Produced by Annie R. McGuire

[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]

Copyright, 1896, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.

PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, APRIL 21, 1896. FIVE CENTS A COPY.

VOL. XVII.--NO. 860. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.

THE BATTLE OF BRICK CHURCH.

BY L. A. TEREBEL.

What the Lincoln Cadets called their "armory" was a large low hall in
the basement of the Brick Church. Here they drilled three times a week
during the winter and spring; and here they kept their brightly polished
guns in racks ranged along the wall; and here their drums and bugles
were stacked in a pyramid in one corner; and old Tom, the janitor, was
their "armorer." On the walls, in polished oak frames, hung photographs
of groups of officers that had commanded the cadets in years past, and
one picture of the entire battalion of sixty boys drawn up in parade
formation in the park; and over the door, in a gold frame, was a fine
steel engraving of Abraham Lincoln that had been presented to the corps
by Mr. Dunworthy, the president of the Board of Trustees of the Brick
Church, and the chief patron of the cadets. Opposite the door, at the
other end of the room, was a closet with glass doors, in which the
battalion's colors and the stars and stripes and the markers' flags were
kept securely locked at all times when not in use.

The first sergeants had not yet called upon their men to fall in, and
the cadets were standing about the hall in groups, pulling on their
white gloves and arranging their belts, for they intended to make a
brave show that night because Mr. Dunworthy was coming in later to
review the battalion. It was early, however, and Mr. Dunworthy need not
be expected until after the meeting of the Trustees, which was being
held in the vestry-room upstairs.

"Perhaps he won't come, anyway," said Captain Tom Taylor, who commanded
Company A.

"Why not?" asked Adjutant Dale, as he struggled with his gold aigulets.

"His men have been on strike for pretty near a week now, and Mr.
Dunworthy has been obliged to stay at the mills until all hours,"
continued Taylor.

"And I saw in the papers to-day the men were beginning to get ugly," put
in a diminutive Lieutenant in short trousers. "The police had to be
called to clear the yard in front of the mills."

"I wish those Poles would stay in Poland," remarked the Adjutant; but
just then there was a blast from the bugle, and a great stamping of feet
and scattering of groups put an end to further discussion of the strike
at Roland and Dunworthy's mills.

For those who are not so well informed as the cadets, however, it may be
well to state that the trouble at the iron-mills was wholly restricted
to the Polish element among the workmen. Most of these fellows were hard
characters, employed at the furnaces and in the puddling shops. In all,
they numbered about one hundred and fifty. Few of them could speak
English, all were ignorant, and a majority had seen the inside of the
town jail. But as they were the only class of men that the mill-owners
could obtain to do that class of work, they had to be employed. The
difficulty which had resulted in the present strike was of long
standing. The men had made certain demands, and these demands, after a
brief delay, had been granted. And the Poles, thinking then that any
request of theirs should be acceded to, immediately asked for further
benefits, and when these were refused they left their work. Some of the
worst threw stones, and one of the stones hit the superintendent. Three
men were arrested and locked up in the jail. This seemed to make the
Poles very angry, and they became so demonstrative that, as the
Lieutenant had said, the police had to be called in to drive them out of
the yard in front of Mr. Dunworthy's office.

All these occurrences made it necessary for Mr. Dunworthy to remain late
at the mills, and consequently he was forced to send a note to the
church saying that he would be unable to be present at the trustees'
meeting that evening. Old Tom, the janitor, was sent down stairs to
inform the cadets. Old Tom had served in the cavalry during the war, and
he wore a decoration on his breast for gallantry at Vicksburg. So when
he entered the drill-room he stood very erect, and marched up to Major
Jack Downing, a tall, good-looking young man, and saluted in proper
military style, then waited for permission to speak. When he announced
that Mr. Dunworthy was not coming, there was an audible hum of
disappointment in the ranks.

"Never mind," said Major Downing, quickly; "we will go on with the
parade just as if he were here."

Old Tom saluted and withdrew. He went up stairs and stood on the front
steps of the church, looking up at the clear starlit April sky.
Presently, however, his reveries were interrupted by the sound of many
feet and a sort of distant humming noise, and looking down the avenue,
he saw a crowd of men approaching. He thought at first it was a body of
street-cleaners or some other gang of night-workmen; but as they came
nearer he recognized them as Poles, iron-workers from the mills. There
must have been a hundred or more, and half of them carried bludgeons.
They did not pass by the church, as old Tom had thought they would, but,
seeing him standing there, they paused, and one bearded fellow, who
spoke English fairly well, asked, "Is this the Brick Church?"

"Yes," answered the janitor, curtly.

"Is Dunworthy inside?"

"Mr. Dunworthy is not here to-night," continued old Tom.

The crowd grumbled.

"Come off!" shouted another. "We know he's here; he's at a meeting.

"He is not," replied the janitor: and seeing that the men were gradually
crowding in from the sidewalk through the iron gates, old Tom went down
to them, and said:

"See here, you fellows, I tell you Mr. Dunworthy is not here, and you
have got to get out. You are disturbing the meeting."

"Ah-h-h-h!" shouted the crowd, like an angry sea; and a piece of sod,
torn up from the grass-plot in front of the church, knocked off the
janitor's hat. This angered the old cavalryman, and he gave the men
nearest to him a vigorous shove, and tried to close the gates. He was
unwise in this, for the Poles seized him, and soon there was a general
fight, in which old Tom was the target for every Polander's fist and
foot.

Of course it is not to be expected that all this could have happened
without attracting the attention of the gentlemen in the vestry room and
of the boys in the armory. Several of the officers had run to the top of
the stairs as soon as they heard the approach of the Poles, and when
they reported to the Major, the latter at once ordered "Fix bayonets!"
and drew his men up in column of twos facing the staircase. He had
barely completed this formation, during which two of the trustees had
urged the boys not to show themselves upstairs, when the Adjutant
shouted from the doorway,

"Come on, fellows; they're killing old Tom!"

There was a swaying in the ranks, as if the impulse of all had been to
rush; but Jack Downing shouted:

"Steady! Company A, forward, double time, march!"

Captain Taylor repeated the order sharply, and leaped in the van of his
men, reaching the top of the staircase just in time to see half a dozen
stones and bricks fly through the church doors.

He could hear Jack Downing below shouting orders to the other two
companies. Taylor called to his men to form fours, and marched them
straight down the steps toward the gateway. The other cadets followed
close behind up the narrow staircase, and the Major sent one company to
the left of Taylor's rear, and one to the right, so as to attack the
strikers in three parallel columns.

The appearance of uniforms and bayonets from the church was a big
surprise to the Polanders. They were so startled that they fell back to
the middle of the street, leaving poor old Tom almost senseless on the
sidewalk. Two non-commissioned officers of C Company helped him to his
feet, and led him back into the vestry-room, where a corpulent old
gentleman was telephoning madly for the police.

But in the mean time there were lively times in the street. The Poles,
partly recovered from their surprise, snarled like animals, and spoke
hard words in their own hard language, and many of them threw sticks and
stones at the cadets. Jack Downing got his forces out into the street,
where there was room to manoeuvre, and formed a sort of wedge of
bayonets with which he charged straight into the centre of the crowd.
The iron-workers fell back like sheep, and as soon as he had the mob
divided the young strategist wheeled one company against one section,
and another company against the other section, and kept Company A in
front of the church as a sort of reserve.

The Poles only threw two volleys of stones, and were then apparently so
surprised at the advance of the cadets that they did not notice these
were merely boys and only half their number. But they did notice that
their opponents were disciplined, and that they carried shining bayonets
pointing straight out in front of them; and when they saw a phalanx of
these coming down the street they turned about and ran.

The Lincoln Cadets did not pursue. They halted on the street corners and
formed skirmish-lines. But even this was unnecessary, for as they did so
they heard the gongs of the patrol wagons, and soon a score of policemen
were in the neighborhood of the church--and not a Pole in sight!

The young Major drew his three companies up into battalion formation on
the sidewalk then, and one of the trustees stood on the steps of the
church and made what the Adjutant afterward characterized as a "regular
spread-eagle, star-spangled-banner, Fourth-of-July speech." He ended by
inviting the battalion to a near-by restaurant, where he ordered served
for them just exactly the kind of an evening feast they would have
ordered if they had had the doing of it themselves. Old Tom (with a
black eye) sat at the head of the table, and after the cakes and the
ice-cream had been slaughtered even worse than the Poles, he told
stories of his own fighting days, and as he closed he said he had seen
many battles, but none he cared more to remember than the "Battle of
Brick Church."

A PLUCKY YOUNG TENDERFOOT.

BY PAUL HULL.

Harry Brown had the cowboy fever, and this is the way that the disease
originated. During the early spring Harry's uncle had been a guest with
the Brown family for several weeks, during which time the boy had been
regaled with stories of wild Western life and adventure until his dreams
suggested a panorama of prairie-land, cowboys, a whole menagerie of
savage animals, and an endless procession of gayly bedecked and
hideously painted Indians galloping furiously across the plains.

Uncle Joel had taken a great fancy to his sister's child, and having a
boy of his own about the same age, he proposed to the somewhat startled
parents to carry the lad away with him for the summer, and give him an
outing on his ranch, where he would have the companionship of his
sixteen-year-old cousin Frank, whom he had placed at school in Chicago
for the winter, and for whom he intended to call when on his way back to
Wyoming.

After considerable pleading and argument, Harry's mother at length
allowed herself to be almost persuaded that if he went he would not be
converted into a long-haired, swaggering, pistol-shooting citizen, and
that hostile bands of redskins were not in the habit of lying in ambush
around the ranch for the purpose of scalping its inmates several times a
day; so at last she hesitatingly added her consent to that of her
husband's.

During the remaining week of Uncle Joel's stay in New York the poor man
was subjected by the anxious mother to such a running fire of
cross-questioning, and so made to feel the awful responsibility that he
was incurring by taking Harry away from his comfortable home, where he
was tenderly cared for, to place him among strangers and savage beasts
and wild and uncouth cowboys, as well as blood-thirsty Indians, that he
would have gladly gone back on his contract, even if it was calculated
to cost him a dozen of his best steers.

The time set for the departure arrived, and, being a Saturday, Harry was
escorted to the depot by a large delegation of his school-mates, who
gazed enviously at their companion striding along at the side of his
rich cowboy uncle, who had been elevated into a hero in their minds by
reason of the startling tales of Indian adventure in which, according to
his nephew's account, he had been a most prominent actor. It is safe to
say that Harry's imagination was responsible for the gaudy coloring of
some of the stories, and that the rate at which his uncle was reputed to
have cleaned out the red men whenever an uprising took place proved
conclusively that the savages were either so thick in Wyoming that they
interfered with one another's walking, or that they were wise enough not
to go upon the warpath very often--otherwise that territory would have
been depopulated of its natives long before.

After two days of anticipation, Harry stepped off the train at Chicago
to greet a lad whom he had seen on the platform from the car window, and
whose resemblance to Uncle Joel permitted no doubt as to his
relationship. Frank had been written to some days previous concerning
the companion that had been selected for him for the summer, and had
been anxious to meet his cousin, so, as he expressed himself to a
school-mate, "to size him up and see what stuff he was made out of."

For a moment after Uncle Joel had introduced them, in his bluff but
kindly way, the boys held back just a trifle, as though measuring one
another according to individual standards; then a mutual smile of
pleasure and satisfaction lit up their faces, and they shook hands
heartily and walked off arm in arm, to the gratification of Mr.
Williams, who heard them exchanging confidences and speculating over the
coming vacation.

The ride from the foot of Lake Michigan to the city of Cheyenne was full
of novelty and excitement for the Eastern boy, whose previous travelling
had never carried him beyond the limits of the Empire State.

On the morning of the day that the train rolled into the capital city of
Wyoming, Mr. Williams pointed to a natural and lofty pyramid of rocks
situated a few hundred feet away from the track, telling them to take in
the situation quickly, as the train would shortly round a curve and hide
it from view.

Harry asked his uncle if there was a history connected with the scene,
and learning that his suspicious were well founded, begged for the
story. Mr. Williams began in the orthodox fashion:

"A long time ago, when I was a young fellow about twenty-three years of
ago, I first came out to this part of the country as a member of a
railroad surveying party. One awfully hot August afternoon we had worked
our stakes along until we reached the big mass of rock that I pointed
out to you a few minutes ago. As there was a promise of a thunder
shower, according to the big black clouds soaring up out of the
northwest, and as we were all knocked up with the heat, our chief gave
orders to unhitch the cattle and to camp under the shade of the rocks.

"We had two good guides and Indian-fighters in our outfit, and being in
a hostile country, of course they were always on the alert for Indian
signs and ambushes. Although we had had several attacks from the
hair-lifting individuals, the same had always been made when we were
prepared for them, owing to the warning given by our guides. Well, why
it was that they were so careless on that day I speak of I cannot say,
unless the burning heat of the forenoon had taken away their shrewdness
and caution.

"As far as the eye could reach in every direction there was nothing but
rolling prairie, except right against our backs, where the bare and
ragged rocks went up almost straight into the misty, heat-charged
atmosphere. As we intended to remain in camp for the remainder of the
day and coming night, sentinels were stationed on the four sides of the
rock, and the mules and horses were allowed to crop the parched grass in
the vicinity as far as their picket-ropes would allow them to wander, it
being intended to drive them within the square of wagons before dark, so
as to make them secure against a stampede.

"About four o'clock the storm came sweeping across the prairie, and for
about an hour the thunder rolled and cracked and the lightning flashed
as it knows how to do in Wyoming; then when it seemed to be dying away,
there came a blinding flash of fire in our faces and the most awful
crash I ever heard. It stunned us all for a moment, so that when
something came pitching down from the rocks just over our heads and fell
with a thud on the sodden grass a few feet away, we imagined it to be a
piece of the cliff detached by the last concussion. After that the rain
ceased and the sun shone out. Then it was that we discovered the thing
in front of us to be a Cheyenne warrior. After the first look there was
no use in seeking for signs of life in him, for his face was as black as
that of a negro's, and one side of him was horribly burned. It didn't
take us long to reason that he had been hidden away among the rocks,
spying on us, and that the last lightning bolt had been attracted to him
by the steel tomahawk in his belt. Well, after that we pulled out on the
open prairie and kept a close watch on that pile of rock for the
remainder of the afternoon and night, for we didn't know how many more
of the heathen there might be in hiding up there; but nothing further
happened, and in the morning we said good-by to it with a big feeling of
relief."

At Cheyenne, Mr. Williams's foreman and several ranch hands were in
waiting with saddle horses for the party. During the two days that the
party remained in the city Frank gave Harry some valuable lessons in
horsemanship, and after about a week's experience, in which time he
became hardened to the saddle, Harry found no greater enjoyment than in
galloping about the range on the back of a fiery young horse that his
cousin had raised, and which he presented to him "for keeps," as he
expressed it.

Now Frank Williams was a kind-hearted young fellow, and during the
fortnight that he and Harry had been thrown together a mutual affection
had grown between them; but Frank was brimming over with mischief, and
he conceived a plan for having a laugh at his "tenderfoot relation," as
Harry was called by the cowboys.

The few Indians who appeared in the vicinity of the ranch belonged to a
peaceable tribe of Cheyennes, but when the opportunity came Frank
intended for the time being to mentally transform these demoralized and
decidedly lazy individuals into the most frenzied and blood-thirsty
creatures that his imagination was equal to. The cowboys were taken into
the secret, and a mysterious visit was made by one of them to the Indian
camp, where the chief, who delighted in the high-sounding title of
"Dog-with-two-tails," was pleased to dispose of several feathered
head-dresses and a quantity of colored pigments for a suspicious-looking
black bottle, which the noble savage patted affectionately and stowed
away inside his dirty shirt.

Several days after this Frank asked his cousin to take a canter with him
to a somewhat remote point of the range where the men were branding the
young cattle. As they rode across the undulating prairie, sweet and
fresh in the early summer sunshine, Frank explained to his cousin that
the Indian outbreaks were always timed to take place when the winter was
over. Then he went on to state, with a shade of worry on his face, that
although there had been no trouble for some time, it was well to be on
guard constantly, for the uprisings generally took place when they were
least expected. He kept on in this strain until the branding-place was
reached; then Harry became so interested in the round up and sorting of
the cattle that he failed to notice several of the cowboys disappearing
into the small woods close at hand.

After a time the boys started on their ten-mile ride for home, allowing
their horses to jog along easily, while Frank profited by the occasion
to further dilate concerning the uncertainty of their savage neighbors,
and the recklessness of even riding over the range unless prepared for
emergencies.

They had ridden about two miles, when their ears were suddenly saluted
with the most infernal series of yells that ever disgraced the human
throat. Looking back in the direction of the sound, the boys saw, not
more than a quarter of a mile away, coming down on them at top speed,
five savages in full war paint and feathers, brandishing their rifles,
while they continued to utter such unearthly screams and howls that
Harry afterward admitted that his hair developed a tendency to lift his
cap clear of his head.

"They've broken out!" yelled Frank. "Spur for home or they'll have our
scalps!"

The next instant the two boys were frantically driving their heels into
the sides of the speeding horses, while behind them the Indians
redoubled their yells and swept furiously along in pursuit.

All of a sudden Harry saw Frank's horse, which was a little in advance,
step in a hole, pitch on his knees, and send its rider flying out of the
saddle. Harry reined up by the side of his cousin, but Frank never moved
or responded to the excited appeal for him to jump up and get on behind.

What was to be done? Back there, only an eighth of a mile away, the
redskins were tearing along on their trail, and here, helpless and
unconscious, lay his companion.

"I'll never leave him for those fiends to butcher," muttered Harry, pale
with fear, but with his teeth set hard and a look of determination on
his youthful face. Then he unslung his gun, dismounted from his horse,
brought the piece to his shoulder, ran his eye along the barrel until
the head of one of the Indians was in line, and pulled the trigger.

[Illustration: THE REPULSE OF THE PRACTICAL JOKERS.]

With the report the savages turned their horses and took the back trail,
and were soon out of sight.

"The miserable cowards," thought Harry, "to run away from a boy!"

"Harry," said a very shamefaced lad sitting on the ground a few feet
away, and rubbing a big lump on the back of his head, "you can put up
your gun; there's no danger. I tried to play a joke on you, and the joke
came on me. I'm glad that you only had bird-shot in that gun of yours,
because you might have killed one of father's cowboys. But I say, Harry,
dear old fellow, it was awfully brave of you to stand by me when I was
knocked silly by that tumble, and I appreciate it just as much as though
it was all real work instead of a joke; and--and--oh! I say Harry, old
fellow, don't say anything about it, and if any one ever dares to call
you a tenderfoot again when I'm around, why, I'll brand him with the
jolliest, biggest iron that we've got on the ranch!"

DRILLING A GREAT ARMY IN WINTER.

The effectiveness of any of the great European standing armies depends,
above all things, upon their being able and ready to take the field at a
moment's notice. This theory is taught in most of the military schools
abroad, and it is an excellent one; but there are many and almost
insurmountable difficulties to overcome in putting it into practice.
Still, in order to reach the highest efficiency, troops are trained to
manoeuvre in all weather and at all seasons, especially in France and
Germany and Russia. The Russians, having more winter weather, perhaps,
than the other nations of Europe, were the first to recognize the value
and importance of drills on snow and ice, and have trained their armies
to take the field in the depth of winter.

Germany has followed this example, and during the winter months the
various corps of her vast army carried on mock warfare in various parts
of the empire. Extreme cold is, of course, a great obstacle to the
mobilization of troops. It is not always possible to secure lodgings for
soldiers in towns and villages, especially in times of peace, when the
necessity is not absolute; and the alternative of sleeping in tents,
with the snow lying deep on the ground and the thermometer below zero,
seems at first thought impracticable. And yet it has been shown, by the
recent manoeuvres of the German troops, that with dire precautions men
suffer no ill effects from this exposure. The tents which have been
found to be the most useful are very small, and have proved warmer than
the larger ones. The temperature inside the canvas is generally about
ten degrees higher than outside, to begin with, and rises when occupied
by soldiers. The men are also kept warm by having hot coffee served to
them at intervals of two hours throughout the night. The chief object,
of course, of winter manoeuvres is to accustom soldiers to sleep in
tents during severe weather, and to learn to know the conditions which
winter campaigning imposes.

[Illustration: A MOCK ASSAULT ON A FORT IN WINTER.]

A detachment made up of several battalions of Pioneers and Grenadier
Guards was sent across country on a long march during one of these
manoeuvres, in an attempt to surprise and capture a fortress. The
attack was to be made entirely without the aid and support of artillery.
The troops arrived before the fortress in the evening, and were
immediately ordered to the attack, the plan being to take the place by
assault. The bastions and ramparts, of course, were covered with snow,
and the water in the moat, if there was any, was frozen hard. They
approached as quietly as they could, with the intention of crossing the
moat, but before they could get their scaling-ladders into position the
garrison had been alarmed by the sentries, and immediately opened fire
upon the attacking party. Search-lights were also brought into play to
throw their glare into the moat, where the Grenadiers had gathered in
order to climb the ramparts. But in spite of this the Guards scaled the
inner defences, being protected by the Pioneers, who were drawn up on
the other side of the moat, and kept up such a constant fire on the
garrison that these troops were unable to prevent the approach of the
Grenadiers. As soon as the latter had successfully climbed the ramparts,
they in turn opened a hot fire upon the defenders, while the Pioneers
crossed the moat behind them. And when the whole attacking force had
thus surmounted their greatest obstacle, they made a rush over the inner
defences of the fortress and captured it. This is only one of the many
kinds of winter manoeuvres that the German troops practise. Sometimes
whole army corps are sent to capture a city or to take possession of a
line of railroad; and if the snows are so heavy that these roads are
impassable, the railway corps of the German army can construct a road
made of light steel tracks across country over the ice and the drifts.
In this way they keep up communication with their base of supplies.

ON THE CELLAR-DOOR.

  We fellows held a meeting, and Tommy had the floor;
  Ned Parks was in the chair, sir, on Charley's cellar-door.
  We'd voted for a lot of things and ruled some others in,
  When Tommy's mother sent for him, which made no end of din.

  'Twas in the middle of his speech, but Tommy had to go,
  For if your mother sends for you, you haven't half a show.
  The thing that _we_ complained of was that neither just nor kind
  Is the way a fellow's mother veers, and dares to "change her mind."

  Old Tommy said his mother said that he might spend the day
  A-playing by that cellar-door; then would not let him stay,
  But thought of errands he must run, and broke our meeting square
  In two just at the height of fun, and I tell you 'twasn't fair.

  Grown people have such funny ways. If _we_ should change our mind
  When we had made a promise, why, they wouldn't be so blind,
  They'd call it fibbing, if you please, or something worse than that,
  A small black word of letters three; I've heard them plain and pat.

  But we left our ruined meeting and went to playing ball,
  And kicked it well, with might and main, there by Tom's mother's wall;
  For we couldn't bear to stand around the dreary cellar-door
  When Tommy's mother changed her mind just when he had the floor.

  M. E. S.

AN "OLD-FIELD" SCHOOL-GIRL.[1]

[1] Begun in HARPER'S ROUND TABLE No. 857.

BY MARION HARLAND.

CHAPTER V.

Every hour of that black Monday cast Flea into deeper darkness. Because
she was found wanting in arithmetic she was put, in all her classes,
with girls whose ignorance she despised. For two years she had studied
the same lessons with Bea, and recited them as well. Yet Bea smiled
sweetly down upon her from the head of the "big girls'" bench, and Flea
swelled with angry mortification between Lucy Wilson, who could not read
to herself without whispering the words, and Emma Jones, whose
recitation of, "Vermont is a small _ro_-mantick and pictures-_quee_
State," was one of last session's jokes. At "play-time" Mr. Tayloe went
to Greenfield, less than half a mile distant, for a comfortable
luncheon. As soon as he was out of sight every tongue was loosened. The
boys whooped and raced to and fro; the girls knotted together in groups
under the trees and upon the steps to eat their snacks and discuss the
incidents of the morning.

Flea slipped away unperceived, luncheon-bag in hand, to the welcome
cover of the woods. She thought she was glad that nobody stopped or
stayed her. Really the indifference of her mates to what she had endured
and what she now suffered pierced her with a new sorrow.

"Nobody cares! nobody cares!" she cried aloud, plunging into the forest
until the voices of the shouting boys could not be heard. She was alone
at last. Casting herself down in the friendly shade, she let all the
waves of wounded feeling, the billows of wounded pride, go over her
head.

Up to this morning she had been a happy child, making much of her few
and simple pleasures. She liked everybody she knew in her small world,
and loved nearly everybody. She had never been guilty of a wilful
unkindness; hatred and revenge were unknown passions. The unpleasant
smile that curved the schoolmaster's lips so far upward as partly to
close his eyes would have straightened into a laugh of genuine amusement
had he watched, from behind the tree-boles, the look that settled upon
the face, blotched with weeping when, by-and-by, the girl sat up, her
knees drawn up to her chin, her arms gripping her legs. She had cried
her eyes dry. She believed that she could never cry again--certainly not
in that man's presence. No! not if he were to beat her to death!

"If he ever strikes me I will _kill_ him!" she muttered, her lips
curling back from the locked teeth. "It would be as right as father's
killing that snake. I hope I shall have a chance to pay him back some
day. I am in his power now, but a time may come! A time may come!"

She was genuinely miserable, yet she could not help being melodramatic.
She was still living in her story, but the complexion of the story was
changed. Yesterday she would not have harmed the meanest thing that
lived. This morning to make and to see others happy was the purest joy
she knew. Her heart seemed to this dreadful day to have been a placid
pool, clear because it had never been stirred up from the bottom. This
man--the first creature she had ever hated--had brought to the top such
mire and dirt as she had never dreamed were there.

By-and-by she ate her luncheon. She was only a child, and with childhood
the sharpest edge of the sharpest grief is soon dulled. When her hunger
was somewhat appeased she became critical of the remnants of her
"snack."

"Cold batter-bread!" turning it over with the tips of her fingers. "I
wonder who mother thinks cares for _cold_ batter-bread?"

Batter-bread is a mixture of Indian meal, milk, and eggs beaten light
and baked in a mould. When hot and fresh it is puffy and delicious. In
cooling it becomes heavy and sticky. Flea's misery was settling into
crossness, very much after the fashion of the bread. She took one bite
out of the solid chunk, and tossed the rest as far as she could send it
over the bushes. It was aimed at the creek that flowed a dozen yards
away, but fell short and landed in the sand. Flea could see it lying
there while she crunched a crisp ginger-cake with teeth that snapped
pettishly upon it.

"I'll tell mother not to put cold batter-bread into my snack to-morrow,"
she resolved.

At the thought a home picture arose in her mind. Of her mother, with
tired eyes and wrinkled forehead, the baby tugging at her skirts and
whining to be taken up, while the busy housewife stood at the
dining-room table, cutting ham and buttering bread, and selecting the
nicest ginger-cakes for her daughters' midday meal. She had forgotten
nothing, not even the clean napkin, although Calley was teasing her on
one side and baby on the other, and Dee was asking everybody where he
could have put his slate, and Chaney was waiting, a wooden bread-tray on
her hip, for "Mistis to give out dinner." Flea concluded that she had a
good mother. If she did scold sometimes, she had reason enough for it,
and Flea at least, whatever might be said of the other children, richly
deserved all the fault-finding she got at home. Her mother had said to
herself when she cut and buttered that slice of batter-bread,

"How my hungry little girl will enjoy this at play-time!"

And the ungrateful little wretch had thrown it away.

The Flea Grigsby who ten minutes ago was planning revenge and even
murder got up meekly, crept under the hazel and sweet-gum bushes, picked
up the despised chunk, carried it back to her seat at the foot of a
hickory-tree, and proceeded to eat it. Every mouthful went against
palate and stomach. The butter had soaked into it and left it clammy.
The sand stuck to it, and Flea could not brush it quite clean. The
gritty morsels set her teeth on edge, and reminded her of stories she
had read of penances done for sins committed--hair-cloth shirts, and
peas in one's shoes, and floggings upon the naked shoulders, and all
that. The stories helped her to persevere until the last crumb was
swallowed. The task was further lightened by meditation upon her
mother's many sterling virtues. For instance, how she took especial
pains to give the children who went to school something to eat that was
a little better than the children left at home would have. She said
"studying was hungry work."

In reality Mrs. Grigsby had said, "stedyin' is mighty hongry work." Flea
would not think of that or other peculiarities that had sometimes made
her ashamed of her mother. Her mother was not to blame that her parents
had not sent her to school for as many years as she meant to send her
children.

At this point of her musings something bitter and burning arose in the
girl's softened heart.

"Poor mother!" she muttered. "Wouldn't she be mad if she knew what has
happened to-day? As for father, he'd be ready to mash him like he did
the moccasin."

The rule quoted as "a good law" by Major Duncombe, never to tell tales
out of school, was one of the first lessons learned by every boy and
girl of that school. Traditions of awful floggings administered by
former teachers for violations of the rule were familiar to all. A large
majority of parents were in the league with the schoolmasters in this
matter. Many fathers not only refused to listen to their children's
complaints, but punished them for bringing them. Boys actually carried
for weeks the marks of the whip, and took pains to hide them from their
parents lest they might be obliged to tell how they got them. A
tell-tale was despised everywhere. To tell tales out of school branded
boy or girl as for a disgraceful crime.

If Flea had battles to fight, she must fight them single-handed. The
authority of the Old Field schoolmaster was what she had learned in
Olney's geography to call "absolute despotism."

"He's worse than Turkey and China," she said, drawing the strings of her
"snack-bag" viciously tight. "He's meaner and crueler than a
satrap--or--a _Mameluke_!"

The sound of voices and laughter broke in upon her gloomy reverie.
Peeping between the overhanging boughs she saw what made her crouch
lower in her covert.

The creek was wide, and at this season shallow at this point. When
swollen by winter and spring rains it was so deep and swift that a
bridge had been built over it high above the present level. Coming from
the direction of Greenfield, two women and a man had just reached the
bridge. They were Miss Emily and Miss Eliza Duncombe, and Mr. Tayloe. He
was on his way back to school, and the young ladies had walked part of
the way with him. The party stopped on the bridge and leaned over the
railing.

"If Miss Emily had seen him this morning, she wouldn't let him stand so
close to her," reflected Flea. "She'd sooner push him into the water."

Miss Emily had no present intention of doing anything of the sort. She
seemed upon the best possible terms with her brothers' teacher. He had a
gun upon his shoulder. The woods were full of game, and he might knock
over a bird or "an old hare" in his walks back and forth to the
school-house. In the noon stillness Flea could hear what Miss Emily's
high-pitched voice was saying:

"I tell you I _can_ shoot beautifully. Just let me try."

And in answer to something he said: "I _dare_ you to hit that stump in
the water over yonder. The stump with the _red_ leaves on it."

Mr. Tayloe raised the gun and fired. The leaves flew in every direction,
and the shot pattered in the water.

Miss Emily clapped her hands and screamed with delight; there was a
confused chatter for a moment, all three talking together, while Mr.
Tayloe reloaded the gun and handed it to the young lady.

[Illustration: WITH A CRY SHE COULD NOT QUITE STIFLE, SHE RUSHED AWAY
INTO THE WOODS.]

"She ain't aiming it right," thought Flea, regretfully, as Miss Emily
raised the short fowling-piece awkwardly but boldly to her shoulder, and
laid her cheek down upon the stock. There was a report, and a rain of
bird-shot fell, not in the water this time, but upon the clump of bushy
shrubs in which Flea was hiding, and she felt a sharp cut across her
cheek. With a cry she could not quite stifle she rushed away into the
woods, too much frightened to do anything but fly from the chance of a
second shot.

She did not hear the shout of laughter from the bridge.

"You peppered a pig that time, Miss Emily," said the teacher to the
unskilful sportswoman. "You did not come within fifty feet of the stump.
It's lucky the pig was so far off. I heard him squeal as he scampered
into the woods. So you did hit something after all. That's a good one!"

He went off into another fit of laughter.

The blood was oozing from the cut when Flea stopped running, and she put
up her hand to feel how much she was hurt. It was a mere scratch, for
the shot was light and almost spent by the time it reached her. Her
fright over, her spirits arose with a bound. A happy thought had entered
her ever-active brain.

Major Duncombe had no patience with carelessness in the use of firearms.
She had seen him angry but once in her life, and that was when one of
his boys pointed an empty gun at his brother. The father had laid his
riding-whip smartly about the boy's shoulders, and forbidden him to
touch a gun again for a month.

"I would cowhide any man who aimed even a broomstick at me," he said.
"'Gun' and 'fun' should never go together except in a rhyme."

Miss Emily would be scolded by her father and made fun of by everybody
else, and feel dreadfully besides if anybody ever found out what she had
done. Flea would lock up the secret in the recesses of her own heart, as
any other heroine would, for the sake of the beloved object. She hoped
the scratch would leave a scar--just a tiny thread of a scar--that would
not disfigure her, and would always be a token of how much she loved her
dear, dear _Miss_ Emily.

"It would be a badge of merit--an honorable scar!" she said, aloud. "I
am glad, _glad_ it happened!"

A quarter-mile from the school-house, the hill on which it stood fell
away abruptly in a bank out of which a clear little spring ran through a
pipe into a trough below. There Flea paused to wash her face and hands,
and to rinse the handkerchief she had used to stanch the blood. She even
took pains to make herself look more tidy than usual, wetting her
"Shetland-pony" forelock, and combing it back with the round comb which
she wore for the first time that day. Then she smoothed her apron, and
swinging her luncheon-bag around and around as she went, she tripped
blithely up the slope into the clearing that made the play-ground. At
the same instant the figure of the teacher came into view from the
opposite quarter, and there was a rush and a scuffle among boys and
girls to get into the school-room before he arrived.

Thus it happened that nobody noticed the raw scratch crossing Flea's
left cheek, about an inch below the eye, until the dictionary class was
called up to recite. Much attention was paid in the Old Field school to
spelling and definition, the text-book being Walker's Dictionary. Two
columns of words and definitions under the head of A were assigned to
the class of five girls and six boys, who had been busy studying the
lesson ever since the beginning of the afternoon session. For no reason
except that it pleased him to put down in every way the girl to whom he
had taken a dislike, Mr. Tayloe placed Flea Grigsby at the foot of the
row ranged in front of his chair. The scholars stood while reciting,
their hands close to their sides, their chins level, and shoulders back.
When a word was misspelled, or a wrong definition given, it was passed
down the line until somebody supplied the proper spelling and meaning,
and went above those who had failed.

Flea mounted steadily and rapidly in this exercise, spelling being one
of her strong points. She was the fourth from the head of the class when
the word "adolescence" was given out. The first one who tried it put in
two d's, the second left out the first c, the third spelled the word
right, but had forgotten the meaning. Flea instinctively cast her eyes
down, and tried with all her generous might not to look elated as the
trial in which she knew she would succeed drew nearer and nearer.

"Felicia Grigsby!" said the teacher.

"Ado--"

"Instead of staring that ink-spot out of countenance, suppose you have
the politeness to look at me when I speak to you." He broke off to stare
at her. "What have you been doing to your face?"

Flea put her hand up to her wounded check, and felt that it was wet.
The water had checked the bleeding for a while, but now specks of blood,
like tiny beads, were starting out along the line of the cut. Her blush
at the discovery looked to the master like the confusion of guilt.

"Can't you speak?" he said, roughly. "You are usually over-ready with
your tongue. With whom have you been fighting, _now_?"

A titter from the school behind her made Flea color yet more deeply.

"With nobody," she answered, in a low tone. "My face got scratched in
the woods."

"Got scratched? That does pretty well for the crack scholar of the
county, who is going to make us all proud of her some day. Why don't you
say what scratched you?"

Flea was mute; not with alarm, although she would not have been
surprised had he hurled the dictionary at her head. She had seen that
done to a girl by a former teacher. The book had knocked the girl down.
In falling she had cut her head against the corner of a bench, and lain
quite still for a minute before she could get up. Flea recollected it
all in a flash, yet without being afraid. Her eyes, fixed upon the
teacher, were bright, her lips were compressed. No torture should force
from her what might grieve and annoy Miss Emily. Stories from _Fox's
Book of Martyrs_ and _Tales of the Covenanters_, and a Sunday-school
book, _The Lives of the Saints_, which she read last summer, thronged
her mind. It was grand to be a heroine to save one she loved. It was
sublime to be a martyr. Who was it who had written of somebody who
"played the man in the fire"?

Mr. Tayloe's eyes faded almost white, the glow of metal seven times
heated, that gave him an ominous look. The scholars ceased tittering and
held their breaths. He took out his watch. Flea noticed that it was gold
and very handsome, and was fastened to a heavy gold chain of curious
workmanship, like the scales of a fish. There were initials on the back
of the watch. She wondered if it had been his father's, and was left to
him as the oldest son.

"I will give you exactly three minutes, Felicia Grigsby, to say, 'Mr.
Tayloe, a thorn scratched my face as I came through the woods.'
Obstinacy is what I will not stand."

In the deathlike hush of the room the ticking of the watch in his hand
was painfully audible to the scholars of the back benches. Each tick
seemed to go in one of Flea's ears and out at the other, trailing a
red-hot wire with it. She could not stop counting them, try though she
might. There was no thought of yielding in her mind, but she was getting
faint with suspenseful dread. Never until now had she openly defied
lawful authority. What was going to happen?

"Three!" said the teacher, returning the watch to his pocket. "Are you
ready to do as you are told?"

Flea swept her dry lips with her tongue, and swallowed hard. "I can't
say what you want me to say; it wouldn't be true."

"Aha! what _is_ true, then?"

Again she was dumb.

"Go to your seat, and do not touch a book, or move, until I give you
leave, if you have to sit there until to-morrow morning."

When the school was dismissed, an hour later, the rest of the scholars
filed out of the room, staring hard at Flea as they passed.

Mr. Tayloe had letters to write. Not a sound was heard for the next
half-hour, except the scratching of his pen and the rustling of the
dried aspen-leaves blown by the wind into the open door and along the
aisle. Flea watched them in a miserable, mechanical way. An odd stupor
was stealing over her. Her nerves were wellnigh worn to threads, and
although the stout heart stood firm, the waiting for an unknown
punishment was horrible, and used up what strength positive disgrace had
left to her.

Mr. Tayloe wrote on briskly. If Flea had read the letter over his
shoulder, she would have seen that it began, "My dear Mother," and was
full of merry, affectionate sayings.

Presently he looked up suddenly toward the door, smiled, hustled his
papers into his desk, caught up his hat, and walked quickly down the
aisle. In going out, he slammed the door behind him.

She was, then, to be left there all night!

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

RICK DALE.

BY KIRK MUNROE.

CHAPTER XVII.

SAVED BY A LITTLE SIWASH KID.

The attention of the departing revenue-officer being attracted by the
barking dog, he paused, and glanced inquiringly in that direction. It
was a critical moment for our lads, who knew not whether to run, which
would be to reveal their presence at once, or to try and kill the dog,
with probably the same result. Fortunately they were spared the
necessity of a decision, for a little girl, whom up to this moment they
had not noticed, though she was quietly at play with a family of
clam-shell dolls directly in front of them, took the matter into her own
hands. She had just arranged her score or so of dolls in _potlatch_
order, with the most favored near at hand, when the dog, charging that
way, threatened to upset the whole company. To avert such a catastrophe
the child snatched up a stick, and springing forward in defence of her
property, began to belabor him with such a hearty will, and scream at
him so shrilly, as to entirely divert his attention from his original
object.

Taking advantage of this diversion in their favor, the boys stole softly
away, and after making a long détour through the forest, cautiously
approached the coast a mile or more from Skookum John's camp, but where
they could command a wide view of the sound. Here they had the
satisfaction of seeing the yawl, under sail, standing off shore, and a
full half-mile from it. The sloop was not visible, nor was the cutter.

"How could he have known just where to look for us?" asked Alaric, who
had been greatly alarmed at the imminence of their recent danger.

"He couldn't have known," replied Bonny. "It was only a good guess. I
suppose he overhauled our boat, and, finding her empty, made up his mind
that we had landed somewhere. Of course he couldn't tell on which shore
to look, but, noticing John's camp, thought it would be a good idea to
find out if the Indians had seen anything of us. Of course they hadn't,
and now that he has left, it will be safe enough for us to go back."

"Do you really think so? Isn't there any other place to which we can
go?" asked Alaric, whose dread of being captured by the revenue-officers
was so great as to render him overcautious.

"Plenty of them, but no other that I know of within reach, where we
could find food, fire to cook it, and a boat to carry us somewhere else;
for there aren't any white settlers or any other Indians that I know of
within miles of here."

In spite of this assurance Alaric was so loath to venture that the boys
spent several hours in discussing their situation and prospects before
he finally consented to revisit Skookum John's camp. By this time the
day was drawing to its close, and the lengthening forest shadows, flung
far out over the placid waters of the sound, were so suggestive of a
night of darkness and hunger amid all sorts of possible terrors as to
outweigh all other considerations. So the boys plunged into the twilight
gloom of the thickset trees, and began the uncertain task of retracing
the way by which they had come.

As neither of them was a woodsman, this soon proved more difficult than
they had expected. The trees all looked alike, and they made so many
turns to avoid prostrate trunks and masses of entangled branches, that
within half an hour they came to a halt, and each read in the troubled
face of the other a confirmation of his own fears. They had certainly
lost their way, and could not even tell in which direction lay the
sea-shore they had so recently left. Bonny thought it was in front,
while Alaric was equally certain that it still lay behind them.

"If we could only make a fire," said the former, "I wouldn't mind so
much staying right where we are till daylight; but I should hate to do
so without one. Are you certain you haven't a single match?"

"Certain," replied Alaric; "but I thought you always carried them."

"So I do; but I used them all on that old lantern last night. I almost
wish now I'd never invented that thing, and that they had caught us.
They wouldn't have starved us, at any rate, and perhaps the prison isn't
so very bad after all."

"I don't know about that," rejoined Alaric, stoutly. "To my mind a
prison is the very worst thing, worse even than starving. After all,
this doesn't seem to me so bad a fix as some from which I've already
escaped. Going to China, for instance, or drifting alone at night in a
small boat."

"What do you mean by going to China?" asked Bonny, wonderingly.

"Hark!" exclaimed the other, without answering this question. "Don't you
hear something?"

"Nothing but the wind up aloft."

"Well, I do. I hear some sort of a moaning, and it sounds like a child."

"Maybe it's a bear or a wolf, or something of that kind," suggested
Bonny, whose notions concerning wild animals were rather vague.

"Of course it may be," admitted Alaric; "but it sounds so human that we
must go and find out, for if it is a child in distress we are bound to
rescue it."

"Yes, I suppose we are; only if it proves to be a bear, I wonder who
will rescue us?"

Alaric had already set off in the direction of the moaning; and ere they
had taken half a dozen steps Bonny also heard it plainly. Then they
paused and shouted, hoping that if the sound came from a bear the animal
would run away. As they could hear no evidences of a retreat, and as the
moaning still continued, they again pushed on. It was now so dark that
they could do little more than feel their way past trees, over logs, and
through dense beds of ferns. All the while the sound by which they were
guided grew more and more distinct, until it seemed to come from their
very feet.

At this moment the moaning ceased, as though the sufferer were
listening. Then it was succeeded by a plaintive cry that went straight
to Alaric's heart. He could dimly see the outline of a great log
directly before him. Stooping beside it and groping among the ferns, his
hands came in contact with something soft and warm that he lifted
carefully. It was a little child, who uttered a sharp cry of mingled
pain and terror at being thus picked up by a stranger.

"Poor little thing!" exclaimed the boy. "I am afraid it is badly
injured, and shouldn't be one bit surprised if it had broken a limb. I
must try and find out so as not to hurt it unnecessarily."

"Well," said Bonny, in a tragic tone, "they say troubles fly in flocks.
I thought we were in a pretty bad fix before; but now we surely have run
into difficulty. What ever are we to do with a baby?"

"Bonny!" cried Alaric, without answering this question, "I do believe
it's the little Indian girl who drove away the dog, and something is the
matter with one of her ankles."

"Skookum John's little Siwash kid!" exclaimed Bonny, joyfully. "Then we
can't be so very far from his camp. Now if we only knew in which
direction it lay."

As if in answer to this wish there came a cry, far-reaching and long
drawn; "Nittitan! Nittitan! Ohee! Ohee!"

For several hours Skookum John and his eldest son, Bah-die, had been
searching the woods for two white lads whom the third Lieutenant of the
cutter claimed to have lost. He had promised the Indian a reward of
twenty-five dollars if he would bring them to the cutter, and Skookum
John had at once set forth with the idea of earning this money as
speedily as possible.

Little Nittitan, his only daughter, whom he loved above all the others,
noted his going, and after a while decided to follow him. When darkness
put an end to the Indian's fruitless search and he returned to his camp,
he found it in an uproar. Nittitan was missing, and no one could imagine
what had become of her.

For a moment the bereaved father was stunned. Then he prepared several
torches, and accompanied by Bah-die, set forth to find her. At the edge
of the forest he raised a mighty cry that he hoped would reach the
little one's ears. To his amazement it was answered by a cheery "Hello!
Hello there, Skookum John!"

"Ohee! Ohee!" shouted the Indian.

[Illustration: THE ARRIVAL AT SKOOKUM JOHN'S.]

"Here's your _tenas klootchman_" (little woman), came the voice from the
forest, and the happy father knew that he who shouted had found the lost
child and was bringing her to him.

On the outskirts of his camp he stood and waited, with blazing torch
uplifted above his head, and an expectant group of women and half-grown
children huddled behind him. He was greatly perplexed when a few minutes
later a tall white lad whom he had never before seen emerged from the
forest bearing the lost child in his arms. There was another behind him,
though, who was promptly recognized, for Skookum John knew Bonny Brooks
well, and instantly it came to him that these were the boys whom the
revenue-man claimed to have lost. And they had found his little one. How
glad he was that his own search for them had been unsuccessful! But this
was not the time to be thinking of them. There was his own little
Nittitan. He must have her in his arms and hold her close before he
could feel that she was really safe.

He stepped forward to take her, but the strange lad drew back, and Bonny
cried out: "_Kloshe nanitsh, Skookum. Tenas klootchman la pee, hyas
sick_," by which he conveyed the idea that the little woman had hurt her
foot quite badly. Then he added: "It's all right, Rick. He understands
that he must handle her gently."

So Alaric relinquished his burden, and the swarthy father, rejoicing but
anxious, bore the child to a rude hut of brush and cedar mats, the open
front of which was faced by a brightly blazing fire. Here he laid her
gently down on a soft bear-skin and knelt beside her.

Alaric, who seemed to consider the child as still under his care, knelt
on the opposite side and began to feel very carefully of one of the
little ankles. He had not spent all his life in company with doctors
without learning something of their trade, and after a brief examination
he announced to Bonny that there were no broken bones, but merely a
dislocation of the ankle-joint.

"I don't know anything about it," said Bonny, "but I should think that
would be just as bad."

"No, indeed! A dislocation is not serious if promptly attended to. You
explain to him that I am a sort of a doctor, and can make the child well
in a few seconds if he will let me. Then I want him to hold her while I
pull the joint into place."

So Bonny explained that his friend was a _hyas doctin_ or great
medicine-man who could make Nittitan well _hyak_ (quick), and the
anxious father, having implicit faith in the white man's skill,
consented to allow Alaric to make the attempt.

The little one uttered a sharp cry of pain as, with a quick wrench, the
dislocated bone was snapped into place, and Alaric, with flushed face,
but very proud of what he had done, regained his feet.

"Now," he said, "let them bathe the ankle in water as hot as the child
can bear, and by to-morrow, she'll be all right. And, Bonny, if you know
how to ask for anything to eat, for goodness' sake take pity on the
starving poor, and say it quick."

CHAPTER XVIII.

LIFE IN SKOOKUM JOHN'S CAMP.

Skookum John, which in Chinook means "Strong John," was a Makah, or Neah
Bay, Indian, whose home was at Cape Flattery on the shore of the
Pacific, and at the southern side of the entrance to the superb strait
of Juan de Fuca. He was a _Tyhee_, or chief, among his people, for he
was not only their biggest man, being a trifle over six feet tall, while
very few of his tribe exceeded five feet nine inches in height, but he
was the boldest and most successful hunter of whales among them. This
alone would have given him high rank in the tribe, for to them the
whales that frequent the warm waters of that coast are what buffalo were
to the Indians of the great plains.

The Makahs are fish-eaters, and while they catch and dry or smoke
quantities of salmon, halibut, and cod, they esteem the whale more than
all others, because there is so much of him, because he is so good to
eat, and because he furnishes them with the oil which they use on all
their food, as we use butter, and which they trade for nearly every
other necessity of their simple life.

The big Siwash, being an expert whaleman, had much oil to trade, and
made frequent visits to Victoria for this purpose. Here, being an
intelligent man and keenly noting all that he saw, he learned much
concerning the whites and their ways, besides picking up a fair
knowledge of their language.

So it happened that when the smugglers who proposed to operate in the
upper sound began to cast about for some trustworthy person, who would
also be free from suspicion, to look out for their interests in that
section, and keep them posted as to the whereabouts of cutters, they
very wisely selected Skookum John, and offered him inducements that he
could not afford to refuse. He, of course, knew nothing of the laws they
proposed to violate, nor did he care, for political economy had never
been included in Skookum John's studies.

So the Makah Tyhee closed his substantial house of hewn planks on Neah
Bay, and with all his wives and children--of whom Bah-die was the eldest
and little Nittitan the youngest--and his dogs and canoes, and much
whale oil, and many mats, he made the long journey to the place in which
we find him. Here he established a summer camp of brush huts, and
ostensibly went into the business of fishing for the Tacoma market. He
had brought his big whaling-canoe, and the little paddling canoes in
which his children were accustomed to brave the Pacific breakers
apparently for the fun of being rolled over and over in the surf. Above
all, he had brought a light sailing-canoe which was fashioned with such
skill that its equal for speed and weatherly qualities had never been
seen among canoes of its size on the coast. It was in this swift craft
that he darted about the sound at night to discover the movements of
revenue-men, watch for signals from incoming smugglers, and flash in
return the lights that told of safety or danger.

Although not possessed of a high sense of honor, Skookum John was loyal
to his employers, because it paid him to be so, and because no one had
ever tempted him to be otherwise. At the same time he was not above
performing a service for the other side, provided it would also pay, and
so he did not hesitate to promise the cutter's third Lieutenant that in
return for twenty-five dollars he would use every effort to find and
return to him two lost boys.

When he did learn of the capture of the sloop (a blow that threatened to
retire him from business), and the reason why the revenue-men were so
desirous of finding the lost boys, he began to wish that he saw his way
clear to the winning of that reward, for twenty-five dollars is a large
sum to be made so easily. But the revenue-men wanted _two_ boys, and the
only other besides Bonny at present available was the young
medicine-man, the _hyas doctin_, who had not only found his dearly loved
Nittitan in the dark _hyas stick_ (forest), but had so marvellously
mended what he firmly believed to have been a broken leg.

The old Siwash, therefore, determined to make the boys as comfortable as
possible, and keep them with him until he could communicate with the
_Tyhee_ of the _piah-ship_ (steamer).

In consequence of these reflections, all of which passed through the
Indian's mind in the space of a few seconds, Bonny had no time to make a
request for food before the very best that the camp afforded was placed
before them. There were small square chunks of whale-skin, as black and
tough as the heel of a rubber boot. It was expected that these would be
chewed for a moment, until the impossibility of masticating them was
discovered, and that they would then be swallowed whole. After them came
boiled fishes' heads, of which the eyes were considered the chief
delicacy, and these were followed by several kinds of dried and smoked
fish, including salmon and halibut, besides bits of smoked whale looking
like so many pieces of dried citron. All of these were to be dipped in
hot whale oil before being eaten.

Then came another course of fish, this time fresh and plain boiled,
which the Indians ate with a liberal supply of whale oil. Their boiled
potatoes were also dipped in oil after each bite. The crowning glory of
the feast was a small quantity of hard bread, which for a change was
dipped in whale oil and eaten dripping, and with this was served a
mixture of huckleberries and oil beaten to a paste.

In regard to this liberal use of oil it must be said that Skookum John's
whale oil was universally acknowledged to be the sweetest and most
skilfully prepared to prevent rancidity of any in the Neah Bay village,
and his family regarded it with the same pride that the proprietors of
the best Orange County dairy do the finest products of their churn. It
was therefore a great disappointment to them that Alaric did not
appreciate it, and after trying a small quantity on a bit of potato,
refused a further supply. He even seemed to prefer paté de foie gras, of
which the boys had a single jar. This he opened in honor of the
occasion, and with it to spread over his bread and potatoes, a liberal
helping of the boiled fish, and an innumerable number of smoked halibut
strips boiled after a manner taught him by Bonny, the millionaire's son
made a supper that he declared was one of the very best he had ever
eaten.

In order that their new-found friends might not feel too badly over
Alaric's refusal to partake more liberally of their whale oil, Bonny
gave them to understand that it was not because he disliked it, but not
being accustomed to rich food, he was afraid of making himself ill if he
indulged in it too freely.

At this meal the young sailor tasted both paté de foie gras and whale
oil for the first time, and after carefully considering the merits of
the two delicacies, declared that he could not tell which was the worse,
and that as it would be just as difficult to learn to like one as the
other, he thought he would devote his energies to the oil.

After supper a rude shelter against the chill dampness of the night was
constructed of small poles covered with a number of the useful bark
mats, of which the Indian women of that coast make enormous quantities.
A few armfuls of spruce-tips were cut and spread beneath it, a couple of
mats were laid over these, two more were provided for covering, and
Alaric's first camp bed was ready for him. Both lads were so dead tired
that they needed no second invitation to fling themselves down on their
sweet-scented couch, and were asleep almost instantly. As Skookum John
and Bah-die had also been out all the night before, they were not long
in following the example of their guests, and so within an hour after
supper the whole camp was buried in a profound slumber.

By earliest daylight of the next morning the older Indian was up, and
stirring about very softly so as not to awaken the strangers. He was
about to make an effort to earn that twenty-five dollars, and believed
that by careful management it might be his before noon. He planned to
notify the commander of the cutter that while he could deliver one of
the desired lads into his Lands, the other had taken a canoe and gone to
Tacoma, where he could no doubt be readily found. If the _Tyhee_ of the
_piah-ship_ agreed to pay him the offered reward or even half of it for
one lad, he would ask that a boat might be sent to the camp for him. In
the mean time he would return first and invite both boys to go out
fishing. Bonny in a canoe with him, and the other in a second canoe with
Bah-die, who would be instructed to take his passenger out of sight,
somewhere up the coast. Then the cutter's boat would be allowed to
overtake his canoe, and Bonny could be handed over to those who wanted
him without any trouble.

It was an admirably conceived plan, and the old Siwash chuckled over it
as he softly launched his lightest canoe, stepped into it, and paddled
swiftly away.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

EXPLORING NEW-FOUND RIVERS.

BY C. C. ADAMS

Some of the leading African explorers have never written a book. They
have had other work besides exploration, and have been too busy to write
long accounts of their discoveries. A single copy of this paper would
hold all that Alexander Delcommune, who has travelled further in the
Congo basin than any other explorer, has written about his work. Captain
Van Gele, who has had remarkable experiences, and who took the last step
in the solution of a great geographical conundrum--the destination of
Schweinfurth's "Welle" river--has written very little. But we know what
all these men have done. Every new map of Africa that is worth anything
differs from all its predecessors, because it contains later and better
information. These men have done much to change and improve the maps,
and their short reports to geographical and other societies have been
very interesting and important.

Foremost among these men is George Grenfell, of the Baptist Missionary
Society of England, whose travels in 1884-5 gave us our first knowledge
of six of the largest Congo tributaries. Many thousands of black people
in the middle Congo basin first learned of the white man when they saw
Grenfell pushing up their rivers on his little steamboat. He travelled
for over three thousand miles on the Congo and its tributaries, and
always as a man of peace, winning the confidence of barbarous tribes by
patience and kindness. He never shed a drop of blood nor laid violent
hands upon a native. How much better was this policy than to respond
with violence to the mistrust and opposition of these frightened and
savage peoples.

Mr. Grenfell's steel steamer _Peace_ was built in England, and when she
was shipped to the Congo all her plates and pieces of machinery were
taken apart and packed into eight hundred loads; for every bit of the
vessel had to be carried on the backs of men around two hundred and
thirty-five miles of cataracts to Stanley Pool, where the long caravan
of black porters arrived without losing a load. Another Congo steamboat
was not so fortunate, for its brass fittings were stolen while in
transit, and transformed into neck ornaments for native women. It has
been said that a pioneer in Africa should be able to build a boat or a
house without a nail or a tool. Grenfell seems to be that kind of man.
The engineers who had been sent to put the _Peace_ together died of
fever; so Grenfell trained natives in the art of riveting, and with
their aid he put the eight hundred pieces together. When the _Peace_ was
launched there was not a leak. All of the parts had been placed where
they belonged. She was seventy feet long, and under her wooden roof were
a cabin and cook-room, with an engine amidships. Her twin screws drove
her ten miles an hour, and in all respects she was well fitted for her
work. So in 1884 Mr. Grenfell and his wife, with a crew of fifteen
natives, set out to find favorable points for mission stations on the
great unexplored tributaries that stretch away hundreds of miles north
and south of the middle Congo.

We cannot describe here all the discoveries Grenfell made. He greatly
changed our notions of the extent, direction, and importance of quite a
number of rivers, chief among which were the Mobangi and Mongala north
of the Congo, and the Bussera, Chuapa, Lulonga, and Lomami south of it.
You may easily find these large rivers on the map, and they are
Grenfell's greatest contribution to our knowledge of Africa.

Most of the tribes whom Grenfell met live away from the Congo, and had
never heard of the world outside the districts they occupy. We can
scarcely imagine the astonishment and even terror which the white man
and his puffing river monster inspired as the _Peace_ would suddenly
round some river bend and pause at a village front. The natives did not
always flee nor offer hostilities at once. Many stood motionless, as if
rooted to the spot, with straining eyes, and hands over their wide-open
mouths, a common practice among savages when they are greatly surprised.
If one fled he was speedily followed by others. If one gathered his wits
and began to poise his spear or bend his bow, others followed his
example. Once a woman fell in spasms to the ground. One day, on the Ruki
River, Grenfell surprised a party of fifty fisherwomen, who took one
look at the wheezing _Peace_, and then sprang shrieking out of their
boats, and swam, as a dog does, to the shore. A large crowd of men on an
island in the Bussera saw the apparition, and rushed pell-mell for their
boats, forgetting their paddles in their fright; and so, with frantic
energy, they used their hands as paddles in their flight to the
mainland. Grenfell was accompanied by the German explorer Von François
on his ascent of some of the southern rivers, and sometimes the natives
thought their white visitors came from the spirit world, and called to
them, "We fear you because you are white ghosts."

[Illustration: GRENFELL AS HE SOMETIMES TRAVELLED WHEN ON SHORE.]

On all such occasions there was nothing to do except to wait for the
excitement to subside, very quietly displaying presents of beads, wire,
and cloth, while anchored at a distance from the shore. Grenfell's
interpreter would strain his lungs with shouting words of soothing and
friendship. Sometimes he would cry "Ba, ba, ba," to indicate that he
wished to buy goats, and he would exhibit trade goods to pay for them.
On some island, in the night, while alarm drums were arousing the
country for miles along the banks, Grenfell would kindle fires, and in
the bright light display his presents to the best advantage. Once while
a howling crowd were bending their bows, the _Peace_ was sent at full
speed within a rod of the shore, and a cloth full of beads and
cowrie-shells was thrown among them. Before the astounded natives had
recovered their wits, the _Peace_ was again in mid-stream beyond the
reach of arrows. This set the savages thinking, and they listened
quietly when Grenfell shouted that he wished to buy fire-wood. They
filled a canoe with wood, and tying to the boat a long rope made of
vines, let it drift down stream to the steamer, where the canoe was
emptied, and the beads which the explorers placed in it were hauled back
to the shore. The ice was broken now, weapons were laid aside, and soon
a dozen canoes pushed out from the shore with natives having wood or
provisions to sell.

[Illustration: A DWARF OF THE CONGO FOREST.]

All of Grenfell's blandishments failed sometimes, and he was fiercely
attacked. Only one instance is recorded where he fired a gun, and then
it contained only a blank cartridge. He proved the efficacy of unusual
noises, for the explosion, reverberating along the forest-lined shores,
sent the enemy scampering. A blast from the whistle was sometimes enough
to turn pursuing canoes about face. The explorer did everything possible
to protect his men, and not one of them was hurt. Wire netting
completely covered the open sides of the vessel and caught many flying
missiles, while others lodged in the wooden roof. A few natives in one
village on the Bussera appeared to have seen or heard of guns, for
Grenfell was much surprised when the very friendly people told him that
they had intended to attack the vessel until they saw his firearms. One
village that had accepted the explorer's presents on his ascent of the
river, attacked him on his return because the river had risen meantime,
a most uncommon thing at that season, they said, and ample proof that
the white man was bad. The explorer found himself in a predicament on
the last day he spent upon the Bussera, but Mrs. Grenfell helped him out
of it. While the _Peace_ was in shore, a party of warriors rushed to the
bank with their weapons all ready to launch. In a moment Mrs. Grenfell
had thrown among them a double handful of beads, and while the crowd
were scrambling and fighting for the prizes, the _Peace_ reached a safe
distance. Usually an hour or two of waiting and conciliatory talk turned
foes into friends. Sometimes, however, the alarm drums would notify the
villages for miles around that an enemy was coming; and when Grenfell
saw a throng of armed warriors waiting for him, and not a woman on the
ground, he knew that trouble was brewing.

[Illustration: THE "PEACE" SURPRISING A PARTY OF FISHERWOMEN ON THE RUKI
RIVER.]

Geographical information imparted by the natives was apt to be wholly
incorrect. They had ready answers for all questions, but if they
imagined Grenfell would like to hear of a lake a little inland, or five
days more of navigation up the river, they would make replies which they
thought would please him, regardless of truth. This is a widespread
practice among savages. At the same time they were often eager to learn
of his discoveries. They would ask him how many days' journey his vessel
made above their village, and whether the natives he met dealt in ivory
and slaves. Some tribes had not the slightest idea that ivory had any
value, and thought it strange that any man should have occasion to buy
wood. Some of them had no names for the rivers where they live. They
were children of the earth, they said, and if he wished to know the
names of the rivers he must ask the children of the water. The southern
tributaries--Bussera, Chuapa, and Lulonga--are in the great belt of
dense Congo forest, and in the upper reaches of the rivers the big
branches form a complete roof over the streams, which are in deep shadow
even on the brightest days; and in this roof Grenfell found some of his
most persistent enemies. They were the little folks of Africa, the
pygmies, who would clamber out on the branches overhanging the streams,
and shoot their poisoned arrows into the wooden covering of the vessel.

It was Grenfell who gave us our first positive information of the many
dwarfs who live in the forest south of the Congo, though about the same
time other explorers discovered them further south. One evening a canoe
drew up at some distance from the _Peace_, and when the interpreter
asked the natives who they were they said they were Batwa. This is the
name of the dwarfs living in the southern Congo forests, and Grenfell
and Von François were overjoyed at the prospect of seeing them. It was
now so dark that they could not determine what the canoemen looked like,
but in the morning they found near by a cluster of huts inhabited by
these little people, and then they knew they were in the land of the
pygmies. Grenfell found many dwarfs on the Lomami, Chuapa, and Bussera
rivers, and they proved to be the most troublesome and vindictive people
with whom he had to deal. His black crew were badly frightened when they
heard the dwarfs were near. All their lives they had been told that the
dwarfs were most unpleasant people to meet. It was common report that
they shot with poisoned arrows, permitted no one to live in their
country, and excelled all warriors and hunters in skill with the bow and
spear. We shall see later what Grenfell and other explorers have learned
about these strange and interesting people, and also about the cannibals
who are spread so widely over the Congo basin. Very little was known of
the cannibals as long as explorers kept to the main river, but after
Grenfell began his work along the tributaries the world soon came to
know the appalling extent of this evil.

Nearly all the tribes discovered by Grenfell are cannibals. An
interpreter whom he took with him from the Congo was in constant fear of
being captured and eaten, and he would never venture ashore except in
company with six or eight comrades: "You eat goats and hens," said some
natives to Grenfell one day, "because you are rich and able to buy them;
but we are poor, and have to eat men, whom we can get for nothing."
Under the laws of the Congo State it is now a capital crime to eat human
flesh. Wherever the influence of the white man extends, the practice is
being discontinued, and some day this stigma upon human nature will
disappear from all the parts of Africa where it has so long prevailed.

There are missionary stations now in some parts of the large regions
that Grenfell traversed. His peaceful and friendly methods made it easy
for other white men to go among the people he brought to light. The
natives who sought to kill him are now glad to sell ivory and rubber to
traders. His discoveries during fifteen months added about one thousand
eight hundred miles to the known navigable waters of the Congo basin. No
one except Stanley has surpassed him in the extent and value of his work
among the waterways of the second largest river system in the world.

AN HOUR IN BICYCLELAND.

WITH AN ACCOUNT OF A PNEUMATIC CIRCUS.

BY HAYDEN CARRUTH.

I.

Kenneth had got his bicycle at last, and he was taking his first long
ride on it. It was warm, and the road seemed to be all up hill. "If this
road keeps on like this much longer," said Kenneth to himself, "I'll run
into the moon. I guess papa was right when he said that bicycle-riding
reminds him a good deal of work in its milder stages. However, I'd
rather ride than work."

He went on a little farther, but the afternoon sun shone down hotter and
hotter, and the road still seemed to have more uphill than a
well-behaved road ought to have. After a while he came to a fine grove
of trees. "I think I'll just turn in here and rest a few minutes, and
then go back," said Kenneth. "Seems to me I ought to be able to coast
about three-quarters of the way home--unless the road tilts the other
way before I start, like a seesaw," he went on. He trundled his wheel
into the grove out of sight of the road, stood it against a big tree,
and lay down on the soft grass-covered ground in the shade.

"It seems to me," he mused, "that bicycles ought to be made so they
would run themselves like--like--like horses. Then hills wouldn't make
any difference." He was speaking very slowly, and half wondering if
talking wasn't work too. "Then it wouldn't make any difference if the
road _did_ tilt up or--or--or turn sommersaults if it wanted to. Just
think of a road ten miles long turning a sommersault." He laughed a
little at the idea, but _that_ was work too. "I--I wonder if bicycles
couldn't be--be trained to--to--." It really was _too_ hard work to
talk. He hadn't noticed that another wheelman had come into the grove to
rest, and left his bicycle by the same tree.

"Trained to do what?" said the other, who was enough bigger than Kenneth
to be a young man. "To talk like a parrot, or to sit up and beg like a
pug-dog?"

Kenneth laughed at the idea of a bicycle sitting up and hanging down its
handle-bar and begging; and then he answered:

"Oh, no; just to go themselves, you know." The presence of the stranger
seemed to revive him, so he sat up and looked at the other.

"Oh, shucks!" said the young man. "Trained to go themselves! Where did
you come from?"

"Smithville," replied Kenneth.

"Thought so," answered the other. "You're in Bicycle-land now, where
they _are_ trained to go themselves. Come here!" he said, snapping his
finger at his wheel, which rolled over and stopped by his side. "That's
the way we have 'em trained here."

"Well, that's what I meant," returned Kenneth, not liking the lofty tone
of the other very well. "That's precisely the way I am going to train
mine." And he turned and snapped his fingers at his wheel, and it came
toward him, though it wavered a good deal, and would have fallen if he
hadn't caught it.

"That's very good," said the young man; "very good indeed. You have an
extremely intelligent bicycle. Keep training it for a week; and it will
go almost as well as mine."

"There aren't any pedals on yours," said Kenneth, as he looked at the
other's wheel.

"Well, there aren't any pedals on a horse either, are there?" asked the
young man, promptly. "Did you ever see a man riding a horse in
Smithville, and pumping him along with pedals?"

"I forgot," said Kenneth. "I'll take them off of mine," and he reached
down and did so. "What shall I do with them?"

"Oh, throw 'em in the ash-can," said the other, airily. "They're no
good."

Kenneth didn't see any ash-can, so he tossed them behind some bushes,
and began to give his bicycle practice at going alone about on the
grass-plot. It learned rapidly, and he soon ventured to mount it, and
after one or two tumbles it circled around, went ahead, and backed up
very well indeed.

"Well, now, what shall we do?" asked the young man.

"I hardly know," answered Kenneth. "You're better acquainted with the
country than I. You suggest something."

"I was on my way to the circus," said the other. "Suppose you come
along. They say it's a very good show. It certainly has one great
curiosity which I am anxious to see."

"What's that?" asked Kenneth.

"They have in this circus," answered the young man, speaking very slowly
and impressively--"they have in a cage--a--live--horse!"

"Well, I don't--" began Kenneth; then he checked himself and went on, "I
don't see where they got that."

"Captured it in the Smithville country at great expense and loss of
life," replied the young man, proudly. "The Largest and most Ferocious
Horse ever in the Captivity of Man. This Savage and Awe-inspiring Beast
will daily Devour in Full View of the Breathless Audience a Peck of Oats
and an Armful of Hay. At the Sight of his Food he Utters Blood-curdling
Roars which bring Spasms of Fear to the Bravest. Don't miss this Chance
of a Lifetime. I was just quoting from the bills," explained the young
man hurriedly, as he lowered his voice again.

They then mounted their bicycles and rode away out of the grove and down
a side road. The pedals being gone, Kenneth rested his feet on the
coasters, as did his companion, and they sped along faster than he had
ever ridden on the wheel before. It was, in fact, just like coasting
down a long steep hill, but without the danger, as he soon came to have
perfect confidence in the ability of his newly trained steed to keep
upright.

"You see," said the young man, "that it's the simplest thing in the
world to train a bicycle. Whoa!" he shouted, and his wheel began to
stop. "Get up!" and it increased its speed again. "Yours doesn't know
that yet, but it will soon learn. By-the-way," he continued, "they say a
man actually goes into the cage with that horse at the circus. Don't
fail to see Señior Jimjamdaza enter Fearlessly into the Cage of the
Raging Bucephalus and Handle him as a Child might Handle a Bicycle.
Remember, one Ticket admits to each and all of the Stupendous Wonders
contained in this Gigantic Tentatorial Aggregation of-- Oh, I beg
pardon; those bills _will_ keep running in my head," said the young man,
just a little sheepishly.

"Oh, I don't mind," answered Kenneth; "only I think it's a good deal of
a fuss to make over a horse. Why, I wouldn't be afraid to go into his
cage myself."

"Now, see here," said the young man, "that won't do, you know. You can't
fool me that way. You must think I'm green. The horse is the worst
animal that ranges the Perilous and Deadly Jungle, spreading Terror and
Destruction wherever he chances to show the Fiery Fury of his Face, and
only Captured by our Agents after weeks of Superhuman Effort involving
the Dreadful loss of Precious Life and the Sacrifice of Untold
Treasure-- There I go again, quoting those bills; but, anyhow, you see
what sort of an animal the horse is. And still you pretend to say that
you wouldn't be afraid to enter the cage with one!"

"Well, I wouldn't," insisted Kenneth. "Didn't you ever have horses in
this country?"

"They became extinct ages ago," answered the young man. (Kenneth thought
of the pictures of mastodons and such things which he had seen in his
physical geography book at school.) "Ages ago," repeated the young man.
"Sometimes we find remains of 'em. Only last week a man discovered some
horse bones while digging the cellar for a new bicycle-factory."

They had been wheeling along pretty fast, and had made several turns.
There were a great many other people on the road, mostly going in the
same direction as they were, evidently also on their way to the circus.
Nearly all of them were riding bicycles precisely as they were, though a
few were in carriages driving bicycles, usually two side by side.
Suddenly at a sharp turn in the road they came face to face with a long
bill-board covered with immense colored pictures and letters as high as
Kenneth. The young man stopped the moment he saw it, and said:

"There, see that! There's a true picture of the gentle beast you say you
would like to go in with."

Kenneth looked, and saw a picture of an animal ten or twelve feet high,
with a great mouth like a hippopotamus, wide open, showing rows of teeth
six inches long. A lot of hunters and black natives were trying to get
out of his way, but the biggest hunter had fallen, and the horse was
about to come down upon him with his forward feet. The animal's eyes
seemed to be flashing fire, and he had a mane like a lion.

"How long do you think you'd like to stay in a cage with an animal like
that?" asked the young man, proudly. "Like to sit down with him and do
your sums, perhaps? Or maybe you'd rather lie down on the floor of the
cage and take a nap--eh?"

"I can't say about that sort of a horse," admitted Kenneth, doubtfully.
"I never saw a horse just like that, you know."

"See what it says," cried the young man. "'The Dreadful Terror in his
Native Jungle! Captured after Awful Weeks of Cyclonic Struggle! To be
seen in the Full and Excruciating Exuberance of his own Tremendous
Verbosity in this Show alone!' What do you think of that?"

"Well, I don't know, hardly. I can tell better after I have seen the
horse," said Kenneth.

"Yes, and we must be moving or we'll be late," returned the young man.
"Here we go!" and off along the road they went again. In a few minutes
they came to the circus-grounds. There were two large tents connected,
with many smaller ones standing alone. There were great banners
everywhere showing pictures of the wonders within, the largest being
devoted to the horse. They left their bicycles in a shed, and after
buying tickets, went into the first of the big tents. There was a great
crowd inside, especially over at one side. "I think the horse is over
there," whispered the young man. Just then they heard a man shouting:

"This way, ladies and gentlemen, to see the Mighty Monarch of the
Trackless Jungle, the only Horse ever captured by Man. He is now about
to be fed a Peck of Hardened Oats, which he will Crunch and Rend by the
Terrific Force of his Unaided and Unassisted Jaws! Step up, ladies and
gentlemen; step up!"

"We've got to see that horse if half of our bones are broken," exclaimed
the young man, as he seized Kenneth by the arm, and began to force their
way through the crowd.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

THE MILKY WAY.

BY ALBERT LEE.

  I dreamed one night that I sailed away
    From my little cot at home,
  In a paper ship I had built that day,
    Toward the heaven's starry dome.

  And an angel met my little boat,
    And clasped me by the hand
  When I stepped ashore, in my short night-coat,
    On the distant golden strand.

  He led me forth down a great broad street
    That seemed as bright as day,
  And it felt all soft to the tread of my feet,--
    For I walked on the Milky Way.

  Along the sides of this heavenly road
    That stretched away so white
  Were a myriad stars that softly glowed,
    Like fire-flies in the night.

  The angel said that the Milky Way
    Is the place where the girls and boys
  Who are lame or crippled may go and play,
    And trade their crutches for toys.

  For when lame children go to sleep
    In their sufferance beds below,
  They are ferried by angels across the deep,
    To the path where the star-lamps glow,

  And the crutches they placed beside the bed,
    Where they lay at close of day,
  Are changed to tops and dolls instead
    When they come to the Milky Way.

  So I saw them there whom I knew down here,
    Whom Heaven has not so blessed
  With the strength to romp for the day's good-cheer,
    But who hold the blessings of rest.

  And now when I gaze toward the skies at night,
    And look at the Milky Way,
  I know why the near stars shine so bright:--
    The little lame boys are at play.

FROM CHUM TO CHUM.

BY GASTON V. DRAKE.

XII.--FROM BOB TO JACK.

  STRATFORD-ON-AVON.

     MY DEAR JACK,--This is the place where William Shakespeare was
     born. He was the man that some people say didn't write his own
     works, but I guess there must be some mistake about that, because
     if he didn't, why then they weren't his _own works_. Pop says
     that's a very suttle point that nobody else ever thought of and I
     think he's right, though I don't know what suttle means. We came
     down here from London yesterday, and on the whole I was kind of
     glad to get away. We used to think it would be nice to go to the
     circus every day, and I remember feeling very badly once because I
     couldn't, but you change your mind after being in London a couple
     of weeks with nothing but go, go, go, and see, see, see from
     morning until night. I've seen so much in London that I can't keep
     it straight in my head except the wax-works and they were royal.
     They had a collection of Kings and Queens there that beats anything
     I ever saw and Pop says they're just as valuable as the real
     article, except in the matter of jewelry, which is only imitation
     and made of paste. I said I'd rather see a real King than a wax
     King, but Pop says the wax King would pay just as much attention to
     me as a real King, and that you could slap a wax King on the back,
     which you wouldn't be allowed to do with a real King. I don't know
     about that though. I'd like to try it once. I sort of feel that if
     I could get hold of a real King he and I would get along pretty
     well together, because when I saw the Prince of Whales it struck me
     that he wasn't much more than a human being after all, and from the
     way he wore his hat, wouldn't mind much if somebody did slap him on
     the back and tell him a bear story. I'd like mightily to try that
     bear story of Sandboys' on that Whales fellow. I don't believe he'd
     be very horty after he'd heard half of it.

     In some ways though the wax people are more interesting than the
     real rulers. They wear better clothes. The wax Prince was a great
     deal more gorgeous than the real one. He simply blossomed all over
     with jewels and medals and uniform. There wasn't any beaver hat and
     umbrella business about the wax one, and all the wax Kings had
     their crowns on. I always thought Kings got along without hats and
     wore gold bands with prongs on 'em all around their foreheads, but
     Pop says they gave up that because it gave 'em colds in the heads
     going out with prongs on, and besides the English crown was too
     valuable to hang on a hat-rack.

     They had wax plain people too, sitting all around the place to make
     it look popular. A man came in here once and asked a wax policeman
     where the figure of Napoleon was, and of course the wax policeman
     didn't say a word, and the man got mad and took his number and
     complained about him for not being civil. There's a Chamber of
     Horrors too where they keep the wax heads of bad people and show
     you how burglars look. Generally they didn't look any worse than
     the fine people upstairs, only their clothes weren't so good and
     they didn't wear diamonds.

     Napoleon wasn't half as great looking as I thought he would be. Pop
     says he wasn't the kind of a man to work up in wax anyhow. He had a
     face that needed cast-iron or granite to make it go as a figure in
     a wax-work show, and as for the Duke of Wellington that beat him at
     Waterloo, he didn't show up for much in wax except his nose and
     that was fearful. He had a funny nose, the Duke of Wellington had
     and I guess that's what beat Napoleon. If Napoleon ever saw it it
     must have made him laugh, and nobody can fight and laugh at the
     same time. He had a hard nose to follow if the wax-work was like
     him, because it went in two directions. If I had a nose like that
     and wanted to go somewhere and somebody told me to follow my nose
     the way some people do sometimes, I'd know what they meant though.
     They'd mean go across our block, turn a corner and go down two. It
     had a thank-you-marm in it like country road's that you slide down
     hill on in winter. But he got there just the same, which I'm sorry
     for because Napoleon wasn't half as tall as he was, and I like to
     see the little man win generally.

     Next to the wax-works I remember the Zoo clearest of all I've seen.
     I saw more monkies than you could shake a stick at and the fun they
     were having made me wish I might be one of 'em for a little while.
     Some of 'em looked almost as human as our hired man, and Pop says
     he didn't know but what they were nearly as useful. The only
     objection to 'em was that they were never quite still enough to be
     good hired men. Besides monkies they had bears, and horned toads,
     and red, white, and blue parrots--Pop says he thinks the red white
     and blue parrots are called Jingo-birds, and we have lots of 'em in
     the United States, but I never saw any up our way, and I guess if
     we had 'em I'd know it because they spend most of their time
     screeching and shaking their feathers. I didn't care much for the
     snakes. They've got a whole house full of 'em, but they don't
     amount to much, spending most of their time asleep. They aren't
     half as lively, nor any more snakey to look at than the elephants'
     trunks. The Elephants in this Zoo are awfully friendly and they'll
     eat anything from chocolate creams to pie. There was a man in the
     Zoo once that saw a little girl giving the Elephant a piece of
     chocolate and he thought it was tobacco, so when the elephant put
     out his trunk for something from him he put his cigar in it,
     forgetting unfortunately that it was still lit, and the elephant
     got awful mad and grabbed the man around the waist and threw him up
     in the air so hard that the Zoo man says he hasn't come down yet,
     and that was three years ago. Try that on Sandboys and see what he
     has to say about it.

     I've used up all my paper now and so must stop, or else I'd tell
     you all about that Shakespeare man who was born here. He was a
     great man and wrote Julius Cæsar and lots of plays that have people
     die in, right before your eyes. They still keep his memory green
     here and Pop says are making more money out of doing so in a week
     than Shakespeare made in a year. He never wrote his name twice
     alike and was buried in the church. His grave is very interesting
     and has an epitaph on it forbidding anybody to dust it off, which I
     think is mighty queer.

     Next Monday, we are going over to Paris, and whenever I have the
     time I study a little French. I've learned already to say bon jour
     so that Pop knows what I mean and before long I expect to know the
     language well enough to talk to myself in it anyhow.

  Always yours,
  BOB.

[Illustration: INTERSCHOLASTIC SPORT]

It is only a question of time when the Cambridge High and Latin schools
will be forced to compete in interscholastic sports as separate
institutions. Already the football authorities have refused to recognize
a C. H. and L. eleven, and at the recent annual meeting of the Baseball
Committee a fight was made to force the united Cambridge schools to
enter separate baseball teams. The battle was lost; but the feeling
against the Cambridge schools seems to be very strong, and sooner or
later the High-school and the Latin school will be compelled to stand on
their individual merits.

The constitution of the Baseball League provides that no amendment can
be made without a two-thirds vote, and when the question of separating
the Cambridge High-school from the Cambridge Latin School in baseball
came up, the vote stood three to three, and consequently C. H. and L.
will be represented by one nine in the league games this spring. The
schools that voted for C. H. and L. were the English High, the
Somerville High, and, naturally, the Cambridge High and Latin. English
High's representatives claimed that they voted to allow the schools to
play as one, because separation would make the number of teams in the
league too great, and they also thought the expense of such an
arrangement would be inadvisable. Somerville High voted for the
Cambridge institutions because it, too, is what they call there a
"combined" school, and it was practically voting for itself by standing
up for C. H. and L. The three schools on the opposition side were the
Roxbury Latin, Boston Latin, and Hopkinson's. They voted for separation
on the ground that it was for the best interests of interscholastic
sport in Boston.

The Baseball and Football Interscholastic leagues are encouraged and
looked after by Harvard University athletes, because they develop
players who enter Harvard and make good material for the university
tennis. For that reason the influence of Harvard men has always been
exerted in behalf of the schools that send the best and the most
material to college, and also, of course, for the best interests of
sport. It was largely due to the influence of Harvard men that
C. H. and L. was forced out of the football association. Eventually
these graduates will doubtless take the same stand in baseball.

For the last ten years--that is, from 1886 to 1895--the number of
scholars sent to Harvard by Somerville High, Cambridge High and Latin,
and English High schools (the three institutions which voted for
C. H. and L.) has been 236, or an average each year of 23.6 men. On the
other hand, Roxbury Latin, Boston Latin, and Hopkinson's (the three
schools that voted against C. H. and L.) have sent 639 men, or a yearly
average of 63.9. These figures are taken from the annual report of the
President of Harvard University. From other sources I find that the
approximate number of scholars in the three schools first mentioned is
1300, while the approximate number of students at the three schools last
mentioned is 1000. It is fair to assume too, that 175 of the latter are
too young to enter either the Cambridge or English High or the
Somerville High schools, for Hopkinson's and Roxbury Latin accept boys
as young as nine and ten years. This makes the discrepancy between the
two groups even greater from an athletic point of view. Therefore it is
evident that while the Cambridge schools and their adherents have some
1300 pupils, they send only about 38 per cent. of the number of men to
Harvard that the other three schools send there.

For this reason, if for no other, Harvard is likely to support the
separatist party among the schools, and thus ultimately force the
Cambridge High and Latin schools to support separate teams. In view of
this, and in view of the fact that it is beyond question for the best
interests of sport that the Cambridge schools should be separated, it
seems that the sooner C. H. and L. men come to realize this, and act
upon the conviction, the more gracefully will they effect the scission,
and besides that they will come out with credit rather than otherwise.

[Illustration: THE BERKELEY OVAL.]

It is probable, as matters now stand, that the first annual games of the
National Association will be held on the Berkeley Oval the afternoon of
Saturday, June 13th.

The baseball schedule of the New Jersey I.S.A.A. has been laid out as
follows: April 18th, Montclair High-School against Plainfield, at
Plainfield; April 18th, Pingry against Newark Academy, at Elizabeth;
April 25th, Montclair against Stevens Institute, at Montclair; April
25th, Plainfield against Pingry, at Plainfield; May 6th, Stevens
Institute against Newark Academy, at Newark; May 16th, Stevens Institute
against Plainfield, at Hoboken; May 16th, Montclair against Pingry, at
Elizabeth; May 23d, Plainfield against Newark Academy, at Newark; May
23d, Pingry against Stevens Institute, at Hoboken; May 27th, Montclair
against Newark Academy, at Montclair. It would be well if a game could
be arranged between the winner of this series and the winner of the New
York League, or, better yet, of the Inter-city game.

The dates of the New York baseball series are juggled with so frequently
that I have given up all hope of keeping track of the schedule. At the
last meeting of the I.S.A.A. more alterations were made, but with the
aid of the god of sport perhaps the schedule will come out straight. One
date that can be announced with reasonable assurance at present,
however, is that of the Interscholastic games. These will be held at the
Berkeley Oval on Wednesday, May 13th.

A striking feature of the recent interscholastic skating races at the
107th Street rink was Morgan's winning of every event in the finals on
Friday evening, April 10th. He seemed to be as much at home in the
sprints as in the distances, his time in the various races being: 220
yards, 23 sec.; quarter-mile, 50-1/5 sec.; two miles, 6 min. 36-2/5 sec.
He skated also with the winning team in the one-mile relay race.

Although these skating races were not officially sanctioned by the
N.Y.I.S.A.A. almost all of the schools in the Association sent entries,
of which there were about fifty. The trial heats were run on Friday
night, the 9th, and the finals on Saturday, and there were between 3000
and 4000 spectators present on each occasion.

[Illustration: ALFRED MORGAN.

Champion Interscholastic Skater N.Y.I.S.A.A.]

Alfred Morgan, of De La Salle, won the 220 trial and the two-mile with
ease, and in the quarter he almost lapped his field, and, mistaking the
finish, he stopped. Realizing his mistake as soon as the field had
rushed past, he plunged ahead again, and making a hard spurt managed to
secure second place, which gave him a chance in the finals.

In the finals the finishing of the second and third men was in almost
every instance more exciting than that of first and second, because
Morgan was so far superior to the other skaters. In the 220 he was the
quickest to get in motion when the pistol was fired, set a clipping
pace, and won easily by twenty yards. Pitizipio beat Goulding for the
place by five yards. Goulding was fortunate in getting third prize, as
he slipped and fell five yards from the finish, but managed to slide
across the tape in time. In the two-mile Morgan came in fully three laps
ahead of the second man.

Morgan has great speed, and is particularly quick in getting off the
mark. His time in the 440 comes very near to the world's in-door record.
In practice Donohue has only been able to beat Morgan by about two feet
in a 220 race. Morgan is not yet nineteen years old, and besides being
the best skater in the schools, he is pitcher of the De La Salle nine,
and a speedy bicycle-rider.

The turns in the track at the 107th Street rink are very sharp, and a
number of the skaters were bowled over like tenpins at the corners. On a
longer track the time might have been a trifle better. But even so, next
year the scholastic competitors will have pretty high records to beat.
De La Salle won the cup which was offered to the school making the
largest number of points, by scoring 14. The next highest score was 6
points.

The officers of the National Interscholastic Association have finally
decided to ask the New Manhattan Athletic Club to take charge of their
first field meeting--upon the success of which so much depends--and the
club has undertaken the task. I think the school athletes of the country
are to be congratulated upon this move, for the financial element of the
enterprise has now been entirely eliminated so far as they are
concerned, and this is one of the greatest advantages that could be
wished for.

That the National Association has done a clever thing in getting the
N.M.A.C., or rather, the Athletic Manager of the club, to superintend
and arrange these games is proved by the fact that for some time past
the Inter-collegiate Association has been negotiating with the club to
achieve this same end. But the governors of the N.M.A.C., in their
endeavors to assist in the promotion of pure sport, have decided not to
attempt more than they can handle at the outset, and believing that the
schools deserve more of them than the colleges, they will, I believe,
give their time and assistance this year to the latter only.

And at this point let me give the readers of this Department a little
glance into the inside history of the negotiations which have just ended
between the National Association and the club. It will give them a
better idea than anything else could, I think, of the spirit which is to
pervade the management of scholastic affairs in the future. When the
officers of N.I.S.A.A. went to the managers of the N.M.A.C. they
explained what they wanted, and they talked about gate receipts and
medals and percentage, and all that sort of thing, and the word
"dollars" was used a good deal more than the word "sport." That was all
very well and entirely excusable, because the officers felt a certain
responsibility in the matter, and they knew they could not secure
grounds and prizes for nothing, and perhaps they allowed the latter
factors to assume a greater importance than they deserve.

The managers of the club, however, who are ranged in opposition to the
financial element in athletics, replied that they would make no
agreement whatever with N.I.S.A.A. on a dollars and cents basis. They
said they would take charge of the games if the association so desired,
and they agreed to carry out the athletic plans of the association to
the best of their ability and to the satisfaction of the scholastic
representatives, but they firmly refused to enter into any contract or
to discuss any question involving money matters. They stated that their
purpose was to get the element of dollars and cents as far separate from
that of sport as it was possible to do, and expressed a willingness to
go ahead at once on that basis.

In other words, the situation resolved itself to this: The managers of
the N.M.A.C. are sportsmen. The members and officers of the N.I.S.A.A.
are sportsmen. The younger men say to the older men, "We have perfect
confidence in your ability and integrity; will you conduct our games?"
The older men reply, "We know exactly how such games should be
conducted, and we know what you want; we will conduct your games." They
shake hands on that agreement, and that ends the matter.

As affairs stand now the N.I.S.A.A. officials feel perfectly confident
that everything that it is possible to do will be done to make the games
a success. It is for the interest of school sport and for the interest
of the N.M.A.C. that everything should so be done. The N.I.S.A.A. men
know that the N.M.A.C. managers are aware of the fact that rewards or
mementoes of some kind are customarily given to winners on occasions of
this kind, and they are consequently confident that such trophies will
be forthcoming upon this occasion. The value of these trophies has no
place in the discussion, no matter what the constitution of the
N.I.S.A.A. may say. It is further known by all concerned that the
governors of the N.M.A.C., being sportsmen and not sports, are not
undertaking the management of these games for purposes of gain, and
that, therefore, whatever pecuniary profit may result will, no doubt, go
to the scholastic association and not to the club. Hence everything
seems now to be arranged on the best possible basis, and the
disagreeable consideration of dollars and cents is entirely eliminated.
In a few years scholastic sport will probably have gotten so far away
from the financial question that we shall all of us have forgotten what
a disagreeable tangle it once was.

  THE GRADUATE.

[Illustration: 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.

Several collectors have lately sent me Newfoundland stamps for
identification, in the belief that they had the rare early issues, but
in each case the stamps were the 1863 "lake" issue. The 1d., 3d., and
5d. of the two issues are easily identified. The 2d., 4d., 6d., 6-1/2d.,
8d., and 1s. (all of about the same type) were printed in at least three
colors--orange vermilion, scarlet vermilion, and "lake." The first two
were used between 1856 and 1863, and are very scarce, especially the
6-1/2d. and 1s. The "lake" issue, on the other hand, was printed in
larger quantities, and went out of use in 1866, having had a circulation
of little more than two years. A very large supply of all these
varieties were left on hand, and for many years could be bought at the
post-office singly or in sheets at face value. The used copies of the
"lake" issue on the original envelope are worth ten times as much as the
unused copies.

The following new counterfeits have made their appearance in New York:
The Hawaiian 12c. mauve surcharged in black "Provisional Government."
The rare U.S. 1861 10c. without the colored line. A clever rascal has
taken the common 10c. of the same issue and painted out the white
vertical lines. This is a dangerous counterfeit. The Tuscany 60c. has
been imitated so successfully that even some dealers were at first
deceived. It seems to have been made by the same person who imitated the
3 lire Tuscany.

     A. L. A.--They are tokens, not coins, and have practically no
     value.

     T. D. H.--Die A of the U.S. 1887 envelope is scarce on white and
     amber, and rare on blue and Oriental buff. It may be distinguished
     by the bust, which points to the space between the third and the
     fourth tooth. In the common die B (now current) the bust points to
     the space between the second and the third tooth.

  PHILATUS.

ADVERTISEMENTS.

Arnold

Constable & Co

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[Illustration: ROYAL BAKING POWDER]

A cream-of-tartar baking powder. Highest of all in leavening
strength.--_Latest United States Government Food Report._

ROYAL BAKING POWDER. CO., NEW YORK.

Over the hills

and far away,

The whizzing wheels speed on to-day.

As they fly along the glad shouts ring--

"Ride MONARCH, the wheel that's best and king"

MONARCH

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Beloved by his subjects because he does right by them. There's goodness
and merit in every inch of his kingly fame.

4 models. $80 and $100, fully guaranteed. For children and adults who
want a lower price wheel the =Defiance= is made in 8 models, $40 to $75.

Send for Monarch book.

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HARPER'S PERIODICALS.

_Postage free to all subscribers in the United States, Canada, and
Mexico._

  HARPER'S MAGAZINE       _per Year_, $4.00
  HARPER'S WEEKLY                      4.00
  HARPER'S BAZAR                       4.00
  HARPER'S ROUND TABLE                 2.00

_Booksellers and Postmasters usually receive Subscriptions.
Subscriptions sent direct to the publishers should be accompanied by
Post-office Money Order or Draft. When no time is specified,
Subscriptions will begin with the current Number._

HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK CITY, N. Y.

[Illustration: THOMPSON'S EYE WATER]

[Illustration: 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 much valuable data kindly supplied from the
     official maps and road-books of the League of American Wheelmen.
     Recognizing the value of the work being done by the L. A. W., the
     Editor will be pleased to furnish subscribers with membership
     blanks and information so far as possible.

[Illustration: Copyright, 1896, by Harper & Brothers.]

Leaving Powers' Hotel at Rochester, proceed westward across the bridge
over asphalt pavement, and taking the turn to the right at the fork of
the road cross two railroads. After crossing the second, or rather on
crossing the second, turn to the right, and keeping then to the left,
pass through the toll-gate and follow the turnpike to Gates Centre. The
route from Gates Centre, past Coldwater, to North Chili, and thence to
Churchville is direct and unmistakable. Churchville is fifteen miles
from Rochester, and the road is a good one most of the way. If you stop
at the Cottage Hotel you will find good rooms and excellent meals served
at sixty cents.

For an experienced rider it may be safe enough to take the cinder path
from Churchville between the two tracks of the railway, and ride thence
to Bergen, three miles further on, since of these three miles two miles
on the road are practically unrideable on account of the sand; but for
any one who is not an experienced rider--and, to be honest, for any one
at all--to do this is a great risk, and you are advised, therefore, to
walk or ride in a wagon these two miles of sand. From Bergen a turn
should be made to the right, the track crossed about a mile out from
town, and a direct run made to Byron through West Bergen. Thence proceed
due west, following the track for about a mile, where a sharp turn to
the left is made, and this road is held until Batavia is reached, ten
miles further on. The road, as will be seen upon the map, is somewhat
irregular, but is very easy to follow. The road itself is in good
condition, though it is somewhat uphill as you run in towards Batavia.

It is possible to take the fair bicycle route marked on the map, running
direct from Bergen to Batavia, to the south of West Bergen and South
Byron; but, everything considered, it is better to follow the best
route. This stage of the journey to Buffalo--from Rochester to
Batavia--is one of the most difficult, as much of the road is sandy and,
at best, aggravating riding. A good deal of care should be taken of the
wheel during this run. In the first place, sand roads often give the
rider a throw which wrenches his bicycle; and in the second place, the
sand itself is apt to get into the bearings of the wheel, and if
considerable care is not taken in cleaning it at night evil results may
develop.

Phil May, of _Punch_, seldom lets slip a chance to play a practical
joke. Not long ago he needed a policeman for a model. He went out into
the street and accosted the first one he met, saying who he was and what
he wanted. "Come to my house at noon to-morrow," said Phil May, and he
gave the man his address. Then he walked on a couple of blocks further
until he met another bobby. This one was also willing to pose, and he
was likewise told to apply at noon of the following day. The artist
wandered about London for several hours making appointments with
policemen. The next day at noon there was an entire platoon of police in
front of Phil May's residence. A crowd collected, and the reason for
such an array was freely discussed. Some asserted that a den of
anarchists had been discovered and was about to be raided; others
insisted that a swell gambling-place was about to be seized; others
hinted at a murder or at some other mystery. A few minutes after twelve
o'clock Phil May came to the door and invited all the policemen into his
garden. There he lined them up and inspected them. He picked out the man
most suitable for his purposes, then handed to each of the others an
envelope containing the regulation fee for a sitting, and dismissed
them.

[Illustration: THE PUDDING STICK]

Every girl cannot, of course, find a blind neighbor who wishes to hear
somebody read aloud, nor are little dancing classes to be formed at
one's pleasure. But if a girl is fond of her needle, she may keep a
dainty piece of work on hand--a centre-piece, or a bureau scarf, or a
doily or two, and embroider these as she has opportunity, gradually
becoming so expert and deft that her needle produces exquisite effects,
like those of a painter's brush. Such work is saleable, and there are
always people who will order it for holiday or birthday gifts, or for
their contributions to fairs. You must not hope to sell what you do in
this line unless it is really excellent work, but if you are skilled you
will be able to reap some profit from your labor. Many girls earn their
money for charity in this way. I know one who trims the family hats and
bonnets, and so earns Easter and Christmas money for the poor and for
her gifts.

Among pleasant methods of earning money I must mention the device of
Marion, the sixteen-year-old daughter of a friend, who pays her a little
salary for keeping a set of books for him. There is, in this case, a
particular account which the father wishes to keep separate from all
others, and Marion, who has studied book-keeping, has charge of this,
her father willingly remunerating her for her time. When a girl's
parents are able to pay her for some work which she does at home she is
to be congratulated.

Anna M---- frankly declares that her talents are of the home-making
order. She is quick and neat, and likes to make cake, and candy, and
salted almonds, and other goodies which people enjoy. If she had time to
make them, her peanut taffy and her maple-sugar caramels would be in
great demand, but as it is she never has trouble in getting orders for
all she can supply. Her sister Sallie has earned a really large amount
of money for a young girl by obtaining subscriptions for a favorite
periodical, the publishers allowing a liberal commission on every paid
subscription.

But after all, girls, I cannot urge you to devote your powers as yet to
the earning of money. This is your preparatory season. Think of
something you would like to become, and spend your time in getting ready
for it. I admire Louise W----, who, when she was a child, enjoyed her
needle and her little bit of patchwork, and learned to dress her dolls
beautifully. Louise took a thorough course in millinery and dressmaking,
learning the art of cutting and fitting perfectly; then she began to
teach it, and now, as a young lady, she goes about to different schools
to impart what she knows, and she also forms classes and takes single
pupils. She waited till her school days were over before entering on her
profession, and she is so fully mistress of her art that nobody is more
independent than she.

Concerning singing, about which Lulu D---- writes, lessons from the best
masters are very costly, though it is possible to study at a
conservatory, and by sharing the lessons of a class receive instruction
at a smaller outlay. If the voice is worth cultivation a conscientious
teacher will tell you its probable range, and advise you whether to
invest money in vocal culture.

     MARY G. H.--Your letter reached me too late to be answered by the
     date you set. Should your club have another entertainment
     mentioned, have either a flower party or a library party. In the
     first instance each girl must dress in the color of her favorite
     flower, wear it in her belt, and recite a little poem or tell a
     story in which her flower is mentioned. In the second, each chooses
     a book and is dressed to represent its title, which the rest find
     out by guessing. Bring a copy of the book with you, if you wish,
     and let it be given to a hospital or other charity.

     FLORA B.--All the way from Chili your letter came straight to my
     desk. I am glad to have warm words of appreciation of The Pudding
     Stick from a South-American reader. You write a beautiful hand, and
     use English well.

     FRANCES.--I think twenty-five cents a week would be a sufficient
     allowance for pocket-money at your age.

     HELEN.--As you are small for your age, wear your dresses just to
     the tops of your boots.

     MAY AND ROSALIND H.--I thank you and your mamma for your letter,
     and grandmamma for her excellent culinary hint, which is that a bit
     of charcoal put in the vessels in which cabbage, onions,
     cauliflower, turnips, and spinach are cooked will quite do away
     with the disagreeable odors which usually accompany the process of
     boiling.

     MRS. T. E.--You will gain the information you ask for by addressing
     the Young Women's Christian Association, New York.

[Illustration: Signature]

ADVERTISEMENTS.

SCIENTIFIC

BICYCLE MAKING

The ball bearings of a bicycle must be very hard. But they must not be
brittle, or they will break easily. The Columbia method is right. Soft,
tough steel is forged to the shape required, machined down to exact
size, case hardened to diamond density on its surface, and then
polished. Such bearings rarely break, while they give the matchless ease
of running that makes

[Illustration: Columbia Bicycles]

Standard of the World

$100 to all alike

Columbias in construction and quality are in a class by themselves.

POPE MANUFACTURING CO., Hartford, Conn.

Columbia Art Catalogue gives full information of Columbias; also of
Hartford bicycles, next best, $80, $60, $50. Free from the Columbia
agent or mailed for two 2-cent stamps.

[Illustration: HARTFORD Single-Tube Tire]

HARTFORD Single-Tube Tires are the standard single-tubes. Their success
has caused a host of imitations. But who will have imitations when he
can have the genuine?

IF IT'S A HARTFORD TIRE IT'S RIGHT.

The Hartford Rubber Works Co.

HARTFORD, CONN.

New York Chicago.

[Illustration: HARTFORD Single-Tube Tire]

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.

Postage Stamps, &c.

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

$117.50 WORTH OF STAMPS FREE

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

C. W. Grevning, Morristown, N. J.

JAPANESE POSTAGE STAMPS!

Every one who sends me 20 unused stamps of his land will receive 20
unused stamps, in good varieties, from Japan.

Sekigyokuken, Mitsunosho, Bingo, Japan.

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

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

=STAMPS.= 20 different stamps free if you send for our approval sheets at
50 per cent. commission. Enclose 2c. stamp, and give reference.

=DIAMOND STAMP CO.=, Germantown, Pa.

=105= Stamps, Java, etc., hinges, catalogue, album, 5c. Agents at 50% get
_free_ packet stamps and fine illustrated album. Bargain cats. free. A.
Bullard & Co., 97 Pembroke St., Boston, Mass.

=125= dif. Gold Coast, Costa Rica, etc., 25c.; 40 U. S., 25c. Liberal com.
to agents. Large bargain list free.

F. W. MILLER, 904 Olive St., St. Louis, Mo.

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

=100= Mixed stamps for 5c.; 100 all dif., 10c. Agents w't'd at 50% com.
American Stamp Co., 1607 14th St., West Superior, Wis.

=AGENTS= w'nt'd to sell Confed. bills; 5 samples, 10c.; 1500 var. stamps
and $2.50 album, $15. =R. & A.=, 113 W. 15th St., City.

[Illustration: THOMPSON'S EYE WATER]

A Novel Experiment to Try.

Sir Edward C. Wood, secretary of a Round Table Chapter in Germantown,
Philadelphia, Pa.--his address is 156 School Lane--is interested in
science, and he sends us the following, adding that he intends to test
the experiment, and will be glad to answer questions as to the result.
Here is the novel item:

A French scientist, M. Ragouneau, has just discovered how to make a
plant grow from the seed in thirty minutes as much as it would under
ordinary circumstances in as many days. Heretofore nature has shared
this secret with the Yogis of India alone, and the methods pursued by
these clever magicians in performing this trick have been often
described. They plant a seed in the earth and cover it with a cloth. In
a few moments the cloth begins to be pushed upward by the growing plant,
which, in a short time, attains the height of several feet. Various
theories have been advanced as to the _modus operandi_ of this miracle,