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.
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.
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.
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?"
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:
| 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. |
| 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.
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.
"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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Send for Monarch book.
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.
Readers of Harper's Round Table will please mention the paper when answering advertisements contained therein.
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.
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.
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!"