The Project Gutenberg eBook of Harper's Round Table, November 3, 1896, by Various.

In sitting down to write a tale in which I myself am the central figure and most prominent actor, I cannot help at first feeling a fear that any one who perchance shall read all that is to follow (if I ever succeed in the finishing of it) will judge me a person whose opinion of himself is high in the extreme.

While possessing the proper self-respect, without which no man is ever truthful or successful, I do not claim to have[Pg 2] accomplished anything for the reason that I am gifted beyond the ordinary. I am not. But circumstances of my early youth gave to me chances for adventure, and fate probably led me, under the guiding hand of Providence, through much that is outside of the usual walks of life.

Although, as I write, I am only in late middle age and hale and hearty, all that I intend to record seems long ago indeed. Yet truthfully, and in such ways as memory recalls it, do I intend to put it down. If I am discursive, it is because I am led away by the vividness with which my eye puts the scenes again before me; that is all there is to it.

In going over many events of the past in the half-waking hours at night—a habit I have long been prone to—I have felt, often, my heart-beats quicken, and more than once I have scarce restrained an inclination to speak or to cry aloud in accordance with my feelings. Perhaps the placing of all this upon paper may reduce the intensity with which I relive a life that is gone. And thus, to begin:

My earliest childhood's recollection is of a warm summer's day. I know it was warm, because the sand in which I was playing sparkled and shone as it ran through my fingers, and the long stretch of beach, whose whiteness dazzled my eyes, was hot to the touch of my bare feet. A great brown curly dog playing up and down the water's edge makes part of the picture, and an old colored mammy, crooning softly to herself, was shading my head with the green branch of a tree. Then a tall man with gray hair came and lifted me on his shoulder and carried me through a wood whose trees seemed to touch the clouds; then out of the shadows, by a path through a meadow (in which were some great fierce hogs that frightened me most dreadfully), up to a large house, where a beautiful woman took me in her arms and kissed me and called me pet names that I was glad to hear. This, I say, is the first day of all my life that I can remember—which is beginning at the beginning, and no mistake.

Gradually it came to me, so that I can remember it, that I began to love things. I loved my beautiful mother, who spoke to me in a language very different from that of the three old colored people whom I saw every day, namely, Aunt Sheba, Ann Martha, and Ol' Peter; and I loved them also, and I loved the dog.

I seemed to understand the two kinds of speaking very well (my mother's and the rest of the world's, I mean), although I did not know that one was French and the other darky English pure and simple.

The tall man, whom I sometimes called "père," and at others "daddy," was not always with us. Very often it was long months between his visits, and he generally remarked how I had grown and how much heavier I had become since last he had lifted me up on his shoulder.

Then came the time when I began to think—strange thoughts that were never answered, because for the most part I confided them to no one except, maybe, to the brown curly dog, who was called "Maréchal" by my mother, and "Maa'shal" by the colored people. Like myself, he seemed to understand either language perfectly, and replied to each in his own fashion.

I well remember the day I first began to wonder at the vastness of the world. It was upon an occasion when my father and Ol' Peter took me for a sail in a tremendous boat that they afterwards hauled up on the beach out at the mouth of the river—this is very clear in my mind—and the next morning after this excursion I went down with my mother to the end of the little wharf, and lo and behold! a great ship was lying at anchor in the broad stretch of water beyond the reedy point of land. My mother was crying softly, and my father kissed her, and me, too, over and over again. Then he stepped in a boat rowed by dark men with beards on their faces, and put off to the ship, spread her sails like a great bird and swept out into the bay.

When she had gone beyond the point, and we could no longer see a tall figure standing on the after-deck waving his hat, my mother burst out crying harder than ever, and we went back to the house. I never saw my father again.

I call him "my father," in thus looking back at the great spring-time, because I always think of him as such, and because I bear his name. Long years afterwards I learned much that this story will tell, if it goes on to the end, but it is now too early to indulge in explanations—I must relate things as they come to me.

Well, when I was six or seven years of age—when these first days I have touched on were even then but a memory—I began to enjoy life in new ways. I had never a play-mate but the dog, who had grown too old for romping; but my mother would read long and wonderful stories to me in her beautiful low voice, in French, of course, and I, listening, pictured the outside world as something strange and beautiful, and just waiting and yearning for my coming to see it and enjoy it.

The ships that sailed up and down the bay, long distances off, were all bound somewhere that only I knew, and my thoughts would follow them to enchanted islands where fairies and beautiful creatures lived, and where wonderful birds sang from the branches of wonderful trees. I had begun to study with my mother about this period. Dull work it often appeared to be, and I dare say many a rebellion had to be put down and many an outbreak silenced, although I can recollect no chastisements. But at last, before I was ten years old, I would take a book, and followed by the sedately plodding Maréchal, seek a shady spot down at the point, where I read myself to sleep often enough.

Of course now, by this time, I knew that the name of the river on which our plantation bordered was the Gunpowder, that the blue waters were the waters of Chesapeake Bay, that I lived on the shores of Maryland, and that the ships were bound not to fairy islands (except now and then when I wanted them to be), but to Baltimore and Annapolis and Havre de Grace, and to a dozen other places whose inhabitants sought their living by trading and sailing on the sea.

I had also heard from Ol' Peter that there had been a war between our country and another, named England, and that a great man named Washington had once stopped at this very house in which we lived. Ol' Peter described to me the surrender of Cornwallis (at which he had been present, according to accounts); but my mother's talk and all she read about was of France, that I gradually came to believe must have been the most beautiful country in the world. Yet my mother always spoke as if France were dead, which puzzled me not a little. Of a truth, there were many things that puzzled me in those days. I had so many times received the answer, "You will learn all some day—On vous dira tout ça un de ces jours, mon petit," that at last I learned to hold back my curiosity, or to answer with my own imagination.

Our neighbors, who were not very neighborly, lived at long distances from us. They had no children, and up to my tenth year I had never exchanged a thought with any one of my own age. To tell the truth I am afraid my mother did not encourage the people near us to be very friendly, and I suppose that they talked much, and perhaps said spiteful things about her. I can remember how I began to notice that she seldom walked farther than the rose-bush at the end of the garden path, and that she was growing thinner and thinner, yet more beautiful every day.

We led a very simple existence, living mostly on what we raised in the garden and what Ol' Peter brought back from the "cross-roads"—a collection of three houses five or six miles distant from our plantation.

But I was growing big and strong for my age—so strong, indeed, that I could handle the heavy oars when Peter and I went out on the river to tend the nets; and never shall I forget the first time I was allowed to fire the old fowling-piece that occasionally brought a fat canvas-back duck, lusciously reeking of wild celery, to grace our table.

The furnishings of the big house we lived in I can recall in detail; they were very rich, although there were no carpets in any of the rooms except in the room my mother slept in. But there were great nail-studded chairs, and two carved oak sideboards, and a wonderful clock, upon which, by-the-way, I took my first lesson in geography; it was shaped like a golden earth, with the hours marked upon its circumference, and a hand that pointed them out as each came around in turn.

The rooms upstairs were empty, except for some packing-cases and rubbish—all but one small chamber, to which my mother alone had the key, and which contained a great iron-bound chest that I stood much in awe of. In the wide hallway downstairs were three portraits; one before which my mother often used to stand and weep (I knew it to be he who had sailed away in the ship and used to carry me on his shoulder). The second was a handsome pale-faced man whose hair fell in long ringlets over his steel armor, and who looked forth, very proud and haughty, from his piercing gray eyes that would follow one even out of the door on to the piazza. (I have often peered around the corners to see if they would discover me, and they never failed in it.) The third was a beautiful one of a woman whom I thought to be my mother. One day she told me, however, that it was not—that it was her twin sister, at which I marvelled.

A score or so of books were in a great case in one of the bare front rooms, some of them bound in handsome leather bindings and filled with fine engravings. What would I not give to possess them now!

One day was so much like another that, were it not for the seasons that flew by quickly, the world would have apparently been standing still; but that the oars were becoming less heavy and the distances not so great. Very soon I tended the nets alone or wandered along the shore with the old flintlock fowling-piece over my shoulder; ducks, or perhaps a wild goose or a swan, during the spring and fall, were always ready to be cooked, hanging in the spring-house at the end of the garden.

I began to roam farther and farther in my lonely excursions. Poor old Maréchal would follow me no longer than reached the shadow of the house.

I suppose that many people who travelled by the coach that passed the cross-roads every day wondered who the boy was that used to stand with a tall gun beside him at a fence corner, silently watching the lumbering vehicle go down the highway in a cloud of dust. I must have presented a quaint sight, no doubt, for my clothes were of home manufacture and I kept growing out of them. But the buttons, I recollect, on the rough cloth, were very beautiful, and inscribed with the same crest that was painted on one corner of the portrait with the flowing brown hair; these buttons played an important part in subsequent adventures, and I would give a finger to possess one at the present writing. But I am forging ahead of my story. To get back to it in quick order:

One day my mother and I and Ol' Peter mounted the rickety wagon to which our one lone mule was harnessed, and drove to the cross-roads. It was the first time that I could remember my mother leaving the plantation. I did not know then that it was on my account that she was making this departure, but I can see it plainly enough in looking over the time. A question that I had asked of her some days before had more than probably decided her upon doing so.

I remember that she had looked at me strangely, and the next day the preparations were made for the great change. It is little things that occasion them usually in life, I notice.

When the coach stopped at the cross-roads tavern, the passengers gazed at us most curiously. The guard nudged his companion and whispered something, and a tall man in an officer's uniform politely handed my mother to a seat inside. Then the horn blew, the driver touched up the horses, and away we went.

I began to feel frightened. We passed houses and plantations with hundreds of colored people working in the fields, and at last, a little past noonday, we entered the town of Baltimore, and drove to an inn. The sight of so many people and of boys of my own age playing in the streets, the near-by glimpses of the shipping at the wharfs, thrilled and excited me; and as we descended from the coach, I held fast to my mother's skirt and would have hidden. The landlord of the inn hastened out and received us with the greatest consideration. After some bowing and scraping, and many orders to the negro servants, he turned from my mother, and poking out his finger in my direction, addressed a question to me, to which I falteringly replied in a manner that was evidently unintelligible, from the look on his face. I must have spoken French in my embarrassment.

We did not stay long at the inn—two or three days at the most; then we went to live in a little house that my mother had rented at the corner of the street. Aunt Sheba and the two other servants joined us. It was my mother's intention to go back to the plantation for the rest of the property she had left behind her; but she put off the expedition time after time, although she often spoke of doing so as if it were a duty neglected.

Now I went to school at a Mr. Thompson's, a cross-faced, snuffy individual, who wondered at my knowledge of Latin and marvelled at my simplicity. But it did not take me long to adapt myself to circumstances. After I had fought two or three battles with the lads of my own age, they decided that I was better as a friend than as an enemy, and I grew, more than likely, to think and behave as any one of them.

And so two years went by—two years like those of any boy's life—playing along the wharfs, climbing into orchards, talking with the fishermen, swimming, racing, fighting, and all. But my poor mother could now hardly leave her room; she passed most of her time in a chair by the window waiting for me, I take it. The people were very kind to her, and the doctor who lived near the inn used to come and see her frequently. Major Taliaferro (pronounced "Tolliver") was a devoted attendant; he was Captain of the county train-band. He and I grew very friendly; by-the-way, he was the officer who was so polite to us on the stage-coach. One afternoon when I returned from school I found my mother sitting talking to a gentleman whom I recognized as a Mr. Edgerton, a well-known lawyer of the neighborhood (he afterwards went to the Legislature, I might record, and became well known).

Upon my entrance the gentleman regarded me most curiously, and when he left bowed low at the door. The next week was to be the saddest and perhaps the most misfortunate of all my life.

I was seated on the hard little bench in Mr. Thompson's school-room, longing to be back once more with my old gun and my boat paddling along the marshy shore of the Gunpowder, when a shadow fell across the threshold. I looked up; it was the doctor. I cannot recollect his name, which is a pity, as I would like to set it down; but he was a kind man, and I am grateful to him. He stepped quickly to Mr. Thompson's side and whispered a few words in his ear. The latter coughed and looked at me over the great bows of his spectacles; then he called my name.

He almost dragged me up the road, so fast he walked, and a nameless fear coming into my heart, I began to sob aloud. There were two or three people gathered in front of our little house. Back in the garden I saw a strange[Pg 4] sight. It was Ol' Peter leaning across the picket-fence; his head was bowed on his arms, and his shoulders were moving up and down. The people spoke in whispers as we went up the little path. Once inside the door the doctor bent down and kissed me on the forehead.

"Be a brave lad, my son," he said. "Your mother has left us"— He turned away without finishing something he was going to say.

It did not require the sight of Aunt Sheba's tearful face beside me to tell what had happened. I knew it with a chill all through me; boy that I was, I fainted dead away. After a while, when I came to myself, they brought me to the room and left me there.

The second day afterwards was the funeral. It seemed to me that all of the town was present—from curiosity, mayhap, the largest part; yet, since she had come to the town, my mother's gentle manner had made her many friends. The doctor said she had long suffered from trouble of the heart.

But I could scarcely realize what had happened. What it meant to me of course I did not know.

It was the fall of the year. The blackbirds were chattering in the hedges, and off in the fields a bob-white had begun to pipe his cheery whistle. It was all the same, but there was a great blank somewhere. I could not even cry. My heart and senses were deadened by my sorrow, and yet I felt angry, as if I had been robbed.

When we returned to the house after the funeral, Mr. Edgerton, the lawyer, was waiting.

"I have here Madam Hurdiss's warrant to examine her effects, and the key to a certain strong-box which she has directed me to open and take care of," he said. "We will start for the Gunpowder to-morrow morning. You will go with us, doctor?"

My kind friend nodded. "The young gentleman will accompany us," he replied, with a hand on my head. "He is the party most interested."

Then he said something about its being "a most interesting case," and the two gentlemen left the room. That night, for the third time, I sobbed myself to sleep, Aunt Sheba holding my hand and crooning the old Congo song that had lulled me many times on her wide bosom.

[to be continued.]

Friend Paul has crossed the Atlantic in a small vessel with all the things he has bought, and you and he will explore the country together.

It is very important that the explorer be exceedingly careful at first, and that he watch the treacherous climate. Many white men in Africa have lost their lives by their own rashness. They go in the sun all day long after flowers, butterflies, insects, birds, or animals, and they perish in a few days, victims of the tropical climate. In the next place, one must not drink spirits. Many lives along the coast have also been lost on that account. The buoyant spirit of youth is quite enough to carry you through all kinds of hardships. It is very nice for every young fellow to rough it, to go through hardships, to have plenty of walking, to eat all kinds of food, to paddle or row. If he does these, he will have plenty of health for the future and no dyspepsia.

The explorer in a wild country should be always on the alert, and think that there is danger lurking everywhere—that an enemy in the shape of a man, or of a wild beast, or of a snake is hiding behind every tree; he must look inside of his hat, on the ground upon which he treads, and in scores of other places, for venomous reptiles or insects.

One has to be patient among savage tribes. One must be very slow to anger, must use great forbearance, and adapt himself to their ways of thinking, remembering always that their ways are not his ways, especially in regard to time, for they seem to think that what can be done one day will be better done the next. In a word, they have no idea whatever of the value of time. Be kind and sympathetic with them. Never do an unjust thing. Act in such a way that they will believe implicitly in your word. Nevertheless, use great firmness, never show any sign of fear; otherwise you are doomed. Use force only in the last extremity. Pay in beads or with other trinkets for everything you get. Never take food by force, for in no country, including our own, would farmers tolerate a band of strangers plundering their fields and killing cattle to feed themselves. They would rise in a body to drive those thieves or marauders away. So we must not find fault with the poor natives when they rise in arms against the travellers and their followers who come to plunder their fields and forage their country.

As I have told you, the explorer has to be wary, to look out for danger everywhere. So Friend Paul thought a great deal of his rifles and guns and revolvers—they were his friends. A brace of revolvers always lay under my head, and were used as pillows. When I suspected danger, I slept with them in the belt round my waist. A couple of rifles were always lying by my side or within my arms during my sleep. I slept with my boots on, so as to be ready at once in case of emergency or sudden attack. During the daytime I never went anywhere without carrying my revolvers, and then I had a rifle or shot-gun in my hand—just as a man carries his umbrella.

No matter how friendly a people appeared, I thought a sudden attack might be made at any time. In my pouch or bag were at least fifty cartridges for rifles, and the same number for my revolvers.

I had a breech-loading rifle which I loved better than all my other rifles, for it was a most powerful weapon. I could use it with either steel-pointed bullets or shells. I named the rifle "Bull-dog." The only fault I found with Bull-dog was that it was very heavy to carry, for it weighed sixteen pounds.

When I carried Bull-dog I had a feeling that I was with my best friend, one upon which I could rely in case of great danger, no matter how huge or fierce the wild animal might be. That feeling always gave me confidence, and I aimed with great steadiness, for my faith in the power of Bull-dog was unbounded, and I knew I had a shot to spare in case of wounding the animal.

Bull-dog was well known among my hunters. They looked at it with wonder, and were always glad when Bull-dog was going with us. They used to say: "Bull-dog[Pg 5] never misses, but brings death in its path. The elephants, leopards, gorillas, and hippopotami fall dead when hit by its bullets." My men knew Bull-dog among all my rifles, and there was always rejoicing among them when I said to one of them, "Go and fetch Bull-dog from my hut, and carry it for me until we reach the hunting-ground," or when I started with it.

Bull-dog was so heavy that by the end of the day my shoulders, especially the left one, felt sore. In the course of time that left shoulder had become quite black from the effects of carrying it or other guns. A gun that is quite light the first hour becomes heavier every hour afterwards, and very heavy by the end of the day.

Now that we have become acclimatized, and have learned the language, we must bid good-by to the sea-shore King.

After many wanderings I came to a very wild tribe who knew the use of fire-arms. The natives were kind-hearted toward me. I had been left there by the people of another tribe, who immediately afterwards returned to their country. The King loved me, and after I had remained with him for a while and hunted, and thought it was time to leave, he called a great council, and after a whole day of deliberation it was agreed that Mienjai—a man of great bravery—and other men should take me and my outfit to another tribe further inland.

We left. The path had been much neglected on account of war; in many places it could be seen but indistinctly, and in other places we had to guess our way through a dense jungle before we found it again.

The third day we lost our way, and after wandering through the forest for quite a while Mienjai saw a path, and said: "Let us follow it. I think it is a hunting-path, and that it leads to one of the villages of the tribe to which we are going." So we took the path, and soon we came to another, which was much used by people. When Mienjai saw this he smiled, and his big mouth seemed to open from ear to ear, and at the same time showed two rows of teeth, the upper and lower incisors, or front teeth, being filed to a point.

After walking in the path for about two hours we came to a village, which barred the way. The village was fenced all round with high poles, upon many of which were skulls of wild beasts. The gate was closed, and we could hear the sound of many voices inside. Mienjai shouted to the people that he was Mienjai, the nephew of Rabolo, that we were friendly, and that they must let us in. Two men came to the gate, and after holding a conversation with Mienjai and my men they let us in.

How strange and wild-looking these two men appeared! Each carried an old-fashioned flint-gun. Their faces and bodies were painted with different colors. Each had round his waist a leopard-skin belt. They looked at me with amazement. I had long black hair, which fell on my shoulders, and this filled them with wonder. The houses of the village were built of the bark of trees; they had no windows and only one door. At the end of the street, which was not very long, there was a great crowd of people, and every man had one of those trade flint-guns. I did not like the looks of the people with those guns, for I would rather see natives armed with spears, even with poisoned arrows, than with guns.

Then we passed by the idol-house, and I saw a big idol, of the size of a human being and representing a woman. How ugly she looked! One of her cheeks was painted yellow, the other white; she held in her hand a stick.

Not far from the idol was a big veranda, under which my men put down their loads and, leaving me alone, went toward the crowd. Soon after, three bunches of plantains, a goat, two fowls, and six eggs were put at my feet.

The King sent word that he could not see me that day. The next day he came and asked me why I came to his country. I replied: "King, I heard your village was filled with great hunters. I want to go into the forest with them, for I wish to kill all the wild beasts I can and stuff them. I want to kill all the birds I can and stuff them. Then I want to catch all the butterflies and insects I can and keep them." The King looked at me with wonder, and spoke to Mienjai, saying, "Does the spirit mean what he says?" After a little while he said, "Yes, I will give to the Moguizi the best hunters of our tribe."

The following morning he called his people and said, "We must provide hunters for the Moguizi who has come to live among us." Then he shouted: "Men who are brave and who are not afraid of wild beasts, come forward. Where is Okili?" shouted the King. Okili then came forward. A fine fellow Okili, I thought, as I surveyed him from head to foot. He was tall and slender. His limbs were strong, he had a keen eye, his body was tattooed all over. Then the King shouted, "Where is Mbango?" Then Mbango came forward. He was quite the opposite of Okili, short of stature and stout. I looked at him and saw that his eyes were full of daring, and that he appeared to be gifted with great determination. He was just the right kind of man I would choose to go with me. "He will be one of your hunters," shouted the King. Then Mbango went by the side of Okili.

"Macondai, where are you?" cried the King. Macondai came forward. His body was covered with scars. He was a great warrior who had seen many fights and had many times been wounded. After I took a look at him he went to where Mbango and Okili were. Then I heard the King call for Niamkala. Niamkala was a gray-headed warrior who had seen many fights. He was a great elephant-hunter,[Pg 6] and wore a belt upon which were hung the tails of twenty-three elephants which he had killed. He was a grim-looking warrior and hunter who did not seem to be afraid of anything. After I had eyed him he went to where the other hunters who had preceded him stood. "I do not see Fasiko," said the King. "Where is he?" "Here he comes," shouted the people. Fasiko came forward. He was covered with fetiches and charms. He was a man celebrated for leopard-hunting. He wore a necklace of the teeth of the leopards he had killed. I liked his looks. I said to myself this fellow is cool-headed. After I looked at him he joined the other hunters. "Ogoola!" shouted the King. "Why do you keep in the background? Come forward; be not bashful." Ogoola looked every inch a hunter. He wore a belt adorned with trophies of the wild animals he had killed. "I do not see Obindji," said the King, inquiringly, to his people. They answered: "He will arrive this evening. He was not at the plantation when you sent word." Then suddenly they all shouted, "Here he comes!" Obindji was a favorite slave of the King, a mighty hunter, and he looked like it. His front teeth were filed sharp to a point. Obindji was somewhat lame, for he had been badly wounded years before by a leopard he had shot, but which had strength enough to spring upon him, fortunately falling dead as its claws fastened in his legs.

"Where is Makooga?" shouted the King. "Here I am," responded a small man in the crowd. After pushing his way through, he stood before the King. He was very short, not over five feet three inches in height. "Moguizi," said the King to me, "never mind his size; his heart knows no fear; he is a good shot; he is daring, and one of the best hunters we have. No one can come nearer game than he does. He is like a snake." Makooga went where the other hunters were.

"A fine set of fellows they are," I said to myself as I looked at them all. Then the King said, "Okili must always be by the side of the Moguizi."

Then I said to them: "Men with brave hearts, be not afraid of me. I am your friend. We are going to live in the forest and hunt wild beasts together. You are men; I can see it by your faces. Come to my house. I have something for you—beads for your wives and brass rods for you, and powder also." They all shouted! "You are a good Moguizi. We will go with you wherever you say, and we will kill big game. You will see if we are men or not."

Then the King said: "These men will follow you wherever you go, Moguizi. They know every tree, every path of the forest. They know where the game is to be found." Then, addressing them, he said: "Go make your guns ready; see that their flints are right so that they do not miss fire, and cook food enough for three or four days. Be here in two days." They followed me to my house, and I gave to each what I promised. At night I called the King, gave him a brand-new flint-gun, two brass kettles, ten brass rods, and several bunches of beads. He was delighted, and took hold of my foot as a token of submission, which meant that he would obey me.

HAROLD WHITE'S PERIL.

BY G. T. FERRIS.

"I tell you, Captain Heald, this is an awful responsibility you're shouldering. Not one, but two hundred lives hang on it. General Hull could never have meant his orders to be absolute. At such times something must be left to the commanding officer. He must know better than a superior two hundred miles away."

The swarthy brows of Kinzie, the Indian trader, who knew redskin nature better than any other man at Fort Dearborn, were puckered with anger and contempt. It was the hour for a quick-witted and resolute soldier, not for a timid martinet, the slave of the letter and not of the spirit of his orders. The commander of that little garrison of fifty, many of whom were non-effectives, was "a round peg in a square hole"—and a hole, too, that yawned big and deep for human life.

"You're not a military man," was the peevish answer. "My business is to obey orders and not reason on them. The General has determined to withdraw all garrisons from outlying posts, and I must do my duty at any risk."

"At risk to yourself, yes! but not to helpless women and children and a lot of sick soldiers not able to pull a trigger or stagger five miles in a broiling sun," John Kinzie retorted, quickly. And pointing through the gate of the palisade, he continued: "Look at those savages on the beach watching like vultures. A thousand lie within call of a war-whoop. How many scalps would remain at the end of an hour if you put yourself in their hands? D'ye think Black Partridge would have said those words last night if there had been a ray of hope?[1] You have ample stores and ammunition, and can hold out for a month or more behind these timber walls. Anything else is madness. As for me," said the trader, with an air of noble pride, "the danger is less. So I don't speak for myself or mine. I have dealt with every tribe for two hundred miles about. I have never tricked a savage in trade. They have eaten of my dish and drunk of my cup, and found shelter under my roof. My wife has been a guardian angel to their sick and needy. But be sure of one thing: friendship for the Kinzies will never save the life of any other pale-face at the hands of a redskin."

"Mr. Kinzie must decide for himself whether he will accompany the troops or not if he is so sure of his Indian friends," said the Captain, stung by the words of the other. "We march at nine to-morrow morning," and he turned on his heel into the parade-ground. As he passed through the groups of settlers who had sought shelter in the fort, and noticed the look of foreboding stamped on every face, he was almost inclined to change his purpose, though the soldiers were even then dismantling the arsenal and knocking in the heads of the spirit-barrels.

John Kinzie walked rapidly to the head of a sand knoll which gave him a wide view of the scene. Groups of dark figures were scattered over the shining beach as if they were statues of copper, or they waded in the ripples of the beautiful blue lake, throwing water at one another with loud laughter. One could scarcely have fancied that close to the edge of this sportive mood the spirit of murder hid in ambush with cocked rifle and sharp hatchet. A mile away lay the Indian camp, which had grown five times bigger within as many days, like an assemblage of huge ant-hills, with the ants thickly swarming about. But it must be time for Harold White to return, and he passed to the rear of the palisades, where the men, rolling the casks through the underground sally-port, were emptying the powder and whiskey into the river. Just across the stream opposite the fort, set in the midst of green trees and fields, were his home and warehouses. He had sent his young clerk, a lad of fifteen, with a message to Mrs. Kinzie, for he had preferred to have his family stay in their own house till the last moment.

"Did ye ever hear tell of such a 'fool' business as this, Bill?" he heard one soldier say to another, shaking his fist in the direction of the fort. "I guess mighty few of us will hev as much hair on our heads this time to-morrer."

"I don't keer for myself," said the other, gloomily; "a soldier's got to buck agin the wuss thing as comes without[Pg 7] sayin' a word. But I'm a-thinkin' of the old 'oman and the little gals."

Mr. Kinzie saw the canoe shoot from under a clump of bushes and skim swiftly across the narrow river, to-day a black and unattractive body of muddy water, but at that time a pellucid stream where fish leaped to the angler's bait.

"To-pee-nee-be's messenger has come," said Harold, "and brings word that the two big canoes will cross to-night from St. Joseph to take off the family at sunrise."

"Thank God!" cried the trader, fervently, for sure as he felt for himself of the comparatively friendly feeling of the savage horde gathered there, he knew Indian nature too well to trust it when mad with the thirst for blood-shed. The chief of the St. Joseph band had a few days before warned him of treachery, and offered to convey his wife and children across the lake to his own village. "Harold, you must stay with Mrs. Kinzie in the canoes," said he. "I shall march with the troops, and do what I can. Perhaps I may have some influence till if comes to the worst. I depend on you. I know what your wish is, but you must forego it now. You've had your taste of Indians already. Remember, you only escaped by the skin of your teeth last spring."

"Yes," was Harold's reply; "and I shall never be happy till I've—" He bit the words off short, but the boy's smooth face was a man's in its stamp of passion and resolve, for the frontier lads often got old in will and courage before their chins grew beards. Some of the legends of boys' doings in the annals of Indian warfare are as stirring as the stories of Homer's heroes. Harold had had righteous cause for his feelings. Four mouths before, on a bright spring day, a score of Pottawattomies had entered the house of his uncle, about two miles up the river from the fort, and asked for food. Their tongues were friendly, but their eyes sullen.

"Harold," said his uncle Lee, "go over the river with Beaubien and feed the horses," but his look said, "Paddle as fast as you can to the fort for help." The Frenchman and he had scarcely gotten well into the stream before there came the spit of bullets, and then came a continuous crackle, with the shrieking of women and children, and then silence. Harold, left friendless, found a protector in Mr. Kinzie; but his heart flamed always hot with that memory. The Kinzie family would be as safe without him, and he was swept by his rash fancies as if his will were a soap-bubble.

The sun hung in the sky, on the fatal August morning, a burnished copper ball. Scarcely a breath heaved the dark surface of the lake, and no laughter of light danced in the sparkle of a crest. A pallor lay on the sandy levels and ridges of the beach similar to the upturned face of some one dead. Nature had set the stage for the tragedy of man. The little column left the fort at nine o'clock, a small company of friendly Indians in the van, then the caravan of transport wagons, loaded with rations and with women, children, and sick soldiers, then a few armed settlers, then a meagre uniformed platoon of less than two-score fighting-men. A double column of Pottawattomies formed on either side. As they began to move, the soldiers presented arms to the flag fluttering down from its staff. They might have spoken the words of the gladiators when they trooped into the arena in olden time, "Ave, Cæsar! morituri te salutamus" (Hail, Cæsar! we, the death-doomed, salute you). It is even a historical fact that the band played the Dead March when that funeral procession tramped out on the road of destiny between walls of living bronze.

Harold, armed with a double-barrelled rifle, had hidden behind a big sand knoll near the gate. When John Kinzie helped his family into their frail barks of safety he had marked the absence of the lad, but there was no time to think further or search, for there was much business afoot. Harold saw his guardian now expostulating with Indian chiefs, now urging some special course on Captain Heald, who marched with his detachment, now encouraging the trembling women in the wagons. And so the column wended its slow course over the burning sand away from the fort.

Suddenly came other sounds than the distant drone of trumpet and tuba. Surely that was gun-firing. There could be no mistake, indeed, for punctuating the muffled roar was heard the long-drawn "wow-wow-wow" of the whooping savages. The hour had come. A mile and a half from the fort, where now stands a memorial tablet under an old cottonwood-tree in the thick of the princeliest residences of a great city, the cloud had burst. From behind the sand ridge which divided the prairie from the beach five hundred warriors had sprung suddenly to their feet, like arrows drawn to the head, and poured in a hail-storm of bullets, to which the treacherous escort added their quota. Harold had stood for some time spellbound by his own thoughts and fears, but the trance was now broken. He ran hot-foot toward the scene of the struggle. Each step brought the sights and sounds of the massacre clearer. Shrieks, yells, the rumble of the firing, dark forms leaping like madmen with uplifted arms, or bending like wild-beasts over objects on the sand. It was a tumult of horror beyond words. After a little the confusion lessened, and there was a pause, followed by the howl of triumph which is the Indian's pæan of victory. Harold, primped out by his wild run, had hidden behind a sand hill for breath, within a stone's-throw of the scene, for the savages, absorbed in their work of death, had not noticed his advancing figure. One wagon, from which now came the wail of a sick child, had escaped their fierce handiwork, and three warriors with bare tomahawks bounded toward it. The boy, taking steady aim, discharged both barrels of his rifle, and one of the red men fell. Every nerve tense with excitement, Harold sprang forward with his clubbed gun, and, catching a tomahawk cut on the barrel, dashed the butt into the head of the nearest savage. As the latter fell with closing eyes, it was with a thrill of satisfaction, strangely blended with awe, as if some higher power had struck by his hand, that the boy recognized the face of the leader of the savages who had slain his uncle and his family. The next moment he was half throttled by a clutch about his throat.

"Boy my prisoner; make no noise," he heard as the iron grip loosened. It was the voice of Black Partridge, who, an unwilling actor in the tragedy, had by his craft, as afterwards turned out, saved several lives on this occasion. Mr. Kinzie, Captain Heald, and another officer, with their wives and a few others, had escaped the slaughter, and were captives. As for the rest, their mutilated bodies lay dead on the sands down to the very water's brink, where their road had been.

"Perhaps not able to save Harold, for boy kill warriors," continued the friendly chief. "Better crawl through grass like Indian back to fort, and hide in cellar till dark; then swim cross to Kinzie's." So he led his charge to the edge of the rank prairie-grass with, "See Black Partridge bym-by."

Bending in his covert, Harold retreated stealthily as a coyote to the empty fort. As he passed through the gate into the dismal solitude, with all its suggestions of recent life and cheer, his heart quivered afresh with the sense of what it all meant. He knew the subterranean secrets of the fort well; and knew, too, that some of the Indians were likely to stray back at any time. Both block-houses of the post had deep stoned cellars, from which were exits into the underground sally-port opening on the river bank. He could easily hide himself here among the rubbish and lumber, and perhaps find something to eat. He did indeed discover some scraps of bread and bacon, and, better yet, a retreat to elude the keenest eye down in that dusky cavern. As the day waxed the heat grew stifling, but there was a well in the cellar which relieved his thirst. In fumbling about the place for the pump-handle, he found several barrels apparently undisturbed. He marvelled what they could be, and by some blind instinct did not make his hiding-place here, but selected a spot protected by a mound of empty boxes close to a little timber gate which opened into the sally-port.

He heard the yells and shouts of the Indians outside and above as they roamed about everywhere, searching for the "fire-water," which they loved so well. They had indeed[Pg 8] been doubly infuriated because the commandant had ordered the destruction of the whiskey and the powder. They fancied that some might have escaped, and were hunting for it like hounds on the scent. Harold could now and then construe an Indian word, and he thought of the barrels so near at hand. He had felt a broken candle in one of the boxes where he hid, and this he now lit from his flint and steel. As he groped his way, peering at the cellar bottom, he perceived several black trails converging toward the heap of casks. He blew out his light with a gasp, and a breath of ice stirred the roots of his hair and chilled his marrow as the truth flashed on him. Some of the soldiers had left full powder-barrels and a train to destroy the careless savages, if possible, should they go down with lighted candle or torch. Harold crawled back to his ambush, and tugged with all his might at the little timber gate; but the bolts were rusty with damp and disuse.

While he struggled he heard the outcries of the Indians nearer and nearer, and their thick tongues showed they had already found whiskey, a beginning which promised the ransacking of every rat-hole in the fort for more. With the strength of despair he struggled with the obstinate bolts, and, just as they began to creak a little in their rusty sockets, a dozen savages, doubly intoxicated with liquor and with the slaughter of the inhabitants of the fort, tumbled down the stone stairs at the other end of the cellar. With candles flaming in their hands, with faces and bodies hideously painted, and with eyes glowing in the flare of the lights like live coals, they looked like nothing less than the demons which Harold remembered to have seen in some of the Bible picture-books of that period.

The boy's only thought now was to force the gate, escape into the tunnel, and close the mouth again behind him. That was his one chance of escape. The maddened red-skins, their eyes glittering in the weird light, waving their glittering candles from which smoulders of burnt wick were dropping, chanting some sort of exultant song, ran about the cellar as if they were the figures of a monstrous nightmare. Their eyes at last fell on the pyramid of barrels, and they darted at the expected treasure-trove. Harold had never ceased tugging frantically at the gate, and when the bolts jangled back and he slid the barrier, it seemed his dangerous companions must have heard. Luckily the blissful thought of "fire-water" made them blind and deaf to all else. He passed the portal, softly closed it again, and sped with whirling senses up the dark passage. But the strain had been too great, and he collapsed in a dead faint, with a crash in his ears as if the earth had been shattered to its core.

When Harold recovered his senses a disk of light in front marked the outlet to sunshine, but in the rear the tunnel was choked, and his legs were tangled fast in a mass of earth and débris. He extricated himself and made his way to the entrance, sore but sound of bone. One of the block-houses had been blown to fragments, and the other partly tumbled into ruins, while about fifty of the savages had been slain or terribly maimed. Groups of Indians stood in the distance sobered and awe-stricken. When he crossed to the Kinzie mansion after dark, he found the captives there under guard, but the captors altered into a merciful mood. Black Partridge had improved the occasion to impress on their minds that the awful catastrophe was a divine punishment for their treachery.

STRIKING "PAY DIRT."

BY ANNIE HAMILTON DONNELL.

"No beans? Why, Thanny!" The rich creamy spoonful dripped back into the tureen. Millia Thacher's tired face put on astonishment as a garment. "No beans?"

"Well, that's what I said, wasn't it?" her brother snapped across at her. "I don't know's the world has got any call to stand still because I don't want 'em, either. I don't want any dinner."

"But, Thanny, I've got rhubarb pie. I made it a purpose, and I guess it's real good. You ain't going to slight that, Thanny?"

"Milly Thacher, for pity's sake do stop Thannying me! Anybody'd think I was ten years old instead of twenty. There! I'm sorry. I'll be a good boy now."

He reached his long arm across the table, and touched Millia's face with big, contrite fingers very gently. The sudden remorse softened the morose lines in his face, and lifted for a minute the cloud upon it. It was a strong enough, comely enough young face, its chin rounded out boldly, and the clean-cut mouth above was not at all weak. But Nathan Thacher's face was listless and discouraged, and altogether unhappy.

He pushed away his chair, rasping it over the uneven floor as if the discord accorded with his mood.

"Oh no, Thanny—no, no! You're only tired out and down-spirited this morning, that's all. You don't feel like yourself. The idea of us giving it up!" She laughed nervously, with a little shrill, hysterical note in her voice. "Why, we've got to keep right on, Thanny Thacher, just as we promised father we'd do. We've got to keep the old farm running—"

Millia's defiance had the thrill and surrender of a sob in it, and suddenly she sank down into a heap on the kitchen floor and cried in smothered dreary abandon.

The door being open, Nathan looked out, across Millia's huddled shoulders, at the bare stretch of rough uncultivated acres. The scant unthrifty grass divided the honors with rocks and underbrush. There was nothing beautiful nor "sightly" nor encouraging in the prospect, and Nathan Thacher's mouth puckered into a low whistle of contempt. He whistled still louder, and shuffled his feet about to drown the low monotony of Millia's sobs, filling the little room drearily.

"Hush up, Milly; there's a good girl," he said at last, prodding her arm gently. "What's the good of wasting all that salt water? Salt may go up."

He made a sorry attempt at laughing, and strode past her out of the door. The girl sat on the floor, rocking back and forth with even swaying motion for a long while. The cheerless world outside oppressed her through the net-work of her fingers and chilled her heart. Pitifully distinct she saw the same barren stretch of fields that Nathan had seen—the same sparse, worn-out vegetation. It looked as forlorn, as discouraging, as it had to him. But Millia Thacher's troubled soul held stubbornly to its one anchor of unswerving loyalty to the poor old farm, and of faith to their promise—Thanny's and hers—to poor old "father."

Give it up? Never! Oh, no, not. They must stand by the farm. Thanny must work—she must work.

She got up hastily, and peered out across the fields in the eager hope of seeing Thanny with old Bess ploughing. Surely he would plough to-day; yes, there he was, but walking idly, moodily, about, with stooped-over shoulders, like an old man.

Poor Thanny! He hadn't wanted, anyway, to be a farmer, and after his brave little beginning out in the world—after father died—it had been hard to come home and settle down on the old "run-out" farm among the stumps and rocks and the meagre timothy heads.

Poor Thanny! Millia watched him with loving eyes. He looked so dismal in the dismal setting of stubbly fields, backgrounded by the dull sky, that she had no heart to upbraid him. Poor Millia!

The little kitchen wore its late-afternoon spick-and-span dress, and Millia sat in it, humming a little brave tune over her mending-box, when Nathan came hurrying, springing in. There was rare buoyancy in his step, and Millia wailed, astonished.

Nathan Thacher's tanned face radiated excitement and triumph from every feature. His eyes were shining. Into Millia's hands he thrust a bit of jagged rock.

"Gold, I tell you—g-o-l-d! Milly Thacher, there's gold on this farm—do you hear? It's under your face and eyes, in that rock. It's in all the rocks."

"Milly Thacher, it's the live truth! Dan Merriweather thought so as long ago as he worked for father, but father didn't believe it, nor I either. I didn't think there could be any such good luck. But there is—there is!" The boy's face was radiant. "Dan's an old Forty-niner, and he ought to know. I didn't believe him, though—not till this afternoon, when I found that rock. Seeing's believing, and can't you see? Can't you see all those little gold grains, Milly Thacher, if you've got half an eye? They're there. All we've got to do is to get 'em out. I guess I know gold when I see it!"

Millia held the little rock in limp, unbelieving fingers. She saw the tiny sparkles in it; but—gold! Visions of wealth and luxury and rest hurried through her brain, of Thanny looking happy and satisfied again, and of herself—plain, tired little Milly—wearing becoming clothes, and letting her roughened fingers grow smooth and white. Perhaps she would wear soft kid gloves; people did who had gold. Perhaps Thanny would too; Thanny's hands were slender and shapely. Luxuries read of and dreamed of appealed suddenly to her dazzled vision as possible, probable realities; people with gold on their farms had such things, of course.

"They found gold on a farm over in Bentley. Over Easton way, too. I guess it's all over these parts. Anyhow, it's on the Thacher farm!" He laughed jubilantly. Then he pocketed the little sparkling pebble, and said, briskly: "Don't you wait supper for me, Milly. I'm going down to the Forks to see Amasa Flagg. He can advise me some about working the vein. Amasa knows everything."

Working the vein! How mysteriously important it sounded to Millia as she sat there, confused and awed! Could that be Thanny—Thanny!—swinging along with great springy strides, his shoulders unstooped, and importance and energy trailing in a little wake behind him?

Would Amasa Flagg advise him to dig a mine—Millia's thoughts were couched in familiar words—and wear a candle in his hat, and burrow round in the earth in unsafe places? My goodness me!—would there be real miners round the place, perhaps wanting to board right in the family?

Nathan came home at night rather sobered, but still confident. There was gold there; how much nobody could prophesy till it could be looked into systematically, and that took money. There was no money on the Thacher place, and Nathan scorned any suggestion of borrowing.

So the money must be earned. When that was done, he would sink a shaft and find his gold. When that was done—the money earned! Well, it looked a little appalling just at first; but Nathan Thacher had his grandfather Thacher's courage, once aroused, and he set his teeth for the struggle.

Nathan had thought of his barren waste fields, and gasped inwardly. Well, crops, then, if crops it must be; but what?

"Corn," the oracle had declared. "There's money in sweet-corn, now 't them factories are runnin full tilt over to Easton. They want all they can git. You won't make no mistake if you plant your fields full of it, an' I calc'late you'll find that the nighest road to your gold-mine. I calc'late so. But you'll have to hustle considerable, an' make your hoe fly real stiddy. You can't make a corn crop payin' without you do everything thorough. You've got to hustle, my boy, early 'n' late!"

And how Nathan Thacher hustled those long hot summer days! How, from daylight to sunsetting, he delved and toiled in his fields, working miracles in them with slow stubborn courage! He lost courage once or twice, but Millia never knew it. She watched his eager determined face steadily, and always read quiet resolution in it, and, as the weeks multiplied to months, a new expression of self-respect that delighted her soul.

"Thanny's losing his old down-spirited looks," she would muse happily over her work. "He holds up his head straight and kind of proud now; but, my goodness me, how he is working!"

And Millia, too, worked. She hurried through with her house duties, and went out to the fields with Nathan to do whatever lighter work he would let her do out there. Side by side the brother and sister toiled, seeing the waste places bloom under their eyes, and gradually the rough acres smooth out into beautiful thrifty corn rows.

Millia walked between them in cool evenings, and let her skirts flip the tiny stalks gently. They grew tall, and she could nudge them in friendly greeting as she passed down and up between them.

Of course all this success came only out of the hardest possible wrestling with nature. There went before it weeks of mighty work with drag and pick, wresting out rocks and uprooting stumps and weeds. Only Grandfather Thacher's grim persistence, descended like a mantle on Nathan's aching young shoulders, carried those hard days. The neighbors helped at odd times, and Nathan repaid them in rainy intervals. So at last the two big fields were smooth and ready for the ploughing, that left them seamed with long ridges wavering gently away into perspective. How good the upturned earth had smelled to Millia! She stood outside and drew in long satisfying whiffs of it.

It was so good to see the old place thriving at last—to smell it and watch it and be proud of it. Millia forgot all about the gold-mine some days.

Nathan never did. He repaired the fences to keep intruders out. He drew out loads upon loads of dressing for his land from stores of hitherto wasted fertility beneath the old barns. He nurtured and tended and worked unstintingly, but always with the glitter of the gold grains in his rocks before his eyes. Nathan never forgot. He studied books on mining in the evening until his tired head nodded over the blurring letters. Once, when the corn was all planted, and there was a little interval of rest, he went to a city, a day's trip distant, and had his little samples of glistening rock assayed. It was when he came home from that journey that Millia thought she could detect a little look of disappointment in his face, and perhaps a faint crestfallen note in his voice. But she forgot about it soon, because they were so busy weeding the corn rows.

One evening, when the green stalks towered more than elbow-high around them, Thanny and Milly walked through the rows, talking to each other across them. They both looked happy. Milly's small thin face had rounded out a little, and turned to a golden brown. She walked with little quick jubilant steps. The old farm looked so beautiful to-night! What would father say?

Suddenly she began to laugh. In front of her dangled her scarecrow—the work of her own hands—mincing and bowing to her ludicrously. A slight breeze stirred his hempen hair and swayed his coat skirts. It was Thanny's coat and Thanny's hat and Thanny's trousers and boots. He was an unwieldy, unflattering travesty of Thanny, with, oddly enough, his stooped shoulders, and old air of depression and gloom. Had Thanny bequeathed them to Milly's scarecrow, for once and all?

For to-night Thanny's shoulders were not stooped, and his whole expression was cheery and manly.

"Milly," Thanny said, "that's me. I've been watching myself this long time—stooped over and hangdog and down in the mouth. I've been seeing myself the way you and other folks used to see me, and—well, it was kind of a[Pg 11] bitter pill, but I took it, and I guess it's done me good. I guess so."

The summer days swelled the sweet-corn kernels and brought the ears to their perfection. It was almost time to cut them and carry them away to the factory, when one day Nathan found Millia among the rows, and stopped to put both his big hands on both her shoulders with unusual gentleness. Looking up into his face, she thought how serenely happy it seemed.

"Milly," he said, laughing a little in quiet triumph, "they offered me eighty dollars an acre for this corn to-day."

"Yes'm; and I took it." He walked away, down one row and up another. Then he faced her again. "Milly, we've struck pay dirt a'ready. We've found the gold," he said.

"Why, Thanny! Why, I thought—" And then Milly caught his sudden sweeping gesture, comprehending all the golden stalks of corn, row after row, and understood. "Why, yes!" she cried; "so it is, Thanny Thacher—it's our gold!"

"Yes," Thanny said, thoughtfully, as they walked home together, and there was quiet contentment in his voice. "Yes, I guess it's all right. The assayer said there wasn't enough gold in the rocks to make it worth while, but there's gold in the old sod, Milly. We've struck 'pay dirt.'"

A FAIR RETORT.

It is quite as hard as ever to get ahead of Pat. This was proved the other day during a trial in an English court-room, an Irish witness being examined as to his knowledge of a shooting affair.

"That evidence is not satisfactory," replied the magistrate, sternly, "Stand down!"

The witness proceeded to leave the box, and directly his back was turned he laughed derisively. The magistrate, indignant at the contempt of court, called him back, and asked him how he dared to laugh in court.

"That evidence is not satisfactory," said Pat, quietly, but with a twinkle in his eye.

DANIEL WEBSTER'S SCHOOL DAYS.

BY ALBERT LEE.

The house where Daniel Webster boarded while he was a scholar at the Phillips Academy, Exeter, still stands at the corner of Water and Clifford streets, in that little New Hampshire town. The external appearance of the building has been changed somewhat; the protruding logs in the back part of the house have been covered with planed boards, and the large old-fashioned chimney that stood until within a few years has been torn down, but the little room on the second floor is still in about the same condition as it was in the days when Webster studied there.

He was fourteen years of age when brought by his father to Exeter and placed in charge of Mr. Clifford, a worthy gentleman of the town. The precise date of Daniel Webster's entrance at the academy is the 25th of May, 1796. It was the first time that the boy had been away from home, and he describes his feelings himself as follows: "The change overpowered me. I hardly remained master of my own senses among ninety boys, who had seen so much more and appeared to know so much more than I did." When Webster's father had bidden his son farewell, he said to Mr. Clifford that "he must teach Daniel to hold his fork and knife, for Daniel knows no more about it than a cow does about holding a spade."

From all accounts this comparison must have been a good one, for Daniel Webster's table manners were so rude that it is said that the other boys who boarded at Mr. Clifford's requested the latter to send Webster away. But Mr. Clifford, of course, never for a moment considered this, and knowing that young Webster was of a most sensitive disposition, he tried to correct the lad by example rather than by advice and remonstrance. Webster was accustomed to hold his knife and fork in his fists; one day Mr. Clifford held his own knife and fork in the same way, and continued doing so at intervals, until Webster saw how ungraceful it was, and corrected himself.

Daniel Webster was not much of a success as a student while at Exeter. He admits this in his autobiography. He seemed unable to recite in a room full of boys; and although he spent many hours in study, he could never, having learned his lesson, make a good recitation. The strangest thing of all, however, is that he could not be induced to speak in public; and when the day came on which it was usual for his class to declaim, although he had learned his piece, he was utterly incapable of rising from his seat when his name was called. "The kind and excellent Buckminster," says Webster in his autobiography, "sought especially to persuade me to perform the exercise of declamation, like other boys, but I could not do it. Many a piece did I commit to memory, yet when the day came when the school elected to hear declamations, when my name was called and I saw all eyes turned to my seat, I could not raise myself from it. Sometimes the instructors frowned; sometimes they smiled. Mr. Buckminster always pressed and entreated most winningly that I would venture, but I could never command sufficient resolution. When the occasion was over, I went home and wept bitter tears of mortification." To think that such should have been the nature of the boy who afterward became so famous an orator, and whose speeches, as a man, have become classical, and whose presence "has graced the courts of justice in the national halls of legislation"!

Daniel Webster was so greatly discouraged at this inability to declaim before his comrades, and by the treatment he received at the hands of his fellow-students because of his awkwardness and shyness, that at the end of his first term he said to Dr. Abbott, the principal, that he thought he would not return after Christmas. The principal knew very well that Webster's rustic manners and coarse clothing had been the cause of the misconduct of the other boys toward him, and he therefore encouraged Webster to remain in school, and assured him that he was a better scholar than most of the boys in his class, and he promised the lad that if he would return at the commencement of the next term, he would be placed in a higher class, where he should "no longer be hindered by the boys who cared more for play and dress than for solid improvement." Webster says that these were the first encouraging words that he had ever received with regard to his studies, and because of them he resolved to return to school, and to work with all the ability he possessed.

But in spite of his best determinations, Webster was never able to do well in the class-room, and he therefore left Phillips Academy after having attended its classes for nine months. His father placed him then, in February, 1797, in charge of the Rev. Samuel Wood at Boscawen, who prepared him for college. Even with Mr. Wood young Webster's success as a student was not very great, for at the end of a year the reverend gentleman said to his pupil, "I expected to keep you till next year, but I am tired of you, and I shall put you into college next month."

Daniel Webster went to Dartmouth College, and there he did much better, both in his studies and in his intercourse with his fellow-students, and he managed a number of times to speak in public.

THE AMERICAN NIGHTS' ENTERTAINMENTS.

A JAPANESE MATINÉE.

BY EMMA J. GRAY.

The members of the Senior Class in the Frotinbas Institute wished to give a complimentary entertainment to their friends. There were many informal suggestions and discussions as to the character of the entertainment, and had not a class meeting been called, such a condition of affairs might have been kept up indefinitely. But the meeting decided matters, for then the different suggestions were formally examined, weighed, and voted upon. That receiving the most votes being a Japanese matinée.

The question now settled, committees were appointed to complete arrangements, so that at the time of entertainment there would be neither balk nor anxiety.

To the girls were given the important duties of decoration and refreshment, the boys declaring that "girls had a knack at such things," and therefore there was not the slightest use of their blundering awkwardness.

While the boys on their part promised to furnish sufficient and clever amusement. And when the day of days at last arrived, for everything is sure to come in time, and too soon sometimes, no sky could be bluer, nor sunshine give heartier welcome, for it was a perfectly delicious atmosphere. As a consequence, therefore, the new gymnasium, in which this pretty entertainment was held, was crowded to its utmost limit. Such a wealth of charming girls and manly boys! There were older people there, too—mothers and fathers, whose love for their children made them sure to come and see how they did things, and, indeed, to be quite honest, we must not fail to mention the dearest of dear little people, whose chubby dimpled hands would clap with all their baby might, and whose gleeful laugh, whenever their big brothers or sisters would particularly delight them, would spread contagion through the entire audience.

All the girls looked quaint and interesting in Japanese costume. Some of these had been hired, and others made at home by the nimble fingers of the wearers. In order to learn how to do things, the girls carefully examined the portraits of Japanese women, and also received many ideas from a large Japanese emporium. At this place they made all their purchases, even to such small though important items as hair-pins, for, notwithstanding that none of the girls were over sixteen, each had her hair rolled, and altogether dressed in the Japanese fashion. This hair-dressing effected an enormous change, for instead of a cloud of windy curls, long waving hair, or braids, to which we were accustomed, the smoothly arranged and fantastically decorated locks seemed odd indeed, and gave the girlish faces an almost unnatural look, as though they were masquerading after the fashion of their baby sisters when they roguishly look through grandmother's spectacles. But notwithstanding the change wrought by upturned hair, there was no change in their winsome manner, and therefore every guest was instantly won.

The gymnasium had been arranged to represent a salon. The boys and girls hall contributed some of the furnishing, such as bric-à-brac and hangings, the sort that could be most safely conveyed from home, others had been hired, and some of the less expensive articles, for example—large paper parasols, balloons, cotton crêpe materials, and fans—had been bought. The tone of the room was perfect, indicating the thought with which the different articles had been selected and placed.

There was a raised platform, so that the tricks, which were the prime feature of the entertainment, could be seen. This platform was artistically decorated, and chairs, screens, tables, gauze hangings, and all the accessories required by the exhibitors were conveniently near. To the left of the platform there stood an upright piano, on which low music was played throughout the performance.

The hour stated for the matinée was three in the afternoon, and as most of the guests were present, it opened promptly with a succession of college songs furnished by a mandolin quartet, after which the following tricks, were shown.

It will be noticed that many of these tricks are already familiar, and very easily executed, when you know how. We will hope the accompanying explanation will stimulate some readers to try

THE NUT TRICK.

The shell must be prepared before the performance. Remove the kernel by boring a hole, or opening the nut at one end. Take out the contents by the aid of a lady's hat-pin, and instead of the kernel, slip in a short piece of scarlet-colored baby-width ribbon. Then putty or wax the opening over, and color the putty or wax with a dye, crayon, or paint the exact shade of the nut. The nut being thus prepared, you may now lay it on the table before your friends, and present a bunch of many-colored ribbons of the same width and length to them. Ask that some one select any piece he choose; you must have a don't-care air, as though it didn't make any difference to you which piece was chosen. While, on the contrary, you care so much, that should a wrong selection be made you must at once tell an interesting story, which will help your friends to forget that the ribbon has already been selected, and you should make use of this opportunity to offer the ribbons over again. This time the selection will likely be correct. It would be wise to have the majority of pieces of ribbon the color of the piece in the nut, as that color would catch the eye first and stand a better chance of being taken.

The right ribbon now being chosen, make a great point of looking at it; hold it up at arm's length, so that all the audience may see it. Then ask the party who made the selection to put it back in the bunch with the others and mix them all up to please himself. When he has finished, face the bunch of ribbons, and loudly repeat, three times over, "Ribbon, go into the nut." Then ask your friend to go forward and take the little hammer which he will find[Pg 13] on the table and crack the nut open. When the nut is opened, sure enough inside is a scarlet ribbon.

BURN A LADY'S HANDKERCHIEF, BUT RETURN IT WHOLE AGAIN.

This requires a tin cylinder about eight inches in diameter and twelve inches in height. Into this put a perfectly fitting tin vessel, which is divided strictly in half. When this vessel is slid inside of the cylinder the whole does not look unlike a canister with a cover at each end. Having the handkerchief, hold it so that everybody sees it, and talk fluently, keeping the body constantly in motion, indeed making so many motions that no one has noticed that you have packed this handkerchief in the upper division of the tin vessel, and that, as you are walking towards the candle, you have turned the cylinder upside down, and that also the handkerchief you are now holding is really not a handkerchief at all, but a thin piece of muslin you have prepared to simulate a handkerchief. Pour on it a few drops of alcohol, which will help it to burn even more rapidly; tear it, if you think it more effective. When the owner thinks that her handkerchief is forever destroyed, cleverly manage to invert the cylinder, take out the handkerchief, shake it well, holding it so that all the audience sees that it is not even scorched, and then return it to the lady.

THE BOWL TRICK.

Fill a tiny tumbler with water and cover it with a bowl. Then state you will drink the water in the tumbler underneath without moving the bowl.

Of course the company do not believe you, and you ask all to turn their backs, or close their eyes, if they will promise not to look, until one of the party counts ten. Immediately they have turned their backs, or closed their eyes, you pick up another glass of water and hastily swallow a few mouthfuls. They hear the sound, but no one can look until ten is counted. By that time the glass from which you drank is hidden again, and the company catch you wiping your moist lips. Undoubtedly one of the number will be so suspicious that he will lift the bowl to see, and then is your opportunity, for you at once pick up the glass and drink, saying, as you put it down, "I didn't touch the bowl."

AN IMPOSSIBLE JUMP.

Take a gentleman's hat, and, turning it around so that every one sees it, ask your friends whether, if you put it on the floor, they could jump over it. Of course they will answer "yes." Then stand it close to the wall, and tell them not to all try at once, but take their turn to jump.

TURN A GOBLET UPSIDE DOWN WITHOUT SPILLING THE WATER.

Fill a glass goblet so as not to allow any water to drop over the edge. Cover the top with a piece of paper; on the paper put your hand, and turn the goblet rapidly over; then remove the hand. The upward pressure of the air will prevent the water from spilling.

THE HAT OMELET.

Everybody who enjoys tricks is no doubt familiar with this. It is very easy to do.

First state that you are about to make an omelet. Then break three eggs into the hat, and appear to add a little milk and flour, after which shake all together and hold the hat over a lighted lamp, candle, or gas. After a few moments lift out the hot flaky omelet and pass it to your friends, otherwise they will think they have been deceived.

The secret is the omelet was cooked on the range, and was in the hat when you commenced to exhibit the trick, the hat being held too high for the audience to see inside. The eggs were not full, only the shells, the contents having been previously drawn through a tiny aperture at one end. Laugh and talk a great deal, and it will not be noticed that you do not put in the corn-starch and milk; also let a real egg drop, as if by accident, on a plate standing on the table before you, or let a table-spoon or knife fall. This will attract all eyes and further prevent discovery. As in other tricks, you should practice it before showing it to your friends.

THE WONDERFUL CARAFE.

An empty carafe is brought by your confederate. This you should rinse and drain in the presence of your audience in order to satisfy them that there is really no mistake, that the carafe is positively empty. After it has well drained dry it, wiping it around with the greatest care. In the towel which your confederate brought you he also brought a bladder, in which was a weak preparation made[Pg 14] up of spirits of wine, sugar, and water. In this way the carafe is filled without the audience detecting. The glasses are already in position, and in each one has been put a drop or two of flavoring extract, such as pineapple, lemonade, orange, peppermint. The magician then inquires if any one would like a glass of lemonade, and being answered in the affirmative, he pours the same from the carafe by filling the glass in which the drops of lemonade extract have been placed. In like manner he will give a glass of orangeade, or whatever drink corresponds to the extract in the glasses.

THE VANISHING TEN-CENT PIECE.

Put this coin in the palm of your hand and take pains to let everybody see it. Then state that if any one of the audience will call out "Vanish" it will disappear.

The reason why is because the nail of your middle finger is covered with white wax, and closing the hand forcibly the coin instantly fastens itself to it. You must then open the hand wide and show that the ten-cent piece has really gone.

The tricks now being over, the audience rose to congratulate their young entertainers and also to exchange a few words with one another, and in so doing many of them did not discover that refreshments were about to be served until they were asked to take seats at the small tables that had most mysteriously appeared.

The refreshments were very simple, being only vanilla and strawberry rolled wafers, and delicious tea. The tea was, of course, poured into the prettiest of Japanese cups, and carried on richly decorated trays on which were laid divers colored Japanese napkins, while the graceful, cordial, Japanese-robed young girls added an indescribable charm.

And thus closed this dainty, interesting entertainment amid the pleasant chatter of the happily seated, congenial company.

THE NORMAL EYE.

BY JNO. GILMER SPEED.

If six persons casually thrown together look at the moon when it is high in the heavens, and each be asked how large the moon seems to be, it is more than likely that the questioner will receive six different answers. This probably would not be the case if the moon were near the horizon and just rising or just setting.

The differences in the answers to the first query will be due to the perfect or imperfect action of the various eyes. The comparative uniformity of the answers in the second instance would be due to the nicer adjustment of the eyes by seeing at the same time with the moon familiar objects on the earth, such as houses and trees, which would afford a standard of measurement.

Many persons old and young have remarked what I have just noted. I have often observed such differences of vision, but never gave any particular thought to the matter until the beautiful gilded statue of Diana on top of the lofty tower of the Madison Square Garden was erected as a weather-vane. The arrow of the chaste huntress points in the direction of the prevailing wind.

To me the statue, when it was first erected, seemed at least ten feet tall. To another of my friends it seemed a trifle smaller, and so did the appearance vary, until the sixth of my companions said that to him the statue seemed no larger than a good-sized doll—that is, about two feet in height.

Then we turned to the moon, and here again were six opinions. They varied from between attributing to the moon the size of a barrel-head, eighteen inches in diameter, and the size of a breakfast plate, about seven and a half inches. I was puzzled and interested, and as I saw larger than any of my friends, I was afraid that my eyes were in some way out of focus.

Next day I went to an optician to ascertain whether or not I had normal vision. I was put through the usual tests of reading, without the aid of glasses, sentences in different-sized letters. Then the optician declared that I saw with most unusual accuracy. I was puzzled at this, for I regarded Mr. Augustus St. Gaudens, who had made the weather-vane statue of Diana, as the most gifted sculptor in America, and Mr. Stanford White, the designer of the tower upon which the statue stands, as one of our most accomplished architects. These gentlemen could not have made a mistake, I thought, for surely they did not mean that Diana should have to one standing on the ground the appearance of a giantess.

It happened that the shop of the optician I consulted was in the neighborhood of Madison Square. Looking from the windows, one could see Diana changing her front as the spring winds shifted. Still she seemed at least ten feet in height. I turned to the optician.

"Is there any one here whose vision has been frequently tested, and about which there can be no doubt?"

A young man was sent for, and I was told that his eyesight was as perfect as human eyesight ever gets to be. I took him to the window and pointed out Diana, who now seemed in the act of shooting her arrow directly over our heads, and was therefore facing us.

"Oh, she is too large," he responded, with a laugh; "she seems fully ten feet high to me." Here was confirmation of my own opinion.

I then went to Mr. St. Gaudens. He told me frankly that the statue was too large, and that it was to be replaced by a smaller one—five feet shorter, a diminished replica. With the modelling he was entirely satisfied, as are all other competent art critics, I believe, but he was convinced that the statue was too tall.

I asked him what the custom was in determining how much a figure that was to be placed at an elevation should be exaggerated. He told me that in modelling ordinary statues a platform could be made of the same size as the base upon which the finished work was to rest, and that then the sculptor's sense of proportion would guide him. In this case, however, where a statue was to be placed at an elevation of 325 feet, such a test was impracticable.

Hence the proportions had to be determined by a scale-drawing which showed all the various parts of the building and tower in relation to each other and to the whole. This drawing was modified until it completely satisfied the sense of proportion of both architect and sculptor. Such a method, however, appears not to have been exact enough to have prevented two of our ablest men from falling into a costly error of judgment.

By marking off a base-line for one side of a right-angled triangle, and letting another side of the triangle be the height of the tower, the length of the hypothenuse, or third side of the triangle, which would also have been the line of vision, could have been easily calculated. Then if another right-angled triangle be constructed, the hypothenuse of which is just as long as the normal human vision can see without diminishing an object of the size that it is desirable that the elevated object should appear when fixed in place, then the height of this given object would be to the hypothenuse of the second or subsidiary triangle as the hypothenuse of the larger triangle is to the height of the desired object. That is, if the normal vision will reach accurately 200 feet, that would be the hypothenuse of the second triangle. Suppose, then, that the hypothenuse of the first triangle be 500 feet, and it was desired that the elevated object should appear six feet high; then the architect would have to make it fifteen feet high for the proper result to be attained.

By applying such a plain mathematical rule as this the costly mistakes made in New York might have been obviated, and by its aid it can be determined at any time just how much an elevated object should be exaggerated so that it will look of a natural size. Such a rule as this can[Pg 15] be applied by any school-boy who has mastered his trigonometry; but there are few, if any, architects who resort to calculations to determine a mere matter of size when it does not relate to the strength of the structure. The strength of walls and floors is of course calculated with mathematical nicety, but those matters of construction and ornamentation which only affect the appearance of buildings are determined by the taste and the sense of proportion of the designer.

And it may be that it is scarcely worth while for architects and designers to take any greater pains than they do to arrive at mathematical accuracy in those things which, after all, have only an æsthetic value. The first Diana on the tower was too large; but if a thousand had been randomly gathered in Madison Square Garden, and a census of their opinions taken, it would probably have been found that the vote stood something like this: 50 would have thought the statue 15 feet high; 100, 10 feet; 200, 8 feet; 200, 6 feet; 200, 5 feet; 100, 4 feet; 100, 3 feet; 50, 2 feet.

The statue, which was at an elevation of 325 feet from the ground, was really 18 feet in height. The present statue, which has replaced the one of which I have been speaking, is 13 feet high.

The percentage of persons having normal vision is very small, and those who by the use of glasses or spectacles correct such defects are also comparatively small, if we except those who realize the impairment of their vision as they realize, after the meridian of life has been passed, the impairment of other faculties. Children, as a rule, have normal vision; but I am assured by numerous practical opticians that not more than ten per cent. of the men and women who have passed their twenty-first birthday still have normal vision; and when a person has got beyond forty-five and can still see with the accuracy of youth, then that person affords so exceptional a case as to be worthy to be placed among the living curiosities. A small percentage of persons with abnormal vision see large, but, as a rule, eyes that are not as they should be see objects in a diminished form.

This being the case, an architect who has a normal vision, or corrects his vision by the aid of properly adjusted spectacles, and whose sense of proportion is also of a high order, will very likely continually be designing things that only a small percentage of those who are to look at them will be capable of appreciating. Out of a thousand grown persons who see his accurately proportioned work, one hundred will see it with normal eyes, and two hundred more, perhaps, will see it with eyes corrected by spectacles. Three hundred will therefore view his work as he does himself, and seven hundred, not knowing that their vision is defective, will judge that his work has been badly done. Therefore, build he ever so well, he is building only for a small minority. The children, with eyes ordinarily in a normal condition, should be the best friends an architect could cultivate, for they, in one sense, at least, usually have the capacity to look upon his work and say whether it be well done or not. But, unfortunately, about the time that young people reach an age when they begin to think seriously about art and architecture, the great majority of them also begin to lose that normal sight, without which distant objects can no longer be seen in accurate proportions. Or perhaps the architects might impress upon all those who criticise their work that a consultation with an oculist and a call upon a spectacle-maker would enable a critic to reform his adverse judgment. Such a course would be a good thing both for the eye specialist and the optician. But if an architect himself have defective vision, he can either design his structure by mathematical rules, or do for himself what has just been suggested for his critics. At any rate, the statistics available, and these are to a large extent only approximated, show that the eyesight of Americans is getting all the time more defective, and lead to the conclusion that in the course of a few more years the exceptional person will be the one who does not wear eye-glasses or spectacles or squint impertinently through the "monocle," that distinguishing mark of English and Continental dandyism.

THE LAST BEAR OF THE SEASON.

When the boys, after a long and tedious railway journey from the hot city to the cool wooded mountain country, arrived at the much-beloved hotel where they had spent several very happy summers, the first person to greet them was Sandboys, the curly-headed hall-boy with the twinkling eyes and rapid-running feet. Sandboys, as they entered the great, comfortable hotel office, was in the act of carrying a half-dozen pitchers of iced water up stairs to supply thirsty guests with the one thing needful and best to quench that thirst, and in his excitement at catching sight once again of his two little friends, managed to drop two of them with a loud crash upon the office floor.

"It's Sandboys," said Jack, gleefully. "I was afraid we wouldn't see him this year. He's been studying theelygy."

"He'll never be any kind of a preacher," returned Bob, with a laugh at the idea. "He can't hardly open his mouth without tellin' a fish story or a bear story, and I don't think his kind of stories would do for sermons."

At any rate, whatever the cause might have been, there Sandboys was, plying his old vocation, and apparently no further along in the study of theology than he had been when, a year before, he had bade the boys "good-by forever," with the statement that as he was going to be a missionary, the chances were they'd never see him again.

"I don't see why the proprietor of this hotel keeps a careless hall-boy like that," said a cross old lady, upon whose dress Sandboys had managed to spill some of the water.

"Well, you will see in a few days," returned an old maid who was sitting at her side, sharply. "Those two boys as has just come in is fearful noisy and lively, and that Sandboys last summer was the only person around here as could keep 'em quiet. When he wasn't around they was a-climbin' all over the men and a-settin' in the laps of all the ladies."

"They look movey an' noisy," said the cross old lady, eying Jack and Bob narrowly. "Whose boys be they?"

"They're cousins—their fathers is brothers. Their last name's Drake," replied the old maid.

"Humph!" sneered the cross old lady. "Seems to me, if they behaves as you say they do, they'd oughter been named Gander. Gander's a good name for all boys, 'pears to me, anyhow, a-squawkin' an' a-sissin' around all the time."

But Bob and Jack and Sandboys were blissfully unconscious of the severity of the old lady's criticism, and had eyes for the moment for none but each other.

"Didn't expect to see you, though, Sandboys," said Bob. "Thought you'd be off preachin'. Given up theelygy?"

"Sorter," said Sandboys. "Didn't like the prospect o' bein' et by Samoans and Feejees, so I thought I'd stick to bell-boyin' another season, anyhow; but I'll see you later, boys. I've got to hurry along with this ice-watter. It's overdue now, an' we've got the kickin'est lot o' folks here this year you ever see. One man here the other night got mad as hooky because it took forty minutes to soft bile an egg. Said two minutes was all was necessary to bile an egg softer'n mush, not understandin' anything about the science of eggs, where hens feeds on pebbles."

"Certainly. Pebbles," reiterated Sandboys. "Nothin' extryordinary about that. Chickens has got to eat somethin', and up in these here States o' New Hampshire an' Vermount there ain't much left for 'em after we human bein's has been fed except pebbles, in which the soil is partickerlarly fertile. Well, when a hen fed on pebbles comes to lay eggs, cobblestones ain't in it with 'em for hardness, so's when you come to bile 'em it takes most a week to git 'em soft—an' this feller kicked at forty minutes. Most likely he's swearin' around upstairs now because o' the delay in gettin' his ice-watter; and 'tain't more'n two hours since he sent for it, neither."

With this, Sandboys, gathering up the remaining pitchers of water, bounded up the first flight of stairs like an antelope and disappeared, while Bob and Jack went with their parents in to supper, to which they did full justice, for their luncheon on the train that day had been very scrappy and meagre.

They did not see Sandboys again that night, for they were pretty well tired out with their day's exertions, and most reluctantly obeyed their parents' commands to tumble into bed at an early hour. But the next morning they were down bright and early, and there in the office, humming softly to himself, sat Sandboys, patiently awaiting such summonses as might come to him from the awakening guests above.

"It's nice to see you again, boys," he said, as they greeted him. "Somehow the hotel 'ain't seemed natural without you. It's been too sorter peaceful an' quiet like; but now that you're back, I reckon the band'll begin to play a few tunes. All been well?"

"Pretty good," said Sandboys. "'Ain't had much to complain about. Had the measles in December, and the mumps in February; an' along about the middle o' May the whoopin'-cough got a holt of me; but as it saved my life, I can't kick about that."

Here Sandboys looked gratefully at an invisible something—doubtless the recollection in the thin air of his departed case of whooping-cough, for having rescued him from the grave.

"That's queer," put in Bob, looking curiously at his old friend. "I don't see how whoopin'-cough could save anybody's life. Do you, Jack?"

"I guess I don't," replied Jack; "but it isn't queer if it saved Sandboys's life, because somehow or other queer things happen so often to him that they've stopped being queer to me."

"Well, I must say," said Sandboys, with a pleased laugh at Jack's tribute to the wondrous quality of his experiences, "if I was a-goin' to start out to save people's lives generally I wouldn't have thought a case o' whoopin'-cough would be of much use; but as long as I'm the feller that has to come up here every June an' shoo the bears out o' the hotel, I ain't never goin' to be without a spell o' whoopin'-cough along about that time if I can help it."

"It's part o' my business," said Sandboys. "I told you once before about how the bears come down from the mountains in winter and sleep here in the hotel rooms, an' lead a reg'lar hotel life among 'emselves, until the snow melts, when we have to drive 'em out. They climb in the windows of the cupola generally, burrowin' down to it through the snow, an' divide up the best rooms in the house, an' enjoy life out o' the wind an' storm, snug 's bugs in rugs. Last June there must ha' been a hundred of 'em here when I got here, an' one by one I got rid of 'em. Some I smoked out; some I deceived, gettin' 'em to chase me out through the winders, an' then doublin' back on my tracks an lockin' 'em out. Others I gets rid of in other ways; but it's pretty hard work, an' when night comes I'm generally pretty well tired out.

"By actual tally this June I shood a hundred an' three bears off into the mountains. When the hundred an' third was gone I searched the house from top to bottom to see if there was any more to be got rid of; every blessed one of the five hundred rooms I went through, and not a bear was left that I could see. I tell you, I was glad, because there was a partickerlarly ugly run of 'em this year, an' they gave me a pile o' trouble. They hadn't found much to eat in the hotel, an' they was disapp'inted an' cross. As a matter of fact, the only things they found in the place they could eat was three sofy cushions an' the hotel register, which don't make a very hearty meal for a hundred an' three bears.

"All this time I was sufferin' like hooky with bad spasms of whoopin'-cough, an' that made my work all the harder. So, as you can guess, when I found there warn't another bear left in the house, I just threw myself down anywhere and slept. My! how I slept! I don't suppose anything ever slept the way I did. And then what do you suppose happened? As I was a-lyin' there unconscious, a great big black hungry bruin that had been hidin' in the bread-oven in the bake-kitchen, where I didn't think of lookin' for him, came saunterin' up, lickin' his chops with delight at the idee of havin' me raw for his dinner. I lay on, unconscious of my danger, until he got right up close, an' then I waked up, an' openin' my eyes, saw this great black savage thing gloatin' over me. He was sniffin' my bang when I caught sight of him."

"There was no use o' askin' for mercy from him," retorted Sandboys, with a convincing shake of his head. "He was too hungry to think o' bein' merciful."

"'Oh lor!' says I, as I gave myself up for lost. 'This here's the end o' me;' at which the bear looked me straight in the eye, licked his chops again, an' was just about to take a nibble, when, 'whoop'! I had a spasm of whoopin'. Well, I guess you boys knows what that means. There ain't nothin' more uncanny, more terrifyin', in the whole run o' human noises than the whoop o' the whoopin'-cough. At the first whoop the bear jumped back ten feet. At the second he put for the door; but stopped and looked around, hopin' he was mistaken, when I whooped a third time; and the third did the business. That third whoop would ha' scared Indians. It was awful. It was like a tornady runnin' through a fog-horn; an' when he heard that, Mr. Bear started on a scoot up those hills that must have taken him ten miles before I quit coughin'.

"An' that's why I says that when you've got to shoo bears for a livin', an attack o' whoopin'-cough ain't the worst thing in the world to have when you can use it. Anyhow, it saved my life from the last bear of the season, an' I'm thankful to it."

Which Bob and Jack thought it was no less than proper that Sandboys should be; but they didn't tell him so, for at that moment he was summoned to find number 433's left boot, which the bootblack had left at number 334's door, by some odd mistake.

Lawrenceville has never started the year with so few old football men back again in school. Nine of last year's players have not returned. Among those who are on hand are Cadwalader and Richards, the guards. Richards has been out for practice only about two weeks, but he is rapidly getting into his old form. Mattis, who was disabled at full-back last year, came out early, and was appointed temporary captain; but he has now been forced to give up playing, owing to an injury to his knee, and Richards has been appointed permanent captain. Righter, who was elected to the office at the close of the season last fall, did not return to school, and is now at Amherst College.

Compared with those of former years, the rush-line will be light, averaging, perhaps, between 157 and 160 pounds. Cadwalader is the heaviest man on the team. Ross, Pinkerton, and Dana have been tried at centre, and the last-named appears at present to be capable of the best work in that position, although he lacks experience. Cadwalader and Richards will of course be worth more than they were last year, both men being extremely valuable as ground-gainers. For tackles, S. Dodds and James are the leading candidates. Dodds played on the second team last fall, and should become a strong player under coaching this year. James may be looked upon as fairly sure of making his position.

As to the rest of the team, there is considerable uncertainty. At present Little and Dudley are playing at the ends, and are as good as four other candidates for those positions. C. Dodds, who was substitute full-back last year, might be developed into a good end rusher, but he is now being played at full-back and right half-back. At quarter Arrott, who pitched for the nine last year, has been doing fairly good work, but it seems probable that he will be superseded by De Saulles, a brother of the '94 quarter-back now at Yale. De Saulles is quick, a sure tackler, and, with experience and maturity, will doubtless become the equal of his brother.

There is a large number of candidates for the half-back positions—Willing, Wells, Kafer, Adams, and McCord. The latter two may eventually get the positions, while Kafer, a brother of last year's full-back, and C. Dodds may be held for the full-back positions.

Much good material will doubtless be developed, however, by the various house teams, which are practising daily, and some men may be taken from them for the first eleven. The games of importance played so far have been against the Princeton scrub twice, Lawrenceville losing, 18-6 and 18-0. It should be remembered, however, that this scrub team scores almost daily on the Princeton 'varsity. Lawrenceville has defeated the New Jersey A.C., 8-4, and St. Paul's, Garden City, 28-0. The St. Paul's team is considerably heavier than that of Lawrenceville, but they have not so far developed the team-work which is such a strong feature of the Jersey-men's game. Their men start very quickly, and their half-backs are real sprinters, but they are not sufficiently shielded by interference, and when they came in contact with the Lawrenceville men they were unable to make such gains as they did against Berkeley, whom they defeated 50-0.

A few weeks ago this Department had occasion to[Pg 18] comment upon certain unsportsmanlike features of athletics in Wisconsin, and called particular attention to the fact that the Madison High-School had at one time allowed certain members of the University of Wisconsin to play upon its football team. It was also said at that time that the Madison High-School was "a great boaster of championships." The latter phrase seems to have given greater offence to the athletes at Madison H.-S. than anything else, for the Department is in receipt of a letter from the captain of the M.H.-S. football team, in which he admits that "we had on our last year's team two players who were taking studies at the U. of W.," but, he adds, "we never boast."

It is to be regretted that the Madisonians should have misunderstood the sense in which the word "boast" was used in this Department. We never had any intention of citing them as vainglorious. Those students at Madison who have read, or are now reading, Homer will find the expression "to boast" very frequently used by the old Greeks, and always in a good and proper sense. If they will look in the Century Dictionary they will find, among a number of definitions, the following: "Boast (II., 2.): to glory or exult in possessing; have as a source of pride." It was in the sense that Madison H.-S. had many championships as a source of pride that they were spoken of in this Department as boasters of championships. In the same sense we may very justly call Andover a boaster of championships. Lawrenceville School is a boaster of championships; the Oakland High-School, in California, is a boaster of a great many championships; the Berkeley School in this city is a boaster of championships; so, likewise, is the English High-School in Boston. There is nothing in these statements for any schools to take offence at.

Concerning the two players of the Madison High-School team last year who were members of the University of Wisconsin while they played as school-boys on the school team, the captain of the Madison High-School gives a frank and detailed statement of their connection both with the school and with the University. He adds: "True it is they were members of the U. of W., but they were only there on condition, and, on the other hand, were full-fledged members of our school until their graduation day. They were the only ones in the history of our teams that were members of both schools at the same time. You can judge for yourself whether or not we were justified in playing both of these men."

Any one with the slightest conception of the ethics of sport will be able to judge of this question at once, and will unfailingly decide that the Madison High-School was certainly not justified in any way whatever in playing these two men. Just as soon as these students were enrolled as members of the University, no matter if they only took fifteen minutes' instruction a year at the University, they were disqualified from having any connection whatsoever with High-School athletics.

In an affair of this kind there can be no half-way conditions. If you allow such men as these on school football teams, what is to prevent University students from taking one hour a week at the High-School in order that they may play football on the High-School team? The latter would be just as much a student of the High-School as the two men who have caused Madison's athletics to suffer charges of unsportsmanship.

I feel sure that a little thought on this subject will convince the captain of the Madison High-School football team, and all the members of his school, that what I say is perfectly just. He has asked me to correct the statement made in the same issue that "the Madison High-School football team has never been defeated." I do so at once. It has been defeated. I ought to have known at the time, from experience, better than to write any such sentence as that.

The New Britain High-School football team, which has made such a good record so far this year, is going to make a strong bid for the championship of the Connecticut League. I am writing this just before the important game with Hartford, which will have been played by the time this week's Round Table is published; but even if New Britain suffers defeat at the hands of Hartford, I feel sure that it will not be without putting up a strong fight.

Towers, at centre, is aggressive on the attack, but weak in defensive work, and does not get into the interference. Corbin, right guard, on the other hand, gets into the interference well, but is a weak tackler. Alling, on the other side of centre, is a sharp, aggressive player. Flannery and McDonough are both old players, and are the best two men in the line, invariably making their distance when the ball is given to them. Porter, at end, is one of the best players in that position in the Connecticut High-School League. He is very fast in getting down the field, and breaks through the interference cleverly. Griswold, at the other end, is a good tackler, but in other respects his playing is only fair.

Captain Meehan, quarter-back, runs his men with good judgment, is a good tackler, passes well as a rule, but occasionally makes costly fumbles. Brinley, at half-back, is a green player, but a fast runner, and will do very much better as soon as he learns to follow his interference. Fitch, the other half-back, has this same fault, and is not much of a tackler, but he seems to have the knack of making gains around the end. O'Donnell, at full-back, is a fair punter, a good line-backer, and a good tackler. He is beyond doubt the best player on the team, and plays as well as many a college man in the same position. Take it all in all, the New Britain team has a strong heavy line, but the half-backs run too high, and do not pay enough attention to following their interference, and the whole aggregation is too careless at tackling.

The star player among the Chicago High-Schools is beyond any doubt Teetzel, of the Englewood High-School, whose portrait we published in this Department last week. It is deeply to be deplored that any charges of professionalism should have been brought against him, and it seems that these should either be proved at once or entirely withdrawn and hushed. In the recent game between Englewood and Lake View, Teetzel proved himself a giant. At the outset it looked for a time as if Lake View were going to have the best of the argument; they forced the ball rapidly down the field and scored. But Englewood took a sharp brace at this point, and had everything their own way for the rest of the afternoon, winning, 28-6.

There have been a number of squabbles among the High-School teams of Chicago, and most of the disputes seem from this distance to be of a most childish nature. The true reason for all the trouble appears to be a fear of defeat, which evidences, on the other hand, an unhealthy desire for victory that bodes no good to the welfare of sport in that section. I am glad to learn that the Board of Managers at the recent League meeting decided that English High and North Division must play out their game which was scheduled for two weeks ago but was not played.

All of the Games played in the Cook County League on October 22 were won by large scores. North Division defeated Northwest Division, 48-0, but the latter team was so poor that the game was devoid of interest. Johnson made several splendid runs, one for 100 yards and another for 90 yards, both resulting in touch-downs. Friedlander showed himself as expert, as ever as an end, although he did not have many chances. Manual lost to Hyde Park, 42-0. Hyde Park's team-work was excellent, and the best individual play was done by Ford, a new man at end. The other games, of the day, at least those that were not forfeited, developed no good men, and displayed little of interest to football enthusiasts.

Contrary to expectations, Shady Side Academy and Kiskiminetas, of the Pittsburg Interscholastic League played their first game on October 24, and the latter won by the large score of 20-0. To be sure, Shady Side was handicapped by the loss of Beeman, who was unable to play, and who is usually one of the strongest ground-gainers of the eleven; and Arundell, their full-back, ought never to have gone on the field, while Dravo was in about as equally poor condition.

From the start the play was mostly in S.S.A.'s territory, and a very few moments after the ball was started Kiskiminetas had scored a touch-down and kicked a goal. Shady Side made a desperate effort to stop the game of their opponents, but the Saltsburgh men were a heavier lot, and sent their interference around Humbird's end for continual gains. Their system of interference was excellent, and Shady Side found it almost impossible to break into it. Thus before the end of the first half the home team had scored two touch-downs, kicking both goals.

In the second half, although S.S.A. worked hard, Kiskiminetas gained gradually and pushed the ball slowly down the field, until McColl scored another touch-down. The Pittsburg half-backs, even when they had the ball, were apparently unable to advance it very far, Geer not being hardened to the game yet, and Dravo, as already mentioned, being in poor condition. The line also did not hold together as it should, and Kelso, the Kiskiminetas right tackle, went through it frequently for good gains. Toward the end of the second half, however, Shady Side made a desperate stand and held their opponents well.

The Kiskiminetas eleven is unusually strong this year, averaging over 150 pounds. Montgomery is a wonderfully good end rusher, and prevented any runs being made through his territory by breaking up the interference every time and downing the runner. Kelso is a splendid ground-gainer, and dashed seemingly at will through the Shady Side line. McConnell did good work for the Pittsburg team, and by his fine tackling prevented Kiskiminetas from scoring on more than one occasion. The playing of Kirke, S.S.A., was one of the features of the game; he repeatedly broke up the magnificent interference of the opposing eleven, and worked hard from start to finish.

In the second half G. McConnell was put in at full-back, and it is to be regretted that he is not heavier, for he has the making of a good player. When he has put on a few more pounds he will make a good running full-back or a plunging half. He is especially good at starting quickly. The next game between these two elevens will be played on the Shady Side Academy grounds, November 16, and should be very interesting, for between now and then the Shady Side team ought to be able to develop some team-work, in which at present they are slightly deficient.

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PLAYS

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PLAYS

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The New York Sun on April 11, 1896, said of

HARPER'S

PERIODICALS

They are handsome and delightful all, and are as friends that one is glad to see. They please the eye; the artistic sense is gratified by them; they overflow with varied material for the reader. They educate and entertain. They are the well-known and well-liked literary and artistic chronicles of the time. They are a credit to their publishers and to the discernment of the public that approves them. May they continue to be as admirable as they have been and as they are. Better could hardly be wished for them.

FOR SALE EVERYWHERE.

There are so many questions constantly being sent in to us, asking how to get out of New York on a wheel, that, in spite of the fact of maps already published showing the exits from New York, it seems advisable to give, in brief form, a description of the two or three roads which are at all rideable.

There are but three ways to go northward. One runs from 59th Street and Central Park to 110th Street, thence out Seventh Avenue to 116th Street. Here, turning left into St. Nicholas Avenue, it continues to Tenth Avenue, thence crossing the cable and running to Kingsbridge Road. In time we shall be able to run out direct to Kingsbridge over the new bridge, down the long hill beyond 181st Street, but for some time this road has been in a state of construction and repair that was enough to give bicyclers nervous prostration. It has been advisable, therefore, to cross at 181st Street on Washington Bridge, thence following Featherbed Lane to Macomb's Dam Road, to Fordham Landing Road, to Sedgwick Avenue, to Bailey Avenue, to Kingsbridge, and thence out of the city along the Hudson to Yonkers. This is the main road up the Hudson on all routes, long or short. It is the best road from the start, and for many reasons the wheelman is advised to take it even when he is bound southward and eastward. A mile or more on a bicycle is nothing compared to the difficulties of getting over a bad road, and any rider will prefer five good miles to one very bad one. A map of this route is published in Harper's Round Table, No. 810.

This is what renders the other two routes out of New York undesirable as compared with what the Kingsbridge will be when it is completed. The second in order of importance as good road is that which leaves 59th Street and runs through the Park to Seventh Avenue, thence proceeds to the new 155th Street bridge. Cross this and run out Jerome Avenue, through Morrisania to Jerome Park, along the old aqueduct for a bit, thence through South Yonkers, Bronxville, Tuckahoe, to White Plains. The road here is not good in any part. The Avenue is badly macadamized, and here, as elsewhere in this part of New York, the road-bed is torn up with repairs, and new plans and works for the system of roads which some day, when we are all dead and wheeling has gone out of fashion, will make the northern exits of New York the finest in the world. However, this is the road to take if you are bound up the valley or series of valleys lying between the Hudson River ridges and the western ridges of Westchester. Certain routes out this way are rideable. The others are not to be thought of under any circumstances if pleasure is the object in view.

The third exit is further to the east, and runs from 59th Street, as follows: Leave Central Park and run into Fifth Avenue from the Park at the exit where the asphalt begins on the avenue; thence run out to 120th Street, turning west to Morris Avenue, to 124th Street; then, turning back, eastward to Fifth Avenue, to 135th Street, and thence to Madison Avenue, crossing the bridge. After crossing, turn left to Mott Avenue. From this point the run to White Plains is pretty bad work, being over hilly, rough roads, with nothing of interest at hand for the eye to rest on. The route is to 162d Street; thence east and south to 161st Street, turning left into Washington Avenue, to Third Avenue, to Fordham Railroad station, at the left a few blocks on. Crossing the bridge here, turn right into Webster Avenue and run direct to Williamsbridge.

BUILDING A STATUE.

Modelling the clay for a statue is one of the most fascinating, interesting, and, at the same time, instructive sights. From the moment the preliminary frame-work is constructed to the final delicate finishing-touches of the sculptor, the work progresses through many stages. It is seldom that we think of the time and labor spent on such works of art.

The sculptor who undertakes a commission to model, let us say, an equestrian statue of colossal size, to be erected in commemoration of some great General, finds a long task before him. In the first place, he reads up the General's life, obtains all the information possible of his characteristics, habits, etc. Then he procures all the photographs of him that he can, and after careful study of them he works up a number of pencil sketches, until he strikes a typical pose that he hopes will be satisfactory. Then comes the production of the miniature model. This he deftly works into shape with clay or wax. Oftentimes these small models are carried to a nearly perfected stage, and it is in these that the genius of the sculptor asserts itself.

From the lump of clay which his fingers have flattened, trimmed, rounded off, the little model issues forth as a nucleus, from which its gigantic brother is to come. With the proportions laid out in the small one, the sculptor sketches his iron frame-work for the full-size model. On a platform of heavy beams he constructs this frame-work, which, when complete, has an anatomical look about it; but it would be a difficult matter to find in the seemingly crazy arrangement of twisted iron and the wire ropes, with blocks of wood tied on them, anything resembling anatomy.

The skeleton frame has to be exceedingly strong; for should any part give way later with the weight of the damp clay, it would doubtless involve the beginning of the work all over again. With the frame complete and tested as to its strength, the clay is built up around it, careful attention being given to each minute detail, especially to the anatomical ones. From the beginning, in the use of the clay, it is essential to keep it damp, and all through the construction water is applied through a hose-pipe with a sprinkler attached. This wetting-down is extremely important, for should the clay get dry, it would crumble like dirt, or crack, thus ruining the work.

The figure of the General is modelled nude, and brought to a high finish. A live model is employed for the purpose, and he poses astride a dummy horse in the position the sketch and miniature model call for. After the figure is finished, even to the curve of each muscle, equipments are put on the dummy horse, and the model dresses himself in the General's costume and again takes the pose. The sculptor then proceeds to dress the General and his horse. With his many different tools he slowly shapes the clothing in the new clay that he has ruthlessly slapped on the exquisite modelling underneath. Bit by bit the various garments assume form and develop under the ready hand of the master, every little fold or crease being carefully worked up. The likeness is the most important part, however, and great attention is paid to the face. In this it is necessary to combine so many things besides likeness that the task is at times almost discouraging.

Months have been required to accomplish the work, and all through it the sculptor has been studying the history of his subject, reviewing his results, altering them to suit his tastes, until finally he lays down his tools and calls his work finished. Plaster casts are then taken of the model, and from these the bronze casting is made.

If a marble statue is ordered, the sculptor sometimes prefers to model on a small scale and then to put his model in the hands of skilful cutters in marble, who carry the work as far as they can judiciously, when it is again taken up by the sculptor, who finishes it, putting in the lines that proclaim his genius and commend it to the world as a work of art. When this is done, the small original model must be finished up to the highest point of the sculptor's ability. Usually, the first modelling is done in the clay, life size, as this allows of alterations that may suggest themselves during the advancement of the work.

HOW TO MAKE "DOUBLES."

A photographic operation which gives a great deal of amusement is the making of "doubles." A double photograph is one in which the same person is represented twice, both portraits being taken on the same plate. Doubles are made in the ordinary camera, the only apparatus needed being some device by which either part of the lens or part of the plate-holder is covered. This being done, the person to be photographed takes his position before the camera, half the plate is exposed, and the shutter closed. The subject then changes his position to the opposite side, and the other half of the plate is exposed. When the picture is developed it will look as if made by one exposure.

One way of making doubles is to have a box which will fit the front of the camera so that it will project about three inches beyond the front of the lens. A double door opening exactly in the middle of the box should be fitted to the front of the box. The doors should meet in a close straight line, so that when closed there will not be any danger of light getting into the camera before the plate is exposed. Care must be taken that the doors meet on a line exactly in the middle of the lens, so that when either door is opened only half the lens will be in operation.

Another and simpler way is to cut a plate-holder slide exactly in half, arrange the camera, close the shutter, put in the plate-holder, take out the slide, and slip the half-slide in its place. Make the exposure, take out the half-slide and put in the plate slide, pose the subject for the other half of the picture, and take out the slide and put the half-slide in the holder over the part which has already been exposed.

In arranging for the picture it is more convenient to fix on some line or small object which shall come in the centre of the plate when the exposure is made. The subject to be photographed should stand at least nine or ten inches one side of this central point, for if the drapery of the dress overlaps, the picture will show a blur.

In making the exposure great care must be taken not to move the camera, as if it is moved even the very least bit, a blurred line will appear in the picture showing just where the two exposures join. The focus must not be changed unless a plain background is used. In making the exposures for the two pictures the time of both must be equal. This is more necessary for an exposure made out-of-doors than for one made in the house. If the exposures are unequal in time the negative will be unequal in development, and, as a consequence, half of it will be lighter than the other.

Many interesting and amusing pictures may be made by the means of double photographing. A person may be taken playing checkers or chess with himself, reading to himself, taking his own picture, offering himself something to eat, etc. An amusing picture might be made of a person begging of himself, the first picture being taken in his ordinary walking dress, and the second dressed in ragged clothes and holding out his hat for alms.

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Big Grape and Apple Harvests.

Mounting Bird-feather Collections.

Kinks.

No. 46.—Charade.

No. 47.—For Mathematicians.

A merchant receives $3 of every $5 owing him on book debts amounting to $15,000 (which debts are five per cent. more than his liabilities), and $3.75 of every $5 on $6000 of running debts his due. Find his liabilities if he pays dollar for dollar.

No. 48.—Word Square.

No. 49.—Easy Riddle in Prose.

We lived in a brook, and were five in number. We were taken out, once on a time, and we never got back again. Four of us were lost—hopelessly lost—and nobody knows what became of us. But the fifth took a rapid journey in the midst of much excitement, brought up at the end of the journey in the queerest place any of our family has ever been before or since, I think, and if I were able to come to you now I would be worth thousands and thousands of dollars. What am I, who were my brothers, and why can't I realize some of these thousands?

Answers to Kinks.

No. 41.—A Prose Charade.

A potato gun, made from a goose-quill, a wooden piston, and had "wads" of sliced potato.

No. 42.—Political Questions.

1. Isle of Man. 2. Captain John Smith. 3. Secretary Thompson. 4. Edward Everett.

No. 43.—A Star.

No. 44.—Single Acrostic.

Assay. Nerve. Death. Reply. Ensue. Worth. Japan. Acute. Caper. Knack. Slave. Order. Niche.—Andrew Jackson.

Questions and answers.

"H. E."—For want of space we cannot publish stamp-exchange notices. "J. H. K." writes: "Will you please inform me how to obtain autographs, and give me hints in the art of collecting autographs from such people as Governors?" Autograph-collecting is not an "art." The ways to get autographs are three: Ask the people whose autographs you want for them; trade with other collectors; buy them. Many persons are fond of cataloguing autograph-collectors as "fiends," but they do not mean all they say. Nine out of every ten famous persons are rather gratified at receiving requests for autographs. Write a brief note, say frankly what you want, enclose a self-addressed and stamped envelope, and two cards—the stamps because it is your business, and you should pay the cost of it; and the cards in order that your collection may be uniform. But mere signatures are not highly regarded. Manuscripts and letters are much more to be prized. Do not, however, make requests that put persons whom you do not know to any considerable trouble, or that require them, in order to grant your favor, to give up for nothing anything that has real money value.

"History" asks: "What was it about Queen Victoria that was just celebrated?" It was this; King George III. had reigned, on the day of his death, 59 years and 95 days. The day came recently when Queen Victoria had reigned 59 years and 96 days. That 96th day, when she began on the longest reign in English history, if not in any history, was celebrated. The next oldest living sovereign, in point of length of reign, is Francis Joseph of Austria—1848. Other long English reigns, after George III., were those of Ethelred II., 37 years; Henry I., 35 years; Henry III., 56 years; Edward I., 35 years; Edward III., 50 years; Henry VI., 39 years; Henry VIII., 38 years; and Elizabeth, 44 years. Victoria has not reached the age attained by George III., who died in his 83d year. She is nearly of the age reached by George II., who died in his 77th year. The houses of Normandy, Plantagenet, Lancaster, York, Tudor, and the Stuarts were not very long-lived. The House of Hanover, to which Queen Victoria belongs has given to Britain the most venerable sovereigns in the persons of George II., George III., William IV., and Victoria. Elizabeth, the most venerable scion of the House of Tudor, died in her 71st year. She died in 1603, and from that year back to Alfred, over 700 years, no English king or queen reached 70 years. One of the notable events in the life of Queen Victoria was the celebration of her "jubilee," in 1887, marking the completion of fifty years' reign. Only three English monarchs lived to celebrate a jubilee year—Henry III., Edward III., and George III.

Anna W. Auspach, 3326 Walnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa., is interested in pressed flowers and monograms, and wants to hear from you, and Thomas C. Gurnee, 443 Hancock Street, Brooklyn, N. Y., wants to receive sample copies of amateur papers. Harry W. Jones: The button which you describe—red, white, and blue, with a very small centre, a raised edge, and the ribbon lying in close folds, the whole being smaller than a silver dime—is that of the Military Order of the Loyal Legion. Why "never seen in the button-hole of any save men well advanced in years" is explained by the fact that it is an order of the officers and ex-officers of the army, navy, and marine corps of the United States during the civil war of now thirty years and more ago. There are twenty commanderies in as many States. The order numbers about 8500 members.

"Cedar Rapids."—A cyclopædia that is a recognized authority, issued in 1895, says the true source of the Yukon River has not yet been ascertained. It gives the river's length at about 2000 miles. The Mississippi is 2800 miles long, and the Mississippi and Missouri, which, as this cyclopædia says, should be considered as one river, and not the division as made, 4200 miles long—the longest river in the world. "H. P. B." writes to us: "Will you be so kind as to give me some information about the stage, what salaries are paid to actors, and what is the work that has to be done by them? How can one become an actor, and to whom should one apply?" Write to the Empire School of Acting, Empire Theatre, New York. Charles Field: Address Jerome K. Jerome, care The Idler, London, England; Bret Harte, care A. P. Watt, Hastings House, Norfolk Street, London, England; and Gen. John B. Gordon, Atlanta, Ga.

United States revenue stamps are advancing in price by leaps and bounds. The following is the list of new prices for 1897. Where no price is given, the old prices remain:

	First Issue.	Unperf.	Perf.
1c.	Playing-cards	$15.00	$2.50
1c.	Proprietary	10.00
1c.	Telegraph	10.00
2c.	Playing-cards	7.50
2c.	Proprietary	6.00
3c.	Playing-cards	35.00	8.00
4c.	Playing-cards		8.00
6c.	Proprietary		50.00
10c.	Power of Attorney	15.00
25c.	Bond	5.00
25c.	Warehouse Receipt	2.00	1.00
40c.	Inland Exchange	7.50
50c.	Surety Bond	6.00
$1.00	Passage Ticket	8.00	7.00
$1.30	Foreign Exchange	35.00	1.25
$1.60	Foreign Exchange	10.00	2.50
$1.90	Foreign Exchange	50.00	1.50
$2.00	Probate of Will	15.00	1.50
$2.50	Inland Exchange	25.00
$3.50	Inland Exchange	40.00
$5.00	Probate of Will	12.50	1.00
$15.00	Mortgage	25.00	7.50
$20.00	Probate of Will	60.00	35.00
$25.00	Mortgage	25.00	5.00
$50.00	Internal Revenue	10.00	4.00
$200.00	Internal Revenue	30.00	20.00

Second Issue.

Third Issue.

Sixth Issue—Proprietary.

On October 1, the Washington Post-office had the following Columbian stamps on sale:

As the same stamps have been offered by dealers and brokers in New York at various discounts (up to twenty-five per cent.) from face value, it is hardly possible that these values will command a premium for many years to come.

A new issue of Tonga stamps will be ready early in November. The set consists of values from 1/2d. to 5s.

The larger post-offices have received vast quantities of the letter-sheets (now discontinued), Columbian 1c., 2c., and 5c. envelopes, 2c. 1890 adhesives, and a lot of odds and ends.

Argentine, Sweden, and South American stamps will probably show large advances in the 1897 catalogues.

The best is not always low in price, but the housekeeper can have the best soap without extravagance.

Ivory Soap costs little, but experienced persons know that no other can do the same work and do it as well.

FOOTBALL AND OTHER SPORTS

A PRIMER OF COLLEGE FOOTBALL

By W. H. Lewis. Illustrated from Instantaneous Photographs and with Diagrams. 16mo, Paper, 75 cents.

New Edition of

CAMP'S AMERICAN FOOTBALL

TRACK ATHLETICS IN DETAIL

Compiled by the Editor of "Interscholastic Sport" in Harper's Round Table. Illustrated from Instantaneous Photographs. 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25. In "Harper's Round Table Library."

HARPER & BROTHERS, Publishers, New York

A MATTER OF DIRECTION.

"Because it's got good manners and behaves itself, and doesn't go shouting around like a boy, I guess," said Polly.

HUMBUGS AMONG ANIMALS.

One who has deeply studied the habits of animals has discovered that there are humbugs among them.

In military stables horses are known to have pretended to be lame in order to avoid going to a military exercise. A chimpanzee had been fed on cake when sick; after his recovery he often feigned coughing in order to procure dainties.

The cuckoo, as is well known, lays its eggs in another bird's nest, and, to make the deception surer, it takes away one of the other bird's eggs. Animals are conscious of their deceit, as is shown by the fact that they try to act secretly and noiselessly; they show a sense of guilt if detected; they take precautions in advance to avoid discovery; in some cases they manifest regret and repentance. Thus bees which steal hesitate often before and after their exploits, as if they feared punishment.

A naturalist describes how his monkey committed theft. While he pretended to sleep, the animal regarded him with hesitation, and stopped every time his master moved or seemed on the point of awakening.

BICYCLE LINGO.

Bessie. "Mamma wanted to go to the Falls, but papa said that if she went to a bicycle academy she could see all the falls she cared to."

"Ha!" said Wallie, jeering at Maude for being a girl, "you can't ever be President of the United States."

"I know I can't," retorted Maude, "and I don't believe you can, either. You'd talk too much to get elected."

A COW'S MOO.

A very small girl was learning to write. Her teacher ruled the slate and set her "copies," and Lucy took great pains with the pot-hooks and round o's with which she began. One day the teacher set down something new for Lucy to copy. M—o—o—Moo.

"That is 'Moo.' The noise a cow makes, Lucy. See, it is made up of pot-hooks and round o's, just what you have been learning on."

So Lucy sat down and prepared to copy "Moo." But she did it in a queer way. She made an M at the beginning of each line, and followed each M with a whole string of o's all across the slate, like this, Mooooo.

"But that isn't right, Lucy," said the teacher, when the little girl showed her the slate. "You must copy the word as I have written it. So—Moo."

Lucy looked at the teacher's copy, and then at her own attempts, and then she shook her head decidedly.

"Well, I think mine is right, Miss Jones," she said. "For I never saw a cow that gave such a short 'Moo' as you wrote down!"

A GRATEFUL MILLIONAIRE.

The recent troubles in Africa have called public attention to a large number of interesting persons living in the southern portion of that continent. Among others who have been conspicuously noticed is Mr. "Barney" Barnato, who has made a great fortune in Africa, and of whom a Cape Town journal tells the following interesting anecdote: When a boy Mr. Barnato went to the London Jews' Free School, which has produced so many leading Jews of the day. When he left, his teacher, who was much attached to him, gave him a penny and his blessing. The years rolled by, the friendless youth had made his wonderful career in South Africa, and the little "Barney" had become a personage. About the time when half London and Paris were going crazy over the flotation of the Barnato Bank, "Barney" was seized with a fancy to visit his old school-master. With great difficulty he managed to hunt up the old man.

"Do you recollect," he said, when they met—"do you recollect giving your little 'Barney' a penny when he left school thirty years ago? Here it is back again, and with compound interest," and therewith he handed the school-master a check for £105.

"Popper," said Sammie, "I'm writing a letter to Jimmie Perkins about my turkle. How many k's are there in turkle?"

"I'm going to be a piano-tuner when I grow up," said Walter. "You can bang on the keys and take it all apart as much as you please, and get paid for doing it, too."

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Captain Heald, commanding Fort Dearborn, had received despatches by an Indian runner from General Hull, commanding the Americans at Detroit in the war of 1812, directing him to destroy his surplus ammunition, divide his stores among the Indians as a peace-offering, evacuate the post, and, trusting his safety to a savage escort, fall back within the American lines. On the day after the council where he had, in opposition to the remonstrances of his junior officers, announced his purpose of prompt obedience, Black Partridge, a Pottawattamie chief who had always been a friend of the Americans, stalked into his quarters, and threw the medal he had received from Congress on the table with these words: "Father, I come to give you back the medal I wear. It was given me by the Americans in token of our friendship. But our young men are resolved to bathe their hands in the blood of the whites. I cannot hold them back, and I will not wear a token of peace while I am compelled to act as an enemy."

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HARPER'S ROUND TABLE, NOVEMBER 3, 1896 ***

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published weekly.	NEW YORK, TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 3, 1896.	five cents a copy.
vol. xviii.—no. 888.		two dollars a year.

$1.30	$7.00
$1.60	17.50
$1.90	5.00
$20.00	15.00
$25.00	17.50
$50.00	15.00
$200.00	110.00
$500.00	(not priced.)

	Violet P.	Green P.
10c.	$10	$2.50
50c.	20	25.00
$1	100	150.00
$5 (not priced.)

1878 Issue.	Silk P.	Wmk.	Roul'td
5c.	$4	$3	$50
10c.		15