[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]
Copyright, 1896, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.
* * * * *
PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 11, 1896. FIVE CENTS A
COPY.
VOL. XVII.--NO. 850. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.
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[Illustration]
AN ARCHAEOLOGICAL VALENTINE.
BY RICHARD BARRY.
A very strange old room it was, in a very strange old house, part of
which was brick, and part of which was wood. The wood had been cut from
the neighboring hill-sides, and the brick had traversed many thousands
of miles from across the Atlantic in a little ship with a strange Dutch
name. There was but one older house in the street, and from the corner
window of the room one could just catch a glimpse of the spires of the
college chapel; on winter days when the leaves were off the trees the
college buildings could be seen.
The Professor, when he came in, announced his arrival by noisily
scraping the soles of his boots against the metal foot-scraper that had
been worn down to a thin blade, like an aged razor. The Professor was
tall and angular, but it was impossible to tell his age within a dozen
years, for his thin hair was very dark, and his face was always very
smooth shaven. His position in college was a most peculiar one. He had
an endowed professorship, which, odd to relate, he had endowed himself,
and there was a term in college parlance that was often applied to the
Professor's course in the electives (Sanscrit and archæology), it was
known as a "snap." But the Professor was a very interesting and
well-liked man. He had taken honors at Oxford in the early fifties, and
had spent a great deal of money making deep researches into the great
libraries of Europe.
But to come back to the room.
It was not dark or dingy, as one might suppose the room of a student
would be, but was very bright, with a number of windows. The pattern of
the oil-cloth that covered the floor was worn out in regular paths
before the big shelves that reached up to the ceiling. There were two
large oaken cupboards and a long desk. The only thing that could be
called an attempt at ornament was a china figure on the top of one of
the cupboards. The Professor had picked this up in France. It was an
unmistakable likeness to Benjamin Franklin, but, nevertheless, it had
the name "George Washington" on it in gold lettering. The Professor had
bought it as an example of humor in French pottery, which showed that he
had a sense of humor himself.
A fat old negro woman was dusting off the table. As she lifted
anything--a paper, or a book, or an inkstand, for instance--she would
replace it exactly on the same spot. In fact, the desk was a perpetual
tableau, and the Professor never got the mucilage and the inkstand mixed
up; he could have found anything on that table in the dark.
Hearing the sound of prolonged scraping at the front door, the old
colored woman knew two things. First, that the Professor had arrived,
and, secondly, that it was a muddy day. She dusted off Benjamin Franklin
Washington, and opened the door in time to meet the Professor at the
head of the stairs.
"Do you think, Hannah," began the Professor, "that the spare room could
be kept warm in cold weather?"
Hannah looked quite frightened; no one had slept in the spare room since
the Professor had been in the house.
"I never heerd no one complain, sir," she said, which was non-committal
in Hannah.
"Make up the bed to-night there," said the Professor. "I'll sleep in it
myself." It struck him this was a brilliant way to find out.
"Youse spectin' some folks, sir?"
"Yes, Hannah," returned the Professor. "My two nephews are going to
spend a fortnight with me."
"Is dey youn' gen'lemen?" inquired the old negress.
"I hope so," answered the Professor, with a smile.
"I means is dey youn'?" corrected Hannah.
"Let me see. Upon my soul, I have forgotten." The Professor wrinkled his
forehead. "One's twelve, and one's thirteen years of age," he said,
after a mental calculation.
Hannah left the room, and the Professor seated himself at the desk.
"I reckin we's gwine hab some trubble," said the old woman, as she
waddled into the kitchen. "Twelve and thirteen is a rampanxious age for
boys."
On the second day of February Bill Alton and Todd, his younger brother,
were met by the Professor at the station. They had seen him only once or
twice before, but seeing they were the Professor's only nephews, their
mother had insisted upon their making this long-promised visit, frankly
to state, much to their disgust.
The Professor had decided, after his trial of the spare bedchamber, that
it would be very cold; so when the youngsters arrived at their room,
they found it presided over by a very small and very hot stove that
ticked and snapped like a hard-worked bit of machinery.
Much to their agreeable surprise, the two Alton boys now for the first
time found themselves enjoying absolute freedom. In the first place,
they had succeeded in getting into the attic, where they had found an
old single-barrelled fowling-piece. They had asked the Professor if they
could have it to "play with," and, upon his acquiescence, had purchased
powder and shot at the hardware-store, and had gone out and bagged a
rabbit and a hen in one afternoon. It was well known that the rabbit was
tame, and the hen might not have been free from suspicion, as they had
stalked her close to Farmer Belknap's chicken-yard back on the hill.
The Professor met the boys at breakfast and at supper. His mid-day meal
was generally neglected; he carried it off with him to the college
building in a tin box, like a school-boy.
At the end of the first week two rainy days came in succession. Billy
and Todd were in the Professor's attic. That morning, for the first
time, the Professor had taken the boys into his study. He knew so little
about youths of this age in general that he was quite embarrassed. He
thought they were very well behaved youngsters, because they apparently
gave him no trouble, and the story of the hen and the rabbit, and
several escapades of like character, had never reached his ears, but he
felt it incumbent upon himself to make up for the lack of attention to
his guests.
"Now, boys," he said, opening one of the cupboards, "I am going to show
you some very wonderful things. This is an illuminated MS. of the
fourteenth century, very rare and fine, done by the Franciscan monks,
you see." The Professor read the Latin inscription with an air of
triumph. "And this is an old cryptogram. This is an old copy of one of
the early saint's lives in Hebrew, and here is another--both very old
and very valuable."
It was not very interesting, but the boys listened politely. The college
bell ringing at this moment, their uncle closed a most interesting
description of how one of the valuable parchments had come into his
possession, shut the cupboard, locked the door of the study, and left
the boys to play in the attic.
"I say, Todd," remarked the elder Alton, "let's see if there's anything
in here." He lifted the lid of an aged trunk and disclosed a lot of
papers and old worn books that filled the garret with a musty odor. It
was a collection of stuff that the Professor had designated as
"rubbish," but yet had been loath to feed into the fire. There's not a
professor's attic in the world that does not possess this same sort of a
trunk, I verily believe. None of the books appeared very interesting,
and a great many of the papers were very commonplace in appearance.
Todd picked up a tightly rolled bit of very aged vellum, and spreading
it out, looked over an imaginary pair of spectacles at his brother, and
began:
"This is a very old and rare specimen of a kickograph. You can see how
beautiful it is."
As there was nothing apparent on the blank sheet of parchment, his
brother burst into mock rhapsodies.
"How much will you take for it?" he inquired.
"One million dollars," said Todd.
The idea seemed to take, and he sold the rest of the contents of the
trunk at fabulous prices, an old copy of Fox's _Christian Martyrs_ going
at enough to pay the national debt, for the simple reason that it had
pictures in it.
"Hold on," said Billy at last; "let's stop this. I have an idea."
"What is it?" said Todd.
"Let's send Uncle Passmore" (the Professor's name was Passmore Webster
Bibby) "a valentine. To-morrow's Valentine day, you know. Let's write
him out a kickogram."
"Kickograph," corrected the other.
"Do you know he says he can read all those things?" said Todd. "So let's
make him a 'sticker.'"
"And here's the very thing to write it on," exclaimed Billy, flourishing
the roll of parchment.
They procured a pen, and diluting the ink with water to make it faint,
they spread the valentine out upon the floor.
"Let's get a book and copy those funny-looking words out of it,"
suggested Todd.
"Why not make 'em up?" answered Billy. "They look just like this." He
made some weird hieroglyphics on the top of the parchment. It was most
interesting when it was once started, and it was completed by drawing
largely upon the characters in a Greek Testament, taking some few words
from an old Xenophon, and interspersing freely and frequently wiggles
and cabalistic signs of their own manufacture. When they had covered
the vellum they made it look quite aged by means of dirty finger-marks,
and then regarded the work of art with eyes of admiration.
"It's a sort of an April-fool valentine," said Todd. "I wonder what he
will think of it? I suppose he'll read it right off; looks just like the
others."
But how to send it--that was the question. If they gave it to him
themselves, there would be no fun in it at all.
Suddenly there came a whoop from Billy, who was delving once more into
the trunk.
"Here's the thing to wrap it in!" he said, triumphantly.
It was a roll of thick brown paper that had once been sealed with
sealing-wax. It had the Professor's address on it, and some very foreign
looking stamps. They rolled the MS. inside of it, and, securing some
sealing-wax, sealed it up tightly.
"Now," said Billy, "won't he be tickled when he reads it--eh?"
Professor Bibby's mail was always placed upon the newel-post at the
bottom of the stairway, and he gathered it on his return from his first
class in the morning. The boys placed the long package with one or two
letters which were already there. The next morning, as we remarked, was
St. Valentine's day.
The Professor came in, and when he saw the long package, he left the
other letters, and bounded up the stairway two steps at a time. The boys
heard him hurriedly unlock the door of his study. He broke open the
seals nervously, and spread out the parchment. As he had not closed the
door behind him, the boys could see everything very plainly through the
banisters. The Professor wrinkled his forehead; he turned the package
sideways and upside down; he looked off into space with a curious
expression; he followed a line with his finger, and made a note
(evidently of some of the puzzling characters) on a bit of paper. Then
he walked to the window, and held the parchment up to the light with the
wrong side to him. Suddenly he peered closer and closer, until it looked
to the boys, as Todd expressed it, as if he were "trying to bore holes
through it." All at once he whirled to the table again; he reached into
one of the cupboards and brought out a large magnifying-glass. As the
Professor spread out the young Alton's masterpiece, his hand was
trembling. What did it mean? thought the boys from their hiding-place.
They had never seen anything so strange in all their lives, for, after
reading for a few minutes, their uncle sank back, or, better, collapsed,
into the arm-chair. There was an ecstatic look on his face, and the boys
caught the words he was repeating. It was a very plain and homely
expression, but, under the circumstances, Uncle Passmore felt that he
must give vent to his feelings. "Well, by gum!" he repeated.
Todd coughed at this moment; the Professor heard the sound and came to
the door.
"Boys," he said, "I have made a most remarkable discovery." The success
of their valentine hoax was almost overwhelming to the two young Altons.
They had never suspected that they were to be successful, and, in fact,
their position was most embarrassing. "Come here, young gentlemen,"
continued the Professor. "Do you see that aged manuscript?" He stroked
it with an affectionate touch. "That, my dear nephews, has been sent to
me from some strange source. It is a palimpsest."
Billy looked at Todd. Had their uncle gone crazy? He shook the
wrapping-paper in which the boys had rolled the valentine and looked at
it. For some reason the post-mark was Constantinople, and, to all
appearances, it might really have come through the mails that very day,
instead of, as the case was, a dozen years before.
"Strange," said the Professor. "It came from Constantinople. Now who
could have sent it?" Then he heaved a sigh. "Some dear and most beloved
friend."
The boys were becoming frightened now, but Todd plucked Billy by the
sleeve.
"Don't let on," he said, in a whisper. "He's an old fraud, that's what
he is." They walked out into the hallway. "He can't read those words at
all."
"Maybe he can," said Billy. "I wonder what it was we wrote?"
But the Professor had called them back. "Nephews," he said, "let me read
you what this says."
The boys, hand in hand, came back, and the Professor, waving a finger in
gesticulation, translated slowly, using all the time, the
magnifying-glass. What he said sounded to the boys like what they had
often heard in church.
"He's making up as he goes ahead," whispered Todd.
Then an idea came from Billy. "He's just trying to fool us; that's what
he's doing," replied the latter.
But the Professor was much in earnest. "Well," he at last remarked, "I
am going to take this right up to the president of the college. It's a
most important discovery. It's a palimpsest letter, probably one of the
earliest transcriptions of the Epistles. Boys, this wonderful parchment
is eighteen hundred years of age, perhaps."
Billy whistled, and Todd, seeing that his uncle did not object, whistled
also. But when they were left alone, and their uncle had hurried out
into the rain without an umbrella, they again held a consultation.
"We'd better tell him," said Todd, "that we only meant it for a
valentine."
"He'll be awful mad," said Billy, quietly; "but I guess we had better
tell him, as you say."
So they waited until their uncle returned. At supper he was still
elated, and when the table had been cleared Todd opened the subject.
"Uncle Passmore," he inquired, "what is a palimpsest?"
"A palimpsest is a parchment that has once been written on, then used a
second time; after the erasure of the first copy, however, very often
the original shows through. It is the case with this."
"But what do those letters mean?"
"Oh, that is a hodgepodge," replied the Professor, pedanticly, "of
Greek, Hebrew, Sanscrit, and something resembling Arabic. It means
nothing; evidently some scribbles to pass away the time."
The boys looked relieved, and cast an admiring glance at the old
gentleman, who was continuing:
"Of course it was not sent to me on account of this latter inscription;
it was sent to me merely because it was a palimpsest. But I wonder who
indulged in all that scribbling?"
"We did," said the boys, in chorus.
Again the Professor appeared quite astonished, but not in the least
angered. He listened to the story of how they found the screed in the
old trunk in the attic, and commented upon this fact.
"So-so," he said. "I remember keeping that bit when I was in Turkey. I
thought it blank, but a very aged sheet. Why did you send it to me?" he
inquired.
"Oh, for a valentine," replied Todd.
"Well," said the Professor, smiling, "I'd give a great deal for another
one." Then he paused. "There's a minstrel show in town to-night, boys,"
he added. "Let's go down to it."
THE SEA-URCHIN.
Strolling along the sea-shore at low tide probably many of you have
noticed more or less numerous small circular excavations in the sand
containing a dark substance, which at first glance might be taken for
sea-weed deposited there by the retreating tide. Probably some of you
have been tempted to a closer examination, and lifting one, quickly
dropped it again, sorrier although not wiser, for this insignificant
parcel of needles and pins has a most interesting history to tell.
To naturalists it will introduce itself under the name of Echinoids; to
the laymen as sea-urchin or sea-hedgehog, related to the crinoids,
star-fishes, and sea-cucumbers, and representing with them the
Echinodermata--one of the most distinct types of the animal kingdom.
An animal is this seemingly unmovable ball, although it is difficult to
associate it with what is generally implied by that name.
For a closer examination, of course, it is necessary to remove the
spines with which it is covered. There are about 4000 of them on every
specimen, each one movable at the will of the owner, and difficult to
dislodge from the flesh of the hand, so that a little caution is
required in dealing with them. You will thus have accomplished a good
hour's work, but will not yet have reached the animal proper, for its
upper parts are further protected by a kind of shell--the armor of the
sea-urchin. This shell is well worthy of a closer examination. It is
formed of a number of separate plates, fitted together, one by one, like
the steel plates protecting our men-of-war.
On a full-grown specimen there are about 300 of them. They grow in
number and size with the age of the sea-urchin, without alteration of
the general shape of the shell, since fresh deposits of the calcareous
matter that constitute it are made upon the interior edges of each
plate.
Sea-urchins are not sociable creatures. They prefer solitude to company,
and rarely more than one occupies one dwelling. In earliest infancy they
dig for themselves a home in the quiet surf or in the sand, where the
retreating tides leave enough moisture to make them comfortable. There
they live and prosper, enlarging their homes as their increased growth
makes them uncomfortable, and mostly without enlarging the entrances
themselves.
In this manner can be explained the fact of some large specimens having
been found in dwellings with entrances through which it does not seem
possible that they could pass.
Sea-urchins may not be very palatable, yet they are edible, and in some
countries are extensively consumed by the poorer population, eaten
boiled in the shell like an egg. In certain coast towns of Italy they
even form quite an article of commerce with the more interior country,
and accordingly large is the number of those engaged in the pursuit of
collecting and diving for sea-urchins. This method of diving is very
picturesque and amusing, and, as may be imagined, requires some skill.
More simple is the way the Chinese proceed about it. There the fisherman
provides himself with a bundle of slender wooden rods, tapered to a
little round knob at one end. With these he proceeds to the surf at low
tide, and drops one of these rods into each burrow where he suspects a
tenant. There it is left for about twelve hours. During this time the
sea-urchin is sure to swallow the button, and as the elastic tissues
contract, it is unable to release itself again, so that when the
fisherman returns he can easily extract the rod with the victim
attached. Palates differ with localities. So do the Chinese stew the
sea-urchins like a turtle soup.
Of the rest of the family of the Echinodermata, the crinoids and
sea-cucumbers have many interesting characteristics; yet especially
worthy of mention is the star-fish.
You all know that clammy mass that dangles so hopelessly from the hand.
Innocent as it looks, it is quite fierce company to the mollusks and
even larger inhabitants of the sea, upon which it feeds. Destitute of
any jaws or levers, and with the mouth located in the very centre of the
star, its method of nourishment is highly interesting. Its first process
is to lie prone upon its prey, folding its arms over it to hold itself
in position. Then it applies the mouth closely to the victim, and
deliberately pushing out its own stomach through its mouth, wraps the
mollusk in its folds, and then calmly draws back the stomach, and is
ready for digestion.
As the star-fish is the enemy of mollusks, so it is also of fishermen;
and, confidentially, it is the fish which usually gets the best of the
fisherman. Able to scent its prey at a long distance, it will seek and
make itself familiar with the bait held out for its more noble kinsmen.
In reprisal, the fisherman seeks to destroy the fish, and often tears it
in halves, flinging the pieces back into the sea. This, however, suits
the star-fish exactly, for it is wonderfully tenacious of life, and can
bear the loss of one or all its rays without being inconvenienced. The
two halves simply heal their wounds, and become two star-fishes instead
of one. In time they put forth fresh growth, or remain as happy in the
possession of two or three stars as with all.
ODDITIES IN BICYCLES.
It is probable that the great Madison Square Garden in New York never
was so full as it was during the Bicycle Show of a fortnight ago. Twenty
thousand people filled the great theatre on the last night of the show,
and all through the week the throng proved how popular bicycling and
bicycles are now. Those who were in the city and could go saw many
wheels and many queer inventions in seats, pedals, frame, tires, and all
the other parts of the machine. Each bicycle-maker had his own little
compartment, with samples of his bicycles, and a big sign with his name
in electric lights upon it for the evening. Even if you knew nothing at
all about a wheel you were intensely interested in all you saw, and the
more intimately you knew bicycles the greater was your interest. There
were thousands of bicycles of all kinds, besides wheels for girls and
boys of six and eight years of age; and there was one wheel, perfect in
every way, with its pneumatic tires and ball-bearings, which was just
large enough for a baby two or three years old, if only some one could
have found a baby that age capable of riding it. The little pedals were
about an inch and a half wide, and the diameter of the wheels was not
over eight or nine inches. This was hardly what could be called a model,
for it was too large for that. Yet many a boy and girl thought of
"little brother" at home when he or she saw that tiny wheel.
Some ingenious "farmer's boy"--so the sign attached informed the
spectator--in New Jersey must have been very anxious to ride a wheel
some time ago, for he had made a wooden machine, with solid wheels and a
wooden seat, which he rode as a bicycle. It was on exhibition at the
show, and was an interesting bit of workmanship, standing by the side of
a '96 model, as well as an interesting exhibition of what a boy in New
Jersey can do if he has the inclination. The most extraordinary part of
this extraordinary wheel was the barn-door hinge which attached the
forks and handle-bars to the rest of the wheel. The seat was hard, but
it must have given that New Jersey boy a great deal of satisfaction to
feel that he was riding on a machine made entirely by his own hands and
from designs out of his own bright brain. On the card which was attached
to the machine was a statement that this was a "spokeless bicycle," made
by a farmer's boy in Monmouth County, New Jersey; that it had "hose-pipe
tires" (these are pieces of ordinary lawn hose nailed on the outer edges
of the wheels, but sadly wanting in wind), and that it was "actually
ridden by him and apparently enjoyed."
[Illustration: MADE BY THE FARMER'S BOY.]
[Illustration: RIDDEN A THOUSAND MILES.]
This bicycle, however, as you can see in the accompanying illustration,
is old style, for the cranks act on the front instead of the rear wheel.
In fact the whole machine is like the tall bicycle first used in this
country. Another wooden affair which was also on exhibition was much
more elaborate, and was really an interesting piece of work. It was made
by an Indiana boy, and used by him for a long time. He has covered over
1000 miles on it in riding to and from school, and in making short trips
in the vicinity of his home. The bicycle is entirely of wood, so far as
its frame and its wheels go. Old carriage-wheel hubs have been used, and
the wheel rims are wide, strong pieces of wood. Even the lantern is
"home made," for it was constructed from old tin cans. The seat has a
wonderful spring arrangement which allows the solid shaft of wood on
which it rests to sink in the hollow "tubing" of the frame as far as the
steel spiral will permit, and the young builder has made the seat itself
comfortable by covering the wood with a leather cap over some hair taken
out of a mattress. Any one who can build such a bicycle as this deserves
to have a fine new one presented to him, and that was precisely what
happened, for the company gave him a new '96-model wheel in exchange for
his own crude but serviceable machine.
[Illustration: THE ICECYCLE.]
Turning from these two pieces of Young America's ingenuity, you could
easily find some remarkable examples of the skill of older Americans at
the show. There was one wheel that looked like a huge grasshopper. It
had a system of cranks which permitted a man to ride with a gearing of
100 as easily as the ordinary wheel carries him along with a 60 gear,
but of course he covered much more ground at every revolution. Still
another machine had a frame in the shape of a triangle, instead of a
diamond, with the seat at the apex, and one wheel at each end of the
base. It was a strange-looking affair, but, of course, it could be built
much lighter than the ordinary bicycle, while the frame is said to be
stronger. Still another and very interesting novelty was a bicycle for
use on the ice. Everything about it is much like any bicycle of to-day,
except that runners instead of wheels are used. There is a rear wheel
which is fitted with a tire of spikes that catch the ice through a slit
in the rear runner, and in this way the "icecycle" is sent ahead. When a
good velocity has been attained the rider can shift this spiked wheel by
a movement of his foot in such a manner as to raise it off the ice and
allow the machine to coast. But an icecycle must be a very slippery
affair, and rather inclined to slide in any direction, as easily
sideways as forward.
[Illustration: THE GIRAFFE.]
[Illustration: A MAXIM GUN ON A DUPLEX.]
[Illustration: THE COLT AUTOMATIC GUN ON A BICYCLE.]
Further on in the show was the giraffe bicycle, which looked about as
much like a giraffe as it did like a bicycle. It is used only in trick
riding, and would naturally be useless as an ordinary roadster. It is 9
feet 3 inches high from ground to the top of the handles. But if the
giraffe is useless as a practical affair, the cannon bicycles certainly
are not. These wheels are made to carry a Maxim gun or a howitzer on a
"duplex," or double bicycle, and a single bicycle can carry one of the
Colt's new automatic guns. There seems to be no reason why this use of
the bicycle in war should not be feasible. At any rate, the armed wheels
looked very symmetrical and ship-shape.
[Illustration: INVALID'S TRICYCLE.]
A still more practical use of the pneumatic tire and other bicycle
features, especially for a city paved with asphalt, were demonstrated by
some of the tricycles for delivering parcels or carrying baggage of any
light kind. One, a picture of which is given with this article, was for
invalids--for use in the parks of a city. Indeed, why should not nursery
girls ride around on tricycle baby-carriages, with places for the babies
in front or behind? And why should not old ladies who are timid about
horses go out in little bicycle landaus and broughams? But all these
will come in time.
A dozen other novelties might be enumerated, but we have space for only
two more. One of these was a bicycle on which six men can ride at once.
We have all seen tandems and "quads," but bicycles with six saddles are
not common, even at a national bicycle show. The first man does the
steering, and the gear on his chain is very small. The second man's gear
is larger, the third's larger still until the sixth man has a huge gear,
something like 125 or 150. The speed that can be obtained on this wheel,
or rather the speed that is said to be obtainable, is something too
great to set down in type until it is actually recorded as having been
done; but there is a story afloat that a wager has been made to build a
track alongside the New York Central road, in order that one of the
six-man bicycles may race with the Empire State Express.
Another interesting and possibly very useful development of the bicycle
is the power to change the gear. This wheel has a rod under the right
handle-bar, very much like a brake handle. When you are riding along
level ground, and do not touch the "brake," the gear is at 80. Soon you
come to a hill. Then by pulling the "brake" handle up half-way the gear
of the wheel is changed from 80 to 60, and thus you can go up hill,
slower, to be sure, but much easier. After reaching the top of the hill
you pull this rod up close to the handle-bar of the wheel, and the
gearing is thrown off entirely, so that the bicycle will coast down hill
without turning the cranks. Of course the rider can keep his feet on the
pedals all the time.
This bicycle will be of great practical service if its machinery is
solid and durable, for there are many bad places along a country road
where a change of twenty in the gearing would save a large amount of
strength in the total of a day's work, and at the same time, on level
ground, much more distance can be covered by changing back to eighty.
Then also with the ability to keep your feet on the pedals, you can feel
sure of not losing the control of the machine when coasting.
Meantime the great bicycle show had many another novelty, for the
description of which there is not space enough in this periodical. Taken
altogether, the show was an enormous success, and though many of the
novelties were covered up by thousands of ordinary '96 machines, still
they were there, and could be found by any one who was looking for them
carefully.
THE SPORTSMAN'S CODE.
Now these are the laws of the athlete,
That stretch the length of the field,
They make the code of the runner fleet
Who has never yet learned to yield.
They tell you how to lay your plan,
And how to carry it through.
They help the man, who's done what he can,
To bear his Waterloo.
You shall give the foeman all his due,
And let him win if he can;
But keep all rights that belong to you,
For that is the law of man.
You shall hold the ground that is yours by right,
And yield not a foot you have trod.
But grant _his_ right in a stand-up fight,
For that is the law of God.
If you row with the crew in the boat,
It's a wretched thing to spy.
There's plenty of work when you leave the float,
But little to do for the eye.
There's plenty to do to swing and slide,
And steady the fragile shell,
But to gain your strength from the other side
Is a method sent from hell.
No man shall yield on the football field
Till the final whistle sounds.
No man shall show by a single blow
That he has no place on the grounds.
But when the foe is in racking pain
And cannot move or fight,
You shall help him up to his feet again,
And chafe his bruise and bind his strain,
To show the make of your own good grain,
For that is fair and right.
The strength of the team, or nine, or crew
Is not the strength of the "star."
'Tis what the body together can do
That carries the victory far.
So you shall give your mite to the rest
To bring the whole team through,
And then at the time of your single test
They shall give their strength to you.
And these are the laws of the athlete.
You can heed them or not, as you like,
But they make the code of the runner fleet,
And they check a man when he'd strike.
They tell you how to lay your plan,
And how to carry it through.
They help the man, who's done what he can,
To bear his Waterloo.
PLASTER-OF-PARIS FISH.
BY BARNET PHILLIPS.
When you want to make a mixture of plaster of Paris and water, never put
the plaster in the bowl first and then pour on the water, for that is
the way not to succeed. Pour the cold water into the bowl first, and
after that, little by little, add the plaster. Take the plaster in
pinches, crumble it with your fingers, and use it that way. When the
plaster is just below the level of the water, you can stir it with a
clean spoon or a spatula. If it seems too thin you can add more plaster.
You ought to make a mixture of about the consistency of a thick batter.
You stir it in order to get rid of the air bubbles. To make good casts
is a regular business. The ornamentations of ceilings are made with
plaster; and asking some of the workmen what they did when mixing the
plaster, they said, "the great secret is to mix the composition slowly."
When I worked away as a boy, making casts of medals, I knew nothing
about taking casts of fish. In the United States National Museum at
Washington there are many casts taken from the actual fishes. No matter
what may be their size, from a minnow to a halibut, there they all are.
The modellers who do this kind of work go very far with these casts, for
they paint them the exact color of the fish.
I remember having seen a Chinese of rank, attached to the Chinese
Legation, who was looking in a kind of indifferent manner at the many
objects in the National Museum. Nothing seemed to interest him
particularly. Presently, however, he saw the fish. Then he became very
much excited, and said in English, "That fiss in my countly, and that
fiss too." The painted plaster casts were so lifelike that they recalled
the fish in his own Chinese waters. The Museum was to that Chinaman an
object-lesson.
Now I am certain that if boys or girls knew how to make plaster-of-Paris
fish look like the real ones, it would not alone be an interesting
occupation, but an instructive one.
I have explained how the plaster is to be mixed. It is better to buy the
plaster in small quantity, not more than a pound at a time. It should be
kept in a well-closed glass preserving jar. Some books will tell you to
warm your plaster in an oven before using it so as to expel the
moisture. I say do no such thing. If you warm it, it will set
slowly--that is to say, it will take a long time to harden. Then you
never will know, if you heat the plaster, how hot you get it, and it
will set differently every time you use it.
Here are the things you want: A plate of common window glass somewhat
bigger than your fish; a bit of wood, which will vary according to the
size of your fish; two small screws; some potter's clay; a few pins;
some shellac varnish; a brush; a little alum; and, of course, your fish.
Do not be too ambitious at the start, but take a small fish, as a
shiner, a perch, or a sunfish. Do not try to make the cast of a catfish
at the beginning, because the barbules or head appendages of a catfish
are hard to take. Do not try, either, an eel, for eels and snakes
present some difficulties. With practice, however, a snake or an eel is
not hard to make a cast of.
You have caught your fish. Wash it so as to get rid of the slime or
mucus. Sometimes this slime will not come off readily; then put a pinch
of alum in the water you wash the fish in, and the fish will become
perfectly clean. Dry the fish rapidly with a bit of paper or a towel.
Now you are ready for work.
Place your fish on the plate of glass, and prop up his tail and his back
fin, or fins, with little bits of potter's clay. Sometimes the back fin,
or the dorsal fin, as it is called, will become contracted. Stretch out
the fin as the fish ought to look, and with pins hold it in place,
running the pins through the fin into the clay supports. Having laid
your fish straight and in a natural position, now build a little wall
around the fish. This is to prevent the flowing of the plaster. This
dike should be, say three-fourths of an inch higher than the fish.
You mix your plaster and pour it in carefully on the fish. Now let it
all stand awhile, and exercise patience. It ought to be set and hard in
an hour, but that depends on the plaster, the batter, and the
temperature. You cannot try it with a straw, like you would bread, to
see if it is properly baked. When it sets, however, take the plate of
glass, hold the cast downwards, and remove the whole thing. If you have
worked properly you will have a perfect matrix. The fish being supple,
you take it by the tail and get it out.
Your mould may be dry, but you want it drier. It may be left twenty-four
hours and put in the sun, or, if you want to hurry it up, you can place
it in an oven, but not in too hot a one.
You have now gone as far as I used to go when I began to take the casts
of medals. You want to go beyond that, and get a perfect fish, and you
have the mould. It would never do to pour liquid plaster into a plaster
mould. The new mixture would stick fast to the old one.
The shellac varnish now comes into use. You can buy the shellac varnish
ready made, but it is too thick, and you must thin it with alcohol so
that it will flow readily. A very little shellac goes a long way. Take a
soft brush, and give your mould a coating of varnish. Use a light hand.
When the first coat of varnish is dry give it a second coat. Not a bad
way is to pour some varnish into the mould if the varnish be thin
enough, and drain off the surplus. But remember, if the varnish is too
thick, you fill up all the fine lines the fish itself has made.
You want to bear in mind now the piece of wood. This bit of wood should
be a little less in length than that part of the fish starting back of
the head to the beginning of the tail, and it should have a screw
sticking out at each end at right angles to the direction of the stick
itself. When your mould is full take this bit of wood with the screws in
it, and push it or put it into the soft plaster.
The use of this wood is double. It will help, by means of the
screws--which, of course, are firmly embedded in the plaster when it
becomes solid--to draw the perfect plaster cast out of the mould, and if
you want to hang up the model you can pass a bit of wire through the
eyes or the head, of the screws.
Let the plaster set just as before, and when it is dry draw it out by
means of the bit of wood and the screws.
You can go, if you want to, much further than this, and paint your fish.
Here not so much art as careful study and knowledge of mixing and
preparing colors comes into play, which is foreign to the subject.
I know of some lads who were clumsy at first, and speckled themselves
all over with plaster, but who after a while made many splendid casts of
fish, and worked on big fish, and hard ones too, like eels. Their casts
of squirming and twisting eels were first rate. One of the boys took a
fishing-pole and put on the hook a plaster-of-Paris eel which he had
painted olive green and silvered, and it looked just like a live one.
What they did which was worthy of praise was to take casts of all the
different kinds of fish which swam in a New York lake near the house
where they lived, and they had a little museum of their own.
THE MIDDLE DAUGHTER.[1]
[1] Begun in HARPER'S ROUND TABLE No. 845.
BY MARGARET E. SANGSTER.
CHAPTER VI.
THE TOWER-ROOM.
As time went on, Grace surely did not have to share a third part of her
sisters' room, did she? For nothing is so much prized by most girls as a
room of their very own, and a middle daughter, particularly such a
middle daughter as Grace Wainwright, has a claim to a foothold--a wee
bit place, as the Scotch say--where she can shut herself in, and read
her Bible, and say her prayers, and write her letters, and dream her
dreams, with nobody by to see. Mrs. Wainwright had been a good deal
disturbed about there being no room for Grace when she came back from
Highland, and one would have been fitted up had there been an extra cent
in the family exchequer. Grace didn't mind, or if she did, she made
light of her sacrifice; but her sisters felt that they ought to help her
to privacy.
Eva and Miriam came over to the Manse to consult us in the early days.
I suggested screens.
"You can do almost anything with screens and portières," I said. "One of
the loveliest rooms I ever saw in my life is in a cottage in the
Catskills, where one large room is separated into drawing-room, library,
and dining-room, and sometimes into a spare chamber, as well, by the
judicious use of screens."
"Could we buy them at any price we could pay?" said Miriam.
"Buy them, child? What are you talking about? You can make them. You
need only two or three clothes-horses for frames, some chintz, or even
wall-paper or calico, a few small tacks, a little braid, a hammer, and
patience."
After Grace was fairly launched on her career as teacher, mother
suggested one day that the tower-room at Wishing-Brae could be
transformed into a maiden's bower without the spending of much money,
and that it would make an ideal girl's room, "just the nest for Grace,
to fold her wings in and sing her songs--a nest with an outlook over the
tree-tops and a field of stars above it."
"Mother dear, you are too poetical and romantic for anything, but I
believe," said Amy, "that it could be done, and if it could it ought."
The tower at Wishing-Brae was then a large, light garret-room, used for
trunks and boxes. Many a day have I spent there writing stories when I
was a child, and oh! what a prospect there was and is from those
windows--prospect of moors and mountains, of ribbons of rivers and white
roads leading out to the great world. You could see all Highland from
the tower windows. In sunny days and in storms it was a delight beyond
common just to climb the steep stairs and hide one's self there.
We put our heads together, all of us. We resolved at last that the
tower-room should be our birthday gift to Grace. It was quite easy to
contrive and work when she was absent, but not so easy to keep from
talking about the thing in her presence. Once or twice we almost let it
out, but she suspected nothing, and we glided over the danger as over
ice, and hugged ourselves that we had escaped. We meant it for a
surprise.
First of all, of course, the place had to be thoroughly cleaned, then
whitewashed as to the ceiling, and scoured over and over as to the
unpainted wood. Archie Vanderhoven and all the brothers of both families
helped manfully with this, and the two dear old doctors both climbed up
stairs every day, and gave us their criticism. When the cleanness and
the sweetness were like the world after the deluge, we began to furnish.
The floor was stained a deep dark cherry red; Mrs. Raeburn presented the
room with a large rug, called an art-square; Mrs. Vanderhoven made
lovely écru curtains of cheese-cloth, full and flowing, for the windows,
and these were caught back by cherry ribbons.
We had a regular controversy over the bed, half of us declaring for a
folding bed, that could be shut up by day and be an armoire or a
book-case, the others wanting a white enamelled bed with brass knobs and
bars. The last party carried the day.
The boys hung some shelves, and on these we arranged Grace's favorite
books. Under the books in the window were her writing-table and her
chair and foot-stool. The Vanderhovens sent a pair of brass andirons for
the fire-place, and the little Hastings children, who were taken into
the secret, contributed a pair of solid silver candle-sticks.
Never was there a prettier room than that which we stood and surveyed
one soft April morning when it was pronounced finished. Our one regret
was that dear Mrs. Wainwright could not see it. But the oldest of the
Raeburn boys brought over his camera and took a picture of the room, and
this was afterwards enlarged and framed for one of Mrs. Wainwright's own
birthdays.
"Mother dear," said Grace one evening, as they sat together for a
twilight talk, "do you believe God always answers prayers?"
"Always, my child."
"Do you think we can always see the answers, feel sure He has heard us?"
"The answers do not always come at once, Grace, nor are they always what
we expect, but God sends us what is best for us, and He gives us
strength to help answer the prayers we make. Sometimes prayers are
answered before they leave our lips. Don't you know that in every 'Oh,
my Father,' is the answer, 'Here, my child.'"
"I used to long years ago," said Grace, "when I was as happy as I could
be with dear uncle and auntie, just to fly to you and my father. It
seemed sometimes as if I would die just to get home to Highland again,
and be one of the children. Uncle and auntie want me to go abroad with
them this summer, just for a visit, and they are so good they will take
one of my sisters and one of the Raeburns; but I hate to think of the
ocean between you and me again even for a few weeks."
"You must go, dearie," said Mrs. Wainwright. "The dear uncle is part
owner of you, darling, and he's very generous; but he can never have you
back to keep."
"No, indeed."
"Which of the Raeburns do you suppose they can best spare?"
"I don't know which they would choose to spare, but Amy will be the one
to go. She was born under a fortunate star, and the rest will help to
send her."
"I'd like Frances myself."
"Frances is the stay-at-home daughter. She cannot be spared. It will be
Amy, and I will let Miriam go with you, and Eva, who is the youngest,
can wait for her turn some other day."
"Is that Burden's cart going down the lane?" inquired Grace, looking out
the window, "It's queer how many errands Mr. Burden's had here lately. I
believe he's been investing in another cart, or else he has painted the
old one. Business must be brisk. There come papa, and Dr. Raeburn with
him. Why, mother, all the Raeburns are coming! If there is to be
company, I might have been told."
"So might I," said Mrs. Wainwright, with spirit. "Hurry, Grace, bring me
some cologne and water to wash my face and hands, and give me my
rose-pink wrapper. Turn the key in the door, dearie. An invalid should
never be seen except looking her best. You can slip away and get into a
tea gown before you meet them, if they are coming to supper. Whose
birthday is it? This seems to be a surprise party."
"Why, mamma--it's my birthday; but you don't think there's anything on
foot that I don't know of--do you, dearest?"
"I wouldn't like to say what I think, my pet. There, the coast is clear.
Run away and change your gown. Whoever wished to see me now may do so.
The queen is ready to give audience. Just wheel my chair a little to the
left, so that I can catch the last of that soft pink after-glow."
"And were you really entirely unprepared, Grace," said the girls later,
"and didn't you ever for a single moment notice anything whatsoever we
were doing?"
"Never for one instant. I missed my Tennyson and my French Bible, but
thought Eva had borrowed them, and in my wildest imagination I never
dreamed you would furnish a lovely big room at the top of the house all
for me, my own lone self. It doesn't seem right for me to accept it."
[Illustration: "AND HERE IS SOMETHING ELSE--FROM ME TO MY DAUGHTER."]
"Ah, but it is quite right!" said her father, tenderly, "and here is
something else--a little birthday check from me to my daughter. Since
you came home and set me on my feet I've prospered as never before. Eva
has collected ever so many of my bills, and I've sold a corner of the
meadow for a good round sum, a corner that never seemed to me to be
worth anything. I need not stay always in your debt, financially, dear
little woman."
"But, papa."
"But, Grace."
"Your father is right, Grace," said the sweet low tones of Mrs.
Wainwright, even and firm. "Through God's goodness you have had the
means and disposition to help him, but neither of us ever intended to
rest our weight always on your shoulders. You needn't work so hard
hereafter, unless you wish to."
"Thank you, dear papa," said Grace. "I shall work just as hard, because
I love to work, and because I am thus returning to the world some part
of what I owe it; and next year, who knows, I may be able to pay Eva's
bills at Miss L----'s."
Eva jumped up and down with delight.
Then came supper, served in Mrs. Wainwright's room, and after that music
and a long merry talk, and at last, lest Mrs. Wainwright should be
weary, the Raeburns took their way homeward over the lane and across the
fields to the Manse.
Grace from the tower window watched them going, the light of the moon
falling in golden clearness over the fields and farms just waiting for
spring.
"To serve the present age
My calling to fulfil,"
she whispered to herself. "Good-night, dear ones all, good-night," she
said a little later, climbing up the tower stair to her new room.
"God bless you, middle daughter," said her father's deep tones.