AN ARCHAEOLOGICAL VALENTINE.

THE SEA-URCHIN.

ODDITIES IN BICYCLES.

THE SPORTSMAN'S CODE.

PLASTER-OF-PARIS FISH.

THE MIDDLE DAUGHTER.

FOR KING OR COUNTRY.

THE CHANGED VALENTINE.

AN IRISHMAN'S PATIENCE.

FROM CHUM TO CHUM.

INTERSCHOLASTIC SPORT.

STAMPS.

BICYCLING.

THE CAMERA CLUB.

THE PUDDING STICK.

AN OBLIGING TRAVELLER.

HARPER'S ROUND TABLE

Copyright, 1896, by Harper & Brothers. All Rights Reserved.

published weekly. | NEW YORK, TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 11, 1896. | five cents a copy.
vol. xvii.—no. 850. |  | two dollars a year.

AN ARCHAEOLOGICAL VALENTINE.

BY RICHARD BARRY.

A very strange old room it was, in a very strange old house, part of which was brick, and part of which was wood. The wood had been cut from the neighboring hill-sides, and the brick had traversed many thousands of miles from across the Atlantic in a little ship with a strange Dutch name. There was but one older house in the street, and from the corner window of the room one could just catch a glimpse of the spires of the college chapel; on winter days when the leaves were off the trees the college buildings could be seen.

The Professor, when he came in, announced his arrival by noisily scraping the soles of his boots against the metal foot-scraper that had been worn down to a thin blade, like an aged razor. The Professor was tall and angular, but it was impossible to tell his age within a dozen years, for his thin hair was very dark, and his face was always very smooth shaven. His position in college was a most peculiar one. He had an endowed professorship, which, odd to relate, he had endowed himself, and there was a term in college parlance that was often applied to the Professor's course in the electives (Sanscrit and archæology), it was known as a "snap." But the Professor was a very interesting and well-liked man. He had taken honors at Oxford in the early fifties, and had spent a great deal of money making deep researches into the great libraries of Europe.

But to come back to the room.

It was not dark or dingy, as one might suppose the room of a student would be, but was very bright, with a number of windows. The pattern of the oil-cloth that covered the floor was worn out in regular paths before the big shelves that reached up to the ceiling. There were two large oaken cupboards and a long desk. The only thing that could be called an attempt at ornament was a china figure on the top of one of the cupboards. The Professor had picked this up in France. It was an unmistakable likeness to Benjamin Franklin, but, nevertheless, it had the name "George Washington" on it in gold lettering. The Professor had bought it as an example of humor in French pottery, which showed that he had a sense of humor himself.

A fat old negro woman was dusting off the table. As she lifted anything—a paper, or a book, or an inkstand, for instance—she would replace it exactly on the same spot. In fact, the desk was a perpetual tableau, and the Professor never got the mucilage and the inkstand mixed up; he could have found anything on that table in the dark.

Hearing the sound of prolonged scraping at the front door, the old colored woman knew two things. First, that the Professor had arrived, and, secondly, that it was a muddy day. She dusted off Benjamin Franklin Washington, and opened the door in time to meet the Professor at the head of the stairs.

"Do you think, Hannah," began the Professor, "that the spare room could be kept warm in cold weather?"

Hannah looked quite frightened; no one had slept in the spare room since the Professor had been in the house.

"I never heerd no one complain, sir," she said, which was non-committal in Hannah.

"Make up the bed to-night there," said the Professor. "I'll sleep in it myself." It struck him this was a brilliant way to find out.

"Youse spectin' some folks, sir?"

"Yes, Hannah," returned the Professor. "My two nephews are going to spend a fortnight with me."

"Is dey youn' gen'lemen?" inquired the old negress.

"I hope so," answered the Professor, with a smile.

"I means is dey youn'?" corrected Hannah.

"Let me see. Upon my soul, I have forgotten." The Professor wrinkled his forehead. "One's twelve, and one's thirteen years of age," he said, after a mental calculation.

Hannah left the room, and the Professor seated himself at the desk.

"I reckin we's gwine hab some trubble," said the old woman, as she waddled into the kitchen. "Twelve and thirteen is a rampanxious age for boys."

On the second day of February Bill Alton and Todd, his younger brother, were met by the Professor at the station. They had seen him only once or twice before, but seeing they were the Professor's only nephews, their mother had insisted upon their making this long-promised visit, frankly to state, much to their disgust.

The Professor had decided, after his trial of the spare bedchamber, that it would be very cold; so when the youngsters arrived at their room, they found it presided over by a very small and very hot stove that ticked and snapped like a hard-worked bit of machinery.

Much to their agreeable surprise, the two Alton boys now for the first time found themselves enjoying absolute freedom. In the first place, they had succeeded in getting into the attic, where they had found an old single-barrelled fowling-piece. They had asked the Professor if they could have it to "play with," and, upon his acquiescence, had purchased powder and shot at the hardware-store, and had gone out and bagged a rabbit and a hen in one afternoon. It was well known that the rabbit was tame, and the hen might not have been free from suspicion, as they had stalked her close to Farmer Belknap's chicken-yard back on the hill.

The Professor met the boys at breakfast and at supper. His mid-day meal was generally neglected; he carried it off with him to the college building in a tin box, like a school-boy.

At the end of the first week two rainy days came in succession. Billy and Todd were in the Professor's attic. That morning, for the first time, the Professor had taken the boys into his study. He knew so little about youths of this age in general that he was quite embarrassed. He thought they were very well behaved youngsters, because they apparently gave him no trouble, and the story of the hen and the rabbit, and several escapades of like character, had never reached his ears, but he felt it incumbent upon himself to make up for the lack of attention to his guests.

"Now, boys," he said, opening one of the cupboards, "I am going to show you some very wonderful things. This is an illuminated MS. of the fourteenth century, very rare and fine, done by the Franciscan monks, you see." The Professor read the Latin inscription with an air of triumph. "And this is an old cryptogram. This is an old copy of one of the early saint's lives in Hebrew, and here is another—both very old and very valuable."

It was not very interesting, but the boys listened politely. The college bell ringing at this moment, their uncle closed a most interesting description of how one of the valuable parchments had come into his possession, shut the cupboard, locked the door of the study, and left the boys to play in the attic.

"I say, Todd," remarked the elder Alton, "let's see if there's anything in here." He lifted the lid of an aged trunk and disclosed a lot of papers and old worn books that filled the garret with a musty odor. It was a collection of stuff that the Professor had designated as "rubbish," but yet had been loath to feed into the fire. There's not a professor's attic in the world that does not possess this same sort of a trunk, I verily believe. None of the books appeared very interesting, and a great many of the papers were very commonplace in appearance.

Todd picked up a tightly rolled bit of very aged vellum, and spreading it out, looked over an imaginary pair of spectacles at his brother, and began:

"This is a very old and rare specimen of a kickograph. You can see how beautiful it is."

As there was nothing apparent on the blank sheet of parchment, his brother burst into mock rhapsodies.

"How much will you take for it?" he inquired.

"One million dollars," said Todd.

The idea seemed to take, and he sold the rest of the contents of the trunk at fabulous prices, an old copy of Fox's Christian Martyrs going at enough to pay the national debt, for the simple reason that it had pictures in it.

"Hold on," said Billy at last; "let's stop this. I have an idea."

"What is it?" said Todd.

"Let's send Uncle Passmore" (the Professor's name was Passmore Webster Bibby) "a valentine. To-morrow's Valentine day, you know. Let's write him out a kickogram."

"Kickograph," corrected the other.

"Do you know he says he can read all those things?" said Todd. "So let's make him a 'sticker.'"

"And here's the very thing to write it on," exclaimed Billy, flourishing the roll of parchment.

They procured a pen, and diluting the ink with water to make it faint, they spread the valentine out upon the floor.

"Let's get a book and copy those funny-looking words out of it," suggested Todd.

"Why not make 'em up?" answered Billy. "They look just like this." He made some weird hieroglyphics on the top of the parchment. It was most interesting when it was once started, and it was completed by drawing largely upon the characters in a Greek Testament, taking some few words from an old Xenophon, and interspersing freely and frequently wiggles and cabalistic signs of their own manufacture. When they had covered the vellum they made it look quite aged by means of dirty finger-marks, and then regarded the work of art with eyes of admiration.

"It's a sort of an April-fool valentine," said Todd. "I wonder what he will think of it? I suppose he'll read it right off; looks just like the others."

But how to send it—that was the question. If they gave it to him themselves, there would be no fun in it at all.

Suddenly there came a whoop from Billy, who was delving once more into the trunk.

"Here's the thing to wrap it in!" he said, triumphantly.

It was a roll of thick brown paper that had once been sealed with sealing-wax. It had the Professor's address on it, and some very foreign looking stamps. They rolled the MS. inside of it, and, securing some sealing-wax, sealed it up tightly.

"Now," said Billy, "won't he be tickled when he reads it—eh?"

Professor Bibby's mail was always placed upon the newel-post at the bottom of the stairway, and he gathered it on his return from his first class in the morning. The boys placed the long package with one or two letters which were already there. The next morning, as we remarked, was St. Valentine's day.

The Professor came in, and when he saw the long package, he left the other letters, and bounded up the stairway two steps at a time. The boys heard him hurriedly unlock the door of his study. He broke open the seals nervously, and spread out the parchment. As he had not closed the door behind him, the boys could see everything very plainly through the banisters. The Professor wrinkled his forehead; he turned the package sideways and upside down; he looked off into space with a curious expression; he followed a line with his finger, and made a note (evidently of some of the puzzling characters) on a bit of paper. Then he walked to the window, and held the parchment up to the light with the wrong side to him. Suddenly he peered closer and closer, until it looked to the boys, as Todd expressed it, as if he were "trying to bore holes through it." All at once he whirled to the table again; he reached into one of the cupboards and brought out a large magnifying-glass. As the Professor spread out the young Alton's masterpiece, his hand was trembling. What did it mean? thought the boys from their hiding-place. They had never seen anything so strange in all their lives, for, after reading for a few minutes, their uncle sank back, or, better, collapsed, into the arm-chair. There was an ecstatic look on his face, and the boys caught the words he was repeating. It was a very plain and homely expression, but, under the circumstances, Uncle Passmore felt that he must give vent to his feelings. "Well, by gum!" he repeated.

Todd coughed at this moment; the Professor heard the sound and came to the door.

"Boys," he said, "I have made a most remarkable discovery." The success of their valentine hoax was almost overwhelming to the two young Altons. They had never suspected that they were to be successful, and, in fact, their position was most embarrassing. "Come here, young gentlemen," continued the Professor. "Do you see that aged manuscript?" He stroked it with an affectionate touch. "That, my dear nephews, has been sent to me from some strange source. It is a palimpsest."

Billy looked at Todd. Had their uncle gone crazy? He shook the wrapping-paper in which the boys had rolled the valentine and looked at it. For some reason the post-mark was Constantinople, and, to all appearances, it might really have come through the mails that very day, instead of, as the case was, a dozen years before.

"Strange," said the Professor. "It came from Constantinople. Now who could have sent it?" Then he heaved a sigh. "Some dear and most beloved friend."

The boys were becoming frightened now, but Todd plucked Billy by the sleeve.

"Don't let on," he said, in a whisper. "He's an old fraud, that's what he is." They walked out into the hallway. "He can't read those words at all."

"Maybe he can," said Billy. "I wonder what it was we wrote?"

But the Professor had called them back. "Nephews," he said, "let me read you what this says."

The boys, hand in hand, came back, and the Professor, waving a finger in gesticulation, translated slowly, using all the time, the magnifying-glass. What he said sounded to the boys like what they had often heard in church.

"He's making up as he goes ahead," whispered Todd.

Then an idea came from Billy. "He's just trying to fool us; that's what he's doing," replied the latter.

But the Professor was much in earnest. "Well," he at last remarked, "I am going to take this right up to the president of the college. It's a most important discovery. It's a palimpsest letter, probably one of the earliest transcriptions of the Epistles. Boys, this wonderful parchment is eighteen hundred years of age, perhaps."

Billy whistled, and Todd, seeing that his uncle did not object, whistled also. But when they were left alone, and their uncle had hurried out into the rain without an umbrella, they again held a consultation.

"We'd better tell him," said Todd, "that we only meant it for a valentine."

"He'll be awful mad," said Billy, quietly; "but I guess we had better tell him, as you say."

So they waited until their uncle returned. At supper he was still elated, and when the table had been cleared Todd opened the subject.

"Uncle Passmore," he inquired, "what is a palimpsest?"

"A palimpsest is a parchment that has once been written on, then used a second time; after the erasure of the first copy, however, very often the original shows through. It is the case with this."

"But what do those letters mean?"

"Oh, that is a hodgepodge," replied the Professor, pedanticly, "of Greek, Hebrew, Sanscrit, and something resembling Arabic. It means nothing; evidently some scribbles to pass away the time."

The boys looked relieved, and cast an admiring glance at the old gentleman, who was continuing:

"Of course it was not sent to me on account of this latter inscription; it was sent to me merely because it was a palimpsest. But I wonder who indulged in all that scribbling?"

"We did," said the boys, in chorus.

Again the Professor appeared quite astonished, but not in the least angered. He listened to the story of how they found the screed in the old trunk in the attic, and commented upon this fact.

"So-so," he said. "I remember keeping that bit when I was in Turkey. I thought it blank, but a very aged sheet. Why did you send it to me?" he inquired.

"Oh, for a valentine," replied Todd.

"Well," said the Professor, smiling, "I'd give a great deal for another one." Then he paused. "There's a minstrel show in town to-night, boys," he added. "Let's go down to it."

THE SEA-URCHIN.

Strolling along the sea-shore at low tide probably many of you have noticed more or less numerous small circular excavations in the sand containing a dark substance, which at first glance might be taken for sea-weed deposited there by the retreating tide. Probably some of you have been tempted to a closer examination, and lifting one, quickly dropped it again, sorrier although not wiser, for this insignificant parcel of needles and pins has a most interesting history to tell.

To naturalists it will introduce itself under the name of Echinoids; to the laymen as sea-urchin or sea-hedgehog, related to the crinoids, star-fishes, and sea-cucumbers, and representing with them the Echinodermata—one of the most distinct types of the animal kingdom.

An animal is this seemingly unmovable ball, although it is difficult to associate it with what is generally implied by that name.

For a closer examination, of course, it is necessary to remove the spines with which it is covered. There are about 4000 of them on every specimen, each one movable at the will of the owner, and difficult to dislodge from the flesh of the hand, so that a little caution is required in dealing with them. You will thus have accomplished a good hour's work, but will not yet have reached the animal proper, for its upper parts are further protected by a kind of shell—the armor of the sea-urchin. This shell is well worthy of a closer examination. It is formed of a number of separate plates, fitted together, one by one, like the steel plates protecting our men-of-war.

On a full-grown specimen there are about 300 of them. They grow in number and size with the age of the sea-urchin, without alteration of the general shape of the shell, since fresh deposits of the calcareous matter that constitute it are made upon the interior edges of each plate.

Sea-urchins are not sociable creatures. They prefer solitude to company, and rarely more than one occupies one dwelling. In earliest infancy they dig for themselves a home in the quiet surf or in the sand, where the retreating tides leave enough moisture to make them comfortable. There they live and prosper, enlarging their homes as their increased growth makes them uncomfortable, and mostly without enlarging the entrances themselves.

In this manner can be explained the fact of some large specimens having been found in dwellings with entrances through which it does not seem possible that they could pass.

Sea-urchins may not be very palatable, yet they are edible, and in some countries are extensively consumed by the poorer population, eaten boiled in the shell like an egg. In certain coast towns of Italy they even form quite an article of commerce with the more interior country, and accordingly large is the number of those engaged in the pursuit of collecting and diving for sea-urchins. This method of diving is very picturesque and amusing, and, as may be imagined, requires some skill.

More simple is the way the Chinese proceed about it. There the fisherman provides himself with a bundle of slender wooden rods, tapered to a little round knob at one end. With these he proceeds to the surf at low tide, and drops one of these rods into each burrow where he suspects a tenant. There it is left for about twelve hours. During this time the sea-urchin is sure to swallow the button, and as the elastic tissues contract, it is unable to release itself again, so that when the fisherman returns he can easily extract the rod with the victim attached. Palates differ with localities. So do the Chinese stew the sea-urchins like a turtle soup.

Of the rest of the family of the Echinodermata, the crinoids and sea-cucumbers have many interesting characteristics; yet especially worthy of mention is the star-fish.

You all know that clammy mass that dangles so hopelessly from the hand. Innocent as it looks, it is quite fierce company to the mollusks and even larger inhabitants of the sea, upon which it feeds. Destitute of any jaws or levers, and with the mouth located in the very centre of the star, its method of nourishment is highly interesting. Its first process is to lie prone upon its prey, folding its arms over it to hold itself in position. Then it applies the mouth closely to the victim, and deliberately pushing out its own stomach through its mouth, wraps the mollusk in its folds, and then calmly draws back the stomach, and is ready for digestion.

As the star-fish is the enemy of mollusks, so it is also of fishermen; and, confidentially, it is the fish which usually gets the best of the fisherman. Able to scent its prey at a long distance, it will seek and make itself familiar with the bait held out for its more noble kinsmen. In reprisal, the fisherman seeks to destroy the fish, and often tears it in halves, flinging the pieces back into the sea. This, however, suits the star-fish exactly, for it is wonderfully tenacious of life, and can bear the loss of one or all its rays without being inconvenienced. The two halves simply heal their wounds, and become two star-fishes instead of one. In time they put forth fresh growth, or remain as happy in the possession of two or three stars as with all.

ODDITIES IN BICYCLES.

It is probable that the great Madison Square Garden in New York never was so full as it was during the Bicycle Show of a fortnight ago. Twenty thousand people filled the great theatre on the last night of the show, and all through the week the throng proved how popular bicycling and bicycles are now. Those who were in the city and could go saw many wheels and many queer inventions in seats, pedals, frame, tires, and all the other parts of the machine. Each bicycle-maker had his own little compartment, with samples of his bicycles, and a big sign with his name in electric lights upon it for the evening. Even if you knew nothing at all about a wheel you were intensely interested in all you saw, and the more intimately you knew bicycles the greater was your interest. There were thousands of bicycles of all kinds, besides wheels for girls and boys of six and eight years of age; and there was one wheel, perfect in every way, with its pneumatic tires and ball-bearings, which was just large enough for a baby two or three years old, if only some one could have found a baby that age capable of riding it. The little pedals were about an inch and a half wide, and the diameter of the wheels was not over eight or nine inches. This was hardly what could be called a model, for it was too large for that. Yet many a boy and girl thought of "little brother" at home when he or she saw that tiny wheel.

MADE BY THE FARMER'S BOY.

Some ingenious "farmer's boy"—so the sign attached informed the spectator—in New Jersey must have been very anxious to ride a wheel some time ago, for he had made a wooden machine, with solid wheels and a wooden seat, which he rode as a bicycle. It was on exhibition at the show, and was an interesting bit of workmanship, standing by the side of a '96 model, as well as an interesting exhibition of what a boy in New Jersey can do if he has the inclination. The most extraordinary part of this extraordinary wheel was the barn-door hinge which attached the forks and handle-bars to the rest of the wheel. The seat was hard, but it must have given that New Jersey boy a great deal of satisfaction to feel that he was riding on a machine made entirely by his own hands and from designs out of his own bright brain. On the card which was attached to the machine was a statement that this was a "spokeless bicycle," made by a farmer's boy in Monmouth County, New Jersey; that it had "hose-pipe tires" (these are pieces of ordinary lawn hose nailed on the outer edges of the wheels, but sadly wanting in wind), and that it was "actually ridden by him and apparently enjoyed."

RIDDEN A THOUSAND MILES.

This bicycle, however, as you can see in the accompanying illustration, is old style, for the cranks act on the front instead of the rear wheel. In fact the whole machine is like the tall bicycle first used in this country. Another wooden affair which was also on exhibition was much more elaborate, and was really an interesting piece of work. It was made by an Indiana boy, and used by him for a long time. He has covered over 1000 miles on it in riding to and from school, and in making short trips in the vicinity of his home. The bicycle is entirely of wood, so far as its frame and its wheels go. Old carriage-wheel hubs have been used, and the wheel rims are wide, strong pieces of wood. Even the lantern is "home made," for it was constructed from old tin cans. The seat has a wonderful spring arrangement which allows the solid shaft of wood on which it rests to sink in the hollow "tubing" of the frame as far as the steel spiral will permit, and the young builder has made the seat itself comfortable by covering the wood with a leather cap over some hair taken out of a mattress. Any one who can build such a bicycle as this deserves to have a fine new one presented to him, and that was precisely what happened, for the company gave him a new '96-model wheel in exchange for his own crude but serviceable machine.

THE ICECYCLE.

Turning from these two pieces of Young America's ingenuity, you could easily find some remarkable examples of the skill of older Americans at the show. There was one wheel that looked like a huge grasshopper. It had a system of cranks which permitted a man to ride with a gearing of 100 as easily as the ordinary wheel carries him along with a 60 gear, but of course he covered much more ground at every revolution. Still another machine had a frame in the shape of a triangle, instead of a diamond, with the seat at the apex, and one wheel at each end of the base. It was a strange-looking affair, but, of course, it could be built much lighter than the ordinary bicycle, while the frame is said to be stronger. Still another and very interesting novelty was a bicycle for use on the ice. Everything about it is much like any bicycle of to-day, except that runners instead of wheels are used. There is a rear wheel which is fitted with a tire of spikes that catch the ice through a slit in the rear runner, and in this way the "icecycle" is sent ahead. When a good velocity has been attained the rider can shift this spiked wheel by a movement of his foot in such a manner as to raise it off the ice and allow the machine to coast. But an icecycle must be a very slippery affair, and rather inclined to slide in any direction, as easily sideways as forward.

THE GIRAFFE.

Further on in the show was the giraffe bicycle, which looked about as much like a giraffe as it did like a bicycle. It is used only in trick riding, and would naturally be useless as an ordinary roadster. It is 9 feet 3 inches high from ground to the top of the handles. But if the giraffe is useless as a practical affair, the cannon bicycles certainly are not. These wheels are made to carry a Maxim gun or a howitzer on a "duplex," or double bicycle, and a single bicycle can carry one of the Colt's new automatic guns. There seems to be no reason why this use of the bicycle in war should not be feasible. At any rate, the armed wheels looked very symmetrical and ship-shape.

A MAXIM GUN ON A DUPLEX.

A still more practical use of the pneumatic tire and other bicycle features, especially for a city paved with asphalt, were demonstrated by some of the tricycles for delivering parcels or carrying baggage of any light kind. One, a picture of which is given with this article, was for invalids—for use in the parks of a city. Indeed, why should not nursery girls ride around on tricycle baby-carriages, with places for the babies in front or behind? And why should not old ladies who are timid about horses go out in little bicycle landaus and broughams? But all these will come in time.

THE COLT AUTOMATIC GUN ON A BICYCLE.

A dozen other novelties might be enumerated, but we have space for only two more. One of these was a bicycle on which six men can ride at once. We have all seen tandems and "quads," but bicycles with six saddles are not common, even at a national bicycle show. The first man does the steering, and the gear on his chain is very small. The second man's gear is larger, the third's larger still until the sixth man has a huge gear, something like 125 or 150. The speed that can be obtained on this wheel, or rather the speed that is said to be obtainable, is something too great to set down in type until it is actually recorded as having been done; but there is a story afloat that a wager has been made to build a track alongside the New York Central road, in order that one of the six-man bicycles may race with the Empire State Express.

INVALID'S TRICYCLE.

Another interesting and possibly very useful development of the bicycle is the power to change the gear. This wheel has a rod under the right handle-bar, very much like a brake handle. When you are riding along level ground, and do not touch the "brake," the gear is at 80. Soon you come to a hill. Then by pulling the "brake" handle up half-way the gear of the wheel is changed from 80 to 60, and thus you can go up hill, slower, to be sure, but much easier. After reaching the top of the hill you pull this rod up close to the handle-bar of the wheel, and the gearing is thrown off entirely, so that the bicycle will coast down hill without turning the cranks. Of course the rider can keep his feet on the pedals all the time.

This bicycle will be of great practical service if its machinery is solid and durable, for there are many bad places along a country road where a change of twenty in the gearing would save a large amount of strength in the total of a day's work, and at the same time, on level ground, much more distance can be covered by changing back to eighty. Then also with the ability to keep your feet on the pedals, you can feel sure of not losing the control of the machine when coasting.

Meantime the great bicycle show had many another novelty, for the description of which there is not space enough in this periodical. Taken altogether, the show was an enormous success, and though many of the novelties were covered up by thousands of ordinary '96 machines, still they were there, and could be found by any one who was looking for them carefully.

THE SPORTSMAN'S CODE.

Now these are the laws of the athlete,
That stretch the length of the field,
They make the code of the runner fleet
Who has never yet learned to yield.
They tell you how to lay your plan,
And how to carry it through.
They help the man, who's done what he can,
To bear his Waterloo.

You shall give the foeman all his due,
And let him win if he can;
But keep all rights that belong to you,
For that is the law of man.
You shall hold the ground that is yours by right,
And yield not a foot you have trod.
But grant his right in a stand-up fight,
For that is the law of God.

If you row with the crew in the boat,
It's a wretched thing to spy.
There's plenty of work when you leave the float,
But little to do for the eye.
There's plenty to do to swing and slide,
And steady the fragile shell,
But to gain your strength from the other side
Is a method sent from hell.

No man shall yield on the football field
Till the final whistle sounds.
No man shall show by a single blow
That he has no place on the grounds.
But when the foe is in racking pain
And cannot move or fight,
You shall help him up to his feet again,
And chafe his bruise and bind his strain,
To show the make of your own good grain,
For that is fair and right.

The strength of the team, or nine, or crew
Is not the strength of the "star."
'Tis what the body together can do
That carries the victory far.
So you shall give your mite to the rest
To bring the whole team through,
And then at the time of your single test
They shall give their strength to you.

And these are the laws of the athlete.
You can heed them or not, as you like,
But they make the code of the runner fleet,
And they check a man when he'd strike.
They tell you how to lay your plan,
And how to carry it through.
They help the man, who's done what he can,
To bear his Waterloo.

PLASTER-OF-PARIS FISH.

BY BARNET PHILLIPS.

When you want to make a mixture of plaster of Paris and water, never put the plaster in the bowl first and then pour on the water, for that is the way not to succeed. Pour the cold water into the bowl first, and after that, little by little, add the plaster. Take the plaster in pinches, crumble it with your fingers, and use it that way. When the plaster is just below the level of the water, you can stir it with a clean spoon or a spatula. If it seems too thin you can add more plaster. You ought to make a mixture of about the consistency of a thick batter. You stir it in order to get rid of the air bubbles. To make good casts is a regular business. The ornamentations of ceilings are made with plaster; and asking some of the workmen what they did when mixing the plaster, they said, "the great secret is to mix the composition slowly."

When I worked away as a boy, making casts of medals, I knew nothing about taking casts of fish. In the United States National Museum at Washington there are many casts taken from the actual fishes. No matter what may be their size, from a minnow to a halibut, there they all are. The modellers who do this kind of work go very far with these casts, for they paint them the exact color of the fish.

I remember having seen a Chinese of rank, attached to the Chinese Legation, who was looking in a kind of indifferent manner at the many objects in the National Museum. Nothing seemed to interest him particularly. Presently, however, he saw the fish. Then he became very much excited, and said in English, "That fiss in my countly, and that fiss too." The painted plaster casts were so lifelike that they recalled the fish in his own Chinese waters. The Museum was to that Chinaman an object-lesson.

Now I am certain that if boys or girls knew how to make plaster-of-Paris fish look like the real ones, it would not alone be an interesting occupation, but an instructive one.

I have explained how the plaster is to be mixed. It is better to buy the plaster in small quantity, not more than a pound at a time. It should be kept in a well-closed glass preserving jar. Some books will tell you to warm your plaster in an oven before using it so as to expel the moisture. I say do no such thing. If you warm it, it will set slowly—that is to say, it will take a long time to harden. Then you never will know, if you heat the plaster, how hot you get it, and it will set differently every time you use it.

Here are the things you want: A plate of common window glass somewhat bigger than your fish; a bit of wood, which will vary according to the size of your fish; two small screws; some potter's clay; a few pins; some shellac varnish; a brush; a little alum; and, of course, your fish.

Do not be too ambitious at the start, but take a small fish, as a shiner, a perch, or a sunfish. Do not try to make the cast of a catfish at the beginning, because the barbules or head appendages of a catfish are hard to take. Do not try, either, an eel, for eels and snakes present some difficulties. With practice, however, a snake or an eel is not hard to make a cast of.

You have caught your fish. Wash it so as to get rid of the slime or mucus. Sometimes this slime will not come off readily; then put a pinch of alum in the water you wash the fish in, and the fish will become perfectly clean. Dry the fish rapidly with a bit of paper or a towel. Now you are ready for work.

Place your fish on the plate of glass, and prop up his tail and his back fin, or fins, with little bits of potter's clay. Sometimes the back fin, or the dorsal fin, as it is called, will become contracted. Stretch out the fin as the fish ought to look, and with pins hold it in place, running the pins through the fin into the clay supports. Having laid your fish straight and in a natural position, now build a little wall around the fish. This is to prevent the flowing of the plaster. This dike should be, say three-fourths of an inch higher than the fish.

You mix your plaster and pour it in carefully on the fish. Now let it all stand awhile, and exercise patience. It ought to be set and hard in an hour, but that depends on the plaster, the batter, and the temperature. You cannot try it with a straw, like you would bread, to see if it is properly baked. When it sets, however, take the plate of glass, hold the cast downwards, and remove the whole thing. If you have worked properly you will have a perfect matrix. The fish being supple, you take it by the tail and get it out.

Your mould may be dry, but you want it drier. It may be left twenty-four hours and put in the sun, or, if you want to hurry it up, you can place it in an oven, but not in too hot a one.

You have now gone as far as I used to go when I began to take the casts of medals. You want to go beyond that, and get a perfect fish, and you have the mould. It would never do to pour liquid plaster into a plaster mould. The new mixture would stick fast to the old one.

The shellac varnish now comes into use. You can buy the shellac varnish ready made, but it is too thick, and you must thin it with alcohol so that it will flow readily. A very little shellac goes a long way. Take a soft brush, and give your mould a coating of varnish. Use a light hand. When the first coat of varnish is dry give it a second coat. Not a bad way is to pour some varnish into the mould if the varnish be thin enough, and drain off the surplus. But remember, if the varnish is too thick, you fill up all the fine lines the fish itself has made.

You want to bear in mind now the piece of wood. This bit of wood should be a little less in length than that part of the fish starting back of the head to the beginning of the tail, and it should have a screw sticking out at each end at right angles to the direction of the stick itself. When your mould is full take this bit of wood with the screws in it, and push it or put it into the soft plaster.

The use of this wood is double. It will help, by means of the screws—which, of course, are firmly embedded in the plaster when it becomes solid—to draw the perfect plaster cast out of the mould, and if you want to hang up the model you can pass a bit of wire through the eyes or the head, of the screws.

Let the plaster set just as before, and when it is dry draw it out by means of the bit of wood and the screws.

You can go, if you want to, much further than this, and paint your fish. Here not so much art as careful study and knowledge of mixing and preparing colors comes into play, which is foreign to the subject.

I know of some lads who were clumsy at first, and speckled themselves all over with plaster, but who after a while made many splendid casts of fish, and worked on big fish, and hard ones too, like eels. Their casts of squirming and twisting eels were first rate. One of the boys took a fishing-pole and put on the hook a plaster-of-Paris eel which he had painted olive green and silvered, and it looked just like a live one. What they did which was worthy of praise was to take casts of all the different kinds of fish which swam in a New York lake near the house where they lived, and they had a little museum of their own.

THE MIDDLE DAUGHTER.[1]

BY MARGARET E. SANGSTER.

CHAPTER VI.

THE TOWER-ROOM.

As time went on, Grace surely did not have to share a third part of her sisters' room, did she? For nothing is so much prized by most girls as a room of their very own, and a middle daughter, particularly such a middle daughter as Grace Wainwright, has a claim to a foothold—a wee bit place, as the Scotch say—where she can shut herself in, and read her Bible, and say her prayers, and write her letters, and dream her dreams, with nobody by to see. Mrs. Wainwright had been a good deal disturbed about there being no room for Grace when she came back from Highland, and one would have been fitted up had there been an extra cent in the family exchequer. Grace didn't mind, or if she did, she made light of her sacrifice; but her sisters felt that they ought to help her to privacy.

Eva and Miriam came over to the Manse to consult us in the early days.

I suggested screens.

"You can do almost anything with screens and portières," I said. "One of the loveliest rooms I ever saw in my life is in a cottage in the Catskills, where one large room is separated into drawing-room, library, and dining-room, and sometimes into a spare chamber, as well, by the judicious use of screens."

"Could we buy them at any price we could pay?" said Miriam.

"Buy them, child? What are you talking about? You can make them. You need only two or three clothes-horses for frames, some chintz, or even wall-paper or calico, a few small tacks, a little braid, a hammer, and patience."

After Grace was fairly launched on her career as teacher, mother suggested one day that the tower-room at Wishing-Brae could be transformed into a maiden's bower without the spending of much money, and that it would make an ideal girl's room, "just the nest for Grace, to fold her wings in and sing her songs—a nest with an outlook over the tree-tops and a field of stars above it."

"Mother dear, you are too poetical and romantic for anything, but I believe," said Amy, "that it could be done, and if it could it ought."

The tower at Wishing-Brae was then a large, light garret-room, used for trunks and boxes. Many a day have I spent there writing stories when I was a child, and oh! what a prospect there was and is from those windows—prospect of moors and mountains, of ribbons of rivers and white roads leading out to the great world. You could see all Highland from the tower windows. In sunny days and in storms it was a delight beyond common just to climb the steep stairs and hide one's self there.

We put our heads together, all of us. We resolved at last that the tower-room should be our birthday gift to Grace. It was quite easy to contrive and work when she was absent, but not so easy to keep from talking about the thing in her presence. Once or twice we almost let it out, but she suspected nothing, and we glided over the danger as over ice, and hugged ourselves that we had escaped. We meant it for a surprise.

First of all, of course, the place had to be thoroughly cleaned, then whitewashed as to the ceiling, and scoured over and over as to the unpainted wood. Archie Vanderhoven and all the brothers of both families helped manfully with this, and the two dear old doctors both climbed up stairs every day, and gave us their criticism. When the cleanness and the sweetness were like the world after the deluge, we began to furnish. The floor was stained a deep dark cherry red; Mrs. Raeburn presented the room with a large rug, called an art-square; Mrs. Vanderhoven made lovely écru curtains of cheese-cloth, full and flowing, for the windows, and these were caught back by cherry ribbons.

We had a regular controversy over the bed, half of us declaring for a folding bed, that could be shut up by day and be an armoire or a book-case, the others wanting a white enamelled bed with brass knobs and bars. The last party carried the day.

The boys hung some shelves, and on these we arranged Grace's favorite books. Under the books in the window were her writing-table and her chair and foot-stool. The Vanderhovens sent a pair of brass andirons for the fire-place, and the little Hastings children, who were taken into the secret, contributed a pair of solid silver candle-sticks.

Never was there a prettier room than that which we stood and surveyed one soft April morning when it was pronounced finished. Our one regret was that dear Mrs. Wainwright could not see it. But the oldest of the Raeburn boys brought over his camera and took a picture of the room, and this was afterwards enlarged and framed for one of Mrs. Wainwright's own birthdays.

"Mother dear," said Grace one evening, as they sat together for a twilight talk, "do you believe God always answers prayers?"

"Always, my child."

"Do you think we can always see the answers, feel sure He has heard us?"

"The answers do not always come at once, Grace, nor are they always what we expect, but God sends us what is best for us, and He gives us strength to help answer the prayers we make. Sometimes prayers are answered before they leave our lips. Don't you know that in every 'Oh, my Father,' is the answer, 'Here, my child.'"

"I used to long years ago," said Grace, "when I was as happy as I could be with dear uncle and auntie, just to fly to you and my father. It seemed sometimes as if I would die just to get home to Highland again, and be one of the children. Uncle and auntie want me to go abroad with them this summer, just for a visit, and they are so good they will take one of my sisters and one of the Raeburns; but I hate to think of the ocean between you and me again even for a few weeks."

"You must go, dearie," said Mrs. Wainwright. "The dear uncle is part owner of you, darling, and he's very generous; but he can never have you back to keep."

"No, indeed."

"Which of the Raeburns do you suppose they can best spare?"

"I don't know which they would choose to spare, but Amy will be the one to go. She was born under a fortunate star, and the rest will help to send her."

"I'd like Frances myself."

"Frances is the stay-at-home daughter. She cannot be spared. It will be Amy, and I will let Miriam go with you, and Eva, who is the youngest, can wait for her turn some other day."

"Is that Burden's cart going down the lane?" inquired Grace, looking out the window, "It's queer how many errands Mr. Burden's had here lately. I believe he's been investing in another cart, or else he has painted the old one. Business must be brisk. There come papa, and Dr. Raeburn with him. Why, mother, all the Raeburns are coming! If there is to be company, I might have been told."

"So might I," said Mrs. Wainwright, with spirit. "Hurry, Grace, bring me some cologne and water to wash my face and hands, and give me my rose-pink wrapper. Turn the key in the door, dearie. An invalid should never be seen except looking her best. You can slip away and get into a tea gown before you meet them, if they are coming to supper. Whose birthday is it? This seems to be a surprise party."

"Why, mamma—it's my birthday; but you don't think there's anything on foot that I don't know of—do you, dearest?"

"I wouldn't like to say what I think, my pet. There, the coast is clear. Run away and change your gown. Whoever wished to see me now may do so. The queen is ready to give audience. Just wheel my chair a little to the left, so that I can catch the last of that soft pink after-glow."

"And were you really entirely unprepared, Grace," said the girls later, "and didn't you ever for a single moment notice anything whatsoever we were doing?"

"Never for one instant. I missed my Tennyson and my French Bible, but thought Eva had borrowed them, and in my wildest imagination I never dreamed you would furnish a lovely big room at the top of the house all for me, my own lone self. It doesn't seem right for me to accept it."

"AND HERE IS SOMETHING ELSE—FROM ME TO MY DAUGHTER."

"Ah, but it is quite right!" said her father, tenderly, "and here is something else—a little birthday check from me to my daughter. Since you came home and set me on my feet I've prospered as never before. Eva has collected ever so many of my bills, and I've sold a corner of the meadow for a good round sum, a corner that never seemed to me to be worth anything. I need not stay always in your debt, financially, dear little woman."

"But, papa."

"But, Grace."

"Your father is right, Grace," said the sweet low tones of Mrs. Wainwright, even and firm. "Through God's goodness you have had the means and disposition to help him, but neither of us ever intended to rest our weight always on your shoulders. You needn't work so hard hereafter, unless you wish to."

"Thank you, dear papa," said Grace. "I shall work just as hard, because I love to work, and because I am thus returning to the world some part of what I owe it; and next year, who knows, I may be able to pay Eva's bills at Miss L—-'s."

Eva jumped up and down with delight.

Then came supper, served in Mrs. Wainwright's room, and after that music and a long merry talk, and at last, lest Mrs. Wainwright should be weary, the Raeburns took their way homeward over the lane and across the fields to the Manse.

Grace from the tower window watched them going, the light of the moon falling in golden clearness over the fields and farms just waiting for spring.

"To serve the present age
My calling to fulfil,"

she whispered to herself. "Good-night, dear ones all, good-night," she said a little later, climbing up the tower stair to her new room.

"God bless you, middle daughter," said her father's deep tones.

Soft, hushed footsteps pattered after the girl, step by step. She thought herself all alone as she shut the door, but presently a cold nose was thrust against her hand, a furry head rubbed her knee. Fido, the pet fox-terrier, had determined for his part to share the tower-room.

THE END.

FOR KING OR COUNTRY.

A Story of the Revolution.

BY JAMES BARNES.

CHAPTER XVII.

A COUNTERPLOT.

So fine a time were the English officers having in New York that they chafed very little beneath General Howe's protracted inaction. The only fighting that William saw was on one of Tryon's foraging expeditions into Connecticut, and, if the truth may be told, he was sickened and sorrowed in heart at the vandalism done by the forces of the King. What was the use of applying the torch to the houses of these poor misguided farmers? and how bravely the little band of homespun coats had resisted their advance upon a quiet little village! One thing was firmly in his mind when he returned to the city from this expedition of plunder—Colonel Forsythe was right. It would take England's best blood and resources. In fact, the task of getting back the Colonies was the greatest that any army of Great Britain had ever had laid out before it.

The fearless behavior of a farmer's lad, captured upon the march, struck William with admiration. This was no "rebel." It was a patriot type, and the Frothingham blood boiled at the brutality of a soldier who had insulted the young prisoner.

William had a dream one night which disturbed him more than a little. It seemed to him that he was walking along the road through a very beautiful country. On either hand stretched green undulating meadows, and neat white farm-houses were on the hill-sides. The wind was waving the tassels of the corn softly. It was just such a view as he had seen on his ride to New York with Uncle Nathan and his brother after the first excitement at Stanham Mills.

It appeared, to him, however, as he walked along this road that was so real, that he saw a gathering ahead of him, and caught a glimpse of the uniforms of King George and the tall hats of the Hessians. As he approached he saw that there was great movement in their midst, and suddenly a beautiful woman dressed in white burst from the crowd. She was struggling to free her hands, which were tied behind her back. The soldiers and the Hessians were pelting her with mud and stones.

"I am Liberty, Liberty!" she cried.

To his chagrin, William saw himself in all his finery gather up a large stone and hurl it at the beautiful figure in white, and at that moment every little farm-house on the hill burst into flame, and the corn in the fields shrivelled to the stalks, and a great voice resounded through the air,

"Fair Liberty is dead—is dead!"

He had disliked himself very much for having had such a dream and appearing in such a shameful character. It was some time before he could shake off the effect of it from his mind.

It was a starlit evening after the return of the expedition, and he was walking quickly through the street to join a small party at the headquarters of another regiment. As he followed the narrow path in the snow a woman's figure stepped to one side.

"WHERE IS THE OTHER UNIFORM?" SHE SAID.

"Where is the other uniform?" she said.

"Pardon me," said William. "I do not understand."

"No more do I," the woman answered. "But my heart is broke."

William had smiled, but the woman had stepped out into the snow as if to avoid him, and had hurried past.

"Poor crazy creature!" said the young officer to himself. "She looked at me as if she knew me."

But he could not rid himself altogether of that reproachful look for quite some time. And another thing that puzzled him was the strange conduct of the landlord at the City Arms.

"I had a guest at my house not long ago," said he, upon one occasion, "who favored you most wonderfully. His name was Blount of Albany. Know you aught of him?"

Two or three people had spoken of the same resemblance, and told of the disappearance of the lad from up the river.

A suspicion had entered William's mind, but he kept it to himself. Soon, however, was it to be confirmed beyond all doubt.

A very good company it was that was gathered in one of the large rooms at Fraunces's Tavern. There, for some reason, William's thoughts had again recurred to the distasteful dream.

"Lieutenant Frothingham, I have the honor to present to you Mr. Bolton Blount, of Albany," a voice interrupted his thoughts. "He is the uncle of the young man who disappeared so strangely some weeks ago. Every one who had the pleasure of meeting him has remarked the curious resemblance that you bear one another."

"I cannot see it," said Mr. Blount, looking politely at William's face and figure. "'Twould be quite a compliment to my poor unfortunate nephew; but they say that relationship can never see resemblances."

"Oh, 'tis most remarkable!" interrupted a young cavalry officer. "I had the honor of piloting your nephew to the town, and a most agreeable and well-spoken young gentleman he was."

"Richard must have improved, then," said Mr. Blount. "Did you mark whether he was lame?"

"Yes, the left foot, but slightly," said the officer; "but he was quite graceful with it all, and his hair was black and straight."

"Like an Indian's?"

"Yes," was the answer, "very like."

"'Tis passing strange," said the uncle, and sighed; "it almost seems like witchcraft. No trace of him to be found, although we have searched everywhere."

As William was walking to his lodgings that night a brother officer joined him, and passed his arm through his.

"Oh, Frothingham," he said, "I have something truly strange to tell you! I was on a visit of inspection to the town prisons a week or so ago, and at an old sugar-house on Rose or Vine Street I saw your very double. The resemblance has been haunting me, and I just have placed it."

"I seem to have doubles everywhere," answered William, carelessly, though a great fear welled up in his heart. "I had supposed you were going to tell me that I look like a Mr. Blount."

"I know him not," answered the officer, "but I do assure you that you bear a great resemblance to this prisoner."

When William reached his room that night he rested for a long time, wide-awake and thinking. It might be George who was held in prison.

All the next morning he was on duty at headquarters, and in the afternoon he hastened toward the old sugar-house, whose location he knew from the officer's description. With little trouble he succeeded in getting permission from the jailer to look through the cells and corridors. He had muffled part of his face in a wide silk neckerchief, and had pushed his hat well forward on his forehead. He advanced hastily into the large hall, and his eye ran around in a swift glance. With a sense of relief that there was no one there that resembled the description in the slightest way, he went on until he came to the cell next but one to the end of the corridor. He looked within. Though the light was quite dim, he could make out a figure lying on a patchwork quilt. He placed his face close to the bars. His heart was beating furiously. There could be no doubt about it. He grasped the iron closer for support. It was George, his brother, fast asleep. The Virgil lay open on the floor, and one slender finger marked the place.

With an effort William managed to compose himself. "What is this young man imprisoned for?" he asked, in a whisper, of the jailer at his side.

"For stealing a watch," was the reply. "He tried to escape, and has been wounded slightly in the arm. He appears to have been a likely youth, and 'tis a shame that he should have fallen so, for he has some learning." The man shook his head pityingly.

William did not hear the last words. It appeared to him that a bright flash came and went before his eyes, and again he grasped the bars of the doorway. His brother George a thief. It could not be!

"Shall I wake him, sir," put in the jailer, not noticing William's perturbation.

The young officer recovered himself.

"Oh, by no means!" he said, trying to control his voice. "Pray do not disturb him."

As he was about to release his hold from one of the iron bars, he perceived that it was filed almost in twain from the inside! He could feel it with his fingers. The sleeper moved slightly, and William stepped to one side out of sight.

It was quite difficult that he could affect any interest in the rest of the prisoners, his brain was whirling so, and soon he thanked the jailer and left the gloomy shadow of the building.

When he reached the outside air he drew down the muffler, for he felt faint and sick. The tall soldier on guard at the gateway saluted him. William turned, and as he did so almost ran into the arms of the little schoolmaster, who was bobbing quickly along.

"Ho, ho, Lieutenant!" was the greeting; but a glance at the young man's face told the story. "You know it. You have seen him?" asked Schoolmaster Anderson.

"I have, and I am going to find out more. They say he stole, that my brother is a thief. I cannot—"

"No, no, he is not," said Mr. Anderson. "On my honor no—and try to find out nothing, for by doing so you may place a halter around his neck." Then he added, quite calmly, "Your brother is a spy."

A sense of horror and yet of relief came over William.

"I have imperilled my own safety by befriending him," said Schoolmaster Anderson. "Surely you, his brother, will not betray him?"

"Tell me," inquired William, "is he Richard Blount of Albany?"

"He took the young man's place at the peril of his life," answered the schoolmaster. "Now say nothing more."

"But he is about to escape!" exclaimed the young Lieutenant.

It was the schoolmaster's time to start. "He is?" he inquired, half faltering.

"Ay," said William. "The iron bars are almost filed in two."

"Well, well," remarked Mr. Anderson. "That will never do. We will have to change that. Sure enough. He must be moved, but his safety is the first thing to be thought of. You agree with me?"

"I am going to make myself known to him," exclaimed William, turning as if to retrace his steps toward the prison.

"I pray that you will do nothing of the kind," broke in the old schoolmaster. "It is only by great good fortune that his identity has not been established. Any attention attracted to him might be the means of accomplishing just what we wish to avoid."

"I will leave it all to you then, Mr. Anderson. Only we cannot connive at the escape of a rebel spy, even if he is my brother."

"Your family is not the only one that is divided on this sad subject," said the schoolmaster, shaking his head. "Just look about you everywhere."

After this there was but little said, and the two parted further down the street, William depressed and sorrowed by the discovery and the secret that bore upon his mind.

But to return to the cell of the mysterious young prisoner who read his Virgil so indefatigably.

He had not been asleep at all upon the occasion of William's unexpected visit. In fact, he had been working with a small file upon the iron bars. It had to be done very carefully indeed, by fits and starts, for a long-continued exertion might at any time bring upon him the attention of the guard.

He had not recognized his brother in the dim light, and only thought him one of the inspecting officers, although he had shivered when the jailer spoke in such an off-hand manner of his being accused of theft.

In the mean time he had read his cipher note.

It told him that on a certain night, if it were possible for him to file his bars in two, a boat with two rowers would be waiting beneath a wharf of the North River. If everything worked smoothly on both sides, signals would be exchanged.

The note was signed by Number Two. George knew this to be friend Anderson. It stated that Number Three was unfortunately ill, and George knew that Number Three was Abel Norton.

He had destroyed the epistle, and recommenced the tedious work of filing away the bars.

Despite Mr. Anderson's warning, William could hardly restrain a desire to visit the sugar-house and have a long talk with his brother, but he saw that the consequences might be most disastrous. However, there was one thing he could do—help George's material comfort; he would claim this privilege at least.

Meeting Mr. Anderson one day, he asked him if George needed anything that he could procure. To his surprise, the little schoolmaster refused to discuss the question, and William took the hint that he was not supposed to know that his brother was in New York at all. So, pained and chagrined, he dropped the subject; he could not insist, as he had left the matter in Mr. Anderson's hands.

He was, however, soon to undergo a great surprise.

Huddled up in his long gray cloak, he was facing a small snow-storm that whirled the drifts around the corners of the houses, and as he emerged into Waddell Lane a tall man who was approaching glanced at him most curiously. Just as William was passing, the other extended his arm and grasped him by the shoulder.

"Hold! I would not go in that direction," said the man. "Don't be rash. Be cautious, Frothingham, I do beseech you. Step to one side in the alley here; no one will see us, and I would have a word with you."

William, to his best knowledge and belief, had never seen the person who addressed him so readily and excitedly by name before.

Something told him at once that here was one of the persons concerned in his brother George's intended escape. It behooved him well to listen.

"You have chosen a good night," said Mr. Abel Norton, drawing the young Lieutenant into the shadow of the doorway of an empty house, "a splendid night. It has worked well; but, Heavens! a full uniform! How did you procure it, in the name of mercy?"

"It was easier than you think, I suspect," said William, now speaking for the first time.

"I wish I could say it becoming," went on the older man. "It must itch you like a hair shirt—eh?"

William said nothing.

"I met your colored servant two days ago. I remembered having seen him with your uncle years gone by. He has returned to New Jersey with tidings of you, and the news that you have been slightly wounded and that you will follow him. By this time they at Stanham have learned of your intention to escape. I have been ill," continued Abel Norton. "This is the first day that I have been out. I was on my way to the prison to see if in some way I could learn tidings of you."

"There is no necessity of going now," said William.

"So I see, my dear boy. You never liked me when we worked together in Sir Wyeth's office. What a proud young limb you were, and as solitary as an owl! But this is no time for reminiscing. Is the boat prepared?"

"That's just the question," put in William, at a venture. "Everything has worked well, but that I do not know."

"It must be arranged then at once to-night. I will see to it myself," said his mysterious acquaintance. "I know the ferrymen and where to reach them. Shall I do it?"

"You had better," was the answer. "And let me know where I can find them."

"At Striker's wharf, then, at eleven o'clock to-night. It will be pitch-dark and a rough passage. Where are you bound to now?"

"To a safe hiding-place," answered William.

"Take care—take care—don't be too bold," said the other, cautiously. "Well, if you will, may good-luck wait on you. To-night, then, at eleven."

Abel Norton did not know what loyal British hands grasped his, but the pressure was firm and hearty, for William's heart went out to this friend of his brother's.

"Schoolmaster Anderson has frustrated the attempt at escape, of course," he thought to himself, "and the boat-men will wait in vain. I could not find it in my heart to tell the old fellow who I was. He might have died from sheer astonishment." But it seemed quite natural to be taken for George again. The resemblance was not lost.

Abel Norton would have been astounded had he known where the "safe hiding-place" was toward which the young spy was hastening, for he walked on down the lane until he came to the corner, and went straight through the main entrance into the City Arms. He stamped the snow from his heels and was hailed by a group of officers, who made room for him at the table. He but half listened to the conversation, until some one slapped his shoulder.

"Come, come, recall your wandering thoughts!"

William gathered his wits together with an effort.

"I have just discovered," said an officer, "that despatches of the greatest moment are passing between New England and General Washington's army. We are quite as anxious to find out what his move will be as he is to ascertain ours. You know something of the country over yonder?"

"Yes," replied William, "I was born and reared there."

A stranger in an ill-fitting uniform had been listening to the talk. He now leaned across the table and addressed a question to the two speakers.

"Your name is Frothingham, I believe, sir?"

"Yes, sir," answered William.

"Are you a relation of that family at Stanham Manor? I am a New Jersey man in the King's service."

"I am," was the reply.

"Have you not a brother?"

"I have—or had. He," said William, laconically, "is in the American service."

"Think nothing of that," was the response. "My own father and two brothers hold positions of some importance under Washington. In fact, my own wife sides with the rebels." The Tory officer said this as if he were stating something quite ordinary. "This post-route of which we were speaking when you entered, and through which all the despatches go, runs through your country; and General Greene has cut a road, I take it, almost through your land. The 'Cowboys' and 'Skinners' keep things lively not far to the northward, but methinks it would be easy to obtain advices near Stanham Mills or at the Hewes's estates. They have turned your foundry into rebel gun-shops."

"Have they, indeed? I have heard no news for a long time from there."

William again relapsed into silence.

The inaction and the constant recurrence of the disagreeable dream of poor persecuted Liberty had begun to tell. Insidious horrible thoughts now and then flitted through his mind. Could he be doubtful of his own loyalty? No; but he must do something to prove it and put it to the test, if only for himself.

Then an idea came over him with such force as almost caused him to exclaim aloud, "Eureka!" he said, to himself. "I have it. For the King—for the King!'"

He pushed himself back from the table and hurried out of doors. He fairly ran down the street to the corner on which stood the handsome residence of General Howe.

"I would see the General on important business," he said to the sentry. "Tell him that it is most urgent."

The orderly, after some delay, brought back a message of admittance, and William followed him into the presence of the Commander-in-Chief.

He was lolling back in his chair, with a half-finished decanter on the table beside him.

"Well, my young sir, what is this 'important business'?"

"Merely a request, your Excellency, that I may be detailed to obtain information of the movements of the American forces. I have an opportunity to penetrate into their lines with the best chance of my commission being undiscovered. I think I can obtain important news.

"Your request is granted. And when would you leave?" spoke up the General, lazily.

"To-night, at eleven o'clock," was the reply William made, remembering that that was the time the strange tall man had mentioned.

[to be continued.]

THE CHANGED VALENTINE.

A Play for St. Valentine's Day.

BY CAROLINE A. CREEVEY.

Characters:

Amanda Stuart.

Mary Ann Murphy, of Irish descent, who often affects the brogue.

Gertrude Campbell.

Laura Thurston.

Alicia Perry.

Ada McClure.

Georgiana Thompson, a little girl who lisps.

(All members of Mrs. Eaton's boarding-school.)

Miss Steele, a harsh, unpopular teacher.

Mrs. St. Valentine, aunt to Cupid.

Cupid.

Scene.—A drawing-room in the school. The girls are seated around a table, studying. Time.—February 13th.

Gertrude. This is a horridly uninteresting lesson. Listen, now: "Domestic affairs under Jefferson were at first marked by wonderful prosperity. American commerce increased enormously, for as nearly all Europe was at war, it was not safe to send goods in European vessels." I should like to know what all Europe was at war about? Miss Goodrich will be sure to ask. Can't you tell me, Alicia? You are so good in history.

Alicia. What are your dates? When was Jefferson's administration?

Gertrude. I'm sure I don't know. It must have been seventeen hundred or eighteen hundred and something.

Ada. Well, I call that great! Studying about Jefferson, and don't know when he lived!

Gertrude. Let's see if you know.

Ada. Course I don't! But then I ain't studying history. Just now I'll be satisfied if I can find out what an adjective clause is.

Mary Ann. Aint is a regular verb—I aint, thou aintest, he aintet, we aint, you aint—

Laura. Hush, Mollie; don't tease.

Mary Ann. Is it t'asin' I am? I'm helpin' you, me darlint. Active voice, third person.

Ada. Mollie, you stick to algebra.

Mary Ann. Wid pleasure, me choild. It's x equals the number of laborers, and y the hours they worked, and z the sthroike they wint upon.

Amanda. Oh, are you doing that example about the laborers? Just let me see your statement; I can't get it.

Mary Ann. I'm afther tellin' ye the statement. It's me x equals—

Gertrude. There, I have found Jefferson's reign—administration, I mean—1801 to 1809.

[Repeats it several times.]

Alicia. Well, about that time Napoleon lived—didn't he?

Mary Ann.

Napoleon was a warrior bould,
From Corsica he came,
And so at least we've all been tould
He set the world aflame.

Amanda. Girls, do you know what day to-morrow will be?

All (shout). St. Valentine's day.

Ada. I hope to goodness I'll have six.

Gertrude. There's nothing mean about her.

Georgiana. There'th one coming for me, I'm thure. My brother alwayth thendth me one.

Amanda. Oh, brothers' valentines don't count! Haven't you any other friends? Don't you know any boys?

Laura. I am shocked.

Mary Ann. Whist thin! Mintion no dangerous characters in a young ladies' institootion. Would ye raally, thin, me poor, deluded child, be recavin' thim valentines, which is pizined with Cupid's arrers, from school-boys?

Laura. Girls, it's study hour, and we ought not to talk, except about our lessons.

Georgiana. Thomebody'th coming.

[All bend earnestly over their books.]

Enter Miss Steele. She stands looking suspiciously at the girls.

Miss Steele. I thought I heard voices. Young ladies, were you communicating?

Mary Ann. Yis, mum. I was a-communicatin' av me ixample to paper. It's x equals—

Miss Steele. Miss Murphy, you will be kind enough to drop that outlandish way of speaking when you are addressing me. Were you communicating with each other?

Gertrude. I asked what all Europe was at war about? It said so in my history lesson.

Ada. I asked what an adjective clause was? It came in my grammar.

Miss Steele. Young ladies, I fear you are not absolutely truthful. Remember, the truthful person is never afraid to incriminate himself. He fears deceit above everything else. Try above all things to tell the truth. In the present instance I certainly heard a word that did not belong to either your history or grammar.

Alicia (behind her hands). Eavesdropping, I do believe.

Miss Steele. Miss Perry, did you speak?

Alicia. I was restraining a sneeze, ma'am.

Miss Steele. The word that I happened to overhear was "valentines." I want you to understand that I wholly disapprove of those things. They are silly and stupid. It is a reprehensible custom, that of sending them. Keep your thoughts on higher, better things. I shall remain with you during the rest of this study hour, and see that you pursue your work faithfully till the bell rings. (Seats herself, adjusts glasses, and proceeds to darn a pair of stockings.) It is quite cool here. Georgiana my dear, go to my room, and in the left-hand corner of the drawer you will find a white shawl. Bring it to me.

Georgiana. Yeth, ma'am. [Exit.]

Miss Steele. Strange how that child lisps. I must speak to the elocution-master about it. He might suggest a remedy for the defect.

Mary Ann. May I ask what this word spells?

Miss Steele. Certainly.

Mary Ann. Repr-ehe-nsi-ble.

Miss Steele. You did not divide the syllables correctly. Try again.

Mary Ann. Yes'm. Re-preh-ens-ib-le.

Miss Steele. I cannot make it out yet.

Mary Ann. It's what you said the custom of sending valentines was.

Miss Steele. Oh! reprehensible. And so it is. That means blameworthy, pernicious. A very pernicious custom—most reprehensible.

Mary Ann. Thanks awfully. (Murmurs.) So glad to know.

Enter Georgiana with a red shawl.

Georgiana. Ith thith what you wanted, Mith Thteele?

Miss Steele. No, dear. I said a white shawl. You don't call that white—do you? As usual, you were inattentive. Now listen. Take this back and lay it on my bed, and in the upper drawer, left-hand corner, there is my white shawl wrapped in a towel. Bring it to me. Now mind, the white shawl.

[Exit Georgiana.]

Amanda (whispers). She didn't say whether bureau or wash-stand. It isn't Georgie alone who is stupid.

Miss Steele. Miss Stuart, you are whispering. Tell me what you said.

Amanda. I said that child is too stupid for anything.

Miss Steele. She ought not to be stupid. She is very careless, owing, I suppose, to her bringing up. She has always been waited on too much.

Alicia. Does that make people careless?

Miss Steele. It's apt to do so.

Gertrude. Miss Steele, why do folks call it Saint Valentine's day?

Miss Steele. Do not say folks, Gertrude. It is inelegant. There was a saint named Valentine once, I suppose.

Ada. Did you ever get a valentine, Miss Steele?

Miss Steele. I? Oh no—that is, not lately. I suppose when I was young and foolish I did such things.

Mary Ann (with mock reverence and admiration). I'm sure, ma'am, now, you were never young and foolish.

Enter Georgiana with a blue shawl.

Miss Steele (wrathfully). Did I ever see such idiotic behavior, such extraordinary conduct? Did I say one thing about a blue shawl? Wasn't it a white shawl I sent you for? Explain, miss.

Georgiana. Thith ith what wath in the left-hand corner of the upper drawer of the wath-thand.

Miss Steele. Wash-stand? I said bureau.

Georgiana. I didn't hear you thay bureau.

Miss Steele. Don't add lying to your stupidity. Of course I said bureau! The thought of wash-stand didn't enter my mind.

Georgiana (beginning to cry). I don't think you thaid bureau.

Laura. Please let me get the shawl for you, Miss Steele. I don't believe Georgie can find it now, she is so flustered.

Miss Steele. When I want any of your interference, Miss Thurston, I will ask for it. Georgiana Thompson, go back to my room, and don't bring me a pink, or gray, or black shawl, but a white one which is in the left-hand corner of the upper drawer in my bureau. And if you don't want to spend to-morrow in your room, with bread and tea for your dinner, you would better bring me the right thing this time. Do you hear? (Exit Georgiana.) She must enjoy running up two flights of stairs. I declare it's most annoying.

Alicia. Perhaps, Miss Steele, Georgiana is color-blind.

Miss Steele. Possibly. I had not thought of that.

Amanda. Really, Miss Steele, you didn't tell Georgie that the shawl was in the bureau drawer. Aren't you afraid she'll paw over your things?

Gertrude. And make a mess generally? You really ought to let one of us go with Georgie.

Mary Ann (jumping up). Oh, do let me go!

Miss Steele. Well, go. (Exit Mary Ann.) I feel warmer than I did. I dare say by the time the shawl comes I will not need it. What a vexatious fuss about nothing!

Amanda. Mental excitement makes anybody warm. Shall I go and tell the girls not to bring the shawl?

Miss Steele. Sit still where you are.

[A short, silent pause.]

Enter Mary Ann and Georgie, triumphantly displaying a white shawl.

Mary Ann. There, ma'am. We had to turn over everything in your drawers.

Miss Steele. How very thoughtless of you! I must go and see whether you have done any harm.

[She rises in dismay, drops stockings and balls of yarn, and leaves the room. Mary Ann screams with laughter, and drops on the floor.]

Mary Ann. Oh, me darlints! me childer! It makes me that wake. But the fun! We tossed her drawers all to pieces. There isn't one handkercher lift upon anither. And the gloves and fans and letthers is scathered about.

Laura. Oh, girls, what a pity! How could you do that?

Georgiana. Why, the thawl wathn't in the upper drawer at all. It wath in the lower; and Mollie jutht puthed her handth under everything, and thcattered them tho.

Mary Ann. I did, I did. Och, could I but see her now! the ragin' and tearin' av her, she's as mad as a ducked sitting hin. It's better than medicine, me darlints. (She sits in Miss Steele's chair, picks up the stockings and yarn, puts the white shawl over her shoulders, and tries to look solemn and prim. The other girls gather around, Mary Ann mimicking Miss Steele's voice.) Georgiana, it is quite chilly here. Go, my dear, up two flights of stairs three times to my room, and bring me not a gray, nor a pink, but a white shawl, which is not at all where I tell you it is. And, dear, don't be color-blind just because you're a Southerner, nor careless because your ancestors kept slaves.

Alicia. Sent Georgie on a fool's errand three times, did she? I hate her. Horrid old thing!

Gertrude. Can't we get even with her?

Laura. I think Mollie did get even with her.

Ada. Do let's have our revenge.

Amanda.

It would make us very happy to be revenged upon her;
She's a cross and hateful teacher, and this is why we feel
That without the very tiniest and littlest dishonor
We would like to bother somehow Miss Araminta Steele.

Gertrude. Let's send her a comic valentine.

All (clapping hands). Just the thing!

Laura. I'm afraid that would not be respectful.

Mollie. Whist, darlint, honey! It's the roight thing to do.

Alicia. All in favor of sending a comic valentine to Miss Steele say aye.

All, except Laura. Aye!

Gertrude. Come on, Laura. Don't be too pious. There's no harm done, only fun.

Laura (reluctantly). Well, if you insist, girls, I won't stand out.

Enter Mrs. St. Valentine, a little old lady in a gray gown, mob-cap, and kerchief.

Mrs. St. V. Good-day, young ladies.

All. Good-day, madam.

Mrs. St. V. (seats herself). Would you like to buy any valentines to-day? I have choice ones to sell, at low prices.

[All gather around her and take up the valentines.]

Ada. Yes, these are lovely. Have you any comic valentines?

Mrs. St. V. Yes, a few. But I never show them to young ladies. They are not suitable.

Ada. But we want one; real horrid and funny.

Mrs. St. V. How singular! Will one of these do? But I do not like to sell you such a thing.

Amanda. Here's a good one, girls. (Reads.)

Once you may have been a beauty, but your charms are faded now,
There are puckers round your eyes, dear, and wrinkles on your brow;
Once you may have been seraphic, you are not angelic now.

Mary Ann. Oh, that's too good by far! Now how is this? (Reads.)

You ugly, horrid, spiteful creature,
How distressing every feature!
Vinegar is sweet beside you,
And we cannot but deride you,

Gertrude. The picture is consistent—old woman, big nose, goggle eyes, hair fuzzy, cross as two sticks.

Alicia. That will do very well.

Laura. It's not very refined.

Mrs. St. V. That's what I am thinking.

Mary Ann. We're not hunting for refinement. What's the price of that, ma'am?

Mrs. St. V. It's cheap enough—ten cents. But look at some of these pretty ones.

Mary Ann. Another time, if it's all the same to you. Girls, here's the money. I will pay it, and you all owe me one and three-sevenths cents. How's that for algebra?

Mrs. St. V. What are you going to do with this?

Amanda. Send it to one of our teachers, whom we just hate for being a spiteful old thing.

Laura. I would rather not do it.

Gertrude. Oh yes, you're in it. Now, girls, sign your names, while I address the envelope. Disguise your hand-writing, and make up the names. Here's mine—Patsy Tuckerty.

Georgiana. Mine ith Tiny Tanthy. [Writes.]

Amanda. Mine, Formosa Fiddlesticks.

Ada. Mine, Virginny Canary.

Mary Ann. And me own is Bridget Mahoney.

Georgiana. Oh, Mollie, the'll thuthpect!

Mary Ann. She can't prove anything.

Alicia. My name is Patessa Maressa. Now, Laura, you may have a pretty name.

Laura. Well, here's mine—Lily Myette.

Mary Ann. There, I call that a triumph. I hope it will knock her down flat. (Reads the verse again.) Elegant!

Mrs. St. V. Young ladies, I hope you won't get into trouble. But surely it is not kind treatment of a teacher to send her this ugly thing. Now here are such lovely—(Bell rings. Girls scamper to the door and exeunt. Mary Ann courtesies and kisses her hand to Mrs. St. Valentine.) Well, I do declare! What a set of wild girls! I don't think they mean harm, but— Why, they have left their comic valentine here. Forgotten it, I suppose. Now let me see. I might confiscate it; but I will call my nephew. His wits are bright. Perhaps he can get these naughty children out of their scrape.

Come hither, Cupid darling,
As fast as you can fly;
Bring all your sharpest arrows,
And your merry magic try.

Enter Cupid, bowing low and kissing Mrs. St. Valentine's hand.

Cupid.

What will my gracious aunt?
Command me as you please;
I'll serve you on my fleetest wings
Or on my bended knees.

Mrs. St. V. Cupid, here is a curious case. I came to the school with a bag full of my choicest valentines, hoping to start up a brisk trade with these young ladies. You know times are hard, and I really need the money. Very well. They would not look at these gems, these flowers and Cupids, but must pick out the ugliest one I have, and sign false names, and address it to one of their teachers.

Cupid. Which one? Oh, Miss Steele! Yes, she's pretty dreadful. Heart like flint. My arrows make no impression.

Mrs. St. V. But they ought not to send her this.

Cupid. I'm not so sure. The objection, from our point of view, is that these comic valentines are made by a rival firm, and we should find it for our interest to discourage their sale.

Mrs. St. V. True; and I would not keep them in stock, but that boys will have them and nothing else.

Cupid. You have to keep a few in stock, of course.

Mrs. St. V. Come, my child. Suggest some way out of this difficulty. The girls must not be permitted to compromise themselves.

Cupid. I have it. Pick out seven of your pretty ones, a valentine for each girl, and I will substitute them for this hideous thing.

Mrs. St. V. Oh, Cupid, you are so bright! Here's one.

Cupid.

When birds come back to bower and tree,
Pray, ladye fair, take thought of me;
No bird has note so sweet and true,
As all my loving thoughts of you.

That will do for Gertrude Campbell. [Signs her name.]

Mrs. St. V. And this. (Reads.)

I would tell you how much I love you,
But I don't know where to begin,
So open your door, sweet maiden,
And let your true love in.

Cupid. Let that be Amanda Stuart. [Writes.]

Mrs. St. V.

I love my love with an A, because she's so attractive;
I love my love with an S, because she is so strong.
I send her a host of good wishes;
They are all in my little song.

Cupid. That shall he Alicia Perry's. (Writes.) It doesn't rhyme, though.

Mrs. St. V. Read this, my boy.

Cupid (reads).

Oh! will you be my valentine? I'll fly at your behest;
And everything I'll proffer you, of first and very best.

Delightful. Laura Thurston. [Writes.]

Mrs. St. V. Here's one with flowers. Take that for the little one.

Cupid (reads).

Roses for you, gentle friend,
Lilies, too, and mignonette,
Daisies, and forget-me-nots
From your loving little pet.

Good, Georgiana Thompson. [Writes.]

Mrs. St. V. Here's a pretty one.

Cupid (reads).

I wish you joy, I wish you grace,
I wish you many a happy time;
May smiles light up your cheery face
Soon as you read my merry rhyme.

Ada McClure. [Writes.]

Mrs. St. V. And one, the sweetest of all, for that mischief-loving girl with the Irish name.

Cupid (reads).

Thrue for yez, lady, here I be;
Belike ye'd hardly know 'tis me;
But I'll be good, and plaze attind
The valentine of this young frind.

Good! Mary Ann Murphy. (Writes.) Now, auntie, fold my wings down and make a mail-carrier of me. I will deliver these missives myself. And this comic thing we will tear up and utterly destroy. Keep up your courage, auntie. I hear that times are better, and there's to be a big sale of valentines this year. [Exeunt Mrs. St. V. and Cupid, L.]

Enter, R., Laura.

Laura. I am going to destroy that hideous valentine, and not let Miss Steele see it. We might be expelled, and, anyway, such things do no good. Why, where is it? Gone! Oh dear! Can any of the teachers have seen it? What if Miss Steele— [Rushes frightened from the room, L.]

Enter, R., Miss Steele.

Miss Steele (face red, hair dishevelled). I have been all this time putting my room to rights. That wicked girl had literally emptied my drawers and scattered everything around the room. She is impertinent and saucy to the last degree. I can't seem to do anything with her and her set, and yet they are popular with the other teachers. But they treat me shamefully. Mollie seems to be the ring-leader, and she must on this occasion be severely punished. To-morrow is a half-holiday. I shall request Mrs. Eaton to keep her in her room. In fact, I think all of them ought to receive punishment.

Enter Cupid, as mail-carrier.

Cupid. Good-day, ma'am.

Miss Steele. This seems to be a new mail-carrier. Aren't you rather young for this business?

Cupid. I always deliver the valentines. Here are a lot for you.

Miss Steele. For me? You are mistaken. Who would send me a valentine?

Cupid. And why should not you receive a valentine? They are messages of love.

Miss Steele. They are silly, stupid things.

Cupid. They are messages of love, I say. Is love stupid and silly?

Miss Steele. What a funny boy this is! What do you know about love?

Cupid. A great deal. It has been my business for centuries to make people love. Here are seven fine valentines for Miss Steele. That's your name?

Miss Steele. Yes, but it is twenty-five years since I had a valentine. (Muses.) Robert, my friend, sent me one. I have it somewhere. But that seems ages ago. I never acknowledged it, and he misunderstood my silence. He went away, and my heart has been closed to love since. Boy, let me see these valentines. Why, they are from my seven naughty girls—Alicia, Ada, Georgie, and even Mollie! What exquisite designs! These things grow more beautiful every year. And the sentiments are lovely.

Cupid. These valentines were selected on account of their sentiments. The girls were talking about revenge.

Miss Steele. They have indeed taken a most loving revenge. How kind of them! I have misunderstood them.

Enter the seven girls.

Laura. And it was not on the table. I looked, but it was quite gone.

Mollie. Like as not she has got it, and we're in for it. Oh, here she is! Come on, girls. Face the music. Live or die! Survive or perish!

Georgiana. I'm tho thcared!

Miss Steele. My darling girls! Thank you for your sweet thoughts of me. Your pretty love-missives—

Gertrude. Gracious, but she can be sarcastic!

Miss Steele. —have won my heart. It is so long since I have had a real valentine I am very much touched. Laura, Gerty, thanks. Georgie, poor little dear, I was hard on you to-day. Alicia, Ada, Amanda, and you mischievous Mollie, let us all be friends.

[Cupid, on one side, is aiming arrows at Miss Steele.]

Mollie (aside). Girls, I shall faint. Is it a cat playing with a mouse?

Laura. We hope, Miss Steele, you won't mind our little joke. We did not mean to offend you.

Miss Steele. How could I be offended? (Reads one of the valentines.) Isn't that beautiful? And these pictures show such good taste. They are really gems of art.

Ada. Are we dreaming?

[Cupid, from the rear, makes frantic gestures to the girls, with finger on his mouth and shakes of his head.]

Alicia. But, Miss Steele—

Miss Steele. Girls, will you take tea with me to-morrow in my little parlor? I will give a valentine tea, with ices in heart-shapes, and everything that girls like. Perhaps I will tell you a story out of my life that may make you think kindly of a lonely old maid. Will you all come?

All. Yes, Miss Steele, thank you.

Cupid. I can bring you some valentines for your tea, if you like.

Miss Steele. Well, do. Select pretty ones, regardless of cost, and bring them to me. [Exit.]

Cupid. You see, that's just in my line.

Mollie. Somebody fan me! Salts, camphor, quick! Invited to tea by Miss Steele!

Cupid. Don't you think my plan worked famously.

Laura. How did you do it?

Cupid. Well, my aunt—she's the lady that was selling valentines—was awfully worried because you girls were going to send a hideous old comic to your teacher, and I suggested that we substitute our kind—the love valentines. So we just tore up yours, and I addressed one of my prettiest from each of you to Miss Steele. Guess you aren't sorry? Besides, I've filled her heart, now that it has softened, with my arrows, and if you do the right thing by her she'll behave well the rest of the year. You see.

Laura. You blessed boy! I would like to hug and kiss you.

Cupid. I'll shoot you if you do.

Amanda. I'm so relieved.

Georgiana. Tho am I.

Mollie. That funny boy has been shooting at us too. My own heart feels as if it had been hit, and I guess—don't you, girls?—that we'll never send any more comic valentines. We'll stick to Cupid's own, the missives of love.

curtain.

AN IRISHMAN'S PATIENCE.

In a neat little white painted house up in Maine, a baby's gold ring hangs upon the wall tied with a bit of ribbon. The owner, an Irishman, a humorous scion of his race, when interrogated about it, told the following story:

While fishing one day in an adjacent lake, he accidentally dropped the ring out of his pocket, and slipping off the edge of the boat, it sank down through the clear water. As he watched it disappearing, a large fish darted through the water, and opening his month gulped it down. The Irishman sadly lamented his loss of the ring as it belonged to his little baby. He resolved to fish that lake until he found the rascally thief, and day after day he hauled in the shiny, struggling members of the finny tribe, and cut them open in search of his ring. Weeks went by, and grew into months, until the cold weather arrived, but with a fisherman's patience he continued in his task even to cutting holes in the ice to fish through. One day after a severe and long protracted struggle, he hauled in a fine fish, and some intuitive instinct told him he had at last caught the thief, which, on cutting him open, proved to be the case.

FROM CHUM TO CHUM

BY GASTON V. DRAKE.

II.—FROM JACK TO BOB.

Boston, June —, 18—.

Dear Bob,—Got your letter last night. Wish I was going to Hoboken with you, but most of all I wish you were going to be at the Mountain House. I got a letter from our old friend Sandboys the bell-boy, last month, and judging from what he says in it there's going to be lots of fun up there this summer with the bears. He says there never was such a lot of bears anywhere before. I hardly know whether to believe what he says or not, but there's one parrygraph in his letter that is very interesting. This is it. I've copied it off "verby tim," as Dad calls it. He says, "We don't know whether we can get the hotel opened this season or not on account of them bears. About two months ago the Colonel sent over for me and asked me if I wouldn't go up to the Notch with him and help unlock the doors and start things along and I said yes I would. You know in a big hotel like that with three hundred and forty rooms it's pretty hard work getting it ready for the summer season, and you have to begin very early to put things to rights, so along about April the Colonel generally sends for me and we go up there to see how things are going. So as I say I said yes I would and I got ready to go, but the day before the one we were to go on the Colonel sent me a telegraph message saying that he couldn't get away and asking would I mind going up alone. So I said no I wouldn't and went. It was about the twenty-first of April when I got there and the snow was pretty deep, but it was crusted hard enough on top for me to walk on, so I slid around to where the front door was, but couldn't get in there because the snow came up to the second story. Then I slid around to the back door and found the snow there had drifted up as high as the third story, but there was an open window that I could climb in through and through I clumb, exclaiming as I did so against the carelessness of the people that had left it open. Little did I dream how unjust I was, but later on I found out. I went through the room out into the hall, and thence down stairs to the office floor, where what did I see sitting in the Colonel's big arm-chair back of the counter but a huge black bear, his fore-paws folded over his chest and his head thrown back, blinking his eyes at the ceiling! I was transfigured with terror, being unarmed and little expecting to see a bear in that place. I turned quickly about and started to sneak back up stairs the way I had come when what should I see playing in the hall in front of your old room, the door of which was open, but two roly-poly cubs, having the finest time imaginable. As soon as they saw me they gave a squeak and rushed in head over heels into the room and would you believe it slammed the door after them! Well, I didn't know what to make of it, and my first, thought was to get away as fast as I could, but remembering that in my room on the top floor under the cupola I had left a book I had given me by one of last year's guests, I went up to get it, and really and truly, Jack, there stretched at full length on my bed was another bear. This time I was thoroughly scared out of my wits, and the first thing I knew I had given a cry of fear and of course that attracted the bear's attention. As soon as he caught sight of me he sprang up off the bed and chased me down the stairs along the hall to the East side, then down the next stairs along the lower hall to the West side, and so we went lickety-split up and down those halls like lightning. He could gain on me in the halls having twice as many legs as I have, but I could gain on him on the stairs, by sliding down the banisters, which was a trick he hadn't learned. Finally we got to the ground-floor, and I dashed along through the office, past the first bear who was still blinking at the ceiling in the Colonel's chair behind the counter. The bear that was chasing me was now gaining constantly. By the time we had got to the last flight of stairs he had learned, by watching me go down, how to slide on the banisters himself, so I couldn't gain an inch there, and he roared like a thunder-storm all the time, which was very destroying to my nerves. I tell you I thought my last hour had come, but I didn't sit down to cry about it. I just kept on and as luck would have it managed to jump into the elevator and slam the iron-barred door in his face just as he was about to grab me."

"My! Didn't I sit down and pant and wasn't I glad that elevator door was made of iron, for as I sat there the roaring and raving of my particular enemy seemed to summon bears from everywhere. They rushed in from all sides. Three came from the writing-room, one from the Post-office, five from the parlors, and no end of 'em, big bears, little bears, and middle-sized bears, came tumbling down the stairs to see what the trouble was, and then I saw what had happened. Every blooming bear in New Hampshire had deserted his den to come and live in the hotel! I gave myself up for lost. I knew if I tried to get out of that elevator they'd pounce on me, and if I didn't get out I'd either freeze or starve to death, and it was sickening to think of, but all of a sudden an idea came to me. The elevator was one of these hydrahaulic lifts and it occurred to me that there might be enough water left in the tank to make it go up if I pulled the rope. It was worth trying anyhow, and I did it. As I had hoped, it worked and to the astonishment of the Colonel's unexpected guests, I and my room shot up to the third story, where, all the bears being down stairs, I got out in safety, and rushed down the hallway to the room with the open window. Then I closed the door quickly behind me and locked it, as a precaution in case of pursuit, and jumping out of the window I escaped.

"It was a terrible experience and I've found one or two white hairs in my head since. The Colonel was very angry about it, but of course it was nobody's fault. The window was opened by the bears themselves. It must have been, because the housekeeper says she closed it herself, and as for locking it, she says she didn't think it necessary to lock a third-story window to keep out bears.

"Just what is to be done about getting 'em out nobody seems to know yet, but it is probable that the Colonel will call out his regiment and go up there and engage them in a long and bloody conflict as the historians say. If he does, I'm going with him, but I'm to have charge of the provisions and not do any of the fighting, because the Colonel thinks I've had escapes enough for one year."

How's that for a tale? I think it's great, but I don't want to go to any such place as that alone. If you were going I wouldn't be scared of a thousand bears, but all by myself I don't even care to fight one of 'em. Can't you get your Dad to change his mind?

Yours ever, Jack.

INTERSCHOLASTIC_SPORT

For several years past there has been considerable ill-feeling among the schools of the Boston interscholastic organization against the Cambridge High and Latin School. This feeling has arisen from the fact that the High-School and Latin School of Cambridge are two separate and distinct institutions, presided over by separate officials, and yet the scholars of the two schools join forces in athletics, and appear upon the field with teams made up from the strongest and best material to be found in both bodies. In years past, when the participation in out-door sports was not so general among the student body as it is now, there may have been good reason for allowing these two schools of the same town to join forces in athletics. But as matters progressed, and more and more of the students became trained in the science of football and baseball, it seemed manifestly unfair toward the smaller schools in the league to allow the Cambridge team to draw upon so much larger a field for material.

The question of having the Interscholastic Football Association step in and interfere with the combination has been agitated for some time, and the opposition at last came to a head at the meeting of the executive committee last week. On this occasion a specific charge was brought against the football management of the Cambridge High and Latin football team, and as a result the following resolution was formulated and adopted:

Whereas, Cambridge High and Latin played a man through the entire season who was at no time a member of either school;

Resolved, That Cambridge High and Latin be dropped from the Association, and that no member or manager of the 1895 team be allowed to play in league games, except at the request of the head-master of the school he may attend; that the Cambridge High and Cambridge Latin schools be admitted separately to the Junior Interscholastic League.

After adopting these resolutions, however, the executive committee decided that if the head-master of either school should so request, they would reconsider their vote. But as matters now stand the Association no longer recognizes the Cambridge High and Latin School as an athletic organization, and if sportsmen of either school desire in the future to enter any interscholastic football contests, they will have to apply for membership in the Junior League as separate institutions. But even if such application should be made, and were it accepted, as it probably would be, neither school can play upon any team it organizes any man who had any connection, either in a playing or a managing capacity, with the football eleven of last fall, except, possibly, at the special request of the head-master.

At the present date of writing I have been unable to secure full and exact confirmation of the charges made against the C. H. and L. team, but I feel perfectly confident that the executive committee, doubtless acting under the advice of the B.A.A. and of graduate members of the schools, made a full and careful investigation, and had thorough proof of the guilt of the player referred to. An extenuating circumstance seems to have been that the Captain of the C. H. and L. team attended the Latin School, and the alleged non-member claimed to attend the High-School. The Captain doubtless argued that he took the man's word for his connection with the High-School, and the committee no doubt seized upon the argument as a very sound pretext to separate the schools, probably ruling that although a Captain ought to know positively whether or not his players are bona fide students, it is perhaps too much to require him to be familiar with the roster of more than one institution.

The punishment inflicted upon the players—if the charges have been proved valid—strikes me as being the best possible solution of a very unpleasant situation. It frequently happens that players who are not strictly amateurs get on amateur teams. We hear of this continually. It is always very hard to find out whether the Captain of the team or any of the other players were aware at the beginning, or at any time, of this player's actual standing. It is impossible to prove whether or not such knowledge existed. But if you make the penalty for such infringement of the law so severe that every Captain and every player will make it his business—for his own sake—to know all about every other man on his team, you will be purifying sport at a rapid rate.

It is useless, unwise, and unnecessary to expel an entire school from an athletic organization because there was a non-amateur on that school's football team. That does not help the cause of sport. On the contrary, it injures it. But if you place the responsibility upon the players themselves, upon the men who are looking forward hopefully to a successful career among other amateurs, then every one of these fellows will be looking out for his own skin, and the moment he hears there is something crooked about his companion he will investigate for himself, and if he finds there are good grounds for suspicion he will soon see that the evil is remedied.

This may sound as though I were advocating a system where selfishness rather than a just sense of honor must be the controlling motive; but that is not the idea I intend to convey. No one recognizes more fully than I do how greatly young men dislike to put themselves to any trouble, especially in matters of this kind. I fear the average strictly honest sportsman on a school team would do nothing to rid his eleven or nine of a player whom he was fairly sure had no right to be there, simply because it would necessitate his putting himself to some trouble, and possibly subject himself to some unpleasantness.

It is for this reason that I so strongly approve of any honest incentive that can be given to youthful energy, even if it has to work through selfishness and "the first law of nature." Therefore I repeat that the plan adopted by the executive committee is most excellent. It is like cutting out a cancer. By removing all the players who were in company with the guilty man they get rid of the possible good with the surely bad, but they make room for new material that will certainly profit by the lesson given to its predecessors. It seems to me that if this year there is found on any New York interscholastic baseball team any player who has no right to play, as was the case last year, the wiser method will be to blacklist the whole team rather than to expel the school from the association. Then, the following year, the school body will see to it that there are no dishonest fellows wearing the school colors on the field of honest sport.

The proposed in-door track-athletic meeting, to be held next month at the Madison Square Garden under the auspices of the New Manhattan Athletic Club, will be the first real interscholastic in-door meeting that has ever been held in this city, and will consequently establish in-door interscholastic records for the New York I.S.A.A. At present the in-door scholastic records for this city are as follows:

Sixty-yard Dash—6 3-5 seconds, P. W. Simpson, Barnard, 1893; Junior, 7 2-5 seconds, D. M. Armstead, Berkeley, 1895, and G. Mayne, Barnard, 1895.

Seventy-yard Dash—7 4-5 seconds, T. H. Hall, Jun., Yale, 1895; H. Moeller, Columbia Grammar, 1894; H. L. Patterson, Wilson and Kellogg, 1892; boys under fifteen years, 8 4-5 seconds, P. W. Simpson, Barnard, 1894; R. Thompson, Columbia Grammar, 1894; boys under thirteen years, 9 seconds, G. G. Soper, Berkeley, 1894.

Seventy-five-yard Dash—Boys under fifteen years, 8 3-5 seconds, T. H. Hall, Jun., Yale, 1892.

One-hundred-yard Dash—10 3-5 seconds, T. H. Hall, Jun., Yale, 1895; Junior, 11 1-5 seconds, W. Wilson, Barnard, 1895.

Two-hundred-and-twenty-yard Dash—25 4-5 seconds, R. W. Moore, Barnard, 1895, and P. W. Simpson, Barnard, 1894; Junior, 28 seconds, W. Wilson, Barnard, 1895.

Four-hundred-and-forty-yard Run—54 1-5 seconds, C. Martin, Berkeley, 1894.

Eight-hundred-and-eighty-yard Run—2 minutes 14 2-5 seconds; C. Martin, Berkeley, 1894.

One-mile Run—4 minutes 55 4-5 seconds, L. Tappin, Cutler, 1895.

One-mile Walk—7 minutes 37 4-5 seconds, G. L. Berget, Berkeley, 1892.

One-mile Bicycle Race—2 minutes 46 seconds, W. H. Blake, Harvard, 1894.

Sixty-yard Hurdle Race—7 3-5 seconds, S. A. Lyme, Barnard, 1894, and Von Bour, Barnard, 1895.

Seventy-yard Hurdle Race—9 seconds, H. F. Willney, Harvard, 1894, and W. B. Rogers, Barnard, 1894.

Seventy-five-yard Hurdle Race—9 1-5 seconds, E. W. Brooks, Harvard, 1892; Junior, 10 2-5 seconds, J. D. Pell, Cutler, 1892.

One-hundred-yard Hurdle Race—13 seconds, S. A. Lyme, Barnard, 1895.

Two-hundred-and-twenty-yard Hurdle Race—31 4-5 seconds, E. M. Brooks, Harvard, 1892.

High Jump—5 feet 8 1-2 inches, S. A. W. Baltazzi, Harvard, 1895.

Putting the Twelve-pound Shot—37 feet 5 inches, E. Bigelow, Wilson and Kellogg, 1895.

Pole Vault—9 feet 4 inches, E. F. Simpson, Barnard, 1895.

These are the records, therefore, some of which we may look to see broken at the big meeting in March. The rules that are to govern eligibility of contestants are, as I announced last week, to be those of the New York I.S.A.A. They are as follows:

"Art. XI. Sec. 1. No one shall represent any school as a competitor in any athletic contest who has not been a member of that school from the 1st of January of the school year in which the contest is held; or who has actually been paid wages for services during the school year; or who has been enrolled as a member of any college; or who has attained the age of twenty years; or who is not in good standing with the Amateur Athletic Union of the United States. Sec. 2. Having been a member of the Sub-Freshman Class of the College of the City of New York does not debar a scholar from competing.

The game of basket-ball is a comparative innovation this winter, but in many sections of the country it has sprung into great popularity. In New England, especially, is this the case. The reason for the game's success is that it offers to those who wish to keep in training during the winter months an ideal recreation, affording a greater variety of exercise than any other kind of gymnasium work. It furnishes an opportunity for all-round physical development such as cannot result from even a systematic use of dumbbells, Indian clubs, and pulley-weights.

Another reason why basket-ball has become popular is that it may be played upon any kind of a ground, in-doors or out-doors, in a gymnasium, a hall, a back yard, or a ten-acre lot, on a dancing-floor or a stubble field. I have seen the game played in a room 12x20 feet, and I have known it to be played on a football field. Furthermore, it is allowable for any number of men to join in a game, although the regulation number of players for a team is five on a side. Where a match is not being contested the number on a side may be increased to the capacity of the field, and two balls may be used. This adds to the fun, perhaps, but, of course, the true science of the game is then lost.

Let us consider basket-ball merely as an in-door game for the present. It is probable that wherever the game may be taken up it will be played in a gymnasium. The floor should be well cleared of all apparatus, and if there is a running track around the building the baskets may be hung upon it, or, if there is no track, they may be suspended from the wall, ten feet above the ground. The "baskets" now most generally used consist of hammock nets of cord, eighteen inches deep, suspended in metal rings eighteen inches wide. Any kind of basket of that approximate size, however, will answer just as well. The ball is round, and made of an inflated rubber bladder covered with leather, and it should be between thirty and thirty-two inches in circumference. It may be just as well to insert at this point that the object of the game is for the men of one team to put the ball into their opponents' goal. This may be done by tossing or throwing or batting the ball from any part of the field with one or both hands. Boundary-lines must be drawn around the room several feet from the walls, and when the ball goes outside of these lines it is out of bounds.

The game is started by the referee, who throws the ball into the middle of the field. It is then in play—as in polo. The energies of the players are exerted toward getting the ball into their opponents' goal or basket, but no player may kick the ball or run with it. He must throw it from the spot on which he catches it, although allowance is made for momentum in a running catch. Shouldering, holding, pushing, tripping, or striking is, of course, not allowed, the penalty for such conduct being a foul called, with disqualification for the second offence. A player has the right to take the ball at any time while it is in the field of play, but he may only touch the ball, and not the opponent.

The ball goes out of bounds when it crosses the line drawn about the field of play. When this happens it is returned by the side first holding it. The man who "throws" it in may do this by bounding the ball in, or by throwing it to some one on the field, or by rolling it in. He is allowed five seconds in which to do this, and if he holds the ball longer, it goes to the opposing side. If the referee is in doubt as to which side first held the ball, he throws it in himself.

A goal is counted when the ball is thrown or batted from the ground into the basket directly, or by a rebound from the sides, and stays there. If it bounces out there is no goal; but if while the ball is on the edge of the basket the basket is moved by an opponent, a goal shall be scored. The time of play is forty minutes, divided into two halves of twenty minutes each, and the side scoring the greatest number of goals in this time wins.

The officials of the game are a referee, two umpires, a scorer, and a time-keeper. The referee is judge of the ball, and decides when it is in play, to whom it belongs, and when a goal has been made. He also appoints the time-keeper. The umpires are the judges of the men, call fouls, notify offenders, and have the right to disqualify players. A foul called by one umpire may not be questioned by the other. A great deal of responsibility thus rests upon the umpires, for it is in their power to keep roughness out of the game, and to see that science rather than brute force becomes the chief road to success.

It is evident that basket-ball is a game capable of great scientific development. It is by no means child's play. It is a sport in which team-work counts fully as much as in football, and where individual brilliancy must become secondary to concerted effort. This very season, in several important games, the value of team-play has been made evident, and its superiority has been conclusively shown. Basket-ball is certainly a game to be favored. It is the ideal competitive sport for gymnasium recreation; and for dwellers in cities, who must nowadays get most of their exercise in a gymnasium, it ought to be welcomed with enthusiasm.

At Andover there seems to be some hesitancy about joining the interscholastic league newly organized by Lawrenceville and the Hill School. Andover's objection seems to be valid, being based on the fact that she already belongs to the New England I. S. A. A., and is in a dual league with Worcester. This brings Andover also into the National Association, and a large faction in the school considers that those applications will furnish all the opportunities for contests that the team will be able to accept.

The Graduate.

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.

H. Wangelin.—See Round Table, December 17, 1895. The cent you describe is worth 5c.

M. H. Horn.—It is a Hungarian stamp, worth 1c.

British.—The coin is Portuguese, not Spanish. The English coins are not collected in this country.

W. J. Kerris.—Your stamp is a counterfeit. No rule in stamp-collecting is more rigid than that not to buy rare stamps of any one except of responsible dealers, unless you are an expert, and are acquainted with both the counterfeits and the genuine stamps.

M. H. Stiles.—The 2-cent U. S. stamps are printed in sheets of 400 stamps, four "panes" of 100 each. On the outside margins, between the panes, are "guide lines," showing where to cut the sheet apart.

H. Haspers.—1. Any one can buy or sell stamps without a license. 2. Most collectors now keep all the shades of the current U. S. stamps. 3. English stamps are usually printed in sheets of 240 stamps. Some collectors make up entire sheets, but that is unusual. 4. Pomeroy, Boyd, etc., are U. S. local express stamps, all used before 1882. 5. Wuher, Corea, etc., are not worth collecting. 6. Escuelas are school-tax stamps.

H. Moorhead.—It is a token, not a coin, and has no particular value.

G. E. J.—The cents can be bought at a dealer's for 5 or 10 cents each. The $3 gold piece has no premium, as it is one of the common dates.

Hall King.—All collectors avoid cut postal-cards, and most collectors refuse the Seebacks, unnecessary issues condemned by the S.S.S.S., and many will not collect surcharges, but this last is a matter of choice only.

A. G. S.—The 5c. piece without the word "cents" is quoted by dealers at 10c. The 1834 cent, small letters, is worth 50c., the other two varieties of 1834 are 10c. each. All the other dates mentioned can be bought at about 5c. each.

F. Buttman.—Dealers ask 50c. each for the Columbian quarter.

E. Stramberg and L. McHugh.—No premium.

J. O'Neal.—U. S. $3 gold pieces no premium. 1809 half-cent is worth 10c.

Mrs. Park Child.—See Round Table, December 17, 1895, for value of coins.

N. Martin.—Address the Dorchester, Massachusetts, Stamp Exchange direct. I do not know any more definite address.

Amy Rogers.—The 5c. Playing Cards, U.S. Revenue, are sold by dealers at 50c. each.

J. Sugden.—The 3c. U.S., 1869, is worth 2c. The 7c. U.S. with Stanton's portrait is worth 30c.

H. Marsh.—The 5c. nickel without "Cents" is very common.

Mary H. Hartman.—We do not buy or sell either coins or stamps. The coins and stamps quoted in the Handy Book are the prices asked by dealers. Age has nothing to do with value. For instance, the 1804 dollar would be cheap if bought by a collector for $500, whereas a 1798 dollar would be dear at $3. Old foreign coins, as a rule, are worth their weight in metal only.

L. G. Varney.—The English coin is worth face only. For value of cents and half-cents, U.S., see Round Table, December 17, 1895.

A. L. Poisson.—The three-cornered Cape of Good Hope shilling is worth $2.50 if with good margins, etc.

F. R. Sabine.—The stamp is the U.S. 3c., 1851 issue, worth 2c. The original color was red, but it has oxydized.

Correspondent, Barrie.—The stamps are not very valuable. They would answer very well for exchange purposes with any of your friends who are collecting.

Adele B. Cramer.—It is impossible to identify the stamps from your description. I should advise you to purchase a stamp catalogue from a dealer.

C. H. Treat.—For list of U. S. coins see Round Table, December 17, 1895, and January 14, 1896.

H. W. Knight.—See answer to C. H. Treat.

H. Bernedelo.—No! Dealers sell it at 5c.

J. Radburn.—The guinea is worth $5. It is not rare.

F. French.—The revenues are worth 1 cent each. The 3-cent postage due, buff, is worth 5 cents.

C. Armstrong, Pre-emption, Illinois, desires to exchange stamps.

M. S. Mayer.—Honduras, Nicaragua, Salvador, Costa Rica, etc., use Seebeck stamps.

Conner, Florida.—No name signed to letter. I would advise you to buy a stamp catalogue.

P. F. Lisk.—List of U. S. coins from 1 cent to 20 cents will be found in the Round Table dated December 17, 1895. The dollar gold pieces are sold by dealers at $1.50 each.

A. Hall.—Fashion plays a great part in the value of stamps. Just at present the fashion is for old West Indian and British North American colonials. Consequently the rarities are advancing in price very rapidly.

Philatus.

THE SECOND SUMMER,

many mothers believe, is the most precarious in a child's life; generally it may be true, but you will find that mothers and physicians familiar with the value of the Gail Borden Eagle Brand Condensed Milk do not so regard it.—[Adv.]

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Collection?

It is a Collection which no one who loves music should fail to own; it should find a place in every home. Never before, it may truthfully be said, has a song book been published at once so cheap, so good, and so complete.—Colorado Springs Gazette.

This Song Collection is one of the most notable enterprises of the kind attempted by any publisher. The brief sketches and histories of the leading productions in the work add greatly to the value of the series.—Troy Times.

Sold Everywhere. Price, 50 cents; Cloth, $1.00. Full contents, with Specimen Pages mailed, without cost, on application to

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Thompson's Eye Water

BICYCLING

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

Copyright, 1896, by Harper & Brothers.

The city of Washington is perhaps the finest city in the United States for bicycling, and it deserves to be given a place in this Department simply on account of its asphalt streets, to say nothing of its importance as the capital. In the better parts of the city, towards the west and the north, almost every street is asphalted, and where asphalt is not used, macadam or some smooth block pavement of one kind or another is. But through the whole city most of the streets are rideable, and it would therefore be absurd to give here any directions for getting about from one part of Washington to another. Certain things there are, however, which should be said regarding Washington. There is a good deal of riding of late in the parks and grounds about the Smithsonian, and it should be remembered that these park roads are kept in the best condition, as are all the avenues that run up to the Capitol. These are so wide that one need not fear crowding from carriages, as is the case in most cities, Baltimore especially. New York is, of course, almost impassable, except above Fourteenth Street, but the magnificent avenues of Washington are a joy to the wheelman. The District of Columbia is, indeed, filled with many good roads, and there are consequently several trips well worth taking in the vicinity of the city. It will be impossible for us to go into these trips, giving maps, since we must begin in the Chicago wheelman's vicinity, as was promised some time ago.

An opportunity is now given to explain a little more fully why the longest bicycle route from Philadelphia to Washington was given in these columns. It has already been said that the reason was because the road was better and less hilly. It is naturally taken for granted that any one riding a bicycle from Philadelphia to Washington is in no great hurry. If he were, he would possibly think of the railway. Consequently, unless the time occupied on the journey is a wager (in which case the wager might just as well be laid over the long route), the wheelman is probably out for pleasure. And one of the greatest pleasure creators, so to speak, in the bicyclist's world is a good road. Hence, if you are going by bicycle from Philadelphia to Washington, you will do well to go the route given during the last six weeks. The trouble comes between Philadelphia and Baltimore. Of course there are other routes, and they are shorter. For example, one route runs from Philadelphia, through Darby, Moore's, Chester Station, Linwood, Practical Farmer, Wilmington Court-House (Delaware), Middleton, Warwick, Cecilton, Frederictown, Galena, Locust Grove, Hainesville, Fairlee, Tolchester Beach (Maryland), and thence to Baltimore by boat. This is a 92-mile trip as compared with our 160-mile trip, or at least 68 miles shorter; but from Chester Station on the road is apt to be bad. Another route is from Philadelphia, through Moore's Station, Chester, Linwood, Practical Farmer, Wilmington (Delaware), Hare's Corner, Glasgow, Elkton (Maryland), Northeast, Perryville, and on direct to Baltimore, crossing at Havre de Grace. Much of this road is sandy, and between Elkton and Perryville it is usually easier to walk the whole 15 miles. The distance is, all told, 105 miles, though any one who had done it once would choose the 160 miles by the other route the next time.

On the above map the black streets are asphalt or macadam.

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.

Getting Ready for a "Backward Dance."

In the "Questions and Answers" column a Lady asks how to get ready for a "backward dance." Comb your hair over your face, but do not put it in a knot. Put a false face on the back of your head and try to get as queer clothes as you can. Wear very large shoes, so that when you walk they will clatter. In the dance you walk frontward, but you look as if you were walking backward. You should wear also a very large hat with lots of feathers and ribbons bobbing about on it.

Amy Du Puy.
Allegheny, Pa.

THE CAMERA CLUB

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

PREPARATION OF TINTED SENSITIVE PAPERS.

NO. 1.—HOW TO MAKE RED PRINTS.

Learning how to prepare sensitive papers is one of the most interesting of photographic processes, and an art that is quite easily mastered. While for general work the brown or black tones are more desirable, still for decorative work the tinted papers are very effective, and in these papers some simple directions on the preparation of tinted papers will be given.

A few general hints, which will not be repeated in the other papers, are as follows:

1. See that all dishes and utensils used in the preparing of solutions are perfectly clean. The traces of chemicals used in some other process left in the dishes will sometimes spoil the entire solution.

2. Follow the directions exactly. In the preparation of sensitizing solutions one must be careful to put in the amount given, and no more.

3. In handling chemicals care must be taken not to get any on the hands if one has a wound or sore. Some chemicals are very poisonous, and some are quite harmless, but by using rubber finger-tips one will not only avoid all danger of blood-poisoning, but will keep the fingers free from stains.

With the salts of uranium one may obtain several colors by treating the prints with different solutions in developing. To make red prints, take suitable photographic paper—which may be found at any dealer in photographic goods all ready for sensitizing—and sensitize it as follows:

Make a solution of 96 grs. of nitrate of uranium and 4 oz. of distilled water. Put in a flat tray, and float the paper on this solution for twenty seconds; drain, and dry it in a dark room. If the paper is dried by artificial heat it is much more sensitive to the light. As soon as the paper is thoroughly dry, cut it in sheets a suitable size for printing, and wrap first in post-office paper, and then in black needle-paper, and lay away in a drawer or covered box till wanted.

To print, place in the printing-frame and expose to the light. If the negative is thin, three minutes in bright sunlight will be sufficient, or one hour in the shade or on a dull day. If a strong negative is used, expose for ten minutes to bright sunlight, or two hours in the shade. Negatives vary in the time required to print from them, and the printing may be judged by the time which it takes to print with other papers, and gauged accordingly.

Have ready a solution of red prussiate of potash, made with 80 grs. of red prussiate of potash and 8 oz. of distilled water. As soon as the print is removed from the printing-frame wash it for twenty-five or thirty seconds in hot water (120° Fahr.), then place it face up in a toning-tray and flood it with the potash solution. Keep the tray in motion so that all parts of the paper may be affected equally. In a few moments the picture will begin to appear, and will develop into a beautiful blood-red color. As soon as the right tone has been reached and the detail is well out, remove from the solution, and wash in several changes of water till no trace of coloring matter shows in the water. Pin the print by the corners to a flat board, and set the board in an upright position till the prints are dry. These pictures may be applied to glass by optical contact, as described in No. 788.

One of these colored prints makes an attractive decoration for the cover of a collection of photographs. Make the cover of heavy water-color or picture-mat paper; cut a square in the upper right-hand corner, and place the picture back of the opening. Letter the cover in red, and tie with red ribbon or heavy red silk cord.

ADVERTISEMENTS.

Unanimous

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Thompson's Eye Water

Prize Poems by Order Members.

The Table offered three prizes of $5, $4, and $3 respectively for the best original poems written by persons who had not passed their eighteenth birthday. They were limited to five stanzas in length. Here is the first-prize one, written by Clara Louise Angel, aged fifteen, of New York City.

OCTOBER.

Ho for October! he's coming! he's coming!
Swallows fly southward, the bees cease their humming.
Leaves red and yellow, air soft and mellow,
Herald this very old, merry old fellow.

Say you he's sober? Nay, not October,
Gay as Aurora, first glimpse of the morn;
Ho for the apple bees! Ho for the evening glees!
Ho for the husking of ripe yellow corn!

Down by the river's flow softly the zephyrs blow,
Brightly above smiles the radiant sky;
Dreamy the morning haze, beauty meets every gaze.
Sweet songs of joy on the breezes float by.

Up on the mountain's crest light fleecy cloudlets rest.
Gorgeous the forests with crimson and gold,
Squirrels hop all about sorting ripe chestnuts out,
Hide them in coverts they never have told.

Dear old October, how gladly we greet him,
Bringing the autumn days full of good cheer,
Stories at eventide all round the fireside;
Ho for the merriest month of the year!

Clara Louise Angel, R.T.L.

Oddly, the winner of the second prize lives also in New York city. His name is Simon T. Stern, aged sixteen.

THE LITTLE BLIND GIRL.

There's a winsome little maid,
For her age quite prim and staid—
Yet so kind;
But this bonnie lassie bright
Has ne'er seen the golden light—
For she's blind.

Hers in a pleasant oval face,
Full of sweetness, full of grace,
And no care;
Two blue eyes look up at me,
It is not that they can see—
Only stare.

"What if I have no sight,
And see not a ray of light,"
So says she;
"God has given me a mind,
In a thousand ways been kind
To poor me.

"With the dearest happy home,
Through which I delight to roam,
Am I blest;
Have I not a father bold,
And a mother I can fold
To my breast?"

So this bonnie lassie brave
Does not sigh at what He gave,
Nor lament;
If to murmur you're inclined.
Take this lesson from the blind:
Be content.

Simon Theodore Stern, R.T.K.

The third prize goes to Detroit, Michigan, the winner being Carrie R. Schrop, aged twelve.

TWO SHOULDERS AT THE WHEEL.

Should you meet a troubled brother,
Then a kindred spirit feel.
Heavy burdens might be lifted
With two shoulders at the wheel.
Let him know you take an interest;
'Twill not take him long to see
Whether you're a true well-wisher,
Or a shamming Pharisee.
And the time may not be distant
When you'll lack both strength and zeal,—
When perhaps you will be grateful
For one extra at the wheel.

Do not turn your back upon him,
Do not coolly walk away,
Just because you think you're made of
Some superior kind of clay.
When you come to think about it.—
And sometimes we mortals must,—
There is nothing very striking
In the finest kind of dust.
More than that! We cannot claim it;
'Tis but lent to us on trust!
And pray what is there to boast of
In ashes, clay, or dust?

Carrie R. Schrop, R.T.L.

Poems deserving special commendation are: "The Harvest-Time," by Ethel Marjorie Knapp, of Virginia, aged twelve; "The Valkyries," by Virginia Berkley Bowie, of Maryland, aged fifteen; "Skating," by Leslie D. Reeves, of Pennsylvania, aged seventeen; "An Appeal to Apollo," by Sanford M. Salyer, New York; "Ike," by Lottie Hay Meredith, of Illinois; and "Pleading," by Ida Lee Sharp, of Maryland.

Prize for New Puzzle Idea.

The Table is constantly in search of new ideas in puzzles. To stimulate this search it offered $5 for one new idea.

We received a great number of suggestions, of course. Many of them came from persons who had not read the Table, for the ideas were old, not new. The very best idea to reach us came from Sir Knight John R. Moreland, who is a Virginian. It was in a puzzle, and here it is:

A man was asked which is the most unlucky day of the year, and replied: If you multiply the date when fans were first used in England (1) by the number of letters in the name of a celebrated painter who died in 1483 (2), and add to the product the date when Jerusalem was destroyed by Titus (3), subtract from this sum the date when Moscow was founded (4), multiply this by the numeral part of a bird's name (5), divide this by the number of American Presidents that have been assassinated (6), from this subtract the date when Canute invaded England (7), and the date when barometers were invented (8), add the number of letters in the name of the man who invented spectacles (9), divide this by the number of men who captured André (10), add the number of words in the two shortest verses in the Bible (11), add the number of letters in the name of the first inventor of the thermometer (12), subtract the number of letters in Charles VII.'s nickname (13), subtract the number of ships in the Spanish Armada (14), add the number of signatures to the Declaration of Independence (15), subtract the number of letters in Louis Philippe's nickname (16), add the number of letters in the name of the president of the first Continental Congress (17), subtract the number of letters in the right name of "The Swamp Fox" (18), divide the number of letters in the last name of the Puritan who, when his right hand was cut off by the order of Queen Elizabeth waved his hat in his left hand and said, "Long live Queen Elizabeth" (19), subtract the number of letters in the name of the Massachusetts girl who fought in the Revolutionary war (20), add the number of letters in the right name of "Max O'Rell" (21), subtract the number of letters in the name of a river in Utah, who from the sound of his name you would think he would be in a warmer region (22), subtract the number of letters in the right name of "The Melancholy Dane" (23), subtract the date of Cleopatra's death (24), and last, subtract the number of letters in William IV.'s nickname (25), you find the day and date you ask for.

The Table awards the $5 prize to Sir John. Who can find the correct day (of the week) and date (of the month)? The second-best suggestion—we offered no second prize—came from Miss M. B. Banks, a Patron, who lives in New Jersey. It is a puzzle story, but not wholly new in idea. The answer to this prize puzzle will be given in two weeks.

The League of Junior Patrons and Patronesses of the Messiah Home.

Dear Editor of Harper's Round Table:

Do you think the Round Table readers would like to know how I, a little boy only seven years and nine months old, became an editor, like you, of a children's magazine? Mrs. Champney told me that seven years ago some very little girls made some pin-balls and paper dolls and had a fair. Many grown-up people came to it, because they thought it strange that little girls should have such a fair. With this money the children decided that they would form a home for poor little children, and their mothers should be managers. The mothers didn't like this plan at first, but afterwards they gave in, and the Messiah Home was founded, and has been helped by children ever since.

Last spring the League of Junior Patrons and Patronesses was formed. We voted that we would publish a paper, all by ourselves, to help the home. We elected a staff of editors, and I am one. So is Karl Dodge and Gilbert White and some other boys and girls. We want all the boys and girls who take Harper's Round Table to join our league, and to write articles and draw pictures for our paper. We offer thirteen prizes. The editor of Harper's Round Table is going to be one of the judges. If any one will write to Mrs. J. W. Champney, 96 Fifth Avenue, New York, she will send a little pamphlet which will tell all about it. Any one can send their contributions to her or to me.

Gilbert E. Jones,
Editor Junior League.
222 Madison Avenue, New York City, N. Y.

A Picture in a Word.

What is It?

War, carnage, and sacrilege; priests and friars preaching in city streets or by country road-sides to thronging crowds; thousands of travellers of all ages starting on a long and toilsome journey, many of them dying from its hardships ere they reach their destination; costly ships, loaded with soldiers and passengers; kings leaving their thrones and peasants their hovels, all impelled by the same motive; great armies going into battle bearing the cross on their shoulders; money and blood poured out like water for years to win from infidel hands a place dearer than life.

Answer.—Saunter, from Santa Terræ, the Holy Land.

THE PUDDINGSTICK

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

I wish I could gather my whole company of girl friends about me to-day, and see their faces, and bear their replies by look and word as I talk with them. These are talks with my own girls, and I follow the paper with very loving and wistful thoughts as it goes on its way to them, wondering and hoping a great deal about them, hoping that they are making the best possible use of life. There is something splendid in being young and a girl, with the bright years before her, each fairer and fuller than its predecessor. If I could give the girls my eyes to look through, what visions they would see! If they could dream as I do for them, what pleasures they would have when the dreams came true!

I have been thinking lately about our habits of speech. What do we talk of when we are with our friends? What is our rule so far as speaking of others is concerned? Are we of the number who refuse to set unkind gossip going, and of whom it may be said, in the beautiful words of the Bible, "On her tongue is the law of kindness?"

To decide never to allude to our neighbors and their affairs in our every-day talk would be silly as well as impossible. Neighbors and friends are part of the outside family which composes the community, and a community is made up of all the families who reside within its boundaries. We are interested, or we ought to be, in whatever happens to our friends and townspeople, both of good and of evil fortune. If Mrs. Brown's house burns down, we are most happy to invite Mrs. Brown and Sally Brown and the little Browns to come and stay with us until their arrangements can be made for living in another home. If Louis Larcome takes the Latin prize at college, or Alfred Cocks is selected as captain of the Freshmen crew, or Margaret Lane's essay receives honorable mention, or Nelly Parsons writes a book, we are, of course, sharers in the pleasure of the Larcoms, the Cockses, the Lanes, and the Parsons. And on the other hand, if there is illness at the Jenkinses, or Polly Marten falls from her wheel and hurts her knee, or the dear baby dies at the Whitfords, we are saddened with these who are sorrowful. It is quite right to take, and it would be most selfish and shocking not to take, a real interest in our friends and their concerns.

The wrong and the mean thing is to tell little trivialities which are personal affairs, as if they had to do with society. To observe that Martha Newcome is so stingy that she wears her old cloak when the whole town knows she could afford another, but won't do it; that Elias Judson makes his boys get up in the morning and work in the field without their breakfast; that the people over the way spend their whole time going about, and goodness knows they cannot find time to mend their children's stockings, etc. These are the stupid things some absurd people talk about. Pray, my dear girls, set your faces against this, and never take part in it. Never say that Eleanor is proud, or Edith is vain, or Marie has no taste, or Lulu has the temper of a wasp, or Charley's word is not to be depended on. When you cannot honestly utter a kind word, then be silent.

Should it ever happen that you learn directly or indirectly anything about the affairs of a friend, something concerning which the friend has said nothing, respect his silence. Much harm is done by indiscreet speech. Little trouble comes from discreet silence. Silence is golden.

Again, if you are a guest in a house, you must remember that to no one, not even to your very nearest and dearest, must you reveal anything disagreeable or unfortunate which may come into your knowledge. This rule has no exceptions. Only a dishonorable person goes away from a home in which she has been entertained, observing that the family quarrel among themselves, or that the daughters are disrespectful to their mother, or anything else of the kind. Here silence is golden.

Silence is not golden, though, when you hear the absent accused unjustly. Then you must defend him or her. Be brave in standing up for the absent, and never speak ill of them. The ancients made it their rule to speak no evil of the dead, because they were helpless and at the mercy of the living, and it is a good rule for us to follow. It is surprising how much that is true and loving and beautiful we can find to say of all our friends, if we determine that we will be like the princess in the fairy tale, out of whose mouth, whenever she opened it, pearls and rubies dropped.

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LINCOLN AND HIS TIMES

Recollections of

President Lincoln and His Administration

By Lucius E. Chittenden. With Portrait. 8vo, Cloth, $2.50; Half Calf, $4.75.

Abraham Lincoln

By Charles Carleton Coffin. Profusely Illustrated. Square 8vo, Cloth, $3.00.

A History of the Rebellion in Four Volumes by

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DRUM-BEAT OF THE NATION

MARCHING TO VICTORY

REDEEMING THE REPUBLIC

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Profusely Illustrated. Square 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $3.00 each.

Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York

AN OBLIGING TRAVELLER.

There has been a great deal of complaint both in London and New York of the way in which a certain class of shopkeepers try to force their wares upon passers-by. One man, a traveller, has managed to get the better of one of these shopmen, a clothing-dealer, who had a way of almost dragging people into his place. One day shortly after his arrival in London the traveller stopped for a moment to examine a coat hanging in front of a clothing establishment, when the shopman rushed out and asked, "Wouldn't you try on some coats?"

"I don't know but I would," responded the traveller, consulting his watch. "I've got some time to spare. Yes." And he went in and began to work. No matter how often he found his fit, he called for more coats, and after he had tried on thirty he looked at his watch again, resumed his own garment, and walked off, saying:

"I won't charge anything for what I've done. I believe in a man who'll oblige another when he can do it. If I'm ever this way again, and you've got any coats to try on, I'll do all I can to help you!"

What the shopkeeper said we are not told, but it is not hard to imagine what he thought.

The other evening Toddletums called his papa to tell him that he couldn't get to sleep for the mosquitoes.

"Never mind, Toddle; just put your head under the clothes, where they can't get at you."

Toddletums did so, but in a little while he peered from under the clothing. A firefly happening along at the moment set him yelling:

"It's no use, papa. I hid under the clothes, and now they've gone off and got lanterns to find me with."

WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY IN THE SCHOOL-ROOM.

"Ef George had been a girl, and had dressed in female clo'es,
Would he have been the mother of her country, do you s'pose?"

THE BULL-FROG DANCE.

It is lovely when the moonlight is a-shining on the bog,
To watch the lively antics of the agile-legged frog;
When the moonfay boys are playing on their long and limpid flutes,
It sends a thrill of pleasure down our spinals to our boots.
On a mushroom seat,
With the grasses at our feet,
And the lightning-bugs a-flashing here and there beneath the trees,
'Tis a very pretty sight,
In the pale moonlight,
With an undertone of humming and a-thrumming of the bees.
You can talk about the pleasure that you mortals find on earth,
You can crack your funny jokelets, we don't envy you your mirth;
For you've never had the laughter
That we moonfay boys get after
We have watched for forty minutes three long-legged bull-frogs dance!

A WONDERFUL SEA-TALE.

A lad was found begging in Plymouth, England, some years ago, who told a most wonderful tale of woe. According to his statement, given with a straight face and an apparently clear conscience, he had been a cabin-boy upon an American steamship. For some misbehavior, as a temporary punishment he was headed up in an empty water-cask, and left to reflect upon his wickedness, with only the bunghole of the cask to breathe through. On the following night a terrible storm came up, and the vessel went down with all on board, excepting himself, the cask having rolled over into the sea at the first lurch of the sinking ship. Fortunately for its unhappy occupant, the cask floated with the bunghole free from the water, and in the course of a day or so was cast upon the coast, where the lad, after making numerous vain attempts to release himself, settled back to die. Some cows, however, he said, came strolling along the beach, and one of them, while switching its tail about, accidentally let the end of it into the bunghole of the cask. The boy immediately seized upon it; the cow, electrified, jumped, stood still, and jumped again, and then rushed bellowing down the beach, the boy hanging on like grim death, and the cask, consequently, bumping the hind legs of the frightened bovine as she fled. Finally, as the boy had hoped, the hoops of the cask were loosened, and striking upon a rock, the whole thing was shattered, and the boy, letting go of the cow's tail, found himself free once more. After wandering about for several days he hailed a vessel, and was carried to Plymouth, where his wonderful experience first became common talk.

A LITTLE TOMMYTHOUGHT.

The coal-man on the wagon sits,
And shivers in the storm.
I don't see why that load of coal
Won't keep the driver warm.

HEREDITY.

Freddy. "I think papa takes more after my little baby brother than he does after me."

Mamma. "Why, Freddy?"

Freddy. "Because all his hair is at the back and sides of his head, and it won't come to the front."

THE FINEST KIND.

"I tell you, mamma," said little Herbert, when his mother gave him a chocolate éclair for the first time the other day, "this is the finest kind of a banana I ever tasted!"

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Begun in Harper's Round Table No. 845.