Produced by Annie McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S
ROUND TABLE]
Copyright, 1895, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.
* * * * *
PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, MAY 7, 1895. FIVE CENTS A COPY.
VOL. XVI.--NO. 810. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.
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[Illustration]
HEROES OF AMERICA.
"MAD ANTHONY" WAYNE AT STONY POINT.
BY THE HONORABLE THEODORE ROOSEVELT.
[Illustration: Decorative O]
ne of the heroic figures of the Revolution was Anthony Wayne,
Major-General of the Continental line. With the exception of Washington,
and perhaps Greene, he was the best General the Americans developed in
the contest; and, without exception, he showed himself to be the hardest
fighter produced on either side. He belongs, as regards this latter
characteristic, with the men like Winfield Scott, Phil Kearny, Hancock,
and Forrest, who revelled in the danger and the actual shock of arms.
Indeed, his eager love of battle and splendid disregard of peril have
made many writers forget his really great qualities as a General.
Soldiers are always prompt to recognize the prime virtue of physical
courage, and Wayne's followers christened their daring commander "Mad
Anthony," in loving allusion to his reckless bravery. It is perfectly
true that Wayne had this courage, and that he was a born fighter;
otherwise he never would have been a great commander. A man who lacks
the fondness for fighting, the eager desire to punish his adversary, and
the willingness to suffer punishment in return may be a great organizer,
like McClellan, but can never become a great General or win great
victories. There are, however, plenty of men who, though they possess
these fine, manly traits, lack the head to command an army; but Wayne
had not only the heart and the hand but the head likewise. No man could
dare as greatly as he did without incurring the risk of an occasional
check; but he was an able and bold tactician, a vigilant and cautious
leader, well fitted to bear the terrible burden of responsibility which
rests upon a commander-in-chief.
Of course at times he had to learn some rather severe lessons. Quite
early in his career, just after the battle of the Brandywine, when he
was set to watch the enemy, he was surprised at night by the British
General Grey, who attacked him with the bayonet, killed a number of his
men, and forced him to fall back some distance from the field of
action. This mortifying experience had no effect whatever on Wayne's
courage or self-reliance, but it did give him a valuable lesson in
caution. He showed what he had learned by the skill with which, many
years later, in 1794, he conducted the famous campaign in which he
overthrew the Northwestern Indians at the fight of the Fallen Timbers.
Wayne's favorite weapon was the bayonet, and, like Scott, he taught his
troops until they were able in the shock of hand-to-hand conflict to
overthrow the renowned British infantry, who had always prided
themselves on their prowess with cold steel. At the battle of Germantown
it was Wayne's troops who, falling on with the bayonet, first drove the
Hessians and the British light infantry; and at Monmouth it was Wayne
and his Continentals who first checked the British advance by repulsing
the bayonet charge of the guards and grenadiers.
Washington, the great leader of men, was prompt to recognize in Wayne a
soldier to whom could be entrusted any especially difficult enterprise,
which called for the exercise alike of intelligence and of cool daring.
In the summer of 1780 he was very anxious to capture the British fort at
Stony Point, which commanded the Hudson. It was impracticable to attack
it by regular siege while the British frigates lay in the river, and the
defenses were so strong that open assault by daylight was equally out of
the question. Accordingly, Washington suggested to Wayne that he try a
night attack. Wayne eagerly caught at the idea. It was exactly the kind
of enterprise in which he delighted. The fort was on a rocky promontory,
surrounded on three sides by water, and on the fourth by a neck of land,
which was for the most part mere morass. It was across this neck of land
that an attacking column had to move. The garrison was six hundred
strong. To deliver the assault Wayne took nine hundred men.
The American army was camped about fourteen miles from Stony Point. One
July afternoon Wayne stalled, and led his troops in single file along
the narrow rocky roads, reaching the hills on the mainland near the fort
after nightfall. He divided his force into two columns, to advance one
along each side of the neck, detaching two companies of North Carolina
troops to move in between the two columns and make a false attack. The
columns themselves consisted of New-Englanders, Pennsylvanians, and
Virginians. Each attacking column was divided into three parts; a
forlorn hope of twenty men leading, which was followed by an
advance-guard of one hundred and twenty, and then by the main body. At
that time commanding officers still carried spontoons and other old-time
weapons; and Wayne, who himself led the right column, directed its
movements spear in hand.
It was towards midnight when the Americans began to press along the
causeways toward the fort. Before they were near the walls they were
discovered, and the British opened a heavy fire of great guns and
musketry, to which the Carolinians, who were advancing between the two
columns, responded in their turn, according to orders; but the men in
the columns were forbidden to fire. Wayne had warned them that their
work must be done with the bayonet, and their muskets were not even
loaded. Moreover, so strict was the discipline that no one was allowed
to leave the ranks, and when one of the men did so an officer promptly
ran him through the body.
No sooner had the British opened fire than the charging columns broke
into a run, and in a moment the forlorn hopes had plunged into the
abattis of fallen timber which the British had constructed just without
the walls. On the left the forlorn hope was very roughly handled, no
less than seventeen of the twenty men being either killed or wounded;
but as the columns came up both burst through the timber and swarmed up
the long sloping embankments of the fort. The British fought well,
cheering loudly as their volleys rang, but the Americans would not be
denied, and pushed silently on to end the contest with the bayonet. A
bullet struck Wayne in the head. He fell, but struggled to his feet and
pushed forward, two of his officers supporting him. A rumor went among
the men that he was dead, but it only impelled them to charge home more
fiercely than ever. With a rush the troops swept to the top of the
walls. A fierce but short fight followed in the intense darkness, which
was lit only by the flashes from the British muskets. The Americans did
not fire, trusting solely to the bayonet. The two columns had kept
almost equal pace, and they swept into the fort from opposite sides at
the same moment. The three men who first got over the walls were all
wounded, but one of them struck the British flag. The Americans had the
advantage which always comes from delivering an attack that is thrust
home. Their muskets were unloaded, and they could not hesitate; so,
running boldly into close quarters, they fought hand to hand with their
foes and speedily overthrew them. For a moment the bayonets flashed and
played: then the British lines broke as their assailants thronged
against them, and the struggle was over. The Americans had lost a
hundred in killed and wounded. Of the British sixty-three had been slain
and very many wounded, every one of the dead or disabled having suffered
from the bayonet; for Wayne's troops did not fire at all. A curious
coincidence was that the number of the dead happened to equal exactly
the number of Wayne's men who had been killed in the night attack by the
English General Grey.
There was great rejoicing among the Americans over the successful issue
of the attack. Wayne speedily recovered from his wound, and in the joy
of his victory it weighed but slightly. He had performed a most notable
feat. No night attack of the kind was ever delivered with greater
boldness, skill, and success. When the Revolutionary War broke out the
American armies were composed merely of armed yeomen, stalwart men of
good courage, and fairly proficient in the use of their weapons, but
entirely without the training which alone could enable them to withstand
the attack of the British regulars in the open, or to deliver an attack
themselves. Washington's victory at Trenton was the first encounter
which showed that the Americans were to be feared when they took the
offensive. With the exception of the battle of Trenton, and perhaps of
Greene's fight at Eutaw Springs, Wayne's feat was the most successful
illustration of daring and victorious attack by an American army that
occurred during the war; and, unlike Greene, who was only able to fight
a drawn battle, Wayne's triumph was complete. At Monmouth he had shown,
as he afterwards showed against Cornwallis, that his troops could meet
the renowned British regulars on even terms in the open. At Stony Point
he showed that he could lead them to a triumphant assault with the
bayonet against regulars who held a fortified place of strength. No
American commander has ever displayed greater energy and daring, a more
resolute courage, or readier resource, than the chief of the
hard-fighting Revolutionary Generals, Mad Anthony Wayne.
ONE BRAVE BOY OUT OF A THOUSAND.
Robert Bain recently prevented a serious accident in Public School No.
23, at Marion, near Jersey City. There were sounds of panic from the
room beneath his class-room, and no one can tell how many children might
have been injured but for his cool head and quick thinking. He did what
any bright American boy should have done, but what scarcely one boy in a
thousand would have done.
The two lower floors of the Marion Public School are occupied by the
classes of the Primary Department, and the top floor is occupied by the
Grammar Department. The building is heated by steam. One of the radiator
valves was broken off the other day. While waiting for a chance to
repair the break, the janitor carefully turned off the steam at this
radiator, and fitted a tight wooden plug in place of the broken valve.
Some very foolish person, either for the sake of a joke or from a habit
of meddling with things without asking leave, turned on the steam. The
radiator was in one of the class-rooms of the upper primary floor--that
is, the middle floor of the building.
The wooden plug was shot out of the radiator with a report like a
pistol shot at a quarter past ten o'clock in the morning. Every child in
the room rushed screaming toward the sliding-door leading to the
stairway. So fierce was the impetus of the crowd that the door was
twisted off its tracks and turned half-way around. Miss Agnes Carlen,
the teacher, was unable to control the children, for they had swept past
her before she really understood what had happened. She stood helpless,
half fainting, fearing that the heavy sliding-door would fall and crush
her pupils. Meantime great clouds of steam came hissing from the
radiators.
With a great clattering of many feet the frightened boys and girls
swarmed down the stairway, looking for places of safety. Forty of them
ran out into the school-yard, but forty more were kept in-doors by Miss
Searle, the principal of the Primary Department, and her aids. At the
moment of the explosion and panic the boys and girls of the Grammar
Department on the top floor were almost panic-stricken. They heard the
loud report beneath them, the hissing of steam, the screams, and the
swift trampling feet. Every one was scrambling up from his desk, when
Robert Bain jumped out into the aisle, and cried:
"Keep your seats! There's no danger if you stay where you are!"
Those words stopped the rush like magic. Seeing Bain's coolness and
courage, all the others were ashamed to show themselves cowards. It was
not so much the words he uttered as his manner in saying them that
swayed the crowd. His tone not only showed that he was not frightened,
but the order rang out sharply and confidently, as if the boy knew he
would be obeyed. A few moments later Miss Emma Johnson, the teacher in
charge of the class, learned all about the accident on the floor below,
and told the children of it. There was, of course, no possible danger of
panic now.
What would have happened if young Bain had not spoken at the right
moment? Very likely the children would have rushed out, like Miss
Carlen's pupils, before they could be checked. A steep stairway lay
before them, and probably many of them would have been badly hurt, if
not killed, in the wild downward flight. An accident somewhat like this,
in the Greenwich Avenue Public School in New York many years ago, had
the most serious consequences.
Robert Bain is fourth sergeant in one of the two cadet companies of the
Marion Public School. He was very happy, but also full of blushes, when
Mr. Du Rie, the principal of the school, complimented him before all his
friends. If every boy who reads of his brave act will make up his mind
to keep cool in any panic near him, he will have paid the best possible
compliment to Robert Bain.
THE TROLLEY BIKE OF 1900.
BY N. FREDERICK CARRYL.
"A letter, Uncle Tom! From the New Jersey Consolidated Traction Company,
as sure as I live. Now we can start any minute."
"Right you are, my boy," said the brisk old gentleman of close on sixty.
Joe heaved a big, contented sigh--not considered a very healthy
proceeding, by-the-way--and made a short speech. "Uncle Tom," said he,
"it may surprise you a little to hear that father has decided he must
stay home and attend strictly to business for at least a month. By that
time my vacation will be at an end. Now I have set my heart on this
trip, but who can I get for a comrade?"
"Well, Joe, what do you say to the idea of taking your old uncle along?"
"Why, Uncle Tom, you dear man, you are the very next best to father. My!
What a jolly time we will have!"
Joe's father and I had arranged it so that he could stay at home,
believing, as well he might, the boy was safe in my hands.
Since all traction companies are owned by States (and, of course,
subdivided into counties), it is a comparatively easy matter to get
permits to use the company's trolley-wires, have your meter inspected,
locked, and dated.
The universal application of electricity to the bicycle, tricycle, and
other road vehicles--not by batteries, which are still too heavy or
short-lived for long trips, but by the trolley-wire and connecting
track--is of very recent date. Minor difficulties still exist, and
should anything serious happen, I am mechanic enough to hope to repair
damages.
Our machine was a very simple affair--after all is said and left unsaid.
At first glance it looked not unlike an ordinary tandem--as in fact it
was, but with a very much wider tread forward, where the electric motor
was handily placed and most effective in operation. The treadles
remained connected, but could be operated in the forward direction only.
Coasting, with the pedals as foot-rests, whether going down hill or
driven at high speed by the motor, was thus possible and easy. The
electric head-light was supplied from the same source as the motor,
viz., the trolley overhead wire. Of course we had a kerosene lamp to use
when disconnected from the street current. Since 1896 the overhead
trolley has been abolished in large towns and cities in favor of the
underground method of electrical connection, while the overhead system
is still used (as so much cheaper for long distances) in the country,
between towns and all distant points.
We used a light bamboo pole, built up of five three-foot sections, to
reach the overhead wire. Inside was the connecting wire leading to the
starting, stopping, or reversing switch, thence to the motor. Another
wire, leading from the motor, passed through a light hinged shaft, upon
the end of which was a two-foot metal wheel, thus completing the circuit
with the rail. The current passed through a reduction coil before
reaching the motor, and was thus brought down to the proper resistance
at which the motor was built to run, otherwise a burned-out apparatus
would be the certain result.
This was not the first time I had handled the _Fleetwing_, having made
any number of short trips, none exceeding a hundred miles. Joe's route
was: Starting at Jersey City, New Jersey, we were to cross the State,
and keep as near directly West as the trolley-wire would take us, taking
in Chicago (now the first city in population in the United States) and
other important Western cities, with Denver our turning-point.
Joe kissed his mother, gave his father's hand a hard shake, jumped up
behind me, and we were off. Look back once more, my boy; a mother's
tearful eyes no longer see you, but your image is always in her heart!
We had been sadly mixed without our good map of all the trolley-roads.
They cross and recross, and seem to shoot out in every direction in the
eastern part of New Jersey.
[Illustration: AT THIRTY MILES AN HOUR.]
On a good straight road at last, with a clean run of thirty miles before
us! How we do spin! The motor hums not unlike a swarm of angry bees. For
a bright June morning the weather seems a trifle cool. A light overcoat
in summer? Well, just face a mild westerly wind, early in the morning,
sitting quietly on an electrically propelled bike at, say, thirty miles
an hour, and you will find an overcoat is not to be sneezed at, or,
rather, some sneezing will result if you try to do without it.
Space will not permit to give you many details of our trip, which caused
two weeks to pass so quickly. Mishaps we had, repairs to make, but the
same machine was bringing us nearer home each minute. Two o'clock now;
by six we are due in New York.
A Chicago chap--we met him--seemed rather smart and all that, had a
contrivance for working an air-ship by trolley-wire. His scheme was to
sail along near enough the ground to drop a trailer on the street wire,
and so obtain a current to run his aerial machine.
"My son," said I, "how do you expect to make a complete circuit with but
one wire?"
"That is part of my invention," said he.
Whether he made a success of it or not I have no means of knowing, but I
liked the idea.
We crossed the Pavonia bridge from Jersey City to New York on time, had
just reached the terminus when the Express Air-ship _Maxim_ rose from
the depot at Union Square and headed for Albany, looking very much like
an immense shooting-star.
The railroads have had a severe setback since Maxim has perfected his
aerial engines and light machinery. Freight they still carry, but
railway passenger traffic has fallen off to a marked extent, even with
trains running at one hundred miles per hour.
Who would care nowadays to spend an hour and a half in the cars between
New York and Albany when the _Maxim_ will do it in forty-five minutes!
Strange creatures, to me, these women. I have never married. Joe's
mother wept when we left, and I am blamed if she is not crying this
minute. "What!"
"You too, Joe? I--"
OFF WITH THE MERBOY.
BY JOHN KENDRICK BANGS.
CHAPTER III.
UNDER WATER.
[Illustration: Decorative I]
sn't that interesting?" asked the Merboy when he had finished.
"Very," returned Jimmieboy. "But I don't see how it proves that the
Porpoise knew any more than the Professor. Did he know why men have
chins and why boys are noisy?"
"I don't suppose he did," returned the Merboy; "but even if he didn't
his ignorance wasn't any greater than that of the Professor, while the
Professor had to admit that there wasn't anything he could tell the
Porpoise that the Porpoise hadn't heard before. That proved that the
Porpoise knew quite as much as the Professor did; and the fact that the
Porpoise knew how to get the Professor home while the Professor didn't,
showed that the Porpoise knew more than he did. That simply proves what
I have already said, that sea creatures know more than land
creatures--even Porpoises, and they know less than any other kind of
fish."
"It looks true," said Jimmieboy. "But I hardly believe it, though."
"Well, you'd better," retorted the Merboy. "Why, people of your kind say
themselves that fish is good for their brains. Why should this be so if
fish weren't what I've said they are?"
"That's so!" Jimmieboy answered, convinced at last. "But it seems
queer."
"That's because you don't understand it," said the Merboy,
patronizingly. "If you were a fish you'd understand it, but being a boy
you can't be expected to. It's simple enough. You people on land are
kept so busy all day long earning your living that you don't have time
really to study. On the other hand, we sea people don't do anything but
swim about all day and think. Didn't you ever notice me up there in the
aquarium lying perfectly motionless in the water with my eyes gazing off
on both sides of me with a far-away look in them?"
"Often," said Jimmieboy. "And I've wondered every time what you really
were doing. Were you always thinking at those times?"
"Always," said the Merboy. "Always studying out something."
"And did you ever find out anything?" queried Jimmieboy.
"Yes," said the Merboy. "I've found out everything; but," he added,
hastily, "don't ask me to tell you everything now because these Dolphins
are a little skittish, and I've got to keep my mind on them or we'll be
upset."
Here one of the Dolphins, to show how skittish he could be when he
tried, stood erect on his tail, and then took a header deep down into
the water, and in a moment Jimmieboy found himself clinging in alarm to
the Merboy's arm.
"Don't do that!" cried the Merboy, "or you'll surely upset us."
"I was afraid he'd drag us under," panted Jimmieboy, releasing his hold.
"Drag us under?" repeated the Merboy. "Why, my dear boy, we are under.
We've been driving under water for ten minutes now. In ten more we shall
be on the ocean's bottom."
Jimmieboy pressed his lips as tightly together as he possibly could. If,
as the Merboy had said, he was under water and headed directly for the
bottom of the sea, he was not going to run any risks by opening his
mouth and getting it full of sea-water, which he knew from experience
was not the pleasantest-tasting stuff in the world. He was a cautious
boy too, Jimmieboy was, and he had a distinct recollection of having
heard his father warn a friend of his at the sea-shore one summer's day
not to open his mouth too widely when he was in bathing, for fear he
might take in the ocean at a gulp, which would be a dreadful thing to
do.
"Don't make such fearful faces," said the Merboy, noticing Jimmieboy's
efforts to squeeze his two lips into one. "You'll frighten the whales."
"Mwime mfwaid mgetting mwater in m' mouf," mumbled Jimmieboy.
"Excuse me," said the Merboy, looking at him as if he thought he was
crazy. "I never studied that language, and I don't know what you are
trying to say; open your mouth and speak English."
"Mwime mfwaid," mumbled Jimmieboy again, meaning to say "I'm afraid."
"Whoa!" cried the Merboy, reining in his Dolphins. "Now look here,
Jamesboy," he added, severely, as the carriage came to a stop, "I won't
take you any further if you don't stop that. My relatives down here have
been very anxious to meet you, because I've written to them several
times telling them all about you; but I can tell you just one thing. If
you are going to make faces like that, and talk with your lips tight
closed and your voice way down in your boots, not to mention the
horrible language you are using, they won't have anything to do with
you, and they'll think I got you out of a circus instead of at your
home. What's come over you all of a sudden, anyhow?"
Poor Jimmieboy didn't know what to do. He had no wish to offend the
Merboy or to frighten whales or to prove unpleasant to the Merboy's
friends, but he also did not care to get a mouthful of salt water.
Fortunately at this moment a Porpoise, who was on duty as a policeman in
that neighborhood came swimming up, attracted, no doubt, by the somewhat
angry tones of the Merboy.
"What's the matter here?" he said, frowning with his left eyebrow and
using his right eye to look pleasant, for if everything was all right he
wanted to look pleasant, while the frown was for use in case there was
danger of a disturbance.
"Nothing, Mr. Policeman," answered the Merboy, nodding familiarly at the
Porpoise. "I am afraid my little friend here isn't feeling very well,
and I was only trying to find out what the trouble was."
[Illustration: "IS HE TAKEN THIS WAY OFTEN?" ASKED THE PORPOISE.]
"He does look kind of queer like, doesn't he?" said the Porpoise, gazing
at Jimmieboy's lips. "He looks to me as if he were trying to swallow his
teeth. Is he taken this way often?"
"Never saw him like this before," said the Merboy, anxiously. "It's
something new for him to keep his mouth shut up so tight, and I can't
understand it."
"Perhaps--" the Porpoise began; "but no," he added, "I was going to say
I'd arrest him for being disorderly, for he certainly is out of order,
but I'm afraid the judge would fine me. I lost my last month's pay for
arresting a shark by mistake. Some shark swallowed a whole school of
whitebait last week, and as the teachers of the school complained about
having their business mined I had to arrest some one. These sharks are
all alike, you know, and I got hold of the wrong one, and the judge let
him off and made me pay the damages. I'm afraid we couldn't make out a
case against this young man."
"No; and we shouldn't try it if we could," said the Merboy. "I don't
want to get him into trouble. He's my friend."
"Well--say," said the Porpoise. "I'll tell you how we can find out
what's the matter. There's a bureau of information about two hundred and
thirty fathoms up the street. They know everything there. You might
drive up there and find out what ails him."
"That's a good idea," said the Merboy. "Who is in charge of the bureau?"
"Nobody. It just lies there at the side of the street. You'll find the
most interesting information in the top drawer. You can't miss the
bureau, because it's the only one in the ocean, and it has brass knobs
on it, and a brush and comb on the top of it. So long."
"Good-by," said the Merboy, as the Porpoise with another curious glance
at Jimmieboy swam away. Then the Merboy, turning the Dolphins' heads in
the direction of the bureau, started them along. "I shall feel very
badly if this is a case of lockjaw," he said to himself. "His parents
would drive me out of the house, and I don't think I'd be likely to get
as nice a place anywhere else."
"M-mwi a-went wot wock-waw," mumbled Jimmieboy.
"Don't say another word or you'll drive me crazy," returned the Merboy.
"This is simply awful as it is, but when you talk it's worse than awful,
it is horrific. Ah, I fancy this must be the bureau," he added, drawing
up alongside of a beautiful piece of furniture that stood at the
road-side and looked very much like a bureau. "Hold the Dolphins,
Jimmieboy, and I'll get out and see if there's any information to be had
in regard to your case."
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
MISS APPOLINA'S CHOICE.
BY AGNES LITTLETON.
Part II.
Miss Appolina Briggs was somewhat of a power in the Reid family. She was
a cousin of the fathers of Millicent, Joanna, and Peggy, their fathers
being brothers, and for many years when they were boys she had made her
home with their parents. She now, however, had a house of her own.
She was very wealthy, very aristocratic, and very eccentric.
Kind-hearted and charitable, she preferred to do good in her own way
only.
A month or two ago Miss Briggs had informed her relatives that she
intended to pass the summer in England, and that it was barely possible
that she would ask one of her young cousins to accompany her. Which
should be the fortunate one she should not decide until a week before
the date fixed for sailing. That would be time enough, she said, for no
preparations would be necessary. All the girl's wants could be supplied
on the other side.
This proposition sounded very attractive, for Cousin Appolina was
generous even though she was so peculiar, and there was no doubt that in
addition to having the pleasure of the trip, a well-stocked wardrobe
would fall to the share of the lucky recipient of her favor.
As Peggy had said, there was not much probability that she would be the
one honored. She had a habit of making all sorts of speeches in Miss
Briggs's presence which did not please the good lady at all. And yet no
one knew. It would be just like Cousin Appolina's unexpectedness if she
were to veer suddenly around and decree that Margaret, as she always
called her, should be the one to go to England.
Consequently, suspense and excitement ran high in the Reid family, and
in the intervals of study, fair work, and poetry-making there was much
discussion as to which of the three should be Miss Appolina's choice.
She herself had gone to Washington for a few weeks, and the family
breathed more easily for a time. When so much depended upon it the girls
were greatly afraid of doing something to offend their cousin, which
might very easily happen, and in that case she would sail alone with her
maid!
In the mean time preparations for the fair continued, and at last the
day arrived. Millicent, having convinced herself that this would be the
best means of securing the recognition of her powers as a poetess that
she wanted, the recognition which had hitherto been denied her by
unfeeling editors, had been reeling off verse by the yard.
Each poem had been printed in the form of a little fancy booklet, at
considerable expense to the author, it is true, but the girls had plenty
of pocket money, and Millicent had eased her conscience with the thought
that her object was charity as well as recognition, and each copy that
was sold would bring in twenty-five cents to the fair. She had raised
the price since the poems came home--she had no idea that they would
look so attractive, she said. They would be sure to sell.
Peggy had helped her with a readiness that would have appeared
suspicions if Millicent had not been too much absorbed in sentiment to
notice it. She had accompanied her cousin to make arrangements for
having the poems printed, and had inspected them on their return, and
now the morning upon which the fair was to open she offered to carry the
box which contained them to an office in the neighborhood, and have them
sent to Sherry's, where the fair was to be held, by a district telegraph
boy.
"It is much better than ringing for a messenger-boy to come to the
house," she said, "for then no one can find out in any way who 'Pearl
Proctor' is. I shall be on hand when the box arrives so that I can hear
what people say, but you had better not come until afterwards, Mill, for
your face would be sure to give it away."
The fancy articles, including Miss Briggs's slippers, had already been
sent.
Joanna went to school, longing for the morning to pass that she might
get to the fair herself. She and one of her friends were to manage the
"fish pond," while Millicent was to be an aid at the flower-table, and
Peggy would assist in selling some of the fancy articles.
Peggy left the package at the office, and then hailed a car, that she
might not fail to reach the fair in time to witness its arrival. She
looked forward to having some rare sport. She only wished that she could
take some one into her confidence, for it is always so much more fun to
laugh with a comrade than to laugh alone. However, a laugh is valuable
at any time.
So thought Miss Peggy as she made her way along Thirty-seventh Street in
her new spring hat and gown, her eyes dancing with anticipation.
The poem on Cousin Appolina had been tucked into the box along with the
rest, but very much underneath. In that way Peggy felt confident that it
would escape observation at the fair, and yet be among the poems to give
Millicent a shock when they came back.
"For of course no one is going to buy those silly things," said Peggy to
herself; "and I hope it will be a good lesson to Milly. Such conceit as
hers in regard to that poetry I never saw, and it ought to be taken
down."
She found the rooms in a state of disorder. Various fashionable dames
who had the fair in charge were running about in a vain attempt to bring
some degree of order out of the confusion, and Peggy's coming was hailed
with delight.
"Oh, Peggy Reid! Just the person I want. Peggy, dear, do hold the end of
this scarf while I fasten it here."
"Peggy, just see if you can find the tack-hammer."
"Peggy, you have just come, and can see things with a fresh eye. Tell me
the effect of this drapery."
But notwithstanding all these calls upon her, Peggy managed to be
conveniently near the door when a messenger-boy appeared, bearing a box
addressed, in a printed hand, to Mrs. Pearson, who had charge of the
fair. Peggy took the box, dismissed the boy hastily, and carried it to
Mrs. Pearson.
"Something else? Oh, do open it, Peggy! I am so busy," exclaimed that
lady, precisely as Peggy hoped she would do. She opened the box--that
which she herself had so carefully tied up not long before.
On the top lay a type-written card, which read, "Sent by one of the
congregation, who hopes that they may bring twenty-five cents apiece."
Beneath were a number of little booklets.
"Why, Mrs. Pearson, do look! Somebody has sent some poems to sell,"
cried Peggy, in tones of great surprise. "A member of the congregation,
and they are signed 'Pearl Proctor'! Who in the world can it be?"
Several people gathered about.
"How very funny! One of the congregation? Who do you suppose it is? I
wish I had time to read them," said Mrs. Pearson. "They are certainly a
novelty at a fair. Twenty-five cents she values them at? The lady is
modest. But take care, girls," she added, in a warning whisper,
approaching two young women who were laughing immoderately over one of
Pearl Proctor's productions, "you must be careful! No one knows who
wrote them, and the person may be in the room watching us at this very
minute. It will never do to hurt her feelings."
"Oh, but, Mrs. Pearson, if you could only read this! It is the funniest
thing I ever read, and the best part of it is, it isn't meant to be at
all."
"Never mind, don't laugh. I beg of you! How did they get here, Peggy?"
"A messenger-boy brought them," returned Peggy promptly, feeling very
glad that Millicent was not here to see the effect they produced. She
was almost sorry that she had urged her to send them. After all it
seemed a shame to make fun of the poor dear.
"Well, do be careful, girls," said Mrs. Pearson, as she moved away.
An hour or so later Millicent herself walked into the rooms. She looked
very lovely, for her beautiful golden hair had twisted into little curls
and waves, the morning being somewhat damp, and there was an unusual
sparkle in her dreamy blue eyes. It was very exciting to have one's
poems actually for sale.
The first thing that met her gaze was a large sign placed above a small
table. Upon the table lay the array of booklets, while the sign read
thus:
"A NOVELTY! POEMS BY PEARL PROCTOR.
A MEMBER of THE CONGREGATION.
_Twenty-five Cents Each._"
She did not have sufficient courage to walk boldly up with the air of a
stranger and inspect the wares thus offered for sale, so she turned
aside and began to talk to some of her friends, asking what she could do
to help.
"My dear," said Elsie Pearson, flying up to her, and speaking in a
whisper, "I am so glad you have come! I must tell you the greatest joke
in the world. Somebody has sent a lot of poems to the fair to sell! Did
you ever hear of anything so delicious? Mamma says we ought not to
laugh, for the person who wrote them may be in the room, but it is too
awfully funny not to laugh the least bit, and I know you are safe."
Millicent smiled stiffly. "Are they funny poems?" she asked. "You seem
to find them amusing."
Elsie would have noticed her tone if she had not been so excited and in
such haste.
"They are not meant to be," she said, aloud, as she moved away. "That is
the best part of the whole thing."
Millicent, left alone, felt as if she could cry with pleasure. How
perfectly outrageous it was in that odious Elsie Pearson to talk in such
a way! The only comfort was that Elsie was anything but intellectual,
and would not know good poetry when she saw it. She would probably fail
to see any beauty in Tennyson.
Peggy had watched this conference from across the room; and she now came
quickly over to her cousin. "Look out, Mill," she said in a low tone,
"you will have to be awfully careful that no one catches on. If I were
you I wouldn't stay so near the poetry table."
Peggy, already deeply regretting her joke, wished to spare her cousin as
much as possible. But her good intentions were frustrated by Mrs.
Pearson.
"Millicent," said that lady, "we have had some new wares sent in;
something I never saw before at a fair. Poems, my dear. Just think of
it; and by a member of the congregation! We can't imagine who wrote
them, and of course they are perfect trash" (this in a low voice), "but
we will have to do our best to sell them, so I want you to take charge
of that table. You won't mind changing, I know. And try not to let the
people laugh at the poems. They are absurd, I know, judging from one I
picked up. It was about a moth or an ant or something. I am not sure
that it was not a Croton bug," and with a laugh at her own wit Mrs.
Pearson led Millicent to the poetry table, and established her behind
it.
It was now twelve o'clock, the hour at which the fair was to be opened
to the public.
Two or three hours later the sale was in full swing. A great many people
came, for it was in every respect a fashionable function, and it was
considered quite the thing to be seen there. People bought largely also
of every variety of article--except poetry. That seemed to go a-begging.
There was always a crowd about the table, but no one felt inclined to
purchase. The little booklets were picked up, read, dropped again, with
laughter and comments, until Millicent felt that she would gladly sink
through the floor.
Even her own mother came, criticised, and moved on, with a whispered
question to Millicent as to what member of the congregation could have
been so conceited and so senseless as to do such a thing as this.
Millicent's head ached, and tears filled her eyes, and she thought the
climax had been reached when Elsie Pearson, picking one up at random,
said, laughingly:
"Just listen to this, Milly! It is the gem of the whole collection. I
can't help it if the 'member of the congregation' does see me. She
deserves to be made fun of." And Elsie in a whisper read the following:
"TO THE MARCH WIND.
"Loud and shrill, loud and shrill,
List to the wild March wind!
And the heart of the mariner trembles
As he sails his rudder behind.
"My dear, the 'member' is a little mixed! Does she mean the mariner
sails behind the rudder, or the rudder sails behind the mariner? Did you
_ever_, Millicent? I don't believe she knows which part of a ship the
rudder is. And this is the second verse:
"And the bell on the bleak beach bellows.
"(There's alliteration for you. Fancy a bell bellowing!)
"And the fog-horn lifts its voice,
And the mariner goes to an early grave,
He has no other choice.
"Oh, Milly! isn't it funny? Why don't you laugh?"
"I am laughing," said Millicent, in a hoarse voice; "it makes me
perfectly hysterical," and she hid her face for a moment in her
handkerchief. Fortunately Elsie was at that moment called away.
Millicent found to her cost, as the afternoon wore on, that the climax
had not been even then.
Joanna had come late to the fair, detained by school and luncheon until
four o'clock. She had found no one at home, not even her mother, but she
had heard from the maid a piece of news which caused her heart to bound
with excitement and consternation.
Cousin Appolina had returned very unexpectedly from Washington!
Joanna decided that she must tell Millicent as soon as she reached the
fair, so that the slippers might be removed at once. It would be better
to be on the safe side, although it was extremely improbable that Cousin
Appolina would visit the fair the first day of her return.
But just as Joanna came out of the front door Miss Briggs herself drove
up in her carriage, and learning that no one was at home in either of
her relatives' houses, but that all had gone to the fair, concluded to
betake herself there also, and forthwith invited Joanna to get in and
drive with her to Sherry's.
Joanna, nothing loth, accepted the invitation, feeling rather glad on
the whole that her cousin had returned in time, for she would be sure to
spend her money freely, and Joan was greatly interested in the success
of the sale. And, alas! she forgot all about the worsted slippers!
They presented their tickets, and entered the room just as Millicent had
buried her face in her handkerchief upon hearing the remarks of Elsie
Pearson. When she emerged therefrom the first thing that met her
astonished gaze was the tall and never-to-be-forgotten form of Cousin
Appolina Briggs, and her heart sank with apprehension. For a moment the
works of her unappreciated genius were forgotten. Her one thought was
"slippers!"
"Oh, that I had never sent those horrible slippers!" she said to herself
despairingly. "It will be just my luck to have her see them, and would
serve me right, too, for having given away a present. Yes, she is going
that way! Oh, if I could only make Peggy or Joan come here! They could
go and buy the slippers before she gets there."
But Peggy and Joan were not forth-coming. The latter, full of business,
had lost no time in retiring behind the screen which formed the
"fish-pond," and was already baiting the hook with ardor, and queerly
shaped packages, and Peggy had not yet seen her cousin, and supposed her
to be safe at Washington.
But Miss Briggs was not one to remain long unnoticed. She was of
commanding height and noble breadth. When she entered a room the rest of
humanity seemed to grow smaller by comparison. Her voice was deep and
had a penetrating quality which caused it to be heard at the unusual
distance, and the gold lorgnette, without which she was never seen, and
which she was in the habit of raising constantly to her short-sighted
and somewhat prominent eyes, flashed and glittered in the light.
Truly Miss Appolina's was a presence calculated to make itself felt. And
Peggy felt it, and she heard the voice, and a tremor that seemed like
fear filled her naturally courageous heart. She looked at Cousin
Appolina, and she looked at the poetry table. There was yet time.
Leaving abruptly a customer who was on the verge of making an important
purchase, who only needed a word of advice from Miss Peggy Reid as to
which was the prettier, a centre-piece embroidered in yellow, or a
table-cloth done in greens, she flew to the side of Millicent.
"The poems!" she gasped. "Have any of them sold?"
"Not one," said Millicent, "but oh, Peggy; there is Cousin Appolina!"
"I know," returned Peggy, breathlessly, as she turned over the
booklets--"I know! That's just it!"
"But the slippers, Peggy! Go and get them. I don't dare."
"The slippers! They are nothing to the poetry. Oh, where is it?"
And she tossed the poems hither and thither, looking first into one,
then into another.
"Oh, where is it?"
"What do you mean, Peggy? Don't waste time over the poetry. Do please go
and buy those slippers! Give any price. There, she is getting to that
table now! It is too late!"
There was a lull in the noise at that moment, and Miss Briggs's clear
deep tones could be distinctly heard by the two culprits.
"I want a pair of knit slippers. I make a great many myself, but I never
seem to have any for my own use. How much are these red and gray ones? A
dollar and a half? Give them to me, please, and never mind about the
change. I have not examined them thoroughly, but if they do not suit me
I will give them away."
It was too late. She had bought her own slippers. Millicent hoped that
the gold lorgnette would be smashed to atoms before the lady reached her
home; that her spectacles would lose themselves; even that the world
would come to an end before Miss Appolina found an opportunity to
examine those red and gray worsted slippers. That she would recognize
them Millicent felt no doubt, for they were knit in a fashion peculiar
to herself, the two colors forming a little plaid.
Meanwhile Peggy had tossed about the poems with no result. She had only
succeeded in bringing to the top those that had hitherto lain in safe
insignificance at the bottom.
Now she stood by the table as if turned into stone, and awaited the
approach of an avenging fate. The day of practical jokes was over for
her.
She knew, she felt absolutely confident, that just as surely as Cousin
Appolina had chosen the slippers of her own make, just so surely would
she pounce upon the poem that Peggy had written about her.
Miss Briggs drew near.
"Well, girls!" she said, in her great deep voice, the gold lorgnette
raised to her eyes--"well, girls, you did not expect to see me back so
soon, did you? Washington became insupportable. Too many odious-looking
people. I could not endure it. What have we here?" staring at the sign,
"'Poems by Pearl Proctor, a member of the congregation'? And who may she
be? Proctor--Proctor? I don't remember the name in New York. Proctor is
a Boston name. Who is it, Millicent?"
Millicent trembled.
"I--I--" she faltered.
"You!" thundered her cousin. "Never! What do you mean?"
"Milly didn't mean to say that," interposed Peggy. "She was probably
going to say she couldn't tell who it is. It is an assumed name, we
suppose, Cousin Appolina."
[Illustration: "IS NOT MILLICENT CAPABLE OF SPEAKING FOR HERSELF?"]
"Is not Millicent capable of speaking for herself?" inquired Miss
Briggs, severely. "Since when did she lose the power of speech?"
The girls shook in their shoes, and held their peace.
"What are these things?" continued this terrible person, picking up the
poems disdainfully, and again putting her lorgnette to her eyes: "'Ode
to a Firefly,' 'Sonnet on the Caterpiller,' 'Some Lines to a Beggar
Child.' Faugh! Who is the fool that is guilty of all this?
But--but--what have we here?"
It had come, then! For this is what Miss Appolina read, but not aloud:
"Who is a dame of high degree?
Who's always scolded little me?
Who is a sight strange for to see?
Miss Appolina B.
"Who cannot with her friends agree?
Who loves to feed on cakes and tea?
Who prides herself on her pedigree?
Miss Appolina B.
"Who'll soon set sail across the sea?
Who will not take her cousins three?
Who is an ancient, awful she?
Miss Appolina B."
Miss Briggs looked from one to the other of the girls. The hum of the
fair went on.
"I will buy all of these poems," she said in a voice which filled their
souls with terror; "count them, and tell me the amount. And I wish to
see you both to-morrow morning at ten o'clock."
Wondering, Millicent obeyed.
Peggy turned and fled.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
SNOW-SHOES AND SLEDGES.
BY KIRK MUNROE.