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Title: Harper's Round Table, July 21, 1896
Author: Various
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.
Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Harper's Round Table, July 21, 1896" ***

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

[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]

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

       *       *       *       *       *



       *       *       *       *       *




To tell the story of Will Hall's trip to the tropics may seem like
telling dangerous secrets and getting people into trouble. But there is
this to be considered about it: If the Spaniards catch Will's father,
they will shoot him, anyhow; so it can do no harm to admit that Henry
Hall, who is Will's father, and David Hall, who is Will's uncle, are
engaged in the perilous business of carrying patriots across from the
Florida Keys to the Cuban coast.

Will has nothing whatever to do with this business, for he is a
school-boy in New York, storing his mind with regular and irregular
verbs, and a vast amount of information about football and '96 pneumatic
tires. So when his father took him down in the schooner to the Florida
Keys to visit Uncle David, Will had no idea that ten days after leaving
New York he would be crawling through a Cuban thicket, dodging Spanish

Matacumbia Key, at the very tip of Florida, where Uncle David lives with
his daughter Vic, is a long way from New York, and Will had never seen
either of them, and, of course, had never seen their house on the beach,
with the whole Florida Strait for a front yard, and nothing between
their shady piazza and the Cuban coast but eighty miles of salt water.

"There ought to be some sport down there," he told the boys before he
started. "Plenty of boating and fishing, you know, and cocoanut-trees,
with monkeys in them, I suppose, and maybe some sharks to kill.
Lonesome, though. You see, there ain't many people, and my cousin Vic is
only fourteen. A little country girl of fourteen can't be much company
for a New York chap nearly sixteen."

There was sport in plenty, but not exactly the kind that Will expected.
The "little country girl" took her cousin in hand in a way that
astonished him, and would have made him miserable if the Cuban adventure
had not given him a chance to show what he was made of.

At first Vic was shy--painfully shy. She kept her eyes cast down, and
only answered "Yes, sir," or "No, sir," when Will spoke to her.

"I think I can bring her out after a while," he said to himself. "Of
course she'd be a little timid at the start, 'specially with a fellow
from a big place like New York. She's a pretty girl, too."

About that there could be no doubt. Vic was large for her age, and the
tan on her round cheeks tried to hide their natural pink, but did not
quite succeed. When her work was done (for, being motherless, she was
cook and house-keeper), she generally put on her boating-suit of blue
flannel, which was as good as a bathing-suit, and it did not interfere
when she chose to wade out to her pet sharpie, anchored just off the

The fathers were busy with their schooner, and with the men camped in
the bush waiting to be carried over to Cuba, and Will and Vic were left
to their own resources.

"Can you shoot?" Vic asked one morning, very timidly, hardly raising her

"Rather!" Will exclaimed. "I wish I'd brought my gun along."

"I have a rifle," Vic said, and ran into the house and brought the rifle
and a box of cartridges.

Will measured off thirty paces, and stood a big cocoanut on top of a

Vic handled the rifle as if she were afraid of it, and took the first
shot. The cocoanut did not stir. Then Will fired without hitting. After
three or four rounds Will's bullet grazed the side of the nut, and he
was duly elated.

"You'll be all right with more practice," he told her. "I've practised a
great deal in shooting-galleries."

"I think the mark is too low for me," she answered, with becoming
humility. "Pin a bit of paper to that tree beside the stump, about as
high as your head."

Will pinned up a scrap of paper half the size of his hand, and they
fired several rounds without touching it. Then Vic started toward the
house with the rifle.

"Not going to give it up, are you?" he called. But her only answer was
"Thirty-three, thirty-four, thirty-five"--she was pacing. When she
reached "one hundred," she stopped and turned--one hundred paces from
the tiny mark.

"You stand there by the tree," she called, "and see whether I can hit
the old thing from here."

Will laughed, and obeyed. Crack! went the rifle.

"Why," he cried, "you've hit it right in the centre! I don't suppose you
could do that again in a week!"

"I'll try," Vic answered, and fired again.

"Well, upon my word!" Will shouted. "You've hit it again! What a
remarkable accident!"

Vic fired again, and made a third hole in the paper.

That time Will did not say a word. He began to suspect something. Vic
fired twice more, and made two more holes. The first hole was right in
the centre, and the other four made a neat little circle around it.

"All right, Cousin Vic," Will said, as he handed her the paper; "I owe
you one. You're a dead shot with a rifle, and you've been making a
beautiful guy of me."

But Vic only laughed, and looked as timid as ever.

Next morning the sky was overcast, and Will suggested a sail in Vic's
sixteen-foot sharpie.

"Don't you think it's rather rough?" she asked, looking doubtfully from
the sky to the water. "Do you think it would be safe?"

"Safe as a house!" Will answered, decidedly. "You needn't be afraid; I'm
an old hand with a boat."

After some hesitation Vic consented, and even determined that she had
better sail the boat herself, as she was more used to the rigging.

"All right," Will gallantly said. "If anything happens I can swim enough
for both of us."

The water was so much rougher than it looked from shore that Will began
to feel uneasy about having a girl at the helm. They were a mile from
the house, bobbing up and down on the waves like a cork in a mill-race,
when Vic said they had gone far enough, and put the tiller suddenly hard

"Look out! Ease her up!" Will shouted; but it was too late. The sharpie
went over like a flash, and they were both thrown into the water.

Vic went down instantly, and then came up with her arms waving wildly.

"Help! help!" she cried, and the next instant she disappeared again.

Will was holding on to the slender foremast, but he let go and sprang
toward his cousin. When she came up again he seized her.

"Now do as I tell you, or we'll both drown," he said, as calmly as he
could. "Don't grab me, but put one hand on my back and let yourself

She did as he told her, and he struck out toward the boat, and soon
righted it, for Will was an excellent swimmer. Vic seemed limp as a rag,
but he put her hands on the gunwale, and told her to hold on there while
he baled out the water, and then he climbed in and helped Vic in over
the stern.

"Take me home," she muttered, leaning helpless against the side, and
Will headed the boat for the beach.

"Oh, Will!" she said, when they were nearly back, "how can I ever thank
you for saving my life?"

"Pshaw!" he exclaimed; "that was nothing. You know I told you I am a
pretty good swimmer."

"A minute more--" she gasped; then her feelings overcame her, and she
buried her face in her hands.

When the boat was anchored, Vic waded ashore, and ran toward the house
very spryly for a girl who had been so weak a few minutes before. The
two fathers had returned, and were sitting on the piazza, and when Vic
ran up the steps, laughing, Will thought it was because she wished to
make as light as possible of her danger.

"Now, Mary Victoria Hall," her father said, much to Will's surprise,
"you've got to stop that sort of thing. I saw that little caper out in
the boat, and I'm not going to have you playing such tricks on your
cousin. You must look out for this girl, Will, as she is the worst tease
in Florida. There is not a better sailor than she in all the Keys, and
nothing could upset her unless she chose. Why, she sails that sharpie
fifteen miles to school every day in winter, and she knows every rock
and reef. She tipped you over purposely, to give you a ducking."

"Why, Uncle David--" Will interrupted.

"Nothing else," Mr. Hall went on; "and as to drowning, you might as well
try to drown a duck. She swam out to the Alligator Light, twenty miles,
when she was only twelve years old. She has been making game of you,
that's all."

"You see," Vic's father continued, "she is left alone here so much,
while I am away sponging and fishing, that I had to teach her to take
care of herself. But I don't want her to be playing her pranks on you
just because you live in a city and ain't used to girls who are good
sailors and good rifle-shots."

Vic looked very meek while her father was talking, but Will saw that she
was ready to laugh at any minute. When he went into the house to change
his clothes he was almost ready to admit that his trip to the Keys was a
dismal failure. That a crack football-player, an expert bicycler, a
leader in all the sports in a big school in the greatest city in the
country, should be outdone in everything by a little country girl who
looked as meek as a lamb, and be the butt of her jokes, was enough to
make him feel uncomfortable. Two days after Will's gallant rescue of his
cousin from no danger at all, he and Vic were left alone. Their fathers
had sailed for Cuba in the schooner, with eighty men and hundreds of
cases of ammunition. If all went well, they would be back from Cuba the
following night. But if all did not go well? The cousins knew that any
slight mishap might bring trouble into both families, and they were
unusually quiet.

At nine o'clock in the morning Will went out on the piazza, and the
white appearance of the water surprised him. So did the wind, coming in
a steady sweep from the northward, cooling the air, and churning the
Florida Strait into foam. Vic soon joined him, looking anxiously from
water to sky and sky to water, and shook her head.

An hour later he found her pacing the piazza, looking very much
troubled. The wind had increased, and the water was wild and furious.

"It is a norther," she said, "and a bad one. I don't see why it had to
come to-day."

"It is a fair wind to carry them to Cuba," Will suggested.

"It is just the wind to drive them on the rocks and wreck them," Vic
retorted. "They will certainly try to land to-night, and they have only
one little boat. That would be nothing among all those men."

She took two or three more turns up and down, and then stopped.

"I am going to cross the straits in my sharpie, Will," she said. "If
anything happens to them the sharpie may be of great assistance. It is
the best little sea-boat I know of."

"To cross to Cuba, you mean?" Will asked, without showing any great

"Yes," she answered. "It is only eighty miles, and I can make it before
dark. I have made longer voyages than that."

"It will be a nice little sail," Will laughed. "If you happen to meet a
Spanish cruiser, you might capture her and bring her home."

He was on his guard for another practical joke, and did not intend to be
caught. But Vic walked up to him and seized his arm with a very earnest

"Don't think I am trying to play another trick on you, Will," she said,
"for I am not. You don't know what danger this storm puts both our
fathers in. I may be able to help them, and I am going to try."

Her earnest manner left no doubt that she meant what she said, and Will
became serious.

"I don't know whether a small boat can live in that sea," he said, "but
if you start for Cuba, I am going with you."

Vic was not prepared for such an answer as this; but she had known Will
only for a few days. Any of his schoolmates could have told her that
where there was real danger to be faced he would be at the front. She
protested against his going, for she knew the peril of such a trip in so
small a boat; but Will was firm as a rock, and even while she urged him
to stay behind he waded out to the sharpie and began to make it ready.

"If your father is in danger," he said, "so is mine. You know I am going
if you go, so what's the use of talking?"

That eighty-mile sail across the Florida Strait in a raging storm is one
of the things that Will cannot be induced to talk much about. It is a
sort of nightmare to him. There was not only the physical danger, which
was serious enough, but there was the chance that their fathers might
land safely, and then blame them severely for undertaking such a voyage.

Vic had put a jug of water and a box of biscuits under the stern seat,
and she took the tiller as a matter of course. Will was kept busy baling
out the water, which came over the sides in a fury of spray. But Vic
knew that that spray was all in their favor. The force of the wind was
so great that it kept the sea down by sweeping off the crests of waves,
though it made an appalling smother of foam.

If a boy can sit with his heart in his throat for nearly nine hours at a
stretch, Will Hall did it that day. In a few hours the spray made crusts
of salt upon both their faces, and in the furious gale talking was
almost impossible. But through it all Vic kept the little sharpie headed
due south, for she knew that the schooner would try to land just to the
eastward of Cardenas.

At four o'clock in the afternoon, with the mountains of Cuba looming up
bold before them, they passed a broken mast floating on the water,
weighted with torn and knotted rigging. They could not go near enough to
make sure whether it was part of the schooner or not. But it looked

Two hours later they were in behind the reefs, and then the doubt was
settled. All around them, in the comparatively smooth water, floated
wreckage from some vessel that had gone to pieces, and the fragments of
white-painted planks told the melancholy story.

"We must lie alongshore till dark," Will declared, "and then make a
search, for they may be in hiding. I still have hopes that they may have
escaped from the schooner. Then the next thing will be to escape from
the Spaniards, and there we can help them with the sharpie."

Somehow it was Will who was in command now of the relief expedition. On
the water Vic was confident of herself; but when the danger was from the
Spanish coast-guard, she looked naturally to Will for directions.

About eight o'clock the darkness came rapidly and they started inland to
search for tidings, leaving the sharpie hidden among the bushes on the
shore of a little inlet. It was a desolate part of the coast, and so far
they had not seen a living person. Will picked up a stout piece of
driftwood for a club.

"If there is a house anywhere in the neighborhood, we must find it," he
said. "The people will know whether any one was saved from the wreck.
They will most likely be Cubans, and therefore friends. Keep your eyes
and ears open, Vic, for we must dodge the Spaniards."

Hardly anything could have been more hopeless than such a search made by
a boy and girl who knew nothing of the country, nothing of the language,
but groped their way in pitch darkness through a dense forest. But they
were Americans, and both knew that the sharpie might mean escape from
death for their fathers, if their fathers were not already drowned.
Presently they discovered a path and followed it, tripping over roots
and rocks, stumbling, scratching their faces with thorns.

"Oh, Will!" Vic exclaimed, after a collision with a sharp cactus. "I
can't go any further. I don't know what to do!" And she began to cry.

"Don't think of yourself at all, Vic," Will urged. "I can take care of
you. Maybe your father is hiding in these very woods, and our boat may
save him. We can't go back and desert them. We must push on and find
somebody, even if it is a Spanish soldier. Hist!"

The prospect of finding a Spanish soldier was nearer than he thought,
for the words were hardly out of his mouth before they heard the sound
of men tramping through the bushes.

As they stood and listened the sounds grew nearer--sounds of many feet,
and words of command in Spanish.

"Come away from the path!" Will whispered, and seizing Vic's arm, he
drew her into the underbrush, and on hands and knees they crawled away
from the danger.

In a moment more the soldiers passed; thousands of them, they thought,
by the sound, but in reality something less than a hundred. When Will
and his cousin resumed their feet they could not find the path. To add
to their troubles, they were lost in the Cuban forest.

How long they struggled through the sharp bushes they did not know till
afterward; but when they stopped it was because a stone wall stood in
their way--the stone wall of a small cabin. Will felt his way along the
wall till he found the door, but it was shut and locked. He rapped, but
there was no response.

"I am afraid it is deserted," he said; "but maybe we can get in to wait
for daylight."

Again he rapped at the door, and softly called: "Hello! Let us in! We
are Americans and friends."

Suddenly the door opened, and a familiar voice answered. "Will Hall, how
do you come to be here?"

"What's that?" said another voice inside; and Will and Vic needed no
further telling that their fathers were found.

In another minute they were inside the dark cabin, and the door was

"Where is your boat?" both the men asked, almost in the same breath.

"Down by the shore," Will answered, "hidden in the bushes."

"Then you have pulled us out of a tough scrape," said Vic's father.
"Twice we have narrowly escaped capture, and we expected to be taken
before daylight."

After the wreck of the schooner they and all the men had reached shore
safely, and the men had gone on into the mountains. But the small boat
was stove, and the two Americans were in a trap. They had found the
cabin, and hidden there from the Spanish guard.

Vic leaned heavily upon her father when they started for the boat; and
before they reached the shore he and Will were carrying her, for her
strength was gone.

"No wonder she is used up," said Will, as the boat beat out to the
eastward, tacking tediously toward the American coast; "no wonder, after
all she has been through. But how she kept up till we found you! She is
the bravest girl in Florida, Uncle David. Our coming after you was all
her doing."

Whatever the others said about Will's share in the rescue, it was enough
to warrant him in saying, as he does when the boys begin to talk about
the Cuban war: "Yes, I've had a little hand in that thing myself. So has
my Cousin Vic."





"How does Professor ---- cause a handkerchief to leave a decanter which
he holds in his hand, and appear in another at a distance?" writes a

Well, that depends on who the "Professor" is. One man, who says he would
as lief receive a slap in the face as to be called _Professor_, does a
trick somewhat like it in this way:

Two water-bottles, or carafes, the kind with large round bottoms and
wide necks, are used. Concealed in his right hand this man has a red
silk handkerchief folded into small compass. One of the carafes he
proceeds to wrap in a large handkerchief, holding it mouth downward for
this purpose, and it is while so wrapping it that he pops the concealed
handkerchief into the mouth of the bottle, which he stands, covered, on
the table. So much for getting the handkerchief in.

[Illustration: FIG. 1.]

Running up his right sleeve is a fine strong cord; this goes across his
back and out of the left arm hole of his vest, and ends in a loop which
reaches nearly to his waist. At the end of the cord by the right hand is
a piece of fine black sewing-silk, which is fastened into the eye of a
strong, short needle, and this needle is bent[1] into the form of a
double-jointed hook, as shown in Fig. 1. In this shape it will not catch
in the sleeve.

[1] The needle can easily be bent by heating it in a gas or lamp flame.
When it has acquired the proper form it should again be heated, and,
while still hot, be plunged into oil.

As the man is returning to his stage after showing the second carafe and
handkerchief to the audience, he attaches the hook to the latter. Then
he pushes it well down into the carafe, using his wand for the purpose.
Taking the carafe around the neck with his right hand, so that the mouth
is almost at his wrist, he swings it back and forth, and then counting
"_One--two--three!_" slips his left thumb into the loop, and at the word
"_three_," gives a sharp jerk, and the handkerchief flies up his sleeve.
As he stands with his right side toward the audience, and all eyes are
fixed on the carafe, the movement of the left hand and arm is not
noticed. The carafe which is on the table is now uncovered, and most of
the audience, seeing the handkerchief, imagine it is the same one that
was in the bottle, and that in some way inexplicable to them it has
passed invisibly from one place to the other.

Another performer pursues a different method. When he comes on the
stage, he too has a handkerchief concealed in his right hand, but
it is already fastened to the thread attached to the cord which goes
up the sleeve. This cord is connected with what is known as a
_spring-barrel_--that is, a heavy coiled steel spring in a brass box,
very much like a spring tape-measure.

He holds the carafe in his left hand, to show that it is empty, and then
reaching with his right to the tail pocket of his coat, he pretends to
take out the handkerchief, which he shows. This he pushes with a
forefinger and his wand into the carafe. The spring-barrel is under his
vest at the left side, and when it is time for the handkerchief to leave
the carafe, a gentle pressure with the left-hand fingers on the button
of the spring-barrel sets the cord in motion, and sends the handkerchief
whizzing up his sleeve.

The spring makes a great noise, and to conceal this the man calls out,
"One! two! three!--_go!_" shouting the last word, and accompanying it by
a stamp of the foot and a crash at the piano, which is deafening.

The second carafe stands uncovered on a table, and has a small hole
drilled in its bottom. The duplicate handkerchief which is to make its
appearance in the carafe is arranged as follows: The centre is gathered
into a point, and through this is run one end of a long double black
thread. Both ends of this thread are led inside the neck of the carafe
and out through the hole in the bottom, and again through a
corresponding hole in the table, to the hands of an assistant, who is
beneath the stage. The handkerchief hangs at the back of the table,
where it cannot be seen by the audience. When it is to appear in the
carafe, the hidden assistant gives a strong and quick pull on both ends
of the thread, and the handkerchief flies so quickly into the carafe
that it is impossible for the eye to follow it. When it is once inside
the bottle the assistant pulls _on one end of the thread_, and thus soon
pulls it through. The handkerchief is now detached, and may be taken out
of the bottle to convince the audience that it is in no wise connected
with any string.

Such wonderful tales are told by travellers of the feats of Indian
magicians that many believe them to be more than human. I have never
been to India, but two very clever conjurers who visited that country,
the late Robert Heller and Samri Baldwin, have assured me that they have
never seen anything but the most commonplace tricks performed there. I,
for one, believe them, for they understood every move that was made, and
could not be deceived. Some years ago a theatrical manager introduced a
company of Indian jugglers at his theatre, but their tricks were so
transparent that they did not succeed in creating any great impression
on the public.

More recently a troupe of these wonderful jugglers visited us, and
appeared at the Chicago Exposition and in other places through the
country. They did the famous trick of putting a man in a basket and
apparently making him disappear. It was very bad, and yet Dr. Hodgson,
of Boston, who visited India in the interest of the London Psychical
Society, says it was done exactly as it is done in India. One really
clever trick they did which has as yet not been explained, and that I
shall make plain.

[Illustration: THE HINDOO BOAT.]

"The Hindoo Boat," a block of wood roughly hewed into the shape of a
boat was shown. It was hollowed out inside. Near the bow was a
cross-piece having a hole in the centre, and in this was inserted a
hollow mast. The other end of this mast was stuck into a hole made in a
cocoanut, which had been cleaned out inside. Below the centre of the
cocoanut was another hole smaller than the one which admitted the mast.

The performer filled the body of the boat with water from a pitcher,
splashing it about his table, and making a great muss. He also filled
the cocoanut. Then at the word of command the water flowed or stopped
flowing from the hole at E. As the performer stood at a distance from
the boat, he had evidently no connection with it, though every control
over it.

The secret lies in the fact that the boat was pierced near the bottom
with another hole, F, which allowed the water slowly to trickle out. As
soon as enough had escaped to bring the water below the cross-piece, the
air would rush up the hollow mast, and the water would be forced out of
the hole E. This would soon fill the boat again, and as soon as that
happened the flow would cease. The performer had only to watch the water
in the boat, and be guided by that in giving his commands. It is nothing
more than the old story of the Tantalus cup in a new form.

A stage illusion which will compare favorably with the Hindoo tricks is
the one known as "Flyto." In this a human being disappears from a large
wooden cage which seemingly can conceal no one, and reappears in another
cage which is swinging in the air.

[Illustration: THE FIRST CAGE.]

The first cage, or "cabinet," as it is called, is about seven feet high
from bottom to top, and stands on slight legs, so that the spectator may
look under it. It is hexagon in shape, and is made up, front, back, and
sides, of doors. These doors are of slats placed about two inches apart,
so that the audience can look in and through the entire cabinet. Inside
the doors are red curtains on spring rollers. The background of the
stage, or _flat_, is covered with green cloth, and the same material is
on the floor of the stage. Outside on the top of the cabinet are four
chains uniting in the centre in a ring.

When the cabinet is first brought out the inner curtains are pulled
down. The cabinet is run down toward the foot-lights, and turned
completely around so that all sides may be seen. It is then pushed well
back on the stage, four of the doors are thrown open, and all the
curtains are run up. The audience can now see through every part. The
curtains are pulled down and the doors are closed.

A girl dressed in a fantastical costume comes on the stage and enters
the cabinet. She is hardly inside when the performer again throws open
the doors, and a tall man in military dress is seen inside. The girl has
gone. The curtains are run up, but nothing is to be seen of the missing
girl, and certainly there is no place to conceal her. The military
gentleman pulls down the curtains, steps out of the cabinet, closes the
door, and with the help of the performer once more rolls the cabinet
towards the foot-lights. A rope is let down from the flies, fastened to
the ring on top of the cabinet, and the machine is hoisted into the air.

In the mean time the girl, or some one like her, has come down the
centre aisle of the theatre and mounted the stage.

[Illustration: THE SECOND CAGE.]

A second cabinet, exactly like the first but a trifle smaller, is rolled
on the stage, and this the young lady enters. No sooner are the doors
closed than the performer cries out, "Where are you?" "Here," comes the
answer; the curtains fly up in the swinging cabinet, and there stands
the girl. The doors of the second cabinet are opened, but it is empty.

As my readers may surmise, there are two girls in this trick as well as
two cabinets. While it is not always possible to find twin sisters so
like that you cannot "tell one from both," these girls in their dress
and make up must look as much alike as possible. When the first cabinet
is rolled on the stage the "soldier" is inside, but, as you will
remember, the curtains are down. As soon as the cabinet is placed in
position at the back of the stage Mr. Soldierman steps out of the back
door and stands on the ledge.

_The two back doors are furnished on the outside with green curtains_ of
the same shade as the background and the stage covering, and herein lies
the whole secret of the trick, for the audience do not see through those
doors, but merely think they do.

When the girl enters the cabinet she changes places with the soldier.
Afterward when the curtains are down and the doors closed she re-enters
the cabinet, where she remains till she releases the curtains when she
is swinging aloft. With some slight modifications the trick might be
arranged for the drawing-room.

Most of the cabinet tricks shown on the stage depend on a back door. One
magician has used it for many years, and showed considerable ingenuity
in the way in which he managed to introduce the person who was to
produce the "manifestations." My reader must not understand by this that
he was aided by a second person in all his cabinet manifestations. When
he was tied with ropes and placed in the cabinet all the manifestations
that took place there were produced by him without assistance from any
one. In such cases he simply releases one hand, having secured slack
while he was being tied up by the committee, and with this one hand he
rings the bells, shakes the tambourines, and "raises ructions"
generally. Later on, when he ties himself up and re-enters the cabinet,
he is tied in such a way that he can free both hands, and is enabled to
take off his own coat and put on some other man's, and do all the other
"two-hand acts."

Lately he has taken to building his cabinet in full view of the audience
so that there may be no possibility of concealing any one in it. He
brings out a platform mounted on legs with heavy casters, puts up the
back and sides, which are hinged together, and screws them in place;
then adjusts the front in which are the doors. Gradually in the process
of putting this together the cabinet is pushed about until for a moment
it backs against the "flat." That moment is not lost, for the one who is
to produce the manifestations steps through the scene on to the ledge
back of the cabinet, and there clings. No sooner is the front up and
secured than he enters by the back door. The cabinet is now turned
around, and when it is again in position well "up stage," its occupant
once more takes his place on the back ledge. Now the doors are opened
and closed. The man re-enters, rings the bells, blows the horns, knocks
over the chairs, and while the clatter is at its height, escapes to the
back again just as the doors are opened for the last time.

The performer bows. The curtain falls.

     NOTE.--Articles on this subject have appeared in the following
     numbers of the ROUND TABLE: Nos. 844, 852, 862, 866, 869.




The following day we were delayed so that we did not begin our journey
until three o'clock. When we drove away, as long as we were in sight of
the post, Frank and Henry looked back at Vic, who was straining at a
cord which held her to a hinge of the great gates, uttering dismal
canine lamentations at being left. The pleasure of their excursion
seemed to be marred at the outset by the absence of their constant
companion and pet.

At the time of which I write there were but two wagon roads out of
Prescott--one through Fort Whipple to the northeast, and one to the
north. We took the latter, pursuing it along the east side of Granite
Range for eight miles, when we passed through a rugged notch in the
range to Mint Creek, where the road made an acute angle, and followed a
generally southerly direction to La Paz.

We halted for the night at the creek, fifteen miles from the fort. Our
ambulance was provided with four seats--one in front for the driver,
fixed front and rear seats in the interior, with a movable middle seat,
the back of which could be let down so that it fitted the interval
between the others, and afforded a comfortable bed. On the rack behind
were carried the bedding, provisions, ammunition, and cooking utensils,
and beneath the hind axle swung a ten-gallon keg.

While supper was being prepared the boys wandered about the
camping-place in search of the mint which gave the creek its name, and
in a fruitless hunt for some ducks they had seen settle in the reeds.
Clary called them to supper, and they joined me around a blanket where
our soldier meal was spread. While we were sugaring and stirring our
coffee the cook stood by the fire holding two long rods in his hands,
upon the ends of which were slices of bacon broiling before the glowing
coals. Suddenly he exclaimed:

"Look there, b'ys!--look there!" raising and pointing with both sticks
and the rashers of bacon toward the cane grass behind us.

There in its very edge sat Vic, winking her eyes and twitching her ears
deprecatingly, plainly in doubt as to her reception.

"Stop, boys! Keep quiet!" I said, to prevent a movement in her
direction. "Vic, you bad girl, how dared you follow me?"

No reply; only a slow closing and opening of the eyes, and an
accompanying forward and backward movement of the ears.

"Go home! Go!"

The setter rose, dropped her head, and, turning dejectedly, disappeared
with drooping tail in the tall grass. Both boys exclaimed at once:

"Don't drive her off, sir! Poor little Vic."

"Well, go and see if you can coax her back. If she returns with you she
may go."

The boys ran eagerly into the grass, and soon I heard them soothing and
pitying the dog, telling her it was all right and she could go. But it
was evident she doubted their authority to give her permission to join
us, for Henry presently came running towards me.

"She won't come, sir. She keeps moving slowly back in the direction of
the fort. She looks so sorry and so tired. Only think how badly she
feels, and it is a long distance to Whipple. Can't she stay with us
until morning?"

"Then she will not come in with you?"

"No. She has always followed me unless you told her not to. She never
disobeys you."

"But she followed me here; that looks very much like disobedience."

"Did you tell her not to come?"

"No; I forgot to."

"Did she hear you tell Hoey to tie her to the gate?"

"No. He was in my room at the time, and the dog was with you at the

"Then she's not to blame, sir. She's a military dog, and never disobeys

"But how guilty she looked!"

"I do not think it is guilt that made her look so. If you had given her
a positive order not to come she would have staid without being tied.
She had expected to go, and she is terribly sorry at being left. She
thinks there has been a mistake, and came out to see about it."

"Perhaps you are right, Henry. She's certainly obeying orders now and
going back."

"Yes, sir, and in spite of our coaxing her to stay."

"I'll let her go with us. Let us try an experiment. You know some people
believe dogs understand what people say."

"Yes, sir; I know Vic does."

"I'll speak to her without altering my tone of voice. Now watch. Here,
Vicky, little girl, you may go with us."

Out of the reeds, bounding in an ecstasy of delight, came Vic. She
sprang about me, then about the boys, the soldiers, and animals, and
then approached the fire and looked for her share of the supper. It was
settled in her dog mind that she was going with us.

We resumed our journey the next morning with the first crack of dawn,
and rode to Skull Valley. The first section of the road ran through a
rough, mountainous, and wooded country. At the end of twenty miles it
entered a level valley, which gradually broadened into a wide plain
which had been occupied by settlers for farms and cattle ranges. I was
well acquainted with the people, and called at the log house of a Mr.
Sage to make inquiries about the horse-thieves, and to purchase some
eggs for our next camp.

As the ambulance rattled up to the door two young women appeared, whom I
recognized as Mrs. Sage and Mrs. Bell. To my inquiry for her husband
Mrs. Sage replied that he and Mr. Bell had left for La Paz eight days
before, and were expected home that day.

"Sorry he is not here," I said; "I wanted to inquire about two
horse-thieves who probably passed through the valley two weeks ago."

"A Mexican and a white man?" asked Mrs. Sage, making a distinction in
complexion rather than in race.

"Yes; the first rode a cream-colored pony, and the last a black--the
property of these boys."

"They were here to breakfast; arrived before we were up. The Greaser
wanted to swap his saddle for a Mexican saddle, but husband wouldn't
swap, so he bought it."

"Did he leave the one he brought, Mrs. Sage?" asked Henry.

"Yes; it's hanging on a peg beside the door in the linter."

Both boys ran to the lean-to and presently returned with Henry's neat
McClellan saddle. It had been stripped of its pouches and small straps,
but was otherwise unharmed.

"What shall I pay you for this?" asked the boy.

"Oh, nothing! It cost us nothing, and I make no charge for storage. If
it's any use to you, take it."

"I wonder why Jumping Jack took off all the trimmings, sir?" said Henry
to me.

"Oh, I forgot to mention," said Mrs. Sage, "that the saddle the Greaser
bought had nothing on it, so he shifted everything off of this to that."

"Well, I'll shift everything back if we catch him, and when I come back
I'll call and report. Thank you for the saddle."

"You are entirely welcome to your property, I'm sure. Shall be glad to
see you enjoying your pony when you return."

The saddle was placed in the ambulance, and after buying some eggs and
vegetables we started, the boys expressing their satisfaction at the
result of our call, and feeling sanguine that we were on the trail of
the thieves. We left the valley by a steep ascent into a mountainous
range, and had proceeded but a short distance through a narrow and
rugged roadway when we were overtaken by the military expressman whom we
had left at Fort Whipple. He had come from Prescott to Skull Valley by a
short cut.

"I have a letter for you, Lieutenant," said he, approaching the

Unfastening the mail-pouch, he turned its contents upon the back seat. A
heap of loose letters and three well-worn books strewed themselves over
the cushion. Frank picked up the books and examined their titles.

"Xenophon's _Memorabilia_, Euripides' _Alcestis_ and _Medea_, a Greek
grammar!" exclaimed the astonished youngster. "What are you doing with
these college text-books on the La Paz trail?"

"Making up conditions," replied the courier, a blush deepening the brown
of his face.

"What are conditions?" asked Henry.

"Oh blissful ignorance! Why was I not spared the task of enlightening
it?" answered the courier. "Conditions are stumbling-blocks placed in
the way of successful rowing men and footballists by non-appreciative
college professors."

"'Joseph Gould Baldwin, University of Yalvard,'" read Frank from the
fly-leaf of the _Memorabilia_. "Is that your name, Mr. Baldwin?"

"I'm so borne on the catalogue."

During this conversation the letter had been handed to me, but I held it
unopened in my hand while I listened.

"Please explain, Mr. Baldwin," I said, "how a college-boy happens to be
in Arizona running the gauntlet of this mail route and making up
conditions in Greek?"

"I was stroke in the celebrated crew that won the championship for
Yalvard at New London a year ago, and got behind in these. I was
conditioned, and being ashamed to go home, struck out for myself on the
Pacific coast. I drifted about from mining-camp to cattle ranch until I
was dead broke. This place offered, and I took it because I could find
nothing else. I've had lots of opportunities for reflection on the
Xuacaxélla. I'm the repentant prodigal going home to his father."

"Oh, you are no prodigal, Mr. Baldwin," observed Henry. "We've heard
about you; you are too brave."

"Thank you, Henry. No; I've not wasted my substance in riotous living,
nor eaten husks; but I've been prodigal in wasting opportunities."

"Lost a whole college year, haven't you?" I asked.

"I hope not. There is a German university man at La Paz who has been
coaching me. He thinks I can go on with my old class. This is my last
trip, and after I am paid off I am going to work hard for a few months,
and then return to New Havbridge for examination. There's something in
that letter which concerns me."

Opening the letter, I learned that Captain Bayard knew Mr. Baldwin's
story. He said this was to be the last trip of the courier, but that
after his return to La Paz he would come out to meet me at Tyson's
Wells, and report whether the horse-thieves were in town. He also
suggested that in establishing a transshipment store-house at the
steamboat-landing I place Baldwin in charge. The pay would be of use to
him while "making up."


Baldwin wished us a pleasant journey, and rode away at a scrambling
canter up the pass. He had been gone but a few moments when my
advance-guard shouted for me to look out. Doing so, I saw the courier
standing on a pinnacle by the way-side, on the highest point of the
road. He was looking in the opposite direction, and I saw him fire three
shots from his carbine in rapid succession. I dismounted the men, and
made the necessary preparation to meet an attack. Slowly we worked up
the height, and when we reached the narrow level at the summit found
Baldwin and the two soldiers that formed our advance occupying a shelter
among the rocks to the left, and gazing down the opposite slope.

"What is it, Baldwin?" I asked.

"A party of Indians attempted to jump me here. I think they would have
done it, too, but for the sudden appearance of Clary and Hoey. There
they go now--across that opening in the sage-brush!"

A dozen Indians dashed across an open space south of the road, but too
far away for effective shooting, and then two more passed over
supporting a third between them.

"You must have hit one of them."

"I tried to. I think another felt the sting of a bullet, from the way he
flung himself about."

"Are you hurt?"

"A slight scratch on the arm near the shoulder, and my horse is hurt."

An examination of Baldwin's arm proved that the scratch was not serious,
but I thought it best to exchange his horse for one belonging to a
soldier. We went on, Frank and I walking in advance of the ambulance

"There's something down there in the road by Ferrin's grave, sir," said
Corporal Duffey. "Looks like a dead man."

"Is this where Ferrin was killed?" I asked.

"Yes, sir; I came here with a detail to look him up. He had built a
little stone fort on that knoll up yonder and kept the redskins off four
days. He kept a diary, you remember, which we found. He killed six of
them; but they got him at last. They scattered the mail in shreds along
the road for miles."

"Who was Ferrin?" Frank asked.

"He was a discharged California volunteer who rode the express before
Mr. Baldwin."

"Do you think Mr. Baldwin knew his predecessor had been killed?"

"Yes; the story is well known. You boys were down at Postal's ranch when
it happened."

"I can't see why Mr. Baldwin took the place. If we had not been along he
would have been killed to-day."

"No doubt of it."

We were nearing the object in the road. Suddenly the mules caught sight
of it, backed, and crushed the ten-gallon keg under the axle against a
bowlder; a serious mishap as our after-experience will show. Walking on
we came to the mutilated bodies of two men, several yards apart, whom we
had no difficulty in recognizing to be the ranchmen Sage and Bell. I
sent a man back to Skull Valley to report their death, and with the axe,
bayonets, and tin-cups dug a shallow grave beside Ferrin's. We placed
them side by side and heaped a pyramid of stones above them.

The courier again bade us good-by, and, our messenger to Skull Valley
having returned, we went on. The further ride through the mountain-pass
was accomplished without adventure, and evening found us encamped at
Willow Springs. These springs were surrounded by immense bowlders of
coarse granite which was undergoing slow disintegration; the whole
region being covered with a coarse gravel, which had once been a part of
the solid granite strata. In fact the springs were not only surrounded
but buried beneath the gravel. We scooped it away to find the crystal
water which lay beneath. The boys shot a few quail here of the variety
known as the California quail, distinguished by an elegant plume of six
feathers on the top of the head. Clary broiled them for breakfast.

The road the following day was so rough that for much of the way we were
unable to move faster than a walk, the slow walk of draught animals.
Small fragments of granite filled the track, making it impossible to
trot. When near a place called Soldiers' Holes, on account of some
rifle-pits sunk there, the Corporal called my attention to a pool of
blood in the road. Instantly the boys and I thought the gallant young
courier had met with death. Leaving the ambulance we examined the
locality thoroughly. Moccasin tracks filled a clump of sage-brush on the
left, and a few crossed to the pool of blood. Tracks of two horses and a
mule, and shoes of white men mingled with the others.

The signs showed that two men had fallen, that one had been wounded, and
that a second party had come and taken the wounded man away. The place
was well adapted for a surprise. On the left was a long dense growth of
low shrubbery extending from the road to the foot of a mountain-range.
On the opposite side was an open plain.

We were going on again when Frank remarked,

"There seems to have been a big gathering of Apaches along this road."

"Yes; a war party must be out, bent upon serious mischief. They have
struck at two points, and I fear a third--Date Creek--may have been
attacked by this time. That is where we are to stay to-night." Then,
turning to Corporal Duffey, I continued: "The road from here to the
creek is softy and loamy, and we are not likely to make much noise; keep
the men quiet. If the Indians are at the ranch, it will be best for us
to appear unexpectedly."

"Do Indians never stand up like white men in a fight?" the younger boy

"Frequently; but their system is different from ours--although modern
tactics seem to be adopting Indian methods, and the white man fights in
open lines, lies down, and creeps in a manner he formerly condemned."

Although this section of our march was but twenty-five miles long, our
rate of progress had been so slow that the day was nearly closed before
we came in sight of the line of cottonwoods that bordered Date Creek. We
turned at last sharply to the left, and began a descent through a narrow
ravine towards the creek. We were nearing its widening mouth when a
half-dozen sharp reports of fire-arms broke upon our ears. A halt was
ordered, and the men directed to prevent the animals from betraying our
presence by whinnying or braying. Directing Sergeant Henry to remain
behind and keep Vic with him, I went on in advance with Sergeant Frank.

"What do you think is going on?" asked my companion, as several more
reports rang out.

"What I feared; the Apaches are attacking the men who went out to bring
in the dead or wounded men at Soldiers' Holes."

"And if Mr. Baldwin was not the wounded man there, I suppose he is sure
to be in this scrape. Why not rush in with the escort and frighten them

"No doubt we could frighten them if they are not too many," I answered;
"but we have good reason to believe that they are out in force, and it
will be prudent for us to learn the situation at the ranch before we go
nearer. I want to join the white men without the Indians' knowledge, if
possible. Our presence seems to be unknown to both parties."

"Then Mr. Baldwin must be the man killed."

"He may be there, and the men may know we are on the road; but it
certainly does not look like it."

"Can't Vic be sent with a message?"

"No; she does not know the locality, nor has she any friends at the
ranch. She will not take a message to a stranger."

We had now reached a point from which we could see a log cabin, a
stable, and an open shed. On the side of the buildings toward us, as if
screening themselves from an enemy in the opposite direction, were a few

"If you would like me to, I can crawl to the house without being seen,"
said Frank. "That cart, wagon, and stack will screen me."

"Yes, you can do it easily. Tell Mr. Hopkins we are here, and to make no
demonstration when we close up. I will explain a plan to him which, I
think, will enable us to teach the Apaches a lesson. If you find Mr.
Baldwin there, tell him to show himself at a window or door."



[2] Begun in HARPER'S ROUND TABLE No. 868.



The two days' journey that followed was very much like that of the first
day--an early start, two hours' rest in the middle of the day, and the
night spent at a road-side tavern. On the third day they left
civilization behind them, and their mid-day rest was spent in the woods.
They were then upon a lower spur of the Blue Ridge Mountains. The road
for the first two days had been fairly good, but on the third day the
four roans had all they could do to haul the heavy coach up and down the
rough highway. They stood to their work gallantly, though, and Lord
Fairfax remarked that the coach could go twenty miles farther up the
mountain, where he had a hunting-lodge--a sort of outpost for Greenway
Court, and where the coach was stored. Glorious weather had followed
them. The air was keener and colder than in the low country, and Lance
produced a huge furred mantle, in which he wrapped Lord Fairfax, who sat
and read unconcernedly while the coach rolled and jerked and bumped
along. George was glad to make half his day's travel on horseback, and
the exercise, as a warmer-up, was so much better than the Earl's fur
mantle that he felt sometimes like suggesting a gallop to Lord Fairfax.
But he had the wit to keep his suggestions to himself, knowing that
older men can do their own thinking much better than it can be done for
them by fifteen-year-old boys. George had enjoyed every moment of the
trip so far. His attacks of homesickness were few, and he got over them
by the philosophical reflection that he would have been cruelly
disappointed if his mother had not allowed him to come. He began a
letter to his mother, writing a little every day, so that if he had a
chance to visit the low country it would be all ready to send at a
moment's notice. He was very happy. He had in prospect a new and
delightful experience in travel and association. When that was over he
had the cheerful hospitality and honest gayety of his Christmas at Mount
Vernon to look forward to with his brother and his sister-in-law, whom
he dearly loved, and dear little Betty; and after that a return home,
where he fitted naturally and easily into the position of his mother's
best helper and counsellor.

The singular attraction between the man of the world and the
unsophisticated young provincial gentleman grew each day. George had
never before met any one who had Lord Fairfax's store of experience, as
a soldier, a courtier, a man of affairs, and a member of a great
literary circle. Nothing was lost on the boy, and the Earl was charmed
and interested to find that a chance word dropped here and there would
remain in George's memory, who would recall it at a suitable time to ask
some intelligent question about it. Lord Fairfax sometimes smiled at
himself when he realized how much of his time and thought and
conversation was spent upon this boy, but he also realized that an
intelligent and receptive young mind is in itself one of the most
interesting things in the world, and when combined with the noble
personality and high breeding of Madam Washington's son it was
irresistible. For the first day or two he always spoke to George as "Mr.
Washington," and neither one could tell the exact occasion when he
dropped it for the more familiar "George." But it was done, and it put
them upon a footing of affection at once. George continued to say "my
lord," as that was the proper mode of address, but little by little he
revealed his heart to his new friend, and Lord Fairfax read him as an
open book. This was not at first, however, for George modestly conceived
himself to be a person of no consequence whatever, and was much more
eager to hear the Earl speak of his adventures than to tell all the
ideas and protests and ambitions he cherished himself.

On the evening of the fourth day they came to a log structure at the
foot of the mountains, where the coach was to be left. It was in a
cleared space on an open plateau, and above them towered the great peaks
of the Blue Ridge, which they must cross on horseback.

The night was bright and beautiful, a great vivid moon sailing
majestically in the heavens. There was in the clearing one large cabin,
with two beds in it and a large press, besides a table and some chairs.
In a smaller cabin two or three men lived the year round, while built on
to that was a substantial coach-house, where the great chariot was
stored, except when the Earl went upon his lowland journeys in state.
When the cavalcade stopped in the clearing Lord Fairfax alighted and
walked into the large cabin, followed by George. A fire roared upon the
broad, rude hearth, and in ten minutes Lance had unlocked the press, had
taken from it some bedlinen and blankets, and had made up the beds and
laid the table. Supper had been prepared in advance, and, as Lance was
an excellent cook, it was not to be despised--in particular, a great
saddle of venison, which had been hanging up for a week in anticipation
of the Earl's arrival. George could hardly have told what part of the
day's journey he always enjoyed most, but those suppers, with the Earl's
entertaining conversation, and his own healthy young appetite, and the
delicious sense of well-being when he drew up to the fire afterwards to
listen and ask questions, were perfectly delightful to him.

When they were seated at the table and about half through supper, Lord
Fairfax asked, smiling,

"How do you like the uncivilized wilderness, George?"

"But this is not the uncivilized wilderness yet," answered George,
smiling too. "We have a table and chairs, and knives and forks and
plates, and beds and blankets, and silver candlesticks."

"Still, it is the wilderness, and from now on we must depend upon
ourselves for company. The true meaning of the wilderness is absence
from the haunts of men. We shall be entirely alone at Greenway, except
for a few negroes and Indians. You will probably not see a white face,
except mine and Lance's, until you leave me."

"It will be quite enough, sir," replied George. "I would rather be with
a few people that I like than with a great crowd that I don't like."

"I felt the same in my youth. Afterwards there were circumstances in my
life which inclined me to solitude. I came to Virginia in search of it,
and I found it; and I also found peace. Once a year I go to the low
country--to Belvoir, my cousin William Fairfax's; to your brother's at
Mount Vernon; sometimes to see Colonel Byrd at Westover; but I always
return to my own fastness gladly. I feel more cheerful now than at any
time since we started. My old friends--my books--are waiting for me in
my library; I can only take a dozen with me when I go away. My doves and
pigeons, my dogs and horses, will all be the happier for my return home.
My servants will be glad to have me back--poor souls, they have but a
dull time of it all the year round; and I myself, having lived this life
so long, find that it suits me. I shall have your company for several
weeks; then I shall want you again next year."

"Next year, sir, I shall be sixteen, and perhaps I shall not be my own
master. I may be in his Majesty's service. But if I can come to you
again, you may be sure I will."

When supper was over the Earl drew his chair up to the fire, and, still
wrapped in his fur mantle--for the bitter wind blew through the cracks
and crannies of the cabin--sat in a reverie with his deep eyes fixed on
the blaze. George had meant that night to ask him something about the
siege of Bouchain, but he saw that the Earl was deep in thought, and so
said nothing. He began to wonder what his mother and Betty were doing at
that time. It was after supper at Ferry Farm, too. His mother was
knitting by the table in the parlor, with two candles burning, and Betty
was practising at the harpsichord. In his mother's bedroom--"the
chamber," as it was called in Virginia--a fire was burning, and around
the hearth were gathered the household servants picking the seed from
the cotton, which, when warmed by the fire, came out easily. This they
did while waiting until they were dismissed at nine o'clock. What was
Billy doing? and Rattler? While thinking these thoughts George dropped
asleep, and slept soundly until Lance waked him raking down the ashes
and preparing for the night.

Next morning George wakened early, as he supposed, seeing how dark it
was; but the sound of the rain upon the roof proved that it was not so
early, after all. He glanced through one of the two small windows of the
cabin and saw the water coming down in torrents. A regular mountain
storm was upon them. George sighed as he realized this. It meant
weather-bound for several days, as the roads across the mountains would
be likely to be impassable after such a storm. And so it proved. For
four days there was only an occasional let up in the downpour. Luckily,
no snow fell. And Lord Fairfax observed his young guest narrowly in
these days of being cooped up in a cabin, and found him less impatient
than might have been expected. George, seeing the elaborate preparations
that Lance always made for the Earl's comfort, imagined that he would
ill support the inconveniences of their enforced delay; but it proved
exactly the contrary. Lord Fairfax was not only patient but gay under
such annoyances as a leak in the roof and their rations being reduced to
corn-bread and smoked venison.

"It reminds me of our old days in the Low Countries," he said to Lance
the fourth night they spent at the cabin.

"Yes, my lord; but, saving your honor's presence, we would have thought
this a palace in those days. I don't think I ever was dry all over, and
warm all over, and had as much as I could eat from the time I went to
the Low Countries until after we had taken Bouchain, sir."

"Lance has told me about that adventure, sir," said George, slyly,
hoping to hear something more from Lord Fairfax about it.

"Pshaw!" cried the Earl, smiling; "Lance is in his dotage, and can talk
of nothing but what happened thirty or forty years ago. Our expedition
was a mere prank. I found out nothing, and risked not only my life but
this poor fellow's without warrant."

"The Duke, sir," said Lance, very respectfully, "was of another mind.
And, sir, I have never thought of Madame Geoffroy, and her fits and her
fainting and her furbelows, these thirty-five years without laughing."

At which George went off into such convulsions of laughter that Lord
Fairfax knew Lance had told him the whole story.

After four days of stormy weather it became clear and cold. They were
only twenty miles from Greenway Court, but the Earl sent a man ahead to
find out if the streams were fordable, and whether it were yet worth
while to start. The man came back the next day about sunset, saying it
would be possible for them to get to Greenway Court the next day.

Although George had stood the confinement in the cabin stoically, he was
delighted to be on the move again, and both he and the Earl relished
their last supper there the more for knowing it would be the last. All
the arrangements were made for an early start on horseback next morning,
and at nine o'clock Lord Fairfax and George were about turning in when
they heard a timid knock at the door.

Lance, with a candle in his hand, opened the door, and at first saw
nothing at all; but as his eyes became accustomed to the darkness he saw
a negro boy and a dog.


Lance was so surprised that he did not at first speak, but the boy piped
up very promptly, "Is Marse George Washington here, suh?"

George, on hearing his name called in that voice, jumped from his chair
as if he had been shot, and the next moment was standing face to face
with Billy, while Rattler sprang at him with wild barks of delight.
Billy's greeting was brief and to the point.

"Heah I is, Marse George, wid Rattler."

"Where on earth did you come from?" asked George, breathlessly, dragging
the boy into the cabin. As the light of the fire and the candles fell
upon him he looked as if he might have come three hundred miles instead
of less than a hundred and fifty, he was so thin, so hollow-eyed, and
gaunt. His shoes were quite gone except the uppers, and he was in rags
and tatters; yet nothing could dim the joy shining in his beady black
eyes, while his mouth came open as if it were on hinges. Lord Fairfax,
turning in his chair, was struck by the look of rapturous delight on
poor Billy's face. The boy, still grinning, answered:

"F'um Fredericksburg. I tooken de horse mos' ter de ferry, and den I
tu'n him loose, kase he had sense 'nough fer ter git ter de boat by
hisse'f. So arter I seen him mos' up ter de boat, me an' Rattler, we all
lights out arter de kerriage fo' Black Sam an' Gumbo have time fer ter
hunt fer me, an' we foller de track clean f'um Fredericksburg ter dis
heah place." Billy told this as if it were the commonest thing in the
world for a boy and a dog to follow a coach more than a hundred miles
from home. George was so astonished he could only stare at Billy and
gasp out,

"How did you manage to keep the track?"

"Dun'no', suh," replied Billy, calmly. "Rattler, he know de way better
'n me. When de rains come an' I los' de wheel tracks, I say ter dat ar'
dog, 'Lookee heah, dog, we is follerin' Marse George'--_he_ know dat jes
as well as a human; an' I say, 'You got ter fin' dat trail an' dem
tracks,' an' dat dog he know what I was talkin' 'bout, an' he wag he
tail, an' den he lay he nose to de groun', an' heah we is."

The Earl had laid down his book and was listening intently to Billy's
story. "And what did you live on--what did you have to eat on the
way--let me see--nearly eight days?"

"We didn't have nuttin' much," Billy admitted. "De mornin' we lef home I
tooken a big hoe-cake an' put it in my shut when warn' nobody lookin'.
De fus' day I eat some, an' gin some ter de dog. Arter dat I foun'
chinquapins an' ches'nuts an' some tu'nips 'long de road-side, an' I
could eat dem, but de dog couldn', so I kep' dat hoe-cake fur Rattler,
an' give him de las' piece yistiddy."

"Billy," asked George, with tears in his eyes, "were you _very_ hungry?"

For the first time a distressed look came into the boy's face. He was at
his journey's end, he was with Marse George, he had nothing more on
earth to wish for; but the recollection of the hunger of those eight
days--the cold, the weariness, the agonies of terror that sometimes
attacked him overcame him.

"Yes, suh, I was hungry," he said, with a sob, "dat's Gord's truf; an'
ef it hadn' been fur dis heah dog you neber would ha' seed Billy no mo'.
But dat dog, he go 'long snuffin', an' he were hongry too, I speck,
dough he had some hoe-cake twell yistiddy; an' if de dog coul' hol' out,
dis nigger could."

"I'll never, never forget it, Billy, as long as I live," said George,
half crying.

Then Lord Fairfax spoke. "But how did you escape from being stopped on
the road for a runaway?"

"Dun'no', suh," responded Billy, using his favorite formula. "We didn't
meet many white folks on de road, an' when we see 'em comin' we hide in
de bushes. I 'ain' never spoke ter a human sence we lef Fredericksburg.
In the daytime we hide somewh'yar by de road an' sleep, an' we trabbel
'mos' all night. 'Twas de full o' de moon, an' I see dem tracks jes same
as 'twas in daytime. Den, arter I los' 'em, dis heah dog, he jes keep de
road hisse'f--an' here I is."

"Lance," cried George, suddenly, "please get something for him to
eat--anything--everything you have!"

Billy's eyes glistened as, in a moment, Lance whipped out of the press
some cold meat and bread, and he attacked it ravenously. Meanwhile
George fed the dog, which was evidently the least starved of the two.
When Billy had eaten up everything that could be produced for him, he
quietly curled himself up near the fire, and in half a minute he was
sleeping the sleep of the just.

"What are you going to do with him?" asked Lord Fairfax of George.

"Keep him with me if you will allow me, sir."

"But what will your mother say? He seems to be a strong boy--his journey
proves that--and he no doubt has his work at Ferry Farm."

George smiled at the recollection of Billy's "work."

"I don't think, my lord, that Billy is of the slightest use at Ferry
Farm unless I am there. My mother, who believes in everybody's being
industrious, has done her best to make him work. So have his father and
mother, Uncle Jasper and Aunt Sukey. But except for waiting on me, and
taking care of my horse, Billy will absolutely do nothing. He is not
surly about it--he is always grinning and laughing and singing--but--I
can't explain it exactly--he will work his fingers to the bone for me,
but he won't work for anybody else."

"I should think Billy was not a very useful member of society," remarked
Lord Fairfax.

George said not a word, but he did not like aspersions of any kind on
Billy. Seeing this, Lord Fairfax said, in his usual kind tone:

"If it gives you pleasure, you must, of course, keep him with you--and
indeed there is nothing else to be done that I can see; and as you say
he is no good to your mother when you are not at home, perhaps he is
better off here. He seems a faithful little soul, and I am not surprised
that you are touched at his devotion."

George's face assumed an entirely different expression, but he merely
said, "Thank you, sir," and in a few minutes, after throwing a bear-robe
over Billy, George went to bed himself, with Rattler curled up by him.

Next morning they took the road soon after sunrise. Billy, who had
enough of walking for some time to come, was mounted on one of the
pack-horses. Two saddle-horses had been brought down from Greenway for
the Earl and his young guest; and together they led the procession along
the rough mountain road. The scenery was wildly beautiful. Occasionally
they wound along mighty precipices, where the horses could scarcely pick
their way. Again, they forded mountain streams that could be breasted
only by the most tremendous exertions. They made their way through a
great cleft in the mountains about mid-day, and began to descend towards
the valleys. The distance was but twenty miles, yet so difficult was the
road that it was late in the short autumn afternoon before Lord Fairfax,
pointing to a collection of roofs that lay directly below them in a
sheltered part of the valley, said to George, "There is Greenway Court."

By sunset they were riding up the rough road that led to the house.

It was a large, low building, with stables and offices projecting on
each side. The foundation was of stone, rudely but strongly cemented.
Half-way up the story and a half which constituted the building the
stone ceased, and logs, neatly and even artistically mortised together,
were carried to the roof. The effect was not unpleasing, especially as
many of the original forest trees had been left, and the building
blended well with its surroundings. Broad and shallow stone steps led up
to the main entrance, and two great oak doors studded with nails gave
entrance to it. George noticed that all of the windows were provided
with stout iron-bound shutters, with holes for musketry in them. The
door was also pierced for defence, and a very slight examination showed
that, if well garrisoned, the building could be converted into a
tolerably strong block-house. The Earl, as if reading the thoughts in
George's mind, remarked:

"We have to be provided here for attacks from the Indians, incited by
the French. The French have determined to extend their encroachments
eastward and southward by a chain of forts, and I make no doubt that
they contemplate a line that will extend from Canada to Louisiana. They
use the Indians as secret though powerful allies, and, by encouraging
them to harry and murder the whites in this wild part of the colony of
Virginia, they think that it will be abandoned, and that they can
advance their out-posts this far. Greenway Court has withstood one
siege, and can withstand another. There is a spring directly under the
house, and having some knowledge of mechanics, I have concealed the
source, which is at a distance from the house, and we get the spring
water by merely going down into the cellar. Then I keep constantly on
hand, in this same cellar, stores of provisions and ammunition, so we
are well able to defend ourselves, even against burning--for the Indians
have found out the use of the torch against white men's dwellings.
However, I hope we shall have no bouts with them while you are with us."

George said nothing, but he would have been more or less than a boy if
he had not longed in his heart for a bout with the savages, of which he
had heard much but seen little.




Things are often done by monkeys which are very humanlike, but to them
the acts may have no meaning whatever, being purely the result of

In all my researches among monkeys my chief aim has been to determine
the innate powers of the mind, and therefore I have not regarded the
tricks which they are often taught to do as being an index to their
mental qualities. I shall relate a few of the most rational acts that I
have known chimpanzees to perform. In these cases the animal was not
actuated by fear, but was prompted by his own desire to accomplish a
certain end to gratify his own wish.

Moses was the name of the young chimpanzee that lived with me in the
jungle. One day as we were taking a stroll through the forest we came to
a small branch of running water. Moses never liked to get his feet wet,
but I thought on this occasion I would let him wade across it. The
stream was not more than four feet wide and two or three inches deep. I
first allowed my boy to pass over, and then I followed him, leaving
Moses to get over by himself. When he reached the edge of the branch he
began to beg for help. I seated myself on a log a few yards away from
him, and he sat down on the bank of the stream. After a short time he
walked along the bank looking for some means of crossing it without
wading; two or three times he walked back and forth, and continued to
beg for help. At last he discovered a clump of tall, slender bushes
growing on the edge of the stream a few yards above the path; he went to
these, took hold of one of them, and stood for a moment holding it; then
he began to climb up it. He climbed up the side next to the water, and
as he did so, the slender stalk began to bend under his weight. He
continued to climb, and the plant continued to bend until the top of it
almost touched the ground on the opposite side of the stream, and bore
Moses safely across to the opposite bank. He released his hold upon the
bush, and ran to me with a grin on his face, which was an evidence that
he was conscious of having done a very clever thing. Whether other
chimpanzees ever applied this means of crossing water or not I cannot
say; but as it is not a constant habit with them, it cannot be called
instinct. It was a piece of genuine engineering. No philosopher could
have found a better solution to the problem.

Aaron was one of the brightest of his kind that I ever saw; he died in
England. On the voyage from Africa to that country I had a cage for him
and his companion constructed from parts of my own cage. On board the
ship was a stowaway, who helped me to look after my pets; the boy was
disposed to play tricks on the chimpanzee, and, whenever he had an
opportunity, would do something to annoy him. Aaron was very fond of
drinking water out of a long-necked bottle; this was very convenient, as
the neck could be thrust through the meshes of the cage, and withdrawn
after he had finished. When the boy gave them water, he would turn the
bottle up and pour the water over them. They did not like this, and for
a time refused to drink at all. At last Aaron found means of escaping;
he climbed up on the side of the cage at a safe distance from the front,
and about on a level with the neck of the bottle; then holding fast with
his feet to the side of the cage, reached across the angle of the
corner, took hold of the wires with his hand above the mouth of the
bottle, and put his lips to it; when the water was spilled it did not
touch him, but fell to the floor. After Elishiba witnessed this a few
times she did the same thing, showing that she perfectly understood why
he did so and what the result was.

I saw a young chimpanzee in Africa that belonged to a French officer.
She was kept on board a small steamer that runs on the Ogowe River. This
ape was full of mischief, and had to be tied or watched constantly to
keep her out of harm. She had learned to untie all kinds of knots, so
that it was very difficult to keep her confined.

On one occasion when I was aboard this steamer her master tied her with
a long line to one of the rails alongside the boat. As a rule she always
untied the knot next to her first, but on this occasion a new kind of
knot had been tied. About six feet from her neck a single loop was tied
around one of the iron rails along the side of the deck; then the long
noose end of the string was taken to a stanchion about four feet away,
and securely tied in the angle formed by the stanchion and the rail. The
chimpanzee tried in vain to untie the single knot in the line which was
near to her; but as one end was fastened to her neck and the other to
the post, there was no loose end to draw through. She slacked the knot,
however, as far as possible, but could find no loose end; she drew it
tight again, and then examined it. Again she slacked it, and examined
each strand separately; she traced one strand of it to the post, then
she traced the other to her neck. For a moment she sat as if in deep
study; then she slipped the knot along the railing, until it was near
the stanchion. She slackened it, and surveyed it with care; she climbed
down upon the deck, and pulled first at one strand, then another. Then
she climbed around the stanchion and back again; she climbed up over the
railing, down on the outside, and back again. She climbed through
between the rails and back again two or three times, and again examined
the knot; she tightened the loop, and moved it along the rail to the
place it was first tied; she climbed up and again examined the knot; she
drew first one end and then the other, but found them both fast; she
drew the loop out as far as it would come, and, holding it in her hands,
she examined each strand of it again; then she cautiously lifted it and
put it over her head, crawled through it and the loop was undone. When
the loose line dropped on the deck, with one end still fastened to her
neck and the other to the post, she realized that she had untied the
aggravating loop in the middle. To release the end fast to the post was
only the work of a moment; the look of triumph on her face was enough to
satisfy any one that she was conscious of her victory. As soon as she
was released she gathered the line in a roll in her hands, and set out
to explore the boat again.

Away in the interior of the Esyra country I arrived at a town in which
there lived a fine strong chimpanzee about five years old; he was
playing with the children in the open space between the houses, and
appeared to take as much interest in the game as any one of them. When
they discovered a white man in the town they all came to take a look,
and he showed as much concern as any one else. After a time he came to
me and climbed upon my lap; he became a little too familiar, and I had
him taken away. Then he and the children resumed their play for a while,
and in the mean time I inquired into his history. He was captured in the
forest near the town when he was a little babe, and had lived there ever
since as one of the family. He ate and played with these children, slept
in the same houses with them, and did not seem to realize that he was
not a human being.

He belonged to one of the King's sons, who told me that the ape could
talk, and that he could understand him. He entertained me with a number
of feats that the animal had been taught to do. They were not mere
tricks performed for amusement, but they were acts of usefulness. In
fact, he was made to occupy somewhat the place of a servant.

One of the things that he required him to do, by way of entertaining me,
was to go to the spring and bring a gourd of water. He was reluctant to
do this, but he did it. As soon as he delivered the water to his master
he ran away and joined the children in their play. I expressed a desire
to see him fill the gourd with water, and his master called him again,
gave him the vessel, and we went with him. He dipped the gourd in the
water with the mouth downward, and having submerged it, turned it on its
side, and lifted it up. There was only a little water in the gourd; he
repeated this act a number of times until the gourd was almost filled;
his master said that as long as the water continued to bubble at the
mouth of the gourd the ape would continue to dip it in, showing that he
was aware of the cause of the bubbling.

This ape knew all the people of the town by name, and knew his own name;
he was required to aid the children in bringing firewood from the
forest, and many other chores about the town.



One of the most intelligent and quite the best educated chimpanzee that
I have ever seen is Consul II. He is an inmate of the Bellevue Gardens
at Manchester, England. He is the most humanlike in his manners of any
of his kind that have ever been known in captivity. The many clever
feats done by this ape would fill a small volume; he has not been
trained to perform them as tricks, simply to amuse or entertain
visitors, but many of them he has taken up of his own accord, having
seen others do so. The feat that impressed me most was his skill in
riding a tricycle, and his taste for that sport. He often takes his
machine without being told, and rides all about the place; if he finds
it lying on its side, he sets it upright, adjusts the handle-bar, mounts
it, and takes a ride. He propels it with ease and guides it with
dexterity. No boy of his own age can handle it with more skill. He rides
all about the place, around the walks and drives, all over several acres
of ground; he steers it around the posts and corners, around the curves
of the paths, makes his way through crowds of people without colliding
with them. He amuses himself by the hour at this pastime. When he tires
of it he sometimes shoves the vehicle up in some corner and leaves it.

Consul also smokes cigar, cigarette, or pipe. He often finds a cigar
stub about the place, picks it up, puts it in his mouth, and goes to his
keeper for a light. One amusing habit he has is that of spitting; he is
not very skilful in this, but is persistent. However, he has the
politeness not to spit on the floor; he spreads a piece of paper on the
floor, and uses it as a cuspidor.

Consul uses a handkerchief the same as a person does; he eats with a
knife and fork, cuts up his food with ease, and never uses his fingers
in eating; he can blow a horn, but does not attempt to carry any tune.
He knows the first three letters of the alphabet, which he has painted
on a set of blocks; when asked for any one of the three, he will select
it and hold it up.

I regard the feats described above, except the last one, as being
rational, and the result of the innate faculties of the actors. We are
only beginning to understand the mental characteristics of animals, but
our researches in that field are bearing abundant fruit, and we are now
beginning to realize that all of these humbler creatures are component
parts of the great scheme of life. When man becomes more fully impressed
with the fact that all creatures think and feel in the same manner as
himself, although not to the same degree, it will make the bonds of
fellowship closer between him and nature.



Nearbye is a very small village, and a country village at that, for it
is approached by wagon roads only, and the silence of the streets is
never broken by the whistle of a locomotive, as the nearest railway is
seven miles off. The shows that come to Nearbye are few and far between,
and the people consider them such events that they mark epochs in the
history of the town. As in other places an old inhabitant would speak of
the year the war began, in Nearbye the people say, "The summer that
_Uncle Tom's Cabin_ was played in the Shoemakers' Lot," or "The autumn
that the negro minstrels came to town." Now these two shows were ten
years apart, but every one remembers the earlier one perfectly, except
the children, who have been born since the honest folk of Nearbye wept
over the tribulations of Uncle Tom. And even these think they remember
the theatrical performance under the tent in the Shoemakers' Lot. This
self-deception is due to the fact that they have heard so much about the
show that they have persuaded themselves that they saw it. But these two
shows have been entirely eclipsed in glory within the past little while,
for there was a circus in Nearbye a few weeks ago--a real circus, with a
caged lion and tiger, with an elephant, a camel, and a giraffe, as the
menagerie part, while there performed in the ring bare-back riders--both
men and women--who cavorted around the ring right merrily, and jumped
through paper-covered hoops as though they actually enjoyed that kind of
thing. Barnum, in my opinion, did much to spoil the circus as we see it
in the great cities. Three or four rings in which performances are going
on at the same time are extremely bewildering, and few spectators can
give such undivided attention to one ring as to keep entire track of all
that goes on in it. After an evening at the one-ring circus in the
country I am persuaded that I am right in my opinion, and that the
old-fashioned circus has much greater power to please than "the greatest
show on earth."

I was Miss Kitty's guest when the circus came to Nearbye, and this
attention on her part was in recognition of the fact that I had taken
her to the Barnum show at Madison Square Garden last spring. I consider
that I have been amply repaid. But, really, the best part of the show
was not under the circus tent. I doubt very much whether there was a
small boy within four miles of Nearbye who slept a wink the night before
the circus was to arrive. If any of them slept at all at night, it is
very certain that none of them continued that sleep into the daylight,
for long before the sun was up the roads leading to the village were
dotted here and there with groups of hurrying and impatient youngsters
hastening to the Shoemakers' Lot to welcome the arrival of the circus
caravan, and to superintend the erection of the tent. Pretty nearly all
the small boys in the township were on hand three hours before the first
of the circus wagons came. The long wait had tried their patience sadly,
and the gay tricks on each other with which they had beguiled the
earlier time of waiting had either been exhausted because the country
boy's repertoire of pranks is limited, or because their spirits had been
stilled by anxiety. It was rather the spirits that had given out than
the pranks, I fancy, for I saw evidence now and then of a gulped-down
sigh and a half-concealed tear when John or Tom or Billy would reach the
sad conclusion that the circus was not coming after all. But the first
wagon drove up at half past eight, and by eleven all had arrived. The
tent was pitched in short order, the ring was made, the side show was in
full working order, and the circus people were as much at home as they
ever get to be in their wandering lives.

The small boys were not the only persons attracted to Nearbye in the
early hours--not by a jugful, as the average farmer in the Nearbye
neighborhood would be apt to say if he were writing this article. People
of both sexes and all ages, from the gray-haired great-grandmother to
the infant in the arms, came or were brought, as each case required,
until there was not a vacant fence post eligible for a hitching-place
within half a mile of the circus tent. If half a dozen holidays could
have been combined into one, not one-third so many people would have
been attracted to Nearbye as were brought by this little circus. Some
city people who had gone to Nearbye for their summer vacations put on
airs about the show, and laughed at the enthusiastic excitement of the
country folk. Miss Kitty observed this in two young men who had been
made welcome on the tennis-court at her father's place, and flushed with
shame that she should know, even ever so slightly, persons of such
affected pretension. She shook her curly little head and whispered to
me: "We ought not to know them; they can't be gentlemen." Dear little
soul, I dare say she was right. We ought not to have known them, and
probably they were not gentlemen; but she will learn, when she gets to
be a grown woman, that if she confines her acquaintance only to real
ladies and real gentlemen--that is, to men and women who never put on
airs and never inconsiderately assume to be better than they are, and
who never scoff at simplicity--she will have a very narrow circle, and
will know fewer people than almost anybody in the world. But few of the
country people cared for the rudeness that Miss Kitty resented. They did
not even notice it. They had come to Nearbye to have a good time and to
see the sights, all unconscious that they furnished amusement to any

As a rule they brought their dinners with them, and at twelve o'clock
they attacked baskets and pails for the good things in them. Eating,
with hard-working people, whether of the city or country, is not a time
of conviviality. They eat because they are hungry, and they get through
with the business as quickly and unceremoniously as possible. The dinner
hour, therefore, on this day of the circus did not as a rule last more
than ten minutes. There was another long wait of nearly two hours. But
this wait was relieved somewhat, for every now and then the old lion
roared portentously, and filled the souls of the youngsters with
delightful apprehension. At one o'clock the slit in the tent, by
courtesy called a door, was opened, and the people filed in. By half
past one nearly every seat was filled, and the show might have begun
then without disappointment to any, for there was no one else to come.
All were there save the bedridden; even the two blind people in the
township had come to hear, though they could not see.

Of course the show began with what I believe they called in the
programme the Grand Entrée. And of course every one who has ever been to
a circus will recall how the ladies and gentlemen of the company come
into the ring on horseback, and ride round and round with distinguished
courtesy towards each other and towards the audience, and then ride out
again. This recalls to those who have heard of such a time the days of
chivalry, and some others see in the men and women in the
sawdust-covered ring the heroes of their story-books. Miss Kitty had
just been reading Charles and Mary Lamb's _Tales from Shakespeare_, and
one of the ladies suggested to her the fair Rosalind, while the
gentleman who cantered by her side seemed very like the bold Orlando.

When this act was over, we were treated to performances by acrobats and
gymnasts, and each one seemed more wonderful than any of the rest. Each
tumbler, each jumper, each contortionist, each trapeze-swinger, each
tight-rope walker was enthusiastically applauded, and the feats of all
were regarded by the appreciative audience as entirely wonderful. This
must have been very gratifying to the actors. But what pleased best were
the acts where horses took part. Country people know about horses, and
have opinions of those who ride and drive them. The young lady who rode
two bare-back horses at once, now with a foot on each horse and now
riding one and driving the other, easily bore off the palm. When she ran
by the side of one of her steeds, as he cantered round the ring, and
vaulted to his back without touching either mane or rein, and landed
squarely upon her little feet, and then stood upright, the audience was
so filled with wonder and admiration that there was a pause before the
applause began. This evidently excited more wonder and admiration than
anything else--more indeed than the bespangled woman who confidingly
put her head in the lion's mouth, more than the other one who permitted
the elephant to walk over her and then to pick her up with his trunk.
But that which diverted the audience most of all was the trick mule--the
mule so resourceful of pranks that he threw all the boldest riders among
the ambitious youth of Nearbye. When Mike, the young man who is both
hostler and barkeeper at the White Horse Tavern, wrapped his legs round
the mule's neck and caught hold with both hands of the little fellow's
slippery tail the people in the circus tent nearly went wild with
delight. It was a hard tussle between Mike and the mule, but the latter
rolled over on Mike, who let go, and scampered out of the ring defeated,
and terrified lest the mule should kick him.

The two city young men before mentioned sat near us at the performance.
They were mightily tickled at Mike's discomfiture. Miss Kitty had not
noticed them since expressing a doubt whether they were proper
acquaintances. What was my surprise now to hear her speak to one of
them, "You try it, Mr. Simpkins," she said; "I am sure you could ride
that poor little mule." Mr. Simpkins declined in a way which implied
that Miss Kitty was right, that he could ride the mule if he chose. Miss
Kitty was evidently disappointed, and I am very much afraid that instead
of being sure that Mr. Simpkins could ride the mule, she was very sure
he could not. I have never spoken to her about her effort to entice Mr.
Simpkins to make himself ridiculous, because I was not at all sure that
she was not wrong thus to try to get revenge on one who had made merry
at the expense of the simple and honest people who were her friends and
neighbors. But even though the feeling was a very wrong one it was very
human, and I shared in it myself.

For a week after the circus, Nearbye was more deserted than I have ever
known it before. The next Sunday comparatively few people came to
church. The circus had been too much for them. They had to stay at home
to recover from the excitement of so unusual an entertainment. If the
merry clown should ever care to retire from the sawdust ring, and should
choose Nearbye as a home, I am sure the people would make him right
welcome; and if he wanted an office, I am certain that he could have the
pick, and be either constable or justice of the peace, whichever suited
him the better. The storekeepers of Nearbye for a fortnight after the
circus had gone could not make change for a bill, as the circus
treasurer had taken away with him pretty nearly all the silver coins in
the township. This circus will doubtless be talked of in Nearbye when
many of the barelegged boys who came at daylight to see it have
grandsons eager in their turn for the passing shows, and when Miss Kitty
has taken to spectacles and caps, and prefers a cozy corner within-doors
to the breezy piazza or the hammock beneath the apple-trees.

Many stories are told of actors and musicians who give tickets to their
washwomen, their boot-makers, or to others who cannot afford to pay to
hear the great ones with whom their trades may have brought them into
contact. Seldom, however, do we hear an anecdote with a twist to it like
this one concerning Paganini, and so it is possibly worth telling. One
of his biographers is responsible for it, but he prefaces the story with
the explanation that the great violinist was a most eccentric man, and
although as a rule very generous, he was also at times guilty of petty
meannesses. This was one of those times. He was to perform in a concert,
for which the price of seats was very high. His washwoman had been
bemoaning the fate which made her unable to afford to be present.
Finally Paganini wrote out an order for a seat in the top gallery, and
handed it to her. She thanked him effusively, and boasted to her friends
of the present she had got. Great was her surprise, therefore, when she
presented her bill for his laundry at the end of the week to have
Paganini request her to deduct from the amount of his indebtedness the
price of the ticket he had given her to the concert.


  I love to play in winter-time,
    When all the earth is white with snow,
  When down the gleaming shining hill
    My long red sled can go.

  I love to play in summer-time,
    When in the pond beneath the trees
  My pretty ship, with sails puffed out,
    Goes skimming in the breeze.




Two generations have passed away from Tobique since the first settlers
came, yet so little has man encroached upon the wild domain that the
gaunt moose often stops and lingers with the friendly cattle, the shaggy
bear as the spring comes round levies tribute on the defenceless flocks,
while the balsam smells as sweet, and the crinkle of the crisp snow
beneath the moccasined foot is still as pleasant music as of old. The
woods seem changed but little; boys have turned men, the men have turned
gray, and just a little more moss lies on the fallen tree-trunks. Yet
the same change has passed over Tobique as has passed over all the
backwoods of Maine and Canada. The dreaded panther, or "Indian devil,"
as it is known, seldom troubles one now, or startles the forest with its
awful cry--so human, so bloodcurdling, that its very mention sends a
thrill through one's body.

The dangers of the woods are exaggerated. No living thing is match for a
man, and every creature among predatory beasts shuns the society of man.
There are exceptions, as there are seasons when our black bear should
not be provoked. So in the experience of every woodsman there have been
times when the rule has been broken, and it is the man that has been

Raish Turner, now a man of some fifty years of age, still lives at the
Red Rapids, on Tobique. I have stopped at his hospitable dwelling--back
a ways from the river, on the slope of the hill, near the timber. There
was still the old, low cow-shed alongside the barn, and I have been with
him along the old wood road directly back of his place that was the
scene of an exciting adventure of his.

Raish, still called "Raish," as when he was a boy of sixteen and hauled
wood with oxen, has not forgotten the story, nor yet the long white scar
above his temple that he will carry to his grave.

The story is known to every one on Tobique, but it needs to be heard
from Raish himself, the sturdy, kindly old back-woodsman, with homespuns
in boot-tops, knife sheathed at his belt, and generally an axe over his

In the fall of one year, thirty-four years ago, about first fall, two
hunters came out of the woods from Pokiok stream, which lay some five
miles back of Red Rapids. They came with rather more speed than is
customary with those who travel solely for pleasure. Their story, of
which they sought to conceal nothing, and which was listened to the more
gravely because of their reputation as brave men, was that in the night
something had come around the camp, which was an open shelter with a
fire in front. The growling of their dog awakened them.

They listened, peering into the darkness, and as they listened they
heard a cry. It was not an owl, nor any wild-cat. It seemed at first
afar off, not loud, like a child in awful distress, and it affected them
strangely. Their dog began to tremble, and show fear that he had never
shown before, even before a bear. The hunters jumped to their feet,
kindled the fire, which threw a ruddy glare all around.

The thing, which they knew perfectly well, came nearer, uttering now
and then that awful cry. They sat with their guns on their knees,
speaking in whispers; but it did not attack them, and when daylight came
it withdrew. When the sun rose they broke camp and made for the

Small wonder, then, that there was a stir in the settlement, for the men
were known to be bold, fearless hunters, and, moreover, this was the
first panther that had come near enough to bother them, for whatever the
men in the timber-camps might have to tell, such things did not greatly
trouble the settlers along the river.

Not long after that a woman living only two farms below went to the door
at noonday, and saw, or thought she saw, across the field, a creature
which she said was bigger and longer than any dog, trot away across the
lot and enter the woods, looking back once or twice as it ran.

December came, and nothing more was heard of the panther. There was snow
enough to make good hauling. Raish and his brother Howard, who was two
years younger, had twenty cords of wood to get in from back. One dark
cloudy day the young fellows were hurrying to get in another load before
darkness shut down. The oxen were swung around, head homeward, alongside
a pile of wood. A quarter of the load was on when the oxen began to act
queerly. They commenced to sniff, putting their noses into the air, and
looking all around. Raish had never seen them so behave, but he went on
loading. Presently one of the steers put his head down and gave a long,
low moan, at the same time pawing the snow.

Raish spoke to them, yet a curious feeling began to take possession of
him, when, without a warning more than that, a cry rose upon the still
air of the woods, and that same instant the oxen threw themselves
against the yoke. There followed a crash of falling cord-wood as the
sled started, and hardly slower, the boys sprang aboard, seizing hold of
a sled-stake; and as Raish rolled over again he heard that cry, and
something leaped into the middle of the road behind them.

[Illustration: IT WAS A WILD RUN.]

But that was all. The oxen plunged madly forward, and at every lurch
their bellows mingled with the clangor of chains and the pounding of the
sled. What power guided them along that road? Bounding over the cradle
knolls, crashing now into this side, now into that, strewing the road
behind them with the cord-wood sticks. It was a wild run.

A quarter of a mile was passed. There was no looking back, and no
looking forward for the pelting of ice from flying hoofs. The clearing
is reached. Wild with fright, on the steers go. The house, the
wood-pile, as in a swim, flash by, and then there is a crash.

When Raish's memory gathered up the thread of swiftly passing events, he
was lying on the floor of the cow-stable on the straw, and his brother,
pale from fright, was bending over him, and there were some other
frightened people crowded around, and a pair of steers were at the far
end of the cow-stable. Raish was aware of some blood from an ugly cut.
He lay stunned, they say, for some moments. Howard escaped without a
hurt. The oxen, guided by instinct, made straight for the stable, and
seeing the open door, made straight for refuge. The sled had struck the
corner of the log barn, the tongue had snapped off, and the boys had
been thrown forward; Raish's forehead struck, it was believed, either a
sled-stake or one of the oxen's hoofs. The wonder was that both were not
killed from the force with which they must have struck.

But all this time where was the panther? It came, so some persons at the
house said, to the edge of the timber and a little beyond, where it
stood some while, hesitating, and then turned back to the woods, where,
instead of taking the road, it gave a mighty spring to the limb of a
tree, and disappeared from view, no one venturing to follow.

Before the winter was over, however, some men with a small dog drove it
to tree and shot it, after it had killed a fine heifer, no great ways
from there. Out of curiosity the height of the panther's leap was
measured, and it was said to be nearly eighteen feet.


The annual boat-races of the Halcyon and Shattuck crews of St. Paul's
School, Concord, were held this year on June 18th, on Lake Penacook, as
usual. The honors of the day went to the Halcyons, whose first and
second crews won their events, the first crew breaking the school record
for the distance by four seconds.


The most important of the three contests was the last race, between the
two Senior eights. The start was made shortly before eleven o'clock in
the morning, both crews getting away about together, rowing in good form
and with very little splashing. The Shattucks started with a stroke of
42, the Halcyons pulling a 40 stroke. This pace was kept up for about a
quarter of a mile, when both crews dropped their stroke a couple of
points, and for the rest of the race neither eight went above 38.


Holders of the record: DISTANCE, 1-1/2 miles; TIME, 8 min. 21 sec.]

At the mile the boats were about even, but there the Halcyons began to
draw slowly away, and although the Shattucks tried to keep up, they were
unable to push their boat through the water as rapidly as their rivals.
At the mile-and-a-half flag the Halcyon eight was two boat-lengths ahead
of the Shattucks, and still gaining rapidly. The Shattuck stroke tried
to hit it up, but his crew was unable to respond. The men in the Halcyon
boat were rowing in beautiful form, with a long and regular body swing,
and kept increasing their lead. They rushed their shell across the line
nineteen seconds ahead of their rivals, their time over the course being
8 min. 21 sec., the best former record for the distance being 8 min. 25
sec., made by the Shattucks in 1891.


The Halcyon men showed no signs of fatigue, but the Shattuck oarsmen
seemed slightly done up, although they finished in excellent form. There
is little doubt that this Halcyon crew of 1896 is the best that ever
rowed on Lake Penacook, most of the men being veterans, the four stern
oars especially being the best four that the school has ever turned out,
so far as working together in the boat is concerned. The Shattuck crew,
on the other hand, has had a good deal of hard luck this year, and the
men were all younger and less experienced than their rivals. The crews
rowed as follows:


  No. 7--Stillman.
  No. 6--Glidden (Capt.).
  No. 5--Francis.
  No. 4--Nickerson.
  No. 3--McKay.
  No. 2--Nugent.
  No. 1--Vredenburg.


  No. 7--Wheeler (Capt.).
  No. 6--Brock.
  No. 5--Howard.
  No. 4--Niedecken.
  No. 3--N. Biddle.
  No. 2--Goodwin.
  No. 1--L. Biddle.

In the race between the second crews, the Shattuck six got a better
start than the Halcyons, and rowed 36 to the minute all through the
race. The Halcyons overtook them at the first quarter, rowing 38. It had
been supposed that these two crews were of about equal strength, and a
close race was expected, but after the first quarter of a mile the
Shattuck men seemed to go to pieces and splashed badly, and in spite of
the continued exhortation of the cox-swain, the men were unable to hit
up the stroke. The Halcyon oarsmen, however, rowed in good form, and
broke the record for their event, covering the distance in 9 min. 23
sec. The Shattuck's time was 9 min. 45 sec. The men sat in the boats as


  No. 5--Hogle (Captain).
  No. 4--Wilson.
  No. 3--Winter.
  No. 2--Kaime.
  No. 1--Campbell.


  Stroke--Barker (Captain).
  No. 5--Henderson.
  No. 4--Hollingsworth.
  No. 3--Drayton.
  No. 2--Wheeler.
  No. 1--Berger.

In the race between the third crews the Shattucks again got a better
start than their opponents, and secured a lead which they kept
increasing as they neared the finish. Within half a mile of the line the
Halcyons raised their stroke for a moment and tried to spurt, but they
were unable to keep this up, and soon fell back to 35. This four did not
row in as good form as the other Halcyon crews did, and showed
considerable want of coaching. Their pluck, however, was good, and they
never gave up work until they had crossed the line. The third Shattuck
crew rowed a very steady race, showing good form for the entire
distance. The men sat in the boats as follows:


  No. 3--Bloomer.
  No. 2--Thompson.
  No. 1--Keep (Captain).


  No. 3--Phipps (Captain).
  No. 2--Weston.
  No. 1--Pruyn.

The breaking of the record by the first Halcyon is a feat to be proud of
when it is considered that in the crew which held this record previously
were Fennessy of Harvard, and Brown and Simpson of this year's Yale
Henley crew. There are undoubtedly several rising oarsmen in both the
Halcyon and Shattuck boats this year. Harvard will get Byrd, Stillman,
Glidden, Nickerson, and McKay, whereas Yale will have Francis, Nugent,
and Vredenburg.


  Year.       Date.    Winner First-Crew Race.        Time of Losing Crew.
                          1-Mile Course.
  1871.      June 7.   Halcyon, 8 min. 32 sec.         8 min. 53 sec.
  1872.      June 20.  Shattuck, time not given.       3 lengths.
  1873.      June 7.   Halcyon, 8 min. 45 sec.         1 length behind.
                          1-3/4-Mile Course.
  1874.      June 16.  Halcyon, 10 min. 23 sec.        11 min. 8 sec.
                          Course, 1 Mile and Return.
  1875.      June 9.   Halcyon, 14 min. 6 sec.         14 min. 50 sec.
  1876.      June 10.  Halcyon, 14 min. 28 sec.        15 min. 13-1/4 sec.
  1877.      June 14.  Shattuck, 13 min. 40-1/4 sec.   14 min. 48 sec.
  1878.      No races.
  1879.      June 11.  Halcyon, 14 min. 2-1/4 sec.     Not taken.
  1880.      June 3.   Shattuck, 14 min. 25-1/2 sec.   14 min. 57 sec.
  1881.      June 2.   Halcyon, 14 min. 10 sec.        15 min. 1 sec.
  1882.      June 13.  Halcyon, 13 min. 28-1/2 sec.    14 min. 4 sec.
  [3]1883.   June 12.  Halcyon, 13 min. 13 sec.        13 min. 38 sec.
  1884.      June 9.   Shattuck, 12 min. 41 sec.       13 min. 16 sec.
  1885.      May 25.   Halcyon, 14 min. 7-1/4 sec.     [4]Not taken.
  1886.      May 24.   Shattuck, 12 min. 51 sec.       12 min. 58-1/2 sec.
  1887.      May 29.   Shattuck, 12 min. 42 sec.       12 min. 46-4/5 sec.
  1888.      June 8.   Halcyon, 12 min. 32-2/5 sec.    [5]Not taken.
  1889.      June 1.   Shattuck, 13 min. 10-1/4 sec.   Not taken.
                          1-3/4-Mile Straightaway.
  1890.      May 28.   Halcyon, 9 min. 2-1/2 sec.      Not taken.
                          1-1/2-Mile Straightaway.
  [6]1891.   May 27.   Shattuck, 8 min. 25 sec.        Not taken.
  1892.      May 28.   Shattuck, 8 min. 29-3/4 sec.    Not taken.
  1893.      May 29.   Shattuck, 9 min. 19 sec.        Not taken.
  1894.      June 10.  Shattuck, time not given.       Not taken.
  1895.      June 11.  Shattuck, 9 min. 14-1/2 sec.    9 min. 30 sec.
  1896.      June 18.  Halcyon, 8 min. 21 sec.         8 min. 40 sec.

[3] From 1883 to 1890 the first crews rowed in six-oared gigs.

[4] 1885 oar broke.

[5] 1888 oar-lock broke.

[6] Since 1891 eight-oared shells have been used.

  Year.    Date.     Winner Second-Crew Race.   Winner Third-Crew Race.
                        1-Mile Course.
  1871.   June 7.    No race.                        No race.
  1872.   June 20.   No race.                        No race.
  1873.   June 7.    No race.                        No race.
                        1-3/4-Mile Course.
  1874.   June 16.   Halcyon, time not given.        No race.
                        Course, 1 Mile and Return.
  1875.   June 9.    Halcyon, 14 min. 48 sec.        Halcyon.
  1876.   June 10.   Halcyon, 15 min. 2-3/4 sec.     No race.
  1877.   June 14.   Shattuck, 14 min. 9-3/4 sec.    Halcyon.
  1878.   No races.
  1879.   June 11.   Shattuck, 14 min. 22 sec.       Shattuck.
  1880.   June 3.    Shattuck, 14 min. 15-1/4 sec.   Shattuck.
  1881.   June 2.    Shattuck, 14 min. 5 sec.        No race.
  1882.   June 13.   Halcyon, 15 min. 1 sec.         Halcyon.
  1883.   June 12.   Halcyon, 14 min. 39-3/4 sec.    No race.
  1884.   June 9.    Halcyon, 14 min. 45 sec.        Halcyon.
  1885.   May 25.    Shattuck, 15 min. 11 sec.       No race.
  1886.   May 24.    Shattuck, 14 min. 3 sec.        No race.
  1887.   May 29.    Halcyon, 13 min. 53 sec.        No race.
  1888.   June 8.    Halcyon, 13 min. 32-1/2 sec.    Shattuck.
  1889.   June 1.    Halcyon, 14 min. 39-1/2 sec.    Halcyon.
                        1-3/4-Mile Straightaway.
  1890.   May 28.    Shattuck, 9 min. 53 sec.        Shattuck.
                        1-1/2-Mile Straightaway.
  1891.   May 27.    Shattuck, 9 min. 49-1/5 sec.    Halcyon.
  1892.   May 28.    Halcyon, 10 min. 10sec.         Halcyon.
  1893.   May 29.    Halcyon, 10 min. 23 sec.        Shattuck.
  1894.   June 10.   Shattuck, 9 min. 25 sec.        Halcyon.
  1895.   June 11.   Halcyon, 10 min. 21 sec.        Halcyon.
  1896.   June 18.   Halcyon, 9 min. 23 sec.         Shattuck.

For the sake of the record I append the times of the several crews, as
officially announced:

     First Crews.--Halcyons, first; time, 8 minutes 21 seconds.
     Shattucks, second; time, 8 minutes 40 seconds.

     Second Crews.--Halcyons, first; time, 9 minutes 23 seconds.
     Shattucks, second; time, 9 minutes 45 seconds.

     Third Crews.--Shattucks, first; time, 10 minutes 4 seconds,
     Halcyons, second; time, 10 minutes 30 seconds.

After the races were finished, the crowd returned from Lake Penacook to
the school grounds, cheering the victorious crews all the way; and when
the students reached the flag-pole on the lawn, they followed the usual
custom of hoisting the club colors and the stroke oar of the winning
crew. And after this had been done the young men of St. Paul's did a
very nice thing. They presented to the coach of the crews a ticket to
Henley and back--a present that was probably more grateful to that
instructor than any other his pupils could have thought of.

By the number of letters I have received from readers of this Department
in Connecticut, I judge that the discussion of Hartford High-School's
claim to the title of "Champion School" has aroused considerable
interest in that section of the country. I am glad that this is so, for
I believe that a wide discussion of such questions always tends toward

But either I did not express myself clearly in the few paragraphs that
the Department devoted at the time to the discussion of the question, or
else some of my readers have failed to comprehend the drift of my
argument. One valued correspondent writes as follows: "I was very much
interested in the argument which recently appeared in HARPER'S ROUND
TABLE about H.P.H.-S. claiming the National championship. You say that
they would have to defeat in dual contests the principal schools of the
country in order to claim it. According to that, Hartford did not win
the championship of the Connecticut H.-S.A.A. this spring, because she
did not defeat each one of the schools in single contests. According to
that, there is no honor to be gained in winning the greatest number of
points in an Association field-day. Then why not do away with these
Associations! Your suggestion about holding sets of dual games is not
only impracticable but also impossible for ascertaining which school is
National champion."

What I said in this Department on July 7 was that the National Games
were a contest among "teams from leagues," and not among "teams from
schools," and that therefore the question of school supremacy did not
enter into the discussion. Further, I added that the only way the title
of "Champion School" could be secured by Hartford would be for her to
have dual meets with all other schools of her class. I should have added
that another way for Hartford to earn the title of "Champion School"
would be to hold a large interscholastic field-day, at which teams
representing individual schools--not teams representing leagues or
associations--should compete.

At any track-athletic meeting where teams of athletes represent certain
units, the team winning the greatest number of points becomes the
victorious unit, and the athletes who aided in piling up these points,
as representatives of that unit, are of no importance whatever so far as
they can claim any relation to the other athletes who strove as
representatives for the rival or defeated units. The Connecticut
High-School A.A. is made up of a number of units--schools. Each unit
sent a team to New Haven on June 6 to the annual field-meeting of the
association. The athletes who came from the Hartford High-School piled
up the greatest score: therefore the Hartford High-School is the
champion of that association. It seems to me that this must be perfectly
clear, and I do not understand how any one can logically deduce anything

But, supposing a majority of this point-winners for the Hartford
High-School on that day were members of the class of '96--as they
probably were--have they any claim to the title of "Champion Class" of
the State or of the association? Certainly not. The games at New Haven
were not "class" games; they were "school" games, and nobody knew or
cared to what class the winning athletes belonged. In the same way it
was of no importance whatever, so far as the championship was concerned,
to what school the point-winners in the National Games belonged. These
games were held among associations, and the association that scored the
greatest number of points became the champion association for the year.

In the case of the Connecticut Association it happened that the greatest
number of point-winners were members of the Hartford High-School. This
may justly be a source of pride for Hartford, and for all the members of
the High-School, but it is not a matter to interest the National
Association, nor is it a matter for the National Association to take any
cognizance of.

The same correspondent whom I have quoted above goes on to say:
"Therefore I think that Hartford has just as much claim to the national
championship as she has to the Connecticut H.-S.A.A. championship, and
as Yale has to the Intercollegiate championship." I feel perfectly
confident that as soon as he, and others, who are of his opinion at
present, make clear to themselves the difference between a contest among
schools and a contest among associations, they will not think that
Hartford has any claim whatever. I am very glad, too, that my
correspondent cited Yale in his comparison, for it helps me to make my
argument even clearer.

Yale is a university made up of Yale College, the Sheffield Scientific
School, the Yale Law School, the Yale Medical School, the Yale Art
School, the Yale Divinity School, etc. On every Yale team that goes to
the Intercollegiate games there are College men, Sheff men, and
frequently men who are in the Medical School or other departments of the

It is not necessary to look over the records to find out if a case such
as the one I am about to cite as an example ever actually happened, for
the illustration is just as strong whether it ever occurred in fact or
not. But suppose that the majority of the point-winners of the Yale team
of 1896 were Sheff men. Would the Sheffield Scientific School, for that
reason, have any grounds to claim any kind of a championship? Of course
not. The Sheff men went down to Manhattan Field as members of Yale
University, just as the H.P.H.-S. athletes went to the Columbia Oval as
members of the Connecticut H.-S.A.A., and neither body has any right to
set up any kind of a claim for individual prowess. If I have not yet
succeeded in making myself clear to all my Connecticut readers, I hope
they will let me hear from them further, and I will try it again.

Another point over which there has been considerable misunderstanding is
the difference between an "Interscholastic" record and a "National
Interscholastic" record. The Constitution of the N.I.S.A.A., in its Laws
of Athletics, section 18, says that a national interscholastic record is
any record made at the annual meeting of the N.I.S.A.A. A.A. An
interscholastic record, on the other hand, is a record made by a student
in any annual field-meeting of any league, club, or association. [The
National Association's Constitution puts it, "any leagues, clubs, or
associations _of this association_," but we cannot accept this as
correct, because there are several interscholastic records held by
associations not members of the national body.]

To be brief, however, a national interscholastic record is one made at
the national games; an interscholastic record is one made at _any_
interscholastic meeting. As soon as space enough avails, this Department
will print the tables of national and interscholastic records--for the
comparison will be an interesting one.

Speaking of errors, it is well to refer to one which crept into almost
all of the reports of the performances of the National games. In the
high jump this Department credited Sturtevant of Connecticut with first
place, and Flournoy of Iowa with second place. The facts of the case
were these: Flournoy and Sturtevant, the only contestants in the event,
tied for first place at 5 ft. 8 in. Therefore they divided the points,
each man taking four.

Then they chose to jump over again for the medals, instead of tossing a
coin, as is usual--although this athletic method of deciding the
question is by far the more sportsmanlike. On the jump-off Flournoy was
unable to repeat his performance of 5 ft. 8 in., and could only clear 5
ft. 7 in., whereas Sturtevant again got over the bar at the higher
point. This gave Sturtevant the first-place medal and Flournoy the
second prize. But this jumping-off business had no effect whatever on
the two associations' scores, and consequently Connecticut's figures
should be 24 instead of 25, and Iowa's should be 7 instead of 6.

While speaking of records, let me say a word in connection with the
mile-walk figures of Eells, of the Hotchkiss School, at the Connecticut
games last June. The performance as recorded was 7 min. 11 sec., and I
believe these figures to be correct. When the time was announced on the
field at New Haven some one raised a cry that it should be 8 min. 11
sec., and a report that the official time-keepers had made an error was
assiduously circulated.

A number of letters have come to this Department since that time asking
if 7 min. 11 sec. were the correct figures for Eells's performance, and
I have consequently been at some pains to make a careful investigation
into the matter. Mr. E. G. Coy and Mr. C. E. Hammett, Principal and
Physical Director, respectively, of the Hotchkiss School, assure me that
Eells is capable of walking a mile in 7 min. 11 sec. They must have
every means of knowing this, Mr. Hammett especially, having seen the
young athlete train for months before he went to the Connecticut

They assure me that the time, 7 min. 11 sec., as announced on the field
that day, is correct, and they regret that any contrary report should
have been circulated by some irresponsible enthusiast among the
spectators. Considering these facts, Mr. Eells, in the opinion of this
Department, is entitled to be considered the holder of the
interscholastic record, and will be put down as such in the table soon
to be printed.





A cream-of-tartar baking powder. Highest of all in leavening
strength.--_Latest United States Government Food Report._


[Illustration: Thompson's Eye Water]

Harper's Catalogue,

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

[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 many 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.

Owing to the accumulation of queries, the Department this week will be
devoted to replies.

J. L. E. asks how to fix the proper handicaps in a bicycle-race which he
is getting up--what plan he is to go on, what the system is, and where
he can find a book on the subject. Handicapping in bicycling is the same
in principle as all other handicaps, and there are the same reasons, and
only the same reasons, for giving handicaps that there are in other
contests. As a rule, handicapping is best left alone. It should only be
resorted to when the differences in speed of competitors are so great
that no one could get up a race and induce men to enter unless a
handicap were resorted to. In long distances, in road races of 25 miles
or more, time handicaps are usually given. The time of each
contestant--that is, his best time for a mile, or for 35 miles--is
ascertained, and a table made of all these. Each man, then, shows a
certain rate per mile for 25 miles, or whatever the distance may be.
According to this record, one man does 10, 20, or 25 miles at the rate
of a minute a mile faster than another. In a 25-mile race, therefore, he
should give the other about 25 minutes' start. This is, of course, a
large handicap, but it illustrates the point. If A does 20 miles in 60
minutes and B's record is 15 miles in 60 minutes, then, to make the race
even, B should start on his run at 2 P.M., for example, while A has to
wait at the scratch 15 minutes. When he finally starts at 2.15 P.M., B
is 3-3/4 miles ahead of him. Supposing the road race was on a stretch of
road five miles long and the course was to make it down and back four
times--that is, twice each way. The distance handicap could be made by
starting both A and B at the same time, with B at a position 1-1/4 miles
from the first turn and A at the scratch; but such long-distance
handicaps are difficult things to take care of, since it is practically
impossible to start both men at the same moment. It is for this reason
that time handicaps have been taken up. On short distances of a mile or
two the difficulty is, of course, avoided, and distances can be arranged
with simultaneous starts. A bicycle-race under 25 miles is, however, a
dangerous and not particularly exerting affair, though there are many
still. Ascertain, therefore, each man's record for the same distance,
and then arrange the time handicaps, so as to give all, according to
their records, the chance of coming in at the same moment.

"WHEELMAN" asks what are the laws regarding riding on sidewalks,
coasting, and so on, and whether these laws are the kind that are
enforced, or if they are, like many other city and town ordinances, only
for use in emergency, and not otherwise observed. In the first place,
the laws, ordinances, or regulations regarding riding on sidewalks,
scorching, coasting, and so on, are different in every city or
township--that is, each township has its regulations concerning these
matters, and they have been adopted to protect other people. There is a
movement on foot to make bicycles come under the head of carriages, and
subject to the same laws; but in the mean time several things ought to
be borne in mind by wheelmen. Most ordinances agree in stating that in
city or town no bicyclist shall ride on sidewalks; that too great speed
is dangerous; that coasting, where cross-streets are common, is
dangerous; and that anything likely to endanger foot-passengers or be
dangerous to the wheelman must be avoided. The regulations are made to
cover these matters. It therefore behooves the wheelman to guard against
any of these matters; for if we all thought of the possible danger and
inconvenience to other citizens, there would be no occasion for stricter
regulations than there have been for carriages. Hence, if you coast in a
city or town, you are helping the movement which will cause aldermen and
selectmen to pass more severe laws. If you ride on sidewalks, you are in
just so far stimulating the popular prejudice against wheels, raising
the fines, and causing a general feeling that bicyclists must be
legislated against. When you are on country roads, where not one person
an hour passes, choose the side path, since it may be the only good bit
of road; but when you come to civilization, remember that no matter how
bad the road, and no matter how many other wheelmen may be riding on
sidewalks, and coasting and scorching, the law asks you to keep to your
proper place, and you are helping the cause of bicycling, to say the
least, if you do so.

     NOTE.--Map of New York city asphalted streets in No. 809. Map of
     route from New York to Tarrytown in No. 810. New York to Stamford,
     Connecticut, in No. 811. New York to Staten Island in No. 812. New
     Jersey from Hoboken to Pine Brook in No. 813. Brooklyn in No. 814.
     Brooklyn to Babylon in No. 815. Brooklyn to Northport in No. 816.
     Tarrytown to Poughkeepsie in No. 817. Poughkeepsie to Hudson in No.
     818. Hudson to Albany in No. 819. Tottenville to Trenton in No.
     820. Trenton to Philadelphia in No. 821. Philadelphia in No. 822.
     Philadelphia-Wissahickon Route in No. 823. Philadelphia to West
     Chester in No. 824. Philadelphia to Atlantic City--First Stage in
     No. 825; Second Stage in No. 826. Philadelphia to Vineland--First
     Stage in No. 827; Second Stage in No. 828. New York to
     Boston--Second Stage in No. 829; Third Stage in No. 830; Fourth
     Stage in No. 831; Fifth Stage in No. 832; Sixth Stage in No. 833.
     Boston to Concord in No. 834. Boston in No. 835. Boston to
     Gloucester in No. 836. Boston to Newburyport in No. 837. Boston to
     New Bedford in No. 838. Boston to South Framingham in No. 839.
     Boston to Nahant in No. 840. Boston to Lowell in No. 841. Boston to
     Nantasket Beach in No. 842. Boston Circuit Ride in No. 843.
     Philadelphia to Washington--First Stage in No. 844; Second Stage in
     No. 845; Third Stage in No. 846; Fourth Stage in No. 847; Fifth
     Stage in No. 848. City of Washington in No. 849. City of Albany in
     No. 854; Albany to Fonda in No. 855; Fonda to Utica in No. 856;
     Utica to Syracuse in No. 857; Syracuse to Lyons in No. 858; Lyons
     to Rochester in No. 859; Rochester to Batavia in No. 860; Batavia
     to Buffalo in No. 861; Poughkeepsie to Newtown in No. 864; Newtown
     to Hartford in No. 865; New Haven to Hartford in No. 866; Hartford
     to Springfield in No. 867; Hartford to Canaan in No. 868; Canaan to
     Pittsfield in No. 869; Hudson to Pittsfield in No. 870.



Many of the games with which we are familiar in the United States are
well known throughout Great Britain and on the Continent. But among the
most amusing and most popular of English games is one of which we know
little or nothing. It is dignified by the two-lettered name, "It."

This is altogether suitable for the parlor, and may be played by
everybody if we will except the very young people. It creates roars of
laughter, on account of the funny mistakes made by the questioners. "It"
is a great mystery, and the longer it is played the greater mystery
often it becomes. Only those understanding this game may remain in the
room. All others must leave; there is no alternative. One of the party,
unfamiliar with the game, is then selected to return, and must, by
questioning those in the parlor, learn what "it" is. When he knows "it,"
he too must remain behind, and some one else is selected to fill his
place. In this way the game is carried on, until each one in turn comes
in and finds out the secret.

"It" is really the person who sits at your left, but, before this is
discovered, usually much amusement is made. The game is played in the
following way:

All in the parlor must sit in a circle, and must not change their
positions. When the player is called in, he is told to ask a question of
whomever he may please, and the person must correctly answer. For
example--"Is 'it' white?" As everybody present is white, the answer is
necessarily "Yes."

The questioner then asks another person, "Is 'it' thin?" and if the
person to the left of the person thus questioned is thin, the answer is
again "Yes." Perhaps this question may be repeated, and some one else is
asked, "Do you also think 'it' is thin?" and if this person has some one
for a left-hand neighbor who is very stout, of course he answers "No."

And thus the questioner is mystified, and must continue question after
question. For a long time he may think "it" is a thing. Therefore a good
question to put would be, "Is 'it' alive?" And then he might ask, "Is
'it' in this room?" Then he might try complexion, and again would be
mystified, for if he asked, "Is 'it' a brunette?" and the reply being
"Yes," his next question, "Has 'it' dark eyes?" would perhaps have for
answer, "No"; and, "Has 'it' light hair?" "Yes." And so the secret seems
harder than ever.

A good way is to ask the same questions over and over, and try to locate
"it" in that way. But the questioner should not easily be discouraged. A
few points may be given to him, such as some of the above. The players
would better announce "It" as a trick game.

[Illustration: STAMPS]

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

In the summer of 1895 a complete _unperforated_ sheet of the current 5c.
U.S. unwatermarked was found in the post-office of New Orleans. A
well-known collector bought the sheet for $1000. Some months later
another collector who was looking up Plate Nos. discovered
_unperforated_ sheets of the current 3c. and 4c. stamps on unwatermarked
paper (Plate Nos. 47 and 50 respectively). These unperforated stamps
have been put on the market at $24 for a pair, or $12 each in larger
blocks. No single stamps to be sold. The demand has been very lively,
and most of the stamps have been sold at that price.

Of the 1890 issue the following are known to exist unperforated: the
2c., 4c., 5c., and 15c. Very few copies have come on the market, and
those have been eagerly snapped up by the big collectors. Hitherto these
unperforated stamps have probably been mere accidents, but there is
danger in their becoming hereafter "accidental on purpose."

Plate Nos. are still booming. The early pink 2c. and ultramarine 1c. are
comparatively easy to get. But the early Plate Nos. on watermarked paper
are quite scarce. There must be quantities of these in the smaller
post-offices. Fifteen dollars are offered for Plate 89 in any color.

As soon as a great rarity is discovered hundred of collectors look over
everything they can find, and, wonderful to say, the stamp supposed to
be unique rarely remains in that condition. The 10c. Baltimore, first
catalogued about a year ago, was hardly announced when a collector in
Louisville found another copy on the original envelope. And now another
copy has turned up in Washington. The other day a lady who had relatives
living in Florence in 1852 was induced to look over her old letters, and
among them was one envelope bearing a beautiful strip of three 2 soldi
Tuscany worth $50 each. The strip of three is probably worth $200 at
least. Several other rare stamps were in the same lot.

The Argentine Republic has just issued a complete set of post-cards,
embossed envelopes, and wrappers in commemoration of the eighty-sixth
anniversary of the republic's independence. It is said that this issue
is not to serve for a limited time, but will continue indefinitely.
Argentine has not been very conservative in the making of new issues
during the last decade. Complete series were issued in 1888, 1889, 1890,
1892, with some additional values in 1891, Columbian 2c. and 5c. in
1892, and official stamps in red and in black surcharges, with the
inevitable inverted surcharges, some perforated, others rouletted, etc.

From present appearances it looks like a good set to let alone. As to
their appearance, they are ugly in comparison with the Greek Olympian
stamps, which have been put on the black list. The following is a
complete set of this commemoration series:

  3 centavos post-card, orange on buff.
  4 centavos post-card, gray on buff.
  6 centavos post-card, violet on buff.
  6x6 centavos post-card, violet on buff.
  3 centavos letter-card, orange on buff.
  4 centavos letter-card, gray on buff.
  1/2 centavos wrapper, blue.
  1 centavos wrapper, brown.
  2 centavos wrapper, green.
  4 centavos wrapper, gray.
  5 centavos envelope, pink on buff.

     L. WARREN.--The only way to detect counterfeit stamps is to know
     what the originals are. Paper, water-mark, perforation, roulette,
     color of ink, size, and peculiarities of the engraving, and many
     other factors enter into the problem. Dealers usually keep an album
     of all the different varieties of counterfeits of every stamp for
     the purpose of comparison. Duplicate counterfeits are at once
     destroyed. In addition, dealers, like the advanced collectors,
     study the peculiarities of all genuine originals which come into
     their hands, and are always ready to take time and trouble to see
     fine collections, and talk over the different stamps. It is only by
     this method that a man becomes an expert in these days of dangerous
     counterfeits. Gradually an intuitive knowledge of forgeries is
     developed, so that frequently an expert will condemn a stamp which
     seems to be in all essentials a genuine one. If not an expert there
     is only one way to buy valuable stamps, namely from collectors or
     dealers, known to be experts, and known to be responsible.

     W. K. DART.--The current 2c. have three forms of triangle (see
     ROUND TABLE for May 12, 1896). They have no particular value,
     either used or unused. I would advise you to get a catalogue for
     25c., as it is impossible for one to quote prices on a long list of
     ordinary stamps for every one of the many readers of the ROUND
     TABLE. Study your stamps by the aid of the catalogue.

     S. E. SEORAH.--The A.P.A. will hold their annual meeting at Lake
     Minnetonka, a beautiful summer resort in the lake country of


       *       *       *       *       *


is usually healthy, and both conditions are developed by use of proper
food. The Gail Borden Eagle Brand Condensed Milk is the best infant's
food: so easily prepared that improper feeding is inexcusable and




Established Dorchester, Mass., 1780.

Breakfast Cocoa


Always ask for Walter Baker & Co.'s

Breakfast Cocoa

Made at


It bears their Trade Mark

"La Belle Chocolatiere" on every can.

Beware of Imitations.

Postage Stamps, &c.


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

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

[Illustration: STAMPS]

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


=10= stamps and large list =FREE!=

L. DOVER & CO., 1469 Hodiamant, St. Louis, Mo.

[Illustration: Thompson's Eye Water]




Franklin Square Song Collection.

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

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

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

Older, and Knew More.

A Brooklyn gentleman tells a new story of Henry Ward Beecher. Mr.
Beecher was a great preacher and a great teacher, but he was also not
above admitting that he was a student as well, and had things to learn
and to unlearn. Dining with the gentleman who relates the incident, the
probability of a civil war was discussed. It was the year 1859.

"Oh no," said Mr. Beecher, positively, "the South will never make war on
the question of slavery alone. And it has no other ground. Slavery will
be abolished, first in the border States of Kentucky and Tennessee, and
gradually southward to the Gulf. The controversy is spirited, but war
will not come."

Late in 1861, when the war was raging and the Northern cause was
darkest, the great divine lunched with a parishioner, and the gentleman
first named was also a guest. Reminded of his prediction, the question
was put,

"What do you think now?"

"I am three years older, and know more," was Mr. Beecher's reply.

       *       *       *       *       *



Fill in the blanks with the names of the birds answering the
description, and find out the authors' names. Answers will be published

  "The gentle ****, weary of rest,
  From his moist cabinet mounts up on high and wakes the morning." (1)

  "The **** hath sung beneath the thatch
  Twice or thrice his roundelay." (2)

  "The noisy ***,
  Jargoning like a foreigner at his food; (3)
  The ********, balanced on some topmost spray,
  Flooding with melody the neighborhood." (4)

  "The ****, round-breasted as a rustic maiden,
  Paddles and plunges, busy still." (5)

  "O what a winning way thou hast of wooing,
  Gentlest of all thy race--sweet ******-****!" (6)

  "The ******, then, on every tree, (7)
  Mocks married men, for thus sings he, ***-***!" (8)

  "The call of the ********
  Is frequent and pleasant
  When all other calls are hushing." (9)

  "The **** high floating, like a sloop unladen,
  Lets the loose water waft him as it will." (10)

  "Alone, and warming his five wits,
  The ***** *** in the belfry sits." (11)

  "The tawny ***** seats his callow brood
  High on the cliff, and feasts his young with blood." (12)

  "The *********** begins his song
  Most musical, most melancholy bird." (13)

  "'Tis the merry ***********
  That crowds and hurries and precipitates
  With fast, thick warble his delicious notes." (14)

       *       *       *       *       *

Answers to Kinks.

No. 7.

1, Stork--Longfellow. 2, Sparrow--George Parsons Lathrop. 3, Robin; 4.
Bluebird; 5, Sparrows; 6, Crows--Longfellow. 7, Swallows--James Barron
Hope. 8, Partridge; 9, Woodpecker; 10, Oriole--J. T. Trowbridge. 11,
Jay--William Howitt. 12, Thrush--John Clare. 13, Peacock--James Barron

       *       *       *       *       *

Questions and Answers.

H. G. Benton, Akron, O. The justices of the United States Supreme Court
are nominated by the President of the United States, and must be
confirmed by the Senate. The Chief Justice is named for that place, and
does not, as in Pennsylvania and some other States, reach that place by
seniority. "A Writer" is assured that it is not influence or a hearing
that sells manuscripts to periodicals. The conditions of such sale are
merit, adaptability, and demand. John M. Wadsworth asks us to print
pictures of rare American coins and stamps. He should know that such an
act is against the law.

"S. B." asks: "How can I obtain a position out-of-doors, and go from
place to place, seeing something of the world? I wish to combine
business with pleasure, and I think out-of-door life would do me good. A
position in an engineer's surveying-party is just the thing, but how can
I obtain this?" Young men ought not to expect to combine pleasure with
their business. Thousands of old men, who have served years in harness
and earned a partial rest, if there be such reward, do not aim so high.
If you seek employment with an engineer party, apply directly to an
engineer. There is no employment bureau or agency through which you can
deal, or, if there be, it is better to attend to the matter yourself.
You will find addresses in the railway journals and in colleges where
surveying and engineering are taught. When you get the place, banish at
once any thought of pleasure as one of the objects of your occupation.
Not to do so is wrong to your employer, and ten times more wrong to
yourself and your future.

Henry P. Budisch, who hoped to go to West Point, but changed his mind
under necessity and went to Cornell instead, asks how many men actually
went into the civil war from Northern States. The total was 2,772,408.
This included drafted men as well as volunteers, and all arms of
service. The highest number of men in arms at one time was 1,000,516, on
May 1, 1865--just at the war's close. These were practically all
volunteers, because the regular army during the war never exceeded
25,463, which number it reached in January, 1863.

Fred Breittner asks what is the Ancient and Honourable Artillery Company
of Boston which recently received such marked attention in England? It
is the oldest military organization in the United States, dating from
1638. The term "ancient" was first used in 1700, and the "honourable"
was borrowed from a similar company in London. It is not now a part of
the militia of Massachusetts, and is, in truth, more of a social than a
military company. It has its headquarters in Faneuil Hall. Its rare
uniforms are an heirloom from British Colonial times.

[Illustration: THE CAMERA CLUB]

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


Bromide-paper coated with silver bromide and gelatine in emulsion may be
used for contact printing as well as for enlargements. By treating the
developed print with a lead intensifier different tones may be obtained,
some of which are quite pleasing. Print according to directions, and
develop with any developing solution, but eikonogen gives the best
results. Do not develop the picture fully; development should be stopped
as soon as detail begins to appear in the shadows. Fix the picture and
wash it well. While it is still wet immerse it in an intensifier made as

  Nitrate of lead                 1 part.
  Ferrocyanide of potassium       1-1/2 parts.
  Distilled water                25 parts.

This bath must be filtered before using. Leave the print in this bath
till the image turns yellow, then wash in running water. Washing will
turn the image white, when it may be immersed in any of the following
baths, according to the tones desired:


  Nitrate of uranium      1 part.
  Ammonium chloride       1 part.
  Water                  10 parts.

After washing and before drying place the print in this bath, and tone
till the desired shade. Wash in two or three changes of water, and dry
between clean blotters.

Several prints of a beautiful green tone were sent in during the last
photographic contest. One of our members sends the following formula for
making the green tones on bromide-paper: Make up a solution of cobalt
subchloride 1 part, and distilled water 10 parts. Let it stand for an
hour, then filter. Print and develop according to the method given
above, and after immersing in the lead bath, wash thoroughly, and place
face up in the solution of cobalt. Keep the prints moving gently till
the picture gradually assumes a fine green tone. Wash and dry with
blotter. The same corespondent also sends the following formula for a
reddish-brown or chestnut-color (in the prints sent in there were no
clear whites, the high lights having a reddish tint, the paper seeming
to have absorbed the solution): Cupric chloride, 1 part; distilled
water, 10 parts. Immerse in the lead bath, and place the print, without
washing, in the cupric-chloride bath.

The formula given for reddish-brown with uranium is one recommended by
Dr. Vogel. It is more reliable than the cupric chloride.

Sepia-brown tones may be obtained on enamelled bromide-paper by using
the following toning solution:

  Hypo                   2-1/2 oz.
  Ground alum              1/2 oz.
  Granulated sugar         1/2 oz.
  Boiling water         17-1/2 oz.

Dissolve the hypo first, then add the alum and sugar. This bath keeps
well, and can be made up in larger quantity if desired. To use, take two
toning-trays, in one of which have a cold bath, and in the other a hot
bath. Immerse the prints in the cold bath for a minute or two, and then,
without rinsing, transfer them to the hot bath. After toning rinse in an
alum bath made in the proportion of one ounce of alum to thirty-five of
water. Wash thoroughly, and dry on a ferrotype plate.

     SIR KNIGHT J. K. HUNTER asks if the "C" Daylight Kodak, with glass
     plate attachment, is a good camera for beginners, and what outfit
     is needed for developing and printing. The Daylight camera is a
     very good camera, and easily managed. The outfit needed for
     developing and printing consists of a dark-room lantern, a 4 by 5
     celluloid or rubber developing-tray, an amber-colored glass tray
     for the hypo or fixing bath, a 4 by 5 printing-frame, and a
     toning-tray. Directions for making a dark-room lantern were given
     in No. 781. You can refer to this if you wish to make your lantern
     instead of buying it.

     LADY CHARLOTTE B. TAYLOR, 1727 Q Street, Washington, D.C., has a
     pocket Kodak which she wishes to sell. Any Knight or Lady wishing
     to purchase is requested to write to Lady Charlotte.

     SAMUEL H. GOTTSCHALK, 1810 Columbus Avenue, Philadelphia, CHARLES
     H. WOODS, Carlinville, Ill., RALPH H. WEAND, 718 DeKalb Street,
     Norristown, Pa., and JAMES D. WAITE, 101 West Eighty-fifth Street,
     New York city, wish to be enrolled as members of the Camera Club.
     We are receiving many new members for the club, and hope that we
     shall see some very fine work in the coming contest, rules for
     which will appear later.

     SIR KNIGHT P. CONN wishes to know the best tray for the dark-room,
     the best for a toning-tray, and the best kind of plates to use. A
     celluloid or gutta-percha tray is a good one for developing
     solution, and an amber-glass tray for the hypo. If one uses a glass
     tray for hypo he never mistakes the hypo for the developing-tray. A
     white porcelain tray is a good one for a toning-tray. There are so
     many kinds of plates, or rather brands of plates, made that there
     is little choice between those made by reliable manufacturers. No
     one plate can be used for all kinds of work. Some subjects require
     a slow plate, some a very quick plate. A medium rapid plate is the
     better plate for general use in all-round work. A very rapid plate
     is needed for instantaneous. If our correspondent has trouble with
     his plates, please write to the editor.

     G. I. J. asks how the tint first obtained on the paper in printing
     can be preserved, if the toning-bath that tones the
     florograph-paper can be used for other papers, and if a picture can
     be easily over-developed. The reddish tone of the picture may be
     preserved by simply fixing the print in a solution of hypo without
     previous toning, or it may be slightly toned and then fixed. The
     toning-bath mentioned can be used for other papers. If the
     developer is very strong and works quickly, it is very easy to
     over-develop a plate. To find out when the development has been
     carried far enough, take the plate out of the solution and look
     through it toward the red light. If the picture is clearly defined,
     and detail well out in the shadows, the plate is developed enough.

     SIR KNIGHT RALPH WEAND encloses two prints and asks what is the
     matter with them. The reason why the pictures are so indistinct is
     that the plate was not exposed long enough, causing the shadows to
     appear as black patches instead of showing detail. A little longer
     exposure would correct this defect. A formula for plain paper is
     desired. This formula will be found in Nos. 706 and 803. It was
     also reprinted in the circular issued last fall.

     SIR KNIGHT FRED TAYLOR asks the reason of the spots on the finished
     prints. Spots are caused by black spots in the negative, from
     imperfections in the paper, and from imperfect toning-bath. Stains
     on the print are caused from careless handling in the toning-bath.
     The face of the print should never be touched, but the prints
     lifted by the edges. Hypo will cause spots, if any comes in contact
     with the face of the print. Care should be taken that the hands are
     perfectly clean when toning and fixing pictures. Sir Knight Fred
     sends the following directions for making a vignetting mask, which
     he hopes will be of benefit to the members of the club. Take a box
     cover that fits the printing-frame and cut a hole in it as large as
     the plate. Over it paste a piece of opaque paper, and make an
     opening any shape desired for the vignette--either pear-shaped,
     oval, round, etc. Cut little slits all round the edge of this, and
     over it paste a sheet of tissue-paper. Place the cover over the
     printing-frame and print. If the cover is attached to the frame the
     progress of the print can be examined without changing the shape of
     the vignette. Sir Fred asks for some hints on retouching.
     Directions for retouching will be printed in an early number of the


So much interest was taken by readers of the ROUND TABLE in the stories
printed not very long ago about the rapid manufacture of a coat and a
suit of clothes, that this little anecdote from Sweden, which is of a
similar nature, may prove of interest. Some men, who worked in a
wood-pulp factory at Elfvethal, got into a discussion about how fast
wood could be made into pulp and then into paper. The result of the
discussion was an experiment, or trial of speed, in which these men
performed the feat of cutting down three trees, chopping them up, making
them into pulp, then into paper, on which the evening newspapers of the
place were printed--and it took them just two hours and a half from the
time the first tree was hewn until the first copy of the evening paper
was sold.

[Illustration: IVORY SOAP]

  A fine complexion is too rare
    To run the risk of losing;
  But everyone who takes good care
    (All other kinds refusing)
  To get pure Ivory, grows more fair
    With every day of using.

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


the cut below represents the DeLONG Hooks and Eyes. For a complete
understanding sew them on your dresses. They cannot unhook except at the
will of the wearer.

See that



Richardson & DeLong Bros., Philadelphia.

Also makers of the

CUPID Hairpin.

[Illustration: Thompson's Eye Water]

THE NEW YORK SUN _on April 11, 1896, said of_



They are handsome and delightful all, and are as friends that one is
glad to see. They please the eye; the artistic sense is gratified by
them; they overflow with varied material for the reader. They educate
and entertain. They are the well-known and well-liked literary and
artistic chronicles of the time. They are a credit to their publishers
and to the discernment of the public that approves them. May they
continue to be as admirable as they have been and as they are. Better
could hardly be wished for them.

       *       *       *       *       *




We wish to introduce our Teas, Spices, and Baking Powder. Sell 75 lbs.
to earn a BICYCLE; 50 lbs. for a WALTHAM GOLD WATCH AND CHAIN; 25 lbs.
for a SOLID SILVER WATCH AND CHAIN; 10 lbs. for a beautiful GOLD RING;
50 lbs. for a DECORATED DINNER SET. Express prepaid if cash is sent with
order. Send your full address on postal for Catalogue and Order Blank to
Dept. I

W. G. BAKER, Springfield, Mass.



     A Story of the American Revolution. Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth,
     Ornamental, $1.50.

A spirited story of the days that tried men's souls, full of incident
and movement that keep up the reader's interest to the turning of the
last page. It is full of dramatic situations and graphic descriptions
which irresistibly lead the reader on, regretful at the close that there
is not still more of it.--_Christian Work_, N. Y.

A boy's story, full of movement, and full of surprises.... The picture
of the old "Sugar House" prison in New York and of the secret societies
of patriots are drawn with entertaining pen, and the book will instruct
as well as interest the average boy who reads it.--_Boston Journal._

       *       *       *       *       *

HARPER & BROTHERS, Publishers, New York.




       *       *       *       *       *



BOBBIE (_who has been digging in the sand for an hour_). "Mollie, come
here and look at the beautiful hole I've dug!"

MOLLIE. "My! ain't it lovely! If you'll give it to me I'll take it home
with me, and use it for a scrap-basket."

       *       *       *       *       *


"Hi, mamma! come here!" cried Willie; "see this funny insect."

"That's what they call a sand-fiddler," said his mother.

"Poor little bug," said Willie, looking all around him. "I guess he's
lost his fiddle."

       *       *       *       *       *


"Well, Tommie, I saw you go into the tin-type-man's place this morning."

"Yes; but I'd oughter known better. It didn't take. I don't ever get
took. When I was waxinated it didn't take either."

       *       *       *       *       *


"Hoh!" cried little Janie, as the photographer came down to take a
picture of the ocean. "He'll never get a picture of the ocean. It don't
never stand still long enough."

       *       *       *       *       *


After Polly had been at the seashore for a week she ran in to her mother

"Oh, mamma! mamma!" she cried, holding up her brown little hand. "I'm
a-turnin' into a 'ittle darky goyl!"

       *       *       *       *       *


There is an old darky who can be found any day perched on such freight
as may rest on the platform of the little station at S---- up in Maine.
He has a cheerful word for every one that will greet him, and was never
known to lose his good-humor except on one occasion. One morning he was
as usual perched on a bale of straw, but instead of whittling at a piece
of stick, a habit of his, he sat with his face in his hands, gazing
mournfully out over the little lake that stretched away among the hills.
It was then I noticed that his nose had assumed enormous proportions,
almost shutting out his eyes.

"Why, Ike, what's the matter with your nose?"

He shook his head sadly, and inquired if I had a little "baccy." I
handed him some, and waited for an explanation about his nose.

"I's neber gwan ter fish no mo', sah--no, sah! neber no mo'; 'cause
dat's whar I's got dat nose, youse see."

"How did it happen, Ike? Tell us; perhaps we can fix you up."

"See dat little neck er-runnin' out past de big mountain ober dar? Well,
round dat neck dere's a cove, and dere's as fine er trout stream runs in
dere as dey has 'bout dis place. Ise was er-fishin' dere de oder day,
when Ise seed er big one flittin' by a rock dat's dere. Ise thrashed dat
spot by de hour, and dat trout he done come an' look at de fly, an'
den--yes, sah, den dat trout laugh at me an' swim 'way. I's tried
eberyt'ing to ketch him, but 'twa'n't any use. Den Ise grew er-thinkin'.
What he do 'round dat stone all de time? So Ise rested very quiet and
watched dat stone. Pretty soon Ise see er bee hummin' 'round close to de
water and near de stone, and Ise see de trout make er leap fer him.

"Dat settled it; Ise knew what ter ketch 'im wid. Ise just caught er bee
an' put de hook in between de wings, where it wouldn't hurt him. Den Ise
casted. Yah, yah!--he! he! Dat trout he made one leap an' he had de bee;
but de fight was awful. He done paid no 'tention ter me, but he an' de
bee wuz er-havin' it out--and how dey did fight! Ise got him on de bank
at last, and dere's whar my trouble came in. Ise opened his mouth ter
get de hook out, when out flew dat bee, and he wuz mad. Yes, sah, he
just been er-waitin' fer me, Ise know, an' he landed plumb on my nose.
Youse see de result. But dat's only part ob it. De trout he swelled up
de same way. He wuz five pounds when Ise first ketched him, but when he
was done swellin' he was too heavy ter carry home."

We silently left Ike to continue his mournful contemplation of the lake.

       *       *       *       *       *


JACK (_mystified_). "Papa, there's one thing I don't understand

PAPA. "Well, what is that?"

JACK. "I dig a hole here on the beach, and a wave comes along and washes
over it, and goes back again. Then I find the hole all filled up with
sand. I thought the ocean was made of water, but it seems to me it's
nothin' but sand."

       *       *       *       *       *


STRANGE LITTLE GIRL (_at Long Branch_). "Where are you stoppin'?"

LITTLE BOY. "We ain't. We're all the time a-movin'."

*** End of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Harper's Round Table, July 21, 1896" ***

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