Harper's Round Table, September 29, 1896
Date: 2019-05-05T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Children's periodicals

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Title: Harper's Round Table, September 29, 1896

Author: Various

Release date: May 5, 2019 [eBook #59436]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Annie R. McGuire

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HARPER'S ROUND TABLE, SEPTEMBER 29, 1896 ***

THE ATTACK OF TORPEDO-BOAT NO. 5.
CAPTAIN JACK AND THE MUTINEERS.
THE VOYAGE OF THE "RATTLETRAP."
IN THE OLD HERRICK HOUSE.
A VIRGINIA CAVALIER.
THE TROUT PLAYS HOOKEY.
THE BELGIUM ARMY PLAYING AT WAR.
HOW TO EXTRA-ILLUSTRATE A BOOK.
THE IMAGINARY BOAT.
CAMPING AND HUNTING.
INTERSCHOLASTIC SPORT.
BICYCLING.
THE CAMERA CLUB.
STAMPS.

Copyright, 1896, by Harper & Brothers. All Rights Reserved.

published weekly. | NEW YORK, TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 29, 1896. | five cents a copy.
vol. xvii.—no. 883. | | two dollars a year.

THE ATTACK OF TORPEDO-BOAT NO. 5.

BY LIEUTENANT YATES STIRLING, JUN., U. S. N.

The night is dark and cloudy, and a heavy mist hovers over the entrance to the highly fortified port of ——. Like gigantic aquatic ghosts a fleet of American men-of-war is cautiously and silently approaching this strong-hold of the enemy. Every light on board the vessels is masked, and the lookouts are vigilantly peering into the darkness, for fear that one of the swift and unmerciful torpedo-boats of the enemy steal unseen and unheard upon their ship and launch its deadly charge of destruction.

The American squadron, six huge battle-ships and four fast cruisers, accompanied by ten sea-going torpedo-boats, have been detailed by the commander-in-chief to attack and capture this important naval station. Within safe distance from the forts on the harbor's entrance the squadron's mighty engines are stopped, and the ships soon cease to forge ahead in the quiet sea. One of the swift little crafts, then another and another, noiselessly runs alongside the Admiral's ship, and an officer from each climbs the precipitous side of the battle-ship. They make their way at once to the cabin of the Admiral.

"I have dangerous work for you and your little vessels, gentlemen," is their commander's quiet explanation, as the lieutenants remove their caps, and group themselves in respectful attention around their gray-haired superior. "Your small flotilla is to make an attack on the enemy's fleet in the harbor yonder; the entrance is narrow, and too early a discovery means failure to the expedition if not annihilation to yourselves. No. 5 will lead the column, for her commanding officer is familiar with the harbor, and will be a valuable guide on this dark night. The plan is to make a simultaneous attack on the fleet, and unless they are very much on the alert and ready with their guns, you should render a good account of the night's work. After your purpose has been accomplished, or you have been driven off, join me at the entrance to the bay. I will move to the attack as soon as you are discovered. The army is co-operating with us, and even now we should hear the distant roar of their guns."

Many an eye is dim and voice husky with emotion as the officers grasp the Admiral's hand in parting, and listen to his kind and encouraging words. When the torpedo lieutenants reach the deck, their small commands are lying alongside the flag-ship, steam pouring from their miniature escape-pipes, a dumb protest to be off.

As the Lieutenant of No. 5 reaches the conning-tower of his little boat, the flotilla is going at full speed, nearly twenty-five knots an hour, in column, his vessel in the lead. They are heading for the sombre outline of the distant land where he knows is the entrance to the harbor.

By his side stands a young ensign, his assistant, looking fixedly out into the night. Not a word is spoken. Each knows his life is to be staked at awful odds for his country.

Death has always seemed of little consequence to these young lives. They have in the few years of their lives barely given it a thought, but now in the little tomb of the conning-tower they are almost face to face with the grewsome intangible hereafter. They think of the time when as children they have whispered their prayers at their mothers' knees—prayers almost forgotten; but they come back to them now with startling clearness, and are mentally repeated, coming like a soothing draught of water to a thirsty mortal. On flies the little craft, while behind her noiselessly follow her nine sisters. The big battle-ships have long since been swallowed up in the black night.

The ever-watchful officers, as they stand in the confined space of the wheel-house, protected by three inches of steel from the cool breeze that the speed of the boat makes as she rushes madly along, are gazing through the small apertures in the metal, straining their eyes to see the first obstacle that dare be in their way. They see naught but darkness. They have been into the harbor before, to a great naval review given in commemoration of some important event in history. How different were the circumstances! Then the holders of the naval station were friends, and held out a cheerful welcome. Lights were upon the rugged and dangerous coast to show the mariner the many hidden dangers, and to navigate him clear of the many treacherous shoals and rocks. But now a difference had arisen between the two nations that could not be arbitrated, so they had resorted to cruel war to settle their difficulties. No lights are visible save now and then a small flicker from a fisherman's hut, and it is doubtful whether the small visitors will reach the harbor, even though they escape the steel from the guns that are surely soon to play upon them. The Lieutenant is the first to break the silence.

"We have tough work ahead, Church. Heaven only knows whether we will ever come out of this death-trap alive."

The younger man shakes his head in concurrence with his comrade's views of the situation, but dares not venture a word, for fear he may betray his nervousness in his voice. He knows exactly what is expected of him, and will sacrifice his life without an outward qualm in this his first real duty to his flag.

Suddenly on the port bow a small light springs up from out the darkness. It is on one of the patrol torpedo-boats of the enemy. If it discovers the invaders all is useless: the alarm will be given, and the forts cannot be passed. It would be foolhardiness to attempt it. Once beyond them, undiscovered, the mission will be easily accomplished. On go the insidious weapons of war on their errand of destruction. They are now between the forts on the harbor's entrance. The many guns there are pointed in their direction, but are dumb. Their crews are asleep, and are peacefully ignorant of the angels of death stealing past their vigil. The night is so dark that the outline of the land so close aboard has melted into the all-pervading blackness. No sound can the officers in the leading boat hear save the slight whir of the little engines making hundreds of revolutions a minute, the swash of the water cut like a knife by the sharp bow of the little craft, and the beating of their own hearts. The last seems so loud that each thinks the other surely must hear.

The minutes drag slowly by; they seem like hours to the anxious men on the torpedo-boats. The forts are passed in safety. The discovery must come soon. Farther and farther the destroyers penetrate into the bay. If there are ships here they must soon discover these unwelcome visitors. Hark! From out of the darkness to port is heard the report of a rifle-shot, quickly followed by a number of others in rapid succession. The officers in No. 5 suppress a cry of relief. The suspense has been telling. Hot work is better than uncertainty.

In a very short time lights are shown on the forts astern of the attacking party; they are the unfocussed rays of the powerful search-lights, and soon will make the torpedo-boats as conspicuous on the surface of the bay as the picture in a magic-lantern slide is on the sheet. The tunnels of light sweep quickly, nervously, about the bay, endeavoring to concentrate upon the swiftly moving enemy. On, on goes the flotilla in its mighty effort to reach its goal. Every torpedo is in its tube, and to launch it on its errand will be the work of a second. The long shafts of light are now rapidly focussing on one after another of the long line of small hulls, stretching nearly across the bay, ready to sink anything that may lie in their path.

The stillness of the night is disturbed by the thunder of heavy artillery and the fitful report of rapid-fire and machine guns. Shells go screeching about them, throwing columns of water high in the air as they strike it with a baffled hiss.

Search-light after search-light flashes up from the men-of-war in the inner harbor, and are sweeping the bay with their blinding light.

Closer, closer draw the attacking boats to their huge enemies.

An exclamation of terror escapes from the officers in No. 5 as they see what resembles a bunch of enormous sky-rockets shoot high above the bay almost directly over them. But they know it is from a group of 16-inch rifled mortars on the shore only a short mile away. With a sickening whir the mighty bolts of steel swoop down and blot out of existence three of the small crafts. Church has left his Lieutenant's side, and with a nervousness hard to suppress stands at the breech of the bow torpedo-tube, ready to launch its 300 pounds of guncotton at the owner of the search-light ahead of them, if they escape the rain of metal long enough to get within the limited range of the weapon.

Right ahead, nearly within the coveted distance, a dark hull looms up; her search-light is boring through the inky darkness, but as yet has not discovered the whereabouts of the fast-approaching danger. All at once Church, from his position in the bow, sees the small conning-tower lighted up through the peep-holes by the dazzling light, and hears simultaneously the quick reports of her machine-guns.

All about the bay is a scene of firing; but for this the men in No. 5 have no eyes; the deadly peril of their boat from the countless guns on the black hull ahead is their only concern. No thought of personal safety now enters their minds; such feeling has long since been forgotten; their only idea is to reach the enemy in front of them. Church, lockstring in hand, sees the moment has nearly arrived. In the next they may all be blown to pieces by a well-aimed shot. His hand is nervously clutching the lanyard, while his eyes are fixed on the face of his superior. He sees his face, pale as death, in the terrible glare of the search-light. He sees his lips move, yet he can hear no sound above the roar of the firing. He knows the word they frame. Fire! A sharp report fills the small compartment, and the next second he is thrown heavily against the vessel's side, as, in answer to her helm, she swiftly swerves to starboard, and is soon speeding away from the column of water thrown up by the explosion of her torpedo against the steel hull of the sinking ship. For the shot has done its work, and the great mass of steel and cannon will soon lie at the bottom of the bay. The commands of her unfortunate officers to "Abandon ship!" can be distinctly heard in the lull after the explosion.

In the excitement of the attack the operations of the fleet at the entrance to the harbor have escaped the notice of the crew of No. 5. Now they see flash after flash from the forts answered by tongues of fire from the invading fleet, the search-lights of both throwing a lurid light over the awe-inspiring spectacle. From astern of them they also hear the sounds of a mighty struggle, the rumble of heavy ordnance and the rattle of musketry tell them that the army has moved to the attack.

With all speed the remnants of the flotilla are leaving the scene of their triumph, leaving half their number as a sacrifice on the altar of their country.

Morning dawns over the bay, and reveals a mass of wreckage and destruction difficult to picture.

A fleet is anchored in the harbor, battle-scarred and begrimed with smoke. On the grassy slopes of the harbor the white tents of a large army are pitched. On the many flag-stalls a bright flag is waving in the balmy breeze. The flag is the stars and stripes.

CAPTAIN JACK AND THE MUTINEERS.

The newspapers from town had been full of the accounts of a great strike in a manufacturing district of the city, and Tommie, after his father had finished reading them, had asked to be allowed to take the papers down to old Jack. Jack had once said to the boys that he never knew what was going on anywhere, because he was too poor to buy the daily newspapers, and had added:

"It's only when I have luck that I even get a Tribune a year old. Why," said he, "a small boy down here once brought me a New York Tribune that told all about the milishy being called out to stop a riot up in Buffalo, and it was a mighty exciting story, I can tell you. Next day a feller come down and hired my boat to go out a-bluefishin' with, and after we'd been out two or three hours I says to him, 'How's the riot at Buffalo this morning?' 'The what?' says he. 'The riot,' says I. 'Haven't you heard of the riot?' 'No,' says he. 'It's all in the paper,' says I, and I went into my cabin and brought out the paper. 'Oh! I see!' says he, with a laugh. 'That was two years ago.' And I looked at the date of that there Tribune, and shiver my timbers if the thing warn't dated two years before!"

This unhappy condition rather appealed to Tommie, and the result was that he got his father to promise that when he had read his morning paper he could have it to take down to the beach to old Jack, and Jack was very appreciative.

"It's very kind of you, Tommie," he said. "The news I get nowadays is at least young enough to be interesting, and I hope you'll never forgit that I'll never forgit your kindness. Take them strikers up in town, for instance. In the old way I'd never have heard anything about 'em for a month or two anyhow, but now I hear about 'em right off, and I sort of feel as if I was still living in the world, instead of being out of it, as I used to be."

"What do you think of the strike, Captain Jack?" asked Bobbie.

"What do I think of it?" echoed the Captain. "What could any sea-captain think of it—any self-respectin' sea-captain? It had ought to be stopped. That's what. That's just the trouble with being on land, though; you can't do things like you would on the water. 'F I was runnin' a big factory, I'd do it ship-shape, and I wouldn't stand any mutinies. I tell you what, now, my factory'd be a model. In the first place, I'd give the factory a name, just as if she was a ship, and the men who came there to work would be my crew, and the very minute one of 'em didn't behave himself, and tried to kick up a rumpus with me as their Captain, I'd clap him into irons. I believe in ironing them, I do; and it almost makes me wish I owned a factory, and the sailors in it would strike, so's I could show the world what I'd do under the circumstances.

"I'll never forget the last mutiny I had to deal with. It was back in '83. I was skipper of the clipper Benjamin Q., of Nantucket. We were engaged in carrying coal from Sandusky to Kennebunkport, and one morning two o' the crew up an' declined to shovel another ton.

"'Why not?' says I, calmly.

"'It's too dirty. We thought this was hard coal, and it's soft. It takes us an hour to get clean after the day's work's over, and that makes nine hours a day's work. We won't work more'n eight.'

"'I guess you're reasonable,' says I. 'Knock off, an' go in and take your bath. I'll turn the water on for ye myself. I'll let ye use my tub.'

"So they went aboard, and I went in and turned on the water in my tub, and I put about two pounds o' starch in the water. They all took turns, and said they felt better.

"'Now,' says I, 'you fellers can do this every day. Seven hours' work, and one hour for bathin', and I don't want anymore kickin'.' The mutineers agreed, and thought I was easy. Every day for a week they took starch baths—though they didn't know anything about the starch. I took care o' that. Well, you know what starch is. There they was a-soakin' it into their systems for an hour a day, and, by the flyin' Dutchman, when Sunday came around every one of 'em was so stiff they couldn't move. Monday they was like iron—couldn't move a joint. And then I says to 'em, says I, 'Kinder stiff, ain't ye? Little stiffer'n ye thought ye was goin' to be, eh? Thought ye was goin' to take the starch out of me, eh? Did too—if ye only knew it. Now ye can go about your business, and the next time ye take it into your heads to mutiny, choose another Captain to fool with.' I had 'em carried ashore and laid on the dock, and I sailed away. What ever became of 'em I don't know, but I heard that one of 'em had made a fortune as a ossified man in a Chicago museum."

With which astounding story of his method of dealing with strikers, Captain Jack rose up and walked away, leaving Bob and Tommie wondering if it really could have happened as the old tar had said.

THE VOYAGE OF THE "RATTLETRAP."

BY HAYDEN CARRUTH.

VIII.

The next morning the condition of the tempers of the crew of the Rattletrap was reversed. Jack was feeling better, and was quite amiable, and inclined to regret his bloodthirsty language of the night before. But Ollie and I, on our diet of gooseberries, had not prospered, and woke up as cross as Old Blacky. The first thing I did was to seize the empty gooseberry can and hit the side of the wagon a half-dozen resounding blows.

"Get up there," I cried, "and 'tend to breakfast. No pretending you're sick this morning."

"All right," came Jack's voice, cheerfully. "Certainly. No need of your getting excited, though. You see, I really wasn't hungry last night, or I'd have got supper."

"But we were hungry!" answered Ollie. "I don't think I was ever much hungrier in my life; and then to get nothing but a pint of gooseberries! I could eat my hat this morning."

"I'm sorry," said Jack, coming out; "but I can't cook unless I'm hungry myself. The hunger of others does not inspire me. I gave you all there was—your hunger ought to have inspired you to do something with those gooseberries."

"I'd like to know what sort of a meal you'd have got up with a can of gooseberries?"

"Why, my dear young nephew," exclaimed Jack, "if I'd been awakened to action I'd have fricasséed those gooseberries, built them up into a gastronomical poem, and made a meal of them fit for a king. A great cook like I am is an artist as much as a great poet. He—"

"Oh, bother!" I interrupted; "the gooseberries are gone. There's the grouse Ollie shot yesterday. Do something with that for breakfast."

Jack disappeared in the wagon, and began to throw grouse feathers out the front end with a great flourish. The poor horses were much dejected, and stood with their heads down. They had eaten but little of the hay. Water was what they wanted.

"We must hitch up and go on without waiting for breakfast," I said to Ollie, "It can't be far to water now, and they must have some. Jack can be cooking the grouse in the wagon."

So we were soon under way, keeping a sharp lookout for any signs of a house or stream of water. We had gone five or six miles, and were descending into a little valley, when there came a loud whinny from Old Blacky. Sure enough, at the foot of the hill was a stream of water. The pony ran toward it on a gallop, and as soon as we could unhitch the others they joined her. They all waded in, and drank till we feared they would never be able to wade out again. Then they stood taking little sips, and letting their lips rest just on the surface and blinking dreamily. We knew that they stood almost as much in need of food as of water, as they had had nothing but the hay since the noon before. There was a field of corn half a mile away, on a side hill, but no house in sight.

"I'm going after some of that corn," I said to the others. "If I can't find the owner to buy it, then I'll help myself."

I mounted the pony and rode away. There was still no house in sight at the field, and I filled a sack and returned. The horses went at their breakfast eagerly. But twice during the meal they stopped and plunged in the brook and took other long drinks; and at the end Old Blacky lay down in a shallow place and rolled, and came out looking like a drowned rat.

In the mean time Jack had got the grouse ready, and we ate it about as ravenously as the horses did their corn. We had just finished, and were talking about going, when a tall man on a small horse almost covered with saddle rode up, and began to talk cheerfully on various topics. After a while he said,

"WELL, BOYS, WAS THAT GOOD CORN?"

"Well, boys, was that good corn?"

We all suspected the truth instantly.

"He did it," exclaimed Jack, pointing to me. "He did it all alone. We're going to give him up to the authorities at the next town."

The man laughed, and said "Don't do it. He may reform."

There seemed to be but one thing to do, so I said: "It was your corn, I suppose. Our only excuse is that we were out of corn. Tell us how much it is, and we'll pay you for it."

"Not a cent," answered the man, firmly. "It's all right. I've travelled through them Sand Hills myself, and I know how it is. You're welcome to all you took, and you can have another sackful if you want to go after it."

I thanked him, but told him that we expected to get some feed at Gordon, the next town. After wishing us good luck, he rode away.

We started on, and made but a short stop for noon, near Gordon. We found ourselves in a fairly well settled country, though the oldest settlers had been there but two or three years. The region was called the Antelope Flats, and was quite level, with occasional ravines. The trail usually ran near the railroad, and that night we camped within three or four rods of it. Long trains loaded with cattle thundered by all night. We were somewhat nervous lest Old Blacky should put his shoulder against the wagon while we slept, and push it on the track in revenge for the poor treatment we gave him in the Sand Hills, but the plan didn't seem to occur to him. It was at this camp that we encountered a remarkable echoing well. It was an ordinary open well, forty or fifty feet deep, near a neighboring house, but a word spoken above it came back repeated a score of times. We failed to account for it.

NOT OLLIE'S IDEA OF AN INDIAN.

The next forenoon we jogged along much the same as usual, and stopped for noon at Rushville. This was not far from the Pine Ridge Indian Agency and the place called Wounded Knee, where the battle with the Sioux was fought three or four years later. We saw a number of Indians here, and though they came up to Ollie's idea of what an Indian should be a little better than the one that rode with us, they still did not seem to be just the thing.

"I don't think," he said, "that they ought to smoke cigarettes."

"It does look like rather small business for an Indian, doesn't it?" answered Jack. "But then smoking cigarettes is small business for anybody. What's your idea of what an Indian ought to smoke?"

"Well, I'm not sure he ought to smoke anything, except of course the peace pipe occasionally. And he oughtn't to smoke that very much, because an Indian shouldn't make peace very often."

"Right on the war-path all the time, flourishing a scalping-knife above his head, and whooping his teeth loose—that's your notion of an Indian."

"Well, I don't know as that is exactly it," returned Ollie, doubtfully. "But it seems to me these aren't hardly right. Their clothes seem to be just like white people's."

"I don't know about that," said Jack. "I saw one when I went around to the post-office wearing bright Indian moccasins, a pair of soldier's trousers, a fashionable black coat, and a cowboy hat. I never saw a white man dressed just like that."

"Well, I think they ought to wear some feathers, anyhow," insisted Ollie. "An Indian without feathers is just like a—a turkey without 'em."

The Indians were idling all over town, big, lazy, villainous-looking fellows, and very frequently they were smoking cigarettes, and often they were dressed much as Jack had described, though their clothes varied a good deal. There were two points which they all had in common, however—they were all dirty, and all carried bright, clean repeating-rifles. We wondered why they needed the rifles, since there was no game in the neighborhood.

The chief business of Rushville seemed to be shipping bones. We went over to the railroad station to watch the process. There were great piles of them about the station, and men were loading them into freight cars.

"What's done with them?" we asked of a man.

"Shipped East, and ground up for fertilizer," he answered.

"Where do they all come from?"

"Picked up about the country everywhere. Men make a business of gathering them and bringing them in at so much a load. Supply won't last many months longer, but it's good business now."

They were chiefly buffalo bones, though there were also deer, elk, and antelope bones. We saw some beautiful elk antlers, and many broad white skulls of the buffalo, some of them still with the thick black horns on them. As we were watching the loading of the bones, Ollie suddenly exclaimed,

"Oh, see the pretty little deer!"

We looked around, and saw, in the front yard of a house, a young antelope, standing by the fence, and also watching the bone-men as they worked.

"It is a beautiful creature, isn't it?" said Jack. "And how happy and contented it looks!"

"I guess it's happy because it isn't in the bone-pile," said Ollie.

We went over to it, and found it so tame that it allowed Ollie to pet it as much as he pleased. The man who owned it told us that he had found it among the Sand Hills, with one foot caught in a little bridge on the railroad, where it had apparently tried to cross. He rescued it just before a train came along.

We left Rushville after a rather longer stop for noon than we usually made. Nothing worthy of mention occurred during the afternoon, and that night we camped on the edge of another small town, called Hay Springs.

"I don't know," said Jack, "whether or not they really have springs here that flow with water and hay, or how it got its funny name. If there are that kind of springs, I think it's a pity there can't be some of them in the Sand Hills."

Jack went over town after supper for some postage-stamps, and came back quite excited.

"Found it at last, Ollie!" he exclaimed. "Grandpa Oldberry was right."

"What—a varmint?" asked Ollie.

"A genuine varmint," answered Jack. "A regular painter. It's in a cage, to be sure, but it may get out during the night."

We all went over to see it. It was in a big box back of a hotel, and the man in charge called it a mountain-lion, and said it was caught up in the Black Hills. "Right where we are going," whispered Ollie. The animal was, I presume, really a jaguar, and was a big cat three or four feet long.

We were off again the next morning, looking forward eagerly to the camp for the night, which we expected would be at Chadron, and where our course would change to the north into Dakota again, this time on the extreme western edge, and carry us up to the mountains. Most of the day we travelled through a rougher country, and saw many buttes—steep-sided, flat-topped mounds; and in the neighborhood of Bordeaux the road wound among scattering pine-trees. We camped at noon near the house of a settler, who seemed to have a dog farm, as the place was overrun with the animals. We needed some corn for the horses, and asked him if he had any to sell. He was a queer-looking man, with hair the color of molasses candy, and skim-milk eyes.

"I JESS RECKON I HAVE GOT SOME CO'N TO SELL."

"Waal, now, stranger, I jess reckon I have got some co'n to sell," he said. "The only trouble with that there co'n o' mine is that it ain't shucked. If you wouldn't mind to go out into the field and shuck it out, we can jess make a deal right here."

We finally gave him fifty cents for all our three sacks would hold, and he pointed out the field a quarter of a mile away and went back to the house. We noticed that he very soon mounted a pony and rode away toward Hay Springs, but thought nothing of it. When we were ready to start we drove over to the corn-field to get what we had paid for. Jack put his head out of the wagon, took a long look, and said,

"That's the sickest-looking corn-field I ever saw!"

We got out, and found a sorry prospect. The corn was poor and scattering and choked with weeds.

"And the worst of it is," called Jack, as he waded out into the weeds, "that it has been harvested about twelve times already. The scoundrel has been selling it to every man that came along for a month, and I don't believe there were three sackfuls in the whole field to start with."

We went to work at it, and found that he was not far from right.

"No wonder the old skeesicks went off to town soon as he got his money," I said. "He won't show himself back here till he is sure we have gone."

We worked for an hour, and managed to fill one bag with "nubbins" and gave up, promising ourselves that we wouldn't be imposed upon in that way again.

We reached Chadron in due time, and went into camp a little way beyond, on the banks of the White River, a stream which flows through Dakota, and finally joins the Missouri. Our camp was on a little flat where the river bends around in the shape of a horseshoe. It seemed to be a popular stopping-place, and there were half a dozen other covered wagons in camp there. The number of empty tin cans scattered about on that piece of ground must have run up into the thousands. But there had not been a mile of the road since we left Valentine which had not had from a dozen to several hundred cans scattered along it, left by former "movers." We had contributed our share, including the gooseberry can. From the labels we noticed on the can windrow along the road it seemed that peaches and Boston baked beans were the favorite things consumed by the overland travellers, though there were a great many green-corn, tomato, and salmon cans.

"You can get every article of food in tin cans now," observed Jack, one day, "except my pancakes. I'm going to start a pancake cannery. I'll label my cans: 'Jack's Celebrated Rattletrap Pancakes—Warranted Free from Injurious Substances. Open this end. Soak two weeks before using.'"

It was a pretty camping-place on the little can-covered flat, and we sat up late, visiting with our neighbors and talking about the Black Hills.

"I think," said Jack, as we stumbled over the cans on our way to the Rattletrap, "that I'll go into the mining business up there myself. I'll just back the Blacksmith's Pet up to the side of a mountain, tickle his heels with a straw, and he'll have a gold-mine kicked out in five minutes."

[to be continued.]

IN THE OLD HERRICK HOUSE.[1]

BY ELLEN DOUGLAS DELAND.

CHAPTER V.

Elizabeth was in her own room when she arrived at this determination to seek a home with the Brady family, and the more she thought of it the more advisable did the plan seem. She began to prepare for an immediate departure. Most fortunately for her purpose, Miss Rice had gone out, her aunt Caroline was about to go, and she could very easily escape from her aunt Rebecca, who was reading in the library.

The first thing to do was to dress suitably for the occasion. The frock that she had on seemed scarcely the thing to wear at the Bradys'; in fact, she had nothing that was exactly appropriate, except a dress which her aunt had told her was too much spotted to wear again. She would be more like Eva Louise and Bella if she had on something which was not altogether clean.

This important matter settled, she put on her hat—it was a large one, with many feathers, but the Brady girls wore very gay hats—and slipped quietly down the stairs, carrying a bag in which were her night-dress and toilet articles. On her aunt's cushion she pinned a note—she believed runaway heroines always did so—explaining the situation.

"Dear Aunt Caroline," she had written, "I am going away to some people I know. You will never find me. I cannot go to Virginia. If my father ever comes back I will hear of it, and then I will come home. Please take good care of Julius, for the sake of your affectionate niece,

"Elizabeth Herrick.

"P. S.—Please do not try to find me. I am with friends. P. S. number two.—I hope you won't mind my going very much."

This done, she continued her way down stairs, out of the front door, and around to the home of the Brady family.

Eva Louise and Bella were playing the inevitable jack-stones on their own door-step when Elizabeth appeared. They looked up, but continued their game.

"How do you do?" said Elizabeth.

"Holloa! I say, Eva Louise, that ain't no fair. Them's mine."

"'Tain't, neither. Yer a reg'lar cheat, Bella Brady! I'm a-goin' to tell pop, an' I ain't a-goin' to play with yer another minute."

Elizabeth, fearing that slaps were imminent, hastened to interpose.

"I want to ask you something, Eva Louise. Is your mother at home?"

"Is that all yer want to ask? Well, I guess she is. I say, Bella—"

"But, Eva Louise, I really want to speak to you. Do you think—do you think your mother would be willing to let me stay here a little while?"

"Stay here! What ever do yer mean?"

"I mean that I want to live here till my father comes home. I— Well, the truth is, my aunts want me to go somewhere, and I don't want to go, because I don't know the people, and I thought perhaps I might stay here with you, that is if you don't mind."

"Well, I never!" exclaimed Eva Louise. "If you ain't a queer one! Ma! I say, ma!"

There was no reply, so Eva Louise went into the house, leaving Bella in triumphant possession of all the jack-stones, which she immediately swept into a very dirty pinafore. Presently her sister returned, followed by Mrs. Brady, with the front of her skirt turned up and her arms bared to the elbow.

"How do you do, Mrs. Brady? Has Eva Louise told you? Would you mind?"

"What iver on earth do yer mean, miss? Sure it can't be that yer afther wantin' to lave yer nice house that's as big as a palace, and come here to the loikes o' us?"

"I really do, Mrs. Brady; and I shall be so much obliged to you if you will let me."

"Come inter the house, miss, an' we'll talk it over. Sure, do the Herrickses know yer afther comin' here?"

"Oh no, of course not. No one knows it, and I don't want you to tell them, please, Mrs. Brady," said Elizabeth, as she followed her hostess through the narrow passageway into the kitchen.

Here the baby was crying upon the floor, while Mr. Brady smoked his pipe in the corner. Through the window Elizabeth could see their own garden fence, with the fruit trees beyond, and above them the windows of the closed room.

"If you don't mind, I should like to stay here awhile," she said. "I won't be any trouble, really, Mrs. Brady, and I might help you to take care of the baby."

The child had seated herself on the extreme edge of the only available chair in the room. Mrs. Brady stood with her hands on her hips, looking at her, with a daughter on either side.

"Well, I never!" said she at last. "I can't think yer really mean it. Pop, what do yer say to it?"

Mr. Brady smoked in silence for some minutes. Then he removed his pipe, and remarked, in a surly tone:

"If the old ladies is willin' to pay us han'some for it, I 'ain't got no objections. If we take boarders, of course we look for boarders' pay."

Having made this statement, he replaced his pipe. His wife and daughters again looked at Elizabeth.

"What old ladies?" she asked.

"It's yer aunts he is afther meanin', miss. As pop says, we 'ain't got no objections to takin' boarders."

"Oh, but I am afraid I can't pay you just now. My aunts don't know where I am, you know, and I don't want them to. I haven't any money of my own now, but I will have when I grow up, and I will pay you then, Mrs. Brady—indeed I will."

The pipe was again removed.

"If yer afther thinkin' yer goin' to live here for nothin' till yer growed up, yer pretty much mistaken. Atin' us out o' house an' home, an' nothin' to show for it!"

"OH, BUT, REALLY, MR. BRADY, I DON'T EAT MUCH."

"Oh, but really, Mr. Brady, I don't eat much. That is just what is the matter with me, and why I had to have the doctor. I only eat a little oatmeal and cream for breakfast, and I don't really care for anything but sweetbreads and ice-cream, and I can get along very well without them. You won't have to get anything extra for me. I will promise not to eat a bit more than I can help. And I could do ever so much to help Mrs. Brady, taking care of the baby or washing the dishes. Please let me stay!"

And she looked imploringly from one to the other.

Mrs. Brady stepped over to the corner, and a conversation ensued between her and her husband of which Elizabeth could hear but snatches. The question of money appeared to figure largely in it, and she heard the words "reward" and "have us arrested."

Finally Mrs. Brady turned to her visitor.

"Pop says you can stay for the prisent."

"Oh, thank you!" said Elizabeth, gratefully. "Shall I go take off my things? And where shall I put them?"

Eva Louise volunteered to take her up stairs. She had a great curiosity to see what was in the beautiful leather travelling-bag which Elizabeth carried, a curiosity which was presently gratified when the new-comer took from it a silver-backed brush and comb, and laid them on the old wash-stand which appeared to serve as a dressing-table.

"La!" cried Bella, who had followed them up stairs, "ain't we grand? Say, is them real solid silver?"

"Why, yes," said Elizabeth; "I suppose so."

"Pop needn't worry about no board money, I guess."

And the two daughters of the house hurried downstairs.

Elizabeth looked about her. It was certainly very different from her own room in the next street. As there were but few bedrooms in the house, she feared that she might be obliged to sleep with the Brady girls. Already she felt homesick. And the house was filled with the odor of salt fish mingled with that of onions and bad-tobacco smoke. It was almost unbearable.

Presently she heard loud voices. Some of the boys had returned, and it sounded as if they were quarrelling. How very dreadful it was! Elizabeth was afraid to go down, so she staid where she was, with difficulty opening the window a crack in order to get a breath of fresh air.

She began to wonder if life in Virginia could be worse than this. If she only had Julius Cæsar here, it would be a comfort; but Julius would not be happy in such a place. He liked soft cushions and rugs to lie upon, and he was particular about having a clean plate for his food.

She wondered if her aunt Caroline had returned yet, and what she would think when she read her note. After what seemed a long time, she heard the State House clock strike six. She would be about to sit down to supper if she were at home. The aunts were expecting guests to dinner that night. The voices downstairs grew louder. She distinctly heard Mr. Brady say:

"If we ain't a-goin' to be paid for it, she don't stay the night. I'll murder the whole o' yers before I let her ate us out o' house an' home. Silver, yer say she's got? I'll see it before I believe yers."

This was too dreadful! Elizabeth began to cry. And then she heard a loud knocking at the door.

In the mean time Miss Herrick had returned from her drive. She found visitors in the parlor, and when they had gone it was necessary to give a glance at the dinner table to see that all was properly arranged for her guests; and then she went up stairs to dress. It was almost six o'clock.

As she looked at the tiny clock on her dressing-table, her eye was attracted by Elizabeth's note, pinned on her cushion.

"What is this for?" she said to herself, as she opened and read it.

"What can the child mean? Gone to some friends—'some people she knows'? Who are they? Has she lost her mind? Perhaps her illness is affecting her brain."

Miss Herrick almost ran from the room, and called Miss Rice.

"Where is Elizabeth?" she demanded.

"Is she not with you?" asked Miss Rice. "As she was not at home, I fancied that you had taken her to drive."

"Not at all. The child must be found. Read this quickly, and tell me what you think. Was there ever anything so trying? The child will be the death of me. Company for dinner, and all this excitement! Where can she be? Rebecca," to her sister, who appeared at this moment, "Elizabeth, has actually had the audacity to run away! What shall we do about it?"

Miss Rebecca Herrick read the note.

"How perfectly absurd!" she remarked as she finished it. "No doubt she has gone to those dreadful Bradys she was forever talking about. She always spoke of them as friends."

"Of course! How clever you are, Rebecca! Miss Rice, kindly tell James to go to the Bradys' and ask if she is there. He probably knows where they live. I have barely time to dress for dinner. Let me know if he brings her back." And Miss Herrick returned to her room. "No doubt she is there," she said to herself. "It is useless to become unduly alarmed before it is absolutely necessary. What a strange child she is! Perhaps Helen Redmond will understand her better than I do. I hope so, I am sure, and the sooner she is sent there the better, if she is going to behave in this way."

But Miss Herrick was more alarmed than she cared to acknowledge. She moved nervously about the room, and it was a relief to her when, as she was putting the finishing touches to her toilet, there was a knock at the door.

"Who is it?" she cried.

"It is Elizabeth," said a small voice. "May I come in, Aunt Caroline? Oh, I am so glad to get back! Thank you so much for sending James after me!"

"Do you think this is the proper way for a little girl to behave?" asked Miss Herrick, in a severe voice, although she was greatly relieved to see her niece.

"No, Aunt Caroline, I don't, and I hope you will excuse me. I—I didn't want to go to Virginia, you know, and I thought that the Bradys' would be better than that. But it isn't, Aunt Caroline. Nothing could be worse than the Bradys! I was so glad to have James come for me! They were all quarrelling, and Mr. Brady was not at all nice. He was even talking about murdering people when James knocked at the door. And I am so glad to get home! Don't you think I might stay here now, Aunt Caroline? Must I really go to Virginia?"

"Certainly you must, more so now than ever. It is nonsense for you to dread it so. There is no reason why you should not be happy there. Now run away, for I must go down to the drawing-room."

"I should have liked to kiss her," said Miss Herrick to herself, as she went down stairs. "I am growing very fond of her, with all her oddness. But I must not allow myself to care deeply again. One disappointment is enough."

And she thought of the locked door upstairs.

Elizabeth went to her room. It was softly lighted, and it all looked so comfortable and quiet compared with the Brady apartment. How thankful she should be that she had not been born a Brady! Even Miss Rice was endurable after Mrs. Brady. If she could only stay here, and not go to Virginia!

But fate and the doctor and Miss Herrick were apparently inexorable, and day after day slipped by, bringing nearer that which was set for her departure. Her trunk was packed; it was off. She bade good-by to her aunts and to Julius Cæsar—she had begged to be allowed to take him with her, and had wept bitter tears over the refusal—and now the carriage was at the door. Miss Rice, on her way to her home in South Carolina, was to take Elizabeth to her destination.

"Good-by, Aunt Caroline," said the little girl, with streaming eyes. "Good-by, Aunt Rebecca. I am sorry I have not been a better child, but you don't know how hard it is sometimes. And you will send me word if my father comes home, won't you, Aunt Caroline? I still think he will come some day."

And then she ran down the steps, the carriage door was shut, and she was driven rapidly away.

"I feel as if I could not let her go," said Miss Herrick, as she stood in the window and stroked Julius Cæsar, who was quite aware that something out of the ordinary was happening. "If it were not that the doctor spoke so strongly, I should keep her now. It is very strange that she cannot be happy or well with us. I am afraid, Rebecca, that I am going to miss her sadly."

"You will soon grow accustomed to it, Caroline," returned her sister, calmly. "The child was a great care, for we never knew what she was going to do next—running away, investigating Mil—what she should not have done, up to all kinds of mischief."

"Do not allude to that, Rebecca, I beg of you," said Miss Herrick, with some agitation. "The child reminds me of her in certain ways. This taste for drawing that she has developed fills me with dread. I do not want her to be like her. I shall write to Helen Redmond, and tell her it must not be encouraged."

Just as Miss Herrick said this a telegram was handed to her. She opened it hurriedly, and read:

"Marjorie has scarlet fever. Do not let Elizabeth come.

"Helen Redmond."

For a moment Miss Herrick scarcely knew what to do. She glanced helplessly at the window from which a few minutes before she had seen Elizabeth drive away. Then she looked at the clock. There was a good half-hour yet before the train would start.

"What is the matter, Caroline? Do tell me what is in the telegram, instead of keeping me in suspense," exclaimed Miss Rebecca.

Her sister thrust it toward her without a word, and left the room. She was dressed for the street, for she had intended to go out as soon as the carriage should return from taking Elizabeth to the station. She went out of the house, and her acquaintances would have been greatly startled had they seen the stately Miss Herrick almost run to Walnut Street, and with ungloved hand signal to a trolley-car to stop for her. It was rarely that Miss Herrick condescended to set foot in any conveyance but her own carriage.

She was quite breathless when she reached the station and mounted the stairs. She looked for the gate through which the passengers were crowding to the southern train.

"Your ticket, madam?" said the gate-keeper.

"Oh, I have none! I am not going anywhere. I must get my niece. Scarlet fever!"

And before he could stop her, Miss Herrick had pushed through and was running down the long platform.

Elizabeth, sitting forlornly in her place in the parlor-car, with the back of Miss Rice's austere-looking bonnet in front of her, and her mind filled with the dread of Virginia, was astonished to see her aunt suddenly appear at her side and grasp her hand.

"Come quickly, Elizabeth! You are not to go, after all. Come, before the train starts."

"Not to go?" repeated the child.

"No. Marjorie has scarlet fever. Good-by, Miss Rice. I will write and explain. There is the bell ringing. Hurry, child, hurry!"

And they were but just in time. The train moved off with Miss Rice, and Elizabeth remained in Philadelphia.

It seemed too good to be true. She asked her aunt a thousand questions, but she gained little satisfaction. Now that Elizabeth was saved from the danger of infection, Miss Herrick did not know what to do next. According to the doctor, she must not remain with them; but now that the home in Virginia was closed to her, there seemed to be no way of disposing of the child. Her mind was so occupied with Elizabeth's future that she could not attend to her present needs.

They returned to the house which Elizabeth, in tears, had left so short a time before, and then Miss Herrick got into her carriage and drove to the doctor's. He must help her out of the difficulty.

The result was that the town house and the country house were closed for the summer, and the three Misses Herrick went to the sea-shore. When they should come back in the autumn, there was to be a new order of things. Elizabeth was to go to school, and she was to have companions of her own age.

"That is, if you don't want to kill her," said the doctor, bluntly, when he had stated his views.

That same night Elizabeth heard that Marjorie Redmond had died of scarlet fever. She had been almost glad to hear that she was ill, for it had been the means of preventing her from going there; and now the favorite cousin of whom Val had been so fond was dead.

Miss Herrick shuddered when she heard the news. How narrow Elizabeth's escape had been! If she had gone a week earlier, there would have been no saving her. But she gave no sign of the strong hold that her niece had gained upon her heart, and Elizabeth little guessed how much her aunt really cared for her.

[to be continued.]

A VIRGINIA CAVALIER.[2]

BY MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL.

CHAPTER XVI.

Christmas at Mount Vernon, although it could never again be the gay season it had been, was yet cheerful. The presence of Lord Fairfax and George, of Madam Washington and Betty, revived the spirits of the master and mistress. William Fairfax, now a handsome young man of eighteen, and the same mild, manly, good-natured fellow, was home from Williamsburg for the holidays. George had never been to Williamsburg, where there was a viceregal court, and where everything was conducted upon a scale adapted to a representative of royalty. He was much impressed by William's description, and they made many plans for a holiday together, the next winter, in the capital.

"And we will attend the Governor's levee—but you must not be too much of a republican, George, for the Governor exacts viceregal respect—and the assemblies in the great Apollo Room at the Raleigh Tavern, and the lectures at the college by learned men from England and Scotland. Ah, George, how you will enjoy it!" cried William.

Lord Fairfax, hearing the young men talk, felt a desire to revisit Williamsburg, a place where he had spent some happy days, and soon after this conversation, when William had already returned to college, he said, one day:

"I think, George, if your brother can spare you towards the spring, I should like to have you visit Williamsburg with me. It is now twelve years since I was there, in the administration of my Lord Botetourt. He exacted every mark of respect that would have been paid to the King himself. I well remember his going in state to open the House of Burgesses, as the King opens Parliament. He rode in a gilt coach, given him by the King himself, drawn by eight milk-white horses—a very fine show; but for all their love of finery and display themselves, the Virginians are very jealous of any on the part of their rulers, and many gentlemen who drove coaches and four themselves complained bitterly of the Governor."

George was charmed at the prospect, and took the first opportunity of broaching the subject to Laurence.

"I think it would be very advantageous to you to see something of a viceregal court, and I will see that you have the means to make a good appearance," was Laurence's kind reply.

"Thank you, brother," said George, gratefully. "I will have things on the place in such order that everything will go on as if I were here; and as I shall come back for some weeks before returning to the mountains, I can see whether my orders have been carried out or not."

Another summer's work would finish all the surveys Lord Fairfax wished, and it was understood that at the end of that time George was to live permanently at Mount Vernon in charge of the estate.

Madam Washington was delighted at the idea of George's advent at the provincial court under such auspices, and Betty danced for joy, and immediately plunged into a discussion of George's wardrobe for the great event.

"Timothy Jones, the tailor in Alexandria, has some fine green cloth, out of which he could make you a surtout trimmed with silver, and I saw myself an elegant piece of scarlet velvet from which a mantle to wear to court might be made. And you shall have my best Mechlin lace for your cravat. Ah, George, how I long to see you in your fine clothes!"

"I should think, Betty," replied George, smiling, "you would be more concerned about how I will conduct myself with these great people. You know, sometimes I lose my speech entirely, and become very awkward; and sometimes I become abstracted in company; and nobody's manners are perfect at eighteen."

"Dear George," cried Betty, throwing her arms around his neck, "I think of your clothes because that is all that I need think about with you. In every other way you are sure to do us credit;" which made George feel that Betty was the most good-natured creature alive.

"I wish you were going," said he, presently.

"I wish so too," replied Betty. "But when brother Laurence gets well sister Anne has promised to take me, and my mother has said I may go," for both George and Betty, with the optimism of youth, thought it quite certain that their brother would one day be well.

The first day of February the start was made. The grand equipage set forth, with the Earl and George on the back seat of the coach and Lance on the box. Billy rode George's horse, and was in ecstasies at the prospect of such an expedition. On the second day, in the evening, the coach rolled into Williamsburg. It was a lovely February evening, and the watchman was going about lighting lanterns hung to tall poles at the street corners. George had chosen to make the last stage with the Earl, and was deeply interested in all he saw. The town was as straggling as Alexandria or as Fredericksburg, but there was that unmistakable air of a capital which the presence of the seat of government always gives. As they drove rapidly, and with great clatter, down Duke of Gloucester Street, George noticed many gentlemen in both naval and military uniforms, and others in the unpowdered wig of the scholar, which last he inferred were professors and tutors at the college. Of collegians there were not a few, and George noticed they always appeared in gangs, and seemed to regard themselves as quite aloof from other persons, and slightly superior to them. As the coach drove quickly through the Palace Green, with the palace on one hand and the college on the other, both were brilliantly lighted. A couple of sentries in red coats marched up and down before the palace—a long, rambling brick building, with its two generous wings, and its great court-yard with fine iron gates. On its top was a cupola, which was only lighted up on gala nights. On both sides of the palace were spacious gardens, with a straight canal, bordered with cedars, cut in the stiff, artificial manner of the time, and with small summer-houses, in the form of Greek temples, made of stucco. A coach was driving out and another was driving in, while an officer, evidently an aide-de-camp, picked his way along the gravelled path that led to the side where the offices were. Opposite the palace towered the plain but substantial brick buildings of William and Mary College, and a crowd of students were going into the common hall for supper. It all seemed very grand to George's eyes, and when they alighted at the Raleigh Tavern, the tavern-keeper, wearing silk stockings and carrying two silver candlesticks, came out to meet them, and ushered them into a handsome private room ornamented over the mantel by a print of his Majesty King George the Second. The tavern-keeper was not by any means like the sturdy citizens who kept houses of entertainment between Fredericksburg and the mountains. He "my lorded" the Earl at every turn, and was evidently used to fine company. He was happy to say that he was then entertaining Sir John Peyton, of Gloucester, who had come to Williamsburg for the winter season, and Colonel Byrd, of Westover. Also the Honorable John Tyler, marshal of the colony, was attending the Governor's council upon matters of importance, and was occupying the second-best rooms in the tavern—my lord having the best, of course, according to his rank. The Earl was a little wearied with all this, but bore with it civilly until the tavern-keeper bowed himself out, when William Fairfax burst in, delighted to see them. William was neither so tall nor so handsome as George, but he was overflowing with health and spirits.

"The Governor heard you were coming, sir," cried William, "and stopped his coach in the street yesterday to ask me when you would arrive. I told him you had probably started, if my advices were correct, and that you would be accompanied by Mr. George Washington, brother of Mr. Laurence Washington, now of Mount Vernon, but late of the royal army. He said he much desired to meet Mr. Washington's brother—for to tell you the truth, my lord, the Governor loves rank and wealth in his provincial subjects—and, meaning to speak well for George, I told him a great deal of Mr. Laurence Washington's lands and other wealth, and he smiled, or rather gaped, just like a great sheep's-head at a bait."

"William, you should be respectful of dignitaries," was the Earl's reply, although he smiled, while George laughed outright at William's artful working upon the Governor's weakness.

As soon as supper was over came a thundering knock upon the door, and the host ushered in Sir John Peyton, of Gloucester, a colonial dandy, whose pride it was that he had the handsomest foot and leg in the colony. Sir John was very elegantly dressed, and carried upon his left arm a muff, which effeminate fashion he had brought from England on his last visit.

"Ah, my Lord Fairfax! Most happy to meet you," cried Sir John, affectedly. "'Tis most unkind of you to pitch your tent in the wilderness, instead of gracing the viceregal court, where gentlemen of rank and wealth are sadly needed."

"Having experienced the hollowness of a regal court, Sir John, I can withstand all the attractions of any other," was Lord Fairfax's quiet and rather sarcastic reply.

Sir John, not at all disconcerted, helped himself with a jewelled hand from a gold snuff-box, and then, leaning against the mantel, put his hands in his muff.

"By all the loves of Venus, my lord, you and your young friend Mr. Washington should see some of the beautiful young ladies here. There is Mistress Martha Dandridge—odd's life! if I were not pledged to die a bachelor I should sue for that fair maid's hand; and Lady Christine Blair—born Stewart, who met and married Mr. Blair in Edinburgh—a dull, psalm-singing town it is. Lady Christine, having great beauty, illumines the college where her husband is Professor. And the lovely, the divine Evelyn Byrd, and Mistress Tyler, who is one of those French Huguenots, and has a most bewitching French accent—all ladies worthy of your lordship's admiration."

"No doubt," replied the Earl, gravely, but inwardly tickled at Sir John's ineffable impudence, "they would but slightly value the admiration of an ancient recluse like myself, and would prefer my young friends Mr. Washington and Mr. Fairfax."

Sir John, quite unabashed, now turned to the two young men, who had great difficulty in keeping their faces straight when they looked at him.

"Really, Mr. Washington, you must get a muff if you wish to be comfortable in this cursed climate. I never knew comfort till I got one in England, on the recommendation of Mr. Horace Walpole, who has the divinest taste in muffs and china I ever saw."

"I am afraid I cannot find one of a size for my hand," answered George, gravely, holding out a well-shaped but undeniably large hand.

After much more talk about Mr. Horace Walpole, the lovely Misses Berry, and the company of comedians daily expected from London, Sir John took his leave, promising to see them at the Governor's levee next day. As soon as the door closed upon him Lord Fairfax turned to William, and said, testily, "I hoped I had left all such popinjays as Sir John Peyton at court in England, but here I find the breed flourishing."

"Sir John is not half so absurd as he looks, sir," answered William, laughing. "He is as brave as a lion; and when on his last voyage home there was a fire in the ship's cargo, I hear he was the coolest man on board, and by his conceits and quips and jests in the face of danger kept off a panic. And he is honorable and truthful, and he really has much sense."

"Then," cried the Earl, "he does all he can to disguise it."

Their next visitors were Colonel Byrd, of Westover, and Mr. Tyler, marshal of the colony, who ranked next the Governor, and Mr. Randolph, Speaker of the House of Burgesses. The Earl received these gentlemen with marked respect, placed chairs for them himself, and entered into a long and interesting conversation with them on the state of the colony. Both George and William remained modestly silent, as became young men of their age, and listened attentively. It was agreed among them all that war with the French was practically certain. The colonies were thoroughly aroused, and each of the visitors gave it as his opinion that the colonies were willing to settle the question themselves without aid from the home government.

"And when the conflict comes," remarked Colonel Byrd, turning to the two young men, "it is to young gentlemen such as these that we must look for our safety, because, you may be sure, if the French capture our outposts, they will not be satisfied until they overrun our whole lowland country, and they must be checked at the mountains if they are to be checked at all."

"My young friend Mr. Washington knows all about matters on the frontier, as he has surveyed my lands across the Alleghanies for two summers, and is quite as familiar with the temper of the Indians as with the face of the country," remarked the Earl.

This at once made George an object of interest to them all, and he was closely questioned. He answered everything that was asked him with such intelligence and pith that his new acquaintances formed a high idea of his sense. He often referred to William Fairfax, who had been with him the first summer, and William made also a fine impression. They sat until midnight, talking, and Lance had to renew the fire and the candles twice before the company parted.

Next morning William came betimes and burst into George's room while that young gentleman was still in bed.

"Get up, man!" cried William, shaking him. "Here you lie sleeping like a log, when you ought to be having your breakfast and making ready to see the town."

George needed no second invitation, and in a very short time was making play with his breakfast in the sitting-room reserved for Lord Fairfax. The Earl was there himself, and the delightful anticipations of George and William, which were fully shared by Lance and Billy, brought a smile to his usually grave face.

Lance was simply beaming. A number of his old regiment were enrolled among the Governor's body-guard, and the sight of a redcoat did him, as he said, "a world of good." As for Billy, he had reached the state of nil admirari, and was determined to be surprised at nothing. On the contrary, when the tavern servants had assumed that he was a country servant, Billy had completely turned the tables on them. Nothing in the Raleigh Tavern was good enough for him. He pished and pshawed in the most approved style, treated Colonel Byrd's and Marshal Tyler's servants with infinite scorn, and declined to be patronized even by Sir John Peyton's own man, who had been to London. He called them all "cornfiel' han's," and, as the way generally is, he was taken at his own valuation, and reigned monarch of all he surveyed in the kitchen, where he gave more trouble than Lord Fairfax himself. However, one person could bring Billy down with neatness and despatch. This was Lance, who, although belonging to a class of white people that Billy despised, was yet capable of reporting him to "Marse George," so Billy was wary when Lance was around.

At three o'clock the coach came, and the Earl and George set forth with outriders to attend the Governor's levee. It was the first time George had ever seen the Earl in court dress. He wore a splendid suit of plum-colored satin, with ruby and diamond shoebuckles, with his diamond-hilted sword, and a powdered wig. George, too, was very elegantly dressed, and as they drove up to the palace, amid a crowd of coaches and chaises of all sorts, and dismounted, there were not two such distinguished-looking persons there. George felt decidedly flurried, although he had ample self-possession to disguise it.

They were met by the Governor's guard in the great entrance-hall, who passed them on to an anteroom, where half a dozen lackeys in gorgeous liveries bowed to the ground before them. A great pair of folding-doors led into the audience-chamber, and at a signal from within the doors were thrown wide, and they entered.

The room was large but low, and had on each side a row of mullioned windows. It was crowded with company, but a lane was at once made for the Earl and George, who advanced towards a dais covered with scarlet cloth at one end of the room, where Governor Dinwiddie stood, in a splendid court dress; for the Governors of Virginia assumed to be viceroys, and everything at the provincial court was copied, as far as possible, from the same thing at the Court of St. James. Ranged around the dais were the wife and daughters of the Governor with several ladies-in-waiting, also in court dresses with trains.

As the Earl and George made their reverences they attracted much attention; and when George stood back, silent and awaiting his turn while the Governor conversed with the Earl, there was a murmur of admiration for him. He was so manly, so graceful, his figure was set off with so incomparable an air of elegance, that other men appeared commonplace beside him. He seemed from his ease and grace to have spent his life at courts, while, in truth, he had never seen anything half so fine before.

The Governor, having finished his conversation with the Earl, motioned to George, who advanced as the Earl backed off, it being inadmissible to turn one's back on the Governor.

The first question asked by Governor Dinwiddie was,

"My Lord Fairfax tells me, Mr. Washington, that you have explored much in the Northwest?"

"I have, your Excellency."

"I should very much like at your leisure to have an account of affairs in that region."

"Your Excellency may command me."

"And I shall meanwhile have pleasure in presenting you to Madam Dinwiddie and my daughters Mistress Eleanor and Mistress Katharine."

Madam Dinwiddie, a comely dame, and the two young ladies courtesied low to the handsome young man presented to them, and Madam Dinwiddie said,

"I hope, Mr. Washington, that we may see you at the ball to-night."

"I have promised myself that honor, madam," replied George.

With the Earl he then withdrew to the back of the hall, where they found many acquaintances, old to the Earl but new to George; and no man or woman who saw George that day but was impressed with him as a youth of whom great things might be expected.

[to be continued.]

THE TROUT PLAYS HOOKEY.

A little trout, one bright sunshiny day,
As to his morning school he went his way,
Thought 'twould be fun to turn aside and stray,
And at the wicked game of hookey play.

"'Tis great," he said, as up the purling brook
He slyly swam, with many a backward look,
"To travel thus upon one's own sweet hook,
And leave the stupid study of one's book."

And so he gayly swam from pool to pool,
Forgetting all his duties at the school;
Forgetting lessons, pencil, slate, and rule,
Till afternoon gave way to twilight cool.

And then, ah me!—poor naughty little trout!—
A fisherman came treading softly out,
With pole, and line, and worms both sleek and stout,
In search of such as he, beyond a doubt.

And trouty, feeling hungry, took a bite.
He bit with all his main and all his might.
The line drew back, it drew exceeding tight,
And trouty flashed straight upward, out of sight.

And now the other trout, his brothers, weeping, say
He ne'er came back to his old purling way.
He's not been seen since that sunshiny day
When at the game of "hook" he tried to play.

Carlyle Smith.

PROTECTING FIELD ARTILLERY.

THE BELGIUM ARMY PLAYING AT WAR.

BY V. GRIBAYÉDOFF.

The hardships of militarism are, perhaps, nowhere more apparent on the other side of the water than in the little kingdom of Belgium. She lies between France and Germany—we might say between the bark and the tree—and should war break out between these two great powers, there is little doubt that her neutrality would be violated by one or both of them, and the war carried on within her borders. Such, at all events, has been the argument of the advocates of military expenditure; and that the Belgian Parliament has not turned a deaf ear to it is clear from the enormous credits voted of late years for the construction of a line of forts along the River Meuse, between Liege, the great manufacturing centre, and the fortress of Namur; also for the general strengthening of the defensive forces of the kingdom.

Here, then, is a nation of little over six million inhabitants, occupying an area about half the size of New York State, of themselves industrious and peaceable, yet obliged to contribute millions and millions yearly for the support of an army which, including the militia, exceeds two hundred thousand men. What would the tax-payers of New York, with its population of nearly six millions and its militia of twelve thousand men, say to a proposition to put them on the same military footing with Belgium?

Inconceivable as the proposition would appear to us, the Belgians are thoroughly resigned to their fate, and since the young Fleming or Walloon who draws his number knows that he must serve his time, willy nilly, he does it like a man, and even puts on an appearance of satisfaction, for it is considered bad form to betray one's disappointment. Fifty thousand young men are annually called, and of these twelve thousand are selected by the drawing. Their term of service is eight years, four under arms, and four in the reserve.

BELGIAN CAVALRY.

I have heard competent military men, familiar with the methods employed in the Belgian army, express the opinion that, for its size, it is one of the most perfect fighting-machines in Europe. I must say that my own experience during the regular summer manœuvres this year in the province of Namur was such as to incline me to share that belief. To begin with, the men are of excellent physique, far larger in stature than the French, though perhaps a trifle below the North German standard. A Belgian regiment contains about an equal proportion of blond and dark haired men, and it is a safe plan to class the former as inhabitants of the Flemish provinces—that is, Flanders, Antwerp, Limbourg, and North Brabant—and the latter as coming from the Walloon section—viz., Hainault, South Brabant, Liege, Namur, and Luxembourg. The Flemings are of Germanic extraction, and speak a language akin to Dutch; the Walloons are an energetic Celtic race, with a proud military history behind them. The two elements, leavening each other, form a compact yet pliable mass, the best of material in the hands of a good commander. French is the official military language; but the regulations and orders are also printed in Flemish, which has a recognized legal standing in the country.

"GUIDES" GETTING DINNER IN THE FIELD.

The most picturesque body of troops in the Belgian army are the dragoons, or "Guides." One of the accompanying photographs shows a party engaged in preparing a meal in an open field. The men in the foreground are wearing the forage-cap, but when on active duty they don the imposing bear-skin busby seen on one or two of the figures in the rear. They are the favorites of King Leopold, himself an ardent military man, and the barrack of the 1st Regiment near Brussels is a marvel of good accommodation and comfort. The "Guides" are picked men, the majority Walloons. I have seen a squadron of them charge furiously across a plain bestrewn with ponderous logs without a break in their line. Their horsemanship is above praise. Besides its two regiments of "Guides," the Belgian army has two regiments of chasseurs, or light cavalry, and four of lancers—all with very showy uniforms. The predominating colors of the cavalry are blue-gray, light blue, pink, dark green, orange, etc. They use the same uniform for campaigning as for state occasions; nevertheless, I did not see a really shabby-looking soldier during my stay in Belgium.

AN INCIDENT OF INFANTRY DRILL.

The infantry is, of course, the mainstay of the army. It is also its hardest-worked branch. The photograph showing a detachment of foot-soldiers up to their waists in water will certainly not suggest a scene at Peekskill or any other American practice-ground. It is a scene I witnessed many a time, however, in Belgium. Nor must it be imagined that the "trick is done" when the soldiers have reached the opposite shore. Weighted down with pounds of baggage—knapsacks, ammunition-pouches, weapons, and clothing—and sopping to the skin, the poor fellows often have hours of mountain-climbing to undergo before the welcome bugle-blast brings them a few hours' respite. This is warfare indeed—all but the actual killing.

The method of preparing meals is shown in the "Guides" photograph. This digging a shallow trench in the ground, making a fire of stray branches, and setting the pot on to boil would hardly impress one as being conducive of happy results, to the digestive organs. And yet I myself had the interesting experience not only of watching the preparation, of a ragout under these peculiar circumstances—that is, in the open field after a hard day's march—but also of sampling the result. How, under such adverse conditions, the regimental cooks ever managed to produce as delicious a stew as was offered me on this occasion is a mystery I have never been able to solve: the meat, the potatoes, and some gravy stock in a bottle the men carried with them in a cart. For the rest—carrots, turnips, and the "fines herbes" that constitute seasoning—they had to scour the neighborhood. Having secured these concomitants, the work of cooking seemed to them child's play.

THE TRENCH DUG IN THIRTEEN MINUTES.

I doubt if even the French soldiers live as well as do Belgium's hardy defenders. In fact, I know they do not. The Belgium soldier's pay is very high, judged by the European Continental standard—about six dollars a month—and the government allows him liberal rations of bread and meat besides. And with what care are his interests watched by his superiors! I learned, for instance, that the officers in charge of the regimental mess of the 3d Infantry, in Ghent, had succeeded not only in providing for each soldier's comfort on 18 centimes (less than four cents) per day, but that out of this sum money was left over for extra beer and various entertainments, and at the end of a year almost 12,000 francs of savings were deposited in the bank for mutual benefit! This is good management indeed. Some of the hardest work in connection with modern field manœuvres is entailed in the necessity of constantly throwing up intrenchments, and two of the photographs show the fighting under these conditions. The modern infantryman must be an adept with the pick and the spade, otherwise he is entirely at the mercy of the modern repeating-rifle. The Belgians understand that their future war will be a defensive one against an unscrupulous invader, and the throwing up of intrenchments at short notice will constitute an important factor in their scheme of defence. Not many years ago infantry, when assailed in the open without cover would at the best lay themselves flat on their stomachs to escape the rain of shot. Nowadays the European foot-soldier also performs the duties of sapper and miner, and while on the defensive makes cover for himself by the use of pick and spade. I timed a company of Belgian infantry at this operation in a large meadow bordering a wood whence the mock enemy was emerging. The retreat of the former was cut off by a broad impassable stream, so there was nothing for it but to make a stand. At the word of command those of the men who carried the combination pick and spade, about fifty in number, commenced digging a trench. Thirteen minutes later the job was completed, and the entire force was well under cover, and began firing its volleys at the approaching foe. The trench was almost one hundred feet long, of an average width of three feet, and of about the same depth. The earth thrown up formed an épaulement of two and one-half feet, allowing each man to stand almost erect and to take careful aim. The whole operation, in addition to its rapidity, was carried through with remarkable order and coolness. The men seemed to understand their task thoroughly, and performed it without the slightest trace of confusion. If their aim is as good as their field-work, they must be formidable foes indeed!

CARRYING A PONTOON.

FIELD TELEPHONE AND SIGNAL APPARATUS.

The pontoon and the field telegraph and signal services are the objects of great attention on the part of the Belgian military authorities, and I have added photographs illustrating all these branches. The country south of the Liege-Namur line, where the Germans are expected to appear some day, is intersected with more or less impassable rivers, which will often need bridging in short order. The pontoon service is consequently of the first importance among the various factors in the country's defence.

BELGIAN GENDARMES.

The best picture—artistically speaking—represents a group of Belgian gendarmes around a camp-fire. It is a masterpiece of artistic photography. The gendarmes are also a very important branch of the service, and their duties are most onerous, since they are not only called upon to police the rural districts, suppress strikes, and make themselves generally useful as servants of the law, but in war-time they form part and parcel of the regular army, and are obliged to fight their country's battles like the rest.

HOW TO EXTRA-ILLUSTRATE A BOOK.

BY WILLIAM HALE.

Every one knows how much more interesting is an illustrated book than one without pictures. What a satisfaction it would be to us if we could illustrate our favorite books ourselves! What pleasure we would take in it! This is entirely possible. It is a comparatively easy matter to illustrate a book, or, in the case of a book that already contains pictures, to extend and increase the illustration by means of old prints, engravings, and pictures gathered from various sources and bound in with the leaves of the book. This is called "extra-illustrating," and has long been a favorite amusement of collectors.

A book that is carefully and judiciously extra-illustrated is not only much more attractive in appearance, but its value is greatly increased, and the amount of pleasure and instruction to be gained by the extra illustration of one book is a rich reward for the trouble and time it costs.

The first thing to be done in the extra illustration of a book which has been selected for the purpose is the collection of the pictures. This will often take some time, and should never be done in a hurry. Old magazines and illustrated papers will supply many of the necessary pictures, while old books and the shops devoted to the sale of old prints and engravings will furnish others.

Suppose The Three Musketeers to be the book chosen. A portrait of the author should be selected for a frontispiece. Other portraits, representing the author at different ages, may be used in the book; but the one that serves as the frontispiece should be one made about the time he wrote the book.

The other illustrations should consist of pictures referring as nearly as possible to the scenes and incidents described in the story. Pictures of an author's home or portraits of members of his family are always useful; but no picture, however interesting in itself, should be included if it does not bear directly upon the scenes in the book or is not in some way connected with the author.

When a sufficient number of illustrations have been selected, they should be mounted ready for binding. This is the difficult part, and must be done with great care.

Take a sheet of strong paper, as nearly as possible the same color and weight as the paper upon which the book is printed, and cut it the exact size of the page of the book. Then trim your print close to the work, being careful to see that the edges are perfectly straight. Cut out from your sheet of paper a hole exactly the shape of the print, but an eighth of an inch smaller on all sides. This opening should not be exactly in the middle of the page, but a little above the middle and a little to the left, so as to give wider margins at the bottom and on the right. Now gum or paste the edges of the print on the under side with great care, and place it over the opening so that it is even on all sides. As there is a difference of only a sixteenth of an inch on the four sides, it is a delicate matter to place the print on the mount accurately, but after a little practice it can be done quite easily and quickly.

After the prints are mounted, they should be pressed until dry. Then the cover of the book should be carefully removed with the aid of a sharp knife. Never mind about ruining the blank pages or fly-leaves, they will be replaced by the binder when he puts the cover on again; but care should be taken to avoid cutting or tearing any of the printed pages. When the cover is removed, it will be found that the book is put together in sections laid one on top of another. These sections consist of sixteen or some other number of pages each, and a section is known in a printing-office as a "signature." The threads that sew the book should be cut, and the signatures should be carefully separated from each other.

Then the mounted prints should be laid in as neatly as possible opposite the incidents they illustrate. The prints should always be inserted face up, and the sidewise full pages with the bottom of the picture toward either the outside or inside margin of the book. Now your book is ready for the binder. Perhaps your extra-illustration has been so extensive as to increase the bulk of the book so much that the original cover will not go on again, and perhaps enough has been added to make the one volume into two, in which case your binder can supply you with simple covers at a very slight expense.

Books of travel, or stories of hunting, fishing, etc., may be beautifully illustrated by photographs. Unmounted prints are to be desired, although it is possible to take prints off mounts by a liberal soaking in warm water. The soft-finished photographs, such as bromide and platinum-prints, are vastly better than the shiny albumen prints.

Photographs should be mounted in the same way as other prints, except that no openings are to be made in the mounts. The prints should be pasted on flat and pressed until dry. Albumen prints have a tendency to curl up, and it will require a pretty stiff paper to keep them flat. This is one of the reasons why platinum or bromide prints are so much better. When albumen prints are used they must be mounted wet, and should afterward be burnished, which can be done by any professional photographer. An amateur photographer can have the fun in many cases of making the pictures himself for the book he wants to extra-illustrate, and the finished work will have an added interest and value to him.

The use of photographs, especially if many are included, will greatly increase the thickness of a book, and it will generally be found advisable to have the binder make it into two volumes of equal size.

THE IMAGINARY BOAT.

Oh, I've got a beautiful 'maginary boat!
'Tis the finest boat there is.
There isn't a place where the craft won't float,
And go with a lively whiz.
I can shut my eyes
And sail in the skies
On board of that 'maginary ship;
And without any ropes,
With nothing but hopes,
I can soar to the mountain's tip.

I can sail to the moon
Any afternoon,
I can cruise all about the stars,
I can sail any sea
That ever did be,
I can sail on tracks like the cars.
It'll go on land
With a speed that's grand;
It will sail up a cataract steep;
And there isn't a place
On the whole earth's face
I can't make that vessel creep.

It takes no steam for to make it go,
It takes no wind on its sails to blow,
It takes no mule with a rope to tow,
But goes like a breeze
Over land and seas
When I say so—
And it's big and strong,
And it's short or long,
According as 't needs to be:
And it's manned by a crew
That's 'maginary too,
Who all think the world of me.

And night or day
It's ready for play,
And it's safe as a boat can be,
For it's all in your mind
That its joys you find—
And that's not a very deep sea.

So I say to you all get a 'maginary boat;
'Tis the finest boat there is;
And there isn't a place where the craft won't float,
And go with a lively whiz.

Gaston V. Drake.

CAMPING AND HUNTING.

There is no reason why a boy of fifteen or sixteen should not spend his two weeks in a camp hunting during September as well as his father or uncle. The only requirements are a wholesome respect and care for the gun, and the presence of some older man as a guide to keep him in the right track. The Round Table has spoken often of late years concerning the care and uses of a gun, and it is useless to go into the particulars of this again. It is enough to say here that a gun must be kept clean, always oiled and wiped each night, and never loaded except when game is momentarily expected to appear; and, above all, no gun, nor any part of a gun, should be pointed at any one.

The first question of moment in camping is the object. If it is hunting, then the particular game is to be considered, and places sought where that game is to be found. If it is fishing, then the best available fishing-grounds must be the site of the camp. The site of a camp should be on comparatively high ground, on some knoll where water will drain away on all sides. This avoids the danger of having water run down into the tent. One of the best of sites is the edge of a bluff, over the sea or a lake, which in the main slopes back inland on its other three sides. Such places can always be found if time is spent in searching sufficiently far for them.

With the certainty that rain will drain away from the tent-floor and that any breezes which may be going will blow across the tent itself, from whatever direction they may come, the actual flooring of the tent-house is settled. This knoll, however, must not be far from a spring. Here again time is the only thing that is necessary, for there is seldom a bluff near salt or fresh water that there is not a spring in one of the surrounding valleys less than 100 yards away. Of course the nearer the spring is the better, provided the tent site is not in or near a swamp. In the northeastern quarter of the United States—that is, from Ohio north and east—the tent should face southwest and northeast. It should not be too much covered by trees, and though not absolutely in the sun, the west exposure ought really to be open to all airs. If possible, the shore on which the tent site is should be an easterly or northeasterly one, so that as you stand on the bluff and look out on the river, bay, or lake you look in a southerly or westerly direction. By selecting such a shore, you will have your prevailing summer wind coming into the tent across whatever water is near, and hence so much the cooler. As some business man once said that "goods well bought were half sold," so a camping party with a site well selected is practically sure to be a success. Water is at hand and likely to be good, the wind is cool when it blows, and the ground is sure to be dry except immediately after a rain, when any spot would be wet. There will be shade under trees near by, though the tent itself will be in the sun a good deal of the day to keep it perfectly dry. This last is quite necessary, because, though a tent pitched in a hot plain is perhaps the hottest habitation on earth, the question of dryness is more important; and all tents on such situations as have been described will be cool at night if the directions regarding the care of the tent which are given below are followed.

The best tent, because the coolest, roomiest, and easiest to make and set up, is the ridge-pole tent. It consists of a ten-foot horizontal pole lying about seven feet from the ground on two uprights. Over this is stretched a piece of duck ten feet wide and about twenty feet long. Along the two ten-foot ends of this canvas are fastened cords about two feet from the end, something after the fashion of reefing-points on a boat's sail; and these cords, being perhaps three feet in length, are attached to tent pegs driven in sufficiently far out on each side to draw the canvas taut over the horizontal or "ridge" pole. The result is a peaked roof of canvas seven feet high at the centre and three feet high where the "walls" begin, and then two three-foot perpendicular walls. The ends of the tent are of course still open, and in all warm weather they will remain so. But to keep out rain and cold winds four flaps should be made, to hang at the front and back and on each side of the perpendicular supports to the ridge-pole. They should be somewhat larger than the space they are to cover, in order that they may lap sufficiently to close the opening completely. All during the day, if the weather permits, these "flaps" should be turned back on the roof of the tent, and the three feet of perpendicular canvas wall on either side should be turned up on the roof also. In this way every whiff of air will blow through and under the tent all day. At night the sides and ends may be left open or not, as the temperature and weather suggest. In this way a healthy and inexpensive camping-house can be set up on the most approved sanitary principles. If you are particularly aristocratic you can lay down three pieces of three-inch joist across the tent floor and place a plank flooring over them. But the cool summer or fall ground is quite good enough for the average sportsman. To avoid heat a second cover of canvas can be stretched over the tent, as shown in the illustration.

AN INEXPENSIVE AND SUITABLE CAMP.

Having secured a high knoll, spring-water, and a tent to live in, the next question is food. Here again a great deal depends on whether the sportsman is out for big game, small game, or fish. Big game means camping in the West far from any habitations; small game may mean near to town or miles away; fishing is usually near civilization. Where it is possible, therefore, milk, fruit, vegetables, and even meat—such as chickens—should be bought from the nearest farmer, who usually will sell you what you want, or rather what he has, and what it will be well for you to be satisfied with, if you pay him cash on receipt of goods. If the camp site is ten or more miles from a house, then can goods and what game you secure must fill the bill of fare, with a possible journey to civilization once a week. The cooking is simple if a definite plan is followed. It may spoil the whole camping trip if it is not run on a methodical plan. At least fifty feet from the tent, and usually down in some near-by hollow, a "lean-to" should be constructed—that is, a slanting roof some six feet in height, and made of entwined branches. This may and should be curved, or made on three sides of a square, leaving a small space for an ordinary small one-cover laundry stove, or, in fact, any kind of a stove, which you can scrape up in the town or houses nearest your camp site. This primitive lean-to will keep off the wind from the stove, and you can cook there all that a camp of five or six boys want or should have. So much for the camp. There are more extensive outfits, of course, better ones in every way, but here is one that will cost little, except in time and care in selecting a site, and any boys, no matter how limited their pocket-books, can have such a camp if they have the time to give to camping at all.

A GOOD CAMP LOCATION.

The costume of such campers may be anything they see fit to wear. Usually knickers with stout shoes and a cheviot shirt is the best thing. Extra shoes and trousers must be carried along, because one is always getting wet if water is near, and wet shoes and clothes are not healthy. The best way to sleep in such a tent is to put on a thick suit of pajamas or some regular camp sleeping outfit, and then to roll yourself up in a blanket, and lie either on the ground or on a bed of bows, which is easily made. Rolling one's self up in a blanket is a science by itself, and an old-timer will give as much care to his "rolling-up" process each night as a mother will to tucking a baby in its crib on a cold night. In the first place, one end of the blanket is laid on the bows. Then the camper lays himself out on that end. He then draws the longer end of the robe over him as he lies on his back. This leaves nearly half the blanket still unused. He then turns on his side, so as to make the spare portion fall down behind his back, and by rolling completely over on his stomach, carrying the part of the blanket already under him with him, he will finally get to the other end of the robe, and by then rolling back again he will find himself wrapped up like a mummy, and in a condition to keep out dampness and cold far better than if he lay on a bed.

We have only a short space for a word as to the life in camp. And perhaps this is the most important part of the outfit. If you want to have a good time, keep yourself busy. Run down and take a plunge in lake, river, or sea the first thing after rising; then eat as soon as possible. After this, clean up camp. Give each man his work about the knoll for the day, and then start in at once to fish or shoot or what not. Never sit around and read or doze. Once a week, on Sunday, is quite enough for that sort of thing. All should assemble to dinner at one, and then the afternoon should be busy too. A hearty supper and an early bed are two good things to end the day with.

[The following paper on the Science of Football, by Mr. W. H. Lewis of the Harvard Football Team of 1893, is the fourth and last of the series begun in this Department in the issue of September 8.]

When speaking of defensive play in football, the general understanding is that the side not having the ball is on the defensive, but in reality a team is on the defensive so long as it is in its own territory, whether it has the ball or not. In the present paper, however, the term "defence" will be used in the ordinary sense—that is, of the side not having the ball. The importance of a systematic and scientific defence is emphasized by the fact that it is just half of the game.

Defence to the start-off.—The defensive to the opening play is a comparatively simple thing. The side on the defence should arrange itself so as to cover pretty effectively its whole territory. The placing of the men will depend largely upon the characteristics or qualities of the individuals. They should be so arranged that an interference could be quickly formed for a run, or a return made from any part of the field, no matter where the ball might be kicked. The present code of playing-rules requires that the ball be kicked at least ten yards into the opponent's territory; but as an attempt is seldom made to kick only that distance and no further, the three centre men are placed on the 40-yard line to look out for a short kick along the ground, and be ready to drop on it. If the ball pass them, they should block the nearest man, who will always be the fastest and most dangerous. The quarter-back is placed on the 30-yard line to look out for a short kick, and to look out for the middle of the field. The ends are placed between the 25-yard and 30-yard lines, well out near touch. They are there to prevent any kick in their vicinity from going into touch. The tackles are placed on the 20-yard line to lead the interference in case of a return run. The right and left halves are on the 10-yard line, and ought to cover all the ground between them and the tackles. Lastly, on the 5-yard line is the full-back. The backs should exercise good judgment, and allow every ball that will go into touch to go there. If the ball comes anywhere near the goal-line, the full-back should allow it to go over, so that it can be brought out to the 25-yard line. As a rule, the man who gets the ball should run with it. If one of the three backs gets it, the two tackles and the other two backs should form the primary interference, and the other players should get around the runner as quickly as possible. In the majority of cases it in best to return the start-off by a punt. Possession of the ball is of little advantage when it is in your own territory.

FIG. 1.

Defence to a scrimmage or down.—A given territory to defend and a certain number of men to do it with is the problem of the defence. Whenever the two opposing elevens are lined up on the field, there is theoretically a line of 160 feet through any part of which the eleven on the offensive may advance. The shorter the territory is made through which an advance is possible, the better that territory may be protected by the eleven men. The natural tendency of the rush-line the moment a play starts from the opposing line is to pull open, because of the effort of the men to break through on the outside of their opponents, as in Fig. 1. The solid rings represent the line before breaking through, and the dotted rings the line after breaking through.

The effect of this is to make holes for the other side, enlarge the territory to be defended, and thus weaken the line. Hence the secret or principle underlying a scientific defence is one that closes the line up the moment a play starts from behind the opposing line, thus shortening the territory and better enabling the eleven to protect it.

FIG. 2.

The prevailing notion about end-rush play is that the duty of that player is simply to turn the runner in, and to look out for the outside, as a result of which the end will often retreat to the side-line and leave an immense amount of territory to be covered by tackle, guard, and rush-line back. The end should take direction B D (Fig. 2), instead of B A on the dotted lines. He should go in on as sharp an angle and as quickly as possible, the aim being to reach the runner before the interference is formed, and to turn him in towards the centre or force him to run back towards his own goal in order to get around to the outside. The end should be careful to keep a little to the outside. He will always be able to take this direction, since his opponent seldom or ever plays in front of him. The territory to be covered when the end plays in that way will be from C to D instead of from A to D. The end, of course, is primarily responsible for the outside, and secondarily for the inside. The same is true of the guard. The centre is primarily responsible for both sides of the line. The primary and secondary defence of the different holes or parts of territory may seem somewhat puzzling at first, but it is absolutely necessary to secure consistency or firmness in the rush-line, as the strength and power of resistance of the rush-line depend upon the unity of the parts.

The tackles and guards should go through on as small an arc of the circle as possible in order not to pull the line open. The centre should hold his ground until he sees that his position is not attacked, and then take the nearest hole to the runner. The rush-line half should stand just outside of the tackle. The half should go through between end and tackle, as a rule following close upon the end. The ground between end and tackle is the most dangerous. The half should be in a position to help both end and tackle. If the runner turns inside of end the half-back should be there to pick him up if he goes outside.

FIG. 3.

The quarter-back should hover around behind the centre rush and help him in looking after the centre holes, at the same time keeping a sharp lookout upon the guard and tackle holes. He should play more of a safety game. At the same time, if he sees a good opportunity to go through he should do so. The quarter, however, should never undertake to play between guard and centre. How much of a free lance the quarter may be will depend largely upon the strength of the centre. The full-back stands the usual distance back, and should advance toward the rush-line with every play. The position of the players after getting through should be something like the dotted rings in Fig. 3. To secure this position, the men in the forward-line must break through sharply and cleanly, not occasionally, but every time.

When the opposing side is going to kick from some point between the two 35-yard lines, it is a good rule to have the ends drop back and out about five yards. That enables them, in case of a false kick, to get back to stop an end run, or, in case it is a bona fide kick, to get back so as to protect the backs while catching the ball. When the opposing team kicks inside its own 35-yard line, the ends should break through with the other forwards to help stop the kick.

The University of Pennsylvania has a unique and singular style of defence used by no other eleven, so far as the writer knows. Its point of difference from that of other teams lies in the play of the tackle and the rush-line half-back. When the ball starts, the half-back takes the tackle and literally hurls him through the line on the inside of his man, while the half and the end take the outside. This scheme seems to work pretty well, the tackle almost invariably gets through, and if the play has not advanced beyond centre, he is in a good position to stop it. The hole between the guard and tackle being well protected by the tackle going through it every time, the guards face in toward the centre, and so protect the centre holes fairly well. The line from tackle to tackle is very strong in this defence.

Princeton's defence is marked by the constant playing of half-back between the tackles and guard. Many teams allow the half to get in between tackles and guard. This makes the line longer but not thicker. The half-backs to play this game must be good, big, strong fellows, otherwise they have no business in the line.

Defence to special plays.—The defence to special plays depends upon the character or underlying principle of the play itself. To stop a closely formed mass play, the player or players against whom it is aimed should go into it low and hard with the shoulders and fall flat. A loosely formed mass play should be stopped by ripping through the players to the runner. Such a play is hard to pile up, and lying down in front of it does little or no good. When a wedge is directed upon centre, the three centre men should go into it with head and shoulders, first shoving the apex in, and thus opening the wedge and forcing the runner to the outside. After shoving in the apex, the three men naturally fall flat, and thus prevent further progress over them, and the other men take care of the flanks of the line.

The old revolving wedge is a difficult play to stop. Like the push-ball, you can hardly tell which side you are pushing for; so the only way to stop it is to get inside of it to the runner. To lie down in front of it, and tackle all legs in sight may result in having the play roll around you and on you; besides, you cannot tackle a man who has not the ball.

Momentum plays may be easily stopped by allowing the flying men to pass you and not strike you. If a man stands with his body well forward and his arms outstretched in front of him, he can bear off to one side or swing to one side the man who tries to hit and get him out of the way. The ancient criss-cross trick, which very often succeeds, may be stopped by simply having the forwards go through every time, and not run behind their own line. Finally, there is but one way to stop all trick plays, and that is to keep your eyes on the ball. It does not matter which way the men run—watch the ball and follow that.

Defence to different parts of the field, and defensive generalship.—In general, the defence to all parts of the field should be equally strong, but there are parts where the offensive eleven redoubles its efforts, and to successfully oppose it the defensive team must do the same. When a team is within its own 20-yard line on the defensive, the full-back, instead of standing back near the goal, should come up to within four or five yards of the line, as he can be of infinitely more service then in re-enforcing the line. The object should be more than ever to prevent the opposing runners from passing the line. If the other side kicks, the ball will be more than likely to go over the line, so that the full-back need not worry about that.

The centre and guard may make a hole to allow the quarter-back to go through and play havoc with the play. Everybody should play for the ball. Sharp, desperate, active breaking through, added to the nervousness of the other side, will often get the defensive eleven out of a hole. When inside the opponent's 35-yard line, the ends, instead of dropping back and out when the opposing side is going to kick, should play up in the line, and go through to try to block the kick. The ends, to be sure, are at the longest distance from the kicker, but they may distract the blockers sufficiently to help some other man to stop the kick. In plays within the side-lines the short field should be carefully guarded, and a concerted effort made to force the play outside and into touch, thus making the offensive team lose its first trial to advance.

A team should never play slowly simply because the other side is ahead. It is an unfair practice, and unquestionably poor generalship. The other side, seeing that it has an easy thing, will simply play all the more boldly; whereas a constant, stubborn resistance, a "die-in-the-last-ditch" defence, will keep the other side guessing all the time. But often a team may find itself being pushed steadily back towards its own goal, and with no apparent good reason. The cause may be simply a little nervousness on the part of the men, and if the captain will simply call time a moment, the result often is that the men get right together and steady down to their work. A team that is forced to be on the defensive most of the time will do well to kick constantly and frequently whenever it gets the ball.

Defensive generalship.—Defensive generalship consists in keeping the other side on the defence. The best way to defend one's territory is to advance into the other fellow's.

The same rule applies when a team is pushed back into either corner of its territory. In both cases the end on the long side of the field should keep a sharp lookout for a dash around the end. When a team gets possession of the ball in close proximity to its own goal-line, it is really on the defensive, as has been said before. The ball, more than likely, must be kicked from behind its own goal-line. Then it is that the full-back should exercise great judgment, and if the opposing forwards are through the line and on him before he can get his kick, he should allow a safety, and not give the other side a touch-down. Better give up two points than four or six.

The championship season of the Connecticut League will probably open on October 24, although the schedule has not yet been made up. But before that time a number of games will be played by the school teams in the League, and we shall be able to get a line on the style of the several teams.

The Hartford High-School will not have so heavy a football team this year as last. The average weight of the eleven will be about 150 pounds, whereas the 1895 team averaged 156 pounds. Thus far Allen seems to be the strongest candidate for centre; Weeks, Griffin, and Costello are the best men trying for guards. Griffin is new at the game, but he will improve; he weighs 200 pounds, and stands 6 ft. 2 in. Weeks is considerably lighter, but he can play good football; he is a lazy worker, however, and needs hard coaching. Costello ranks third in excellence, but should make the team if Weeks does not go in more seriously.

Strong, who played end last year, has been moved into tackle. On the other side of the line Bush and Marsh have about equal chances for the same position. Three men are trying for the ends—Calder, Breed, and A. E. Smith—the best work being done by the two former. Captain Sturtevant will keep his old place at quarter, where he did such good work last fall. One half-back and full-back were both on last year's team, E. W. Smith having been dropped back from centre, and Twitchell from end. Rowley seems to be the most promising candidate for the third position.

Among the New York schools training is now fairly started. Berkeley seems to be more advanced than any of the other teams, and another good eleven may be looked for this year. Berkeley loses its most powerful player, Irwin-Martin, who goes to college, and also its centre and two guards—Rand, Hayden and Lefferts—also one of the half-backs, Gallaway. But the right and left guards of the second eleven—Poor and Irvine—will more than replace the other two. They played nearly as well last year as the regular men, and they have now increased considerably in weight and strength. Poor is 6 ft. 4 in.; Irvine, 6 ft. 1 in. Poor was the only man last year who could hold Martin when he played up in the line.

It is probable that Wiley, the catcher of last year's nine, will go in and play half-back. He showed up well early in the season last year, but sprained his arm, and was unable to play in any of the important matches. Bien will be brought up from full-back to half, and Pell will go in at full. Centre will be looked after by Gilson, who is considered by his fellows to be far and away the best centre that Berkeley ever had. He weighs 180 pounds, and stands 6 ft. 1 in. There are a number of the second-eleven men and three or four new students who have turned out very promising candidates, and it is probable that before the championship games come on Berkeley will have developed some good team-work.

Miller, r.t. Hamill, r.g. Knickabocker, l.g. Lewis, Man'g'r. Higley, sub. r.t. Trude, l.h.b. and f.b.

Hopkins, sub. c. Callger, sub. l.h.b. Linden, l.e. Ford (Capt.), r.h.b. Campbell, q.b. McGill, l.t.

Mackay, c. Gould, f.b. Boice, l.h.b. Steel, r.e. Gilbert, sub. l.t.

HYDE PARK HIGH-SCHOOL FOOTBALL TEAM.

Champions of the Cook County High-School Football League, 1895.

The Hyde Park High-School team, which won the championship of the Cook County High-School League last year, was the lightest eleven in the Association, averaging but 135 pounds. Nevertheless, it managed to make the following record in the League Championship series:

Oct. | 9. | Englewood H.-S. | 0 | H.P.H-S. | 12
Oct. | 12. | Evanston H.-S. | 0 | H.P.H-S. | 28
Oct. | 19. | Lake View H.-S. | 0 | H.P.H-S. | 16
Oct. | 26. | English H.-S. | 0 | H.P.H-S. | 40
Nov. | 2. | Chicago M.-T.S. | 4 | H.P.H-S. | 14
Nov. | 9. | Oak Park H.-S. | | Forfeited to H.P.
Nov. | 16. | North Division L.-S. | 0 | H.P.H-S. | 18
Nov. | 20. | West Division L.-S. | 0 | H.P.H-S. | 16
| | | - | | —-
| | Scored by opponents | 4 | H.P.H.-S. | 144

The Hyde Park H.-S. eleven has already gotten down to work, and on September 17 played the Chicago University eleven, losing, 24-0. In this game Ummemyer played very well at right half, making a number of gains against the heavier college men. If he is well coached he should develop into a strong player by the time the championship series closes.

"TRACK ATHLETICS IN DETAIL."—Illustrated.—8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25.

The Graduate.

There is a story told of two well-known authors, both alive to-day, that has a good deal of humor in it. It seems that one of them had published a book in which a few lines were used that had been published in the other's book some years before. Through a round-about way the unconscious plagiarist heard that he had used lines that had been published, and he hastened to the original author protesting his innocence, and hoping that he had not offended. He claimed that he must have read those lines when they originally came out years before, and they had so impressed him that he wrote them in his book believing them to be his own thought. The original writer of the lines laughed the matter off, and humorously said:

"Pray don't bother, my dear Mr. ——. To tell you the truth about those lines, it's so long ago since I wrote them that I've quite forgotten whom I stole them from."

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

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

Copyright, 1896, by Harper & Brothers.

Having given in the last two weeks the bicycle route from Chicago to Ottawa, it may be well, before going into other parts of the country, to say something of the rides in the vicinity of Ottawa itself. As was said last week, there are a great many places of historic interest in the vicinity of Ottawa. The most interesting trip is from Ottawa to La Salle, and there are several ways of getting there, the best, so far as the immediate journey is concerned, being the one described as the bicycle route on the southern side of the railroad and the canal and on the northern bank of the Illinois River. Leave the Court-house at Ottawa and run westward. The roads are in good condition, whether you go north of the railroad or south of it, or, indeed, south of the river. A pleasant route is out by the County Farm and Asylum, past Buffalo Rock, and thence to the Sulphur Springs. Then, crossing the bridge at Utica brings you to Starved Rock, one of the most famous spots in the State. In the first place, it is here that one of the first settlements in the valley of the Illinois River was made. It is where La Salle first settled and made his capital of what was to be New France, and it has been the scene of many an Indian fight. From Starved Rock, a four-mile trip with some hilly road brings you to Deer Park, which is well worth seeing. From this point it is easy to find the road into La Salle itself through Oglesby. The trip may be made to extend over about twenty-four or twenty-five miles, and then, after having dinner at La Salle, the fifteen-mile run back to Ottawa by the direct route will make a day's ride of some forty miles that is as full of picturesque and historic interest as any ride of similar length in Illinois.

We have now given several trips in the vicinity of Chicago, which will of course be of special interest to the readers of the Round Table who live in or near that city. Having gone so far, although there are many other attractive trips in that district, the number of inquiries for routes along the Atlantic coast, through New Jersey, New York State, and Pennsylvania, is so great that we shall turn back towards the East, and for the next few weeks give some routes and tours in that part of the country. At the same time, if there are any particular routes of general importance which readers in Chicago wish to know about, and believe to be sufficiently interesting to general bicyclists, we shall be very much pleased to have information regarding them, and to consider publishing maps of them in this Department.

Note.—Map of New York city asphalted streets in No. 809. Map of route from New York to Tarrytown in No. 810. New York to Stamford, Connecticut, in No. 811. New York to Staten Island in No. 812. New Jersey from Hoboken to Pine Brook in No. 813. Brooklyn in No. 814. Brooklyn to Babylon in No. 815. Brooklyn to Northport in No. 816. Tarrytown to Poughkeepsie in No. 817. Poughkeepsie to Hudson in No. 818. Hudson to Albany in No. 819. Tottenville to Trenton in No. 820. Trenton to Philadelphia in No. 821. Philadelphia in No. 822. Philadelphia-Wissahickon Route in No. 823. Philadelphia to West Chester in No. 824. Philadelphia to Atlantic City—First Stage in No. 825; Second Stage in No. 826. Philadelphia to Vineland—First Stage in No. 827; Second Stage in No. 828. New York to Boston—Second Stage in No. 829; Third Stage in No. 830; Fourth Stage in No. 831; Fifth Stage in No. 832; Sixth Stage in No. 833. Boston to Concord in No. 834. Boston in No. 835. Boston to Gloucester in No. 836. Boston to Newburyport in No. 837. Boston to New Bedford in No. 838. Boston to South Framingham in No. 839. Boston to Nahant in No. 840. Boston to Lowell in No. 841. Boston to Nantasket Beach in No. 842. Boston Circuit Ride in No. 843. Philadelphia to Washington—First Stage in No. 844; Second Stage in No. 845; Third Stage in No. 846; Fourth Stage in No. 847; Fifth Stage in No. 848. City of Washington in No. 849. City of Albany in No. 854; Albany to Fonda in No 855; Fonda to Utica in No. 856; Utica to Syracuse in No. 857; Syracuse to Lyons in No. 858; Lyons to Rochester in No. 859; Rochester to Batavia in No. 860; Batavia to Buffalo in No. 861; Poughkeepsie to Newtown in No. 864; Newtown to Hartford in No. 865; New Haven to Hartford in No. 866; Hartford to Springfield in No. 867; Hartford to Canaan in No. 868; Canaan to Pittsfield in No. 869; Hudson to Pittsfield in No. 870. City of Chicago in No. 874. Waukesha to Oconomowoc in No. 875; Chicago to Wheeling in No. 876; Wheeling to Lippencott's in No. 877; Lippencott's to Waukesha in No. 878; Waukesha to Milwaukee in No. 879; Chicago to Joliet in No. 881; Joliet to Ottawa in No. 882.

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

VIGNETTING.

A vignetted photograph is one whose background shades off gradually into white, and is made by printing through an opening placed a short distance from the plate. The difference between masking and vignetting is that the mask or cut-out, is placed directly on the negative, and when the picture is printed there is a sharp line between the part printed and the part shielded from the light. In the vignetted picture the opening is placed a short distance from the negative so that the light is diffused, and instead of making a sharp line, the picture fades off gradually into pure white.

There are many devices sold for making vignettes, but the object of the Camera Club is not to tell its members how to spend money, but how to save it, by making many of the articles used in the making of photographs.

An empty plate-box cover is easily and quickly made into a vignetter. Mark on the face of the cover an outline of a size to correspond with the portion of the negative which you wish printed. If this is in the centre of the negative, mark the outline in the centre of the cover, and if a little to one side, mark the outline to correspond. Inside this outline make several cuts, and then tear the pasteboard carefully on the line marked. Peel off the paper so that it will be thinner at the edges of the opening. Over this opening paste a piece of thin tissue-paper, which should be of uniform opaqueness. The simplest way of attaching the cover to the printing-frame is to place it on the frame and hold it in place with two or three stout rubber straps. By marking a place on the printing-frame where the box is first placed, the print can be examined at any time, and if the cover should chance to be moved a little it can be returned to its original position, thus keeping the vignette in the same place.

When printing a vignetted picture, it is better to print in the shade than in the direct sunlight, as, if printed in the sunlight, the frame must be adjusted so that the light will enter the opening in a straight line. If the frame is placed in such a position that the rays enter in a slanting direction, the vignetted portion of the picture will not be in the place designed. Instead of pasting tissue-paper over the opening, a piece of ground glass can be placed over the cover during the process of printing.

To produce a very soft effect between the picture and the white part of the paper, take a piece of cotton wadding the size of the cover used for vignetting, tear a hole in the wadding a little smaller than that in the cover, and print as directed.

Sometimes one has a negative with fine clouds in the sky; but in order to make a print of them the rest of the picture must be masked in some way, or else it will be very much overprinted. One way of masking the part which prints too quickly is to cut out of opaque paper a piece which will cover the landscape part, following the outline along the horizon as carefully as possible, and place it over the landscape till the sky is printed; then remove and print the landscape part. Unless this mask is adjusted with the greatest care, there will either be a white line along the horizon or else a heavy black one, according whether the paper overlapped or did not quite cover the line. A much easier way to make the two printings is to take a plate-box cover the size of the negative, mark the outline of the horizon on it and cut away the pasteboard, and print with this over the negative in the same way as for the vignetting. When the sky is printed deep enough, remove the cover and print the rest of the picture.

The openings for vignetting may be cut in any shape desired—oval, pear-shape, round, triangle, etc.

Sir Knight Harry Patty, of California, sends a long list of questions, which we will try to answer to his satisfaction. Is it better to take portraits out-of-doors in the shade, or is the light more easily controlled in the house; should the light fall on the sitter from his left or right side, or is it immaterial; what would be the best arrangement of light in a bay-window with three windows, the window being shaped like the half of an octagon; what are the best colors for plain light and dark backgrounds, and what material; is the flannel sheet mentioned in No. 806 white, and would a white blanket do as well; are backgrounds always placed obliquely to the lens, and at what angle; how near the camera should the sitter look for a full face; should the eyes ever look at the lens; how much above the sitter's head should the camera be placed; what diaphragm should be used for a portrait; what method is used for marking stops; how can one vignette heads; what developer gives the best printing density for portraits; does metol give flat negatives; should one use the quickest plate for portraits; and which is the best of the Seed plates. It is easier for the amateur to make portraits out-of-doors than in the house. The article referred to gives directions for managing the light in-doors. When making portraits out-of-doors it is better to arrange the background, etc., in the angle of a building, as this gives a more artistic picture than where the sitter is exposed to the full light. It is immaterial which side the light falls on the sitter. The window next to the sitter in the bay-window described should be darkened, and the lower part of the other two windows. If the sitter is an adult, and can keep still for three or four seconds, it is better to cover the glass with thin white muslin, as this gives a soft even light. The flannel sheet is white or ecru, and a blanket would do as well. It should be far enough away from the sitter to be out of focus. The best colors for a light background are a yellow, white, or light gray, and for dark a soft dull gray. The background is arranged to suit the picture, and is not always placed obliquely. If the sitter looks just to one side of the camera it would give a good position for a full face. One should never look directly at the lens but just above or at one side. A medium stop is the best to use for portraits; stops will be explained in a later article; an article on "Vignetting" appears this week; most professional photographers prefer pyro; metol should give fine negatives; a medium-slow plate is best for portraits—try Cramer Banner; the non-halation Seed's are fine plates. The camera should be on a line just above the head of the sitter, with the lens at a slight angle. This is said to give a more equal focus.

Sir Knight J. L. Goodman asks if he can salt the paper for plain paper; if the ammonia is the same as that used for washing or household purposes; and how to vignette a photograph. Directions for salting paper will be found in No. 881 of the Round Table. Ammonia for photographic purposes should be free from impurities, and the household ammonia is therefore not suitable. Buy the strong liquid ammonia at the druggists (liquor ammonia fort.), and dilute it at once with an equal amount of water, and keep it in a glass-stoppered bottle. An article on "Vignetting" appears this week.

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Postage Stamps, &c.

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Hold their place in the front rank of the publications to which they belong.—Boston Journal, Feb. 19, 1896.

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This is for Butterfly Collectors.

You say, "Some prefer to set insects on pins arranged to show their colors to the best advantage, but this is not so good a plan from a scientific point of view." Do you mean that you do not advise us to transfix the butterflies on pins? What should we use in place of pins? Is there any cure for "mites" besides camphor? How can you protect your specimens from ants? Is not chloroform as effective and less dangerous than the cyanide of potassium as a killing agent? When you go butterfly-hunting in the country, is there any particular box to keep them in until you get home? Must the contents of the bodies of the big moths and butterflies be taken out? Must their proboscis be stretched before they are stiff?

Elizabeth Castles.
New Orleans, La.

The very best plan is to raise your butterflies from the caterpillar. Then you get the best specimens—best in plumpness and in color. In arranging them in a collection, use the pins, of course. What we meant to say is that arranging them in the form of stars, crosses, etc., is not the best from a scientific point of view, because when so arranged they are distributed according to color. It is better to arrange by groups, male and female, egg, caterpillar, pupa, and cocoon if it makes one.

Camphor is the best for mites and ants. Used freely, it ought to prevent both. Chloroform is not as good as cyanide of potassium. The latter need not be dangerous. To carry your butterflies home in, some provide a tin box, light, with plenty of light cotton for packing. Contents of bodies cannot be taken out and the fly preserved in good shape. The proboscis should be stretched before the fly is stiff. When putting on the fastening-board, get into as natural position as possible. Self-reared butterflies should be killed as soon as their wings are expanded and they are perfectly dry.

An Arizona Indian Delicacy.

Are you interested in a description of a great delicacy of the Hualapai Indiana, called the "army worm"? Since the heavy rains in this part of Arizona the Hualapai Valley has been covered with a species of worms called the army worm—I suppose because they travel in regular armies. They are from two to four inches in length, and of a yellow-green color. The Indians go out in the valley in parties to gather them. Each member of the party—the party is mostly made up of squaws—has a basket on her back. She first selects a spot where the worms are quite plentiful, then sits down and goes to work.

She picks up a worm between her thumb and forefinger, gives a shake of her wrist to break its neck, and then throws it into her basket. When she has her basket full she comes back to town. She takes a kettle of boiling water, drops the worms in one by one, and then strings them on a string and hangs them up to dry. When they are perfectly dry the feast commences. They say they taste just like fish, but I am willing to take Indian evidence for that.

Frankie L. Potts, R.T.L.
Kingman, Ariz.

Dear Round Table.—In the issue of August 11, I saw a very interesting account of the "American Thermopylæ," but as it is probable that an injustice was done therein to the memory of Moses Rose, I determined to write to the Table concerning what I know of the affair. The gentleman who told me the story had heard it, I believe, from an intimate friend of James Bowie's.

The last fatal days of the Alamo had come, and all knew that they must die sooner or later. When the line was drawn, all crossed it but Rose, who said:

"Men, I have determined to escape from this trap. I can speak the Mexicans' language, and if I get away I will send help; if not, to die is as little as any of us can do."

They all shook hands with him warmly, bidding him godspeed, and he started on his perilous way. Fortunately he managed to elude the enemy; but the whole night he ran on, over the immense prickly-pears and cacti, in his bare feet; and when, at daybreak, he reached a friendly camp and fell insensible, it was hours before all the huge thorns which had penetrated his flesh could be extracted. Two days passed before his consciousness returned, and then his first words were, "Did you send them help?" Alas! they had known nothing of the pressing danger, and in that short while the American Thermopylæ had been accomplished.

A story is current upon the Mexican border that James Bowie was dying at the time the foes broke into the Alamo. His room was so situated that he could see everything that happened in the large hall; and when the Mexicans had despatched all the other defenders of the garrison, they made a rush for him. Bowie sprang up from his bed, and killed fourteen men in the doorway with his terrible knife, and then slowly backed toward the farther wall, a revolver in either hand, bringing down an enemy with each shot. When his ammunition had been exhausted he fell heavily from weakness, and it is claimed that he was dead when the enemy reached him. How much truth there is in this last story, however, I am unable to say.

V. Bowie.

Kinks.

No. 37.—Mathematical Riddle.

A man being asked how far it was to a certain city, repeated the familiar ditty:

"Mary had a little lamb,
Its fleece was white as snow,"

and said he had answered the question. Had he, and how far was it?

No. 38.—Diamond.

A letter. A contest. Flourishes. Despoils. To get again. Immovable. A letter.

No. 39.—A Description in Verse.

For strength a very Hercules,
Emblem of endless motion,
And formed of what we know as well
As sailors know the ocean.
Man may control but not defy,
For at its mercy man must die.

No. 40.—Three Easy Word-squares.

1.—1. A cardinal's cap. 2. A dwelling. 3. Colophony. 4. A proclamation. 5. Portable lodges.

2.—1. A tine. 2. A runner. 3. A yellow pigment. 4. An organ of sensation. 5. A grassy plot.

3.—1. Keen. 2. To revere. 3. To fish for. 4. Revolves. 5. A crowd.

Vincent V. M. Beede.

Answers to Kinks.

No. 33.

Solution of cross-word enigma.—Central column of acrostic, Cockade City. Cross-words of acrostic: 1. Bracing. 2. Brooded, 3 Brocade. 4. Bookish. 5. Bleared. 6. Bordure. 7. Boneset. 8. Beechen. 9. Basinet. 10. Banters. 11. Brayles.

No. 34.

Parthenope.—1. A siren who, having failed to win the love of Ulysses, threw herself into the sea. 2. A Crustacean of the Indian Ocean. 3. One of the Asteroids between Mars and Jupiter.

No. 35.—A Fleet of Ships.

1. Friendship. 2. Hardship. 3. Lordship. 4. Ownership. 5. Worship. 6. Mastership. 7. Guardianship. 8. Authorship. 9. Ambassadorship. 10. Dictatorship. 11. Judgeship. 12. Scholarship. 13. Horsemanship. 14. Apostleship. 15. Stewardship. 16. Tutorship. 17. Apprenticeship. 18. Penmanship. 19. Partnership. 20. Generalship.

No. 36.—Two Good Anagrams.

1. Alexander Hamilton. 2. Toussaint l'Ouverture.

For Amateur Journalists.

Mr. W. S. Beattie, 651 Madison Avenue, New York, says: "I extend an invitation to all amateur journalists throughout the United States, and also those in foreign countries, to aid me in compiling a 'History of Amateur Journals and Journalists.' Anybody who at any time controlled or contributed to an amateur paper is asked to send me a copy of such paper, or of any amateur paper they know of, together with the following information: When established? Number of pages? Average circulation? By whom established? When circulation was discontinued, if at all, and where was it published? Correspondents will kindly enclose stamp if an answer is needed."

William Saam, 1708 Amsterdam Avenue, New York, wants to receive copies of amateur papers, and he desires to edit a department.

Questions and Answers.

Henry W. Hill, who lives in Columbus, O., writes to know the cost of attending the Eastern colleges per year, saying that he gets the impression, from reading the newspaper accounts of football, baseball, and other games, and the list of sons of wealthy parents who attend these colleges, that they are intended mainly for the well-to-do, and that young men of moderate means or of no means are practically cut off from attending them. He especially asks the status of the poor student at Harvard or Pennsylvania. "Is he left severely alone?"

It is easy to suppose that a reading of the newspaper news concerning Eastern colleges would give the impressions here outlined. And yet we are sure that such impressions are not intended to be conveyed by the writers of the news. Let it be distinctly stated, and with emphasis, that the great majority of students at all Eastern colleges, and Western ones too, are sons of poor parents. There is no social exclusion of a poor man because he is poor—none at all. And this is emphatically true at all the colleges. In response to our inquiry, a member of the Faculty of one of the leading universities wrote thus: "Here is an average student. He maintains a creditable standing in his class, and finds time to play football, or the game his fancy dictates. He becomes acquainted with all members of his class, and many besides, and forms numerous warm friendships. He may take college honors, and is likely to receive honors on class-day. His life on the campus, in the class room, on the athletic-field, and at his boarding-club is taken as the measure of his real worth, and length of purse and of ancestry are of equally small value. And he lives comfortably on $500 a year."

Three recent Princeton classes, including honor men, were asked to give their personal expense accounts. Their replies show from $250 to $700 a year, with an average of $442.68. One student gives his account in detail thus: Dues, games, newspapers, $25; Books, $20; Car fare, $15; Clothes, $50; Current expenses, $50; and College bills, $240. Total $400.

F. C. Bears.—The origin of the term "blue stocking" is given by Brewer as follows: A woman's club met at the house of a Mrs. Montague, in London. Men were admitted, although it was a woman's gathering. One of the regular attendants was a Mr. Benjamin Stillingfleet, and he always wore blue stockings. It was one hundred years or more ago, when knee-breeches were in vogue, and the bright blue lower-leg coverings were conspicuous. Hence the name.

The New York Stock Exchange, dear Sir John L. M. Taylor, is a private not a public institution, and is maintained by fees assessed upon its members. It is not the same as the Produce Exchange and the Consolidated Exchange, which have members and buildings of their own. Peter Lindbloom, Baltimore.—The Table regrets it cannot undertake an elaborate explanation of the silver and gold question as you ask it to do. Apply to Congressional Campaign Committee, Washington. D. C., or to State or National Campaign Committee of either party. Simply write a letter containing a brief statement of what documents you desire. They are usually sent free.

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

The new Trinidad stamps are on the market, and make a handsome set. The central figure is Britannia, and the values are printed in different colors.

½ | penny, mauve, value in green.
1 | penny, mauve, value in red.
2½ | penny, mauve, value in blue.
4 | penny, mauve, value in orange.
5 | penny, mauve, value in mauve.
6 | penny, mauve, value in black.
1 | shilling, green, value in red.
5 | shilling, green, value in vermillion.
10 | shilling, green, value in blue.
1 | pound, green, value in red.

The last three are double the size of the smaller values.

The proposed New York Philatelic Club house is still in the air. Over one hundred subscriptions of $25 each have been received, and new subscribers are coming in every day, but the difficulty of obtaining a suitable house has blocked the plan for the present. The committee has been offered several houses at a rent of $2000 per year, but this is a little more than they care to pay at present. In London there has been no such difficulty.

I cannot too strongly impress upon collectors the necessity of handling valuable stamps with care. A startling instance has just come under my observation. I was shown an album the owner of which collected stamps from 1868 to 1875 inclusive. Page after page was filled, with all the stamps in the spaces set apart for them, stamps of which large dealers to-day have no stock. Had the stamps been in good condition, the value of the collection would be four or five thousand dollars. If in "first-class" condition, it would be difficult to duplicate at six or seven thousand dollars. Yet this collection was offered to all the dealers in the city for four hundred dollars, and not one of them would buy it. It was at last sold for three hundred and fifty dollars, and the dealer who bought it would have been glad to have sold it at once at an advance of twenty-five or fifty dollars. An inspection of the album by lovers of stamps almost brought tears to their eyes at seeing the way rare stamps had been maltreated. Hardly one scarce or rare stamp had escaped mutilation—perforations trimmed, pieces torn out of the body of the stamp, corners gone, backs "skinned," face of stamps rubbed, creased, or dirtied—in fact, almost every philatelic mistake possible had been made, and a fine collection utterly ruined. As a matter of course, in many instances the commonest stamps were in good, and in some cases in mint, condition. The explanation of this fact is that the commonest stamps had been replaced by better copies when the originals were torn, whereas the scarce stamps were scarce, and could not so easily be replaced.

George Werner, 277 Fairmont Ave., Newark, N.J., wishes to exchange with collectors in British colonies and South American countries.

Philatus.

'Tis wisest to economize
By blending, in the home supplies,
The highest worth and widest scope.
Now Ivory, being pure and good
For laundry, bath and toilet, would
Save fully half the bills for soap.

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

EARN A TRICYCLE.

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

W. G. BAKER,

Springfield, Mass.

HARPER'S NEW CATALOGUE,

Thoroughly revised, classified, and indexed, will be sent by mail to any address on receipt of ten cents.

SHAKESPEARE THE BOY

With Sketches of the Home and School Life, the Games and Sports, the Manners, Customs, and Folk-lore of the Time. By William J. Rolfe, Litt.D., Editor of "Rolfe's English Classics," etc. Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, $1.25.

Dr. Rolfe has in this book combined all that we know of the youth of the poet with all that is on record of the life of the time, as it affected boys. In other words, he has described the games Shakespeare played, the amusements of the country-side, the school and the lessons taught, the training at home and the town life. He gives a picture of Stratford-on-Avon as it must have been then, and incidentally calls attention to the influences which affected the character of the great dramatist while growing up.

BY THOMAS W. KNOX

THE "BOY TRAVELLERS" SERIES

ADVENTURES OF TWO YOUTHS—

IN THE LEVANT.
IN SOUTHERN EUROPE.
IN CENTRAL EUROPE.
IN NORTHERN EUROPE.
IN GREAT BRITAIN AND IRELAND.
IN MEXICO.
IN AUSTRALASIA.
ON THE CONGO.
IN THE RUSSIAN EMPIRE.
IN SOUTH AMERICA.
IN CENTRAL AFRICA.
IN EGYPT AND PALESTINE.
IN CEYLON AND INDIA.
IN SIAM AND JAVA.
IN JAPAN AND CHINA.

Copiously Illustrated. Square 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $3.00 per vol.

OTHER BOOKS BY COLONEL KNOX:

THE YOUNG NIMRODS IN NORTH AMERICA.
THE YOUNG NIMRODS AROUND THE WORLD.

2 vols. Copiously Illustrated. Square 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $2.50 each.

HARPER & BROTHERS, Publishers, New York

"IT IS THE UNEXPECTED THAT HAPPENS."

OVERHEARD IN A HOTEL.

"Let's get up a game of ball," said the Tennis Racket.

"All right," said the Big Fiddle. "I'll play first base."

"And I," said the china Water-Jug, "will take my usual position of pitcher."

Patrick was the captain of a brick-schooner that plied between New York and Haverstraw on the Hudson. One day his schooner was loaded, ready to start for New York. But Patrick never gave the word to the crew to cast off the hawsers and get under way. Instead, he sat lazily swinging his leg over the spokes of the wheel, smoking his pipe.

The owner of the brick-yard, who was also the owner of the schooner, seeing that the vessel had not started, and wishing to have the load landed in New York as soon as possible, rushed down to the dock and irately demanded of Patrick why he did not get under way.

"Shure, yer honor, there's no wind."

"No wind! Why, what's the matter with you? There's Lawson's schooner under sail, going down the river now."

"Yis, I've been er watchin' her, but it's useless my gettin' under way. She's got the wind now, and, faith, there's not enough of it fer two."

AT THE MOUNTAIN HOUSE.

"Say, Billie," Jacky whispered, gleefully, "this place is simply fine. It costs thirty-five cents to take a bath, and I guess we won't have to take 'em every five minutes, the way we do at home, when pa finds that out."

The water in the bucket was very muddy, and the farmer had poured it out on the ground.

"You mortify me dreadfully," said the Bucket to the Water, after the farmer had gone. "The idea of your getting so dirty; and everybody will blame me, because I've brought you up."

NOT THAT KIND.

"Hullo!" said Bobbie to the violin-player in the hotel orchestra. "Wouldn't you rather be at the sea-shore than here on a hot day like this?"

"No," said the violin-player, "You know I'm not a sand-fiddler."

WHAT HE WAS AFRAID OF.

"I wonder why that dog howls so every time the band plays?"

"I guess maybe he's afraid somebody will put the band around his neck."

"How do you feel this morning?" asked the Butterfly of the Caterpillar.

"Oh, kind of creepy," said the Caterpillar.

"Look at that old Centipede with his hundred legs—how proud he is!" said the Beetle.

"Yes; and how absurdly so," returned the Katydid. "With all hundred of 'em he couldn't ride a bicycle!"

"My name is a great one," said the Lettuce head. "It has been spoken by one of the most illustrious soldiers of modern times, and is, in fact, engraved upon most of his monuments."

"Your name?" cried the Egg-plant. "Nonsense!"

"It is true," said the Lettuce head. "The soldier's name was Grant, and on all his statues you are likely to find his famous words Lettuce Have Peace."

"I tell you," said the Shepherd's Dog, "our lambs know how to treat those geese."

"What do they do?" asked the Cow.

"Why, only this morning as we passed them the geese hissed us, and those lambs simply looked at 'em scornfully, and said, 'Bah!'"

"Do you like fishing?" asked the Carrot of the Angle-worm.

"Well—yes," said the Angle-worm. "That is, I like it down near the Jersey coast better than in the mountains."

"What's the difference?" asked the Carrot.

"It's pleasanter for me fishing 'off the Hook' than on it," explained the worm.

The Cabbage and the Beet had had a race, and the Cabbage won.

"It couldn't be otherwise," sighed the Beet. "The Cabbage was made to come out a head, and I to be Beet."

"That squash is the funniest-looking squash I ever saw," said the Turnip to the Potato. "He's round and flat like a pin-cushion. Looks as if somebody'd stepped on him."

"Yes," said the Potato. "He looks more like a squush than a squash."

"I wish you'd keep quiet," said the Dormouse to the Corn-stalk. "You make so much noise I can't sleep."

"Well, if you had as many corns as I have, you wouldn't be a bit quieter," retorted the Corn-stalk.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Begun in Harper's Round Table No. 879.

[2] Begun in Harper's Round Table No. 868.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HARPER'S ROUND TABLE, SEPTEMBER 29, 1896 ***

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Table of Contents

- THE ATTACK OF TORPEDO-BOAT NO. 5.

- CAPTAIN JACK AND THE MUTINEERS.

- THE VOYAGE OF THE "RATTLETRAP."

- [to be continued.]

- IN THE OLD HERRICK HOUSE.[1]

- [to be continued.]

- A VIRGINIA CAVALIER.[2]

- [to be continued.]

- THE TROUT PLAYS HOOKEY.

- THE BELGIUM ARMY PLAYING AT WAR.

- HOW TO EXTRA-ILLUSTRATE A BOOK.

- THE IMAGINARY BOAT.

- CAMPING AND HUNTING.

- "TRACK ATHLETICS IN DETAIL."—Illustrated.—8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25.

- AN OUNCE OF PREVENTION

- ADVERTISEMENTS.

- Royal Baking Powder Co., New York.

- VIGNETTING.

- WALTER BAKER & CO., limited.

- Breakfast Cocoa

- Breakfast Cocoa

- DORCHESTER, MASS.

- Beware of Imitations.

- Postage Stamps, &c.

- STAMPS

- L. Dover & CO., 1469 Hodiamont, St. Louis, Mo.

- W. C. Shields, 80 Sorauren Ave., Toronto, Canada.

- Harper's Periodicals

- This is for Butterfly Collectors.

- An Arizona Indian Delicacy.

- Kinks. No. 37.—Mathematical Riddle.

- No. 38.—Diamond.

- No. 39.—A Description in Verse.

- No. 40.—Three Easy Word-squares.

- Answers to Kinks. No. 33.

- No. 34.

- No. 35.—A Fleet of Ships.

- No. 36.—Two Good Anagrams.

- For Amateur Journalists.

- Questions and Answers.

- EARN A TRICYCLE.

- W. G. BAKER, Springfield, Mass.

- HARPER'S NEW CATALOGUE,

- SHAKESPEARE THE BOY

- THE "BOY TRAVELLERS" SERIES

- ADVENTURES OF TWO YOUTHS—

- HARPER & BROTHERS, Publishers, New York

- "IT IS THE UNEXPECTED THAT HAPPENS."

- OVERHEARD IN A HOTEL.

- AT THE MOUNTAIN HOUSE.

- NOT THAT KIND.

- WHAT HE WAS AFRAID OF.

- FOOTNOTES:

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE