HOW BRADDY'S BROTHER BROUGHT THE NEWS HOME.

THE MAKING OF CANNON PROJECTILES.

CROSSING THE XUACAXÉLLA.

A VIRGINIA CAVALIER.

THE AMERICAN NIGHTS' ENTERTAINMENTS.

A COUNTRY BOY'S SOLILOQUY.

HELD CAPTIVE BY SAVAGES.

INTERSCHOLASTIC SPORT.

STAMPS.

BICYCLING.

THE CAMERA CLUB.

THE END OF OLD MONEY.

HARPER'S ROUND TABLE

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

published weekly. | NEW YORK, TUESDAY, AUGUST 4, 1896. | five cents a copy.
vol. xvii.—no. 875. |  | two dollars a year.

HOW BRADDY'S BROTHER BROUGHT THE NEWS HOME.

BY JULIANA CONOVER.

"Slide! Slide! You'll make it! Hooray! Hooray! Tiger! Siss-boom-ah!"

"Wake up, Bingham, wake up!"

The boy opened his eyes with a start. "Mother! Why, what's the matter?"

"I've been shaking you for fully two minutes, dear. I want you to get up."

"Oh, what made you wake me?" reproachfully. "I was in the middle of a dream that I was playing second base in Tom's place, and was just making the winning run for Princeton."

"Wouldn't you rather see the winning run made than dream about it?"

Bingham sat up; he was wide-awake now.

Mrs. Bradfield smiled. "Yes," she said, "I am going to let you go after all. Tom is so unhappy about it, so feverish and restless, that I am actually afraid of the consequences if he does not hear all about the game, so I have promised him to let you ride to Princeton on your bicycle; it is only twenty-five miles, and part of the way the road is good. You will have to stay all night, but Tom says that you can sleep in his room, and that Frank Porter will look after you."

"Tiger-tiger-tiger! Siss-siss-siss-boom-boom-boom-ah-ah-ah!" shouted Bingo, and he pitched his pillow all across the room. "Trying a new curve," he hastily explained.

In an incredibly short time he was dressed, had had his breakfast, and was ready to start off. He went in to say good-by to his brother. Poor Tom was down with an attack of rheumatic fever. He had come home to spend Sunday, after playing a brilliant game against the Orange Athletic Club, and had been taken ill.

"So unfortunate," his mother said, "just before examination."

"Such hard lack," said Bingo, "just before the Yale game."

Tom had not pitched since Freshman year, but he was fielding and batting in splendid form, and his loss would seriously cripple the nine.

But try as he might to get well, the pain and fever clung to him obstinately, and the day of the game found him, with his temperature at 103°, declaring that if he couldn't play some one must see the game for him. His father was away, his mother couldn't leave him, so there was no one but Bingham, who had sadly resigned himself to his fate, when, as we have seen, his mother suddenly reversed her decision, and his world was filled with sunshine again.

"Go to my room in Witherspoon," said Tom—"you know it—and tell Porter I sent you. He'll take you to Ivy to lunch, and down to the game. Be sure and telegraph, for I must hear, and they'll never get the news in this little out-of-the-way place."

"Are you perfectly sure you know the road, dear, and that it will not be too much for you?" asked Mrs. Bradfield, anxiously, as she watched her youngest son examining his tire and fixing his brake. "I do wish the trains made connections."

"I'd ride fifty miles through anything," said Bingham, his eyes glistening, "to see a Yale game. Good-by, mother. Don't worry. I'll surely telegraph, and will be home early to-morrow morning."

"Good-by, dear. Cheer for Tom, and may the orange and black win the day."

It was a hilly, sandy road, one of the worst in New Jersey, washed out in many places, and with ruts like trenches, but Bingo scorched and coasted as though it were an asphalt pavement or cinder race-track, and he scarcely slowed up through the whole twenty-five miles, but came into Princeton, the perspiration rolling down his face and his shirt wringing wet. On the campus he met Tom's room-mate.

"Why, if it isn't Braddy's brother," exclaimed Porter, "and steaming like a kettle! Glad to see you, boy. How is poor old Tom?"

"A little better. He sent me up so as to tell him about the game."

"I see. Official reporter for the Redwood Star," laughed Porter. "It's mighty hard lines that Tom is laid up. Woods is playing pretty well, but he can't touch the ball—strikes out every time. But come up to the room, little Brad. You'll spend the night, of course?"

Bingham followed Frank Porter up to the well-known room in Witherspoon Hall, and there he washed off the stains of travel as well as he could for asking questions and examining the groups on the wall.

"That's the '95 football team, isn't it? and there's Tom's Freshman nine. I saw the game here with Harvard, which we won, and we had a fire, don't you remember? What's that—the Glee Club? Tom has the picture of the Mandolin Club. Do you think we're going to win to-day? Will Blake pitch?" etc.

Porter answered when Bingo gave him time, for "Braddy's brother" was a great favorite with Tom's friends, and they prophesied a brilliant athletic future for him.

Before going to lunch Porter took him to see the ingenious invention of one of the members of the faculty—of a cannon for shooting curved balls. "It's going to be a great thing in baseball," Porter said. "It will save the pitcher's arm, and give the nine splendid batting practice."

Lunch over, Bingham began to get impatient. Carriages and omnibuses were already rolling down to the grounds, and streams of people were ploughing through the dust.

They stopped at the Athletic Club-house on their way, and all the nine shook hands with Bingo and asked after Tom; but his cup of joy was quite full when Blake, the Captain, told him to come with them and sit on the 'varsity bench.

Dave Hunter and the other Princeton boys looked enviously from the bleachers upon the honored guest, who sat squeezed in between Jack McMasters and Dr. Bovaird, his eyes glued to the diamond and his heart thumping against his ribs.

Princeton came to the bat first, and Williams led off with a clean single to left, and Shaw followed by another to centre.

It was a surprise that took every one's breath away, but they recovered it in time to cheer.

Yale was too easy! They would pound her out of the box, even without the aid of Tom's two and three baggers!

But Jackson flied out to second. Blake, who pitched, but couldn't hit a drop, went out on strikes; and though Williams stole third and Field got his first on balls, their innings closed with a beautiful spectacular catch by Woodward in centre field.

Then Yale came to the bat, and her little handful of "rooters" made the air shiver with their wild barbaric cheer: "Brek-ek-ek-ex! Ko-ax, ko-ax. Brek-ek-ek-ex! Ko-ax, ko-ax. Oh-op, oh-op. Parabalou—Yale!"

In a moment there came a crack of the bat.

"Run it out! run it out!" cried the Yale coach.

Bingo held his breath. It was a hot grounder to second, and Tom wasn't there. Woods fumbled it, and the first error was scored for Princeton.

The next man got his base on balls, all due to his "beautiful eye," the Yale Captain seemed to think. Then Blake rallied and struck Jenkins out; and though Watson brought Smith to third on a sacrifice, the little shortstop fielded the next ball in fine style, and the runner was out.

But Yale proved to be anything but "easy," for though the crowd in white duck trousers on the bleachers cheered themselves hoarse as directed with unremitting energy by their appointed leaders, not a single safe hit, or even an unearned run, was squeezed out of the next four innings; while Yale went in, and by timely sacrifices and well-bunched hits ran her score up to five. Five to nothing, and little Brad would have to telegraph that to Tom.

The grand stand grew very quiet, though here and there were bunches of blue ribbon waving amid the glowing mass of orange and black. The men had stopped explaining the game to their sisters and friends. Let them ask why the same ones who batted the ball had to run, and why they changed sides so often. Their questions fell on the unresponsive air.

Princeton came to the bat for the sixth inning. As Blake walked in from the pitcher's box, tired and discouraged, his eyes fell upon "Braddy's brother" leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. The droop of the strong young shoulders and the strained intense look gave him an added pang. It seemed like wanton cruelty to so bitterly disappoint a boy, and he knew that little Brad was feeling and suffering for two. Bingo tried to smile as the Captain put his arm round him, but it was hard work. His nerves were strung up to such a pitch that he could easily have cried, but one does not often do that at fourteen.

"We'll beat them yet, little Brad," said Blake. "See if we don't."

"We'll have to do it in this inning, then," answered Bingo, "because it's going to rain like everything."

Blake looked up. The clouds were piling on top of one another black as night in the west, a tremendous wind had sprung up, and the dust was blowing a mile a minute. "Whew!" he whistled, "it looks like a cyclone; we will have to do it this time—sure." And he walked over to coach.

Williams was at the bat; two balls were called, then a strike; another ball. "Good eye—steady now—steady"—then a burst of applause, for his eye had proved true, and he took his base to the stimulating strains of the triple cheer.

"Lead off—lively—look out—now you're off!" yelled Blake, and he was off, hurling himself at second with a reckless disregard of life and limb.

"Safe!" declared the umpire, and the sky-rocket cheer broke loose again.

Shaw gritted his teeth and held his bat in a vise. He too was watching the clouds, and knew that this might be their last chance. He had made one hit. Why couldn't he make another? And he did—a short one to right. And when Jackson followed by a foxy little bunt, the field almost went wild. Three men on bases and none out.

Blake went to the bat, and as he did so he turned and looked at Braddy's brother; and he said afterwards that if ever a man had been inspired by a glance, he had been that day—"and it wasn't a girl, either." Such eager hope and earnest faith shone in little Brad's face that no one could have helped making a home run, and that's what happened to Blake, and he only realized the miracle as he dived for the home-plate, while the long cheer, and the short cheer, and the locomotive cheer, and the distant thunder all combined to bring to his consciousness the stupendous fact that he had made himself immortal.

It was surely Princeton's inning, for Field made his first two-bagger, and was brought in on a bad overthrow. Then, with two men out, Green got his base on balls, stole second and third, and reached home on another single by Williams, and the score stood 6 to 5 when Yale came to the bat.

Would the rain hold off for ten minutes more? It was doubtful. But Blake was determined not to lose any time, and strike after strike was called amid the wildest enthusiasm, and in one, two, three order the New Haven men were retired, just as the storm, which had been gathering, so ominously, burst.

There was a stampede from the bleachers, ladies crowding into the grand stand and men making for the cage. The small boys dropped from trees and fences, and the ripping thunder, blinding lightning, and pelting rain had it all their own way for full fifteen minutes; and all that time "Little Brad" glowed like a miniature sun on the 'varsity bench, where the nine sat in cheerful resignation.

But the game wasn't over, for the sky cleared with the same violence it had shown in clouding over, and though every one felt that somewhere there must have been a fearful ravaging storm, Princeton had fortunately only gotten the edge of it. The umpire declared himself ready, and Princeton went to the bat, only, like Yale, to go out in one, two, three order.

"The fatal seventh!" groaned the alumni, as they saw the Yale Captain take his base on balls.

"The fatal seventh!" said Braddy's brother, under his breath, as Watson took his base on a bad error.

Alas, the fatal seventh! For though the next man flied out to short stop, and the next to third base, Atkinson made a clean two-bagger, and the blue in the grand stand broke out as the patches of sky had done, and the frog chorus held a jubilee, for Yale had tied the score, and Yale luck would surely do the rest. But with Atkinson jumping about on second, and Watson leading off daringly at third, Blake pitched three straight strikes, and saved the day.

Neither scored in the eighth inning, and the ninth commenced in that hushed suspense which makes one wonder whether a close game pays. But Braddy's brother knew that Princeton would win; and when, with one out, Blake took his base on balls, and Field made a safe hit, he moistened his pencil to write the telegram to Tom on his score-card, but waited long enough to see Woods, for the first time in the season, send the ball over centre-field's head, and Blake and Field come home.

Yes, Princeton had won; for though Yale batted hard, the tigers fielded the swift balls with a coolness born of confidence, and as the last man went out on a foul fly, the crowd rushed on the diamond in a frenzy of enthusiasm, and the faint "Brek-ek-ek-ex! Ko-ax, ko-ax!" came to an abrupt end.

Bingo did not even stop to see the boys, but hurried out of the grounds and tore uptown waving his score-card with the 8 to 6 telegram written on it.

"I want to send this to Redwood," he panted, elbowing his way into the office.

"Sorry," was the short answer, "can't do it; the storm has broken all the wires down in that part of the State."

Bingo's face fell. What should he do? Tom was waiting for the news, and would not be able to sleep until he heard. There was only one way of getting it to him, and that was—to ride home. The road would be bad, very bad;—he might be half the night getting there, but he had promised to let Tom know, and he would keep his promise at all costs. Having made up his mind, he was not going to let anything deter him. He would have loved to linger and talk over the great game, but with that rough long lonely ride before him it would not do to waste time. So he went for his wheel, only stopping on the campus long enough to ask Billy Appleton to tell Porter he had gone.

"Why, you're crazy!" exclaimed Appleton, "Stark, staring mad. The roads will be in a fearful condition. Come, don't be an idiot, Brad. Tom can wait till to-morrow morning."

But Braddy's brother shook his head. "You don't know how Tom feels, and I promised to let him hear to-night. If I break my wheel or puncture my tire I can walk; but I'll get there somehow, or bust."

"Well, you have sand, if you do lack sense," laughed Appleton, "and I hope you'll make it. I'll tell Port. Give my love to old Tom. We missed him to-day, of course; but didn't Blake play a magnificent game?"

Bingo nodded, and started off. For ten miles the road was comparatively good, and as long as the light lasted he managed to avoid the man-holes, and to steer clear of fallen trees and loose stones; but by eight o'clock it was dark. His lantern kept going out, the hills seemed like the Matterhorn, and the valleys were choked with the débris of the storm.

"I must have smashed my wheel that time!" exclaimed poor Bingo, as he got up from his second header, badly bruised. "I've a great mind to go back; the roads get worse and worse."

Then he thought of Tom, and how, not knowing the 8 to 6 score, he might lie awake all night fancying that Princeton had been beaten.

That would never do, and though it took all the sand that the boy had in his composition, he started off bravely again to carry the news home. All the memorable night rides of history seemed to him pure fun in comparison with this twenty-five-mile bicycle ride in the wake of a cyclone, the object of which was just as important as was that of Paul Revere, or Sheridan, or of the men who brought the news from Ghent to Aix. It was "too easy to gallop." Here he took another header, and his tire, which had sustained several slight punctures, suddenly collapsed.

Bingo sat down and actually laughed. The situation was hopeless to absurdity. It must be nine o'clock, and he had started before six, and there were still five miles to be gotten over somehow. But again the thought of the 8 to 6 score spurred him on, and dragging the wheel, which seemed to weigh tons, he trudged manfully through the sand, splashing in and out of puddles and climbing up and down hills, until the joyful sight of his own front gate at last rewarded him.

Then with a wild whoop he dropped the bicycle and sprinted up the road to the house. Three or four windows opened simultaneously.

"Eight to 6, 8 to 6!" shouted Bingo. "Tiger-siss-boom-ah! 8 to 6."

"In Princeton's favor?" cried his mother.

"Sure!" screamed back the boy, and in another moment Bingo had rushed upstairs into his brother's room to find Tom, flushed with fever, waving an old Princeton banner and cheering like mad. And to show what college spirit is, not until Bingo had described the whole game did his mother have the heart to ask him about the storm and how he had gotten home.

Blake's home run was so much more important. Why, the ride seemed nothing to him now.

"You really ought not to have done it, dear," said Mrs. Bradfield. "It was a terrible risk—and to come all alone—after such a storm."

Bingo laughed, and said nothing.

THE MAKING OF CANNON PROJECTILES.

BY FRANKLIN MATTHEWS.

For twenty-five years the men who make material used in warfare have been engaged in the sharpest kind of a contest between themselves. On the one side they have been trying to make armor so tough and strong that it could withstand the heaviest shots, and on the other side they have been trying to make projectiles, which is another name for big bullets, that will go through this armor. Sometimes the armor men have been ahead, and sometimes the projectile men have been foremost. The armor men have usually forced the fighting, and then the projectile men have matched them. At present the projectile men say they are ahead, and that the armor men must make armor tougher and harder or they will be beaten.

TWO THIRTEEN-INCH SHELLS.

One having pierced and the other been stopped by armor plate.

All this struggle grew out of the war between Germany and France a quarter of a century ago. The experts noticed then that the cannons and powder were wasting a great deal of force, because the projectiles they threw couldn't begin to carry all the energy of the weapons. At once scientific men began to make a study how to produce projectiles that would do the full work of the guns, and year by year they have been improving these enormous bullets, until now marvellous results have been reached. A writer who made a study of these results said, not long ago, that the weight of the projectiles in a broadside in 1779 from the Bonhomme Richard, Paul Jones's famous flag-ship, which carried forty-two guns, weighed only fifty-seven more pounds than the shot of one of the 10-inch guns of our present second-class battle-ship Maine. The broadside of the guns of our famous old Constitution, in her fight in 1812 with the Java, weighed sixty-three pounds less than the shot of one of the 12-inch guns on the Monterey of the new navy. The twenty-three guns of the well-known Pensacola, the ship that did marvellous work in running by the batteries at New Orleans in 1862, in our civil war, threw less in a single discharge than two of the 13-inch guns of our first-class battle-ship Indiana could throw to-day. There is no use in having big guns and improved powder unless you have strong and tough projectiles to convey the power of the guns and powder against the target at which you are shooting. The experts put this in a different way by saying that the projectile is "the vehicle of the energy of the gun." This is a dry and scientific way of saying that there is no use in having a giant's strength if you have only pebbles to throw. We can all understand that.

There is no secret about the making of the big cannons in these days. There are many secrets, however, in the making of the powder used in these guns. There is much more secrecy in the way the projectiles are made. In fact, so secret is the process by which these enormous bullets are made that not even the naval officers, who are stationed at the factories where they are produced to see that each projectile answers the requirements, are allowed to witness the process of manufacture. The naval officers are not supposed to know what goes into the make-up of these bits of steel, except in a general way, nor how they are hardened so that they may pierce thick plates of toughened steel. I am sure, therefore, that those of you who read this will not expect me to reveal these secrets. Even if I knew them—and I confess that I don't—I couldn't be expected to tell them, and I am inclined to think that, after all, as is the case with secrets usually, they wouldn't be of much use to us after we did find them out. They would be as dry and as uninteresting as the hardest kind of a problem in arithmetic or algebra. When all would be told, we should probably find that they consisted of a lot of strange letters and figures, such as they use in chemistry, and there would be no pleasure in reading about that.

TESTING PROJECTILES ON ARMOR PLATE.

Still there are many things about projectiles that are common property, and we may talk about them freely. Every one must know that projectiles are made from hardened billets of steel, and that they are heated and rolled and pounded until they are of the desired shape and strength. Certain chemicals are put into them to give the steel additional strength, and the most careful adjustment, even to a one-thousandth part of an inch, is made when the projectiles are shaped finally. The test of the size and shape of these missiles is so thorough that the most delicate work is necessary in finishing them. You look at a 13-inch shell. It is probably three feet high, and weighs about 1100 pounds. It is anything but a delicate-looking object, and certainly the work it is intended to do is not delicate. A 13-inch shell, which is the largest size made in this country, is about as robust an affair as human skill has yet devised. To test such a shell two slender steel rings are used. One is two-thousandth part of an inch larger in diameter than the required size of the shell, and the other is two-thousandth part of an inch smaller. The larger ring must pass freely over the projectile, and the smaller ring must not pass over it. When one thinks of the difficulty of pounding or rolling a heated piece of ordinary steel into such a perfect shape, he can see what a delicate task it must be. But think how much more difficult it must be when certain alloys are put into the steel to make it so rough that it can be made to pass through a plate of hardened armor, say seventeen inches thick. Probably no more delicate mechanical work exists than in shaping these projectiles.

LOADING 13-INCH GUNS WITH 1100-POUND SHELLS AND POWDER CHARGES.

There are five places in this country where the projectiles for the cannons of the army and navy are made. Most of them use processes which are secured from Europe. The fewest possible number of persons, both in this country and abroad, know the secret of their production. The workmen in the factories do not know the various steps and compositions of the metals they use. Aside from the owners of the process and the chemists in their employ, almost no one else knows the secret. Each workman only knows his own part, and if they should all get together and each should tell what he knows, their combined knowledge would be of little value to them in discovering the secret. The chief places of manufacture in this country are at the Midvale Steel-Works, in Philadelphia, where the famous Holtzer projectiles are made; the Carpenter Works, at Reading, Pennsylvania, where the Carpenter projectiles are produced; the Wheeler-Sterling Mills, in Pittsburg, where the Sterling projectiles are made; the Johnson Works at Spuyten Duyvil, New York; and the United States Projectile Company's Works in Brooklyn. The three first named produce the larger projectiles used in our guns. At the Midvale Works, through which I had the pleasure of going by courtesy of the president, Mr. Harrah, before I wrote this article, one may see many picturesque things in the manufacture of steel, and it is possible that one may look upon some of the more rudimentary processes of projectile-making without knowing it; but when one comes to the place where the projectiles are really made, he finds himself facing a big fence with a locked gate, and a sign saying that no one, not even those employed in other work about the immense establishment, is permitted to go inside the barrier. A big bell hangs outside the gate, and if one wishes to speak with any one inside the enclosure, he must ring that and call out the man. There is a big open cistern outside, where the specially prepared water used inside the mill is collected, but that is all one can see. Inasmuch as all this secrecy is necessary to the welfare of our country, I am sure that the curiosity of all patriotic persons should stop at this point, and we must all go away satisfied and even pleased with all these precautions.

THE PARTS OF A SHELL.

Projectiles are of three kinds: the armor-piercing, the semi-armor-piercing, and the ordinary bursting projectiles, commonly called shrapnel. We are confining most of our efforts at present to making the armor-piercing and the semi-armor-piercing projectiles. The armor-piercing shot are practically solid pieces of metal. The semi-armor-piercing projectiles are hollow, and contain a bursting charge, usually of ordinary powder. The solid shot are for use in the large guns of ships, and are intended to pierce the armor of battle-ships and wreck their machinery. They simply break up the armor of a vessel. The semi-armor projectiles are for the same purpose, and also especially for use in mortar guns. These guns are short-muzzled affairs, and they throw their shells high in the air, so that they may come down on a deck, burst, and pass clear through a ship's bottom. The chief defences of New York harbor consist of a large battery of these mortar guns in the trees and behind the sand hummocks at Sandy Hook. It is estimated that only one out of two hundred shots that they fire into the air with a high curve will strike a war-ship attempting to pass into the harbor, but it is also known that one of these shots will pass through any ship from top to bottom, and, bursting as it passes through, will sink any vessel afloat. A 13-inch semi-armor-piercing projectile carries about fifty pounds of powder inside, and it is exploded by percussion—that is, by the shock of contact with a solid substance. The shrapnel shells contain bullets of various sizes, and they explode on percussion. Their object is to scatter bullets about a ship's deck and clear it of men, rather than to sink the ship.

A projectile is useless, provided it is of the solid kind, if it breaks in pieces when it hits its target. The energy of the gun and powder is all used up in breaking itself to pieces. If it passes through armor without injuring itself at all, the full energy of the gun is sent against the target, and the projectile does its complete work. A projectile is supposed to pass through armor one and one-eighth times its own diameter in thickness—that is, an 8-inch projectile is supposed to be a match for 9-inch armor, and so on.

There are five distinct parts to every projectile. They are the point, the ogival, the bourrelet, the body, and the base. The point, of course, is the extreme forward end; the ogival is the rounded part just behind the point; the bourrelet is a bright band of steel where the rounded part ends—it is intended to fit the bore of a gun closely, and with a tight grip; the body is the long, straight part; and the base is the flat end, with a band which grips the rifling of the gun, by means of which a revolving motion is given to the projectile as it is hurled against its target.

CROSSING THE XUACAXÉLLA.

BY CAPTAIN CHARLES A. CURTIS, U. S. A.

IV.

Drop Cap T

he boys were frightened. Their hearts rose in their throats, and it was difficult to restrain an impulse to turn and run; but a soldierly instinct brought them to a "ready," with eyes fixed upon the probable enemy.

"Quick, Henry! Shoot!" exclaimed Frank, reserving his own fire.

The younger sergeant raised his double-barrelled shot-gun to his shoulder and pulled both triggers. Down went the sixteen Indians as if the bird-shot had been fatal to all. The plain became in an instant as objectless as it was a moment before.

"Load, Henry, and backward march!" said Frank, ready to fire whenever a head showed itself above the grass, and at the same time moving as fast as possible toward the camp-fire.

"How! how! how!" was chorussed from the direction of the Indians, and several naked brown arms were stretched upward, holding rifles horizontally in the air.

"That means peace," said Henry. "They aren't going to fire. Let's answer. How! how! how!"

"How! how! how!" Frank joined in, and at once the sixteen red men sprang to their feet, apparently none the worse for Henry's double charge of bird-shot at short range. They held their weapons above their heads, and continuing to utter their friendly "How," rapidly advanced toward the boys.

"They aren't playing us a trick, are they, Frank?" asked Henry, in an anxious tone.

"No," replied the older boy, after snatching a glance to the rear. "The Lieutenant and soldiers are saddling. The Indians dare not harm us on an open plain in sight of a mounted force."

The boys stopped, and the red men approached and began shaking their hands in the most friendly manner, over and over again, repeating "How" many times. They were clad in loose and sleeveless cotton shirts, all ragged and dirty, with no other clothing. The one who appeared to be chief was distinguished by the possession of three shirts, worn one above the other. Each man possessed several hares and field-rats, held against his waist by tucking the heads under his belt.

The sergeants and their strange guests reached the camp-fire, and the hand-shaking and exchange of friendly civilities went on for some time. The chief approached me, and asked in mongrel Spanish:

"Usto Capitan?" (are you the Captain?)

I replied in the affirmative.

"Yo Capitan tambien, mucho grande heap Capitan." (I'm a Captain, too; a very great heap Captain.)

He then asked where we were from and where we were going, and informed us that they were Yavapais on a hunting expedition. We exchanged bread with them for a few cotton-tails, and set Clary to making a rabbit stew, the boys and I deferring our supper until it should be ready.

"Oh, Lieutenant!" shouted Henry from the direction of the Indians a moment later. "Come and see what these creatures are doing!"

I left the ambulance, and joined the group of soldiers who stood in a circle about an inner circle of seated Indians. Each Yavapais had selected a rat from the collection in his belt, and had laid it on the coals without dressing or in any way disturbing its anatomy. He rolled the rat over once or twice, and took it up and brushed and blew off the singed hair. He placed it again on the fire for a moment, and, taking it up, pinched off the fore legs close to the body, and the hind legs at the ham-joint. Replacing it on the coals, he turned it over and over a few more times. Picking it up for the third time, he held it daintily in the palm of his left hand, and with his right plucked off the flesh and placed it in his mouth.

When we were making our beds ready for the night, Vic, whom we had forgotten in the exciting events of the evening, trotted into camp and laid a horseshoe in Henry's lap. The lad took it up, and exclaimed,

"ONE OF CHIQUITA'S SHOES! A LEFT HIND SHOE!"

"One of Chiquita's shoes!—a left hind shoe!"

"How do you know?" I asked.

"Private Sattler always shaped the left heel of the left shoe like this, to correct a fault in her gait."

"May I look at the shoe, sergeant?" asked Corporal Duffey, approaching from the group of men near the guard's fire. "Shoes are like handwriting; no two blacksmiths make them alike."

Henry passed the shoe to the corporal, who turned it over, examined it closely, and handed it back, saying:

"I am a blacksmith by trade, and know all the shoes made by the smiths in the regiment. This is one of Sattler's. He put a side-weight on it, and here is the bevel-mark of his hammer."

"Then Chiquita certainly came this way, and Vic was on her trail when we saw her, coming from the tanks," remarked Frank; "but there could have been no scent after so long a time."

"Oh, she knows the ponies' tracks," asseverated Henry. "She knows their halters and bridles, and will bring them when told to, without mistake. Of course she knew Chiquita's shoe, and she knows Chiquita is my pony, and I believe she knows we are going after her."

I repeat this, not because I think the dog so exceedingly wise, but to show the boys' belief in her intelligence. She had brought in a shoe which bore the government mark, and which had been fitted by the Fort Whipple blacksmith.

The sentinel waked us the next morning at four o'clock, and informed us that the Indians had left two hours before. The animals were driven to the tanks, the vessels and canteens filled, and at six we started. Clary warmed up the rabbit stew left over from supper, but the rat association was still too strong, and the boys passed it over to the dog. All the water was used in the preparation of breakfast except that in the canteens. It would have been better if we had again gone to the tanks and refilled the camp-kettles and coffee-pots; but the delay necessary to do it, and the assurance that there was water at Hole-in-the-Plain determined me to go on at once. The weather was a repetition of that of the previous day, hot and windless.

The road proved generally smooth, but there were occasional long stretches over which it was impossible to drive faster than a walk. About four o'clock in the afternoon we reached the Hole-in-the-Plain, and found nothing but a mass of thin mud. The water had dried up. Vic, consumed with thirst, waded into the mud, and rolled in it until she was the color of fresh adobe, and was, in consequence, made to ride on the driver's foot-board in disgrace.

We had intended to pass the night at the Hole; but now we were obliged to go on, when really in no condition to do so. The men and animals were suffering much more than I have time or space to mention. The previous day's experience and the poor water at the tanks had made our second day on the desert more exhausting than the first. To be obliged to add another day's journey to the one just finished was exceedingly depressing.

Very gloomy, and doubtful of the outcome, we left the Hole-in-the-Plain. The plain became undulating, and was frequently crossed by deep and dry ravines, and loose stones obstructed the wheels. We were toiling slowly up a slope when a horseman overtook us who proved to be Mr. Gray. He slowed up, and asked how we were getting on. All the incidents of the journey since parting with him the day before were related, and our present plight explained.

He spoke encouragingly. Told us that Tyson's Wells were now not far away, and that the road would soon improve.

"Keep up your courage, lads, and you will soon be there," he shouted back as he galloped swiftly away in the darkness.

At midnight the road ascended a roll in the plain, and became once more hard and smooth. The driver urged the team into a series of brief and spasmodic trots, which lasted a couple of hours, when we again descended to a lower level, where the wearily slow gait was resumed. With the slower pace our hopes fell and our thirst increased. As Private Tom Clary expressed it to the driver:

"In a place like this a gallon of Black Tank's water would be acciptible without a strainer, and no riflictions passed upon the wigglers."

"That's so, Tom," called Henry from the depths of his blankets; "I could drink two quarts of it—half and half."

"Half and half—what do you mean?" I asked.

"Half water and half wigglers," was the answer.

"I thought you were asleep."

"Can't sleep, sir; I'm too thirsty. Did drop off once for two or three minutes, and dreamed of rivers, waterfalls, springs, and wells that I could not reach."

"I've not slept at all," said Frank; "just been thinking whether I ever rode over a mile in Vermont without crossing a brook or passing a watering-trough."

"It's beginning to grow light in the east," observed the driver. "By the time we reach the top of the next roll we can see whether we are near the wells."

"You may stop the team, Marr," said I. "We will wait for the escort to close up."

The carriage stopped, and we got out to stretch our legs while the straggling soldiers slowly overtook us. The man on the wounded bronco did not arrive until the edge of the sun peeped above the horizon, and I ordered him to remove the saddle and bridle, hitch the animal behind the ambulance, and take a seat beside the driver.

Just when we were about to start again, Frank asked permission to run ahead with the field-glass to the rising ground and look for Tyson's Wells. I consented, and told him to signal us if he saw them, and that if he did not we would halt and turn out, and send the least worn of the escort ahead for relief.

Frank started, and presently disappeared behind some brush at a turn in the road. An instant later be shouted and screamed at the top of his voice. Whether he was shouting with joy or terror, or had gone out of his senses, we were unable to guess. It sounded like,

"Who-o-o-op!—water!—water!—water!"

Had the boy seen a mirage or gone mad? We could see nothing but the broad hollow about us, barren and dry as ever. But still the boy continued to shout, "Water!—water!" and presently he appeared round the bend, running and holding up what appeared to be a letter. It was a letter. When Frank reached the ambulance, tears were in his eyes as he handed me a yellow envelope.

"Found it on the head of a barrel, over there, with a stone upon it to prevent it from blowing away."

Breaking open the envelope with trembling fingers I read:

"Tyson's Wells.

"Dear Lieutenant,—Please accept four barrels of water and four bushels of corn, with my compliments.

"Gray."

Need I confess the emotions with which we realized the service this brave Arizona merchant had done us? Or need I mention that Mr. Gray—God bless him, wherever he may be!—is always remembered with gratitude by me?—for this is no idle incident invented to amuse a reader, but an actual occurrence.

Water!—four barrels!—one hundred and sixty gallons! That meant two gallons for each man and boy, and nearly ten for each animal. It meant rest, speed, safety.

We moved across the ravine and found the four barrels by the road-side. The animals were fastened to the ambulance and the acacia bushes, the heads of the barrels removed, and after each person had satisfied his thirst the camp-kettles were used until horses and mules had drunk the contents of two each. The stock was then turned loose to graze.

We felt exceedingly grateful to our newly made friend for helping us in our distress, and our gratitude found frequent expression while the men prepared breakfast. When the coffee was poured, Private Tom Clary arose, and holding up his tin cup, said to his comrades:

"B'ys, here's a toast to be drunk standing, and for many raysons, which I think nade not be explained to this assimbly, I'm glad to drink it in a decoction whose principal ingraydiant is wather. Here's to Mr. Gray, whose conduct at Soldiers' Holes, at Date Creek, and on the Walkerhalyer has won our admiration. May he never lack for the fluid he has so ginerously dispinsed, nor a soft hand to smooth his last pillow, and plinty of masses for the repose of his sowl!"

Frank and Henry sprang toward the circle of soldiers, raised their cups as Clary finished his sentiment, and joined in the hearty response when he closed.

At one o'clock the animals were caught up, given the remainder of the water and their portion of the grain, and got ready for the road. Once up the slope Marr cracked his whip, the mules started promptly into a trot, the horses of the escort broke into a canter, and amid the cheerful clatter of hoofs and the rattle of wheels we sped on our way as fresh as if we were just leaving Fort Whipple. A ride of twenty miles brought us to Tyson's Wells. These were two in number, sunk at the intersection of several roads to settlements and mines, an accommodation to trains, flocks, and herds, and a profit to the owner.

I learned from Colonel Tyson that immediately upon his arrival Mr. Gray had hired a wagon to take water and grain to us. He had bargained for the driver to go until he met us; but the man being prepaid may account for his not fulfilling his agreement to the letter.

The rest of the day and night was spent at the Wells, the boys and I taking our supper at the "Desert Hotel," kept by the Colonel. At the table Henry asked if we should return the way we came.

"Yes, if I can find a few kegs in La Paz for water," I answered.

"But we cannot haul kegs enough to supply the animals."

"It will not be difficult to cross the desert now that we are acquainted with it and know what to expect. We will follow the army rule in such cases, and I think you will find it interesting to let experience answer your question."

Just as we were going to bed Mr. Baldwin arrived from La Paz. He informed me that Texas Dick and Jumping Jack were there, and in possession of the black and cream colored ponies; that there was to be a horse-race the following afternoon, and the ponies had been entered. At this news the boy sergeants became much excited, and proposed a dozen impracticable ways of going on at once and seizing their property.

Baldwin said he had talked the matter over with Mr. Gray, and the merchant had advised that we give out a report in La Paz that we were there on the transportation and storehouse business only, and make no immediate attempt to capture the ponies. He said the town was full of the friends of the horse-thieves, and that all our movements would be closely watched and reported to them. If they became alarmed they would probably run across the Mexican boundary at once. He thought that by waiting a little and learning where the horses were kept we should be more likely to regain them than by hurrying.

"But why cannot we attend the race, with the escort, as spectators, and seize them?" asked Frank.

"That is a move they will be sure to be looking for. If any of you go to the race, I believe neither of those men or the ponies will be there."

I was inclined to believe Baldwin right. I told him to return to La Paz before daylight and circulate the report that I was coming, and for the purpose he had mentioned. I also requested him to watch Jack and Dick, and if he saw any signs of flight to come and meet me. He left for La Paz a little after midnight, reaching there at four o'clock the following morning. We were met on the out-skirts of the town by Mr. Baldwin, who told us Mr. Gray expected us to be his guests during our stay, and that his corral and store-rooms were at the service of the men and stock.

Going directly to Mr. Gray's house, we were welcomed by the hospitable trader to his substantial bachelor quarters. He stood upon his veranda when we drove up, and conducted us in person to pleasant rooms, assigning the boys one to themselves, in which were many evidences that he had been looking forward to their visit and understood boyish needs and pleasures.

Henry, after changing his travelling suit for a bright uniform, appeared upon the veranda with glowing face and shining hair.

"Mr. Gray, how pleasant you have made that room for Frank and me? Have you any boys of your own?" he asked.

"Only two nephews, Sandy and Malcolm, in the 'Land of Cakes,'" was the reply.

"What a good uncle you must be to them!"

"Thank you, laddie. I hope the bairns are as fine boys as you and your brother."

"You are very kind to say so, sir. May I ask you a question?"

"A dozen, laddie, if you choose."

"When you overtook us on the desert you said it was not far to Tyson's Wells, and that we should soon be there?"

"Ah!—then you thought it a long way, Sergeant?"

"Perhaps my terrible thirst had something to do with it, but I thought you had a queer notion of distances."

"Only a little deception to keep up your hearts. I saw you were in sorry need of water, and I rode hard to send it to you; but I wanted you to do your best to meet it. You would have found the distance longer without it."

"I think I should, sir. The last twenty miles were just nothing after we found your barrels."

After dinner we were told information had been dropped at the hotels and business places that we were here to meet a director of the Colorado Navigation Company. We also learned that the steamer Cocopah had also arrived from up-river the day before, and was now at her landing, two miles below town, waiting the return of the director from Wickenburg. Both Mr. Gray and Mr. Baldwin thought the horse-thieves were suspicious of out presence, for they had not placed the stolen ponies in any of the corrals or stables of the town. A horse-race was advertised to come off in the afternoon, half a mile below the steamboat landing, and Texas Dick and Juan Brincos had entered horses for the stakes.

Mr. Gray advised that none of our party should attend the race, saying that our absence would give the thieves a greater sense of security, and improve our chances of regaining the ponies.

Believing his convictions to be correct, I sent an order to the escort not to go south of the town during the day, and telling Frank and Henry to amuse themselves about the streets and the immediate vicinity of the town, started with Mr. Gray to look up and rent a building for a military storehouse.

[to be continued.]

A VIRGINIA CAVALIER.[1]

BY MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL.

CHAPTER VIII.

Drop Cap I

ndians were not an entirely new sight to George, but the few who occasionally came to Greenway were quite different from the thriftless, lazy, peaceable individuals and remnants of tribes that remained in remote parts of lower Virginia. There was an Indian village of forty or fifty in a piece of wild country about ten miles from Ferry Farm, but they were not dangerous, except to hen-roosts and pigsties; and although the men talked grandiloquently of the time when their fore-fathers owned the land and lived by hunting, they seemed perfectly satisfied themselves to sit and bask in the sun, smoking tobacco of the squaws' raising, and living upon grain raised by the same hard-working squaws.

But the first Indian that he saw at Greenway was altogether unlike these, and in George's eyes vastly more respectable. He came one morning, just as George and Lord Fairfax had walked out on the porch after breakfast. He strode up the path, carrying on his shoulder the dressed carcass of a deer. He was of medium height, but so superbly made and muscular that the heavy carcass seemed as light as a feather. He stalked up to the porch, and throwing the carcass down, folded his arms with an air of supreme indifference, and waited to be addressed.

"For sale?" asked the Earl.

The Indian nodded his head without speaking. Lord Fairfax called to Lance to bring his purse. Lance in a few minutes appeared, and the instant his eyes fell upon the Indian his countenance changed. Not so the Indian's, who stood looking him squarely in the eye with characteristic stolidity.

The Earl counted out some money and offered it to the Indian, who took it with a grunt of satisfaction.

"Now," said the Earl, "take the carcass to the kitchen, where you will find something to eat if you wish."

The Indian showed his familiarity with English by picking up the carcass and disappearing around the corner with it. As soon as he was out of hearing, Lance said to the Earl:

"If you please, sir, that Injun, who pretends to be a squaw-man, is no less than Black Bear, one of the most bloodthirsty devils I ever knew. He was in the thick of the last attack they made on us, and I'll warrant, sir, if I could turn his blanket back from his right shoulder I would find a hole made by a musket-ball I sent at him. It disabled him, but I can see the rascal now walking away just as coolly as if I had tickled him with a feather instead of hitting him with a lead bullet. He never in the world brought that carcass over the mountains; that is not in his line. There is more of Black Bear's sort hereabouts; you may depend on it, sir."

Lord Fairfax shrugged his shoulders.

"We are prepared for defence if they come at us; but I shall have to depend upon you, Lance, to give us warning." And the Earl went quietly back to his library.

Not so George. He had a desire to know more of Black Bear, and went with Lance around to the back of the house.

"You won't find that Injun eating, sir; he don't want anything to eat. He wants to sneak into the house and see what sort of a place it is," said Lance.

Sure enough, when they reached the kitchen there was nothing to be seen of Black Bear, although the deer's carcass was hung up on a nail high above the ground, out of reach of the dogs. Cæsar, the cook—a fat, jolly negro, with a great white apron on—was standing in the kitchen door, looking around.

"Where is the Injun who brought that deer-meat here?" asked Lance.

"I's lookin' fur him now," responded Cæsar. "I didn' heah no soun', an' when I tu'n roun' d'yar was de carkiss hangin' 'n de nail. Dem Injuns is slicker 'n cats when dey move."

Lance, followed by George, passed into the kitchen, and through a short covered way which led to the lower part of the house. The covered way, and the kitchen too, were of the same rough stone half-way up. A few steps at the end of the covered way led down into the cellars where the arms and provisions were stored. It was quite dark down there, and Lance struck his flint and made a light. They had not gone far in the underground passage when George instinctively felt some one stealing by him. He turned quickly, and in a moment Black Bear was pinioned to the wall.

"What are you doing here?" asked Lance, gruffly.

The Indian, remaining perfectly still, said: "White man's house like rabbit-burrow. Injun get lost in it."

George, at a sign from Lance, let the Indian go, and he stalked solemnly out in front of them. Around outside Lance said,

"What is your name?"

"Squaw-man," was the Indian's laconic answer; and as the squaw-men had no distinctive names, it was answer enough. But Lance grinned openly at this.

"You don't look like a squaw-man, but a warrior, and your name, if I know it, is Black Bear. Now, if you are a squaw-man, show me how that carcass ought to be cut up; and here is some money for you if you do it right." Black Bear looked longingly at the money, but he was evidently not used to cutting up dressed meat, and he made no attempt at it. He grunted out something, and then strode off in the direction of the path up the mountain.

"There you go," apostrophized Lance, "and we shall see you before long with a firelock and a hatchet, and with a lot of other savages of your own kidney."

At dinner that day George told Lord Fairfax about finding the Indian prowling about the cellar, and Lance's suspicions.

The morning had been bright, but it grew so cold and snowy towards the afternoon that Lord Fairfax remained at home, and George took his ride alone. He had not gone but a few miles along the rugged mountain road, when a furious snow-storm set in, and he quickly retraced his steps. It grew suddenly dark, but his horse was sure of foot, and George himself knew the way home perfectly. He galloped along through the darkness and the fast-falling snow, which deadened the sound of his horse's hoofs. He was surprised, though, to see a number of tracks in the snow as he passed along. He instantly recognized moccasin tracks, and remembered Lance's prediction that the alleged squaw-man had some companions with him. At one point on the road George was convinced that he heard a low whistle. He stopped his horse and turned in his saddle, but there was no sound except the crackling of the trees as the wind swept through their bare branches, and the faint sound of falling water in the distance. As he sat on his horse, a perfect picture of young manhood, two stealthy eyes were fixed on him, and Black Bear, concealed behind a huge mountain-ash, noiselessly and rapidly raising a firelock, took direct aim at him. The horse, which had stood perfectly still, suddenly started as a shot rang out, and a bullet whizzed past George so close that he felt the current of air it made.

George was too astounded to move for a moment, but not more astounded than was Black Bear. Never in his life had the Indian made such a miss. Half a dozen pairs of beady black eyes had seen it, and the concealed Indians made a sign to each other in dumb-show signifying that the white youth had a charmed life.

In another moment the horse, of his own will, as if flying from danger, started down the rocky road. George let him go on unchecked. He did not think the bullet came from the piece of a sportsman, and he had not forgotten Lance's warning.

When he reached the house he looked about for Lance, whom he found in the armory, carefully examining the muskets on the rack. Lance listened to George's story of the shot very attentively.

"As sure as you live, Mr. Washington, there were some red devils skulking about, and when they get a firelock in their hands the first thing they want to do is to kill a white man. The Frenchmen sell them muskets, and give them fire-water, and set them against us. I knew the minute I put my eyes on that copper-colored rascal that he had murder and arson in his heart; but we'll be able to keep them off, Mr. Washington."

"Why is it that you think they want to capture this house?" asked George, thoughtfully.

"Because we have plenty of arms and ammunition here. It is hard to get either over the mountains, and it would be a small fortune to any Indian to get a musket and a powder-horn. Then we have dried provisions in plenty—enough to last us six months if we get nothing from the outside—and dried provisions are what the Indians fancy. And my lord is opposed to the French, and no doubt they have set the Indians against us; and then the Indians like the killing, just for the fun of the thing. I think I shall sleep with one eye open until I hear that Mr. Black Bear and his friends are no longer in this neighborhood."

That night, after supper, George and the Earl talked over Lance's suspicions. Lord Fairfax thought they were not ill founded, but he was not a man to excite himself over possibilities. The talk drifted towards marksmanship, and the Earl, who was an excellent shot, brought out a pair of silver-mounted pistols, small for the time. He had some bullets made of composition, which flattened out against the rough-cast wall without making an indentation. George drew a target on the wall, and the Earl, standing at the end of the great low-ceiled hall, made some wonderful shots. George then took the pistols, and fairly surpassed him. The Earl taught him to snuff a candle at twenty paces, and other tricks of the kind. So absorbed were they in their pastime that it was nearly midnight before they parted.

When George went to his room Billy was not to be seen; but when he was called a woolly head was poked out from under the valance of the high-post bed, and Billy chirped out:

"I's gwi' sleep under de baid ter-night, Marse George. Mr. Lance, he talk 'bout Injuns, an' ef dey come, I ain't gwi' gin 'em no chance fer to mek a hole in dis heah nigger's skin. An' I got de dog wid me, an' ef he start ter bark, I kin choke him, so dey ain't never know dee is a dog heah."

George laughed and went to bed, but it was not to sleep. He was excited, and lay awake for what seemed hours to him. At last, about three o'clock, he noticed by the moon-light that stole in his shutterless window that the snow-storm had ceased, and the moon was shining brilliantly. He got up and looked out. The ground was covered with snow, and the radiance of the great full moon made the whole landscape of a dazzling white; the tall peaks, which reared their heads into the sky, shone like burnished silver, and seemed almost touching the vast dome of heaven. George gazed for a long time, entranced at the scene, until the moving of a faint shadow under the trees attracted his attention. His eyes were keen at all times, and particularly so that night. He waited until he became convinced that there were Indian forms flitting about under the trees; then, slipping on his clothes and carrying his shoes in his hand, he noiselessly opened the door and went into the hall. As he opened the door he met Lance face to face.

"Have you seen them?" asked George, in a whisper.

"No," replied Lance; "but I wakened up just now, and something, I know not what, told me to go over the house and see if everything was all right."

George drew him to the outer door, and pointed to one of the little eye-holes. Lance peered through anxiously.

"I can't see anything, Mr. Washington; but your eyes are better than mine, and if you say there are Injuns out there I'll take your word for it."

At that moment George, who was watching at another eye-hole, saw in a corner near the house a fire smouldering on the ground. A dozen blanketed figures were crouching around it. Presently they rose, and, carrying each a long and heavy fence-rail blazing at the end, made a rush around the back of the house, and, with a thundering crash and a succession of terrific whoops, pounded the stout oaken door of the kitchen with the burning rails. It was as if that barbaric yell in one instant wakened the house and converted it into a fortress. Lights shone at every window, the negroes appearing as if by magic, and Lord Fairfax in a dressing-gown, but with a musket in his hand, opening his door. Lance and George had made a rush for the armory, and each seized an armful of muskets. The negroes were each given a musket, and stationed at an eye-hole. Meanwhile the pounding at the kitchen door continued, and shook the house from end to end. Stout as the oaken planking was, it seemed impossible that it could long withstand such assaults.

"It is the first time the red rascals have ever had sense enough to try and batter that door down. Before this they have tried the front door," said Lance, as he and George took their station at the end of the short covered way that led to the kitchen.

The Earl by this time had put on his clothes and had joined Lance and George.

"I think the door is giving way, sir," said George, quietly, to Lord Fairfax, as the sound of breaking timbers mingled with the screech of the savages.

"I know it, sir," added Lance, grimly. "We can keep the scoundrels out of the front door by stationing men in the half-story above, but there is no way of defending the kitchen door from the inside."

"How many Indians do you think you saw, George?" asked Lord Fairfax, as coolly as if he were asking the number of cabbages in a garden.

"At least a dozen, sir."

"Then if you saw a dozen there were certainly fifty,"' was the Earl's remark. The next moment a louder crash than before showed the door had given way, and in another instant the narrow passageway swarmed with Indians. George, mechanically following Lance's movements, raised his musket and fired straight at the incoming mob—the first hostile shot of his life. He felt a strange quiver and tremor, and an acute sensitiveness to everything that was happening around him. He stood shoulder to shoulder with Lance, and Lord Fairfax quietly moved in front of him, which he thought strange.

THE FIGHT IN THE KITCHEN PASSAGE.

"Kneel down," said Lance, in quite his ordinary voice, kneeling himself, so that the armed negroes behind him could fire over his head. Lord Fairfax and George did likewise. The perfect coolness and self-possession of Lance and Lord Fairfax amazed George. He had never seen old soldiers under fire before. For himself, he felt wildly excited, and was conscious that his features were working convulsively, and his heart thumped so loudly against his ribs that he heard it over the crashing of the musket-balls. It flashed before his mind that any and every moment might be his last, and he thought of his mother and Betty; he thought of everything, in fact, except one—that he might run away. He stood as if nailed to the ground, loading and firing faster than he ever did in his life, and so accurately that both the Earl and Lance were astonished.

All at once George's senses seemed to return to him, and he felt as calm and unshaken as either the Earl or Lance. He turned to the Earl and said:

"The two swivels are in the cellar directly back of us, and on a level with us. If we had one we could command this passage."

"Get it," replied the Earl, laconically. "Take Cæsar with you—it is on wheels, you know."

George darted into the cellar, and directly the rumbling of a small gun upon a rude carriage, with the wheels cut from solid logs of wood, was heard. Cæsar was dragging the swivel out, while George followed with the powder and shot. There was now only one Indian lying stark before them in the passage. Without a moment's thought, George darted forward to drag the prostrate form out of the way of the gun, lest, if the Indian were dead, it might mutilate him, and if only wounded, it might kill him.

As George stooped forward to lift him, the Indian, who was bleeding profusely from a wounded leg, suddenly threw his left arm around George's neck, and with the other hand drew a tomahawk from under him. But George was too quick for him, and catching his arm, lifted him bodily, and carried him back into the passageway where they stood.

It was Black Bear.

"You a squaw-man," was Lance's comment.

Black Bear said no word, but raising himself from the ground, produced a leather thong, which he tied around his bleeding leg, rudely but not unskilfully checking the flow of blood, after which Lance tied him securely and put him in a corner.

There was now a brief pause, and the guns were reloaded, and all were prepared for a second assault, while the swivel commanded the passageway thoroughly.

"They know what is going on here," said the Earl, "and their next attack will be by the front entrance."

"True, sir," responded Lance.

"Shall we leave Mr. Washington here while we reconnoitre the front of the house?" asked Lord Fairfax of Lance, who was the actual commandant of the garrison.

"I think so, sir—with Cæsar and one or two others. But keep your eye on Black Bear, Mr. Washington," said Lance, "as well as this passage." Just then the noise of an assault on the other part of the house was heard, and the whole force went over on that side, leaving George, Cæsar, and Jake the scullion to watch the passageway.

Occasionally they could see, by the dim light of a lantern hung to the wall, a figure passing to and fro in the kitchen.

George remembered to have heard that wounded men suffer fearfully from thirst. There was a cedar bucket full of water on a shelf in the larger passage, with a gourd hanging by it. He told Jake to put the bucket by Black Bear, and although the Indian had sat perfectly still, not showing, even by a contraction of the brows, the agony he was suffering, he gulped the water down eagerly.

The crack of musket-shots on the other side of the house could now be heard, and it was evident that the fight was renewed, but at the same time dark faces appeared at the opening into the covered way. George, loading the swivel himself, pointed it, and, by way of a salutary warning, sent a four-pound shot screaming through the kitchen. Not an Indian showed himself after that. They had met resistance on the other side of the house too, and as the moon went slowly down the horizon, in the pale gray of dawn the watchers from the eye-holes saw them draw off and take their way rapidly across the white ground into the mountains. The snow was blood-stained in many places, showing that the musketry fire had been very effective.

Just as day was breaking. Lord Fairfax came to George. "You have had your first taste of ball-cartridges," said he, smiling. "What do you think of it?"

George hesitated and remained silent for a moment. "At first," he said, "I hardly knew what I was doing. Afterwards, it seemed to me I had never thought so quickly."

"Witness the dragging out of the swivel," continued Lord Fairfax; "and let me tell you this—the difference between an ordinary general and a great general is that the ordinary man cannot think in a hurry and in the midst of terrible emergencies, but the great man thinks the better for the very things that disconcert an every-day man. You may some day prove a great general, George."

The boy blushed, but said nothing.

When he was relieved from his post he went to his room. As soon as he entered he saw Billy's ashy face, with his eyes nearly popping out of his head, emerging from under the bed, while Rattler gave a yelp of delight.

"Lord a'mighty, Marse George, I never tho't to see you ag'in!" exclaimed Billy, fervently. "All de time dem balls was poppin' me an' Rattler was thinkin' bout you, an when I hear one big gun a-gwine off I jest holler out loud, 'Marse George done daid—I know he done daid!'"

"I might have been dead a good many times for any help I had from you, you lazy scamp," responded George, severely, at which Billy burst into tears, and wailed until "Marse George" condescended to be mollified.

[to be continued.]

THE AMERICAN NIGHTS' ENTERTAINMENTS.

THE PICNIC.—BY EMMA J. GRAY.

Mariette's eyes looked rather red, as though she had been crying, and then came the words. "A dreadful thing has happened!"

"What?" And the next second her dearest friend, Laura Brainerd, was standing before her, and putting her hand on each shoulder, scanned Marietta's face.

Then, with a sob accompanying each word, came the sentence, "My caramel cake is heavy!"

This answer was so unexpected that, although Laura twisted her lips in every possible direction, and contorted her pretty mouth until it was absolutely homely, she had to give way at last, and then followed such a hearty laugh that her friend Marietta opened her dark blue eyes to their widest, and simply stared at her.

"Dear little Mariette," she exclaimed, "how absurd of you to care so much about a cake!" And then, seeing a wounded look steal over her friend's sensitive mouth, she added, "I know your caramel cake is always delicious, and I'll trust your hamper any time for holding no end of good things." And Laura smacked her lips, as if already tasting them.

"But it won't now," was the doleful response.

"Oh, pshaw! don't be such a silly girl. Tell me what you're going to take."

"Oh, nothing but sardine and chicken salad, pickled beets and walnuts, roast-ham sandwiches, blackberry and lemon meringue pie, cookies, almond cake—"

And as she was evidently not yet through, Laura interjected: "Don't tell me there is any more, or I'll not be able to sleep all night. Oh, how can I wait for to-morrow to come, anyway?" and impatient Laura paced hurriedly up and down the room.

"Yes, there is something more. I shall take big juicy plums;" and Mariette, holding up her hand, made a ring by touching her second finger and thumb together, and laughingly added, "So big, and with such a soft bloom on them that you'd like to taste one, I know."

"One! A dozen!"

And then quickly followed, "You just ought to see my peaches, though—so large and ripe, such beauties!" and Marietta's lips were pressed together as if already enjoying them.

And so the clouds rolled away, for in counting the many delicacies her picnic basket would hold, the heavy caramel cake was altogether forgotten.

"But what are you going to take, Laura?"

"I?" and Laura straightened herself back with a most self-satisfied air while saying, "Potato and asparagus salad—just made from asparagus tips, Mariette."

"Yes, I know," and she smiled, while nodding her curly brown head.

"And besides those, chicken pie, hard-boiled eggs, nasturtium seed, and peach pickles; pâté de foie gras sandwiches, a loaf of fresh home-made bread, and a roll of unsalted butter; large ripe tomatoes, some pepper and salt to help them down, and a frosted walnut cake."

"Oh, what a tempting luncheon! I guess no one will starve at our table!"

"I hope not. But, you know, picnics give powerful appetites; that's why I shall take an extra loaf of bread; besides, it will seem so fresh to cut it foreign fashion, just as it's needed."

The girls were talking in the large wainscoted parlor, and, it is needless to say, made a fascinating picture in their pretty summer toilettes, Mariette all in white, and Laura all in pink, her pink satin ribbons the exact match of her pink cheeks, as with mischievous manner she talked excitedly on. And we made a play of reading; for, instead, we were idly resting in this temptingly cool airy room, and could not help but listen to their gay chatter. So it was we learned that the picnic was to be to-morrow, that the party numbered twenty, an even number of girls and boys, that they were to be driven to their destination in large market-wagons made festive with flags; that each girl was to bring luncheon enough for herself and one of the boys, and that the boys would bring all the necessary outfit for games, such as ropes, archery, grace-hoops, tennis-net, and racquet balls.

The woods were not regular picnic grounds, and therefore the children knew there would be no tables, and as they wanted to do everything correctly and comfortably, they would meet the deficiency by taking their own. Five cutting-tables had been borrowed from their mothers; these would be folded over and put in the bottom of the wagon, and four persons could easily sit at each. The boys would arrange the seats, which, more than likely, would be the wagon seats, built to the requisite height by supporting each end on a pile of stones, or they might find convenient rocks, or take the rails from the post-and-rail fence adjoining. Should they decide on the latter, they would be put in place again when luncheon was over. Milk, lemonade, ice, and even ice-cream were to be carried; for some of the girls were excellent ice-cream-makers, and everybody would get so warm playing games and rushing around continually that ice-cream would be in demand.

That plated spoons, forks, etc., would be used, "so as to save worry," Mariette explained, and that Japanese napkins would do double duty, as they would also serve as table-cloths; besides they were pretty, and really dressed a table, and there was no fuss about their laundering afterwards, and her mother had said, "Maids should be considered as well as mistresses in such warm sultry weather."

All the sandwiches would be neatly wrapped in white tissue or waxed paper, and the thin wooden platters would be far more suitable for picnic purposes than delicate dainty china, as no one would be afraid of chipping them; and, besides, they were so light, "the horses would be glad," Mariette was sure.

"What's the harm of burning them when we are through, and the napkins, for that matter!" was Laura's interjection.

But the more thoughtful Mariette replied, "No harm, if we don't set the woods on fire."

It was thought best to put all the lunches, wraps, etc., in one wagon, and the picnickers would go in the other. Trusty drivers were going with the wagons, and the men were to keep watch all day, and be ready to help in whatever capacity necessity would require.

The atmosphere for the picnic proved perfect, and the girls' laughing sunbrowned faces and tangled curls testified to their having had a jolly day, while the boys' gay raillery, frequent cheers, and fern-trimmed hats showed that they were not left rearward when the fun was going around.

Long before the wagons were in sight the children were heard, for song followed song all the way back, they explained.

"It seems as if I was a boy again," said an old man, as the words "We'll not go home till morning" reached us, just before the wagons came in sight.

And when, with springing feet, the merry girls and boys jumped out, they were all so earnest to tell the story of the day that everybody talked at once. However, we learned that games were their chief sport, and that the rope now taken out of the wagon was first used for the Crown Game:

A girl enters the ring; all the others take firm hold of the rope. No sooner is she in than they skip about her, keeping the rope in motion. As they skip they sing, to the tune of "Auld Lang-syne,"

"Who'll crown our queen, our merry queen,
Who'll crown our queen to-day?
Who'll crown our queen, our merry queen,
Who'll crown our queen to-day?"

When this is sung the children stop skipping just where they are. And at once one of the boys puts his head under the rope, and, standing by the queen, replies, "I will." Then raising a crown of wild flowers, he puts it on her head. No sooner is she crowned than she blindfolds the boy, and another girl enters, thus making two girls in the ring. The game is to "tag" the right girl before the other players count nine. When the boy "tags" the girl, he must at once say whether or not she is the queen, and if he makes a mistake he must remain in the ring and try again. The first girl withdraws, the second girl is crowned queen, and the game is repeated. But should he make no mistake, the boy remains in the ring, is crowned king, and the game goes on, only that two boys are in the ring when a girl is blindfolded.

Another rope game was called the Guess.

Put a rope on the ground in the form of a circle; in the centre put a stone about the size of a duck's egg. The players stand backwards around the rope, with their heels touching it. Each one in turn throws a grace-hoop over his right shoulder, with the hope it will encircle the stone. As soon as the hoop is thrown all may turn and see the position. If the hoop encircles the stone the player may try again and again, until he fails, counting one for each time. Then the party to his right tries, and so on all around the rope. Whoever has the largest count wins the game.

This game is also played facing the stone; it is then no longer a game of guess, but a game of skill.

After the rope games, one of the boys taught a German game called Urbar, which he said was really a play on the word bear.

Every one excepting the boy who was instructor, and who was now known as Bear, twisted and knitted their handkerchiefs. The Bear selected a tree as starting-point, and stated his object would be to tag the others, and that whoever was tagged would become a Bear, and would have to return to the tree, pursued and beaten all the way back with the knotted handkerchiefs. The two Bears then join hands, and starting out, try to tag every one that is possible, and this action is repeated until all the players are Bears. Whenever the chain of Bears is broken, as it sometimes is by an attack from the rear, the Bears again return to the tree.

This game was followed by the Jolly Dinner:

Each girl in succession led a boy to a position to dance a reel.

First girl then said to first boy, "This is my flower to decorate the table," and she gave the boy a flower, which he put in his button-hole.

Second girl to second boy, "This is my flower to decorate the table," and giving him a different flower, he put it in his button-hole.

Third girl to third boy, "You tread clams for dinner," and the boy made the motion of treading for clams.

Fourth girl to fourth boy, "You catch trout for dinner," and the boy made believe he was a fly-fisherman.

Fifth girl to fifth boy, "You get lamb to roast," and the boy called. "Bah! bah!"

Sixth girl to sixth boy, "You get the turkey to roast," and the boy gave the call of a turkey-gobbler.

Seventh girl to seventh boy, "You shoot the duck for roasting," and the boy called, "Quack! quack!"

Eighth girl to eighth boy, "You are my pigeon to bake in a pie," and the boy flapped his arms, in imitation of wings.

Ninth girl to ninth boy, "You are the baker, and must make our cake," and the boy pretended to beat eggs.

Tenth girl to tenth boy, "You are the young man who grinds good coffee," and he acted as if turning the crank of a coffee-mill.

As soon as the tenth boy responded, those who received flowers whistled "Yankee Doodle"; all the others danced a reel, repeating their calls and motions while dancing.

This game caused so much hilarity that one of the boys proposed that childish game and old favorite the Mulberry Bush, and joining hands around a bush, they sang out loud and clear, "Here we go around the mulberry bush so early in the morning." Then they pretended they were sewing, and sang, "This is the way we sew our clothes, so early in the morning." And so on, adding verse after verse.

"So it's no wonder I feel tired now," one of the girls explained, "for, besides these games, we had tennis and archery matches. Indeed, we had nothing but fun all day long."

A COUNTRY BOY'S SOLILOQUY.

BY CLARA LOUISE ANGEL.

When the blackbird twitters blithely on the school-room window-sill,
And I hear the cattle lowing from the pasture on the hill,
When the hollyhocks are peeping through the widely open door,
And the sunshine flickers through the leaves across the school-room floor,
My truant mind don't seem inclined to work this endless sum:
I'm a-wishin' I were fishin', and vacation days had come.

I long to roam about the fields, to ride on loads of hay.
To pluck the yellow buttercups that grow beside the way,
To hunt for eggs, go berrying, and vault the meadow fence;
But oh! the joy to fill your heart with pleasure most intense:
To bait your hook beside the brook, where little trout appear!
How I'm wishin' I were fishin', and vacation days were here!

When the holidays have come at last, like happy golden dreams,
I'll speed away, all blithe and gay, and seek the meadow streams.
Oh, then my mind will be at peace; my hours will be sublime—
Though now I'm groaning over books, but thinkin' all the time
Of little trout that dart about beneath the waters clear,
And a-wishin' I were fishin', and vacation days were here!

HELD CAPTIVE BY SAVAGES.

BY CAPTAIN HOWARD PATTERSON.

Few boys are ever called upon to go through such an experience as fell to the lot of John Jewett, and it is safe to claim that no boy of his age would have shown a braver spirit than he exhibited during his three years' captivity among the savages.

The ship Boston, belonging to the port of that name, commanded by Captain John Salter, sailed a good many years ago for a trading voyage to the then little-visited northwest coast of America. The hero of this story had been apprenticed to his father, a shipsmith of Boston, but developing a longing to see the world, obtained his parents' consent to ship as an armorer on board of Captain Salter's vessel. After the usual boisterous Cape Horn passage, the Boston ran into the fine weather of the Pacific, and made a speedy voyage to Nootka Sound, coming to anchor in a sheltered cove close to the principal village on the coast.

As soon as the ship was moored, the King of the country went on board and welcomed Captain Salter warmly, promising that he would bring off for trade many furs, seal-skins, and other articles. The ruler of this section of Nootka Sound was known as King Maquina. He was over six feet in height, powerfully built, and possessed good features; but his face and body were made hideous by being smeared with stripes of white, black, and red paint. His long black hair fairly reeked with oil, and through a hole cut below the under lip a ring of ivory dangled. The dress of this chieftain was composed of a splendid otter-skin cloak reaching to the knees, and a head-dress of various colored feathers. On each arm above the elbow were several circles of copper, and around the ankles were strapped a number of small bells which jingled as he walked. Having been frequently visited by trading captains, he had picked up enough English to make himself understood in that language. Vessels bringing firearms, knives, hatchets, and fancy articles in the way of beads, bells, etc., were sure of carrying away, in exchange, valuable furs and skins. For several days after bartering had commenced the natives continued to bring on board otter and other furs. Large quantities of salmon, duck, and geese were also exchanged for trinkets, which were highly prized by the natives.

About a fortnight after the arrival of the ship it became evident that the Indians had traded their available stock, so preparations were made to leave this part of the coast. It is probable that Captain Salter and the King would have parted in a friendly way had not the former's greed led him to speak disrespectfully to the proud savage. The cause of the trouble was a fowling-piece which Maquina wished to obtain, but for which he was unwilling to pay the price demanded, being nothing less than the elegant cloak that covered his person. Thinking to bring the King to terms, the master told him that he would not deal with him ever again, and ordered him to leave the cabin and quit the ship with all his people. Maquina made no reply to the Captain, but his countenance expressed the rage he felt. Going to the side of the vessel to regain his canoe, he met the boy John, who was at work at his forge near the gangway. The King had taken a great fancy to the young armorer on account of the latter having mended a number of broken implements belonging to the royal collection, as well as having made in his presence a finely shaped tomahawk, with which the admiring chief had been presented. Seeing the fierce looks of the King, John asked him the cause. Maquina explained the trouble, and during the recital frequently clutched his neck and smoothed his breast, explaining that this performance was necessary to keep down his angry heart, which was rising in his throat and choking him.

The following morning, while the mate and a number of the men were on shore filling the water-casks, the King came off to the ship with a present of a fine salmon for the Captain, and appeared to be very cheerful and friendly. Shortly after this a number of canoes paddled alongside, their occupants holding up various things which they offered to trade. One by one, on various pretexts, they climbed over the rail, until there were about fifty of them on the deck. Maquina spoke to John, asking him to fix the lock of his gun, which he said he had broken. Entering the carpenter's work-room to get a screw-driver, John found the door quietly closed upon him, and secured from the outside so that exit was impossible. Almost immediately a frightful warwhoop and the sound of a scuffle on the deck proved that the savages had turned against the crew. At the end of two or three minutes Maquina opened the door and said:

"You, John, no hurt—heap good boy—make plenty spear—come."

As the young armorer held back, not knowing but what it was the intention of the savages to murder him as soon as he should appear, the King added, impatiently:

"What for no come? No hurt you—heap plenty all dead. King him save you make plenty gun—you come."

When John, sick at heart, followed Maquina outside, he saw the natives throwing overboard the mutilated bodies of the crew. Concerning John they had evidently been posted by the chief, for when they caught sight of the boy they patted him on the head and shoulders, and turned the palms of their hands toward him as signs of friendship. John was now directed to enter the King's canoe, which, followed by several others, paddled to that part of the coast, about two miles distant, where a stream of fresh water emptied into the bay, and to which the mate and sailors had gone just after breakfast with the water-casks. It was only when the boats neared the spot that John realized the mission of the painted savages, whose restless eyes swept the length of the beach, while their sinewy arms plied the paddles that drove their boats of bark with surprising quickness over the smooth water. The ship's launch was soon made out hauled up on the white sand, but the crew were nowhere in sight, and it was evident that they were hidden by the bushes that fringed the beach. Before the canoes had effected a landing the mate and his men emerged from the undergrowth, rolling the water-casks in the direction of the boat. Catching sight of the little fleet that now, at a sign from the chief, advanced slowly toward them, the seamen halted suspiciously; but Maquina waved a green branch before him as a token that his errand was one of peace, and the sailors started down to the beach to meet them.

Up to this time John had remained passive, crushed under the recollection of the awful end that had overtaken the Captain and men who had remained on board; but now, resolved to warn his shipmates even at the risk of his life, he jumped to his feet, waved his arms to attract their attention, and was about to cry to them, when a blow from the King's war-club upon the back of his head tumbled him senseless into the bottom of the canoe. When John opened his eyes some time after this, it was to meet Maquina's triumphant gaze, and to hear that individual say:

"How John? Now can make heap noise—no hear—all dead. Maquina he plenty big chief."

When the canoes returned to the village they were met by the entire population, who welcomed them with shouts of joy and war-songs chanted to an accompaniment played on their tomtoms, these instruments consisting of the dry skin of a seal stretched over a hollow shape of wood. Towards John the kindest treatment was shown, but the King explained that he was a slave, and that he must obey his orders and not try to escape, otherwise he would be given to the old women to be tortured. The chief wound up his harangue in this way: "Much good boy John. Maquina plenty big chief—heap friends. John make spear, make gun, make heap plenty all Maquina. No never go way—stay old man—heap good. Ugh!"

Finding that he was free to go about as he pleased, John threw his tired and aching body down under a tree, and surrendered his mind to bitter reflections. Only a few hours before yonder ship had been animated with a happy crew, speculating, as they worked, about the queer presents they proposed to purchase for friends and sweethearts when the ship arrived in the pig-tailed kingdom, for it had been Captain Salter's intention to proceed to China for a cargo of tea after trading with the Indians. Now the only human beings on board the ill-fated Boston were the savages left by the King to guard the great treasure that made Maquina the richest lord among all the chiefs on the northwest coast. Throughout the long afternoon the boy was left alone to nurse his sorrow and despair. He knew that few vessels visited this far-away, uncivilized land, and that years might elapse without offering him a chance of escape from his captors. Mother and father would long wait for his return. Brothers and sisters were likely to grow to manhood and womanhood without seeing the brother they remembered last as a sailor-boy, kissing them good-by beneath the vine-encircled porch of their modest home on the morning when the good ship Boston opened her white wings and glided out of the harbor to the hearty chorusing of the seamen as they pulled upon the ropes.

When evening came, the King, who had been on board the vessel, approached the boy, saying:

"John come—plenty eat—sleep Maquina's tepee. To-morrow make big tomahawk chop off head—-Maquina heap big chief."

Whereupon the King took John by the hand and led him to his hut, inside of which the chief's wives had arranged the evening meal. To please the King, poor John made a show of eating; then asked permission to lie down on one of the skins scattered around on the floor, to which request Maquina nodded an assent, and the boy stretched his tired limbs upon the rug, and in spite of his aching head, soon fell asleep. He was awakened by the King prodding him with the handle of his spear. For a few moments the strangeness of his surroundings dazed him, then, with the larger recovery of his faculties, the bitter truth was forced upon him. Choking back a sob, he returned Maquina's salutation, and followed him out of the hut to find that the morning had come and that the village was astir. After breakfast the King told John that he was to accompany him to the ship and bring the forge on shore, explaining his purpose in this way:

"Get iron fire—plenty iron—make heap things—get heap sail—heap things—burn ship so no can find—good—Maquina heap rich—plenty much gun—fight—kill—big chief. Ugh!"

Here he smote his breast, and strutted about in a lordly way until he caught sight of one of his wives taking a drink out of a decanter of rum that had stood on the Captain's table, and which the King had brought on shore as a precious find. Calling her a "peshak," which signifies a very bad woman, Maquina threw his spear at her, with the effect of knocking the bottle from her hand and breaking it on the ground. Forgetting kingly demeanor in his rage, he next hurled his war-club after the screaming woman, narrowly missing her head.

"Squaw bad—much whip," grunted the King, as he surveyed the broken glass and the little pool of liquor fast being absorbed into the earth. For a moment he eyed it wistfully, then got down on his knees and sucked up a mouthful of the spirit, after which he received back his spear and club from an obsequious attendant, rewarding his subject and relieving his own outraged feelings by giving the poor savage a rap across the back that sent him flying from the royal presence.

Upon going on board the Boston the chief entered the cabin to ransack the officers' rooms, and John descended into the hold in order to obtain a number of bars of iron with which to make the spear-heads and the like. While getting them slung for hoisting on deck he heard his name pronounced in a Christian voice, and looking in the direction of the sound, saw the dishevelled sail-maker of the ship. He had been in the 'tweendecks when the massacre occurred, where he had hastened half dressed from his bunk at the time of the attack. In a few words he was made acquainted with the story of the tragedy; then John told him that as everything was to be at once removed from the vessel, his hiding-place would soon be discovered, but that he had a plan by which he hoped to save his life, and for him to conceal himself again while he would go on deck and talk with the King. Entering the officers' quarters, John found the chief had togged himself out in the Captain's clothes and was in excellent humor as he proudly surveyed himself in the looking-glass which encased the mizzenmast where it passed through the cabin. Throwing himself on his knees before the King, John said that he had found his father, the sail-maker, alive, and begged that his life might be spared, claiming that his parent would make a great white house out of the ship's sails, and that this would be so beautiful as to cause all the other chiefs in the land to die of envy. Maquina appeared greatly pleased, and promised that "John's father" should not be harmed. Going on deck he addressed his men, telling them the story, and ordered John to call the sail-maker on deck. The old man made his way up the ladder and kneeled before the Chief, who lifted him up, saying:

"How John's Father? Maquina no kill—make plenty white tepee—make heap canoe sail—heap good. Ugh!"

"THE SAIL-MAKER SMOKED THE PIPE OF PEACE WITH THE KING."

Several days later, when everything of value to the savages had been carried on shore, the vessel was set on fire. That night on shore in Maquina's tent, dressed in the remnants of some hunter's costume, the sail-maker smoked the pipe of peace with the King, and made his position in the camp as secure as John's.

Maquina's riches soon became known to the tribes on the coast, and several raids were made upon his village by the covetous savages, but in every instance they were repulsed with considerable loss, owing to the muskets with which the chief's followers were armed. John and John's Father, as the sail-maker was known and called, were made much of by the King, and granted many indulgences, but were not allowed to lead idle lives, as the duty of the first was to keep all the guns and other arms in repair, while the other, as sail-maker-in-chief of the King's navy, was obliged to manufacture the sails with which the canoes were fitted. Thus nearly three years passed away, and when they had almost given up hope of escape, the trading brig Lydia, of Boston, commanded by Captain Samuel Hill, came to anchor one afternoon in the cove where a few blackened timber-heads sticking out of the sand marked the grave of the stately vessel that had once been moored on its gentle surface. After placing a guard over John and the sail-maker, and forbidding them to move out of their hut, Maquina went off to the brig to trade. Owing to a curiosity that probably cost them their heads before the next sun rose, the two sentinels shortly made their way to the beach in order to look upon the strange ship with whose people their neighbors were carrying on a lively trade, while they were left in the deserted village and deprived of the opportunity of exchanging the skins and furs that they had been saving for so long.

As soon as their guard disappeared the two captives plunged into the woods and made their way around the bend of the cove so as to approach the brig on the opposite side to the village. Waiting under cover until night had fallen, they took to the water and swam off to the ship, where they told their story, and were warmly received by the Captain and crew. A close watch was kept during the night to prevent a possible surprise by the natives, and when morning came the vessel was hauled out of the cove and anchored at some distance from the shore. Shortly after this Maquina's canoe was seen coming out to the ship. When it drew near, the King stood up and eagerly scanned the faces observing him from over the rail. He failed at first to recognize his two former captives, so great a change had been effected in their appearance by the aid of soap, scissors, and civilized dress; but suddenly penetrating this disguise, he burst into tears, stretched his arms out to them, and passionately cried:

"How John? How John's Father? No go away—come back Maquina!"

John answered the chief, telling him that he would never see them again; that he and his father thanked him for saving their lives and treating them kindly, but that Captain Hill was so enraged with him for killing the white men that if he came near the ship he would be shot. Whereupon the King beat his breast, threw his cloak over his head as a sign of grief, and was paddled back to shore.

Fearing to remain in this place lest Maquina might make a desperate effort to recover his lost slaves, and having completed his cargo, the Captain made sail during the day, and by nightfall was out of sight of land, the good ship Lydia sweeping over the long Pacific swells as though realizing that she was on her journey home. Some months later the anchor that had last rested on the white sand of Nootka Sound was dropped off the long wharf in Boston Harbor, and an hour later our young hero was folded in loving arms, while the father and mother offered up their thanksgivings for their boy who had been lost but was found again.

INTERSCHOLASTIC SPORT

St. Paul's School, Concord, is one of the few preparatory institutions in this country, if not the only one, that has a fully organized golf club and regularly established links. When the links was laid out in 1894 it was considered one of the best in the country, but since that time such an advance has been made, and so much interest has been taken in the game all over the United States, that the St. Paul's course cannot now boast such prominence. Nevertheless it is a fine course, and as the game is very popular at St. Paul's, improvements are constantly being made, and the grounds keep getting better and better.

The St. Paul's Golf Club was formed a little over two years ago, and it was made the club president's duty to have the greens cut and rolled when they need it by the men who regularly look after the other athletic fields of the school. The membership fee is two dollars a year, and an orphan asylum near by furnishes caddies. A ticket is given to each boy for every round of one person, two tickets for two persons, and so on, and these tickets are redeemed at five cents each about once a month.

The links is a good three miles in length. The start is from a slight incline, and over a smooth field having a fence, a road, and tall bushes to the right, with a free meadow to the left, and, at a distance of a fair drive, a ditch bordered by tall willows.

ST. PAUL'S SCHOOL, CONCORD, GOLF LINKS.

Teeing-ground at the start, looking towards the course.

This lay of the land makes it necessary for the player to adopt one of two plans when he starts. He must either make a fine drive right over the willows, and land in the meadow which lies between the teeing-ground and the first hole, or he must make a careful drive so as to place the ball on the hither side of the bushes, and then loft it over them with an iron. If the ball drops in a favorable position, however, the player may use his brassey with advantage, and drive through a gap that exists in the underbrush. This move will generally save him a stroke over the iron play. If he uses the iron, and arrives safely on the ground beyond, a good cleek shot will land him on or near the green. If he used the brassey and went through the willows at the ditch, a mashie shot should put him in position for a putt.

In all plays for the first hole the fence as well as the road and the bushes on the right must be avoided. Within sixty feet of the tee for the second hole there is a ditch, and beyond it a slight hill, and after that a level clear stretch to the second hole, just behind which is a fine woods. Careful driving is therefore required to avoid going into the ditch or hitting the hill, and many of the novices find they need to give good care to their lofting to save themselves from jumping into the woods.

ST. PAUL'S SCHOOL, CONCORD, GOLF LINKS.

Looking back from the middle links; course is around the fence on the left.

From the second to the third hole it is perfectly plain sailing, an even, smooth meadow with a slight downward inclination. This part of the course is so good that it has frequently been made in one drive. Between the tee for the fourth hole and the hole itself there is a potato patch surrounded by a fence, and, as every man who plays golf knows, a potato patch is a very unpleasant hazard. But to the careful driver its terrors in this case may be greatly reduced, for a good strong drive will put you out of all danger. The putting green, however, is on a slight elevation with woods behind it, so that considerable care is required when dropping the ball upon it with a mashie stroke.

From the fourth to the fifth hole the course runs through an orchard, which, however, is not very extensive, and many of the most expert players on this links can drive entirely over it. The ground slopes toward the putting green until within about fifty yards of it. From the fifth to the sixth hole the ground is overgrown with crab bushes about two feet high and very dense, so that a ball dropping fairly into the midst of this patch is likely to lodge there. The space around the green, however, is perfectly level, and is screened on the far side with pine woods. It is one of the shadiest and best of greens that it has been my fortune to see anywhere.

The course from the sixth to the seventh hole is likewise over a reasonably smooth green, with tufts of crab bush sticking up here and there. It has no especially difficult features, being a plain straightaway course, but it offers a favorable chance for a good iron-player to distinguish himself. The green from the next to the last hole ends in a semicircle of pine woods, and then comes the long hole home.

The home putting green, although level itself, is situated on a hill-side, and so the man who is reckless or over-energetic with his putting-iron is liable to make a long putt—and see his ball roll all the way down the hill. At the bottom of this hill are a fence and bushes, where many a game has been lost through the carelessness or misfortune of the players who have allowed their balls to get into this hazard at the last moment.

This St. Paul's links is situated in a very pretty part of the country, and there are enough natural hazards to make it interesting even for a first-class player. As may well be judged from the brief description I have been able to give here, it is plain that the course is not over a barren, uninteresting table-land, as is the case with many of our American links, but in a locality where there are plenty of woods and hills to make the scenery interesting. There are no impossible bunkers or hazards, so that a round of the links is sure to be interesting. The course is only about four or five minutes' walk from the main school grounds, and is situated on school property, so that the students do not have far to go for their sport, and find no one to interfere with them when they get there.

The interest in the game has been growing steadily ever since the links was first laid out, and it is to be hoped that other schools will take the game up in the near future. There are a few country schools that cannot have links, for even if the school property is not extensive enough for the course to be laid out upon it, there ought to be little difficulty in securing the permission of land-owners to lay out a few putting greens, which would be about the only improvements required. Almost any section of country has a sufficient number of natural hazards to make it unnecessary to construct artificial bunkers and sand-pits.

And now that we are on this interesting subject of golf and bunkers and hazards, it may be well to devote the rest of our space in the Department this week to the answering of questions which have been coming in with greater or less frequency during the year. Most of these questions have concerned links and their construction, and as this is a subject which cannot be treated satisfactorily in short letters, it has seemed best to wait for a convenient time when the laying out of links might be debated in these columns.

It may seem at first a very easy matter to lay out a golf course, but when one begins work upon a links there are several things to be considered. A very hilly country is unsuited to the game, and stony fields or ploughed land is impossible. The best kind of land for a course is pasture land, such as may be found in the neighborhood of almost any town not situated in the mountain country. When a suitable stretch of ground has been found, the first thing to be done is to make a general survey of its salient features in order to determine the general direction of the course and its length.

A links may be laid out with six holes or nine holes or eighteen holes, and such courses would vary all the way from a mile and a half to four miles. The ideal course should be about three miles and a half long. If the available ground is limited, it is much better to lay out nine good holes than to try to get eighteen into the limited space. Having settled upon the starting-point and the number of holes that you are going to have, the general direction of the course should be laid out so that it will swing around in a sort of circular path, and finish up somewhere near the starting-point. In other words, the home green should be placed as near as possible to the first tee.

The length or distance between holes varies anywhere from a hundred up to five hundred yards, the distance being based on the number of full shots that a player must make to reach the next hole. The idea is to make it easy for a good player to reach the green, but difficult for a poor player, whose lack of skill must be penalized. Therefore a distance of two hundred yards is generally bad, for it brings about the objectional combination of a full shot and a short approach.

It is always well to have the holes well guarded with hazards on all sides. Of course few holes can be thus completely surrounded, but when laying out a links it is well to keep this object in mind, for hazards call out the skill of a player. Sometimes there are not enough natural hazards along the course, and it is necessary to throw up banks of earth, or to plant bushes, or to dig ditches. If it becomes necessary to throw up a bank across the course, it is better to build it in a sort of curve rather than along a straight line, for it thus makes a much better golfing hazard. One thing must be remembered in the construction or arrangement of hazards, and that is that they should not interfere with good play.

In the laying out of putting greens one should endeavor to have a space clear of hazards about twenty yards square. The hole should be sunk in about the centre of this green, and lined with an iron or tin cylinder. But on no account should the rim of the cylinder come above or even flush with the edges of the hole, or it will interfere with the play. These cylinders may be bought at almost any shop where sporting goods are for sale, or, if nothing better is at hand, an old piece of tin water-pipe will do.

It is preferable to have level greens, although any slight inclination is no serious disadvantage. It is well to dig up the ground where the putting greens are to be laid out, in the autumn, and sod them in the spring. They should be rolled frequently, and the grass must be kept short.

Teeing-grounds should be marked with whitewash, or with disks of whitewashed tin stuck into the ground. A teeing-ground should be as level as possible, and never hanging—-that is, sloping in the direction from which the shot has to be played from it. Almost any slight elevation will do for a teeing-ground, and it must be within easy walking distance of the hole that has just been played.

After a golf course has been in use for a short time, it will be noticed that the parts which suffer most are the places from which approach shots are made to the greens, and the putting greens themselves. The use of heavy irons is very injurious to the soft turf, and players should always make it a point to replace any sod they may have torn up by careless or poor strokes. When a green gets badly worn it is usually advisable to change the location of the hole to another part, and replace it in its original position after the turf has recovered some of its original good condition.

Rolling is an important factor toward the keeping in order of a putting green, but the roller should be a light one rather than a heavy one, as heavy rollers are liable to get the turf root-bound. If the turf be very coarse it is well to sprinkle sand over it, as that seems to have a beneficial effect in thinning out and fining down the grass.

It has become a custom with the more important golf clubs of the country to use flags of various colors to mark the outgoing and incoming holes. Outgoing holes are marked with a red flag, and the incoming with white flags. These colors are more easily distinguished against foliage than any others. The line flags should be of a different color, so as not to be confounded with the hole flags; yellow or pink is a good shade.

Another good thing to do in the way of marking a course is to indicate the limits of such important hazards as water, roads, fences, or brier islands with short wooden sticks painted white or whitewashed. Such stakes may prove of great convenience, and take but little time and trouble to set out.

In reference to the tables of records published last week, it is well to say that the National figures may be looked upon as exact, because the performances of the first National meeting stand as the Association's records until they shall be bettered at future meetings of the National I.S.A.A.A.; but of the figures in the Interscholastic table we cannot be so sure, because there are so many interscholastic meetings all over the country that it is almost impossible to get correct and reliable reports of all performances, but this table is as near right as can be made under the circumstances, and has been very carefully revised by a number of athletes and other gentlemen interested in school sports in various parts of the country.

It is interesting to note that most of the members of the Berkeley School baseball team, who won the N.Y.I.S.B.B.A. championship this year, are residents of New York city; thus it cannot be said with any justice that New York boys cannot play ball. In the comment on the work of the N.Y.I.S.A.A. nines in a recent issue of the Round Table it was stated that Markell led in batting. This was a typographical error for Mallett. Mallett of Trinity School heads the batting list with an average of 1000.

"TRACK ATHLETICS IN DETAIL."—Illustrated.—8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25.

The Graduate.

STAMPS

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

Some time ago Mr. Friedl of Vienna, whose postal museum was one of the sights of Vienna, came into possession of a large number of the Austrian Mercury stamps of which the used copies bore a cancellation mark hitherto unknown. He sold some of these stamps at large prices, when the sale was stopped by a charge that these stamps were counterfeits. A lengthy controversy ensued, which ended by an open acknowledgment that the stamps were genuine. Mr. Friedl felt aggrieved at the charges, and has determined to sell out his collections, his stock, and the contents of his museum. One of the leading American dealers met him in Germany, and secured a number of very valuable stamps; among other things he purchased the unique complete unused sheet of 3 pf. Saxony, 1850 issue, catalogued at $50 per stamp. Unfortunately the sheet never came to America, as it was sold to a leading English collector who was also in Germany at the same time. Numerous other good U.S. stamps changed hands through this dealer, so that very little has come across the water.

The only plate of the 2c. stamps containing different triangles is No. 170. This plate is printed in one sheet of four panes, each pane containing 100 stamps. These sheets of 400 stamps are cut apart, and the panes of 100 each form a complete sheet as we get them from the post-office. The two left-hand sheets of Plate No. 170 contain seven rows of Triangle III., and three rows of Triangle II. When a complete sheet is not kept, collectors usually take a pair or block showing both triangles.

The summer months are usually dull in a philatelic sense, yet many collectors find time to devote themselves to their hobby, and frequently manage to get stamps at a lower price than during the brisker winter months. This year the off season seems to have been devoted more especially to Revenue and other stamps which are not connected with the postal service. A collection of these oddities is very interesting in itself, and also very instructive. In Germany many collections of the Governmental Insurance stamps are made. (See illustration of the 14 pf. Elsass-Lothringen stamp.) Late issues of German papers state that the government has a surplus of 125,000,000 marks insurance money on hand, which it proposed to invest in the building of cottages and houses for workmen, to be let at reasonable rates. The law has been in force since January 1, 1891, and it probably affects over 15,000,000 workmen and work-women. It provides insurance against sickness and accidents, and for a pension in old age. The benefits are: 1. Free medical treatment, medicine, and surgical appliances through life. 2. Half-pay in cash during illness, or free hospital treatment for thirteen weeks each year. 3. Twenty days' wages on death, and, if insurance is kept up, those dependent on the deceased receive a small pension. 4. At a fixed period, late in life, payments cease, and a small pension is given. The payments into the fund for insurance are made weekly (forty-seven weeks to the year) one-third by the workman, one-third by the employer, and one-third by the government. Each state in Germany has its own series of stamps, 14 pf., 20 pf., 24 pf., 30 pf., etc., similar to the Elsass-Lothringen represented above, but bearing its own name.

In this country quite a number of savings-banks and similar establishments have introduced a similar system. For instance, the Pratt Thrift of Brooklyn sells stamps at 5c., 10c., 25c., and 50c. each. These are pasted in a book or on a card, and can be turned in as so much cash whenever desired. The great objection to collecting stamps of this nature is that no used stamps can be bought, and unused stamps must be paid for at full face.

On the other hand, it is not necessary to collect every value of each issue. The lowest value will answer for the set if the design is the same. Indeed, "general" stamp-collectors will soon be forced to take a step like this in view of the absolute impossibility of obtaining copies of the rarer stamps.

A. Lombard.—Any of the U.S. Revenues, unperforated, are worth keeping. Many of them are rare, and uncovered pairs are always worth much more than two single stamps.

Philatus.

ADVERTISEMENTS.

ROYAL BAKING POWDER

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BICYCLING

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

Copyright, 1896, by Harper & Brothers.

This week we give one of the best short trips in the vicinity of Chicago. To take the trip, leave Chicago some afternoon by train, say Saturday, planning to arrive at Waukesha in time for supper. Begin the run early enough next morning so that you can reach Oconomowoc before the heat of the middle of the day. It is possible to either take breakfast at Waukesha, or to merely have a cup of coffee, and plan to eat breakfast at Pewaukee, at the head of the lake of the same name. The road is easily found, running north and northwest from Waukesha. Follow the railroad for a short mile, then take the left fork and run out two miles, after turning left again, before reaching the river, and follow along on the westward side of this stream into Pewaukee. The distance is about five miles and a half. After breakfast you can either take the steamboat down the lake to Lakeside Cottages, or run out across the Chicago, Milwaukee, and St. Paul Railroad, keeping to the left fork at the crossing, and running westward by Lakeside Station to Hartland.

From Lakeside Cottages you wheel up by the Lakeside station, cross the track, and turn to the left into the road running into Hartland. From Hartland to Nagawicka the road follows most of the way along by the railroad, passing Pine Lake, and then, still following the railroad, runs through Nashotah, at the head of Nagawicka Lake, continuing through a slightly hilly country to Okauchee, and thence passing between Okauchee Lake and Oconomowoc Lake, crossing the railroad just before reaching Giffords, and recrossing again a mile beyond, running thence into Oconomowoc. The road is easily found, except at a point just as you pass through Okauchee, where, on reaching the school-house, you turn to the left where the road forks and run direct to Giffords, as described. From Hartland to Oconomowoc the road is through very attractive country, covered with thriving farms, with frequently a water view over one of the lakes that is well worth the ride from Waukesha. Here and there you see summer cottages of city people in the midst of the farming country. The hills between Nashotah and Okauchee are easy to climb, as they are all graded, and the roads are as fine as any in that part of the State. The gravel which lies on the top is well rolled down.

After having had two or three hours' rest in the middle of the day, with dinner at Oconomowoc, the return trip can be made by what is called the Nashotah road, passing Soft Water Lake, and running on between upper and lower Nashotah lakes, thence following the road into Delafield, crossing the stream in the centre of the town, and running out eastward along the lower end of Nagawicka Lake. From this point the run into Waukesha is made over what is known as the graded road to Waukesha. This trip can be made easily in time for you to arrive in Waukesha early enough to take a late afternoon train for Chicago.

The whole country about Waukesha is filled with lakes and with picturesque scenery, and this particular trip can be extended in several different ways by circling any one of the lakes, or by making a stay of a day or two at any one of the towns, especially Pewaukee. Besides this, a good way to reach Waukesha is to take a steamer from Chicago to Milwaukee, and then ride down to Waukesha itself over the Waukesha-Milwaukee road race-course, the distance being twenty-five miles. This particular route will be given in the Round Table at an early date. The Waukesha route itself is about thirty-six miles in all.

THE CAMERA CLUB

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

THE MYSTERY OF SILVER FEINTING.

Correctly speaking, the image on the sensitive paper is permanent when it is removed from the printing-frame, but the silver chloride which has not been acted upon by the light is still sensitive, and unless it is removed, it would also decompose, and thus the picture would be lost. In order to preserve this picture some chemical agent must be used which shall remove or dissolve the unchanged chloride of silver.

It has been shown that the portion of the chloride of silver which has been acted upon by the light has been changed to a different chemical compound. Any chemical process to which the picture might be subjected would be likely to act on each compound in a different manner. In order to preserve the picture some chemical agent must be employed which shall remove or dissolve the silver chloride, but which shall not affect the chemical compound which forms the picture.

After many experiments a safe, and now cheap,[2] agent was found in hyposulphite of soda. When the print is placed in a solution of hyposulphite of soda a new compound is formed—silver sodium hyposulphite. This double salt dissolves very quickly in water, and is easily washed out of the film. If, however, the hypo solution is not strong enough, another compound is formed, which will not dissolve, and cannot be washed out of the film. It decomposes by degrees, and produces a yellowish-brown deposit, which ruins the paper or film. This is the reason why prints and films are a dull yellowish color; it is the formation of an insoluble salt by using too weak hypo, or not leaving the paper or negative long enough in the solution.

Each atom of nitrate of silver requires three atoms of hyposulphite of soda to form the soluble double salt. Negatives require a solution double the strength of that used for prints. The proportion for negatives is 1 oz. of hyposulphite of soda to 4 oz. of water, while the solution for prints requires 8 oz. of water to 1 oz. of hypo.

Hypo does not keep well in solution, and should be made up in small quantities. It is better to keep the bottles containing it in a dark place, or to wrap them in paper. A small piece of chalk dropped in the solution will counteract or neutralize any trace of acid that may be formed.

A bottle which has contained hypo, or a dish in which it has been used for fixing purposes, should not be used for other chemicals. Hypo will penetrate glass or porcelain in a few days, and therefore contaminates any solution which is placed in a vessel which has once contained it.

The only printing process in which water is used as a clearing or fixing agent is in the cyanotype or "blue-print" process. This blue-print paper is coated with a solution of potassium ferrocyanide and ammonio-citrate of iron. Each of these salts is soluble in water, but when the paper with which they are coated is exposed to the action of light, the two substances combine and form a compound which is something of the nature of "Prussian blue." This compound is insoluble in water, and when a print is made on the sensitive paper and placed in water the salts which have not been acted upon by the light dissolve and wash away, while the compound formed by the union of the two salts under the light action remains, and the image is permanent.

A curious experiment may be made with the blue print. A paper is coated with an equal mixture of the two salts in equal proportions, and a blue print made on it in the usual way. When this print is dry, if it is placed in a solution of proto-nitrate of mercury the picture will soon disappear. If this apparently clear paper is washed and dried, and ironed with a hot iron—not hot enough to scorch the paper—the picture will gradually reappear, but the color will now be brown instead of blue. When this picture is placed for a few days in a book or portfolio it will fade away, but can be restored by again pressing with a hot iron.

The next paper will give the explanation of the toning or—as the early photographers termed it—the coloring process of the silver print.

THE SECOND SUMMER,

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

ADVERTISEMENTS.

23,469

Collections of different Columbia advertisements were submitted in competition for the Columbia Bicycle recently offered as a prize. The winning collection was sent by H. F. Wendall, Leipsic, Ohio, and contained 2,089 different advertisements of

Columbia Bicycles

This contest has demonstrated in a remarkable manner the secure popularity of Columbia bicycles and the wide-spread desire to secure one. If Columbias could be sold for less, the use of Columbias would be universal. But Columbia quality can only be maintained at its unvarying standard by asking one unvarying price.

$100 TO ALL ALIKE.

Hartford Bicycles are the sort for which $100 is usually asked—

$70, $65, $50, $45.

The Columbia Art Catalogue by mail for two 2-cent stamps, or is free if you call on the Columbia agent.

POPE MFG. CO., Hartford, Conn.

Branch Houses and Agencies almost everywhere.

WALTER BAKER & CO., limited.

Established Dorchester, Mass., 1780.

Breakfast Cocoa

Always ask for Walter Baker & Co.'s

Breakfast Cocoa

Made at

DORCHESTER, MASS.

It bears their Trade Mark

"La Belle Chocolatiere" on every can.

Beware of Imitations.

Postage Stamps, &c.

$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.

STAMPS

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

STAMPS

10 stamps and large list FREE!

L. Dover & Co., 1469 Hodiamont, St. Louis, Mo.

STAMPS on Approval! 50% disct. List free.

W. C. Shields, 30 Sorauran Ave., Toronto, Canada.

THOMPSON'S EYE WATER

Reader: Have you seen the

Franklin

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

Square

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

Collection?

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

Harper & Brothers, New York.

Magic Squares.

Magic squares have been so called on account of the wonderful powers which the ancients thought they possessed. According to this idea, a square containing one cell represented the Deity, the product of unity by itself always being unity. The square of the root two represented imperfection, while a square of nine cells was consecrated to Saturn, of sixteen to Jupiter, of twenty-five to Mars, of thirty-six to the Sun, of forty-nine to Venus, of sixty-four to Mercury, and of eighty-one to the Moon. There are even and odd magic squares. Added vertically, horizontally, or diagonally the result will be the same. A still more ingenious square is so arranged that when it is lessened by one, two, or three bands on each side it will still remain "magic." Still another square is divided into four compartments, each compartment being magic.

Odd Square.

Even Square.

Bordered Square.

Compartment Square.

Vincent V. M. Beede, R.T.F.

An Unreliable Florida Lake.

There is a lake quite near to our house which is covered with weeds and tall grass. From a distance it presents the appearance of a large swamp. In this lake there are a number of clear places, which are said to have no bottom, and are called "sinks." It is said that twice this lake has run dry, the water escaping through one of these sinks. Millions of fishes were left on the sand, and wagons came and carried them off to be sold. I have also been told that one of the farmers planted a field of rice in one of the fertile places that the lake had uncovered. The rice grew and nourished in the rich ground, when one morning, looking out to see how it was growing, he found that the lake had come back in the night and had buried his rice-field.

Have you ever tasted fresh figs? When at a friend's house the other day some were brought in, and I tasted one. I found it to be very sweet and sticky inside, and was what is called "sickish." I would like to correspond with any member of the Round Table who is interested in finding out the strange things in other countries.

Marion M. Clute, R.T.L.
Lake City, Fla.

Kinks.

No. 14.—Hidden Name.

Prose by Optic, Poe, and Emerson offers no greater variety than would poetry by Goldsmith, Ruskin, Edgeworth, Greene, Otway, Reade, Young, Irving, and Xerxes, had all written poetry. Find the name of the man who sent usurers to England to loan money to poor people unable to pay tithes, which usurers, having offices on a certain London street, give it a name to this day.

No. 15.—Beheading.

Behead the foot of a horse, and leave a fruit; behead again, and leave part of the horse; behead again, and leave before.

Simon T. Stern.

No. 16.—Three Kitchen Receipts.

First have your stove intensely warm
If this dish you'd properly make:
Then into it put two less than a dozen
Of tiny creatures to bake.
By following directions you find it will give
A well-known people who in Africa live.

Make your first layer of a very small article,
Your last of an equally small measure.
Between them place the beginning of speech.
A transposition you have at your pleasure.

Take a dish for an invalid,
Neither liquid nor solid.
Mix it well with a space
That's broad and not squalid.
'Twill make you a dish
That epicures covet,
And all who partake
Will vow that they love it.

No. 17.—A Menu.

Soup—lake in Minnesota. Fish—cape in Massachusetts, river in Connecticut. Roast—river in Tennessee, lake in California. Vegetables—river in Vermont, river in Alabama. Entrées—town in Arizona, river in Montana. Dessert—city in New Jersey, island off Connecticut coast, river in Arkansas, river in Montana, river in Mississippi.

No. 18.—A Dinner Party.

Some time ago, no matter when, a grand dinner party was given, at which were guests who assumed the following names, in order to make the feast a celebration, by famous Americans, of a great American event. The assumed names were:

1, Common, a county, a human being.

2, Government appropriation.

3, Good advice, to cease from.

4, Casual, worn out, a slip.

5, A fish, a city in Oregon, to pursue.

6, A vegetable, a drink, a hinderance, torpid.

7, An Irish nickname, a stack, a fowl, grain.

8, An animal's cry, meat, a torch, to peruse.

9, To agree, cleansing, a weight.

10, Two Bible characters, a meadow.

11, A patriarch, a beverage.

12, To satisfy, a wine, a cave.

13, A small truck, a cry, a film, a heavenly body.

14, A past participle, a sweetmeat, a tavern, hirsute, a relation.

15, A fowl, to recompense, the strand, to wander.

16, A plant, a verb, two letters, residences.

17, A nickname, an animal, a whirlpool, a luminary.

18, A bird, a Russian, a small room, to sink, to flow.

19, An outfit, a chariot, a relation.

20, Headgear, a weight, an animal.

Answers to Kinks.

No. 9.

Central letters.—Meleager. Cross-words.—1, Plummet. 2, Bisects. 3, Mallard. 4, Foreman. 5, Durance. 6, Leggins. 7, Creeper. 8, Starred.

No. 10.

1, 1808. 2, 375 a.d. 3, A. 4, 6. 5, Nein (9). 6, Cat. 7, 85. 8, 60 tons. 9. 1880 carats.

Solution.—1808-375=1433+1=1434÷6=239x9=2151÷3=717-85=632+60=692+1880=2571. √25=5x2=10, number of letters in Euphrosyne.

No. 11.—A dream.

No. 12.—Caprice—a price, price, rice, ice, ream, cream, ice-cream.

No. 13.

Donkey, keynote, notelet, letter, terror, roral, allot, lotto, tower, ergot, gotten, tender, derma, marine, renal, alarm, armor, mortal, tallow, Lowell, well done.

Much In a Right Beginning.

Governor William E. Russell, of Massachusetts, who died recently at the age of thirty-nine, but had in that short life been Mayor of his city and Governor of his State, and had gained national fame, early began to think and act right. As a school-boy, when boating with five companions, his craft was overturned, and he swam a mile to shore. Asked by his mother about his struggle to reach land, he said, "I thought of you, prayed to God, and kept my arms and legs in stroke."

THE END OF OLD MONEY.

Every one has at some time or another received in change a ragged bill, sometimes in such a dilapidated condition that it is held together with pieces of gummed tissue-paper, made expressly for that purpose. When such bills are received, the desire is to get rid of them as quickly as possible, and so they pass from hand to hand, until finally they reach some bank that will turn them into one of Uncle Sam's treasuries.

Uncle Sam would like to keep his paper money clean, and he endeavors to withdraw from circulation every ragged bill. Eventually most every bill finds its way back to the Treasury after a life of from two to four years, except those that are lost, or destroyed in fires, etc. It is an almost impossible task to recall them all, yet the number that are withdrawn provide work for a large department in the Treasury Building at Washington. If one passes through the corridors and should glance into this room, he will see a lot of girls busily counting bundles of dirty greenbacks of all denominations. When the count is carefully tabulated, the bundles are stacked on the floor in small piles. It is not an uncommon sight to see two of the girl counters seated on a pile of these bills chatting to each other, doubtless of some social matter, utterly regardless of the fact that they may be sitting on some hundred thousand dollars of actual money.

The end of these old bills that have served their purpose so faithfully has a certain amount of pathos. If one is fortunate enough to be present when a committee of three officers of the Treasury send them to their destruction, a curious, almost indescribable sensation will creep over one. This destruction takes place in a room in the Treasury Building. There is a small table in the centre of the room, and on this the bundled bills are piled in reckless confusion. Through two holes in the floor at the end of the table can be seen the large cylinders or macerators into which the bills are placed. They are about the size of locomotive boilers. A large funnel is inserted in one of the holes, and it connects with one of the macerators. The bills are then untied and thrown into the mouth of this funnel. It is amusing to see one of the committee take a stick when they become jammed and prod them through. When the last one is safely in, a mixture of lime and soda-ash is placed in the macerator, a cover is clamped over the ventricle, and each member of the committee fastens it with a separate lock. Steam is then turned on, and the cylinders are set in motion. When the bills have been thoroughly macerated the pulp is drawn off and taken to a paper-machine, where it is made into sheets of paper, and afterwards sold.

Some one suggested the idea of using part of the pulp to make little fancy images. The idea was adopted, and dainty little knick-knacks made of the pulp can be bought in the stores in Washington. The salesmen often induce the possible purchaser to buy by telling him that the image at one time represented a large sum of money.

To pick up one of these images is to give rise to thought, for here embodied in a small compass is that which was once part of the greatest power in the world.

Ivory Soap

A wise young woman understands
That Ivory Soap is best to use
For outing flannels, sunburned hands,
Light summer gowns and tennis shoes.

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

EARN A GOLD WATCH!

We wish to Introduce our Teas and Baking Powder. Sell 50 lbs. to earn a Waltham Gold Watch and Chain; 25 lbs. for a Silver Watch and Chain; 10 lbs. for a Gold Ring; 50 lbs. for a Decorated Dinner Set; 75 lbs. for a Bicycle. Write for a Catalog and Order Blank to Dept. I

W. G. BAKER,

Springfield Mass.

HARPER'S CATALOGUE

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

THOMPSON'S EYE WATER

MARK TWAIN'S JOAN OF ARC.

Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc. By the Sieur Louis de Conte, her Page and Secretary. Freely Translated out of the Ancient French into Modern English from the Original Unpublished Manuscript in the National Archives of France, by Jean François Alden. Illustrated from Original Drawings by F. V. Du Mond, and from Reproductions of Old Paintings and Statues, pp. xvi., 461. Crown 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $2.50.

One of the most delightful books of the time. It is read with keen enjoyment, and its leaves will be turned over again many times in delicious reminiscence of its fascinating episodes and its entrancing digressions.—Richard Henry Stoddard, in N. Y. Mail and Express.

Mark Twain, in the best book he has ever written, has given us a life of Joan of Arc so amazing in its realism, its vividness and force, that, like Shakespeare's plays, it compels acceptance.... It seems to us that Mark Twain's "Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc" is not only the best thing he has ever done, but one of the best things done by anybody in fiction for a long time past.—Speaker, London.

NEW EDITION OF MARK TWAIN'S WORKS.

From New Electrotype Plates. Crown 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental:

THE ADVENTURES OF HUCKLEBERRY FINN. With Photogravure Portrait of the Author, and Other Illustrations. $1.75.

We are suspicious of the middle-aged person who has not read "Huckleberry Finn"; we envy the young person who has it still in store.... After the humor of the book has had its way then the pathos will be apparent, and later still will come the recognition of the value of these sketches as pictures of a civilization now ended.—Philadelphia Ledger.

LIFE ON THE MISSISSIPPI. Illustrated. $1.75.

Mr. Clemens's picture of the by-gone time is most graphic.... Throughout the book Mr. Clemens's powers of humor and pathos are continually shown.—Boston Transcript.

THE PRINCE AND THE PAUPER. Illustrated. $1.75.

Aptly described as "a tale for young people of all ages," for it is a delight to grown-up folk to read it. It is doubtful if Mr. Clemens ever did a more artistically consistent thing than this, and in the ultimate appraisal of his fiction it is sure to rank very high.—Hartford Courant.

A CONNECTICUT YANKEE IN KING ARTHUR'S COURT. Illustrated. $1.75.

The story will be recalled as one of the quaintest and most original of this quaint and original writer's works.... Fascinating clear through.—Brooklyn Times.

Other Volumes to Follow.

Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York.

THE INTRODUCTION.

THE CARVING FORK. "Mr. Pitcher, allow me to introduce you to my friend Mr. Bunny."

THE PITCHER (bowing low). "Happy to meet you, Mr. Bunny."

A WISE BOY.

Helen (awed). "Oh, Tommie, aren't you awfully afraid of the bears they tell about up here?"

Tommie. "Naw! I'm not afraid of the bears anybody tells about. I'm only afraid of the bears I see."

A HAND-CLAPPER.

"Papa," said Willie, as he entered his father's room at the Mountain House, "can I join the band here?"

"I don't know. As what—bass-drummer?"

"No, clapper," said Willie.

"You can't play the clappers," said his father.

"No," said Willie, "and they don't want me to; but I'm to start the applause when the band stops playing."

There is a smart little town out in North Dakota, and its inhabitants imagine they are a great deal smarter. They have an excellent opinion of their city, as they term it, and blow and bluster more over its welfare and growth than a Kansas cyclone. The main line of a railroad runs through it, and once a week a train stops there. This indifference on the part of the railroad people is a source of bitterness to the inhabitants, especially as the engineers make it a point to go through the place at full speed. Finally, they resolved to put a stop to it, so one day they built a barricade on the tracks, and forced the first train to come to a halt. Then they arrested the engineer and took him before the judge of the place. He was charged with running through a city regardless of speed, and to the danger of the populace.

"What have you to say in answer to this charge, sir?" sternly asked the judge.

The engineer smiled and looked around. He stepped to the door and looked at the few straggling houses, and allowed an expression of astonishment to settle on his face. Then he walked slowly up in front of the judge and said:

"Upon my honor, judge, this is the first time I ever knew there was such a place as a town on this part of the line."

The citizens after that slowly removed the barricade, and let the engineer proceed on his way.

AN ACCOMPLISHED LITTLE GIRL.

Aggie. "Mamma, can't I stay up to the dance to-night?"

Mrs. B. "Why, you can't dance, my dear."

Aggie. "No, mamma; but I can stay up splendidly."

AN OBSERVANT YOUNG LADY.

"It's dreadfully mean," said Mollie. "They have an elevator in this hotel to take you up to bed when you don't want to go; but they haven't anything to take you up the mountains that tire you out to climb."

A MISTAKE SOMEWHERE.

"There's one thing I can't understand about the mountains," said Benny. "Pop says it's awfully expensive up here, but I can't see it. This is my third summer here, and it's never cost me a cent."

VERY SUPERIOR.

Mollie (at the Mountain House). "We had a german last night."

Pollie (a visitor from the Valley House). "Pooh! We have a Frenchman at our house for the whole summer."

"Say, Jack, that catfish you've got was a howling success as a catch."

"Yes. It just filled the bill."

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Begun in Harper's Round Table No. 868.

[2] When Herschel discovered that hyposulphite of soda was a solvent for chloride of silver, the price was one guinea per pound.