PART I. treats of stamps in general and successively of all the details

[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]

Copyright, 1895, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.

* * * * *

PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 19, 1895. FIVE CENTS A

COPY.

VOL. XVII.--NO. 833. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.

* * * * *

[Illustration: THEN, WITH MUCH LABOR AND DIFFICULTY, HE PICKED HIMSELF

UP AND CRAWLED TOWARD THE GATE.]

HUNTING AN ANARCHIST.

A THANKSGIVING STORY FOUNDED ON FACT.

BY ALBERT LEE.

When Fred Hallowell graduated from school in the spring of 1893, and

passed his final examinations for college, there was every promise that

he would have an enjoyable summer vacation followed by four years of

pleasant college life. But owing to the panic of 1893 Mr. Hallowell

failed in business, and Fred found that instead of going to college he

must look about for some sort of position, in order that he might not be

an additional drain on the very greatly reduced resources of his

parents.

It is not a part of this story to tell of Fred's discouraging endeavors

to secure a position in New York. Business men were discharging employés

in those days, not engaging new ones. Finally, he managed, through an

old acquaintance, to secure a position as reporter on the staff of the

_Gazette_. He started into his new life with an energy that soon

attracted the attention of his employers, and it was not long before the

city editor began to feel that the new reporter was a reliable man.

The week before Thanksgiving Fred made a few extra dollars by writing a

short article for one of the illustrated weeklies, and as Thursday was

his regular day "off" he decided that he would use this money to take a

little trip up the Hudson to his home, and spend Thanksgiving day with

his family. He had just mailed his letter, announcing his intention to

visit home, when the city editor called him to his desk and handed him a

clipping from one of the morning papers, which stated that a certain

Frenchman, suspected of being prominent in anarchistic circles, had

visited a French school-ship, then anchored in the North River, and that

the officers had recognized him as a dangerous criminal, a fugitive from

French justice.

"This may be one of the _Star_'s fakes," said the city editor, "but you

go out on the story, and keep at it until you get all the facts. It may

take you several days. If you find it's true, we'll make a spread of it,

and have the fellow arrested."

Fred was pleased at getting such an important assignment, and looked

forward hopefully to some exciting work, although he feared there would

be nothing in the story in the end. He went at once on board of the

French school-ship, where he found a young lieutenant, who had been

officer of the deck a few days before, and who had seen a man whom he

thought he recognized as an anarchist he had seen on trial in Paris

several years before. He had mentioned this fact to a _Star_ reporter

who came aboard for news that evening, simply because he had nothing

else to tell him, but he doubted that the man he had seen could be the

Paris anarchist, although the latter had escaped from France, and was

supposed to have fled to America. His name was Etienne Renard, and the

officer gave Fred a description of him. As the reporter left the ship he

instinctively asked if there was any news, and the lieutenant told him

they expected to sail in a few days for Haiti, and that one seaman had

deserted since their arrival in New York harbor. Fred made a paragraph

of this information, and sent it down to the _Gazette_ office by

messenger.

As he stood on the dock a few minutes later, looking up and down the

river, as if he thought some inspiration might come to him from the

puffing tugs in midstream, he wondered what he should do next, for he

was now left without a clew. He knew the anarchists of New York had

several gathering-places over on the east side of the city, but he felt

sure that even if Renard frequented any of these, it would be under an

assumed name, and he further knew there was no place where a reporter

was less welcome than at a resort of anarchists. Nevertheless, he

determined to see what he could learn in that quarter, and soon was on

his way to a restaurant called "Zum Groben Michel," a place that has

acquired more or less notoriety, because of the riotous meetings that

have been held by men of anarchistic and nihilistic tendencies within

its doors.

He found a number of ugly-looking characters sitting in the place, but

none answered to the description of Renard. He asked a few of the

neighbors if a Frenchman was ever seen thereabouts, but he received

scant courtesy in reply, and no information; and so he went home to

think over some new plan of action. The next day he visited the French

quarter in the region of Bleecker Street and South Fifth Avenue, and

questioned the restaurant-keepers of the neighborhood, but none of them

could remember having seen any man answering to Fred's description of

Renard. Every day he visited the east-side restaurant, but all his work

availed him nothing. He was about to give up the search as futile a

couple of days later; but on his way down town to the office to tell the

city editor of his failure, he stopped off at Bleecker Street, and went

into one of the cheap cafés to make final inquiries from a fat little

French proprietor whom he had found most amiable on a previous visit.

As they talked, a customer with a nautical gait, and somewhat the worse

for drink, rolled in and sat down. The communicative host served him,

and then whispered to Fred that he thought the man was a deserter from

the French ship, who had been keeping pretty quiet till his vessel left

port, and was now taking advantage of his stolen freedom.

The man was a tough-looking customer, unmistakably a seaman, in spite of

his ill-fitting shore clothes; and as Fred sat watching him from across

the room an idea sprang up and gradually developed in his mind. If this

man was the deserter whom the officer had told him of, he might possibly

have run away as a result of Renard's visit to the ship, if Renard was

the stranger who had gone aboard. Therefore he might know Renard; he

might even know where Renard lived--perhaps Renard was giving him

shelter! Fred grew very much excited as these thoughts flashed through

his mind, and determined to follow the man and see where he went. The

latter, however, seemed to be in no haste to give the young detective a

chance to pursue his investigations. He sat in the café until nearly six

o'clock. Then he paid his reckoning and tacked up the street to the

elevated railroad station. Fred boarded the same train, and followed his

man down to South Ferry, where they both went aboard a Staten Island

boat, and on reaching St. George took a train and rode for a short

distance toward South Beach.

It was easy for Fred to follow the sailor when they left the train, for

darkness had come on an hour ago. The Frenchman led the way through the

village, and tramped for half a mile or more along a lonely road that

led inland, over a hill and across country, until they came to a

two-story cottage with a picket fence around it. The sailor staggered

through the gate and up the steps, and opened the door and went in,

slamming it behind him, and Fred was left outside in the darkness alone.

He sat down by the way-side to think over the situation, watching the

house as he did so; but no sound came to his ears, and as the shades

were drawn at the windows of the one room in which a light shone, he saw

nothing. When he had come to the conclusion that there was little to be

gained by sitting out in the dampness staring at a blank wall, he

trudged back to the village, to make inquiries of the station agent and

the town watchman.

"There's somethin' queer about them folks, I guess," the watchman said.

"There was another man askin' me about 'em--'bout a week ago."

Fred feared this other inquirer might have been a _Star_ reporter on the

same errand, and so he laid awake almost all night forming plans for the

conduct of his future investigations. It was now the day before

Thanksgiving, and Fred reluctantly made up his mind he would have to

forego the pleasure of a trip up the Hudson. He wrote to his mother that

she should not expect him, as an important assignment detained him in

town. Then he started off for Staten Island, stopping on the way to the

ferry to hire a bicycle for the day. He followed the same route he had

taken the night before, and shortly after noon he was coasting down the

dusty hill-side in plain view of the two-story cottage. He saw a woman

moving about in the yard, and this pleased him greatly, for he felt she

would materially assist him in his plans. He apparently paid no

attention to her, however, but bent over the handle-bars as if he were

scorching along at full speed; and when he came to within a hundred feet

of the house he deliberately ran into a stone by the way-side and took a

header into the soft road. For a moment he lay perfectly still, with one

eye fastened on the woman (for his fall was purely theatrical), and when

he saw that she had witnessed the "accident" he put his hand to his head

and groaned. Then, with much labor and difficulty, he picked himself up

and crawled toward the gate and asked if he might go into the house, and

requested the woman to get him a glass of water. She did not act very

hospitably about Fred's entering the house, but he begged so

persistently that she reluctantly consented at last. She left him on a

chair in the front room and went back for the water, and Fred was

wondering how he was going to prolong his stay after her return, when he

heard loud and violent talking in a neighboring room, apparently the

kitchen. Two men were soundly berating the woman for having admitted a

stranger to the house. Finally one of the men snarled that he would take

the water and see that the bicyclist got out much more rapidly than he

had come in. Heavy footsteps sounded along the hall, and a man entered

the open door. Fred glanced up with an expression of studied misery,

which immediately changed into one of amazement when he recognized the

man in front of him as one of the patrons of "Zum Groben Michel." The

man evidently recognized Fred, too, for he said fiercely,

"What are you doing here?" He spoke with a German accent.

"I fell off my bicycle," began Fred.

"Your bicycle!" retorted the other. "Bah! I have seen you before. At

'Zum Groben Michel,' eh? You have been there?"

Fred admitted that he had.

"Well, what you do there?" continued the man, getting angrier as he

spoke. "What you do there? You have no business there! You are a

reporter!"

Fred made no reply. He devoutly wished he was still riding along the

dusty road far away from that house.

"You are a reporter!" shouted the man again and again, until his cries

brought another into the room. Fred was satisfied at first sight of him

that he had found Renard; but he realized at the same time that he had

caught a Tartar. Renard said something in French to the first man, who

refused in his rage to listen, but, shaking his fist at Fred, he roared

again,

"You are a reporter!"

"Yes, I am," said the lad, rising to his feet. "And what about it?"

This boldness disconcerted the two men for a moment; and noticing this

Fred ill advisedly determined to be even bolder. He became rash; for

when the man asked, "What do you want here, then?" he said,

"I want to talk with that gentleman, there, Mr. Renard."

The two men became ashy pale at the mention of the name "Renard," and

while one slammed the door which led into the hallway, the other rushed

at Fred and seized him by the shoulder. The boy tried to resist at

first, but when the second man, having turned the key in the lock, came

to his partner's aid, Fred cried out that he would submit.

"We make too much noise here," said the man whom Fred had called Renard,

as he glanced cautiously out of the window, still panting from his

efforts to subdue the reporter.

"Take him up stairs," said the other, gruffly.

"I don't want to go up stairs," gasped Fred, for he, too, was out of

breath. "I don't see what all the row is about, anyway. I am not here to

do you fellows any harm. I came here to talk to Mr. Renard, if this is

Mr. Renard; and if you have not got anything to say for publication,

why, I am ready to go."

Fred was undoubtedly perfectly willing to go without interviewing his

anarchist, but the latter was apparently not of the same mind.

"Oh no," he sneered, "you cannot go yet. We must go up stairs and talk."

The door was opened, and the German led the way up the narrow staircase

to the floor above. Fred followed, because he knew that there was

nothing else for him to do, and he was led into a rear room that had one

small window which looked out over the back yard toward a wooded hill.

"You wait here now," said his companion, curtly; and before Fred could

object the door slammed, and he found himself locked in the room alone.

He was in a nice fix now, he thought to himself, as he stood in the

middle of the room. That man was Renard, no doubt. And here was he,

Fred, a prisoner at his mercy, and to make it worse, he was a reporter,

hated almost as much by anarchists as the police. There was no

possibility of his getting any help, no matter how long he was kept a

prisoner, because no one knew where he was. For the past few days he had

merely reported progress to the _Gazette_ office by telephone, and the

city editor, of course, had not the remotest idea where he was working.

It was impossible to escape from the window, because his captors could

plainly see him if he tried to jump or climb down, for he could hear

their angry voices in the kitchen below. So, after considering all these

things, he wisely adopted the only course left open to him--he decided

to await developments. He sat down, and expected every moment to hear

footsteps coming up the stairs; but no such sound greeted his ears, and

the hours passed slowly by. After a while he got tired of this sort of

thing, and started to make a closer examination of his prison. He

presently found a hole in the wall, with a round piece of tin on it,

that opened into the chimney. The hole was evidently intended for a

stove-pipe, and as soon as he removed the tin covering Fred could hear

the voices below very much more plainly than before, for the sound was

carried up the chimney, and by placing his ear close to the aperture he

could even understand most of the words that were spoken. He intercepted

a portion of the conversation, which startled him greatly.

"Well," said one voice, "I guess he will have to be killed."

"I hate to do it," said the other.

"So do I; but we might as well."

"How shall we do it, then?"

"In the good old-fashioned way, I guess. I'll wring his neck."

Fred did not remain to hear any more. He was almost paralyzed. Here he

was caught in a trap, like a rat, and his captors were discussing the

best way to kill him! He quickly determined that the only thing for him

to do was to make a dash for liberty, so long as he had legs left to run

on. He stepped to the window, and looked out into the back yard and over

toward the woods. In the yard a big fat turkey gobbler was strutting

about apparently little thinking of the date on the calendar. Seeing the

turkey made Fred think of his family at home, and of the grief that

these wretches below were trying to bring upon them, and of the happy

Thanksgiving dinner that he was not to be present at. And as he thought

of Thanksgiving and of the turkey, he leaned over against the window,

and almost laughed out loud.

"The turkey!" he said to himself--"the turkey! Those fellows were

talking about him; they were not talking about me. Anarchists, I

suppose, have Thanksgiving dinners the same as any one else. Why, one

man spoke of wringing his neck--it's the turkey, of course." And then he

wished he had listened longer to hear more. He was about to return to

the stove-pipe hole for this purpose when there was the noisiest kind of

hubbub downstairs. He heard yells and shouts and scuffling, and the

tramping of many feet; as if an army of men had gotten into a fight. He

could not make out what this was, and wondered if his captors had

quarrelled and come to blows. This fracas lasted about five minutes, and

then there was comparative silence. Ten minutes later the door of his

room was thrown open, and Fred found himself face to face with a

stranger of athletic build.

"Well, young fellow," said his deliverer, "I guess you've got all you

want of interviewing anarchists. Come along down stairs and thank your

stars you are getting out alive."

When Fred reached the floor below he found Renard and the German and the

sailor handcuffed, and in charge of five detectives. The house had been

raided; and most opportunely, thought Fred.

The young reporter soon learned that the police had been after Renard

for many months, and had finally located him in the house on Staten

Island about two weeks before the raid. They were watching the house

when they heard of Fred's making inquiries of the watchman; and fearing

newspaper exposure would lead to the escape of the criminals the

detectives decided to make the raid the very next day. And it is

fortunate they did, for on the way to the jail Fred talked with the

woman who was being taken along, too; and he told her how he had been

scared by the conversation he overheard about the turkey.

"The turkey?" said the woman.

"Yes," continued Fred; "one of the men said he would kill him in the

good old-fashioned way by wringing his neck."

The woman glanced at Fred in surprise.

"Did you hear that?" she said.

"Yes," laughed Fred.

"Well, you need not laugh, young man, because _you_ were the turkey they

were talking about. That Renard is a devil; _he_ has brought my husband

to this."

The morning of Thanksgiving day the _Gazette_ "beat" every other

newspaper in town with an exclusive report of the capture of the

dangerous anarchist Renard, who had been manufacturing bombs in a house

on Staten Island. And that night Fred dined with his family at their

home up the Hudson, and told them much that did not appear in his

printed account of the affair.

IN THE TOWER OF MANY STORIES.

BY MRS. LEW. WALLACE.

THE LITTLE PRINCES.

[Illustration: THE BLOODY TOWER.]

There is no breath to stir the old shadows, no voice nor hearing, only a

still, solemn past telling, as we tread the pavement in the great Tower

of London, its many stories that belong to that historic prison. In this

scene of blackest crimes nothing remembered is half so sorrowful as the

murder of the two Princes who were sent to the Tower by their uncle,

Richard III., King of England. You have heard it, for it is an old tale

and often told. He is usually called the Hunchback; some say he was not

deformed, except in having a very short neck and one shoulder higher

than the other. He was lame, but this defect was soon forgotten in the

beauty of his face. He had pale olive skin, delicate features, smooth

forehead, and proud lips quick to express the feeling which shone in his

deep black eyes. His will was law, and he sprang on his enemies like the

tiger on its prey if they were between him and his aims.

In the first year of his reign he cleared away all who were suspected of

plots, till no heirs to the throne were left except his two nephews,

sons of Edward IV. The wicked heart of the Hunchback was moved to one

more crime; then, he believed, the crown of England would be secured.

They were graceful boys of eight and twelve years, with clear bright

eyes, rosy cheeks, long flowing hair like threads of gold, and the

courteous manner early taught to those who expect to rule a great

nation.

Edward, Prince of Wales, was stolen while on a journey; he was the

elder; and Richard, Duke of York, the second son of the late King, was

demanded of his mother, the widowed Queen of Edward IV. She was a

high-born lady, famous for beauty when chosen from among the many who

longed to sit on the throne. She was without power to resist, and how

she begged the brutal Richard to be allowed to keep her youngest darling

let other mothers tell.

The little fellows were lodged in the Garden Tower, so called from its

opening into pleasure-grounds with a terraced walk, which in sunny days

gave to view the river and bridge. It was the cheerfulest room in the

doleful pile, and was lighted on both sides, so the captives could watch

what stir there was in the inner wards, and the shipping along the wharf

and on the Thames. It had a separate entrance to the promenade, where in

fine weather they had leave to run and play, chasing each other into

forgetfulness that they were doomed never to leave their prison-house

alive.

But Richard could not feel at ease while his nephews lived. So one day

Sir James Tyrrel, Master of Horse, "a trusty knight," brought an order

under the royal seal that Brackenbury, the Lieutenant of the Tower,

should for one night give up the keys and absent himself from his

office. Brackenbury had already refused to make away with the Princes.

The tale runs that Tyrrel was much agitated in mind while riding out

with two men--professional murderers--by name John Dighton and Miles

Forrest. They, thought their master, are not weak like Brackenbury, and

will not mind getting these brats out of the way any more than wringing

the necks of a couple of house sparrows; they will never blench or

quiver even at sight of the blood of the Lord's anointed.

The keeper of the keys feared and hated the King, but dared not disobey

him. He gave up his place and trust for the time ordered.

After the long twilight, when the night fell, they crept around the

winding stairs and through black corridors lighted only by the lanterns

they carried.

When the death-men entered the chamber they paused awhile before the

living picture there, the fairest under the wide curtains of darkness.

Youth seems younger and loveliness lovelier in the helpless hours of

sleep. The Princes lay in the sweet slumber of healthful childhood,

sinless and confiding, nestled close in each other's arms. To kill them

was like sending spirits ready for heaven home too soon. Some pretty

belongings, toys and playthings given by their mother, were scattered

about, and a book of prayers, open on a table at the bed's head, almost

changed the mind of the guilty wretches.

But they did not linger; the sleepers made swift passage to the

dreamless sleep which has no waking, smothered with the pillows of their

own bed. If there was moan or outcry the Tower walls are thick, and in

the midnight hush only the listening angels on airy wings might hear.

Singers have sung the woful story, and artists have painted the piteous

scene. The great poet's touch brings it before our eyes. The hardened

villains melted into tenderness and mild compassion when they reported

to their master:

"'O thus,' quoth Dighton, 'lay the gentle babes.'

'Thus, thus,' quoth Forrest, 'girdling one another

Within their alabaster, innocent arms:

Their lips were four red roses on a stalk,

Which, in their summer beauty, kissed each other.'"

By a private stairway the trusty Tyrrel slipped in from the gate, where

he waited impatiently, felt their pulses to be certain there was no life

left, and sought the Tower priest to make him help in hiding the

devilish deed. They carried the warm bodies down. Oh, what a sight it

was! the soft limbs not yet stiffened for the grave, the delicate hands

dragging the steps. Without coffin, shroud, or winding-sheet, with

neither hymn nor prayer, they were thrown into a hole dug by the wall.

Rapidly the grave was filled with loose soil and stones from scattered

building-material left lying in heaps some months before; then the pit

was smoothed till there was no sign of disturbance or violence, silence

settled over all, and the tragedy seemed ended forever.

"Trusty" Tyrrel mounted his horse and rode in the dewy daybreak along

green lanes and blossoming hedges to the palace. He was cruel as a

blood-hound, yet tears ran down his face like rain when he described to

the satisfied monarch how the "gentle babes," his brother's sons, would

trouble the kingdom no more.

[Illustration: THE TOWER OF MANY STORIES.]

Richard had been crowned with great pomp, feasting, and shouting. He sat

on a marble seat in Westminster Hall, with a nobleman on each side, and

told the crowd assembled there he meant to be just and maintain the laws

and respect the rights of his people. But this was mere talk. The reign

begun in murder continued the same way. His spies learned that titled

subjects drank healths in private to the Princes in the Tower, and he

thought best to announce the truth, though he had intended to keep their

fate a secret. Besides, Uncle Richard's sleep was broken by bad dreams

come of the hideous sin. The crown of his nephew did not rest easy on

his head, bloody fingers pulled at it; the lights burned blue at

midnight; strange calls, as from desolate shores, answered each other

across his bed; he heard muffled groans, and ghosts that would not down

sat heavy on his soul. Eyes starting from their sockets glared at him;

visions of baby throats purple with strangling and pale faces bedabbled

with blood haunted the pillow of the last Plantagenet.

He woke in a cold sweat of terror from dreams of a tomb which opened of

itself; where the earth cracked with a hollow noise and showed a coffin

wide and short, and hair living and golden streaming out under the lid.

[Illustration: RICHARD'S NEPHEWS.]

Were the boys indeed buried? And why should their white souls ride the

winds on crimson clouds in the dead hours of the night?

To banish the spectres and quiet the shrieks in his ears he commanded

the Tower chaplain to unearth the corpses and have them better placed,

under the marble floor of some shrine or safe in a corner of the

court-yard of the Tower. It was done. None ever knew when or with what

holy rite they were buried the second time, because the priest soon

afterward died, and with him went the knowledge of their resting-place.

Richard did not long enjoy his throne, but in his brief reign noble

ladies and gallant gentlemen were imprisoned in grim strongholds, and

marched from dungeons to death on the headsman's block. Sometimes he

would have drums beat and trumpets sound, so that the last words of the

dying could not be heard by the assembled crowds, for he feared an

uprising of his subjects.

Only two years afterward he dashed into the thickest of the fight at

Bosworth, and there lost his kingdom and his life. Under a hawthorn-bush

Lord Stanley found the crown of England, which the tyrant had worn to

the battle-field. It was badly bruised and trampled on, the jewels dim

with dust and clouded with blood. Stanley placed it just as it was on

the head of Henry, Earl of Richmond, and the soldiers of the royal army

shouted with joy, "Long live King Henry VII."

Later in the day the body of the Hunchback was pulled out of the mire,

stripped naked, tied across a horse's back like a sack of worthless clay

(which indeed it was,), and taken to a near church-yard for burial.

Nobody cared for the monster, nor minded how his blood ran down in the

dust of the road on its way to the grave which had no mourners.

The new King marched in the splendor of banners and with triumphal music

to the Tower, at that time used as a palace. He was attended by a

princely escort, gentlemen on horseback wearing jewelled armor, and long

trains of gilded coaches filled with ladies in brilliant robes, making

altogether a brave show. Chambers tapestried in silk were set apart for

the court, beds were canopied with velvet, soft carpets and rich

hangings--gold, crimson, violet--covered the rough stones, and there was

much high feasting and much merry-making. When the ceremonies were over,

Henry thought of the murdered innocents, and made inquiry about them.

Forrest and the priest were dead, and the other two accomplices--to whom

was offered pardon on confession--knew nothing of the second burial. It

was supposed the chaplain would, if possible, lay the Princes in

consecrated ground. St. Peter's Cathedral was rummaged, many coffins

were opened and stared into, and the near church-yard was upturned and

searched for the precious relics, but none were discovered. Court

flatterers pretended to believe the children had been sent out of the

country, and were still alive somewhere in the provinces.

The ancient fortress grew grayer and drearier than ever, and portions of

it began to crumble and rot. Then the murder came to light, proved by

best evidence--the remains of the Princes themselves. Some workmen

making a new stairway to the royal chapel found under the steps, hidden

close to the wall and covered with earth, two skeletons answering

exactly to the missing youths long sought.

WHY THE ALLIGATOR LIGHT WAS DARK.

AN ADVENTURE IN A FLORIDA LIGHT-HOUSE.

BY WILLIAM DRYSDALE.

"Rex, don't it make you feel like a real old Crusoe, or a Swiss Family

Robinson, or something, to be left to ourselves here on this key, with

only Cudjoe to cook for us, and a fine black squall coming up from the

southeast, and--"

"It does give a fellow some such feeling, that's a fact, Nick. But the

black squall coming is just what I don't like to see. The _Pelican_

ought to be back some time early this evening, if I'm any judge of wind

and weather; and I'd rather have her in before the squall comes."

"Oh, pshaw!" Nick Jenner exclaimed. "I guess our fathers know how to

take care of themselves in a squall. The _Pelican_ is a sound little

schooner, and they have two good sailors aboard."

"They'll be all right, of course; but I'd rather see them back before it

begins to blow," Rex answered. His name was not Rex at all, but Harry

King; but his schoolmates said that as Rex was Latin for King, that

would be a good nickname for him.

It was on the piazza of a rambling old house on Indian Key, among the

Florida reefs, that the boys sat watching the coming storm. There was no

other house on the island, and no other island within eight or ten

miles. The great Alligator Light-house stood out in front of them, five

miles out to sea, built on a hidden reef. The nearest store was in Key

West, eighty miles away; so was the nearest doctor, the nearest

everything. That made it all the jollier, the boys thought.

There was nothing mysterious in Nick Jenner and Harry King being

together in this lonely house on a lonely island, with the colored boy

Cudjoe to cook for them. The boys live in a sea-coast city in Rhode

Island, where they have boats of their own. Their fathers, Lawyer Jenner

and Dr. King, are not only expert amateur sailors, but are also very

fond of fishing and shooting. When their fathers determined to run away

from work for a month and enjoy themselves among the Florida Keys, they

wisely took the boys with them; for Rex being past fifteen and Nick

almost sixteen, they could make themselves useful while they were

enjoying it all.

The house was not part of the original programme, for they expected to

live on the boat; but the man from whom they chartered the schooner in

Key West owned the house too, as well as the island; and when he offered

the use of the house, partly furnished, they did not refuse

it--particularly as a neat little sharpie called the _Dolphin_ belonged

with the house, and lay at anchor just off the beach.

"How white the light-house stands out against the black sky!" Nick

exclaimed. "It is queer the water should be shallow for five miles out

to the light-house, and then go right off deep into the Florida straits,

deep enough for the biggest ships. I like to see them going past--the

big Spanish steamers bound for Havana, and the American fellows for Key

West and New Orleans."

"I am glad to have the old light-house there to-night," Rex retorted.

"Since our fathers did have to run down to Key West to reach the

telegraph office, the light will help them find the way back if they

come to-night. No matter how many squalls come, nor how dark the night,

the light is always a sure thing. You know there are three keepers, and

two of them have to be always on duty."

"Yes," Nick answered, "this Alligator Light is one of the largest and

most important on the whole coast--a 'light of the first order,' they

call it, visible 20-3/4 miles. They say it's 135 feet high, and cost

nearly $200,000."

"Phew!" Rex whistled. "It ought to be a good one at that price. Well,

the light will be blinking at us pretty soon now. I notice they always

light it at sunset, and that can't be many minutes off."

"Now, den, gemmens, yo' suppahs is all ready, sahs," came the welcome

voice of Cudjoe from the hall door. The boys had been longing for this

call, for a day's fishing had made them hungry.

"What's this, Cudjoe?" Rex asked, as they entered the dining-room and

saw the meal the "boy" had prepared. "More green turtle soup to-night?"

"No, sah; dat loggerhead turtle soup dis time, sah. I ketch him on de

beach dis mawnin', sah. An' here's minced turtle, sah, an' dere is some

b'iled turtle eggs. Under de kiver is some fried flyin'-fish, sah; an' I

done think you might like some sweet pineapple fresh ourn de field,

sah."

"You're a famous old cook, Cudjoe," Nick exclaimed, as they both fell to

eating. "I'm afraid we're living too high down here with our turtle soup

every day."

"We're getting to be regular al--" Rex was about to say aldermen, but

before he could finish the word there came a sharp flash of lightning,

with a tremendous peal of thunder right on top of it. The boys looked at

each other, but before they could speak the wind and rain followed. A

squall among the Florida Keys comes with a crash and a flood of water;

trees bend to the ground, houses shake and sometimes fall; everything is

black and grand and wet. The old house trembled under the blow, and the

rain on the roof sounded like tons of water falling upon the shingles.

"There's the squall," Rex said, after a few seconds had passed. "I hope

it doesn't turn into anything worse, and I think I'd give something nice

if the folks were safe on shore."

"So should I," Nick answered, "but I think they'll be all right. And as

we can't stop the storm, we may as well finish our suppers."

That was comforting philosophy for two hungry fishermen, and the boys

ate while the storm raged, and made up for much lost time. They could

not look out, because there is no glass in the windows of the Keys, only

board shutters, and Cudjoe had shut the shutters.

Rex was the first to find that he positively could eat no more, and

leaving Nick still seated at the table, he pushed back his chair and

went out to the piazza to look at the weather. An instant later the cry

rang through the house:

"Nick! Nick!"

It was such a cry of alarm that Nick immediately sprang up and ran out

to see. Everything outside was pitch dark, and Rex, in all the wind and

rain, was holding to one of the piazza pillars.

"I must be blind, Nick!" Rex shouted. "Look! Where's the light-house?"

"The light-house?" Nick answered, wonderingly, and looked out seaward.

But he saw no light. "Why--why, there is no light! No light in all this

darkness! What can it mean?"

Instead of answering, Rex dashed into the house and returned in a few

seconds with Cudjoe.

"Look at that, Cudjoe!" he shouted; "there is no light!"

At first Cudjoe would not believe it. He ran to one end of the piazza

and then to the other, looking in all directions for a light.

"Well I 'clar' to goodness!" he exclaimed, and his face was as ashy as

such a black face could become. "I 'ain't never seed dat light out

afore, gemmen. Dey'll be wracks along dis coas' to-night, sho!"

"Something has happened out there, Nick!" Rex exclaimed. "They are in

trouble, or they would never leave that lamp unlighted."

"The light-house may have been struck by lightning," Nick suggested;

"you know it is made of iron."

"Yes, I've thought of that," Rex replied; "or lightning may have killed

the men. There's no telling what it is, but it's sure to be serious. All

we know is that there is no light, and our fathers are both out on the

water depending on that light. It may cost both their lives, and

hundreds of other lives, too. I feel as if we ought to do something,

Nick."

"So do I," said Nick, "but I don't see what we can do. It's terrible to

think of our fathers out there looking for the light, and of all those

steamers that may be lost."

"And besides that," Rex broke in, "the light-house people may be in

trouble. Perhaps the thing has been blown over. They may be clinging to

the wreck, waiting for somebody to help them. Oh! I can't stand it,

Nick. I'm going out there in the sharpie, to see whether I can be of

any assistance."

"What! out to the light-house!" Nick exclaimed. "In that little sharpie,

in this storm! Why, you'd never even find the light-house in the

darkness."

"Oh yes, I will," Rex answered, confidently. "I'm enough of a sailor to

handle a boat on a worse night than this. The wind has gone down a good

deal, and the rain won't hurt anybody. Besides. Nick," he added, laying

his hand tenderly on his friend's arm, "suppose you and I were out there

in the schooner, and our fathers were here on shore, and the light

failed like this, what would _they_ do?"

"Right you are, old man!" and Nick seized Rex's hand and gave it a

hearty squeeze. "They'd go out and have that light burning if there was

as much as a wick left! And that's what we'll do, for, of course, I

shall go along."

"We must leave Cudjoe here, in case the schooner gets in," Rex said,

"and to keep a lantern burning to guide us back. And the fewer clothes

we wear the better, Nick, for we may have to swim."

Cudjoe protested with all his might against the boys risking their lives

in the storm and darkness, but it did no good. They sent him for the

lantern and tied it to a corner post of the piazza, explaining to him

the importance of keeping it burning at all hazards.

"After all, it's not going to be as bad out on the water as it looks,"

Nick suggested, while they were making ready. "The wind has gone down a

great deal since the first blast, and these heavy rains keep the sea

down. Darkness always makes things seem worse than they are, too."

Rex was very thoughtful and quiet, now that the surprise was past, and

had little to say. He knew the danger of trying to make a landing

against the exposed light-house in the midst of a storm. But just before

they set out for the beach he said to Cudjoe:

"Cudjoe, if my father gets safely back while we are gone, I want you to

tell him that we went out to the light-house because we thought it our

duty to go. We are not going to make such a trip for sport."

It was work for men, and good sailormen too, going out in a sharpie to

find a dark light-house on such a night. The wind was dead against them,

and they had to beat out, and the rain was still falling in torrents.

Rex took the tiller and handled the sheets, and it was as much as Nick

could do to keep the boat clear of water.

The little _Dolphin_ seemed to feel that many lives might depend upon

her performance that night. Rex declared than she never rode the seas so

well before, nor answered her helm so quickly. She was soon out far

enough to be near the light-house, and the boys almost held their

breaths; for the iron columns of the light-house rise directly out of

the water, and in the darkness they might strike one of them at any

moment. Keeping a lookout was useless, for they could not see two feet

before the bow.

"If only a good flash of lightning would come!" Rex exclaimed; "then we

could see something. But there hasn't been a flash since the storm first

broke."

As if in answer to his wish there came a flash at that moment that

illuminated the whole heavens.

[Illustration: "THERE SHE IS," BOTH BOYS CRIED.]

"There she is!" both boys cried. In that second of glare they both saw

the great light-house looming up hardly a quarter of a mile in front of

them.

"That's one point settled!" Nick declared, with a sigh of relief. "The

light-house is all right, anyhow. So the trouble must be either with the

keepers or the lantern."

From that moment the skies seemed to favor their work. Every few seconds

the lightning flashed, and before many minutes they ran up safely to the

lee side of the light-house and made the sharpie fast to a round of the

perpendicular iron ladder that runs down into the water. They had been

there before, and knew just what to look for: first four or five rounds

of the iron ladder leading to a little iron platform, and from there a

steep iron stairway leading to the deck, twenty feet above, on which the

keeper's house stands.

"Ahoy-oy-oy, there, in the light-house!" Rex shouted.

"Halloo-oo-oo!" Nick echoed.

Without wasting more time Rex seized the lantern and sprang up the iron

ladder with Nick close at his heels. With his first step on the narrow

platform Rex stumbled, but saved himself from falling by catching the

rail.

"Look out here!" he called; "there's something lying here that tripped

me." And he turned and held the lantern down.

"It's a man!" Nick exclaimed. "Hello, here, mister!" And he stooped down

and seized the man's arm and shook it. But there was no reply.

"We'll see to him later, Nick!" Rex cried; "the light's the first

thing;" and stepping over the man they both sprang up the steep iron

stairs. In a moment they were in the first room of the keeper's house.

It was empty and silent.

"Halloo-oo-oo!" both boys shouted.

"Here, here!" came back the answer, in a low, weak voice.

Instantly they fell to opening doors to look for the owner of the voice,

and Rex chanced upon the door opening upon the great spiral staircase

that winds up and up through a tower to the lantern. There in the little

passageway lay the principal keeper, groaning, coiled up in a heap, his

face covered with blood.

"Why, Mr. Pinder," Rex cried, "what's the--"

"The lamp, the lamp!" the keeper groaned. "Never mind--me. Light the

lamp! Matches on--on--the--table. Oh!" and amid his groans Rex managed

to catch the words; "open the small brass door; light all three wicks;

pull the lever to start the machinery!"

The boys waited to hear no more. Up they flew through the narrow iron

tower, up the 158 winding iron steps, round and round till their heads

swam, higher with every step, till they were in the little room beneath

the lantern, then up a few straight steps into the lantern itself.

Nick pressed the match-box into Rex's hand, and seized the knob of the

little brass door.

"It's for you to light the lamp, Rex," he said; "this is all your

doing."

Rex struck a match and touched it to the wicks, and cautiously pulled

the lever by his side.

Click, click! Whir, whir! came from the clock-work that moves the

machinery. The blaze sped around the three broad circles of wick.

Something began to revolve.

"Hurrah! hurrah!" The boys could not help it, even with the two injured

men lying below. For Alligator Light was burning again, sending its red

and white flashes over the black water every five seconds for the

comfort and safety of many a mariner at sea that stormy night!

To look after the injured keepers was the next work. They hurried down

the stairs, and when near the bottom they heard Mr. Pinder asking, in

his weak voice, full of pain:

"Is it burning? Is the lamp burning?"

"Yes, sir; the lamp is all right," the boys answered.

"Oh, God be praised for that!" he moaned. "No, never mind me," he went

on, as the boys stooped to pick him up. "My--partner. He's down--below

on the landing. I dragged him there after I--I--was hurt. Go see to

him."

Saying so much exhausted the keeper, and his head sank back on his arm.

To pacify him the boys started down after the other man, who was still

lying precisely as they had left him. It was not an easy matter to carry

him up the steep stairs, but they did it, and laid him out on the floor

of the front room.

"His heart is still beating," Rex said, after putting his hand under the

man's vest. "He must have been stunned. I think we had better leave him

here and look after Mr. Pinder."

But Mr. Pinder had strong objections to being touched. "Oh, my leg!" he

groaned, when they tried to raise him. Then, "Oh, my back! Let--me lie;

please let me lie--where I am."

Rex found a towel and water, and washed the blood from the injured man's

face and bathed his temples; and while he was at this the boys were

startled by a cry from below of "Hello here, in the light-house!" and

the clattering of boots on the iron stairs; but before they could reply

the door opened and their fathers stepped in.

"Why, what are you boys doing here?" Mr. Jenner asked, in astonishment.

"And what was the matter with the light?"

"There has been some accident, sir," Nick replied, "but we don't know

yet what. Rex and I came out and found both these men hurt, and we have

just been up to light the lantern."

"There seems to be work here for me," said Dr. King, who had been

looking about with a professional eye. "You can tell us about it

afterward, boys; just now we must attend to these men."

The two keepers were soon laid out on comfortable beds, and under Dr.

King's treatment it was not long before the assistant began to show

signs of consciousness.

"He has been stunned by a blow on the head," the doctor said, "and we

will soon bring him around." But with Mr. Pinder, the principal keeper,

it was different. "Bad fracture of the right leg," he announced, after a

hasty examination; "some bruises on the back and side, and cuts on the

forehead. I think that after receiving the injury to his leg he tried to

drag himself up the stairs to light the lantern, but his strength

failed, and he fell back, and so received these other injuries."

By the time that Mr. Pinder was made comfortable, the assistant was able

to tell what had happened. With the first moment of consciousness he

sprang up, and exclaimed:

"The lamp! the lamp! Is the light burning?"

Being assured that all was well with the light, he rested his head on

his hands for a moment, and began:

"You see, there are three keepers here, and two required to be always on

duty. This morning the second assistant went off to Key West in the

schooner, with his wife and Mr. Pinder's wife. That left me and Mr.

Pinder here alone. Well, sir, early this evening, about ten or fifteen

minutes before it was time to light the lamp, there came a big squall of

wind, and picked up a bamboo rocking-chair we had out on the deck, and

carried it right over the rail.

"'You lower the boat an' get that chair,' says Mr. Pinder to me; 'we may

as well save the chair.'"

"Well, sir, I lowered the boat, and soon got the chair, but I saw it was

going to be tight work getting back to the ladder in that sea and wind.

Mr. Pinder he saw it too, and he run down to help me; and as I came in a

big roller came just at the wrong minute, and bang went my head against

one of the iron beams, as near as I can tell. That was the last I knew;

but the roller must have caught Mr. Pinder's leg between the boat and

the ladder and crushed it. Then, after draggin' me up on the platform,

the poor man's tried to crawl up to light the lamp, and he's fell back

and cut himself, just as you say."

"I don't know what I can say to these brave lads who came out and lit

the lamp for us," the man went on. "I'd rather been killed outright than

had that light fail."

"We have something to say about that," Mr. Jenner interrupted. "We were

bound for Indian Key, in the schooner _Pelican_, and when we found there

was no light we determined to stand out into deep water till daylight.

But we must have lost our bearings, for when the first flash of the

light came, we saw that we were heading in shore. In two minutes more we

should have been on the reefs."

"Yes, that light saved our lives by just about two minutes," said Dr.

King. "So we ran down here to see what was the matter. When is your mate

coming back from Key West?" he asked the keeper.

"In two or three days," the man answered.

"Then the boys shall stay and assist you till he comes," the doctor went

on, "for Mr. Pinder will be unfit for duty for a month or more. The

government will not pay you for that, boys," he added, laying a hand on

each boy's head, "but Jenner and I will. When you get home you can pick

out the best boat in the harbor; and you shall call her the _Alligator

Light_, in memory of this night's good work."

FOR KING OR COUNTRY.

A Story of the Revolution.

BY JAMES BARNES.

CHAPTER III.

ON TUMBLE RIDGE.

Although Uncle Nathan was eager to arm his own people and seek a meeting

with the "miscreants," who, he declared, were endeavoring to ruin him,

Mr. Wyeth's cool counsels and Uncle Daniel's restraining voice

prevailed, and nothing had been done.

But Nathaniel Frothingham refused to go to bed, and paced the floor all

night. At daybreak he and his brother, with Cloud, the overseer, and Mr.

Wyeth, made their way up on the ridge. At first nothing appeared amiss,

but when they had gone a short way into the shaft they came upon a scene

of havoc.

The Hewes' Mine and the Frothinghams' had been joined into one big

excavation that was filled with the débris of the timbers and great

masses of ore.

It was true! For some months the Frothinghams had been working upon the

other's property. They had been separated only by a thin wall of rock,

and it was this intervening partition that had been blown up in the

night.

The Hewes' shaft was deserted; but Uncle Nathan, when he reached the

air, climbed to a high point where he could look into the eastern

valley.

He shook his fist out over the silent woods and meadows. "I'll be even

with you, you cowardly rascals!" he exclaimed. "You'll account to me for

every bit of it, Mason Hewes, I'll warrant ye." He dashed his hat and

his wig upon the ground, and stamped upon them in his wrath.

Suddenly from behind a clump of bushes came three men, walking quickly

forward. They were Mr. Mason Hewes, his cousin the tall man carrying the

rifle, and a stranger.

They came quite close before a word was said. In the mean time Daniel

Frothingham and Mr. Wyeth had placed themselves on Uncle Nathan's either

hand, while Cloud had thrown back his coat, showing a big horse-pistol

thrust into his belt.

"I beg pardon," said Mr. Hewes, stepping ahead of the others. "But some

one called my name a moment since; have any of you gentlemen aught to

say to me?" He bowed politely, but his face was pale, and it was evident

that he was restraining himself only by a great effort.

Uncle Nathan put his hand to his bald head. The absence of his wig

appeared to disconcert him, and it was his brother who answered first.

"Yes," said Uncle Daniel. "Here is one who has something plain to say.

You are a villain, sir. I am Daniel Frothingham, much at your service."

Again Mr. Hewes bowed. "You are an old man," he said. "But guard your

words, I pray of you."

"I need guard no words when talking to a traitor," half shouted Uncle

Daniel.

"A traitor to what or whom, may I inquire?" said Mr. Hewes, lifting his

eyebrows.

"To your King," was the rejoinder. "I have heard of your rebellious

speech."

"We may have no King here shortly," replied Mr. Hewes; "and in saying so

I am but far-sighted. Still I warn you, guard your words!"

Nathaniel had by this time recovered his wig and his composure, although

he looked redder than ever.

"This is _my_ quarrel, brother," he said, turning first to Daniel and

then to his hated neighbor. "Look here, you sneering rebel, _I_ am not

too old, and _my_ words shall not be guarded at your orders," he added.

"Hold," said Mr. Hewes; "no need of further talk; do you mean to force a

meeting with me?"

"Whenever and wherever you may choose," responded Uncle Nathan.

"This is my cousin and my young friend, Lemuel Roberts; they will wait

upon you," said Mr. Hewes, waving his hand towards his companions.

Stilted recognitions followed, and some whispering.

"To-morrow morning, then, at the spring in yonder hollow," announced one

of the suddenly appointed seconds. Bows were exchanged, and the two

parties walked away and descended the opposite slopes of the hill.

Cloud, the overseer, was evidently delighted with the unexpected turn of

affairs. But the rest of the party walked on in silence.

When they reached the house, Nathaniel Frothingham called to Cato, who

came into the hall. "Cato," he said, "get out those ebony-handled

pistols, and bring them on the lawn."

What fun the twins had that afternoon, and how their uncle rose in their

estimation, for at the first shot the stem of a wine-glass placed

against a tree-trunk had been shattered, and Uncle Nathan had turned,

saying, "I have not forgotten how--eh, Daniel?"

One thing the twins could not understand was why every one should be so

glum over a little pistol practice, or why their aunt Clarissa should

sit upstairs with her finger-tips in her ears, and her eyes red from

weeping.

Something unusual was in the wind, it was easy to see that, but what it

was the boys could not determine.

After supper they had made their way to the foundry. From the door of

the smelting furnace a huge red beam shot out into the evening twilight,

throwing into strong relief the figures of the workmen, who with their

puddling-irons were turning the molten streams into the rough sand

moulds.

The twins stood there talking softly to one another.

"I say, George," said William, "isn't it time we went back to the house,

think ye?"

"Oh, I don't know," replied the other. "Let's go around to the pond

first. We'll see if there's anything in the traps."

They darted out of the glare of the furnaces and climbed the fence into

the road. The pond lay still and quiet in the shadowy gray light, and

the twins carefully picked their way across the dam and entered a clump

of alders on the other side.

They had not gone more than a dozen steps when a strange apparition

appeared to rise out of the very mud at their feet. A tall bent figure

with long hair hanging down over its broad shoulders, a pair of

deep-set, restless eyes, and a large good-humored mouth, parted in a

grin.

"How!" said the apparition, in a deep chest tone.

The boys had recovered from their sudden start. "How, Adam!" they

returned.

Adam Bent Knee was one of the few surviving members of the once powerful

tribe of Indians that had years before harassed the settlers of New

Jersey, and had moved northward and westward before the advancing tide

of civilization, leaving a few of its descendants to earn a precarious

existence by fishing and trading in small ways with the whites.

The boys had long known the old Indian, and had often greeted him as he

passed through the woods tending his traps, or bringing strings of fish

down to the settlement to be exchanged for tobacco or a few ounces of

sugar. He seldom spoke to the older people, but he always had seemed

glad to meet the twins.

As they looked at him after he had arisen from the log on which he had

been seated, they saw he held in his hands the ends of two long

night-lines whose floats bobbed up and down some distance out on the

surface of the pond.

"Any luck this evening, Adam?" inquired George, cheerfully.

"Luck no good now," replied the old man; "luck no good anywhere. Tell

old man," said he, suddenly bending forward, "luck no good for him. Tell

him look out," the old Indian went on. "Fire, all, everywhere. War!

Three red moons! War! Men kill!" He swept his hand about his head, as if

indulging in some occult warning.

The boys looked at one another, and, taking hands, passed on. The

Indian, without a further word, seated himself again on the log.

A few steps further up the bank the twins glanced at a rough trap near

the roots of a huge sumach-bush, and seeing that luck here was also

against them, they skirted the bend and quickly crossed the old bridge

back to the house. They stole up to bed through the kitchen entrance. A

light was burning in their uncle's office. The three gentlemen were in

there, and Uncle Nathan was putting his name to a big paper, which the

others witnessed with their signatures. It was his will.

* * * * *

Early the next morning the Frothingham twins made their way to the

summit of Tumble Ridge on a tour of inspection of their own.

They looked down into the yawning mouth of the pit, but did not descend

and could not see the mischief that the big blast had played with the

mine that their uncle had reckoned his best bit of property.

The Frothinghams' shaft was not in use, but George thought he heard the

rumble of the Hewes' ore cars descending their side of the hill.

So the boys walked over to the fence, climbed to the top and looked down

the further slope, then, balancing themselves, they walked along the

rail.

Suddenly they stopped. There, only a short distance from them, leaning

against the trunk of a stunted oak, was the hated Carter Hewes. He was

looking at them fixedly. "Where's your black nurse?" he said, grinning.

"I suppose you mean our body-servant, sir," said George, keeping his

balance with an effort on the rickety top rail.

The larger boy laughed. "You ought not to be out alone," he said.

"We are able to take care of ourselves, and you, too, I'll warrant,"

said William, who also maintained his post of vantage with some

difficulty.

"I dare you to come over on our property," said Carter, moving toward

them, menacingly.

Whether the top rail slipped, or whether the challenge was too much for

the young Frothingham blood is not to be told, but in an instant both

boys were down upon the ground. Carter had removed his coat.

"I'll fight you both," he said.

William plucked George by the sleeve. "Me first," he whispered, removing

his hat and turning up his sleeves.

George stepped to one side, and in an instant the two boys were at it

without another word.

Some blows were exchanged, and then the combatants clinched and rolled

upon the ground, first one on top, and then the other, scratching and

striking with all their might.

George danced about them, scarcely refraining from taking a hand

himself, and shouting encouragingly.

"You have him, William! You have him!" he cried, waving his brother's

hat as well as his own, about his head. "Don't let him hold you down!"

But size and superior strength told at last, and the fighters for an

instant separated and rose to their feet. Then it was seen that William

had much the worst of the affair. One of his eyes was blackened, and he

could scarcely close his small fists, but he faced his opponent bravely,

and said, "Come on, come on, sir!" He was panting furiously, and

snuffling to keep back the angry sobs. Carter, too, was breathing hard,

sharp breaths. His lips were tightly pressed over his teeth, and the

corner of his mouth was bleeding slightly. There was another rush, and

William went down and lay there, for a blow had caught him squarely on

the point of the chin.

George threw down the hats and tore off his coat.

"You said you'd fight us both," he shouted to the older boy, and drove

at him, with both arms threshing like a small wind-mill. Carter could

not resist the impetus of this fresh onslaught. Tired with his first

struggle, inside a minute he cried, "Enough, enough. Two to one is too

much for me. I've had enough, I say!"

He had tripped over a branch and had fallen on the ground. George stood

over him, and William, recovering, was shouting encouragement in turn.

But further fighting was interrupted just here by a strange appearance.

There was something that sounded like a laugh, and, looking up, the

three boys saw, standing close to them, the bent form of the old Indian.

"Ugh!" he said. "Heap fight. Great chiefs." Then he came closer. "No

more fight," he said. "Good friends now. Great chiefs."

He held in his fingers a short red clay pipe, from which the smoke was

curling.

"I've had enough," repeated Carter, glancing up at George.

The old Indian made a funny gesture with his open hand. "No more fight,"

he said, at the same time turning round and striking the ground sharply

with his moccasined feet.

Something was so amusing in the old man's expression that George half

smiled, and Carter, getting up, brushed the dirt from his knees and

elbows.

[Illustration: THE PIPE OF PEACE.]

"Let's smoke the 'Pipe of Peace,'" he said.

The old Indian seemed to understand him, for soon he sat upon the

ground, and motioned the boys to join him.

The four seated themselves in a circle.

Old Adam gravely drew three puffs and made a guttural exclamation, at

the same time passing the short clay pipe to George, who took a whiff.

It made him cough, and the tears came into his eyes as he passed it on

to Carter, who, still breathless, put it to his lips, and inhaled a

little of the smoke. He immediately fell to coughing also, but handed

the pipe to William, whose left eye was fast closing. William drew a

long inhalation, and almost exploded, the smoke coming from his nose,

and the tears running down his grimy face.

Contrary to what is supposed to be the usual custom of the Indian, Adam

Bent Knee laughed aloud. "Great chiefs," he said.

Quickly, however, he recovered his composure, and passed the pipe again.

If honors were equally divided in the former contest, the pipe had all

the glory of the second encounter, for the boys refused to touch it.

Still dizzy from the effects of the strong tobacco, they stood up and

put on their coats.

"Let's go over to the spring and wash our faces," said Carter. "There's

no use fighting any more."

No one would have thought that hostilities could be so soon forgotten;

but boys forgive easily if they have no mean action cherished against

one another.

Old Adam left them, striding off through the trees with a parting

injunction to "no more fight."

When the late combatants reached the spring they threw themselves flat

in the green soft grass, and washed their heated faces, and there was

cemented a friendship between the younger branches of the rival families

that was destined to bear most unlooked-for results.

As they lay there talking together they heard the sound of voices, and

George arose. "Why, look here!" he said. "Here's our two uncles and your

father, Carter; and Dr. Grubb, from the cross-ways, with a big box under

his arm. What are they about?"

Looking through the bushes the three lads saw a strange sight.

Uncle Nathan was standing with his arms folded quite alone, and a short

distance away was Mr. Hewes, who was stripping the leaves from a twig he

held in his hand. Beneath a tree a discussion was being held in low

tones between four other gentlemen, and the doctor off to one side was

mopping his forehead with a great handkerchief.

The trio of new friends walked boldly out into the open. But they were

not prepared for the consternation that their appearance created.

The doctor stopped polishing his brow, and adjusted his old brown wig.

Mr. Hewes dropped both his hands, and the group under the tree looked

like school-boys caught robbing an orchard.

Nathaniel Frothingham cleared his throat nervously. "What are you doing

here, and what have you been at?"

"We've been fighting," said William, promptly. "But we are good friends

now, and we've smoked the pipe of peace; have we not, Carter?"

No one spoke, and again an awkward silence followed. At last the Doctor

spoke. "A capital idea," he said. "Have you it with you?--ah, eh?--the

pipe, I mean."

"No," said Carter. "It belonged to Adam Bent Knee, and it made us all

most dreadful sick."

At this Mr. Wyeth laughed, and Mr. Hewes's pale face broadened into a

smile.

"Now, I think me that a snuff-box might make an excellent substitute,"

said the Doctor, walking up to Mr. Hewes and extending a big horn-case.

Mr. Hewes took a pinch, and then with reluctance Uncle Nathan followed

suit. Then pinches of the powdered tobacco were exchanged all round.

The Doctor broke out into a roaring sneeze. "Well, gentlemen, methinks

the conference is over," he said, and started off with the case under

his arm.

Mr. Hewes picked up another box much like it and went away into the

woods. The gentlemen lifted their hats to one another, and the party

broke up.

"Good-by, Carter," called back the twins. Carter waved his hand.

"Good-morrow," he said. "We'll meet again."

After the young Frothinghams had gone to bed that night Aunt Clarissa

came up to their room. She kissed them both over and over again.

This display of affection was most disconcerting, and to the twins quite

inexplicable, but what she said astonished them also.

"You must have Carter Hewes come to Stanham and see you," said Aunt

Clarissa.

After she had left them William rose up on his pillow and shook his

brother's shoulder, whispering:

"Uncle Daniel is going to take one of us back with him to London. I

overheard him say it. We won't go unless he takes us both. What say

you?"

"Agreed," said George, sleepily. "What a strange day it has been, to be

sure! They haven't said a word to us for fighting Carter Hewes; and

wasn't it funny how we met them all up there? How polite they were to

one another, eh?"

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

THE GOOD LITTLE BOY.

BY L. A. TEREBEL.

When first we moved into this street

My Mamma wouldn't let me meet

The other little girls and boys

Out on the sidewalk with their toys.

She said perhaps some naughty child

Would teach me to be bad and wild;

And so for several weeks I stood

At the window being good.

Until a lady came to see

My Mamma, and she said to me:

"_My_ little boy is good and sweet;

We live near by, across the street."

She told my Mamma I must meet

Her little boy across the street;

And so they sent me out one day

To find that little boy and play.

They said he was so very good

He could not be bad if he would.

I almost thought he must have wings,

And other holy sorts of things.

But when the nurse left us at play,

He said to me: "Let's run away;

I know a pond where, if you please,

We both can wade up to our knees!"

THE GIRL WHO COMES TO EARN A LIVING IN NEW YORK.

BY ELIZABETH BISLAND.

To-day in many families of modest means the daughters, as well as the

sons, begin, as the school days draw to a close, to consider seriously

the question of a career and the best means of earning a living. Every

wise girl interests herself not only in the possibilities for success

held out by the various professions, but the best method of so ordering

her working life that it may result not only in success, but in pleasure

and happiness as well. The one does not necessarily imply the other. One

may rise in one's profession and earn an excellent income, and yet miss

happiness and fail of true success. A wise old lady writing to a young

girl of great wealth about to make her début in society, said:

"The really important matter is to _succeed_. Don't make the mistake of

thinking that I mean mere success of fashion, money, and rank--though

they are all most desirable and delightful things too. I am speaking of

the success of being loved, of being popular, useful, and important. To

my mind a woman is a success when she holds such a place in the world

that her going out of it, at any age, is a severe loss to many people.

There must be many so dependent upon her for love, for help, for advice,

for pleasure and amusement, that her death leaves a wide gap and a

bitter grief. Thousands of women die every day whose going affects no

one deeply, except, perhaps, with a sense of relief, and such women I

consider failures, whether they were rich or poor, humble or proud."

This is an excellent piece of advice for the girl about to enter on a

life of labor, as well as for one destined for a fashionable career. Let

a girl then fix her ambition upon a real all-round success, and be

content with nothing less.

The most important thing to settle in the beginning is her way of

living, which--while the style of it depends in large measure upon her

earnings; or upon the allowance she receives from home while she is

preparing herself to earn--is capable of infinite variations between the

levels of comfort and discomfort, according to her own skill.

There are some so-called women's hotels in New York, but these are,

without exception, to be avoided by a young girl with all her might.

They are very cheap, but are dirty, squalid, and vulgar. They contain no

provision for decent privacy, for adequate bathing, or for proper

cleanliness; the food is unwholesome and uninviting, and the society no

better than the accommodations, being composed in large part of

broken-down failures of the sex, who are little likely to inspire a

young girl with hopefulness or high ideals. Their one recommendation is

the exclusion of men, which is not, after all, a matter of importance,

since there is no reason why a self-respecting girl should not meet men

and enjoy their acquaintance when circumstances and the proprieties

admit of it. There is an enterprise on foot to build a woman's

apartment-house, where the rooms and flats will be rented only to women

working for a living who can furnish adequate and respectable

references; where the rent will be low, the accommodations pleasant and

pretty, and a restaurant of moderate prices in the building; but as yet

this admirable scheme remains unrealized in New York, though similar

Ladies' Chambers are settled and profitable institutions in London.

Perhaps the best thing a girl unacquainted with New York can do is to

write and secure a room for two weeks at the Margaret-Louisa Home in

East Seventeenth Street. This home--one of the many admirable

foundations made by the Vanderbilt family--was built for the purpose of

providing a safe and comfortable stopping-place for women of small

means, and is closely connected with the Young Women's Christian

Association in the next street. Owing to the constant demand for

admission, no one person may remain longer than two weeks, which, after

all, allows quite sufficient time for the search of a permanent

abiding-place. In the interim one pays $3 a week for a room, and finds

meals in the restaurant below at very moderate prices. That is to say,

one can live there, with economy, at the rate of about seventy-five

cents a day.

The best permanent arrangement for a girl young and alone is to find

lodgings in a boarding-house. Excellent accommodations in the

pleasantest quarters of the city can be had for $10 a week. This means a

small hall room, the use of the bath-room and of the drawing-room,

light, heat, attendance, and three meals a day. Two girls can usually

arrange to lessen their expenses and double their comfort by taking a

double room at $16. This plan is advisable, because it gives one a home

in a clean, healthy, and agreeable part of town; provides ample food,

which a girl hard at work requires; and insures attendance and

consideration in case of illness. From a social point of view it

provides her with entire protection and respectability; she meets and

makes friends with a nice class of men and women living in the house,

and has a pleasant reception-room in which to receive visits. Madison

Avenue and the side streets leading out of Fifth Avenue contain a rich

choice of such boarding-houses, but here and there certain streets are

considered undesirable places to live, and it is well to select a

boarding-house which appears quiet and dignified in its aspect, and

whose landlady has the same appearance.

Another method is to take a room in a house that furnishes merely

lodgings, where one can be housed for a sum ranging between $3 and $5 a

week. A small gas-stove will serve for preparing breakfast and a light

supper at night, and the hearty meal of the day can be had at a

restaurant at one o'clock, when others are lunching. When two girls club

together this is not a bad plan. The quickly cooked oatmeal, an egg, and

a cup of tea will serve for breakfast; jam, a roll, and a glass of milk

make a supper; and there are many cheap restaurants where a table d'hôte

midday dinner of the most ample description is to be had for fifty

cents, and one portion is ample for two. There are, of course, in the

less-fashionable quarters of town, plain, cheap boarding-houses where

everything is included for from $6 to $7 a week, but these rarely give

the use of a general drawing-room, and the accommodations are very

plain. Still, in Washington Square, Lafayette Place, and similar places

one may by careful search sometimes find excellent lodgings at a most

reasonable rate.

Still another method is to rent a large empty room somewhere, usually a

sort of loft at the top of a house, and furnish it one's self. This is a

popular plan among the girls in the art schools who wish a home and

studio combined. They divide off the corners of the room by cheap

screens into bedrooms and kitchen, and leave the centre for sitting and

work room. They paint their floor to save a carpet, content themselves

with a divan or two, a table, and a few chairs, and they do "light

housekeeping" by the aid of a gas-stove, tinned goods, and the

delicatessen stores, where one can find all manner of cooked dishes

needing only to be warmed. When two or three girls combine on such a

scheme they can keep their expenses down to about $18 or $20 a month

each, and have a very good time of it.

There is also apartment life, which is not very dear, and is often most

agreeable. Indeed, if it can be afforded, it is the pleasantest of all,

since no one appreciates the pleasant privacy and relaxation of home

life more than the woman who must face the world and fight her own

battle. These housekeeping flats may be had all the way from $25 a month

up, according to size, location, and convenience. A maid-of-all-work

will serve as laundress, cook, and house-maid for from $12 to $15 a

month, and the other expenses can be regulated according to one's means;

but when two or three share the expenses, and the pennies are looked

after closely, this is not an expensive mode of life.

Dress is possibly the next most important point for consideration, for

nowhere is a woman judged more by her appearance than in New York. This

does not imply that a girl unable to dress expensively need ever suffer

from that fact, but it does mean that gewgaws, frippery, loud colors,

affectations of masculinity, slovenliness, or eccentricities of costume

will severely militate against the success, socially and financially, of

a girl who comes to New York to earn her living. New-Yorkers possibly

more than others are very sensitive as to the appearance of persons they

are seen with, and many a pleasant clever girl has found it hard to get

on here because she could not or would not realize that people did not

like to be seen walking with her in the street, and shrank from

presenting her to their friends because her appearance seemed to require

an explanation on their part that she was better than she looked.

It is not infrequent that a high-spirited girl, when warned of this,

replies proudly that those who judge her by her clothes are unworthy of

her consideration, and are no loss as friends, but such an answer,

though natural perhaps, is certainly foolish. Strangers and new

acquaintances are necessarily ignorant of her qualities of mind and

heart, and their only clew to her character is her outward appearance.

Very properly they reason that a dignified, well-bred girl would be

likely to dress with quiet, inconspicuous neatness, and if they find no

such outward indication of refinement, they see no particular reason to

continue the acquaintance on the possible chance of their being

mistaken. Of course capable women can conquer this prejudice in time,

but it certainly seems hardly worth while to deliberately place in one's

path an obstacle to be overcome.

Avoid fierce frizzy untidy fringes, fluttering ribbons, cheap finery,

high-heeled shoes; flee the short-haired, mannish, hands-in-pocket

swagger, the dirty plush and draggled cheese-cloth attempt at

æstheticism, and, above all, eschew the still more unforgivable offence

of dingy fingernails, greasy skin, unbrushed skirt edges, and

unblackened shoes. There is still another type of girl who needs a

suggestion. She of plain appearance, who apparently has become convinced

of the uselessness of any attempt to beautify herself, and who screws

her hair into an uncompromising knot at the most unbecoming angle;

wears, if she is near-sighted, great steel-bowed spectacles instead of

_pince-nez_, and arrays herself in colors and costumes which seem

specially chosen for their unsuitability to her coloring and figure.

Each and all of these need to be reminded that success in life consists

as much in being a charming and agreeable-looking woman, sought after as

an acquaintance and companion by refined and pleasant people, as in

winning fame and money by one's own efforts.

The wardrobe needed by a girl who is in New York for work instead of

play is very simple, and not at all expensive. The serge or cloth tailor

gown, consisting of a skirt and coat, has grown to be as much a uniform

of the well-dressed business woman as the simple regulation morning suit

is that of the business man. These can be had at prices ranging from $12

to $30, ready made in the big shops, or can be ordered from a tailor for

about $35 or $40. The latter is the more advisable purchase, as the

material is so good and the cut so recent that a serge gown, if of

medium weight, can be worn summer and winter for two years. An addition

of a heavy outer coat or cape makes such a costume sufficiently warm for

any weather one is exposed to in New York, and by leaving off the coat

and wearing the skirt with a bodice, the hottest weather of summer can

be endured. If, added to this, one possesses a pretty silk costume, with

one high-necked and one low-necked bodice, one is provided to meet all

social as well as work-a-day demands upon one's wardrobe. In New York

one either wears street dress and a bonnet, or else full dress. A

demi-toilet is not necessary except when one can afford to indulge one's

tastes regardless of economy. To the theatre, to restaurants in the

evening, for calling, at afternoon teas or luncheons, for any social

event, in fact, that occurs in the daytime or in a public place one

wears a street dress and bonnet or hat. For even the simplest dinner

parties--unless, indeed, one is the only guest and the invitation is

impromptu--evening dress is the correct wear, and if by chance one has

an invitation to a box at the opera, it is again customary to wear

evening dress. Sitting in the orchestra stalls in the opera one would

wear street dress and bonnet.

For morning and business wear the tailor skirt and coat, worn with a

quiet-colored bodice, would be accompanied by a plain walking hat, with

no more trimming than a few cocks' plumes, low-heeled walking shoes, and

heavy dark gloves. If one's business lay in an office there should be

worn as few rings or jewelry of any description as possible. It is

considered a sign of great carelessness to go upon the street with no

gloves, or with gloves half on, or not tidily buttoned; and nothing has

a more provincial appearance than to have one's feet crowded into

high-heeled boots.

Certainly New York provides as much innocent and inexpensive amusement

for the girl who earns her living as any other city in this country--if

one knows where to look for it. Two girls can go alone together to the

theatre at night in perfect safety--that is, if their manner is quiet

and dignified, and not such as to attract attention. A very respectable

and respectful class of neighbors is found up in the cheap, fifty-cent

galleries of the better class of theatres, and one may see all the best

actors for small sums and in perfect comfort. The Sunday night concerts

at Carnegie Hall and the Berkeley Lyceum afford one a chance to hear the

best music and listen to the most famous soloists and singers for prices

ranging from two dollars to fifty cents; and here again it is quite

correct to go in couples without other escort.

A little pains will keep one cognizant of the many free lectures. Five

dollars is the cost of a yearly subscription to the Mercantile Library,

and provides one with the best books, and the Astor and Lenox libraries

are open without charge to those who have time to use their

reading-rooms. The Museum of Art, with its ever-growing collection of

pictures, models from the antique, gems, statues, musical instruments,

silver, laces, tapestry, etc., is open without charge five days of the

week, and this museum, the zoo, and the Museum of Natural History are

all in Central Park, which affords one all the loveliness of nature, as

well as tennis, skating, and boating.

In summer a few cents will make one very familiar with New York Harbor

by means of its many ferry lines to all the various points, and for tiny

sums one can go by the elevated trains and their continuations, in the

form of steam trains and trolleys, upon fifty charming country

excursions. There are a number of working-girls' clubs, where one can

find companionship of one's own age, and can join classes for learning

to make one's own dresses, trim one's bonnets, typewrite, embroider,

dance, and endless other accomplishments. The churches offer, beside

spiritual help and benefit, the best music, the most inspired eloquence,

and in many instances splendid ceremonials and treasures of art. Much is

said about the loneliness of strangers in New York, but loneliness and

ennui in such a city simply arise from laziness and lack of

intelligence. A girl with only half a dozen acquaintances here can still

find some expedition, some delightful musical, artistic, dramatic, or

literary experience, to fill every moment that she can spare from her

work.

Socially New York is a delightful place for a girl of small means who is

yet agreeable, intelligent, and refined. But let her from the first

carefully refrain from making the mistake of forming intimacies without

discrimination. She should make up her mind as to the class of persons

she wishes to know, and wait for that class. The easy conquest of an

inferior grade of social life will only prevent her ever gratifying her

better ambitions, for acquaintances once made are not easily got rid of,

and she will be unfavorably judged by those she wishes to know when they

see her associates. Let her fill her life with such pleasures as are to

be had for the taking, and let her wait for the natural course of events

to bring her friends. The first year is always the hardest and

loneliest, but suddenly one finds after about a twelvemonth that people

have become aware of one's existence, and begin to recognize whatever

one may possess of amiability or cleverness. Then one's "good times"

begin. The New-Yorkers are generous, hospitable, and friendly, and are

glad to offer all the pleasantest forms of amusement and hospitality to

an agreeable girl who looks neat and attractive and is amiable and

vivacious.

In conclusion, it may be suggested that a girl would do well to connect

herself with some church and interest herself in some charity. There are

none so poor and so friendless that others do not need their aid, and

apart from all the moral help and restraint to be found in serving

others, such work brings one in contact with the very best and noblest

women, from whom one learns to form noble ideals, and to discriminate

between apparent and real success in life.

[Illustration: ETHEL FORRESTER'S DREAM]

BY CAROLINE A. CREEVEY AND MARGARET E. SANGSTER.

THE NIGHT BEFORE THANKSGIVING.

_CHARACTERS:_

ETHEL FORRESTER.

ELISE FORRESTER, _sister of_ ETHEL.

FIRST FAIRY.

SECOND FAIRY.

ELGIN, _a fairy messenger_.

GENIUS OF THANKSGIVING.

PURVEYOR OF TURKEYS (_a boy_).

MISS MAIZE.

MISS CORN TASSEL.

ROSY-CHEEKED APPLE (_a girl_).

GOLDEN PUMPKIN (_a boy_).

NUTS AND RAISINS (_a boy_).

RED CRANBERRY (_a girl_).

BEETS, CARROTS, AND TURNIPS (_a boy_).

MISS GRAPE.

MISS MINCE PIE.

MISS CELERY.

SCENE.--Ethel's _bedroom_.

_Enter_ Ethel Forrester. _She throws off her hat and shawl, and

sits upon her cot-bed._

_Ethel_. So tired! So tired! Shall I ever get rested? To-morrow is a

holiday, but for me a sad one. I have no nice dinner for mamma and

Elise. I hoped something would turn up. But nothing has. After all,

things don't turn up. You have to wade right through things. It's

foolish to expect, for instance, a nice dinner to drop from the clouds

for us, mamma and Elise and me; yet unless one does we shall not stand

much chance of anything except bread and tea. Here are my car fares,

though. I will buy an orange for mamma, and two apples for Elise.

They've got to be content with that. What time is it? (_Clock strikes

outside._) Twelve, I do declare. Well, I'm too tired to undress. I am

sleepy--and hungry. To-morrow is--Thanksgiv-- [_Falls on the bed, and

sleeps._]

_Enter two_ Fairies. _They stand, one on each side of_ Ethel's

_head, wave wands over her, and sing "The Fairies' Sleep Charm_."

Sleep, dear one, sleep, and close thy tired eyelids;

Good angels wake and watch till morning light.

Love sees the trouble and the brave endurance,

And soon, for thee, dear child, will all be bright.

_First Fairy_. She seems quite exhausted.

_Second Fairy_. She does indeed.

_First Fairy_. A brave little struggler?

_Second Fairy_. She is.

_First Fairy_. But she is trying to carry too big a burden.

_Second Fairy_. Much too big.

_First Fairy_. I love to see her rest.

_Second Fairy_. She is smiling now, and reposing.

[_The_ Fairies _walk away from the bed and sit down_.]

[Illustration]

_First Fairy_. Do you know why she is so late in getting to bed?

_Second Fairy_. No.

_First Fairy_. She carried a bonnet to Miss Van Noir, with strict orders

to see the lady herself, and find out whether the bonnet suited. Miss

Van Noir was at dinner with a party of friends, and the maid would not

disturb her. It was ten o'clock before the lady saw the little girl and

tried on the bonnet. After that, to save her car fare, Ethel walked

home. So, no wonder she is late and tired.

_Second Fairy_. I see no preparations for a Thanksgiving dinner in this

house.

_First Fairy_. Ethel's mother is ill. She has lain in bed some weeks,

and may never get well. If she could go to the hospital and have good

nursing, she might recover. But she will not leave her little girls. She

thinks she can look after them, although so ill. But there is no

prospect of a Thanksgiving dinner here. That is plain to see.

_Second Fairy_. What does Ethel do to earn money?

_First Fairy_. She is cash-girl and errand-girl in a milliner's

establishment. Every one in the house wants her, and sends her on

countless errands, so that madame herself is not so tired sometimes at

night as my little Ethel there.

_Second Fairy_. Poor little soul! How much better off she would be if

she were a fairy! I never heard of a sick or tired fairy. Did you?

_First Fairy_. No. But though we never feel fatigue nor suffer hardship,

we sympathize with mortals.

_Second Fairy_. Oh yes, we do!

_First Fairy_. Now I am thinking.

_Second Fairy_. What?

_First Fairy_. Could we get somebody to give these little girls a home

and put their mother in a hospital, how nice it would be!

_Second Fairy_. Nice indeed.

_First Fairy_. I will summon the elfin messenger, and see what can be

done.

_Second Fairy_. Count on my assistance.

[Fairies _arise, make motions with their hands, and repeat,_]

Hither hasten, lovely boy,

Whom we fairy-folk employ;

Here are errands to be done,

Finished ere to-morrow's sun.

_Enter_ Elgin, _the messenger, a boy of six to eight years_.

_Elgin_ (_bowing_).

Fairies dear, I heard your call;

Elgin is my name.

_First Fairy_. Come hither, good Elgin. Wilt run errands in the air for

us to-night?

_Elgin_.

Only let me know your wish,

I will do that same.

_First Fairy_. Behold yon sleeping child.

_Second Fairy_. She sleeps sweetly under our loving enchantment. Do you

see her?

_Elgin_. Fairies, I do. 'Tis a young and gentle face.

_First Fairy_. Knowest thou a lady rich and lonely who would give a home

to this girl and her sister?

_Elgin_.

You ask a most uncommon thing.

Most mortals are so cold and hard,

To wealth and luxury they cling,

And if they give, they seek reward.

_Second Fairy_. But, Elgin, think. Rich, lonely, and with loving hearts.

Are there no such among mortals?

_Elgin_.

A few, no doubt;

To find one out,

That is the enterprise.

One can but try,

And that will I

Beneath the starry skies.

_First Fairy_. But prithee think quickly, Elgin, boy. Time waits not.

_Elgin_ (_musing_). Idle and frivolous--she won't do. How would a maiden

lady do? I know one living in a large and beautiful house, her father's

dying gift. She has no one to love her, and no one to love. Shall I go

to her, Fairies? One can but try.

_First Fairy_. Now you are my sweet Elgin. Ask her in dreams to-night.

And, dear boy, on thy way bid hither the Genius of Thanksgiving and many

of his sprites. We can arrange a little dinner for to-morrow.

_Elgin_. Depend on me, good fairies dear. [_Exit._]

_Second Fairy_ (_walking to_ Ethel). She sleeps and smiles. Rest, sweet

one.

_Enter_ Rosy-cheeked Apple, _a girl dressed in red cheese-cloth,

and_ Golden Pumpkin, _a boy in yellow_.

_Both Fairies_. Welcome, sprites--Rosy-cheeked Apple and Golden Pumpkin.

We have work for you to-night.

_Rosy-cheeked Apple_. It's frosty out to-night, so we ran and tumbled,

and Golden Pumpkin there, jolly boy, rolled till we came hither.

_Golden Pumpkin_. 'Twas a merry game of tag, sister, and I won.

_Rosy-cheeked Apple_. Naughty boy, I won. Last tag was mine.

_Golden Pumpkin_. Well, then it's mine now.

[_Touches her, and together they play tag around the room, nearly

knocking over_ Nuts and Raisins, Red Cranberry, _and_ Beets,

Carrots and Turnips, _who enter_.]

_Nuts and Raisins_ (_dressed in brown_). Why, here's fun! Let's join the

game.

[_All play tag._]

[_Enter_ Genius of Thanksgiving, _fat, jolly, corn-husks for hair,

trimmed in any fantastic way with pop-corn, strings of raisins,

apples, etc._]

_Genius of Thanksgiving_. Tut, tut, sprites! Not so fast, my fine

fellows. Here, now. Peace! Silence!

[_Catches one by the ear, shakes another, and soon the sprites are

quiet._]

_Nuts and Raisins_. We were but having a little game of tag, master.

_Genius of Thanksgiving_. Another time, sprites. Now there's work to be

done. Have you made your manners to the ladies? Oh, saucy children!

Fairies, forgive them.

_First Fairy_. Since the sleeping child was not disturbed, 'twas of no

consequence, sir. You were kind to come at our call, Genius of

Thanksgiving. Here is a family that you have overlooked. There is no

dinner provided for to-morrow. Is it too late?

[Illustration: WHY, NO, THE NAME IS NOT HERE!]

_Genius of Thanksgiving_. Why, how comes that? (_Looks over a long list

of names._) No, the name--what is it, Forrester?--is not here. Well,

that's a sad omission. No, ma'am, it's not too late. Sprites, you must

hustle and bustle, and get up a first-class dinner for the Forresters.

Do you hear?

_Sprites all_. We hear--we will.

_Genius of Thanksgiving_. Are we all present? No. [_Impatiently taps on

the floor._]

_Enter_ Purveyor of Turkeys, _strutting. He gobbles._

_Purveyor of Turkeys_. Good-evening, master, and you, Fairies.

_Genius of Thanksgiving_. Sirrah, Purveyor of Turkeys, you're late. Have

you a fine fat turkey left?

_Purveyor of Turkeys_. I have, sir. The demand was terrible this year,

but I have laid by a few, thinking they would be wanted for late

dinners.

_Genius of Thanksgiving_. Save us a good one, then--twelve-pound weight.

Is that big enough, Fairies? The family is small, I believe.

_First Fairy_. That will do, sir.

_Genius of Thanksgiving_. Will you have it cooked or uncooked.

_Second Fairy_. Uncooked. But pray do not forget the stuffing.

_Enter_ Miss Maize _and_ Miss Corn Tassel, _dressed in white and

yellow_.

_Miss Maize_. Who speaks of turkey stuffing? I will attend to that.

_Miss Corn Tassel_. Yes, we will furnish the bread and biscuit, the

butter and thyme, and I can add the eggs.

_Genius of Thanksgiving_. Miss Maize and Miss Corn Tassel, young ladies,

you are late. But there are others later still.

_Enter_ Miss Grape, _elegantly attired in purple_.

_Nuts and Raisins_. Ah! See Miss Grape, our purple sprite. So pretty, so

graceful! Did Master Frost speak with thee, child?

_Miss Grape_. He did indeed take my hand, and waltz me hither.

_Genius of Thanksgiving_. Nay, I warrant me, he stopped not there.

_Miss Grape_. He pressed a kiss upon my cheek. He said 'twould give it a

richer bloom.

_Genius of Thanksgiving_. Well, naughty, pretty child, canst give us

grapes for our Thanksgiving dinner?

_Miss Grape_. That can I, both white and black, pretty to look upon,

sweet to taste, and no harm within.

_Genius of Thanksgiving_. So? Good! Child, do. And you shall have my

thanks.

_Enter_ Miss Mince Pie, _dressed in mixed black and white_.

_All shout_. Oh, late Mince Pie! What has made thee late?

_Miss Mince Pie_. Your honor, I got lost. I thought I would take a short

way hither, and it proved thrice as long as the other. I came whizzing,

and nearly left my breath behind me.

_Genius of Thanksgiving_. Next time, Miss Mince Pie, take your

shortening in your crust, and don't put it into your feet. But listen.

Have you spices and boiled cider, apples and beef, so as to make us a

right merry mince pie to eat after the Forresters' turkey to-morrow?

Good heavens! It's to-day. The night is waning. We must hasten.

_Miss Mince Pie_. Your honor, as fine a mince pie as ever went on a

Thanksgiving table shall be ready for Ethel Forrester's dinner

to-morrow.

_Genius of Thanksgiving_. Thanks. And now where is the cranberry jelly?

_Red Cranberry_. Your honor, I have a fine mould ready.

_Genius of Thanksgiving_. Ah! Red Cranberry, you are just the sprite to

attend to that. And Beets, Carrots, and Turnips?

_Beets, Carrots, and Turnips_. Here, sir. I will furnish a goodly array

of vegetables.

_Genius of Thanksgiving_. Golden Pumpkin, a pie from you, rich, thick,

and yellow. Plenty of cream and eggs, sirrah.

_Golden Pumpkin_. I know a good pie when I see it.

_Genius of Thanksgiving_. Rosy-cheeked Apple, some of your best, please?

_Rosy-cheeked Apple_. I have beauties, sir.

_Enter_ Elgin.

_Elgin_. Good-morning, your honor, and you, sprites. I was hurrying

here, and passed a beautiful young lady combing her hair. She seemed

nowise in a hurry. Miss Celery--

_All_. Miss Celery! Where is she? No dinner can be complete on

Thanksgiving day without her.

_Enter_ Miss Celery, _dressed in white and green_.

_Miss Celery_. Did you call? I did but sleep a little, but methought you

called.

_Genius of Thanksgiving_ (_sternly_). We did call. 'Tis no time to

sleep, the night before Thanksgiving. Have you, miss, two nice crisp

bunches of celery?

_Miss Celery_. Yes, your honor, four if you like.

_Genius of Thanksgiving_. No, two. But your very best. And now, Fairies,

the dinner is arranged. The night passes. My sprites must be busy. Go,

children, weave a spell over the ovens. Let nothing burn. Have

everything well baked. See to the dinners of the poor as well as the

rich. Let no one go hungry on Thanksgiving day. And see to it that Ethel

Forrester's dinner is complete.

_First Fairy_. Dear good Genius of Thanksgiving! How can we thank you

enough?

_Second Fairy_. Dear friend, how old are you? Pardon the question, but I

am mystified--you seem so old and so young.

_Genius of Thanksgiving_.

Ah! ask me an easier question;

I am older than any one thinks.

Why, I've perched on the eaves of Palmyra,

And slept on the breast of the Sphynx.

But yet I am young as the youngest,

With a heart that can never grow old,

For my work is Love's own inspiration,

Defiant of hunger and cold.

So, Fairies, to you let me bow my adieu.

Come, sprites, with a whir and a flurry,

To get this well done will be jolly great fun,

But I tell you we'll all have to hurry.

[_Exeunt_ Genius _and sprites_.]

_First Fairy_. What a splendid fellow Genius of Thanksgiving is! So well

preserved!

_Second Fairy_. Doubtless he may live a thousand years yet.

_First Fairy_. I hope he may.

_Elgin_. As fine a fellow as ever breathed. But, Fairies, the morning

dawns. Have you further commands for your most willing servant?

_First Fairy_. No, thank you, boy. You have nobly done. We can only

thank you.

_Elgin_. The Fairies' thanks are sweet reward. I go, then, to my

mountain cave, where all the day I lie and sleep, and when night comes I

wake again and fly and run in the sparkling night air. [_Exit_ Elgin.]

_Second Fairy_. This night's work could not have been done save for that

merry boy.

_First Fairy_. True. He is a treasure. But now we must remove the charm

from Ethel, and waken her.

[_Both advance to the bed, and stand one on each side of_ Ethel.

Fairies _repeat the waking charm_:]

Wake, dear one, wake; unclose thy rested eyelids;

The night is gone, the beauteous morning breaks.

The angels know the day will bring you gladness,

So please accept the gifts that Heaven makes.

[Ethel _stirs, the_ Fairies _step lightly towards the door_.]

_Second Fairy_. They say mortals do not believe in us.

_First Fairy_. Perhaps Ethel will when she sees the basket of good

things which even now I hear the sprites leaving at the door. But let us

hasten--the dawn will come.

[_Exeunt_ Fairies. Ethel _moves, sits up on the bed, looks around

the room, rubs her eyes, and seems bewildered_.]

_Ethel_. Are they all gone? How beautiful--fairies and sprites in my

poor little room! (_Smiles._) Only a dream, I suppose. But so real. What

a funny old Genius of Thanksgiving it was! [_Laughs aloud._]

_Enter_ Elise _with a note_.

_Elise_. Oh, sister, I heard you laugh, so I knew you were awake;

otherwise I would not have disturbed you, for you, poor thing, were so

tired last night. But, Ethel, a most wonderful thing has happened. So

wonderful, it seems like a dream.

_Ethel_. The night abounds in dreams. I have had one. I must tell it, if

I can.

_Elise_. But hear mine first, dear. I think it was about two o'clock

when I heard feet in the passageway and a noise at the door. I was

frightened, but did not alarm mother; for why should burglars visit our

poor home? After a while the noise ceased, and I ventured to get out of

bed and softly open the door. There stood--what do you think, Ethel?

_Ethel_. I know.

_Elise_. No, you don't, you goose.

_Ethel_. I do know.

_Elise_. Silly child. Listen, a large basket--

_Ethel_. With our Thanksgiving dinner in it--a turkey and cranberry

jelly. Oh, how pretty Red Cranberry was in her bright dress--and Nuts

and Raisins--and Beets, Carrots, and Turnips--what a funny boy he was.

_Elise_. Ethel! are you ill?

_Ethel_. No, dear. And Miss Mince Pie was late, but she got there, and

Golden Pumpkin was to make a pumpkin pie--

_Elise_. You are out of your head! Oh, my poor sister! you are coming

down with a fever on Thanksgiving day--[_Begins to cry._]

_Ethel_. Nonsense, darling. It was my dream. But I will wait and tell

you about it later. Go on with your story. I am not ill.

_Elise_. Are you sure? You talk so strangely.

_Ethel_. I'll prove it soon by helping to eat the best dinner in all the

land. Oh, Elise, we will have as good a dinner as the queen! [_They hug

each other._]

_Elise_. Well, there's everything nice in that basket. I was so

impatient, I put my hand in and felt to the bottom.

_Ethel_. Are the grapes and celery there?

_Elise_. There are black grapes and white, dear--mamma will like

those--and two lovely bunches of celery.

_Ethel_ (_laughs_). Excuse me, but Miss Celery was late because she was

combing her hair and taking a nap.

_Elise_. Sister!

_Ethel_. That's in the dream too. But it was funny. What is that note?

_Elise_. A letter lay upon the top of the basket, addressed to you. I

have not opened it. Do hurry and read it.

_Ethel_ (_opens and reads_).

"MY DEAR ETHEL,--For some time I have had my eye upon you. I see

in you a brave little girl struggling under burdens too heavy to be

borne; your little sister is scarcely less brave and sweet in the

care she gives her sick mother. She wins my love also. Children,

will you come and live with me for a while? I will send your mother

to a private room in the hospital, where she shall have everything

to make her better. God grant she may recover! Meanwhile, and for

as long thereafter as you and mamma are willing, you shall stay

with me and be my little girls. When mamma is well, why, we have a

house big enough for her too. My coachman will place at your door,

during the night, your Thanksgiving dinner. I hope it will taste

good. I will call in the course of to-morrow afternoon, and learn

if you are coming to me. Remember, children, I need you. My heart

is a mother's although I am an old maid, supposed not to have any

heart. Will you come to

"Your loving friend,

"PHEBE WILSON.

"P.S.--I have spoken to madame, and Elise is not to return to her

work there. She may call the morning after Thanksgiving and receive

what wages are owing her."

_Elise_. How wonderful! It is all like a fairy story!

_Ethel_. It is a fairy story. I did not know who was going to take us,

though. Elgin did not mention her name. But I wonder I did not think of

Miss Wilson. She is rich and lonely, and has a warm heart. Those were

Elgin's conditions, and he found her.

_Elise_. Elgin?

_Ethel_. That's the dream again. Come, Elise, let us see if our dear

mother is awake. I am nearly bursting with this good news. And I must

tell you my dream. For, you see, the letter and the basket just agree

with the dream. And after I have told my dream, and we have read the

letter, and seen our Thanksgiving dinner, why, if you and mamma don't

believe in fairies, you're funny people, that is all. (_Kisses her hand

to the air._) I believe in you two dear fairies, at all events.

EXEUNT.

ABSALOM.

BY R. K. MUNKITTRICK.

It was a few days before Thanksgiving, and Herbert was out in the woods

with his father shooting. It was lovely autumn weather, and the dreamy

Indian-summer smiled upon the few yellow leaves that still fluttered on

the woodland boughs. Herbert was the first to break the silence:

"Papa, I hope you are not going to kill dear old Absalom for

Thanksgiving. Let's try to shoot a wild gobbler, instead."

"But there are no wild gobblers around here, my boy," replied the

father.

Herbert thought of the solitary turkey in their barn-yard, and it made

him very sad to think that that poor bird should be beheaded for the

Thanksgiving feast. And this was because the early summer rains had

killed Absalom's little brothers and sisters, and left him to make his

way on the farm as best he could. Herbert well remembered the morning

when he brought Absalom, limp and almost dead, from the coop, and wrapt

him in flannel, and put him under the kitchen stove to dry. And he

reflected upon the pleasure he had experienced in bringing the little

fellow up until they became companions. Many a time the gobbler had

jumped upon his knee and made himself as much at home as he possibly

could have done upon the bough of a tree. Herbert had fed him with

scraps of meat and bread, until Absalom followed him about and seemed to

feel that they were brothers. Herbert, like Absalom, had neither a

brother nor a sister, and this may have been one reason that they were

inseparable friends. Now when Herbert thought of Absalom in the light of

a feast, it was like a little Chinese boy thinking of his pet poodle

being made into pies and patties.

"You are not really going to eat Absalom on Thanksgiving, are you,

papa?" asked Herbert, sadly.

"He's a fine fat gobbler," replied the father, evading a direct

answer--"he's a fine fat gobbler, Herbert, and you know what the

gobbler's mission is."

Herbert knew very well from his father's remarks that Absalom would be

killed that very night, to be eaten upon the morrow, and he was very sad

as they trudged homeward. But when he did arrive at his home he

determined to do his best to save the old gobbler's life. Going down to

the barn-yard, he was met by the bird, which, not being suspicious of

his impending doom, ran gayly to meet his little friend.

"Oh, Absalom," he said, "they would eat you to-morrow!"

"Eat me to-morrow?" mused Absalom, wearily, for up to this time he had

imagined that he was simply ornamental, like a peacock. "I don't quite

understand you. Pray explain."

Then Herbert told him about Thanksgiving day and its sacred traditions,

and the poor bird was so badly upset that he couldn't conceal his

emotion. He hurriedly wiped a tear from his eye with his left wattle,

and thrust his head beneath his wing to conceal the fact that he was

weeping. Herbert took him gently in his arms, and said, as he laid his

cheek against his head,

"Well, they sha'n't kill you if I can help it."

And then he stole softly into the house, and, without being seen,

carried Absalom up to the garret, and perched him gently on a rafter in

a dark corner. He then put a little red shawl over him to protect him

against the draughts, and fastened it just over his wish-bone with a

safety-pin.

"Now you must keep perfectly still until to-morrow is over."

"I will do so," promised Absalom.

"Promise me that you will not forget yourself and go 'gobble, gobble,

gobble,' for if you should do so you would certainly be discovered, only

to become a memory and a dinner."

"I won't gobble once," replied Absalom; "I fully appreciate the

importance of keeping still."

Then Herbert gave him an ear or two of pop-corn that was hanging in the

garret to dry, and afterwards went down stairs and brought him some

tea-biscuits and cracked English walnuts.

"You shall be the first gobbler on record to celebrate Thanksgiving by

having a feast instead of making one. Here is some nice celery, and here

is a handful of minced meat, and you shall have all you can eat

to-morrow."

"I shall never forget your kindness," said the gobbler, with feeling.

"This is twice you have saved my life--once from being drowned in the

rain, and once from being eaten with cranberry sauce. Believe me, I

shall never forget your kindness."

Just then they were startled by the voice of Herbert's father

downstairs.

"Michael," said he, "just go down to the barn-yard and chop the head off

that gobbler!"

It was an awful moment for Absalom, who almost shivered himself off his

perch.

After awhile Michael returned, long-faced and empty-handed.

"I cannot find the gobbler, and I think the old Uncle Ned who works here

by the day has stolen him for his Thanksgiving dinner."

Herbert's father was so indignant at the disappointment occasioned by

the reported loss of the gobbler that, without the slightest

consideration for the old darky, who was working in the celery ditch, he

shouted,

"See here, Uncle Ned, why did you steal our last turkey?"

"I didn't steal him, sah!" replied Uncle Ned, with a crestfallen air.

"Then get right off the place, and don't let me see you around here

again," shouted the proprietor, with great indignation.

Uncle Ned dropped his spade and went sullenly away, while Absalom smiled

through his tears on the old dusty rafter in the dark corner of the

garret.

"Now what are we going to have for Thanksgiving dinner?" inquired the

head of the house. "It's three miles to the village, the butcher's will

be closed in an hour, and we can't even get a steak!"

"Say, papa," suggested Herbert, "let's have nothing only dessert. What

do you say? Nothing but plum pudding; that'll make a fine old dinner."

Although the adults of the family frowned on such a suggestion, the

family had to make out a dinner on plum pudding or go hungry. Herbert

had never eaten so fine a dinner before; and when it was over he slipped

up to the garret with a plateful for Absalom.

"What in the world is this, Herbert?" asked the bird, as he smacked his

bill.

"It's plum pudding with hard sauce for your Thanksgiving dinner."

"Well, it's mighty fine, and I think it must be called hard sauce,

because it's hard to find anything else quite so good."

So he ate away until he fell asleep. In the bright rosy morning he

returned to the barn-yard, greatly relieved and in buoyant spirits.

"Take Uncle Ned right back to work at once," said Herbert's father at

about noon to Michael.

"What, after stealing the gobbler?" asked Michael.

"He didn't do it," responded Herbert's father, meekly; "he didn't do it.

I just met the gobbler, and I admit that while I am not

oversuperstitious, the mysterious disappearance of that bird when he was

ripe and due for the axe, and his sudden return when the danger had

passed, fills me with dire foreboding, and makes me think he'll bring me

good luck if I only treat him right. So I am not going to kill him even

for Christmas, but intend to feed him on the fat of the farm, and let

him die of old age. When I saw him a little while ago he actually winked

at me and grinned, and that was too much for my suspicious temperament."

So Uncle Ned was at once restored to his former position, and Absalom

thrived and lived to a grand old age, the faithful companion of his

devoted little friend and preserver.

THE REAL DOLL.

BY H. G. PAINE.

On little Frances's birthday

She had dolls of every size:

Baby dolls and lady dolls,

And dolls in mannish guise.

She had china dolls and rubber dolls,

Wax, worsted, wood, and some

That squeaked when Frances squeezed them hard,

And others that were dumb.

She had a little sailor doll,

A boy doll dressed in blue,

A doll that rode a bicycle,

A colored dolly, too.

But one and all she passed them by,

And cried with glad surprise:

"Oh, look, I've got a _real_ doll!"

'Twas the doll that shuts its eyes.

STRADDLED ON A MAD MOOSE.

BY HUBERT EARL.

We sat around the big open brick fireplace in the main cabin of the

camp, watching the birch logs as the flames greedily licked them and

threw forth a strong ruddy light upon our faces. What with the guides

and a few old veterans we made quite a party. Hunting stories had been

the topic of the evening's conversation, and I, who had seldom hunted

(this being, in fact, my first trip into the region), had listened to

these stories very much interested. The camp was situated on an island

in one of the numerous lakes found along the borders of northern Maine.

It consisted of a few log cabins, with a large one in the centre, where

we were at the moment congregated. The night air was very cold, and

Billy, our host, had predicted a frost before morning. Billy was

practically born in the woods, and knew every sign that could be

learned. It was a pleasure to watch his quiet face as he pulled away on

a big black cigar, gazing the while reflectively at the blazing logs.

While I watched him my eyes drifted now and then around the walls of the

cabin. Stacked in the corners were rifles and shot-guns of all

descriptions, and strung along the log sides, upon wooden pins, rested

fly-rods innumerable, their polished reels catching and reflecting the

flicker of the fire.

Off in the shadowy corner a rude stairway, with moose-legs for rails,

went climbing up into the loft overhead, and in the deepest part of the

shadow I made out the head of a magnificent bull moose with immense

spreading antlers. As I looked at it, it seemed to appear exceedingly

savage, and the glass eyes had been so skilfully placed that in the

flickering light they stared in the most baleful manner. Involuntarily I

drew my chair closer to Billy's, and patiently watched his cigar dwindle

down, ever and anon glancing at the ferocious-looking head behind me.

In a short time the conversation lulled, and I ventured to ask Billy to

tell the story connected with the shooting of the moose behind us. "It

is sure to be interesting," I said, "for he looks as if he died fighting

hard."

Billy glanced at me in a protesting sort of way, but the chorus of

requests for the story was too much for him.

"Well, boys," he said, "just give me a moment till I load my pipe, and

I'll tell it to you; and you can judge for yourselves whether it is

interesting or not.

"It was ten years ago coming winter when I had a camp near the mouth of

the river below here. Some of you saw what's left of it when you came

over the Parmachene trail yesterday. I was all alone that fall, except

for an occasional hunter or so going up the trail, and for some reason

deer was scarce. Well, I was hugging the fire one cold evening early in

November, when I heard a loud crash outside the camp. Now that meant one

of two things: either a windfall had taken place, or some large game was

floundering through the bog near at hand. Seizing my rifle, I slipped

out of the cabin.

"I looked in the direction from which the crash had come, but I could

see nothing. Softly launching my canoe, I placed the rifle in the bottom

of it, to be handy, you know, and started to paddle up the stream a

little way. I had probably gone about fifty feet when a branch snapped,

and then came a tremendous crash. The sound was close at hand, and I

gave a quick look in the direction whence it came. The night was too

black to see much, but I made out the huge stump of a tree that I had

often thrashed for trout from. Immediately back of this stump lay a

tangle of dead trees. I had stopped paddling, and the current of the

stream was slowly drifting the canoe towards it, and, with my rifle

ready, I waited for a sight of the game. Judging from the noise of the

last crash, I knew it must be near the stump.

"Most of you boys can appreciate what my feelings were at the moment,

for I felt pretty sure of big game and a good stock of meat. It took but

a few seconds to drift around to the lee of that stump, and I quickly

brought up with a thump against some of the dead wood in the bog. What I

saw gave me a start, for there in the deep shadow stood the largest bull

moose it has ever been my fortune to run across.

"Well, I'm an old hunter, guide, or whatever you want to call me, and

have tracked deer from boyhood, also bear, moose, and caribou; but,

boys, when I saw that magnificent bull glaring at me I grew feverish

with excitement, and for a few minutes I simply stared back at him. I

guess we were not more than twenty feet apart, and as far as I could

tell through the steam rising from him, he was caught in the bog some

way, and was fighting mad.

"I had been at close quarters with moose before, but never saw such

dangerous-looking eyes. Raising my gun, I aimed as well as I could just

back of his fore-shoulder. I felt shaky, though, and the sights went

bobbing up and down like a cork float. I tried hard to get her steady,

and when I had her fairly so I fired.

"There was a most unearthly, savage cry, and the dark body with those

fearful eyes and antlers launched itself forward at me. I had hit him,

but, as I afterward discovered, the bullet had cut along through the

skin behind the fore-legs, and the pain forced the supreme effort by

which he freed himself from the bog. He was rapidly coming for me when I

let fly at him again. By this time my blood was up, mad with disgust at

having missed killing him at such close range. I hit him the second

time, and hit him hard, but on he came as though nothing could stop him,

and I had just time enough to plant another bit of lead in him when he

threw himself half out of the water and planted his forehoofs clean

through the canoe. I knew I could never get away from him, as his savage

eyes were watching me, so when I saw what his game was, I made a leap

for his back as his hoofs went crashing through the canoe. As I landed

on him I caught his antlers with one hand, drawing my knife with the

other. Well, boys, I actually laughed at my queer position, and I dare

say that moose was more than surprised. For a moment he couldn't realize

where I had gone to and what was on his back. That moment of hesitation

probably saved my life, for I reached over and drove the knife into him

as near the heart as I could judge.

"There were a few seconds of trouble, during which I hung on to his

antlers, until finally, with a big toss of his head, he threw me out

into the stream. I had lost my knife in the struggle, and knew if he was

not done for it was all up with me. So I swam away as rapidly as I

could, expecting every minute to hear him after me. But his last effort

had settled him, and, with a cry of satisfaction, I looked around, to

find him again caught in the bog. He was dead at last, and with a rope I

hitched him to the stump. The next morning I hauled him up to the camp,

and, after some trouble, secured the canoe and rifle. He gave me the

gamiest fight of my life, and that is the reason his head--the finest

specimen you've probably seen--stands in the camp to-day."

[Illustration: THE CAMERA CLUB.]

This Department is conducted in the interest of Amateur

Photographers, and the Editor will be pleased to answer any

question on the subject so far as possible. Correspondents should

address Editor Camera Club Department.

PAPERS FOR BEGINNERS, No. 15.

BROMIDE PRINTS.

Bromide paper differs from the printing-out papers both in manner of

using and in the finished picture. Bromide paper is a paper coated with

silver bromide and gelatine in emulsion, and is first printed and then

developed in the same way as a negative. The prints when finished are a

brilliant black and white.

This paper may be prepared by the amateur, but the ready-prepared papers

are so reliable and so inexpensive, that it is really cheaper to buy the

paper already sensitized. One great advantage of bromide paper over

printing-out paper is that in using it one is entirely independent of

day or sunlight. Strong "plucky" negatives are the best for bromide

printing, but very good prints may be made with weak negatives by

carefully timing the printing.

All the process of working bromide paper, except that of the printing,

must be conducted by a red or yellow light. Open the package of paper in

the dark-room, and the negative being already in the printing-frame,

adjust a sheet of paper over the negative. The face of bromide paper may

always be distinguished by its _curling in_. Cover the frame with a dark

cloth, open the door of the lantern, and get your timepiece ready, for

one must always print by exact seconds; never guess at the time. Uncover

the frame and hold the negative about fifteen inches from the flame of

the lamp, and if the negative is an ordinary printing one, expose to the

light for ten seconds. Cover the frame immediately, close the door of

the lantern, take the print from the frame, and if you wish to develop

it at once soak the paper in clear water till it is limp enough to lie

flat. Place it in the developing-tray face up, and flood it with

developer. One may use almost any kind of developer with bromide paper.

Eikonogen and hydrochinon are good developers, and do not stain the

hands; but ferrous oxalate is the developer most used.

The image on the paper should develop rather slowly, and come up clear

and brilliant. Develop till the detail is well out and the shadows deep

enough. Pour off all the developer, leaving the print in the tray, and

cover it with a solution composed of 1 dr. acetic acid, and 32 oz. of

water. Allow this to act one minute; turn off, and repeat the operation

twice more. Wash the print thoroughly, and place in a fixing bath of

hypo, 3 oz.; water, 16 oz. After fixing, wash for an hour in running

water, and hang up to dry. If prints are washed in running water they

should be taken from the bowl two or three times during the washing, and

the bowl filled with clean water. If running water is not used wash in

ten changes of water, allowing the prints to remain ten minutes in each

change of water.

In bromide prints one must be very careful to have all dishes used in

the operation strictly clean. Greenish tones in the prints are caused by

over-exposure and too much bromide in the developing solution. Yellow

prints are caused by under-exposure, and too long development. In

developing rock the tray in all directions. If it is rocked in one

direction only, the prints will be streaked. Do not let water run

directly on the prints, as it will cause blisters.

Bromide prints are always satisfactory, require no burnishing, do not

fade, and when well printed and developed resemble engravings. They can

be used for book illustrations, and will not curl or exhibit any of the

disagreeable traits of the aristo prints.

Will SIR KNIGHT HARRY HAMNER, of Philadelphia, please send his

street and number? The Editor wishes to write to him in regard to a

branch Camera Club in Philadelphia--which it is hoped he will

organize.

THE IMP OF THE TELEPHONE.

BY JOHN KENDRICK BANGS.

III.--ELECTRIC COOKING.

"Hurrah!" cried Jimmieboy, in ecstasy. "This is great, isn't it?"

"Pretty great," assented the Imp, proudly. "That is, unless you mean

large. If you mean it that way it isn't great at all; but if you mean

great like me, who, though very, very small, am simply tremendous as a

success, I agree with you. I like it here very much. The room is

extremely comfortable, and I do everything by electricity--cooking,

reading, writing--everything."

"I don't see how," said Jimmieboy.

"Oh, it's simply a matter of buttons and batteries. The battery makes

the electricity, I press the buttons, and there you are. You know what a

battery is, don't you?"

"Not exactly," said Jimmieboy. "You might explain it to me."

"Yes, I might if I hadn't a better way," replied the Imp. "I won't

explain it to you, because I can have it explained to you in another way

entirely, though I won't promise that either of us will understand the

explanation. Let's see," he added, rising from his chair and inspecting

a huge button-board that hung from the wall at the left of the room.

"Where's the Dictionary button? Ah, here--"

"The what?" queried the visitor, his face alive with wonderment.

"The Dictionary button. I press the Dictionary button, and the

Dictionary tells me whatever I want to know. Just listen to this."

The Imp pressed a button as he spoke, and Jimmieboy listened. In an

instant there was a loud buzzing sound, and then an invisible something

began to speak, or rather, to sing:

"She's my Annie,

I'm her Joe.

Little Annie Rooney--"

"Dear me!" cried the Imp, his face flushing to a deep crimson. "Dear me,

I got the wrong button. That's my Music-room button. It's right next the

Dictionary button, and my finger must have slipped. I'll just turn

'Annie Rooney' off and try again. Now listen."

Again the Imp touched a button, and Jimmieboy once more heard the

buzzing sound, followed by a squeaking voice, which said:

"Battery is a noun--plural, batteries. In baseball the pitcher and

catcher is the battery; in electricity a battery is a number of Leyden

jars, usually arranged with their inner coatings connected, and their

outer coatings also connected, so that they may be all charged and

discharged at the same time."

"Understand that, Jimmieboy?" queried the Imp, with a smile, turning the

Dictionary button off.

"No, I don't," said Jimmieboy. "But I suppose it is all right."

"Perhaps you'd like an explanation of the explanation?" suggested the

Imp.

"If it's one I can understand, I would," returned Jimmieboy. "But I

don't see the use of explanations that don't explain."

"They aren't much good," observed the Imp, touching another button.

"This will make it clear, I think."

"The Dictionary doesn't say it," said another squeaking voice, in

response to the touch of the Imp on the third button; "but a battery is

a thing that looks like a row of jars full of preserves, but isn't, and

when properly cared for and not allowed to freeze up, it makes

electricity, which is a sort of red-hot invisible fluid that pricks your

hands when you touch it, and makes them feel as if they were asleep if

you keep hold of it for any length of time, and which carries messages

over wires, makes horse-cars go without horses, lights a room better

than gas, and is so like lightning that no man who has tried both can

tell the difference between them."

Here the squeaking voice turned into a buzz again, and then stopped

altogether.

"Now do you understand?" asked the Imp, anxiously.

"I think I do," replied Jimmieboy. "A battery is nothing but a lot of

big glass jars in which 'lectricity is made, just as pie is made in a

tin plate and custard is made in cups."

"Exactly," said the Imp. "But, of course, electricity is a great deal

more useful than pie or custard. The best custard in the world wouldn't

move a horse-car, and I don't believe anybody ever saw a pie that could

light up a room the way this is. It's a pretty wonderful thing,

electricity is, but not particularly good eating, and sometimes I don't

think it's as good for cooking as the good old-fashioned fire. I've had

pie that was too hot, and I've had pie that was too electric, and

between the two I think the too-hot pie was the pleasanter, though

really nothing can make pie positively unpleasant."

"So I have heard," said Jimmieboy, with an approving nod. "I haven't had

any sperience with pie, you know. That and red pepper are two things I

am not allowed to eat at dinner."

"You wouldn't like to taste some of my electric custard, would you?"

asked the Imp, his sympathies aroused by Jimmieboy's statement that as

yet he and pie were strangers.

"Indeed I would!" cried Jimmieboy, with a gleeful smile. "I'd like it

more than anything else!"

"Very well," said the Imp, turning to the button-board, and scratching

his head as if perplexed for a moment. "Let's see," he added. "What is

custard made of?"

"Custard?" said Jimmieboy, who thought there never could be any question

on that point. "It's made of custard. I know, because I eat it all up

when I get it, and there's nothing but custard in it from beginning to

end."

The Imp smiled. He knew better than that. "You are right partially," he

said. "But there aren't custard-mines or custard-trees or custard-wells

in the world, so it has to be made of something. I guess I'll ask my

cookery-book."

Here he touched a pink button in the left-hand upper corner of the

board.

"Milk--sugar--and--egg," came the squeaking voice. "Three-quarters of a

pint of milk, two table-spoonfuls of sugar, and one whole egg."

"Don't you flavor it with anything?" asked the Imp, pressing the button

a second time.

"If you want to," squeaked the voice. "Vanilla, strawberry, huckleberry,

sarsaparilla, or anything else, just as you want it."

Jimmieboy's mouth watered. A strawberry custard! "Dear me!" he thought.

"Wouldn't that be just the dish of dishes to live on all one's days!"

"Two teaspoonfuls of whatever flavor you want will be enough for one cup

of custard," said the squeaky voice, lapsing back immediately thereafter

into the curious buzz.

[Illustration: THE ELECTRIC CUSTARD.]

"Thanks," said the Imp, returning to the table and putting down the

receipt on a piece paper.

"You're welcome," said the buzz.

"Now, Jimmieboy, we'll have two cup custards in two minutes," said the

Imp. "What flavor will you have?"

"Strawberry cream, please," said Jimmieboy, as if he were ordering

soda-water.

"All right. I guess I'll take sarsaparilla," said the Imp, walking to

the board again. "Now see me get the eggs."

He pressed a blue button this time. The squeaky voice began to cackle,

and in a second two beautiful white eggs appeared on the table. In the

same manner the milk, flavoring, and sugar were obtained; only when the

Imp signalled for the milk the invisible voice mooed so like a cow that

Jimmieboy looked anxiously about him, half expecting to see a soft-eyed

Jersey enter the room.

"Now," said the Imp, opening the eggs into a bowl, and pouring the milk

and flavoring and sugar in with them, and mixing them all up together,

"we'll pour this into that funnel over there, turn on the electricity,

and get our custard in a jiffy. Just watch that small hole at the end of

the funnel, and you'll see the custard come out."

"Are the cups inside? Or do we have to catch the custards in 'em as they

come out?" asked Jimmieboy.

"Oh, my!" cried the Imp. "I'm glad you spoke of that. I had forgotten

the cups. We've got to put them in with the other things."

The Imp rushed to the button-board, and soon had two handsome little

cups in response to his summons; and then casting them into the funnel

he turned on the electric current, and Jimmieboy watched carefully for

the resulting custards. In two minutes by the clock they appeared below,

both at the same time, one a creamy strawberry in hue, and the other

brown.

"It's wonderful!" said Jimmieboy, in breathless astonishment. "I wish I

had a stove like that in my room."

"It wouldn't be good for you. You'd be using it all day and eating what

you got. But how is the custard?"

"Lovely," said Jimmieboy, smacking his lips as he ate the soft creamy

sweet. "I could eat a thousand of them."

"I rather doubt it," said the Imp. "But you needn't try to prove it. I

don't want to wear out the stove on custard when it has my dinner still

to prepare. What do you say to listening to my library a little while?

I've got a splendid library in the next room. It has everything in it

that has ever been written, and a great many things that haven't. That's

a great thing about this electric-button business. Nothing is impossible

for it to do, and if you want to hear a story some man is going to tell

next year or next century you can get it just as well as you can

something that was written last year or last century. Come along."

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

[Illustration: INTERSCHOLASTIC SPORT]

By defeating St. Paul's at Garden City a week ago Saturday, Pratt

Institute won the Long Island interscholastic football championship for

1895. If the players and the students of the Institute are satisfied

with the methods by which this victory was obtained they should be

welcome to the empty honor. The Pratt eleven is a good one, and might

very probably have won the game by fair and square football; but to send

one of their players to Garden City as the guest of that school a number

of times during the early fall, and to allow him to make note of the

signals and the plays in use by his hosts, and then to play against St.

Paul's, armed with this ill-gotten knowledge, is an act beneath

contempt, and one for which any sportsman must turn away in disgust. The

man who did this can offer no excuse for his sneaking and dishonorable

conduct. When caught in the act of taking the St. Paul's signals he was

driven like a malefactor from the field, but he returned brazenly with

his companions, and put his ill-gotten knowledge to disgraceful use in a

contest with gentlemen. The guilt of all the Pratt Institute football

players is second only to that of their informant, for by using the

information he obtained by such dishonorable means they showed

approbation of his course, and placed themselves upon a level with him

who violated the confidence of a host.

The St. Paul's team this year is a very good one. The men have not had

the advantage of as many games as the other teams of the Long Island

League, but there is a strong school spirit at Garden City and an

excellent system of training, both of which tend to the development of

good athletes. I have seen several of the league teams play this fall,

and have carefully noted the game put up by each eleven. St. Paul's

plays a harder, faster, and more scientific game than any other team on

Long Island. Their play is more like that of a college Freshman team.

This is well illustrated by the way they line up, the quick work of the

quarter in giving signals, and the knack which all the men have of

getting into every play. The offensive play is much stronger and better

than the defensive, the latter being rather weak. I noticed little

fumbling by the St. Paul's players, and that is the hardest of any fault

to overcome.

In the game with Pratt Institute, the play on both sides was sharp and

snappy throughout, in spite of the fact that the Garden City team was

badly crippled. Glenny, the right guard, broke a rib while skylarking

just before the game, and played against the advice of his physician. E.

Starr was also laid up with an injury to his knee, and could not play.

The line was therefore considerably weakened, and the team did not put

up the game it is capable of. Only eight points were scored in the first

half--one touch-down and goal, and a safety. During the first three

minutes of play in the second half, St. Paul's carried the ball to

Pratt's five-yard line, but lost it on a fumble. This seemed to

dishearten the team, and after that Pratt forced the centre for long and

steady gains. The halves were of twenty-five and thirty minutes'

duration, and the final score was 26-0. St. Paul's took their defeat

manfully, and do not intend, as has been reported, to enter any protest

against the Pratt team. There is another and a better course for them to

pursue.

An agreement has been made between St. Paul's and the Berkeley School,

covering a period of three years, to play an annual game of football on

Thanksgiving day, the first contest of the series to take place (at

Manhattan Field, if possible) a week from Thursday, in the morning. This

is a good thing, for it will bring together representative schools from

the sister cities, and the great game cannot fail to be benefited

thereby. Such annual contests between large schools, if properly

conducted, should soon attract almost as much of the public interest as

inter-collegiate contests, for there are more school-boys in New York

and Brooklyn than there are college men, and if not as many persons

interested in the sports of the former as in those of the latter, they

are at least of a better and less promiscuous class. The schools should

aim to have these tournaments as free as possible from the quarrels and

bickerings that have lately characterized inter-collegiate football, and

that frequently crop up in interscholastic sport; but between two

institutions of the standing and make-up of Berkeley and St. Paul's

there should be small likelihood of any such unpleasant occurrences. One

good feature of the meetings that I have already heard of is that the

admission fee will be twenty-five cents. The debarring thus of the

speculative evil on the part of the managers is a good omen.

The Berkeley School team that is to meet St. Paul's is undoubtedly the

strongest that the school has ever put into the field. It is made up of

excellent material, and has been coached by a man thoroughly familiar

with the game. By defeating De La Salle at the Berkeley Oval a week ago

the team won first honors in the second section of the New York League,

and it will undoubtedly take the championship on the 29th. Immediately

after the Pratt-St. Paul's game Berkeley challenged Pratt Institute to

play a match at any time, but the Pratt Captain hesitated about

accepting, and the matter is still unsettled. As there is no agreement

for an inter-city game this year, it is to be hoped that the Pratt

management will have sufficient sporting spirit to accept the challenge.

Lawrenceville and the Hill School of Pottstown will meet on the gridiron

next Saturday, and the contest should be a close one, for up to date of

writing the Pennsylvania School has met no defeat this season. Their

chief victory was over the Princeton second eleven, and their hardest

game against U. of P. '98, in which neither side scored. The team is a

light one--very much lighter than Lawrenceville's--but it has had good

training, although it has suffered from a lack of frequent games with

other elevens. This last disadvantage will tell in the contest with

Lawrenceville, and, although I expect to see the Jersey men win, they

will by no means have a walk-over.

[Illustration: Schuyler, r.h.-b. Davis, r.e. Kiefer, l.h.-b. (Capt.)

Lowndes, r.t.

Mills, r.g. Paxton, r.t. Dean, l.g. Dallam, sub.

Monypeny, f.-b. Rodgers, l.e.

Fincke, q.-b. Chadick, c.

THE HILL SCHOOL FOOTBALL TEAM.]

The Hill School eleven is particularly strong behind the line, where

Kiefer, Schuyler, and Monypeny make a trio of backs of which any

preparatory school might well be proud. Kiefer, Captain, who plays left

half-back, has played several years on the team. He is the fastest

runner in the school, and a remarkably clever dodger. His punting has

improved noticeably this year, and he tackles hard and low. Schuyler,

the right half-back, was also a member of last year's eleven. He is a

brilliant though unsteady player, running low and hard. When he hits the

line he rarely fails to make his distance. Owing to his tendency to

fumble he is not so reliable as the other backs. Monypeny, who fills the

position of full-back, has proved a great surprise. Last year he played

on the second eleven, but was never regarded as anything above an

ordinary player. Since the present season opened he has shown steady

improvement, until at present he is regarded as one of the best

all-around men on the eleven. He is a strong line backer, and for hard

and sure tackling is not surpassed by any man on the team. Fincke, at

quarter, is another old man. He is cool and clear-headed, his strongest

point being his ability to get into the interference quickly. His

tackling has improved greatly over that of last year. In the line,

Chadick, at centre, is new to the position. Compared with the average

centre he is small and light, but what he lacks in these respects is

more than offset by his strength and grit.

The guards are being played by Dean and Mills. Dean played on the second

eleven last year, and has improved steadily through the season. Mills is

a new man, but has the making of a good football player in him.

Carelessness seems to be his main fault. Lowndes and Paxton, the

tackles, are also old men, though the former has played one of the

guards before this year. As an all-round football player Lowndes

undoubtedly excels any other man who ever represented the Hill. He is

not as heavy as could be desired, but he more than makes up for this

lack by his great strength and activity. In every play his tackling is

fierce, and as a ground-gainer he can always be relied on. His early

football experience was obtained at St. Paul's. Paxton, the right

tackle, still shows the effects of a severe illness, which necessitated

his leaving school last year. His work, though, has shown steady

improvement of late, and in the interference he is especially strong.

The ends are looked after by Davis and Rodgers, both members of last

year's second eleven. Davis has developed into one of the best ends the

school has ever had, while Rodgers, who plays a sandy game, is somewhat

handicapped by his light weight.

Owing to the Hill School's somewhat isolated location--isolated in the

sense of neighborhood to other large private schools--it has no close

rival, such as Andover used to have in Exeter and now has in

Lawrenceville, and such as the Berkeley School in this city and St.

Paul's of Garden City are gradually becoming. At present Lawrenceville

comes the nearest to occupying this position, but the Jersey school is

so much larger in point of numbers that it out-classes the Hill in most

contests. Considering this superiority of Lawrenceville's, therefore any

victory over her by the Hill School must be doubly creditable.

The difficulty between the Brooklyn Latin and High-Schools has been

referred to a committee for settlement, although it seems as if the

Association ought to have decided upon the question at once at their

last session. The dispute originated in the recent football contest

between the two schools. When the game was about half over, Captain

Lutkins of the Latin School team protested to the officials that the

High-School team were playing their ends back of the line, which he said

was a violation of Rule 30, Section C. The officials held different

opinions as to the interpretation of the rule, and the game was allowed

to go on as before. At the League meeting the representatives from the

Latin School protested the game for this reason, but the protest was not

decided, and a special committee was appointed to pass on the question.

The umpire, in a letter to the League, said that an agreement was

entered into, previous to the game, by which it was understood that both

teams could play both ends back of the line. The referee in his letter

has denied that any agreement was entered into before the game relative

to this point. To complicate matters further, it appears that the umpire

had been coaching the High-School, and the referee was an ex-member of

the Latin School. (The moral-seeker will find food for meditation in

this situation!)

The absurdity of the argument that both teams had agreed to allow the

ends to play back of the line is apparent. The teams were playing under

the rules of the L.I.I.S.F.B.A., and these rules clearly state that in

football contests the Intercollegiate code is to be followed. This code

is equally clear in its statement that "Not more than three men shall

group themselves at a point behind the line of scrimmage before the ball

is in play. Seven men or more shall be on the line of scrimmage until

the ball is in play, except that the man playing the position of either

end rusher may drop back, provided he does not pass inside the position

occupied by the man playing adjacent tackle before the ball is put in

play." A delegate from Poly. Prep. quoted this paragraph at the League

meeting, and very justly objected that the captains had no right to make

any agreement, even if they had done so, because such an agreement

obviously violated the rules.

The League delegates, however, in their ponderous wisdom did not take

this view of the question, and threw the responsibility from their

shoulders by appointing a committee to decide the knotty issue. The

latter ought to have but little difficulty in doing this if they can

read the English language. Two things are plain: 1st. That the rules

were violated if two end-men played back of the line, whether or not the

captains had an agreement. 2d. That both the referee and the umpire who

officiated at the game are ignorant of the rules, and incompetent, and

should never be permitted to act as officials again until they have

proved themselves capable of fulfilling the duties required of them.

Further, the Latin School Captain is entirely in the right in the

matter, and the game should go to his men, or, better, since both

elevens violated the rules, the match should be void.

Comment on the game between Bridgeport and Hartford High-Schools for the

championship of the Connecticut High-School League must be deferred

until next week, owing to lack of space in this number. It was a

stirring contest, and I want to devote more space to it than I should be

able to to-day. A criticism of the Berkeley School team is also crowded

out.

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[Illustration: Royal Baking Powder]

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[Illustration]

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[Illustration]

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[Illustration]

Timely Warning.

[Illustration]

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[Illustration]

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[Illustration]

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12mo, 145 pages, 75 cents.

A GOLDEN WEEK

By EMMA J. GRAY. Illustrated. 12mo, 222 pages, 90 cents.

HIS COUSIN THE DOCTOR

By MINNIE WILLIS BAINES. 12mo, 198 pages, 75 cents.

BLASTS FROM A RAM'S HORN

By ELIJAH P. BROWN. Illustrated. 12mo, 388 pages, $1.20.

THE GALILEAN GOSPEL

By A. B. BRUCE. 12mo, 232 pages, 75 cents.

HER BEN

A Tale of Royal Resolves. By CARLISLE B. HOLDING. 12mo, 357 pages,

90 cents.

AN ODD FELLOW

A Tale of To-day. By C. B. HOLDING. Illustrated. 12mo, 391 pages,

$1.25.

JOY THE DEACONESS

By ELIZABETH E. HOLDING. Illustrated. 12mo, 213 pages, 90 cents.

ONE WOMAN'S STORY

Or, The Chronicles of a Quiet Life. By ELLEN A. LUTZ. Illustrated.

12mo, 300 pages, $1.25.

CORNER WORK

Or, Look Up, Lift Up. By MYRA GOODWIN PLANTZ. 12mo, 277 pages, 75

cents.

EVERY-DAY RELIGION

Or, The Common Sense Teaching of the Bible. By HANNAH WHITALL

SMITH. 12mo, 242 pages, $1.00.

ONE RICH MAN'S SON

By EMMA LEFFERTS SUPER. Illustrated. 12mo, 209 pages, 90 cents.

BARBARA HECK

A Tale of Early Methodism. By W. H. WITHROW. Illustrated. 12mo, 238

pages, 90 cents.

PROVIDENTIAL EPOCHS

By FRANK M. BRISTOL. Illustrated. 12mo, 269 pages, $1.25.

_Any of these books will be sent to any address, postage prepaid by the

publishers, on receipt of price. A liberal discount will be allowed to

purchasers of ten or more of the books selected from this list._

HUNT & EATON, 150 Fifth Avenue, New York

[Illustration: THE PUDDING STICK]

This Department is conducted in the interest of Girls and Young

Women, and the Editor will be pleased to answer any question on the

subject so far as possible. Correspondents should address Editor.

Sally B. asks me how I would set about getting up a little fair for a

charity, what one must first do, and how such an enterprise can be made

a success.

First talk it over with your mother, and get her advice and

co-operation. Girls can always carry on affairs of this sort best if

they have their mother's help and sympathy. It is very nice to talk all

one's plans over with one's mother.

If mamma approves, write notes to your most intimate friends, asking

them to a meeting at your house on the first convenient day. Saturday

afternoon at four o'clock, for instance, is a good time for most girls

to spare an hour. Of course there are some girls whom you can invite

verbally. It is not worth while to write a note to Mary Adrain, whom you

walk to school with every day, or to Susie Spader, whose seat in school

adjoins your own.

Having brought your friends together, appoint one young lady to take the

chair, and then state as clearly as you can, with her permission, the

object of the meeting. Tell about the charity you wish to aid. It may be

a Babies' Hospital, or a poor family, or a crippled child who is in need

of medical attendance and relief. More money is necessary than any one

of you can give outright, so you think it would be nice to have a fair,

and devote the money gained to the excellent purpose you have in view.

Probably there will be no objections. The question of funds will come

up, and if each of you can donate a small sum, say twenty-five cents

apiece, you can buy with the whole amount sufficient material to make a

great many pretty and easily saleable articles--as doilies, tea-cloths,

centre-pieces, carving-cloths, cases for brushes and combs, crocheted

slippers for the bedside, and other dainty bits of handiwork. These will

furnish your fancy table. When the time comes for your fair, make a

quantity of delicious home-made candy, and put it in pretty boxes,

daintily wrapped in paraffine paper. Take orders beforehand for your

candy. You will have no trouble in selling caramels, chocolate creams,

peppermint creams, and old-fashioned molasses candy. I am sure about

this part of the fair, for I know that home-made candy, if good,

vanishes like magic when little cooks are the saleswomen.

Dolls, prettily dressed, will find many willing buyers, and with the

holidays just before us, you ought to secure orders for dolls among your

friends. Dolls dressed in costume as queens, shepherdesses, fairies, and

sailors, are very attractive.

[Illustration]

Barbour's Yachts.

These are perfect representations in shape and color of some famous

Yachts, Steamboats, Ocean Steamers, etc., of the day. They are

beautifully lithographed in several bright colors on heavy cardboard.

The length, size, speed and the most important points of interest are

given on the reverse side of each yacht. The Set contains a folding

board, 22 in. long, with slots (representing the sea) in which to place

the vessels. Thus a beautiful and interchangeable marine scene is

presented.

[Illustration: 1. Tug Boat. 2. New York. 3. Steam Yacht. 4. Priscilla.

5. Valkyrie. 6. Defender. 7. Swallow. 8. Lucania. 9. Ethelwynne. 10.

Lighthouse.]

These miniature boats are so true to nature that they are of real

interest to old and young, and to those who live at a distance from the

ocean or large bodies of water they will be object-lessons of great

value.

The Complete Set mailed to any address on receipt of _four_ 2-cent

stamps.

Through these novelties--Yachts, Dolls, etc.--we hope to interest the

largest possible number of the readers of this paper in our products.

The articles offered are always worth more than the price asked. Our

object is to increase the use of Barbour's Linen Threads and Flosses

among the present generation and to double it in the next. The children

of to-day are the purchasers of to-morrow.

Strong LINEN Threads Give Best Results for All Uses.

Use only =Barbour's Irish Flax Threads= in the home and workshop,--for

Clothing, Carpets, Crocheting and Embroidery, Shoe and all Leather Work,

Trunks and Harnesses, Book-Binding--in fact for all fabrics and

leathers.

[Illustration]

BARBOUR'S

Prize Needlework Series, No. 4.

(Just Issued.) 150 Pages. Profusely Illustrated.

Gives much new and practical information about the latest designs in

Lace-Making, Embroidery, and all kinds of Needlework. Books Nos. 1, 2 or

3 are also in print.

Mailed to any address for 10 cents each.

THE BARBOUR BROS. CO., 218 Church St., New York, N. Y.

[Illustration]

=BARBOUR'S DOLLS.= A set of 12 Dolls for three 2-cent stamps, each 5 in.

high, lithographed in bright colors (will stand alone) and representing

12 different characters, viz.:

America.

Ireland.

Japan.

China.

Orange Blossoms.

Grapes.

Little Buttercup.

Boy Sailor.

Flower Girl.

15th Century.

18th Century.

18th Century.

They are made of heavy strong paper that will endure an immense amount

of handling. The complete set will be sent to any address on receipt of

=THREE 2-cent Stamps=.

Mailed from New York Office only.

CARDS

The FINEST SAMPLE BOOK of Gold Beveled Edge, Hidden Name, Silk Fringe,

Envelope and Calling Cards ever offered for a 2 cent stamp. These are

GENUINE CARDS, NOT TRASH. =UNION CARD CO., COLUMBUS, OHIO.=

NEW PLAYS

READINGS, RECITATIONS,

CATALOGUES FREE!!!

DE WITT, ROSE ST., N. Y.

[Illustration]

Harper's Catalogue

Thoroughly revised, classified, and indexed, will be sent by mail to any

address on receipt of ten cents.

BICYCLING.

The Editor will be pleased to answer any question on the subject.

Our maps and tours contain much valuable data kindly supplied from

the official maps and road-books of the League of American

Wheelmen. Recognizing the value of the work being done by the

L. A. W. the Editor will be pleased to furnish subscribers with

membership blanks and information so far as possible.

[Illustration: Copyright, 1895, by Harper & Brothers.]

BOSTON TO NEW BEDFORD.

Start from Copley Square, and, leaving Public Library on the right, go

through Dartmouth Street across the bridge to Columbus Avenue, there

turning to right, and taking Columbus Avenue to Massachusetts Avenue, a

strip of fine asphalt. Here turn to the left, and go to Harrison Avenue,

and there turn to right, and continue along through it and Warren Street

to Walnut Avenue. Here turn to right, and proceed direct to Franklin

Park. Go to and through Ellicott Street, then turn to left onto Morton

Street, following it to Norfolk Street, where you turn to right, and

continue direct to Matapan (level, first-class road). Cross over the

river and continue to the forks, taking the left _viâ_ Matapan Street to

Canton Avenue. Then turn to right to Poukapoag. The easiest grade up

Blue Hill leads from this route. At the forks keep to the left _viâ_

turnpike direct to Stoughton. (Country hilly, but road in good

condition.) At the fork of the roads in Stoughton keep to the right

along the North Easton Branch. Here there is a fine level stretch. Cross

over the railroad bridge to South Easton, continue across the Brockton

and Easton branch, and after a run of about a mile and a half turn to

the right onto the turnpike near by the school-house pump in front of

it. On nearing Taunton you approach a large cemetery on the left, and

there a turn may be made to the left, thus avoiding the car tracks, and

bringing the rider to the main road at the Catholic church. From here on

there is a direct road to the Green, following the tracks to the City

Hotel. Now follow the tracks to the left, and at their end turn to the

right and pass the church. After crossing the railroad bridge make one

turn to the left, go over the Taunton River, and keep direct road to New

Bedford. The road for the entire trip varies from good to first-class

macadam, telford, and gravel. After leaving Taunton there is a spin of

about eleven miles on the side path, the condition of which varies

according to the weather, being at its best after a good rain. The

roadway is quite level for most of this distance, but two good hills are

encountered, the descent of the first one covering about a mile. At East

Freetown bear to left across the bridge. Sisson's is a popular

picnic-ground about six miles this side of New Bedford. At the head of

the river the fine macadam road begins. Follow the car tracks until

after crossing the railroad, then go up the hill one block, turning to

the left onto Pleasant Street, and continuing direct to City Hall.

Distance about fifty-seven miles. Mansion House at New Bedford is

headquarters for wheelmen.

Let Everybody Attend.

We hope you will not refrain from attending the Munroe Reception and

Reading on Wednesday evening, November 30th, because of the distance

from the centre of the city of the hall in which it is to be held. It

proved impossible to secure any other suitable meeting-place on the

required date. Besides, St. Agnes Hall is easily reached, even by

Brooklyn or Jersey City members. Take the Sixth or Ninth Avenue elevated

and get off at Ninety-third Street station. The hall is at 121 West

Ninety-first--a few doors west of Columbus Avenue. The hour is eight

o'clock sharp, and the affair will be over early, so that you will not

be out late. Everybody is invited--members, parents, Patrons, all their

friends, and all readers of this periodical and their friends. There is

to be no admission fee charged, but a collection is to be taken for the

School Fund. Mr. Munroe will tell stories of travel and read from his

own published works. Let us give him a hearty welcome.

* * * * *

A Knight who Deserves Help.

Sir Knight John H. Campbell. Jun., 413 School Lane, Germantown,

Philadelphia, is willing to take the lead in the holding of a fair at an

early date in aid of the School Fund. He wants to hear from other

members of the Order in and around Philadelphia. Of course he wants most

to know those willing to lend him active aid, but he will gladly welcome

contributions, articles to sell, and help at disposing of tickets. Won't

you write him?

Sir John is an active and philanthropic Knight. He represents Sir George

D. Galloway's bright amateur paper _The Albemarle_, is interested in

autographs, and is well worth knowing. So please help him.

* * * * *

Questions and Answers.

Leonard Nagel may send to the address given, and application blanks will

be forwarded him, or at least further hints will be given him about

getting into the naval apprentice schools. "California" asks how to get

into Annapolis Naval Academy. Apply to your member of Congress.

Asks Sir Freeman Scales: "Does it make any difference at what age a

person enters the law school of any of the large colleges? And what is

the limit? Is high-school the highest one before applying for admission

to the college? Is it harder to pass the examination to enter Yale than

Harvard?" There is no age limit for entrance to the law schools. One can

enter most of them without having graduated at high-school. To the last

question, no. At Harvard there are more elective studies than at Yale.

Apply for catalogues and requirements of admission. Address the Dean in

each case.

* * * * *

"I want to exchange wild flowers and ferns," writes Daisy Damman, who

lives--where do you think?--in Hazel Park, Warburton, Victoria,

Australia. She is a Lady of the Order, and has a large collection of

Australian fauna. Ned and Neil MacNeale ask the name of a periodical

that treats of hunting and fishing. They might try _Forest and Stream_,

New York. Gerty Clare, 234 Garside Street, Newark, N. J., who does

fancy-work well, and has plenty of time for it, is willing to do some

for any Chapter fair, at least a part of the proceeds of which fair are

to go to the School Fund. She wants to be a corresponding member of some

literary Chapter. Will some one write her?

Harry Arthur Powell asks for information about our Order membership. The

rule is, 1. Once a member always a member. Those coming in under

eighteen are Knights and Ladies, those over eighteen, Patrons. Knights

and Ladies remain such without regard to age, and never become Patrons.

In a certain few cases, where it is unfair not to give young members a

chance, prize competitions are limited to those under eighteen. Where no

age is mentioned, competition is open to members of all ages. But our

prize offers, question privileges, the furnishing of morsels, etc., are

intended to be open to members only, not to the general public.

STAMPS.

This Department is conducted in the interest of stamp and coin

collectors, and the Editor will be pleased to answer any question

on these subjects so far as possible. Correspondents should address

Editor Stamp Department.

Attention is called to another threatened deluge of purely speculative

stamps. No philatelist should buy any of the following:

PERU.--_Pierola Issue._ 2, 5, 10, 20, and 50 centavos, bearing date on

left side of the stamp "Setiembre 10 de 1895." These stamps were issued

and good for postage for ten days only (September 10 to 20, 1895).

GREECE.--_Olympian Games Issue._ No list of the different proposed

values has been issued, but probably there will be the same number of

denominations as the present series, viz., 1, 2, 5, 10, 20, 40, 60, 70,

80, 90, 100, and 200 lepta.

NEW SOUTH WALES.--_O.S. Issues._ The present government has taken the

entire stock on hand of old issues, and surcharged them O.S., and,

furthermore, are supplying them with postal cancellation. These are

consequently counterfeits, and should be avoided. The N. S. W.

government has offered these stamps (36 adhesives, 11 envelopes) at $10

per set.

TRANSVAAL.--A commemorative 1-penny stamp, rose-color, oblong shape.

AMOY.--Another of the Chinese locals.

HUNGARY.--Millennium stamps. Complete details have not yet been received

concerning this proposed issue.

BELGIUM.--A new issue of Postage-due stamps appeared November 1st.

Values are to be 10, 20, 50 centimes, and 1 franc.

PHILATUS.

ADVERTISEMENTS.

Postage Stamps, &c.

[Illustration]

STAMPS!

=800= fine mixed Victoria, Cape of G. H., India, Japan, etc., with fine

Stamp Album, only =10c.= New 80-p. Price-list =free=. _Agents wanted_ at

=50%= commission. STANDARD STAMP CO., 4 Nicholson Place, St. Louis, Mo.

Old U. S. and Confederate Stamps bought.

[Illustration]

100 all dif. Venezuela, Bolivia, etc., only 10c.; 200 all dif. Hayti,

Hawaii, etc., only 50c. Ag'ts w't'd at 50% com. List FREE! =C. A.

Stegmann=, 5941 Cote Brilliante Ave., St. Louis, Mo.

=105 STAMPS=, Java, etc., hinges, cata., album, 5c. Agents at 50 p. c. get

=Free= 8 stamps and album. Big paper 35c. a year. A. Bullard & Co., 97

Pembroke St., Boston, Mass.

INTERNATIONAL EDITION.

Le Grand's Manual for Stamp Collectors

A Companion to the Stamp Album.

Prepared for the American collector by Henri Pène du Bois, Esq.

How this Book is Divided.

PART I. treats of stamps in general and successively of all the details

concerning their issue.