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Title: Harper's Round Table, January 14, 1896
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, January 14, 1896" ***

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

       *       *       *       *       *



       *       *       *       *       *



A Story of the Revolution.




It was a dark, murky night when George reached the headquarters at West
Point. He had been delayed often in the journey, having been forced to
hide in the woods to avoid meeting stragglers from the guerilla forces,
and once he saw a man ride to the top of a hill behind him and shadow
his eyes with his hat. His horse was almost worn out when he had reached
the American outposts. Here, however, there was no detention. He had
passports that would take him across the river, where the forces that
were making feints of threatening the British defences above the city
were stationed.

After leaving the protection of the American arms he was to proceed on
foot and enter the British lines as best he could, and there demand to
be brought before the officials to whom he had despatches.

It is a strange thing that even the strongest and frankest natures often
have the gift of dissembling when confronted with danger or necessity. A
half-dozen times as George had ridden through the woods he had thought
of giving up the project. General Washington knew nothing of it, he
felt sure, and Colonel Hewes was known more for his brilliancy and dash
than for his caution. It seemed hardly possible that any scheme of such
tremendous importance as the capture of the British General could be
successful; the plotting could not go on under the very eyes of the
English; they would surely suspect something, and he knew what the fate
of a spy would be. He remembered the brave Nathan Hale, but was animated
none the less by the memory of this hero's last words, and the sorrow
that he had expressed at having "but one life to give for his country."
The question of right or wrong involved George did not weigh long in his
mind, and, to tell the truth, the mystery of the adventure had strongly
tempted him from the first.

No one would have recognized our young Lieutenant as he stepped from the
boat into the glare of a lantern on the eastern shore of the Hudson--for
he had been ferried across the river, the very night of his arrival at
West Point. His brown hair was dyed black and straggled about his
shoulders. Instead of his long blue coat, he wore a gray jacket and a
short plum-colored waistcoat buttoned tightly to the throat; his legs
were encased in heavy riding-breeches, and stiff leather gaiters came up
to his knees. The big pouch in his pocket was filled with the precious
English guineas, and sewed on the inside lining of his waistcoat were
the despatches.

The story of supposed hardships that he had faced in coming down from
Albany he had learned by heart, but it was hard for George to change the
soldierly carriage of his shoulders. He was stamped with the imprint of
military service. However, by placing a button in the sole of his left
boot, he reminded himself of the limp which Richard Blount was supposed
to have.

The next day, at early dawn, he began his trip, and late in the
afternoon he rested at a farm-house, keeping out of sight as much as
possible. When darkness came on, under the guidance of a Lieutenant Peck
of a Connecticut regiment, he rode away once more southward toward the

It was almost four o'clock in the morning when Lieutenant Peck stopped.
The latter, out of delicacy, had asked no questions, and George had felt
in no mood for conversation. Their journey had been made in silence.

"Here is the lone oak," said the Lieutenant, "and here I am to leave you
and take back the horses. This road will carry you to the British lines.
I wish you all success in your dangerous enterprise, for I can guess,
sir, what hardships and sacrifices you will have to make. God speed

George had dismounted. He shook the other's hand, thanked him, and
hastened down the road. The papers that were sewed inside his clothes
crinkled as he walked. He almost felt as if his courage would give out.
What was he going to face? Was he not being made the victim of a wild,
reckless enthusiast?

Nevertheless he would not back out. It was not in the Frothingham blood
to turn. The family motto was "Onward." He would be true to it.

As he walked ahead he kept making up his mind what he would say and how
he would appear. He was supposed not to be a country bumpkin, but a
youth of some education and appearance. He was not to go into hiding
when he reached the city, but to live openly, and to spend money
lavishly on the soldiers. He was not to talk overly much, but to listen
carefully, and to await the orders that he would receive, and act, when
the time came, with promptness and fearlessness. He had been going over
for the hundredth time the tale of his imaginary and wonderful passage
through the American lines; and had traversed perhaps eight or ten miles
from the spot where he had separated from Lieutenant Peck, when he saw
some men with guns on their shoulders crossing from the woods to the
left of the road.

It was growing light, and it was evident from their movements that they
had detected him. Now a strange fear came into his mind. If they were
English, all would be right and well; but if they were Americans, it
would be hard for him to explain. It was good that this idea came to
him, for it made him act as a fugitive naturally would. He walked on as
if he had discovered nothing until he had placed the big trunk of a tree
between himself and the strangers standing on the hill-side, two of whom
were advancing toward him. Then he backed carefully away, still keeping
the tree between him and the approaching figures, until he reached the
stone wall at the road-side. He cleared this at a bound, and falling on
his hands and knees, crawled along in the direction he had been
pursuing. At last he found a patch of underbrush, and worked his way
into it cautiously as a skulking Iroquois might. Peering out through the
branches of a small pine he could clearly see the men that were walking
toward the tree behind, which he apparently had taken shelter, up the
road. He could see their surprised gestures when they found no one was
there. He saw them searching the ground for footprints, as there had
been a slight snow-fall, and of course his having walked backwards did
not betray him at first glance. He hoped that they were Englishmen, but
could not tell, for their uniform was a nondescript one like the
Americans. Suddenly, as he watched the slope from his hiding-place, he
saw the flash of a red coat, and then another. The man near the road
shouted something back to the top of the hill. It was evident that
George had come across an English outpost, and as it was now quite
day-light, he could see, down the road, a number of horses being led out
of a weather-beaten gray barn.

So Lieutenant Frothingham, now "Richard Blount," of Albany, stepped from
his hiding-place, and walked boldly out to the road-side and seated
himself on the stone wall.

For some reason the party who was searching the bushes further up had
not discerned him, but the man in the red coat had, and was seen coming
swiftly down the hill. The other joined him also, and soon the two were
within speaking distance.

"Stand and deliver!" said the first, with his hand upon the butt of a
large pistol that he carried in his belt.

"If you will pardon me," returned George, affecting a careless air, "I
had just as lief sit for awhile; and as to delivering, I have come a
long way to do it."

"What mean you?" said the man, stepping across the road and coming
closer. The others had by this time come down also, and our young hero
found himself confronted by a group of curious faces. The nondescripts
had proved to be Tory irregulars.

"I mean just this," said George: "you are English--John Bulls, are you
not? I am Richard Blount, of Albany. I have some letters for General
Howe and his Lordship; and I have crawled, walked, and stolen through
the American lines, and it is my desire to reach New York. Anything that
you can do for me I am sure will be appreciated by my family and the
gentlemen I wish to see."

The officer laughed and advanced. "I am happy to meet you, sir," he
said. "How did you do it?"

"I kept to the woods mostly, and used some Indian tactics, doubtless,"
answered George.

"He knows them well," broke in a voice. "See how he escaped us up the

"I feared you were Yankees," was "Mr. Blount's" rejoinder. "I will be
grateful to you, sir, if you will bring me to where I can get a
Christian meal, for I am half famished, and no dissembling."

He descended from his perch on the stone wall and approached the

"Here are my credentials, sir," he said, unbuttoning his coat and showing
the letters sewed into the lining. "If you can hasten me on my way to
the city and recommend me to a tailor, for I am a stranger there, I
shall be greatly in your debt."

"'Twill be a pleasure, sir," said the officer, glancing at the first
paper George had extended. "Will you give us the honor of breakfasting
with our mess? We are quartered in the farm-house yonder."

George accepted, and the two young men walked down the road.

To his surprise, George had sunk his own individuality. He had no idea
that it would be so easy or so interesting. He seemed to feel that he
was Richard Blount. He limped beside the officer down the road, and
chatted freely about the difficulties of his trip from Albany. There's a
difference between lying and acting, and our young Lieutenant, though he
did not know it, or perhaps had but discovered it, was an actor through
and through.

He had caution enough not to embroider his narrative too freely, but
stuck closely to the main idea that he had memorized; and he found that
it was very easy to answer questions with questions--a common trick in
America, the subtlety of which had not seemed to penetrate the English

He found also, to his surprise, that he entertained the others by his
assumption of a dry vein of humor.

"I might as well have Richard amuse them," he thought to himself, and
made some remark about one of the thin horses which was being groomed in
the front yard.

The officer laughed and ushered him into the little room.

A handsome young man in his shirt sleeves was bending over the open
fireplace cooking something in a frying-pan. He looked over his shoulder
as George and the party entered.

The young spy started. He remembered where he had seen this young man
before; he had dined with him at Mr. Wyeth's.

"What have we here?" asked the officer.

George's heart beat once more quite freely.

"A hungry man," he responded, before any one could speak, "who would
stand you a bottle of Madeira for your mess of pottage."

The other laughed, and soon Richard Blount was introduced. They inquired
over and over again concerning the strength of the American forces, and,
to tell the truth, the numbers did not suffer curtailing at George's

"Why, for three days," he said, "I appeared to be crawling through the
midst of an army."

"You did it well," responded one of the officers; "but, by the Dragon,
you look a little like an Indian."

"'Tis no disgrace, sir," George answered quickly, affecting to be
angered at the other's tone. "'Tis an honor to be allied to the chiefs
of our Northern tribes. Perhaps you did not know--" He stopped.

"Pardon me," said the one who had last spoken. "I did not mean it as you
have taken it. It was through my ignorance I spoke, as you assume."

After the meal, which gave some excuse for shortening the conversation,
George asked to be sent down to the city.

"Can't you send me with a guard of honor?" he asked. "I will pay well
for it."

"I cannot spare the men," answered the first officer, politely, who
appeared to be in command of the picket, "but your neighbor on the right
is going to town. He will accompany you, and save you the trouble of
explaining and drawing out your papers at every cross-road."

"Thank you for the offer," said George. "And can you recommend the best
inn that has a good cellar and table? for it seems to me that I have
lived on parched corn for the last twelvemonth."

In a short time he was mounted on a spare horse, and was plying his
conductor with questions as they traversed the streets of the town of
Harlem and passed over the undulating hills dotted with handsome
residences that adorned Manhattan Island. As they came into the city the
ravages of the fire were visible to the westward; almost one-third of
the town had suffered. There appeared to be soldiers, soldiers
everywhere. They were quartered in every house, barracked in every large
building. They passed a gloomy-looking structure that had once been "The
City Farms."

"For what do they use that?" inquired George.

"'Tis jammed to the top with 'rebel' prisoners," replied the officer. "I
wish they could tow it out into the river and sink it there."

George flushed hotly, but said nothing, and they made their way from the
King's Road into one of the cross streets.

"You had best stop at the 'City Arms,'" said the officer. "I will come
to-morrow myself to conduct you to General Howe."

"Thank you most kindly," said George. "But I must get some clothes
first. I could not appear before the honorable gentlemen in this

"Do you intend seeking an appointment?" inquired his companion.

"No," answered George; "I am lame."

The officer reddened, for he was a gentleman. "I hope I shall see you
to-morrow then," he said. "Good-rest to you."

They had halted before the inn with the broad verandas. The whole scene
looked very natural. Some church bell struck the hour, and a finely
emblazoned coach came bowling down Broadway. Red and the mark of the
crown were everywhere. George walked into the inn and called for the
landlord. Taking the handsomest room in the house, and kept to it,
feigning fatigue, the rest of that afternoon; how odd it seemed to Mr.
Richard Blount! When he came down for his dinner he noticed that the
landlord was unusually polite, and called him at once by name. He could
not help but smile, for he remembered how he had watched this fat
palm-rubbing individual stand in his doorway when he and his brother
William had gone on that well-remembered walk about the city only a few
years before.

"Ah! Mr. Blount," said the landlord, "we are glad to have you here. I
know your family in Albany well, and your father has often been a guest
under my roof. My humble regards to him."

"Indeed!" said George. "Have you seen any of my people lately?"

"Your uncle, of course," the landlord responded.

George's heart almost stopped beating. What if this uncle were in New
York at present? How foolish it was for him to have undertaken any
venture so certain of detection and surrounded with so many obstacles!

"Oh, yes, yes!" went on the landlord. "He told me you were coming."

"I wish I could see him," said George--adding to himself, "From a place
where he could not see me."

"He will be away for some time. He has gone to Connecticut," said his

"Ah! indeed!" quoth young Frothingham, with a sigh of relief. Then he
added, below his breath, "I wish it were Kamchatka. I forgot that I had
an uncle. This will never do." But the humor of the situation struck
him, and he smiled.

Sitting near a window he watched the groups passing up and down the
street. How easy it had been; no danger had confronted him as yet.
Everything seemed to fall into his hands. He began to whistle softly to
himself; then suddenly stopped and fairly shivered. The air he had been
whistling was "The White Cockade." He remembered how that tune and
"Yankee Doodle" had stirred the half-starving soldiers on the banks of
the Delaware. And this reminded him of something else.

"Take care, Richard Blount, take care," he said, "or your Yankee blood
will get the better of you."

He wrinkled his forehead in a perplexed way for a minute, and placed his
hand inside his coat. Yes, there it was, sewed up with the rest--the
letter of poor Luke Bonsall to his mother. It would be a sad thing to
break the news, but it was a trust. At last he went up stairs to his
room, and ripped the letters from his waistcoat lining. He had pasted
the cipher alphabet on a stiff bit of leather which hung from a cord
around his neck. Tacked loosely over it, so as to hide it carefully, was
a miniature of none other than Aunt Clarissa in her days of youth and
beauty. It was the only one he could procure, and a safe hiding-place it
would have made, for no one would have thought of looking back of a
lady's portrait, and especially Aunt Clarissa's, for an important Yankee
cipher. The magnifying-glass was covered with snuff in his small round
snuff-box. He lit a candle, and began to write carefully and
laboriously. It was late at night when he had finished. His chamber
window opened upon a sloping roof which was bordered by a high stone
wall. It was but the work of a moment to slip from the wall to the
ground. He found himself in Waddell Lane. The despatch which he had
written with the aid of the hieroglyphics was safe in his pocket, and
now for the post-box of the conspirators.

A group of drunken soldiers reeled by him. One was singing at the top of
his voice. From the light of a window at his elbow George saw that it
was Corporal McCune, whom he remembered as the tall soldier to whom he
and his beloved brother had asserted their loyalty to the King when on
their first trip to the city.

What surprised George the most as he walked along was the smoothness
with which everything had worked. Perhaps Colonel Hewes's reputation for
rashness was entirely undeserved. Though he did not know exactly as yet
what the project was in which he was to be a factor, yet, inflamed by
the excitement, he could not doubt its successful accomplishment.

What the morrow would bring forth it was hard to tell. In the letter
which he had written, or, better, printed, he had told his name, who had
sent him, what he had come for, where he was stopping--in fact, had
given an accurate description of himself and his supposed individuality.
The letter added that he was waiting for his course of action to be
determined upon by any orders he might receive.

It had again commenced to snow, and the board sidewalk was already
covered with the downy film of white. How well he remembered everything!
He knew the little shop across the way with the tops and candy jars in
the window. And here was the blacksmith's, where he had stood in the
doorway, with his arm around William's shoulder, and watched the sparks
fly, and heard the anvil sing and clang. Oh, what good times they were!
Would he ever have his arm around his brother's shoulder again, or would
he ever feel the comforting touch of William's arm about his own?
Thoughts began to rush through his mind, and the harder he thought the
faster he walked.

But here he was at the orchard; here was the picket-fence. Now he
recalled the signal, for he bent down and picked up a branch. He broke
it into three pieces, and placed the first piece behind the third
picket, the second behind the sixth, and the third behind the ninth.
Colonel Hewes had instructed him to do this as a signal to the others of
his safe arrival. Then he walked to the turn-stile and stopped for a
minute, his heart beating fast. Even in the darkness, although objects
at a distance were most indistinct, he could see that footprints had
been lately made in the snow ahead of him. He stepped through the
turn-stile, keeping his eyes on the footprints ahead of him; they ran to
the second tree and stopped! Now, strange to say, the tracks ahead led
directly to the trunk of the second tree, and instinctively George felt
that whoever it was that made them was not far off. Without apparently
raising his head, he glanced up with his eyes, stumbling at the same
time in a way that might account for the slight halt. Yes, he had seen
it plainly. There was a figure sitting cross-legged on the lower branch,
so close that he could have touched it with a stick. On an occasion like
this thoughts must be quick, and George did the best thing that he could
have done, for he hastened across the orchard as if nothing had
occurred. When he reached the other side and the little lane that ran
from some farm buildings, he turned about the corner of a hay-stack.

It was not hard for him to work himself a little way into the damp,
yielding hay. He waited patiently, and his patience was rewarded, for,
following the footprints that he had made, came a thick-set, muffled
figure in a voluminous cape. How a man as large as that could ever hoist
himself up on the branch of an apple-tree seven feet from the ground so
easily and so noiselessly he could not see, nor could he make out the
stranger's features. He was muffled to the eyes. When he had passed, the
young spy drew himself cautiously out of the hay, and walked after the
retreating footsteps, bending over, and keeping well behind the piles of
hay and fodder. But the other's hearing must have been acute, for he

"What's that, I say?" came an intense voice.

George thought he detected a sharp metallic clicking. It was the cocking
of the hammer of a pistol.

The only answer to the man's hail, however, was the quick,
half-frightened barking of a dog.

"Get out, you beast!" said the voice, and a bit of stick struck the
ground where George was crouching on all-fours.

Further down the street the man passed by a lighted window. He turned
down his collar, and if George had been there, he would have been most

It was Rivington, the King's Printer!




The year 1881 was a great date in North Pole exploration. The most
influential civilized nations sent out a dozen scientific parties to
study the peculiarities of those desolate regions as accurately as can
be determined without paying a visit to the centre of that mysterious

The Swedish explorers made their headquarters at Cape Thorsden, on the
southeastern island of the Spitzberg archipelago. This expedition, led
by Mr. Elkholm, a distinguished physicist attached to the celebrated
Upsal University, achieved considerable success. The members returned
home in good condition, after having wintered in an excellent
observatory, collected a large number of important readings, and
carrying back hundreds of photograms, minerals, and specimens of
vegetable and animal life in that far northern land.

The youngest member of this party was Mr. Samuel A. Andrée, son of an
apothecary in business near Stockholm, and a graduate of the Swedish
Polytechnic School. At that moment Mr. Andrée had not completed his
twenty-fifth year. He had been appointed a member of the scientific
staff through the influence of the Baron Nordenskjöld, the greatest
living Scandinavian polar explorer, and an intimate friend of the
Swedish King. Mr. Andrée's special duty on this first expedition was to
keep track of Sir William Thomson's (now Lord Kelvin) electrometers, and
to report on other scientific peculiarities.

Mr. Andrée is a genuine offspring of the famous sea-kings. He is very
tall, powerfully built, with a prominent forehead, blue eyes, and a
forest of fair early hair, and is endowed with great muscular strength.
As for his mental capacities, he is a talented writer and speaker, and
can converse in German and English as fluently as in his native tongue,
while he speaks French well enough to make himself easily understood by
an audience. Mr. Andrée's practical education has not been neglected,
and he knows how to use a hammer, a file, or a chisel as well as any
trained workman. On account of his manual acquirements he was selected
by the chief of the exploring party to keep the registering apparatus in
order, a difficult and painful operation during the terrific cold of the
dreary polar nights.

Before he had attained his thirtieth year Mr. Andrée received the
appointment of chief engineer of the Swedish Patent-Office. It is
probable that he would have devoted the whole of his life to the
performance of these attractive official duties had he not felt, during
his wintering in the northern regions, the irresistible spell of a more
risky and enticing vocation. When he visited me in Paris last summer on
his way to the International Geographical Congress, held in London, he
confessed that it was in the presence of those grand and impressive
scenes he had resolved to win for his native country the fame of having
reached the North Pole first.

It was in 1889 that Mr. Andrée decided to make balloon ascensions.
Receiving aid from a Swedish scientific fund and from the Stockholm
Academy of Sciences, he had the _Swea_ built in Paris, under the
supervision of the Swedish Minister. (_Swea_ is the poetic name for
Sweden.) This balloon measured 30,000 cubic feet. Mr. Andrée's first
ascension took place from Stockholm on July 15, 1893. He was quite alone
in the car, and this enabled him to reach an altitude of 11,000 feet,
after having passed successively through two layers of clouds,
accurately ascertained the direction of the wind prevailing at several
levels, and studied other important scientific matters, which have
proved valuable to students in all branches of science the world over.
He published a graphic account of his first experiences in the
_Aftonbladet_, one of the most influential papers in Sweden, to which he
had previously been a popular contributor. In this account he described
his sensations as soon as he had lost sight of land, and also when he
perceived that he would be immersed in the sea unless he found a
serviceable breeze that would carry him towards land. Fortunately the
breeze came in time.

[Illustration: ANDRÉE'S GUIDING SAIL.]

On October 19th of the same year Mr. Andrée made another ascension, in
the course of which almost any inexperienced aeronaut would have been
lost. As soon as he had passed through a layer of clouds, which up to
that moment had entirely concealed the earth from view, he saw that he
was passing at an immense distance from land over the very centre of the
Baltic. With a calm hand he gently lowered his guide-rope, and observed
that the friction on the water was greatly diminishing the velocity with
which the wind was carrying the Swea away from the sea-ports, where he
could reasonably expect to be rescued by casual ships. Then he tried to
reduce the velocity even more by attaching two sacks of ballast to the
end of his guide-rope. This simple combination, conceived under the
pressure of a great danger, led him to a discovery. He found that he
could make the balloon turn slightly to the right or left by using a
sail when lowering the guide-rope, not only on sea, but on a vast
expanse of land. Mr. Andrée tried this important experiment during an
ascension made on July 14, 1894, at Gottenburg. The change of course
that he obtained with a moderate-sized sail and a heavy guide-rope was
estimated from ten to thirty degrees, not only as shown by his compass,
but also according to the testimony of competent persons who had
witnessed this extraordinary ascension, when, for the first time, a man
had made a balloon sail on the wind.

[Illustration: IN THE CAR OF THE SWEA.]

An eventful ending was reserved for this ascension, during which the
young Swedish engineer had so cleverly combined the force of the wind
with the friction it generates, and utilized both for varying at will
the direction of the balloon to the right or left from the air current.
The sun was fast declining when Mr. Andrée conceived for the first time
this great idea, which may prove so useful for reaching the North Pole.
He soon observed a small island straight ahead in the direction he was
then following, and at once threw out a sack of ballast. His guide-rope
was freed from the waves in an instant, and the Swea darted forward at a
rapid rate for the desired land. Ten minutes had not elapsed when Mr.
Andrée saw, with a feeling of deep satisfaction and even rapture, the
shore lying about a hundred yards directly under his feet. Then he threw
his whole weight on his valve-rope, hundreds of cubic feet of gas
instantly escaped, the Swea struck land with a shock, and the car was
overturned. Our aeronaut, to his great satisfaction, was thrown, at full
length on the ground.

Being young in the art of balloon management, Mr. Andrée could not
imagine how quickly events happen in aerial navigation. Before he could
grasp a rope the Swea had vanished in the air, and he was left alone on
the island, without any food or covering, exposed to the cold of those
latitudes during a long and dismal October night. Naturally enough, he
found in his pocket a box of matches, for the manufacture of these
useful objects is a specialty in his native country. He gathered a few
dry weeds and dead shrubs and lighted a fire. While warming his tired
and hungry body he had plenty of time to meditate over the hardships of
his unenviable position. The island, which seemed allotted to him by
fate, was not two furlongs long and one wide, and had no water. It was
one of the thousand rocky and barren islets composing the Finnish
archipelago, and there was but slight possibility that any vessel sent
from Sweden could discover his retreat in time to save him from the most
terrible of fates, death from hunger and thirst.

As soon as the sun was up on the following morning Mr. Andrée ran to the
crest of a little rocky eminence, and kept screaming at the top of his
voice for more than an hour. Then he sat down exhausted and burst into
tears. Finally his swollen eyes perceived a cloud of smoke upon the
horizon. Surely it must be a steamer! No doubt the steamer was rapidly
nearing the island! The unfortunate aeronaut wrecked from the skies was
about to be rescued! In his joy he danced and resumed his screamings.
For a while he was elated. He had some right to believe that he had been
seen from the deck, as the ship was steering straight towards the
island. But the vessel changed its course, and in spite of the
balloonist's piercing cries, disappeared.

This unlucky departure would have driven many a resolute man to despair.
For Mr. Andrée it was a lesson. He at once understood that it was
impossible for any one on a vessel to see a human figure on this
desolate island, and that he must contrive a more showy signal than his
body, notwithstanding he was tall and strongly built. After having
meditated for half an hour--an eternity under the circumstances--he made
a sort of stout stick by tying together with weeds a lot of branches
torn from the shrubs. At the end of this stick he attached his trousers,
and waved them wildly over his head, after having mounted to the top of
the hill.


This unnamed island where Mr. Andrée was left is situated a few miles
from Brunskär, which has two houses. One of the two is owned by a
tailor, who goes around once or twice a week in a boat to visit his
customers, who are dispersed over the archipelago. Of course the
tailor's eyes were attracted by the sight of a pair of trousers floating
in the air, and he rowed to the spot to see what such a signal meant.
And this is how Mr. Andrée was restored to life, and thus enabled to
pursue his grand idea of reaching the North Pole in a balloon.

Having given some idea of Mr. Andrée's career, and shown a few traits of
his energetic character, I purpose, as soon as possible, to tell my
young readers the story of the preparations he is now making for this
great aerial voyage, which is attracting the interest of scientific
people all over the world. Mr. Andrée will start on this perilous voyage
some time this year, probably in July, if he can get all things ready by
that time. His friend, Mr. Elkholm, will accompany him, and it is not
impossible that the explorers may land somewhere in America, after
having passed, perhaps, over the North Pole, or at least very near it.

[Illustration: SAMUEL A. ANDRÉE.]


With very slight change one may convert the same material into several
varieties of fancy bread. Southern cooks understand this so well that
they frequently set aside a mixture, after having supplied the
breakfast-table with griddle-cakes, only to have it reappear at luncheon
in quite different guise--as "pone," muffins, egg-bread, or "pop-overs."
If kept in a cool place an ordinary batter will remain sweet for
twenty-four hours, and the addition of an egg or a spoonful of
baking-powder will quickly restore its lightness.

By way of proving the many-sidedness of certain mixtures, let us see how
the use of muffin-cups, waffle-irons, and frying-pan will alter results,
and turn out for us "Virginia puffs," "Aunt Sally's waffles," and "bell
fritters." The necessary ingredients for all three dainties are: 1 quart
of milk; 1-1/2 pints of flour (half a pint to be set aside for fritters,
which require more than puffs or waffles); 4 eggs; a table-spoonful of
butter and lard combined; a heaping teaspoonful of baking-powder; a
small teaspoonful of salt.

The Virginia puffs will require everything except the half-pint of flour
reserved for fritters.

Set aside a coffee-cup of milk, and put the rest in a farina-kettle over
a brisk fire.

Sift a pint of flour into a bowl. Gradually pour over it the coffee-cup
of cold milk, heating until it becomes a smooth paste. By this time the
remainder of the milk will be hot enough (it must not boil) to stir
little by little into the paste. Next add the butter, lard, and salt,
then the baking-powder mixed in a little dry flour.

Now beat, beat, beat with a big spoon and plenty of muscle, for the
success and puffiness of your puffs depend largely on the amount of
energy expended on them.

Whisk the whites of two eggs to a stiff froth. Beat the whites of two
and yolks of three together, very light, and beat them into the batter,
the frothed whites last.

Have your muffin-cups hot and well buttered. Pour in the mixture, and
bake twenty to twenty-five minutes in a quick oven. Serve the moment
they are up to the top of the cups and a nice brown color, otherwise
they will fall and grow sodden.

The same receipt, minus baking-powder and lard, makes excellent waffles.
If you like them thick and soft, fill the irons well with batter. If
they are preferred thin and crisp, use less. Should they still seem too
solid, thin with a little milk.

The secret of good waffles is the cooking. The irons must be constantly
turned over a steady fire to prevent blistering or scorching and to give
to both sides an appearance of evenness. Never wait to bake a quantity,
but serve as fast as the iron turns them out.

When you have reached the point mentioned in directions for Virginia
puffs where the quart of milk has been stirred into a pint of flour,
leave the paste to grow cold. Before dinner beat in the four eggs and a
half-pint of dry flour.

These fritters are delicious with a hot sauce for dessert, but may be
metamorphosed into an entrée by the addition of bananas, apples, or
apricots, cut small and stirred lightly into the batter at the last
moment before frying.

Put a pound or more of best leaf lard in a deep iron skillet, and let it
come to a boil. Dip the fritter mixture up in a large kitchen spoon.
Hold over the skillet, and cut it from the spoon with a knife. It will
fall into the hot lard somewhat in the form of the bowl of the spoon.
The name "bell" implies that they should not be flat and shapeless, but
nicely rounded.



  I used to think that Fido was a most exciting pet;
  He'd come up in the morning and beneath the bed-clothes get,
  And play that he was savage, and go biting at my toes;
  But now he doesn't scare me--little Fi no longer goes.

  I used to think our gardener a hero great and grand,
  The biggest man of all the big in all our great big land;
  But now I take no stock in him; he doesn't interest,
  Although to make a wonder he just tries his level best.

  You see, somebody gave me, not so very long ago,
  A little book of fairy tales--it's wonderful, you know,
  To read about the fearful things they do in books like that.
  And it's what's made old Fido and the gardener seem flat.

  I want a dragon for a pet--a dragon big and fierce--
  That feeds on fire and powder, with a glance that seems to pierce,
  I sort of don't get wrought up by old Fido when I read
  Of how that fierce old dragon takes in lions for his feed.

  And as for John the garden man, he doesn't seem to me
  One half the hero that one time I thought that he must be,
  For he don't kill off giants, like Hop o' my Thumb and Jack,
  And all my liking for his tales is growing very slack.

  So, daddy, get a dragon that will jump into my bed
  Each morning when the sun comes up, and sniff about my head
  The way old Fido does, and let the market garden go
  To some real ogre-killer, like Great Jacky was, you know.



It was a very hot day even for Cuba. Every living thing moved listlessly.
The great Spanish flag, hanging from the tall slender staff just inside
the gate of the fort, drooped like the wings of a tired bird. The
sentries were almost gasping for breath. In the barracks the men
grumbled and railed at the fate which had brought them from home and
friends to fight in a country where fever thinned their ranks far more
effectively than did the bullets of the insurgents.

On a slight hill about a mile from the fort a man and a youth were
lolling lazily on the ground. The lad was about eighteen years of age,
tall, well-built, and unmistakably an American. His companion, a native
Cuban, was at least thirty years old, short, but with a frame denoting
immense strength.

They had been watching the fort for an hour or more through a powerful
field-glass, and following closely the movements of the sentries on the
wall nearest them.

"Pah!" said the lad at last, "they're only a lot of boys."

The man smiled at him meaningly, and the lad blushed.

"I know," he continued, hesitatingly, "that you're thinking I'm just a
boy too; but," proudly, "I'm an American."

"So," answered the man, softly; "and had I a few score such lads as you
in my command I'd strike a great blow for Cuba to-day."

"How, Captain Marto?" was the eager question.

"By taking yonder fort by storm," was the quiet reply.

The youth's father was a prisoner in the fort, and the incidents which
led up to his capture may be here described. For five years Mr. Hinton,
a native of Pennsylvania State, had resided with his son Ben in Havana,
where he carried on business as a general merchant. His wife had died
while on a visit to her old American home. Among Cubans Mr. Hinton was
well known as a sympathizer in their cause. Immediately on receipt of
the news in Havana that General Antonio Maceo had taken the field he
decided to lend his active aid to the Cuban leader. Not wishing his son
to share in the dangers of a struggle in which he knew that the
Spaniards would show no mercy to any who took up arms against them, Mr.
Hinton had suggested that Ben go back to relatives in America. This
proposition the lad stoutly opposed. Ben knew by heart the stories of
the brave efforts which the Cubans had so often made in their attempts
to throw off the Spanish yoke. The names of Maceo, Gomez, Marto, and
other revolutionists were held in high estimation by him, and, with that
intense love of freedom inherited by every American boy, he had
determined, long before he knew his father's views on the subject, to
strike a blow in the coming struggle for Cuban independence. His father
was at last compelled to consent to Ben's accompanying him.

Accordingly, one evening Mr. Hinton, Marto, and Ben left Havana
secretly. By travelling at night, and lying concealed during the day in
the huts of natives, and sometimes in the woods, they reached the
outskirts of the province of Puerto Principe. Here, at the little
village in which Marto was born, thirty natives joined them. Marto was
elected captain of the band. Feeling somewhat secure, on account of
their numbers, the band travelled through the country by day, taking the
most direct route for Maceo's camp. But one morning they were suddenly
surrounded by an overwhelming force of Spanish soldiers. With desperate
courage, Captain Marto, Ben, and some twenty-five men cut their way out
of the cordon of soldiers and sought safety in flight.

It was not until the Spaniards gave up the chase that any one noticed
that Mr. Hinton was not with the party. Poor Ben was in a frenzy, and,
but for Captain Marto and a couple of men restraining him by force,
would have rushed back to the scene of the conflict to seek for his
father. Wiser counsel prevailed, however, and towards evening a man who
joined the party brought comparative happiness to Ben by the report that
he had watched from the woods a party of Spanish soldiers marching along
with an American prisoner in their midst. The description of the
prisoner tallied so closely with that of Mr. Hinton as to leave no doubt
of his identity.

Then Marto, who loved Mr. Hinton as a brother, had determined that, at
whatever cost, his American friend must be rescued.

"Why," he had said to Ben, "I dare not go to Maceo without him, and I
would not if I could. Tho General is expecting him, and will give him a
command as soon as he arrives at the camp."

"Which," Ben had answered, gloomily enough, "will never be."

"Which," Marto had retorted, somewhat testily, "must and will be."

Two days after the fight they located the fort which was the
headquarters of the soldiers who had attacked them, and it was this Ben
and Captain Marto were watching when our story opens. The band had spent
three days in the neighborhood, but as yet had not even succeeded in
letting the prisoner know that his friends had not totally deserted him.

The fort was a very rude affair, the walls being constructed of two
thicknesses of logs with earth packed between. An earthen embankment ran
around the inner side of the walls, and at such a height that when the
soldiers appeared on it their bodies from the waist up offered a
splendid target to an enemy. Some two hundred and fifty men formed the
garrison, and they were quartered in a huge two-storied log barracks in
the centre of the enclosed ground. In front of the barracks, and about
twenty feet from it, was a small hut, in which Ben and Captain Marto, by
the aid of the field-glass, had learnt Mr. Hinton was confined.

Continuing their conversation, Captain Marto and Ben had decided that
the attempted rescue must be made that night. They knew that the great
heat would have a depressing effect on the Spaniards, and they knew also
that after nightfall not more than three sentries patrolled the walls of
the fort. Many plans were discussed whereby success might reasonably be
expected to attend their venture, but the one upon which it was finally
decided to act was suggested by Ben.


In accordance with that plan, after the night was well advanced, Captain
Marto and Ben, with eight men, lay in the shadows under the eastern wall
of the fort. They listened until they heard the sentry walk past the
position they occupied, and then Marto, mounting upon the shoulders of
two of the men, scrambled to the top of the wall. He dropped softly to
the embankment, and lay as close to the logs as he possibly could.
Shortly the sentry came along on his return patrol, humming a Spanish
song. He did not notice the prostrate form until he almost trod upon it.
It was then too late to give a warning, for Marto sprang up, and with
all the strength of which he was capable, struck the man full on the
mouth, and followed this up immediately by grasping him around the waist
and fairly throwing him over the wall. Here a dozen hands quickly
grasped the soldier, who was gagged and bound before he could utter a

Then one by one the Cubans with Ben scrambled up, and the whole ten made
a rush for the small hut. Three sleepy guards were cut down in a few
seconds, the door of the building was forced open, and Mr. Hinton was
led out by his son.

"Dad! dear old Dad!" cried Ben.

"Ben! my boy!" was the answer, and the voices of father and son betrayed
deep emotion.

At this moment a shot was fired, and a sentry on the western wall fell.
Instantly a tremendous hubbub arose within the barracks, and the
Spaniards, some of whom had already been aroused by the scuffle with Mr.
Hinton's guards, began to pour out of the building. All were armed,
though many were only half dressed; but before they had time to load
their rifles the remaining Cubans, who had got into the ground by way of
the western wall, joined Captain Marto and those with him, and the
little band of twenty-five flung themselves on the Spaniards.

While the fighting was going on Ben suddenly found himself thrust
against something, which proved to be the flag-pole, and, looking up,
discovered the Spanish flag waving overhead. The idea at once occurred
to him to take advantage of the laxity of discipline among the Spanish
troops. He hauled on the ropes, but for some reason they would not work.
Placing his clasp-knife between his teeth, he climbed the staff, until
he clasped the folds of the flag with his left hand; then he was
compelled to sever the halyards with his knife.

From his airy perch Ben turned his eyes in the direction of the
struggle. He could barely distinguish the outlines of the surging mass
of men. But high above the din of oaths and cries in Spanish, the clash
of bayonet, sword-blade, and the favorite Cuban weapon, the machete,
arose the exulting cry: "Cuba libre! Cuba libre!"

The lad's soul was thrilled. "Surely," he muttered to himself, "Cuba for
the Cubans will soon be a fact and not a dream. But they must retire."

Even as the word left his lips, a single long shrill note from a whistle
pierced the air. It was a prearranged signal, and it came none too soon;
for now, somewhat recovered from the suddenness of the attack, the
Spaniards, realizing the small force opposed to them, were driving the
Cubans back by sheer weight of numbers.

At the signal, however, the Cubans retired with surprising swiftness,
carrying with them the bodies of several of their comrades who had
fallen. As they passed the staff Ben slipped down amongst them, the flag
bundled up under his left arm. The gate had already been opened by two
Cubans, who had been assigned that duty. The whole band rushed through,
three or four men in mere bravado lingering to pull the gate to after

As they fled several Spaniards mounted the embankment and sent a volley
after them, one bullet striking Ben's left arm. A little cry of pain
escaped him, but he clinched his teeth, and grasping the flag still
tighter, hurried on.

No pursuit was made, and after placing two miles between themselves and
the fort, a halt was called. Torches were lit, and by their fitful glare
it was found that of the Cubans who had to be carried away none were
dead, although in some cases the wounds were serious. When Ben produced
the flag, all stained with his own blood, the impulsive Cubans showered
such praise upon him that the lad felt almost shamed. His father said
very little, but Ben knew by the silent hand-shake and the care for the
wounded arm that Mr. Hinton was proud of his son.

The rest of the journey to Maceo's camp partook of the nature of a
triumphal procession. The news of the gallant deeds of Marto's little
band roused the whole countryside, and in a few weeks' time what had
formerly been a quiet district was in arms against the Spaniard.

When Maceo's camp was reached Mr. Hinton, Marto, and Ben were at once
conducted into his presence. He began to compliment Marto, but the
latter interrupted respectfully.

"Sir, it was my gallant comrade here," pointing to Ben, "who planned the
affair and captured the flag. To him the honor is due."

General Maceo stepped up to Ben and clasped the lad's right hand warmly
in his own.

"What can I do for you, my hero?" he asked.

"Let me continue to fight in your cause," was the modest answer.

And, under the immediate command of his father, Ben Hinton is still
fighting for Cuba.





Grace Wainwright, a slender girl in a trim tailor-made gown, stepped off
the train at Highland Station. She was pretty and distinguished looking.
Nobody would have passed her without observing that. Her four trunks and
a hat-box had been swung down to the platform by the baggage-master, and
the few passengers who, so late in the fall, stopped at this little
out-of-the-way station in the hills had all tramped homeward through the
rain, or been picked up by waiting conveyances. There was no one to meet
Grace, and it made her feel homesick and lonely. As she stood alone on
the rough unpainted board walk in front of the passenger-room a sense of
desolation crept into the very marrow of her bones. She couldn't
understand it, this indifference on the part of her family. The ticket
agent came out and was about to lock the door. He was going home to his
mid-day dinner.

"I am Grace Wainwright," she said, appealing to him. "Do you not suppose
some one is coming to meet me?"

"Oh, you be Dr. Wainwright's darter that's been to foreign parts, be
you? Waal, miss, the doctor he can't come because he's been sent for to
set Mr. Stone's brother's child's arm that he broke jumping over a
fence, running away from a snake. But I guess somebody'll be along soon.
Like enough your folks depended on Mr. Burden; he drives a stage, and
reckons to meet passengers and take up trunks, but he's sort o' half
baked, an' he's afraid to bring his old horse out when it rains--'fraid
it'll catch the rheumatiz. You better step over to my house 'long o' me;
somebody'll be here in the course of an hour."

Grace's face flushed. It took all her pride to keep back a rush of
angry, hurt tears. To give up Paris, and Uncle Ralph and Aunt Hattie,
and her winter of music and art, and come to the woods and be treated in
this way! She was amazed and indignant. But her native good sense showed
her there was, there must be, some reason for what looked like neglect.
Then came a tender thought of mamma. She wouldn't treat her thus.

"Did a telegram from me reach Dr. Wainwright last evening?" Grace
inquired, presently.

The agent fidgeted and looked confused. Then he said coolly: "That
explains the whole situation now. A despatch did come, and I calc'lated
to send it up to Wishin'-Brae by somebody passing, but nobody came along
goin' in that direction, and I clean forgot it. It's too bad; but you
step right over to my house and take a bite. There'll be a chance to get
you home some time to-day."

At this instant, "Is this Grace Wainwright?" exclaimed a sweet, clear
voice, and two arms were thrown lovingly around the tired girl. "I am
Mildred Raeburn, and this is Lawrence, my brother. We were going over to
your house, and may we take you? I was on an errand there for mamma.
Your people didn't know just when to look for you, dear, not hearing
definitely, but we all supposed you would come on the five-o'clock
train. Mr. Slocum, please see that Miss Wainwright's trunks are put
under cover till Burden's express can be sent for them." Mildred stepped
into the carryall after Grace, giving her another loving hug.

"Mildred, how dear of you to happen here at just the right moment, like
an angel of light! You always did that. I remember when we were little
things at school. It is ages since I was here, but nothing has changed."

"Nothing ever changes in Highland, Grace. I am sorry you see it again
for the first on this wet and dismal day. But to-morrow will be
beautiful, I am sure."

"Lawrence, you have grown out of my recollection," said Grace. "But
we'll soon renew our acquaintance. I met your chum at Harvard, Edward
Gerald, at Geneva, and he drove with our party to Paris." Then turning
to Mildred: "My mother is no better, is she? Dear, patient mother! I've
been away too long."

"She is no better," replied Mildred, gently, "but then she is no worse.
Mrs. Wainwright will be so happy when she has her middle girl by her
side again. She's never gloomy, though. It's wonderful."

They drove on silently. Mildred took keen notice of every detail of
Grace's dress--the blue cloth gown and jacket, simple but modish, with
an air no Highland dressmaker could achieve, for who on earth out of
Paris can make anything so perfect as a Paris gown, in which a pretty
girl is sure to look like a dream? The little toque on the small head
was perched over braids of smooth brown hair, the gloves and boots were
well-fitting, and Grace Wainwright carried herself finely. This was a
girl who could walk ten miles at a stretch, ride a wheel or a horse at
pleasure, drive, play tennis or golf, or do whatever else a girl of the
period can. She was both strong and lovely, one saw that.

What could she do besides! Mildred, with the reins lying loosely over
old Whitefoot's back, thought and wondered. There was opportunity for
much at the Brae.

Lawrence and Grace chatted eagerly as the old pony climbed hills and
descended valleys, till at last he paused at a rise in the path, then
went on, and there, the ground dipping down like the sides of a cup, in
the hollow at the bottom lay the straggling village.

"Yes," said Grace, "I remember it all. There is the post-office, and
Doremus's store, and the little inn, the church with the white spire,
the school-house, and the manse. Drive faster, please, Mildred. I want
to see my mother. Just around that fir grove should be the old home of

Tears filled Grace's eyes. Her heart beat fast.

The Wainwrights' house stood at the end of a long willow-bordered lane.
As the manse carryall turned into this from the road a shout was heard
from the house. Presently a rush of children tearing toward the
carriage, and a chorus of "Hurrah, here is Grace!" announced the delight
of the younger ones at meeting their sister. Mildred drew up at the
doorstop, Lawrence helped Grace out, and a fair-haired older sister
kissed her and led her to the mother sitting by the window in a great
wheeled chair.

The Raeburns hurried away. As they turned out of the lane they met Mr.
Burden with his cart piled high with Grace's trunks.

"Where shall my boxes be carried, sister?" said Grace, a few minutes
later. She was sitting softly stroking her mother's thin white hand, the
mother gazing with pride and joy into the beautiful blooming face of her
stranger girl, who had left her a child.

"My middle girl, my precious middle daughter," she said, her eyes
filling with tears. "Miriam, Grace, and Eva, now I have you all about
me, my three girls. I am a happy woman, Gracie."

"Hallo!" came up the stairs; "Burden's waiting to be paid. He says it's
a dollar and a quarter. Who's got the money? There never is any money in
this house."

"Hush, Robbie!" cried Miriam, looking over the railing. "The trunks will
have to be brought right up here, of course. Set them into our room, and
after they are unpacked we'll put them into the garret. Mother, is there
any change in your pocket-book?"

"Don't trouble mamma," said Grace, waking up to the fact that there was
embarrassment in meeting this trifling charge. "I have money;" and she
opened her dainty purse for the purpose--a silvery alligator thing with
golden clasps and her monogram on it in jewels, and took out the money
needed. Her sisters and brother had a glimpse of bills and silver in
that well-filled purse.

"Jiminy!" said Robbie to James. "Did you see the money she's got? Why,
father never had as much as that at once."

Which was very true. How should a hard-working country doctor have money
to carry about when his bills were hard to collect, when anyway he never
kept books, and when his family, what with feeding and clothing and
schooling expenses, cost more every year than he could possibly earn?
Poor Doctor Wainwright! He was growing old and bent under the load of
care and expense he had to carry. While he couldn't collect his own
bills, because it is unprofessional for a doctor to dun, people did not
hesitate to dun him. All this day, as he drove from house to house, over
the weary miles, up hill and down, there was a song in his heart. He was
a sanguine man. A little bit of hope went a long way in encouraging this
good doctor, and he felt sure that better days would dawn for him now
that Grace had come home. A less hopeful temperament would have been apt
to see rocks in the way, the girl having been so differently educated
from the others, and accustomed to luxuries which they had never known.
Not so her father. He saw everything in rose-color.

As Doctor Wainwright towards evening turned his horse's head homeward he
was rudely stopped on a street corner by a red-faced, red-bearded man,
who presented him with a bill. The man grumbled out sullenly, with a
scowl on his face:

"Doctor Wainwright, I'm sorry to bother you, but this bill has been
standing a long time. It will accommodate me very much if you can let me
have something on account next Monday. I've got engagements to
meet--pressing engagements, sir."

"I'll do my best, Potter," said the doctor. Where he was to get any
money by Monday he did not know, but, as Potter said, the money was due.
He thrust the bill into his coat pocket and drove on, half his pleasure
in again seeing his child clouded by this encounter. Pulling his gray
mustache, the world growing dark as the sun went down, the father's
spirits sank to zero. He had peeped at the bill. It was larger than he
had supposed, as bills are apt to be. Two hundred dollars! And he
couldn't borrow, and there was nothing more to mortgage. And Grace's
coming back had led him to sanction the purchase of a new piano, to be
paid for by instalments. The piano had been seen going home a few days
before, and every creditor the doctor had, seeing its progress, had been
quick to put in his claim, reasoning very naturally that if Doctor
Wainwright could afford to buy a new piano, he could equally afford to
settle his old debts, and must be urged to do so.

The old mare quickened her pace as she saw her stable door ahead of her.
The lines hung limp and loose in her master's hands. Under the pressure
of distress about this dreadful two hundred dollars he had forgotten to
be glad that Grace was again with them.

Doctor Wainwright was an easy-going as well as a hopeful sort of man,
but he was an honest person, and he knew that creditors have a right to
be insistent. It distressed him to drag around a load of debt. For days
together the poor doctor had driven a long way round rather than to pass
Potter's store on the main street, the dread of some such encounter and
the shame of his position weighing heavily on his soul. It was the
harder for him that he had made it a rule never to appear anxious before
his wife. Mrs. Wainwright had enough to bear in being ill and in pain.
The doctor braced himself and threw back his shoulders as if casting off
a load, as the mare, of her own accord, stopped at the door.


The house was full of light. Merry voices overflowed in rippling speech
and laughter. Out swarmed the children to meet papa, and one sweet girl
kissed him over and over. "Here I am," she said, "your middle daughter,
dearest. Here I am."



  Poor Bobby's sick! Dear little lad,
  He's got a pain; it hurts him awful bad.
          Just see his face!
          In every line of it a trace
  Of how he suffers from that pain.
  What's that? His plate is back again
  For buckwheat cakes? Oho, I see!
  'Tis nearly nine o'clock. Ho!--hum!--tell me
  What is this woe
  That lays poor Bobby low
  Each morning just at school-time, yet so fleet is?
  Is it the olden time Nineoelockitis
  That as a boy I had so frequently?
  That comes at half past eight, and seems to last
  From then till nine, or say a quarter past,
  And then departs, and leaves him all the day
  With twice the strength with which to go and play?
          Oh--well--if this be so
  I'll worry not. The symptoms well I know.
  Only, instead of cakes to cure his ills,
  Take him a spoon and fill it up with squills,
          And by to-morrow
  I doubt he'll suffer from his present sorrow.



Napoleon and his army of soldiers were marching across the Alps in
Switzerland before descending into Italy upon that famous campaign in
which all Italy bowed low to the French conqueror. Up the long steep
slopes the soldiers toiled in the shadow of the frowning and overhanging
cliffs. Here and there patches of bare rock appeared, where the snow had
been swept off by the fierce gusts of wind. For miles the army was
strung along the roads, and wearily the men walked as they struggled
with the heavy cannon. These cannon were mounted on improvised sleds,
and the soldiers pulled them over the snow with ropes. At times one of
the sleds would slip and tumble over a precipice, carrying with it a
number of the men who were dragging it along. The air was bitterly cold,
and many of the soldiers died on the road, or from weakness fell off the
cliffs, to be dashed to pieces on the rocks below.

An officer had been riding back and forth along his command most of the
day, helping here and encouraging there, and by kindly acts urging his
men to bravely laugh off their despondency. Cold, frozen, poorly clad,
and with but little to eat, such conditions were too crushing to arouse
much enthusiasm among the soldiers, but a faint cheer time and again
reached this officer's ears as he shouted his commands.

Darkness was gathering fast, and it was desirable that this officer's
detachment should reach a small plateau some distance ahead before
camping for the night. In order to reach this it was necessary to cross
a narrow dangerous part of the road with a sharp descent of some hundred
feet on one side and the walls of a cliff on the other.

The officer stood at the narrowest part directing the way. Most of the
detachment had passed the spot and three cannon had already made the
passage. The last one, larger than any of the others, was being slowly
but surely worked over, when there was a sudden sinking of the snow,
several shouts, and the heavy iron cannon commenced toppling over the

"Throw a rope over the end there, quick!" shouted the officer, at the
same time grasping the rope attached to the forward end. But it was too
late, or else the frozen hands of the soldiers prevented their working
lively, and all but two of those having hold of the rope that was
attached dropped it in fear of being pulled over the cliff.

Down it went into the black depths of the narrow crevice between the
mountains, and with it went the two men who had kept their hold, and
also the brave officer, for when the others had dropped the rope it had
become entangled in his feet. A short, despairing cry was all that rose
on the night air to tell the tale of those three deaths. Napoleon's
soldiers were too accustomed to such sights and the hopelessness of an
attempt at rescue to do more than shudder and move stubbornly on.
Through many such scenes the army made its way over the Alps.

Many years later, in the summer of 1847, a party of people were taking a
pleasure trip through Europe, and had stopped at one of the small
villages at the foot of the mountains. From here they made occasional
trips, exploring the surrounding neighborhood. In the party was a
geologist, who was making studies of the geological formations of the
Alps. Such work took him into unfrequented spots.

On one of these expeditions he wandered one day into a narrow chasm and
slowly worked along, making notes of the walls of stone that rose above
his head, seemingly coming together where he could see a narrow rift of
light. As he stumbled along, now and then stopping to examine a loose
stone, he came across a log-shaped rock. Upon closer inspection,
however, he saw it was an old rusty cannon, and sitting down upon it, he
fell to musing how it came there.

He had noted that the cannon was of a make used during Napoleon's time,
and concluded that it must be one of those that were lost over the
precipice when the great general had crossed into Italy. Stooping down,
he poked into its mouth, mechanically scraping out the dirt that had
accumulated there, and idly thought of the brave soldiers of those days.
Suddenly he noticed a leathern book, in fairly good condition, lying in
the little heap of dirt he had scraped out. Picking it up he opened it
and found it full of papers. Thinking then that it was of no great
importance, he placed it in his pocket and retraced his steps to the
village. That evening he examined its contents, and among some papers
relating to an old estate he found the following scrawl:

"I, one of Napoleon's officers, fell from the cliff above, dragged over
by a rope attached to this cannon. The two men that fell with me were
instantly killed, as I have not heard them moan nor seen them move. My
leg and left arm are broken, and I know that I am hurt internally.
Fortunately, I struck but once while falling, and then this soft bed of
snow prevented instant death. I have enough strength left to write this
and stick it into the mouth of the cannon, for possibly some one may
discover it. My papers and such as will prove the right to certain
property will be found in the leathern book, and I beg the finder will
place them in the hands of the proper owners. My strength is leaving me
and I must stop--" (Here followed the signature.)

Among the papers was found the right to an estate of considerable value,
and when, after great difficulty, the descendants and owners were
traced, it was discovered that the family had suffered more or less
privation from the loss of these papers, restored after so many years.



Above all, it means unceasing vigilance. It is said that a man who rides
often over the same road can fall asleep in the saddle and still travel
it safely. Such a man would be drummed out of the steamship service.
Every man who has to do with the sailing of an ocean greyhound must be
on the alert every moment of his tour of duty. No matter how many scores
of times he may have sailed over the route between New York and
Southampton, he must be constantly on the lookout for all that he can
read in sea and sky, or in the earth beneath the sea. For two things he
is responsible--the safety and speed with which the journey is made.
Nothing else appeals to him. The greatest orator of the finest singer in
the world might appear and perform on deck, and I doubt whether the men
on the bridge would see him or hear him. The ship is like a great
cannon-ball that has been shot out of one port to strike the other. The
officers of the ship are to make that cannon-ball go true to the mark
without deviating in the least degree from the course. That duty is so
absorbing that nothing else can be allowed to interfere with it.

Gales cannot stop nor fogs hinder the swift passage of the transatlantic
liner. She flies onward with what seems to be an entire disregard of
storms. But these things are not disregarded. They are grappled with and
fought against, and man triumphs over the fury of the elements. Nothing
is left to chance. Every emergency that experience or imagination can
suggest is prepared for and studied out long in advance. Friends
sometimes ask the captain of a great ship if the nervous strain does not
exhaust him; if he is not depressed by the responsibility for so many
hundreds of lives and so many millions of dollars worth of property. The
answer to that question is always no. If the captain were to give
himself up to such reflections he would be unfit for his position. The
captain's experience is long and varied before he becomes master of an
ocean greyhound. His responsibility is small at first, but constantly
grows greater, until he is no more worried by it than you would be
worried by having to drive a pair of ponies.

The best ships of to-day are gigantic compared with the best of twenty
or even fifteen years ago. The _New York_ is 565 feet long, and of 63
feet beam. She extends 27 feet beneath the water. These mere figures do
not convey much of an impression of her size. If she should be lifted
out of the water, however, she would fill Broadway, from curb-stone to
curb-stone, from Chambers Street to Park Place, and a man standing on
her bridge could easily look into the fifth story of the houses on
either side. A ship of this size costs more than two millions of
dollars. Her engines have power equivalent to that of 20,000 horses. The
crew of the _New York_ averages 400 men all the year around. There are
70 in the navigating department, 180 in the engine department, and the
rest are in the steward's department.


Just as the government of the city of New York is divided among the
Mayor, Aldermen, and boards and commissioners of various departments, so
the administration of a giant steamship is divided into specialties. The
Mayor is the chief officer of the city. The Captain is the chief officer
of the ship. He is more than that. From the time she leaves port until
she enters port he is master of the life and liberty of every person
aboard the ship, as well as of all the property in it. He is an
autocrat. Of course he must administer his authority wisely. Unwise
autocrats don't last long, whether afloat or ashore.

The head of each department is responsible for all that goes on in it.
The first officer is at the head of the crew, or navigating department.
The chief engineer directs everything connected with the engines. The
chief steward has full control of all that has to do with the comfort of
the passengers and crew. Each of these chiefs makes a written report at
noon every day. Thus the Captain is kept informed of everything
pertaining to the ship's welfare.


Every one of the senior officers of the ship is a duly qualified master,
capable of taking her around the world if need be. The day is divided
into "watches," or tours of duty, of four hours each. One junior officer
is on the bridge with each senior officer on duty. The senior officer
directs the ship's course. He never leaves the bridge while he is on
watch. Should he do so he would be dismissed at once. There is no excuse
possible. It would be just as if he had died suddenly. His friends would
all feel sorry, but nothing could be done to help him. Two seamen are
always on watch in the bow of the ship, and two more in the fore-top.
Twice as many are on the lookout in thick weather. Observations are
taken every two hours. In the good old sailing-ship days the Captain was
content to "take the sun" at noon every day. If the sky was cloudy for a
day or two, it really didn't matter much, for he could jog along on dead
reckoning. But on an ocean greyhound, rushing over the course between
New York and Europe at the rate of more than twenty miles an hour, it is
highly important that the ship's position be known all the time. Fog may
come down at any moment, observations may not be obtainable for ten or
twelve hours. The positions of more than one hundred stars are known. By
observing any one of these the ship's whereabouts can be ascertained in
a few minutes. Of course the "road" becomes more or less familiar to a
man who crosses the ocean along the same route year after year. Yet this
familiarity never breeds contempt or any carelessness. No man knows all
the influences that affect the currents of the ocean. You may find the
current in one place the same forty times in succession; on the
forty-first trip it may be entirely changed. Sometimes a big storm that
has ended four or five hours before the steamship passes a certain place
may have given the surface current a strong set in one direction. There
is no means of telling when these influences may have been at work save
by taking the ship's position frequently.

Those of you who are familiar with boat-racing know how often a race is
lost by bad steering. The cockswain who lets his shell drift to one side
and then to the other loses much valuable time in getting back to the
course. You know that from the start of the race he has his eye fixed on
a certain mark, and that he steers straight for that mark. It is the
same way with the Captain of a steamship. His mark is the port on the
other side of the ocean. He aims at it all the time. If his ship should
go astray only for one hour she would lose valuable time getting back to
her course. Every unnecessary mile travelled not only causes loss of
time, but waste of coal, and wear and tear of machinery, ship, crew,


Great caution must be used at all times, but especially on nearing the
land. Old-fashioned ships use the lead and hand-line for finding the
depth of water and nature of the bottom, so that by referring to the
chart the navigator can tell just where he is. That apparatus is too
clumsy for the swift steamship. We use Sir William Thompson's
sounding-machine while the ship goes at full speed. A brass tube is
fastened to the end of a piano-wire line. When this is lowered to the
bottom the pressure of the water is exactly registered on a glass
tube--somewhat resembling a thermometer--which is fastened inside the
tube of brass. Upon reading the amount of pressure we know the exact
depth. A cup on the end of the brass tube brings up a specimen of the


By taking soundings frequently when nearing the land, knowing the ship's
course and her position at the last observation, one can prick out her
track on the chart even in the heaviest fog. One never can tell what
slant of tide or current is silently sending the ship toward the shore,
so soundings are taken every fifteen minutes.

The presence of a pilot on board is no excuse for the Captain whose ship
gets into trouble. The lives of the fifteen hundred persons on board,
the value of the cargo, which is always very great, and of the vessel
herself, which is worth at least two millions, all are in his hands.
But, as I said before, the responsibility never worries him. He simply
watches everything closely. The heads of departments report to him every
day, and should any emergency arise, he is kept informed of every new

How is it possible, we are often asked, to steer such a great vessel as
the modern ocean liner? Steam and electricity have made the work almost
seem like play. The senior officer on the bridge can tell at any moment
just how fast the ship is going, how many revolutions the port and
starboard screws are making per minute, just at what angle the rudder is
set--in one word, all about the ship's progress. This is all reported to
him on automatic registering machines.

You know, of course, that the ocean greyhound of to-day is a twin-screw
ship--that is, that instead of being driven through the water by one
propeller, she has two--one on each side of the end of her keel. Each
screw is worked by its own set of engines. These engines are entirely
independent of each other. The rudder is moved to one side or the other
by steam or hydraulic power. Should the rudder become useless from any
cause, it is possible to steer the ship by these screws. Most of you
know that you can steer a row-boat by putting more force on one oar than
on the other. If you want to turn sharply you back-water with one oar
and row ahead with the other. So it is with these screws. By backing one
screw and going ahead with the other, the ship can be turned around
almost within her own length, as the phrase is. The ordinary vessel that
loses her rudder is in a sad fix. The twin-screw ship simply needs a
little extra care in handling. In fact, it has happened more than once
that an ocean greyhound has been steered for more than a thousand miles
straight into port while the rudder was useless.

It is easy to appreciate the necessity for making fast time across the
ocean when you remember that each idle moment means a loss of earning
power. The vessel costs $2,000,000. She will be worn out, say, in ten
years. Her value will be very small. So that every moment of her ten
good years must be made to tell. Suppose her navigators should be so
careless as to let her wander one hour's journey off her course. Another
hour would be lost bringing her back. That would mean a clear loss of
two hours. Mathematical experts could tell you exactly what that loss
would amount to. All we know is that not one instant shall be thrown

[Illustration: COALING.]

Perhaps you have been aboard one of the largest ships coming up the bay
from Sandy Hook to New York. Have you noticed the churned-up white water
that flows away behind her? Watch it, and you will observe that now on
one side, now on the other, the foam ceases to flow so thickly. This
shows that one screw or the other has almost stopped for a moment. The
ship-channel coming up the bay is so narrow and shallow that at certain
low stages of the tide a great steamship drags the water along with her
body, just as your own body can drag the water in a bath-tub. The result
is that the rudder has very little effect in guiding the ship. Under
such circumstances the screw on one side or the other is slowed so as to
steer the vessel.

Whole books might be written about the engines of an ocean greyhound. To
inspect the engines thoroughly you go down through four decks. Every bit
of machinery is constantly watched. A record is kept of every turn of
the screw, of every engine's work. The chief engineer has three first
assistants, and one of these three is always on duty. The engine-room is
like a gigantic roaring factory--it is a factory that makes power for
pushing the ship along. The four large dynamos that produce electricity
for lighting and other uses are also in the vast engine-room. So is the
machine that makes ice for the ship. This, by-the-way, is almost a
magical apparatus. In it is made all the ice used by the ship's company,
and from it pipes are led that supply the refrigerating-rooms. There are
two of these immense refrigerators. They are on the fourth deck--away
below the water-line. As nearly every article of food for the round trip
is purchased in this country, practically all the perishable food is
stored in these refrigerators--one being known as the "East-bound," and
the other the "West-bound." The immense amount of provisions carried is
something hard to imagine. A ship like the _New York_ or the _St. Paul_,
for example, takes 25,000 pounds of beef, more than three tons of game
and poultry, 18,000 eggs, and other things in proportion. The law
requires that enough provisions be carried to feed the ship's people for
twenty-four additional days, in case of accident. We carry much more
than that amount. In the refrigerating-rooms are also carried enough
flowers to adorn the tables all the way to England and back.

Most of you, perhaps, think of an ocean greyhound as a swift-going
floating hotel. I think you will admit she is more--that she is one of
the greatest wonders of the deep.




The writer of this sketch has no need to depend upon the evidence of
others for the facts given; she has but to cross a shady street and tap
at the most hospitable door in the wide world, to sit at her ease in the
fine old library enriched by the gifts of a king, and talk with General
Wallace or his wife.

It was upon an occasion like this that she remarked: "General, the
people who are so much interested in your work sometimes wonder how you
came to begin it. Would you be willing to give us an idea of your

"Method?" was the reply, with the genial smile and flash of the keen
dark eye which still renews the youth of the veteran warrior-poet. "I
have no method. If my composition has any excellence, set it down, first
and last, to that simple fact. In writing, as in speech, I think that
modes of expression should depend upon feeling--not studied, but the
impulse of the moment."

"But you had a method of study in your school-days?"

"Not I. My school-days were very few when I was a boy. My father
regularly sent me, and paid my tuition bills, but I as regularly played
truant. I ran wild in the woods of my native Indiana as free and happy
as the squirrels and rabbits, which scarcely took the trouble to keep
out of my pathway, so accustomed to my presence did they become. I
hunted, fished, staid in the woods, and slept with my dog, and came out
as strong and healthy as an oak sapling, without the least idea that I
was laying the foundation for the constitution which could in later
years withstand the hardships and exposures of camp and field. Health
was so absolute it was not thought of."

"You must, however, have been fond of books."

"Passionately so. I read every moment that I was still. In my runaway
journeys through the woods I always carried a book in my pocket. I both
read and remembered. My education, such as it is, is due to my father's
excellent library, and the freedom with which I browsed at will upon the
wholesome pastures of good old English literature."

"Doubtless you had certain favorite volumes."

"Yes. _Plutarch's Lives_ was and is the work which had most influence
upon me. Even yet, at the age of sixty-seven, when I grow drowsy and my
ambition seems to fail, I pick up my old companion, and an hour with him
restores me to myself."

"How did you first come to think of writing?"

Another smile of amusement over the recollections of those crude boyish
days, and the General replied: "My first literary effort was made in a
society of lads near my own age, of which I was a member when about
sixteen. Berry Sulgrove, once editor of the Indianapolis _Journal_, was
president, and assigned each one his part in our weekly meetings--a
speech, essay, story, or poem. I was ordered to write a story. I
undertook a love-tale of the crusades of the tenth century, in weekly
instalments, with the title of 'The Man-at-Arms.'"

"Can you recall the plot of the tale?"

"The leading character was a Spanish grandee, a Duke of high Castilian
line, who dwelt among the mountains of Spain. He had numerous valiant
retainers, and one only child--a proud and beautiful daughter named
Inez. In the service of the Duke was a handsome page of eighteen, brave,
courtly, endowed with manly graces and a talent for music. This he used
so skilfully that the love-songs he sang to his light guitar took
captive the heart of the fair Inez. Their love was discovered, and the
handsome page banished from the castle. But they managed to meet, and my
hero carried off his prize. Together they mounted his snow-white steed,
and dashed away to the hermitage of an old monk, who lived alone on a
wild and dreary mountain-side. The Duke pursued the fugitives with armed
retinue, and brought his disobedient daughter back to her ancestral
halls. The page escaped, went to Venice, and enlisted in the army about
to march to Palestine. He wore his armor by night and day, never opening
his visor except to eat, so that his nearest comrades rarely saw his
face. He performed prodigies of valor, was ever in the forefront of
battle, a mysterious but conspicuous figure. He became famous, and was
made a knight. By the time he returned to Spain all the countries of the
Mediterranean had heard of his prowess, and were proud to do him honor.
He was tendered a grand banquet at the Duke's castle; but the old enemy
did not recognize in the Knight of the Closed Helmet his former page.
The lovely Inez, of course, knew him at once, and he found her of true
heart and constant mind. The father was delighted to see the impression
his child made upon the gallant knight, and with his free consent they
were soon betrothed and married. After the wedding the page disclosed
his real name--I regret to have forgotten it--and all was forgiven, the
old Duke only too willing to call the brave warrior of Holy Cross his

"Did you complete the story?"

"Oh yes! Every week my instalment was ready, my audience rapt and
sympathetic, and the generous applause most encouraging."

"Was the MSS. lengthy?"

"Two hundred and thirty pages of foolscap, closely written."

"How much I should like to see it! Do you know what became of it?"

"I am sorry to say it was lost. I left it in my father's library when I
went to the Mexican war in 1847; when I returned, the unfortunate
'Man-at-Arms' was not to be found. I never knew how he came to his end."

"Of course, as a member of the society, you obeyed the order of your
president; but aside from that fact, what were your inducements to
writing the story?"

"Merely boyish pleasure in composition--the natural stirring to write,
as the singer is moved to sing. That was my first attempt at prose.
Before that--when about fifteen, I think--I wrote a poem on the rescue
of Captain John Smith by Pocahontas, perhaps two hundred lines, in the
measure of the 'Lady of the Lake.' That reminds me of another early
experience; our amusements were very few in those days--a circus once a
year, and sometimes during the session of the Legislature a strolling
theatrical company came by. We boys caught the fever, and got up an
organization of our own, the 'Thespian Troupe,' which played
_Pocahontas_ with tremendous applause."

"You mean, I presume, the drama by Robert Dale Owen?"

"The same. My brother, William Wallace, was the Indian heroine. I took
the part of her sister Nomona. McReady (a school-mate, not the famous
actor) was Powhatan. I have forgotten who played Captain Smith, but the
affair was a great success. Cox, the local artist, painted the scenery,
the town band (then a volunteer service) played before the door to draw
the crowd, and the receipts paid all expenses."

"Then you actually performed before a paying audience?"

"Indeed we did. It was in a brick house just where the old State-house
used to stand. We provided seats, and had special accommodations for the
ladies. Those were the days of sound and fury and the ranting style now
happily entirely banished from the stage. But we enjoyed it hugely. My
memories of the Thespian are among the most delightful recollections of
earlier days."

"Do you think that the dramatic instinct and florid imagination
necessary to such high-flown youthful work had any influence in
developing your later literary genius?"

"I do not claim to have any genius. It may be that infinite patience and
an unlimited capacity for hard work have taken the place of genius, and
been of service to me. When I began to study a subject or an object, I
could never bring myself to stop until I had mastered all there was to
be known about it."

"You believe, then, that small details are of large importance in
literary work?"

"More so than in almost any other calling. I have never allowed myself
to take the opinions of others when it was possible to verify facts by
my own eyes and ears. While writing _Ben-Hur_ I once took the long
journey from my Indiana home to New York city, and haunted one of the
great libraries there persistently for days, merely to establish beyond
a doubt a very small matter concerning the interior of a Roman galley.
Yet, after all, it was not a small matter; trifles make perfection, and
a little inaccuracy will result in imperfect work."

"Do you advise young authors to quote largely, or depend upon others for

"By no means. Every man and woman is self-made. Every writer should be
especially so. Let him look into his own heart, and write from it, if he
would reach the hearts of his readers. He may gather information and
incidents from books and from every-day life, but when he writes, let it
be in his own words. Above all, let him write honestly, delineating
people and things as they really are, not as a vivid or romantic
imagination might make them."

Our social talk ended here. May I not be allowed to add that constant
study of the best writers of old English has given a certain stateliness
of expression and dignity of speech to the composition of General
Wallace, which will not fail to be noted by the careful reader. The
volumes he read were the very choicest, and the stalwart heroes of that
olden time were the boy's daily companions instead of men and women.



Regularity in bodily training is the "golden rule" of all physicians and
gymnasium teachers. "A little exercise every day, taken at a certain
time," is worth more than all the spasmodic exertion in the world. It
accomplishes more in play and work. Nor need such exercise become
monotonous. The work of to-day may call into use one set of muscles, and
that of to-morrow another. It is well not to develop our arms and
neglect our legs, or vice versa. The pleasure accompanying them makes
outdoor sports more beneficial to the health; but indoor training,
according to fixed rules, has a great value in teaching you how to use
your limbs and joints easily and well. The practice it gives helps you
to learn anything quieter than you would without it.

Any girl knows how easy it is to "fall out of the way" of doing things,
whether the "thing" is a kind of fancy-work or a school task. So it is
easy to "fall out of the way" of making use of your bodily powers. Your
arms and legs and back and body were all given you to use, just as well
as your lungs and other organs. And it is clearly your fault if you do
not get the best service out of them by keeping them in practice. You
must teach them to be supple, agile, and quick to respond to any calls
you may make upon them to contribute to your good or amusement. Suppose
you suddenly decide to play tennis, and have never learned to run! What
will happen to you is that you will be an awkward and unlucky player
until you learn to use your legs. Therefore the regular daily exercise
is good all round--for health and for pleasure.

Our first impulse on waking in the morning is to yawn, to push out the
arms, to throw out the legs, to stretch and twist and roll about the
body, and so gradually work off the cramped feeling induced during
sleep. These natural gymnastics, in which even babies indulge when they
first waken out of a sound slumber, indicate pretty clearly what is the
best time to take a regular daily dose of gymnastic work.

During the night the respiration has been slower, the heart-beats less
frequent, and the muscles have become contracted from remaining too long
in certain positions. We know, without being told, that our bodies need
shaking, stretching--some exercise, in fact, to get us into shape for
the day's work. The blood must circulate quicker, and mind and body
partake of the bright, brisk feeling which helps us to do everything
easily. For those who spare the time, fifteen minutes, or even ten, on
first rising is the best time to select for gymnastics.

But many persons, young as well as old, must rise quickly and dress
hastily, and have no minutes to spare for such morning exercise. They
must choose some other time. Just before the daily bath is another
opportune moment. The exercise taken induces perspiration, and this
waste matter is removed by the bath following, leaving the skin in a
clear, healthy, and normal condition. We feel wonderfully refreshed and
full of vitality after the process.

At night, before retiring, certain exercises of the muscles can be used
with good effect. If we are tired or have overused one set of muscles,
we do not exercise those already used too much, but others in opposite
directions. For instance, if we have stretched our arms up until
over-tired, it is rest and relief to stretch them down--again and again,
and again, so making the strain upon the muscles equal.

Or if we have used our arms too much, we rest ourselves by giving our
legs a good amount of exercise--just as a long walk rests you after
rowing, or as a good game of ball rests you after hard study. In the
first case it is exercise in an opposite direction which gives the
needed relaxation. In the second the same result comes from exercising
the body after too much exercise of the mind.

This "law of opposition," as it is called, is a big subject. But the
rule holds just the same, whether you understand "the reason why" or
not. Exercise muscles or parts of the body in opposite directions or in
different ways from the motions and actions which have tired you. To do
this at night "promotes sleep and helps digestion," say the
physical-culture teachers.

And who should know better than those who have studied up on the subject
and who can give you the "reason why"?



[Illustration: W.O. HICKOK.]

[Illustration: 1.]

[Illustration: 2.]

[Illustration: 3.]

[Illustration: 4.]

[Illustration: 5.]

[Illustration: 6.]

[Illustration: 7.]

[Illustration: 8.]


Throwing the hammer and putting the shot are the only two weight events
now practised by college and school athletes, although many of the
athletic clubs still retain the putting of the 56-lb. weight on their
cards. The last-named, however, is merely a sort of exaggeration of the
second, and only practicable for very large and very strong men. The
welfare of amateur sport will never suffer if the art of throwing the
weight should be entirely lost, for there is nothing particularly
interesting in the practice, and success in it is more largely due to
beef than to skill. With the other two events it is different. Strength,
of course, is a prime requisite, but to attain perfection in either of
them the performer must combine skill with muscular power.

The inter-collegiate rules which govern the throwing of the hammer
require that the hammer-head shall be a metal sphere; and the handle may
be of any material. Up to within three or four years the handle used to
be made of hard wood, but recently athletes have shown a preference for
a flexible steel handle. The combined length of the head and handle must
not exceed four feet, and the combined weight must be sixteen pounds.
The hammer is thrown from a circle seven feet in diameter. In making an
attempt a competitor may assume any position he pleases, but he must not
step outside of this circle. In a contest each competitor is allowed
three throws, and the best three men in the first trial are allowed
three more throws. The measurement of a throw is made from the nearest
edge of the first mark made by the head of the hammer to the point of
the circumference of the circle nearest this mark. There are three kinds
of fouls in hammer-throwing, which are not measured, but which count
against the competitor as throws. They are: letting go of the hammer in
an attempt; touching the ground outside the circle with any portion of
the body while the hammer is in hand; or touching the ground forward of
the front half of the circle with any portion of the body before the
throw is measured.

The pictures on the opposite page are reproductions of instantaneous
photographs, taken especially for Harper's Round Table, of Mr. W. O.
Hickok, the Yale and Inter-collegiate champion. Mr. Hickok learned to
throw the hammer when he was at St. Paul's School, Concord, and held the
championship there while he was in school. He used to practise twice a
day, half an hour each time, until he became a thorough master of the
instrument. His experience taught him that it was necessary to assume
the easiest possible position when at work with the hammer, so as to
give the muscles the fullest play. When the hammer is thrown around the
head it should be kept as far as possible from the body; the arms should
not be bent nor the muscles tightened, and the shoulders should be
allowed to move as easily as possible. Perhaps it will be easier to
explain the method by following the illustrations in their numerical

First, the athlete steps into the ring holding the hammer, the head
resting on the ground outside the circle. He secures a firm grasp on the
handle, leaning over so as to keep the head as far away from his body as
possible. The second picture shows the hammer just as it is being lifted
from the ground to be whirled around the head. It is plain to see that
the arms are holding the instrument as far from the body as possible. As
the heavy ball gains in velocity, it stretches out so that the arms and
the handle form a straight horizontal line from the shoulders. The
fourth and fifth pictures demonstrate the attitude of the performer at
various stages of the first two whirls of the hammer. The motion at the
start is slow, and becomes gradually faster and faster, so that the top
speed shall be reached just about as the athlete is ready to turn.

It is the usual custom to throw the hammer three times around the head
before turning. The sixth picture shows this turn. When this act is
performed the hammer should be kept well behind, and the thrower should
try to move his feet around as fast as he can, and never under any
consideration should he allow the hammer to get ahead of the motion of
his body; he must keep it following on behind, or else the hammer will
throw him, instead of his throwing the hammer. The reason given for
jumping around on the last turn is that a man, when proficient in this
trick, can gain about twenty-five feet on his throw. It is the Irish
method of throwing a hammer, and has been in use over there for several
hundred years. The Scottish way of throwing, still in use in Scotland,
is to stand still. This used to be the method in vogue in this country,
but within the last ten years the A. A. U. adopted the Irish method, and
two years ago the Inter-collegiate Association followed suit. A man who
has become accustomed to throw from a standstill has some trouble in
getting accustomed to the turn, but as soon as he has caught the knack
of the twist he will greatly prefer it over the old method.

The seventh picture shows the moment just previous to the final heave
when the hammer is to be let go. This should not be done with a jerk,
but the stick should be allowed to slip from the hands at the proper
moment, otherwise any jerking will destroy the momentum obtained. The
last picture shows the attitude of the thrower after the hammer has left
his hands, the weight of his body being thrown backward so as to prevent
him from stepping out of the circle.

The hammer is thrown from a restricted circle in the United States in
order to make the event more scientific. A strong man with very poor
form might make an excellent throw some time if he were allowed to
follow it and go where he liked in his efforts. The circle prevents this
go-as-you-please method, and makes it necessary for athletes to acquire
form; it also gives a definite place to measure from, so that there can
be no dispute as to the exact distance for the measurer to lay off. In
England amateur athletes use a thirty-foot circle; this gives them a
great advantage, for the more turns you can take before throwing, the
greater momentum you can get into your throw. The Englishmen use a
3-foot-6-inch handle, which is a disadvantage to them, since the
centrifugal force is lessened as the square of the distance from the
centre. If athletes used a longer handle than the one accepted in
America, which is 4 feet long, they could not throw the hammer so well
as they do now, unless the performer were of unusual stature, because
the head of the hammer would touch the ground in the first few turns and
at the final lift.

Mr. Hickok throws better in games than he does in practice, although he
practises hard and continuously when training for an important match.
His record for throwing the hammer is 135 feet 7-1/2 inches. At an early
date we shall devote some space to comment and illustration on putting
the shot.

The Constitution of the National Interscholastic Athletic Association as
printed in these columns last week is incomplete in many minor details,
as I stated at the time, for the copy sent to the ROUND TABLE
immediately after the convention of December 28th was merely a rough
draft. The Executive Committee are now copying and revising this first
draft, and as soon as their work has been finished we shall try to offer
it in its completed form to the readers of this Department.

It is very probable that a great many flaws will be found in the
constitution, even when it has been completed and revised by the
committee. It should be kept in mind, however, that when the delegates
gathered last month at the first convention, they had no material to
work on; yet they succeeded in establishing themselves. Now, we have an
organization and a constitution. We have something to go by, and a goal
in view. Wherever experience shows that the makers of the constitution
have been at fault, let us make a little mark, and at the next meeting
let us suggest remedies. A year from now the association ought to be on
such a firm basis that nothing can interfere with the success of its
aim. It is very gratifying to feel that so very much indeed has been

While speaking of suggestions, it may not be out of place for this
Department to make one at once. At first thought, it seems as if the
date for the field meeting--the last Saturday in June--has been placed a
little too late in the season for the general convenience. This may not
be so; the makers of the constitution may have discussed this question
thoroughly, and may have concluded that the last Saturday in June is
best suited for the occasion. The schools of this city close late in May
or early in June. That is one objection for New York and Long Island. A
second and more important objection is that the college examinations are
usually held the last week in June, and unless I am greatly mistaken,
the final ones come on that very Saturday. This is at least a matter for
the executive committee to investigate. It is fortunately, too, a matter
that can be very easily remedied.

It is deeply to be regretted, just as we are congratulating ourselves
over the formation of a National I. S. A. A., that we must also announce
the failure of the plans made for an Eastern trip by the Oakland
High-School, of California. One of the officers of the California
Association writes to me as follows concerning it:

     "We have had a lot of trouble with the faculty in regard to that
     trip, and as they are opposed to it for several reasons, we have
     reluctantly desisted from raising money, and, I am sorry to say, we
     will not come East next summer. We should have had in the bank
     about a thousand dollars by Christmas if we had been allowed to
     proceed with our plans. As it is, we have several hundred dollars,
     which we will doubtless find some use for."

And so end, for this year at least, the hopes and ambitions of our
California fellow-sportsmen. We all regret that this must be so, and
knowing how great the interest of Eastern scholastic athletes has been
in this proposed visit, I feel warranted in devoting space to the letter
from the O.-H.-S. faculty to the Oakland Board of Education which put an
end to the trip. It fully explains the situation:

     "In view of the fact that quite recently a new phase of athletics
     in the High-School has made its appearance, and as the results are
     already proving detrimental to the interests of our pupils, we
     consider it to be our duty to express to you our views upon this

     "We deem it to be not only unwise but positively injurious to the
     proper prosecution of the studies of our pupils that they should
     give repeated entertainments for the purpose of raising a fund to
     defray the expenses of some of their number to visit Eastern cities
     to engage in competing athletic games. As we are informed, at least
     two entertainments have been given already, and others are in
     contemplation. All this requires considerable time and thought, and
     if an argument were necessary to convince you that this means a
     serious interference with the school duties of all who engage in
     these entertainments, either in taking an active part in their
     public performances or in selling tickets for them, we have in
     evidence the statement of some of our number that already several
     of the pupils thus actively engaged have materially deteriorated
     within the last three weeks.

     "We fully realize that the relation we sustain toward the citizens
     of Oakland who so generously support the High-School, and toward
     the pupils we are required to instruct, demands that we zealously
     guard the interests of those placed under our care. Deeply
     impressed with this fact, we cannot see anything, however important
     it may be in itself, precede that for which the High-School is
     organized and supported.

     "The High-School is part of the educational department of our city,
     and is under the supervision of the Board of Education. We believe
     it should be fully recognized that neither the name of the
     High-School nor any of its interests should be used for any purpose
     whatever without the sanction of the supervising board.

     "We furthermore wish to express our entire disapproval of having
     any one visit the East, for the purpose contemplated, in the name
     of the Oakland High-School.

     "We do not wish it to be understood that we are in any degree
     opposed to athletic sports when kept within reasonable bounds; on
     the contrary, we encourage them, and are pleased to see our pupils
     interested in them. We believe, however, that their place in our
     school should be secondary. When they aspire to a first place and
     seriously interfere with the proper work of the school, we consider
     it to be our duty to enter an earnest protest."

Our nearer neighbors in Iowa, however, have as yet met with no obstacle
to their joining the N. I. S. A. A., and the president of the
association writes to me from Clinton that "the people of Clinton are
awake more than ever since the article in HARPER'S ROUND TABLE of
December 24th. It came just at the right time. Our first entertainment
will come off about the last of the month, and we expect to clear $400.
The State Delegates' meeting is to be held at Muscatine, Iowa, Friday,
January 3d, and at that meeting our interests in the National
Association will be talked of. I was greatly disappointed in not being
able to have a delegate at the National Interscholastic meeting, but the
notices came too late to hear from all the schools of the Association.
You may depend upon it, however, that if everything goes on as smoothly
as it does now, Iowa will have a team at the National Meet." It cannot
be urged too strongly upon the officers and the Executive Committee of
the National Association to enter into communication at once with all
the associations that they can reach.

The standing of the Junior League of the New England Interscholastic
Football Association, as given in these columns on December 31st, shows
the relative positions of the teams before Dedham High played off the
tie with Hyde Park High. To make the record complete, the final standing
of the teams is here added:

                       Games    Games              Points     Points
                        won.    lost.     Tied.     won.       lost.

  Somerville High.       5        0         1       106         10
  Newton      "          4        1         1        69         32
  Chelsea     "          3        2         0        66         74
  Dedham      "          3        2         0        24         42
  Roxbury Latin          3        3         0        82         41
  Hyde Park High.        1        5         0        22         92
  Roxbury High.          0        6         0         6         70

The formation of an Interscholastic Polo Association in Connecticut puts
an additional event on the list of competitive sports for the winter,
and for that reason it should be welcomed. It is a healthy exercise
out-of-doors, and is the best kind of sport to develop good skaters. The
schools that have thus far joined the League are the Hill-house High,
Bridgeport High, New Britain High, Hartford High, and Meriden High
schools, and it is probable that the New London schools will come in

The game of ice polo is a simple one, and ought to find favor wherever
there is a frozen pond or river. The rules of the sport may be found in
almost any book of sporting regulations, but, briefly, the principle of
the game is as follows: There are two teams, of five men each, playing
against each other. The players are called first and second rushes,
centre, half-back, and goal. There is usually no limit placed upon the
size of the field (ice-field, of course), although commonly it is marked
off from fifty to seventy-five feet in length, and about half as wide as
it is long.

The officials consist of an umpire and a referee, or frequently of an
umpire only. The referee has duties similar to the official of the same
name in football--that is, looks after the ball, calls goals, brings the
ball in when it is driven out of bounds, etc. The umpire looks after the
men, calls fouls, etc. The ball is placed in the centre of the field,
and at a signal the first rush of each team skates toward it, the second
rush following immediately. As soon as one of the first rushes touches
the ball it is in play, and every other man has the privilege of
knocking it.

The object of each side is to get the ball into the opponents' goal.
Each goal counts one for the side making it. As a general thing the
aggressive work is done by the first and second rushes, and the
defensive by the half-back and goal. The regulation ball is three inches
in diameter; the polo sticks are about 3 feet 6 inches in length, or
according to the taste of the players. Fouls consist of tripping,
hitting, and pushing an opponent, kicking the ball with the foot by any
player except goal-tender. The penalty for fouling is a goal added to
the opponents' score. Space prevents giving a more detailed description
of the game, but I shall cheerfully answer any questions that the
readers of this Department may wish to ask.

In the All-New-York Football Team, published last week, I committed the
error of mentioning Mr. Carey as a member of the Columbia Grammar School
eleven. Mr. Carey played with the Hamilton Institute team.


       *       *       *       *       *


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[Illustration: Royal Baking Powder]


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The figures represent the different athletes in correct positions, with
the proper implements and clothing, and contain as well a short
educational story as to how the different sports are played, making in
all the most complete series of athletic figures ever issued in the
world, and a collection that every one should have. Suitable for the
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Good Music

Franklin Square Song Collection.

GOOD MUSIC arouses a spirit of good-will, creates a harmonious
atmosphere, and where harmony and good-will prevail, the disobedient,
turbulent, unruly spirit finds no resting-place. Herbert Spencer puts
his final test of any plan of culture in the form of a question, "Does
it create a pleasurable excitement in the pupils?" Judged by this
criterion, Music deserves the first rank, for no work done in the school
room is so surely creative of pleasure as singing. Do we not all agree,
then, that Vocal Music has power to benefit every side of the child
nature? And in these days, when we seek to make our schools the arenas
where children may grow into symmetrical, substantial, noble characters,
can we afford to neglect so powerful an aid as Music? Let us as rather
encourage it in every way possible.

_Nowhere can you find for Home or School a better Selection of Songs and
Hymns than in the Franklin Square Song Collection._

Sold Everywhere. Price, 50 cents; Cloth, $1.00. Full contents of the
Several Numbers, with Specimen, Pages of favorite Songs and Hymns, sent
by Harper & Brothers, New York, to any address.


[Illustration: COLONEL THOMAS W. KNOX.]

There are people with whom we never associate the thought of death, and
whose bright, genial lives seem meant to go on and on to extreme old
age. When they are taken away we hear the tidings with surprise and
regret, and looking over the work they have done we realize how much we
are in their debt for hours of pleasure and profit. Such a man was
Colonel Knox, whose _Boy Travellers_ are in every village library, and
whose name is a household word wherever bright young people meet. He was
well known to the readers of the ROUND TABLE, to which he has often
contributed. A cheery comrade, a genial friend, he possessed the rare
art of telling a story and imparting information at the same time, so
that his books of travel are not only entertaining, but of permanent
value. He wrote a great many books, but among them there is not one
which has not a claim on the attentive reader; and now that he is gone,
we are glad that he will still live, and teach, and amuse, and charm a
great audience in his pleasant volumes.

Colonel Knox was born in New Hampshire in 1835. His was a typical
American life. Born of plain people, he learned the trade of a
shoemaker, having previously gone to the district school and worked on a
farm, as many a bright lad is doing to-day. Shoe-making was not to be
his occupation, however, and when twenty-three years old he undertook
the more congenial task of teaching, and presently was at the head of a
school. Later his love of adventure took him to the gold-fields of the
West. But for the breaking out of the civil war it is probable that
young Knox might have gone on either as an explorer or a preceptor, but
fate decreed otherwise. When the war rallied the young men of the
country on one or the other side, the most promising in every avocation
enlisted, and as a matter of course such a man as Knox entered the Union
army. Here he served in two campaigns, was rapidly promoted, and finally
received the rank of Lieutenant-Colonel on the staff of the Governor of
California. That he could write as well as fight was shown by the fact
that he became a war correspondent, sending stirring letters from the
front to the New York papers.

All this proves the pluck and versatility of the man. He was generally
successful in his undertakings, bringing to bear on them the force of a
clever and quick mind which could grasp a situation and did not neglect

There must have been a roving drop in the blood of the New Hampshire
boy, for after the war he could not contentedly settle down and enjoy
life at home, but started off on a journey with a scientific object.
Organizing an expedition to establish a telegraph line through southern
Asia, he entered on the life of a traveller, with all the hardships and
the pleasures which combine to make such a life interesting and full of
excitement. On sledges in Siberia, in palanquins in India, up and down
rivers in China, wherever his fancy or business led him. Colonel Knox
travelled, and wrote books about his experiences. The Emperor of Siam
was so pleased with the story of _Boy Travellers_ in his country that he
conferred on the author the "Order of the White Elephant," a great
distinction, which Colonel Knox was the first American to receive.

Colonel Knox was very practical, not specially imaginative, a
clear-sighted, straight-forward man, noted for common-sense and energy.
As the boys whom he has so often entertained turn the pages of their
favorite volumes, they cannot do better than remember that the man who
wrote them was in every throb of the pulse an American, simple-hearted,
patriotic, and sincere. He loved his country, he studied other
countries, and he spent his life in doing honestly and manfully whatever
his hand found to do. A good example for us all.

Some Interesting Questions.

     Last year I bought three of the dancing or jumping beans, which
     were then a great novelty. With them came a circular describing
     them and their habits, which, unfortunately, I have thrown away.
     However, it was to the effect that the beans were hollow shells
     which were found on some tree or shrub in Mexico. Each shell
     contained a small white worm, which would live, the circular said,
     about six months.

     If one of the beans was placed on the palm of the hand, or on a
     slightly warmed surface, it would begin to move around in little
     jerks or jumps which were caused by the worm inside. One theory was
     that if the shell remains stationary in its native home something
     will destroy it. The worm has no desire to leave the shell. If a
     hole is bored in it he will straightway patch it up, and if removed
     from the shell entirely he will try to cover himself up, but cannot
     make a new shell.

     My part of the story is different. Last spring, the beans being
     still alive, I put them in a small box and packed them away for the
     summer. When I unpacked them, what do you suppose I found? Three
     shells, each with a hole in it, the dried skin of the worm, and
     also a perfect specimen of a strange moth. I cut one of the shells
     in half, and there were a number of eggs as yet unhatched. Will the
     Editor please have these specimens conveyed to Mr. W. Hamilton
     Gibson, who writes such interesting articles for young folks about
     natural history, so that he may write on this subject if he thinks
     it of sufficient interest.

     Why did the moth or worm bore the hole and lay the eggs? Did the
     moth die of hunger or suffocation; if so, why did not the worm die
     in the shell? How could it be a cocoon if the worm did not make it?
     Why did it lay _all_ the eggs in one shell? All are questions
     which, when answered, will surely be interesting.


       *       *       *       *       *

Writing One's Name.

Not a few persons fail to stick to one signature. Especially is this
true of young persons. They sign their name in all sorts of ways--a
practice that is most confusing to those of their correspondents who do
not, through personal acquaintance, happen to know that "John A. Smith,"
"J. A. Smith," "J. Albert Smith," and "John Smith" are one and the same

Young persons coming into the world of affairs should select a form for
their name and always use the same. It is a matter of fancy, probably,
but we prefer the first name spelled out, since it tells something about
the writer. A correspondent replying to a letter signed by initials only
is often uncertain whether to begin his letter "Dear Sir," or "Dear
Miss," or "Dear Madam."

       *       *       *       *       *

Competition in Raisin Growing.

     California is a great raisin country. Immense quantities of raisins
     from this valley are exported annually to all parts. The muscat is
     the raisin grape generally grown, but there are several other
     varieties. The Sultana and the Thompson seedless are small grapes
     without seeds. During grape-picking-time the country presents a
     lively aspect. Men, women, and children find employment during the
     grape season, and a quick worker may earn good wages. One may often
     see whole families having come from a distance to pick grapes on
     some large vineyard, camping out in light tents either in the field
     or beside the country road-side.

     The grapes are picked in rows and placed upon trays. The bunches
     are detached from the vines by a sharp knife, and any injured or
     decayed grape is removed. A grape-picker is paid, generally, two
     and a half cents a tray. A good picker sometimes fills seventy-five
     trays in a day. But they will assure you it is no light work to
     pick grapes in the hot sun, the thermometer over one hundred in the
     shade. When the grapes are partially dried they are skilfully
     turned over into an empty tray so that the under side will be
     exposed to the sun.

     As soon as the grapes are properly cured the trays are stacked, and
     the raisins are put into sweat boxes ready to be taken to the
     packing-house, where they are weighed. The loose raisins are set
     apart from the choice clusters, and are placed in a stemmer, which
     is worked by machinery, and which throws out the stems and any
     refuse matter. The clusters and layer raisins are pressed in forms
     and placed in the boxes, layer by layer. Paper is spread between
     each layer. Ribbons and beautiful chromos serve to give the final
     finish, and the dainty boxes of fruit are sent away by the car-load
     all over the United States.

     At one time raisins were a source of great profit, but now
     vineyards have become more extensive, and as there is a greater
     supply of raisins prices have been much lower.


[Illustration: THE CAMERA CLUB]

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

Sir Knight Willis H. Kerr sends the following formula for fogged plates,
which he thinks the Camera Club will appreciate: Bromine water, 50 cc.;
tincture of iodine, 20 cc.; distilled water, 1 litre. After immersing
the plates in this solution for two or three minutes they should be
washed and dried. If the plate has been only partially exposed to light,
it should be exposed to lamp-light in order to make the fog impression
uniform. The plates must be immersed in the solution by red light and
tried in a dark room.

Sir Knight H. J. Maccoy asks how to print pictures from a negative where
the glass is broken, but the film is not. If there is one clear break
across the glass place the negative in the printing-frame, pushing the
broken edges closely together, holding them firmly while adjusting the
sensitive paper. Place the negative at such an angle with the light that
the crack will not make a shadow on the paper, and print in the shade.
If there are several cracks in the glass put the negative in the
printing-frame, supporting it with a piece of plain glass; tie cords to
the printing-frame so that it may be suspended by them, hang the frame
from some projection where it will not hit anything, and keep it
revolving during the printing. By keeping the plate moving all the time
the cracks in the glass do not cast a shadow long enough in one place to
leave any impression on the sensitive paper.

A correspondent sends us an envelope which he uses for storing purposes.
The envelope is not as convenient as the commercial envelope made
specially for negatives, for it has a flap and opens at the side,
whereas the manila envelope opens at the end, has no flap, and there is
a small crescent cut in the edge, which makes it convenient to remove
the plate from the envelope. The open end of the envelope should be
placed at the back of the pigeon-hole, both for preservation of the
negative and to keep it free from dust.

[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.

I am sorry, dear Mildred and Nancy, that you and I have so very
different an opinion on the subject of punctuality. You say, scornfully,
"What does it matter about five minutes, or three minutes, and our
teacher makes just as much fuss when we are two or three minutes tardy
as if we were an hour late?"

Suppose you were going to Montreal to visit Aunt Katharine and your
cousins, and you were to meet Uncle Leo and Cousin Margaret at quarter
to eight o'clock. Don't you think Uncle Leo would be annoyed if you
should fail to keep the appointment to the very minute, and what about
the rail-way train in the case? For a traveller going anywhere on a boat
or in the cars must be punctual to an instant, or he will be left. We
find that very unpunctual people can accommodate themselves to the ways
of trains in this particular.

We have no right to waste our own time, girls, and certainly we have no
right to waste that of other people. To do so is most thoughtless and
unkind. If you are in a class, your unpunctuality may inconvenience and
disturb all the others, and very much annoy your teacher. If you are on
a committee, and come late to the place of meeting, you throw every one
else out of her orbit. People have many engagements in a single day.
They can keep none of them to advantage if they are hindered by the
careless person who does not keep hers conscientiously.

This whole matter of keeping engagements is one in which you must
establish good habits. Never promise to go anywhere, or do anything, to
make a visit, or take a table at a fair, or help a friend who needs
assistance, and then break your word. A girl's word is a sacred thing.
If it is only to sit for an hour with an older friend, or to take
luncheon and a walk with Jenny on Saturday, or to write a letter for the
cook, who cannot write her letter for herself, keep your word and be on
time. Nothing else is worthy such a girl as the one I have in my mind
while I write, so clever and sensible, and, in the main, so satisfactory
that I cannot bear her to have even one little flaw. I don't want to
think of her as one of those people who come hustling into church and
Sunday-school ten minutes late, and who disturb everybody else in places
of amusement by the same habit. And I cannot imagine one of my girls as,
by-and-by, going anywhere late to dinner, a most grievous social fault.

[Illustration: Signature]





Pad Calendar

For 1896



A Desk Calendar is a necessity--most convenient kind of storehouse for
memoranda. The Columbia Desk Calendar is brightest and handsomest of
all--full of dainty pen sketches and entertaining thoughts on outdoor
exercise and sport. Occasionally reminds you of the superb quality of
Columbia Bicycles and of your need of one. You won't object to that, of
course. The Calendar will be mailed for five 2-cent stamps.

Address Calendar Department,




  There are monarchs, there are monarchs,
    Men of every clime and hue.
  From the Czar of all the Russias
    To the Prince of Timbuctoo;
  Monarchs good and monarchs famous,
    Monarchs short and monarchs tall;
  But the _best_ is _our_ Monarch--
    It's the Monarch of them all.


King of Bicycles--A Marvel of

Strength, Speed and Reliability.

4 models. $80 and $100, fully guaranteed. For children and adults who
want a lower price wheel the _Defiance_ is made in 8 models, $40 to $75.

Send for Monarch book.




Lake, Halsted and

Fulton Sts., CHICAGO.

83 Reade Street,

New York.



Nos. 303, 404, 170, 604 E.F., 601 E.F.

And other styles to suit all hands.


Postage Stamps, &c.


Commission on _Approval Sheets_, 1000 Mixed Stamps, 15c.

P. G. BEALS, Brookline, Mass.


=STAMPS!= 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.


12 South America, 9c.; 15 Mexico and Central America, 10c.; 18 West
Indian, 10c.; 15 Australia, 12c.; 16 Asia, 10c. Large monthly price-list
free. Approval Sheet agents wanted; 50% com. and prizes given. C. W.
GREVNING, Morristown, N.J.


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


STAMPS FOR $1.00, all different, some quite rare.

KEUTGEN BROTHERS, 322 Broadway, N. Y.


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

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

STAMPS. Approval sheets. Agents wanted; 50% com.

G. D. Holt & Co., 155 Pulaski St., Brooklyn, N. Y.


FOREIGN STAMPS. Liberia, Obock, Macao, etc., 6 cts. H. L. Ashfield, 707
Prospect Ave., N. Y.

=BOOKS OF STAMPS= at 33-1/3 per cent. commission. References required.
MODEL STAMP CO., W. Superior, Wis.


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



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


[Illustration: BICYCLING]

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

On leaving York, to continue the journey to Washington by the route
which we are going, the rider turns south and westward on what is known
as the York and Gettysburg Turnpike. The road is direct to Thomasville,
about six miles away, with the exception of three forks. These should be
carefully watched, and the rider should in his inquiries always ask for
the York and Gettysburg Turnpike. The first fork is something less than
a mile out from York, a few minutes after crossing the railroad track.
Here the rider should keep to the left. He again takes the left fork a
short two miles further on, and about a mile or more before reaching
Thomasville, at the junction of three roads, he keeps to the right on
the turnpike. From Thomasville to Hockstown, a distance of about three
miles, the turnpike is unmistakable. By referring to the map at
Hockstown, the reader will see that the main route turns sharp to the
right, running over to East Berlin, a distance of three or three and a
half miles. It is possible to follow the turnpike to Gettysburg as
indicated on the map by the fair bicycle road, but the route to East
Berlin is much better. From East Berlin run on to Abbottstown. At this
point the rider must make up his mind whether he will make a detour of
some miles and take in the field of Gettysburg. If there is time enough,
you are earnestly urged to make the extra run, since there is much at
Gettysburg which is interesting to the student of American history.
Leaving Abbottstown, run out to New Oxford on the York and Gettysburg
Turnpike. The road is unmistakable, and from this point to Gettysburg,
through Granite Hill, the turnpike is most of the time near the
railroad, so that it is easy to follow it. Gettysburg will be a good
place for dinner; it is more than half-way to Westminster, and an hour
or two can be very profitably spent in the vicinity of the town in
seeing what there is to be seen. From Gettysburg follow the route to
Germantown, and thence to Littlestown. At Littlestown the rider again
joins the main bicycle route from York to Westminster, and proceeds
thence into Westminster.

[Illustration: STAMPS]

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

In the ROUND TABLE, December 17, 1895, I gave a list of prices _asked by
dealers_ for all United States coins of the following denominations:
Half-cent, large cent, small cent, two cents, three cents (nickel), five
cents (nickel), three cents (silver), five cents (silver), dimes, and
twenty-cent pieces. The list is completed in this Number, and I hope
readers of the ROUND TABLE will keep the list, as it will save many
questions. The prices quoted are asked for fair copies of the older
dates, and nearly perfect copies of the later dates. The later coins can
usually be found in general circulation at face.

QUARTER-DOLLARS.--1796, $2.50; 1804, $2.50; 1805, 1806, 1807, 50c. each;
1815, $1; 1818 to 1822, 75c. each; 1823, $75; 1824, $2; 1825, $1.50;
1827, $50; 1828, 75c.; 1831 to 1851, 50c. each; 1852, 75c.; 1853
(without rays), $10; 1853 (rays on rev.), 35c.; 1854 to 1862, 50c. each;
1863, 1864, 1865, $1 each; 1866, $10; 1866 (in God We Trust), $1; 1867,
$1; 1868, $1; 1869, 75c.; 1870 to 1893 (Liberty), 50c. each; 1893
(Isabella), $2; 1894, 50c.; 1895, 50c.

HALF-DOLLARS.--1794, $4; 1795, $1.25; 1795 (three leaves), $4; 1796,
$75; 1797, $75; 1801, $3; 1802, $4; 1803, $1; 1805, $1; 1805 (over
1804), $2; 1806 to 1814, 75c. each; 1815, $4; 1817 to 1836, 75c. each;
1836 (milled edge), $4; new style, $2; 1837 to 1850, 75c. each; 1851,
$1; 1852, $2.50; 1853 to 1861, 75c. each; 1861 (Confed. rev. restrike),
$5; 1862 to 1865, $1 each; 1866, $1.50; 1866 (in God We Trust), $1.25;
1867, $1.25; 1868, 1869, $1 each; 1870, 1871, 1872, 75c. each; 1873 (no
darts), $1.50; 1873 (with darts), 75c.; 1874 to 1878, 75c. each; 1879 to
1891, $1 each; 1892 to 1895, 75c. each. Columbian.--1892 (Columbus),
75c.; 1893, 75c.

DOLLARS.--1794, $100; 1795 (flowing hair), $3; 1795 (fillet head),
$3.50; 1796, $4; 1797, $4; 1798 (13 stars, small eagle), $5; 1798 (15
stars, small eagle), $6; 1798 (13 stars, spread eagle), $2.50; 1799
(5-star facing), $4; 1799 (6-star facing), $2; 1799 (over 1798), $3;
1800, $2; 1801, $3.50; 1802 (over 1801),$2.75; 1802, $3; 1803, $3.50;
1803 (italic 3), $4; 1804, $500; 1836, $10; 1838, $50; 1839, $60; 1840
to 1850, $2 each; 1851, $50; 1852, $75; 1853, $2.50; 1854, $5; 1855, $3;
1856, $2.50; 1857, $2.75; 1858, $50; 1859 to 1869, $2.50 each; 1870,
1871, 1872, $2; 1873, $2.50; 1878 to 1894, $1.50 each. Trade
dollars.--1873, $2; 1874 to 1883, $1.50 each.

GOLD COIN.--Dollars, $1.50 to $10; quarter-eagles, $3 to $10;
three-dollar pieces, $3.50 to $5; half-eagles, 1795 to 1828, from $8 up,
except 1815, $500, and 1824, $150; eagles, 1795 to 1804, from $12 up;
later dates at a small advance over face; double eagle, 1849, $500.

     W. SANDERS.--The 1838 cent is worth 5 cents. The 1839 cent, stamped
     over the date 1836, is worth $6.

     F. H. HARRIS.--The U. S. revenues mentioned are worth from 1 cent
     to 5 cents each if perforated; if unperforated, they are worth from
     5 cents to $1 each. The U. S. 12 cent 1861 is worth 25 cents.

     MARY FITHIAN.--For value of dollars see above.

[Illustration: Ivory Soap]

No other soap is found in so many homes.



90 Nassau St.,


will pay cash for collection or scarce stamps.


Books by Thomas W. Knox

       *       *       *       *       *


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




Hunting Adventures on Land and Sea

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


       *       *       *       *       *

There is, perhaps, no way in which young readers can become so truly
familiarized with a country, in all its resources and capabilities, as
by these books of Mr. Knox's.--_Boston Traveller._

Mr. Knox's pictures of mountains and rivers, forests and plains, of
people and their customs, modes of life and government, can be marked as
accurate. They are not fancy sketches, but actual facts gathered from
personal observation and from reliable data.--_Chicago Inter-Ocean._

Boy readers have their own favorite authors, and among them Colonel Knox
stands in a foremost place. He is a master of the art of adding to the
solid facts of geography and history the leaven of boyish imagination,
which makes the acquirement of information so agreeable to the mind in
its formation period.--_Philadelphia Inquirer._

       *       *       *       *       *

Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York



       *       *       *       *       *


"Jack the Giant-killer was a very different sort of a person from Jack
of the Bean-stalk," said Wilbur. "One raised beans, but the other raised

       *       *       *       *       *


"I'm goin' to tell my pa on you," said Johnny Smithers, as the
blacksmith pared some of the bone away from the horse's hoof.

"Why? What have I done?" asked the blacksmith.

"You 'ain't got shoes to fit Dobbin, an' you're whittlin' off his feet
to suit those you have got."

       *       *       *       *       *

  I love to read of Indian fights--
    Fights big and rough and bloody,
  When they are told in story-books--
    Not in the books I study.

       *       *       *       *       *


"I don't see what's the use of my bothering my head learning to write,"
quoth Tom. "It's a great deal more fun using a typewriter, and you don't
get your clothes all over ink."

       *       *       *       *       *


"How's the ice?" cried Jack.

"Like glass," said Willie.

"Then I'm going home," said Jack. "Glass isn't any good to skate on."

       *       *       *       *       *

PAPA. "Your teacher sent me word saying that you failed in your spelling
lesson to-day. What was the cause of this?"

JACK. "I guess, papa, I was spell-bound."

       *       *       *       *       *


  When daddy's made our bread for us, and comes back home at night,
  We often have a lot of fun at playing pillow fight;
  And sometimes when he's not too tired, and isn't feeling blue,
  He'll get down on the floor with me, and play that he's a zoo.

  He'll roar and growl and shake his head as if he were a bear,
  And do it so it really gives my nerves a little scare;
  And then I climb in mamma's lap, where I'll be safe and sound,
  And listen to his growling as he ambles all around.

  Then on a sudden he will change into a tiger bold,
  And make believe to bite my feet until my blood runs cold,
  But when he turns himself into a great long-necked giraffe,
  And nibbles at the chandelier, oh my, how I do laugh!

  And then he takes his collar off and stretches out his throat,
  And shoves a sofa pillow up his back beneath his coat,
  And cries, "Come see the camel now, come watch him prance and jump!
  And don't forget to fix your eye upon that massive hump!"

  But best of all the game is when he gets down on all-fours,
  And 'tends that he's an elephant, and walks out through the doors
  In search of peanuts, peering round on each and every side,
  For then I get aboard his back and have a jolly ride.

  I've been to lots of circuses--I go 'most every year,
  And see real zoos of every kind from lands both far and near;
  But never did I see a zoo so really out of sight
  As that that my dear daddy is, when he comes home at night.


       *       *       *       *       *



  Said the little Jap doll on the mantel,
  Addressing an art-loving bear
  Who was whittled from wood by a Swiss lad,
  "You're bearish enough, I declare!"

  "You keep your back turned ever toward me
  Nor care if I laugh or I weep!"
  The little wood bear never answered
  --'Twas winter and he was asleep.

*** End of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Harper's Round Table, January 14, 1896" ***

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