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Title: Harper's Round Table, November 19, 1895
Author: Various
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.
Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Harper's Round Table, November 19, 1895" ***

This book is indexed by ISYS Web Indexing system to allow the reader find any word or number within the document.

[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]

Copyright, 1895, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.

       *       *       *       *       *



       *       *       *       *       *





When Fred Hallowell graduated from school in the spring of 1893, and
passed his final examinations for college, there was every promise that
he would have an enjoyable summer vacation followed by four years of
pleasant college life. But owing to the panic of 1893 Mr. Hallowell
failed in business, and Fred found that instead of going to college he
must look about for some sort of position, in order that he might not be
an additional drain on the very greatly reduced resources of his

It is not a part of this story to tell of Fred's discouraging endeavors
to secure a position in New York. Business men were discharging employés
in those days, not engaging new ones. Finally, he managed, through an
old acquaintance, to secure a position as reporter on the staff of the
_Gazette_. He started into his new life with an energy that soon
attracted the attention of his employers, and it was not long before the
city editor began to feel that the new reporter was a reliable man.

The week before Thanksgiving Fred made a few extra dollars by writing a
short article for one of the illustrated weeklies, and as Thursday was
his regular day "off" he decided that he would use this money to take a
little trip up the Hudson to his home, and spend Thanksgiving day with
his family. He had just mailed his letter, announcing his intention to
visit home, when the city editor called him to his desk and handed him a
clipping from one of the morning papers, which stated that a certain
Frenchman, suspected of being prominent in anarchistic circles, had
visited a French school-ship, then anchored in the North River, and that
the officers had recognized him as a dangerous criminal, a fugitive from
French justice.

"This may be one of the _Star_'s fakes," said the city editor, "but you
go out on the story, and keep at it until you get all the facts. It may
take you several days. If you find it's true, we'll make a spread of it,
and have the fellow arrested."

Fred was pleased at getting such an important assignment, and looked
forward hopefully to some exciting work, although he feared there would
be nothing in the story in the end. He went at once on board of the
French school-ship, where he found a young lieutenant, who had been
officer of the deck a few days before, and who had seen a man whom he
thought he recognized as an anarchist he had seen on trial in Paris
several years before. He had mentioned this fact to a _Star_ reporter
who came aboard for news that evening, simply because he had nothing
else to tell him, but he doubted that the man he had seen could be the
Paris anarchist, although the latter had escaped from France, and was
supposed to have fled to America. His name was Etienne Renard, and the
officer gave Fred a description of him. As the reporter left the ship he
instinctively asked if there was any news, and the lieutenant told him
they expected to sail in a few days for Haiti, and that one seaman had
deserted since their arrival in New York harbor. Fred made a paragraph
of this information, and sent it down to the _Gazette_ office by

As he stood on the dock a few minutes later, looking up and down the
river, as if he thought some inspiration might come to him from the
puffing tugs in midstream, he wondered what he should do next, for he
was now left without a clew. He knew the anarchists of New York had
several gathering-places over on the east side of the city, but he felt
sure that even if Renard frequented any of these, it would be under an
assumed name, and he further knew there was no place where a reporter
was less welcome than at a resort of anarchists. Nevertheless, he
determined to see what he could learn in that quarter, and soon was on
his way to a restaurant called "Zum Groben Michel," a place that has
acquired more or less notoriety, because of the riotous meetings that
have been held by men of anarchistic and nihilistic tendencies within
its doors.

He found a number of ugly-looking characters sitting in the place, but
none answered to the description of Renard. He asked a few of the
neighbors if a Frenchman was ever seen thereabouts, but he received
scant courtesy in reply, and no information; and so he went home to
think over some new plan of action. The next day he visited the French
quarter in the region of Bleecker Street and South Fifth Avenue, and
questioned the restaurant-keepers of the neighborhood, but none of them
could remember having seen any man answering to Fred's description of
Renard. Every day he visited the east-side restaurant, but all his work
availed him nothing. He was about to give up the search as futile a
couple of days later; but on his way down town to the office to tell the
city editor of his failure, he stopped off at Bleecker Street, and went
into one of the cheap cafés to make final inquiries from a fat little
French proprietor whom he had found most amiable on a previous visit.

As they talked, a customer with a nautical gait, and somewhat the worse
for drink, rolled in and sat down. The communicative host served him,
and then whispered to Fred that he thought the man was a deserter from
the French ship, who had been keeping pretty quiet till his vessel left
port, and was now taking advantage of his stolen freedom.

The man was a tough-looking customer, unmistakably a seaman, in spite of
his ill-fitting shore clothes; and as Fred sat watching him from across
the room an idea sprang up and gradually developed in his mind. If this
man was the deserter whom the officer had told him of, he might possibly
have run away as a result of Renard's visit to the ship, if Renard was
the stranger who had gone aboard. Therefore he might know Renard; he
might even know where Renard lived--perhaps Renard was giving him
shelter! Fred grew very much excited as these thoughts flashed through
his mind, and determined to follow the man and see where he went. The
latter, however, seemed to be in no haste to give the young detective a
chance to pursue his investigations. He sat in the café until nearly six
o'clock. Then he paid his reckoning and tacked up the street to the
elevated railroad station. Fred boarded the same train, and followed his
man down to South Ferry, where they both went aboard a Staten Island
boat, and on reaching St. George took a train and rode for a short
distance toward South Beach.

It was easy for Fred to follow the sailor when they left the train, for
darkness had come on an hour ago. The Frenchman led the way through the
village, and tramped for half a mile or more along a lonely road that
led inland, over a hill and across country, until they came to a
two-story cottage with a picket fence around it. The sailor staggered
through the gate and up the steps, and opened the door and went in,
slamming it behind him, and Fred was left outside in the darkness alone.
He sat down by the way-side to think over the situation, watching the
house as he did so; but no sound came to his ears, and as the shades
were drawn at the windows of the one room in which a light shone, he saw
nothing. When he had come to the conclusion that there was little to be
gained by sitting out in the dampness staring at a blank wall, he
trudged back to the village, to make inquiries of the station agent and
the town watchman.

"There's somethin' queer about them folks, I guess," the watchman said.
"There was another man askin' me about 'em--'bout a week ago."

Fred feared this other inquirer might have been a _Star_ reporter on the
same errand, and so he laid awake almost all night forming plans for the
conduct of his future investigations. It was now the day before
Thanksgiving, and Fred reluctantly made up his mind he would have to
forego the pleasure of a trip up the Hudson. He wrote to his mother that
she should not expect him, as an important assignment detained him in
town. Then he started off for Staten Island, stopping on the way to the
ferry to hire a bicycle for the day. He followed the same route he had
taken the night before, and shortly after noon he was coasting down the
dusty hill-side in plain view of the two-story cottage. He saw a woman
moving about in the yard, and this pleased him greatly, for he felt she
would materially assist him in his plans. He apparently paid no
attention to her, however, but bent over the handle-bars as if he were
scorching along at full speed; and when he came to within a hundred feet
of the house he deliberately ran into a stone by the way-side and took a
header into the soft road. For a moment he lay perfectly still, with one
eye fastened on the woman (for his fall was purely theatrical), and when
he saw that she had witnessed the "accident" he put his hand to his head
and groaned. Then, with much labor and difficulty, he picked himself up
and crawled toward the gate and asked if he might go into the house, and
requested the woman to get him a glass of water. She did not act very
hospitably about Fred's entering the house, but he begged so
persistently that she reluctantly consented at last. She left him on a
chair in the front room and went back for the water, and Fred was
wondering how he was going to prolong his stay after her return, when he
heard loud and violent talking in a neighboring room, apparently the
kitchen. Two men were soundly berating the woman for having admitted a
stranger to the house. Finally one of the men snarled that he would take
the water and see that the bicyclist got out much more rapidly than he
had come in. Heavy footsteps sounded along the hall, and a man entered
the open door. Fred glanced up with an expression of studied misery,
which immediately changed into one of amazement when he recognized the
man in front of him as one of the patrons of "Zum Groben Michel." The
man evidently recognized Fred, too, for he said fiercely,

"What are you doing here?" He spoke with a German accent.

"I fell off my bicycle," began Fred.

"Your bicycle!" retorted the other. "Bah! I have seen you before. At
'Zum Groben Michel,' eh? You have been there?"

Fred admitted that he had.

"Well, what you do there?" continued the man, getting angrier as he
spoke. "What you do there? You have no business there! You are a

Fred made no reply. He devoutly wished he was still riding along the
dusty road far away from that house.

"You are a reporter!" shouted the man again and again, until his cries
brought another into the room. Fred was satisfied at first sight of him
that he had found Renard; but he realized at the same time that he had
caught a Tartar. Renard said something in French to the first man, who
refused in his rage to listen, but, shaking his fist at Fred, he roared

"You are a reporter!"

"Yes, I am," said the lad, rising to his feet. "And what about it?"

This boldness disconcerted the two men for a moment; and noticing this
Fred ill advisedly determined to be even bolder. He became rash; for
when the man asked, "What do you want here, then?" he said,

"I want to talk with that gentleman, there, Mr. Renard."

The two men became ashy pale at the mention of the name "Renard," and
while one slammed the door which led into the hallway, the other rushed
at Fred and seized him by the shoulder. The boy tried to resist at
first, but when the second man, having turned the key in the lock, came
to his partner's aid, Fred cried out that he would submit.

"We make too much noise here," said the man whom Fred had called Renard,
as he glanced cautiously out of the window, still panting from his
efforts to subdue the reporter.

"Take him up stairs," said the other, gruffly.

"I don't want to go up stairs," gasped Fred, for he, too, was out of
breath. "I don't see what all the row is about, anyway. I am not here to
do you fellows any harm. I came here to talk to Mr. Renard, if this is
Mr. Renard; and if you have not got anything to say for publication,
why, I am ready to go."

Fred was undoubtedly perfectly willing to go without interviewing his
anarchist, but the latter was apparently not of the same mind.

"Oh no," he sneered, "you cannot go yet. We must go up stairs and talk."

The door was opened, and the German led the way up the narrow staircase
to the floor above. Fred followed, because he knew that there was
nothing else for him to do, and he was led into a rear room that had one
small window which looked out over the back yard toward a wooded hill.

"You wait here now," said his companion, curtly; and before Fred could
object the door slammed, and he found himself locked in the room alone.

He was in a nice fix now, he thought to himself, as he stood in the
middle of the room. That man was Renard, no doubt. And here was he,
Fred, a prisoner at his mercy, and to make it worse, he was a reporter,
hated almost as much by anarchists as the police. There was no
possibility of his getting any help, no matter how long he was kept a
prisoner, because no one knew where he was. For the past few days he had
merely reported progress to the _Gazette_ office by telephone, and the
city editor, of course, had not the remotest idea where he was working.
It was impossible to escape from the window, because his captors could
plainly see him if he tried to jump or climb down, for he could hear
their angry voices in the kitchen below. So, after considering all these
things, he wisely adopted the only course left open to him--he decided
to await developments. He sat down, and expected every moment to hear
footsteps coming up the stairs; but no such sound greeted his ears, and
the hours passed slowly by. After a while he got tired of this sort of
thing, and started to make a closer examination of his prison. He
presently found a hole in the wall, with a round piece of tin on it,
that opened into the chimney. The hole was evidently intended for a
stove-pipe, and as soon as he removed the tin covering Fred could hear
the voices below very much more plainly than before, for the sound was
carried up the chimney, and by placing his ear close to the aperture he
could even understand most of the words that were spoken. He intercepted
a portion of the conversation, which startled him greatly.

"Well," said one voice, "I guess he will have to be killed."

"I hate to do it," said the other.

"So do I; but we might as well."

"How shall we do it, then?"

"In the good old-fashioned way, I guess. I'll wring his neck."

Fred did not remain to hear any more. He was almost paralyzed. Here he
was caught in a trap, like a rat, and his captors were discussing the
best way to kill him! He quickly determined that the only thing for him
to do was to make a dash for liberty, so long as he had legs left to run
on. He stepped to the window, and looked out into the back yard and over
toward the woods. In the yard a big fat turkey gobbler was strutting
about apparently little thinking of the date on the calendar. Seeing the
turkey made Fred think of his family at home, and of the grief that
these wretches below were trying to bring upon them, and of the happy
Thanksgiving dinner that he was not to be present at. And as he thought
of Thanksgiving and of the turkey, he leaned over against the window,
and almost laughed out loud.

"The turkey!" he said to himself--"the turkey! Those fellows were
talking about him; they were not talking about me. Anarchists, I
suppose, have Thanksgiving dinners the same as any one else. Why, one
man spoke of wringing his neck--it's the turkey, of course." And then he
wished he had listened longer to hear more. He was about to return to
the stove-pipe hole for this purpose when there was the noisiest kind of
hubbub downstairs. He heard yells and shouts and scuffling, and the
tramping of many feet; as if an army of men had gotten into a fight. He
could not make out what this was, and wondered if his captors had
quarrelled and come to blows. This fracas lasted about five minutes, and
then there was comparative silence. Ten minutes later the door of his
room was thrown open, and Fred found himself face to face with a
stranger of athletic build.

"Well, young fellow," said his deliverer, "I guess you've got all you
want of interviewing anarchists. Come along down stairs and thank your
stars you are getting out alive."

When Fred reached the floor below he found Renard and the German and the
sailor handcuffed, and in charge of five detectives. The house had been
raided; and most opportunely, thought Fred.

The young reporter soon learned that the police had been after Renard
for many months, and had finally located him in the house on Staten
Island about two weeks before the raid. They were watching the house
when they heard of Fred's making inquiries of the watchman; and fearing
newspaper exposure would lead to the escape of the criminals the
detectives decided to make the raid the very next day. And it is
fortunate they did, for on the way to the jail Fred talked with the
woman who was being taken along, too; and he told her how he had been
scared by the conversation he overheard about the turkey.

"The turkey?" said the woman.

"Yes," continued Fred; "one of the men said he would kill him in the
good old-fashioned way by wringing his neck."

The woman glanced at Fred in surprise.

"Did you hear that?" she said.

"Yes," laughed Fred.

"Well, you need not laugh, young man, because _you_ were the turkey they
were talking about. That Renard is a devil; _he_ has brought my husband
to this."

The morning of Thanksgiving day the _Gazette_ "beat" every other
newspaper in town with an exclusive report of the capture of the
dangerous anarchist Renard, who had been manufacturing bombs in a house
on Staten Island. And that night Fred dined with his family at their
home up the Hudson, and told them much that did not appear in his
printed account of the affair.




[Illustration: THE BLOODY TOWER.]

There is no breath to stir the old shadows, no voice nor hearing, only a
still, solemn past telling, as we tread the pavement in the great Tower
of London, its many stories that belong to that historic prison. In this
scene of blackest crimes nothing remembered is half so sorrowful as the
murder of the two Princes who were sent to the Tower by their uncle,
Richard III., King of England. You have heard it, for it is an old tale
and often told. He is usually called the Hunchback; some say he was not
deformed, except in having a very short neck and one shoulder higher
than the other. He was lame, but this defect was soon forgotten in the
beauty of his face. He had pale olive skin, delicate features, smooth
forehead, and proud lips quick to express the feeling which shone in his
deep black eyes. His will was law, and he sprang on his enemies like the
tiger on its prey if they were between him and his aims.

In the first year of his reign he cleared away all who were suspected of
plots, till no heirs to the throne were left except his two nephews,
sons of Edward IV. The wicked heart of the Hunchback was moved to one
more crime; then, he believed, the crown of England would be secured.
They were graceful boys of eight and twelve years, with clear bright
eyes, rosy cheeks, long flowing hair like threads of gold, and the
courteous manner early taught to those who expect to rule a great

Edward, Prince of Wales, was stolen while on a journey; he was the
elder; and Richard, Duke of York, the second son of the late King, was
demanded of his mother, the widowed Queen of Edward IV. She was a
high-born lady, famous for beauty when chosen from among the many who
longed to sit on the throne. She was without power to resist, and how
she begged the brutal Richard to be allowed to keep her youngest darling
let other mothers tell.

The little fellows were lodged in the Garden Tower, so called from its
opening into pleasure-grounds with a terraced walk, which in sunny days
gave to view the river and bridge. It was the cheerfulest room in the
doleful pile, and was lighted on both sides, so the captives could watch
what stir there was in the inner wards, and the shipping along the wharf
and on the Thames. It had a separate entrance to the promenade, where in
fine weather they had leave to run and play, chasing each other into
forgetfulness that they were doomed never to leave their prison-house

But Richard could not feel at ease while his nephews lived. So one day
Sir James Tyrrel, Master of Horse, "a trusty knight," brought an order
under the royal seal that Brackenbury, the Lieutenant of the Tower,
should for one night give up the keys and absent himself from his
office. Brackenbury had already refused to make away with the Princes.
The tale runs that Tyrrel was much agitated in mind while riding out
with two men--professional murderers--by name John Dighton and Miles
Forrest. They, thought their master, are not weak like Brackenbury, and
will not mind getting these brats out of the way any more than wringing
the necks of a couple of house sparrows; they will never blench or
quiver even at sight of the blood of the Lord's anointed.

The keeper of the keys feared and hated the King, but dared not disobey
him. He gave up his place and trust for the time ordered.

After the long twilight, when the night fell, they crept around the
winding stairs and through black corridors lighted only by the lanterns
they carried.

When the death-men entered the chamber they paused awhile before the
living picture there, the fairest under the wide curtains of darkness.

Youth seems younger and loveliness lovelier in the helpless hours of
sleep. The Princes lay in the sweet slumber of healthful childhood,
sinless and confiding, nestled close in each other's arms. To kill them
was like sending spirits ready for heaven home too soon. Some pretty
belongings, toys and playthings given by their mother, were scattered
about, and a book of prayers, open on a table at the bed's head, almost
changed the mind of the guilty wretches.

But they did not linger; the sleepers made swift passage to the
dreamless sleep which has no waking, smothered with the pillows of their
own bed. If there was moan or outcry the Tower walls are thick, and in
the midnight hush only the listening angels on airy wings might hear.

Singers have sung the woful story, and artists have painted the piteous
scene. The great poet's touch brings it before our eyes. The hardened
villains melted into tenderness and mild compassion when they reported
to their master:

  "'O thus,' quoth Dighton, 'lay the gentle babes.'
  'Thus, thus,' quoth Forrest, 'girdling one another
  Within their alabaster, innocent arms:
  Their lips were four red roses on a stalk,
  Which, in their summer beauty, kissed each other.'"

By a private stairway the trusty Tyrrel slipped in from the gate, where
he waited impatiently, felt their pulses to be certain there was no life
left, and sought the Tower priest to make him help in hiding the
devilish deed. They carried the warm bodies down. Oh, what a sight it
was! the soft limbs not yet stiffened for the grave, the delicate hands
dragging the steps. Without coffin, shroud, or winding-sheet, with
neither hymn nor prayer, they were thrown into a hole dug by the wall.
Rapidly the grave was filled with loose soil and stones from scattered
building-material left lying in heaps some months before; then the pit
was smoothed till there was no sign of disturbance or violence, silence
settled over all, and the tragedy seemed ended forever.

"Trusty" Tyrrel mounted his horse and rode in the dewy daybreak along
green lanes and blossoming hedges to the palace. He was cruel as a
blood-hound, yet tears ran down his face like rain when he described to
the satisfied monarch how the "gentle babes," his brother's sons, would
trouble the kingdom no more.


Richard had been crowned with great pomp, feasting, and shouting. He sat
on a marble seat in Westminster Hall, with a nobleman on each side, and
told the crowd assembled there he meant to be just and maintain the laws
and respect the rights of his people. But this was mere talk. The reign
begun in murder continued the same way. His spies learned that titled
subjects drank healths in private to the Princes in the Tower, and he
thought best to announce the truth, though he had intended to keep their
fate a secret. Besides, Uncle Richard's sleep was broken by bad dreams
come of the hideous sin. The crown of his nephew did not rest easy on
his head, bloody fingers pulled at it; the lights burned blue at
midnight; strange calls, as from desolate shores, answered each other
across his bed; he heard muffled groans, and ghosts that would not down
sat heavy on his soul. Eyes starting from their sockets glared at him;
visions of baby throats purple with strangling and pale faces bedabbled
with blood haunted the pillow of the last Plantagenet.

He woke in a cold sweat of terror from dreams of a tomb which opened of
itself; where the earth cracked with a hollow noise and showed a coffin
wide and short, and hair living and golden streaming out under the lid.

[Illustration: RICHARD'S NEPHEWS.]

Were the boys indeed buried? And why should their white souls ride the
winds on crimson clouds in the dead hours of the night?

To banish the spectres and quiet the shrieks in his ears he commanded
the Tower chaplain to unearth the corpses and have them better placed,
under the marble floor of some shrine or safe in a corner of the
court-yard of the Tower. It was done. None ever knew when or with what
holy rite they were buried the second time, because the priest soon
afterward died, and with him went the knowledge of their resting-place.

Richard did not long enjoy his throne, but in his brief reign noble
ladies and gallant gentlemen were imprisoned in grim strongholds, and
marched from dungeons to death on the headsman's block. Sometimes he
would have drums beat and trumpets sound, so that the last words of the
dying could not be heard by the assembled crowds, for he feared an
uprising of his subjects.

Only two years afterward he dashed into the thickest of the fight at
Bosworth, and there lost his kingdom and his life. Under a hawthorn-bush
Lord Stanley found the crown of England, which the tyrant had worn to
the battle-field. It was badly bruised and trampled on, the jewels dim
with dust and clouded with blood. Stanley placed it just as it was on
the head of Henry, Earl of Richmond, and the soldiers of the royal army
shouted with joy, "Long live King Henry VII."

Later in the day the body of the Hunchback was pulled out of the mire,
stripped naked, tied across a horse's back like a sack of worthless clay
(which indeed it was,), and taken to a near church-yard for burial.
Nobody cared for the monster, nor minded how his blood ran down in the
dust of the road on its way to the grave which had no mourners.

The new King marched in the splendor of banners and with triumphal music
to the Tower, at that time used as a palace. He was attended by a
princely escort, gentlemen on horseback wearing jewelled armor, and long
trains of gilded coaches filled with ladies in brilliant robes, making
altogether a brave show. Chambers tapestried in silk were set apart for
the court, beds were canopied with velvet, soft carpets and rich
hangings--gold, crimson, violet--covered the rough stones, and there was
much high feasting and much merry-making. When the ceremonies were over,
Henry thought of the murdered innocents, and made inquiry about them.
Forrest and the priest were dead, and the other two accomplices--to whom
was offered pardon on confession--knew nothing of the second burial. It
was supposed the chaplain would, if possible, lay the Princes in
consecrated ground. St. Peter's Cathedral was rummaged, many coffins
were opened and stared into, and the near church-yard was upturned and
searched for the precious relics, but none were discovered. Court
flatterers pretended to believe the children had been sent out of the
country, and were still alive somewhere in the provinces.

The ancient fortress grew grayer and drearier than ever, and portions of
it began to crumble and rot. Then the murder came to light, proved by
best evidence--the remains of the Princes themselves. Some workmen
making a new stairway to the royal chapel found under the steps, hidden
close to the wall and covered with earth, two skeletons answering
exactly to the missing youths long sought.




"Rex, don't it make you feel like a real old Crusoe, or a Swiss Family
Robinson, or something, to be left to ourselves here on this key, with
only Cudjoe to cook for us, and a fine black squall coming up from the
southeast, and--"

"It does give a fellow some such feeling, that's a fact, Nick. But the
black squall coming is just what I don't like to see. The _Pelican_
ought to be back some time early this evening, if I'm any judge of wind
and weather; and I'd rather have her in before the squall comes."

"Oh, pshaw!" Nick Jenner exclaimed. "I guess our fathers know how to
take care of themselves in a squall. The _Pelican_ is a sound little
schooner, and they have two good sailors aboard."

"They'll be all right, of course; but I'd rather see them back before it
begins to blow," Rex answered. His name was not Rex at all, but Harry
King; but his schoolmates said that as Rex was Latin for King, that
would be a good nickname for him.

It was on the piazza of a rambling old house on Indian Key, among the
Florida reefs, that the boys sat watching the coming storm. There was no
other house on the island, and no other island within eight or ten
miles. The great Alligator Light-house stood out in front of them, five
miles out to sea, built on a hidden reef. The nearest store was in Key
West, eighty miles away; so was the nearest doctor, the nearest
everything. That made it all the jollier, the boys thought.

There was nothing mysterious in Nick Jenner and Harry King being
together in this lonely house on a lonely island, with the colored boy
Cudjoe to cook for them. The boys live in a sea-coast city in Rhode
Island, where they have boats of their own. Their fathers, Lawyer Jenner
and Dr. King, are not only expert amateur sailors, but are also very
fond of fishing and shooting. When their fathers determined to run away
from work for a month and enjoy themselves among the Florida Keys, they
wisely took the boys with them; for Rex being past fifteen and Nick
almost sixteen, they could make themselves useful while they were
enjoying it all.

The house was not part of the original programme, for they expected to
live on the boat; but the man from whom they chartered the schooner in
Key West owned the house too, as well as the island; and when he offered
the use of the house, partly furnished, they did not refuse
it--particularly as a neat little sharpie called the _Dolphin_ belonged
with the house, and lay at anchor just off the beach.

"How white the light-house stands out against the black sky!" Nick
exclaimed. "It is queer the water should be shallow for five miles out
to the light-house, and then go right off deep into the Florida straits,
deep enough for the biggest ships. I like to see them going past--the
big Spanish steamers bound for Havana, and the American fellows for Key
West and New Orleans."

"I am glad to have the old light-house there to-night," Rex retorted.
"Since our fathers did have to run down to Key West to reach the
telegraph office, the light will help them find the way back if they
come to-night. No matter how many squalls come, nor how dark the night,
the light is always a sure thing. You know there are three keepers, and
two of them have to be always on duty."

"Yes," Nick answered, "this Alligator Light is one of the largest and
most important on the whole coast--a 'light of the first order,' they
call it, visible 20-3/4 miles. They say it's 135 feet high, and cost
nearly $200,000."

"Phew!" Rex whistled. "It ought to be a good one at that price. Well,
the light will be blinking at us pretty soon now. I notice they always
light it at sunset, and that can't be many minutes off."

"Now, den, gemmens, yo' suppahs is all ready, sahs," came the welcome
voice of Cudjoe from the hall door. The boys had been longing for this
call, for a day's fishing had made them hungry.

"What's this, Cudjoe?" Rex asked, as they entered the dining-room and
saw the meal the "boy" had prepared. "More green turtle soup to-night?"

"No, sah; dat loggerhead turtle soup dis time, sah. I ketch him on de
beach dis mawnin', sah. An' here's minced turtle, sah, an' dere is some
b'iled turtle eggs. Under de kiver is some fried flyin'-fish, sah; an' I
done think you might like some sweet pineapple fresh ourn de field,

"You're a famous old cook, Cudjoe," Nick exclaimed, as they both fell to
eating. "I'm afraid we're living too high down here with our turtle soup
every day."

"We're getting to be regular al--" Rex was about to say aldermen, but
before he could finish the word there came a sharp flash of lightning,
with a tremendous peal of thunder right on top of it. The boys looked at
each other, but before they could speak the wind and rain followed. A
squall among the Florida Keys comes with a crash and a flood of water;
trees bend to the ground, houses shake and sometimes fall; everything is
black and grand and wet. The old house trembled under the blow, and the
rain on the roof sounded like tons of water falling upon the shingles.

"There's the squall," Rex said, after a few seconds had passed. "I hope
it doesn't turn into anything worse, and I think I'd give something nice
if the folks were safe on shore."

"So should I," Nick answered, "but I think they'll be all right. And as
we can't stop the storm, we may as well finish our suppers."

That was comforting philosophy for two hungry fishermen, and the boys
ate while the storm raged, and made up for much lost time. They could
not look out, because there is no glass in the windows of the Keys, only
board shutters, and Cudjoe had shut the shutters.

Rex was the first to find that he positively could eat no more, and
leaving Nick still seated at the table, he pushed back his chair and
went out to the piazza to look at the weather. An instant later the cry
rang through the house:

"Nick! Nick!"

It was such a cry of alarm that Nick immediately sprang up and ran out
to see. Everything outside was pitch dark, and Rex, in all the wind and
rain, was holding to one of the piazza pillars.

"I must be blind, Nick!" Rex shouted. "Look! Where's the light-house?"

"The light-house?" Nick answered, wonderingly, and looked out seaward.
But he saw no light. "Why--why, there is no light! No light in all this
darkness! What can it mean?"

Instead of answering, Rex dashed into the house and returned in a few
seconds with Cudjoe.

"Look at that, Cudjoe!" he shouted; "there is no light!"

At first Cudjoe would not believe it. He ran to one end of the piazza
and then to the other, looking in all directions for a light.

"Well I 'clar' to goodness!" he exclaimed, and his face was as ashy as
such a black face could become. "I 'ain't never seed dat light out
afore, gemmen. Dey'll be wracks along dis coas' to-night, sho!"

"Something has happened out there, Nick!" Rex exclaimed. "They are in
trouble, or they would never leave that lamp unlighted."

"The light-house may have been struck by lightning," Nick suggested;
"you know it is made of iron."

"Yes, I've thought of that," Rex replied; "or lightning may have killed
the men. There's no telling what it is, but it's sure to be serious. All
we know is that there is no light, and our fathers are both out on the
water depending on that light. It may cost both their lives, and
hundreds of other lives, too. I feel as if we ought to do something,

"So do I," said Nick, "but I don't see what we can do. It's terrible to
think of our fathers out there looking for the light, and of all those
steamers that may be lost."

"And besides that," Rex broke in, "the light-house people may be in
trouble. Perhaps the thing has been blown over. They may be clinging to
the wreck, waiting for somebody to help them. Oh! I can't stand it,
Nick. I'm going out there in the sharpie, to see whether I can be of
any assistance."

"What! out to the light-house!" Nick exclaimed. "In that little sharpie,
in this storm! Why, you'd never even find the light-house in the

"Oh yes, I will," Rex answered, confidently. "I'm enough of a sailor to
handle a boat on a worse night than this. The wind has gone down a good
deal, and the rain won't hurt anybody. Besides. Nick," he added, laying
his hand tenderly on his friend's arm, "suppose you and I were out there
in the schooner, and our fathers were here on shore, and the light
failed like this, what would _they_ do?"

"Right you are, old man!" and Nick seized Rex's hand and gave it a
hearty squeeze. "They'd go out and have that light burning if there was
as much as a wick left! And that's what we'll do, for, of course, I
shall go along."

"We must leave Cudjoe here, in case the schooner gets in," Rex said,
"and to keep a lantern burning to guide us back. And the fewer clothes
we wear the better, Nick, for we may have to swim."

Cudjoe protested with all his might against the boys risking their lives
in the storm and darkness, but it did no good. They sent him for the
lantern and tied it to a corner post of the piazza, explaining to him
the importance of keeping it burning at all hazards.

"After all, it's not going to be as bad out on the water as it looks,"
Nick suggested, while they were making ready. "The wind has gone down a
great deal since the first blast, and these heavy rains keep the sea
down. Darkness always makes things seem worse than they are, too."

Rex was very thoughtful and quiet, now that the surprise was past, and
had little to say. He knew the danger of trying to make a landing
against the exposed light-house in the midst of a storm. But just before
they set out for the beach he said to Cudjoe:

"Cudjoe, if my father gets safely back while we are gone, I want you to
tell him that we went out to the light-house because we thought it our
duty to go. We are not going to make such a trip for sport."

It was work for men, and good sailormen too, going out in a sharpie to
find a dark light-house on such a night. The wind was dead against them,
and they had to beat out, and the rain was still falling in torrents.
Rex took the tiller and handled the sheets, and it was as much as Nick
could do to keep the boat clear of water.

The little _Dolphin_ seemed to feel that many lives might depend upon
her performance that night. Rex declared than she never rode the seas so
well before, nor answered her helm so quickly. She was soon out far
enough to be near the light-house, and the boys almost held their
breaths; for the iron columns of the light-house rise directly out of
the water, and in the darkness they might strike one of them at any
moment. Keeping a lookout was useless, for they could not see two feet
before the bow.

"If only a good flash of lightning would come!" Rex exclaimed; "then we
could see something. But there hasn't been a flash since the storm first

As if in answer to his wish there came a flash at that moment that
illuminated the whole heavens.

[Illustration: "THERE SHE IS," BOTH BOYS CRIED.]

"There she is!" both boys cried. In that second of glare they both saw
the great light-house looming up hardly a quarter of a mile in front of

"That's one point settled!" Nick declared, with a sigh of relief. "The
light-house is all right, anyhow. So the trouble must be either with the
keepers or the lantern."

From that moment the skies seemed to favor their work. Every few seconds
the lightning flashed, and before many minutes they ran up safely to the
lee side of the light-house and made the sharpie fast to a round of the
perpendicular iron ladder that runs down into the water. They had been
there before, and knew just what to look for: first four or five rounds
of the iron ladder leading to a little iron platform, and from there a
steep iron stairway leading to the deck, twenty feet above, on which the
keeper's house stands.

"Ahoy-oy-oy, there, in the light-house!" Rex shouted.

"Halloo-oo-oo!" Nick echoed.

Without wasting more time Rex seized the lantern and sprang up the iron
ladder with Nick close at his heels. With his first step on the narrow
platform Rex stumbled, but saved himself from falling by catching the

"Look out here!" he called; "there's something lying here that tripped
me." And he turned and held the lantern down.

"It's a man!" Nick exclaimed. "Hello, here, mister!" And he stooped down
and seized the man's arm and shook it. But there was no reply.

"We'll see to him later, Nick!" Rex cried; "the light's the first
thing;" and stepping over the man they both sprang up the steep iron
stairs. In a moment they were in the first room of the keeper's house.
It was empty and silent.

"Halloo-oo-oo!" both boys shouted.

"Here, here!" came back the answer, in a low, weak voice.

Instantly they fell to opening doors to look for the owner of the voice,
and Rex chanced upon the door opening upon the great spiral staircase
that winds up and up through a tower to the lantern. There in the little
passageway lay the principal keeper, groaning, coiled up in a heap, his
face covered with blood.

"Why, Mr. Pinder," Rex cried, "what's the--"

"The lamp, the lamp!" the keeper groaned. "Never mind--me. Light the
lamp! Matches on--on--the--table. Oh!" and amid his groans Rex managed
to catch the words; "open the small brass door; light all three wicks;
pull the lever to start the machinery!"

The boys waited to hear no more. Up they flew through the narrow iron
tower, up the 158 winding iron steps, round and round till their heads
swam, higher with every step, till they were in the little room beneath
the lantern, then up a few straight steps into the lantern itself.

Nick pressed the match-box into Rex's hand, and seized the knob of the
little brass door.

"It's for you to light the lamp, Rex," he said; "this is all your

Rex struck a match and touched it to the wicks, and cautiously pulled
the lever by his side.

Click, click! Whir, whir! came from the clock-work that moves the
machinery. The blaze sped around the three broad circles of wick.
Something began to revolve.

"Hurrah! hurrah!" The boys could not help it, even with the two injured
men lying below. For Alligator Light was burning again, sending its red
and white flashes over the black water every five seconds for the
comfort and safety of many a mariner at sea that stormy night!

To look after the injured keepers was the next work. They hurried down
the stairs, and when near the bottom they heard Mr. Pinder asking, in
his weak voice, full of pain:

"Is it burning? Is the lamp burning?"

"Yes, sir; the lamp is all right," the boys answered.

"Oh, God be praised for that!" he moaned. "No, never mind me," he went
on, as the boys stooped to pick him up. "My--partner. He's down--below
on the landing. I dragged him there after I--I--was hurt. Go see to

Saying so much exhausted the keeper, and his head sank back on his arm.
To pacify him the boys started down after the other man, who was still
lying precisely as they had left him. It was not an easy matter to carry
him up the steep stairs, but they did it, and laid him out on the floor
of the front room.

"His heart is still beating," Rex said, after putting his hand under the
man's vest. "He must have been stunned. I think we had better leave him
here and look after Mr. Pinder."

But Mr. Pinder had strong objections to being touched. "Oh, my leg!" he
groaned, when they tried to raise him. Then, "Oh, my back! Let--me lie;
please let me lie--where I am."

Rex found a towel and water, and washed the blood from the injured man's
face and bathed his temples; and while he was at this the boys were
startled by a cry from below of "Hello here, in the light-house!" and
the clattering of boots on the iron stairs; but before they could reply
the door opened and their fathers stepped in.

"Why, what are you boys doing here?" Mr. Jenner asked, in astonishment.
"And what was the matter with the light?"

"There has been some accident, sir," Nick replied, "but we don't know
yet what. Rex and I came out and found both these men hurt, and we have
just been up to light the lantern."

"There seems to be work here for me," said Dr. King, who had been
looking about with a professional eye. "You can tell us about it
afterward, boys; just now we must attend to these men."

The two keepers were soon laid out on comfortable beds, and under Dr.
King's treatment it was not long before the assistant began to show
signs of consciousness.

"He has been stunned by a blow on the head," the doctor said, "and we
will soon bring him around." But with Mr. Pinder, the principal keeper,
it was different. "Bad fracture of the right leg," he announced, after a
hasty examination; "some bruises on the back and side, and cuts on the
forehead. I think that after receiving the injury to his leg he tried to
drag himself up the stairs to light the lantern, but his strength
failed, and he fell back, and so received these other injuries."

By the time that Mr. Pinder was made comfortable, the assistant was able
to tell what had happened. With the first moment of consciousness he
sprang up, and exclaimed:

"The lamp! the lamp! Is the light burning?"

Being assured that all was well with the light, he rested his head on
his hands for a moment, and began:

"You see, there are three keepers here, and two required to be always on
duty. This morning the second assistant went off to Key West in the
schooner, with his wife and Mr. Pinder's wife. That left me and Mr.
Pinder here alone. Well, sir, early this evening, about ten or fifteen
minutes before it was time to light the lamp, there came a big squall of
wind, and picked up a bamboo rocking-chair we had out on the deck, and
carried it right over the rail.

"'You lower the boat an' get that chair,' says Mr. Pinder to me; 'we may
as well save the chair.'"

"Well, sir, I lowered the boat, and soon got the chair, but I saw it was
going to be tight work getting back to the ladder in that sea and wind.
Mr. Pinder he saw it too, and he run down to help me; and as I came in a
big roller came just at the wrong minute, and bang went my head against
one of the iron beams, as near as I can tell. That was the last I knew;
but the roller must have caught Mr. Pinder's leg between the boat and
the ladder and crushed it. Then, after draggin' me up on the platform,
the poor man's tried to crawl up to light the lamp, and he's fell back
and cut himself, just as you say."

"I don't know what I can say to these brave lads who came out and lit
the lamp for us," the man went on. "I'd rather been killed outright than
had that light fail."

"We have something to say about that," Mr. Jenner interrupted. "We were
bound for Indian Key, in the schooner _Pelican_, and when we found there
was no light we determined to stand out into deep water till daylight.
But we must have lost our bearings, for when the first flash of the
light came, we saw that we were heading in shore. In two minutes more we
should have been on the reefs."

"Yes, that light saved our lives by just about two minutes," said Dr.
King. "So we ran down here to see what was the matter. When is your mate
coming back from Key West?" he asked the keeper.

"In two or three days," the man answered.

"Then the boys shall stay and assist you till he comes," the doctor went
on, "for Mr. Pinder will be unfit for duty for a month or more. The
government will not pay you for that, boys," he added, laying a hand on
each boy's head, "but Jenner and I will. When you get home you can pick
out the best boat in the harbor; and you shall call her the _Alligator
Light_, in memory of this night's good work."


A Story of the Revolution.




Although Uncle Nathan was eager to arm his own people and seek a meeting
with the "miscreants," who, he declared, were endeavoring to ruin him,
Mr. Wyeth's cool counsels and Uncle Daniel's restraining voice
prevailed, and nothing had been done.

But Nathaniel Frothingham refused to go to bed, and paced the floor all
night. At daybreak he and his brother, with Cloud, the overseer, and Mr.
Wyeth, made their way up on the ridge. At first nothing appeared amiss,
but when they had gone a short way into the shaft they came upon a scene
of havoc.

The Hewes' Mine and the Frothinghams' had been joined into one big
excavation that was filled with the débris of the timbers and great
masses of ore.

It was true! For some months the Frothinghams had been working upon the
other's property. They had been separated only by a thin wall of rock,
and it was this intervening partition that had been blown up in the

The Hewes' shaft was deserted; but Uncle Nathan, when he reached the
air, climbed to a high point where he could look into the eastern

He shook his fist out over the silent woods and meadows. "I'll be even
with you, you cowardly rascals!" he exclaimed. "You'll account to me for
every bit of it, Mason Hewes, I'll warrant ye." He dashed his hat and
his wig upon the ground, and stamped upon them in his wrath.

Suddenly from behind a clump of bushes came three men, walking quickly
forward. They were Mr. Mason Hewes, his cousin the tall man carrying the
rifle, and a stranger.

They came quite close before a word was said. In the mean time Daniel
Frothingham and Mr. Wyeth had placed themselves on Uncle Nathan's either
hand, while Cloud had thrown back his coat, showing a big horse-pistol
thrust into his belt.

"I beg pardon," said Mr. Hewes, stepping ahead of the others. "But some
one called my name a moment since; have any of you gentlemen aught to
say to me?" He bowed politely, but his face was pale, and it was evident
that he was restraining himself only by a great effort.

Uncle Nathan put his hand to his bald head. The absence of his wig
appeared to disconcert him, and it was his brother who answered first.

"Yes," said Uncle Daniel. "Here is one who has something plain to say.
You are a villain, sir. I am Daniel Frothingham, much at your service."

Again Mr. Hewes bowed. "You are an old man," he said. "But guard your
words, I pray of you."

"I need guard no words when talking to a traitor," half shouted Uncle

"A traitor to what or whom, may I inquire?" said Mr. Hewes, lifting his

"To your King," was the rejoinder. "I have heard of your rebellious

"We may have no King here shortly," replied Mr. Hewes; "and in saying so
I am but far-sighted. Still I warn you, guard your words!"

Nathaniel had by this time recovered his wig and his composure, although
he looked redder than ever.

"This is _my_ quarrel, brother," he said, turning first to Daniel and
then to his hated neighbor. "Look here, you sneering rebel, _I_ am not
too old, and _my_ words shall not be guarded at your orders," he added.

"Hold," said Mr. Hewes; "no need of further talk; do you mean to force a
meeting with me?"

"Whenever and wherever you may choose," responded Uncle Nathan.

"This is my cousin and my young friend, Lemuel Roberts; they will wait
upon you," said Mr. Hewes, waving his hand towards his companions.

Stilted recognitions followed, and some whispering.

"To-morrow morning, then, at the spring in yonder hollow," announced one
of the suddenly appointed seconds. Bows were exchanged, and the two
parties walked away and descended the opposite slopes of the hill.

Cloud, the overseer, was evidently delighted with the unexpected turn of
affairs. But the rest of the party walked on in silence.

When they reached the house, Nathaniel Frothingham called to Cato, who
came into the hall. "Cato," he said, "get out those ebony-handled
pistols, and bring them on the lawn."

What fun the twins had that afternoon, and how their uncle rose in their
estimation, for at the first shot the stem of a wine-glass placed
against a tree-trunk had been shattered, and Uncle Nathan had turned,
saying, "I have not forgotten how--eh, Daniel?"

One thing the twins could not understand was why every one should be so
glum over a little pistol practice, or why their aunt Clarissa should
sit upstairs with her finger-tips in her ears, and her eyes red from

Something unusual was in the wind, it was easy to see that, but what it
was the boys could not determine.

After supper they had made their way to the foundry. From the door of
the smelting furnace a huge red beam shot out into the evening twilight,
throwing into strong relief the figures of the workmen, who with their
puddling-irons were turning the molten streams into the rough sand

The twins stood there talking softly to one another.

"I say, George," said William, "isn't it time we went back to the house,
think ye?"

"Oh, I don't know," replied the other. "Let's go around to the pond
first. We'll see if there's anything in the traps."

They darted out of the glare of the furnaces and climbed the fence into
the road. The pond lay still and quiet in the shadowy gray light, and
the twins carefully picked their way across the dam and entered a clump
of alders on the other side.

They had not gone more than a dozen steps when a strange apparition
appeared to rise out of the very mud at their feet. A tall bent figure
with long hair hanging down over its broad shoulders, a pair of
deep-set, restless eyes, and a large good-humored mouth, parted in a

"How!" said the apparition, in a deep chest tone.

The boys had recovered from their sudden start. "How, Adam!" they

Adam Bent Knee was one of the few surviving members of the once powerful
tribe of Indians that had years before harassed the settlers of New
Jersey, and had moved northward and westward before the advancing tide
of civilization, leaving a few of its descendants to earn a precarious
existence by fishing and trading in small ways with the whites.

The boys had long known the old Indian, and had often greeted him as he
passed through the woods tending his traps, or bringing strings of fish
down to the settlement to be exchanged for tobacco or a few ounces of
sugar. He seldom spoke to the older people, but he always had seemed
glad to meet the twins.

As they looked at him after he had arisen from the log on which he had
been seated, they saw he held in his hands the ends of two long
night-lines whose floats bobbed up and down some distance out on the
surface of the pond.

"Any luck this evening, Adam?" inquired George, cheerfully.

"Luck no good now," replied the old man; "luck no good anywhere. Tell
old man," said he, suddenly bending forward, "luck no good for him. Tell
him look out," the old Indian went on. "Fire, all, everywhere. War!
Three red moons! War! Men kill!" He swept his hand about his head, as if
indulging in some occult warning.

The boys looked at one another, and, taking hands, passed on. The
Indian, without a further word, seated himself again on the log.

A few steps further up the bank the twins glanced at a rough trap near
the roots of a huge sumach-bush, and seeing that luck here was also
against them, they skirted the bend and quickly crossed the old bridge
back to the house. They stole up to bed through the kitchen entrance. A
light was burning in their uncle's office. The three gentlemen were in
there, and Uncle Nathan was putting his name to a big paper, which the
others witnessed with their signatures. It was his will.

       *       *       *       *       *

Early the next morning the Frothingham twins made their way to the
summit of Tumble Ridge on a tour of inspection of their own.

They looked down into the yawning mouth of the pit, but did not descend
and could not see the mischief that the big blast had played with the
mine that their uncle had reckoned his best bit of property.

The Frothinghams' shaft was not in use, but George thought he heard the
rumble of the Hewes' ore cars descending their side of the hill.

So the boys walked over to the fence, climbed to the top and looked down
the further slope, then, balancing themselves, they walked along the

Suddenly they stopped. There, only a short distance from them, leaning
against the trunk of a stunted oak, was the hated Carter Hewes. He was
looking at them fixedly. "Where's your black nurse?" he said, grinning.

"I suppose you mean our body-servant, sir," said George, keeping his
balance with an effort on the rickety top rail.

The larger boy laughed. "You ought not to be out alone," he said.

"We are able to take care of ourselves, and you, too, I'll warrant,"
said William, who also maintained his post of vantage with some

"I dare you to come over on our property," said Carter, moving toward
them, menacingly.

Whether the top rail slipped, or whether the challenge was too much for
the young Frothingham blood is not to be told, but in an instant both
boys were down upon the ground. Carter had removed his coat.

"I'll fight you both," he said.

William plucked George by the sleeve. "Me first," he whispered, removing
his hat and turning up his sleeves.

George stepped to one side, and in an instant the two boys were at it
without another word.

Some blows were exchanged, and then the combatants clinched and rolled
upon the ground, first one on top, and then the other, scratching and
striking with all their might.

George danced about them, scarcely refraining from taking a hand
himself, and shouting encouragingly.

"You have him, William! You have him!" he cried, waving his brother's
hat as well as his own, about his head. "Don't let him hold you down!"

But size and superior strength told at last, and the fighters for an
instant separated and rose to their feet. Then it was seen that William
had much the worst of the affair. One of his eyes was blackened, and he
could scarcely close his small fists, but he faced his opponent bravely,
and said, "Come on, come on, sir!" He was panting furiously, and
snuffling to keep back the angry sobs. Carter, too, was breathing hard,
sharp breaths. His lips were tightly pressed over his teeth, and the
corner of his mouth was bleeding slightly. There was another rush, and
William went down and lay there, for a blow had caught him squarely on
the point of the chin.

George threw down the hats and tore off his coat.

"You said you'd fight us both," he shouted to the older boy, and drove
at him, with both arms threshing like a small wind-mill. Carter could
not resist the impetus of this fresh onslaught. Tired with his first
struggle, inside a minute he cried, "Enough, enough. Two to one is too
much for me. I've had enough, I say!"

He had tripped over a branch and had fallen on the ground. George stood
over him, and William, recovering, was shouting encouragement in turn.

But further fighting was interrupted just here by a strange appearance.
There was something that sounded like a laugh, and, looking up, the
three boys saw, standing close to them, the bent form of the old Indian.

"Ugh!" he said. "Heap fight. Great chiefs." Then he came closer. "No
more fight," he said. "Good friends now. Great chiefs."

He held in his fingers a short red clay pipe, from which the smoke was

"I've had enough," repeated Carter, glancing up at George.

The old Indian made a funny gesture with his open hand. "No more fight,"
he said, at the same time turning round and striking the ground sharply
with his moccasined feet.

Something was so amusing in the old man's expression that George half
smiled, and Carter, getting up, brushed the dirt from his knees and

[Illustration: THE PIPE OF PEACE.]

"Let's smoke the 'Pipe of Peace,'" he said.

The old Indian seemed to understand him, for soon he sat upon the
ground, and motioned the boys to join him.

The four seated themselves in a circle.

Old Adam gravely drew three puffs and made a guttural exclamation, at
the same time passing the short clay pipe to George, who took a whiff.
It made him cough, and the tears came into his eyes as he passed it on
to Carter, who, still breathless, put it to his lips, and inhaled a
little of the smoke. He immediately fell to coughing also, but handed
the pipe to William, whose left eye was fast closing. William drew a
long inhalation, and almost exploded, the smoke coming from his nose,
and the tears running down his grimy face.

Contrary to what is supposed to be the usual custom of the Indian, Adam
Bent Knee laughed aloud. "Great chiefs," he said.

Quickly, however, he recovered his composure, and passed the pipe again.

If honors were equally divided in the former contest, the pipe had all
the glory of the second encounter, for the boys refused to touch it.

Still dizzy from the effects of the strong tobacco, they stood up and
put on their coats.

"Let's go over to the spring and wash our faces," said Carter. "There's
no use fighting any more."

No one would have thought that hostilities could be so soon forgotten;
but boys forgive easily if they have no mean action cherished against
one another.

Old Adam left them, striding off through the trees with a parting
injunction to "no more fight."

When the late combatants reached the spring they threw themselves flat
in the green soft grass, and washed their heated faces, and there was
cemented a friendship between the younger branches of the rival families
that was destined to bear most unlooked-for results.

As they lay there talking together they heard the sound of voices, and
George arose. "Why, look here!" he said. "Here's our two uncles and your
father, Carter; and Dr. Grubb, from the cross-ways, with a big box under
his arm. What are they about?"

Looking through the bushes the three lads saw a strange sight.

Uncle Nathan was standing with his arms folded quite alone, and a short
distance away was Mr. Hewes, who was stripping the leaves from a twig he
held in his hand. Beneath a tree a discussion was being held in low
tones between four other gentlemen, and the doctor off to one side was
mopping his forehead with a great handkerchief.

The trio of new friends walked boldly out into the open. But they were
not prepared for the consternation that their appearance created.

The doctor stopped polishing his brow, and adjusted his old brown wig.
Mr. Hewes dropped both his hands, and the group under the tree looked
like school-boys caught robbing an orchard.

Nathaniel Frothingham cleared his throat nervously. "What are you doing
here, and what have you been at?"

"We've been fighting," said William, promptly. "But we are good friends
now, and we've smoked the pipe of peace; have we not, Carter?"

No one spoke, and again an awkward silence followed. At last the Doctor
spoke. "A capital idea," he said. "Have you it with you?--ah, eh?--the
pipe, I mean."

"No," said Carter. "It belonged to Adam Bent Knee, and it made us all
most dreadful sick."

At this Mr. Wyeth laughed, and Mr. Hewes's pale face broadened into a

"Now, I think me that a snuff-box might make an excellent substitute,"
said the Doctor, walking up to Mr. Hewes and extending a big horn-case.

Mr. Hewes took a pinch, and then with reluctance Uncle Nathan followed
suit. Then pinches of the powdered tobacco were exchanged all round.

The Doctor broke out into a roaring sneeze. "Well, gentlemen, methinks
the conference is over," he said, and started off with the case under
his arm.

Mr. Hewes picked up another box much like it and went away into the
woods. The gentlemen lifted their hats to one another, and the party
broke up.

"Good-by, Carter," called back the twins. Carter waved his hand.
"Good-morrow," he said. "We'll meet again."

After the young Frothinghams had gone to bed that night Aunt Clarissa
came up to their room. She kissed them both over and over again.

This display of affection was most disconcerting, and to the twins quite
inexplicable, but what she said astonished them also.

"You must have Carter Hewes come to Stanham and see you," said Aunt

After she had left them William rose up on his pillow and shook his
brother's shoulder, whispering:

"Uncle Daniel is going to take one of us back with him to London. I
overheard him say it. We won't go unless he takes us both. What say

"Agreed," said George, sleepily. "What a strange day it has been, to be
sure! They haven't said a word to us for fighting Carter Hewes; and
wasn't it funny how we met them all up there? How polite they were to
one another, eh?"




  When first we moved into this street
  My Mamma wouldn't let me meet
  The other little girls and boys
  Out on the sidewalk with their toys.

  She said perhaps some naughty child
  Would teach me to be bad and wild;
  And so for several weeks I stood
  At the window being good.

  Until a lady came to see
  My Mamma, and she said to me:
  "_My_ little boy is good and sweet;
  We live near by, across the street."

  She told my Mamma I must meet
  Her little boy across the street;
  And so they sent me out one day
  To find that little boy and play.

  They said he was so very good
  He could not be bad if he would.
  I almost thought he must have wings,
  And other holy sorts of things.

  But when the nurse left us at play,
  He said to me: "Let's run away;
  I know a pond where, if you please,
  We both can wade up to our knees!"



To-day in many families of modest means the daughters, as well as the
sons, begin, as the school days draw to a close, to consider seriously
the question of a career and the best means of earning a living. Every
wise girl interests herself not only in the possibilities for success
held out by the various professions, but the best method of so ordering
her working life that it may result not only in success, but in pleasure
and happiness as well. The one does not necessarily imply the other. One
may rise in one's profession and earn an excellent income, and yet miss
happiness and fail of true success. A wise old lady writing to a young
girl of great wealth about to make her début in society, said:

"The really important matter is to _succeed_. Don't make the mistake of
thinking that I mean mere success of fashion, money, and rank--though
they are all most desirable and delightful things too. I am speaking of
the success of being loved, of being popular, useful, and important. To
my mind a woman is a success when she holds such a place in the world
that her going out of it, at any age, is a severe loss to many people.
There must be many so dependent upon her for love, for help, for advice,
for pleasure and amusement, that her death leaves a wide gap and a
bitter grief. Thousands of women die every day whose going affects no
one deeply, except, perhaps, with a sense of relief, and such women I
consider failures, whether they were rich or poor, humble or proud."

This is an excellent piece of advice for the girl about to enter on a
life of labor, as well as for one destined for a fashionable career. Let
a girl then fix her ambition upon a real all-round success, and be
content with nothing less.

The most important thing to settle in the beginning is her way of
living, which--while the style of it depends in large measure upon her
earnings; or upon the allowance she receives from home while she is
preparing herself to earn--is capable of infinite variations between the
levels of comfort and discomfort, according to her own skill.

There are some so-called women's hotels in New York, but these are,
without exception, to be avoided by a young girl with all her might.
They are very cheap, but are dirty, squalid, and vulgar. They contain no
provision for decent privacy, for adequate bathing, or for proper
cleanliness; the food is unwholesome and uninviting, and the society no
better than the accommodations, being composed in large part of
broken-down failures of the sex, who are little likely to inspire a
young girl with hopefulness or high ideals. Their one recommendation is
the exclusion of men, which is not, after all, a matter of importance,
since there is no reason why a self-respecting girl should not meet men
and enjoy their acquaintance when circumstances and the proprieties
admit of it. There is an enterprise on foot to build a woman's
apartment-house, where the rooms and flats will be rented only to women
working for a living who can furnish adequate and respectable
references; where the rent will be low, the accommodations pleasant and
pretty, and a restaurant of moderate prices in the building; but as yet
this admirable scheme remains unrealized in New York, though similar
Ladies' Chambers are settled and profitable institutions in London.

Perhaps the best thing a girl unacquainted with New York can do is to
write and secure a room for two weeks at the Margaret-Louisa Home in
East Seventeenth Street. This home--one of the many admirable
foundations made by the Vanderbilt family--was built for the purpose of
providing a safe and comfortable stopping-place for women of small
means, and is closely connected with the Young Women's Christian
Association in the next street. Owing to the constant demand for
admission, no one person may remain longer than two weeks, which, after
all, allows quite sufficient time for the search of a permanent
abiding-place. In the interim one pays $3 a week for a room, and finds
meals in the restaurant below at very moderate prices. That is to say,
one can live there, with economy, at the rate of about seventy-five
cents a day.

The best permanent arrangement for a girl young and alone is to find
lodgings in a boarding-house. Excellent accommodations in the
pleasantest quarters of the city can be had for $10 a week. This means a
small hall room, the use of the bath-room and of the drawing-room,
light, heat, attendance, and three meals a day. Two girls can usually
arrange to lessen their expenses and double their comfort by taking a
double room at $16. This plan is advisable, because it gives one a home
in a clean, healthy, and agreeable part of town; provides ample food,
which a girl hard at work requires; and insures attendance and
consideration in case of illness. From a social point of view it
provides her with entire protection and respectability; she meets and
makes friends with a nice class of men and women living in the house,
and has a pleasant reception-room in which to receive visits. Madison
Avenue and the side streets leading out of Fifth Avenue contain a rich
choice of such boarding-houses, but here and there certain streets are
considered undesirable places to live, and it is well to select a
boarding-house which appears quiet and dignified in its aspect, and
whose landlady has the same appearance.

Another method is to take a room in a house that furnishes merely
lodgings, where one can be housed for a sum ranging between $3 and $5 a
week. A small gas-stove will serve for preparing breakfast and a light
supper at night, and the hearty meal of the day can be had at a
restaurant at one o'clock, when others are lunching. When two girls club
together this is not a bad plan. The quickly cooked oatmeal, an egg, and
a cup of tea will serve for breakfast; jam, a roll, and a glass of milk
make a supper; and there are many cheap restaurants where a table d'hôte
midday dinner of the most ample description is to be had for fifty
cents, and one portion is ample for two. There are, of course, in the
less-fashionable quarters of town, plain, cheap boarding-houses where
everything is included for from $6 to $7 a week, but these rarely give
the use of a general drawing-room, and the accommodations are very
plain. Still, in Washington Square, Lafayette Place, and similar places
one may by careful search sometimes find excellent lodgings at a most
reasonable rate.

Still another method is to rent a large empty room somewhere, usually a
sort of loft at the top of a house, and furnish it one's self. This is a
popular plan among the girls in the art schools who wish a home and
studio combined. They divide off the corners of the room by cheap
screens into bedrooms and kitchen, and leave the centre for sitting and
work room. They paint their floor to save a carpet, content themselves
with a divan or two, a table, and a few chairs, and they do "light
housekeeping" by the aid of a gas-stove, tinned goods, and the
delicatessen stores, where one can find all manner of cooked dishes
needing only to be warmed. When two or three girls combine on such a
scheme they can keep their expenses down to about $18 or $20 a month
each, and have a very good time of it.

There is also apartment life, which is not very dear, and is often most
agreeable. Indeed, if it can be afforded, it is the pleasantest of all,
since no one appreciates the pleasant privacy and relaxation of home
life more than the woman who must face the world and fight her own
battle. These housekeeping flats may be had all the way from $25 a month
up, according to size, location, and convenience. A maid-of-all-work
will serve as laundress, cook, and house-maid for from $12 to $15 a
month, and the other expenses can be regulated according to one's means;
but when two or three share the expenses, and the pennies are looked
after closely, this is not an expensive mode of life.

Dress is possibly the next most important point for consideration, for
nowhere is a woman judged more by her appearance than in New York. This
does not imply that a girl unable to dress expensively need ever suffer
from that fact, but it does mean that gewgaws, frippery, loud colors,
affectations of masculinity, slovenliness, or eccentricities of costume
will severely militate against the success, socially and financially, of
a girl who comes to New York to earn her living. New-Yorkers possibly
more than others are very sensitive as to the appearance of persons they
are seen with, and many a pleasant clever girl has found it hard to get
on here because she could not or would not realize that people did not
like to be seen walking with her in the street, and shrank from
presenting her to their friends because her appearance seemed to require
an explanation on their part that she was better than she looked.

It is not infrequent that a high-spirited girl, when warned of this,
replies proudly that those who judge her by her clothes are unworthy of
her consideration, and are no loss as friends, but such an answer,
though natural perhaps, is certainly foolish. Strangers and new
acquaintances are necessarily ignorant of her qualities of mind and
heart, and their only clew to her character is her outward appearance.
Very properly they reason that a dignified, well-bred girl would be
likely to dress with quiet, inconspicuous neatness, and if they find no
such outward indication of refinement, they see no particular reason to
continue the acquaintance on the possible chance of their being
mistaken. Of course capable women can conquer this prejudice in time,
but it certainly seems hardly worth while to deliberately place in one's
path an obstacle to be overcome.

Avoid fierce frizzy untidy fringes, fluttering ribbons, cheap finery,
high-heeled shoes; flee the short-haired, mannish, hands-in-pocket
swagger, the dirty plush and draggled cheese-cloth attempt at
æstheticism, and, above all, eschew the still more unforgivable offence
of dingy fingernails, greasy skin, unbrushed skirt edges, and
unblackened shoes. There is still another type of girl who needs a
suggestion. She of plain appearance, who apparently has become convinced
of the uselessness of any attempt to beautify herself, and who screws
her hair into an uncompromising knot at the most unbecoming angle;
wears, if she is near-sighted, great steel-bowed spectacles instead of
_pince-nez_, and arrays herself in colors and costumes which seem
specially chosen for their unsuitability to her coloring and figure.
Each and all of these need to be reminded that success in life consists
as much in being a charming and agreeable-looking woman, sought after as
an acquaintance and companion by refined and pleasant people, as in
winning fame and money by one's own efforts.

The wardrobe needed by a girl who is in New York for work instead of
play is very simple, and not at all expensive. The serge or cloth tailor
gown, consisting of a skirt and coat, has grown to be as much a uniform
of the well-dressed business woman as the simple regulation morning suit
is that of the business man. These can be had at prices ranging from $12
to $30, ready made in the big shops, or can be ordered from a tailor for
about $35 or $40. The latter is the more advisable purchase, as the
material is so good and the cut so recent that a serge gown, if of
medium weight, can be worn summer and winter for two years. An addition
of a heavy outer coat or cape makes such a costume sufficiently warm for
any weather one is exposed to in New York, and by leaving off the coat
and wearing the skirt with a bodice, the hottest weather of summer can
be endured. If, added to this, one possesses a pretty silk costume, with
one high-necked and one low-necked bodice, one is provided to meet all
social as well as work-a-day demands upon one's wardrobe. In New York
one either wears street dress and a bonnet, or else full dress. A
demi-toilet is not necessary except when one can afford to indulge one's
tastes regardless of economy. To the theatre, to restaurants in the
evening, for calling, at afternoon teas or luncheons, for any social
event, in fact, that occurs in the daytime or in a public place one
wears a street dress and bonnet or hat. For even the simplest dinner
parties--unless, indeed, one is the only guest and the invitation is
impromptu--evening dress is the correct wear, and if by chance one has
an invitation to a box at the opera, it is again customary to wear
evening dress. Sitting in the orchestra stalls in the opera one would
wear street dress and bonnet.

For morning and business wear the tailor skirt and coat, worn with a
quiet-colored bodice, would be accompanied by a plain walking hat, with
no more trimming than a few cocks' plumes, low-heeled walking shoes, and
heavy dark gloves. If one's business lay in an office there should be
worn as few rings or jewelry of any description as possible. It is
considered a sign of great carelessness to go upon the street with no
gloves, or with gloves half on, or not tidily buttoned; and nothing has
a more provincial appearance than to have one's feet crowded into
high-heeled boots.

Certainly New York provides as much innocent and inexpensive amusement
for the girl who earns her living as any other city in this country--if
one knows where to look for it. Two girls can go alone together to the
theatre at night in perfect safety--that is, if their manner is quiet
and dignified, and not such as to attract attention. A very respectable
and respectful class of neighbors is found up in the cheap, fifty-cent
galleries of the better class of theatres, and one may see all the best
actors for small sums and in perfect comfort. The Sunday night concerts
at Carnegie Hall and the Berkeley Lyceum afford one a chance to hear the
best music and listen to the most famous soloists and singers for prices
ranging from two dollars to fifty cents; and here again it is quite
correct to go in couples without other escort.

A little pains will keep one cognizant of the many free lectures. Five
dollars is the cost of a yearly subscription to the Mercantile Library,
and provides one with the best books, and the Astor and Lenox libraries
are open without charge to those who have time to use their
reading-rooms. The Museum of Art, with its ever-growing collection of
pictures, models from the antique, gems, statues, musical instruments,
silver, laces, tapestry, etc., is open without charge five days of the
week, and this museum, the zoo, and the Museum of Natural History are
all in Central Park, which affords one all the loveliness of nature, as
well as tennis, skating, and boating.

In summer a few cents will make one very familiar with New York Harbor
by means of its many ferry lines to all the various points, and for tiny
sums one can go by the elevated trains and their continuations, in the
form of steam trains and trolleys, upon fifty charming country
excursions. There are a number of working-girls' clubs, where one can
find companionship of one's own age, and can join classes for learning
to make one's own dresses, trim one's bonnets, typewrite, embroider,
dance, and endless other accomplishments. The churches offer, beside
spiritual help and benefit, the best music, the most inspired eloquence,
and in many instances splendid ceremonials and treasures of art. Much is
said about the loneliness of strangers in New York, but loneliness and
ennui in such a city simply arise from laziness and lack of
intelligence. A girl with only half a dozen acquaintances here can still
find some expedition, some delightful musical, artistic, dramatic, or
literary experience, to fill every moment that she can spare from her

Socially New York is a delightful place for a girl of small means who is
yet agreeable, intelligent, and refined. But let her from the first
carefully refrain from making the mistake of forming intimacies without
discrimination. She should make up her mind as to the class of persons
she wishes to know, and wait for that class. The easy conquest of an
inferior grade of social life will only prevent her ever gratifying her
better ambitions, for acquaintances once made are not easily got rid of,
and she will be unfavorably judged by those she wishes to know when they
see her associates. Let her fill her life with such pleasures as are to
be had for the taking, and let her wait for the natural course of events
to bring her friends. The first year is always the hardest and
loneliest, but suddenly one finds after about a twelvemonth that people
have become aware of one's existence, and begin to recognize whatever
one may possess of amiability or cleverness. Then one's "good times"
begin. The New-Yorkers are generous, hospitable, and friendly, and are
glad to offer all the pleasantest forms of amusement and hospitality to
an agreeable girl who looks neat and attractive and is amiable and

In conclusion, it may be suggested that a girl would do well to connect
herself with some church and interest herself in some charity. There are
none so poor and so friendless that others do not need their aid, and
apart from all the moral help and restraint to be found in serving
others, such work brings one in contact with the very best and noblest
women, from whom one learns to form noble ideals, and to discriminate
between apparent and real success in life.





  ELGIN, _a fairy messenger_.
  ROSY-CHEEKED APPLE (_a girl_).
  GOLDEN PUMPKIN (_a boy_).
  NUTS AND RAISINS (_a boy_).
  RED CRANBERRY (_a girl_).

     SCENE.--Ethel's _bedroom_.

     _Enter_ Ethel Forrester. _She throws off her hat and shawl, and
     sits upon her cot-bed._

_Ethel_. So tired! So tired! Shall I ever get rested? To-morrow is a
holiday, but for me a sad one. I have no nice dinner for mamma and
Elise. I hoped something would turn up. But nothing has. After all,
things don't turn up. You have to wade right through things. It's
foolish to expect, for instance, a nice dinner to drop from the clouds
for us, mamma and Elise and me; yet unless one does we shall not stand
much chance of anything except bread and tea. Here are my car fares,
though. I will buy an orange for mamma, and two apples for Elise.
They've got to be content with that. What time is it? (_Clock strikes
outside._) Twelve, I do declare. Well, I'm too tired to undress. I am
sleepy--and hungry. To-morrow is--Thanksgiv-- [_Falls on the bed, and

     _Enter two_ Fairies. _They stand, one on each side of_ Ethel's
     _head, wave wands over her, and sing "The Fairies' Sleep Charm_."

  Sleep, dear one, sleep, and close thy tired eyelids;
    Good angels wake and watch till morning light.
  Love sees the trouble and the brave endurance,
    And soon, for thee, dear child, will all be bright.

_First Fairy_. She seems quite exhausted.

_Second Fairy_. She does indeed.

_First Fairy_. A brave little struggler?

_Second Fairy_. She is.

_First Fairy_. But she is trying to carry too big a burden.

_Second Fairy_. Much too big.

_First Fairy_. I love to see her rest.

_Second Fairy_. She is smiling now, and reposing.

     [_The_ Fairies _walk away from the bed and sit down_.]


_First Fairy_. Do you know why she is so late in getting to bed?

_Second Fairy_. No.

_First Fairy_. She carried a bonnet to Miss Van Noir, with strict orders
to see the lady herself, and find out whether the bonnet suited. Miss
Van Noir was at dinner with a party of friends, and the maid would not
disturb her. It was ten o'clock before the lady saw the little girl and
tried on the bonnet. After that, to save her car fare, Ethel walked
home. So, no wonder she is late and tired.

_Second Fairy_. I see no preparations for a Thanksgiving dinner in this

_First Fairy_. Ethel's mother is ill. She has lain in bed some weeks,
and may never get well. If she could go to the hospital and have good
nursing, she might recover. But she will not leave her little girls. She
thinks she can look after them, although so ill. But there is no
prospect of a Thanksgiving dinner here. That is plain to see.

_Second Fairy_. What does Ethel do to earn money?

_First Fairy_. She is cash-girl and errand-girl in a milliner's
establishment. Every one in the house wants her, and sends her on
countless errands, so that madame herself is not so tired sometimes at
night as my little Ethel there.

_Second Fairy_. Poor little soul! How much better off she would be if
she were a fairy! I never heard of a sick or tired fairy. Did you?

_First Fairy_. No. But though we never feel fatigue nor suffer hardship,
we sympathize with mortals.

_Second Fairy_. Oh yes, we do!

_First Fairy_. Now I am thinking.

_Second Fairy_. What?

_First Fairy_. Could we get somebody to give these little girls a home
and put their mother in a hospital, how nice it would be!

_Second Fairy_. Nice indeed.

_First Fairy_. I will summon the elfin messenger, and see what can be

_Second Fairy_. Count on my assistance.

     [Fairies _arise, make motions with their hands, and repeat,_]

  Hither hasten, lovely boy,
  Whom we fairy-folk employ;
  Here are errands to be done,
  Finished ere to-morrow's sun.

     _Enter_ Elgin, _the messenger, a boy of six to eight years_.

_Elgin_ (_bowing_).

  Fairies dear, I heard your call;
    Elgin is my name.

_First Fairy_. Come hither, good Elgin. Wilt run errands in the air for
us to-night?


  Only let me know your wish,
    I will do that same.

_First Fairy_. Behold yon sleeping child.

_Second Fairy_. She sleeps sweetly under our loving enchantment. Do you
see her?

_Elgin_. Fairies, I do. 'Tis a young and gentle face.

_First Fairy_. Knowest thou a lady rich and lonely who would give a home
to this girl and her sister?


  You ask a most uncommon thing.
    Most mortals are so cold and hard,
  To wealth and luxury they cling,
    And if they give, they seek reward.

_Second Fairy_. But, Elgin, think. Rich, lonely, and with loving hearts.
Are there no such among mortals?


  A few, no doubt;
  To find one out,
    That is the enterprise.
  One can but try,
  And that will I
    Beneath the starry skies.

_First Fairy_. But prithee think quickly, Elgin, boy. Time waits not.

_Elgin_ (_musing_). Idle and frivolous--she won't do. How would a maiden
lady do? I know one living in a large and beautiful house, her father's
dying gift. She has no one to love her, and no one to love. Shall I go
to her, Fairies? One can but try.

_First Fairy_. Now you are my sweet Elgin. Ask her in dreams to-night.
And, dear boy, on thy way bid hither the Genius of Thanksgiving and many
of his sprites. We can arrange a little dinner for to-morrow.

_Elgin_. Depend on me, good fairies dear. [_Exit._]

_Second Fairy_ (_walking to_ Ethel). She sleeps and smiles. Rest, sweet

     _Enter_ Rosy-cheeked Apple, _a girl dressed in red cheese-cloth,
     and_ Golden Pumpkin, _a boy in yellow_.

_Both Fairies_. Welcome, sprites--Rosy-cheeked Apple and Golden Pumpkin.
We have work for you to-night.

_Rosy-cheeked Apple_. It's frosty out to-night, so we ran and tumbled,
and Golden Pumpkin there, jolly boy, rolled till we came hither.

_Golden Pumpkin_. 'Twas a merry game of tag, sister, and I won.

_Rosy-cheeked Apple_. Naughty boy, I won. Last tag was mine.

_Golden Pumpkin_. Well, then it's mine now.

     [_Touches her, and together they play tag around the room, nearly
     knocking over_ Nuts and Raisins, Red Cranberry, _and_ Beets,
     Carrots and Turnips, _who enter_.]

_Nuts and Raisins_ (_dressed in brown_). Why, here's fun! Let's join the

     [_All play tag._]

     [_Enter_ Genius of Thanksgiving, _fat, jolly, corn-husks for hair,
     trimmed in any fantastic way with pop-corn, strings of raisins,
     apples, etc._]

_Genius of Thanksgiving_. Tut, tut, sprites! Not so fast, my fine
fellows. Here, now. Peace! Silence!

     [_Catches one by the ear, shakes another, and soon the sprites are

_Nuts and Raisins_. We were but having a little game of tag, master.

_Genius of Thanksgiving_. Another time, sprites. Now there's work to be
done. Have you made your manners to the ladies? Oh, saucy children!
Fairies, forgive them.

_First Fairy_. Since the sleeping child was not disturbed, 'twas of no
consequence, sir. You were kind to come at our call, Genius of
Thanksgiving. Here is a family that you have overlooked. There is no
dinner provided for to-morrow. Is it too late?

[Illustration: WHY, NO, THE NAME IS NOT HERE!]

_Genius of Thanksgiving_. Why, how comes that? (_Looks over a long list
of names._) No, the name--what is it, Forrester?--is not here. Well,
that's a sad omission. No, ma'am, it's not too late. Sprites, you must
hustle and bustle, and get up a first-class dinner for the Forresters.
Do you hear?

_Sprites all_. We hear--we will.

_Genius of Thanksgiving_. Are we all present? No. [_Impatiently taps on
the floor._]

     _Enter_ Purveyor of Turkeys, _strutting. He gobbles._

_Purveyor of Turkeys_. Good-evening, master, and you, Fairies.

_Genius of Thanksgiving_. Sirrah, Purveyor of Turkeys, you're late. Have
you a fine fat turkey left?

_Purveyor of Turkeys_. I have, sir. The demand was terrible this year,
but I have laid by a few, thinking they would be wanted for late

_Genius of Thanksgiving_. Save us a good one, then--twelve-pound weight.
Is that big enough, Fairies? The family is small, I believe.

_First Fairy_. That will do, sir.

_Genius of Thanksgiving_. Will you have it cooked or uncooked.

_Second Fairy_. Uncooked. But pray do not forget the stuffing.

     _Enter_ Miss Maize _and_ Miss Corn Tassel, _dressed in white and

_Miss Maize_. Who speaks of turkey stuffing? I will attend to that.

_Miss Corn Tassel_. Yes, we will furnish the bread and biscuit, the
butter and thyme, and I can add the eggs.

_Genius of Thanksgiving_. Miss Maize and Miss Corn Tassel, young ladies,
you are late. But there are others later still.

     _Enter_ Miss Grape, _elegantly attired in purple_.

_Nuts and Raisins_. Ah! See Miss Grape, our purple sprite. So pretty, so
graceful! Did Master Frost speak with thee, child?

_Miss Grape_. He did indeed take my hand, and waltz me hither.

_Genius of Thanksgiving_. Nay, I warrant me, he stopped not there.

_Miss Grape_. He pressed a kiss upon my cheek. He said 'twould give it a
richer bloom.

_Genius of Thanksgiving_. Well, naughty, pretty child, canst give us
grapes for our Thanksgiving dinner?

_Miss Grape_. That can I, both white and black, pretty to look upon,
sweet to taste, and no harm within.

_Genius of Thanksgiving_. So? Good! Child, do. And you shall have my

     _Enter_ Miss Mince Pie, _dressed in mixed black and white_.

_All shout_. Oh, late Mince Pie! What has made thee late?

_Miss Mince Pie_. Your honor, I got lost. I thought I would take a short
way hither, and it proved thrice as long as the other. I came whizzing,
and nearly left my breath behind me.

_Genius of Thanksgiving_. Next time, Miss Mince Pie, take your
shortening in your crust, and don't put it into your feet. But listen.
Have you spices and boiled cider, apples and beef, so as to make us a
right merry mince pie to eat after the Forresters' turkey to-morrow?
Good heavens! It's to-day. The night is waning. We must hasten.

_Miss Mince Pie_. Your honor, as fine a mince pie as ever went on a
Thanksgiving table shall be ready for Ethel Forrester's dinner

_Genius of Thanksgiving_. Thanks. And now where is the cranberry jelly?

_Red Cranberry_. Your honor, I have a fine mould ready.

_Genius of Thanksgiving_. Ah! Red Cranberry, you are just the sprite to
attend to that. And Beets, Carrots, and Turnips?

_Beets, Carrots, and Turnips_. Here, sir. I will furnish a goodly array
of vegetables.

_Genius of Thanksgiving_. Golden Pumpkin, a pie from you, rich, thick,
and yellow. Plenty of cream and eggs, sirrah.

_Golden Pumpkin_. I know a good pie when I see it.

_Genius of Thanksgiving_. Rosy-cheeked Apple, some of your best, please?

_Rosy-cheeked Apple_. I have beauties, sir.

     _Enter_ Elgin.

_Elgin_. Good-morning, your honor, and you, sprites. I was hurrying
here, and passed a beautiful young lady combing her hair. She seemed
nowise in a hurry. Miss Celery--

_All_. Miss Celery! Where is she? No dinner can be complete on
Thanksgiving day without her.

     _Enter_ Miss Celery, _dressed in white and green_.

_Miss Celery_. Did you call? I did but sleep a little, but methought you

_Genius of Thanksgiving_ (_sternly_). We did call. 'Tis no time to
sleep, the night before Thanksgiving. Have you, miss, two nice crisp
bunches of celery?

_Miss Celery_. Yes, your honor, four if you like.

_Genius of Thanksgiving_. No, two. But your very best. And now, Fairies,
the dinner is arranged. The night passes. My sprites must be busy. Go,
children, weave a spell over the ovens. Let nothing burn. Have
everything well baked. See to the dinners of the poor as well as the
rich. Let no one go hungry on Thanksgiving day. And see to it that Ethel
Forrester's dinner is complete.

_First Fairy_. Dear good Genius of Thanksgiving! How can we thank you

_Second Fairy_. Dear friend, how old are you? Pardon the question, but I
am mystified--you seem so old and so young.

_Genius of Thanksgiving_.

  Ah! ask me an easier question;
    I am older than any one thinks.
  Why, I've perched on the eaves of Palmyra,
    And slept on the breast of the Sphynx.
  But yet I am young as the youngest,
    With a heart that can never grow old,
  For my work is Love's own inspiration,
    Defiant of hunger and cold.
  So, Fairies, to you let me bow my adieu.
    Come, sprites, with a whir and a flurry,
  To get this well done will be jolly great fun,
    But I tell you we'll all have to hurry.

     [_Exeunt_ Genius _and sprites_.]

_First Fairy_. What a splendid fellow Genius of Thanksgiving is! So well

_Second Fairy_. Doubtless he may live a thousand years yet.

_First Fairy_. I hope he may.

_Elgin_. As fine a fellow as ever breathed. But, Fairies, the morning
dawns. Have you further commands for your most willing servant?

_First Fairy_. No, thank you, boy. You have nobly done. We can only
thank you.

_Elgin_. The Fairies' thanks are sweet reward. I go, then, to my
mountain cave, where all the day I lie and sleep, and when night comes I
wake again and fly and run in the sparkling night air. [_Exit_ Elgin.]

_Second Fairy_. This night's work could not have been done save for that
merry boy.

_First Fairy_. True. He is a treasure. But now we must remove the charm
from Ethel, and waken her.

     [_Both advance to the bed, and stand one on each side of_ Ethel.
     Fairies _repeat the waking charm_:]

  Wake, dear one, wake; unclose thy rested eyelids;
    The night is gone, the beauteous morning breaks.
  The angels know the day will bring you gladness,
    So please accept the gifts that Heaven makes.

     [Ethel _stirs, the_ Fairies _step lightly towards the door_.]

_Second Fairy_. They say mortals do not believe in us.

_First Fairy_. Perhaps Ethel will when she sees the basket of good
things which even now I hear the sprites leaving at the door. But let us
hasten--the dawn will come.

     [_Exeunt_ Fairies. Ethel _moves, sits up on the bed, looks around
     the room, rubs her eyes, and seems bewildered_.]

_Ethel_. Are they all gone? How beautiful--fairies and sprites in my
poor little room! (_Smiles._) Only a dream, I suppose. But so real. What
a funny old Genius of Thanksgiving it was! [_Laughs aloud._]

     _Enter_ Elise _with a note_.

_Elise_. Oh, sister, I heard you laugh, so I knew you were awake;
otherwise I would not have disturbed you, for you, poor thing, were so
tired last night. But, Ethel, a most wonderful thing has happened. So
wonderful, it seems like a dream.

_Ethel_. The night abounds in dreams. I have had one. I must tell it, if
I can.

_Elise_. But hear mine first, dear. I think it was about two o'clock
when I heard feet in the passageway and a noise at the door. I was
frightened, but did not alarm mother; for why should burglars visit our
poor home? After a while the noise ceased, and I ventured to get out of
bed and softly open the door. There stood--what do you think, Ethel?

_Ethel_. I know.

_Elise_. No, you don't, you goose.

_Ethel_. I do know.

_Elise_. Silly child. Listen, a large basket--

_Ethel_. With our Thanksgiving dinner in it--a turkey and cranberry
jelly. Oh, how pretty Red Cranberry was in her bright dress--and Nuts
and Raisins--and Beets, Carrots, and Turnips--what a funny boy he was.

_Elise_. Ethel! are you ill?

_Ethel_. No, dear. And Miss Mince Pie was late, but she got there, and
Golden Pumpkin was to make a pumpkin pie--

_Elise_. You are out of your head! Oh, my poor sister! you are coming
down with a fever on Thanksgiving day--[_Begins to cry._]

_Ethel_. Nonsense, darling. It was my dream. But I will wait and tell
you about it later. Go on with your story. I am not ill.

_Elise_. Are you sure? You talk so strangely.

_Ethel_. I'll prove it soon by helping to eat the best dinner in all the
land. Oh, Elise, we will have as good a dinner as the queen! [_They hug
each other._]

_Elise_. Well, there's everything nice in that basket. I was so
impatient, I put my hand in and felt to the bottom.

_Ethel_. Are the grapes and celery there?

_Elise_. There are black grapes and white, dear--mamma will like
those--and two lovely bunches of celery.

_Ethel_ (_laughs_). Excuse me, but Miss Celery was late because she was
combing her hair and taking a nap.

_Elise_. Sister!

_Ethel_. That's in the dream too. But it was funny. What is that note?

_Elise_. A letter lay upon the top of the basket, addressed to you. I
have not opened it. Do hurry and read it.

_Ethel_ (_opens and reads_).

     "MY DEAR ETHEL,--For some time I have had my eye upon you. I see
     in you a brave little girl struggling under burdens too heavy to be
     borne; your little sister is scarcely less brave and sweet in the
     care she gives her sick mother. She wins my love also. Children,
     will you come and live with me for a while? I will send your mother
     to a private room in the hospital, where she shall have everything
     to make her better. God grant she may recover! Meanwhile, and for
     as long thereafter as you and mamma are willing, you shall stay
     with me and be my little girls. When mamma is well, why, we have a
     house big enough for her too. My coachman will place at your door,
     during the night, your Thanksgiving dinner. I hope it will taste
     good. I will call in the course of to-morrow afternoon, and learn
     if you are coming to me. Remember, children, I need you. My heart
     is a mother's although I am an old maid, supposed not to have any
     heart. Will you come to

  "Your loving friend,

     "P.S.--I have spoken to madame, and Elise is not to return to her
     work there. She may call the morning after Thanksgiving and receive
     what wages are owing her."

_Elise_. How wonderful! It is all like a fairy story!

_Ethel_. It is a fairy story. I did not know who was going to take us,
though. Elgin did not mention her name. But I wonder I did not think of
Miss Wilson. She is rich and lonely, and has a warm heart. Those were
Elgin's conditions, and he found her.

_Elise_. Elgin?

_Ethel_. That's the dream again. Come, Elise, let us see if our dear
mother is awake. I am nearly bursting with this good news. And I must
tell you my dream. For, you see, the letter and the basket just agree
with the dream. And after I have told my dream, and we have read the
letter, and seen our Thanksgiving dinner, why, if you and mamma don't
believe in fairies, you're funny people, that is all. (_Kisses her hand
to the air._) I believe in you two dear fairies, at all events.




It was a few days before Thanksgiving, and Herbert was out in the woods
with his father shooting. It was lovely autumn weather, and the dreamy
Indian-summer smiled upon the few yellow leaves that still fluttered on
the woodland boughs. Herbert was the first to break the silence:

"Papa, I hope you are not going to kill dear old Absalom for
Thanksgiving. Let's try to shoot a wild gobbler, instead."

"But there are no wild gobblers around here, my boy," replied the

Herbert thought of the solitary turkey in their barn-yard, and it made
him very sad to think that that poor bird should be beheaded for the
Thanksgiving feast. And this was because the early summer rains had
killed Absalom's little brothers and sisters, and left him to make his
way on the farm as best he could. Herbert well remembered the morning
when he brought Absalom, limp and almost dead, from the coop, and wrapt
him in flannel, and put him under the kitchen stove to dry. And he
reflected upon the pleasure he had experienced in bringing the little
fellow up until they became companions. Many a time the gobbler had
jumped upon his knee and made himself as much at home as he possibly
could have done upon the bough of a tree. Herbert had fed him with
scraps of meat and bread, until Absalom followed him about and seemed to
feel that they were brothers. Herbert, like Absalom, had neither a
brother nor a sister, and this may have been one reason that they were
inseparable friends. Now when Herbert thought of Absalom in the light of
a feast, it was like a little Chinese boy thinking of his pet poodle
being made into pies and patties.

"You are not really going to eat Absalom on Thanksgiving, are you,
papa?" asked Herbert, sadly.

"He's a fine fat gobbler," replied the father, evading a direct
answer--"he's a fine fat gobbler, Herbert, and you know what the
gobbler's mission is."

Herbert knew very well from his father's remarks that Absalom would be
killed that very night, to be eaten upon the morrow, and he was very sad
as they trudged homeward. But when he did arrive at his home he
determined to do his best to save the old gobbler's life. Going down to
the barn-yard, he was met by the bird, which, not being suspicious of
his impending doom, ran gayly to meet his little friend.

"Oh, Absalom," he said, "they would eat you to-morrow!"

"Eat me to-morrow?" mused Absalom, wearily, for up to this time he had
imagined that he was simply ornamental, like a peacock. "I don't quite
understand you. Pray explain."

Then Herbert told him about Thanksgiving day and its sacred traditions,
and the poor bird was so badly upset that he couldn't conceal his
emotion. He hurriedly wiped a tear from his eye with his left wattle,
and thrust his head beneath his wing to conceal the fact that he was
weeping. Herbert took him gently in his arms, and said, as he laid his
cheek against his head,

"Well, they sha'n't kill you if I can help it."

And then he stole softly into the house, and, without being seen,
carried Absalom up to the garret, and perched him gently on a rafter in
a dark corner. He then put a little red shawl over him to protect him
against the draughts, and fastened it just over his wish-bone with a

"Now you must keep perfectly still until to-morrow is over."

"I will do so," promised Absalom.

"Promise me that you will not forget yourself and go 'gobble, gobble,
gobble,' for if you should do so you would certainly be discovered, only
to become a memory and a dinner."

"I won't gobble once," replied Absalom; "I fully appreciate the
importance of keeping still."

Then Herbert gave him an ear or two of pop-corn that was hanging in the
garret to dry, and afterwards went down stairs and brought him some
tea-biscuits and cracked English walnuts.

"You shall be the first gobbler on record to celebrate Thanksgiving by
having a feast instead of making one. Here is some nice celery, and here
is a handful of minced meat, and you shall have all you can eat

"I shall never forget your kindness," said the gobbler, with feeling.
"This is twice you have saved my life--once from being drowned in the
rain, and once from being eaten with cranberry sauce. Believe me, I
shall never forget your kindness."

Just then they were startled by the voice of Herbert's father

"Michael," said he, "just go down to the barn-yard and chop the head off
that gobbler!"

It was an awful moment for Absalom, who almost shivered himself off his

After awhile Michael returned, long-faced and empty-handed.

"I cannot find the gobbler, and I think the old Uncle Ned who works here
by the day has stolen him for his Thanksgiving dinner."

Herbert's father was so indignant at the disappointment occasioned by
the reported loss of the gobbler that, without the slightest
consideration for the old darky, who was working in the celery ditch, he

"See here, Uncle Ned, why did you steal our last turkey?"

"I didn't steal him, sah!" replied Uncle Ned, with a crestfallen air.

"Then get right off the place, and don't let me see you around here
again," shouted the proprietor, with great indignation.

Uncle Ned dropped his spade and went sullenly away, while Absalom smiled
through his tears on the old dusty rafter in the dark corner of the

"Now what are we going to have for Thanksgiving dinner?" inquired the
head of the house. "It's three miles to the village, the butcher's will
be closed in an hour, and we can't even get a steak!"

"Say, papa," suggested Herbert, "let's have nothing only dessert. What
do you say? Nothing but plum pudding; that'll make a fine old dinner."

Although the adults of the family frowned on such a suggestion, the
family had to make out a dinner on plum pudding or go hungry. Herbert
had never eaten so fine a dinner before; and when it was over he slipped
up to the garret with a plateful for Absalom.

"What in the world is this, Herbert?" asked the bird, as he smacked his

"It's plum pudding with hard sauce for your Thanksgiving dinner."

"Well, it's mighty fine, and I think it must be called hard sauce,
because it's hard to find anything else quite so good."

So he ate away until he fell asleep. In the bright rosy morning he
returned to the barn-yard, greatly relieved and in buoyant spirits.

"Take Uncle Ned right back to work at once," said Herbert's father at
about noon to Michael.

"What, after stealing the gobbler?" asked Michael.

"He didn't do it," responded Herbert's father, meekly; "he didn't do it.
I just met the gobbler, and I admit that while I am not
oversuperstitious, the mysterious disappearance of that bird when he was
ripe and due for the axe, and his sudden return when the danger had
passed, fills me with dire foreboding, and makes me think he'll bring me
good luck if I only treat him right. So I am not going to kill him even
for Christmas, but intend to feed him on the fat of the farm, and let
him die of old age. When I saw him a little while ago he actually winked
at me and grinned, and that was too much for my suspicious temperament."

So Uncle Ned was at once restored to his former position, and Absalom
thrived and lived to a grand old age, the faithful companion of his
devoted little friend and preserver.



  On little Frances's birthday
    She had dolls of every size:
  Baby dolls and lady dolls,
    And dolls in mannish guise.

  She had china dolls and rubber dolls,
    Wax, worsted, wood, and some
  That squeaked when Frances squeezed them hard,
    And others that were dumb.

  She had a little sailor doll,
    A boy doll dressed in blue,
  A doll that rode a bicycle,
    A colored dolly, too.

  But one and all she passed them by,
    And cried with glad surprise:
  "Oh, look, I've got a _real_ doll!"
    'Twas the doll that shuts its eyes.



We sat around the big open brick fireplace in the main cabin of the
camp, watching the birch logs as the flames greedily licked them and
threw forth a strong ruddy light upon our faces. What with the guides
and a few old veterans we made quite a party. Hunting stories had been
the topic of the evening's conversation, and I, who had seldom hunted
(this being, in fact, my first trip into the region), had listened to
these stories very much interested. The camp was situated on an island
in one of the numerous lakes found along the borders of northern Maine.
It consisted of a few log cabins, with a large one in the centre, where
we were at the moment congregated. The night air was very cold, and
Billy, our host, had predicted a frost before morning. Billy was
practically born in the woods, and knew every sign that could be
learned. It was a pleasure to watch his quiet face as he pulled away on
a big black cigar, gazing the while reflectively at the blazing logs.
While I watched him my eyes drifted now and then around the walls of the
cabin. Stacked in the corners were rifles and shot-guns of all
descriptions, and strung along the log sides, upon wooden pins, rested
fly-rods innumerable, their polished reels catching and reflecting the
flicker of the fire.

Off in the shadowy corner a rude stairway, with moose-legs for rails,
went climbing up into the loft overhead, and in the deepest part of the
shadow I made out the head of a magnificent bull moose with immense
spreading antlers. As I looked at it, it seemed to appear exceedingly
savage, and the glass eyes had been so skilfully placed that in the
flickering light they stared in the most baleful manner. Involuntarily I
drew my chair closer to Billy's, and patiently watched his cigar dwindle
down, ever and anon glancing at the ferocious-looking head behind me.

In a short time the conversation lulled, and I ventured to ask Billy to
tell the story connected with the shooting of the moose behind us. "It
is sure to be interesting," I said, "for he looks as if he died fighting

Billy glanced at me in a protesting sort of way, but the chorus of
requests for the story was too much for him.

"Well, boys," he said, "just give me a moment till I load my pipe, and
I'll tell it to you; and you can judge for yourselves whether it is
interesting or not.

"It was ten years ago coming winter when I had a camp near the mouth of
the river below here. Some of you saw what's left of it when you came
over the Parmachene trail yesterday. I was all alone that fall, except
for an occasional hunter or so going up the trail, and for some reason
deer was scarce. Well, I was hugging the fire one cold evening early in
November, when I heard a loud crash outside the camp. Now that meant one
of two things: either a windfall had taken place, or some large game was
floundering through the bog near at hand. Seizing my rifle, I slipped
out of the cabin.

"I looked in the direction from which the crash had come, but I could
see nothing. Softly launching my canoe, I placed the rifle in the bottom
of it, to be handy, you know, and started to paddle up the stream a
little way. I had probably gone about fifty feet when a branch snapped,
and then came a tremendous crash. The sound was close at hand, and I
gave a quick look in the direction whence it came. The night was too
black to see much, but I made out the huge stump of a tree that I had
often thrashed for trout from. Immediately back of this stump lay a
tangle of dead trees. I had stopped paddling, and the current of the
stream was slowly drifting the canoe towards it, and, with my rifle
ready, I waited for a sight of the game. Judging from the noise of the
last crash, I knew it must be near the stump.

"Most of you boys can appreciate what my feelings were at the moment,
for I felt pretty sure of big game and a good stock of meat. It took but
a few seconds to drift around to the lee of that stump, and I quickly
brought up with a thump against some of the dead wood in the bog. What I
saw gave me a start, for there in the deep shadow stood the largest bull
moose it has ever been my fortune to run across.

"Well, I'm an old hunter, guide, or whatever you want to call me, and
have tracked deer from boyhood, also bear, moose, and caribou; but,
boys, when I saw that magnificent bull glaring at me I grew feverish
with excitement, and for a few minutes I simply stared back at him. I
guess we were not more than twenty feet apart, and as far as I could
tell through the steam rising from him, he was caught in the bog some
way, and was fighting mad.

"I had been at close quarters with moose before, but never saw such
dangerous-looking eyes. Raising my gun, I aimed as well as I could just
back of his fore-shoulder. I felt shaky, though, and the sights went
bobbing up and down like a cork float. I tried hard to get her steady,
and when I had her fairly so I fired.

"There was a most unearthly, savage cry, and the dark body with those
fearful eyes and antlers launched itself forward at me. I had hit him,
but, as I afterward discovered, the bullet had cut along through the
skin behind the fore-legs, and the pain forced the supreme effort by
which he freed himself from the bog. He was rapidly coming for me when I
let fly at him again. By this time my blood was up, mad with disgust at
having missed killing him at such close range. I hit him the second
time, and hit him hard, but on he came as though nothing could stop him,
and I had just time enough to plant another bit of lead in him when he
threw himself half out of the water and planted his forehoofs clean
through the canoe. I knew I could never get away from him, as his savage
eyes were watching me, so when I saw what his game was, I made a leap
for his back as his hoofs went crashing through the canoe. As I landed
on him I caught his antlers with one hand, drawing my knife with the
other. Well, boys, I actually laughed at my queer position, and I dare
say that moose was more than surprised. For a moment he couldn't realize
where I had gone to and what was on his back. That moment of hesitation
probably saved my life, for I reached over and drove the knife into him
as near the heart as I could judge.

"There were a few seconds of trouble, during which I hung on to his
antlers, until finally, with a big toss of his head, he threw me out
into the stream. I had lost my knife in the struggle, and knew if he was
not done for it was all up with me. So I swam away as rapidly as I
could, expecting every minute to hear him after me. But his last effort
had settled him, and, with a cry of satisfaction, I looked around, to
find him again caught in the bog. He was dead at last, and with a rope I
hitched him to the stump. The next morning I hauled him up to the camp,
and, after some trouble, secured the canoe and rifle. He gave me the
gamiest fight of my life, and that is the reason his head--the finest
specimen you've probably seen--stands in the camp to-day."

[Illustration: THE CAMERA CLUB.]

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



Bromide paper differs from the printing-out papers both in manner of
using and in the finished picture. Bromide paper is a paper coated with
silver bromide and gelatine in emulsion, and is first printed and then
developed in the same way as a negative. The prints when finished are a
brilliant black and white.

This paper may be prepared by the amateur, but the ready-prepared papers
are so reliable and so inexpensive, that it is really cheaper to buy the
paper already sensitized. One great advantage of bromide paper over
printing-out paper is that in using it one is entirely independent of
day or sunlight. Strong "plucky" negatives are the best for bromide
printing, but very good prints may be made with weak negatives by
carefully timing the printing.

All the process of working bromide paper, except that of the printing,
must be conducted by a red or yellow light. Open the package of paper in
the dark-room, and the negative being already in the printing-frame,
adjust a sheet of paper over the negative. The face of bromide paper may
always be distinguished by its _curling in_. Cover the frame with a dark
cloth, open the door of the lantern, and get your timepiece ready, for
one must always print by exact seconds; never guess at the time. Uncover
the frame and hold the negative about fifteen inches from the flame of
the lamp, and if the negative is an ordinary printing one, expose to the
light for ten seconds. Cover the frame immediately, close the door of
the lantern, take the print from the frame, and if you wish to develop
it at once soak the paper in clear water till it is limp enough to lie
flat. Place it in the developing-tray face up, and flood it with
developer. One may use almost any kind of developer with bromide paper.
Eikonogen and hydrochinon are good developers, and do not stain the
hands; but ferrous oxalate is the developer most used.

The image on the paper should develop rather slowly, and come up clear
and brilliant. Develop till the detail is well out and the shadows deep
enough. Pour off all the developer, leaving the print in the tray, and
cover it with a solution composed of 1 dr. acetic acid, and 32 oz. of
water. Allow this to act one minute; turn off, and repeat the operation
twice more. Wash the print thoroughly, and place in a fixing bath of
hypo, 3 oz.; water, 16 oz. After fixing, wash for an hour in running
water, and hang up to dry. If prints are washed in running water they
should be taken from the bowl two or three times during the washing, and
the bowl filled with clean water. If running water is not used wash in
ten changes of water, allowing the prints to remain ten minutes in each
change of water.

In bromide prints one must be very careful to have all dishes used in
the operation strictly clean. Greenish tones in the prints are caused by
over-exposure and too much bromide in the developing solution. Yellow
prints are caused by under-exposure, and too long development. In
developing rock the tray in all directions. If it is rocked in one
direction only, the prints will be streaked. Do not let water run
directly on the prints, as it will cause blisters.

Bromide prints are always satisfactory, require no burnishing, do not
fade, and when well printed and developed resemble engravings. They can
be used for book illustrations, and will not curl or exhibit any of the
disagreeable traits of the aristo prints.

     Will SIR KNIGHT HARRY HAMNER, of Philadelphia, please send his
     street and number? The Editor wishes to write to him in regard to a
     branch Camera Club in Philadelphia--which it is hoped he will




"Hurrah!" cried Jimmieboy, in ecstasy. "This is great, isn't it?"

"Pretty great," assented the Imp, proudly. "That is, unless you mean
large. If you mean it that way it isn't great at all; but if you mean
great like me, who, though very, very small, am simply tremendous as a
success, I agree with you. I like it here very much. The room is
extremely comfortable, and I do everything by electricity--cooking,
reading, writing--everything."

"I don't see how," said Jimmieboy.

"Oh, it's simply a matter of buttons and batteries. The battery makes
the electricity, I press the buttons, and there you are. You know what a
battery is, don't you?"

"Not exactly," said Jimmieboy. "You might explain it to me."

"Yes, I might if I hadn't a better way," replied the Imp. "I won't
explain it to you, because I can have it explained to you in another way
entirely, though I won't promise that either of us will understand the
explanation. Let's see," he added, rising from his chair and inspecting
a huge button-board that hung from the wall at the left of the room.
"Where's the Dictionary button? Ah, here--"

"The what?" queried the visitor, his face alive with wonderment.

"The Dictionary button. I press the Dictionary button, and the
Dictionary tells me whatever I want to know. Just listen to this."

The Imp pressed a button as he spoke, and Jimmieboy listened. In an
instant there was a loud buzzing sound, and then an invisible something
began to speak, or rather, to sing:

  "She's my Annie,
  I'm her Joe.
  Little Annie Rooney--"

"Dear me!" cried the Imp, his face flushing to a deep crimson. "Dear me,
I got the wrong button. That's my Music-room button. It's right next the
Dictionary button, and my finger must have slipped. I'll just turn
'Annie Rooney' off and try again. Now listen."

Again the Imp touched a button, and Jimmieboy once more heard the
buzzing sound, followed by a squeaking voice, which said:

"Battery is a noun--plural, batteries. In baseball the pitcher and
catcher is the battery; in electricity a battery is a number of Leyden
jars, usually arranged with their inner coatings connected, and their
outer coatings also connected, so that they may be all charged and
discharged at the same time."

"Understand that, Jimmieboy?" queried the Imp, with a smile, turning the
Dictionary button off.

"No, I don't," said Jimmieboy. "But I suppose it is all right."

"Perhaps you'd like an explanation of the explanation?" suggested the

"If it's one I can understand, I would," returned Jimmieboy. "But I
don't see the use of explanations that don't explain."

"They aren't much good," observed the Imp, touching another button.
"This will make it clear, I think."

"The Dictionary doesn't say it," said another squeaking voice, in
response to the touch of the Imp on the third button; "but a battery is
a thing that looks like a row of jars full of preserves, but isn't, and
when properly cared for and not allowed to freeze up, it makes
electricity, which is a sort of red-hot invisible fluid that pricks your
hands when you touch it, and makes them feel as if they were asleep if
you keep hold of it for any length of time, and which carries messages
over wires, makes horse-cars go without horses, lights a room better
than gas, and is so like lightning that no man who has tried both can
tell the difference between them."

Here the squeaking voice turned into a buzz again, and then stopped

"Now do you understand?" asked the Imp, anxiously.

"I think I do," replied Jimmieboy. "A battery is nothing but a lot of
big glass jars in which 'lectricity is made, just as pie is made in a
tin plate and custard is made in cups."

"Exactly," said the Imp. "But, of course, electricity is a great deal
more useful than pie or custard. The best custard in the world wouldn't
move a horse-car, and I don't believe anybody ever saw a pie that could
light up a room the way this is. It's a pretty wonderful thing,
electricity is, but not particularly good eating, and sometimes I don't
think it's as good for cooking as the good old-fashioned fire. I've had
pie that was too hot, and I've had pie that was too electric, and
between the two I think the too-hot pie was the pleasanter, though
really nothing can make pie positively unpleasant."

"So I have heard," said Jimmieboy, with an approving nod. "I haven't had
any sperience with pie, you know. That and red pepper are two things I
am not allowed to eat at dinner."

"You wouldn't like to taste some of my electric custard, would you?"
asked the Imp, his sympathies aroused by Jimmieboy's statement that as
yet he and pie were strangers.

"Indeed I would!" cried Jimmieboy, with a gleeful smile. "I'd like it
more than anything else!"

"Very well," said the Imp, turning to the button-board, and scratching
his head as if perplexed for a moment. "Let's see," he added. "What is
custard made of?"

"Custard?" said Jimmieboy, who thought there never could be any question
on that point. "It's made of custard. I know, because I eat it all up
when I get it, and there's nothing but custard in it from beginning to

The Imp smiled. He knew better than that. "You are right partially," he
said. "But there aren't custard-mines or custard-trees or custard-wells
in the world, so it has to be made of something. I guess I'll ask my

Here he touched a pink button in the left-hand upper corner of the

"Milk--sugar--and--egg," came the squeaking voice. "Three-quarters of a
pint of milk, two table-spoonfuls of sugar, and one whole egg."

"Don't you flavor it with anything?" asked the Imp, pressing the button
a second time.

"If you want to," squeaked the voice. "Vanilla, strawberry, huckleberry,
sarsaparilla, or anything else, just as you want it."

Jimmieboy's mouth watered. A strawberry custard! "Dear me!" he thought.
"Wouldn't that be just the dish of dishes to live on all one's days!"

"Two teaspoonfuls of whatever flavor you want will be enough for one cup
of custard," said the squeaky voice, lapsing back immediately thereafter
into the curious buzz.


"Thanks," said the Imp, returning to the table and putting down the
receipt on a piece paper.

"You're welcome," said the buzz.

"Now, Jimmieboy, we'll have two cup custards in two minutes," said the
Imp. "What flavor will you have?"

"Strawberry cream, please," said Jimmieboy, as if he were ordering

"All right. I guess I'll take sarsaparilla," said the Imp, walking to
the board again. "Now see me get the eggs."

He pressed a blue button this time. The squeaky voice began to cackle,
and in a second two beautiful white eggs appeared on the table. In the
same manner the milk, flavoring, and sugar were obtained; only when the
Imp signalled for the milk the invisible voice mooed so like a cow that
Jimmieboy looked anxiously about him, half expecting to see a soft-eyed
Jersey enter the room.

"Now," said the Imp, opening the eggs into a bowl, and pouring the milk
and flavoring and sugar in with them, and mixing them all up together,
"we'll pour this into that funnel over there, turn on the electricity,
and get our custard in a jiffy. Just watch that small hole at the end of
the funnel, and you'll see the custard come out."

"Are the cups inside? Or do we have to catch the custards in 'em as they
come out?" asked Jimmieboy.

"Oh, my!" cried the Imp. "I'm glad you spoke of that. I had forgotten
the cups. We've got to put them in with the other things."

The Imp rushed to the button-board, and soon had two handsome little
cups in response to his summons; and then casting them into the funnel
he turned on the electric current, and Jimmieboy watched carefully for
the resulting custards. In two minutes by the clock they appeared below,
both at the same time, one a creamy strawberry in hue, and the other

"It's wonderful!" said Jimmieboy, in breathless astonishment. "I wish I
had a stove like that in my room."

"It wouldn't be good for you. You'd be using it all day and eating what
you got. But how is the custard?"

"Lovely," said Jimmieboy, smacking his lips as he ate the soft creamy
sweet. "I could eat a thousand of them."

"I rather doubt it," said the Imp. "But you needn't try to prove it. I
don't want to wear out the stove on custard when it has my dinner still
to prepare. What do you say to listening to my library a little while?
I've got a splendid library in the next room. It has everything in it
that has ever been written, and a great many things that haven't. That's
a great thing about this electric-button business. Nothing is impossible
for it to do, and if you want to hear a story some man is going to tell
next year or next century you can get it just as well as you can
something that was written last year or last century. Come along."



By defeating St. Paul's at Garden City a week ago Saturday, Pratt
Institute won the Long Island interscholastic football championship for
1895. If the players and the students of the Institute are satisfied
with the methods by which this victory was obtained they should be
welcome to the empty honor. The Pratt eleven is a good one, and might
very probably have won the game by fair and square football; but to send
one of their players to Garden City as the guest of that school a number
of times during the early fall, and to allow him to make note of the
signals and the plays in use by his hosts, and then to play against St.
Paul's, armed with this ill-gotten knowledge, is an act beneath
contempt, and one for which any sportsman must turn away in disgust. The
man who did this can offer no excuse for his sneaking and dishonorable
conduct. When caught in the act of taking the St. Paul's signals he was
driven like a malefactor from the field, but he returned brazenly with
his companions, and put his ill-gotten knowledge to disgraceful use in a
contest with gentlemen. The guilt of all the Pratt Institute football
players is second only to that of their informant, for by using the
information he obtained by such dishonorable means they showed
approbation of his course, and placed themselves upon a level with him
who violated the confidence of a host.

The St. Paul's team this year is a very good one. The men have not had
the advantage of as many games as the other teams of the Long Island
League, but there is a strong school spirit at Garden City and an
excellent system of training, both of which tend to the development of
good athletes. I have seen several of the league teams play this fall,
and have carefully noted the game put up by each eleven. St. Paul's
plays a harder, faster, and more scientific game than any other team on
Long Island. Their play is more like that of a college Freshman team.
This is well illustrated by the way they line up, the quick work of the
quarter in giving signals, and the knack which all the men have of
getting into every play. The offensive play is much stronger and better
than the defensive, the latter being rather weak. I noticed little
fumbling by the St. Paul's players, and that is the hardest of any fault
to overcome.

In the game with Pratt Institute, the play on both sides was sharp and
snappy throughout, in spite of the fact that the Garden City team was
badly crippled. Glenny, the right guard, broke a rib while skylarking
just before the game, and played against the advice of his physician. E.
Starr was also laid up with an injury to his knee, and could not play.
The line was therefore considerably weakened, and the team did not put
up the game it is capable of. Only eight points were scored in the first
half--one touch-down and goal, and a safety. During the first three
minutes of play in the second half, St. Paul's carried the ball to
Pratt's five-yard line, but lost it on a fumble. This seemed to
dishearten the team, and after that Pratt forced the centre for long and
steady gains. The halves were of twenty-five and thirty minutes'
duration, and the final score was 26-0. St. Paul's took their defeat
manfully, and do not intend, as has been reported, to enter any protest
against the Pratt team. There is another and a better course for them to

An agreement has been made between St. Paul's and the Berkeley School,
covering a period of three years, to play an annual game of football on
Thanksgiving day, the first contest of the series to take place (at
Manhattan Field, if possible) a week from Thursday, in the morning. This
is a good thing, for it will bring together representative schools from
the sister cities, and the great game cannot fail to be benefited
thereby. Such annual contests between large schools, if properly
conducted, should soon attract almost as much of the public interest as
inter-collegiate contests, for there are more school-boys in New York
and Brooklyn than there are college men, and if not as many persons
interested in the sports of the former as in those of the latter, they
are at least of a better and less promiscuous class. The schools should
aim to have these tournaments as free as possible from the quarrels and
bickerings that have lately characterized inter-collegiate football, and
that frequently crop up in interscholastic sport; but between two
institutions of the standing and make-up of Berkeley and St. Paul's
there should be small likelihood of any such unpleasant occurrences. One
good feature of the meetings that I have already heard of is that the
admission fee will be twenty-five cents. The debarring thus of the
speculative evil on the part of the managers is a good omen.

The Berkeley School team that is to meet St. Paul's is undoubtedly the
strongest that the school has ever put into the field. It is made up of
excellent material, and has been coached by a man thoroughly familiar
with the game. By defeating De La Salle at the Berkeley Oval a week ago
the team won first honors in the second section of the New York League,
and it will undoubtedly take the championship on the 29th. Immediately
after the Pratt-St. Paul's game Berkeley challenged Pratt Institute to
play a match at any time, but the Pratt Captain hesitated about
accepting, and the matter is still unsettled. As there is no agreement
for an inter-city game this year, it is to be hoped that the Pratt
management will have sufficient sporting spirit to accept the challenge.

Lawrenceville and the Hill School of Pottstown will meet on the gridiron
next Saturday, and the contest should be a close one, for up to date of
writing the Pennsylvania School has met no defeat this season. Their
chief victory was over the Princeton second eleven, and their hardest
game against U. of P. '98, in which neither side scored. The team is a
light one--very much lighter than Lawrenceville's--but it has had good
training, although it has suffered from a lack of frequent games with
other elevens. This last disadvantage will tell in the contest with
Lawrenceville, and, although I expect to see the Jersey men win, they
will by no means have a walk-over.

[Illustration: Schuyler, r.h.-b. Davis, r.e. Kiefer, l.h.-b. (Capt.)
Lowndes, r.t.

Mills, r.g. Paxton, r.t. Dean, l.g. Dallam, sub.

Monypeny, f.-b. Rodgers, l.e.

Fincke, q.-b. Chadick, c.


The Hill School eleven is particularly strong behind the line, where
Kiefer, Schuyler, and Monypeny make a trio of backs of which any
preparatory school might well be proud. Kiefer, Captain, who plays left
half-back, has played several years on the team. He is the fastest
runner in the school, and a remarkably clever dodger. His punting has
improved noticeably this year, and he tackles hard and low. Schuyler,
the right half-back, was also a member of last year's eleven. He is a
brilliant though unsteady player, running low and hard. When he hits the
line he rarely fails to make his distance. Owing to his tendency to
fumble he is not so reliable as the other backs. Monypeny, who fills the
position of full-back, has proved a great surprise. Last year he played
on the second eleven, but was never regarded as anything above an
ordinary player. Since the present season opened he has shown steady
improvement, until at present he is regarded as one of the best
all-around men on the eleven. He is a strong line backer, and for hard
and sure tackling is not surpassed by any man on the team. Fincke, at
quarter, is another old man. He is cool and clear-headed, his strongest
point being his ability to get into the interference quickly. His
tackling has improved greatly over that of last year. In the line,
Chadick, at centre, is new to the position. Compared with the average
centre he is small and light, but what he lacks in these respects is
more than offset by his strength and grit.

The guards are being played by Dean and Mills. Dean played on the second
eleven last year, and has improved steadily through the season. Mills is
a new man, but has the making of a good football player in him.
Carelessness seems to be his main fault. Lowndes and Paxton, the
tackles, are also old men, though the former has played one of the
guards before this year. As an all-round football player Lowndes
undoubtedly excels any other man who ever represented the Hill. He is
not as heavy as could be desired, but he more than makes up for this
lack by his great strength and activity. In every play his tackling is
fierce, and as a ground-gainer he can always be relied on. His early
football experience was obtained at St. Paul's. Paxton, the right
tackle, still shows the effects of a severe illness, which necessitated
his leaving school last year. His work, though, has shown steady
improvement of late, and in the interference he is especially strong.
The ends are looked after by Davis and Rodgers, both members of last
year's second eleven. Davis has developed into one of the best ends the
school has ever had, while Rodgers, who plays a sandy game, is somewhat
handicapped by his light weight.

Owing to the Hill School's somewhat isolated location--isolated in the
sense of neighborhood to other large private schools--it has no close
rival, such as Andover used to have in Exeter and now has in
Lawrenceville, and such as the Berkeley School in this city and St.
Paul's of Garden City are gradually becoming. At present Lawrenceville
comes the nearest to occupying this position, but the Jersey school is
so much larger in point of numbers that it out-classes the Hill in most
contests. Considering this superiority of Lawrenceville's, therefore any
victory over her by the Hill School must be doubly creditable.

The difficulty between the Brooklyn Latin and High-Schools has been
referred to a committee for settlement, although it seems as if the
Association ought to have decided upon the question at once at their
last session. The dispute originated in the recent football contest
between the two schools. When the game was about half over, Captain
Lutkins of the Latin School team protested to the officials that the
High-School team were playing their ends back of the line, which he said
was a violation of Rule 30, Section C. The officials held different
opinions as to the interpretation of the rule, and the game was allowed
to go on as before. At the League meeting the representatives from the
Latin School protested the game for this reason, but the protest was not
decided, and a special committee was appointed to pass on the question.
The umpire, in a letter to the League, said that an agreement was
entered into, previous to the game, by which it was understood that both
teams could play both ends back of the line. The referee in his letter
has denied that any agreement was entered into before the game relative
to this point. To complicate matters further, it appears that the umpire
had been coaching the High-School, and the referee was an ex-member of
the Latin School. (The moral-seeker will find food for meditation in
this situation!)

The absurdity of the argument that both teams had agreed to allow the
ends to play back of the line is apparent. The teams were playing under
the rules of the L.I.I.S.F.B.A., and these rules clearly state that in
football contests the Intercollegiate code is to be followed. This code
is equally clear in its statement that "Not more than three men shall
group themselves at a point behind the line of scrimmage before the ball
is in play. Seven men or more shall be on the line of scrimmage until
the ball is in play, except that the man playing the position of either
end rusher may drop back, provided he does not pass inside the position
occupied by the man playing adjacent tackle before the ball is put in
play." A delegate from Poly. Prep. quoted this paragraph at the League
meeting, and very justly objected that the captains had no right to make
any agreement, even if they had done so, because such an agreement
obviously violated the rules.

The League delegates, however, in their ponderous wisdom did not take
this view of the question, and threw the responsibility from their
shoulders by appointing a committee to decide the knotty issue. The
latter ought to have but little difficulty in doing this if they can
read the English language. Two things are plain: 1st. That the rules
were violated if two end-men played back of the line, whether or not the
captains had an agreement. 2d. That both the referee and the umpire who
officiated at the game are ignorant of the rules, and incompetent, and
should never be permitted to act as officials again until they have
proved themselves capable of fulfilling the duties required of them.
Further, the Latin School Captain is entirely in the right in the
matter, and the game should go to his men, or, better, since both
elevens violated the rules, the match should be void.

Comment on the game between Bridgeport and Hartford High-Schools for the
championship of the Connecticut High-School League must be deferred
until next week, owing to lack of space in this number. It was a
stirring contest, and I want to devote more space to it than I should be
able to to-day. A criticism of the Berkeley School team is also crowded



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[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.

Sally B. asks me how I would set about getting up a little fair for a
charity, what one must first do, and how such an enterprise can be made
a success.

First talk it over with your mother, and get her advice and
co-operation. Girls can always carry on affairs of this sort best if
they have their mother's help and sympathy. It is very nice to talk all
one's plans over with one's mother.

If mamma approves, write notes to your most intimate friends, asking
them to a meeting at your house on the first convenient day. Saturday
afternoon at four o'clock, for instance, is a good time for most girls
to spare an hour. Of course there are some girls whom you can invite
verbally. It is not worth while to write a note to Mary Adrain, whom you
walk to school with every day, or to Susie Spader, whose seat in school
adjoins your own.

Having brought your friends together, appoint one young lady to take the
chair, and then state as clearly as you can, with her permission, the
object of the meeting. Tell about the charity you wish to aid. It may be
a Babies' Hospital, or a poor family, or a crippled child who is in need
of medical attendance and relief. More money is necessary than any one
of you can give outright, so you think it would be nice to have a fair,
and devote the money gained to the excellent purpose you have in view.

Probably there will be no objections. The question of funds will come
up, and if each of you can donate a small sum, say twenty-five cents
apiece, you can buy with the whole amount sufficient material to make a
great many pretty and easily saleable articles--as doilies, tea-cloths,
centre-pieces, carving-cloths, cases for brushes and combs, crocheted
slippers for the bedside, and other dainty bits of handiwork. These will
furnish your fancy table. When the time comes for your fair, make a
quantity of delicious home-made candy, and put it in pretty boxes,
daintily wrapped in paraffine paper. Take orders beforehand for your
candy. You will have no trouble in selling caramels, chocolate creams,
peppermint creams, and old-fashioned molasses candy. I am sure about
this part of the fair, for I know that home-made candy, if good,
vanishes like magic when little cooks are the saleswomen.

Dolls, prettily dressed, will find many willing buyers, and with the
holidays just before us, you ought to secure orders for dolls among your
friends. Dolls dressed in costume as queens, shepherdesses, fairies, and
sailors, are very attractive.


Barbour's Yachts.

These are perfect representations in shape and color of some famous
Yachts, Steamboats, Ocean Steamers, etc., of the day. They are
beautifully lithographed in several bright colors on heavy cardboard.
The length, size, speed and the most important points of interest are
given on the reverse side of each yacht. The Set contains a folding
board, 22 in. long, with slots (representing the sea) in which to place
the vessels. Thus a beautiful and interchangeable marine scene is

[Illustration: 1. Tug Boat. 2. New York. 3. Steam Yacht. 4. Priscilla.
5. Valkyrie. 6. Defender. 7. Swallow. 8. Lucania. 9. Ethelwynne. 10.

These miniature boats are so true to nature that they are of real
interest to old and young, and to those who live at a distance from the
ocean or large bodies of water they will be object-lessons of great

The Complete Set mailed to any address on receipt of _four_ 2-cent

Through these novelties--Yachts, Dolls, etc.--we hope to interest the
largest possible number of the readers of this paper in our products.
The articles offered are always worth more than the price asked. Our
object is to increase the use of Barbour's Linen Threads and Flosses
among the present generation and to double it in the next. The children
of to-day are the purchasers of to-morrow.

Strong LINEN Threads Give Best Results for All Uses.

Use only =Barbour's Irish Flax Threads= in the home and workshop,--for
Clothing, Carpets, Crocheting and Embroidery, Shoe and all Leather Work,
Trunks and Harnesses, Book-Binding--in fact for all fabrics and



Prize Needlework Series, No. 4.

(Just Issued.) 150 Pages. Profusely Illustrated.

Gives much new and practical information about the latest designs in
Lace-Making, Embroidery, and all kinds of Needlework. Books Nos. 1, 2 or
3 are also in print.

Mailed to any address for 10 cents each.

THE BARBOUR BROS. CO., 218 Church St., New York, N. Y.


=BARBOUR'S DOLLS.= A set of 12 Dolls for three 2-cent stamps, each 5 in.
high, lithographed in bright colors (will stand alone) and representing
12 different characters, viz.:

  Orange Blossoms.
  Little Buttercup.
  Boy Sailor.
  Flower Girl.
  15th Century.
  18th Century.
  18th Century.

They are made of heavy strong paper that will endure an immense amount
of handling. The complete set will be sent to any address on receipt of
=THREE 2-cent Stamps=.

Mailed from New York Office only.


The FINEST SAMPLE BOOK of Gold Beveled Edge, Hidden Name, Silk Fringe,
Envelope and Calling Cards ever offered for a 2 cent stamp. These are






Harper's Catalogue

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


     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.

[Illustration: Copyright, 1895, by Harper & Brothers.]


Start from Copley Square, and, leaving Public Library on the right, go
through Dartmouth Street across the bridge to Columbus Avenue, there
turning to right, and taking Columbus Avenue to Massachusetts Avenue, a
strip of fine asphalt. Here turn to the left, and go to Harrison Avenue,
and there turn to right, and continue along through it and Warren Street
to Walnut Avenue. Here turn to right, and proceed direct to Franklin
Park. Go to and through Ellicott Street, then turn to left onto Morton
Street, following it to Norfolk Street, where you turn to right, and
continue direct to Matapan (level, first-class road). Cross over the
river and continue to the forks, taking the left _viâ_ Matapan Street to
Canton Avenue. Then turn to right to Poukapoag. The easiest grade up
Blue Hill leads from this route. At the forks keep to the left _viâ_
turnpike direct to Stoughton. (Country hilly, but road in good
condition.) At the fork of the roads in Stoughton keep to the right
along the North Easton Branch. Here there is a fine level stretch. Cross
over the railroad bridge to South Easton, continue across the Brockton
and Easton branch, and after a run of about a mile and a half turn to
the right onto the turnpike near by the school-house pump in front of
it. On nearing Taunton you approach a large cemetery on the left, and
there a turn may be made to the left, thus avoiding the car tracks, and
bringing the rider to the main road at the Catholic church. From here on
there is a direct road to the Green, following the tracks to the City
Hotel. Now follow the tracks to the left, and at their end turn to the
right and pass the church. After crossing the railroad bridge make one
turn to the left, go over the Taunton River, and keep direct road to New
Bedford. The road for the entire trip varies from good to first-class
macadam, telford, and gravel. After leaving Taunton there is a spin of
about eleven miles on the side path, the condition of which varies
according to the weather, being at its best after a good rain. The
roadway is quite level for most of this distance, but two good hills are
encountered, the descent of the first one covering about a mile. At East
Freetown bear to left across the bridge. Sisson's is a popular
picnic-ground about six miles this side of New Bedford. At the head of
the river the fine macadam road begins. Follow the car tracks until
after crossing the railroad, then go up the hill one block, turning to
the left onto Pleasant Street, and continuing direct to City Hall.
Distance about fifty-seven miles. Mansion House at New Bedford is
headquarters for wheelmen.

Let Everybody Attend.

We hope you will not refrain from attending the Munroe Reception and
Reading on Wednesday evening, November 30th, because of the distance
from the centre of the city of the hall in which it is to be held. It
proved impossible to secure any other suitable meeting-place on the
required date. Besides, St. Agnes Hall is easily reached, even by
Brooklyn or Jersey City members. Take the Sixth or Ninth Avenue elevated
and get off at Ninety-third Street station. The hall is at 121 West
Ninety-first--a few doors west of Columbus Avenue. The hour is eight
o'clock sharp, and the affair will be over early, so that you will not
be out late. Everybody is invited--members, parents, Patrons, all their
friends, and all readers of this periodical and their friends. There is
to be no admission fee charged, but a collection is to be taken for the
School Fund. Mr. Munroe will tell stories of travel and read from his
own published works. Let us give him a hearty welcome.

       *       *       *       *       *

A Knight who Deserves Help.

Sir Knight John H. Campbell. Jun., 413 School Lane, Germantown,
Philadelphia, is willing to take the lead in the holding of a fair at an
early date in aid of the School Fund. He wants to hear from other
members of the Order in and around Philadelphia. Of course he wants most
to know those willing to lend him active aid, but he will gladly welcome
contributions, articles to sell, and help at disposing of tickets. Won't
you write him?

Sir John is an active and philanthropic Knight. He represents Sir George
D. Galloway's bright amateur paper _The Albemarle_, is interested in
autographs, and is well worth knowing. So please help him.

       *       *       *       *       *

Questions and Answers.

Leonard Nagel may send to the address given, and application blanks will
be forwarded him, or at least further hints will be given him about
getting into the naval apprentice schools. "California" asks how to get
into Annapolis Naval Academy. Apply to your member of Congress.

Asks Sir Freeman Scales: "Does it make any difference at what age a
person enters the law school of any of the large colleges? And what is
the limit? Is high-school the highest one before applying for admission
to the college? Is it harder to pass the examination to enter Yale than
Harvard?" There is no age limit for entrance to the law schools. One can
enter most of them without having graduated at high-school. To the last
question, no. At Harvard there are more elective studies than at Yale.
Apply for catalogues and requirements of admission. Address the Dean in
each case.

       *       *       *       *       *

"I want to exchange wild flowers and ferns," writes Daisy Damman, who
lives--where do you think?--in Hazel Park, Warburton, Victoria,
Australia. She is a Lady of the Order, and has a large collection of
Australian fauna. Ned and Neil MacNeale ask the name of a periodical
that treats of hunting and fishing. They might try _Forest and Stream_,
New York. Gerty Clare, 234 Garside Street, Newark, N. J., who does
fancy-work well, and has plenty of time for it, is willing to do some
for any Chapter fair, at least a part of the proceeds of which fair are
to go to the School Fund. She wants to be a corresponding member of some
literary Chapter. Will some one write her?

Harry Arthur Powell asks for information about our Order membership. The
rule is, 1. Once a member always a member. Those coming in under
eighteen are Knights and Ladies, those over eighteen, Patrons. Knights
and Ladies remain such without regard to age, and never become Patrons.
In a certain few cases, where it is unfair not to give young members a
chance, prize competitions are limited to those under eighteen. Where no
age is mentioned, competition is open to members of all ages. But our
prize offers, question privileges, the furnishing of morsels, etc., are
intended to be open to members only, not to the general public.


     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.

Attention is called to another threatened deluge of purely speculative
stamps. No philatelist should buy any of the following:

PERU.--_Pierola Issue._ 2, 5, 10, 20, and 50 centavos, bearing date on
left side of the stamp "Setiembre 10 de 1895." These stamps were issued
and good for postage for ten days only (September 10 to 20, 1895).

GREECE.--_Olympian Games Issue._ No list of the different proposed
values has been issued, but probably there will be the same number of
denominations as the present series, viz., 1, 2, 5, 10, 20, 40, 60, 70,
80, 90, 100, and 200 lepta.

NEW SOUTH WALES.--_O.S. Issues._ The present government has taken the
entire stock on hand of old issues, and surcharged them O.S., and,
furthermore, are supplying them with postal cancellation. These are
consequently counterfeits, and should be avoided. The N. S. W.
government has offered these stamps (36 adhesives, 11 envelopes) at $10
per set.

TRANSVAAL.--A commemorative 1-penny stamp, rose-color, oblong shape.

AMOY.--Another of the Chinese locals.

HUNGARY.--Millennium stamps. Complete details have not yet been received
concerning this proposed issue.

BELGIUM.--A new issue of Postage-due stamps appeared November 1st.
Values are to be 10, 20, 50 centimes, and 1 franc.



Postage Stamps, &c.



=800= fine 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.


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.

=105 STAMPS=, Java, etc., hinges, cata., album, 5c. Agents at 50 p. c. get
=Free= 8 stamps and album. Big paper 35c. a year. A. Bullard & Co., 97
Pembroke St., Boston, Mass.


Le Grand's Manual for Stamp Collectors

A Companion to the Stamp Album.

Prepared for the American collector by Henri Pène du Bois, Esq.

How this Book is Divided.

PART I. treats of stamps in general and successively of all the details
concerning their issue.

PART II. treats of the various sorts of stamps, postals, telegraphic,
fiscal, or revenue.

PART III. treats of subjects relating to stamps not discussed in the two
preceding divisions, obliterations, surcharges, proofs, reprints,
counterfeits, etc., together with an article on the _Universal Postal
Union_ and another on the formation of an album.

Bound in cloth, extra, $1.00.

Published by G. D. HURST, 114 Fifth Ave., New York.

_Your nearest bookdealer will get it for you._


90 Nassau St.,


will pay cash for collections or scarce stamps.



Copyright, 1895, by The Procter & Gamble Co., Cin'ti.

No housekeeper need have to apologize for her kitchen. A well enforced
rule of order and Ivory Soap will make it an attractive and appetizing

New Books

For Boys and Girls

The best Authors--Stirring Stories--Beautiful Illustrations--Delightful
Holiday Gifts.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Bingham's_ Book of Athletics                   $1.50
  _Stoddard's_ The Partners                        1.50
  _Talbot's_ The Impostor                          1.50
  _Brooks's_ True Story of George Washington       1.50
  _The Children's_ Nonsense Book                   1.50
  _The Children's_ Wonder Book                     1.50
  _Pansy's_ What They Couldn't                     1.50
  _Clark's_ Herbert Gardenell, Jr.                 1.50
  _Hill's_ Katharine's Yesterday                   1.50
  _Foa's_ Boy Life of Napoleon                     1.25
  _Green's_ The Hobbledehoy                        1.25
  _Magruder's_ Child Sketches from George Eliot    1.25
  _Margaret Sidney's_ Old Town Pump                1.25
  _Thompson's_ The Ocala Boy                       1.00
  _Downing's_ The Young Cascarillero               1.00
  _Allen's_ The Mammoth Hunters                     .75


  The Wedding-day Book (Presentation Cover)        2.00
  _Upton's_ Money in Politics                      1.25

For sale by all booksellers. Illustrated Holiday List and new
Descriptive Catalogue free by mail. Send postal for sample copy of _The
Pansy_ containing PRIZE OFFER to boys and girls.

Lothrop Publishing Company,

92 Pearl Street, Boston.


Highest Award




BARNEY & BERRY, Springfield, Mass.



Sets any name in one minute; prints 500 cards an hour. YOU can make
money with it. A font of pretty type, also Indelible Ink, Type Holder.
Pads and Tweezers. Best Linen Marker; worth $1.00. Sample mailed FREE
for 10c. stamps for postage on outfit and large catalogue of =1000

R. H. Ingersoll & Bro. 65 Cortlandt St. N.Y. City




"By a thorough knowledge of the natural laws which govern the operations
of digestion and nutrition, and by a careful application of the fine
properties of well-selected Cocoa, Mr. Epps has provided for our
breakfast and supper a delicately flavored beverage which may save us
many heavy doctors' bills. It is by the judicious use of such articles
of diet that a constitution may be gradually built up until strong
enough to resist every tendency to disease. Hundreds of subtle maladies
are floating around us ready to attack wherever there is a weak point.
We may escape many a fatal shaft by keeping ourselves well fortified
with pure blood and a properly nourished frame."--_Civil Service

Made simply with boiling water or milk. Sold only in half-pound tins, by
Grocers, labelled thus:


Homoeopathic Chemists, London, England.




has earned more money for boys than all other presses in the market.
Boys, don't idle away your time when you can buy a self-inking
printing-press, type, and complete outfit for $5.00. Write for
particulars, there is money in it for you.


Baltimore, Md., U.S.A.


of the award on


=AWARD:= "For excellence of steel used in their manufacture, it being fine
grained and elastic; superior workmanship, especially shown by the
careful grinding which leaves the pens free from defects. The tempering
is excellent and the action of the finished pens perfect."

  (Signed)  FRANZ VOGT, _Individual Judge_.

  Approved: { H. I. KIMBALL, _Pres't Departmental Committee_.
            { JOHN BOYD THACHER, _Chairman Exec. Com. on Awards_.


=THE LATEST MINSTREL SHOW.= A book full of fun. Contains Comic Songs, End
Men's Jokes, Stories, Conundrums, Darkey Dialogues, Stump Speeches,
Burlesque Lectures, Plantation Sketches, Farces, Afterpieces, Negro
Songs, Dances, Banjo Solos, and Marches. Largest and best collection
Minstrel wit published; all who enjoy a good laugh will find it just the
book. This =Great Book Free= to any one sending =10= cents to pay postage.
=Also= Catalogue Guns, Revolvers, Musical Instruments, Magic Tricks. =All
for 10c. Order quick.=

BATES & CO., 100 High St., Boston, Mass.


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


sells recitations and PLAYS

23 Winter St., Boston



Per Year:

  HARPER'S MAGAZINE       _Postage Free_,       $4.00
  HARPER'S WEEKLY                "               4.00
  HARPER'S BAZAR                 "               4.00
  HARPER'S ROUND TABLE           "               2.00

       *       *       *       *       *

_Booksellers and Postmasters usually receive subscriptions.
Subscriptions sent direct to the publishers should be accompanied by
Post-office Money Order or Draft._

       *       *       *       *       *




BOBBY. "We should always be thankful for blessings, shouldn't we,

MAMMA. "Yes, Bobby."

BOBBY. "But blessings are not like arithmetic, are they?"

MAMMA. "Of course not. Why should you be thankful for arithmetic?"

BOBBY. "Because I knew my arithmetic to-day, and wasn't kept in."

       *       *       *       *       *


  I'm thankful for the nice red drum
    Aunt Mary gave to me;
  I'm thankful for the glossy pug
    That frisks about my knee.

  I'm thankful that our orchard old
    Is full of rosy fruit;
  I'm very thankful that I have
    A canvas football suit.

  I'm thankful for the fading tree
    That shakes the chestnuts down;
  But most of all I'm thankful for
    The turkey crisp and brown.

  R. K. M.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Oh!" groaned Tommy, the day after Thanksgiving, as he took a bitter
dose of medicine, "I wish I hadn't been so thankful yesterday."

       *       *       *       *       *


It is very difficult even for a dealer in cheap clothing to get the
better of Pat, as the following story, told by a London journal, well

Pat was a witty Irishman, who had just arrived in London from the
Emerald Isle. He was aimlessly wandering about the town, when he
perceived a suit of clothes at a shop door inscribed: "This superior
suit for half-price." So in Pat walked and inquired the price.

"Just sixteen shillings, sir," replied the shopman.

"Begorra, that's chape enough!" said Pat. "I'll take it."

When the parcel was tied up, he put it under his arm, and laying eight
shillings on the counter, was going out at the door, when the shopkeeper
intercepted him, and demanded another eight shillings.

"Didn't you say, you spalpeen, that the price of the suit was sixteen
shillings, and sure haven't I given you the half of it? And by this and
by that, I won't give up my bargain!"

A scuffle then ensued, and Pat was taken to the police court, where he
pleaded his cause so ably that the magistrate dismissed the complaint,
and advised the tailor never again to ticket his goods with

       *       *       *       *       *


  This joyous pride the turkey feels
    Strutting erect as he is able,
  Will be transformed to us when he
    Is roasted brown upon the table.

       *       *       *       *       *


We all know the Scriptural interpretation of the rainbow; but mythology
has also had its say upon the same theme. The Scandinavians thought it
was a celestial bridge, by which the gods passed to and fro; it was
doomed to break down at the last day. Children are still sometimes told
that if they will walk to the spot from which the rainbow springs they
will find a pot of gold. There was an idea that the rainbow draws up
water by means of two golden dishes, which it sometimes lets fall, and
which have been secured by lucky finders. A Black Forest legend asserted
that the rainbow draws its water by a golden goblet, and that a shoe
thrown into a rainbow would return filled with gold. In Servia the folk
used to say that to pass beneath a rainbow changed the sex--made a man a
woman, or the reverse. The Suabians, when there is a double rainbow, say
that it is the devil trying to imitate the work of God.

*** End of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Harper's Round Table, November 19, 1895" ***

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