The Project Gutenberg eBook of Harper's Round Table, October 20, 1896

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Title: Harper's Round Table, October 20, 1896

Author: Various

Release date: May 11, 2019 [eBook #59477]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/59477

Credits: Produced by Annie R. McGuire

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HARPER'S ROUND TABLE, OCTOBER 20, 1896 ***

THE PRINCESS IN HER GARDEN.

THE CAPE COD SALT-WORKS.

A VIRGINIA CAVALIER.

IN THE OLD HERRICK HOUSE.

THE VOYAGE OF THE "RATTLETRAP."

FAIR PLAY.

CAPTAIN JACK AND THE BLUE-FISH.

FLAGS OF THE REVOLUTION.

INTERSCHOLASTIC SPORT.

STAMPS.

BICYCLING.

THE CAMERA CLUB.

GEORGE DU MAURIER.

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

PUBLISHED WEEKLY.

NEW YORK, TUESDAY, OCTOBER 20, 1896.

FIVE CENTS A COPY.

VOL. XVII.—NO. 886.

TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.

THE PRINCESS IN HER GARDEN.

BY EVELYN SHARP.

The Princess was walking in her garden. It was a very beautiful garden, full of many-colored flowers and rare exotics; but the Princess was not fond of flowers, and she walked down the path without looking at them at all, and she felt dreadfully dull. For she had quarrelled with her yesterday's lover, and had just sent him away, so she had no one left to tease, and was therefore without an occupation.

"We are very beautiful," whispered the flowers on each side of her. "Won't you look at us?"

"Only look at our exquisite coloring," simpered the scarlet begonias. "Surely you must admire us."

"I," said a particularly ugly shrub with a foreign accent, "am unique. I am surprised that you should pass me over."

But the Princess wandered on listlessly until she came to the high prickly hedge at the end of her garden, and here she stopped because the path ended and she could go no further. She was feeling so dull, however, that she actually scratched her white hands in making a hole in the hedge so that she could look through and see what was on the other side. She had always been told that nothing outside the palace was at all amusing, but she felt sure that anything would be better than her secluded garden path and her beautiful, uninteresting flowers. So she yawned lazily, and held on her crown with both hands, and peeped through the hedge. To her surprise she saw nothing but potatoes growing, acres and acres of potatoes, stretching as far as her eye could reach, and in the middle of them all a tall man digging.

"Oh!" said the Princess, in a disappointed tone, "only potatoes! How dull!"

"Nonsense!" said the tall man, without turning round; "they are only grown for you to eat. If you don't want to see them growing, you must not expect to eat them."

"But I don't eat your potatoes," said the Princess, "because I have a garden of my own."

"There are no potatoes in your garden," answered the tall man, just as roughly as before; "there is nothing but flowers there for you to look at. But here in our garden we have no flowers to look at. We have to live in an ugly place, and do ugly work all day long, so that you should have your potatoes to eat."

"Dear me!" exclaimed the Princess; "I never met such a rude man before. Does he know I am the Princess, I wonder?" And she walked back hastily to the palace.

"We are very beautiful," said the flowers again, as her dress brushed against them. "Won't you look at us?"

But the Princess passed them by as before.

"Where do potatoes come from?" she asked, suddenly, at dinner-time. There was great consternation all round the table, for no one at the palace was ever supposed to know anything so common or useful as that. At last a strange and needy courtier, who had just come to apply for the post of Lord High Treasurer or anything else that was vacant, made a very good guess, as soon as he was quite certain that no one else knew anything whatever about it.

"They are washed up on the sea-shore at certain periods of the year," he said, and the King nodded at him gratefully, and felt that he would make a very useful foreign ambassador. But the Princess suggested that he should be offered the post of head gardener instead, as it was a pity so much useful learning should be wasted on a foreign ambassador. And the needy courtier, who had no sense of humor, gratefully accepted the post.

The next morning the Princess sent her page secretly to the hole in the hedge, and told him to bring the tall man back to speak with her. But the tall man sent her a message that he was too busy to come, and that the Princess must go to him if she had anything to say.

The little page trembled very much as he delivered this message.

"Shall I order him to be beheaded, your Highness?" he asked. The Princess's cheeks were smarting, but she merely smiled at the little page with a royal indifference.

"No," she said, "only Princes are beheaded." And when the little page was safely playing marbles with all the other pages in the anteroom, she opened her window and stepped out on the fresh dewy grass, and ran down the garden path as fast as she could. The flowers were silent this morning, and did not call out to her as she passed; but she noticed their silence no more than she had noticed their words the day before, for she had never understood their language.

The tall man was digging busily when she looked through the hole in the hedge, and now that the full light of day was on him she saw that he was very, very ugly, and had the wrinkled, tired face of an old man, although he was as straight and vigorous as a youth.

"I have come back," said the Princess, for she could not think of anything wiser to say. The tall man glanced round at her, and then went on digging.

"That doesn't make any difference to anybody," he said.

"Why," she exclaimed, "do you know who I am?"

"Not in the least," said the tall man. "Who are you?"

She drew a long breath of astonishment. "I am the Princess," she said.

The man stopped digging, and looked at her for a moment.

"Is that all? No name?" he asked.

"Of course there's a name!" said the Princess, almost crying. "My real name is Gyldea, but Princess is enough for most people. Is it possible that you did not know who I was? Can't you see I am standing in my own garden?"

"Oh yes," said the tall man. "But you might have been the gardener's daughter, or one of the ladies-in-waiting, mightn't you?" And he returned to his digging.

"Did you get my message?" asked the Princess, fighting to keep back her angry tears.

"Let me see, there was a message of some sort," answered the tall man. "You sent for me, didn't you?"

"Yes," said the Princess, haughtily, "and you said I was to come and see you instead. It is positively shameful!"

"But you needn't have come, need you?" said the tall man.

Then the Princess stamped her tiny foot, and went away again up the garden path. And as she went she thought unconsciously of her yesterday's lover, the first one who had ever interested her at all; and she almost wished she had not sent him away, just because he did not dance well. It struck her now, for the first time, that perhaps there was something else he could do, such as digging potatoes, for instance.

"No, not digging potatoes!" she corrected herself, angrily, "that is a horrid, vulgar occupation. But something else, perhaps; for I dare say there are some people who do things that I have never heard of. I wonder what it feels like to do things of that description? Oh dear! I wish King Marigold would come back again!"

Her yesterday's lover had been a young King with a serious face, and the Princess could never bear people who looked serious; for, clearly, no one had any right to do that, unless he happened to be a beggar or a Prime Minister. All the same, she had wanted him back again ever since the tall man had been rude to her.

That evening there was a great ball at the palace. And the Princess was dressed for it by her eleven maids of honor; and they took three hours and a half over it, and only had twenty minutes left in which to dress themselves. When they came back again, the Princess Gyldea was gone, and no one knew where she was. The little page guessed, but he did not say anything, because he did not want to go down the garden path by moonlight, when the fairies were about, and might turn him into a frog or something unpleasant. Besides, the dew was falling, and he had his best dancing-shoes on, with real diamond buckles.

Sure enough, at the bottom of the garden, the Princess was again looking through the hole in the hedge.

"Are you still digging potatoes?" she asked.

"The potatoes have still to be dug," answered the tall man.

"I want you to come and dance instead," said the Princess, imperiously.

"Then who will dig your potatoes?" he asked.

"Some one else will dig them," said the Princess, who always found that when she wanted anything done it came to pass without any trouble.

"There is no one else," said the tall man. "Go away and dance."

"There is some one else!" cried the Princess. "I will dig the potatoes, and you shall go and dance!"

"You are being an absurd child," laughed the tall man. "Why, you are on the wrong side of the hedge, to begin with."

"But you could help me to get over the hedge," said the Princess, eagerly. "I want to do something new. I am so tired of being a Princess. You really don't know how dull it is to be a Princess always."

"No," said the tall man, "I only know how dull it is to dig potatoes always, for some one else to eat. Go away and dance, you foolish child. Do you suppose you could dig potatoes in a dress like that?"

And the Princess looked down at her fine silken robes, and she went away up the garden path, more sadly than before.

"I have been walking in my garden," she said, when she found the King and the Queen and all the courtiers waiting for her, in the ballroom.

"She is so fond of flowers, the sweet child," said the Queen, trying to hide that she had been seriously alarmed; for the guests were beginning to arrive, and it would never do for them to suspect that anything unusual was happening.

"That is all very well," grumbled the King, who was not fond of balls; "but we must have the garden brought into the house or something, if she wants to do those things. I have been standing at the open door in my court suit for half an hour."

The next morning the Princess set to work to find a dress in which she could dig potatoes. But none of her own were simple enough; and when she asked her maids of honor if they had any old clothes, they were quite offended, and said they had never had such a thing in their lives. So she called her little page, who was teaching the cat to stand on its head in the anteroom; and she promised him a real sword in a gold sheath if he would find her an old dress to wear. But the little page came back again, in an hour's time, and said there was not an old dress to be had in the palace.

"What am I to do?" said the Princess, who had never been thwarted in her life before. "How do dresses grow old, I wonder, and why has no one in the palace got an old dress that I can wear?"

"Please your Highness, I think it is because none of the ladies in the palace slide down the balusters," said the little page. "That is the way I tear my coats and make them old. But I have heard, your Highness, that there are some people outside the palace gates who wear old clothes sometimes, only his Majesty does not like us to mix with such people, and I do not know where they live, your Highness."

"Oh dear! oh dear!" sighed the Princess. "I wonder how long it would take to wear out my dress and make it old enough to dig potatoes in?"

The little page shook his head.

"I do not think it will ever be an old dress, please your Highness," he said; "but perhaps the White Witch of the Waterfall could help you to find one."

"Who is the White Witch of the Waterfall?" asked Princess Gyldea.

"She lives by the waterfall in the wood that skirts the edge of your garden," said the little page; "and she appears to those who call her name three times, and grants them but one wish. At least that is what folk say, but I have never dared to seek her myself, your Highness."

So Princess Gyldea sent her page back to play with the other pages in the anteroom, and she slipped out of the palace, and hastened across to the wood, away from the high prickly hedge with the hole in it, and arrived at last before the shimmering, glistening waterfall. Then she raised her voice and called three times for the White Witch. And out of the rushing, dancing water came a white mist, and out of the white mist, stepped a wonderful, tall witch-woman, who looked as though the rivers and the dew and the sunshine had all helped one another to make her.

"Only one wish I can grant you, Princess, so think well before you ask," she said.

But the Princess Gyldea answered at once, without thinking at all.

"Turn my silk robes into an old dress so that I can go and dig potatoes," she begged.

"As you like," answered the White Witch; "but for that you must give me one of three gifts."

"Tell me," said the Princess, "is it my crown, or my jewels, or my wealth? You may have them all if you care for them, only give me an old dress quickly."

"I must have either your beauty or your strength or your happiness," said the White Witch, with a smile. "That is my price for an old dress."

"Will not all my wealth do as well?" she asked.

"No," said the witch-woman, "for that is of no use to me, nor is it yours to give. I must have something that is your very own."

"I cannot let my beauty go," thought the Princess, as she looked at her reflection in the clear mantle of the White Witch; "and if I lose my strength I shall never be able to dig potatoes at all. No, it must be my happiness; for, after all, I am very dull, and it will not be a big gift to give."

So she gave the White Witch her happiness; and the wonderful witch-woman laughed like the trickling of water over stones; and her laugh mingled with the rush of the waterfall; and she stepped back into the white mist again and was gone. And Princess Gyldea looked down at her dress, and it was no longer woven of silk and covered with precious jewels, nor was it plain and clean, as she had fancied an old dress would be; but it was soiled and ugly and torn; and she shivered with cold as she stood in it, and put her hands over her eyes to shut out the ugliness of it. And she walked back into her garden very slowly, and went down the path with her head bent, for she felt heavy-hearted and downcast. The little page ran across her path just behind her as she went, and he stopped and stared after her.

"What fun!" he cried. "Here is an old beggar-woman in the Princess's garden!" and he took up a stone and threw it at her. But a red rose bush caught the stone and stopped it, and the little page went singing back to the palace, while the Princess crept sobbing towards the hole in the hedge.

"Look at us, Princess," whispered the flowers, "for we are very beautiful."

And the Princess stooped and picked a handful, and fastened them in her torn, ragged dress.

"Help me over. I'm so unhappy," she said, through the hedge, and stretched out her hands to the tall man. And the tall man dropped his spade and came and lifted her right over; and there she stood before him, a woe-begone, tear-stained little figure in a ragged gown.

"What have you come for?" he asked, and smiled at her.

"I knew you would only laugh," she said, indignantly, "and now I can't get back again."

"So you want to go back again already? I suppose it is a nice new game to wear an old dress and pretend to dig potatoes," said the tall man.

"It is not a game," said the Princess, humbly. "I gave the White Witch my happiness for an old dress so that I might come and dig potatoes and you could go and learn to dance, and now you only laugh at me!"

"So you have been to the White Witch too?" said the tall man. "Then you shall come, if you like, and dig potatoes while I go and learn to dance."

So she took the spade and dug all day until the night-time, and then she lay down under the high prickly hedge and went to sleep in the starlight. And in the morning the tall man came back again and spoke with her.

"Are you tired of your new game yet?" he asked.

"It is not a game," she said, and looked at the blisters and the scratches on her soft white hands.

Then the tall man took up the potatoes she had dug and went away for another day.

And every morning he came and asked the same question, and every morning the Princess gave him the same answer; and after that he took away the potatoes she had dug.

At the end of a month the Princess was so tired with digging all day, and her hands were so sore with holding the heavy spade, that she felt she could do no more.

"I am sure I must be going to die," she said, as she looked up at the stars. But she did not die, and the next morning the tall man came as before.

"But you have dug no potatoes since yesterday, Gyldea," he said to her.

"I am too tired; look at my hands," she said, and held them out to him.

Then the tall man knelt down beside her and kissed her two hands, and as he kissed them all the sore places were suddenly healed, and the ugly scars vanished, and they grew white and soft again.

"I shall be able to dig now," she said, joyfully.

"There are no more potatoes to dig," said the tall man.

Then she looked round and saw that all the potatoes were gone, and that everything was covered with flowers, instead, as far as she could see.

"Oh, how beautiful!" she exclaimed, and then looked down at her rags. "Everything is beautiful except me."

"And me," added the tall man.

"Yet you look different somehow," she said, wonderingly, and put her hand on his face where the wrinkles had been a month ago.

"I have been learning to dance for a whole month, you see," he said, and laughed merrily. "It is my turn to work again now, and you shall go back to the palace."

The Princess did not look at all pleased at that.

"I don't want to go back a bit," she said, "and besides, I can't go to the palace in this ragged dress, can I?"

"The White Witch will give you back your fine clothes," he said.

"Oh no! because, you see, I have cheated the White Witch out of her gift," cried Gyldea, laughing.

"How?" he asked.

"Because I gave her my happiness, and you have made it come back to me," said the Princess, and laughed again.

"I have cheated her too," said the tall man.

"How?" she asked.

"I gave her my good looks so that I could come and work near you, and you have made them come back again," he said, and kissed her.

"Let us go to the palace," she said, presently.

"Just as we are?" he asked.

She was uncertain just for one minute.

"Yes," she said, and took his hand.

So he lifted her over the hedge again, and they walked up the garden path to the palace.

"How beautiful the flowers are!" said the Princess, and the flowers felt immensely proud of themselves.

"Who allowed these dreadfully ragged people in here?" exclaimed the Queen, who was taking a stroll with the King, in the hopes of getting an appetite for lunch.

"I have come back," said the Princess, standing in front of her parents.

"So have I," added the tall man.

"Preposterous!" exclaimed the King. "They actually have the impudence to confess that they have been here before!"

"Is it possible?" said all the courtiers.

"At last there will be an execution!" gasped the little page in delight, and he ran round to get a better view.

"Why, it is our Princess!" he screamed, and he waved his hat, and forgot he was in the royal presence, and stood on his head with delight. For no one had given him any sweets since the Princess Gyldea had disappeared.

Every one who had an eye-glass put it on at once, and said that the little page was quite right; and those who only had their own eyes to depend upon believed what the others told them, and were all dumb with amazement.

The Queen was so astonished that she said the first thing that came into her head, which, of course, was a thing she never did as a rule.

"Then we need not have gone into mourning at all," she exclaimed. She remembered herself the next moment, however, and held out her arms affectionately. "Come and kiss me, my sweet child, and then go and change your clothes at once!"

But the Princess led up the tall man.

"I have brought back a lover too," she said.

There was a great sensation among the courtiers.

"This must be looked into," said the Queen, ceasing to be affectionate; and she trod on the King's toe.

"Of course, of course, at once," added the King, hastily.

"To have our daughter in rags is bad enough," continued the Queen, "but a ragged son-in-law is really too much."

"In fact, he must be beheaded at once. Let us go in to lunch," said the King, with great presence of mind.

"So, after all, there will be an execution," said the little page to all the other pages; but none of them were in the least bit excited, because they had all seen as many executions in their day as any page could possibly wish.

Then a very wonderful thing happened. A white mist began to rise slowly out of the ground, and it rolled all round the two ragged lovers, and grew thicker and thicker, until no one could see them at all.

"It is the White Witch of the Waterfall," whispered the little page.

"I shall catch a bad cold," said the Queen, sneezing. "What a lot of uncomfortable things seem to be happening this morning!"

"And so near lunch-time too," added the King. "Do you suppose it would be any good to turn on the garden hose or fire a few cannons?"

Then the mist began to roll away again, and the two ragged lovers were no longer there, but in their place stood the Princess Gyldea in her court robes, looking ten times more beautiful than she had ever looked before, and by her side—King Marigold himself.

"Now I know why I fell in love with you when I saw you digging potatoes," said the Princess. "But why did you disguise yourself in that horrible way?"

"I did it for both of us. We both had to be taught. Don't you understand?" said the young King with the serious face.

And the Princess thought she did at last.

"But you can dance well now?" she said, anxiously.

"Ah yes. And I know how to laugh, too," he replied.

The Queen came up with her face covered with smiles.

"I am delighted," she said, "and you may both kiss my hand."

"I thought I saw a resemblance all the time," said the King, "and if there are going to be no more mists, supposing we go in to lunch."

All the courtiers, of course, had also known King Marigold all the time, but had not liked to say so; and the Princess kissed the little page on both cheeks, and they really did go in to lunch at last.

And every year, in the far-away country where King Marigold and his Queen are still ruling over a nation of happy people, a very curious thing happens. For just about the time when most people go to the sea-side for a holiday the King and Queen come down from their throne and go out into the fields, and all the courtiers go with them; and there they spend a whole month digging potatoes among the peasants.

And there is no one in the whole kingdom who does not know how to dance.

THE CAPE COD SALT-WORKS.

n the early days of New England, not very many years after the arrival of the Pilgrim fathers, a man named John Sears invented a method for getting the salt out of the sea-water. The colonists did not have many facilities for furnishing themselves with even the necessaries of life, and much of their daily work was given to inventing ways and means for providing themselves with food, clothing, and houses. One would think, however, that they must have such a common necessity as salt sent to them from the mother-country, but the distance was a long one then by the only means of transportation, which were the small ships in Great Britain, and the arrivals of these boats were few and far between.

It became a necessity, therefore, for the colonists to provide themselves with salt, as with other things; and John Sears, who lived in the town of Dennis, on Cape Cod, hit upon the plan of abstracting the salt from salt water, refining it, and putting it on the market. The plan is a simple one, and not many years ago these queer-looking salt-works anywhere on the coast of Massachusetts were common sights to the residents there. They are now fast disappearing, and but few of them remain, as cheaper processes have made this method too expensive to keep up. It has therefore died a natural death.

The plan was to put certain amounts of ordinary sea-water into large flat wooden basins in such small quantities that there was a depth of only about two or three inches. Each one of these basins had a cover, which could be rolled aside on wheels and runners, and which looked much like the roof of a small square house. In the daytime, when the sun was shining, the cover was rolled back and the sun allowed to dry up the water. During rainy weather, and even sometimes at night, the covers were rolled over the basins, thus preventing the rain itself or the heavy dews from getting into the salt water and delaying the action of the aim in drying it up. As the water was evaporated by the sun the hard salt was left on the bottom of the basin, and this could be used.

Of course salt thus made was very coarse and full of impurities, but after a time the process was refined more and more, so that instead of using one basin for stated quantities of water, a series of three or four—one a little lower than another—were used. It was found that after a certain amount of evaporation had gone on, some of the substances had settled in the bottom or attached themselves to the sides of the basin. The remainder of the liquid could then be drawn off into the next basin and evaporated there, thus allowing the evaporation process to go on. This was again stopped after a time, and the liquid drawn off into the third basin. Each time certain sediments from the salt water were left in the basin, and thus, instead of having salt with all its impurities, after the drawing process was over certain impurities were extracted from the pure salt, and in the end the salt itself was of a far more refined character than before.

SALT-WORKS.

These salt-works became so profitable that large marshes along Cape Cod up towards Boston and in other parts of the northeast Atlantic coast were given up to this process. Acres were often covered with these low foreign-looking huts, which consisted mostly of roofs. They were built in long rows, and often required the care of several men, whose homes were close to the works, and who might be seen going about pushing the roofs or covers over or back from the basins, as the weather demanded. Salt was sent from Cape Cod not only through Massachusetts, but through other colonies, and afterwards States in the Union, and it was not until, as has been said, the making of salt by chemical processes, or the using of rock-salt itself, became so cheap, that this primitive method was abandoned.

THE WINDMILLS FOR CAPE COD SALT-WORKS.

Among the most striking features of these salt-works were the huge wooden windmills built along the row of basins nearest the sea, which were used for pumping the water from the ocean into the salt-works themselves. They were raised on wooden staging some fifty or sixty feet above the level of the ground, and were like the ordinary grinding windmill of the time, with four wings, sometimes of frame-work stretched with canvas, and sometimes with huge slats, after the manner of the ordinary house-blind. If you go to-day through Barnstable County, and further down the Cape through Yarmouth, Dennis, Worcester, and Orleans, you may see some of these salt-works—not now in operation, but resting quietly there until they drop to pieces from old age. Some of the windmills still stand, in part if not in whole, and they with the strange-looking squatty salt basins make the country look like some foreign land. It might either be a bit of Holland or some East-Indian or African scene, were it not for the stiff, severe white New England meeting-house that is sure to be not far away.

A VIRGINIA CAVALIER.

BY MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL.

CHAPTER XIX.

The news brought by George confirmed all the fears of the war which was presently to begin and to last for seven years. The Governor immediately called together his council, laid before them Major Washington's report, and for once acted with promptitude. It was determined to raise a force of several hundred men to take possession of the disputed territory, and without a single opposing voice the command was offered to Major Washington, with the additional rank of Lieutenant-Colonel.

George said little, but his gratification was deeper than he could express. He wrote to his mother at once, and also to Betty, and Betty answered: "Our mother is very resigned, for she knows, dear George, that when one has a son or a brother who is a great military genius, and who everybody knows must one day be a great man, one must give him up to his country." At which George laughed very much, for he did not think himself either a genius or a great man.

After receiving the Governor's instructions, and paying a flying visit to Ferry Farm, George went to Mount Vernon, as all the preparations for the campaign were to be made at Alexandria, which was the rendezvous.

His days were now spent in the most arduous labor. He knew what was before him, and he was full of care. He was very anxious to enlist men from the mountain districts, as being better able to withstand the hardships of a mountain campaign. He wrote to Lord Fairfax, who was Lieutenant of the county of Frederick, and a recruiting station was opened at Greenway Court. At last, in April, he was ready to march on his first campaign. His force consisted of about four hundred Virginia troops, with nine swivels mounted on carriages. He expected to be joined by other troops from Maryland and Pennsylvania, but he was doomed to be cruelly disappointed. The morning of the 15th of April, 1754, was bright and warm, and at eight o'clock the soldiers marched out, to the music of the fife and drum, from the town of Alexandria, with Colonel Washington at their head.

They were a fine-looking body of men, but, as always, Colonel Washington was the finest figure present. He rode a superb chestnut horse, handsomely caparisoned. In his splendid new uniform his elegant figure showed to the greatest advantage. All the windows of the streets through which they marched were filled with spectators. At one Colonel Washington removed his chapeau, and bowed as if to royalty, for from it his mother and Betty were watching him. His mother raised her hands in blessing, while Betty held out her hands as if to clasp him. And when he had passed the two fond creatures fell into each other's arms and cried together very heartily.

Captain Vanbraam commanded the first company. In one of the baggage-wagons sat a familiar figure. It was Billy—not left behind this time, but taken as George's body-servant.

On the 20th Will's Creek was reached. A small party of men under Captain Trench had been sent forward by the Governor to the Ohio River, with orders to build a fort at what is now Pittsburg, and there await Colonel Washington. But while the Virginia troops were marching through the forest, before sighting the creek, an officer on a horse was seen approaching. He rode up to George, and, saluting, said:

"I am Ensign Ward, sir, of Captain Trench's company."

"From the fort at the meeting of the Alleghany and Monongahela?" asked George.

"Ah, sir," cried the young officer, with tears in his eyes, "the fort is no longer ours. A French force, consisting of nearly a thousand men, appeared while we were at work on it, and opened fire on us. We were but forty-one, and we were forced to hoist the white flag without firing a shot."

This was indeed dreadful news. It showed that the French were fully alive to the situation, if not beforehand, with the English. Even a small detachment of the French force could cut off and destroy this little band of four companies. George's mind was hard at work while young Ward gave the details of the surrender. His only comment was:

"We must push on to a point I have marked on the Monongahela, and there build the fort, instead of at the junction of the rivers."

After passing Will's Creek they were in the heart of the wilderness. The transportation of the guns, ammunition, and baggage was so difficult, owing to the wildness of the country, that they were fourteen days in making fourteen miles. But the men, animated by their commander, toiled uncomplainingly at work most distasteful to soldiers—cutting down trees, making bridges, and dragging the guns over rocks when wheels could not turn. Even Billy worked for the first time in his life. One night, after three weeks of this labor, an Indian stalked up to the camp and demanded to see the commander. George happened to be passing on his nightly round of inspection, and in a moment recognized his old friend Tanacharison. "Welcome!" cried the chief in the Indian tongue, and calling George by his Indian name of "Young White Warrior."

"Welcome to you," answered George, more than pleased to see his ally.

"This is no time for much talk," said the Indian. "Fifty French soldiers with Captain Jumonville are concealed in a glen six miles away. They are spies for the main body—for the French have three men to your one—and if they find you here you will be cut to pieces. But if you can catch the French spies, the main body will not know where you are; and," he added, with a crafty smile, "if they should meet Tanacharison, he will send them a hundred miles in the wrong direction."

George saw in a moment the excellence of the old chief's advice. Tanacharison knew the road, which was comparatively easy, and offered to guide them, and to assist with several of his braves. It was then nine o'clock, and rain had begun to fall in torrents. George retired to his rude shelter of boughs, called together his officers, and announced his intention of attacking this party of fifty Frenchmen. He made a list of forty picked men, and at midnight he caused them to be wakened quietly, and set off without arousing the whole camp.

The wind roared and the rain changed to hail, but still the Virginians, with Washington at their head, kept on through the woods. Sometimes they sank up to their knees in quagmires—again they cut their feet against sharp stones; but they never halted. At daybreak they entered the glen in two files, the Indians on one side, the Virginians on the other, George leading. It was a wild place, surrounded by rocks, with only one narrow cleft for entrance. Just as the last man had entered the alarm was given, and firing began from both parties at the same time. The French resisted bravely, headed by Captain Jumonville, who was the first man to fall; but a quarter of an hour's sharp fighting decided the skirmish, and the French called for quarter. This was George's baptism of fire, and it was the beginning of war between France and England, which was to last, with but a few years' intermission, for more than fifty years.

The prisoners were at once taken back to the American camp, and then sent, under guard, back to Virginia. This little success raised the spirits of the troops very much, but George, with a prophetic eye, knew that as soon as the story of Jumonville's defeat and death reached the French, a formidable force would be sent out against him. He had brave and active spies, who penetrated almost as far as Fort Duquesne, as the French had named Trench's fort, but none of them equalled old Tanacharison. One night, the last of June, he and three other scouts brought the news that the French were advancing, nine hundred strong, and were near at hand. A council of war was called, and it was determined to retreat to Great Meadows, where a better stand could be made, and where it was thought provisions and re-enforcements would meet them. Accordingly at daybreak a start was made. The horses had become so weak from insufficient food that they could no longer drag the light swivels, and the men were forced to haul them. George himself set the example of the officers walking, and, dismounting, loaded his horse with public stores, while he engaged the men, for liberal pay, to carry his own small baggage. It very much disgusted Billy to be thrown out of his comfortable seat in the baggage-wagon, but he was forced to leg it like his betters.

Two days' slow and painful marching brought them to Great Meadows, but, to their intense disappointment, not a man was found, nor provisions of any sort. The men were disheartened, but unmurmuring.

George immediately set them to work felling trees and making such breastworks of earth and rocks as they could manage with their few tools.

"I shall call this place Fort Necessity," he said to his officers; "for it is necessity, not choice, that made me retreat here."

Every hour in the day and night he expected to be attacked, but no attack would have caught him unprepared to resist as best he could with his feeble force. His ceaseless vigilance surprised even those who knew how tireless he was.

At last, on the morning of the 3d of July, just as George had finished making the round of the sentries, he heard, across the camp, a shot, followed by the sudden shriek of a wounded man. The French skirmishers were on the ground, and one of them, being seen stealing along in the underbrush, had been challenged by the sentry, and had fired in reply and winged his man. The alarm was given, and by nine o'clock it was known that a French force of nine hundred men, with artillery, was approaching rapidly. By eleven o'clock the gleam of their muskets could be seen through the trees as they advanced to the attack. Meanwhile not a moment since the first alarm had been lost in the American camp. George seemed to be everywhere at once, animating his men, and seeing that every possible preparation was made. He had posted his little force in the best possible manner, and had instructed his officers to fight where they were, and not to be drawn from their position into the woods, where the French could slaughter them at will.

The French began their fire at six hundred yards, but the Americans did not return a shot until the enemy was within range, when George, himself sighting a swivel, sent a shot screeching into the midst of them. He fully expected an assault, but the French were wary, and, knowing their superiority in force, as well as the longer range of their artillery, withdrew farther into the woods, and began to play their guns on the Americans, who could not fire an effective shot. The French sharp-shooters, too, posting themselves behind trees, picked off the Americans, and especially aimed at the horses, which they destroyed one by one. All during the hot July day this continued. The Americans showed an admirable spirit, and this young commander, with the fortitude of a veteran, encouraged them to resist, but he was too good a soldier not to see that there could be but one issue to it. At every volley from the French some of the Americans dropped, and this going on, hour after hour, under a burning sun, by weary, half-starved men, would have tried the courage of the best soldiers in the world. But the men and their young commander were animated by the same spirit—they must stubbornly defend every inch of ground and die in the last ditch.

Captain Vanbraam, who was second in command, was a man of much coolness, and knew the smell of burning powder well. During the day, standing near him, he said quietly to George:

"I see, Colonel Washington, that you practise the tactics of all great soldiers: if you cannot win, you will at least make the enemy pay dearly for his victory."

George turned a pale but determined face upon him. "I must never let the Frenchman think that Americans are easily beaten. They outnumber us three to one, but we must fight for honor when we can no longer fight for victory. Nor can I acknowledge myself beaten before the Frenchman thinks so, and he must sound the parley first. The braver our defence the better will be the terms offered us."

Captain Vanbraam gazed with admiration at the commanding officer of twenty-three—so cool, so determined in the face of certain disaster. George, in all his life, had never seen so many dead and wounded as on that July day, but he bore the sight unflinchingly.

About sunset on this terrible day a furious thunder-storm arose. Within ten minutes the sky, that had gleamed all day like a dome of heated brass, grew black. The clouds rushed from all points of the compass, and formed a dense black pall overhead. It seemed to touch the very tops of the tall pines, that rocked and swayed fearfully as a wind fierce and sudden swept through them. A crash of thunder like two worlds coming together followed a flash of lightning which rent the heavens. As tree after tree was struck in the forest, and came down the sharp crash was heard. Then the heavens were opened and floods descended. At the beginning of the tempest George had promptly ordered the men to withdraw, with the wounded, inside the rude fort. He worked alongside with the private soldiers in trying to make the wounded men more comfortable, and lifted many of them with his own arms into the best-protected spots. It was impossible to secure them from the rain, however, or to keep the powder dry, and George saw, with an anguish that nearly broke his heart, that he had fired his last shot.

For two hours the storm raged, and then died away as suddenly as it rose. A pallid moon came out in the heavens, and a solemn and awful silence succeeded the uproar of tempest and battle. About nine o'clock, by the dim light of a few lanterns, the Americans saw a party approaching bearing a white flag, and with a drummer beating the parley. George, who was the first to see them, turned to Captain Vanbraam.

"You will meet them, Captain, but by no means allow them to enter the fort so they can see our desperate situation."

Captain Vanbraam, accompanied by two other officers, met the Frenchmen outside the breastworks, where they received a letter from the French commander to Colonel Washington. George read it by the light of a pine torch which Captain Vanbraam held for him. It ran:

"SIR,—Desirous to avoid the useless effusion of blood, and to save the lives of gallant enemies like yourself and the men under your command, I propose a parley to arrange the terms of surrender of your forces to me as the representative of his most Christian Majesty. Captain Du Val, the bearer of this, is empowered to make terms with you or your representative, according to conditions which I have given him in writing, of which the first is that your command be permitted to march out with all the honors of war, drums beating and colors flying. I have the honor to be, sir, with the highest respect,

"Your obedient, humble servant,

"DUCHAINE."

As George finished reading this letter, for one moment his calmness deserted him, and with a groan he covered his face with his hands. But it was only for a moment; the next he had recovered a manly composure. With a drum head for a table and a log of wood for a seat he called his officers about him, and quietly discussed the proposed terms, Captain Vanbraam translating to those who did not understand French. The conditions were highly honorable. The Frenchman knew what he was about, and the stubborn resistance of the Americans had earned them not only the respect, but the substantial consideration of the French. They were to be paroled on delivering up their prisoners, and were to retain their side-arms and baggage.

The men knew what was going on, as orders had been given to cease firing, and having built camp-fires, sat about them, gloomy and despondent. But no word of murmuring escaped them. When at last, in about an hour, the preliminaries were arranged, signed, and sent to the French commander, George assembled round him the remnant of men left.

"My men," he said, in a choked voice, "to-morrow morning at nine o'clock we shall march out of Fort Necessity beaten but not disgraced. Every man here has done his whole duty, but we were outnumbered three to one; and our fight this day has been for our honor, not for victory, because victory was impossible. We are accorded all the honors of war, which shows that we are fighting men as honorable as ourselves. I thank you every one, officers and soldiers, for the manly defence you have made. This is our first fight, but it is not our last, and the time will come, I hope, when we can wipe out this day's record by a victory gained not by superior force, but by superior gallantry."

A cheer broke from the men who had listened to him. They were soldiers, and they knew that they had been well commanded, and that the unequal battle had been very nobly fought; and George Washington was one of the few men in the world's history who could always command in defeat the confidence that other men can only secure in success.

WITH DRUMS BEATING AND COLORS FLYING.

Next morning—by a strange coincidence the Fourth of July, then an unmarked day in the calendar—at nine o'clock the Americans marched out of camp. The French were drawn up in parallel lines in front of the intrenchment. Knowing that the American officers would be afoot, the French officers sent their horses to the rear. As the Americans marched out, with George Washington at their head, the French commander, Duchaine, turned to his officers and said, smiling:

"Look at that beautiful boy commander! Are not such provincials worth conquering?"

The Americans halted, and George advanced to thank the French commander for the extreme courtesy shown the Americans, for it was the policy of the French to conciliate the Americans, and to profess to think them driven into the war by England.

Before George could speak, the Frenchman, saluting, said:

"Colonel Washington, I had heard that you were young, but not until this moment did I fully realize it. All day yesterday I thought I was fighting a man as old in war as I am, and I have been a soldier for more than thirty years."

George could only say a few words in reply, but to the core of his heart he felt the cordial respect given to him by his enemies.

But his thoughts were bitter on that homeward march. He had been sent out to do great things, and he came back a defeated man. By the watch-fires at night he prepared his account to be submitted to Governor Dinwiddie, and it was the most painful work of his life. After two weeks' travel, the latter part of it in advance of his command, he reached Williamsburg. The House of Burgesses was in session, and this gave him a painful kind of satisfaction. He would know at once what was thought of his conduct.

On the day of his arrival he presented himself before Governor Dinwiddie, who received him kindly.

"We know, Colonel Washington," he said, "that you surrendered three hundred men to nine hundred. But we also know that you gave them a tussle for it. Remain here until I have communicated with the House of Burgesses, when you will, no doubt, be sent for."

George remained in his rooms at the Raleigh Tavern, seeing no one. He knew the Governor perfectly well—a man of good heart but weak head—and he set more value on the verdict of his own countrymen, assembled as Burgesses, than on the Governor's approval. He did not have to wait long. The House of Burgesses received his report, read it, and expressed a high sense of Colonel Washington's courage and ability, although, in spite of both, he had been unfortunate, and declared a continuation of their confidence in him. Not so Governor Dinwiddie. His heart was right, but whenever he thought for himself he always thought wrong. The fact that he had to report to the home government the failure of this inadequate expedition set him to contriving, as all weak men will, some one or some circumstance on which to shift the responsibility. It occurred to him at once: the Virginia troops were only provincial troops, Colonel Washington was a provincial officer. What was needed, this wise Governor concluded, were regular troops and regular officers. This he urged strongly in his report to the home government, and next day he sent for George.

"Colonel Washington," he said, suddenly, "I believe nothing can be accomplished without the aid of regular troops from England, and I have asked for at least two regiments for the next campaign. Meanwhile I have determined to raise ten companies to assist the regular force which is promised us in the spring, for it is now too late in the season for military operations. I offer you the command of one of those companies. Your former officers will be similarly provided for; but I will state frankly that when the campaign opens, the officers of the same rank in his Majesty's regular troops will outrank those in the provincial army."

George listened to this remarkable speech with the red slowly mounting into his face. His temper, brought under control only by the most determined will, showed in his eyes, which literally blazed with anger.

"Sir," he said, after a moment, "as I understand, you offer me a Captain's commission in exchange for that which I now bear of Lieutenant-Colonel, and I am to be made the equal of men whom I have commanded, and all of us are to be outranked by the regular force."

The Governor shifted uneasily in his chair, and finally began a long rigmarole which he meant for an explanation. George heard him through in an unbroken silence, which very much disconcerted the Governor. Then he rose and said, with a low bow:

"Sir, I decline to accept the commission you offer me, and I think you must suppose me as empty as the commission itself in proposing it. I shall also have the honor of surrendering to your Excellency the commission of Lieutenant-Colonel, which you gave me; and I bid you, sir, good-morning"—and he was gone.

The Governor looked about him, dazed at finding himself so suddenly alone.

"What a young fire-eater!" he soliloquized. "But it is the way with these republicans. They fancy themselves quite as good as anybody the King can send over here, and the spirit shown by this young game-cock is just what I might have expected of him."

The Governor tried to dismiss the subject from his mind, but he could not, and he soon found out that "the young game-cock's" spurs were fully grown.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

IN THE OLD HERRICK HOUSE.

BY ELLEN DOUGLAS DELAND.

CHAPTER VIII.

At the threshold of the library Miss Herrick paused. "I cannot go into that room, Elizabeth," she said. "How cruel you are to subject me to this again! Bring the boy to me here, if you are speaking the truth and he is really in the house."

Elizabeth found her brother at the top of the stairs.

"Come down," she said. "Aunt Caroline wants you."

Without a word he brushed past her and went to the library. He was too angry to speak. Miss Herrick had seated herself in a high-backed chair, which had the appearance of being a throne of justice, while she herself looked sufficiently stern and forbidding to cause the stoutest heart to quail. Neither she nor her sister gave Valentine the slightest sign of greeting. The boy might have been an absolute stranger to them.

Miss Herrick motioned to her niece to come to her side, but Elizabeth did not heed her. She had followed Valentine into the room, and she now stood beside him.

"What have you to say for yourself?" asked their aunt, after a pause which to the two culprits seemed hours long.

"Nothing," said Valentine.

"You mean that you have no excuse to offer?"

There was no answer.

"Unless you explain fully why you are here and why you crept into the house in this underhand manner, I will telegraph at once to your uncle and aunt. Perhaps they will be able to account for your conduct."

"They don't know anything about it," Val blurted out at last.

"I thought not; but for all that I shall send for them to come. Their nephew needs looking after, and they should know it."

"This is your fault," cried Valentine, turning upon Elizabeth. "All would have gone right if you had not been a traitor. I could have gone off to-morrow morning, and no one would have known anything. Now the 'Q. R. K.' is done for as far as I am concerned, and I am in this scrape besides."

"Elizabeth did quite the proper thing," said Miss Herrick, "and now I wish you to explain yourself. I give you five minutes. At the end of that time, if you have not begun to explain, I will telegraph to your uncle." She glanced at the clock as she spoke.

"Oh, I suppose there is no help for it," said Valentine. "I've got to tell you! The 'Q. R. K.' is a secret society at our school, and you have to be initiated. I have been wanting to belong for ever so long, and this year I was elected. I had been telling the fellows about this house, and the queer room no one ever goes into, and how Elizabeth had the Brady girls there once, and they said that part of my initiation would be to come on here without any one knowing it, and spend the night in that room, and get back again the next day. They knew I couldn't do it, but if I did they would put me on the executive committee, and that is a big honor for a new member. Of course I thought it would be a lark to do it, and I was sure I could manage it. Aunt Helen thinks I am spending the night with one of the fellows. It would have been all right if Elizabeth hadn't gone back on me. I was to take back a statement from her that no one had seen me."

The Misses Herrick looked at him in amazement. "Do you mean to say that such things are customary among school-boys?" asked Miss Rebecca.

"I don't know," returned Valentine, sullenly. "I am only telling you about our club."

"Do you think, Valentine, that it was the proper thing for you to do, after you had been a guest in this house and had profited by our hospitality, to return to your home and gossip of our private affairs? Of that—that room? And we your own aunts, your father's sisters?"

It was Miss Herrick who asked these questions.

"No," said the boy, "I don't suppose it was. But I didn't gossip; only girls do that. One day when we were all telling queer stories, I told this. I never thought at the time, and afterwards when they were planning my initiation rites one of the fellows remembered it. That is all."

"And quite enough. As that room is connected with the greatest sorrow of my life, you have hurt me more than you can ever realize. You are cruel."

"Don't say that to Val," said Elizabeth. "After all, Aunt Caroline, it was really my fault that he got in there. He never would have known anything about it last year if I had not told him and taken him there, and I ought not to have let him in this time. I was the one who went to your desk and got the key and opened the door. He didn't do one of those things. And you would never have known about it if I had not told. I think I am the one to be scolded, Aunt Caroline—really, I do."

"You certainly are very much to blame, Elizabeth. I shall punish you by withdrawing my consent to your taking drawing-lessons. I had supposed that you had outgrown your prying, curious ways. I see that you are no more worthy of trust than you used to be."

Elizabeth's eyes filled with tears and her lip trembled. It had been so hard for her to determine to betray Valentine, and now they were all against her. He, especially. But the boy, after a long pause, suddenly spoke:

"Look here, Aunt Caroline! I think you are mighty hard on Elizabeth. I am as mad as I can be at her for peaching, and I sha'n't forgive her in a hurry, but you have no right to blame her such a lot. I took her by surprise, in the first place, and I made her go and get the key and open the door. Of course she ought not to have told after that was all done, but still it wasn't her fault that I got in there."

It cost Valentine some effort to say this. It was by no means an easy matter for him to shoulder the blame, but, as he said afterwards, he could not stand there and hear his aunt pitching into little Elizabeth, who had been so ready to make excuses for him. He was rewarded by Elizabeth's grateful look, which he pretended not to see; and when she stole her hand into his and squeezed it, he impatiently shook her off.

Valentine departed in disgrace the following day, and the letter which Miss Herrick wrote to his uncle bore such results that he concluded that it would be wiser in future to avoid any such initiation rites as those which had just been attempted.

Elizabeth went to school as usual, but it was with so sad a heart that even her friend Patsy could not succeed in cheering her. A note was sent to Mrs. Arnold, which told her that Miss Herrick's niece was not to take drawing lessons, so that delightful prospect faded away into thin air, much to the little girl's disappointment.

And the room was closed again, and life in the old Herrick house went on about as usual, until an event came to pass by which it was again startled out of its accustomed calm, and which brought a great change into Elizabeth's existence.

For some weeks Patsy Loring had been planning to give a party. It was to be on her birthday, which fell on the first day of December. Elizabeth had never been to a party in her life, and the thought of going to one, and to one so delightful as Patsy Loring's was sure to be, served to keep her awake at night and to absorb her mind by day. And then a present was to be bought, and although her aunts took little interest in the all-important subject, Elizabeth was allowed to go to Chestnut Street under the care of the maid, and after much hesitation and the visiting of many shops, a beautiful silver pencil was selected for Patsy to use in school.

Twenty times a day did Elizabeth gaze upon it as it lay on green cotton in a pink box, and at last it was tied up in tissue-paper with a colored ribbon, and carried to Patsy's house, for the hour for the party had arrived.

Elizabeth Herrick had grown to be quite a tall girl, and in many respects she seemed much older than her thirteen years, while in others she was a mere child.

Her beautiful hair still hung in a shining mass over her shoulders, and she was simply dressed in a white frock with a broad blue sash about her waist. Her aunt believed in "dressing children as children," so that she seemed almost out of place among the very young-ladyfied girls who assembled at Mis. Loring's on this birthday afternoon.

After supper—for it was a tea party—Patsy's sister took her seat at the piano, and they all danced. All except Elizabeth. The mere idea of being asked to dance so terrified her that she fled up stairs to the little sitting-room, determined to stay there until the evening had worn away and some one should come to take her home.

She was overcome with disappointment. Even the pencil had not been the success that she had anticipated, for all the girls had brought presents to Patsy, and among them had been a pencil which she very much feared her friend might admire more than the one she had given, although Patsy had thrown her arms about Elizabeth's neck and declared hers to be the sweetest in the world.

"There are so many disappointing things," thought Elizabeth, at the age of the thirteen. "I wonder, if my father were to come home I should be disappointed about him!"

In the sitting-room she found a lady, who sat by the table, reading the evening paper. Elizabeth did not see at first who it was, for her face was hidden, but the lady looked up presently, and, to her surprise, it proved to be Mrs. Brown, who gave drawing and painting lessons at the school.

She was a very beautiful woman, and Elizabeth had always admired her in secret, and had longed more than ever to be allowed to take lessons of her. They had never exchanged a word, however, for Mrs. Brown was at the school merely during the hours of her lessons, and knew only those girls who were in her classes, but she recognized Elizabeth's face to-night, and smiled kindly at the little girl when she saw her.

"You are one of Miss Garner's pupils, are you not?" she said, with the lovely light in her eyes that won the heart of every girl to whom she spoke. "I think I have seen you there, although you are not in my class."

"No," said Elizabeth, "I am not in your class, though I do wish I could be. I love drawing."

"Perhaps another year you may be allowed to study."

"I am afraid not," replied Elizabeth, sadly; "my aunt does not approve of my learning it. I don't know why. She said once that I might, but I was dreadfully bad—so naughty that she had to punish me by not letting me learn to draw and paint, and I do love it so!"

"I am sorry," said Mrs. Brown; "but you do not look as if you could be dreadfully bad."

"Oh, but I am!" replied the little girl, earnestly. "I am terribly curious, for one thing, but I don't think I should be if there were not so many mysteries in our house. Don't you hate mysteries?"

"They are not agreeable things, certainly. Tell me what your name is. I feel sure we shall be friends, and you remind me of some one whom I used to know."

"Oh, do you think so?" cried Elizabeth, going to her side. "I do love friends, and this is the first year I ever had any. My name is Elizabeth Herrick."

"Elizabeth Herrick!" repeated Mrs. Brown, in a low, startled voice. "Where—where do you live?"

"I live in Fourth Street. With my two aunts. What is the matter, Mrs. Brown? Don't you feel well?"

"Yes, dear. It was only a momentary shock. I—I sometimes have them. You live with your aunts, you say? How many aunts have you?"

"Two—Aunt Caroline and Aunt Rebecca."

"And did you never have any other?"

"No, not here in Philadelphia. There was never any one else in our family but my father."

"So they have not told her!" murmured Mrs. Brown, but so low that Elizabeth could not quite catch the words. Then with an effort she continued, "And your father! Where is he?"

"He is abroad. He has never lived at home since my mother died, and that was when I was a baby, so I have never seen him."

"Ah, poor Edward!" said Mrs. Brown.

"Why, Mrs. Brown, do you know him? That is exactly what Aunt Caroline always calls him. Do you know my father?"

"What did I say?" exclaimed Mrs. Brown, hurriedly. "I must have been thinking of—at least, I used to know your father, it is true. But don't ask me any more, my child; and perhaps it would be as well not to mention to your aunts that—-that you have seen me."

"Another mystery!" cried Elizabeth. "Oh, dear me, I do hate them!"

"My child," said Mrs. Brown, taking the little girl's hands in her own and looking tenderly into the great brown eyes, "I do not ask you to hide anything on my account. Say just what you think best. And I hope I shall see more of you, Elizabeth. Perhaps some day you can come to see me with Patsy. My home is in the country, and I am merely spending the night with Mrs. Loring, who is an old friend whom I have not seen in some years. She only discovered to-day that I was at the school, and she begged me to stay with her to-night. I am sitting here waiting for her to come to me. And now I want you to kiss me, Elizabeth, for already I love you dearly."

Elizabeth threw her arms about her new friend.

"You are the most beautiful lady in the world," she whispered. "And I wish you were my mother or my aunt."

They were interrupted by a maid who came to say that the carriage had been sent for Miss Elizabeth Herrick, and that she must hurry. Her aunts wanted her at once.

"I wonder why," said Elizabeth, discontentedly, as she glanced at the clock. "Aunt Caroline told me I could stay until nine o'clock, and it is only eight now. And I was just beginning to enjoy the party."

"Never mind, dear," said Mrs. Brown; "it is very nice that you happened to come up here and find me, and I shall look forward to seeing you again soon. Perhaps after a time you may be allowed to take drawing-lessons. I am so glad you love it, Elizabeth"—kissing her again—"and I am more glad still that you like me even a tiny bit!"

"Like you!" cried Elizabeth. "I love you. I adore you!"

And then she ran to put on her coat and hat, for her aunt's message had been imperative, and she dared not linger.

She was driven quickly home, and when the door was opened for her the man told her that her aunts were in the library and wished to see her at once. Wondering, she ran up stairs, and, drawing aside the portière, she entered the room. It was more brightly lighted than usual, and her eyes fell upon a group of people who were sitting at the farther end of it, beyond the big library table.

Her two aunts were there, and a gentleman whose back was turned to her. A strange feeling came over Elizabeth. Who was this gentleman? Why had they sent for her? Was the longing of years to be fulfilled at last?

They did not see her at first, not until she had slowly advanced and was very near them. Then Miss Herrick discovered her.

"Oh," she exclaimed, "you are here! Edward, this is Elizabeth."

The gentleman turned quickly and rose to his feet. "So this is Elizabeth!" he repeated. "My child, do you know who I am?"

"Yes!" she cried, with a sob in her voice, "you are my father, at last, at last!"

It was half an hour later, and Elizabeth was even yet unable to realize that her father was actually here, in the same room with her, touching her, stroking her hair. She had drawn a footstool to the side of his chair, and sat holding his hand in both of hers, and looking up into his face.

He seemed older than she had thought, for the photograph of him that she had was taken long ago when he was first married. His eyes were sad now, and his hair and mustache were quite gray, while his face was browned with exposure to the sun, for he had travelled widely.

"And so you are glad to see me, Elizabeth?" he said.

"GLAD? WHY, YOU ARE MY FATHER!"

"Glad? Why, you are my father!"

And the look in Elizabeth's eyes and the tone of her voice showed that these words conveyed all that could be said.

"Poor little girl, I have neglected you."

"Elizabeth can scarcely be said to have been neglected," put in Miss Herrick, somewhat stiffly.

"Oh no, Aunt Caroline, you have been very good to take care of me so long, and I have given you so much trouble; but you are not my father, and I have wanted him so much."

"And what do you think was the means of bringing me home at last, Elizabeth?"

"I don't know, father."

Mr. Herrick released her hand for a moment, and took from his pocket a leather case. Carefully put away in the innermost compartment was a letter. The envelope was covered with postmarks, and it had the appearance of having journeyed to many places.

"Do you remember this letter that you wrote me more than a year ago?" he asked. "It reached me only the day before I sailed, and until it came, Elizabeth, I had no intention of sailing for many years to come. It has followed me about from place to place, and has been mislaid and sent astray, until at last it found me. When I read it, Elizabeth, I believe I realized for the first time that I had a daughter, and that I ought to come home to her."

"Oh, father! did that letter really bring you at last? I knew it would, for it is what I have prayed for every night and morning ever since I wrote it; but you were so long in coming that I had almost begun to give up hoping."

"May I see the letter?" asked Miss Herrick.

"No," said her brother. "I don't think any one shall ever read this letter but my daughter and myself." Which made Elizabeth sigh with satisfaction.

There was a short pause, and then she summoned courage to ask a question—one of the utmost importance, and the asking of which cost her a great effort. She rose from her stool and stood in front of her father, her hands clasped behind her and tightly locked.

"Father," she said, timidly.

"What is it, my darling?"

"I want you to look at me very, very hard. Do you think—you—can—bear the sight of me?"

"My child, what on earth do you mean? You are the most beautiful sight in the world to me."

He put his arms around her and drew her down to his knee. Elizabeth hid her face on his shoulder and cried with relief.

It was indeed a happy Elizabeth who went to bed that night, and the next morning when she awoke and remembered that her father was actually in the house, she was obliged to pinch herself to make sure that it was not all a dream.

When she went down to breakfast there he was, waiting to kiss her for good-morning, and Elizabeth felt that she was at last like other girls with a father to love her, and she should soon have a brother also, for Valentine had already been sent for, and would hereafter make his home with them in the house which their father intended to buy.

Elizabeth rather dreaded Val's coming, for she feared that he had not yet forgiven her for telling their aunt of his previous visit; but when he arrived, a few days later, she found that he was ready to acknowledge that his sister had done right, and that it was he who had been in the wrong.

The morning after Mr. Herrick's return the father and daughter had a long conversation, and Elizabeth was able to ask him about the subjects which most interested her. One question related to her drawing-lessons, which her father readily promised that she should take. The other was in regard to the mystery of the locked door.

"It was your aunt's room, my child," said Mr. Herrick.

"But which aunt, father—Aunt Caroline or Aunt Rebecca?"

"Your aunt Mildred."

"But who was she? I never heard of her."

"You have never heard of your aunt Mildred? Is it possible?"

And then he told her of his beautiful younger sister who, years before, when she was but twenty, had left home to become a trained nurse in a hospital. Miss Herrick, who was devotedly fond of her, and who had expected her to make a brilliant marriage, had bitterly opposed this course.

"They were equally obstinate," said Mr. Herrick, "and neither one would give up. It was not that it was a disgraceful thing for Mildred to do—far from it. She had a longing to do some good in the world, and it suited her fancy to try to do it in that way. In a year or two she would probably have come back. But Caroline told her she must make her choice then and there—if she left her it was to be forever; and Mildred chose to go. Your aunt Caroline never forgave her for this, and her room has been closed and padlocked ever since, and her name is never mentioned. It is a sad story, Elizabeth, and I think your aunt has made a mistake; but it is not for me to judge her, I who have neglected my children all these years. We Herricks are all more or less peculiar."

Elizabeth told her father of the letters in the closed room, and from one of them Mr. Herrick learned that his sister had married an artist by the name of Brown. A second letter told that he had died within a year of their marriage, that her money was almost gone, and that she was now obliged to support herself.

Mr. Herrick reproached his sister Caroline for not having forwarded these letters to him, and although Miss Herrick tried to defend herself, she knew in her heart that she had done very wrong, and she longed to make amends to the Mildred whom she had once loved so dearly. But she gave no outward sign of this change of feeling.

Mr. Herrick determined to lose no further time in looking for Mildred, but he wished, first of all, to settle Elizabeth comfortably at school in regard to her drawing-lessons, which seemed to be so near her heart. That very morning, therefore, he went with her to Mrs. Arnold's, and asked to see the teacher of drawing and painting. Mrs. Arnold left the room to send her to the parlor, and the father and daughter were left alone together.

Presently there was a faint sound on the stairs, a rustle in the hall. The door was opened and Mrs. Brown came in. Mr. Herrick, attracted by the slight sound of her entrance, turned, and their eyes met. For a moment he was speechless, and there was a silence in the room.

"Mildred!" he said, starting forward, "have I found you here?"

"Edward, at last you have come!"

The three returned to Fourth Street together, and Mr. Herrick and his sister waited in the parlor while Elizabeth went to her aunts. She found them in the library.

"Aunt Caroline," said she, standing in front of her, "whom do you love best in the world?"

Her aunt looked at her for a moment without speaking. Then she said, "You, Elizabeth, I think."

"No, there is some one else. Some one you used to love and who loved you, and she is here now, in this very house. Come, Aunt Caroline and Aunt Rebecca, come down and see her."

And she took the hand of each.

And so it was Elizabeth who in the end brought them together. It was she who unlocked the door.

THE END.

THE VOYAGE OF THE "RATTLETRAP."

BY HAYDEN CARRUTH.

XI.

"You're a miserable, sneaking, treacherous old equine scoundrel!" cried Jack, shaking his fist violently at Old Blacky. "You knew you were making us come the wrong road."

Old Blacky answered never a word, but turned, hit the wagon tongue a kick, and joined the other horses.

"Well, close down the front and let's talk this thing over," said Jack. "In the first place, we are snowed in."

"In the second place," said I, "we may stay snowed in a week."

"I don't think we're prepared for that," said Ollie, very solemnly.

"Let's see," went on Jack. "There are two sacks of ground feed under Ollie's bed. By putting the horses on rather short rations, that ought to last pretty nearly or quite a week. But for hay we're not so well provided. There's one big bundle under the wagon, if Blacky hasn't eaten it up. The pony won't need any, because she knows how to paw down to the dry grass. The others don't know how to do this, and the hay will last them, after a fashion, for about three days."

"Perhaps by that time the pony will have taught them how to paw," I said.

"Wouldn't be surprised," returned Jack. "Perhaps by that time we'll all be glad to learn from her. We've got flour enough to last a fortnight, so we needn't be afraid of running out of water pancakes at least. You don't grow fat on 'em, but, on the other hand, there is no gout lurking in a water pancake as I make it."

"No, Jack, that's so," I said, feelingly.

"We've got enough bacon for several meals, a can of chicken, and two cans of beans. Also a loaf of bread and a pound of crackers. Then there's three cans of fruit, a dozen potatoes, six eggs, a quart of milk, and half a pound of pressed figs. After that we'll paw with the pony."

"I wonder if we couldn't get some game?" inquired Ollie.

"Snow-birds, maybe," said Jack. "Or perhaps an owl. I've heard b'iled owl spoken of."

After all, the prospect was not so bad. Besides, it was so early in the season that it did not seem at all likely that we would be snow-bound a week. Still, we knew little about the mountain climate.

We got on our overcoats and went out and gave the horses their breakfast. Old Blacky was still cross, but Jack contented himself by calling him a few names. We also got up what wood we could and piled it against the wagon, for use in case our kerosene became exhausted, though we decided to cook in the wagon for the present. The snow was seven or eight inches deep, and still falling rapidly. After breakfast we took the pony down to a little open flat and turned her loose. The old instinct of her wild days came back to her, and she began to paw away the snow and gnaw at the scanty grass beneath.

"Perhaps," I said, "she can be induced to paw for the others."

After giving the other horses a little hay, we returned to the wagon, where we staid most of the day. I'm afraid we were a little frightened by the prospect. Of course, we knew that if it came to the worst we could leave the wagon and make our way back along the trail on foot, but we did not want to do that. But as for getting the wagon back along the narrow road, now blotted out by the snow, we knew it would be foolish to attempt it. It was not very cold in the wagon, and Jack played the banjo, and we were fairly cheerful. The snow kept coming down all day, and by night it was a foot deep. The pony came in from the flat as it began to grow dark, and we gave the horses their supper and left them in the shelter of the rocks. Then we brushed the snow off the top of the cover, as we had done several times before, and went in to spend the evening by the light of the lantern. When bedtime came, Jack looked up and said:

"The cover doesn't seem to sag down. It must have stopped snowing."

We looked out, and found that it was so. We could even see the stars; and, better yet, it did not seem to be growing colder. We went to bed feeling encouraged.

The next morning the sun peeped in at us through the long trunks of the pines, and Ollie soon discovered that the wind was from the south.

"Unless it turns cold again, this will fix the snow," said Jack.

He was right, and it soon began to thaw. By noon the little stream in the gulch was a torrent, and before night patches of bare ground began to appear. We decided not to attempt to leave camp that day, but the next morning saw us headed back along the tortuous road. In two hours we were again on the main trail. Just as we turned in, Eugene Brooks came along, having also been delayed by the snow, though the fall down the trail had not been nearly so great. 'Gene laughed at us, and told us that we had been following a trail to some lead-mines, which had been abandoned several months before.

THE DEADWOOD TREASURE COACH.

Half a mile farther on we came to the Thunder Butte Creek which we had sought. The water was almost blood-red, which 'Gene told us came from the gold stamp-mills on its upper course. If the water had been gray it would have indicated silver-mining. Just beyond we met the Deadwood Treasure Coach. It was an ordinary four-horse stage, without passengers, but carrying two guards, each with a very short double-barrelled shot-gun resting across his lap. The stage was operated by the express company, and was bringing out the gold bricks from the mines near Deadwood.

"I suppose," said Ollie, musingly, "if anybody tried to rob the coach, those fellows would shoot with their guns?"

"Oh no," replied Jack. "Oh no; they carry those guns to fan themselves with on hot days." But Ollie did not seem to be misled by this astonishing information.

As we went on, the road grew constantly more mountainous. Sometimes the trail ran along ledges, and sometimes near roaring streams and waterfalls, and the great pine-trees were everywhere. We passed two grizzly old placer-miners working just off the trail, and stopped and watched them "pan out" a few shovelfuls of dirt. They were rewarded by two or three specks of gold, and seemed satisfied. 'Gene told us afterward that one of them was an old California '49er, who had used the same pan in every State and Territory of the West.

It was a little after noon when we drove in to Deadwood—the last point outward bound at which the Rattletrap expected to touch. It was a larger town than Rapid City, and was wedged in a little gulch between two mountains, with the White Wood Creek rushing along and threatening to wash away the main street. We noticed that the only way of reaching many of the houses on the mountain-side was by climbing long flights of stairs. We drove on, and camped near a mill on the upper edge of town.

In the afternoon we wandered about town, and, among other places, visited the many Chinese stores. We also clambered up the mountain-sides to the two cemeteries, which we could see far above the town. It seemed to us that on rather too many of the head-stones (which were in nearly every case boards, by-the-way) it was stated that the person whose grave it marked was "assassinated by" so-and-so, giving the name of the assassin; but these were of the old days, when no doubt there were a good many folks in Deadwood who left the town just as well off after they had been assassinated. "Killed by Indians" was also the record on some of the boards. Ollie was greatly interested in the Chinese graves, with dishes of rice and chicken on them, and colored papers covered with curious characters—prayers, I suppose. We climbed on up to the White Rocks, almost, at the top of the highest peak overlooking Deadwood, and had a good view of the town and gulch below, and of the great Bear Butte standing out alone and bold miles to the east. We were tired, and glad to go to bed as soon as we got back to the wagon.

The next day we decided to visit Lead City (pronounced not like the metal, but like the verb to lead). Here were most of the big gold-mines, including the great Homestake Mine. It was only two or three miles, and we drove over early. It was a strange town, perched on the side of a mountain, and consisted of small openings in the ground, which were the mines, and immense shedlike buildings, which contained the ore-reducing works. The noise of the stamp-mills filled the whole town, and seemed to drown out and cover up everything else. We soon found that there was no hope of our getting into the mines.

"They'd think you were spies for the other mines, or something of that sort," said a man to us. "Nobody can get down. Nobody knows where they are digging, and they don't mean that anybody shall. They may be digging under their own property exclusively, and they may not. For all I know, they may be taking gold that belongs to me a thousand feet, more or less, under my back yard."

"If I had a back yard here," said Jack, after we had passed on, "I'd put my ear to the ground once in a while and listen, and if I heard anybody burrowing under it I'd—well—I'd yell scat at 'em."

We found no difficulty in getting in the stamp-mills, and a man kindly told us much about them.

"The Homestake Mills make up the largest gold-reducing plant in the world," said the man. "Where do you suppose the largest single stamp-mill in the world is?"

We guessed California.

"No," he said. "It's in Alaska—the Treadwell Mill."

We decided that the stamp-mills were the noisiest place we were ever in. There were hundreds of great steel bars, three or four inches in diameter and a dozen feet long, pounding up and down at the same time on the ore and reducing it to powder. It was mixed with water, and ran away as thin red mud, the gold being caught by quicksilver. The openings of the shafts and tunnels were in or near the mills, and there were the smallest cars and locomotives which we had ever seen, going about everywhere on narrow tracks, carrying the ore. Ollie walked up to one of the locomotives and looked down at it, and said:

"Why, it seems just like a Shetland-pony colt. I believe I could almost lift it."

The engineer sat on a little seat on the back end, and seemed bigger than his engine. As we looked at them we constantly expected to see them tip up in front from the weight of the engineer. There was also a larger railroad, though still a narrow gauge, winding away for twenty miles along the tops of the hills, which was used principally for bringing wood for the engines and timbers for propping up the mines.

"WHAT A BASEBALL PITCHER THAT MAN WOULD MAKE!"

We were walking along a connecting shed, and happened to look out a window, when we saw a four-foot stick of cord-wood shoot up fifty feet from some place behind us, and after sailing over a wide curve, like a "fly-ball," alight on a great pile of similar sticks on the lower ground, which was much higher than an ordinary house, and must have contained thousands of cords.

"Good gracious!" exclaimed Jack. "Wish I could throw a stick of wood like that fellow."

Another and another shot after the first one in quick succession. Sometimes there were two almost together, and we noticed the bigger and heavier the stick the higher and farther it was shot. We saw some almost a foot in diameter soaring like straws before the wind.

"What a baseball-pitcher that man would make!" went on Jack, enthusiastically. "Think of his arm! Look at that big one go—it must weigh two hundred pounds!"

"Let's get out of this shed and investigate the mystery," I said.

Outside it was all clear. The narrow-gauge wood railroad ended on the edge of the steep hill overlooking the mills. Down this was a long wooden chute, or flume, like a big trough, which for the last thirty or forty feet at its lower end curved upward. Men were unloading wood from a train at the upper end. Each stick shot down the flume like lightning, up the short incline at the end, and soared away like a bird to the pile beyond and below the shed. A little stream of water trickled constantly down the chute to keep the friction of the logs from setting it on fire.

"That's the most interesting thing here," said Jack. "I'd like to send the Blacksmith's Pet down the thing and see what he would do. Bet a cooky he'd kick the wood-pile all over the town after he alighted."

We spent nearly the whole day in wandering about the stamp-mills. The great steam-engines which operated them were some of the largest we had ever seen.

"And think," observed Jack, "of the fact that all of this heavy machinery, including the big engines and the locomotives and cars, and, in fact, everything, was brought overland on wagons, probably most of it nearly three hundred miles. No wonder people got to driving such teams as Henderson's."

Toward night we returned to Deadwood by the way of Central City. Here were more great mines and mills, but they did not seem to be so prosperous, and part of the town was deserted, and consisted of nothing but empty houses. Just as the sun set we drove in through the Golden Gate, and cast anchor at our old camp near the mill.

The next morning was wintry again, with snowflakes floating in the air. The ground was frozen, and the wind seemed to come through the wagon cover with rather more freedom than we enjoyed.

"It's time we began the return voyage," said Jack. "We're a long way from home, and we won't get there any too soon if we go as fast as we can and take the shortest cut." So we started that afternoon.

The shortest cut was to return to Rapid City, and then instead of going south into Nebraska, to go straight east, through the Sioux Indian Reservation, crossing the Missouri at Pierre, and then on across the settled country of eastern Dakota to Prairie Flower, over against the Minnesota line.

We followed the same road between Deadwood and Rapid City, with the exception that we turned out in one place, and went around by Fort Meade. Here we found a beautiful camping-place the first night near a little stream, and great overhanging rocks, and not far from Bear Butte. We reached Rapid late the next night, which was Saturday, and stopped at the old camp near the mill-race. Here we staid over Sunday, but Monday noon saw us under sail again. As we went through the town we stopped at the freighter's camp, and told 'Gene Brooks good-by, and then drove away across the wide rolling plain to the east.

'Gene had warned us that we had a lonesome road before us to Pierre, one hundred and seventy miles, nearly all of it across the reservation.

A STATION IN THE SIOUX COUNTRY.

"You'll follow the old freight trail all the way," he said, "but you may not see three teams the whole distance, because since the railroad got nearer it isn't used. You'll find an old stage station about every fifteen or seventeen miles, with probably one man in charge. You may see a horse-thief or two, or something of that sort. S'ciety ain't what it ought to be 'round a reservation gen'rally."

Just before the sun sank behind the mountains, which lay like low black clouds to the west, we came to a little ranch standing alone on the prairie. The door was open, and it seemed to be deserted, though there was a rude bed inside. There was a good well of water, and we decided to camp near it for the night, especially as the grass was good. There was no other house in sight. Bedtime arrived, and no one came to the ranch.

"I think I'll just sleep in that house to-night," said Jack, "and see how it seems. I'll leave the door open, so as not to have too much luxury at first."

I must have been asleep three or four hours, when I was awakened by the loud barking of a dog. I started up, and began to unfasten the front end of the cover. As I put my head out, Jack called, excitedly:

"Some men were trying to get the pony. They'd have done it, too, if Snoozer hadn't barked and scared them away."

I was out of the wagon by this time, and found the pony trembling at the end of her picket-line as near the wagon as she could get. Snoozer kept barking as if he couldn't stop.

"Did they shoot at you, Jack?" I asked.

"No, I guess not. I think they just blazed away for fun. They went off toward the reservation. Some of 'Gene's poor s'ciety, I suppose."

It took half an hour to get the frightened pony and indignant dog quieted; and perhaps it was longer than that before we again got to sleep.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

FAIR PLAY.

BY MARGARET E. SANGSTER.

There are two little words that are dear as his honor

To the every-day boy whom we meet at our school.

He may walk round the street with a chip on his shoulder,

But if you join battle, fair play is the rule.

All he asks of a comrade, a foe, or a neighbor,

This every-day fellow, whom you and I know.

Is that friendship be loyal, and battle be open,

And fair play be practised with friend or with foe.

And so be it comrade, or foe, or near neighbor

In the march or the fight, or the heat of the game,

Whatever the stress of the fun or the labor,

He calls for fair play, and he renders the same.

Only cowards and braggarts would seize an advantage

That was not allowed in the rules of the game.

Our boy is as brave as the knight in the tourney;

He asks but fair play, and he renders the same.

CAPTAIN JACK AND THE BLUE-FISH.

It was dreadfully hot on the sea-shore, and the boys couldn't find much fun in digging in the sand, so they sauntered slowly down the scorching beach to the old wreck, intending to sit upon its shady side and try to keep cool. It was deserted when they arrived, and they had a pretty good time by themselves for about an hour, when who should turn up but old Captain Jack, pulling away as usual upon his pipe! They could always tell without much trouble when the Captain was approaching, he used such very strong tobacco, and blew the smoke on ahead of him in great clouds, which announced his coming some fifteen or twenty seconds before he arrived.

"Hullo!" said he, as he sat down alongside of the boys. "You here? I sort of thought you'd be up at the hotel sitting in a bath-tub full of ice-water a sizzling day like this."

"It is pretty hot, isn't it?" said Tommie. "The thermometer's at eighty-nine up in the hotel office."

"I don't doubt it," said Captain Jack. "But that don't signify much. Everything's high at the hotel. They charged me a quarter for ten cents' worth o' smokin'-tobaccy last week—so I ain't surprised that the mercury's riz to pretty high heights there. What takes me all of a heap is the heat out there on the ocean. It's fearful. I 'ain't seen anything like it since '69, and even then it warn't half as hot."

The boys giggled, and Captain Jack went on. "I been out blue-fishin' all the morning, and I tell you if it's a-sizzlin' in here it's simply a-sozzlin' out there. The boat's all covered with blisters, and her name, where I painted it last week, has just regularly peeled right off; and worst of all, I've teetotally forgot what the name was, so I've got to christen her clean over again."

"She was called the Polly Ann, wasn't she?" asked Bob.

"That used to be her name," said the Captain; "but it hasn't been this summer. It was something like Amber-Jack or Sarah Toodles this year, and I can't remember which. Fact was, she leaked so last summer when she was known as the Polly Ann that people wouldn't hire her to go fishin' in; so, seeing as how I couldn't afford to buy a new boat, I gave her a new name, so's the fishin' folks wouldn't know she was the old Polly Ann; and now this here heat has gone and het her name right off, and I can't remember what it was. Kind of hard luck, I think."

"Very," said the boys. "But why don't you call her the Sarah Toodles anyhow?"

"I'm afeered to. The summer before last she had some such name as that, and she leaked then, bad as ever, and it may be some folks will remember it. I guess I'll call her Fido. Fido's as good a name for a boat as a dog, and it'll give funny fellers a chance to speak of my bark bein' on the seas, and say she's a regular old sea-dog."

"Good idea," said Bob. "Did you catch any fish this morning?"

"Yes," said the Captain, sadly, "but the heat ruined 'em all. It's a shame the way the Weather Bureau lets loose all these hot waves, ruinin' honest men's business—peelin' the names off their boats and spilin' their fish."

"How did it spoil the fish, Captain?" queried Tommie.

"Spoiled 'em for my trade," said the Captain, sadly. "I took two young fellers out to catch 'em. They were fellers that thought there was nothin' so good to eat in this world as broiled blue-fish, and I said I knew where we could catch some beauties, so we struck a bargain and went out. Inside of two hours we'd caught a dozen of the finest yo'd ever seen, and we turned about to come in. 'It's been awful hot,' says one of the fellers. 'Yes,' said the other; 'but we'll make up for our sufferin' in the heat when we have a couple o' those blue-fish broiled and sit down to eat 'em. It makes my mouth water,' says he. Then we came in and landed. We took the fish ashore, and then we found out what had happened."

The old man paused, and pulled mournfully away at his pipe for a full minute.

"Go on," said Bob, softly. "What had happened?"

"They was boiled when we caught 'em, the water was so hot," moaned the Captain. "And if there's anything spoils a blue-fish for broiling, it's to have 'em boiled first!"

"It was too bad," said Tommie. "And wouldn't they take 'em?"

"No," said the Captain; "and I couldn't blame 'em. They only wanted to keep me up to my bargain. I'd made it, and they meant I should stick to it; and havin' promised 'em broilers, they wasn't under any obligations to take boiled fish. The worst part of it is I've got 'em all on my hands, and instead o' havin' the cash to buy tenderloin steaks and pie and apple-sauce with, I'll have to eat boiled blue-fish instead for the next ten days; and boiled blue-fish gives me the most depressed feelin's you ever saw."

With which sorrowful statement the good old fellow rose up and walked away, leaving the boys not only sorry for him, but sorry for themselves as well; for when they realized how awfully hot it must be out upon the sea to boil the fish in the water itself, somehow or other it seemed to grow a great deal hotter there upon the beach.

FLAGS OF THE REVOLUTION.

BY WILLIAM HALE.

It is a fact not generally known that the stars and stripes is the oldest national emblem now in existence, and that the national flags of all other countries bear more recent dates of official adoption.

There has been a great deal of discussion concerning the origin of our flag. Although the thirteen stripes were in use before and during the early part of the Revolution, the first and only legislative action for the establishment of a national flag was in the shape of the following resolution, which was passed on Saturday, June 14, 1777:

"Resolved, That the flag of the thirteen United States be thirteen stripes, alternate red and white; that the union be thirteen stars, white in a blue field, representing a new constellation."

No record of the discussions that preceded the adoption of this flag has been kept, and although there have been many theories as to the origin of the device, none of them has been entirely satisfactory.

In the early years of the Revolution a number of emblems were in use, which became famous. The standard displayed on the south-east bastion of Fort Sullivan (or Moultrie, as it was afterward named) on the 28th of June, 1776, by Colonel Moultrie, was a blue flag with a white crescent in the upper left-hand corner, and the word "Liberty" in white letters emblazoned upon it. This was the flare that fell outside the fort and was secured by Sergeant Jasper, who leaped the parapet, walked the whole length of the fort, seized the flag, fastened it to a sponge-staff, and in sight of the whole British fleet, and in the midst of a perfect hail of bullets, planted it firmly upon the bastion. The next day Governor Rutledge visited the fort, and rewarded Jasper by giving him his own sword. He offered him also a lieutenant's commission; but Jasper, who could neither read nor write, modestly declined it.

The pine-tree flag, which was a favorite device with the officers of American privateers, had a white field with a green pine-tree in the middle, and the motto, "An Appeal to Heaven." This flag was officially endorsed by the Massachusetts Council, which in April, 1776, passed a series of resolutions providing for the regulation of the sea service, among which was the following:

"Resolved, That the uniform of the officers be green and white, and that they furnish themselves accordingly, and that the colors be a white flag with a green pine-tree and the inscription 'An Appeal to Heaven.'"

The device of a rattlesnake was popular among the colonists, and its origin as an American emblem is a curious feature in our national history. It has been stated that its use grew out of a humorous suggestion made by a writer in Franklin's paper, the Pennsylvania Gazette—that, in return for the wrongs which England was forcing upon the colonists, a cargo of rattlesnakes should be sent to the mother-country and "distributed in St. James's Park, Spring Garden, and other places of pleasure."

Colonel Gadsden, one of the Marine Committee, presented to Congress, on the 8th of February, 1776, "an elegant standard, such as is to be used by the commander-in-chief of the American navy; being a yellow flag with a representation of a rattlesnake in the middle in the attitude of going to strike." Another was a white flag with a pine-tree in the centre under which was a snake. Above was "An Appeal to God," and below "Don't Tread on Me!" The Culpepper Minute-Men adopted a similar device, with the name of their company and the motto "Liberty or Death." Another use of the rattlesnake was upon a ground of thirteen horizontal alternate red and white stripes, the snake extending diagonally across the stripes, and the lower white stripe bearing the motto "Don't tread on me." The snake was always represented as having thirteen rattles—and the number thirteen seems constantly to have been kept in mind: thus, thirteen vessels are ordered to be built; thirteen stripes are placed upon the flag; in one design thirteen arrows are grasped in a mailed hand; and in a later one thirteen arrows are in the talons of an eagle.

The red stripes seemed for a time to be used as often on a blue ground as on a white. A water-color drawing found among the papers of Major-General Philip Schuyler represents the Royal Savage, one of the little fleet on Lake Champlain in the summer and winter of 1776, commanded by Benedict Arnold, as flying a flag which Bancroft, in his History of the United States, describes as "the tricolored American banner not yet spangled with stars, but showing thirteen stripes, alternate red and white, in the field, and the united crosses of St. George and St. Andrew on a blue ground in the corner."

One of the most interesting flags of the Revolution is the banner or flag of Count Pulaski, presented to him by the Moravian Sisters of Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. Count Pulaski, a Polish volunteer, who had been appointed a brigadier in the Continental army just after the battle of Brandywine and placed in command of the cavalry, had resigned his commission, and had received the consent of Congress to raise and command an independent corps of 68 horse and 200 foot, which was chiefly raised and fully organized in Baltimore in 1778. He visited Lafayette while wounded, and was taken care of by the Moravian Sisters, who gave him a crimson silk banner with designs beautifully wrought with the needle by their own hands. Pulaski bore this flag through many a battle, until he fell at Savannah in 1779. It is now in the possession of the Maryland Historical Society.

The flag of Washington's Lifeguard, which is preserved in the museum of Alexandria, Virginia, is of white silk, on which the device is neatly painted. One of the guard is holding a horse, and in the act of receiving a flag from the Genius of Liberty, represented as a woman leaning on the Union shield, near which is an American eagle. The motto of the corps, "Conquer or Die," is on a ribbon over the device. The flag flown by our victorious frigates during the war of 1812 bore fifteen stripes and fifteen stars. Afterwards it was settled that the number of stripes should be the original thirteen; and now the field bears forty-five stars, to which others will be added as new States are admitted.

The Oak Park High-School, of the Cook County League, starts out this season with more men qualified for positions on the football team than any of its rivals, having twenty-seven available players. Evanston has the smallest available amount of material, with but fifteen men. Lake View has twenty-four, Chicago Manual twenty-three, North Division twenty-one, West Division eighteen, and Hyde Park and Englewood seventeen each. These numbers show a considerable increase of candidates over previous years.

There is a very general opinion among those who have been watching the form of the Englewood H.-S. team that they have the pennant won already; and they are beyond doubt very strong. Nevertheless, they cannot hope to overcome some of their hard-working rivals without a continuation of the steady work which has characterized their early practice. In Teetzel they have a strong and sure ground-gainer. He is a fast runner, and knows the game thoroughly. Henry is also certain to make his distance with the ball, although he has been unable to practise the past few days on account of injuries received in the Chicago University match. Talcott, captain and quarter-back, is a quick player, and is the best man on the eleven for heading interference. Fowler at centre is handicapped slightly by his stature, but he is of good strength, learns quickly, and has had experience in playing his position on last year's team.

At right guard Doud is doing steady work. He played on the Chicago Manual team last year. On the other side of centre there is another veteran—Lespinasse. He is a stockily built player, and helps to make the centre a formidable thing to attack. Schoellenberger at right end has been doing excellent work in breaking up interference; and besides this he is a sure tackler and a fast runner, both excellent qualities for an end rusher. Wadsworth is doing fairly well at full-back, having gone back from end, where he played last year. His previous experience in the line makes him a good running back, but as a punter he is not yet up to the mark.

HYDE PARK HIGH-SCHOOL FOOTBALL TEAM.

Cook County Interscholastic League.

The Hyde Park H.-S. Eleven averages heavier than last year's team—130 pounds. Only four of last year's players are back again. The team this fall is not so snappy and quick as the Hyde Park elevens usually have been, but it is very probable that this quality will develop by the time the important games come about. It is improbable, however, that Hyde Park will have as strong an eleven as that which represented the school last year. Captain Linden, who plays left end, is a quick, hard runner, and is thoroughly familiar with the game. Knickerbocker and Miller, right and left tackles, are the heaviest men; of the two, Miller is the better man, being a good tackler. Knickerbocker is somewhat slow in getting down the field. Nash and Crane are pretty light for guards; but Nash has been playing a hard game, and has been doing notably good work in running with the ball. Crane is a new man, but is developing steadily. Mackay, at centre, was considered last year the best man for his position in the Cook County League, and is still maintaining his reputation. Hennessy, at right end, to be valuable should make better use of his head and follow the ball more closely; he is energetic and a hard worker. Of the candidates for right half-back, Higley is the best of the three, being a surer tackler than either Wilson or Pingree. Minnemyer and Welch are trying for left half, the former being the best tackler, the latter the fastest runner. Trude, at full-back, is as fast a runner as there is on the team, and is punting very well this year.

SHADY-SIDE ACADEMY FOOTBALL PLAYERS, PITTSBURG.

HUMBIRD, Left end.

SCHILDECKER, Captain and right tackle.

HAWKINS, Left guard.

In the first practice game, two weeks ago, the Shady-Side Academy eleven of Pittsburg played a fast and snappy game, but a few days later the team showed up very poorly, and the work was exceedingly slow. Arundell's work at full-back is not entirely satisfactory; he is not improving in punting, and his general play is poor. In consequence it is probable that McConnell, who was at Cheltenham last year, will play that position. Dravo, at half-back, is a new man, but has been doing unexpectedly good work. He uses his head and does not fumble the ball. T. McConnell, at quarter, is one of the most promising players on the team; he keeps cool, tackles hard, and gets into the interference well.

It is doubtful at present whether Jennings will play centre or guard; if he goes in at guard, Aley will hold down centre. Hawkins and Brainard are the most promising candidates for the other guard's position. The principal thing in Hawkins's favor is that he is a steady man and maintains a good average style. Captain Schildecker is improving rapidly in his position at right tackle, but the same spot on the other side of the line is not so well taken care of by Flinn. The ends are Kirke and Humbird; the former is putting up a hard, fast game, tackles hard, and gets into the interference well; the latter is a new man, but promises to develop well, especially in tackling.

The Kiskiminetas team of the same League will average about 150 pounds this year. McKelvey at full-back is punting well, and has developed into a strong line-backer. Carrol at left half-back is a good ground-gainer, and maintains a steady average of play. Captain Aiken is playing quarter; his strongest point is tackling, and he is thoroughly familiar with the fine points of the sport, and makes a good commander. Herron and Woodbridge, the ends, run and tackle well, and although they are not brilliant players, they are careful and steady in their work. There is room for improvement in Kelso at right tackle and Fisher at centre. Henry and Shaw, the guards, are heavy men, and interfere well, so likewise does Montgomery at right tackle. Although the eleven is not so heavy this year as the team which Kiskiminetas put into the field last season, it is playing a faster and snappier game.

It does not look very much at present as if the Hartford High-School would come out with any very great honors at the close of the football season. At the present date of writing Hartford has not only lost every game played, but her men have not yet succeeded in scoring a single touch-down. This is a very sad state of affairs for such a reliable old-timer as Hartford. H.P.H.-S. lost the Meriden game, 16-0. The play on that occasion was exceedingly ragged, the interference was loose; in centre plays not more than half the men seemed to get into the game; on the defence the ends could not get at their men at all, and on the whole it was a pretty sorry exhibition of football.

Meriden, on the other hand, played a steady game, and although their performance was not brilliant, it was of the kind that insures victory. The best individual work was done by Lane and Hubbard for Meriden, whereas for Hartford Captain Sturtevant was about the only man who deserves mention. In the game against the Yale Freshmen Hartford played a little better, but they were up against heavier men, and were unable to make any points. In the New Britain game Hartford's play was again ragged, there being not even an attempt at team-work, whereas the New Britain players were especially strong in this feature.

As to individual play, McDonald, Brinley, and Meehan of New Britain were the most conspicuous. Of the Hartford players, Sturtevant, Strong, Allen, and Gillette surpassed in individual work the best performances of their opponents, but this was of little avail where team-work lacked. It seems now very probable that New Britain will win the Connecticut championship this year. The team has already defeated Bridgeport, 14-0, Waterbury having defeated Hillhouse, 4-0, on the same day.

There seems to be more activity in football in the South this year than ever before, and it is probable that a number of interscholastic leagues will be organized. At Richmond, Virginia, the High-School is turning out a pretty good team, which promises to be better in every respect than that of 1895. If a league is formed it will probably include the High-Schools of Norfolk, Portsmouth, Fredericksburg, Suffolk, Danville, Petersburg, and Richmond.

In Washington the Central High-School seems to have the heaviest eleven this year, although all three high-school teams are light. The season is not far enough advanced yet for any detailed criticism of the work done to be justly made, but it is probable that within a few weeks the raw material will have been coached and moulded into fair condition.

It is gratifying to note, in connection with the comments concerning the Milwaukee High-Schools last week, and the rather questionable spirit of sportsmanship which was growing there, that the East Side High-School has taken steps for the purification of athletics that ought to bring up all questionable practices with a sharp turn.

A code of regulations has been adopted by the faculties of the three leading High-Schools of Milwaukee, and although it seems perhaps a little startling to us here in the East to find in it such a paragraph as "No person shall enter a contest under an assumed name," still there may have been very good cause for this sort of severity. One thing about the regulations is certain: If they are lived up to, Milwaukee High-School sports will be of the cleanest, and of a very high grade besides.

Not only must any person who wishes to represent a school in any athletic contest of the Milwaukee High-School League be a bona fide student in regular attendance at his school, but he must obtain a scholastic standing of at least seventy per cent. He must also have obtained seventy per cent. in two full studies during the previous term, or must have obtained credits in three full studies during his last term of attendance. But, of course, pupils who are enrolled for the first time will not be excluded from athletics for lack of percentages and credits which naturally they cannot have, not having been members of the school during the previous term. A further provision allows a student of the Senior class, who is considered by the faculty as a regular candidate for graduation, to participate in any contest even if he has taken less than three full studies at the school, provided, however, he has completed extra work which shall entitle him to a credit in each of the three full studies of the regular curriculum of Senior year.

The rules even go so far as to include managers of teams within these restrictions; so that thus any student who is connected with an athletic team, either in an active or an executive capacity, must have a high standing in his classes and be altogether a reputable person. There are thirteen paragraphs in all to the new code, but those which are not included in the foregoing digest are such as we find in almost all interscholastic leagues, with variations—making provisions for arbitration committees, and filing the names of players a certain given period before contests.

The schedule of the Long Island Football Association has been made out, and the championship games will begin to-morrow, continuing as follows:

Oct. 21.—

Brooklyn Latin School vs. St. Paul's School, at Garden City.

Oct. 24.—

Brooklyn High-School vs. Pratt Institute, at Brooklyn.

Oct. 31.—

Poly. Prep. vs. St. Paul's School, at Garden City;

Brooklyn Latin School vs. Brooklyn High-School, at Brooklyn.

Nov. 7.—

Brooklyn Latin School vs. Pratt Institute, at Brooklyn.

Nov. 11.—

Brooklyn High School vs. St. Paul's School, at Eastern Park.

Nov. 14.—

Poly. Prep. vs. Pratt Institute, at Brooklyn.

Nov. 21.—

Pratt Institute vs. St. Paul's School, at Garden City;

Poly. Prep. vs. Brooklyn Latin School, at Brooklyn.

Nov. 26.—

Brooklyn High-School vs. Poly. Prep., at Eastern Park.

If we may judge from the character of the teams in the Long Island League the championship games this year ought to make pretty fair exhibitions of football playing. St. Paul's, Garden City, is going in even harder than customarily, and will have as strong a team as has ever worn the school colors. It will undoubtedly be the strongest eleven of the Long Island League, and will take the championship there, but St. Paul's chief ambition will be to defeat Lawrenceville, and even Andover, if a game can be arranged with the latter.

The make-up of the team, is about the same as it was last year, except, perhaps, that it is heavier. The rush-line is unusually heavy for a school team and the backs, excepting quarter, are also of good weight. Most of the men are veterans, only two being new to the team. These are Kinney, at right guard, and Blount, at quarter-back. This is Kinney's first year at football, but he is developing well, and has great strength, having cultivated this at shot-putting. He weighs 190 pounds. Blount, the other new man, is a Southerner who has never had much experience at football, but he is showing unusual ability for the game, and is rapidly improving under the coaching system prevalent at Garden City.

As full-back Captain Sidney Starr is doing good work, and is running the eleven in proper style. Starr is one of the most prominent of St. Paul's athletes, having played on the school teams ever since he entered school. He weighs 175 pounds, and besides being an excellent punter, he makes a good running full-back. Last year Starr played at quarter a good part of the time, alternating with Gardiner at full-back; but this year he has preferred to let Blount try for quarter, there being no first-class man among his candidates for the position he has taken himself.

The half-backs are Weller and Goldsborough. The latter is an old-time St. Paul's man, having played on the nine and eleven for several years. He weighs 158 pounds, and is a hard runner, usually sure to gain his distance. Weller, the left half-back, played end on the team last year, and showed such good qualities as a line-backer that he was put back of the line this season. He is a good tackler, too, and he is five pounds heavier than his mate. The line is well protected by two good ends. Lorraine has played two years on the team, and is a sharp tackler, with a great capacity for breaking through the opponents' interference. Lorraine is one of those players, however, who does not keep up to his best work steadily, but is liable to have "on" and "off" days. This is a misfortune which may possibly be overcome by coaching. A team made up of players who have "on" and "off" days will be defeated nine times out of ten by an inferior team of steady players.

At the other end of the line, White is a more steady player and an exceedingly active rusher. Symonds and Brown are the tackles; they weigh 170 and 192 pounds respectively. Brown is a shot-putter and hammer-thrower, and has great strength, which he uses to good effect when his team is on the defensive. The centre is Cluett, who played last year, and is doing good work at present. He is well guarded by Kinney and Everett Starr. The latter has played three years on the team, and knows the position thoroughly.

With so many veterans on the St. Paul's team, more time will be devoted by the coaches to a cultivation of team-work than could otherwise be possible; and so it is probable that when St. Paul's meets Berkeley in their last game a few weeks hence we shall see an interesting exhibition of scholastic football.

"TRACK ATHLETICS IN DETAIL."—ILLUSTRATED.—8VO, CLOTH, ORNAMENTAL, $1.25.

THE GRADUATE.

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

On October 3 the subscribers to the Philatelic club-house met in the building which had been leased by the committee, and organized under the title of "The Collectors' Club," adopted a constitution and by-laws, elected governors, and arranged for incorporation. The board of governors consists of William Herrick, president; Charles Gregory, vice-president; J. W. Scott, treasurer; J. M. Andreini, secretary; and Messrs. J. N. Luff, H. L. Calman, F. E. P. Lynde, H. E. Deats, and F. A. Nast. The club-house is No. 351 Fourth Avenue, near Twenty-fifth Street, and contains an auction-room, billiard-room, meeting-rooms for the different societies, bedrooms, and janitor's rooms.

The second instalment of new prices for the U.S. stamps has been issued. The Department stamps have been materially advanced. Newspaper stamps and Postage Due stamps have not been changed radically. The U.S. used stamps of all kinds have not increased in value compared with unused copies.

The London "Philatelist," in an article on the stamps of Cape of Good Hope Colony, states that the rare wood blocks were issued in April, 1861, and that no copies were in the main post-office of the colony in September, 1861. But in 1878 the postmaster of Graaf Reinet found a complete sheet of both the one penny and four pence in stock, and sold most of them in the ordinary course of business.

Had these two sheets been preserved until to-day, probably $20,000 would hardly buy them.

E. PERCY.—As you are a new beginner, I would advise you not to pay any attention to water-marks, perforations, shades, papers, etc. You will find enough to study in the stamps themselves independently of these points. After you have a fair collection you can then begin the study of these minor points, but to collect such stamps means the spending of large amounts of money. All the dealers now recognize the fact that these minor varieties, while interesting to the advanced collector with a large bank account, are of no interest to the average collector through his inability to buy or even to ever see these scarce stamps. Hence the new albums and new catalogues for ordinary collecting will embrace only the regular stamps in their ordinary forms.

N. P. P.—The U.S. carrier's stamp, black on yellow (a double circle), issued in 1849, if a good copy on original letter, is worth $8 to $10. Cape of Good Hope Revenues are not collected in the U.S.

G. BEARDSLEY.—Continental money is worth very little. In the beginning of this century some people papered their rooms with it, and one man covered a whole barn with the so-called money. You can buy good copies of the dealers for 5c. or 10c. each.

GEORGE NEWHAM.—Stamps of "Tromsöe," "Stadspost," etc., are locals of no value to collectors. To distinguish faint water-marks, dip the stamp in benzine and place it face downward on a piece of japanned iron. The benzine will not hurt the gum.

G. L. LINDSLEY.—The 5c. nickel without the word "cents" has no premium value. Dealers sell it at 10c.

L. YUNGST.—The Spanish dollar, 1788, is no longer current. It is worth so much bullion only.

N. J.—Your English gold coin has no premium value. It is worth its full coinage value.

E. P. TRIPP.—"Ultramar" stamps are from Cuba. The Porto Rico stamps of 1873-1876, with paraph also have "Ultramar" at the top. On H.M.S. means On Her Majesty's Service. Gold quarters were never coined by the U.S. government. Those now in circulation were made chiefly by jewellers, and, as a rule, they do not contain more than 10c. worth of gold; the remainder is base alloy. Cut post-cards are valueless.

J. LOWELL.—Do not remove gum from unused U.S. stamps. It would lessen the value of the stamps from ten to fifty per cent.

A. DE GRAM.—I cannot identify your stamps by your description.

R. PARLS, P.O. Box 36, Ridley Park, Pa., wishes to exchange stamp.

W. MORROW.—Your stamp is U.S. Revenue 25c. Insurance; worth 10c.

E. C. CROSSETT.—There is no premium on the new silver certificates, as they have not been recalled.

HIG.—See HARPER'S ROUND TABLE for October 6 for old and new prices of unused U.S. stamps. Used copies remain about the same, except Columbian, which have been reduced. The 1861 5c., used, is worth 35c.; the 24c., 25c.; the 1869 1c., 40c.; the others mentioned by you are less than 10c. each.

GEORGE S. LORD, 815 High Street, Bath, Me., wishes to exchange stamps. Inverted medallions occur in stamps printed in two colors. Sometimes the sheet was turned, and one color design was printed upside down.

CARL HATHAWAY.—The handy-book is now out of print. You can buy a catalogue of stamps from New York dealers at 10c.

H. MCLOUGHLIN.—The 1824 half-dollar is very common.

G. HULL.—I do not understand your question. The Mexican silver dollar contains more silver than the U.S. dollar. If you want to sell Mexican dollars, you can get about 45c. or 50c. each. If you want to buy, they will cost you 55c. each.

J. CABELL.—Your "Sydney View" is a poor copy. While fine copies, used and unused, are much higher than two or three years ago, poor copies are only worth half as much as was asked for the same stamps two years ago. When collectors pay $50, $100, or more for a stamp, they want fine copies. Such persons will not touch a poor copy at any price. By fine copies is meant those with a good margin, clean print, no tear or skinned back, and, if perforated, that it be evenly centred, and, if unused, that it have the original gum. Stamps lacking one or two perforations, or not coming up to the above standard, are worth from twenty-five per cent. to seventy-five per cent. less.

PHILATUS.

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

A woman on a bicycle, whatever the laws may be, always has the right of way. If you meet her in a small side-path in the country, the path belongs to her. It is your duty to turn out. If this path happens to be on your side of the road—that, is, if the woman is approaching on the left side of the road, facing the direction in which she is moving—it is just as much your duty to turn out.

If in the country you come upon a woman who has in any way broken her bicycle or punctured a tire, it is perfectly proper, and a gentleman's duty, to offer to help her. It would be distinctly impolite to offer similar help in a city. The city is full of repair shops, there are cabs at any corner, and a woman can easily help herself there. In the country the case is very different. In fact, the rules of etiquette between men and women on bicycles are precisely the same as they are between men and women in carriages or in any other ordinary circumstances.

The question of costume is an important one also. Every bicyclist, especially men, should remember that, starting with a perfectly clean suit of clothing, after an hour's ride, no matter how expensive and perfect the costume may have been at the start, he is in no condition to go among other people to any extent. A bicyclist, therefore, should never attempt, especially in the city, to go into the main dining-room of a hotel in bicycle costume. An ordinary bicycle or golf suit—that is, a suit precisely like an ordinary business suit except for knickers and long stockings—may be suitable enough before one goes out bicycling for the day, but even at its best a sweater has no place in the parlor or the dining-room. Except at a regular bicycle resort, a small country inn where there are few people, or some athletic club, the bicyclist should change his costume before dining, or, in fact, entering the parlor or dining-room of any public-house.

Most of the railroads in the United States now have certain regulations regarding the carrying of bicycles. Where a certain fee is charged the bicyclist has nothing to do except to hand his wheel in to the baggage-master on the train, and to take it again when the train stops at the station where he wishes to leave it. Where no charge is made by the railroad, it is only fair and right to give the baggage-master ten cents or so for his trouble, and to be of whatever assistance to him that you can in handing in the bicycle and taking it from him. This of course applies to bicycles that are not crated.

When a machine is crated it comes under the rules of ordinary parcels, and requires no more attention than any other parcel. The average wheelman who has been riding some distance on his wheel belongs in the smoking-car. When men and women riding together enter a train they of course go into the regular cars, but they should carry themselves as they would if they were travelling like other passengers—and, strange as it may seem, that is not always the case.

A History and an Inspiration.

Here is the story of a Round Table Chapter that served well the reason for its existence. It is now "a thing of the past," as the secretary records, but it is past only in the fact that it no longer meets. Its memories and its benefits live after it, and will long continue to do so.

DEAR FRIENDS,—Of course the Knights and Ladies of our Order are interested in the various Chapters which have been formed, and the items of news from them are often very good morsels. The Lancelot Chapter, of Newtonville, Mass., No. 572, has never had very much to say to the public, but in a quiet way it has prospered. But now the Lancelot Chapter is a thing of the past. It was composed of nine girls, who for several years were to be separated. Most of them had just graduated from high-school and were going to begin a life-work, and for various reasons it seemed advisable to dissolve our Chapter.

But on such a sad occasion we did our best to enjoy ourselves and make our last meeting a memorable one. Perhaps the account of our meeting may suggest a pleasant evening for the other Chapters. Each member was given a part, and we allowed plenty of time for preparation. The Chapter invited all of its former members, and also its honorary members, and one evening in July we assembled at our secretary's home. The first thing on the programme was a welcome from one of the girls, our treasurer. Our president read the club prophecy, our secretary read the club history, and the club statistics, poem, and oration were given by three other girls. Our musical member took charge of the music, which was introduced between the papers. The club song, in which we all joined, was written by our president, and sung to the tune of "Auld Lang Syne."

Refreshments, consisting of ice-cream, and cake, made by the girls, were served in the dining-room. Our editor was toast-mistress, and she called upon each member to respond to a toast. We drank to the Round Table, to Good Will Farm, to the Lancelot Chapter, its officers and honorary members, and to our guests. The meeting was considered a grand success. The papers read were original and full of wit and humor. The cake and cream were delicious, and the Lancelot Chapter passed out of existence amid the roar of the elements, for a thunder-storm raged out-doors, and amid the laughter and jollity which prevailed in-doors.

The Chapter is dissolved, but the friendships fostered and cherished in its circle will never dissolve. The girls have learned to know each other better, and have become broader by contact. One and all we say we are glad we have been a club. Now, though we are separated, we still try to live up to our motto:

"Do all the good you can; by all the means you can; in all the ways you can; in all the places you can; at all the times you can; to all the people you can; just as long as you can."—JOHN WESLEY.

Wishing success to all our friends in other Chapters, we sign ourselves for the last time,

THE LANCELOT CHAPTER, K.L.O.R.T.

MARION DREW BASSETT, Secretary, R.T.F.

NEWTONVILLE, MASS.

Santa Catalina Island.

Santa Catalina, more commonly called "Catalina," lies twenty-five miles off the coast of southern California. It is twenty miles long, and between two and three miles wide. It was first inhabited by Indians, of whom many relics and skulls and bones have been found. The principal town, called Avalon, is situated near the southern part of the island in a little cove about a mile wide. The water is so clear that you can see the rocks and fish one hundred feet below the surface—the rocks with their green moss waving to and fro with the tide, while gold and other fish swim lazily about. There is a marble called Catalina which is of grayish color, and is used in building some of our finest business blocks in Los Angeles. This marble is more or less transparent, and is said to be the only kind of hard stone with that peculiarity. Two years ago Catalina was hardly heard of, but now there often are, in summer, five thousand people there.

A. LAZARUS, R.T.K.

LOS ANGELES.

A Young Naturalist's Outing.

Last summer I spent my vacation in Noank, Conn. My chief amusement was fishing. Noank is a fishing-village, and there are many large lobster-cars about. Every day the dead lobsters in the cars were taken out and thrown overboard, forming a great attraction to multitudes of eels. Almost every night some of the boys went eeling off the cars, and came home with a bucket half full of the wriggling things. Every time I came to the house with some eels the boarders would declare, after a glance into my bucket, that they would never eat another eel as long as they lived.

While at Groton, Conn., a gentleman said he'd never eat eel. One morning the landlord asked him if he would have some blue-fish. The gentleman said he would, and found the fish so good that he asked for a second plate. Suddenly the landlord exclaimed, "Sakes alive, man, I have given you eel instead of blue-fish!" The table shouted with laughter, and the gentleman did not appear again until supper-time. The worst of eeling is that eels tangle your line, and when you pick up the eel to get the line off him you have the pleasure of seeing him slip through your fingers. The Noank boys have a way of holding eels by simply pinching them behind the eyes with the thumb and first finger. By taking a boat and anchoring about five hundred feet from the shore I caught flounders, sea-bass, porgies, and now and then an eel. Flounders are hard to catch, because of a bone in their mouth which prevents the hook from getting a good grip. When I did not feel like fishing from a boat I gathered a pocketful of periwinkles, and procuring a small stone to crack them with, went fishing for cunners off some wharf. The cunner is a fish about the size, shape, and color of a perch.

ALBERT W. ATWATER.

SPRINGFIELD, MASS.

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

PREPARING FOR CHRISTMAS.

The amateur photographer, if he has improved the shining hours of summer by gathering some good negatives, has on hand the material for very acceptable Christmas gifts, and now is the time to set about preparing them.

No amateur has probably been so fortunate as to secure a satisfactory picture with every plate used. The prodigal throws these spoiled plates in the ash-barrel, but the wise amateur uses them for many things. One way is to use them for mounting prints. Carefully mounted and finished, they are very pretty and make handsome ornaments, and for simple gifts are far more satisfactory than the usual Christmas-cards, which eventually find their way into the scrap-basket. Then, too, another thing which commends them to a young person who must make a little money go a long way is that they are very much cheaper.

Soak the spoiled plate in hot water till all the film has been removed, then wash it in hot suds, dry, and polish it with French chalk and a piece of soft chamois. Select the prints to be mounted, choosing those which will have some special attraction to the one for whom you intend the gift. Soak the prints for a few minutes in a weak solution of glycerine, using ¼ oz. of glycerine to 16 oz. of water. Lay them face up on a piece of glass, and let the water drain off, but do not blot them. Have your glass ready, place the print face down on it, and covering it with a piece of blotting-paper, squeegee it to the glass, using the rubber roller made for this purpose. The picture must adhere to the glass at every point; for if it does not, the air-blisters will show and disfigure the picture. By examining the face of the print from the glass side it can easily be seen whether the optical contact is perfect, and if not, rub it until it is.

Cut a piece of stout Manila-paper half an inch larger all round than the glass. Lay the glass in the centre of the paper, and cut a small square from each corner of the paper. Remove the picture, cover the paper with paste, and paste it on the back of the picture, turning over the edges on to the face of the glass, the squares cut from the corners allowing it to lie smoothly.

If you wish to finish the picture to stand on a desk or table, bind the edges of the glass with a piece of ribbon, or colored or gilt paper; or if you wish to have it more decorative, get a narrow open-work brass strip and bend it round the edges. To make the support, take heavy card-board and mark on it two lines about an inch apart and at equal distances from each edge. Cut through the card-board on these lines, and then cut half-way through the card-board across from one line to the other. Bend the strip back a little way, and paste a strip of stout cloth over the place where the board is cut part way through, fitting it into the cut. This makes a stout hinge, and will not easily break or bend out of shape. Paste this support, which should be the size of the glass, on the back of the picture, using a thick paste, or, what is still better, fish glue.

Pictures may be mounted by optical contact, and framed in silk or linen in the card-board screen frames, using one or two leaves. They may also be finished to hang on the wall by attaching a brass ring by a piece of tape to the back of the picture.

A number of pictures which make a series may be mounted on spoiled plates, then set in a frame, using narrow strips of beading to divide the pictures and cover the edges of the glasses.

The directions here given will suggest to our amateurs many ways of using spoiled plates for picture mounts.

Another use for spoiled plates may be found in No. 857 (March 31, 1896).

S. B. C. wishes to know some place in Brooklyn or New York where the "Quad" camera may be purchased; and how much it costs to develop, print, and mount each picture. E. T. Anthony & Co., and Scovill Adams Co., carry many makes of cameras, and S. B. C. will probably find the Quad for sale at one of these places. To finish a picture from the developing and mounting, not including the price of the plate, will cost, for a picture the size of the Quad, 3½ by 4½, about three cents. When prints are made in large quantities, the cost is less in proportion than when only a few are made. Four by five blue-print paper costs ten cents per dozen, and there is no toning necessary; so if one made blue prints, and used the cheap cards for mounting, the prints would cost but fifteen cents per dozen.

SIR KNIGHT FRANK F. SMITH sends a print from a negative which shows a white line looking something like a piece of string with a knot or loop in it, and asks the opinion of the editor as to what it is. He says it was caused in the following manner: He loaded a Bull's-Eye camera, and left the shutter open, walked about seven squares with the camera in this condition, then closed the shutter, and rolled the film up without attempting to take a picture on it. The editor would be quite at a loss as to the cause if she had not had a similar experience. Wishing to make a picture showing moonlight effect—the subject being two young ladies standing at the edge of a small lake just as the sun was setting—the camera was pointed directly toward the sun, which was not obscured by clouds, the lens shielded so that the sun would not strike the plate, and an exposure made. When the plate was developed there was no picture on it, but a white line which looked like a bunch of tangled string, the ends of the line passing off the same side of the plate as in the print sent by Sir Frank. The only way in which this phenomena could be accounted for was that a ray of light must have struck the plate, and, instead of fogging it, left its likeness, after the manner of a flash of lightning. Have any of our members had a similar experience?

SIR KNIGHT CHARLES LUSENKAMP, Grand Rapids, Mich., asks how to mount prints without destroying the gloss made by the ferrotype plate; how long a plate of medium sensitometer should be printed for a lantern-slide, and what developing agent should be used for developing it; where glycin can be purchased, and where 2 by 2½ plates can be bought; which chemical the editor prefers for developing—pyro, eikonogen, metol, amidol, hydrochinon, or glycin. To preserve the gloss given by the ferrotype plate, trim the prints ready for mounting, before toning. Squeegee to the ferrotype plate, and, when dry, paste the back of the print before removing it from the plate, and mount directly on the card. By this method the print does not become moistened, and retains most of the gloss. The plate should be printed from three to ten seconds, according to the density of the negative from which the slide is made. A very dense negative takes several seconds longer. Hydrochinon and eikonogen mixed make an excellent developer for lantern-slides. The hydrochinon gives density and the eikonogen detail. See No. 852, February 25, for a good formula for a developer. Order glycin through one of the photographic supply houses in your own city. If they do not have it in stock, they will get it for you. The plate the size you mention is not made, but you can get films in small sizes. The editor likes eikonogen and hydrochinon mixed, and also metol for developing. See No. 825 for a toning solution. Sir Charles sends a formula for a developer made with eikonogen and hydrochinon, which he says is fine. No. 1. Water, 64 oz.; sulphite of sodium crystals, 2½ oz.; eikonogen, 1 oz.; hydrochinon, 1/8 oz. No. 2. Water, 64 oz.; carbonate of potassium, 2½ oz. To use, take of No. 1, 2 oz., and of No. 2, 1 oz. Sir Charles asks for correspondents interested in photography. Will Sir Charles send his street and number?

CALVIN FARRAR, 35 Greenwood Avenue, Cleveland, O.; JAMES MAYNARD, JUN., Box 282, Knoxville, Tenn.; FOSTER HARTWELL, 629 Third Avenue, Lansingburg, N. Y.; JOHN MILLS, 308 Ogden Avenue, Milwaukee, Wis.; MINNIE G. FARWELL, 55 Oak Street, Hyde Park, N. Y.; CHARLES LUSENKAMP, Grand Rapids, Mich., wish to be enrolled as members of the Camera Club.

A POUND OF FACTS

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P. S. Chapman, Box 151, Bridgeport, Ct.

An Illustration from "The Martian," by George du Maurier.

GEORGE DU MAURIER.

GEORGE DU MAURIER.

All the readers of the ROUND TABLE have heard in some way or other of Mr. George du Maurier, the author of Trilby. His death a few days ago, at his home in London, closes the life of a man whose career is most interesting and suggestive to the average boy of ambition.

Mr. Du Maurier was born March 6, 1834. For many years after he had taken up the work of illustrating for Punch, the leading comic paper of England, he was known as the greatest living humorist and society artist. The work was difficult, and his drawings, although a large number were required in a year by the paper, did not give him a very competent livelihood. In 1888 he had, at the age of fifty-four made what would commonly be called an extraordinary name for himself. He was known in every family in the British Isles, and English-reading people all over the world knew of his work. Such fame acquired in this well-earned way would be quite enough for any one to have for an ambition, and yet had Mr. Du Maurier never made a drawing up to the time he was fifty-four years old the literary work he has done since then—that is, Peter Ibbetson, written in 1888; Trilby, written in 1893; and The Martian, just beginning in HARPER'S MAGAZINE—would have made him a man with a name which is not only known all over the world where people read, but has placed him among the literary men of England—a name so much more famous and widespread than that of the illustrator that there will come a time when people will read his books and never know that he illustrated anything but his own works.

It is very often said to be the case that if a man is ever to make a name for himself he must show very definite signs of it before he is thirty, and that if he has not accomplished great things before he is forty he never will. Mr. Du Maurier's life is an absolute contradiction to this statement or rule, for the work for which he will really remain famous for a long time to come was not begun until eight years before his death, and he died at the age of sixty-two.

The point of great importance, however, is that, although after Trilby had appeared Du Maurier became immediately famous, he did not become suddenly possessed of great ability. He has said himself that these three books are not the only, nor by any means the most difficult, literary works he ever did, for for forty years, week by week, he had to work over the little two-line legends under his illustrations in Punch. He used to say that the work required to tell the story by one illustration and fifteen or twenty words required more literary ability in the choosing of the fifteen or twenty words than in the writing of a fifteen or twenty thousand word story. He was constantly having practice, therefore, in telling a great deal in a few well-chosen words. Besides this studying human beings as he did, and making drawings of their peculiarities and strengths and weaknesses year after year, he was all the time learning to know human nature, and laying up a store of material for the characters of his three books.

So that, after all, Mr. Du Maurier was, so to speak, studying for over fifty years to learn how to write and illustrate three books at the very end of his life, which were so well done that they have given him a greater name than most men get in a life-time of books or drawings. Daniel Webster told practically the same story after he had made his famous speech in the United States Senate against Mr. Hayne of South Carolina, when some one asked him how he could make one of the finest speeches ever made in the English language, lasting several hours, without the slightest preparation. His answer was that he had been preparing for it all his life, so that, after all, there is much truth of a certain kind in the statement that a great name must be begun early, for when you hear of a man becoming suddenly famous because of some great work of any kind accomplished late in life, you may be quite sure that the man has really been laboring all his life with the most persistent industry and energy to reach at last the great position which he occupies. And the making of such a name is open to any one who has the capacity for taking such infinite pains.

THE DISCOVERY OF A WIZARD.

One evening, towards the close of the last century, a traveller alighted at a little inn in the town of Würzburg, Germany. He was tall, dark, and rather sombre-looking. His strange ways soon aroused the curiosity of the towns-people to the highest pitch. He would take long rambles, often being absent from early morning till the time of the evening meal. Certain worthies reported having seen him, wrapt in contemplation, walking by the Rhine, occasionally waving his arms, and paying no attention to the passers-by. One person had seen his light burning far into the morning. But the landlady at first said she had no cause for complaint; the stranger was pleased with everything set before him, and seemed to be a perfect gentleman.

One morning one of the maids of the inn told the landlady that, listening at the stranger's key-hole the night before, she had heard him in earnest conversation with some person or thing, and yet no one had been seen to enter the room. The girl was severely reprimanded for her eavesdropping, but nevertheless the landlady took her post at the door the following evening, and had her story to tell. She had fully made up her mind that the stranger was in league with the evil one. She gave the information to the justices of the town, and sundry officers were speedily assembled about the stranger's door. Near at hand, too, was a goodly gathering of the town gossips. The oppressive silence was suddenly broken by the distinct tones of a dialogue going on in the stranger's room. The officers crowded around the door and heard the following conversation:

"Thou misformed offspring of our uncreated power—thou whom I have so long sought—thou shalt escape me no longer. Answer me! Come, my black barbet, change thy costume. How thy black hair rises on end, thy body swells, and thy red eyes sparkle!... If thou indeed hast submitted thyself to me, show thyself, demon, and speak to thy master."

At this moment a distinct smell of burning brimstone caused the stout burghers to draw their noses away from the door and stifle their coughing as best they could.

A sharp shrill voice was now heard to answer,

"Master, what dost thou desire of thy servant?"

The door was broken down, and the stranger dragged before the magistrate, charged with being in league with the devil. The stranger quietly said:

"I had begun a tragedy, but as my friends disturbed me continually at Weimar, where I live, I came to write here. The hero of my tragedy is a man who invokes the devil, and to whom the devil appears. I confess that I have an unfortunate habit of reading aloud what I compose, as fast as I write it. As to my invoking, perhaps personally, the devil, I am too good a Christian to do that, and you, Mr. Burgomaster, too enlightened to believe it."

The wizard was Goethe, and the tragedy, Faust.

VINCENT V. M. BEEDE.

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FOR LOVERS OF ATHLETIC SPORTS

A PRIMER OF COLLEGE FOOTBALL

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

Mr. Lewis, an old Harvard football centre-rush, has put together in this book the result of his experiences in practical football. The work, therefore, is not so much a treatise on the game as a series of practical suggestions to be used by captains in teaching their men and coaching their teams. The book is divided respectively into the "individual" and "team" play. The part on the "individual" discusses, first, the individual plays, such as passing, kicking, running, falling on the ball, and so on, and then the work of the individual players themselves. The second part discusses, first, offensive, and then defensive team play.

Beginners will be very grateful for the gift, for no better book than this of Mr. Lewis's could be placed in their hands.—Saturday Evening Gazette, Boston.

New Edition of

CAMP'S AMERICAN FOOTBALL

By WALTER CAMP. New and Enlarged Edition. 16mo, Cloth, $1.25.

The progress of the sport of football in this country, and a corresponding growth of inquiry as to the methods adopted by experienced teams, have prompted the publication of an enlarged edition of this book. Should any of the suggestions herein contained conduce to the further popularity of the game, the object of the writer will be attained.—Author's Preface.

BY THE SAME AUTHOR:

FOOTBALL FACTS AND FIGURES. Post 8vo, Paper, 75 cents.

A SPORTING PILGRIMAGE

Riding to Hounds, Golf, Rowing, Football, Club and University Athletics. Studies in English Sport, Past and Present. Copiously Illustrated. 8vo, Cloth, $3.50.

The work is certainly one of the most valuable contributions to athletic literature that has been published for many a day.—Chicago Journal.

TRACK ATHLETICS IN DETAIL

Compiled by the Editor of "Interscholastic Sport" in HARPER'S ROUND TABLE. Illustrated from Instantaneous Photographs. 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25. In "HARPER'S ROUND TABLE Library."

A good book to put into the hands of the athletically inclined. It is capitally illustrated with instantaneous photographs, and is full of expert and sound advice and instruction.—Outlook, N. Y.

HARPER & BROTHERS, Publishers, New York

HOW THE GILT BALL BECAME A WEATHER-VANE.

A ball of gilt was mounted high upon a lofty tower,

Above a great and faithful clock that told the time each hour.

"What service do you render man, though you are placed so high?"

Inquired the clock. The gilty ball, ashamed, made no reply.

One day while roaming through the earth, Adversity espied

The gleaming sphere upon the tower, aloft at eventide.

And straightway shot an arrow with a quick, unerring aim,

Into the hollow useless ball while yet it was aflame.

Again inquired the faithful clock, "Though you are reared so high,

What service do you render man, ablaze up in the sky?"

"I tell the point from which the wind in passing by doth blow,

So all that gaze upon my face that fact shall quickly know.

No longer but a gilded ball—an object of disdain—

Am I, but poised 'twixt earth and sky I am a weather-vane."

RUN NO RISK.

SCORCHER (to novice). "The more wheels the better. Try a cycle first, then buy a cycle, and try that. Tricycle, bicycle—see? Start right, and you'll be able soon to get along without any wheel at all."

Rob and Arthur were looking at a picture in a Sunday-school paper, which showed two South-Sea Islanders rubbing noses, after the cordial manner of these natives when meeting a friend.

"What are they doing?" asked Rob.

Arthur, who had heard something about the custom, quickly replied, "Oh, just scraping acquaintance."

NATURAL SYMPATHY.

Freddy was looking through a big picture-book, when he came to a picture of Daniel in the lions' den, and he forthwith began to cry.

"Don't cry, Freddy," said his mother; "those lions aren't going to hurt Daniel."

"I'm not crying about that," said Freddy. "There's a little lion there, and Daniel's so small, I'm afraid the little lion won't get any."

SOME BITS OF NATURAL HISTORY.

"It stands to reason," writes Toby Trip in his composition, "that most of our rats come from Gnaw-away, and that some of our choicest poultry are cotch in China, while there are no black folks in the Isle of Wight. Yet there are women in the Isle of Man, wise people in the Scilly Isles, and the best-natured men in the world are natives of Ire-land."

"What were the Dark Ages?" asked the governess at the morning lessons.

"That must have been before spectacles were invented," guessed May.

"Oh no!" interrupted Cedric; "I know why they were called the Dark Ages. Because there were more knights then."

"Well, Teddy, have you been a good boy to-day?" asked his mother upon her return home late in the afternoon.

"No, ma'am," replied the truthful Ted.

"I hope you have not been a bad boy?"

"No, ma'am; not a very bad boy and not a very good boy—just comfortable!"

"What time is it, my lad?" asked an American traveller of a small Irish boy, who was driving a couple of cows home from the fields.

"About twelve o'clock, sir," replied the boy.

"I thought it was more."

"It's never any more here," returned the lad, in surprise. "It just begins at one again."

A little boy and his sister were allowed, this summer, to collect the eggs from the hen-coops, but they were told they must never take away the nest-egg. The little girl, however, did so one morning by mistake, and her brother told her she must take it right back, "because that was what the old hen measured by."

When Freddy got back from the mountains last week he was much pleased at the sight of clean stiff curtains hanging in all the rooms.

"Oh, mamma," he remarked, "the windows have all got clean shirts on!"

"That's the pretty white cow that gives us the nice white milk," said the country boy to his little city friend.

"And is that the brown cow that gives us the coffee?" asked the latter.

A newsboy saw a dime lying on the ground in the City Hall Park. A tramp sitting on a bench near by saw the boy pick up the piece, and claimed it at once as his own.

"Your dime did not have a hole in it, did it?" asked the boy.

"Yes, it did," said the tramp; "give it up!"

"Well, this one has not got any hole in it, so I guess I'll keep it."

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HARPER'S ROUND TABLE, OCTOBER 20, 1896 ***

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Table of Contents

THE PRINCESS IN HER GARDEN.

THE CAPE COD SALT-WORKS.

A VIRGINIA CAVALIER.

[to be continued.]

IN THE OLD HERRICK HOUSE.

THE END.

THE VOYAGE OF THE "RATTLETRAP."

[to be continued.]

FAIR PLAY.

CAPTAIN JACK AND THE BLUE-FISH.

FLAGS OF THE REVOLUTION.

SHADY-SIDE ACADEMY FOOTBALL PLAYERS, PITTSBURG.

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

ADVERTISEMENTS.

EARN A GOLD WATCH!

W. G. BAKER, Springfield Mass.

GIRLS!

FREE!

Harrison & Strauss, 35 and 37 Frankfort St., N. Y.

A History and an Inspiration.

Santa Catalina Island.

A Young Naturalist's Outing.

PREPARING FOR CHRISTMAS.

A POUND OF FACTS

ADVERTISEMENTS.

Arnold Constable & Co.

Lyons Silks.

Lyons Velvets.

Broadway & 19th st. NEW YORK.

Postage Stamps, &c.

STAMPS

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

1872.

P. S. Chapman, Box 151, Bridgeport, Ct.

GEORGE DU MAURIER.

THE DISCOVERY OF A WIZARD.

JOSEPH GILLOTT'S

STEEL PENS

THE MOST PERFECT OF PENS.

WATCH AND CHAIN FOR ONE DAY'S WORK.

BLUINE CO. F Concord Junction, Mass.

FOR LOVERS OF ATHLETIC SPORTS

A PRIMER OF COLLEGE FOOTBALL

New Edition of

CAMP'S AMERICAN FOOTBALL

A SPORTING PILGRIMAGE

TRACK ATHLETICS IN DETAIL

HARPER & BROTHERS, Publishers, New York

HOW THE GILT BALL BECAME A WEATHER-VANE.

RUN NO RISK.

NATURAL SYMPATHY.

SOME BITS OF NATURAL HISTORY.

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE