all the stragglers, gather- 
ing together, made a last stand, 
and greeted our approach with a 
random fire of slugs and spears. 


This was soon silenced by a volley from my 
men, and we entered the enemy's village. All 
the inhabitants had fled at our approach ; there 
was not a soul to be seen, but from the skirting 
woods rose little puffs of smoke, followed by loud, 
re-echoing reports from overcharged muskets, 
enabling us to guess the whereabouts of the 
enemy. When I had time to look about me, I 
found that I had four men seriously wounded. 




Mpuke's threat of skull decoration had evi- 
dently been used often by him, and judging by 
the roof-tree of his house, profusely decorated 
with these ghastly ornaments, it had often been 
fulfiled. I burned the houses to the ground, 
and throwing out my men on either side of the 
path, leaving sentinels on the limits of Lukolela, 
we returned to the Station unmolested. At night 
an incessant drumming was kept up b}- the two 
villages. The mournful wail of the Makunja 
people, wafted over the river, told that our rifles 
had done their work. Every now and then the 
drumming and singing would cease, and threat- 
ening speeches would be exchanged as to the 
fight to-morrow. The next morning, I again 
proceeded to the villages, and ordered one of 
the Lukolela chiefs to inform Mpuke that I 
trusted that the punishment of yesterday would 
be sufficient warning to him, for I did not wish 
to continue the fight. Curses heaped upon my 
head -were the only answer the furious old chief 
returned to my peaceful overtures, curses invok- 
ing horrible calamities both to myself and my 
unoftending relations, and in\^olving my cousins, 
uncles, and aunts in a common and bloody 
destruction with intricate details. 

As I listened to this answer, " Itiimba ! .' 
Ifiimlhi J / .'" (War, war!) was echoed and re- 
echoed by a savage mob of Makunja warriors, 
and to the left a crowd of the enemy in the 
plantations were mimicking with excited contor- 
tions of limb the dissection which they intended 
practicing on us later on in the day. I found, 
however, that their courage was only skin-deep. 
With a few of my Zanzibari, and some of the 
natives of Lukolela, who were emboldened by 
the success of the day before, we soon quieted 
their fire and cleared them out of their position, 
following them up all the morning until the old 
chief Mpuke announced that he had had 
enough of fighting and proclaimed his willing- 
ness for peace. 

Reluctantly, I had been compelled to shoot 
a few of the enemy; but they never forgot the 
lesson, and old Mpuke became most friendly 
toward me, and even condescended to include 
me in the family circle, always referring to me as 
" Mwana Ngai" (my son), a condescension on 
his part which I was hardly able to appreciate, 
as it devolved on me a filial duty of periodically 

supplying presents of cloth to my would-be 
dusky parent. 

Although I was at Lukolela nearly two years 
after this, old Mpuke's thrashing had damped 
all warlike ambition on the part of the natives, 
and these were the only shots I had to fire in 
defense of my position while at Lukolela. 

I found that at Lukolela I was in the center 
of a country abounding in big game. I had my 
choice of hunting hippos, elephants, or bufia- 
loes ; but for an exciting day's sport I preferred 
taking my gun in search of the last-named ani- 
mals. There were any number of them in the 
district. I once saw as many as three hundred 
securely herding within a few hours' walk of the 
Station. The ground the)" were gathered on was 
a bare patch, of about three hundred yards in 
diameter, nearly round, in the middle of a large 
grass plain. In it were a few pools of water, and 
in the center of this patch was a tongue of grass. 
I took advantage of this cover, and was thus 
able to approach within twenty-five yards of the 

herd. The 
b u fif a 1 o e s 
were now 
upon three 
sides of me. 
Some of 
them were 
basking in 

Ari;lLA.\ .SEAT. ,1 

the sun, 
others wallowing in the muddy pools ; a few old 
stagers seemed to be on the lookout, as they 
would browse a little and then raise their heads 
and look in all directions to make sure that no 
enemy was near. The little ones were frolick- 
ing about, playing like young lambs. For some 
time I watched the scene in silence from my 
cover, almost loath to disturb the picturesque 
groups by the crack of my rifle ; but the sporting 
instinct was too strong for me, and, persuading 
myself that the loss of one of that herd would 
make little difference, I picked out one that was 
offering a fair shot, and fired. I knew that I had 
hit fatally, but was surprised to see that my 
wounded buffalo was surrounded by several 
others, who immediately grouped themselves 
around him, and helped him along in their 
midst. I followed the track, and was rewarded. 




after going a few hundred yards, to find my 
game quite dead. The others must have actually 
carried him along until life was extinct and they 
had to drop him. This strange fact has often 
been noticed by hunters. Elephants will do the 
same thing, often helping to raise a wounded 
comrade from the ground where he has fallen. 

The uninviting appearance of the feathered 
occupants of my poultry-yard suggested to me 
that a little wild game would be a release from 
the monotonous diet of the insipid African fowl, 
which, unfortunately, we were compelled to make 
our staple meat food. This biped is to be seen 
dawdling around every village, plumage all awry, 
and presenting a picture of a dissipated, long- 
legged, skinny, half-feathered, prematurely old 
bird. Occasionally he will attempt to crow, 
putting his feet as firm as he can on the ground, 
throwing the weight of his body forward so as 
to get good purchase, and then with a painful 
effort commencing a hideously screeching noise. 
He seldom gets more than half-wa)- through his 
crow. Ending with an indistinct internal wheeze, 
he totters off thoroughly exhausted with his 
exertions. For table use he is not a success ; no 
amount of fine cooking will change his tasteless 
nature : when you curry him you taste only the 
curry powder and condiments ; as a roast the 
butter is the conspicuous part of the dish ; and 
in a soup you have onh' the taste of the \\ater. 

I remember one occasion particularly, when 
in order to change the monotony of my menu 
I decided to try for a buffalo. So, early one 
morning, with six of my blacks, I manned my 
canoe, and crossed over to the other side of the 
river, where there was a large plain in which I 
was generally successful in finding game. Ar- 
rived there, we struck off into the grass, and after 
walking a few miles the fresh trail of a large 
buffalo warned us to be on the alert. Carefully 
following the tracks, we presently saw, about 
twenty yards ahead of us, the black head and 
shoulders of a large bull just peeping out above 
the tall grass, listening attentively as if warned 
of the approach of an enemy. I took a quick 
aim and hit him in the shoulder, when he charged 
right do\vn on us. Finding that the long grass hid 
us from view, he tore about wildly searching for 
us, snorting with pain and breathing heavily, be- 
ing exhausted by his bleeding wounds. I was 

only once able to get a snap shot at him as he 
passed through a little patch of short grass, but 
this time I did not drop him. My second bullet 
only increasing his rage, he sprang off wildly 
into a neighboring swamp. 

I followed him, sending my native hunter 
round one way while I took the other. I had 
gone but a few yards into the swamp, when 
my attention was diverted by a cry for help from 
Bongo Nsanda, my hunter. I knew by the 
tone of voice that he was really in danger, 
so I crept hastily along in the direction from 
which the cry had come. As I drew near I 
found that Bongo Nsanda was indeed in need 
of help. He was hanging by the topmost 
branch of a young sapling, which was bending 
lower and lower with his weight, and was now 
almost within the buffalo's reach. I was only 
just in time, for the impetus with which the 
maddened brute was charging would have 
rooted up the tree and flung my hunter to the 
ground, and he would have been gored into a 
mangled mass. But I was fortunately able to 
avoid this tragic ending by putting a bullet be- 
hind the shoulder into the heart, which sent the 
beast headlong to the earth writhing in his death 
struggles. So instead of having to celebrate my 
hunter's funeral rites, as at one time seemed 
more than probable, I had the more savory 
experience of eating a buffalo steak. 

Not many months passed after Stanley's de- 
parture before the flotilla re-appeared at Luko- 
lela. This time, however, without Stanley, who 
was on his way to Europe, and had surrendered 
charge to Captain Hanssens, a Belgian military 
officer. The boats were heavily freighted with 
supplies and provisions for the new Stations 
up the river. With my consignment of neces- 
saries was landed a stalwart young English- 
man, who handed me a letter from Stanley 
introducing the bearer as D. H. G. Keys, m.y 
promised assistant. My new comrade was 
full of good nature and high spirits. As I 
had now been away from England fifteen 
months, and as our postal service was rather 
erratic, my knowledge of recent home news 
was exceedingly limited. So, after the boats 
had steamed up-river and we were left to 
ourselves, Keys, who had just come from the 
old country, would spend many hours in re- 




counting to mc such of the events that had hap- 
pened since my departure as he thought hkely 
to interest me ; and when he had exhausted his 
news, he would sing over the new songs of 
Gilbert and Sullivan's latest, till I was able to 
pick out the gems of the opera on the strings 
of my old banjo. Keys was by nature suited 
exactly for the pioneer life among wild people 
that we were to lead together. He was always 
kind and forbearing in his dealings with the 

There was much to be done at this time in 
obtaining concessions of territory from the chiefs 
in the district. I was frequently making excur- 
sions by land and water on the business of the 
Expedition, visiting and conciliating various 
tribes and entering into agreements with their 
head men. When I was away, Keys, of course, 
was in charge of the station, and it was pleasant 
to know that the work was not falling into ar- 
rears during my absence, and to look forward to 

1 0\U0 Ni.AND\ ; 

natives, whose child-like ignorance pleaded 
strongly with him in excuse for their many faults. 
He possessed, too, a certain natural charm of 
manner which made him instantly a favorite in 
the villages, where he would freely mingle with 
the people without that frigid dignity which 
Europeans so often think it necessary to as- 
sume in their intercourse with the African — a 
fruitful cause of much of the disappointment and 
ill-success which many unfortunate pioneers have 
met with in their attempts to benefit and civilize 
the savages of the interior. 

a hearty welcome from my comrade when I re- 
turned. When we were together, our talk would 
turn naturally to dogs, guns, and game. I would 
tell Keys all my experiences with hippopotami 
and buffaloes, and show him the best hunting- 
grounds for big game in the neighborhood. ^Ve 
little thought, as we laid out our plans far ahead, 
that the close of a short season would find only 
one gun in the field. For the present we ar- 
ranged that either one or the other should go on 
a hunting-trip each week to replenish the larder 
and keep the men in good humor. One day it 




was Keys's turn to go. He started off in high 
spirits, saying to me as he went away, " Have a 
good lunch ready, old man, — back about one, — 
shall be awfully hungry, — always am when I 
come home from hunting." I could not ac- 
company him, as I was busy that day looking 
after station matters. One o'clock passed, two, 
three, and then, as he was usually punctual in 
returning at the appointed hour, I began to 
have a fear that something was wrong. I 
felt sure that something had happened, and 
as time wore on and brought no news of 
my canoe, this foreboding of evil tidings in- 
creased. At last, just as the sun was sinking, I 
saw my canoe returning, but my straining eyes 
could catch no glimpse of poor Keys. There 
was in the canoe an ominous gap, which ar- 
rested the beating of my heart, and upon its 
arrival at the beach I found that my presenti- 
ment was sadly converted into fact. I then 
learned the story of his death. Having come 
upon a herd of buffaloes, eager for the sport he 
fired away until he had exhausted his stock of 
cartridges ; he was then in the midst of a large 
plain, but was suffering so much from thirst that 
he decided to make for the river, which was 
distant about half a mile. He took with him 
one Houssa and a little native boy. When they 
had proceeded a few hundred yards they had to 
traverse a stretch of very long grass, upon enter- 
ing which they were startled by the snorting and 
tramping of an enraged buffalo. The two fright- 
ened blacks skipped off the patch and hid in the 
tangled cover. Keys also tried to escape. The 
brute charged here and there, at one time beat- 
ing down the long grass within a yard of the 
two blacks. Then, at last, suddenly sighting 
poor Keys, he charged furiously at him. One 
slight moan was all the blacks heard. Death 

must have been instantaneous. It was a sad 
blow for me ; the remembrance of it is still vivid 
in my mind. We had been the best of friends ; 
no angry word or thought had ever passed be- 
tween us. He had left me that morning full of 
life, rejoicing in his youth and strength. I fan- 
cied I could almost hear the echoings of his 
eager calls, hurrying his men to the hunt, and 
faint lingering notes of his joyous farewell shouts 
seemed to reach me as I sat alone while the 
gloomy shades of the fateful day gathered darkly 
round the desolate station. They had placed the 
body in his room on the narrow camp-bed. All 
the weary night I paced restlessly up and dow^n 
the mud floor of the house, listening and watch- 
ing, intensely expectant for something, I knew 
not what, to break the horrible monotony of my 
watch, and assure me that all was only the fancy 
of a feverish brain. At times I was convinced 
that I was deceived, and that my friend still 
lived; that he was wounded, badly wounded, 
but not dead, and I would seize the lamp, enter 
his room, and fearfully pull aside the white cloth 
that covered the body, striving to force imagina- 
tion to lend motion and life to the still forai of 
my dead comrade. The strain at last became 
unendurable. Before the dawn broke I was lying 
dehrious with fever in my own room. When I 
regained my senses I found my men gathered 
round me, anxiously awaiting the first sign of 
returning consciousness. They had found me 
lying on the floor in the other room, and had 
carried me to my own bed. 

I buried poor Keys just behind the station 
house. A great silk-cotton tree throws its shade 
over the grave — a heap of stones encircled with 
a rough wooden paling, at the head of which 
stands a little cross bearing his name and the 
date of his death. 

E. J. Glave. 

(To be contmued.) 

Vol. XVII.- 



By R. K. Munkittrick. 

All the earth will soon be bright 
With a twinkling amber light — 
Vagrant airs will gently stray 
Down the shady wooded way, 
When the brooklets will rejoice 
In a limpid, lisping voice. 

Then will come the gladsome hours 
By an unseen spirit led, 

And the field will flame with flowers 
Beryl, lavender, and red. 

Soon the cozy nest will sway 
In the honeysuckle spray ; 
And the happy bird will sing 
Through the garden on the wing; 
And the tulips all unfold 
Cups of purple, rose, and gold. 

Then will wave the fragrant clover, 

'Neath a peaceful, turquoise sky, 
For the bee, the merry rover. 

And the pretty butterfly. 

Prithee, do not fancy now. 
When no leaf is on the bough. 
When the earth is white with snow. 
That 't will always rave and blow. 
Soon the birds will come and cheep 
Winter, surly soul, to sleep. 

And, by magic song o'ertaken. 
In a pleasant dream he '11 stray 

All the summer, but to waken 
When the birds have flown away. 


By Lieut. Robert H. Fletcher. 

Then at noon we sat down on the sand in the 
shade of some rocks and ate our luncheon. 

" We shall have to wait till the tide goes out 
before we can gather any shells," I said. 

" Why ? " said Maijorie. " Does n't the tide 
like you to have them ? " 

Frankie laughed at that, but Marjorie did not 

see anything to laugh at. Then after a while 

Frank and Marjorie went away by themselves 

and gathered a great many lovely shells — three 

_ EXT day we all went to the beach handkerchiefs full. And when they came back 

in a sail-boat. And Marjorie ran after Frankie was laughing again because Marjorie 

the waves and the waves ran after Marjorie. wished to know where the tide had gone. 


Chapter IV. 




" And could you tell her. Miss Frank ? " I in- 

" Well," said Frankie, " I know that the moon 
has something to do with the tide." 

'■ Where does the tide go to, Jack ? " said 

" Why," said I, " it is this way : 

Where does the tide go when it goes out? 
The Man in the Moon knows pretty well. 
In fact, he knows beyond a doubt — 
But the Man in the Moon won't tell. 

Now when it goes, on tiptoe we 
Will search the sands for a lovely shell. 
The Man in the Moon will see us, maybe — 
But the Man in the Moon won't tell." 

Chapter V. 

marjorie's story. 

DON'T think you want 
to tell me a story, do 
you, Jack ? " said Mar- 

It was Marjorie's bed- 
time, and sometimes, as 
a great treat, I would 
tell her a story after her 
mamma had tucked her 
in her crib. So I said, 
" Yes," and told her a 
little story. Then Marjorie said she would tell 
me a story. 

" Now," she said, " you listen, and don't you 
go to sleep. Are you listening ? " 
"Yes," I said; "I am listening." 
" Well-1-1," began Marjorie, "er, a, once upon 
a time there was a, there was a, a, — a little boy. 
And er, a, — a bear ate him up / " 
" My ! " I said. " How dreadful ! " 
" Yes," said Marjorie ; " and, and then, he fell 
off a house and broke both his legs ! " 


" Dear me 1 " said I ; " that was very shock- 

" Yes," said Marjorie ; " and then he broke 
both his arms ! " 

" Oh ! " said I. " What did they do with 
him ? " 

"Well," replied Marjorie, shaking her head, 
" I don't know what they did with him, but I 
guess they threw him away ; 'cause he ain't any 
more use then, you know." 

" No," I said; " I should think not. I don't 
think little boys are of much use, anyhow." 

" Some boys are," said Marjorie. 

" ^Vell, maybe some are," I said. " Now I 
will tell you a story, and it is about a little boy 
that was not of any use at all. Only, they did 
not throw him away, they made a bird out of 
him. Then after that you must go to sleep, and 
to-morrow we will put both of our stories in the 
book, and draw pictures for them." 

"Yes; but, Jack," said Marjorie, "I can't 
draw a picture of a bear. Don't you know, I 
tried the other day, and you said it looked like 
a turnip ? " 

" Did I ? " I asked. 

"Yes, you did," said Marjorie. 

" Well," I said, " I will draw it for you." 

"No," said Marjorie, "I will tell you what 
let 's do. Let 's put in the picture I drawed of 
the torchlight procession. Won't that do ? " 





-''■^(E ^^i 

'^/C:^ . 

ttyteC J/a-'i^ 

think that matters. W'e can write to the editor 
of St. Nicholas and tell her all -about it." 

"Yes," said Marjorie. "You write and tell 
her that I don't know how to make a bear. 
And now tell me about the little boy." 

" This is 


NCE there was a little boy, 
And, for no reason why. 
From the day of his birth, 

nothing else on earth 
Did he do but whine and 

He cried so very, very 
That no one would go near him ; 
The people said, ' It beat the Dutch ! 
Why, the Man in the Moon could hear him ! ' 

Tliis boy's home was on the beach 
Where the sea-gull's scream is heard. 
And if there 's a bird knows how to screech. 
The sea-gull is that bird. 

" Well," I replied, " I don't know that bears 
ever have torchlight processions, but I do not 

They scream their best when the winds blov 

And the sky grows dark and hazy ; 

But let that boy begin to cry 

And he 'd drive the sea-gulls crazy. 

Until, at last, they said, ' Oh, joy ! — 
We must be very dull — 
This child 's no use at all as a boy, 
But he 'd make a splendid gull ! ' 

So off they flew and told the king: 
They told him not to doubt it ; 
That this boy's scream beat everything ! 
That 's all there was about it. 

The king he saddled his best curlew ; 
He flew down the wind like mad ! 
(I think 't was a funny horse, don't you? 
'T was the only kind he had.) 





And when he heard that little boy yell 
He thought his ears would split, 
And so he turned him into a gull, 
And nobody cared a bit." 

" I think his mamma must have cared," said 
Marjorie's mamma. 

" Yes, Jack," said Marjorie : " I guess his 
mamma cared." 

" Well," I said, " perhaps his mamma cared." 

" And I think that after a while his mamma 
went and told the ' King of the Gulls ' that her 
little boy would be good now and not cry any 
more, and that then she persuaded the king to 
change him back again into a little boy," said 
Marjorie's mamma. 

" Did she. Jack? " asked Marjorie. 
" Well," I said, " come to think of it, I don't 
know but she did." 

Chapter VI. 


ERE is my red dolly. 
Jack," said Marjorie ; 
" won't you put her in 
the book ? " 

" Oh, yes, certainly," 
said I. " Although 
there is not much of 
her left to put in. She 



looks like the little boy in your story, who fell 
from the house and broke both of his arms and 
legs, and as if the bear had almost eaten her up, 
but had not quite finished her." 

" I don't care," said Marjorie, pouring, " she 
is very nice, and I love her, I do ! " 

" Well, I did not mean to say anything un- 
kind about her. Sweetheart," I said. " I have 
no doubt she is very nice. So, if you will ask 
her to sit up in the chair there, and tell her not 
to move while she is having her picture taken, 
I will see what I can do." 

" Oh, she won't move. Jack," said Marjorie, 
eagerly. " Jack, she is just the bestest dolly 
you ever saw ! " 

" There," I said, finishing the picture ; " do 
you like that ? " 

" Yes," said Marjorie ; " that is lovely. Now 
let me draw her. There ! Is n't that lovely, 
too ? Now, write some po'try about her. Jack, 
— won't you, please ? " 

" Well, let me see. I don't know anything 
that rhymes with dolly, except Polly. Her 
name is not Polly, is it ? " said I. 

" No," said Marjorie ; " her name is not Polly; 
it is Red Dolly. 'Cause, don't you know, she 
had on a red dress when you bought her for 

" Oh, yes," I said ; " of course, I ought to 
remember. Well, here is a ballad : 


Dolly dear, last year, when you were new, 

You were quite pretty, that is true ; 

Though now you look so queerly. 

Your cheeks were red, and your eyes were blue. 

You 'd arms and legs, and feet you had, too. 

There were few in the city so pretty as you, 

Dolly dear, last year, when you were new ; 

And Marjorie loved you dearly. 

But now your cheek 's no longer red ; 

Y'our arm is broken, so 's your head; 

You 're blind, and bald, and deaf, and lame ; 

You 're But Marjorie loves you just the same, 

Dolly dear." 

(To be continued.) 


By Julie M. Lippmann. 

You 'vE crossed his ferry many a time. Perhaps And yet it is n't difficult to rear them till they 're 

you did n't know it. higher 

He seats you in his ferry-boat and then begins to Than anything you ever saw in turret or in 

row it. spire. 

He dips his oars so softly that you can not even And Fancy seems so wondrous kind, he gratifies 

hear them, each notion — 

And !o ! you land at Fancy's docks before you You 've not a whim but is indulged through his 

know you 're near them. extreme devotion. 

Oh ! Fancy's land looks very grand with struc- Old Humdrum-town you left behind seems sadly 

tures high and airy, uninviting, 

And bright impossibilities to mislead the un- With school, and books, and lessons that you 're 

wary. tired of reciting. 

And presently you find yourself, no matter what But lo ! what 's this ? Your castle shakes ' Its 

your station, walls are all a-crumble ! 

A-building castles in the air, that have n't a You stand amid a ruined mass, alive, but very 

foundation. humble. 

Then Fancy rows you home again — it does n't take a minute; 
You would n't know — his boat 's so swift — that you were really in it. 
But — at a word — ( with such a shock ! ) false Fancy lands his wherry. 
What does he care for foolish folk who daily cross his ferry ? 


Bv F. F. 

An important industry of the northern por- 
tion of the southern peninsula of Michigan is 
the converting of its forests into lumber. 

Many and varied are the processes employed 

from the day when the trees are felled in their 

native forest, to the day when the lumber, into 

which they are manufactured, is used as flooring 

.or sheathing for a building in some distant city. 

After the trees are sawn off, as near the roots 
as possible, the trunks are cut into logs of 
various lengths — the shortest being, as a rule, 
sixteen feet long. The men called " swampers " 
then clear away the underbrush ; poles are cut 
and set in position ; and the logs, being placed 

upon the poles at right-angles to them, roll into 
a compact tier, whence they are easily loaded 
upon sleds and hauled to the " decking ground." 
This is in a central part of the region where 
the trees are being cut, and through it extends 
the main road to the nearest place of shipment. 
Usually the hauling of logs is done by means 
of sleds, which are about twice the width of the 
ordinary sleigh. The " bunks " or frames on 
which the load rests are from ten to twelve feet 
long. These bunks are two in number, one at 
each 'end of the sled, crossing it at right- 
angles to the runners. The logs comprising 
the load shown in the picture are sixteen feet 



in length. Logs of twice that length are quite 
common, but comparatively few are shorter. 

To load the logs upon the sled, a team of 
horses is hitched to a hea\-y chain, which is 
brought over the sled, around and under a log, 
and hooked to the side of the sled. Then the 
log is rolled up an inclined way, made of two 
poles, just as heavy barrels are loaded upon a 
truck. Two tiers of logs having been thus 
formed are secured by a chain, which gives a 
firm tbundarion. The upper tiers are then loaded 
and likewise secured, the foremost of the last two 
chains being twisted tight by a stout sapUng, 
called the " binder," which, being chained to the 
last, or " binding chain," binds the whole load 
securely, but so it can be unfastened instantly. 

The teamster now mounts the load and drives 
it over the icy, slippery road, to its destination, 
usually to where the logs are to be rolled into 
the river. The rear chain is now unfastened, 
the binder is removed, and the other chains 
are unfastened on the side of the load next the 
banking ground. The logs are now " stamped " 
and "scaled." That is, each lumberman has his 
own private stamp put on each log before it is 
rolled into the river. The banking-ground men 
then pry the first log of the lowest tier out of 
position, which causes many others to follow it 
to the ground without further effort on the part 
of the men. After the last log thus started 
reaches the ground, the next one holding those 
above it in position is loosened, with similar 
results, and in about twenty minutes from the 
time the chains are unfastened, the last log is 
unloaded, and either rolled into the river where 
it floats with the current and joins a "jam," as 
they call a dam formed by floating logs, or be- 
comes one of those forming a "rollway," or 
mass of logs on the ice, if the river be frozen 
over. In spring-time the rollway is " broken," 
— that is, the logs forming it are loosened, — and 
the logs are guided to the mills along the river- 
bank or to the mouth of the river. 

Where an extensive tract of timber, owned by 
an individual or a firm, is at too great a distance 
from a river to admit of the logs being hauled 
by means of sleds or wheels, a railroad is built, 
and the logs are decked conveniently near it. 
When the timber in one region is cut for a dis- 
tance of several miles on both sides of the rail- 


road, the track is taken up and relaid through a 
new timber-section. The logging-car is broader, 
though not longer, than the ordinary car, and 
two of them may be arranged to carry ex- 
tremely long logs — which are seldom more than 
sixty feet in length — by means of a wooden 
beam used as a coupling, which can be extended 
or shortened as required, thus increasing or di- 
minishing the distance between two adjoining 
cars. These logging-cars, in sorrife cases, carry the 
logs to the banking ground, where they are rolled 
into the river and become a part of the drive. 

The drivers break the jams — that is, sepa- 
rate the logs composing them — and follow the 
logs in their course down the current, to open 
or prevent new jams. In early spring, when 
the ice breaks up, rude rafts are constructed, 
upon which the men live while " driving " the 
logs. These driving crews number from twenty 
to one hundred men. Occasionally a number 
of boys under sixteen years of age may be found 
in a crew. Not infrequently the boys will 
"ride" a log down the current as fearlessly, 
and with as little danger of upsetting into the 
water, as an old and well-practiced river-driver. 

At the mouth of the river, a large area of the 
water into which it empties is inclosed, and into 
this basin the logs are driven, and there remain 
until they are sorted out, according to the stamps 
they bear, for their respective owners. Here 
they pass into the hands of the saw-mill owners. 
The lumbering firms themselves are frequently 
mill-owners. In some cases the logs are " driven " 
directly to the mills, to be made into lumber. 

The woodsmen live in rude log camps, which 
are much more comfortable than they appear. 

A small crew numbers from twelve to fifty 
men; a large crew from seventy-five to one 
hundred and seventy-five. Boys from fourteen 
years of age upward are useful in the lighter 
kinds of work, clearing underbrush from the team 
roads, rollway-ground, and decking ground, and 
chopping the limbs from the felled timber; and 
also as teamsters. They are also frequently * 
employed as assistant cooks and dish-washers, 
and to " do chores generally " around camp. 
These men and boys are very generous, and are 
always ready to aid one another in illness, or in 
the other emergencies that arise during their 
hard life in the woods. 











Vol. XVII.— 71. 



By Charles Frederick Holder. 

" Yes, I have seen some queer things in my 
walks under water." 

The speaker was a tall, athletic man, who but 
a few moments before had resembled some strange 
monster, as he rose from the water encased in 
the heavy amior of the professional diver. 

" But," he continued, " I can tell you that I 
don't follow the calling from any love of sport. 
It is a dangerous business at best — it shortens 
a man's life ; and every time you go down, some- 
thing may happen that will anchor you firmly to 
the bottom." 

" How did you come to be a diver ? " asked 
one of the younger listeners. 

" Well," was the reply, " I might say that it 
was by chance. When I was a lad, I lived in 
London, and , like all boys, found the docks and 
the great ships that lay there, hailing from all 
parts of the world, a great attraction ; so a part 
of every day that I could gain for myself was 
spent in walking about the great piers. 

'• One afternoon, I was watching some riggers 
at work on a large ship. Upon her rail was sus- 
pended a sign that read (I can see it now), ' For 
Calcutta, Bombay, and the East Indies, Septem- 
ber 30, 18 — .' I was wondering what kind of 
a place Bombay was, when a man stepped ashore, 
and, coming up to me, said, ' My lad, can you 
find me a good swimmer about here ? ' ' I 'm a 
fair swimmer myself,' I answered. ' You ? ' he 
exclaimed, eying me from top to toe. ' Why, 
a shark could use you for a toothpick ! ' 

" I was not very large," continued the diver, 
" but I happened to be a good swimmer, and 

would not be laughed out of it. So finally he took 
me aboard and down into the cabin, where the 
captain asked me whether I could dive under the 
ship's keel and see if her copper had started. As 
I had often dived under vessels for the fun of it, I 
replied that I could, and in half an hour I was 
overboard and swimming down to the place. 
There, instead of a ' start,' as they call an opening 
in the copper, I found something sticking in the 
hull, — what do you think ? Nothing more nor 
less than the sword of a sword-fish. 

" When I told the captain, he said I had 
done as well as a diver, and gave me a sovereign. 

" Of course everybody heard of it, and when- 
ever there was anything lost overboard, or a 
vessel's bottom to examine, I was sent for. From 
calling me Richard, they soon took to giving me 
the name ' Diving Dick.' So you see it was 
very easy for me to slip into diving as a business. 

" When I first began this work at regular 
wages, the divers went down in diving-bells ; 
but still the armor was generally worn. They 
have improved the armor so much that now it 
is comparatively easy to go down. In old times, 
we had to grope around and do the best we 
could ; but now we carry an electric light, have 
a telephone attached, and are able to talk or 
signal to those above. My armor, as you see," 
said the diver, pointing to his suit, which looked 
like the cast-off shell of a curious animal, " is 
of thick, heavy rubber and in two parts, — the 
trousers and shoes being in one piece. The 
head-piece is of copper, with two eye-holes, or 
windows of glass, that screw on. In deep water, 




where the pressure is great, a thick breastplate 
of copper is used ; heavy weights are hung from 
the back, and we often put a weight of fifteen 
pounds on each foot. That, of course, is to keep 
the diver from floating. Three Hnes and tubes 
are now generally used. One tube lets air into 
the helmet, another takes it out. Then there is 
the telephone wire, and a signal-rope besides ; 
so that in shallow water there is little or no dan- 
ger. If the tube should 
break, or your suit be cut 
in any way, there is a pos- 
sibility of drowning before 
they can haul you to the 
surface; but, luckily, such 
accidents seldom happen. 

"In 1856, I went down 
ten fathoms, in rough water, 
off the coast of Portugal, 
to a steamer that had sunk, 
nobody knew exactly how. 
I landed on her foreyards, 
and then went down the 
shrouds, finally dropping to 
the deck. As I struck I 
heard a gurgling sound, and 
had just time to signal to 
be hauled up, when I felt 
the water on my face. I 
had lost my senses when I 
came up. I went down 
again and found that, in 
descending the first time, 
my tube had passed over 
what had been the port side- 
light, and the sharp-edged 
broken glass had cut the 
rubber, letting the water in 
upon me. 

" Then there 's some 
danger from animals ; not 
because they are fierce, but 
because they are big. They 
may be caught accidentally 
in the ropes or tubing. 
Some years ago, with two 
other divers, I went down 
near the Florida coast. The wreck, this time, 
was a ship loaded mainly with cotton. She had 
struck on a bar during a hurricane, been 

blown completely over, and then had sunk in a 
channel inside the reef. The exact place was 
not known. Consequently, the only thing to do 
was to go down and hunt for her. So we 
started in twenty feet of water, and, all holding to 
one rope, so as not to lose each other, sepa- 
rated, gradually walking down a hill into deeper 

" I think we had gone about a hundred feet 
before I felt a twitch on one part of the 

line, and, looking around, I saw several 

large, black objects coming for us. Be- 
fore there was time to think, a school 
of porpoises came dashing by. I 
stood quite still, and probably 
they took me for a rock or 
other natural object, for 
one of them passed so 
closely I could have 
touched it, and an- 
other grazed the 
tube. But my 



tried another plan ; they struck at the porpoises 
with their pikes. For a time we were in a regular 
school of these fishes, and were afraid the tubes 


would be fouled ; but they left us before long, 
and we again took up our march. 

" We must have walked an hour, I think, be- 
fore we found the ship ; and then she was so cov- 
ered with sand that we had come upon her bul- 
warks before we knew it, thinking her a sand- 
hill. All her masts had been carried away, 
and she was l)ing upon her side, almost cov- 
ered. Fortunatel)', the hatches were battened 
down, or she would have been filled with sand. 
By the aid of crowbars, we soon broke them oft", 
and then we saw a curious sight. All the light 
cargo nearest the hatch began to rise, the inside 
air forcing out barrels, boxes, planks, and bales 
of stuff in rapid succession, so that there \\as a 
regular procession of objects climbing up from 
the ill-fated ship. These were caught by the 
wreckers above us and hauled ashore. 

" This place was a famous spot for fishes, 
and many were beauties, being striped with 
bright green, yellow, blue, and red. Others 
had long streamers, and looked like the harle- 
quins and columbines in pantomimes. I no- 
ticed that there was the greatest difference 
between them in their habits. Some were shy, 
and darted away at the slightest motion ; while 
others seemed to thmk me a huge fish, and 
came near me as if curious to see what I was 
like. Some swam over my arms and let me 
move my hands toward them. But most were 
shy. As to the stories of sharks, they are in 
the main not true. I have had a shark come 
within five feet of me, and when I raised my 
arm it darted off in such a hurry that the boil- 
ing of the water nearly threw me oft' my feet. 
Of course, there may be cases 
where a very large shark 
might attack a diver ; but 
if he should attack one wear- 
ing the modern diver's hel- 


met or armor, I think the shark would have a 
hard time of it — copper and glass would not 
make a very good mouthful. 

"A friend of mine had a funny experience," 
the diver continued, seeing that his audience 
were interested. " He was w-alking along on a 
sandy bottom, when suddenly he -was lifted up- 
ward, then thrown quickly backward, and, if it 
had n't been for his pike, he would have fallen 
o\er. For a few seconds the water was not 
clear. Then he saw that the cause of his up- 
set was a big skate that had been lying partly 
buried in the sand — asleep, perhaps. He had 
stepped with his leaden shoes right on its back. 
I 'm sure it would be hard to tell which was the 
most scared. 

''Among the strange things that may be seen 
by divers is the ocean forest, off the Eastern 
coast. The sandy bottom there is covered with 
the hardened roots of great trees, and in some 
instances parts of trunks are standing, showing 
that the coast there must have settled, and that 
the sea has rolled in over the land. 

"Sometimes we go down at night, and then 
the scene under water is often a beautiful sight. 
Every jelly-fish and living creature seems to be 
ablaze with light; your rope appears to be on 
fire, and every motion makes the water glimmer. 
The crabs and fishes sparkle, many with a light 
of their own. So, you see, instead of being a 
dark and barren place, as the majority of people 
seem to regard it, the ocean, even at the great- 
est depths, is probably made bright by the very 
animals that most need the light." 

The boys bade the diver good-bye, feeling 
glad that they did not have 
to share his perils, but re- 
gretting that they could 
not see the beauties of 
which he had told. 

I climbed and I climbed to the top of the tree ; 

High up in the branches I stood . 
Below in the field was a man with his plough , 

And I called him as loud as I could . 

He stopped, and he looked at the hedges and lane , 

And no one at all could he see , 
For he never once thought, as he wondered and stared 

I was up in the top of the tree . 

I swung and I swayed with the tree in the wind ; 

I was not afraid I would fall ; 
The maple seeds spread out their little green wings . 

And nobody saw me at all . 



Chapter III. 


The next morning, the sick woman still lay- 
in a heavy stupor with the crimson flush of fever 
burning on cheek and brow. Madame Jozain 
sent Raste across the river for Dr. Debrot. 

Before Raste went, Madame Jozain took the 
travehng bag into the kitchen, and, together, 
they examined its contents. There were the 
two baggage-checks, the tickets, and money, 
besides the usual articles of clothing and odds 
and ends; but there was no letter, nor card, nor 
anything, except the monogram J. C. on the 
silver fittings, to assist in establishing the 
stranger's identity. 

" Had n't I better take these," said Raste, 
slipping the baggage-checks into his pocket, 
" and have her baggage sent over ? When she 
comes to, you can tell her that she and the 
young one needed clothes, and you thought it 
was best to get them," and Raste smiled 
knowingly at Madame, whose face wore an 
expression of grave solicitude, as she said: 

" Hurry, my son, and bring the doctor. I 'm 
so anxious about the poor lady, and I dread 
to have the child wake and find her mother 
no better." 

When Dr. Debrot entered Madame Jozain's 
front room, his mind was not so clear as it would 
have been a few years earlier, and he observed 
nothing strange in the situation. He had known 
Madame, more or less, for a number of years, 
and he might be considered one of her friends. 
Therefore, he never suspected that the young 
woman lying there in a stupor was not the friend 
from Texas, whom Madame represented her to 
be. And she was very ill; of that there could be 

no doubt — so ill as to awaken all the doctor's 
long dormant professional ambition. There were 
new features in the case ; the fever was peculiar. 
Of one thing he was certain: there would be 
no protracted struggle — the crisis would arrive 
very soon. She would be either better or beyond 
help in a few days, and it was more than likely 
that she would never recover consciousness. 
He would do all he could to save her; and 
he knew Madame Jozain to be an excellent 
nurse, for she had nursed with him through an 
epidemic. The invalid could not be in better 
hands. Then he wrote a prescription, and 
while he was giving Madame some general 
directions, he kindly patted the golden head 
of the lovely child, who leaned over the bed, 
her large, solemn eyes fixed on her mother's face. 

Shortly after the doctor left, there was a rip- 
ple of excitement, which found its way even into 
the sick-room — the sound of wheels, and Raste 
giving orders in a low voice, while two large, 
handsome trunks were brought in and placed 
in the corner of the back apartment. These 
two immense boxes looked strangely out of 
place amid their humble surroundings, and when 
Madame looked at them, she wondered what 
she would do with them, if the woman should 
die. When the little green door closed on the 
trunks, it seemed as if the small house had swal- 
lowed up every trace of the mother and child, 
and of their identity. 

For several days the doctor continued his 
visits, and every day he departed with a more 
dejected expression on his haggard face. He 
saw almost from the first that the case was hope- 
less ; and his heart ached for the child. Every 
day he saw her sitting by her mother's side, pale- 
and quiet, with such a pitiful look on her little 
face, such repressed suffering in every line and 



expression, as she watched him for some gleam 
of hope, that the thought of it tortured him and 
forced him to affect a cheerfulness and confi- 
dence which he did not feel. 

When Madame would tell her that she must 
be quiet for her mother's sake, it was touching 
to witness her efforts at self-control. She would 
sit for hours, silent and passive, with her mother's 
hand clasped in hers. 

Whatever was good in Madame Jozain showed 
itself in compassion for the suffering little one, 
and no one could have been more faithful than 
she in her care of both the mother and child ; 
she felt such pity for them, that she soon began 
to think she was acting in a noble and disinter- 
ested spirit, by keeping them with her, and nurs- 
ing the unfortunate mother so faithfully. She 
even began to identify herself with them : they 
were hers by virtue of their friendlessness ; they 
belonged to no one else — therefore, they be- 
longed to her; and, in her self-satisfaction, she 
imagined that she had not been influenced by 
any unworthy moti\'e in her treatment of them. 

One day, only a little more than a week after 
the arrival of the strangers, a modest funeral 
wended its way through the narrow streets of 
Gretna toward the ferry, and the passers stopped 
to stare at Adraste Jozain, in his best suit, 
sitting with much dignity beside Dr. Debrot 
in the only carriage that followed the hearse. 

" It 's a stranger, some relative of Madame 
Jozain," said one busybody. " She came from 
Texas with her little girl, less than two weeks 
ago, and yesterday she died. Last night the 
child was taken down with the same fever, and 
they say she 's unconscious to-day, so Madame 
could n't go to the funeral. No one will go 
to the house, because that old doctor from the 
other side says the fever may be catching." 

Madame Jozain belonged by birth to the 
Bergerons, and among the family possessions 
was the Bergeron tomb in the old St. Louis 
cemetery. It was now opened for the first time 
since Madame Jozain's father was placed there, 
and the young widow was laid among those 
who were neither kith nor kin. 

When Raste returned from the funeral, he 
found his mother sitting beside the child, who 
lay in the same heavy stupor that marked the 

first days of the mother's illness. The pretty 
golden hair was spread over the pillow, under 
the dark lashes were deep violet shadows, and 
the little cheeks glowed with the crimson hue 
of fever. 

Madame was dressed in her best black gown, 
and she had been weeping freely. At the sight 
of Raste in the door, she started up and burst 
into heart-breaking sobs. 

" Oh, moil cher, oh, mon ami, we are doomed ' 
Was ever any one so unfortunate ? Was ever 
any one so punished for a good deed ? I 've 
taken a sick stranger into my house, and nursed 
her as if she were my own, and buried her in 
my family tomb, and now the child 's taken 
down, and Dr. Debrot says it is a contagious 
fever, and we may both take it and die. Is that 
what one gets in this world for trying^ to do 
good ? " 

" Nonsense, Mum, don't look on the dark 
side; old Debrot don't know much. Perhaps 
the fever is n't catching. Anyway, it will keep 
people from prying about here, and finding out 
everything. I '11 keep away for a while. You 
won't take the fever. The child '11 be better or 
worse in a few days, and then we '11 leave this 
place, and start fresh somewhere else." 

" Well," said Madame, wiping away her tears, 
much comforted by Raste's cheerful view of the 
situation. " No one can say that I have n't 
done my duty to the poor thing. I mean to 
be kind to the child, and nurse her through the 
fever, whether it 's catching or not. It 's hard 
to be tied to a sick-bed this hot weather ; but 
I 'm almost thankful the little thing 's taken 
down, and is n't conscious, for it was dreadful 
to see the way she mourned for her mother. 
Poor woman, she was so young and pretty, and 
had such gentle ways ! " 

Chapter IV. 


Every one about that part of Good Children 
Street knew "Pepsie." She had been a cripple 
from infancy, and her mother, Madelon, or 
" Bonne Prahne," as she was called, was also quite 
a noted figure in the neighborhood. They lived 
in a tiny single cottage, wedged in between the 




pharmacist on the comer, and M. Fernandez, 
the tobacconist, on the other side. There was 
a narrow green door, and one long window, 
with an ornamental iron railing across it, 


tlirough which the interior of the little room 
was visible from the outside. It was a neat 
little place, less ugly than one would expect 
it to be. A huge four-post bed, with a red tester 
and lace-covered pillows, almost filled one side 
of the room ; opposite the bed was a small 
fireplace hung with pink paper, and the man- 

tel above was decorated with a clock, two vases 
of bright paper flowers, a blue bottie, and a 
plaster parrot. The floor, the doorsteps, and 
even the sidewalk were painted red with pow- 
dered brick-dust, which 
harmonized with the 
'; ■• faded yellow stucco of 

the walls and the dingy 
green of the door and 
batten shutter. 

Behind this one litde 
front room was a tiny 
kitchen and yard, where 
Madelon made her/;-a- 
liiics* and cakes, and 
where " Tite Souris " (Z'^- 
tite Soiiris, a half-grown 
negro girl, instead of a 
" little mouse ") washed, 
cooked, and scrubbed, 
and " waited on Miss 
Peps" during Madelon's 
absence ; for Madelon 
was a merchant. She 
had a stand for cakes 
and pralines on Bour- 
bon Street, near the 
French Opera House, 
and thither she went 
every morning, with her 
basket and pans of fresh 
pralines, sugared pecans, 
and callas t tout c/iand, 
a very tempting array of 
dainties, which she was 
sure to dispose of before 
she returned at night ; 
while Pepsie, her only 
^-,^^^r child, and the treasure 
-^''^ . of her life, remained at 

home, sitting in the high 
chair by the window. 
And Pepsie, sitting at her window, was as 
much a part of the street as were the queer little 
houses, the tiny shops, the old vegetable woman, 
the cobbler on the banqnette^ the wine-merchant, 
or the grocer. Every one knew her : her long, sal- 
low face with flashing dark eyes ; wide mouth with 
large white teeth, which were often visible in 


* Round cakes made of sugar and pecan nuts, t A small cake made from rice, and sold hot. X Sidewalk. 




a broad smile ; and the shock of heavy black 
hair twisted into a quaint knot on the top of her 
head, which was abnormally large, and set close 
to the narrow, distorted shoulders, were always 
seen, " from morn till dewy eve," at the 
window ; while her body, below the shoulders, 
was quite hidden by a high table drawn forward 
over her lap. On this table, Pepsie shelled the 
pecans, placing them in three piles : the perfect 
halves, those broken by accident, and those 
slightly shriveled and a little rancid. The first 
were used to make the sugared pecans for which 
Madelon was justly famous; the second to 
manufacture into pralines, so good that they had 
won her the sobriquet of" Bonne Praline; " and 
the third pile, which she disdained to use in her 
business, was swept into a box, and sold to 
merchants who had less principle and less 

All day long Pepsie sat at her window wield- 
ing her little iron nut-cracker with much dex- 
terity. She saw whatever went on in the street ; 
her bright eyes ilashed glances of recognition 
up and down ; her broad smile greeted in cordial 
welcome those who stopped at her window to 
chat, and nearly always there was some one at 
Pepsie's window. She was so happy, so bright, 
and so amiable, that every one loved her, and 
she was the idol of all the children in the neigh- 
borhood — not, however, because she was liberal 
with pecans. Oh, no; with Pepsie, business was 
business, and pecans cost money, and every ten 
sugared pecans meant a nickel for her mother; but 
the children loved to stand by the window, out- 
side the railing, and watch Pepsie at her work. 
They liked to see her with the pile of nuts and 
bowl of foaming sugar before her. It seemed 
like magic — the way she would sugar them and 
stick them together and spread them out to dry 
on the clean white paper. She did it so rapidly 
that her long, white fingers fairly flashed between 
the bowl of sugar, the pile of nuts, and the paper. 
And there always seemed just enough of each, 
therefore her just discrimination was a constant 

When she finished her task, as she often did 
before dark, Tite Souris took away the bowl 
and the tray of sugared nuts, after Pepsie had 
counted them and put the number down in a lit- 
tle book, as much to protect herself against Tite 
Vol. XVII.— 72. 

Souris's depredations as to know the exact 
amount of their stock in trade ; then she would 
open the drawer in the table, and take out a 
prayer-book, a piece of needle-work, and a 
pack of cards. 

She was very pious, and read her prayers 
several times a day; after she put her prayer- 
book aside, she usually devoted some time to 
her needle-work, for which she had a real talent ; 
then, when she thought she had earned her 
recreation, she put away her work, spread out 
her cards, and indulged in an intricate game of 
solitaire. She was passionately fond of the 
game ; she was very systematic and very con- 
scientious; but if she ever purloined any time 
from her duties, it was that she might engage in 
that fascinating and time-stealing game. She 
even went so far as to decide doubtful questions 
by it ; to whatever query she might propose, two 
games out of three would give her an answer, 
for or against. 

In this way she passed day after day, always 
industrious, always contented, and always happy. 
She was very comfortable in her snug Ktde room, 
which was warm in winter and cool in sum- 
mer, owing to the two high buildings close 
by ; and although she was a cripple, she 
suffered Httle pain, unless moved roughly or 
jarred; and no one could be more carefully pro- 
tected from discomfort, for although she was over 
twelve, Madelon still treated her as if she were a 
baby. Every morning, before she left for the 
Rue Bourbon, Madelon dressed the girl, and 
with her strong arms lifted her tenderly into 
the wheeled chair, where Pepsie drank her 
coffee, and ate her roll, as dainty as a little 
princess. She always was exquisitely neat ; in 
summer, she wore pretty white sacks, with a 
bright bow of ribbon at the neck, and in winter, 
her shrunken figure was clothed in warm, soft 

Madelon did not sit out all day in rain and 
shine on Bourbon Street, and make cakes and 
pralines half the night, for anything else but to 
provide this crippled mite with every comfort. 
As I said before, the girl was her idol, and she 
had toiled day and night to gratify her every 
wish ; and as far as she knew there was but one 
desire unsatisfied, and for its accomplishment 
she was working and saving, little by little. 




Once Pepsie had said that she would hke to 
Hve in the country. All she knew of the coun- 
try was what she had read in books, and what 
her mother, who had once seen the country, 
had told her. Often she closed her eyes to shut 
out the hot, narrow street, and thought of green 
valleys with rivers running through them, and 
hills almost touching the sky, and broad fields 
shaded by great trees, and covered with waving 
grass and flowers. That was her one unrealized 
ideal, — like " Carcassonne" in the French poem, 
— and she feared she was to reach it only in 

Chapter V. 


On the other side of Good Children Street, 
and almost directly opposite Madelon's tiny cot- 
tage, was a double house of more pretentious 
appearance than those just around it. It was a 
little higher, the door was wider, and a good- 
sized window on each side had a small balcony, 
more for ornament than use, as it was scarcely 
wide enough to stand on. The roof projected 
well over the sidewalk, and there was some at- 
tempt at ornamentation in the brackets that 
supported it. At one side was a narrow yard 
with a stunted fig tree, and a ragged and dis- 
couraged rose-bush straggled up the posts of a 
small side-gallery. 

This house had been closed for some time, 
much to Pepsie's sorrow; for she was always 
interested in her neighbors, and she had taken 
much pleasure in observing the ways of this 
household. Therefore she was very tired of 
looking at the closed doors and windows, and 
was constantly wishing that some one would 
take it. At last, greatly to her gratification, one 
pleasant morning late in August, a middle-aged 
woman very well dressed in black, who was 
lame and walked with a stick, a young man, and 
a lovely little girl appeared on the scene, and 
stopped before the empty house. After looking 
at it with much interest, they mounted the steps, 
unlocked the door, and entered. 

The child interested Pepsie at once ; although 
she had seen very few high-bred children in her 
short life, she noticed that this little one was 

different from the small inhabitants of Good 
Children Street. Her white frock, black sash, 
and wide black hat, had a certain grace uncom- 
mon in that quarter, and every movement and • 
step had an elegant ease, unknown to the 
good-natured little Creoles who played around 
Pepsie's window. 

However, it was not only the child's beauty, 
her tasteful, pretty dress, and high-bred air that 
interested Pepsie ; it was the pale, mourn- 
ful little face, and the frail Uttle figure, looking 
so wan and ill. The woman held her by the 
hand, and she walked very slowly and feebly ; 
the robust, black-eyed young man carried a 
small basket, which the child watched con- 

Pepsie could not remove her eyes from the 
house, so anxious was she to see the child again ; 
but, instead of coming out, as she expected they 
would after they had looked at the house, much 
to her joy she saw the young man fling open 
the shutters and doors, with quite an air of own- 
ership ; then, she saw the woman take off her 
bonnet and veil, and the child's hat, and hang 
them on a hook near the window. Presently, 
the little girl came out on the small side- gallery 
with something in her arms. Pepsie strained 
her eyes, and leaned forward as far as her lame- 
ness would allow, in order to see what the child 

" It 's a cat. No, it 's a dog. No, it is n't. 
Why, it must be a bird ! I can see it flutter its 
wings. Yes, it 's a bird; a large, strange-look- 
ing bird. I wonder what it is ! " and Pepsie, 
in her excitement and undue curiosity, almost 
tipped out of her chair, while the child looked 
around with a listless, uninterested air, and 
then sat down on the step, hugging the bird 
closely, and stroking its feathers. 

" Certainly, they 've come to stay," said Pep- 
sie to herself, " or they would n't open all the 
windows, and take off their things. Oh, I won- 
der if they have ! " 

There was a rumbling of wheels in the street, 
and a furniture-wagon, heavily loaded, drove 
up to the door. Pepsie watched the unloading 
with great satisfaction. 

At the same moment, the active Tite Souris 
entered like a whirlwind, her braids of wool 
sticking up, and her face all eyes and teeth. She 




had been out on the banquette, and was bursting 
with news. 

"Oh, Miss Peps — Miss Peps, some un 's done 
tuk dat house ov' yon'er, an' is a-movin' in dis 
ver' minit ! It 's a woman and a boy an' a Httle 
yaller gal. I means a little gal wid yaller ha'r 
all ove' her, an' she got a littl' long-legged gos- 
lin', a-huggin' it up, like she awful fond of it." 

".Oh, stop, Tite, go away to your work," 
cried Pepsie, too busy to listen to her voluble 
handmaid. " Don't I see them without your 
telling me. You 'd better finish scouring your 
kitchen, or Mamma '11 be after you when she 
comes home." 

" Shore 'nuff, I 's a-scourin', Miss Pep, an' 
I 's jes' a-dyin' to git out on dat banquette — dat 
banquette 's a-sp'ilin' might' bad ter be cleaned. 
Let me do dat baiiquette right now. Miss Peps', 
an' I 'm gwine scour lak fury, bymeby." 

" Very well, Tite, go and do the banquette" 
returned Pepsie, smiling indulgently; " but mind 
what I say about the kitchen, when Mamma 

Such an event as some one moving in Good 
Children Street was very uncommon. Pepsie 
thought every one had lived there since the 
flood ; and she did n't blame Tite Souris for 
wishing to be out with the other idle loungers to 
see what was going on, although she understood 
the banquette ruse perfectly. 

At last, all the furniture was carried in, and 
with it two trunks, so large for that quarter of 
the city as to cause no little comment. 

" Pai- exetnple ! " said Monsieur Fernandez, 
" what a size for a trunk ! Madame yonder must 
have traveled much in the North." 

And straightway, Madame Jozain acquired 
greater importance from the conclusion that she 
had traveled extensively. 

Then the wagon went away, the door was 
discreetly bowed, and the loungers dispersed; 
but Pepsie, from her coign of vantage, still 
watched every movement of the new-comers. 
She saw Raste come out with a basket, and 
she was sure that he had gone to market. She 
saw Madame putting up a lace curtain at one 
window, and was' curious to know whether she 
intended to have a parlor. Only one blind was 
thrown open, the other was bowed all day, 
yet she was positive that some one was at work 

behind it. " That must be Madame's room," 
she thought ; " that big boy will have the back 
room next to the kitchen, and the little girl will 
sleep with Madame, so the room on this side, 
with the pretty curtain, will be the parlor. I 
wonder if she \vill have a carpet, and a console, 
with vases of wax-flowers on it, and a cabinet 
full of shells, and a sofa." This was Pepsie's idea 
of a parlor ; she had seen a parlor once, long ago, 
and it was like this. 

So she wondered and speculated all day ; and 
all day the pale, sorrowful child sat alone on 
the side-gallery holding the bird in her arms ; 
and when night came, Pepsie had not sugared 
her pecans ; but Madelon did not complain of 
her idleness. It was seldom the child had so 
great a treat, and even Tite Souris escaped a 
scolding, in consideration of the great event. 

The next morning Pepsie was awake very 
early, and so anxious to reach the window that 
she could hardly wait to be dressed. When 
she first looked across the street, the doors and 
shutters were closed, but some one had been 
stirring ; and Tite Souris informed her, when she 
brought her coffee, that Madame had been out 
at " sun up," and had cleaned and " bricked " 
the banquette " her own se'f." 

" Then I 'm afraid she is n't rich," said Pep- 
sie, with a sigh, " because if she was rich, she 'd 
keep a servant, and perhaps after all she won't 
have a parlor." 

Presently there was a little flutter behind the 
bowed blind, and lo ! it was suddenly flung 
open, and there, right in the middle of the win- 
dow, hung a pretty gilt frame, surrounding 
a white center, on which was printed, in red 
and gilt letters, " BlancJiisseuse de fin, et confec- 
tions de toute sorte," and underneath, written in 
Raste's boldest hand and best English, " Fin 
Washun dun hear, an Notions of al sort." And 
behind the sign, Pepsie could plainly see a flut- 
ter of laces and muslins, children's dainty little 
frocks and aprons, ladies' collars, cuffs, and 
neckties, handkerchiefs and sacks, and various 
other articles for feminine use and adornment; 
and on a table, close to the window, were boxes 
of spools, bunches of tape, cards of buttons, 
skeins of wool, rolls of ribbons, — in short an 
assortment of small wares which presented quite 
an attractive appearance. 




And, hovering about them, Madame could be 
discerned, in her black skirt and fresh white sack, 
while, as smiling and self-satisfied as ever, slie 
arranged her stock to the best advantage, and 
waited complacently for the customers who she 
was sure would come. 

For the first time, since the death of the young 
widow in Gretna, Madame breathed freely, and 
began to feel some security in her new posses- 
sions. Everything had turned out as Raste pre- 
dicted. The young mother slept in the Ber- 
geron tomb, and the child was too young to 
give any but the vaguest information about her- 
self. She did not even remember the name 
of her parents, for, since her recovery from the 
fever, she seemed to have forgotten much of 
her previous life. Her illness had left her in a 
pitiable condition. She was weak and dull, and 
did not appear to care for anything but the 
blue heron, which was her constant companion. 
Whether she was conscious of her great loss, 
and was mourning for her mother, Madame 
could not decide. At first, she had asked con- 
stantly for her, and Madame had really believed 
it necessary, for the child's sake, to say kindly, 
and with caresses which were not returned, that 
her mother had gone away for a while, and had 
left her with her " Aunt Pauline," and that she 
must be a good little girl, and love her Aunt 
Pauline, while her mother was away. 

Lady Jane looked at the woman's bland face 
with such solemnly scrutinizing eyes, that Ma- 
dame almost regretted deceiving her, even for her 
good, but Lady Jane said nothing ; her thoughts 
and memories were very busy, and very far away. 
She had not forgotten so much as Madame fan- 
cied she had, neither did she believe so much as 
Madame thought she did. But she was not 
then able to keep things clearly in her mind. 
So whatever of doubt or regret passed through 
her little brain, she made no sign, but remained 
quiet and docile. She never laughed, and seldom 
cried. She was very little trouble, and scarcely 
noticed anything that was going on around her. 
In fact, she was stupefied and subdued by the 
sudden misfortunes that had come upon her, 
until she seemed a very different being from the 
bright, spirited child she had been only a few 
weeks before. 

Chapter VL 
lady jane finds a friend. 

From the first, Madame had insisted that the 
stranger's property should not be meddled with ; 
at least not until some time had passed. 

" We must wait," she said to the eager and 
impulsive Raste, " to see if she is missed, and in- 
quired for. A person of her position must have 
friends somewhere, and it would be rather bad 
for us if she was traced here, and it was found 
out that she died in our house. We might even 
be suspected of wanting her money. But, if we 
don't touch her things, they can't accuse us, and 
Dr. Debrot knows she had the fever, so I would 
be considered a kind-hearted Christian woman 
— and I 'd be paid well for all my trouble, too, 
if it should come out that she died here." 

These arguments had their weight with Raste, 
who, though anything but scrupulous, was fear- 
ful about getting into the toils of the law, his 
father's fate serving as a warning to him of the 
difficulty of escaping from those toils when once 
they close upon a victim. 

If, at that time, they had noticed in the jour- 
nals the advertisement signed " Blue Heron," 
it would have made them very uneasy, but they 
seldom read the papers, and before it occurred 
to them to look for a notice of the missing 
woman and child, the advertisement had been 

For several weeks Raste went regularly to 
the grocery on the levee, and searched the 
papers until his eyes ached ; but in vain. There 
was nothing that referred in any way to the 
subject that interested him. 

Therefore, after some six weeks had passed, 
Madame deemed that they were safe. The first 
thing to do was to move into a distant neighbor- 
hood ; for that reason, she selected the house 
in Good Children Street, as being as far away 
as she could possibly get without leaving the 
city altogether. 

At first she was tempted to give up work, 
and hve for a while "like a lady." But she con- 
sidered that her sudden wealth might arouse 
suspicion, and she decided to carry on her usual 
business, with the addition of a small stock 
of fancy articles to sell. On these she could 




make a snug little profit, and at the same time 
they would give additional importance and re- 
spectability to her humble calling. 

Among the dead woman's effects was the 
pocket-book, containing two hundred dollars, 
which Madame had secreted from Raste. From 
the money in the traveling-bag she had paid 
the small funeral expenses and Dr. Debrot's 
modest bill, and there still remained some for 
other demands; but, besides the money, there 
were many valuables, the silver toilet articles, 
jewelry, laces, embroideries, and the handsome 
wardrobes of both mother and child. In one of 
the trunks she found a writmg-case full of let- 
ters written in English. From these letters she 
could have learned all that it was necessary to 
know ; but she could not read English readily, 
especially writing ; she was afraid to show them, 
and postponed examining them. And, one night 
when she was out, Raste burned them all in the 
kitchen-stove. He would not admit it, but 
Madame found the bundle of ashes, and could 
not doubt he had done so. She hardly knew 
whether to be glad or sorry that they were 
destroyed, and wondered what she should do. 

Already she was beginning to feel that the 
way of the transgressor is hard, but she silenced 
the strivings of conscience by specious argu- 
ments. She had not sought the temptation; 
it had come to her in the visit of the dying 
woman ; she had done her best by her, and 
now the child was thrown on her and must be 
cared for. She did not know the child's name, 
so she could not restore her to her friends, even 
if there were any. It was not likely there were, 
or they would have advertised. She meant to 
be good to the little thing ; she would take care 
of her and bring her up well. Lady Jane 
should be a daughter to her; surely that was 
better than sending her to a home for found- 
lings, as another would do. In this way she 
persuaded herself that she was really an honest, 
charitable woman, who was doing what was 
best for the child by appropriating her mother's 
property and making no effort to find her friends 
or to discover her identity. 

From the child's wardrobe she selected the 
plainest and most useful articles for daily wear, 
laying aside the finest and daintiest, to dispose 
of as her business might offer opportunity ; and 

from the mother's clothes she also made a 
selection, taking for her own use what she con- 
sidered plain enough to wear with propriety, 
while the beautiful linen, fine laces, and pretty 
little trifles went a long way in furnishing her 
show window handsomely. 

Notwithstanding her assurance, she felt some 
misgivings when she placed those pretty, dainty 
articles in the broad light of day before an observ- 
ing public. Not only did the public terrify her, 
but the child also. Suppose Lady Jane should 
recognize her mother's property and make a 
scene! Therefore it was with no little anxiety 
that she waited, the first morning, for Lady Jane's 
appearance in the little shop. 

After a while she came in, heavy-eyed, pale, 
lisdess, and carelessly dressed, her long, silken 
hair uncombed, and her whole manner that of 
a sorrowful, neglected child. She carried the 
bird in her arms, as usual, and was passing out 
of the side door to the httle yard without so 
much as a glance, when Madame, who was 
watching her furtively, said to her in rather a 
fretful tone : 

" Come here, child, and let me button your 
clothes; and you have n't brushed your hair. 
Now this won't do. You 're old enough to dress 
yourself, and you must do it. I can't wait on 
you every minute ; I 've got something else to 
do." Then she asked in a softer tone, while she 
smoothed the golden hair, " See my pretty win- 
dow. Don't you think it very handsome ? " 

Lady Jane turned her heavy eyes toward the 
laces and fluttering things above her. Then her 
look slowly fell to the table, and suddenly, seizing 
a little jewel-box (an odd, pretty silver trinket 
that Madame had displayed among her small 
wares), she exclaimed passionately, " That 's 
my Mamma's ! It 's Mamma's and you sha'n't 
have it ! " Turning, she rushed into her own 
room, holding the little box tightly clasped to her 

Madame took no notice of her outbreak, and 
did not attempt to take the box from her. 
Lady Jane carried it about with her all day; 
but at night, after the little one had fallen 
asleep, Madame unclosed the fingers that still 
clung to it, and, without a pang, consigned the 
box to obscurity. 

" I must n't let her see that again," she said 



to herself. " It troubles her too much. Dear 
me, what should I do if she should act hke 
that before a customer ! I '11 never feel safe 
until everything of her mother's is sold and out 
of the way." 

" Well, I declare, if that is n't the fifth cus- 
tomer Madame Jozain has had this morning," 
said Pepsie to Tite Souris, a few days after the 
new arrival. " She must be doing a good busi- 
ness, for they all buy. At least, they all come 
out with paper parcels." 

" An' jes' see dem chil'ren crawl roun' dat 
do'. Hi ! dey don't cum ter yer winner eny 
mo', Miss Peps," said Tite, with an accent of 
disgust, as she brushed the pecan shells from 
Pepsie's table. " Dey jes' stan' ober dar ter git 
a ghmge uv dat dar goshn' de littl' gal pets 
all day. Po' chile ! she mighty lunsum, settin' 
dar all 'lone." 

" Tite, oh, Tite, can't you coa.x her across the 
street ? I want to see her near," cried Pepsie, 
eagerly. " And, besides, I want to see what 
kind of a bird that is." 

" Dem chil'ren say how it 's a herrin'. I don't 
believe dat. 'T ain't no wa)'s lak dem herrin's 
in de sto', what dey has in pickle. Sho! dat 
ain't no herrin'. Hit 's a goslin'. I 's done 
seen goslin's on de plantashun, an' hit 's a gos- 
lin', sho 'nuff " 

" Well, I want to see for myself, Tite. Go 
there to the fence, and ask her to come here. 
Tell her I '11 give her some pecans." 

Tite went on her mission, and lingered so long, 
staring with the others, that her mistress had to 

{To be con 

call her back. She returned alone. Lady Jane 
had declined to accept the invitation. 

" 'T ain't no use," said Tite, energetically. " She 
won't come. She on'y hugs dat dar long-legged 
bird, an' looks at yer solum, lak a owl. 'T ain't 
no use, she won't come. She might' stuck up. Miss 
Peps. She say, she don't want pecuns ; ain't 
dat cur'ous ? — oh, my ! don't want pecuns ! 
Well, white chil'ren w der beatenes' chil'ren!" 
and Tite went to her work, muttering her sur- 
prise at the " cur'ousness " of white children in 
general, and of Lady Jane in particular. 

All day long Pepsie watched, hoping that the 
little girl might change her mind, and decide to 
be more neighborly; but she was doomed to 

Near night, feeling that it was useless to hope, 
and noticing that Madame's customers were 
becoming fewer, she sought consolation in a 
game of solitaire. 

Just as she was at the most exciting point, a 
slight rustling sound attracted her attention, and, 
looking up, she saw a little figure, in a soiled 
white frock, with long, yellow hair falling over 
the shoulders, and a thick, neglected bang al- 
most touching the eyebrows. The little face 
was pale and sorrowful ; but a faint smile 
dimpled the lips, and the eyes were bright and 
earnest. Lady Jane was holding the bird up 
in both hands over the iron railing, and when 
she caught Pepsie's surprised glance, she said 
very politely, and very sweetly : 

" Would you like to see Tony ? " And that 
was the way in which Lady Jane and Pepsie 
first became acquainted. 

iinued. ) 


By Teresa C. Crofton. 

Second Paper. 

It'hat Came Next. 





H E water that covered 
the earth at this time 
was very hot. The 
earth's covering was 
still thin, and inside 
of it there was a 
burning mass of 
matter, boiling hot. 
This heated the 
crust, which, in turn, 
heated the water. As this ocean of hot water 
surged over its crumpled bed, it broke off 
little pieces of rock, and gradually ground 
them into sand. It swept some of this sand 
upon the little patches of crust that rose above 
its surface, and made beaches, and the rest 
was deposited upon the bed of the ocean. 
Because of the pressure of the water above and 
of the heat within the thin crust, it hardened 
and baked into what is called " sedhncniary " 
rock. " Sedimentary " comes from a Latin word, 
meaning " settlings," and you can readily see 
why that name was chosen. Of course its ma- 
terials are the same as those of the rock under 
it, from which it was made ; but the fine grains 
of sand are arranged in distinct layers, and that 
gives a different appearance. 

As this sand was hardening and baking into 
rock, anything that happened to be in it, such 
as plants, or the animals that died in it, re- 
mained fast ; and it is because of this fact that 
we can tell something of the animals and the 
plants that lived on the earth in bygone ages. 

These layers of rock are like so many leaves 
of a history, and each of them tells the story of 
the beings which inhabited the earth at the par- 
ticular period when that layer was formed. 

Centuries ago, in southeastern Wales, there 
used to dwell a brave, warlike people, known as 
the Silures. In one part of their country there 
were huge piles of rocks, which always excited 

curiosity on account of the strange objects found 
among them. During the last century these rocks 
attracted the attention of geologists. After care- 
fully studying them, these scientific observers 
concluded that these rocks were part of the first 
layers laid down after the earth-crust was formed. 
Of course portions of these layers are to be 
found all over the world, but in the country of 
the Silures they lie on the surface. So geolo- 
gists can study them there without difficulty. 
They have given to that period in the world's 
history in which these layers were made the 
name, " The Silurian Age." 

You must not suppose that all these beds of 
rock were formed peacefully and quietly. Some- 
times that seething mass on the inside would 
burst out, and then came a time of confusion. 
The layers were bent and twisted, and very often 
were melted again. If there was any metal in 
the rocks ( as copper, for instance) it was sent 
in " rivers " here and there, breaking a chan- 
nel for itself through the solid rock. These 
rivers hardened when cooled, and we hear of 
them now, in mining operations, as " veins." 
Miners speak of finding a " vein of copper," or 
a " vein of silver," and the like. The Silurian 
seems to have been the age for copper. Near 
Lake Superior, in the rocks belonging to this 
period, enough veins and great masses of cop- 
per have been found to supply the world with 
that metal for years to come. It was also the 
time for deposits of salt. The waters of the 
ocean evaporated over shallow places, and left 
the salt. Perhaps a storm swept the waters 
back, and evaporation again took place ; and 
when this had been repeated many times a 
thick bed of salt was formed. In this way, 
probably, were made all the immense salt-beds 
found in the State of New York. 

Now, when the hot crust was cooled enough, 
and when the thick atmosphere was purified by 
the plenteous rains, which did God make first, — 
animals or plants ? Nobody knows, for certain, 
but in the oldest layers of rock such quantities 
and quantities of plants have been found that 



we are almost sure that they were created first. 
What kind was made first, — land plants and 
animals, or water plants and animals ? As the 
water covered nearly the whole earth, it is natu- 
ral to suppose that life first appeared in the 
water ; and everybody is agreed on this point. 
Whether it was plant-life or animal-life, it first 
appeared in the water. 

The earliest traces that can be found of any 
living thing are the remains of sea-weed and of 
the club-mosses that grow in wet places. Soon, 
however, animals appeared, and the layers of 
Silurian rock are found in some places to be en- 
tirely composed of the shells of animals. Some- 
times these shells are very small, but some are 
larger than those of any animal now in exist- 
ence. Nor is it by any means certain that small 
animals were created first. Little and big seem 
to have existed together. We find the shells 
of animals so small as to be invisible, except un- 
der the microscope, side by side with shells four 
feet broad. The framework of the tiniest crea- 
ture which helped to make up these layers of 
rock, is extremely beautiful. 

The little coral animals commenced their busy 
career during this age, building limestone reefs 
and making the beautiful chain coral which can 
still be seen on the limestone cliffs in the West- 
ern States. Another kind of animal, related to 
the coral polyp, and called a " crinoid," must 
have greatly added to the beauty of the Silurian 
seas. We find its remains in the shape of a 
curiously carved, six-sided body. From each 
of five sides a lily-like arm was sent off, and the 
animal was fastened to the rock by a stem 
running from the center of the sixth side. Pro- 
fessor Agassiz called them " stone lilies." 

Other layers of rock are composed wholly of 
the remains of queer animals called " trilobites." 
They belonged to the same family as our lob- 
sters, and varied in size from one-sixth of an 
inch to two feet in length. There were two 
great depressions running lengthwise in their 
bodies, which divided them into three lobes. 
They had also the same ring-like divisions 
running around the body as are seen in lob- 
sters. They swam on their backs, and had the 
power of rolling themselves into a ball. Prob- 
ably this was done to defend themselves against 
some foe. Many were caught in this position 

when the mud was changing into rock, and kept 
for us to see. In other layers of rock are found 
fossils of different animals of the lobster kind. 
Nothing like these old animals is found now. 

So many moUusks — that is, soft animals with 
hard shells, like the oysters — then swam in 
the waters, that this age is sometimes called the 
" Age of MoUusks." They were of all sizes and 
shapes, and there were millions and millions of 
them. There was one, belonging to the same 
family as our nautilus, which was four feet 
across. Another resembled a nautilus unrolled. 
It was from ten to fifteen feet long, and meas- 
ured a foot in breadth. 

The remains of fishes are found, for the first 
time, in some of the upper layers belonging to 
this period. In Wales, in the land of the Silures, 
they claim to have found one layer composed 
entirely of fish-bones. 

Now, there is something we must keep in 
mind when we speak of " remains " in geology, 
or else we shall be disappointed when we see 
these fossils. If you should ever break open 
a stone, and have the great good fortune to find 
in it the remains of a leaf, what would those re- 
mains be like? A real leaf? No, nothing 
but the impression of one. No wood — no pulp. 
Simply a picture engraved on the hard rock. So, 
also, with the remains of a fish, — no body, no 
bones, — only an impression; but so true a one 
that geologists can tell even the way it swam, 
and, in some cases, the nature of its food ! As 
you were told before, these remains are called 
fossils. What a thrill of pleasure it must give 
to find one yourself — to think that little bit of 
world history has remained sealed up in a rock 
for centuries, waiting for you to find it! 

So far, then, as we have journeyed in our 
travels through the back ages, we see a world 
of water, with such plants and animals as live in 
water. It is true that little patches of dry land 
existed, as at the close of the first period ; and 
these had even been increased a little by the ad- 
dition of beaches. But these bits of land were so 
small, compared with the vast expanse of ocean, 
that we are justified in calling it a " world of 
water." It must have been a very thickly 
inhabited " water-world," since whole layers 
of rock were made from the animals which 
swam in its depths or paddled on its surface. 


(A True Story.) 

By L. N. Chapin. 

IS ancestry was il- 
lustrious and tra- 
ditional. He be- 
longed to the race 
of the " Scottish 
Chiefs " and the 
" Shepherd Kings." 
He was a noble 
specimen of the 
brute creation; of 
rather slender form; 
a pointed muzzle; 
and quivering nos- 
trils, that could de- 
tect the feet of his master, even where count- 
less feet had passed before, and that guided him 
unerringly in any quest ; glossy hair, plaited 
on his breast like a shield ; ears erect, and 
slightly drooping at the tips; and eyes that 
understood and spoke all languages. 

Such was " Prince." He was but a dog; yet 
within the range of his narrow life he was ex- 
emplary, to a degree that might well be imi- 
tated by some alleged to be of a higher type. 
In manners, gentle and high-bred; to his infe- 
riors, thoughtful and considerate ; in his friend- 
ships, fidelity itself He knew his duty, and he 
did it; he knew his station, and he kept it. 

He was a native of Norway. Not of Nor- 
way far across the sea, but the Norway that is 
here at home, in our own Empire State ; yet this 
Norway is not wholly unlike that other, for 
winter sits enthroned on all the frozen hills, and 
summer empties her golden cornucopia down 
all the valleys. 

Many are the stories told to show the intelli- 
gence, affection, and fidelity of Prince. He was 
wonderfully knowing, and seemed to understand 
sign-language, and even human speech, quite 
as well as his betters. He was a farmer's dog ; 
and it is always surprising how much real, prac- 
VoL. XVII.— 73. 601 

tical help a farmer will get from a good dog. 
It is said in Scotland, that a collie will do the 
work of many men, and that it is this alone 
which renders the business of sheep-raising 
profitable in that country. There, too, these 
intelligent brutes have occasionally been trained 
to do something besides honest work. One 
Scotch dog was so trained that, receiving in- 
structions from his master as to which one of a 
neighbor's flock he would like to have added to 
his own, the dog would accomplish the theft in 
the master's absence. Not later than the end 
of the last century, a man was hung in Scotland 
because he had taught his dog to do, and the 
dog had done, that very thing. One is tempted 
to believe that an animal so intelligent knew he 
was doing wrong. 

Old Prince was trained to work like any farm- 
hand, and, unlike some farm-hands, would do 
his work without complaining. He could be 
sent to the farthest part of the farm to bring 
anything that was wanted, if it was not too 
heavy for him to carry or to drag. On one 
occasion a visitor was present who doubted that 
Prince was as clever as his owner claimed. 
When the company were leaving the hay-field 
for dinner, the visitor was asked to drop his 
handkerchief where Prince could not see it. 
Arriving at the house the loss was explained to 
Prince, and he was told to fetch the handker- 
chief. He bounded off, and soon returned 
bringing it. When directed, he would go to 
any certain field, and from a large number of 
tools, would select and bring home one named. 
I have known boys who would take all day to 
do such an errand, and probably bring the 
wrong thing after all. 

One day Prince was told to go to the woods 
where the men had been chopping, and to bring 
home the axe. He was gone a long time, much 
to the surprise of all ; for when Prince had an 




errand to do, he never played by the way. 
Finally he returned, dragging with him a heavy 
beetle. I suppose that very few city boys, and 
not all country boys, now, know what a " bee- 
tle" is. It is a ponderous wooden mallet, 
for driving the steel wedges used in splitting 
logs. Of course everybody thought it very 
strange that he should ha\e brought this instead 
of the axe ; and Prince himself looked at his 
master evidently very tired, and very much wor- 
ried, and saying, as plainly as looks could, that 
there was something to explain. So the men 
hurried down to the woods for a solution of the 


But, alas ! even faithful friends grow old, and 
the best of servants lose their usefulness. And 
to Prince there came a time when age told upon 
him. The speed went from his nimble legs; 
and, I am sorry to say, some of the sweetness 
went from his temper. All were forced to admit 
that the farm-work required a younger hand. 
But what was to be done with Prince ? It was 
well known that he would never stand the giving 
of his honored place to another. It had been 
tried, but made trouble at once. Prince took 
it as an insult. He grew insanely jealous. In 
fact, he seemed to recover some of his lost youth 
in his determination to 
remain at his post. He 
was too nearly human 
not to resent being 

So the farmer thought 
he would try to find 
some one who would 
take Prince, and give 
him a home, and be 
kind to him in his latter 
days. The next time 
the farmer went to Lit- 
tle Falls to trade, he 
took Prince with him ; 
and, while there, called 
on his groceryman, 
and asked whether he 

mystery. There they found the axe deeply set 
in the end of a log. Poor Prince had actually 
almost gnawed the handle off in his efforts to get 
the axe. Finding this impossible, he had brought 
the beetle instead, thinking, perhaps, it might 
do. Faithful old Prince ! There is something 
very touching in this attempt to do his duty. 
There was no worker on the farm that could 
not have been spared quite as well as Prince. 
How many steps he saved tired feet 1 Every night 
he would go to the distant pasture for the cows, 
never missing one, although the hills in the 
vicinity are very high and the valleys are very 
deep. And even the cattle came to know him as 
a friend. You may be sure that for all this 
faithful service Prince received many a kind 
return. Indeed, he was regarded almost as a 
member of the family. 

would accept Prince as 
a gift. He told of the dog's intelligence and 
faithfulness, and said that, while Prince had lost 
his usefulness on the farm, he was still a good 
dog to have about a house where there were 
children. " I want the old fellow to have a 
good home for the rest of his days," said the 
farmer, with some feeling. The grocery-keeper 
said he would be very glad to take him; and 
so it was arranged that when the farmer was 
ready to start for home he was to come and 
leave the dog with the grocer. 

Prince was a silent listener to this arrangement, 
and, as events proved, was doing some very seri- 
ous thinking. When the farmer was ready to 
leave for home he looked about . in vain for 
Prince. The dog was nowhere to be seen. He 
went back to all the places he had visited, and 
finally to the hotel-stable, where he had left the 



team ; but Prince was not to be found. At last, 
he started for his home, twenty-five miles away, 
wondering what could have become of the old 
dog. Nothing of the kind had ever occurred 
before. Could Prince have gone home ? Possi- 
bly. On arriving, sure enough, there was Prince. 
He had not approved of being given away ! 

But, as has been said, a younger dog was a 
necessity on the farm, and in course of time one 
was found, and installed as Prince's successor. 
But old Prince made this young dog's life very 
miserable. On every occasion he would snap 
at him, and otherwise manifest the bitterest ani- 
mosity. Although the veteran's teeth were 
nearly gone, he was in physical strength far 
superior to the little fellow, and he bullied him 

The new-comer stood this as well as he could 
for some time ; but one day he disappeared. 
All supposed that he was tired of being abused, 
and had gone away to escape from his oppressor. 
Not so, however. After two or three days' ab- 
sence he returned, bringing with him a large dog, 
that had never been seen in that region before. 
Then these two dogs pitched into old Prince, 
and must, literally, have whipped him to death ; 
for the poor fellow crawled around behind the 
bam, stretched himself out, and made a full 
surrender to " our last great enemy." 

Then the big dog disappeared as strangely as 
he had come, and that was the last ever seen of 
him by the people at the farm. 

Poor Prince ! We all know the story of the 


Welshman who erected a splendid monument to 
the memory of his faithful dog, as told in the 
\)0&m, Bc/h-Geh-rt — " Gaylord's Grave." I think 
that dear old Prince, too, deserved a monument. 
The story of Prince, as here related, is so 
remarkable in many respects, I fear there may be 
misgivings on the part of some as to its absolute 
truthfulness. I had not the honor of a personal 
acquaintance with Prince, but the facts here 
given came to me from one who did, and whose 
veracity I can not question. 


By Helen E. Hastings. 

" Duke " was a fine setter. When he was a 
puppy, his master had to go on a long journey, 
and left Duke with a professional dog-trainer to 
be cared for and taught during his absence. I 
am afraid Duke did not fare very well, for 
when, nearly a year afterward, he came to stay 
with us, he looked quite thin and wretched, and 
had a hang-dog air. He soon improved, how- 
ever, under a generous diet and kind treatment. 
Duke became especially fond of big Brother 
Ned, and always ran to meet him when he 
came home, jumping up and licking his hands, 
and evincing in every way the greatest delight 
at Ned's return. 

One day. Brother Ned came home the back 
way. Now, in a direct line with the fence, and 
not far from the gate, was a well, said to be 
more tlian a hundred feet deep. The water was 
very low in it at this time, and there was no 
chain and buckets, for we never used the water 
from it. But, very carelessly, it had been left un- 
covered. It was so near the fence, and looked 
so much like a part of it, that it might easily be 
overlooked by any one ; and, certainly, Duke 
did not see it. He ran with a joyful bark to 
leap over the fence, and went — down — down 
into the water. Brother Ned gave the alarm, 
and we all ran to the spot; but what could we 
do to save Duke ? As we looked into the well 
we could see nothing but two eyes, which glowed 
like coals of fire up through the darkness, and 
we could hear Duke whine pitifully and scratch 
the stones at the sides of the well. There were 



some men working on a house near by, and they 
ran to help. Taking a long rope and a short 
piece of board, they attached the board as you 
would put a seat in a swing, and lowered it into 
the well, thinking that the poor dog might be 
able at least to support himself on it until some 
better method could be devised for hoisting 
him out. 

But we thought that Duke could do nothing 
with the board. 

We heard him paw the board, and he gave 
short, sharp little yelps as if to let us know that he 
understood we were trying our best to help him. 

Then one of the men said he would go down, 
if a stronger rope was brought. So the men be- 
gan to draw up the swing. What could make 
it so heavy ? They leaned over and peered 
down into the darkness. The two gleaming 
eyes were certainly moving about, as the men 
continued to draw up slowly and steadily. Could 
it be that the dog was tangled in the line ? 
Carefully, now ! Another pull and another, and 
the board comes into the light. Hurrah! It 
is Duke ! He is hanging on by his teeth to the 
rope close to the board. We scarcely breathed. 
Would he be able to keep his hold until they 
could get him to the top ? How dreadful if he 
should fall back now ! No, here he is — safe at 
last ! — cowering and shivering at our feet. We 
carried him into the house and wrapped him in 
a warm blanket before the fire, for it was a 
chilly day in early spring. His mouth and his 
paws were bruised, from his frantic efforts to 
gain a hold on the slippery sides of the well. 

He seemed conscious of the great danger he 
had escaped and grateful over his deliverance, for 
there was a new intelligence in his eyes. He 
crept nearer to our feet as we sat around him, 
and he licked the hands reached down to caress 

Was it through instinct or reason, or was it 
only by accident, that Duke caught and held 
the rope ? 


By William O. Stoddard. 

Chapter IX. 

Mary Ogden would have withdrawn into 
some quiet corner, at the sociable, if it had not 
been for Elder Holloway and Miss Glidden, 
who seemed determined to prevent her from 
being overlooked. All those who had called 
upon Mrs. Murdoch knew that Mary had had 
something to do with that extraordinary num- 
ber of the Eagle, and they told others, but Mrs. 
Murdoch escaped all discussion about the 
Eagle by saying she had not read it, and 
referring every one to Miss Ogden. 

Mary was glad when the evening was over. 
After hearing the comments of the public, there 
was something about their way of editing the 
paper that seemed almost dishonest. 

Jack was still up when she came home. 

" I 've used my time better than if I 'd gone 
to the party," he said. " I 've studied the 
map of New York. I 'd know just how to go 
around, if I was there. I am going to study it 
all the time I 'm here." 

Mr. Murdoch was better. He had had a 
comfortable night, and felt able to think of 
business again. 

" Now, my dear," he said to his wife, " I 'm 
ready to take a look at the Eagle. I am glad it 
was a good number." 

" They talked about it all last evening at the 
sociable," she answered, as she handed him a 

He was even cheerful, when he began ; and he 
studied the paper as Jack had studied the map. 
It was a long time before he said a word. 

" My account of the flood is really capital," 
he said, at last, " and all that about Crofiekl 
matters. The report of things in Mertonville 
is good ; that about the logs, the dam, the bur- 
glary, — a very extraordinary occurrence, by 
the way, — it 's a blessing they did n't kill Mrs. 
McNamara. The story is good; funny-column 

good. But — Oh, gracious! Oh! Mary Ogden! 
Oh my stars ! What 's this ? " 

He had begun on the editorials, and he 
groaned and rolled about while he was reading 

" They '11 mob the Eagle / " he said at last. 
" I must get up ! Oh, but this is dreadful ! 
She 's pitched into everything there is ! I 
must get up at once ! " 

Those editorials were a strong tonic, or else 
Mr. Murdoch's illness was over. He dressed 
himself, and walked out into the kitchen. His 
wife had not heard him say he would get up, 
but she seemed almost to have expected it. 

" It 's the way you always do," she said. " I 'm 
never much scared about you. You '11 never 
die till your time comes. I think Mary is over 
at the office." 

" I 'm going there, now," he said, excitedly. 
" If this work goes on, I shall have the whole 
town about my ears." 

He was right. Mary had been at her table 
promptly that morning to make a beginning on the 
next number ; Jack was down in the engine-room ; 
Mr. Black was busy, and Mr. Bones was out, when 
a party of very red-faced men filed in, went 
through the front office, and climbed the stairs. 

" We '11 show him! " said one. 

" It '11 be a lesson he won't forget ! " remarked 
another, fiercely. 

" He '11 take it back, or there will be broken 
bones ! " added another ; and these spoke for the 
rest. They had sticks, and they tramped heav- 
ily as they marched to the " sanctum." The 
foremost opened the door, without knocking, 
and his voice was deep, threatening, and husky 
as he began : 

" Now, Mr. 'Editor — " 

" I 'm the editor, sir. What do you wish of 

Mary Ogden stood before him, looking him 
straight in the face without a quiver. 





He was a big man ; but, oddly enough, it oc- 
curred to him that Mary seemed larger than he 

" Bob ! " exclaimed a harsh whisper behind 
him, "howld yer tongue! it 's only a gir-rl! 
Don't ye say a har-rd word to the loikes o' 


Other whispers and growls came from the 
hall, but the big man stood like a stone post for 
several seconds. 

" You 're the editor ? " he gasped. " Is old 
Murdoch dead, — or has he run away ? " 

"He 's at home, and ill," said Mary. "What 
is your errand ? " 

" I keep a decent hotel, sir, — ma'am — 
madam — I do, — we all do, — it 's the Eagle, 
you know, — and there 's no kind of disorder, — 
and there was never any complaint in Merton- 
ville— " 

" Howld on, Bob ! " exclaimed the prompter 

behind him. "You 're no good at all; coom 
along, b'ys. Be civil, — Mike Flaherty will never 
have it said he brought a shillalah to argy wid a 
colleen. I 'm aft"! " 

Away he went, stick and all, and the other 
five followed promptly, leaving Mary Ogden 
standing still in amazement. She was trying to 
collect her thoughts when Mr. 
Black marched in from the other 
room, followed by the two type- 
setters ; and Mr. Bones tumbled 
upstairs, out of breath. 

Mary had hardly any ex- 
planation to make about what 
Mr. Bones frantically described 
as "the riot," and she was in- 
clined to laugh at it. Just then 
Mr. Murdoch himself came to 
the door. 

Jack stopped the engine, ex- 
claiming, " Mr. Murdoch ! you 

"What is it? What is it?" 

he exclaimed. "I saw them go 

out. Did they break anything ? " 

" Miss Ogden scared 'em off 

in no time," said Mr. Black. 

Mary resigned the editorial 
chair to Mr. Murdoch. Bones 
brought in two office chairs ; Mr. 
Black appeared with a very liigh 
stool that usually stood before 
one of his type-cases; Mary 
preferred one of the office chairs, 
and there she sat a long time, 
replying to Mr. Murdoch's ques- 
tions and remarks. She had plenty 
to tell, after all she had heard at- the sociable, 
and Mr. Murdoch groaned at times, but still he 
thanked her for her eftbrts. Meanwhile Mr. 
Black went to the engine-room with an errand 
for Jack that sent him over to the other side of 
the village. Jack looked in the little cracked 
mirror in the front room as he went out. 

" Ink enough ; they '11 never know me," said 
Jack. " I 'm safe enough. Besides, Mrs. Mc- 
Namara was n't robbed at all. She was yelling 
because she thought robbers were coming." 

He loitered along on his way back, with his 
eyes open and his ears ready to catch any bit 




of stray news, and paused a moment to peer 
into a small shoe-shop. 

It was only a momentary glance, but a ham- 
mer ceased tapping upon a lapstone, and a tall 
man straightened up suddenly and very straight, 
as he untied his leather apron. 

"That 's the fellow ! " he exclaimed, under his 
breath, but Jack heard him. 

" He knew me ! He knew me ! I can't stay 
in Mertonville I " thought Jack. "There '11 be 
trouble now." 

He started at a run, but it was so early that 
he attracted little attention. 

His return to the Eagle office was so quick 
that Mr. Black opened his eyes in surprise. 

" I 've got to see Mr. Murdoch," Jack said, 
hurriedly, and upstairs he darted, to break right 
in upon the conference between the editors. 

Jack told his story, and Mr. Murdoch felt it 
was only another blow added to the many al- 
ready fallen upon him and his Eagle. " Per- 
haps you will be better satisfied to leave town," 
said Mr. Murdoch, uneasily. 

" I 've enough money to take me to the city, 
and I 'II go. I 'm off for New York ! " said 
Jack, eagerly. 

" New York ? " exclaimed Mr. Murdoch. 
" That 's the thing ! Go to the house and get 
ready. I '11 buy you a ticket to Albany, and 
you can go down on the night boat. They 're 
taking passengers for half a dollar. You must n't 
be caught 1 No doubt they are hunting for you 
now ! " 

Mr. Murdoch was right. At that very mo- 
ment the cobbler was in the grocery kept by Dea- 
con Abrams, shouting, " We 've got him again. 
Deacon ! He 's in town. He works in a paint 
shop — had paint on his face. Or else he's a 
blacksmith, or he works in coal, or something 
black — or dusty. We can run him down now." 

While they went for the two others who knew 
Jack's face, he was putting on his Sunday clothes 
and packing up. When he came down, there 
was no ink upon his face, his collar was clean, 
his hair was brushed, and he was a complete 
surprise to Mr. Black and the rest. 

" I can get a new boy," said Mr. Murdoch. 
as if he were beginning to recover his spirits ; 
" and I can run the engine myself, now I 'm 
well. I can say in the next Eagle that you 

are gone to the city, and that will help me out 
of my troubles." 

Neither Jack nor Mary quite understood what 
he meant, and, in fact, they were not thinking 
about him just then. Mr. Murdoch had said 
that there was only time to catch the express- 
train, and they were saying good-bye. Mary 
was crying, for the moment, and Jack was 
teUing her what to write to his mother and 
father and those at home in Crofield. 

" It 's so sudden. Jack ! " said Mary. " But 
I 'm glad you 're going. I wish I could go, 

" I wish you could," said Jack, heartily; " but 
I '11 write. I '11 tell you everything. Good-bye, 
Mr. Murdock 's waiting. Good-bye ! " 

The Eagle editor was indeed waiting, and 
he was very uneasy. " What a calamity it 
would be," he thought, " to have my own ' devil ' 
arrested for burglary. The Inquirer would en- 


joy thatl It is n't Jack's fault, but I can't bear 
everything !" 

Meanwhile Mary sat atthe table and pretended 
to look among the papers for a new story, but 
really she was trying to keep from crying over 
Jack's departure. Mr. Murdoch and Jack had 
gone to the station. 

There was cunning in the plans of the pur- 
suers of Mrs. McNamara's burglar this time. 
Three of them, each aided by several eager 




volunteers, dashed around Mertonville, search- 
ing every shop in which any sort of face-black- 
ing might be used, and Deacon Abrams him- 
self went to the station with a justice of the 
peace, a notary-public, a constable, and the 
man that kept the village pound. 

" He won't get by me" said the deacon, 
wisely, as Mr. Murdoch and a neatly dressed 
young gentleman passed him, arm in arm. 

" Good morning, Mr. Murdoch. The Eazle V 

Keep your satchel with you. I 'm going back 
to the office." 

" Good-bye," said Jack, pocketing his ticket 
and entering the car. 

He took a seat by an open window, just as 
the train started. 

"Jack 's gone, Mary," exclaimed Mr. Mur- 
doch, under his breath, as he re-entered the 
Eagle office. " Have those men been here 
again ? " 

'your map 's all wrong,' said jack." (see page 6ii.) 

improving. You did me justice. We 're after 
that same villain, now. AVe '11 get him this 
time, too." 

" Deacon," said the editor, gripping Jack's arm 
hard, " I '11 mention your courage and public 
spirit again. Tie him tighter next time." 

" We will," said the deacon ; " and I 've got 
some new subscribers for you, and a column 

Mr. Murdoch hurried to the ticket-window, 
and Jack patiently looked away from Deacon 
Abrams all the \\-hile. 

" There," said Mr. Murdoch, " jump right in. 

" No," said Mary. " But the chairmen of the 
two central committees have both been here. 
Elder HoUoway said they would. They will 
call again." 

" What did you say ? " the editor asked. 

" Why," rephed Mary, " I told them you 
were just getting well." 

"So I am," said Mr. Murdoch. "There 's 
a great demand for that number of the Eagle. 
Forty- six old subscribers have stopped their 
papers, but a hundred and twenty-seven new 
ones have come in. I can't guess where this 
will end. Are you going to the house ? " 




" I think I 'd better," said Mary. " If there 's 
anything more I can do — " 

" No, no, no I Don't spoil your visit," said he, 
hastily. " You 've had work enough. Now 
you must be free to rest a httle, and meet your 

He would not say he was afraid to have her 
in the Eagle office, to stir up storms for him. 
But Mary made no objection — she was very 
willing to give up the work. 

Mr. Murdoch came home in a more hopeful 
state of mind, but soon -went to his room and 
lay down. 

" My dear," he said to his wife, " the paper 's 
going right along ; but I 'm too much exhausted 
to see anybody. Tell 'em all I 'm not well." 

Mary was uneasy about Jack, but she need 
not have worried. The moment the train was 
in motion, he forgot even Deacon Abrams and 
Mrs. McNamara in the grand thought that he 
was actually on his way to the city. 

" This train 's an express train," he said to 
himself " Does n't she go ! I said I 'd get 
there some day, and now I 'm really going ! 
Hurrah for New York! It 's good I learned 
something about the streets — I '11 know what 
to do when I get there." 

He had nine dollars in his pocket for capital, 
but he knew more or less of several businesses 
and trades. 

In the seat in front of him were two gentle- 
men, who must have been railway men, he 
thought, from what they said, and it occurred to 
Jack that he would like to learn how to build a 

The train stopped at last, after a long journey, 
and a well-dressed man got in, came straight to 
Jack's seat, took the hitherto empty half of it, 
and began to talk with the men in front as if he 
had come on board for the purpose. At first 
Jack paid little attention, but soon they began 
to mention places he knew. 

"So far, so good," remarked the man at his 
side ; " but we 're going to have trouble in get- 
ting the right of way through Crofield. We '11 
have to pay a big price for that hotel if we 
can't use the street." 

" I think not," said Jack, with a smile. " There 
is n't much hotel left in Crofield, now. It was 
burned down last Sunday." 
Vol. XVII.— 74. 

" What ? " exclaimed one of the gentlemen in 
front. " Are you from Crofield ? " 

" I live there," said Jack. " Your engineer was 
there about the time of the fire. The old bridge 
is down. I heard him say that your line would 
cross just below it." 

The three gentlemen were all attention, and 
the one who had not before spoken said : 

" I know. Through the old Hammond prop- 

" It used to belong to Mr. Hammond," re- 
plied Jack, " but it belongs to my father now." 

" Can you give me a hst of the other owners 
of property ? " asked the railway man with some 

" I can tell who owns every acre around Cro- 
field, boundary lines and all," answered Jack. 
" I was born there. You don't know about the 
people, though. They '11 do almost anything 
to have the road there. My father will help all 
he can. He says the place is dead now." 

" What 's his name ? " asked the first speaker, 
with a note-book and a pencil in his hand. 

" His is John Ogden. Mine 's Jack Ogden. 
My father knows every man in the county," 
replied Jack. 

" Ogden," said the gentlemen in the forward 
seat, next the window. " My name's Magruder; 
we three are directors in the new road. I 'm a 
director in this road. Are you to stay in 
Albany ? " 

" I go by the night boat to New York," said 
Jack, almost proudly. 

" Can you stay over a day ? We '11 entertain 
you at the Delavan House if you '11 give us 
some information." 

" Certainly; I '11 be glad to," said Jack; and so 
when the train stopped at Albany, Jack was 
talking famiharly enough with the three railway 

Mary Ogden had a very clear idea that Mr. 
Murdoch preferred to make up the next paper 
without any help from her, and even Mrs. Mur- 
doch was almost glad to know that her young 
friend was to spend the next week with Mrs. 

One peculiar occurrence of that day had not 
been reported at the Eagle office, and it had 
consequences. The Committee of Six, who had 




visited the sanctum so threateningly, went away 
beaten, but recounted their experience. They 
did so in the office of the Mertonville Hotel, 
and Mike Flaherty had more than a little to say 
about '■ that gurril," and about " the black eyes 
of her," and the plucky way in which she had 
faced them. 

One little old gentleman whose eyes were still 
bright, in spite of his gray hair, stood in the door 
and listened, with his hand behind his ear. 

" Gentlemen," exclaimed this little old man, 
turning to the men behind him. " Did you 
hear 'em ? I guess I know what we ought to do. 
Come on into Crozier's with me — all of you. 
We must give her a testimonial for her pluck." 

" Crozier's ? " asked a portly, well-dressed man. 
" Nothing there but dry-goods." 

" Come, Jeroliman. You 're a banker and 
you 're needed. I dare you to come!" said the 
little old man, jokingly, leading the way. 

Seven of them reached the dress-goods counter 
of the largest store in Mertonville, and here the 
little old gentleman bought black silk for a dress. 

" You brought your friends, I see. General 
Smith," said the merchant, laughing. " One of 
your jokes, eh ? " 

"No joke at all, Crozier; a testimonial of 
esteem," — and three gentlemen helped one 
another to tell the story. 

" I '11 make a good reduction, for my share," 
exclaimed the merchant, as he added up the 
figures of the bill. "Will that do. General?" 

" I'll join in," promptly interposed Mr. Jeroli- 
man, the banker, laughing. " I won't take a dare 
from General Smith. Come, boys." 

They were old enough boys, but they all 
"chipped in," and General Smith's dare did not 
cost him much, after all. 

Mary Ogden had the map of New York out 
upon the table that evening, and was examin- 
ing it, when there came a ring at the door-bell. 

" It 's a boy from Crozier's with a package," 
said Mrs. Murdoch ; " and, Mary, it 's for you ! " 

" For me ? " said Mary, in blank astonishment. 

It was indeed addressed to her, and contained 
a short note : 

" The girl who was not afraid of six angry men is 
requested to accept this silk dress, with the comphments 
of her admiring friends, 

"Seven Old Men of Mertonville." 

" Oh, but, Mrs. Murdoch," said Mary, in con- 
fusion, " I don't know what to say or do. It 's 
very kind of them ! - — but ought I to take it ? " 

This testimonial pleased Mr. Murdoch even 
more than it pleased Mary. He insisted Mary 
should keep it, and she at last consented. 

But not even the new dress made Mary for- 
get to \\-onder how Jack was faring. 

The lightning-express made short work of 
the trip to Albany, and Jack was glad of it, for 
he had not had any dinner. His new acquain- 
tances invited him to accompany them to the 
Delavan House. 

As they left the station, Mr. Magruder took 
from his pocket a small pamphlet. 

"Humph!" he said. "Guide-book to the 
New York City and Hudson River. I had 
forgotten that I had it. Don't you want it, 
Ogden ? It '11 be something to read on the boat." 

" Won't you keep it ? " asked Jack, hesitating. 

" Oh, no," said Mr. Magruder. " I was 
going to throw it away." 

So Jack put the book into his pocket. It 
was a short walk to the Delavan House, but 
it was through more bustle and business, 
considering how quiet everybody was. Jack 
thought, than he ever saw before. He went 
with the rest to the hotel office, and heard Mr. 
Magruder give directions about Jack's room 
and bill. 

" He 's going to pay for me for one day," 
Jack said to himself, " and until the evening boat 
goes to-morrow." 

" Ogden," said Mr. Magruder, " I can't ask 
you to dine with us. It 's a private party — 
have your dinner, and then wait for me here." 

" All right," said Jack, and then he stood still 
and tried to think what to do. 

" I must go to my room, now, and leave my 
satchel there," he said to himself. " I don't 
want anybody to know I never was in a big 
hotel before." 

He managed to get to his room without 
making a single blunder, but the moment he 
closed the door he felt awed and put down. 

" It 's the finest room I was ever in in all 
my life ! " he exclaimed. " They must have 
made a mistake. Perhaps I '11 have a bedroom 
like this in my own house some day." 




Jack made himself look as neat as if he had 
come out of a bandbox, before he went down 

The dining-room was easily found, and he 
was shown to a seat at one of the tables, and a 
bill of fare was handed him ; but that was only 
one more puzzle. 

" I don't know what some of these are,'" he 
said to himself. " I '11 try things I could n't 
get in Crofield. I '11 begin on those clams with 
litde necks." 

So the waiter set before him a plate of six 
raw clams. 

That was a good beginning ; for every one of 
them seemed to speak to him of the salt ocean. 

After that he went farther down the bill of 
fare and selected such dishes as, he said, "no- 
body ever saw in Crofield." 

It was a grand dinner, and Jack was almost 
afraid he had been too long over it. 

He went out to the office and looked around, 
and asked the clerk if Mr. Magruder had been 
inquiring for him. 

" Not yet, Mr. Ogden," said the clerk. " He 
is not yet through dinner. Did you find your 
room all right ? " 

" All right," said Jack. " I '11 sit down and 
wait for Mr. Magruder." 

It was an hour before the railway gentlemen 
returned. There were twice as many of them 
now, however, and Mr. Magruder remarked: 

"Come, Ogden, we won't detain you long. 
After that you can do what you hke. Thank 
you very much, too." 

Jack followed them into a private sitting- 
room, which seemed to him so richly furnished 
that he really wished it had been plainer; but 
he found the men very straightforward about 
their business. 

They all sat down around the table in the 
middle of the room. 

"We '11 finish Ogden <:rst, and let him go," 
said Mr. Magruder, laughing. "Ogden, here 's 
a map of Crofield and all the country from there 
to Mertonville. I want to ask some questions." 

He knew what to ask, too ; but Jack's first 
remark was not an answer. 

"Your map 's all wrong," said he. "There 
is n't sand and gravel in that hill across the Co- 
cahutchie, beyond the bridge." 

"What is there, then?" asked a gentleman, 
who seemed to be one of the civil-engineers, pet- 
tishly. "I say it 's earth and gravel, mainly." 

" Clear granite," said Jack. " Go down stream 
a little and you '11 see." 

"All right," exclaimed Mr. Magruder; "it 
will be costly cutting it, but we shall want the 
stone. Go ahead now. You 're just the man 
we needed." 

Jack thought so before they got through, 
for he had to tell all there was to tell about the 
country, away down to Link's bridge. 

"Look here," said one of them, quizzically. 
" Ogden, have you lived all your life in every 
house in Crofield and in Mertonville and every- 
where ? You know even the melon-patches 
and hen-roosts ! " 

"Well, I know some of 'em," said Jack, col- 
oring and trying to join in the general laugh. 
" I would n't talk so much, but Mr. Magruder 
asked me to stay over and tell what you did n't 

Then the laughter broke out again, and it was 
not at Jack's expense. 

They had learned all they expected from 
him, however, and Mr. Magruder thanked him 
very heartily. 

" I hope you '11 have a good time to-morrow," 
he said. " Look at the city. I '11 see that you 
have a ticket ready for the boat." 

"I did n't expect — " began Jack. 

" Nonsense, Ogden," said Mr. Magruder. 
" We owe you a great deal, my boy. I would n't 
have missed knowing about that granite ledge. 
It 's worth something to us. The ticket will be 
handed you by the clerk. Good-evening, Jack 
Ogden. I hope I '11 see you again, some day." 

" I hope so," said Jack. " Good-evening, 
sir. Good-evening, gentlemen." 

Out he walked, and as the door closed be- 
hind him the engineer remarked : 

" He ought to be a railway contractor. Bright- 
est young fellow I 've seen in a long time." 

Jack felt strange. The old, grown-up feeling 
seemed to have been questioned out of him, by 
those keen, peremptory, clear-headed business 
men, and he appeared to himself to be a very 
small, green, poor, uneducated boy, who hardly 
knew where he was going next, or what he was 
going to do when he got there. " I don't know 



about that, either," he said to himself, when he 
reached the office. " I know I 'm going to bed, 
next, and I believe that I '11 go to sleep when I 
get there ! " 

Weary, very weary, and almost blue, in spite 
of everything, was Jack Ogden that night, 
when he crept into bed. 

" 'T is n't like that old cot in the Eagle office," 
he thought. " I 'm glad it is n't to be paid for 
out of my nine dollars." 

Jack was tired all over, and in a few minutes 
he was sound asleep. 

He had gone to bed quite early, and he 
awoke wth the first sunshine that came pouring 
into his room. 

" It is n't time to get up," he said. " It '11 
be ever so long before breakfast, but I can't 
stay here in bed." 

As he put on his coat somethmg swung against 
his side, and he said : 

" There ! I 'd forgotten that pamphlet. I '11 
see what 's in it." 

The excitement of getting to the Delavan 
House, and the dinner and the talk afterwards, 
had driven the pamphlet out of his mind until 
then, but he opened it eagerly. 

" Good ! " he said, as he turned the leaves. 
" Maps and pictures, all the way down. Every- 
thing about the Hudson. Pictures of all the 
places worth seeing in New York. Tells all 
about them. Where to go when you get there. 
Just what I wanted ! " 

Down he sat, and he came near forgetting his 
breakfast, so intensely was he absorbed by that 
guide-book. He shut it up, at last, however, 
remarking : " I '11 have breakfast, and then I '11 
go out and see Albany. It 's all I 've got to do 
till the boat leaves this evening. First city I 
ever saw." He ate with all the more satisfac- 
tion because he knew that he was not eating up 
any part of his nine dollars, and it did not seem 
like so much money as it would have seemed in 
Crofield. He was in no haste, for he had no 
idea where to go, and did not mean to tell any- 
body how ignorant he was. He walked out of 
the Delavan House, and strolled away to the 
right. Even the poorer buildings were far 
better than anything in Crofield or Mertonville, 
- and he soon had a bit of a surprise. He 
* reached a comer where a very broad street 

opened, at the right, and went up a steep hill. 
It was not a very long street, and it ended at 
the crest of the hill, where there were some 
trees, and above them towered what seemed to 
be a magnificent palace of a building. 

" I '11 go and see that," said Jack. "I '11 know 
what it is when I see the sign, — or I '11 ask some- 

His interest in that piece of architecture grew 
as he walked on up the hill ; and he was a little 
warm and out of breath when he reached the 
street corner, at the top. Upon the comer, 
with his hands folded behind him and his hat 
pushed back on his head, stood a well-dressed 
man, somewhat above middle height, heavily 
built and portly, who seemed to be gazing at 
the same object. 

" Mister," said Jack, " will you please tell me 
what that building is ? " 

" Certainly," replied the gentleman, turning 
to him with a bow and a smile. " That 's the 
New York State Miracle ; one of the wonders 
of the world." 

" The State Miracle ? " said Jack. 

" What 's your name ? " asked the gentleman, 
with another bow and smile. 

" Ogden, — ^Jack Ogden." 

" Yes, Jack Ogden; thank you. My name 's 
'Guvner.' That's a miracle. It can never be 
finished. There 's magic in it. Do you know 
what that is ? " 

" That 's one of the things I don't know, Mr. 
Guvner," said Jack. 

" I don't know what it is either," smiled Mr. 
Guvner. " When they built it they put in twenty 
tons of pure, solid gold, my lad. Did n't you 
ever hear of it ? Where do you live when 
you 're at home ? " 

" My home 's in Crofield," said Jack, not 
aware of a group of gentlemen and ladies who 
were standing still, a few yards away, looking at 
them. " I 'm on my way to New York, but I 
wanted to see Albany." 

Mr. Guvner put a large hand on his shoulder, 
and smiled in his face. 

"Jack, my son," he said, " go up and look all 
over the State Miracle. Many other States 
have other similar miracles. Don't stay in it 
too long, though." 

'■ Is it unhealthy ? " asked Jack, with a smile. 



The portly gentleman was smiling also. 

" No, no ; not unhealthy, my boy ; but they 
persuade some men to stay there a long time, 
and they 're never the same men again. Come 
out as soon as you 've had a good view of it." 

" I '11 take a look at it anyway," said Jack, 
turning away. " Thank you, Mr. Guvner. I '11 
see the Miracle." 

He had gone but a few paces, and the others 
were stepping forward, when he was called by 
Mr. Guvner. 

"Jack, come back a moment ! " 

" What is it, Mr. Guvner ? " asked Jack. 

" I 'm almost sorry you 're going to the city. 


It 's as bad as the Capitol itself You '11 never 
be the same man again. Don't get to be the 
wrong kind of man." 

" 1 '11 remember, Mr. Guvner," said Jack, and 
he walked away again; but as he did so he 
heard a lady laughing, and a solemn- faced gen- 
tleman saying : 

" Good morning, Gov-er-nor. A very fine 
morning ? " 

" I declare ! " exclaimed Jack, with almost a 
shiver. " I 've been talking with the Governor 
of the State himself, and I 'm going to see the 
Capitol. I could n't have done that in Crofield. 
And I '11 be in New York City to-morrow ! " 

(To be continued.) 


(At Twilight, in the Parlor.) 

By Alice Maude Ewell. 

You 're vexed with me to-night, I know, 

I won't ask you to kiss me. 

There 's Nursie calling me! — I spect 

You '11 be right glad to miss me. 

I 'm sorry that I plague you so ; 

I guess I kill you — nearly ; 

I guess you '11 never half believe. 

But I do love you — dearly. 

Oh, I do love you dearly. 

I never meant to break your watch, 

I thought I 'd just be trying 

How fast the little wheel would turn 

When something started — flying ; 

And whiz-z ! it went, and then stopped short ; 

I never meant to — never ; 

An' now you say it 's spoilt for good. 

Can't it be mended — ever ? 

I never thought one little touch 

Of pretty red upon it 

Would spoil your picture yesterday ; 

I wish I had n't done it. 

I thought I 'd like to help you some. 

You 'd left the brush right ready ; 

I b'lieve you 'd think 't was pretty, too. 

If you looked at it steady. 

I 'm sorry that I tore your frock. 

That ruffle was so spreading. 

My feet are httle to look at. 

But they 're right big for treading. 

An' then I woke you from your nap ; 

The monkey was so funny, 

I laughed out loud, before I thought, 

To see him counting money. 

I never mean to be so bad ; 
But everything I 'm doing 
Just turns right straight to naughtiness; 
There 's always mischief brewing, 
So Nursie says, here in my head ; 
I 've cried my eyes out — nearly ; 
You won't believe one single word, 
But I do love you — dearly. 
Indeed, I love you dearly. 

There 's Nursie calling loud ; good-night. 

AVhy, Sister, are you crying ? 

Oh, me ! I never meant — there ! there ! 

Let me the tears be drying. 

Oh, oh ! That hurts ! — but still it 's nice. 

An' you '11 forgive — sincerely? 

Oh, hug me close, an' kiss me, too, 

For I do love you — dearly. 

Oh, I do love you dearly! 


By Frances Courtenay Baylor. 

I SHOULD like to introduce to the readers of 
St. Nicholas a most interesting family, — pre- 
sented to me one evening by a Lilliputian of my 
acquaintance, — the Corkwells. I don't know 
much about them, because I have only met 
them casually in society ; but they are intimate 
friends of hers, and I shall let her explain who 
they are, and give such fragments of their his- 
tory as she was kind enough to favor me with 
as we looked through the portfolio of sketches 
which serves her in heu of an album. 

No. 3. — " This one, you know, is Lily. She 's 
ten years old. She 's a good child. She 's Hke 
her mother." 

No. 4. — "She 's Helen. She 's just getting 
over scarlet-fever. She 's awful pale, is n't she ? 
She 's had mumps, and chicken-pox, and small- 
pox, and yellow-fever — just an awful lot of 

No. 5. — " Here 's Tom. He 's just an awful 

No. I. — " This is Mrs. Corkwell. She 's the bad boy. He 's bad all the time. He looks like 
mother of them all. She 's looking at her Dr. Corkwell. But his head ain't right; there 
husband. He 's very interesting sometimes, was n't enough paper, so I could n't help it. I 
She 's a good mother, and does n't hke to beat think he looks Japanese." 
her children ever. Mrs. Corkwell 's lazy." 

No. 6. — " This one, now, is Frank. He 's 

No. 2. — "Thisisthebigboy, Bob. He'shome awful sly." 
from school. He 's had his teeth knocked out 

playing base-ball, you see, — all but one. I don't No. 7. — " This is the baby, Jeanette. She 's 
hke to draw boys — their legs is so different." cross-eyed in one eye, but you don't notice it." 




No. 8. — " This is the nurse. 
Her name is EHzabeth — EUz- 
abeth Caton. She 's awful 
cross and fretful. Look at 
her mouth ! She 's a horrid 
old thing! She brought them 
all up, and they just hate her." 

I then ventured to ask 
where the father of the family 
was, and what he was like, and 
this was her reply : 

" There ain't any yet ! I 
have n't made him. But I 
will. I '11 cut him out quick 
with the scissors and do his 
face afterward." 

She accordingly produced 
in a twinkling this highly re- 

spectable practitioner (No. 
9), whose nattiness in dress 
and blandness of address 
must strike the least obser- 
vant eye, and said : 

" Here he is ! He 's a 
doctor. But he don't never 
ask anything when he goes 
to see people, hke some. I 
wanted to give him coat-tails. 
He would have looked so 
nice with coat-tails, but they 
got cut off." 
""■ 9- No. 10. — "She, I mean 

Mrs. Corkwell, and him, I mean Dr. Corkwell, 
has both of them got mothers. They are both 
nice old women. This is Mrs. Corkwell's mother, 
Mrs. Dixon. I don't often give them teeth — 
they don't look nice. But I had to, Mrs. Dixon 

is so very clieerful. She 's always smiling, 'most. 
And she talks — my, but she talks! " 

No. II. — "Well, now, this is Dr. Corkwell's 
mother — old Mrs. Corkwell. She 's nice and 
quiet. Don't you think the Doctor looks like 
his mother? I think he 's just the image of her. 
Her cap is tied under her chin. Mrs. Dixon's 
cap won't stay on that way 'cause she wears a 
wig. Hers has to be tied on the side. You '11 
see it in the picture that way." 

Can anybody doubt that the Corkwell family 
exist, after this, though what they live on, consid- 
ering the Doctor's rigid determination never to 
take a fee under any circumstances, is more than 
I can say. I should think his practice would 
be extensive, and the vulgar question of mere 
emolument he leaves to less lofty minds. My 
young friend tells me he is a " homypath " 
sometimes and sometimes " a allypath." I am 
afraid he is not a graduate of any medical col- 
lege, and is decidedly eccentric. But I like a 
man of original views and generous aims, and 
I must say for my part that I wish Doctor Cork- 
well (and his family) well. May they Uve long 
and prosper ! 


Mrs. Julia P. Ballard. 

" With patience wait for it," were the first 
words which came into my mind as, in the 
night of May 5, 1889, a slight tapping noise at- 
tracted my attention. On looking in the direc- 
tion of the sound, I found the stranger, who first 
knocked and then entered into the world with- 
out waiting for a friendly " come in," was no 
other than a beautiful Royal Walnut Moth 
[Ccratoca?npa Regalis). "With patience," be- 
cause, for eleven years, I had waited in vain for 
the perfected state of this rare and beautiful 

The first caterpillar of this species was given 
me on August 30, 1878. After going through 
his moultings successfully, and forming at length 
a perfect chrysalis, he failed to appear, and 
remained in his casket without power to reveal 
what " might have been." 

Again and again other specimens were secured, 
and carefully watched through difterent changes, 
but all died before the perfect insects appeared. 
On September 6, 1888, a fine specimen was 
given me by a friend ; and this, after more than 
eight months' delay, is now the beautiful Cerato- 
campa before me. Looking back at a record 
made on September 8th of that year, I find this 
entry : " Watching my Royal Walnut. He eats 
silently and rapidly, the walnut-leaf melting 
away in front of him. He clasps the leaf with 
his first pair of russet-colored feet, and eats 
downward, so that his head bends toward the 
ground. The last two pairs of his long-spined 
horns lie back gracefully. The first short pair 
stand forward like ears. The second pair lie 
across the third, now, as he eats. He eats so as 
to leave a crescent in the leaf. The long nar- 
row point of the leaf shakes like an aspen as he 
eats, until he cuts it oft" and drops it. There are 
tJiree round black dots on each of the two last 
pairs of horns on the little yellow part which is 
next to the head. The three pairs of horns are 
tipped \vith black. There are two pairs of horns 

on the second and third segments. The long 
point of the walnut-leaf, which he could not eat 
(being unable to hold it, because it is so delicate), 
he took with his fore feet, and lifted it gently out 
of the way, and then began in a new place." 

For the next day the entry is : "The Royal 
Walnut keeps very still. Has lain for a half 
hour in the same position — head bent down, so 
that the first pair of horns rest on the floor of 
his prison." Upon September loth, " I gave 
my Royal Walnut his last meal." At noon he 
was walking slowly on the earth with which a 
large box had been filled for him. After an after- 
dinner nap, I again went to his box. The un- 
tasted spray of walnut-leaves lay unwithered on 
the surface, but no trace of the caterpillar was 
to be seen. Not a movement of a grain of 
earth above him. He had buried himself. 

After a month had passed, curiosity overcame 
prudence, and the earth was shaken back to see 
if a perfect chrysalis was below. " There he lay 
in his imperfect, half-rounded bed — made by 
moistening the earth about him — and as still as 
if dead." 

The chrysalides of many moths will be seen 
to show frequent signs of life; but the stillest of 
all still things is the chrysalis of the Royal Wal- 
nut. You may watch it for days and weeks, or 
even watch its shadow, and you will see not the 
slightest movement. The smooth, plump, black 
head, with its two slanting breathing-holes, is as 
still as a rock, and its rings (with the two queer 
flat little humps on the front one) are as still as 
the head. Again and again you say, "If there 
is any life in it, how can it keep so still ? " Then 
you satisfy yourself by stroking it very gently, 
with the faintest touch of your finger, along the 
side, and lo, a little cringe, showing the slightest 
shrinking from the touch. That is all. Again 
it is as still as a rock. After long watching 
another stroke, and another almost imperceptible 
cringe. It bides its time. So must you. 



The eggs of the Royal Walnut closely resem- 
ble the Malaga grape in shape and color. They 
are clear (unlike those of the Luna and Poly- 
phemus moths) — so clear that the larvEe can be 
seen through the delicate amber shells, long be- 
fore they are broken for exit. At first the cater- 
pillar is nearly black. It changes in appear- 
ance, however, with each moulting, at one time 
being pale-green, again almost a chocolate, and 
finally a deep dark-green, with pale bands of 
blue. The ten spined horns \\ith which it is 
/ ^ ' , armed give it 



a menacmg 
and formid- 
able appear- 
ance; but it 
is at all times 
harmless. It 


is curious to note the different expressions used 
by those who look at it. " Horrible creature ! " 
one exclaims. "It is almost beautiful — so 
richly shaded," says another. One writer says 
of this caterpillar, "It is handsomer than the 
beautiful moth it produces." But, although it 
has rich colors, curiously shaded, I should say 
it took some nerve to see the beauty, as the 
form is certainly unattractive. That from so 
formidable a creature such an exquisite moth 
should be produced seems Httle less than a mir- 
acle. In color the moth is entirely different 
from the caterpillar. Its fore wings are of a 
grayish olive color, veined with lines of a pecu- 
liar shade of red — best described, I .should say, 
as nacarat red. The hinder wings are red, with 
yellow spots of irregular form in front, and olive- 
colored spots behind, between the veins. The 
thorax is yellow, bordered with red. The an- 
tennae, or " feelers," are amber-colored and, in 
the female specimen which I have, appear to 
be ringed, when viewed by a microscope. 

The moth is gentle and quiet. It takes no 
notice of offered sweets, and shows no sign of 
possessing a tongue. For a short time it gives 
Vol. XVH.— 75. 

its silent beauty to please, makes provision for 
other silently beautiful moths (one hundred and 
twelve eggs were laid by this one), and dies. 

The most touching thing in the life of the 
Royal Walnut is its self-burial. This was 
carefully watched and timed in one specimen 
(v.'hich, however, failed to develop an hiiaf^o). 

I will close this sketch by a quotation from a 


record, kept at the time, of two Royal caterpil- 
lars, one of which thus buried itself: "On the 
30th of August, 1882, I was fortunate enough to 
find two specimens of this caterpillar on a large 
walnut-tree. They were of a mulberry-brown 
color (probably being in their second stage), 
with heads of glassy brilliancy ; brown feet, 
striped with black ; and light, diagonal side 
stripes separating the spiracles or breathing pores. 
Both were watched through their last moultings, 
and one of them changed into a chrysalis on the 
surface of the eartli in his box. He had taken 
no food for a week previous, and the opportu- 
nity of watching him make the chrysalis was 
unique and full of interest. He lay upon his 
back with feet uppermost, and the head of the 
chrysalis appeared earliest. It was large, and 
of a delicate pea-green at first. The small, old 
brown head of the caterpillar is now gliding 
down very slowly on the top of the newly formed 
chrysalis, as it lies on the spined horns below, 


and looks so meek and helpless as it is pushed 
down by the retreating skin. The sides of the 
chrysalis, as they appear, are tinted with pale 
red. The spiracles are oval and brcwn-bor- 



dered ; the antennse stand out clear amber. 
Looking with my microscope, I can see the im- 
mature parts of the moth's head arranging 
themselves ; the part where the head is, and in- 
ner part of the vest, not yet being closed. If 
this space closes over (as it seems to be closed 
in a perfect chrysalis), it will be very strange to 
see how it is done. The other Royal caterpil- 
lar is eating his leaves contentedly on the wal- 
nut branches above him (he is on a spray 
growing from a bottle of water in his prison), in 
blissful ignorance of his OAvn coming change." 

This chr}-salis was not as perfect as those 
formed underground. That of the second, 
which buried itself, is the one shown in the pic- 
ture. The record of its change is under date of 
September 1 3 : 

" I watched my Royal Walnut bury himself. 
About half-past eleven a. jr., I saw he had done 
eating, and was very restless, so I put him on a 
box of earth. It was a touching sight to see 
him take charge of his own funeral. Slowly he 
walked around, surveying the ground; and then, 
at one corner, chose his lot, and began going 
down, very slowly, head first, and a little way at 
a time. He would raise up the back part of his 
body, nearly vertically, every little while. This 
earth was fine and mellow, and I thought how 
diflScult it must be for him to go down into the 
hard ground under the walnut-tree. Nature is 
wonderful in her workings : — Why do the Poly- 
phemus, Luna, Cecropia, and Prometheus make 

cocoons, while the moths of the Grape, Tomato, 
and Walnut bury themselves in the ground ? 
Why does one never change its own way, and 
try another's plan — some preferring a tomb, 
and others a burial ? Ten minutes past twelve, — 
forty minutes in all, — and the last speck of green 
and brown has disappeared. By close watching, 
with a magnifying glass, I learned a new and 
wonderful thing. I saw plainly the reason he 
did not go down faster. He was making a 
smooth, soft tunnel for himself! He threw from 
his mouth quantities of water or mucilage, and 
thus softened and worked the earth, until the 
whole tunnel was really plastered, and then, by 
a succession of strong upheavals, he threw the 
dry earth over the back part of himself (rather 
than draw that in), until he was hidden from 
sight. The earth above him trembled and moved 
for several hours after, as if he was still at work 
in his burial-place below." The oval earth-cas- 
ket, which the caterpillar made, was much more 
complete than the one which held the chrysalis 
of my Royal Walnut moth. It was, probably, 
partly from the gentle breaking of this, to see 
the chrysalis, and from the jarring in taking its 
likeness given in the picture, which prevented 
the appearance of the perfect insect. One who 
witnesses the wonderful transformation from the 
creeping, ungainly worm to the exquisitely dainty 
moth, winged and fitted for a higher life, is 
reminded of the words of Scripture : " It doth 
not yet appear what we shall be." 




By Nettik H. Pelhaii. 

Merry little urchins, full of fun and noise. 
Not a care or trouble. Happy little boys ! 
Watch that httle fellow ; hear him gaily jest, 
He is very lucky, winning from the rest. 

I hear a girl's voice saying : " Tom, you must 

not play 
And keep the marbles that you win. What 
will Mamma say ? " 
" Oh," replies young Tommy, with a happy 
As he adds more marbles to his growing pile, 
" Nobody 's a-cheatin', we 're all a-playin' fair. 
And I 'm almost certain Mamma wotdd n't 

So the game continues. Tommy still is 

And he never questions whether he is sinning. 

Tommy's luck is changing, and the happy 

Leaves his face as quickly as the marbles 

leave his pile. 
Now the game is ended, and he counts the 

cost : 
Crockeries, mibs, and agates, all, oh, all are 
Through my open window, summer breezes " Give me back iny marbles ! " Tommy wildly 

straying, weeps. 

Bring the shouts of school-boys with their '■ Mamma says it 's wicked, when you play for 
marbles playing. keeps ! " 




By John H. Jewett. 

1^ [_^HERE were always many 
needy families about 
whom Mother Bunny 
could tell when the 
Bunnies asked her ad- 
vice in making out their 
lists, and they often 
wondered how it hap- 
pened that such a quiet 
home-body as their 
mother knew so very 
much about the poor, 
the sick, and the unfortunate folk in the North 
Village, and what they needed to help them 
through the winter. 

The Deacon was always willing the Bunnies 
should give away all the things they raised in 
their own part of the garden, if they wished to 
do so. 

This year the Bunnies had a large bin of vege- 
tables and several barrels of apples of their 

These were chiefly " windfalls," which they had 
gathered on shares, the Deacon having told 
them they might have one-half of all they could 
find on the ground in the orchard before the 
time came for picking the late fruit from the 

The week before Thanksgiving Day, the Bun- 
nies had great fun in filling the baskets and 
bags and labeling them for Gafter to deliver on 
Saturday, when they could go with him and see 
that no mistakes were made in finding the right 

The Widow Bear and old Grandmother Coon 
were Bunnyboy's favorites, and each had an 
extra parcel from his stock. 

They found the Widow Bear li\-ing in a much 
more comfortable place than the old hovel, and 
she told them that Tufty was a good and help- 

ful son, and his wages helped her to clothe the 
younger children and to keep them in school. 

Grandmother Coon thanked Bunnyboy for 
his gifts, and said the Bunnies were " growing 
up to be just like their father." 

Cousin Jack repeated this remark to Mother 
Bunny, who seemed pleased to hear it. 

Mother Bunny said she was afraid the neigh- 
bors would spoil the children by praising them, 
but Cousin Jack said they were all sensible Bun- 
nies, " and besides," said he, " we all need a 
little encouragement, now and then, to make us 
do our best another time." 

Then he told her that the trip had given him 
a new idea about 
gardening — how to 
raise two crops a 
)'ear from the same 

Browny said that 
could not be done. 


But Cousin Jack said, " The seed you planted 
in the spring yielded a good crop of vegetables, 



and now a wagon-load from your garden has 
yielded another harvest of happiness to odiers, 
as well as to yourselves." 

At the tea-table on Wednesday evening the 
Deacon turned to Cousin Jack and said, " It is 
just ten years to-night 
since we re- christened 
Rab Bunny, is it not ? " 

Cousin Jack looked 
very happy as he replied, 
" Yes, Uncle, but I have 
not yet told the Bunnies 
that part of Rab's story." 

Something in Cousin 
Jack's voice and manner 
kept the Bunnies quiet, 
until, after thinking a 
minute, he said, " Per- 
haps this evening will be 
a good time to finish 
Rab's story, for there is 
a Thanksgiving flavor 
about it which I am 
sure Rab will never for- 
get so long as he lives." 

So away went all the 
Bunnies to the library. 

Cousin Jack began 
the story in this way : 
" When Rab was about 

fifteen years old, sickness and trouble came to 
Mother Deer, and Rab felt that he must find 
some work to do. 

" Schoolmaster Bear told Rab that he would 
help him with his studies in the evening, and 
gave him a letter of recommendation. 

" In this letter he wrote that Rab was ' quick 
at figures and wrote a plain, neat hand,' and 
also that he was ' prompt at his tasks, willing to 
learn, and a trustworthy boy.' 

" Mason Beaver's brother, who was a civil- 
engineer, needed an assistant to carry the chain 
and help him about the office writing, and when 
Rab showed him the schoolmaster's letter and 
asked for work, he gave Rab the place on trial. 

" Rab was very happy and a httle proud when 
he carried his first month's earnings to Mother 
Deer and asked her to let him help her, now 
that she was in trouble. 

" Mother Deer was sorry to have Rab leave 

his school, but, as it seemed to be the only way 
to keep their pleasant home, they all made the 
best of it, and together shared the dark days as 
they had shared the brighter ones. 

" For more than a year, Rab's earnings spared 

r': ',■ 


Mother Deer many anxious hours and bought 
her many comforts during her long sickness. 

" One sad day when Hazel and Rab stood by 
Mother Deer's bedside, to say good-bye to her 
for the last time in this world, she whispered to 
Rab, ' You have been Hke a son to me all these 
years. Be good to Hazel when I am gone ; be 
true to yourself; be brave and do right, and all 
will be well.' " 

Cousin Jack's voice was unsteady and his 
eyes were full of tears, but after a moment's 
silence he said : 

" Well, well, we must not let Rab's griefs spoil 
our evening, for there were many strange things 
yet to happen to him." 

Turning to Bunnyboy, he said, "You wished 
to know the other day, what became of Hazel 
Fawn, and I will tell you now. 

" Kind relatives of her mother, who lived in 
a distant city, took Hazel home to five with 




them, where she grew up to be as lovel}- and 
gentle as her mother. 

" Her name is Mrs. Deer now, and she is 
very proud of two little ones who call her 
Mother, and whose names are ' Hazel ' and 
' Rab ' in memory of the old days at Deer 

Bunnyboy asked. " Cousin Jack, where is 
Silva Fox ? " 

" You will be surprised," replied Cousin Jack, 
" when I tell you that you already know her. 
Silva is now Miss Fox, of the Orphans' Home, 
whom you met when we rescued Toddle Tum- 
blekins Coon from the marsh." 

This pleased the Bunnies, and they talked 
about Silva until Browny interrupted by asking, 
" What was Rab doing all this time ? " 

" To shorten the story," replied Cousin Jack, 
" we will skip a year of Rab's fitting himself 
to enter a Naval academy. 

" Kind friends promised to secure him an 
appointment to enter this great school if he 
could pass the examination ; and when he had 
succeeded in winning that prize, the world 
seemed very bright before him. 

" Dressed in the handsome uniform of the navy, 
and among a jolly lot of mates of his own age, 
the new cadet was as eager to excel in drilling, 
and ship-practice, and 
in his studies, as he 
had been to beat his 
old schoolmates in 
running, swimming, or 

" All went 
on well and ""^^^^^ 
smoothly for ' i 

several months, but 
one day an accident 
happened, whereby 
he was stretched on a 
hospital bed, maimed 
and crippled. 

" Instead of the 
grand life Rab had 
planned, which was to be full of action and hero- 
ism, there he lay helpless, with the prospect be- 
fore him of being only a disabled pensioner of 
the government he had hoped to serve. 

" He had been injured, too, before he had seen 


any real service, and partly because of his own 

" In trying to fix a new fuse to an old torpedo- 
shell as an experiment, the charge exploded, 
and a fragment of iron injured his right knee. 

"The surgeons were kind and skillful but they 
gave him no hope of his ever being able to do 
active service again. 

'• One day, as he lay in the hospital, brooding 
bitterly over his misfortunes, a visitor came to 
his bedside, and, after speaking kindly with him, 
she offered to write letters for him to his family 
or friends. 

" The visitor was plainly dressed, and Rab no- 
ticed that the only ornament she wore was a 
patch of red cloth in the shape of a Greek cross, 
which was sewed to her dress. 

" The big tears came into his eyes as he said 
to her, ' I have no family and only one near 
friend in all the world, and I do not wish her to 
know yet that I am crippled and helpless.' 

" Then she told him her name was Sister 
Gazelle, and that she belonged to the Society 
of the Red Cross. 

" Rab remembered then what the Red Cross 
meant ; for he had read about this brave band, 
who went about the world nursing the sick and 
helping the unfortunate. 

" Sister Gazelle's manner was so quiet and 
friendly, that in answer to her questions Rab told 
her the story of his childhood and the little he 
could dimly remember of his father and mother. 

" All he knew about his parents was the story 
told by the old nurse who brought him away 
from his home in the South when he was a little 

"Sister Gazelle became very much interested 
when he spoke of his Southern home, and asked 
him what the nurse had said. 

" Rab replied that she told the master at the 
Poor-farm that he was Dr. Jack Bunny's son, 
and his father and mother were both dying of 
the terrible fever when they had sent her away 
with the child to save his life. 

" When Rab had finished speaking, the Sister 
took his hand in hers and said : ' Cadet Bunny, 
it is very strange, but I know more of your sad 
history than you know yourself, for I heard it 
from your own mother only a few years ago.' 

" Rab was so surprised and delighted that he 




could hardly believe he was not dreaming, and 
he cried out, 'Is it true? Have you seen my 
mother, and is she still alive ? ' 

" The eagerness in his voice and the trembling 
hope in his eyes made it hard for the kind Sister 
to tell him that he had no mother living, but 
with great gentleness she said : 

" ' I am sorry to give you more pain, but your 
dear mother wore the Red Cross for several 
years after your brave father's death, and at last 
laid down her life, as he had done, in caring 
for the sick and suffering.' 

" Then the Sister told him how often and fondly 
his mother had spoken of him, and how long 
and patiently she had tried to find some trace of 
him, or of the nurse in whose care he had been 
sent to his father's brother in the North, at the 
time his father died. 

" The only word that ever came to her was 
from this brother, who wrote her that the nurse 
must have lost her way with the child, for no 
trace of either could be found. 

" While she lived, the sorrowing mother never 
quite gave up hope of finding her child, and 
so she toiled on from hospital to hospital, 
always searching for some one who could tell 
her the fate of the little one. 

" Then came her last sickness, when Sister 
Gazelle had met her and cared for her until the 

" Rab listened as only a lonely orphan could 
hsten, who heard for the first time about his 
own mother's love and sorrow for him, until at 
last the good Sister said she must not talk with 
him any more that day, but would come again 
in the morning and bring him the pictures she 
had of both his father and mother. 

" Cheered by her kind words and hopeful plans 
for his future, Rab began to feel that there 
might yet be a place for even a cripple, who 
was willing to make the best of his lot in life 
and to try to be cheerful about it. 

" As the days and weeks .went by, he grew 
stronger and was able to get out-of-doors on 
his crutches to practice what he called ' A lame 
dog's arithmetic, putting down three and carry- 
ing one,' — as he hopped about the yard. 

" One morning, a few days before Thanksgiv- 
ing Day, Sister Gazelle came again, and with 
her was a stranger. 

" As Rab came toward them, the stranger 
gave him a quick, keen glance from head to 
foot, and then placing both hands on Rab's 
shoulders, he said heartily : 

" ' So I have found you at last ! You are Dr. 
Jack's boy, and no mistake ! I am your uncle.' 

" When the first surprise of their joyful meeting 
was over they all sat down, while the smiling 
Sister told Rab how she had found his uncle by 
advertising in the newspapers of the North, 
asking the brother of Dr. Jack Bunny to send 
her his address. 

" The brother had seen the advertisement, and 
the kind uncle had come to take him to his own 
home in the country, several hundred miles far- 
ther north than Rab had ever been. 

" The next day all the arrangements were 
made for Cadet Bunny to begin a new hfe with 
his own kindred. 

" On the evening before Thanksgiving Day, 
after a long ride in the cars, Rab and his uncle 
arrived at his new home, where for ten happy 
years he found enough to make him glad and 
thankful every day of his life." 

" Where is Rab now, and what was his uncle's 
name ? " asked Bunnyboy, with a wise expression. 

Cousin Jack replied slowly, " I thought you 
had guessed my secret by this time, but if you 
have not, I can say only that the last I knew of 
Rab, he was living with his good friends at Run- 
wild Terrace, spending a great deal of time tell- 
ing stories to a lot of good-natured Bunnies; and 
that his uncle's name was Deacon Bunny." 

" I thought so, a long time ago," said Pink- 
eyes, "but I did not dare to say it, because your 
name is not Rab." 

" Rab was only a nickname," said Cousin Jack, 
" which was changed to Jack, my real name, 
when I came to live with my uncle and aunt, 
just ten years ago to-night." 

Then the Bunnies were so noisy, talking to 
and hugging Cousin Jack, that the Deacon and 
Mother Bunny came into the library. 

" Where is Sister Gazelle now ? " asked Pink- 

" Your mother had a letter from her to-day, 
and perhaps she will tell us," replied Cousin 

" Sister Gazelle is still wearing the Red Cross," 
said Mother Bunny. 



Then she added, " I liave a surprise for you, 
too; for Sister Gazelle is coming to-morrow to 
visit us, and I have invited Miss Silva Fox to 
meet her and dine with us." 

The Bunnies were doubly surprised and pleased 
with this news, and Pinkeyes said, " How strange 
it is that Sister Gazelle found our Cousin Jack 
for us, and Cousin Jack found our Cuddledown." 

" That is just what I was thinking about," said 
Bunnyboy; " for if it had not been for her kind- 
ness we might not have had either Cuddledown 
or Cousin Jack with us now." 

Then the Deacon looked at his watch and 
said, " Come, the story is done, and it is time 
all you Bunnies were asleep, for to-morrow will 

be a busy day if we are as thankful as we should 
be for the blessings we enjoy." 

And now, while they say " good-night," we 
will say '• good-bye," and join in wishing the 
Bunn)- family many years in which to share their 
happiness with others, and many glad re-unions 
on " Thanksgiving Day." 


By Rose Mueller Sprague. 

In our suggestions for spring costumes, we 
show a design for a child of six, one for a girl 
between twelve and fourteen years, and one for 
a young girl of fifteen. For the costume of 
the latter, fawn-colored camel's-hair is an excel- 
lent material. The yoke and the trimming 
upon the sleeves are of velvet, a trifle darker in 
shade, but of the same color as the gown. The 
velvet can be embroidered with slender gold 
threads in delicate arabesques. The back of the 
gown is in one piece, extending from the neck 
to the lowest hem of the skirt, in polonaise form. 
The hat is of tan-colored straw, faced with the 
same velvet as that in the yoke, omitting, of 
course, the embroidery. The crown of the hat 
is surmounted by small, white flowers, with a hint 
of green leaves threaded through them. 

For the girl of twelve years, it is suggested 
that in the main part of the dress gobelin blue 
India silk be used ; with, perhaps, a small fig- 
ure in a deeper shade of the blue, or in black. 
The broad, crinkled belt is of blue velvet; and 

the little jacket, which finishes at the back in a 
straight, close line at the waist, is of the same 
material. The short, cap-like sleeves are of 
velvet, laced with a blue cord. A similar cord 
edges the jacket. The frill collar around the 
neck is of the finely pleated India silk. 

The under-sleeves are made of the same silk, 
" accordion pleated," and finished with a pleated 
frill. The full skirt is gathered at the waist-Hne, 
and again at the neck between the two jacket- 
fronts. The hem of the skirt is trimmed with 
four or five rows of narrow ribbon velvet, of the 
same shade as the velvet used in the belt and 
the short sleeves. 

For the child's costume, dark green-and-blue 
wool plaid may be used for the skirt and for the 
crown of the Scotch cap. The little jacket of 
black velvet is trimmed with frogs of black silk 
cord, and plain silk cord edging the jacket and 
collar. Around the crown of the cap is a roll 
of the velvet, finished with a silver ornament 
fastening the two square-tipped black feathers. 

"^se. J4**"w^5p''*%'^^ | 

Vol. XVII.— 76. 





Well, now, this is delightful ! Here comes 
May, the most promising month of all the twelve, 
smiling through the waking branches, and stirring 
the very floor of my meadow ; and here are you, 
my sunny rioters, eager to go a-Maying in any 
pleasant way that presents itself. Skipping, 
laughing, blossom-hunting, wreath-making, feeling 
glad and grateful, through and through — this 
it is to go a-Maying ! Ah, if not only young 
folk but old folk, busy folk and sorry folk, all could 
go a-Maying, what a blessed thing it would be ! 
Let us unite, therefore, in singing this bright spring 
carol, which my birds have just brought in from 
your friend Emma C. Dowd : 

Oh, that will be a merry time. 

When all the world goes Maying ! 
From every tower, in every clime, 
The bells will ring, the bells will chime, 
When all the world goes Maying ! 


A SHREWD boy named Joseph lately startled the 
fellows in the Red School-house by announcing that 
before school-time the next morning he would con- 
fidentially tcU any boy who brought him a good 
apple the surest and easiest way to make a dollar. 

Well, before nine the next morning, that lad, as 
you may well believe, was well supplied with apples 
— and six boys' heads were not quite as empty as 
they had been before. For Joseph had whispered 
to each in turn that to make a dollar, a fellow had 
only to take one a, two I's and a d, an r and an 
o, and, by putting them together properly, he would 
have made a dollar in less than no time. 

I suppose, in the same spirit, Joseph would be 
quite charmed to learn from Laura G. L 's in- 
structive little letter, which you shall now see, how 
money was first made: 

New York. 

Dear Jack-in-the-Pulpit: You asked us if we could 
add some words to the dear Little Schoolma'am's list of 
interesting derivations of popular words, so I have found 
a few for you. 

Money is from the temple of Juno Moneta, in which 
money ^\'as first coined by the ancients. 

Pecuniary is from pecus, a flock ; flocks and herds of 
animals being originally equivalent to money or things 
constituting wealth. 

Cash, in commerce, signifies ready money, or actual 
coin paid on the instant, and it comes from the French 
word caisse, a coffer or chest in which money is kept. 

Groat was a name given to a silver piece equal to four 
penniesinvalue, coined by Edward III. Tlie word (groat; 
is a corruption of grosses, or great pieces, in contradis- 
tinction to the small coins or pennies. 

.Shilling and penny are both Saxon words : the penny 
was first coined in siher, and is originally derived from 
the word pand, to pawn, with the diminutive suffix " ing "; 
the next shape the word took was pennig; and then 
followed our penny. 

Of course our word cent is from centum, a hundred, 
for the cent is a hundredth part of a dollar. 

Dollar has a curious derivation. The first step back 
makes it thaler, then thai, a valley; hut thai originally 
meant a deal or division ; so the gold or silver was dealt 
or divided into pieces worth a thaler, the German form, 
or dollar, the American. 

But I must close tliis very monetary letter. 

Your admiring reader, Lai'ra G. L , 

Then sorrowing folk will all grow gay, 

And care will go a-straying ; 
And busy folks will stop to play. 
And wrong will cease for one sweet day, 

When all the world goes Maying ! 

Weakness will walk in strength's own guise, 

And time will make delaying, 
And love will shine from out all eyes. 
And wisdom will ha\'e grown more wise. 

When all the world goes Maying ! 

Then prison doors will widely swing. 

Pain will go roundela\'ing, 
Banners will wave, and anthems ring. 
And every voice will laugh and sing. 

When all the world goes Maying ! 



Clinton A. Montgomery sends you, all the 
way from Michigan, directions for making a very 
pretty and interesting experiment. 

First of all, he says, you must choose a windy 
dav for the trial ; whether it is clear or cloudy, 
cold or hot, makes no difference ; but it must not 
be rainy or murky weather. 

Now, take a polished metal surface of two feet 
or more in length, with a straight edge (a large 
hand-saw, Mr. Montgomery says, will answer the 
purpose). Hold this metallic surface at right- 
angles to the direction of the wind. For instance, 
if the wind comes from the west, then hold the 
metallic surface north and south. But, instead of 



holding it perpendicular, you must incline it about 
42 degrees to the horizon, so that the wind, in 
striking it, will glance upward and flow over the 
edge of the metal, as water flows over a dam. 
Now sight carefully along the edge of the metal 
at a sharply defined object, and you will see the 
wind pouring over the edge in graceful curves. 
Of course, you understand that wind is nothing 
more nor less than air in motion. You will hardly 
ever fail in the experiment if you make your obser- 
vations carefully. 


" Dear Jack," writes Angus E. Orr of Georgia, 
" Mr. Holder wrote in the St. NICHOLAS many 
months ago about ' How Some Birds Arc Cared 
For,' and now 1 should like to tell you how some 
eggs are cared for. Away off in the Antarctic Ocean 
there is a bird called a penguin, which cannot fly, 
but which swims like a duck. It swims better than 
a duck, in fact, and dives well, too. Now, the 
penguins are fishers by trade, and they have to 
work like beavers, so to speak, — harder than bea- 
vers, indeed, to make a decent living. So hard do 
they have to work that they have no time to set on 
their eggs as a hen does. And they can't run off 
like the ostrich and leave the sun to be mother to 
their eggs, because the sun only looks sideways on 
the penguin's partof the map, and itis likelyto snow 
there any time, even in August. So, how in the 
world do they hatch ? Well, the mother penguin 
has a pocket in her skin like the one in which a pos- 
sum carries her babies. And when she lays an egg, 
she simply puts it in her pocket and quits laying 
till that one hatches. Yes, she puts it in her 
pocket and goes fishing. She never intrusts the 
egg to any one but herself, and then she knows 
just when the little bird will break its shell and 
open its mouth for a meal. Now, that is what I 
call a lively way of ' setting.'" 

So far, so good. And now that you have given 
your polite attention to scientific matters, here is a 
legend which Jessie E. Ringwalt has written out 
for you. She says it was told to a missionary 
by a native of the island where the legend grew : 


Th.AT there is a man in the moon has been told 
in the tales and songs of many countries, but it is 
known only to the wild islanders of the Pacific 
Ocean that he is so fortunate as to have a wife. 
The savages of Mangaia call him Marama, a name 
that seems very appropriate to the soft and gentle 
moonhght. According to their legend, he, many 
years ago, used to gaze down upon a certain fair 
and industrious young girl who lived upon that 
island, and finally he begged her to be his wife. The 
maiden was as prudent as she was pretty, and at first 
objected that he lived at an inconvenient distance ; 
but Marama speedily built a bright new moonbow 
from the island to his home, and over this shining 

bridge the lovely Ina traveled safely to her new 
abode. She has lived there in great happiness ever 
since, and she still keeps her love of industry. The 
spots upon the moon, which are sometimes fool- 
ishly fancied to be the eyes, nose, and mouth of a 
broad, shining fnce, are, in fact, but the great heaps 
of cocoanuts which she diligently stores up for 
family food. 

Like the women of her native island, Ina has 
great skill in the manufacture of cloth, and is 
anxious to make it very smooth and white. En- 
joying such unusual advantages of space, she 
stretches her broad sheets out against the sky to 
bleach, and these are what the people of other 
nations call white clouds. To render the fabric 
perfectly smooth, she beats it with stones, just as 
she did on earth, and she is so zealous in her work 
that these stones often crash together and make 
the sound which by us is called thunder. To learn 
that these stories are true, it is only necessary to 
watch the sky on a warm evening, as the twilight 
is settling down, and see the quick flashes of light 
that quiver through the air as the busy Woman in 
the Moon hastily gathers up her sheets of cloth, 
and shakes them vigorously before folding them 

a queer tree-twist. 

Riverside, Cal. 
Dear Jack-in-the-Pulpit : In the February 
St. Nicholas I read what you said about the 
shrub which tied a knot in itself, so I thought I 
would write and tell you about a twist in a euca- 
lyptus tree in front of our house. Here is a 
it. The trunk grows straight for a 
then bends over parallel with the 
ground, makes a circle 
of itself, and then turns 
and shoots upwards. 

The tU'ist is 25 feet 
above ground, and how 
it got there I don't know. 
It has been there as long 
as I have lived here, 
which is four years. It 
has attracted much at- 
tention from tourists and 
others ; and one day I 
even saw a heathen 
Chinee stop and look 
and laugh at it. We call 
it " the saddle tree," be- 
cause my young brothers 
climb to the twist and 
play horse there. 
Your constant admirer, 
Wm. p. G . 

Could the tree, when a pliant sapling, have 
been twisted and perhaps tied so as to grow in the 
way W. P. G. describes ? The deacon says he 
has heard somewhere that as the twig is bent the 
tree 's inclined. Some one may have bent this 

diagram of 
little way, 



St. Nicholas readers will be glad to know that 
Helen Keller, the blind little girl of whom they read in 
the number for September, 1889, has written a story 
which will appear in the magazine before long. Mean- 
while, we print with pleasure this letter which she has 
sent to the Letter-box: 

South Boston, March, 1890. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I am very happy because you 
are going to print my little story. I hope the little boys 
and girls who read St. Nicholas will like it. I wonder 
if any of them have read a sad, sweet story called " Little 
Jakey. " I am very sure they ^\'ould like it, for Jakey is 
the dearest little fellow you can imagine. His life was not 
so full of brightness as " Little Lord Fauntleroy's," 
because he was poor and blind; but I love them both, 
and call them my dear little friends. This is the way 
Jakey tells of his blindness : 

" Ven Gott make my eyes, my nioder say he not put 
ze light in zem." 

I used to think when I was a very small child, before 
I had learned to read, that everybody was always liappy ; 
and at first I was grieved to know about pain and great 
sorrows, but now I understand that if it were not for these 
things people would never learn to be brave and patient 
and loving. One bright Sunday, a little while ago, I 
went to see a very kind and gentle poet. I will tell you 
the name of one of his beautiful poems, and you will then 
be able to guess his name. " The Opening of the Piano " 
is the poem. I knew it and several others by heart, and 
I had learned to love the sweet poet long before I ever 
thought I should put my arms around his neck and tell 
him how much pleasure he had given me and all of the 
little blind children, for we have his poems in raised 
letters. The poet was sitting in his library by a cheerful 
fire, with his much-loved books all about hiin. I sat in 
his great easy-chair, and e.vamined the pretty things, and 
asked Dr. Holmes questions about people in his poems. 
Teacher told me about the beautiful river that flows be- 
neath the library window. I think our gentle poet is very 
happy when he writes in this room, with so many wise 
friends near him. 

Please give my love to all of your little readers. 
From your loving friend, Helen A. Keller. 

his confidence, and let her take the puppy into the house 
to be warmed and dried by the fire ; but the big dog 
followed them in and insisted on doing his share to 
make the little fellow comfortable, lying down by the 
fire, and taking him between his big paws. 

I think it was very strange — don't you ? — that a sav- 
age bulldog should take any interest in a miserable little 
stranger like that. 

I suppose he heard him crying through the night, and 
felt sorry for him. I think the St. Nicholas is 
splendid, and that "Crowded out o' Crofield " is just 
"a daisy." Your little reader, George M. R . 

Washington, D. C. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I want to tell you about a dog. 

There is a provision store across the street, \\'here 
they keep two karge bulldogs. Not long ago, one rainy 
morning, wdien the gates of the back yard were opened 
to take out the business wagon, one of the dogs rushed 
out into the back alley, and brought in a miserable little 
puppy. He was about as large as you could grasp in 
your hand, all drenched with rain, and shivering with 
cold, and the bulldog took the puppy into his own kennel 
Avith him. 

When one of the girls of the family heard of it, and 
went out to see them, the bulldog jumped around in a 
verj' excited manner, and would hardly let her come 
near the little stranger. But, at last, he took her into 


Dear St. Nicholas : I do not know whether you 
ever had a letter before from Algiers or not. If you 
never had a letter before from Algiers, this will be the 
first one ; if you have had one letter before from Algiers 
this will be the second one ; if you have had two letters 
before from Algiers, this will be the third one. 

Algiers is where the Soldier of the Legion lay a-dying 
in. It contains French persons, Arabs, donkeys, and 
English residents. The English residents come here 
on account of the climate, w hich is very bad in winter. 
They like a bad climate. 

I liave no pony, or dog, or donkey; but in Spain I 
had fleas, and now I have a cold. I was in an Arabshop 
a few days ago, where there was an Arabian cat. The 
Arabian cat sat on a cane-seat chair, and when I 
scratched my fingers under the chair the Arabian cat 
would play with them. There are many other strange 
animals in this country. 

Everybody reads St. Nicholas in our family, even 
the children. We like you very much. My favorite 
piece is a poem called " A Valentine," published several 
years ago. I think that was perfectly splendid. I wish 
you would have a serial poem, by the same author, to 
run for two or three years. 

I was thirty-four years old last October. That is all 
I can think of about Algiers. 

Willie W. E . 

GospORT, England. 

Dear St. Nicholas : We read the account of the 
" Great Storm at Samoa," in your February number, and 
we want to tell you how deeply interested in it we were. 

We saw H. M. S. " Calliope " launched five and a half 
years ago in Portsmouth harbor ; and, besides having two 
brothers in the Royal Navy, we are, of course, interested 
in anything concerning " ships at sea." 

I can well remember the thrill of horror with which I 
listened to the first accounts of the dreadful hurricane at 
Samoa, and the thankfulness which filled our hearts to 
learn that our own ship, the Calliope, had escaped. 

It does one good to read of all the heroism displayed, 
both by the .Americans and Samoans, though it is so un- 
speakably sad to think of the numbers of lives that were 
lost. I can not bear to think of the relatives of all those 
brave men. Words fail one in speaking of their terrible 

Yours very truly, K. R. O . 


New York. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I want to tell you about a pet 
dove I have. His name is " Ramond," but 1 call him 
" Ramie " for short. To-day he made me cry of laughing 
— he was so funny. I set him on my bureau before the 
looking-glass. At first he did nothing, l.iut he soon found 
the dove in the glass. His feathers stood straight up in 
the air, and he dashed at the glass, which gave his head 
asouiidmg bump. He immediately jumped back a few 
yards, eying his opponent for a few minutes, and then 
walked away, utterly disgusted. As lie walked, of course 
the one in the glass walked, too. He looked around 
again ; the dove in the glass was by his side. His feathers 
went up again, and he made another spring at the glass, 
but not so hard as the first one. When he got by the 
glass he began to coo, then to neigh like a horse, and jump 
up and down, and going around in a circle, the dove in 
the glass doing the same thing all the time. At last, he 
got so exasperated that I took him away, all the time 
jumping about in my hand as if crazy. 

I have taken you for three years, and hope to take you 
for fifty more. 

I remain your loving reader, Chas. N . 


three years old, and am now eleven. I am happy to see 
"Jack" in his old place again, and hope he will never 
leave it. My Mamma and I enjoy the picture puzzles 
in the " Riddle-box," and, together, we have guessed 
them all. A loving reader of your magazine, 

Harriett B. S . 

Fort Douglas, Utah. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I am a little army girl, and love 
it more than I can tell. 

In your January number, a little friend of yours said 
it was so very funny to ride in an ambulance with four 
mules. I ride in one every morning to school, and it 
keeps us very warm and comfortable. 

My father goes out on the range (target-grounds) every 
summer, and when we lived in the South he was gone 
over a month from us, because the range was over three 
hundred miles off. 

If you had room to print it, I would ttU you the won- 
ders of Great Salt Lake. 

I hope to see this letter in print, as I never have seen 
one from Utah before. 

Your loving reader, Marguerite R . 


Dear St. Nicholas : It has always been my ambi- 
tion to write you a letter, but I have never thought that 
I had anything interesting enough to tell about. Just 
now I am in Antwerp, Belgium, on my way to school in 
Germany. There are some things here that might inter- 
est some of the readers who have not happened to hear 
about them. Antwerp, as every one knows, is a very 
ancient town. It has a beautiful Gothic cathedral, with 
a chime of about one hundred bells, which ring out 
sweetly every half hour of day and night. 

This place is, perhaps, best known for being the birth- 
place of Rubens, the great painter. On my first visit to 
the " Museum of Ancient Paintings," I saw the Belgian 
artist who was born without arms. You will wonder 
how he can paint if he has no arms; it is because he 
has managed to teach his toes to act as fingers, and with 
them does wonderful work. When he visits a shop and 
wishes to pay for anything, he nimbly draws the money 
from his shoe, and puts it on the counter with his toes. 
The Belgian trades-people are very funny. There is 
always great fighting over prices with them. One market- 
day I saw a woman, after much squabbling, put down a 
reasonable price, seize her article, and run off, followed by 
the scolchng market-woman, who soon got discouraged 
and gave up the chase. 

St. Nicholas seems like a dear old friend, as it fol- 
lows me across the ocean. I have taken you since I was 

Cambridge, Mass. 
Dear St. Nicholas : The reproduction in your Feb- 
ruary number of the drawings of Master Clement Scott 

tempts me to fulfill a desire I have had for several months, 
to send you the inclosed " efforts " of my little daughter 
of SIX years. 

The most spirited, " Marching to Georgia," was sug- 

gested by the favorite song, freely indulged in by mem- 
bers of the family. The ship, full-flagged, rather than 
full-rigged, and coming in to port, was an effort wholly 
of the imagination. The fact of the sun, moon, and 
stars shining simultaneously may suggest an inconsis- 
tency in the minds of even your youngest readers, as 
well as the presence of petticoats on the deck of a " man- 
of-war." Very truly. 

An Admirer of Your Magazine. 

Dear St. Nicholas : In 
an acknowledgment from 
expresses her clelight in still 
wish to do likewise, and w 
home " still read you with 
since '76 — " Grandpa and G; 
delightful pages. 

I have two boys, the older 
of age, and he now teases to 

Medford, Mass. 
the January number, I read 
a " Young Mother," who 
reading St. Nicholas. I 
ill add that my people " at 
much interest, as they have 
randma " still perusing your 

being a little over two years 
look at St. Nicholas, call- 



ing one of last year's numbers " the doggee book," IVom 
the illustiations of clogs which it contained. 

Wishing you all success, and lioping that 1900 will find 
you with undiminished prosperity, I remain, as ever, your 
devoted friend and reader, Mrs. H. C. S . 

interested in that story you pubhshed in November, 
"Coursing with Greyhounds in Southern California." 
I remain, your admiring reader. Alma C. H. M- . 

Louisville, Ky. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I don't believe I ever have 
seen a letter from Louisville on your pages, and have 
often wondered why some Kentucky girl or boy did not 
write a letter 10 represent our own State. I, however, 
will take advantage of their failure to do so, and write 
and tell you something that will not only surprise many 
other Southerners, but will, doubtless, disappoint them as 
mucli as it disappointed me. I read it the other day, and 
this is what it was : 

" The real truth is, that ' Dixie ' is an indigenous North- 
ern negro refrain, as common to the writer as the lamp- 
posts in New York City seventy or seventy-five years ago. 
And no one ever lieard of Dixie's Land being other than 
IVIanhattan Island, until recently [this was printed in 
1865], when it has been supposed to refer to the South, 
from its connection with pathetic negro allegory. When 
slavery existed in New York, one Dixy owned a large 
tract of land on Manhattan Island and a large number of 
slaves. The increase of the slaves, and the increase of the 
abolition sentiment, caused an emigration of the slaves to 
more thorough and secure slave sections ; and the negroes 
who were thus sent off naturally loolved back to their 
old homes, where they had lived in clover, with feelings 
of regret, as they could not imagine any place like 
Dixy's. Hence, it became synonymous with an ideal 
locality, combining ease, comfort, and happiness of evei-y 
description. In those days negro singing was in its 
infancy, and any subject that could be wrought into a 
ballad was eagerly picked up. This was the case with 
'Dixie.' It originated in New York, and in its travels 
it has been enlarged and has ' gathered more moss.' It 
has picked up a ' note ' here and there. A ' chorus ' lias 
been added to it; and, from an indistinct 'chant' of two 
or three notes, it has become an elaborate melody. But 
the fact that it is not a Southern song can not be rubbed 
out. The fallacy is so popular to the contrary, I 
have thus been at pains to state the real origin of it." 

I almost ho]>e it did give him some pains to write 
about it ; but even if it is true, we Southerners won't 
relax our claims on " Dixie " any more than .\mericans 
will give up " My Country, 't is of Thee." My letter 
is much longer than I intended to write, and I should 
love to see it printed. Remember, it is from a devoted 
reader, who prides herself on being 

A .Southern, Kextucky Girl. 

Chicago, III. 
Dear St. Nicholas : I am a little girl seven years 
old. Wy papa is an army officer, so I have traveled a 
great deal, but I have managed to get the St. Nicholas, 
which has pleased me very much. "Juan and Juanita" 
was the first story I ever understood, and I liked it very 
much, because tlie last name is my mamma's, and I have 
given it to Dolly who came on Christmas. I will tell you 
all about her another time, if you will let me. Last week 
I went to see " Little Lord Fauntleroy " played, and as 
my mamma had read it to me I understood it. 

Your interested reader, ZoE A. D . 

Redlands, San- Bernardino Co., Cal. 

Dear St. Nicholas: In the last June St. Nicholas 

I saw a letter from Fannie H. B , Phcenix, .Arizona. 

Phrenix is my home. I have lived there six years. I 
am in Redlands, Cal, now, with my grandmother and 
grandfather. About a year ago 1 saw a letter from a little 
girl from some fort in Arizona. 

I have a brother who was born on the 8th of February, 
1877, and I was born on the 8th of February, 1S76. So 
I am just one year older than he is. I am very fond of 
hunting and fishing. So is my brother. My brotI«r 
got a shotgun for a present last year, so he gave me his 

My grandfather has a large orange-grove here. And 
he has two greyhounds to keep the rabbits off. Their 
names are "Lion" and "Tiger." I was very much 

Here are two interestingletters received several months 
ago at the publication office of St. Nicholas. 

Union Club, Boston, Jan. 16, 1890. 
The Century Co. : 

Dear Sirs : The inclosed note speaks for itself. I 
threw off the train, last -August, a copy of St. Nicholas, 
and asked the finder, if a child, to send to you and order 
the magazine for one year. To-day this reply is received, 
and I write to ask you to send St. Nicholas for one 
year to Mary Beatrice Brien, Clough Junction 
Station, Montana. 

Kindly, send bill to me and I will remit. 

Yours truly, EDWARDS ROBERTS. 

Clough Junction Station, Montana, 

12 — 19, 1889. 
Edwards Roberts, Esq. : 

Dear Sir : Whilst looking over the St. Nicholas 
w/iich you so kindly i/imu off the train a few miles west 
of Helefia, a few months ai^o, I discovered on the fly-leaf 
a note desiring that the little one who found that maga- 
zine- might benefit by it for a year, and send the bill to 
you. As it is near Christmas, I will be very happy to 
accept it as a Christmas gift. 

Wishing you a merry Christmas and a happy New 
Year, Very truly yours, Mary Beatrice Brien, 

Nine years old. 

We thank the young friends whose names follow for 
]3leasant letters which we have received from them : Hal- 
lie H., Ethel D., Marjorie B., Merritt C. B., D. E. J., 
L. S. CMavne J. F., Edith M. B., Lucile E. T., Edna 
K. G., Bessie H., Catherine D. C, Ethel, Eric McC, 
May H., Ella C. D., Elsa C, Lulu C, Mamie L, T., 
G. M., Harold M., Edith K., Ada W. B., Charles G., 
Lindsay M., E. N., D. N., M. M., Elizabeth A., Marian 
L., Alice and Ellen, Harry G. W., T. F., Jo. C. S., Adele 
H., " Daisy and Buttercup," Bertha N., Percy M., Gen- 
evra and Alargaret. Julie McC, Heloise, Fanchon DeP., 
" Fiddle," Maud H., C. M. B., Lizzie R. J., Mollie G. K., 
Florence G. G., Sam K. M., Frederick H., Beulah G., A. 
L. I., OttoG. H., Grace A. L., M. W. V., " lex," Helen 
R. M., Carrie and Fred N., Helen L. S., Frank P. G., 
" Stars and Stripes," KateS., Mabel E. F., Robert S. H., 
Charles C. R., Marion C. B., R. H. W., E. S., Allyn 
F. W., Rita P., Miriam C, Sara C. B., Belle L. R., Eu- 
genia, A., Elsa C, M. and E. Allen, Frank H. T., Ethel ' 
Y. C, Lizzie W. F., Ruth O., N. H., C. W. M., Louis 
H. H., L. D.,"H. H. G. R. R," Lahte L., '• Dancie," 
Genevieve and Dorothy, Sallie S. and Mary R., Josephine 
G., Nannie B. J., A. E. J., Kathleen H. 


Answers to Puzzlks in the April Number. 

A French Zigzag, Poisson d'Avril. i. Pa'ien. 2. Court. 3. 
Moine. 4. Lisse. 5. Frais. 6. Sabot 7. Gener. 3. Adieu. 9. 
Asile. 10. Eveil. 11. Pertc. 12. Lacis. 13. Senil. 

Word Dwindle, i. Fragments. 2. Garments. 3. Magnets. 
4. Gasmen. 5. Games. 6, Game. 7. Gem. 8. Em. 9. M. 

Two Escutcheons. I. Centrals, Shakespeare. Cross-words: 

1. Transepts. 2. Perchance. 3. Chaos. 4. Hakot. 5. Creel. 
6. Testy. 7. Repel. 8. Steve. 9. Snack. 10. Orb. 11. E. 
II. Centrals, Saint George. Cross-words: i. Intestate. 2. Dis- 
parity. 3 Trice. 4. Tenet. 5. Vital. 6. Vigil. 7. Press. 8. 
Dross. 9. Horal. 10. Aga. 11. E. 

Musical Acrostic. Nermann Neruda. Cross-words: i. Rondo. 

2. Spohr. 3. Largo. 4. Gamut. 5. Chant. 6. Canto. 7. Minim. 8. 
Tonic, g. Theme. 10. Verdi, u. Gluck. 12. Pedal, 13. Shake. 

Pi. Through hedge-row leaves, in drifted heaps 

Left by the stormy blast, 
The little hopeful blossom peeps, 

And tells of Winter past ; 
A few leaves flutter from the woods, 

That hung the season through. 
Leaving their place for swelling buds 

To spread their leaves anew. 

Absent Vowels. Easter, i. The more haste, the less speed. 
2. Be it ever so humble there 's no //ii<:i? like home. 3. The greatest 
strokes make not the sweetest vtusic. 4. Who touches ///;:/; will be 
defiled. 5. Half a loaf is better than no ^ri^rt;/. 6. You may lead a 
horse to water, but you can not make him drink. 

To OUR Puzzlers: Answers, to be acknowledged in the magazine, must be received not later than the 15th of each month, and 
should be addressed to St. Nichol.\s " Riddle-box," care of The Century Co., 33 East Seventeenth St., New York Ciiy. 

Answers to all the Puzzles in the February Number were received, before February 15th, from " M., Aunt M., and S." — 
Maud E. Palmer — Zach Brogan, Jr. — Emma Sydney — Pearl F. Stevens — Maxie and Jackspar — Bessie Lasher — William H. Beers — 
A. L. W. L.— "Solomon Quill" — A. Fiske and Co. — Russell — Charlie Dlgnan— Jo and I. — E. M. G. — F. and N. S.— J. B. 
Swann — A Family Afifair — Jamie and Mamma — F. Gerhard — '■ The Wise Five, minus One" — Helen C. McCleary — "S. S. S." — 
"Miss Flint" — Ernest Woollard — Maud Taylor — A. and O. Warburg. 

Answers to Puzzles in the February Number were received, before February 15th, from Paul Reese, 8 — Carrie Thacher, 
3 ^ June Jacquith, 2 — King Richard, i — Anna K. Himes, 3 — I. and W. Swan, i — Charles Beaufort, 6 — " Three Owls," 3 — Alice 
D., I — Lucia and Rovvena R., i — E. and G. Shirley, i — " Mrs. Malaprop," i — C. U. B., i — Katie Van Zandt, 4 — M. Cassels, i — 
Clara and Emma, 6 — M. E. Woodhnll, 6 — "John and Jennie," 7 — N. M. Eldridge, i — H. H. Herrick, i — E. M. Cassels, i — 
'* Nodge," 8 — L. S. Haehnlen, i — Carrie Rosenbaum, 3 — M. S., i — Mortimer Wiiber, i — Walter G. Himes, i — M. R. Berolzheim, 
I — Gertrude and Lester, i — J. B. B. , Jr., 2 — M. Selina Lesser, 2 — Josephine Sherwood, 8 — Lindsey Morris, 5 — M. L. Crowell, 
I — E. W. Ayres, I — Anon, I — R. H. C, B. C, and M. B. C. 2 — Maude Wilson, 3 — Capl. White, 3 — " May and 79," 7 — "Dic- 
tionary," 4 — L. Anthony, i — E. Adams, 1 — "Misses McClees," i — Catharine C. C, i — Oliva L. and Sadie N., i — A. \V. B,, 5 — 
Honora Swartz, 2 — W. E. Eckert, i — Louie and Elfie, 2 — J. Augur, i — Hubert L. Bingay, 6 — " Infantry," 8 — Arthur B. Lawrence, 

3 — " Instantaneous and Grandpa," 4 — " Flordelene," 2 — Carita, 2 — Bessie Eads, i— B. A. Stead, i — W. Everett Verplanck, i — " Dr. 
Sarah," 7 — Ernest Serrell, 7 — Charles L. and Reta Sharp, 6 — F. H. Shakespeare, i — "Tivoli," 8 — " The Owls," 7 — "The Lancer," 

4 — Effie K. Talboys, 7 — Nellie and Reggie, 8 — F. D. Woolsey, 7 — H. C. Skinner and B. H. Shannon, i — Carolus, 4 — C. M. Carr. 
4 — John W. Frothmgham, Jr., 7 — Grace Olcott, 8 — Mamma and Arthur, 3 — Anna E, Wells, 7 — Maud Huebener, 8 — " Hagerstown," 
6— M. D. and C. M., 6— C. F. W., 2 — Annie and Mary. 3— James and Charles Collins, 7 — Ida C. Thallon, 8— Nellie L. Howes, 
8— Lovers of Sl N., 6— "Polly Flip," 5 — No Name, Balto., 1 — Mamma and Marion, 5 — J. and D. White, 6 — H. C. Skinner, 2 — 
Grace, Gladys, Victorine and Isabel, 3 — Kendrick Family, 2 — A. P. C. and A. W. Ashhurst, 3 — Adele Walton, 7 — "Dame Durden," 
6— J. B. and R. C. Hartich, 6 — "E. and Gabriel," 1 — Mattie E. Beale, 7 — Evelyn Halden, 3— C, i — E. N. Johnston, 2. 


I. Transpose the following letters and make a name 
beloved by all Americans. 


been rightly guessed and placed one below the other, in 
the order in which they are numbered, the initials will 
spell the name of a famous general who died on May 5th. 
The final letters will spell the name of an island always 
associated with him. c. e. 




4 • 

■ 15 

5 ■ 


6 . 

■ 17 

7 ■ 


8 . 


10 . 

. . 2 


In the accompanying illustration eight objects are 
shown. All of these may be described by words con- 
taining the same number of letters. When these have 

From i to 12, a familiar abbreviation; from 2 to 13, 
before ; from 3 to 14, a measure of weight which, in 
France and Holland, was equal to eight ounces ; from 
4 to 15, expenditure ; from 5 to 16, a noisy talker ; from 
6 to 17, indisposition to move ; from 7 to iS, to purloin ; 
from 8 to 19, the name given to molluscous animals 
which form holes in solid rocks in which to lodge them- 
selves ; from 9 to 20, a musical term which means a 
gradual decrease in tone; from 10 to 21, aerial naviga- 
tion ; from 11 to 22, the quality of being youthful. 

From I to II, a certain holiday ; from 12 to 22, articles 
in use on this day. F. s. F. 





I. A QUESTION. 2. A small bag for money. 3. To 
pass along smoothly. 4. To upset. 5. A wallet. 

Diagonals, from the upper left-hand letter to the lower 
right-hand letter, a hideous dwarf who figures in one of 
Dickens's works. A. P. c. A. 

From i to center (six letters), an ecstasy ; from 3 to 
center, a series of arches; from 5 to center, leaving no 
balance; from 7 to center, often made with soapsuds; 
from 9 to center, to come down suddenly and violently ; 
from II to center, indigenous; from 13 to center, to fix 
on a stake; from 15 to center, a scuffle ; from 17 to cen- 
ter, a bird allied to the thrush. 

Perimeter of wheel (from i to iS) spells a long word, 
meaning a change into another substance. H. A. G. 




... 2 ... 3 


■ ■ . 5 



... 8 



. . . II 






... 17 



. 20 



... 23 



... 26 



... 29 



... 32 



• . ■ 35 



... 38 


From i to 2, a priest of an ancient religion in Great 
Britain ; from 2 to 3, pertaining to Holland ; from 4 to 5, 
a feminine name ; from 5 to 6, the American aloe ; from 

7 to 8, a monkey-like animal found in Madagascar ; from 

8 to 9, a city of France ; from 10 to 1 1, the Christian name 
of a famous angler ; from 1 1 to 12, a Scriptural name 
found in Genesis xxv : 13 ; from 13 to 14, a kind of nut 
which grows in India; from 14 to 15, a confection of 
sugar; from 16 to 17, a Territory of the United States; 

from 17 to 18, a pernicious drug; from 19 to 20, the 
month of the Jewish calendar answering to April; from 
20 to 21, snug little homes; from 22 to 23, to bestow; 
from 23 to 24, a city of Austria in which a famous coun- 
cil held its sittings in the sixteenth century; from 25 to 
26, a wilderness mentioned in the nineteenth cliapter of 
FJxodus ; from 26 to 27, a country of Southern Asia; 
from 28 to 29, a city of Northern Italy; from 29 to 30, 
the town of France in which Calvin was born; from 31 
to 32, the tree which is the emblem of peace ; from 32 to 
33, a frame to support a picture ; 34 to 35, the father of 
Galen ; from 35 to 36, a relative ; from 37 to 38, a French 
word meaning applause ; from 38 to 39, fretful. 

From I to 37, an explorer ; from 3 to 39, his successor 
in investigating the place named by the figures from 2 to 


CoEM, wiht eht sewpona ta rouy ale!, 

Thiw metkus keip, ro finek ; 
Eh swedil het sledidate labed fo lal 

How ghiltest sliold shi file. 
Eth mar hatt sevird tis ohbuntug swolb 

Tiwh lal a sitopart crons, 
Gimth nabir a tarnty thiw a sore, 

Ro bats mih twih a thron. 


. A Y , O . E . 

A . E . . E . 

Y )•; . I . E 

. I . O 
. E E 
E . 

I. May-day necessities. 2. Turned aside. 3. A min- 
eral which was named in commemoration of the battle 
of Jena. 4. A musical term for the first or leading part. 
5. "A masculine name. 6. A sheltered place. 7. A mas- 
cuhne nickname. 8. A letter from Paris. 


One of the Holy Twelve ray first is named ; 
A legal word that means " avail," my second ; 
Of things both long and round my third is framed ; 
A carriage good in man, w^y fourth is reckoned ; 
My last, arid fifth, will make the square complete — 
A word with thoughts of labor done replete. 


Begin with a single letter, and, by adding one letter 
at a time, and perhaps transposing the letters, make a 
new word at each luove. 

Example: A vowel; a verb; a texture of straw or other 
material ; horses or oxen harnessed together ; water in a 
gaseous state; a director. Answer, a, am,, team, 
steam, master. 

I. I. A vowel. 2. An article. 3. Hastened. 4. 
Adjacent. 5. Wrath. 6. Jeopardy. 7. A military con- 
trivance for destroying life. 8. Retrieved. 9. Making 
more beloved. 10. Flowing round. 

II. I. A vowel. 2. A preposition. 3. A kind of 
liquor. 4. To resound. 5. The angular curve made by 
the intersection of two arches. 6. One of the earliest 
and most learned of the Greek fathers. 7. Alien. 8. 
Proffering. charles p. w. 



. 4 ■'"^ 

ill! ■M 


' ■ /' 



Vol. XVII. 

JUNE, 1890. 

No. 8. 

Copyright, 1890, by The Centl'RV Co. All rights reserved. 


By Celia Thaxter. 

When the summer morning broke, 
Faintly flushing all the sky, 

Happy little Lisel woke, 
Rose to greet it joyfully. 

Little kid so lightly pranced ! 

Little maid so patiently 
Led him while he leaped and danced ! 

" Wait," she said, " now quiet be. 

In the dewy hush she heard 
Far and near a music sweet 

From the throat of many a bird ; 
Heard her little kid's low bleat; 

• While the stake into the ground 
Firm I push, to hold you, dear ; 
Don't go skipping round and round — 
Wait, my pretty, don't you hear ? " 

Hastened forth and sought his shed. 
Loosed him frisking in his mirth. 

While the glory overhead 

Bathed in beauty heaven and earth. 

Happy, happy summer dawn ! 

Happy pet and happy child ! 
Far from the world's din withdrawn. 

In the mountain pasture wild ! 

Heavy lay the morning dew. 
Cool and soft the morning mist, 

High above them in the blue 
Roses all the cloud flocks kissed. 

Freedom, innocence, and health. 
Simple duties, quiet bliss, — 

In their lowly life such wealth ! 
Kings might envy peace like this. 


By L. Clarke Davis. 

'FTER breakfast Dick 

Saunders arose slowly 

from the table, went 

into the hall, took 

from the stand his 

hat and books, and 

then — sat down on 

the stairs ; which, 

considering that 

his objective point was the 

Penn Charter School, and that it 

was full time he was on his way, might appear 

to be the most inconsequent thing he could 

have done. 

His father, looking up from his newspaper, 
saw Dick sitting there, his eyes half closed, his 
hand pressing his forehead, his complexion sal- 
low, his face peaked and pained. 

" What is the matter, my boy ? " he asked, 

" Don't know. Father," Dick answered. " I 
feel awfully rattled. I don't want to stand, and 
I don't want to sit. I want to lie down and 
stretch myself out full length on the floor — on 
the pavement — anywhere I happen to be. 
Besides, my head throbs and aches, and I 'm 
afraid, Father, I 'm about knocked out." 

Whereupon his father, with anxious face, or- 
dered Master Dick to go to the library, and 
there indulge his inclination to lie down, till the 
doctor came. Of course he protested. " Oh, 
hang the doctor! " he said; " I 'd rather stand 
out and go to school than be dosed." But he 
put away his books, and made himself com- 
fortable on the lounge until the doctor, who 
had been hurriedly summoned, arrived. 

The day was damp and chill, with a pene- 
trating northeast wind blowing sharply. Though 
Doctor Thompson and Dick were old friends, the 

doctor walked past his patient to the fire, scruti- 
nizing him closely from that ground of vantage. 

"Sick— eh, Dick?" 

"Not very sick. Doctor; only a bit rattled; 
here 's my pulse and here 's my tongue ; are n't 
you going to examine them ? " the lad asked 

" No, Dick; not this time. Your trouble is 
plain enough without that. There is a gymna- 
sium at the Penn Charter School as well as a 
curriculum, I think ? " 

" Yes, Doctor, there is; but I 'm lazy when it 
comes to gymnastics. I cut 'em." 

"Of course you do," said the doctor; "simi- 
larly of course, you get your liver out of order 
with all books and slate and no horizontal-bar; 
and the consequence is, here you are — as you 
say — ' awfully rattled.' What you need is more 
exercise and less study. Now I 'm going to give 
you the choice of two prescriptions : you shall 
decide whether you will give a half hour, twice 
a day, to the horizontal-bar, or — " 

" Go a-fishingl " Dick broke in suddenly. "I 
decide at once for the fishing." He laughed as 
he said it, and looked up longingly and lovingly 
at his rods lying in their rack, where they had 
been resting in inglorious ease since September 
of the preceding year. 

The good old doctor did not answer at once, 
being disposed to feel that his professional dig- 
nity had been offended, but looking into the 
boy's laughing, pleading face, in which there 
was no sign of disrespect, he turned his eyes 
from Dick's to the blazing logs upon the hearth, 
and slowly answered, as if considering a case of 
life and death : " Well, my lad, then my pre- 
scription is, ' Fishing, quaniuin siifficit.' " 

" When, Doctor ? " Dick asked, fairly gasping 
with surprise and delight. 



" When ? Why, right away ; the sooner the 
better," the doctor said. 

Dick was on his feet in an instant, shaking 
the hand of his dear old friend, who was, the 
boy said over and over again, the best and 
dearest friend he ever had, and then appealed 
to his father to know if he was not; but Mr. 
Saunders said only : " I know he helps you to 
play pranks upon us." 

But the lad did n't care what was said, so long 
as he could fish. He mounted a chair, had his 
rods down in almost no time, and was tearing at 
the strings of their bags to get at them. His father 
looked on, a smile coming into his eyes, for he 
too was a fisherman, sympathizing with the lad's 
enthusiasm, which the mere prospect of the sport 
had evoked. 

Dick looked rather grave as he drew from the 
bags one rod after another. Soon he said: 

" But they 're in an awful condition. See 
how that tip is bent ; it never got the better of 
the bout it had \\'ith that shark in Squan Inlet, 
last summer. Just look at this joint, now, all 
out of kilter. You could n't cure a bad joint 
of this kind, could you, Doctor ? No, of course 
you could n't ; nor could any one else, and 
that 's the worst of it. The only good thing 
you can do with a bad rod-joint is to pitch the 
whole thing into the fire. Hello, this one 's all 
right ! It needs a coat of varnish, but it can go 
for a while without that, and is n't it a beauty ? 
Look at the spring of it. Father. Doctor, catch 
the tip there, and see the beautiful curve of it! 
Is n't it a grand rod ? Why, I could catch a 
whale on it. Father. There it is, — lancewood 
from butt to tip, nine feet long, and weighs 
twelve ounces." 

" Is it any better, Dick, for being lancewood 
than Bethabara-wood, for instance, and is it not 
worse for not being spht-bamboo ? " his father 
asked,teasingly,knowingvery well what the boy's 
answer would be. 

" Now, see here, Father," Dick vehemently 
said, " what is the use of our talking about 
rods ? You know what a good rod is when you 
see it, and so do I." 

Dick was sixteen, his father forty-five, and all 
that he knew about fishing his father had taught 
him; giving always, when asked what he was 
teaching his son, the reply which the great 

Scotchman made long ago in answer to a similar 
question, " To fish and to tell the truth." 

" You know. Father," Dick impetuously ran 
on, " that we have tried all sorts of rods, of all 
kinds of wood, of all sizes and all weights, and 
that for any fish that swims, from a ten-ounce 
kingfish to a fifty-pound striped-bass, there is 
nothing so good as one of well-chosen lance- 
wood. Did n't we give the Bethabara-wood a 
fair trial in the Inlet, last year, and did n't three 
wretched barbs break as many of our tips in a 
single day ? Did n't we break two more by 
merely casting with three-ounce sinkers ? As 
for split-bamboo, why, everybody knows that 
it is far and away the best rod made for fresh- 
water, for catching bass, trout, salmon, or the 
like, but for steady sea-fishing it 's no good. 
The air by the sea is too damp for bamboo 
rods; it softens the varnish first, and then it 
attacks the glue which makes the pieces as one. 
After a while they lose their elasticity, and become 
as limp as willow switches from the second joint 
out. No, this lancewood is the ideal rod for 
sea, tide, and lead fishing, and I 'm going to take 
this and the other one, with the bent tip. You 
will come along, won't you, Father ? " 

" No, Dick," his father said, "one of us must 
work if the other is to play, in May. It is 
not quite holiday time yet. But where do you 
mean to go ? " 

" To go ? Why, I '11 go to our island, of 
course. I got a letter, and a jolly one it was, 
too, from Old Matt, who said the sea-trout would 
be along by the tenth, — this is the sixth, — 
and that the snipe were already there. So, you 
see. Doctor, I 'm just in time. I '11 start to-night, 
and get to the island to-morrow morning. I '11 
telegraph Matt to meet me at the landing, with 
his boat, bait, and luncheon all ready." 

" Do you think, Dick," the doctor asked, 
with peculiar slowness and gravity of speech, 
" that Matt's jolly letter had any ill effects upon 
your health ? " 

"No, — honor bright. Doctor! No, honor 
bright, it had n't. It was only a coincidence." 

" It seems a peculiar one," the doctor added 
drily. " But," he asked, " where is this famous 
island where birds and fish do so abound ? " 

" Have you never heard of our island. Doc- 
tor ? " Mr. Saunders asked. " Not," he con- 




scientiously explained, " that it is ours, of course, 
though we do own a Httle wooded corner of it. 
It was discovered and bought by our mutual 
friend, Farley. It is part of Northampton 
County, Virginia, twentv-two miles north of 

" Matt says in his letter that the sea-trout are 
nearly due." 

Dick's impatience to reach the island made 
him less careful regarding his tackle than he 
should have been. He knew that he should 


Cape Charles. It lies ten miles from the main, 
between Broadwater Bay, which is ten miles 
wide, and the sea. At either end there is an 
inlet, separating it north and south from other 
islands. On the map it is still called Hog Island, 
though Farley has rechristened it Broadwater ; 
on the earlier surveys it is set down as Teach 
Island, in honor of the late Edward Teach, 
mariner, better known as Blackbeard the Pirate, 
who, it is said, made it his headquarters when 
not engaged in scuttling ships and cutting 
throats. It is an old man's tale that he buried 
his booty in its sand-dunes, but the natives deny 
that he did so, as they have probed and dug to 
find them over every inch of likely ground." 

" I 've never fished there," Dick interrupted ; 
" but last fall I shot over it with Matt, and we 
had grand sport. We got forty-two sedge-hens, 
on a high tide. It 's a queer place. Doctor ; 
the cattle, horses, sheep, and pigs all run wild 
there winter and summer, and there are only 
sixty-five people living on it. And there never 
was another such place for game-birds and fish." 

"What kind of fish do you expect to get at 
this season, Dick ? " asked the doctor. 

have thoroughly overhauled it, and assured him- 
self that it was all in good order ; that he had 
all the variety of lines, leaders, snoods, hooks, 
and sinkers likely to be needed. Matt had told 
him that the trout often weighed as much as six 
pounds, and consequently he was aware that 
everything should be strong and in order. His 
lines were last year's, and he feared that their 
strength had been impaired by the salt water, 
and he found when he took up his reels that 
they were disposed to be Jerky, and required to 
be taken apart and thoroughly cleaned and 
oiled. But he determined he would go on that 
night, and, as there would not be time to do all 
that was desirable, he contented himself by saying 
it would be all right when he got to the island. 
Both Dick and his father had all they could 
carry as they climbed up the steps of the 
sleeping-car that night at the railway station. 
The travel was light at the time, and Dick, hav- 
ing an entire section to himself, piled his valises, 
rod and gun cases, wraps, and rubber boots in 
the upper berth, and, after saying good-bye to 
his father in his hearty, effusive fashion, crept 
into the lower one and soon went to sleep. 



He arrived at Exmore early in the morning. 
The sun was shining gloriously out of a clear 
blue sky, and the wind had shifted around to 
the south. He had two miles to ride in a buggy 
to Willis's Landing, and then ten miles to sail 
to the island. But when he got down to the 
wharf, which was made of a few unhewn logs 
thrown roughly together, there was Matt, who 
had come over to the main the night before, to 
meet him in answer to his telegram ; the leg-of- 
mutton sails were set forward and aft on his 
broad-bottomed boat, and a welcoming smile 
lighted up his rugged, bronzed face as he 
put out his hand to the lad to help him aboard. 

" Are they biting yet. Matt ? " Dick eagerly 
asked, as he sprang into the boat. Matt told 
him that the trout began biting on Saturday. 

" And this is Tuesday. Why, Matt, they should 
bite savagely with this southerly wind. \\'here 
are you going to try for 'em to-day ? " 

" In the main channel, just below here," the 
skipper replied. 

After a brisk run down along the main, of less 
than an hour. Matt let go his anchor and furled 
his sails. ^Vhe^ he had made everything fast 
and snug, he went aft, and noticed that Dick 
took his fishing-rod from its bag and began to 
put it together. 

" What are you going to do with it ? " Matt 
inquired, the smile broadening to a grin, and 
not one of assuring confidence in Dick's skill 
as a fisherman. 

" 'It'? " queried Dick. " What do you mean 
by 'it'?" 

" I mean that stick. Mister Dick," the skipper 

" Oh, you do ? Now, see here. Matt, I 'm 
going to civihze you. That is not a ' stick ' ; that 
is a rod, and I 'm going to put this reel and line 
on it. Then I 'm going to tie the line to one 
end of a double-swivel sinker — a four-ounce 
one, if the tide is swift and the water deep ; to 
the other end of the sinker I 'm going to fasten, by 
a running noose, this treble-gut leader, on which 
you see there are two hooks, No. 13 Carlisle." 

"Which," said Matt, in the tone of one who 
was not to be put down by sixteen-year-old 
civilization, " are n't half big enough. Master 
Dick, them hooks would n't hang a ' spot,' to say 
nothing of a six-pound trout." 


" Pardon me, Matt," Dick went on with good- 
humored irony. " I was going to say, when you 
interrupted me, that to the leader are attached 
two hooks on treble-twisted gut, which hooks 
are placed, say, a foot apart, the upper one 
being about eighteen inches from the lead. The 
sea-trout, as you very well know. Matt, swim 
well above the bottom, upon which the sinker lies, 
while the force of the tide carries the hooks out 
straight in about the depth of water the fish best 
like. Now, Matt, having jointed my rod and 
rigged it all right, I 'm going to make a cast, as 
soon as you drop the anchor and give me some 
of that bait — which, by the way, would be a great 
deal more tempting to the trout if it were a 
' shedder ' or ' buster ' instead of a hard-shell crab." 

Matt laughed at all this, as one who is assur- 
edly learned laughs at the folly of too-confident 

" You won't catch trout with that rig. Mis- 
ter Dick." Then he grew grave, and became in 
turn the teacher. " I tell you that a trout is n't 
a fish that comes right aboard as if he wanted 
to make your acquaintance and could n't wait to 
be introduced, — like a flounder or a plaice. He 
does n't lie on the bottom like a mean, sneaking 
skate, waiting for the bait to drift or drop into 
his mouth. He does n't nibble at your bait, nor 
toy with it, nor walk off with it while he makes 
up his mind whether he '11 swallow it or not. 
He strikes, and he goes ; that 's what a trout 
does ; and if one of them should strike that rig 
o' yours and go, he would n't leave you so much 
as the handle of it, — not to mention that bit 
o' thread." 

"What do you mean by 'that bit o' thread,' 
Matt ? " Dick asked, not at all alarmed by the 
skipper's predictions. 

" Why, I mean that line, of course. That is 
not a line for trout. That 's a line for little ' spots,' 
that is. Now, this," said Matt, leaning forward 
and drawing from under the seat a great coil of 
cord nearly as thick as a lead pencil, to which 
were attached huge hooks and a tremendous 
weight of lead, " now, this is a trout-line, and 
these is trout-hooks." 

Dick looked at it wonderingly. " I thought," 
he said, in pretended surprise, " it was a clothes- 
line, and those things pot-hangers. You don't 
really fish with ihat. Matt ? " 




" To be sure we do ; and it 's what you ought 
to use, and what you '11 have to use, if you want 
to get a trout over the side." 

" How do you fish with a thing like that, 
Matt ? " Dick asked, in apparent sincerity of 
ignorance, and with the manner of one really 
seekincr information. 

" Why," said Matt, surprised at the lad's dull- 
ness, " we just haul him in hand over hand till 
we get him to the top of the water; then we 
jerk him in." 

" And you call that fishing, Matt ? " 

" To be sure I do, Mister Dick." 

Dick was silent for a moment, looking gravely 


" How ? Why, we just throw it over the side 
of the boat, and let it sink to the bottom ; the 
fish grabs it, we 'hang' him, and then — we 
land him." 

" You mean. Matt, if you don't lose him ? " 

" Yes," the skipper slowly replied. " Yes, of 
course; if we don't lose him." 

" And, Matt, you do lose about as many as 
you land, eh ? " 

" Well, yes, just about," Matt rather ungra- 
ciously admitted. 

" But you have n't told me how you get the 
fish in the boat after you have hung him." 

reflective. " Matt," he said, " I think you could 
improve upon that way of fishing." 

The .skipper was unsophisticated, and not used 
to the beguiling chaff of the Penn Charter boys. 
" How ? " he innocently asked. 

" By setting up a good, stanch capstan in the 
bow there. You could bend the line carefully 
around it, and you could let it run by the lead 
until it reached bottom ; then wait for a bite, 
and, when you get one, just ' turn the capstan 
round,' and so haul the trout aboard. You 
could, or you should, in that way be able to 
land a whale if you only hung him." Dick 

1 890-1 



laughed pleasantly in his turn, like one who in 
superior wisdom laughs at folly. 

Matt slowly returned the coil of cord, the big 
hooks, the heavy weight of lead, to their place 
under the seat. " Mister Dick," he asked, " were 
you making game ? " 

" I 'm afraid I was. Matt, though no offense 
was intended. I only meant to say that I don't 
believe in your rope and pot-hangers any more 
than you believe in my thread and small hooks. 
But here we are among the boats, and if you '11 
let go the anchor we 'II see which is best, your 
hand-over-hand line, or my rod, reel, and fifteen- 
strand Irish linen bass-line." 

Apparently Matt was in no hurry to begin 
the test. He was a long time getting the cable 
coiled away, the sails furled, and the boat made 
snug. Having done all that with a slowness which 
was distressing to Dick, he lingered over the 
choice of crabs for bait, furtively watching Dick 
as he made one long sweeping cast after another 
against the swift-running tide. He fairly leaped 
into the stem when he heard for the first time 
in his life the sharp whirl of the reel and whiz 
of the fast-disappearing line as the trout that 
Dick had hung made a dash for liberty, gain- 
ing fifty yards or more. The moment the fish 
struck, which it did as if it meant to shatter 
the entire tackle, — and it would have done so, 
too, had not the lad given it all the line it 
wanted, — it dashed ahead with the tide at such 
a great pace as to bum Dick's thumbs, which 
were without protecting stalls, as they pressed 
hard down on the reel after putting on the 

" Well," Matt said, recovering from his as- 
tonishment, " you 've hung him, sure enough. 
But it 's easier to let him run with a seven-knot 
tide than to haul him ag'in it, with that thing, 
especially as he does n't seem to want to come 

Dick was what he would have called " rat- 
tled " when the trout first struck. He had often 
with that same rod and line caught weakfish 
weighing from three to five pounds, and though 
they were good fighters, as wary and as strong, 
he soon found that their brother or sister, the 
sea-trout, — for they are of the same family, Cy- 
noscion regalis, the first being known as the 
squeteague and the latter as the spotted sque- 
VoL. XVII.— 78. 

league, — was a much more determined and vig- 
orous antagonist. But, as he recovered from 
the surprise of the first quick, strong rush of the 
fish, his head was as cool and his hand as steady 
as if he were at his book and slate at home. He 
knew " the tricks and manners " of the trout, 
and, by experience, he knew that if it got an inch 
or a half inch of slack line, it could, and 
probably would, " throw " the hook and go about 
its business. He knew, too, from fishermen's 
stories, that there are few fish more tricky, 
or fuller of devices for defeating the angler, 
than the sea-trout. But he had soon grown 
so cool and confident as to feel that, though both 
his line and leader were the worse for age and 
wear, and his reel was inclined to be jerky, he 
would in good time land his fish, which had 
already begun to slacken its speed southward. 
The moment it showed signs of fatigue, Dick 
began slowly to wind in the line. The motion 
was at first so slow and steady that the trout 
seemed more disposed to follow than to lead ; 
and though during the next few minutes, with 
the skipper looking on in a puzzled fashion, the 
fish again and again made a dash for liberty, 
and got plenty of line, it never once got the 
slack which it needed, and, after a further brief 
trial of its strength against the boy's skill, Dick 
slowly drew it to the boat's side and raised 
its head out of the water. 

Matt said, as he deftly netted the prize : 
" Well, you got him, and with that thing, too, 
though he is a good six-pounder." 

Yet it was plain that Matt's admiration and 
respect for the rod and reel had not been per- 
ceptibly increased by what he had witnessed. 
Broadwater prejudices lie deep, and are hard to 
remove. Dick said to himself, as he watched the 
skipper unhooking the fish, " He thinks it was a 
fluke." And Dick was right ; for that was pre- 
cisely what Matt did think as he felt the weight 
of the trout. 

It was not a good time for fishing; it was 
nearly slack-water when they had cast anchor, 
and now it was close upon the ebb. Dick got 
no more fish that showed fight, those he hung 
being small and inactive. Matt said that they 
might as well hoist sail and go home, as the 
trout would not bite, on the ebb. As he went 
forward to raise the anchor, a boat from the 




main pulled alongside, die fishermen wanting 
to borrow hooks. In the bottom of their sloop 
lay a magnificent fish, beautiful in form and 
color, the upper half of its body from head to 
tail being of all shades of gold or of burnished 
copper, and the lower half of the most exquisite 
tints of silver. Its weight, Dick saw, could not 
be less than twenty-five pounds. 

" What kind of a fish is that you have 
there ? " he asked. 

"A drum — a red drum," the fisherman 

" Are there difterent kinds of them ? " 

"Yes, there's the black drum and the red 
drum. They 're both good, but the red is the 
best. He 's best to catch and best to eat. Be- 
sides, he 's prettier to look at ; he 's long and 
slender, while the black one is short and thick." 

" Why best to catch ? " asked Dick. 

" Because he 's a fighter, is the red 'un. You 
don't get him into a boat unless he can't help 
it. Most times he can help it. He '11 break 
your hook seven times in ten if he can't break 
your line, and he 's pretty sure to do one or the 

" How about the black drum ? Is he a fight- 
er ? " Dick asked. 

" Well, yes ; he '11 fight, too, but not like the 
red 'un. He 's sluggish, logy-like, generally, 
and drowns sooner and easier. The red 's spryer 
and travels. He can get away with forty or fifty 
fathoms of line before you quite know he 's hung, 
and he can get rid of a hook or break a line with 
any fish as swims." The skipper of the sloop 
looked at Dick, at his tapering rod and thin 
line, and then said, suggestively, " It takes a 
fisherman to land a red drum." 

" You landed that one ? " 

"Yes — I did ; " and he looked first at the 
fish and then at the water, as if srill wondering 
how he happened to do it. 

"Where?" Dick asked. 

" Up in the mouth of the North Inlet, off 
"Hodge's Narrows." 

" Flood or ebb ? " queried the lad. 

" Flood ; you can't depend on 'em on the ebb, 
nohow. No offense," the man said apologeti- 
cally, " but are you going to try for one ? " 

" Yes," Dick slowly and thoughtfully replied. 
" Yes ; I think I shall." 

" With that thing ? " pointing with his long 
bony finger to the rod. 

Dick saw that Matt was looking at him, and 
that his face was a fine studyjust then for a picture 
of "Knowledge pitying Ignorance." In his 
reply he took in the captains of both the boats. 
" Yes, with this thing " ; and the lad's hand ran 
along the polished slender rod and rested half 
caressingly on the reel. 

The skippers did not mean to be impolite, 
but they laughed derisively — not at the boy, 
but at his rod. Both of them had known a 
pretty stoutish man to be jerked half out of his 
boat by holding on too tightly to a line when 
the red drum that he had hooked made its first 
sudden rush ; and it was only the other day, 
as they recollected, that young Baker, a lad as 
big and stout as Dick, having hung one, was 
obhged to pass the line to a man, the boy being 
unable to handle the fish. 

" Why, Mister Dick," Matt said, " you could n't 
do it. Why, you would have no hook, no sinker, 
no line, no pole, no nothing, if you unfortunately 
happened to hang a drum, red or black. Look 
at that fish. He 's as strong as a bull-calf when 
he 's in twelve or fifteen fathoms of water, and 
with a rushing tide to run with. Yet he does n't 
weigh more than twenty-five pounds, and I 've 
seen one that weighed eighty pounds." 

Dick looked at his rod, gave the reel a twirl, 
fingered his line, and seemed to gain confidence 
from doing it. 

" I '11 try it," he said ; then he added, " Matt, 
we will not come here to-morrow for trout, as 
we agreed to do. We will go up to Hodge's 
Narrows and try for a drum." 

" All right. Mister Dick," Matt said in the 
tone of one who was tired of arguing with ob- 
stinacy. " You 're boss, you know ! " 

The boats parted company. Matt hoisted 
sail, and after a sharp run of an hour or so 
they were at the island landing. Dick did not 
leap ashore very alertly. They had been be- 
calmed for a while, and he had insisted upon 
taking the oars to help the heavy boat along. 
Every long-unused muscle of his body which 
he had forced into unaccustomed service that 
day in casting, rowing, and sailing made its pres- 
ence felt by its own particular ache or soreness. 
Wind and sun had burned his face and hands to 

1 890. 1 



a fiery red, and the pain of them was all that he 
could bear without complaining. How tired, 
hungry, and sleepy the boy was ! But he had no 
headache, no languor. He ate a hearty sup- 
per at the club-house, where a room was pre- 
pared for him, went early to bed, and slept 
soundly, as a weary child sleeps after a day of 
wholesome play. 

" To-morrow," he said, before clo.sing his 
eyes, " to-morrow, a drum." 

He was up before five o'clock the next morn- 
ing, having promised Matt he would be at the 
landing shortly after that hour. The flood-tide 
began to flow early that day, and the best fish- 
ing would be during the last two-thirds of it. 
They had ten miles of water to cover to get to 
Hodge's NaiTows. 

- When Dick arrived at the wharf, he found all 
the able-bodied men and boys of the island 
already there, preparing to go off to their oyster- 
beds, some to plant and some to dredge. The 
business of every stranger who visits Broadwater 
is the business of every islander. Matt, who had 
come down before Dick, to put his boat in order, 
had told the bystanders that Dick was going 
-to fish for drum, and with that "pine stick and 
linen thread of his " ; for so did it please Matt to 
designate the lad's tackle. 

As Dick came among them, cheery and con- 
fident of bearing, with his rod already jointed, 
with reel, hne, leader, hooks, and sinker all in 
trim for service, one after another of the men 
good-naturedly shot their Uttle arrows of con- 
temptuous doubt at his tackle, the like of which 
few of them had ever before seen. They all 
liked Dick, whose acquaintance they had made 
the previous fall, when he had been there shoot- 
ing sedge-hens and snipe with them, for they 
had found him a hearty, breezy sort of fellow, 
kindly, simple, and sympathetic, and disposed 
to make friends with everybody. But the}- 
could not conquer their prejudices in a moment ; 
they and their fathers and grandfathers before 
them had fished with good, stout hand-lines 
and big, thick-wired hooks, most of which lat- 
ter they had themselves hammered, tempered, 
and filed into shape and sharpness, and they 
were naturally intolerant of Dick's new-fangled 
gear. Besides, they did not fish for sport, 
but for the pot; and that made them sincere 

fishermen. To them Dick's damty tackle seemed 

When Dick jumped aboard, and Matt was 
ready, two or three islanders waded into the 
water to shove off the clumsy boat on which the 
lad and his fortunes were embarked, and as it 
shot out into deep water they one and all begged 
him to bring them a mess of the drum he caught. 
Dick's buoyant spirits were momentarily brought 
to the ground by this universal expression of 
unbelief in his rod and line, for he remembered 
then that both were all the worse for their last 
summer's service. He had a horrible fear come 
over him that snoods, leader, and Kne were not 
so strong as they should be ; but he took heart 
of grace, set his jaws hard, kept silent, and 
quietly resolved, as the storm of sarcastic re- 
quests swept over him, to return that day with 
a drum. 

The weather was magnificent, the wind strong 
and fair, the sky blue, the air sweet, as, scaring 
from their nests the belated curlew and the 
sedge-hens, they swept through the water by 
the sedges, both sails set, the sheets drawn taut 
and the spray dashing over the bow. Full 
ninety minutes must pass, Dick knew, before 
they could make the narrows ; so he lay down 
on the forecastle, and, drawing the broad brim 
of his hat over his eyes, went fast asleep, dream- 
ing, of nothing, until he was awakened by the 
noise and jar of the cable as the anchor dragged 
it through the cleat. 

Matt furled the sails snugly about the masts 
and made his bait ready. But when he went to 
put equal parts of clam and crab on the hooks 
he stopped resolutely. " Mister Dick," he said, 
" there is n't any use to put these things into the 
water. You can't catch drum with them hooks." 

" Why not, Matt ? " the lad asked quietly. 

"Why, because they 're too small. Here 's 
the sort of hook you want." 

Thereupon Matt held up one which from the 
point of the barb to the shank opposite was not 
less than an inch and a quarter in diameter, and 
the wire of which was scarcely less than an 
eighth of an inch thick. 

Dick looked perplexed. He thought that 
Matt should know better than he ; Matt had 
caught drum often, he never. But he was dis- 
posed withal to be obstinate, in spite of reason- 




ing wisely regarding the skipper's knowledge 
and experience. 

" Matt," he said doggedly, " I won't use that 
hook: it is big enough to land a ten-foot shark; 
but I '11 try this one " ; and he substituted for one 
of his own small ones a hook half the size of 
that which Matt had offered him. 

The hooks were baited and a cast made, but 
the sinker was too light, and the swift-running 
tide caught the outgoing line and carried it along 
on the surface of the water until it was nearly 
all spent. The lad saw that he must have more 
lead, and he added three or tour more sinkers. 
Even with their aggregate weight, which was all 
the strain he was willing to put upon his rod, 
the line did not lie upon the bottom, where 
the fish lie, until but a few fathoms remained 
on the reel. For the first time, Dick recognized 
the folly of doing any serious thing unprepared. 
In his eagerness to go fishing he had left home 
poorly equipped for the sport he had in view, 
and he knew that if a drum were to strike and 
run there would be too little line left to give it 
play. But he was at the mercy of his own rash 
haste — and his rod, which had never failed him. 
The boy was somewhat chagrined, but he said 
quietly, " I '11 risk it on the rod." 

He did not have long to wait. He was fish- 
ing in fifteen fathoms of water ; the tide ran like 
a mill-race, at a rate of not less than seven or 
eight miles an hour ; and on the end of his line 
there was a pound or more of lead, on which the 
current kept a heavy, steady drag. He felt the 
line quiver between his fingers ; it was softly 
pulled forward, then it dropped back. 

" Matt," he asked, guarding his line with look 
and touch, every nerve in his body on a sharp 
strain — " Matt, do the red drum always seize the 
bait sharply and run, or do they sometimes 
pick it up and drop it again, as if they were not 
quite sure but that it might have a hook con- 
cealed somewhere under it ?" 

" Well," Matt said, without looking up, and 
giving his attention to the bait he was preparing, 
" they generally grab it and run with it, but 
sometimes they fool with it. If you feel any- 
thing fooling with your bait it 's most likely a 
thieving crab, which steals bait as fast as you 
can put it on — a crab or a ' drum-nurse.' " 

" What 's that, Matt?" Dick asked, slowly get- 

ting up from his seat, setting both feet securely, 
tightening his left hand about the rod, and plac- 
ing the thumb of his right hand softly on the 

" A drum-nurse," said the skipper, " is a fish 
that is the chum of the drum, and follows it 
wherever it goes. It looks so like a shark that 
you would say it was one, but it is n't a shark at 
all ; it 's just a drum-nurse, and it bites in the way 
you say." 

Dick had not heard the end of Matt's descrip- 
tion. As Matt was concluding, Dick steadied 
himself from his toes to the top of his head, shut 
his lips tightly, raised his rod to an angle of 
se\'enty-five degrees without moving the line an 
inch, pressed his thumb hard down on the reel, 
then gave to the rod a quick, vicious jerk back- 
ward, until everything rattled again. He was 
as quiet and self-possessed as if he were at home 
doing nothing in particular, as he said, " Matt, 
I '^'e hung it, whether it's drum or drum-nurse ! " 

Matt became immediately and intensely inter- 
ested, but humorous too. He dropped the clam 
he was opening, stood up, and said : " If you 've 
got either on that thing, you 're a good deal like 
the man who was so lucky as to catch a bear. 
But — maybe he '11 leave you the boat." 

The fish, meanwhile, was tugging savagely at 
the line to get away, having all the force of the 
deep water and the SAvift-running tide to help it, 
and poor Dick had but twenty or thirty yards of 
line to give it. But he saw from the frequently 
repeated sharp rushes that the fish made and its 
subsequent retreats that the yielding of the rod 
to its movements puzzled it. To strike a hard, 
effective blow, the boy had learned, there must 
be something solid, unyielding, to strike at. 
When the fish made a sudden, mad dash, which 
was its blow, the rod bent in a magnificent 
curve from butt to tip. The fish did not once get a 
chance to put its great strength against the lesser 
strength of the line ; it could only exert it against 
the rod, which, as the fish struck, gave way be- 
fore it. Not daring to trust wholly to the flexi- 
bility and stanchness of the rod, Dick was obliged 
to play off more and more of his line, until 
he had but a yard or two left unreeled. The 
fish had stopped making its wild rushes for a 
moment to consider this new sort of fishing- 
sear, with which it and all its kind in those 



waters were unfamiliar. Having considered the 
matter, the fish resolved that it was necessary in 
order to gain its freedom to make a long, steady, 
continuous pull, and that is what it proceeded 
to do. 

Dick was quick to understand the newly 
adopted tactics of the fish. He saw and felt the 
danger of them ; saw that he would be beaten, 
that his line would be made a useless string, 
his rod reduced to splinters ; saw and heard the 
derisive shrugs and sneers with which he would 
be greeted when he returned defeated to the 
island. Whatever was to be done must be 
done quickly. His rod was now at the safest 
angle of eighty-five or ninety degrees, but he 
could feel as well as see that it was so far bent 
by the strain as to almost reach the limitations of 
its flexibility, and, these being once reached, the 
tension would be transferred to the line, against 
which the entire strength of the fish would be 
brought. If that occurred the line would be 
snapped as if it were indeed a thread. 

Dick looked at the skipper, who sat watching 
him with anxious eyes. Then there came to 
him an inspiration. " Quick ! Matt," he said. 
" Up with your anchor, and pull with the tide 
after the fish!" 

The lad saw that Matt could not be too 
quick ; the pliant rod bent closer and closer to 
that point beyond which it could bend no more 
without putting the strain on the line. The 
skipper had long ago become concerned, 
deeply anxious, even, that the boy should suc- 
ceed. He leaped to the bow, seized the cable 
and jerked the anchor loose, dragged it on 
deck, and, picking up the sculls, put the boat 
head on to the tide. 

"All right, now; thanks, old fellow. I '11 
land it yet!" Dick said. 

As the boat was swept along by the tide and 
sculls in the wake of the fish, the tension on 
the line decreased, though Dick held it taut in 
order to keep the fish's mouth open, that he 
might the sooner drown it. As the strain les- 
sened, Dick ventured for the first time to use 
the reel. His touch was light and firm, and the 
movement cautiously slow, but the handle had 
not made a half dozen revolutions when the 
fish made a dash ahead, and more line was lost 
than had been gained. 


" Whatever it is, we have had it at least five 
minutes," said Dick to the skipper. " See what 
is the time now." 

" He 's a drum, sure, Master Dick," Matt 
replied. "I know him by his play. It is just 
half-past ten." 

Dick had been convinced from the first that 
his strike was a drum, but he was glad to 
have this confirmation ; and he had a great 
deal of pleasure, besides, in perceiving, from 
Matt's an.xious face and the admirable manner 
in which the boat was being handled, that the 
skipper was as anxious as himself that the rod 
and reel should not be beaten. 

" It 's a drum, and a red drum, too," said 
Matt again, after carefully watching the fish's 
jerks and runs. 

" But how do you know. Matt ? " Dick asked. 

" Why, don't you hear it drumming ? And 
see the way it rushes. A black drum is 100 
sluggish to do that." 

Dick was delighted with this assurance of his 
good fortune, but it seemed as if an hour had 
passed since the strike. It had really been ten 
minutes. He stood up in the bow, trying always 
to gain a httle line on his opponent, and was 
grateful and pleased if he gained but a single 
foot. Sometimes he recovered yards, and again 
lost twice as many. But he kept the drag on, 
kept well up the tip of the rod, which curved 
beautifully and so relieved the strain on the 

Presently the tension was wholly relaxed. 
The Line lay slack upon the water. Both thought 
they knew what that meant. Dick looked aghast 
and Matt sorrowful. " I 've lost it, old fellow ! " 
said Dick. 

I think if Dick, stout-hearted as he was, had 
been where nobody could have seen him at that 
moment, he would have let the big tears come, 
instead of forcing them back. He had wished, 
with the natural desire of a fisherman, to land a 
large, powerful, and gamey fish on his slender rod 
and line, to prove that his skill was greater than 
the brute force of his antagonist ; but what for 
the instant made his defeat so bitter was the 
foretaste he had of the half-malicious sympathy 
which he would be certain to have meted out 
to him by the islanders on his return. " We told 
you so," he knew would be the burden of their 



[J UNE, 

welcoming song. So thinking, he began me- 
chanically to reel in his line, and continued until 
there were but a few fathoms of it left, when 
suddenly, with a mighty rush and swirl, the fish 
that both he and Matt had thought lost carried 
the line from the reel till it grew so hot under 
his thumb as to render further pressure almost 
unbearable. But the lad would have let it burn 
the flesh from the bone now, rather than have 
lost a single chance by letting go. In an instant 
his excitement was gone, and he was as cool and 
wary as the oldest fisherman of them all could 
be. The fish had tricked him by merely doub- 
ling on him, seeking in that way to throw the 
hook, but Dick felt very confident that the drum 
could not play the trick again. 

From that point the battle began all over 
again, for when the fish doubled back upon the 
boat, slacking the line, it had the opportunity 
it needed to close its mouth, and so get rid of 
the perilous water which pressed upon its respira- 
tory organs and was suftbcating it. It had an 
opportunity to breathe again. Dick saw his 
blunder in not promptly detecting so com- 
mon a trick, but he went to work once more to 
tire the fish out or to drown it, as if nothing had 
happened to interrupt. It was a long, hard 
fight the drum made. Dick's wrist began to 
grow strained and sore. The muscles stood out 
on his forearm like whipcords, and pained in- 
tensely. But after a while he felt that the fish, 
too, was growing tired, and was evidently suffer- 
ing. He could hear it make its peculiar drum- 
ming sound whenever the strain on the rod was 
greatest and the fish was brought nearer to the 

As the contest went on, Dick perceived that 
the drum became disposed to content itself with 
less frequent tugs and rushes, and to be wiUing 
to lie quite still for moments together on the 
bottom, not, however, to sulk, as the salmon 
does, but to rest itself. " I think the fish is not 
so tired as I am," Dick said to Matt, as he again 
asked to be told the time. 

" It is just 10 : 54 now. Master Dick ; and he 
must be pretty nearly done for, judging from 
the way he is acting. Keep up your steady 
play, and you '11 beat him yet," Matt said. 

I have no doubt that the boy would have kept 
on as long as he could have stood or held the 

rod, but in a few minutes more he had the delight 
of feeling the fish yield readily to the revolu- 
tions of the reel, and then, after more turns, to 
see at the boat's side, its head out of the water, 
a magnificent drum, its scales flashing like gold 
and silver as its tail lashed the spray over them. 

" Now, then, look sharp. Matt ! Drop your 
oars, and give it the gaff — and don't miss it!" 
Dick cried. 

Matt threw the sculls a.side, seized the gaff, 
and, standing by the side, midway from stem to 
stem, struck a hurried, left-handed blow at the 
head of the fish. He struck too quickly ; he 
was too far off; his aim was bad ; and the gaff" fell, 
with a glancing blow, broadside on the body of 
the drum, which, stung to fury, made a lightning- 
like rush directly under the boat, and was reel- 
ing off fathom after fathom of line before Dick 
could recover his lost control of the reel ; and 
when he did get it in hand again, the tip of the 
rod was within three feet of the water, and so 
close to the boat as to render it impossible to 
raise the rod farther from the surface. 

" Let him run!" Matt shouted, not seeing, in 
his excitement, that Dick could not prevent the 
fish running where and as fast as it pleased it 
to run. But in an incredibly short time the 
skipper had reshipped his oars and thrown the 
boat's head around, thus freeing the rapidly 
vanishing line, and allowing Dick to get a safe 
elevation for his rod. At this moment both 
noticed that the overstrained rod had yielded 
at the second joint. 

The boy looked ruefully at it. " I made a 
mistake after all, in my stupid hurry to get 
away. I brought the rod with the bad joint." 
And so he had. His line was almost reeled 
out as Dick made this discover)^, there being 
but four or five fathoms left. " I must risk it 
again, though, bad as it is," he said, almost de- 
spairing, as he pressed his thumb hard down 
on the reel, determined not to lose another yard 
of line if it was possible to save it. But would 
the rod bear the strain in its crippled condi- 
tion ? It had wholly lost its noble curve ; its 
form was no longer that of a part of a perfect 
circle ; it more nearly resembled the two sides at 
the apex of a triangle. He looked at it, and as 
the fish tugged, he waited breathlessly for the 
crash he felt was coming ; but at the moment 

iSqo. J 


of his greatest fear the rod shot straight out 
from butt to tip, the strain on the Hne was re- 
laxed, and the drum rested quietly on the bot- 
tom again. 

Matt had kept .silent while Dick's anxiety 
lasted. He knew that he had struck at the 
fish from a bad position, and too hastily. The 
truth was that he had grown so interested in 
the boy's hard fight against such great odds — 
the fish's vast strength of body and staying 
power and Dick's frail rod and slender thread 
of line — as to cause him to lose his head at 
the very instant when he should have been the 
coolest, for the lad's work was done, and all 
that remained to secure the victory was that 
he should drive the gaff surely home and pull 
the fish aboard. He knew that he had not 
chosen the best place and time to strike, and 
that, after he had chosen the worst, he had 
struck wildly and with unsteady hand. But 
now, perceiving that the line had lost its ten- 
sion, he came to Dick's help with cheering 
words, for he noticed that the boy's lips were 
white, his hands trembling, his whole bod)- 
shaken by the long-continued excitement of the 
fierce struggle. 

" He 's as good as done for. Mister Dick. 
Only hold him at that, and when you see a 
chance, reel up on him," Matt said. 

Dick thought he saw the desired chance, and 
began to slowly reel in the line. The rod bent 
to its new triangular fonn, but did not break. 
The fish made a feeble dash, but for a few yards 
only. Then Dick tried the reel again. " It 's 
coming, Matt. Get ready ; — not there, in the 
bow. And don't get rattled again, old man ! " 


Slowly, but surely, though with occasional 
weak sallies and spurts, the fish was drawn 
closer to the boat and nearer to the surface of 
the water, until its golden and silvery scales 
flashed beautiful in the sun. 

" Now then, Matt ! " Dick drew a long 
breath and shut his eyes as he heard the gaff 
swish through the air. When he opened them, 
an instant after, the red drum, a noble thirty- 
pounder, lay panting in the bottom of the boat. 
Matt stood opposite, a broad grin on his face. 
Without a word being spoken, Dick put out 
his hand to the skipper ; and the man took the 
boy's trembling hand and pressed it warmly. 

Dick had to say it, and did say it : " But you 
were ratded. Matt, you know, that time you 
missed him." 

" So I was, Mister Dick, but on your ac- 
count, not on mine. Are you going to cast 
again ? " 

" No, Matt. My father .says that no true 
sportsman ever kills more than one salmon a 
day — 'One is sport, but more is murder.' I 'm 
going to count this drum as equal to a salmon ; 
and if you 're willing, we '11 go home. How 
long did I have it hung, Matt ? " 

Matt looked at his watch. " Just sixty-five 
minutes ; and a good hour and five minutes 
work it was ! " 

So Dick thought, then ; and he thought so 
again when they landed, and, after consider- 
able trouble in the way of removing obstinate 
doubts, succeeded in convincing the entire 
population of the island that Dick had really 
caught a red drum with a polished stick and 
a linen thread. 


By E. J. Glave, One of Stanley's Pioneer Officers. 

Third Paper. 

My presence and the work I was doing at- 
tracted visitors from villages for miles around 
Lukolela. The station was crowded all day 
with strangers who came to investigate every- 
thing, ask innumerable questions, and impede 
the work in progress by examining tools and 
workmanship until their curiosity regarding 
them was satisfied. To avoid the wearying task 
of incessantly answering the simple yet puzzling 
questions of childlike ignorance, and to escape 
from all the noise and tumult of strange voices 
round my house, I would plunge into the forest 
which covered all the country to the south of my 
station. My little servant Mabruki was my only 
companion on these occasions ; he would fol- 
low close at my heels, carrying my cartridge- 
belt slung across his shoulder. 

I always carried a gun with me on these ex- 
cursions, as birds and small game were very 
plentiful, and a brace or two of pigeons or guinea- 
fowl would often repay my forest tramp. 

But the great forest itself, with its undisturbed 
solitudes and its dim green recesses, always 
brought such relief and quiet restfulness to me, 
when wearied and fagged in mind and body, that 
I needed no excuse for my aimless wanderings. 
All sounds of voices or work died away, and we 
left all traces of human life on the verge of the 
woods. We had to make our way as best we 
could, pushing aside or cutting away the tan- 
gled mass of brushwood undergrowth that spread 
thickly round the roots of the lofty trees of teak 
and mahogany; and overhead luxuriant creep- 
ers trailed from branch to branch, or hung in 
great bunches from the topmost boughs, almost 
shutting out the light of day and the blue noon- 
day sky. 

As we forced our way still deeper into the 
heart of the forest, the gloom and stillness in- 
creased, and we crossed many a hidden glade 

known only to the hunter, where the deathlike 
silence was unbroken save for the ciy of savage 
beast or call of passing bird. 

These woods abounded in all kinds of game. 
Here the elephant had made a path for himself, 
uprooting and flinging to the ground the tree 
that barred his way, plowing through matted 
undergrowth, snapping vine and twig, and crush- 
ing down the .slender spear-grass beneath his 
ponderous foot, leaving behind him a broad trail 
of wrecked tree and shrub. Numberless herds 
of buffalo, filing down to the river for their morn- 
ing drink, had worn deeply furrowed tracks in 
the loamy soil ; and the broken ground beneath 
the spreading wild-plum tree told of the frequent 
visits of the bush-pig in search of fallen fruits. 
Here and there we could discover faint imprints 
made by the stealthy leopard, or the delicate 
impression of the antelope's hoof. 

Troops of monkeys of all sizes set the tree- 
tops swinging as they scrambled from bough to 
bough, searching through the wood for the acid 
" li/obe" (fruit of the india-rubber vine). 

The African deems roast monkey a delicacy, 
and keen observation of the habits of animals 
has taught the native hunter many curious de- 
vices in traps and lures. A hole in a tree near 
some spot frequented by these animals is found, 
and a noose is cunningly concealed with 
small branches so as to encircle the mouth of 
the cavity ; a cord attached to this noose leads 
down to the place that the hunter has selected as 
a hiding-place ; some palm-nuts or other fruits 
are then placed in the hole ; and when the mon- 
key, in order to obtain them, thrusts in an arm, 
the cord is pulled, and the animal is held firmly 
by the noose until dispatched by spear or arrow. 
The monkey is gifted with a degree of intelli- 
gence which the word instinct hardly expresses. 
The trap into which he is enticed must be very 
artfully constructed, and the bait of the most 
inviting kind, before he is successfully deceived. 




Another favorite mode of hunting monkeys is 
this : A crowd of natives surrounds a troop of 
these animals on three sides, and then, with 
sticks and stones, drives them until they arrive at 
the edge of the forest, when 
the poor, frightened crea- 
tures, in endeavoring to 
escape from their pursuers, 
jump to the ground, where 
they are stabbed before 
they can get away. 

The buffalo, hippopota- 
mus, and elephant are not 
safe from the snare of the 
African hunter. Pitfalls are 
dug, twenty feet deep, and 
covered so cunningly with 
small sticks and leaves that 
the rogue- elephant, or 
wandering buffalo, roam- 
ing through the forest, 
breaks through the fragile 

covering, and falls headlong upon the sharpened 
stakes driven into the bottom of the pit ; or, 
when the trap is without the cruel addition of 
spikes, he is speared to death by the hunters, 
who must, if such spikes are not used, con- 
tinually visit their pitfalls; for, if not killed 
and if left any length of time, the captured 
animals will tear down the sides of the pit, 
and fill up the hole sufficiently to allow them 
to escape. 

These pitfalls are so skillfully concealed that 
the hunter has to be continually on his guard, 
as unless their whereabouts is well know n to him 
he may possibly fall a victim to the trap set for 
the game he is stalking. 

I myself, when alone, ha\e more than once 
stumbled into these holes ; but in the vicinity 
of a settlement spikes are seldom used, and 
when venturing far afield, I was always accom- 
panied by a local hunter whose knowledge 
enabled us to steer clear of this danger. 

Big game are in even greater danger from 
the deadly " likongo " or ,spear-trap. A mas- 
sive barbed spear-head is let into a heavy beam 
of wood, and this weapon is suspended thirty or 
forty feet from the ground over some well-worn 
animal trail. Tied between two trees, its deadly 
blade pointing directly to the trail, it is kept in 

position by a cord which is carried to the base 
of the tree, and then, concealed among branches 
of trees, is drawn across the path. The unwary 
elephant, buffalo, or hippopotamus severs the 


frail string and releases the ponderous weapon, 
which falls crashing into the poor brute's back. 
As a rule an animal wounded in this way is 
unable to move far, as the distance through 

Vol. XVII.— 79-So. 




which the heavily weighted spear falls, drives 
the barb deep into the body. 

When an animal is killed, the meat is cut up, 
placed over fires, and smoked until it is dry, in 
which condition it will keep for several months, 
so long as it is not allowed to become damp. 


The natives' ordinary list of food is very lim- 
ited, the staple being boiled manioc root and fish. 
Manioc is a vegetable resembling the potato in 
substance, but coarse and stringy. The African 
prepares it by soaking it in water for five days, 
during which it ferments, becoming soft and 
pulpy ; the fibrous threads are then extracted, 
and it is kneaded into a dough-like paste, which 
is boiled before use. In the Congo household, 
this is called binguele, or c/iigiiaiiga, and is a very 
nutritious food. 

Some dishes, though appreciated by the native, 
are obtained with so much difficulty that they 
must be considered as luxuries. It is not every 
day that even the greatest chiefs can partake of 
boiled hippopotamus-leg, roast elephant-trunk, 
or grilled buffalo-steak. The dishes I have 
named will not, perhaps, seem very palatable ; 
but it would be easy to name others much less 
appetizing to the taste of Europeans. The Afri- 
can eats three times a day : at nine o'clock, 
lightly, and at noon and six in the evening as 
largely as the state of his larder will permit. 
Vegetables are invariably boiled, but meat is 
roasted on spits, over a wood fire. 

Knives, forks, spoons, napkins, and plates are 
not necessaries at a " Congo dinner." In fact, 
any native who has been fortunate enough to 
obtain those luxuries, a fork and spoon, punches 
a hole in the handle of each, and hangs them 
by a string from the roof-tree of his house, 
as proofs of his importance, and of the ad- 
vance of civilization. Manioc, fish, and meat, 
when cooked, are cut up and placed in large 
earthen jars by the women, who cook and pre- 
pare all food. Then groups of ten and twelve 
squat down round a jar and eat with their fin- 
gers from the common dish, sopping up the pep- 
pered palm-oil gravy with their chiquanga, or 
manioc bread. 

The civilized wielder of a fork and spoon 
would be sadly handicapped at a Central African 

The Congo man does not always limit him- 
self to three meals a day; he is a glutton by 
nature. When he has a quantity of meat he 
gorges while the savory morsels last. Even if 
the meat is tainted and the odor of it is so strong 
as almost to overpower the passer-by, it is not 
rejected on that account ; and any disgust I ever 
expressed on seeing the natives eat hippopota- 
mus-meat, the odor of which would have been 
intolerable to a European, was met by the 
retort : ^^£isu ku-ola niama, tu-kuola ncholu te /" 
(We eat the meat, but we don't eat the smell!) — 
a subtle distinction. ^ 

My rather monotonous routine of life was 
repeatedly reheved by some unusual activity in 
the villages. 

One day, amid the heavy booming of drums 
and the hubbub of a hundred excited voices all 



talking at a time, and each one trying to make 
itself heard above the general tumult, a large fleet 
of war-canoes started away, manned by natives 
of Lukolela and the district. They were about 
to punish the common enemy, a tribe on the 
other side of the river, for some cause real or 
imaginary. As the flotilla passed my Station 
beach, they struck up their boastful war-songs, 
rattled their drums and bells, and exhibited, for 
my edification, all the accomplishments which 
they intended to bring to bear on the enemy. 
Their faces smeared with charcoal gave the 
natives a truly formidable appearance, as they 
flourished their bright-bladed knives and keen. 

The body, round which lengths of cloth were 
wrapped, resembled a colossal chrysalis. Since 
the return of the canoes, guns had been repeat- 
edly discharged to announce the death ; but 
at the moment when the body of the young 
chief was lowered into the grave dug for its 
reception in the chief's own house, the reports 
of the old flint-locks culminated in a veritable 
salvo of musketry. 

The usual accompaniment to such ceremo- 
nies, in the Lukolela district, is a strange mixture 
of mirth and sorrow, for little clusters of merry 
dancers mingle with the groups of mourners 
whose energetic lamentation is shown by stream- 


gHstening spears, in fierce anticipation of the 
planned attack. 

Three days afterward, the flotilla returned. 
As they paddled slowly past my station, their 
dejected and crestfallen demeanor plainly 
showed that their common enemy still remained 
unpunished. The blackened faces and glisten- 
ing weapons had failed to frighten the enemy. 
The arrival of the canoes at the village land- 
ing was the signal for a general wailing, as 
one of the young Lukolela chiefs had been 
killed. The next day I witnessed the burial. 

ing eyes and the tear-stained cheeks. But little 
real grief is felt, however; the tear is a tribute 
demanded by native custom, which sorrow, un- 
aided, can seldom produce. A woman will sud- 
denly cease her weeping, throwing aside all signs 
of woe, to enjoy a pipe or perhaps to sell a bunch 
of bananas or a fowl ; but upon the completion 
of the bargain she will again step back into the 
circle of mourners and abruptly resume her 
moans and tears, and, with complete command 
of the emotions, will weep or laugh at will. 
Sometimes, at the death of an important chief. 




all the women will be engaged for days in shed- 
ding tears over the departed. During the time 
of mourning, native custom denies them the 
privilege of washing, and the continual streams 
from their eyes wear deep ruts on their begrimed 
faces and bodies. When the body has been 
placed in the grave, the friends of the dead chief 
dry their tears and resume their ordinary habits 
of dress and demeanor ; but the slaves and rela- 
tives of the dead man must for three months after 
the interment still maintain an appearance of 
great dejection, and refrain from smearing the 
body with the customary red powder, or even 
from removing the objectionable eyelashes or 
trimming the nails. They must also wear very 
old cloth, and leave their woolly heads unplaited 
and uncared-for. At the expiration of the three 
months, the iigithi (red wood-powder) again 
colors their bodies, new costumes are produced, 
and the unkempt wool is neatly plaited in wisps 
and tails. Too often the cessation of mourning 
is signalized by the execution of a slave. In 
this instance the brother of the young chief had 
bought a slave for that purpose. But I forbade 
the ceremony, and in order to protect the poor, 
unfortunate fellow from all harm, I redeemed 
him by paying to the captor the price of his 
purchase. The poor emaciated creature, whose 
name was Mpasa, had for six days been bound 
hand and foot by cords, with barely enough 
food to allow him to exist. It was a great disap- 
pointment to the expectant villagers that I 
would not allow the sacrifice to be carried out, 
as they had invited a troupe of Ekuala musicians, 
an inland tribe on the opposite bank of the river, 
to take part in their festivities. Having heard 
a great deal about the abihty of the dusky or- 
chestra, I invited them to visit my Station, and 
I was greatly struck with the harmony of sound 
produced from unpromising material. Some of 
the troupe rattled on their drums; others fingered 
rough string-instruments ; and round pieces of 
flat iron, pierced and strung loosely together, 
formed excellent castanets. The music was 
wild, but performed in such excellent time that 
the result was decidedly pleasing. To the ac- 
companiment of this Central African musical 
band, the Ekuala dancers, wearing wild- cat skins 
around their waists, gave an exhibition of their 
skill, which consisted in successions of rapid and 

graceful movements of the body. The majority 
of the villagers were slaves ; their varied tattoo 
marks plainly proclaimed the widespread raids 
of the slaver. The Lolo, from the banks of 
the Ikelemba, Lulungu, and Malinga rivers ; 
the Ngombe, from the far interior ; and the na- 
tives of the Ubangi, were all represented in the 
ranks of the Lukolela households — women as 
wives, and the men as recruits to the number 
of warriors. The slave, having survived misery, 
starvation, and the many murderous phases of 
the slave-trade, finds himself at a village like 
Lukolela in a position of comparative security, 
until some horrible native custom, or the super- 
stitious edict of the Fetishman, demands his 

The tastes of Congo tribes vary considerably. 
Here at Lukolela the general ambition of the 
headmen was to own as many slaves as possi- 
ble, so that they might insult their neighbors 
with impunity and destroy those who resented it. 
Besides this ambitious desire, they have a great 
love of metal ornaments. The Lukolela chief 
points with a great deal of pride to his brass 
anklets, and will boast of the massive mohia 
(woman's large brass neck-ring) round his wife's 
neck. The Ba-Teke, of Stanley Pool, engage 
largely in the ivory trade, buying from the up- 
river native trad- 

ers, and exchange 
their tusks with the 
white merchants 
on the coast for 
cloth, guns, and 

The merchant, 
becoming a man 
of property, will 
wear a litde of the 
cloth, from the 
store he has accu- 
mulated during his 
lifetime, tied round 
his waist, with one 
end dragging in "* ^"■"^' ™^^^'- 

the mud three yards behind him, to exemplify 
to his admiring neighbors his intense contempt 
for such paltry wealth. The bulk of his cloth 
is stored to satisfy his craving for a pompous 
funeral, and at his death it will be bound around 



him preparatory to his being smoked before worked through the different well-known hunt- 
burial, and the powder and guns of the departed ing patches, when, passing through a UtUe stretch 
will be used in firing salutes suitable to such an of long grass, a small black-and-white bird, which 
important occasion. always accompanies buffalo herds, flew up just 
My own favorite recreation was the chase, in front of me. Instinctively arresting my foot- 


which always delighted me ; but we were now 
in the midst of the season of winds, when the 
river is very dangerous, as tornadoes were con- 
stantly sweeping across the stream, lashing into 
fury the quiet waters of a few minutes before, 
rendering the crossing of the Congo in a native 
canoe a hazardous undertaking. 

As one of the steel lighters, which could face 
any weather, had arrived at my place on its 
way up-river with fresh supplies, I borrowed 
the use of this boat in order to cross the river 
and have a day's hunting. Upon arriving on 
the other side, we passed through a small chan- 
nel and entered a large lake-like lagoon in the 
midst of an extensive plain. We had a favora- 
ble wind, and had not put out an oar. The 
rough square-sail bellied out before us as we 
tore through the water. Upon a little tongue 
of sand, two buffaloes were taking their morning 
drink, and so noiselessly had our bark sped on 
its way, that the animals were evidently uncon- 
scious of our presence until the report of my 
long Martini rifle brought one to the ground and 
warned the other of his danger. When I ran 
my boat in-shore, I found the one I had shot to 
be quite dead, the ball having passed behind 
the shoulder through to the heart. Leaving 
some of the crew in charge of the boat, I struck 
into the grass in search of other game. We had 

steps, I strained forward and, peering in the 
direction whence the bird arose, saw at my feet 
a big bull-buffalo lying in the grass, with his 
head toward me. Quick as thought, I raised my 
rifle and fired a snap shot ; fortunately for myself 
and trackers, the bullet took instant effect, and 
after two or three spasmodic efforts to scramble 
to his feet, the buffalo sank back dead on the 
grass. I shudder to think what the result 
might have been had I only wounded him. I 
could never understand the bull's presence 
there, for it is not often that buffaloes are caught 
napping in that way. Having skinned the ani- 
mal, my men carried the meat to the boat. 
They were walking just ahead of me, when 
suddenly I saw each man throw down his 
load and start back with a terrible fright. The 
cxy oi'-'' Mosemc ! Moseine .'" (Snake! Snake!) ex- 
plained the situation. Approaching, I saw 
coiled around a small tree, with head defiantly 
erect, a large python. The reptile had gorged 
itself, and did not seem to be capable of any 
great activity. I shot it through the head, and 
my men carried it to the boat. Its skin subse- 
quently made a handsome trophy. 

The report of my rifle, when I fired at the 
snake, had started a small herd of buffalo. I 
heard them galloping through the swamp ahead 
of us. Taking my hunter. Bongo Nsanda, with 




me, I got within shot, fired and hit one of the 
herd; and, not bringing the animal down, I had 
to follow the tracks through swamp and plain, 
and push my way through tangled grass and 
into the depths of the boggy forest, before I came 
up to my game. The poor wounded brute was 
standing in a pool of water, and he allowed me 
to approach unobserved and bowl him over. 

In all my hunts I was accompanied by Bongo 
Nsanda, who stood ready at hand, and often with 
his heavy spear, which he preferred to a rifle, 
he gave the coup-de-gracc, and ended the dying 
struggle of the animal that I had shot. 

Hippopotami, when guarding their young, 
are excessively spiteful, and attack the natives' 

hippo, with his great bony jaws, seized the stem 
of the frail canoe with a terrible crunch. Fortu- 
nately, the fisherman kept his balance, and was 
shot out of his canoe a distance of several feet 
and landed high and dry on the bank. The hip- 
po, baffled in his attempt to overtake the native, 
smashed and trampled to pieces the little dug- 
out, as if to show the trembling native, who had 
sought shelter in a tree-top, the kind of treat- 
ment he would have received if good fortune 
had not befriended him. This piece of infor- 
mation was held out to me as an inducement to 
rid mankind of so formidable a foe. 

" Yo ku-huiiia ye ie, Makula ? " (Won't you 
kill him, Makula ? ) asked Bongo Nsanda, 


canoes, very often upsetting them and killing 
the occupants. '■'■Ngiilm inbi akujala hsi una" 
(There is a very bad hippopotamus on the other 
side of the river), said Bongo Nsanda to me. 
Then he told me that early that morning a fish- 
erman, while in his canoe attending to his nets, 
was chased by this animal. The frightened fish- 
erman paddled with all his might to avoid his 
fierce pursuer, and had just touched the bank 
with the nose of his canoe when the furious old 

using my native name. I felt now, with my 
experience, I could safely pit my Martini rifle 
against any hippo on the river, no matter how 
terrible his reputation might be. So I crossed 
the river in my large canoe, fearing to use my 
small one, lest the ill-conditioned old fellow 
might pitch me in the air, and perhaps select 
a locality which had not the advantage of 
presenting soft sand or grass on which to break 
my fall. Besides, in case he should charge, I 




felt sure that my present canoe would stand 
sound and steady. 

When I reached the other side, there was our 
enemy on guard over a little bay. I put my 
canoe in-shore, just below the creek where he 
was swimming with his head hardly above water ; 
then, creeping silently along the edge of the grass, 
arrived in a position where I could get a good 
shot at him. I fired, and struck him in the 
head ; my ball hit the skull where the bone was 
thickest, and only maddened the brute. He 
charged about in the shallow water near the 
bank, snorting, and churning up the muddy 
stream. Bongo Nsanda stood ready with his 
heavy, loaded spear, and as the hippo came for- 
ward endeavoring to find the hiding-place of the 
enemy who had wounded him. Bongo Nsanda 
hurled his spear in behind the brute's shoulder, 
the keen blade piercing the body to the heart. 
The fishermen, attracted by the gunshot, were 
delighted to see their old enemy killed, and a 
deep-drawn sigh of reUef escaped from the fisher- 
man who but the day before had been com- 
pelled by the hippopotamus to make such an 
undignified landing from his canoe. 

Bongo Nsanda was a renowned hunter and 
trapper. He had caught a great many hip- 
popotami in his pitfall-traps, and many a 

" tusker " and buffalo had become victims to his 
weighted spear, cunningly suspended from the 
branches of the towering forest trees. Passing 
through a wood one day, following up the new 
track of a buffalo, Bongo Nsanda called my 
attention to an old and unused pitfall which 
he had made, a few yards from the river bank, 
in the trail of a hippopotamus. Having left 
it unwatched for several da}-s while he was on 
a trading trip, one morning, upon paying it a 
visit, he was much astonished to see that it was 
full. During his absence, a hippo had fallen 
in and died, and a crocodile, attracted by the 
scent, had climbed up the bank and got into 
the pit, where he gorged himself upon the hippo, 
and was unable to get out again, but was still 
alive. As a large trading-canoe was passing at 
the time. Bongo Nsanda thought it best to sell 
the contents of his trap as it stood, thereby sav- 
ing himself the bother of killing the reptile. 
So he hailed the canoe, and, having made a 
satisfactory bargain, the purchasers proceeded 
to kill the crocodile by spearing it. One man, 
however, losing his footing, fell in, and was 
caught by the crocodile. Fortunately he was 
rescued alive, though severely wounded. 

Bongo Nsanda, like all natives, was very 
superstitious, and thought this trap, which had 




been the cause of so much bloodshed, had bet- 
ter be left alone. He had a foreboding that he 
himself might in some way be the next victim if 
he used it again. 

Rivalries and fights are by no means con- 
fined to human beings ; the cries of the savage 
animals of African jungles engaged in deadly 
combat often break the silence of those wild 
regions. The unwieldy hippopotamus, strolling 

proof that the fight had been fierce and pro- 
tracted. The ground was broken and torn up 
in every direction; saplings, grass, and bushes 
were crushed and stamped into the muddy 

In the upper reaches of the Congo, when the 
wet season, or ^^ Alpila," is prolonged, the river 
rises to a great height, flooding huge tracts of 
bush and plain, and compelling the different 


along a buffalo path, is charged unawares by one 
of those ill-tempered animals. The dispute cul- 
minates in a duel between the hippo's keen, 
gleaming tusks and the sharp-pointed horns of the 
buftalo bull. 

The result of such an encounter depends 
usually upon the advantage given by the lay of 
the land to one of the combatants ; as, should the 
buffalo have an unimpeded rush at his enemy, 
the hippo would receive such a blow as would 
render his ultimate dispatch a very easy matter. 
But should the slower moving but heavier hip- 
popotamus have any opportunity to use his formi- 
dable tusks, the buffalo would have no chance at 
all. I remember hearing such an encounter ; I 
did not actually witness the fray, but a visit to 
the scene of it after the battle was a sufficient 

wild animals to assume for the time an amphib- 
ious nature, as they must swim from place to place 
in search of food. 

During the continuance of such a season the 
natives are enabled to kill off" a great many buf- 
faloes. They will surround a small herd that 
happens to be swimming together. Then they 
throw long wooden poles in the water all around 
the animals to prevent their progress and ex- 
haust them. A buffalo, under these conditions, 
is a very harmless creature, and easily approached 
and killed by the natives with their spears. 

It is not unusual to see an elephant swimming 
across the river ; and this monster is as helpless 
as any when away from terra firma. He has 
very litde power when in deep water, as, to 
breathe, he must keep his trunk raised above 

1890. ] 



the surface of the water, and is thus deprived 
of a formidable weapon. 

Great strides had been made on the Congo 
since I first arrived, in '83. The natives of the 
wild regions of the Congo Basin, who had never 
seen a white man until '77, when Stanley passed 
through their country on his marvelous jour- 
ney " Through the Dark Continent," having 
placed themselves under the protection of Stan- 
ley's expedition, " L'Association Internationale 
Africaine," had by treaties ceded their terri- 
tory to this society. In 1885, this territory 
was recognized by all the civilized powers as 
L'litat IndependatU die Congo (The Congo Free 

In 1885 the Berlin Conference distinctly de- 
fined the limits of this new State, and this part 
of equatorial Africa was then exempt from Eu- 
ropean disputes. Better transport on the lower 
river was being organized, and constantly new 
steamers were being built and launched on 
the Upper Congo. The State had added " Le 
Stanley," a stern-wheeler seventy feet long, to 
their fleet, the Livingstone Inland Mission had 
built and floated their steamer the " Henry 
Reed," and, besides these, the Baptist Mission 
twin-screw steamer " Peace " was already navi- 
gating the river. 

This increased service of boats greatly im- 
proved the means of communication between 
the Stations. Letters were now received every 
three or four months. Only those who have 
traveled far away from home and dear friends 
can understand the pleasure a letter gives to one 
surrounded by wild and ignorant people, with 
whom, no matter how friendly, he has no thought 
or feeling in common. 

At times when one feels indeed isolated and 
cut off, the arrival of home letters puts him again 
in touch with the dear ones at home. If disap- 
pointed in receiving a mail, we try to account for 
the failure by gloomy suggestions, or think. Why 
have I not received a letter ? — perhaps because 
of severe illness or even death ! A steamer will 
sometimes arrive without letters. Intense is the 
suspense of a disappointed man, until the next 
arrival of a steamer. Friends are utterly unable 
to imagine the amount of pleasure they convey 
to the wanderer in distant climes, by a thought- 

ful little note of kindness from home. The 
postal service, in wild, far-away countries, is 
erratic and unreliable. Sometimes six months 
will elapse without an opportunity of sending 
letters up into the interior. But the little packet 
of letters is all the more heartily welcomed after 
months of anxious waiting. 

For my own part I shall ever remember how, 
when I was deep in the heart of Africa, away 
from friends and countrymen, and with none of 
my own color within hundreds of miles of me, 
the home letter, with its messages of affectionate 
remembrance, refreshed me, and how the arrival 
of the tattered envelope, well worn and covered 
with strange postmarks, with its assurance that 
I was not forgotten, formed a bright event in 
my lonely travels. 

My Station at Lukolela had been founded in 
order to secure rights to a certain territory by 
occupation of it, but now the limits of the 
Congo Free State and of French and Portuguese 
possessions in this part of Africa had been 
definitely settled, several posts founded for simi- 
lar reasons were to be abandoned. It was a 
great blow for me to know that Lukolela was 
among the doomed. I received orders from 
headquarters that I was to proceed one hundred 
miles down-river to Bolobo, with my garrison 
and all its belongings. It was further intimated 
that a small steel boat would be placed at my 
disposal for the transportation. The natives of 
Lukolela and the surrounding country, with all 
of whom I was on the best of terms, gathered 
together and protested most strongly against 
my leaving them; they offered me all kinds of 
inducements to stay. Ivory, goats, sheep, fowls, 
bananas, were to be mine, ad libitum, if only I 
would remain. But althougli I regretted leaving 
a people who showed so many proofs of affection 
for me, the orders were imperative and there- 
fore had to be obeyed. 

We exchanged parting gifts. luka, Mungaba, 
Mpuke, Manjimba, all brought their goats and 
sheep, and Bongo Nsanda, the childish but cour- 
ageous and faithful old hunter, who had many a 
time occupied a dangerous corner with me in the 
tangled grass or the dark jungles of the neigh- 
boring forest, gave me his long cherished spear 
as a keepsake. 




Our departure from Lukolela was as grotesque 
as it was sad. The natives crowded along the 
river bank, all with sorrowful countenances, and 
exchanged parting words with us as we dropped 
down-stream. The means I had at my disposal 
for the removal of m}' garrison were one steel 
whale-boat, twenty-five feet long, and one large 
dug-out canoe ; and in these were to be con- 
veyed twenty men, goats, sheep, fowls, ducks, 
furniture, my own belongings, and those of my 
men. ^Ve looked like an itinerant menagerie 
or troupe of tumblers. Men, tables, chairs, goats, 
ducks, bo.xes, mats, etc., were all mixed up so 
indescribably that the superstitious natives along 
the banks of the river above Bolobo fled in dis- 
may as the tangled mass of men, animals, and 
freight piled into two small boats floated past 
their villages. 

It required most careful management on the 
part of the men to get in and out among the 
animals and furniture. The flotilla was not one 
likely to command respect, but I was most 
heartily welcomed, when at last I arrived at 
my destination, by my old friend Lieutenant 
Liebrechts, a Belgian artillery officer, who was 
in command of Bolobo Station. I was right 
glad again to shake hands with Liebrechts ; we 
were very old friends, having occupied the same 
quarters together at Leopoldville in 1883. What 
a change in this Station at Bolobo since I first 
saw it in 1883 ! There had been much trouble 
between whites and natives then, and the Station 
houses had been burned to the ground; even 
now the grounds were encircled by a high, stout 
palisade. Nice, well-kept houses and stores 
had been built. There were also flocks of goats 
and sheep, good poultry-yards full of fowls and 
ducks, and immense plantations of sweet pota- 
toes, maize, and peanuts, and gardens of vege- 
tables. What was more important still, the 
relations with the formerly unfriendly and hostile 
natives were now of a most satisfactory nature 
in every way. 

The villagers of all the surrounding country 
were constantly visiting the Station and ex- 
changing presents. 

Markets had been re-established for the sale 
of food, pottery, and native produce, and long- 
standing feuds between the different tribes were 
amicably settled by the happy intervention of 

Liebrechts. It is such as he who are required 
to gain the confidence of the African savage, 
men with a keen sense of justice, and the will 
to enforce it. My life at Bolobo was a happy 
one. Liebrechts and I spent our time in visit- 
ing the different chiefs, superintending Station 
matters, and making little excursions into the in- 
terior in search of guinea-fowl, partridges, ducks, 
or the more formidable buftalo of the plain. I 
shall always remember with the greatest pleas- 
ure our strolls amidst the banana and palm- 
groves of these Central African villages, our 
more extended tramps through swamp and 
forest in search of the buffalo, and the pleasant 
chats we had over the sentry-fires of the Station. 

At Bolobo, in former days, the buffalo used 
to come even into the Station. On one occa- 
sion there were three white men living there, 
and news was brought in that a herd of buffalo 
were just outside. They immediately equipped 
themselves for the chase and started out, follow- 
ing the tracker. They had gone about twenty 
yards only, when they could see the herd two 
hundred yards off. Before catching sight of the 
brutes they had been eager for the sport ; but 
the nearer they approached their game the more 
did their stock of valor decrease ; so much so, 
that when they got well within shot, and saw an 
old buftalo turn his head in their direction, prick 
up his ears, and assume a very inquiring attitude, 
one of these hunters discovered that he had not 
got the right boots on for hunting. His com- 
panions most generously offered to escort him 
back to the Station and assist him in making the 
necessary alterations. I'hey started to walk 
back, but with every step the matter appeared 
more urgent. They broke from a jog-trot into 
a regular racing pace. Arrived at the Station, 
breath recovered, and boots found, it was de- 
cided not to renew the chase, as the delay caused 
by this unfortunate oversight had put them com- 
pletely out of the vein for shooting ! 

Formerly, Ibaka was the most powerful chief 
of Bolobo district. His name was mentioned 
by the natives of the surrounding villages with 
a great deal of reverential awe. But his vil- 
lage had become disunited ; each of his sons 
was at enmity with him, and Manga, Gatula, 
Lingenji, Nkoe, Ngai Utsaka, the chiefs of the 
neighboring territory, being keen traders, had 




obtained numbers of fighting men, and Ibaka's 
word, which at one time commanded instant 
obedience, was now but little regarded. His 
title of chief of Bolobo was of small value ; he 
had lost all influence. During my stay at Bo- 
lobo many a time he apphed to us for assistance 
against his neighbors, and on several occasions 
he arrived at our gates in full flight, chased by 
his own sons, armed with heavy sticks, who 
sought by this method 
of persuasion, to make 
their father agree to an 
immediate and com- 
plete division of the 
little wealth he still 
possessed, or to gain 
his consent to any 
other extortionate de- 
mand that might have 
suggested itself to 
their inventive minds. 

Poor old Ibaka was 
a well-meaning fellow, 
and was very favor- 
ably disposed toward 
the white men. He 
was, indeed, anxious 
to be on a friendly 
footing with his white 
neighbors, but the 
other villagers were 
jealous of him, and 
talked him into some trifling but irritating 
acts of arrogance toward the Station, which re- 
sulted, a few months before my arrival, in a little 
war between Ibaka and Liebrechts, who was in 
command of the Station. As a punishment for 
his aggressiveness, Ibaka's town was burned to 
the ground. 

There is an institution among these people which 
cannot be more correctly described than by term- 
ing it the " Order of the Tall Hat." There is in 
each district a chief who has proved by his war- 
like success that he, of all the chiefs, is the most 
powerful. A public acknowledgment is made 
of this fact, and the elected individual is carried 
around on men's shoulders through the different 
villages, the bearers proclaiming to all that he 
is the Mokunje Monene (Big Chief), and that 
in future all tribal disputes are to be submitted 

to his judgment. Upon his return to the vil- 
lage, amidst dancing and singing and general 
feasting and joy, the Fetishman, or charm 
doctor, places on the chief's head a tall hat, re- 
sembling the "stovepipe" of civilized countries, 
but which is built with a brim at the crown, and 
not at the base. This hat is hereafter worn on 
all great occasions, and the wearer retains it until 
his death, when a new candidate is elected. In 


times gone by Ibaka had received the honor of 
election to this proud order, but, unfortunately, 
during the trouble with Liebrechts the tower- 
ing emblem of peculiar distinction was burned. 
A sympathizing white man, traveling through 
the country, heard of the old chief's hatless con- 
dition, and presented him with a red opera-hat 
of exaggerated construction, which had proba- 
bly in years past formed a prominent feature in a 
pantomime or burlesque, or had been used with 
great effect by some comic singer or wandering 

The possession of this truly wonderful cre- 
ation of the theatrical costumer made Ibaka a 
proud and happy man. His delight in his new 
decoration would have been unalloyed were it 
not for a haunting fear that some one might 
steal it. He kept it, when not in use, in our Sta- 



tion house, and called for it only on state occa- 
sions and big public drinking-bouts. I insisted 
on his continual care of this valuable acquisi- 
tion, and would place it on the side of his head 
for him, and impress upon him the necessity of 
wearing it in that position, as we white men 
were very particular about such details. Old 
Ibaka was intensely superstitious, and was con- 
stantly with the Fetishman, who was kept busy 
manufacturing new charms to protect him against 
imaginary evils. The poor old chief was easily 
gulled, and would accept from anybody anything 
that had the semblance of a charm. 

One day Ibaka arrived back from some pro- 

longed native festival. The old fellow bore evi- 
dence of having taken more than his share of 
the strong wine. He had worn the red opera- 
hat on this occasion, and he now brought it to 
the Station to see it returned to its place of safe- 
keeping. Upon closing it up I noticed a mys- 
terious little package, and was informed that it 
was a monkaiida inonganga (fetish letter). It 
was, in fact, a Mohammedan prayer, given to 
him by one of our boat's crew, as a safeguard 
against all forms of death. It struck me that 
a red opera-hat with a Mohammedan prayer 
pinned in it was, indeed, a strange " find " in 
the wilds of Central Africa. 

en 11 was a. baby 
exceedingly youn 

made up a number 
of very fine loke 

'Miirtf IQ 

tut Ine use of my tongue, 
hal fun it woulJ ie 
to eiJldittn l}it,fo]]c<; 

Along the turnpike, white and broad, 
That through the toll-gate leads to town, 
From field and orchard round about, 
Three pretty maids come blooming out 
To greet the traveler riding down. 
Comes Bouncing Betty, flushed and fair, 
And Black-eyed Sue, with saucy stare, 
And breezy flaunt of yellow hair, 

And at their feet, 

White Marguerite, 
Still smiling from her morning prayer. 

The warm wind blows across the road, 
And lifts the dust in sudden swirls ; 
Now here, now there, to left, to right. 

They gleam upon the traveler's sight, 
As on through shade and sun he whirls. 
Gay Betty gives him joyous chase, 
All glowing with the noiseless race. 
And Susan nods with jaunty grace. 

And at their feet. 

Still Marguerite 
Smiles purely up into his face. 

They m\\ not leave him till he turns 
Into the staid and quiet town. 
Then, looking backward, from between 
Trim cottages and gardens green, 
He sees the dusty distance brown; 
Sees Bouncing Betty, flushed and fair. 
Pause by the bars with wistful air. 
And Susan's eyes shine through her hair. 

And at their feet, 

White Marguerite 
Droop softly to her evening prayer. 


By Florence A. Merriam. 

When our dear bird died, last winter, he had 
lived in our family nearly sixteen years. How- 
did we catch him at first ? We did not catch 
him. He came to us as freely as if he had 
known us alway.s, and wished us to adopt him. 
It happened in this way. It was in the fall, 
when ordinary birds were scurrying south as 
fast as their wings could carry them ; but as our 

farmer walked away 
from the kitchen 
door, there, cling- 
ing to the 
trunk of 
. '■- ■ a beech 


by the walk, he saw this bird looking for break- 
fast as calmly as if he had just stepped out of the 
house for a breath of fresh air. 

Surprised at the sight of the stranger, the 
man in passing the tree put up his hand by 
the bird, when, instead of flying off in affright, 
he quietly hopped down on the proffered perch. 

He saw nothing alarming in being asked into 
the house on a cold mominsf, and so held on 

tightly and rode in state to the kitchen. There 
he seemed equally at home. The whole family 
assembled to look at him, and when the mother 
took him on her linger he did not offer to fly 
off — not even when she danced him to the 
rollicking ballad " Rory O'Moore." 

Indeed, he enjoyed this welcome so much he 
was quite willing to hop into the cage we brought 
him, and take it for his house and home. 

He was a droll little waif, looking as unlike 
any grown bird we knew, as a baby in long 
clothes looks unlike his future self arrayed in 
swallow-tail and white tie. 

But, though we guessed at his name with the 
usual assurance of ignorance, we expended most 
of our wonder over his friendli- 
ness, — for who ever heard of 
a bird who knew no better than 
to trust himself with people ? 
— and over his presence in the 
country at that time of year. 

Whatever the reason that he 
was left behind, the grudge he 
owed his kin lasted him all his 
hfe ; for spring after spring 
when the orioles came back 
they tried to make friends, but 
even when they flew to the 
cage, he scorned them. Per- 
haps this feud made him more 
friendly with us. 
But we, like the orioles, had planned to go 
away for the winter, and could not stay even on 
his account. We left him at the farmhouse, 
where he was sure of kind care, and read with 
great interest the bulletins sent about his health 
and growing accomplishments, together with 
the neighbors' suggestions about his name. 
Some one announced that he was a golden 
robin, and when the family man of science set 
eyes on him, the next spring, we found that it 
was true ; for is not Golden Robin a name for the 
Baltimore oriole ? Iclerus Baltimore, our sci- 

* W"'-"^ 



enrific man gravely termed him. We were glad 
to know who he was, in good set terms; but with 
all respect to his litems ancestors, and to 
Lord Baltimore, to the colors of whose shield 
orioles are said to owe their family tide, our lazy 
tongues preferred the nickname " Orie." So, 
for years Orie was a dear family name, and now 
it brings up many a pretty picture to recall happy 
memories of former years, and is linked with 
other dear names and family happenings. 

The second year he was with us, we stayed at 
home in the country. Such a season ! Snow 
lay in the woods, where it did not drift, at a 
depth of six feet. Our summer driveways were 
both hopelessly blockaded, and the road across 
the open fields, by which alone we could reach 
the main road, though plowed every morning, 
was often blown so full by noon that no trace 
of a road was left. We rarely went off the 
piazza except on snowshoes, and in our depen- 
dence upon indoor amusement let Orie fly about 
the house most of the time, and found him an 
entertaining member of the family. 

One morning we heard a mysterious whistle, 
and \yere greatly perplexed to know where it 
could come from ; but traced it at last to the 
family sitting-room. Whenever any one walked 
down the hall to the door, however, the whist- 
hng would abruptly cease, and a long silence 
would follow the intrusion. We suspected Orie, 
and tried to surprise him by creeping down the 
hall stairs and stealing a look into the room 
in that way ; but he was too wary. We caught 
him at last only by tiptoeing along the hall and 
peeking through the door. He was learning to 
sing, and, unlike some beginners, was too modest 
to face an audience. It was amusing to hear his 
attempts, such queer little broken notes and qua- 
vers. He kept practicing, though, when we were 
out of sight, till he felt confident enough to sing 
a few notes before us. After that he improved 
rapidly, until he was ready to " talk " to us when- 
ever he had anything to say, and soon took to the 
pretty way of calling out good-night to us as we 
filed up the stairs with our flickering candles. 

We usually let him out of his cage in time 
for breakfast, and he would fly across the hall 
into the dining-room as eagerly as if we were 
depending on him to carve the steak or pour 
the coffee. We gave him a butter-plate, putting 

it at one side of the table with whatever we 
thought good for his breakfast ; but he had no 
idea of being limited in any way. 

When very hungry, he would fly down to the 
table and run across the cloth, making out his 


bill-of-fare as he went. The butter-dish and 
syrup-pitcher attracted him most strongly. He 
plunged his bill into the butter as if the Eskimos 
had taught him the proper food for a cold winter. 
The syrup-pitcher was too high for him, but by 
standing tiptoe on the saucer and stretching his 
neck he could take the drop in the spout. 

One day the children very nearly lost him, 
by taking him into the woods for a bath. It 
was the prettiest spot in all the brook. Just a 
tiny pool with mossy banks, and ferns arching 
over the water. They could not rest till their 
dear Orie had bathed there ! At home, he had 
a pleasant, roomy house, for the grandmother's 
garret had been ransacked, and he had been 
advanced from the small hanging brass cage to a 
spacious four-story mansion mounted on a high 
rolling standard that made it an easy matter to 
move the cage out of the wind or into the sun, 




and raised it above the jump of a cat — the door 
being barely within reach of the mischievous 
three-year-old. This brought the top of the cage 
so high we could just reach up to hang a shawl 
over it. For Orie was well cared for. In cold 
weather he was kept in the hall or dining-room; 
in the milder days he was taken out on the piazza 
for the warm hours, and brought in at night ; and 

He had few fears, inside the house, though 
a pair of snowshoes always scared him, even 
when he saw us strap them on before starting 
for our walks ; and he did not like big dogs to 
come too near the cage. People never alarmed 
him. In fact, if a stranger came to the cage 
and teasingly put his finger between the wires, 
Orie scolded indignantly, and often pecked so 


8^^«r;%i^* ? 

'' ^ 

"who cares for you?" 


in summer he lived on the piazza, but shawls were 
carefully pinned over the cage every evening. 

When we cleaned the cage, he often flew down 
and pecked at our hands ; and when the slide was 
taken out, he plagued us by trying to creep through 
the crack into the room. When he got out, and we 
tried to catch him, he led us a chase, flying from 
the top of one picture-frame to another and then 
out from room to room ; for he missed the freedom 
of the house, even in his big cage. At times he 
would fly from one end of the cage to the other 
from mere restlessness, but at others he would 
dash against the wires in terror at sight of some- 
thing outside the window — probably a hawk. 

hard at the taunting member that he drew 
blood from it. 

He was as set in his likes and dislikes as any 
other old bachelor, from brown bread and oat- 
meal — both of which he detested — to the 
people he saw. In the family, he cared more for 
the mother than for any one else. After a 
long course of practice, he attained great finish 
as a musician, keeping the love-song of the wild 
orioles throughout the year. He never sang 
this to a gentleman, and it was a mark of pecul- 
iar favor if a lady admirer heard it. But the 
mother had only to speak to him in her loving, 
gentle tones, for him to begin bowing and sing- 




ing in his sweetest way the tender, exquisite song 
we hear from the trees in spring. 

Every morning when she came downstairs 
he sang to her — unless she passed through the 
room too hurriedly to speak to him, when he 
would scold in an aggrieved way. Whenever 
he spent the days in the house, if he heard her 
singing upstairs, he would break out in loud, 
ringing, joyous tones ; and when the house was 
still, if he called and she answered him from up- 
stairs, he would hold long conversations with her. 

But, conciUate him as I might, 1 could never 
get him to sing to me. I had to act as house- 
maid, valet, and surgeon for him. He had to 
be kept in the cage when he wished to be 
out, and be put back when he got out ; when he 
moulted — being a caged bird of sedentary 
habits — the long wing and tail feathers came 
out very hard, and I had to catch him, hold him 
no matter how he wriggled and writhed, and 
pull them out one by one. Worst of all, he once 
broke off one tip of his bill, and the other tip 
had to be cut to match before he could eat 
with his usual ease. 

Such personal indignities he could not for- 
give. Whenever I came near the cage he be- 
gan to scold, and if I offered him my finger for 
a perch I paid for the affront with my blood. 

But, one morning before breakfast I came 
downstairs and through the hall to the piazza 
with a step so unusually light that he took me 
for the mother, and began singing the song re- 
served for her morning greeting. I was so 
surprised and delighted, I hurried to the cage ; 
but the instant he saw who it was he stopped 
singing and scolded furiously — he had been 
cheated into singing to me ! As he grew older, 
he became less chary of his music, and as he 
outgrew the need of the more humiliating atten- 
tions, he gradually forgave me, and now and 
then treated me to one of his sweet songs. 

When any of the family had been out for a 
walk or drive, and he saw them coming up the 
road, he would call out, as if heartily glad to see 
them back. And when we came home after an 
absence of months, even if we came at night, 
when he was fluffed out into a round ball with 
his head tucked down in his feathers, the mo- 
ment we went and spoke to him, he would wake 
up and sing out a hearty how-do-you-do to us. 
Vol. XVII.— 81. 

But though Orie showed so much affection 
for us, he cared no more for the birds that shared 
the cage with him than he did for his oriole 
visitors. A weak, lame little nonpareil who was 
with him for a year or two was treated in a 
shameful way. The big autocrat would start 
off the perch, aiming straight for the spot where 
he sat, so that the poor nonpareil had to choose 
between being flown into or scrambling meekly 
out of the way. The result was that he wore a 
crushed, apologetic air, and always kept an eye 
on Orie, sometimes hiding in a dark corner of 
the bottom of the cage to escape being knocked 
off his perch in the old fellow's restless moods. 

It must be confessed that our dear boy was 
selfish. There was a pine-grosbeak with him, 
who was the most peaceable, dignified of birds ; 
but, though Orie had his foot on a favorite mor- 
sel, if we held something out to Pinicola, Orie 
would drop his food and fly up to take possession 
of Pinicola's, for fear it was better than his own. 

At different times, a catbird, bluebird, pine- 
finch, and some orioles and goldfinches were 
with Orie, but the canaries were the only birds 
that ever dared to treat him to more than a 
taste of his own arrogance. One of them, little 
mite that he was, used to open his bill and 
raise his wings threateningly when on the perch 
beside Orie, and drove him all over the cage, 
hovering over the big fellow's head, in the king- 
bird and hawk style, and when out in the room 
the little fellow gave him no rest for the sole of 
his foot — altogether furnishing the old tyrant 
food for reflection. 

But, in his long life, Orie survived all the 
other birds, and for several years before his 
death had the cage all to himself 

As with other caged birds, his plumage never 
reached the richness of coloring that the wild 
birds attain ; but his pale orange was very pretty 
against his black head and back, we thought, 
and we loved him just as weU. 

He had the strong legs and claws and useful 
bill that mark his family. He was so fond of his 
swing, though it had a stiff, jerky motion that 
would have taxed weaker legs, and creaked on 
its wires alarmingly, that he often slept on it up 
in the warm top of his house. 

If there was stiff, raiding paper on the bot- 
tom of the cage, or if for any other reason Orie 



did not want to fly down, he would drop to the 
lowest perch, swing himself over till his body 
hung vertically, and, holding on tight with his 
claws, stretch out to his full length, snatch a 
billful of food from the saucer, and then swing 
himself back to an upright position. 

He used his bill as a crowbar. His door 
swung out from the side of the cage, and, cling- 
ing to it, he would try to pry it away from the 
cage — he could open the door a little, why 
not enough to let himself out ? 

It was interesting to see the different ways in 
which Orie and Pinicola ate. Pinicola preferred 
to have his food in the saucer or between the 
wires, where he nibbled daintily at it. If forced 
to take it in his bill, he held it out " at arm's 
length," showing great skill in balancing it and 
eating at the same time. But the grasping, im- 
petuous Orie insisted on taking the whole black- 
berry, or whatever it was, right into his long bill, 
and then, unable to hold it and eat at the same 
time, would put it under his foot, and, if it was 
a juicy fruit, thrust his bill deep into the center 
and drink up the juice. 

Fruits of every kind, from strawberries and 
apples to bananas and raisins, he thought espe- 
cially delectable. Beefsteak, cake, pies, sugar, 
ice-cream, he could enjoy. He preferred his 
potatoes mashed, but liked baked ones if they 
were buttered for him. 

At meals we took him whatever we had, and 
when in the dining-room he flew round the cage 
anxiously till we brought him something. If he 
was in the hall, and heard us at the table, he 
would scold loudly till we gave him his meal. 

For his natural food he kept a taste, too, eat- 
ing flies if we caught them for him, and even 
chasing after a miller occasionally, if one strayed 
between the bars. Ants had a fascination for 
him. The way they affected him was amusing. 
The instant he got one firmly under his claw and 
saw its legs squirm, he was seized with the ner- 
vous feeling that it was crawling over his body, 
and while he stood on it would turn and hur- 
riedly stroke first one wing and then the other, as 
if to brush it off. It always took him a long time 
to eat an ant, he had so much brushing to do. 

He was as fond of chickweed as a canary, and 

enjoyed picking locust-blossoms, violets, or other 
flowers, and eating the tender petals. 

With all this variety of diet he never had dys- 
pepsia — the more 's the wonder ! At times he 
was a little ailing, had a slight cold or something 
of the kind, but a few red bird-peppers were al- 
most sure to restore him. He was so fond of 
peppers that if he saw the bottle, he would fly 
against the wires for it as eagerly as he did for 
the syrup-pitcher. 

When he felt ill, he acted quite like some other 
sick people. He was unusually gentle, and 
rather glad to be petted. At such times he 
fluffed his feathers about him and answered us 
in very mild, weak tones, and if we offered him 
a finger would sometimes ahght on it and sit for 
several moments, pecking us gently the while. 
But, however ill he was, he would never sub- 
mit to being stroked or taken in the hand — he 
liked his own free will too well for that. 

We were away during the last year of his life. 

He was very friendly with the family where 
we left him, and would take food from the 
chubby hand of the baby when she was held 
up to the cage. 

The very day before he died, he was out among 
the plants, sang to the family as sweetly as ever, 
and seemed as well as usual when he went to 
bed ; but the next morning they found him dead 
in his cage. 

We never realized how dear our little pet was 
to us until we lost him. When we came into the 
house there was no sweet voice to sing out a 
welcome to us, the rooms seemed strangely empty 
without his cage, and we sadly missed his merry 
" talk." 

For a long time we could not sit down to a 
meal without thinking of him, for there was a 
little plate that should be filled, and a leaf of 
tender lettuce or celery, a nut, or taste of jelly 
— some favorite morsel of his to be taken to him. 
If we went out in the fields, there was the sweet 
clover to bring back to him ; if into the woods, 
it was a bit of bark or a lichen-covered twig 
that would please him — always something to 
remind us of the dear bird that for sixteen years 
had been a loved and loving member of our 
home circle. 


By Walter Camp. 

Second Paper : 

fielding, throwing, and general practice. 

Candidates for in-field positions are usually 
too numerous to admit of their all practicing to- 
gether, as would-be out-fielders may do. On 
this account it is customary for them to take 
turns, in parties of perhaps four at a time. 
The others, who are obliged to wait their turn, 
make themselves useful as batsmen to the rest; 
or they may stand about half way between the 
out-fielders and the man batting to them, and 
thereby get an occasional ball, besides returning 
the ball to the batter for the out-fielders. To 
those who take the bases balls are sent in turn, 
or occasionally at random, which they field over 
to the first-base man. He usually practices 
throwing to third base. The batsman contrives 
to give each man a variety of balls, mostly 
grounders, such as each would be called upon 
to take in a game. An occasional short high fly 
is knocked, and once in a while a sharp liner. 
While the ball is sometimes batted directly at the 
fielder, the best practice for him is to have it sent 
frequently upon one side or the other of the place 
upon which he stands. Thus, in the case of the 
third-base man, whose position is a few feet inside 
the line to the home-plate and a little behind the 
line from second to third, balls should be batted 
not only along the front line occasionally, but 
very often several feet toward the short-stop. 
One of the best arrangements between a short- 
stop and a third-base man, is for the latter to 
take all slow hits coming where he can run in 
and handle them, while the short-stop plays what 
is known as a "deep field," that is considerably 
back of the base line, and takes whatever balls the 
third-base man cannot reach on account of their 
speed or direction. In this way much more 
ground can be satisfactorily covered by these two 
men. When men are practicing these plays, the 
batter should send some slow, bounding balls 

directed toward the short-stop, and the third- 
base man should run in on them and handle 
them. Then a sharp drive should be sent, 
which the short-stop will receive, as the other 
could not reach it in time. It is not a diffi- 
cult matter for two men to acquire this style of 
play, and when once it is learned it makes a very 
strong fielding combination. 

The second-base man plays about on a line 
with his base, but away from it toward first some 
twenty feet or so. The batter should send the 
balls on both sides of him, extending his field as 
much as possible. In batting over the second- 
base bag, however, the batter should not drive 
the ball too fast, or it will be practically a base- 
hit, and too many such drives tend to discourage 
the player who zealously tries for each. A 
slow hit is one of the most difficult for a 
second-base man to handle, particularly if he 
plays well back in order to cover ground. It 
is not so much that he can not run up rapidly 
on it, but that it usually comes to him just about 
the spot most cut up by the base line, and where 
an irregular bound puts it out of the question 
for him to field it cleanly. On this account the 
batter should give the second-base man plenty 
of this very kind to take, in order that he may 
acquire the habit of rapid judgment as to how 
far in he should meet the ball. A fly should be 
occasionally batted almost over the first-base 
man's head, just a little too high for that player 
to reach. The second-base man can take many 
of these, and practice soon shows him that he 
can cover a deal of ground there. 

In batting to the first-base man, balls should be 
knocked that force him to use good judgment as 
to whether he should go after them or let the 
second-base man take them. These and slow 
grounders along the base-Hne are the ones upon 
which he will need the most practice. 

While the in-field and out-field are thus getting 
their general practice, the batteries are usually 
"hmbering up," although the pitcher should be 





careful not to indulge in a severe ._ ^, , 

delivery until he faces a batsman, 

as it is too great a strain upon him 

for nothing. He should strive merely 

to get the muscles of his arm working easily and 

freely, while the catcher also warms himself up 

gradually to the work. 

Batting practice can be had in two ways: first, 
by placing the batter at the plate and stopping 
the ordinary practice in the in-field; second, by 
stationing him out to one side, where he will 
not materially interfere with the practice. The 
latter is preferable, as accomplishing more work 
in the same time. 

The regular pitchers ought not to be obliged 
to do all the pitching for this batting practice. 
In fact, it is best to have them do only as much 
of it as they can do without getting at all tired or 
listless. Two or three men who throw well and 
have a moderate control of the curves should 
be brought out to do a greater part of this rather 
tedious work. Nothing is more demoralizing to 
a good pitcher than to keep him pitching for 
batting practice, until he becomes tired and 
careless. Each man should be given a certain 
number of hits, until all have had a turn. After 
this it is wise to select the most promising nine 
men, and, arranging them in their positions, 
to place a tenth man at the bat and one or two 
substitutes on the bases. Then let the playing 
be as if it were a regular game. This gives a 
new and added interest just at the time when 
the men are perhaps becoming a little tired. 
After fifteen minutes of this work, the captain, 
or (if he be not a successful batter for the prac- 
tice) some other player, takes the bat and ball 
and, standing on the home-plate, knocks the ball 
to the in-field or out-field, as he chooses, calling 
out at the same time what play to make with the 
ball. In this he should give every man some 
diflncult play to execute; such, for instance, 


as Stationing a runner on third with instructions 
to try to come in on a fly after the ball is caught, 
and then knocking a fly to the out-fielder and 
having him send the ball in to the plate to 
intercept the man. A few double plays in the 
in-field, some practice in catching a runner 
between bases, a little throwing to second by 
the catcher, and some fielding home by the 
in-field should complete the work of the day. 
Now, a few words regarding the objects to be 
aimed at in this general practice. First, as re- 
gards throwing. Every one has what may be 
called a natural way of throwing the ball, but 
this so-called " natural way " usually means a per- 
verted method acquired through carelessness, or 
attempts to throw too hard before the arm is 
sufficiently accustomed to the work. As a result 
of this, there are few boys or college men who 
may not learn a great deal in the matter of throw- 
ing by careful attention for a few weeks to one 
or two points. The first man to whom attention 
should be called is the man who takes a hop, 
skip, and jump before he lets the ball go. No 
man can run fast enough to beat a thrown ball, 
and consequently it takes longer to carry the 
ball part way and throw it the rest, than it does 
to throw it all the way. Therefore the first thing 
for the man who has acquired this trick to do, is 
to stand still when he gets the ball, and then 
throw it. The opposite fault to this, is that of 




leaning away when throwing. A man gets a 
sharp grounder, and throws the ball before he 
has recovered his balance, and the force of his 
throw is thereby greatly cUminished. While this 
is not nearly so common as the other fault, it is 
quite as difficult to correct. The happy medium 
between the two is the man who receives the 
ball and, quickly straightening himself, drives it 
while leaning forward ; and, as it leaves his hand, 
takes his single step in the direction of his throw. 
So much for the feet and body, now for the 
arm, hand, and wrist. 

The best and most accurate throwers are those 
who continually practice what is called a " short- 
arm " throw. To get an idea of the first steps 
toward the acquisition of this method, let the 
player take the ball in his hand, and bringing it 
back just level with his ear, planting both feet 
firmly, attempt to throw the ball without using 
the legs or body. At first the throw is awkward 
and feeble, but constant practice speedily results 
in moderate speed and peculiar accuracy. After 
steady practice at this 
until quite a pace is ac- 
quired, the man may 
be allowed to use his 
legs and body to in- 
crease the speed, still, 
however, sticking to 

the straight, 
forward mo- 
tion of the 
hand, wrist, 
and the arm. 

I ne secret illustrations of the short-arm throw. 

of the throw 

is, of course, keeping the hand in a line with the 

arm and not swinging it out to the side and away 
from the head, where much of the accuracy and 
some of the quickness is lost. Certain catchers 
have brought this style of throw to such a pitch 


of perfection as to get the ball away toward second 
almost on the instant it strikes the hands. They 
aid the throwing by a slight twist of the body. 

The quickness of this method of throwing 
is, of course, due to the fact that there is no 
delay caused by drawing back the arm past the 
head or by turning the body around, which lose 
so much valuable time. Its accuracy is due to the 
fact that it is easier to aim at an object with a 
hand in front of the eyes than when it is out 
beyond the shoulder. One can easily ascertain 
this by comparing the ease of pointing the index 
finger at any object when the hand is in front 
of the face, with the difficulty of doing so 
when the arm is extended out sideways from the 
body. Still further, in the almost round-arm 
throwing, which many players use, the hand 
describes an arc, and the ball must be let go 
at the proper point to go true. If let go at 
any other point in the swing, the throw is cer- 
tain to be wild. In the other method, that of 
straight-arm throwing, any variation is far more 
likely to be a variation in height only, and in 
that respect the variation may be greater without 
serious error. A straight-arm throw sends a ball 
much easier to handle than the side-arm style. 
The latter is likely to curve, bound irregularly, 
and be more inconvenient for the baseman. 




In-field throwing should be on a line, as much 
as possible, and there are few distances to be 
covered there that require any " up and over " 
throwing. In getting a ball in from a deep 
out-field, the distance is sometimes so great that 
none but professionals or exceptionally strong 
throwers can drive the ball in except by giving 
it quite an upward direction ; even then, how- 
ever, one should be careful to keep the ball 
fairly well down, as it is far better to have it 
reach the catcher on the bound than to go sail- 
ing over his head. " Keep it down " is a cardi- 
nal rule when fielding to the home-plate from 
the field. If a low ball be thrown, it is easier for 
the catcher to touch the runner, who in a tight 
place will invariably slide as close to the ground 
as possible. A high throw gives the catcher al- 
most no chance to recover and put the ball on 
the man, whereas a low throw brings his hands 
in the most advantageous position for touching 
the runner. The same is, of course, true in the 
case of the catcher's throws to the second or the 
other bases, to put out the runner. 

The position of the fingers when throwing a 
ball is a point upon which there are individual 
differences of opinion; but the majority of the 
best throwers in the country use principally 
the fore-finger and middle-finger in giving direc- 
tion to the ball. Further particulars regarding 
special throwing will be noted in a later article 
upon the individual positions. 

Handling the ball well is quite as important an 
element in the game as throwing. By the non- 
pla)ring spectator there is little difference noted 
between the various ways of catching a fly or 
picking up a grounder. Muffs and fumbles are the 
only errors of this kind which excite their adverse 
comment ; but, in point of fact, there are errors 
almost as serious which entirely escape their 
observation. A player may hang back from a 
slow hit so long that even though he pick it up 
well and throw it accurately the runner will 
nevertheless reach his base. Indeed, the scorer 
may give it as a base-hit, and the fielder escape 
a deserved error. Again, a fielder may, by not 
starting quickly enough, be obhged to turn and 
run with a fly so that he catches it while facing 
away from the plate, and is thus unable to field 
the ball in, in time to intercept a runner who starts 
from third after the catch. Sometimes it is 

necessary to catch the ball in this way, but it 
should be the last resort; not only because it is 
very difficult, but also because this method 
makes it impossible to get a quick return of 
the ball when required. An in-fielder should 
always take the ball while coming forward if 
possible. This does not mean that he should 
dash madly into the ball, but that his weight 
should be moving in an advantageous direction 
when he takes it. It is best to bring the 
heels together just as the player stoops for the 
ball, if it be a low one, and hug the ground 
closely. The knees should bend, and the 
hands and arms, as they go down, will make, 
with the legs, an almost impassable barrier, so 
that even should the player fail to get the 
ball cleanly in his hands, he will stop it, and 
perhaps still have time to field it. The end to 
be aimed at is, of course, to always take the 
ball on a good bound ; but no one can rely upon 
doing this invariably, as irregularities of the 
ground and the peculiarities of batting render 
exact results impossible. The fielder must also 
bear in mind the fact that he should take the ball 


on the earliest good bound, and not, by waiting 
or backing away, make his throw necessarily a 
hurried one. There are times when good judg- 




ON THh ALhKl. 

ment leads a player to take the ball a little late ; 
as, for instance, when he has an opportunity 
for a double-play with the ball coming directly 
at the base he wishes to cover. By a step 
backward he can take the ball while his foot is 
touching the bag, and then instantly throw to 
the other base ; whereas by meeting the ball 
early, he would have to run back a step or two 
to touch the base before throwing. 

Rapidity of judgment is more valuable in 
base-ball than in almost any other sport, and 
it is only this quick thinking which will enable 
a player to take every advantage that offers. 
Wherever it is practicable, a fielder should en- 
deavor to take the ball in the most convenient 
position for immediate throwing to the quarter 
where the ball is most needed. For instance, 
a right-handed player should, as far as possible, 
avoid taking the ball while turned to the left, 
when, by a little extra effort, he can bring him- 
self squarely in firont of it. The out-fielders will 
profit by the same advice as has been given for the 
in-fielders, and in addition they should remem- 
ber that they have far more distance to cover. 
When a ball is pitched, every out-fielder should 
be ready for an instant start, and if a fly be 

•get off! get a lead! 

batted, each should be off" toward the spot where 
it will probably fall. Of course, if the ball is 
falling in left-field, the right-fielder after a step 
or two may stop; but the center-fielder should 
go on, not to take the fly, but to be ready to 
assist if the ball goes through the left-fielder's 
hands. An out-fielder should bear in mind one 
cardinal principle, namely, that he should run 
as fast as possible until he nears the spot where 
the ball is coming. Then he can slow up, but 
his fast running should begin as he starts, and 
not after he has gone half way and finds that 
he is likely to be late. A moderate runner who 
.starts instantly for the right spot makes a far bet- 
ter fielder than a more speedy man who gets oflT 
slowly, and whose judgment of the spot where 
the ball will probably land is not so good. 
A fly should always be handled in front of a 
man if possible, as he is then in a better posi- 
tion to throw it if caught, as well as to stop it 
and return it if a muff be made. In taking a 
grounder, an out-fielder should sacrifice rapidity 
of handling to security. A ground hit which goes 
by an out-fielder is .so disastrous that no chance 
of missing it should be taken. He must stop it, 
even though, as the expression has it, he must " lie 
down before it." The out-field is usually rougher 
and more irregular than the in-field, and hence 
the player must be more careful to put himself 
directly in the pathway of the ball. In catch- 
ing a fly, the hands should be used cup-fashion, 
the thumbs up and the lower edges of the hands 
brought close together. Line hits can not, of 
course, be handled in this way, but must be 
taken like thrown balls, with the little fingers in 
front and the thumbs forming the back of the 




cup ; a low ball, with the thumbs forward and 
the edges of the hands forming the back. It is 
occasionally necessary to take a ball directly over 
the head, owing to a sudden change in its direc- 
tion due to the wind carrying it over the player. 
Such balls must be taken with the little fingers up 
and the thumbs making the bottom of the cup. 

showing him how often it is that the ball beats 
the runner by the merest fraction of a second, 
he will appreciate the advantage to be gained, 
and will himself use all his energies toward the 
acquisition of this quick start. 

Such points of play must be made habitual 
to the player by constant practice, because, no 



The base-running practice of a nine consists 
for the most part of quick starting and bold slid- 
ing. The gymnasium work will have added 
greatly to the abilities of the men in these di- 
rections, but they must be re-enforced by daily 
work on the field. The point most neglected, and 
yet the most vital to success, is a quick start for 
first after hitting the ball. Many a slow hit is 
turned into a base-hit by the speed and quick- 
ness of the runner. Many an error is saved an 
in-fielder by the slowness of the batter in getting 
under way. Every man should be made to prac- 
tice this start until he springs toward first the 
instant the ball leaves his bat. If a player can 
be impressed with the importance of this, by 

matter how much he may desire to make them 
at certain times, as, for instance, in the ninth in- 
ning with perhaps his single run required to win, 
he is not capable of doing so unless his former 
work has been directed toward acquiring them. 
The next practice is in "stealing second." 
The battery should be placed in their places, 
and the runner on first-base. The pitcher should 
hold the runner as close to the base as he can 
by motions and an occasional throw, exactly 
as he would in a game, and the runner should 
be sent down when a good opportunity offers. 
He should be coached to take as great a lead 
as he can with security, always bearing in mind, 
however, that he should not lead off so far as to 




make it necessary for him to be off his balance 
in the wrong direction, for a good start is wortli 
two or three feet of lead. In taking his lead he 
should be willing to go far enough at times to 
make it necessary for him to go back for first 
with his hands if the ])itcher throws to the bag, 
for by getting back in that way he is enabled to 
take a little longer lead. When he starts for 
second, it should be with his whole heart and as 
if his life depended upon it. Here again, if 
necessary, he must slide for it, going head 
first at the base, and taking it with his hand. 

There are two cautions to be remembered in 
this play. One is to slide as far behind the 
base-man as it is possible to do, and yet catch 
the bag ; the other, not to begin to slide .so early 
as to lose the advantage of the last step or two 
of the run. This last caution is by no means a 
needless one, as men who are expert at sliding 
are very likely to fall into the habit of " sliding 
up to the bag " ; beginning the slide so early as 
to lose headway and valuable speed, and thus be 
so slow as to be touched by the base-man before 
the hand reaches the bag. 



By George H. Murphv. 

If I were you, I often say 

To those who seem to need advice, 
I 'd always look before I leaped ; 
I 'd always think it over twice. 

And then I heave a troubled sigh — 
For, after all, I 'm only I. 

I 'd ne'er discuss, if I were you. 

The failings of my fellow-men ; 
I 'd think of all their virtues first. 

And scan my own shortcomings then. 
But though all this is good and true, 
I am but I ; I am not you. 

If I were you and half so vain. 

Amidst my folly I would pause 
To see how dull and light a fool 
I was myself. I don't, because — 
(And here I heave a pitying sigh) 
I am not you ; I 'm only I. 
Vol. XVII.— S2. 

If I were you, no selfish care 

Should chase my cheery smile away ; 
I 'd scatter round me love and hope ; 
I 'd do a kindness every day. 
But here again I find it true 
That I am I, and you are you. 

I would not be so very quick 

To take offense, if I were you ; 
I would respect myself, at least. 
Whatever others say or do. 
Alas ! can no one tell me why 
I am not you, instead of I ? 

In short, if I were only you. 
And could forget that I was I ; 

I think that little cherub wings 

Would sprout upon me, by and by. 


By Grace Denio Litchfield. 

Higher, higher, farther away. 

Swing me — swing me — swing me ! 
Up to the tree-top, up to the sky. 
So that none other hath swung so high ! 
I will outfly the bees and the birds and the winds. 

I will outsoar the song of the lark. 
I will reach to the clouds. I will shout in blue space. 
I will laugh in the shadowy, silver face 

Of the moon as she sits in the dark ! 
Oh, higher, oh, higher, oh, farther away. 

Swing me — swing me — swing me ! 

See how I cleave the dim air in my flight. 

Like a dart from an unseen bow. 
See how I leap through the gloom of the night. 
Like a vision of sudden and sweetest delight 

Shot through a lifetime of woe ! 
Upward, upward, upward alway. 
Like a spirit set free from its prison of clay. 
That speeds through the ether, away and away. 

To a world that none else of us know ! 
Oh, higher, oh, higher, oh, farther away. 

Swing me — swing me — swing me ! 

No higher? No higher? No higher? 

Oh, swing me — swing me — swing me ! 
Can I stop so far short of my nearest desire ? 
Is it so childish, so vain to aspire ? 

Oh, swing me, and swing me, and swing me ! 
I w-ould soar far above me. Oh, help, if you love me ! 
Oh, lend me the charm of love's powerful arm ! 
Nay, faster and faster ! Oh, farther, I pray ! 
Can the dream end so soon ? I was more than half way. 

Oh, swing me ! oh, swing me ! oh, swing me ! 


Bv Mrs. C. V. Jamison. 

Chapter VII. 


HEN Pepsie finst looked 
at Lady Jane, standing 
before her and holding 
u]) the bird, with the 
light of the sunset on 
her yellow hair, and her 
lips parted in a smile 
that made even the 
solemn eyes bright, 
she felt as if she saw 
a visitor from another 
world. For a moment 
she could only look at her ; then she found voice 
to say : 

" I was afraid you would n't come. Tite said 
you would n't. I 've looked for you all day." 

" I came to show Tony to you before I go 
to bed. I '11 hold him so you can see him," 
and Lady Jane stretched up on the tips of her 
little white toes to raise the bird above the 

" Wait a moment ; I '11 have Tite open the 
door for you. Won't you come in ? " 

Tite, who heard Pepsie talking, was peeping 
through the kitchen door. In an instant she 
had pushed the bolt aside, and Lady Jane stood 
in the little room, and was looking around her 
with pleased surprise. 

" Why, how nice ! " she said, with a little sigh 
of content. " I 'm glad I came. Have you 
got a kitty ? " 

" A kitty ? You mean a little cat ? " asked 
Pepsie, her face one broad smile over the child 
and bird. " No, I have n't one, and I 'm sorry." 

Lady Jane had dropped Tony on the floor, 
and she held him with a long string fastened to 
the leather band on his leg, while she looked 
over Pepsie's distorted little figure with mingled 
curiosity and pity. 

In the mean time, Pepsie and Tite were 
watching the bird with the closest attention, 
while he hopped about, not very gracefully, 
jjicking grains of brick-dust from the cracks of 
the floor. 

At last Tite, unable to control her wonder and 
admiration, broke forth : 

" Miss Pep', jes look at he ! Ain't he the 
cur'ousest bird y' ever seed? — an' he ain't no 
goshn', shore nuff — jes look at he tail-feaders, 
jes lak dem feaders on Mam'selle Marie's hat." 

"And he knows when I speak to him," said 
Lady Jane, lifting her lovely eyes to Pepsie. 
" Now I '11 call him, and you '11 see him come." 

Then she chirruped softly, and called, " Tony, 
Tony ! " The bird turneil his bright eyes on 
her, and, with a fluttering run, he hurried to her. 

" Oh ! oh ! " cried Pepsie, quite overcome with 
surprise. " Is n't he knowing ? I never saw such 
a bird. Is he a wild bird ? " 

" No, he 's very tame, or he 'd fly away," 




replied Lad)- Jane, looking at him fondly. " He 's 
a blue heron ; no one has a bird like him." 

" A blue heron," repeated Pepsie, wonderingly. 
I never heard of such a bird." 

" Did n't I done tole yer dem chil'ren say he 
a herrin', an' he ain't no herrin'?" interrupted 
Tite, determined to support her assertion as to 
her knowledge of the difference between tish and 
fowl. " I tole yer, Miss Peps', how herrin' 's fish, 
an' he a bird, shore nuff,'' and, unable to 
her mirth at the absurdity of the name, she burst 
into a loud laugh of derision. 

Lady Jane looked hurt and surprised, and 
stooping for Tony, she gathered him up, and 
turned toward the door. 

" Oh, don't go; please don't," pleaded Pepsie. 
"Tite, stop laughing, and put a chair for the 
little girl ; and then go to your work." 

Tite obeyed reluctantly, with many a grin and 
backward look ; and Lady Jane, after lingering 
a moment at the door, shy and undecided, put 
Tony down again, and climbed into the chair 
on the opposite side of the table. 

" Now that darky 's gone," said Pepsie, with 
a gaiety that was reassuring, " we can talk sense. 
Do you understand me, everything I say ? You 
know I don't speak English very well." 

'■ Oh, yes ! " answered Lady Jane. " I know 
what you say, and I like you." 

'■ I 'm glad of that," said Pepsie brightly, 
"because I 've been just crazy to have you come 
over here. Now, tell me, is Madame Jozain 
your aunt or your grandma ? " 

" Why, she 's my Tante Pauline, that 's all," 
repHed the child indifferently. 

" Do you love her dearly ? " asked Pepsie, 
who was something of a little diplomat. 

" No, I don't love her," said Lady Jane 

" Oh, my ! Why ? — is n't she good to you ? " 

Lady Jane made no reply, but looked wist- 
fully at Pepsie, as if she would rather not 
express her opinion on the subject. 

" Well, never mind. I guess she 's kind to you, 
only perhaps you miss your ma. Has she gone 
away ? " and Pepsie lowered her voice and spoke 
very softly ; she felt that she was treading on 
delicate ground, but she wanted to know all 
about the dear little thing — not so much from 
curiosity as from the interest she felt in her. 

Lady Jane did not reply, and Pepsie again 
asked, very gently : 

" Has your mamma gone away ? " 

" Tante Pauline says so," replied the child, as 
the woe-begone e.xpression settled on her little 
face. "She says Mamma 's gone away, and 
that she '11 come back. I think she 's gone to 
heaven to see Papa. You know Papa went to 
heaven before we left the ranch, and Mamma 
was tired waiting for him to come back, and so 
she 's gone to see him ; but I wish she 'd taken 
me with her. I want to see Papa, too ; and I 
don't like to wait so long." 

The soft, serious little voice fell to a sigh, and 
Lady Jane looked solemnly out of the window at 
the strip of sunset sky over Madame Jozain's 
house. Pepsie's great eyes filled with tears, and 
she turned away her head to hide them. 

" Heaven 's up there, is n't it ? " Lady Jane 
continued, pointing upward. " Every night 
when the stars come out, I watch to see if Papa 
and Mamma are looking at me. I think they 
like to stay up there, and don't want to come 
back. Perhaps they 've forgotten all about 
Lady Jane." 

"'Lady Jane'? Is that your name? Why, 
how pretty," said Pepsie, trying to speak 
brightly ; " and what a little darling you are ! 
I don't think any one would ever forget you — 
surely not your papa and mamma. You need n't 
to be so lonesome — sitting there on the gal- 
lery every day alone. While your aunt 's busy 
with her customers you can come over here 
with your bird, and sit with me. I '11 show you 
how to shell pecans, and sugar them, and I '11 
read some pretty stories to you. Now, tell me 
about your bird. Where did you get him ? " 

" A boy gave him to me — a nice boy. It was 
on the cars, and Mamma said I could have him; 
that was before Mamma's dear head ached so. 
It ached so she could not speak afterward." 

"And have n't you a doll?" interrupted 
Pepsie, seeing that the child was approaching 
the dangerous topic. 

"A doll? Oh, yes, I have ever so many at 
the ranch, but I have n't any here; Tante Paul- 
ine promised me one, but she has n't got it yet." 

" Well, never mind, I '11 make you one. I 
make lovely dolls for my little cousins, the Pai- 
choux. I must tell you about the Paichoux. 




There is Uncle Paichoux, and Tante Modeste, 
and Marie, the eldest, — she has taken her first 
communion, and goes to balls, — and then there 
is Tiburce, a big boy, and Sophie, and Nanette, 
and a lot of little ones — all good, pleasant chil- 
dren, so healthy and so happy. Uncle Paichoux 
is a dairyman. They live on Frenchman Street, 
way, way down where it is like the country ; and 
they have a big house, a great deal larger than 
any house in this neighborhood, with a garden, 
and figs and peaches, and lovely pomegranates 
that burst open when they are ripe; and Marie 
has roses, and crape-myrtle, and jasmine. It is 
lovely there — just lovely! I went there once, 
long ago, before my back hurt me so much." 

" Does your back hurt you now ? " interrupted 
Lady Jane, diverted from the charming descrip- 
tion of the Paichoux home by sudden sympathy 
for the speaker. 

" Yes, sometimes. You see how crooked it is. 
It 's all grown out, and I can't bear to be jolted. 
That 's why I never go anywhere; besides, I can't 
walk," added Pepsie, feeling a secret satisfaction 
in enumerating her ills; " but it 's my back — my 
back 's the worst." 

" What ails it ? " said Lady Jane, with the 
deepest sympathy in her grave little voice. 

" I 've got a spine in my back, and the doctor 
says I '11 never get over it. It 's something 
when you once get it that you can't be cured 
of, and it 's mighty bad ; but I 've got used to it 
now," and she smiled at Lady Jane, a smile full 
of patience and resignation. " I was n't always 
so, though," she went on cheerfully, " before Papa 
died. You see Papa was a fireman, and he was 
killed in a fire when I was very small ; but be- 
fore that he used to take me out in his arms; 
and sometimes I used to go out in Tante Mo- 
deste's milk-cart — such a pretty cart ! painted 
red, and set upon two high wheels, and in front 
there are two great cans, as tall as you. They 
shine like silver, and little measures hang on 
the spouts where the milk comes out, and over 
the seat is a top just like a buggy-top, which 
they put up when the sun is too hot, or it rains. 
Oh, it 's just beautiful to sit up on that high seat, 
and go like the wind ! I remember how it felt 
on my face," Pepsie leaned back and closed 
her eyes in ecstasy ; " and then the milk ! When 
I was thirsty, Tante Modeste would give me a 

cup of milk out of the big can, and it was so 
sweet and fresh ! Some day, I 'm sure, she '11 
take you, and then you '11 know how it all was." 

" I used to ride on my pony with Papa," began 
Lady Jane, her memory of the past awakened 
by the description of Pepsie's drive. " My pony 
was named Sunflower, now I remember," and 
her little face grew radiant, and her eyes sparkled 
with joy ; " Papa used to put me on Sunflower, 
and Mamma was afraid I 'd fall." Then the 
brief glow faded from her face, for she heard 
Madame Jozain call across the street : " Lady ! 
Lady ! Come, child, come ; it 's nearly dark, and 
time you were in bed." 

With touching docility, and without the least 
hesitation, she gathered up Tony, who was 
standing on one leg under her chair, and, hold- 
ing up her face for Pepsie to kiss, she said 

" And you '11 come again in the morning," 
cried Pepsie, hugging her fondly, " you '11 be 
sure to come in the morning?" 

And Lady Jane said, " Yes." 

Chapter VIII. 


Thus Lady Jane's new life, in the quaint 
old Rue des Bons Enfants, began under quite 
pleasant auspices. From the moment that Pep- 
sie, \\ith a silent but not unrecorded vow, con- 
stituted herself the champion and guardian angel 
of the lonely little stranger, she was surrounded 
by friends, and hedged in with the most loyal 

Because Pepsie loved the child, the good 
Madelon loved her also ; and although Madelon 
saw her but seldom, being obliged to leave home 
early and return late, she usually left for Lady 
Jane some substantial token of good-will, either 
cakes or pralines, or some odd little toy which 
she picked up on Bourbon Street, on her way 
to and from her stand. 

Madelon was a pleasant-faced, handsome 
woman, always neat and always cheery. No 
matter how hard for her the day had been, 
whether hot or cold, rainy or dusty, she returned 
home at night as fresh and cheerful as when 
she went out in the morning. Pepsie adored 
her mother, and no two human beings were ever 




happier than they when the da}-'s work was over, 
and they sat down together to their Httle supper. 
Then Pepsie recounted to her mother every- 
thing that had happened during the day, or, 
at least, everything that had come within her 
line of vision as she sat at her window ; and 
Madelon, in turn, would tell her of all she had 


heard out in her world, the world of the Rue 
Bourbon. After the advent of Lady Jane the 
child was a constant theme of conversation 
between them. Her beauty, her intelligence, 
her pretty manners, her charming little ways, 
were a continual wonder to the simple woman 
and girl, who had seen little beyond their own 
sphere of life. 

If Madelon was fortunate enough to come 

home early, she always found Lady Jane with 
Pepsie, and the loving way in which the child 
would spring to meet her showed how grate- 
fully she received the maternal affection lavished 
upon her. 

At first Madame Jozain affected to be a lit- 
tle averse to such a close intimacy, and even 
went so far as to say to 
Madame Fernandez, the 
tobacconist's wife, that 
:_ she did not like her niece 

to be so much with the 
lame girl opposite, whose 
mother was called " Bonne 
Praline." Perhaps they 
were honest people, and 
would do the child no 
harm ; but a woman who 
was never called " Ma- 
dame," and who sat all 
day on the Rue Bourbon, 
was likely to have the 
manners of the streets ; 
and Lady Jane had never 
been thrown with such 
people, Madame Jozain 

Madame Fernandez 
agreed that Madelon was 
not over-refined, and that 
Pepsie lacked the accom- 
plishments of a young 
lady. " But they are very 
honest," she said; "and 
the girl has a generous 
heart, and is so patient 
and cheerful ! Besides, 
Madelon has a sister who 
is rich. Monsieur Pai- 
choux, her sister's hus- 
band, is very well off, a 
solid man, with a large dairy business ; and their 
daughter Marie, who is just graduated at the 
' Sacred Heart,' is very pretty, and is fiancee to 
a young man of superior family, a son of Judge 
Guiot — and you know who the Guiots are ? " 
Yes, Madame knew. Her father, Pierre Ber- 
geron, and Judge Guiot had always been friends, 
and the families had visited in other days. If 
such was the case, the Paichoux must be very 





respectable ; and if " Bonne Praline " was the 
sister-in-law of a Paichoux, and prospecti\-e 
aunt-in-law to the son of the Judge, there was 
no reason why she should keep the child away ; 
therefore she allowed her to go whenever she 
wished, which was from the time she was out 
of bed in the morning until it was quite dark 
at night. 

Lady Jane shared Pepsie's meals, and sat at 
the table with her, learning to crack and shell 
pecans with such wonderful facility that Pep- 


sie's task was accomplished so soon that she 
had plenty of time each day to devote to her 
little friend. And it was very amusing to wit- 
ness Pepsie's motherly care for the child : she 
bathed her and brushed her long silken hair ; 
she trimmed her bang to the most becoming 
length ; she dressed her with the greatest 
taste, and tied her sash with the chic of a 
French milliner; she examined the little pink 
nails and pearls of teeth to see if they were per- 
fecriy clean ; and she joined with Lady Jane in 
rebelling against Madame's decree that the child 
should go barefoot while the weather was 
warm — for, as Madame said, " all the little 

Creoles did, and she was not going to buy 
shoes for the child to knock out every day." 
Therefore, when Lady Jane's shoes were worn 
out, Madelon bought her a neat little pair on 
the Rue Bourbon ; and Pepsie darned her stock- 
ings and sewed on buttons and strings with 
the most exemplary patience. When Ma- 
dame complained that, with all the business 
she had to attend to, the white frocks were too 
much trouble and expense to keep clean, Tite 
Souris, who was a fair laundress, begged that 

she might be al- 
lowed to wash them, 
which she did with 
such good will that 
Lady Jane was al- 
ways neat and 

Gradually, the 
sorrowful, neglect- 
ed look disappeared 
from her small face, 
and she became 
rosy and dimpled 
again, and as con- 
tented and happy 
a child as ever was 
seen in Good Chil- 
dren Street. Every 
one in the neigh- 
borhood knew her ; 
the gracious, beau- 
tiful little creature 
with her blue heron 
became one of the 
sights of the quarter. 
She was a picture and a poem in one to the 
simple, good-natured Creoles, and everywhere 
she went she carried sunshine with her. 

Little Gex, a tiny, shrunken, bent Frenchman, 
who kept a small fruit and vegetable stall just 
above Madelon's house, felt that the day had 
been dark indeed when Lady Jane's radiant little 
face did not illumine his dingy quarters. How 
his old, dull eyes would brighten when he heard 
her cheery voice ! " Good-morning, Mr. Gex, 
Tante Pauline " (or Pepsie, as the case might be) 
" would like a nickel of apples, or onions, or car- 
rots"; and the orange that was always given her 
for lagniappe* was received with a charming 


' A ijratiiity given with each purchase, usually an orange, a few nuts, or a Ultle candy. 




smile, and a " Thank you," that went straight to 
the old, withered heart. 

Gex was a quiet, polite little man, who sel- 
dom held any conversation with his customers 
beyond the simple requirements of his business ; 
and children, as a general thing, he detested, 
for the reason that some ill-bred little imps in the 
neighborhood made him the butt of their mis- 
chievous ridicule, for his appearance was droll 
in the extreme : his small face was destitute of 
beard and as wrinkled as a withered apple, 
and he usually wore a red handkerchief tied 
over his bald head with the ends hanging 
under his chin; his dress consisted of rather 
short and very wide trousers, a little jacket, and 
an apron that reached nearly to his feet. There- 
fore, it was very seldom that a child entered 
his den ; and such a thing as one receiving lag- 
niappe was quite unheard of 

All day long, he sat on his small wooden 
chair behind the shelf across his window, on 
which were laid in neat piles, oranges, apples, 
sweet potatoes, onions, cabbages, and even the 
odorous garlic; his wares were always sound and 
clean, and for that reason, even if he did not 
give lagniappcs to small customers, he had a fair 
trade in the neighborhood, and he was very 
neat and industrious. When he was not engaged 
in preparing his vegetables, he was always tink- 
ering at something of interest to himself: he 
could mend china and glass, clocks andjewelry, 
shoes and shirts ; he washed and patched his 
own wardrobe, and darned his own stockings. 

Often, when a customer came in, he would 
push his spectacles up on his forehead, lay down 
his stocking and needle, and proceed to deal out 
his cabbages and carrots as unconcernedly as 
if he had been found engaged in a more manly 

One day he delighted Lady Jane by asking her 
to sit down and eat her orange while he mended 
his jacket. 

She declined to eat the orange, as she always 
shared it with Pepsie, but accepted the invita- 
tion to be seated. Placing Tony to forage on 
a basket of refuse vegetables, she climbed into 
a chair, placed her little heels on the topmost 
rung, smoothed down her short skirt, and, rest- 
ing her elbows on her knees, leaned her rosy 
little cheeks on her palms, and set herself to 
Vol. XVII.— 83. 

studying Gex seriously and critically. At length, 
her curiosity overcoming her diffidence, she said 
in a very polite tone, but with a little hesitation, 
" Mr. Gex, are you a man or a woman ? " 

Gex, for the moment, was fairly startled out 
of himself, and, perhaps for the first time in 
years, he threw back his head and laughed 

" Bon / boil ! 'T is good, 't is vairy good. Vhy, 
my leetle lady, sometime I don't know myself; 
'cause, you see, I have to be both the man and 
the voman. But vhy in the vorld did you just 
ask me such a funny question ? " 

" Because, Mr. Gex," replied Lady Jane, very 
gravely, " I 've thought about it often. Because 
men don't sew, and wear aprons — and — 
women don't wear trousers ; so, you see, I 
could n't tell which you were." 

" Oh, ma foi," and again Gex roared with 

" I don't know why you laugh so," she said 
loftily, straightening up in her chair, and regard- 
ing Gex as if he had disappointed her. " I think 
it 's very bad for you to have no one to mend 
your clothes, and — and to have to sew like a 
woman, if — if you 're a man." 

" Vhy, bless your leetle heart, so it is ; but, 
you see, I am just one poor lonely creature, and 
it don't make much difference vhether I 'm one 
or t' other — nobody cares now." 

"I do," returned Lady Jane brightly; "and 
I 'm glad I know, because, when Pepsie teaches 
me to sew, /';« going to mend your clothes, 
Mr. Gex." 

" Veil, you are one leetle angel," exclaimed 
Gex, quite overcome. " Here, take another 

" Oh, no, thank you," said Lady Jane ; " I 
have only bought one thing, and I can't take 
two lagniappes ; that would be wrong. But I 
must go now." 

And, jumping down, she took Tony from his 
comfortable nest among the cabbage-leaves, and 
with a polite good-by she darted out, leaving 
the dingy httle shop darker for her going. 

For a long time after she went Gex sat look- 
ing thoughtfully at his needlework. Then he 
sighed heavily, and muttered to himself: " If 
Marie had lived ! If she 'd lived, I 'd been 
more of a man." 




Chapter IX. 


One bright morning in October, while Pepsie 
and Lady Jane were very busy over their 
pecans, there was a sudden rattUng of wheels 
and jingling of cans, and Tante Modeste's 
milk-cart, gay in a fresh coat of red paint, with 
the shining cans, and smart little mule in a 
bright harness, drew up before the door, and 
Tante Modeste herself jumped briskly down 
from the high seat, and entered like a fresh 
breath of spring. 

She and Madelon were twin sisters, and very 
much alike : having the same large, fair face, the 
same smooth, dark hair combed straight back 
from the forehead, and twisted in a glossy knot 
at the back. Like Madelon, she wore a stiffly 
starched, light calico gown finished at the neck 
with a muslin scarf tied in a large bow ; her 
head was bare, and in her ears she wore large 
gold hoops, and around her neck was a heavy 
chain of the same precious metal. 

When Pepsie saw her, she held out her arms, 
flushing with pleasure, and cried joyfully, " Oh, 
Tante Modeste, how glad I am! I thought you 'd 
forgotten to come for Lady Jane." 

Tante Modeste embraced her niece warmly, 
and then caught Lady Jane to her heart just as 
Madelon did. " Forgotten her ? Oh, no; I've 
thought of her all the time since I was here ; 
but I 've been so busy." 

" What about, Tante Modeste ? " asked Pep- 
sie eagerly. 

" Oh, you can't think how your cousin Marie 
is turning us topsy-turvy, since she decided to 
be a lady." Here Tante Modeste made a little 
grimace of disdain. " She must have our house 
changed, and her papa can't say no to her. I 
hke it best as it was, but Marie must have paint 
and carpets — think of it, carpets ! — but I draw 
the line at the parlor, the salon," and again Tante 
Modeste shrugged and laughed. " She wants a 
salon. Well, she shall have a salon just as she 
Ukes it; and I will have the other part of the 
house as I like it. Just imagine, your uncle has 
gone on Rue Royale and bought a mirror, a con- 
sole, a cabinet, a sofa, and a carpet." 

" Oh, oh, Tante Modeste, how lovely ! " cried 

Pepsie, clasping her hands in admiration. " I 
wish I could see the parlor just once." 

" You shall, my dear ; you shall, if you have 
to be brought on a bed. When there 's a wed- 
ding," — and she nodded brightly, as much as to 
say, " and there will be one soon," and went on — 
" you shall be brought there. I '11 arrange it so 
you can come comfortably, my dear. Have 
patience, you shall come." 

" How good you are, Tante Modeste," cried 
Pepsie, enraptured at the promise of such hap- 

" Now, cherie" she said, turning to Lady 
Jane, whose little face was expressing in panto- 
mime her pleasure at Pepsie's delight, " I 've 
come for you this morning to take you for a 
ride in the cart, as I promised." 

" Tante Pauline does n't know," began Lady 
Jane dutifully ; " I must go home and ask her 
whether I can." 

" I '11 send Tite," cried Pepsie, eager to have 
the child enjoy what seemed to her the greatest 
pleasure on earth. 

" Here, Tite," she said as the black visage 
appeared at the door. " Run quick across to 
Madame Jozain, and ask if Miss Lady can go to 
ride in the milk-cart with Madame Paichoux; and 
bring me a clean frock and her hat and sash." 

Tite flew like the wind, her black legs mak- 
ing zigzag strokes across the street, while Pep- 
sie brushed the child's beautiful hair until it 
shone like gold. 

Madame Jozain did not object. Of course, a 
milk-cart was n't a carriage, but then Lady 
Jane was only a child, and it did n't matter. 

While Pepsie was putting the finishing touches 
to Lady Jane's toilet, Tante Modeste and Tite 
Souris were busy bringing various packages from 
the milk-cart to the Httle room : butter, cream- 
cheese, sausage, a piece of pig, and a fine capon. 
When Tante Modeste came, she always left sub- 
stantial tokens of her visit. 

There was only one drawback to Lady Jane's 
joy, and that was the necessity of leaving Tony 

" You might take him," said Tante Modeste, 
good-naturedly, " but there are so many young 
ones home they 'd about pester the bird to death, 
and something might happen to him : he might 
get away, and then you 'd never forgive us." 

• J 



" I know I must n't take him," said Lady 
Jane, with sweet resignation. " Dear Tony, be a 
good bird while I 'm gone, and you shall have 
some bugs to-morrow." Tony was something 
of an epicure, and "bugs" (as Lady Jane called 
them) extracted from cabbage-leaves were a de- 
light to him. Then she embraced him fondly, 
fastened him securely to Pepsie's chair, and went 
away with many good-byes and kisses for her 
friend, and not a few lingering glances for her pet. 

It seemed a perfectly enchanting situation to 
Lady Jane, when she was mounted up on the 
high seat, close under Tante Modeste's shelter- 
ing wing, with her little feet on the cream-cheese 
box, and the two tall cans standing in front like 
sturdy tin footmen waiting for orders. Then 
Tante Modeste pulled the top up over their 
heads, and shook her lines at the fat little mule, 
and away they clattered down Good Children 
Street, with all the children and all the dogs 
running along behind. 

It seemed a long and delightful drive to 
Lady Jane before they got out of town to where 
the cottages were scattered and set in broad 
fields, with trees and pretty gardens. At length 
they turned out of the beautiful esplanade, with 
its shady rows of trees, into Frenchman Street, 
and went along the river. They stopped before 
a large double cottage that stood well back 
from the street, surrounded by trees and flow- 
ers ; a good-natured, healthy looking boy threw 
open the gate, and Tante Modeste clattered 
into the yard, calling out : 

" Here, Tiburce, quick, my boy ; unhitch the 
mule, and turn him out." The little animal 
understood perfecdy well what she said, and, 
shaking his long ears, he nickered approvingly. 

Lady Jane was lifted down from her high 
perch by Paichoux himself, who gave her a 
right cordial welcome, and in a moment she 
was surrounded by Tante Modeste's good- 
natured brood. At first she felt a little shy, 

( To be 

there were so many, and they were such noisy 
children; but they were so kind and friendly 
toward her that they soon won her confidence 
and affection. 

That day was a " red-letter day " to Lady 
Jane; she was introduced to all the pets of 
the farm-yard : the poultry, the dogs, the kittens, 
the calves, the ponies and little colts, and the 
great, soft, motherly looking cows that stood 
quietly in rows to be milked ; and afterward 
they played under the trees in the grass, while 
they gathered roses by the armful to carry to 
Pepsie, and filled a basket with pecans for 

At last, the milk-cart came around with its 
evening load of fresh milk for waiting cus- 
tomers, Lady Jane was lifted up again beside 
Tante Modeste, overloaded with presents, ca- 
resses, and good wishes — the happiest child, 
as well as the most tired one, that ever rode 
in a milk-cart. 

Long before they reached the noisy city 
streets, Lady Jane became very silent, and 
Tante Modeste peeped under the broad hat to 
see whether she had fallen asleep. But no, the 
blue eyes were wide and wistful, and the little 
face had lost its glow of happiness. 

" Are you tired, cherie ? " asked Tante Mo- 
deste kindly. 

" No, thank you," she replied with a soft 
sigh. " I was thinking of Sunflower, and of 
the ranch, and of Papa, and of dear Mamma. 
Oh, I wonder if she '11 come back soon ! " 

Tante Modeste made no reply, but she too 
fell to thinking. There was something strange 
about it all that she could not understand. 

The child's remarks and Madame Jozain's 
stories did not agree. There was a mystery, 
and Tante Modeste meant to get to the bot- 
tom of it by some means. 

And when Tante Modeste set out to accom- 
plish a thing, she usually succeeded. 

'onthijted. ) 


(Founded on Fact.) 

By M. a. Cassidy. 

HE Magill residence 
was situated near 
the highways con- 
necting Knoxville 
and Chattanooga. 
Encamping armies 
had burned every 
splinter of fencing, 
and so the cleared 
space was thrown into one great field, en- 
circled by a gigantic hedge of oak and pine. 
Near the center of the cleared land, on a lit- 
tle eminence, was a farm-house. It was a 
long, one-story building, running back some 
distance, its several additions having been con- 
structed as the family required more room. A 
little to the right, and extending the full length 
of the house, was a row of negro cabins — there 
being a passway between the two as wide as an 
ordinary road. The yard sloped gently to the 
roadway and railroad; near the latter, another 
rise began, which extended back to the wood- 
land and commanded an extensive view of the 
surrounding country. 

One afternoon, early in the autumn of 1864, 
Mrs. Magill and her son Harry, a comely lad 
of thirteen, sat on the front veranda, and talked 
of what a happy reunion there would be when 
their loved ones should return from the war. And 
on this glorious autumnal afternoon the hearts of 
the widow and her son were happy in anticipation. 

Mrs. Magill had two sons in the war. One 
wore the Blue, the other the Gray. John, the 
eldest of three boys, had enlisted in Wheeler's 
Confederate cavalry, in the second year of the 
war; and, a year later, Thomas had joined the 
Federals under General Burnside at Knoxville. 
Both were known as brave and dashing soldiers, 
and both had been promoted, for gallantry, 
to captaincies. This family division was a source 
of great grief to Mrs. Magill. Dearer to her than 
Union or Confederacy were her children; and 
from their youth she had trained them in the 
ways of peace. And now, in their manhood, 
two of them, under different flags, were arrayed 
against each other in a deadly and unnatural 
strife. She often heard from both her soldier 
boys, and their inquiries after the welfare of each 


other were full of tenderness. Harry, as is 
usual with younger brothers, fairly worshiped 
both of them. He was no less troubled than 
his mother when they went away to fight on 
opposite sides. Their contrary action left him 
in doubt as to which side he should take. 
Every boy of his acquaintance was ardent 
in espousing one side or the other. But what 
could he do, since he had a brother in each 
army ? Should he become a rebel, Thomas 
might be displeased ; and he loved Tom too well 
to willfully incur his displeasure. Should he de- 
cide to remain loyal to the Union, John might 
resent it ; and he could not think of offend- 
ing one whom he held in such high esteem. 
" What shall I do ? " he asked himself a great 
many times a day. The war spirit in him was 
becoming rampant, and must have scope. He 
at length took the perplexing question to his 
mother. She promptly advised him to remain 
neutral. But somehow Harry got it into his head 
that neutrality was something very different from 
manliness. So he made up his mind to be one 
thing or the other, or — happy thought ! — why 
not be both? And, after puzzling over the 
question a long time, he settled on the novel 
idea of making himself half " Rebel " and half 
" Yankee." In pursuance of this plan, he per- 
suaded his mother to make him a uniform, half of 
which should be blue, and the other half gray. 
She made it of a Federal and a Confederate over- 
coat; and Harry was a queer-looking little fellow 
as he went about the country, clad in his blue-gray 
uniform, the U. S. A. buttons on one side, and 
the -C. S. A. on the other. The boys called him 
" a mongrel "; and neither the Federal nor Con- 
federate commands of boy soldiery would allow 
him in their ranks. This was a source of great 
mortification to Harry; but he was seriously 
in earnest, and fully resolved to carry out his 
campaign of impartial affection. His being cut 
by the other boys, who could afford to take 
a decided stand because they did not have a 
brother on each side, reduced him to the neces- 
sity of playing "war" (about the only game in- 
dulged in by Southern boys at this time) alone. 
When he put up his lines of corn-stalk soldiers, 
to play battle, it was observed, by his mother, 
that both sides always won an equal number of 
victories. Harry was not sure that the war 


could ever end at this even rate of fighting; but 
arrayed as he was, in the colors of both armies, 
his inclination was to be true to both. There 
were generally tears in his mother's eyes, when 
she saw that two of the corn-stalk soldiers, the 
tallest and straightest of them all, representing 
John and Thomas, were always left standing, 
even after the most furious of contests, in which 
all the others had fallen. 

Harry had left off playing quite earl}-, on the 
afternoon of which I write, and had joined his 
mother on the veranda. They had not been 
long together when something unusual attracted 
their attention. 

A short distance down the railroad a body 
of cavalrymen had dismounted, and soon they 
were as busy as ants, tearing up the track. One 
squad preceded the others and loosened the 
rails by drawing the spikes ; then came another 
squad that placed the ties in great heaps ; after 
this came a third that kindled fires beneath 
them. The ties were rotten and dry, and, in a 
very few moments, there were scores of bright, 
hot fires. Soon the rails were at a red heat 
near the center, the ends being comparatively 
cool. While in this state a number of men 
would take the rails and bend them around 
telegraph poles or any solid objects that were 
near. The soldiers twisted the rails into fantastic 
shapes ; and when they were through with their 
work of destruction, they seemed perfectly satis- 
fied that none of the old material could be used 
in reconstructing the road. Harry and his 
mother had observed the operations of these 
men with much interest for some time, when 
suddenly they saw one of them mount his horse, 
and ride toward the house. 

" He is a rebel ! " exclaimed Harry, who stood 
watching the approaching horseman. 

" Surely you are mistaken, Harry. There 
can be no Confederates here," said Mrs. Magill, 
" the Federals are too near." 

While yet the soldier was some distance from 
the house, the boy's face hghted up with joy, as 
he exclaimed : 

" Oh, mother, I do beheve it 's John ! " 

" John ? Where is he ? " asked his mother, 
running to where the boy stood. 

" Why, there, on the horse ! He 's coming 
home ! He 's coming home ! " And thus ex- 




claiming, Harry danced around the veranda like 
an Indian lad in a first war-dance. Then he ran 
to meet his brother in gray. Mrs. Magill was 
thrilled with sensations of joy and fear: joy, be- 
cause she was about to see again her eldest son, 
after a painful separation of two years; fear, 
because of the nearness of the Federals. When 
within a short distance of his brother, Harry 
stopped and waited there, prepared to give the 
military salute due one of his brother's rank. 
But that salute was never given ; for almost at 
the same instant that Harry stopped. Captain 
John Magill reined up his horse quite suddenly, 
drew a pistol from its holster, and looked sus- 
piciously toward a clump of trees on the hill- 
top. Harry turned his eyes to learn what had 
startled his brother. He beheld a score or more 
of men in blue uniforms, partly concealed by the 
clump of trees ; and it was evident that these were 
the vanguard of a larger body of Federals. Cap- 
tain John Magill wheeled as suddenly as he had 
halted, and galloped back to the Confederates 
engaged in demolishing the railroad. As fast as 
he could run, Harry followed. Mrs. Magill com- 
prehended the situation; and, spell-bound, she 
stood on the veranda, with arms outstretched, 
a statue of anguish and expectancy. 

When Captain John Magill reached his com- 
rades, he gave the alarm, and " there was 
mounting in hot haste." The two hundred 
raiders had time only to form an irregular line 
of battle, when twice as many Federals ap- 
peared on the hill-top. It was evident that 
there was going to be a lively skirmish. Harry 
singled out John, who rode up and down the 
line giving commands, and running to him, he 
clasped him around a leg with both arms, 
enthusiastically exclaiming : 

" Howdy, John ! Don't you know me ? " 

The young captain looked down at the joy- 
beaming face of his little brother, but, as he had 
never seen the little fellow in his fantastic uni- 
form, for a moment failed to recognize him. 

A shade of disappointment flitted over Harry's 
face as he said : 

" I 'm your little brother Harry ; and I 'm 
just as much Rebel as Yankee." 

Captain John Magill laughed as he leaned 
over and grasped Harry's hand. 

" Why, Harry ! What on earth are you doing 

here ? Get up behind me, and I will gallop 
home with you before the firing begins," said 
John, evidently alarmed for the boy's safety. 
Placing his foot on that of his brother, Harry 
clambered up behind. By this time the lines 
were in range of each other, and a lively fusil- 
lade at once began. Harry behaved manfully 
under fire, and entreated his brother to allow him 
to stay until the fight was over. But the elder 
brother was intent on taking him to a place of 
safety, so putting spurs to his horse he rode 
swiftly toward the house. His plan was to return 
the boy to his mother, and then rejoin his com- 
rades. But the Confederates did not know his 
intentions ; and seeing their Captain making his 
way rapidly to the rear, with this strangely-clad 
boy behind him, they of course thought him re- 
treating, and they followed, pell-mell. 

Capt. John Magill saw the effect of his 
movement, and, halting, made an effort to rally 
his men. But the Confederates were thor- 
oughly stampeded, and they dashed madly 
away. The shouting Federals were now at 
close range, and the bee-like song of the bullets 
could be heard on every side. Hastily placing 
Harry in front of him, to shield him as much as 
possible from the enemy's fire, he followed his 
men, now some distance in advance. When 
they reached the house, Mrs. Magill stood pale 
and motionless, expecting every moment to see 
her children fall. Glancing back, Captain John 
Magill saw that a moment's delay would make 
him a prisoner; so as he dashed past his mother 
he cried out, " Don't be uneasy. I '11 take care 
of Harry " ; and then he was gone like the 
wind, his pursuers not a hundred yards behind 
him. Then a complete change came over Mrs. 
Magill. Impelled by the great love of a mother, 
she ran into the yard, and stood calmly in the 
way of the advancing Federals, whose course 
lay between the cabins and the house — as if to 
stop, with her frail form, the impetuous charge. 

On they came like a hurricane. The mother 
did not move. Her eyes were closed and her 
lips compressed. Very near her sounded the 
hoof-beats. A moment more and she expected 
to be trampled to death beneath those hurrying 
feet; but she hoped — yea, and prayed — that 
her death might somehow delay the Federals 
until her sons should escape. 




" Halt ! Halt ! " The command was in thun- 
der tones, and was echoed and re-echoed along 
the charging line. The soldiers pulled with all 
their might on the bits, and many a horse was 
thrown back on its haunches. Opening her 
eyes Mrs. Magill saw that the Federal captain, 
bending over her from his saddle, was her son 

"Oh, Thomas! — would you kill John and 
Harry ! " she exclaimed, and then fell fainting 
in his arms. Laying her tenderly on the ve- 
randa, he directed a surgeon to attend her, and 
mounting his horse, rode rapidly in the direc- 
tion taken by his brothers. Soon he saw them 
a quarter of a mile ahead. Taking a white 
handkerchief he held it aloft, and digging the 
spurs deep into his horse's flanks, he rode with 
increased speed, all the time hallooing at the top 
of his strong voice. John heard ; but, thinking 
it a summons to surrender, he urged his horse 
forward, hoping to gain the sheltering wood. 
But the horse, in attempting to jump across a 
washout, stumbled and fell ; and John found 
himself rolling on the ground with Harry in his 
arms. Rising, he placed Harry behind him, and 
drew his sword, determined to sell their lives 
dearly. Imagine his surprise when he beheld 
but one pursuer, and that one holding on high 
an emblem of peace. In a moment more, he 
recognized his brother. Their meeting was 
affectionate. Harry was beside himself \vith joy. 
He had really been under fire, with " sure-enough 
bullets " singing about his ears ! This was some- 
thing of which none of the boys who had scorned 
his blue-gray uniform could boast ! 

" Our brother is a brave little fellow. He did 

not once flinch when your bullets were singing 
around us," he heard John say to Thomas, and 
this praise elated the boy very much. 

" Let us return to mother. She is very 
anxious," said Thomas. 

John gazed inquiringly at his brother in blue. 

" You need have no fear," said Thomas. 
■' I will be responsible for your safety." 

So the two soldier brothers, leading their 
horses, and each holding one of Harry's hands, 
walked up to the house. 

" I .see you wear the gray, Harry; that 's right," 
said John, with a mischievous glance at Thomas. 

" He is true blue on this side," said Thomas, 
laughing heartily, as the ludicrousness of Harry's 
uniform dawned upon him. 

An affecting meeting was that between mother 
and sons; and something on the cheeks of the 
brave men who were present '' washed off" the 
stains of powder." 

When parting time came, the sun rested, like 
a great ruby, above the circling wood of crim- 
son and gold ; and when the brother in blue 
stood hand in hand with the brother in gray, all 
nature seemed to smile in anticipation of the time 
when a fraternal grasp should re-unite the North 
and South. 

This day was the turning-point in Harry's life. 
Thenceforth all his inclinations were to become 
a soldier. After the war, he was educated by 
John and Thomas ; and, passing his examination 
triumphantly over three of the boys who had 
derided him, he was appointed to West Point. 
He is now Lieutenant Henry Magill, U. S. A. 

His brothers still treasure the little blue-gray 
uniform as the memento of a " divided duty." 

•Hef^bef^t /^/\pes 


XCEPT among athletes and 
college men, interest in the 
minor athletic sports is, 
comparatively, confined to 
so few people that it would 
be strange if many readers 
of the St. Nicholas had never seen, nor even 
heard of, a hurdle race. Hence, perhaps, it is 
advisable to begin by briefly describing one. 

As the name implies, the race is run over 
hurdles. The hurdle is of wood and consists 
of two uprights and a cross-bar, which cross-bar 
is either two feet six inches or three feet six 
inches from the ground, according to the dis- 
tance to be run. The longer of the two dis- 
tances commonly run by hurdlers is 220 yards, 
and for this the hurdles are two feet six inches 
high; the shorter distance is 120 yards, with 
the hurdles three feet six inches high. There 
are generally ten hurdles, which are set across 
a track, or path, made either of fine cinders or 
of turf When arranged for the race these 
ten hurdles are technically known as a " flight." 
The contestants are drawn up in a line a few 
yards from the first hurdle, and at a given signal 
they run and jump each hurdle in succession, 
the one who first reaches the finish-line being 
the winner. 

Now hurdling, being merely a combination of 
running and jumping, might appear to require 
no special ability. Some people foolishly be- 
lieve that any boy who has long legs must be 
a fast runner; and, more reasonably, those of 
better judgment might be led to infer that a 
good runner and jumper must necessarily be a 
good hurdler. But experience has shown that 
this is not the case. Not every good runner 

and jumper makes a good hurdler, and, strangely 
enough, some of the most celebrated hurdlers 
have been neither very fast runners nor ex- 
ceptionally good jumpers. For, besides skill in 
nmning and jumping, other qualities are neces- 
sary, and it is in these that the true genius for 
hurdling seems to lie. Without special skill, 
which can come only after long practice, success 
in hurdhng is not^to be attained. 

It is difficult with few words to make clear in 
just what this skill consists, or why so much 
practice is necessary. Perhaps the best way to 
explain matters is to indicate some of the difficul- 
ties that appear before the new hurdler when he 
begins his training. Suppose, for instance, he is 
training for the shorter race, of 120 yards, where 
the hurdles are three feet and six inches high, 
and are set ten yards apart. 

Like all other athletes, the hurdler must un- 
dergo a regular course of training in order to 
acquire strength and endurance ; but from the 
very beginning he concentrates his attention 
more especially upon his " style." The first par- 
ticular to be considered is, naturally, the manner 
of jumping over the hurdle. As the race is one 
of speed, it is of great importance for him to learn 
to clear the hurdles with as little room to spare 
as possible. He must learn to " take " the hurdle 
without changing his stride or stopping his speed, 
— in such a way that jumping the hurdle comes 
as near as possible to running over the hurdle. 
With this end in view, he sets up a single hur- 
dle and betakes himself to practicing the jump. 
When in this he has succeeded to his satisfac- 
tion, he sets up two hurdles and practices taking 
them in succession. And here a new and very 
important question arises. 

The hurdles are ten yards apart, and after he 
has jumped the first and run to the second, he 
very often finds himself coming before it with 
his wrong foot foremost. In order to jump he 
must slacken his pace and change his stride. 
Here is a ditficulty. He must devise some way 
of jumping the hurdles in succession without 
hesitating between them. There are two or 
three methods of doing this, though one method 
has come to be regarded as the right one. 


are so high as to prevent this method from being 
successful. The low hurdles, two feet si.\ inches 
high, used for the longer race, have been 
jumped from alternate feet with notable suc- 
cess by A. F. Copeland, the present American 

With the high hurdles there is but one good 
method. A hurdler must either shorten his natu- 
ral stride and learn to take five steps between 
hurdles, or he must lengthen it considerably 




In the first place, he may practice jumping 
from the wrong, or awkward, foot, and so be 
prepared to jump in whichever way he may come 
to the hurdle. But the hurdles are too high to 
make this plan practicable, and it is generally 
abandoned after a few days' trial. (It is, how- 
ever, only in the shorter race that the hurdles 
Vol. XVII.— 84. 

and take only three. In either case, he is brought 
to the successive hurdles with the same foot. 
But taking five steps makes the stride too short 
to allow of fast running, and, although many of 
the poorer hurdlers have used this method, it 
can not be regarded as successful. So there is 
nothing for the hurdler to do but continually 




to practice taking three long strides, until this 
becomes natural to him. 

Even when the hurdler has learned to jump 
low and fast, and to take three strides between 
the hurdles, the development of " style " is 
hardly more than begun. There are a thousand 
and one requirements in the turn and twist used 
in the jump; and it is in the methods of taking 
the hurdle that the marked differences between 
advanced hurdlers are shown. Here the indi- 
viduality of each hurdler asserts itself After 
he has attained a certain degree of proficiency, 
his attention is confined almost wholly to per- 
fecting his " turn," the aim always being to 
clear the hurdle as closely as possible without 
interfering with speed or stride. 

This, as might be supposed, leads to frequent 
accidents, and is the chief source of danger in 
hurdling. In his anxiety to take the hurdle 
closely, the hurdler sometimes jumps too low 
and strikes the hurdle ; the result in many cases 
being a heavy fall on the cinder-path. But it 
takes a strong knock to tumble, or even to 
stagger, an experienced hurdler. Indeed, the 
best hurdlers have been known to win races in 
which they struck nearly every hurdle, and even 
knocked down a number as they went along. 


A. A. Jordan, the celebrated hurdler of the 
New York Athletic Club, contracted the habit 
of striking hurdles to an extreme degree. Yet 
this did not seem to interfere in the least with 
his success ; nor did it mar the beauty of his 
style, which was perhaps better than that of any 
hurdler who has yet appeared in America. He 
was the first exponent of the peculiar, finished 
style that has been adopted by so many leading 
hurdlers of to-day ; and, indeed, he might per- 
haps be called the " Father of American Hurd- 
hng." He and Copeland of the Manhattan 
Athletic Club are the most successful and the 
best-known hurdlers in America, and their 
struggles for supremacy have been hard-fought 
and brilliant. 

After a hurdler has perfected his style, and is 




in the pink of condition, all ready for the 
race, there is no prettier sight on the athletic 
field than to see him taking a practice spin 
over the whole flight of hurdles. True and 
strong in his motions, running and jumping with 
all his might, he yet rises and falls lightly as a 
bird, handling himself so gracefully, withal, that, 
to a mere observer, the sport appears to be 
without difficulty. 

The real question of supremacy each year 
concerns only three or four hurdlers, who make 
the great championship struggle. All the others 
can e.\pect only lesser honors, though always 
there are many who have secret hopes of im- 
proving sufficiently to enter the first rank. In 
order to provide opportunity and incentive for 
the mass of athletes of no special distinction, 
numerous handicap races are held, in which the 
different competitors are allowed starts according 
to their supposed abilities. Of course there is 
no great interest at stake in these games beyond 
the individual desire to win. Even for the novice 
the honor of victory is much diminished on 
account of the handicap in his favor; and among 
athletes the winning or losing in such cases is 
considered of less importance than the merit of 
the performances. But, for all that, there is 
always a certain satisfaction in being victorious, 
and the prizes given, in themselves, make suc- 
cess worth striving for. 

From this fact there is quite a large class of 
athletes, called " mug-hunters," who have no 
further ambition than to win as many of these 

necessary. Fortunately, however, such athletes 
are hardly more than tolerated, and the name 
" mug-hunter " has come to be used as a term 
of reproach. 

A handicap hurdle-race, although there are 
no great interests at stake, is a very pretty sight. 
When the contestants take their positions for the 
race, it looks like a hopeless struggle for the 
"scratch" man (that is, the one who stands 
furthest back of all the contestants, and who 
allows " starts " to all the others. He is called 
the " scratch " man because he toes the 
"scratch," or line, at the beginning of the 
course). Often he is small in stature, as is 
Copeland, for instance, and when he stands 
there with the other contestants, many of them 
larger and stronger than he, and some of them ten 
or fifteen yards in advance of him, the arrange- 
ment appears altogether unfair, and the spectator, 
who is likely to regard the " scratch " man's 
chance as hopeless, is filled with sympathy for 
him. When all is ready, the starter calls out, 
" On your marks ! " All stand upright in their 
positions. "Settle." They all lean forward, 
ready for the start. " Bang ! " goes the pistol, 
and they are off ! The leaders are almost to 
the second hurdle before the " scratch " man 
reaches the first ; it seems impossible that he 
should overtake them. But now see skill and 
speed tell. While they rush and jump clumsily 
and high, lumbering along with all their might, 
truly and prettily he skims the hurdles and flies 
over the ground. Yet the handicap seems too 


handicap games as possible. As it is essential 
to their success that they should have big handi- 
caps, they use every means to conceal their true 
ability, whatever it may be, and always take 
pains to win a race by no more than is absolutely 

large, and they are three-quarters through the 
race before he has had time even to close up 
the gap between himself and the man nearest 
him. As they draw closer to the finish, his 
speed seems to increase, and he shoots by them 




one by one, until, when the last hurdle is reached, more exciting than the championships, because 

he is abreast of the leader. Then with a burst college rivalries, as well as those of friends and 

of speed he rushes for the tape, and wins the contestants, are concerned in the result. For 

race ! some five months each representative has been 

Of course the " scratch " man does not always faithfully training in preparation for the great race 

■y .^""'^n,^ 


win, but if he is in his best condition, he is 
not likely to be beaten. At all events he is sure 
to give a fine exhibition, because to be " scratch " 
he must be a good hurdler, and often he is the 

Far greater, however, in real interest than any 
handicap event are the great " scratch " races of 
the year, the amateur championships and the 
intercollegiates, where only the best of amateur 
and college hurdlers compete, and all start even. 
The intercollegiate contests are, perhaps, even 

that lasts only a few seconds. A single misstep, 
and he feels that all the work goes for nothing, 
his college may lose the cup, and there is a 
year's disappointment before him. 

It is no wonder that the boys are nervous as 
they take their places and wait for the start. 
But when once the signal is given and they are 
off, all is forgotten, the race has begun, and every 
one flies over the hurdles, conscious only that 
the supreme moment has come, and that he is 
rushing on for victory. 


Bv Teresa C. Crofton. 

Third Paper. heat from within and the pre.ssure from above 

made rock of them. The rock from which the 

A \]'oiid of Fishes. „ . c a ■ ^x,- 

flaggmg stones are cut was tormed m this 

While time passed on, the rock-making and age. 

land-making continued. The water wore off While this kind of rock was being made in some 

grains of sand, just as in the last age, and these places, elsewhere the tiny coral-animals were at 

grains sank to the bottom of the sea, where the work, laying do\\ n limestone-beds, and weaving 



their little lives into chains, or stars, or cups, or 
honeycombs of coral. In what is now Iowa, 
Indiana, and the regions thereabout, the rocks 
of this age are full of their remains, and those of 
the lovely " stone lilies." Many beautiful speci- 
mens have been found there. Millions and 
millions of the little stems that joined the " stone 
lilies " to the rock still remain fastened in their 
places. At some points on the Mississippi River, 
when the water is low, pieces of coral of exqui- 
sitely beautiful shapes can be seen jutting out 
from the banks, making the banks appear pre- 
cisely hke coral reefs of our own day. So much 
coral was made during this age that it is some- 
times called "The Great Coral-reef Period" of 
the early ages. 

I'he water over the tracts of land where this 
work was done must have been very deep and 
warm, because coral-animals can live only in 
deep, warm seas. 

There was a gradual change in the color of the 
new rock from that laid down before. The Silu- 
rian rocks were gray, and the new ones were 
yellow, olive, or red. So much was there of 
the last color in the rocks of some places, that 
the period is often called " The Age of Old Red 
Sandstone." In the County of Devon, in Eng- 
land, the rocks of this age are extensively dis- 
tributed over the surface, and can easily be 
examined. Hence, the age in which they were 
made is also called " The Devonian Age." 

When you grow older, and read more about 
geology, you will find the name of Hugh Miller 
closely associated with this age. He was the 
tenderest, gentlest, most loving, and most lova- 
ble of Scotchmen. Instead of writing, as our 
other Scotch friend. Sir Walter Scott, did, of 
the knights of the middle ages and their 
tourneys and conquests, Hugh Miller wrote of 
armored knights much more wonderful than 
they. When he was a boy he was dreamy and 
poetical, and very fond of examining the rocks. 
Once he found a quantity of red stones in a 
rock on the sea-shore, dug them out with his 
knife, and carried them home. He found they 
were like the garnets in his mother's breastpin. 
After that, whenever he found a cluster of gar- 
nets, he would throw himself down beside it, and 
think of the heaps of gems in Aladdin's cave, or 
of Sindbad's valley of diamonds. When the time 

came for him to choose a business in life, he chose 
that of a stone-mason, so that he need not be 
separated from his beloved rocks. One day, as 
he was working in a quarry on the northern shore 
of a Scottish bay, he picked up a stone that 
looked particularly knotty. He broke it open 
with his hammer, and lol before his dehghted 
eyes, lying right in the center, was a beautifully 
shaped shell. He had found garnets and quartz 
crystals and such things before, but never a 
fossil. And this creamy beauty, with its grace- 
ful curves and delicate traceries, delighted him. 
He showed it to the workmen, who told him 
where he could find plenty more. No more 
quarrying for him ! He traveled over the 
country, digging into cliffs, breaking up rocks, 
finding countless fossils, and opening the records 
of ages long gone by. 

He read many books, and learned about the 
fossils found in other lands. Then he wrote of 
what he had seen and learned. And the way he 
wrote ! Before his time, what little had been 
written of Geology was as "dry as dust," and 
filled with the hardest of hard names. But the 
magical way in which Hugh Miller told his 
story ! — he really seemed to love the dead ages, 
with their rocks and the strange company found 
in them. All the wealth of beautiful language 
which the poets lavish on their favorite flowers, 
he lavished on his beloved old fossils. 

In the preceding age, all the plants were water- 
plants. In this, some appeared on the land. 
They were very different from any we see now, 
but still they bore a distant resemblance to a few 
of our simpler plants. For instance, there was 
a species that might be compared to the " horse- 
tail" that grows in waste places, but its stem was 
tall and slender; there were others something like 
mosses ; and most abundant of all was a species 
like our mushrooms. All these plants were so 
soft, and decayed so easily, that only frag- 
ments have come down to us, and we have to 
guess what they looked like. The water plants, 
sea weed, pond weed, and swamp weed, were 
like what we have now, only more abundant. 

You remember the " trilobites " of the last age, 
that had the power of curling themselves into a 
round ball when they wanted to escape from an 
enemy ? Well, in this age, in place of hundreds 
of species, there were only a dozen or two. The 



" seraphim," those giant crabs with fins hke 
wings, now reached the length of four, five, or 
six feet. It is supposed that they did the clean- 
ing for the world at this time. They ate little 
animals and dead ones, and any refuse that 
floated about in the sea or lay upon the shores. 

The worms were protected by hard shells, 
and that is the only reason we have any record 
of them. If they had been soft, they would 
have been crushed. 

But the emperors, kings, princes, and magnates 
in general of this old world then were the fishes — 
the wonderful, wonderful fishes ! Most of them 
were incased in armor like the knights of old, 
and these are the " knights " of which Hugh 
Miller has written so delightfully. The scales 
which formed their coats of mail were heavily 
crusted with enamel, and beautifully joined to- 
gether with beveled edges. No artificial joining 
has ever been done with half such skill and 
beauty. Each scale was adorned with exquisite 
carvings : stars, pyramids, crosses, crescents, 
hexagons — all the designs that have ever been 
produced in architecture, and many more, were 
carried by these fishes on their backs. Hugh 
Miller tells us that he once saw a king's suit of 
armor which had been made in Italy when the 
art of making armor was at its best, but its 
adomings could not compare with the beautiful 
carvings that fretted the scales of some of these 
ancient fishes. This unbending armor generally 
sheathed only the front part of the body, being 
replaced toward the tail by more flexible scales. 
There was one great fellow, however, whose coat 
of mail, elegantly marked with berry-like promi- 
nences, extended nearly the whole length of 
his body. The " buckler-head," something like 
our fishes in shape, had a tremendous, unbend- 
ing helmet on its head, all in one piece ! The 
" wing-fish " had its entire body sheathed in 
armor. It was the most curious fish that this 
world ever saw. Its two strong arms, also cov- 
ered with armor, looked like wings. Hence its 
name, " wing-fish." Its mail did not bend, on 
the front part of its body, but it was flexible at 
the tail. It resembled a human being, but where 
there should be feet, its body tapered to a tail. 

Except for the fact that this " wing-fish " tribe 
died out at the end of this period, we might think 
that they were the creatures which gave rise to the 
sailors' stories of mermaids. We read of another 

of these mail-clad fishes, whose armor was cov- 
ered with stars. His helmet was large enough 
to cover the skull of an elephant, and strong 
enough to turn aside the point of the keenest 
spear. According to the accounts, he was from 
eighteen to twenty-three feet long. 

There were other fishes which had no armor, 
but were pro\'ided with strong, resisting scales. 
Some had the power of moving their heads 
around independently of their bodies, after the 
manner of reptiles. All the fishes of the period 
had one-lobed tails. We have now only one 
family of fishes that has a one-lobed tail — the 
Shark family. During this age, the fishes must 
ha^'c crowded the sea in enormous numbers, for 
there is an amazing abundance of their remains. 

There was a great increase in the extent of 
land. All that is now the New England States, 
and New York, a narrow strip along the north 
of where the Ohio River now runs, a great part 
of what was to be Indiana and Illinois, and all 
of the region now named Michigan and Wiscon- 
sin were above the water. Great banks of red- 
dish mud, covered in many places Avith low, 
mushroom-like forms of plants, stretched out 
over darksome lagoons. No lofty forest trees 
varied the scene. In fact, there were no trees 
of any kind. Plants with long, soft, slender 
stems were the nearest approach to them. 

The waters teemed with waving weeds, and 
the gigantic armored fishes swept through them 
in pursuit of fleeing prey, and no doubt held 
terrific tournaments in their green depths. Here 
and there might be seen the giant scavenger- 
crabs, ranging the seas and shores. 

Immense hard-shelled animals, like our oys- 
ters in shape, clung to the rocks. Others with 
spirally twisted or whorled shells gave a pearly 
gleam to the sea, as they cruised about on its 
surface ; while the little coral workers wrought 
diligently far down in the deep, warm waters. 

No high mountain peaks then rose to add to 
the beauty of the landscape. All was one vast 
sea, dotted with low, muddy islets. 

Toward the close of this age, the seething 
mass on the inside grew restless again, and in 
its twistings and turnings very often raised and 
lowered the Devonian Rock, but its writhing 
did not disturb the rock enough to dislodge 
the rich, muddy soil, made for the luxuriant 
vegetation of the age to come. 


By Lieut. Robert H. Fletcher. 

Chapter VII. 


j^^g^^ i'^TIJl— ^g^gd -^E night after we took 
^^^^^^ the Red Dolly's picture, 
there was a party in the 
hotel, and Marjorie's 
mamma said that she 
might go into the parlor 

and look on, for a litde 

=while. So Marjorie was 
^^ dressed in her prettiest 
\frock, and went with her 
mamma, and watched the people dancing. 
Then she said that she wished to dance, too. 
I asked her if she would dance with me, but 
she said no, she wished to dance with Lieuten- 
ant Smith. Lieutenant Smith is an army officer 
who knows Marjorie very well. So I told him 
to ask her. But then Marjorie would not dance 
with him because, she said, I had told him to 
ask her, and that was not the way people did, 
at all. Then Mr. Smith laughed, and said that 
next time he would ask her without being told. 
So he walked once round the room, and when 
he came to Marjorie again, he said : 

" Miss Marjorie, may I have the pleasure of 
this waltz with you ? " 

And Marjorie said " Yes," and got up and 
danced with him. 

But when he brought her back to her seat, 
Marjorie did not look at all pleased. 

Then the Lieutenant said : " What is the mat- 
ter. Miss Marjorie ? Have I done anything you 
don't like ? " 

" Yes," said Marjorie, pouting. " All the ladies 
and genelum walk round after they dance. And 
you did n't." 

"Oh, I beg pardon; I forgot," said the Lieuten- 
ant, laughing once more. " Won't you walk 
around with me now ? " 

So they walked around the room. 

Now Marjorie was a little girl, and Mr. Smith 
was quite tall, so that he had to lean over when 
she took his arm. But being one of those young 
gentlemen who like to make fun, he pretended 
to have to lean over very far indeed, so that 
people smiled. And once he made believe to 
trip over a pin that was lying on the carpet, 
which made some ladies laugh. Now Marjorie 
does not like to be laughed at, and when she 
came back to her seat I saw that there were 
tears in her eyes. 

" Say ' Thank you ' to Mr. Smith, Marjorie," 
said her mamma. 

So Marjorie said " Thank you," but so low 
that no one heard it. 

" I think, Mr. Smith," said Marjorie's mamma, 
smiling, " that it is getting near my little girl's 
sleepy time. Come, Marjorie, say ' Good-night,' 
and let us go to bed." 

Now I fancy that 
Marjorie may have 
believed that she was 
being punished for 
not behaving prettily, 
while all the time 
she thought it was 
Lieutenant Smith who 
had not acted nicely. 
Then she chd not 
wish to leave the 
party and go to bed. 
And she really was 
tired and sleepy, and, 
although we did not 
know it, she was not very well. At any rate, 
Marjorie began to cry in good earnest. 

So then I took the little girl up in my arms, 
and said, " I '11 tell you what we will do, dear. 
You come with me, and I will take you home. 
And then I will tell you what Sergeant Quick- 
step found to-day, over at the lighthouse." 

Marjorie did not stop crying until she was 








all ready for the night. And she had to laugh 
because I was so very awkward about putting 
her to bed; but at last she was safely tucked 
into her crib. 

Then the tears came again, and she said, 
"Jack, I don't like the way Mr. Smith did, a bit." 

"But, Marjorie," I said, "was it worth while 
to cry about it ? Mr. Smith was only playing. 
You are a little girl, and you must not expect 
gentlemen to treat you as if you were a grown- 
up lady." 

"But," said Marjorie, "you always say I must 
be a lady." 

"Yes, sweetheart, but while you are little I 
want you to be a child lady. Then when you get 
to be as big as Mamma and wear long dresses, 
the gentlemen will behave toward you as they do 
toward other ladies. So now," I said, " what do 
you think it was that Sergeant Quickstep found 
to-day over at the lighthouse ? " 

" I don't know," said Marjorie. 

" Well," I said, " he found a lovely white sea- 
bird. The lighthouse-keeper told him that it 
flew so hard against the lantern last night, that 
it was killed, poor thing ! The sergeant gave 
it to me. And I thought that its skin would 
make a fine collar for my coat ; then I thought 
it would make a beautiful muff for a little girl. 
Now, I will tell you what I will do. I will get 
a pillow and lay my head down on it, here, and 
you lay your head down on your pillow, and the 
one who first goes to sleep gets the bird." 

Marjorie laughed, and said, "All right." 

So I brought the pillow, and we laid our heads 
down and shut our eyes very tight. Pretty 
soon I opened one eye and looked at Marjorie, 
and I found that Marjorie had opened one eye 
and was looking at me. So we both laughed 
and shut our eyes again. Then, after a while, I 
opened one eye and looked at Marjorie. But she 
did not open her eye this time, because she was 

And so Marjorie won the white sea-bird. 

Chapter VIII. 


Marjorie has been having the scarlet fever. 

She wants that to go in Our Book, so there it is. 

The day after the party, Marjorie was cross 

and fretful. The old lady who lives next door 
said that it was badness, and that she ought to 
be punished. But grown people do not know 
everything. So, instead of punishing her, Mar- 
jorie's mamma held her in her arms and rocked 
her and sang to her. After a while we found 
that Marjorie was ill, and so we sent for the 
doctor, and he said she had scarlet fever. 

Well, then they would not let any one come 
into the room lest some other little girl should 
get it. And Marjorie's mamma and papa 
nursed her for six weeks, and she had to take 
a great deal of medicine. We always used to 
taste it first, to see whether it was nice or not ; 
and if it was not nice, then Marjorie got a 
present for taking it. One of the presents was 
a cap for the Red Dolly, a cap which covered 
her head, so that you could not see where it was 
broken. Marjorie was afraid that the Red 
Dolly would take the scarlet fever ; but I think 
she must have had it. 

We played that the Lady Dolly took it. The 
Lady Dolly wears fine clothes and moves her 
eyes and cries. When the Doctor came, 
Marjorie consulted 
him about the Lady 


Dolly, and he said that a little medicine would 
not hurt her. And so, every time that Marjorie 
took medicine, the Lady Dolly had to take some, 
too ; and when it was horrid she rolled up her 
eyes and cried. But she did not get any present. 

When Marjorie grew better, I told her so 
many stories and drew so many pictures, we 
could not begin to get them all in Our Book. 

" Yes, but. Jack," said Marjorie, " I think 
you might put ' Strange Land ' in, and — and 
the ' Litde Girl Who Lost Her Hat.' " 

" Well, I am sure I could not put in the story 




of the hat, Marjorie, because I 'd have to make a 
noise like the chickens, and the cows, and the 

birds, and all 
the other things 
that the litde 
girl met, and I 
cannot do that 
with pen and 
ink, you know." 


" Can't you draw the way they went, with a 
pencil ? " suggested Marjorie. 

" No, I am afraid not," I said. 

" But," said Marjorie, " you can tell about the 
little boy and the old chair with a break in the 
seat, can't you ? " 

'■ Oh ! yes," I replied : 

Now listen to me well, and I will try to tell 

Of a chair that was a sham, 
Of a shelf that was tall, a boy that was small, 

And a pot of blackberry jam. 

Of course the boy with care climbed upon the chair. 

His hand just reached to the shelf; 
When suddenly his feet went right through the seat. 

Then the boy fell through himself. 

Then the shelf so tall came down with a fall 

On the chair that was a sham ; 
And there they all lay, in a mixed-up way, 

Spread over with blackberry jam. 

" I am not sure," I said, " that I like that 
word ' sham,' because I do not think that all the 
little boys and girls who read St. Nicholas will 
know what it means. But then I cannot think 
of any better word to rhyme with 'jam.' " 

" Well," said Marjorie, " I guess they can ask 
their papas." 

" Yes," I said, " of course. Or their mammas, 
or somebody." 

Vol. XVn.— 85. 

" Now," said Marjorie, " tell about the people 
who lived in their hats." 

" Well, when I was a little girl — " 

" Why, Jack," said Marjorie, opening her eyes 
very wide, " you never 7cias a little girl." 

" I mean when your mother was a litde girl," 
I said, " ever so many years ago — " 

" Now, Jack ! " said Marjorie's mamma. 

" They used to wear big straw hats, and they 
called them ' flats.' And now the rooms that 
people live in they call ' flats.' So that is where 
the funny part of this poetry comes in : 

There was a lady lived in a flat. 

Just think of that ! 
She laughed so much she grew quite fat. 

Just think of that ! 

Though her husband was thin 
He could not get in, 
So he went and kept house in his hat. 
Think of that! 

'■ Now, ' A, B, C,' " said Marjorie. 
" Very well," I said : 

When little girls say their A, B, C's, 
They must be careful not to sneeze, 

For if they do, as sure as fate, 
They '11 never be able to say them straight. 

" And now," said Marjorie, leaning back in 




her big chair, "just tell about 'Strange Land,' 
please, Jack ; and that will be truly all." 
So I told her this story : 


Once upon a time a little girl found herself 
walking along a road in the country. She did 
not know where she came from, or where she 
was going. It was just as if she had been asleep, 
and had waked up in this Strange Land. But 
she did not feel frightened or unhappy. She 
walked along looking at the big trees and 
bushes, and wondering what they were made 
of, and how all the little leaves were fastened 
on to them ; and she pulled one off to see. 
Then she saw the sky, and thought that it was 
very pretty, and that she would like to look at it 
closer. A long, long way off she saw where the 
sky touched the earth, and she made up her 
mind to walk there and put her hand on it, and 
see if it was as soft and smooth as it looked. 

But before she came much nearer to where 
the sky touched the earth, the sun. that big, 
bright ball which had been over her head all 
day, began coming down to the same place. 
The little girl thought that it was coming down 
to meet her, and she hurried as fast as she could, 
so as to be there in time. But while she was 
still ever so far off, the sun got down very near 
to the earth, and suddenly dropped out of sight. 

Then the little girl stopped running, because 
she saw that there must be a big hole between 
the edge of the earth and where the sky was, 
into which the sun had dropped ; and she was 
afraid that, as it was getting very dark, she might 
fall into it, too, and tumble down on top of the 
sun. Pretty soon the stars began to shine. The 
child was very sorry to see the stars, because 
she was sure that the sun must have fallen down 
so hard as to break into little pieces which had 
splashed all over the sky. She was very sorry 
for the sun. At the same time she thought that 
perhaps she would better not go any nearer the 
end of the earth, just then. So she sat down to 
see what would happen next. 

While she was waiting, a woman came along, 
and said, " Why, here is a child. I was looking 
for a little girl. Are you anybody's Httle girl ? " 

The child said she did n't think so. 

" How lucky that is 1 " said the woman. " I will 
call you Katie, and take you home with me." 

So the child went home with her, and the 
woman gave her a bowl of hot bread-and-milk, 
and then undressed her and put her to bed. 
\Miile Katie was lying there, very happy, she 
began thinking about all that she had seen that 
day. And by and by she asked the woman if 
that beautiful sun was really all broken into 
little bits. 

" Why," said the woman, '• what on earth is 
the child talking about ? " 

So Katie tried to tell her. 

But the woman said, crossly, '' Goodness me ! 
Katie, you must not ask so many questions. 
Little children should be seen, and not heard." 

Now, Katie wanted to know very much 
indeed about this sun, and the sky, and the 
trees. She was sorry that in this Strange Land 
children must not ask questions. But she was 
a good little girl, and tried to do whatever this 
woman, who seemed to know everything, bade 
her. And so she asked no more questions, but 
lay there thinking it all out for herself; but 
before she could quite make up her mind about 
it she fell asleep. 

Katie must have taken cold during the day 
while she was running to the end of the earth, 
because in the night she began to cough. The 
woman, by this time, had put out the light and 
was in bed with her, fast asleep. Katie's cough- 
ing woke her up, and that made her very cross 
indeed, and she said : 

" Oh, dear me ! If I had known how much 
trouble this child was going to be, I don't think 
I should have brought her home ! " 

Katie was very sorry to hear the woman say 
that, and she cried a little to think that she was 
not wanted, and she wished she could go away. 
But crying only made her cough more than ever. 

Then the woman said: "If you don't stop 
coughing I '11 shake you ! Do you suppose 
that I am going to have you keep me awake all 
night with your coughing ? Stop it, I say ! " 

" But I can't help it," said Katie. 

" Don't tell me you can't help it," said the 
woman. " I know better. You can if you try." 

" I really don't believe I can," said Katie to 
herself. " But she says she knows." And re- 
membering that the woman had told her only a 




little while ago that children should be seen 
and not heard, she made up her mind to try 
very hard to. stop the next cough. Pretty 
soon she felt it coming, and she held her breath. 
Then she began to get hot all over, and there 
was a ringing in her ears, and her eyes started 
out, until, at last, she thought she surely would 
either have to cough and be punished, or burst. 

Then, suddenly, it seemed to Katie as if 
she had broken into ever so many little stars, as 
the sun had done. The next moment the child 
found herself walking along the road in the 
country just as on the day before, only it was 
morning now. The sky was soft and blue, and 
the grass was soft and green, and the dewdrops 
sparkled on the flowers, and pretty soon the 
glorious sun itself came up in the sky the other 
side from where it had gone down the night 
before. The child was so glad to see the sun 
and the flowers that she began to sing with 
the birds. 

While she was singing, there came by a lady, 
dressed so prettily that she looked like a walking 

" Oh," cried the lady, stopping as she saw 
the child, " 00 sweet 'ittle tootsey wootsey ! Oo 
must turn right home with me, and be my 'ittle 
tweet dirl." 

Now the child had never heard any one talk in 
that way before, but she liked this pretty lady, 
and took her hand ; and together they walked 
down the road to where there was a lovely 
house. But before they came to the house, a 
big red thing, with four legs and a tail and a 
head with two sharp sticks on it, looked over a 
fence and bellowed at them. 

This frightened the child, so that she hid her 
face in the lady's dress. 

" Why," said the lady, " you silly ' ittle goosey 
poosey ! That is only a cow." 

" Oh," said the child. But, nevertheless, she 
kept on the other side of her friend until they 
had passed the big thing with its mouth working 
so, and with the sharp sticks on its head. 

Then they walked on a little farther. Sud- 
denly the lady gave such a shriek that the child 
jumped nearly out of her shoes. 

" Oh, what is the matter ? " she cried, clinging 
once more to the lady's dress. 

" There ! there ! Don't you see it ? " said the 

lady, pointing with her parasol to the road in 
front of her. 

For a long time the child could not see any- 
thing. At last a tiny gray creature, about as big 
as a spool of thread, came running along the 
road. As it drew near them the little girl was 
going to pick it up. But the lady gave another 
scream and jumped up on a log, pulling the 
child after her. 

" What is it ? " whispered the child. She was 
not scared, as she had been at the cow, but she 
did not understand. 

" S'h'h ! " cried the lady ; " it is a mouse ! " 

" Oh," said the child, again. 

" Shoo ! " cried the lady, shaking her skirts at 
the mouse. 

Then the mouse sat up on its hind legs and 
slowly winked one eye at the little girl. After 
which it turned around and ran away as fast as 
it could. 

When they came to the house, the lady took 
the child to her husband, who seemed very glad. 

" Well, this is really a nice girl," he said. 
" Now the first thing to be done," he continued^ 
"is to begin her education. One cannot begin 
a child's education too early. Tell me, little 
girl, what is the meaning of pachyderm ? " 

" I don't know," said the child. 

" Ah," said the man, " I am sorry to hear 


" But no one ever told me," said the child. 

" Then you should have asked," repHed the 
man. " What is your tongue for if it is not to 
ask questions ? " 

" But I was told — ," said the little girl. 



" Don't interrupt me," said the man. " Now, 
here is a list of examination questions which I 
have prepared for the Primary Grade, and here 
are the text-books from which the information 
can be derived. Get a pencil and paper, and go 
to work. ' How doth the little busy bee ! ' Go 
to work, little child, go to work." 

So the child went to work. But just as she 
got to " 303. Define the analogy between meta- 
carpus and habeas corpus^' her head began to 
feel very queer. Then everything whirled round 
and round like tops. The next minute she found 
herself on the road in the country once more. 

Now the child was very glad to see the sky, 
and the trees, and the birds again. She 
thought that it would be very nice if the big 
people in Strange Land would leave her alone 
out there with the birds, and not take her to their 
houses any more. But when the sun began to 
go down, she grew very hungry, and was too 
tired to run to the end of the earth to meet it. 
And when at last she came to a house, she stood 
at the front gate and looked in. At that mo- 
ment a woman came hurrying out to her, and, 
picking her up in her arms, hugged and kissed 
her, and said : 

" You precious thing, you ! I knew you 'd 
come to see me to-day. Come in ! " 

The child was glad to hear that, and when 
the woman took her into the house, and bathed 
her, and gave her a nice warm supper, she was 
very happy. After supper the woman took her 
in her lap, and sang to her, and told her stories. 
There was an old lady in the room, who was the 
woman's mother. And she kept saying all the 
time to the woman, " My dear, you are spoiling 
that child." 

But the woman only laughed, and went on 
telling the child stories. Now, some of these 
stories the little girl did not like, although she 
was too polite to say so. They were about a 
Rag-man who carried little children away in 
his bag, and Ghosts who scared little children 
in the dark, and Giants who ate little children 
up. Now, of course, the grown people in 
Strange Land only make-believe that there are 
ghosts and giants. They know that there are 
no such things, and that nobody hurts little 
children. But the little girl had seen so many 

curious things that she believed that what the 
woman told her was all true. So when they put 
her to bed, and took away the light, and left her 
alone, she was very much frightened. Pretty 
soon she heard a scratching noise at the foot of 
her bed. This scared her so that she called out 
very loud. Then the woman came in, and the 
child told her what she had heard. 

" Why," said the woman, " it is only a mouse." 

" Oh, make it go away," said the little girl. 

" Afraid of a mouse ! " said the woman, 
laughing. " A litrie, tiny mouse ! Why, that 
would never hurt you." 

Then the little girl did not know what to think. 
So she asked if she could not have a light in the 

At this the old lady spoke up, and said, " No, 
no. Little girls must learn to sleep in the dark. 
My mother made me sleep in the dark, and I 
made my daughter do the same. There is 
nothing to be afraid of" 

" But 1 want to see that there is nothing to 
be afraid of," said the child. 

" No, no," said the old lady. " Shut your 
eyes tight, and go to sleep ; then you won't 
know whether it is light or dark." 

Now, although the little girl shut her eyes very 
tight, she could not go to sleep. So, when they 
left her alone again and shut the door, she cov- 
ered up her head in the bedclothes, and trembled 
so hard that the bed shook and scared the little 
mouse half out of his senses. The child kept 
thinking of all the dreadful stories the woman 
had told her, about the Rag-man, the Giant, and 
the rest of them, until she was so frightened that 
she cried. Then suddenly she heard a loud 
voice, and then — 

Why, then the little girl woke up. Woke up 
truly ; for she had been only dreaming about 
the Strange Land all this time, while she was 
really in her little crib at home. And the night- 
lamp was burning low, and her own mamma 
was leaning over her. 

" I think," said Marjorie's mamma, " that the 
little girl must have been eating too many nuts 
and candies." 

" Had she, Jack ?" said Marjorie. 

" I don't know," I said, " but I should n't 

(To be cojichtded.) 

The robins and blackbirds awoke me at dawn 
Out in the wet orchard,beyond the green lawn , 

For there they were holding- a grand jubilee , 
And no one had wakened to hear it but me . 

The sweet honeysuckles were sprinkled with dew ; 
There were hundreds of spider-webs wet with it too, 

And pussy-cat.out by the lilacs,! saw 

Was stopping- and shaking- the drops from her paw . 

I dressed in the silence as still as a mouse , 

And groped down the stairway and out of the house 

There, dim in the dawning,the g-arden paths lay. 
Where yesterday evening w^e shouted at play . 

Ey the borders of box-wood,and under the trees 
There was nothing astir but the birds and the bees . 

And if all the world had been made just for me , 
I thought.what a wonderful thing it would be . 



By William O. Stoddard. 

Chapter X. 


Mary Ogden had three dresses, one quite 
pretty, but none were of silk. Aunt Mehnda 
was always telling j\Iary what she ought not 
to wear at her age, and with hair and eyes as 
dark as hers. Mary felt very proud, therefore, 
when she saw on the table in her room the par- 
cel containing the black silk and trimmings. 

" It must have been e.xpensive," she said, 
and she unfolded it as if afraid it would break. 

" What will mother say ? " she thought. " And 
Aunt Melinda ! I 'm too young for it — I know 
I am ! " 

The ^\'hole Murdoch family arose early, and 
the editor, after looking at the black silk, said 
that he felt pretty well. 

" So you ought," said his wife. " You had 
more new subscribers yesterday than you ever 
had before in your life in any one day." 

" That makes me think," said Mr. Murdoch. 
" I owe Mary Ogden five dollars — there it is — 
for getting out that number of the Eagle." 

" Oh, no ! " exclaimed Mary. " I did that, 
and Jack did it, only because — " 

He put the bank-note into her hand. 

" I 'd rather you 'd take it," he said. " You '11 
never be a good editor till you learn to work on 
a business basis." 

As he insisted, she put the bill into her pocket- 
book, thanking him gratefully. 

" I had two dollars when I came," she thought, 
"and I have n't spent a cent; but I may need 
something. Besides, I '11 have to pay for mak- 
ing up my new dress." 

But she was wrong. Mrs. Murdoch went out 
to see a neighbor after breakfast, and before 
noon it was certain that if seven old men of 
Mertonville had paid for the silk, at least seven 
elderly women could be found who were very 
willing to make it up. 

About that time Jack was walking up to the 
door of the Senate Chamber, in the Capitol, at 
Albany, after having astonished himself by long 
walks and gazings through the halls and side 

" It 's true enough," he said to himself. '' The 
Governor 's right. No feUow could go through 
this and come out just as he came in." 

He understood about the " twenty tons of 
pure gold" in the building, but nevertheless he 
could not keep from looking all around after 
signs of it. 

" There 's plenty of gilding," he said, " but it 's 
very thin. It 's all finished, too. I don't see 
what more they could do, now the roof 's on and 
it 's all painted. He must have been joking 
when he said that." 

Jack roamed all over the Capitol, for the 
Legislature was not in session, and the building 
was open to sightseers. There were many of 
them, and from visitors, workmen, and some 
boys whom he met. Jack managed to find out 
man)- interesting things. 

The Assembly Chamber seemed to him a 
truly wonderful room, and upon the floor were 
several groups of people admiring it. 

He saw one visitor seat himself in the 
Speaker's chair. 

" There 's room in that chair for two or three 
small men," said Jack ; " I '11 try it by and by." 

So he did. 

" The Speaker was a boy once, too, and so 
was the Governor," he said to himself aloud. 

" Yes, my boy," said a lady, who was near 
enough to hear liim ; " so they were. So were 
all the Presidents, and some went barefoot and 
lived in log-cabins." 

" Well, I 've often gone barefoot," said Jack, 

" Many boys go barefoot, but they can't all 
become Governors," she said, pleasantly. 

She looked at Jack for a moment, and then 
said with a smile, " You look like a bright 



young man, though. Do you suppose you 
could ever be Governor ? " 

"Perhaps I could," he said. "It can't be 
harder to learn than any other business," 

The lady laughed, and her friends laughed, 
and Jack arose from the Speaker's chair and 
walked away. 

He had .seen enough of that vast State House. 
It wearied him, there was so much of it, and it 
was so fine. 

" To build this house cost twenty tons of 
gold ! " he said, as he went out through the 
lofty doorway. " I wish I had some of it. I 've 
kept my nine dollars yet, anyway. The Gov- 
ernor 's right. I don't know what he meant, 
but I '11 never be just the same fellow again." 

It was so. But it was not merely seeing the 
Capitol that had changed him. He was chang- 
ing from a boy who had ne\'er seen anything 
outside of Crofield and Mertonville, into a boy 
who was walking right out into tlie world to 
learn what is in it. 

" I '11 go to the hotel and write to Father and 
Mother," he said ; '' and I have something to 
tell them." 

It was the first real letter he had ever written, 
and it seemed a great thing to do, — ten times 
more important than writing a composition, and 
almost equal to editing the Eagle. 

" I '11 just put in everything," he thought, "just 
as it came along, and they '11 know what I 've 
been doing." 

It took a long time to write the letter, but it 
was done at last, and when he put down his 
pen he exclaimed : 

" Hard work always makes me hungry ! I 
wonder if it is n't dinner-time ? They said it 
was always dinner-time here after twelve o'clock. 
I '11 go see." It was long after twelve when he 
went down to the office to stamp and mail his 

" Mr. Ogden," said the clerk, giving Jack an 
envelope, " here 's a note from Mr. Magruder. 
He left — " 

" Ogden," said a deep, full voice just behind 
him, " did n't you stay there too long ? I am 
told you sat in the Speaker's chair." 

Jack wheeled about, blushing crimson. The 
Governor was not standing still, but was walking 
steadily through the office, surrounded by a 

group of dignified men. It was necessary to 
walk with them in order to reply to the question, 
and Jack did so. 

" I sat there half a minute," he answered. 
" I hope it did n't hurt me." 

" I 'm glad you got out so soon. Jack," re- 
plied the Governor approvingly. 

" But I heard also that you think of learning 
the Governor business," went on the great man. 
" Now, don't you do it. It is not large pay, 
and you 'd be out of work most of the time. 
Be a blacksmith, or a carpenter, or a tailor, or a 

" Well, Governor," said Jack, " I was brought 
up a blacksmith ; and I 've worked at carpenter- 
ing, and printing too ; and I 've edited a news- 
paper; but — ." 

There he was cut short by the laughter from 
those dignified men. 

"Good-bye, Jack," said the Governor, shak- 
ing hands with him. " I hope you '11 have a good 
time in the city. You '11 be sent back to the 
Capitol some day, perhaps." 

Jack returned to the clerk's counter to mail 
his letter, and found that gentleman looking at 
him as if he wondered what sort of boy he 
might be. 

" That young fellow knows all the politicians," 
said the clerk to one of the hotel proprietors. 
" He can't be so countrified as he looks." 

After dinner. Jack returned to his room for a 
long look at the guide-book. He went through 
it rapidly to the last leaf, and then threw it 
down, remarking : 

" I never was so tired ! I '11 take a walk 
around and see Albany a little more ; and I '11 
not be sorry when the boat goes. I 'd like to 
see Mary and the rest for an hour or two. I 
think they 'd like to see me coming in, too." 

Jack sauntered on through street after street, 
getting a clearer idea of what a city was. 

He walked so far that he had some difficulty 
in returning to the hotel, but finally he found 
it without asking directions. 

Soon after, Jack brought down his satchel, 
said good-bye to the very polite clerk, and 
walked out. 

He had learned the way to the steamboat- 
wharf; and he had already taken one brief look 
at the river and the railway bridge. 



[J UNE, 

" There 's the ' Columbia,'" he said, aloud, as 
he turned a street comer and came in sight of 
her. " What a boat ! Why, if her nose was at 
the Main street corner, by the Washington 
Hotel, her rudder would be half-way across the 
Cocahutchie ! " 

He walked the wharf, staring at her from end 
to end, before he went on board. He had put 
Mr. Magruder's note into his pocket without 
reading it. 

" I won't open it here," he had said then. 
" There 's nothing in it but a ticket." 

He found, however, that he must show the 
ticket at the gangway, and so he opened the 

"Three tickets ? " he said. ■ "And two are in 
one piece. This one is for a stateroom. That 's 
the bunk I 'm to sleep in. Hullo ! Supper 
ticket ! I have supper on board the steamer, do 
I ? Well, I 'm not sorry. I '11 have to hurry, 
too. It 's about time for her to start." 

Jack went on board, and soon was hunting 
for his stateroom, almost bewildered by the 
rushing crowd in the great saloon. 

He had his key, and knew the number, but it 
seemed that there were about a thousand of the 
little doors. 

" One hundred and seventy-six is mine," he 
said; "and I 'm going to put away my satchel and 
go on deck and see the river. Here it is at last. 
Why, it 's a kind of httle bedroom ! It 's as 
good as a floating hotel. Now I 'm all right." 

Suddenly he was aware, with a great thrill of 
pleasure, that the Columbia was in motion. He 
left his satchel in a corner, locked the door of 
the stateroom behind him, and set out to find 
his way to the deck. He went downstairs and 
upstairs, ran against people, and was run against 
by them ; and it occurred to him that all the 
passengers were hunting for something they 
could not find. 

" Looking for staterooms, I guess," he re- 
marked aloud ; but he himself should not have 
been staring behind him, for at that moment 
he felt the whack of a collision, and a pair of 
heavy arms grasped him. 

" What you looks vor yourself, poy ? You 
knocks my breath out 1 You find somebody you 
looks vor — eh ? " 

The tremendous man who held him was not 

tall, but very heavy, and had a broad face and 
long black beard and shaggy gray eyebrows. 

" Beg pardon ! " exclaimed Jack, with a 
glance at a lady holding one of the man's long 
arms, and at two other ladies following them. 

" You vas got your stateroom ? " asked his 
round-faced captor good-humoredly. 

" Oh, yes ! " said Jack. " I 've got one." 

" You haf luck. Dell you vot, poy, it ees a 
beeg schvindle. Dey say ' passage feefty cent,' 
und you comes aboard, und you find it is choost 
so. Dot 's von passage. Den it ees von dollar 
more to go in to supper, und von dollar to eat 
sometings, und von dollar to come out of sup- 
per, und some more dollars to go to sleep, und 
maybe dey sharges you more dollars to vake 
up in de morning. Dot is not all. Dey haf no 
more shtateroom left, und ve all got to zeet 
up all night. Eh ? How you like dot, poy ? " 

Jack rephed, as politely as he knew how : 

" Oh, you will find a stateroom. They can't 
be full." 

" Dey tvs full. Dey ees more as full. Dere 
vOl be no room to sleep on de floor, und ve haf 
to shtand oop all night. How you likes dot, eh ? " 

The ladies looked genuinely distressed, and 
said a number of things to each other in some 
tongue that Jack did not understand. He had 
been proud enough of his stateroom up to that 
moment, but he felt his heart melting. Besides, 
he had intended to sit up a long while to see 
the river. 

" I can fix it," he suddenly exclaimed. " Let 
the ladies take my stateroom. It 's big enough." 

" Poy ! " said the German solemnly, " dot is 
vot you run into my arms for. My name is 
Guilderaufenberg. Dis lady ees Mrs. Guilder- 
aufenberg. Dis ees Mees Hildebrand. She 's 
Mees Poogmistchgski, and she is a Bolish lady 
vis my wife." 

Jack caught all the names but the last, but he 
was not half sure about that. He bowed to 

" Come with me ; I '11 show you the room," 
he said. " Then I am going out on deck." 

" Ve comes," said the wide German ; and the 
three ladies all tried to express their thanks at 
the same time, as Jack led the way. Jack was 
proud of his success in actually finding his own 
door again. 

1 890.] 



" I puts um all een," said Mr. Guilderaufen- 
berg ; " den I valks mit you on deck. Dose 
vommens belifs you vas a fine poy. So you vas, 
ven I dells de troof." 

They all talked a great deal, and Jack man- 
aged to reduce the Polish lady's name to Miss 
" Podgoomski," but he felt uneasily that he had 
left out a part of it. Mrs. Guilderaufenberg 
and the others were loaded up with more par- 
cels and baggage than Jack had ever seen three 
women carry. 

" Dey dakes care of dot shtateroom," said his 
friend. " Ve goes on deck. I bitty anypoddy vot 
dries to get dot shtateroom avay from Mrs. Guil- 


deraufenberg and Meess Hildebrand and Meess 

Pod ski "; but again Jack had failed to hear 

that Polish lady's name. 

Chapter XI. 

Jack already felt well acquainted with Mr. 

The broad and bearded German knew all 
about steamboats, and found his way out upon 
the forward deck without any difficulty. Jack 
had lost his way entirely in his first hunting for 
that spot, and he was glad to find himself under 
the awning and gazing down the river. 
Vol. XVII.— 86. 

'■ Ve only shtays here a leetle vile," said his 
friend. " Den ve goes and takes de ladies down 
to eat some supper. Vas you hongry ? " 

Jack was not really hungry for anything but 
the Hudson, but he said he would gladly 
join the supper-party. 

" I never saw the Hudson before," he said. 
" I 'd rather sit up than not." 

" I sect up all de vay to New York and not 
care," said his friend. " I seet up a great deal. 
My vife, dot ees Mrs. Guilderaufenberg, she 
keep a beeg boarding-house in Vashington. Dot 
ees de ceety to Hf in ! Vas you ever in Vashing- 
ton ? No ? " 

" Never was anywhere," said Jack. " Never 
was in New York — " 

" You nefer vas dere ? Den you petter goes 
mit me und Mrs. Guilderaufenberg. Dot ees 
goot. So ! You nefer vas in Vashington. You 
nefer vas in New York. So ! Den you nefer 
vas in Lonton ? I vas dere. You lose youself 
in Lonton .so easy. I lose myself twice vile I 
vas dere." 

" You were n't lost long, I know," said Jack, 
laughing at the droll shake of the German's 

" No, I vas find. I vas shoost going to ad- 
vertise myself ven I finds a street I remember. 
Den I gets to my hotel. You nefer vas dere ? 
Und you nefer vas in Vashington. You come 
some day. Dot ees de ceety, mit de Capitol und 
de great men ! Und you vas nefer in Paris, nor in 
Berlin, nor in Vienna, nor in Amsterdam ? No ? 
I haf all of dem seen, und dose oder cities. I 
dravel, but dere ees doo much boleece, so I 
comes to dis country, vere dere ees few boleece." 

Jack was startled for a moment. The bland, 
good-humored face of his German acquaintance 
had suddenly changed. His white teeth showed 
through his mustaches, and his beard seemed 
to wave and curl as he spoke of the police. 
For one moment Jack thought of Deacon Abram 
and Mrs. McNamara, of the dark room and 
the ropes and the window. 

" He may not have done anything," he said 
to himself, aloud, " any more than I did ; and 
they were after me." 

" Dot ees not so ! " Mr. Guilderaufenberg 
growled. " I dell dem de troof too mosh. Den 
I vas a volf, a vild peest, dot mus' be hoonted, 




und dey hoonted me ; put I got avay. I vas 
in St. Betersburg, vonce, vile dey hoont some- 
vere else. Den I vas in Constantinople, mit de 

Jack's brain was in a whirl. He had read 
about all of those cities, and here was a man 
who had really been in them. It was even more 
wonderful than talking with the Governor or 
looking at the Hudson. 

But in a moment his new friend's face assumed 
a quieter e.xpression. 

" Come along," he said. " De ladies ees 
ready by dees time. Ve goes. Den I dells 
you some dings you nefer hear." 

He seemed to know all about the Columbia, 
for he led Jack straight to the stateroom door, 
through all the crowds of passengers. 

" I might not have found it in less than an 
hour," said Jack to himself. " They 're wait- 
ing for us. I can't talk with them much." 

But he found out that Mrs. Guilderaufenberg 
spoke English with but little accent, Miss 
Hildebrand only knocked over a letter here 
and there, and the Polish lady's fluent English 
astonished him so much that he complimented 
her upon it. 

" Dot ees so," remarked Mr. Guilderaufen- 
berg. " She talks dem all so veil dey say she 
vas bom dere. Dell you vat, my poy, ven you 
talks Bolish or Russian, den you vas exercise 
your tongue so you shpeaks all de oder lank- 
witches easy." 

The ladies were in good humor, and disposed 
to laugh at anything, especially after they 
reached the supper-room; and Mrs. Guilder- 
aufenberg at once took a strong interest in 
Jack because he had never been anywhere. 

For convenience, perhaps, the ladies fre- 
quently spoke to one another in German, but 
Jack, without understanding a word of it, listened 
earnestly to what they were saying. 

They often, however, talked in English, and 
to him, and he learned that they had been mak- 
ing a summer-vacation trip through Canada, and 
were now on their way home. It was evident 
that Mr. Guilderaufenberg was a man who did 
not lack money, and that none of the others 
was poor. Besides hearing them. Jack was busy 
in looking around the long, glittering supper- 
room of the Columbia, noticing how many dif- 

ferent kinds of people there were in it. They 
seemed to be of all nations, ages, colors, and 
kinds, and Jack would not have missed the sight 
for anything. 

" I 'm beginning to see the world," he said 
to himself, and then he had to reply to Mrs. 
Guilderaufenberg for about the twentieth time : 

" Oh, not at all. You 're welcome to the 
stateroom. I 'd rather sit up and look at the 
river than go to bed." 

" Den, Mr. Ogden," she said, " you comes 
to Vashington, and you comes to my house. I 
can den repay your kindness. You vill see 
senators, congressmen, generals, fine men — 
great men, in Vashington." 

After supper the party found seats under the 
awning forward, and for a while Jack's eyes 
were so busy with the beauries of the Hudson 
that his ears heard litde. 

The moonlight was very bright and clear, and 
showed the shores plainly. Jack found his 
memory of the guide-book was excellent. The 
villages and towns along the shores were so 
many collections of twinkling, changing glim- 
mers, and between them lay long reaches of 
moonshine and shadow. 

" I 'd like to write home about it," thought 
Jack, " but I could n't begin to tell 'em how it 

Jack was not sorr}' when the three ladies said 
good-night. He had never before been so 
long upon his careful good behavior in one 
evening, and it made him feel constrained, till 
he almost wished he was back in Crofield. 

" Mr. Guilderaufenberg," he said as soon as 
they were alone, " this is the first big river I 
ever saw." 

" So ? " said the German. " Den I beats 
you. I see goot many rifers, ven I drafels. Dell 
you vat, poy : verefer dere vas big rifers, any- 
vere, dere vas mosh fighting. Some leetle rifer 
do choost as veil, sometimes, but de beeg rifers 
vas alvays battlefields." 

" Not the Hudson? " said Jack inquiringly. 

'■ You ees American poy," said the German; 
" you should know de heestory of your country. 
Up to Vest Point, de Hudson vas full of fights. 
All along shore, too. I vas on de Mississippi, 
and it is fights all de vay down to his mout'. 
So mit some oder American rifers. but de vorst 




of all is the Potomac, by Vashington. Eet ees 
not so fine as de Hudson, but eet is battle- 
grounds all along shore. I vas on de Danube, 
and eet ees vorse for fights dan de Potomac. I 
see so many oder rifers, all ofer, eferyvere, but de 
fighting rifer of de vorld is de Rhine. It is so 
fine as de Hudson, and eet ees even better look- 
ing by day. — Ve gets into de Caatskeel Moun- 


tains now. Look at dem by dis moonlight, and 
you ees like on de Rhine. You see de Rhine 
some day, and ven you comes to Vashington 
you see de Potomac." 

On, on, steamed the Columbia, with what 
almost seemed a slow motion, it was so pon- 
derous, dignified, and stately, while the moonlit 
heights and hollows rolled by on either hand. 
On, at the same time, went Mr. Guilderaufen- 
berg with his stories of rivers and cities and 
countries that he had seen, and of battles 
fought along rivers and across them. Then, 
suddenly, the gruff" voice grew deep and savage, 
like the growl of an angry bear, and he ex- 
claimed : 

" I haf seen some men, too, of de kind I run 
avay from — " 

" Policemen ? " said Jack. 
" Yah ; dat is de name I gif dem," growled 
the angry German. " De Tsar of Russia, I vas 
see him, and he vas noding but a chief of bo- 
leece. De old Kaiser of Germany, he vas a goot 
man, but he vas too mosh chief of boleece. So 
vas de Emperor of Austria; I vas see him. So 
vas de Sultan of Turkey, but he vas more a hum- 
pug dan anyting else. Dere ees leetle 
boleece in Turkey. I see de Emperor 
Napoleon before he toomble down. He 
vas noding but a boleeceman. I vas so 
vild glad ven he comes down. De leetle 
kings, I care not so mosh for. You comes 
to Vashington, and I show you some leetle 
kings — "and Mr. Guilderaufenberg grew 
good-humored and began to laugh. 
" What kind of kings ? " asked Jack. 
" Leerie congressman dot is choost come 
de first time, und leetle beeg man choost 
put into office. Dey got ofer it bretty 
soon, und de fun is gone." 

There was a long silence after that. 
The broad German sat in an arm-chair, 
and pretty soon he slipped forward a lit- 
tle with his knees very near the network 
below the rail of the Columbia. Then 
Jack heard a snore, and knew that his 
traveler friend was sound asleep. 

" I wish I had a chair to sleep on, 
instead of this camp-stool," thought Jack. 
" I '11 have a look all around the boat and 
come back." 
It took a long while to .see the boat, and the 
first thing he discovered was that a great many 
people had failed to secure staterooms or berths. 
They sat in chairs, and they lounged on sofas, 
and they were curled up on the floor; for the 
Columbia had received a flood of tourists 
who were going home, and a large part of the 
passengers of another boat that had been de- 
tained on account of an accident at Albany ; so 
the steamer was decidedly overcrowded. 

" There are more people aboard," thought 
Jack, " than would make two such villages as 
Crofield, unless you should count in the farms 
and farmers. I 'm glad I came, if it 's only to 
know what a steamboat is. I have n't spent a 
cent of my nine dollars yet, either." 

Here and there he wandered, until he came 



out at the stern, and had a look at the foaming 
wake of the boat, and at the river and the 
heiglits behind, and at the grand spectacle of 
another great steamboat, full of lights, on her 
way up the river. He had seen any number of 
smaller boats, and of white-sailed sloops and 
schooners, and now, along the eastern bank, he 
heard and saw the whizzing rush of several rail- 
way trains. 

" I 'd rather be here," he thought. " The 
people there can't see half so much as I can." 

Not one of them, moreover, had been travel- 
ing all over the world with Mr. Guilderaufen- 
berg, and hearing and thinking about kings and 
their " police." 

Getting back to his old place was easier, now 
that he began to understand the plan of the 
Columbia; but, when Jack returned, his camp- 
stool was gone, and he had to sit down on the 
bare deck or to stand up. He did both, by 
turns, and he was beginning to feel very weary 
of sight-seeing, and to wish that he were sound 
asleep, or that to-morrow had come. 

" It 's a warm night," he said to himself, 
" and it is n't so very dark, even now the moon 
has gone down. Why — it 's getting lighter! 
Is it morning ? Can we be so near the city as 
that ? " 

There was a growing rose-tint upon a few- 
clouds in the western sky, as the sun began to 
look at them from below the range of heights, 
eastward, but the sun had not yet risen. 

Jack was all but breathless. He walked as 
far forward as he could go, and forgot all 
about being sleepy or tired. 

" There," he said, after a little, " those must 
be the Pahsades." 

Out came his guide-book, and he tried to fit 
names to the places along shore. 

" More sailing-vessels," he said, " and there 
goes another train. We must be almost there." 

He was right, and he was all one tingle of 
excitement as the Columbia swept steadily on 
down the widening river. 

There came a pressure of a hand upon his 

" Goot-moming, my pov- De city ees com- 
ing. How you feels ? " 

" First-rate," said Jack. " It won't be long, 
now, will it ? " 

'• You wait a leetle. I sleep some. It vas 
a goot varm night. De varmest night I efer 
had vas in Egypt, and de coldest vas in Mos- 
cow. De shtove it went out, and ve vas cold, I 
dell you, dill dot shtove vas kindle up again! 
Dere vas dwent3'-two peoples in dot room, and 
dot safe us. Ve keep von another varm. Dot 
ees de trouble mit Russia. De finest vedder in all 
de vorlt is een America,— and dere ees more 
vedder of all kinds." 

On, on, and now Jack's blood tingled more 
sharply, to his very fingers and toes, for they 
swept beyond Spuyten Duyvil Creek, which his 
friend pointed out, and the city began to make 
its appearance. 

" It 's on both sides," said Jack. " No, 
that 's New Jersey " — and he read the names 
on that side from his guide-book. 

Masts, wharves, buildings, and beyond them 
spires, and — and Jack grew dizzy trying to 
think of that endless wilderness of streets and 
houses. He heard what Mr. Guilderaufenberg 
said about the islands in the harbor, the forts, 
the ferries, and yet he did not hear it plainly, 
because it was too much to take in all at once. 

" Now I brings de ladies," said Mr. Guilder- 
aufenberg, " an' ve eats breakfast, ven ve all gets 
to de Hotel Dantzic. Come ! " 

Jack took one long, sweeping look at the city, 
so grand and so beautiful under the newly 
risen sun, and followed. 

At that same hour a dark-haired girl sat by 
an open window m the village of Mertonville. 
She had arisen and dressed herself, early as it 
was, and she held in her hand a postal-card, 
which had. arrived for her from Albany the night 

" By this time," she said, " Jack is in the city. 
Oh, how I wish I were with him ! " 

She was silent after that, but she had hardly 
said it before one of two small boys, who had 
been pounding one another with pillows in a 
very small bedroom in Crofield, suddenly threw 
his pillow at the other, and e.xclaimed : 

'• I s'pose Jack 's there by this time, Jimmy!" 

(To be co'iti'nttcd.) 



!e stpar)6es+ land, Without a doubt 

1:3 Cpooked-cpabbed-cpo5s-about; 

\ j^Of-rJ/'Wbepe fishes s'Sb fop booI< aipd bai^ 

ip'7 J-i ■ And cpy aloud, " V/e cannot n5ait !" /^-x,w =- 

— a- ' Vx ■ i' Tii^^ ■« 

F' A'?'^ chase each otbep iip the dapk ! 

/' 'iS' ffWi V/f^spe ducks u3eap oVep-sboes top Jou+ 
vf/T<iM|.In Cpooked-cpabbed-cposs-about. 



Jbepe boys So u^alkino on tb(=ip heads, -'?-"" 

Arpd childpei7 s^site 017 featbep-beds ; 

Tbepe \obi79y sits befope the fine 

Apd teaches G'^^'^^P^'PS^ spd S''''^'' 

The bouse tupps sun^n^epsaults at pi^bt, 

/\nd lorjj-uiir^jed dogs ^'y o^'r '^ f^i^bt. 

d ieaVe that couiptpy With a shout 
Old Qpooked-crabbed'CPOSS-'^bout ' 






All hail to you, my June roses and posers, or, in 
other words, my girls and boys, all hail to you ! 

This is my fair-weather greeting, you understand. 
I should not think of inflicting it upon you in 
blustering seasons. So here, in this sweet June 
warmth and sunshine, I repeat: All hail to you ! 

And now on this auspicious occasion, let me call 
your attention to some very interesting letters that 
my birds have lately brought me. Indeed, one 
missive greatly agitated the messengers themselves, 
if I may judge by the crowding flutter of wings 
when it was laid upon my pulpit. You shall have 
it first. It tells about 


East Orange, N. J. 

Dear J ACK : I once witnessed a singular tragedy 
in one of my rambles through the woods. 

It was a cold March afternoon, and I stood on 
the edge of a shaded pond, looking for some water- 
loving bird that might happen along, when sud- 
denly I startled by a disturbance overhead. 
On looking up I saw, on a willow-branch that 
drooped gracefully over the water, a kingfisher — 
one of the smaller species. The bird seemed to 
be looking intently at something in the water un- 
der a thin sheet of ice that had formed on the pre- 
vious night, when suddenly down he shot, dashing 
through the ice and sinking in the water beneath. 
My astonishment was great. I could hardly be- 
lieve that an old, experienced kingfisher would be 
deceived by the clearness of the ice and mistake it 
for the still surface of the water; so I watched 
intently to see what would become of the careless 
little bird. 

It happened to be a shallow spot where he 
plunged, and the disturbance at first made the 
water muddy. Soon it cleared; but where was 

Mr. Kingfisher ? I looked at the hole, and saw 
nothing there but the cold water and a broken 
edge of thin ice. 

Soon came a faint thump, thump, and there, a 
few yards from the hole he had made in the ice, 
was the bird, underneath the frozen surface, beat- 
ing his wings feebly against the wall of his watery 
prison. He died as I took him in my hand. 

Will some of your St. NICHOLAS readers offer 
an explanation ? 

Respectfully yours, Philip B. Whelpley. 


It may not be known even to the good Deacon, 
who lately has taken a spouse, nor to the Little 
School-ma'am, who is not yet among the married, 
that every wedded couple who live together twenty- 
five years are allowed seven weddings ! Yet so it is. 
Yes, and all who remain married for more than 
seventy-five years may have ten weddings ! If you 
do not believe it, listen to this letter, which an 
astonished dove has within a week brought to my 
pulpit : 

Dear Jack : I am a little girl living near New York 
City, and yesterday my Papa and Mamma had a tin wed- 
ding. It was lovely. They had a great many presents, 
all made of tin ; and even the plates, Avith cakes and mot- 
toes on them, were of tin ; and Grandpapa had a big tin- 
headed cane. 

.So far. Mamma says, they have had four. First, the 
real wedding ; then, three years after, they had a leather 
wedding; then, when it was five years, they had a 
■wooden wedding; and now they 've had the //« wedding. 
That 's for ten years. Here is the list that Mamma wrote 
out for me : At the end of third year, leather wedding ; 
fifth year, wooden wedding; tenth year, tin wedding; 
fifteenth year, crystal wedding (that means glass, you 
know); twentieth year, china wedding; twenty-fifth 
year, silver wedding; thirtieth year, pearl wedding; fif- 
tieth year, golden wedding; seventy-fifth year, diamond 

Mamma and Papa are not going to keep all of these 
weddings, because, Papa says, if a young couple have n't 
learned to economize by the time they 've been married 
seventy-five )'ears they 'd better begin to be taught it. 
He 's so funny ! Your little friend, Clara K. B. 

a coolness between the flowers. 

Dayton, O. 
Dear Jack: .As I have read a great deal in your 
Images about roses, and other flowers, in blocks of ice, I 
thought I would tell you about one here. There is a 
brewery near by that makes its own ice. One day the 
men presented to one of the directors a lump of ice 
Ij4 feet square by I foot thick, in the center of which was 
frozen a perfect bouquet of the choicest flowers. They 
looked quite fresh and natural. 

Your constant reader, DANNIE G . 


Dear Jack-in-the-Pulpit : Now that the 
season has come when all sorts of creeping, 
skipping, hopping, and flying creatures are at play 
in the sunshine, and are eagerly studied by young 



observers hereabouts, I should like to tell you and 
them of a queer sport which small boys in parts of 
Central America consider fine fun. It is spider- 

There is one particularly venomous spider in 
Nicaragua which bites men and animals about the 
feet and ankles, causing great pain and lameness, 
and then cleverly drops out of sight into a hole, 
which it digs for itself in the ground. The boys 
tie a ball of wax to the end of a fishing-line, and 
drop the ball, teasingly, down into the hole, until 
the angry insect takes so firm a hold of the wax 
that it can be drawn out of the hole and triumph- 
antly killed. J. E. R. 


Through the great college-window a bumblebee 

And buzzed on the blackboard a moment or two. 

It sailed at the tutor, — he ducked down his head ; 

It bowed to the students, — they drew back in 

It looked over shoulders (which was not polite) ; 

Then out of the doorway it flew in a fright. 

It stayed some ten seconds, acquired no know- 

But bragged to a friend about "going through 

The friend smiled, and said (with a little wing- 
shrug) : 

" You are now, I suppose, B. H. B., — Big Hum 

the victoria regia in the united states. 

Cape Cod, Mass. 
Dear Jack-in-the-Pulpit; As you are always in- 
terested in strange plants, I must tell you that I L-itely 
saw one rare enough to be something of a curiosity. I 
always liad heard of the big-leaved water-lily called the 
" Victoria regia," as being found in South America or 
some other foreign place. But there is one in Massa- 
chusetts, and it is alive, too. I asked the gardener about 
it, and learned that it has been here (on Cape Cod) about 
three years, and that it has raver before flowered so far 
north except under glass. He says, however, that it has 
been grown also in Fairmount Park, Philadelphia; and 

in New Jersey for about ten years. This beautiful plant 
was first cultivated under glass in America, nearly forty 
years ago, at Salem, Massachusetts. 

I was also told by him (the gardener) that, as the flower 
fades, it is gradually drawn lo the bottom of the pond, 
and stays there about fifty days to ripen its seeds. The 
pods contain four or five hundred of the seeds, which are 
about as large as peas. 

I send you a photograph of the lily and leaves. The 
little boy silting upon the leaf is the gardener's son. 
The flower is in bloom three days, and changes from 
creamy white to pink. I believe the water is kept warm 
by steam pipes. 

Would n't the leaves be splendid for decorating a 
giant's table ? It seems to me the flower is a misfit to 
the leaf — or perhaps it is the other way. 

On second thoughts, I think this blossom is larger than 
it appears. In the first place, the camera has a trick of 
enlarging near objects and diminishing those at a dis- 
tance; so you see the flower has not had full justice 
done it. Then, again, when you reflect that the leaves 
of the Victoria regia range from six to eight feet in di- 
ameter, and its flower is generally about one foot in 
diameter, you '11 see tliat the proportions are pretty 
well carried out, after all. 

bfoping, dear Jack, that I have not stated too many 
facts, and that you will find the picture interesting enough 
to publish, I am your admiring reader and friend, 

Benjamin Webster. 


Clinton, N. C. 
Dear Jack : There is a question which puzzles me 
very much. It is : If horses do not think, how is it 
that they understand the difference in languages ? For 
instance, the horses in our country understand us when 
we speak in our language ; but if a foreigner tells them 
in his language to '' get up," they do not change or 
quicken their ])ace at all. This fact is true of horses in 
all countries. Please, dear Jack, give me the explanation 
of this. Yours in doubt, 



The best letters concerning the origin of the 
words tinke}-, almanac, and landlord caine from 
Margaret A. and Mr. T. B. ; but the Little School- 
ma'am and your Jack thank all of you who have 
answered the question. 



By Laura E. Richards. 

Ri turn tiddy-iddy, ri turn turn .' 

Here I must sit for an hour and strum. 

Practice is the thing for a good htde 

It makes her nose straight, and it makes her 

hair curl. 
Ri ii/iii iiddv-iddv, ri turn ti ! 

Ri tiiiii tiddv-iddy, ri turn tee ! 

I don't mind the whole or the half note, you see. 

It 's the sixteenth and the quarter that confuse 

my mother's daughter, 
And a thirty-second really is too dreadful to be 

taught her. 
Ri turn iiddy-iddy, ri tiiin to J 

Bang on the low notes and twiddle on the I shall never, never, never learn the minor scale, 

high. I know. 

Whether it 's a jig or the '■ Dead March " in It 's gloomier and awfuller than puppy dogs 

Saul, a-howling, 

T sometimes often feel as if I did n't care at And what 's the use of ])racticing such melan- 
all. choly yowling ? 

But — ri turn tiddy-iddy, ri turn turn / 
Still I work away with my drum, drum, drum. 
For practicing is good for a good little girl ; 
It makes her nose straight, and it makes her hair curl.* 

* This last line is not true, little girls ; but it is so hard, you know, to find good reasons for practicing. 


Most of us would say, if asked, that we are de- 
scended from Adam ; but what an almost myth- 
ical person that same Adam is to us! — as unreal 
as Jupiter or Apollo, or any of those old names 
of antiquity that we know were only names. It 
seems impossible to realize that the ancient 
world of " the beginning," as the Bible calls it, 
is the same world we live in now; and its men 
and times seem separated from us by an impas- 
sable chasm — they on one side, in the dark- 
ness, we on the other side, in the light — and 
no links of connection between. 

But if you should meet any one who had once 
seen George Washington, with how much more 
reality and distinctness those early days of our 
country and all the Revolutionary times would 
stand out to you ! So let us see if we can not 
make those old, old times of the past years seem 
more real. I think we can do that if we connect 
them with our own times by a list of people who 
may reasonably be said to have seen each other 
in all those long intervals of years — so, link by 
link, forming a chain of connection between 
the old, dreamlike, dark ages and this very day 
when you turn the pages of your St. Nicholas. 
Let us try. According to the Biblical record, 
which necessarily opens the list : 
Adam must have been seen by Methusaleh, 

who was 243 years old when Adam died. 
Methusaleh must have been seen by his 
grandson Noah, who was almost 500 years 
old when Methusaleh died. 
Noah must have been seen by his great-grand- 
son Salah, who was 300 years old when Noah 
Salah must have been seen by his grandson 
Peleg, in whose days the earth was divided, 
and whom he outlived. 
Peleg must have been seen by his great grand- 
son Nahor, who died about the same time 
with Peleg. 
Nahor was seen by his grandson Abraham, who 
was about 30 years old when Nahor died. 
Vol. XVII.— 87. r 

Abraham was doubtless seen by his grandson 
Jacob, who was more than 30 years old when 
Abraham died. 

Jacob was seen by his grandson Kohath, who 
accompanied him on his journey into Egypt. 

Kohath was undoubtedly seen by his grand- 
son Aaron, as Kohath hved to the age of 
133 years. 

Aaron, who married the sister of Naashon, 
prince of the tribe of Judah, was undoubtedly 
seen by Salmon, the son of Naashon. 

Salmon was of course seen by his son Boaz, 
the husband of Ruth. 

Boaz was of course seen by his son Obed. 

Obed was of course seen by his son Jesse. 

Jesse was of course seen by his son David. 

David was of course seen by his son Solomon. 

Solomon was seen by his son Rehoboam. 

Rehoboam was seen, undoubtedly, by his 
grandson Asa, who succeeded him after an 
interval of three years. 

Asa was seen by his son Jehoshaphat. 

Jehoshaphat was seen by Elisha the Prophet, 
in the war with Moab. 

Elisha was seen by Jehoash, king of Israel, in 
the last sickness of Elisha. 

Jehoash was seen by Amaziah, king of Judah, 
whom he took captive. 

Amaziah was seen by his son Uzziah. 

Uzziah was undoubtedly seen by Isaiah, who 
began to prophesy in his reign. 

Isaiah was seen by Hezekiah in his sickness. 

Hezekiah was seen by his son Manasseh. 

Manasseh had doubtless been seen by his 
grandson Josiah, who, though a child of 
eight, succeeded after an interval of two years. 

Josiah was seen by his son Zedekiah. 

Zedekiah was seen by Nebuchadnezzar, who 
ordered his eyes to be put out. 

Nebuchadnezzar was seen by the prophet 
Daniel at his court. 

Daniel was seen by Darius, whose prime-min- 
ister he was. 




Darius was seen by Cyrus the Great, his nephew. 
Cyrus was seen by Atossa, his daughter, the 

wife of Darius Hystaspes. 
Atossa was seen by her son Xerxes. 
Xerxes was seen by his son Artaxerxes. 
Artaxerxes was seen by his son Darius Nothus. 
Darius Nothus was seen by his son Cyrus 

the Younger. 
Cyrus the Younger was seen by Xenophon, 

who was one of his generals in his fatal expe- 
dition in the year 401 B. C. 
Xenophon was seen by Plato, his companion 

in the school of Socrates. 
Plato was seen by Aristotle, who was his pupil, 

36s B. C. 
Aristotle was seen by Alexander the Great, 

who was his scholar. 
Alexander the Great was seen by Antigonus, 

who was one of his generals. 
Antigonus was seen by his son Demetrius 

Demetrius Poliorcetes was seen by An- 

tiochus Soter, who married his daughter 

Antiochus Soter was seen by his son Antio- 

chus Theos. 
Antiochus Theos was seen by his son Seleu- 

cus Callinicus. 
Seleucus Callinicus was seen by his son 

Antiochus the Great. 
Antiochus the Great was seen by his nephew 

Antipater, whom he sent to desire peace of the 

Romans, 190 B. C. 
Antipater was seen by Scipio Africanus, who 

was at Rome when he came. 
Scipio Africanus, b. 234 B. C, was seen by 

his son Scipio the Younger. 
Scipio the Younger was seen by his adopted 

son Scipio ^milianus, the destroyer of Car- 
Scipio .ffimilianus was seen by Caius Ma- 

rius, b. 157 B. C, who served under him, 

and whose greatness he predicted. 
Marius was seen by Sylla, who served with 

him, and was afterward his rival. 
Sylla was seen by Csesar, who served with him, 

and was his friend. 
Caesar was seen by Mark Antony, his friend. 
Mark Antony was seen by Herod the Great, 

his friend. 

Herod the Great was seen by his son, Herod 

Herod Antipas was seen by John the Bap- 
tist, by whom he was reproved. 

John the Baptist was seen by Andrew the 
Apostle, whom he directed to Christ. 

Andrew was seen by John, his fellow Apostle. 

John the Apostle was seen by Polycarp, 
who mentioned to Irenreus his recollections 
of John. 

Polycarp was seen by Anicetus, bishop of 
Rome, when he went to visit him. 

Anicetus was seen by Eleutherius, bishop of 
Rome, who was a deacon there when Anice- 
tus was bishop. 

Eleutherius was seen by Victor, who suc- 
ceeded him as bishop of Rome, 196 A. D. 

Victor was seen by Zephyrinus, his immediate 
successor, 202-219. 

Zephyrinus was undoubtedly seen by Origen, 
who came to Rome during his episcopate. 

Origen, b. 186 A. D., was seen by Mammaea. 

Mammsea was seen by her son Alexander 
Severus, b. 205. 

Alexander Severus was certainly seen by 
the Emperor Valerian, who was an emi- 
nent senator at the time of the death of 

Valerian was seen by the Emperor Claudius 
II., who succeeded his son, and had been 
highly promoted by Valerian. 

Claudius II. was seen by his brother Crispus. 

Crispus was seen by Eutropius, who married 
his daughter. 

Eutropius was seen by his son, the Emperor 

Constantius was seen by his son Constantine 
the Great, b. 272. 

Constantine was seen by Athanasius, b. 296. 

Athanasius was seen by Julius, bishop of 
Rome, whom he visited. 

Julius was seen by Damasus, bishop of Rome, 
who was an officer of the Church of Rome 
under Julius. 

Damasus was seen by Paulinus of Antioch. 

Paulinus was seen by Flavian, his competitor 
at Antioch. 

Flavian was seen by Chrysostom, his presbyter 
and friend. 

Chrysostom, bom about 347, was seen by 


who was instru 


Theophilus of Alexandria, 

mental in deposing him. 
Theophilus was seen by Cyril of Alexandria, 

his nephew. 
Cyril was seen by Dioscorus, his immediate 

Dioscorus was seen by Hilary, who was legate 

of his predecessor Leo at the second Ephe- 

sian council, where Dioscorus presided, 449 

A. D. 
Hilary was seen by the Emperor Anthemius, 

from whom he obtained a promise in St. 

Peter's Church. 
Anthemius was seen by Epiphanius, bishop 

of Pavia, who made intercession for him with 

the Goths. 
Epiphanius was seen by Theodoric the Great, 

who often consulted him. 
Theodoric the Great, bom 455, was seen by 

his daughter Amalasuntha. 
Amalasuntha was seen by her daughter Mal- 

theamentha, wife of Vitiges, king of the 

Maltheamentha was seen by Justinian, to 

whom Belisarius carried her and her husband 

captive, 539. 
Justinian I. was seen by his nephew and suc- 
cessor Justin. 
Justin was seen by Tiberius II., his adopted 

Tiberius II. was seen by Pope Gregory the 

Great, who was legate at his court from Pela- 

gius, his predecessor. 
Gregory was seen by Austin, whom he sent 

to England. 
Austin was seen by Ethelbert, king of Kent, 

whom he converted. 
Ethelbert was seen by his daughter Ethel- 

berga, queen of Northumberland. 
Ethelberga was seen by Paulinus, the first 

archbishop of York, who accompanied her 

to the north. 
Paulinus was seen by Honorius, archbishop 

of Canterbury, whom he consecrated. 
Honorius was seen by Wilfred, archbishop 

of York, at Canterbury. 
Wilfred was seen by Pope Agatho, whom he 

visited at Rome. 
Agatho was seen by Pope Sergius I., who 

was an ecclesiastic at Rome under him. 



Sergius was seen by Willebrod, whom he or- 

Willebrod was seen by Boniface, the apostle 
of Germany, who at one time labored with 

Boniface was seen by King Pepin, whom he 
anointed king. 

Pepin was seen by Charlemagne, his son. 

Charlemagne was seen by his son Louis le 

Louis le Debonnaire was seen by his son 
Charies the Bald. 

Charles the Bald was seen by his daughter 
Judith, queen of England. 

Judith was seen by her stepson, Alfred 

Alfred was seen by his son Edward 

Edward was seen by his son Edmund. 

Edmund was seen by his son Edgar. 

Edgar was seen by his son Ethelred. 

Ethelred II. was seen by his son Edward the 

Edward the Confessor was seen by his 
cousin William the Conqueror. 

William the Conqueror was seen by Lan- 
frahc, whom he made archbishop of Canter- 

Lanfranc was seen by Anselm, who was his 

Anselm was seen by Matilda, Queen of Henry 
I., whom he crowned. 

Matilda was seen by her daughter, the Em- 

Empress Matilda was seen by Pope Alex- 
ander the Third. 

Pope Alexander III. was seen by Thomas a 

Thomas a Becket was seen by his friend, 
John of Salisbury. 

John of Salisbury was seen by his scholar, 
Peter of Blois. 

Peter of Blois was seen by Count Raymond 
VI., of Toulouse. 

Raymond of Toulouse was seen, undoubt- 
edly, by the great opponent against whom he 
fought, Simon, Count of Montfort. 

Simon de Montfort was seen by his son 
Simon, Earl of Leicester. 

Simon de Montfort, Earl of Leicester, 



was seen by Edward the First, whom he took 

Edward the First was seen by Robert Bruce 

the Elder, his companion in Palestine. 
Robert Bruce the Elder was seen by his son 

King Robert Bruce. 
King Robert Bruce was seen by his son 

David the Second. 
David the Second was seen by Philippa of 

Hainault, whose captive he became. 
Philippa of Hainault was seen by her son 

John of Gaunt. 
John of Gaunt was seen by Wyclifle, whom 

he befriended. 
^A^ycliffe was seen by Sir Simon Burley. 
Sir Simon Burley, who went to Bohemia, 

was seen by W'enceslaus, king of Bohemia. 
"Wenceslaus was seen by John Huss. 
John Huss was seen by Jerome of Prague. 
Jerome of Prague was seen by Poggio Brac- 

ciolini, who wtnessed his martyrdom. 
Poggio Bracciolini was seen by Cardinal 

Beaufort, with whom he resided in England. 
Cardinal Beaufort was seen by Margaret of 

Margaret of Anjou was seen by Sir WiUiam 

Stanley, who took her prisoner after the bat- 
tle of Tewkesbury. 
Sir William Stanley was seen by King 

Henry the Seventh, whose life he saved at 

Bosworth Field. 
Henry the Seventh was seen by Cardinal 

Wolsey, who was his chaplain. 

Cardinal W^olsey was seen by Francis the 

Francis the First was seen by Catherine de' 

Catherine de' Medici was seen by Mary, 

Queen of Scots, her daughter-in-law. 
Mary, Queen of Scots, was seen by Bishop 

Fletcher, who was present at her death. 
Bishop Fletcher was seen by his son John 

Fletcher, the dramatic poet. 
John Fletcher was seen by Beaumont, his 

associate in writing. 
Beaumont was seen by Shakspere, his friend. 
Shakspere was seen by Sir William Dave- 

Sir William Davenant was seen by Thomas 

Betterton, the tragedian. 
Thomas Betterton was seen by Nicholas 

Rowe, the poet. 
Nicholas Rowe was seen by the poet Alex- 
ander Pope. 
Alexander Pope was seen by Lord Mansfield. 
Lord Mansfield was seen by George the 

George the Third was seen by John Adams. 
John Adams was seen by John Quincy 

John Quincy Adams was seen by Daniel 

Daniel Webster was seen by Charles Sum- 
Charles Sumner was seen by 
Abraham Lincoln. 

[Our contributor, Miss M. Storrs, in sending the foregoing list to St. Nicholas, explained that it was prepared 
some years ago by a certain learned bishop. It is very difficult to avoid errors in a list of this sort, and our readers 
are invited to point out any mistakes which they may discover. It Avould be well if this "living chain" should 
prompt young students of history to attempt shorter lists of their own ; say, from Socrates to Ralph Waldo 
Emerson, or from Julius Ccesar to Napoleon Bonaparte. — Ed. St. Nicholas.] 


We gladly call the attention of our readers to the offer 
made by the Vassar Students' Aid Society of a Scholar- 
ship at Vassar College. 

A Scholarship of two hundred dollars is offered by the 
Society to that applicant who passes the best examination 
for admission to the Freshman Class of Vassar College, 
in June, 1890. The conditions are as follows : 

All the entrance requirements of the college must be 
fully satisfied. The applicant must be in good health. 
The Scholarship must be accepted as a loan (without 
interest and without definite time of repayment). Appli- 
cation for the Scholarship must be made before May 31, 
to the Secretary, Miss A. Hayes, 6 Acacia Street, Cam- 
bridge, Mass., from whom further information may be 

Examinations will be held in Poughkeepsie, June 5th 
and 6th. Catalogues may be had on application to the 
Treasurer of Vassar College. 

A WRITER in the issue of the " Mail and Times," of Des 
Moines, Iowa, of March 15, 1890, corrects the date of the 
Grinnell cyclone as given in the article " Fifteen Minutes 
with a Cyclone," by M. Louise Ford, in St. Nicholas 
for March. Mrs. Ford sends the following letter in 
regard to the mistake : 

April 5, 1S90. 

Editor St. Nicholas: 

Since the appearance of the story "Fifteen Minutes 
with a Cyclone " in your magazine, I have learned from 
the gentleman whose experience is related, that the date 
should have been the 17th of June, 1SS2, instead of the 
27th. As I wrote you previously, the facts were given 
me by the gentleman's brother, and I took the date from 
him. It seems there was a mistake. 

I am very sorry the error should have occurred ; please 
correct it for your readers. 

Yours respectfully, 

M. Louise Ford. 


Williamsport, Pa. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I am just nine years old, and 
we have had you in our family long before I was born, 
ever since Rob was a little boy, and he is pretty old 
now, — he is 18, — and I have just found out you never 
had a letter from our family, and I thought it was about 
time you heard frojn us. 

There are five of us, and we have jolly times among 
ourselves. We have a horse we drive all around the 
country when the roads are good. 

We had a Rocky Mountain goat, but Papa and Mamma 
said they would have to draw the line on goats, and Mr. 
Billy had to go. 

With love, one of your very best little friends, 

Kate H. T . 

If you print this it will be a surprise to Rob, and I do 
like to surprise him. 

The following recipe, laboriously written by a young 
housekeeper aged seven, was faithfully transcribed by 
her father, who sends it to the Letter-box: 

Spiced Oriole. 

A pound of sugar brown, a cup full of molasas, half a 
teaspoonfool of salt, a coffie spoonfool of soda, an ounce 
of Lemberger's [a local druggist] black powder to 
yellows of the egg ; after these things are well stirred 
put then in a hot uvven lined with butter to boil. After 

they are boiled put them in the frigeter to cool over night. 
When they are cooled in the morning stir them well up 
again, and there 's your spiced oriole. 

Clough Junction, Mont. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I live on top of the Rocky 
Mountains, at a railroad station, which stands alone, 
there being no settlement here. I am ten years old, and 
the oldest of seven. 

We look forward with great pleasure each month to 
your coming, and enjoy your interesting stories more 
than others on account of our being hemmed in by these 
mountains and away from all the rest of the world. 

May Beatrice B . 

P. S. — I would not be without St. Nicholas for 

Halleck, Cal. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I and my two brothers live on 
the Mojave desert, fifty miles from a city. I think none 
of your readers can enjoy you more than we do. 

There are rattlesnakes, tarantulas, and many Jack- 
rabbits here. 

I have been much interested in a colony of ants near by. 
Once we gave them a large, live scorpion ; they attacked it 
fiercely ; some of them held down its long, six-jointed tail, 
which has the poisonous sting in it ; others held its legs 
to keep it from running away; others bit it to death. 



Then they carried parts of it into their home, and the 
rest they cleared away. 

It is very warm liere in the summer ; the tliermonieter 
is 120° in the shade. We go to the sea-side then. 

My aunt gave me a box of water-colors, and I painted 
the picture of the slipper Mark Twain made for Elsie 
Leslie, just the colors with which he worked it. It looks 
very odd. 

I am ten years old, and have taken you three years. 
Your loving reader, Helen K. N . 

Cambridge, Mass. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I live on Brattle street. Our 
house is more than one hundred years old. Its timbers 
bear the marks of the axe, showing tliat it was built 
before saws were used for making boards. In front of the 
house stands a grove of trees, frequented by hosts of 
squirrels, which are always to be seen running up and 
down and along the branches, though in the heart of a 
city of seventy thousand people. 

The next house beyond the grove is over two hundred 
years old. It is a very quaint building, with a large chim- 
ney in the middle, and small panesof glass in the windows. 
It contains an iron fire-place, said to have been the first 
one cast from a pattern made by Benjamin Franklin, and 
called by his name. 

On the other side is another large dwelling that was 
used as a hospital during the Revolution. Upon its front 
door is the brass knocker taken from the door of Gov- 
ernor Hancock's house in Boston, which the State 
strangely permitted to be torn down a few years ago. 

These houses I Imve mentioned, including our own, 
are situated on what is called Tory Row, because their 
first owners were Tories and had to flee to Halifax when 
the war broke out. 

On the opposite side of the street, within sight, is Elm- 
wood, the residence of the great poet, and the first man of 
letters in this country, Mr. James Russell Lowell. His 
daughter is now keeping house for him, as his wife, a 
most charming and cultivated lady, died while he was 
Minister to England. 

A little way off in the other direction, but on the same 
street, is the Craigie house, perhaps the best known of 
any private mansion in New England, for it was Wash- 
ington's headquarters during the siege of Boston in 
1775, and was afterwards made prominent in the literary 
world by Mr. Longfellow, who owned and occupied it for 
many years. It is still in the possession of his family. 

Midway between my home and the Craigie house 
stands another colonial building, where Count Riedesel 
was kept prisoner, with his accomplished wife, after the 
surrender of Burgoyne. The countess wrote her name 
■with a diamond ring on one of the window-panes. The 
glass has yielded to the caprice of fashion, but it is care- 
fully preserved by its present owner as a souvenir of 
those old times. This house is memorable, also, for the 
" Open Window," which has so sad an interest for the 
lovers of Longfellow's poetry. 

I advise any of the readers of St. Nicholas, coming 
to Boston, to visit this historic street. 

Beatrice McCobb R ■. 


Dear St. Nicholas : I think that, perhaps, some of 
your readers may like to hear about some little chip- 
munks that I tamed at Lake George, where I spent last 

As I was playing one day, I saw a chipmunk run into 
a hole in a tree, and, after watching him awhile, thought 
that perhaps I might tame him ; so I told a little girl there 
about it, and pretty soon we found some more holes. 
We commenced by putting nuts as a bait and standing 

near. Up comes his little head, and he looks around to 
see if all is safe ; if all is riglit, he comes out, takes a nut, 
sitting up on his hind legs, turns it around and around 
in his dear little paws, and bites off the sharp ends before 
he puts it into what seems to be a pouch in the side of 
his mouth, and then he is gone in a second. Sometimes 
he carries two or three at once, and occasionally four. 

My especial pet I called " Spry," and he would eat out 
of my liand. At first he tried to bite me; but he soon 
knew that I would not hurt him, and grew so tame that 
just before I left, he would go into my pocket after his 

One we called " Greedy," because when others came 
he would drive them away, and take everything himself. 

We used to get the nuts under some big hickory trees 
not far away. I think we must have given them about 
one hundred a day, and I think they have had enough to 
last them through the winter. 

Yours sincerely, Margaret W . 

New York. 
Dear St. Nicholas: As I am a boy of ten, and 
enjoy all boyish sports, I like the stories about foot-ball 
and base-ball best. I go to public school, and I have 
just been promoted to the seventh grade without an 
examination, because I was on the roll of honor three 
times during the last term. Hoping that you will have 
some more stories about game players. 

Your little friend, Sidney M. C . 

Kansas, Summit Co., Utah. 
Editor St. Nicholas. My Dear Madam : In the 
January number of St. Nicholas, on page 262, Anna 
Eichberg King says — " nor is the ostrich ever used for 
riding, as he has an exceptionally weak back." The lady 
must certainly be wrong, for I remember well riding 
ostriches in the circus when a boy. Yes, two of us boys 
sometimes rode an ostrich at once, when we were, I 
should think, twelve or fourteen years old. I would 
also call the lady's attention to an article in the " Popu- 
lar Monthly" for March. The writer, Marius A. Gouy, 
says : " The bird is both swift and strong, and can carry 
a man on its neck and shoulders at a very rapid pace." 
Yours, a constant subscriber and reader, 

Thos. P . 

We thank the young friends whose names follow for 
pleasant letters received from them : 

Abbie S. M., Phyllis S. C, James L. T., Dallas D. L. 
McG., Eleanor S. G., " Caiur de Lion," Josie Van L., 
John B. H., Jr., S. M. B., Wm. C. DeM., Mary Clark, 
Ella and Agnes S., Hattie A. P.,Florrie L.,Viola, Marion, 
Margaret and Ella, Susie A., Maud A., Jennie D., OUie 
R., ALaie H. F., E. Alice B., Walter O., Alice V. and 
Alonzo C, Madge A., F. D. B., Mary E. H., B. R. S., 
Edith W., Reginald B., Joe I., Ethel S., Isabel van S., 
Jennie M. L. S., Laura J., Josephine W., Lowell C. F., 
Mary R. C, Florence W., Sladge D., Mina S. L., Char- 
lie C. D., Charlie V. G., Rigby V., Fanny C, C. A. S., 
Seotah B., Mabel A. E., H. Clare W., Marie S., Hattie 
S., Hannah J. C, George C. T., Edith P. T., Elsie E., 
Charles E., Robert E. G., Sandford H. C, Ellen S. H., 
Dora E. T., Sedgwick P., Maggie W., Josie C, Grace 
A. H., Bessie, Helen, and Walter, "Pixie." Leonard P. D., 
Daniel W. I., F. L. B., H. M. B., Nellie W. D., Conrad 
and Russell C., Rebecca G., Ethel B., Dorothea, Virginia 
R. C, Fannie A. R., Ethel S., B. H. H., Palmilla L. 
M. K., Effie W. F., Maud M., Helen M., Elmer B. L., 
Warren F. T., Mac C. S., Charies P., Grace O., W. H., 
Charlotte C, Robert P. H., Sybil F. C, and Bernard B. 


Answers to Puzzles in the May Number. 

A DoirDLE Acrostic. Initials, Napoleon : finals, St. Helena. 
Cross-words: i. Nests. 2. Anient. 3. Pouch. 4. Ounce. 5. Level. 
6. Eagle. 7. Onion. 8. Noria. 

Stkp Puzzle. From i to 11, Memorial Day; 12 to 32, Decora- 
tions; I to 12, M. 1>. From 2 to 13, Ere; 31014. Marc; 41015, 
Outgo; 5 to 16, Ranter; 6 to 17, Inertia ; 7 to 18, Abstract; 8 to ig, 
Lithodomi : 9 to 20, Diminuendo; 10 to 2i, Aerostation; 11 to 22, 
Youthfulncss. -Anagram. John Greenleaf Whittier. 

Diagonal Puzzle. Diagonals, Quilp. Cross-words: i. Query. 
2. Purse. 3. Glide. 4. Spill. 5. Scrip. 

A Triple Acrostic. From i to 37, Dr. Livingstone ; 2 to 38, 
Dark Continent; 3 to 39, Henry M. Stanley. From i to 2, Druid; 
2 to 3, Dutch : 4 to 5, Rhoda ; 5 to 6, Agave ; 7 to 8, Lemur ; 8 to 
9, Rowen : 10 to II, Izaak ; 11 to 12, Kedar; 13 to 14, Voniic; 14 
to 15, Candy ; 16 to 17, Idaho ; 17 to 18, Opium ; 19 to 20, Nisan ; 
20 to 21, Nests : 22 to 23, Grant ; 23 to 24, Trent ; 25 to 26, Sinai ; 

A Wheel Puzzle. Perimeter, Transubstantiation. Spokes, trance, 
arcade, square, bubble, tumble, native, impale, tussle, oriole. 

Pi. Come, with the weapons at j'our call, 

With musket, pike, or knife ; 
He wields the deadliest blade of all 

Who lightest holds his life. 
The arm that drives its unbought blows 

With all a patriot's scorn, 
Might brain a tyrant with a rose, 

Or stab him with a thorn. henrv timrod. 

Omitted Consonants, i. Maypoles. 2. Averted. 3. Yenite. 

4. Primo. 5. Otto. 6. Lee. 7. Ed. 8. S. 
Rhvmed Word-square, i. Peter. 2. Enure. 3. Tubes. 4. Erect. 

5. Rests. 
Word-building. I. A, an, ran, near, anger, danger, grenade, 

regained, endearing, meandering, II. I, in, gin, ring, groin, origen, 
foreign, offering. 

To OUR PuzzLKRS : Answers, to be acknowledged in the magazine, must be received not later than the 15th of each month, and 
should be addressed to St. Nicholas " Riddle-bo.\," care of The Centurv Co., 33 East Seventeenth St., New York City. 

Answers to all the Puzzles in the February Number were received, before February 15th, from Maude E. Palmer — Paul 
Reese ^William H. IJecrs — Pearl F. Stevens — A. A. W. L. — Hubert L. Bin gay — Gertrude L. — E. M. G. — " Maxie and Jackspar" — 
Jamie and Mamma — Odie Oliphant — Nellie and Reggie — Ida C. Thallon — Jo and I — Adele Watton — G. W. T. 

Answers to Puzzles in the February Number were received, before February 15th, from L. S. Vail, i — D. Branch, i — J. R. 
Combs, Jr., i— Charles Beaufort, 7 — T. T. Titus, 4— Mary Elizabeth W., 2 — B. F. E., r — H. Swartz, i — J. C. O'Brien, i — Louis 
M. W., Jr., I — J. H. Webster, 1 — E. Shirley, i — Grace Morris, 6 — N. Gray, i — Edllh Woodward, 3 — Clara and Emma, 4 — Clara B. 
Orwig, 7 — W. E. Eckert, i — J. Post, i — Arthur B. Lawrence, 4 — Effie K. "Talboys, 5 — German Gem, i — J. B. Swann, 9 — The Lan- 
cer, i — R. Anselm Jowitt, 2 — John H. Decker, Jr., 5 — " Infantry," 9 — E. A. Adams, i — J. M. Taylor, i — John W. Frothingham, 
Jr., 2 — "May and 79," 8 — '" Pears." 7 — Charlie Dignan, 9 — M. A. Kirkbride, i — M. P. and L. B., 5 — "The Students," 6 — John 
Hackstaff, 4 — Nellie L. Howes, 7— Ethel Harwood, 7— M. A. C, 6— X. X., 4 — Ida E. Taylor, 4— J. B. and A. C. Hartich, 4 — F. 
Gerhard, 3 — S. A. M. T., 6. 

26 to 27, India; 28 to 29, Turin 
32 to 33, Easel; 34 to 35, Nicon 
38 to 39, Testy. 

29 to 30, Noyon ; 31 to 32, Olive ; 
35 to 36, Niece; 37 to 38, Eclat; 


I. A VISION. 2. Nice perception. 3. Brandishes. 4. 
To discolor. 5. Winged insects. 

Diagonals, from the upper left-hand letter to the lower 
riglit-hand letter the surname of an American statesman 
and military leader who was born in 1808. A. w. A. 


In each of the seven following sentences a word is 
concealed. When these are rightly selected and placed 
one below another, the diagonals, from the upper left- 
hand corner to the lower right-hand corner, will spell the 
name of a president of the United States who died in 
June; the diagonals, from the upper right-hand corner 
to the lower left-hand corner, will spell the name of a 
famous English writer who died in June. 

1. I saw Jo in Teddy's field playing at ball. 

2. I found a mass of shellac on Ichabod's new desk. 

3. Tell Bob icy clefts are often found in far Greenland. 

4. Were you not slack in getting your lesson so very 

5- "What plagues sessions are!" said a member of 
the council. 

6. Sometimes we don't understand irony at all. 

7. Is Silas affronted that you did not call upon him 

sooner ? G. F. 


Downward: i. Extended. 2. A town in Italy, 
eighteen miles from Rome. 3. Part of a flower. 4. A 
feminine name. 5. Encountered. 6. A prefix. 7. In 
quandary. " beth and amy." 


The second row of letters, reading downward, spells 
the name of a flower; the last row spells the name of 
certain fragrant flowers. 

Cross-words (of equal length) : i. A scent. 2. A 
glory. 3. Morsels. 4. An island. 5. Watches closely. 

K. M. T. 


Across : i. In quandary. 2. A pronoun. 3. Part 
of the face. 4. To affirm with confidence. 5. A rude 
picture used by Indians. 6. Exalted. 7. Extended. 

I. Upper Left-hand Diamond: i. In practice. 
2. A fruit. 3. A flower. 4. An end. 5. In practice. 

II. Upper Right-hand Diamond : i. In practice. 
2. A kind of ribbed cloth. 3. The lapwing or green 
plover. 4. An article of diet. 5. In practice. 

III. Central Diamond: i. In practice. 2. The 
seed of an apple or orange. 3. Guide. 4. A mug. 5. In 

IV. Lower Left-hand Diamond : i. In practice. 
2. Pitch. 3. A turning-point. 4. A seed-case. 5. In 

V. Lower Right-hand Diamond : i. In practice. 
2. A game. 3. An animal. 4. A machine. 5. In practice. 




Begin with a single 
letter, and, by adding 
one letter at a time, and 
perhaps transposingthe 
letters, make a new word 
at each move. 

Example: A vowel; 
a verb ; a texture of 
straw or other material ; 
horses or oxen har- 
nessed together ; water 
in a gaseous state ; a 
director. Answer, a, 
am, mat, team, steam, master. 

I. A vowel. 2. A conjunction. 3. A body of water. 
4. A point of the compass. 5. To purloin. 6. Princi- 
pal. 7. To cover with a sticky substance. 8. A square 
column set within a wall and projecting only a fourth or 
fifth of its diameter. 9. Atoms. Charles p. w. 


a little branch. My 52-68-46-10-98 is the name of aman 
full of ferocity and cunning, figuring in the *' Old Curi- 
osity Shop." My 74-4S-102-20-14-33-58 is one who 
manages the affairs of another. My 15-97-62-4-8015 to 
scatter. My 86-29-23-83 is to notice. My 36-27-78- 
39-75-53-44 is a large flat sea-fish. My 104-11-64-108- 
50-93-2-57 is a kind of spice. My ioi-iS-77-82 is 
withered. My 24-96-51-37 is a square of glass. My 
13-7-49-63-107-40 is to filter. My 3-43-28-94-67-5-34 
are conquerors. My 16-69-54-59-26-9 is a thing of small 
value. My 89-73-99-91-19 is commotion. My 71-65- 
85-S7-103 56-22-47-32-79-30 is the name of the writer 
of the lines on which this enigma is based. c. B. 

Shiesnun rove het weadsom wied 

Hevvre eht sebe hudmem ni het crevol, 
Dan nisehuns ilfling etli ylil scup 

Ltil ryvee noe bemdrim veor. 
Ninehuss rove hte hyza shill, 

Nad vero eth mildping revri, 
Dan I wedish eht nus nad eht mumres yad 

Mi^th snehi nad stal revrofe. 


I. Upper Square : l. To spill. 2. A term of endear- 
ment. 3. Elliptical. 4. To belabor with missiles. 

II. Left-hand Square : I. To pant violently. 2. Sur- 
face. 3. A prophet. 4. In some measure. 

III. Right-hand Square: i. A sharp sound. 2. A 
notion. 3. The tongue or pole of a wagon. 4. Holes. 

IV. Lower Square: I. The catch of a buckle. 2. A 
mixture. 3. A young hawk. 4. A kind of low furze. 


My primals form a name given to the 21st of June; 
my finals, a name given to a certain part of June and 
immortalized by Shakspere in one of his plays. 

Cross-words: i. An Eastern salutation. 2. A name 
mentioned in I. Chronicles, 9:4. 3. A name given to an 
atom, and to one of the simplest kind of minute animal- 
cules. 4. The throstle. 5- ^ name mentioned in 
II. Samuel, i:i. 6. A kingdom. 7. An ancient wind 
instrument of music. 8. The weight of twelve grains. 
9. A measure of capacity. 10. The third month of the 
Jewish ecclesiastical year. 11. A musical term meaning 
that all are to perform together. 12. Frosting. 13. A 
marine shell. 14. A French word meaning approbation. 



I AM composed of one hundred and eight letters, and 
form four lines by a famous poet. 

My 84-45-31-21 is a covering for the foot. My 8-105- 
42 is to chop. My 12-100-25-66-17 is a fruit. My 
6-81-92-38 is a corner. My 90-55-72-1 is to whip. 
My 8S-95-76-60-35 is to defiraud. My 70-106-61-41 is 

I. A festival. 2. Pitchers. 3. Dogmas. 
A Dutch coin of the value of two cents. 

one's course. 7. Rambles. 

4. A hermit. 

6. To direct 

F. S. F. 


(see page 730.) 


Vol. XVII. 

JULY, 1890. 

No. 9. 

UST above the 
wide mouth of the 
Potomac, where, by a 
curve of the Virginia shore, a natural harbor 
is formed, stood a modest frame house, with 
close-cut lawn sloping to the water's edge, and 
a stately, old-fashioned garden in the rear, di- 
vided from the forest by a flourishing hedge of 

One afternoon, in the year i8i3,thebluewaters 
of the tiny bay danced in the May sunshine ; 
the robins twittered in the lilac-bushes ; the yel- 
low, downy chickens distracted their mothers by 
frequent incursions into the box-bordered gar- 
den and rapid retreat before the energetic 

Copyright, 1890, by The Century Co. 

FoRSTER Owen. 

"shooing" of the bow-legged little darky, posted 
in a shady angle of the wall to guard Mistress 
Prue Hungerford's tulips and hyacinths. With- 
out, were peace and plenty ; within, homelike 
serenity and contentment, as Mistress Prue sat 
in her straight-backed chair in the pleasant, 
many-windowed sitting-room, busily sewing, and 
occasionally touching with her silver-buckled 
shoe the cradle wherein peacefully slumbered 
a flaxen-haired baby about three months old. 
Now and then a happy little smile would break 
over the young mother's face, and seemed to be 
reflected in the dimples that chased each other 
across the sleeping baby's soft pink cheeks. In 
truth. Mistress Prue had every reason to be 

All rights reserved. 




thankful. Two years of happiness had just passed 
over her shapely little head. Married to the man 
of her choice, an upright, brave Virginian gentle- 
man, everything in life seemed to favor them. 
Their child was thriving and beautiful ; their 
farm yielded a sufticient income ; their few 
slaves were devoted to their young master and 
mistress; and indeed until the War of 1812 with 
England, which had begun some months before, 
there had been absolutely nothing to mar the 
perfect quiet and happiness of their lives. 

On this very day Mistress Prue had received 
news that lifted a weight from her heart. The 
British, having just sustained a naval repulse, 
had abandoned their daring project of bringing 
a fleet up the Potomac to bombard the capital. 
Consequently she supposed that the militia, of 
which her husband was a very active member, 
would not be called out. 

" But here 's John, earlier than usual, and in 
a hurry," she thought, as she saw his tall figure 
leap the low fence that divided the garden, and 
come by the shortest way to the side door open- 
ing from the sitting-room. Quickly as he moved, 
Prue had the door open for him, and was wait- 
ing with her gentle smile of welcome. But before 
he spoke, she knew he brought serious news. 

" Oh, John, what is it? " she cried. " Some- 
thing has happened ? " 

" Yes, Prue," he sternly answered ; "something 
has happened : the British are coming up the bay. 
They have been re-enforced, and the Governor 
has called for coast defenders. We start im- 
mediately for the Point, hoping to head them 
off. You, the baby, and the servants must go 
inland. Take swift Bob and the carryall, and 
see whether you can reach Colonel Carroll's by 
dark. Stay you there for the night, and then 
push on to your father's, where you can wait 
until I come for you." 

Even while speaking, Mr. Hungerford had 
been donning the dark-green uniform of his 
corps, the Westmoreland Guards ; and now, 
taking his long rifle from the wall, he stooped 
for a moment over the sleeping baby. Then, 
embracing the little woman, who had been fol- 
lowing him in dumb, white-faced misery, he held 
her tightly for an instant, and saying, " Be 
brave, my darling. God bless and keep you ! " 
he hurried away to the Point, where, if it was 

within the power of brave men, the British were 
to be met and driven back. 

Left alone, except for a few colored servants, 
and under the grave responsibility of saving 
both them and her child, Mistress Prue quickly 
showed what blood flowed in her veins. 

To get to her father's, as John directed, was 
her first thought; but before she could collect 
her scattered ideas, a terrified colored boy burst 
in upon her with the startling intelligence that a 
British man-of-war was coming down the river. 
As it proved, one man-of-war had slipped by the 
homestead the night before, and meeting with 
some resistance above was now retreating, the 
men landing at intervals and pillaging and de- 
stroying everything they could lay hands on. 

Almost stunned by this latest news, — the 
boy's earnest manner forbidding doubt, — Mis- 
tress Prue's courage wavered for one moment, 
but then returned with increased strength. She 
tried to decide upon the quickest and safest way 
of escape. 

Glancing around the pretty home, which an 
hour before had seemed a very haven of peace 
and security, she shuddered at abandoning her 
cherished idols to the vandal hands of the hated 

Her mother's silver ! the famous old china 
emblazoned with the crest and the " W " — no, 
she must save some of these household gods ! 

Calling a young negro woman who had lately 
been installed as baby's nurse, she hastily 
wrapped up the sleeping infant, and placing it 
in the woman's arms told her to get into the 
waiting carryall ; to drive across the county to 
Colonel Carroll's ; to warn them to arm and 
prepare themselves for possible attack ; and 
to wait there for a few hours until she and old 
Betsy should come. 

Then together, she and the old colored 
woman hid, in holes hastily dug, all the silver, 
and such pieces of china as Mistress Hungerford 
could not bear to part with. 

They had buried all but one piece, and had 
covered with lea\-es the freshly turned earth, when 
the same boy, — ■ whose curiosity had caused him 
to linger to see what Miss Prue was " gwan to 
do," — came tearing into the yard with the cry, 
" Dey is comin' ! Dey is comin' ! Dey 's here ! 
Run, Miss Prue — run, for the land's sake !" 




None too soon was the warning given, for 
there, preparing to anchor in the peaceful Kttle 
bay, was the British vessel. Already a boat- 
load of sailors and soldiers was making for the 

Grasping poor, terrified old Betsy by the 
arm. Mistress Hungerford literally dragged her 
through the garden into a tangle of hazel-bushes, 
screened in front by the dense boxwood hedge. 
There the two frightened women hid, scarce 
daring to breathe, while the invaders landed 
and began the ascent across the lawn to 
the house, — a lawless, undisciplined crew, it 
seemed, who celebrated the landing by 
firing a volley of bullets straight at the 
house, crashing through the small win- 
dow-panes, tearing to shreds the 
pretty dimity curtains, mutilatmg 
the pictures on the walls, and 
changing in a moment the 
beautiful little home into a 
scene of havoc and desola- 

It \\-as only by physical 
force and dire threats that 
Mistress Prue kept the 
frightened negress from be- 
traying their hiding-place, 
for the worst was yet to 
come. While tramping 
through the house, drinking, 
stealing, breaking furniture, 
feasting on the contents of 
the well-filled pantry, firing ~ 
pistols at a stray chicken or a 
pet dog, coming sometimes so 
close to the women that they could ^ — ^-^ 
have touched them through the hedge, . '^ 
the marauders were suddenly recalled 
by a bugle-call from the ship. 

By preconcerted action, it seemed, each man 
brought from the barn an armful of straw. 
Some piled the straw inside the house, some 
outside — on the porch, by the doors and win- 
dows, and even on the roof, and then it was 
fired. The creeping lines of fire burst into 
flames, leaped around the gabled comers, crept 
along the dry oak wainscoting, danced and 
crackled on the well-seasoned weather-board- 
ing, curled round the columns supporting the 

porch built in imitation of that at Mount Vernon, 
and, in less time than it takes to tell, reduced to 
ruins the happy home. 

Indignation almost had the better of Mistress 
Prue's prudence; with difficulty she restrained 
herself from rushing out to denounce such 
shameful destruction — ■ 
but alas ! she knew of 
what avail such an out- 
burst would be ; then, 
there was her baby, — 


she must protect herself for the sake 
of her child and her husband. 

With a final volley the pirates (they were 
surely nothing more) boarded their ship and 
sailed away down the river. 

Mistress Prue came out from her hiding-place, 
and through blinding tears surveyed the ruin a 
few short hours had wrought. 

Deep and fierce were Mammy Betsy's de- 
nunciations of the marauders; and now that 
they were gone her courage rose, and she was 
equal to any emergency. 

The stable-doors had been thrown open, and 




the horses had wandered far afield. Every 
man on the place had long ago fled in terror, so 
there was nothing for it but to walk the weary 
miles across the county to Colonel Carroll's. 

'• And 'deed, Miss Prue, we must jes' start, 
for it 's a mighty long pull, and you ain't used 
to walkin'. Wish I could tote you," declared 
the faithful old soul. 

" Oh, Betsy, I think I can stand anything 
after living through this ! The sooner I get there, 
the sooner I shall have my baby to comfort 

" Wish we had her right here ; I nebber did 
like dat Diana, no how." 

" Ah, Betsy, you are jealous ! " said Mistress 
Prue, smiling through her tears, for Betsy had 
been her " Mammy " and the baby's, but now 
failing strength and eyesight had made it nec- 
essary that a younger woman should take actual 
charge of the active child. 

Over the rough country road stumbled the 
tired women. Darkness came, and more than 
half their journey still lay before them. On, on 
they pushed, resting at more and more frequent 
intervals, until the welcome bark of the Car- 
rolls' watch-dog announced their arrival. The 
animal knew Prue's soft voice, having come 
from her father's kennels, and was speedily lick- 
ing her hand with every sign of welcome. 

But nothing betokened any expectation, on 
the Carrolls' part, of receiving belated travelers. 
The house was strangely dark and silent. With 
a sinking heart, Mistress Hungerford pounded 
loudly the brass dragon-head knocker. No an- 
swer ! The silence of the seven sleepers envel- 
oped the house. Louder and louder the now 
almost despairing woman rapped. At length, 
with a bang, a second-story window was thrown 
open, and Colonel Carroll's ruddy face, framed 
in his silk knitted night-cap, peered forth hke a 
full moon from a white cloud. 

" What — what the deuce is the matter ? " 
blustered the old gentleman, roused from pleas- 
ant dreams of successful law-suits and exciting 
fox-hunts to answer so unseasonable a call. 

At this inhospitable greeting, poor little Prue, 
weary, homesick, and forlorn, broke down com- 

"It 's — it's — me!" she ungrammatically 
sobbed. " And I want my baby ! I walked all 

the way from home, and it 's burned ! " she pit- 
eously added. 

" Your baby 's burned ? " exclaimed the 
Colonel, trying to recognize the shadowy forms 
in the darkness. Suddenly, recognizing her 
voice, he cried out : 

" Goodness ! Prue Hungerford, is that you ? 
What brings you here at this hour, — and what 
was that )'ou said about your baby ? " 

" I want my baby, I want my baby ! " wailed 
the now thoroughly bewildered Prue. " And 
you 've got her ! " 

At this astounding declaration. Colonel Car- 
roll retreated, lighted a candle, donned his 
clothes, called Mistress Carroll, and hurried 
downstairs to find Prue in a dead faint in 
Betsy's arms. 

Tenderly raising the little woman, whom he 
loved as one of his own daughters, he assisted 
her to a sofa in the hall ; and when Mistress Car- 
roll appeared to administer restoratives, the 
old Colonel gathered from Betsy the story of 
their hardships. 

" But what about the baby ? " asked the 

" Dat Diana had her," answered Betsy. " She 
started in de carryall fur dis yere place. Ain't 
she come ? " 

" No," helplessly answered the Colonel's wife. 
" This is the first I 've heard of it." 

" Thunder and lightning ! " stormed the testy 
old gendeman. " Here 's a pretty mess ! — the 
British in the county, every man defending his 
home, and I never knowing a thing about it ! 
Where can that girl and baby be ? Who was 
driving ? Could she have lost her way ? " 

" Naw," disdainfully answered old Betsy. 
" Diana nebber lose her way. Jake done de 
driving, and he do anythmg Diana tell him. 
My opinion is, dat Diana hab joined the Brit- 
ish ! " 

Thereupon Betsy fell to chafing her mistress's 
hand and wondering how they were to break 
the news to Mistress Prue when she came to. 

The problem at once presented itself to the 
aroused household; some one had to tell Prue 
the baby was not there, for Mistress Carroll's 
cordials were taking effect, and Prue's blue eyes 
were soon gazing intelligently at the little group 
surrounding her. 




" Where is Diana ? " she demanded, sitting 
up. " Is my baby asleep ? " 

For a moment dead silence reigned ; then, 
throwing her arm around Prue's waist and 
drawing her close, Mistress Carroll said gendy : 

" We think Diana must have lost her way 
or thought, perhaps, you meant her to go on to 
Mr. Fordyce's, because she has not been here ; 
but Colonel Carroll will start out immediately, 
and of course he will find the baby by 

Poor little Prue ! At this terrible intelhgence, 
not the calmness, but the numbness of despair 
settled over her. Could fate have anything 
worse in store? Yes — John's death! That 
would come next. There was no use in crying 
out ; there was no use in doing anything ! 

Alarmed at her silence and the stony rigidity of 
her face. Mistress Carroll deemed it best to talk 
of the baby. The men on the place were being 
divided oft" into search-parties, and Mistress Car- 
roll bustled around feigning a cheerfulness she 
did not feel. 

" Poor httle dear ! " she cried. " I fancy her 
peacefully sleeping, so unconscious of all the 
anxiety she is giving, and that stupid Diana 
complacently wondering why you don't come, 
never dreaming she has made a mistake. The 
Fordyces are probably as worried about you as 
we are about the baby. How did you happen 
to send her on ahead ? — why did n't you come 
with her ? " she asked, determined Prue should 
speak, even if violent hysterics would be the 
result, for anything would be better than that 
dreadful silence. Prue remembered it was her 
own avarice, as she sternly called it, that had 
caused the separation. For the love of a few 
paltry pieces of silver she had sacrificed her 
child. If she had followed John's directions, — 
had taken her baby and sought shelter in this 
hospitable home, — how happy she might have 
been ! But now, for the love of gain she had 
willfully disobeyed him. She had forgotten her 
duty to John's child. What would be his feel- 
ings when he returned from fighting for his 
country to find his home destroyed, his child 
gone, and only she with her few contemptible 
treasures saved ! 

Mistress Carroll, being herself a Virginia house- 
wife, thoroughly sympathized with Prue's desire 

to save her household gods, and did not take 
such an e.xaggerated view of her desertion of the 
baby, although she acknowledged Prue had been 
in fault, and that it would have been better to 
have kept the baby with her than have con- 
fided it to such untrustworthy hands. 

" But, poor dear, you are nothing but a baby 
yourself; and you have shown yourself a brave 
woman in many respects this day. Cheer up, 
honey ; we '11 find the baby, and John will be 
prouder of you than ever ! " 

But Prue was not to be comforted ; this in- 
activity was maddening. She must do some- 
thing to help. She must go with the men. This, 
however. Colonel Carroll forbade. He had 
sent out several parties already ; he himself would 
drive over to Colonel Fordyce's, and if they had 
heard nothing, he would then act on Betsy's 
suggestion. He would stop for Prue, and they 
would go back to the river and try to find out 
whether the British had taken any captives dur- 
ing the day. 

While this plan was under discussion, the first 
search-party returned, much excited, bringing 
with them Jake, the driver, whom they had 
found hiding in the woods. Jake was evidently 
badly scared and loath to believe, until he saw 
" Miss " Prue herself, that he was in the hands 
of friends. 

In his own peculiar fashion Jake gave his 
version of the day's adventures, which in plain 
English was as follows : 

He had started on the right road for Colonel 
Carroll's, determined to obey to the letter young 
Miss's orders ; but Diana had, from the very 
first, determined to drive down the river road. 
She was sure they could strike across the country 
lower down. It was n't often she could 
drive in such a fine carriage, and she wanted 
to go by Mammy Lewis's to show herself And, 
as Jake sheepishly if remorsefully said, " Diana 
was a mighty likely gal." She had evidently, 
by wiles and blandishments, won over Jake's 
susceptible heart until he was ready to do as 
she asked. 

They had driven down the river road, and 
Jake had gone much farther than he had intended 
when, to his horror, he suddenly saw in front 
of him three "redcoats." The enemy quietly 
took possession of the horse and vehicle, re- 




marking that it was much easier to ride than to 
walk, and ordered him, — "at the pistol's p'int," 
averred Jake, turning gray at the memory of his 


fright, — to drive them several miles farther on, 
to where they expected to join their ship. The 
worst of it was that Diana, base, perfidious 
Diana, smilingly made room for one of the sol- 
diers beside her, and listened in pleased wonder 
to his tales of the old country — where she 
could be a lady, and never do any work, and 
dress as fine as any one. And Diana had de- 
clared she had fine clothes now, a black silk 
and a gold chain, but that she could not go to 
England, for here was young Missus's baby. 
" You can take the baby too ; we won't 
mind the child," insisted the engaging warrior, 
who saw in Diana a candidate for the post of 
ship's cook, now vacant, and a good servant at 
home, perhaps, later on. So it came about. Di- 
ana, refusing to give up the child, had boarded 
the British ship; the soldiers had taken the 
horse, and were discussing the advisability of let- 
ting Jake go or of putting him in irons, when 
Jake ended that argument by taking to his heels. 
" Well," exclaimed Colonel Carroll (cutting 

short Jake's rather voluble explanation of how 
he came across the search-party and of what 
they said to him and he to them ; having had 
the floor so long, Jake felt 
himself to be something of a 
hero), " there is one point 
gained. We know who has 
the baby!" 

Small comfort this, to half- 
frantic Prue, as she fancied 
her child a prisoner in the 
hands of the British, with no 
care but that of wicked, faith- 
less Diana. " What can we 
do ? " she piteously inquired. 
" Shall I ever see my baby 
again ? " 

" See her again ? Well, I 
should say so ! " roared the 
Colonel. " The spirit of '76 is 
not quite dead in this country ; 
and I reckon that there 's 
enough of us to keep a few 
blarsted Britishers from carry- 
ing off your uncle's grand- 
niece ! " 

" Goodness ! " cried Prue, 
thrown into greater con- 
sternation by these words, " suppose Diana tells 
them ! " 

" Poof! " sniffed the Colonel, " I don't believe 
she knows enough ! " 

" No," said Mistress Prue, " I don't believe 
she does. Come, are n't you going to do some- 
thing ?" she impatiently cried, — "and remem- 
ber, Colonel, you don't leave this place without 
me. I am going for my baby, to get her if I 
have to fight for her ! " and Mistress Prue looked 
as if she could easily rout the entire British 
fleet. Colonel Carroll helplessly yielded, as all 
good men must when women assert themselves. 
" I suppose we shall have to approach those 
fellows with a flag of truce," he disconsolately 
remarked. " I wish we had a battery to bring 
to bear on them ! " 

" But then you might hurt my baby ! " inter- 
posed Mistress Prue, rapidly preparing for de- 

" Oh, — hm ! — yes, yes, the baby, — of course," 
ejaculated the hasty Colonel. " Ah, my dear," 




he blandly added, " are you quite ready ? Come, 
Jake, call the men and guide us to the rascals' 

This invitation Jake positively, if tremblingl)-, 
declined, until Colonel Carroll, waxing calmer 
and more dignified, as his wrath increased, in- 
formed him, that if he would not walk, he 
should ride strapped to a mule's back, and for 
the second time that day he should have the 
pleasure of being driven, not only at the 
" pistol's p'int," but with the cold steel on his 
forehead; whereupon Jake agreed to guide them 
without further persuasion. 

So they started, four or five plantation hands, 
old Betsy, Mistress Prue, and the Colonel. 

The sun was now well up, and a second per- 
fect May day beamed upon the world, which in 
twenty-four hours had so changed for Mistress 
Prue. At this same hour, but one short day 
ago, she had been in her own house, her child 
in her arms, her husband by her side, a happy, 
prosperous, loved and loving woman. To-day, 
her home in ruins, her husband — she knew not 

where ! — her child a prisoner, and she, foot-sore 
and so weary she could hardly hold up her 
head, starting on a forlorn quest to sue the 
enemy of her country to return her child : she, 
the first of her name to humble herself to British 
power ! 

Jake well knew the road, and before noon 
they came in sight of the British man-of-war, 
the same one whose crew had so devastated 
INIistress Prue's home. 

There was some excitement on board ; they 
were getting ready to sail. There was no time 
to be lost. Fastening a large white handker- 
chief to his cane. Colonel Carroll ran rapidly 
down the bank, followed by Prue, whose quick 
eye discerned, standing on the white deck, 
Diana, arrayed in her Mistress Prue's best 
black silk gown and gold chain, and holding in 
her arms the darling, — the baby, about to be 
forever carried from its mother's sight ! 

But, no! The flag is seen, the captain of 
the ship, although his crew is lawless, is an of- 
ficer of the British Navy and respects the laws 




of civilized warfare. The truce is answered, a 
boat is lowered, and soon the situation is ex- 
plained to the English lieutenant. He is 
deeply touched by Prue's pleading face and ill- 
concealed impatience to receive her child. 

" No," he answers, civilly enough ; " we 
hardly regard it as a capture. The girl is en- 
gaged to cook for us while we are in these 
waters, but I will return the child immedi- 

With which he pushed back to the ship, his 
every movement watched with trembling anx- 
iety by Prue. 

In the mean time, a small body of men in 
dark-green uniforms, who had been hiding be- 
hind the river-banks (and a knowledge of whose 
approach had perhaps accelerated the depart- 

ure of the ship), might now be seen, marching 
down in open view, also headed by a white 
flag, making directly for the little party waiting 
on the shore. 

Meanwhile, the latter were too intent upon 
watching the baby's transfer to the small boat 
to notice the new arrivals ; but as the lieutenant 
hands the child to its mother, a strong arm is 
thrown around her, — she and baby are gathered 
into a sure, protective embrace, and John's 
hearty voice announces : " That 's all right. 
Lieutenant; the truce lasts one hour." 

Colonel Carroll's jovial tones are now heard 
telling the lieutenant to inform his Captain that 
he has had the honor of holding as prisoner, for 
the last few hours, the grand-niece of General 
George Washington. 


By Anna M. Pratt. 

^4 Sf^'t^^fP^^^ 

The school-bell rmgs with a cheerful sound, 
To hasten the slow, late comer ; 
" To-morrow we '11 play," 

It seems to say, 
" Hurrah for the first vacation day! 
Hurrah for a merry summer ! " 

The faithful bell, now the school is tlone, 
Must pause in its daily swinging ; 
Does it miss the noise 
Of the girls and boys 
And long to echo vacation joys 
With a peal of its wildest ringing ? 



,5^.^^<. lb. 

Soon, over the country far and wide, 
There are ripples of happy laughter; 
For the children know 
Where the berries grow. 
Where 'the purling streams thro' the 
meadows flow, 
And the hurrying brooks speed after. 

They know where the mountains lift their heads, 
By the great sky-curtain bounded; 
And their voices leap 
To the craggy steep, 
And wake the echoes from out their 
With shouts that are thrice resounded. 

They know where the sea lies blue and calm 
In the bright midsummer weather; 
And they love to stand 

On the shining sand, 
Where the tide rolls up, — and then, 
hand in hand, 
To jjlunge in the wave together. 

They love to loiter in leafy woods, 
And list to the squirrel's scolding, 

As they climb to a seat 

Near his safe retreat, 

Or fall on a couch, all spicy sweet, 
Of feathery ferns unfolding. 

But, by and by, in the autumn days, 
Ere the bee has deserted the clover. 
When the sound of the bell 
Shall rise and swell, 
Will the little folk laugh — now who 
can tell — 
To hear that vacation is over ? 



By Elizabeth Robins Pennell. 

It may be that if you saw a cycler winding 
his way tlirough the crowded streets of a great 
town, you would think merely of the discomfort 
and danger of being astride a light wheel in the 
midst of heavy carts and impatient horses. But 
somehow, when I meet one, even in the main 
thoroughfares of London, surrounded by han- 
soms and omnibuses and wagons, to me he sug- 
gests the quiet and loneliness of green lanes and 
shady roads. For my own rides on a cycle have 
always taken me far from the city rush and traf- 
fic, into the peaceful country that lies beyond. 

This really is the charm of cycling as a sport, 
the charm that has made it grow in little more 
than ten years into one of the most popular pas- 
times of the day. Who that sees the thousands 
of cyclers on American and English roads, who 
that knows anything of the hundreds of cycling 
clubs (one at least 20,000 strong) would believe 
that at the Centennial Exhibition of 1876, bi- 
cycles were curiosities, and the men who rode 
them were stared at as if they had just escaped 
from the circus ring ? 

Every kind of sport, of course, takes you into 
the open air and gives you good, honest physical 
exercise. But, after all, for foot-ball, about which 
Mr. Camp has been writing such interesting ar- 
ticles in St. Nicholas, and for cricket and ten- 
nis, you must always go to just the same places; 
you must have your special field or court, just 
as you must have special bat or racket and ball ; 
and in that field or court you stay until your 
game is over. It is different with boating, I 
know : in a canoe, or skiff, or punt, you can go 
on many a voyage of exploration — that is, if you 
are near a river or a stream of fair width. But, 
unfortunately, rivers do not flow by every town 
or village. There is none, for example, near the 
famous Harrow school, so that among Harro- 
vians are no "wet bobs," or boating teams, as 
there are among Eton boys. 

Wherever you may be, however, you can 
always count upon finding roads, bad enough 
sometimes, it is true ; but still, you must live 
in a very new settlement, indeed, if there is not 
at least one road over which a wheel can be 
driven. And on your cycle you can jump, in 
the late afternoons after school-hours, and off 
you can go, slowly and carefully at first, where 
street-cars and wagons block the way; but before 
very long you will have ridden past the rows of 
houses, past the shops, past the factories; and 
paved streets will have become country roads; 
and you will breathe pure, sweet air ; and on all 
sides you will see, instead of bricks and mortar, 
the fresh green of trees and pastures; and you 
will carry yourself along at a speed that will be 
a pleasure in itself For in cycling, if you are 
a good rider, there is as much excitement and 
exhilaration as in coasting and tobogganing, 
skating or sleighing. 

And then, when the summer-time brings 
with it long hoHdays, who that has not tried can 
even imagine the delight of going off for a tour 
on a cycle ? — of the long days spent in the open 
air ; of the pleasant rests under the shade by the 
wayside ; of the midday halt for luncheon in some 
little, unknown inn ; of the arrival at night in a 
new town or village ; of the dinner eaten with 
such hearty appetite ; of the healthy sleepiness 
that sends one almost at once to bed. 

And there is no way in which you can see a 
country in all its beauty so thoroughly and 
pleasantly as from a cycle. I often think how 
little I would have known about Italy, had I 
gone by trains from one town to another, in- 
stead of riding on my tricycle over the good, 
white Italian roads, that now wind with the 
reeded rivers or run straight between the wide 
vineyards; now mount the hillsides where cy- 
presses, and the sHm trees the old Italian artists 
loved to paint, rise in groups or lead in long 





r^U V 



1 1 

1 \\j 

Wm :^Mj€''^ J 


avenues to villa or monastery, while at the top is 
the walled town, with its towers and palaces and 

And in France, ^\'ho, from a railway train, 
can see the lovely long stretches of poplar- 
lined roads; the litde, quiet rivers; the wild for- 
est-paths like those of St. Germain and Fon- 
tainebleau ; the tiny white and gray villages 
where the thatched cottages cluster about a 
beautiful church rich in carving and the \\-ork 
of the old days ! And in England, what a pity 
not to travel along the hedged-in lanes and 
highways, under the great elms ! What a pity 
to lose the beauty of the quaint wayside inns, 
of the great parks, of the out-of-the-way towns 
and villages, in every one of which is something 
well worth seeing ! And at home, do you think 

you know }-our own country because you have 
been whirled along in an express-train from New 
York to Philadelphia, from Boston to Rich- 
mond, or even to San Francisco ? 

I do not forget that boys and girls can not ride 
away on these machines whenever and as far as 
they wish. But I am sure many often find an 
older companion for a summer outing. I know 
one good English father who took with him on 
a fortnight's journey his two httle girls, then quite 
too httle to do any work at all; one was 
strapped on the front seat (for he rode a tandem), 
the other was comfortably stowed away in a 
basket fastened behind. Often I meet tiny 
boys and girls riding through country lanes on 
their own tin\' machines. There is a very famous 
cycler in London, Major Knox-Holmes, who is 



more than eighty years old. He rides as 
regularly as any boy, and he usually takes with 
him his little granddaugliter. She sits on the 
back seat of his tandem, or often on a tricycle 
of her own, and works away with a will. As 
for older boys and girls, the better they learn to 
ride now that they can take short runs by 
themselves, and the more thoroughly they keep 
in training, the readier they will be if the day 
comes when, like Mr. Thomas Stevens, they start 
to ride round the world. 

If in other sports there is much you have 
to know about the rules of the games before 
you can play them, so in cycling you must 
understand your machine and know how to 
work it before you can really ride. A great 
many people think that all they have to do is 
to mount a bicycle or tricycle, even if they 
have never seen one, and ride away as easily 
and comfortably as if they were going for a 
walk. But just let them try ! Perhaps the 
reason there are so many poor riders is be- 

cause so many never master the iirst principles 
of cycling. 

Of all cycles, the most delightful is the ordi- 
nary tall bicycle. If I were a boy I would ride 
nothing else. There is a certain swing or life 
about it, a certain sympathy between it and the 
rider, not to be had in any other machine. The 
height, too, of the big wheel, above which the 
rider sits, makes it seem almost as if he were fly- 
ing through the air; and in countries where 
hedges and walls are high, much more of the 
landscape can be seen from its high perch than 
from the low seat of a " safety " or a tricycle. 
But, then, on the tall bicycle you must always 
take the risk of " headers." The smallest stone 
or stick may send you headlong into the dust 
or mud. I do not think I ever realized the 
treachery of the " ordinary," until one day when 
a rider I know came back from a ride to the little 
towns near Rome with his nose patched up with 
postage-stamps. A tiny twig had pitched him 
over on the hard road and cut his nose badly. In 






the next village he came to, there was no court- 
plaster nor doctor to be had, and the villagers 
recommended the post-office as the most likely 
place to have his wounds attended to. Now, if 
that twig had been on the streets of Rome, or 
within immediate reach of court-plaster, you 
may make up your mind he would have ridden 
over it as easily as you please; — the bicycle 
waits until it has you all to itself, to break your 
bones and cover you with cuts. For long 
tours there is another objection to it : it will 
not carry comfortably even the very small 
amount of baggage you will need. And yet 
Mr. Stevens rode one on his journey round 
the world ; and there are many men and boys 
who would not give it up for any safer cycle 
that could be invented. 

Still the " ordinary " is not so much ridden as it 
was a few years ago. Nowadays, in England, you 
will see ten " safeties " to one " ordinary." The 
" safety " is the litde, low bicycle with the two 
wheels of almost the same size; and for the last 
year or two, one kind has been made for girls to 
ride. If you have been on a three-wheeled 
machine only, and then try the " safety," as I did 
last summer, you will wonder how you ever were 
willing to work such a dead weight as a tricycle 

over good or indifferent roads. The " safety " is 
so light ; it is a single-track machine, so that on 
the worst roads you can usually manage to find 
a path ; it is so low that if you do tumble you will 
not hurt yourself (how often did I roll over in the 
dust, just outside of Dieppe, on my first trip, 
and jump up none the worse for it ! ) and it will 
carry a respectably large bag. All these things, 
you will see, are greatly in its favor. 

I fancy I can hear some girl ask, " But how 
can we ever mount it ? " That was the ques- 
tion I asked last summer when I made my first 
trial. But, fortunately for me, my machine was 
a tandem, and there was some one to hold it 
steady while I got on. By practice, however, 
girls can learn — indeed, many have learned al- 
ready — to mount by standing between the 
wheels, putting one foot over the frame on to 
the descending pedal, standing on this, which of 
course starts the machine, and then sitting on 
the saddle and riding away. There is always 
more or less difficulty about this — a girl's skirts 
are so in her way, and are likely to catch ; and yet, 
as soon as she is seated, she must keep on going. 
Lately two or three manufacturers in England 
have invented what they call a safety attach- 
ment, a contrivance by which the machine can 




be steadied and kept at a standstill while the 
rider mounts as easily as if it were a tricycle. 

I have experimented only on a tandem-safety 
with a rider behind me to steer it and put on 
the brake; but I have never enjoyed riding so 
much. Once you have started, the machine 
seems to carry you along with no effort on your 
part; it is not rigid, like a tricycle, but swings 
and sways with your every motion. 

But for all that, the tricycle has many good 
points; it is safer than a " safety " ; I have charged 
a flock of sheep on one, and the machine did 
not even upset ; it needs no attachment to 
make it easy to mount ; in a crowded street you 
can be brought to a standstill without having to 
jump off, as you must from a " safety " or an "or- 
dinary," — and as I had to last summer, coming 
down the crowded Rue de Rivoli, in Paris, when 
all the omnibuses and carriages in front came to 
a sudden halt. In a country lane, if you wish to 
rest for a while in a pretty, shady spot, you can 
sit there quietly on your tricycle. Nowadays, 
the tricycle is made so light and compact that 
you can ride almost as fast on it as on a 
" safety." Indeed some people say that on a 
tricycle you make better time, in the end, simply 
because you never have to dismount. 

There are so many cycle manufacturers in 
England and America that hundreds of machines 
are made which differ only in certain small 
details. In making your choice from among 
their number, you must be guided chiefly by 
your own special wants, for if you go to a good 
maker you will secure a good machine ; it is 
merely a question of deciding which one suits 
you best. 

After you have your machine, the next thing 
you must do is to learn to mount it properly. Do 
be sure to learn this in the beginning. If you 
acquire the habit of mounting awkwardly you 
will never be rid of it. Have you not some- 
times wondered to see a rider of experience 
climb into his saddle as if he were attempt- 
ing it for the first time ? In America, riders pay 
more attention to this than they do in England. 
Americans, as a rule, though they may not ride 
faster than Englishmen, ride better. 

Does any boy need to be told how to mount 
an "ordinary ? " A boy seems to learn all these 
things for himself. Of course I have never 
Vol. XVII.— go. 

tried to mount one, but these are the instructions 
usually given by those who have : stand with 
one foot on either side of the little wheel ; grasp 
the handle-bars firmly, pushing the machine ; 
put the left foot, throwing almost all your weight 
upon it, on the left step ; kick or hop with the 
right foot ; and then, when the machine is going 
at a sufficient pace, raise yourself on the step, and 
learn to steer the machine while standing there, 
before you ever try to do anything else. It is best 
to try this on a slight down-grade, where the 
machine will run much farther. If it begins to 
run away with you, put on the brake. Don't 
jam it on, but put it on lightly. The first thing 
the machine will do is to attempt to upset ; at 
once turn the wheel slightly in the direction in 
which it is falling. This is the whole art of 
steering a bicycle. 

When you can steer standing on the step, put 
your other foot on the right pedal and push the 
machine with your right foot. After you have 
learned to do this for about a hundred yards, 
you should get some one to help you. Start 

the machine in the 
same way; put your 
right leg over the 
back of the saddle; 
get the friend to 
stand beside you so 
as to catch you if 
you tumble ; then 
pull yourself slowly 
(don't jump, or you 
will go right over 
the machine) into 
the saddle; and, having learned to steer, try 
to keep your feet on the pedals. They will 
probably slip off at first, and your friend can 
make himself useful by catching you. As each 
pedal reaches the top, put your heel down and 
press forward with your toe, then press down 
heavily and steadily ; when the pedal reaches the 
lowest point, put your toe down almost in a 
straight line with your leg, and pull backward 
and then upward with your toes, as I show in 
the sketch. This is the way to pedal on all sorts 
of machines. But it will take you weeks, or 
months, to learn to do it properly. 

To dismount from an " ordinary " or " safety," 
throw your body backward, as you would in 





beginning to skate backward, with your legs 
very far apart (or else you will hurt yourself 
severely), and you will alight on your feet. Find 
out first, by standing behind the machine and 
holding on to the handle-bars, whether you 
can clear the backbone without sitting on it, 
for if you cannot, especially on a " safety," you 
will probably kill yourself This is the surest 
way of dismounting. The most graceful is this: 
wait until one of the pedals is beginning to rise ; 
stand on it, turning the handles in the opposite 
direction ; then bring the other leg around back 
of the saddle (or, if the learner be a girl, around in 
front of the saddle), behind the pedal on to the 
ground, and you will find yourself free of the 
machine. Brace yourself backward or you will 

You may also mount in the same way : run 
along beside the machine ; turn the handles 
away; the pedal carries you up; and when you get 
to the top you find yourself sitting in the saddle. 
This takes practice, and until expert you may 
break your machine by sitting or standing in the 
middle of the wheel. There are dozens of other 
ways which you can learn, but these are the best. 

There are no special directions to be given for 
the tricycle, it is so easy. The simplest way to 
mount is to stand to the left of your machine ; 
put your left foot on the foot-rest; then, if a 
girl, stand a minute to arrange your skirts; seat 
yourself on the saddle, and let both feet drop on 
the pedals. And of course you can begin to 
work at once, or can wait as long as you choose. 
In fact, slide into a tricycle very much in the 
same way as you would mount a horse. 

From the first, learn to sit erect. Do not 
bend far over the handle-bars, as if you were 
always riding uphill, for this will give you 
what is fast coming to be known as the " cycler's 
stoop." See that the seat is so adjusted that 
when your body is erect your arms are nearly 
straight, and that you have a good purchase on 
the handle-bars. A reason for much awkward- 
ness and bad riding is, that riders never stop to 
think about seat and handle-bars. Much of the 
work in cycling is done with the arms. 

Be as careful with your pedals. If they are 
too short you will have to work twice as hard, 
and you vnW present anything but a graceful ap- 
pearance. If they are too long, you will strain 

the muscles of your legs. They should be so ad- 
justed that when at the lowest point you may 
be able to put your foot under them while the 
leg is perfectly straight. 

In pedaling you should make your ankle do 
the greatest part of the work. You will find in 
all handbooks of cycling the longest and most 
careful instructions for this use of the ankle-joint. 

You may say : " Why should a boy learn to ride 
any more than a duck need learn to swim, a bird 
to fly ? " If a boy would like to be as graceful, 
as free on his wheel, as a duck is on the water, 
a bird in the air, he cannot rely, as they do, on 
instinct. Instinct may teach him to throw a ball, 
but it takes something more to make him the 
captain of a base-ball team. And it is just the 
same way in cycling ; he may not wish to have 
any one to show him how to make the wheel 
go, but he will have to take many lessons before 
he becomes a good rider. 

Here are a few other things to be remembered : 

Learn all you can about the construction of 
the machine. Understand it so thoroughly 
that if a bolt or a nut were to come loose you 
could adjust it. Study the mechanical principles 
on which it is made. Find out what gearing 
means, what " ball-bearings " are. 

Never trust yourself on a down-grade until 
you have mastered the brake ; and, even after you 
have mastered it, never let your machine go, at 
the top of a hill ; keep it well under control from 
the very start ; many of the serious cycling ac- 
cidents have been the result of a rider's letting the 
machine get away with him when " coasting." 
Even if you can see to the bottom of the hill and 
the road is clear, risk nothing ; you never know 
when a stray dog or child may run out in front 
of you. When I charged the sheep, it was at 
the foot of a long hill in Italy, where suddenly, 
from a by-path, a shepherd drove his flock across 
the road. Indeed, until you feel that on level 
ground and on hillsides you are the master of 
the machine, you should not trust yourself on 
city streets or country highroads. You must be 
able to turn comers, to stop suddenly, to steer 
from one side to the other at a moment's notice, 
before you can ride abroad in safety or even in 

Don't ride like a stick. Don't sit fast, as if you 
were glued to the saddle. Rise easily over ob- 




structions. When you are going round a corner, 
lean inward. In a word, ride a machine as you 
would ride a horse. Otherwise you will prob- 
ably break your neck, and ruin the cycle. 

Before starting on a ride, always see that your 
cycle is well oiled ; half the hard work some- 
times comes from the want of a little oil, and the 
squeaking of rusty wheels is an ugly sound to 
break the sweet stillness of the country. See 
that every nut and bolt is tight. 

Keep your cycle clean. Do not let it remain 
coated with mud ; be ashamed to show the 
nickel-plated parts tarnished and dirty. If 
you truly enjoy riding, however, you will not 
need to be reminded of these little duties. For 
by and by you will care for your macRine al- 
most as if it were a horse or a dog. I re- 
member we sold our tandem when we were in 
Rome, because, unfortunately, we had to do 
the rest of our traveling by rail. It was bought 
by an English clergyman in Naples; and a few 
months afterward, when we were there, the first 
thing we did was to go and have a look at the 
tricycle that had carried us so well and so far. 

Be sure, no matter how much you are enjoy- 
ing yourself, not to ride until you are over-tired. 
The healthiest exercise can be thus turned into 
an evil, worse almost than none at all. Am- 
bition — a desire to excel — is good in its way. 
But if it leads you into working to break every 
other boy's record, to out-distance every one on 
the road, you will in the end pay severely for 
success. Be ambitious rather to ride well, to 
see and know and love the country through 
which you wheel. The real pleasure of cycling 
is not racing. If you are a boy, and really care 
for racing, you should not begin, if you mean 
to be prudent, until you are eighteen or twenty ; 
and then you should consult a doctor, and put 
yourself in the hands of a competent trainer. 

Boys know well enough what to wear when 
riding. For all their out-of-door sports they 
put on flannels; and flannel or wool is what 
every one ought to have on under a cycling-suit. 
Girls dress more sensibly than they once did, and 
their mothers now realize that unless a severe 
cold from a sudden chill is to be risked, wool 
must be worn next the skin for all out-of-door 
exercise. A girl's riding-dress ought to be 
made of some good sound cloth or serge that 

will stand rain and mud and dust. Gray is the 
best color. 

These are just a few hints to help you to have 
as much enjoyment as possible out of your 
rides. I myself believe that there is no more 
healthful or more stimulating form of exercise ; 
there is no physical pleasure greater than that of 
being borne along, at a good pace, over a hard, 
smooth road, by your own exertions ; and if you 
keep your eyes open you can learn so much by 
the way. You can watch, day by day, the buds 
of spring opening into the blossoms of summer ; 
the rich green of June meadows ripening into 
the yellowing wheat of August ; the golden and 
scarlet glory of October fading into the dull 
grays and browns of winter. You can make 
yourself familiar with the beauty of tree foliage, 
whether of the pines of the north or the palms 
of the south ; you can get to know all the sweet 
wild flowers that bloom by the wayside, until 
in their seasons you look for their coming as 
for that of so many old friends. Each hour of the 
day, when the sun is hot at noontide as when 
it burns low on the horizon, will have for you 
its charm. You will value the beauty of dis- 
tance, the serenity of a clear blue sky, the 
grandeur of the great cloud masses. In a word, 
you will, before you have taken many rides, be- 
gin to love Nature as Izaak Walton, as Tho- 
reau, as all those who have spent many hours in 
the open air, have loved her. 

And you will also find that your journeys, 
long or short, will teach you much of the his- 
tory and romance of other days. For, at home 
or abroad, you cannot go far without passing 
over ground or coming to places rich in mem- 
ories of the past. And when the country is beau- 
tiful and towns are picturesque, you cannot help 
wanting to know what these memories are ; 
what men thought and did who lived there long 
before you were bom ; how they Uved and 
loved. The world is one great book of beauty 
and romance ; and on your cycle you can grad- 
ually master it, chapter by chapter, volume by 

It is for these reasons — for the pleasure of 
motion, the beauty to be found in every land, 
the many associations by the way — that I love 
cycling, and should be glad if every boy and girl 
loved it with me. 


(A Disquisition on the Use of GunpowJIcr, by blaster Jack.) 

Bv Laura E. Richards. 

When they first invented gunpowder, 
They did most dreadful things with it, 

They blew up popes and parliaments, 
And emperors and kings with it. 

They put on funny hats and boots, 
And skulked about in cellars, oh ! 

With shaking shoes they laid a fuse, 
And blew it with the bellows, oh ! 

They wore great ruffs, the stupid muffs ! 

(At least that 's my opinion), then ; 
And said, " What, ho ! " and " Sooth, 't is 

And called each other "Minion!" then. 

But now, the world has turned about 
Five hundred years, and more, you see ; 

And folks have learned a thing or two 
They did not know before, you see. 

So nowadays the powder serves 

To give the boys a jolly day. 
And try their Aunt Louisa's nerves. 

And make a general holiday. 

In open day we blaze away 

With popguns and with crackers, oh ! 
With rockets bright we crown the night, 

(And some of them are whackers, oh !). 

And "pop! " and" fizz ! " and "bang!" and 
" whizz ! " 

Sounds louder still and louder, oh! 
And that 's the way we use to-day 

The funny gunny-powder, oh ! 



By Mrs. C. V. Jamison. 

Chapter X. 


" Paichoux," said Tante Modeste to her 
husband, that same night, before the tired dairy- 
man went to bed. " I 've been thinking of 
something all the evening." 

" Vraimeiit J I 'm surprised," returned Pai- 
choux, facetiously. " I did n't know you ever 
wasted time." 

" I don't usually," went on Tante Modeste, 
ignoring her husband's little attempt at pleas- 
antry ; " but really. Papa, this idea is running 
through my head constantly. It 's about that 
little girl of Madame Jozain's; there 's something 
wrong about the menage there. That child is 
no more a Jozain than I am — a Jozain, in- 
deed ! — she 's a little aristocrat, if ever there was 
one, a little born lady ! " 

" Perhaps she 's a Bergeron," suggested Pai- 
choux, with a quizzical smile. " Madame prides 
herself on being a Bergeron, and the Bergerons 
are fairly decent people. Old Bergeron, the 
baker, was an honest tradesman at all events." 

" That may be ; but she is n't a Bergeron, 
though. That child is different ; you can see it. 
Look at her beside our young ones. Why, 
she 's a swan among geese." 

" Well, that happens naturally sometimes," 
said the philosophic Paichoux. 

'■'■Nonsense, Paichoux," said Tante Modeste 
sharply. "There'sno'naturally 'aboutit; there's 
a mystery ; and Madame Jozain does n't tell 
tbe truth when she talks about the child. I 
can feel it, even when she does n't contradict 
herself The other day I stepped in there to 
buy Marie a ribbon, and I spoke about the child. 
In fact, I asked which side she came from, and 
Madame answered very curtly that she belonged 
to the Jozains. But this is what set me to think- 
ing : To-day, when Pepsie was putting a clean 

frock on the child, I noticed that her under- 
clothing was marked ' J. C Remember, J. C. 
Well, one day that I was in Madame's shop, she 
said to me, in her smooth way, that she 'd heard 
of Marie's intended marriage, and that she had 
something superior, exquisite, that she 'd like to 
show me. Then she took a box out of her ar- 
moire, and in it were a number of the most beau- 
tiful sets of linen I ever saw, batiste as fine as 
cobweb, and real lace. ' They 're just what 
you need for Mademoiselle,' said she in her 
wheedling tone; ' since she 's going to marry into 
such a distinguished family, you '11 want to give 
her the best.' 

" ' They 're too fine for my daughter,' I an- 
swered, as I turned them over and examined 
them carefully. They were the handsomest 
things ! — and on every piece was a pretty little 
embroidered monogram, J. C. Mind you, the 
same as the letters on the child's clothes. Then 
I asked her right out, for there 's no use in min- 
cing matters with such a woman, where in the 
world she got such lovely linen. 

" ' They belonged to her mother,' she said, with 
a hypocritical sigh, ' and I 'd like to sell them. 
They 're no good to the child; before she 's 
grown up, they '11 be spoiled with damp and 
mildew. I 'd rather have the money to educate 

" ' But the monogram. It 's a pity they 're 
marked J. C I repeated the letters over to 
see what she would say, and, as I live, she was 
ready for me. 

'"Ah, Madame, but C. J. — it stands for 
Claire Jozain, — you're looking at it wrongly; 
but really it does n't matter much how the letters 
are placed, for they 're always misleading, you 
never know which comes first; and, dear Madame 
Paichoux,' — she deared me, and that made me 
still more suspicious, — ' don't you see that the C 
might easily be mistaken for G ? — and no one 
will notice the J, it looks so much like a part 




of the vine around it. I '11 make them a bar- 
gain, if you '11 take them.' 

" I told her no, that they were too fine for 
my girl. Par exeinple / as if I 'd let Marie 
wear stolen clothes ! " 

" Hush, hush, Modeste," exclaimed Paichoux. 
" You might get in the courts for that." 

" Or get her there, which would be more to 
the purpose. I 'd like to know when and where 
the mother died, and who was with her ; besides, 
the child now and then says such strange things 
that they set one to thinking. To-da)', when 
I was taking her home, she began to talk about 
the ranch, and her parents ; sometimes I think 
they 've stolen her." 

" Oh, Modeste ! The woman is n't as bad as 
that; I 've never heard anything against her," 
interrupted the peaceable Paichoux. " She has 
a bad son, it 's true. That boy, Raste, is his 
father over again. Why, I hear he 's already been 
in the courts ; but she 's all right so far as I know." 

" Well, we '11 see," said Tante Modeste, orac- 
ularly; " but I 'm not satisfied about that mono- 
gram. It was J. C., as sure as I live, and not 
C. J." 

" I '11 tell you what we '11 do. Mamma," said 
Paichoux after some deliberate thought; he was 
slow, but he was sure. "We '11 keep an eye 
on the little one, and if anything happens, I '11 
stand by her. You tell sister Madelon to let 
me know if anything happens, and I '11 see her 
through all right." 

" Then I believe she 's safe," said Tante Mo- 
deste proudly ; " for every one knows that when 
Paichoux says a thing, he means it." 

If Madame Jozain had only known how un- 
favorable were the comments of her supposed 
friends, she would not have felt as comfortable 
as she did. Although she was riding on the top- 
most wave of prosperity, so far as her business 
was concerned, she was not entirely happy ; and 
for some reason, probably because of a guilty con- 
science, she fancied that people looked askance 
at her. In spite of her polite advances, she had 
not succeeded in making friends of her neighbors. 
They came to her shop to chat and look, and 
sometimes to buy, and she was as civil to them as 
it was possible to be ; she gave them her most 
comfortable chairs, and pulled down everything 
for them to e.xamine, and unfolded, untied, and 

unpacked, only to have the trouble of putting 
things away again. It was true they bought a 
good deal at times, and she had got rid of many 
of " those things " in a quiet way and at fair 
prices ; but still, the neighbors kept her at a dis- 
tance : they were polite enough, but they were 
not cordial, and it was cordiality, warmth, 
admiration, flattery, for which she hungered. 

She believed she had much to be proud of, 
for she thought that Raste was growing hand- 
somer and more of a gentleman every day. He 
was the best looking fellow in the quarter, and 
he dressed so well, — like his father, he was large 
and showy, — and wore the finest jewelry, among 
which was the beautiful watch of Lady Jane's 
mother. This watch he was fond of showing to 
his friends, and pointing out the monogram, C. J., 
in diamonds; for, like his mother, he found it 
easy to transpose the letters to suit himself 

And then, besides her satisfaction in Raste, 
there was the little Lady Jane, to whom every 
door in the neighborhood was open. She was 
the most beautiful and the most stylish child 
that ever was seen in Good Children Street, 
and she attracted more attention than all the 
others put together. Madame never went out 
but what she heard something flattering about 
the little darling, and she knew that a great 
many people came to the shop just to get a 
glimpse of her. 

All this satisfied her ambition, but not her 
vanity. She knew that Lady Jane cared more 
for Pepsie, Madelon, or even for little Gex, than 
for her " Tante Pauline." The child was always 
dutiful, but never affectionate. Sometimes a 
feeling of bitterness would rise within her, and, 
thinking she had cause to complain, she would 
accuse the child of ingratitude. 

" She is a little ingrate, a little viper that stings 
me after I have warmed her. And to think of 
what I 've done for her, and the worry and 
anxiety I 've suffered ! After all, I 'm poorly 
paid, and get but little for all my studying and 
planning. She 's a little upstart, a little aristo- 
crat, who will trample on me some day. Well, 
it 's what one gets in this world for doing a 
good deed ! If I 'd turned her and her mother 
out to die in the street, I 'd been thought more 
of than I am now, and perhaps after all I 'd 
have been quite as well off." 



Chapter XI. 


On the next block above little Gex's fruit- 
stall, was a small cottage set close to the side- 
walk, with two narrow windows covered with 
batten shutters that no one remembered to have 
ever seen opened. On one side was a high 
green fence, in which was a small door, and 
above this fence some flowering trees were 
visible. A pink crape-myrtle shed its trans- 
parent petals on the sidewalk below. A white 
oleander and a Cape jasmine made the air 
fragrant, while a " Gold of Ophir" rose, entwined 
with a beautiful " Reine Henriette," crept along 
the top of the fence, and hung in riotous pro- 
fusion above the heads of the passers. 

Every day, in rain or shine, when Lady Jane 
visited little Gex, she continued her walk to the 
green fence, and stood looking wistfully at the 
clustering roses that bloomed securely beyond 
the reach of pilfering fingers, vainly wishing that 
some of them would fall at her feet, or that the 
gate might open so that she could peep within. 

And Lady Jane was not more curious than 
most of the older residents of Good Children 
Street. For many years it had been the desire 
of the neighborhood to see what was going on 
behind that impenetrable green fence. Those 
who were lucky enough to get a glimpse, when 
the gate was opened for a moment, to take the 
"nickel " of milk or loaf of bread, saw a beautiful 
litde garden carefully tended and filled with ex- 
quisite flowers, but Lady Jane was never fortu- 
nate enough to be present on one of those rare 
occasions, as the gate always opened very early, 
when her little yellow head was still resting on 
its pillow. But sometimes, while she lingered on 
the sidewalk, near the gate, or under the tightly 
closed shutters, she would hear the melodious 
song of a bird, or the tinkhng, liquid sound of 
an ancient piano, thin and clear as a trickling 
rivulet; and with it she sometimes would hear 
a high, sweet, tremulous voice singing an aria 
from some old-fashioned opera. Lady Jane 
did n't know that it was an old-fashioned opera, 
but she thought it very odd and beautiful, all 
the same. And she loved to linger and listen 
to the correct, but feeble, rendering of certain 

passages that touched her deeply ; for the child 
had an inborn love of music and one of the 
most exquisite httle voices ever heard. 

Pepsie used to close her eyes in silent ecstasy 
when Lady Jane sang the few simple airs and 
lullabies she had learned from her mother, and 
when her tender little voice warbled 

" Sleep, baby, sleep ! 
The white moon is the shepherdess, 
The little stars the sheep," 

Pepsie would cover her face, and cry silently. 
No one ever heard her sing but Pepsie. She 
was very shy about it, and if even Tite Souris 
came into the room, she would instantly stop. 

Therefore, little Gex was very much surprised 
one day, when he went out on the banquetlc, to 
see his small favorite before the closed shutters 
with Tony in her arms, his long legs almost 
touching the sidewalk, so carelessly was he held, 
while his enraptured little mistress was standing 
with her serious eyes fixed steadily on the win- 
dow, her face pale and illumined with a sort of 
spiritual light, her lips parted, and a ripple of 
the purest, sweetest, most liquid melody issuing 
from between them that Gex had ever heard, 
even in those old days when he used to go to 
the French opera. 

He softly drew near to listen. She was keeping 
perfect time with the tinkling piano and the faded 
voice of the singer within, who, with many a 
quaver and break, was singing a beautiful old 
French song ; and the bird-like voice went up 
and down, in and out through the difficult pas- 
sages, with wonderful feeling and precision. 

Gex slipped away silently, and stole into his 
little den. 

" Ala foi / " he thought, wiping away a fugi- 
tive tear, for the music had awakened slum- 
bering memories. " Some one ought to know of 
that voice. I wish Mam'selle d'Kautreve was n't 
so unapproachable ; I 'd speak to her, and per- 
haps she 'd teach the child." 

Presently Lady Jane entered languidly, carry- 
ing Tony ; she said " Good-morning " as politely 
as usual, but seemed preoccupied and unus- 
ually serious. At length she said, in an intensely 
earnest voice, " Oh, Mr. Gex, I wish I could 
get inside that gate. I wish I could see who 
it is that sings." 




" Why, my little lady, it 's Mam'selle Diane 
vhat sings so tine." 

" Who is Mam'selle Diane ? " 

" Mam'selle Diane is the daughter of Madame 
d'Hautreve vhat live all alone in the leetle shut- 
up house. Madame and Mam'selle Diane, they 
are noblesse of the nobility. Veil, you don't 
know vhat is that ? Aitcndcz, I vill try to make 
you understand." 

" Is it rich ? " asked Lady Jane, anxious to 
help simplify the situation. 

" Oh, no, no, they are vairy, vairy poor. No- 
blesse is vhat you 're bom vith." 

" Like the spine in the back ? " suggested Lady 
Jane eagerly. " Pepsie says you 're born with 

" No, it 's not that," and Gex smiled a grim, 
puzzled smile, and, pushing his spectacles on 
the top of his head, he wiped his forehead 
thoughtfully. " You 've heard of kings, my 
leetle lady, now have n't you ? " 

" Oh, yes, yes," returned Lady Jane brightly. 
" They wear crowns and sit on thrones, and 
Pepsie says there is a King of the Carnival, King 

" Yes, that 's it," said Gex, rubbing his hands 
with satisfaction ; " and the king is vay up high 
over everybody, and all the peoples must 
honor the king. Veil, the noblesse is something 
like the king, my leetle lady, only not quite so 
high up. Veil, Mam'selle's grandpere vas a 
noble, one of the French noblesse. Does my 
leetle lady understand ? " 

" I think I do," returned Lady Jane doubt- 
fully. " Does she sit on a throne and wear a 
crown ?" 

" Oh, no, no, they are poor, vairy poor," said 
Gex humbly ; " and then, my leetle lady must 
know that the Comte is naiver so high up as the 
King ; and then they have lost all their money, 
and are poor, vairy poor. Once, long ago, 
they vas rich, oh, vairy rich ; and they had one 
big, grand house, and the carriage, and the fine 
horses, and many, many servant. Now, there 's 
only them two vhat lives all alone in the leetle 
house. The grandpere and the pere all are 
dead long ago, and Madame d'Hautreve and 
Mam'selle Diane only are left to live in the 
leetle house, shut up behind that high fence, 
alone, alvay alone. And, my leetle lady, no 

one remembers them, I do believe, for it is 
ten year I 've been right in this Rue des Eons 
Enfants ; and I naiver have seen no one entair 
that gate, and no one comes out of it vairy 
often. Mam'selle Diane must clean her baii- 
qtietie in the dark of the night, for I 've naiver 
seen her do it. I 've watched, but I have seen 
her naiver. Sometime, when it is vairy early, 
Mam'selle Diane comes to my leetle shop for 
one dime of orange for Madame d'Hautreve ; 
she is vairy old and so poor. Ah, but she is 
one of the noblesse, the genuine French no- 
blesse, and Mam'selle Diane is so polite vhen 
she come to my leetle shop." 

" If I should go there early, very early," 
asked Lady Jane with increasing interest, " and 
wait there all day, don't you think I might see 
her come out ? " 

" You might, my leetle lady, and you might 
not. About once in the month, Mam'selle Diane 
comes out, all in the black dress and veil, and 
one leetle black basket on her arm; and she 
goes up toward Rue Royale. Vhen she goes out 
the basket it is heavy ; vhen she comes back it 
is hght." 

" What does she carry in it, Mr. Gex ? " 
asked Lady Jane, her eyes large and her voice 
awe-stricken over the mysterious contents of the 

" Ah, I know not, my leede lady. It is one 
mystery," returned Gex solemnly. " Mam'selle 
Diane is so proud and so shut up that no one 
can 't find out any thing. Poor lady ! and vhen 
does she do her market, and vhat do they eat ? 
for all I evair see her buy is one nickel of bread 
and one nickel of milk." 

" But she 's got flowers and birds, and she 
plays on the piano and sings," said Lady Jane 
reflectively ; " perhaps she is n't hungry, and 
does n't want anything to' eat." 

" That may be so, my leetle lady," replied 
Gex with smiling approval. " I naiver thought 
of it, but it may be so — it may be so. Perhaps 
the noblesse does n't have the big appetite, and 
does n't want so much to eat as the common 

" Oh, I nearly forgot, Mr. Gex, — Pepsie wants 
a nickel of cabbage," and Lady Jane suddenly 
returned to earth and earthly things, did her 
errand, took her lagiiiappe and went away. 

(To be continued.) 



Chapter XII. 


One morning Lady Jane was rewarded for 
her patient waiting ; she was lingering, as usual, 
on the sidewalk near the green fence, when she 
heard the key turn in the lock, and suddenly 


the door opened, and an elderly lady, very tall 
and thin, with a mild, pale face, appeared, and 
beckoned her to approach. 

For a moment Lady Jane felt shy, and drew 
back, fearing that she had been a little rude in 
Vol. XVII.— 91. 

haunting the place so persistently ; besides, to her 
knowledge, she had never before stood in the 
presence of " genuine French nobility "; and the 
pale, solemn-looking woman, who in spite of 
her rusty gown had an air of distinction, rather 
awed her. However, Lady Jane's good breed- 
ing soon got the better of her timidity, and 
she went forward with 
a smile. 

" Would you like to 
come in, my dear, and 
look at my flowers ? " 
said the lady, opening 
the gate a little wider, 
for Lady Jane to enter. 
" Yes, thank you," 
and Lady Jane sighed 
and flushed with pleas- 
ure when she caught a 
glimpse of the charming 
vista beyond the dark 
figure. " May I bring 
Tony in, too ? " 

" Certainly, I want 
to see him very much, 
but I want to see you 
more," and she laid her 
hand caressingly on the 
beautiful head of the 
child. " I have been 
watching you for some 

" Have you ? Why, 
how did you see me ? " 
and Lady Jane dimpled 
with smiles. 

"Oh, through a little 

chink in my fence. I 

see more than any one 

would think," replied 

the lady, again smiling. 

" And you saw me 

waiting and waiting! — 

Oh, why did n't you 

ask me in before ? " said 

Lady Jane, plaintively. " I 've wished to come 

in so much ; and did you know I 'd been here 

singing with you ? " 

"No; I did n't know that." 

" Are you Mam'selle Diane ? " she went on. 


" Yes ; I am Mam'selle Diane. And what is 
your name ? " 

" I 'm called Lady Jane." 

" Lady Jane, — Lady ? Why, do you know- 
that you have a title of nobility ? " 

" But I 'm not one of the nobility. It 's my 
name, just Lady Jane. Papa always called me 
Lady Jane. I did n't know what nobility was, 
till Mr. Gex told me that you were one. Now 
I '11 never forget what it is, but I 'm not one." 

" You 're a very sweet little girl, all the 
same," said Mam'selle Diane, a smile breaking 
over her grave face. " Come in ; I want to 
show you and your bird to Mamma." 

Lady Jane followed her guide across a small, 
spotless side gallery into a tiny room of immac- 
ulate cleanliness. There, sitting in a great easy- 
chair near a high bed, was an old, old lady, the 
oldest person Lady Jane had ever seen, with 
hair as white as snow, combed back from a 
delicate face, and covered with a little black 
silk cap. 

" Mamma, this is the little girl with the bird, 
of whom I 've been telling you," said Mam'selle 
Diane, leading her forward. " And, Lady Jane, 
this is my mother, Madame d'Hautreve." 

The old lady shook hands with the child and 
patted her head caressingly ; then she asked, in 
a weak, quavering voice, if the bird was n't too 
heavy for the little girl to carry. 

'• Oh, no, Madame," replied Lady Jane, 
brightly. " Ton}^ 's large, he grows ^•ery fast ; 
but he is n't heavy. He 's all feathers, and he 's 
very light. Would you like to take him ? " 

" Oh, no, no, my dear 1 Oh, no," said the old 
lady, drawing back timidly. " I should n't 
like to touch it, but I should like to see it walk. 
I suppose it 's a crane, is n't it ? " 

" He 's a blue heron, and he 's not a com- 
mon bird," replied Lady Jane, repeating her 
little formula, readily and politely. 

" I see that it 's different from a crane," said 
Mam'selle Diane, looking at Tony critically. 

Tony, now that his mistress had put him 
down, stood upon one leg very much humped 
up, and making, altogether, rather an ungainly 

" Tony always will do that before strangers," 
observed Lady Jane, apologetically. " When I 
want him to walk about and show his feathers, 


he always just draws himself up and stands on 
one leg." 

" However, he is very pretty and very odd. 
Don't you think I might succeed in copying 
him ? " And Mam'selle Diane turned an anxious 
glance toward her mother. 

" I don't know, my dear," quavered the old 
lady ; " his legs are so long that they would 
break very easily if they were made of sealing- 

" I think I could use a wire with the seal- 
ing wax," said Mam'selle Diane, thoughtfully 
regarding Tony's visible leg. " You see, there 
need be only one." 

" I know, my dear, — But the wool. You 've 
no wool the color of his feathers." 

" Madame Jourdain would send for it." 

" But, Diane, think of the risk. If you 
shouldn't succeed, you 'd waste the wool; and 
you do the ducks so well — really, my dear, I 
think )'ou 'd better be satisfied with the ducks 
and the canaries 1 " 

" Mamma, it would be something new, 
something original. I 'm tired of ducks and 

" Well, my dear, I sha' n't oppose you, if you 
think you can succeed ; but it 's a great risk to 
start out with an entirely new model, and you 
can't use the wool for the ducks if you should 
fail ; you must think of that, dear, — whether 
you can afford to lose the wool if you fail." 

While this conversation was going on be- 
tween Mam'selle Diane and her mother. Lady 
Jane's bright eyes were taking in the contents 
of the little room. It was very simply furnished, 
the floor was bare, and the walls were destitute 
of adornment, save over the small fireplace, 
where hung a fine portrait of a very handsome 
man, dressed in a rich court dress of the time 
of Louis XIV. This elegant courtier was Mam'- 
selle Diane's grandfather, the Count d'Hautreve ; 
and under this really fine work of art, on the 
small mantelpiece, was some of the handicraft 
of his impoverished granddaughter, which fasci- 
nated Lady Jane to such a degree that she had 
neither eyes nor ears for anything else. 

The center of the small shelf was ornamented 
with a tree made of a variety of shades of green 
wool wound over a wire frame; and apparently 
hopping about among the foliage, on little seal- 




ing-wax legs, with black-bead eyes and sealing- Madame d'Hautreve and Mam'selle Diane 

wax bills, were a number of little birds made of witnessed her delight with much satisfaction. 

wool of every color under the sun, while at each It seemed a tardy but genuine recognition of 

end of the mantel were similar little trees, one genius. 

loaded with soft yellow canaries, the other with " There, you see, my dear, that I was right, 

little fluffy white things of a species to puzzle an I 've always said it," quavered the old lady. 



ornithologist. Lady Jane thought they were 
adorable, and her fingers almost ached to caress 

" Oh, how pretty they are ! " she sighed, at 
length, quite overcome with admiration ; " how 
soft and yellow ! Why, they are like real live 
birds. And they 're ever so much prettier than 
Tony," she added, glancing ruefully at her 
homely pet; "but then they can't hop and 
fly, or come when you call them." 

" I 've always said that your birds were won- 
derful, and the child sees it. Children tell the 
truth ; they are sincere in their praise, and when 
they discover merit they acknowledge it simply 
and truthfully. I 've always said that all you 
needed to give you a reputation was recogni- 
tion. I 've always said it, if you remember. But 
show her the ducks, my dear, show her the 
ducks. I think that they are more natural, if 
possible, than the others." 



Mam'selle Diane's sad, grave face lighted up 
a little as she led the child to a table near the 
side window, which was covered with pieces 
of colored flannel, sticks of sealing-wax, and 
bunches of soft )'ellow wool ; in this table \\as a 
drawer which she drew out carefully, and there, 
on little scalloped flannel mats of various colors, 
sat a number of small, yellow, downy duck- 

" Oh, oh ! " exclaimed Lady Jane, not able 
to find other words at the moment to express 
her wonder and delight. 

" Would you like to hold one?" asked Mam'- 
selle Diane, taking one out. 

Lady Jane held out her pink palm, and 
rapturously smoothed down the duckling's little 
woofly back with her soft fingers. 

" Oh, how pretty, how pretty ! " she repeated 
in a half-suppressed tone. 

" Yes, I think they are rather pretty," said 
Mam'selle Diane modestly ; " but then they are 
so useful." 

"What are they for?" asked Lady Jane in 
surprise ; she could not think they were made 
for any other purpose than for ornament. 

" They are penwipers, my dear. You see 
the pen is wiped with the little cloth mat they 
are sitting on." 

Yes, they were penwipers ! Mademoiselle 
Diane d'Hautreve, granddaughter of the Count' 
d'Hautreve, made little woolen ducklings for 
penwipers, and sold them quite secretly to 
Madame Jourdain, on the Rue Royale, in order 
to earn bread for her aged mother and herself. 

Lady Jane unknowingly had solved the finan- 
cial mystery connected with the D'Hautreve 
ladies, and, at the same time, she had made 
another valuable friend for herself 

{To i>i^ cojiiiniicd.y 



r:^ ' 

. V.!... ^P?:;^=*5a^ 


By Harriet Prescott Spofford. 


' Oh, I am dying, dying ! " said the 
"I feel thick darkness closing o'er 

my eye. 
All things fall from me with my 
breaking sheath. 
Good-bye, sweet leaf! O dear 
green world, good-bye ! 

Then the dull mask that had* in- 
closed him fell 
Still further. Oh, what lofty space, 
what lirfit ' 

And, all about, what happy hover- 
ing things 
Like blossom-petals that had taken 
flight ! 

And fluttering, stretching on the air 
he spread 
Great gauzy wings that let the 
sunshine through; 
Forgot that he had ever been a 
And far off in the strange new 
depths he flew. 


Cf^lfv^ # r T^--'^ 


By Julia C. R. Dorr. 

HERE the far skies 

soared clear and bright 

From mountain height 

to mountain height, 

In the heart of a forest 

old and gray, 

Castleton slept one Sabbath 

Slept and dreamed, on the 
seventh of May, 
Seventeen hundred and seventy- 

But hark ! a humming, like bees in a hive ; 
Hark to the shouts, — " They come ! they 

come ! " 
Hark to the sound of the fife and drum ! 
For up from the south two hundred men — 
Two hundred and fifty — from mount and glen, 
^A'hile the deep woods rang with their rallying 

Of " Ticonderoga ! Fort Ti ! Fort Ti ! " 
Swept into the town with a martial tread, 
Ethan Allen marching ahead ! 

Next day the village was all astir 

With unwonted tumult and hurry. There were 

Gatherings here and gatherings there, 

A feverish heat in the very air. 
The ominous sound of tramping feet. 
And eager groups in the dusty street. 
To Eben's forge strode Gershom Beach 
(Idle it stood, and its master away) ; 
Blacksmith and armorer stout was he. 
First in the fight and first in the breach, 
And first in work where a man should be. 
" I '11 borrow your tools, my friend," he said, 
"And temper these blades if I lose my head !" 

So he wrought away till the sun went down. 
And silence fell on the turbulent town ; 
And the flame of the forge through the dark- 
ness glowed, 
A square of light on the sandy road. 
Then over the threshold a shadow fell. 
And he heard a voice that he knew right well. 
It was Ethan Allen's. He cried : " I knew 
Where the forge-fire blazed I must look for you ! 
But listen ! more arduous work than this. 
Lying in wait for some one is ; 
And sharpening blades is only play 
To the task I set for him this day — 
Or this night, rather." A grim sm'le played 
O'er the armorer's face as his hand he stayed. 

" Say on. I never have shirked," said he ; 

" What may this wonderful task-work be ? " 




" To go by the light of the evenmg star 
On an urgent errand, swift and far, — 
From town to town and from farm to farm 
To carry the warning and sound the alarm ! 
Wake Rutland and Pittsford ! Rouse Ne- 

shobe, too. 
And all the fair valley the Otter runs through, — 
For we need more men ! Make no delay, 
But hasten, hasten, upon your way ! " 

He doifed his apron, he tightened his belt, 
To fasten the straps of his leggings he knelt. 

' Ere the clock strikes nine," said Gershom 

' Friend Allen, I will be out of reach ; 
And I pledge you my word, ere dawn of day 
Guns and men shall be under way. 
But where shall I send these minute-men ? " 

■ Do you know Hand's Cove ? " said Allen then, 

' On the shore of Champlain ? Let them meet 

me there 
By to-morrow night, be it foul or fair ! " 

" Good-bye, I 'm off!" Then down the road 
As if on seven-league boots he strode, 
While Allen watched from the forge's door 
Till the stalwart form he could see no more. 
Into the woods passed Gershom Beach ; 
By nine of the clock he was out of reach. 
But still, as his will his steps outran. 
He said to himself, with a laugh, " Old man, 
Never a minute have you to lose. 
Never a minute to pick or choose ; 
For sixty miles in twenty-four hours 
Is surely enough to try your powers. 
So square your shoulders and speed away 
With never a halt by night or day." 

'T was a moonless night ; but over his head 

The stars a tremulous luster shed. 

And the breath of the woods grew strangely 

As he crushed the wild ferns under his feet, 
.And trampled the shy arbutus blooms, 
\A'ith their hoarded wealth of rare perfumes. 
He snifTed as he went. " It seems to me 
There are May-flowers here, but I cannot see. 
I 've read of the ' hush of the silent night ' ; 
Now hark ! there 's a wolf on yonder height ; 
There 's a snarling catamount prowling round ; 
Every inch of the ' silence ' is full of sound : 
The night-birds cry ; the whip-poor-wills 
Call to each other from all the hills ; 
A scream comes down from the eagle's nest ; 
The bark of a fox from the cliff's tall crest; 
The owls hoot ; and the very trees 
Have something to say to every breeze ! " 

The paths were few and the ways were rude 
In the depths of that virgin solitude. 
The Indian's trail and the hunter's tracks, 
The trees .scarred deep by the settler's axe. 
Or a cow-path leading to the creek, — 
These were the signs he had to seek ; 
Save where, it may be, he chanced to hit 
The Crown Point road and could follow it — 
The road by the British troops hewn out 
Under General Amherst in fifty-nine, 
Whenhedrove the French from theold redoubt, 
Nor waited to give the countersign ! 
The streams were many and swift and clear; 
But there was no bridge, or far or near. 
'T was midnight as he clambered down 




Near the waterfall by Rutland town, 
And found a canoe by the river's edge, 
In a tangled thicket of reeds and sedge. 
With a shout and a cheer, on the rushing tide 
He launched it and flew to the other side. 
Then giving his message, on he sped, 
By the light of the pale stars overhead ; 
Past the log church below Pine Hill, 
And the graveyard opposite. All was still, 
And the one lone sleeper lying there 
Stirred not either for cry or prayer. 
Only pausing to give the alarm 
At rude log cabin and lonely farm, 
From hamlet to hamlet he hurried along. 
Borne on by a purpose deep and strong. 
He startled the deer in the forest glade, 
Stealing along like a silent shade ; 
He wakened the loon that cries and moans 
With a living grief in its human tones. 

At Pittsford the light begins to grow 
In the wakening east ; and drifting slow. 
From valley and river and wildwood, rise, 
Like the smoke of a morning sacrifice, 
Clouds of translucent, silver mist, 
Flushing to rose and amethyst ; 
While thrush and robin and bluebird sing 
Till the woods with jubilant music ring ! 

It was day at last ! He looked around. 
With a firmer tread on the springing ground ; 
" Now the men will be all a-field," said he, 
" And that will save many a step for me. 
Each man will be ready to go ; but still, 
I must confess, if I 'd had my will, 
I 'd have waited till after planting-time. 
For now the season is in its prime. 

The young green leaves of the oak-tree here 
Are just the size of a squirrel's ear ; 
And I 've known no rule, since I was born. 
Safer than that for planting com ! " 

He threaded the valleys, he climbed the hills, 
He forded the rivers, he leaped the rills, 
While still to his call, like minute-men 
Booted and spurred, from mount and glen. 
The setders rallied. But on he went 
Like an arrow shot from a bow, unspent, 
Down the long vale of the Otter, where 
The might of the waterfall thundered in air; 
Then across to the lake, six leagues and more. 
Where Hand's Cove lay in the bending shore. 
The goal was reached. He dropped to the 

In a deep ravine, without word or sound ; 
And Sleep, the restorer, bade him rest 
Like a weary child, on the earth's brown breast. 

At midnight he woke with a quick heart-beat, 
And sprang with a will to his wayworn feet ; — 
For armed men swarmed in the dim ravine, 
And Ethan Allen, as proud of mien 
As a king on his throne, smiled down on him. 
While he stretched and straightened each stiff- 
ened limb. 
" Nay, nay," said the Colonel, " take your rest, 
As a knight who has done his chief's behest ! " 

"Not yet!" cried the armorer. "Where 's my 

A knight fights on till the field is won ! " 
And into Fort Ti, ere dawn of day. 
He stormed with his comrades to share the 

fray ! 



By Walter Camp. 

Third Paper : The Basemen and the 

During all the general training involved in 
the practice mentioned in the former articles, 
there must also be particular coaching for each 
individual position; and it is in this position- 
work that the players improve most rapidly, 
later in the season, when each has been assigned 
to his own place. 

The in-fielders are the first to exhibit the 
good effects of practice, and the methods of 
perfecting their play are most interesting. For 
instance, the third-base man usually begins his 
season by very slow playing. He finds that 
from third base to first is a considerable dis- 
tance, and that he has to make an effort in order 
to get the ball over. As a result of this feeling, 
it takes him longer to throw than it should, and 
any ball batted sharply and rather close to his 
base is a safe hit ; because, even if he stop it, the 
runner will reach the base before the baseman 
can field it. The first coaching, then, for the 
third-base man should be with the object of 
acquiring a sharp, strong throw. He must 
therefore practice steadily the short-arm throw 
described in a previous article — the hand 
being brought back and close to the ear, and 
nearly level with it, instead of swinging at 
arm's length, away from the body. For some 
time it will perhaps seem almost impossible 
to get the ball over to first by means of this 
throw, but in a week's practice that result is 
achieved satisfactorily, and thenceforth the third- 
base man will be little troubled about his throw- 
ing. His speed and accuracy will be increased 
by every day of his practice, and he will seldom 
disgrace himself by anything like a wild throw. 

Of all the in-fielders, it especially belongs to this 
player to throw swiftly, and also to get the 
ball away quickly. To acquire this latter skill 
should not be nearly so difficult as most ama- 

teurs find it. The reason for their difficulty lies 
in the fact that the ordinary player does not 
analyze the play sufficiently in his own mind 
to discover in just what part of it he is deficient. 
The result is, that the entire play becomes hur- 
ried and inaccurate ; and once careless, instead 
of improving the player is likely to retrograde. 

Just to illustrate this, let us analyze the play : 
Suppose a ball to be batted parallel to the third- 
base line two feet inside that line. The ordi- 


nary amateur third-base man, by failing to make 
a sharp start, is obliged to take such a ball just 
as it goes by the bag, and as a result he is 
turned partially away from first base, and is 
running from that point as well. This makes 
it necessary for him first to stop his run and 
then to turn about, so as to face the base before 
throwing. All this preparation takes so much 
time that there is seldom much use in his throw- 
ing the ball over at all ; but as he is too hurried 
to realize this, over it goes, — not infrequently 
with a wild throw, into the bargain. 

Now let us watch a good professional, and 
note the difference. I remember seeing Denny, 
now of the New York nine, execute this play 
once on a " scorching drive" just inside the line. 
The instant the bat hit the ball, I saw Denny 
jump for the third-base line. So quick was the 


spring and so clever the intuition by which, from 
the direction of the stroke, he realized where 
the ball was coming, that he and the ball met 
in front of third base ; and Denny was actually 
thro\\ing the ball to tirst before the runner had 
taken a half-dozen steps. Of course, all third- 
base men are not so quick and clever as Denny, 
but every amateur who fills that position can by 
an instant start, instead of a slow one, meet the 
majority of batted balls before they can go so 
far past him as to turn him away from first. To 
turn away from first is the great fault, and to its 
correction the coach must give his attention, 
and the player must direct his labor. " Jump 
in front of the ball," is the best coaching order 
that can be given any in-fielder, but it is par- 
ticularly good for the third-base man. 

Picking up the ball is the next step of the 
play. If possible it should be taken cleanly in 
the hands, of course ; but that is not of nearly 
so much moment as to get in front of it early, 
and thus stop it. If a third-base man gets a 
sharp hit anywhere in front of the line from sec- 
ond to third, and he is a swift thrower, he can 
stop the ball by letting it strike him, and, pick- 
ing it up, get it to first base before the runner. 
But if the fielder takes the ball a few feet behind 
that line and while running toward foul ground, 
the best handling will seldom enable him to 
catch the runner. 

Finally comes the execution of the throw it- 
self He should use the short-arm throw and 
lean toward first. This latter suggestion is an 
important one, and should be continually in 
the player's mind during his daily practice. 
Whenever he gets the ball he should recover 
speedily, and with what becomes almost a sec- 
ond nature, should lean toward the point to 
which he is to throw. The entire action in de- 
tail, then, should be : instantly jump in front of 
the ball; while picking it up, recover a steady 
position, and leaning toward first, throw as 
nearly on a line as possible. Of these, the par- 
ticular part of the play which can be hurried to 
least advantage, and yet the part which the in- 
experienced fielder oftenest endeavors to hurry, 
is picking up the ball. It is never good policy 
to snatch at the ball instead of picking it up. 

The tenor of this advice is applicable as well 
to all the in-fielders, but the third-base man's 
Vol. XVIL-92. 


position is one in which the desirability of 
thoroughly steady and sharp play is especially 
marked. In handling balls which must be 
fielded elsewhere than to first base, second and 
home are usually the objective points for the 
third-base man ; and it may be laid down as a 
rule particularly applicable to the amateur, that 
he should take very few chances in these throws. 
Unless the hit be a sharp one, and he receive 
the ball without a fumble, there is little likeli- 
hood of his getting the ball to second or home 
in time to intercept a runner. When the runner 
is " forced," so that the catcher or the base-man 
is not obUged to touch him in order to put him 
out, there is a little better chance, and under 
such circumstances the play is of course more 

As illustrating the foolishness of ill-judged at- 
tempts to catch the man at the home-plate, I 
recall a championship game between Harvard 
and Yale, in which, up to the ninth inning, Yale 
had led. In fact, Yale was then three runs 

Singularly enough, on the afternoon before 
this game, there had occurred a discussion among 
members of the Yale nine as to the advisability 
of the practice (then common among all college 
nines) of always fielding to the home-plate, 
when there was but one man out and a runner 
was on third. In order to make a fair test of 
this question on its merits, a runner was placed 
on third and the in-fielders came closer up, as 
they were accustomed to do under such circum- 
stances. The pitcher then would toss the ball, 
and the batsman hit it sharply anywhere in the in- 
field, the runner at the same time trying to come 
home. Out of twenty trials the runner was put 
out but five times — getting home safely the 
other fifteen. 

In spite of this experiment, however, when 
Harvard was at the bat for the last inning, there 
being one man out, a man on second, and one 
on third, with three runs to tie and four to win, 
the Yale in-fielders came further in and tried to 
throw the man out at the plate. Three of these 
attempts and one siogle hit gave Harvard four 
runs and the game ; whereas, had the Yale men 
thrown to first they would almost to a certainty 
have put out the side at the sacrifice of but one 
run, and would have won by two runs. 




It is not a difficult matter to see the reasons 
why a third-base man should seldom attempt 
to field to the plate, unless the ball comes fast 
and on a clean bound. If the hit be a very 
slow one, and the base-runner have anything 
like the lead he should take, there is no chance 
to run up on the ball and throw it to the plate in 
season. The ball must be fielded to the catcher 
in such a manner as to enable him to touch 
the runner ; and to field the ball thus from third 
base is no easy matter, as it often in\'olves throw- 
ing the ball almost over the runner's shoulder. 
Under similar circumstances I have seen Hank- 
inson, in attempting this throw, hit the runner 
squarely between the shoulders, and although 
fortunately the blow did not injure the runner 
in the least, unfortunately it was impossible for 
the catcher to put him out. 

In fielding to first the ball may be thrown 
quite wide, and yet, by leaning out, the first-base 
man will be able to catch it while one foot re- 
mains on the base. If, however, the first-base 
man were obliged to touch the runner, as the 
catcher must do, fully one-half the throws he 
receives would not be sufficiently accurate to 
enable him to execute the play. Moreover, a 
runner from third has an advantage of several 
yards over a runner to first. If a player wishes 
to convince himself of this fact let him note the 
exact positions, under these circumstances, of the 
batsman who starts for first base and a good 
base-runner who is trying to come 
home. At the moment the ball 
leaves the bat, he will find that 
while the batsman is just starting, 
the runner from third is nearly 
half-way home, and besides has 
a " flying start." 

In practicing putting the ball 
on a runner, the third-base man 
should accustom himself to re- 
ceiving the ball from first, second, 
short, home, and pitcher ; and it is 
no easy matter to acquire the 
proper way to receive the ball 
thrown from each of these posi- 
tions. Any man who thinks the 
same motion will answer for all these different 
cases makes a serious mistake. 

In deciding upon the proper method of re- 

ceiving the ball, the third-base man will find 
that much depends upon the position of the 
runner. If the runner be coming back from 
home, because the pitcher, having caught him 
leading oft' too far, has thrown to third, the 
third-base man should step almost into the 
base-line as he receives the ball, and, swinging 
his right hand low, should bring the ball 
against the runner. The pitcher, if he under- 
stands the play, will throw into the line rather 
than at the base. If the runner be coming 
from second, and the first-base man be fielding 
the ball over, there is little likelihood of the 
throw being sufficiently accurate to allow the 
play in the method just described, and the base- 
man must therefore be prepared to use either 
hand, according to the position of the runner 
at the moment when the ball is received. Sup- 
pose, for instance, that the ball be thrown five 
or six feet toward second : the base-man can 
tell by sight or hearing just where the runner is, 
and if the runner has not reached him he should 
turn to the left with the ball in his left hand. 
If, however, the runner is just passing him, he 
should swing to the right with the ball in the 
right hand. In either case, he need not swing 
so low as he does when the ball is thrown nearer 
the base. In the latter case he should always 
almost sweep the ground in his swing, as the 
runner is sure to shde. Of course, catching the 
ball OH the man is the perfect method ; but un- 


fortunately the ball so seldom comes to the 
proper point that these other methods of touch- 
ing the runner must be practiced faithfully. 




In the matter of one player assisting another, 
the third-base man is more often to be " backed 
up," than he is called upon to perform that of- 
fice for some one else. 

The shortstop needs the same coaching as the 
third-base man, in the way of urging him to 
jump in front of the ball, and to start quickly. 
The combination method of play, which was 
mentioned in a previous article as an excellent 
one to bring out all the possible advantages of 
playing the two positions of shortstop and 
third base, requires plenty of practice. Par- 
ticularly must the two players thoroughly un- 
derstand each other. A very good way to 
begin practice upon this method is to station 
the third-base man where he can, by an effort, 
just cover the ground to his base, and to tell 
him to " take everything he can get, out in the 
diamond." The shortstop is then placed well 
back of the base-line as far as he can be and 
yet be sure of throwing to first in time to catch 
the ordinary runner on a hard hit. He must be 
instructed to " come in on " the ball as soon as 
it is hit and he knows its direction. 

Irwin was one of the first of the professionals 
to develop this " deep field " 
play by a shortstop, and I 
remember how very strange 
it appeared to the collegians 
to see this little fellow sta- 
tion himself almost half way 
out to left field ; but before 
the game was ended he had 
shown himself fully able to 
cover all the space he had 

A shortstop has to make 
one peculiar class of plays 
in which he should endeavor 
to become thoroughly ex- 
pert, and that is taking short 
flies that go just outside the 
infield but are too low for 
the outfielders to get under. 
There are also occasional 
flies near the foul-line, ten or a dozen yards 
behind third base, which an agile shortstop 
may take. No player has ever been more ex- 
pert in this line of play than John Ward, the 
now noted champion of the rights of the play- 

ers. Many a short fly that the scorers were 
just putting down as a base-hit has found a 
resting-place in his outstretched hands, simply 
because he has made a practice of starting in- 
stantly, and of never believing any fly too far 
away for him to get. 

" Backing up " is a special feature of the 
shortstop's duties. Any ball fielded from the 
other side of the diamond to the third-base 
or second-base man should find the shortstop 
behind the man who is to take it. He should 
be particularly on the alert to back up the 
third-base man, when the ball is thrown to that 
point by the catcher, in order to put out an 
adventurous runner. This precaution is nec- 
essary, because any wild throw of the catcher's 
which the base-man fails to get will surely ad- 
mit of the runner's going home unless the short- 
stop secures the ball. Sometimes a very good 
trick is played upon the runner in this way : 
The shortstop and third-base man are both ad- 
vised by a preconcerted signal from the catcher 
that he will throw to third ; and then the 
shortstop springs out behind the base-man, and 
the catcher sends the ball, but apparently throws 



it too high — in fact, throws the ball over the 
head of the base-man to the shortstop, and thus 
deceives the runner into the belief that he can 
run home, which, if the shortstop makes an or- 
dinarily accurate throw, is of course impossible. 





A shortstop must also always back up third 
when any of the outfielders are throwing to that 
point. He should likewise make himself useful 
whenever a man is caught between bases and is 
being " run down." 

It is occasionally the duty of this player to 
cover second base when a left-handed batter is 
at the plate and a runner is on first. This is in 
order that the second-base man may be left freer 
to run after balls toward right field, than he 
would be if obliged to come back to the second 
base when the ball is thrown there. In the 
execution of this play, the shortstop stands a 
few yards nearer second, and runs to that base 
if the ball be thrown. In attempting to in- 
tercept a runner at the home-plate, the same 
remarks apply to the shortstop as to the third- 
base man, except that, being away from the 
base-line, he is not obliged to throw over or 
by the runner, and so has a slightly better op- 
portunity. This advantage, however, is partially 
compensated for by the greater distance which 
the ball has to travel. If the shortstop tries to 
throw to the home-plate to intercept a runner, 
he should come up sharply on the ball, taking it 
at the earliest possible bound, and throwing hard. 
Should he fumble the ball, let him instantly give 
up his purpose of throwing to the plate, and 

field to first instead, as the chance of catching 
that runner is the better. 

The second-base man has the shortest dis- 
tances to throw of any of the in-fielders ; but, on 
that very account, he should be able to cover 
more ground than any of the rest. He has 
more time after a hit, for the distance from the 
batsman to the position of the second-base man 
is the greatest. The player in this position 
should be impressed with these advantages in 
order that he may develop great activity in the 
way of covering ground. In no position is a 
desire to make oneself useful so important : for a 
sleepy shortstop or third-base man has so many 
balls batted directly at him that he must " play 
ball" whether inclined to be active or not; 
whereas a second-base man may stand like a 
post and escape being hit with the ball through 
the entire nine innings. A man who means to 
play second for all it is worth, must determine 
that no ball shall go by him between the pitcher 
and first-base man. It will, however, sometimes 
happen that a ball will be driven past the pitcher 
and nearly over the second base. The player at 
the latter point may reach it, but cannot handle it 
in time to put out the runner. This particular hit 
he should regard as his limit, and anything inside 
of that he should consider it his bounden duty 




to take and field to first in time. Many ama- 
teur second-base men, otherwise excellent, take 
as their limit a much narrower field, and hence, 
while they do not make many errors, their op- 
ponents enjoy many little-deserved " safe " hits. 

It is well for the second-base man occasionally 
to practice underhand throwing to first, as it of- 
ten happens in a game that he runs so far over 
toward first to receive the ball that he has not 
time to straighten up and throw the ball over- 
hand, although a quick underhand throw will get 
the ball into the first-base man's hands in time. 
Throwing of every conceivable fashion is on this 
account permissible for a second-base man, and 
I have seen one of the best professional players 
almost scoop the ball, with one motion of his 
hand, from the ground into the first-base man's 

When a runner is coming down from first, the 
second-base man in covering his own base should 
not be so eager to start over to the bag as to put it 
out of the question for him to handle a ball batted 
in his immediate vicinity ; for he should bear it in 
mind that he cannot be of any service standing on 
the second base if the ball is going along the 
ground toward right field. When the runner from 
first is fairly off, and the catcher is throwing the 
ball to second, the base-man should endeavor to 
take up such a position in receiving the throw as 
to be just in front of the base-line and a little 
toward first. Here he must follow the same in- 
structions relative to touching the runner as 
those given the third-base man. He must swing 
low and quickly, taking every advantage of the 
position of the runner, and making the attempt 
cleanly and in but one motion. There is very 
little use in running after a man and "jabbing" 
at him with the ball, for even if the runner 
were touched the first time, the umpire natur- 
ally judges from the base-man's repeated efforts 
that he must have failed in the first attempt, 
and so declares the runner " safe." 

It is sometimes possible for a good combina- 
tion of catcher, pitcher, and second-base man to 
put out a runner who takes a long lead from second 
toward third when the ball is pitched, or who 
comes back slowly or carelessly. Burdock used 
to do this very cleverly. He had a signal (con- 
sisting of extending his left arm out in a straight 
line from his body, an action not noticeable to 

the runner, but very evident to the catcher) by 
which he instructed the catcher to perform the 
play on the next ball pitched. The method was 
as follows : The catcher, instantly upon receiving 
the ball, returned it with as swift a throw as the 
pitcher could well handle, and he in turn swung 
around and sent the ball at second just a little 
toward third. Burdock, who had started as 
soon as the catcher had the ball, would have 
reached this spot in the line, and it was a very 
lively undertaking for any runner who was not 
expecting the trick, to get back to the bag in time. 
This play, as executed by these men, had little 
in common with the ordinary attempt of ama- 
teurs to execute it — where there is enough shout- 
ing and calling to betray the plan long before 
the ball comes. It must, of course, be done in 
perfect silence, and the runner should have no 
warning until the ball comes flying back. 

The second-base man occasionally has an op- 
portunity of backing up first base, although the 
pitcher is able to do a large share of this work. 

The first -base man's most regular work is 
catching thrown balls ; but he has other duties 
by no means unimportant, chief among which 
is handling ground-hits. Like the third-base 
man, he stands as far from his base as he can 
and yet be able to stop any ball sent between 
him and the bag. Unlike the third-base man, 
however, he cannot be allowed to take every- 
thing he can get in the in-field ; for, as a rule, he 
must not go farther from his base than to a point 
from which he can return to the bag in time to 
intercept the runner. Occasionally a ball is 
batted in such a manner that the play can be 
made to greater advantage by the pitcher's cov- 
ering the base, while the base-man himself gets 
the ball and throws it to the pitcher. This is 
sufficiently unusual not to be counted on as a 
regular play, and a first-base man should at- 
tempt it only at a call from the pitcher. His 
best general rule is to " cover the base." In 
catching balls thrown to him, he should make a 
point of acquiring the habit of stepping from 
the base with either foot, keeping the other al- 
ways on the bag. Many amateurs fall into the 
trick of always keeping the same foot on the 
base and twisting themselves about in corre- 
spondingly awkward ways. More than this, the 
man who plays first should never make the mis- 



take of " putting the cart before the horse," by 
keeping his foot on the bag when to do so he 
must miss the ball. This is the 
commonest fault of 
all first-base men. 
I remember hearing 
Joe Start, one of the 
old pioneer base-ball 
players, who has stood 
on first base until his 
hair is white, say con- 
temptuously of many a 
man playing first base, 
" Humph ! — tied to the 
bag ! " It is the duty of 
the first-base man to 



catch or stop the ball any 7vay. If he can do it 
with his foot on the base, well and good ; if he 
cannot, then he must leave the base for the pur- 
pose. A moment's consideration of the length of 
time a first-base man has in which to move, while 
the ball is traversing the entire distance from 
third, or short, to his base, will give one some idea 
of how wild any throw (e.xcept a high one) must 
be, to be out of his reach, provided he dare to 
leave the base when necessary. 

In the handling of a low throw, there is the 
greatest opportunity for the exercise of judgment. 
If a first-base man will keep one foot upon the 
bag and step forward with the other, bending 
the knee, he will see how far he can reach out 
with his hands into the diamond. Then if he 
steps backward, and notes how far behind the 
base he can take the ball, he will have an idea 
of the field of choice he has on a low throw. 
He should therefore always endeavor to take a 

low throw either on the " pick up," or the " long 
bound," and avoid that most disagreeable point 
of a ball's progress known as a " short 
bound." The best of players can not be sure 
of taking a short bound, — there is always an 
element of luck in it, — while taking a pick- 
up, or a long bound, is far more a question 
of skill. 

Another thing to be remembered by the 
first-base man in his practice, as well as in 
I games, is to help the thrower. For ex- 
ample, when the ball and the runner 
seem about to reach the base at the 
same time, the base-man, by leaning for- 
ward into the diamond and toward 
the thrower, can gain just that almost 
inappreciable fraction of time that will 
put the runner out. 

The " tied to the bag " fault is ap- 
parent sometimes in the player who 
seems unable to take a high ball. His 
trouble is usually found to lie in the fact 
that, while he does reach up after the 
ball, he feels that his foot must not leave 
the bag. If the ball be going too high 
to be reached in that way, he must jump 
for it. A good 
illustration of 
how a first-base 
man should take 
a high ball, is shown in 
an instantaneous photo- 
graph of McBride, a well- 
known first-base man of 
Yale. The player should 
jump so as to alight on 
the bag, for, if in time, he 
will put out the man ; but 
he must sacrifice eveiy- 
thingto stopping the ball. 
In touching the runner 
with a ball thrown from -. 
the pitcher, the first-base 
man, likewise, should fol- 
low the instructions given 

the third-base man. All players, however, are 
far more proficient — owing to greater practice 
— in sliding back to first than to third. A 
first-base man must therefore be even quicker 
in putting the ball on the man. 




By E. J. Glave, One of Stanley's Pioneer Officers. 

Fourth Paper. 

I HAD been at Bolobo only a few months, 
when instructions from headquarters deprived 
me of my friend Liebrechts. He was directed 
to proceed up-river to take command of another 
Station. I was left in charge of Bolobo, where 
I remained but a few months, for the State, 
desirous of reducing expenses, directed me to 
abandon the Station. 

I returned to England in the middle of June 
i886. A new expedition was being fitted out 
for exploring work, and most of my time, dur- 
ing a brief holiday of ten weeks, was spent in 
superintending the building of a light-draught 
steamer, and making other preparations in con- 
nection with this new venture, wherein I had 
elected to serve. On September 26, 1886, I 
was again at the mouth of the Congo ; and, 
a few months afterward, I was on the upper 
river for the purpose of visiting in a steam- 
launch, of which I had command, the villages 
on the Congo banks, and making excursions 
into the little-known tributaries. The boat I 
had contracted for in England arrived in sec- 
tions ; and while the various parts were being 
fitted together I established myself at Equator 
Station, several hundred miles further in the 

During my stay at this post, I had e.xcellent 
opportunities for studying the inhabitants of the 
surrounding country. I found that I was in 
the midst of the powerful tribes of the .5(7- 
Nkundu. The low-lying country round the Sta- 
tion was frequently flooded during the wet 
season, and the native settlements were built on 
a strip of dry land along the river bank. Just 
back of the huts this strip merged into a great 
swamp which extended for several miles inland. 

I was repeatedly hearing rumors in the vil- 
lages of an expected attack from a large inland 
tribe called Monzole. As no white man had 
ever visited these people, I decided that I 

would endeavor to make friends with them by 
visiting their villages, and entering into blood 
brotherhood with the chief, Euelu. I therefore 
engaged a few friendly natives to accompany 
me on this little expedition. Our way led us 
for twenty miles through swamp and quagmire. 
In some places the mud was several feet deep, 
and at these dangerous spots trees had been 
felled and thrown across to serve as bridges. 

Upon my arrival I was received most cordially 
by Euelu. He seemed delighted to think that 
a white man had paid such a tribute to his im- 
portance as to wade through twenty miles of 
mud to visit him. He placed his own hut at 
my disposal, rationed my men, gave me goats, 
sheep, fowls, and eggs, and made me feel thor- 
oughly at home. When I had removed the 
coating of mud which covered me from head 
to foot, I found time to take a good look at my 
redoubtable host. He had heard of my com- 
ing from some of his young hunters, who, 
surprised at the sight of a band of strangers 
crossing the swamp, had left their traps and 
nets and had hurried back to the village with 
the news. 

In view of so important an event, Euelu 
had donned the very best costume his wardrobe 
contained. He wore a tall hat, on which was 
fastened a circular plate of beaten brass, twelve 
inches in diameter and covered with roughly 
stamped designs. He clutched a handful of 
spears and a cane shield ; the ever-ready knife 
hung over his right shoulder, while from his left 
shoulder was suspended the capacious buknmbe, 
or sack. He was evidently a suspicious old 
fellow. His restless eyes were sufficient proof 
of that, and the persistent habit of carrying his 
belongings in the bukumbe was a further con- 
firmation of the fact. His drinking-cup, medi- 
cines, razors, hair-pins, colored chalks, adze, 
monkey skins, copper rings, — all accompanied 
him every step he took. I asked him the rea- 
son for carrying his property in this manner, 




and he told me that he had several sons who 
were always seeking an opportunity to lay 
their hands on his valuables, and it was there- 
fore necessary for him to take them with him 
wherever he went. 

Euelu was a short man, but of wiry build, 
with a determined-looking head. His face 
and body bore many marks of war's ravages. 
The questions he put to me showed him to be 
possessed of great inteUigence ; and he was 
much amused at my descriptions of the man- 
ners and customs in Mputti (the white man's 
country), and by some rough drawings I made 
with a piece of chalk on the door of his hut. 
My gun delighted him so much that he at once 
proposed that we should form a strict alliance 
and together wage war on the surrounding vil- 
lages and reduce them to subjection. 

" With such a gun as that," said he, " we 
could fight the whole country!" If not be- 
loved, Euelu was certainly much feared by his 
neighbors. The other villages in the district 
were jealous of his power; but whenever they 
put forward a headman to contend with Euelu 
for leadership in the country, the native se- 
lected for that honor would receive a visit from 
the old chief, and would in consequence retire 
from the competition rather speedily. 

From Euelu, whose warlike excursions had 
penetrated far in all directions, I learned a great 
deal about the land beyond. The village of 
Monzole was built on a strip of dry land rising 
from the swamp. The government of these 
people was far more intelligent than any I had 
ever met with among the Congo natives. Here, 
there was always one responsible chief at the 
head of affairs. 

Euelu visited my station several times after 
this little trip of mine. But early in '88 he at- 
tempted to suppress a drunken squabble which 
was going on in the village. Some of his ene- 
mies, taking advantage of his unarmed con- 
dition, treacherously speared him, leaving him 
dead in his own village. Since that time the 
name of Monzole, unaided by the great reputa- 
tion of Euelu, fails to create such fear among 
the neighboring tribes. 

Near the village of Euelu was an encamp- 
ment of roving hunters, known as Banimbe. 
These seemed a very peaceful tribe, and wished 

to live at peace with their neighbors. They em- 
ployed their time in hunting the small game in 
the forests with bow and arrow, while pitfalls 
and other traps set for big game showed that 
the larger animals also were objects of their ef- 
forts. They were not cannibals, nor, greatly to 
their credit, did they indulge in human sacrifices. 
They were keen sportsmen and useful trackers, 
being able to discern, by a careful scrutiny of the 
trail, the exact time the animals had passed 
through the swamps. They had never seen a 
white man, and I had great difficulty in getting 
my tracker to go ahead, as he preferred to walk 
behind me in order to indulge his curiosity by 
having a good look at me. 

The natives around my Station were a light- 
hearted, friendly people, and it required but a 
little tact and patience to preserve at all times 
friendly relations with them. I always engaged 
a few of the villagers to work on the Station, and 
found among them some men of sterling worth 
and admirable character. One youth, named 
Bienelo, was an exceptionally fine fellow, brave 
in war and in the chase, and thoroughly trust- 
worthy and devoted. He remained with me the 
whole of my last three years in Africa, and 
served me well. He was a slave, having been 
caught when quite a baby by some raiders ; but 
his determined and fearless character soon raised 
him from the abject condition of the majority 
of slaves ; and the support and encouragement 
which I was bound to extend to him gave him 
a good position in this village. He was my 
head man, ashore and afloat. Whether with me 
on the track of a tusker, or exposed to the ar- 
rows of the fierce Riiki, or laboring through the 
swampy bog in search of fuel for the steamer, 
he always remained the same devoted servant. 
He was a perfect example of what can be made 
of the African savage when properly handled. 
With an army of such men, under resolute offi- 
cers, the Arab slave-raiders and their Maiiyema 
banditti would before long be driven from their 
present man-hunting ground, and, if necessary, 
could be utterly destroyed. 

I was enabled to indulge my love of hunting 
while at Equator Station, as herds of hippo- 
potami could usually be found within a few 
hours' journey. Occasionally, too, elephants 
would make their way down to the river, when 



a long dry season dried up their inland drinking- 

Herds of elephants are to be found, with very 
few exceptions, throughout the whole territory 
of the Congo Free State. I suppose at the pres- 
ent time they are to be found there in greater 
numbers than in any other part of the world. 
In the deadly swamps and impenetrable forests 
of Central Africa, they are secure for many years 

great animals. They seem to know that the 
natives have no very powerful weapons of de- 
fense, and it is really extraordinary how fearlessly 
they take possession of a village. The natives 
naturally are very anxious that a white man 
should come to shoot these persecutors; and, 
when a herd appears in a district, news is al- 
ways brought in to the nearest camp or Stadon. 
If the white man is a hunter, and decides to fol- 


to come. In South Africa, and other parts where 
they have been almost exterminated, there is no 
deadly climate to protect them from the pursuit 
of the hunters of big game. 

An elephant-hunt, although very exciting, is 
attended by great hardship and risk to life. 
These animals are not, as a rule, found in open 
places. They prefer the forest, and seek the 
shelter of the thick tropical foliage. They are 
to be found in families of two and three, and in 
herds of two and three hundred. Some dis- 
tricts are rendered quite uninhabitable to the 
natives by the depredations the elephants com- 
mit on the plantations, and by the very danger- 
ous nature of the midnight maraudings of these 
Vol. XVII.— 93. 

low up the elephants, he takes with him one or 
two natives of his own training, or men known 
to be trustworthy, and then, accompanied 
by the native who has seen the elephants and 
brought the news, they proceed to follow up the 
tracks. If it is about the middle of the day, the 
party will not have much difficulty in coming up 
to the game, as from about eleven o'clock till 
about three o'clock the elephants rest. On the 
other hand, if the time is early morning or 
evening, it may mer.n a tramp of many miles be- 
fore finding the herd. 

But, even when you have reached a herd, you 
have still serious obstacles in your path, as, more 
often than not, a herd — say, of fifty — will be 




scattered over a patch of two or three acres. 
You have to move aTsout around the outskirts 
of this resting-place, and find out their posi- 
tions, and to see which are, and which are not, 
" tuskers." You must then watch and note in 
what direction the animals are making, always 
taking care, of course, to have the wind in your 
favor — that is, blowing from them to you. It 
happens sometimes, too, that they are almost 
completely sheltered by the luxuriant growth of 
the tropical underbrush. You have to allow for 
this, and be ready to fire your shot when a little 
more open ground is reached, and you are able 
to distinguish some vital spot. It is not at all 
unusual for an elephant-hunter to be within 
thirty or forty yards of a herd of elephants for 
five or six hours without an opportunity to 
fire a shot. Of course you could hit one; but 
unless an elephant is struck in some vital part, to 
wound him is simply downright cruelty. The 
best places at which to aim are : in the forehead, 
four inches above the line of the eyes; and 
between the eye and the ear, four inches above 
a line drawn between those two points. Another 
very good place is just behind the ear. Some 
prefer to shoot at the heart, but to aim at the 
head is safer, I think. 

When you have fired your first shot, you 
must be wary, as it is likely that you may find 
elephants on all sides of you. Upon their being 
startled by the report of your gun, they all close 
together, preparatory to making their escape, 
so that you have to be very careful to avoid 
being trampled under foot. It requires a man 
of cool temperament and strong and steady 
nerves to carry on successfully an elephant 

The noise made by a herd of elephants is sim- 
ply indescribable. Every animal seems to wish to 
outdo the others in the shrillness of its screech- 
ing and trumpeting. This, combined with the 
crashing down of trees as they plow their way 
through the matted undergrowth of the forest, 
once heard, will never be forgotten. An angry 
elephant will very often charge at the hunter, 
especially if the animal is a female protecting a 
young one, so that a hunter seldom fires unless 
he is close enough to be sure of his aim. 

A native from a neighboring village arrived 
one day at my Station excited and breathless. 

He informed me in short gasps that he had 
seen a large herd of elephants quietly feeding in 
a forest swamp a few miles away. He volun- 
teered to lead me up to these animals, so I took 
my rifle, and, accompanied by Bienelo with a 
spare Martini, I followed our guide to the woods. 
A\'e had not gone far before we heard the break- 
ing down of branches and the peculiar champing 
noise which these animals make in their throats 
when resting. There were certainly a hundred 
of the great creatures. We crept close up to 
them, but they were in the midst of a thick 
undergrowth, and we could discern their where- 
abouts only by an occasional glimpse of their 
great bodies through the foliage or the raising 
of a trunk as one snapped off some young sap- 
ling ; but, all around us, the rustling among the 
big leaves and the waving of the slender shrubs 
denoted the presence of the elephants. 

I had approached within a few yards of one 
several times, but the dense thicket prevented 
me from clearly distinguishing my game. At 
last, however, from a patch of tangled bush and 
creepers, a large elephant came striding along 
right in my path. I fired, and fortunately 
dropped the beast on her knees; and then, upon 
another shot from my Martini, she rolled over 
on her side, dead. I had been uncomfortably 
close to this big animal, and after she had fallen 
she lay just seven yards from where I stood 
when I fired. Had I not succeeded in bringing 
her down at the first shot, I am afraid she would 
have taken such steps as would have been 
exceedingly unpleasant for me. 

A herd of elephants in full stampede create a 
deafening uproar, as, angrily trumpeting their 
alarm, they break through the tangled thicket 
in their retreat. 

Elephants live to a very great age, and so ac- 
customed do the natives become to certain ones 
that they know each by a special name. Some- 
times the title is bestowed on account of some 
well-known incident of the animal's life, and 
sometimes the elephant is named after a de- 
ceased chief. These old fellows are generally 
bull elephants, and, more often than not, tuskers, 
who prefer leading a sohtary life to joining a herd. 
I remember one wily old fellow often mentioned 
among the natives by the name Miongo Moco 
(" one tusk "), so called from his having only one 




tusk. I never .saw him, although I have been 
on his track. It seemed strange to hear these 
people say, in .speaking among themselves 
after this elephant had visited their planta- 
tions, " Miongo Moco paid another visit last 
night," and then proceed to recount the dam- 
age done by him and to abuse him in their quiet 
way, just as if he were a human being. 

On one trip up the Malinga, my sentry on the 
boat awoke me and whispered, " Njoku, njoku" 
(" Elephants, elephants.") Hurriedly dressing, I 
got out and saw, about fifty yards from the bow of 
my boat, a small herd of elephants. It was not 

yet morning. I could hear their blowing and 
could dimly perceive their great heads above 
water, but it was really too dark to shoot with 
any chance of success. We determined to try, 
however; so Thompson, the engineer, and myself 
got into the canoe with our crew, and pushed 
off toward the animals. They were in shallow 
water, and as we neared them they became con- 
fused and huddled, and jostled each other until 
one old bull, furiously trumpeting, led the way 
to the shore. The whole herd stampeded through 
the shallow water, splashing up the water all 
around. We lost sight of the black mass as 





they reached the bank and made off into the 
woods, where we heard them breaking through 
the forest in their retreat. We followed them 
for several miles, but did not come up to them. 

are a most murderous and piratical race, and to 
their other evil distinctions is added that of can- 
nibalism. They are constantly lying in wait, 
concealed in their canoes amidst grass and 
bush, near to some of their 
neighbors' fishing grounds ; 
and upon the arrival of a 
small party of fishermen, they 
will steal out from their hid- 
ing-places, give chase, spear 
the fishermen, and devour 
the bodies of those who fall 
in the fray. 

Generally speaking, the 
land through which the 
Oubangi flows is swampy, 
and the banks of the river 
are clothed with densest 
tropical vegetation, — huge 
trees, among which lovely 
creepers trail from branch to 
branch. Various orchids of 


If they had arrived half an hour later, it would 
have been light enough to have seen the bead 
of the rifle ; as it was, although we were within 
fifteen feet of them, we could see only the black 
mass of the bodies. 

During a two months' voyage which I made 
on the Oubangi River, I had much experience 
in dealing with some of the wildest natives in 
the Congo Basin. The Oubangi has four hun- 
dred miles of navigable water before the Rap- 
ids are reached. On the lower reaches of the 
river the Balui, a section of the Bangala tribe, 
have settled. These people, besides being keen 
traders, are skillful hunters. They trap the ele- 
phant in the forests, and on foot pluckily hunt 
with spears the buffalo in the plains ; nor is the 
hippopotamus in the river safe from their deadly 
weapons. They attack him while he sleeps on 
a sand bank, hurling a heavy spear, to the han- 
dle of which a float is attached by a cord, so 
that if they succeed in only wounding him, his 
whereabouts may be known by the float. 

I ascended this river in the smaller boat, the 
" New York," and was accompanied by only fif- 
teen men. Our small numerical strength was 
taken advantage of by the savages. They tried 
in every way to impose on me. These Balui 

brilliant colors, far overhead, 
also cling to the branches of the trees, and 
animals of all kinds roam through the woods. 

The Balui have not ]3enetrated far up the 
river. A hundred miles from the mouth one 
meets another tribe, speaking an entirely differ- 
ent language, but with habits and tastes as hor- 
rible as those of the Balui. These tribes are 
most confirmed cannibals and freely advertise 
that fact, exhibiting the bones of their victims. 
The members of these tribes are constantly at 
war with one another; each village seems only 
too anxious to pounce down upon some other. 
This state of things has maintained a perpetual 
state of alarm; nearly every village is surrounded 
by a heavy stockade of sharpened posts, strapped 
to which are bundles of wooden spears, ready 
to the hand of the warrior in case of a sud- 
den attack. One is constantly passing patches 
of cleared ground, which show the charred 
stumps and general debris of destroyed villages. 
These, I learned, were once populous villages, 
that had been destroyed through the avarice 
and ferocity of their neighbors. 

At one place I saw a canoe on its way to 
war. It was a huge dugout with large plat- 
forms fore and aft, and was manned by thirty- 
five fine young warriors, who for symmetry of 




limb and general physique would compare fa- 
vorably with any band of fighters in the world. 
In the center, seated on a chair, was the old 
chief himself, who leaned gracefully, with his 
arms folded, over his shield. In the bow was a 
young fellow beating a war-drum. On the plat- 
form at the back were two men with war-drums 
and two men acting as steersmen. In the body 
of the canoe were the warrior paddlers. Every 
man had on the usual leather breastplate of 
tanned bufifalo-skin, colored in fantastic patterns 
with yellow and white chalk. They wore also 
caps of various colored feathers and skins. 
The shields and spears were an-anged along the 
sides of the canoe so that, at a moment's notice, 
every man could be armed. 

The sun was .shining brilliantly, and the bright 
metal of the knives and spears flashed with 
every movement, while the wild surrounding 
scenery completed a striking and impressive 
picture. These people are fierce, warlike, and 
aggressive. I had only fifteen of the Ba-Nkun- 
du men with me, and it required all my stock 
of patience to put up with our pursuers' arro- 
gant behavior. They would surround me in 
their canoes, and tantalize me by throwing corn- 
cobs, pieces of wood, and stones ; and it was 

with the greatest difficulty that I was able to 
prevent them from smashing the machinery of 
the steamer, as time after time they chased my 
boat and tried to drive the prows of their ca- 
noes into the wheel. These attacks I repelled 
by placing some of the crew at the end of my 
own canoe to guard our wheel with long sticks. 
I make it my policy to use the rifle upon the 
natives only as a last resort, when patience and 
diplomacy have failed. To my peaceful over- 
tures, these savages only yelled, and informed 
me that they would eat me and all my crew ! 
I signed to them that it was very possible I 
might dispute that. Upon my showing them a 
rifle, they laughed, jeered at me, and said, " The 
spear is the weapon to kill. The gun won't 
kill ! " They followed me up-river until we 
came abreast of another long stretch of vil- 
lages. Here the natives did not confine them- 
selves to verbal insults, and I Avas compelled to 
fight them. As I passed close in-shore, steam- 
ing slowly past their villages, an ominous sul- 
leness was noticeable on the features of all the 
men who were sitting crouched along the bank 
with their eyes fixed on me, and their weapons 
lying ready just in front of them. At a given 
signal they all rose and hurled their spears. 





One of these stuck into the sun-deck of my 
boat, just escaping my head by about four 

This actual attack I was bound to punish. 
I put the nose of my boat in-shore and steamed 
ahead. The enemy huddled together to resist, 
but we poured such a withering fire into them 
that they began to throw their spears at random 
and soon broke and fled for shelter behind the 
huts and trees. 

I was detennined to give them a lesson that 
they would remember — a lesson that would 
cause them to think twice before they again 
attacked a white man. I routed them out of 
their own \'illage ; then they made a slight stand 
behind their palisade, from which we cleared 
them, and scattered them in full retreat before 
us. I completed the punishment by burning 
the houses and capturing their Hve stock, and 
camped on an island opposite for the night, keep- 
ing a careful watch till the morning. Then I 
again steamed up-river. 

It was surprising how such a lesson improved 
these people. I came back to the same village 
twelve days afterward, and although they were 
dreadfully scared, I succeeded in pacifying them, 
and, indeed, in making friends with them. They 
admitted that they had been in the wrong ; they 
thought that I, with so small a party, could 
be easily overcome, and so had commenced the 
attack. They paid dearly for their mistake of 

These natives, unhke those of Lukolela, do 
not plait the hair, but prefer to shave it, 
and then wait until the head is covered with 

three or four days' growth, from which they 
shave away some of the hair and leave the re- 
mainder in half-moon squares and other designs. 
When their design grows too long, they shave 
all oft" again and start afresh. Their faces are 
rendered exceedingly repulsive by their custom 
of cutting oft" the two upper front teeth close 
to the gum. 

The news of my little fight spread far and 
wide. The speed of my boat greatly increased 
the awe which the natives felt for us; and at 
no other village above did the natives dare 
to receive us with hostility, nor did we again 
become the recipients of their spare stock of 
corn-cobs, old roots, and so on. 

But, upon coming down-stream, near the 
mouth of the river, I one night shot a hippo. 
Ne.xt morning, on proceeding to the place where 
I had left it the night before, I found it sur- 
rounded by a crowd of Balui. They jumped 
into their canoes at my approach and paddled 
oft" with all their might, but I followed them, 
because they had taken all the meat. When 
they arrived at their homes they jumped ashore 
and bolted into the bush with the meat. Upon 
my arrival at the village I found all the huts 
deserted. A careful inspection proved that the 
village was inhabited by fishermen, and the quan- 
tity of dried fish in the village certainly pointed 
to the fact that the season had been a very good 
one. Exchange being no robbery, as they had 
stolen my hippo, I helped myself to their fish, 
and as my own men had been having rather too 
much hippo meat for some time past, the change 
of diet was welcome to them. 


By Lieut. Robert H. Fletcher. 

Chapter IX. 


N the day Marjorie got 
|J^ well, we all went to the 
country and lived in a 
tent. That is, we hadX 
a tent for the bed- 
room, and another 
tent for the dining- 
room and kitchen, 
and all out-of-doors 
for a parlor. When 
we had dinner, Marjorie could spill 
the milk all over the grass if she 
wanted to; and that was fun. And CVilS^ 
she slept in a hammock, instead of ^ 'jy' 'Tifjife 
a bed ; and that was fun. And one ,',:""J^^gf 
day she almost saw a snake, so she 
said. Then the birds would come, in 
the early morning, and sing to us until we 
got up. Marjorie's mamma said that it would 
be very funny if the robin-redbreasts should 
come into the tent some morning before we woke 

and, seeing us lying there, should cover us with 

leaves, as they did the " Babes in the Woods." 

" That did happen once," said I, " a long 

time ago. The robins found a littla girl, named 

Amaryllis, asleep by a spring, and they thought 
she was dead, and covered her up with leaves." 





-fW" 'l^""^ Jleepin_^ tKitKep /lew ViL^sji 

rou.(?Kt leav 

^— /-\ robin-red -breast , wKo at view 
T\Jot Ceelntf Ker at a-ll to ^tlV ,/ j ^C!^ 

^ IS " 

to C*5Ver Ker 





'•Then could n't she get up? " said Marjorie. 

" Oh, yes," I said. " When she woke up, she 
laughed at the robins. A friend of the birds, 
named Robert Herrick, heard about it after- 
ward ; I don't know whether it was the robins 
who told him, or whether it was the little girl. 
At all events, he put it all in a book. I will 
tell you about it to-night, if you like." 

So that night, while Marjorie rocked herself 
in the hammock, I told her Robert Herrick's 
story of Amaryllis and the robins. And she 
liked it so well that she said it must go into 
our book, too. 

" And, Jack," said she, " we must make some 
pictures for it." 

" .Sweet Amaryllis, by a spring's 
Soft and soul-melting murmurings. 
Slept ; and thus sleeping thither flew 
A robin-redbreast, who at view 
Not seeing her at all to stir, 
Ijrought leaves and moss to cover her. 

" But while he, perking, there did prie, 
About the arch of either eye ; 
The lid began to let out day — 
At which poor Robin flew away. 
And seeing her not dead but all disleaved 
He chirjDt for joy to see himself deceiv'd." 

joerK-irvg! , there 
c*ib PVY 

-■:g'^^^,^^(s)Ke lie) 
'^W-''-~Z—^3SFs bed an to let ~,j*/ 
/® . our bay— ' — ^^ 

^ VTvvKicK poor l^birv y"(( 
y\rLc) ^eeind her not" (5e&o 
}j^"[e cKirpt"-/or joy to ^ee ?■ 
*.eir Oeceivo . 

>fp^"'i mtif I? ' ■ ■ V 

■'X.^«.it>|"' M*^'' '/!/. ^ 

\ i' 

Chapter X. 


When we became tired of living in a tent, we 
went back to the city. We were all glad to 
get home. Marjorie was so glad that, when 
her mamma put her to bed in her own little 
crib that night, she could not go to sleep, but 
wanted to sing. 

So then I said that we would have a little 
concert to celebrate our coming home, and we 
would put that in to end The Book. 


And this is what we sang : 

A SERENADE. — To my liUli girl. 

Good-night, Sweetheart, 

The sun lias gone to rest ; 

The evening star, the night-lamp of 

the world. 
Burns dimly in the west ; 
Tired day has closed its eyelids 
On the blueness of its skies ; 
Do thou. Sweetheart, close thy lids 
On the blueness of thy eyes. 

The little birdies' heads have sought 

their wings ; 
Each little flower has closed its 

petals bright ; 
Do thou, Sweetheart, let thy dear 

With all its little rings of golden hair, - 
Sink down upon thy pillow white, 
Wliilst low I whisper in thy ear. 
Good-night, Sweetheart, good-night, 




By Jane Ellis Joy. 

The trouble came just with the end of the racket, How should I begin ? — with my hands in my 

One Fourth of July, as you '11 presently pockets 

learn. My thoughts seemed to take a precipitous 

'T was not a lopped finger, nor torn nor spoiled flight ; 

jacket, I but knew that above me the arrowy rockets 

I escaped from all harm — save a very slight Left beautiful arches of jewel-like light, 

The words " Fellow-citizens " loomed up sug- 

But Papa had provided a new silken banner, gestive, 

Which swayed in the evening breeze, far out And somehow I managed the form to repeat ; 

of reach, And then from sheer fright at my voice I grew 

And our guests were discoursing in happiest restive, 

manner, And felt I must suffer the shame of defeat. 
When, lo ! some one called upon me for a 

speech. At last in the kitchen, I heard ice a-shaking, 

And instantly roused from discomfiture's 

Oh, never did heart beat to time that was dream, 

faster To say, 'midst applause, — for the motion proved 

Than mine, as I stood there, not daring to flee ! taking — 

For I would far rather have faced grave disaster " I move that the speeches come after the 

Than make an oration quite extempore. cream." 
Vol. XVII.— 94. 


By Oliver Herford 


In a fairy forest, known 

To the fairy-folk alone, 

Where the grasses meet and spread 

Like a green roof overhead, 

Where the dandelion-tree 

Towers tall as tall can be. 

And the ferns lift up their high 

Fairy ladders to the sky. 

For the elves to climb upon — 

Here are merry goings-on. 

From the forest far and near 
All the fairy-folk are here, 
For to-day there is to be 
Music 'neath the daisy-tree. 
And the creatures of the wood, 
One and all, have been so good 
And obliging as to say. 
They will gladly come and play 
For the elves a serenade, 
In the fairy forest glade. 

All the little birds have come; 
And the bumblebees that hum ; 
And the gnats that twang the lute ; 
And the frogs that play the flute; 
And the kind of frog whose toots 
Seem to come from out his boots ; 
And the great big green and yellow 
Frog that plays upon the 'cello ; 
And the katydid, in green, 
Who is oftener heard than seen ; 
With the little ladybird 
Who is oftener seen than heard ; 
And the cricket, never still 
With his lively legs and trill. 







And, in short, each forest thing 
That can hum, or buzz, or sing, 
Each and all have come to play 
For the little elves to-day. 

Now the crawfish takes the stand 

To conduct the fairy band. 

First there is a moment's pause. 

Then the leader lifts his claws. 

Waves his wand, and — one — two — three ! 

All at once, from gnat and bee, 

Frog, and katydid, and bird 

Such a melody is heard 

That the elves and fairies wee, 

Clapping little hands with glee, 

Make their mushroom seat to sway 

In a very risky way. 

And the creatures in delight 

Play away with all their might. 
Feeling very justly proud 
That the elves applaud so loud. 

Now the sun is getting low. 
And the elves to bed must go 
Ere the sleepy flowers close 
In whose petals they repose ; 
For if they were late they might 
Have to stay outside all night. 
So the last good-byes are said. 
Every one goes home to bed ; 
And the creatures as they fly 
Play a fairy lullaby. 
Growing faint and fainter still, 
Fainter and more faint, until 
All is silent — and the shade 
Creeps upon the fairy glade. 



By F. W. Pangborn, 
tice-president of the new york yacht racing association. 

Every boy who spends his vacation at the 
water-side wishes to sail a boat; and nearly every 
boy who has been permitted to help some older 
yachtsman in the navigation of his craft, thinks 
that he knows all about it. But put him aboard 
a sail-boat alone, and the chances are many that 
he will come back ( if he is not brought back ) 
a sadder and -wiser " man " than he was when 
he set forth, and with his bump of self-conceit 
reduced to such a degree that one can scarcely 
discern the ghost of it. Of course, a boy can 
learn to sail a boat without assistance, but this is 
a method which is very dangerous to life, and not 
to be recommended. It is better that one should 
know a little of the things necessary to the ac- 
quirement of a good understanding of the sub- 
ject, before he jumps into his yacht with an " up 
sail and away," than to begin with an experiment 
which is almost certain to end in disaster. The 
boy who desires to be a yachtsman should wish 
to be an able yachtsman — one who will not have 
cause to blush with mortification at some bung- 
ling manoeuver which he has made in the pres- 
ence of his friends, or to regret all his life that he 
has been an agent of death to some loved com- 
panion. Therefore, boys, I say, learn to sail a 
boat intelligently, to be a competent commander, 
and to be at all times ready for emergencies 
when they come. With this object in view, then, 
let us proceed to board our boat, and, as the 
sailors say, " see what she '11 do." 

Now, to begin with, I will assume that you 
know how to use a row-boat. A boy who can 
not skillfully handle a pair of oars should not 
attempt to manage a sail-boat. One must learn 
to swim and to row before he graduates into the 
ranks of tlie )'achtsmen. I will also assume that 
you are interested in yachts, and have examined 
them enough to know their general appearance 
and their chief characteristics ; that you know a 
mast from a boom, and the difference between a 
rudder and an anchor • in short, that you are al- 

ready enthusiastic over a sail-boat, for a water- 
loving boy generally picks up the names of the 
parts of a boat long before he learns to sail. Let 
us also confine our study to boats of one kind, 
for the management of large yachts is not per- 
tinent to our purpose. We will, then, take for 
our experiments a cat-boat. The cat-boat is 
used more than any other kind of yacht in 
American waters, and it is in such a boat that 
you will probably have to take your yachting 
lessons, because nearly all rented boats, and 
nine-tenths of all other small yachts, are " cats." 

The cat-boat has but one sail. This is set on a 
mast, and stretched out upon a boom and a gaff, 
as you know. There are three ropes in the rig 
of such a boat, two to hoist the sail and one to 
" trim it." that is, to fasten it where you want it. 
The hoisting- ropes are called " halyards," the one 
wliich lifts that part of the sail next the mast be- 
ing the throat-halyard, the other, which lifts the 
end of the gaff, being named the peak-halyard. 
The third rope is the mainsheet, and by means of 
this you" work "your boat. The yacht should also 
have a topping-lift, which is a rope fastened to the 
boom, run through a pulley in the masthead, and 
thence to the deck. It is to lift the boom when the 
sail is lowered, or when emergency requires. The 
rig, as you will see, is simple ; yet you will find 
the catboat one of the liveliest contrivances that 
you ever tried to ride. A bicycle and a skittish 
horse are tame in comparison. 

A boat, in sailing, never goes in but one 
direction — forward. Sailing vessels are not 
designed to move backward. Remember this. 
An old waterman once gave me a piece of ad- 
vice- which I have never forgotten. " My lad," 
said he, " when you 're sailin' a boat, always do 
one o' two things : keep 'er a-goin', or down with 
your sail." There is good sense in that, for 
nearly all the upsets that occur are caused by 
not " keepin' 'er a-goin'," or by leaving the sail 
standing when it should be down. You see, a 



boat under way is manageable, while a boat at 
rest upon the water is not. If your boat does 
not go, you can not steer her ; and if you can 
not steer a boat, she will capsize if struck by a 
squall. Therefore, make it a point to always 
keep your sail full, in order that your boat may 
be under your control. 

To sail a boat, you should understand that 
her canvas must receive the pressure of the 
wind either at an angle or directly from behind, 
and that, except when sailing with the wind 
" dead aft," your boat's bow must point farther 
away from the wind than does her sail. A boat 
can not sail if the wind blows directly at her bow 
or upon the edge of her canvas. You can sail 
a vessel close to the wind, but never directly 
against it. 

The following diagrams will explain this 
to you : 1,2, and 3 are positions in which a 
boat will not sail, because the wind can not 

Now, let us suppose that you have your 
yacht, and are ready to try her. You have 
hoisted your sail, coiled the halyards neatly on 
both sides and the mainsheet upon the floor in 
the stern, dropped the center-board (if the boat 
has one), and cast off the " painter," or rope 
which fastened her. You wish to lay your 
course to windward, the land being on your 
left. So trim in the mainsheet and guide the 
boat with the rudder, until she points close to 
the wind (see Fig. 5), and let her go. You will 
at once perceive that she tries to " luff," that is, 
she wants to turn her nose into the wind, as in 
Fig. I. (This is because the pressure on the 
after-part of the sail drives the boat's stern 
around, and is what is known as " carrying a 
weather helm." Therein lies your safety, for it 
is thus that a sail-boat rights herself if struck 
by a squall.) To counteract this, hold the rud- 
der over a little until the actions of sail and 

exert any force upon the canvas ; 4 and 5 
show a boat upon two tacks, one to the left, 
" port," called the starboard tack, because the 
wind strikes on the starboard side ; the other 
to the right, " starboard," and called the port 
tack; 6, 7, and 8 show a boat going with the 
wind behind, the position in 6 being dangerous, 
because the wind may throw the sail over to 
the other side, if you steer carelessly, causing 
what is known as a "jibe," a perilous event at 
all times, and, as a rule, one to be avoided 
whenever possible. 

rudder neutralize each other, and the yacht \\ill 
keep a straight course. How she bowls along ! 
What a sense of buoyancy and life there seems 
to be in her, and how pleasant is the " feel " of 
the whole fabric as you guide it by the tiller in 
your hand ! Steady there ! Aha ! You got a 
" knock down," and had the breeze been 
stronger it would have been a capsize. Let 
me show you. When a little squall comes at 
you, as that one did, be ready for it. You can 
see it ruffling the water before it strikes, and, as 
soon as it reaches you, turn your boat gently 




toward the wind, not too much nor too quickly ; 
and if it is very severe let her point directly at 
the wind for a moment, until the gust shall have 
passed. But take care not to let your boat lose 
her headway, for then she will be helpless when 
the next squall strikes. If a squall is very sud- 
den and severe, you must cast off your main- 
sheet, letting the sail flap in the wind, in order 
to save yourself from an upset. But trim it in 
so soon as the squall shall have passed. There ! 
you are all right again now, and flying along in 
fine style. 

But you have gone as far as you need on the 
port tack, and wish to " go about," that is, to 
sail up the wind on the other tack. So give 
your yacht a good headway by steering her a 
little to the right. This is called " keeping her 
rap-full." Now steer to the left, firmly and 
quickly, and the yacht will at once turn into the 
wind and away from it in the direction shown 
in Fig. 4, the sail will fill and swing to the other 
side, and off you go once more. This is called 
tacking, and you must sometimes do considerable 
of it, particularly if you are sailing in a narrow 
channel. ^ 

It is now time to go home, and you must 
prepare for a run before the wind. So ease off 
the mainsheet, turning your yacht at the same 
time to the left, until the sail is in the position 
shown in Fig. 6, and the breeze is dead astern. 
Take up the center-board. Oh, how she goes 
now ! She seems literally to be running away 
with you, and to be trying a race with the waves 
which are following behind. Be careful now, 
and look lively. Zip! Boom! Crack! What 's 
the matter ? Oh, yes ; you 've let her jibe, 
and may be thankful that you have not over- 
turned the yacht or carried away her mast. 
You see, in sailing before the wind, if you steer 
a trifle away toward the side on which you are 
carrying sail, or if the wind itself shifts a little, 
that the wind will catch the canvas in front 
and hurl the sail to the other side of the boat. 
A jibe should never be a matter of accident. 
A sailor who lets a vessel jibe stands a good 
chance of getting the " rope's end " from his 
officer, and a yachtsman who does it deserves to 
be laughed at for being a lubber. The best way 
to sail before the wind is to keep a little bit off 
the straight course, as in Figs. 7 and 8. Some- 

times, however, you must jibe, in order to put 
the sail over to the other side of the boat. To 
do this properly requires experience and care. 
First, steer your boat toward the wind, and as 
you do so trim in the mainsheet as quickly as 
possible, keeping a firm hold. When the wind 
throws the sail over, let it go gently and steer 
the boat back to her course. Then let the sheet 
run, and go on as you did before. 

Well, you are now on the home-stretch, run- 
ning free with the sail on the port side, and 
wish to land. To do this, sail down near the 
dock, keeping well clear of it, and run past it, 
giving yourself plenty of sea-room. Then drop 
the center-board, round up your boat, trim in 
the sheet, and, by means of a long, swinging 
sweep, bring the vessel's head to the -wind, as 
she nears the landing-place. This is a manceuver 
that requires much practice, and you can ex- 
periment at it when out in open water until you 
are perfect. It is quite a feat to land a sail-boat 
neatly, and if you do not do it deftly and in 
good style everybody on shore will laugh at 
you. Remember this : you can never land a 


yacht head-on before the wind. To drive a 
boat before the wind against a dock is almost 
sure to wreck her. If there is no landing to 
windward, you must anchor or go elsewhere 
for a mooring. Never try to land a sail-boat 
upon a " lee-shore." Many a nice little yacht 



has been wrecked by greenhorns 
who have tried that experiment. 
You have had an agreeable 
fair-weather sail. But suppose 
the weather is a little stormy, 
or the breeze fickle and squally. 
Then you must sail under reefs. 
You have noticed those rows of 
little cords sewed to the sail at 
intervals parallel with the boom. 
Those are the reef-points, and 
are used , to tie the sail down 
when it is necessary to reduce 
canvas. Never fasten them 
around the boom ; that 's a land- 
lubber's way, and provokes 
mirth among sailors and yachts- 
men; but tie them under the 
lower edge of the sail. You will 
also perceive a rope fastened at 
the outer edge of the sail and 
leading through the end of the 
boom. This is to "outhaul," or 
stretch, the sail, and is the reef- 
pennant. Now then, to reef 
your boat for a hard blow, first 
set the sail at the proper height, 
tie the reef-points as directed, 
outhauling the sail with the 
reef-pennant, and then set up the 
halyards. The easiest way to 
reef a boat is when at anchor or 
fast to a mooring ; but you will 
often have to put in a reef under 
less favorable circumstances. In 
that case, slack down the peak- 
halyard and lower the throat- 
halyard until the sail is where 
you want it ; then reef as before, 
and be lively about it, too, or 
you may get into trouble. Reef- 
ing a small yacht in squally 
weather is dangerous at all times, 
and a man alone in a boat finds 
it all that he can do. Make it 
a point to know how to take a 
reef before you venture out far 
upon the water; for the task 
of reefing requires both a prac- 
ticed hand and a steady nerve. 


-^ ' P= J^ ,' 





Should you be caught by bad weather in such 
a fix that you cannot safely take a reef at once, 
lower the peak of the sail. This will reduce the 
canvas, and still leave your boat manageable. 
It does not look pretty, but it is safe. 

And now a few words of caution, and you 
need not be ashamed to heed them, for old 
yachtsmen do just what I am about to advise 
you to do. It is only the foolhardy greenhorn 
sailor who " takes chances " with a yacht. In 
squally weather never fasten the sheet ; always 
reef before you start, and if the wind is very 
strong take two reefs. It is easy to " shake 
them out," but hard to put them in ; so reef be- 
fore you cast off. Never take ladies and chil- 
dren with you in bad weather, and generally, if 
you are taking out a party of that kind, keep 

your boat under reefed canvas. Then, if emer- 
gency arises, your sacred trust is safe ; for re- 
member that a capsize with ladies and children 
means almost certain death to some, perhaps to 
all. It is wise also to have a small row-boat in 
tow on such occasions, for it is worth more than 
a hundred life-preservers. 

While sailing a yacht keep your attention 
strictly upon your business. A sailor must have 
eyes all around his head, and be ready for any- 
thing that may happen. A moment of inatten- 
tion may result in much trouble and turn your 
pleasuring into a time of terror. Keep a cool 
head at all times and never lose your nerve, and 
you are not likely to meet with anything really 

Of course, I assume that you will have to 

lU .^ 

T! <u "1 

£ "^ 
















Vol. XVII. — 95. 




hire your boat, so a word upon this subject may 
be timely. At every water-side resort there are 
boats to let, and many of them are unseaworthy. 


Before you hire a sail-boat, examine her care- 
fully ; see that her rigging is not rotten, that 
every rope runs freely in its pulleys, that her 
rudder is secure, and her center -board free in its 
trunk. Never go out in a yacht which is not 
well ballasted, provided with a good anchor and 
cable, and free from leaks. Most boats leak a 
little, but a boat that is half full of water every 
day is sure to be old, rotten, and unseaworthy. 
See to it that the yacht has a pump, and that 
the pump is in order. Any boy can determine 
these matters for himself, if he will be observ- 
ant and cautious. You must always remember 
that almost any waterman will rent you a boat, 
no matter how bad she may be ; for the water- 
man cares more for your money than for you. 
There are exceptions, but they are few. In se- 
lecting a cat-yacht, try to secure one that is 
roomy and wide, and avoid boats ^vith very large 
sails. These latter go fast, but they also cap- 
size quickly. A race-boat is one thing, a pleas- 

ure-boat quite another. Yachts with huge rigs 
are not safe, excepting in the hands of experts, 
and none too safe even when well handled. 
\\'hen you have de- 
^•eloped into a first-rate, 
all around yachting 
man, a racing-boat will 
be a very good thing 
to have, but don't hire 
one for practice or 
pleasure-sailing. If 
you can find no boat 
excepting one with a 
big rig, put a reef in 
her sail, and she will 
then have all the canvas 
she needs for good 
speed, safety, and com- 

Many of my readers 
may spend their sum- 
mers at the sea-side, in 
places where the waters 
are very shallow, and 
perhaps some of them 
are expecting to build 
boats suitable for shoal- 
water sailing. In that 
case a boat, like the 
one shown in the plans, will be found very satis- 
factory. Such a yacht is always a fast sailer, and 
will carry you anywhere where you can find eigh- 
teen inches of water. You will notice that I have 
drawn the plans for two sizes of sails : one, the 
larger, gives the yacht her full sail-carrying com- 
plement of canvas, and will make her a winner 
in a race ; the other, and smaller sail, shown by 
the dotted lines, is a suitable rig for general 
cruising and pleasure-sailing. This yacht can 
be rigged either as a cat or a sloop, being mod- 
eled for both purposes, and is just as correct 
for one rig as for the other. 

Now, there may be some among you who 
intend to have your boats built. Sometimes a 
boy has money enough to do this, or his father 
gives it to him, or Uncle John feels liberal, or 
some other nice thing happens to make such an 
event possible ; and if this be your case, you 
\\-ill do well to study the drawings which Mr. 
Burgess, designer of the '' Puritan," the " May- 





flower," and the peerless "Volunteer," has pre- 
pared especially for St. Nicholas. 

You will observe that the yacht, of which Mr. 
Burgess gives full working plans, is a very roomy, 
safe, and handsome little craft, eighteen feet long 
on the water-line, and cat-rigged. She is high- 
sided and deep, and will therefore be steady 
and dry under sail, and, with her ballast placed 
at the lowest possible point, uncapsizable. She 
has, as you can see, a roomy cockpit aft, and 
a nice little cabin forward in which two or 
three boys can sleep overnight as cozily as 
mice in a cupboard. Everything about her 
rig is simple and strong, and her whole ap- 
pearance is very graceful. In such a yacht as 
this, one could cruise all summer long in safety 
and comfort. 

The hnes of the boat, as shown in the draw- 
ings, are what sailors call " fine," which means 
that she has a graceful shape, and that her model 
is delicate and clean-cut. There is nothing of 
the " tub " about this boat ; she is a veritable 

So, if you intend to build a yacht, and can 

afford to do so, take these plans to a skillful 
boat-maker, insist that he shall follow them 
exactly, and you will then possess one of the 
finest little cruisers that can be made, able to 
carry you almost anywhere, and competent to 
hold her own with the best of the yachts of her 
class, for she is undoubtedly fast and seaworthy ; 
and then she '11 be a "Burgess boat," too, which 
is always something to brag about. 

There are, of course, a thousand other things 
which I could tell you about yachting, but not 
in this short article. You desire to begin at the 
beginning, and to learn to sail a boat ; and if 
you will master the simple lesson which I have 
given you in these pages, you can do it. 

Remember that sailing, delightful sport as it 
is, is not a business for careless people, for it re- 
quires intelligence, quick perception, and calm 
self-possession to be a good sailor. So, if you 
would be a yachtsman, cultivate these qualities, 
learn to be the master of your boat under all 
conditions of wind and weather, and don't for- 
get that you must either " keep 'er agoin', or 
down with your sail." 

t TWO 

By Margaret Johnson. 

A LITTLE maid with downcast eyes, 
And folded hands and serious face, 
AVho walks sedately down the street, 
Her dainty dress all smooth and neat. 
Each curl and ribbon in its place ; 

A little maid, in breathless haste. 
With glowing cheeks and tangled hair, 
Who races up and down the street, 
And with her skipping, tripping feet 
Is here, and there, and everywhere ; 

A dove-like maid with brow demure. 
Beneath her bonnet's shady brim, 
Who quiet sits within the pew, 
And gravely reads the service through, 
And joins in every hymn ; 

A saucy maid, with cap askew 

Upon her rumpled yellow curls. 

With twinkhng feet and chattering tongue. 

And breezy skirts about her swung 

In swift, ecstatic whirls ; 

The sweetest maid that could be found 
From Cuba to the Bay of Fundy ; 
A flower, the loveliest that springs, 
A saint, an angel without wings, — 
That 's Dorothy on Sunday. 

The merriest maid that ever shocked 
The servile slaves of Mrs. Grundy ; 
A bird, a spark of dawning light, 
A romp, a rogue, a witch, a sprite, — 
That 's Dorothy on Monday. 



By William O. Stoddard. 

Chapter XII. 

Jack Ogden stood like a boy in a dream, 
as the " Columbia " swept gracefully into her 
dock and was made fast. Her swing about was 
helped by the outgoing tide, that foamed and 
swirled around the projecting piers. 

A hurrying crowd of people was thronging out 
of the Columbia, but Jack's German friend did 
not join them. 

" De ceety vill not roon avay," he said, calmly. 
" You comes mit me." 

They went to the cabin for the ladies, and Jack 
noticed how much baggage the rest were carry- 
ing. He took a satchel from Miss Hildebrand, 
and then the Polish lady, with a grateful smile, 
allowed him to take another. 

" Dose crowds ees gone," remarked Mr. 
Guilderaufenberg. " Ve haf our chances now." 

Afterward, Jack had a confused memory of 
walking over a wide gang-plank that led into a 
babel. Miss Hildebrand held him by his left 
arm while the two other ladies went with Mr. 
Guilderaufenberg. They came out into a street, 
between two files of men who shook their whips, 
shouted, and pointed at a line of carriages. 
Miss Hildebrand told Jack that they could reach 
their hotel sooner by the elevated railway. 

" He look pale," she thought, considerately. 
" He did not sleep all night. He never before 
travel on a steamboat ' " 

Jack meanwhile had a new sensation. 

" This is the city ! " he was saying to himself. 
'• I 'm really here. There are no crowds, be- 
cause it 's Sunday, — but then ! " 

After walking a few minutes they came to a 
corner, where Mr. Guilderaufenberg turned and 
said to Jack : 

'• Dees ees Proadvay. Dere ees no oder 
street in de vorlt dat ees so long. Look dees 
vay und den look dat vay ! So ! Eh ? Dot ees 

Proadvay. Dere ees no oder city in de vorlt vere 
a beeg street keep Soonday ! " 

It was indeed a wonderful street to the boy 
from Crofield, and he felt the wonder of it; and 
he felt the wonder of the Sunday quiet and of 
the closed places of business. 

" There 's a policeman," he remarked to Mr. 

" So ! " said the German, smiling ; " but he 
ees a beople's boleeceman. Eef he vas a king's 
boleeceman, I vas not here. I roon avay, or I 
vas lock up. Jack, ven you haf dodge some 
king's boleecemen, like me, you vish you vos 
American, choost like me now, und vas safe ! " 

" I believe I should," said Jack, politely ; but 
his head was not still for an instant. His eyes 
and his thoughts were busily at work. He had 
expected to see tall and splendid buildings, and 
had even dreamed of them. How he had 
longed and hoped and planned to get to this 
very place ! He had seen pictures of the city, 
but the reality was nevertheless a delightful 

Miss Hildebrand pointed out Trinity Church, 
and afterward St. Paul's. 

" Maybe I '11 go to one of those big churches, 
to-day," said Jack. 

" Oh, no," said Miss Hildebrand. " You find 
plenty churches up-town. Not come back so 

" I shall know where these are, any way," 
Jack replied. 

After a short walk they came to City Hall 

"There!" Jack e.xclaimed. "I know this 
place ! It 's just like the pictures in my guide- 
book. There 's the Post-office, the City Hall, — 
everything ! " 

" Come," said Mr. Guilderaufenberg, begin- 
ning to cross the street. " Ve must go ofer und 
take de elevated railvay." 




" Come along. Meester Jack Ogden," added 
Mrs. Guilderaufenberg. 

" There are enough people here now," said 
Jack, as they walked along, " — Sunday or no 
Sunday ! " 

" Of course," said Miss Hildebrand, pointing 
with a hand that lifted a small satchel. "That 's 
the elevated railway station over there, across 
both streets. There, too, is where you go to the 

it hard to rid himself of the notion that possibly 
the whole long-legged railway might tumble 
down, or the train suddenly shoot off from the 
track and drop into the street. 

" Dees ees bretty moch American," said Mr. 
Guilderaufenberg, as Jack stared out at the third- 
story windows of the buildings. " You nefer 
vas here before ? So I Den you nefer feels again 
choost like now. You ees fery moch a poy. I 


suspension bridge to Brookl)'n, over the East 
River. You see, when we go by. You see to- 
morrow. Not much, now. I am so hungry ! " 

" I want to see everything," said Jack; "but 
I 'm hungry, too. Why, we 're going upstairs!" 

In a minute more Jack was sitting by an open 
window of an elevated railway car. This was 
another entirely new experience, and Jack found 

dell you, dere is not soch railvays in Europe ; I 
vonce feel like you now. Dot vas ven I first 
come here. It vas not Soonday; it vas a day 
for de flags. I dell you vat it ees : ven dot 
American feels goot, he hang out hees flag. 
Shtars und shtripes — I like dot flag ! I look 
at some boleece, und den I like dot flag again, 
for dey vas not hoont, hoont, hoont, for poor 


Fritz von Guilderaufenberg, for dot he talk too 
mocli ! " 

"It 's pretty quiet all along. All the stores 
seem to be closed," said Jack, looking down at 
the street below. 

" Eet ees so shtill ! " remarked Mr. Guilderau- 
fenberg. " I drafel de vorlt ofer und I find not 
dees Soonday. In Europe, it vas not dere to 
keep. I dell you, ven dere ees no more Soon- 
day, den dere ees no more America ! So ! Choost 
you remember dot, my poy, from a man dot vas 
hoonted all ofer Europe ! " 

Jack was quite ready to believe Mr. Guilder- 
aufenberg. He had been used to even greater 
quiet, in Crofield, for after all there seemed to 
be a great deal going on. 

The train they were in made frequent stops, 
and it did not seem long to Jack before Mrs. 
Guilderaufenberg and the other ladies got up 
and began to gather their parcels and satchels. 
Jack was ready when his friends led the way to 
the door. 

" I '11 be glad to get off," he thought. " I am 
afraid Aunt Melinda would say I was traveling 
on Sunday." 

The conductor threw open the car door and 
shouted, and Mr. Guilderaufenberg hurried for- 
ward exclaiming : " Come ! Dees ees our station ! " 

Jack had taken even more than his share of 
the luggage; and now his arm was once more 
grasped by Miss Hildebrand. 

" I '11 take good care of her," he said to him- 
self, as she pushed along out of the cars. " All 
I need to do is to follow the rest." 

He did not understand what she said to the 
others in German, but it was : " I '11 bring Mr. 
Ogden. He will know how to look out for him- 
self, very soon." 

She meant to see him safely to the Hotel 
Dantzic, that morning; and the next thing Jack 
knew he was going down a long flight of 
stairs, to the sidewalk, while Miss Hildebrand 
was explaining that part of the city they were 
in. Even while she was talking, and while he 
was looking in all directions, she wheeled him 
suddenly to the left and they came to a halt. 

" Hotel Dantzic," read Jack aloud, from the 
sign. " It 's a tall building; but it 's very thin." 

The ladies went into the waiting-room, while 
Jack followed Mr. Guilderaufenberg into the 

ofiice. The German was welcomed by the pro- 
prietor as if he were an old acquaintance. 

A moment afterward, Mr. Guilderaufenberg 
turned away from the desk and said to Jack : 

" My poy, I haf a room for you. Eet ees 
high oop, but eet ees goot ; und you bays only 
feefty cent a day. You bay for von veek, now. 
You puys vot you eats vere you blease in de 

The three dollars and a half paid for the 
first week made the first break in Jack's capital 
of nine dollars. 

" Any way," he thought, when he paid it, " I 
have found a place to sleep in. Money '11 go 
fast in the city, and I must look out. I '11 put 
my baggage in my room and then come down 
to breakfast." 

" You breakfast mit us dees time," said Mr. 
Guilderaufenberg, kindly. " Den you not see 
us more, maybe, till you comes to Vashington." 

Jack got his key and the number of his room 
and was making his way to the foot of a stair- 
way when a very polite man said to him : 

" This way, sir. This way to the elevator. 
Seventh floor, sir." 

Jack had heard and read of elevators, but 
it was startling to ride in one for the first time. 
It was all but full when he got in, and after it 
started, his first thought was : 

" How it 's loaded ! What if the rope should 
break ! " 

It stopped to let a man out, and started and 
stopped again and again, but it seemed only a 
few long, breathless moments before the man in 
charge of it said : " Seventh, sir ! " 

The moment Jack was in his room he ex- 
claimed : 

" Is n't this grand, though ? It 's only about 
twice as big as that stateroom on the steam- 
boat. I can feel at home here." 

It was a pleasant little room, and Jack began 
at once to make ready for breakfast. 

He was brushing his hair when he went to 
the window, and as he looked out he actually 
dropped the brush in his surprise. 

" Where 's my guide-book ? " he said. " I 
know where I am, though. That must be the 
East River. Away off" there is Long Island. 
Looks as if it was all city. Maybe that is 
Brooklyn, — I don't know. Is n't this a high 




Ogden homestead. Even the children went 
about as if they missed something or were 
Hstening for somebody they expected. 

There were nine o'clock, bells, also, in Mer- 
tonville, and there was a ring at the door-bell 
of the house of Mr. Murdoch, the editor. 

" Why, Elder Holloway ! " exclaimed Mrs. 
Murdoch, when she opened the door. " Please 
to walk in." 

"Thank you, Mrs. Murdoch, but I can't," 
he said, speaking as if hurried. " Please tell 
Miss Ogden there 's a class of sixteen girls in 
our Sunday-school, and the teacher 's gone; and 
I 've taken the liberty of promising for her that 
she '11 take charge of it." 

" I '11 call her," said Mrs. Murdoch. 

" No, no," replied the elder. " Just tell her 
it 's a nice class, and that the girls expect her 
to come, and we '11 be ever so much obliged to 
her. Good-morning! " — and he was gone. 

house ? I can look down on all the other 
roofs. Jingo ! " 

He hurried through his toilet, meanwhile tak- 
ing swift glances out of the window. When he 
went out to the elevator, he said to himself : 

"I '11 go down by the stairs some day, just 
to see how it seems. A storm would whistle 
like anything, round the top of this building ! " 

When he got down, Mr. Guilderaufenberg 
was waiting for him, and the party of ladies went 
in to breakfast, in a restaurant which occupied 
nearly all of the lower floor of the hotel. 

" I understand," said Jack, good-humoredly, 
in reply to an explanation from Miss Hilde- 
brand. " You pay for just what you order, and 
no more, and they charge high for everything 
but bread. I 'm beginning to learn something 
of city ways." 

During all that morning, anybody who knew 
Jack Ogden would have had to look at him 
twice, he had been so quiet and 
sedate ; but the old, self-confi- 
dent look gradually returned dur- 
ing breakfast. 

" Ve see you again at sup- 
per," said Mr. Guilderaufenberg, 
as they arose. " Den ve goes 
to Vashington. You valks out 
und looks about. You easy finds 
your vay back. Goot-bye till 

Jack shook hands with his 
friends, and walked out into the 

" Well, here I am ! " he thought. 
" This is the city. I 'm all alone 
in it, too, and I must find my 
own way. I can do it, though. 
I 'm glad it 's Sunday, so that I 
need n't go straight to work." 

At that moment, the nine 
o'clock bells were ringing in two 
wooden steeples in the village 
of Crofield ; but the bell of the 
third steeple was silent, down 
among the splinters of what had 
been the pulpit of its own meet- 
ing-house. The village was very still, but there " Oh, Mrs. Murdoch ! " exclaimed Mary, 
was something peculiar in the quiet in the when the elder's message was given. " I can't ! 

'if a fellow wished to go to this chltrch, how would he get in?' 

ASKED JACK." (page 786,) 



I don't know them! I suppose I ought; but 
I 'd have said no, if I had seen him." 

The elder had thought of that, perhaps, and 
had provided against any refusal by retreating. 
As he went away he said to himself: 

" She can do it, I know ; if she does, it '11 help 
me carry out my plan." 

He looked, just then, as if it were a very 
good plan, but he did not reveal it. 

Mary Ogden persuaded Mrs. Murdoch to 
take her to another church that morning, so 
that she need not meet any of her new class. 

" I hope Jack will go to church in the city," 
she said'; and her mother said the same thing to 
Aunt Melinda, over in Crofield. 

Jack could not have given any reason why 
his feet turned westward, but he went slowly 
along for several blocks, while he stared at the 
rows of buildings, at the sidewalks, at the pave- 
ments, and at everything else, great and small. 
He was actually leaving the vi^orld in which he 
had been brought up — the Crofield world — and 
taking a first stroll around in a world of quite 
another sort. He met some people on the 
streets, but not many. 

" They 're all getting ready for church," he 
thought, and his next thought was e.xpressed 
aloud : 

" Whew ! What street 's this, I wonder ? " 

He had passed row after row of fine build- 
ings, but suddenly he had turned into a wide 
avenue which seemed a street of palaces. For- 
ward he went, faster and faster, staring eagerly 
at one after another of those elegant mansions 
of stone, of marble, or of brick. 

" See here, Johnny," he suddenly heard in a 
sharp voice close to him, " what number do you 
want ? " 

" Hallo," said Jack, halting and turning. 
" What street 's this ? " 

He was looking up into the good-natured 
face of a tall man in a neat blue uniform. 

" What are you looking for ? " began the 
policeman again. But, without waiting for 
Jack's answer, he went on, " Oh, I see ! You 're 
a greeny lookin' at Fifth Avenue. Mind where 
you 're going, or you '11 run into somebody ! " 

" Is this Fifth Avenue? " Jack asked. " I wish 
I knew who owned these houses." 
V(jL. XVII.— 96. 


" You do, do you ? " laughed the man in 
blue. " Well, I can tell you some of them. 
That house belongs to — " and the policeman 
went on giving name after name, and pointing 
out the finest houses. 

Some of the names were familiar to Jack. He 
had read about these men in newspapers, and it 
was pleasant to see where they lived. 

" See that house ? " asked the policeman, point- 
ing at one of the finest residences. " Well, the 
man that owns it came to New York as poor as 
you, maybe poorer. Not quite so green, of 
course ! But you '11 soon get over that. See 
that big house yonder, on the corner ? Well, 
the cash for that was gathered by a chap who 
began as a deck-hand. Most of the big guns 
came up from nearly nothing. Now you walk 
along and look out; but mind you don't run 
over anybody." 

" Much obhged," said Jack, and as he walked 
on, he kept his eyes open, but his thoughts 
were busy with what the policeman had told 

That was the very idea he had while he was 
in Crofield. That was what had made him 
long to break away from the village and find 
his way to the city. His imagination had 
busied itself with stories of poor boys, — as 
poor and as green as he, scores of them, — born 
and brought up in country homes, who, refusing 
to stay at home and be nobodies, had become 
successful men. All the great buildings he saw 
seemed to tell the same story. Still he did say 
to himself once : 

" Some of their fathers must have been 
rich enough to give them a good start. Some 
were born rich, too. I don't care for that, 
though. I don't know as I want so big a 
house. I am going to get along somehow. 
My chances are as good as some of these fel- 
lows had." 

Just then he came to a halt, for right ahead 
of him were open grounds, and beyond were 
grass and trees. To the right and left were 

" I know what this is ! " exclaimed Jack. 
" It must be Central Park. Some day I 'm 
going there, all over it. But I '11 turn around 
now, and find a place to go to church. I 've 
passed a dozen churches on the way." 




Chapter XIII. 

When Jack turned away from the entrance 
to Central Park, he found much of the Sunday 
quiet gone. It was nearly half-past ten o'clock ; 
the sidewalks were covered with people, and the 
street resounded with the rattle of carriage- 

There was some uneasiness in the mind of the 
boy from Crofield. The policeman had im- 
pressed upon Jack the idea that he was not at 
home in the city, and that he did not seem at 
home there. He did not know one church 
from another, and part of his uneasiness was 
about how city people managed their churches. 
Perhaps they sold tickets, he thought ; or per- 
haps you paid at the door ; or possibly it did n't 
cost anything, as in Crofield. 

" I '11 ask," he decided, as he paused in front 
of what seemed to him a very imposing church. 
He stood still, for a moment, as the steady pro- 
cession passed him, part of it going by, but much 
of it turning into the church. 

"Mister — ," he said bashfully to four well- 
dressed men in quick succession; but not one of 
them paused to answer him. Two did not so 
much as look at him, and the glances given him 
by the other two made his cheeks burn — he 
hardly knew why. 

" There 's a man I '11 try," thought Jack. 
" I 'm getting mad ! " The man of whom Jack 
spoke came up the street. He seemed an un- 
likely subject. He was so straight he almost 
leaned backward ; he was rather slender than 
thin ; and was uncommonly well dressed. In 
fact. Jack said to himself: " He looks as if he 
had bought the meeting-house, and was not 
pleased with his bargain." 

Proud, even haughty, as was the manner of 
the stranger, Jack stepped boldly forward and 
again said : 

" Mister ? " 

" Well, my boy, what is it ? " 

The response came with a halt and almost a 

" If a fellow wished to go to this church, 
how would he get in ? " asked Jack. 

" Do you live in the city ? " There was a 
frown of stem inquiry on the broad forehead ; 
but the head was bending farther forward. 

" No," said Jack ; " I live in Crofield." 

" Where 's that ? " 

" Away up on the Cocahutchie River. I came 
here early this morning." 

" What 's your name ? " 

"John Ogden." 

" Come with me, John Ogden. You may 
have a seat in my pew. Come." 

Into the church and up the middle aisle Jack 
followed his leader, with a sense of awe almost 
stifling him ; then, too, he felt drowned in the 
thunderous flood of music from the organ. He 
saw the man stop, open a pew-door, step back, 
smile and bow, and then wait until the boy from 
Crofield had passed in and taken his seat. 

" He 's a gentleman ! " thought Jack, hardly 
aware that he himself had bowed low as he went 
in, and that a smile of grim approval had fol- 
lowed him. 

In the pew behind them sat another man, as 
haughty looking, but just now wearing the same 
kind of smile as he leaned forward and asked 
in an audible whisper : 

" General, who 's your friend ? " 

" Mr. John Ogden, of Crofield, away up on 
the Cookyhutchie River. I netted him at the 
door," was the reply, in the same tone. 

" Good catch ? " asked the other. 

"Just as good as I was, Judge, forty years 
ago. I '11 tell you how that was some day." 

" Decidedly raw material, I should say." 

" Well, so was I. I was no more knowing than 
he is. I remember what it is to be far away from 

The hoarse, subdued whispers ceased; the 
two gentlemen looked grim and severe again. 
Then there was a grand burst of music from the 
organ, the vast congregation stood up, and Jack 
rose with them. 

He felt solemn enough, there was no doubt 
of that; but what he said to himself uncon- 
sciously took this shape : 

" Jingo ! If this is n't the greatest going to 
church /ever did! Hear that voice ! The organ 
too — what music ! Don't I wish Molly was 
here ! I wish all the family were here ! " 

The service went on and Jack listened atten- 
tively, in spite of a strong tendency in his eyes 
to wander among the pillars to the galleries, up 
into the lofty vault above him, or around among 




the pews full of people. He knew it was a good 
sermon and that the music was good, singing 
and all — especially when the congregation 
joined in " Old Hundred " and another old 
hymn that he knew. Still he had an increasing 
sense of being a very small fellow in a very large 
place. When he raised his head, after the bene- 
diction, he saw the owner of the pew turn to- 
ward him, bow low, and hold out his hand. 
Jack shook hands, of course. 

" Good-morning, Mr. Ogden," said the gen- 
tleman gravely, with almost a frown on his face, 
but very politely, and then he turned and walked 
out of the pew. Jack also bowed as he shook 
hands, and said, " Good-morning. Thank you, 
sir. I hope you enjoyed the sermon." 

" General," said the gentleman in the pew 
behind them, " pretty good for raw material. 
Keep an eye on him." 

" No, I won't," said the general. " I 've 
spoiled four or five in that very way." 

" Well, I believe you 're right," said the 
judge, after a moment. " It 's best for that kind 
of boy to fight his own battles. I had to." 

" So did I," said the general, " and I was 
well pounded for a while." 

Jack did not hear all of the conversation, 
but he had a clear idea that they were talking 
about him ; and as he walked slowly out of the 
church, packed in among the crowd in the aisle, 
he had a very rosy face indeed. 

Jack had in mind a thought that had often 
come to him in the church at Crofield, near the 
end of the sermon : — he was conscious that it 
was dinner-time. 

Of course he thought, with a little homesick- 
ness, of the home dinner-table. 

'• I wish I could sit right down with them," 
he thought, " and tell them what Sunday is in 
the city. Then my dinner would n't cost me a 
cent there, either. No matter, I 'm here, and now 
I can begin to make more money right away. 
I have five dollars and fifty cents left, anyway." 

Then he thought of the bill of fare at the 
Hotel Dantzic, and many of the prices on it, and 
remembered Mr. Guilderaufenberg's instructions 
about going to some cheaper place for his meals. 

" I did n't tell him that I had only nine dol- 
lars," he said to himself, "but I '11 follow his 
advice. He 's a traveler." 

Jack had been too proud to explain how 
little money he had, but his German friend had 
really done well by him in making him take the 
little room at the top of the Hotel Dantzic. He 
had said to his wife : 

" Dot poy ! Veil, I see him again some day. 
He got a place to shleep, anyhow, vile he looks 
around und see de ceety. No oder poy I efer 
meets know at de same time so moch and so 

With every step from the church-door Jack 
felt hungrier, but he did not turn his steps 
toward the Hotel Dantzic. He walked on 
down to the lower part of the city, on the look- 
out for hotels and restaurants. It was not long 
before he came to a hotel, and then he passed 
another, and another; and he passed a number 
of places where the signs told him of dinners to 
be had within, but all looked too fine. 

" They 're for rich people," he said, shaking 
his head, " like the people in that church. What 
stacks of money they must have ! That organ 
maybe cost more than all the meeting-houses 
in Crofield!" 

After going a little further Jack exclaimed : 

" I don't care ! I 've just got to eat ! " 

He was getting farther and farther from the 
Hotel Dantzic, and suddenly his eyes were 
caught by a very taking sign, at the top of 
some neat steps leading down into a basement: 

" Dinner. Roast Beef. Twenty-five 

" That '11 do," said Jack eagerly. " I can 
stand that. Roast beef alone is forty cents at 
the Dantzic." 

Down he went and found himself in a wide, 
comfortable room, containing two long din- 
ing-tables, and a number of small oblong 
tables, and some round tables, all as neat as 
wax. It was a very pleasant place, and a 
great many other hungry people were there 

Jack sat down at one of the small tables, and 
a waiter came to him at once. 

" Dinner, sir ? Yessir. Roast beef, sir ? Yes- 
sir. Vegetables ? Potatoes ? Lima-beans ? Sweet 
corn ? " 

" Yes, please," said Jack. " Beef, potatoes, 
beans, and com ! " and the waiter was gone. 

It seemed to be a long time before the beef 



and vegetables came, but they were not long in 
disappearing after they were on the table. 

The waiter had other people to serve, but he 
was an attentive fellow. 

" Pie, sir ? " he said, naming five kinds with- 
out a pause. 

" Custard-pie," said Jack. 

" Coftee, sir ? Yessir," and he darted away 

" This beats the Hotel Dantzic all to pieces," 
remarked Jack, as he went on with his pie and 
coffee; but the waiter was scribbling something 
upon a slip of paper, and when it was done he 
put it down by Jack's plate. 

" Jingo ! " said Jack in a horrified tone, a mo- 
ment later. " What 's this ? 'Roast beef, 25; 
potatoes, 10; Lima-beans, 10; com, 10; bread, 
5; coffee, 10; pie, 10 : $0.80.' Eighty cents! 
Jingo ! How like smoke it does cost to hve in 
New York ! This can't be one of the cheap 
places Mr. Guilderaufenberg meant." 

Jack felt much chagrined, but he finished his 
pie and cofifee bravely. " It 's a sell," he said, 
" — but then it -ioas a good dinner ! " 

He went to the cashier with an effort to act 
as if it was an old story to him. He gave the 
cashier a dollar, received his change, and turned 
away, as the man behind the counter remarked 
to a friend at his elbow : 

" I knew it. He had the cash. His face 
was all right." 

" Clothes will fool anybody," said the other 

Jack heard it, and he looked at the men sit- 
ting at the tables. 

" They 're all wearing Sunday clothes," he 
thought, " but some are no better than mine. But 
there 's a difference. I 've noticed it all along." 

So had others, for Jack had not seen one in 
that restaurant who had on at all such a suit of 
clothes as had been made for him by the Cro- 
field tailor. 

" Four dollars and seventy cents left," said 
Jack thoughtfully, as he went up into the 
street; and then he turned to go down-town, 
without any reason for choosing that direction. 

An hour later, Mr. Guilderaufenberg and his 
wife and their friends were standing near 
the front door of the Hotel Dantzic, talking 
with the proprietor. Around them lay their 


baggage, and in front of the door was a car- 
riage. Evidently they were going away earlier 
than they had intended. 

" Dot poy ! " exclaimed the broad and bearded 
German. " He find us not here ven he come. 
You pe goot to dot poy, Mr. Keifelheimer." 

" So ! " said the hotel proprietor, and at once 
three other voices chimed in with good-bye 
messages to Jack Ogden. Mr. Keifelheimer 
responded : 

" I see to him. He will come to Vashington 
to see you. So ! " 

Then they entered the carriage, and away 
they went. 

After walking for a few blocks, Jack found 
that he did not know exactly where he was. 
But suddenly he exclaimed : 

" Why, if there is n't City Hall Square ! I 've 
come all the way down Broadway." 

He had stared at building after building for 
a time without thinking much about them, and 
then he had begun to read the signs. 

'■ I '11 come down this way again to-morrow," 
he said. " It 's good there are so many places 
to work in. I wish I knew exactly what I 
would like to do, and which of them it is best 
to go to. I know ! I can do as I did in Cro- 
field. I can try one for a while, and then, if I 
don't like it, I can try another. It is lucky 
that I know how to do 'most anything." 

The confident smile had come back. He 
had entirely recovered from the shock of his 
eighty-cent expenditure. He had not met 
many people, all the way down, and the stores 
were shut ; but for that very reason he had had 
more time to study the signs. 

" Very nearly every kind of business is done 
on Broadway," he said, " except groceries and 
hardware, — but they sell more clothing than any- 
thing else. I '11 look round everywhere before 
I settle down ; but I must look out not to spend 
too much money till I begin to make some." 

" It 's not far now," he said, a little while after, 
" to the lower end of the city and to the Battery. 
I '11 take a look at the Battery before I go back 
to the Hotel Dantzic." 

Taller and more majestic grew the buildings 
as he went on, but he was not now so dazed 
and confused as he had been in the morning. 

1890. ] 


" Here is Trinity Church, again," he said. 
"I remember about that. And that 's Wall 
Street. I '11 see that as I come back ; but now 
I '11 go right along and see the Battery. Of 
course there is n't any battery there, but Mr. 
Guilderaufenberg said that from it I could see 
the fort on Governor's Island." 

Jack did not see much of the Battery, for he 
followed the left-hand sidewalk at the Bowling 
Green, where Broadway turns into Whitehall 
Street. He had so long been staring at great 
buildings whose very height made him dizzy, 
that he was glad to see beside them some which 
looked small and old. 

" I '11 find my way without asking," he re- 
marked to himself " I 'm pretty near the end 
now. There are some gates, and one of them 
is open. I '11 walk right in behind that carriage. 
That must be the gate to the Battery." 

The place he was really looking for was at 
some distance to the right, and the carriage he 
was following so confidently had a very different 

The wide gateway was guarded by watchful 
men, not to mention two policemen, and they 
would have caught and stopped any boy who 
had knowingly tried to do what Jack did so inno- 
centiy. Their backs must have been turned, 
for the carriage passed in, and so did Jack, 
without any one's trying to stop him. He was 
as bold as a lion about it, because he did not 
know any better. A number of people were 
at the same time crowding through a nar- 
rower gateway at one side, and they may have 
distracted the attention of the gatemen. 

" I 'd just as lief go in at the wagon-gate," 
said Jack, and he did not notice that each one 
stopped and paid something before going through. 
Jack went on behind the carriage. The car- 
riage crossed what seemed to Jack a kind of 
bridge housed over. Nobody but a boy straight 
from Crofield could have gone so far as that 
without suspecting something ; but the carriage 
stopped behind a line of other vehicles, and 
Jack walked unconcernedly past them. 

" Jingo ! " he suddenly exclaimed. " What 's 
this ? I do believe the end of this street is 
moving ! " 

(To be con 


He bounded forward, much startled by a 
thing so strange and unaccountable, and in a mo- 
ment more he was looking out upon a great 
expanse of water, dotted here and there with 
canal-boats, ships, and steamers. 

" Mister," he asked excitedly of a little man 
leaning against a post, " what 's this ? " 

" Have ye missed your way and got onto the 
wrong ferry-boat ? " replied the little man glee- 
fully. " I did it once myself All right, my 
boy. You 've got to go to Staten Island this 
time. Take it coolly." 

" Ferry boat ? " said Jack. " Staten Island ? 
I thought it was the end of the street, going 
into the Battery ! " 

" Oh, you 're a greenhorn ! " laughed the little 
man. " Well, it won't hurt ye ; only there 's no 
boat back from the island, on Sunday, till after 
supper. I '11 tell ye all about it. Where 'd you 
come from ? " 

" From Crofield," said Jack, " and I got here 
only this morning." 

The little man eyed him half-suspiciously for 
a moment, and then led him to the rail of the 

" Look back there," he said. " Yonder 's the 
Battery. You ought to have kept on. It 's 
too much for me how you ever got aboard of 
this 'ere boat without knowing it ! " And he 
went on with a long string of explanations, of 
which Jack understood about half, with the 
help of what he recalled from his guide-book. 
All the while, however, they were having a sail 
across the beautiful bay, and little by little Jack 
made up his mind not to care. 

" I 've made a mistake and slipped right out 
of the city," he said to himself, " about as soon 
as I got in ! But maybe I can shp back again 
this evening." 

" About the greenest bumpkin I 've seen for 
an age," thought the little man, as he stood and 
looked at Jack. " It '11 take all sorts of blun- 
ders to teach him. He is younger than he looks, 
too. Anyway, this sail won't hurt him a bit." 

That was precisely Jack's conclusion long 
before the swift voyage ended and he walked 
off the ferry-boat upon the solid ground of 
Staten Island. 


Past the meadows, parched and brown. 
We drove across the hills to town 

To see the big parade ; 
The sunny pavements burned our feet. 
It was so noisy in the street ; 

That Tommy felt afraid . 

Through the crowds, with fife and drtrm 
And flags, we saw the soldiers come , 

And boys marched either side , 
And one big fat man rode ahead 
Who had a sword , and Billy said , 

They're captains when they ride' 

They carried f lags,red , white and blue 
I wished I was a soldier too; 

Then when the big drumbeat 
The people all would run to see , 
And little boys would stare at me 

As we marched up the street . 



By H. W. Henshaw. 

" Darn all hawks ! " I once heard a farmer's 
boy say ; and this highly objectionable but pithy 
exclamation very tersely expresses the general 
estimation in which birds of prey are held, the 
whole country over. Too often the dislike of 
the farmer-boy takes a more deadly form than 
a foolish remark, and the ever-ready gun is 
called upon as a final means of righting all as- 
sumed injuries. 

In truth, the idea that every bird with beak 
and talons is a harmful creature, to be got rid 
of at first opportunity, is a widespread one, and 
so popular, withal, that legislators are ever ready 
to pass laws, not only permitting hawks and owls 
to be slaughtered at any and all seasons of the 
year, but putting a price upon their heads. In a 
period of eighteen months, the county treasuries 
in the State of Pennsylvania paid out $100,000 
as bounties for the slaying of animals supposed 
to be harmful, of which amount, probably not 
less than $65,000 was paid for hawks and 
owls ! 

Nor need we seek far for the reasons of 
■ the feeling against birds of prey. The general 
dislike arises in large part from an utter igno- 
rance of their habits and the useful purpose 
which they serve, and more directly from a 
bad practice, indulged in by a few species, of 
preying upon the farmer's poultry-yard, or of 
attacking game-birds. Let us then glance at 
the matter as impartially as we may, giving 
credit for usefulness where credit is due, placmg 
guilt where it belongs, and then see to which 
side the balance falls. 

For present purposes, our hawks may be 
roughly divided into two classes, though the 
two grade together : large and small, or slow 
fliers and swift fliers ; for most of the big hawks 
are slow of movement, while all the small 
species are swift of wing. Singling out two of 
the largest species, which happen to be very 
numerous in the eastern United States, we find 

them to be the Red-tailed Hawk (Fig. i, page 
794) and the Red-shouldered Hawk (Fig. 2). 
Though, at a distance, it may trouble you to 
tell one from the other, their larger size generally 
distinguishes them from other kinds, whether 
they be sitting motionless in a dead stub, or 
saiHng in wide circles high in air. 

These especially are known as the " hen 
hawks," by the farmer, and they are considered 
to be fair game for all, to be shot, trapped, or 
poisoned whenever seen, for the good of the 
farm. As a matter of fact, are these hawks 
poultry-thieves, deserving their bad name ? 
The answer is, no. The food of the two species 
has been most carefully studied, numerous speci- 
mens of these two kinds being among the more 
than a thousand hawks and owls which have 
been examined by the Agricultural Department 
at Washington. It would teach a farmer some- 
thing to note how rarely in the food of the hun- 
dreds examined has any trace of poultry, or 
indeed of any bird, been found. 

Naturalists who have noted how frequently 
these ha,wks are found near the edges of small 
ponds and streams and about meadows, are not 
surprised to learn that, in the spring, frogs and 
snakes constitute the chief part of their fare, 
and that at other times the meadow-mouse 
(Atvkola) is their usual food. Others, how- 
ever, who have never paid any special attention 
to their habits, will probably be surprised to 
hear this. 

Certainly no one will begrudge the hawks 
all the frogs they choose to catch ; and while 
snakes are far from useless, they are not favorites 
with the people, and the thinning out of their 
number by these hawks will not be at all re- 
gretted. As for meadow-mice and such vermin, 
they are destructive, and though small, yet so 
rapidly do they increase, and so great are their 
numbers, that they do the crops very consider- 
able injury — injury which would be a thousand- 




fold greater were it not for the services of these 
hawks. The mice destroy much grass in sum- 
mer, and in winter they injure large numbers 
(sometimes hundreds in a night) of young fruit- 
trees. Tunneling beneath the snow, they girdle 
the bark under its cover, so that there is no visi- 
ble sign of their work until the snow melts. No 
doubt both these hawks do some damage to 
poultry, and doubtless both species snatch an 
occasional rabbit or partridge, but so heavy of 
wing and clumsy are they, that such acts are 
but rare happenings in their hves. Admitting 
the worst that can be said against them, how- 
ever, the occasional mischief they do in this way 
is made up for, many times over, by their con- 
stant warfare against rats, mice, and similar 

It is said that when a tiger once tastes human 
blood, he ever after prefers it to all other food. 
It is doubtless much the same with a hawk, 
whether of the species we are now considering 
or of others to be mentioned. A poultry-yard 
being once visited, and a taste of chicken se- 
cured, the visit is very sure to be repeated. 
Under such circumstances, surely, the farmer is 
justified in acting as judge, jury, and executioner 
of the wrong-doer; but, it is to be added, he is 
hardly justified in declaring war against the 
whole hawk tribe, and in destroying the inno- 
cent and guilty alike. 

The Rough-legged Hawk (Fig. 3, page 794) is 
another large species, a little larger than either 
of the others, and even heavier on the wing. 
Breeding further north, it visits New England 
and the Middle States chiefly in fall and winter. 
Doubtless he is often mistaken for his cousins, and 
called a " hen hawk." At all events, he is usually 
. shot on sight; if for no other reason, then because 
of his fierce looks. And truly, with his heavy 
hooked bill and cruel-looking claws, he would 
seem to be dangerous enough to the poultry. 
Yet, notwithstanding his size and strength, he, 
too, is equipped for no more daring raid than 
an attack on a defenseless frog or snake, or the 
slaying of meadow-mice. Of the last this hawk 
consumes a great number, — probably all but a 
twentieth of his food consists of them, — while he 
rarely touches poultry or birds at all. 

Very different in appearance and habits from 
the above species is the goshawk (Fig. 4) or, as 

he is ominously styled in northern New England, 
the " blue hen-hawk." Of rather slender build, 
when full-grown, a hawk of this sort measures 
from twenty to twenty-four inches in length. It 
is bluish slate-color above ; below, white, crossed 
with many zigzag slate-colored lines. Though 
more numerous in the mountains of the far West 
and in the British possessions, the goshawk is 
not uncommon in our northernmost States in 
fall and winter, and occasionally even builds its 
nests in that region. It is a bird that loves the 
woods, and is oftener met in the shade of the 
dense pine and spruce woods than any other 
hawk. For strength and bravery, this hawk is 
not surpassed by any bird of prey. 

It feeds upon ducks, pigeons, hares, grouse, 
and poultry. It is the type of a true hunting- 
falcon, flying rapidly a few feet above the ground, 
and descending with a swift rush on the luckless 
prey detected by its sharp eyes. It is daring 
to rashness, and unlucky is the farmer whose 
poultry-yard becomes familiar ground to one of 
these hawks. Almost before the frightened fowls 
have had time to sound the alarm, it has selected 
and seized its victim, and is away more quickly 
than the gun can be snatched from its corner. 

Audubon once saw one of these falcons rush 
upon a flock of the birds called grackles as they 
were crossing the Ohio River. The birds in 
their fright collected into a compact mass, the 
hawk dashed among them, and, seizing first one 
and then another, killed five before the flock 
could escape to the woods on the further bank. 

A closely related European species was one 
of the falconers' favorites in the old days, and 
was used in hunting hares, pheasants, partridges, 
teal, doves, and crows. Doubtless our own gos- 
hawk could readily be trained to hunt game, 
but of course the falconers' days are practically 
over, though it is said a few falcons are still 
trained in England. 

The American Peregrine Falcon or Duck 
Hawk (Fig. 5) is another notable species, though 
one in which the farmer takes less interest, both 
because it is a rather uncommon bird, and be- 
cause it is found chiefly on the seashore and the 
banks of rivers. 

Like the goshawk, the duck hawk is dark 
blue above, while the white underparts are 
barred and streaked with black. It is more 



Vol. XVII.— 97. 







compactly built than the goshawk, and is 
smaller, being only about seventeen inches 
long. Unlike most other hawks, it rarely or 
never builds in trees, but places its nest on 

lonely and inacces- 
sible ledges in the 
mountains or on 
cliffs by the sea. 

Though smaller 
than the preceding, 
the duck-hawk is in 
no wise inferior to 
it in prowess and 
strength of wing. 
It attacks any bird 
that is not larger 
than a mallard 
duck. It has been 
known even to kill 
and eat the sparrow- 
hawk. Its favorite 
food, nevertheless, 
seems to be water- 
and I have more than once seen it in pur- 


fowl ; 

suit of them far out at sea — a flight of fifty or 

even a hundred miles being but pastime to 
this fierce wanderer. It often proves its bar- 
barity by killing more than it needs for food, 
apparently just for the pleasure of the hunt. 
Confident of its power of flight, the duck-hawk 
makes no attempt to conceal itself, but boldly 
starting the game, pursues it until it closes with 
its victim and bears it struggling to the ground. 

While out one day on a little stream near 
I'ucson, Arizona, I heard a loud quacking, and 
presently I saw a mallard duck coming to- 
ward me at a tremendous pace, hotly pursued 
by a duck-hawk. Though pressing forward for 
dear life, the duck's outcries told of its distress, 
and it evidently felt that escape was impossible. 
The greater danger blinded it to the lesser, — 
or was it sagacity that prompted it to fly straight 
to me ? At all events, its trust in man saved 
its life ; for when the hawk had come almost 
within gunshot, the fear of man overcame ap- 
petite, and it gave up the chase in disgust, while 
the duck sought safer quarters. 

The gunners know this hawk w ell, and many 
a duck that the hunter has laid low falls to the 
share of this robber of the air. The European 

The pictures of hawks in this article are from " The Birds of North America," and are used by kind 
permission of Mr. Robert Ridgway, one of the authors of that work. 




peregrine, which ours much resembles, formerly 
played an important part in falconry, and became 
the pet of kings and nobles, and it was the fe- 


male of this species that was called the " gentil" 
or " gentle falcon." Herons were the principal 
game hunted with this bird, and he who knew 
not " a hawk from a hernshaw," as Hamlet 
says, was regarded as ignorant indeed. The 
favorite time for the sport was when the herons 
were passing from the heronry to the ponds after 
food, or upon their return in the evening, espe- 
cially if the herons had to fly against the wind. 

When a couple of hawks were flown at a 
heron, the latter at once threw out any food he 
happened to have, " to lighten ballast " as a 
sailor would say, and endeavored to mount in 
air so as to give the hawks no chance to strike 
him from above ; and thus all three ascended in 
a series of spirals. When one of the falcons 
reached an advantageous point above, he im- 
mediately endeavored to close with the heron, 
and if he missed, the other took a turn. When 
one of them finally seized the heron, his com- 
panion " bound " to him, as it was termed, and 
the three descended lightly to the ground, the 
hawks breaking the fall with outstretched wings. 

In days past, this falcon was carefully protected 
by man for his sport, and severe penalties were 
visited upon any one who molested or destroyed 
it. We live now, however, in more prosaic days ; 
and, noble bird though it be, few claims to mercy 
can be urged in favor of the peregrine falcon. 
Its food consists largely of useful birds, and as its 
talons are against every creature it can master, 
so must the hand of man be raised against it. 

Fig. 6. — The Broad-winged Hawk, though 
smaller than most of the foregoing, is still a 
large bird, an old male hawk measuring some- 
where from thirteen to fifteen inches from tip 
of bill to end of tail, while the female measures 

from sixteen to eighteen inches. It may be said 
that as a rule among birds of prey, the female 
is always considerably the larger. As their 
strength is according to size, it is supposed that 
its larger size enables the female to provide bet- 
ter for her family ; though the male, however, lends 
his best assistance. Now as to their food. Most 
people will admit that our Broad-wing has a just 
claim upon gratitude, when they know that its 
chosen bill-of-fare includes snakes, toads, and 
frogs, but not many mice, and very few birds of 
any sort. It is, moreover, very fond of the larvae 
(or caterpillars) of the big night-flying moths. 

Fig. 7. — The Marsh Hawk, also, has a broad 
expanse of wing, and is, perhaps, from its pecul- 
iar habits, much easier to know than any of 
our large hawks. His long tail and slim body 
with its white rump, and his habit of " beating " 
lightly, but not swiftly, over meadows and fields, 
just above the tops of the grass, cause him to 
be readily recognized. He sometimes trespasses 
by snatching a sparrow or lark, but the food he 
prefers, and that upon which he chiefly lives, 
is mice, ground squirrels, and such little gnaw- 
ers. No impudent raider of the hennery is he, 
but a living mouse-trap, and so carefully does he 
quarter and beat over his hunting-ground that 
he is called the 
"marsh harrier." 
His family con- 
nections, how- 
ever, give him 
a bad name, his 
good deeds are 
forgotten, and 
many a harrier 
thus falls victim 
to the ignorant 
crusade againstf? 
the whole hawk 
tribe, or to the 
of the sportsman 
to whom a wing 
shot is a tempta- 
tion not to be re- 
sisted. F'G. 6. BROAD-WINGED HAWK. 

There are many other large hawks scattered 
over the United States, but the above are the 
ones oftenest found in the eastern section of our 





country. As will be seen, they are, with two ex- 
ceptions, really useful to farmers, feeding upon 
creatures that for the most part are certainly use- 
less and injurious to man, while the harm they 
do the poultry and game is so slight as to 
scarcely weigh in the balance against them. 
The two injurious species, besides being un- 
common, may readily be known from the others. 
Passing now to what we may call the small 
hawks, let us glance at the two most important, 


— important by reason of size and misdeeds : 
the Cooper's and Sharp-shinned Hawks. 

Fig. 8. — The old male Cooper's Hawk is 

from 14 to 17 inches long; the female i8 
to 20 inches. Fig. 9. — The male Sharp- 
shinned Hawk, a miniature of the last-named, 
measures from 10 to ii}4 inches, while the 
female measures 12I/2 to 14 inches. Size, 
however, does not count for much in the 
matter of hawk effectiveness, and the two 
rascals now on trial before us, though small, 
are remarkable for speed and impudence. 
Woe betide the flock of small birds that 
attracts the attention of one of these winged 
bullets ! Possessing speed and courage in 
the highest degree, they search along hedge- 
rows and copses, pass in graceful flight 
among the orchard trees, and follow their 
winding paths through tangled brush and 
vine, with the hope 
of surprising some 
luckless sparrow, 
dove, or quail. The 
terrified bird tries 
to fly, or, better, to 
dodge into some 
riendly brush pile or 
thorny patch. The 
hawk instantly pursues ; 
and fortunate indeed 
is the fugitive he has 
once started if it escape 
the clutch of his sharp 
talons. Well have both 
these rascals earned the 
name " chicken hawk," 
for both of them 
are true hardened 
thieves of the 
barn-yard, and do 

not hesitate to snatch a pullet from under 
the very nose of the irate farmer — and 
even to return in the afternoon of the same 
day to repeat the robbery. 

Little can be said in their favor, but so 

sudden are their attacks and so rapid their 

flight, either in charge or retreat, that only 

now and then do they come to grief, while 

their sins are visited on their larger, more 

honest, and more stupid relatives. 

I am sure that hawks enjoy bullying weaker 

birds, and that not infrequently they chase them 

about, so as to enjoy their fright and discomfit- 





ure, when they do not mean to prey upon them. 
I have seen a Cooper's hawk pursue a raven, 
and evidently consider the chase a huge joke, 
and I have seen 
other hawks en- 
joying the same 
sort of fun. 

Fig. lo. — The 
Pigeon Hawk, so 
called from its size 
and bluish color, 
makes a fit com- 
rade of the other 
two. Though no 
less destructive to 
bird-life, since it 
is smaller it must 
necessarily prey 
upon smaller 
birds ; and the 
poultry-yards are 
usually free from 
its visits unless, 
indeed, a yard 
contains young 
chickens. It is a beautiful hawk, but its pres- 
ence in a neighborhood is a constant danger to 
everything it dares to attack. 

Fig. II. — The Sparrow Hawk, our smallest 
hawk and the most abundant of its tribe, is cer- 
tainly a very ^•aluable ally to the farmer. When 
it can obtain them, grasshoppers are its favorite 
food, and it rarely eats anything else. When 
these are not to be had, it captures mice and 
small birds, many more of the former than of the 
latter. The destruction of grasshoppers means 
little in the East, but in the far West, in the 
regions of the grasshopper plague, it means much ; 
and the number of the winged pests destroyed 
by the sparrow hawk is not easily reckoned. 

Notwithstanding this fact, the State of Colo- 
rado passed a law, a few years ago, offering a 
bounty on hawks, owls, and various animals, 
and vast numbers of sparrow and other hawks 
were sacrificed and paid for by the State, because 
the hawks of other species were supposed to be 
guilty of stealing poultry. The sparrow hawk 



when captured young is readily tamed, and 
makes a gentle and interesting pet, perching 
upon the hand, readily recognizing its friends, 
and becoming quite friendly. 

The West contains another hawk, of large 
size, the Swainson's Hawk, which also appears 
to live entirely upon grasshoppers in their season. 
It seems remarkable that birds of such power- 
ful build and provided with such talons should 
be fitted out so formidably for the destruction of 
a humble insect prey ! 

The time may come when some of the West- 
ern States will be glad to buy back the aid of 
these winged friends of the farmer at twice the 
price now paid for their destruction. 

For the sake of its curious food, I will call at- 
tention to the remarkable Everglade Kite of 
Florida. It feeds almost entirely upon a kind 
of large snail. The talons of this kite are long, 
and curved just enough to enable it to grasp the 
globular shell, while the long, abruptly hooked 
mandible is admirably fitted to e.xtract the con- 
tents. Wonderfully sharp eyes these hawks 
must have, for I never was able to find one of 
these mollusks alive in the Everglade marshes, 
yet the hawks have 
no trouble to find all 
they want, judging 
from the number of 
empty shells. 

The Swallow- 
tailed Kite, perhaps 
the most graceful of 
all our hawks, is also 
a bird of sunny skies. 
It feeds very largely 
upon snakes, and 
when it has seized 
one it mounts high 
in air, and then, as it 
floats in graceful 
circles, it leisurely 
devours its prey. 
This hawk is very 
fond of wasps' 
larvje, and it adroitly dives under the palmetto 
leaves and picks off the wasps' nests. 





J A C K - 1 X - T H E - P U LP I T. 

Bless me ! Vacation days are here again ! and 
so are hosts and hosts of city youngsters, all 
ready for a summer in the country ! 

Well, I wish you joy, one and all, and every- 
body, — city folk who go to the woods, fields, and 
seashores, and country folk who seek the sights 
of the town, and charms of bricks and mortar. 
And I specially wish joy to all city young folks 
who do what they can toward helping along the 
"fresh-air funds" devoted to giving the poor chil- 
dren of big cities a breath of pure country air 
and some of the sweet delights of country life. 

Who '11 do it ? Yes, all speak at once, if you 
wish. It is n't one bit impolite to do so on such 
occasions as this, the dear Little Schoolma'ara tells 


My birds are beginning to watch the bicyclers, 
and bicyclers I think must have been taking special 
notice of the birds. At least I have heard hints 
that small sails or wings may be attached to spry 
three-wheelers and the speed increased thereby — 
while their riders' labors are much lessened. 

Sails have been tried by a very few cyclers in 
England. Who will try them here, boys ? Be su^-e 
to have your masts strong and very light ; be care- 
ful in the handling ; and don't frighten the horses ! 


A COOL and refreshing variety of the Eiffel 
Tower may yet be standing near St. Petersburg, in 
Russia, unless the warm weather has melted it 
away. At all events, it was standing there in 
March last, on the banks of the river Neva. — a 
beautiful structure built of thousands of blocks of 
ice, towering at least one hundred and fifty feet 
into the air. 

It had restaurants, too, and observation plat- 

forms ; and I am told that the Russians, little and 
big, seemed to enjoy it very much. 

If it weie possible for an enterprising American 
to bring this fine Eift'el Tower over here as success- 
fully as the Obelisk was brought over, what a de- 
lightful summer resort it would make ! 

Now you shall hear Lottie's account, drawn from 
Me, of 


Port Monmouth, N. J. 
Dear J.ack : I live on a farm ; something quiie inter- 
esting happened here about three weeks ago, so I want 
to tell you about it. One day my father was walking in 
the melon patch, when lie saw a snake, about seventeen 
inches long, trying to swallow a toad. Now \^■e do not like 
snakes, but toads are very useful in destroying insects. 
Father stepped on the snake's neck, and the toad, escaping 
from the suddenly opened nioutli, hopped away. Father 
then killed the snake. The next day lie went out again 
and not seeing the snake at once, looked around for it. 
He soon saw about three inches of tail sticking up from 
the earth; he pulled it and out came the rest of the snake. 
It was " standing on its head," being buried head down- 
ward in a perpendicular hole fourteen inches down. There 
were a quantity of red beetles inside and around the skin, a 
good deal of the flesh having been eaten. Father thought 
that the beetles pushed their way down and let the snake 
drop after. The snake was what is called a ''garter" 
snake. I do not know the name of the beetle ; perhaps 
you do ; it is large and of a bright red color. 

Your interested reader 

Lottie E. AV . 

stop thief! 

My birds have brought in a startling story of 
last summer, calculated to alarm all lovers of good 
order. It is a true story, the particulars of which 
maybe of interest to you all. 

It appears, according to V. 1. A, who sends you 
the account, that in the city of Brooklyn, N. Y., 
live two brothers who have been much interested 
in bee-culture. For some years they have had hives 
of fine Italian bees, which they have kept upon the 
roof of their house; and from them they have for 
several seasons taken as much as sixty pounds of 
honey at a time. There were three hives, set one 
above another, containing, early in September, 
about fifty pounds of honey in the comb. 

It became needful to make some repairs upon 
the roof or the chimney, and workmen were busily 
engaged therewith, when all at once the bees came 
in swarms, dashed at them right and left, buzzing 
and stinging furiously. 

The men struck them down and fought them off 
as well as they could, and finally threw hot water 
upon them, destroying a great number. The own- 
ers hoped that when the commotion had subsided 
the few that were left would return to the hives ; 
hence they carefully avoided going to the roof, 
trusting that the bees would become quiet and re- 
sume work. 

The next day was warm and beautiful. As the 
sun's rays suffused the atmosphere, such numbers 
of bees settled down upon the house that it was 
dangerous to go in or out of the doors, and the 
wintious had to be closed to shut out the noise of 



their humming. They were insects of larger size 
than the Itahan bees, and for some days they held 
the fort ; postman, iceman, milkman, paper-car- 
rier, and grocer yielding the premises to their pos- 
session. A number of persons were stung by 
them, and it was with great relief that the beleag- 
ured household saw them depart, thus raising the 
blockade. The young men waited for two whole 
days to be assured that all was " quiet along the 
Potomac," and then went softly up to the roof 
to find that the robber-bees had carried off every 
scrap of honey, comb and all ! Not a particle was 
left of what had been fairly estimated to be between 
forty and fifty pounds. 

It was thought that in the first tumult, the queen 
bees, probably alarmed at the unusual noise of the 
hammering, had left the hives, and had possibly 
been among the slain in the hot-water conflict. 
This had bewildered the swarms and completely 
broken them up. But how the robber-bees came 
to know of the fray, and where they came from, 
and whither they carried honey and wax, as well 
as how they did it in so short a time, are ques- 
tions as yet unanswered. That they could carry 
off in a few dajs what those workers had been 
three or four months in collecting seems marvel- 
ous. It is true that they may have devoured some 
of it, but if it was for food alone that it was seized, 
the wa.K would have been left behind. 

It is easy to cry " Stop thief! " But how can such 
thieves as these be stopped ? 


Your Jack is glad that, following up his sugges- 
tion, many of you are reading the Life of Audubon, 
the great naturalist. So far the best letters have 
come from A. Simpson, W. Cutler, and R. P. Kent. 


On one sole eve of the bright, long year. 

There is trouble in Fairyland ; 
There is dread, and wonder, and elfin fear 

At something they never can understand. 

For "why? " says the Queen, 

And "why?" say the elves. 

And " what does it mean ? " 

They ask of themselves. 

" We 'd like to know why. 

On the Fourth of July, 
These mortals should make such commotion ? 
Rattle and flash ! Fountains of fire 
Play low, play round, play higher and higher; ■ 

Now, what it 's about, 

This terrible rout. 
We have n't the ghost of a notion." 

Poor little fairy-folk, dear little sprites ! 
What can you know of wrongs and of rights. 
Battles and victories, birth of a nation ? 
Heed not these jubilant echoes of fights ; — 
Dance and rejoice in your lightsome creation. 

M. M. D. 


pijrVyagiMiiii i "^^ III' i i ] i ' i^ ' w ii 



By Laura E. Richards. 

Three little birds 
Sat upon a tree. 
The first said " Chirrup ! " 
The second said " Chee ! " 
The third said nothing 
(The middle one was he), 
But sat there a-blinking, 
Because he was a-thinking. 
" Pee-wit ! pee-wit ! Yes, that is it ! 
Pee-wip, pee-wop, pee-wee ! " 

Three little birds 

Sat upon a bough. 

The first said, " When is dinner-time ? ' 

The second said " Now ! " 

The third said nothinsr 

(The middle one was he), 
But sat there a-blinking, 
Because he was a-thinking, 
" Pee-wit ! pee-wit ! Yes, that is it ! 
Pee-wip, pee-wop, pee-wee ! " 

Two little birds 
Flew down to the ground. 
And soon, by working very hard, 
A fine fat worm they found. 
The third flew down between them 
(The middle one was he). 
And ate it up like winking, 
Because he had been thinking. 
" Pee-wit ! pee-wit ! Yes, that is it ! 
Pee-wip, pee-wop, pee-wee ! " 


By H. H. Ewing. 

Elsie Burton was going to give a party, and 
there had been little else thought about by the 
children on the block for several days. Almost 
all of the families on this particular block, in 
this pleasant Southern town, are friends ; and as 
there are twenty children, counting all in the 
different houses, they form a little set among 

They have many pleasant times together : 
picnics in the spring, nutting parties in the 
autumn, and coasting in the winter on the rare 
occasions when there is snow enough. 

It was June, and no one had yet left town, 
and Elsie was going to give a party. Now, of 
course, all of these twenty children could not be 
invited. Many of them were too young, and in 
some families there were too many ; so the line 
had to be drawn, and the great question was 
" Where ? " Who would be asked, and who 
would be left out ? Now Hugh is a third 
child, and is a sturdy, heedless, honest fellow of 
seven. But Mrs. Burton very properly thought 
two from that family was enough, and so, — oh, 
sad to tell ! — Hugh was not invited. 

For the few intervening days, it was funny to 
watch him. 

He seemed unable to believe that the fates 
were going to be so cruel to him. He seemed 
to feel that, at the last moment, some way would 
be opened to him, that something would surely 
turn up. What amount of " hinting " went on 
to the little Burton boy during these days, I do 
not know and dare not conjecture ; but nothing 
was accomplished up to the afternoon of the 

When his sister and brother went upstairs to 
dress for the party, Hugh went too, and soon 
came down magnificent in his best clothes and 
new cravat. " But, you know, my darling," I 
said, " you cannot go. You have no invitation." 
Then began a scene of agony. Hugh took his 
seat on the front steps, and indulged -without 
restraint in the luxury of deepest woe. 

Vol. XVir.— q8. 8oi 

After his sister and brother went off looking 
very happy, and perhaps just a litrie triumphant, 
his cup seemed full ; but as, one after another, 
the fortunate children who had been invited 
came out from their homes, and walked up to 
the house at the comer, which was brightly 
lighted, and from which came the sound of 
music, his wretchedness seemed too great to be 
borne. He buried his face in his hands, and 
groaned aloud, only to raise his head every 
now and then to look ruefully at some festive 
little figure as it passed. 

" Now, there goes Paul James ! He 's no 
older than I am, he told me so yesterday ; and 
there goes Eustis Turner ! Just look at him ! 
Mother, you know he is a year younger than 
I am!" 

It was useless to explain that those children 
were the oldest in their households, and that he 
was unfortunate in being the third in his own. 
Still came the wail, " I think I ought to have 
been invited." His father and a friend who 
had come in to take tea with us, tried to laugh 
him out of his misery ; but it was of no use, his 
grief was too deep for ridicule to touch. 

My sympathies had become warmly excited 
for the Httle fellow, but I could do nothing to 
help him. It was one of those sad cases where 
the little heart must bear its own bitterness. 

When we went to tea, Hugh, who had eaten 
his bread-and-milk some time before, was still 
sitting on the front steps " deject and wretched." 
After a while it occurred to me that if he came 
into the room where we were, and got out of 
sight of the house at the corner, and had some 
tea with us, particularly as there was an ice 
(and there are few childish griefs that ice-cream 
will not cure), perhaps his spirits might revive a 
httle. So I sent the maid to tell him to come 

After being absent some little time, she re- 
turned to say that, not finding him on the steps, 
she had been looking for him, and had at last 



discovered him at the party ; and she added that 
Mrs. Burton said : " Please do not make him come 
home, for I believe it would break his heart." 

So I waited, wondering how it had come to 
pass. After a while they all came back, May and 
Ralph, the two older ones, very mortified and 
indignant, and Hugh very quiet, but with a 
gleam of satisfaction in his eye. It seems that 
after we went in to tea, his misery became very 
great, and he thought he would walk up to the 
house and look in. So he did, and to get a 
better view he climbed upon the fence and sat 
perched in that mysterious wav known only to 

boys of his age on the top of a spiked iron 

There he had a full view of the entrancing 
interior : of the lights, the dancing, the pretty 
little girls (Hugh is very gallant), and the happy 
boys. The sight was too much, and he broke 
forth into wails so loud and long that they were 
audible even above the music : " Oh, I want to 
come in so bad ! — I want to come in so bad ! " 
Mrs. Burton heard him ; her heart was touched; 
and, going out, she brought this despairing one 
into the delights of Paradise. 

And so Hugh went to the party. 


By Rose Mueller Sprague. 

The sketch shows three gowns, for young 
girls, from six to sixteen years of age. 

In the costume of the eldest young girl, a 
dress intended for evening wear, " bengahne " 
of the shade called " salmon-pink " will do well 
for the main part of the gown; and the same 
material should be used for the sleeves, over- 
dress, and under-dress, and back of the bodice, 
as well as for the full front which is tucked 
in under the broad, crinkled belt of " cigare " 
brown velvet. The belt finishes at the under 
arm-seam. The over-dress is cut at the hem 
into large, irregular points, and the edges of the 
hem and the sides, partly, are trimmed with nar- 
row velvet ribbon of the same shade as belt. 
Deep " Pointe Gene " lace is set on the hem of 
the under-skirt. The soft frill and puff which 
finish the neck and sleeves are of " salmon- 
pink " silk mousseline. 

A pair of bronze slippers will tastefully com- 
plete the toilette. 

For the " outing " costume worn by the girl 
of twelve — French twill ilannel is an excellent 

material — use dark blue for the body of jacket, 
the sleeves, cuffs, and collar; white for the little 
shirt (fastening with tiny pearl buttons), and 
large, dark, blue-and-white plaid for the skirt. 
The jacket may be trimmed, as indicated in the 
sketch, with blue military braid. The buttons 
are covered with the dark -blue flannel. A dark- 
blue sailor hat, either of the flannel or of straw, 
may be worn with this dress. 

The child's frock and entire costume is to be 
made of white pique, trimmed, somewhat as 
shown, with white cotton braid. The buttons, 
of two sizes, are covered -with the white pique. 
The little white vest is braided with the braid 
laid on in arabesques. The hat is of white 
straw, surmounted with becoming flowers, as 
bachelor's buttons, or poppies, whichever are 
most becoming to the child. 

This costume could, of course, be made of 
any light, plain flannels, substituting silk braid 
for cotton, and pearl or tailor-made buttons, of 
the same shade as the gown, for those covered 
with the pique. 





- - 








^ r 



"ITose Mnellei- -SfriMgug 


Contributors are respectfully informed that, between the ist of June and the 15th of September, manuscripts can 

not conveniently be examined at the office of the St. Nicholas. Consequently, those who desire to favor the 

magazine with contributions will please postpone sending their MSS. until after the last-named date. 

Mrs. Pennell, author of " Cycling " published in this 
number, writes that Major Knox-Holmes and his grand- 
daughter, whose pictures are given in one of the illus- 
trations, are " the oldest and the youngest cyclists in 
England." She also says that the little girl rode over 
200 miles between the first of January and the first of 

March, 1890. 

My Dear St. Nicholas : I am a little American 
girl, born in Florence, Italy. I am eleven years old, and 
Iiave never seen America. 

As the other day I read in your last number (for 
March) of a doll, I would like to tell you about one 
which we have, and who is eighty years old. She was 
bought abroad, in a tow'n in Germany; she was given to 
my grandmother" in iSlo by a captain of a ship, a friend of 
my great-grandfather ; she was dressed in pink satin, and 
she was called then " Clementina Mortimer Montmo- 
rency." When my mother had her, she was naturally 
rather old ; then she had a rather hard life from my uncle, 
who buried her alive and also put her in a cistern ; and my 
mother's uncle cut her nose off. My own uncle also gave 
her a new name, " Lignum Vitas," and she has always 
been called " Lig," I must tell you that she is of wood. 

I am, your affectionate reader, 

Jaqueli.xe Mary C . 

San Antonio, Te.xas. 
Dear St. Nicholas : I have been wanting to write 
to you a long time. I live on a ranch, five miles from 
San Antonio. I like the St. Nicholas so much. I 
went to the window the other day, and saw a big lobo wolf 
in our little pasture ; it had killed our little pig. Papa 
shot at it, but it ran away. There are a great many rat- 
tlesnakes out here. One day I found one under tlie gal- 
lery. Papa killed it with a hoe. When a rattlesnake 
rattles it is very mad, and it sounds something like a 
cricket ; but the sound makes you feel very different. 
I am nine years old. Mary V . 

Melbourne, Victoria, Australia. 
Dear St. Nicholas : Seeing very few letters from 
this part of the world, I thought some of your readers 
might like to know a little about the Australian bush, 
and the doings there. Last Christmas I went for my 
holidays a few hundred miles north of Melbourne, right 
into the bush. Leaving home at six in the morning, we 
tra\'eled by train for six hours and reached Wangaratta. 
Then we jumped into a large open buggy, and set out on 
a forty-mile drive. For fifteen miles the road lay flat 
and dreary, very hot, with a red dust flying up, and every 
now and then turning into little whirlwinds that lost 
themselves in the sky. Then we came to a township, 
consisting of three houses and a rnde hotel. A few stray 
animals were strolling about, but that was all. After pass- 
ing that, the road became prettier. On each side were 

large paddocks, inclosed with post-and-rail fences and 
filled with gum-trees ; most of the trees were dead, hav- 
ing been ringed to make the grass grow for the cattle, for 
the Australian farmers are great traders in sheep and 
cattle. In a number of fields there were tobacco crops, 
with Chinamen dotted about here and there hoeing, and 
generally near by you saw a Chinaman's hut. Perhaps 
some of your correspondents do not know what a bark 
hut is like. It is very small and brown, and very rustic. 
The walls are low, being made of slabs of stringy bark, 
and the roof is generally gable-shaped, made of bark, 
kept down by two poles fixed across each side. Some- 
times the roof is thatched. 

As we neared our destination, blue hills became visible. 
The road now wound in and out among the wattles and 
gum-trees very prettily, and as we drove on we reached 
the hilly country. Our road was now cut out on the hill- 
sides, and very pretty it was, looking from the high 
buggy into depths below us, seeing little winding creeks 
edged with fern and scrub, tall reeds standing gracefully 
out of the water, and rabbits and hares scuttling at the 
sound of our horses. Above us sloped the hill, thick with 
gum-trees and birds — parrots, magpies, groundlarks, 
plover, and cranes. Those are the most common Austra- 
lian birds. At half-past six we reached our destination : 
a little homestead built on a plain stretch of ground and 
surrounded with hills. There we staid five weeks. 
Mountains and hills met our gaze everywhere. We rode 
a great deal, and one day were taken to visit a turquoise 
reef, which was very interesting. We saw only two kan- 
garoos. They are very graceful creatures, hopping away 
at the slightest sound; but when once their anger is 
aroused, they become dangerous. Snakes are the animals 
most to be dreaded. They even visit the houses, spend a 
night there, and leave a track behind them. We always 
had to search our beds before going to sleep ; and all 
through the night you would hear tlie low, melancholy 
wail of the curlew. If any of your correspondents should 
visit Victoria, I should advise them to spend a month 
among the "Australian -Alps." Edith A . 

Philadelphia, Pa. 

Dear St. Nicholas: My little girl and I are very 
anxious to express to you how dearly we love to read 
your bright, charming stories. She is very much inter- 
ested in" Lady Jane," and quite impatient to hear of 
her fate. 

She has a heron for a pet also, but hers is white. It 
is very tame, and we call it " Suds," from the resemblance 
of its fluffy white wings to soap-suds. 

With many thanks from myself for the good you have 
done my little daughter, we remain. 

Papa and his Little Daughter. 

West Haven, Conn. 

Dear St. Nicholas: I recognize in the base-ball series 
some pictures of the Yale athletic grounds and building. 
I was in the Elm City Military School for two years, and 
this school was in sight of the Yale grounds. 

Those of your readers who visit New Haven to-day. 



will find that the " old fence " around the college campus 
has been removed. 

I saw a professor at Yale take a specimen of meat 
broth, which had been kept for many months, and which 
was perfectly preserved. He took a needle-point and 
dipped it in some spoiled broth and shook off all adher- 
ing drops, and put the needle into the good broth, and 
then he put away the needle. He then, after corking it 
let the good broth stand for seven days, and at the end 
of that time he opened the brotli, and it was just as bad 
as the old specimen. If your readers (those who have 
tried the experiments mentioned in the piece about bac- 
teria, — in the February number) will try this experi- 
ment, I think they will get the same results, although I 
have been told that this experiment sometimes fails. 

I am an old reader. Have taken .St. Nicholas for 
twelve years. From the time I first knew the magazine 
I wished to take it, but I could not do so until 187S. I 
am a member of Nathan Hale Camp, " Sons of Veterans," 
of New Haven, Conn., also a member of the Conn. 
Society '' Sons of the Revolution." I am so busy that I 
have scarcely time to read you through. Hoping that 
this is not too long to print, I remain, yours very truly, 
An old reader, 

C.'iRROLL S. S . 

P. S. — I have an old sword which was picked up on 
the evening after the battle of Bunker's Hill, by my 
great-great-grandfather; also, I have his commission as a 
major of a Revolutionary regiment. 

This interesting letter is printed as it came to us — 
spelling and all : 

Dear St. Nicholas. Washington is lovely. I went 
to the Treasury I held in my one hand $210,000. I 
went to the Soldiers hone and they told me a little 
While ago that a Soldier died 104 yoars old that fought 
in the battle of Whaterlou. I shook hands with Presi- 
dent Harrison. I went to the museum and I saw George 
Washingtons coat that he resigned his cammesian to 
become President, my Cosen's kitty plays the bangos 
it is so funny to hear her I have a ktty that dances with 
me. Good by. George H. E . 

Playes print the letter. 

Bessemer, Ala. 

Dear St. Nicholas : In the August number, I read 
Elizabeth Bisland's " Flower-ladies," in which the author 
says that she has never known any children but those of 
her own family who knew about the game. Well, I 
would like to tell you, if you have room, how my sister 
and I used to play it, when we lived in the old city of 
Charleston, S. C. 

We played it at my grandfather's. There was a low 
brick piazza, opening on the garden, which ran down to 
the river. In this piazza was a long "joggling-board" ; 
this was our court, for we played " kings and queens." 

In the garden grew two kinds of begonia, or trumpet- 
vine. The long, slender, dark-red blossoms of one fur- 
nished us with queens, arrayed in stiff pointed waists 
and flounced skirts. The other vine gave us our kings, 
short and pompous, in gorgeous orange robes. White 
and red pomegranate flowers were courtiers; the queens 
had waiting-women of their own kind ; monetas were 
demure maids in scanty red skirts, and dear little white- 
stockinged, brown-slippered legs and feet, made of their 
ov.'n stamens. Pale blue, filmy plumbagoes were dancers ; 
petunias were servants ; lilac-gray niererabergias were 
ladies who were presented at court. I do not know why, 
but we seldom used roses. A gay, short life our court 
led, on the joggling-board; for, alas! the sovereigns 
were as blood-thirsty as the Queen in " Alice in Wonder- 

land," who was always exclaiming, " Off with his head I " 
When the kingly halls became uncomfortably crowded, 
the whole set of courtiers, ladies, maids, etc., were be- 
headed. A sharp piece of tin was the fatal axe. Often 
the relentless sovereigns, with a cruelty worthy of the 
Dark Ages, ordered some unfortunate to be chopped up 
like mince-meat. The remains were then consigned to 
a grave beneath an orange-tree. The relatives from dis- 
tant countries (personated by my sister and myself) 
brought crape-myrtle blossoms to cover the melancholy 
tombs with, and chips for head-stones. After a short 
period of mourning, a fresh court was selected. Occa- 
sionally, the whole bevy would spend a summer in an 
upper piazza, overhung by a crape-myrtle tree. 

We spent many happy days in this way, in the old 
"City by the Sea." 

Your constant reader, May A. W . 

New York. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I wonder if any of your readers 
have ever heard of this interesting fact : 

If you let a mosquito alight on your hand and wait 
until he has imbedded his proboscis well into the skin, 
you can then take a pair of scissors and cut off the after 
part of his body ; and even part of his wings and hind legs 
if they happen to be in the way. The mosquito will not 
pay any attention to this; but will keep on pumping 
until quite a large clot of blood has been collected by 
flowing through his body. As the nrosquito does not 
feel his stomach fill with blood, he keeps on with his 
work until, apparently, he gets tired, when he withdraws 
his proboscis and flies off in his maimed condition. 

This goes to show that the mosquito has little or no 
nerves in the after part of his body; but if so, it is difficult 
to see how those parts of him are able to act at any time. 
Perhaps he is so mtent, while sucking, that his nervous 
system is concentrated in the fore part of him, or the blood 
he drinks may have a stupefying effect. Can any of your 
readers tell me ? Eckford C. de K . 

Amiens, France. 

Dear St. Nicholas : We live in Amiens, about two 
hours' railway journey from Paris. 

It was at the time of the Paris Exhibition that we four — 
Papa, Mamma, my cousin, and myself — went for a few 
days to Paris. We started on a Friday afternoon, 
arrived in Paris about six o'clock, went to the Hotel 
Bergere, where we dined, and then went to the Hippo- 
drome, the largest circus in the world — it has three mov- 
able rings, each the size of an ordinary circus ring. 

I can not tell you all they did as it would take up too 
much space. 

One time they fixed a kind of cage up, and then a 
young lion and a horse were brought in; the lion 
jumped through rings, and then came down again upon 
the horse — the horse had a wide saddle on. The lion 
performed many other clever tricks. 

They finished up with a hunt, which I will try to 
explain. First they had the meet, the ladies and gentle- 
men were all dressed in red, and kept arri\ing in 
carriages. At one side there was a forge with some 
blacksmiths in ; the men turned on a red light and then 
played tunes on the anvils. But now I must go back 
to the huntsmen after they had met. They started off 
after a little fawn, with about sixty dogs. They jumped 
over hedges, ditches, and walls. For the finish they 
brought in an imitation fawn for the dogs to worry. 

The next day we went and looked at the shops, and 
then went to the Exhibition. We went in a little rail- 
way, open at the sides, which took us from the gates 
into the Exhibition grounds. We thought the Exhi- 
bition a very handsome looking building, particularly 



the middle dome. At first we did not think it was clear 
enough to go up the Eiffel Tower, but in the afternoon 
it cleared up, and up the tower we went. Tlie tirst lift 
going up had seats in, but the lift going up the rest of 
the tower had none ; when you get out of the first lift 
you have to walk all round the tower to keep your place, 
what they call here " making a tail." It took us two hours 
to go round the second platform. When we anived at 
the top we had a splendid view of Paris. Coming down 
was much quicker work, as one went straight down. In 
the evening we watched the fairy fountain. We went 
up into the operating room, and had a splendid view, as 
there was a large crowd below. 

The next day was the 14th of July, and Sunday. 
There was a review of all the troops, to wliich we were 
going, and had started, but did not arrive there owing to 
the rain. When we were in the Champs Elysees the 
rain came down in torrents, and ran down the streets 
almost like a river. We might have gone if we could 
have gone under shelter, but we had not bought any 
tickets. We should have had to sit on the uncovered 
stand. In the evening we saw the illuminations, which 
were very pretty, though many were spoilt by the rain. 
The Champs Elysees and the Place de la Concorde 
were like a fairy scene, with their festoons of white and 
colored lamps. 

Of course we saw many other things also, but it 
would take too much of your space to tell you, for I am 
hoping that if it is not too long you will be able to print 
it, as it is the first letter I have written to you. We 
always look forward with pleasure to the arrival of St. 

Nicholas at the beginning of the month. I like most 
of your tales very much, particularly those by Mrs. 
Burnett. I have taken you for two years, and my 
cousin, who is staying with me, has taken you from the 

Your loving friend, Mary Mather. 

We thank the young friends whose names follow, for 
pleasant letters received from them: Margie V., Male IT. 
F., Frederikke H. L., Ralph Waldo E., Craig B., Fannie 
C, Gracie W., Edwina B., Alfred and Rodney, Edgar 
M. P., Lihan Pearl O., Ruth K. P., Margaret Cicely P., 
Eahel Violet O., Kitty R., Muriel E. M. P., Stella C. A., 
Cora S. M., Wm. M.'U., Audella H. Q., Edith E., Ethel 
S., Nellie May H., Ethel E., B.,Chaffel Y.,\V. S. W., 
John H. M., Bessie B. O., Teresa S , Norman R. McL., 
Annie C. S., Eleanor G., Geo. H., Dorothy, loneL., 
Marguerite H., Eunice R. O., Gertrude M. B., Sidney O., 
Amy L. G., J. DeW., Jr., Maybel C, May G. R., Vio- 
let, Daisy, and Rose, Ella W. W. and Florence W., Ahce 
K., Washington L. G. S. S., M. G. B., Hugh E., Marie 
R. DuB., S — p — y, E. T., Agnes B. D., Marian M. 
and Ruth W., H. F. S., Willie K., Jr., Mabel S. G., 
Harriet B. M., A. H.E., J. F. E., C. C. F., S. Maude 
M., TinaC, Gladys W., Elmer B. M.,Tom B., Sophie St. 
C, Gertrude and Elise, Hattie F., JuHe M. C, George T. 
O., Christabelle S., H. M., Knowlton D., Alma W., 
Ethel, An Inquisitive Subscriber, Paul S. R., Hoosier, 
Lilian C, Martha B., Henry C. 




Diagonal Puzzle. Dav!s. Cross-words : i. Dream. 2. Taste. 

3. Waves. 4- Stain. 5. Flies. 

Co.MbtXATiON Plzzle. Jackson and Dickcns. i. Jointed. 2. La- 
conic. 3. Bicycle. 4. Lacking. 5. Guesses. 6. Andiron. 7. Saffron. 

H.ALF-SQL'ARE. Across: I. D. 2. It. 3. Lip. 4. Aver. 5. Totem. 
6. Elated. 7. Dilated. Downward: i. Dilated. 2. Tivoli. 3. Petal. 

4. Reta. 5. Met. 6. De. 7. D. 

E.\sv Acrostic. Daisy and Roses. Cross-words: i. Odor. 2. 
Halo. 3. Bits. 4. Isle. 5. Eyes. 

St. Andrew's Cross of Diamonds. 
4. Tip. 5. P. II. I. P. 2. Rep. 
III. I. P. 2. Pip. 3. PiloL 4- Pot. 
3. Pivot.. 4. Pod. 5. T. V. I. T. 
5- R 

Numerical Enigma. 

Govern the lips 
As they were palace doors, the king within. 
Tranquil and fair and courteous be all words 

Which from that presence win. 


Double Acrostic. Primals, Summer Solstice ; Finals, Midsummer 

~ ' ' 4. Mavis. 

1. I. T. 2. Nut. 3. Tulip. 
3. Pewit. 4. Pie. 5. T. 
5. T. IV. I. P. 2. Dip. 

2. Tag. 3. Tapir. 4. Gin. 

WoRD-tiUiLDiNG. A, as, sea, east, steal, staple, plaster, pilaster, 

Connected Word-squares. 
4. Pelt. II. I. Gasp. 2. Area. 
2. Idea. 3. Neap. 4. Gaps. IV". 
4. Gos; 

Night. Cross-words: i. Salam. 2. Uthai. 3. Monad 
5. Elihu. 6. Realm. 7. Shawm. 8. Obole. g. Liter. 
"' Icing. 13. Conch. 14 


10. Sivan. 

I. I. Slop. 2. Love. 
3. Seer. 4. Part. III. 


. Ting. 


Conch. 14. Eclat. 
Pi. Sunshine over the meadows wide 

Where the bees hummed in the clover. 
And sunshine filling the lily cups 

Till every one brimmed over. 
Sunshine over the hazy hills. 

And over the dimpling river, 
And I wished the sun and the summer day 

Might shine and last forever. eben e. rexford. 
A Hexagon, i. Fete. 2. Ewers. 3. Tenets. 4. Eremite. 
Stiver. 6. Steer. 7. Errs. 

To OUR Puzzlers: Answers, to be acknowledged in the magazine, must be received not later than the 15th of each month, and 
should be addressed to St. Nicholas " Riddle-box," care of The Centurv Co., 33 East Seventeenth St., New York City. 

Answers to all the Puzzles in the -\pril Number were received, before April rsth. from Maud E. Palmer — Charles Beaufort — 
Russell Davis— Ernest Serrell— Nardyl and Thida— The Wise Five— Ida C. Thallon — Wm. H. Beers — E. M. G.— J. B. Swann — 
Hubert Bingay — A. L. W. L. — Mary Keim Stauffer — E. and A. 

Answers to Puzzles in the April Nu.mber were received, before April istb, from Elaine Shirley, 2 — Lucia and Co., 3 — 
Elsa H, J — N. Cahn, x — Evie S. B., i— W. E. Ward, i — Maud S., i — Frances O. Dufourcq, 2 — Faith, Hope, and Charity, 2 — 
Alice Rice, i — C. Devin and N. Sullivan, 2 — Grace Jadwin, 3 — M. Woodford, r — Geordie, Ailie, and Lily, i — Katie Van Zandt, 3 — 
F. Kloeber, i — "Squibs," i — Mamma, Margaret, and Marion, 2 — Bess and Lalla, i — Florence Bettmann, 2 — " W. T. K.," r — B. 
MacMahon, i — Amy F., i — *' Sunny," 2 — "Budge and Toddie," 2 — M. A, Bates, r — T. Calonem, i — S. W. French, 3— J. H. 
W., I — " Little Women," 2 — B. Fernald, t — F. Carter, Jr., i — Alice V. Farquhar, 2 — Frank B., i — "Jenny Wren," i — Philip O. 
Gravelle, 2 — H- and H., 2— K.. L. Rogers, i — M. and G., 3 — J. S. N., i — No Name, Albany, 3— Mamie Crump, 3 — Harriet S. 
H., 3— K. L. Kenney, i — M. Padelford, i — Haverford, r— J. R. Williamson, 3 — O. Allison, i — M. Rockwell, i — W. E. Eckert, 2 — 
S. Maude Moore, i — M. Brown, t — Ernest Scbom, 2 — Lottie C. Mitchell, 3 — Paul Reese, 5 — Carrie K. Thacher, 4— G. C. Rock- 
well, I — Florence Buchanan, 2 — "Lady Malapert," i — Otto J. Sieplein, 3 — Joe F. and Lucy F., i — K. McG. RIartin, r — Helen 
Schussler. 4 — E. Shirley, i — J. Herron, i — J. Swords, i — Bessie Davis, 3 — Clara and Emma, 4 — Florence and Lillian S., 3 — F. Abe- 
ken, I— L. S. Vail, r — H. Hughes, r — M. Wilber, r — Helen M. Walker, 2 — L. H. Ripley, i — Mary Gabrielle C, 2— Elizabeth 
Adams, 2— B. L. Adair, x— J. E. Taylor, i— E. H. Rossiter, 5 — W. Reynolds, 3 — R. Gunther, i— J. M. Ridgeway, i — E. C. A., 2 — 
H. Mencke, i — J. Oelbermann, i — G. V., r — C. Wilkins, i — Leo and Elsa, 4 — EstherW. Ayres, i — Arthur B. Lawrence, 2 — A. W. 
Coe, I — J. J. Mumford, i — Beth C. T., 3— Mamma, Helen, and Alfred, i — H. H. Francine, 4 — Mabel and Alfred, 2 -John Beny, 2 — 
" McG.," 2 — Charles L. and Reta Sharp, 3 — Douglas Adams, 2 — E. C. and C. W. Chambers, 2 — Two Dromios, 3 — Majorca and 
Ivica, 2— Nellie C, i — B. Hetter, i — S. N. Mitchell, i —" Cockle Shells," 3 - Little Women, 3— B. Dorman, i — E. E. F., r — Grace 
Ely, I— C. B. Powell, i — Bertha Snyder, 4 — Maud Huebener, 4— Sarah P. Judson, 2 — C. P. Linville, 3 — J. A. Miller, i — IdaE. 
Mackey, 3 — L. McCune, 2 — Effie K. Talboys, 3 — "The Lancer." 3 — Madge Lyons, 2 — "Infantry," 5 — Bertha W. G., 2— "Peace 
and Happiness," 3 — Marian S., 3 — F. Ramsey, i — Marie and Flo Foote, 4 — " Hypothenuse and X.," 3 — " May and '79,"4 — Alexis J. 
Colman, 4 — E. and S. Ryerson, 3 — R. Maude Wilson, 2 — Elsa, 2 — Capt. White, i — McG. and friends, i — John W. Frothingham, 
Jr, 4 — No Name, Berkeley, 2 — Mamma and Millie, 3 — Lillian C., 2 — M. D. and C. M., 4 — Adele Walton, 4 — Lucy R., i — Alex. 
Armstrong, Jr., 4 — Doctor and I, 2 — Nellie and Reggie. 4 — Mamma and Marion, 5 — M. G. M., i — R. Bennett Bean, 4 — Geoffrey 
Parsons. 2 — G. Howland, i — Two Book Worms, 3 — J. A. Fisher, i — Kittie and Bess, 3 — E. Jernegan, i — E. N. Johnston, i — 
C. S. Harmon, i — Maud S. A. Taylor, 4 — Irene, 2 — E. Webster and M. Hore, 2 — Willie Kerr, Jr., i — L. Duane, i — H. Smith, 
I — Eunice, i — L. H. Stoffel, i ~ F. Kloeber, i — Elsie Shaw, i — Irene, 2 — O. and G. Marix, i. 


I. A N.\ME beloved by a certain nation. 2. To be 
borne in a carriage. 3. A notion. 4. Tidy. 

H. AND H. 

First, find a little modest Jlower, 

Refreshed by many a summer shower ; 

Next, colors you may call to mind, 

Which in an artist's box, you 'II find; 

A strong desire please ^v^ite clown, 

It is possessed by king and clown; 

An miic/e must now be found. 

In many a book it does abound. 

Transpose these words to spell a time, 

Written about in prose and rhyme ; 

For "if it rains upon this day, 

'T will rain for forty more," they say. c. D. 


I. Behead a large bundle, and leave a beverage. 
2. Behead cuslom and leave a man of wisdom. 3. Be- 
head not any, and leave a unit. 4. Behead part of a ship, 
and leave a snake-like fish. 5. Behead a church festival 
occurring in the spring, and leave a flower, 6. Behead 
to contend in running, and leave a unit. 7. Behead a 
shelter, and leave a bower. 8. Behead angry, and leave 

a fixed allowance. 9. Behead the first of the six mechani- 
cal powers, and leave always. 10. Behead a series of 
steps, and leave a venomous serpent. 

The beheaded letters will spell the name of a place 
famous in American history. 



Each word described contains eight letters. When 
these are placed one below another, in the order here 
given, the initial letters will spell the name of a famous 
French author. 

Cross-words : i. A reigning sovereign of Europe. 
2. To water. 3. Seized by force. 4. Not to restrain. 
5. Pertaining to a musical clrama. 6. Turning about an 
axis. 7. A mounted soldier. 8. To wave. 9. A jelly- 
like substance. 10. An impediment. EMMA SYDNEY. 


The zigzag, beginning at the upper left-hand corner, 
will spell the delight of every boy. 

Cross-words : i. A kind of tree. 2. An article of 
dress. 3. Much used in winter. 4. A snare. 5. A 
vehicle. 6. Skill. 7. A body of water. 8. Much 
used in summer. 9. Relatives. 10. A wager. 11. 
A sailor. "Tom." 









'II \ 


36-20-11 lb the title of the essay from which this quota- 
tion is taken, and my 58-61-16-63-3-44-4015 the writer 
of the essay. 

Translate the following lines, and a tribute to the 
same famous American, by Oliver Wendell Holmes, may 
be found : 

Mih OS ture dan dreten, 
Het strapito tays, eht sleepop stutr, 

Het shedii fo eth fodernef. M. v. w. 



Rearrange the letters in each of the circles, so that 
a word of eight letters may be formed. When this has 
been done, and the twelve words are placed one below 
another, in the order in whicli they are numbered, the 
third row of letters will spell exemption from control; 
the sixth row, a city where an important document was 
signed on July 4, 1876. F. s. F. 


My first is in barn, but not in shed ; 

My second, in copper, but not in lead ; 

My third is in gate, but not in door ; 

My fourth is in ceiling, but not in floor; 

My fifth is in land, but not in reef; 

My sixth is in joy, but not in grief; 

My seventh, in west, but not in east ; 

My eighth, in dinner, but not in feast ; 

My ninth is in bonnet, but not in hat ; 

My tenth is in rounded, but not in flat. 
If all the letters are rightly selected. 
They '11 spell a battle when connected. 



I AM composed of seventy-two letters, and am a selec- 
tion from a famous essay. 

My 35-43-62-49 is that part of a plant which grows 
underground. My 57-2-18 is to strike. My 68-46-28- 
51-9 is one bereaved of a husband. My 15-25-37 is a 
file. My 31-22-7-65-12-50 is the pharynx. My 4-70- 
53-55 is a cowl. My 54-41-21-39 are distinct parcels. 
My 24-26-60-13-32-27-5 is to contend. My 66-10-45- 
48-71-3415 a general scarcity of food. My I-19-30-14- 
33-8-64 is arrogant. My 6-29-42-17-52-38-59 is the 
Christian name of the person alluded to in the quotation 
on which this enigma is based. My 72-69-23-67-56-47- 

tfr # « • 
ft- # « *f 
ff # ?f • 

1. In troubled. 
5. In troubled. 

: I. In troubled. 
A point. 5. In 

; I. In troubled. 

I. Upper Left-hand Diamond, i. In troubled. 
2. Depressed. 3. A cloth for the hands. 4. Texture. 
5. In troubled. 

II. Upper Right-hand Diamond : 
2. To sever. 3. Dismal. 4. A nickname. 

III. Central Diamond: i. In troubled. 2. A small 
piece. 3. Of a lead color. 4. A metal. 5. In troubled, 

IV. Lower Left-hand Diamond : 
2. A snare. 3. Black and blue. 4. 

V. Lower Right-hand Diamond 
2. To be drowsy. 3. The property which a woman brings 
to a husband in marriage. 4. A haunt. 5. In troubled. 

" FUZ." 

Each of the nine cross words contains ten letters. 
When these are rightly guessed, and placed one below 
the other, in the order here given, the initials will spell a 
human affliction, which the profession, spelled by the 
finals, aims to alleviate. 

Cross-words: i. Menaced. 2. Manifest. 3. The 
act of kissing. 4. Victorious. 5. The language of the 
Hindoos. 6. Warns of a fault. 7. Delicate flattery. 
8. One who heightens. 9. That part of zoology which 
treats of insects. " TV\'0 sufferers." 



(SEE PAGE 821.) 


Vol. XVII. 

AUGUST, 1890. 

No. 10, 


By W. J. Henderson. 

It was a beautiful spring afternoon, and the 
sun was so warm that it made the soft westerly 
breeze feel like a summer wind. Little Johnny 
Franklin, who thought he was really a big boy 
because he was ten years old and wore hip rub- 
ber-boots when it rained, was visiting his uncle, 
who lived at the Highlands of Navesink not far 
from the twin lighthouses. He thought it was 
too fine a day to stay on the hillside, so he 
started down toward the beach intending to 
pick up shells, or amuse himself by throwing 
pebbles into the sea. On his way down, he met 
Harry and Eddie Brownlow, who lived next door 
to his uncle. They were going to the beach, too, 
so all three boys walked along together. And 
when they came to the beach, they found various 
kinds of amusement. They threw pebbles, and 
they tried to see how close down to the surf they 
could follow the receding water without being 
caught by the next wave. Johnny, however, 
wet his feet from trying to go down as far as the 
two other boys. They could run faster than he 
could, for Eddie was twelve years old, and Harry 
was fourteen and a big boy for his age. As 
they ran along the beach, they came upon a sea 
skiff, a fisherman's boat, drawn up on the sands. 

Copyrightj 1890, by The Century Co, 

" Oh, look, look, boys ! " exclaimed Johnny. 
" Here are a sail and a pair of oars. Let us play 
that we are out sailing." 

"Oh, yes," said Eddie, "that will be great 

So they climbed into the boat, unrolled the 
sail, and stepped the mast. Johnny did not 
know how to do this, and Eddie was not quite 
sure of the way ; but Harry said : 

" You just leave it to me ; what I don't know 
about boats is torn out ! " 

And so with great admiration, they watched 
Harry ship the sprit and made up their minds 
that he was a very remarkable boy and ought 
to be considered a man, even if he was no older 
than fourteen. The three boys played at saihng 
for nearly an hour. Then Harry said : 

" I don't see much fun in this. It is not sail- 
ing, nor anything like it." 

Johnny and Eddie looked rather blank at 
this remark. 

" Now, what I say," Harry continued, "is, why 
should n't we really have a sail ? " 

The two smaller boys looked astonished. 

" How ? " asked Johnny. 

" Why," said Harry, " there 's a very light 

All rights reserved. 




breeze, and hardly any surf. Let 's take this 
boat and go saiHng." 

" What, on the ocean ? " asked Johnny. 

" Yes, to be sure," rephed Harry. 

" Can you sail a boat ? " Johnny inquired. 

" Of course," answered Harry, confidently. 
" I 've been out with father dozens of times, and 
he always lets me steer a part of the time." 

"Oh, yes," said Eddie; "that 's so. Father 
always lets Harry steer. He wants him to be 
a good sailor." 

Johnny was a little alarmed at the notion of 
saiHng in so small a boat on so large a body of 
water ; but then the fishermen always went out 
in such boats, and it must be all right. The sea 
was as smooth as glass, and the surf was no more 
than a ripple ; so the boys had very little trouble 
in getting oft' the beach. As soon as they were 
a little out from under the lee of the beach, the 
light breeze filled the sail, and Harry put an oar 
against the quarter of the boat and steered very 
easily. He let the boat run before the wind 
straight away to the eastward. She went so 
smoothly and the swells were so low and broad 
that Johnny's timidity soon \'anished and he 
began to enjoy the new experience. 

" Oh, see ! " he cried ; '• there 's a steamer 
coming ! " 

'■ That 's no steamer," said Eddie. "That 's 
nothing but a moss-bunker." 

" What 's a moss-bunker ? " 

"A vessel that catches fishes called moss- 
bunkers and takes them o\'er to Port Monmouth, 
where they make sardines out of them." 

" Well, she 's going by steam, anyhow," said 

" Yes, and so she 's a steamer," said Harry. 
" But look away off yonder. There 's an ocean 
steamer coming in from Europe." 

"Oh, what a big one! " exclaimed Johnny. 
" What 's her name ? " 

" I can't tell for sure," said Harry ; " but she 's 
the ' City of Paris,' the ' City of New York,' 
or the ' City of Rome.' " 

" How do you know ? " asked Eddie. 

" Because she has three smoke-stacks in a 
row, fore and aft," said Harry. 

Thus they sailed along talking about the sights 
of the sea, till suddenly the little boat's canvas 
began to flap and then hung limp. 

" What 's the matter with the sail ? " asked 
Johnny, his doubts arising again. 

" Wind 's died out," said Harry ; " it '11 come 
in from the south presently. Father says the 
wind is ' never lost but it 's found in the south.' " 

" I guess we 'd better turn back, Harry," said 
Eddie ; "look at the shore." 

Harry looked around for the first time, and 
was much alarmed to finil that they were fully 
four miles out. 

" I think we '11 ha\e to row," he said, getting 
out the oars. 

" What makes the sky such a funny color over 
there ? " asked Johnny. 

Harry turned and saw something that fright- 
ened him very much. It was a heavy black 
cloud over toward Raritan Bay, and it was 
growing larger and coming closer every moment. 
Presently a flash of lightning broke from its edge, 
and the dull boom of distant thunder was heard. 

" I 'm afraid that it 's going to be a thunder- 
storm," said Johnny. 

" Yes, and rain, too," said Eddie. " We '11 
be soaked." 

" I hope it will not blow hard," said Harry, 
who was taking the sprit out of the sail. " But 
father always shortens canvas when he thinks 
it 's going to blow." 

Harry seated himself, and with all his strength 
began to row toward the beach. All three 
boys were pale and silent. The click of the 
oars in the rowlocks and the threatening peals 
of the approaching thunder were the only sounds 
to be heard. Soon the cloud had spread from 
north to south, and was almost over their heads. 
The thunder peals became louder, and the 
flashes of lightning sharjjer. Then a few drops 
of rain began to fall. In another minute, it be- 
gan to rain hard, and the three boys were very 
quickly wet to the skin. Eddie and Johnny 
began to cry. It was dark all around them. 
They could not see the shore. The pelting of 
the rain upon the ocean raised a great hissing 
sound like the escape of steam. The thunder 
bellowed and the lightning flashed incessantly. 
Harry was as white as a sheet, but he kept on 
rowing. Presently they heard a sort of hum- 
ming sound, in the distance, but rapidly draw- 
ing nearer. 

" What 's that ? " cried Eddie. 



" I don't know," said Harry, stopping to 

Suddenly the sail gave one or two flaps, and 
they felt a puff of cool air. The next moment 
a powerful blast of wind swept upon them, 
heeling their little boat far over on one side 
so that the sea ran over the gunwale. The air 
was full of flying spray and of fearful howling 
noises. Eddie and Johnny, terrified, fell upon 

The wind seemed to blow harder every minute, 
and the angry green waves rose in tumultuous 
fury around the little boat. Oh, how the three 
boys wished that they had contented them- 
selves with playing at sailing! And how Harry 
realized that he did not know anything at all 
about managing a boat! For half an hour the 
wind continued to blow. The little skift' some- 
times stood straight up and down in its mad 



their knees in the bottom of the boat and tried 
to pray. Harry lost one of his oars. He seized 
the end of the painter and tied it to the handle 
of the other. At that moment another heavy 
gust of wind swept over the boat. Her little 
mast broke short off and fell overboard, knock- 
ing the other oar out of Harry's hand. For- 
tunately for the boys, the oar became tangled 
in the sail, and the canvas and sticks, held by 
the painter floated out ahead of the boat, mak- 
ing an excellent " sea drag," and keeping the 
little craft head on to seas, which now began to 
roll up in threatening height. Harry did not 
know what to do. He tried to comfort his 
younger companions, but they were terrified. 

plunges over the waves, but, since the drag 
kept its head to them, it rode safely. 

Presently the heavy clouds began to break 
away, and the thunder, lightning, and rain 
passed off to tlie eastward. The sun came out, 
and for a moment the boys felt the cheering 
influence of his rays. Then the wind shifted to 
the northwest, turned very cool, and blew quite 
as hard as it did during the squall. The boys 
looked toward the shore. They could see only 
the Highlands rising above the distant purple 
rim of the sea. Sandy Hook and the beach 
were out of sight. Off to the northward of 
them, a good three miles away, they could see 
the swaying masts of the red lightship. TJiey 



were being driven farther and fardier out to sea 
by the cruel north\\-est wind which is even too 
strong for the fishermen at times. The poor 
boys gave themselves up for lost; wet and 
chilled and shivering, they sank down in the 
bottom of the boat and, with their arms around 
one another, cried silently. By and by Eddie 
and Johnny, worn out, sobbed themselves to 
sleep. Then Harry sat up and looked around 
him. To his surprise and joy he saw, not more 
than half a mile away to leeward, a pilot-boat, 
heading southward, under reefed main and fore- 
sails and jib. He stood up and waved his hat, 
and nearly fell overboard in so doing. He 
shouted, and that aroused the two other boys. 

" Let 's all scream at once," said Johnny. 
So they each drew a long breath, and Harry 
counted one, two, three, with his hand, and 
the}' uttered piercing shrieks. Something 
black was seen moving up the weather fore- 
rigging of the pilot-boat. Then the vessel's 
head came up into the wind, her jib flapped 
heavily, she lifted her green forefoot clear out of 
the white foam, and then tilled away on the port 
tack, heading directly away from the little boat. 

" Oh, she 's going to leave us ! " screamed 

The three boys shouted again and again fran- 
tically. They did not understand the move- 
ments of the pilot-boat, that was all. In two 
minutes she came about and then headed 
straight at them. Down she came, hurling the 
foam aside in great clouds of smoke-like spray. 

" Oh," cried Eddie, " she '11 run over us ! " 
But, no ; as she came near, the helm was eased 
down, the jib was hauled to windward, and the 
pilot-boat glided alongside of them gracefully 
and easily. 

" Catch this line and make it fast in the bow ! " 
cried a voice. 

A coil of rope came circling and unwinding 
through the air, and the end fell into the boat. 
Harry secured it and made it fast as directed. 

" All of you get into the stern ! " cried the 

The boys did as directed, and were hauled 
up under the jjilot-boat's lee quarter and pulled 
aboard. The pilots took them into the cabin, 
gave them warm drinks, and put them to bed. 

" Who made that drag ? " inquired the old- 
est pilot, after hearing their story. 

" What drag ? " asked Harry. 

The pilot explained, and Harry said : 

" It made itself" 

He told the pilot how it happened ; and the 
old man, slapping his leg, said : 

" Then the Great Pilot up aloft meant this 
as a lesson for you. That drag is all that saved 
you. Now, boys, take my advice about two 
things. First, never take anything that does n't 
belong to you, without permission. Second, 
never undertake to handle a boat alone till you 
know all about it." 

And when they were safe at home, Mr. 
Franklin said that the old pilot's advice was 
very good. 


By Mrs. C. V. Jamison. 

Chapter XIII. 


On the occasion of Lady jane's first visit to 
the d'Hautreve ladies, she had been so interested 
in Mam'selle Diane's works of art, that she had 
paid no attention whatever to the piano and the 

But on the second visit, while Tony was pos- 
ing as a model (for suddenly he had developed 
great perfection in that capacity), she critically 
examined the ancient instrument. 

Presently she asked a little timidly, " Is that 
what you make music on when you sing, Mam'- 
selle Diane ? " 

Mam'selle Diane nodded an affirmative. She 
was very busy modeling Tony's leg in sealing- 

" Is it a piano ? " 

" Yes, my dear, it 's a piano. Did you never 
see one before ? " 

" Oh, yes ; and I 've played on one. Mamma 
used to let me play on hers ; but it was large, 
very large, and not like this." 

" Where was that ? " asked Mam'selle Diane, 
while a s\vift glance passed between her and her 

" Oh, that was on the ranch, before we came 

" Then you lived on a ranch. Where was it, 
my dear ? " 

" I don't know " ; and Lady Jane looked 
puzzled. " It was just the ranch. It was in 
the country, and there were fields and fields, 
and a great many horses, and sheep and lambs 
— dear little lambs ! " 

" Then the lady you live with is not your 
mamma?" said Mam'selle Diane, casually, 
while she twisted the sealing-wax into the shape 
of the foot. 

" Oh, no ; she 's my Tante Pauline. My 
mamma has gone away, but Pepsie says she 's 

sure to come back before Christmas ; and it 's 
not very long now before Christmas." The little 
face grew radiant with expectation. 

" And you like music ? " said Mam'selle 
Diane, with a sigh ; she saw how it was, and 
she pitied the motherless darling from the bot- 
tom of her tender heart. 

" Did n't you ever hear me sing when I used 
to stand close to the window ? " Lady Jane 
leaned across Mam'selle Diane's table, and 
looked at her with a winsome smile. " I sang 
as loud as I could, so you 'd hear me ; I thought, 
perhaps, you 'd let me in." 

" Dear little thing ! " returned Mam'selle 
Diane, caressingly. Then she turned and spoke 
in French to her mother, " You know. Mamma, 
I wanted to ask her in before, but you thought 
she might meddle with my wools and annoy 
me ; but she 's not troublesome at all. I wish 
I could teach her music, when I have time." 

Lady Jane glanced from one to the other 
gravely and anxiously. 

" I 'm learning French," she said. " Pepsie 's 
teaching me ; and when I learn it you can al- 
ways talk to rne in French. I know some words 

Mam'selle Diane smiled. " I was telhng 
Mamma that I should like to teach you music. 
Would you like to learn?" 

" What ! — to play on the piano ? " and the 
child's eyes gHstened with delight. 

" Yes, to play and sing, both." 

" I can sing, now," with a little shy, wistful 

" Well then, sing for us while I finish Tony's 
leg, and afterwards I will sing for you." 

" Shall I sing ' Sleep, baby, sleep ' ? " 

"Yes; anything you like." 

Lady Jane lifted her little face, flushed like a 
flower, but still serious and anxious, and broke 
into a ripple of melody so clear, so sweet, and so 
deHcately modulated, that Mam'selle Diane 




clasped her hands in ecstasy. She forgot her 
bunch of wool, the difficulty of Tony's breast- 
feathers, the impossible sealing-wax leg, and sat 
listening, enchanted ; while the old lady closed 
her eyes and swayed back and forth, keeping 
time with the dreamy rhythm of the lullab\-. 

" Why, my dear, you have the voice of an 
angel ! " exclaimed Mam'selle Diane when the 
child finished. " I must teach you. You must 
be taught. Mamma, she must be taught. It 
would be wicked to allow such a voice to go 
uncultivated ! " 

" And what can cultivation do that nature 
has n't done ? " asked the old lady, querulously. 
" Sometimes I think too much cultivation ruins 
a voice. Think of yours, Diane ; think of what 
it was before all that drilling and training ; 
think of what it was that night you sang at 
Madame La Baronne's, when your cousin from 
France, the Marquis d'Hautreve, said he had 
never listened to so wonderful a voice." 

"It was the youth in it. Mamma, the youth. 
I was only sixteen ; " and Mam'selle Diane 
sighed over the memory of those days. 

" It was before all the freshness was cultivated 
out of it. You never sang so well afterwards." 

" I never was as young. Mamma, and I never 
had such an audience again. You know, I went 
back to the convent ; and when I came out 
things had changed, and I was older, and — / 
had changed. I think the change was in me." 

Here a tear stole from the faded eyes that 
had looked on such triumphs. 

" It is true, my dear, you never had such an 
opportunity again. Your cousin went back to 
France; and — and — there were no more 
files after those days, and there was no one left 
to recognize your talent. Perhaps it was as 
much the lack of recognition as anything else. 
Yes, I say, as I always have said, that it 's rec- 
ognition you need to make you famous. It 's 
the same with your birds as with your singing. 
It 's recognition you need." 

" And perhaps it 's wealth too, Mamma," 
said Mam'selle Diane, gently. " One is forgot- 
ten when one is poor. AVhy, we have been as 
good as dead and buried these twenty years. 
I believe there 's no one left who remembers 

" No, no, my child, it 's not that," cried the 

old lady, sharply. "We are always d'Hautreves. 
It was our own choice to give up society ; and 
we live so far away, it is inconvenient, — so few 
of our old friends keep carriages now ; and be- 
sides, we have no day to receive. It was a 
mistake giving up our reception-day. Since 
then people have n't visited us." 

" I was thinking, Mamma," said Mam'selle 
Diane, timidly, " that if I did as well with my 
ducks next year as I have this, we might have 
a day again. We might send cards and let 
our old friends know that we are still alive." 

"We might, indeed," said the old lady, bright- 
ening visibly. "We are always d'Hautreves"; 
then her face fell suddenly. " But, Diane, my 
dear, we have n't either of us a .silk dress, and 
it would never do for us to receive in anything 
but silk." 

"That 's true. Mamma. I never thought of 
that. ^Ve may not be able to have a day 
after all," and Mam'selle Diane bent her head 
dejectedly over the sealing-wax and wool. 

While these reminiscences were exchanged 
by the mother and daughter, Lady Jane, whose 
singing had called them forth, slipped out into 
the small garden, where, amid a profusion of 
bloom and fragrance, she was now listening to 
the warbling of a canary whose cage hung among 
the branches of a Marechal Niel rose. It was 
the bird whose melody had enraptured her 
while she was yet without the paradise, and it 
was the effigy of that same bird that she had 
seen on Mam'selle Diane's green woolen trees. 
He was a bright, jolly little fellow, and he sang 
as if he were wound up and never would run 

Lady Jane listened to him delightedly while 
she inspected the beds of flowers. It was a lit- 
tle place, but contained a great variety of plants, 
and each was carefully trained and trimmed ; 
and under all the seedlings were laid little sheets 
of white paper on which some seeds had already 

Lady Jane eyed the papers curiously. She 
did not know that these tiny black seeds added 
yearly a few dollars to the d'Hautreve revenues, 
and at the same time furnished the thrifty gar- 
dener with all she needed for her own use. 
But whose hands pruned and trained, dug and 
watered ? Were they the hands of the myth of 



a servant who came so early, before Madame 
was out of bed, — for the old aristocrat loved to 
sleep late, — to clean the gallery and banquette 
and do other jobs unbecoming a d'Hautreve? 
Yes, the very same ; and Mam'selle Diane 


I 'lL tell you WHAT I 'VE BEEN 

was not an early riser because of sleeplessness ; 
nor was it age that made her slender hands so 
hard and brown. 

When Mam'selle Diane rejoined Lady Jane in 
the garden she had gained her mother's consent 
to giving the child a music-lesson once a week. 
The old lady had been querulous and difficult ; 
she had discussed and objected; but finally 
Mam'selle Diane had overcome her prejudices. 

" You don't know what kind of people her 

relatives are," the old lady said, complainingly. 
" And if we once open our doors to the child, 
the aunt may try to crowd in. We don't want 
to make any new acquaintances. There's one 
satisfaction we still have, that, although we are 
poor, very poor, we are always d'Hautreves, and 
we always have been exclusive, and I hope 
we always shall be. As soon as we allow 
those people to break down the barriers 
between us, they will rush in on us, 
and, in a little while, they will 
forget who we are." 

" Never fear, Mamma ; if 

the aunt is as well bred as 

the child, she will not annoy 

us. If we wish to know 

her we shall probably have 

to make the first advances, 

for, judging by the child, 

they are not common 

people. I have never 

seen so gentle and 

polite a little girl. 

I 'm sure she '11 be 

no trouble." 

" I don't know 
about that ; chil- 
dren are natural 
gossips, and she 
is very intelligent 
for her age. She 
will notice every- 
thing, and the 
secret of your 
birds will get 
■' Well, Mam- 
ma dear, if 
you feel that 
she will be 
an intrusion upon our privacy I won't insist; 
but I should so like to have her, just for two 
hours, say, once a week. It would give me a 
new interest ; it would renew my youth to hear 
her angelic little voice sometimes." 

" Oh, I suppose you must have your way, 
Diane, as you always do. Young people now- 
adays have no respect for age. We must yield 
all our traditions and habits to their new-fash- 
ioned ideas or else we are severe and tyrannical ! " 

thinicing of, said pepsie. 




'■ Oh, Mamma — dear Mamma — I 'msure you 
are a little, just a little, unkind now," said Mam'- 
selle Diane, soothingly. " I '11 give it up at once if 
you really wish it ; but I don't think you do. I 
am sure the child will interest you ; besides, I 'm 
getting on so well with the bird. You would n't 
have me give up my model, would you ? " 

" Certainly not, my dear. If you need her, 
let her come. At least, you can try for a while ; 
and if you find her troublesome, and the lessons 
a task, you can stop them when you like." 

When this not very gracious consent was ob- 
tained, Mam'selle Diane hastened to tell Lady 
Jane that if her aunt approved she could come 
to her every Saturday from one to three, when 
she would teach her the piano, as well as singing; 
and that after the lesson, if she liked to remain 
awhile in the garden with the birds and flowers 
she was at liberty to do so. 

Lady Jane fairly flew to tell Pepsie the good 
news : but, much to her surprise, her merry and 
practical friend burst into tears, and hid her face 
on the table among the pecan-shells. 

" Why, Pepsie, — dear, dear Pepsie, — what ails 
you? " cried Lady Jane, in an agony of terror; 
"tell me what ails you"; and dropping Tony, 
she laid her little face among the shells, and 
cried too. 

"I 'm — I 'm — jealous," said Pepsie, looking 
up, after a time, and rubbing her eyes furiously. 
" I 'm a fool, I know, but I can't help it. I 
don't want you to go there. Those fine, proud 
people will teach you to look down on us. 
We 're poor, my mother sells pralines, and the 
people that live behind that green fence are too 
proud and fine to notice any one in this street. 
They 've li\"ed here ever since I was born, and 
no one 's seen them, because they 've kept to 
themselves, always ; and now, when I 've just 
got you to love, they want to take you away ; 
they want to teach you to despise — us!" and 
Pepsie stumbled over the unusual word in her 
passionate vehemence, while she still cried and 
sobbed angrily. 

" But don't cry, Pepsie," entreated Lady 
Jane. " I don't love Mam'selle Diane so well 
as I love you. It 's the music, the singing. Oh, 
Pepsie, — dear, dear Pepsie, — let me learn music, 
and I'll be good and love you dearly!" 

" No, no ; you won't ; you won't care any 

more for me," insisted Pepsie, the little demon 
of jealousy raging to such a degree that she 
was quite ready to be unjust as well as unrea- 

" Are you cross at me, Pepsie ? " and Lady 
Jane crept almost across the table to cling tear- 
fully to her friend's neck. " Don't be cross, and 
I won't go to Mam'selle Diane. I won't learn 
music, and, Pepsie dear, I '11 — I '11 — give you 
Tony ! " 

This was the extreme of renunciation, and it 
touched the generous heart of the girl to the very 
quick. " You dear little angel ! " she cried, with 
a sudden revulsion of feeling clasping and kiss- 
ing the child passionately. " You 're as sweet 
and good as you can be, and I 'm wicked and 
selfish ! Yes, wicked and selfish ! It 's for your 
good, and I 'm trying to keep you away. You 
ought to hate me for being so mean." 

At this moment Tite Souris entered, and, see- 
ing the traces of tears on her mistress's cheeks, 
broke out in stern reproachful tones. 

" Miss Lady, what 's you be'n a-doin' to my 
Miss Peps' ? You done made her cry. I see 
how she 's been a-gwine on ! You jes' look out 
or her ma '11 git a'ter you ef yer makes dat jdo' 
crooked gal cry dat a-way." 

"Hush, Tite," cried Pepsie; "you need n't 
blame Miss Lady. It was my fault. I was 
wicked and selfish ; I did n't want her to go to 
Mam'selle Diane. I was jealous, that 's all." 

" Pepsie cried because she thought I would 
not love her," put in Lady Jane, in an explana- 
tory tone, quite ignoring Tite's burst of loyalty 
" Mam'selle Diane is nobility, French nobility; 
and Pepsie thought I 'd be proud and love 
Mam'.selle best, did n't you, Pepsie ? " 

" Now, jes' hear dat chile ! " cried Tite, scorn- 
fully. " If dey is nobility, dey is po' white trash. 
Shore 's I live, dat tall lean one, wat look lak a 
graveyard figger, she git outen her bed 'fore 
sun-up, an' brick her banquette her own self I 
done seed her one momin' ; she war a-scrubbin' 
lak mad. An' bress yer, honey, she done had 
a veil on, so no one won't know her. Shore 's 
I live, she done brick her banquette wid a veil 

" If she cleans the banquette herself they must 
be very poor," was Pepsie's logical conclusion. 
" Perhaps, after all, they 're not so proud ; only 




they don't want people to know how poor they 
are. And Tite, don't you tell that on the poor 
lady. You know it 's just one of your stories 
about her having a veil on. It may have 
been some one else. You could n't tell who 
it was if she had a veil on, as you say." 

This argument did not in the least shake Tite 
Souris in her conviction that she had seen the 
granddaughter of the Count d'Hautreve brick- 
ing her banquette, before " sun-up," with a veil 
over her face. 

However, Lady Jane and Pepsie were recon- 
ciled, and the little cripple, to show her confi- 
dence in the child's affection, was now as anx- 
ious to have her go to Mam'selle Diane and 
learn music, as she was averse to it before. 

"Yes, Lady dear, I want you to learn to play 
on the piano, and I '11 tell you what I 've been 
thinking of," said Pepsie, as they leaned confi- 
dentially toward each other across the table. 
" Mamma has some money in a bank. She 's 
been saving it to get something for me. You 
know she does everything I want her to do. 
I wanted to learn to read, and she had a teacher 
come to me every clay until I could read and 
write very well, so I 'm sure she '11 do this if I 
want her to, and this is what it is : she must 
buy a piano to put right there in that space 
next the bed." 

"For me to play on? Oh, Pepsie, how 
lovely ! " and Lady Jane clasped her hands with 

"And you can practice all the time," contin- 
ued the practical Pepsie. "You know, if you 
ever learn music well you must practice a great 
deal. Cousin Marie practiced three hours a day 
in the convent. And then, when you 're grown 
up, you '11 sing in the Cathedral and earn a 
great deal of money ; and you can buy a beau- 
tiful white satin dress, all trimmed down the 
front with lace, and they '11 ask you to sing in 
the French opera, on Rue Bourbon, and every 
one will bring you flowers and rings and brace- 
lets and jewels, and you '11 be just like a queen." 

" And sit on a throne and wear a crown," 
gasped Lady Jane, her eyes wide and sparkling, 
and her cheeks flushed, over the glories of Pep- 
sie's riotous imagination. 

" Yes," said Pepsie. Now that she had started 
she meant to give full rein to her fancy. " And 

every one will be ready to worship you, and 
you '11 ride out in a blue carriage with eight 
white horses." 

" Oh, oh ! " interrupted Lady Jane, raptur- 
ously; "and you '11 go with me, and it '11 be just 
as good as riding in Tante Modeste's milk cart ! " 

" Better, much better," agreed Pepsie, quite 
willing, in her present mood, to admit that there 
was something better; " and then you '11 have a 
big, big house in the country, with grass and 
trees and flowers, and a fountain that will tin- 
kle, tinkle, all the time." 

" And you and Mamma Madelon will live 
with me always." Here a sudden shadow passed 
over the bright little face and the wide eyes 
grew very wistful, " And, Pepsie, perhaps God 
will let Papa and Mamma come and live with 
me again." 

" Perhaps so, dear," returned Pepsie, with quick 
sympathy. "When I say my prayers, I '11 ask." 

Presently Lady Jane said softly, with an anx- 
ious glance at Pepsie, " You know, you told me 
that Mamma might come back before Christ- 
mas. It 's nearly Christmas, is n't it ? Oh, I 
wish I could know if she was coming back ! 
Can't you ask your cards, Pepsie ? Perhaps 
they '11 tell if she '11 come." 

" I '11 try," replied Pepsie ; " yes, I '11 try ; but 
sometimes they won't tell." 

When Lady Jane asked permission of Madame 
Jozain to study music with Mam'selle Diane, 
"Tante Pauline" consented readily. In fact, 
she was overjoyed. It was no common honor 
to have her " niece " instructed by a d'Hautreve, 
and it was another feather in her much be- 
plumed cap. By and by people would think 
more of her, and treat her with greater consider- 
ation. When she was once intimate with the 
d'Hautreve ladies, the neighbors would n't dare 
turn the cold shoulder to her ; for through their 
interest in the child she expected to gain a 
foothold for herself; but she had yet to learn 
how very exclusive a d'Hautreve could be under 
certain circumstances. 

Chapter XIV. 

LADY jane's dancing-master. 

Among all Lady Jane's friends, there was no 
one who congratulated her on her good fortune 




with half the enthusiasm and warmth displayed 
by little Gex. 

'■ Veil, veil, my dear leetle lady," he said, 
rubbing his small hands delightedly. " Vhy, 
you are in luck, and no mistake ! To have such 
a teacher for the music as Mam'selle Diane 
d'Hautreve is as good as a fortune to you. 
She '11 give you the true style — the style of the 
French nobility, the only style vhat is good. I 
know just vhat that is. Peoples think old 
Gex knows nothing ; but they 're mistaken, lee- 
tle lady ; they 're mistaken. They don't know 
vhat I vas once. There is n't nothing in music 
that Gex has n't heard. I 've seen everything 
fine, and I 've heard everything fine, vhen I 
used to be alvays at the French opera." 

" Oh, were you in the French opera ? " in- 
terrupted Lady Jane, with sparkling eyes ; 
" that's where Pepsie says I shall sing ; and I 'm 
going to have flowers, and — and a throne, antl 
— oh, I don't remember, but everything, every- 
thing!" she added, impressively, summing all 
up in one blissful whole. 

" Veil, I should n't vender, I should n't von- 
der," said Gex, looking at her proudly, with his 
head on one side, much like an antiquated 
crow, " for you 've got the voice already vhat 
vould make soft the heart of one stone." 

" Oh, Mr. Gex, where did you hear me 
sing ? " and Lady Jane looked at him with grave 
surprise. " I never sang for any one but Pepsie, 
and Mam'selle Diane, and you were n't there." 

'■ But I 've heard you sing, I 've heard you, 
my leetle lady," insisted the old man, with twink- 
ling eyes. " It vas one morning, vhen you vas 
a-singing vith Mam'selle Diane, outside on the 
banquette. I stepped out, and there I heard 
you sing like one leetle bird ; but you did n't 
know I vas a-listening." 

" No, I did n't know it," said Lady Jane, 
smiling brightly again. " 1 'm glad you heard 
me, and some day I '11 sing ' Sleep, baby, sleep' 
for you, if you 'd like to hear it." 

Mr. Gex assured her that he would, and 
added that he adored music. " I have n't 
heard the fine music for many years," he re- 
marked, with a little sigh, " and I used to be 
just crazed for it ; but I vas different then, leetle 
lady, I vas different ; you vould n't think it, 
but I vas different." 

" You did n't wear a handkerchief over your 
ears then, did you, Mr. Gex ? " 

" No, no, my leetle lady; it vas the ear-ache 
vat made me tie up my ear." 

'■ Did you wear an apron, and did you sew ? " 
continued Lady Jane, very curious to know in 
what ways he was different. 

" Vear an apron ! " exclaimed Gex, holding 
up his hands. " Vhy, bless your leetle heart, I 
dressed like one I vore the black 
clothes, fine and glossy. I vas one neat leetle 
man. My hair vas black and curly, and you 
von't believe it, I 'm afraid you von't believe it, 
but I vore the silk hose, and leetle fine shoes 
tied vith one ribbon, and one gold chain across 
my vaistcoat ; and one ring on that finger," and 
Gex touched one of his hard and shrunken digits 
by way of emphasis. 

" Did you, Mr. Gex — oh, did you ? " and Lady 
J ane's e}es glistened, and her little face was one 
smile of delight. " t)h, how nice you must have 
looked. But you did n't have a fruit stall, then ? " 

"No, indeed; no, indeed; I vas in one fine 
business. I vas fashionable then ; I vas one fine 
leetle gentleman." 

" Mr. Gex, what did you do ? " cried Lady 
Jane, in a little shrill impetuous voice, for her 
curiosity had reached the climax. '■ I want to 
know what you did when you curled your hair 
and wore a gold chain." 

" I ^•as one professeur, leetle lady. I vas one 

" One professeur ! Oh, what is ' one profes- 
seur ' ? " cried Lady Jane, impatiently. 

" He is one gentleman vhat does teach." 

"Then you taught music. Oh, I 've guessed 
it, you taught music," and Lady Jane looked at 
him admiringly. " Now I know why you like 
it so much ! " 

" No, no, leetle lady. It vas not the music. 
It vas the sister to the music ; it vas the dance. 
I vas professeur of the dance. Think of that, 
of the dance. So nimble, so quick; see, like 
this," and little Gex, carried away by the mem- 
ory of his former triumphs, took hold of the sides 
of his apron and made two or three quaint fan- 
tastic steps, ending them with a little pirouette 
and low bow which enchanted Lady Jane. 

" Oh, how funny, how funny ! Please do it 
again, won't you, Mr. Gex ? Oh, do, do .' " 



Gex smiled indulgently, but shook his head. 
" No, no, leede lady. Once is enough, just to 
show you how nimble and quick one professeur 
of the dance can be ; but then I vas young and 
supple and full of life. I vas running over with 
life ; I vas one fine leede gendeman, so springy 
and light, and I vas all the fashion. Vould 
you believe it, leetle lady ? I had one fine 
grand house on Rue Royale, and all the rich 
peoples, and all the noblesse, and all the leetle 
gentlemen and the small leetle ladies like you 
came ' to the ' Professeur Gex ' to learn the 

" But why, why, Mr. Gex, did you leave the 
Rue Royale?" asked Lady Jane, greatly puz- 
zled at his changed condition, and anxious to 
know by what strange freak of destiny he had 
been brought to sell fruit and vegetables in 
Good Children Street, to wear an apron, and 
to mend his own stockings. 

" Ah, veil, my leetle lady, it vas many things 
vhat brought me to here," he replied, with a 
sigh of resignation. " You see I did not stay 
the fashion. I got old, and the rheumatism 
made me slow and stiff, and I vas no more such 
a fine, light leetle gendeman. I could not jump 
and turn so nimble and quick, and a new pro- 
fesseur came from Paris, and to him vent all 
my pupils. I had no money, because I vas 
vairy fond of good living, and I Hved high like 
one gentleman; and so, vhen I vas old I vas 
poor, and there vas nothing but to sell the fruit 
and vegetable in Good Children Street." 

" Oh, dear, dear, what a pity ! " sighed Lady 
Jane, regretfully. To think that the mighty 
had fallen so low touched her loyal little heart, 
and brought the tears of sympathy to her blue 

" Naiver mind, naiver mind. You see I vas 
old and I could not teach the dance alvay ; 
but attendez, my leetle lady, listen to vhat I 
say," and he clasped his hands persuasively, 
and turned his head on one side, his little twink- 
ling eyes full of entreaty. "Vould you, now 
vould you, like to leam the dance ? I 'm old, 
and I 'm no more so nimble and light, but I 
know the steps, all the fine steps, and my leetle 
lady must learn the dance some time. Von't 
you let me teach you how to take the fine leetle 
steps ? " 

" Oh, Mr. Gex, will you ? " cried Lady Jane, 
jumping down from her chair, with a flushed, 
eager face, and standing in front of the little 
dancing-master. " Do, do ! I'm all ready. 
Teach them to me now ! " 

"Veil, that is all right; stand as you are and 
I vill begin just now," said Gex, beaming with 
pleasure, while he hurriedly grasped the sides 
of his loose trousers and pushed his spectacles 
well on the top of his bald head. " Now, now, 
leetle lady, turn out your toes, take hold of your 
skirt; just so. Right foot, left foot, just so. 
Vatch me. Right foot, left foot. One, two, 
three ! Right foot, one, two ; left foot, one, two, 
three ; half around, one, two, three ; just so, 
vatch me ! Back again, half around, one, two, 
one, two; ah, good, good, vairy good, my leetle 
lady ! You vill learn the dance so veil ! " 

It was a delicious picture that they made in 
the dingy little shop, surrounded by fruit and 
vegetables. Lady Jane, with her yellow, flying 
hair, her radiant rosy face, her gracious head co- 
quettishly set on one side, her sparkling blue 
eyes fixed on Gex, her dainty little fingers hold- 
ing out her short skirt, her slender, graceful legs, 
and tiny feet advancing and retreating in shy 
mincing steps, turning and whirling with a pretty 
swaying motion first one side, then die other, 
right in front of Gex, who, with a face of preter- 
natural gravity, held out his loose trousers' legs 
and turned his small shoes to the correct angle, 
while he went through all the intricate steps of 
a first dancing-lesson in the quaint, old-fashioned 
style of fifty years ago; every movement being 
closely followed by the child with a grace and 
spirit really charming. 

When the lesson was over and Lady Jane 
ran to tell her friend of this latest stroke of 
good fortune, Pepsie showed all her white teeth 
in a broad smile of satisfaction. 

" Well, Lady," she said, " you are a lucky 
child ! You 've not only found a music-teacher, 
but you 've found a dancing-master! " 

Chapter XV. 


Christmas came and went; and whatever 
hopes, desires, or regrets, filled the loving little 
heart of Lady Jane, the child kept them to her- 




self, and was outwardly as bright and cheerful 
as on other da3's, although Pepsie, who watched 
her closely, thought that she detected a wistful- 
ness in her eyes, and, at times, a sad note in the 
music of her happy voice. If the affection that 
finds e.\pression in numerous Christmas gifts can 
make a child conlented, Lady Jane had cer- 
tainly no reason to complain. 

The first thing on which her eyes fell when 
she awoke was her stockings, the slender legs 
Aery much swollen and bulged, hanging in Ma- 
dame's chimney-corner, waiting to be relieved 
of their undue expansion. Even Raste — the 
extravagant and impecunious Raste — had re- 
membered her; for a very dressy doll, with a 
French gilt bangle encircling its w^aist (the ban- 
gle being intended not for the doll, but for 
Lady Jane), bore a card on which was inscribed 
in bold characters, " AL Adraste Jozain," and, 
underneath the name, " A mery Crismus." Ad- 
raste was very proud of his English, and as 
Lady Jane was more grateful than critical it 
passed muster. Then, there was a basket of 
fruit from Gex ; and beside the basket nestled a 
little yellow duckling, which came from Mam'- 
selle Diane, as Lady Jane knew without look- 
ing at the tiny old-fashioned card attached to 
it. And, after she had been made happy at 
home, she still had another pleasure in store; 
for Pepsie, wishing to witness the pleasure of 
her little friend, had the Paichoux presents, with 
her own and Madelon's, beautifully arranged on 
her table, and carefully covered until the impor- 
tant moment of unveiling. Every Paichoux had 
remembered Lady Jane, and a finer array of pic- 
ture-books, dolls, and toys was never spread before 
a happier child ; but the presents which pleased 
her most, were a small music-box from Madelon, 
a tiny silver thimble from Pepsie, and Mam'selle 
Diane's little duckling. These she kept always 
among her treasures. 

" The day /like best," said Pepsie, after Lady 
Jane had exhausted all adjectives expressive of 
admiration, "is the Jour de VAii, New Year's, as 
you call it. Then Tante Modeste and the chil- 
dren come, and bring bonbons and fireworks, 
and the street is lighted from one end to the 
other, and the sky is full of rockets and Roman 
candles, and there is so much noise, and every 
one is merry — because the New Year has come." 

At that moment, Tite Souris entered with an 
expressive grin on her ebonj' face, and an air of 
great mystery. 

" Here you, chil'ums, I done got yer Cris- 
mus. Doan' say nufin' 'bout it, 'cause tain't 
nufin' much. I ain't got no money ter buy 
dolls, an' sech ; so I jes' bought yer boaf a ' stage 
plank.' I lowed yer might lak a ' stage plank.' " 

Unfolding a large yellow paper, she laid a 
huge sheet of coarse black gingerbread on the 
table among Lady Jane's treasures. 

" Thank you, Tite," said Lady Jane, eying the 
strange object askance. " What is it ? " 

" Oh, lor'. Miss Lady, ain't ye neber seed a 
' stage plank ' ? It 's ter eat. It 's good; ain't it, 
Miss Peps' ? " 

■' I don't know, Tite ; I never ate one," re- 
plied Pepsie, smiling broadly; "but I dare say 
it 's good. It 's kind of you to think of us, and 
we '11 try it, by and by." 

" Dear me ! " said Pepsie, after Tite, who was 
grinning with satisfaction, had left the room. 
" What shall we do with it? ^Ve can't eat it?" 

" Perhaps Tony will," exclaimed Lady Jane, 
eagerly. " He will eat almost anything. He 
ate all Tante Pauline's shrimps the other day, 
and he swallowed two live toads in Mam'selle 
Diane's garden. Oh, he 's got a dreadful appe- 
tite ! Tante Pauline says she can't afford to 
feed him," and she looked anxiously at her 
greedy pet. 

" Well, we '11 try him," said Pepsie, breaking 
off a piece of the " stage plank " and throwing 
it to Tony. The bird gobbled it down promptly, 
and then looked for more. 

Lady Jane clapped her hands delightedly. 
" Oh, is n't Tony nice to eat it ? But we must 
n't let Tite know, because she 'd be .sorry that 
we did n't like it. AVe '11 keep it and give it all 
to Tony." And in this way Tite's " stage plank " 
was disposed of 

If Christmas was a merry day to Lady Jane, 
New Year's was certainly a happy one. The 
Paichoux children came, as Pepsie said they 
would, loaded with bonbons and fireworks, and 
all day the neighborhood was lively with their 
fun — and such a dinner as they brought with 
them ! Lady Jane thought there never could be 
anything as pretty as the table in Madelon's 
little room, loaded, as it was, with all sorts of 



good things. Tante Modeste went home to dine 
with her husband; but the children remained 
until the milk-cart came for them, when it was 
quite dark. 

After they were all gone, and quiet was re- 
stored to the tiny dwelling, Lady Jane remarked 
to Pepsie that she thought New Year's was 
better than Christmas. 

Pepsie was teaching her to read and sew, and 
JMam'selle Diane was drilling her in scales, — al- 
though at times Madame d'Hautreve grumbled 
and quavered about the noise, and declared that 
the child was too young ; for, stretch them all 
she could, her tiny fingers would //of reach an 

And then there were the dancing lessons, 

" But just wait," said Pepsie, smiling myste- 
riously; "just wait until Carnival! Christmas 
and New Year's are lovely ; but Mardi-Gras — 
oh, Mardi-Gras ! there 's /wthmg like it in the 
world ! " 

Lady Jane wondered very much what Mardi- 
Gras was ; but tried to wait patiently until that 
wonderful day should arrive. The time did not 
pass slowly to her, surrounded as she was by 
tender care and affection. 

which were always a pleasure, and a constant 
source of amusement in which Pepsie and Tite 
Souris shared, Pepsie as an enraptured spectator, 
and Tite Souris by personating Mr. Gex in Lady 
Jane's frequent rehearsals ; and even Tony had 
caught the spirit of Terpsichore, and imder Lady 
Jane's constant instruction had learned to take 
steps, to mince and hop and pirouette, if not as 
correctly, at least as gracefully, as the ancient 
Professor Ge.\. 

(To /if coittinited.) 


And sees the ship's 
side tower 

Above like a wet, black wall, 
And plays with the stormy petrel. 

And answers the sea-gull's call. 


But deep down under the water 

Better slie loves to play, 
Setting a rock with sea-shells 
Purple and pink and gray ; 
Stringing with pearls a necklace. 

Or learning curious spells 
From the water-witch, gray and 
And hearing the tales she tells. 



In a garden of shining seaweed 

Set round with twisted shells, 
Under the deeps of the ocean, .. i 

The little sea princess dwells. ' 

I she sees the shadow '•;.. ~/i" 

great whale passing by, -^ 

a white-winged vessel, sailing 
Between the sea and sky. 
And when through the waves 
she rises, 
Beyond the ocean's roar. 
She hears the shouts of 
the children 
At play on the sandy 

Without the palace, her seahorse 

Feeds in his crystal stall, 
.\nd fishes, with scales that glisten, 

Come leaping fcrth at her call. 


And when the day has faded 
From over the lonesome deep, 

In a shell as smooth as satin 
The princess is rocked to sleep. 



By Walter Camp. 

Fourth Paper: 


More than the profe.ssional nine, the amateur 
nine is dependent for its success upon the work 
of the battery. For this reason it is that so much 
time and attention are devoted to the men com- 
posing this battery, throughout the season as 
well as in preliminary training. The greatest 
cause of poor work by pitcher and catcher at 
the outset may be said to be lame arms. A 
pitcher whose arm is lame will go on exhausting 
himself, punishing the catcher, and breaking down 
the nerve of his nine from inning to inning, until 
the game is irretrievably lost. A catcher with 
a lame arm soon betrays his inability to throw 
to the bases; and the opponents steal second 
and then third, until his own nine feel tliat if a 
runner reaches first he has merely to trot around 
to third. Demoralization always follows, and 
the nine " goes to pieces." 

The first problem to be studied, then, is how 
to avoid a lame arm, and the second, how to 
cure it if the misfortune comes. A lame ann is 
usually acquired early in the season ; for, when 
the muscles are thoroughly trained and kept in 
good condition, lameness seldom results from 
any cause except some foolish overwork (such, 
for instance, as pitching several hard games a 
week for two or three weeks). This overwork 
is not the temptation to an amateur player that 
it is to the professional ; but occasionally a com- 
bination of circumstances makes an unusual de- 
mand upon an amateur, and he is then even 
more likely than the professional to forget that 
his arm is not a machine. On this account it 
is well to state that two games a week should 
be the limit for the amateur pitcher. In fact, 
even that allowance, continued steadily, is very 
likely to weaken his pitching. 

The preparatory training for the pitcher should 
be even more gradual than that of the other 
players. He should begin in the \vinter to take 
Vol. XVII.— ioi. 825 

up all the exercises suggested for increasing the 
suppleness and strength of the muscles of the 
arm and shoulder, particularly the latter. He 
should use the light dumb-bells, going through 
as great a variety of motions as the most thor- 
ough system provides. He should vary the bells 
by exercises with the Indian-clubs. After a 
week of this, he ought to do some rope-climbing 
and swinging on the flying-rings, if he enjoys 
the advantages of a well-equipped gymnasium. 
Every day he should throw a little, both over- 
hand and underhand, but without attempting 
anything like speed, and he should avoid curves 
until he has had two weeks or more of this 
general exercise. 

He may then begin upon the curves with a 
degree of safety ; taking preferably the in-curves 
first, for a day or two, and later the out-curves. 
If a comrade can go through the work with him, 
nothing could be better ; for they may be mutu- 
ally useful, not only in keeping up the interest, 
but also by acting as massage operators upon 
each other. The arm and shoulder should be 
thoroughly rubbed and kneaded every day, and 
if there be any suspicion of lameness a little al- 
cohol or cider-brandy may be rubbed in. The 
pitcher should not be called upon to pitch for 
any cage-batting except at his own desire, and 
even then he .should not be allowed to do very 
much of it. 

Having made a good beginning, and having 
with no apparent difficulty reached a point 
where he can get his curves and speed without 
any feeling of exhaustion or heaviness in the 
arm or shoulder, the next point of danger 
comes with the first outdoor practice. For this 
reason, it is an excellent plan for the pitcher to 
go into the open air for a little preliminary work 
some days before the rest of the nine are put 
into the field. In doing this he must remember 
that he should be almost as careful again as he 
was while getting broken in for the winter work. 
He should do no hard pitching for several 
days, and should have his arm and shoulder 




well rubbed with alcohol after his exercise. 
Until the weather is warm and settled, the pitcher 
should avoid hard pitching, or he will bitterly 
repent it. To cure a lame arm is a difficult task, 
but of course the treatment will vary with the 
nature and extent of the injury. Recovery is a 
question of rest and the encouragement of union 
by means of electricity, friction, or other gentle 
stimulus to the circulation through the part. 
As a rule it is wise to seek at once a physician 
or surgeon. 

Before entering upon a description of the 
work of the experienced pitcher after he is once 
started for the season, it is only fair to tell some 
of the younger aspirants for pitcher's honors 
something of the methods of acquiring the 
various curves and "shoots." There have been 
almost numberless articles written describing 
the theory of curving a ball. These are more 
interesting to theorists than to ball-players. The 
fact itself remains that a base-ball may be made 
to describe more or less of a curve while travers- 
ing the distance between the pitcher and the 
batsman; and that curve is accomplished by 
imparting a certain twist to the ball as it leaves 
the pitcher's hand. No matter how thoroughly 
one might explain to a man of no experience 
the way to balance upon a bicycle, the first 
attempt would result invariably in the machine 
and rider losing that balance. So the would-be 
pitcher must remember that no description will 
enable him to curve the ball at his first attempts. 
In fact, it is more discouraging than learning 
bicycle-riding, because there one feels at the 
very first trial the near possibihty of success; 
whereas, it is many a day before the novice can 
impart even a very slight curve to the base-ball. 
Perseverance will surely be rewarded eventuall}-, 
however, in this as in any other practice. 

The easiest curve, and the one to be acquired 
first, is the out-curve. The simplest method is to 
take the ball in the hand between the extended 
thumb, first and second finger, the third and 
Httle finger being closed. The ball rests against 
the middle joint of the third finger, but is firmly 
clasped by the first two and the thumb. If the 
arm be then extended horizontally from the 
shoulder, with the palm of the hand up, it will 
be seen that if the ball were spun like a top by 
the two fingers and thumb it would turn in the 

way indicated by the arrow in the diagram. 
This is the way it must twist to accomplish the 
out-curve. If this idea be borne in mind, and 
the ball be thus thrown, the thrower will imme- 
diately discover that the simpler way to impart 
this twist is not the spinning motion, but rather 
a snap as the ball is leaving the fingers, per- 
formed almost entirely without the aid of the 
thumb. The sensation is that of throwing the 
ball hard, but dragging it back with the ends and 


Fig. I shows the position of the ball and pitcher's fingers as 
seen when looking directly at the back of the hand, whether the 
pitcher is to deliver an out or in curve. For an in-curve, the pitcher 
lets the ball go from his hand so that it last touches the inside of the 
second finger, causing the ball to rotate in the direction indicated by 
the arrow ; and Fig. 3 shows the position of the arm as it turns just 
previous to letting the ball go for this curve. 

Fig. 2 shows the position of the ball and fingers as seen by one 
looking at the side of the hand, instead of at the back : and is the 
same, when the first motion of the arm begins, whether the pitcher 
is to deliver an " out " or an " in." If an out-curve be dehvered, 
the pitcher will allow the ball to pass out of his hand so that it last 
touches that side of the forefinger nearest the thumb; thus causing 
the ball to rotate in the direction indicated by the arrow in Fig 2. 

Fig. 4 shows the position of the arm just previous to letting the 
ball go when an out-cur\'e is delivered. 

Fig. 5 shows the beginning of the motion : and as the arm 
comes forward, if an out-curve be delivered the hand turns with the 
motion of turning a screw: while if an in-curve is delivered the mo- 
tion is reversed, or is as the hand would turn in extracting a screw. 

sides of the fingers just as it leaves the hand. 
In practicing to acquire this curve, it is best to 
swing the arm not straight out, but bent at the 




elbow, with the ball just a little higher than the 
shoulder. When the curve is once acquired, it 
is simple enough to impart it to the ball, whether 
the arm is swinging high or low, straight or bent. 
None but the out-curve should be attempted 
until the pitcher finds himself able to make the 

ball take a quite per- 
ceptible bend. 

The in-curve is 
the reverse of the 
out, and never can 
be made so marked. 
The ball is held as 
for the out-curve, 
but is made to go 
out between the 
second and third 
fingers. Both these 
curves can be ac- 
complished by the use of the whole hand instead 
of the two fingers, but it is easier to learn to perform 
them in the way described. The " rise " and 
" drop " are also possible, and are eftected by im- 
parting to the ball the twists illustrated in the 
diagrams, page 826. These two curves can be ac- 
complished very readily, after the out and in are 
acquired, by simply changing the position of the 
hand, so that the same twist as that which makes 
the ball curve out will make it curve up ; while 
the twist which makes it curve in will make it 
drop. For instance, the hand held as in Fig. 4 will 
effect an out-curve, and when turned a little with 
the same twist will effect an up-curve or rise. 
The drop is sometimes also accomplished by 
allowing the ball to roll over the end of the 
fingers, this giving it the tendency to shoot 
down. The arm should be drawn up rather 

sharply as the ball 
goes over the tips 
of the fingers. 

All these curves 
are susceptible of 
various combina- 
tions one with an- 
other, so that pitch- 
ers make use of the 
out-drop and the 
in-rise, the in-drop 
and the out-rise. 
Any combination 

AN "out-curve" — THE END. 

to pitch what many writers have called a " snake 
ball," that is, one which will have a change of 
curve, in effect, opposite to that with which it 
started, exists in the imagination only, unless 
the ball be blown out of its course by the wind. 
The effect of a strong wind upon the ball is 
very marked, and when it is toward the pitcher 
and against the ball, it aids materially in in- 
creasing the tendency to curve. When with 
the ball, it renders the curve less easy to pro- 
duce and less marked. A left-handed pitcher 
is able to make much more of what to a right- 
handed batsman is an in-curve, for to such a 
pitcher it is the easiest one to produce ; while its 
opposite, or the out-curve to a right-handed 
batsman, is correspondingly weak. 

The training of the catcher has in it less va- 
riety, and is in consequence far more tedious 
than that of the pitcher. The work of strength- 
ening the muscles of the shoulder and arm is 
the same as that de- 
scribed for the pitcher ; 
but in the throwing 
practice, the catcher 
should devote his at- 
tention to the short- 
arm throw. He should 
begin at the short dis- 
tance of perhaps fifty 
feet, and increase that 
distance very gradu- 
ally. In fact, he 
ought, even when he pitching a -drop" ball. 
can readily throw the full distance from home 
to second with comparative ease, to do most of 
his throwing at two-thirds that distance. After 
the nine has begun to work in the field, it is not 
advisable for the catcher to throw to second 
anything like the number of times the majority 
of amateurs attempt daily. Only after the nine 
has been out-of-doors for two or three weeks 
is so much of the full-distance throwing safe for 
any catcher who wishes to have his arm in 
good condition. 

The position of the feet in throwing is all 
important. If he be a strong man of moderate 
weight, he can, and should, throw without 
changing the position of his feet. To this ob- 
ject his gymnasium practice should be devoted. 
Standing steadily upon his feet in the exact 




position assumed at the moment of catching the 
ball, he should with a slight swing at the hips 
be able to send the ball down. Throwing in a 
cage with a low ceiling is the best thing possi- 
ble for him, as it forces him to throw hard and 
on a line. A point of catcher's practice, which 
does not enter into the work of the pitcher, is 
that of toughening the hands. Rowing on the 
machines, climbing the rope, swinging on the 
flying-rings, and hand-ball, if there be any court 
for that excellent game, will all tend toward this 
end. He should consider, however, that it is 
not merely toughening the skin of the hands 
that is desirable, but also hardening the flesh so 
that it is not easily bruised. For this reason 
he should " pass ball " without gloves regularly 
every day. At the outset he should receive no 
swift balls, and should stop at the first feeling 
of anything beyond a moderate tingling of the 
palms. His hands should receive their full 
preparatory hardening before he goes out into 
the field, for ordinary carefulness demands that 
he should do no catching behind the bat after the 
season commences except with hands thoroughly 
protected by well-padded gloves. What is com- 
monly called a " stone bruise " is one of the 
tenderest and most lasting mementos of care- 
lessness in this respect. In his gymnasium 
practice he should wear the mask. This seems 
to most catchers a useless bore; but the 
captain or coach should insist upon it, and 
the mask should become almost a part of the 
catcher himself. All his throwing and passing 
should be performed with his eyes behind its 
wires, in order that, from becoming thoroughly 
accustomed to it, it may add no inconvenience 
to his work. The breastplate need not be so 
rigorously insisted upon, but even this should 
be worn frequently. The right-hand glove must 
always be worn when practicing throwing, in 
order that this also shall offer no unusual diffi- 
culty in the later work. Many a catcher may 
think that it looks silly to stand up with a mask 
and glove on to throw at a mark; but there is 
every reason for doing this, and he will him- 
self appreciate the value of such practice when 
he stands accoutered on the field behind the 
batsman and with a runner on first. 

As often as it is convenient, the catcher, par- 
ticularly if a novice, should have some one 

swing the bat before him while he is " passing 
ball " in the gymnasium. By the time he gets 
out-of-doors, he should be thoroughly accus- 
tomed to the close proximity of the batsman and 
the swing of the bat, so that it does not discon- 
cert him in the least or affect his holding the 
ball. It is no very difficult achievement for a 
novice to prepare for this part of the catcher's 
duties. He should begin by having a comrade 
swing the bat quite far from the actual course 
of the ball, say a foot above or below it, while 
the pitcher tosses the ball at slow speed. After 
several days more, the pitcher should slightly 
accelerate his delivery, and the batsman swing 
the bat within four or five inches of the ball. 
After a few days of this latter practice, the nov- 
ice will find that he does not flinch at all, and 
from that time on, all that he needs is daily 
practice behind the bat to become perfectly at 
home so far as catching the ball is concerned. 

When the battery have left the gymnasium 
and are fairly settled down to regular field-prac- 
tice, they require the strictest of supervision to 
prevent them from doing foolish things. For 
instance, all the nine have the strongest fancy 
for batting the delivery of the regular pitcher. 
They like the practice, and know that it is good 
for their batting. The pitcher, likewise, is prone 
to a vanity that urges him on to extreme effort 
when pitching to members of his own nine ; 
and while such effort to a moderate degree is an 
excellent thing for him, it will be found that, 
left to himself, he will very likely enter into a 
duel with the batsman and pitch himself into 
exhaustion or a lame arm before the batsman 
will tire of the sport. He therefore should be 
permitted to pitch to one or, perhaps, two bats- 
men daily, just enough to give him a Httle in- 
terest ; while the rest of his pitching practice 
should be very limited, and should have no ele- 
ment in it that would tempt him to pitch a sin- 
gle ball after his arm is tired. When the season 
is at its height, the games themselves will give 
him enough to do without any pitching to his 
own men — unless he may occasionally desire 
to try the effect of some new delivery upon the 
batsman. In that case he should be free to se- 
lect his own victims as he may require them. 
The pitcher should also practice throwing to 
bases, paying particular attention to holding a 

i&g*^. ] 



Tunner close upon first base. He should aim 
to acquire such precision in this as habitually to 
throw four out of tive balls successively in prac- 
tically the same spot — namely, at about the 
height of the baseman's knee and just a little 
toward second. The same relative place is a 
good one for throwing to the other bases, for 
the purpose to be borne m mind is not to throw 
at the base, but to cut off the runner. 

The catcher needs little watching, but the 
captain or coach must never allow him to stand 
before any swift pitching if his hands are sore. 
Sometimes a plucky fellow will not care to tell 
everybody that his hands are sore, and it there- 
fore must be the captain's business to know all 
about this. The pitcher should tell the captain ; 
for it is the pitcher who will notice the unavoid- 
able wince that is the proof of a catcher's sore 
hand. The catcher should do a moderate 
amount of throwing to all the bases every day, 
and he ought also to practice receiving the ball 
from both in-fielders and out-fielders at the home 
plate, in order that he may be able to put the 
ball on a runner coming in from third. For 
general work, it is not a bad plan to have both 
catcher and pitcher bat to the in-fielders, as it 
gives them relaxation as well as exercise good 
for all-around development. 

Their work with one another is of the most 
vital interest to the success of the nine, for in it 
lies the best part of the strength of the battery. 
If two men do not get on well together, it is 
an almost hopeless task to make of them a 
successful battery. In the matter of signals, as 
almost every one nowadays understands, they 
must be thoroughly accustomed to each other. 
These signals indicate what kind of ball is to be 
pitched, and sometimes the catcher gives them, 
sometimes the pitcher. If the catcher be a good 
judge of batsmen, and the pitcher be of a dis- 
position inclining him to depend upon some one 
else, it is best that the catcher give the signals. 
It is also less hkely to attract the attention of 
the coaches or batsmen, as the catcher can 
better conceal a gesture. The pitcher may, 
however, give them if it seems necessary. 
Signal systems of great ingenuity may be con- 
cocted, but as a rule the simpler they are, with- 
out too great risk of discovery, the better, as 
neither player should have his mind distracted 

from his work any more than is necessary by 
being obliged to think twice about a signal. 
A movement of the thumb or a finger, as the 
catcher stands with his hands on his knees pre- 
paratory to receiving the ball, is the most com- 
mon ; and if the catcher keep his hands on the 
inner sides of the legs in giving this signal it is 


difficult for the coach to catch it. The height 
at which he holds his hands may indicate the 
kind of delivery he wants. A movement of the 
head, the position of the feet — all may be 
made useful in this way. 

I remember one college catcher who gave 
the signals for an out-curve or an in-curve in a 
pecuhar manner, and one which was never sus- 




pected by any one not in the secret. The signal 
consisted in the relative position of a certain wire 
in the mask, to his eyes. If he looked over this 
wire he wanted an in-curve ; if under it, an out- 
curve. The change in position of his head was al- 
most imperceptible, but it was unmistakable to 
the pitcher who understood its significance. 
Ward once told a very good story apropos of 
signaling. A certain pitcher was giving the 
signals, and the man who was catching was 
comparatively a stranger to his delivery. It 
appears that the signals which the pitcher was 
giving were a smile and a frown; and after a 
time, the first-base man, who had been in the 
habit of catching for the same pitcher, began to 
expostulate with the new catcher for his wretched 

" Why," replied the poor fellow, " the sun is 
in that pitcher's eyes, and he squints his face up 
so that I can't tell, for the life of me, whether 
he 's grinning or scowling ! " 

It is customary for the one of the pair who is 


not giving the signals, to be perfectly free to 
shake his head if he does not approve of any 
particular delivery which has been signaled, and 
his comrade then gives the sign for a different 
curve. In a strong battery the man who is a 

good judge can in this way often be of great as- 
sistance to the other. 

In his pitching to batsmen, the pitcher should 
bear in mind that it is by no means possible to 
strike out all, or even a moderate proportion, of 
the men who face him ; whereas it is possible to 
prevent the majority from hitting the ball just 
where they wish. The first principle to keep be- 
fore him, then, is to make the batsmen hit the 
ball either close up on the handle or out at the 
end of the bat. In either case the hit will prob- 
ably be one which may be easily fielded so as to 
result in putting out the batsman. By the ju- 
dicious use of the rise or drop, also, the pitcher 
may cause the batsman to hit flies or grounders, 
according to the delivery. If his out-field be 
exceptionally good, it is often good policy to 
make the batsman knock a fly. Again, a weak- 
ness in the out-field accompanied by unusual 
strength in the in-field may indicate that he 
should endeavor to make the batsman keep the 
ball on the ground. There are, correspondingly, 
occasions when, with men 
on the bases and less than 
two out, a pitcher can 
greatly relieve the feel- 
ings of his nine by strik- 
ing out one or two men, 
and it is upon such an 
occasion that he should 
make an especial effort 
to accomplish this. All 
these things he should 
consider in practice, as 
well as in games, and 
train himself accordingly. 
He should also think 
of his catcher; and, in 
a game, remember that 
he is giving the man 
behind the bat a deal 
more work to do, if he 
continually labors to 
strike out the men, than 
if he judiciously controls 
their hitting so that the rest of the nine shares in 
the labor. When there is a man on first who is 
known to be a good and daring base-stealer, it 
is also good policy to refrain from pitching the 
ball in such a manner as to give the catcher a 

i89o.] ^ BAT, BALL, AND DIAMOND. 83 1 

poor opportunity for his throw, as, for instance, two bases instead of one. No matter what has 
sending an in-shoot very close to the batsman, happened, it is the catcher's business to get the 
or a slow out-curve which will give tlie runner a ball as quickly as possible, and make any neces- 


long lead on the ball. It is the pitcher's business 
to keep the base-runner as close to the base as 
possible, and to have his delivery of the ball to 
the batsman accompanied by as little prelimi- 
nary step and swing as is consistent with good 
work, because in that way the runner cannot 
get very far toward second before the catcher 
receives th*e ball. The best of catchers can not 
throw out even a moderately fast runner unless 
the pitcher assists in this way. 

The catcher, on his part, must return the 
kindnesses of the pitcher by like consideration. 
He must begin by a resolution to try for every- 
thing, and to consider no ball beyond his reach, 
no matter how wild. If he cannot catch it, he 
may by an effort at least stop it ; and nothing is 
so encouraging to the pitcher as to see that his 
catcher will try for even the wildest pitch. It 
is the fashion of some amateur catchers, if there 
has been a mistake in the signal, or a wild pitch, 
to stand a moment to cast a reproachful look at 
the pitcher before starting after the ball. This 
is, of course, absurd. It never does any good ; 
it usually disgusts the pitcher and the rest 
of the nine, and allows the runner to take 

sary explanation later. The catcher should also 
be very willing in the matter of trying for foul 
flies. It makes glad the heart of the pitcher to 


see a batsman go out on a foul fly, and the 
catcher should be mindful of this. 



One very difficult ball for most catchers to 
handle is a high, swift rise which passes the 
batsman's face ; and as it is, in the hands of a 
pitcher who uses it well, a very effective ball, 
the catcher should devote plenty of practice, to 
it, until he is absolutely sure of holding it. It 
will sometimes go a little higher than the pitcher 
intends, and unless the catcher gives him good 
support, the pitcher becomes afraid to use it, 
and thus loses a strong feature of his dehvery. 

The catcher, even though he be an excellent 
thrower, should not fall into the error of throw- 
ing too frequently to first and third. An occa- 
sional throw when there is a chance of catching 
a too venturesome runner is good policy ; but 
simply to return the ball to the pitcher by way 
of first or third is inviting the accident of a mis- 
play which will give a runner a base and perhaps 
a run. Throwing to second has been dwelt 

upon already to considerable length ; but one 
thing may be added, and that is, that a catcher 
will find it productive of the greatest improve- 
ment to his work in this respect, if he will make 
a point of catching every ball, no matter whether 
there be a runner on first or not, exactly as if he 
must throw it to second. He will be astonished 
at the marked increase in quickness that comes 
from making this a habit. One word more for 
the catcher, and that in regard to returning the 
ball to the pitcher. Bearing in mind that the 
pitcher has a long task before him, the catcher 
should return the ball to him as accurately as 
possible ; never falling into the slipshod habit 
of sending it back carelessly so that the poor 
pitcher is kept dancing hither and yon to catch 
these returns. The ball should be so returned 
by the catcher as to go on a clean first bound 
almost into his very hands. 

(To be continued.') 



c, ^^ ^~yS^^C^!. ilil^'^&a^^gf"'^^^''^ _ LiS=E3^ 

Walter Camp 

As Seen from the Referee's Launch. 

It was the day of the long talked-of Atalanta- 
Yale race ; and every one ^^•as on the tip-toe of 
expectancy at the thought of the question of 
boating supremacy to be settled between the 
champion amateur-eight and the champion col- 
lege-eight. Experts in boating matters had ex- 
pressed differing opinions as to the probable result, 
and every one at all interested in rowing had 
read of the merits of the rival crews. The gen- 

eral opinion was that the Atalantas would lead 
for at least two miles, and then would strain every 
nerve to hold that advantage to the end of the 
four miles which had been agreed upon as the 
distance. The race was to be rowed between 
the hours of ten and seven, at any time when the 
conditions of wind, tide, and water were most 
favorable. At nine o'clock, the wind had sprung 
up ; and the crews, referee, and judges, who were 
assembled at the Yale boat-house in preparation 
for the start, began to cast dubious looks at the 




flags as they stood out straight from the poles in 
the freshening breeze. The course had been 
laid out in the harbor, extending four miles 
direct from the outside breakwater to the end 
of Long Wharf The boat-house stood a mile 
back from the long pier, and the boats of both 
crews were here housed until the referee should 
order them out for the race. The Long Wharf, 
and boats and bridges were black with people 
by ten o'clock. Eleven o'clock, and still the 
wind whipped the water into waves, not high, 
but too rough for the low, eight-oared shells 
to ride without danger of becoming filled before 
the four miles could be rowed. Now the only 
hope of the weather-wise was that on the turn 

at once crept gingerly into their cranky shells 
and paddled up to the line. 

Soon the shells were in place, the referee called 
out, "Are you ready?" and then his "Go!" 
rang out like a pistol-shot. The sixteen oar-blades 
were buried and the two boats sprang forward 
like unleashed hounds, the Yale bow a trifle to 
the fore. Now for the lead ! The Yale crew 
have been told that they must not be alarmed 
if the Atalantas should at first succeed in ob- 
taining the coveted lead, but they have also been 
instructed to " spurt " up to thirty-five strokes 
to the minute (which is four above their regu- 
lar number) rather than let these sturdy rivals 
have their own way at this point. Both 

of the tide, just after noon, the wind would 
slacken. This hope proved well-founded, for by 
twelve o'clock the flags were drooping, and the 
water becoming quieter, the referee ordered out 
the boats, and the crews hastened to bring the 
slender shells. 

The Yale crew then jumped aboard the ref- 
eree's steam launch, which started down the har- 
bor, towing the shell. A steam tug performed 
the same offices for the Atalantas. As the two 
little steamers puffed down past the piers, the 
" Rah ! rah ! — Yale 1 " of the college sympa- 
thizers mingled with the cheers of the friends of 
the Atalantas. By the time they reached the 
starting-flag, the course was by no means bad 
except at a few exposed points. The two crews 
Vol. XVII.— 102. 

crews are putting forth all their strength; the 
Yale blades splash a little more than those 
of the Atalantas, but nevertheless the power of 
their stroke keeps them still a foot ahead. Al- 
most stroke for stroke they row, but now the 
Yale boat is traveling more smoothly on her 
keel and she begins to draw away. The half- 
mile flag is passed, and there is clear water be- 
tween the boats. Down drops Yale's stroke to 
thirty-one, while the Atalantas' must rerriain at 

On they go, the space between the boats 
slowly growing until, at the mile, Yale is three 
lengths ahead. At the mile and a half they 
have increased this lead to four lengths, and it 
begins to look as if it were " all over but the 




shouting." The Yale bhides go more smoothly 
now, and there is hardly a splash in the rhyth- 
mic swing of the rising and falling oars when — 
what ! stroke has ceased to row ! See the spurt- 
ing sheet of water rising over his motionless 
oar ! Oh, Allen ! — no one thought you 'd fail I 
But why does he not recover ? The water still 
leaps from the dragging blade ; the cause is plain 
— he has broken his oar, and Yale's chances 
are gone ! What a pity, after their fine work 
and with such a lead ! Allen is reaching out and 
unlocking his rowlock to set the oar free and stop 
its impeding drag upon the boat. The Yale 
oars go bravely on, not a stroke lost, although 
there are only seven oarsmen now. But the 
Atalantas are creeping up, and it is manifestly 
a hopeless task for those seven men to carry a 
"passenger" as heavy as Allen over the re- 
maining two miles, and keep ahead of the 
eight in red who are now steadily overhauling 
them. Allen has succeeded in freeing the 
broken oar and drops the two treacherous bits 
into the water astern. Poor fellow, it will break 
his heart to watch the steady approach of that 
slender prow behind and be unable to help his 
men ! See, he turns and says something to star- 
board-stroke, and now — he is certainly going 
to stand up! Just leaning forward, he rises as 
the seven oars make their catch and lift the 
boat firmly ; and, almost without a splash, over he 

goes, clear of the boat, which shoots ahead as he 
turns in the water and calls cheerfully, " Go in 
and win ! " A few strokes of his muscular arms, 
and he is reached by the launch and swings 
himself up into her bows the hero of the 
hour ! Now his crew still has a chance to win, 
for the loss of his oar is partly compensated by 
the decreased weight. A half mile will tell the 
story, for they have lost but a length or two of 
their lead. As they pass the next flag it is evi- 
dent that the Atalantas are no longer gaining, 
and at the three miles they are surely dropping 
farther astern ! Only a mile more, and if the 
plucky little coxswain can keep up the courage 
of his seven men, Allen will have no cause to 
mourn. We are near enough to hear the cox- 
swain shout, " Only a half mile more, boys ; keep 
it up and we '11 beat them yet ! " The boats at 
the finish begin to see them coming, and the 
whistles blow and the cheers come rolling ovei 
the water, encouraging them to hold that pow- 
erful swing just a little longer. Two minutes — 
and "bang" goes the gun on thejudge's boat and 
the Yale crew shoot by, the winners of one of 
the most remarkable races ever rowed. And how 
the boys will make heroes of them all! — Allen for 
his coolness and pluck, the coxswain for his 
skill and courage, the starboard-stroke for his 
steady work, and all the crew for their endur- 
ance and nerve ! 

y^ TALt 



By Francis Randall. 

Long years ago, when the tide was low 
One lazy summer's day, 
From a distant star to a sandy bar 
A cupid winged his way. 

His quick glance fell upon a shell ; 
A crab lay on the shore ; 
With seaweed fine he made a line, 
And hitched the crab before. 

iSgo. ] 



Albtfflr.. - !\-^"jAil. V/^^fc*-l^-^-, 

" Go 'long 1 " he cries. In sad surprise, 
He finds the reins are slack ; 
And though he plead to move ahead 
The crab began to back. 

In vain is talk; of ways to walk, 
The crabs possess queer notions ; — 

One would suppose so many toes 
Would give much better motions. 

This cupid, though, was bound to go ; 
On riding he was bent. 
He tied the crab behind his cab, 
And said, " Go back ! " He went. 


.N.R ^-yhtel 


Bv Helen Marshall North. 

1 1 III II . "'T''^ 

*^ """y^JKhi 



On the clear and bright August morning 
chosen for the White Mountain Coaching Pa- 
rade, all the roads within twenty-live miles lead 
to Bethlehem. On other days there is a long, 
wood-shaded drive to the Notch or the Flume; 
a steep climb to Mt. Agassiz ; a pleasant moun- 
tain road to Franconia, or Crawford's, or the 
Glen. But to-day no one mentions these at- 
tractions. Every boy and girl, every 3-oung 
man and maiden, who can possibly get there, 
is going to Bethlehem to the annual Coaching 
Parade. And every horse and everv vehicle of 
whatever age or physical condition is engaged 
for the occasion. 

Do you know how many young people can 
ride on and over and around the roof of a full- 
sized mountain tally-ho ? Of course, upon this 
fine summer morning no one wishes to ride 
inside if he can find a corner to cling to on the 
roof This is the way twenty-four young people 
arranged themselves on a big tally-ho, for a 
twenty-five mile ride to Bethlehem, one coaching 
day : First, there were two on the seat with the 
driver. Then four sat on the roof seat just be- 

hind ; four more were on the front " upper- 
deck " seat, above the roof; four on the seat 
next behind; four in the "rumble"; four on 
the rear of the roof, facing the rumble ; and, as 
there were two more very an.xious for places on 
top, and quite willing to be inconvenienced, 
cushions were placed for them between the roof 
seat, behind the driver, and the front " upper- 
deck " seat. In this latter position no allow- 
ance is made for feet, which therefore had to 
swing over the side of the coach. 

But no one stops to think of discomfort this 
busy morning. The inside seats are quickly 
taken by older people, banners displaying the 
house colors are spread, the young man in the 
rumble sounds the bugle, and the six horses 
dash away amid the farewell cheers of stay- 
at-home guests. 

If a drive of twenty miles is before us, we 
have taken our early breakfasts and by nine 
o'clock are well on our way ; for mountain roads 
are not level nor favorable for making time, and 
the grand procession will move at eleven. Off 
we go, under long shady stretches of birches, 




maples, and pine-trees, through which are steal- 
ing flecks of silver sunshine ; starting up all the 
squirrels and crows and bluebirds, and waking 
sudden echoes which seem to mock the loud 
laughter and the bugle notes. The roads are 
smooth and hard, the horses are in the best 
condition, the sky is blue, the sunshine brilliant, 
and a tally-ho song or some college glee rings 
out from the glad \-oung ]iassengers on the rum- 
bling coach. 

■ The procession of ornamented coaches and 
other vehicles is to move from Maplewood, one 
mile distant from Bethlehem, down the entire 
length of the street, and then return to the start- 
ing-point to receive the prizes. These are four 

awards to the successful competitors the pretty 
silk banners which constitute the premiums. 

On every road to the north, east, south, and 
west long lines of carriages are pouring into 
the wide Bethlehem street ; and every carriage 
is crowded to its utmost capacity with visitors. 
The girls are in bright summer costumes and 
bear banners and pennants. The young men, 
in brilliant tennis-blazers and negligee costumes, 
are giving the mountain calls or " yells," — cries 
adopted according to the well-known college 
custom and uttered with more energy than 
music. Here for instance is a heavily loaded 
coach, the passengers of which on meeting an- 
other coach cry, in strong, distinct chorus : 


Look-off! Look-off! Who are you? 
We 're from the Look-off! 
How do you do ? 

in number, and are offered, first, for the coach 
load of prettiest girls ; second, for the most 
beautifully decorated coach ; third, for the fin- 
est horses and equipments: fourth, for the And the second coach-load replies : 
coach coming the greatest distance. There is Hurrah for the silver ! 

also a second prize in each class, making eight Hurrah for the white ! 

' ' o o \\ e re from the Howard ! 

m all, and the governor of New Hampshire We 're all right. 




A third chimes in with an indescribable and 
very ingenious call to which no pen could do 
justice : 

Bric-a-kex-kex, co-ax, co-ax, 
Bric-a-kcx-kex, co-ax, co-ax, 
Hoi moi, Hoi nioi, 
Parabaloo, Maplewood ! 

All the coaches and mountain wagons, and 
many of the smaller vehicles, are decorated with 
bunting or flowers, often after very artistic de- 
signs ; and all the houses, big and little, hotels 
and cottages, on both sides of the street, are 
gay with draperies and festoons, e\'ergreens and 
flowers, of every color. Here is a pretty sum- 
mer home whose wide verandas are festooned 
with apple-green and white bunting, while deli- 
cate linings of pink are blushing through them 
in a pleasant summery fashion. Another has all 
its decorations of apple-green and white. The 
hotel doors and windows are prettil)- draped 
and a fringe of large green and white snow- 
balls made of tissue paper is lightly swinging 
in the cool summer air. Festoons of swaying 
balls also envelope the handsome tally-ho be- 
longing to this house. The rumble is appar- 
ently filled with snow-balls which are carelessly 
dropping over, and are kept in place by being 
strung, at irregular intervals, on strong thread. 
Silvered paper conceals the hubs, ]Jole, and 

whiffletrees. Eight fine gray horses step 
proudly in their trappings of white and plumes 
of white and green ; and, prettiest of all, six- 
teen young girls in white dresses, apple-green 
sashes, with sailor-hats trimmed with green, and 
large bouquets of pink and white sweet-peas 
tied with green ribbon, are seated on top of the 
coach, while a group of laughing children is 
crowded inside. 

Another house is out in blue and red, with 
streamers draped and festooned from a Maltese 
cross in the center; and the tally-ho matches 
it in coloring. These young ladies wear blue 
dresses, silver girdles, and large white hats 
trimmed with red poppies. 

It would be quite useless to try to describe 
all the beautiful coaches and costumes in the 
long procession ; for there are one hundred and 
fifty well-filled vehicles in all, and every possi- 
ble combination of color. But I must tell you 
of one unique turnout that amused every one. 
A big hay-wagon with pole and stanchions cov- 
ered with green and white cloth is partly filled 
with hay. Festoons of fruit, corn, and veg- 
etables adorn its sides, and the stanch team 
of eight fine fat oxen wear long green and white 
streamers on their horns. In the cart are six- 
teen jolly (city) farmers in coarse attire, with 

INV (.AKWIVUK l-i;(>M THE MAl'l-KWOOH llorS--:. 

iSgo ] 




decorated hats, carrying rakes, hoes, and pitch- 
forks, and bearing a banner inscribed with the 
name " Hayseed Tally-ho." The " farmers " 
had two " calls," as follows : 

Huckleberry, huckleberry, huckleberry pie I 


Buckwheat, buckwheat, buckwheat cakes ! 

and these they delivered with energy as the 
oxen slowly drew the cart down the street. 

But most charming of the sights in all this 
fair procession is a large mountain tally-ho trans- 
formed, by the aid of a skillful decorator, into 
a state chariot of the olden time, such as a king 
or queen might have used when making a 
" royal progress." Picture to yourself a stately 
coach in full decoration of light blue and gold 
satin, the commonplace wheels being covered 
with blue satin, on which gilded spokes are 
painted in imitation of chariot-wheels. Within, 
the coach is fully hung with blue satin draperies, 
with fine Honiton lace curtains from the win- 
dows. Handsome paintings of the seasons are 
on the door and at the sides, while a lovely fig- 
ure representing " August," painted on gold-col- 
ored satin and hung with a rich blue silk rope, 
is at the rear. In front of the driver'.s seat is a 

large gold eagle with outspread wings, bearing 
a laurel wreath. The driver himself, who looks 
exceedingly proud of the handsome turnout, 
wears a coachman's coat of light cloth, white 
knee-breeclies and hose, and large buckles on 
his shoes. The little bugler has a red coat, white 
stockings, and knee-breeches. The six horses 
have blue and gold blankets and plumes. 

The crowning attraction is, of course, the 
twelve young girls seated on the carved and 
draped roof seats. Seven of them are from New 
England, the rest from New York. All are 
dressed in costumes of fine white muslin, with 
Directoire capes of fine light blue broadcloth 
trimmed with gold fringe, white silk mitts, gold- 
colored sashes, white poke hats, trimmed with 
blue and gold. They carry twelve ensigns or 
little banners of blue and gold handsomely 

As the long and gay procession of coaches 
moves down the street, crowds of spectators, — 
about ten thousand in all, — dressed in hoHday 
attire, salute them from balconies and verandas. 
Generous applause greets the riders as one and 
another beautiful or unique vehicle goes by. 
The Indian basket-makers from their encampment 
are out, in full dress of war-paint and feathers, on 



a picturesque conveyance. Here is a company of 
little children in white and pink, having a fine 
frolic as they scatter field-flowers among the 
crowd. There is a tiny carriage accompanied 
by four small boys, as postihons, in white suits 
with canary sashes, and they look very pretty 
on their little ponies. 

By the time all the coaches have passed on 
their return to Maplewood, the spectators have 
quite generally decided as to the winners of 
the prizes. 

The " state chariot " easily carries off the first 
banner for coach decorations and also the first 
for fine horses. A coach-load of beautiful dark- 
eyed girls in white costumes with gold-colored 
jackets and sashes, and white hats with golden 
trimming, is made happy by the presentation of 
the first prize for beauty. The other prizes are 
given with equal discrimination. The governor 
makes a wily speech as he awards the prizes 
from the hotel piazza, the bands play their most 

joyful strains, and thousands of tired people 
scatter in every direction for dinner. 

Most of us stay to the afternoon games of 
base-ball, for each large mountain house has its 
base-ball club as well as its tally-ho. But very 
few of those coming from a distance can enjoy 
the elaborate fireworks in the evening, which 
terminate the festivities of the day, and by five 
o'clock all the grand old mountain peaks around 
Bethlehem see hundreds of happy young peo- 
ple on their homeward way making the woods 
ring again with bugle-note and lively song, the 
waving of banners and exchange of friendly 
calls with neighboring coaches. 

The prize banners are placed conspicuously 
in the rotundas of the respective hotels ; the story 
of the day's triumphs and pleasures is recounted 
to friends at home ; a dance in the parlor finishes 
the evening, and the happy coachers enjoy the 
long, dreamless sleep which ends one of the mer- 
riest of all merry White Mountain summer days. 

Al- i H:1< I Ht DUEL. 


By Alice Maude Ewell. 

Oh, why can't I think of it ? Where did it go ? 
I thought I would tell you this morning, you 

Yes, I thought, half awake — all so plain it did 

And now I have lost it — my dear little dream. 

Do you think it will come again — maybe to- 
night ? 

Oh, if I once catch it I 'II hold it so tight. 

'T was hke music, I think — and it must have 
had wings ; 

'T was like flowers and sunshine and all lovely 

If one could just peep into dreamland and see ! 
Do you think I would find it there, waiting for 

me ? 
But trying to catch it, one never could tell — 
It might fade quite away, under dark fairy 


For a queer place is dreamland, you know, — 

very queer; 
And you can't be quite sure which is there and 

which here; 
And you always keep doing but never get 

done ; 
And the ground floats from under your feet as 

you run. 

There the hills and the hollows seem melting in 

haze ; 
'T is an Indian summer of unending days. 
And the music will never play straight through 

one tune ; 
And the trees are so tall they go brushing the 


There the cats and the dogs are all able to 

When you meet 'em together, out taking a walk. 
There the roses are green — and the leaves may 

be pink ; 
And things are so " mixish " it scares you to 


There speaking to some one you 're sure that 

you know. 
Why, it 's somebody else— and that bothers 

you so ! 
You '11 mean to say something — the sense will 

all change 
To something you did n't mean, foolish and 


But I think I shall know it the minute I see, 
And I '11 tell you the moment I wake. Oh, dear 

me ! 
I hope that I '11 find it. Too bad it would seem 
To lose it forever — that dear httle dream ! 

Vol. XVII.— 103. 




By Oliver Herford. 

" Hurray ! " cried the kitten, " hurray ! ' 
As he merrily set the sails; 

"I sail o'er the ocean to-day 

To look at the Prince of Wales ! " 

" O kitten ! O kitten ! " I cried, 
'■ Why tempt the angry gales ? " 

" I 'm going," the kitten replied, 
" To look at the Prince of Wales ! " 

" O kitten ! pause at the brink, 

And think of the sad sea tales." 

"Ah, yes," said the kitten, "but think. 
Oh, think of the Prince of Wales ! " 

"But, kitten ! " I cried, dismayed, 
" If you live through the angry gales 
You hwTci you will be afraid 

To look at the Prince of Wales ! " 

I know what it is to get wet, 
I 've tumbled full oft in pails 

And nearly been drowned — and yet 
rp I "IMS/ look at the Prince of Wales ! ' 

"O kitten! " I cried, "the Deep 
Is deeper than many pails ! " 
Said the kitten, " I shall not sleep 
Till I ' ve looked at the Prince of 
,-\-\ Wales!" 

Said the kitten, "No 
such thing ! 
^Vhy should he make 
me wince ? 
K'a Cat may look at a 
A kitten may look at a 
Prince ! " 



By E. J. Glave, One of Stanley's Pioneer Officers. 



:SS\\\\\\Wy'//////-ARLY in 1887, my 

quiet little Station 
at the Equator was 
thrown into a fever 
of excitement by a 
very interesting oc- 

The shouts from 
my men, " Sail, ho ! 
Sail, ho ! " made 
known to me that a boat had been sighted. 

I hastily ran to the beach and saw the little 
steamer "Peace "breasting the rapid river at the 
point just below, and out in the stream were " Le 
Stanley" and the "Henry Reed," each towing 
lighters alongside, and battling against the swift 
current. I could see that the decks of all the 
boats were crowded with blacks, and besides the 
natives there were several white men aboard. 

It was evident to me that some important ex- 
pedition was on its way up-river in this formid- 
able flotilla. 

As the first boat neared my beach, I glanced 
along her deck, and to my intense dehght I saw 
standing in the bow of the Peace my old chief 
Mr. Stanley. Having received no warning 
of the arrival of this expedition, it was natu- 
rally a great surprise. I felt beside myself with 
excitement, and shouted, "Hip, hip, hurrah!" 
at the top of my voice as the boat touched the 

Mr. Stanley was dressed in his usual traveling 
costume of jacket, knickerbockers, and peak cap, 
and he looked remarkably well. He dined with 
me, and explained during the evening that the 
black crowds on board the boats were men of 
his expedition for the relief of Emin Bey at 

The next day was occupied by the members 
of the expedition in procuring food for the 

journey, and by the crews of the boats in cutting 
dry wood for the steamers. 

I had then the pleasure of meeting Stanley's 
gallant officers, whose names are now so well 
known to the world. 

The Equator Station had never seen so busy 
a day. Crowds of Zanzibaris, Soudanese, and 
other natives hurried about all day; and old 
Tippu Tib, the well-known Arab chief, who was 
being taken up to his headquarters at Stanley 
Falls, pitched his tent in my yard. He and 
his followers occupied it during their stay. 
Tippu was certainly a fine-looking old fellow 
and a very intelligent man. He looks like a pure 
negro and shows no sign of the Arab blood 
which is supposed to be in his veins. He wore 
a long white linen shirt, and around his waist a 
silk sash in which was stuck his dagger. On 
his feet were a pair of light sandals. 

Being able to speak his language, I had quite 
a long talk with him, and I was surprised at 
his accurate knowledge concerning European 

Mr. Stanley was exceedingly jolly all day; 
nothing occurred to worry or trouble him during 
his brief stay at my Station. 

I had the pleasure of entertaining at dinner 
the Chief and all his officers on the night before 
their departure up river. 

Since that time the great explorer and his 
brave followers, after suffering terrible privations 
and hardships in their arduous journey through 
Africa, have rescued and brought back to civili- 
zation Emin Pasha. Early on the third morn- 
ing, Stanley and the Emin Bey relief e.xpedition 
moved up river, leaving the Equator Station 
again to its wonted quiet. 

At the time I made my first visit up the Ma- 
linga the river had overflowed its banks, and 
we steamed, sometimes hours and hours without 
seeing a patch of dry land on either bank. 



One evening, just at sun-down, turning a point 
in the river, we espied in the distance a few 
native huts built on a low-lying shore. As we 
neared the village we could see that it was en- 
tirely deserted, and moreover, there were ghastly 
evidences of the cause of the desertion. The 
huts were seven in number, old, dilapidated 
habitations, built on piles, with a floor just above 
the water's edge. Placed on sticks in front of 
them were several whitening skulls. AA'hat a 
tale of suffering these grim and hideous trophies 
told ! Probably but a few months before, the 
poor natives had been surprised at night b}- the 
murderous slave-raiders. 

I hoped to find dry land here ; but all the re- 
gion was under water. It was now too dark to 
go farther, so I anchored for the night, allowing 
my men to swim to the native huts, shelter them- 
selves under the roofs, and light their fires on 
the raised platforms. The dwellers in these pile 
houses, in order that their fires shall not burn 
their wooden stick flooring, have always a large 
cake of clay on which to build fires. 

There was one of these huts which, by its 
size, suggested that it was the general Council 
House of the little settlement. My men 
crowded into this, and after talking, smoking, 
and singing far into the night, they rolled them- 
selves in their mats and went to sleep. They 
had made a large, bright fire, but had not taken 
the necessary precaution of building it upon 
clay. The deep silence was rudely broken by 
mingled screams and groans. I jumped up at 
the first cry, thinking that perhaps we were at- 
tacked. The fire had eaten into the flooring 
and let my men through into the water. Such 
an unceremonious waking few had ever experi- 
enced. To be suddenly hurled, without the 
slightest warning, from their cozy sleep to the 
deep, dark river below, was certainly sufficient 
e.xcuse for the screams, groans, and yells which 
rose up from that mass of black figures, floating 
mats, and sparks. 

Among the white officers whom I knew on 
the Congo, one of the bravest was a young 
Englishman named Deane. He had spent five 
years on the Congo, formerly as an officer of 
the Congo Free State; he had also com- 
manded one of the government Stations on the 


Kasai. There the natives, taking advantage of 
his small force, attacked him when he was out 
in the river and clinging to his canoe, which 
had been upset by a tornado. His guns had 
sunk to the bottom, and he had only his knife ; 
but with this he fought so desperately that he 
succeeded in cutting his way through his enemies, 
receiving, however, a wound on his leg from the 
thrust of a barbed fishing-spear. 

A few months later he was on his way to 
Stanley Falls to replace the officer in command 
of that Station, who had finished his term of 
service. At nightfall a terrific storm compelled 
him to seek shelter ashore, as his little boat, the 
" Royal," loaded with her steel lighter and thirty 
black Houssa soldiers, could not have lived 
through the waves. They anchored in the 
channel, just below the Monongeri villages, a 
few days from Stanley Falls. As the steamer 
was very small, Deane slept on shore in a small 
tent. His men, rolling themselves in their 
blankets and mats, tried to sleep. Cold and 
cheerless was it that night, as camp-fires were 
impossible in such a storm. Suddenly the war 
of the tempest was drowned in groans of agony 
and yells of rage. The Monongeri savages, 
under the cover of the night and storm, had 
been gathering around the band. So stealthily 
and silently did they come that the actual 
attack was the first signal of their presence. 

Only a few minutes before, Deane, who was 
a thorough soldier, had been his rounds to see 
that the sentries were at their posts ; hardly had 
he returned to his camp-bed when the villain- 
ous onslaught began. He himself was severely 
wounded in the shoulder ; and the keen blade 
of a Monongeri spear pierced his thigh. His 
cartridges were damp, but he fought manfully, 
using the butt of his revolver, and a shield 
which he had wrested from the enemy, holding 
at bay the fierce warriors, who savagely hurled 
their spears, but at last were driven to the dark 
shadows of the forest, by volley after volley fired 
by the Houssa sentries. In short gasps and 
feeble tones, Deane rallied his men, and then he 
fell exhausted to the earth, unconscious. Sev- 
eral of his people had been killed, and many 
more lay dying from their wounds. Harris, 
Deane's companion, carried the dead and dying 
on board the little steamer, and getting up steam 




pushed off and anchored in mid-stream. What 
a night of misery ! The groans of the wounded 
were mocked by the unearthly mirth and drum- 
ming which the wind bore to them from the 
savages gathered thickly on the banks. Early 
in the morning the boat steamed away, with 
Deane wounded and half his men massacred. 
With so small a force, punishment of the Monon- 
geri for this treacherous onslaught was out of 
the question ; so they pushed on up-stream ; the 
natives, emboldened by their victory, came out in 
large war-canoes, harassing the fugitives until the 
deadly rifle warned them that there was still 
danger from that little boat. At last he arrived at 
Stanley Falls, but so weak was he that all feared 
he would die. It was decided that he should 
return to Leopold ville. But a few months elapsed, 
and again Deane was on his way up river to pun- 
ish the Monongeri villages and take command of 
Stanley Falls. With his renewed forces he was 
able to avenge the death of his men and his 
own sufferings. 

After he had been at Stanley Falls a few 
months, hostilities broke out between the Sta- 
tion and the Arabs. Deane fought desperately, 
killing a great number of the Arab slave-raiders 
and Manyema banditti, until, the ammunition 
being exhausted, his men, with the exception 
of three, deserted him. Deane fired the Station 
and escaped into the forests, where he lived on 
berries and roots for a month, hunted about 
by the Arabs who were in search of him. 

A few months later he was again on the Congo, 
this time to try his fortune in hunting big game. 
He joined Captain Bailey, and they decided to 
hunt together the elephants, which abound all 
through this part of Africa. 

They spent a little time at Lukungu, on the 
lower reaches of the Congo, after which they 
had some good sport hunting the antelopes and 
buffaloes on Long Island, in Stanley Pool. But 
they were impatient to try their guns on the 
elephants, so they hurried on up-stream. Cap- 
tain Bailey had a severe attack of fever, and 
had to return to Europe invalided. So Deane 
was left to camp alone. Eventually, prompted 
by reports of the great quantities of game at 
Lukolela, he shifted his camp to that place, and 
had been there but a few days when, returning 
to the Station after a short absence up the 

Ikelemba river, I heard the sad news that he 
had been killed by an elephant. 

The scene of the tragedy was about one hun- 
dred miles down the river, and I decided to 
leave the next morning and learn full particulars 
from the people on the spot. My boat was a 
very slow craft, and it took me two days to get 
down to Lukolela. Arriving on the second day, 
I learned the sad details from those at the Station; 
and the news was graphically confirmed by my 
old hunter, Bongo Nsanda, who had been three 
years with me in the hunting- field, and was with 
poor Deane at the time of his death. I tell 
the story nearly as I learned it from Bongo 
Nsanda. He said it was a very wet morn- 
ing, a day not at all suitable for hunting, being 
very misty ; but Deane was determined to 
go out. Bongo Nsanda advised him to post- 
pone the hunt, but this he would not consent 
to do. So getting his few men in a canoe they 
paddled down the river, and entered a small 
grass-blocked creek. 

Upon arriving there, in a little stretch of open 
water they heard the breaking down of branches 
by an elephant — to the hunter's ear an unmis- 
takable sound. Deane gave his orders, and the 
nose of the canoe was noiselessly brought up to 
tlie bank, where there was a little dry land. 
When the hunter had arrived at this stage of 
his story, I took two of my men and determined 
to go over the ground and hear the remainder 
of the sad story on the spot. Bongo Nsanda, 
as soon as he landed, seemed to become mel- 
ancholy in the death-like silence of this wood. 
The only sounds to be heard were the combined 
murmuring hums of numberless insects, and the 
occasional mournful call of the hornbill. When 
we had walked twenty or thirty yards. Bongo 
Nsanda arrested my footsteps, and said, "Here, 
you see, these footmarks were made by the 
white man. Now, if you will go with me over 
there, I will show you where the elephant was 

I accompanied him. He pointed out to me 
a long strip of the bark of a tree. Said he, " The 
elephant was tearing off that bark." 

" The white man," added Bongo Nsanda, " took 
a steady aim ; but he must have just missed the 
right place, as the elephant curled up his trunk, 
gave one shrill trumpet, and made off into the 




bush." Deane and the hunter followed him as 
quickly as they could, but the wounded ani- 
mal ran a great distance, and Deane became 
tired. " He sat down on a log," said Bongo 
Nsanda, " and told me in a whisper to keep 
my ears open as the elephant might be within 
hearing, and at the same time added that 
I must make no noise. After a few minutes, 
a sound told him that the elephant was not 
far away. He held his head low, and his hand 
to his ear, and listened for about half a minute, 
when the sound was repeated." Again Bongo 
Nsanda moved on another thirty or forty yards, 
and then, suddenly stopping, he said in a whisper, 
as if the same great danger was still hanging 
over us, ■' This is \\-here he stood. He was a 
brave man ; he was not afraid of an elephant or 
a buffalo, for the elephant was standing in that 
open space under the trees, and was just fill- 
ing it up with his head, this way; but Deane 
boldly crept up within ten yards of him and 
fired. This time the elephant came down on 
his knees; but before the smoke had blown 
away, the elephant rose to his feet, and plunged 
off in another direction." I again followed 
Bongo Nsanda's footsteps. The same feeling 
of awe that was shown by this black hunter took 
possession of myself also, as we approached 
nearer the fatal spot. Bongo Nsanda must 
have been deeply impressed indeed ; for, at 
every step he took, he looked all around with 
a hesitating glance, as if expecting that an an- 
gry elephant might appear any moment. 

At last we came to a little patch of clear 
ground, perhaps ten or eleven yards square. 
" Over there," said Bongo Nsanda, " the ele- 
phant was standing, swaying his trunk backwards 
and forwards, and switching his tail in an angry 
manner." Deane at first got behind a tree near 
where we stood, opened the breech of his rifle 
to make sure that he had put in two cartridges, 
and then boldly left his cover and approached 
to within seven yards of his game. He raised 
his rifle and fired his two barrels in quick 
succession, causing the elephant to stagger. 
The lever of his gun was stiff, and he seemed 
to be struggling with it trying to open it ; but, 
as it would not work, he threw down his 
own rifle, and snatched from the hands of his 
hunter a loaded Snider rifle, aimed, and fired. 

This was the last shot ever fired by poor Deane, 
for the elephant made a short, wild rush at him, 
and killed him on the spot just as he reached 
his cover. 

Upon examining the surrounding forest, I was 
forcibly impressed by the depredations which 
this wounded and infuriated elephant had com- 
mitted in his anger. He had evidently imag- 
ined every thing about him to be an enemy. 
From some trees the bark had been ripped. 
He had torn down every branch within his 
reach, and trampled them beneath his feet ; 
young trees had yielded before his mighty 
strength — had been uprooted and flung from 
his path. 

I followed the elephant's track for a long 
distance. At first he had made his way through 
a forest, and then plunged into a swamp. Here 
he seems to have rested for a time in the water, 
and to have regained his strength to some ex- 
tent ; for after this his tracks became firmer and 
firmer, until, when the tracks had passed right 
through this swamp and into another forest be- 
yond, there was nothing in them to show that 
they were those of a wounded elephant. Find- 
ing it was hopeless to track him any farther, I 
returned to the Mission Station at Lukolela. 
Probably the elephant eventually died of his 
wounds, but it is surprising how far they will 
travel after being badly wounded. 

Deane, throughout his whole career on the 
Congo, had shown himself to be a man of un- 
doubted pluck. I admired him, and we were 
the best of friends. Some time before, on 
my road up from Kinshasa, I had put in at his 
camp, when we had spent a very merry day to- 
gether. But now everything had been taken 
away from the spot, and there was a 'sad and 
somber blank in the place of the vivid scene I 
had left only a few days earlier. 

There seems to be almost a fatality attached 
to the hunting of wild animals in the district 
of Lukolela. Poor Keys and Deane met their 
death in encounters with wild animals at this 
place. And just before I left the Congo, in '89, 
another friend, named Thompson, had a narrow- 
escape from becoming a victim to the ferocity of 
a buffalo. 

We were camped below Lukolela, near a 
large buffalo plain, where just a narrow fringe 




of bush ran along the water's edge. At night 
my watchman came and told me that he heard 
a buffalo a few yards distant in the plain. I 
answered, " My experiences with the buffalo do 
not encourage me to hunt him at night ; he is 
bad enough to deal with in the daytime." But 
Thompson said, " I '11 go, old man ! I want to 
shoot a buffalo ! " I remonstrated with him, and 
tried to convince him of the risk which he was 
running; but he answered, "It is all right," — 
and off he started. It was foolish on my part 
to have allowed it. He took his gun, loaded 
it, and started, followed by the fag-end of my 
crew. There were with him two watchmen, the 
fireman, two tablerboys, a steward, the cook, 
the boy who looked after the fowls, and one or 
two other small boys who were employed about 
the boat. At that time I had command of the 
larger steamer, the Florida. 

Thompson was absent a few minutes when the 
precipitous retreat of his rear-guard plainly told 
me that something was wrong. I then heard a 
shot, and presently Thompson came walking 
down to the boat bleeding from a wound on his 
head. He coolly told me that he had tracked 
the buffalo, and had even heard him eating grass, 
but could not see him. Presently the buffalo 
caught sight of the hunter, and made a quick 
rush at him. Thompson, with great presence 
of mind, threw himself on the ground, and the 
buffalo passed over his head. In doing so, the 
animal's hoof had tapped him on the head, tak- 
ing out a piece as big as a five-shilling piece; 
and, besides, with one of his hind legs he had 
bruised Thompson's back. It was indeed a nar- 
row escape. 

When another opportunity occurs to shoot 
buffaloes at nine o'clock at night, I am sure 
Thompson will not unnecessarily volunteer for 
the honor of being the hunter. 

During the latter part of my life on the 
Congo River, I was living in a small stem- 
wheel boat, thirty-four feet long by seven feet 
wide. As two-thirds of the boat were taken 
up by the machinery and boiler, the small 
space amidships did not give sufficient room for 
myself and crew, and I had to tow a large 
dugout alongside. In this canoe I carried some 
of my men, with their mats and cooking-pots, 
two or three goats, some fowls, and last, but not 

least important, my cooking-apparatus — a small 
earthenware native bowl in which my cook kept 
his fire and over which every dish was cooked. 
My cook was a native boy, named Mochindu, 
to whom I had imparted, to the best of my 
ability, the few culinary recipes which I had 
gathered during my travels. But his posi- 
tion as cook on board my boat was not an envi- 
able one, as he was exposed to all weathers and 
sometimes had to turn out a dish under the most 
trying circumstances. The slightest ripple of 
the water or any movement of the men in the 
canoe would upset any gastronomic calculation 
that he might have made. Often he had to fry 
a fowl or make some kind of stew under a heavy 
downpour of rain ; and the poor little chap had 
a very dejected appearance as he struggled to 
hold up an old umbrella to keep the rain from 
the fire, and at the same time made frantic 
efforts to save the whole cooking-apparatus 
from toppling over as the canoe lurched from 
side to side. When his cooking was all fin- 
ished and the dishes were passed along to the 
boat, he always seemed to give a sigh of relief 
as he stepped out of the canoe and crept into 
the boat near the boiler to get thoroughly 
warmed so as to be ready for the next culinary 

I remember that one day he was frying some 
fowl which he had chopped up into cutlets. We 
were on the beach of a large village, and were 
surrounded by natives. A group of these na- 
tives, attracted evidently by the savory odor of 
the cooking, pointed up to something in the 
boat and asked my httle cook what it was. 
When he turned his head in the direction indi- 
cated, one of the fellows made a grab at the 
pan and, snatching two of the cutlets, bolted off. 
When Mochindu came to look into the pan, for 
the purpose of turning over his meat, he con- 
nected the hasty retreat of the native with the 
ominous gap in his frying-pan, picked up his knife, 
and made a rush for the fellow. Then I saw a 
great struggle going on. Blows were being ex- 
changed, and there was a tussle on the ground ; 
and presently Mochindu returned, holding in 
his hand the missing cutlets; his face, be- 
grimed with dirt, seemed struggling between 
sorrow at the mishap and joy at having re- 
covered the booty. 



The last steamer voyage I made before leav- 
ing for Europe was up the Ruki, a tributary 
just above the Equator Station. It had always 
been my wish to visit the people living in these 
regions, but I would not attempt such an expe- 
dition in my small boat, as the ferocity and 
hostility of these Ba- Ruki were too well known for 
me to attempt the journey without a faster and 
more imposing craft. Now that I had com- 
mand of the bigger boat again, I decided to 
ascend the Ruki, and hoped to see the natives 
about whose warlike abilities and cannibalistic 
qualities I had heard so many tales. 

I left the Equator Station early one morning 
with a cargo of merchandise and trinkets, with 
which I hoped to overcome, if possible, the 
prejudices of the terrible Ba-Ruki. I was 
warned by the natives around our settlement 
what I was to expect from my present venture ; 
but I was accompanied by an English engineer, 
named Davy, upon whom I could rely in help- 
ing us to give a good account of ourselves if 
any serious trouble rose. And besides, the same 
crew, in charge of my trusty Bienego, that ac- 
companied me through my little Oubangi diffi- 
culties were now aboard, and had proved by 
their former conduct their pluck and devotion. 

After five hours' steaming up the river, at the 
invitation of the natives ashore I put m to their 
beach, and exchanged beads and cowries for 
fresh eggs and fowls. These people I found 
very friendly ; they had been down in their 
canoes as far as my Station, so knew that they 
had nothing to fear. In this village, Nkole, we 
saw but few knives and spears, but all were 
armed with bows and arrows. They were very 
friendly toward us, but exceedingly scared at 
all our strange actions. We had a harmony 
steam-whistle on board which alarmed them a 
great deal. Just before leaving their beach, on 
my continuing the voyage, I called my men 
together by blowing the whistle. The poor 
natives of Nkol6, superstitious as all savages 
are, thought it was some angry spirit who was 
kept by me to terrify people, and who gave 
vent to his feelings in this way. The natives on 
the beach, at this unusual sound, beat a hasty 
retreat, and those in their canoes lost all pres- 
ence of mind. Some jumped into the river; 
others jumped into their canoes ; and we 

steamed away leaving in our wake a mass of 
upturned canoes and struggling figures, while 
on shore the beach was deserted, and from 
behind every tree black faces grinned in safety 
at their less fortunate friends in the water. 

After an hour's steaming above this settle- 
ment we were beyond the district of the friendly 
people. To all my offers to buy their goats, 
fowls, or ivory, in exchange for beads, cowries, 
knives, and cloth, the natives in the villages we 
passed responded by such a plentiful supply of 
sticks, stones, and village refuse that I decided 
that I should have to seek a more rational peo- 
ple to receive my beads and cowries. So I 
steamed up past this line of villages, which were 
built on a high bank and seemed to be very 
thickly populated. 

Before long I was compelled to meet more 
serious attacks. At one large village, crowds of 
people lined the beach and invited us to ap- 
proach ; but, when we turned the boat in their 
direction, they fired a flight of arrows at us, then 
ran and hid among the thick bushes which grew 
at the water's edge. From here, in compararive 
security, they kept up their fire. Their beach 
was too rocky to admit of my taking the boat 
right in-shore ; so, firing a few volleys into their 
hiding places, we manned our large dugout and 
paddled toward the beach. We landed and 
routed them out of their village. Then, throw- 
ing out skirmishing sharpshooters at the limits 
of the settlement, I completed the punishment 
by ordering the huts to be destroyed by fire. 

On my way back I made friends with these 
people ; it is a good trait in the character of 
these natives that they know when they meet 
their master, and they bear no malice. 

For the first few hours' steaming above the 
spot \\-here this engagement took place we 
met with no opposition. The inhabitants had 
sensibly taken warning from the result of their 
neighbors' arrogant behavior. But, in the 
afternoon, when we arrived at villages where 
news of the fight had not preceded our arrival, 
we had to contend with the same difficulties 
again. I could easily have avoided the arrows 
by keeping out in the middle of the stream and 
steaming away; but my object was to make 
friends, and to learn something of the people 
and the commercial possibilities of their country. 



In the middle of '89, I came down to Leo- hunter had also turned about and bolted for a 
poldville in my steamer and there left the river tree which was at hand. He reached it only Just 
and returned down to the coast by the caravan- in time. The buffalo, making a furious charge, 

'we landed and routed them out of their village." {see page 848.) 

route. While waiting for the native porters 
who were to carry my baggage to the coast, 
I occupied my leisure time in making short 
hunting e.xcursions in the neighborhood of 
Stanley Pool. 

An old friend of mine on the Congo, Captain 
Bailey, who has killed elephants and hunted 
the lion near the head waters of the Zambesi, 
had a thrilHng experience and a very narrow 
escape from a buffalo on Long Island, in Stan- 
ley Pool ; and had it not been for the plucky 
conduct of his little terrier he would undoubtedlv 
have lost his life. He had tracked a buffalo out 
of the swamps, had dropped his game and 
thought it was dead, as it lay quite motionless. 
But upon his coming closer, it sprang upon its 
feet and charged him. He had only time to 
fire, but without taking good aim ; so he hit a 
little too low on the forehead and the animal was 
not stopped. Captain Bailey barely escaped the 
buffalo by swinging himself to one side — the 
animal, in charging past, actually grazing his 
side. Finding it had missed its mark, the 
brute v/heeled sharply about again; but the 
Vol. XVIL- 104. 

came full tilt against the tree, and knocked off" a 
big piece of bark. Although the captain had 
succeeded in getting behind the tree, he had 
no time to spare. 

Even then the brute would not give u]) the 
chase, but made a 
rush around the tree. 
At this moment, the 
brave little fox-ter- 
rier, " Nep," sprang 
at the huge beast's 
neck; and, although ■ 
thrown off, still con- 
tinued to harass the 
angry bull, thereby 
distracting its at- 
tention from mas- 
ter to dog, and giv- 
ing the hunter time 
to put another car- 
tridge into his rifle, 
and with another shot to drop his game. 

All hunters of big game expect to meet occa- 
sionally with animals who will show their disap- 





proval of being shot at b}' a rush. But Captain Another very annoying member of the ant 
Bailey's experience with the buffalo on Long race is the dark-brown driver. These ants 
Island is the narrowest escape of which I know, crawl along the ground in a dark mass, twelve 


At the season of the year in which I was travel- 
ing the grass was in seed ; and as I passed 
through the country on my way down to the 
coast I became painfully aware of the prickly 
nature of this grass. It penetrated my shirt, 
and made me feel as if the shirt was made of 
some material much like the exterior of the 
barrel of a musical box. The prickly pieces cov- 
ering the outside made the wearer of the shirt 
resemble one of the porcupine species. 

The Ant family are well represented in Cen- 
tral Africa, and there are three with which the 
traveler is oftenest brought in contact : the 
white-ant, the driver-ant, and the red-ant. The 
last is found on shrubs in the forests, and if you 
brush against a branch on which these insects 
live, you will become painfully aware of the 
reason why the Zanzibari call this pest mati- 
moio (hot water), for its bite resembles a burn 
from scalding water. The dwarfs who during 
his last expedition gave Mr. Stanley so much 
trouble around Lake Albert, poisoned their 
arrows with crushed red-ants. 

inches wide and several yards long, composed of 
many hundred thousands of individuals. They 
move slowly along like a great army, occasion- 
ally stopping to devour whatever animal-food 
they may meet in their path. 

I have often been visited by these unwel- 
come guests at night. On such occasions the 
contents of my larder would form a meal for 
them; and if my mosquito-net was not properly 
tucked in so as to exclude such intruders, I 
would be overrun with them, and would have 
to beat a precipitate retreat until they had ran- 
sacked my establishment to their satisfaction. 
This has happened several times to me. The 
bite of the driver-ant is very painful, for the in- 
sect is provided with large pincers with which 
he digs deep into the flesh of an enemy. 

The white-ant makes itself an equally unwel- 
come visitor by eating away all woodwork, 
leather, or cloth which it can find. A wooden 
case, if exposed to the attacks of this insect for 
two or three days, will have the bottom of it 
eaten away ; and a pair of boots, if left at the 




mercy of this pest, will be made utterly worth- 
less in a few days. 

Large clay mounds, sometimes reaching to 
thirty feet in height, mark the house and store- 
houses of the white-ant. 

These mounds are of cellular formation, and 
contain their store of grubs. So large and solid 
are these ant-hills that at one of our Stations 
we leveled the top of an ant-hill and built a 
sentry post upon it. 

Nature has bestowed upon the African a rich 
gift in the palm-tree. Its branches form a can- 
opy to shelter the village huts from the noon- 
day sun; with its leaves the houses are thatched; 
and the Congo kitchen would be devoid of its 
chief means of flavor and delicacy if deprived 
of the mUla, or palm-fruit. And it plays an 
even more important part. Its juice, as inalafii, 
cheers the hunter on his return from the chase, 
is partaken of at every tribal ceremony, and 
provides a sparkling nectar for the otherwise 
insipid African banquet. It is obtained by 


tapping the tree at its very top. Holes are 
bored to the heart of the palm-tree, and gourds 
are attached. Into these the juice flows, and the 
gourds are collected by the natives, -who climb 
up the trunk of the tree by means of a band of 
leather or cane which encircles climber and tree. 
By this ingenious device the native is kept from 
falling, and can ascend the trees with great 


rapidity. Using the rough projections of the 
bark as steps they lean back and mount higher 
and higher, at the same time lifting with a jerky 
motion the band that holds them to the tree. 

This malafu, or palm-wine, resembles in color 
milky water, is of a sweet acidulated flavor, and 
when not too old is exceedingly refreshing and 
palatable ; but in a few days it becomes sour, 
and is then \"ery intoxicating. 

My carriers were at last ready, and I was 
now fairly started on my way to the coast. I 
have tried all available methods of locomotion on 
land in Africa, and I have come to the conclu- 
sion that walking is the most satisfactory. The 
hammock is sometimes used ; this article of 
porterage is a piece of canvas looped up on a 
long pole, wherein the traveler lies and is carried 



by the blacks, one being at each end of the 
pole ; but the small bridle-path of the caravan- 
route is at places so stonj' and ragged that falls 
often occur by the carriers stumbling, and bruises 
are the result. A few donkeys are sometimes 
seen on the Congo, but unless you get a reall}- 
good animal you have no end of trouble. The 
ordinary beast becomes affected bv the climate, 
and requires a great amount of encouragement 
and assistance. As a rule, you must have one 
man to pull him, another to push him, and when 
he is very tired you may require the assistance 
of two others to prevent his falling. Taking all 
drawbacks into consideration, I prefer to walk. 
It was in this way that my six years of wan- 
dering were brought to a close. I had left 
home a raw lad, and I returned feeling quite an 

old and hardened traveler. Something more 
than the interval of time separated me from 
those early days. My thoughts and habits had 
been molded b\' the experiences through which 
I had passed. My interests and sympathies 
were centered in the land I had left and I felt 
almost a stranger among my own people. 

I missed for some time the wild tropical 
scenery, the shouting negroes, and the hundred 
sounds and sights of savage life. 

If Africa had seemed strange to me six years be- 
fore, my own country was now as unfamiliar. I 
have left many a dear friend and comrade on the 
banks of the great river in lonely Stations in the far 
interior; and in my heart there is still a warm 
corner for the poor savage, who has often been my 
sole companion in the Wilds of Central Africa. 




Bv William O. Stoddard. 

Chapter XIV. 

When Jack Ogden left the Staten Island 
ferry-boat, he felt somewhat as if he had made 
an unexpected voyage to China, and perhaps 
might never return to his own country. It was 
late in the afternoon, and he had been told by 
the little man that the ferry-boat would wait an 
hour and a half before the return voyage. 

■' I won't lose sight of her," said Jack, thought- 
fully. " No running round for me this time ! " 

He did not move about at all. He sat upon 
an old box, in front of a closed grocery store, 
near the feiT3'-house, deciding to watch and 
wait until the boat started. 

'•Dullest time I ever had I " he thought; 
" and it will cost me six cents to get back. You 
have to pay something everywhere you go. I 
wish that boat was ready to go now." 

It was not ready, and it seemed as if it never 
would be ; meanwhile the Crofield boy sat there 
on the box and studied the ferry-boat business. 
He had learned something of it from his guide- 
book, but he understood it all before the gates 

He had not learned much concerning any 
part of Staten Island, beyond what he already 
knew from the map ; but shortly after he had 
paid his fare, he began to learn something about 
the bay and the lower end of New York. 

" I 'm glad to be on board again," he said, as 
he walked through the long cabin to the open 
deck forward. In a few minutes more he drew 
a long breath and exclaimed : 

•' She 's starting ! I know I 'm on the right 
boat, too. But I 'm hungry and I wish I had 
something to eat." 

There was nothing to be had on board the 
boat, but, although hungry, Jack could see 
enough to keep him from thinking about it. 

'■ It 's all city ; and all wharves and houses 

and steeples, — every way you look," he said. 
" I 'm glad to have seen it from the outside, 
after all." 

Jack stared, but did not say a word to any- 
body until the ferry-boat ran into its dock. 

" If I onl}' had a piece of pie and a cup of 
coffee 1" Jack was thinking, as he walked along 
by the wharves, ashore. Then he caught sight 
of the smallest restaurant he had ever seen. 
It was a hand-cart with an awning over it, 
standing on a corner. A placard hanging from 
the awning read : " Clams, one cent apiece ; 
coffee, five cents a cup." 

"That 's plain enough 1 " exclaimed Jack. 
" She can't put on a cent more for anything." 

A stout, black-eyed woman stood behind a 
kind of table, at the end of the cart ; and on the 
table there were bottles of vinegar and pepper- 
sauce, some crackers, and a big tm coffee-heater. 

" Clams ? " she repeated. " Half-dozen, on 
the shell? Coffee? All right." 

'• That 's all I want, thank you," said Jack, 
and she at once filled a cup from the coffee-um 
and began to open shellfish for him. 

" These are the smallest clams I ever saw," 
thought Jack; "but they 're good." 

They seemed better and better as he went on 
eating ; and the woman willingly supplied them. 
He drank his coftee and ate crackers freely, and 
he was just thinking that it was time for him to 
stop when the black-eyed woman remarked, 
with an air of pride, 

" Nice and fresh, ain't they ? You seem to like 
them, — thirteen 's a dozen; seventeen cents." 

" Have I swallowed a dozen already ? " said 
Jack, looking at the pile of shells. " Yes, 
ma'am, they 're tiptop I " 

After paying for his supper, there were only 
some coppers left, besides four one-dollar bills, 
in his pocket-book. 

" Which way 's the Battery, ma'am ? " Jack 




asked, as she began to open clams for another landed. There were little groups of these for- 

customer. eigners scattered over the great open space be- 

" Back there a way. Keep straight on till fore him. 
you see it," she answered ; adding kindly, " It 's " They 've come from all over the world," 

like a little park ; I did n't know you were from he said, looking at group after group. " Some 

the country." of those men will have a harder time than I 

" Pretty good supper, after all," he said, have had trying to get started in New York." 


" Cheap, too ; but my money 's leaking away ! 
Well, it is n't dark }-et. I must see all I can be- 
fore I go to the hotel." 

He followed the woman's directions, and he 
was glad he had done so. He had studied his 
guide-book faithfully as to all that end of New 
York, and in spite of his recent blunder did not 
now need to ask anybody which was the start- 
ing place of the elevated railways and which 
was Castle Garden, where the immigrants were 


It occurred to him, nevertheless, that he was 
a long way from Crofield, and that he was not 
yet at all at home in the city. 

" I know some things that they don't know, 
anyway — if I am green ! " he was thinking. " I '11 
cut across and take a nearer look at Castle 
Garden — " 

" Stop there ! Stop, you fellow in the light 
hat ! Hold on ! " Jack heard some one cry out, 
as he started to cross the turfed inclosures. 

1890. ] 


" What do you want of me ? " Jack asked, as 
he turned around. 

" Don't you see the sign there, ' Keep off the 
grass ' ? Look ! You 're on the grass now ! 
Come off ! Anyway, I '11 fine you fifty cents ! " 

Jack looked as the man pointed, and saw a 
little board on a short post ; and there was the 
sign, in plain letters ; and here before him was a 
tall, thin, sharp-eyed, lantern-jawed young man, 
looking him fiercely in the face and holding out 
his hand. 

"Fifty cents! Quick, now, — or go with me 
to the pohce station." 

Jack was a little bewildered for a moment.