Produced by Annie R. McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]
Copyright, 1896, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.
* * * * *
PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, MAY 5, 1896. FIVE CENTS A COPY.
VOL. XVII.--NO. 862. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.
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[Illustration]
TOMMY TEN CANOES.
BY HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH.
There once lived in New York an Indian warrior by the name of Peter
Twenty Canoes. Tommy Ten Canoes lived at Pokanoket, near Mount Hope, on
an arm of the Mount Hope Bay.
He was not a warrior, but a runner; not a great naval hero, as his
picturesque name might suggest, but a news agent, as it were; he used
his nimble feet and his ten canoes to bear messages to the Indians of
the villages of Pokanoket and to the Narragansetts, and, it may be, to
other friendly tribes.
Pokanoket? You may have read Irving's sketch of Philip of Pokanoket, but
we doubt if you have in mind any clear idea of this once beautiful
region, from whose clustering wigwams the curling smoke once rose from
the giant oaks over the many waterways. The place of it on the map is
now covered by Bristol and Warren (Rhode Island) and Swansea
(Massachusetts). It is a place of bays and rivers, which were once rich
fishing-grounds; of shores full of shells and shell-fish; of cool
springs and wild-grape vines; of bowery hills; and of meadows that were
once yellow with maize.
Tommy Ten Canoes was a great man in his day. As a news agent in peace he
was held in high honor, but as a scout in war and a runner for the great
chiefs he became a heroic figure. There were great ospreys' nests all
about the shores of old Pokanoket on the ancient decayed trees, and
Tommy made a crown of osprey feathers, and crowned himself, with the
approval of the great Indian chiefs.
Once when swimming with this crown of feathers on his head, he had been
shot at by an Englishman, who thought him some new and remarkable bird.
But while his crown was shattered, it was not the crown of his head. He
was very careful of both his crowns after that alarming event.
Tommy Ten Canoes was a brave man. He was ready to face any ordinary
danger for his old chief Massasoit, and for that chief's two sons,
Wamsutta (Alexander) and Pomebacen (Philip). He would cross the Mount
Hope or the Narragansett bay in tempestuous weather. He used to convey
the beautiful Queen Weetamoc from Pocassett to Mount Hope to attend
Philip's war-dances under the summer moons, and when the old Indian war
began he offered his two swift legs and all of his ten canoes to the
service of his chief.
"Nipanset"--for this was his Indian name--"Nipanset's bosom is his
chiefs, and it knows not fear. Nipanset fears not the storm or the foe,
or the gun of the pale-face. Call, call, O ye chiefs; in the hour of
danger call for Nipanset. Nipanset fears not death."
So Tommy Ten Canoes boasted at the great council under the moss-covered
cliff at Mount Hope.
He was honest; but there was one thing that Nipanset, or Tommy Ten
Canoes, did fear. It was enchantment. He would have faced torture or
death without a word, but everything mysterious filled him with terror.
If he had thought that a bush contained a hidden enemy and flintlock, he
would have been very brave, but had he thought that the same bush was
stirred by a spirit, or was enchanted, he would have run.
Tommy Ten Canoes had been friendly to the white people who had settled
in Pokanoket. There was a family by the name of Brown, who lived on
Cole's River, that he especially liked, and he became a companion of one
of the sons named James. The two were so often together that the people
used to speak of those who were very intimate as being "as _thick_ as
little James Brown and old Tommy Ten Canoes," or rather as "Jemmie
Brown" and our young hero of the many birch boats.
The two hunted and fished together; they made long journeys together; in
fact, they did everything in common, except work. Tommy did not work, at
least in the field, while James did at times, when he was not with
Tommy.
When the Indian war began, King Philip sent word to the Brown family,
and also to the Cole family, who lived near them, both of whom had
treated him justly and generously, that he would do all in his power to
protect them, but that he might not be able to restrain his braves.
Tommy Ten Canoes brought a like friendly message to Jemmie Brown.
"I will always be true to you," he said; "true as the north wind to the
river, the west wind to the sea, and the south wind to the flowers.
Nipanset's heart is true to his friends. Our hearts will see each other
again."
The Indian torch swept the settlements. One of the bravest scouts in
these dark scenes was Tommy Ten Canoes. He flew from place to place like
the wind, carrying news and spying out the enemy.
Tommy grew proud over his title of "Ten Canoes." He felt like ten
Tommies. He wore his crown of osprey feathers like a royal king. His ten
canoes ferried the painted Indians at night, and carried the chiefs
hither and thither.
There was a grizzly old Boston Captain, who had done hard service on the
sea, named Moseley. He wore a wig, a thing that the Indians had never
seen, and of whose use they knew nothing at all.
Tommy Ten Canoes had never feared the white man nor the latter's
death-dealing weapons. He had never retreated; he had always been found
in front of the stealthy bands as they pursued the forest trails. But
his courage was at last put to a test of which he had never dreamed.
Old Captain Moseley had led a company of trained soldiers against the
Indians from Boston. Tommy Ten Canoes had discovered the movement, and
had prepared the Indians to meet it. Captain Moseley's company, which
consisted of one hundred men, had first marched to a place called Myles
Bridge in Swansea. Here was a garrison house in which lived Rev. John
Myles. The church was called Baptist, but people of all faiths were
welcome to it; among the latter, Thomas Willet, who afterwards became
the first Mayor of New York. It was the first church of the kind in
Massachusetts, and it still exists in Swansea.
Over the glimmering waterways walled with dark oak woods came Tommy Ten
Canoes, with five of his famous boats, and landed at a place near the
thrifty Baptist colony, so that his little navy might be at the ready
service of Philip. It was the last days of June. There had been an
eclipse of the moon on the night that Tommy Ten Canoes had glided up the
Sowans River towards Myles Bridge. He thought the eclipse was meant for
him and his little boats, and he was a very proud and happy man.
"The moon went out in the clear sky when we left the bay," said he; "so
shall our enemies be extinguished. The moon shone again on the calm
river. For whom did the moon shine again? For Nipanset."
Poor Tommy Ten Canoes! He was not the first hero of modern times who has
thought that the moon and stars were made for him, and shone for him on
special occasions.
In old Captain Moseley's company was a Jamaica pilot who had visited
Pokanoket and been presented to Tommy, and told that the latter was a
very renowned Indian.
"_What_ are you?" asked the Pilot.
"I am Tommy One Canoe."
"Ah!"
"I am Tommy Two Canoes."
"Indeed! Ah!"
"I am Tommy Three Canoes."
"Oh! Ah! Indeed!"
"I am Tommy Four Canoes, _and_ I am Tommy Five Canoes, _and_ I am Tommy
Six Canoes, _and_ I am Tommy Ten Canoes."
"Well, Tommy Ten Canoes," answered the Pilot, "don't you ever get into
any trouble with the white people, because you might find yourself
merely Tommy No Canoes."
Tommy was offended at the answer. He had no fears of such a fall from
power, however.
The old Jamaica pilot had taken a boat and drifted down the Sowans River
one long June day, when he chanced to discover Tommy and his five
canoes. The canoes were hauled up on the shore under the cool trees
which over-shadowed the water. The Pilot, who had with him three men,
rowed boldly to the shore and surprised Tommy Ten Canoes, who had gone
into the wood, leaving his weapons in one of his canoes.
The Pilot seized the canoe with the weapons and drew it from the shore.
Tommy Ten Canoes beheld the movement with astonishment. He called to the
old Pilot, "I am Tommy Ten Canoes!"
"No, no," answered the Pilot. "You are Tommy Nine Canoes."
Presently the Pilot drew from the shore another canoe. Tommy called
again:
"Don't you know me? I am--"
"Tommy Eight Canoes," said the Pilot.
Another boat was removed in like manner, and the Pilot shouted, "And now
you are Tommy Seven Canoes." Another, and the Pilot called again, "Now
you are Tommy Six Canoes." Another. "Good-by, Tommy Five Canoes," said
the Pilot, and he and his men drew all of the light canoes after them up
the river.
Xerxes at Salamis could hardly have felt more crushed in heart than
Tommy Ten Canoes. But hope revived; he was Tommy Five Canoes still. He
was not quite so sure now, however, that the moon on that still June
night had been eclipsed expressly for him.
The scene of the war now changed to the western border, as the towns of
Hadley and Deerfield were called, for these towns in that day were the
"great West," as afterwards was the Ohio Reserve. Tommy having lost five
of his canoes, now used his swift feet as a messenger. He still had
hopes of doing great deeds, else why had the moon been eclipsed on that
beautiful June night?
But an event followed the loss of his five canoes that quite changed his
opinion. As a messenger or runner he had hurried to the scene of the
brutal conflicts on the border, and had there discovered that Captain
Moseley, the old Jamaica pirate, was subject to some spell of
enchantment; that he had _two_ heads.
"Ugh! ugh! him no good!" said one of the Indians to Tommy; "he take off
his head, and put him in his pocket. It is no use to fight him. Spell
set on him--enchanted."
Tommy Ten Canoes' fear of the man with two heads, one of which he
sometimes took off and put in his pocket, spread among the Indians. One
day in a skirmish Tommy saw Moseley take off one of his enchanted heads
and hang it on a blueberry-bush. Other Indians saw it. "No scalp him,"
said they. "Run!" And run they did, not from the open foe, but from the
supposed head on the bush. Moseley did not dream at the time that it was
his wig that had given him the victory.
Across the Mount Hope Bay, among the sunny headlands of Pocassett, there
was an immense cedar swamp, cool and dark, and in summer full of
fire-flies. Tommy Ten Canoes called it the swamp of the fire-flies. It
was directly opposite Pokanoket, across the placid water. A band of
Indians gathered here, and covered their bodies with bushes, so that
they might not be discovered on the shore.
One moonlight night in September Tommy went to visit these masked
Indians in four of his canoes. He rowed one of the canoes, and three
squaws the others. On reaching the fire-fly cedar swamp the party met
the masked Indians, and late at night retired to rest, the three Indian
squaws sleeping on the shore under their three canoes.
Captain Moseley had sent the old Jamaica pilot to try to discover the
hiding-place of this mysterious band of Indians. The Pilot had seen the
four canoes crossing the bay from Pokanoket under the low September
moon, and had hurried with a dozen men to the place of landing. He
surprised the party early the next morning, when they were disarmed and
asleep.
The crack of his musket rang out in the clear air over the bay. A naked
Indian was seen to leap up.
"Stop! I am Tommy Ten Canoes."
"No, Tommy Five Canoes," answered the old Pilot; "and now you are only
Tommy Four Canoes." Saying which, the Pilot seized the _sixth_ canoe.
A shriek followed; another, and another. Three canoes hidden in the
river-weeds were overturned, and three Indian squaws were seen running
into the dark swamp.
"And now you are Tommy Three Canoes," said the Pilot, seizing the
seventh canoe. "And now Tommy Two Canoes," seizing the eighth.
"And only Tommy One Canoe," taking possession of the ninth canoe. "And
now you are Tommy No Canoes, as I told you you would be if you went to
war," said the Pilot, taking according to this odd reckoning the
Indian's last canoe.
But Tommy had one canoe left, notwithstanding the dark Pilot had taken
his _tenth_. He was glad that it was not here. It would have been his
_eleventh_ canoe, although he had but ten. He knew that the Pilot was
one of Moseley's men, the Captain who put his head at times in his
pocket or hung it upon a bush. Poor Tommy Ten Canoes! He uttered a
shriek, like the fugitive squaws, and fled.
"Don't shoot at him," said the old Pilot to his men. "I have taken from
him all of his ten canoes; let him go."
Tommy had not a mathematical mind or education, but he knew that somehow
he had no eleventh canoe, and that one of his ten canoes yet remained.
And even the old Pilot must have at last seen that his count often was
only nine. Tommy fled to a point on the Titicut River at which he could
swim across, and then made his solitary way back to the shores of
Pokanoket and to his remaining canoe, which did not belong to
mathematics.
One morning late in September Tommy Ten Canoes turned his solitary canoe
towards Cole's River, near which lived his boy friend, James Brown. He
paddled slowly, and late in the dreamy afternoon reached the shore
opposite the Brown farm. He landed and tied his one canoe to Jemmie
Brown's boat, in which the two had spent many happy hours before the
war.
The canoe was found there the next day; but Tommy Ten Canoes? He was
never seen again; he probably sought a grave in the waters of the bay.
But he had fulfilled his promise. He had been true in his heart as "the
north wind to the river, the west wind to the sea, and the south wind to
the flowers."
[Illustration: From Chum to Chum]
BY GASTON V. DRAKE.
XIV.--FROM BOB TO JACK.
PARIS.
[Illustration]
DEAR JACK,--_Bon joor!_ That's French for how are you. It's
wonderful how quick you get the hang of a language. We haven't been
here more than a week, and I find myself thinking in French. When I
waked up this morning the first thing I said was _voilà_, and when
I got down to breakfast and the waiter brought me a chop with
mushrooms on it, without having to think at all I said
_kerskersay_, which is French for what on earth's that. What's
more, I dream in French. I drempt the other night that Napoleon
came back to life again and asked me to take dinner with him, and I
went and kept up a conversation all through the evening with him in
his own language. He kept calling me Mussoo Bobbee and I'd call him
M. le General. He told me all about his battles, how he ran across
the bridge of Lody with bullets just raining all about him, and
lots of awful funny things about himself that made me roar with
laughter. But the queer part of it all is that while I understood
him perfectly well while I was asleep, the minute I waked up I
couldn't translate a thing he'd said to me. That's the worst of
dreams, but I'm glad I had that one, because I really feel now as
if I'd met Napoleon.
[Illustration]
I tell you, Jack, he was a great man that Napoleon. He wasn't big,
but he covered the ground. Pop says he was the greatest man that
ever lived except me and George Washington. He wasn't a Frenchman
at all, only a Corsican. And he was a fighter right from the start.
He used to make snow forts at school, and when it came to a
snowball fight, Pop says he wasn't out of it a minute. He was
fearfully brave, and if it hadn't been for the weather he'd never
have been beaten at Waterloo. Somehow or other he couldn't fight in
the wet, and every time he had the elements against him he got
beaten. When he got to Moscow the Russians set fire to the town,
and that beat him, and on the way back the snow just regularly
froze him out, and then it rained at Waterloo, and that finished
him.
[Illustration]
They keep his memory very green here though, which I am glad of
because he deserved it. He's got a tomb that's worth dying for to
get. It's out back of the Hotel des Invalides under a great big
dome, and it's so arranged that when the sun shines through two big
stained yellow glass windows at the back it looks as if great
rivers of glory were being poured on it; and all around it are the
battle flags with cannon-ball holes in them, and altogether it
makes you feel as if little chills were playing tag up and down
your back.
Jules says it was a pity he didn't have two or three boys like me.
That was all he needed, he said, to make France the biggest nation
in the world. He says I'm very much like Napoleon in several ways.
One is I wasn't born in France, another is that I don't seem to be
able to keep still two minutes in succession, and always want to be
doing something, but I guess he was only trying to be complimentary
and make me feel good.
[Illustration]
After we'd seen the tomb of Napoleon we went up the Eiffel Tower.
It's a funny-looking thing, and I'd hate to have it fall while I
was on top of it, because it's a thousand feet high, which is no
fun if you're tumbling. Pop says it wasn't built according to
rules. The rule is that there's plenty of room at the top, but with
the Eiffel Tower there's hardly any; but, my, what a view you get!
It was awful funny to look down on the city of Paris from that
fearful height. The people looked like lady-bugs crawling along
the sidewalk, and the one-horse fakirs looked for all the world
like beetles, and it's given me a very different idea about birds
from what I used to have. I used to wonder why birds were such
fraid-cats, but I know now why it is. It must scare a bird like
everything to be soring way up there in the sky and think he sees a
nice fat luscious beetle for breakfast crawling along the street,
and then pounce down on it and find out it's a horse and wagon
worth fifty cents an hour. It really takes an eagle to stand a
surprise like that. Pop bought some souvenirs on top of the tower,
and I'll bring you home one of 'em when I come. It's a brass medal
with a picture of the tower on it, and it cost two dollars. Pop
says that's two cents for the medal and the rest for souvenir. When
I asked him to buy it he said isn't that rather expensive? Not for
me if you buy it, I said, and that made a man laugh, and he said to
Pop that's a bright boy of yours, and Pop felt so proud he bought
two of 'em. There was an artist on the first floor of the tower
that drew your picture while you waited, for five francs. Pop had
him make one of me, and it's fine. Aunt Sarah says there isn't much
art in it, but Pop thinks differently. He says it's really a
wonderful picture, it's so like somebody else considering I sat for
it.
The elevators in the Eiffel Tower are wonderful. They run right up
its legs, the way ants do us at picnics, only inside, and glorious
to say they were made not only in the United States, but in
Yonkers, where I was born, and going up in 'em makes you feel as if
you were at sea, because they can't go up straight, the legs being
bandy. At one time you'd have thought I was lying on the floor when
I was only standing up straight, it got off the perpendicular so
far. Pop asked why it was they didn't have a sign up telling people
that these elevators came from Yonkers, and a man that knew all
about it said it wouldn't do any good because the French people
didn't know where Yonkers was, and besides they were exciteable,
and wouldn't ride in a machine they thought wasn't French. "Let 'em
walk then," said Pop. "It's too high up," said the man. "Well,"
said Pop, "as a walk it may be high up, but as a trick it's low
down." And the man agreed with him, but he said: "It isn't my
fault. Mr. Eiffel built the tower, I didn't. I'm only a
green-grocer at Leamington." And then we all laughed, but Pop's
kind of mad about it yet, because he's proud of Yonkers, and thinks
people that do things ought to get credit for 'em.
After we came down from the tower I wanted Pop to take me up in a
balloon they had flying about a mile away, but he wouldn't. He
thought we'd had high living enough for one day, and, besides,
Jules advised us not to go. He said every once in a while the
balloon broke loose and landed in the desert of Sahara, which is
very awkward to those who can't go a week without water and don't
eat sand. And the walking is bad, so we didn't go.
To-morrow we are going out to the palace at Versailles in a big
coach, and if I see anything worth telling about I'll drop you
another line.
Yours ever
BOB.
PRACTICAL GOLF.
BY W. G. VAN TASSEL SUTPHEN.
(_In Five Papers._)
II.--DRIVING.
All golf is divided into three parts--driving, approaching, and holing
out--and of these three, driving, or free hitting, either with wood or
iron, is by far the most pleasing. It is a delightful sensation to feel
the ball slip away almost by itself as the club head swings through, and
then to watch it describing its graceful curve of, say, one hundred and
fifty yards through the air, or skimming like a swallow, straight and
low over that dreaded bunker. Without driving, indeed, there would be
very little golf, and happy is the man who may always count upon being
both far and sure.
Now although style cannot drive a ball, there is still a right and a
wrong way of going at the problem, and the first thing is to clearly
understand the conditions of that problem. Let the player imagine
himself at the centre of a circle, the radius of which is the length of
his arms plus the club shaft, and upon whose circumference is resting
the ball that is to be swept away. Remember, too, that it is to be a
swing and not a hit, that the club head should be treated as though it
were a bit of lead attached to a string, and consequently dependent for
its effectiveness on speed and not on weight. Obviously, if the circle
in which it swings is not perfect, if at any point the string is
suddenly lengthened or shortened, the ball will either be missed
altogether or the force will be imperfectly applied, resulting in a loss
of power. Take a piece of lead and a bit of string, and try the
experiment for yourself. It will at least show you how clearly distinct
the golf swing is from the hit of a baseball bat, and how speed may
become equivalent to weight.
It is customary to advise beginners to use clubs with very stiff shafts,
but I am inclined to think that the reformed baseball-player will do
better with a springy driver. With a very stiff club there is an
irresistible inclination to _hit_ at the ball, and this is exactly what
you must not do. You must be able to feel the club head swinging at the
end of the shaft, as though it were really the bit of lead on a string.
The instant that you attempt to hurry that swing you throw it out of
time and true, and the result is failure. Weight and brute strength may
drive a baseball, but for the golf-ball it is speed and accuracy that
are needed.
[Illustration: THE "ADDRESS."]
Having determined, then, that the stroke shall lie a swing and not a
jerk nor a hit, the first thing is to take up our position to the ball,
technically called "addressing" it. Clubs are all about the same length,
but they may vary in their "lie" or in the angle made by the club head
and the shaft. Generally speaking, a tall player will need a more
upright club than his shorter brother, in order that the sole of the
club head may rest flatly on the ground.
It is a rough-and-ready rule that when the club is placed with its
_heel_ behind the ball the end of the handle should just touch the left
knee of the player standing upright. Other authorities say that the club
should be grounded with its _centre_ and not its _heel_ opposite to the
ball. As a matter of fact, the difference of the inch involved amounts
to nothing. You want to be far enough away to get in all the power of
your swing and yet keep steady on your feet. No one can measure that
distance for you; you must accustom yourself to take it without thinking
about it.
As for the position of the ball, it should be just in advance of the
imaginary line drawn from the left eye over the hands and down the shaft
to the face of the club head. In other words, let left eye, hands, club
shaft, and the striking face of the head be in the same plane, with the
ball a quarter of an inch in front. This, again, should be arrived at
instinctively. If you try to measure it by a foot-rule you will be
wrong.
The proper position of the feet, or the "stance," is a question about
which the doctors disagree. According to one authority, you should stand
squarely opposite the ball, with both feet equally distant from the line
of fire. Another teacher advises that the right foot should be slightly
advanced in the old or "open" style. According to the modern school, the
right foot should be drawn _back_ two or three inches. Which is right?
As a matter of fact, good golf is possible in all three styles, but it
is generally acknowledged that the last-named position is the most
commanding of the three, and it is the one generally adopted by the
modern school and the majority of professionals. But it should not be
exaggerated, or the power will be gained at the expense of accuracy. The
most important thing is that the "stance" should be absolutely firm. The
"straddle" should be taken naturally, with the feet neither too far
apart nor too close together.
The proper grip was illustrated in last week's paper. It is not the
natural position for the hands _when at rest_, but experience has
decided that it is the best for the swing. In particular the left hand
should be well over the club, or freedom of motion is impossible. Get
your grip by grasping the club as though you were about to strike a blow
straight down upon an anvil, and then swing gently two or three times
directly over the ball, describing a flourish that shall resemble an
elongated eight. This is called the "waggle," and its purpose is to
assist the hands to settle into position. Finally ground the club close
behind the ball for an instant, and then swing back for the real
business of the stroke. About an inch of the shaft should be left above
the grip to give greater command over the club. The thumb may lie along
the shaft or be wrapped around it, or one thumb may be around and the
other along the handle. In any case the grip of the left hand must be
absolutely firm and close so that there may be no possibility of the
club turning at the moment of impact. The right hand may be
comparatively loose, but, generally speaking, that hand will take care
of itself. Finally, keep the left wrist as taut as possible, and
remember that every inch that separates your hands on the shaft takes
off yards from the length of the drive. Let the arms be naturally bent,
and keep your hands low. The end of the shaft should point well below
the waistcoat.
[Illustration: BEGINNING OF FULL SWING.]
Coming now to the swing proper, it is a safe rule not to attempt too
much at first. If you watch a professional making a full drive, you will
see his body turn and his left heel come well off the ground, while the
club will appear to wind completely around him. But if you attempt to
imitate him you will soon find yourself in difficulty. Instead of
turning your body, you will be inclined to sway it over the right leg;
rising on the left toe will throw you off your balance, and you will
only be able to get a long swing back by bending your wrists. Now all
these things are wrong, and tend to inaccuracy and feebleness. The thing
for you to do is to take a short or half-swing back, and trust to
practice to lengthen it. It is very important that your up swing should
be slow, so that the arms may go freely out from the body. "Slow back,"
as it is called, is a cardinal principle. Otherwise you are sure to make
the swing too straight up and down. Let the swing finish itself out, as
the fly fisherman does when casting, and let the return be swift and
even. Keep your shoulders loose and your body firm, and as your swing
lengthens your body will turn to accommodate it. But it must turn on its
own axis, as does a rudder-post, and not sway from side to side after
the fashion of a boom. And all the time you must have your eyes fixed
upon the ball or you will never hit it cleanly.
[Illustration: END OF FULL SWING.]
It is a poor practice to make one or two false swings, pulling up short
just before reaching the ball. It is certain to get you in the bad habit
of "nipping," or not following through after the ball. This after-swing
is fully as important as the first part, although no one knows exactly
why. Let the club swing through and with the arms freely flung out from
the body.
Make your tees low. There is no advantage in perching the ball upon a
pyramid of sand that resembles a chicken croquette, and it will incline
you to "top" (hitting the ball above the centre instead of below it)
from the ordinary lies of the green.
You will say that it is impossible to remember all these things, and you
are right. But if you will read over what I have said with attention, it
will help you to understand the few absolutely indispensable conditions
upon which good driving depends. Here they are:
1. Stand firm.
2. Don't sway your body.
3. Keep the left wrist taut, and grip hard with that hand.
4. Ground your club close behind the ball before swinging.
5. Swing back slowly, letting your arms well out.
6. Follow through freely, and _keep your eye on the ball_.
FOR KATY'S BIRTHDAY.
BY CELIA CURRIER.
As I walked down the garden path
In the pleasant bright May weather,
I saw two busy robins
A-hopping there together.
They were talking low, with heads quite close,
But still I heard one say--
Mr. Redbreast to his mate--
"Katy's ten years old to-day."
"Dear me! ten years! how very old!
How wise the child must be!
I suppose, now, she could build a nest
Just as well as we.
"You know it isn't much to do,
As you and I have found;
Just lay the sticks, and weave the hairs,
And make it nice and round."
"She build a nest? you silly wife!
I'm astonished at your words!
She couldn't even catch a worm
To feed the little birds!
"She knows arithmetic and grammar,
Can read and write and sing,
But as for building nests like ours,
She isn't worth a thing."
Then the bees set up a humming
In the apple-tree close by,
And I watched them very closely
To see what I could spy.
And I listened, too, to hear,
If I could, what they would say,
And they said, just like the robins,
"Katy's ten years old to-day."
And then they seemed so very pleased,
They said, still buzzing gladly,
"So much to do in this great world,
We need her help so badly.
"We wonder which she would prefer,
To store the sweets or gather;
Because, you know, we'll let her do
Exactly what she'd rather."
Then up spoke Madam Queen Bee,
Clad in velvet, black, and gold--
Her dress was very charming,
But she was cross and old--
"She can knit and sew, I dare say,
And she knows the use of money,
But I'd rather have the smallest bee
When it comes to making honey."
So I left them buzzing earnestly;
They couldn't quite agree
Whether Katy was as useful
As the very smallest bee.
And I walked back to the door,
Where, upon the braided mat,
Sleeping soundly in the sunshine,
Lay the gray old pussy-cat.
Then, tearing round the corner,
Came the kittens, one, two, three--
Black Bess, and Star, and Dicky--
Tumbling headlong in their glee.
"Oh Mamma Cat, wake up!" they cried,
"Hear what we've got to say.
We know you'll be astonished,
Katy's ten years old to-day."
The old cat yawned and blinked,
Stretched herself upon the mat,
Sweetly smiled on Star and Dicky,
Gave Bess a gentle pat,
Said, "She sweeps and dusts the parlor,
And that is very nice,
But she isn't worth as much as you;
You know she can't catch mice."
I laughed a little softly;
It really seemed absurd
That, because she couldn't do their work,
The cat, the bee, the bird,
Should think her worth so little,
When her friends all join to say
They wouldn't part with Katy
For millions such as they.
So, ten happy years behind her,
Six times ten, we trust, to come,
We leave our little maiden
To make sunshine in her home.
That, I'm sure, is better far
(It can't be bought for money)
Than catching mice, or building nests,
Or even making honey.
AN "OLD-FIELD" SCHOOL-GIRL.[1]
[1] Begun in HARPER'S ROUND TABLE No. 857.
BY MARION HARLAND.
CHAPTER VII.
Mr. Grigsby ate his supper alone that night, having come home very late.
The younger children were in bed, the three elder busy with their
lessons, when he entered "the chamber." His wife hardly waited for him
to be seated and to light his pipe before plunging into the story of the
reports.
"Bea's is fustrate, if I do say it--'Lessons very good. Conduct very
good.' Dee's was 'Lessons indiffrunt. Conduc' good.' Flea--she says she
lost hern on the way home. That's what makes me say what I do say 'bout
that child. A-traipsin' 'bout the country 't all hours, an' come to look
for the repo't her pa's got to sign an' sen' back to the teacher
ter-morrer, 'taint nowhar to be foun'."
Flea did not lift her head during the tirade. Her slate was propped up
in a slanting position by a book; her round comb had been pushed to the
back of her head, and her shock of hair tumbled low upon her forehead.
The terrible test sum already covered one side of the slate. At her
father's voice the pencil stood still, although she did not look up.
"If she says she lost the paper, it is true. My lassie never tells a
lie."
Flea dashed down the pencil and started up. Her eyes burned like live
coals. "Father trusts me! I knew he would. I'll tell you just what was
in the old report. It said: 'Lessons good--usually. Conduct----_room for
improvement!_' There was a long ugly dash after 'conduct.' Now you know
all there is to tell."
"Well, I declare!" from Bea, and "Did you ever?" from Mrs. Grigsby, were
followed by Dee's drawling comment:
"It warn't fair, pa. Mr. Tayloe hates her because she's smarter than
him. She's the bes' girl in school."
Flea burst into tears, sobbing so hysterically that her father put his
arm about her and led her from the room. In five minutes he was back,
and glanced over the table.
"Where is your sister's slate, Bea?"
He took it from her hand, and stood for a moment, running his eyes down
the calculation that resembled an irregular staircase, his rugged face
relaxing as he marked the erasures and smears telling of a weary fight
with the task. He was at the door when Bea's prim pert tone arrested
him,
"Mr. Tayloe will ask me to-morrow if anybody helped her, pa."
"I never knew you to be backward in tale-telling," rejoined her father,
and went on his way.
Flea was in the dining-room, already half comforted. Her father had
listened sympathizingly to the story of her hour's labor over the
formidable sum, and encouraged her to persevere by predictions of her
final success. He now lighted another candle and established her
comfortably on one side of the table.
"I will read my newspaper over here," he said, cheerily. "Nobody shall
disturb you. I am sorry to tell you, lassie, that there are mistakes in
the work on that slate. I cannot tell you what they are, but I advise
you to wash the slate clean and try to forget how you did the sum
before. 'Rub out and try again,' is one of the best rules in such
cases."
He copied upon the margin of his newspaper the figures written by the
teacher before he gave back the slate, and when she had washed it, set
down the sum again for her.
"You make prettier figures than Mr. Tayloe does," said Flea, gratefully,
laying her cheek against the brawny hand.
She fell to work with fresh zeal. Now and then her father stole a
pitying glance at her intent face, but he did not interrupt her. At half
past ten Mrs. Grigsby's disapproving visage appeared at the door. Her
husband shook his head authoritatively; she shut her teeth down upon the
exclamation that was between them, and vanished. At eleven o'clock the
premises were still, except for the occasional rustle of the newspaper
and the continuous scratch of Flea's pencil. At half past eleven she
laid down the pencil and rubbed her cramped fingers.
"Father, would it be helping me if you were to look at it, and tell me
if it is right now?"
Both sides of the slate were covered with figures, so childish and
unevenly rounded that the father's heart ached at the sight. In reaching
the bottom of the second side he smiled and patted the head leaning
against his shoulder.
"Well done, lassie! It was a tough fight, but you've won it. I am proud
of you, my little heroine!"
He not only kissed her "Good-night" twice, but he went all the way up
stairs with her, lighted her bedroom candle, looked to the fastenings of
the windows, and, Flea strongly suspected, was within an ace of offering
to help her undress.
Poor father! he had called her a heroine just because she had done a sum
in long division!
The missing report did not come to light. The next morning being dry and
sunny, the children went by the field path to school, purposely to look
about the door of the haunted house to see if Flea could have lost the
paper there. There was no sign of it. In case she could not find it, she
was to give the teacher a note of explanation written by her father. Mr.
Tayloe had not arrived when she got to the school-house, and she laid
the note upon the Bible that was on his desk, where he could not help
seeing it. He read it, drawing his brows together, but said nothing of
the contents until the second class in arithmetic came up to recite.
"Felicia Grigsby!" was the first name called.
A subdued rustle ran through the school. By now the children had learned
to understand when there was war in the pale eyes.
Flea stepped forward and offered her slate. The pale eyes snapped.
"Whose figures are these?"
"The sum was so rubbed that my father wrote it down for me again," said
Flea, modestly and simply.
"That's a likely story. We'll talk more of it presently."
He went over the sum to himself, making a sort of humming noise without
unclosing his lips. This "um-m-m-m!" was the only sound in the room.
When he read the quotient, he snorted violently.
"Your father is a good hand at long division. You can tell him that I
said so when you go home."
She met his eyes full. Slander of her father made her fearless.
"He did not help me to do that sum, Mr. Tayloe."
"Beatrice Grigsby! what have you to say of this matter?"
Bea stammered and blushed in giving the testimony upon which the
inquisitor insisted. At last he drew out the admission that her father
had sat with Flea in the dining-room all the evening, and let nobody
else come in.
There was no color in the face Flea turned upon her sister, but plenty
of fight in flaming eyes and working lips.
"Bea Grigsby! you know that father _wouldn't_ have helped me! He only
told me once that the sum was not right."
"Silence!" thundered the teacher, bringing down the ruler upon the desk.
"What more help did you want than that? David Grigsby, come here, sir!"
Dee stumped up the aisle, settling stolidly into his hips at each step.
"What story do you tell? Your sisters give one another the lie in fine
style."
"Flea never told a lie in her life," asserted Dee, sturdily. "Pa said so
las' night."
"He has a better opinion of her than I have. How did he happen to say
that?"
"Cause ma she didn't b'lieve Flea los' her report."
"Your 'ma'"--mimicking the witness's drawl--"has more sense than your
'pa.' Did you see him help your truth-telling Flea with her sum?"
"No, sir."
"You wouldn't tell me if you had, would you?"
"No, sir."
By the time the dogged reply left his lips he reeled under a crack of
the ruler upon his head. Flea cried out once and sharply, and hid her
face with her hands.
Mr. Tayloe addressed the school: "This girl has disobeyed me. She has
tried to cheat me. She has lied outright. She also, as I believe, tore
up her report to keep from showing it at home. She will stand for an
hour on the dunce-stool with the dunce-cap on her head. She will not
leave the school-room at play-time. She will stay after school for an
hour for three days, and do, each day, a sum in long division as long as
that her father did last night. The other girls to whom I gave the sum
have had the honesty to confess that they could not do it. They will not
be punished. They have neither cheated nor lied."
If the child had been as guilty as he said, the punishment would have
been extreme. Some of the girls cried silently behind their books; the
boys exchanged savage looks in the shelter of slates and atlases. Nobody
was amused by the grotesque figure mounted upon a tall stool by Mr.
Tayloe, and facing the school, a conical paper cap upon her head.
Something in the livid, set face that gazed over and beyond their heads
with blank, unseeing eyes, appalled the most thoughtless.
Bea shed becoming tears, and was pitied by all for her sister's
misconduct. Dee got a terrible flogging for sulking and disrespect. When
called up to recite, he stood with locked jaws and clinched fists, and
would not answer a single question. Flea cast an agonized glance at the
loyal little rebel as the blows fell thick and fast and his jaws were
not unlocked. He would die under the lash, she knew, sooner than cry out
now that his blood was up. She had the same in her veins, and she had
not shed a tear.
It was a field-day long to be remembered in the history of the Tayloe
reign. More lessons were missed through stupidity or lack of study than
upon any previous day. During Flea's hour upon the dunce-stool Snail
Snead and Tom Carter were thrashed, Emma Jones had a taste of the ruler
upon her palm, and six girls were in tears from the sarcastic scoldings
dealt out to them. There was no romping or jollity upon the play-ground
when Mr. Tayloe went home for his luncheon, and little appetite for the
"snacks" brought from home. One and all, the children had been forbidden
to speak to Flea, left solitary on the front bench, but Dee sat on the
floor at her feet, his head against her knee, like an ailing, devoted
puppy.
The hour rolled heavily by, and the afternoon session began. Every
lesson recited by Flea during that horrible session was without a flaw.
It was not in child-flesh to feign cheerfulness or to appear
indifferent. She looked obstinate and sullen. She was _mad_ (in the
Virginia sense of the word) through and through. Yet her brain did its
work well. She had passed the red-hot stage of temper, and was now at
the white heat that often makes the mind abnormally clear.
Two other children had been condemned to stay in, but their lessons were
despatched in ten minutes, and Mr. Tayloe and Flea had the school-house
to themselves. His watch was laid, as usual, upon the desk, and he
glanced at it frequently while writing his letters. Flea busied herself
with the sum he had written out for her, the identical sum she had done
last night, and, therefore, easy work.
"Have you done it?" asked the teacher, as her pencil ceased its
scratching.
"Yes, sir."
"Bring it here!" As he took it he said, rudely, "Go to the spring and
bring me a bucket of water."
No girl had ever been ordered to fetch water for the use of the school
or the master. It was the boys' business. Without a word, Flea took the
big tin bucket and dipper from the window-sill and started to the door.
"Be quick about it!" was called after her.
She sauntered down the hill, insolent, reckless, and dangerous. She had
had "tiffs" and tempers often before, but they were passing flurries
that left no trace upon character. What had been done to her since she
passed this spring on her way to school, less than seven hours ago,
could never be forgotten or forgiven. The tinkle of the water into the
trough, and the whispering among the grasses as it stole away to lower
ground, irritated instead of soothing her. She kicked a stone into the
ripples to change the sound, filled the dipper, drained it thirstily,
and was about to brim it again, when Mrs. Fogg's wheedling whine made
her look around. The old woman was watching her craftily.
"What you doin' totin' water, chile, like a nigger? Who set you 'bout
that sort o' work?"
"The Old Harry!" said Flea, deliberately. Her eyes were black and deep;
red fire burned behind and through them. "I told you that he lived up
there!"--jerking her head backward in the direction of the school-house.
"You'd better keep away, if you don't want to be scorched."
The old woman's laugh was like the rattling of pebbles in a gourd. "Lor'
bless you, my sweet little lady! I ain't afeard of the Old Harry in
broad daylight. They tell me he _do_ treat you mighty mean, and that's a
fac'. I wonder yo' pa stands it. I s'pose he daresn't cross the Major.
The Major's mighty thick with the teacher. Ah well! the pore was made to
be trompled inter the mire of the dus'. Thar's a day a-comin' when
they'll have to answer for the deeds done in their bodies."
For the first time Flea detected a false ring in the snuffling cant. She
started up the bank, lugging the heavy bucket; the water, plashing and
trickling over the sides, wet her feet and ankles and angered her still
further. Mrs. Fogg overtook her and seized one side of the handle.
"Lemme tote it fur you, deary! 'Tain't fitten work fur yo' pretty white
han's. He mus' be a nimp o' the Evil One, sure 'nough, to let you be a
carrier o' water an' a drawer o' wood, this yere fashion."
She was not to be shaken off, and they went together to the school-house
door. There Flea nodded her thanks, lugged the bucket with both hands to
the head of the room, and set it down upon a bench. She would not offer
her tormentor what she had brought, as if she were his negro slave. In
her absence her slate had been laid upon her seat. _Both sides were
bare!_ In fact, the teacher had found her work correct, and chose this
ungracious mode of dismissing her for the day. She instantly concluded
that he meant for her to do the sum over from the beginning. The match
had touched the powder-magazine of temper. Rising to her feet she
surveyed him with desperate eyes. He sat quite erect as he wrote, and
worked his month oddly, compressing and loosening his lips, sometimes
fast, sometimes slowly. Now he drew his eyebrows together, and then he
would smile at what he was writing. He was comfortable and at peace with
himself, this natty, prosperous, and powerful little man, whom she knew
to be the vilest of the vile. If she thought that the blow would kill
him, she would bring her big slate crashing down upon his skull. She
could not kill him, but she could injure and mortify him.
[Illustration: "A TORRENT OF ICE-COLD WATER DELUGED HIM."]
Quickly and easily she lifted the pail she had carried with difficulty
just now. Wrath lent her strength. In a twinkling it was turned upside
down upon the head of the unsuspecting writer; a torrent of ice-cold
water deluged him, and as she let go the bucket it clattered down upon
his shoulders, covering his head like an enormous cap.
It was the deed of a second. In another second Flea had cleared the
school-house and was running for her life.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
RICK DALE.
BY KIRK MUNROE.