{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_61154/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_61154","id":"gutenberg_61154","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/61154","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Biographies","Category: Children & Young Adult Reading","Category: History - British","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Short Stories","Children's periodicals"],"text":"[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]\n\nCopyright, 1897, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nPUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, MARCH 23, 1897. FIVE CENTS A COPY.\n\nVOL. XVIII.--NO. 908. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nOLD PORTSMOUTH.\n\nA CHAPTER OF AUTOBIOGRAPHY.\n\nBY SIR WALTER BESANT.\n\n\nPortsmouth, as I remember the place in the days of my early youth--say,\nsomewhere about the years 1844 to 1850--was surely the liveliest place,\nthe most full of action, movement, and life, of any in her Majesty's\ndominions, which were then half as wide as they are at present. Not as a\nplace of industry; there was never, if you please, any industry at all\ncarried on in that town outside the Dock-yard, except of course the\nindustry of fleecing the sailor. This was a merry and an exhilarating\nsport, because the sailor himself enjoyed being fleeced, entered\nthoroughly into the spirit of the game, and neither resented nor\nregretted what he knew would be the end of it--viz., the loss of all his\nmoney. Nor, again, could the town be considered picturesque. Somehow,\nPortsmouth always escaped any beauty of buildings and streets. There\nwas, it is true, a late eighteenth-century look about most of the\nstreets; there was one old church within the Walls; there was a square\nlow tower at the end of High Street which looked well; there were Gates\nin the Walls; and there was the _Domus Dei_, the ancient garrison\nchapel, then not yet \"discovered\" or restored. There must have been, I\nsuppose, a time when the High Street and St. Thomas's Street and St.\nMary's Street were built with gabled houses and with timbered fronts,\nbut they had all disappeared long before my time.\n\nThe real centre of the town was, of course, the Common Hard--which is\none of the streets of the world like the Cannebi\u00e8re of Marseilles, the\nKing's Road of Brighton, or the High Street of Oxford. Portsmouth cannot\nbe conceived as existing without the Common Hard. It is a broad street\nfacing the harbor; at one end are the gates of the Dock-yard; at the\nother, a police station, in front of which at one time stood a pair of\nstocks. The magistrates, in their wisdom, revived this time-honored\npunishment for a while, but I believe it did not answer. Certainly I\nmyself once saw a man in the stocks. I must have been a child of six or\neight at the time, but I remember him well, because I was immensely\nimpressed with the shamefulness of it, and I expected to see the\nprisoner hanging his head and weeping. Not a bit, if you please. The\nhardened villain sat up, faced the foot-lights, and grinned merrily all\nthe time.\n\nThe street contained shops of all sorts--shops of curios brought home by\nthe sailors and sold to their merchants; jewellers' shops; shops\noffering telescopes, sextants, and all kinds of naval things; taverns\nand hotels--then called inns. These shops, however, were not designed\nfor able-bodied Jack, I believe, but for his officer.\n\nIt was a fine lookout from the Hard upon the harbor, which was crammed\nfull of ships--ships fitting, ships just come home, harbor-ships, hulks,\nstore-ships, tugs, tenders, and small steamers. As yet the man-o'-war\nwas a wooden ship. She carried 120 guns and a thousand men; mostly she\nsailed, and in the art of sailing she had no equal. As a boy I thought,\nand still think, that there is no work of man's craft and ingenuity more\nwonderful, more beautiful, than a great three-decker in full sail.\n\nThose who wished to cross the harbor or to visit a ship, started from\nthe \"Beach\" or from the \"Logs.\" The Beach was a narrow spit of sand and\nshingle running out into the water; it was the \"stairs\" for the\nwatermen, who all day long kept up a perpetual bawling. \"Going over? One\nmore. Just going over. Only one more!\" When they had a boat-load, say\nsix or eight passengers at a penny apiece, they put off, and rowed\nacross the harbor to Gosport, on the other side.\n\nSaw one ever a more animated sight than the harbor on a fine summer\nmorning in the forties? Boats manned by Royal Navy men working their way\nhere and there, yachts letting out their sails for a cruise in the\nSolent, wherries plying backwards and forwards, ships in the grip of the\ntide. We pass on our way the _Victory_, Nelson's last ship; she is\nmoored off the Beach, and swings round with every tide. If you went on\nboard you would see the place where Nelson fell, and the place where\nNelson died--a dark and noisome hole on the orlop-deck down below.\nYonder black hulk without masts is a ship whose exploits would fill a\nvolume. Her name is the _Billy Ruffian_--mealy mouths call her the\n_Bellerephon_. Beside her, another dismasted hulk, now a coal-ship, is\nthe _Asia_, from which was fired the shot which blew up the Turkish\nAdmiral at Navarino. Beside her is the _Arethusa_, another historic\nship. Beyond, in line, the old worn-out ships are laid up one after the\nother up the harbor; they are all historic ships; to hear their names is\nto be reminded of Copenhagen, the Nile, Trafalgar; they are store-ships,\ncoal-ships, training-ships now, and those painted yellow are the\nconvict-hulks. How much misery, how much brutality, how much despair had\ntheir permanent home on those terrible yellow ships called\nconvict-hulks? The men were taken ashore every day to work--their work,\nthe heaviest and the most disagreeable, lay chiefly in the Dock-yard;\nthey worked under warders armed with guns, shotted and bayonetted. Many\na time have I gone into the yard, a penny quid or screw of tobacco\nsecreted in my pocket. One would get as near as one dared to one of the\ngang without raising suspicions. There one waited, pretending idle\ncuriosity, till the warder's eyes were turned in the opposite direction,\nthen out with the quid, and down with it at the nearest convict's foot.\nHe made no sign; he never moved or looked up; he just covered the packet\nwith his foot, and went on with his work. The donor retired a space, yet\nkept an eye upon him. Presently the man straightened himself out; he\nlooked at his tool; he picked up a stone as if to knock off something;\nhe hammered it, and looked at it again critically; the warder, who had\nwatched his movement, turned his head, as satisfied that it was\nharmless; the convict put down the stone; then, if you had good eyes,\nyou would see the quid transferred in a moment to the man's mouth. Oh!\nthe rapture of that quid! He could not express his gratitude in words,\nbut with a glance of his eye he could, and did. What would have been\ndone to the boy had he been discovered is too terrible to be considered.\nHowever, that boy escaped. The sight of convicts working in a gang has\nalways fascinated and terrified me. The submission and obedience, the\nawful silence, the evident determination to do as little as possible,\nthe profound misery of the life, the cruel crushing down of\nmanhood--these things I felt as a boy of twelve as much as I feel them\nnow. And always with it that feeling of John Bunyan, \"But for Grace,\nJohn, thou too hadst been here.\"\n\nA little up the harbor there rose a few inches out of the water an islet\ncalled Rat Island. This was the burying-ground of those poor wretches\nwho died on the hulks. I have rowed round this island in the twilight of\na summer evening, wondering whether the ghosts of the convicts still\nhaunted this dreary spot and exchanged stories of crime and the\ncat-o'-nine-tails and irons with each other. I now understand that the\nghost which could choose to remain on so desolate a spot must have been\nindeed a fool.\n\nThe Logs were a narrow and rude pier constructed of square trunks laid\nside by side, with upright posts here and there to keep them in place.\nThey were chiefly used by the Royal Navy boats which were coming and\ngoing all day long. I recall the picture of one. At sight of the boat\nand the officer in command the boy on the Logs runs a little farther out\nwhere the Logs are covered with water--he would not willingly stand in\nthe way of that officer, whom he envies with a yearning inconceivable to\nbe in his place. Nobody remembers how boys yearn and long for the\nimpossible. The boat is manned by eight stout, well-set-up fellows; they\nwear spotless white ducks, jerseys, and straw hats. The officer stands\nup in the stern, strings in hand. He commands these splendid\nfellows--He!!!--and he is no older than the envious boy who looks on. He\nwears a jacket, white ducks, and a cap with the enviable crown and\nanchor on it. His voice is clear and loud. Timid? Afraid? Not a bit of\nit. This midshipmite is already Captain and First Lieutenant and all. He\njumps on the Logs and marches off, head erect, conscious that all other\nboys regard him with envy unspeakable. Do the sailors put tongue in\ncheek and mock him when he is gone? Not a bit of it. The child is their\nofficer; he represents authority. It is not the boy who commands men--it\nis the Captain. The faces of the men, if you look at them, are not quite\nlike the faces of their grandsons who at present man the navy. Our man\nof '96 is sober, quiet, thoughtful, as becomes one whose long training\nhas almost made him belong to a learned profession. He is a total\nabstainer too. When he goes ashore it is to the Sailors' Home and not to\nthe old quarters. The men of '48 are sturdy and bluff and resolute; but\nthey have a certain look that means rum when they can get it, and other\nindulgences such as can be afforded.\n\nAt the back of the Hard was Jack's own pleasure-ground--half a dozen\nstreets belonging to him, to the watermen, and to those who made it\ntheir business to look after Jack. These streets were full of strange\nthings. There were shops where they sold old clos', with many queer\nthings that came home on board. There were birds--parrots, parraquits,\navvadavats, love-birds, monkeys, lemurs, flying-fish dried, rotting\nbananas, Venus's fingers from the Philippines, _cocos de mer_ from the\nSeychelles, carved wooden boxes from China, queer little nameless\nthings from Japan, curved swords from Malay, groups of figures from\nIndia--all these things are common now; they were not common then. I\nwould gaze at them displayed behind the small windows illuminated at\nnight by a single candle, with a sick yearning because I could not buy\nthem all. Meantime--oh, heavenly sound!--the fiddle at the public-house\nnext door strikes up. It is an ancient tavern; the floor was lower than\nthe street; the windows were decorated with transparencies showing the\nvalor of the British tar when engaged with the Chinese. Heavens! How\nthose Chinamen ran! And with what a rapturous sense of duty did Jack\nseize a pigtail with the left hand, and with the right decapitate poor\nJohn Chinaman! It was after the war of 1842, or thereabouts--a war now\nwellnigh forgotten. Within--I would look in and even step in\nunregarded--the fiddler sat on a stool at the end of the long low room.\nHe was a Pole. He had but one leg, and he fiddled marvellously, so as to\nmake even a man with a gouty toe stand up and shake that limb. Jack\ndanced hornpipes chiefly; he liked best to dance by himself because the\n_cavalier seul_ enjoyed more scope for figure-dancing and for\nflourishes; also because the undivided applause and attention of the\nhouse were bestowed upon him. In the reel, in which the fair sex took a\nshare, beauty more than skill--looks, rather than merit--provoked\nadmiration. Poor Jack! Poor fair sex! Was it possible for any human\ncreatures to look more deliriously happy?\n\nI have said that the watermen also lived in those back streets; I\nbelieve, however, that the watermen lived apart from the sailors; the\nmost of them had been sailors--they were all full of yarns--they were\nall heroes of the old war; their sons were sailors; but they themselves\nwere married men with families. It was not considered the thing for a\nsturdy old waterman to frequent the same tavern as Jack ashore; his time\nfor the hornpipe and the fiddle was over.\n\nI have said that Jack's face and appearance have not been transmitted to\nhis grandsons. There was one peculiarity about Jack of '48 that has been\nsomewhat forgotten. He of 1800 wore a pigtail--that pigtail was cut off.\nI do not know, exactly, in what year. It was succeeded, however, by\nringlets. The Jack of '48 wore ringlets very carefully curled, glossy,\nand artistic. If you passed Jack to leeward you perceived--what?\nRowland's Macassar? Tallow? My friends, let us never inquire into the\nmachinery by which those ringlets were made to curl so gracefully, and\nto assume an appearance so beautifully, so wonderfully glossy.\n\nOf the Dock-yard I must say little, though the part it plays in\nPortsmouth is like the part played in Winchester by the cathedral, or in\nCambridge by the university. There were the huge skeletons of the wooden\nships, one after the other, in various stages; there were the dry docks,\nwith the workmen hurrying round the sides on narrow boards, calking and\npainting; there was the pond, where they laid up the timber to \"season\";\nthere was the Rope-house, a quarter of a mile long, where the men \"who\nmade their living backwards\" so walked all day long twisting the yarn;\nthere was the place where they steamed the beams so that they could be\nbent; there was the carver of figure-heads; there were the manufacturing\nof blocks and the making of spars. And every day and all day long the\nsound of multitudinous hammers, the creaking of cranes, the grinding of\nsaws, went on without stopping. A lovely workshop, and now, I believe,\nmore wonderful still!\n\n[Illustration]\n\nThe town, I said, had little beauty in its streets. There was a George\nthe Second church, which had a spaciousness and a dignity of its own.\nThere was another which had neither dignity nor space. There were no\npublic buildings to speak of. But there were the Walls. The Walls! Oh,\nthe Walls! These are all levelled and pulled down now. Nobody knows why\nthey were levelled, but they were; and with them disappeared the beauty\nand the glory of the town. They were not ancient stone Walls, but\nearthworks in the style approved about the year 1780. I append a section\nof the Wall as I remember it. An open space, A B, separated it from the\nbuilding of the town. A slope, B C, brought one to a broad road, C D,\nfor the carriage and passage of cannon, ammunition, etc. At D, another\nlow slope, about three feet high, to a narrow standing-place, D E, in\nfront of which ran E F, a breast-work. The defenders were to fire, thus\nprotected, across F F. F G was the slope to a level lower than that of\nA B on the other side. At H H was a narrow moat, but the intention of\nthe builders of the Wall was to let in the water so as to cover up the\nwhole of the valley G H; at H the ground sloped up; at many places the\nground beyond H was also protected by an earth-work. The Wall ran in\nlengths protected by bastions; these bastions were mounted with cannon.\nAt intervals there were stone gates with stone lookout-places, most\nmysterious. The town was divided into two parts, a Wall ran round each.\nNo one would believe what a lovely place for a boy was the Wall--either\nWall--to walk upon, or sit upon, or linger, and look, and listen, and\ndream upon. If you wanted a quiet place for reading you could sit\nprotected from cold wind on a cannon-wheel; if you wanted to dream you\ncould lean over a certain angle on the Queen's Bastion--was it the\nQueen's?--and there below stretched out the whole extent of the harbor,\na broad lagoon at high tide, four miles from north to south and six from\nwest to east; at the head of the harbor, Porchester Castle stood out,\ngray and frowning over the clear water that lapped her water-gate. This\nwas a Roman fort; the outer Walls--the Roman work--still stand, and will\ncontinue to stand for many centuries; within there are the ruins of a\nNorman castle, the lofty design still uninjured; in another corner is a\nlong and narrow Saxon church--a fine thing, this, for a boy to gaze\nupon. But that was not all. The space in front of the Wall was laid out\nin grass; in spring these meadows were full of buttercups; in the summer\nthe grass all over the Walls, the parapet, the slopes, the sloping up of\nthe Wall, the spaces on the bastions between the cannons, were filled\nwith clover, daisies, buttercups, wild convolvulus, colored\ngrasses--everything. There were also trees--\"to catch the shells,\" we\nused to say; they were planted all along the Walls, and made a sweet and\ndelightful walk in summer-time. And it was so quiet all day long upon\nthe Walls; nobody but a few children ever came there; we had our own\nfavorite bastion, our own view across the harbor; we carried home\nhandfuls of the wild flowers.\n\nIf one of the two Walls looked out over the harbor, the other looked out\nover the Solent and Spithead. The second Wall was not so beautiful in my\neyes as the first. It began at a place which even a boy would not but\nrecognize as squalid and horrible. Very near there stood a church of\ngreat interest, though of repellent appearance--I know not why it was\nrepellent to look at, but it was. Between the church and the Wall lay a\nbroad piece of consecrated ground. More than once have I been reminded\nwhat this ground was used for. More than once have I stood upon the Wall\nand looked down upon a funeral; the coffin, borne by six soldiers, was\ncovered with the union-jack for a pall--could one have a better? behind,\nmarched, with guns reversed, a small company of soldiers; in front went\nthe muffled drums and the fifes. 'Twas the burial-place, you see, of the\nprivate soldier. When the service was over, the soldiers stood over the\ngrave and fired their last farewell to their poor dead comrade; then the\ndrummers took off their muffling and they fell in, and the fifes struck\nup a merry tune and so away back to barracks. Poor lad! Who was he? No\none knew; no one cared. In those days no one, I believe, ever sent a\nmessage to his people that he was dead.\n\nOn the outside, where the moat and slopes afforded a fine place for\npractice, the young drummers and the young buglers were practising all\nday long. I never hear a bugle-call, to this day, without being reminded\nof morning upon Portsmouth Walls. At the other end of this Wall were two\nor three very fine bastions, armed with larger cannon and with bombs\nwhich looked out on Spithead, where the fleets assembled before they put\nto sea. From Spithead sailed those great fleets, the Baltic and the\nBlack Sea fleets, at the beginning of the Crimean war. A very splendid\nsight it was. The Queen led the way in her yacht. Then followed the\nAdmiral, old Charley Napier; then came the gallant line-of-battle ships,\neach in place. To look at a ship of the modern type and to think of that\nmagnificent fleet reminds one of the Israelites when they wept at the\nopening of the second Temple, to think of the perished glories of the\nfirst!\n\nIt was in the harbor, from the Dock-yard, that the troops used to\nembark. There is a picture, I forget by whom, representing the\nembarkation of a regiment for the Crimea. I can testify that the picture\nis faithful, for I saw, I believe, that very embarkation. There are the\ngirls crying--I saw them; the young fellows full of spirit and\ncourage--I saw them with envy and admiration; the sailors quietly\ncarrying out their orders--I saw them too. As one recalls the scene, one\nthinks of what these poor fellows were going to endure--the cold of a\nCrimean winter; boots made of brown paper; coats of shoddy; green\ncoffee-berries with which to make their coffee; oh! the blind rage! the\nhelpless rage! the bitter tears of rage! of the whole country! and\nnothing done--no--nothing. Alas for the wickedness of it! Yet nobody\nhanged--and these poor brave fellows done to death--not by the enemy,\nbut by their own people!\n\nBesides the embarkation, I remember seeing the return of one of these\nregiments. It had been terribly cut up at Inkermann or at some other\nengagement; once, too, a shell burst in the middle of their band. They\nmarched, what was left of them, up the street, colors flying, band\nplaying. And all the way along the women wailed aloud and the men\nchoked. For of all the band there remained but five; of all the gallant\nboys who marched out playing the fife and beating the drum there were\nbut two; of all the men who played the cornet and the clarion and the\nserpent and the rest of the wonderful instruments there were but three.\n\nI have gone on too long. One more picture, and I have done. On the Hard,\nalong the railings which ran in the front, only ceasing with the beach\nand the Logs, extended a long bench, on which every morning all the year\nround, except in rain and snow, there sat a row of grizzled veterans.\nThey were mostly one-legged; some were no-legged. The bench presented a\nvery remarkable spectacle of \"timber toes,\" _i.e._, wooden legs sticking\nout in a horizontal row. The owners of the \"timber toes\" were affable;\nthey would graciously accept a quid, or the price of one, or the\nequivalent of a quartern of rum, and in return they would cheerfully tip\nyou a yarn--but, for choice, beyond the hearing of the other old boys.\nNow the really remarkable thing about these heroes was that every man\namong them had been on board the _Victory_ at Trafalgar; every man among\nthem had been the first man to observe when Nelson fell, the first man\nto pick him up, the chief hand in carrying him to the cockpit, the\ntrusted man kept down by the surgeon to perform the last offices for the\ndying Admiral. Nay, so often had every man told this story that he had\nat last come to believe it; and the genuine tears would crowd into his\neyes when he arrived at the last scene in the mournful history: \"'Kiss\nme, 'Ardy,' was the last words of the Dyinero.\" They had of course other\nmemories which were, I believe, more authentic. There were memories of\nthe American war in 1814, of French prisons, of actions long since\nforgotten, of admirals whose fame has been eclipsed by that of Nelson. I\nremember one man who was in the Mutiny at the Nore, which was in 1796;\nand one ancient mariner I remember who said he was a cabin-boy with\nCaptain Cook in his last voyage--he saw him speared. Well, it was quite\npossible; the man looked a mere monument of antiquity; it was quite\npossible if he was eighty-eight--he looked ninety-eight. It was quite\npossible, on the other hand--but let me believe that I have myself\nconversed and shaken hands with one of Captain Cook's crew.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SAILING OF JEAN-PAUL.\n\n(_In Two Instalments._)\n\nBY M. L. VAN VORST.\n\n\nI.\n\nThe grandmother of Jean-Paul was proud of the boy. She said he was as\n\"brave as a lion, as brown as a berry, as straight as a birch.\" Indeed\nshe talked so much about him, and repeated this so many times, that her\ncompanions the washer-women grew tired of hearing about Jean-Paul, and\nafter awhile she found that she talked to deaf ears. \"Are there not\nother boys in the village besides Jean-Paul?\" they said. \"There are\nJoseph and Victor and Charles. And what has Jean-Paul done, after all?\nNothing.\" So the old woman held her peace, and ceased to say aloud the\nthings she thought about her big brown grandson.\n\nJean-Paul lived with his grandmother, M\u00e8re Vatinel, in a tiny house made\nof pieces of flint stuck together with white cement. It had a bright red\nroof, and looked like a house in a fairy-tale.\n\nIt was one of many fisher dwellings standing in rows on either side the\nnarrow village street that ran straight down to the sea. From the great\nexpanse of water washing the pebbly beach and curling up about the high\ncliff-side all the town gained its living.\n\nJean-Paul knew little of danger, and cared still less. He only knew that\nhe was strong and fifteen years old, that his father had gone to sea at\nhis age; his friends had left the dull little town, and he too longed to\nboard one of the straight-masted vessels that stood so proudly in the\nharbors of F\u00e9camp and Havre, and put far out and away to follow his\nfortune and to know the sea.\n\nJean-Paul sat before the rough pine table in the room that served as\nkitchen, bedroom, and all rooms in one; he was eating his supper of\nlentil soup and a piece of coarse bread. Opposite him sat his\ngrandmother, in her white peasant cap and her short blue skirt; she was\nknitting, and Jean-Paul watched the candle-light flicker on her needles.\n\"Grandmother,\" he said, trying to speak at his ease, \"I am fifteen years\nold now.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" nodded the old woman.\n\n\"And I am strong too. See?\" and he rolled up his blue sleeve and showed\nher a stout brown arm of which he might well have been proud. \"And\nyesterday with P\u00e8re Guillaume, whom thou knowest is a weak old man, I\ndragged in the boat--our boat. In truth, grandmother, it was I, and not\nP\u00e8re Guillaume, who made her slide up on the beach.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" she said, \"thou art strong. Praise God keep thy strength; it is\nmine as well; I need thee, my son.\"\n\nThe bright face of Jean-Paul fell; he ate on in silence for a little,\nthen said, with an effort, \"Grandmother, the _Belle H\u00e9l\u00e8ne_ sails\nto-morrow week.\"\n\nAt this M\u00e8re Vatinel let her knitting fall, and clasped her hands on the\ntable and faced her grandson. \"Jean-Paul,\" she said, \"I am nearly\nninety years old; I have but you; the sea has taken all the rest--my two\nbig sons and thy mother's husband, and thou knowest well that when the\nnews came that thy father's ship would never cast anchor again, thy\nmother fell as one dead, and thus the sea cursed my last child. I hate\nthe sea,\" she said, raising her old hand as if in turn to curse it; \"it\nis our tomb.\"\n\nIf Jean-Paul heard this it did not make him waver. \"One must live,\ngrandmother,\" he said, stanchly. \"It is our friend too. All sailors are\nnot lost. There is Joseph, who comes here every year with his pockets\nfull of louis; and we are poor; I will come home rich, and some day I\nmay even own my bark, grandmother; and it is so cowardly to stay at home\nwith only the old men and the children.\"\n\n\"And thy grandmother, Jean-Paul?\"\n\nHe did not reply. Then she burst into tears, and rocked to and fro.\n\"Never, never, while I live!\" she wept. \"All have been taken from me.\nJean-Paul, Jean-Paul, thou wilt break my heart!\"\n\n\"Listen!\" he said. \"We will speak of this no more. I will not go unless\nthou art quite content.\"\n\nIt was surprising how quickly the old woman dried her tears. \"Thou art a\nbrave gars, a good gars,\" she said, nodding her head. \"Thou shalt\nperhaps find service at the ch\u00e2teau. Who knows?\"\n\nJean-Paul did not reply, but M\u00e8re Vatinel took it as a sacred promise,\nfor did she not know she would never be content?\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nJean-Paul bought his rabbit at the Gingerbread Fair. On certain _f\u00eate_\ndays in the little square before the Mayory all the world goes to buy\ngingerbread. They are fascinating, those long pieces of brown cake with\ncolored candies on the top. And the extraordinary men! And the animals\nwhose like is seen in few zoological gardens! I should say all the world\nwent _to see_, and those who had a few sous bought, and the others stood\nand looked on in admiration and envy. Jean-Paul sauntered along, his\nblue cap pushed back on his head, his hands in his pockets; he tinkled\nthe ten sous of his savings noisily, for he was the proud owner of ten\nwhole sous. He could buy a good deal of gingerbread with this, but not\ntoo much. He thought, however, that he would spend five sous at throwing\nthe rings, and with the rest collect a gingerbread menagerie. To throw\nthe rings is a delightful sport; one can never have too many\njack-knives. The knives are stuck by the blades in rows on an inclined\nboard. Then you buy five rings for five sous. You take aim, try to\nencircle a knife with a ring, and if you succeed the prize is yours.\nJean-Paul was an expert, and had his eyes on three \"rippers,\" as he\ncalled them in his French slang. The little man who kept the booth knew\nhim, and nodded to him, and held out the rings, when a loud burst of\nlaughter from a group of boys at his right hand made Jean-Paul look\ntoward them. They were gathered in a circle, and intensely watching\nsomething in their midst. The lad walked toward them, and looked too. A\nlittle brown rabbit, trembling with fright, its eyes wild and startled,\ncowered in the centre of a chalk circle which the boys had drawn around\nhim.\n\n\"Look, Jean-Paul!\" said a little boy, plucking his sleeve. \"They are\nlaying wagers as to how far the rabbit will jump when Pierre pokes him\nwith his stick. It is my rabbit, Jean-Paul, and they are to give me a\nsou for the sport.\"\n\nJean-Paul said nothing. He looked at Pierre, who was a big brutal fellow\nwith a coarse face. He was cabin-boy on one of the ships that sail\nbetween Havre and New York, and he had come home for a holiday. Leaning\nforward, he gave the rabbit a sharp poke with the pointed stick. The\npoor thing leaped clear out of the line, and was greeted with shouts of\napplause.\n\n\"She's better than a gingerbread bunny,\" laughed Pierre, \"and just the\ncolor. Jump! Jump, ma belle!\"\n\nJean-Paul adored animals, and having a heart in proportion as big as his\nstrong body, he hated cowardly abuse. His first impulse was to strike\nPierre a ringing blow, seize the rabbit, and rush off with it. He chose\nanother course. \"Is it really yours, the rabbit?\" he said, very fast and\nin a low tone, to the little boy who stood by his side watching the fun\nwith big eyes.\n\n\"Yes, really mine. I am to have a sou.\"\n\n\"Will you sell him for ten?\"\n\nThe boy gasped. Ten sous! He had never in his ragged existence owned ten\nsous.\n\n\"Quick,\" said Jean-Paul, rattling the money before his eyes.\n\nTo be master of ten sous, and to have at the same time a gingerbread\nfair at his very side was too great a stroke of fortune for the little\npeasant to grasp. \"I should think so!\" he said.\n\n\"There, then.\" Jean-Paul crowded the pennies into the boy's hand, leaned\nforward, and picked up the little rabbit by the ears, and lifted it over\nthe heads of the group.\n\n\"See here!\" exclaimed Pierre, angrily, \"you are a little too fresh, my\nfine fellow!\" and he sprang to his feet and confronted Jean-Paul.\n\n\"It is my rabbit, Pierre Fouget,\" replied the other, whose eyes, though\ncalm, were dangerous. \"I have just bought him for ten sous.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" nodded his former owner, \"that is so; and give me my sou for the\nsport, Pierre.\"\n\nPierre measured the straight figure of Jean-Paul. He looked at his broad\nchest, and at the big hand that held the panting beast tenderly.\nJean-Paul stood quite still and looked back at him. Then Pierre laughed\nsneeringly, and shrugging his shoulders, \"My word, if the monsieur has a\nfancy to collect animals, and can pay for them, it is his own affair,\"\nhe said, and turned away.\n\nThe little boy of the ten sous, his hands full of cakes, was swinging in\nthe merry-go-round. He waved his hand to Jean-Paul as he passed. \"I\nshall ride twice more, Jean-Paul,\" he said.\n\nThis is how Jean-Paul bought his rabbit at the Gingerbread Fair.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nMonsieur le Maire was a very important person. I shall not tell about\nhis duties, or all that he did in the little white Mayory over the\npost-office. Dear me, that would be dry reading! After one had climbed\nthe steep cliff straight up from the village, and walked three\nkilometres or more, all the fertile farm-lands, and those forests with\nthe green-trunked trees, and the white ch\u00e2teau with its high gables\nbelonged to M. le Maire. His ancestors had been royalists, and fought\nfor and served many kings and princes. But M. le Maire of Freport was a\ngood republican, and he used to say he belonged to the people, which, of\ncourse, pleased them very much indeed; and those of the town who loved\nthe days of the Emperor loved M. le Maire for his ancestry, and the rest\nhonored him as a good servant of the republic.\n\nJean-Paul saw him go in and out of the Mairie, and drive home every\nafternoon in his red dog-cart. He thought the Maire was a great man, and\nadmired him, and stood in awe of him a little, perhaps. He would have\ntold you, that he knew the Mayor very well, but the Mayor did not know\nJean-Paul--less than he knew Philip or Joseph or the other\nfisher-lads--for his grandmother had enough to keep them far from want,\nand never applied for charity to the government. And then the knitting\nthat she did--well, that was an important item, for she turned off an\nastounding number of thick stockings, and every six weeks Jean-Paul\ncarried the little package to a village by the cross-roads, where\nanother old woman bought the stockings, and sold them to a dealer at\nHavre.\n\nThe brown rabbit had become Jean-Paul's constant companion. She ate\nsitting close to the boy's elbow, slept at night huddled in a brown heap\nat the foot of his bed. He called her La Belle H\u00e9l\u00e8ne; it brought him a\nlittle nearer to the beloved ship he was never to board to say the name\nover and over, for although he made no sign, and spoke not at all of his\ngreat desire, still his heart was on the sea, and the thought that he\nmust spend his youth and strength fishing a little with P\u00e8re Guillaume,\nloitering about the town with a few young fellows, that he was never to\nsee the great ice-fields or know the wild joy of catching the mighty\nfish, that the fisher-seaman's life was forbidden him, it was hard,\nbitter hard to bear.\n\nHe stood with P\u00e8re Guillaume on the beach; a fierce October storm was\ncoming thick and fast from the west, and the fishermen stood talking\ntogether in little groups; and watching the ink-black clouds.\n\n\"How ugly it is,\" said the old fisherman. \"From now on we have the black\nweather. I shall not venture out to-day, Jean-Paul.\"\n\n\"I should like nothing better,\" said the boy, eagerly. \"It is fine out\nthere. One can hear the waves crash. That is real sea. I will do all the\nwork, P\u00e8re Guillaume,\" he added. \"The fish fairly leap into the boat\nto-day.\"\n\nThe old man could not be moved. \"It is well enough for you,\" he said;\n\"you are a strong swimmer, Jean-Paul, but for me, to capsize is death.\nWhen one is old one hugs the fireside.\"\n\n\"Oh, it must be dreadful to be old,\" thought the boy; \"one fears\neverything!\" Then he remembered that it was the day for his trip to St.\nJulian with the parcel of stockings that his grandmother had knitted for\nsale, and he hurried back to the cabin, while the storm gathered faster\nand the wind swept along the hard flint roads.\n\n\"It is bad weather,\" said the grandmother, as he stuffed the parcel in\nthe pocket of his jacket.\n\nBut the journeys to St. Julian were never postponed, for the Havre\ndealer only passed once in six weeks, and to succeed one must be\npunctual. Jean-Paul went in all weathers. In his other pocket he put the\nrabbit Belle H\u00e9l\u00e8ne, and the old grandmother watched him as he pulled\nhis cap down hard and bent his head against the wind.\n\n\"How strong he is, how straight!\" she murmured, and she thought of the\nrabbit in his pocket and smiled. \"_La Belle H\u00e9l\u00e8ne_, _La Belle H\u00e9l\u00e8ne_,\nhis heart is all with the ship. If I were not so old, and the sea has\ntaken so much! It is not fair,\" she said, shaking her head. \"One may at\nleast keep one out of four brave gars.\" And then she went into her\ncabin, shut the door against the wind, and commenced a new pair of\nstockings.\n\nMeanwhile Jean-Paul went sturdily up, up the hill. The road to St.\nJulian lay past the woods of the ch\u00e2teau. The young fellow loved these\nforests when the tree trunks were all green with a bright moss growth,\nand where the guests of the Mayor came and hunted during the fall weeks,\nand flashed through the trees in their bright scarlet coats.\n\n[Illustration: THE GAMEKEEPER'S HAND FELL UPON JEAN-PAUL.]\n\nHe had often watched the chase, and seen the brown hares jump in the\nunderbrush and the deer fly by. But his thoughts on this day were\nelsewhere, and do as he would, it was nothing but _La Belle H\u00e9l\u00e8ne_, _La\nBelle H\u00e9l\u00e8ne_ that kept constantly sailing into his thoughts and casting\nanchor in his brain. It was easy enough to slip off at night, follow the\ncliff path, and before you know it you are at F\u00e9camp; and the harbor is\nbristling with barks at this season, and when one knows the mate of _La\nBelle H\u00e9l\u00e8ne_, and he has said, \"Come, Jean-Paul, you will join us next\nyear surely, mon vieux.\" (That makes one feel so grand to be called old\nchap by a man of position.) \"Next year I will give you a good berth and\nrecommend you to the Captain, and you will do the rest.\" And this was\nnext year, and he was as far away as ever! Here Jean-Paul drew a big\nbreath that meant a pain was at the other end of it, and went on\nthinking. When he reached the little knoll just at the end of the\nforest ch\u00e2teau, the hard struggle was at an end, but he felt about as\nbeside himself as a healthy boy of fifteen can. The result was that he\nwas more tired than though he had already gone the whole of the long way\nto St. Julian. Suddenly he remembered what his grandmother had given him\njust before he left the house--his luncheon; and he sat down on a big\nstone, and he drew out of his pocket a chunk of coarse bread and a stick\nof chocolate. He commenced slowly and meditatively to munch this repast\nand stare way down the long white road into the fast-deepening twilight,\nwhile the wind, which was against him, blew so hard that he could with\ndifficulty keep his seat. Far away behind him lay a glimpse of the sea,\nwhich showed black and sullen. Jean-Paul felt La Belle H\u00e9l\u00e8ne move\nrestlessly in the right pocket of his coat. \"Poor little thing, she is\nhungry too! I will not eat alone,\" he said, and drew the rabbit out of\nhis pocket, and put her on his knee, gently stroking her while she\nnibbled a few crumbs of bread. Just then who can say what strange spirit\nawoke in La Belle H\u00e9l\u00e8ne, or what familiar wood call may have reached\nher ear, for she gave a violent start, and sprang from the knee of\nJean-Paul, made one swift bound, pushed her lithe body through the thick\nhedge, and was off into the dark woods of the ch\u00e2teau; but almost as\nquick in his movements was Jean-Paul, for he sprang to his feet, tore\nhis way through the hedge, and started in hot pursuit. She kept ever\njust in front of him, maddeningly near, yet maddeningly far. He pushed\nhis way through the bushes, and the two soon found themselves in the\nbeautiful woods of the ch\u00e2teau. Jean-Paul thought of nothing save that\nLa Belle H\u00e9l\u00e8ne had escaped and he must get her once more. He called in\nvain; freedom was sweet, and the leaves must have felt delightfully\nfamiliar; and ever pursuing the rabbit who had allured her away, the\nbrown beast kept just beyond her master's reach. Perhaps, however, she\nlost for a moment the call of her kind, or the imploring tones of her\nlittle master touched her, for she stopped. At that moment Jean-Paul\nthrew himself forward and caught La Belle H\u00e9l\u00e8ne. As his hand fell upon\nher, another hand, not half so gentle, fell upon the shoulder of\nJean-Paul, and with the rabbit clasped in his hand, the startled lad\nturned and confronted the gamekeeper, who stood with his gun in his\nhand, rudely peering in the young fellow's face. \"Ha! ha! my pretty\nfellow, caught in the act, in the very act,\" chuckled the gamekeeper,\nmaliciously, and he put his hand over the little brown rabbit.\n\n[TO BE CONTINUED.]\n\n\n\n\nA CHARLES LAMB PARTY.\n\nBY EMMA J. GRAY.\n\n\n\"Who started the thing, I don't remember. Oh yes, I do--it was Edith\nWorster; you know she's a member of the Cozy Club; and I tell you it was\njust splendid, a capital idea, and so pretty in all its arrangements\nthat I am willing to risk anything that you would like me to tell you\nall about it.\"\n\nAt these words the dear old lady laughed aloud, for how could she \"keep\nstill any longer,\" she roguishly asked, \"eaten up with curiosity, as I\nalways am about young folks and their doings.\" And then Maud's long\nchestnut-brown hair, tied with a ribbon to match, fell over her\ngrandmother's face in the endeavor to kiss her. For grandma sat in a\nlarge arm-chair, which her portly figure filled from arm to arm, while\nMaud stood at her back looking taller than ever this morning, on account\nof the long red stripes in her dark brown cashmere morning gown.\n\nGrandma had a square of a silk crazy-quilt in her hand, on which she was\nabout to embroider her initials on a field of lustrous yellow silk, and\nMaud having now drawn up a rocker, seated herself for work also,\ndirectly in front, and as close to her grandmother as room could allow.\n\n\"Heigh ho! I suppose I must sew on these tiresome napkins, or they'll\nnever be done.\" And then spreading one smoothly over her lap, she\ncontinued: \"Isn't it a torment, to have to stitch these things all\naround to keep the fringe from fraying? Don't you think fringed napkins\na nuisance anyway?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" was the slowly given monosyllable; and then grandma, who had been\nenergetic all her life, added, \"but, child, think how pretty they are.\"\n\nAt these words Maud made a dive into her apple-green silk work-bag, as\nif on business bent, and rapidly drew out needle, thread, scissors, and\nthimble. While she was threading her needle, grandma said, \"Really, I\ncan't wait any longer, child; let me hear all about it.\"\n\n\"That's a dear. I thought you'd be dying to know. You'll admit I\nunderstand something about your inquisitiveness,\" and then Maud's\nlaughing baby-blue eyes were lifted lovingly towards her grandmother's\nface.\n\n\"Well, while you were away off West visiting Aunt Maria, I gave Charles\nLamb's party.\"\n\n\"Charles Lamb! Well, I'll believe you're the crazy one now, for he's\nbeen dead many a year.\"\n\n\"Oh, grandma,\" and Maud laughingly shook her head, \"you are funny!\nDidn't I tell you that Edith Worster is a member of the Cozy Club? And\nthey are all owlish sort of people--the owl is the bird of wisdom, you\nknow. Well, while you were gone she came to call on me, and I'm sixteen\nand she's twenty-three.\"\n\n\"What of that?\"\n\n\"Oh, she's seven years older than I am, and awfully wise, and I didn't\nknow what to say to her exactly; and so, as I've been told to entertain\npeople by asking them questions about themselves, I asked Edith what the\nClub was reading now. 'Charles Lamb,' and then you should have seen her\nface change; it was so eager, and looked so full of joy as I thought it\nhad before looked full of misery. I'm sure her call on me was a duty\none, one of the good-child kind, and then she asked me if I--_I_\nremember\"--and Maud stretched her left arm out at full length, and,\nraising the index-finger, pointed to herself--\"had lately read the essay\nof Elia, entitled, 'Rejoicings Upon the New Year's Coming of Age!'\n\n\"I shrunk into almost nothingness before her, no doubt, when I\nimpulsively answered, 'Oh my, no! I don't even know who Elia is--any\nrelation to Elias?' and then I laughed.\n\n\"But, grandma, she was awfully nice. She wasn't the least bit proud and\nhorrid, hadn't any of that drawn-up lofty air some people would have put\non, and she explained all about it, and told me Elia was the name\nCharles Lamb sometimes used for himself, and she made me so interested\nin him, telling me of his love for his sister Mary and his father, and\nthat in writing to the poet Coleridge, who was Charles Lamb's greatest\nfriend, he told him, 'I am wedded to the fortunes of my sister and my\npoor old father.' Did you know, grandma, Mary Lamb was out of her mind\nat times? Oh, it was such a grief to her brother!\n\n\"Well, no sooner was Edith Worster the other side of our hall door than\nI rushed to the library and pulled down book after book in my hunt for\nthese same essays of Elia. I knew they were around somewhere, but\nwhether the book was big or little, thick or thin, I didn't know. But\nafter a while I found it, and then I got into that big sleepy hollow\ndown there and read the essay Edith spoke about. _Read it all through_,\nremember; just put that to my credit.\"\n\n\"I will, Maud; but what's that got to do with your party?\"\n\n\"_Do?_ It _did_ the party, that's all. Only listen, for my party was\nsplendid. Didn't it have a go, though! It was simply delicious!\" and\nMaud smacked her lips over the remembrance. \"Oh, you ought to have seen\nit for yourself, grandma! You'll hear lots of talk about it yet, though,\nyou'll see if you don't,\" and Maud wagged her head sagely.\n\n\"Well, I'm listening and impatient,\" and grandma's work was dropped in\nher lap, while her eager face glowed with the one word \"more\"--for\ngrandma, as she herself expressed it, was very fond of young folks'\ndoings, and, moreover, Maud was her only grandchild.\n\n\"It must have been a good fairy that whispered it to me, for no sooner\nhad I finished the essay than the thought came, why not try that scheme\nfor a party? I knew I was promised a party for my sixteenth birthday,\nand I had heard mamma say, only that very morning, the invitations must\nsoon go out; and then poor mamma sighed, while she said: 'I wish we\ncould think of something new, Maud. Parties are so hackneyed\nnowadays--the same old things given over and over.' So when the good\nfairy whispered, I tripped away to mamma, book in hand, as fast as my\nfeet would take me. And then such a scene of excitement as I made! Mamma\nbegged of me to sit down and talk understandingly if I could. For her\npart, she didn't know what I was trying to get at. And I don't wonder,\nfor she never had heard me mention _The Essays of Elia_ before in all my\nlife. I think poor mamma thought I had gone quite mad. Oh, grandma, such\nfun!\" and Maud laughed heartily over the remembrance of it.\n\n\"However, after awhile I calmed down, as grandpa advises me sometimes,\nand I explained to mamma about Edith Worster's call, and how I happened\nto hear of this particular thing; and then, because it was the easiest\nway, I read mamma the essay, adding, 'Now that would make me a brand-new\nparty.' To this idea mamma instantly agreed, and we sent out the\ninvitations so worded that each one knew perfectly he was to wear a\ncostume that would represent a day in the year. And in order that I\nwouldn't have too many of one kind and too few of the other, each\ninvitation suggested the kind of a day that was meant. In this way I had\nJune Days, Rainy Days, Lenten Days, etc., etc.\"\n\n\"But, my dear grandchild, my brain is all befogged. I can see by what\nyou have said that you had a sort of a masquerade, but your old\ngrandmother knows no more about that essay than you did. You know, I\nnever was much of a scholar, had to work too hard in my young days to\nfind time for an education, and I've been sorry and ashamed over my lack\nof knowledge many's the time,\" and at the remembrance the old lady's\neyes filled with tears.\n\nThis was too much for impulsive Maud, who in a trice had both her arms\naround her grandmother's neck, sternly saying: \"Take those words back or\nI'll never kiss you again. No education indeed! You had the education\nwhich comes from hard work and denial. Where would all our comforts have\nbeen to-day--what would papa have known, I'd like to ask, had it not\nbeen for you? What sort of an education would I have had? It's a burning\nshame,\" and the hot blood reddened Maud's cheeks, \"that I have not made\nbetter use of my advantages! But 'it's never too late to mend' are the\nold words, which I shall apply to myself hereafter; and there, now,\ndearest grandma,\" and Maud kissed her, saying aloud: \"One, two, three;\nthat's our seal to the bargain. And remember, you are not to say another\nword against yourself, and I am to study harder than ever before. Who\nknows, I may be a second Edith Worster, if I try.\"\n\n\"If you try, you can do all things, Maud,\" and then grandma felt around\nfor her handkerchief, and slowly wiped away the moisture which had\ndimmed her gold-rimmed spectacles.\n\n\"Now I'll run away for a second, and get the book to read you the\nopening of the essay. You will understand it better than my wordy\njargon\"; and then off Maud flew, napkins, scissors, and all the rest of\nher sewing paraphernalia dropping at her feet in a hurry to be gone;\nhowever, she stopped for a second, and gathering them up, threw them\nhastily on the table while she rushed on. In a minute she returned, and\nthough all out of breath, at once found the place and commenced:\n\n\"'Rejoicings over the New Year's Coming of Age.'\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\"'The _Old Year_ being dead, the _New Year_ coming of age, which he does\nby Calendar Law as soon as the breath is out of the old man's body,\nnothing would serve the young spark but that he must give a dinner upon\nthe occasion, to which all the Days in the year were invited. The\n_Festivals_, whom he deputed as his stewards, were mightily taken with\nthe notion. They had been engaged time out of mind, they said, in\nproviding mirth and good cheer for mortals below, and it was time they\nshould have a taste of their own bounty. It was stiffly debated whether\nthe _Fasts_ should be admitted. Some said the appearance of such starved\nguests, with mortified faces, would pervert the ends of the meeting. But\nthe objection was overruled by _Christmas Day_, who had a design upon\n_Ash Wednesday_ (as you shall hear), and a mighty desire to see how the\nold domine would behave himself in his cups. Only the _Vigils_ were\nrequested to come with their lanterns to light the gentlefolks home at\nnight.\n\n\"'All the _Days_ came to their day. Covers were provided for 365 guests\nat the principal table, with an occasional knife and fork at the\nsideboard for the _Twenty-ninth of February_.\n\n\"I should have told you that cards of invitation had been issued. The\ncarriers were the _Hours_, twelve little merry whirligig foot-pages, as\nyou should desire to see, that went all around and found out the persons\ninvited well enough, with the exception of _Easter Day_, _Shrove\nTuesday_, and a few such movables who had lately shifted their quarters.\n\n\"'Well, they all met at last--foul _Days_, fine _Days_, all sorts of\n_Days_--and a rare din they made of it.'\n\n\"Now, grandma,\" exclaimed Maud, slamming the book together, \"that's\nenough to give you the idea. Our cards of invitation were decorated,\nsome with hour-glasses, others with clocks or watches, and all stating\nthe day the receiver was to represent. Example: Costume, May Day. Those\nwho didn't understand asked me what was meant; others again told each\nother, and some did not need any information, as the invitation was\ncalled 'A Charles Lamb Party.' From what I have read, you will\nunderstand that no masks were worn.\n\n\"Oh, it was so unique and so pretty, and mamma and I had lots of fun\nselecting the days for each guest! Of course we couldn't have 365\npeople--our house isn't big enough--so we only had a few Lenten Days,\nand while all the months were represented, we didn't have every day of\nthe month.\n\n\"April-fools' Day was so funny! Oh, grandma, how you would have laughed\nhad you but seen her! She came prepared with all sorts of jokes; one of\nthem was some bits of wood covered with chocolate, which she passed off\non her friends as chocolate caramels.\"\n\n\"How was she dressed, Maud?\"\n\n\"She wore a brown domino, and a blue paper fool's-cap; and such a sight!\nWhy, it nearly reached the ceiling, it was so tall! I don't see how she\nmanaged to balance it. And on her back, in big letters cut out of red\ncalico, were the words, 'April Fool.' Oh, she made lots of fun, I tell\nyou!\n\n\"At supper-time she played a most unexpected joke, for she threw aside\ncap and domino, and was just the sweetest thing I ever saw, dressed in\npale pink silk embroidered with forget-me-nots. You know she _is_ sweet\nanyway, grandma.\"\n\n\"I don't know who you are talking about.\"\n\n\"That's true; why, Alice Douglass!\"\n\n\"Yes, she is sweet, and pretty too. She has such beautiful hair. What Day\nwere you, Maud?\"\n\n\"I was St. Valentine's Day. I wore rose color, because it is love's own\ncolor, and I had several tiny valentines basted on my dress. We had a\ngame during the evening, and I used them as prizes. They were considered\nvaluable souvenirs too, I can assure you. There was no one in the room\nbut who would like to have gotten one.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\"Mitchell Morgan was Christmas Day, and he did it to perfection. You\nknow he has the same jolly face that Santa Claus has, and he copied him\nto the smallest detail, even to the bells, sled, and pack of presents.\nOf course these were cheap toys. I cannot help being sorry, though, we\nhad such good times, and you weren't in them. Maybe some vacation I'll\nhave one again. Papa thinks it would be just the thing to give in a barn\nin summer-time.\n\n\"The longest boy I knew I had represent the 21st day of June, and the\nshortest one the 22d of December.\n\n\"Rainy Days came in with water-proofs and umbrellas, and would even\npretend they were dripping wet and shaking the drops off, while Sunshiny\nDays looked merry and jolly, and were dressed in all the colors\nimaginable; some of the girls carried summer flowers as wreaths or\ngarlands, while others had their frocks trimmed with them.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\"But you should have seen the Wedding Day. She was the youngest girl\ninvited. Her mother made her a white satin gown with a long train,\nembroidered with beads and flounced with lace. She wore a white veil\nwhich trained with her dress, and carried a big bouquet fastened with\nwhite satin ribbon with flowing streamers, exactly the same as a bride\nwould have. I tell you we all clapped when she entered.\n\n\"One boy represented Pay Day, who came late, as he always does; another\nwas May the 1st, and he pretended to be moving all the while, and\nbesides all the Days who came to my party, there came lots of goodies to\neat--some very old-fashioned refreshments, such as mamma used to have\nwhen she gave a party, she said; and we played games, danced, and sung,\nand had the jolliest time. No one wanted to go home. It wasn't one bit\nlike an ordinary party.\n\n\"Was it anything like what you had when you was a girl, grandma?\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE PAINTED DESERT.[1]\n\n[1] Begun in HARPER'S ROUND TABLE No. 904.\n\nA STORY OF NORTHERN ARIZONA.\n\nBY KIRK MUNROE,\n\nAUTHOR OF \"RICK DALE,\" \"THE FUR-SEAL'S TOOTH,\" \"SNOW-SHOES AND SLEDGES,\"\n\"THE MATE SERIES,\" ETC.\n\n\nCHAPTER IX.\n\nHOW THE VALLEY OF PEACE WAS DISCOVERED.\n\nOn the evening of the day that had introduced Todd Chalmers to the modern\ncliff-dwellers of the Valley of Peace, he and they gathered about a\ncheerful fire burning on the open hearth of the castle, and the\nProfessor gave him a history of their coming to that place as follows:\n\n\"It is now twelve years since I filled the chair of Biblical Literature\nand American Ethnology in Calvert College. About that time I was\nconfronted by certain problems that could only be solved by a visit to\nthe pueblos of New Mexico and Arizona, in which, as thee doubtless\nknows, the manner of life remains to-day practically unchanged from what\nit was at the time of their discovery by the Spaniards. Through the\nliberality of thy father were the means for making such a visit\nfurnished.\n\n\"Apprehending no danger, I brought with me my wife and my only son\nReuben, a well-grown lad of eighteen. We travelled from Albuquerque in a\nlight wagon drawn by two stout mules, and provided with all necessaries\nfor our comfort. Everything went well with us until after we left Zu\u00f1i\nfor the Moqui towns of northeastern Arizona, 'the seven cities of\nCibola,' as they were named by the Spaniards. Toward them we travelled\nin company with two Mexican traders who, though they had never visited\nthe Moqui towns, thought they knew the way.\n\n\"The Mexicans proved unreliable guides, however, and by the time we\ncrossed the Flax River had managed to lead us from the trail. Still, we\nbelieved ourselves to be moving in the right direction, and pushed on,\nthough the country became more and more desolate with every mile.\n\n\"Toward evening of the day on which we crossed the river our wagon was\nhalted by the breaking of a piece of harness, and the Mexicans, keeping\non, were quickly lost to view behind a rise of ground. I soon had the\nharness mended, and Reuben, who was mounted on a saddle-horse, rode\nahead to catch sight of our companions before they should gain too great\na distance.\n\n[Illustration: \"INDIANS ON THE WAR-PATH!\" HE SHOUTED.]\n\n\"I followed with all speed, but had not passed the rise when the lad\ncame dashing madly back, shouting: 'Indians! Indians on the war-path!'\nIn another minute he had told his story. A band of Apaches who had\nbroken from their reservation had killed the Mexicans, and were busily\nengaged in examining their bales of goods. They were so surprised by\nReuben's approach that they could only let fly a few arrows as he turned\nand fled. Being on foot, they pursued him but a short distance; but one\nof their arrows had struck him and passed through his body, inflicting a\nmost dangerous wound.\n\n\"I got him into the wagon, and then, not knowing what better to do,\nturned it at right angles to the course we had been pursuing, with the\nidea of making a circuit around the Indians. After that I hoped to\nregain our original direction, for I knew that in reaching the Moqui\ntowns lay our only hope of safety.\n\n\"For three days we wandered over the burning sands and amid the magic\npaintings of the desert, while our poor lad suffered agonies from his\nwound. By nightfall of the third day, our horse having already given out\nand been abandoned, the mules were too weak to travel another step, and\nI turned them loose to die. One staggered but a few yards before he\nfell, while the other wandered feebly out of sight.\n\n\"That night, amid the crashings of a thunder-storm, our poor boy was\nmercifully relieved of his sufferings by death, and our only comfort was\nthat we should shortly follow him. But we were to be reserved for\nfurther work, and even as we sat with our dead, the cry of one who was\nto save us was borne to our ears. I stepped from the wagon to listen,\nand by a flash of lightning saw the figure of a little child standing\nbeside a dark object that lay on the ground. This proved to be an Indian\nwoman, alive and conscious, but too feeble to rise.\n\n\"Believing her to be starving, I carried her food, which both she and\nthe child ate ravenously, and by daylight she was able to come to us. By\nsigns I tried to learn from her if any of her people dwelt so near that\nwe might hope to reach them; but she gave me to understand that she was\nlost, and knew not in what direction they might be found. The child, who\nwas no other than this dear boy\"--here the speaker laid his hand\nlovingly on Nanahe's shoulder--\"was in so much better plight than his\nmother that she had evidently sacrificed her own strength to save his.\n\n\"Months afterward we learned that she had been the Moqui wife of a\nNavajo brave, who had died shortly before our meeting with her. She had\nhardly been left a widow when a party of Navajos decided to make a raid\non the flocks of their Moqui neighbors, and demanded that she should\nguide them to the best locality for their purpose. This, in spite of all\nthreats, she refused to do, whereupon they drove her with her child into\nthe desert, which they regarded as the place of lost spirits, forbidding\nher ever to return, under penalty of torture to her child and death for\nherself. So she, like ourselves, had wandered hopelessly until she had\ndiscovered the dying mule that I had turned loose, and followed his\ntrail to our vicinity. From the first I called her Hagar.\n\n\"All the previous day we had been slowly approaching a great white mesa\ntoward which, without special reason, I had directed our course. Now we\nwere close beside it, and I conceived the idea that at its base we might\nfind some shaded crevice in which to lay our dead boy. At any rate, I\ncould better bear to leave him there than out on the pitiless desert. So\nwith mother's aid and that of Hagar, I finally succeeded in bearing him\nto the place I desired. We found a deep cool recess in the rocky wall,\nand there laying him down, rested for a while before undertaking to\ncomplete our sad task.\n\n\"We were in so pitiable a plight from weakness and our recent exertions\nthat the woman Hagar seemed to have lapsed into unconsciousness, and\nallowed her child to wander unnoticed from her side. All at once there\ncame from him a shrill cry, accompanied by a muffled crash from the\ninner end of the recess, to which he had penetrated. Hagar sprang to her\nfeet and sped toward the sound, while I followed close after. We found\nthe little one lying unharmed at the foot of a rocky slope, while just\nbeyond, as though it had leaped over him, lay a bowlder apparently newly\nfallen from above.\n\n\"Glancing up in the direction from which it must have come, I was amazed\nto perceive a ray of light shining from beyond the barrier. Cautiously\nmaking my way up the slope, I discovered the light to shine through a\nsmall opening caused by the displacement of the bowlder already\nmentioned. Looking through this as through a window, I beheld a sight so\nmarvellous that for a time I could not believe in its reality. I need\nnot attempt to describe it to thee, Todd Chalmers, for thee is already\nfamiliar with the aspect of the Valley of Peace, and can judge of my\nfeelings at coming thus unexpectedly upon it.\n\n\"Soon after we discovered a ruined hut of stone that told of former\nhuman occupancy of the valley, and, as it stood near a stream, we\nlighted our fire close beside it. Taking Hagar with me, and again\nvisiting the wagon, we brought back a number of things most needful for\nimmediate use. Among them was a fowling-piece, which was the only\nfirearm that I possessed. With this I fired at and killed a rabbit that\nregarded us from a short distance without the least trace of fear. The\neffect of that shot was prodigious. It roared and echoed among the\ncliffs like a thousand thunders, and caused the appearance of such an\namount of animal life as satisfied me that we were in no danger of\nstarving so long as we should remain in the valley.\n\n\"After a supper of stewed rabbit, thin cakes of cornmeal that Hagar\ndeftly baked on the heated surface of a flat stone, and tea, the Indian\nwoman and I made one more trip to the wagon, from which we brought in\nall our bedding. Then, after collecting a sufficient supply of firewood\nto last until morning, we sought our rude couches, and prepared to pass\nour first night in the wonderful place to which we had been so strangely\nled.\n\n\"The next day we brought in all our effects from the wagon, cleaned out\nthe old hut, rebuilt its walls, chimney, and fireplace, and stretching\nour wagon cover above it, found ourselves comfortably housed. In all\nthis work Hagar proved herself invaluable, knowing much better than I\nhow to handle clay and building stones, while even little Nanahe,\nworking under his mother's direction, willingly performed such light\ntasks as came within the limit of his strength.\"\n\n\nCHAPTER X.\n\nMODERN LIFE IN AN ANCIENT CLIFF DWELLING.\n\n\"No sooner was our work on the hut completed,\" continued the Professor,\n\"than I determined to make an exploration of the valley, for I had yet\nto learn of its size, what it produced, whether it contained any\ninhabitants besides ourselves, and if there was any entrance to it other\nthan the one by which we had come. So, after an early breakfast, I set\noff down the stream that flowed past our camp, carrying the\nfowling-piece over my shoulder.\n\n\"As I advanced, the fertility of the soil was a constant source of\ndelight, for it not only produced a heavy growth of grasses, besides the\nuseful amole, or soap-root, and many other plants, but a great variety\nof trees, among which I recognized cottonwood, cedar, the pi\u00f1on or\nnut-bearing pine, and peach-trees that had run wild from some long-ago\nplanting. These last showed the valley to have been visited by human\nbeings since the coming of Spaniards to this country, for by them were\npeaches introduced. I also found an abundance of cotton-plants with full\nbolls, which, though small in size from lack of cultivation, would yield\na serviceable fibre. No trace of human beings was to be seen save the\nancient ruins of a few huts, together with mounds of broken pottery and\nstone implements of every description.\n\n\"When late in the day I regained camp, almost my first greeting from\nmother was, 'Whatever thee has discovered, Rufus, I am persuaded that we\nwho remained behind have found something of still greater value.'\n\n\"Then she told me how, with the keen instinct of her race for such\nthings, Hagar, while gathering pine-nuts, had run across a trail leading\nup the face of the cliffs, and had followed it to this very place.\nMother had also climbed to the platform, taken a hasty glance at its\nmarvels, and then, leaving Hagar and the child up there, had returned to\nmeet me, and conduct me to the wonderful place they had found.\n\n\"Smiling at her excitement, for I could not then realize the value of\nthe discovery, I followed her up the steep acclivity, wondering at her\nendurance, especially when we came to the last fifteen feet of\nperpendicular steps. When we finally gained the place where Hagar\nsmilingly awaited us, I was amazed at the width of the platform and the\nextent of the view to be obtained from it. I longed for the spy-glass\nwhich had formed part of the equipment of our wagon, and which had been\nleft in the hut. I even proposed to return and get it, thinking that the\nplatform and view from it embraced the whole of Hagar's discovery. At\nthat mother interfered, and saying that she had something of much\ngreater importance than a view to show me, directed my attention to the\nfurther end of the platform. Then for the first time I became aware of a\nsmall house occupying the entire space beneath a jutting of the cliff.\n\n\"It was built of stone, so deftly laid and so colored by time that even\na short distance away it could not be distinguished from the adjacent\nrock. From the shape of its doorway, which was thus\"--here the Professor\ntraced a rude diagram in the ashes of the hearth--\"but which we\nafterward altered to suit our own notions, I knew that the structure was\na cliff-dwelling of the most ancient pattern.\n\n\"In an instant I was as excited as mother, though with a different\nreason, for this was the very type of dwelling I had been most anxious\nto study, and if it should prove to have remained unvisited since its\nabandonment, my fondest hopes of discovery would be fulfilled. Nor was I\ndisappointed, for an examination of the interior revealed a profusion of\nunbroken pottery, implements of stone, horn, and bone, pictographs or\nrude drawings on the walls, agate and jasper fragments of fossil trees,\nsuch as I had noticed in abundance at the lower end of the valley, and\nmany other things, all in such a fine state of preservation as gave\ninstant proof that here was a treasure not yet duplicated in America.\n\n\"Over all these things and on the floor the dust of ages lay thick, and\nrose in suffocating clouds with our every movement. Heedless of it, I\npenetrated each of the three rooms contained in the house, wild with\ndelight over what I saw. I was somewhat taken aback when I found that\nmother, who had seemed to share my enthusiasm, was all this time\nregarding the place with the eye of a housewife, and as one in which we\nmight establish a home for such time as we should remain in the valley.\nFinally, however, she won me to her way of thinking, and though we\nreturned to the camp for that night, we set to work early the next day\nto put 'Cliff Castle,' as mother called it, in a habitable condition.\n\n\"On my second visit to it I discovered the steps leading to the top of\nthe mesa and the ruined watch-tower that crowns it. There I also found a\nrock cistern, and a broken conduit, that could be opened at pleasure, by\nwhich its waters had formerly been conveyed to the house. This, with\nHagar's skilled assistance, I soon repaired, and by nightfall of that\nday we had the ancient cliff dwelling cleansed and ready for occupancy.\nAnother day was necessary for the removal of such goods as we needed\nfrom below, but with that accomplished, we were comfortably settled in\nwhat has been from that day to this our home.\n\n\"Of course much has been done to it since then in the way of\nenlargement, the making of a more generous provision for light and\nventilation, and in the adding of many comforts, but in its general\naspect Cliff Castle stands to-day unchanged from the time it was built,\nmany centuries before the continent of America was discovered by\nColumbus.\n\n\"Although so long as my meagre supply of ammunition lasted I had no\ndifficulty in procuring all the meat needed for our table, a supply that\nNanahe has kept up since by means of his throw-stick, I began the making\nof a field as soon as our dwelling was put in order. My greatest labor\nlay in fencing this against goats and rabbits. When it was ready I\nplanted it with corn, oats, beans, and squashes, the seed for which were\nyielded by a bag of feed for our poor mules that I had procured in Zu\u00f1i.\nI also set out peach-trees and grape-vines, improving greatly the\nquality of their fruit by cultivation, and a little later I captured two\nyoung goats, from which our present domestic flock has been reared.\n\n\"In all our labors, both mine in the field and mother's in the house,\nHagar was our invaluable assistant and instructor. She it was who taught\nme to use the ancient stone hoes and planting sticks of my remote\npredecessors, to construct wattled fences, to cure meat so that it might\nbe kept, and to work in clay until I could produce rude but serviceable\narticles of pottery. She taught mother how to spin cotton thread on the\nstone spindles that we found in this and other cliff dwellings, and\nafterwards to weave them into a coarse cloth on a rude loom that she\nherself constructed.\n\n\"She gave lessons in making matting of yucca fibre, in plaiting baskets,\ndressing hides, and in sewing rabbit-skins with bone needles. Before we\nbegan to harvest our planted crops, she gathered up large quantities of\ncertain grass-seeds, ground them into flour on old stone metates, and\nmade of this a palatable bread. She taught us where to look for wasp\nhoney, as well as how to extract sugar from grapes and peaches.\n\n\"I discovered the deposit of salt that seasons our food, and the\nselenite that, cleaved into thin sheets, serves instead of glass to\nclose our windows against the cold of winter; but nearly every other\ncomfort with which thee finds us surrounded we owe to the knowledge,\nskill, and cheerful industry of that splendid woman. She remained with\nus nearly two years. Then, with her life work nobly accomplished, she\nleft us, and we buried her beside our dear boy.\n\n\"Since then Nanahe has been as our own well-loved son, bravely filling\nhis mother's place. With his increasing strength he has gradually\nassumed the duties that my failing powers have caused me to relinquish,\nuntil now he is our mainstay and dependence, as well as the delight of\nour declining years. He has been quick to learn all that I could teach\nhim, and is fitted for a wider sphere of activity than that in which he\nnow moves. But I know not how we could exist without him, nor how he\nmight gain the outer world, even though we knew in what direction lay\nits most accessible point.\n\n\"In all these years I have not been able to determine our locality nor\nour distance from any known place, nor have we been visited by any human\nbeing beside thyself since coming to the valley. On account of the\nmarvellous coloring of the desolate region surrounding us I have called\nit the Painted Desert, though I am not certain that the name originated\nwith me, for I have a dim memory of hearing it before. I cannot satisfy\nmyself, however, as to whether the Moqui towns lie to the east or the\nwest of us. I am of the former opinion, but Nanahe, for some reason,\ninclines to the latter. At the same time, neither of us can form any\nidea of how far away they may be.\"\n\n\"I do not know,\" said Todd, \"for I am very much ashamed to say that I\nwas so filled with visions of hunting as to neglect my opportunities for\ngaining profitable information while with my brother's expedition. I\ntoo, however, am of the opinion, that the Moqui towns lie to the\neastward of this place. Nor do I think they can be at any great\ndistance, certainly no further than two active young chaps such as\nNanahe and I might cover without danger during a time of rains. Don't\nyou think, sir, that we might make the attempt?\" concluded the boy,\neagerly.\n\n\"What does thee think would become of mother and me if thee should take\nNanahe from us?\" asked the old man.\n\n\"We would only be gone a short time, and would return with such\nassistance as would enable you also to rejoin the world from which you\nhave been cut off so long,\" replied Todd.\n\n\"My son, when first we came here I too was impatient of imprisonment,\nand fretted against it; but since then I have come to a knowledge that,\nwith our present freedom from the cares and anxieties of the world, our\nlife is happier here than it could possibly be elsewhere. More than\nthat, this place is our home, which we have learned so to love that\nmother and I hope never to leave it, save for the better land of our\nFather. I would not seek to detain thee here one moment against thy\nwill, nor would I hinder the departure of Nanahe if I knew of a way for\nhis going and an object to be gained. At present neither of these seems\nto be offered; but in the Lord's own time, if it be His will, they are\ncertain to come, and until then we must be content to await His\npleasure. Therefore, my dear lad, satisfy thyself as well as may be in\nthis place, gain from it whatever of health, strength, and knowledge\nthee can, and have faith to believe that in due time a way of escape\nwill be opened to thee.\"\n\nTodd accepted this advice in silence and with a heavy heart, for to him\nthe Valley of Peace, in which he could not regard himself as other than\na prisoner, was only a refuge from the perils of its encircling desert;\nwhile the great, outer world from which he was cut off contained all of\nlife that he deemed worth the having. Therefore during the next few\nweeks, while he found much pleasure in the company of Nanahe, under\nwhose guidance he explored every foot of the valley and became an expert\nclimber of its frowning cliffs, he brooded constantly over plans of\nescape. He even went so far as to propose to the Indian lad that they\ntwo should set forth on a search for the Moqui towns in spite of the\nProfessor's protest, but was met with an unqualified refusal.\n\n[TO BE CONTINUED.]\n\n\n\n\nONE TOUCH OF NATURE.\n\nA LEGEND OF WESTERN NEW YORK.\n\nBY G. T. FERRIS.\n\n\n\"What d'ye think it all means?\" said Mark Lytte, peering through the\ntangled thicket of hazel and sumach, where the earliest autumn dyes had\nbegun to lay their crimson.\n\nBuckskin, before answering his young comrade, pondered on the scene\nbefore him. In the hollow nestling at the foot of the hill and clasped\nin the bend of the river lay the large Indian village, all astir with\nmotion and excitement. But it seemed not to be the fever of war and\nslaughter which so often convulses the aboriginal man, but a jubilee of\nmirth and innocent delight. They were looking down on one of the most\nconsiderable towns of the Seneca tribe in western New York, near what is\nnow Olean. Hurrying through the village streets, laughing groups of\ndark-skinned youths and maids carried wreaths of wild-flowers, branches\nof trees, and great sheaves of maize-stalks toward a lofty pole which\ntowered in the centre.\n\n\"To think I shouldn't 'a' known quick as powder flashin'\" finally said\nBuckskin John, whose iron face and tanned skin showed his occupation no\nless than his garb. \"It's the Feast of the Green Corn[2] among these\nIroquois devils, an' then they're allus as frisky as so many lambs. They\nput off the wolf-skin for a while, but they keep it mighty handy, I kin\ntell ye.\"\n\n[2] The Feast of the Green Corn among the powerful Iroquois Confederacy,\nor Six Nations, occurred in the latter part of August or early\nSeptember. Its rites so resembled the Hebrew Feast of the Tabernacles\nthat it furnished an additional argument for the notion that the\nAmerican Indians were remotely descended from the ten lost tribes of\nIsrael.\n\n\"Perhaps it'll give us a better chance to try our luck,\" answered Mark,\nwhose face was that of a lad of sixteen, though his height and the\nsturdy square of his chest looked older. He wrung his hands excitedly,\nand continued, with a quiver in his voice, shaking his long rifle in the\ndirection of the village: \"What can we do? I shall go crazy if we fail.\nMother's grievin' to death, fadin' each month into a mere shadder. 'Twas\nall right till last year, Buckskin, and she showed no sign but what\nshe'd a'most forgot about our lost Nellie. Then we heard of the little\nwhite gal in Cornplanter's village, and that he was the very chief who\nmade the raid when we lived at Fort Pitt. Then Cunnel Johnson over to\nFort Niagara, though he did fight agin us in the late war, came to see\nCornplanter six months ago. An' the chief would say nuthin' but that the\nlittle gal, whoever her parents were, was no longer white, but Indian,\nhis adopted sister, whom he loved dearer than life. That broke mother's\nheart, for she began to pine soon as she found as Cornplanter ud never\nlet the captive free.\"\n\nMark's brief rehearsal did scant justice to a typical drama of the\nborder. Six years before, during the early days of the Revolutionary\nwar, a war party of the Senecas had made an irruption into western\nPennsylvania, and among their captives was a girl of four years old\nbelonging to the Lytte family. The great chief, who shares with Red\nJacket the highest mark in Seneca tradition, took the trembling captive\nto his mother with the words:\n\n\"My mother, I bring to you a daughter to supply the place of my brother,\nkilled by the Lenap\u00e9 six moons ago. She shall dwell in my lodge and be\nmy sister.\" So little Eleanor Lytte became Ma-za-ri-ta, \"the Ship under\nFull Sail,\" so named from her joyous and energetic disposition.\n\n\"Waal, we'll have to go slow,\" Buckskin had answered his companion.\n\"I'll resk my topknot to help ye, lad, but we'll see how the lan' lays.\"\nThe old hunter knew that at this festival-time hospitality would be\nflung with both hands to all comers. So they moved down the hill into\nthe main village street, where a tall Indian, with all the insignia of a\ngreat sagamore in his tattooing, head-dress, and port, received them\nwith a grave welcome.\n\n\"My white brothers have come to the green-corn feast of the Senecas.\nThey are welcome. Our hearts are glad, and all we have is theirs.\" Then\nhe ordered his guests conducted to a well-built log house, where a\ngenerous provision for all their wants was found. They had scarcely\nsatisfied their simple needs when the music of Indian flutes and drums\ndrew them to the door, and there they found the messenger ready to\nconduct them to the \"long house,\" where the procession was forming which\nwould begin the festivities.\n\n[Illustration: MA-ZA-RI-TA LED THE CHANT AS THEY DANCED ABOUT THE\nPILLAR.]\n\nForemost, hand in hand with the chief, was a brilliant little figure, a\ngirl about ten years old. With a skin naturally snow-white, but now\nkissed to a ruddy hue by the sunshine, and long brown plaits glittering\nwith the most brilliant beads; petticoat and bodice of the finest\nbroadcloth, and around her neck and shoulders rows of silver brooches\nand strings of white and purple wampum; on her feet deer-skin moccasins\nembroidered with porcupine quills, contrasting with the scarlet leggings\nabove--Ma-za-ri-ta looked indeed the fit princess of the revels. The\npride which shone in Cornplanter's eyes, the admiration with which all\nthe Indians gazed on the dancing girl--for her feet had already begun to\nmove to a nimble measure--struck a chill to the heart of Mark, for it\nseemed a portent of sure defeat. Her blue eyes sparkled with joy as she\ndanced in the van, followed by the Seneca girls in pairs, all attired in\ngala dress, and with wreaths of flowers on their heads. Then came\nCornplanter and his lesser chiefs, the warriors, the squaws, and the\nchildren, and the march advanced to the pole in the centre of the\nvillage, shaped in a square enclosure, that painted pole horribly etched\nwith the scars of innumerable tomahawks when the frenzy of war-dancing\nmade it the symbol of the enemy's body. Now the great mast was belted\nthick with greenery to its very top, corn-stalks with pendent ears,\nbunches of golden-rod, and all the richest spoil of the thickets and\nmeadows. Ma-za-ri-ta's sweet voice, as the dance of the maidens gyrated\nmore and more swiftly about the gorgeous pillar, led the chant among the\nmore shrill and unmusical notes of her companions.\n\nMark edged his way through the throng, for a fancy had suddenly come to\nhim, and he stood in the inner ring next the circle of dancers.\n\n\"Nellie! little Nellie! don't you remember Mark?\" he said, in a piercing\nwhisper, as she approached several paces in the van of her choir.\n\nMa-za-ri-ta slowed her pace, looking at him wonderingly with a flush of\noffended pride, for the little princess felt she was the queen of the\nSenecas, child as she was. Again as she neared his place she heard the\nwords, \"Nellie, _can't_ you remember?\" The beautiful child face was\ntroubled, as though some dumb vague memory were stirring under the\nsurface, but again she moved on, shaking her head. Bitterly did Mark\nbewail his failure to Buckskin, for, \"I'm sure,\" he said, \"she is our\nlost Nellie, and I can see our mother's look in her pretty eyes.\"\nSomething worked like yeast in the old hunter's thoughts as he listened\nin silence to Mark's passionate rambling words that night, when all the\ncamp was hushed to silence, and they lay tossing on their bear-skins.\n\n\"Why don't you answer?\" the boy burst out, with petulance.\n\n\"Mark, I'm glad,\" the other said, deliberately, \"that there seems to be\nno chance of takin' the little gal away by force or cheatin'. I rayther\nguess there's a doggone poor show of doin' anything that-a-way, and we\nmight 'a' known it afore. But I'll swar she's her mother's darter, as ye\nsaid a minnit since, and when ye talk about the mother, thar's the key\nof the hull sityvashun, as the lawyer chaps ud say. Ye don't quite\nunnerstan' what I mean, hey? Waal, it's jes this, my young master. Your\nmammy must come down here to Cornplanter's village, and she'll do mor'n\nall the guns and bagnets of Gen'ral St. Clair's army to get the little\ngal back, ef so be she is the right one, and I genooinely believe it.\nThe chief loves his adopted sister with every drop of his blood, and his\npeople adore her as their little princess. They'd lay their lives down\nafore givin' her up, onless ye tech 'em jess right. But I know 'em well,\nblood-thirsty varmints and wild beasts as they are when you cross 'em,\nand a redskin's got a heart as beats big and strong as any white man's,\nef ye can find it oncet. Then I've heerd uv Cornplanter fur the last\nfifteen year, and they all say he's one of the best as well as bravest\ncritturs as ever wore a scalp-lock. Cheer up, laddie; we'll git her, but\nwe can't do it yet. Trust ole Buckskin's idee.\"\n\nBuckskin's solace scarcely calmed Mark's restlessness, and after the\nhunter's snores proved him in the realm of dreams, he arose with the\nidea of strolling through the moonlit village, and walking off the\nfancies that would not let him sleep. The lonely streets were wrapped in\nthe pallid shine which silhouetted the log houses and the trees in\nghostly shadows, and had it not been for the occasional howl of a\ndistant wolf or the snarl of an Indian dog, he might have fancied\nhimself the only waking creature. He wandered aimlessly, in a maze of\nfear and doubt what would be the outcome of it all. His careless\nfootsteps finally carried him to the edge of the village, where, at the\nvery shadow of the forest, stood a large double house apart from all the\nothers. Then he saw he was not the only sleepless soul, for from its\ndoorway glided a figure whose height and garb--for the moonlight\nglittered on the costly bead-work--showed it to be the one who filled\nhis heart full to bursting. He forgot all prudence and doubt, and sprang\nforward swiftly.\n\n\"Nellie! Nellie!\" he cried, in tones that cut the silent air like a\nknife. \"I am your brother Mark--your playmate that loved you so dearly.\nCome home with me to mammy, who is dying for you, away from this\ndreadful place. A long time ago they carried you away from us, and now\nI've found you again, and will not let you go, my darling little\nsister.\" He forgot all the surroundings--all but need of giving voice to\nthe feeling that shook him as the wind shakes the leaves in the trees.\n\nMa-za-ri-ta's face quivered in the starlight as she shrank from the hand\nthat eagerly clutched her arm, as if he would have led her away at once;\nthen something like half-awakened intelligence was quenched in a wave of\nblind terror, and she shrieked aloud.\n\nA tall figure leaped like a tiger from the dark of the doorway, and Mark\nfelt the grip of iron fingers on his throat which threatened to strangle\nhim. As he lay helpless in that clutch, he saw an upraised tomahawk\nsparkling in the moonshine; but Cornplanter did not strike, though his\nwords were edged with cutting disdain.\n\n\"Such is the honor of palefaces,\" said he; \"from the cub to the\nfull-grown wolf the same. The Senecas welcomed their guests and did them\nhonor. Their hearts were warm and friendly, for it is now their festival\nof peace and goodwill. But what should they do to one who would steal in\nthe dark, and rob them of their dearest?\"\n\n\"Do?\" said another voice, for Mark was speechless with rage, shame, and\nimpotence, and Buckskin darted forward, grasping Cornplanter's uplifted\narm, though the chief showed no immediate purpose to use his gleaming\nweapon. \"Do? They should respect the voice of natur' and blood cryin'\naloud!\" Honest Buckskin had wakened suddenly, and alarmed at Mark's\nabsence, sought him through the Indian village. \"Look ye here, chief,\nthis is a foolish boy, and he couldn't 'a' done what ye think, had he\nbeen in ever so much airnest. But he suspecks he's found his little\nsister that you and yourn took from his mammy's arms six year ago durin'\nthe time o' fightin'. The great Seneca is just; and let him say, then,\nwho's the thief, ef it comes to a matter o' stealin'.\"\n\nThe ferocity which had hardened Cornplanter's lineaments still\nthreatened the offender in spite of the hunter's plea. But Ma-za-ri-ta,\nwho had listened with shifting emotions chasing over her face, vainly\nstriving to pierce the meaning of the words, now threw her arms about\nthe neck of the chief, and spoke rapidly in the Seneca tongue. The\nIndian's stern aspect melted and took on its more wonted expression, in\nwhich there was something almost benignant.\n\n\"Go without harm even while it is night,\" he said, \"lest the Senecas\ndiscover all, and sore mischief befall.\" He brought them their arms,\nloaded their wallets with food, and dismissed them. And as Mark turned\nbefore entering the forest, he caught a last look of Ma-za-ri-ta,\nwatching their retreating footsteps with clasped hands and head bent\nforward.\n\nIt was about a week afterwards that Colonel Johnson received a visit at\nFort Niagara in Canada, just across the river, which whetted his\ninterest keenly. This whilom British agent of the Iroquois tribes still\nexercised a powerful influence over them, though their territory now\nbelonged to the conceded limits of the new republic. To him they looked\neven yet for advice and authority. He recognized the Lyttes, mother and\nson (for the father was dead), and his feelings guessed shrewdly at the\noccasion as they walked up the esplanade from the jetty where they had\nlanded.\n\n\"Well, Mrs. Lytte,\" he said, after the first look at her pale and\nworking features, which were full of news, \"I see you've learned\nsomething more.\"\n\n\"Cunnel, in the name of God, and for the sake of your own dear wife and\nchildren, you must help me now,\" the woman gasped, for her throat was\ntoo full. \"Mark has jess come from Cornplanter's village, and he says\nfor sure and sure it's little Nellie. An' she didn't know him! But,\nCunnel, she will know the mammy that bore her and gave her suck, for\nI'll die of a broken heart ef she don't.\"\n\n\"We must trust for the best, my dear lady,\" said he, cheerily. \"The\nfirst thing will be the child's knowing you. That clearly proven, the\nquestion will be as to Cornplanter. It will be a knock-down blow, but\nthe Seneca has great qualities. He may set his face against it like\nflint, yet I shall be surprised if he thinks of self alone in the\nmatter. And what idea did you get of Cornplanter?\" he concluded, turning\nto Mark.\n\n\"Pretty good for an Indian,\" said Mark, moodily; \"but ef he don't give\nup Nellie to mother, I'll brain him with his own hatchet, ef I die for\nit next minute.\"\n\n\"Well crowed, young cockeril,\" laughed the Colonel, \"but we'll find\nbetter weapons than tomahawks. It's the heart and not the skull we've\ngot to reach.\" There was no need to waste time, and quick outfit was\nmade for the journey to the Seneca village, about eighty miles away.\n\nCornplanter received the message from the Indian runner, giving warning\nof Colonel Johnson's proposed visit, but with no further hint of\npurpose. Yet he felt a keen pang of foreboding. Stoic as he was, there\nwas something in the air that mocked him with the notion of fate lying\nin ambush close at hand. As Ma-za-ri-ta afterwards recalled, the chief\ntreated her with a clinging, pathetic tenderness during these days she\nhad never known before. And finally, when he saw with Colonel Johnson\nthe youth who had been his recent guest, and a pale-faced woman with\nquestioning gaze that wandered and hunted like that of a mad-woman, it\nwas no longer guesswork. It was as if a bullet had pierced his chest.\nThe Englishman knew his man, and made a plain appeal with all the fling\nof that bullet.\n\nCornplanter heard with a stern, impassive face. \"My father's words are\ngood and just,\" he said. \"Let Ma-za-ri-ta decide,\" and hope knocked\nagain faintly at the gate that his little sister would not know the\nwhite woman who had come to rob him of his heart's blood. The girl was\nled from her lodge, unknowing the test, and ran gayly to her Indian\nbrother's side, and looked curiously at the little white group in the\ncentre of the watchful throng of red men. Her eyes glanced smilingly at\nher Indian friends, till they were fastened as if by a magnet on the\nwhite woman's face, and there they hung, fascinated, open-mouthed,\nspellbound, as though they could never drink their fill. The woman\nstood, arms half extended, burning eyes unquenched by their own tears,\nlips dumbly moving. Fear, wonder, longing, doubt, swept over the girl's\nface, till all thought was swallowed up in a light unspeakable, and her\ntongue babbled \"ma-ma.\" She tottered, but Mrs. Lytte leaped at her and\nlocked her fast with convulsive cries and sobs.\n\nThe chief's rigid face was that of a bronze man. All listened for his\nlips to speak. But it seemed as if the jaws were locked. And when the\nvoice came his followers scarcely knew its hollow accents:\n\n\"The Great Spirit has spoken, and who are his red children that they\nshould refuse to listen.\" Then he covered his face with a corner of his\ndeer-skin robe and passed swiftly from their midst, this Indian\nAgamemnon, who would not reveal his own agony of spirit.\n\nEleanor Lytte never saw her Indian brother again, but costly presents\neach year proved his indelible memory till his death.\n\n\n\n\nTHE REMARKABLE ADVENTURES OF SANDBOYS.\n\nA BIG HAUL.\n\nBY JOHN KENDRICK BANGS.\n\n\nThere was great excitement at the hotel. The oldest guest--that is to\nsay, the one who had passed the greatest number of summers at the\nMountain House--had just come in from his morning's fishing, and had\nbrought with him the largest trout that, so far as any one knew, had\never been caught in the lake. It was a perfect beauty. Its body was long\nand graceful in its lines and curves, and its \"speckles\" were of such a\nlovely hue and quality that a little girl who was looking at them\nremarked that she \"wouldn't mind gettin' her nose all over freckles if\nthey was only pretty and pink like that instead of rusty-lookin' little\nyeller spots.\" And everybody in the hotel, even the fishers who had\nfished for days and days without catching anything, or getting even any\nbites save those of the black-flies, were glad that the luck had come to\nthe oldest guest, for he was a great favorite with everybody;\ngrandfathers as well as boys had a great affection for him, he was such\na fine fellow, and so pleasant and courteous to every one. Probably no\none else in the hotel could have caught the \"record\" trout without\nmaking somebody jealous of him, but in this case it was different, the\noldest guest had such a habit of seeming to share his good-fortune with\nall with whom he came in contact. So it happened that there was great\nrejoicing over the morning's catch, and everybody said it was a\nwonderful one--even Sandboys acknowledged that it was a catch to be\nproud of.\n\n\"Never been beat as an individual catch,\" he said. \"Never. Biggest trout\nI ever see; but not the biggest haul--not quite. No, not by a long shot,\nby hookey!\"\n\nThis remark made in the hearing of Bob and Jack naturally aroused the\ncuriosity of the two boys. They had been, on the whole, the chiefest of\nthe admirers of the oldest guest for a long time, and when he came in\njust before dinner with his three-and-three-quarter-pounder, Jack ranked\nhim on the score of achievement with Napoleon Bonaparte, and Bob\nadmitted that he stood second to none but George Washington. Sandboys's\nobservation, however, changed this somewhat. If somebody had once made a\nbigger haul, even if he had not caught a bigger fish, there might have\nto be some slight rearrangement in the order of their lists of heroes.\n\n\"What do you mean by that, Sandboys?\" they asked.\n\n\"Just what I say,\" replied Sandboys. \"As a fish, that's the biggest fish\nthat's ever been took out of any of these lakes about here; but as a\nhaul on a single cast, it ain't in it with one I know about.\"\n\n\"Who made it?\" asked Bob. \"Jimmie Hicks?\"\n\n\"Jimmie nothin',\" retorted Sandboys, scornfully. \"Jimmie was a mighty\nsmart lad at fishin'; but I'm talkin' of something alongside of which\nsmartness ain't no more'n a peanut side of an elephant.\"\n\n\"Then who did do it?\" queried Jack. \"You?\"\n\nSandboys gave a significant little nod, and answered modestly, \"Well, I\nhad something to do with it; but old Spavinshanks is entitled to some of\nthe credit--most of it, in fact.\"\n\nThe boys settled down on the settee, which, when he was on duty, was\nSandboys's throne.\n\n\"Tell us about it,\" they said.\n\nSandboys glanced anxiously around, and then he shook his head.\n\n\"Some other time,\" he said in a whisper. \"When _he_ ain't in ear-shot.\nHe don't know nothin' about it, and if he did he'd be awful mad.\"\n\n\"He\" to whom Sandboys so mysteriously alluded was Mr. Bingle, the owner\nof the Mountain House stables.\n\n\"If he ever suspected,\" continued Sandboys, \"he could ruin me. _It was\nhis tackle I used!_\"\n\nAnd with that he was off out of ear-shot, and away from the sharp\neyesight of Mr. Bingle, whose glance seemed to penetrate to the core of\nhis conscience, as it is apt always to be when consciences with\nsomething weighing upon them are involved.\n\nLater on when he was off duty, and Mr. Bingle was far away, Sandboys\nmade confession to Bob and Jack, and it ran somewhat in this wise:\n\n\"The reason I didn't want old Bingle to hear,\" he explained, \"was\nexactly as I told you. It was his tackle I used with my big haul, and\nhe'd be fightin' mad if he knew who it was as done it. He knew it had\nbeen done, of course, but he never knew it was me.\"\n\n\"But I don't see,\" said Bob. \"Using somebody else's tackle isn't any\ncrime. Everybody does it, don't they?\"\n\n\"It all depends on the tackle,\" said Sandboys. \"Some tackle's more\nexpensive than others, and more easily damaged. Old Bingle holds his at\nabout eighteen dollars a day--and I must say when he got it back it was\npretty wet and muddy--'specially old Spavinshanks.\"\n\nBob looked at Jack and Jack looked at Bob. Sandboys when he spoke\nplainly was hard enough to find otherwise than queer, but when he chose\nto veil his words in mystery, he was even harder to see through than a\nstone wall. The idea of any man's holding his fishing-tackle at a\nvaluation of eighteen dollars a day was preposterous enough; that he\nshould object to its being brought back wet and muddy was surprising;\nbut the phrase \"'specially old Spavinshanks\" was absolutely past\ncomprehension.\n\nJack laughed, however, in spite of his mystification, and said, \"Who was\nold Spavinshanks? The worm?\"\n\n\"Not a bit of it,\" returned Sandboys. \"Old Spavinshanks was that old\ngray horse Mr. Bingle paid ten dollars for thirty years ago, and has\nbeen earning fifteen dollars a day out of every summer every year since.\nI borrered him, though Bingle didn't know it, and that's how I came to\nget the big haul, and my, what a wet and muddy beast he was when he got\nback into the stable that night! He was so muddy they thought he was the\nblack mare for a minute.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\"The way it came about was this. I got word one day that an old\nschoolmate o' mine I hadn't seen for two years was down at the Flume,\nand I thought I'd like to go down and see him. So I went to old Bingle,\nand asked him to let me have a horse and buggy to drive down there in,\nfor, as you know, it's over five miles from here. Bingle looked at me\ncalmly for a second, and said all right. The reg'lar fare down an' back\nis ten dollars. You can have the rig for six--four dollars off. He knew\nI couldn't pay it, and I told him so. Well what of it, says he. You\ndon't think I'm keepin' a livery-stable for fun, do ye? No, says I, but\nI've done lots o' things for you for nothin'; you might do somethin' for\nme. Well I will, says he. Next winter, when there ain't no call for\nhoss-and-buggies, you can have the rig free. Now it'll cost you six\ndollars. That made me mad, an' as it was in days when I didn't think\nmuch about right or wrong, not havin' studied theeligy, as I have since,\nI made up my mind to have the rig, an' have it free. And when I make up\nmy mind to a thing, it's as good as done. I had the rig when night came\non an' I was through with my day's work, and old Bingle had locked up\nfor the night and gone to bed--he generally got so tired figerin' up his\nprofits at night he went to bed about half past eight--I sneaked down to\nthe barn, took old Spavinshanks, harnessed him up to the buggy, and\nstarted off for the Flume. I spent a very pleasant evening with my\nfriend Silas, and along about eleven o'clock I started back home again.\nEverything went well until I got up to within a half-mile of the lake,\nwhen it began to rain like buckets. I never see such a pour in all my\nlife.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\"'Whoa!' says I to old Spav., an' when he come to a standstill I\nfastened the reins to the whip-stock, an' jumped out to put up the\nleather cover of the buggy. I wasn't goin' to be drenched if I could\nhelp it. Spav. stood still enough whilst I was fixin' the buggy-top and\nfastenin' down the flaps at the sides. He was a good old horse, and had\nworked so hard for the money he'd earned for Bingle that he hadn't any\nfalse pride about bein' skittish. He was just a tired, sensible old\nhoss. But there's a limit to what horses'll stand, an' when lightnin'\nstrikes a tree back of 'em, with a noise like a slew of artillery let\noff all to once, no self-respectin' hoss can be asked to stand quiet.\nThat's what happened. Just as I was gettin' ready to get back into the\nbuggy again, flash! boom! comes the streak, and Spav simply flew off in\na great scare. As he approached the lake he shied, an' when he got to\nthe part of the road that's right on the lake he lost his senses and\nplunged in, the buggy, with the top up, trailin' after him. I was\nkerflummexed that time, I can tell you. I thought sure Spavinshanks'ld\nbe drownded and the buggy bust, but it didn't happen that way at all. He\nswam right around the lake, luggin' the buggy right along too, an' by\nthe time I got to the boat-house he was nearin' the shore just beyond. I\nmade a rush for him, and as he came out had him by the bridle, and\ninside of five minutes we was at the barn. There he was, covered with\nmud and the buggy just reekin' with fish. There was two hundred an'\ntwenty trout, forty-seven suckers, and 'most a million minnows--every\none of 'em caught in the buggy-top!\"\n\n\"Dear me!\" cried Jack. \"Really?\"\n\n\"Yes, really,\" said Sandboys. \"An' that's why there's so few fish left\nin that lake now. Old Spavinshanks must have hauled that buggy through\nevery blessed school in the place. Which is why I say that while that\ntrout we see to-day was the record trout, he ain't no record haul for\none cast, not by a long shot, by hookey.\"\n\n[Illustration]\n\nAnd the boys agreed with him that it was indeed a marvellous haul, and\nwith a mighty strange kind of tackle too. Nor did they wonder that\nSandboys was reluctant to have Mr. Bingle hear of it. Hardly any owner\nof horses would care to have his horse and buggy used in exactly that\nway, no matter of how grasping or of how generous a spirit he might be.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: INTERSCHOLASTIC SPORT]\n\n\nThe Arlington High-School Polo Team has won the High-School Championship\nin Massachusetts, winning seventeen games out of nineteen played. Aside\nfrom these successes in the League matches the Arlington players have\nmet and defeated nearly all the other high-school teams in the vicinity\nof Boston, and have played two tie games with the Harvard 'Varsity team,\nand one tie game with the Cambridge League team, which is considered the\nstrongest in the State.\n\nThe championship of the Interscholastic Association in the polo series\nwas won by Cambridge High and Latin; but this school's team has been\ntwice defeated by Arlington, so that it seems only just to award to the\nlatter the credit of being the best school polo team in Massachusetts.\n\n[Illustration: THE ARLINGTON HIGH-SCHOOL POLO TEAM.]\n\nA few words only concerning the individual players. Johnson, the\ncaptain, played first rush, and is considered one of the cleverest men\nat this position. He is a very fast skater. He played on the team last\nyear, and is somewhat of an all-round athlete, holding down centre-field\non the nine and playing half-back on the eleven. Puffer, the second\nrush, was captain of the polo team last year, and in the fall he played\ntackle on the football eleven. His strong point is the accuracy of his\nshots, and he is credited with having scored the greatest number of\ngoals during this season.\n\nThe half-back position was well played by Pierce, who was a new man, but\nhad had some athletic training on the eleven in the fall, where his\nposition was that of guard. Wood also played half-back, and was on the\nteam the year before. He, too, is a member of the school nine and\neleven. The goal was looked after by White, and he did as good work in\nhis position as any of the goal-keepers of the neighborhood. It was his\nfirst year as a polo-player, but like the other members of the team he\nhas had football and baseball experience. His brother played centre, and\nis a veteran, having been a member of last year's team, second base on\nthe nine, and quarter-back on the football team.\n\nThe hardest games that Arlington has played were those against the\nFelton A.A., the Harvard 'Varsity, and Summerville High-School. The\nFelton team was a very strong one, and after two twenty-minute halves\ndefeated Arlington 1-0. Summerville High also got a game away from\nArlington, but in the return match was defeated 4-0 in a fifteen-minute\nhalf.\n\n[Illustration: BASEBALL CHAMPIONSHIP CUP.\n\nNew England Interscholastic League.]\n\nThe Interscholastic Baseball Championship Cup, which has been played for\nfor seven years, has finally been awarded to the Cambridge High and\nLatin School, their team having won it the greatest number of times.\nThis cup is of solid silver, nearly nine inches high, in the form of a\nloving-cup with handles. In design the bowl rests upon a circular wreath\nof holly, and the bulge of the bowl itself is decorated with wreaths of\nwild roses.\n\nThe first winner of this cup was the Boston Latin School, which secured\nit in 1889. In 1890 and '91 Cambridge High and Latin held the trophy,\nbut surrendered it in 1892 to English High, getting it back from them\nagain in 1893. In 1894 C. H. and L. was tied with two other teams for\nthe championship. No award was made that year. Then again in 1895 C. H.\nand L. was tied with Hopkinson's. No school in the seven years' struggle\nhaving made so good a record as Cambridge, the cup is consequently now\nthe permanent property of the school.\n\nThe principal feature about the two most important in-door scholastic\ntournaments held in this city within the last two weeks was the\npromptitude with which the events were disposed of. As a rule, these\nin-door games drag along until after the dinner hour; but the Berkeley\ngames were over quite early in the afternoon, and the Barnard games, a\nweek later, took little more time to be decided. The credit in both\ncases is doubtless largely due to Mr. E. J. Wendell, who acted as\nreferee on both occasions.\n\nAs usual, the Berkeley athletes did not enter the competition for points\nin the cup contest, leaving it to their guests to struggle for this\ntrophy. But in spite of this they took more points than any of the other\nschools, leading with 3 firsts, 1-1/2 seconds, and 1-1/2 thirds, a total\nof 21 points. Barnard captured the prize with 2 firsts, 2 seconds, and 2\nthirds--making a total of 18 points. The Jerseymen from Pingry School\nmade a strong showing on this occasion and scored 2 firsts and 2\nseconds, earning 16 points, and thus coming in a close second to\nBarnard.\n\nOne of the most interesting performances of the afternoon was Paulding's\nvaulting, the height he reached being 10 ft. 6 in., which is two inches\nhigher than the in-door record established by him only a short time ago.\nWe may, indeed, look for some excellent work in this event at the\nMadison Square Garden games next Saturday. Another record that was\nbroken at the Berkeley games was the shot put, Bigelow going 41 ft.,\nwhich is considerably beyond the former mark of 39 ft. 8-1/2 in.\nTomlinson, who took second to Bigelow, also passed the old record.\n\nAnother mark that was lowered was that of the 60-yard dash for Juniors,\nwhich now stands 7-1/5 sec., and the deed was done by Whitmore. Manvel\nof Pingry did well, as usual, but he did particularly well on this\noccasion by winning both the quarter and the half mile runs. The mile\nevent went to Tomlinson of Barnard, and the walk was taken by Ladd,\nalthough Boyesen had been counted on for the winner.\n\nAt the Barnard games the record of 7-1/5 sec. for the 60-yard dash\n(Senior) was lowered by Wenman of Berkeley to 7 sec. Tomlinson, who won\nthe mile run at the Berkeley games, also took first at the Barnard\ntournament, and brought the record down to 4.49-1/5, which was a much\nbetter performance than he made the week previous--5 min. 1-3/5 sec. At\nthese games Pingry again showed up well, and tied with the Brooklyn\nHigh-School for first place, each having scored 11 points.\n\nAs these last two in-door scholastic games are undoubtedly the most\nimportant that will be held in the city this winter, it may prove of\nvalue in making some sort of a prognostication of what will happen at\nthe Madison Square Garden next Saturday to append the summaries:\n\nTHE BERKELEY GAMES.\n\n     60-yard Dash, Senior.--First heat won by Byrd Wenman, Berkeley; H.\n     Cadenas, Columbia Grammar, second. Time, 7-1/5 seconds. Second heat\n     won by C. A. Sulzer, Pingry; B. T. Doudge, Blake School, second.\n     Time, 7 seconds. Third heat won by J. Holland, Barnard; S.\n     Millbank, Trinity, second. Time, 7-1/5 seconds. Fourth heat won by\n     Ira Richards, \"Poly. Prep.\"; W. S. Hipple, Barnard, second. Time,\n     7-1/5 seconds. Extra heat, for second men, won by H. Cadenas. Time,\n     7-1/5 seconds. Final heat won by Wenman; Sulzer, second; Holland,\n     third. Time, 7 seconds.\n\n     60-yard Dash, Junior.--First heat won by W. Silleck, Barnard. Time,\n     7-2/5 seconds. Second heat won by G. Whitmore, Dwight. Time, 7-1/5\n     seconds. Third heat won by J. Lackey, Brooklyn High. Time, 7-1/5\n     seconds. Fourth heat won by J. Deering, Berkeley. Time, 7-3/5\n     seconds. Fifth heat won by W. Sartorius, Barnard. Time, 7-2/5\n     seconds. Sixth heat won by W. Dougherty, Harvard. Time, 7-2/5\n     seconds. Final heat won by Whitmore; Lackey, second; Sartorius,\n     third. Time, 7-1/5 seconds.\n\n     440-yard Run.--Won by H. E. Manvel, Pingry; J. Storms, Barnard,\n     second; B. Campbell, Brooklyn High, third. Time, 55-3/5 seconds.\n\n     880-yard Run.--Won by H. E. Manvel, Pingry; A. Tomlinson, Barnard,\n     second; B. White, Berkeley, third. Time, 2 minutes 9-1/5 seconds.\n\n     One-mile Run.--Won by A. Tomlinson, Barnard; P. H. Christensen,\n     Harvard, second; R. L. Sanford, \"Poly. Prep.,\" third. Time, 5\n     minutes 1-3/5 seconds.\n\n     60-yard Hurdle-race.--First heat won by F. Bien, Jun., Berkeley; C.\n     Robinson, Trinity, second. Time, 8 seconds. Second heat won by\n     C. A. O'Rourke, Trinity; L. Herrick, Brooklyn High, second. Time, 8\n     seconds. Third heat won by S. H. Plum, Jun., Newark Academy; E.\n     Johnson, Trinity, second. Time, 8-1/5 seconds. Final heat won by\n     Bien; O'Rourke, second; Herrick, third. Time, 8 seconds.\n\n     One-mile Walk.--Won by H. W. Ladd, Melrose; B. Boylesen, Berkeley,\n     second; D. McGrew, Trinity, third. Time, 8 minutes 9-3/5 seconds.\n\n     Running High Jump.--Won by G. Serviss, Brooklyn Latin, with 5 feet\n     7 inches; C. L. Du Val, Berkeley, second, with 5 feet 6 inches; W.\n     Grace, Columbia Grammar, third, with 5 feet 6 inches. Du Val got\n     second place on the toss.\n\n     Pole Vault.--Won by R. G. Paulding, Berkeley, with 10 feet 6\n     inches, beating the in-door scholastic record of 10 feet 4 inches,\n     made by himself earlier in the year; P. A. Moore, Pingry, second,\n     with 9 feet; L. Curtis, Barnard, A. J. Forney, Adelphi, and M. W.\n     Forney, Adelphi, a tie for third at 8 feet 9 inches.\n\n     Putting 12-pound Shot.--Won by J. Stewart, Barnard, with 41 feet,\n     breaking the in-door record of 39 feet 8-1/2 inches, made by R. H.\n     Bigelow, Wilson and Kellogg, in 1893; J. C. Tomlinson, Jun.,\n     Collegiate, second, with 40 feet 4 inches; M. Page, Trinity, third,\n     with 38 feet 4 inches.\n\nTHE BARNARD GAMES.\n\n     60-yard Dash, Senior.--First heat won by A. Kennedy, Brooklyn High;\n     M. Arnold, Berkeley, second. Time, 7-2/5 seconds. Second heat won\n     by B. Wenman, Berkeley; B. T. Doudge, Blake, second. Time, 7\n     seconds. Third heat won by J. Holland, Barnard; H. Cadenas,\n     Columbia Grammar, second. Time, 7 seconds. Fourth heat won by S.\n     Millbank, Trinity; A. Manara, Columbia Grammar, second. Time, 7-2/5\n     seconds. Extra trial, for second men, won by Doudge. Time, 7\n     seconds. Final heat won by Wenman; Holland, second; Doudge, third.\n     Time, 7 seconds.\n\n     60-yard Dash, Junior.--First heat won by W. B. Sartorius, Barnard;\n     G. Ralph, Collegiate, second. Time, 7-2/5 seconds. Second heat won\n     by H. Leopold, Dwight; J. B. Smith, Collegiate, second. Time, 7-1/5\n     seconds. Third heat won by F. Wickham, Pratt Institute; A. Meyers,\n     Pingry, second. Time, 7-1/5 seconds. Fourth heat won by V.\n     Dougherty, Harvard; R. Auchincloss, Cutler, second. Time, 7-1/5\n     seconds. Fifth heat won by C. Warren, Cutler; A. Lackey, Brooklyn\n     High, second. Time, 7-2/5 seconds. Sixth heat won by G. Whitmore,\n     Dwight; E. Bill, Cutler, second. Time, 7-1/5 seconds. Final\n     heat--Whitmore and Wickham, a dead heat; Sartorius, third. Time,\n     6-4/5 seconds. Run-off won by Whitmore. Time, 7-1/5 seconds.\n\n     220-yard Run, Senior.--First heat won by H. Ficke, Barnard; M. D.\n     Evans, Oxford, second. Time, 26-4/5 seconds. Second heat won by Ira\n     Richards, Polytechnic Preparatory Institute; B. Wenman, Berkeley,\n     second. Time, 26-2/5 seconds. Third heat won by E. Pury, Barnard;\n     R. Topping, Adelphi, second. Time, 27 seconds. Final heat won by\n     Richards; Pury, second; Wenman, third. Time, 25-3/5 seconds.\n\n     220-yard Run, Junior.--First heat won by W. B. Sartorius, Barnard;\n     J. B. Smith, Collegiate, second. Time, 27 seconds. Second heat won\n     by F. Wickham, Pratt Institute; A. Myers, Pingry, second. Time,\n     26-2/5 seconds. Third heat won by R. McClave, Trinity; J. Ralph,\n     Collegiate, second. Time, 28-4/5 seconds. Fourth heat won by A.\n     Lackey, Brooklyn High; V. Dougherty, Harvard, second. Time, 27\n     seconds. Final heat won by Wickham; Lackey, second; Myers, third.\n     Time, 25-3/5 seconds.\n\n     440-yard Run.--Won by H. E. Manvel, Pingry; G. Burlingame, Brooklyn\n     High, second; V. Earle, Barnard, third. Time, 56-1/5 seconds.\n\n     880-yard Run.--Won by H. E. Manvel, Pingry; A. Tomlinson, Barnard,\n     second; J. Beasly, Adelphi, third. Time, 2 minutes 9-3/5 seconds.\n\n     One-mile Run.--Won by A. Tomlinson, Barnard; P. H. Christensen,\n     Harvard, second; R. L. Sanford, Polytechnic Preparatory Institute,\n     third. Time, 4 minutes 49-1/5 seconds.\n\n     60-yard Hurdle-race.--First heat won by L. Herrick, Brooklyn High;\n     W. Halsey, Barnard, second. Time, 8 seconds. Second heat won by T.\n     Pell, Berkeley; S. H. Plum, Newark Academy, second. Time, 8\n     seconds. Third heat won by C. O'Rourke, Trinity; G. Smith, Columbia\n     Grammar, second. Time, 8-1/5 seconds. Extra heat, for second men,\n     won by Halsey. Time, 8-1/5 seconds. Final heat won by Herrick;\n     Pell, second; O'Rourke, third. Time, 7-4/5 seconds.\n\n     Running High Jump.--Won by W. Grace, Columbia Grammar, with a jump\n     of 5 feet 2-1/4 inches; W. Duvan, Newark Academy, second, with a\n     jump of 5 feet 2 inches; L. Curtiss, Barnard, third, with a jump of\n     5 feet 1 inch.\n\n     Pole Vault.--Won by R. G. Paulding, Berkeley, with a vault of 10\n     feet; C. Eastmond, Brooklyn High, second, with a vault of 9 feet 2\n     inches.\n\n     Putting 12-pound Shot--Won by J. Stewart, Barnard, with a put of 41\n     feet 11-1/2 inches; John Tomlinson, Collegiate, second, with a put\n     of 38 feet 4 inches; G. Miller, De La Salle, third, with a put of\n     37 feet 7 inches.\n\nFor some time past the athletes at the public schools of this city have\nfelt that they could make a good showing in various branches of sport if\nthey only had the opportunity, but as the Interscholastic Association\nadmits to its competitions students from private schools only, the\npublic-school boys have never been able to meet them. It is reported\nnow, however, that a meeting is soon to be held by representatives from\na large number of the New York public schools, with a view to\nestablishing an association similar to the Interscholastic Association.\n\nIt is greatly to be hoped that this movement may prove a success, and\nthat the public schools will hold tournaments, as the private schools\ndo; and in baseball and football it would be well if, toward the close\nof the season, the best teams of the two leagues could meet and settle\nthe supremacy of New York schoolboy teams.\n\nA meeting of the executive committee of the National I.S.A.A. is\nannounced for next Saturday evening at the Knickerbocker Athletic Club.\n\n\"TRACK ATHLETICS IN DETAIL.\"--ILLUSTRATED.--8VO, CLOTH, ORNAMENTAL,\n$1.25.\n\n  THE GRADUATE.\n\n\n\n\nQUESTIONS FOR YOUNG MEN.\n\nGOOD MANNERS.\n\n\nThe average young man scoffs a little at a chap who is noticeable for\nhis good manners. Many a healthy boy thinks a certain roughness in\nspeech or manner is a sign of vigor and manliness in contrast to the\nweak and womanly ways of one who is always bowing and scraping to the\npeople whom he meets. There could not be a greater mistake; because,\nwhile an over-display of politeness is a sign of hypocrisy, natural\ncourtesy will never permit boy or man to behave in any way except in the\nthoughtful, quiet, refined way which belongs to good manners. A rough,\nhonest chap is better than a slippery, well-mannered, dishonest one, to\nbe sure. That perhaps is the reason for so much of this deliberately\nrough way some of us adopt. But this does not prove that courteous\nbehavior is wrong or to be avoided. It means that courteous behavior is\nsometimes used as a cloak for other motives.\n\nThere is no reason, therefore, why the average young man in school or\ncollege or business, in his daily occupation, or when he comes in\ncontact with women or men, girls or boys, should not make it a point to\nbe reserved, self-contained, tolerant, and observant of the little rules\nwhich every one knows by heart, and which go to make his company and\ncompanionship valuable to others. It is the same in his contact with men\nas with women. A systematic method of observing ordinary rules in such\ncases invariably has its effect. For example, you will see many a boy in\nsome discussion among his friends talking all the time, demanding the\nattention of others, insisting on his views, losing his temper over a\ngame of marbles and declining to play longer, or making himself\nconspicuous in a hundred other ways. He may be a very good chap, full of\npush and vigor, and so sure of his own views that in his heart he cannot\nconceive of any other person really having a different view of the\nsubject. That is an estimable character for a healthy boy to have.\nConfidence in one's own ideas often carries one over many a bad place.\nBut the fact that the boy has such a character and his disagreeable way\nof forcing it upon you are two entirely different things; and the\ndifference of being confident and disagreeable and confident and\nagreeable is the difference between good and bad manners.\n\nBesides, this aggressive confidence never has the weight that quiet\nbelief in one's ideas has. It is a very familiar incident in the course\nof business men's meetings and of boys' meetings for one to propose\nsomething, the others to agree to it, and then for one quiet man to\nexpress his contrary views, and bring the assembled company over to the\nopposite side of the question. This reversal of opinion is caused by the\nfact that one man, who has been reserved until all the others have\nfinished, has now by the force of his quiet confidence turned the whole\ntide the other way. Such quiet methods are real portions of good\nmanners, and they act far more strongly than aggressiveness. The old\nproverb advising you to count ten before doing something on the spur of\nthe moment is meant to prove the same point.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: STAMPS]\n\n     This Department is conducted in the interest of stamp and coin\n     collectors, and the Editor will be pleased to answer any question\n     on these subjects so far as possible. Correspondents should address\n     Editor Stamp Department.\n\n     E. L. SMITH, 64 Sparks St., Cambridge, Mass., wishes to exchange\n     stamps.\n\n     W. A. WHEELER.--I never heard of a \"Walkers Penny Post.\" If it is\n     on the original letter or envelope, I should like to see it.\n\n     R. BOWERS.--The stamp _Cerrado y Sellado_ is a Mexican \"officially\n     sealed\" stamp. These are, properly speaking, labels, not stamps,\n     and consequently are no longer catalogued.\n\n     W. M. FOORD.--As the Olympian stamps are still in use they are\n     worth face value only, if unused. Used they are very common.\n\n     J. KRANZ.--All the leading dealers in New York sell stamps by\n     auction at irregular intervals throughout the season. Catalogues\n     are sent free on application.\n\n     H. BUNKER.--Entire envelopes are collected by comparatively few\n     compared with those who collect stamps. Envelopes can be bought for\n     one-quarter, or in some instances one-tenth, the price which\n     adhesive stamps of equal rarity would command.\n\n     F. X. STAHN.--Nova Scotia stamps are not being bought up by\n     speculators. The fact is, no one knows how many were sold by the\n     government to the syndicate now controlling the same. One set\n     should satisfy you under these circumstances.\n\n     A. LOBENTHAL.--Join your local stamp society, if there is one. If\n     not, then join the American Philatelic Association.\n\n     A. HOWARD.--Inverted centres on U.S. stamps are extremely rare. The\n     price quoted by you is very reasonable if the stamp is in good\n     condition.\n\n     A. SENG.--The Canadian new issue has not been definitely announced.\n\n     A. THALMAN.--Philatelic literature is a feature in a few public\n     libraries. Pittsburg set the example in this respect. It will pay\n     you as an active collector to take the three periodicals mentioned.\n\n     J. J. BRIGGS.--Age does not determine the value of coins. It is\n     altogether a question of supply and demand. If dealers have ten\n     copies of a scarce coin and twenty collectors want them, the price\n     will go up. If, on the other hand, there is little or no demand the\n     prices will go down. As to U.S. coins in general I would say that\n     the supply in the hands of the dealers is equal to any prospective\n     demand. The immense quantity of old U.S. coins in the hands of the\n     public will not command a premium. Coin-collecting to-day is very\n     much what stamp-collecting was twenty years ago--that is to say,\n     the speculative element is lacking.\n\n     W. SMITHSON.--Collect Seebecks all you want. No society or\n     association can prevent you. The stamps are pretty in themselves,\n     and they have undoubtedly been used for postal purposes.\n\n     G. H. DAVIS.--I never heard of the stamps issued by the\n     \"Stamp-Saving Society.\" They are interesting as curiosities.\n\n  PHILATUS.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: ROYAL BAKING POWDER]\n\nCelebrated for its great leavening strength and healthfulness. Assures\nthe food against alum and all forms of adulteration common to the cheap\nbrands.\n\nROYAL BAKING POWDER CO., NEW YORK.\n\n\n\n\nArnold\n\nConstable & Co.\n\nSPRING IMPORTATIONS.\n\nPARIS LINGERIE.\n\n_Tea Gowns, Matin\u00e9es._\n\nSHIRT WAISTS.\n\n_Glac\u00e9 Silk Petticoats._\n\nCHILDREN'S WEAR.\n\n_Outing Suits,_\n\n_Gingham and Organdie Frocks,_\n\n_Reefers, Jackets._\n\nBroadway & 19th st.\n\nNEW YORK.\n\n\n\n\nMR. LAURENCE HUTTON\n\ncontributes a short story\n\nThe\n\nUncertain Glory\n\nof an April Day\n\nto the next number of\n\nHARPER'S ROUND TABLE\n\nFive Cents a Copy. Two Dollars a Year.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHARPER & BROTHERS, Publishers, N. Y.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: PISO'S CURE FOR CONSUMPTION]\n\nCURES WHERE ALL ELSE FAILS.\n\nBest Cough Syrup. Tastes Good. Use\n\nin time. Sold by druggists.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: THE CAMERA CLUB]\n\n     This Department is conducted in the interest of Amateur\n     Photographers, and the Editor will be pleased to answer any\n     question on the subject so far as possible. Correspondents should\n     address Editor Camera Club Department.\n\n\nLANTERN SLIDES.\n\nSo many of our new members have written asking how lantern slides are\nmade, and what is required for an outfit, that we publish another paper\non the subject.\n\nMost young amateurs have an idea that it requires a great deal of skill\nto make lantern slides, but any one who can make a good negative can\nsoon learn how to make a good lantern slide. The simplest way is by\ncontact-printing. Select a negative free from spots, scratches, or\npinholes. It must have fine detail in the shadows, and no harsh\ncontrasts of light and shade. The regulation size of a lantern slide is\n3-1/2 by 4, so choose a negative which will still make a good picture if\nall but the portion included in these dimensions is blocked out. Cover\nthe part of the negative which is to be blocked out with needle-paper,\nor paint it with non-actinic paint, applying it to the glass side of the\nnegative. The negative is placed in a printing-frame, and then by a red\nlight, the slide is placed over the part to be printed from, the film\nside toward the negative.\n\nIf one has a lantern the light of which is suitable for printing lantern\nslides, cover the negative, open the door of the lantern, and then\nholding the printing-frame about fifteen inches from the light, expose\nfrom five to twenty seconds, according to the density of the plate. A\nplate that prints quickly will need but five or eight seconds, but a\ndenser plate will require a much longer exposure, often as long as\nthirty seconds. Cover the plate as soon as it is printed, close the\nlantern, remove the slide from the frame, and place it face up in the\ndeveloping-tray. Turn the developer over it quickly, taking care that\nthe whole surface of the plate is covered immediately. Any developer\nthat makes good negatives will make good lantern slides. A weak\ndeveloper is to be preferred to one which brings out the image quickly.\nDevelop till the detail is well out, wash and fix same as a negative.\n\nAs every imperfection in a plate is magnified many times when thrown on\nthe screen, great care must be taken in the developing, fixing, washing,\nand drying. When the slides are washed enough, take a piece of clean\nsurgeon's cotton and wash the film very gently, then place to dry where\nno dust will settle on the surface.\n\nIf there are any spots on the plate after washing and before drying,\nthey may be removed with ferricyanide of potassium in solution. Tie a\nsmall piece of surgeon's cotton to the end of a glass rod, dip it into\nthe solution, and touch the spot very lightly. Rinse the plate at once,\nand if the spot has not entirely disappeared, repeat the operation. The\nferricyanide works very quickly, and must be rinsed off as soon as\napplied.\n\nNegatives which are too large for contact-printing are made into lantern\nslides by the process known as reduction, directions for which will be\ngiven again if requested.\n\nThe making of lantern slides is one of the most fascinating branches of\nphotography, and the work is specially appropriate for winter, both in\nmaking the slides and showing them with the lantern.\n\n[Illustration: FIRST PRIZE, JUNIOR COMPETITION, LANDSCAPES.\n\nBy Anton H. Schefer, New York, N. Y.]\n\n[Illustration: SECOND PRIZE, JUNIOR COMPETITION, LANDSCAPES.\n\nBy Lesley Ashburner, Media, Pennsylvania.]\n\n[Illustration: THIRD PRIZE, JUNIOR COMPETITION, LANDSCAPES.\n\nBy Howard Cox, Helena, Montana.]\n\n     S. F. MACQUAIDE, 46 Mechlin St., Germantown, Pa., says that she has\n     a number of 4-by-5 views which she would like to sell. If any of\n     the Camera Club wish to purchase, a letter sent to address given\n     will bring list of subjects and price of same. Our correspondent\n     also wishes to buy a second-hand No. 2 Bull's-Eye camera.\n\n     B. COVER, 713 Avenue W, Ashland, Wis., has a 5-by-8 Anthony view\n     camera, with three double plate-holders, which he will sell cheap,\n     or exchange for a 4-by-5 camera.\n\n     WILLIAM O. WICKMAN, Great Barrington, Mass., wishes to purchase a\n     picture of the White House, Washington, D.C. Would like either 4 by\n     5 or 5 by 8.\n\n     JOHN G. VOLKES, 324-1/2 Eighth St., New York city, would like to\n     correspond with members of the Camera Club on photographic\n     subjects.\n\n     CLAUDE A. WOLFE, 1701 Diamond St., Philadelphia, would like to\n     exchange a print of the State Capitol building of Tennessee for one\n     of the Capitol buildings of New York, Massachusetts, and Maine; he\n     also asks if any member has a good view camera which he wishes to\n     sell, or exchange for a bicycle and a 5-by-7 Premo camera with five\n     plate-holders.\n\n     B. A. PORTER, 212 Tulip Ave., Brooklyn, N.Y., has views of Strong,\n     Me., and of Brooklyn and New York, which he would like to exchange\n     for views of other localities. Our correspondent asks those members\n     sending prints to use an extra fixing-bath in toning the prints, as\n     he is making a collection, and many of the prints fade after a\n     while. For those who do not care to exchange, and who would like\n     good views of the places named, he will sell unmounted views for\n     10c. each.\n\n     DUDLEY GREGG, Hogsett Military Academy, Danville, Ky., asks if any\n     member of the Camera Club has a pocket-kodak which he would like to\n     sell.\n\n     WILLIAM S. JOHNSON asks what is sel d'or; a good formula for\n     mounting-paste; a formula for metol developer; if hydrochloric and\n     muriatic acids are the same; and where rubber finger-tips may be\n     purchased. Sel d'or is a salt of perchloride of gold and\n     hyposulphite of soda. Starch paste made by mixing with cold water\n     and then boiling until of the proper consistency makes an excellent\n     paste for mounting photographs. It will not keep, but must be made\n     fresh when wanted. A good formula for metol developer is: Metol, 30\n     grs.; sodium sulphite crystals, 180 grs.; carbonate of potassium,\n     90 grs.; and water, 4 oz. Hydrochloric and muriatic acid are the\n     same. Dealers in photographic supplies sell rubber finger-tips.\n     Three finger-tips cost 15c.\n\n     R. B. T. asks if there is any remedy for a negative which is\n     under-developed after it is fixed. It can be intensified--in other\n     words, redeveloped. See directions for intensifying in No. 824,\n     August 13, 1895. If you have not this number, it will be mailed you\n     from this office on receipt of 5c.\n\n     FREDERICK S. COLLINS asks if solio toning solution can be used for\n     toning albumen and aristo prints; and what makes a thin negative.\n     The solio toning-bath can be used for aristo, but is not suitable\n     for albumen paper. A thin negative may be the result of\n     over-exposure, under-exposure, or under-development. Over-exposure\n     makes the negative a uniform color and lacking in contrast.\n     Under-exposure gives strong high lights and no detail in the\n     shadows. Under-development gives good detail, but the negative is\n     too weak to make a good print. Such a negative can be redeveloped\n     or intensified. See answer given to R. B. T.\n\n     L. K. asks where to get the magazine _American Amateur\n     Photographer_. The address of the publishers is 239-241 Fifth\n     Avenue, New York city. The price of the magazine is $1 per year.\n\n     HENRY READ wishes a remedy for keeping the film from looking as if\n     it were crackled; also how to make dry-plates. The tray should be\n     rocked during the development of the film. The crackled appearance\n     will then be avoided. Do not try to make dry-plates. The operation\n     is too long, and the plates can be bought much cheaper than they\n     can be made at home, besides being always reliable.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: IVORY SOAP]\n\n  The stores which keep the best that's made\n  Secure the highest class of trade;\n  The shoppers who are shrewd and wise\n  Select such stores to patronize;\n  And stores and shoppers all attest\n  Pure Ivory Soap is far the best.\n\nCopyright 1896, by The Procter & Gamble Co., Cin'ti.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: ROYAL WORCESTER CYCLES]\n\nRoyal in their beauty, strength and speed. They are leaders in every\nsense of the word. $100 to everyone. Tandems, $150.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nMiddletown Cycles, $60, $50, $40.\n\nCATALOGUES FREE.\n\nWORCESTER CYCLE MFG. CO.\n\n17 Murray Street, New York.\n\nFactories: Middletown, Conn.; Worcester, Mass.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: CRAWFORD BICYCLES]\n\nFew bicycles selling for $100 have better quality or more elegant finish\nand equipment. Guaranteed for one year.\n\nSEND FOR CATALOGUE.\n\nThe CRAWFORD MFG. CO., Hagerstown, Md.\n\nNEW YORK, BALTIMORE, ST. LOUIS.\n\n\n\n\nEARN A GOLD WATCH!\n\n[Illustration]\n\nWe wish to introduce our =Teas and Baking Powder=. Sell 50 lbs. to earn a\n=Waltham Gold Watch and Chain=; 25 lbs. for a =Silver Watch and Chain=; 10\nlbs. for a =Gold Ring=; 50 lbs. for a =Decorated Dinner Set=; 75 lbs.\nfor a =Bicycle=. Write for a Catalog and Order Blank to Dept. I\n\nW. G. BAKER,\n\nSpringfield Mass.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: CRESCENT BICYCLES]\n\nRight Prices\n\nYou can pay more money for a bicycle, but you cannot secure a machine of\nhigher grade than the Crescent, or one that will please you better. $75,\n$50, $40.\n\nCrescents are the most popular bicycles made--70,000 Crescents sold in\n1896.\n\nCrescents for everybody--men and women, youths and misses, boys and\ngirls. Light, strong tandems.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nWESTERN WHEEL WORKS\n\nCHICAGO NEW YORK\n\nCatalogue free. Agents everywhere.\n\n\n\n\nHOOPING\n\nCOUGH\n\nCROUP\n\nCan be cured\n\nby using\n\nROCHE'S HERBAL\n\nEMBROCATION\n\nThe celebrated and effectual English cure, without internal medicine. W.\nEDWARD & SON, Props., London, Eng. =All Druggists.=\n\nE. FOUGERA & CO., NEW YORK.\n\n\n\n\n\"Hold their place in the front rank of the publications to which they\nbelong.\"\n\nHARPER'S\n\nPERIODICALS\n\n  MAGAZINE, $4.00 a Year\n  WEEKLY, $4.00 a Year\n  BAZAR, $4.00 a Year\n  ROUND TABLE, $2.00 a Year\n\n\n\n\nCARDS\n\n=FOR 1897. 50 Sample Styles= AND LIST OF 400 PREMIUM ARTICLES FREE.\nHAVERFIELD PUB CO., CADIZ, OHIO\n\n\n\n\nFlorida Pines and Pickaninnies.\n\n     Pines are the principal trees of this part of Florida, though\n     gnarled and mossy oaks are common. A glimpse of a sunset or the\n     glow of a forest fire behind a group of these trees outlined\n     against the sky forms many a beautiful picture. The pines are very\n     picturesque too, they stand so tall, and the gray Florida moss\n     hangs from their branches like draped garments.\n\n     A picturesque feature of the Florida woods is the numerous negro\n     cabins made of logs. All have the same kind of mud and stick\n     chimneys, built hardly up to the peak of the hut, so that when the\n     thick black smoke, perhaps full of sparks, comes out of the mouth\n     of the chimney, it curls against the under part of the projecting\n     shingles, and then passes away. It is certainly very curious that\n     the huts do not burn down, but it is a fact that they rarely do.\n\n     The cabins are very dirty, and passing one, you may see from two to\n     perhaps five negro \"pickaninnies\" laying in the sand with a pig or\n     two sometimes. The pigs here are commonly termed \"razor-backs,\"\n     because they are so small and thin that their backbones seem almost\n     to prick through their skin. This county is named Alachua (the ch\n     is pronounced as k), meaning in the Seminole Indian tongue \"big\n     jug,\" because there is a sink in an open space that is called\n     Paine's Prairie when it is dry, and Kanapaha Lake when it is\n     changed--after a heavy rain--into a sheet of water. The sink is so\n     deep that no one has ever discovered the bottom.\n\n     The names of some of the places in Florida, and the flint\n     arrow-heads which are frequently found, are all the traces that are\n     left here of the Seminole Indians who once owned the land. Down by\n     the coast, about fifty miles west from here, are found mounds of\n     sand and oyster-shells, which, when dug into, reveal skeletons of\n     Indians, and Spaniards who were killed. There is a place south of\n     here which is historic. A great many soldiers were killed there by\n     the Indians when asleep and off their guard. The Seminoles have\n     been driven down into the \"Everglades\" of South Florida, a great\n     swamp into the heart of which no white man has ever penetrated.\n     Here the Indians stay, never daring to venture out to massacre in\n     their old way, for there is no use in trying to do that now.\n     Palmettoes grow in great abundance here. Sinks are very numerous,\n     and so are natural wells.\n\n     There is a place called Waldo in Florida, where there is a swamp in\n     which cedar-trees grow, and a lake in which alligators live in\n     great numbers, and on the banks of which beautiful wild-flowers\n     grow. The alligators lay their eggs in straw on the land, go back\n     to the water, and visit the eggs from time to time until they\n     hatch. Then the parents lead their young to the water, where they\n     live. These alligators are caught for their handsome skins, of\n     which many things are made.\n\n  ELSIE VERMILYE SMITH (aged 12).\n  ARREDONDA, FLORIDA.\n\nAccompanying this most interesting letter is a wash-drawing of a negro\ncabin, with the too-short chimney, and the pig and pickaninnies in the\nforeground. It is a clever drawing. The TABLE is glad to print\ndescriptive letters like this one, because everybody likes to read these\ninteresting insights into peculiar features of other parts of the\ncountry. Will other readers send the TABLE equally good morsels?\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt Went to Paradise Valley.\n\nThere are always hurry and confusion at the end of every session of\nCongress, and these are multiplied severalfold, if that be possible,\nwhen the Congress dies, by Constitutional limit, with the expiration of\na President's term. In these busy hours droll things sometimes happen\nand witty things are said. In the Congress just expired--the extra\nsession just called by President McKinley is of the new and not of the\nCongress that sat during the winter--an incident occurred that\nillustrates how great things often come about from small causes--a\nslight turn in the tide of their fortune at the right time.\n\nA railroad company wanted a right of way through a forest reserve in the\nWest. Senator Vest, of Missouri, opposed the grant for the reason that\nin the dry summer seasons forest fires would be kindled by the\nlocomotives. The time was limited, and many important measures were to\ncome up. A Senator sitting near the famous Missourian whispered\nsomething.\n\n\"Time presses,\" remarked Senator Vest, \"and I am just informed that this\nroad leads to 'Paradise Valley.' If the road helps anybody to get to\nParadise, why, let it go through.\"\n\nAnd it went.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHow the Prisoner Escaped.\n\nH. D. Dantzler, St. Matthews, S. C., and several other readers, ask\nabout the solution of the \"prisoner puzzle.\" A prisoner was offered his\nliberty if, by starting at the warden's office, he could enter each of\nthe thirty-six cells once, and only once, double on his route, and\narrive at the office again.\n\nHere is his route.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nProgramme for April-fool Day.\n\n     The TABLE is asked: \"Can some one through your columns suggest some\n     entertainment for a young people's party to be given on April-fool\n     day? Something appropriate for the day is wanted.\n\n  \"I. S.\"\n\nIf any reader will favor us, we will mail direct to this inquirer, since\nthe time is growing short, and print for the benefit of other readers in\nfuture years.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe Sign in the \"Sail\" Puzzle.\n\n\"I hope you will not think me very stupid, but even with the answer I\ncannot read the sign of the boat-house in the puzzle. Will you kindly\nexplain through your columns now to read it?\"\n\nThe preceding, either in these words or others of the same meaning, came\nto us from several readers. The first word is read by taking not the\nletters on the sign, but the succeeding one in the alphabet, as \"b\" for\n\"a,\" \"e\" for \"d,\" and so on. The second word is read by taking the\npreceding letter in each case, as \"l\" for \"m,\" etc. The remaining words\nare read by taking the letters in reverse alphabetical order. For\nexample, the fourth word on the sign begins with \"x,\" which is the third\nletter, reading backwards, or from the end of the alphabet. For it read\n\"c,\" and so on.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIn that Fifteen Problem.\n\nThe way to place the figures one to nine on a \"tic, tac, toe\" diagram so\nthat in eight ways the sum of the three figures will be fifteen is:\nReading from left to right, the top line, 4, 3, 8; the second line, 9,\n5, 1; and the lower line, 2, 7, 6.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThirty Cents and Five Cents per Dozen.\n\nFrank Smith figures out that A, B, and C sold eggs at the following\nprices. Did you get answers agreeing with his?\n\n  A sold 9 doz. at 30 cts., and  1 doz. at 5 cts. = $2.75\n  B sold 5 doz. at 30 cts., and 25 doz. at 5 cts. =  2.75\n  C sold 1 doz. at 30 cts., and 49 doz. at 5 cts. =  2.75\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nQuestions and Answers.\n\n\"B. H. S.\" asks: \"To whom is application made in order to get a position\nin any of the large railroad offices? I have heard that in order to get\na position in any of the New York Central offices certain examinations\nhad to be taken.\" The railroad you name examines applicants for\npositions in the auditors' and all departments where good penmanship and\naccuracy in figures are required, but it does not examine applicants for\npositions in other departments. But it has no regular examining-board.\nNor do railways of the country have, as far as we know, such boards for\napplicants to apply to. If one desires to get into the telegraph service\nof a railway, he applies to the superintendent, or in some cases to the\nchief operator or train-despatcher. Any local telegraph operator can\ngive the name of the proper official on his road. For positions in\nauditors' and other accounting offices applications are made to those\nofficials. For places on trains apply to the superintendent, and on\nlocomotives to the master-mechanic. As a rule the best course is to get\nacquainted with some employ\u00e9, and through him make the application.\n\nJ. B. Coles asks how to get into West Point. Old readers must bear with\nus when we answer again this much-answered query to say: Apply to your\nmember of Congress. The appointment is made by him, and by him only,\nsave in the case of a very few appointments made by the President of the\nUnited States, which appointments are usually reserved for sons of army\nofficers, who have, as a rule, no legal residence and, therefore, no\nmember of Congress to apply to. The same course is to be followed to get\nan appointment to Annapolis. If you prefer, you can write, merely for\ninformation about vacancy and conditions, to the Secretary of War or\nSecretary of the Navy. Address your communication as here named, and\nadd, Washington, D. C. Make the request plain and brief, and you will\nreceive a reply in good time. Don't hesitate to write to these\nofficials. They are public servants, and are always ready to answer such\nproper inquiries. Only one cadet from each district can be at West Point\nand at Annapolis, respectively, at a time.\n\nRalph Leach: Address G. A. Hentey, in care of _Boys' Own Paper_,\nPaternoster Row, London, and Kirk Munroe, in care of this\npublication.--Minnie Louise Naething asks what a \"parchment eater\" is.\nWe give it up--because our reference-books, like hers, are silent on the\nsubject. Can some one enlighten us?--\"Cape Vincent\" asks us some\nquestions, and desires answers by mail. We are always glad to oblige our\nreaders, but our purpose in answering questions is to give information\nto all. Why not have answers published?\n\nRobert H. Nead asks for information about the \"Mad Yankee,\" which\noccurred in one of the recent puzzle questions. We discarded \"Mad\"\nAnthony Wayne because he was not a Yankee. Robert retorts that Elisha\nKent Kane was born in Philadelphia. The question was, in effect, what\npublic man went by the nickname \"Mad Yankee\"? The answer was Kane.\nWhether the nickname was or was not correctly applied we cannot say. Nor\nis it material. Wayne could not be accepted, for he was not the bearer\nof that nickname, and our conditions included nicknames in the list of\nquestions.\n\nLouise A. Littlepage, who lives in Colon, Guatemala, sends us a poem of\nsix verses on \"The Noble Boy.\" The TABLE rarely prints poems--for\nobvious reasons. Louise says, \"If the TABLE wishes, I will send some\nmore verses.\" Will she not tell us in plain prose not about noble boys,\nbecause such are not rare with us, but about Guatemala--the school she\nattends, the interesting sights of the city she lives in, what time\nblackberries are ripe, if she have such fruit, the flowers that bloom in\nColon in March, what the people of Colon think of the new republic of\nwhich Guatemala is now a part? Does Colon have cable cars? Has she ever\nbeen out in the country on a visit to a country house? If so, what was\nit like, how furnished, and what did the housewife have for dinner?\nNoble boys are noble boys the world over. But Guatemala is different\nfrom Georgia, Maine, or Dakota. Please describe for us some of these\ninteresting differences.--A member: Wood-engravers' tools are for sale\nonly by a few first-class dealers in hardware. They are purchased in the\nrough, and have to be finished and put in condition by the engraver. A\nset of tools, including leather-pad and magnifying-glass, suitable for a\nbeginner would cost about ten dollars.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LUXURY OF SOAP.\n\nDr. Nansen is not a man whose happiness depends much on the possession\nof luxuries, but there was at least one luxury which he confesses that\nhe missed during his long tramp with Lieutenant Johansen after they left\nthe _Fram_. The winter they spent in a hut passed comfortably, he says,\nand if they had had a little flour, a little sugar, and a few books they\ncould have lived like lords. They did not complain at the absence of\nthese things, however, but one thing they did long for was soap. \"It was\ndifficult enough,\" Dr. Nansen writes, \"to get one's person clean, but\nthat we managed to a certain extent by rubbing in bear's blood and fat,\nand then rubbing this off with moss.\" But this process was inapplicable\nto clothes, and they were very desirous of washing their under-clothes\nbefore beginning their spring journey. \"After trying every other\npossible way, we found, to our despair, no better expedient than to boil\nthem as best we could and then scrape them with a knife. In this way we\ngot so much off of them that they did to travel with, though the thought\nof putting on clean clothes when we once got back to Norway was always\nin our minds as the greatest enjoyment that life could bestow.\"\n\nAn analogy is traceable between this pleasure of anticipation and the\nglee of Dan Troop, as described in Kipling's _Captains Courageous_, at\nthe prospect of getting back to Gloucester after five months on the\nBanks and sleeping in a clean boiled night-shirt.\n\nThere is a picture in _Farthest North_ of Nansen at the end of his long\nice journey, and still in the soapless state, meeting Captain Brown of\nthe _Windward_, who brought him home.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA RESTLESS BOY'S REASON.\n\n\"I'm going to be a minister,\" said Tommie, forcibly.\n\n\"Why, Tommie dear?\" asked his father.\n\n\"So's I can talk in church,\" said Tommie.\n\n\n\n\nPostage Stamps, &c.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n60 dif. U.S. $1, 100 dif. Foreign 8c., 125 dif. Canadian, Natal, etc.\n25c., 150 dif. Cape Verde, O. F. States, etc. 50c. Agents wanted. 50\np.c. com. List free. =F. W. Miller, 904 Olive St., St. Louis, Mo.=\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n=STAMPS!= 300 genuine mixed Victoria, Cape, India, Japan, Etc., with Stamp\nAlbum, only 10c. New 96-page price-list FREE. Approval Sheets, 50% com.\nAgents Wanted. We buy old U.S. & Conf. Stamps & Collections. =STANDARD\nSTAMP CO., St. Louis, Mo., Established 1885.=\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n=ALBUM AND LIST FREE!= Also 100 all diff. Venezuela, Bolivia, etc., only\n10c. Agts. wanted at 50% Com. =C. A. Stegmann=, 5941 Cote Brilliant Ave.,\nSt. Louis, Mo.\n\n\n\n\nSTAMPS\n\nBest in the market at 50% disc.; rare foreign at 33-1/3%; U.S. at 25%.\nReference required. Give us a trial.\n\nBOSTON STAMP CO., Box 2789, Boston, Mass.\n\n\n\n\n500\n\nMixed, Australian, etc., 10c.; =105 var.= Zululand, etc., and album, 10c.;\n12 Africa, 10c.; 15 Asia, 10c. Bargain list free. F. P. VINCENT,\nChatham, N.Y.\n\n\n\n\n=FREE!= Sample P'k (250) Stamp Hinges with New Stamp List. DOVER & CO.,\nSt. Louis, Mo.\n\n\n\n\n=CONFEDERATE STAMPS=, reprints, 100, all dif., 12c. S. ALLAN TAYLOR, 24\nCongress St., Boston.\n\n\n\n\n=155 VARIETIES!= some unused, =12c.= 25 No. Amer., 10c. Sheets =50%= com.\nHARRY S. LEE, MATTAPAN, MASS.\n\n\n\n\nNansen's Great Book--\"Farthest North\"\n\n[Illustration: SCOTT-HANSEN'S OBSERVATORY]\n\nBeing the Record of a Voyage of Exploration of the Ship _Fram_\n(1893-1896), and of a Fifteen Months' Sleigh Expedition by Dr. NANSEN\nand Lieut. JOHANSEN. By Dr. FRIDTJOF NANSEN. With an Appendix by OTTO\nSVERDRUP, Captain of the _Fram_. With over 100 Full-page and Numerous\nText Illustrations, Sixteen Colored Plates in Facsimile from Dr.\nNANSEN's own Water-Color, Pastel, and Pencil Sketches, an Etched\nPortrait, Two Photogravures, and Four Maps. About 1300 pages, 2 Volumes,\nLarge 8vo, Gilt Tops and Uncut Edges, $10.00.\n\nPUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK\n\n\n\n\nIt was at Vicksburg during the war. A company were out on a foraging\nexpedition, when one of the privates, in nosing around the out-houses of\na farm, ran across a barrel of prime cider. Now, as the private\nexpressed it, a barrel of prime cider was not to be sneezed at, and with\nthe help of an aged darky he carried it after nightfall into the camp.\nThe next day he went to work rigging up a little counter, and before\nnoon was ready to dispense the refreshing beverage at the small sum of\nten cents a cup, according to the rudely scrawled sign outside the tent\nflap.\n\nNow liquid refreshment was scarce, and with a luxury like cider to\nsoothe the palate it was but a short while before the front of that tent\nresembled the entrance to a circus. Business was brisk, exceedingly\nbrisk, and the private's arms ached in passing out the cups of cider.\nHis little till was rapidly filling up with coin, when there was a\nperceptible dwindling in his customers.\n\nThe change was alarming, and he looked around for the cause. A loud\nnoise in the rear of his tent attracted his attention, and warily\nclosing up his shop, he walked around. A large crowd had gathered, and\nafter a great deal of struggling he managed to see that another barrel\nof cider had reached the camp, for in the midst of the crowd he could\nhear a man shouting, \"Here ye are--cider five cents a glass!\"\n\nHe hastened around to his tent and changed the sign from ten cents to\nthree cents a glass. In a short time the crowd discovered the change,\nand his business boomed. Then his competitor could be heard shouting,\n\"Here ye are--cider for nothing!\"\n\nThat settled it: he closed up his tent flap, and went around to see what\nsort of a man gave cider away. This time he was able to get near, and\nfound, to his astonishment, that his competitor had driven a spigot into\nthe other end of his own barrel, which he had placed so carefully in the\nrear of the tent.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAccording to the New York _Press_, when John C. Reid was managing editor\nof the _Times_ he had an office-boy whose nerve and cheek were colossal.\nGreatness never embarrassed him, for he was no respecter of persons. One\nday he entertained in the reception-room a waiting visitor, whose\npatronizing way nettled him. All kinds of questions concerning his life\nand occupation were fired at him, and finally he was asked how much he\nearned a week. His reply was, \"Fifty dollars,\" which caused the\ninterrogator to whistle. At that moment the visitor was summoned by\nReid, to whom he related his experience with an office-boy who said he\nmade fifty dollars a week.\n\nReid rang bell; enter boy.\n\n\"Did you tell this gentleman that you made fifty dollars a week here?\"\n\n\"I did not tell him any such thing.\"\n\n\"What! You mean to say you didn't tell me a moment or two ago that you\nmade fifty dollars a week?\"\n\n\"Never said any such thing.\"\n\n\"Why, you little liar! You--\"\n\n\"What did you tell the gentleman?\" put in Reid.\n\n\"I told him I earned fifty dollars a week; but you pay me only three\ndollars.\"\n\nThe visitor was so excited that he forgot his business with the managing\neditor. When he had taken leave of the office Reid raised the boy's\nsalary to six dollars.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe late Jay Gould used to tell a good story of Mr. William M. Travers.\nAs Mr. Gould related it, he described Mr. Travers's going downtown to a\ndog-fancier's place in Water Street, New York, in search of a\nrat-terrier. The dog-fancier scented the value of his possible customer\nat once, and cheerfully dilated upon the merits of the different canines\nin stock. Finally, he selected a ratter, assuring Mr. Travers that the\ndog would go for a rat quicker than lightning. Mr. Travers was rather\nsceptical as he observed the shivering pup, and the dog-fancier noticing\nthis, said,\n\n\"Here, I'll show you how he'll go for a rat,\" and he put the dog in a\nbox with a big rat. The rat made a dive and laid out that unfortunate\nterrier in a second. Mr. Travers turned around to the fancier and said,\n\n\"I say, Johnny, what will you take for the rat?\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAn Oakland, California, bootblack deserves special mention as an honest\nman who would not deceive his patrons. When he first went into business,\nsix years ago, he put up a sign which read:\n\n\"Joe Garibaldi, bootblack. Has two small children.\"\n\nEach succeeding year found him deserving of more sympathy, for he kept\namending the sign, until it read eight small children. A few days ago\nJoe's bootblack stand was locked for a whole day, and when he returned\nthe next morning, he confided to the butcher's boy that his baby had\ndied. His first work was to amend the sign so that it might not mislead\nthe public, and it then read: \"Joe Garibaldi, bootblack. Has seven small\nchildren.\" Then, to avoid being placed in a false position before the\npublic, he added with his finger and shoe-blacking, \"One he die.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nSenator Voorhees relates a story of emotional eloquence which came to an\nignominious end, as _Current Literature_ tells it. He had succeeded in\ndelivering an appeal which had brought tears to the eyes of several\njurymen. Then arose the prosecuting attorney, a gruff old man with a\npiping voice and nasal twang.\n\n\"Gentlemen,\" said he, deliberately helping himself to a pinch of snuff,\n\"you might as well understand from the beginning that I am not boring\nfor water.\"\n\nThis proved so effectual a wet blanket to the emotions excited by Mr.\nVoorhees that he realized the futility of his own \"boring.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n[Illustration]\n\n  \"Oh, your song is most annoying,\n    And unless you take it back,\"\n  Said the Doctor, \"I will fire.\"\n    But the Duck still shouted: \"Quack!\n\n  \"Of your powder and your shot, sir,\n    I am not the least afraid:\n  So long as pills and potions\n    You don't summon to your aid.\"","title":"Harper's Round Table, March 23, 1897","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":27234}