Harper's Round Table, November 24, 1896
Date: 2019-07-24T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Children's periodicals

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Harper's Round Table, November 24, 1896

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Title: Harper's Round Table, November 24, 1896

Author: Various

Release date: July 24, 2019 [eBook #59976]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Annie R. McGuire

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HARPER'S ROUND TABLE, NOVEMBER 24, 1896 ***

A STORY OF THE RUSSIAN FAMINE.
A DELFT PARTY.
A THANKSGIVING GAME.
A LOYAL TRAITOR.
THE SONG IN THE NIGHT.
THE REMARKABLE ADVENTURES OF SANDBOYS.
THE GAME OF CHOLE.
THE PIRATE'S TREASURE.
IMPORTANT "TRIFLES" ON WAR-SHIPS.
HOW TO USE THE VOICE.
OLD-TIME THANKSGIVING.
THE HANGING OF TEDDY.
THANKSGIVING.
MARTY'S PUMPKINS.
INTERSCHOLASTIC SPORT.
BICYCLING.
STAMPS.
THE CAMERA CLUB.

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

published weekly. | NEW YORK, TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 24, 1896. | five cents a copy.
vol. xviii.—no. 891. | | two dollars a year.

A STORY OF THE RUSSIAN FAMINE.

BY OCTAVE THANET.

The Editor of the Round Table has asked me to relate some incident of my life which may be of interest to its readers. Will they permit me to tell them that episode in my life which gives me, when I recall it, the greatest pleasure?

It is the old story of the pebble and the ever-widening circle in the water.

Do you remember how all through the autumn of 1893 there appeared in corners of newspapers, in telegraphic columns, then in editorial "briefs," sinister allusions to the total failure of the Russian crops and the menace of a famine? Do you remember how the dreary paragraphs expanded; how the menace became ghastly reality; how we grew to find, every morning, as we sat down to our bountiful American breakfasts, woful tales how men and women were dying of starvation fever, and little children turned wailing away from the horrible bread of weeds and refuse? I read as others read. And I read also of the titanic efforts of the Russian government and the wonderful generosity of the Russian people in that year of disaster. I experienced the momentary shudder of pity and horror that such tales excite, and, like other people, I thought "Somebody ought to do something"; and then pushed the hideous picture into the background of my mind.

One night Mr. Arthur M. Judy, the pastor of the Unitarian Church in Davenport, dined with us. The talk drifted to the famine in Russia. I told how a friend who had passed through Russia in August described the look of the ruined wheat-fields and the sadness already settling over the villages.

"We ought to do something for those people," said he. "They came to our rescue during the civil war; they have always been friendly with us; we ought not to stand by idle now. We ought to do something, right here in Iowa."

We all agreed that it would be a good thing, but there was no definite plan proposed. Only later in the evening, as my mother, my sister, and I sat together before the fire, we talked of those starving people until it was uncomfortable. I found it hard to push the pictures of agony and death and piteous self-sacrifice into the background of my mind.

You perceive that the pebble had been thrown into the water.

Sunday, not long afterwards, we were having a little family dinner party, our own and my two brothers' families, and my elder brother's wife spoke of the famine. She is of English-Irish descent, and much of her life has been spent across the water. She has met many Russians, and she surprised us all by the intensity of her realization of the horrors of famine. Yet possibly it is not so strange. Early in the century her ancestors mortgaged their estates to fight the great Irish famine.

"It is horrible!" cried she; "and we sit here, while they are dying, eating and drinking. We talk of somebody doing something! Why don't we do something?"

"That's right," said my younger brother, cheerfully turning on me. "Sissy, why don't you do something?"

"I will," I answered, meekly; "I will go down to the Democrat office and ask Mr. Tillinghast to do something!"

Then we all laughed; but presently we were discussing the best manner in which to effect our purpose. The Democrat is the leading journal of our town, owned by Mr. D. N. Richardson, author of a delightful book of travels which ought to be on every round table, and his brother, J. J. Richardson, for many years the Iowa National Committeeman. Mr. Richardson and Mr. Tillinghast were the editors, Mr. Richardson being what one may call the consulting editor, and Mr. Tillinghast the active editor. Mr. Calkins, the new city editor, I had occasion to know later. I went to the Democrat. I stated our case.

I can see the editor now, his slender figure turning quickly in his chair as he threw his arm over the back of it, his dark eyes kindling, and his black brows meeting in a little frown of concentrated thought; and I can hear his leisurely, distinct tones as he spoke:

"I like the idea. I like it very much. But—you know there are difficulties. In the first place, we must discover whether the Russian government will accept our offering. We don't want to be lacking in courtesy any more than in generosity. In the second place, there are so many prejudices and so many falsehoods circulating about Russia that we want to select some channel of distribution which will be above suspicion."

"George thinks that the Red Cross and Clara Barton would satisfy every one."

"They would; and she is in Washington, where she can consult the Russian legation."

"And George says he will go with you any day this week to stir up Governor Boies to issue a proclamation and name a committee."

Thus lightly we entered on a work that was to absorb most of our time, our energies, and our hearts for the next three months.

The Governor was found already interested. His proclamation was issued immediately. Like all the Governor's state papers, it was dignified and to the point, but it contained in its brief lines a touch of pathos which is not often seen in state documents. Eleven of the most prominent citizens of the State were named as the Russian Famine Committee, the chairman being the Hon. Hiram Wheeler, Republican candidate for Governor in the campaign which had elected Mr. Boies. Mr. B. F. Tillinghast was named as secretary, and the Auditor of the State as treasurer. And it may be said here that upon the secretary and the treasurer fell the burden and the heat of the work of organizing an immense undertaking. Mr. Tillinghast, in especial, gave up almost his entire time, night and day, the owners of the Democrat loyally backing him up, and contributing not only the columns of the paper, but generous gifts of money and their own time. The first work was to organize enthusiasm—to spread the circle wider and wider. "First we must get the committee red hot, then they must get their committees red hot, and the press must keep up the fire," said Mr. Tillinghast. The press all over the State nobly responded, publishing anything bearing on the famine which the Famine Committee would furnish. Mr. Tillinghast every day culled from exchanges, American and foreign, from private letters and public letters, what seemed best calculated to rouse the public feeling. It was in itself an immense work. He, with his staff, was an entire literary bureau; but this was only a fraction of his work. He and a few others of us who were interested corresponded with hundreds of people, with the officers of the Red Cross, with Colonel Murphy and Buchanan and other corn experts (we had decided that our gift should be corn, and events proved the wisdom of our decision), with people in our own country, with the workers in Russia. Thousands of copies of the proclamation of the Famine Committee were printed, and thousands more slips of extracts from testimony from authentic sources regarding the sufferings of the peasants and the heroic relief-work of their country-men were also made ready. Almost the entire work of their selection and preparation was done by Mr. Tillinghast. At the same time he was holding in his hand all the reins of the different forces.

I remember that, accidentally, the "Horrors," as we used to call them, were printed on colored paper—red, orange, and blue. To our surprise, we found that the colors attracted so much attention that what began by accident continued by design. One of our best sources of information was the Northwestern Miller, which was advocating the sending of a cargo of wheat flour by the millers of the country. The generous millers raised the ship load, and Mr. Edgar, of the Northwestern Miller, accompanied it to Europe. He was thanked in person, for the evidence of friendship, by the Czarowitz, the present Czar.

Every Sunday night Mr. Tillinghast would come to my mother's house, the telephone would summon my two brothers and their wives, and a council of war would be held on the week's progress and the plans for the next week.

It was immediately after the meeting of the Famine Committee that my own mere active part in the work began. Mr. Tillinghast had reported the plan of campaign. He added: "Yes, the prospect is good. I think we can easily raise a train of corn. But I am more ambitious; I want to send a ship-load; and I think to do it we need to—interest the women." The women present said very little; but after he was gone, in the fashion of women, we "talked it over."

And that was the pebble that is responsible for the Iowa Women's Auxiliary to the Red Cross. First, I wrote to prominent women in society and in philanthropy all over the State, proposing the plan of an organization of women who should sign a pledge. The pledge is before me; it binds the subscriber to

Obey her superior officers.

Inform herself so far as in her power regarding the famine.

Influence her friends in favor of the objects of the Auxiliary, so far as in her lies.

Aid in any effort made by the Auxiliary to raise money for the Russian Famine Committee, by public entertainments.

The badge was a red cross on black satin ribbon, with the letters I.W.A. in gold above the cross. The officers generally decked the satin with gold fringe, and pinned a knot of ribbon in the Russian colors above. The admission fee was ten cents, which included the badge. Yet this sum more than paid all our expenses, principally because every member among the officers paid her own expenses. Never, perhaps, was a large charitable undertaking run more cheaply. All the committees worked for nothing, at their own charges; the railways donated passes, the telegraph companies donated their wires for the work, the newspapers opened their columns, several owners of theatres and public halls offered them free for our entertainments in aid of the fund, the underwriters made a present of their charges, the very laborers who packed the cargo gave their labor. Two weeks sufficed to organize, to have lists signed all over the State petitioning the Governor to name a committee; and before three weeks had passed, the committee had met in Des Moines. The chairman was Mrs. William Larrabee, wife of ex-Governor Larrabee; and I took the position of secretary.

The members of the Central Committee were chosen as representing Congressional districts, that being the basis of representation in the Russian Famine Committee. They were Mrs. Francis Ketcham, Mrs. Charles Ashmead Schaeffer, Mrs. Matthew Parrott, Mrs. John F. Duncombe, Mrs. Ella Hamilton Durley, Mrs. Albert Swalm, Mrs. J. B. Harsh, Mrs. George West, Mrs. J. T. Stoneman, Mrs. Julian Phelps. We considered the officers of the Russian Famine Committee as our superior officers, and all moneys were turned in to them.

Miss Barton advised with us, and it was through her personal efforts that the ship that carried our corn was secured. The weeks that followed I have not the space to describe.

The president and secretary travelled among the districts; each district chairman travelled in her own district, organizing subcommittees and reporting to the secretary, who reported to the chairman. We held meetings in libraries and club-rooms and hotel parlors. There was always the same result; the simple recital of the misery, which we grew daily to feel more acutely the harder we worked to help it, was enough to stir the generous Western heart. Workers rose up all about us. They, in turn, inspired others. One old lady, enfeebled by rheumatism, a farmer's widow, wrote me for information, and carried the red and yellow slips which I sent her around among her neighbors, reading them, and collecting money. She raised $17. Sometimes, she said, it was hard for her to climb in and out of the wagon; but she thought of the poor starving creatures, and that gave her strength.

Two Swedish servant-girls added almost a hundred members to the Auxiliary by their own efforts. One of our most effective appeals was to tell (quoting our Russian informants) that a man or woman could be fed from then to the next harvest for the sum of $2.80. It seemed incredible, but Tolstoi and several others were our informants, and our Red Cross men later verified the statement. We used to say, "Will you not ask your friends to join with you and save one Russian life?" A poor seamstress came to one district chairman and offered her some money ($1.75), saying, "I can't save a grown-up Russian, but maybe this will save some child."

We raised money by different devices. Charity balls were given, and Russian receptions, and kind-hearted musicians sang. The opera of the Mikado, given in Davenport, helped our fund by over $800. There were other unions of the appeal to the sense of humanity and the appetite for amusement, but in general we simply asked for money in an honest, direct way, and it was given to us.

In the cities and towns we asked for money with which to buy corn; in the country we asked for corn itself. Mrs. Duncombe and Mrs. Ketcham sent out wagon solicitors, who drove from farm to farm. The Iowa farmers are very generous, and the wagons were heaped long before the circuit could be completed. The result of the united efforts of men and women was the largest ship-load of corn that ever sailed from our shores.

It is not only the result of our labors which makes the memory of that hard-working, anxious time precious; it is, most of all, the revelation that came to me, day after day, of the noble qualities of mine own people. I remember how, in one of the counties, a hail-storm had pelted the corn-fields and laid waste the harvest. We were questioning whether, at the same time that we were asking aid for others, we should ask for our own sufferers, when one of the chairmen received a letter from Adair, saying: "We're all right; we don't want anything. What are you thinking about? We've collected a car-load of corn for the Russians. Where shall we send it?"

And I remember very tenderly how the committees of women worked. Their tact, their enthusiasm, their unselfish loyalty, will always rise before me as I think of that time. And their virtues of omission were as shining as those of commission. We had our difficulties, our disappointments; we were harassed and discouraged, and a few times despairing; but in all that time, during which I had hundreds of letters and scores of meetings and innumerable private consultations with my comrades, I am not haunted by the humiliating spectre of even a single squabble. Nor did any of the chairmen report such a thing out of her own experience. Yet, for the credit of the sex, I would not wish to think that one of the husbands was right when he said: "You've broken the world's record. You haven't had a racket!"

But now is it not easy to understand why, of the experiences of my life, this is the one that is the jewel of my memory? And it is the old story of the pebble and the circle in the water.

A BAD PLACE TO BE BORN IN.

There are a great many advantages in being born an American citizen. One can hope to become President of the United States and various other high and mighty things; but, after all, the greatest privilege is in being born among a people who are free from foolish superstitions. Suppose you had been born on the Congo River, for instance. How would you like that when you consider some of their beliefs? It is told by persons supposed to be well informed that the people inhabiting the district round the Congo River share with the Ashantees, of whom we have recently heard such a lot, the belief that if their high priest, the Chitome, were to die a natural death the whole world would follow suit at once, and would dissolve into air, for it is, according to them, only held together by his personal will.

Accordingly, when the pontiff falls ill, and the illness is serious enough to make a fatal termination probable, a successor is nominated, and he, so soon as he is consecrated, enters the high priest's hut and clubs him or strangles him to death. A somewhat similar custom obtains in Unyore when the King falls seriously ill, and seems likely to die, for his wives to kill him. The same rule is followed if he gets beyond a certain age, for an old Unyore prophecy states that the throne will pass away from the family in the event of the King dying a natural death.

A DELFT PARTY.

BY EMMA J. GRAY.

"Look here! look here!" and mischievous Penelope rustled a handful of bank-bills before her mother, and the next second raised them above her head and waltzed around the room.

"What ails you, child, and where did you get that money?" was the ready inquiry, while Mrs. Thayer's admiring eyes followed her daughter's graceful, swift-moving figure.

All of a sudden Penelope's rosy face, flushed with exercise and radiant with happiness, burst into a merry laugh—one of the laughs that ripple all through the atmosphere, and prove so contagious that everybody within hearing of it laughs also.

Then stopping just before her mother, and again rustling the crisp bills, for they were bran-new, she this time teasingly said, "Guess."

"But I cannot."

"Well, then," and dragging a chair so as to be opposite both her mother and Cousin Blanche—this cousin has been a young lady for over ten years, and makes her home with them—Penelope sat herself down, and with the tantalizing manner that she could assume on occasions, slowly counted, "One—two—three—four—five," and so on, laying one five-dollar bill over the other while doing so, until they numbered ten. Then satisfactorily surveying the pile before her, she raised her eyes, and looking full into the earnest faces of her listeners, exclaimed, with a wave of her hand in the money direction, "All mine!"

"You tantalizing, tormenting—" and Penelope's mother, trying to look severe, rose, and threw on the blazing log fire a paper which, until her daughter's entrance, she had been reading, and then with a swift backward turn of her head she concluded, "mischievous girl."

Mrs. Thayer was rarely known to have administered anything but caresses on any of her children, much less to her only daughter and youngest child. "Mother's pet," the boys called her, but people called her everybody's pet, for from her youngest brother to her eldest, and she had five of them, their first question was, "Where's Penelope?"

Therefore Mrs. Thayer was not at all surprised when her daughter finally told her that the money was a present from Uncle Dan. Uncle Dan was Mrs. Thayer's bachelor brother, and lived with them off and on, and Penelope farther explained, while delight streamed from every feature of her mobile face, "that uncle had given her the money to spend on a party"; and having told her story, she raised her gray-blue honest eyes to her mother, and asked,

"I could give a party for fifty dollars, couldn't I?"

"Of course you can! the loveliest sort of a party, too," was the assuring answer. Then, as that matter was arranged, Mrs. Thayer turned towards Blanche, who was quietly watching the interview but saying not a word. "Have you any scheme to suggest?" But before Blanche had an opportunity to reply Mrs. Thayer interjected, suddenly rising to give her dress a fresh smooth out, "Penelope, how would you like to give the party on your birthday?"

"I'd love to, mother," and very rapidly her little hands were clasped together while she added, "May I?"

"I don't see why not; your birthday is—let me count—just three weeks hence;" and with the most satisfied air Mrs. Thayer exclaimed, "Plenty of time. But run away now, dear, for we want to plan your party when you're not around."

And after a slight demur, for Penelope was thirteen years old and thought she should be taken into the consultation, she rose and gayly tripped out of the room.

"Now, Blanche," and Mrs. Thayer wheeled about to face her.

"You amuse me. What should I know about children's entertainments?"

"You're the very one that does know. Haven't you been all over the world nearly? Of course you know."

"Well, how do you think Penelope would enjoy a Delft party?"

Shaking her head slowly, Mrs. Thayer replied, "I never heard of one."

"Nor have I, and I am astonished that it has not been introduced long ago. As New York was settled by the Dutch, a Delft party could partake of the real Knickerbocker flavor—none of the sham kind;" and with this last word Cousin Blanche rose and walked nearer to the fire, adding, with a slight shiver, that she was cold.

Mrs. Thayer thereupon rang for the maid, who received orders to bring more wood, and as the fire crackled and blazed, Cousin Blanche talked steadily.

"Of course the word Delft suggests Holland, and we right away think of the large windmills everywhere visible. Some of these are built of stone, others of brick, and still others of wood. Many of them are thatched. Now my idea would be for the boys—Penelope's brothers, I mean—to form a tableau in which they would build windmills. The windmills could be cut out of card-board and pasted together. They could be painted to represent stone or brick. Ordinary straw could be used for thatching, and two or more of the boys might be putting the straw on. These windmills should be stood back of that large screen at the north end of the parlor before the children arrive."

"Then you wouldn't use a curtain?"

"No; we could arrange all the tableaux back of the screen, and so save a great deal of annoyance."

"How many tableaux do you think would be nice?"

"Three or four." And Cousin Blanche thoughtfully continued: "I would show only those that are thoroughly indicative of our Holland Dutch ancestors." And Blanche scrutinized Mrs. Thayer's face while she concluded, "Entertainment is always better when it is instructive."

"But I'm afraid"—and Mrs. Thayer acted fearful while she explained—"that the tableaux would be a terrible trouble."

"On the contrary, nothing could be easier;" and with a good-natured smile rippling over her face, Blanche continued, "Why not let me help you?"

"Help me? I expected you would. Why, Blanche!" and the forlorn tone of Mrs. Thayer's voice decided matters.

"I am thinking"—and Cousin Blanche's face was very bright, showing that her thought was satisfactory—"that it would be a good idea to show the tulip craze. This tableau would require girls and boys. Penelope could be one of the girls, and Fannie and Julia Mobray the others."

"They are quite getatable."

"That was my reason in selecting them. Living across the street as they do, they could easily run over for rehearsals."

"I did not know that the Hollanders were interested in tulips especially," Mrs. Thayer responded, slowly, and lifting her eyes so that they met the astonished ones of Cousin Blanche.

"Why," and without waiting for an explanation Cousin Blanche continued, "you've forgotten about it. The Hollanders spent immense sums of money in ornamenting their gardens with tulips; every new variety of the flower was sought for. They were produced in various shapes and unexpected colors. Indeed, a new color meant a fortune."

"Oh!" and Mrs. Thayer seemed greatly surprised. "But how would you show it?"

"I would group the children so that they looked pretty. They could wear green clothes to represent stalk and leaves, and have large colored-paper petals fastened to their waists, and with wire shaped and bent upward they would look like veritable tulips. Then a few others could, in a previous tableau, show the act of planting tulip bulbs and watering some growing tulips."

"Suppose that you cannot get the tulips?"

"I can get tulips of some sort," was the assured response. "If I cannot buy natural ones, I can make paper ones."

Mrs. Thayer looked pleased, and then a pink flush suffused her face, while she replied, "I cannot frighten you, can I?"

"Not this time. Indeed, no one can afford to quietly accept things when arranging entertainments;" and Blanche rose and paced several times up and down the room. While she walked she added: "As for the other tableaux, one should certainly show a group of girls knitting and crocheting, and others painting pottery, tiles, etc. And then there should be a representation of storks and their nests."

"How would you get a stork?"

"Borrow one from a museum, if there is no other way. But I have friends who have fine specimens of storks, and stork nests also."

"Well, but what about the rest of the party?" And with a swift glance at her watch, Mrs. Thayer added, "I have an engagement."

"Delft games should be played. For example:

FIVE.

"Select a boy and hand him a knotted handkerchief. He must throw the handkerchief at a player, and before he can count aloud five the person to whom it is thrown must mention a round thing, such as an apple, a globe. If that person fails, he must change places with the one who has caught him, and throw the handkerchief at another. As no repetitions are allowed, it will soon be difficult to find an object that is round.

BREAKFAST.

"Every player is seated. Turn to the person at your right, and ask, 'Will you come to breakfast?' To which the answer is, 'Yes.' When that question and answer have gone around the room, the first one must ask, 'What would you like for breakfast?' Perhaps the reply would be, 'Milk'; and he then puts the question to his right-hand neighbor, who perhaps would say, 'Oatmeal,' and so on, until no sensible answer can be made, for no repetitions can occur in this game, also. As the different players fail to respond they must stand.

ALPHABET.

"Give any letter of the alphabet—for example, S—to the company, also some paper and pencils. In five minutes' time they should write the names of three celebrated men, and also three sensible sentences, one for each man's name, as Shakespeare was born in Stratford on the Avon. Forfeits are required for failures.

"The games may be interspersed or followed by dances, and also by vocal or instrumental music."

"As you describe it, Blanche, I'm afraid the children wouldn't get home until morning."

"I am sure they will not want to. And, besides, it will be such a pretty party."

"That is so; but you haven't suggested any decorations."

"No, nor told you what you are to wear."

"I to wear?" and Mrs. Thayer almost screamed the words.

"Why, the party wouldn't be anywhere without costumes. You must"—and Blanche met Mrs. Thayer's face smilingly—"look over some Dutch portraits or photographs and decide which you will copy. Besides, you must wear a gown of Delft blue, as, indeed, I must also. And all the girls must wear Delft-blue colored frocks, and fashion them as closely as possible after the style of the young Dutch girls. Their hair should be worn flowing, and tied by the same colored ribbon, or worn in braids down their backs; and the boys must get the color in too some way; of course they could all wear Delft scarfs. And all the decorations should be of the same blue shade. That can readily be arranged by draperies and crêpe paper. And don't forget to have the caterer serve all confections and ices in form of dikes, windmills, ships, storks, etc. Indeed, we must have everything as Delft as possible."

When Penelope heard the scheme she could scarcely wait for her birthday night to come. But the days passed rapidly, after all, because everybody was very busy, and the night of all nights arrived at last.

And Uncle Dan, who did not enter the parlor until the games were in progress, exclaimed in amazement, as he turned towards Penelope,

"Well, if it be I, as I suppose it be,
I have a little dog at home, and he knows me."

And drawing his hand across his forehead in a dazed sort of way, he inquired: "Am I dreaming, child? I thought I was in America, but it seems I am in Holland, or perhaps time has gone backward, and it's the old Knickerbocker period."

A THANKSGIVING GAME.

BY S. SCOVILLE, JUN.

"It's outrageous!" said the pater, banging his fist down on the breakfast table in a way that made the mater, accustomed as she was to his ways, jump in spite of herself. "So that's the reason the young rascal's not going to be with us to-morrow until late in the evening. Listen to this;" and the pater began indignantly to read an extract from the morning paper:

"'An important change has been effected in the makeup of the Yale eleven. Teddie Larned, '99, has recently made such a fine showing at full-back that he will fill that position in the championship game against Princeton on Thanksgiving day. His punting and line-breaking are phenomenally good.'

"That's what I was afraid of when I sent him to college," continued the pater, solemnly, as he folded up the paper. "Football's a rough, brutal game, and those that play it become rough and brutal, when they don't injure themselves for life, as most of 'em do. I wouldn't have one of those young savages in my house. I'll just go up to that game early to-morrow afternoon," he went on, "and bring Teddie home with me. They'll have to get somebody else to fill his place in spite of his being such a phenomenal—er—line-smasher—whatever that is."

"Don't be too hasty," advised the mater, in whom Teddie, knowing his father's violent aversion to athletics, had confided. "This game means a great deal to our boy."

"Nonsense!" snorted Mr. Larned, indignantly; "it's nothing but a silly school-boy affair anyway. I'm astonished that grown men waste their time encouraging such things by going."

Long before the elevated train had reached Harlem it was packed and jammed to the doors with lusty college boys, pretty girls, and sedate heads of families, among whom Mr. Larned saw with astonishment many men of note. All were wearing college colors, all were filled with a delightful, suppressed excitement. Involuntarily the pater began to feel the contagion. But everybody was talking football, and their language sounded strangely to his ears.

"They say that Larned's a regular find for Yale," remarked a chrysanthemum-headed youth to his friend hanging to a strap beside him. "He kicked a goal from the field last week, when he was playing on the scrub, from the forty-five-yard line. You ought to see him buck a line!"

Teddie's name was on every one's lips, and the pater began, in spite of himself, to feel proud of his son, and to have a sneaking desire to see some of those accomplishments of his that other people seemed to know so much about.

Fighting his way through the crush at the gate, Mr. Larned finally found himself inside, albeit in a decidedly dishevelled condition. An official with a long flowing badge directed him to the training-quarters where the Yale team was reposing during the last hour before the game. At the door the pater was confronted by Mike, the grizzled old trainer.

"Of course Mr. Larned's here," he responded, surprisedly, to the former's inquiry, "but he can't see anybody just now."

"Tell him that his father wishes to speak with him at once," said the pater, authoritatively.

The trainer's manner became more respectful. "I'm very sorry, Mr. Larned," he said, firmly, "but the team can see no one before the game. The coachers are giving them a last talk now."

"Do you mean to tell me," the pater demanded, hotly, "that I can't see my own son?"

"Exactly, sir," replied the trainer, inexorably. "Just at present he's the full-back on the Yale eleven, and nothing else goes. And now, Mr. Larned, I'll write you out a pass to the grand stand, and then I must run back to the boys. After the game you can see your son aplenty—if there's anything left of him." And with this cheering suggestion, Mike scribbled a few words on a card, which he handed to Mr. Larned, and retired.

The latter stood speechless for a moment. That a power on the Street, a man whose name was among the great ones of Manhattan, should be treated thus cavalierly, and that by a hired trainer—

"Why, it's preposterous!" exclaimed the pater to himself; nor was his ruffled self-esteem soothed when he read the scrawl on the card: "This is Teddie Larned's father. He wants to see the game. Mike."

But then it proved an "open sesame," and the ushers, after reading the magic words, received him with the most marked attention, passed him along through the crowds of ordinary people who were not fathers to famous full-backs, and finally seated him in a front box which was specially reserved for the parents of the players—though Mr. Larned did not know this.

Next to him was seated a tall, ruddy-faced man, wearing the slouch hat which the old generation of Westerners still cling to. He was beaming with jollity, and joined a deep bass to some of the college songs that Yale voices were chanting all around him.

"Well, to-day's the day we watch the youngsters distinguish themselves," he remarked, cheerily, to Mr. Larned, during a lull in the cheering that was surging up and down the grand stand.

But before the pater could rebuff this friendly overture, as in his present state of mind he felt inclined to, a roar of cheers swept up and down the field, and the speaker sprang to his feet, waving his slouch hat frantically. Out on the brownish-green field trotted eleven shock-headed youths clad in dirty, heavily padded mole-skins, cleated shoes, and canvas jackets, frayed and torn, but each with the great varsity "Y" on its breast. An oval brown ball was hurled and caught with, what seemed to the pater's inexperienced eye, wonderful swiftness, and then as the ball rolled along the ground each man took his turn, as it came near, in sprawling down on it in a most comical manner. Suddenly it was passed nearly thirty yards, straight as an arrow into the arms of a short, chunky youngster, with an extremely dirty face, who seemed carved out of a solid block. With almost a single movement—so deftly was it done—the ball was caught and poised in both hands for the tiniest fraction of a second. Then came a hollow thump as the dropped oval was punted. Up, and up, and out in a tremendous parabola, almost the length of the field it soared. "AA! AA!" howled the Yale tiers. "Get on to that punt! What's the matter with Teddie Larned?"

The pater stared, at first incredulously, but sure enough that marvellous kicker was his own son Teddie, though disguised by the grime, the pads, and the tangled hair.

It must have been the excitement around him which made the pater stand up and watch with all his eyes every sky-scraping punt that the dirty-faced boy continued to make, and by a mere accident all at once he found himself saying "AA!" as loudly as any one before he had been on his feet a minute.

His companion was wild with excitement. "See that big chap?" he exclaimed, pointing out a young giant whose face looked like some monstrous mask, with its huge rubber nose-guard. "That's Bright, the centre rush. Ain't he a corker?"

"Looks too fat," said the pater, critically.

"Too fat, eh?" replied the other, excitedly. "Well, you just watch him play, and see if he's too fat. That little Larned's the one that's too fat. He punts all right, but a full-back ought not to be so round."

"Not at all! Not at all!" hotly responded the pater, who, though he did not know a full-back from a goal-post, was not going to sit by and hear his only son maligned. "A pull-back should always be thickset! They—er—pull better when they're like that. And—that's my son sir!"

The Westerner choked until he was nearly black in the face. "Well, shake, old man, and we'll call it square," he said, finally, when he had recovered breath enough to speak. "Bright happens to be my son, and in spite of their fat I think our two boys won't disgrace us this day—eh?"

And again it must have been the excitement of the game, for the dignified and somewhat exclusive Mr. Larned found himself shaking hands with a total stranger as if he had been a life-long friend. All his bad temper had disappeared. He was aglow with excitement; the most delightful little thrills ran up and down his back, while an irresistible impulse to shout had taken possession of him.

"This is your first game, isn't it?" Mr. Bright questioned. But just then came another punt, and the pater found it much easier to stand up and yell "AA!" than to answer any such searching questions. Then all further conversation was made impossible by a torrent of cheers from the Princeton tiers, and eleven other men, with the same grimy, weather-beaten costumes, and the same businesslike air of deadly earnestness, spread across the field and went through similar preliminaries. Only their stockings were of a barber-pole pattern, with alternate rings of orange and black instead of a uniform blue, while a large orange "P" blazed on every breast in place of the Y.

And now there was no controlling the audience. Orange and black banners were confronted by yards of Yale blue. Yellow chrysanthemums glared at bunches of violets and bachelor's-buttons, while the wearers—men, women, and children—sent out volleys of cheers that made the grand stand shake. The pater and his newly found friend were on their feet with the rest. Near by was a crowd of Yale "rooters," as Mr. Bright graphically termed them, shouting a rhythmic cheer containing too many x's and other bewildering Greek consonants for the pater, while he invariably added an extra "Rah!" to the regulation cheer. But to his satisfaction he found that not even the deep-voiced Bright could shout "AA!" with more earnest emphasis and volume, and he fell back on that as his strong point.

Suddenly there is silence, a warning whistle blows. Yale has the ball, and the forwards group themselves in a curious zigzag formation, awaiting the kick off.

The short and chunky Teddie takes a run, his foot swings and strikes the ball with what seems hardly more than a gentle touch, but the oval is spinning clear down to the other end of the field, followed by the terrible rush of the whole Yale team. It is caught by a running Princeton man, who, with a swerve of his body, avoids the spring of one runner, hurls another aside with the "straight-arm," and comes tearing down the field like a deer. A tremendous shout from the wearers of the orange and black masses is bitten off with surprising abruptness. For Teddie smashes straight through the interference, and with a lightning-like dive, which there is no evading, tackles the runner just about the knees and hurls him headlong. In a flash the lined-up elevens are facing each other, and the fight is on.

"Too fat, eh? Just look at that!" chuckles Mr. Bright, slapping the erstwhile dignified Mr. Larned ecstatically on the back, as Yale's centre catches his opponent napping, hurls him aside, and downs a runner in his tracks.

Back and forth surges the tide of battle. The elevens are almost evenly matched, and though the ball has been dangerously close to either goal, it has always been kicked or rushed back in time. The pater marvels at Teddie. Where had his boy learned the daring, the coolness, and the self-reliance that characterize him that day? Time after time the Yale backs smash at the Princeton line and fail to make the necessary ground, and the ball is close to the goal, with only the swing of Teddie's right leg to ward off a touch-down. But the boy never falters. Unerringly he catches the ball, and just at the right moment when the rush of the opposing backs is almost upon him, the ball spins far out of danger, and a long-drawn breath of relief comes from the Yale seats. And once when Teddie dives into the line with the ball, and the great seething mass of arms and legs untangles itself, there is one that fails to rise with the rest. The little full-back lies very limp and still, and there is a cry for water, while old Mike rushes from the side-lines with a great blanket flapping in the breeze. The pater's face becomes all of a sudden drawn and white, and he trembles so that the great Westerner drops his arm across his shoulders.

"Steady, old man," he says, soothingly; "the boy's only had the wind pounded out of him. He'll be up and playing in a second." And maybe the two fathers don't join in the tremendous cheer that arises when Teddie trots back to his place—a little unsteadily, to be sure—and the game goes on.

"They're saving him," says Mr. Bright, after watching the play carefully for some time. "He's only been sent against the line three times this half, and now the other backs are doing most of the punting. They'll send him in to save the game in the last ten minutes."

The ball is back almost in the middle of the field again, when suddenly the warning whistle sounds shrilly, and the first half is over. A great buzz goes up from thousands of seats as the spectators discuss the details of the game, and, long before one expects them, the players are trooping back. Hair all adrip from the hurried sponging that the rubbers have given their grimy faces, bodies still atingle from the stinging alcohol rub-downs, with the hoarse, earnest, words of the graduate coachers still ringing in their ears, they line up for the bitter second half. From the start the advantage lies with the orange and black. The weight of their tremendous rush-line begins to make itself felt. Back and forth goes the ball, but—significant fact to the knowing ones—it stays constantly in Yale's territory. For the first time during the afternoon there is a dead silence, and the thud of the players' bodies as a back strikes the rush-line or tries to smash through the interference can be heard, and their sobbing breathing as again and again the confused heap untangles itself. The shrill voices of the quarter-backs as they call out the signal for the next play punctuates every struggle, and now and then one or the other of the Captains claps his muddy hands sharply together with a "Play hard, boys! Hit it up! Now show your sand!"

Above the struggling, changing mass hangs a thin white steam—truly a battle-mist. Finally, towards the end of the half, by a series of short, hard rushes, Princeton is on Yale's 20-yard line. But here the wearers of the blue stand like a stone wall, and, after three vain attempts, the ball goes to Yale on downs. Instantly it is passed back for a punt, and then—no one knows how it happened, perhaps the Yale guard was napping, perhaps the tackle was to blame—straight through the line, between tackle and guard, smashes the great right guard of Princeton and blocks the kick. The ball bounds from his broad chest clear across the line. In a flash one of the Princeton ends has followed, fallen on it, and the score is 4-0 in favor of Princeton. A crumb of comfort is it, but only a crumb to the Yale adherents, who sit gloomy and despondent amid a roaring storm of Princeton cheers, that no goal is kicked.

"Only seven minutes left," exclaims Mr. Bright, despairingly, "and that's not time to do anything against a rush-line like that. But the boys'll die a-trying, anyhow!"

Grim and unyielding the Yale men line up for these last stern minutes. They have failed. No matter the reason, the audience may call it a fluke, a piece of hard luck; but up on the Yale campus it is results that count—not excuses. In their hands is the honor of the college, and but seven minutes remain to wipe off the stain of defeat before thrice ten thousand people. Like a flash the eleven lines up. The battle opens with a last-resort flying-wedge play, too risky to try except at such a desperate time when every chance must be taken. When it is over the blue line is twelve yards nearer the Princeton goal; but two of the precious minutes are gone.

"Five, seven, twenty-nine!" shouts the quarter-back, hoarsely, and the ball goes back to Teddie, and smash he goes into the line. Like a flash the tangled mass dissolves, with the ball six yards nearer the goal. Nothing is harder to stand than the dumb furious rush of a despairing eleven, nerved by the sting of defeat, and seeing a chance to retrieve itself. No end plays now, but straight through the centre they go, and even Princeton's mighty rush-line wavers. Mr. Bright's prediction as to Teddie's having been held in reserve proves a true one. Back into his hands goes the ball for nearly every play, and gallantly that day does he sustain his reputation as the best line-breaker that has ever worn a Y. Sometimes it is a "turtle-back," or one of the huge guards makes a hole for him at the centre, or again, in a tandem play, Teddie follows the smashing rush of the heaviest back. But, whatever the play, crashing through or even leaping over the opposing line, as they crouch for his approach, pushing, boring, squirming, with the weight of half a dozen men crushing the breath out of him, Teddie always gains ground. Sometimes the gains are small, to be sure, but always enough for Yale to keep the ball. Once there is a line-up by the side-line close to where the two fathers sit, and Mr. Larned looks down into Teddie's face scarce ten yards away. It shows very white now underneath the grime and sweat, while the blood, oozing from a cut in the forehead, clots blackly in little streams down the side of his face. But, strangely enough, the pater forgets to characterize the whole thing as brutal. In fact, his teeth are clinched as grimly as his son's as he leans far forward to see every move of the game, and his heart goes out to those "young savages" who are making such a dogged up-hill fight of it.

And now the ball is on the twenty-yard line, diagonally from the goal.

"Thirty seconds to play," shouts the umpire, poring over his stop-watch. "Thirty seconds to make one last attempt for Yale, and every man on the eleven nerves himself to hold against the Princeton rush-line as against death himself. As the quarter-back cries the signal, the right and left half-backs, from mere force of habit, crouch ostentatiously, as if prepared for a run round the end. But the feint is unnecessary. Every man on the Princeton eleven, every coacher on the side-lines, every football-player on the crowded grand stands, knows that a goal from the field is Yale's only chance, knows that on Teddie's coolness depends the fate of the day. Back goes the ball on a long, low, accurate pass from the wiry little quarter-back. And before it has reached Teddie's outstretched hands the crash comes, and against the sternly waiting line comes the full force of the Princeton rushers bent on breaking through and blocking the kick.

"Hold 'em, Yale!" gasps the Captain from his place at tackle, as he braces against the hard-pressed right-guard. And for a second Yale holds. Then the line wavers, and straight for Teddie, from as many different points, spring three men. But that second had been enough. Deftly and slowly, as if in practice, the ball is poised and dropped. Struck on the rebound by Teddie's foot, it spins up and out just above the outstretched fingers of the Princeton rushers, who leap high in the air to intercept it. The goal is a difficult, diagonal one to make, and every player forgets to breathe as the ball sails slowly on, until it just clears the cross-bar, making the score stand 5-4 in favor of Yale; the game has been won in the last quarter of a minute.

THE GAME HAS BEEN WON IN THE LAST QUARTER OF A MINUTE.

In such an indescribable turmoil as the one that followed, with every Yale sympathizer swarming out on the field to embrace the eleven which had so gallantly snatched a victory from the jaws of defeat, it was impossible to chronicle events with perfect accuracy; but it has been reported, on reliable authority, that shortly after the goal was kicked, a hatless and much dishevelled individual, bearing some faint resemblance to the dignified Mr. Larned, the well-known financier of New York, was seen enthusiastically hugging a muddy Yale player, supposed to be the full-back, pouring forth divers fragments of cheers the while, and at intervals embracing a tall man in a slouch hat who was performing a vigorous war-dance with variations. Both of these parties mentioned were also said to have been members of the group that carried the aforesaid full-back around the field on their shoulders in triumph. Undoubtedly the facts in the case have been much exaggerated, but it is certainly true that Mrs. Larned, to her unbounded amazement, received the following telegram from her husband late that evening:

"Teddie, my friend Bright, and four of the Yale eleven will eat Thanksgiving dinner with us to-night."

A LOYAL TRAITOR.

A STORY OF THE WAR OF 1812 BETWEEN AMERICA AND ENGLAND.

BY JAMES BARNES.

CHAPTER V.

THE LION'S GREED.

So we ran on with the wind holding fair until late in the evening, steering northeast by east. I had overcome a great deal of my timidity already, and had asked so many questions and paid such close attention to the way the brig was being handled, that by nightfall I thought I knew not a little about the working of a ship.

Captain Morrison, seeing my interest was so real, and put in a good-humor, as I have said, by the escape from the 74, explained to me something about steering by compass, and the wherefore of several orders.

The planter's wife had so far recovered from her indisposition as to take a seat at the swinging-table in the cabin, and we made a very jolly party at supper.

The skipper, warmed by a bottle of port which Mr. Chaffee had set upon the table, began to tell tales of the sea. I have heard many stories in my life, but I do not think that I have ever been thrilled or excited by any in the way that I was that evening.

Mrs. Chaffee must have noticed it, for she closed her hand over mine (that were tightly gripping the edge of the table), and stroked them gently in a motherly way. I resented this (although I am glad I did not show it), for was not I at that very time employed with the Captain in repelling an attack of a Barbary corsair? and Mrs. Chaffee's kindly touch recalled me to myself, and reminded me that I was but a boy, after all, who a few hours before had been almost in tears for the lack of what she had shown me—a little sympathy and the comfort of a kindly glance and touch.

The Captain had not finished his yarn-spinning—in fact, he was but in the middle of it—when the first mate thrust his head down the companionway.

"Will you come on deck, sir, and take a look at the glass on the way up?" he asked.

To my surprise, the Captain cast his tale adrift without an apology and hurried out, pausing for an instant only for a hasty glance at the barometer, which hung against the bulkhead at the foot of the ladder.

"It's evidently fallen calm," said Mr. Chaffee.

"And very glad am I that it has," answered his wife. "I think any more of that pitch and toss and I should have died."

For the last three-quarters of an hour, indeed, the Minetta had been stationary, heaving a little now and then, but in such a small way and keeping on such an even keel as scarcely to move the coffee in our cups. The Captain had been gone but a few minutes when we all went up on deck. The seas were round and oily, and the brown sails hung in lazy folds against the masts. The man at the wheel now and again gave the spokes a whirl this way and that, and he was forever casting his eye aloft as if by some motion of his he might catch a stray breath of wind.

It was past sundown, and there was a strange, suffused glow everywhere, more like dawn than the twilight of evening. But off to the northwest towered a black tumble of clouds that were edged with a fringe of lighter color. They were stretching upwards and peering grandly above the horizon-line like a range of growing mountains.

Suddenly a quiver of light flashed all around, and then a streak of forked lightning ripped horizontally, like a tear in a heavy curtain, against the pit of the cloud. The Captain went below at this, to look at the barometer again.

"It's falling, Mr. Norcross," he said, raising his head. "Shorten sail, sir, and be lively!"

The men tumbled out from the deck-house. The top-sails which we had carried all the afternoon were taken in, and a reef put in the foresail and mainsail.

I watched all this bustling about with much delight, and then my attention was drawn to the sky. The clouds had now spread so that they were almost over us; a few big rain-drops fell and made little splotches on the surface of the water and spattered the deck in spots as big as dollars. They could be heard falling in the stillness against the dry sails overhead. Then, without a warning, there came another flash of lightning and a deafening thunder-roll. A slight puff of wind trailed the heavy blocks on the main boom rattling across the deck. The yards swung about with a complaining, creaking noise.

The Captain seized the glass and pointed to the westward; then he jumped to the wheel, jammed it over, and immediately began shouting orders to close the hatches, haul in the main-sheet, and make all snug. Every eye had followed the aiming of the telescope—a line of white below a wall of gray was coming toward us on the rush! A few more drops of rain fell softly, and then the thunder began to crash and roar on every hand.

Warned by the Captain, Mr. Chaffee and his wife went down to the cabin, both pale with fright. I, however, kept the deck, and in some way (I cannot account for it) was overlooked. And here nearly comes an ending to my story.

So suddenly and so fair abeam did the wind strike us that it was almost a knockdown then and there, and the first thing I knew I slid across the deck over against the lee bulwarks. The scuppers were running so full that I went under from head to foot; I thought surely I was going to be drowned—in fact, I think I took a few strokes and imagined myself overboard. The masts were extending over the water so far that the yard-arms almost dipped, the crew were hanging on by anything they could lay hand to, and the wind raised such a screeching in the rigging that the Captain, who was bawling at the top of his lungs, might as well have held silence; his voice apparently blew down his throat. Nevertheless, some of the crew must have understood him, for they clambered into the shrouds. This I noticed as I tried to crawl up the slope of the deck. Then there came a loud report; the foresail blew out into tatters, and the brig righted. A turn of the wheel, and she was put before it, crashing down into the sea (that came tumbling under her quarters), and now and then lifting her stern as if she would roll over like a ball—any which way.

I managed with difficulty to make the head of the after-ladder, and stumbled down it head first, some one slamming the sliding-hatch with a bang almost on my heels as they went over the combing. Looking about me, I found Mr. Chaffee and his wife engaged in prayer. They were much bruised from having been flung about the cabin, and were in great fear that we were about to founder.

But the Minetta was going so much steadier now that we all three sought our bunks, and managed to stay in them, and I had so much confidence in the Captain and crew, and was so unfamiliar with terror, that probably I did not recognize the nearness we had come to disaster, so after an hour or so I went to sleep.

When I awakened the sunlight was pouring in at the transoms, and we were gently heaving up and down. There was nothing to give me an idea of the time of day, but I could smell the brewing of coffee, and dressed hastily. No one was in the cabin, and the breakfast was untasted on the table; so, hearing the sounds of conversation, I went on deck. We were hove to, and within an eighth of a mile of us another vessel was coming up into the wind. She was very trim to look at, and I saw that a boat was being lowered over her side, and that she had the weather-gage of us.

The Captain was walking up and down with his arms folded, and our crew were gathered in the waist, muttering in surly and half-frightened voices.

"We are in for it this time, Master Hurdiss," said Mr. Chaffee, casting a bitter look over the taffrail at the stranger, from whose peak was flying the British Jack. "We are under the lion's paw, and no mistaking it."

Norcross, the mate, leaned over the rail and spoke to one of the men on the deck below him.

"Dash, do you know that vessel, my man?"

"Indeed I do, sir," was the reply from the light-haired seaman who had appeared so elated at the escape of the previous day. "It's his Majesty's sloop-of-war Little Belt, if I'm not mistaken, and she is a little floating hell, sir; that's what she is!"

Nevertheless, as I have said, she was a trim-looking craft, and I could not but admire the way the men tumbled into the boat and the long, well-timed sweep of the oars as they pulled toward us. When alongside, within a few yards, a young man in a huge cocked hat stood up in the stern-sheets.

"What brig is that?" he asked, brusquely.

Captain Morrison answered, giving our name and destination.

"I will board you," was the short reply of the cocked-hatted one, and he gave orders to the bowman, who was ready with his boat-hook, to make fast to the fore-chains.

The English seamen, a sturdy-looking set, were all armed with cutlasses, and four or five of them followed their officer over the bulwarks.

The young Britisher's insolence must have been hard to stand.

"Muster your crew and let me see your papers," he ordered, with a toss of his head; "I would have a look at both of them."

Our Captain's politeness in replying, however, was quite as insulting.

"You have only to mention your wish, my courteous gentleman," he sneered. "Here are my papers and there are my crew. Will you help yourself to the cargo also? And pardon my not firing a salute, but we have a lady with us who objects to noise."

At this the English Lieutenant lifted his great hat, but he glared at the Captain as if he would have liked to lay hands on him; then he ordered two of the crew to rout out the forecastle (in a lower tone of voice), and two of them to give a look into the cabin and deck-house. He waited until they had returned, and then taking the papers that had been extended to him, he called off the names of the American seamen. Each one stepped forward in turn, but without saluting, and replied to the Lieutenant's questioning; apparently they all hailed from New England. Two of them, however, he told to stand over to the larboard side.

The men obeyed, and I have never seen such hate on any faces as they had on theirs.

But the scene, which was tragic enough in all conscience, despite the grinning of the armed man-o'-war's men who stood behind their leader, was to be broken by a climax as unexpected as a bolt from a clear sky.

"John Dash," read the officer. There was no answer, and he called it louder again, without result. "Where is this man?" he asked, impatiently.

The Captain made a low bow. "Thanks to your honor for your kind inquiry," he replied. "But the man failed to report on the morning of sailing."

It might have gone well had it not been for the interference of a low-visaged petty officer, who, with his fingers to his cap, here spoke.

"I saw a man go over the bow as we came up, sir," he said.

Two of the men hurried forward and leaned over the side. I, being near the rail, looked over also.

There was John Dash, holding on to the bobstay, his frightened face just above the surface of the water. In an instant he was hauled on board.

"Ah, there's where you've been all the time, Mr. Dash!" said Captain Morrison, sarcastically. "And how strange I not knowing it! This gentleman has been asking for you very kindly."

The poor man, dripping wet, was standing erect before the boarding-officer.

The titter that had run through the English sailors ceased as they saw the look on his face. He was drawing quick breaths, half-snarling like a dog, but he was trembling from head to foot.

"Oho!" said the servant of the King, lifting his eyebrows, "and here we are, eh? I think you know me, as I remember you, Charles Rice! You left us at the Port of Spain and forgot to return, you may remember. You owe his Majesty an accounting."

"I AM AN AMERICAN CITIZEN," RETURNED THE SAILOR, HOARSELY.

"I am an American citizen," returned the sailor, hoarsely, "born at Barnstable, Massachusetts! I was impressed from the ship Martha on the high seas, and owe accounting to no one."

"None of your insolence," cried the Englishman, drawing back his closed hand. "We'll see about that. You'll come with me, and these other two fine fellows also."

Dash, or Rice (I understood afterwards the latter was his real name), gave a leap backward and ran into the deck-house. The officer turned.

"Bring that man out," he said to two of his bullies.

Before they had crossed the deck something happened, and no one who witnessed it can ever shake it from his memory. The tall sailor appeared at the doorway. His hands were behind his back, and his blue eyes were absolutely rolling in his head.

"No, by the God of Heaven, you shall not be served!" he cried. "There is something you cannot command, at least, to do your bidding!" With a swift motion he drew his left arm from behind his back and flung something on the deck. It was his right hand, severed at the wrist!

Such a horror possessed us all that not a word was said. The planter's wife went in a heap to the deck, and as for myself, I went sick with the misery of it, and reeled to the side of the ship. The Lieutenant fell back as if struck a blow over the heart, and without a word, followed by his men, he clambered weakly down to his boat and shoved off. Dash lifted the bloody stump above his head; a curse broke from him, and then he fell into the arms of one of the black seamen. They carried him into the deck-house, and all hands followed, even the wheel being left deserted. As for myself, I crawled below into my bunk and wound the blankets about my head—Mrs. Chaffee was screaming in hysterics. Then and there was born in my heart such a hatred for the sight of the cross of St. George that I have never confounded my prejudice with patriotism, and this may account for some of my actions subsequently.

No one referred to the happening in our talk after this—it might not have occurred.

However, in such ways as we could we made the poor fellow comfortable; but John Dash, seaman, existed no longer; a poor, maimed, half-crazed hulk of a man was left of a gallant, noble fellow. But he had lived to teach a lesson.

A day later we sighted Sandy Hook, and beating up the bay, anchored in New York Harbor, where the planter and his wife and the heroic seaman were put on shore.

As the wind and tide were ripe to take us up the East River and through the narrows of Hell Gate into the Sound, we tarried but long enough to drop anchor and get it in again, and I caught only a panorama of houses and spires and the crowded wharfs of the city.

The voyage up the Sound was uneventful, and my landing in Connecticut and what followed I shall make another chapter.

But we passed many coasting-vessels and towns (whose number seemed past counting on both shores), and at last we entered the narrow sound of Fisher's Island and crept up close to the wharfs of Stonington. I made up my mind not to go ashore until the following morning, as it was after sunset before we had found a berth that suited the skipper.

Oh, I have forgotten to add that when I returned to my bunk, after being boarded by the party from the Little Belt, I had missed the miniature which I had left hanging by a nail driven into one of the stanchions. That one of the British sailors, on the hurried search of the cabin, had helped himself to it was beyond doubting.

[to be continued.]

THE SONG IN THE NIGHT.

BY JAMES BUCKHAM.

Bleak, barren hills and cheerless plain,
All soaked and sodden with the rain;
No wood to bid the camp-fire glow,
No forest roof against the snow;—
Drear was the dying winter day
When the troops halted at Luray.

Not ev'n the draggled tents went up,
No chance to sleep, no chance to sup!
A few hours' rest upon their arms,
Then—who could tell what wild alarms?
"Halt until midnight," orders read;
"Then, if the storm holds, march ahead."

Tired and disheartened, faint and chill,
The soldiers, scattered o'er the hill,
Lay in their blankets. Scarce a word
In all the width of camp was heard.
Out of heart was the great blue host—
Out of that which they needed most,—
And the General's heart was a heavy load,
For well he knew what that hush must bode.

Forth from the town, as if heaven-sent,
Passed a child; and as on he went
Something moved him to sing a song
His mother taught him, while waiting long
For the loyal husband, who could not stay
When the first blue regiment passed that way!
Sweet, and flutelike, and childish clear,
The boy's voice rang through the valley drear:—

Tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys are marching;
Cheer up, comrades, they will come!

Every soldier along the hill
Felt his heart with the music thrill!
All forgotten the dreary night,
Hunger, and pillow frosted white.
One by one, as the child-voice sang,
Others joined, till the chorus rang
Deep as a mighty organ tone,
By the bellows of the storm-wind blown.

At midnight the order passed along:—
"March!" And they marched with their heart of song!
Needless to say how they fought, that day,
When the sun rose up over far Luray.
And the little singer—the loyal lad
Who gave, unconsciously, all he had
For his country's welfare—let none deny
His sovereign share in the victory!
If not from his song in the dreary night,
Whence came the courage to win the fight?

THE TRUE STORY OF THE MOOSE HEAD.

For a great many years—for as long, indeed, as either Bob or Jack could remember—there had been over the great fireplace in the office of the Mountain House, as its chief decorative feature, a huge moose-head, from either side of which rose up majestic antlers, concerning which Bob had once remarked that "they'd make a bully hat-rack."

To this sage remark Bob's father had replied that he thought so too; and he added that he thought it somewhat of a pity that Bob, when he chose his pets, should choose pug-dogs and rabbits, that were of no earthly use, instead of an occasional moose, which might be trained to sit in the hall and allow people to hang their hats on his horns.

"Just to think," he said, "what a convenience a real live walking hat-rack would be! When you wanted your hat, all you would have to do would be to whistle, and up the hat-rack would trot; you'd select the hat you wished to wear, and back would go the moose again to his accustomed place between the front door and the window."

"I'm willing," Bob had answered. "You buy me the moose, daddy, and I'll be glad to make a pet of him."

But it so happened that at the moment his father had something else to think about, and as a result Bob never got the moose.

Curiously enough, up to this particular summer of which I am writing, it had never occurred to either of the boys to inquire into the story of this especial moose, who had been so greatly honored by having his head stuffed and hung up to beautify the office of the hotel. They had both of them often wondered somewhat as to how it came to lose the rear portions of its body—that from its shoulders backward—but at such times it had so happened there had never been anybody about who could be counted upon to enlighten them on the subject. Now, however, it was different. Sandboys seemed always at hand, and considering that he had never failed them when they had asked for an explanation of this, that, or the other thing, they confidently broached the subject to him one afternoon during the music hour, and, as usual, Sandboys was ready with a "true story" for their satisfaction.

"Oh, that!" he said, when Bob had put the question. "Yes, I know all about it; and why shouldn't I? Didn't my father catch him? I guess!"

The boys were not quite sure whether the guess was correct or not, but they deemed it well to suppose that it was, and Sandboys went on.

"Some folks about here will tell you wonderful stories about that moose," he said. "Some will tell you it came from Maine; and some will tell you it came from Canady; and some will tell you they don't know nothin' at all about it; an' generally it'll be the last ones that tell the whole truth, though it did come from both Canady an' Maine; and, what's more, if it hadn't come, I wouldn't ha' been here. Nobody knows that but me, for up to now I haven't breathed a word about it to a soul, but I don't mind tellin' you boys the whole truth."

"You don't mean to say it got you your position here as a bell-boy, do you?" asked Jack.

"Yes, I do—that is, it did in a way, as you'll see when I've told you the whole story," returned Sandboys, and he began:

"My father, when he was a boy, used to live up in Canady. I don't recollect the name of the exact place. He told me its name lots o' times, but it was one o' them French-Canadian names with an accent to it I never could get the hang of. Names of English towns, like London or New York, I can always remember without much trouble, because I can spell 'em and pronounce 'em; but the minute they gets mixed in with a little foreign language, like French or Eyetalian, I can't spell 'em, pronounce 'em, or remember 'em to save my life. If anybody'd say to me, 'Remember the name o' that town or die,' I think that I'd simply have to stop breathin' an' die. I do remember, though, that it was a great place for salmon and mooses. My daddy used to tell me reg'lar slews of stories about 'em. Why, he told me the salmon was so thick in the river back of his father's barn, that if you took a bean-shooter and shot anywhere into the river, usin' pebbles instead o' beans, you couldn't help hittin' a salmon on the head and killin' it—or, rather, knockin' it unconscious, so's it would flop over and rise to the surface like it was dead, after which all you had to do was to catch it by the tail, chop its head off as you would a chicken's, cook it, and have your marketing done for two weeks."

"Jiminny!" said Bob. "It's too bad you can't remember the name of that place. A hotel at a place like that would be good as a mint."

"Oh no—it's all changed now," said Sandboys, sadly. "They've put a saw-mill in there now, and the salmon's mostly all gone. Sometimes they tell me they do catch one or two, and they're so big they cut 'em up in the saw-mill just like planks, and feed on 'em all through the winter."

"I've heard of planked shad," put in Bob, very anxious indeed to believe in the truth of Sandboys's statement, and searching in his mind for something in the way of a parallel which might give it a color of veracity.

"Hyops!" said Sandboys. "Planked shad is very good, but it can't hold a candle to planked salmon. But, as I was tellin' you, the place was full of moose too. They used to catch 'em and train 'em to go in harness. I don't believe anybody up there ever thought of buying a horse or a team of oxen to pull their wagons and plough their fields, moose were so plenty, and, when you could catch 'em hungry, so easy to tame. They'd hitch 'em to the plough, for instance, with ropes tied to their horns, and drive 'em around all day, and when night came they weren't a bit tired. But sometimes daddy said they'd strike a fearfully wild one, and then there'd be trouble. Pop told me he hitched one up to the harrow once, and the thing got a wild fit on and started across the field prancin' like a Rocky Mountain goat. He pulled up all the fences in his way with the harrow's teeth, and before he stopped he'd gone right through my grandfather's bay-window, into the dinin'-room, out the back door into the kitchen, takin' all the tables and chiny in the place with him. Where he went to nobody ever knew, though the harrow was found on top o' one of the mountains about sixty miles away, three years afterwards. I'd tell you the name of the mountain, only it had one o' those French-Canadian names too, so of course I can't.

"Time went on, and pop got to be a pretty big boy, and on his thirteenth birthday his father gave him the gun he'd used in the war—the war of the Revylation, I think it was, when George Washington was runnin' things. With it he gave him a powder-flask and some bullets, and I tell you pop was proud, and crazy to go huntin'. His father wasn't anxious to let him, though, until he thought pop knew enough about fire-arms to kill something besides himself, and he told him no, he couldn't. He must wait awhile. So pop tried to be good and obey, but that gun was too much for him. It kept hintin', 'Let's go huntin'—let's go huntin',' and one night pop could not resist it any longer. So after everybody'd gone to bed, he got up, sneaked down stairs into the parlor, took down the gun from the bricky-brack rack, and set out for the lonely woods.

"'If I don't kill nothin',' he said to himself, 'I'll get home before they wake up; and if I do kill somethin', pa will be so pleased an' proud he'll forgive me.' He little thought then he was leavin' home forever. He opened the door softly, an' in half an hour he was off on the mountain, 'longside of a great big lake. Pretty soon he heard a sound, and through the darkness he see two big eyes, flamin' like fire, a-lookin' at where he was. It was that moose up there as was a-lookin' at him. For a minute he was scart to death, but he soon recovered, upped with his gun, an' fired—only he was too excited, and he didn't do any more than graze the moose's cheek. You can't see the scar. It's been mended. It was a tarrable exciting moment, for in a jiffy the moose was after him, head down. Pop tried to run, but couldn't. He stumbled, an' just as he stumbled he felt the big moose's breath hot on the back of his neck. He thought he was a goner for sure; but he wasn't, as it turned out, for as he rolled over and the moose tried to butt him to death, pop grabbed holt of his horns, and the first toss of his head the moose gave landed pop right between 'em, sittin' down as comfortably fixed as though he was in a rockin'-chair. If you'll look at the antlers you'll see how there's a place in between 'em scooped out just right for a small boy to sit in. That's where pop sat, hangin' on to those two upper prongs, with, his legs dangling down over the moose's cheeks."

"Phe-e-e-ew!" whispered Bob. "He was in a fix, wasn't he? What did the moose do?"

"Him?" said Sandboys. "He was absolutely flummoxed for a minute, and then he began to run. Pop held on. He had to. He didn't want to go travellin', but there warn't anything else he could do, so he kept holt. That moose run steady for three days, down over the Canadian border into Maine, takin' a short-cut over Maine into New Hampshire, droppin' dead with weariness two miles from Littleton, where I cum from. That let pop out. The moose was dead, and he wasn't afraid any more; so he climbed down, walked into Littleton, and sold the animal's carkiss to a man there, who cut off its head, and sent it up here to this hotel, an' it's been here ever since. Pop took the money and tried to get back home with it; but there wasn't enough, so he worked about Littleton until he had enough; and just then he met my mother, fell in love with her, married her, and settled down right there; and that's how it is that that moose-head is responsible for my bein' here. If the animal hadn't run away with dad, he'd never have met my mother, and I'd have been nowhere."

"It's very interesting," said Bob. "But I should think he'd have sent word to his father that he was all right."

"Oh, he did," said Sandboys; "and a year or two later the whole family came down and joined him, leavin' Canady and its French names forever."

And here the narrative, which might have been much longer, stopped, for the cross old lady near the elevator sent word that that "talkin' must stop," because while it was "goin' on" she "couldn't hear what tune it was the trumpeter was blowin'."

THE GAME OF CHOLE.

BY W. G. VAN TASSEL SUTPHEN.

Chole (pronounced shōl) is a capital game for the enthusiastic golfer at this time of year, when the fields are brown and bare, and the careful green-keeper has closed the regular golf course for fear of harm to his precious putting greens. It is golf, and yet it is not golf, the essential difference being that but one ball is used, one player striving to advance it towards a certain agreed-upon goal, and his opponent as strenuously endeavoring to thwart him in the attempt. But, on the other hand, it is not hockey or anything resembling it. Each player has for the time being absolute possession of the ball, and cannot be interfered with while he is making his stroke. It is an old Belgian game, and undoubtedly one of the ancestors of our modern golf. As a matter of fact, it is still played in the Low Countries with rude iron clubs and an egg-shaped ball of birchwood. The following extract from a historical paper on the beginnings of golf explains very clearly the purpose and method of the play at chole:

If Tom Morris and Hugh Kircaldy were going to play a match at chole, they would first fix on an object which was to be hit. A church door at some five miles distance, cross country, seems to have been a favorite goal. This settled on, match-making began—a kind of game of brag: "I will back myself to hit the thing in five innings," Tom might say. (We will explain in a moment what an "innings" meant.) "Oh, I'll back myself to hit it in four," Hugh might answer. "Well, I'll say three, then," Tom might perhaps say, and that might be the finish of the bragging, for Hugh might not feel it in his power to do it in two, so he must let Tom try. Then Tom would hit off, and when he came to the ball he would tee it and hit it again, and so a third time. But when they reached the ball this third time, it would be no longer Tom's turn to hit, but Hugh's. He would be allowed to tee the ball up and dechole, as it was called—that is to say, to hit it back again as far as he could. Then Tom would begin again and have three more shots towards the object; after which Hugh would again have one shot back. Then if in the course of his third innings of three shots Tom were to hit the church door, he would win the match; if he failed, he would lose it.

It is evident, from this explanation, that chole gives first-class practice in driving; in fact it is nothing but a succession of tee shots, and the longest driver ought always to win, unless he is so over-confident of his powers that he is induced to bid too low for the honor of being choleur. It may be added that hazards in the lie of the ball are not fairly a part of the game. Each striker has a right to tee his ball, and he should be allowed to do so anywhere within two club-lengths of where the ball has dropped. In the case of a lost ball or a ball in water, the player must go back to the place whence the lost ball was struck, and play a new one, without penalty. Of course only a driver, or play club, is carried, and a caddie is not necessary, as the players themselves should be able to keep track of the ball. In Belgium the game is played with three or more on a side, but in this case the players have to wait too long for their turn to strike, and the interest must be correspondingly diminished. Here is a better plan for a match game at chole:

DIAGRAM OF THE FIELD.

The battle-ground should be a field of about 400 yards in length, the fence at either end serving as the goal over which the ball is to be driven. The width of the field is of no account, providing that there is a clear space of at least fifty yards to give a chance for straight and open play. In practice it might be well to roughly indicate these side-lines by means of stakes, and if the ball is knocked out of bounds it must be brought back precisely as in football. Supposing that there are six on a side, the most skilful player should act as captain, and arm himself with the ordinary wooden driver. The second man should carry a brassey, the third a cleek, the fourth a lofter, the fifth a niblick, and the sixth a putter. Or there may be any other selection among the ordinary clubs used at golf, provided that each side is armed with virtually the same weapons, and, most important of all, that every combination must at least include a driver, a lofter, and a putter. Three is the smallest practicable number for a side, and the maximum may be put down at six or seven. The object of each side is to drive the ball over their adversary's goal-line, but the strokes are taken in turn, and there is nothing resembling the free hitting and scramble of hockey. The captains toss for the opening stroke, and the winner tees the ball at the centre of the field, and strikes it with his driver as far as possible towards the enemy's goal-line. After he has had his stroke, it is the turn of the other side; and now comes in the essential point of the game. The return shot must be made by the weakest club on the opposing side, viz., the putter. The idea is that the players shall all strike in regular rotation, but the order of the sides is exactly opposite. In other words, one side strikes in succession with driver, brassey, cleek, lofter, niblick, and putter, their opponents answering with putter, niblick, lofter, cleek, brassey, and driver. It is evident that if A leads off their attack will grow weaker as the less powerful clubs come into play, while B, the defence, will grow stronger in the same proportion. Theoretically, after a full exchange of shots the ball should be again at the centre of the field from where it started, but of course, in practice, accidents will happen and shots will be foozled.

The field should be long enough to give the defence a fair chance to rally, and it therefore should not be less than 400 yards in all. It should not be much longer, as then it would hardly be possible for ordinary players to ever get near enough for a goal. Supposing that in actual play the Captain of the Blues drives off and sends the ball 130 yards out of the 200, the putter on the Red side must reply, and he may succeed in driving the ball back 30 yards. Brassey of the Blues has now a carry of 100 yards to make to put the ball over the fence and win a goal. If he does it, it is perfect play, and the Blues are credited with one point. But if he tops his ball or drives short, the niblick man of the Reds may get it back to, say, the 100-yard point, and the Blues have now a chance with the cleek to get it over. If this attempt fails, the Red goal should be out of danger for a while, for their long driving clubs are now coming into play to carry the war into Africa. But at any stage of the game some one may slip up on a difficult shot, and so the advantage be gained or lost. The exact size of the field will largely depend upon the driving ability of the players, and that can only be arrived at by experiment. Theoretically, the goal should be made on the third or cleek shot—that is, with perfect play on each side. Of course only the captains have the privilege of teeing the ball; all the other players must take it as it lies. A ball knocked into a hazard must be played as in match-play at golf; but if it has not been extricated after each side has taken a shot at it, it may be lifted and dropped a club-length outside of the hazard at a point agreed upon between the two captains. A ball in a hazard may not be teed, and this gives a chance for finesse. For instance, suppose that the ball is perilously near the Red goal, and it is Red putter's turn to play. With a straight drive he can only get it a few yards back, and Blue driver, whose turn it is to follow, will be almost certain to get it over. But if Red putter can play it into a hazard or behind a tree, Blue driver will probably fail to make the goal, and that will give the Reds another chance. Other variations will occur in the playing of the game, and may be readily worked out by any boy with a turn for generalship. After each point the sides change goals, so as to equalize the chances of the hazards, and the side that has lost the goal drives off. A ball driven through or under the goal-fence does not count for either side. It must be brought out to a point half-way distant between the centre of the field and the point where it went over the goal-line, and there teed for the player whose turn it is to strike. A ball over the side-line is brought inside, as in football, and dropped a club-length from the line. In the case of a lost ball, the inning begins again as though no play had been made. A player may not strike the ball back over or through his own goal-line. If he does so, accidentally or otherwise, the ball is brought out and teed precisely as in the former case, where the attacking player had failed to put it fairly over.

The game may be made still more scientific and interesting if a regular field be laid out with chalk lines, as in football. In this case the goal at each end should be a circular pit six feet in diameter and six inches deep. The diagram gives the other proportions and the general arrangement of the field. The "vantage"-lines indicate the spot where the ball is to be teed in the case of a failure of a try for goal. There is no restriction upon the direction in which the ball may be played, except in the case of a player who knocks it over his own goal-line. The ball is then teed at "vantage." Balls out of bounds are placed on the side-line at the crossing-point. To make a goal, the ball must drop in the pit and stay there.

It is evident that the interest of the game will depend upon the evenness with which the players are matched. As a general thing a player should be assigned to the club which he is most expert in handling, and the players are known by the names of the clubs they carry. In no case must the rotation of play be altered, and driver always leads off at the beginning of an inning. It would be possible for two men to play the game, using their clubs in the prescribed rotation, but the match between sides gives a chance for more interesting work. If the sides are uneven, one man may, by special agreement, be allowed to play two clubs.

THE PIRATE'S TREASURE.

BY CAPTAIN HOWARD PATTERSON.

"Ralph," said Grandfather Sterling, one hot August morning, looking over the veranda rail to where the boy was stretched full length upon the lawn, "did I ever tell you about the time that I went hunting for a treasure that had been buried by a pirate on one of the islands in the West Indies?"

The lad came bounding up the steps in delight, for there was no greater treat to him than one of the old sea-captain's stories concerning the long and adventurous life that he had led from the time of his first voyage as cabin-boy until his retirement from the sea about two years before.

"No, indeed, Grandpop, and it will be jolly, I'm sure. Please fill up your pipe, so that you won't have to stop just when you get to the most exciting part. Here's your box of matches; and now, as you often say, 'let the reel hum.'"

Captain Sterling smiled affectionately into the eager face upturned to his, and commenced his story:

"It was when I was second mate of a brig called the Nellie, a good many years ago, that this yarn really begins. We were homeward bound from Brazil, with a cargo of coffee, when the yellow fever broke out on board. First the captain sickened and died, then in order followed our first mate, leaving me in command. Next the oldest member of our crew was struck down, and to give him a chance for his life, as well as to humor the wishes of the men, I had him taken out of the dark hot forecastle and brought aft into one of the spare state-rooms in the cabin. Here I nursed him as well as I could; but although the fever broke after the third day, it left him so weak that he could not rally, and his end was hastened on account of his not being able to retain the slightest nourishment. He seemed to be very grateful for my care. On the afternoon of the fifth day of his sickness he said to me that he knew his end was near, and that he wished to show his gratitude while there was yet time. In his chest in the forecastle, he stated that there was a leather wallet, which I was to get and give to him. I did as he requested. He took from it a sheet of paper, on which was rudely sketched the outline of an island, with a compass showing the cardinal points. On the western side of this island there was an indentation resembling a bay having a very narrow entrance from the sea, and in about the middle of the sketch there was a small circle, about west of which a cross was marked.

"'Take this,' he said to me, 'and listen to what I say. This is a chart of a little island known as San Juan, in the Windward West Indies. You will see that I have given its latitude and longitude. Twenty years ago I was one of the officers of the pirate schooner Don Pedro. We went on shore at San Juan to divide the contents of the treasure-chest and to carouse. During the night, when all others were sleeping, I stole away to the spring, which is shown by the circle on the chart, and buried my share of the treasure—nearly ten thousand dollars in gold—three feet in the sand. I dug the hole right in the wake of the rising moon, with the spring between it and me. Go to the island, count fifty paces west of the spring, and dig.'

"'But,' I said to him, 'how do you know but what the money was found years ago?'

"'The island is uninhabited, and no one but myself ever knew that I had hidden it there. Two weeks after that the Don Pedro was captured. They hung the captain, and imprisoned the rest of us for life. One year ago I escaped. Since that time I have been waiting for a chance to recover my treasure. I intended to use the wages made on this voyage to buy a passage to St. Croix, which is the nearest inhabited island to San Juan, and then by some means reach the place where my gold is safely hidden. The money is yours now, and I want you to take it as a gift from me for your kindness.'

"Later on, when I visited his room, he was resting peacefully, with a little ivory crucifix pressed against his cold white lips. The spirit of the pirate had sailed on its last voyage across the sea of eternity.

"Three weeks later I carried the Nellie into the harbor of New York, and received a handsome present in money from the owners for my services, with which I bought a passage on a sailing-vessel, known as the Dart, bound to St. Croix, and reached that place after an uneventful voyage.

"During our trip I stated to the captain that my business was to look after some interests of an acquaintance, and that I hoped to have the same attended to in advance of the time that the vessel was to sail, so that I might return in her. I volunteered the same explanation at the house where I secured board, and then found myself at liberty to go and come without arousing interest in my movements. Having an object to gain, I made it a point of keeping up very friendly relations with the captain of the Dart, several times inviting him to dine with me, and showing him many other courtesies, which he responded to by having me as a guest at his table on board whenever I could make it convenient to visit his vessel. One evening, as we sat under the quarter-deck awning enjoying our Havanas, I said, carelessly:

"'Captain, I've been thinking that I would like to hire your long-boat for the time that we shall be here. Being fitted with lug-sails, she can easily be handled by one man, and I would enjoy running about the harbor in her, and even making little trips along shore when I have nothing else to do.'

"'You can have her in welcome,' he said. 'Don't say a word about pay. As long as you will return her all right you can use her to your heart's content. I will get her overboard in the morning, and have her put in shape for you.'

"The next day I made a trial spin in the boat, and found her all that a sailor could wish for in the way of speed and sea-going qualities. The pirate's island was something less than sixty miles away, and I knew that in the constant trade-winds that I had to count upon to give me a fair breeze there and back, I should be able to reach it in about ten hours.

"During the next two or three days I made several short excursions along the coast, gradually paving the way for the dash I had in view. At last the day arrived when I determined to stretch away for the little coral island below the horizon. In the early morning I left the house, carrying a valise, in which was food sufficient for my anticipated needs, a large garden trowel, and a boat compass that I had brought from the States. Folded in the pocket of my coat I carried a chart of the Windward Islands, and with this equipment I stepped on board, hoisted the two jib-headed sails, and started on my voyage.

"Hour after hour I was swept swiftly onward over the wind-whipped waves, holding the brave little vessel steadily to her course. It was about four o'clock in the afternoon that I lifted the island into sight, bearing directly ahead, and an hour later found me sailing through the narrow inlet that the pirate had laid down on his chart. I ran the boat head on to the sandy beach, securing her painter to one of several stunted palm-trees that grew in a bunch close to the water. The island was not much more than a mile in circumference, and was impoverished in the matter of vegetation, although the cactus-plant showed here and there, and a few cocoanut-trees with a fringe of sickly scrub underbrush occupied the centre of this otherwise barren island. I reasoned that the site of the spring must be found within the little grove; so, providing myself with the trowel and compass, I made my way toward it.

"From the time that I had first become familiar with the pirate's secret up to the hour when I landed on the island my head had been perfectly cool and my nerves tranquil; but now, as I approached the spot that I had travelled two thousand miles to find, I grew dizzy, and my limbs trembled, so that I was obliged to throw myself on the sand to rest for a few minutes and to force a return of my self-control. Then I arose and stepped within the circle of the little oasis.

"If there had been a spring there twenty years before, it had dried up in the interval, although a bowl-shaped hollow in the soil possibly showed where the water had once oozed through the sand.

"I asked myself if I had not been too credulous in pinning my faith to a pirate's wild tale. Had I been chasing a rainbow? Had I spent hard-earned savings and wasted several months' time on a wild-goose errand? Such thoughts made me sick at heart and half desperate. I placed my compass on the ground, carefully measured fifty paces due west of what I was forced to consider the site of the old spring, and fell to digging with my trowel.

"At the depth of about three feet I struck coral; then I commenced a trench running north and south, and dug away for an hour, meeting with nothing but fine white sand and the coral foundation. Hope as good as deserted me. Looking at the sun, I saw that it was almost touching the horizon-line, and knew that in a short time darkness would fall—for there is no twilight in the tropics. I dropped my trowel, and sat down on the edge of the hole that had promised so much in the beginning. As I gave loose rein to my bitter thoughts I savagely kicked the toe of my boot into the sandy wall of the opposite side of the pit.

"Was I dreaming? Had disappointment turned my brain, or had I really heard the clink of metal? I held my breath, and again drove my boot heavily against the wall.

"A piece of the soil fell into the pit, and out of the hole that it left a golden waterfall poured down with a merry, maddening clink, clink, clink; and there I sat, motionless, fascinated, while the treasure ran over my feet and literally hid them from sight. Then my senses partly returned to me, and I dragged my boots out of the gold and jumped and shouted in a delirium of joy.

"It was no myth, after all, for the thousands so secretly hidden away by the pirate looked upon the light of day for the first time in twenty years, and as I gazed down at the golden heap I realized that it was mine—all mine!

"The sun went down and the deep shadows fell on sea and land as I sat gloating like a miser over my riches. I slept in the ditch that night, lest during absence my fortune should be spirited away, and when morning came I stowed the gold in the valise that I had brought from the boat, then dug into the pocket from which it had flowed, to discover that it yet contained a few scattered pieces, and the rotten remnants of the canvas bag in which it had been buried.

"I set sail with my precious freight, and late that afternoon I reached St. Croix, where I pottered about the boat until nightfall; then, under cover of the darkness, I carried the valise to my room on shore and stowed it in my sea-chest.

"Little remains to be told. I returned to New York in the Dart, and used the little fortune that had come to me to purchase a captain's interest in a fine vessel."

IMPORTANT "TRIFLES" ON WAR-SHIPS.

BY FRANKLIN MATTHEWS.

II.

Just outside the door of the Captain's cabin, on every ship of the navy, there stands a sentry. He paces up and down for a distance of about ten feet. On one of the sides of the cabin is an electric indicator similar to those seen in the large hotels back of the clerk's desk. The sentry on the ship passes that indicator every time he paces from one end of his limited beat to the other. He cannot escape hearing its bell when it rings, and his eye at once sees whence the signal comes that is telegraphed to the Captain in time of emergency. That indicator is placed there so that, when necessary, there shall be instant communication with the Captain. Some of the dials tell stories of the utmost importance to the safety of the ship. They tell these stories automatically.

Let us see how one of the most important of these dials may perhaps save the ship from destruction. Down in the coal-bunkers there is a little instrument attached to the side of each compartment that looks like a little thermometer. It is not more than four or five inches tall. It is simply a thermometer with an electric attachment. A fire has started in a coal-bunker, as happens sometimes on large steamships, through what is known as "spontaneous combustion." It may smoulder for several days and give no indication of its existence. At last it breaks into a flame. Some one has felt a hot deck through his shoes as he has walked along, or perchance has accidentally placed his hand on the iron-work of the compartment and found it blistering hot. Instantly the fire-alarm is rung, and if the fire is not too far advanced the ship may be saved. On war-ships, however, no such risk must be run. In the economy of space on such ships it frequently happens that these coal-bunkers are placed very near, and sometimes next to, the powder-magazines. A fire in the coal-bunkers would mean an awful explosion, the loss of the ship and hundreds of lives.

Here is where that little thermometer plays its heroic part. It is called a thermostat, and it is so arranged that as the heat increases, the mercury in the bulb slowly rises to what is known as the danger-point. When the heat reaches that point the mercury sets an electric current going. At once the bell on the indicator where the sentry outside the Captain's door stands rings violently. The sentry hurries to it and sees a fire-alarm from a certain compartment, and he hastily awakes the Captain. The latter presses a button, perhaps without getting out of bed or up from his chair, and instantly there rings the general fire-alarm throughout the ship, and every man on board is called to quarters. For a few seconds it is time of immense confusion and noise. Great gongs are ringing in various parts of the ship. Men are hurrying half dressed, if it be in the night, here and there, and there is much shouting in the giving and passing of orders. In a twinkling, however, order prevails, and through the aid of that little automatic thermometer the ship and the lives of those on board are saved. This thermostat is an insignificant-looking affair—a mere trifle in the ship's construction—but see what an important thing it really is. These instruments are used in many buildings on land, but nowhere are they of such importance as when placed in coal-bunkers or on the outside walls of magazines in war-ships.

Another dial on the indicator where the sentry paces also plays an important part in war-ships. It is called the water-alarm. All modern war-ships have what are known as double bottoms. They are built to prevent the ship from sinking or from becoming flooded in the chief compartments of the vessel below the water-line. Sometimes a ship may scrape along the top of an unknown rock or reef, or may strike some obstruction floating unseen beneath the waves. No one on board may feel the shock, especially if it is a light one. The water may rush into one of these double bottoms, and although the ship may be safe from sinking, the danger in time may be most grave. As the water fills the compartment which has been broken, a little piece of wood rises with it, and finally, when it reaches a certain height, it too establishes an electric current, and the alarm rings outside the cabin door of the Captain. Again the alarm sounds through the ship, and if possible, the break is mended temporarily, and the pumps set going to clear the compartment of the water.

A TORPEDO BURSTING AN OUTER COMPARTMENT.

In time of battle, however, this water-alarm may tell a more important story. Perhaps a torpedo from the enemy has struck the ship, and a gaping wound has been torn not only in the outside bottom of the ship, but through the inner hull as well. Instantly the news reaches the Captain through the water-alarm. The Captain simply presses a button, and at once not only does the general alarm ring, but the "siren" whistle on the ship is set to shrieking most horribly. Those siren whistles are seldom heard either in port or at sea. They begin their noise with a low moan, and run up to an awful shriek, with a thin, ear-piercing note that is almost unendurable. The siren may be blown by electricity as easily as an electric door-bell may be rung. When the siren is heard it is a signal throughout the ship to close all the water-tight doors in the various compartments, and thus confine the inrushing waters to a limited space. If only one or two compartments are torn open by the torpedo, the ship may be saved from sinking and a great tragedy of war may be averted. When the siren howls, however, there is such a scurrying on shipboard as is never seen at other times. Nearly every compartment has men in it at work. The alarms and the whistles are their only warning, except, perhaps, the shouts of their companions. A mighty rush is made to get out of some of these compartments. No time must be lost, and there can be no waiting for a man to escape. If shut in, he may be drowned. It is a question of his life or that of the ship and the lives of the rest of the crew, and there is only one way to answer that question.

These water-alarms are used in many large buildings in connection with the fire-alarm, but one can see how much more important they are on ships, especially on war-ships, than on land. They are a most simple contrivance, and, like the thermostat, mere trifles; but they may turn the tide in a naval battle, and directly or remotely settle the fate of a nation.

In the early days of steam navigation the Captain of a vessel could speak to the engineer through a tube and regulate the speed of the ship. When the vessels grew larger, the signalling was done by means of bells. That method is in common use to-day in many vessels that ply in harbors, such as river steamboats and tug-boats. As the ocean-liners increased in size the bell system of signalling became antiquated. The Captain or the navigator was 300 or 400 feet away from the engineer, and from 20 to 40 feet above the engine-room. In time of emergency it became necessary to send word to the engineer exactly what to do in half a dozen different cases. He must stop, back, go slow now with one engine and now with another, or with both. A long chain was run from a contrivance on the bridge to the engine-room. When the Captain pressed forward or backward a handle on a vertical dial, a handle in the engine-room would move on a similar dial, and a bell would ring to call attention to it, and the engineer knew at once what to do. This system is in use at the present time on all large passenger-ships and most war-ships in the world.

Electricity has invaded this field also, and on the newer war-ships of the navy we have the signalling done by this agent. By the electric-engine telegraph, which Lieutenant Fiske of our navy has invented, not only does the engineer know at once when to go at full speed, half-speed, when to stop and back, and all that, but the Captain can tell at an instant, by looking at a little dial attached to his signalling apparatus, whether his orders have been understood. The little dial is connected with that part of the signalling apparatus in the engine-room on the same electric circuit, and thus the Captain knows exactly what is going on in the engine-room. But the new invention goes farther than that. It tells the engineer just how many revolutions of the screws a minute the Captain desires the engines to make. Full speed, for example, in the old way of signalling may mean anywhere from 80 to 90 or 100 revolutions of the screws. Half-speed may mean anywhere from 60 to 80 revolutions. The engineer in those cases has to use his own judgment as to what speed to employ, unless a message is sent especially to him from the Captain. In the electric device which we are just beginning to use there are certain notches on the dials, and the Captain can signal exactly the number of revolutions he desires each engine to make. He not only gets a signal back, but he has a telltale instrument before his eyes which shows that the engines are making 59, or 73, or whatever number of turns the Captain wishes them to make.

Now this regulation of the revolutions of the ship's engines has a most important part to play in warfare. One of the most essential things in naval manœuvring is that ships shall keep a certain distance from one another. It avoids collisions, and preserves regularity in fire and in changing positions at critical times. It is as essential as that soldiers shall present a solid line to the enemy in battle on land. A helter-skelter fleet would be beaten from the start in a fight. It is most difficult for ships to keep at regular intervals. The engines of one turn just a little faster than the engines of another, and little by little a ship creeps up or drops away from its fellows. Sometimes the distances are preserved by guess-work. Lately a little instrument has been invented by which the Captain can see at a glance how far he is from the ship ahead of him. It is a modification of the sextant. The height of a certain object on the ship in front is known. That is the base of a triangle. The size of the angles at the end of that base are seen at a glance by the observer, and by the manipulation of a screw or two the Captain of a ship can see on a sliding-scale whether he is going too slow or too fast. In either case he signals a change or two in the number of revolutions he wishes the engines to make, and he preserves his required distance. Accuracy in this matter may win a battle.

So great is the din and confusion on war-ships in time of battle that what are called "visual signals" are demanded. This has brought several contrivances into operation that are new. For example, we have a transmitter of orders. It tells the gunners when and what guns to load, and with what kind of shot; when to stand ready to fire; when to fire, and when to cease firing. In the old days, and even in the present days, such orders are conveyed in speaking-tubes or by telephone on most ships. In the great noise an order may be mistaken, but with a visual signal in the shape of an indicator, operated by the mere pressing of a button, orders from the Captain may be conveyed clearly and instantly.

Another apparently trifling thing in the development of navigation is an electrical signalling device for indicating the exact angle the Captain wishes the helm set in making a turn. He presses a button, and the man at the wheel sets the rudder accordingly. A dial informs the Captain that the rudder is set as required. This is most important, because it tends to avoid collisions as the war-ships suddenly change their positions in column. We all remember how serious a collision, even going at slow speed, may be when we recall how three years ago the Camperdown sunk the Victoria of the English Mediterranean squadron on a peaceful day off the coast of Africa, in going through some simple evolutions, and when hundreds of brave sailors, including the Admiral of the fleet himself, were drowned, as the Victoria went down before the small boats of the other vessels of the fleet could reach them.

THE ADMIRAL WORKING SIGNALS AT NIGHT.

One of the great problems in naval tactics is to secure an effective method of signalling orders from ship to ship. In the night it is comparatively easy. A string of red and white alternating electric lights is strung from a yard downwards. An operator sits in front of a little box in which there are a lot of black keys on which are stamped a certain number of red and white dots. As he presses these keys, which are arranged in a circle and look like so many fancy dominoes, the red and white lights flash out in certain combinations. The operators see them, and signal back the same light. Each key pressed down means a certain letter, and it takes little time to send an order. In the daytime signals must be sent by flags, or by means of a contrivance with long arms such as we see on signal-towers on a railroad. As these arms are jerked into certain positions they tell a story of their own.

During a battle by day or night all such systems are of little value because of the smoke. Whistles can be of little use, because the noise of battle would drown them. Electrical experts are trying to devise a system of telegraphing through the water, of course without the use of wires, but the outlook in that direction is not promising at present.

Then there are important new devices which we can only mention. One of them is the sounding apparatus, by which the depth of water can be taken when going at full speed. The pressure of water on a column of air varies at certain depths of the ocean. This pressure is marked by the discoloration of a fluid in a tube through the agency of the salt water. The electric firing of guns is also interesting. A current of electricity is passed through a filament, such as we see in the incandescent lamp of a house electric light, and at once the heat sets the gun off as effectively as if a spark had ignited the powder. Then there is the aerophone, or fog-indicator, which points out the exact direction of some noise-making object by cutting the sound-wave in two, so as to send it first in one ear and then the other of the man who operates the invention, until finally he gets it in equal volume in both ears, and the dial on the machine points straight to the object which cannot be seen.

All these inventions, which of themselves seem mere trifles, are necessary in these days, because of the wonderful advance in warfare and the construction of ships. In the old days the Captain could roar his orders out and make himself heard almost everywhere. Nowadays a fraction of a second may determine the outcome of a battle. He must be able to find the distance of his enemy, must fire his guns without aiming them in the old way, must regulate the speed of his ship to the single turn of a screw, must put his own helm at a certain angle to a degree. Without electricity he would be helpless in the noise and confusion. Even with electricity he is hampered, and so we may expect that the invention of these little devices will go on, until one man in a ship may control that engine of war as completely as if he were in every vital place in the ship at one and the same time.

HOW TO USE THE VOICE.

BY FELIX BEAUMONT.

"Now, my friends," said Mrs. Martin, as she gathered a knot of young people about her on the breezy veranda of her pleasant country house, one moonlight evening in September, "we have had picnics, and drives, and walks, and rows upon the lake in the daytime, and dances almost every night since you have been visiting me, and I believe that you may be getting sufficiently tired of these sports, as the weather grows cooler, to wish to change about and settle down to something at once more instructive and more artistic. You are, all of you, students of music—Ethel reads it very well at sight, Kenneth plays the 'cello, Patty plays the violin, Beatrice sings charmingly and plays accompaniments, besides being a general helper and strong inducer of merriment, while the rest of you have good voices, very pretty taste, and some knowledge of music. So I am going to organize a musical club, which shall meet here regularly once a week after you leave me, having finished your visits. And I am going now to attempt to explain to you so thoroughly the best methods of getting up a 'musical' that other boys and girls who wish to amuse themselves in the same way may learn from your example. A great deal of fun may be had from the preliminary practice and rehearsals. I should advise you to form, in the first place, three quartets: one of mixed voices—that is, you know, soprano, alto, tenor, and bass—besides one of male voices, first tenor, second tenor, first bass (or barytone), and second bass. Then a quartet of female voices—two sopranos and two altos, and this last can sometimes do trios as well as quartets. For all of these different sets of voices the most beautiful and pleasing music has been made. Mendelssohn's collection for mixed voices, called 'Open-Air Music,' is intended to be done without accompaniment, which, as you see, fits it to be sung independently in any place—in the woods, or on the lake, or while driving. It is as full of inspiration and of the true sweet Mendelssohnian melody as anything that ever dropped from the pen of that sociable and amiable composer; the harmonies are delicious, and the words are full of the poetry of land and sea and love. For male voices there is a large literature; but perhaps the heaviest mass of writing is found in compositions for women's voices, either in the form of duets—as, for instance, those of Abt, Mendelssohn, Rubinstein, or Dvorák—in trios, and in quartets.

"In this connection let me tell you," said Mrs. Martin, who now saw that her young audience was thoroughly attentive and interested, "that Schubert has written a most lovely 'Serenade' for alto solo and women's chorus. For all three kinds of quartet, as I have said, there is a large choice of music. The old Scotch, English, and Irish songs and ballads have been arranged to be sung by male, female, or mixed voices, so that 'Robin Adair,' 'The Bluebells of Scotland,' 'Annie Laurie,' 'Tom Bowling,' 'Hearts of Oak,' 'The Bay of Biscay,' 'Kathleen Mavourneen,' 'The Last Rose of Summer,' and 'The Harp that once through Tara's Halls' take on new beauties from their harmonizations. Then there are humorous things, such as Homer Bartlett's 'The Frogs' Singing-School,' or Caldicott's 'Spider and the Fly,' and all Ingraham's nine 'Nonsense Songs,' set to Lear's words, from 'The Owl and the Pussy-cat' to 'The Duck and the Kangaroo.' Italian folk-songs, too, have been transformed into harmonized versions, and there are hosts of waltzes so pretty and inspiriting that you will hardly be able to keep from whirling about while you sing them. 'Cradle Songs' and 'Slumber Songs' may be selected when for variety you need a bit of reposeful quiet in your programme; and you know enough of Franz Abt's pure, sweet, pleasing melody to be able to choose judiciously on the occasions when he would be useful to you.

"Of course," added Mrs. Martin, "these musical attempts presuppose some knowledge of sight-reading on the part of you young people; and as nothing is accomplished without application and effort, you must be willing to take a little trouble in the practice and perfection of whatever you undertake to perform. Each of you must carry his part home and study it separately, until you are perfectly familiar with it, then you must rehearse together until the whole thing goes smoothly. Do any of you understand," said Mrs. Martin, giving a comprehensive glance along the semicircle of sun-browned smiling faces in front of her, "what you must do to make ensemble singing sound sweetly to the listener? In the first place, never sing too loud. There is a great temptation for each member of a chorus or quartet to use all the power of his voice as soon as he feels other voices pushing against him; but whether in solo or other work, one of the cardinal rules is to avoid singing as loudly as the vocal chords will permit. One must think continually of the sound he is producing, must listen carefully to himself, by which method one can modify and improve the quality of tone to a remarkable degree. Some people undoubtedly make a much more successful effort than others in managing their voices before they are cultivated. The best general advice to be given for the help of a novice is, sing freely and naturally, with relaxed muscles. You should try to open the throat by a movement which at once forces the tonsils apart and depresses the roots of the tongue, somewhat as in the commencement of a yawn. Let the column of air which carries the tone come straight through the middle of the open throat, and focus or strike in the roof of the mouth just behind and above the upper teeth. Try to enunciate distinctly without disturbing the continuity of tone emission."

"Do you think any of us can do solos, Aunt Martha?" asked little Patty, timidly.

"Oh yes, indeed," replied Mrs. Martin, drawing Patty close to her. "We must have some, of course; they are so good for making boys and girls conquer shyness and nervousness and consciousness. At first you should select simple songs of limited range, with attractive flowing melodies. You will find plenty of just this kind among the works of Gounod, Abt, Ries, Cowen, Sullivan, Curschman, Kücken, Fesca, Tosti, and Bohm. Brahms's 'Lullaby' is a charming and easy bit of singing; so is Ries's 'Cradle Song.' Those by Adalbert Goldschmidt and Gerrit Smith are pretty also. Indeed, slumber songs lend themselves admirably to early efforts in solo work. Other song writers to whom you may look for furnishing the best material are Jensen, Eckert, Lachner, Taubert, Bemberg, Gumbert, Goring-Thomas, Bizet, Lassen, Delibes, Widor, Arditi, Mattei, Godard, Saint-Saëns, Massenet, and so on, up to the classic heights of Rubinstein, Mendelssohn, Liszt, Schubert, Schumann, Grieg, and Brahms. Of extreme modern writers who make pleasing music you can rely on Chaminade, Nevin, Neidlinger, Bartlett, Johns, and Pizzi. Of course among these names you will not find many opera-composers, for I have only cared to mention the makers of songs. I will tell you something else, a little foreign to our immediate subject of ensemble or solo singing, which, however, will, I am sure, afford you much enjoyment and merriment. There are compositions called in German 'Kinder Symphonien,' or 'Children's Symphonies.' Dear old Father Haydn made one of the best of these, and they have been followed by others, by Romberg, Chwatal, Grenzebach, Meyer, and Schulz. They are played by about ten or twelve persons. There will be a piano score for either two or four hands, one for violin, and for a number of toy instruments. One of the instruments is somewhat like a pair of bellows in construction. When it is pressed together the most illusive sound of 'cuckoo, cuckoo,' comes from it, so natural as almost to deceive the bird himself if he were listening.

"Another instrument is a china mug with a spout like a teapot. The mug must be half filled with water, and on blowing into the spout a melodious gurgling arises. This is supposed to be an exact imitation of the ravishing song of the sad poetic nightingale. Then there is a drum, a trumpet, a triangle, and many other things conducive to noise and music. Each performer has a separate sheet to read his notes from, and the effort to count properly, to wait for rests, and to make the right entrances, gives much serious employment. But when at last everything goes well together the effect is very merry and pleasing. One of Chwatal's symphonies is called 'The Sleigh-Ride.' The jingling of a set of small sleigh-bells is a feature in this. I should think," added Mrs. Martin, "that some of these symphonies would be a great addition to your musicals, and give lots of fun. The trumpeter of the occasion must take pains, however, not to fall into the error of the man who blew a tremendous blast upon his horn in the middle of a piece of music, producing a horrid discord. When the leader asked him, angrily, 'What in the world did you play that dreadful wrong note for?' the man meekly replied, 'Ach Himmel, there was a fly on the fourth line of the staff, and I played him!' Nor must you," went on Mrs. Martin, smiling at her reminiscences, "copy the negligent daring of a friend of mine who sang in a well-known German Verein. Things had been going badly, and finally the conductor in despair cried out, as he stamped his foot and gesticulated wildly, 'Tenors, tenors, you are a measure behind!' Whereupon my friend called back lustily to him, 'Ach! muss man denn so genau sein?'—must one then be so very particular?" The children laughed heartily at their dear hostess's jokes, as they tried always to do when it was at all possible.

"And now," said tall Ethel, "won't you please tell us all about the evening of the musical, and what we shall wear, and how to write the invitations?"

"Wear?" said Mrs. Martin. "Why, of course you would wear your very best evening gowns, you girls, and of course, to my mind, those who were dressed in white would look the prettiest. And the boys would wear their Tuxedo suits, or whatever they looked smartest in. As to the invitations, do not send out so many as to crowd your parlor uncomfortably. The rule which I have found safe to believe is that one-third of all the people invited will decline. This gives a hostess the liberty of paying a compliment to many more of her friends than her house will actually hold. The form of the invitation may be thus:

"Mrs. Dudley requests the pleasure of Mr. and Mrs. Allison's company on Thursday evening, November 12, at half past eight.

"Music at nine o'clock.
"160 Saint Bernard Street.

"Or your mother's ordinary visiting-card will do, if she writes in one corner, 'Music at nine o'clock.' Invitations should be sent at least a week or ten days beforehand. If it is possible for you to have a grand-piano, never use a square or an upright one. If you must use either of the latter kinds, turn it away from the wall, and drape the back of the upright with some pretty soft drapery, which can be held in place by books, vases, and a lamp on the top of the piano. All the portières or other curtains that can be taken down should be removed, and all the rugs and heavy furniture carried out of the room. Music sounds so much better in a place free from soft thick hangings.

"It is good to have programmes, for people enjoy listening to pieces much more if they know their names. Should expense deter you from having them printed, they may be nicely written off on a sheet of note-paper. For printed programmes, a card ten inches by three and a half, folded once in the middle of its length, makes an extremely good form.

"Would you like me to give you some idea of the programme, musically and spiritually considered, as well as from its purely material stand-point?" said Mrs. Martin, after a few moments' silence, "for I believe, with that exception, that I have told you all I can. Get out your note-book, Bertram, and put down what I tell you."

Programme.

1. Mixed Quartet | { 'Farewell to the Forest' | Mendelssohn
| { 'O, Hush Thee, my Baby' | Sullivan
2. Piano Solo, | 'Spring' | Grieg
3. Female Chorus, | { Lullaby | Brahms
| { 'My Flaxen-haired Lassie' | Koschat
4. Tenor Solo, | 'Máppari,' from 'Martha' | Flotow
| (Or song by Chadwick, 'Du bist wie eine Blume.')
5. Male Quartet, | { 'Verlassen bin ich' | ——
| { 'The Owl and the Pussy-cat' | Ingraham
6. Violin Solo, | 'Simple Aven' | Thorne
7. Piano, four hands, | Ballet Music from Feramors | Rubinstein

Programme No. 2.

1. Piano, four hands, 'Hochzeitsmusik' | Jensen
2. Female Chorus, 'Rest Thee on this Mossy Pillow' | Smart
3. Violoncello Solo, 'Love Scene' | Victor Herbert
4. Soprano Song, 'Parting' | Rogers
5. Violin Solo, 'Romance' | Mrs. Beach
6. Male Quartet, 'It was not So to Be' | Nessler-Vognih

"And then," said Mrs. Martin, "you could finish with the Kinder Symphony as a merry ending, or add one or two numbers to those I have suggested, and keep the Kinder Symphony for a separate evening's entertainment. At all events, I hope you will find that I have inspired and helped you a little, and that you will carry out the plans I have laid down."

"Yes, we will!" cried all the young people, in a breath; and Bertram, putting his note-book in his inside coat pocket, said, dreamily, "It's awfully late; suppose we go in and take the gift of sleep!"

OLD-TIME THANKSGIVING.

BY M. L. VAN VORST.

Come, will you help me harness the bay?
Come, will you help me hitch up the gray?
Grandfather's lent us the great big sleigh.
Hip hurrah for Thanksgiving-time!
Chestnuts and cider and fire's glow,
Five good miles through the woods to go,
Clear cold winds and a driving snow.
Hip hurrah for the bells achime!

Fly by the hedge of the country-side,
By the gleaming fields and the farm-lands wide.
Hey for the boys and the girls as they ride!
Hip hurrah for the gray and the bay!
Snow-wreaths hang on the fir and pine,
And the bells are ringing like silver fine;
Bright cheeks are glowing and bright eyes shine.
Hip hurrah for the jolly sleigh!

Come, will you go with us, one and all,
To the games and romps in the country hall,
Where the rafters ring with our shout and call?
Hip hurrah for the fun and cheer!
Months of the holly and mistletoe
We would hold you fast, for we love you so.
Thanksgiving and Christmas and sparkling snow
Gladden the days of the dying year.

THE HANGING OF TEDDY.

Halloween was sure to see a variety of pranks played in Scottsville. It was a fortunate front fence which had its own gate the next morning. All of which shows that there were boys in Scottsville.

"Well, gates are good enough if you can't do any better," said Teddy, on the afternoon of a last day in October, "but I'm getting tired of them."

"What about signs, then?" asked Joe.

"Signs are all right—genuine signs up on buildings—not these pasteboard cards saying 'To Rent,' and sewing-machine boards nailed on fences, and such stuff."

"You don't think you could get a big store sign down, do you?" asked Fred.

"Yes, I do."

"Whose?"

"Oh, a lot of 'em. Mr. Parks's would be an easy one."

"But it's up over the door, and runs clear across the front of the building!" protested Joe. "And it's fastened up with irons!"

"Don't care if 'tis. We're good for it, if we only think so. I've been looking at it. The irons are loose, and there's room to stand on the ledge behind it. It would be just as easy as nothing to take it down."

"What would you do with it?" asked Joe.

"Well," answered Ted, slowly, "it says on it, 'M. Parks. Cheap Cash Grocery.' I think it would look sort of funny to take it up and put it on the school-house."

The other boys instantly fell in with this idea, though they still doubted their ability to get the sign down. Then Fred thought of the village's night watchman, who spent most of his time in the business part of town.

"But what about Billy Snyder?" he asked.

"Oh, my pa says Billy goes to sleep every night at nine o'clock," answered Teddy, confidently. "He says burglars might pull Billy's boots off and he'd never know it."

"Well, if he sleeps all night, he must walk in his sleep," said Joe, who lived farther down town than the others. "I've been awake 'way in the night sometimes, and heard him tramping round."

"But, don't you see, to-night he'll be up town looking out for fellows lugging off gates," returned Teddy, not to be convinced that there was any danger from the watchman. "Besides, Billy can't run for shucks."

It was accordingly arranged that the boys should meet that night across the street from Mr. Parks's store at half past ten; and promptly at that hour they were all on hand. It was a dark night, and the streets were deserted.

"It's—it's pretty dark, isn't it, Ted?" said Joe, in a loud whisper.

"Course," answered Teddy, contemptuously. "Want it dark, don't we?"

"Y—yes. Seen anything of Billy?"

"Oh, he's all right—way off somewhere. He won't be down here to-night."

They tiptoed cautiously across the street, and looked up at the sign.

"Has he been raising it?" said Joe, very earnestly.

"No, of course not," answered Teddy, impatiently.

"Well, it never looked so high to me before," insisted Joe.

"Oh, you're scared!" returned the brave Ted. "Better run home."

"I'm not scared. How are you going to get up?"

"Climb the eaves-spout on the corner. It's easy as nothing," and he started up.

He went up for five or six feet, but found it harder work than he expected. He stopped and rested a moment, then struggled on. This he did twice, feeling his hold weakening all the while. The last time he stopped he looked down. It seemed a long ways. His hold suddenly grew still weaker, and he slid back and rolled over on the ground.

"Are you hurt, Ted?" anxiously inquired the other boys.

"Of course not," answered Teddy, impatiently. "Came down to rest and put a little dust on my hands," and he went out into the street and spatted his palms on the ground.

"We ought to had Tom Ketcham along," said Joe, when Teddy came back. "He's a bully climber."

"Oh, pshaw!" said Ted. "If Tom Ketcham can climb any better'n I can I'd like to know it. Just watch me now;" and he started up again.

Thanks to the street dust or to a determination to show Joe that he was as good a climber as Tommy, he managed to get up this time and wriggle in on the cornice, which made a sort of ledge behind the sign. He loosened the iron on that end of the sign, and walked cautiously along, taking a piece of clothes-line out of his pocket, with which he intended to lower it. Just then footsteps were heard approaching.

"Billy's coming!" cried Fred, in a hoarse half-whisper, and he and Joe started down the street.

"Hold on there!" called Teddy to the younger boys, in a fierce tone. "Get in the doorway and keep still."

The others obeyed, and Ted himself lay down on the ledge behind the sign and flattened out as much as possible. It proved to be only a man on his way home, and he passed without seeing the boys.

Teddy's heart was thumping pretty hard as he thrust his chin over the edge of the sign and whispered, "You fellows down there?"

"Yes," answered the boys.

"Well, what you so scared at?" he asked, tauntingly, as a way of keeping up his own courage. "Look out, now, and I'll have this sign down there before you know it." He rose up and started to hurry along the cornice, but stumbled over something and went down with a great thump. Fortunately he fell on the ledge, and the sign kept him from rolling into the street.

"What's the matter, Ted?" asked the others, excitedly.

"Nothing. Don't know. Fell over something." He felt about in the darkness, and added: "Iron thing to put a big flag in. Forgot it was here."

He crawled on to the other end, and readily pulled up the other iron that held the sign in place. Then he crept back to the middle, looking out for the flag-staff bracket this time, and tied one end of his clothes-line around the sign. He took a half turn with the line around the flag-holder, which he stood astride, lifted up on the sign to release it from the supports on which it rested, and began to lower it slowly. "Get ready, there!" he whispered to the other boys. The sign was heavier than he had expected, and the rope hurt his hands. But he shut his teeth together and hung on, and slowly paid out the line. Just then there came the sound of a heavy step up the street. Teddy tried to let the rope go a little faster, but it suddenly shot through his hands. The sign struck the stone sidewalk broadside with a report like a gun, and the end of the rope, which was entangled with his feet, jerked him off the ledge, and he shot down after the sign. But the flag bracket which had tripped him up before saved him this time. Its upturned end caught under the back of his jacket, and stopped him with a jerk, his shoulder-blades against the front of the ledge, and his legs dangling in the air above the doorway. Between the crash of the falling sign and the heavy footsteps, which sounded precisely like the watchman's, the other boys had been too frightened to think, and had scampered down the street faster than they had ever run before.

Teddy's first thought was to call for help, but he was too frightened to call; and by the time he had found his voice he had concluded that it would be best to wait a few minutes, since he was not particularly uncomfortable, and see if he could not get himself out of the fix he was in without being caught. The approaching footsteps had ceased, and there was not a sound to be heard. "Billy has stopped and is trying to make out what all the racket is about," Teddy thought to himself. "If I keep still he may not see me in the dark, after all." His jacket was drawn pretty tightly across his chest, and there was a good deal of strain on the buttons, but he knew his mother had sewed them on and that there was not much danger of their giving way. But it was rather hard to breathe. He wriggled about a little, and tried to get his elbows up on the cornice in the hope of raising himself, but he couldn't do it. Nothing more was heard of Billy, and the earth seemed to have swallowed up Joe and Fred. It seemed to Teddy that he had hung there half an hour, though it probably wasn't more than three or four minutes, when he ventured to call, in a subdued voice, "Joe!"

"Is that you, Ted?" came from directly beneath him in Tom Ketcham's voice.

"Yes, Tom. I'm caught. Help me down, somehow."

"Is that you hanging up there?"

"Yes. I'm caught on the flag-holder."

"Yes; we heard it fall. Phil's with me."

"Was that you I heard coming? Thought the walk sounded like Billy."

"We—we had a gate, and I guess that made us walk pretty heavy."

Just then Joe and Fred crept back, emboldened by the sound of the voices. The four boys on the sidewalk now held a whispered consultation as to the best way of getting Teddy down, but they reached no decision. Tom thought Ted ought to take his knife, cut off his buttons, and drop out of his jacket, but Teddy objected to this. Joe thought a ladder was the only hope, but Fred was of the opinion that if they had a long pole he could be got down with that; but no one knew where either a pole or ladder could be found. Teddy himself thought that if two of the boys should climb up on the ledge that they could pull him up, and as Phil shared this view it was decided to try it.

"And hurry up," pleaded poor Ted, "'cause I'm getting pretty tired of this, and can't hardly breathe."

Tom and Phil accordingly started up the leader, and soon wriggled on to the ledge as Teddy had done. The sign being gone, there was great danger of their slipping off into the street, and they crept along very cautiously. When they found themselves over the suspended Ted, they rose up on their feet, stooped over, and each got a good hold on his collar with one hand. Then they lifted together with all their strength, but they might as well have lifted on a thrifty oak-tree for all they accomplished. Ted had settled down so far that his shoulders were half drawn under the cornice, and though he tried to wriggle about and help them as they lifted, his wriggling really consisted of nothing but thrashing his legs about in the air.

"We can't do it, Tom," said Phil.

Tom felt around on the front of the building, and replied:

"'Fraid we can't. If there was only something for us to hold on to we could lift a good deal more; but there isn't."

"Not a thing. And if we lift another pound we'll pull ourselves into the street and break our necks. What shall we do?"

"Don—don't leave me," implored Teddy, with just a suspicion of a whimper in his voice. "Wish I'd never heard of the sign. It's my last sign if I ever get down."

"We'll get you down some way, Ted," answered Tom. "Just you keep a stiff upper lip."

"I—I am," returned Teddy. "But I can't hang much longer. Feel like I was going to die, or something."

Just then distant footsteps were heard on the sidewalk.

"Ssh!" said Phil. "Somebody's coming. Get in the doorway, you fellows down there."

Joe and Fred obeyed, and the footsteps came nearer.

"That's Billy's walk, for sure," whispered Tom. "Can't fool me on that. Lie down, Phil," and the two boys flattened out on the ledge.

Poor Teddy could do nothing but hang, as if he were a sign put out in front of a store where small boys were kept for sale. Nearer and nearer came the footsteps, till they were almost in front of the building. Then there was a sudden stumble, a smothered ejaculation, and a man fell full length on the walk, while something which showed a little point of light went rolling along the walk. It was Billy, and he had fallen over the sign, and his dark-lantern had rolled away. The boys all had hard work to keep from laughing, except Teddy.

"Geewhillikans!" howled Billy, as he scrambled to his feet and made a dive for his lantern. "What's all this?"

The next second he flashed his bull's-eye on the walk, and began an investigation.

"WELL, WELL! IF THERE AIN'T A BOY, THEN I'M A GOAT!"

"You may shoot me if it ain't old Parks's sign!" he went on, throwing the stream of light along the board. "More Halloween monkey business, I s'pose. I'd like to catch the scalawags! Wonder how they got it down?" He stepped back to the edge of the walk and turned the light upward.

"Well, well! If there ain't a boy, then I'm a goat! Come down here, you young imp!"

Teddy only swung his legs.

"Come down, I say, or I'll—I'll—I'll—" and Billy paused, unable to think of anything terrible enough.

"I—I can't, Billy," Teddy managed to get out.

"Hung up, hey? Good enough for you. You ought to be hung up by the heels a week! I'll get you down, young man. Just you be calm till I fetch Whitney's ladder," and Billy started up the street on a trot, muttering to himself.

The new danger sharpened Master Teddy's wits, and made him think faster than he had ever done before.

"You fellows get down quick as you can," he cried to Tom and Phil. "Hurry!" The boys scrambled along the ledge and slid down the leader. "Get hold of that sign, the whole four of you, and stick one end of it up here like a ladder," went on Teddy, his voice all in a tremble, but the words coming with a rush. Up came the sign beside him. He got his legs over and around it, half wriggled his back onto it, reached his arms over his head, and by exerting every muscle in his body to the utmost, managed to pull and kick himself up enough to release his coat. Then he shot down the steep sign like a toboggan, and struck the ground all in a heap. Billy was coming down the street with his ladder and lantern. "Down with it!" said Tom, and he put his shoulder against the sign.

"No you don't," cried Teddy; "I've had enough of signs and Halloweens. Let's git;" and he did with all his might, a sadder but a wiser boy.

There has not been a case of sign lost on Halloween or any other day or night since in Scottsville.

THANKSGIVING.

BY MARGARET E. SANGSTER.

When the Indians used to prowl
Round the house at dead of night,
And the north wind's angry howl
Sounded fierce by candle-light;
When the very babies learned
How to whisper when they cried,
And the young boys early earned
Right to carry arms with pride—

In those wild exciting days,
Often hungry, often cold,
Men uplifted songs of praise,
Women's hearts were strong and bold.
And amid their penury,
In their want and peril, they
Set apart, with courage free,
Their first brave Thanksgiving day.

Over harvests gathered in
With a stealthy foe anear,
Over scanty byre and bin,
Over joys which cost them dear,
Gallant souls that would not bend
Met their trustful grace to say,
Heart to heart and friend to friend;
So they kept Thanksgiving day.

Ours to-day a happier fate:
Royal wealth on us outpoured,
Wide our pleasant land, and great
Is the throng about our board.
Run the dear old flag aloft;
Let it float from ship and spire!
Wake Thanksgiving, field and croft,
House and home, and child and sire.

MARTY'S PUMPKINS.

BY RAY STANNARD BAKER.

"M-a-rty! Mart—e—e!" called a shrill voice from the woodshed door.

The speckled rooster stopped scratching in the chip-pile, raised his head, blinked his eyes, and chuckled protestingly.

"Mart-e-e!" called the voice again, and a plain woman in a calico dress stepped out into the morning sunlight. "I wonder where thet child has gone. She'd try the patience of a saint. Mart—e—e!"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Come right here this minute."

Around the corner of the chicken-coop ran a little figure with flying hair.

"Where hev you been?" demanded Mrs. Tucker, impatiently.

Marty's bare brown toes burrowed in the chip-pile, and she hung her head. She was a slender girl, and a pair of big, wistful eyes looked out from under her sun-bonnet.

"Out lookin' after my punkins," she answered, shyly.

"Your punkins!" said Mrs. Tucker, explosively. "You won't have punkins long ef you don't answer when I call."

"I didn't hear you, ma'am."

"Stuff an' nonsense! I tol' Eb it wa'n't good sense to put such punkin notions in yer head. Now take this cup an' run over to Mis' Wiskins an' ask the loan of some yeast."

Marty's feet twinkled as she ran, and Mrs. Tucker was so surprised to see her back so soon that she sent her on another errand. But at last Marty was free to hurry again into the corn-field. Here she went about among the shocks, and lifted the yellow pumpkins, one by one, and carried them to a "double-decker" wagon that stood not far away, climbed up on a stepladder, and dropped them in. Some of them were so large that when she tried to reach around them the sleeves of her outgrown gingham dress drew up over her sunburnt elbows. But she tugged and staggered and wrinkled her freckled nose until the wagon was heaping full. Just as she was completing her task old Ebenezer Tucker came out to the field.

"Got 'em loaded?" he asked, gruffly.

"Yes, sir."

"Well, we'll take 'em to town to-morrow and see what they'll bring."

Marty jumped up and clapped her hands.

"Oh, Uncle Eb—"

"There! neb mind," he said, but there was a note of kindness in his voice.

The sun had gone down and the air was frosty and still. Marty's bare toes tingled with the cold, but her face glowed with joy as she trudged toward the house at her uncle's side. She would have liked to take hold of his hand, not only to rest her tired legs, but because her happy heart wanted to show the affection of which it was so bubbling full, but she was afraid.

Marty was happier than she had ever been before in her life. That wasn't saying much, for Marty's mother had died when she was very young, and had left her and little Tim alone in the world. They had been passed around from relative to relative for a number of years, and Marty had taken care of Tim, and lavished on him all the affection of her timid heart. While they were together she hadn't minded poor clothes and hard work, but when Uncle Ben had taken "the boy," and Uncle Eb had taken her, Marty's heart was quite broken. For Uncle Ben lived in Shelbyville, miles away, and how would little Tim get along without her?

Aunt Tucker was known and respected in the community as a "good provider" and a good Christian, but she didn't understand Marty. Besides that, she had Elly and Susie and John, her own children, to look after. Marty was shy and timid and dreamy, and so it happened that she became little maid-of-all-work, a kind of country Cinderella. But she tried to keep a brave face, and dreamed of the time when Tim would be big enough to earn his own living and could take her away.

As the summer passed, Marty had grown more and more lonesome; she felt as if she hadn't a friend in the world. One day she was in the barn-yard, and Dot—Uncle Eb's old white cow—looked around at her so sympathetically with her big, kind eyes that a knot tied itself in Marty's throat, and she ran and threw her arms around Dot's neck.

"You'll be my friend—won't you, Dot?" she sobbed.

Dot was evidently about to say something sympathetic, when Marty felt a hand on her head. It was Uncle Eb's.

"What's the matter, Marty?" he asked, and his raspy voice sounded as if it had just been oiled.

She had always been afraid of Uncle Eb. He was big and silent, and his bushy eyebrows scowled. But she said:

"I'm lonesome. I want to see Tim."

The old farmer stopped and patted her head, and then sat down to milk. One day he said,

"Want to earn some money, Marty?"

Marty's head swam. With money she could see Tim. Her face flushed faintly.

"Yes, sir," she said.

"Well, you pick up the pumpkins in the corn-lot and load 'em on the wagon every day, and I'll give you one load."

There were a great many loads of pumpkins, and it was very hard lifting for Marty; but she worked bravely, because she remembered Tim. She could have finished the loading much sooner if Aunt Tucker hadn't called her so often—Aunt Tucker didn't like the pumpkin idea; she said she didn't believe in children having money. But now, after weeks of work, the last load stood in the field.

"Thet's yours," Uncle Eb had said, quietly.

And that is why Marty's heart was almost bursting with joy.

The Tuckers were up at sunrise the next morning. For Uncle Eb was going to town with Marty's pumpkins.

"You're foolish to whim thet child," said Aunt Tucker, complainingly; "you're treating her better'n you do yer own kith an' kin."

Uncle Eb didn't reply; but an hour later he and Marty were perched on the high wagon seat, and the sun was looking jolly at the end of the long road to town. Marty wore Elly's hat and a plain but clean dress, and her eyes sparkled with joy. She wanted to tell Uncle Eb how happy and thankful she was, but she didn't dare to. So she tapped her precious pumpkins with her toes as she was bounced about on the high spring seat.

How proud she felt when they reached the Centre and the men on the street nodded to Uncle Eb! She wondered if they knew that the pumpkins were all hers, and that she would soon have the money for them. Only once in her life had she ever had any money of her own, and that was only ten cents, which had looked as big as a silver dollar when she first spied it lying at the road-side.

Now they had passed the post-office and were slowly climbing the Weymouth hill toward the depot. The Centre lay in a deep valley, with the railroad skirting the top of the hill to the east. It was a steep, smooth hill, and the backs of the horses straightened and strained under the crupper straps. Marty puckered up her lips and lifted on the seat, as if to ease the load of her weight. At the middle of the climb they stopped where a "thank you, ma'am," ribbed the hill.

"Get up," said Uncle Eb, after the horses had rested.

Just as the wheels jogged forward Marty heard a sharp crack, and then a loud plumping and plopping from behind. She looked around and gave a cry of alarm. For the back board of the wagon had broken out, and down the hill her precious pumpkins were dancing and bobbing with a mellow rumble. Before Uncle Eb could say a word, Marty sprung from the wagon and darted behind.

"Stop! stop!" she shouted; but the renegade pumpkins acted as if they didn't hear a word, and rolled on down the hill. In two minutes the wagon was empty. Some of the pumpkins split open, and their rich dewy halves, full of seeds, lay gaping in the sunshine. Farther down the whole hill was speckled with bobbing bits of yellow, and the boys of the Centre had begun a hilarious chase. The pumpkins seemed possessed. They went careering through open gates and bumping against doors and casings. They broke their heads on fences and the edges of the sidewalk, and they sent Nick Dusenberry's old white team, that hadn't run away before in fifteen years, snorting up the street. All the dogs barked, and the boys shouted, and the Centre stood in its front door and cheered. Such excitement had not stirred the village since Marston's store burned down.

In the middle of the hill sat Marty, each arm clasping a fat pumpkin, and the tears streaming down her freckled nose. The horses had been frightened and had run up the hill, Uncle Eb doing his best to control them.

"OH, MY PUNKINS!" SOBBED MARTY.

"Oh, my punkins!" sobbed Marty.

"Are you hurt? Can I help you?" asked a pleasant voice.

Marty looked up. It was the postmaster's wife.

"Oh, my punkins!" choked Marty.

But the postmaster's wife bent over and questioned kindly, and Marty told her about Tim and Uncle Eb and the pumpkins, and when she was through there were tears in the eyes of the postmaster's wife. By this time a crowd of men and boys had gathered. It bruised Marty's sensitive heart that they should laugh and joke about her precious pumpkins. When Uncle Eb came back with the team he was scowling, and when Marty asked him to let her pick up the pumpkins he said:

"Let 'em go. I don't want 'em."

And all the way home he was silent, and Marty sat beside him biting her lips to keep from crying. It seemed to her since her pumpkins were gone that nothing else remained in life. As she crept off to bed that night she heard Aunt Tucker say,

"Now, Ebenezer, you see what comes from foolin' with children's bringin' up."

All the next day Marty's heart ached, although Uncle Eb had said, while he was rubbing his curry-comb and brush together, "Never mind, child," in a tone that showed her that he was still kindly. Towards evening the Perkins boy came with the mail.

"Here's a paper fer you, Uncle Eb," he said, "an' a letter fer Marty."

Marty flushed and trembled. The whole family looked at her. She had never before received a letter.

The Perkins boy was holding it out. "It's a fat one, too," he said.

Uncle Eb took it, put on his spectacles, and turned it over and over. Then he passed it to Aunt Tucker, and Elly and Susie and John all had a peep at it. Marty stood with a rapt expression on her face and her heart was throbbing wildly.

"Is it from Tim?" she asked.

"No, Tim can't write," said Susie, impatiently, for Susie could not help being envious.

"Here, Marty, open it," said Uncle Eb.

Marty took it and tore the envelope with trembling fingers, Elly showing her how. Inside there was a fat letter, and inside of that a one-dollar bill. Little John's eyes were popping in wonder. Uncle Eb drew on his spectacles and sat down in his rocking-chair. Marty was so excited that she crowded up and held fast to his coat as if she feared the precious letter might fly away. It was from the postmaster's wife, and this is what it said:

"Dear Marty,—I wish to pay you for the four nice big pumpkins that rolled into our front yard this morning. I've been wanting some pumpkins for pies ever so long, and they came just in time. Mrs. Brainard and Mrs. Peters also received a good supply. We enclose a dollar in payment. Come in and call on me when you go to see Tim, and have a piece of pie."

Marty's eyes sparkled. It wasn't so much the money as it was the fact that the letter was written to her own self, and that some one in the Centre knew about her.

The next day two more letters came—the postmaster's wife had done her work well—and when Marty counted her fortune, she had $4.25.

"That's more'n we'd got fer the punkins at the depot," said Uncle Eb.

The next week Marty, all in a new dress, her money tightly knotted in the corner of a handkerchief with pansies around the border, went to visit Tim. On her way she stopped to see the postmaster's wife and eat some pie made from the "visitin' punkins," as the postmaster called them.

Two of the most important interscholastic games of the year were played a week ago Saturday, the Exeter-Andover game at Andover, resulting in a victory for Andover of 28-0; and the New Britain-Meriden game on the Yale field, resulting in a victory for New Britain, 30-6.

The score of the Exeter-Andover game was somewhat of a surprise to the supporters of both teams. The Exeter team had been looked upon as a very strong one, and in spite of the fact that it was to play on strange grounds it was slightly the favorite. Looking back now it seems strange that this should have been the case, for Andover has nearly twice as many students to draw from, and had the advantage of home grounds. It is possible, however, that the reports of Andover's crippled condition gave Exeter the prestige which she seemed to enjoy before time was called.

The renewal of athletic relations between the two schools was very successfully opened by this game, and all through the day the two bodies of players and spectators did everything in their power to let bygones be bygones, and to contribute toward the success of the occasion.

There was a marked contrast between the playing of the two teams. Exeter entered the competition with a certain confidence which soon became akin to demoralization as the determined spirit of Andover began to exert itself. Andover's play deserves great praise, and her eleven earned every point scored. Exeter was outclassed in rushing and line-work, and was proficient in no especial point. The Andover linesmen opened up generous holes for their rushers when these were needed, and on end plays their interference was compact and effective. Every Andover man knew what was expected of him in the interference, and performed his duty. The tackling of the whole team was sharp and sure, and exceedingly distressing to their opponents, who were forced to call in a number of substitutes before the end of the game.

Andover's victory is all the more creditable when we consider that the regular captain was unable to play, and one of the best guards was not in the game. Quimby, who acted as captain, put up a fine game and commanded the men well. He showed that he has the powers of a good football general. Two other players who give much promise are Elliot, who played full-back, and Schreiber, who played left end. The former made several good rushes, and in individual play there was no superior to him that day. Schreiber broke up every mass of interference that assailed his end, and frequently tackled the runner for a loss. Burdick at right end displayed unusual talent, and from obscurity sprang into prominence by his bearing and skilful rushes. Pierson at centre was a stonewall, and did excellent work in making holes besides.

The Exeter players had but little method in their play, and were deplorably weak in team-work. The line was ragged, and, although heavy, it was no match for Andover's stocky forwards. Shaw, at end, made several brilliant tackles, but made as many costly failures. Highly, at tackle, managed to stop the heavy push plays of Andover, but was not able to break through them so as to down the runner. Sawyer, who played for a short time in the second half, was especially conspicuous for tackling behind the line. The clean play of the game was undoubtedly due to the efficient work of the officials, Messrs. J. H. Morse and Lorin F. Deland, umpire and referee. They watched every detail, and maintained strict adherence to the rules.

The detail of the play deserves some mention, and I regret that space alone prevents me from devoting more than a few paragraphs to the subject. Andover took the north goal, and Miller's kick-off was returned by Quimby. Exeter began her offensive play on the 40-yard line. Whitcomb got five yards at centre, and Miller added two at the same place. Whitcomb worked the same position for several yards, and also left tackle. By short plunges the centre of the field was reached, when Andover held, and got the ball on downs. Elliot immediately booted the leather, and as no Exeter player was ready to receive it, forty yards were gained. Andover prevented Exeter from advancing, and had the ball on her 25-yard line. White got in six yards at right end, and the playing became fierce as Exeter realized the approaching danger to her goal. Exeter braced wonderfully on her 2-yard line, and saved a touch-down by a superhuman effort. The ball was gradually carried out from her goal, and five yards for interference at centre aided materially. When the 30-yard line was covered, Andover got the ball for holding on her rival's part, and Burdick electrified the crowd by coming out of the bunch at left end and running the whole distance for a touch-down. It was a pretty exhibition of sprinting and interference of Andover. The try for goal was a dismal failure, the ball falling short.

As on the first kick-off, Quimby caught and returned inside the centre of Exeter's territory. Whitcomb got his length at centre, and Miller added four yards to that. Syphax on a tandem play got two yards at left tackle, and Miller the same amount nearer the centre. The middle of the gridiron became the battle-ground, when Andover secured the ball on downs. Andover did not want to rush, but Elliot punted well down the field, and the Exeter half-back fumbled the ball, allowing Wheeler to get it for his side. The referee allowed Andover five yards for interference at centre, which put the ball on Exeter's 35-yard line. The identical play that resulted in giving Andover her previous touch-down was repeated by Burdick, with an improvement in the interference. Elliot did not miss his second try for goal. Then for the third time Quimby returned Exeter's kick-off, this time much closer to the goal-line.

Exeter could not gain at end or centre, and resorted to kicking, Miller punting outside. Andover did not wait to rush, but kicked back, getting the ball on her antagonist's 15-yard line because of a fumble. Elliot was credited with four yards at centre. Holladay could not make an impression on the line; but Burdick was equal to the emergency, and eluded all tackles at right end, and scoring a touch-down—from which Elliot got his goal.

Right after the next kick-off a series of kicks were exchanged between the teams, until Andover gained the advantage at the middle line of the field. The play still continued to be through the air, till finally Andover settled down to a steady forward march for Exeter's goal by reeling off rushes, at the rate of ten yards each, made by different players in the line. When the teams lined up on the 18-yard line, Exeter had captured the ball on downs. Miller's kick was blocked, owing to the slowness of the pass, but Pyton was on hand to keep it in Exeter's possession. On the 15-yard line Elliot was signalled for a goal from the field, which did not materialize, the ball rolling in front of the goal-posts. Time was called soon after for the end of the half.

At the start of the second half, Exeter started to rush, ignoring the brisk wind at her back, which Andover had used so continuously and advantageously. When a kick did come, Quimby hurried the ball back to its original resting-ground. Elliot, by a remarkable run, in which he leaped over an upright Exeter player, accumulated sixty yards. Play was now being stopped after every other scrimmage for some injured Exeter player to recuperate or be taken off. Andover resumed her plugging away in the direction of the enemy's goal-line, getting only one setback by losing the ball on downs; and another touch-down was scored by Elliot.

Although the final game of the Connecticut Interscholastic Football League, between New Britain and Meriden high-schools, was in many respects not so good an exhibition as that given by Hartford and Bridgeport last year, it was nevertheless an interesting occasion. In one respect, however, this year's game surpassed any school game that has ever been played on the Yale field. This was in the display of a system of interference by the New Britain team which proved almost irresistible to their opponents. The backs ran in a line headed by an end. The end was followed by one of the backs, after whom came the man with the ball, followed by the two other backs and the second end. This formation worked almost every time it was used, and most of New Britain's gains were due to its practice.

The defence of both elevens was weak, Meriden's, of course, being the weaker. Lane of Meriden was the best back of either team. He ran hard and fast. Hubbard of Meriden worked to his greatest strength, but he was unable to achieve much on account of a lack of interference. All the Meriden men were remarkably good at tackling, Lane leading in this branch as well. O'Donnell of New Britain made four of New Britain's touch-downs, and put up an excellent game. He did some excellent line-bucking, and is undoubtedly the cleverest full-back among the Connecticut schools. Meehan of New Britain at quarter-back is a sure passer, and made many hard tackles. McDonald of New Britain had it all his own way with his opponent, Hirschfield, and made holes for the backs whenever these were called for. He is a good tackler and a capable ground-gainer. Porter of New Britain proved by his play in this game that he is undoubtedly the best end-rusher in the Connecticut Interscholastic League. He made numerous tackles, and it was but on rare occasions that the Meriden team was able to make distance around his end. Fitch, Flannery, and Griswold likewise did good work.

As for the detail of the game: In the first few minutes New Britain scored by end plays and by going through Hirschfield, right tackle. The same sort of work was kept up by New Britain until the team had scored five touch-downs, from only one of which a goal was kicked. New Britain started again to force her way over the Meriden line, but lost the ball on the 20-yard mark. It was passed back to Lane, who jumped through a hole through Buckley, and with Hubbard interfering for him, he made a beautiful run of ninety yards and scored for Meriden. This was the most brilliant play of the day. In the second half Meriden pulled herself together and held New Britain much better than she had been able to do in the first part of the game. New Britain, however, succeeded in scoring again before time was finally called, and the score was left 30-6.

AROUND RIGHT END,—IN THE HOPKINSON-C. H. AND L. GAME, BOSTON.

The feature of the play in the recent game between Hopkinson and Cambridge High and Latin, in the Senior League of the Boston Interscholastic Association, was the splendid interference formed for end plays. The accompanying illustration gives an excellent idea of how Hopkinson made her gains. The picture shows Huntress, Hopkinson's left half-back, taking the ball to circle right end; the left end and tackle can plainly be seen getting into the interference on the opposite side of the line. The camera shows distinctly the failure of the C. H. and L. right end to put into practice what he ought to know of the game, and follow the play around.

The score of this game was 34-0 in favor of Hopkinson. Perhaps the weakness of the Cambridge eleven was better shown on this occasion by its inability to hold Hopkinson for four downs more than once. C. H. and L. also failed to make first down by rushing more than half a dozen times; the team seemed to hold the ball only when getting it on kick-offs or after punts. Nevertheless, C. H. and L. put up a plucky game, and the half-backs especially worked hard behind the indifferent interference. Lewis did by far the best work for his side, Donovan ranking next.

In the game between Lawrenceville and the Hill School a week ago Saturday the Jerseymen were victorious by 14-6. The game was played at Pottstown, in the rain and on a very muddy field, and consequently the play was limited mostly to line tactics, although Keiffer, the Hill half-back, got around Lawrenceville's ends twice for thirty-yard runs, and once for a fifteen-yard gain, when he scored.

On the kick-off by Lawrenceville, the ball was regained at once on the ten-yard line by a muff by Hill's full-back, Monypenny, and in a few plays Lawrenceville's first touch-down was made, the goal being missed. During the rest of the first half Lawrenceville made another touch-down, going down the field some forty yards, the plays directed on the line-men, though this goal was also missed.

Shortly after the second half began, with the ball on Lawrenceville's twenty-yard line, Hill sent Keiffer around the end for their only touch-down, to which a goal was added. Lawrenceville's last touch-down was made just before time was called, the goal being kicked this time. Without losing the ball, some sixty yards were covered by the Lawrenceville backs plunging through the line.

Mattis of Lawrenceville outkicked the Hill full-back, Monypenny; and the Hill right guard, Mills, played an excellent game. Cleveland, Lawrenceville's left half, played a very good game, considering his short experience. The Hill School has an excellent team this year, most of last year's players being back, and they consequently put up an unexpectedly strong game against Lawrenceville's green team. Lawrenceville has been unfortunate this year in having a number of mishaps to her players just as these got into condition.

The series of games in the second section of the New York Interscholastic Football League has been won by Trinity; the first section is a tie among De La Salle, Berkeley, and Barnard, Berkeley having lost, 6-0, to De La Salle last week on the play-off of the tie game of the week previous. This all-round tie has necessitated the arrangement of a new schedule which will be played off as follows:

November 20.—Berkeley School vs. Barnard School.

November 24.—De La Salle Institute vs. Berkeley School.

November 28.—Barnard School vs. De La Salle Institute.

December 5.—Championship game between Trinity School, winner of the second section, and the winner of the first section.

This last game between De La Salle and Berkeley was interesting and exciting. The play was sharp, and both teams put forth their greatest efforts to win. In spite of the many good plays, however, there was considerable fumbling by the backs of both sides. The touch-down was made in the early part of the first half. After some good rushing, De La Salle got the ball on Berkeley's five-yard line, and then Tilford was pushed through the line for a touch-down. Carrigan kicked the goal, and there was no scoring done after that, although the ball was a number of times within dangerous proximity to Berkeley's posts. The latter part of the game was greatly interfered with by darkness.

The Trinity-Cutler game, which was played on November 12, was a fine exhibition of football as well, and although the Cutler team proved unable to score against its heavier opponent, it displayed good team-work on several occasions. The game was played in the rain; but in spite of that, both elevens showed considerable snap, and there was not so much fumbling as might have been expected. This game was likewise started so late in the afternoon that darkness came on before the end of the second half, and made the play unprofitable for the players and invisible to the on-lookers.

A rather startling announcement appeared in a New York paper last week to the effect that St. Paul's School, Garden City, had defeated the West Point cadets at football by the score of 16-2. As a number of readers of this Department may have noticed this report, and would naturally expect to find some comment on so unusual an occurrence in these columns, it may be well to state that the report in the New York paper was entirely unfounded. West Point never has played the St. Paul's School team, and never has played a game away from West Point since 1893. The team defeated by St. Paul's on the occasion in question was the Harvard School of New York.

CHELTENHAM MILITARY ACADEMY FOOTBALL TEAM.

Champions of the Inter-Academic League of Philadelphia.

The championship of the Inter-Academic A.A. of Philadelphia was won by Cheltenham Military Academy a week ago by the defeat of Germantown, 16-10. Lack of space prevents further comment this week, but in our next issue I hope to be able to devote to the game the space which it deserves.

"G. S., End," asks the following questions concerning football: 1. If the ball is fumbled, and recovered by a player of the side which fumbled, does it count as first down for that side, or second or third down with a certain number of yards to gain? 2. If, when the ball is fumbled and recovered, it has passed the place where it was put in play, does the gain thus made count the same as if it had been rushed there?

1. It counts as second or third down, as the case may be; see Rule 21, e. 2. Certainly; many a touch-down has thus accidentally been made.

"A PRIMER OF COLLEGE FOOTBALL."—By W. H. Lewis.—16mo, Paper, 75 Cents.

The Graduate.

Some people are a bit thick-headed. The following has been communicated by a doctor in an extensive Highland parish:

One morning he received a letter from a remote corner of his parish, written by a man who stated that he was unwell and would like to be prescribed for. He was sorry he could not come to the hospital himself, on account of the distance. The physician was rather puzzled at this request, so he wrote, saying it was much more satisfactory to see the patient; but if he could not possibly come, it was necessary at least to send some account of his symptoms. Next morning's mail brought the man's photo, which happened to have been taken twenty years before.

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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

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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. Recognising 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.

The map accompanying the department this week is a continuation of the best routes on the western bank of the Hudson. Last week the map covered the country as far north as Englewood and Hackensack; this week it runs from Englewood across into New York State. The most direct route, and the most interesting ride, is to leave Englewood, and run northward through Highwood, Tenafly, Cresskill, Demarest, Closter, Norwood, Tappan, Blauveltville, Rockland Park, to Nyack; or one can ride from Tappan through Sparkill, Piermont, direct to Nyack nearer the river. In parts this road is in very good condition, but there are places where it is heavy riding. In Tappan it is worth while stopping for part of an hour to see the Andre Monument and Washington's Headquarters.

Another good run is to start from Englewood, running direct to Hackensack—that is, as direct as the road will permit. The road-bed is good all the way. On reaching Hackensack, run southward through the town; then turn westward, and run out through Dundee to Paterson. From Paterson the road is in more or less good condition out towards Tuxedo, running through Ridgewood Junction, Ridgewood, Hohokus, Allendale, Ramseys, to Sufferns. Proceeding thence towards Tuxedo, or turning eastward and running through Tallmans, Monsey, Spring Valley, Nanuet, Clarksville, and West Nyack, to Nyack. Still another run is from Englewood to Hackensack, and thence northward to Sufferns, through Arcola, Paramus, turning to the left at Ridgewood, and running on through Hohokus.

Any of these roads can be picked out easily from the map, and you are pretty sure to find that in the main those roads marked in heavy black are good bicycle roads. The hotel accommodations are none of the best in any part of this country, with a few exceptions. In the summer-time the Prospect House in Nyack is probably the best hotel within a radius of many miles, but it is closed in the fall and winter. Reasonably good accommodations can be had at Hackensack and Paterson, but the smaller towns usually have but one hotel, which is apt to be of the road-house type, and one must make up his mind, if he finds it necessary to stop over night anywhere, to take what comes in an optimistic spirit. The hills of the country are in some cases rather steep. Close to the Hudson, after one has once got on top of the Palisades, there are not many which cannot be ridden. The road running from Hackensack up the Hackensack River valley, through Overtown, Westwood, Montvale, Middletown to Nanuet does not run over many hills, but further back from the river, north of Paterson, the wheelman is likely to find more irregularities in the surface of the country.

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; Ottawa to La Salle in No. 883: Jersey City to Englewood in No. 890.

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.

Belgium has just issued a new series of stamps in commemoration of the exhibition to be held in Brussels next year. These stamps can be used throughout the kingdom, and no limit as to time for such use has been made. Consequently the S.S.S.S. will probably not put them on the list of stamps not worthy of collection.

The stamps are about twice the size of the current issue of Belgium, and all have the sabbatical label attached. The design is St. Michael and the Dragon, with the Brussels City Hall and Palace of Justice in the background. The 10 centimes is a rich brown, the 5 centimes a violet, and the 25 centimes, for postal packets, black and green. The design is very handsome, and the stamps make a good appearance.

The surcharging of India stamps with the names of the various native governments goes on apace. New issues have lately come on the market from Gwalior, Jhind, Chamba, and Sirmoor. These are very good stamps for the average collector to leave alone. Advanced collectors and specialists, of course, need no advice.

Straits Settlements, Johore.—Design—A portrait of the new Sultan.

1c., green. | 4c., green and rose.
2c., green and blue. | 5c., green and brown.
3c., green and olive. | 6c., green and yellow.
| $1, lilac and green.

Negri Sembillan.—Water-mark crown and C.A. Design—Tiger head.

15c., green and mauve.

Perak.—Water-mark crown and C.A. Design—Tiger head.

25c., green and carmine.

Same design, but water-marked crown and C.C.

$2, green and carmine. | $10, green and violet.
$3, green and olive. | $25, green and yellow.

The following are late issues which are now in the hands of dealers:

Sierra Leone.—Water-mark C.A. with crown. De la Rue's standard design.

1d., black and rose. | 2-1/2d., black and blue.
2d., black and orange. | 1s., green and black.

Canada has just issued a new 2c. post-card.

Madagascar.—-

1c., black. | 20c., red.
2c., brown. | 30c., brown.
4c., claret. | 1 franc, bronze.

Colombian Republic, Antioquia.—Two sets seem to have been issued at one time. The design is the same in both, but the colors are different. The denominations are 2c., 2-1/2c., 3c., 5c., 10c., 20c., and 50c.; 1 peso, 2 pesos, and 5 pesos, and a registration stamp.

The new French stamps, the design of which was published last March, seems to have been abandoned. It is said the government was not satisfied with the design, and intend to open a new competition.

I am frequently asked whether the dollar values of U.S. stamps are ever used in a legitimate manner, and if so by whom.

As a matter of fact the dollar values are used in a very few post-offices, and probably the bulk are used in New York city. Bankers send bonds abroad in large packages by registered mail. The regular rate is 10c. an ounce, $1.60 a pound. One large firm of bankers to my knowledge has used over $2000 in dollar stamps for this purpose in a single week. The average size of the bundle of bonds necessitates stamps to the average value of about $20. Larger bundles are frequently sent. In England a stamp of £5 ($25) is frequently used. I have seen the wrapper of a bundle received by a New York banker on which were eight £5 stamps. Lawyers send legal papers in a similar manner. The largest package I know of from New York was about the size of a large dry-goods case. It was filled with legal papers to be used in a patent suit in South Africa. The postage was $187, consequently the box weighed about 117 pounds. There is practically no limit to the weight of first-class parcels in either the domestic or foreign mails.

F. W. Lampier, Jun., Stites Melton, and Miss Fannie Moore, of Ridley Park, Pa., wish to exchange stamps.

B. A. Richardson.—Dealers sell the 1835 dimes at 20c.

F. I. O.—The 3 kreuzer 1865 Würtemberg unused is offered by dealers at about $2.

K.—The following are prices quoted by dealers: U.S. cents, 1831, 1845, 1846, and 1847, 5c. each. Dimes, 1838, 1842, 1854, and 1856, 20c. each. Half-Dime, 1853, 10c. Quarter, 1845, 50c.; 1853, 35c. U.S. cent, 1705, 50c. to $1. The other coins, etc., face value only.

A. Albers.—English Revenues used for postage, if on the original envelope, are sought after in England, but in America there is no demand.

C. P. K.—By buying at auctions entire envelopes can frequently be bought at much less than the catalogue prices for cut copies.

Philatus.

RECALLED STORMY TIMES.

"Well, that looks natural," said the old soldier, looking at a can of condensed milk on the breakfast-table in place of ordinary milk that failed on account of the storm. "It's the Gail Borden Eagle Brand we used during the war."—[Adv.]

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

Patriotism.

We are not, in this land of diversified industries, accustomed to think of Newfoundland, with its one fish industry, as a land flowing with the milk and honey of this world's riches. Yet here is an intelligent member of our Order, living on the island, who sees his home through different eyes from those that we use. His love of country equals that of a matron of seventy years, who had lived her life on Prince Edward Island. Not only had she never been across the Northumberland Strait to the mainland of Nova Scotia, twenty-three miles distant, but she had never even been to the other or Tignish end of the island, but had spent her days at her home near Georgetown. She was a broad-minded and intelligent woman, yet to such an extent had her environment influenced her that she remarked complacently:

"I think Prince Edward Island the best spot in the world. It is central in the world of affairs, and I could not live content elsewhere."

Here are our Newfoundland Knight's opinions:

A Wealthy Country.

We claim for Newfoundland a high position. For its size and density of its population it is the wealthiest country on the face of the earth. This extreme or, as perhaps some may think, extravagant claim, which is made by us with the utmost deliberation, we base upon the following general facts:

1. The fishing season, broadly speaking, extends over three or four months of the year. During that brief working period enough is earned by 40,000 to 50,000 fishermen to supply the wants of a population of 200,000 souls.

2. Every year there is drawn out of the waters of Newfoundland wealth amounting to from $8,000,000 to $10,000,000, including the value of fish used for home consumption, and most of this product is realized and marketed within the working year.

3. This wealth is almost entirely expended in the purchase and import of goods of foreign growth and manufacture, on which an average taxation of 23½ per cent. on the value is paid.

4. The annual earnings of the fisheries, or at least an exportable earning of $6,000,000, cannot be diverted from the country by any incident of trade or competition, and cannot be mortgaged in advance except within each year.

5. That while the value of all other articles of human food has declined from 20 to 30 per cent. within the last decade, and while all articles consumed by the fishermen of Newfoundland have also largely declined, the price of Newfoundland codfish has been steadily maintained, and is now as high as ever it was.

6. That as such the producers of Newfoundland codfish hold in their hands a practical monopoly, and are certain of as unfailing a market as they are of an unfailing supply of the product.

7. That from the great diversity and extent of the area of its operations, and from the fact that the waters around the island furnish the proper food of the codfish, the annual crop of the Newfoundland fisheries is in the aggregate practically as certain in its supply as any annual crop known to commerce.

8. That this annual crop, being in the hands of the actual producers, is less affected by such financial fluctuations as affect other crops in other countries, and no such fluctuations can extend to the capital stock on which the annual crop is dependent, so as to limit the production or lessen its value from year to year.

B. Bowering.
43 Gower Street, St. John's, Newfoundland.

For Beginners in Art.

I wish to become an artist, and would like to enter the Metropolitan Art School. Can I learn to draw and paint well enough to be able to open a studio of my own after graduating? When does the school open, and when must one apply for admission? How many classes are there, and about how long must one stay in each class? What is the age of the average pupil?

M. M., R.T.L.

There are at least two institutions in New York city to which you may apply for circulars. One is the Metropolitan School of Fine Arts, Carnegie Hall, Fifty-seventh Street and Seventh Avenue, and the other the Art Students' League, 215 West Fifty-seventh Street. The former was organized by pupils of the Metropolitan Museum when the schools of the Museum were closed, and is maintained by them. It is in no way connected with the museum. It is open September 30 to May 30. The latter is maintained by the art students of New York. Tuitions are from $2 to $12 per month, according to class. There is no graduation. Pupils stay as long or short a time as they please. Whether you could successfully maintain a studio at the end of one year's instruction, or five years' instruction, or at any other period, depends wholly upon yourself, as you can readily see.

To Twickenham and Beyond.

Last summer we—there were seven of us—went one day up the Thames River to Hammersmith Bridge. Then we walked to Richmond, to pretty Teddington, and finally to beautiful old Hampton Court, with its long rows of trees, its big grape-vine, and its canals. Of course we saw much to interest us, from the odd Thames boats, which land and start so quickly, and which have on board small boys who repeat the captain's orders in a language which we vainly tried to understand, to the river-course over which the Oxford and Cambridge boat-races are annually rowed, and the breweries whose success has brought knighthood to their owners.

But that which most interested us was old Twickenham Church, which we saw by a side excursion. It is surrounded by old trees, and a yard in which are those curious tombstones that lie flat on the ground, and do not stand up as our American tombstones do. The church has a square Norman tower, and an interior that carries you back hundreds of years—almost, indeed, to the Reformation. Here is buried the remains of Alexander Pope, brought thither from Twickenham Villa not far away. We returned by train to London, so tired were we of limb, and so filled were our heads with history, reminiscence, and pretty pictures of rural life.

Anna Burton.
New York.

Answers to Kinks.

No. 55.—A carrier-pigeon.

No. 56.

1. Queenstown. 2. By fighting for us in the war of the Revolution. He was an officer. 3. A British officer under Cornwallis. 4. Stephen Girard, of Girard College.

No. 57.—New-castle—Newcastle.

No. 58.—Word Square.

B | L | A | S | T
L | A | T | H | E
A | T | L | A | S
S | H | A | F | T
T | E | S | T | Y

Questions and Answers.

The Priscilla Chapter can procure a copy of the handsome book we mentioned recently by applying to L. G. Price, 547 Union Street, Hudson, N. Y. The price is twenty-five cents, and four cents for postage. It is the record of a successful Chapter, neatly cloth bound, and a pretty souvenir for your library.—Harry C. Farrer, 559 Sixty-ninth Street, Englewood, Chicago, Ill., wants correspondents in foreign countries. He can get information of the Daughters of the Revolution by writing to the secretary, 156 Fifth Avenue, New York. There is no active Chapter near your Englewood home. You might form one perhaps.—C. B. Yardley, Jun., 332 William Street, East Orange, N. J., is much interested in boats, both small and large, and he wants to hear from you if you have the same fancy. He goes every summer to a New Hampshire lake, where he owns a sail and a row boat. He asks where he can see models of boats. Since he lives near New York, we think the best available collection is in the rooms of the New York Yacht Club, 71 Madison Avenue. If you write in advance for permission, we are quite sure you will be permitted to inspect these models as carefully as you may desire.

Three or four readers have lately asked questions directly in the line of what follows. That such jingles help one to remember facts is unquestioned. Still, if one can do so, it is better to remember the facts without the rhyme. Marion H. Cooke, who finds the lines in a newspaper, sends them to the Table just at a time when several readers are asking for them. The first one is:

A List or Presidents.

Come, young folks all, and learn my rhyme,
Writ like the one of olden time.
For linked together name to name,
The whole a surer place will claim;
And firmly in your mind shall stand
The names of those who've ruled our land.
A noble list: George Washington,
John Adams, Thomas Jefferson,
James Madison and James Monroe,
John Quincy Adams—and below
Comes Andrew Jackson in his turn;
Martin Van Buren next we learn;
Then William Henry Harrison,
Whom soon John Tyler followed on.
And after Tyler, James K. Polk,
Then Zachary Taylor ruled the folk
Till death. Then Millard Fillmore came;
And Franklin Pierce we next must name.
And James Buchanan then appears;
Then Abraham Lincoln through those years
Of war. And when his life was lost,
'Twas Andrew Johnson filled his post.
Then U. S. Grant and R. B. Hayes
And James A. Garfield each had place,
And Chester Arthur, and my rhyme
Ends now in Grover Cleveland's time.

And the other:

The Rulers of England.

First William the Norman, then William his son,
Henry, Stephen, and Henry, then Richard and John;
After Henry the third, Edwards one, two, and three,
After Richard the second, three Henrys we see.
Fourth Edward precedes the third Richard, then press
Two Henrys, Sixth Edward, Queen Mary, Queen Bess;
Then Jamie from Scotland and Charles must be reckoned,
Succeeded by Cromwell and then Charles the Second;
Then we had James, who relinquished the throne
To William and Mary, then William alone,
Till Anne, the Four Georges, Fourth William had passed;
Victoria now reigns—may she long be the last!

To Ames Ulmer.—The latest record at hand is December, 1895. On that date the President of Switzerland was Joseph Zemp. The official residence is at Berne.—F. S. Davis: Order Si Klegg and His Pard from any bookseller. If you have none, write to The Baker and Taylor Company, New York.—Janey Crowe, 13 Birch Crescent, Rochester, N. Y., plies us with a sheet full of questions, which we are glad to answer as fully as we are able: 1. Elvirton Wright is the author of Majoribanks, and, we presume, also of the book you mention. Write to the Congregational Publishing House, Boston, for fuller information. 2. The other author whom you name has written many books. L. F. Meade was her former name. Now it is Mrs. E. T. T. Smith. Her publishers are Lippincotts, Cassells, and half a dozen others. 3. Some information is wanted about these authors—where they live, and some interesting facts in their lives. Can any readers supply us with morsels containing such information? 4. There are to be Round Table prizes this year for puzzles, stories, and amateur photographs. The puzzle prizes are to be $40 each, and there are to be five contests. The story prizes are worth $75 for the first, $50 for the second, and $25 for the third, and the photograph prizes amount in all to $125. Full particulars with conditions will be announced very soon. 5. No Round Table reunion has been planned.

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.

OUR ANNUAL PRIZE CONTEST.

We have received many queries since the appearance of the Prize Offers as to the exact nature of the photographic prize competition, showing that our amateurs were looking forward to and preparing for the yearly event of the club. Each person should read the announcement of the Prize Offers, and the rules governing the contest, in the October 27 issue of the Round Table.

There are two contests, both of which are open to the members of the Camera Club, and we hope each member of the Camera Club will send pictures to both competitions. The very fine photographs which were submitted last year showed that the members are all striving to do good work. The improvement in the style of pictures and the subjects chosen was much better last year than in any previous year, and we expect still better work submitted in this contest. All contestants must be subscribers to Harper's Round Table themselves, or take the paper in their family.

There is no restriction as to the number of prints one may send, but in sending prints mark each print with name, address, and class for which the picture is designed. The best place to mark a picture is on the back of the card-mount.

Any printing process may be used except the blue print. While many amateurs use the glossy papers, the preference is for the matt surface, and a bromide or platinum print is the paper generally chosen by first-class amateurs. If one does not know how to use these papers, or cannot procure them, try to make the best print possible on the paper which is chosen. The printing and mounting of a picture have a great deal to do with its attractiveness, and the mechanical work in a photograph is always considered when judging pictures.

Several queries were received last year asking if a picture taken with a 4-by-5 camera, and trimmed down so that it was a little less than 4 by 5, would be admitted to the competition. The answer was that a picture might be trimmed a little, but not enough to bring it down to a size perhaps 3 by 4, that would make it too small to be "eligible."

Each competitor in the Camera Club may send as many pictures as he pleases to both contests, and he may compete in each class in the two competitions. This gives the members of the club the advantage over non-members, who can only compete in the "Open to All" contest.

We have received many additions to our club during the last year, and shall expect to see some fine work. Do not delay, but send in your pictures as early as possible. The names of the prize-winners will be announced in the January, probably the New-Year's, number of the Round Table.

Her graceful presence, everywhere
Suggests the fragrance, faint and rare
With which the sweetest flowers allure:
To such a dainty gown and face
The touch of soap seems out of place—
Save Ivory, which itself is pure.

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

Football and Other Sports

A PRIMER OF COLLEGE FOOTBALL

By W. H. Lewis. Illustrated from Instantaneous Photographs and with Diagrams. 16mo, Paper, 75 cents.

There is probably no other man in America who has had as much football experience or who knows more about the game than Mr. Lewis.... Of value not only to beginners, but to any one who wishes to learn more about football.... We heartily recommend it as the best practical guide to football we have yet discovered.—Harvard Crimson, Cambridge.

Written by a man who has a most thorough knowledge of the game, and is in language any novice may understand.—U. of M. Daily, University of Michigan.

Will be read with enthusiasm by countless thousands of boys who have found previous works on the subject too advanced and too technical for beginners.—Evangelist, N. Y.

Beginners will be very grateful for the gift, for no better book than this of Mr. Lewis's could be placed in their hands.—Saturday Evening Gazette, Boston.

NEW EDITION OF

CAMP'S AMERICAN FOOTBALL

By Walter Camp. New and Enlarged Edition. 16mo, Cloth, $1.25.

The progress of the sport of football in this country, and a corresponding growth of inquiry as to the methods adopted by experienced teams, have prompted the publication of an enlarged edition of this book. Should any of the suggestions herein contained conduce to the further popularity of the game, the object of the writer will be attained.—Author's Preface.

BY THE SAME AUTHOR:

FOOTBALL FACTS AND FIGURES. Post 8vo, Paper, 75 cents.

A SPORTING PILGRIMAGE

Riding to Hounds, Golf, Rowing, Football, Club and University Athletics. Studies in English Sport, Past and Present. By Caspar Whitney. Copiously Illustrated. 8vo, Cloth, $3.50.

The work is certainly one of the most valuable contributions to athletic literature that has been published for many a day.—Chicago Journal.

TRACK ATHLETICS IN DETAIL

Compiled by the Editor of "Interscholastic Sport" in Harper's Round Table. Illustrated from Instantaneous Photographs. 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25. In "Harper's Round Table Library."

A good book to put into the hands of the athletically inclined. It is capitally illustrated with instantaneous photographs, and is full of expert and sound advice and instruction.—Outlook, N. Y.

HARPER & BROTHERS, Publishers, New York

"Say, ole Turk, I gwine tee depen' on yo' fur drum-sticks fur my new drum ter cel'brate Thanksgiving ter-morrow."

THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET.

A dear little girl, named Elsie, was quite a singer, and very fond of an old song, familiar to most children, called "The Old Oaken Bucket." Elsie was taking lessons in drawing, which interested her very much. She drew pictures in all her spare time, and often teased mamma with the question,

"What shall I draw next, mamma?"

Mamma always suggested cows, or bears, or steam-engines, or trees, according to the first idea which came into her head. One day, in answer to Elsie's usual question, mamma replied:

"Draw the 'old oaken bucket,' Elsie. You are very fond of singing 'The Old Oaken Bucket.' Sit down and make a picture of it."

This was new. Elsie, with a deep satisfied breath, sat down and staid quiet about five minutes. At the end of that time she brought mamma this picture.

"What upon earth does this mean?" asked mamma. "It looks like a conundrum, Elsie; or like the sun, moon, and stars!"

Elsie looked at her design with great pride, and a little impatience at mamma's obtuseness.

"Why, don't you see, mamma?" she cried. "The first one is 'the old oaken bucket,' and the next one is 'the iron-bound bucket,' and the next is 'the moss-covered bucket that hangs in the well'!"

Then mamma laughed hard, leaning back in her chair, while she held Elsie's sketch at arm's-length to see it better, as artists always look at pictures.

"And what are all those little spots for, Elsie?"

"Why—those, mamma?" said Elsie. "Those are 'the spots that my infancy knew'!"

A PERFECT IDENTIFICATION.

Signor Arditi, the well-known musical conductor, has recently published his memoirs in London. Among the many anecdotes he tells is the following adventure he had with a bank cashier. He was in an American city and wished to have a check cashed, but as the cashier did not know Signor Arditi, he told him he must get himself identified before he could receive any money.

"But I do not know any one here," protested the musical conductor.

"I am very sorry," said the cashier.

Signor Arditi thought for a few moments, and presently said,

"Do you ever attend the opera, young man?"

"Frequently," said the cashier. "I am very fond of music."

"Then you must know me," continued Signor Arditi; and taking off his hat he turned his back upon the cashier, and beat time vigorously to an imaginary orchestra.

"Oh yes!" exclaimed the cashier at once. "I know the back of your head well. You are Signor Arditi." And he handed out the money to the musician without further ceremony.

THE END OF THE "CHESAPEAKE."

An English journal contains the following item, for the truth of which we cannot, of course, vouch; but it is interesting if true:

It is not by any means widely known, says the journal, that the Chesapeake, famous for her historic encounter with the British ship Shannon in 1813, is in existence to-day, but is used in the somewhat inglorious capacity of a flour-mill, and is making money for a hearty Hampshire miller in the little parish of Wickham. After her capture by Sir Philip B. V. Broke, she was taken to England in 1814, and in 1820 her timbers were sold to Mr. John Prior, miller of Wickham, Hants. Mr. Prior pulled down his own mill at Wickham, and erected a new one from the Chesapeake timbers, which he found admirably adapted for the purpose. The deck beams were thirty-two feet long, and served, without alteration, for joists. Many of these timbers yet bear the marks of the Shannon's grape-shot, and, in some places the shot are still to be seen deeply embedded in the pitch pine. The metamorphosis of a man-of-war into a peaceful life-sustaining flour-mill is, perhaps, as near an approach to the prophecy that spears and swords shall be beaten into ploughs and pruning-hooks as the conditions of modern civilization will allow.

"Pray, Dr. Smith, what is a good cure for the gout?" was the question of an indolent and very luxurious gentleman to his hard-worked friend.

"Live upon sixpence a day—and earn it," was the unexpected answer.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HARPER'S ROUND TABLE, NOVEMBER 24, 1896 ***

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Table of Contents

A STORY OF THE RUSSIAN FAMINE.

- A BAD PLACE TO BE BORN IN.

A DELFT PARTY.

- FIVE.

- BREAKFAST.

- ALPHABET.

A THANKSGIVING GAME.

A LOYAL TRAITOR.

- A STORY OF THE WAR OF 1812 BETWEEN AMERICA AND ENGLAND. BY JAMES BARNES. CHAPTER V. THE LION'S GREED.

- [to be continued.]

THE SONG IN THE NIGHT.

- THE TRUE STORY OF THE MOOSE HEAD.

THE GAME OF CHOLE.

THE PIRATE'S TREASURE.

IMPORTANT "TRIFLES" ON WAR-SHIPS.

HOW TO USE THE VOICE.

- Programme.

- Programme No. 2.

OLD-TIME THANKSGIVING.

THE HANGING OF TEDDY.

THANKSGIVING.

MARTY'S PUMPKINS.

- "A PRIMER OF COLLEGE FOOTBALL."—By W. H. Lewis.—16mo, Paper, 75 Cents.

ADVERTISEMENTS.

Arnold Constable & Co

- Rich Furs.

- RUSSIAN SABLE.

- TRIMMING FURS.

- Broadway & 19th st. NEW YORK.

- YOUNG MEN AND WOMEN

- BRYANT & STRATTON COLLEGE,

- No. A-85 College Building, BUFFALO, N. Y.

- EARN A TRICYCLE.

- W. G. BAKER, Springfield, Mass.

- RECALLED STORMY TIMES.

ADVERTISEMENTS.

Postage Stamps, &c.

- R. F. ALBRECHT & CO., 90 Nassau Street, New York.

U.S.

Important Notice!

- WALTER BAKER & CO. Ltd., Dorchester, Mass.

To Show

- Your

Heels

- Barney & Berry Skates.

- Highest Award World's Fair.

- BARNEY & BERRY, Springfield, Mass.

- YOU CAN GET

BABYLAND

- Six Months For 10 Cents

- Alpha Publishing Co., Boston.

- Boys! Girls! earn $5 to $25

- Alpha Publishing Co., Boston.

HOOPING-COUGH CROUP.

- Roche's Herbal Embrocation.

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

HARPER'S CATALOGUE

- Patriotism.

- A Wealthy Country.

- For Beginners in Art.

- To Twickenham and Beyond.

- Answers to Kinks.

- No. 56.

- No. 58.—Word Square.

- Questions and Answers.

- A List or Presidents.

- The Rulers of England.

- OUR ANNUAL PRIZE CONTEST.

Football and Other Sports

- A PRIMER OF COLLEGE FOOTBALL

- NEW EDITION OF

- CAMP'S AMERICAN FOOTBALL

- A SPORTING PILGRIMAGE

- TRACK ATHLETICS IN DETAIL

- HARPER & BROTHERS, Publishers, New York

- THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET.

- A PERFECT IDENTIFICATION.

- THE END OF THE "CHESAPEAKE."

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE