RICK DALE.

FAMILIAR QUOTATIONS.

PATTY'S STATION.

FOR KING OR COUNTRY.

IF WE COULD MOVE TO MARS.

HOW MAGIC IS MADE.

FROM CHUM TO CHUM.

THE SOAPY SEA.

INTERSCHOLASTIC SPORT.

THE PUDDING STICK.

BICYCLING.

A NEWSPAPER MAN'S PROTÉGÉ.

THE CAMERA CLUB.

ANOTHER PRIZE MUSIC COMPOSITION.

STAMPS.

KILLJOY'S BARGAIN.

AN ADVENTURE WITH A BEAR

HARPER'S ROUND TABLE

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

published weekly. | NEW YORK, TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 25, 1896. | five cents a copy.
vol. xvii.—no. 852. |  | two dollars a year.

RICK DALE.

A Story of the Northwest Coast.

BY KIRK MUNROE,

Author of "Show-shoes and Sledges," "The Fur-Seal's Tooth," "The 'Mate' Series," "Flamingo Feathers," etc.

CHAPTER I.

A POOR RICH BOY.

Alaric Dale Todd was his name, and it was a great grief to him to be called "Allie." Allie Todd was so insignificant and sounded so weak. Besides, Allie was a regular girl's name, as he had been so often told, and expected to be told by each stranger who heard it for the first time. There is so much in a name after all. We either strive to live up to it, or else it exerts a constant disheartening pull backward.

Although Alaric was tall for his age, which was nearly seventeen, he was thin, pale, and undeveloped. He did not look like a boy accustomed to play tennis or football, or engage in any of the splendid athletics that develop the muscle and self-reliance of those sturdy young fellows who contest interscholastic matches. Nor was he one of these; so far from it, he had never played a game in his life except an occasional quiet game of croquet, or something equally soothing. He could not swim nor row nor sail a boat; he had never ridden horseback nor on a bicycle; he had never skated nor coasted nor hunted nor fished, and yet he was perfectly well formed and in good health. I fancy I hear my boy readers exclaim:

"What a regular muff your Alaric must have been! No wonder they called him 'Allie'!"

And the girls. Well, they would probably say, "What a disagreeable prig!" For Alaric knew a great deal more about places and people and books than most boys or girls of his age, and was rather fond of displaying this knowledge. And then he was always dressed with such faultless elegance. His patent-leather boots were so shiny, his neck-wear, selected with perfect taste, was so daintily arranged, and while he never left the house without drawing on a pair of gloves, they were always so immaculate that it did not seem as though he ever wore the same pair twice. He was very particular, too, about his linen, and often sent his shirts back to the laundress unworn because they were not done up to suit him. As for his coats and trousers, of which he had so many that it actually seemed as though he might wear a different suit every day in the year, he spent so much time in selecting material, and then in being fitted, and insisted on so many alterations, that his tailors were often in despair, and wondered whether it paid to have so particular a customer after all. They never had occasion, though, to complain about their bills, for no matter how large these were or how extortionate, they were always paid without question as soon as presented.

From all this it may be gathered that our Alaric was not a child of poverty. Nor was he, for Amos Todd, his father, was so many times a millionaire that he was one of the richest men on the Pacific coast. He owned or controlled a bank, railways, steamships, and mines, great ranches in the South, and vast tracts of timber lands in the North. His manifold interests extended from Alaska to Mexico, from the Pacific to the Atlantic; and while he made his home in San Francisco, his name was a power in the stock exchanges of the world. Years before he and his young wife had made their way to California from New England with just money enough to pay their passage to the Golden State. Here they had undergone poverty and hardships such as they determined their children should never know.

Of these Margaret, the eldest, was now a leader of San Francisco society, while John, who was eight years older than Alaric, had shown such an aptitude for business that he had risen to be manager of his father's bank. There were other children, who had died, and when Alaric came, last of all, he was such a puny infant that there was little hope of his ever growing up. Because he was the youngest and a weakling, and demanded so much care, his mother devoted her life to him, and hovered about him with a loving anxiety that sought to shield him from all rude contact with the world. He was always under the especial care of some doctor, and when he was five or six years old one of these, for want of something more definite to say, announced that he feared the child was developing a weak heart, and advised that he be restrained from all violent exercise.

From that moment poor little "Allie," as he had been called from the day of his birth, was not only kept from all forms of violent exercise and excitement, but was forbidden to play any boyish games as well. In place of these his doting mother travelled with him over Continental Europe, going from one famous medical spring, bath, or health resort to another, and bringing up her boy in an atmosphere of luxury, invalids, and doctors. The last-named devoted themselves to trying to find out what was the matter with him, and as no two of them could agree upon any one ailment, Mrs. Todd came to regard him as a prodigy in the way of invalidism.

Of course Alaric was never sent to a public school, but he was always accompanied by tutors as well as physicians, and spent nearly ten years in a very select private school or pension near Paris. Here no rude games were permitted, and the only exercise allowed the boys was a short daily walk, in which, under escort of masters, they marched in a dreary procession of twos.

During all these years of travel and study and search after health Alaric had never known what it was to wish in vain for anything that money could buy. Whatever he fancied, he obtained without knowing its cost or where the money came from that procured it. But there were three of the chief things in the world to a boy that he did not have, and that money could not give him. He had no boy friends, no boyish games, and no ambitions. He wanted to have all these things, and sometimes said so to his mother; but always he was met by the same reproachful answer, "My dear Allie, remember your poor weak heart."

At length it happened that while our lad was in that dreary pension, Mrs. Todd, worn out with anxieties, cares, and worries of her own devising, was stricken with a fatal malady, and died in the great château that she had rented not far from the school in which her life's treasure was so carefully guarded. A few days of bewilderment and heart-breaking sorrow followed for poor Alaric. Many cable-grams flashed to and fro beneath the ocean. There was a melancholy funeral, at which the boy was sole mourner, and then one phase of his life was ended. In another week he had left France, and, escorted by one of his French tutors, was crossing the Atlantic on his way to the far-distant San Francisco home of which he knew so little.

He had now been at home for nearly three months, and of all his sad life they had proved the most unhappy period. His father, though always kind in his way, was too deeply immersed in business to pay much attention to the sensitive lad. He did not understand him, and regarded him as a weakling who could never amount to anything in the world of business or useful activity. He would be kind to the boy, of course, and any desire that he expressed should be promptly gratified; at the same time he could not help feeling that Alaric was a great trial, and wishing him more like his brother John.

This bustling, dashing elder brother had no sympathy with Alaric, and rarely found time to give him more than a nod and a word of greeting in passing, while his sister Margaret regarded him as still a little boy who was to be kept out of sight as much as possible. So the poor lad, left to himself, without friends and without occupation, found time hanging very heavily on his hands, and wondered why he had ever been born.

Once he ventured to ask his father for a saddle-horse, whereupon Amos Todd presented him with a pair of ponies, a cart, and a groom, which he said was an outfit better suited to an invalid. Alaric accepted this gift without a protest, for he was well trained to bearing disappointments, but he used it so rarely that the business of giving the ponies their daily airing devolved almost entirely upon the groom.

It was not until Esther Dale, one of the New England cousins whom he had never seen, and a girl of his own age, made a flying visit to San Francisco as one of a personally conducted party of tourists, that Alaric found any real use for his ponies. Esther was to remain in the city only three days, but she spent them in her uncle's house, which she refused to call anything but "the palace," and which she so pervaded with her cheery presence that Amos Todd declared it seemed full of singing birds and sunshine.

Both Margaret and John were too busy to pay much attention to their young cousin, and so, to Alaric's delight, the whole duty of entertaining her devolved on him. He felt much more at his ease with girls than with boys, for he had been thrown so much more into their society during his travels, and he thought he understood them thoroughly; but in Esther Dale he found a girl so different from any he had ever known that she seemed to belong to another order of beings. She was good-looking and perfectly well-bred, but she was also as full of life and frisky antics as a squirrel, and as tireless as a bird on the wing.

On the first morning of her visit the cousins drove out to the Cliff House to see the sea-lions, and almost before Alaric knew how it was accomplished, he found Esther perched on the high right-hand cushion of the box-seat in full possession of reins and whip, while he occupied the lower seat on her left, as though he were the guest and she the hostess of the occasion. At the same time the ponies seemed filled with an unusual activity, and were clattering along at a pace more exhilarating than they had ever shown under his guidance.

After that Esther always drove, and Alaric, sitting beside her, listened with wondering admiration to her words of wisdom and practical advice on all sorts of subjects. She had never been abroad, but she knew infinitely more of her own country than he, and was so enthusiastic concerning it that in three days' time she had made him feel prouder of being an American than he had believed it possible he ever would be. She knew so much concerning out-of-door life, too—about animals and birds and games. She criticised the play of the baseball nines, whom they saw in one part of Golden Gate Park; and when they came to another place where some acquaintances of Alaric's were playing tennis, she asked for an introduction to the best girl player on the ground, promptly challenged her to a trial of skill, and beat her three straight games.

During the play she presented such a picture of glowing health and graceful activity that pale-faced Alaric sat and watched her with envious admiration.

"I would give anything I own in the world to be able to play tennis as you can, Cousin Esther," he said, earnestly, after it was all over and they were driving away.

"Why don't you learn, then?" asked the girl, in surprise.

"Because I have a weak heart, you know, and am forbidden any violent exercise."

The boy hesitated, and even blushed, as he said this, though he had never done either of those things before when speaking of his weak heart. In fact, he had been rather proud of it, and considered that it was a very interesting thing to have. Now, however, he felt almost certain that Esther would laugh at him.

And so she did. She laughed until Alaric became red in the face from vexation; but when she noticed this she instantly grew very sober, and said:

"Excuse me, Cousin Rick. I didn't mean to laugh; but you did look so woe-begone when you told me about your poor weak heart, and it seems so absurd for a big, well-looking boy like you to have such a thing, that I couldn't help it."

"I've always had it," said Alaric, stoutly; "and that is the reason they would never let me do things like other boys. It might kill me if I did, you know."

"I should think it would kill you if you didn't, and I'm sure I would rather die of good times than just sit round and mope to death. Now I don't believe your heart is any weaker than mine is. You don't look so, anyway, and if I were you I would just go in for everything, and have as good a time as I possibly could, without thinking any more about whether my heart was weak or strong."

"But they won't let me," objected Alaric.

"Who won't?"

"Father and Margaret and John."

"I don't see that the two last named have anything to do with it. As for Uncle Amos, I am sure he would rather have you a strong, brown, splendidly healthy fellow, such as you might become if you only would, than the white-faced, dudish Miss Nancy that you are. Oh, Cousin Rick! What have I said? I'm awfully sorry and ashamed of myself. Please forgive me."

CHAPTER II.

THE RUNAWAY.

For a moment it seemed to Alaric that he could not forgive that thoughtlessly uttered speech. And yet the girl who made it had called him Cousin "Rick," a name he had always desired, but which no one had ever given him before. If she had called him "Allie," he knew he would never have forgiven her. As it was he hesitated, and his pale face flushed again. What should he say?

In her contrition and eagerness to atone for her cruel words Esther leaned toward him, and laid a beseeching hand on his arm. For the moment she forgot her responsibility as driver, and the reins held loosely in her whip-hand lay slack across the ponies' backs.

Just then a newspaper that had been carelessly dropped in the roadway was picked up by a sudden gust of wind and whirled directly into the faces of the spirited team. The next instant they were dashing madly down the street. At the outset the reins were jerked from Esther's hand; but ere they could slip down beyond reach Alaric had seized them. Then with the leathern bands wrapped about his wrists, he threw his whole weight back on them, and strove to check or at least to guide the terrified animals. The light cart bounded and swayed from side to side. Men shouted and women screamed, and a clanging cable-car from a cross street was saved from a collision only by the prompt efforts of its gripman. The roadway was becoming more and more crowded with teams and pedestrians. Alaric's teeth were clinched, and he was bare-headed, having lost his hat as he caught the reins. Esther sat beside him, motionless and silent, but with bloodless cheeks.

They were on an avenue that led to the heart of the city. On one side was a hill, up which cross streets climbed steeply. To keep on as they were going meant certain destruction. All the strain that Alaric could bring to bear on the reins did not serve to check the headlong speed of the hard-mouthed ponies. With each instant their blind terror seemed to increase. Several side streets leading up the hill had already been passed, and another was close at hand. Beyond it was a mass of teams and cable-cars.

"Hold on for your life!" panted Alaric, in the ear of the girl who sat beside him.

As he spoke he dropped one rein, threw all his weight on the other, and at the same instant brought the whip down with a stinging cut on the right-hand side of the off horse. The frenzied animal instinctively sprang to the left, both yielded to the heavy tug of that rein, and the team was turned into the side street. The cart slewed across the smooth asphalt, lunged perilously to one side, came within a hair's-breadth of upsetting, and then righted. Two seconds later the mad fright of the ponies was checked by pure exhaustion half-way up the steep hill-side. There they stood panting and trembling, while a crowd of excited spectators gathered about them with offers of assistance and advice.

"Do they seem to be all right?" asked Alaric.

"All right, sir, far as I can see," replied one of the men, who was examining the quivering animals and their harness.

"Then if you will kindly help me turn them around, and will lead them to the foot of the hill, I think they will be quiet enough to drive on without giving any more trouble," said the boy.

When this was done, and Alaric, after cordially thanking those who had aided him, had driven away, one of the men exclaimed, as he gazed after the vanishing carriage,

"Plucky young chap that!"

"Yes," replied another; "and doesn't seem to be a bit of a snob like most of them wealthy fellows, either."

Meanwhile Alaric was tendering the reins to the girl who had sat so quietly by his side without an outcry or a word of suggestion during the whole exciting episode.

"Won't you drive now, Cousin Esther?"

"Indeed I will not, Alaric. I feel ashamed of myself for presuming to take the reins from you before, and you may be certain that I shall never attempt to do such a thing again. The way you managed the whole affair was simply splendid. And oh, Cousin Rick! to think that I should have called you a Miss Nancy! Just as you were about to save my life, too. I can never forgive myself—never."

"Oh yes you can," laughed Alaric, "for it is true—that is, it was true; for I can see now that I have been a regular Miss Nancy sort of a fellow all my life. That is what made me feel so badly when you said it. Nobody ever dared tell me before, and so it came as an unpleasant surprise. Now, though, I am glad you said it."

"And you will never give anybody in the whole world a chance to say such a thing again, will you?" asked the girl, eagerly. "And you will go right to work at learning how to do the things that other boys do, won't you?"

"I don't know," answered Alaric, doubtfully. "I'd like to well enough; but I don't know just how to begin. You see, I'm too old to learn from the little boys, and the big fellows won't have anything to do with such a duffer as I am. They've all heard too much about my weak heart."

"Then I'd go away to some place where nobody knows you and make a fresh start. You might go out on one of your father's ranches and learn to be a cowboy, or up into those great endless forests that I saw on Puget Sound the other day, and live in a logging camp. It is such a glorious splendid life, and there is so much to be done up in that country. Oh dear! if I were only a boy, and going to be a man, wouldn't I get there just as quickly as I could, and learn how to do things, so that when I grew up I could go right ahead and do them?"

"All that sounds well," said Alaric, dubiously, "but I know father will never let me go to any such places. He thinks such a life would kill me. Besides, he says that as I shall never have to work, there is no need for me to learn how."

"But you must work," responded Esther, stoutly. "Every one must, or else be very unhappy. Papa says that the happiest people in the world are those who work the hardest when it is time for work, and play the hardest in play-time. But where are you driving to? This isn't the way home."

"I am going to get a new hat and gloves," answered the boy, "for I don't want anyone at the house to know of our runaway. They'd never let me drive the ponies again if they found it out."

"It would be a shame if they didn't, after the way you handled them just now," exclaimed Esther, indignantly.

Just then they stopped before a fashionable hat-store on Kearney Street, and while Alaric was debating whether he ought to leave the ponies long enough to step inside he was recognized, and a clerk hastened to receive his order.

"Hats and gloves," said Alaric; "you know the sizes."

The clerk answered, "Certainly, Mr. Todd," bowed, and disappeared in the store.

"See those lovely gray 'Tams' in the window, Cousin Rick," said Esther. "Why don't you get one of them? It would be just the thing to wear in the woods."

"All right," replied the boy. "I will."

So when the clerk reappeared with a stylish derby-hat and a dozen pair of gloves Alaric put the former on, said he would keep the gloves, and at the same time requested that one of the gray Tams might be done up for him.

As this order was filled, and the ponies were headed towards home, Esther said; "Why, Cousin Rick, you didn't pay for your things?"

"No," repeated the boy, "I never do."

"You didn't even ask the prices, either."

"Of course not!" laughed the other. "Why should I? They were things that I had to have anyway, and so what would be the use of asking the prices? Besides, I don't think I ever did such a thing in my life."

"Well," sighed the girl, "it must be lovely to shop in that way. Now I never bought anything without first finding out if I could afford it; and as for gloves, I know I never bought more than one pair at a time."

"Really?" said Alaric, with genuine surprise, "I didn't know they sold less than a dozen pair at a time. I wish I had known it, for I only wanted one pair. I've got so many at home now that they are a bother."

That very evening the lad spoke to his father about going on a ranch and learning to be a cowboy. Unfortunately his brother John overheard him, and greeted the proposition with shouts of laughter. Even Amos Todd, while mildly rebuking his eldest son, could not help smiling at the absurdity of the request. Then, turning to the mortified lad, he said kindly but decidedly:

"You don't know what you are asking, Allie, my boy, and I wouldn't think for a moment of allowing you to attempt such a thing. The excitement of that kind of life would kill you in less than no time. Ask anything in reason, and I shall be only too happy to gratify you; but don't make foolish requests."

When Alaric reported this failure to Esther a little later, she said, very gravely: "Then, Cousin Rick, there is only one thing left for you to do. You must run away."

[to be continued.]

FAMILIAR QUOTATIONS.

BY PATTY PEMBERTON BERMANN.

Dramatis Personæ.

The Preface.

The Index.

A Locksmith.

Cupid.

A Colored Dude.

A Colored Laundress.

A Colored Policeman.

A Violet.

A Daffodil.

A Lily-of-the-Valley.

A Ghost.

First Pitcher.

Second Pitcher.

A Fashionable Lady.

A Fashionable Gentleman.

A Tin Mouse.

COSTUMES FOR THE PLAY.

Preface.—A dress of white muslin or paper cambric. A small muslin apron entirely covered, except the hem, with printed words. A white ribbon, with "Preface" in black capitals, extending from the right shoulder diagonally to the waist, where it ends under a bow of red ribbon. On the right shoulder a red bow. The flowing hair is crowned by a dainty muslin cap trimmed with a knot of red ribbon.

Index.—A white suit. Belt bearing his name in black letters.

Violet.—A dress of fluffy material—pale lavender, with violets of deeper shade falling in a fringe around a low neck.

Daffodil.—Same in yellow.

Lily-of-the-Valley.—A white tulle with delicate green over-dress. Puffed white sleeves with ruffles of green. A bunch of lilies-of-the-valley on one shoulder.

Locksmith.—Ragged trousers, shirt, and large brown holland apron. Bunches of keys hanging from his waist.

Cupid.—Flesh-colored tights and pink trunks, quiver, and arrows.

First and Second Pitchers.—Baseball rig. Asses' ears of gray canton flannel, wired to keep them in shape.

Colored Laundress.—Dress of gaudy chintz, large check apron, and bandanna head handkerchief.

Other costumes to suit the fancy of wearers.

If the play is to take place in a parlor, be sure there is a doorway at one end connecting it with another room. A stage one foot from the floor is built right across the door, which should be right or left of the centre background. The framework for a book through which each individual or group must pass to front of stage is thus made—two uprights 5 ft. 6 in. high are placed 3 ft 4 in. apart, and fastened to the stage floor; 1 ft. 6 in. behind these uprights, and exactly opposite them, fix two others of the same height. Nail three cross-pieces at the top (leaving the side nearest the door open) to hold the frame together. This skeleton book must stand at such an angle that while one inner corner almost touches the stage entrance door, the other inner corner will be 2 ft. beyond the door. Tack a strip of asbestos down the side that represents the closed leaves of a book. A similar strip, only somewhat wider, is put on for the curved back. The side presented to the spectators is the cover of your book. It is to close and unclose like a door, so that the characters may appear to step out when the volume is opened. This cover may be of asbestos, but it should hang on hinges that move very freely. Draw across the book cover, so that each word will fill a line

"FAMILIAR QUOTATIONS."

Paint the letters in gold and some bright color. Attach a bit of twine inside the cover, midway, on the hinge side, to enable the person who engineers the book to close it without being seen.

A large table with lamp and books, and one or two chairs, will suffice for stage furniture.

The book slowly opens, revealing Preface. She steps forward, closely followed by Index, who remains right of and a little behind her.

Preface.

The Preface always is allowed
First to address the expectant crowd;
Whether my task's a pleasant one
I shall know better—when 'tis done.

(She points to the book, Index copying all her movements.)

From out these covers, blithely tripping,
Familiar friends will soon be slipping;
They're tired of hiding in a book,
Where you must go for them to look.

To-night they mean to play before you
Some trifles that we hope won't bore you;
Indeed, we ask for each quotation
Only its meed of approbation.

[She starts to return to the book, but is intercepted by Index, who intimates that he has something to say. Preface takes his hand, and leads him to the footlights.]

Index (first looking admiringly at Preface).

As she is first, so last am I,
The Index that can tell you why
And when and wherefore this was writ,
And who the author is of it;
When a quotation doth appear
I'll do my best to make it clear.

[He bows to the audience, and escorts Preface to the book, opens the cover, and watches it close upon her, kisses his hand after her, and retires dejectedly behind the volume. The piano orchestra strikes up "The Flowers that Bloom in the Spring."]

Index (popping out his head from back of book). Gilbert and Sullivan.

[Violet, Daffodil, and Lily-of-the-Valley emerge, trip to the front, group themselves harmoniously, and dance, ending with a sweeping courtesy. Exeunt.]

The Audience. Of course that was "The Flowers that bloom in the Spring."

Index. Second quotation. Author, Dryden.

[A lady opens the book and walks with dignity across the stage. Draws a chair to front, seats herself, and slowly waves her fan. Raises a lorgnette to her eyes, rises, and turns gracefully to the left. At this moment a tin mouse on wheels is sent whizzing toward her from behind the curtain. She jumps on the chair, gathering her skirts about her, and screaming. A foppish youth comes from the book in affected excitement, and attacks the mouse with his umbrella. While the conflict goes on, the lady covers her face with her hands, now and then stealing a glance at her champion. The mouse is finally slain. The gentleman presents it, kneeling. She turns away at first, but presently dismounts and accepts the hero's arm. They go off together, he waving the mouse at the audience. The audience, after several mistakes, guesses, "None but the brave deserve the fair."]

Index (who has meanwhile frequently bobbed out from behind the book, now cries gleefully). Third quotation. A proverb! A proverb!

[The First and Second Pitchers enter, each holding a ball. They strike all sorts of baseball attitudes as they advance to footlights, then station themselves on opposite sides of stage. They throw the balls until some one guesses, "Little pitchers have big ears." Exeunt.]

Curtain.

The stage is darkened for next scene. A tall boy is draped in white. A small boy, also in flowing white, with crown of laurel such as we see in portraits of Cæsar. The hair and face whitened. The larger boy seats himself in chair (also draped in white) with rollers near cover of book. Small boy is placed astride his shoulders.

Index. Fourth quotation. An exclamation. Author unknown.

[Book opens very slowly. Some one concealed behind the chair pushes it a little beyond the book. Ghost rises deliberately, stands a moment, turns and stalks majestically to draw curtain, behind which he disappears. If the audience fails to see the point early, Index cries, "Can't you guess? Great Cæsar's ghost!"]

Curtain.

Index. Another proverb.

[The Locksmith, carrying a three-legged stool, hobbles out, seats himself on stool, draws a file from his bag, and sets to work on a great key. Cupid thrusts his curly head from the book, laughing inaudibly. He tiptoes behind the Locksmith, and tickles his neck with a feather arrow-head. Locksmith brushes at the supposed fly. The tickling continuing, Locksmith gets up and looks right and left, Cupid always dodging him. They gradually reach the book thus. As the cover is about to close, Cupid seizes the bunch of keys, laughing aloud. Locksmith turns to beat him, but the agile boy springs past him into the book, leaving him outside.

The last quotation needs no announcement. It is set to a genuine negro melody, and should be sung with a swing.

A Colored Dude enters with banjo slung across his shoulder by a ribbon. (Sings.)]

Oh let me interjuce myse'f,
A gent'man f'om de Souf,
What nevah wuks while other folks
Puts wittles in his mouf.

Den fetch de 'possum barbacue,
Roas' ches'nuts, an' pop-cawn;
De darkies' hour fer jamboree
Is jes' befo' de dawn.

[As he concludes the verse the Colored Laundress appears and pushes him aside. (She sings.)]

You see a cullud lady here
Dat scrub an' wash all day,
An' ev'ry evenin' fer a res'
She dance de time away.

(Duet and dance.)

So knock it off wid heel an' toe,
De night is almos' gone,
An' don't fergit de darkies' hour
Is jes' befo' de dawn.

They are interrupted by the arrival of a pompous Colored Policeman.

The Policeman.

I'm sent ter 'rest dis company
Fer 'sterbin' of de peace.

Dude and Laundress.

Now change yo' min', Mist' P'liceman, do,
An' jine us in our feas'.

Chorus (dancing).

Come cut de pigeon-wing wid us,
An' shore ez you is bawn
You'll fin' de liv'les' darkies' hour
Is jes befo' de dawn.

PATTY'S STATION.

BY KATHARINE B. FOOT.

It was Patty Miller's seventeenth birthday and a sweet May morning in the early fifties. She sat on the porch step beside her father, who was the doctor of the whole country-side far and near, and they looked out over the superb view of the Connecticut Valley below them. She was an only child, and her father's dear companion and friend, and as dear and familiar friends are apt to do, they sat without speaking for some time, until her father laid an affectionate hand on hers and said, "Are you happy to be home, daughter, on your birthday?"

"Yes, or any other day," and she laid her other hand over his. "And I think I'm more glad than ever since we visited in Virginia. New England for me always."

After another little silence her father said, "Uncle Tom and Fanny seem to enjoy it here."

"Oh yes, or they wouldn't stay. Uncle Tom never stays anywhere unless he's comfortable. But I can't help wondering how he gets on without servants, for Abe is always at his elbow on the plantation, and there's no one at all to wait on him here. I wonder," continued Patty, laughing a little, "what Uncle Tom and Fanny would think if they knew that Wellfield was a station in the underground railroad, and you the station-master, and the particular station our house, and the hiding-place under the closet floor in the very room that he sleeps in?"

Uncle Tom was a Southerner, and was visiting with his daughter his Northern relatives, with whom he was on the best of terms except on the subject of slave-holding.

"I don't know I'm sure," her father said, seriously, "but once, years ago, I told him that I'd help along any of his slaves to freedom if they asked me, and he said that if any of them wanted to run away I was quite welcome to do it. But Tom is a good master, as his father was before him, and if his servants are going to be slaves at all they're probably as well off with him, and perhaps better off than they would be anywhere else."

"It's lucky," said Patty, and she laughed heartily, "that you have always been able to pass your fugitives right on, for I believe that if any one was shut up in that place very long they'd suffocate."

"Well," said her father, slowly and thoughtfully, "it would be cramping, but it's ventilated directly to the air; and 'twas awfully lucky that that trellis with the honeysuckle on it ran up on that side of the house, so that I could make that little window there. That is your station, Patty, and you were a clever girl to find it out. I think that your mother and I were pretty stupid not to see that the ceiling of the closet was so much lower than it was in the room until you told us, for we'd racked our brains for years to think of a secure hiding-place."

"But it wouldn't have been any good if there hadn't been a closet above," said Patty; "and if you hadn't been such a good carpenter that you could cut the little window and fix the trap-door that—well, that no eyes could see."

"And especially with a small trunk over it, and no servants to spy it out," interrupted her father. "Yes," and he smiled, "I think that 'Patty's station' will be a safe one if it ever has to be used. But here comes Uncle Tom now," as a handsome man came toward them from the front door.

"All ready for your birthday jaunt, Patty? Where is Fanny?"

"Coming, papa," and a girl a little younger than Patty ran down stairs just as Mrs. Miller came out of the parlor door.

"I'm sorry you won't go with us, Anna," said Mr. Mason to her.

"I'm sorry too," said Mrs. Miller, "but as I'm my own cook I must stay at home, or you'd starve when you got back."

"I tell you what, Anna, you put yourself up at auction, and I'll bid you in at any price, and then I'll be sure of good cooking for the rest of my life."

Mrs. Miller laughed and shook her head wisely. "Well, you see, Tom, I might die. If I couldn't run away I might take that gleam of liberty."

"Oh, what a fanatic you are!" he laughed.

"Oh, there's Mr. Holman coming in!" said Patty. "I'll run to meet him, for he don't like our steep path."

"Is that your old clergyman?" said Mr. Mason.

"Our minister," said Mrs. Miller. "He likes the old name, and he is a minister, truly. He has probably come for John to go to see somebody who is sick and poor."

"That's a pretty fair partnership, I reckon," said Mr. Mason. "But John is always caring for the lame and the lazy."

The doctor went into his office for his saddle-bags, for when he did not ride he carried them in his chaise.

"Father, will you come down here?" Patty called.

Mr. Holman looked very serious as Dr. Miller approached him, and he looked about him cautiously before he whispered: "There's a fugitive slave at Lem Carter's, and Dimmock and two men are after him. The man seems to be an intelligent fellow, and he says that he thinks that they are not looking for him in particular just now, but are after another man who was with him, and who left him three days ago, for the other fellow knew that he was being chased, and they thought it more prudent to separate. But as this man at Lem's is a fugitive, if they find him they'll take him even if he isn't the man they're after. Lem says that he knows his house is watched, so he doesn't dare to keep him overnight, nor to have you drive down and get him. Now Lem and I thought out this plan: If you can get your Silas out of the way, I will let Lem know, and he will bring the man to your stable after dark, and you can drive him to Northampton to Mr. Brewer's, for there's no other place here where it's safe to keep him."

"I think I can get Silas out of the way," said the doctor, after thinking a moment. "But suppose they track him to my stable, what shall I do? For you know my brother-in-law, Mr. Mason, is here, and that closet where I made the hiding-place is in his room."

"Well," said Mr. Holman, "sometimes the most absolutely daring thing is the safest thing to do, and if you were hard pressed and had to put him there, no one could possibly dream of your taking such a risk. But I don't think it's at all likely that he'll be followed up so closely as that. I think you'll have time enough to get him out of the way, for, now that I think of it, Mr. Mason's being here is really a protection to you."

So, after a little more talk between them, the matter was settled. Mr. Holman explained matters to Mrs. Miller, and she thought out a plan for the doctor, so that Silas could be sent on an errand in the late afternoon which would take him two or three miles into the country, and so keep him out of the way for the entire evening.

Meanwhile Patty, although this episode was one which she had long desired, carried a really heavy and anxious heart, and felt that she must make a constant exertion to appear like her usual self. She was very anxious about the safety of the poor fugitive, because it seemed such a complication to have her uncle and Fanny with them, and, of course, she knew how hot and close the pursuit was after any fugitive, and especially so when there was a large reward in prospect. She found herself wondering at herself as she laughed and talked all day long, and as she afterwards told all their adventures to her mother and father at the tea-table. After tea was over, and while Patty was helping her mother to clear the table, Mrs. Miller had a few minutes to tell Patty of their plans, and that her part of it was to keep her uncle and Fanny in the parlor, and amused and interested, if possible, so that her uncle would not take it into his head to wander down to the stable, as he often did, or Fanny to wander about the house, where she might possibly look out of a window and see something suspicious going on outside. So Patty went at once into the parlor, and had the happy thought of hunting up an old book of dim old engravings that had been given to her father, and which she knew would interest her uncle Tom, for he was something of a bookworm. It was a happy thought, indeed, for Mr. Mason was soon so deep in his interest in the book, and so interested in telling the girls what he knew about the engravings, which were very old and, as he said, extremely valuable, that Patty felt he was quite safely anchored until the danger should be over. As soon as the late May twilight became darkness, the doctor, saying something about having a call, lit his lantern and went down to the stable. He waited only a few moments before the door opened cautiously, and Lem Carter, a slight, alert-looking man, stepped in, followed by a negro. In one flash the man and the doctor recognized each other, for, strange to say, it was Mr. Mason's Abe—the very man that he and Patty had been talking about that morning.

Lem whispered: "Put your light out, quick, for we are followed. Hello! Do you know him?" for the man was on his knees, saying, in a thrilling whisper:

"OH, MARSE DOCTAH! DON'T GIB ME UP!"

"Oh, Marse Doctah! Don't gib me up! don't gib me up! I didn't know it was Marse Tom's—Marse Doctah—I wuz comin' to."

"Hush, Abe!" said the doctor, "I'll not give you up; but your master is here, and I must get you safely away as soon as I can. It's my brother's man," said Dr. Miller.

"That's a great fix," said Lem; "but I'll get out of here and try to throw them off the track. Don't you leave him here two shakes; the barn'll be the first place they'll aim for," and even as he spoke he slipped away.

"Abe," said the doctor, "you must be perfectly quiet and do exactly what I tell you, and I will have you safe soon. Come with me." And he took him by the arm, and led him out of the side door of the barn and up the path to the kitchen door. He left him for one moment in the little entry outside of it, and went in and told his wife who it was that had come to them. She was shocked and rather frightened, but very quiet, and made no exclamation; and then they put Abe in the big store-room, just out of the kitchen, and she got him some food while she was saying:

"Go and send Patty to me. Tell her anything you can think of. Oh, I know—tell her to come out and show me where the milk is for the cottage cheese."

When the doctor went away Abe told her in a few frightened words that as soon as Mr. Mason left home, two weeks before, the overseer had given him a pass to go to the next county for some sheep, and as he had to drive them back, which would take some days, he knew that he wouldn't be missed for that time, and so could never have a better opportunity for the escape that he had planned for years; but had kept it such a secret that not even the doctor—whose abolition principles were well known to Abe—had had the least suspicion of such a thing. So he had run away, and, strangely enough, been passed along, until he was under the very roof with his master.

"Patty, be careful not to speak loud," Mrs. Miller said a moment later, when her daughter appeared. "I didn't want to see you about the cheeses; but we've got to hide a man to-night until father can get him away. He's in the store-room now; and, Patty," and her mother laid her hand on her shoulder, "it's a strange thing, and I can hardly believe it myself, but it's somebody we know—it's Uncle Tom's Abe."

It was lucky that a chair was behind Patty, for she sat down suddenly and grew very white, but all she said was, "Oh, mother, what shall we do?"

"Father will drive him to Northampton just as quick as he can get him away. But Mr. Carter thinks that Dimmock is following him up very closely, and if he comes here Abe has got to be put in the hiding-place."

A moment later Patty and her mother returned to the room, apparently quite calm and composed, and the doctor was just saying, "Well, I have a long drive before me, and must be off," in such a matter-of-fact way that Patty felt almost hysterical.

Just at that moment some one pounded on the knocker in a very imperative way, and Fanny said, "Goodness, somebody must be dying!" The doctor went to the front door and opened it. Even he, for a second, was startled, as he saw three men standing there.

"Good-evening," said the doctor. "Anybody sick? Hello, Dimmock, I didn't see you. What's the matter?"

Mr. Dimmock seemed somewhat embarrassed, and said: "No, we ain't none of us sick; but fact is, doctor, we're after a runaway nigger, and my friends here—Mr. Sterling and Mr. Pratt—say they traced him right up here about ten minutes ago, and they just brought me along to make the warrant right, as I'm United States Commissioner, you know. Have you got the fellow, and will you give him up?"

"Upon my word!" said the doctor, putting his hands behind his back and holding a hat in one of them. "Do you suppose that I've got him here, with you pretty nearly next door? And don't you know well enough that if I had I wouldn't tell you?"

"Pretty high and mighty, doctor," said the man they called Dimmock. "In the name of the United States, I demand to search this house. We've been through your barn a'ready."

"It's a—an outrage," said the doctor; "so search, if you please; you won't find anybody." And he stepped aside, and said, "Walk in, gentlemen. I have the highest respect for your authority—if not for your business."

As the men walked into the room, Patty said, "Father, is Mr. Dimmock going up into my room?"

"I suppose so," said her father; "no place is sacred when Mr. Dimmock goes hunting."

"Then I must go up a moment first," said Patty; "it isn't in order." And she left the room.

Mrs. Miller sat still and looked at the men, and Mr. Mason rose to his feet, saying,

"What's all this?"

The doctor knew that if he could keep the men back a very few moments Patty would hide Abe, for he was sure that his wife had made some plan with her. So he turned to Mr. Mason and said, "It's very likely, Tom, that I have a fugitive slave here, isn't it?"

But before Mr. Mason could answer, Dimmock said, "We knew you were here, Mr. Mason, and we're sorry to disturb you, but there are some people in Wellfield that keep the laws, and that nigger's been traced here, and we're bound to have him."

Mr. Mason laughed, but showed that he was very indignant, and he told Mr. Dimmock shortly that it was scarcely likely that Dr. Miller would conceal a fugitive slave under the same roof with a slave-owner, especially when that owner was his guest. But of the nice laws of hospitality Mr. Dimmock was quite unconscious, and the doctor didn't care what anybody said if they could only gain a little time. Mr. Dimmock said afterwards that the doctor was in a white rage, but he was quite mistaken; it wasn't rage at all, but a great variety of conflicting emotions.

As soon as Patty left the room she flew to the store-room, and said, in a whisper, "Abe, follow me quick. They're after you. Be very still."

He was terribly frightened, but long habit made him absolutely obedient, and he crept up the back stairs like a cat. They crept through the front hall, the voices plainly heard below, and Patty showed him how to lift the trap in the closet floor.

"This is your master's room," she whispered. "Don't even breathe loud, or you'll be heard. I'll let you out when it's safe. I don't believe you'll have to stay all night." Then she fitted the trap down carefully, lifted the light trunk over it, picked up her uncle's shoes and put them down softly as if they had been thrown in, dropped a soiled collar and handkerchief from the bureau, and then closed the door softly. Long in the telling, it had not taken three minutes. Then she ran down stairs.

"Show Mr. Dimmock and his friends about," said her father; "take them everywhere, Patty."

Patty took a lamp, and Mr. Dimmock said, "Give me another. I always carry my own light. People have a way of throwing shadows in the wrong places. The garret first." And when they got there he held his lamp high, casting its light into every dark corner. "What's that?" he said, pointing to a dark pile.

"Carpet rags," said Patty.

"Hiding a nigger, likely. You'd better look there, Sterling."

The man tossed the heap over until he came to the floor.

Into every room they went, and opened every closet door, and Patty felt herself trembling as they came to the door of the closet in her uncle's room, but grew quiet as she heard herself saying, calmly,

"Now you can hardly suppose that he's in Uncle Tom's room?"

"Well, not 'less he's a mighty cool one," said Mr. Dimmock.

At last they went, and the question was how to get Abe out of the closet and then out of the house. There was not a moment when it could be done, for Mr. Mason said he was tired to death, and would go to bed at once. And go he did, and there was nothing for the doctor to do but to suddenly remember that he had had a call, and to pretend to start for it. And after Fanny went upstairs Mrs. Miller and Patty absolutely groaned when they heard Mr. Mason shut his door and bolt it for the night. In the morning it did seem as if Mr. Mason and Fanny would never go down stairs. But at last Mr. Mason appeared below with his cheerful "Good-morning," and Fanny followed after a little. Then Patty discovered, as they sat down to the breakfast table, that she had left her handkerchief upstairs, and she ran up to her uncle's room to release Abe. As she lifted the trap-door he crawled out, stiff and cramped. She hurried him up to the garret, for they were obliged to hide him until night. Poor Abe was so frightened that he could only say,

"Oh, Miss Patty, s'pose Marse Tom come up heah and catch me!"

"Oh, he won't," said Patty; "Uncle Tom never comes up garret." But a bright thought came to her. "If you hear anybody coming, get under that pile of rags and pull them over you." And she pushed them together, for the men had left them strewed all over the floor, and ran down to breakfast.

A little later she smuggled some food and coffee to Abe, and cautioned him over and over not to step about at all, lest his footsteps should be heard below. But at last the long day drew to an end, and the night came. Silas had again been spirited out of the way; her father had the light wagon all ready, and they were ready to get Abe out of the garret and down to the barn.

Patty got her water-colors out to show to Mr. Mason and Fanny just at the moment that her mother slipped away to get Abe down and out of the house into the garden. He had to pass through the front hall to get from the garret stairs to the back stairs, and just at the critical moment, when she knew that Abe must be passing through the front hall, her uncle Tom said, "Oh, I've left my glasses upstairs!" and started to go for them.

"Let me," said Patty, for the whole hall was visible from four steps up on the front stairs.

"No, I'll go myself," said her uncle Tom, and he moved toward the foot of the stairs, and for one second Patty felt at her wits' end. Then she knocked over a vase of flowers on the table. The water ran all over the pictures. Both girls exclaimed; Mr. Mason turned to help mop it up with his handkerchief also, and the danger was over.

At breakfast-time the next day Mr. Mason said, "You came in late, or rather, early. Jack. Did you have a hard night of it?"

"Tiresome," said the doctor.

It was true, for he had driven Abe about sixteen miles up the river.

Abe was sent from Northampton to Canada by rail, and it was not until he was safe there that Mr. Mason, who was then in Boston, learned from his overseer of his disappearance; for just as Abe had hoped and supposed, he had not been missed for several days. Then Mr. Mason, very much cut up by his running away, went directly back to Virginia with his daughter.

That was the only time Patty's station ever held a waiting passenger.

FOR KING OR COUNTRY.

A Story of the Revolution.

BY JAMES BARNES.

CHAPTER XIX.

THE TWO LIEUTENANTS.

As the little boat, with the two fishermen rowing and the silent figure sitting in the stern-sheets, dipped and tossed through the racing tide, which was at the flood, the wind began to blow up cold and nipping from the north. The spray froze as it splashed now and then over the gunwales of the boat.

It was quite midnight before they reached the New Jersey shore and pulled in beneath the shelter of a point of rocks that rose steeply out of the water. Here for the first time words were spoken.

"You have done well, my men, and here is a 'bright yellow' for each of you," said the young man in the cloak.

As he extended his hand, Roger, the younger, grasped it in a friendly way.

"I remember you, sir. I was one of the boatmen who rowed you across after the battle of Long Island. We are both good patriots."

The older man at this allusion respectfully touched his oil-skin cap. Then the boat was shoved out once more into the current.

The young man on the shore watched until it had disappeared.

"Now for a horse!" he exclaimed aloud.

Climbing up the rocks, and following closely a road which ran through a wide meadow, he saw a farm-house to the right. A light in one of the windows had first attracted his attention. He walked up the little lane, and stopped for a moment before knocking at the door.

"Tory or patriot, I wonder?" he queried. He had hesitated before pronouncing the last word.

In response to the tapping of his cold knuckles, the door was opened.

Before him stood a tall woman, and back of her a boy of thirteen or fourteen. The latter had a large bell-mouthed blunderbuss in the hollow of his arm.

"What is it at this time of night?" the woman inquired, in a deep voice like a man's.

"A word of direction," was the answer. "Could you tell me where I can find a horse? I will pay well for him."

"Where are you from?" asked the woman.

"From New York, but I would go on to the westward, and must hurry or I will be caught."

"Oh!" said the woman. "Come in by the fire. You are alone?"

"Yes," was the response.

The boy, who at first had looked suspiciously from the stranger to the tall figure of his mother, placed the blunderbuss in the corner, and the three walked into the kitchen.

"Are you going to join the army?" inquired the woman at length.

"I am in the army," was the reply; "but I must hasten. I have just been rowed across the river, and should I be captured it might go hard with me."

"I understand," said the woman, "and I will assist you if I can."

"You will be well paid," rejoined the young officer.

"Do not think of it," answered the woman. "I have given one son; and my husband and brother are with Washington. We must give our all. I can see what you have been afraid to tell. You have escaped. One has to be careful. Might I ask you your name?"

"Frothingham."

"I know that name well," said she. "I have heard my brother speak of a young Mr. Frothingham who was employed with him. He was at Mr. Wyeth's, the merchant's."

"Ah, indeed!" was the answer.

The young soldier drew forth a bag of gold. As he did so the light from the fireplace shone clearly upon his left hand. Across the back of it ran a scar.

"Eugene," said the woman, turning to the boy, "make haste to the stable and put the saddle on the colt. 'Tis all we have left, sir, but you are welcome. When you reach Morristown you may be able to send him back again. Perhaps you know my husband. My name is Ralston, and my brother's name is Samuel Thomas. You must remember him. My son was killed on Long Island. Were you there?"

"No, madam," was the thoughtful answer; "I was not."

The woman left the room, and the young man gazed into the fire.

He had had no idea of the devotion of these people to this cause. In far-away England he had suspected nothing of the intensity of feeling or the self-sacrifice and patriotism that animated the country.

A qualm of misgiving came over him. Was it not rather an uncomfortable part to play—taking his brother's place, as it were, and accepting the help and hospitality of these brave folk, who would give "their all," as the woman had said, for what they considered their rights and liberties! A feeling akin to pride had swept over him when the woman had spoken of his brother George; it could have been no other.

He struck his knee a blow with his closed fist.

"It is for the King," he said, beneath his breath.

At this moment the trampling of hoofs on the crisp earth outside attracted his attention.

The woman came to the door.

The lad was holding a small horse at the stone step.

"You have done me a great service, and I pray you will accept—" began the supposed fugitive.

Mrs. Ralston interrupted him.

"Think you, sir, that I would take one penny? 'Twould burn my fingers. It is for our country."

"Thank you, good friend, then," he said, and the tears came to his eyes despite himself.

The lad gave him a leg-up into the saddle. "I wish I were old enough to fight, sir," he said. "Good-by. Take the first road to the left and you are on the highway."

William mumbled a confused sentence of thanks and rode away.

This endeavor of his to prove his loyalty did not appear so glorious an undertaking as he had at first supposed. His thoughts ran back to his brother George in that cramped prison cell, where he supposed him still to be.

But the latter, a free man again, was at this moment seated before a fireplace in a large wainscoted room in a large house not far from Fraunce's Tavern.

On the opposite side was sitting the burly figure of Rivington!

When George had found that no boat was waiting for him at Striker's wharf, he had bethought himself at once of two places where he might hide—Mrs. Mack's and School-master Anderson's. How stupid he had been that he had not discovered the latter's character before! Putting the incidents together, he could read all plain enough.

Anderson was the one to see.

As he was about to sound the knocker gently on the schoolmaster's door, some one spoke to him and called softly,

"Number Four, I say!"

There was a touch on his elbow (he still carried his right hand in a sling), and Rivington was standing beside him.

"Do not fear, my son," he said; "I am one of the seven." There was the sound of laughing coming from within the house. "Some of our friends from across the water are in there," said the printer. "It was lucky I was in time to stop you. We must entertain them, you know. I have been following you for some time to make sure. Come with me."

He had piloted George to the street, and opened the door of his own house with a huge key, ushering him into the large room in which they were now seated.

It was odd, George kept thinking to himself, and hard to believe, that Rivington, the hated Tory, had turned patriot.

"Now, young Frothingham," said Rivington, after a pause, "this is an extraordinary occasion. You are the first one with whom I have held conversation upon any such dangerous subjects. But you must know two or three things that I believe most thoroughly. I have no faith in hopeless ventures, but, mark me, though this war lasts six months or six years, America will never again belong to England. I am so fully convinced of this that I have risked my safety to help end the struggle. Peace will come sooner or later, but the sooner the better, of course. Some day when my fellow-citizens learn what I have done they will not hang me in effigy or sink my presses in the bay. But enough of that. I have forgiven them.—To something of greater moment.—You cannot remain another day in this city. I doubt your being able to cross the river to-night. To-morrow morning early I go to Paulus Hook, and will take you with me as my servant. 'Tis a risk, perhaps, but it is the safest thing I can think of. I am supposed to go there on some business for General Howe. I am afraid that I shall muddle it, but I may learn something. Sleep here behind this heavy screen. We start early." Without another word he left the room.

At daybreak the next morning Rivington and George, in a small sail-boat, were making for the New Jersey shore.

George was dressed in a groom's livery, and carried a large despatch-box on his knees.

Almost all the dwellers in the country surrounding the Hook had found it to their best interests to hide any desire that they might have to show their leaning toward patriotism, and, to tell the truth, most of them were advanced Tories.

It was to visit one of these men, a dealer in live-stock, that Mr. Rivington was making the trip.

They had ridden but a short distance in the lurching one-horse chaise that had met them at the ferry, when Rivington pulled up.

"Here I say good-by," he said. "At the fifth house along this path from here stop and ask for the owner. He is a very aged man. His name has slipped me; but tell him frankly who you are, and that you have escaped from a British prison, and he will do his best to send you on your way. Do not fear that he will betray you. He hates me well, and would rejoice to see me hanged, but some day he may think better thoughts. Of course, do not mention my name to him. Good-by, lad. There is one person to whom you can present my best respects—General Washington. Success to him!"

George shook his benefactor's enormous hand, and took the path through a thicket of scrub-oaks.

Rivington had driven on but a short distance, when he thumped the bottom of the chaise with both feet. "You may shoot me for a lunkhead," he exclaimed, "if I did not forget to tell him of his brother's being in this country. I wonder if he knows it? He made no mention. It would have been best for him to know it."

But it was too late to call George's notice now, and he cut the horse a sharp flick with the whip.

CHAPTER XX.

MISGIVINGS.

It was two days later a small brown horse crunched his way through the deep fall of snow that lay upon the hills to the westward of the Passaic River.

His rider drew up at the foot of a hill, and slapped his thigh, to start the circulation in his half-frozen fingers. "I know the country hereabouts," he said. "Seven miles further on lies the Hewes estate, and beyond that Stanham Manor. From the crest of yonder hill I can look down upon the dear old place. And what if they should recognize me?" he went on. "What foolishness it was to undertake a trip like this! All the information I have obtained so far I could put into a thimble." He was sickening of the adventure. If it were not for the Frothingham stamina he would have backed out and tried his best to retrace his steps. "I will be surely able to pick up something worth hearing at the Hewes place," he went on, half aloud. "If I could only find out the number of the American forces at Princeton or Morristown it would pay me well for my trouble."

The horse, with its flanks steaming, had halted knee-deep in the snow during this soliloquy. William drew his cloak about him and dug his heels into the ribs of his steed. After plunging for half an hour through the heavy unbroken road he reached the top of the hill. Below him stretched the land that had belonged to the old rival company. His eye first sought the country further on. Above the little hill he could see the tall chimney that his own father had built in the old colony days. The smoke was pouring upward, and floated out in the higher air in a thin cloud much in the shape of an open mushroom; not a breeze was stirring; and further to the south another column of smoke marked the position of the Hewes foundries in the hollow.

Yes, and there it was, the old Manor House. He could see the dark patches of the pines about it, and almost imagine he could hear the roar of the water-fall. His eyes traversed the woods and the hill-side nearer. To the right should be the large mansion of Colonel Hewes. The panting horse was again reined in suddenly. There was nothing there where the Hewes house had stood but blackened walls and some stark timbers, whose outlines were softened by the new-fallen snow.

William felt a sense of sorrow besides one of fear and astonishment. He had intended to make his first venture of obtaining news at the house of Colonel Hewes. Now there was nothing to do but to press on and make a bold stroke. He would have to go to Stanham Mills. It would be impossible, weary as he was, to turn back. It would soon be dusk.

Once more he struck the colt with his heels, and descended the hill-side. At the bottom a small stream had to be forded. The tired horse plunged in, and had gone but a little way through the shallow when he stumbled and pitched forward. William flew over his head amongst the rocks and ice. Angry and stunned, he rose to his feet. There was a numb feeling at the elbow-joint of his right arm.

"Fortune is not smiling on me," he said, grimly, feeling the joint with his fingers. "Here is a nice mess if I have broken anything."

It was merely a serious dislocation, but by placing his hand between his knees he pulled the joint back into place. It caused him great agony, and if he had not been above the average in strength it would have been impossible for him to straighten it. His head hurt him also from its contact with a stone, and he felt sore and miserable as he managed to clamber back into the saddle. He had ridden but a little way when the pain in his arm necessitated another stop. With his handkerchief he made a sling, and hooked it about his neck.

"I would give a great deal for some of Aunt Clarissa's liniment," he murmured, grimly.

Just as he came across the well-travelled road that led to the Hewes foundries a man on horseback came toward him from out of the hollow. The snow flew from his horse's heels, and as soon as he caught sight of William he waved his hand.

"Hilloa!" he shouted. "Welcome back!" It was Colonel Hewes's cousin, the renowned rifleshot. When he was quite near he pulled his horse down to a walk. "George, dear boy," he said, "Lord knows I am glad to see you safe."

There was nothing else for him to do, although William's face flushed hotly at the idea of the deception he would have to practise.

"Are they all well?" he asked.

"Yes, marvellously so," was the rejoinder; "and there is much to tell about."

William controlled himself with an effort.

"Did you notice that our house was burned?" Mr. Hewes went on. "It caught fire at night. We narrowly escaped with our lives. Now we are guests at Stanham Manor, and are having very pleasant times. What a royal welcome you will have! But tell me, how did you escape? What news do you bring? What is Howe going to do with his army, and do our good friends in the city prosper?"

William smiled. "You are asking more questions than I can answer all at once," he said. "Now, one at a time. I escaped with little difficulty."

"But you are wounded!"

"It is nothing. It will be all right in a few days. There is little news, for I was placed in a position to gather nothing worth relating, as you may know. What Howe is going to do with his army is more than I can conjecture. In fact, I do not think he has made up his mind. There are comfortable quarters in New York."

"They are living on the fat of the land, I hear," said Mr. Hewes.

"Yes, and our friends are prospering."

"Well, it is good to have you home again," said the tall man. "My cousin, the Colonel, is away at Morristown, but we will have as a guest to-night—your guest, I might better say—a young officer, who is on his way from the army of the north to General Washington. He is carrying despatches of great moment."

William's heart leaped. Luck might be changing. Here at last would be an opportunity to gain reliable information that would help the royal forces.

"You are looking tired and worn, my boy, and I will promise to ask you no more until you have had a rest and something cheering," said Mr. Hewes. "That nag of yours is about done for, I should say."

"The roads are very bad," returned William, who, to tell the truth, was feeling the effects of his fall, and was dizzy and uncomfortable. "You are hard at work, I see," he added, turning the subject, and nodding in the direction of the smoking furnaces.

"Yes, yes, indeed," was the rejoinder. "Making good Yankee cannon-balls, and even your own foundry has been turning them out every day. We have pleased the Commander-in-chief mightily, I can tell you."

They had entered the familiar lane. The water was roaring under the ice at the edge of the dam. A group of workmen caught sight of the two riders from the doorway of the mill, and set up a cheer. They had been sighted from the house also, and a cluster of figures was waiting at the foot of the big white wooden pillars. Aunt Clarissa was there, and his sister Grace, and a broad-shouldered young man in a uniform of blue and buff. The servants ran out from the big wing and clustered about the roadway. Old Cato, hatless, came running down the road. When he approached within a few feet he stopped and faltered.

"Wy, Mas'r William! you, you—"

"CATO," SAID MR. HEWES, "WHAT'S THE MATTER?"

"Cato," said Mr. Hewes, "what's the matter?"

"Wy, it's Mas'r George, ob course; dis ol' nigger's goin' plumb crazy." Cato laughed.

Still something had happened to dampen the old colored man's effusion, and he grasped the hand extended to him with an assumption of being too much overcome for words.

As William slid from the saddle his dizziness had increased. He had had nothing to eat all that day, and the fall had been heavier than he had at first supposed. The sight of his little sister Grace, grown to this tall beautiful young creature, unnerved him, and when she turned her face up to his and put her arms around his neck, tears came into his eyes and he sobbed weakly.

"Poor boy!" said Aunt Clarissa, coming up, as he rested his head on Grace's shoulder and walked towards the door. "He has suffered much. Oh, those prisons! The stories I have heard. Dear George, forgive me. I have been both hard and wrong."

It was evident that Aunt Clarissa had suffered also, and her face had softened in a wonderful degree. William was almost tempted to make a clean breast of everything there and then, when the horror of his real position struck him forcibly. Words would not come; he felt a strange sinking at his heart; he stumbled, and would have fallen but for Mr. Hewes's extended arm. For the first time in his life he fainted.

He awoke, he knew not how long afterwards, feeling warm and comfortable, in a great high bed in what had been his uncle Nathan's room. A candle was burning dimly at his side, and faithful Aunt Polly was sitting fast asleep in a great rocking-chair. Well he knew how soundly Aunt Polly slept. Again he almost sickened at his false position. He could not stand it. What meant Aunt Clarissa's welcome? And how things had changed! One thing was left to him, and but one—flight. Anything rather than to sail under wrong colors and to deceive those who loved and trusted him.

He arose, and taking his clothes from the chair, stepped softly into the hallway and dressed quickly. Then he stole down stairs. The moonlight from the outside flooded the great hall. With a frightening start he saw hanging over the back of a great chair a pair of heavy saddle-bags. They belonged to the transient guest—the young American officer, most probably. He lifted the flap. Heavy papers tied and sealed with great blotches of red wax were there.

Was it dishonest? His hands fairly trembled. "'Tis for the King," he said, beneath his breath; but he stopped suddenly and slipped the papers back into the pouch. "I could not touch them if they contained secrets worth all kingdoms," he said. "I will go back empty-handed. I had rather fail."

There was a stir over in the direction of the fireplace, and to his surprise he saw old Cato shuffling noiselessly toward him. The old man picked up the saddle-bags without a word.

"Where are you going with that, Cato?" said William, astonished that the latter had not spoken.

"Jes goin' to take care ob dem, sah," was the reply.

"Leave them here. They are safe enough," said William, feeling half ashamed of himself, as he spoke the words.

"No, sah; scuse me," was the old man's reply. "If Mas'r William Frothingham asks dis ol' nigger fur his head he ken have it, but old Cato ain't goin' to give dese 'spatches to no British officer."

William leaned back against the mantel-piece. Had the others found out also?

[to be continued.]

IF WE COULD MOVE TO MARS.

BY GARRETT P. SERVISS.

THE FIRST ELECTRIC LINER SENT OUT BY THE U. C. T. AND S. D. CO., MARS DIVISION.

It is not necessary to consider the various reasons that would impel many inhabitants of the earth to go to Mars if they had the opportunity. But no one can doubt that the first train for Mars, or the first balloon, or the first electric liner sent out by the Universal Celestial Transportation and Safe-Delivery Company, Mars Division, would be booked to its utmost capacity. Curiosity alone would suffice to crowd it, and it is certain that the Anglo-Saxon race, which has furnished most of the great travellers, would be fully represented in the throng of adventurers bound for another world.

When Mars is nearest to the earth its distance is no less than 36,000,000 miles. But if we set our speed to match that of an electric impulse flying through the Atlantic cable—say 15,000 miles per second—we should be there in just forty minutes. Good enough for time, but how about guide-books?

Well, as to that, explorers must expect to find their own way about. Marco Polo had no Baedeker. And, besides, we are not altogether left without guidance, such as it is. We have to thank Signor Schiaparelli for some very beautiful charts of Mars, which he has made with the aid of his telescope at Milan; and other astronomers have drawn charts of Mars also. It is true that all these are filled with glittering generalities, and in some respects are contradictory; yet upon the whole they really form a more complete map of the entire surface of Mars than anybody had of the earth in the time of Columbus.

MARS AS YOU APPROACH IT, SHOWING THE CANALS.

On approaching Mars we should behold a world looking in some respects remarkably like the earth, having seasons resembling ours, with torrid, temperate, and frigid zones; turning on its axis like our globe, and in nearly the same time; showing in winter broad white caps, as of snow, covering its polar regions, and presenting many appearances suggestive of continents, oceans, islands, and peninsulas. As we watched it slowly turning under our eyes, we should see on one side, south of its equator, a huge, staring eyelike-spot, which Schiaparelli has named the "Lake of the Sun," and on the opposite side, reaching from the southern hemisphere into the northern, a great, dark, crooked area, somewhat resembling North America in shape, and known to astronomers as the "Hour-glass Sea." And then all the globe beneath us would appear to be mapped with delicate reds and yellows and grays and blues; long waving curves and sharper indentations would make their appearance in what look like coast-lines; and presently, running east and west and south and north, and passing "beyond the horizon's utmost rim," a network of dark-colored lines, like a vast web covering the planet, would be seen. These are the famous "canals."

But while we were wondering what this could mean, we should be struck by another unearthlike thing. Being accustomed to dwell on a globe three-fourths of whose surface is covered with water, it could not escape our notice that the world we were approaching had far more land than water. Indeed, it is likely that we should find that the "Hour-glass Sea," and many of the other so-called seas of Mars, are only part of the time filled with water, and that even then they are not like terrestrial oceans, but rather vast swamps, choked with rank vegetation suddenly awakened to life by periodical inundations supplying moisture to their roots. Visiting them at another time, we should find only deserts with cracked soil baking in the sun. At any rate, some of the discoveries made with great telescopes in 1894 suggest these things.

In the equatorial regions, where the earth is richest in all forms of life, it is not improbable that we should find Mars covered with one vast Sahara. We should have to go to the poles to discover anything like seas. When the snow-fields around the south pole began to melt away with the on-coming of summer, an opportunity would be given us to behold a spectacle that the earth cannot match. As the snow melted, the water thus formed would collect into a shallow sea, which would constantly tend to empty itself by flowing off toward the equator. Very likely Mars is a remarkably flat world, and the water from the pole would encounter little opposition to its movement.

Then would come a sight that would open our eyes with amazement. Looking toward the equator, we should see only barren red lands and the dry and dusty basins of ancient seas; but the wave of snow-water from the antarctic circle, running through ready channels and percolating the thirsty soil, would be like the spirit of life moving upon the face of a dying world. At its touch vegetation would sprout and spring and wax great, with the magic rapidity that we sometimes see exhibited on the earth; the hard soil at its roots would fall apart and dissolve with moisture, and in a few weeks, where only the naked bones of the planet had been visible before, we should be able to wade neck-deep in seas of verdure, with long grasses waving softly in the vernal wind, and sweet flowers stroking our faces.

The observations made by Mr. Percival Lowell and Professor W. H. Pickering during the last opposition of Mars seem to lend probability not only to such conjectures, but to others which are now to follow.

We have imagined ourselves watching on Mars the progress of the life-giving water spreading from the south pole during the spring and early summer of that hemisphere of the planet. But we have noticed its effects only in the great depressed regions that may once have been actual seas. How about the still greater regions which nobody has ever supposed to be seas, and which appear on the charts of Schiaparelli and others under the name of continents? If Mars has not water enough to keep its sea-beds permanently covered, its dry lands must thirst indeed! Let us go, then, to that strange region where lies the so-called "Lake of the Sun."

As we cross the red continents, hot and blazing in the merciless sunshine, we begin to meet the "canals," but, behold! they are not canals! They are broad streaks or belts of vegetation, intersected with numerous tiny water-channels, like the valley of the river Po or the flat meadows of Holland, and the water comes from the vast swamps formed, as we saw, by the polar inundation.

Now our interest rises to the dramatic pitch, for here is the work of hands, here are evidences of intelligent design, and here, if anywhere on this distant world, we must expect to meet its inhabitants. I shall not undertake at this point to describe the appearance that those inhabitants might present. But let us imagine that we put ourselves under their guidance.

It is probable, for a reason which I shall mention presently, that our Martian friends would turn out to be exceptionally intelligent. They might guess, then, that we would have a rather poor opinion of their world of floods and deserts, and for that reason they would lead us at once to its finest scenes. Through the corn-land and the vine-land of their irrigated belts, traversing the sandy wastes with strips of green, they would doubtless conduct us along magnificent shady roads to one of the numerous crossing-places where two or more of the fertile bands meet, and where our astronomers on the earth have noticed that there is always an oval dark spot, which some of them have thought must mark the site of a lake.

But as we approach one of these spots the spires and roofs (or what answer on Mars for spires and roofs) of a town make their appearance. And quickly we find ourselves in strange streets and avenues, surrounded by throngs of such people as the wildest traveller's tale has never pictured on the earth. We are led to a lofty outlook, from which we can see far across the level country, and behold the radiating belts, along which alone the land is fruitful, stretching away in every direction, and at each crossing-place widening into an island of green dotted with the dwellings of a town or city. The red glare of the leafless and waterless wilderness, contrasting with the emerald lines that intersect it, makes a scene of overwhelming strangeness. In the remote distance our guides point out to us the metropolis of this part of Mars, placed in the broadest of the verdant spots, where our charts show the "Lake of the Sun," and surrounded by an immense system of irrigated belts, running out across the desert to the distant sea-swamps on all sides like the spokes of an enormous wheel, and so conspicuous that the Lick telescope and other telescopes have shown them from the earth. Every one of those lines is sucking moisture from the polar overflow, and storing up subsistence for the great city and all the inhabitants of the land.

For this is not merely the harvest season on Mars; it is the time when every thought is on the future, and every energy is bent to the preservation of life upon the planet. Did we think that we had learned how to make the earth yield to us the full measure of its fertility? Bah! We had to come to Mars to find out that science. If we should return to this scene in a few months the story would be plain. Then the desert would have resumed its sway uninterrupted; the swamp oceans, half water and half leaves, would have returned to dust; the irrigating ditches would have dried up, and the productive belts would be like so many narrow bands of prairie that had been swept with fire. At such a time the "canals" of the planet Mars disappear from the sight of terrestrial astronomers, and the so-called "oceans" turn pale.

Then we may imagine the inhabitants of that most singular planet reaping the fruit of their foresight and industry; then is the season of social joys in the Martian metropolis on the site of the "Lake of the Sun"; then men go no longer forth to the fields to toil for the future, because that future for which they worked has come, and there is to be no more toil, until once again, with the slow swing of the seasons, the southern pole, burdened under its accumulated winter snows, beholds the sun, and at its touch dissolves into life-giving water.

So much for some of the broad features of life on Mars as recent discoveries permit us to picture them, although it should be borne in mind that astronomy, as a science, does not assert—though it does not deny—that there is life at all on Mars. It allows us to draw our own conclusions. Now, then, continuing the supposition that there may be inhabitants on Mars, let us consider some other queer things that we should probably behold and experience on paying them a visit.

Mars is small compared with our world, its diameter being only about 4200 miles, and its surface between one-third and one-fourth as extensive as the earth's. Knowing its size and density, we can calculate how great its gravitation is—in other words, how much bodies weigh on its surface. If we tip the scales at 150 pounds on the earth, we should find that our weight had been reduced, in going to Mars, to about 67 pounds. It is hardly possible to tell exactly how we should behave in such circumstances. Doubtless we should feel as if we were walking on air, or as if we could jump over a house, for our muscular strength would remain the same. Imagine the feelings of an elephant suddenly removed to Mars!

But the most singular effect that we should behold of this comparative lack of weight on Mars might be upon its own inhabitants. The chances are not small that we should find ourselves amid a lot of giants there, averaging about fifteen feet tall. It is easy to prove that on Mars a man of that height would, in proportion to his muscular strength, be no heavier or clumsier than our average descendant of Adam is. Yet he would be absolutely stronger and able to perform harder work. Then, too, the things he had to lift would be far lighter, bulk for bulk, than similar things on the earth. Accordingly, during our visit to one of those "irrigation belts" that Mr. Lowell has imagined, we might behold feats of strength in the digging of ditches and the garnering of the fruits of the soil that would fill us with astonishment.

And that leads us to something else rather queer. There are reasons for thinking that a small globe like Mars might, because it would cool faster, get into a habitable condition sooner than the earth. If so, the people of Mars may have family trees that would put our longest genealogies completely into the shade, and their history as a race may exceed ours by an enormous length of time.

HOW MAGIC IS MADE.

BY HENRY HATTON.

II.

Another trick with handkerchiefs is that known as "Easily seen Through," from the transparent box which plays an important part in it.

As this box is of glass, top, bottom, and sides, it hardly seems possible that anything could be concealed in it, and yet— But let me describe the trick in full.

The box, which is about four inches square, is held up so that it may be seen, and is then placed on a table and covered with a large handkerchief. Taking a piece of newspaper of the size of a sheet of foolscap, the performer twists it into a cornucopia, or paper cone, such as the grocer wraps sugar in for his customers, and gives it to one of the audience, who has volunteered to assist on the stage, to hold. Seated on a chair, the assistant holds the cornucopia at arm's length. The performer drops into its open mouth three small squares of silk—red, white, and blue, respectively—and with a borrowed cane or umbrella pushes them well down; he then closes the paper horn by folding over the mouth. To do this necessitates taking it from the assistant for an instant, and when it is returned, the larger end is given to him. With the injunction to keep it well away from his body lest he be suspected of collusion, the performer announces: "I shall now pass the handkerchiefs invisibly from the paper horn, which the gentleman holds, to the little glass box." Here he stops abruptly, and pretending to have heard a remark from the audience, continues, "Oh no, they are not there yet," and removes the handkerchiefs from the box to show it is still empty, and almost immediately covers it again. A moment later, however, when he whisks off the handkerchief, the three squares of colored silk are seen in the box, while the cornucopia, on being opened, is found to be empty.

Although some address on the part of the performer is necessary in order to give brilliancy to the trick, the secret lies in the box and the cornucopia.

"EASILY SEEN THROUGH."

The box is made with a double bottom of glass, and between this and the real bottom are duplicate squares of silk. This silk—and this remark applies to most of the "handkerchiefs" used in conjuring—is of a very light, flimsy character, either marcelline or a thin quality of Japanese, and takes up but little room. A catch at the back of the box, worked from the outside, which the performer touches when covering the box, releases the false bottom, and this, impelled by a spiral spring attached to the hinge, instantly flies up, and lies flat against one side, while the elasticity of the silk squares causes them to fly up and partly fill the box.

The cornucopia is made of two sheets folded in the centre, as shown by the dotted lines in the diagram, and glued together at three sides, A, B, and C. Picking up the paper with his left hand, so that the bottom part B comes between the thumb and fingers, the performer catches the corner F with his right hand, and brings it over to the point D. Then the half, E, A, F, is drawn over till the corner E touches G, as in Fig. 2, and finally the corner H is thrown round the other parts; the point is given a twist, and the cornucopia is complete, as in Fig. 3.

fig. 1.

fig. 2.

fig. 3.

Placing his hand inside, the performer opens the space between the inner and the outer paper, smoothing it down so as to appear like the proper opening. It is in this opening (between the papers) the silk squares are placed and pushed down. The performer folds the top once over, and gives it to the assistant to hold, with his fingers over the fold. When the time arrives, the performer unrolls the cornucopia from the bottom point, and spreading out the paper, it appears to be empty, the thin texture of the silks concealed between the paper making them inconspicuous.

There are two pretty variations of this trick. In one, the last handkerchief of the three is passed from the hands to the box; in the second, two cornucopias are used, dispensing with the box.

As in the first there is no resort either to the short cord used in the "Evanescent Handkerchief," or the hand-bag of the "Mission of a Plate," it may prove of interest to the amateur.

The handkerchief—preferably the red one—is first gathered into both hands, and then, to allow of the performer turning up his sleeves, is transferred to the left hand. All this time an end is seen protruding, yet when the hand is opened it is empty, and the handkerchief has vanished.

The solution is simple: a small loose piece of silk about two inches square is picked up with the handkerchief; the latter is carried off with the right hand in the act of apparently transferring it to the left, into which only the little piece is put. In turning up the left sleeve the handkerchief is wrapped in the fold, and finally the piece of silk is rolled into a tiny ball and concealed between the fingers, and dropped on the table at the first opportunity. The trick is not generally known, and is useful as a change from older methods.

In the second variation the cornucopia into which the handkerchiefs are passed is made by pasting together two sheets of paper at all four sides. Between these papers are hidden the duplicate handkerchiefs. Instead of opening this cornucopia at the conclusion of the trick, the performer merely tears it in two and pulls out the handkerchiefs. As I have known a performer of long experience to be puzzled by this trick, I can conscientiously recommend it. It has the advantage, too, of doing away with the glass box, which, when properly made, costs four or five dollars.

Guibal generally follows the trick just described with "The Transit of the Cards." In this he is assisted by two of the audience, one of whom he dubs "the glass box," and the other "the paper horn," claiming that the trick, though done with cards instead of handkerchiefs, is virtually the same as the preceding one.

To one of these assistants, who must not be confounded with confederates, he hands a pack of cards to be counted aloud. This operation concluded, he asks: "How many cards did you say there are—thirty-two? I knew it, but I want my audience to know it too."

He gathers up the cards, and as he takes them in his hands he passes the little finger of his left hand between the five top ones and the rest of the pack.

"Now, sir," addressing the glass box, that is the assistant on his right, "be good enough to empty the outer breast pocket of your coat. Good. Cut this pack."

As he says this he palms the five top cards, and lays the rest of the pack on the table, which is between him and the audience.

When the pack is cut, the performer requests the assistant to put the cut in his breast pocket, to cover the pocket with his hand, and on no account to remove it.

Pointing to the remainder of the pack lying on the table, he requests the paper horn, the assistant on his left, to count it. Let us suppose there proves to be nineteen cards. "Good," he exclaims. "You, sir, will please put these in your pocket." At these words he bunches the cards together with the right hand, adding the five palmed ones.

When the paper horn has emptied his pocket, and placed the cards therein, the performer continues: "You, the paper horn, have nineteen cards, and you, the glass box, necessarily have thirteen, since the sum of nineteen and thirteen equals thirty-two. Now, gentlemen, keep your hands on your pockets, and see that not a card enters or leaves without your knowing it."

"Will you, madam," addressing a lady, "select one of the three mystic numbers, 4, 5, or 6?"

Should 5 be the number chosen, the trick is done, for the performer has only to command five cards to pass from the pocket of the glass box to that of the paper horn.

But if 4 or 6 is selected a little subterfuge is necessary. Let us suppose 4 is chosen.

Turning to the lady, the performer says: "You take number 4? You are sure you would not prefer 5 or 6? No? Be it so. See what I shall do. I shall cause four of the cards which are in the pocket of the glass box to pass invisibly into the pocket of the paper horn. To do this, however, I must ask this gentleman on my left to give me one card from his pocket that the others may learn the road they are to follow."

Taking this card, he gives it to the assistant on his right to put into his pocket. "Now," he proceeds, "one, two, three, four, pass! Count your cards, sir"—to the paper horn—"and see if you have not twenty-three, as you certainly ought to have, since nineteen which you had and the four which have passed make exactly that number."

Of course this proves to be right. Then the glass box is asked to count his cards, and he is found to have nine, since, as the performer explains, four of his original thirteen have left his pocket and gone over to the majority.

Had number 6 been chosen instead of 4, one card would have been taken from the glass box and given to the paper horn "to show the others the way."

Here is a clever little trick which will pass very well for "Thought-Reading" and is quite puzzling. I believe it has also the advantage of never having been explained in print.

Before beginning, the performer gives three sealed envelopes to one of the audience to hold. He then borrows a watch, a ring, and a knife. Three of the audience are asked to act as a committee, and to them are given the borrowed articles, with a request that they leave the room, when each is to select one of the articles and hide it in his pocket. Before they go, however, the performer takes a number of cards from a pack, gives one card to one of the committee, two to a second, and none to the third. These they are to put in their pockets, each remembering how many cards have been handed to him.

When they return to the room, the performer, without asking a question, collects the sealed envelopes, and hands one to each of the committee. On opening them, each finds inside his envelope a card bearing the name of the article he has selected.

With careful attention and a fair memory any one can do this trick—provided he knows how.

In the first place, he must be able to distinguish in which of the envelopes is each of the three cards; this may be done by pricking with a pin one corner of one envelope for the watch, two corners of a second for the ring, and leaving the third envelope intact. The advantage of this system is that the marks are not noticeable, and may be recognized by the touch.

In taking the cards from the pack, the performer, although apparently choosing at haphazard, is really careful to take exactly twelve. These are placed on top of the pack before beginning the trick, and the thirteenth card has a tiny corner clipped off, so that there may be no mistake about the number, as the success of the trick depends upon having it exact. The committee-men are numbered, mentally, 1, 2, and 3 by the performer, who must remember their respective numbers.

To No. 1 he gives one card, to No. 2, two cards, and to No. 3, none. Over the remaining nine cards he slips a rubber band, so that they may not get mixed with the others, and hands them to No. 1 to keep.

When the committee-men have retired and selected the articles, the performer calls to them: "From the cards secured by the elastic let him who has the watch take as many as I gave him originally; let the one who has selected the ring take twice as many as I gave him, but the one who has the knife is to take none."

When the committee returns the performer collects the cards bound together by the elastic, and sees at a glance just how many are left.

Then he refers—mentally again—to the following, which, though it means nothing, in this case means much.

1 | 2 | 3 | 5 | 6 | 7
Ante | Diem | Dea | Ista | Estin | Armis
1 2 | 3 2 | 2 1 | 3 1 | 2 3 | 1 3

The upper row of numbers refer to the cards left in the elastic; the lower row shows the borrowed articles according to their value, that is, 1=watch, 2=ring, 3=knife. The words show the numerical value of the vowels, a, e, i.

If one card is left, the performer knows that the watch has been chosen by committee-man 1, the ring by No. 2, and the knife, consequently, by No. 3. Should there be five cards left, the knife has gone to No. 1, the watch to No. 2, the ring to No. 3.

Having found out just how the articles are distributed, the performer gives out the sealed envelopes, makes his bow, and gracefully retires.

FROM CHUM TO CHUM

BY GASTON V. DRAKE.

IV.—FROM BOB TO JACK.

DEAR JACK,—I guess this letter will reach you about the same time as the other. We did pass the Paris but it was after dark and I couldn't catch the Captain's eye, so the other letter won't be mailed to you a bit earlier. This will be just a P.S. to that. I've had a fearfully exciting time since I wrote to you last. I didn't see Chesterfield for two whole days after that morning and I began to get kind of worried about him, but this morning, which is very rough he turned up again dripping wet. I thought it was one of the waves that have been breaking over us all the time that had wet him, but he said no, it was falling overboard. He was fixing one of the ropes down by the stern yesterday morning when the ship gave a fearful lurch and sent him flying head over heels into the ocean, but he fortunately had enough presence of mind to grab hold of the lead line that runs astern in connection with a little dial to show how many knots an hour the boat goes. It's a funny sort of machine. It's so fixed that being pulled through the water makes the rope revolve, and the faster the boat goes the faster the rope goes around, and every time it goes around it registers a point on the dial on the stern-rail. It was this bit of rope that Chesterfield caught when he fell, but it was an awful prediggerment for him to be placed in because he had to revolve with it, and he got so dizzy that he nearly had to let go, but when he realized that if he let go he'd be drowned he held on and gradually hauled himself up the rope until he got himself aboard again. Of course when he got on board again he'd been whizzed about so much that he couldn't stand up or walk straight, and when the Captain saw him staggering up the deck he falsely accused him of having had too much brandy in his mince pie and ordered him below for twenty-four hours in irons, which is an awful disgrace, and Chesterfield is too much of a gentleman to stand unjust disgrace, so this morning when he was allowed to go free again he felt so badly that he went up into the bow and jumped overboard, preferring to die. But just as he jumped another big wave came along and washed him back on board again, and he has decided to live, which I am glad of because he is a very fine fellow.

He says this is his last trip on this boat. As soon as we land he's going down to Venezuela where he has ten millions of hoarded treasure buried in a swamp. He's going to dig it up and buy the whole of some Island out in the Pacific Ocean and settle down as a King and he's promised if I ever visit him to give me a reception worthy of an Emperor. There is only one trouble, he says, about it all. With all his millions buried in Venezuela he hasn't got enough money with him to pay his fare, but I fixed that. I've lent him the two gold pounds papa gave me, which he says, will help him out with what he hopes to get for looking after the chairs—most people give him fifty dollars, he says, for doing that, and there are six hundred passengers on board, which makes $30,000. I think that's a good deal of money, but he says it's only a bagatelle for a man who wants to go to Venezuela. He's going to pay me back my two pounds after he's dug up his money in Venezuela, and he told me not to say anything to dad about it but surprise him next winter when I get the money back with a thousand pounds interest besides.

There's one nice thing about travelling at sea. Coming this way we gain a half an hour everyday. That is, at this time to-morrow morning it will be half an hour later and that's first rate when you wake up on a rough morning at eight o'clock and find out that it isn't eight o'clock at all, but half past, and you can get your breakfast right away. The idea of it is that travelling East the sun goes down earlier every night and of course it always sets on time wherever you are and you've got to fix your watch according to it. Chesterfield knows a man who kept on going around and around the world until he'd shoved Christmas forward six months, and didn't realize what had happened until he was wakened up by the boys celebrating the Fourth of July. It sounds like a queer story, but Chesterfield says it's true, and the way ships' time is arranged it seems to prove it. It takes a trip all the way round the world to knock off a day though, so it's not as easy a thing to upset the calendar as you'd think. Chesterfield says that if a man could live long enough to go around the world three thousand six hundred and fifty times going west he'd be ten years younger than his own twin brother at the end of that time. I asked dad if that was so and he said he guessed it was, but he really didn't know and to find out he put the question to a very extinguished editor of a Brooklyn paper who is on board and he said of course it was, that he knew a man who had done it. He said that the man was an editor of a Philadelphia paper and that that was why that particular paper was ten years behind the times. Dad laughed at this, and so did I, though I don't know why. Maybe it was a joke—though the extinguished Brooklyn editor said it very solemnly.

We expect to come in sight of land to-morrow and I must say I'm glad of it. The sea is all very fine, but the rough weather you're apt to get makes what you eat disagree with you and I want to get some place where you can eat a dinner and enjoy thinking about it afterwards.

As soon as we get to London I'll write again and tell you all about everything.

Yours ever,
Bob.

P.S. Chesterfield says he thinks Sandboys would make a good Prime Minister for his new Kingdom in the Pacific. He says he'll give him ten dollars a week and Saturdays off if he'll do his Prime Ministering for him. You might speak to Sandboys about it.

THE SOAPY SEA.

When first beside the turquoise sea
Stood Mabel, fair and sweet,
And saw the billows breaking free
Like snow-drifts at her feet,

She murmured, "Do these soapsuds leap
And roll from morn till night,
Way up the shore, to wash and keep,
It always silver white?"

3. The Finish. 2. The Stride. 1. The Start.

From instantaneous Photographs of B. J. Wefers, Amateur Champion of the World.

The Start of a Handicap 100-yard dash.

SHORT-DISTANCE RUNNING.

Of all track-athletic events the sprints are the hardest to train for, yet the easiest to perform. Being the easiest, there are consequently many more athletes running the 100 and the 220 than there are competing in any other single event; but of all the competitors there are comparatively few really first-class men. To become such requires long and patient and careful training, and a greater mastery of form than in almost anything else.

It is a difficult task to tell on paper just what a man should do who wishes to make a specialty of sprinting. There are so many small points of importance that vary with individuals, that only a general description and a few broad suggestions can be given here. At the same time, whoever accepts these suggestions and heeds them may feel confident that he is working along the right lines, and that if he will follow the advice here set down he will put himself into condition to make rapid strides of progress as soon as he comes under the management of a trainer.

It has already been said in this Department that no one ought to begin to train for any athletic event much under the age of sixteen. Until that time few boys are sufficiently developed physically to be able to stand the strain of regular athletic work. At that age and afterward, however, the muscles become firm, and are amenable to development and capable of continuous careful exercise. You will hear a great deal of talk about "wind" and "breathing" and "lungs" and kindred subjects when you first begin to train as a runner. Pay no attention to these "wind" advisers. Your wind and lungs will take care of themselves. In the first place, the lungs are not at all the organs that you want to think of in this connection; it is the heart. The heart is the organ that is affected by running. Run a hundred yards, and you will find your heart beating faster than when you started. The exertion of sending the blood more rapidly through the body is the cause of this. Therefore a sprinter should first feel confident that he has a strong heart, and then he may set to work with no misgivings about his wind.

It is not the lungs that are affected by cigarette-smoking. It is the heart. Take any smoker, and you will find that his heart beats to a different measure from that of an abstainer. For this reason sprinters should avoid tobacco. Another old-fashioned and exploded theory is that the athlete should run with his mouth shut. That is not necessary at all. In fact, sprinters are taught nowadays to run with their mouths open, and every first-class man in the event does so. It must be plain to every one that a man can get more air into his lungs, and thus facilitate the working of the heart, by inhaling through his mouth than through his nostrils. Of late all the best long-distance runners have adopted this breathing method, and find it best, and in the illustrations of long-distance runners to be published in an early issue of the Round Table these men will all be seen to have their mouths open as they run.

The training for the 100 yards and that for the 220 are almost identical, for an athlete who runs one of these events almost invariably becomes proficient in the other. In fact, the 220 is a long sprint—the word sprint meaning to run at full speed the entire distance of a race. The most important feature of sprinting, of course, is the start, and no runner can become too proficient in this. Up to within five or six years the standing start was universal, but in 1889 or 1890 Lee of the New York Athletic Club introduced the crouching start, and since then that has become the standard in America. In England some of the professionals use it, but not until the London Athletic Club men came over here last fall did British amateurs recognize the value of the crouch and adopt it. But they did adopt it after the international games, and no doubt the crouching start will soon become general among English amateurs.

The position for this start is somewhat difficult to acquire and master, but once this is accomplished an athlete is certain to knock off one-fifth of a second from his best previous record. The first thing of importance is to fall into an easy position, with the hands on the scratch-line and the starting foot from six to nine inches back. The other foot should be from 2 ft. 6 in. to 2 ft. 9 in. further back. The runner should be raised up on his toes in an easy, springy attitude. The first illustration shows exactly how that position is taken. Many runners lean on their knuckles, but a better way is to have the hands open, and to rest on the extended fingers. This gives more spring. In order to do this and to keep hold of the running corks, fasten a rubber band at each end of these, and slip this over the back of the hands.

When the starter gives the word to "set," the runner should lean forward as far as he can without losing his balance, his head lifted so that he can get a full and clear view of the track ahead of him. When the pistol sounds he shoots ahead with all the force of both legs, but his first two strides are taken in a crouching position. Do not attempt to stand erect at the very start. Let the head and shoulders rise along a slanting line to their proper altitude, or there will be an infinitesimal but still noticeable loss of time. As soon as the runner has got into an erect position, however, and into his pace, he should run with only the very slightest forward inclination of the body, but with the chin thrust well out. The second illustration shows this well. The arms should be swung across the body rather than alongside of it. This gives better form and makes an easier stride.

Never look backward while running. Many a race has been lost by that very act. Pay no attention at all to the other competitors, but go it for all you are worth, regardless of your rivals. Breathe naturally. Do not begin to stop until you have passed the finish-line, but, this done, throw up your hands and try to run up into the air. The third illustration demonstrates that idea. The man who naturally has a long stride has an advantage over his fellows, but the man who has not a long stride need not attempt to increase his spread of pace. An athlete can run much better with his natural stride than with an adopted gait. Of course, when jogging for practice, it is best to lift the legs as well up as possible, and thus develop whatever capabilities for a long stride you may have, but do not strain yourself by trying to overdo the thing. The foot should always come down straight upon the ground—that is, flat. I do not mean by this that the heel should touch, for it must not by any means. Yet a man does not run on his toes; he runs on the ball of his foot; and in order that the spikes of his shoes may enter the track to the best advantage the sole should strike flat, that the nails may dig well in and secure a firm hold.

For a beginner who has never undertaken any systematic training in sprinting, and who desires to become proficient in it, I should recommend the following schedule, to be carefully carried out for three weeks:

Monday.—Practise the start six times, running at speed only about twenty yards from the scratch. Rest between each attempt, and end up by jogging fifty yards, finishing up the hundred at speed.

Tuesday.—Jog a quarter of a mile for the purpose of developing the stride.

Wednesday.—Run seventy-five yards at speed; rest, and then run fifty yards at speed.

Thursday.—Practise the start ten times, running as before, not further than twenty yards each time; jog 220 yards slowly for stride.

Friday.—Run fifty yards at speed twice, with a rest between.

Saturday.—Run a trial 100 yards on time, and, after a rest, jog around the track for 220 yards.

To an ambitious young athlete who feels he is a future record-holder this schedule may seem altogether too light. There are no words strong enough, however, with which I can urge him not to attempt to do a bit more at the beginning. What is more, at the slightest sign of fatigue at this work, quit for the day.

For practising starts, where a pistol is unavailable, get some one to snap two boards together. Don't start by oral command. Get in the habit of getting off the mark at the crack of a pistol, or to a sound as nearly similar as possible. The jogging around the track should be taken very slowly, and is intended purely as a leg exercise and to develop the muscles of the calves and thighs. A long loose jog will lengthen the stride. When preparing for a contest lay off altogether the day immediately preceding it, and don't run your distance against time for three or four days previously. Run only fifty yards at those times if you are going into the 100, and try 150 if you intend entering the 220. In a 220 race you will find that you can make a stronger finish if you ease up a trifle for 5 or 10 yards at the 200-yard mark—although this is merely comparatively speaking, for this race is a dash from start to finish. It will be better not to experiment with this suggestion until you become a pretty good judge of your pace.

The proper costume for a runner is a light jersey shirt with no sleeves, and china-silk running trousers that barely reach to the knees. If china silk is unavailable, cambric or cotton will do very well. Corks may be purchased of any dealer in sporting goods. Working shoes should be made of horse-hide, with no heels, and six spikes in the toes. The athlete should also have a pair of calf-skin shoes of the lightest possible make for use only in competition. While at work it is well to wear light socks, as these make the shoe fit more snugly; but in a race wear "pushers"; these are made of chamois, and cover the toes from the instep downward.

The interest in the big in-door games to be held at the Madison Square Garden on March 28th seems to be increasing every day. Not only have most of the prominent athletes of the New York schools already entered or signified their intention of entering, but many sportsmen from a distance will be on hand to try their powers against the home talent. The Hartford High-School will send three representatives to the meeting. Luce, the Captain of their track-athletic team, will enter the half, the quarter, and the 220. He won the quarter in the Connecticut H.-S.A.A. games of 1894, but only took second in the event last year on account of having gone stale. His best time is 51-2/5 seconds; his records for the half-mile and the 220 are 2 minutes 7 seconds, and 23-2/5 seconds. These, of course, are out-door records. F. R. Sturtevant will enter the pole vault and the running high jump. He has an in-door record of 9 feet 8 inches in the former event, and can clear 5 feet 7 inches in the jump. He has held the championship of the Connecticut H.-S.A.A. in these events for the past two years. J. W. Bradin, the third Hartford man, has not made a very strong showing in athletics as yet, but he is full of promise. He took third in the quarter at the Connecticut H.-S.A.A. games last year, and will enter that event in the Madison Square Garden games.

The baseball schedule of the New York Interscholastic League has been formulated, and was announced at the last regular meeting of the association. As was the case last year, the competing teams will play in two sections, and the games will be held on the following dates:

FIRST SECTION.

April 6—Drisler vs. Barnard.

April 10—Condon vs. Cutler.

April 15—Barnard vs. De La Salle Institute.

April 20—Condon vs. Drisler.

April 24—Cutler vs. De La Salle.

April 29—De La Salle vs. Drisler.

May 4—Barnard vs. Condon.

May 8—Cutler vs. Barnard.

May 13—Condon vs. De La Salle.

May 18—Cutler vs. Drisler.

SECOND SECTION.

April 8—Woodbridge vs. Hamilton Institute.

April 13—Columbia Grammar vs. Trinity.

April 17—Hamilton vs. Berkeley.

April 22—Columbia Grammar vs. Woodbridge.

April 27—Woodbridge vs. Berkeley.

May 1—Berkeley vs. Trinity.

May 6—Hamilton vs. Columbia Grammar.

May 11—Trinity vs. Hamilton.

May 15—Columbia Grammar vs. Berkeley.

May 20—Trinity vs. Woodbridge.

The winner of the first section will play the winner of the second for the League championship on May 27th, and all games will be played at the Berkeley Oval. Should there be a tie in any section, the Baseball Committee will assign a date for the deciding game.

The Graduate.

THE PUDDING STICK.

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

"Why should that old lady care," I heard a girl say the other day, "whether or not her hair is turning gray? What possible difference can it make of what color is the hair of an old, old woman? Why, she mast be almost eighty!"

In the case in question the lady criticised was on the borderland of seventy, but to sixteen she might as well have been a hundred. Age and youth are relative. To the very young years count for more than they do to the older, who have lived longer, and have learned that the soul does not grow old with the body. I myself feel pity for elderly people who are ashamed of their age, and are so weak as to try to hide it, but I don't quite like to see young girls unsympathetic. Try, if you can, to fancy yourselves in the position of some of your elders—of women who remember, but do not look forward. As you go tripping on, with light steps, imagine what it would be to totter a little, to see dimly, to hear faintly, to feel worried at every little pain and mishap, to reach the days when "the grasshopper is a burden." No, you cannot do it. You are too full of life and gladness and energy. You are young, and youth is charming.

All this should make you very patient and gentle with old people. There is nothing more beautiful in this world than to observe the tenderness of some girls toward their aged relatives. Dear grandmother cannot thread her needles so easily as she used to do, and is sensitive on the subject; and does not like to be too obviously helped, to have attention called to her failing eye-sight, which she so much regrets and does not like to admit. There are two ways of meeting the difficulty. Mattie, a kind-hearted girl without much tact, will exclaim: "Oh, gran! what perfect nonsense for you to fuss over that needle! You know you cannot find the hole where the thread should go in; your eyes are too old. Give me the thing; I'll thread your needles!" The intention is most excellent, but the old lady is hurt and stifles a sigh. She had young eyes once, and she has the same independent spirit still. Edith, in the same circumstances, manages in another fashion. She simply threads a dozen needles, and leaves them all ready for grandmamma in her needle-book, saying, pleasantly, "It saves so much time, dear, in these busy days, to have one's needles all ready and waiting." Tact is a wonderful gift, girls, and well worth cultivating when it will help to make a saddened heart light, or to oil the domestic wheels and make them run smoothly.

Whatever you do, never suffer yourselves, girls, to show irritation or amusement at the foibles of an old lady or gentleman. One is as hard to bear as the other. The sweet girl who is thoughtful for and deferent in manner to the old people she meets wins the love and admiration of every one.

One rather peculiar thing about very old people is a failure of memory. They tell you a story to-day, and to-morrow they forget that they told it, and tell it over again. Now it really is not very hard to listen with a patient air and with interest to a tale you have heard before; it may be done, and it is worth the doing, if it adds a little pleasure to lives which are not as full of strength and cheerfulness as your own are.

Margaret E. Sangster.

RECALLED STORMY TIMES.

"Well, that looks natural," said the old soldier, looking at a can of condensed milk on the breakfast-table in place of ordinary milk that failed on account of the storm. "It's the Gail Borden Eagle Brand we used during the war."—[Adv.]

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MONARCH

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88 Reade St., NEW YORK.

NOT A DYSPEPTIC PEOPLE.

It is time that the old saw about Americans being a dyspeptic people was hung up. This has been a pet phrase with medical papers, some physicians, and professors of cookery altogether too long. The story has been repeated until we have acquired abroad the reputation of being a nation of dyspeptics, and if a nation of dyspeptics—then the producers of dyspepsia-provoking food.

Now it is not true that we are a dyspeptic people. On the contrary, whatever we may have been years ago, it is now a fact that we are the people freest from alimentary disorders upon the face of the earth. Further than this, the introduction of our hygienic foods among other nations is perceptibly increasing their health rate and adding to the longevity of their people.

There have been borrowed by our people from the French, English, and Germans the best cooking methods of each, and, combining these with American ideas, methods, and agencies, we have developed a school of cookery purely American, which is the perfection of culinary art, at once the delight of epicures and the hope of physicians.

In the aid of this reform no agency has had an equal influence with the Royal Baking Powder. It has been frequently remarked by the medical fraternity that the decline of those dyspeptic ailments which formerly prevailed among the American people was contemporaneous with the extended use of this article. The fact has likewise caused particular comment from both English and French hygienists. Professors Kahlman and De Wildes of the French Academy coincide that the Royal Baking Powder is the most important of cooking devices because of the essentially hygienic properties which it adds to the food, while Dr. Saunders, an eminent specialist, and the head of the Health Department of London, is an enthusiastic advocate of the "Royal," which he says is "a boon to mankind."

We are not a dyspeptic people, and the chief reason is because of our better, purer, and more wholesome bread.—Journal of Health.

BREAKFAST—SUPPER.

EPPS'S

GRATEFUL—COMFORTING.

COCOA

BOILING WATER OR MILK.

A Request.

Readers of Harper's Round Table will please mention the paper when answering advertisements contained therein.

FREE.

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

THOMPSON'S EYEWATER

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

Among the most difficult questions to answer, because it is always so varied, is that which involves how much, how long, how far the impersonal "I" should ride. I do not write this in the spirit of ridicule at all, for evidently the many inquiries received are sent in all seriousness, and even if this were not so the subject is such a serious one that it would demand earnest attention. It may be said that any particular person can ride, or rather may ride, just so far on a wheel as his physical powers and his physical training will permit him to without completely exhausting him. This is, of course, entirely relative, and there are at the same time cases where a man may exhaust himself without fear of injury, and other cases where he must stop long before he approaches the point of exhaustion, unless he wishes to take the chance of severe injury. Each person, in other words, must be his own judge of what his distance and speed may be, unless there is some one near to watch and advise him competently.

Having stated the general case, let us particularize. An average afternoon ride for a business man who does not train regularly is twenty miles, without much of a stop anywhere from the first to the twentieth mile. An average ride for a woman who probably never has taken much exercise is ten miles, with several dismounts, to walk up most hills, and get the variation on the muscles furnished by a little walk. An average ride for a young man in school or college who has been in pretty good condition for some time, if not absolutely in training, is from forty to fifty miles in an afternoon, without much stop. An average ride for a girl of healthy out-door life and training—for there is always a certain amount of physical training in out-door life—is twenty miles in a day, with several stops. Here are four grades, so to speak, which merely give us a basis to work on. Now as to the time occupied. In the first, the man's twenty-mile ride, it would be safe to say two hours should be occupied in doing the ride. In the second, or woman's ten-mile ride, about an hour and a half altogether would be required. That is to say, she will wheel at the rate of seven or eight miles an hour to occupy a good fifteen minutes in walking. The third case, that of the young man in training doing fifty miles, ought to occupy under four hours, or, at any rate, not much more than four hours; thus starting out at one o'clock in the afternoon, he should do his fifty miles and be at home again by five. Finally, in the girl's twenty-mile ride, with its more or less frequent stops for a walk, two to two and a half hours should be employed. If you happen to belong to any one of these four classes, very probably you cannot easily do the amount set down here as the average for that class. It will be found, however, that these figures in the end will strike the amount nearly at the general average. The fact that you cannot do the amount without becoming exhausted at the moment and stiff the next day simply means that you are not yourself up to the average. This is nothing to be discouraged over, as it is a very simple matter to reach the average by a little training—that is, a little steady riding for a week or two—unless, of course, there is something organically defective about you.

The important point in all this—for we cannot stop to go into details—is that bicycling does not depend on the amount of ground covered, nor upon the speed with which you cover it, but upon the pleasure of being out-of-doors, and of moving along over the ground to the comfort rather than the discomfort of your body, and, consequently, of your mind. Hence, if you are planning out a trip for some holiday, for example, or for a holiday of more than twenty-four hours, do not think out a trip which will be a record for distance covered. Yet that is the point of most of the inquiries received by this department. "Please tell me whether I can do seventy miles a day for a week. I am going to spend my vacation of a week on my wheel, and want to take as long a trip as possible. Can I do 500 miles in the week without becoming sick?" This is, of course, an imagined case, but it is representative of what is often considered the point of a trip of this sort. There never was a greater mistake made. The point of a week's bicycle trip is, or should be, fun, unless the absolute object is a road record for so many hundred miles—fun and amusement and health; and therefore you must not ride so far that you begin to make work of it, nor so short a distance that you do not get the pleasure of the exercise. You should not tire yourself by riding up absurdly steep hills; you should not make yourself disgusted with wheeling, or your doctor disgusted with you, by trying to keep up with a better rider, or trying to beat some professional bicyclist's record. Let the pace and the distance disappear from among the factors that make up a bicycle tour.

A NEWSPAPER MAN'S PROTÉGÉ.

An old newspaper man told the following story not long ago, which is interesting, in that it shows what pluck and ambition will do for a boy: "Several years ago I was detailed to cover some disastrous floods in the lower part of the State. After travelling slowly all the afternoon, about dusk we began getting into the flooded district. The conductor of the train expressed some fears about the condition of the track, so when the train reached Boylston, I hunted up the telegraph operator to learn what the chances were of reaching the scene of the floods.

"While discussing the probabilities, the train-boy came up and called out to the operator, 'Oh, Mr. Jackson, have you that shorthand book you promised me?'

"When he had gone the operator apologetically said, 'The boy is studying shorthand, sir.'

"'Rather a bright boy,' I remarked.

"'Oh yes; he knows a deal of shorthand already, and he can send on the wires almost as good as I can.'

"That sort of boy aroused my curiosity. I got hold of him when the train started, and found out a little of his history. Nothing extraordinary, you know; a country lad of poor parentage endeavoring to earn his living. Well, we were rolling along, it seemed to me very rapidly, when I felt the car give a lurch; then came a terrific bumping, and as the thought flew through my mind that the rails had spread, the car toppled over on its side with a crash. I came out of that wreck bruised and battered, with a broken leg.

"They got me into a house close by, and later I heard that fifteen people lost their lives. While waiting for the doctor I wondered how I could get the news of the disaster to the office. I thought of the train-boy. Just the chap, and I got one of the men in the house to search for him. In a short time the boy came, for luckily he had escaped with a few scratches. I explained to him what I wanted. Well, gentlemen, that boy knew everything about that accident, even to the number of spikes in the spread rail, and he took my copy down in shorthand like a professional.

"Before I got through I gave up, fainted, you know, and I never learned until some time after how the matter came out. It seemed from the dictation I gave him he got enough of an example out of it to enable him to finish the rest of the story in the same style, and got it over the wires in time for the edition. They never knew at the office that the story of the disaster had been sent by a train-boy until a couple of days later, when the corrected list of the killed and wounded reached them. As the boy failed to put my name on the list he sent in, and receiving what they thought was my report, they had concluded I had escaped. Several weeks after, when I was able to get about, I hunted up the lad, and made him a sort of protégé of mine; he is now a brilliant man in the profession!"

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. 3.—ANOTHER WAY OF OBTAINING VIOLET TONES.

In paper No. 2 directions were given for making violet tones in prints by sensitizing prepared photographic paper with nitrate of uranium, and developing the image with a chloride-of-gold solution. The French have a process of making violet tints much softer in tone than these, and which resemble delicate engravings. It is some trouble to prepare the paper, and a beginner would perhaps not be successful the first time trying, but the prints are so beautiful that it is worth while to learn how to make them.

Take a sheet of best photographic paper—Rives is very good—and coat it with the following solution: Hydrochlorate of ammonia, 1 oz.; rock candy, 1 oz.; distilled water, 20 oz. Dissolve the candy in the water, which may be slightly warmed if necessary, then add the chlorate of ammonia. Dip a piece of blue litmus paper in this solution, and if it turns it red add a few drops of ammonia water till it does not turn the litmus paper. Put the solution into a large flat tray, and float the paper on it for five minutes; drain, and hang up to dry. After the paper is dry, sensitize it with a solution made of 1½ oz. of nitrate of silver and 10 oz. of distilled water. Float the salted paper on this bath for five minutes, and then dry. As soon as the paper is dried it is ready for printing. This is a printing-out paper, and the prints should be made as deep as for aristo or albumen paper.

Place the prints in a dish of soft water, to which has been added a few drops of ammonia water. Leave them in only a minute, and wash at once in several changes of clear water. The toning solution is made with Sel d'Or, 7½ grs., distilled water, 15 oz., hydrochloric acid (pure), 1 dr. As soon as the prints have washed sufficiently place them one at a time face up in this solution, and tone till the prints have a deep purple tone in the shadows and a creamy white in the high lights. Wash well, and place in a fixing bath composed of 3 oz. of hypo and 16 oz. of water. Leave in this bath for half an hour, till the purple tones have faded somewhat; wash well in running water, and place them in a dish of clean water, and leave them for twenty-four hours. On taking them from the water they must be coated with albumen in order to avoid the dull appearance which the print would have if dried in the usual way.

Have a solution of equal parts of albumen and water, and as soon as the prints are taken from the water blot off the moisture with a piece of fine white blotting-paper, and brush the surface of the print with the mixture of albumen and water, using a flat camel's-hair brush. Pin them to dry on a flat board placed in an upright position. The reason why prints which are not squeegeed on to glass or a ferrotype plate should be dried in a horizontal or upright position is because, if they are dried flat, drops of moisture are apt to settle on the face of the print, and either cause distortion—that is, the print does not dry evenly—or the water leaves spots on the face of the print.

Any one who has seen some of the imported French prints in violet tones knows how exquisite they are, and while the process is some trouble, and the paper needs careful handling, after one has prepared two or three kinds of sensitive paper by more simple methods he will find this comparatively easy, and will be delighted with the result.

Sir Knight Ray Mead, Winona, Wisconsin, asks for a good formula for a developer to use with films. The following will be found to give excellent negatives: Solution No. 1. Water, 10 oz.; sulphite of soda, 2 oz.; eikonogen, 165 grs.; hydroquinon, 80 grs. Add enough water to make the solution up to 16 oz. Solution No. 2. Water, 10 oz.; carbonate of potassium, 1 oz.; sodium carbonate, 1 oz.; and enough more water to make the solution up to 16 oz. For developing take 1 oz. of No. 1, 1 oz. of No. 2, and 4 oz. of water.

ADVERTISEMENTS.

Ornamenting

It recently occurred to Tiffany & Co., the New York jewelers, to ornament a bicycle elaborately with gold, silver, and precious stones, believing that some wealthy customer would esteem so handsome a mount. They preferred to pay $100 each for

Columbia

Bicycles

For their purpose to using any other make of wheel. There must be no question of quality in a bicycle selected for such ornamentation. Therefore they chose Columbias

STANDARD OF THE WORLD

Unequalled, Unapproached.

Beautiful Art Catalogue of Columbia and Hartford Bicycles is free if you call upon any Columbia agent; by mail from us for two 2-cent stamps.

POPE MANUFACTURING CO.

Factories and General Offices, Hartford, Conn.

Branch Stores and Agencies in almost every city and town. If Columbias are not properly represented in your vicinity let us know.

Arnold

Constable & Co

Infants' and

Children's Wear.

Pique Coats,

Fancy Lawn Dresses,

French Caps.

Hand-Made Guimpes,

Children's School Frocks.

Broadway & 19th st.

NEW YORK.

Postage Stamps, &c.

STAMPS!

800 mixed Victoria, Cape of G. H., India, Japan, etc., with fine Stamp Album, only 10c. New 80-p. Price-list free. Agents wanted at 50% commission. STANDARD STAMP CO., 4 Nicholson Place, St. Louis, Mo. Old U.S. and Confederate Stamps bought.

$117.50 WORTH OF STAMPS FREE

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

C. W. Grevning, Morristown, N. J.

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

LOOK HERE, BOYS! 50 stamps and hinges, 15c.; 100, 25c. Cheaper packets if you want. Sheets on approval. List sent free. Send Postal Card.

W. C. SHIELDS, 30 Sorauren Ave., Toronto, Canada.

105 Stamps, Java, etc., hinges, cats., album, 5c. Agents at 50% get free 8 stamps and album. Bargain cats. free; 3 bbls. of stamps free. A. BULLARD &. CO., 97 Pembroke St., Boston, Mass.

310 foreign Bolivia, etc., 10c.; 100 different China, etc., 10c. Finest approval sheet, at 50%. Agents wanted. Large price-list, free. Shaw Stamp Co., Jackson, Mich.

125 dif. Gold Coast, Costa Rica, etc., 25c.; 40 U. S., 25c. Liberal com. to agents. Large bargain list free. F. W. Miller, 904 Olive St., St. Louis, Mo.

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

Stamps! App'l Sheets, 33-1/3 and 40% dis.; ref. req'd.

R. W. DeHAVEN, Box 4023, Station B, Phila., Pa.

Harper's Catalogue,

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

THOMPSON'S EYEWATER

ANOTHER PRIZE MUSIC COMPOSITION.

We have already announced the prizes for the best song settings to Mrs. Sangster's charming verses, "Our Little Echo." Here are awards for the Hymn Competition, "For Sowing and Reaping." We give the first-prize composition and the additional verses. The winner of the first prize of $5 is Mr. E. S. Hosmer, of Bristol, Conn., and of the second, Mr. W. H. Squires, of Philadelphia, both Round Table Patrons. Those whose compositions deserve special praise are: Christine R. Benedict, Harvey Reese, Blanche Elizabeth Wade, H. Hamilton Craig, Thacher H. Guild, Alice C. Banning, Helen H. Sohst, Harry R. Patty. Additional verses of "A Thanksgiving Song."

Music for A Thanksgiving Song.

For parents who care for us day after day,
For sisters and brothers, for work and for play,
For dear little babies so helpless and fair,
O Father, we send Thee our praise and our prayer.

For teachers who guide us so patiently on,
For frolics with mates when our lessons are done,
For shelter and clothing, for every day's food,
We bless Thee, our Father, the giver of good.

For peace and for plenty, for freedom, for rest,
For joy in the land from the east to the west,
For the dear starry flag, with its red, white, and blue,
We thank Thee from hearts that are honest and true.

For waking and sleeping, for blessings to be,
We children would offer our praises to Thee;
For God is our Father, and bends from above
To keep the round world in the smile of His love.

Awards for Best Stories.

The most successful story contest the Table has ever had closed some weeks ago. Competition was restricted to those who had not passed their eighteenth birthday, and the limit of length, first announced at 1500 words, was raised to 2500. The prizes, three of $25 each, were increased by the addition of five $5 prizes. The success of the contest lies in the fact that the stories received were a great deal better than we ever received before, while the slightly changed conditions, without working injustice to any one, made the competition both easier and more liberal.

Conscientious judges read every word of every story submitted. Some stories of unusual merit were read half a dozen times. The number of well-written, probable, and interesting stories was most creditably large, and the making of awards correspondingly difficult. The three highest prizes are equal in value, but we place at the top, in point of excellence, "A Story of Strife," by Sir Knight F. M. McNaughton, aged sixteen, who lives in Quebec, Canada. Next, in rank we put "How Hector Saved the Train," by Sir Knight S. O. Rittenhouse, aged sixteen, of Lynn, Mass., and the third to "The Duke of Alva's Humiliation," by Sir Knight George C. Hirst, aged seventeen, of Philadelphia. Each is sent $25 in money.

Proofs of these stories have just been mailed to nearly three hundred persons, all under eighteen, who are to try to illustrate them. We want one illustration, and offer $10 for the best. Artists select their own subject after reading the stories. We allow them three stories in order to give them the best possible chance. We shall print the prize story that we happen to receive the best illustration for, and perhaps the other two. This Illustration Contest ends March 21th, but entries for it have now closed.

The five $5 prizes we award to the following, their excellence in the opinion of the judges standing in the order named—the best first, etc.:

"Quailin," by Lady Olive Arnold Dame, aged thirteen, of Medford, Mass.; "A Tale of the Football Field," by Sir Knight Lucien Memminger, aged sixteen, of Charleston, S. C.; "Putnam's Wolf," by Sir Knight Charles Frederick Hoffman, aged fifteen, of New York City; "A Wild-Goose Chase," by Sir Knight Harry T. Trowber, aged sixteen, of South Haven, Mich.; and "A Profitable Adventure," by Sir Knight Marion R. Gilbert, of Harrisburg, Pa.

Stories deserving, in our opinion, special commendation are: "A Last Chance," by Lady Frances S. C. James, of Mich.; "The Old Water-mill," by Lady Dell Whitney, of Wisconsin; "Three Chums and a Buffalo," by Sir Knight Egbert B. Heyser, of Missouri; "A Day's Fishing," by Sir Knight Preston K. Smalley, of Michigan; "Saving the Papers," by Sir Knight Rupert S. Holland, of Pennsylvania; "Balloon Voyage Round the World," by Sir Knight William Swanson, of Canada; and "The Little Cripple," by Sir Knight Edwin H. Andrews, of California.

The prizes, with our congratulations, have been forwarded, and the manuscripts of all stories returned to writers.

Answers to the Prize Puzzle.

Here are answers to Sir John R. Moreland's new-ideas puzzle. They are in two parts, 1, the numbers, and 2, the arithmetic:

1. A. D. 1572. 2, Raphael. 3, A. D. 70. 4, A. D. 1156. 5, Toucan (2). 6, Lincoln and Garfield. 7, A. D. 1015. 8, A. D. 1670. 9, Spina, a monk of Pisa. 10, Paulding, Van Wart, Williams. 11, "Jesus wept," "Rejoice evermore." 12, Drebel, a Dutchman. 13, King of Bourges. 14, 146. 15, 56. 16, "Citizen King." 17, John Hancock. 18, Francis Marion. 19, Stubb. 20, Deborah Simpson. 21, Paul Blouet. 22, Devil River. 23, Hamlet, Prince of Denmark. 24, B. C. 31. 25, "Sailor King."

1572x7=11,004+70=11,074-1156=9918x2=19,836÷2=9918-1015=8903+1670=10,573+5=10,578÷3=3526+4=3530+6= 3536-13=3523-146=3377+56=8433-11=3422+11=3433-13=3420÷5=684-14=670+10=680-5=675-21=654-31=623-10= 613—that is, 6.13=the sixth day of the week (Friday), and the 13th of the month—the proverbial unlucky figure.

Questions and Answers.

Henry W. Ticknor, R. T. K., Clanton, Ala., makes the following kind offer: "As I live 'way down South in the land of cotton,' I will send to any one who sends me five cents to pay postage some cotton seeds and instructions how to plant and tend them. Should any members respond who live outside the United States and Canada, they should send at least fifteen cents for postage."

Several members who have recently asked to have their names published as wanting correspondents are reminded that we cannot print such requests, since unscrupulous persons not infrequently use such addresses. We would be glad to grant you the favor were it possible to do so, and avoid this annoying consequence. Reader: The Table rarely prints poems on this page, and prefers not to criticise young "poets" publicly. Jos. L. Dwyer, 103 Porter Street, Detroit, Mich., wants to receive sample copies of amateur papers.

Who?—When?—Where?—What?—Why?

I wonder if you would like to try the game of "The Five W's, or Biographical Jumbles?" Provide each player with a pencil and a slip of paper (a half sheet of commercial note is a good size), then request each one to write at the top of the paper the first W, the name of some well-known historical character; fold the paper over to conceal the name, and pass it to his right-hand neighbor. Then each player writes on the folded sheet the second W, when did he live, and folding it again, passes it on as before. The third W, written in the same way, tells where he lived and died; the fourth, what he did; the fifth, why he did it; and the sixth and last folding gives the results or consequences of his life.

The paper must be folded at each writing, and no player must know what the others have written till the results are given, when each player in turn unfolds his paper and reads it aloud. Of course there are all sorts of incongruities and lots of fun over them, besides a grand chance to furbish up forgotten history, in straightening out the tangles, and setting matters right. Should the sheet of paper at first supplied prove insufficient, another may be easily attached with a convenient pin without unfolding. Of course, the more items of interest brought in the better. A prize may be given to the one who corrects the most mistakes, a tally being kept for the purpose.

A game of Geographical Jumbles may be played in the same way, by making an arrangement like this:

1. What—Name of country, city, river, mountain, etc.

2. Who—Inhabitants, celebrated people, etc.

3. Where—Situation.

4. When—Founded, antiquity, etc.

5. Why—Importance, productions, climate, historical associations

Try these games and you will like them.

H. E. Banning.
Newport, R. I.

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.

The number of intelligent inquiries I receive each week is so large that all of them cannot be answered in the narrow limits of this column. Inquirers sending a stamped and addressed envelope will be answered direct. Inquiries without prepaid and addressed envelopes will have to wait their turn.

The upper left-hand pane of 100-stamp sheet No. 170 contains both varieties of triangles (II. and III.). The first discovery was made in San Francisco, and dealers have been buying these sheets all over the country at $3 each. Several collectors managed to find a number of sheets in New York city, which they bought at face, and sold at fifty per cent. profit.

D. H. S.—I would advise you to ask your postmaster.

Mrs. Maud G. F.—The red stamps are the common 1851 issue. Millions were used every day for over five years. The blue ones are 1869 issue worth 25c. each. The Brattleboro, Vt., has the name of the town and initials of the postmaster. It is printed on buff paper in black ink.

Mrs. E. V. B.—The $1 Colombian can be purchased for $8.

P. F. Lisk.—I do not purchase stamps.

Robert Peltier, Lycee Janson de Sailly, Paris, France, wants to exchange French stamps for U.S. stamps and others.

W. T. Helm.—The "Postal Service" envelopes are not stamps; they are franks. The one described is worth 20c.

Elias Alter, New York City (gives no street address), and Burette Snyder, Cape Girardeau, Mo.—Wish to exchange stamps.

R. C. Megrue.—All the proof specimens of U. S. stamps are more or less valuable. The "Department" proofs are worth more than the proofs of the regular issues.

G. G. Stone.—The 1c. Columbians can still be bought at many post-offices, hence there is no premium. Treasury Department used set is worth about $8.

E. L. Davis.—There is no way to restore the color of a stamp except where the color has oxydized. In that case a chemical which can be bought of stamp-dealers for 25c. per bottle, will restore the original color. Put your stamps on hinges, and you can change easily as often as you want. Hinges cost 10 to 15 cents per 1000.

G. R. Moffitt.—Your stamp is from Montenegro, which has issued sets in 1874, 1880, 1893, and 1894.

F. S. Perkins.—It is a medal or token, not a coin. No value.

S. C. R. of K. B. K.—I cannot keep on repeating values of coins given in back numbers of the present volume. See the Round Table for December 17, 1895, and January 14, 1896. The rare pink is a 3c., not a 2c. stamp.

Sergeant.—See answer to S. C. R.

L. B. Hershey.—The 3c. 1869 unused is worth 25c.; used, 2c.—that is, dealers ask those prices. They buy much cheaper.

D. Barnum.—Your list of inquiries is too long for answer in this column. You have some very nice stamps, but there are no rarities in the list.

Mrs. W. H. H.—See Round Table of December 17, 1895, and January 14, 1896, for prices asked by dealers for U. S. coins. What dealers pay I do not know.

H. Merritt.—What you describe are not postage-stamps or stamped postage-envelopes. Before postage-stamps were used almost every postmaster had a hand stamp to mark "Paid," "Paid 5 cents," or "Paid 10 cents," etc., on letters for which he received postage in advance. Where not so marked the person to whom the letter was addressed had to pay the postage. I know very few collectors of these postmarks, as they have no money value.

G. M. Ross.—The prices quoted in this column are those asked by dealers, not what they pay. That, of course, I do not know.

A. Schmengler.—The 1861 3c. U.S. comes in hundreds of shades, from a pale washed-out color to a deep scarlet. Only one of these varieties has any value; that one is the "Pink," which is a brilliant color on a bluish background. It is very scarce. I have looked over tens of thousands of this stamp, and never found a copy of the true "Pink."

Philatus.

Ivory Soap

Some persons insist on having the costliest of everything. They do not buy Ivory Soap. Those who want the best do.

The Procter & Gamble Co., Cin'ti.

THE

BALTIMOREAN PRINTING-PRESS

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

THE J. F. W. DORMAN CO.,

Baltimore, Md., U.S.A

JOSEPH GILLOTT'S

STEEL PENS

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

And other styles to suit all hands.

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Roche's Herbal Embrocation.

The celebrated and effectual English Cure without internal medicine. Proprietors, W. Edward & Son, London, England.

E. Fougera & Co., 30 North William St., N.Y.

BAKER

sells recitations and PLAYS

23 Winter St., Boston

CATALOGUES FREE.

CARDS

The FINEST SAMPLE BOOK of Gold Beveled Edge, Hidden Name, Silk Fringe, Envelope and Calling Cards offered for a 2 cent stamp. These are GENUINE CARDS, NOT TRASH. UNION CARD CO., COLUMBUS, OHIO.

THOMPSON'S EYE WATER

SOME POPULAR BOOKS

"HARPER'S ROUND TABLE" FOR 1895

Volume XVI. With 1096 Pages, and about 750 Illustrations. 4to, Cloth, Ornamental, $3.50.

There is nothing, we imagine, that the young reader would be likely to prize more.—N. Y. Sun.

A truly royal volume for the youthful reading appetite.—Boston Courier.

OAKLEIGH

A Story for Girls. By Ellen Douglas Deland. Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25.

A story for girls, charmingly written, and illustrated throughout with pictures dainty enough to please the most fastidious damsel.... The incidents are full of life, the characters are very natural, and the conversations well sustained, so that the story is full of intense interest from beginning to end.—Chicago Inter-Ocean.

By W. J. HENDERSON

Afloat with the Flag. By W. J. Henderson, Author of "Sea Yarns for Boys," etc. Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25.

Mr. W. J. Henderson's latest sea-story for boys is one of the best we have seen.... The story has been read with eager interest by thousands of Round Table readers, and it will have an additional charm to them and others in its present book form.—Boston Advertiser.

By KIRK MUNROE

Snow-Shoes and Sledges, a Sequel to "The Fur-Seal's Tooth." Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25.

Will hold the interest of its readers from beginning to end.—N. Y. Evening Post.

We confess to have read every word of the journal with as much interest as we once read "Robinson Crusoe" or the "Swiss Family Robinson."—Christian Intelligencer, N. Y.

BY THE SAME AUTHOR:

The Fur-Seal's Tooth.—Raftmates.—Canoemates.—Campmates.—Dorymates. Each one volume. Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, $1.25.

Wakulla.—The Flamingo Feather.—Derrick Sterling.—Chrystal, Jack & Co., and Delta Bixby. Illustrated. Square 116mo, Cloth, $1.00 each.

HARPER & BROTHERS, Publishers, New York

KILLJOY'S BARGAIN.

"Well, I declare," said the Moonfay Boy,
"There's old Killjoy,
The meanest fish that ever did swim;
He knows that I've no use for him.
He eats my bait
At a fearfal rate.
I've changed it twice
From flies to mice.
From mice to slags.
And potato-bugs,
And still he bites.
For the last ten nights
I've caught nothing else but old Killjoy,"
Said the Moonfay Boy.

"It ain't polite
To bite and bite,
And chew and chew,
On the bait of one who don't want you."
And old Killjoy
Grinned at the boy.

"Oh don't get mad,
Dear Moonfay lad,
You set the best table that ever I had,"
Said he.
"For don't you see
It agrees with me,
And to pay you back I'll invite to tea
All the sharks and the shad,
And the little poletad,
And the whale and the blue,
And the halibut too.
And when all's ready I'll wink at you,
And the catch you'll catch
Will have no match
On the land or sea!
Just count, old Moon-faced Fay, on me!"

And the Moonfay Boy went home that night
With a mess of fish that was out of sight.
For old Killjoy, be it understood,
Paid him back for his bait, as he'd said he would.

AN ADVENTURE WITH A BEAR

A letter came to light not long ago that was mailed in 1843. It was sent from a small town far out in the Northwest, and was written, evidently, by some hardy hunter to his family at home. In one of the paragraphs the writer describes an adventure he had had with a bear. It reads somewhat as follows:

"I had gone several miles up the rocky trail, and finally striking off at right angles, left the valley and scaled the mountain-side. In a short while this brought me on a narrow ledge, and I proceeded along, thinking to skirt around the mountain that way, and reach down the other side into what was called Bear Trail. I never saw bear around the spot, and attached but little importance to the significance of the name. As I proceeded, the ledge grew very narrow—in fact, so much so that I was almost compelled to hug the face of the cliff to prevent my tumbling over.

"Suddenly I was horrified to hear a scraping kind of noise ahead, and before I could make up my mind as to what it was, a large bear crawled around a bend of the ledge into view. It was no use retreating, for the bear had a surer footing than I, being by nature adapted to it; but whatever brought him so far out of the valley I could not guess. He eyed me and I eyed him, and then I did the queerest thing I imagine any man would do—that was to treat the bear as though he were a human being. We were both in a predicament, as it would have been impossible for the bear to turn, and useless for me to do so, for the moment I retreated he would be after me. So I made a motion to the bear, and lying down on my face, I beckoned to him to come on and pass over me.

"Of course I gave myself up for lost. The bear eyed me suspiciously, and then came slowly on. He reached me, and putting down his cold wet nose, sniffed at my hair. I was dead with fright, and felt as though I would faint any moment.

"My harmlessness seemed to satisfy him; in a gentle manner he crawled over me and passed on, never once placing his paws on my body, for had he done so I should have been crushed.

"If he had but pushed me the slightest bit I would have fallen over. In a few minutes I recovered somewhat from my fright, and proceeded along the ledge, which shortly widened and permitted me to make better headway to safety. The only reason I have to account for the bear's gentleness was that he had had plenty to eat, and the savage instincts were dulled by the sight of my helplessness."

Teacher (unable to conceal her anger and disgust). "Tommy Winks, you spell horribly."

Tommy. "H-o-r-r-i-b-l-y."

A man having pointedly ridiculed Tasso, he remained perfectly silent, much to the astonishment of the railer. A listener muttered loud enough to be heard that a man was a fool not to defend himself.

"You are mistaken," said Tasso; "a fool does not know enough to be silent."

Heah you are—de best butter in de whole—

THE BILLY. "You are, hey? I don't think."