A VIRGINIA CAVALIER.

BIRD TAMERS AND TAMING.

IN THE OLD HERRICK HOUSE.

ELK AND BLUEBIRD.

THE EAST-SIDE GIRL AT PLAY AND AT WORK.

THE VOYAGE OF THE "RATTLETRAP."

INTERSCHOLASTIC SPORT.

BICYCLING.

THE DEFEAT OF GENERAL ZINC.

THE CAMERA CLUB.

LI HUNG-CHANG.

STAMPS.

HARPER'S ROUND TABLE

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

published weekly. | NEW YORK, TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 8, 1896. | five cents a copy.
vol. xvii.—no. 880. |  | two dollars a year.

A VIRGINIA CAVALIER.

BY MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL.

CHAPTER XIII.

Some weeks were spent at Greenway Court, and George slipped back into the same life he had led for so long in the autumn. Instead, however, of reading in the evenings, Lord Fairfax and himself spent the time in studying rude maps of the region to be explored, and talking over the labors of the coming summer. The Earl told George that William Fairfax had heard of the proposed expedition, and was so anxious to go as George's assistant that his father was disposed to gratify him if it could be arranged.

"But I shall not communicate with him until I have talked with you, George," said the Earl; "for William, although a hardy youngster, and with some knowledge of surveying, is still but a lad, and there might be serious business in hand. However, this season's surveys are not to be far from here, so that if you care for his company I see no reason why he should not go."

"I should be very glad to have him," replied George, blushing a little. "I did a very unhandsome thing to William Fairfax while we were at Mount Vernon at Christmas, and he was so manful about it that I think more of him than ever, and I believe he would be an excellent helper."

"An unhandsome thing?" repeated the Earl, in a tone of inquiry.

"Knocked him sprawling, sir, in my brother's house. My brother was very much offended with me, and I was ashamed of myself."

"But you are good friends now?"

"Better than ever, sir, for William behaved as well as I behaved ill, and if he is willing to come with me I shall be glad to have him."

"I shall send an express, then, to Belvoir, and William will be here in a few days. And now I have something else to propose to you. My man Lance is very anxious to see the new country, although he has not directly asked my permission to go; but the poor fellow has served me so faithfully that I feel like indulging him. Only a lettered man, my dear George, can stand with cheerfulness this solitude month after month and year after year as I do, and although Lance is a man of great natural intelligence, he never read a book through in his life, so that his time is often heavy on his hands. I think a few months of mountaineering would be a godsend to him in his lonely life up here, and I make no doubt at all that you would be glad to have him with you."

"Glad, sir! I would be more glad than I can say. But what is to become of you without Lance?"

"I can get on tolerably well without him for a time," replied the Earl, smiling. And the unspoken thought in his mind was, "And I shall feel sure that there is a watchful and responsible person in company with the two youngsters I shall send out."

"And Billy, of course, will go with me," said George, meditatively. "Why, my lord, it will be a pleasure-jaunt."

"Get all the happiness you can out of it, George; I have no fear that you will neglect your work."

Within two weeks from that day William Fairfax had arrived and the party was ready to start. It was then the 1st of April, and not much field-work could be done until May. But Lord Fairfax found it impossible to hold in his young protégés. As for Lance, he was the most eager of the lot to get away. Cut off from association with his own class, nothing but his devotion to Lord Fairfax made the isolated life at Greenway Court endurable to him; and this prospect of variety in his routine, where, to a certain degree, he could resume his campaigning habits, was a fascinating change to him.

The Earl, with a smile and a sigh at the loss of George and William's cheerful company and Lance's faithful attendance, saw them set forth at sunrise on an April morning. George, mounted on the new half-bred horse that Lord Fairfax had given him, rode side by side with William Fairfax, who was equally well mounted. He carried the most precious of his surveying instruments, and two little books, closely printed, which the Earl had given him the night before. One was a miniature copy of Shakespeare's plays, and the other a small volume of Addison's works.

Behind them, on one of the stout cobs commonly used by the outriders on Lord Fairfax's journey to lower Virginia, rode Lance.

The old soldier was beaming with delight. He neither knew nor cared anything about surveying, but he was off for what he called a campaign, in company with two youths full of life and fire, and it made him feel like a colt. He had charge of the commissary, and a led-horse was loaded with the tent, the blankets, and such provisions as they could carry, although they expected their guns and fishing-rods to supply their appetites. Behind them all rode Billy on an old cart-horse. Billy was very miserable. He had no taste for campaigning, and preferred the fare of a well-stocked kitchen to such as one could get out of woods and streams. George had been so disgusted with Billy's want of enterprise and devotion to the kitchen rations that he had sternly threatened to leave the boy behind, at which Billy had howled vociferously, and had got George's promise not to leave him. Nevertheless, a domestic life suited Billy much better than an adventurous one.

What a merry party they were when they set off! Lord Fairfax stood on the porch watching them as long as they were in sight, and when, on reaching a little knoll, both boys turned and waved their hats at him, he felt a very lonely old man, and went sadly into the quiet house.

The party travelled on over fairly good mountain roads all that day, and at night made their first camp. They were within striking distance of a good tavern, but it was not in boy nature to seek comfort and civilization when camping out was possible.

George realized the treasure he had in Lance when, in an inconceivably short time, the tent was set up and supper was being prepared. The horses were taken care of by George and William, who got from a lonely settler's clearing a feed of corn for them. Meanwhile, with a kettle, a pan, and a gridiron, Lance had prepared a supper fit for a king, so the hungry boys declared. Billy had actually been made to go to work, and to move when he was spoken to. The first thing he was told to do by Lance was to make a fire. Billy was about to take his time to consider the proposition, when Lance, who was used to military obedience, instantly drew a ramrod from one of the guns, and gave Billy a smart thwack across his knuckles with it. Billy swelled with wrath. Lance he esteemed to be a "po' white," and, as such, by no means authorized to make him stir.

"Look a-heah, man," said Billy, loftily, "you 'ain' got no business a-hittin' Marse George's nigger."

"I haven't, eh?" was Lance's rejoinder, giving Billy another whack, "Do you make that fire, you rapscallion, or you get no supper. And make it quick, d'ye hear? Oh, I wish I had had you in the Low Countries, under my old drill-sergeant! You would have got what Paddy gave the drum!"

Billy, thus admonished, concluded it would be better to mind, and although he felt sure that "Marse George" would give him his supper, yet he was not at present in high favor with that young gentleman, and did not want to take any risks in the matter. However, he did not really exert himself, until Lance said, severely: "I have a great mind to ask Mr. Washington to send you back to Greenway Court. It is not too far."

At that Billy suddenly became very industrious. Now George, on the other side of the tent currying his horse, heard the whole affair, and when they were called to supper he threw out a hint that his servitor might be sent back, which threat then and forever after acted on Billy like a galvanic battery.

George and William thought, as they sat by the fire in the woods eating their rude but palatable supper, that they were the luckiest creatures in the world. They were exhilarated rather than fatigued by their day's work. A roaring fire cast a red glare among the rocks and trees, and warmed the keen cold air of the spring night in the mountains. Within their tent were piles of cedar boughs for beds, and blankets to cover them.

William Fairfax had never heard any of Lance's interesting stories, although George had told him of them. When supper was over, and the boys had an hour before turning in, George induced Lance to tell of some of his adventures in the wars of the Spanish Succession. They were deeply interesting, for Lance was a daring character, and had seen many strange vicissitudes. Billy and Rattler, who were not very much interested in the proceedings, dropped asleep early, and George, throwing a blanket over Billy, let him lie and snore before the fire until it was time to take to the tent. After a while Lance said:

"It was the Duke of Marlborough's way to have all the lights out early; and I think, Mr. Washington, if we want to make an early start, we had better turn in now."

George and William, nothing loath, betook themselves to their beds of boughs within the tent. Lance preferred to lie just in the doorway, the flap being left up for air. The boys noticed that he very carefully took off his shoes and washed his feet in a pail of ice-cold water brought from a spring near by.

"Why do you do that, Lance?" asked George, who thought it rather severe treatment.

"Because that's the way to keep your feet in order, sir, and to keep from taking cold in a campaign; and I recommend you and Mr. Fairfax to try it for a regular thing," answered Lance.

Within two days they reached the point where they must leave their horses and really begin their work. They struck now into a wilderness, full of the most sublime scenery, and with a purity of air and a wild beauty of its own that would appeal to the most sluggish imagination. George had found William Fairfax to be a first-rate camping companion, and he proved to be an equally good assistant in surveying. George was not only an accurate but a very rapid surveyor, and William was equal to every demand made upon him. Although they carried their guns along when at work, they shot but little game, leaving that to Lance, and the trapping of birds and small animals to Billy, who was always willing to forage for his dinner. They met a few Indians occasionally. Many of the Indians had never seen surveying instruments, and thought them to be something miraculous.

Lance was a genius in the way of making a camp comfortable. Although all of his experiences had been under entirely different circumstances, in an old and settled country with a flat surface, he was practical enough to transmute his knowledge to suit other conditions. He made no pretence of assisting in the field-work, but when George and William would come back to camp in the evenings, after a long day's tramp on the mountains, Lance would always be ready with a good supper, a bed of pine or cedar branches, and an endless store of tales of life in other days and other places. In the absence of books, except the two volumes given George by Lord Fairfax, these story-tellings became a great resource to the two young fellows, and were established as a regular thing. Although Lance had been only a private soldier, and was not an educated man, he had natural military talents, and when they would talk about possibilities of war with the French upon the frontier, which was then looked upon as inevitable, Lance clearly foresaw what actually happened years afterwards. The military instinct was always active in George, and it developed marvellously. For recreation he and Lance devised many campaigns against the French and Indians, and proved, on paper at least, how easy it would be to capture every French fort and block-house from the Alleghanies to the Great Lakes. George had a provincial's enthusiastic confidence in regular troops, and was amazed to find Lance insisting that their usefulness in a campaign in the wilderness was doubtful.

"I tell you, Mr. Washington, I have seen a little of the Indian fighting, and you give a few of those red devils fire-locks, with a handful of French to direct them, and there is not a General in England who would know how to fight them. And the worst of it is that the English despise the Indians, and you could not make an Englishman believe that he could not lick two Frenchmen until he has been licked. An English General would want roads and bridges and an artillery train and a dozen other things that these savages never heard of, while all they want is a fire-lock and a tree, and they can pick off their man every time."

"Then do you think the English will not be able to hold this part of the country?" asked George.

"With the militia—yes, sir. Your provincial troops know how to fight Indians, and can get through a wilderness without making a highway like a Roman road. But mark my words, Mr. Washington, many a brave fellow has got to lay down his life before the English learn how to fight in the woods."

These prophetic words came back vividly to George before many years had passed.

The summer came on apace. Never had George seen anything more beautiful than the outburst of tree and leaf and flower among these lonely peaks. The out-door life agreed with him perfectly, as it did with William Fairfax. They worked hard all the week, always leaving camp before sunrise, and generally not returning until after sunset. Lance always had a good fire and a capital supper waiting for them. He fashioned rude but comfortable seats and tables out of logs, and his impromptu out-door kitchen was a model of neatness and order. He was an accomplished launderer, but, after instructing Billy in the art of washing and drying clothes, turned that branch of their housekeeping over to this young person, who worked steadily, if unwillingly. On rainy days the boys remained in their tent, with two large tarpaulins thrown over it to keep out the water. George then wrote in his journal and read one of his precious books, William reading the other. On Sundays they took turns in the morning, after the work of the camp was over, in reading the service of the Church of England to a congregation composed of Lance, Billy, and Rattler—the two latter generally going to sleep in the first five minutes.

Besides his regular work and having an eye to military operations in that region, George and William both had an opportunity to study the animals and birds the forests and mountains harbored. For the first time they had a chance of closely watching the beaver, and admiring this great engineer among beasts. They were lost in admiration at the dam constructed by him, which the most scientific engineering could not surpass. The brown bear, a good-natured creature that was always frightened at the sight of a human being, was common to them, and deer enough to keep their larder supplied were found. Lance was a skilful fisherman, and the mountain trout was on their daily bill of fare. Tho only thing they feared was the snakes, but as they always wore long and stout boots, they escaped being bitten while at their work, and Lance and Billy kept a close watch on the camp, examining the tent and ground every night before they slept. It was so cold at night, however, that they were in but little danger from reptiles then, for no matter how warm the day, by nightfall a fire was pleasant.

And so days became weeks, and weeks became months. George had begun his work with a fierce disappointment gnawing at his heart, and thought he should never live to see the day when he would not regret that he was not in the navy. But at sixteen, with health and work, despair cannot long abide. Before he knew it the pain grew less, and insensibly he found himself becoming happier. But this was not accomplished by sitting down and brooding over his troubles; it was done by hard work, by a powerful will, and the fixed determination to make the best of things. Before the summer was over he could think, without a pang, of that cruel blow he had received the day after he reached Ferry Farm.

Lord Fairfax thought he had not given George too much time when he named the 1st of October as the date the party would probably return to Greenway Court. But on a glorious day in early September, when Lord Fairfax came in from riding over his principality in land, he saw a young figure that he well knew speeding down the road to meet him, and recognized George. The boy was much grown, and gave full promise of the six feet three that he attained in his manhood. His figure was admirably developed, his fair complexion bronzed, and his bright, expressive eyes were brilliant with health and spirits.

Lord Fairfax's pale and worn face lighted up with pleasure, and he dismounted on seeing George. Arm in arm the two walked up to the great, quaint house—the man, old before his time, and never losing the sad and wearied look that showed he had not found life all roses, and the splendid youth glowing with health and hope and brightness. Lord Fairfax asked many questions about the work, and George was equally full of questions about lowland affairs. Of these Lord Fairfax knew little, but he told George there were a number of letters for him in a desk in the library. George was all eagerness to get them, as he knew he should find letters from his mother and Betty and his brother Laurence.

As they neared the house they passed within view of the kitchen. Billy had not been off his horse's back half an hour, but he was already seated in the kitchen door, and between his knees was a huge kettle, in which were some bacon and beans. In one hand he held a tremendous hoe-cake, which he shared with Rattler, who was sitting on his haunches, with an expression of profound satisfaction very like that which irradiated Billy's dusky features. Neither George nor Lord Fairfax could forbear laughing, and Billy grinned appreciatively at them.

But on reading his letters a little later in the library George's face lost its merry smile. His mother and Betty were quite well only ten days before—which was late news for that day—but his little playmate Mildred, at Mount Vernon, was fading fast. One of Madam Washington's letters, dated about three weeks before, said:

"I have just come from a visit of eight days to Mount Vernon; your brother and sister are fairly well, although Laurence will never be of a robust constitution. But the little girl, I see, is not to be spared us long. She is now nearly three years old—older than any of Laurence's other children have lived to be—but there is a blight upon this dear little innocent, and I doubt whether she will not be a flower in God's garden by Christmas-time—greatly to her profit, but to the everlasting grief of her sorrowing parents."

This letter made George feel as if he would like that very moment to have his horse saddled and to start for Mount Vernon. But he felt that with the great interests with which he had been trusted by Lord Fairfax it would not be right to go without giving an account of his work. He was sitting sadly enough at the library table, reading his mother's letter, when Lord Fairfax entered.

"You have bad news, George," said he, after one glance at the boy's troubled face.

"Very bad, sir," replied George, sadly. "My brother's only living child, a dear little girl, is very ill, I am afraid. My mother writes me she is fading fast. My poor brother and sister love her so much—she is the only child that has been spared to them. Three others have all died before they were a year old."

"Then you want to go to Mount Vernon as soon as possible?" said the Earl, reading the unspoken wish in George's heart.

"Oh, sir, I do want to go; but I think I ought to stay here for some days, to show you what I have done."

"One night will be enough, if you will leave your surveys and papers with me; and perhaps I may myself go down to Mount Vernon later on, when the little one is either better on earth or eternally well in heaven."

George looked at him with eloquent eyes.

"If you will be so kind as to let me go, I will come back just as soon—" George stopped; he could say no more.

Although just come from a long journey, so vigorous and robust was George that he began at once exhibiting his surveys and papers. They were astonishingly clear, both in statement and in execution; and Lord Fairfax saw that he had no common surveyor, but a truly great and comprehensive mind in his young protégé. George asked that William Fairfax might be sent for; and when he came, told Lord Fairfax how helpful William had been to him.

"And you did not have a single falling out while you were together?" asked Lord Fairfax, with a faint smile. At which both boys answered at the same time, "No, sir!"—William with a laugh and George with a deep blush.

All that day, and until twelve o'clock that night, George and Lord Fairfax worked on the surveys, and at midnight Lord Fairfax understood everything as well as if a week had been spent in explaining it to him.

When daylight came next morning George was up and dressed, his horse and Billy's saddled and before the door, with Lord Fairfax, Lance, and William Fairfax to bid him good-by.

"Good-by, my lord," said George. "I hope we shall soon meet at Mount Vernon, and that the little girl may get well, after all. Good-by, William and Lance. You have been the best of messmates; and if my work should be satisfactory, it will be due as much to you as to me."

Three days' hard travel brought him to Mount Vernon on a warm September day. As he neared the house his heart sank at the desolate air of the place. The doors and windows were all open, and the negroes with solemn faces stood about and talked in subdued tones. George rode rapidly up to the house, and, dismounting, walked in. Uncle Manuel, the venerable old butler, met him at the door, and answered the anxious inquiry in George's eyes.

"De little missis, she k'yarn lars' long. She on de way to de bosom o' de Lamb, w'har tecks keer o' little chillen," he said, solemnly.

George understood only too well. He went up stairs to the nursery. The child, white and scarcely breathing, her yellow curls damp on her forehead, lay in her black mammy's arms. The father and mother, clasped in each other's arms, watched with agonized eyes as the little life ebbed away. The old mammy was singing softly a negro hymn as she gently rocked the dying child:

"'De little lambs in Jesus' breas'
He hol' 'em d'yar and giv' 'em res';
He teck 'em by dee little hands,
An' lead 'em th'u' de pleasant lands.'"

As George stood by her, with tears running down his face, the old mammy spoke to the child. "Honey," said she, "heah Marse George. Doan' you know Marse George, dat use ter ride you on he shoulder, an' make de funny little rabbits on de wall by candle-light?"

The child opened her eyes, and a look of recognition came into them. George knelt down by her. She tried to put her little arms around his neck, and he gently placed them there. The mother and father knelt by her too.

"My darling," said the mother, trembling, "don't you know papa and mamma too?"

The little girl smiled, and whispered, "Yes—papa and mamma and Uncle George and my own dear mammy."

The next moment her eyes closed. Presently George asked, brokenly,

"Is she asleep?"

"Yes," calmly answered the devoted old black woman, straightening out the little body, "she 'sleep heah, but she gwi' wake up in heaben, wid her little han' in Jesus Chris's; an' He goin' teck keer of her twell we all gits d'yar. An' po' ole black mammy will see her honey chile oncet mo'."

[to be continued.]

BIRD TAMERS AND TAMING.

BY W. WARREN BROWN.

George Moore from New York was visiting his cousin Frank up in New England, and was being shown Frank's pet birds.

"I had a time catching that oriole," said Frank. "The nest was on the end of a slender limb of the big elm back of the barn. The oriole is the smartest bird we have, when it comes to house-building, always putting his hanging nest where even a squirrel is afraid to venture. I got Jonah, one of father's hired help, to hold the longest ladder we have under the nest while I climbed to the top of it. Even then I could barely reach the birds, and had hardly put my hand on a young one when Jonah, who was puffing and blowing with the strain of holding the heavy ladder, and me on the top round, nearly lost his balance, so I grabbed my bird, shinning down in a hurry, I tell you. The one in the last cage is a bluebird. I took him out of a hollow in an old apple-tree over there," and he pointed out to George a fine old orchard.

The following morning the cousins were up at break of day. On their way down stairs Frank said: "Father only allows me to keep wild birds in cages on condition I take good care of them. It's my first work in the morning. Come and see what I do."

The birds were wide awake, and did not seem at all afraid of their young master as he quietly withdrew the trays on the bottoms of the cages, refilling them with sand from a handy barrel. Then fresh water was supplied to each one, and they all took a drink, throwing their heads back after each sip. From a covered tin the boy filled the linnet's seed-cup, first blowing out the empty shells. To the others he gave soft food.

"They are soft-billed birds, and must have soft food," he explained, "They are now fixed for the day," said Frank; "and by the time breakfast is ready you'll hear some music."

After the birds came the ducks, chickens, and pigs, all receiving careful attention, George going the rounds, and laughing to see how the different creatures expressed their satisfaction for the meal.

Their own breakfast was now announced by a loud toot from the horn. The pure country air together with the early rising had given George a fine appetite as he sat down to the plentiful meal spread before him, and for a time neither of the youngsters had a word to say.

The clatter of the knives and forks seemed to excite Frank's pets, for the bluebird, seconded by the oriole and linnet, gave them a sweet concert.

Uncle John replied, when his young guest expressed his pleasure and surprise on hearing their fine notes: "My son has always been fond of the wild birds, wanting, when he was younger, to make a collection of their eggs. I could not allow it, as it is cruel to rob nests, but I knew the birds, both young and old, have numerous enemies. Snakes, hawks, owls, and other vermin every year kill so many of them that it's only by the sharpest lookout the old birds escape at all, while the younger are devoured as soon as found. Therefore I consented to his having these birds in the house, taking one young one from a nest of four varieties of birds he fancied. These little captives, who, if they have not their liberty, are safe and well cared for here, and besides, being taken so young with only their pin-feathers on, they do not know what freedom means as trapped old birds would do."

Breakfast over, the boys started on an excursion to Black Pond, half a mile away, a stretch of water sparkling under the sun's rays like a sheet of silver.

The route led through a winding lane. In one of the fields by the side of it, surrounded by a higher fence than usual, the city boy noticed a very large black and white cow, as he thought, and was in the act of vaulting the rail to examine her closer, when Frank caught him by the leg.

"Thunderation! Don't you know a bull when you see him?" he shouted. "He is dangerous, and I don't dare to go in that pasture, though I'm sure there is a bobolink's nest in it that I want to see."

George felt ashamed of himself at such a mistake, and determined he would not show his ignorance of the country again. By this time the boys were within a hundred yards of the pond. Frank proposed a race to see who would get there first. George was ready for anything. Away they started, running side by side till three-quarters of the distance was passed. Here George took the lead, holding it to the water's edge. Frank opened his eyes, for there was not a boy in F—— his equal in a foot-race.

"How did you do it?" he cried, excitedly.

George's eyes sparkled as he answered, "One has got to know how to use his legs to play good baseball."

Birds were numerous now, and Frank told their names, with something of their habits, to his companion as they watched them. "Look at that fellow with a gray body, in the thicket. It's a cat-bird, a good singer, and mimic besides. There are a lot of their nests about here. Black-snakes eat the young ones. They can climb bushes too. Two weeks ago on this very spot I noticed one of these beauties flying excitedly in and out of the alders. I thought something was up, and crept softly into the thicket. Sure enough, twined around a limb within a foot of a nest filled with young cat-birds was the biggest blacksnake I ever saw, over four feet long, and his body was as thick as my wrist. Luckily I had a stout stick with me. He tried to get away, but I settled his snakeship with a whack as he reached the ground."

George wanted to see a blacksnake.

This wish was soon gratified, for as they passed some granite bowlders a snake, which was sunning himself on a bit of sand near by, made for the rocks. The boys grabbed stones, throwing them at him and killing him before he could gain cover.

"The birds will thank us for that," said Frank. "I've no doubt this scamp has devoured a good many of them this summer."

The boys then made a regular hunt through the alders, finding many nests, mostly with young ones in them, as it was the first of July, the experienced country lad discovering most of them, as he knew where to look for the nest of each variety, whether on a high or low tree, or on a bush or on the ground. Still George had the pleasure of running onto two or three nests himself. One was the cat-bird of Frank's story. The young ones had flown, but an old one soon appeared, scolding and flying close to the boys' heads.

"Look sharp, George, the little ones can't be far off, I know by the way the bird acts," exclaimed Frank.

THE LITTLE CHAP COULD FLY, HOWEVER, AND REFUSED TO BE CAUGHT.

True enough, after a short and exciting search George spied one on top of a bush. He knew it was a young bird by its short tail. Creeping cautiously up, the boy made a dash for him. The little chap could fly, however, and refused to be caught, hiding himself so cleverly that though the hunters looked for half an hour, they did not see him again.

Along with the cat-bird the brown thrasher and wood-thrush rear their young. A nest of the former was discovered in the fork of a bush near the ground. The mother was on it, allowing George to almost put his hand on her before she flew, to alight close by, making a curious clocking noise. The nest contained four little ones not over a day old. The cousins admired them, but took care not to handle the naked babies or disturb their home. Frank took a small book from his pocket and wrote something in it.

"What's that for?" asked George.

"Oh, I'm putting down the date of their birth. I like to know when the different birds hatch or lay their eggs. To-night I shall transfer this note into a book full of them. You shall see it if you like."

They spent the morning and many other mornings searching the fields and woods, peeking into bird homes, and learning a good deal about them, and George, before his departure, began to love the happy days spent in this fascinating way.

Their afternoons were passed on the surface of Black Pond catching pickerel or gathering lily-pads, and giving the youngsters great sport.

George found his vacation ended all too quickly, but gladly promised to come again the next summer, inviting his cousin to his city home for the Christmas holidays.

As he boarded the cars he said to Frank, "I forgot to mention it before, but in New York there are lots of stores that sell all kinds of birds from South America, England, and everywhere, so when you are with me 'we'll take them all in.'"

This promise was so alluring to Frank that he replied, "Look for me the day before Christmas, for I'm coming, even if I have to walk all the way."

IN THE OLD HERRICK HOUSE.

BY ELLEN DOUGLAS DELAND.

CHAPTER II.

Drop Cap W

hen Elizabeth first went into the room she could see nothing. The window-blinds were tightly closed, and the lack of sunlight out of doors made it doubly dark within. She had no thought of fear, however, as she stood motionless for a moment on the inner side of the forbidden door. The dark had never any terrors for Elizabeth, and her one feeling was that of elation that her curiosity was at last to be gratified.

What great secret was she at last to discover in this mysterious chamber?

Gradually her eyes became accustomed to the dim twilight. She found her way to one of the windows and opened the slats of the shutters, letting in the cool damp air, and relieving the close, musty atmosphere of the unused room. Then she looked about her and exclaimed aloud with admiration.

It was, beyond doubt, the prettiest room in her aunt's house.

A dainty dressing-table stood between the windows, and the little bed in the corner was hung with white drapery, now fast yellowing with age. The wall was covered with an exquisite paper of delicate tints, and soft rugs lay on the floor. In the corner was a pretty desk, with a sheet of paper lying on it, and a pen, evidently thrown down in haste. Everything in the room had the appearance of having been untouched since the former owner left it, and was covered with a thick coating of dust.

On the dressing-table was a pile of unopened letters. Elizabeth looked at them, and found that all but two of them were addressed in the same hand to "Miss Herrick, No. — South Fourth Street, Philadelphia." There were seven altogether; and the remaining two bore the name of her father, Mr. Edward Herrick.

How did they get to this room? And how very strange that neither her father nor her aunt had opened them. The seals had not been touched.

Very soon Elizabeth made another discovery more startling still. Near one of the windows stood an easel such as artists use for their work, and on it was a canvas, its back turned toward the room. Elizabeth dearly loved pictures, and she carefully lifted this one down and, turning it toward the light, looked at it. It was an unfinished portrait of her aunt Caroline.

The child surveyed it for some minutes, and then replaced it on the easel as she had found it. What could it all mean? Who had once lived in this mysterious apartment? It could not have been her father, for she had frequently been in the room that was formerly his. She had never heard of any one else in the family. She must certainly ask her aunts if they had ever used any rooms but those they now occupied.

And then she heard Marie calling her. She waited until the maid's voice sounded quite far away, and then Elizabeth closed the window and left the fascinating chamber, carefully locking the door behind her.

Then she answered Marie's renewed calls, and submitted to having her shoes changed, her mind absorbed with the startling revelations which this rainy afternoon had brought about.

Miss Herrick was extremely fond of having company to dinner, and there were but few evenings in the week when she and her sister did not either entertain in their own house or dine out. On those rare occasions when they were at home alone Elizabeth came to the table. Otherwise she had supper by herself and went early to bed.

To-night she was to dine with her aunts, and she intended to question them as closely as possible. It would be difficult, for Aunt Caroline always told her when she became too pressing that children should be seen and not heard, and other maxims to the same effect, but Elizabeth made up her mind that this time she should not be daunted. Her aunts must give her some satisfaction.

There was another matter also which she had on her mind, and which must be discussed this evening.

The soup was barely served before she began.

"I wish you would tell me something about this house, Aunt Caroline. Have you always lived here?"

"Always. I fancied that you knew that, Elizabeth. Your great-great-grandfather built the house, and it has been occupied ever since by succeeding generations of Herricks."

"And have you always had the room you have now?"

"Certainly not. It was your grandmother's during her lifetime."

"And what room did you have?"

"Really, Elizabeth, your questions are most tiresome! I had the one next to yours."

"Always?"

"Always."

"Aunt Rebecca, which one did you have?" continued Elizabeth, turning toward the other end of the table.

"I have had my present room ever since I emerged from the nursery, Elizabeth; the place where I think you should still be."

"Aunt Caroline, did you ever have any brothers and sisters but my father and Aunt Rebecca?"

Elizabeth's eyes were fixed upon Miss Herrick's face as she asked this question. She could not fail to see the wave of color which swept over the usually pale cheeks, and that her aunt's hand shook as she laid down her fork.

"You have been told all of the family history that it is desirable for you to know, Elizabeth. I have one brother, your father, and I have one sister, your aunt Rebecca. Further than this I decline to tell you."

Elizabeth still looked at her, and Miss Herrick moved uneasily. Those dark eyes were so penetrating.

"Aunt Caroline, is there a skeleton in your closet?"

Miss Herrick did not reply, and her sister came to the rescue.

"What on earth do you mean, Elizabeth? Where did you get hold of that expression?"

"I read it in a book, and I thought it meant a real skeleton, all bones and ugly skull, standing up in the people's closet—the people in the book, I mean. I asked Miss Rice, and she said it was a family secret, something not at all pleasant, and most families had them. It seems a very strange thing to call a secret. But I was wondering if our family had one. Is there a skeleton in our closet?"

"Do be quiet, Elizabeth, and do not discuss family affairs before the servants. It is bad form."

"Oh!" said Elizabeth. "Very well. I will wait until another time; but I should like to know some time. There is something else I want to talk about, and if you don't mind, Aunt Caroline, I should like to now. You see, I don't have much chance to ask you things."

"You certainly make the most of every opportunity," returned her aunt. "What is it now?"

"It is about the Bradys."

"And who are the Bradys?"

"The poor family who live in the back street."

"I know nothing about them."

"No, I know you don't, Aunt Caroline, and that is why I want to tell you. They are very poor."

"Indeed!"

"And sometimes I am afraid that they are very hungry."

"Indeed!" said Miss Herrick again. "They had better come here for the cold scraps—that is, if they are deserving. How do you happen to know about them?"

"I met them in the alley," returned Elizabeth, composedly. "There are two very nice girls and four boys. One of them is a bootblack, and another is a newspaper-boy, and Tom is—"

"Heavens!" cried Miss Herrick, in horror. "Where did you pick these people up?" While Miss Rebecca, who was more frivolous, laughed aloud.

"In the alley, I told you," repeated Elizabeth. "I went out the back gate when I was playing in the garden one day, and met them. The alley is so interesting and the girls are so pleasant, though they do have rather dirty faces sometimes. But the boys—"

"Spare us any further details, I beg of you," said her aunt. "Your tastes must be extremely low, Elizabeth."

"Well, I like to have a few people to play with. You know I have only Julius Cæsar, and he won't always play. But I was going to ask you something about the Brady family, Aunt Caroline. Why do we have such lots and lots of money and they none at all?"

"Elizabeth, you are too absurd!"

"But why?"

"I—I don't exactly know. They are of a very different class of life, for one thing. Their ancestors—if they had any—were poor men, I suppose, while ours were rich."

"I don't think that explains it. And I am sure they are terribly hungry half the time. They look so. Tom doesn't—"

"Again I must beg you to stop, Elizabeth. I do not care to hear all this at the dinner table. It quite takes away my appetite."

"I am very sorry, Aunt Caroline. Then I will stop. But I was only going to say, don't you think it would be nicer and evener all round if we were to give them some of our money and a nice house to live in? We could easily do it."

"Bless me, what socialistic notions the child has!" cried her aunt Rebecca. "Encouraging pauperism in this style!"

"What is porprism?" asked Elizabeth, turning quickly.

"Don't ask another question, I beg of you! You have used twenty interrogation points at least since we sat down to dinner."

And then the Misses Herrick began resolutely to talk of something else, and Elizabeth knew no more than she did before, and had by no means settled satisfactorily the affairs of the Brady family.

Clearly, if she wanted to know anything she must find it out for herself, and if she wished to do anything to improve the condition of the Bradys she must take matters into her own hands.

If her father would only come home and explain everything to her! But when he received her letter he would certainly come, and with the thought of this possibility the world grew brighter.

The days went by and Elizabeth paid frequent visits to the closed room. It did not once occur to her that it was not by any means an honorable proceeding for her to slip into her aunt's room as soon as that lady left the house, take the keys, and go to a place which it was evidently intended that she should know nothing about. Elizabeth would have scorned to read some one else's letter, or open bureau drawers, or investigate boxes. But this seemed so different. A room was unlike a bureau drawer or a box, she thought. Surely she had a perfect right to go into any room that she wished in her own home, and find out, if she could, about her own family.

But her repeated visits threw no light on the subject. She could not discover to whom it belonged.

It was not very long before something most exciting and utterly unprecedented occurred in the family. A letter was received from Mrs. Redmond, Elizabeth's aunt in Virginia, stating that Valentine Herrick had trouble with his eyes, and that he was coming North to consult a Philadelphia oculist. Of course his aunt's house would be open to him, and it would also be an opportunity for him to become acquainted with his sister. Mrs. Redmond deplored the necessity for bringing up the children apart from one another, and would be only too glad to have Elizabeth come for a long stay at her house, if Miss Herrick would allow her to return with Valentine.

Now the Misses Herrick were not particularly fond of entertaining visitors. It interfered too seriously with their accustomed pursuits. And above all, to have a boy! Valentine must now be about fourteen years old, and could anything be more objectionable to have in the house than a boy of fourteen?

However, there was nothing to be done but to say that he should come, and so the day was fixed, and the family, from the servants up, were in a flutter of excitement. Elizabeth was truly delighted. It would be a vast improvement to have some one in the house besides her stately aunts, and she had longed many a time to know her brother. She was doubtful about boys in general, but then she did not know any but the Brady boys, who were inclined to be rough. This one would be her own brother, and besides, it would be a change, and variety is always desirable.

It was four o'clock one afternoon when a hansom dashed up to the door. Elizabeth and Julius Cæsar, in the window, saw a tall, strong-looking boy jump out, pay the driver, and run up the steps. There was a resounding ring at the door-bell, a loud boyish voice was heard asking if Miss Herrick lived there, and from that moment the old house in Fourth Street lost its accustomed quiet.

He came into the parlor, and at the same instant Julius Cæsar fled away to the safer precincts of the kitchen. He also disliked boys. Elizabeth remained hidden in the window-seat, overcome with shyness.

Peering out from behind the drapery, which formed a deep recess, she could see that her new brother had bright golden hair of the same odd shade as her own, but his eyes were blue and full of fun, and his mouth seemed very ready for a smile. She thought that she should like him.

Miss Herrick was long in appearing, and Valentine occupied the time in looking around him. Presently he began to whistle as he walked about the room, knocking over a screen and upsetting a vase. At last he reached one of the windows, where he was confronted by a small figure in a white dress, with golden hair and great solemn brown eyes, which were fixed upon his face.

"Holloa!" he exclaimed, his whistle stopping short in the middle of a bar.

There was no reply.

"WHY, I SUPPOSE YOU ARE MY SISTER."

"Why, I suppose you are my sister?"

"Yes, I am Elizabeth."

"Elizabeth! That is a terribly long name for such a short person."

The little girl considered it beneath her dignity to respond to this. Suddenly, however, she remembered her manners.

"How do you do?" she said, rising, and holding out a small right hand.

"How do you do?" replied Valentine, as he took it and shook it warmly.

"I hope you had a pleasant journey?"

"Very pleasant, thank you. My eye, aren't you a funny one! I should think you were Miss Herrick herself."

"I am the youngest Miss Herrick. My aunt will come down soon, I think."

"Oh, I say, come off your perch, do! She is my aunt, too. I shall die if you keep on talking like your great-grandmother. Why, how old are you, little Miss Betsey?"

"I am eleven. Did you ever see my great-grandmother?"

Valentine stared. He had not been in Fourth Street long enough to know that Elizabeth's great-grandmother was a very real personage to her, her name being often quoted by the aunts. The titles of their ancestors were too much reverenced to be used as figures of speech.

"Not that I know of," he said. "And so you are eleven. Just the same age as Marjorie, and she would make two of you."

"Who is Marjorie?"

"My cousin, Marjorie Redmond. Your cousin too, as to that."

"Aren't you older?"

"Well, I should say so! What do you take me for? I am thirteen, almost fourteen."

And then their conversation was interrupted by the advent of Miss Herrick. Valentine had really extremely good manners, and his aunt was favorably impressed with her new nephew, despite the fact that he was precisely the age which she had most dreaded.

After a little conversation she went out in the carriage, and left the children together. She said to herself that she might as well begin at once to make the boy understand that she could not entertain him, and besides, the brother and sister had better become acquainted.

Elizabeth felt a terrible responsibility about the matter. She had an impression that boys never did what girls enjoyed doing; for instance, a boy would never play with a doll. But then Elizabeth did not care much for dolls herself. She had always preferred live animals.

"What shall I do with him?" she sighed to herself.

"I wish I had my wheel here," remarked Valentine, presently. "Do you ride?"

"A bicycle? No, indeed!"

"You ought to see Marjorie go. Why, she rides off on my machine like a breeze, though she is so short compared to me that her feet don't go anywhere near the pedals when they are down. What do you do all day?"

"I have lessons with Miss Rice, my governess, and I go to walk, and play in the garden—"

"Have you got a garden? That is jolly. I have one too, and so has Marjorie; but hers is a great deal better than mine. She spends more time over it, weeding and all that. I say life is too short for weeding, but Marjorie loves to grub."

This unknown Cousin Marjorie must be a very superior person, thought Elizabeth. She appeared to surpass the rest of the world in everything. Elizabeth would put what was to her an important question.

"Is Marjorie pretty?"

"Pretty? Oh, I don't know. I never thought much about it. No, I don't believe Marjorie is pretty. Her hair is too straight, and hangs all in a shag, and she has a turned-up nose. I call her 'Pug' half the time. But she is a jolly one, Marjorie is," said the admiring cousin.

Elizabeth began to feel a strong liking for the new-comer. A boy who was so fond of his cousin, and that cousin a girl, must be very nice, she thought. She did hope that as he was her own brother he would grow to like her a little. And then an idea occurred to her.

She could ask Valentine all the questions she wished, and probably he would not mind. She could tell him of her trials about the Brady family, and of her hopes of their father's return. She could even consult him in regard to the skeleton in the Herrick family closet.

She was glad he had come.

[to be continued.]

ELK AND BLUEBIRD.

BY FRANCES McELRATH.

"Now, look, Bluebird. See how wise the little rough-coat is. Up! Big chief! March!"

Elk accompanied his commands with expressive actions. He waved his hands upwards, threw out his chest, and strutted off along the river-bank. The young bear he was training stood up on his hind legs and comically repeated his movements.

Bluebird clapped her slender brown hands in delighted applause.

Elk gave a short, pleased laugh. He regarded his accomplished pet affectionately. "That's enough for to-night," he said, patting the brown head. "Bluebird," he added, glancing over towards the Cheyenne village among the straggly trees a few rods back from the river, "let's go see what Yellow Stripe's boy is saying to Much Tongue."

A white lad, whom Elk and his sister recognized as the son of a cavalry officer stationed at the adjacent fort, had just ridden up to the Indian camp, and was leaning across a rifle on his knees, talking to Harlow, the interpreter, called by the Cheyennes Much Tongue.

Elk and Bluebird had attended school on the reservation since their people had surrendered to the military authorities, and they understood the white man's language.

The sun was just setting. Its long last rays cast reflections across the prairie like gigantic finger-marks. It was late August, and some good-sized rabbits were abroad amongst the sage-brush at that hour. Alan stopped to fire at them now and then.

Elk and Bluebird, watching his receding figure, saw him dismount and creep cautiously along the ground for some distance once before firing. Afterwards he spent several minutes apparently searching amongst the bushes. Then he remounted his horse and rode on home.

"He's lost whatever he shot at," remarked Elk.

He and Bluebird were hunting the bear, whom they had forgotten for a moment, and who, it seemed, had run away. He was not very large; his body might easily be concealed in the high sage. They whistled and called for him.

"Here he comes," Bluebird said at length.

The bushes rustled in a line towards them, and presently they saw the little fellow. He seemed to be struggling with difficulty to reach them. They could hear him pant.

Elk sprang quickly to him. He fell on his knees beside the bear, uttering a cry.

"Oh, Bluebird, he is hurt!"

The cub's breast was covered with blood. His pink tongue lolled out of his month. He ceased his efforts to walk when Elk reached him. He sank down in a helpless heap, and looked imploringly up into his master's face.

Elk hastily parted the thick fur to discover the wound. He gave another sharp cry.

"Oh, Bluebird, my little dear one is dying! He is shot! He is shot!"

A moment later the bear fell over lifeless.

Elk flung himself upon his face in a passion of tears.

Bluebird took the bear's head between her hands and blew into his face. But he was past any aid in her power.

"Poor little thing!" she murmured, patting it gently down; "the white boy did not know who you were!"

Elk suddenly sprang to his feet. He looked across the dusky prairie to Fort Strong, where lights were beginning to twinkle, and shook his fist.

"Mean coward!" he shouted, menacingly. "I'll pay you back for this! You think because you belong to the strong white tribe that you can do whatever you choose! But I'll tell you that when a Cheyenne's heart gets bad he can find a way to revenge himself!"

"Oh, Elk, don't!" Bluebird laid her hand on her brother's arm. She looked entreatingly into his face, distorted with grief and anger. "I'm sure Yellow Stripe's boy didn't know he was your pet," she said.

"Didn't know? Didn't care!" retorted Elk.

He dropped upon his knees, and drawing the knife from the leather sheath hanging from his belt, began to dig at the darkening earth.

"I'm going to bury him," he said, in a short, hard voice.

Bluebird took out her knife and proceeded to help him.

They dug away without talking. Elk's anger grew as he worked, as if the dark silence about him was filled with a host of malicious whispering spirits.

"Lone Dog is right," he broke out, bitterly, after a few minutes. "These white people are never really our friends. They conquer us because they are rich and powerful. Then they keep us down like dogs. I'd rather we'd all been captured by the Sioux and killed outright."

"Oh, Elk, think what you're saying!" Bluebird remonstrated. "You know the soldier chiefs treat us kindly. Remember how often we used to be cold and starved in the old life, and how we lived in fear day and night of enemies, and think of the food and blankets and quiet homes we have here! And, Elk," she added, somewhat shyly, "it is good to have learned the things they have taught us. The white people's way of acting towards each other is wiser for happiness and peace of the heart than ours. We have learned that it is better not to seek revenge, haven't we, Elk?"

Elk's fierce cut at the ground expressed his mental determination to sever himself from all such opinions.

"You always talk that way, Bluebird!" he cried, irately. "But no one except a mean coward will overlook an injury, Lone Dog says."

"Oh, Elk, don't listen to the hard sour things Lone Dog says!" Bluebird beseeched.

The boy made no reply. The grave being large enough, he quietly laid the bear in it, refilled the hole, and led the way home.

"Ride away from the angry tongue which meddles in a stranger's quarrel, for the fawn with the bit ear shall recover, but if by evil counsel he is made to turn furiously on the wolf he shall surely be torn in pieces."

"Yes, mother, that is why I say I wish Elk would not talk with Lone Dog. He is the angry tongue that is always trying to stir up the boys to do mischief."

Bluebird's voice was seriously troubled. She scraped away thoughtfully at the fresh hide of a buffalo that she and her mother, Ready Proverb, were getting ready to tan.

"Lone Dog is like the lame coyote since he was put in the guard-house for stealing," observed Ready Proverb. "He will not rest until his whole band has felt the snare which caught him."

"Elk's heart is so bad over the bear's death, and he has been in Lone Dog's tepee all morning," said Bluebird.

"Elk is the grandson of my father Wise Eye," the mother responded, placidly; "he will detect the hidden iron that scorched the hide of the branded bull! He will not suffer to be led by Lone Dog, who is the dirt of the tribe! Elk shall avenge his wrongs himself in due season! He shall be the powerful warrior of the Cheyennes! He shall count his coups, and they shall be as many as the hairs on his head! He shall lie in peace at night on a bed made of scalps of his enemies!"

"Mother doesn't understand," Bluebird thought, sadly.

She suffered the intense pain the children of a people in a state of transition from savagery to Christianity must suffer in the realization that their parents have failed to grasp the new truths already embraced by their more teachable minds.

Ready Proverb, however, according to her light, was a good mother. She was proud and fond of her children.

"Elk," she presently remarked, "ate very little breakfast, and when a boy's stomach is empty his heart trails on the ground. You better go dig some turnips for his dinner. Ho always likes turnips."

Bluebird cleaned her knife in the earth and slipped it into its beaded sheath, and started at once after the wild turnips. They grew profusely among the cottonwoods half a mile below the camp.

Bluebird had nearly reached the spot when a strange noise attracted her attention. Looking around she found that it came from a large old tin kerosene can standing a short ways off. She walked towards it curiously.

All of a sudden Elk flew out from behind a tree.

"Don't touch that!" he cried, warningly.

Bluebird started in surprise at finding him so near. She glanced cautiously into the open can. She recoiled from it with a horrified look.

"What are you going to do with those rattlesnakes, Elk?" she exclaimed.

"Something." A dark flush spread over the boy's face. He looked sullen and jaded.

Bluebird forgot her consternation in a flood of compassion for her unhappy-looking brother.

"I've come to dig turnips. You'll like them for dinner, won't you?" she said, pleasantly.

"I don't want any dinner," he answered.

"But you ate hardly a mouthful of breakfast."

"I ate enough," returned Elk. "I'm not going to eat so much hereafter. We reservation Cheyennes overfeed with three meals a day. The braves grow fat and flabby. They cry like children when they're hurt." He colored shamedly, remembering how he had wept for the bear. He gave the can a shake. The snakes hissed, and his eye flashed sharply. "I'm through living the soft life of a white man," he added. "I'm a Cheyenne!"

In moving, the light sleeve of his calico shirt slipped up and revealed to Bluebird his arm covered with horrible gashes. Elk had been torturing himself to test his endurance, after the dreadful old tribal custom. Bluebird was convinced that he was acting under Lone Dog's advice. A dread of what her brother might be led to do next by the bad man formed like a layer of ice on her heart.

"Elk," she begged, tremulously, "please come home to dinner. I'm sure you've courage enough. I don't think it's weak for a brave to cry when he loses a thing he loves. If you'll eat something perhaps you'll feel differently."

Elk shook his head resolutely.

He did not return until evening. During the afternoon Bluebird's anxious eyes spied him riding along the trail skirting the Bad Lands, making for the town across the river beyond the fort. She felt certain that he had made the long circuit to avoid attention. She wondered why he was leading his second pony.

When Elk returned home he did not have the second pony. He had bartered it for an old rifle and some cartridges. He supposed the weapon was concealed beneath his blanket, but Bluebird, beading a moccasin beside the tepee door, observed it as he passed in. She said nothing about it, but the circumstances added to the weight of her anxiety over Elk's strange actions.

The next day was Wednesday. Elk had not relaxed his gloomy silence since the bear's death. He scarcely spoke to any one; he sulked off by himself.

Bluebird had an errand at the trader's this morning. She was crossing the prairie to the fort when, glancing over to the west where the hills lay, she saw Elk disappearing into the cañon beside Flat Butte. She looked after the lonely figure with a sigh.

She was kept waiting at the post trader's for quite a long time before the clerk could wait upon her. At length, while she was selecting her beads, Alan Jervis and an officer came sauntering down the long store past where she stood.

Alan carried a quirt, and he had the cruel little steel wheels which the white chiefs used to make their horses go fast attached to his boot heels. Bluebird understood that he was dressed for riding. She heard him say to the officer:

"Father said I might come out to the camp for a few days, and I'm going now in about an hour. I know the way, and Harlow has told me of a short-cut the Indians take through a cañon in the hills."

"Past Flat Butte, isn't it?" inquired the officer. "That route is considerably shorter than around the hills, but it's a bad bit of travelling through the cañon. You must look out for the fissures in the ground: the sage completely covers some of them, and you're liable to fall into one and break your neck."

"Harlow warned me," replied Alan.

The two passed on, leaving Bluebird in a strange tumult of troubled thoughts. She began all at once to connect Elk's trip to the Bad Lands that morning with Alan's intended journey through the desolate, rarely travelled cañon.

Elk's sworn purpose to revenge the bear's death, his conversations with Lone Dog, his self-torture to prove his hardiness, the grewsome can of rattlesnakes, the rifle—all these things came before her mind in an ominous jumble.

What did they all mean? What was Elk about to do?

Bluebird forgot her beads. She hurried out of the store through the rear exit, which opened onto the prairie. She started at a rapid pace across the stretch to the hills. She had no idea what she was going to do other than that she must find Elk, and in some way, even at the risk of her life, prevent an attempt on the white boy. Oh, Elk must not hurt him! Elk, when he was his right-minded self, saw, as she did, that revenge was low and cowardly, and did not mean manliness, as they had been led to believe in the old days.

Moreover, she knew that Elk would be summarily dealt with by the fort authorities if he should molest Alan. If he could not escape them by running away he would be put in prison. The white people hanged men for killing others. It was by such stern laws against wrongdoers that they kept their state of peace.

Bluebird's heart quaked and her steps went faster. It was a sunny morning. She grew very hot. The perspiration poured off her face. She flung away her blanket without stopping. Now and then she glanced hurriedly back to see if Alan was coming. She had just reached the mouth of the cañon when she saw him. She was very tired by now, but she summoned what remained of her strength, and started up the narrow pass with fresh vigor.

Alan was not many minutes behind her.

Elk stopped his pony just outside the Cheyenne village to watch Alan's horse going across the open space from the fort to the hills. He had returned from the cañon by a roundabout way, and had escaped Bluebird's observation.

"He'll soon be there," he thought. An irrepressible shudder went through him. He could not see the rider at that distance, but the sun shone on the white horse, and he knew it was Alan's.

As he watched it the memory of a game of marbles he once had played with Alan came involuntarily to his mind. Yellow Stripe's boy had played generously. After the game he had presented Elk with a large bag of marbles. He was a brave white boy. Elk always had liked him until he had killed the bear.

Elk looked after the white speck irresolutely.

"Windfoot might get there even now before his slow horse," he was thinking. His heart beat hard; his body leaned unconsciously forward towards Alan.

Impelled by a sweep of changed feelings, he suddenly raised his quirt to start up his pony, when a dark hand fell with deaden force upon his arm.

Lone Dog's evil face looked up at him. "I've put the paint sticks and a looking-glass in the twisted tree," he whispered.

Elk looked at him undecidedly a moment. Then he heavily replied, "Very good," and turned his horse slowly in among the tepees under the cotton woods.

Lone Dog smiled satisfiedly as he limped home.

Elk dismounted at his home and went in. Presently he came out with the rifle he had got the day before. He carried it cautiously concealed. The young Cheyennes were not allowed to have fire-arms.

He glanced about a moment for his mother. Then he told himself he was glad she was away from home. Reservation life certainly had the effect of making a brave weak-hearted in an enterprise. He felt a moisture about his eyes as he remounted his pony and rode on among the trees down the river to a desolate spot some distance below the camp.

Three-quarters of an hour later he emerged from the trees quite changed in appearance. He had painted yellow lines like sunrays from the corners of his eyes and mouth; on each cheek he had painted a grotesque red spot. He had braided a defiant scalp-lock on the top of his head. He was, in fact, preparing to join a band of hostiles in the north that Lone Dog had directed him to.

It would not be safe, Lone Dog had told him, to remain any longer in the vicinity of Fort Strong. Besides, it was time that he was going on the war-path and making a name for himself.

He tried to grunt "Huh!" in the savage, manly manner he had heard the warriors do. Somehow it sounded rather weak. He did not dare look round towards home as he rode rapidly off for the Bad Lands. Reservation life certainly turned men into children!

Elk had almost reached the hills when, far down to the south of him, he saw something emerge from the hills close beside Flat Butte.

His keen-sighted eyes peered sharply. It was a boy leading a horse—a white horse. And something was on the horse's back.

Elk stopped his pony and looked excitedly. Could it be possible that Alan had escaped, after all? What would Lone Dog think if he knew how relievedly Elk's heart was beating?

Why was Yellow Stripe's boy walking? The pack on the white horse was a brilliant blue. It looked familiar.

Elk, with a strange presentiment of what had happened, whipped up his pony and started wildly towards the party. He rode like a wild man to reach them. Alan stopped the horse and waited when he saw him coming.

Bluebird, her head and right arm swathed in bandages torn from Alan's shirt, sat upon the horse. She looked towards Elk. The cruel scratches on her face protruded beyond the cloths. Her eyes showed intense suffering.

Alan began explaining how, riding up the cañon, he had found Bluebird in a cut in the ground, clinging to a root of sage-brush to keep herself from falling to the bottom.

Elk scarcely heard him. He sprang off at Bluebird's side; his face had grown suddenly sharp and thin with terror.

"DID ANYTHING BITE YOU, BLUEBIRD?" HE SAID, HOARSELY.

"Did anything bite you, Bluebird?" he said, hoarsely. "Do you feel yourself swelling anywhere?" His sister's soft eyes poured a flood of sorrow into his upturned face.

"No, Elk; I caught hold of a root and held on, and the snakes could not get at me," she said, in Cheyenne. A shudder went over her. "I could hear them rattling beneath me, but the brush was between us."

"I'm certain Bluebird's fall saved my life," Alan was saying, earnestly. "The bottom of that pit was fairly alive with rattlers, and my horse would have crushed right down into them, and then we'd both have been done for. Somebody had covered the hole with dry brush and rubbish and put loose earth over it. Nobody would have guessed it was a hole. Bluebird says she was running right across it. I think it must have been intended for a bear trap. Do you know there are bears about? I saw one Monday evening, and fired at it, but missed it."

Bluebird shot a swift, meaning glance into Elk's eyes. "The white boy saved my life, Elk," she said. "I couldn't have held on with one hand a moment longer. My right arm broke when I fell, I think, and I couldn't use it. But, dear Elk"—she tried to lean towards him as she added rapidly, in Cheyenne—"it's all right that only I am hurt. I went to the cañon to save Yellow Stripe's boy—and you."

Elk had a sudden conviction that the teachings of reservation life had not made his sister weak-hearted, at all events. There was an appeal in her tones that he did not attempt to resist. She was offering her own sufferings in atonement for Alan's fault. Elk did not let her sacrifice go for nothing. He took a step towards Alan, and extended his hand.

"Hough!" he cried, in a firm hearty voice, which begged forgiveness and pledged his own friendship.

Elk gave Alan his pony to carry him home. He took charge of Bluebird on the horse.

Lone Dog came limping a way out to meet them as they neared the village. His sinister eyes inquired of Elk how his villanously counselled scheme happened to miscarry.

Elk feigned not to see him. He passed him by with a high countenance. His momentary apostleship to the disturbers of the youths of the village was over, never to return. Bluebird saw that Ready Proverb was right. Now that the black veil of revengeful passion had swept by and his right vision was restored to him, the grandson of Wise Eye was not indeed to be led by the dirt of the tribe!

THE EAST-SIDE GIRL AT PLAY AND AT WORK.

BY DR. JANE E. ROBBINS,

HEAD WORKER OF THE COLLEGE SETTLEMENT.

A "LITTLE MOTHER."

The first thing most of the New York children learn is how to mind the baby. Even a small boy soon learns how to "hush" a child in his arms, and almost all the small girls are good little mothers. The babies on our block are the most beloved little people you ever saw. There are a great many of them, and they tumble around on the sidewalks so that we have to walk very carefully; but somewhere near there is generally to be found a little girl who loves that baby with all her heart, and the more trouble the baby is the more she seems to love it. The little girl in a rich man's family may love her little sister very dearly, but the baby can't be quite so dear to her as it is to the little girl who must save every penny for car fares, so that on the hot days she can take the baby to the dock, where the air is cooler.

"My knee hurts awfully," said one little girl to me. "I just have to hop around on one foot when I am carrying the baby"; and she looked very much surprised when I said, "But you must not carry the baby while you are sick."

All through the summer months the children are kept down on the street so that they can have the fresh air. The baby is generally in his carriage, but the two-year-old child runs about, and he must be carefully watched, for there is danger of his falling under the horses' feet. Sometimes the little mother is careless and one of the youngsters is lost. Then there is a great excitement till the lost child is found at the station-house, usually busy making friends with the policemen.

By the time a girl is eight years old she has not only learned how to take good care of the baby, but she has generally learned also to run on errands, and to buy groceries, and even meat, and she can be trusted with the keys. One often sees a little girl five or six years old playing on the street while her mother is out, and holding in her hand a big bunch of keys, so that, if necessary, any of the family can get into the house. The children in all parts of the city, whether they are Italian or German or American, learn these same things.

Many of the children bring with them from Europe ways that seem very odd to us, but they soon learn from the other children the New York customs. The most marked differences are connected with the differences in the religion of their parents. Some of the children say very funny things. One little Polish Hebrew child named Rachel, while she was in the country, helped to chase an old hen and her brood until several of the chickens were killed. After they had been buried, Rachel said, "I dassent go over there; that's a Christian burying-ground." No one could find out how she knew that the chicken was a Christian and not a Jew.

JUST THE SAME KIND OF CHILDREN WE FIND EVERYWHERE.

The children play a great many ring-around games in the evenings. The German children sing "Liebe Mary, dreh dich herum," and other German songs; and all over the city they sing, "Lazy Mary, will you get up?" and "All around the mulberry bush," and "I came to see Miss Jinny Ann Jones, and how is she to-day?" They play tag and hide-and-seek, and, sitting on the door-steps, they play a buttermilk game, where no one may laugh, and a great many other games. In some parts of the city the boys and girls play with one another, as they do in the country, but in other neighborhoods the girls play alone. They are fond of dancing, and the Italian man with his piano is often surrounded by fifty or a hundred little girls in the middle of the street, waltzing gracefully, and making for the passers-by a very pretty picture. In the evenings they are generally allowed to stay down on the street until nine o'clock; but that is the hour when careful mothers see that their younger girls are all at home, though the older girls are often allowed to stay out until ten o'clock. The girls go to school until they are thirteen or fourteen, and they study with eagerness, and worry over their lessons. In New York it seems to be an especially great calamity to be kept at home for even one day, and the little girls give the doctors much trouble by not telling when they have sore throats or feel sick, for fear that they will be told that they must not go to school. At half past three they come home carrying great bundles of books, and you wonder how they have time to play or to do any house-work. But Saturdays are very busy days, and they learn to scrub and to clean the house, and somehow they learn to wash, so that little girls of twelve years of age often show me dresses that they have washed and ironed themselves. They don't know so much about sewing, but most of them learn to crochet lace, and they have little crocheting schools in the summer, where they teach one another. They sit in "the yard" or in front of the house, and sometimes each girl brings a penny and they have a party. They have more pennies than country children, I am sorry to say, for they buy too many candies and cakes. They teach one another all the songs that they know, and sometimes one girl tells a story or reads to the others. When the mother knows how to sew well she generally teaches her daughters, but many of the mothers do not know much about sewing. There are sewing-classes in the public schools, but these classes are so large that the children generally seem to learn only how to sew badly.

They want to know how to sew, and nothing makes a lady so popular with school-girls as to tell them that they can have a sewing-class at her house. Then if after the sewing there can be stories and singing and games, the girls are sure to have a fine time. They save their pennies to buy the cloth on which they work. I have seen many a mother much pleased with the tiny stitches her daughter has learned to make. A blue cheese-cloth duster, neatly hemmed, makes a nice present from the youngest ones to their mothers, while the older girls make clothes for themselves or for the children at home.

In the house where I live there are a good many young women who are fond of teaching, and they have friends who come and help with the sewing-classes, so that we have seven sets of school-girls every week. They give themselves names like the Rosebuds, the Sunshine Club, the Butterflies, the Rainbow Club, and the Bluebells. There are many other girls that we know who are waiting anxiously for their chance to come, and the mothers beg us to let their daughters join the sewing-clubs. We have cooking-classes a few times a week when our cook can let us have the kitchen, and these are liked the best of all. The girls have the fun of eating what they have cooked, and they have a jolly time even while they are washing dishes. The older girls who go to work like the cooking-classes, too, and some of them, when they get home early on Saturday afternoons, make biscuit and cookies and apple-sauce for supper. One girl made cookies for the callers who came to her house on New-Year's day, and they liked them better than cake.

The girls enjoy the cooking more than sewing, because they are tired after their day's work. The younger working-girls want mostly to talk together and laugh and sing and dance. Sometimes we are very sorry for the fifteen-year-old girls, they look so young, and they work very hard, but most of them are quite light-hearted, after all. The little cash-girls often tell us what fun they have, and even the flower and feather girls and the girls in the box-factories and in the candy-factories enjoy so much being with one another that they forget all about their troubles. At the noon hour they sing and tell one another stories. They bring their lunches from home or they send a girl out to buy the lunch, and some of these are the girls who make their noonday meal of cream-cakes and pickles. They like to read the same books that girls read everywhere, but sometimes they do not understand how other lives can be so different from theirs, how other girls can have their own rooms all to themselves, and can have all the nice things that come to girls who have never lived in small rooms, with nineteen other families in the same house.

The most wonderful thing that comes into the lives of city girls who have grown up on the crowded East Side is their first trip to the country. They don't know the most ordinary things. One of my friends, who had tried every word she could think of, finally told some children to run up on the fire-escape, and they all scrambled for the piazza, as she thought they would. The country seems very lonely at first, and the dark rather terrifying. They have never known what dark is, for lamps are burning all night in most of the tenements. The stillness, too, is impressive. One little girl said, "There is not any noise here except the noise we make." When they get over their first sense of loneliness, they begin to see all kinds of wonderful things, and some of the girls I know are so much interested in the leaves and trees that they soon know more about the trees in midsummer than many a country girl. Their only knowledge of the spring is gained from the popular songs. They have heard in that way of the flowers that "bloom in the spring." They sometimes expect these songs to be literally fulfilled. "There's the farmer," said one child, "and there's the corn, but where is Johnny?" One child I found on the roof of the house where she lived playing going to the country, and she said she played it every day. We wish sometimes that we could pick up all the children, and carry them off where fresh air and green grass belong to all.

The girls in the country are sometimes surprised to see what good manners our little girls have. One girl I knew said to her father, "I never saw such polite girls; they say 'thank you,' and 'you're welcome,' and 'excuse me,' when they are just playing with one another." One reason for this is that they see so many people all the time that they are not self-conscious and shy, and when they think that it would be nice to say, "Excuse me," they are not afraid to do so. Then, too, they grow up where there are so many people that each one must learn to be considerate of his neighbor, or there would be continual trouble. We find some spoiled children here as elsewhere, but generally they have learned to give up their own way because of the younger ones, and there is really very little quarrelling. We are often surprised when we think how seldom we hear a child cry. They take care of one another and bring one another up, and though the result is that they are not so well taught as they ought to be—and I am sorry to say they don't learn obedience as they should—yet each one finds out that she must not expect too much for her own share.

A stranger in New York, seeing the crowds of people and the sidewalks swarming with children, might go away with a feeling about a tenement-house neighborhood quite different from the feeling of one who knew the people well. The houses, indeed, are often as bad as they can be, for without light and air a house is, of course, totally unfit for human habitation; and there are also some very unhappy homes; but as a rule up through the tenements at six o'clock you will find the father reading his paper or holding the baby while the mother cooks the supper, and the children come climbing up the stairs—just the same kind of children that we find everywhere.

THE VOYAGE OF THE "RATTLETRAP."

BY HAYDEN CARRUTH.

V.

Next morning we were awakened by Old Blacky kicking the side of the wagon-box with both hind feet.

"If that man with the ever-blooming cow comes down," said Jack, "I'll swap him Old Blacky."

Just then we heard a loud "Hello!" and looking out, we found the man leading a small yellow pony.

"I just 'lowed I'd come down and let you fellers make something out of me on a hoss trade," said the man.

"Well," answered Jack, "we're willing to swap that black horse over there. He's a splendid animal."

"Isn't he rather much on the kick?" the man asked.

"He does kick a little," admitted Jack, "but only for exercise. He wouldn't hurt a fly. But he is so high-lifed that he has to kick to ease his nerves once in a while."

"Thought I seen him whaling away at your wagon," returned the man. "Couldn't have him round my place, 'cause my house ain't very steady."

"VIGILANTEES."

We had not gone far this morning when we met two men on horseback riding side by side. They looked like farmers, only we noticed that each carried a big gun in a belt. They simply said "Good-morning," and passed on. In about half an hour we met another pair similarly mounted and armed, and in another half-hour still two more.

"Must be a wedding somewhere, or a Sunday-school picnic," said Jack.

"But why do they all have the guns?" asked Ollie, innocently.

"Oh, I don't know," answered Jack. "Varmints about, I suppose."

In a few minutes we came to a man working beside the road, and asked him what it all meant. He looked around in a very mysterious manner, and then half whispered the one word "Vigilantees!" with a strong accent on the last syllable.

"Oh!" said Jack, "vigilance committee."

"Correct," returned the man.

"Horse-thieves, I suppose?" went on Jack.

"Exactly," replied the man. "Stole two horses at Black Bird last night at ten o'clock. Holt County Anti-Horse-thief Association after 'em this morning at four. That's the way we do business in this country!"

We drove on, and Jack said:

"What the Association wants to do is to buy Old Blacky and put him in a pasture for bait. In the morning the members can go out and gather up a wagon-load of disabled horse-thieves that have tried to steal him in the night and got kicked over the fence."

We either met or saw a dozen other men on horseback, always in pairs; but whether or not they caught the thief we never heard.

JACK SHOT A GROUSE.

So far we had had very poor luck in finding game; but in the afternoon of this day Jack shot a grouse, and we camped rather earlier than usual so that he might have ample time to cook it. There were also the plums and grapes to stew. We made our camp not far from a house, and, after a vast amount of extremely serious labor on the part of the cook, had a very good supper.

The next day passed with but one incident worth recalling. In the afternoon we crossed the Niobrara at Grand Rapids on a tumble-down wooden bridge, and turned due west through the Keya Paha country. This was so called from the Keya Paha River (pronounced Key-a-paw), a branch of the Niobrara which comes down out of Dakota and joins it a few miles below Grand Rapids. The country seemed to be much the same as that through which we had travelled, perhaps a little flatter and sandier. Just across the river we saw the first large herd of stock, some five or six hundred head being driven east by half a dozen cowboys.

A short distance beyond the river we came to a little blacksmith shop beside the road. As soon as Jack saw it he said:

"We ought to stop and get the horses shod. I was looking at the holes the calks of Old Blacky's shoes made in the wagon-box last night, and they are shallow and irregular. He needs new shoes to do himself justice. If this blacksmith seems like a man of force of character, we'll see what he can do."

Jack looked at the blacksmith quizzically when we drove up and whispered to us, "He'll do," and we unhitched. The pony had never been shod, and did not seem to need any artificial aids, so we left her to graze about while the others were being attended to.

"Just shoe the brown one first, if it doesn't make any difference," said Jack.

"All right," answered the blacksmith, and he went to work on the decent old nag, who slept peacefully throughout the whole operation.

He then began on Old Blacky. He soon had shoes nailed on the old reprobate's forward feet, and approached his rear ones. Old Blacky had made no resistance so far, and had contented himself with gnawing at the side of the shop and switching his tail. He even allowed the blacksmith to take one of his hind feet between his knees and start to pull off the old shoe. Then he began to struggle to free his leg. The blacksmith held on. Old Blacky saw that the time for action had arrived, so he drew his leg, with the foolish blacksmith still clinging to it, well up forward, and then threw it back, with all his strength. The leg did not fly off, but the blacksmith did, and half-way across the shop. He picked himself up, and, after looking at the horse, said:

"'PEARS 'S IF THAT AIN'T A COLT ANY MORE."

"'Pears 's if that ain't a colt any more."

"No," answered Jack; "he's fifteen or sixteen."

"Old enough to know better," observed the blacksmith. "I'll try him again."

He again got the leg up, and again Old Blacky tried to throw him off. But this time the man hung on. After the third effort Blacky looked around at him with a good deal of surprise. Then he put down the leg to which the man was still clinging, and with the other gave him a blow which was half a kick and half a push which sent the man sprawling over by his anvil.

"The critter don't seem to take to it nohow, does he?" said the blacksmith, cheerfully, as he again got up.

"He's a very peculiar horse," answered Jack. "Has violent likes and dislikes. His likes are for food, and his dislikes for everything else."

"I'll tackle him again, though," said the man.

But Blacky saw that he could no longer afford to temporize with the fellow, and now began kicking fiercely with both feet in all directions, swinging about like a war-ship to get the proper range on everything in sight, and finally ending up by putting one foot through the bellows.

"Reckon I've got to call in assistance," said the man, as he started off. He came back with another man, who laid hold of one of Blacky's forward legs and held it up off the floor. The blacksmith then seized one of his hind ones and got it up. This left the old sinner so that if he would kick he would have to stand on one foot while he did it, and this was hardly enough for even as bad a horse as he was. He did not wholly give up, however, but after a great amount of struggling they got him shod at last.

"We'll call him the Blacksmith's Pet," said Jack.

Good camping-places did not seem to be numerous, and just after the sun had gone down we turned out beside the road near a half-completed sod house. There was no other house in sight, and this had apparently been abandoned early in the season, as weeds and grass were growing on top of the walls, which were three or four feet high. There was also a peculiar sort of well, a few of which we had seen during the day. It consisted of four one-inch boards nailed together and sunk into the ground. The boards were a foot wide, thus making the inside of the shaft ten inches square. This one was forty or fifty feet deep, but there was a long rope and slender tin bucket beside it. The water was not good, but there was nothing else to drink. Near the house Ollie found the first cactus we had seen, which showed, if nothing else did, that we were getting into a dry country. He took it up carefully and stowed it away in the cabin to take back home as an evidence of his extensive travels.

For several days we had not been able to have a camp-fire, owing to the wind and dryness of the prairie, for had we started a prairie fire it might have done great damage.

"We don't want the Holt County Anti-Prairie Fire Society after us," Jack had said; so we had been using our oil-stove.

But this evening was very still, and there seemed to be no danger in building a camp-fire within the walls of the house, and we soon had one going with wood which we had gathered along the river, since to have found wood enough for a camp-fire in that neighborhood would have been as impossible as to have found a stone or a spring of water.

We were sitting about on the sods after supper when a man rode up on horseback, who said he was looking for some lost stock. We asked him to have something to eat, and he accepted the invitation, and afterward talked a long time, and gave us much information which we wished about the country. Somebody mentioned the little well, and the man turned to Ollie, and said.

"How would you like to slip down such a well?"

"I'm afraid I'm too big," answered Ollie.

"Well, perhaps you are; but there was a child last summer over near where I live who wasn't too big. He was a little fellow not much over two years old. The well was a new one, and the curb was almost even with the top of the ground. He slipped down feet first. It was a hundred and twenty feet deep, with fifteen feet of water at the bottom, but he fitted pretty snug, and only went down about fifty feet at first. His mother missed him, saw that the cover was gone from the well, and listened. She heard his voice, faint and smothered. There was no one else at home. She called to him not to stir, and went to the barn, where there was a two-year-old colt. It had never been ridden before, but he was ridden that afternoon, and I guess he hasn't forgotten the lesson. She came to my place first, told me, and rode away to another neighbor's. In half an hour there were twenty men there, and soon fifty, and before morning two hundred.

"There was no way to fish the child out—the only thing was to dig down beside the small shaft. We could hear him faintly, and we began to dig. We started a shaft about four feet square. The sandy soil caved badly, but men with horses running all the way brought out lumber from Grand Rapids for curbing. The child's father came too. He listened a second at the small shaft, and then went down the other. Two men could work at the bottom of it. One of the men was relieved every few minutes by a fresh worker, but the father worked on, and did more than the others notwithstanding the changes. All of the time the mother sat on the ground beside the small shaft with her arms about its top. At four o'clock in the morning we were down opposite the prisoner. He was still crying faintly. We saw that to avoid the danger of causing him to slip farther down we must dig below him, bore a hole in the board, and slip through a bar. But a few shovelfuls more were needed. The work jarred the shaft, and the child slipped twenty-five feet deeper. At seven o'clock we were down to where he was again, though we could no longer hear him. We dug a little below, bored a hole, and the father slipped through a pickaxe handle, and fainted away as he felt the little one slip down again but rest on the handle. We tore off the boards, took the baby out, and drew him and his father to the surface. There were two doctors waiting for them, and the next day neither was much the worse for it."

The man got on his horse and rode away. We agreed that he had told us a good story, but the next day others assured us that it had all happened a year before.

[to be continued.]

THE SCIENCE OF FOOTBALL: CATCHING, PASSING, TACKLING.

FIG. 1.

FIG. 2.

FIG. 3.

FIG. 4.

FIG. 5.

Fig. 6.

FIG. 7.

FIG. 8.

FIG. 9.

INTERSCHOLASTIC SPORT

[Beginning with this issue, and continuing for four weeks, this Department will be largely taken up by a series of papers an the Science of Football, prepared by Mr. W. H. Lewis, of the Harvard football team of 1893.]

That football is a scientific sport seems to be pretty generally conceded by all. It is more like military science than any other; and it has this in common with all other sciences, that only so much can be learned from the books and blackboard. The student must go to the laboratory for the major part of his knowledge. The laboratory of football is the gridiron.

Football as a science divides itself naturally into the Individual and the Team. The Individual may be subdivided into Fundamentals and Position Play. Fundamentals comprehend passing, catching, dropping on the ball, kicking, blocking, making holes, breaking through, tackling. The Team is divided chiefly into two parts—the offence and defence. The offence comprises the direct attack, the indirect or strategic play, and kicking. The defence embraces the general defence, the theory, styles of defence, defence to particular plays, and defence at given points of the field. In this first paper I shall treat of the Fundamentals of Individual Play.

FIG. 10.

Passing.—-There are three kinds of passes—the straight-arm, the underhand, and the overhand. The straight-arm pass is used generally for long low passes to the open, because of its swiftness and accuracy. The pass is made by taking the ball in the palm of the hand, the ends pointing up and down the arm, the fingers firmly clutched over the end farthest from the body; then extending the arm at an angle with the body of about 65°, using the opposite foot as a pivot, bring the arm and body quickly, with a swing and a snap, directly in line with the object of the throw; then let the ball go, end over end, revolving upon its shorter axis, as in Fig. 7.

The underhand pass is used in passes made by the quarter to the full-back. The ball is held as in the straight-arm pass. The pass should be started from about an angle of 45° to the rear of the body, the arm passing by the body to the front, describing an arc of a circle, letting the ball roll off the tips of the fingers. The body should be well forward and the knees bent, similar to the position of a bowler. See Fig. 8.

The overhand pass starts from the taking of the snap, the arm being carried above the shoulder, going through about a three-quarter circle and then going off on a tangent.

Catching.—The ball should be caught with the arms and the body. The backs may be allowed more latitude in this matter, however. In fact, the more of a baseball catch they can make, the more quickly can they return the ball. For the forward, the ball should be caught in one of two ways: first, take the ball, whether punted or thrown, on either side, letting the arm on the side where you catch the ball be under the ball, and the other arm and hand hooked over the upper end of the ball, as shown in Fig. 4; second, a punt or thrown ball may be caught by receiving the ball in the groin, right-angling the body around it and placing both hands over it.

FIG. 11.

Dropping on the Ball.—There are two kinds of balls the player must learn to drop on—a moving ball and a dead ball. There are just four ways of falling upon a ball: first, dropping upon the knees, to break the fall, then covering the ball with the chest; second, dropping straight from the toes, breaking the fall with the elbows and by landing upon the ball with the chest; third, diving upon the ball, by leaving the ground and leaping in the air, the fall being broken by the elbows and the ball; fourth, sliding, feet foremost, and taking the ball under the arm in passing it. Take first a moving ball. A ball moving away from the runner may be obtained in any of these ways; the first method is the simplest and preferable. Let the player run to within reaching distance of the ball, suddenly drop upon his knees, and then gather the ball up under his chest. A moving ball should not be dived for unless its motion has nearly ceased, because the player is likely to either overreach or underreach it.

FIG. 12.

To obtain a ball dropped in the rush-line or at the player's feet, the player should throw his feet straight out behind him, falling upon the ball with his chest, breaking the fall with the elbows and ball. There is another moving ball, which the player, strictly speaking, should not fall upon at all. To obtain a ball moving directly towards a player from the front, he should meet it at right angles, throwing the body right across the path of the ball and gathering it up in his arm, as in Fig. 10.

The ball is very seldom "dead" in a game, but it may sometime occur that twenty-two men are after a ball that has lost nearly all motion. In that case the most skilful man at diving upon the ball will be more than likely to get it. The player should run to within about once and a half his length from the ball, and then leave the ground, the same as a swimmer makes a dive, care being taken to land upon the ball, to offset the force of gravity.

Kicking.—Kicking is one of the fine arts of football. It requires considerable skill, which is only to be obtained by constant, painstaking practice. The requirements for good kicking are cool-headedness, a good eye, a good leg, and a good square-toe shoe. There are three kinds of kicks—a punt, a place, and a drop. Of these, the most important is the punt. There are two kinds of punts—a common punt, which is generally used, and a "twister," or "floater." The latter, which is not of much importance, is made by dropping the ball so that the longer axis will be horizontal, or at right angles to the body (ends resting to and away from the body), and giving the impetus to the ball a little to one side. As to the common punt, there are two styles, known as straight kicking and round kicking. The straight punt is made by facing the direction in which you wish the ball to go. The kicker stands from twelve to fifteen yards back of the line—that is, when the punt is made from a line-up. As the kicker receives the ball, he should step back with the right leg, and bring the body a little forward, and then he is ready for the swing. The kicker ought to be able to make his kick without moving out of his tracks, unless it is necessary to avoid a forward who has broken through; then he should step to the side. The ball should be adjusted quickly, the lacings being turned up, or out, away from the point of contact of the ball with the foot. There are three methods in vogue for holding the ball for a straight-leg punt. One way is to place the right hand under the lower end, and fingers of the left hand on the upper end, holding the ball either vertically or diagonally, with upper end canting away from the body, as in Fig. 1. Second, hold the ball by placing one hand on each side, lacings up, the ends pointing to and from the body, the inner end being higher than the outward one, the ball slanting downward, as in Fig. 2. The third is just the reverse of the second, the end near to the body being lower than the outer, as in Fig. 3. The player should choose the method of holding the ball which is most natural to him and in which he can attain the highest efficiency.

The round kick, or side kick, as sometimes called, is made by a round, instead of a straight, swing of the leg. The ball may be held in any of the three ways, generally the first. A step or two is taken to the kicking side and forward, a kind of right-oblique, and the leg brought into contact with the ball in much the same way as a man makes a swinging blow with the arm, the aim being to get the weight of the body into the drive. The ball should be kicked at about calf-high.

A drop kick is made by letting the ball fall from the hands, and kicking it at the very instant it rises from the ground. If a drop kick is made from behind the rush-line, the kicker should stand about fifteen yards back. The ball should be held as in the first case, by the ends, or by the sides, as in the second case. The ball should be directed towards the ground at just the angle you desire, and then let fall naturally from the hands. The exact spot upon which the ball should be booted will be obtained by practice. Just below the stringing is a good place, but here comes in again the angle at which the ball is dropped. Don't punt your drop kicks. Let the ball strike the ground first.

Blocking.—Good blocking is one of the primary essentials of the offensive game. No play can be started unless the opposing rushers are prevented from breaking through. Its rudiments, therefore, should be thoroughly mastered by every forward. The player should get his body into a position which is mechanically the strongest, his build and playing position considered. Generally the position of the body which is strongest is the angular form. A fair position is that in which the blocker's body is high enough not to give his opponent a chance to grab him by the head in going through, and low enough not to expose the sternum to a straight blow. The blocker should take his position squarely in front of the man opposed to him. He should stand on his toes instead of his heels, or flat-footed. This position, the rusher will find, gives agility and activity, strength and speed, enabling him to move quickly in any direction, to follow his opponent, in order to block him; besides, the heel striking the ground when an opponent happens to get in first enables him to recover himself, action being equal to reaction in contrary directions.

The blocker should keep as close to his opponent as possible. The less ground he gives, the quicker he can get into his opponent and put him out of the play. The next thing is to watch the man in front of him. He should look him in his eyes, if he can do so without weakening his own position. The principle is like that involved in sparring. The blocker should try to get the start of his opponent. Jump into him first. Every move he makes, pile into him. Go into him hard enough to put him out of the play. The blocker should get under his man. Do not reach too far with the body. Keep your feet under you, so that you can change your position quickly enough to follow your man. The ideal position is to get the body across your opponent's path in the same line where he is directing his attempt to get through. A rough idea of good blocking is given in Fig. 5.

Making Holes.—Closely connected with the blocking is making holes. Forwards should remember that the backs cannot gain ground except around the line or through the line. Hence the importance of making holes. The player should take his position the same as in blocking. The rusher should allow his opponent to make the holes himself, if possible, by foxing him away from where the hole is called for, then blocking him in or out, as the necessity requires. The forward should manœuvre for the advantageous position, which is on the side of the man where the hole is called for, but not giving it away. Then he should get lower than the man in front of him, unless his opponent gets his nose on a line with his knees. If he can get lower than his man, he should lift him up and shove him back, and out or in. If he cannot get under him, he should try to pull him forward on his face, so that the backs can hurdle him. In order to make his power effective, he should start before the man in front of him. Listen for the signal for the starting of the ball, if there is such a signal. Go into your man hard and strong. Get your body, head and shoulders, into the side through which the hole is called for, and shove your opponent in the opposite direction. If you cannot shove your opponent out, shove him in.

Breaking Through.—As good blocking is indispensable for the offence, so breaking through is the prime requisite of the defence. The rushers on the defence should go through hard and fast every time, and tackle the runner behind his own line. The position of the feet and the form of the body are much the same as that in blocking. The forward should remember, however, that the conditions are now reversed. He should keep at arm's distance from his opponent who is trying to block him, but that distance should be in the opponent's territory and not in his own. He should watch the ball, and break through with it, and not after it. The rusher should go through with his arm extended, so as not to be bowled over by the interferers.

The first thing the forward should do in trying to get through, when he faces his man, is to size him up. He should take advantage of his every fault. He should vary his methods of getting through occasionally, so as not to give his man a chance to remedy his faults. A few of the methods of getting through are indicated here:

(1.) If your opponent exposes his chest, spring into him with arms straight and stiff, hard enough to start him backwards off his pins or unsteady him, and then go to either side desired, as in Fig. 9.

(2.) Play for the outside arm of your opponent; once getting hold of this, your opponent, in attempting to free himself, will pull you through, as in Fig. 11.

(3.) Try knocking your opponent's arm down with both of your arms, in the manner of a sabre cut.

(4.) Strike your opponent on one side or make a feint to go in one direction, and quickly dart to the other.

(5.) If your opponent plays too low, take him by the head and pull him to one side or the other.

(6.) If he plays very high, try ducking under his arm occasionally.

(7.) Strike your opponent on either shoulder; the one struck will either give way or meet you. If he does the former, you have the flat side of his body exposed; if the latter, the outer arm is exposed.

(8.) Catch him by the shoulder and twist him around. "Fox" your opponent. Keep him guessing as to what you will do next.

(9.) Rolling around opponent is sometimes used, but is a blind sort of method, and not of much use.

Tackling.—The object in breaking through is to tackle the runner behind his own line. Once let him reach the line, and he is bound to gain something. Tackle him behind the line, before his interference can get formed and well started, and he is bound to lose ground. There are two kinds of tackling—the lift tackle, and the dive tackle. The lift tackle is made by getting under the runner, or at least within reaching distance, pinning his knees together, and pulling his feet from under him, or, better, lifting him up and throwing him backwards. See Fig. 6.

The dive tackle is used almost entirely to down the runner in the open. Where the runner has any considerable territory, it is, in fact, about the only way to reach him. This tackle is made by leaving the ground, the same as a swimmer makes a dive into the water. The aim should be just below the hips. In that case the tackler is almost sure to reach the knees, because the runner is moving in the opposite direction. The tackler should be sure to get his arms well around the runner to prevent his hurdling, or twisting out of them. The dive tackle may be made in any direction. The straightaway dive is made when the runner is going in the same direction as tackler. The tackler should, in that case, chase the runner to within about his length, then take a sudden spring into him, getting his arms well around the runner. He has simply to hold on, dragging like an anchor, and the struggle or impetus of the runner in the opposite direction brings him down. In making the side dive tackle the tackler should dive so as to get his head and shoulders in front of the runner, or across the line of his direction, and get his arms well around him, then rolling over so that his body or chest shall impede the runner's progress if he should shake him. See Fig. 12.

Avoiding Injuries.—Injuries in football result either from unnecessary roughness or accident. Those resulting from the former may be easily eliminated. No school or college should allow a man who cannot control his temper, and who is not a gentleman, to represent it upon an eleven. The slugger or vicious player is of absolutely no use to a team. A man cannot play his game and play his opponent at the same time. He necessarily neglects his team-work, and reduces the strength of his own side by one. In other words, he is worse than a passenger. Keep such men off the team, and there will be no more injuries from brutality. As to the latter class of injuries, those resulting from accident, the writer has always thought that the beginner or young player might be, and ought to be, taught what the older player acquires by experience—the art of self-protection.

The first thing a player should do in order to avoid accident is to begin training early; get into good condition early, and keep so. Careful attention should be paid to football clothes. An effusion upon the elbow or water on the knee is often the result of not having sufficient padding on the elbows or knees. A dislocated shoulder or collar-bone often comes from lack of pads over the shoulder. A sprained ankle may be avoided by having well-fitting shoes, and keeping them well cleated. Shoes should have new cleats at least once in every two weeks.

Injuries resulting from interference, from being knocked over by an interferer, may be avoided by keeping the body angular, well forward, and arms extended so as to ward off the blocker whose business it is to put you out of the way. Never let an interferer touch you. Keep him off by using your arms. Injuries from mass plays may be avoided by never allowing such a play to reach you on your feet. If it does you are bound to go over on your back or be doubled up under it. Dive into it before it reaches you with your head and shoulders, and then hug the ground flat. Do not attempt to stop a mass play by standing up against it.

There is another class of injuries from tackling. The man doing the tackling will avoid injury by making his tackle sure and breaking his fall with the man tackled. If others pile on, he should remember to keep his feet and legs behind him. The runner need not be hurt if he will fall forward and upon the ball when he is thrown. It is only the man who is thrown backwards who is likely to be hurt.

The Hartford High-School football team has wisely determined not to undertake any regular practice until after the term has actually opened, which will be on September 9. Last year the men did some preliminary work for a week or so before school, but the advantage derived was probably not sufficient to counteract the many disadvantages connected with such preliminary training. There will be only four of Hartford's crack football eleven back in school this fall—Smith, centre; Strong and Twichell, ends; and Sturtevant, quarterback and Captain.

Some good athletes go to college this fall from H.P.H.-S. Luce enters Yale, while Ingalls and Bradin enter Trinity. These men represent about twenty-six points which H.P.H.-S. took at the Connecticut H.-S.A.A. games last spring. It is reported that a gymnasium is about to be built for H.P.H.-S., and as soon as its advantages are open to the Hartford scholars, they will become even more formidable in athletics than they are now.

The Bridgeport High-School eleven, which was so strong last fall, loses all but three men this year, and the Captain will consequently have to depend largely upon new material to make up his team. He had a good second eleven last year, however, and he ought to be able to select from among those who composed it a number of players that will fill the many places left vacant. The struggle between Bridgeport and Hartford will be well worth watching again this fall.

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

The Graduate.

FROM THE NEW MOTHER GOOSE.

I had a little husband
No bigger than my thumb;
I put him in a pint pot,
And then I bade him drum.
And he, poor little hubby,
Kept it up so night and day
Our next-door neighbors pounced on him
And took his drum away.

One day during the hot spell in New York, in the early part of August, a bent figure industriously handled a little combination hammer and pick as he scraped some sand together with the pick, and placed his stone in position, tapping it with the hammer end. He was paving a portion of the street, and was alone on the job. Strangely, he worked fast and hard, and this excited the curiosity of the passers-by, and occasionally they stopped and watched him, sometimes speaking to him. The worker kept hard at it, however, and vouchsafed no reply to these people. Quite a group gathered after a while, and finally a rollicking son of the sod happening along, and knowing the industrious workman, addressed him:

"Hullo Tim! Faith yer workin' hard!"

"Shure oi have to, Jim," replied the worker.

"'Pon me soul, Tim, yez must be tryin' to pave the entire street before night."

"No, that's not it; oime tryin' to finish the job before the stones give out, that's all."

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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 Wheelman. 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.

The route this week is general, describing the country around St. Joseph and Benton Harbor, Michigan, and leaving it to the rider to pick out his own particular route. Leaving Chicago by boat at nine in the morning, you arrive in St. Joseph by one.

When the Michigan shore comes in view one is apt to have misgivings as to the roads one will have to travel over, for as far as the eye can reach there is nothing but sand domes.

While it is true that the roads are sandy, and make difficult going, you can generally rely upon finding good side paths; though after a rain-storm I have found some of the sandiest roads firm and hard, and good going.

Your wheel and baggage should be checked for St. Joseph, as this will save you an hour's time at least (unless you are going to stop in Benton Harbor).

Where next to go or what to do will depend upon the person making the trip, the time at disposal, or inclination to long or short trips.

If you decide to make St. Joseph or Benton Harbor your headquarters and take short trips into the country, you can put up at one of the hotels in either town or some near-by resort on the river.

Many have the idea that Benton Harbor is on Lake Michigan shore, whereas it is a mile inland, and east of St. Joseph—is not on St. Joseph River, but connected by canal with it. The two towns are connected by electric street cars and a paved roadway.

Take the main street of St. Joseph (State Street) and ride south, and you are soon among the famous fruit farms of this region.

The road leads along the St. Joseph River, of which you get a view now and then; and often you can take a side road to the river's edge, where an hour can be profitably spent in viewing the surrounding country.

Summer resorts of various degrees of standing are continually being started, so one does not need worry about meals; even, at a pinch, a nickel or dime will bring you a good supply of milk, bread, and fruit in season at any of the fruit farms; and as most of these farms average ten to twenty acres, the houses are close together—so close, in fact, that it reminds one of the suburbs of Chicago.

If you wish, you can cross the river about two miles out from St. Joseph. On this side of the river better roads are to be found.

No regular plan need be carried out, as one can readily inquire the way; and cross-roads are there in abundance, so the trip may be long or short, as you wish.

Paw Paw, on Paw Paw Lake, about fourteen miles inland (northeast of Benton Harbor), is coming into rapid favor as a resort; and while the road from Benton Harbor is not of the best, a little patience and an even temper will bring you through all right. This refers in particular during a spell of dry weather, when the constant travel loosens the road very much.

Leave Chicago on night boat, arriving in St. Joseph about 5.30; breakfast at one of the hotels, and come back to boat-landing; get on board the May Graham for a trip up the beautiful St. Joseph River.

You can have your meals on board the boat, or stop at any of the resorts and await the boat's return. This boat leaves St. Joseph every morning about seven o'clock, and goes up the river as far as the stage of water will allow, returning in the evening loaded with fruit, arriving anywhere from eight to ten in St. Joseph, connecting with boat for Chicago.

Go up the river, say eight or ten miles, on the boat, then get on your wheel and see the surrounding country, and be back at landing at time captain states. You will have at least four or five hours at your disposal ashore.

One word in detraction about the boat trip—do not take fishing-tackle along, for there are no fish worth the bait in the river. What the river lacks in fish is made up in scenery. Turtles there are in plenty; also water-lilies.

A boat also leaves Chicago on Saturdays at 2 p.m.

THE DEFEAT OF GENERAL ZINC.

'Twas night on the nursery battle-field, and as the sun went down
The Wooden soldiers fell back to their camp at Book-case Town,
While General Zinc, the leader of the forces of the Tin,
Put up a stone-block fortress, and he led his army in.

"To-morrow, men," cried General Zinc, "we'll thwack 'em hip and thigh—
We'll conquer all these rebels, and we'll hang their leaders high.
'Twill never be these men of wood shall rout us men of lead—
A notion, O my soldiers brave, to hold fast in your head.

"I've just received from the government some sixty-seven puns
Of the hardest pease you ever saw, with which to load our guns;
And the havoc wrought by a small dried pea on a Wooden soldier's breast
Is known right well, at least to me, and I think to all the rest.

"So sleep to-night, and at beat of drum to-morrow at the dawn,
Our cannon, loaded to the nose, 'fore the enemy will be drawn;
And when these rebels march out from their camp at Book-case Town
We'll snap our cannon at 'em, and the pease will mow 'em down."

But alas for the plan of General Zinc! that night, while his forces slept,
A spy from the native Wooden force up over the ramparts crept—
Crept up to the heap of hard dried pease, and ere the night was done
Had dumped them into a cauldron hot, and boiled them every one.

So that when the guns of General Zinc were trained on the enemy's town,
The Wood men roared with laughter, and it made the General frown.
"We'll make 'em laugh in another way. Aim low and destroy their walls!"
He roared, "One—two—three—Fire!!! Let fly all our cannon-balls!"

And the gunners snapped their cannon, and the pea balls straightway flew,
But, woe for poor old General Zinc, tin warrior tried and true!
The havoc that he'd hoped to wreak was naught, and his plot was foiled,
For his cannon-balls were as soft as mush—as dried pease are when boiled.

And that was the way, my little son, the patriot men of Wood
Their reckless, ruthless foreign foes long years ago withstood,
And that is why in old Book-case Town to-day you're sure to see
The glorious flag of the Wooden folk a-waving proud and free.

Carlyle Smith.

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.

Owing to the number of questions, we devote the entire Department to answers this week.

Sir Knight Max Miner, Charlemont, Mass., in reply to notice from one of our members asking what kind of a camera was used for the picture called "Sweeping a Sliding-Place," published in this column, says: "I used the Rochester Optical Co.'s 'Universal' 5 by 7, and a Morrison R.R. lens, 8½ in. focus, designed for a 6½ by 8½ plate." Sir Max says he has the best success in developing with pyro-potash or soda—though he likes the two solution eikonogen nearly as well. He says he never has trouble with pyro stains, as he uses an alum bath before fixing. Sir Max also adds that he has taken $54 in prizes.

Sir Knight John W. Soule asks what is meant by red prussiate of potash. The druggist, he says, does not know what it is, but he has something else with the same name, only it is yellow. Read reply given to Sir Knight Hugo Kretschmar in No. 879 for the difference between red and yellow prussiate of potash. Druggists do not usually keep red prussiate of potash. The red prussiate of potash is known as ferricyanide of potassium, and the yellow as ferrocyanide of potassium. The yellow produces a negative from a negative, and the red produces a positive from a negative. Sir John asks what is meant by "hypo" in formula for toning solution. Hypo is the general term used by photographers for hyposulphite of soda.

Lady Nellie J. Wilder, Mass., says that she would like a camera costing only $5, and asks what style could be purchased for that sum. There are several makes of cameras which can be purchased from $3 to $5. The Pocket Kodak is a very good camera, but the pictures are quite small. The "Quad" makes a good-sized picture for a small camera, the pictures being about three inches square.

Sir Knight Wills G. Waldo, of Michigan, says that there is a black streak across his negatives about two inches long, and wishes to know if it is a defect in his camera or in the films. He says it has happened in every roll of films which he has bought. The defect would seem to be in the lens or camera and not in the film. Have the lens examined by some photographer, and if it is all right, examine the box for a leak in the bellows.

Sir Knight William H. White, Jun., asks for a formula for toning solio-paper, a formula for developer for kodak films, and a formula for washing trays. The following is the formula given by the manufacturers of solio-paper for making a combined bath:

STOCK SOLUTION "A."

Hyposulphite of soda | 8 | oz.
Alum (crystals) | 6 | oz.
Granulated sugar | 2 | oz.
Water | 80 | oz.

When this is dissolved, add borax, 2 oz., dissolved in 8 oz. of hot water. Let it stand overnight, and turn off the clear liquid into a clean bottle, and mark "A."

STOCK SOLUTION "B."

Chloride of gold | 7½ | grs.
Acetate of lead (sugar of lead) | 64 | grs.
Water | 8 | oz.

Mark bottle "B," and shake before using. To mix for toning solution, take 8 oz. of solution "A" and 1 oz. of solution "B." Place the prints in this solution without washing. Tone to desired color, and wash for an hour in running water. For developing formula see No. 862 (February 25, 1896). Clean trays with a little nitric or sulphuric acid in water.

Sir Knight P. Hosmer says that he has trouble in developing, as the film washes off from the plate in the washing water, and wishes to know the reason and remedy. The reason of the film softening is because the water is too warm, owing probably to the extreme heat of the past few weeks. Use alum in the fixing bath to harden the films, and instead of washing the plates in running water, place them in a dish of water in which put a small piece of ice not enough to make the water ice cold, but to lower the temperature to about 50°. Leave them in the water an hour, changing it two or three times, and the films will not frill or leave the plate.

Sir Knight John Mills wishes to know the number of the Round Table containing a formula for printing-out paper. Formulas for plain paper will be found in Nos. 796 and 803 (January 22 and March 19, 1895). A formula for blue-print paper will be found in Nos. 797, 823, and 828. See also No. 869.

Sir Knight A. P. Lazarus asks when the next competition will take place, how to take pictures of insects and make them appear sharp and of good size, and a formula for making blue-print paper. A photographic contest will probably be conducted some time this fall. Announcements will be made through the Camera Club. To take photographs of insects and have them at least two-thirds size one should use a copying camera. A copying camera has a long bellows and a lens specially adapted for making pictures at short range. Formulas for blue-print paper will be found in Nos. 797, 823, and 828.

Sir Knight E. A. Stabler asks if bicarbonate of potash could be used in place of carbonate of potash, which the formula for developer calls for. In Professor Mason's table showing the comparative value of alkaline carbonates in developers, he says that equal work is done by 165 parts of carbonate of potassa, and 200 parts of bicarbonate of potassa. If the developer formula calls for 1 oz. carbonate of potassa, 1 oz. of bicarbonate of potassa could be substituted for the carbonate of potassa. It is better to use the carbonate of potassa if it can be obtained.

Sir Knight Frank F. Smith, P.O. Box 239, Cumberland, Md., asks to have a notice in the Camera Club that he would like to exchange some books on photography and electricity for a Pocket Kodak. He also wishes to know of some corresponding photographic chapter of the Round Table. Niepce Chapter, of which Arthur F. Atkinson, 1711 I Street, Sacramento, Cal., is the president. Sir Knight John Chamberlain, 6 Franklin Avenue, Dayton, O., wishes to form a chapter.

Sir Knight A. Smith, 3 East State Street, Trenton, N. J., asks if boiled or filtered water answers the same purpose for photography; how to make photographs on watch crystals; and would like to correspond with any member owning a 4 by 5 camera, a Pocket Kodak, or a Quad Camera. The water should be filtered in order to remove the impurities, but it is not necessary to boil it. For all ordinary purposes the simple filtering of the water will be sufficient, but for delicate operations the distilled water must be used. See No. 840 for method of making transferrotypes. Pictures may be transferred to watch crystals by the process there described.

Here is a laughable incident of the civil war in which General Grant took an active part. It was during the march through the wilderness in the southwestern part of Arkansas. An advance-guard of some eight hundred men, under the command of Lieutenant Wickfield, after marching all the morning came upon a small farm-house. The Lieutenant dismounted, and hailing the inmates, some ladies, desired to know if he could get any food on the premises.

"Who are you, sir?" demanded the lady of the house.

With a most dignified demeanor Lieutenant Wickfield replied, "Brigadier-General Grant."

This produced a sensation among the ladies, and, happy to accommodate the General, they flew around and got him something to eat in short order. The Lieutenant satisfied his hunger, and requested the ladies to let him know how much there was to pay for the very hearty repast he had had the pleasure of eating. They declined, however, to accept any payment, and the Lieutenant went on his way rejoicing.

Shortly after, General Grant himself arrived, and being also in need of food, applied at the farm-house. To his astonishment he was refused, and upon asking why, was told, to his utter amazement, that his betters, namely, General Grant, had but a short time before eaten everything there was with the exception of one solitary pie.

"Humph!" said the General, and, after a moment's thought, "Well, I'll buy that pie, and here is the money for it. Will you kindly keep it for me, and I will send for it later."

Grant then rode on, and when he and his soldiers went into camp for the night he had caught up with the Lieutenant and his advance-guard. Soon the unusual call for full parade sounded through the camp. The parade formed, and after the regular ceremonies the following order was read by one of the officers:

Headquarters Army in the Field.
Special Order.

Lieutenant Wickfield, of the —th Indiana Cavalry, having on this day eaten everything at the farm-house near the crossing of the Ironton and Pocahontas and Black River and Cape Girardeau roads, except one pie, he is hereby ordered to return with an escort of one hundred cavalry and eat that pie also.

U. S. Grant,
Brigadier-General Commanding.

A broad smile spread over the faces of the soldiers, and rank after rank suppressed a giggle. The Lieutenant blushed, but proceeded to obey the order, and left the camp amidst loud laughter and cheers. The report was that he ate the entire pie, and appeared to enjoy it.

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LI HUNG-CHANG.

Li Hung-Chang, the most famous Chinese statesman and soldier of this century, accompanied by forty secretaries, aides, interpreters, and servants, arrived in New York last week. Li comes from England, where he was received by Queen Victoria, and lionized by the British nation. He came to England from Russia, in which latter country, as representative of the Chinese Emperor, he attended the recent coronation of the Czar.

Li was entertained here for a period of about ten days, after which he sailed from Vancouver for China. General Ruger, representing this government, engaged the state suite of some sixty rooms at the Waldorf Hotel, which Li occupied. Our largest battle-ships formed in array, flew the Chinese dragon at the fore, manned their yards, and fired salutes as he came up the bay. President Cleveland came on from Washington to officially receive him at the Fifth Avenue home of ex-Secretary of the Navy Whitney. Then followed private entertainments galore, a visit to the military academy at West Point, and the placing of a wreath upon the tomb of General Grant at Riverside Drive and 123d Street, New York, in commemoration of the affectionate friendship which originated between General Grant and Li on the occasion of the former's trip around the world.

LI HUNG-CHANG.

Li is seventy-four, of pure Chinese blood, vigorous, of fine physique, full six feet high, of magnetic presence, with piercing eye, and a face indicative of mental strength and character. He speaks no language other than his own, dresses always in characteristic Chinese fashion in parti-colored silken robes, head shaved, and hair plaited in a cue, and he travels with his cooks and menial servants, preserving while on his journey, so far as possible, a Chinese dietary according to the customs of his country. This is the first occasion on which he has left Asia.

Our visitor's titles bespeak his eminence in his own country. First, he is Viceroy of the province of Chih-li, which includes Peking, the capital, and the whole of northern China. Next, he is the Senior Guardian of the Heir Apparent to the Chinese Throne, a title explaining itself. Lastly, the syllables "Hung-Chang" which are pronounced as part of his name, signify "Grand Secretary"—so that his name, translated into English, would be "Grand Secretary Li." His Three-eyed Peacock Feathers, Yellow Jacket, Third Degree, White Button, Black Feather, and other ornaments, which Europeans have been in the habit of ridiculing, each represents a decoration, or honor conferred for some act of brilliant generalship or successful diplomatic negotiation.

Li's career is strikingly interesting to young people. Not of distinguished parents, he first leaps into prominence by carrying off honors at an examination where there are twenty thousand competitors. The subjects are not, as with us, mathematics, geography, arts, and sciences, but the teachings of Confucius, theory of government, and Chinese poetry and history. Passing this examination promotes Li into official circles, and he becomes a compiler in the imperial printing-office. But the T'ai-p'ing rebellion breaks out, and the student is soon called upon to become a soldier. He raises a regiment of home militia, and enters upon the field of war. In less than five years he achieves honor and distinction, and then imperial Generalissimo Tseng Kwo-Fan appoints him on his staff.

Then Li is for the first time brought into closer relations with the Europeans. Shanghai, a port thrown open to European trade, is threatened by Chinese rebels. A number of wealthy merchants interested there subscribe for a foreign contingent to protect the city. Two Americans, Ward and Burgevine, and afterwards the English General Gordon, commonly known as Chinese Gordon, commanded this force. Li Hung-Chang acted conjointly with them, and the rebels were routed. Li promised Gordon that the lives of the rebel chiefs should be spared. As soon, however, as those unfortunates were turned over into Li's custody, they were promptly beheaded. For this, Gordon is said never to have forgiven Li.

Li is admired by western nations because he is the first influential Chinaman who has advocated the introduction of European civilization and reforms into the Chinese Empire. Since his advent to power, missionaries of every creed have been tolerated in every part of China, and, so far as possible, protected in their avocations. The number of seaports at which foreigners are permitted to trade has been increased. Some telegraph lines have been constructed, and even a short railway line is now in operation near Tien-tsin. The Chinese army has been properly drilled and equipped with modern rifles, accoutrements, artillery, and ammunition, their navy rehabilitated with modern battle-ships and gun-boats, their seaports protected by fortifications.

In China the displeasure of the Emperor is visited upon statesmen by depriving them of their titles and decorations. This misfortune has several times befallen Li. No later than last year, after the defeat of the Chinese in their war with the Japanese, this happened. His successful peace negotiations with Japan, however, during which he nearly lost his life at the hands of a Japanese fanatic assassin, brought about his restoration to royal favor, which he deserved.

Devotion to his parents and love of country are strong traits in Li's character. Some years ago he resigned office to attend the bedside of his dying mother. His every word and act are indicative of the latter trait.

Li's present journey is looked upon as an important step towards the throwing open of China to European progress, arts, trade, and civilization.

Early in the sixties a party of young men were hunting near Yellowstone Park. They had a number of guides with them, and one was a character. He was full of witty remarks, and amused the company generally. One day they were out shooting, and had not proceeded very far from the camp when they started a flock of birds. The shot-guns came into active play, and accidentally one of the party received a load of small shot in the back of his neck. As it had spread considerably, the injury was of but a slight nature. The "character," as they had nicknamed their witty guide, seeing the blood, cried out,

"Run, man! run for all you're worth to the camp yonder, for if ye drop we'll have that much less to carry ye."

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.

The London Philatelic Society has definitely fixed upon the rooms of the Water-Color Society in Piccadilly, London, in which to hold the great exhibition of postage-stamps next year. There are three very large connected rooms, lighted from above. It is expected that stamps valued at nearly $2,000,000 will be on exhibition.

During July and August stamp-collecting is abandoned in favor of out-of-door sports; but the indications of a revived interest are already to be noted. A new fad has developed during the summer—the collection of badges and buttons with portraits and mottoes. One large collector in New York has a very interesting series of badges, portraits, etc., used for election purposes, running back over eighty years.

G. R. Moffitt.—Your copy of the 1 fl. Hungary is simply one that has been poorly printed.

E. H. Traphagen.—In the case of stamps still in use, always buy unused if offered at the same price as used. In the case of the Columbian stamps, the reason used stamps are still as high as unused is that the bulk of the cost is for the $1, $2, $3, $4, and $5 stamps. If you put them on a package or on a bundle of letters the chance is that they will be damaged, and hence worth much less than if in good condition. This risk must be paid for. Confederate bills are worth 2c. or 3c. apiece.

A. Oakley.—The 24c. U.S. 1872 is worth $5 unused, $2 used. The 1861 1c. is worth 5c. unused, 1c. used.

Tom W. B. Welch, Millburn, N. J.; H. G. Hall, Ridley Park, Pa.; W. A. Macon, Ridley Park, Pa., wish to exchange stamps.

A. Saxe.—There are two types of the French stamps 1876 issue. If you have very sharp eyes you will see the name of the engraver, J. A. SAGE, INV., immediately under the word REPUBLIQUE. In Type I. the letter N of INV. will be found directly under the letter B of Republique. In Type II. the same N is under the U of Republique. INV. is the abbreviation of the Latin word meaning to design.

G. Klinteich.—The New South Wales stamps issued in 1849 are usually called "Sydney Views," from the fact that the stamps bear a view of a city on the seashore, with a ship in the offing, and several figures in the foreground. There are about 50 varieties in the 1d., 120 varieties in the 2d., 25 varieties in the 3d., as each stamp was separately engraved, and some plates retouched or re-engraved. They are worth from $8 to $25 each used, and from $50 to $100 each unused. If you have any of your grandfather's letters from Sydney in 1850 they should bear these stamps.

Fig. 1.

Fig. 2.

J. Abeler.—Your drawing is very good, but I cannot make out the date. I am inclined to think that your stamps are the 1 sh. black of the 1870 issue (Fig. 1), and the 1 sh. black of the 1872 issue (Fig. 2). The first, on the letter, is worth $15, the second, if on the letter, about $2, provided the stamps are in fairly good condition. All Afghanistan stamps were cancelled by tearing or gouging a piece out of the stamp. The centre ornament in these stamps represents a tiger's head.

J. A.—If you have a strip of four 5c. Express U.S. Revenue stamps unsevered it is worth about $2. Single stamps showing two sides unperforated are not worth any more than those perforated all around. Too many such stamps are in the market which are simply "fakes"—that is, they are made from ordinary perforated stamps.

S. L. Coe.—Your Prussian gold coin is worth its weight in gold. It is not scarce.

C. Williston.—A complete set of Columbian stamps from 1c. to $5 can be bought for $25 either unused or used.

Philatus.

Ivory Soap

Those who think that imported soaps must be the finest, do not know that the materials for Ivory Soap are the best to be found anywhere. The vegetable oil of which Ivory Soap is made, is imported, almost in ship loads, from the other side of the world.

The Procter & Gamble Co., Cin'ti.

ALL AMATEUR PHOTOGRAPHERS—YOUNG AND OLD

ARE INVITED TO ENTER THE

PRIZE PHOTOGRAPH COMPETITION

$25 IN PRIZES. OPEN TO DEC. 10th.

NO RESTRICTIONS as to the number of photographs from any competitor; nor as to assistance from others; nor as to ages of competitors. Photographs may be of any size, from 3x4 to 10x12. Size will not be considered by the Judging Committee.

The Prize-Winning Photographs will become the property of the publishers; all others which the publishers may desire to retain will be purchased.

Every photograph must be original; that is, the copying of other photographs, paintings, or pictures is not permissible. Every photograph should indicate action; that is, the children or animals should be apparently doing something—playing a game, making something, etc. Some interesting phase of child or animal life or action should be the central point of interest. A photograph that is merely a portrait or landscape will not be considered.

Address all communications and inquiries,

Prize Photograph Competition,

ALPHA PUBLISHING COMPANY, 212 Boylston Street, BOSTON.

Publishers of Babyland and Little Men and Women.

JOSEPH GILLOTT'S

STEEL PENS

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

And other styles to suit all hands.

THE MOST PERFECT OF PENS.

EARN A TRICYCLE.

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W. G. BAKER,

Springfield, Mass.

THOMPSON'S EYE WATER

POPULAR BOOKS

By HOWARD PYLE

THE WONDER CLOCK. Large 8vo, Cloth, $3.00.

PEPPER AND SALT. 4to, Cloth, $2.00.

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UNWISELY SELFISH.

"That worm is mine, I tell you."
"Nonsense. I got here first. If you want a worm, get one on your own hook."

A BOY'S REASON.

"Tom, which will you have for your birthday, a bicycle or a watch?"

"Bicycle," said Tom. "The wheels are bigger."

NOT A PLEASANT FEELING.

"How did you feel, Harry, when you were lost?"

"Like being a whole game of hide-and-go-seek. I couldn't seem to find myself at all, either, so it wasn't much fun."

A TALENTED TUTOR.

"Well, Tommie, I hear you had a tutor with you on the farm."

"Yes."

"Did he teach you anything?"

"Yes. He taught me a little matthewmatics, and how to milk a cow."

THE COLLEGE BOY MAKES A JOKE.

"Guess we gotter stand up, Maria," said Uncle Si, as they stepped aboard the lake steamer, and found all the chairs taken. "There don't seem to be no cheers fer us to set in."

At this a fresh young college boy got up and proposed to his comrades that they give "Three cheers for Uncle Si."

THE UNPLEASANT PART OF IT.

"Well, Johnnie," said the visitor, "I suppose you'll begin going to school again very soon."

"Yes."

"Do you like going to school?"

"Yes; it's staying there after I get there that I don't like."

The Colonel had for a servant a darky that at times was inclined to grow lazy. For a long while the Colonel had noted this, and had scolded and threatened, but all to no purpose. One day there was a party of gentlemen dining with him, and among them a military man. The Colonel had entertained the company with anecdotes, and finally came around to the subject of his lazy servant.

"I can fix that fellow," said the military man. "Just send for him, Colonel, and I'll give him an order, and we'll see if he will obey it quickly or not."

The Colonel sent for his servant. As he entered the room the military man assumed a most severe mien, and gave him an order to go fix his horse's bridle, which needed looking after, "And be sure you do it right and quickly"; and he significantly drew his sword and laid it on the table near his plate, at the same time looking hard at the servant. In a short while the man returned and brought with him a pitchfork, which he gravely laid on the table alongside the sword, saying,

"Ise fixed de bridle, General."

"What on earth did you bring this pitchfork here for, eh?" exclaimed the military man.

"Why, sah, Ise thought that wid so big er knife like your sword the best thing to use wid it would be de pitchfork."

A bright little chap in the White Mountains wrote to his papa in the city the other day the following letter:

"Dear Papa,—I can't write to you 'cause I got nothing to say, and I send this 'cause I can't say it.

"With love, Bob,

"Please send some candies."

A POUTER.

"I say there, young fellows, you'd better look out;
That pigeon, I notice, is in a great pout!"