Title: Harper's Round Table, February 25, 1896
Author: Various
Language: English
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*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Harper's Round Table, February 25, 1896" ***


[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]

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

       *       *       *       *       *

PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 25, 1896. FIVE CENTS A
COPY.

VOL. XVII.--NO. 852. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.

       *       *       *       *       *



[Illustration]

RICK DALE.

A Story of the Northwest Coast.

BY KIRK MUNROE,

AUTHOR OF "SHOW-SHOES AND SLEDGES," "THE FUR-SEAL'S TOOTH," "THE 'MATE'
SERIES," "FLAMINGO FEATHERS," ETC.

CHAPTER I.

A POOR RICH BOY.


Alaric Dale Todd was his name, and it was a great grief to him to be
called "Allie." Allie Todd was so insignificant and sounded so weak.
Besides, Allie was a regular girl's name, as he had been so often told,
and expected to be told by each stranger who heard it for the first
time. There is so much in a name after all. We either strive to live up
to it, or else it exerts a constant disheartening pull backward.

Although Alaric was tall for his age, which was nearly seventeen, he was
thin, pale, and undeveloped. He did not look like a boy accustomed to
play tennis or football, or engage in any of the splendid athletics that
develop the muscle and self-reliance of those sturdy young fellows who
contest interscholastic matches. Nor was he one of these; so far from
it, he had never played a game in his life except an occasional quiet
game of croquet, or something equally soothing. He could not swim nor
row nor sail a boat; he had never ridden horseback nor on a bicycle; he
had never skated nor coasted nor hunted nor fished, and yet he was
perfectly well formed and in good health. I fancy I hear my boy readers
exclaim:

"What a regular muff your Alaric must have been! No wonder they called
him 'Allie'!"

And the girls. Well, they would probably say, "What a disagreeable
prig!" For Alaric knew a great deal more about places and people and
books than most boys or girls of his age, and was rather fond of
displaying this knowledge. And then he was always dressed with such
faultless elegance. His patent-leather boots were so shiny, his
neck-wear, selected with perfect taste, was so daintily arranged, and
while he never left the house without drawing on a pair of gloves, they
were always so immaculate that it did not seem as though he ever wore
the same pair twice. He was very particular, too, about his linen, and
often sent his shirts back to the laundress unworn because they were not
done up to suit him. As for his coats and trousers, of which he had so
many that it actually seemed as though he might wear a different suit
every day in the year, he spent so much time in selecting material, and
then in being fitted, and insisted on so many alterations, that his
tailors were often in despair, and wondered whether it paid to have so
particular a customer after all. They never had occasion, though, to
complain about their bills, for no matter how large these were or how
extortionate, they were always paid without question as soon as
presented.

From all this it may be gathered that our Alaric was not a child of
poverty. Nor was he, for Amos Todd, his father, was so many times a
millionaire that he was one of the richest men on the Pacific coast. He
owned or controlled a bank, railways, steamships, and mines, great
ranches in the South, and vast tracts of timber lands in the North. His
manifold interests extended from Alaska to Mexico, from the Pacific to
the Atlantic; and while he made his home in San Francisco, his name was
a power in the stock exchanges of the world. Years before he and his
young wife had made their way to California from New England with just
money enough to pay their passage to the Golden State. Here they had
undergone poverty and hardships such as they determined their children
should never know.

Of these Margaret, the eldest, was now a leader of San Francisco
society, while John, who was eight years older than Alaric, had shown
such an aptitude for business that he had risen to be manager of his
father's bank. There were other children, who had died, and when Alaric
came, last of all, he was such a puny infant that there was little hope
of his ever growing up. Because he was the youngest and a weakling, and
demanded so much care, his mother devoted her life to him, and hovered
about him with a loving anxiety that sought to shield him from all rude
contact with the world. He was always under the especial care of some
doctor, and when he was five or six years old one of these, for want of
something more definite to say, announced that he feared the child was
developing a weak heart, and advised that he be restrained from all
violent exercise.

From that moment poor little "Allie," as he had been called from the day
of his birth, was not only kept from all forms of violent exercise and
excitement, but was forbidden to play any boyish games as well. In place
of these his doting mother travelled with him over Continental Europe,
going from one famous medical spring, bath, or health resort to another,
and bringing up her boy in an atmosphere of luxury, invalids, and
doctors. The last-named devoted themselves to trying to find out what
was the matter with him, and as no two of them could agree upon any one
ailment, Mrs. Todd came to regard him as a prodigy in the way of
invalidism.

Of course Alaric was never sent to a public school, but he was always
accompanied by tutors as well as physicians, and spent nearly ten years
in a very select private school or _pension_ near Paris. Here no rude
games were permitted, and the only exercise allowed the boys was a short
daily walk, in which, under escort of masters, they marched in a dreary
procession of twos.

During all these years of travel and study and search after health
Alaric had never known what it was to wish in vain for anything that
money could buy. Whatever he fancied, he obtained without knowing its
cost or where the money came from that procured it. But there were three
of the chief things in the world to a boy that he did not have, and that
money could not give him. He had no boy friends, no boyish games, and no
ambitions. He wanted to have all these things, and sometimes said so to
his mother; but always he was met by the same reproachful answer, "My
dear Allie, remember your poor weak heart."

At length it happened that while our lad was in that dreary _pension_,
Mrs. Todd, worn out with anxieties, cares, and worries of her own
devising, was stricken with a fatal malady, and died in the great
château that she had rented not far from the school in which her life's
treasure was so carefully guarded. A few days of bewilderment and
heart-breaking sorrow followed for poor Alaric. Many cable-grams flashed
to and fro beneath the ocean. There was a melancholy funeral, at which
the boy was sole mourner, and then one phase of his life was ended. In
another week he had left France, and, escorted by one of his French
tutors, was crossing the Atlantic on his way to the far-distant San
Francisco home of which he knew so little.

He had now been at home for nearly three months, and of all his sad life
they had proved the most unhappy period. His father, though always kind
in his way, was too deeply immersed in business to pay much attention to
the sensitive lad. He did not understand him, and regarded him as a
weakling who could never amount to anything in the world of business or
useful activity. He would be kind to the boy, of course, and any desire
that he expressed should be promptly gratified; at the same time he
could not help feeling that Alaric was a great trial, and wishing him
more like his brother John.

This bustling, dashing elder brother had no sympathy with Alaric, and
rarely found time to give him more than a nod and a word of greeting in
passing, while his sister Margaret regarded him as still a little boy
who was to be kept out of sight as much as possible. So the poor lad,
left to himself, without friends and without occupation, found time
hanging very heavily on his hands, and wondered why he had ever been
born.

Once he ventured to ask his father for a saddle-horse, whereupon Amos
Todd presented him with a pair of ponies, a cart, and a groom, which he
said was an outfit better suited to an invalid. Alaric accepted this
gift without a protest, for he was well trained to bearing
disappointments, but he used it so rarely that the business of giving
the ponies their daily airing devolved almost entirely upon the groom.

It was not until Esther Dale, one of the New England cousins whom he had
never seen, and a girl of his own age, made a flying visit to San
Francisco as one of a personally conducted party of tourists, that
Alaric found any real use for his ponies. Esther was to remain in the
city only three days, but she spent them in her uncle's house, which she
refused to call anything but "the palace," and which she so pervaded
with her cheery presence that Amos Todd declared it seemed full of
singing birds and sunshine.

Both Margaret and John were too busy to pay much attention to their
young cousin, and so, to Alaric's delight, the whole duty of
entertaining her devolved on him. He felt much more at his ease with
girls than with boys, for he had been thrown so much more into their
society during his travels, and he thought he understood them
thoroughly; but in Esther Dale he found a girl so different from any he
had ever known that she seemed to belong to another order of beings. She
was good-looking and perfectly well-bred, but she was also as full of
life and frisky antics as a squirrel, and as tireless as a bird on the
wing.

On the first morning of her visit the cousins drove out to the Cliff
House to see the sea-lions, and almost before Alaric knew how it was
accomplished, he found Esther perched on the high right-hand cushion of
the box-seat in full possession of reins and whip, while he occupied the
lower seat on her left, as though he were the guest and she the hostess
of the occasion. At the same time the ponies seemed filled with an
unusual activity, and were clattering along at a pace more exhilarating
than they had ever shown under his guidance.

After that Esther always drove, and Alaric, sitting beside her, listened
with wondering admiration to her words of wisdom and practical advice on
all sorts of subjects. She had never been abroad, but she knew
infinitely more of her own country than he, and was so enthusiastic
concerning it that in three days' time she had made him feel prouder of
being an American than he had believed it possible he ever would be. She
knew so much concerning out-of-door life, too--about animals and birds
and games. She criticised the play of the baseball nines, whom they saw
in one part of Golden Gate Park; and when they came to another place
where some acquaintances of Alaric's were playing tennis, she asked for
an introduction to the best girl player on the ground, promptly
challenged her to a trial of skill, and beat her three straight games.

During the play she presented such a picture of glowing health and
graceful activity that pale-faced Alaric sat and watched her with
envious admiration.

"I would give anything I own in the world to be able to play tennis as
you can, Cousin Esther," he said, earnestly, after it was all over and
they were driving away.

"Why don't you learn, then?" asked the girl, in surprise.

"Because I have a weak heart, you know, and am forbidden any violent
exercise."

The boy hesitated, and even blushed, as he said this, though he had
never done either of those things before when speaking of his weak
heart. In fact, he had been rather proud of it, and considered that it
was a very interesting thing to have. Now, however, he felt almost
certain that Esther would laugh at him.

And so she did. She laughed until Alaric became red in the face from
vexation; but when she noticed this she instantly grew very sober, and
said:

"Excuse me, Cousin Rick. I didn't mean to laugh; but you did look so
woe-begone when you told me about your poor weak heart, and it seems so
absurd for a big, well-looking boy like you to have such a thing, that I
couldn't help it."

"I've always had it," said Alaric, stoutly; "and that is the reason they
would never let me do things like other boys. It might kill me if I did,
you know."

"I should think it would kill you if you didn't, and I'm sure I would
rather die of good times than just sit round and mope to death. Now I
don't believe your heart is any weaker than mine is. You don't look so,
anyway, and if I were you I would just go in for everything, and have as
good a time as I possibly could, without thinking any more about whether
my heart was weak or strong."

"But they won't let me," objected Alaric.

"Who won't?"

"Father and Margaret and John."

"I don't see that the two last named have anything to do with it. As for
Uncle Amos, I am sure he would rather have you a strong, brown,
splendidly healthy fellow, such as you might become if you only would,
than the white-faced, dudish Miss Nancy that you are. Oh, Cousin Rick!
What have I said? I'm awfully sorry and ashamed of myself. Please
forgive me."


CHAPTER II.

THE RUNAWAY.

For a moment it seemed to Alaric that he could not forgive that
thoughtlessly uttered speech. And yet the girl who made it had called
him Cousin "Rick," a name he had always desired, but which no one had
ever given him before. If she had called him "Allie," he knew he would
never have forgiven her. As it was he hesitated, and his pale face
flushed again. What should he say?

In her contrition and eagerness to atone for her cruel words Esther
leaned toward him, and laid a beseeching hand on his arm. For the moment
she forgot her responsibility as driver, and the reins held loosely in
her whip-hand lay slack across the ponies' backs.

Just then a newspaper that had been carelessly dropped in the roadway
was picked up by a sudden gust of wind and whirled directly into the
faces of the spirited team. The next instant they were dashing madly
down the street. At the outset the reins were jerked from Esther's hand;
but ere they could slip down beyond reach Alaric had seized them. Then
with the leathern bands wrapped about his wrists, he threw his whole
weight back on them, and strove to check or at least to guide the
terrified animals. The light cart bounded and swayed from side to side.
Men shouted and women screamed, and a clanging cable-car from a cross
street was saved from a collision only by the prompt efforts of its
gripman. The roadway was becoming more and more crowded with teams and
pedestrians. Alaric's teeth were clinched, and he was bare-headed,
having lost his hat as he caught the reins. Esther sat beside him,
motionless and silent, but with bloodless cheeks.

They were on an avenue that led to the heart of the city. On one side
was a hill, up which cross streets climbed steeply. To keep on as they
were going meant certain destruction. All the strain that Alaric could
bring to bear on the reins did not serve to check the headlong speed of
the hard-mouthed ponies. With each instant their blind terror seemed to
increase. Several side streets leading up the hill had already been
passed, and another was close at hand. Beyond it was a mass of teams and
cable-cars.

"Hold on for your life!" panted Alaric, in the ear of the girl who sat
beside him.

As he spoke he dropped one rein, threw all his weight on the other, and
at the same instant brought the whip down with a stinging cut on the
right-hand side of the off horse. The frenzied animal instinctively
sprang to the left, both yielded to the heavy tug of that rein, and the
team was turned into the side street. The cart slewed across the smooth
asphalt, lunged perilously to one side, came within a hair's-breadth of
upsetting, and then righted. Two seconds later the mad fright of the
ponies was checked by pure exhaustion half-way up the steep hill-side.
There they stood panting and trembling, while a crowd of excited
spectators gathered about them with offers of assistance and advice.

"Do they seem to be all right?" asked Alaric.

"All right, sir, far as I can see," replied one of the men, who was
examining the quivering animals and their harness.

"Then if you will kindly help me turn them around, and will lead them to
the foot of the hill, I think they will be quiet enough to drive on
without giving any more trouble," said the boy.

When this was done, and Alaric, after cordially thanking those who had
aided him, had driven away, one of the men exclaimed, as he gazed after
the vanishing carriage,

"Plucky young chap that!"

"Yes," replied another; "and doesn't seem to be a bit of a snob like
most of them wealthy fellows, either."

Meanwhile Alaric was tendering the reins to the girl who had sat so
quietly by his side without an outcry or a word of suggestion during the
whole exciting episode.

"Won't you drive now, Cousin Esther?"

"Indeed I will not, Alaric. I feel ashamed of myself for presuming to
take the reins from you before, and you may be certain that I shall
never attempt to do such a thing again. The way you managed the whole
affair was simply splendid. And oh, Cousin Rick! to think that I should
have called _you_ a Miss Nancy! Just as you were about to save my life,
too. I can never forgive myself--never."

"Oh yes you can," laughed Alaric, "for it is true--that is, it was true;
for I can see now that I have been a regular Miss Nancy sort of a fellow
all my life. That is what made me feel so badly when you said it. Nobody
ever dared tell me before, and so it came as an unpleasant surprise.
Now, though, I am glad you said it."

"And you will never give anybody in the whole world a chance to say such
a thing again, will you?" asked the girl, eagerly. "And you will go
right to work at learning how to do the things that other boys do, won't
you?"

"I don't know," answered Alaric, doubtfully. "I'd like to well enough;
but I don't know just how to begin. You see, I'm too old to learn from
the little boys, and the big fellows won't have anything to do with such
a duffer as I am. They've all heard too much about my weak heart."

"Then I'd go away to some place where nobody knows you and make a fresh
start. You might go out on one of your father's ranches and learn to be
a cowboy, or up into those great endless forests that I saw on Puget
Sound the other day, and live in a logging camp. It is such a glorious
splendid life, and there is so much to be done up in that country. Oh
dear! if I were only a boy, and going to be a man, wouldn't I get there
just as quickly as I could, and learn how to do things, so that when I
grew up I could go right ahead and do them?"

"All that sounds well," said Alaric, dubiously, "but I know father will
never let me go to any such places. He thinks such a life would kill me.
Besides, he says that as I shall never have to work, there is no need
for me to learn how."

"But you must work," responded Esther, stoutly. "Every one must, or else
be very unhappy. Papa says that the happiest people in the world are
those who work the hardest when it is time for work, and play the
hardest in play-time. But where are you driving to? This isn't the way
home."

"I am going to get a new hat and gloves," answered the boy, "for I don't
want anyone at the house to know of our runaway. They'd never let me
drive the ponies again if they found it out."

"It would be a shame if they didn't, after the way you handled them just
now," exclaimed Esther, indignantly.

Just then they stopped before a fashionable hat-store on Kearney Street,
and while Alaric was debating whether he ought to leave the ponies long
enough to step inside he was recognized, and a clerk hastened to receive
his order.

"Hats and gloves," said Alaric; "you know the sizes."

The clerk answered, "Certainly, Mr. Todd," bowed, and disappeared in the
store.

"See those lovely gray 'Tams' in the window, Cousin Rick," said Esther.
"Why don't you get one of them? It would be just the thing to wear in
the woods."

"All right," replied the boy. "I will."

So when the clerk reappeared with a stylish derby-hat and a dozen pair
of gloves Alaric put the former on, said he would keep the gloves, and
at the same time requested that one of the gray Tams might be done up
for him.

As this order was filled, and the ponies were headed towards home,
Esther said; "Why, Cousin Rick, you didn't pay for your things?"

"No," repeated the boy, "I never do."

"You didn't even ask the prices, either."

"Of course not!" laughed the other. "Why should I? They were things that
I had to have anyway, and so what would be the use of asking the prices?
Besides, I don't think I ever did such a thing in my life."

"Well," sighed the girl, "it must be lovely to shop in that way. Now I
never bought anything without first finding out if I could afford it;
and as for gloves, I know I never bought more than one pair at a time."

"Really?" said Alaric, with genuine surprise, "I didn't know they sold
less than a dozen pair at a time. I wish I had known it, for I only
wanted one pair. I've got so many at home now that they are a bother."

That very evening the lad spoke to his father about going on a ranch and
learning to be a cowboy. Unfortunately his brother John overheard him,
and greeted the proposition with shouts of laughter. Even Amos Todd,
while mildly rebuking his eldest son, could not help smiling at the
absurdity of the request. Then, turning to the mortified lad, he said
kindly but decidedly:

"You don't know what you are asking, Allie, my boy, and I wouldn't think
for a moment of allowing you to attempt such a thing. The excitement of
that kind of life would kill you in less than no time. Ask anything in
reason, and I shall be only too happy to gratify you; but don't make
foolish requests."

When Alaric reported this failure to Esther a little later, she said,
very gravely: "Then, Cousin Rick, there is only one thing left for you
to do. You must run away."

[TO BE CONTINUED.]



FAMILIAR QUOTATIONS.

BY PATTY PEMBERTON BERMANN.


_DRAMATIS PERSONÆ_.

  THE PREFACE.
  THE INDEX.
  A LOCKSMITH.
  CUPID.
  A COLORED DUDE.
  A COLORED LAUNDRESS.
  A COLORED POLICEMAN.
  A VIOLET.
  A DAFFODIL.
  A LILY-OF-THE-VALLEY.
  A GHOST.
  FIRST PITCHER.
  SECOND PITCHER.
  A FASHIONABLE LADY.
  A FASHIONABLE GENTLEMAN.
  A TIN MOUSE.

COSTUMES FOR THE PLAY.

PREFACE.--A dress of white muslin or paper cambric. A small muslin apron
entirely covered, except the hem, with printed words. A white ribbon,
with "Preface" in black capitals, extending from the right shoulder
diagonally to the waist, where it ends under a bow of red ribbon. On the
right shoulder a red bow. The flowing hair is crowned by a dainty muslin
cap trimmed with a knot of red ribbon.

INDEX.--A white suit. Belt bearing his name in black letters.

VIOLET.--A dress of fluffy material--pale lavender, with violets of
deeper shade falling in a fringe around a low neck.

DAFFODIL.--Same in yellow.

LILY-OF-THE-VALLEY.--A white tulle with delicate green
over-dress. Puffed white sleeves with ruffles of green. A bunch of
lilies-of-the-valley on one shoulder.

LOCKSMITH.--Ragged trousers, shirt, and large brown holland apron.
Bunches of keys hanging from his waist.

CUPID.--Flesh-colored tights and pink trunks, quiver, and arrows.

[Illustration]

FIRST AND SECOND PITCHERS.--Baseball rig. Asses' ears of gray canton
flannel, wired to keep them in shape.

COLORED LAUNDRESS.--Dress of gaudy chintz, large check apron, and
bandanna head handkerchief.

Other costumes to suit the fancy of wearers.

If the play is to take place in a parlor, be sure there is a doorway at
one end connecting it with another room. A stage one foot from the floor
is built right across the door, which should be right or left of the
centre background. The framework for a book through which each
individual or group must pass to front of stage is thus made--two
uprights 5 ft. 6 in. high are placed 3 ft 4 in. apart, and fastened to
the stage floor; 1 ft. 6 in. behind these uprights, and exactly opposite
them, fix two others of the same height. Nail three cross-pieces at the
top (leaving the side nearest the door open) to hold the frame together.
This skeleton book must stand at such an angle that while one inner
corner almost touches the stage entrance door, the other inner corner
will be 2 ft. beyond the door. Tack a strip of asbestos down the side
that represents the closed leaves of a book. A similar strip, only
somewhat wider, is put on for the curved back. The side presented to the
spectators is the cover of your book. It is to close and unclose like a
door, so that the characters may appear to step out when the volume is
opened. This cover may be of asbestos, but it should hang on hinges that
move very freely. Draw across the book cover, so that each word will
fill a line

"FAMILIAR QUOTATIONS."

Paint the letters in gold and some bright color. Attach a bit of twine
inside the cover, midway, on the hinge side, to enable the person who
engineers the book to close it without being seen.

A large table with lamp and books, and one or two chairs, will suffice
for stage furniture.

The book slowly opens, revealing Preface. She steps forward, closely
followed by Index, who remains right of and a little behind her.

_Preface_.

  The Preface always is allowed
  First to address the expectant crowd;
  Whether my task's a pleasant one
  I shall know better--when 'tis done.

     (_She points to the book_, Index _copying all her movements_.)

  From out these covers, blithely tripping,
  Familiar friends will soon be slipping;
  They're tired of hiding in a book,
  Where you must go for them to look.

  To-night they mean to play before you
  Some trifles that we hope won't bore you;
  Indeed, we ask for each quotation
  Only its meed of approbation.

     [_She starts to return to the book, but is intercepted by_ Index,
     _who intimates that he has something to say_. Preface _takes his
     hand, and leads him to the footlights_.]

[Illustration]

_Index_ (_first looking admiringly at_ Preface).

  As she is first, so last am I,
  The Index that can tell you why
  And when and wherefore this was writ,
  And who the author is of it;
  When a quotation doth appear
  I'll do my best to make it clear.

     [_He bows to the audience, and escorts_ Preface _to the book, opens
     the cover, and watches it close upon her, kisses his hand after
     her, and retires dejectedly behind the volume. The piano orchestra
     strikes up "The Flowers that Bloom in the Spring._"]

_Index_ (_popping out his head from back of book)_. Gilbert and
Sullivan.

     [Violet, Daffodil, _and_ Lily-of-the-Valley _emerge, trip to the
     front, group themselves harmoniously, and dance, ending with a
     sweeping courtesy. Exeunt._]

_The Audience_. Of course that was "The Flowers that bloom in the
Spring."

_Index_. Second quotation. Author, Dryden.

     [_A lady opens the book and walks with dignity across the stage.
     Draws a chair to front, seats herself, and slowly waves her fan.
     Raises a lorgnette to her eyes, rises, and turns gracefully to the
     left. At this moment a tin mouse on wheels is sent whizzing toward
     her from behind the curtain. She jumps on the chair, gathering her
     skirts about her, and screaming. A foppish youth comes from the
     book in affected excitement, and attacks the mouse with his
     umbrella. While the conflict goes on, the lady covers her face with
     her hands, now and then stealing a glance at her champion. The
     mouse is finally slain. The gentleman presents it, kneeling. She
     turns away at first, but presently dismounts and accepts the hero's
     arm. They go off together, he waving the mouse at the audience. The
     audience, after several mistakes, guesses, "None but the brave
     deserve the fair."_]

_Index_ (_who has meanwhile frequently bobbed out from behind the book,
now cries gleefully_). Third quotation. A proverb! A proverb!

     [_The_ First _and_ Second Pitchers _enter, each holding a ball.
     They strike all sorts of baseball attitudes as they advance to
     footlights, then station themselves on opposite sides of stage.
     They throw the balls until some one guesses, "Little pitchers have
     big ears." Exeunt._]

CURTAIN.

     _The stage is darkened for next scene. A tall boy is draped in
     white. A small boy, also in flowing white, with crown of laurel
     such as we see in portraits of Cæsar. The hair and face whitened.
     The larger boy seats himself in chair (also draped in white) with
     rollers near cover of book. Small boy is placed astride his
     shoulders._

_Index_. Fourth quotation. An exclamation. Author unknown.

     [_Book opens very slowly. Some one concealed behind the chair
     pushes it a little beyond the book. Ghost rises deliberately,
     stands a moment, turns and stalks majestically to draw curtain,
     behind which he disappears. If the audience fails to see the point
     early_, Index _cries_, "Can't you guess? Great Cæsar's ghost!"]

CURTAIN.

_Index_. Another proverb.

     [_The_ Locksmith, _carrying a three-legged stool, hobbles out,
     seats himself on stool, draws a file from his bag, and sets to work
     on a great key_. Cupid _thrusts his curly head from the book,
     laughing inaudibly. He tiptoes behind the_ Locksmith, _and tickles
     his neck with a feather arrow-head_. Locksmith _brushes at the
     supposed fly. The tickling continuing_, Locksmith _gets up and
     looks right and left_, Cupid _always dodging him. They gradually
     reach the book thus. As the cover is about to close_, Cupid _seizes
     the bunch of keys, laughing aloud_. Locksmith _turns to beat him,
     but the agile boy springs past him into the book, leaving him
     outside_.

      _The last quotation needs no announcement. It is set to a genuine
      negro melody, and should be sung with a swing._

      _A_ Colored Dude _enters with banjo slung across his shoulder by a
      ribbon_. (_Sings._)]

  Oh let me interjuce myse'f,
    A gent'man f'om de Souf,
  What nevah wuks while other folks
    Puts wittles in his mouf.

  Den fetch de 'possum barbacue,
    Roas' ches'nuts, an' pop-cawn;
  De darkies' hour fer jamboree
    Is jes' befo' de dawn.

     [_As he concludes the verse the_ Colored Laundress _appears and
     pushes him aside_. (_She sings._)]

  You see a cullud lady here
    Dat scrub an' wash all day,
  An' ev'ry evenin' fer a res'
    She dance de time away.

     (_Duet and dance._)

  So knock it off wid heel an' toe,
    De night is almos' gone,
  An' don't fergit de darkies' hour
    Is jes' befo' de dawn.

     _They are interrupted by the arrival of a pompous_ Colored
     Policeman.

_The Policeman_.

  I'm sent ter 'rest dis company
    Fer 'sterbin' of de peace.

_Dude_ and _Laundress_.

  Now change yo' min', Mist' P'liceman, do,
    An' jine us in our feas'.

_Chorus_ (_dancing_).

  Come cut de pigeon-wing wid us,
    An' shore ez you is bawn
  You'll fin' de liv'les' darkies' hour
    Is jes befo' de dawn.



PATTY'S STATION.

BY KATHARINE B. FOOT.


It was Patty Miller's seventeenth birthday and a sweet May morning in
the early fifties. She sat on the porch step beside her father, who was
the doctor of the whole country-side far and near, and they looked out
over the superb view of the Connecticut Valley below them. She was an
only child, and her father's dear companion and friend, and as dear and
familiar friends are apt to do, they sat without speaking for some time,
until her father laid an affectionate hand on hers and said, "Are you
happy to be home, daughter, on your birthday?"

"Yes, or any other day," and she laid her other hand over his. "And I
think I'm more glad than ever since we visited in Virginia. New England
for me always."

After another little silence her father said, "Uncle Tom and Fanny seem
to enjoy it here."

"Oh yes, or they wouldn't stay. Uncle Tom never stays anywhere unless
he's comfortable. But I can't help wondering how he gets on without
servants, for Abe is always at his elbow on the plantation, and there's
no one at all to wait on him here. I wonder," continued Patty, laughing
a little, "what Uncle Tom and Fanny would think if they knew that
Wellfield was a station in the underground railroad, and you the
station-master, and the particular station our house, and the
hiding-place under the closet floor in the very room that he sleeps in?"

Uncle Tom was a Southerner, and was visiting with his daughter his
Northern relatives, with whom he was on the best of terms except on the
subject of slave-holding.

"I don't know I'm sure," her father said, seriously, "but once, years
ago, I told him that I'd help along any of his slaves to freedom if they
asked me, and he said that if any of them wanted to run away I was quite
welcome to do it. But Tom is a good master, as his father was before
him, and if his servants are going to be slaves at all they're probably
as well off with him, and perhaps better off than they would be anywhere
else."

"It's lucky," said Patty, and she laughed heartily, "that you have
always been able to pass your fugitives right on, for I believe that if
any one was shut up in that place very long they'd suffocate."

"Well," said her father, slowly and thoughtfully, "it would be cramping,
but it's ventilated directly to the air; and 'twas awfully lucky that
that trellis with the honeysuckle on it ran up on that side of the
house, so that I could make that little window there. That is your
station, Patty, and you were a clever girl to find it out. I think that
your mother and I were pretty stupid not to see that the ceiling of the
closet was so much lower than it was in the room until you told us, for
we'd racked our brains for years to think of a secure hiding-place."

"But it wouldn't have been any good if there hadn't been a closet
above," said Patty; "and if you hadn't been such a good carpenter that
you could cut the little window and fix the trap-door that--well, that
no eyes could see."

"And especially with a small trunk over it, and no servants to spy it
out," interrupted her father. "Yes," and he smiled, "I think that
'Patty's station' will be a safe one if it ever has to be used. But here
comes Uncle Tom now," as a handsome man came toward them from the front
door.

"All ready for your birthday jaunt, Patty? Where is Fanny?"

"Coming, papa," and a girl a little younger than Patty ran down stairs
just as Mrs. Miller came out of the parlor door.

"I'm sorry you won't go with us, Anna," said Mr. Mason to her.

"I'm sorry too," said Mrs. Miller, "but as I'm my own cook I must stay
at home, or you'd starve when you got back."

"I tell you what, Anna, you put yourself up at auction, and I'll bid you
in at any price, and then I'll be sure of good cooking for the rest of
my life."

Mrs. Miller laughed and shook her head wisely. "Well, you see, Tom, I
might die. If I couldn't run away I might take that gleam of liberty."

"Oh, what a fanatic you are!" he laughed.

"Oh, there's Mr. Holman coming in!" said Patty. "I'll run to meet him,
for he don't like our steep path."

"Is that your old clergyman?" said Mr. Mason.

"Our minister," said Mrs. Miller. "He likes the old name, and he is a
minister, truly. He has probably come for John to go to see somebody who
is sick and poor."

"That's a pretty fair partnership, I reckon," said Mr. Mason. "But John
is always caring for the lame and the lazy."

The doctor went into his office for his saddle-bags, for when he did not
ride he carried them in his chaise.

"Father, will you come down here?" Patty called.

Mr. Holman looked very serious as Dr. Miller approached him, and he
looked about him cautiously before he whispered: "There's a fugitive
slave at Lem Carter's, and Dimmock and two men are after him. The man
seems to be an intelligent fellow, and he says that he thinks that they
are not looking for him in particular just now, but are after another
man who was with him, and who left him three days ago, for the other
fellow knew that he was being chased, and they thought it more prudent
to separate. But as this man at Lem's is a fugitive, if they find him
they'll take him even if he isn't the man they're after. Lem says that
he knows his house is watched, so he doesn't dare to keep him overnight,
nor to have you drive down and get him. Now Lem and I thought out this
plan: If you can get your Silas out of the way, I will let Lem know, and
he will bring the man to your stable after dark, and you can drive him
to Northampton to Mr. Brewer's, for there's no other place here where
it's safe to keep him."

"I think I can get Silas out of the way," said the doctor, after
thinking a moment. "But suppose they track him to my stable, what shall
I do? For you know my brother-in-law, Mr. Mason, is here, and that
closet where I made the hiding-place is in his room."

"Well," said Mr. Holman, "sometimes the most absolutely daring thing is
the safest thing to do, and if you were hard pressed and had to put him
there, no one could possibly dream of your taking such a risk. But I
don't think it's at all likely that he'll be followed up so closely as
that. I think you'll have time enough to get him out of the way, for,
now that I think of it, Mr. Mason's being here is really a protection to
you."

So, after a little more talk between them, the matter was settled. Mr.
Holman explained matters to Mrs. Miller, and she thought out a plan for
the doctor, so that Silas could be sent on an errand in the late
afternoon which would take him two or three miles into the country, and
so keep him out of the way for the entire evening.

Meanwhile Patty, although this episode was one which she had long
desired, carried a really heavy and anxious heart, and felt that she
must make a constant exertion to appear like her usual self. She was
very anxious about the safety of the poor fugitive, because it seemed
such a complication to have her uncle and Fanny with them, and, of
course, she knew how hot and close the pursuit was after any fugitive,
and especially so when there was a large reward in prospect. She found
herself wondering at herself as she laughed and talked all day long, and
as she afterwards told all their adventures to her mother and father at
the tea-table. After tea was over, and while Patty was helping her
mother to clear the table, Mrs. Miller had a few minutes to tell Patty
of their plans, and that her part of it was to keep her uncle and Fanny
in the parlor, and amused and interested, if possible, so that her uncle
would not take it into his head to wander down to the stable, as he
often did, or Fanny to wander about the house, where she might possibly
look out of a window and see something suspicious going on outside. So
Patty went at once into the parlor, and had the happy thought of hunting
up an old book of dim old engravings that had been given to her father,
and which she knew would interest her uncle Tom, for he was something of
a bookworm. It was a happy thought, indeed, for Mr. Mason was soon so
deep in his interest in the book, and so interested in telling the girls
what he knew about the engravings, which were very old and, as he said,
extremely valuable, that Patty felt he was quite safely anchored until
the danger should be over. As soon as the late May twilight became
darkness, the doctor, saying something about having a call, lit his
lantern and went down to the stable. He waited only a few moments before
the door opened cautiously, and Lem Carter, a slight, alert-looking man,
stepped in, followed by a negro. In one flash the man and the doctor
recognized each other, for, strange to say, it was Mr. Mason's Abe--the
very man that he and Patty had been talking about that morning.

Lem whispered: "Put your light out, quick, for we are followed. _Hello!
Do you know him?_" for the man was on his knees, saying, in a thrilling
whisper:

[Illustration: "OH, MARSE DOCTAH! DON'T GIB ME UP!"]

"Oh, Marse Doctah! Don't gib me up! don't gib me up! I didn't know it
was Marse Tom's--Marse Doctah--I wuz comin' to."

"Hush, Abe!" said the doctor, "I'll not give you up; but your master is
here, and I must get you safely away as soon as I can. It's my brother's
man," said Dr. Miller.

"That's a _great_ fix," said Lem; "but I'll get out of here and try to
throw them off the track. Don't you leave him here two shakes; the
barn'll be the first place they'll aim for," and even as he spoke he
slipped away.

"Abe," said the doctor, "you must be perfectly quiet and do exactly what
I tell you, and I will have you safe soon. Come with me." And he took
him by the arm, and led him out of the side door of the barn and up the
path to the kitchen door. He left him for one moment in the little entry
outside of it, and went in and told his wife who it was that had come to
them. She was shocked and rather frightened, but very quiet, and made no
exclamation; and then they put Abe in the big store-room, just out of
the kitchen, and she got him some food while she was saying:

"Go and send Patty to me. Tell her anything you can think of. Oh, I
know--tell her to come out and show me where the milk is for the cottage
cheese."

When the doctor went away Abe told her in a few frightened words that as
soon as Mr. Mason left home, two weeks before, the overseer had given
him a pass to go to the next county for some sheep, and as he had to
drive them back, which would take some days, he knew that he wouldn't be
missed for that time, and so could never have a better opportunity for
the escape that he had planned for years; but had kept it such a secret
that not even the doctor--whose abolition principles were well known to
Abe--had had the least suspicion of such a thing. So he had run away,
and, strangely enough, been passed along, until he was under the very
roof with his master.

"Patty, be careful not to speak loud," Mrs. Miller said a moment later,
when her daughter appeared. "I didn't want to see you about the cheeses;
but we've got to hide a man to-night until father can get him away. He's
in the store-room now; and, Patty," and her mother laid her hand on her
shoulder, "it's a strange thing, and I can hardly believe it myself, but
it's somebody we know--it's Uncle Tom's Abe."

It was lucky that a chair was behind Patty, for she sat down suddenly
and grew very white, but all she said was, "Oh, mother, what _shall_ we
do?"

"Father will drive him to Northampton just as quick as he can get him
away. But Mr. Carter thinks that Dimmock is following him up very
closely, and if he comes here Abe has got to be put in the
hiding-place."

A moment later Patty and her mother returned to the room, apparently
quite calm and composed, and the doctor was just saying, "Well, I have a
long drive before me, and must be off," in such a matter-of-fact way
that Patty felt almost hysterical.

Just at that moment some one pounded on the knocker in a very imperative
way, and Fanny said, "Goodness, somebody must be dying!" The doctor went
to the front door and opened it. Even he, for a second, was startled, as
he saw three men standing there.

"Good-evening," said the doctor. "Anybody sick? Hello, Dimmock, I didn't
see you. What's the matter?"

Mr. Dimmock seemed somewhat embarrassed, and said: "No, we ain't none of
us sick; but fact is, doctor, we're after a runaway nigger, and my
friends here--Mr. Sterling and Mr. Pratt--say they traced him right up
here about ten minutes ago, and they just brought me along to make the
warrant right, as I'm United States Commissioner, you know. Have you got
the fellow, and will you give him up?"

"Upon my word!" said the doctor, putting his hands behind his back and
holding a hat in one of them. "Do you suppose that I've got him here,
with _you_ pretty nearly next door? And don't you know well enough that
if I had I wouldn't tell you?"

"Pretty high and mighty, doctor," said the man they called Dimmock. "In
the name of the United States, I demand to search this house. We've been
through your barn a'ready."

"It's a--an outrage," said the doctor; "so search, if you please; you
won't find anybody." And he stepped aside, and said, "Walk in,
gentlemen. I have the highest respect for your _authority_--if not for
your business."

As the men walked into the room, Patty said, "Father, is Mr. Dimmock
going up into my room?"

"I suppose so," said her father; "no place is sacred when Mr. Dimmock
goes hunting."

"Then I must go up a moment first," said Patty; "it isn't in order." And
she left the room.

Mrs. Miller sat still and looked at the men, and Mr. Mason rose to his
feet, saying,

"What's all this?"

The doctor knew that if he could keep the men back a very few moments
Patty would hide Abe, for he was sure that his wife had made some plan
with her. So he turned to Mr. Mason and said, "It's very likely, Tom,
that I have a fugitive slave here, isn't it?"

But before Mr. Mason could answer, Dimmock said, "We knew you were here,
Mr. Mason, and we're sorry to disturb you, but there are _some_ people
in Wellfield that keep the laws, and that nigger's been traced here, and
we're bound to have him."

Mr. Mason laughed, but showed that he was very indignant, and he told
Mr. Dimmock shortly that it was scarcely likely that Dr. Miller would
conceal a fugitive slave under the same roof with a slave-owner,
especially when that owner was his guest. But of the nice laws of
hospitality Mr. Dimmock was quite unconscious, and the doctor didn't
care what anybody said if they could only gain a little time. Mr.
Dimmock said afterwards that the doctor was in a white rage, but he was
quite mistaken; it wasn't rage at all, but a great variety of
conflicting emotions.

As soon as Patty left the room she flew to the store-room, and said, in
a whisper, "Abe, follow me quick. They're after you. Be very still."

He was terribly frightened, but long habit made him absolutely obedient,
and he crept up the back stairs like a cat. They crept through the front
hall, the voices plainly heard below, and Patty showed him how to lift
the trap in the closet floor.

"This is your master's room," she whispered. "Don't even breathe loud,
or you'll be heard. I'll let you out when it's safe. I don't believe
you'll have to stay all night." Then she fitted the trap down carefully,
lifted the light trunk over it, picked up her uncle's shoes and put them
down softly as if they had been thrown in, dropped a soiled collar and
handkerchief from the bureau, and then closed the door softly. Long in
the telling, it had not taken three minutes. Then she ran down stairs.

"Show Mr. Dimmock and his friends about," said her father; "take them
everywhere, Patty."

Patty took a lamp, and Mr. Dimmock said, "Give me another. I always
carry my own light. People have a way of throwing shadows in the wrong
places. The garret first." And when they got there he held his lamp
high, casting its light into every dark corner. "What's that?" he said,
pointing to a dark pile.

"Carpet rags," said Patty.

"Hiding a nigger, likely. You'd better look there, Sterling."

The man tossed the heap over until he came to the floor.

Into every room they went, and opened every closet door, and Patty felt
herself trembling as they came to the door of the closet in her uncle's
room, but grew quiet as she heard herself saying, calmly,

"Now you can hardly suppose that he's in Uncle Tom's room?"

"Well, not 'less he's a _mighty_ cool one," said Mr. Dimmock.

At last they went, and the question was how to get Abe out of the closet
and then out of the house. There was not a moment when it could be done,
for Mr. Mason said he was tired to death, and would go to bed at once.
And go he did, and there was nothing for the doctor to do but to
suddenly remember that he had had a call, and to pretend to start for
it. And after Fanny went upstairs Mrs. Miller and Patty absolutely
groaned when they heard Mr. Mason shut his door and bolt it for the
night. In the morning it did seem as if Mr. Mason and Fanny would never
go down stairs. But at last Mr. Mason appeared below with his cheerful
"Good-morning," and Fanny followed after a little. Then Patty
discovered, as they sat down to the breakfast table, that she had left
her handkerchief upstairs, and she ran up to her uncle's room to release
Abe. As she lifted the trap-door he crawled out, stiff and cramped. She
hurried him up to the garret, for they were obliged to hide him until
night. Poor Abe was so frightened that he could only say,

"Oh, Miss Patty, s'pose Marse Tom come up heah and catch me!"

"Oh, he won't," said Patty; "Uncle Tom never comes up garret." But a
bright thought came to her. "If you hear anybody coming, get under that
pile of rags and pull them over you." And she pushed them together, for
the men had left them strewed all over the floor, and ran down to
breakfast.

A little later she smuggled some food and coffee to Abe, and cautioned
him over and over not to step about at all, lest his footsteps should be
heard below. But at last the long day drew to an end, and the night
came. Silas had again been spirited out of the way; her father had the
light wagon all ready, and they were ready to get Abe out of the garret
and down to the barn.

Patty got her water-colors out to show to Mr. Mason and Fanny just at
the moment that her mother slipped away to get Abe down and out of the
house into the garden. He had to pass through the front hall to get from
the garret stairs to the back stairs, and just at the critical moment,
when she knew that Abe must be passing through the front hall, her uncle
Tom said, "Oh, I've left my glasses upstairs!" and started to go for
them.

"Let me," said Patty, for the whole hall was visible from four steps up
on the front stairs.

"No, I'll go myself," said her uncle Tom, and he moved toward the foot
of the stairs, and for one second Patty felt at her wits' end. Then she
knocked over a vase of flowers on the table. The water ran all over the
pictures. Both girls exclaimed; Mr. Mason turned to help mop it up with
his handkerchief also, and the danger was over.

At breakfast-time the next day Mr. Mason said, "You came in late, or
rather, early. Jack. Did you have a hard night of it?"

"Tiresome," said the doctor.

It was true, for he had driven Abe about sixteen miles up the river.

Abe was sent from Northampton to Canada by rail, and it was not until he
was safe there that Mr. Mason, who was then in Boston, learned from his
overseer of his disappearance; for just as Abe had hoped and supposed,
he had not been missed for several days. Then Mr. Mason, very much cut
up by his running away, went directly back to Virginia with his
daughter.

That was the only time Patty's station ever held a waiting passenger.



FOR KING OR COUNTRY.

A Story of the Revolution.

BY JAMES BARNES.

CHAPTER XIX.

THE TWO LIEUTENANTS.


As the little boat, with the two fishermen rowing and the silent figure
sitting in the stern-sheets, dipped and tossed through the racing tide,
which was at the flood, the wind began to blow up cold and nipping from
the north. The spray froze as it splashed now and then over the gunwales
of the boat.

It was quite midnight before they reached the New Jersey shore and
pulled in beneath the shelter of a point of rocks that rose steeply out
of the water. Here for the first time words were spoken.

"You have done well, my men, and here is a 'bright yellow' for each of
you," said the young man in the cloak.

As he extended his hand, Roger, the younger, grasped it in a friendly
way.

"I remember you, sir. I was one of the boatmen who rowed you across
after the battle of Long Island. We are both good patriots."

The older man at this allusion respectfully touched his oil-skin cap.
Then the boat was shoved out once more into the current.

The young man on the shore watched until it had disappeared.

"Now for a horse!" he exclaimed aloud.

Climbing up the rocks, and following closely a road which ran through a
wide meadow, he saw a farm-house to the right. A light in one of the
windows had first attracted his attention. He walked up the little lane,
and stopped for a moment before knocking at the door.

"Tory or patriot, I wonder?" he queried. He had hesitated before
pronouncing the last word.

In response to the tapping of his cold knuckles, the door was opened.

Before him stood a tall woman, and back of her a boy of thirteen or
fourteen. The latter had a large bell-mouthed blunderbuss in the hollow
of his arm.

"What is it at this time of night?" the woman inquired, in a deep voice
like a man's.

"A word of direction," was the answer. "Could you tell me where I can
find a horse? I will pay well for him."

"Where are you from?" asked the woman.

"From New York, but I would go on to the westward, and must hurry or I
will be caught."

"Oh!" said the woman. "Come in by the fire. You are alone?"

"Yes," was the response.

The boy, who at first had looked suspiciously from the stranger to the
tall figure of his mother, placed the blunderbuss in the corner, and the
three walked into the kitchen.

"Are you going to join the army?" inquired the woman at length.

"I am in the army," was the reply; "but I must hasten. I have just been
rowed across the river, and should I be captured it might go hard with
me."

"I understand," said the woman, "and I will assist you if I can."

"You will be well paid," rejoined the young officer.

"Do not think of it," answered the woman. "I have given one son; and my
husband and brother are with Washington. We must give our all. I can see
what you have been afraid to tell. You have escaped. One has to be
careful. Might I ask you your name?"

"Frothingham."

"I know that name well," said she. "I have heard my brother speak of a
young Mr. Frothingham who was employed with him. He was at Mr. Wyeth's,
the merchant's."

"Ah, indeed!" was the answer.

The young soldier drew forth a bag of gold. As he did so the light from
the fireplace shone clearly upon his left hand. Across the back of it
ran a scar.

"Eugene," said the woman, turning to the boy, "make haste to the stable
and put the saddle on the colt. 'Tis all we have left, sir, but you are
welcome. When you reach Morristown you may be able to send him back
again. Perhaps you know my husband. My name is Ralston, and my brother's
name is Samuel Thomas. You must remember him. My son was killed on Long
Island. Were you there?"

"No, madam," was the thoughtful answer; "I was not."

The woman left the room, and the young man gazed into the fire.

He had had no idea of the devotion of these people to this cause. In
far-away England he had suspected nothing of the intensity of feeling or
the self-sacrifice and patriotism that animated the country.

A qualm of misgiving came over him. Was it not rather an uncomfortable
part to play--taking his brother's place, as it were, and accepting the
help and hospitality of these brave folk, who would give "their all," as
the woman had said, for what they considered their rights and liberties!
A feeling akin to pride had swept over him when the woman had spoken of
his brother George; it could have been no other.

He struck his knee a blow with his closed fist.

"It is for the King," he said, beneath his breath.

At this moment the trampling of hoofs on the crisp earth outside
attracted his attention.

The woman came to the door.

The lad was holding a small horse at the stone step.

"You have done me a great service, and I pray you will accept--" began
the supposed fugitive.

Mrs. Ralston interrupted him.

"Think you, sir, that I would take one penny? 'Twould burn my fingers.
It is for our country."

"Thank you, good friend, then," he said, and the tears came to his eyes
despite himself.

The lad gave him a leg-up into the saddle. "I wish I were old enough to
fight, sir," he said. "Good-by. Take the first road to the left and you
are on the highway."

William mumbled a confused sentence of thanks and rode away.

This endeavor of his to prove his loyalty did not appear so glorious an
undertaking as he had at first supposed. His thoughts ran back to his
brother George in that cramped prison cell, where he supposed him still
to be.

But the latter, a free man again, was at this moment seated before a
fireplace in a large wainscoted room in a large house not far from
Fraunce's Tavern.

On the opposite side was sitting the burly figure of Rivington!

When George had found that no boat was waiting for him at Striker's
wharf, he had bethought himself at once of two places where he might
hide--Mrs. Mack's and School-master Anderson's. How stupid he had been
that he had not discovered the latter's character before! Putting the
incidents together, he could read all plain enough.

Anderson was the one to see.

As he was about to sound the knocker gently on the schoolmaster's door,
some one spoke to him and called softly,

"Number Four, I say!"

There was a touch on his elbow (he still carried his right hand in a
sling), and Rivington was standing beside him.

"Do not fear, my son," he said; "I am one of the seven." There was the
sound of laughing coming from within the house. "Some of our friends
from across the water are in there," said the printer. "It was lucky I
was in time to stop you. We must entertain them, you know. I have been
following you for some time to make sure. Come with me."

He had piloted George to the street, and opened the door of his own
house with a huge key, ushering him into the large room in which they
were now seated.

It was odd, George kept thinking to himself, and hard to believe, that
Rivington, the hated Tory, had turned patriot.

"Now, young Frothingham," said Rivington, after a pause, "this is an
extraordinary occasion. You are the first one with whom I have held
conversation upon any such dangerous subjects. But you must know two or
three things that I believe most thoroughly. I have no faith in hopeless
ventures, but, mark me, though this war lasts six months or six years,
America will never again belong to England. I am so fully convinced of
this that I have risked my safety to help end the struggle. Peace will
come sooner or later, but the sooner the better, of course. Some day
when my fellow-citizens learn what I have done they will not hang me in
effigy or sink my presses in the bay. But enough of that. I have
forgiven them.--To something of greater moment.--You cannot remain
another day in this city. I doubt your being able to cross the river
to-night. To-morrow morning early I go to Paulus Hook, and will take you
with me as my servant. 'Tis a risk, perhaps, but it is the safest thing
I can think of. I am supposed to go there on some business for General
Howe. I am afraid that I shall muddle it, but I may learn something.
Sleep here behind this heavy screen. We start early." Without another
word he left the room.

At daybreak the next morning Rivington and George, in a small sail-boat,
were making for the New Jersey shore.

George was dressed in a groom's livery, and carried a large despatch-box
on his knees.

Almost all the dwellers in the country surrounding the Hook had found it
to their best interests to hide any desire that they might have to show
their leaning toward patriotism, and, to tell the truth, most of them
were advanced Tories.

It was to visit one of these men, a dealer in live-stock, that Mr.
Rivington was making the trip.

They had ridden but a short distance in the lurching one-horse chaise
that had met them at the ferry, when Rivington pulled up.

"Here I say good-by," he said. "At the fifth house along this path from
here stop and ask for the owner. He is a very aged man. His name has
slipped me; but tell him frankly who you are, and that you have escaped
from a British prison, and he will do his best to send you on your way.
Do not fear that he will betray you. He hates me well, and would rejoice
to see me hanged, but some day he may think better thoughts. Of course,
do not mention my name to him. Good-by, lad. There is one person to whom
you can present my best respects--General Washington. Success to him!"

George shook his benefactor's enormous hand, and took the path through a
thicket of scrub-oaks.

Rivington had driven on but a short distance, when he thumped the bottom
of the chaise with both feet. "You may shoot me for a lunkhead," he
exclaimed, "if I did not forget to tell him of his brother's being in
this country. I wonder if he knows it? He made no mention. It would have
been best for him to know it."

But it was too late to call George's notice now, and he cut the horse a
sharp flick with the whip.


CHAPTER XX.

MISGIVINGS.

It was two days later a small brown horse crunched his way through the
deep fall of snow that lay upon the hills to the westward of the Passaic
River.

His rider drew up at the foot of a hill, and slapped his thigh, to start
the circulation in his half-frozen fingers. "I know the country
hereabouts," he said. "Seven miles further on lies the Hewes estate, and
beyond that Stanham Manor. From the crest of yonder hill I can look down
upon the dear old place. And what if they should recognize me?" he went
on. "What foolishness it was to undertake a trip like this! All the
information I have obtained so far I could put into a thimble." He was
sickening of the adventure. If it were not for the Frothingham stamina
he would have backed out and tried his best to retrace his steps. "I
will be surely able to pick up something worth hearing at the Hewes
place," he went on, half aloud. "If I could only find out the number of
the American forces at Princeton or Morristown it would pay me well for
my trouble."

The horse, with its flanks steaming, had halted knee-deep in the snow
during this soliloquy. William drew his cloak about him and dug his
heels into the ribs of his steed. After plunging for half an hour
through the heavy unbroken road he reached the top of the hill. Below
him stretched the land that had belonged to the old rival company. His
eye first sought the country further on. Above the little hill he could
see the tall chimney that his own father had built in the old colony
days. The smoke was pouring upward, and floated out in the higher air in
a thin cloud much in the shape of an open mushroom; not a breeze was
stirring; and further to the south another column of smoke marked the
position of the Hewes foundries in the hollow.

Yes, and there it was, the old Manor House. He could see the dark
patches of the pines about it, and almost imagine he could hear the roar
of the water-fall. His eyes traversed the woods and the hill-side
nearer. To the right should be the large mansion of Colonel Hewes. The
panting horse was again reined in suddenly. There was nothing there
where the Hewes house had stood but blackened walls and some stark
timbers, whose outlines were softened by the new-fallen snow.

William felt a sense of sorrow besides one of fear and astonishment. He
had intended to make his first venture of obtaining news at the house of
Colonel Hewes. Now there was nothing to do but to press on and make a
bold stroke. He would have to go to Stanham Mills. It would be
impossible, weary as he was, to turn back. It would soon be dusk.

Once more he struck the colt with his heels, and descended the
hill-side. At the bottom a small stream had to be forded. The tired
horse plunged in, and had gone but a little way through the shallow when
he stumbled and pitched forward. William flew over his head amongst the
rocks and ice. Angry and stunned, he rose to his feet. There was a numb
feeling at the elbow-joint of his right arm.

"Fortune is not smiling on me," he said, grimly, feeling the joint with
his fingers. "Here is a nice mess if I have broken anything."

It was merely a serious dislocation, but by placing his hand between his
knees he pulled the joint back into place. It caused him great agony,
and if he had not been above the average in strength it would have been
impossible for him to straighten it. His head hurt him also from its
contact with a stone, and he felt sore and miserable as he managed to
clamber back into the saddle. He had ridden but a little way when the
pain in his arm necessitated another stop. With his handkerchief he made
a sling, and hooked it about his neck.

"I would give a great deal for some of Aunt Clarissa's liniment," he
murmured, grimly.

Just as he came across the well-travelled road that led to the Hewes
foundries a man on horseback came toward him from out of the hollow. The
snow flew from his horse's heels, and as soon as he caught sight of
William he waved his hand.

"Hilloa!" he shouted. "Welcome back!" It was Colonel Hewes's cousin, the
renowned rifleshot. When he was quite near he pulled his horse down to a
walk. "George, dear boy," he said, "Lord knows I am glad to see you
safe."

There was nothing else for him to do, although William's face flushed
hotly at the idea of the deception he would have to practise.

"Are they all well?" he asked.

"Yes, marvellously so," was the rejoinder; "and there is much to tell
about."

William controlled himself with an effort.

"Did you notice that our house was burned?" Mr. Hewes went on. "It
caught fire at night. We narrowly escaped with our lives. Now we are
guests at Stanham Manor, and are having very pleasant times. What a
royal welcome you will have! But tell me, how did you escape? What news
do you bring? What is Howe going to do with his army, and do our good
friends in the city prosper?"

William smiled. "You are asking more questions than I can answer all at
once," he said. "Now, one at a time. I escaped with little difficulty."

"But you are wounded!"

"It is nothing. It will be all right in a few days. There is little
news, for I was placed in a position to gather nothing worth relating,
as you may know. What Howe is going to do with his army is more than I
can conjecture. In fact, I do not think he has made up his mind. There
are comfortable quarters in New York."

"They are living on the fat of the land, I hear," said Mr. Hewes.

"Yes, and our friends are prospering."

"Well, it is good to have you home again," said the tall man. "My
cousin, the Colonel, is away at Morristown, but we will have as a guest
to-night--your guest, I might better say--a young officer, who is on his
way from the army of the north to General Washington. He is carrying
despatches of great moment."

William's heart leaped. Luck might be changing. Here at last would be an
opportunity to gain reliable information that would help the royal
forces.

"You are looking tired and worn, my boy, and I will promise to ask you
no more until you have had a rest and something cheering," said Mr.
Hewes. "That nag of yours is about done for, I should say."

"The roads are very bad," returned William, who, to tell the truth, was
feeling the effects of his fall, and was dizzy and uncomfortable. "You
are hard at work, I see," he added, turning the subject, and nodding in
the direction of the smoking furnaces.

"Yes, yes, indeed," was the rejoinder. "Making good Yankee cannon-balls,
and even your own foundry has been turning them out every day. We have
pleased the Commander-in-chief mightily, I can tell you."

They had entered the familiar lane. The water was roaring under the ice
at the edge of the dam. A group of workmen caught sight of the two
riders from the doorway of the mill, and set up a cheer. They had been
sighted from the house also, and a cluster of figures was waiting at the
foot of the big white wooden pillars. Aunt Clarissa was there, and his
sister Grace, and a broad-shouldered young man in a uniform of blue and
buff. The servants ran out from the big wing and clustered about the
roadway. Old Cato, hatless, came running down the road. When he
approached within a few feet he stopped and faltered.

"Wy, Mas'r William! you, you--"

[Illustration: "CATO," SAID MR. HEWES, "WHAT'S THE MATTER?"]

"Cato," said Mr. Hewes, "what's the matter?"

"Wy, it's Mas'r George, ob course; dis ol' nigger's goin' plumb crazy."
Cato laughed.

Still something had happened to dampen the old colored man's effusion,
and he grasped the hand extended to him with an assumption of being too
much overcome for words.

As William slid from the saddle his dizziness had increased. He had had
nothing to eat all that day, and the fall had been heavier than he had
at first supposed. The sight of his little sister Grace, grown to this
tall beautiful young creature, unnerved him, and when she turned her
face up to his and put her arms around his neck, tears came into his
eyes and he sobbed weakly.

"Poor boy!" said Aunt Clarissa, coming up, as he rested his head on
Grace's shoulder and walked towards the door. "He has suffered much. Oh,
those prisons! The stories I have heard. Dear George, forgive me. I have
been both hard and wrong."

It was evident that Aunt Clarissa had suffered also, and her face had
softened in a wonderful degree. William was almost tempted to make a
clean breast of everything there and then, when the horror of his real
position struck him forcibly. Words would not come; he felt a strange
sinking at his heart; he stumbled, and would have fallen but for Mr.
Hewes's extended arm. For the first time in his life he fainted.

He awoke, he knew not how long afterwards, feeling warm and comfortable,
in a great high bed in what had been his uncle Nathan's room. A candle
was burning dimly at his side, and faithful Aunt Polly was sitting fast
asleep in a great rocking-chair. Well he knew how soundly Aunt Polly
slept. Again he almost sickened at his false position. He could not
stand it. What meant Aunt Clarissa's welcome? And how things had
changed! One thing was left to him, and but one--flight. Anything rather
than to sail under wrong colors and to deceive those who loved and
trusted him.

He arose, and taking his clothes from the chair, stepped softly into the
hallway and dressed quickly. Then he stole down stairs. The moonlight
from the outside flooded the great hall. With a frightening start he saw
hanging over the back of a great chair a pair of heavy saddle-bags. They
belonged to the transient guest--the young American officer, most
probably. He lifted the flap. Heavy papers tied and sealed with great
blotches of red wax were there.

Was it dishonest? His hands fairly trembled. "'Tis for the King," he
said, beneath his breath; but he stopped suddenly and slipped the papers
back into the pouch. "I could not touch them if they contained secrets
worth all kingdoms," he said. "I will go back empty-handed. I had rather
fail."

There was a stir over in the direction of the fireplace, and to his
surprise he saw old Cato shuffling noiselessly toward him. The old man
picked up the saddle-bags without a word.

"Where are you going with that, Cato?" said William, astonished that the
latter had not spoken.

"Jes goin' to take care ob dem, sah," was the reply.

"Leave them here. They are safe enough," said William, feeling half
ashamed of himself, as he spoke the words.

"No, sah; scuse me," was the old man's reply. "If Mas'r William
Frothingham asks dis ol' nigger fur his head he ken have it, but old
Cato ain't goin' to give dese 'spatches to no British officer."

William leaned back against the mantel-piece. Had the others found out
also?

[TO BE CONTINUED.]



IF WE COULD MOVE TO MARS.

BY GARRETT P. SERVISS.


[Illustration: THE FIRST ELECTRIC LINER SENT OUT BY THE U. C. T. AND
S. D. CO., MARS DIVISION.]

It is not necessary to consider the various reasons that would impel
many inhabitants of the earth to go to Mars if they had the opportunity.
But no one can doubt that the first train for Mars, or the first
balloon, or the first electric liner sent out by the Universal Celestial
Transportation and Safe-Delivery Company, Mars Division, would be booked
to its utmost capacity. Curiosity alone would suffice to crowd it, and
it is certain that the Anglo-Saxon race, which has furnished most of the
great travellers, would be fully represented in the throng of
adventurers bound for another world.

When Mars is nearest to the earth its distance is no less than
36,000,000 miles. But if we set our speed to match that of an electric
impulse flying through the Atlantic cable--say 15,000 miles per
second--we should be there in just forty minutes. Good enough for time,
but how about guide-books?

Well, as to that, explorers must expect to find their own way about.
Marco Polo had no Baedeker. And, besides, we are not altogether left
without guidance, such as it is. We have to thank Signor Schiaparelli
for some very beautiful charts of Mars, which he has made with the aid
of his telescope at Milan; and other astronomers have drawn charts of
Mars also. It is true that all these are filled with glittering
generalities, and in some respects are contradictory; yet upon the whole
they really form a more complete map of the entire surface of Mars than
anybody had of the earth in the time of Columbus.

[Illustration: MARS AS YOU APPROACH IT, SHOWING THE CANALS.]

On approaching Mars we should behold a world looking in some respects
remarkably like the earth, having seasons resembling ours, with torrid,
temperate, and frigid zones; turning on its axis like our globe, and in
nearly the same time; showing in winter broad white caps, as of snow,
covering its polar regions, and presenting many appearances suggestive
of continents, oceans, islands, and peninsulas. As we watched it slowly
turning under our eyes, we should see on one side, south of its equator,
a huge, staring eyelike-spot, which Schiaparelli has named the "Lake of
the Sun," and on the opposite side, reaching from the southern
hemisphere into the northern, a great, dark, crooked area, somewhat
resembling North America in shape, and known to astronomers as the
"Hour-glass Sea." And then all the globe beneath us would appear to be
mapped with delicate reds and yellows and grays and blues; long waving
curves and sharper indentations would make their appearance in what look
like coast-lines; and presently, running east and west and south and
north, and passing "beyond the horizon's utmost rim," a network of
dark-colored lines, like a vast web covering the planet, would be seen.
These are the famous "canals."

But while we were wondering what this could mean, we should be struck by
another unearthlike thing. Being accustomed to dwell on a globe
three-fourths of whose surface is covered with water, it could not
escape our notice that the world we were approaching had far more land
than water. Indeed, it is likely that we should find that the
"Hour-glass Sea," and many of the other so-called seas of Mars, are only
part of the time filled with water, and that even then they are not like
terrestrial oceans, but rather vast swamps, choked with rank vegetation
suddenly awakened to life by periodical inundations supplying moisture
to their roots. Visiting them at another time, we should find only
deserts with cracked soil baking in the sun. At any rate, some of the
discoveries made with great telescopes in 1894 suggest these things.

In the equatorial regions, where the earth is richest in all forms of
life, it is not improbable that we should find Mars covered with one
vast Sahara. We should have to go to the poles to discover anything like
seas. When the snow-fields around the south pole began to melt away with
the on-coming of summer, an opportunity would be given us to behold a
spectacle that the earth cannot match. As the snow melted, the water
thus formed would collect into a shallow sea, which would constantly
tend to empty itself by flowing off toward the equator. Very likely Mars
is a remarkably flat world, and the water from the pole would encounter
little opposition to its movement.

Then would come a sight that would open our eyes with amazement. Looking
toward the equator, we should see only barren red lands and the dry and
dusty basins of ancient seas; but the wave of snow-water from the
antarctic circle, running through ready channels and percolating the
thirsty soil, would be like the spirit of life moving upon the face of a
dying world. At its touch vegetation would sprout and spring and wax
great, with the magic rapidity that we sometimes see exhibited on the
earth; the hard soil at its roots would fall apart and dissolve with
moisture, and in a few weeks, where only the naked bones of the planet
had been visible before, we should be able to wade neck-deep in seas of
verdure, with long grasses waving softly in the vernal wind, and sweet
flowers stroking our faces.

The observations made by Mr. Percival Lowell and Professor W. H.
Pickering during the last opposition of Mars seem to lend probability
not only to such conjectures, but to others which are now to follow.

We have imagined ourselves watching on Mars the progress of the
life-giving water spreading from the south pole during the spring and
early summer of that hemisphere of the planet. But we have noticed its
effects only in the great depressed regions that may once have been
actual seas. How about the still greater regions which nobody has ever
supposed to be seas, and which appear on the charts of Schiaparelli and
others under the name of continents? If Mars has not water enough to
keep its sea-beds permanently covered, its dry lands must thirst indeed!
Let us go, then, to that strange region where lies the so-called "Lake
of the Sun."

As we cross the red continents, hot and blazing in the merciless
sunshine, we begin to meet the "canals," but, behold! they are not
canals! They are broad streaks or belts of vegetation, intersected with
numerous tiny water-channels, like the valley of the river Po or the
flat meadows of Holland, and the water comes from the vast swamps
formed, as we saw, by the polar inundation.

Now our interest rises to the dramatic pitch, for here is the work of
hands, here are evidences of intelligent design, and here, if anywhere
on this distant world, we must expect to meet its inhabitants. I shall
not undertake at this point to describe the appearance that those
inhabitants might present. But let us imagine that we put ourselves
under their guidance.

It is probable, for a reason which I shall mention presently, that our
Martian friends would turn out to be exceptionally intelligent. They
might guess, then, that we would have a rather poor opinion of their
world of floods and deserts, and for that reason they would lead us at
once to its finest scenes. Through the corn-land and the vine-land of
their irrigated belts, traversing the sandy wastes with strips of green,
they would doubtless conduct us along magnificent shady roads to one of
the numerous crossing-places where two or more of the fertile bands
meet, and where our astronomers on the earth have noticed that there is
always an oval dark spot, which some of them have thought must mark the
site of a lake.

But as we approach one of these spots the spires and roofs (or what
answer on Mars for spires and roofs) of a town make their appearance.
And quickly we find ourselves in strange streets and avenues, surrounded
by throngs of such people as the wildest traveller's tale has never
pictured on the earth. We are led to a lofty outlook, from which we can
see far across the level country, and behold the radiating belts, along
which alone the land is fruitful, stretching away in every direction,
and at each crossing-place widening into an island of green dotted with
the dwellings of a town or city. The red glare of the leafless and
waterless wilderness, contrasting with the emerald lines that intersect
it, makes a scene of overwhelming strangeness. In the remote distance
our guides point out to us the metropolis of this part of Mars, placed
in the broadest of the verdant spots, where our charts show the "Lake of
the Sun," and surrounded by an immense system of irrigated belts,
running out across the desert to the distant sea-swamps on all sides
like the spokes of an enormous wheel, and so conspicuous that the Lick
telescope and other telescopes have shown them from the earth. Every one
of those lines is sucking moisture from the polar overflow, and storing
up subsistence for the great city and all the inhabitants of the land.

For this is not merely the harvest season on Mars; it is the time when
every thought is on the future, and every energy is bent to the
preservation of life upon the planet. Did we think that we had learned
how to make the earth yield to us the full measure of its fertility?
Bah! We had to come to Mars to find out that science. If we should
return to this scene in a few months the story would be plain. Then the
desert would have resumed its sway uninterrupted; the swamp oceans, half
water and half leaves, would have returned to dust; the irrigating
ditches would have dried up, and the productive belts would be like so
many narrow bands of prairie that had been swept with fire. At such a
time the "canals" of the planet Mars disappear from the sight of
terrestrial astronomers, and the so-called "oceans" turn pale.

Then we may imagine the inhabitants of that most singular planet
reaping the fruit of their foresight and industry; then is the season of
social joys in the Martian metropolis on the site of the "Lake of the
Sun"; then men go no longer forth to the fields to toil for the future,
because that future for which they worked has come, and there is to be
no more toil, until once again, with the slow swing of the seasons, the
southern pole, burdened under its accumulated winter snows, beholds the
sun, and at its touch dissolves into life-giving water.

So much for some of the broad features of life on Mars as recent
discoveries permit us to picture them, although it should be borne in
mind that astronomy, as a science, does not assert--though it does not
deny--that there is life at all on Mars. It allows us to draw our own
conclusions. Now, then, continuing the supposition that there may be
inhabitants on Mars, let us consider some other queer things that we
should probably behold and experience on paying them a visit.

Mars is small compared with our world, its diameter being only about
4200 miles, and its surface between one-third and one-fourth as
extensive as the earth's. Knowing its size and density, we can calculate
how great its gravitation is--in other words, how much bodies weigh on
its surface. If we tip the scales at 150 pounds on the earth, we should
find that our weight had been reduced, in going to Mars, to about 67
pounds. It is hardly possible to tell exactly how we should behave in
such circumstances. Doubtless we should feel as if we were walking on
air, or as if we could jump over a house, for our muscular strength
would remain the same. Imagine the feelings of an elephant suddenly
removed to Mars!

But the most singular effect that we should behold of this comparative
lack of weight on Mars might be upon its own inhabitants. The chances
are not small that we should find ourselves amid a lot of giants there,
averaging about fifteen feet tall. It is easy to prove that on Mars a
man of that height would, in proportion to his muscular strength, be no
heavier or clumsier than our average descendant of Adam is. Yet he would
be absolutely stronger and able to perform harder work. Then, too, the
things he had to lift would be far lighter, bulk for bulk, than similar
things on the earth. Accordingly, during our visit to one of those
"irrigation belts" that Mr. Lowell has imagined, we might behold feats
of strength in the digging of ditches and the garnering of the fruits of
the soil that would fill us with astonishment.

And that leads us to something else rather queer. There are reasons for
thinking that a small globe like Mars might, because it would cool
faster, get into a habitable condition sooner than the earth. If so, the
people of Mars may have family trees that would put our longest
genealogies completely into the shade, and their history as a race may
exceed ours by an enormous length of time.



HOW MAGIC IS MADE.

BY HENRY HATTON.


II.

Another trick with handkerchiefs is that known as "Easily seen Through,"
from the transparent box which plays an important part in it.

As this box is of glass, top, bottom, and sides, it hardly seems
possible that anything could be concealed in it, and yet-- But let me
describe the trick in full.

The box, which is about four inches square, is held up so that it may be
seen, and is then placed on a table and covered with a large
handkerchief. Taking a piece of newspaper of the size of a sheet of
foolscap, the performer twists it into a cornucopia, or paper cone, such
as the grocer wraps sugar in for his customers, and gives it to one of
the audience, who has volunteered to assist on the stage, to hold.
Seated on a chair, the assistant holds the cornucopia at arm's length.
The performer drops into its open mouth three small squares of
silk--red, white, and blue, respectively--and with a borrowed cane or
umbrella pushes them well down; he then closes the paper horn by folding
over the mouth. To do this necessitates taking it from the assistant for
an instant, and when it is returned, the larger end is given to him.
With the injunction to keep it well away from his body lest he be
suspected of collusion, the performer announces: "I shall now pass the
handkerchiefs invisibly from the paper horn, which the gentleman holds,
to the little glass box." Here he stops abruptly, and pretending to have
heard a remark from the audience, continues, "Oh no, they are not there
yet," and removes the handkerchiefs from the box to show it is still
empty, and almost immediately covers it again. A moment later, however,
when he whisks off the handkerchief, the three squares of colored silk
are seen in the box, while the cornucopia, on being opened, is found to
be empty.

Although some address on the part of the performer is necessary in order
to give brilliancy to the trick, the secret lies in the box and the
cornucopia.

[Illustration: "EASILY SEEN THROUGH."]

The box is made with a double bottom of glass, and between this and the
real bottom are duplicate squares of silk. This silk--and this remark
applies to most of the "handkerchiefs" used in conjuring--is of a very
light, flimsy character, either _marcelline_ or a thin quality of
Japanese, and takes up but little room. A catch at the back of the box,
worked from the outside, which the performer touches when covering the
box, releases the false bottom, and this, impelled by a spiral spring
attached to the hinge, instantly flies up, and lies flat against one
side, while the elasticity of the silk squares causes them to fly up and
partly fill the box.

[Illustration: FIG. 1.]

[Illustration: FIG. 2.]

[Illustration: FIG. 3.]

The cornucopia is made of two sheets folded in the centre, as shown by
the dotted lines in the diagram, and glued together at three sides, A,
B, and C. Picking up the paper with his left hand, so that the bottom
part B comes between the thumb and fingers, the performer catches the
corner F with his right hand, and brings it over to the point D. Then
the half, E, A, F, is drawn over till the corner E touches G, as in Fig.
2, and finally the corner H is thrown round the other parts; the point
is given a twist, and the cornucopia is complete, as in Fig. 3.

Placing his hand inside, the performer opens the space between the inner
and the outer paper, smoothing it down so as to appear like the proper
opening. It is in this opening (between the papers) the silk squares are
placed and pushed down. The performer folds the top once over, and gives
it to the assistant to hold, with his fingers over the fold. When the
time arrives, the performer unrolls the cornucopia from the bottom
point, and spreading out the paper, it appears to be empty, the thin
texture of the silks concealed between the paper making them
inconspicuous.

There are two pretty variations of this trick. In one, the last
handkerchief of the three is passed from the hands to the box; in the
second, two cornucopias are used, dispensing with the box.

As in the first there is no resort either to the short cord used in the
"Evanescent Handkerchief," or the hand-bag of the "Mission of a Plate,"
it may prove of interest to the amateur.

The handkerchief--preferably the red one--is first gathered into both
hands, and then, to allow of the performer turning up his sleeves, is
transferred to the left hand. All this time an end is seen protruding,
yet when the hand is opened it is empty, and the handkerchief has
vanished.

The solution is simple: a small loose piece of silk about two inches
square is picked up with the handkerchief; the latter is carried off
with the right hand in the act of apparently transferring it to the
left, into which only the little piece is put. In turning up the left
sleeve the handkerchief is wrapped in the fold, and finally the piece of
silk is rolled into a tiny ball and concealed between the fingers, and
dropped on the table at the first opportunity. The trick is not
generally known, and is useful as a change from older methods.

In the second variation the cornucopia into which the handkerchiefs are
passed is made by pasting together two sheets of paper at all four
sides. Between these papers are hidden the duplicate handkerchiefs.
Instead of opening this cornucopia at the conclusion of the trick, the
performer merely tears it in two and pulls out the handkerchiefs. As I
have known a performer of long experience to be puzzled by this trick, I
can conscientiously recommend it. It has the advantage, too, of doing
away with the glass box, which, when properly made, costs four or five
dollars.

Guibal generally follows the trick just described with "The Transit of
the Cards." In this he is assisted by two of the audience, one of whom
he dubs "the glass box," and the other "the paper horn," claiming that
the trick, though done with cards instead of handkerchiefs, is virtually
the same as the preceding one.

To one of these assistants, who must not be confounded with
confederates, he hands a pack of cards to be counted aloud. This
operation concluded, he asks: "How many cards did you say there
are--thirty-two? I knew it, but I want my audience to know it too."

He gathers up the cards, and as he takes them in his hands he passes the
little finger of his left hand between the five top ones and the rest of
the pack.

"Now, sir," addressing the glass box, that is the assistant on his
right, "be good enough to empty the outer breast pocket of your coat.
Good. Cut this pack."

As he says this he palms the five top cards, and lays the rest of the
pack on the table, which is between him and the audience.

When the pack is cut, the performer requests the assistant to put the
cut in his breast pocket, to cover the pocket with his hand, and on no
account to remove it.

Pointing to the remainder of the pack lying on the table, he requests
the paper horn, the assistant on his left, to count it. Let us suppose
there proves to be nineteen cards. "Good," he exclaims. "You, sir, will
please put these in your pocket." At these words he bunches the cards
together with the right hand, adding the five palmed ones.

When the paper horn has emptied his pocket, and placed the cards
therein, the performer continues: "You, the paper horn, have nineteen
cards, and you, the glass box, necessarily have thirteen, since the sum
of nineteen and thirteen equals thirty-two. Now, gentlemen, keep your
hands on your pockets, and see that not a card enters or leaves without
your knowing it."

"Will you, madam," addressing a lady, "select one of the three mystic
numbers, 4, 5, or 6?"

Should 5 be the number chosen, the trick is done, for the performer has
only to command five cards to pass from the pocket of the glass box to
that of the paper horn.

But if 4 or 6 is selected a little subterfuge is necessary. Let us
suppose 4 is chosen.

Turning to the lady, the performer says: "You take number 4? You are
sure you would not prefer 5 or 6? No? Be it so. See what I shall do. I
shall cause four of the cards which are in the pocket of the glass box
to pass invisibly into the pocket of the paper horn. To do this,
however, I must ask this gentleman on my left to give me one card from
his pocket that the others may learn the road they are to follow."

Taking this card, he gives it to the assistant on his right to put into
his pocket. "Now," he proceeds, "one, two, three, four, pass! Count your
cards, sir"--to the paper horn--"and see if you have not twenty-three,
as you certainly ought to have, since nineteen which you had and the
four which have passed make exactly that number."

Of course this proves to be right. Then the glass box is asked to count
his cards, and he is found to have nine, since, as the performer
explains, four of his original thirteen have left his pocket and gone
over to the majority.

Had number 6 been chosen instead of 4, one card would have been taken
from the glass box and given to the paper horn "to show the others the
way."

Here is a clever little trick which will pass very well for
"Thought-Reading" and is quite puzzling. I believe it has also the
advantage of never having been explained in print.

Before beginning, the performer gives three sealed envelopes to one of
the audience to hold. He then borrows a watch, a ring, and a knife.
Three of the audience are asked to act as a committee, and to them are
given the borrowed articles, with a request that they leave the room,
when each is to select one of the articles and hide it in his pocket.
Before they go, however, the performer takes a number of cards from a
pack, gives one card to one of the committee, two to a second, and none
to the third. These they are to put in their pockets, each remembering
how many cards have been handed to him.

When they return to the room, the performer, without asking a question,
collects the sealed envelopes, and hands one to each of the committee.
On opening them, each finds inside his envelope a card bearing the name
of the article he has selected.

With careful attention and a fair memory any one can do this
trick--provided he knows how.

In the first place, he must be able to distinguish in which of the
envelopes is each of the three cards; this may be done by pricking with
a pin one corner of one envelope for the watch, two corners of a second
for the ring, and leaving the third envelope intact. The advantage of
this system is that the marks are not noticeable, and may be recognized
by the touch.

In taking the cards from the pack, the performer, although apparently
choosing at haphazard, is really careful to take exactly twelve. These
are placed on top of the pack before beginning the trick, and the
thirteenth card has a tiny corner clipped off, so that there may be no
mistake about the number, as the success of the trick depends upon
having it exact. The committee-men are numbered, mentally, 1, 2, and 3
by the performer, who must remember their respective numbers.

To No. 1 he gives one card, to No. 2, two cards, and to No. 3, none.
Over the remaining nine cards he slips a rubber band, so that they may
not get mixed with the others, and hands them to No. 1 to keep.

When the committee-men have retired and selected the articles, the
performer calls to them: "From the cards secured by the elastic let him
who has the watch take as many as I gave him originally; let the one who
has selected the ring take twice as many as I gave him, but the one who
has the knife is to take none."

When the committee returns the performer collects the cards bound
together by the elastic, and sees at a glance just how many are left.

Then he refers--mentally again--to the following, which, though it means
nothing, in this case means much.

   1    |   2    |   3   |   5    |    6    |    7
  Ante  |  Diem  |  Dea  |  Ista  |  Estin  |  Armis
  1 2   |  3 2   |  2 1  |  3 1   |   2 3   |   1 3

The upper row of numbers refer to the cards left in the elastic; the
lower row shows the borrowed articles according to their value, that is,
1=watch, 2=ring, 3=knife. The words show the numerical value of the
vowels, a, e, i.

If one card is left, the performer knows that the watch has been chosen
by committee-man 1, the ring by No. 2, and the knife, consequently, by
No. 3. Should there be five cards left, the knife has gone to No. 1, the
watch to No. 2, the ring to No. 3.

Having found out just how the articles are distributed, the performer
gives out the sealed envelopes, makes his bow, and gracefully retires.



[Illustration: From Chum to Chum]

BY GASTON V. DRAKE.

IV.--FROM BOB TO JACK.


[Illustration]

[Illustration]

DEAR JACK,--I guess this letter will reach you about the same time as
the other. We did pass the _Paris_ but it was after dark and I couldn't
catch the Captain's eye, so the other letter won't be mailed to you a
bit earlier. This will be just a P.S. to that. I've had a fearfully
exciting time since I wrote to you last. I didn't see Chesterfield for
two whole days after that morning and I began to get kind of worried
about him, but this morning, which is very rough he turned up again
dripping wet. I thought it was one of the waves that have been breaking
over us all the time that had wet him, but he said no, it was falling
overboard. He was fixing one of the ropes down by the stern yesterday
morning when the ship gave a fearful lurch and sent him flying head over
heels into the ocean, but he fortunately had enough presence of mind to
grab hold of the lead line that runs astern in connection with a little
dial to show how many knots an hour the boat goes. It's a funny sort of
machine. It's so fixed that being pulled through the water makes the
rope revolve, and the faster the boat goes the faster the rope goes
around, and every time it goes around it registers a point on the dial
on the stern-rail. It was this bit of rope that Chesterfield caught when
he fell, but it was an awful prediggerment for him to be placed in
because he had to revolve with it, and he got so dizzy that he nearly
had to let go, but when he realized that if he let go he'd be drowned he
held on and gradually hauled himself up the rope until he got himself
aboard again. Of course when he got on board again he'd been whizzed
about so much that he couldn't stand up or walk straight, and when the
Captain saw him staggering up the deck he falsely accused him of having
had too much brandy in his mince pie and ordered him below for
twenty-four hours in irons, which is an awful disgrace, and Chesterfield
is too much of a gentleman to stand unjust disgrace, so this morning
when he was allowed to go free again he felt so badly that he went up
into the bow and jumped overboard, preferring to die. But just as he
jumped another big wave came along and washed him back on board again,
and he has decided to live, which I am glad of because he is a very fine
fellow.

[Illustration]

He says this is his last trip on this boat. As soon as we land he's
going down to Venezuela where he has ten millions of hoarded treasure
buried in a swamp. He's going to dig it up and buy the whole of some
Island out in the Pacific Ocean and settle down as a King and he's
promised if I ever visit him to give me a reception worthy of an
Emperor. There is only one trouble, he says, about it all. With all his
millions buried in Venezuela he hasn't got enough money with him to pay
his fare, but I fixed that. I've lent him the two gold pounds papa gave
me, which he says, will help him out with what he hopes to get for
looking after the chairs--most people give him fifty dollars, he says,
for doing that, and there are six hundred passengers on board, which
makes $30,000. I think that's a good deal of money, but he says it's
only a bagatelle for a man who wants to go to Venezuela. He's going to
pay me back my two pounds after he's dug up his money in Venezuela, and
he told me not to say anything to dad about it but surprise him next
winter when I get the money back with a thousand pounds interest
besides.

[Illustration]

There's one nice thing about travelling at sea. Coming this way we gain
a half an hour everyday. That is, at this time to-morrow morning it will
be half an hour later and that's first rate when you wake up on a rough
morning at eight o'clock and find out that it isn't eight o'clock at
all, but half past, and you can get your breakfast right away. The idea
of it is that travelling East the sun goes down earlier every night and
of course it always sets on time wherever you are and you've got to fix
your watch according to it. Chesterfield knows a man who kept on going
around and around the world until he'd shoved Christmas forward six
months, and didn't realize what had happened until he was wakened up by
the boys celebrating the Fourth of July. It sounds like a queer story,
but Chesterfield says it's true, and the way ships' time is arranged it
seems to prove it. It takes a trip all the way round the world to knock
off a day though, so it's not as easy a thing to upset the calendar as
you'd think. Chesterfield says that if a man could live long enough to
go around the world three thousand six hundred and fifty times going
west he'd be ten years younger than his own twin brother at the end of
that time. I asked dad if that was so and he said he guessed it was, but
he really didn't know and to find out he put the question to a very
extinguished editor of a Brooklyn paper who is on board and he said of
course it was, that he knew a man who had done it. He said that the man
was an editor of a Philadelphia paper and that that was why that
particular paper was ten years behind the times. Dad laughed at this,
and so did I, though I don't know why. Maybe it was a joke--though the
extinguished Brooklyn editor said it very solemnly.

We expect to come in sight of land to-morrow and I must say I'm glad of
it. The sea is all very fine, but the rough weather you're apt to get
makes what you eat disagree with you and I want to get some place where
you can eat a dinner and enjoy thinking about it afterwards.

As soon as we get to London I'll write again and tell you all about
everything.

  Yours ever,
  BOB.

P.S. Chesterfield says he thinks Sandboys would make a good Prime
Minister for his new Kingdom in the Pacific. He says he'll give him ten
dollars a week and Saturdays off if he'll do his Prime Ministering for
him. You might speak to Sandboys about it.



THE SOAPY SEA.


  When first beside the turquoise sea
    Stood Mabel, fair and sweet,
  And saw the billows breaking free
    Like snow-drifts at her feet,

  She murmured, "Do these soapsuds leap
    And roll from morn till night,
  Way up the shore, to wash and keep,
    It always silver white?"



[Illustration: 3. The Finish. 2. The Stride. 1. The Start.

From instantaneous Photographs of B. J. Wefers, Amateur Champion of the
World.]

[Illustration: The Start of a Handicap 100-yard dash.

SHORT-DISTANCE RUNNING.]

[Illustration: INTERSCHOLASTIC SPORT]


Of all track-athletic events the sprints are the hardest to train for,
yet the easiest to perform. Being the easiest, there are consequently
many more athletes running the 100 and the 220 than there are competing
in any other single event; but of all the competitors there are
comparatively few really first-class men. To become such requires long
and patient and careful training, and a greater mastery of form than in
almost anything else.

It is a difficult task to tell on paper just what a man should do who
wishes to make a specialty of sprinting. There are so many small points
of importance that vary with individuals, that only a general
description and a few broad suggestions can be given here. At the same
time, whoever accepts these suggestions and heeds them may feel
confident that he is working along the right lines, and that if he will
follow the advice here set down he will put himself into condition to
make rapid strides of progress as soon as he comes under the management
of a trainer.

It has already been said in this Department that no one ought to begin
to train for any athletic event much under the age of sixteen. Until
that time few boys are sufficiently developed physically to be able to
stand the strain of regular athletic work. At that age and afterward,
however, the muscles become firm, and are amenable to development and
capable of continuous careful exercise. You will hear a great deal of
talk about "wind" and "breathing" and "lungs" and kindred subjects when
you first begin to train as a runner. Pay no attention to these "wind"
advisers. Your wind and lungs will take care of themselves. In the first
place, the lungs are not at all the organs that you want to think of in
this connection; it is the heart. The heart is the organ that is
affected by running. Run a hundred yards, and you will find your heart
beating faster than when you started. The exertion of sending the blood
more rapidly through the body is the cause of this. Therefore a sprinter
should first feel confident that he has a strong heart, and then he may
set to work with no misgivings about his wind.

It is not the lungs that are affected by cigarette-smoking. It is the
heart. Take any smoker, and you will find that his heart beats to a
different measure from that of an abstainer. For this reason sprinters
should avoid tobacco. Another old-fashioned and exploded theory is that
the athlete should run with his mouth shut. That is not necessary at
all. In fact, sprinters are taught nowadays to run with their mouths
open, and every first-class man in the event does so. It must be plain
to every one that a man can get more air into his lungs, and thus
facilitate the working of the heart, by inhaling through his mouth than
through his nostrils. Of late all the best long-distance runners have
adopted this breathing method, and find it best, and in the
illustrations of long-distance runners to be published in an early issue
of the ROUND TABLE these men will all be seen to have their mouths open
as they run.

The training for the 100 yards and that for the 220 are almost
identical, for an athlete who runs one of these events almost invariably
becomes proficient in the other. In fact, the 220 is a long sprint--the
word sprint meaning to run at full speed the entire distance of a race.
The most important feature of sprinting, of course, is the start, and no
runner can become too proficient in this. Up to within five or six years
the standing start was universal, but in 1889 or 1890 Lee of the New
York Athletic Club introduced the crouching start, and since then that
has become the standard in America. In England some of the professionals
use it, but not until the London Athletic Club men came over here last
fall did British amateurs recognize the value of the crouch and adopt
it. But they did adopt it after the international games, and no doubt
the crouching start will soon become general among English amateurs.

The position for this start is somewhat difficult to acquire and master,
but once this is accomplished an athlete is certain to knock off
one-fifth of a second from his best previous record. The first thing of
importance is to fall into an easy position, with the hands on the
scratch-line and the starting foot from six to nine inches back. The
other foot should be from 2 ft. 6 in. to 2 ft. 9 in. further back. The
runner should be raised up on his toes in an easy, springy attitude. The
first illustration shows exactly how that position is taken. Many
runners lean on their knuckles, but a better way is to have the hands
open, and to rest on the extended fingers. This gives more spring. In
order to do this and to keep hold of the running corks, fasten a rubber
band at each end of these, and slip this over the back of the hands.

When the starter gives the word to "set," the runner should lean forward
as far as he can without losing his balance, his head lifted so that he
can get a full and clear view of the track ahead of him. When the pistol
sounds he shoots ahead with all the force of both legs, but his first
two strides are taken in a crouching position. Do not attempt to stand
erect at the very start. Let the head and shoulders rise along a
slanting line to their proper altitude, or there will be an
infinitesimal but still noticeable loss of time. As soon as the runner
has got into an erect position, however, and into his pace, he should
run with only the very slightest forward inclination of the body, but
with the chin thrust well out. The second illustration shows this well.
The arms should be swung across the body rather than alongside of it.
This gives better form and makes an easier stride.

Never look backward while running. Many a race has been lost by that
very act. Pay no attention at all to the other competitors, but go it
for all you are worth, regardless of your rivals. Breathe naturally. Do
not begin to stop until you have passed the finish-line, but, this done,
throw up your hands and try to run up into the air. The third
illustration demonstrates that idea. The man who naturally has a long
stride has an advantage over his fellows, but the man who has not a long
stride need not attempt to increase his spread of pace. An athlete can
run much better with his natural stride than with an adopted gait. Of
course, when jogging for practice, it is best to lift the legs as well
up as possible, and thus develop whatever capabilities for a long stride
you may have, but do not strain yourself by trying to overdo the thing.
The foot should always come down straight upon the ground--that is,
flat. I do not mean by this that the heel should touch, for it must not
by any means. Yet a man does not run on his toes; he runs on the ball of
his foot; and in order that the spikes of his shoes may enter the track
to the best advantage the sole should strike flat, that the nails may
dig well in and secure a firm hold.

For a beginner who has never undertaken any systematic training in
sprinting, and who desires to become proficient in it, I should
recommend the following schedule, to be carefully carried out for three
weeks:

_Monday_.--Practise the start six times, running at speed only about
twenty yards from the scratch. Rest between each attempt, and end up by
jogging fifty yards, finishing up the hundred at speed.

_Tuesday_.--Jog a quarter of a mile for the purpose of developing the
stride.

_Wednesday_.--Run seventy-five yards at speed; rest, and then run fifty
yards at speed.

_Thursday_.--Practise the start ten times, running as before, not
further than twenty yards each time; jog 220 yards slowly for stride.

_Friday_.--Run fifty yards at speed twice, with a rest between.

_Saturday_.--Run a trial 100 yards on time, and, after a rest, jog
around the track for 220 yards.

To an ambitious young athlete who feels he is a future record-holder
this schedule may seem altogether too light. There are no words strong
enough, however, with which I can urge him not to attempt to do a bit
more at the beginning. What is more, at the slightest sign of fatigue at
this work, quit for the day.

For practising starts, where a pistol is unavailable, get some one to
snap two boards together. Don't start by oral command. Get in the habit
of getting off the mark at the crack of a pistol, or to a sound as
nearly similar as possible. The jogging around the track should be taken
very slowly, and is intended purely as a leg exercise and to develop the
muscles of the calves and thighs. A long loose jog will lengthen the
stride. When preparing for a contest lay off altogether the day
immediately preceding it, and don't run your distance against time for
three or four days previously. Run only fifty yards at those times if
you are going into the 100, and try 150 if you intend entering the 220.
In a 220 race you will find that you can make a stronger finish if you
ease up a trifle for 5 or 10 yards at the 200-yard mark--although this
is merely _comparatively_ speaking, for this race is a dash from start
to finish. It will be better not to experiment with this suggestion
until you become a pretty good judge of your pace.

The proper costume for a runner is a light jersey shirt with no sleeves,
and china-silk running trousers that barely reach to the knees. If china
silk is unavailable, cambric or cotton will do very well. Corks may be
purchased of any dealer in sporting goods. Working shoes should be made
of horse-hide, with no heels, and six spikes in the toes. The athlete
should also have a pair of calf-skin shoes of the lightest possible make
for use only in competition. While at work it is well to wear light
socks, as these make the shoe fit more snugly; but in a race wear
"pushers"; these are made of chamois, and cover the toes from the instep
downward.

The interest in the big in-door games to be held at the Madison Square
Garden on March 28th seems to be increasing every day. Not only have
most of the prominent athletes of the New York schools already entered
or signified their intention of entering, but many sportsmen from a
distance will be on hand to try their powers against the home talent.
The Hartford High-School will send three representatives to the meeting.
Luce, the Captain of their track-athletic team, will enter the half, the
quarter, and the 220. He won the quarter in the Connecticut H.-S.A.A.
games of 1894, but only took second in the event last year on account of
having gone stale. His best time is 51-2/5 seconds; his records for the
half-mile and the 220 are 2 minutes 7 seconds, and 23-2/5 seconds.
These, of course, are out-door records. F. R. Sturtevant will enter the
pole vault and the running high jump. He has an in-door record of 9 feet
8 inches in the former event, and can clear 5 feet 7 inches in the jump.
He has held the championship of the Connecticut H.-S.A.A. in these
events for the past two years. J. W. Bradin, the third Hartford man, has
not made a very strong showing in athletics as yet, but he is full of
promise. He took third in the quarter at the Connecticut H.-S.A.A.
games last year, and will enter that event in the Madison Square Garden
games.

The baseball schedule of the New York Interscholastic League has been
formulated, and was announced at the last regular meeting of the
association. As was the case last year, the competing teams will play in
two sections, and the games will be held on the following dates:

FIRST SECTION.

  April 6--Drisler _vs._ Barnard.
  April 10--Condon _vs._ Cutler.
  April 15--Barnard _vs._ De La Salle Institute.
  April 20--Condon _vs._ Drisler.
  April 24--Cutler _vs._ De La Salle.
  April 29--De La Salle _vs._ Drisler.
  May 4--Barnard _vs._ Condon.
  May 8--Cutler _vs._ Barnard.
  May 13--Condon _vs._ De La Salle.
  May 18--Cutler _vs._ Drisler.

SECOND SECTION.

  April 8--Woodbridge _vs._ Hamilton Institute.
  April 13--Columbia Grammar _vs._ Trinity.
  April 17--Hamilton _vs._ Berkeley.
  April 22--Columbia Grammar _vs._ Woodbridge.
  April 27--Woodbridge _vs._ Berkeley.
  May 1--Berkeley _vs._ Trinity.
  May 6--Hamilton _vs._ Columbia Grammar.
  May 11--Trinity _vs._ Hamilton.
  May 15--Columbia Grammar _vs._ Berkeley.
  May 20--Trinity _vs._ Woodbridge.

The winner of the first section will play the winner of the second for
the League championship on May 27th, and all games will be played at the
Berkeley Oval. Should there be a tie in any section, the Baseball
Committee will assign a date for the deciding game.

  THE GRADUATE.



[Illustration: THE PUDDING STICK.]

     This Department is conducted in the interest of Girls and Young
     Women, and the Editor will be pleased to answer any question on the
     subject so far as possible. Correspondents should address Editor.


"Why should that old lady care," I heard a girl say the other day,
"whether or not her hair is turning gray? What possible difference can
it make of what color is the hair of an old, old woman? Why, she mast be
almost eighty!"

In the case in question the lady criticised was on the borderland of
seventy, but to sixteen she might as well have been a hundred. Age and
youth are relative. To the very young years count for more than they do
to the older, who have lived longer, and have learned that the soul does
not grow old with the body. I myself feel pity for elderly people who
are ashamed of their age, and are so weak as to try to hide it, but I
don't quite like to see young girls unsympathetic. Try, if you can, to
fancy yourselves in the position of some of your elders--of women who
remember, but do not look forward. As you go tripping on, with light
steps, imagine what it would be to totter a little, to see dimly, to
hear faintly, to feel worried at every little pain and mishap, to reach
the days when "the grasshopper is a burden." No, you cannot do it. You
are too full of life and gladness and energy. You are young, and youth
is charming.

All this should make you very patient and gentle with old people. There
is nothing more beautiful in this world than to observe the tenderness
of some girls toward their aged relatives. Dear grandmother cannot
thread her needles so easily as she used to do, and is sensitive on the
subject; and does not like to be too obviously helped, to have attention
called to her failing eye-sight, which she so much regrets and does not
like to admit. There are two ways of meeting the difficulty. Mattie, a
kind-hearted girl without much tact, will exclaim: "Oh, gran! what
perfect nonsense for you to fuss over that needle! You know you cannot
find the hole where the thread should go in; your eyes are too old. Give
me the thing; I'll thread your needles!" The intention is most
excellent, but the old lady is hurt and stifles a sigh. She had young
eyes once, and she has the same independent spirit still. Edith, in the
same circumstances, manages in another fashion. She simply threads a
dozen needles, and leaves them all ready for grandmamma in her
needle-book, saying, pleasantly, "It saves so much time, dear, in these
busy days, to have one's needles all ready and waiting." Tact is a
wonderful gift, girls, and well worth cultivating when it will help to
make a saddened heart light, or to oil the domestic wheels and make them
run smoothly.

Whatever you do, never suffer yourselves, girls, to show irritation or
amusement at the foibles of an old lady or gentleman. One is as hard to
bear as the other. The sweet girl who is thoughtful for and deferent in
manner to the old people she meets wins the love and admiration of every
one.

One rather peculiar thing about very old people is a failure of memory.
They tell you a story to-day, and to-morrow they forget that they told
it, and tell it over again. Now it really is not very hard to listen
with a patient air and with interest to a tale you have heard before; it
may be done, and it is worth the doing, if it adds a little pleasure to
lives which are not as full of strength and cheerfulness as your own
are.

  MARGARET E. SANGSTER.

       *       *       *       *       *

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._]



ADVERTISEMENTS.



[Illustration]

[Illustration]

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

MONARCH

KING OF BICYCLES

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

4 models. $80 and $100, fully guaranteed. For children and adults who
want a lower price wheel the =Defiance= is made in 6 models. $40 to $75.

Send for Monarch book.

[Illustration]

Monarch Cycle Mfg. Co.

Lake, Halsted and Fulton Sts., CHICAGO.

88 Reade St., NEW YORK.



NOT A DYSPEPTIC PEOPLE.

It is time that the old saw about Americans being a dyspeptic people was
hung up. This has been a pet phrase with medical papers, some
physicians, and professors of cookery altogether too long. The story has
been repeated until we have acquired abroad the reputation of being a
nation of dyspeptics, and if a nation of dyspeptics--then the producers
of dyspepsia-provoking food.

Now it is not true that we are a dyspeptic people. On the contrary,
whatever we may have been years ago, it is now a fact that we are the
people freest from alimentary disorders upon the face of the earth.
Further than this, the introduction of our hygienic foods among other
nations is perceptibly increasing their health rate and adding to the
longevity of their people.

There have been borrowed by our people from the French, English, and
Germans the best cooking methods of each, and, combining these with
American ideas, methods, and agencies, we have developed a school of
cookery purely American, which is the perfection of culinary art, at
once the delight of epicures and the hope of physicians.

In the aid of this reform no agency has had an equal influence with the
Royal Baking Powder. It has been frequently remarked by the medical
fraternity that the decline of those dyspeptic ailments which formerly
prevailed among the American people was contemporaneous with the
extended use of this article. The fact has likewise caused particular
comment from both English and French hygienists. Professors Kahlman and
De Wildes of the French Academy coincide that the Royal Baking Powder is
the most important of cooking devices because of the essentially
hygienic properties which it adds to the food, while Dr. Saunders, an
eminent specialist, and the head of the Health Department of London, is
an enthusiastic advocate of the "Royal," which he says is "a boon to
mankind."

We are not a dyspeptic people, and the chief reason is because of our
better, purer, and more wholesome bread.--_Journal of Health._



BREAKFAST--SUPPER.

EPPS'S

GRATEFUL--COMFORTING.

COCOA

BOILING WATER OR MILK.



A Request.

Readers of _Harper's Round Table_ will please mention the paper when
answering advertisements contained therein.



FREE.

Comic return envelopes. Sleight of Hand exposed. List of 500 gifts.
Album of cards. Send 2 stamps for postage. Address Banner Card Co.,
Cadiz, Ohio.



[Illustration: THOMPSON'S EYEWATER]



[Illustration: BICYCLING]

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


Among the most difficult questions to answer, because it is always so
varied, is that which involves how much, how long, how far the
impersonal "I" should ride. I do not write this in the spirit of
ridicule at all, for evidently the many inquiries received are sent in
all seriousness, and even if this were not so the subject is such a
serious one that it would demand earnest attention. It may be said that
any particular person can ride, or rather may ride, just so far on a
wheel as his physical powers and his physical training will permit him
to without completely exhausting him. This is, of course, entirely
relative, and there are at the same time cases where a man may exhaust
himself without fear of injury, and other cases where he must stop long
before he approaches the point of exhaustion, unless he wishes to take
the chance of severe injury. Each person, in other words, must be his
own judge of what his distance and speed may be, unless there is some
one near to watch and advise him competently.

Having stated the general case, let us particularize. An average
afternoon ride for a business man who does not train regularly is twenty
miles, without much of a stop anywhere from the first to the twentieth
mile. An average ride for a woman who probably never has taken much
exercise is ten miles, with several dismounts, to walk up most hills,
and get the variation on the muscles furnished by a little walk. An
average ride for a young man in school or college who has been in pretty
good condition for some time, if not absolutely in training, is from
forty to fifty miles in an afternoon, without much stop. An average ride
for a girl of healthy out-door life and training--for there is always a
certain amount of physical training in out-door life--is twenty miles in
a day, with several stops. Here are four grades, so to speak, which
merely give us a basis to work on. Now as to the time occupied. In the
first, the man's twenty-mile ride, it would be safe to say two hours
should be occupied in doing the ride. In the second, or woman's ten-mile
ride, about an hour and a half altogether would be required. That is to
say, she will wheel at the rate of seven or eight miles an hour to
occupy a good fifteen minutes in walking. The third case, that of the
young man in training doing fifty miles, ought to occupy under four
hours, or, at any rate, not much more than four hours; thus starting out
at one o'clock in the afternoon, he should do his fifty miles and be at
home again by five. Finally, in the girl's twenty-mile ride, with its
more or less frequent stops for a walk, two to two and a half hours
should be employed. If you happen to belong to any one of these four
classes, very probably you cannot easily do the amount set down here as
the average for that class. It will be found, however, that these
figures in the end will strike the amount nearly at the general average.
The fact that you cannot do the amount without becoming exhausted at the
moment and stiff the next day simply means that you are not yourself up
to the average. This is nothing to be discouraged over, as it is a very
simple matter to reach the average by a little training--that is, a
little steady riding for a week or two--unless, of course, there is
something organically defective about you.

The important point in all this--for we cannot stop to go into
details--is that bicycling does not depend on the amount of ground
covered, nor upon the speed with which you cover it, but upon the
pleasure of being out-of-doors, and of moving along over the ground to
the comfort rather than the discomfort of your body, and, consequently,
of your mind. Hence, if you are planning out a trip for some holiday,
for example, or for a holiday of more than twenty-four hours, do not
think out a trip which will be a record for distance covered. Yet that
is the point of most of the inquiries received by this department.
"Please tell me whether I can do seventy miles a day for a week. I am
going to spend my vacation of a week on my wheel, and want to take as
long a trip as possible. Can I do 500 miles in the week without becoming
sick?" This is, of course, an imagined case, but it is representative of
what is often considered the point of a trip of this sort. There never
was a greater mistake made. The point of a week's bicycle trip is, or
should be, fun, unless the absolute object is a road record for so many
hundred miles--fun and amusement and health; and therefore you must not
ride so far that you begin to make work of it, nor so short a distance
that you do not get the pleasure of the exercise. You should not tire
yourself by riding up absurdly steep hills; you should not make yourself
disgusted with wheeling, or your doctor disgusted with you, by trying to
keep up with a better rider, or trying to beat some professional
bicyclist's record. Let the pace and the distance disappear from among
the factors that make up a bicycle tour.



A NEWSPAPER MAN'S PROTÉGÉ.


An old newspaper man told the following story not long ago, which is
interesting, in that it shows what pluck and ambition will do for a boy:
"Several years ago I was detailed to cover some disastrous floods in the
lower part of the State. After travelling slowly all the afternoon,
about dusk we began getting into the flooded district. The conductor of
the train expressed some fears about the condition of the track, so when
the train reached Boylston, I hunted up the telegraph operator to learn
what the chances were of reaching the scene of the floods.

"While discussing the probabilities, the train-boy came up and called
out to the operator, 'Oh, Mr. Jackson, have you that shorthand book you
promised me?'

"When he had gone the operator apologetically said, 'The boy is studying
shorthand, sir.'

"'Rather a bright boy,' I remarked.

"'Oh yes; he knows a deal of shorthand already, and he can send on the
wires almost as good as I can.'

"That sort of boy aroused my curiosity. I got hold of him when the train
started, and found out a little of his history. Nothing extraordinary,
you know; a country lad of poor parentage endeavoring to earn his
living. Well, we were rolling along, it seemed to me very rapidly, when
I felt the car give a lurch; then came a terrific bumping, and as the
thought flew through my mind that the rails had spread, the car toppled
over on its side with a crash. I came out of that wreck bruised and
battered, with a broken leg.

"They got me into a house close by, and later I heard that fifteen
people lost their lives. While waiting for the doctor I wondered how I
could get the news of the disaster to the office. I thought of the
train-boy. Just the chap, and I got one of the men in the house to
search for him. In a short time the boy came, for luckily he had escaped
with a few scratches. I explained to him what I wanted. Well, gentlemen,
that boy knew everything about that accident, even to the number of
spikes in the spread rail, and he took my copy down in shorthand like a
professional.

"Before I got through I gave up, fainted, you know, and I never learned
until some time after how the matter came out. It seemed from the
dictation I gave him he got enough of an example out of it to enable him
to finish the rest of the story in the same style, and got it over the
wires in time for the edition. They never knew at the office that the
story of the disaster had been sent by a train-boy until a couple of
days later, when the corrected list of the killed and wounded reached
them. As the boy failed to put my name on the list he sent in, and
receiving what they thought was my report, they had concluded I had
escaped. Several weeks after, when I was able to get about, I hunted up
the lad, and made him a sort of protégé of mine; he is now a brilliant
man in the profession!"



[Illustration: THE CAMERA CLUB]

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

PREPARATION OF TINTED SENSITIVE PAPERS.

NO. 3.--ANOTHER WAY OF OBTAINING VIOLET TONES.


In paper No. 2 directions were given for making violet tones in prints
by sensitizing prepared photographic paper with nitrate of uranium, and
developing the image with a chloride-of-gold solution. The French have a
process of making violet tints much softer in tone than these, and which
resemble delicate engravings. It is some trouble to prepare the paper,
and a beginner would perhaps not be successful the first time trying,
but the prints are so beautiful that it is worth while to learn how to
make them.

Take a sheet of best photographic paper--Rives is very good--and coat it
with the following solution: Hydrochlorate of ammonia, 1 oz.; rock
candy, 1 oz.; distilled water, 20 oz. Dissolve the candy in the water,
which may be slightly warmed if necessary, then add the chlorate of
ammonia. Dip a piece of blue litmus paper in this solution, and if it
turns it red add a few drops of ammonia water till it does not turn the
litmus paper. Put the solution into a large flat tray, and float the
paper on it for five minutes; drain, and hang up to dry. After the paper
is dry, sensitize it with a solution made of 1-1/2 oz. of nitrate of
silver and 10 oz. of distilled water. Float the salted paper on this
bath for five minutes, and then dry. As soon as the paper is dried it is
ready for printing. This is a printing-out paper, and the prints should
be made as deep as for aristo or albumen paper.

Place the prints in a dish of soft water, to which has been added a few
drops of ammonia water. Leave them in only a minute, and wash at once in
several changes of clear water. The toning solution is made with Sel
d'Or, 7-1/2 grs., distilled water, 15 oz., hydrochloric acid (pure), 1
dr. As soon as the prints have washed sufficiently place them one at a
time face up in this solution, and tone till the prints have a deep
purple tone in the shadows and a creamy white in the high lights. Wash
well, and place in a fixing bath composed of 3 oz. of hypo and 16 oz. of
water. Leave in this bath for half an hour, till the purple tones have
faded somewhat; wash well in running water, and place them in a dish of
clean water, and leave them for twenty-four hours. On taking them from
the water they must be coated with albumen in order to avoid the dull
appearance which the print would have if dried in the usual way.

Have a solution of equal parts of albumen and water, and as soon as the
prints are taken from the water blot off the moisture with a piece of
fine white blotting-paper, and brush the surface of the print with the
mixture of albumen and water, using a flat camel's-hair brush. Pin them
to dry on a flat board placed in an upright position. The reason why
prints which are not squeegeed on to glass or a ferrotype plate should
be dried in a horizontal or upright position is because, if they are
dried flat, drops of moisture are apt to settle on the face of the
print, and either cause distortion--that is, the print does not dry
evenly--or the water leaves spots on the face of the print.

Any one who has seen some of the imported French prints in violet tones
knows how exquisite they are, and while the process is some trouble, and
the paper needs careful handling, after one has prepared two or three
kinds of sensitive paper by more simple methods he will find this
comparatively easy, and will be delighted with the result.

     SIR KNIGHT RAY MEAD, WINONA, WISCONSIN, asks for a good formula for
     a developer to use with films. The following will be found to give
     excellent negatives: Solution No. 1. Water, 10 oz.; sulphite of
     soda, 2 oz.; eikonogen, 165 grs.; hydroquinon, 80 grs. Add enough
     water to make the solution up to 16 oz. Solution No. 2. Water, 10
     oz.; carbonate of potassium, 1 oz.; sodium carbonate, 1 oz.; and
     enough more water to make the solution up to 16 oz. For developing
     take 1 oz. of No. 1, 1 oz. of No. 2, and 4 oz. of water.



ADVERTISEMENTS.



Ornamenting

It recently occurred to Tiffany & Co., the New York jewelers, to
ornament a bicycle elaborately with gold, silver, and precious stones,
believing that some wealthy customer would esteem so handsome a mount.
They preferred to pay $100 each for

Columbia

Bicycles

[Illustration]

For their purpose to using any other make of wheel. There must be no
question of quality in a bicycle selected for such ornamentation.
Therefore they chose Columbias

STANDARD OF THE WORLD

Unequalled, Unapproached.

Beautiful Art Catalogue of Columbia and Hartford Bicycles is free if you
call upon any Columbia agent; by mail from us for two 2-cent stamps.

POPE MANUFACTURING CO.

Factories and General Offices, Hartford, Conn.

Branch Stores and Agencies in almost every city and town. If Columbias
are not properly represented in your vicinity let us know.



Arnold

Constable & Co

       *       *       *       *       *

Infants' and

Children's Wear.

Pique Coats,

Fancy Lawn Dresses,

French Caps.

       *       *       *       *       *

Hand-Made Guimpes,

Children's School Frocks.

       *       *       *       *       *

Broadway & 19th st.

NEW YORK.



Postage Stamps, &c.



[Illustration]

STAMPS!

=800= mixed Victoria, Cape of G. H., India, Japan, etc., with fine Stamp
Album, only =10c.= New 80-p. Price-list =free=. _Agents wanted_ at =50%=
commission. STANDARD STAMP CO., 4 Nicholson Place, St. Louis, Mo. Old
U.S. and Confederate Stamps bought.



$117.50 WORTH OF STAMPS FREE

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

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



[Illustration]

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



LOOK HERE, BOYS! 50 stamps and hinges, 15c.; 100, 25c. Cheaper packets
if you want. Sheets on approval. List sent free. Send Postal Card.

W. C. SHIELDS, 30 Sorauren Ave., Toronto, Canada.



105 Stamps, Java, etc., hinges, cats., album, 5c. Agents at 50% get
_free_ 8 stamps and album. Bargain cats. free; 3 bbls. of stamps free.
A. BULLARD &. CO., 97 Pembroke St., Boston, Mass.



310 foreign Bolivia, etc., 10c.; 100 different China, etc., 10c. Finest
approval sheet, at 50%. Agents wanted. Large price-list, free. SHAW
STAMP CO., Jackson, Mich.



125 dif. Gold Coast, Costa Rica, etc., 25c.; 40 U. S., 25c. Liberal com.
to agents. Large bargain list free. F. W. MILLER, 904 Olive St., St.
Louis, Mo.



STAMPS! 100 all dif. Barbados, etc. Only 10c. Ag'ts w't'd at 50% com.
List free. L. DOVER & CO., 1469 Hodiamont, St. Louis, Mo.



Stamps! App'l Sheets, 33-1/3 and 40% dis.; ref. req'd.

R. W. DeHAVEN, Box 4023, Station B, Phila., Pa.



[Illustration]

Harper's Catalogue,

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



[Illustration: THOMPSON'S EYEWATER]



ANOTHER PRIZE MUSIC COMPOSITION.


We have already announced the prizes for the best song settings to Mrs.
Sangster's charming verses, "Our Little Echo." Here are awards for the
Hymn Competition, "For Sowing and Reaping." We give the first-prize
composition and the additional verses. The winner of the first prize of
$5 is Mr. E. S. Hosmer, of Bristol, Conn., and of the second, Mr. W. H.
Squires, of Philadelphia, both Round Table Patrons. Those whose
compositions deserve special praise are: Christine R. Benedict, Harvey
Reese, Blanche Elizabeth Wade, H. Hamilton Craig, Thacher H. Guild,
Alice C. Banning, Helen H. Sohst, Harry R. Patty. Additional verses of
"A Thanksgiving Song."

[Illustration: Music for A Thanksgiving Song.]

  For parents who care for us day after day,
  For sisters and brothers, for work and for play,
  For dear little babies so helpless and fair,
  O Father, we send Thee our praise and our prayer.

  For teachers who guide us so patiently on,
  For frolics with mates when our lessons are done,
  For shelter and clothing, for every day's food,
  We bless Thee, our Father, the giver of good.

  For peace and for plenty, for freedom, for rest,
  For joy in the land from the east to the west,
  For the dear starry flag, with its red, white, and blue,
  We thank Thee from hearts that are honest and true.

  For waking and sleeping, for blessings to be,
  We children would offer our praises to Thee;
  For God is our Father, and bends from above
  To keep the round world in the smile of His love.



Awards for Best Stories.


The most successful story contest the Table has ever had closed some
weeks ago. Competition was restricted to those who had not passed their
eighteenth birthday, and the limit of length, first announced at 1500
words, was raised to 2500. The prizes, three of $25 each, were increased
by the addition of five $5 prizes. The success of the contest lies in
the fact that the stories received were a great deal better than we ever
received before, while the slightly changed conditions, without working
injustice to any one, made the competition both easier and more liberal.

Conscientious judges read every word of every story submitted. Some
stories of unusual merit were read half a dozen times. The number of
well-written, probable, and interesting stories was most creditably
large, and the making of awards correspondingly difficult. The three
highest prizes are equal in value, but we place at the top, in point of
excellence, "A Story of Strife," by Sir Knight F. M. McNaughton, aged
sixteen, who lives in Quebec, Canada. Next, in rank we put "How Hector
Saved the Train," by Sir Knight S. O. Rittenhouse, aged sixteen, of
Lynn, Mass., and the third to "The Duke of Alva's Humiliation," by Sir
Knight George C. Hirst, aged seventeen, of Philadelphia. Each is sent
$25 in money.

Proofs of these stories have just been mailed to nearly three hundred
persons, all under eighteen, who are to try to illustrate them. We want
one illustration, and offer $10 for the best. Artists select their own
subject after reading the stories. We allow them three stories in order
to give them the best possible chance. We shall print the prize story
that we happen to receive the best illustration for, and perhaps the
other two. This Illustration Contest ends March 21th, but entries for it
have now closed.

The five $5 prizes we award to the following, their excellence in the
opinion of the judges standing in the order named--the best first, etc.:

"Quailin," by Lady Olive Arnold Dame, aged thirteen, of Medford, Mass.;
"A Tale of the Football Field," by Sir Knight Lucien Memminger, aged
sixteen, of Charleston, S. C.; "Putnam's Wolf," by Sir Knight Charles
Frederick Hoffman, aged fifteen, of New York City; "A Wild-Goose Chase,"
by Sir Knight Harry T. Trowber, aged sixteen, of South Haven, Mich.; and
"A Profitable Adventure," by Sir Knight Marion R. Gilbert, of
Harrisburg, Pa.

Stories deserving, in our opinion, special commendation are: "A Last
Chance," by Lady Frances S. C. James, of Mich.; "The Old Water-mill," by
Lady Dell Whitney, of Wisconsin; "Three Chums and a Buffalo," by Sir
Knight Egbert B. Heyser, of Missouri; "A Day's Fishing," by Sir Knight
Preston K. Smalley, of Michigan; "Saving the Papers," by Sir Knight
Rupert S. Holland, of Pennsylvania; "Balloon Voyage Round the World," by
Sir Knight William Swanson, of Canada; and "The Little Cripple," by Sir
Knight Edwin H. Andrews, of California.

The prizes, with our congratulations, have been forwarded, and the
manuscripts of all stories returned to writers.



Answers to the Prize Puzzle.


Here are answers to Sir John R. Moreland's new-ideas puzzle. They are in
two parts, 1, the numbers, and 2, the arithmetic:

1. A. D. 1572. 2, Raphael. 3, A. D. 70. 4, A. D. 1156. 5, Toucan (2). 6,
Lincoln and Garfield. 7, A. D. 1015. 8, A. D. 1670. 9, Spina, a monk of
Pisa. 10, Paulding, Van Wart, Williams. 11, "Jesus wept," "Rejoice
evermore." 12, Drebel, a Dutchman. 13, King of Bourges. 14, 146. 15, 56.
16, "Citizen King." 17, John Hancock. 18, Francis Marion. 19, Stubb. 20,
Deborah Simpson. 21, Paul Blouet. 22, Devil River. 23, Hamlet, Prince of
Denmark. 24, B. C. 31. 25, "Sailor King."

1572x7=11,004+70=11,074-1156=9918x2=19,836÷2=9918-1015=8903+1670=10,573+5=
10,578÷3=3526+4=3530+6=3536-13=3523-146=3377+56=8433-11=3422+11=3433-13=
3420÷5=684-14=670+10=680-5=675-21=654-31=623-10=613--that
is, 6.13=the sixth day of the week (Friday), and the 13th of the
month--the proverbial unlucky figure.

       *       *       *       *       *

Questions and Answers.

Henry W. Ticknor, R. T. K., Clanton, Ala., makes the following kind
offer: "As I live 'way down South in the land of cotton,' I will send to
any one who sends me five cents to pay postage some cotton seeds and
instructions how to plant and tend them. Should any members respond who
live outside the United States and Canada, they should send at least
fifteen cents for postage."

       *       *       *       *       *

Several members who have recently asked to have their names published as
wanting correspondents are reminded that we cannot print such requests,
since unscrupulous persons not infrequently use such addresses. We would
be glad to grant you the favor were it possible to do so, and avoid this
annoying consequence. Reader: The Table rarely prints poems on this
page, and prefers not to criticise young "poets" publicly. Jos. L.
Dwyer, 103 Porter Street, Detroit, Mich., wants to receive sample copies
of amateur papers.

       *       *       *       *       *

Who?--When?--Where?--What?--Why?

     I wonder if you would like to try the game of "The Five W's, or
     Biographical Jumbles?" Provide each player with a pencil and a slip
     of paper (a half sheet of commercial note is a good size), then
     request each one to write at the top of the paper the first W, the
     name of some well-known historical character; fold the paper over
     to conceal the name, and pass it to his right-hand neighbor. Then
     each player writes on the folded sheet the second W, when did he
     live, and folding it again, passes it on as before. The third W,
     written in the same way, tells where he lived and died; the fourth,
     what he did; the fifth, why he did it; and the sixth and last
     folding gives the results or consequences of his life.

      The paper must be folded at each writing, and no player must know
      what the others have written till the results are given, when each
      player in turn unfolds his paper and reads it aloud. Of course
      there are all sorts of incongruities and lots of fun over them,
      besides a grand chance to furbish up forgotten history, in
      straightening out the tangles, and setting matters right. Should
      the sheet of paper at first supplied prove insufficient, another
      may be easily attached with a convenient pin without unfolding. Of
      course, the more items of interest brought in the better. A prize
      may be given to the one who corrects the most mistakes, a tally
      being kept for the purpose.

      A game of Geographical Jumbles may be played in the same way, by
      making an arrangement like this:

      1. What--Name of country, city, river, mountain, etc.

      2. Who--Inhabitants, celebrated people, etc.

      3. Where--Situation.

      4. When--Founded, antiquity, etc.

      5. Why--Importance, productions, climate, historical associations

      Try these games and you will like them.

  H. E. BANNING.
  NEWPORT, R. I.



[Illustration: STAMPS]

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


The number of intelligent inquiries I receive each week is so large that
all of them cannot be answered in the narrow limits of this column.
Inquirers sending a _stamped and addressed_ envelope will be answered
direct. Inquiries without prepaid and addressed envelopes will have to
wait their turn.

The upper left-hand pane of 100-stamp sheet No. 170 contains both
varieties of triangles (II. and III.). The first discovery was made in
San Francisco, and dealers have been buying these sheets all over the
country at $3 each. Several collectors managed to find a number of
sheets in New York city, which they bought at face, and sold at fifty
per cent. profit.

     D. H. S.--I would advise you to ask your postmaster.

      MRS. MAUD G. F.--The red stamps are the common 1851 issue.
      Millions were used every day for over five years. The blue ones
      are 1869 issue worth 25c. each. The Brattleboro, Vt., has the name
      of the town and initials of the postmaster. It is printed on buff
      paper in black ink.

      MRS. E. V. B.--The $1 Colombian can be purchased for $8.

      P. F. LISK.--I do not purchase stamps.

      ROBERT PELTIER, Lycee Janson de Sailly, Paris, France, wants to
      exchange French stamps for U.S. stamps and others.

      W. T. HELM.--The "Postal Service" envelopes are not stamps; they
      are franks. The one described is worth 20c.

      ELIAS ALTER, New York City (gives no street address), and BURETTE
      SNYDER, Cape Girardeau, Mo.--Wish to exchange stamps.

      R. C. MEGRUE.--All the proof specimens of U. S. stamps are more or
      less valuable. The "Department" proofs are worth more than the
      proofs of the regular issues.

      G. G. STONE.--The 1c. Columbians can still be bought at many
      post-offices, hence there is no premium. Treasury Department used
      set is worth about $8.

      E. L. DAVIS.--There is no way to restore the color of a stamp
      except where the color has oxydized. In that case a chemical which
      can be bought of stamp-dealers for 25c. per bottle, will restore
      the original color. Put your stamps on hinges, and you can change
      easily as often as you want. Hinges cost 10 to 15 cents per 1000.

      G. R. MOFFITT.--Your stamp is from Montenegro, which has issued
      sets in 1874, 1880, 1893, and 1894.

      F. S. PERKINS.--It is a medal or token, not a coin. No value.

      S. C. R. OF K. B. K.--I cannot keep on repeating values of coins
      given in back numbers of the present volume. See the ROUND TABLE
      for December 17, 1895, and January 14, 1896. The rare pink is a
      3c., not a 2c. stamp.

      SERGEANT.--See answer to S. C. R.

      L. B. HERSHEY.--The 3c. 1869 unused is worth 25c.; used, 2c.--that
      is, dealers ask those prices. They buy much cheaper.

      D. BARNUM.--Your list of inquiries is too long for answer in this
      column. You have some very nice stamps, but there are no rarities
      in the list.

      MRS. W. H. H.--See ROUND TABLE of December 17, 1895, and January
      14, 1896, for prices asked by dealers for U. S. coins. What
      dealers pay I do not know.

      H. MERRITT.--What you describe are not postage-stamps or stamped
      postage-envelopes. Before postage-stamps were used almost every
      postmaster had a hand stamp to mark "Paid," "Paid 5 cents," or
      "Paid 10 cents," etc., on letters for which he received postage in
      advance. Where not so marked the person to whom the letter was
      addressed had to pay the postage. I know very few collectors of
      these postmarks, as they have no money value.

      G. M. ROSS.--The prices quoted in this column are those asked by
      dealers, not what they pay. That, of course, I do not know.

      A. SCHMENGLER.--The 1861 3c. U.S. comes in hundreds of shades,
      from a pale washed-out color to a deep scarlet. Only one of these
      varieties has any value; that one is the "Pink," which is a
      brilliant color on a bluish background. It is very scarce. I have
      looked over tens of thousands of this stamp, and never found a
      copy of the true "Pink."

  PHILATUS.



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[Illustration]

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[Illustration: THOMPSON'S EYE WATER]



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[Illustration]

KILLJOY'S BARGAIN.


  "Well, I declare," said the Moonfay Boy,
  "There's old Killjoy,
  The meanest fish that ever did swim;
  He knows that I've no use for him.
        He eats my bait
        At a fearfal rate.
        I've changed it twice
        From flies to mice.
        From mice to slags.
        And potato-bugs,
          And still he bites.
          For the last ten nights
  I've caught nothing else but old Killjoy,"
  Said the Moonfay Boy.

  "It ain't polite
  To bite and bite,
  And chew and chew,
  On the bait of one who don't want you."
        And old Killjoy
        Grinned at the boy.

  "Oh don't get mad,
  Dear Moonfay lad,
  You set the best table that ever I had,"
  Said he.
  "For don't you see
  It agrees with me,
  And to pay you back I'll invite to tea
          All the sharks and the shad,
          And the little poletad,
          And the whale and the blue,
          And the halibut too.
  And when all's ready I'll wink at you,
          And the catch you'll catch
          Will have no match
          On the land or sea!
  Just count, old Moon-faced Fay, on me!"

         *       *       *       *       *

  And the Moonfay Boy went home that night
  With a mess of fish that was out of sight.
  For old Killjoy, be it understood,
  Paid him back for his bait, as he'd said he would.



AN ADVENTURE WITH A BEAR


A letter came to light not long ago that was mailed in 1843. It was sent
from a small town far out in the Northwest, and was written, evidently,
by some hardy hunter to his family at home. In one of the paragraphs the
writer describes an adventure he had had with a bear. It reads somewhat
as follows:

"I had gone several miles up the rocky trail, and finally striking off
at right angles, left the valley and scaled the mountain-side. In a
short while this brought me on a narrow ledge, and I proceeded along,
thinking to skirt around the mountain that way, and reach down the other
side into what was called Bear Trail. I never saw bear around the spot,
and attached but little importance to the significance of the name. As I
proceeded, the ledge grew very narrow--in fact, so much so that I was
almost compelled to hug the face of the cliff to prevent my tumbling
over.

"Suddenly I was horrified to hear a scraping kind of noise ahead, and
before I could make up my mind as to what it was, a large bear crawled
around a bend of the ledge into view. It was no use retreating, for the
bear had a surer footing than I, being by nature adapted to it; but
whatever brought him so far out of the valley I could not guess. He eyed
me and I eyed him, and then I did the queerest thing I imagine any man
would do--that was to treat the bear as though he were a human being. We
were both in a predicament, as it would have been impossible for the
bear to turn, and useless for me to do so, for the moment I retreated he
would be after me. So I made a motion to the bear, and lying down on my
face, I beckoned to him to come on and pass over me.

"Of course I gave myself up for lost. The bear eyed me suspiciously, and
then came slowly on. He reached me, and putting down his cold wet nose,
sniffed at my hair. I was dead with fright, and felt as though I would
faint any moment.

"My harmlessness seemed to satisfy him; in a gentle manner he crawled
over me and passed on, never once placing his paws on my body, for had
he done so I should have been crushed.

"If he had but pushed me the slightest bit I would have fallen over. In
a few minutes I recovered somewhat from my fright, and proceeded along
the ledge, which shortly widened and permitted me to make better headway
to safety. The only reason I have to account for the bear's gentleness
was that he had had plenty to eat, and the savage instincts were dulled
by the sight of my helplessness."

       *       *       *       *       *

TEACHER (_unable to conceal her anger and disgust_). "Tommy Winks, you
spell horribly."

TOMMY. "H-o-r-r-i-b-l-y."

       *       *       *       *       *

A man having pointedly ridiculed Tasso, he remained perfectly silent,
much to the astonishment of the railer. A listener muttered loud enough
to be heard that a man was a fool not to defend himself.

"You are mistaken," said Tasso; "a fool does not know enough to be
silent."



[Illustration: HEAH YOU ARE--DE BEST BUTTER IN DE WHOLE--]

[Illustration: THE BILLY. "YOU ARE, HEY? I DON'T THINK."]





*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Harper's Round Table, February 25, 1896" ***

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