Title: Harper's Round Table, April 28, 1896
Author: Various
Language: English
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*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Harper's Round Table, April 28, 1896" ***


[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]

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

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PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, APRIL 28, 1896. FIVE CENTS A COPY.

VOL. XVII.--NO. 861. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.

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[Illustration]

THE APPRENTICESHIP OF ARTHUR.

BY FRANCIS STERNE PALMER.


One evening early in April two boys of about fifteen were talking
together at the home of one of them in New York city. They were close
friends as well as classmates in one of the largest schools for boys in
the city. In a few days this school closed for the spring vacation.

George Corey, who was a stalwart, athletic fellow, was speaking. "How
about the vacation, Arthur? Have you made any plans for spending it?"

"There are several works on chemistry that I want to read, and I think
I'll give the two weeks up to them," said the other, somewhat wearily.
He had a pale, intellectual face, and his languid movements were in
strong contrast to his friend's healthy alertness.

George laid his hand on his friend's shoulder. "See here, Arthur, you'll
kill yourself studying. I know it's fine in you to be ambitious and to
work so, and some day you're going to be a great scientist and make us
all proud of you. But you mustn't neglect your body altogether--'a
healthy brain in a healthy body,' as some old philosopher says."

"But there are so many things one ought to learn," protested the other.

"Yes, and there are some things that can't be learned from books. Now
I've a plan to propose to you. You know my uncle has a cottage at
Chateaugay Lake in the Adirondacks; I've visited him several times in
the autumn, and had a fine time. At this season, of course, there is no
shooting; but there's the fishing, and, I dare say, plenty of other
things to do. My uncle's there now for the salmon-trout fishing, and he
writes to know if I want to spend my vacation with him; and what's more,
he says I may ask a boy to go with me. Arthur, I want you to go."

At first Arthur could not reconcile himself to this disarrangement of
his plans; but by the next afternoon, having consulted his family in the
mean while, he was ready to go. Such an opportunity was not to be lost;
moreover, he hoped to be so strong after his return that it would be
easy to work harder and make up for lost time.

On a fine spring morning, two days later, the boys left the little
narrow-gauge railroad at Lion Mountain, and were driven to the shore of
Chateaugay Lake; there they were met by a boat of Mr. Corey's, and rowed
to his cottage.

That afternoon and the next day they spent trolling for salmon-trout.
Arthur enjoyed it; sitting quietly in the stern of a boat and being
slowly rowed over the lake required no unpleasant exertion of the body.
The fish did not "strike" often, and much of the time he could sit with
closed eyes and dream. But George chafed under this inaction, and
finally he took an old guide, Antoine Brusoe, into his confidence. "I
want to have some camping out and tramping in the woods; and that's what
my friend needs too."

"Ask your uncle to let me take you to Tamarack Lake. It's much wilder
than this, an' there's good fishin'. If you want to tramp, you can go
gummin'; that's about all that's goin' on at this season. An' if you
don't want to keep the gum, you can give it to me; spruce gum's worth
fifty cents a pound in Chateaugay village."

Tamarack Lake, or Pond, was little known and seldom visited; a dense
growth of tamarack-trees on its shores gave it a gloomy, wild
appearance. The friends and their guide reached it early in the
afternoon, and Antoine at once set to work to repair a little bark "lean
to" which he had built on a former visit.

That evening by the light of their fire Antoine made a "gumming-pole"
for each; this, as Antoine made it, was a stout pole about eight feet
long, to the end of which was firmly fastened a small coverless tin can.
It was a simple instrument; but Antoine assured the boys that this was
the best kind--much better than "the new-fangled poles you buy at the
store."

He added, to encourage them, "Spring is when the gum breaks off easiest,
an' we ought to get a big lot of it."

During the forenoon the boys staid near the camp, amusing themselves by
fishing and by gathering gum from the spruce-trees growing near by.

A large brook ran into the lake, and in the afternoon they decided to
follow this brook back into the woods. As long as they kept the stream
in sight there was no danger of getting lost. They started off, each
carrying a pole and having a gummer's bag slung from his shoulder. For
an hour or more they pushed on together, gathering gum as they went.
Finally they came to a place where the brook forked, and here they
decided to separate, each taking a branch of the stream.

"We can't get lost as long as we keep by the brook, but don't go too
far, for night comes on quickly in the woods," said George, as they
parted.

Arthur went on alone very contentedly; he was beginning to enjoy the
woods and appreciate them. As he followed up the brook he found himself
in a rocky ravine, a wild place where the stream tumbled over great
bowlders or--being swollen by the melting snows--spread into a pool. On
the bank of one of these pools, which must have been eight or nine yards
across and four or five feet deep, grew a tall hemlock. In the air near
its upper branches two hawks were circling. At short intervals they
screamed as if in anger and distress.

Arthur looked more carefully, and could now see their nest. His pleasure
in the woods had put him in an unusually adventurous mood, and he
decided, on the impulse of the moment, to try to secure some of the
hawk's eggs; they would be interesting mementoes of his trip to the
lake.

At first sight the tree seemed a difficult one to climb, for there were
no branches within twenty feet of the ground, and the trunk was too
large for him to clasp. But close to it grew a slender spruce, and
Arthur, leaving his pole and sack on the ground, had no trouble in
"shinning" up the smaller tree; it was then easy to transfer himself to
the hemlock's lowest branches. Some distance below the hawk's nest a
large branch stretched out from the trunk, and now, when Arthur looked
up at this branch, he saw what he had before failed to notice; along it
lay a plump little animal, gray in color, and about as big as a house
cat two-thirds grown. It looked at him stupidly, and did not move.

He thought it might be a young raccoon, or perhaps an opossum--his
knowledge of Adirondack animals was not very accurate--and as it seemed
so dull and meek he thought he would try to capture it. Near him a
partly dead limb stood out from the trunk; this, after some trouble, he
was able to break off, and then had a stout club in case any weapon was
needed. In the mean while the little animal watched him over the edge of
the big branch, but did not move. Arthur was now about twenty feet from
the ground, the animal being six or eight feet above him. Of a sudden it
seemed to grow interested in what was going on below, and putting its
head over the side of the branch, gave a low whine. Instantly there was
an answering whine from the ground.

A grayish catlike animal about as large as a spaniel-dog was crouching
at the foot of the hemlock; as it looked up Arthur could see its yellow
eyes shine angrily. Its shape and size made him think it was a lynx; and
the conviction flashed upon him that the little animal on the branch
above was the kitten of the savage-looking creature on the ground below.
He was separating mother from child, and it was evident from her grim
expression that the old lynx meant to call him to account for
interfering with her domestic affairs.

With a reassuring cry to her kitten, the lynx sprang from the ground and
began slowly to climb up the trunk of the hemlock.

Below the branches on which Arthur was sitting was the section of the
trunk, twenty feet in length, that rose from the ground free of any
branch, so that there was no vantage-ground from which the lynx could
spring upon him as she came crawling up. He drew up his legs, clutched
the club firmly, and got ready to do his best to beat her back; at the
same time he shouted as loudly as he could, hoping that George would
hear him.

His shouts and pounding on the tree made the animal hesitate, and when
she was eight or ten feet below him she flattened herself against the
bark and clung there, glaring up at him. What seemed a long time to
Arthur, but was probably not more than ten minutes, passed, and yet she
did not move. He kept up an almost continual shouting, for he hoped, as
the two branches of the brook joined each other at an acute angle, that
George was not far distant. The strain on his nerves was making him
faint. As the lynx eyed him, he recalled stories of cats that had
alarmed and captured their victims merely by looking at them; he
trembled violently, and his shouts became weaker and weaker.

It was a relief when, in answer to an especially plaintive cry from her
kitten, the lynx gave a low whine and began to creep upward, growling
defiance as she came. The spell was broken, and Arthur felt his strength
return. He raised his club and leaned forward; as the animal's round
head came within reach he struck it a heavy blow. With a scream of pain
the lynx shrunk back, and began watching him as before; every minute or
two she snarled and growled--evidently the blow she had received had not
improved her temper.

Arthur had just begun, with renewed vigor, to shout again, when there
was an answering shout, and George appeared, running towards him through
the woods. For a moment his joy in seeing a friend and possible rescuer
made the frightened boy forget everything else.

"Arthur! Arthur! Where are you, and what's the matter?" cried George.

"Here I am, up in this tree! And, oh, George, look out! there's a lynx
on the trunk just below me!"

The warning came late. George was already on the bank of the pool, and
only a few yards from the hemlock. The lynx saw him, and finding another
enemy in her rear, she turned as if to attack him.

George had only the briefest instant in which to grasp the situation and
act. He turned and sprang into the pool, and plunged to its centre;
there he could barely touch bottom.

The animal did not follow; like all the cat tribe, a lynx dislikes and
fears the water, and this one was daunted at the prospect of a fight in
the hated element. She circled about the pool, looking for some way of
reaching him without getting a wetting. Baffled on every side, she then
crouched at the water's edge and screamed with rage. A whine from the
hemlock made her remember the kitten. She turned and dashed up the tree;
there was now no hesitation; she was enraged, and meant to revenge
herself.

Her onslaught was so sudden that Arthur had no time for any preparation.
In his panic and hasty excited effort to settle himself so that he could
strike to advantage, the club slipped from his fingers and fell to the
ground. He cried out, and George saw what had happened. When the lynx
reached him, Arthur used his feet so vigorously against her head that
for a moment or two she was checked. He was screaming in a frenzy of
terror.

"Help me, George!" he cried. "Help! help! help!"

It seemed almost like inviting certain death to attack the enraged
animal when armed with no better weapon than his gumming-pole; but
George could not resist his friend's agonized appeal for help. He rushed
ashore and to the foot of the hemlock. From there he could just reach
the animal's flank--she having recoiled a little before Arthur's
desperate kicking--and he began to belabor it with the can on the end of
his pole. The lynx partially turned, seeming to hesitate whether to
charge the enemy above or to fling herself upon this new assailant.

While this noise and commotion was going on, the kitten had got more and
more frightened. Trying to seek safety in flight, it had crawled along
the big branch until it reached almost the extreme end; the branch
snapped under its weight, and with a long cry it fell through the air.
Fortunately for it, it had crawled so far along the branch that when it
fell, instead of striking the earth, it came down in the midst of the
pool.

It fell just as its mother was hesitating which one of the boys to
attack. She saw it strike the water, and forgetting all else in this new
peril to her offspring, she leaped over George's head and plunged into
the water to its rescue--showing that even in a lynx the mother's love
or instinct is stronger than rage or the passion for revenge.

Holding the kitten in her teeth, she got out of the water as soon as
possible. On the bank she paused for a moment, as if in doubt whether to
attack George or not. But again maternal feeling asserted itself. The
kitten was safe now, and she could not afford to further endanger its
precious life; holding it, drenched and whimpering, in her mouth, she
trotted off into the woods and disappeared.

It was dusk when the boys got back to Tamarack Lake, for Arthur found
himself badly exhausted after this experience, and they had walked
slowly. The legs of his boots were torn, and in several places claws had
left their marks on his ankles.

"I'll bet 'twas the same lynx that we saw here last year!" exclaimed
Antoine, when they told their story, sitting by the camp-fire that
evening, "An old Canada lynx with a kitten is about the savagest
creature in these woods--nearly as bad as a panther. I tell you, you
boys were lucky to get off as you did, with only a scare an' a few
little scratches! But don't get scared, thinkin' this is goin' to happen
every day; you're not likely to see a lynx again in a year--no, nor in
five years."

"Well, I suppose you've had enough of the woods," said George, as he and
Arthur rolled themselves in their blankets and prepared to go to sleep.
"We've had a rather tough experience, and perhaps we'd better start back
for Chateaugay to-morrow."

"No; I don't think I've had enough of the woods, and I'm in no hurry to
leave. If I'd had a little more of them in my life, I wouldn't have gone
to pieces as I did to-day, dropping my club and screaming like a baby!
And, George, I won't forget in a hurry how you, with only a gumming-pole
to fight with, came to the rescue and pitched into that angry lynx."



AN HOUR IN BICYCLELAND.

WITH AN ACCOUNT OF A PNEUMATIC CIRCUS.

BY HAYDEN CARRUTH.


II.

It was not hard to push through the crowd, because the people, when off
their bicycles, didn't stand very steadily, as Kenneth soon discovered
after toppling several of them over in brushing against them. All the
way through the crowd they kept hearing the man talking about the
wonderful horse, and warning people to keep back from the ropes, and
hold on their hats when the animal snorted. Just as they got to the
front of the crowd a man came round from behind with a measure of oats
on the end of a long pole, and pushed it cautiously through between the
bars.

Kenneth looked at the marvellous horse about which everybody was
excited. He saw a round and comfortable-appearing gray pony, which
looked as if it had always been employed in jogging about hitched to a
basket-phaeton, carrying some mild old gentlewoman, in a white cap, and
her grandchildren.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," shouted the man standing on a box beside the
cage, "watch the Titantic Terror of the Jungles lash his sides with his
Audacious and Caudalogical Tail as he devours his food with Ravenous and
Oats-destroying Teeth! See him stamp his Adamantine Hoofs as in his
Savage Imagination he tramples upon the Prostrate Form of that Victim of
a thousand battles, the Hardy Hunter! See him wave his crafty,
whisper-detecting Ears as he buries his Horriferous Snout in the
Iron-bound Oats and grinds them to Powder with his Dreadful and
Molariferous Fangs from which fly the Lurid Sparks in all directions!"

"Well," said Kenneth, "I'm sure I don't think it's QUITE so bad as that
man seems to think."

"Hush!" answered his companion; "the horse might hear you. I'm pretty
sure I saw one spark. And of course you don't expect things in a circus
to be _just_ as they say they are."

"I suppose not," admitted Kenneth; "but it does seem to me they might
have got a horse a _little_ bigger."

"Bigger?" replied the other. "Why, he's twice as high as a bicycle!"

"Oh yes, I suppose he'll do pretty well. But I don't believe he's
stamping his feet because he wishes he had the hardy hunter under them.
I think he's doing it to scare away the flies."

"Flies!"' exclaimed the young man, scornfully. "Do you think as large an
animal as that would be afraid of anything as small as a fly?"

"Well, it doesn't _seem_ so," said Kenneth.

"Though, to be sure," went on the other, thoughtfully, "a tack is small,
but how a bicycle will shy around one when it sees it! But we mustn't
stand here any longer. I want to get into the other tent, and see Señor
Chinchilla, the celebrated bare back-rider."

"Then they have more horses, do they?" asked Kenneth.

"It's _so_ hard for you to learn," answered his companion. "Of course
not! The Señor rides a bicycle."

By this time they were in their seats and looking down at the big ring,
which was much larger than the ordinary circus ring. There were
pneumatic cushions to sit on and to lean against. There was a brass band
at one side of the tent which seemed louder than any brass band which
Kenneth had ever heard before. He noticed that the musicians did not put
the horns and other brass instruments to their lips, but that they held
big rubber bags in their laps, to which they were attached. He asked his
companion about it.

"Pneumatic bags. Full of compressed air. Blows the horns. Saves wear on
lips," he answered, shortly. He was becoming much excited about the
coming performance.

Soon the band began to play louder than ever, the curtains at one side
of the tent parted, and the grand parade slowly filed in. The audience
broke into such a hand-clapping that Kenneth was obliged to hold his own
hands over his ears. It was like a dozen Fourth of July's. He looked
around to find the cause, and saw that everybody was wearing gloves with
big fat puffy palms, which they were clapping together as hard as they
possibly could.

"What are they?" he asked of the young man, who also had on the funny
gloves, and was clapping away harder than anybody else.

"Pneumatic! pneumatic!" he shouted, and kept on clapping.

In the ring the performers were all mounted on bicycles, which were
slowly bearing them around, two abreast. The wheels were painted all
colors, and the riders wore fancy and bright costumes. The band had also
mounted bicycles, and went round with the rest, playing as hard as ever.
The young man pointed out Señor Chinchilla and all of the noted
performers, and Kenneth could hear him above the uproar quoting more
from the bills. At the end of the procession was the clown, almost as
round as a ball, riding a wheelbarrow instead of a bicycle, but which
seemed to be trained to go nearly as well as the bicycles. Kenneth had
seen clowns wearing clothes all padded out before, but never one so
round and ball-like as this one; but his companion was laughing so at
the clown that it was a long time before he could explain, and then all
that Kenneth could catch was "pneumatic suit."

"Can't he walk?" asked Kenneth.

"Oh no," chuckled the young man. "He's too round. He just rolls
everywhere he wants to go. Did you ever see anything so funny?"

"Well, I don't know," answered Kenneth; "I guess the horse was _'most_
as funny."

The young man looked hurt. "Well, _I_ guess," he said, "that if that
horse took you in his jaws once and bounded away into the Trackless
Jungle, where the Baffled and Vociferous Cries of the--that is, I mean
you wouldn't think him so funny."

"What are they going to do next?" asked Kenneth.

"Ground and lofty tumbling," said his companion. "See the big pneumatic
mattress."

Half a dozen men came in and began turning all sorts of handsprings and
summersaults on this, always bounding up very high. The clown kept
getting in the way and rolling about, and sometimes the performers would
bound on him. Suddenly two of the men seized him and threw him on the
cushion, and he bounded up so high that he struck the top of the tent,
and everybody roared again.

"Suppose he should come down on a tack?" suggested Kenneth.

"My, I wish he would!" laughed the other. "Wouldn't it be fun? He'd look
just like a burst balloon."

There was a great deal more performing of various kinds, with the clown
rolling about in the way all the time. Once when two strong men were
tossing cannon-balls and lifting heavy weights, the clown bothered so
much that they took him and played football with him, kicking him back
and forth across the ring and having fine sport. There was also a grand
race of the trained pneumatic kangaroos. They played leap-frog and did
some high jumping, and were almost as funny as the clown. Suddenly
Kenneth's companion exclaimed:

"Señor Chinchilla comes next. Now look out!"

The Señor came rolling in, sitting gracefully on his bicycle, Sir
Sky-Rocket, all dressed in red and green. He dismounted, made a fine
bow, and stood fanning himself while the ring-master made a little
speech full of words which caused Kenneth's companion to open his eyes
and mouth in astonishment. Another man took the saddle and handle-bar
off the bicycle, and then the Señor bounded lightly on to the top of the
frame, where he stood easily as the ring-master cracked his whip and the
bicycle shot away around the ring. The clown was so impressed that he
rolled away and disappeared. The band played, and the young man became
so excited that Kenneth was sure he would tumble out of his seat, and so
took hold of his arm.

"The Ten-Thousand-Dollar Challenge Bareback Bicycle-Rider of the World!"
he exclaimed. "Without the aid of Saddle, Padding or Trappings, he
boldly performs feats upon the Rearing and Plunging Wheel which Startle
while they Enchant, and cause the Chilled Blood to stand still within
the Frightened Vein, while they hold the Enraptured Gaze with the
Marvellous Efflorescence of their Rich Ambiguity. That's what the man
said, and I believe he's going to do it!"

"He does ride well," said Kenneth, watching the performance with great
interest. Round and round went the Señor, leaping over banners and
through hoops, but always alighting on his bicycle without mishap. He
also turned summersaults, stood on his head, danced, and otherwise
showed his skill. Then the band played faster, and the ring-master
cracked his whip louder, and the bicycle also danced and cavorted first
on one wheel, then on the other; and then it leaped over hurdles and
finally through a big hoop, with the Señor still on its back. Then it
went around the ring a dozen times, so fast that it could hardly be
seen, with the Señor doing everything at once so fast that he could
hardly be seen. Then they shot away behind the curtains, and everybody
cheered harder than ever before, and the young man actually did fall out
of his seat at last, and Kenneth had to drag him back, though it was
scarcely necessary, as the performance was over, and they went out with
the crowd.

Outside they found their wheels, and got on them and rode away along the
road they had come, with the young man trying to do half the things he
had seen the Señor do, and talking about the wonderful horse. Everybody
was excited, and Kenneth's bicycle seemed to catch the excitement and
began to run away. He did his best to hold it, but it kept going faster
and faster. The young man tried to keep up, but he couldn't. The last
thing Kenneth heard was his voice shouting something from the bills;
then all he could feel was the rush of the wind as he shot along the
road like an arrow from a bow. But suddenly he stopped with a great
bump, and the next thing he knew he found himself lying on the grass
under a tree.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Well did you have a good ride on your new bicycle?" asked Kenneth's
father. (They were at supper.)

"Oh yes!" answered Kenneth.

"Did you see anything new?" went on his father.

"Well, I don't know, or--no, I guess not much. I was reading circus
posters on a big fence while I was going out, and I got pretty tired,
and lay down under a tree to rest, and I think perhaps I may have fallen
asleep a few minutes, and--and--had a little nap."

"I'm glad you didn't catch cold," said his mother. "You oughtn't to
sleep on the ground."



PRACTICAL GOLF.

BY W. G. VAN TASSEL SUTPHEN.

(_In Five Papers._)


I.--THE GAME.

Given a bat and a ball, and the combinations that may be evolved are
practically infinite in their variety. Every generation or thereabouts a
new game or some modification of an old one suddenly rises into favor,
and all the world plays croquet or tennis or golf. To-day it is golf,
and yet the game divides with polo the honor of being the oldest of
which we have any records. It has been played in Scotland for hundreds
of years, but it is only within the last ten that it has become
generally known and taken up. In this country the game is hardly two
years old, but already there are over a hundred courses or grounds, a
national association, and championship meetings for nearly every class
of players. There must be something of good in a sport which has been
taken up with such enthusiasm, and although "Young America" is very
properly opposed to anything that harbors a suspicion of slowness, it is
only fair to look into a case before deciding upon it.

[Illustration: A TEEING-GROUND.]

Of course the first thing is to inquire into the object and nature of
the game. A golf course is generally laid out over rolling ground for
the sake of variety, and standing at the first _tee_, or striking-off
place, we see before us a stretch of turf that has been cleared of long
grass and bushes, and in the distance (say 150 or 200 yards away) a
square patch of smooth, hard lawn, in the centre of which a flag is
fluttering. The square patch is the _putting-green_, and the flag marks
the location of a small hole four inches in diameter and six inches
deep, and generally lined with tin. Each player is provided with an
assortment of curious-looking clubs and a small white hard-rubber ball,
and the object is to finally knock the ball into the hole in the _fewest
possible number of strokes_. Each player has his own ball, and the play
begins from a particular spot, called the _teeing-ground_, and marked by
whitewash or pins driven into the turf. This first stroke is called the
_tee-shot_, and the player is allowed to _tee_ his ball, or place it
upon a little mound of sand, so that he may have the best possible
chance of hitting it. But once the tee-shot is played, the ball cannot
be touched again, except by a club, and no matter how short a distance
it may go, or even if the ball is missed altogether, it still counts a
stroke. The player who is farthest away from the hole always plays
first, and he must keep on playing until he has passed the place where
his adversary's ball is lying. When both balls have finally been played
into the hole, the player who has accomplished the task in the fewest
number of strokes or actual hits at the ball is said to have won the
hole, and counts one scoring-point.

A short distance from this first hole is the second teeing-ground, and
the players take up their balls and, walking over to the new point of
departure, tee their balls, and strike off in the direction of the
second hole. We will suppose that A, the first player, holes his ball
this time in six strokes, and B does the same. The hole is then said to
be _halved_, and is counted for neither side. But A, having won the
first hole, is still ahead by one point, and this is called "one up." If
he had won this second hole, he would have been "two up." Or again, if
he had lost it, the game would have been "even all."

The full course is eighteen holes, but very good golf may be played on a
course of twelve, nine, six, or even five holes. The game is won by the
player who wins the greater number of holes, and this is the original
game, now called _match-play_. Nowadays _medal-play_ is more common, the
only practical difference being in the scoring. In medal-play the total
score for all the holes made by each player is added up, and the lowest
number wins. For instance, if A goes around a six-hole course in 40, and
B in 39, B is the winner.

One of the great advantages of the game is that you can play and have
good sport even if there is no one to go around with you. You can try to
beat your own best previous record, and, if possible, to lower the best
score ever made by anybody over the course. If you succeed in this last,
you will have gained the proud distinction of holding the "record for
the course." Another good modification of the game is the "foursome,"
where there are two partners on each side, striking alternately at the
same ball. But the ordinary match is against one adversary, and there is
no reason why a girl may not play an interesting game against her
brother. She may not be able to hit the ball quite so far, but once near
the hole, where accuracy and not strength is required, she should be
able to hold her own, and it is an old saying that many a game is won on
the putting-green. Or again, she may be handicapped by an allowance of
so many strokes, for in golf, as in billiards, handicapping does not
detract from the interest as it does in tennis. There is no fun playing
tennis against a very much weaker opponent, for you win rather on your
adversary's mistakes than by your own skill, and this is fatal to true
sport.

[Illustration: MODERN GOLF CLUBS.

1. Cleek. 2. Mashie. 3. Brassy. 4. Putter. 5. Driver.

6. Lofter. 7. Iron.]

Now that we know what we have to do, let us take a look at the
instruments with which the work is done. In the illustration seven clubs
are pictured, and there is, at first glance, but very little difference
between them. Of course, to see and handle the clubs themselves is far
more satisfactory than any description, but the following hints may
enable you to recognize them when you do see them. And first as to the
different parts of the clubs and their name.

The striking surface is called the _face_, and the bottom, or the place
where it rests on the ground, is the _sole_. The part nearest the angle
made by the handle is the _heel_, and the extreme end is the _nose_.
Both the wooden and the iron clubs are made in two pieces, the striking
part being called the _head_, the long handle the _shaft_, and the place
where they are joined together the neck or (in the case of the iron
clubs) the _hose_. Some of these names may strike you oddly, but
remember that the game is very old, and these terms have grown on to it
somewhat as barnacles upon a ship's bottom.

The _driver_ (No. 5) is a wooden club; it has generally the longest
shaft of all the clubs, and is supposed to be the most powerful. It is
always used for the first, or tee, shot, and in a good player's hands it
will drive the ball from 150 to 200 yards. A boy's driving, especially
at first, will be about 50 yards shorter, and a girl should be able to
cover from 70 to 100 yards.

After the tee-shot the driver may be used again if the ball is lying
clean--that is, in a good position--but most players prefer the _brassy_
(No. 3), which is so called because its sole is shod with a brass plate.
Generally, too, its face is _spooned_, or slanting slightly backwards,
so as to raise the ball in the air, and its range is but little short of
the regular driver.

Should the ball be lying in a hollow of the ground (called a _cup_), the
_cleek_ (No. 1) is the proper club to use. This is the straightest faced
of all the iron clubs, and usually has a slightly longer shaft than the
others. The cleek is also a powerful club, and its use is generally
confined to free hitting when the object is to send the ball the longest
possible distance.

But with the ball deeply imbedded in a cup, or with a sand bunker or
other difficulty to surmount, it is necessary that the ball should be
_lofted_, or raised higher in the air than the cleek can do it, and in
such a case use the _lofter_, or _lofting iron_ (No. 6), whose face is
still further laid back. Or in the bunker itself you may take the
_mashie_ (No. 2) with its short head and very much laid back face. Its
shape fits it to enter cart ruts and other places where the longer head
of the cleek or lofter would stick fast. The _iron_ (No. 7) is simply a
modification between the cleek and lofter, and its carrying or driving
power varies in about the same ratio. The beginner need not include it
in his set, nor bother about it at all until he has played for some
time.

Last of all comes the _putter_ (No. 4), with a perfectly straight face
and springless shaft. Its great essential is good balance, and it is
used for the final act of holing out or putting proper.

These six--driver, brassy, cleek, lofter, mashie, and putter--are all
that are actually needed for the game, and quite enough for the beginner
to experiment with. They cost at the shops from $1.25 to $1.50 apiece,
and they are made in lighter weights for girls and young boys.

[Illustration: POSITION OF THE HANDS IN HOLDING THE CLUB.]

The best way to start is to play a round at once, standing up square to
the ball and hitting naturally at it. Grip the club as though it were a
hammer, and you were about to strike a blow straight down upon the
anvil. Then, without altering the position of your hands, place the club
flat on the ground close behind the ball, and hit. By the time next week
comes around you will have shaken yourself down into some kind of
position, and will be ready for more detailed instruction.

_Keep your eye on the ball._



AN "OLD-FIELD" SCHOOL-GIRL.[1]

[1] Begun in HARPER'S ROUND TABLE No. 857.

BY MARION HARLAND.

CHAPTER VI.


"Do not move until I give you leave, if you have to sit there until
to-morrow morning."

Flea recalled the exact words, and said them over as her death-sentence.
For she would be dead when they opened the school-house to-morrow
morning. Even her father would not interfere when he heard that she was
kept in. He always upheld the teacher's authority, and this teacher was
put into his place and backed by Major Duncombe. Her father would not
dare to come for her to-night. She slid from the bench to the floor,
resting her aching head within her arms upon the seat. The roaring and
singing in her head hindered her from hearing the sound of the door as
it opened and shut softly. The rustling of a skirt and fall of feet upon
the floor were not louder than the play of the dead leaves had been. She
did start and spring to her feet as a hand was laid on her head, and
found herself face to face with Miss Em'ly.

"Why, my _dear_ little scholar!" cooed the visitor. "What _is_ all this
about? I _can't_ believe you mean to be naughty."

She pulled Flea to a seat beside her and kept hold of her hand. She had
never looked prettier than now. Her blue riding-habit and cap became her
fair skin and bright curls; her cheeks were like roses, her eyes were
kind. As she drew the girl to the bench she gave her a little squeeze
that opened the sluiceway of the tears Flea had believed would never
flow again.

"Tut! tut!" coaxed Miss Em'ly. "This will _never_ do. Eliza and Robert
and I came to get Mr. Tayloe to go riding with us. We've got his horse
out yonder. He says he _can't_ go because you must stay in until you say
something he told you to say. Now, dearie, you _won't_ spoil my
ride--will you?"

Flea could not speak, but she shook her head vehemently.

"That's what I _said_! and I ran _right_ off here to get you to say
whatever it is to me--don't you _see_? Then, I'll _make_ him let you
off. What is it? Say it, _quick_!"

Flea's wet eyes looked straight into her friend's.

"He wants me to say 'A thorn scratched my face as I came through the
woods.' It isn't true, Miss Em'ly."

"How _did_ you get hurt then? Tell me that."

The child took a sudden resolution.

"You'll never never tell, Miss Em'ly? Upon your word of honor?"

"Never, once! Never, twice! Never, _three_ times!" crossing her heart
playfully.

"And you won't feel bad about it?"

"You little _goose_! Why _should_ I feel bad about what _you_ have
done?"

When she had heard the short story, artlessly told, the young lady's
tone and countenance altered. Tears gathered in the blue eyes and rolled
down upon Flea's upturned face as the listener kissed her once and again
upon the scratched cheek.

[Illustration: "YOU DEAR, BRAVE, SPLENDID CHILD!"]

"You dear, brave, _splendid_ child! To think you have done all this for
_me_! I'll never forget it to my dying day."

"I would have died before I would have told on you, Miss Em'ly!" cried
the excited girl, her eyes shining with the enthusiasm of
self-sacrifice.

Miss Em'ly's serious mood had passed already. She called Flea "a little
goose" again, and bade her "get her books and things and run along
home."

"I'll settle everything with Mr. Tayloe. Kiss me 'Good-by' and be off."

"It's all right!" she called gayly from the school-house steps. "May she
go? She's said it."

"If you go security for her," answered Mr. Tayloe, coming towards them,
and Flea was off like an arrow out of a bow. He should not see that she
had been crying.

The teacher was not altogether satisfied.

"You really made her repeat what I said she must before she could go?"
he said, in settling Miss Emily in her saddle.

She pouted prettily, "I _really_ made her say,
'A--thorn--scratched--my--face--as--I--came--through--the--woods,'"
dropping the words in mock solemnity. "Now let us talk of pleasanter
things than school worries."

Not one of the horseback party gave another thought to the overseer's
daughter, racing through woods and over ploughed fields in an air-line
for home, her heart as light as a bird, and as full of music.

"I'll never forget it to my dying day," was to her a solemn pledge of
eternal friendship. To have won it was worth all she had borne that
day. As she ran, she sang and smiled like the owner of a blissful
secret. In the fullness of her joy she even forgot to hate Mr. Tayloe.

Her short-cut took her through a matted wilderness of shrubs and weeds,
past a deserted cabin set back from the main road. A negro, driven crazy
by drink, had murdered his wife and child there years before, and the
hut had never been occupied since. The negroes believed it to be
haunted. Not a colored man, woman, or child in the region would have
ventured within a hundred yards of it after nightfall. The deserted
hovel had a weird charm for Flea, and, finding herself a little tired
after her run, she sat down upon the stone door-step to enjoy the
sunset, and to go on with a "poem" inspired last week by the haunted
house. Four lines were already composed, written and hidden away in the
hair trunk where she kept her clothes at home. A nameless diffidence
kept her from speaking of the fragments of stories and rhyme entombed
under flannel petticoats and home-knit stockings. She said the four
lines aloud while she rested. Unpruned trees grew over the grass-grown
path leading to the closed door. Sumac bushes, vivid with scarlet leaves
and maroon velvet cones, had sprung up close to the walls. In what was
once a garden wild sunflowers bloomed rankly.

The girl's poetic soul felt the charm of a melancholy she could not
define; she longed to clothe with language the feelings excited by
mellow light, rich colors, and silence that yet spoke to her. She
recited her rhymes in a low, deep voice:

  "It stands beside the weedy way;
  Shingles are mossy, walls are gray;
  Gnarled apple branches guard the door;
  Wild vines have bound it o'er and o'er."

Then and there two more lines came to her with a rush that sent the
blood throbbing to her cheeks:

  "The sumac whispers, with its leaves of flame,
  'Here once was done a deed without a name.'"

She leaned against the door, weak and trembling. It was as if virtue had
gone out of her. She had _breathed_ poetry! When grown-up people have
such flushes and thrills we call them "poetic fire," and "the divine
afflatus." The halting lines were not poetry, but the child believed
that they were. That did quite as well--for her.

While she sat and exulted, the sound of a doleful whistle arose on the
evening air. Shaking off the spell that bound her, she tore her way
through a web of vines, sunflowers, and purple brush, jumped over the
broken palings, and ran down the sloping field to the road. Dee sat upon
a stone in a corner of the fence, whistling "Balerma." His hat was off,
and he looked tired and out of spirits.

"Why, Dee!" cried his sister, "I thought you were at home hours ago."

"I warn't a-goin' without you, ef I stayed here till plumb night. An',
Flea"--as she kissed his freckled face--"I tole Bea she might's well let
'em think at home 'twas me that was kep' in. Twouldn't be no rarity for
me to be kep' in, you see. One or two times more wouldn't make no
difference."

"Wouldn't that be acting a lie, Dee?" She could not scold him, but
conscience urged her not to let the matter pass without notice. "And I
couldn't let you be scolded instead of me. Perhaps father and mother may
not ask any questions. Maybe my luck has turned."

Their hopes were not disappointed. Mrs. Grigsby was busy in the kitchen
helping Chancy to make soap, and had not seen Bea return without the
other children. Mr. Grigsby did not get in from the plantation until
supper was on the table, and was too weary to ask questions. Flea's
secret was safe for the time.

"To-morrow will be another day," she said to Bea, who "reckoned," as
they were undressing that night, that Flea "had made a bad start with
the new teacher." "I'm going to do my best, and, as Chancy is always
saying, 'angels can't do no more.'"

People did not talk of "pluck" and "grit" and "sand" then. But our
heroine had an abundance of what the slang words imply.

The school settled down to the business of the session in a surprisingly
short time. With all his faults, Mr. Tayloe had the knack of imparting
knowledge. He was strict to severity, never letting an imperfect lesson
or a breach of discipline pass unpunished, and his pupils quickly
learned that they must work and obey rules or get into serious trouble.
Flea studied as she had never studied before, partly from sheer love of
learning, partly because she had determined to prove her fitness to
enter the higher classes in the face of the teacher's unwillingness to
promote her. Courage and spirits arose with every new obstacle.

On the last day of the month the severest test of will and courage was
laid upon her. At the close of the afternoon arithmetic lessons Mr.
Tayloe asked for her slate, worked at it for a while, and returned it to
her. The curve of his smile was like a horseshoe as he saw her eyes
dilate with alarm at what she read there:

1844)368873761575231504(

He had written the same upon Annie Douthat's slate, and also upon Fanny
Tabb's.

"If you three girls can do it by to-morrow morning, you can go into the
next higher class. If not, you stay where you are. And look here, all of
you, nobody must help you. If I find that you have been helped to so
much as a single figure, you will be publicly disgraced."

On the same afternoon the first monthly reports were given out. It was a
new measure to all the scholars, and when they learned that the papers
were to be taken home, signed by the parents, and brought back next day,
the most careless were impressed with a sense of the dignity of the
transaction. The roll was called, each boy and girl in turn marched up
to the desk, received a folded paper, and marched out of the
school-house. Flea Grigsby got with hers a glance that went to her heart
like the stab of ice-cold steel. It was unexpected, for her recitations
had been perfect throughout the month, and she had striven hard to carry
herself modestly and respectfully towards the despot of the little
domain. Warned by the peculiar gleam of the light-blue eyes, she tucked
the report between the leaves of her geography, instead of opening it,
as every one else did, on the way to the door or as soon as he or she
gained the outer air. Bea had walked on with another girl, but Dee was
waiting for Flea at the bottom of the steps. She wished that he had not
hung back to go with her. Even his honest, affectionate gaze would add
to the humiliation which she felt was in store for her when that fatal
bit of paper should be opened. She longed, yet dreaded, to know exactly
what form the new shame would take. No one seemed to think of asking her
what was in her report. The other scholars were too busy discussing
their own, and rejoicing or lamenting over the contents. Dee was
naturally incurious. He showed his report. It said, "Lessons
indifferent. Conduct good."

"It mought 'a' been worse," observed Dee, philosophically. "I don' see
what good the _doggoned_ things do, anyhow."

Flea changed the subject, chatting of any thing and everything except
the report she fancied she could hear rustling between the leaves of
Olney's Geography, her nerves more tense every minute. By the time they
reached the haunted house--they had taken the short-cut across the
fields--she could bear the suspense no longer.

She sat down upon the flat stone that did duty for a door-step, took off
her hat, and stretched her arms out, yawningly. "Don't wait for me, Dee.
It is so nice and quiet here that I think I'll begin to work at that
horrid sum. I can think better than at home with the children around.
Tell mother I'll be in before supper-time."

The little fellow obeyed dutifully. He was growing daily more fond of
the sister who helped him with his lessons, and never scolded him for
being slow, and told him secrets of what they would do together when she
became famous. Her conscience smote her slightly as he trudged off, his
hands in his pockets, his bag of books slung over his shoulder by a
twine string, and humping his calves as he walked. He knew but one tune,
and that was "Balerma." He began to whistle it as soon as he turned his
back. He would whistle it all the way home. He called it, "O happy is
the soul."

Flea laid the slate she had carried carefully, lest the test sum should
get rubbed out, as carefully upon the stone beside her, and took Olney's
Geography from her bag. The report was written upon an oblong piece of
foolscap, folded once. Mr. Tayloe wrote a round, clear hand:

  "_October_ 31, 184-.

     "_Felicia Jean Grigsby: Lessons, usually fair. Conduct--room for
     improvement!_

  _"James Tayloe_."

There was a sneer for Flea in each of the three words that came after
the dash. The line that emphasized them was heavy and black, and raised
a welt upon her heart.

The sun had gone down, and the recessed door-step was dim with the
shadows of the neglected vines overgrowing it, before she lifted her
head from her knees to listen to footsteps in the dry weeds at the back
of the cabin. Some laborer was probably passing by on his way home from
the field. If she did not move, he would go on without seeing her. The
steps came closer to her, until somebody stooped under the overhanging
creepers, shutting out the light of the sky, and Flea felt hot breath
upon her very face. She jumped up:

"Who are you?" she began.

A strong hand gripped her arm, another covered her mouth, and she was
lifted bodily from her hiding-place. As the light showed her features
the rough hold was slackened; a cracked laugh relieved her fright.

"Bless yo' soul, honey! How you skeered me! I 'clar' to gracious, I
thought you was a ghos', or maybe the Old Boy hisself. I won' git over
the turn you give me fur a week."

In proof of the shock to her nervous system Mrs. Fogg dropped herself
upon the stone from which she had drugged Flea, and began to suck in her
breath loudly and irregularly, as if the air were a thick fluid, fanning
herself at the same time with her gingham apron.

"I was sitting here thinking, Mrs. Fogg, on my way from school,"
stammered the girl, really shaken by the adventure. "It's one of my
favorite resting-places."

"I wouldn't come hyur much ef I was you, honey," sinking her voice, and
glancing over her shoulder at the closed door. "It's a norful place for
snakes an' scarripens" (scorpions) "an' lizards. An' it's wuss fur
ha'nts. I've been see things here with my own two eyes o' nights, an'
heered sech scritchin' an' bellerin' as 'mos' tarrified me to death.
Stay 'way from hyur, honey. You're too sweet an' pretty to be cyarried
off by the ole Satan."

Flea collected her bag, books, and slate from the ground, and gave a
hard, miserable laugh.

"Satan lives in a better house than this, Mrs. Fogg. He wears broadcloth
every day and Sunday too, and a fine gold watch and chain. I've seen him
too often to be afraid of him."

The old woman pricked up her ears sharply; her bony hand reached up to
clutch Flea's wrist.

"What you talkin' 'bout, honey-pie? Ole Nick couldn't w'ar a gold
watch"--cackling at her joke; "'twould git melted. Don' yer understan'?"

"He lays it on the desk by him to see how long boys and girls can stand
the torment," rushed on the girl, recklessly. "He lives most of the time
in the school-house. That's his work-shop, where he ruins people's souls
and tortures their bodies. Look here, Mrs. Fogg! I told you once that
I'd ask Major Duncombe to let your grandchildren go to school. He's been
away from home ever since, and I haven't had a chance to speak to him. I
tell you now that I don't mean to ask him any such thing. They'd better
grow up dunces, without knowing their _A B C's_, than to go to school to
that--that--_Evil_!"

It was the strongest word she could think of, and she flung it out in a
passion of loathing. The crone eyed her curiously, making odd noises in
her throat, like a clucking hen.

"You don' say so--you don' say so--now! I suttinly is mighty sorry to
hear it, my sweet young lady. I was jes a-sayin' to my daughter yistiddy
how I meant to stop you termorrer mornin' as you went by the gate an'
remin' you o' what you done promise' me. An' the chillens are crazy to
go to school. Larnin' is a mighty fine thing for anybody. That's what I
keep on a-tellin' on 'em. 'Larnin' is a good thing,' says I. In the fear
of the Lord, of course--"

"There's no fear of the Lord in that school!" interrupted Flea,
bitterly. "I ought to know, if anybody does. Good-by, Mrs. Fogg."

She had dashed over the tumble-down fence and was flying across the
field before the old woman could stop her, if, indeed, she wished to
prolong the interview.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]



RICK DALE.

BY KIRK MUNROE.

CHAPTER XIX.

A TREACHEROUS INDIAN FROM NEAH BAY.


To his great disappointment, Skookum John could not find the cutter that
he had heretofore so carefully avoided and was now so anxious to
discover. She no longer lay where he had seen her the day before. He
even went far enough into Commencement Bay to take a look at Tacoma
harbor and identify the several steamers lying at its wharves. The
cutter was not among them, and he made the long trip back to his own
camp in a very disgusted frame of mind. At the same time he was
determined to redouble his efforts to gain that reward, for at the
prospect of losing it it began to assume an increased value.

With one source of income cut off, it was clearly his duty to provide
another. And how could he do this better than by securing the good-will
of those on board the white _piah ship_? There was no danger of them
being captured and driven out of business, and if he could only get them
into the habit of paying him for doing things, he could see no reason
why they should not continue to do so indefinitely.

The old Siwash had already persuaded himself that they would give him
twenty-five dollars for one _tenas man_ (boy), and by the same course of
reasoning he now wondered if they might not be induced to give him fifty
dollars for two boys. It was possible, and certainly worth trying for.
If they should consent, he could not see how, in justice to himself and
his family, he could refuse to give up the _hyas doctin_ (Alaric) along
with the _tenas shipman_ (young sailor). After all, the former had not
placed him under such a very great obligation, for he would have found
Nittitan himself in a very few minutes.

So the cunning old Indian, having persuaded himself that his meditated
treachery was pure benevolence, reached his camp in good spirits in
spite of his disappointment, and determined to make the stay of the boys
so pleasant that they should offer no objection to remaining with him
until the return of the cutter to those waters.

The boys had been awake and out for an hour, and Alaric was fairly
intoxicated with the glorious freedom of wild life, of which this was
his first taste. Already had he taken a swimming lesson, and although in
his ignorance he had recklessly plunged into water that would have
drowned him had not Bonny and Bah-die pulled him out, he was confident
that he had swum one stroke before going down.

Upon Skookum John's return his guests sat down with him to a breakfast
which their ravenous appetites enabled them to eat with a hearty
enjoyment, though it consisted of only fish, fish, and yet more fish.

"But it is such capital fish!" explained Alaric.

"Isn't it?" replied Bonny, tearing with teeth and fingers at a great
strip of smoked salmon. "And the oil isn't half bad, either."

After they had finished eating, and their host had lighted his pipe, he
told Bonny that his early-morning trip had been taken out of anxiety for
their safety, and to discover the whereabouts of their enemies, the
revenue-men.

"They mamook klatawa?" (Have they gone away?) inquired Bonny.

"No; piah ship mitlite Tacoma illahie." (No; steamer stay in Tacoma
land.) "Shipman Tyhee cutters wan wan." (The sailor chief made much
worthless talk.)

"Mesika wan wan Tyhee?" (Did you talk to the Captain?) inquired Bonny,
anxiously.

"Ah ah me wan wan no klap tenas man. Alta piah ship kopet Tacoma
illahie. Mesika mitlite Skookum John house."

By this sentence he conveyed to Bonny the idea that he had told the
Captain the boys were not to be found. At the same time he extended to
them the hospitality of his camp for so long as the cutter should remain
at Tacoma.

When Bonny repeated this conversation to Alaric, the latter exclaimed:
"Of course we would better stay here where we are safe until the cutter
goes away, even if it is a week from now. I hope it will be as long as
that, for I think this camp is one of the jolliest places I ever
struck."

"All right," replied Bonny. "If you can stand it, I can."

So the boys settled quietly down and waited for something to happen,
though it seemed to Alaric as though something of interest and
importance were happening nearly all the time. To begin with, they built
themselves a brush hut under Bah-die's instruction, the steep-pitched
roof of which would shed rain. Then they both took lessons from the same
teacher in sailing and paddling a canoe.

The supply of fish for the camp had to be replenished daily, and this
duty devolved entirely upon the younger children, for Bah-die went
always with his father to draw the big seine net, in which they caught
fish for market. As the lads were anxious to earn their board, they
sometimes went in the big boat, and sometimes in the small canoes with
the children, by which means they learned all the different ways known
to the Indians of catching fish. With all this, Alaric's swimming
lessons were not neglected for a single day, and he often took baths
both morning and evening, so fascinated was he with the novel sport.

In return for what Bah-die taught him, he undertook to train the young
Siwash in the art of catching a baseball. The latter having watched him
and Bonny pass the ball and catch it with perfect ease, one day held out
his hands, as much as to say, "Here you go; give us a catch."

Alaric, who held the ball at that moment, let drive a swift one straight
at him. When Bah-die dropped it, and clapped his smarting hands to his
sides with an expression of pained astonishment on his face, the white
lad knew just how he felt. He could plainly recall the sensations of his
own experience on that not-very-long-ago day in Golden Gate Park; and
while he sympathized with Bah-die, he could not help exulting in the
fact that he had discovered one boy of his own age more ignorant than he
concerning an athletic sport. Then he set to work to show the young
Siwash how to catch a ball, just as Dave Carncross had shown him, and in
so doing he experienced a genuine pleasure. He was growing to be like
other boys, and the knowledge that this was so filled him with delight.

Nearly every day Skookum John sailed over to Tacoma, ostensibly to carry
his fish, but really to discover whether or not the cutter had returned,
and each night he came back glum with disappointment. Bonny often asked
to be allowed to go to the city with him, as he was impatient to be
again at work; but the Indian invariably put him off, on the plea that
if the cutter-men discovered one whom they were so anxious to capture,
in his canoe, they would punish him for having afforded the fugitive a
shelter.

The young sailor could not understand why the cutter remained so long in
one place, for he had never known her to do such a thing before, and
many a talk did he and Alaric have on the subject.

So time wore on until our lads had spent two full weeks in the Siwash
camp, and had become heartily sick of it. To be sure, Alaric had grown
brown and rugged, besides becoming almost an adept in the several arts
he had undertaken to master. His hands were no longer white, and their
palms were covered with calloused spots instead of blisters.

Two things, however, distressed Alaric greatly, and one was his
clothing, which was not only ragged, but soiled beyond anything he had
ever dreamed of wearing. His canvas shoes, from frequent soakings and
much walking on rocks, were so broken that they nearly dropped from his
feet. His woollen trousers were shrunken and bagged at the knees, while
his blue sweater, besides being torn, had faded to a brownish-red. With
all this he was comforted by the reflection that he still had a good
suit in reserve that he could wear whenever they should be free to go to
the city.

His other great trial was the food of that Siwash camp. He had never
been particularly fond of fish, and now, after eating it alone three
times a day for two weeks, the very thought of fish made him ill. He
loathed it so that it seemed to him he would almost rather go to prison,
with a chance of getting something else to eat, than to remain any
longer on a fish diet. From both these trials Bonny suffered nearly as
much as his companion.

One day when the boys had decided that they could not stand this sort of
thing any longer, they were out fishing in the swift sailing-canoe with
Bah-die, Skookum John having gone in the larger boat to Tacoma. While
they gloomily pursued their now distasteful employment a sail-boat
containing two white men ran alongside to obtain bait. As these were the
first of their own race with whom the boys had found an opportunity to
talk since coming to that place, Bonny began to ply them with questions.
Among others, he asked:

"What is the revenue-cutter doing at Tacoma all this time? Has she
broken down?"

"She isn't there," replied one of the men.

"Isn't there?" repeated Bonny, incredulously.

"No; nor hasn't been for upwards of two weeks. We are expecting her back
every day, though."

Then the men sailed away, leaving our lads to stare at each other in
speechless amazement.


CHAPTER XX.

AN EXCITING RACE FOR LIBERTY.

"What do you suppose it all means?" asked Alaric, as the boat containing
the two white men sailed away.

"If it is true, it means that somebody has been fooling us, and you know
who he is as well as I do," replied Bonny, who did not care to mention
names within Bah-die's hearing. "If I'm not very much mistaken, it means
also that he is trying to hold on to us until the cutter comes back. You
know they offered him a reward to find us."

"Only twenty-five dollars," interposed Alaric, who could not imagine
anybody committing an act of treachery for so small a sum.

"That would be a good deal to some people. I don't know but what it
would be to me just now."

"If I had once thought he was after the money," continued Alaric, "I
would have offered him twice as much to deal squarely with us."

"Would you?" asked Bonny, with a queer little smile, for his comrade's
remarks concerning money struck him as very absurd. "Where would you
have got it?"

"I meant, of course, if I had it," replied the other, flushing, and
wondering at his own stupidity. "But what do you think we ought to do
now?"

"Sail over to Tacoma as quick as we can, and see whether the cutter is
there or not. When we find that out we'll see what is to be done next."

"But we may meet John on the way."

"I don't care. That's a good idea, though. I've been wondering how we
should get our friend here to agree to the plan." Then turning to
Bah-die, and speaking in Chinook, Bonny suggested that as the fishing
was not very good and there was a fine breeze for sailing, they should
run out into the sound and meet the big canoe on its way back from
Tacoma, to which plan the Siwash unsuspectingly agreed.

Half an hour later the swift canoe was dashing across the open sound
before a rattling breeze that heeled her down until her lee gunwale was
awash, though her three occupants were perched high on the weather side.
The city was dimly visible in the distance ahead, and near at hand the
big canoe which they were ostensibly going to meet was rapidly
approaching. Bonny was steering, and Bah-die held the main-sheet, while
the jib-sheets were entrusted to Alaric.

Skookum John had already recognized them, and as they came abreast of
him motioned to them to put about; but Bonny, affecting not to
understand, resolutely maintained his course. They were well past the
other craft, which was coming about as though to follow them, before
Bah-die realized that anything was wrong. Then obeying an angry order
shouted to him by his father, he let go the main-sheet without warning,
causing the canoe to right so violently as to very nearly fling her
passengers overboard, and attempted to wrest the steering-oar from
Bonny's hand.

[Illustration: BAH-DIE LEAVES THE CANOE AND GOES TO JOIN HIS FATHER.]

Seeing this, and with the desperate feeling of an escaped prisoner who
sees himself about to be recaptured, Alaric sprang aft, seized the young
Indian by the legs, and with a sudden output of all his recently
acquired strength, pitched him headlong into the sea. Then catching the
main sheet, he trimmed it in. Down heeled the canoe until it seemed as
though she certainly must capsize; but Alaric, looking very pale and
determined, held fast to the straining rope, and would not yield an
inch.

It was well that he had learned this lesson, and was possessed of the
courage to apply it, for the canoe did not gather headway an instant too
soon. Bah-die, emerging from his plunge furious with rage, was swimming
toward her, and made a frantic attempt to grasp the gunwale as she
slipped away. His clutching fingers only missed it by the fraction of an
inch, and before he could make another effort the quick-moving craft was
beyond his reach. He was too wise to attempt a pursuit, and turned,
instead, to meet the big canoe, which was approaching him.

"That was a mighty fine thing to do, Rick Dale!" cried Bonny,
admiringly, "and but for you we should be on our way back to that
hateful camp at this very moment. Of course they may catch us yet with
that big boat, but we've got a show and must make the most of it. So
throw your weight as far as you can out to windward, and don't ease off
that sheet unless you see solid water pouring in over the gunnel."

"All right," replied Alaric, shortly, almost too excited for words.

Both lads realized that after what had just taken place it would be
nearly as unpleasant to fall into the hands of Skookum John as into
those of the revenue-men themselves, and both were determined that this
should not happen if they could prevent it. But could they? Fast as they
were sailing, it seemed to Alaric as though the big canoe rushing after
them was sailing faster. Bonny dared not take his attention from the
steering long enough even to cast a glance behind. Managing the canoe
was now more difficult than before, because they had lost one hundred
and fifty pounds of live ballast.

When Alaric looked at the water flashing by them it seemed as though he
had never moved so fast in his life, while a glance at the big boat
astern almost persuaded him that they were creeping at a snail's pace.
It was certain that the long wicked-looking beak of the pursuing craft
was drawing nearer. Finally it was so close at hand that he could
distinguish the old Indian's scowling features and the expression of
triumph on Bah-die's face. The lad's heart grew heavy within him, for
the city wharves were still far away, and with things as they were the
chase was certain to be ended before they could be reached.

All at once an exclamation from Bonny directed his attention to another
craft coming up the sound and bearing down on them as though to take
part in the race. It was a powerful sloop-yacht standing toward the city
from the club-house on Maury Island, and its crew were greatly
interested in the brush between the two canoes.

Either by design or accident, the yacht, which was to windward of the
chase, stood so close to the big canoe as to completely blanket her, and
so take the wind from her sails that she almost lost headway. Then, as
though to atone for her error, the yacht bore away so as to run between
pursuer and pursued, and pass to leeward of the smaller canoe. As the
beautiful craft swept by our lads with a flash of rushing waters,
glinting copper, and snowy sails, a cheery voice rang out: "Well done,
plucky boys! Stick to it, and you'll win yet!"

Alaric could not see the speaker, because of the sail between them, but
the tones were so startlingly familiar that for a moment he imagined the
voice to belong to the stranger who had talked with him on the wharf at
Victoria, and whom he now knew for a revenue-officer. If that was the
case, they were indeed hopelessly surrounded by peril. He was about to
confide his fears to Bonny, when like a flash it came to him that the
voice was that of Dave Carncross, whom he had not seen since that
memorable day in Golden Gate Park.

Although he had no desire to meet this friend of the ball-field under
the present circumstances, he was greatly relieved to find his first
suspicion groundless, and again directed his attention to the big canoe,
which, although she had lost much distance, was again rushing after
them. The boy now noticed for the first time, not more than half a mile
astern of her, a white steamer with a dense column of smoke pouring from
her yellow funnel, and evidently bound for the same port with
themselves.

Soon afterwards they had passed the smeltery, saw-mills, and
lumber-loading vessels of the old town, and were approaching the cluster
of steamships lying at the wharves of the Northern Pacific Railway,
which here finds its western terminus. Off these the yacht had already
dropped her jib and come to anchor. The big canoe was again overhauling
them, and looked as though she might overtake them after all. A boat
from the yacht was making toward the wharves, and Bonny, believing that
it would find a landing-place, slightly altered his course so as follow
the same direction.

All at once Alaric, who was again gazing nervously astern, cried out:
"Look at that steamer! I do believe it is going to run down the big
canoe."

Bonny glanced hastily over his shoulder, and uttered an exclamation of
dismay.

"Great Scott! It's the cutter," he gasped. "And they are right on top of
us. Now we are in for it."

"They are speaking to John, and he is pointing to us," said Alaric.

"Never mind them now," said Bonny. "Ease off your sheet a bit, and 'tend
strictly to business. We've still a chance, and can't afford to make any
mistakes."

A few minutes later, just as a yawl was putting off from the cutter's
side, the small canoe rounded the end of a wharf and came upon a
landing-stage. On it the yacht's boat had just deposited a couple of
passengers, who, with bags in their hands, were hastening up a flight of
steps.

"Here, you!" cried Bonny to one of the yacht's crew who stood on the
float, "look out for this canoe a minute. We've got to overtake those
gentlemen. Come on, Rick."

Without waiting to see whether this order would be obeyed, the boys ran
up the flight of steps and dashed away down the long wharf. They had no
idea of where they should go, and were only intent on finding some
hiding-place from the pursuers, whom they believed to be already on
their trail.

As they were passing a great ocean steamer whose decks were crowded with
passengers, and which was evidently about to depart, a carriage dashed
up in front of them, so close that they narrowly escaped being run over.
As its door was flung open a voice cried out:

"Here, boys! Get these traps aboard that steamer. Quick!"

With this a gentleman sprang out and thrust a couple of bags, a
travelling-rug, and a gun-case into their hands. A lady with a little
boy followed him. He snatched up the child, and the whole party ran up
the gang-plank of the steamer as it was about to be hauled ashore.

Our lads had accepted this chance to board the steamer without
hesitation, and now ran ahead of the others. The clerk at the inner end
of the gang-plank allowed them to pass, thinking, of course, that they
would deposit their burdens on deck and immediately return to the wharf.

With an instinct born of long familiarity with ocean steamers, Alaric
made his way through the throng of passengers to the main saloon, and
Bonny followed him closely. Here they placed their burdens on a table,
and, with Alaric still in the lead, disappeared through a door on the
opposite side.

Five minutes later the great ship began to move slowly from the wharf,
and our lads, from a snug nook on the lower deck, watched with much
perturbation a revenue-officer, who had evidently just landed from the
cutter, come hurrying down the wharf.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]



[Illustration]

A MAY-DAY PLAY.

BY CAROLINE A. CREEVEY AND MARGARET E. SANGSTER.


_Characters:_

  QUEEN OF THE MAY.
  FIRST MAID OF HONOR.
  SECOND MAID OF HONOR.
  FIRST MAY-POLE DANCER (_girl_).
  SECOND MAY-POLE DANCER (_boy_).
  THIRD MAY-POLE DANCER (_girl_).
  FOURTH MAY-POLE DANCER (_boy_).
  THE PHILOSOPHER (_boy_).
  THE DRUMMER-BOY.
  THE MESSENGER-BOY.
  FIRST GUEST (_girl_).
  SECOND GUEST (_boy_).
  CLERK OF THE WINDS AND SHOWERS.
  ROBIN HOOD.
  MAID MARIAN.
  FIRST HUNTER.
  SECOND HUNTER.
  TITANIA.
  CALLA-LILY.
  ROSEMARY.
  SWEET-WILLIAM.

SCENE.--_A lawn or field. Upon a small raised platform a chair covered
with green (the throne) is placed. A drum is heard in the distance. It
approaches, and appears upon the stage. Behind the_ Drummer-Boy _in
procession march the_ May-Queen, Maids of Honor, May-pole Dancers,
Guests, Philosopher, Messenger. _They march two or three times around
the stage._

_Drummer-Boy_. Here our long march ends. My lady Queen, behold your
rustic throne. Be pleased to grace it, and rest yourself.

_Queen_. But I am not your Queen yet. I have no crown.

_Philosopher_. Madam, 'twere wise to secure your throne. A crown is an
empty honor. Better a throne without a crown than a crown without a
throne.

_Queen_. But, sweet sir, may I not have them both?

_First Guest_. Lady, thou mayst. Had I a thousand crowns to give, they
should be thine.

_Philosopher_. Pity of the head with the weight of a thousand crowns
upon it. Under one, the neck is often sorely bent.

_Queen_. There thou art right. One is enough for most mortals. But one I
fain would have.

_First Maid of Honor_. Dear Queen, thy crown is here. Trust me, it has
not been forgotten. My sister and I will lightly place it on thy brow.

     [_The two_ Maids of Honor _hold a wreath over the head of the_
     Queen, _who kneels._]

[Illustration]

_First Maid of Honor_  } (_in concert_).
_Second Maid of Honor_ }

  We crown thee Queen of May.
   Rule gently, fairest maid;
  Let flowers strew thy way
    On hill and glen and glade.

     [_The_ Maids of Honor _lead the_ Queen _to her throne, and sit on
     the platform at her feet. Others sit on the grass or stand about
     her._]

_Messenger-Boy_ (_presents a sceptre_).

  Take this sceptre, gracious lady,
    Hold it with imperial sway.
  We are watching, only anxious
    All your bidding to obey.

_Queen_ (_accepting_).

  The sceptre is a trust indeed;
    I'll bear it lightly as a flower;
  And yet no wand like this I need,
    So much I trust your hearts this hour.

_First Guest_. Truly a gracious Queen!

_Second Guest_. One worthy of the day and the lovely spring.

_Queen_. Most true and loyal subjects, it is our will that you pass a
merry holiday. Leave care behind. Let no one dare to frown. Let all be
generous and mirthful. And first let the May-pole dancers come forward.
Know ye where a May-pole grows--tall, straight, beautiful?

_All the May-pole Dancers_. We know.

_Queen_. Fetch one, then, right soon. See that it be gorgeously bedecked
with flowers and greens and waving streamers. (_Exeunt_ May-pole
dancers.) And now we desire to secure a fair day. Come hither,
Messenger. Take our love to the Clerk of the Winds and Showers, and
beseech his attendance at our May-day festival.

_Philosopher_. Thou must mount to the top of the weather bureau. 'Tis a
tall place and hard to climb.

_Messenger_. I can climb. I go then to bid the Clerk of the Winds and
Showers to be thy guest. [_Exit._]

_Queen_. And while we wait, let our Master Philosopher here propose us
riddles.

_Philosopher_. What is the first flower of the spring?

_First Maid of Honor_. Call'st thou that a riddle?

_Philosopher_. Canst answer?

_First Maid of Honor_. Not I.

_Second Maid of Honor_. Nor I.

_Queen_. Go, then, search and find. Shame upon us if we cannot answer
his riddle. (_Exeunt_ Maids of Honor.) And now another, sir, if it
please you.

_Philosopher_. What is the first bird that comes from the south and
sings to the north in spring?

_First Guest_. Why, that is no better than the other.

_Philosopher_. Canst answer it?

_First Guest_. Not I.

_Second Guest_. Nor I.

_Queen_. Haste, then, fair Guests, go to the forests and find out. Do
not let these riddles go unanswered.

     [_Exeunt_ Guests.]

_Philosopher_. And now I would ask thy Drummer-Boy a riddle.

_Queen_. Thou mayst ask. Attend, sirrah.

_Philosopher_. Where maketh the bumblebee his nest?

_Drummer-Boy_. I think in the hollow of a tree.

_Queen_. Go, child, find the bumblebee's nest, and answer his riddle.

_Philosopher_. But look not in hollow trees.

     [_Exit_ Drummer-Boy.]

_Queen_. Knowest thou thyself the answers to thine own riddles?

_Philosopher_. Madam, a true philosopher finds riddles everywhere, but
the answers are harder to get.

_Queen_. Then thou knowest them not. Fie! a child can ask questions.

_Philosopher_. And a fool can answer them. What would your Majesty for a
riddle? A play upon words or a silly question? Nay, then, ask not me for
riddles.

     [_A distant horn is heard._]

_Queen_. Who comes hither? If friends, Sir Philosopher, we will proffer
our hospitality. If foes, why, then, we would best retreat. (_Enter two_
Hunters.) Good-day, sirs. Come ye to grace our May-day festival, or do
ye come to disturb our holiday?

_First Hunter_. Fair Queen, we had forgot that 'tis the first of May. We
were bent on duty stern. But far be it from us to mar the pleasure of
the Queen of May.

_Second Hunter_. We marvel that she seems to celebrate in a lone
fashion, saving only this old man to attend her.

_Philosopher_. _Old_ man, sayest thou?

_Second Hunter_. Old, I said. Thou art not toothless nor blind, but
wise, if I mistake not; and how canst thou be wise and not old?

_Philosopher_. I take no offence. But, sir, I dare say thee now, thou
art older than I.

_Second Hunter_. It may be. I too am old. We are all old beside thy
lovely Queen.

_Queen_. A flatterer. But what is thy stern duty of which thou didst
speak?

_First Hunter_. Our chief hath lost his lady. She did but walk by
herself awhile, and hath disappeared. He, her husband, is disconsolate.

_Queen_. Who is this bereft husband?

_First Hunter_. The renowned Prince of the woods--no less a person than
Robin Hood.

_Queen_. Ay, we have heard of Robin Hood.

_Philosopher_. And the lost lady is?

_First Hunter_. Maid Marian.

_Queen_. Well, indeed! We sorrow greatly for the Prince. But will not
your lord grace our May-day feast with his presence? (_To_ Philosopher.)
This is a rare opportunity. We have long wished to see this renowned
Robin.

_Philosopher_. The Queen invites Sir Robin Hood to her feast. Will it
please you to find him and bring him hither?

_First Hunter_. That we will, right gladly.

_Queen_. And come yourselves.

_Both Hunters_. Thanks, Queen. We will. [_Exeunt._]

_Queen_. Now if only Maid Marian could be found.

     _Enter_ Messenger _with_ Clerk of the Winds and Showers.

_Clerk of the Winds and Showers_ (_dropping on one knee_). Your Majesty,
thanks for your courtesy. It gives me much pleasure to attend your
May-day festival.

_Queen_. Gracious sir, thou honorest us by coming. What is the outlook
for the weather?

_Clerk of the Winds and Showers_. Madam, there is a disturbance in the
Barbadoes travelling slowly northward. The storm over the lakes is
concentrating its energy along the fiftieth parallel of latitude. It
will reach Hudson Bay to-morrow evening. Stationary temperature prevails
in the Gulf, cloudy to partly cloudy weather, with high barometer, on
the Pacific coast.

_Queen_. Sir Philosopher, do you make out a pleasant afternoon?

_Philosopher_. Nay, ask me no weather questions. They are riddles which
no man can make out.

_Queen_. We would we knew if the sun would hold till nightfall.

_Clerk of the Winds and Showers_. A violent electric disturbance is
noticeable around the north pole.

_Philosopher_. May it shake the north pole to its imperilling. Fellow,
why canst thou not give our Queen a straight answer? Will it rain
to-day?

_Clerk of the Winds and Showers_. I have given thee the morning
bulletins, and thou mayst gather for thyself--that is, if thy wits be
not already gone a wool-gathering.

_Queen_. No disrespect. I pray thee. We will hope for the best.

     _Enter_ May-pole Dancers _and_ Maid Marian.

_First May-pole Dancer_. Hail, fair Queen! We bring thee a fine pole,
tall, straight, well bedecked, as thou didst desire.

_Queen_. You have indeed found a pretty pole. We will ourself join in a
dance around it. But whom hast thou here? What stranger lady?

_Second May-pole Dancer_. Dear Queen, this is a lost damsel. She hath
become separated from her friends. So we asked her to join our
merrymaking, and forget for a time her woes.

_Queen_ (_to_ Philosopher). Mayhap this is the lost maid. I will speak
to her. Dear lady, who art thou, and why art thou astray in these woods?

_Maid Marian_. Fair Queen, I am called Maid Marian, but in truth I am
the lawful wife of Robin Hood, of whom your Majesty may have heard. I
was taking a stroll by myself in the woods, and missed my way, so that I
could not return.

_Queen_. Thou art young to be a wife; but I counsel thee not to mourn.
Enjoy thyself with us, and it is possible thy husband may find thee.
Thou art our honored guest.

_Maid Marian_. Thanks, madam. Could I forget him whom I have lost here
in your sweet company, I could be well content.

     [_The_ May-pole Dancers _set up the pole, and, catching the
     streamers, dance around it._]

[Illustration]

_May-pole Dancers_.

  Merrily, merrily round and round
    We dance for the purest pleasure;
  Cheerily, cheerily o'er the ground
    We tread to a joyful measure.

  Happily, happily here we pass,
    And the blue sky bending o'er us,
  Tenderly, tenderly, clear as glass,
    Lists to our lilting chorus.

_Queen_. That is well danced and sung. But here come our Maids of Honor,
and with them pretty children.

     _Enter_ Maids of Honor, Titania, Calla-Lily, Rosemary,
     Sweet-William.

_First Maid of Honor_. Dear Queen, we have sought far and near for the
answer to the Philosopher's riddle. We bring thee several early spring
flowers; but now they are blooming all together, how can we tell which
was first?

_Second Maid of Honor_. And as we were looking we found these sweet
wood-fairies, and have asked them to join in our mirth to-day.

_Queen_. Right glad am I to welcome you, sweet wood-fairies. How may we
call you?

_Titania_.

  Call us elves and trolls and fays,
    Call us friends who love you dear;
  Down beneath the tree-roots for you
    We are spinning all the year.

  Right gladly I will stay awhile,
    And bask within the May-Queen's smile,
  But soon I'll have to flit away;
    The fairy Queen not _long_ can stay.

_Calla-Lily_.

  I bring grace and Parian whiteness,
  Where I bloom is loveliest brightness.

_Rosemary_.

  For remembrance, Queen, am I;
  Let me in your bosom lie.

_Sweet-William_.

  I am always your true knight;
    I will serve you at your will;
  Always ready, brave, and steady,
    Sweet and cheery still.

_Queen_. It is well. And now shall we learn about the flowers?

_First Maid of Honor_. Here are what we have found--anemones,
wind-flowers, saxifrages, red columbines.

_Second Maid of Honor_. Claytonias, beauties of spring, and violets soft
and yellow.

     [_They throw the flowers in the_ Queen's _lap._]

_Queen_. Are these the first?

_Calla-Lily_.

  Deep in the shadow, where the pine-trees grow,
  I found the sweet arbutus, it will blow
  Where brown leaves lie; you push them soft away,
  There, shy and pink, the darling flowerets stay.

_Rosemary_.

  Blood-root and anemone,
  These, fair Queen, my gifts to thee.

_Sweet-William_.

  I know you love the graceful ferns,
    The slender maiden-hair;
  They seem to suit your style, my Queen,
    So innocent and fair.

_Titania_.

  Hepaticas, blue-bells, and buttercups sweet
  I will weave a rich carpet to lay at your feet.
  And the sweet nodding grasses and dear blushing clover
  One day I'll make ready for you to step over;
  But the first and the coyest of all the sweet flowers
  Is hepatica, favorite of spring's early hours.

_Philosopher_. Right art thou, Titania. The first and the sweetest
flower of spring is the hepatica. (_Enter two_ Guests.) And now methinks
we shall hear the reading of the second riddle. Our Guests have
returned.

_Queen_. We are glad to welcome you again. Tell us then, what is the
bird that first comes from the south and sings to the north?

_First Guest_. The woods are full of birds, and how can we tell which
came first?

_Second Guest_. There are sparrows and finches, red-polls, warblers,
brown thrushes, and cheery bobolinks. Each one we asked, "Wert thou the
first?" and they but cocked their funny little heads one side and
warbled sweet notes. How could we tell what they said?

_Calla-Lily_.

  You have to learn bird language
    And live among the dears,
  And really to know them well
    Would take a hundred years.

_Titania_.

  Song-sparrows and robins and bluebirds bring luck
  In the very first dawn of the spring.

_Queen_. Here, then, we have thy second riddle answered.

_Sweet-William_.

  If the mortals choose to look,
    Open eyes all secrets read;
  Nature's page is but a book,
    Never sealed to those who read.

     _Enter_ Hunters _and_ Robin Hood.

_Maid Marian_ (_rushing into_ Robin Hood's _arms_). Oh, my Robin! I
truly had thought never to see thy face again, and now thou comest to
me.

_Robin Hood_. Poor little lass! Thou wast hunting for me and I for thee.
Didst thou not hear these fellows' horns?

_Maid Marian_. My ears were closed with fright and grief. But I will
present thee to the lovely May-Queen, and do thou, Robin, kneel and kiss
her hand after thy most knightly fashion.

_Robin Hood_. Gracious Queen, thou shalt reckon me one of thy loyal
knights and true subjects.

_Queen_. Our thanks, brave Robin. You shall grace our merrymaking.
(_Enter_ Drummer-Boy, _crying_.) But now we hear a sound that comports
not with merrymaking. What ails thee, child?

_Drummer-Boy_. Madam, do not let Mr. Philosopher send me on more
riddle-reading. Truly I have met with many mishaps, yet the bumblebee's
nest found I not. I spied a hole in a tree. With much ado I climbed to
it and thrust my hand within. Something bit me sorely, so that I cried
out with pain and hastened to slide down. A squirrel's saucy eyes peered
at me from the hole. Then I would fain have pelted her with a stone, but
that she withdrew quickly within her hole.

_Rosemary_ (_picking a leaf_). Boy, give me thy hand. So, I will bind it
in this leaf, and the wound will quickly heal. Doubtless the squirrel
hath young ones, and looked upon thee as an intruder.

_Philosopher_. Said I not to thee, look not in hollow trees?

_Drummer-Boy_. Too late I remembered that. Well, I wandered on, and soon
I saw what I took to be a bumblebee. I followed him till he came to a
fence-post, and I saw him enter a little hole. "Here I have him!" said
I, and I gave the post vigorous knocks to make him come forth. He did,
indeed, and his fellows with him, and I was well stung for my pains.

_Calla-Lily_. What kind of a bee was it that stung thee?

_Drummer-Boy_. A long thin black body had he, and it concealed a wicked
needle.

_Calla-Lily_. Thou hast been stung by a mason-wasp. I have some ointment
that will take away the pain, and thou shalt anon forget thy adventures.

_Drummer-Boy_. The pain is gone already.

_Titania_. Come here, and I will whisper the answer to the riddle.
[_Whispers._]

_Drummer-Boy_. The bumblebee maketh her nest in the ground. She diggeth
a long narrow hole, layeth her egg, placeth beside it a lump of pollen
and honey, then closeth that cell, and maketh another over it, providing
food for the grub in like manner, then closeth that cell, and so on till
all her eggs are laid.

_Philosopher_. Well said, boy. Thou hast found a rare teacher.

_Queen_. A gracious teacher, surely. And now shall we gather for the
dance?

_Robin Hood_. It were well, my Queen, to proceed with the merrymaking. I
see a darkening of the sky in the west, and fear a shower later on.

_Queen_ (_to_ Clerk of the Winds and Showers). Sir, how is that? Did we
not desire thee to keep the skies bright?

_Clerk of the Winds and Showers_. There are signs of wet. The barometer
is falling, the wind is shifting. But I will telephone to the weather
bureau. The storm may be diverted to another quarter. [_Exit._]

_Queen_. We hope he may succeed. Take partners all and form the dance.

     [_The_ May-pole Dancers _go about and form the figure for the
     dance._ Queen _and_ Robin Hood, Maid Marian _and_ Philosopher,
     Titania _and_ Sweet-William, Calla-Lily _and_ Messenger, Rosemary
     _and_ Second Guest, First Maid of Honor _and_ First Hunter, Second
     Maid of Honor _and_ Second Hunter, First Guest _and_ Drummer-Boy,
     First _and_ Second May-pole Dancers, Third _and_ Fourth May-pole
     Dancers. _They march and dance around the pole, singing:_]

  We dance for love of moving,
    Our hearts are light and free;
  What joy in pleasant May-time
    It is alive to be,

  When buds are fast unrolling,
    And birds are on the bough,
  And all the world is stepping
    To merry music now!

  We dance, because we cannot
    Walk soberly and slow
  When round the flowery May-pole
    We're moving to and fro.

     _Enter_ Clerk of the Winds and Showers.

_Clerk of the Winds and Showers_. Hasten, Queen, and ye merry men and
maidens all. The storm cometh. It is at my heels. I have tried, but
could not keep it back. Lightning flashes, thunder rolls. The May-day
merrymaking must cease.

_Queen_. Alas! where shall we fly for shelter?

_Maid Marian_. Are we so far from our house in the woods, Robin dear?

_Robin Hood_. No, not far. We may go thither and be safe. It is a rustic
place, madam, but not a drop shall fall on thy fair head, so we reach it
anon. Huntsmen, take your partners and lead the way. Bid prepare a
supper for these friends, and we will follow.

     [_Exeunt_ Hunters _and partners._]

_Queen_. So the hospitality is from thee, and not from us. Oh, fie! my
Clerk of Winds and Showers! Why couldst thou not make the sun shine till
we had finished our dance?

_Philosopher_. Grieve not for that which cannot be cured. Meet
disappointment with a smiling face, and you turn it into good fortune.

_First Maid of Honor_. Will it not be in the way of pleasant adventure
to visit the abode of Robin Hood?

_Queen_. You are right. It will make our day the merrier. And after the
storm there may be time to tread another dance before we go to our
homes. Follow, all, and let us run a race with the gathering clouds.

     [_Exeunt omnes, except_ Clerk of the Winds and Showers.]

_Clerk of the Winds and Showers_. Curious. That's the fifth time the
weather bureau has had it wrong this week. That storm now, in the lake
region. It should have passed to the north. There was no word sent to us
of "local showers." Think I'll take a dance around the pole myself.
(_Dances._) It seems to be growing lighter. That shower is not coming
here, after all. See, it is passing by to the north. They will come back
and have another dance. And they will thank me for my good offices in
their behalf. After all, the weather reports are occasionally correct.

[CURTAIN.]



TOMMY ON NATURE.


  The blossoms ripple in a sea
    About the garden way,
  And on that old black apple-tree,
    With bluebirds more than gay,

  I watch those fragrant flakes of snow
    That tremble in the air,
  And in the breezes softly blow,
    And frolic here and there.

  I think that Nature is too slow--
    For she that blossom spray
  Should turn to apples all aglow,
    And do it right away.

  R. K. MUNKITTRICK.



A LITTLE HERO.


Ruggsy was black, and it would have been a difficult matter to discern
him in the dark tunnel of the mine were it not for the little flickering
lamp he carried, and his occasional "Go 'long there, Lazybones!" that he
addressed to his patient mule. Ruggsy drove a tram-car through the
tunnels of a coal mine, and all his little life was wrapped up in the
mule, the miners, and the click of their picks. But Ruggsy is a hero,
and the way he became one is best told as he describes it:

"You see, boss, it wuz jes like this. De mule an' I wuz er workin' up
towards de upper gallery on de steep grade when Ise heerd a rumblin'.
Ise knew what dat meant. One of dem trams had slipped de brake, an' wuz
er comin' down de grade mighty fast. Tell yer, boss, Ise wuz er scared
little nigger. Way down de grade, in de narrow part, der wuz er lot er
men widenin' de tunnel, an' Ise knew de car would be on dem befo' dey
could get outen de way. Ise hit ol' Lazybones er smash wid de whip, an',
he! he! dat wuz funny! He neber felt it dat way befo', yer see. He gib
an awmighty kick, an' started pullin' like mad. Yer see, dere wuz a
switch 'bout a short bit ahead er me, and er blind sidin' ran offen it.
If Ise could get dere befo' de tram got dere, Ise could throw de switch
an' send her plum into de wall at de end o' de sidin'. But, boss, I's
mos' frightened; dat rumblin' was growin' louder an' louder, and Ise
spect dat Ise would be too late. Ise could see it er comin', an' old
Lazybones saw it, an' he done gone an' balked, a thing he neber done
befo'. Ise jumped off de car an' ran as fast as Ise could to de switch.
It wuz stiff, an' Ise tugged at it till de car wuz on me. Ise felt a
smash an' Ise knew de switch turned, but somethin' hit me. Say, boss,
when Ise come to dey had me up to de surface, an' all de whole crowd er
miners wuz up dere too. Dey cheered like dey does 'lection-times. I wuz
hurt bad, but Ise been a hero eber sence, an' de foreman gib me a job up
here in de engine-room."



FROM CHUM TO CHUM.

BY GASTON V. DRAKE.

XIII.--FROM BOB TO JACK.


  PARIS.

     [Illustration]

     MY DEAR JACKY,--Did I say London was a circus? If I did, this place
     is two of 'em. And I tell you what, one of the queerest things in
     the world is to get into a country where people speak another
     language, even the children. Pop says there's even such a thing as
     French baby talk. It seems awful queer to ask a fellow what time it
     is in just the simplest way you know how, and have him look as if
     you'd asked him a question in algebra that he hadn't ever studied
     about. And yet that's happening all the time. They don't even
     understand the word Hullo; and Pop says some of 'em don't know
     French very well either, because he'd tried some of his on them,
     and they've just stood still and looked blank at him. I don't know
     what I'd do if Pop hadn't hired a courier to look after things. Ma
     said she didn't think a courier was necessary, but Pop said he
     thought he was. "You can talk French well enough to make yourself
     understood," Ma said. "I know that," said Pop, "but these French
     can't. If I want to go to the Luxemburg in a hurry I can ask a John
     Darm the way, but when he tells me, I have to sit down on the
     curb-stone for an hour or two and get out my pocket dictionary to
     translate what he says into English so that I can make use of his
     information." "But a courier is expensive," said Ma. "Three dollars
     a day," said Pa, "and I waste fifteen dollars' worth of nerves
     every hour going on as we do now." So we took him. His name is
     Jules and he's a dandy. He can speak all languages except Chinese
     and a few others, and he's a native of France and Germany. He was
     born in Alsace when it was French, which made him French, and now
     Alsace is German, which makes him German. That gave him two tongues
     to start with and he's picked up all the others since that time.
     His English is splendid, but as Pop says a little unexpected
     sometimes because he's got some of his words out of a slang
     dictionary, like corker for instance. When Pop asked him if there
     were any fine pictures to be seen anywhere he said the Luxemburg
     was full of "shay doovers--or as ze English say it has in it the
     very best corkers of modern times."

     [Illustration]

     He's a fine fellow, Jules is, and for exciting times he can beat
     Sandboys and Chesterfield. He's seen a bull-fight in Spain and if
     he hadn't learned how to play leap-frog when he was a boy he'd have
     been killed at it, because the bull got loose and came straight for
     him, being angered by Jules's red necktie. His first impulse was to
     run, but when he saw how fast the bull was coming he knew he
     wouldn't have any chance in a running match, so he just stood still
     and the minute the bellering beast came within reach he grabbed
     hold of his horns and leap-frogged right over his back. The bull
     stopped short and kept gazing round the sky after him, thinking
     he'd tossed him and intending to catch him on his way down, and
     while this was going on Jules pulled the sword out of his cane,
     crept around in front and stabbed him to the heart. So you see
     leap-frog isn't such a waste of time after all, though I don't know
     what we could use it for at home unless it was to escape from a
     cable car, and that would be pretty hard work unless you were ten
     feet high.

     [Illustration]

     We first met Jules at the railway station. The proprietor of the
     hotel sent him to see that we got through the French custom-house
     all right. I guess maybe he knew that we weren't quite used to the
     French language and that Jules would help us out and it was a good
     thing he did because I never saw Pop so excited as he was when we
     got here. He wasn't feeling well anyhow. We'd all been so awfully
     seasick crossing the British Channel that Pop hadn't time on board
     to be seasick himself, so he'd saved up a headache for the land.
     Then he was pretty mad at a French waiter at Calais who was such an
     idiot he didn't know what eggs were even in his own language. Pop
     asked him for uffs eight times and the fellow couldn't understand
     until finally Pop got mad and grabbed up a half a dozen buns and
     made a rush for the train forgetting to pay, with the waiter and a
     John Darm after him. We got the row all straightened out after a
     little while, but Pop couldn't get over it all the afternoon, and
     finally when he reached Paris he was ready to fight the whole
     French nation, and I heard Ma tell Aunt Sarah she was glad he
     didn't know enough French to insult anybody with it because she
     didn't want to have any trouble. And then Jules turned up and took
     charge of us all, even Pop. Pop didn't know who he was at first,
     but Jules told him, and then Pop got calm again and didn't want to
     fight anybody.

     [Illustration]

     I have a sort of an idea that Jules is really a duke in disguise,
     because everybody sort of gives up to him. The custom-house people
     as soon as they saw Jules with our trunks never said a word but
     past 'em right through, and all he did was to shake hands with 'em
     for their trouble. Then we got in a fakir and rode to the hotel. Ma
     and Aunt Sarah and the children had gone ahead in an omnibus. Fakir
     is French for hack. They generally have only one horse and are open
     like a phaeton, with a little seat for boys just behind the driver.
     The drivers all have red faces and wear beaver hats made of patent
     leather some of 'em white but mostly black, and even when they
     cheat you they're awful cheap.

     Pop tried some of his French on our driver on the way and you'd
     ought to have seen Jules try to keep his face straight. The driver
     looked amused too but Pop said he understood his French better than
     any other man he'd found yet in France.

     "Yes, sir," said Jules. "I haf no doubt. Ze coshay he is vat you
     call a Irrishman."

     The Paris streets are fine. They're so clean you could fall down
     and get up cleaner than you were when you fell and everybody's as
     polite as a dancing master. The hotel keeper acted as if we were
     some long lost relatives that he knew by the strawberry marks on
     our arms, he was so glad to see us, and when we went up to our
     rooms where the rest of the party already were, we found Ma and
     Aunt Sarah in a gorgeous parlor with fresh flowers on the centre
     table, but they still had their things on.

     "We don't want this do we?" said Ma.

     "Why not?" said Pop. "I think it's very nice."

     "But it must be a million a day," said Ma.

     "Oh no," said Pop. "I fixed that. It isn't any more expensive than
     back rooms on the top floor of a Yonkers hotel."

     "All right," said Ma, taking off her coat and hat. "If that's so, I
     think we'll need two more rooms."

     That shows you how very cheap everything is here.

     To-morrow Jules is going to take us to see Napoleon's tomb, and
     I'll tell you about that and other things when I write again. I'm
     going out now with Pop to take a bicycle ride in the Boys de
     Bologna which is French for Central Park.

     Good bye then for the present.

  BOB.



[Illustration: INTERSCHOLASTIC SPORT]


THE ONE-MILE WALK.

From Instantaneous Photographs of Phillips, the Harvard University
Walker.

[Illustration: 3.]

[Illustration: 2.]

[Illustration: 1.]

[Illustration: 6.]

[Illustration: 5.]

[Illustration: 4.]

The only artificial event now remaining on the Inter-collegiate card,
and on the cards of the more important interscholastic associations, is
the mile walk; and there is good reason to believe that within a year or
two this will be relegated, with the standing-high-jump and the
high-kick and the tug-of-war, to those regions whence acrobatic
performances never return. Nothing in this life is worth doing or
working at unless it is for some useful purpose, or unless there is an
advantage to be gained by some one in its successful accomplishment. If
the man who labors at becoming proficient in the mile walk does so
because he believes he can afford amusement to the crowd in the grand
stand by his acrobatics, very well. It is commendable to desire to add
to the gayety of nations. But if he trains at walking--I am speaking now
strictly of the heel-and-toe method--because he thinks he is doing
athletic work, he is deluding himself.

Nothing, however, that is said here derogatory to _artificial_ walking,
as practised by the athlete, should be construed as reflecting in any
way upon _natural_ walking. There are few exercises for the general run
of men any better than walking--walking across country at a natural
gait, head up, chest out, toes turned out, and arms swinging easily at
the sides. Such walking is natural and healthful. "Athletic" or
"heel-and-toe" walking--exaggerated stride, heel pounding, toeing in,
and all that--is artificial, and of no particular benefit. It is not
harmful, of course, because it is exercise, and all normal exercise is
beneficial.

The true test of the value of any field or track event is that of
common-sense. For instance, it is well to learn to run 100 or 220 yards
at great speed, because there are frequent occasions when it is
necessary to cover those distances in quick time. It is well to train
for quarter-mile and half-mile running, because if one wants to go to
any place distant a half a mile of so, the quickest way to get there
unaided is to run. It is the same way with the mile or the three-mile
run. If you come to a brook, you use your knowledge of the running broad
jump to get over it--not the standing broad jump. If you want to clear a
fence (to escape a bull, for instance) you try the running high
jump--not the standing high jump. If it is a high wall, and you have any
knowledge of the pole vault, you likewise have an advantage.
Hurdle-racing teaches you to get across country fields and fences, and
both the hammer and the shot events on the card give good training for
emergencies that may arise.

But there is no emergency that I can think of where proficiency in the
mile walk would be of the slightest service. When it becomes necessary
to travel a mile, running is by far the easier and the faster gait.
There is no good word of any kind, so far as I know, to be said, for the
mile walk. Yes, I will make one exception: it is a great thing for the
digestion. I recommend it to dyspeptics! The rolling motion of the hips
keeps the digestive organs in such constant exercise that they cannot
become stagnant, and so perhaps for the American nation a little
heel-and-toe now and then may be of value. But still, there are less
acrobatic methods of helping the digestion than mile-walking.

However, so long as mile-walking is an acknowledged feature of athletic
meetings, we must recognize it--with a protest--and set down here a few
hints as to how to go to work to cover the ground in the most approved
fashion. The muscles that require the greatest development for walking
are the abdominal and the fore-thigh muscles. Training should be begun,
as soon as the snow is off the ground, by taking walks across country.
Begin, of course, by taking short walks, in order to inaugurate a
general hardening process, and each day, when you come to a good stretch
of road, try two or three hundred yards of strict heel-and-toe walking,
giving especial attention to acquiring the free and rolling motion of
the hips. This motion is very clearly shown in illustration No. 3. To
become a successful walker it is absolutely necessary to be loose and
supple about the hips. The novice will notice pains about the abdomen at
first, but he need not feel in any way alarmed. He has not caught cold.
He has merely set some muscles to work that are not usually called upon
to exert themselves under ordinary circumstances, and for a week or two
they will feel sore and lame.

After a week of general unlimbering, the walks should be extended, and
distances between five and ten miles should be covered. In all this
walking the athlete must train himself to set his foot down straight,
for walkers may not toe out. At the end of two or three weeks begin the
alternate work as has been told of in the previous papers about the
running events--that is, one day take a ten-mile walk at an easy gait,
and the next day take a three-mile walk as fast as you can travel, and
keep this up until you are ready to go on the track. But always rest on
Sunday. One day's rest out of seven is imperative.

When work on the track begins, form is the principal thing to devote
your attention to. Take long, slow walks around the cinder-path, putting
the feet down straight and firmly, and devote all your energy to
acquiring an easy stride, and, as far as possible, a long, swinging one.
Work at the hip motion until you are master of it, and train yourself in
the swinging of the arms until these become a means of assistance rather
than an annoyance.

The only way to acquire speed in walking is to "sprint" (not a running
sprint, but a walking sprint) from 100 to 200 yards. Here again
alternate work should be done, that is, walk half or three-quarters of a
mile and rest; then walk half a mile one day, and on the alternate days
do short sprints several times, with rests in between. Don't try to go a
mile at speed until you have been at work several months. After the
first couple of weeks it may be well to take a trial half or quarter on
time, but this should never be done oftener than once in a week or ten
days. When you have gotten into condition at the end of four or five
months, try a mile on time; but thereafter never attempt to go the full
distance at speed more frequently than once in ten days or two weeks.

The costume for walking is the same as for running, except that the
shoes have no spikes. The heels, too, are somewhat different, being
built with a slight projection of the sole at the back, so as to make
the constant pounding on the heels less severe. It seems almost needless
to say here that walking differs from running in that one of the
athlete's feet must be constantly on the ground; he must not lift the
rear toe until the forward heel has struck, and the rear knee must lock.
The illustrations show the rear knee locked in every instance. By
speaking of the knee as "locked," is meant that the joint is closed.

In a race it is always well to take the lead, if possible, and walk your
own mile. Before going into a contest the athlete ought to know pretty
well how fast he can cover his distances, and he should disregard his
competitors as much as circumstances will allow. Walking has fallen
somewhat into disrepute of late, because unscrupulous athletes,
proficient in the heel-and-toe method, can frequently run without
apparently altering their form, and when the Judge of Walking is not at
their very heels they travel rapidly but unfairly over the course. But
this is not sport.

In the next issue of the ROUND TABLE will appear the last descriptive
paper on track athletics of the series which has been running from time
to time in this Department during the past winter. The subject will be
the pole vault, and the illustrations have been made from instantaneous
photographs of C. T. Buchholz, the inter-collegiate champion. All the
articles and illustrations of this series, with many additional
pictures, have been collected, and will be published early next month in
a book to be called _Track Athletics in Detail_. This volume will be the
first of a collection of books on all branches of amateur athletic
sport, to be known as "HARPER'S ROUND TABLE Library of Sports."

The Pittsburg I.S.A.A. has done a very wise thing in limiting the
entries for its games on June 6th to two representatives from each
school. But even with such a restricted field I fear it will take the
officials well into the night before they can get through, for the
schedule includes fifteen events. Among these we have one circus
feature--the hop, step, and jump. Four of the numbers on the card are to
be bicycle-races. Through some process of reasoning, which I should be
interested in having explained, the Pennsylvanians have adopted a
scoring system of 3 points for first place, 1 for second, and 0 for
third. I refer the Pittsburg I.S.A.A. officials to this Department in
the issue of March 31st, where they will find a few paragraphs on the
subject of scoring by points. I think they must acknowledge the
arguments offered there to be just.

The notable feature of the Trinity School games, a week ago Friday, was
Hipple's performance in the mile run. His time was 4 min. 48-2/5 sec.
This breaks the scholastic record of 4 min. 55-4/5 sec., made by Tappin
at the Poly. Prep. games last year, and is also better than Southwick's
interscholastic record of 4 min. 52 sec.

The next few weeks will be crowded with interesting events to all lovers
of interscholastic sport, and we may count on hearing of smashed records
from every quarter. In a little over two weeks the New York and Long
Island I.S.A.A.'s will be holding their field meetings, and then will
come the Inter-City games; and then, before we know it, it will be time
for the National meet. Before that, however, all the interscholastic
associations in the East will have held their games, and perhaps we
shall be able to form some kind of opinion as to where the national
championship will go. It looks now as if it would go to Boston, but this
is only a very rough guess, and I do not offer it in any way as a
prophecy--but merely as a suspicion.

No trophy has been provided yet for this National championship. It is
very important that there should be one, and the graduates of the
schools ought to bestir themselves to collect a sufficient sum of money
for the purchase of a suitable cup. I am very much afraid, however, that
there is no single graduate with enough enthusiasm for the welfare of
school sport to devote his time and energy toward persuading others to
subscribe for a trophy, and even if there were he would have such a
limited time in which to exercise his efforts that he would doubtless
not be able to obtain a large enough subscription for his purpose. The
cup which shall represent the National Interscholastic Championship
ought to be as good as any of its kind, and ought to be put up for a
number of years--say ten--and each year the name of the winning league
should be inscribed upon it, the trophy to finally go to that
association having its name upon it the greatest number of times.
Further, I think that if such a cup were offered by the graduates, the
National Association ought to award each year to the winning league a
miniature cup of the same pattern, as a special evidence of that year's
victory.

It would be far more to the interest of sport to have a valuable trophy
of this kind to be contested for by the leagues, with small tokens only
for individual prizes. Let the contest be among the league teams rather
than among the individuals of the associations.

The tennis season is likewise upon us. Next Saturday will see the
Harvard, Yale, Princeton, and Columbia interscholastic tournaments in
full swing. There will also be an interscholastic tournament in Chicago,
and it is possible that the winner may go to Newport for the
championships.

The baseball season of the New England League began last Friday, and
although it is too early yet to tell much about the various teams, it
looks as if there would be some pretty good ball put up this season.
Both C. H. & L. and Hopkinson's, who tied last year for first place,
have strong nines. Lochman, who was the best catcher in the league last
year, will take first base this season, and let Columbus go behind the
bat. John Clarkson is to pitch, and his brother will play third. Both
are brothers of the well-known professional pitcher, and ought to have
baseball blood in their veins. Saul, captain of last year's victorious
football eleven, is going into the field, and is counted on to do some
batting.

For Hopkinson's, Captain Dickson will hold his old position of
short-stop. Stillman is to pitch, and Carlton, who played half-back on
the eleven, will catch him. Hallowell, also a member of last year's
eleven, will look after left field. New men mostly will be tried for the
other positions.

It seems necessary to repeat that no answers can be given in these
columns to anonymous correspondents.

     J. E. DOWNING, LOCUST VALLEY, N. Y.--In training for any kind of
     athletic event it is best not to eat sweets or pastry of any kind;
     but the most important thing is to take your meals at regular
     hours, and not to eat between meals.

  THE GRADUATE.



[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.


About six months ago a 10c. Baltimore stamp on bluish paper was shown in
Boston. This unique copy was badly damaged, and when offered at auction
a short time ago failed to realize the reserve price of $1500 which was
placed on it. The great find of St. Louis stamps in Louisville, Ky.,
last winter, stimulated every owner of old correspondence in that city
to overhauling the same. Some good stamps were found, among them a 10c.
Baltimore on white paper. This stamp has been sold to a New York
collector for $4500, the largest price ever paid for a single stamp. The
New Haven envelope sold for $2000, and one of the largest dealers in New
York has since offered $3000 for it, or for a duplicate equally as good,
but without success.

The Canadian 15c. now current has been withdrawn, and probably will not
be reprinted. Collectors here, looking over their duplicates, find that
they have very few copies. It will probably be scarce and advance
rapidly in value.

England is about to issue stamps surcharged O. W. for the use of the
officials in the "Office Works" department. As but few copies will be
used, these stamps will be much sought after.

     Z.--The 1872 U.S. 12c. is worth 60c.; the 24c. is worth $2; the 40
     centavos Costa Rica official, $1.

     C. BROODSTONE.--There is no duty on stamps imported into the U.S. I
     cannot give names of societies, officers, etc.

     NORMAL, ILL.--Your coin is a Spanish half-dollar. They were largely
     used in this country before the war, and hence are quite common.

     H. M. C.--The Continental note is a curiosity, but has very little
     monetary value. Most of the notes can be bought of dealers at 10c.
     to 25c. each.

  PHILATUS.



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[Illustration: THOMPSON'S EYE WATER]



[Illustration: ROYAL BAKING POWDER]

A cream-of-tartar baking powder. Highest of all in leavening
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  Barber, barber, shave a pig!
  How many hairs will make a wig?
  Four and twenty will be right--
  If CUPID Hair-Pins hold them tight.

It's in the TWIST.

[Illustration]

By the makers of the famous DELONG Hook and Eye.

[Illustration]

Richardson & DeLong Bros., Philadelphia.



Monarch

Mounted on this king of bicycles, you are Monarch of all you survey. All
nature is yours as you speed along on your ride of health and happiness.
You can depend on the Monarch in any emergency. There's "Know How" in
the making.

4 models. $80 to $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.

[Illustration]

Monarch Cycle Mfg. Co.

Lake, Halsted and Fulton Sts., CHICAGO.

83 Reade Street, NEW YORK.



[Illustration: BICYCLING]

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


[Illustration: Copyright, 1896, by Harper & Brothers.]

Resuming our route to Buffalo, leave Richmond Hotel at Batavia, run a
little south of west across the river, and keep to the right for a few
rods, taking the middle fork a short distance out where three roads
converge. Follow this turnpike, which is called the Buffalo road, direct
to Corfu, eleven miles from Batavia; thence, following the same straight
road, proceed five miles further on to Crittenden, and thence three and
one-half miles further on to Peters Corners. This Buffalo road runs a
little south of west almost in a straight line from Batavia to Buffalo,
and it is possible to keep to it all the way into the city; but from
Peters Corners on it is not in nearly as good condition as the road
which is marked as the best route. Up to Peters Corners it is hard clay,
level, and in dry weather makes excellent bicycle-riding. It is not so
good in rain, however. The rider is advised to take the right fork at
Peters Corners, and run out through Mill Grove to Bowmansville, which is
seven miles from Peters Corners. From Bowmansville keep slightly to the
right, and afterwards to the left over a bridge, and cross the railroad;
continue on through Shultz Corners and Pine Hill to the city line, where
asphalt pavement begins; thence proceed down Genesee Street to the
corner of Main Street, where the rider may put up either at the Genesee
or Iroquois Hotel. The distance from Batavia to Buffalo is thirty-seven
miles, and if you have reached Buffalo you have done at least 461 miles
since leaving New York.

For any bicyclist, whether he lives in New York, Albany, Utica,
Syracuse, or Rochester, or anywhere along the route given in the last
few weeks, this tour, either towards Buffalo or towards New York, is one
of the best that can possibly be taken in this part of the United
States. It is the long route which is most patronized by wheelmen.
Consequently people are more likely to receive and more glad to see
bicyclists; the hotels are more accustomed to them, and the facilities
are greater than along any other route in the United States of similar
length. And these stages, as given in this Department, will be well
worth the study of any wheelman who has had some little experience in
short runs, and who wants to spend his vacation during the coming summer
by taking a somewhat more extended trip. If he runs out through Albany
and over the route as explained to Buffalo, and wishes to return to New
York, it will be well for him to take the route through New Jersey and
Pennsylvania, which, perhaps, may be given some time in the future in
the Bicycling Department. No one nowadays can find a better way to put
in a two weeks' vacation than by doing some such nine-hundred-mile run
as this. He need not ride every day. He may take it easily, running
ninety or one hundred miles in a day, if he feels in condition for such
riding, or he may stick to the thirty-mile distance marked on these
charts.

     NOTE.--Map of New York city asphalted streets in No. 809. Map of
     route from New York to Tarrytown in No. 810. New York to Stamford,
     Connecticut in No. 811. New York to Staten Island in No. 812. New
     Jersey from Hoboken to Pine Brook in No. 813. Brooklyn in No. 814.
     Brooklyn to Babylon in No. 815. Brooklyn to Northport in No. 816.
     Tarrytown to Poughkeepsie in No. 817. Poughkeepsie to Hudson in No.
     818. Hudson to Albany in No. 819. Tottenville to Trenton in No.
     820. Trenton to Philadelphia in No. 821. Philadelphia in No. 822.
     Philadelphia-Wissahickon Route in No. 823. Philadelphia to West
     Chester in No. 824. Philadelphia to Atlantic City--First Stage in
     No. 825; Second Stage in No. 826. Philadelphia to Vineland--First
     Stage in No. 827; Second Stage in No. 828. New York to
     Boston--Second Stage in No. 829; Third Stage in No. 830; Fourth
     Stage in No. 831; Fifth Stage in No. 832; Sixth Stage in No. 833.
     Boston to Concord in No. 834. Boston in No. 835. Boston to
     Gloucester in No. 836. Boston to Newburyport in No. 837. Boston to
     New Bedford in No. 838. Boston to South Framingham in No. 839.
     Boston to Nahant in No. 840. Boston to Lowell in No. 841. Boston to
     Nantasket Beach in No. 842. Boston Circuit Ride in No. 843.
     Philadelphia to Washington--First Stage in No. 844; Second Stage in
     No. 845; Third Stage in No. 846; Fourth Stage in No. 847; Fifth
     Stage in No. 848. City of Washington in No. 849. City of Albany in
     No. 854; Albany to Fonda in No. 855; Fonda to Utica in No. 856;
     Utica to Lyons in No. 857; Lyons to Batavia in No. 858.



[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.


Can I tell you how to go about learning to write a story? Well, my dear
Lucie, I would do so if I could, but unless the story comes to you of
its own accord, I fear there is no chance of your ever being able to
write it. You may acquire the art of writing essays and poetry and
letters; but stories are like visits from the fairies or the angels, and
they must come floating in at your open windows and doors, like
flower-seeds carried by the wind. The story-writer is born, not made.

In a general way, however, there is this to be said: Let a story tell
itself naturally, and do not waste your time on an introduction. Begin
at the beginning, and stop when you get through. I have said before, and
I here repeat the advice, to read good books. Every girl who has an
ambition to write should form her style by reading the best books and
thinking them over. A very good plan is to make an abstract of every
book you read, and to copy parts you like into a common place-book of
your own.

Now for something quite different.

I am asked by a girl friend to give my opinion about a pretty foot. Is
it a short or a long foot, a broad or a narrow one, and do I recommend a
particular shoe. How is one to avoid ingrowing nails, corns, and
bunions?

My dear child, these painful deformities are caused, as a rule, by
ill-fitting shoes. A shoe too short for the foot or a very high heel
will cause an ingrowing toe-nail, a source of endless trouble and
suffering. Wear low heels, and have your shoes a little longer than your
feet, and you will not be troubled by bunions, which are swellings of
the joints. Change your stockings very often, and bathe the feet twice a
day to prevent corns. A pretty foot is a foot in the right proportion to
the rest of the figure. It is not always a small foot. Indeed, a tall,
large girl should not care for a foot fit only for a wee midget who
needs a tiny boot and an elfin slipper. Never be ashamed of the size of
your foot, but keep your shoes and boots in the nicest possible order.

Be very careful about buttons. A shoe with one or two yawning spaces
where all should be neatness and trimness gives a disagreeable
impression of its wearer. Whenever you can manage it, have several pairs
of shoes at a time. They last much longer if relieved by one another;
and when not in use keep your shoes in a box or bag away from dust, and
with tissue-paper stuffed inside their toes to preserve their shape.
Wear the nicest stockings you can procure. It is true economy to
purchase the best foot-gear one can afford.

     MARGARET R. B.--I prize your beautiful little letter, and am very
     glad that you like Eugene Field's verses. Do you like Stevenson's
     _Child Garden of Verse_? I hope so.

[Illustration: Signature]



ADVERTISEMENTS.



[Illustration: Columbia Bicycles]

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The Columbia Catalogue, handsomest art work of the year, is free from
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       *       *       *       *       *

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Columbia Branch Houses and Agencies are almost everywhere.



[Illustration: Hartford Single Tube Tires]



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[Illustration]

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EDWARD & SON, Props., London, Eng. Wholesale, E. FOUGERA & CO., New York



THE

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[Illustration]

has earned more money for boys than all other presses in the market.
Boys, don't idle away your time when you can buy a self-inking
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particulars, there is money in it for you.

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Postage Stamps, &c.



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to agents selling stamps from my 50% approval sheets. Send at once for
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=1000= Mixed Foreign Stamps, San Marino, etc., 25; 101 all dif., China,
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[Illustration: THOMPSON'S EYE WATER]



A STORY OF STRIFE.

FIRST-PRIZE STORY.

BY F. M. MACNAUGHTON.


Was Jake Lawson a coward? Well, according to Strife Settlement standards
there could be but one answer to that question, for how could a boy be
anything else who was afraid of the river? The river! Why, the Strife
babies were almost born in it. Its roaring was the first sound they
heard. It was the lullaby that hushed them to sleep, and the morning
call that wakened them. Ask any Strife boy what was the first sight he
remembered, and he would say the river. Ask him when he learned to swim,
find ten to one he could not tell you. Every boy in Strife learned to
swim very soon after he learned to walk, and thenceforth lived almost as
much in the water as out. Jake, the youngest of the four stalwart sons
of Lawson, the lumberman, had done as the others--bathing, swimming,
fishing, paddling--till the day when he had stood on the rocks
overhanging the Big Rapid and seen his brother Jim drowned. To shoot
this rapid was the ambition of every boy living within a day's journey
of it, and one day Jim, then in his thirteenth year, said to
eight-year-old Jake, "I am going to shoot the Big Rapid to-day, and if
you want to see me you can run down to the rocks." So little Jake had
trotted off, not for a moment doubting his brother's ability to
successfully accomplish this or anything else he undertook. What could
not Jim do? The handsome, strongly built, daring boy was the idol of the
rather delicate little brother, and Jake stood on the rocks in fancy
already announcing to his playmates that Jim had run the rapid, a feat
not yet performed by any boy of his age. But poor Jim had undertaken a
task beyond him this time, and Jake, looking helplessly down, had seen
the canoe overturned and his brother swept away by the rushing, foaming
waters. Once his head appeared above the current, and Jake fancied he
caught an imploring look in the dark eyes, and then he remembered no
more. When a Strife boy is missed he is sought by the river-side, and
there Jake was finally found unconscious. A serious illness followed,
and since then his dread of the river had been unconquerable.

The Lawsons mourned their son in their rough way, and when the bruised
and battered body was recovered there were sad scenes in their humble
home. But there were seven other children, and as time passed Jake's
affliction, for so they considered it, was perhaps the greater trial. In
the lumber region a boy who is not as much at home in the water as on
the land is not worth much to his family, and Jake could give little or
no assistance in the labor by which the family bread was gained. To his
mother, who was often weak and ailing, he was of great assistance, there
being as yet no grown daughter in the Lawson household; but the shame of
his position preyed upon him. He knew that in the settlement he was an
object of pity if not of contempt. He could fancy that the younger boys
pointed at him as "that no-account Jake Lawson, skeered of the water and
only fit to help women folk." And he knew that to strangers who came out
to fish he was mentioned as the one boy over fifteen who had never shot
the Big Rapid. He made many efforts to overcome his timidity, even
"wrestling in prayer," but no help came. He used to force himself to go
down to the banks of the Strife and watch the swirling, writhing,
tossing waters, only to return with an access of terror. Why! the rapid
seemed to him possessed of life! It was a very demon with teeth and
claws, continually roaring for prey. Fierce eyes seemed to glare at him
out of the foam, and shadowy arms to stretch towards him. At this stage
he commonly turned and ran, only too thankful if he could gain home
unobserved by the settlement boys.

He had one comfort. Education was not much thought of in the
rough-and-ready backwoods family; "but bein' as Jake is so unlike other
folks," said his father, "he might as well try to get a little larnin'.
It's not as though we could ever make a man of him, so I don't keer so
much about his spendin' his time; and they do say that book stuff
sometimes comes in handy. I don't know nothin' about it, but if Jake can
make a show anywhere let him get his chance." So, though the village
school was six miles distant, Jake managed to attend pretty regularly
for several years. The schoolmaster, who also did the little doctoring
required in the settlement, took a great interest in the boy, in whom he
soon discovered an unusual aptitude for study. He taught him many things
not usually included in a village school course, and Jake while studying
with him forgot his misery, but at home he could not get away from it.
The roaring of the Strife seemed often like a voice proclaiming his
cowardice. Sometimes he fancied that even strangers must hear it
shouting "There goes Jake Lawson; he is a coward, coward, coward!" About
this time his dream was to do some heroic deed and then die. Once owned
brave, he would be too happy to live.

One afternoon he was feeling unusually depressed. A good job of
lumbering at a distant drive had offered, and his brothers, with all the
men able to work, had gone off gayly in the morning. Unusually good
wages were offered, and old Lawson, who had been prevented from going
with the others on account of a badly sprained ankle, had been unable to
conceal his vexation that Jake could not join the party. He had said a
few bitter words that the son could not forget, and then hobbled off to
the yard. He had not been gone ten minutes when Jake heard a fall and a
cry, and, rushing out, found that his father had stumbled over a log of
wood, and, falling on an axe he was carrying, had made a terrible gash
in his arm. By the spurting of the blood Jake knew at once that an
artery had been severed. Without an instant's hesitation he tore open
his father's shirt-sleeve and grasped his arm, pressing firmly against
the inner edge of the biceps muscle, calling loudly at the same time for
his mother. Mrs. Lawson came in haste and uttered a scream when she saw
the quantity of blood that had already flowed from the cut, which was
just above the elbow.

"Do not be frightened, mother," said Jake. "Father has cut himself
badly, but I know just what to do. Please take the lace out of his shoe
and give it to me."

The stout leather lace was handed to Jake, who bound it firmly round his
father's arm above the wound, making a deep pressure, and explaining
quietly to his mother, just as Dr. Barnes had to him, why this must be
done. "And now, mother," said he, when Mr. Lawson had been helped into
the house, "I must leave you and go for the doctor at once; but remember
that the pressure _must_ be kept up. I do not think that the bleeding
will begin again, but if it does do not get frightened, but tie a fresh
cord, bringing the knot just over the same place. Tilly," addressing his
twelve-year-old sister, who had stood by, "help mother all you can.
Keep up your courage, father. Good-by."

He snatched up his hat and hurried out. By the road it was six miles to
the village, and a mile in an opposite direction to the nearest place
where he might hope to get a horse. And there were many chances that the
horse might be away at work. No, he must walk, and it would be over two
hours before he could bring help to his father, whose situation he knew
to be critical. But there was one other way. If he went by the river the
swift current would land him at the doctor's door in half an hour. It
must be by the river, and he resolutely took the side path leading down
to the pool where the boats were kept. A thought struck him that for a
moment stayed his feet. He might not get through, and then no help would
reach his father. It might be his duty to take the road, after all,
unless a messenger could also be sent that way. But at that moment he
sighted a boy who could be sent. Benny Masters, a ten-year-old boy, and
one of the swiftest runners in the village, sat idly rocking in one of
the boats.

"Benny," said Jake, "will you do something for me? Father has cut
himself very badly. He may bleed to death. So I am going down to the
doctor's by the river; it is father's best chance, but some one ought to
go by the road in case anything happens to me. Will you go right off?
And if I have not reached there, bring the doctor at once, and be sure
to tell him just what the trouble is. Don't wait one minute for
anything."

"Be you goin' to run the Big Rapid, Jake?" said Benny, with eyes wider
open than they had ever been before.

"Yes; but don't wait a moment. I'll give you my knife if I get back; now
run."

Benny raced up the path, and Jake, who had meantime untied the canoe,
jumped into it and pushed it from the shore. And now for a moment his
courage failed him, and he made no effort to guide the canoe, but
covered his face with his hands, trying vainly to shut out sight and
sound. He did not fear death; he had often wished to die, and to die
giving his life for another, but he feared the demon; he felt himself in
the grasp of the horrible creation of his fancy, that had held him in
thrall for so many years; but the boat swept round the curve that
brought the Big Rapid in sight, and the deafening roar of the waters
brought him to himself, and, grasping the paddle, he headed the boat for
the centre of the river.

[Illustration: THE WATERS FOAMED AND ROARED ALL ROUND HIM.

Drawn by P. R. Goodwin, Winner of First Prize in Drawing Competition.]

The Big Rapid was nearly half a mile in length, and not really dangerous
to an experienced person except in one spot, about the middle of it,
where an enormous bowlder rises from the river, and, dividing the
current, sends it rushing to the shores, only to fall back from the
rocky walls in a wave that would upset the largest boat likely to be
found on the Strife. Jake had heard so much about the rapid all his life
that he knew the one chance of safety lay in passing as close to the
large bowlder as possible without striking on a little reef of jagged
rocks that surrounded it, and he exerted all his strength to head the
boat accordingly. The waters foamed and roared all round him, and the
boat was tossed about like an egg-shell; but he managed to keep it right
side up and headed for the rock. In a few moments he had reached it, and
was being carried towards the shore by the mighty side sweep of the
current. He did his best to pull across it, but his strength was as
nothing against the fierce rush of the water. Once within the grasp of
that foaming wave, he knew that he and the canoe would be rolling over
and over, and all hope be lost, and he redoubled his efforts. It was no
use; he shut his eyes, expecting all to be over in a moment, when a
sudden shock almost threw him out of the canoe, and, opening his eyes,
he found he was again in the centre of the river. Looking back he saw he
must have been struck by a side wave from an almost sunken rock, whose
head he could see just above the water a few feet from the shore, and so
carried out into the river again.

How he finished the run he never quite knew, but seemed to waken from a
dream to find himself floating round and round in an eddy of the pool in
which the rapid ended. The river was in flood at the time, and he was
doubtless safely carried over many dangers, which might have beset him
at low water. Fearing he had lost time, he paddled out into the current
as quickly as possible, and in a few moments he ran alongside the
doctor's landing. He jumped ashore at once, and, entering the little
front garden, was met by Dr. Barnes himself, who exclaimed:

"Why, Jake, where did you spring from? You don't mean to tell me you
came down the river?"

"Yes, sir," said Jake; "father has cut an artery, and we had to have
help at once. I sent Benny Masters by the road in case I could not get
through; if you meet him tell him it's all right, but would you please
go as quickly as possible? I tied up his arm as you told me it should be
done, but I am afraid that if the bleeding starts again mother will be
frightened." Jake got out the words with difficulty. The excitement and
strain of the last half-hour had been too much for him, and, his message
given, he staggered and fell into the arms of the doctor, who carried
him in, and, while his horse was being saddled, applied restoratives.
Then, asking his housekeeper to get Jake to bed, he galloped off to Mr.
Lawson's, arriving just in time to prevent serious results from the
bleeding, which had recommenced in spite of Mrs. Lawson's efforts.

When Jake awoke next morning he could not understand what had happened
to him. The rushing of the river sounded like music to him. He walked
down to the shore half expecting that at the sight of the water the old
terror would revive. But no; his burden had fallen from him; it was
buried in the bright, cold waters of the Strife.

He was aroused by the clatter of a horse's hoofs, and turned round as
Dr. Barnes, who had remained at Lawson's all night, rode up to the gate.
He brought word that Jake's father was doing well, and wishing to see
him; so, having already breakfasted, Jake started at once for home.

His mother was waiting for him on the door-step, and clasped him in her
arms. She had, motherlike, always clung to the one of her children least
promising, according to the accepted standards, and triumphed greatly
that he had now won his spurs. His father did not say much, but grasped
his hand in a way Jake never forgot, and the altered demeanor of his
brothers when they returned went far to heal the wounds of the past. In
fact, now that the stigma of cowardice was removed, the family began to
recognize in Jake a higher type than themselves, and, advised by Dr.
Barnes, who pointed as proof of his leaning that way to his coolness and
nerve in dealing with his father's wound, they decided to give him an
opportunity to become a doctor.

       *       *       *       *       *

Prizes for Pen Drawings.

The Table offered three prizes of $25 each for the best stories written
by Knights and Ladies of the Order. These prizes were awarded, and then
a prize of $10 was offered to members who would best illustrate one of
the stories. Those who wished to try for this illustration prize applied
for and had mailed to them a proof, with hints about size. They were
allowed to select their own subject. In order to afford them the largest
possible scope proofs of all three stories were sent them. Out of three
hundred who applied for proofs sixty return drawings. The best drawing
received is the work of Philip E. Goodwin, aged 14, who lives in
Providence, R. I. It is an illustration for "A Story of Strife," and it
is now reproduced and printed with that prize story.

Although we offered but one prize, we award two others of $5 each,
because two other drawings were received that seem to deserve that
recognition. One is an illustration for "The Duke of Alva's
Humiliation," drawn by Edmund F. Webber, New York, aged 17, and the
other an illustration for "How Hector Saved the Train," drawn by Carl A.
Bostrom, Washington, D.C., aged 16. Both drawings will be published with
the prize stories which they illustrate.

Following are awarded honorable mention: Beverly S. King, Brooklyn;
Robert Jerome Hill, Jun., Tex.; Louise C. Walter, Pittsburg; Annis
Dunbar-Jenkins, Miss.; George J. Smith, Brooklyn; P. B. Greene,
Philadelphia; Elizabeth Wright, Mass.; Francis Barrett Faulkner, N. H.;
James Edmonds, Miss.; William O'Neill, Baltimore; and Caroline Bonsall
Silves, Pa.

The prize money has been forwarded with the Table's congratulations, and
all drawings returned to their owners save the three first-prize ones,
which are retained for reproduction.



[Illustration: IVORY SOAP]

    One may be neat and "bike" it too;
  A muddy fall is naught to rue
    Since Ivory Soap will soon restore
  The fabric, spotless as before.

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



One of the health-giving elements of HIRES Rootbeer is sarsaparilla. It
contains more sarsaparilla than many of the preparations called by that
name. HIRES--the _best by any test_.

Made only by The Charles E. Hires Co., Philadelphia.

A 25c. package makes 5 gallons. Sold everywhere.



[Illustration]

PRINTING OUTFIT 10c.

Sets any name in one minute; prints 500 cards an hour. You can make
money with it. A font of pretty type, also Indelible Ink, Type Holder,
Pads and Tweezers. Best Linen Marker; worth $1.00. Mailed for 10c.
stamps for postage on outfit and catalogue of 1000 bargains. Same outfit
with figures 15c. Outfit for printing two lines 25c. postpaid.

Ingersoll & Bro., Dept. No. 123. 65 Cortlandt St., New York.



[Illustration: THOMPSON'S EYE WATER]



THE POPULAR WORKS

OF

CAPTAIN CHARLES KING

       *       *       *       *       *

CADET DAYS

A Story of West Point. Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, $1.25.

CAMPAIGNING WITH CROOK,

And Stories of Army Life. Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, $1.25.

BETWEEN THE LINES

A Story of the War. Illustrated by Gilbert Gaul. Post 8vo, Cloth, $1.25.

A WAR-TIME WOOING

A Story. Illustrated by R. F. Zogbaum. Post 8vo, Cloth, $1.00.

       *       *       *       *       *

LITTLE KNIGHTS AND LADIES

Verses for Young People

By MARGARET E. SANGSTER. Illustrated. 16mo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25.

       *       *       *       *       *

HARPER & BROTHERS, Publishers, New York.



[Illustration]

A MUSICAL PAIR.

  "We are a wonderful musical pair,
  Our notes go sailing up into the air,
                And then like rain
                Come down again.
        When Mr. Frog, as will be seen,
        Will catch 'em all in his tambourine,
                And put our notes
                Back in our throats
        To use once more
        On another score.

  "So don't be afraid to ask us to sing
  A solemn song or some comic thing;
  An opera grand, an opera small.
  We've notes enough and to spare for all.
  We can sing as high as a telegraph pole,
  As deep as the hole where they keep the coal.
        So step up soon
        And name your tune.
  Meanwhile we'll sing in our best-known manner
  A line from the sweet 'Star-Spangled Banana.'"

       *       *       *       *       *

MAMMA. "Ethel, what is the matter with you? You have been jumping all
day long."

ETHEL. "I think it must be my spring tonic that makes me feel so."

       *       *       *       *       *

OVERHEARD AT THE CIRCUS.

  I've seen a whale that did fine tricks,
    And nothing could be moister;
  But what I most do wish to see 's
    An educated oyster.

  The monkeys race on ponies,
    And the elephants all dance;
  They've dogs that sing right in the ring,
    And even pigs that prance.

  They've boars that play at muggins, and
    They've storks that know the waltz;
  They've horses that stand on their heads,
    A kangaroo that vaults.

  But none of them, it seems to me,
    The equal could be rated
  Of one small shell-clad oyster that
    Was really educated.

"You didn't shoot the lady through the hoop to-day," said the
Hippopotamus to the Cannon.

"No," replied the Cannon. "They discharged me yesterday."

"I didn't think the Clown was very funny to-day," said the Kangaroo.

"No," replied the Hyena. "I was the only creature that laughed, and I
only did it to prove that I was a real hyena."

"I had a bully time yesterday," said the Monkey.

"Did you?" replied the Giraffe. "What was it interested you?"

"What interested me? Why, looking at the children, of course! They're
too funny for anything."

"Humph!" said the Elephant, "I'm going to resign from this circus."

"What's the matter?" asked the Leopard.

"I only received one pea-nut yesterday," replied the Elephant, "and that
got mislaid in my trunk."

"Oh dear!" sighed the Hippopotamus. "I am so tired of this circus life.
I wish some nice little boy would buy me for a pet. I'd love to sit in a
little boy's lap and have him call me Fido, and let me crawl into his
bed and bite his toes every morning like a puppy-dog."

"I don't see why boxes are so popular," said the Elephant, as he gazed
about the arena. "I prefer a bag."

"A bag?" laughed the Hyena.

"Yes, a bag," said the Elephant. "A bag of peanuts."

       *       *       *       *       *

"What we want is a breakfast."

The remark came from one of three very hungry young men who were
aimlessly walking the streets of Paris. The other two agreed with the
speaker, but wondered where the meal was to come from.

"Let us see," said the first; "a breakfast for us three will cost about
ten francs. Now I have an idea, and all you've got to do is to follow
me, taking the cue as I proceed."

He entered a music-store, the other two obediently following him. "I
wish to sell you a song," said he to the proprietor. "My friend here
will write the music, and my other friend will write the words, and I
will sing it."

The proprietor looked at him in astonishment, but agreed to listen to
the song, and, if it had any merit, to purchase it. Finally it was
completed, and the young man sang it.

"Humph! it isn't much of a song, but I'll give you fifteen francs for
it," said the proprietor.

"Done!" cried all three young men in a breath.

Alfred de Musset was the author, Hippolyte Maupon the composer, and
Gilbert Duprez was the singer. The song was entitled, "Connaissez-vous
dans Barcelone," and it had a great success, netting the publisher forty
thousand francs.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "SUFFER MUCH THROUGH THE WINTER, MR. FROGGY?"]

[Illustration: "NO; ALWAYS SPRING-TIME WITH ME. TA, TA!"]





*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Harper's Round Table, April 28, 1896" ***

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