PART I._Outing; Vol. XIII.; October, 1888 to March, 1889 An Illustrated Monthly Magazine of Recreation.

######################################################################

Transcriber’s Notes

This e-text is based on Vol. XIII of the ‘Outing Illustrated

Monthly Magazine of Recreation;’ October, 1888-March, 1889.

Advertisements have been relocated to the end of the text. A few

page references in the Table of Contents have been corrected

according to the original page numbers in the magazine. Footnotes

have been moved to the end of the corresponding articles. Some

tables have been split to fit into smaller screens.

Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation have been retained, but

punctuation and typographical errors have been corrected. Passages

in English dialect and in languages other than English have

not been altered.

_Underscores_ have been used to indicate italic text in the

original; ~tilde characters~ have been applied to denote small

capitals. Bold text has been highlighted by using =equals signs=.

######################################################################

~Outing~

AN ILLUSTRATED MONTHLY MAGAZINE

RECREATION

VOL. XIII.

OCTOBER, 1888-MARCH, 1889

THE OUTING COMPANY, LIMITED

NEW YORK: No. 239 FIFTH AVENUE.

LONDON: No. 61 STRAND, W. C.

~Copyright, 1888-1889~,

~By the~ OUTING COMPANY, ~Limited~.

PRESS OF FLEMING, BREWSTER & ALLEY, NEW YORK.

CONTENTS OF VOLUME XIII.

OCTOBER, 1888-MARCH, 1889.

AMATEUR PHOTOGRAPHY. PAGE

~Amateur Photography.~ By Ellerslie Wallace.

(_To be continued._) 515

ATHLETICS.

~American College Athletics--Harvard University.~ Part I.

By J. Mott Hallowell 233

Illustrations from photographs.

~American College Athletics--Harvard University.~ Part II.

By J. Mott Hallowell 301

Illustrations from photographs.

~American College Athletics. II.--Yale University.~

By Richard M. Hurd 404

Illustrations from photographs.

~Detroit Athletic Club, The.~

By John A. Russell 205

Illustrations from photographs and pen-and-ink sketches

by Eugene Bauer.

~Jersey City Athletic Club, The.~

By Charles Lee Meyers 445

Illustrations by Eugene Bauer, from photographs.

~Progress of Athletism, The.~ (English Universities.)

By C. Turner 109

Illustrations from instantaneous photographs.

~Training of a University Crew, The.~

By Frederic A. Stevenson 57

BASEBALL.

~Baseball in Australia.~

By Harry Palmer 157

Illustrations from photographs.

CANOEING.

~Damp Journey on a Down-Grade, A.~

By Ralph K. Wing 117

~Ninth Annual A. C. A. Meet at Lake George.~

By C. Bowyer Vaux 73

~Paddles and Palettes~ (Continued from Vol. XII., p. 510).

By Edward L. Chichester 46

Illustrations by the Author.

CLUBS.

~Chicago, The Boat Clubs of.~

By Edith Sessions Tupper 3

Illustrations from photographs.

~Detroit Athletic Club, The.~ By John A. Russell 205

Illustrations from photographs and pen-and-ink sketches

by Eugene Bauer.

COACHING.

~Coaching and Coaching Clubs.~

By Charles S. Pelham-Clinton 525

Illustrations from photographs and old prints, and drawing

by C. Beard. Engraved by H. Pflaum.

COLLEGE SPORTS.

~American College Athletics--Harvard University.~ Part I.

By J. Mott Hallowell 233

Illustrations from photographs.

~American College Athletics--Harvard University.~ Part II.

By J. Mott Hallowell 301

Illustrations from photographs.

~American College Athletics. II.--Yale University.~

By Richard M. Hurd 404

Illustrations from photographs.

~Evolution of Form in College Rowing.~

By E. M. Garnett. (_To be continued._) 518

~Progress of Athletism, The.~ (English Universities.)

By C. Turner 109

Illustrations from instantaneous photographs.

CYCLING.

~Haunted Wheel, The.~

By President Bates 132

~How to Cycle in Europe.~

By Joseph Pennell 511

~Ladies’ Eastern Tricycle Tour, The.~

By “Daisie” 260

Illustrations by Eugene Bauer.

~Mr. Perker’s Bear, or Mr. Bear’s Perker?~

By President Bates 328

~One Man’s Work for Cycling.~

By Howard P. Merrill 32

Illustrations from photographs, reproduced by Kurtz.

FENCING.

~Mask and Foil for Ladies.~

By Charles E. Clay 312

Illustrations by Eugene Bauer.

FICTION.

~Breaking of Winter, The.~

By Patience Stapleton 350

~Critical Situation, A.~

By S. Smith 226

~Herne the Hunter.~

By William Perry Brown 423

~Ysleta.~

By E. Hough 66

FISHING.

~Canadian Fishing Sketches.~ II.--Spearing Fish at the

Lachine Rapids.

By Hiram B. Stephens 29

“~Eelin’ off Goose P’int.~”

By Scott Campbell 53

~Love at Fishing.~ Poem.

By Edward A. Valentine 167

~Obituary Notice of Seth Green.~

By F. Endicott 72

~Pickerel Shooting on the Marshes.~

By O. W. Hard 203

~Salmon-Fishing on Loch Tay.~

By “Rockwood” 533

Illustrations by J. and G. Temple.

FOOTBALL.

~Hints to Football Captains.~

By Walter C. Camp 357

FOX-HUNTING.

~Fox-Hunting.~ A Day in the Shires.

By H. S. Pearse, “Plantagenet” 483

Illustrations by A. C. Corbould and J. and G. Temple.

FRONTISPIECES.

~A Woodland Shot.~ October, 1888. J. Carter Beard 2

Engraved by G. A. Greene.

~Washington and his Hounds.~ November, 1888. J. Carter Beard 98

Engraved by W. H. F. Lyouns.

~A Pair of Poachers.~ December, 1888. 194

Engraved by H. Pflaum.

~Ice Yacht “Northern Light.”~ January, 1889. 290

Photograph by C. E. Shaffer. Reproduced by Kurtz.

~A Moonlight Encounter with Russian Wolves.~ February, 1889. 386

Engraved by H. Pflaum.

“~One Fair Pursuer goes at it where the Huntsman Leads.~”

March, 1889.

A. C. Corbould 482

HORSE RACING.

~Plain Talk about Steeple-Chasing.~

By C. S. Pelham-Clinton 361

ICE YACHTING.

~Fast Ice Yachts.~

By Charles Ledyard Norton 333

Diagrams by the Author.

KENNEL.

~Spaniel Training.~

By D. Boulton Herrald 494

LAWN TENNIS.

~Lawn Tennis in the South.~

By Henry W. Slocum, Jr. 496

Illustrations by Eugene Bauer.

MISCELLANEOUS SPORTS.

~Coursing in Ireland.~

By Robert F. Walsh 64

Illustration by J. Carter Beard.

~Rabbit Coursing.~

By “Sporting Tramp” 362

OBITUARY.

~Green, Seth.~ (With portrait.)

By F. Endicott 72

~Satterthwaite, Franklin.~ 168

OUTDOOR LIFE OF THE PRESIDENTS.

~George Washington--I.~

By John P. Foley 99

Illustrations by J. Carter Beard and F. Miranda.

~Thomas Jefferson--II.~

By John P. Foley 250

~Andrew Jackson--III.~

By John P. Foley 437

OUTINGS.

~Among the Taurus Mountains.~

By L. B. Platt 291

Illustrations from photographs. Wood engravings by

H. Pflaum, W. F. Lyouns, and others.

~How to Take a Tramp Trip.~

By Lee Meriwether 60

~On a Canadian Farm in Midwinter.~

By W. Blackburn Harte 452

~Pacific through Canada, To the.~ Part I.

By Ernest Ingersoll 141

Illustrated.

~Pacific through Canada, To the.~ Part II.

By Ernest Ingersoll 217

Illustrated.

~Ride to a Russian Wedding, A.~

By C. M. Litwin 242

~Visit to Death Lake, Florida, A.~

By Lieut. W. R. Hamilton 230

PEDESTRIANISM.

~How to Take a Tramp Trip.~

By Lee Meriwether 60

RIDING.

~Across Wyoming on Horseback.~

By Lewis P. Robie 392

Illustrations by E. W. Deming.

~National Horse Show, The.~

By “Sporting Tramp” 361

~Plain Talk about Steeple-Chasing.~

By C. S. Pelham-Clinton 361

~Pony Racing~ 76

~Talk about the Pigskin, A.~

By “Sporting Tramp” 17

Illustrations by J. Carter Beard and J. and G. Temple.

ROWING.

~Boat Clubs of Chicago, The.~

By Mrs. Edith Sessions Tupper 3

Illustrations from photographs.

~Evolution of Form in College Rowing.~

By E. M. Garnett. (_To be continued._) 518

~Training of a University Crew, The.~

By Frederic A. Stevenson 57

SHOOTING.

~Pickerel Shooting on the Marshes.~

By O. W. Hard 203

~Rifle in the Sacramentos, The.~

By William H. Johnston, Jr. 125

~Russian Wolf Hunt, A.~

By Tom Bolton 419

Illustrations by J. Carter Beard.

~Sport--Past, Present, and Future.~ Part I.

By Alexander Hunter 195

Illustrations by J. Carter Beard.

~Sport--Past, Present, and Future.~ Part II.

By Alexander Hunter 321

Illustrations by J. Carter Beard.

~Wild Duck Shooting.~

By W. G. Beers 39

Illustrations by J. Carter Beard. Engraved by F. H. W. Lyouns.

~Winter Shooting in South Carolina.~

By C. W. Boyd 401

~Winter Shooting in Florida.~

By F. Campbell Moller 541

SKATING.

~On Blades of Steel.~

By D. Boulton Herrald 435

With illustration.

SLEIGHING.

~Sleighing.~

By Will H. Whyte 387

Illustrations by J. Carter Beard.

SNOWSHOEING.

~Snowshoeing in Canuckia.~

By James C. Allan 505

Illustrations from photographs and drawings by

J. William Fosdick.

TRAVEL.

~Among the Taurus Mountains.~

By L. B. Platt 291

Illustrations from photographs. Wood-engravings by

H. Pflaum, W. H. F. Lyouns, and others.

~Pacific through Canada, To the.~ Part I.

By Ernest Ingersoll 141

Illustrated.

~Pacific through Canada, To the.~ Part II.

By Ernest Ingersoll 217

Illustrated.

VERSE.

~Ace of Hearts, The.~

By Edith Sessions Tupper 249

~Autumn.~

By Susan Hartley Swett 116

~British Fox’s Lament, The.~

By “Sporting Tramp.” (Amenities) 368

~Californian Lyrics.~

By Minna Caroline Smith 300

~Faun Dance, The.~

By M. E. Gorham 311

~Gray Evening.~

By Charles Prescott Shermon 216

~I’m Single no Longer, You Know.~

By S. Gove Tenney (Amenities) 560

~Love at Fishing.~

By Edward A. Valentine 167

~Love Letter, A.~

By Frank Dempster Sherman 265

~Man’s Three Follies.~

By Egbert L. Bangs 259

~My Boat.~

By Arthur Cleveland Hall 451

~Night Paddle, A.~

By M. E. Gorham 458

~On the Connecticut.~

By Lucy C. Bull 125

~Outing, An.~

By Jay Gee 429

~Rainy Day, A.~

By H. J. Livermore 71

~Rondeau.~

By Jay Gee. (Amenities) 272

~She only Shook her Head.~

By A. A. P. (Amenities) 464

~Soft Light Beamed, The.~

By Howell Stroud England 23

~Sonnet.~

By Howell Stroud England 540

~Three Days’ Grace.~

By Sarah J. Burke 403

~Yachting Song, A.~

By Clinton Scollard 28

YACHTING.

~Cruise of the “Frolic,” The.~

By S. G. W. Benjamin 544

~Lake Champlain Yacht Club, The.~

By Frederic G. Mather 340

Illustrations from photographs.

~Memories of Yacht Cruises.~ (Continued from Vol. XII., p. 517.)

By the late Captain Roland F. Coffin 24

Illustrations by Fred. S. Cozzens.

~Memories of Yacht Cruises.~ Part IV.

By the late Capt. Roland F. Coffin 430

~New York Yacht Club Cruise of ’88, The.~ 148

Illustrations by Fred. S. Cozzens and from photographs.

~Yacht Racing Results.~

By J. C. Summers 73

~Yachting Song, A.~

By Clinton Scollard 28

AMENITIES 80, 176, 272, 368, 464, 560

AMONG THE BOOKS 79, 174, 271, 367, 463, 559

EDITOR’S OPEN WINDOW 72, 168, 266, 361, 459, 553

EDITOR’S SCRAP BOOK 177, 273, 369

GLANCES AT OUR LETTER-FILE 466

MONTHLY RECORD, OUR 81, 178, 274, 371, 465

OUTING CLUB, THE 170, 269, 363, 556

PLEASURE, TRAVEL, AND RESORTS 370

THEATRICAL PLAYGROUND, OUR 173, 270, 366, 462, 558

[Illustration]

[Illustration: A WOODLAND SHOT.]

~Outing.~

~Vol. XIII.~ OCTOBER, 1888. ~No. 1.~

THE BOAT CLUBS OF CHICAGO.

BY MRS. EDITH SESSIONS TUPPER.

Chicago is singularly devoid of the presence of that species of animal

popularly known as “the dude.” In going about its bustling streets,

one remarks that the thin-legged, hollow-chested youth who is chiefly

noticeable for the height of his collar, and from the fact that the

head he carries on his stick is larger than the one he carries on his

shoulders, is seldom met.

In place, then, of a throng of these sickly creatures dawdling

up and down and ogling the women, one sees a hurrying crowd of

broad-shouldered, athletic young men with sturdy limbs, sparkling

eyes and florid complexions. They walk, they do not saunter. As they

shoulder their way through the busy throng, one cannot fail to note

their muscular figures and supple movements. No doubt much of this

is due to their daily associations and the constant Western push for

place, but to the realm of sport must belong much of the credit, and

to constant exercise with the oar this supreme vitality is greatly

attributable.

For many years rowing has been popular in Chicago, and the city

boasted several independent clubs, but there was no concerted plan of

action until September, 1886, when the “Chicago Navy” was organized,

which comprises all the various clubs of the city and suburban towns.

Previous to this, the active boating had been done by the Farragut,

Delaware, Pullman, Tippy-canoe, and Evanston clubs.

The membership of the “Chicago Navy” is composed of the Iroquois,

Ogden, Catlin, Union, Hyde Park, Quintard, and Douglas clubs, in

addition to those above mentioned--twelve in all.

The effect of this organization was at once felt, especially among

the weaker clubs, whose enthusiasm was aroused to such an extent that

they soon caused some of the older ones to look to their laurels.

While the clubs are constantly working to strengthen their respective

organizations, and while there is much friendly rivalry between

them, the ambition of all is to make Chicago the headquarters of all

the rowing associations of the West. All signs point to the speedy

consummation of this desire. From her commercial importance and central

position, from the fact that all roads lead to Chicago, she is destined

to become the centre of the aquatic sports of the West. Chicago men

have been made president and commodore of the Mississippi Valley Rowing

Association, which embraces all rowing clubs from Galveston to St.

Paul, and from Omaha to Detroit. This organization has a contract with

the Pullman Club to hold its annual regattas on Lake Calumet for the

next three years.

[Illustration: J. F. KORF AND W. WEINAND OF THE DELAWARE CLUB.]

The annual regattas of the “Chicago Navy” are also held on Lake

Calumet, at that remarkable town of Pullman owned by the great

sleeping-car knight. The lake is about four miles long, and the course

is three-quarters of a mile from start to turning-stake. The first

annual regatta was held July 4, 1887.

FARRAGUT CLUB.

Both from the fact that it is the oldest settler, and from its record,

the Farragut Club must take supremacy. It was organized March 10, 1872,

and incorporated July 1, 1875. The fleet at that time consisted of one

barge, the _Farragut_, and the timber-house of the Illinois Central

Railroad Company was its boat-house.

In the spring of 1873 a boat-house, which cost $350, was built at

the foot of Twenty-first Street. This was destroyed by a storm in

1874. Another was erected in its place, which was, later, moved to

Riverdale, on Calumet River, to be used for training purposes, and a

new boat-house costing over a thousand dollars was erected on the old

site. In November, 1877, this house, as well as that of the Chicago

Barge Club, in its immediate neighborhood, was completely destroyed

by storm, and only three boats were saved. The next year a two-story

brick boat-house was built at the foot of Twenty-fifth Street, costing

$4,000. The first floor was used for storing boats and the second was

devoted to social purposes. For six years it was a pleasant home for

the club. But it would seem that Fate had an especial grudge against

the Farragut, for, it becoming necessary to move the boat-house nearer

the lake to make way for the encroachments of a railroad, in the month

of March, 1883, a furious storm arose and destroyed it, with twenty

expensive boats.

A temporary house was at once erected and new boats were purchased, and

the ambition of the club was fired rather than daunted by its repeated

disasters. It was fast outgrowing the former narrow limits of the

organization, and at this juncture its president, Lyman B. Glover, to

whom the club is more indebted than to any other one man, proposed that

they should build an elegant club-house on some eminence overlooking

Lake Michigan, and simply provide a storage for boats near the water.

[Illustration: OGDEN BOAT CLUB.]

This rather startling proposition speedily gained favor, and the result

is shown in the superb club-house which stands on a lofty elevation on

Lake Park Avenue, overlooking the vast expanse of the blue lake which

stretches before it. It is a model of correct and elegant architecture.

From its balconies and observatory one commands a view of the entire

city as well as the lake. Indoors it is most conveniently arranged for

the comfort and pleasure of its _habitués_, the hall and staircase

being especially beautiful. It is finished throughout in hard wood,

and its fireplaces are handsomely tiled, with the initials of the club

inserted. There are two spacious parlors, directors’ room, card-room

and billiard-room on the first floor. On the second is a large

gymnasium and dancing-hall, which is also equipped with a good-sized

stage for dramatic purposes. In the basement there is a bowling alley,

two pool tables, and various other attractions. From top to bottom

it is complete and perfect in every respect. The club-house seems to

have been a veritable _mascotte_. The limit of membership has been

raised from time to time, until now it rests at two hundred and fifty.

Socially the club is an important factor, being made up of prominent

business and professional men.

[Illustration: STARTING FOR A PADDLE.]

The club is well equipped with a fleet of thirty fine boats, for

the storage of which a commodious boat-house has been erected near

the club-house. This club exercises active interest in many boating

circles, being a member of the National Association of Amateur Oarsmen,

the Mississippi Valley Amateur Rowing Association, the Northwestern

Amateur Rowing Association, and the Chicago Navy. It has a remarkable

record, for a Western club that has no smooth water for practice, of

seventy victories, trophies of which adorn the walls of the club-house.

In 1879 and ’80 their four-oared crew--Downs, Adams, Young and

Muchmore--won several brilliant races. Their time was not beaten for

some years. In 1882, at St. Louis, McClellan, Van Schaak, Metcalf and

Berau won the four-oared race against the celebrated Minnesota crew of

St. Paul. In 1885 a great four-oared crew, Billings, Plummer, Avery and

Fowler, won eight straight races. In 1886, at the regatta of the M. V.

R. A. at Moline, Illinois, the pair-oared crew, Adams and Jennison,

defeated Clegg and Standish, of Detroit, who were the former national

champions.

But the bright particular star of the club is the recent champion

amateur sculler, J. F. Corbet. He was formerly a member of the Pullman

Club, and won his first race under their auspices. But he has for some

time been a member of the Farragut crew, and the club is justly proud

of his great record.

In 1886, at the Northwestern Rowing Association regatta, at Grand

Rapids, he won the senior single; time, 13m. 45¾s., two miles with

turn. At the National Association regatta, at Albany, N. Y., in the

same year, he won the trial heat; time, 8m. 46½s., one and a half miles

straightaway. In the final, he beat all but Mr. Monahan, of Albany, but

was shut out at the finish by rowboats closing in upon him.

[Illustration]

[Illustration:

H. C. AVERY. H. P. BILLINGS. C. A. PLUMMER. M. F. FOWLER.

THE BIG FOUR OF THE FARRAGUT CLUB.]

In 1887 he won the senior single in the Chicago Navy, M. V. R. A. and

N. W. R. A. regattas, and at the National regatta, on Chautauqua Lake,

won not only the senior single on one day, but on the following the

final heat and the Amateur Championship of America, beating all the

scullers of the United States and Canada. To complete this record of

two years, which has never been surpassed by any amateur sculler, he

won the senior single at Lake Minnetonka regatta; time 10m. 40s., one

and a half miles with turn.

[Illustration: CATLIN BOAT CLUB.]

[Illustration: SOME OF THE TIPPY-CANOE CLUB FLEET.]

Among other prominent men in boating circles who have been members of

the Farragut Club, may be mentioned W. B. Curtis, of the _Spirit of the

Times_; John Ostrom, the famous Cornell stroke and captain; and Frank

E. Yates, who was twice the national champion.

Lyman B. Glover, who was for seven years president, and George R.

Blodgett, secretary, were presented with honorary memberships in the

National Amateur Rowing Association of France.

CATLIN CLUB.

This club, so-called from its president, Charles Catlin, who is also

commodore of the M. V. R. A., though practically a new club, has done

good work and made a record for itself at its first trial. It was

founded in 1882, with a boat-house at Cedar Lake, Indiana; but last

year a commodious boat-house, with a capacity for storing twenty boats,

was built in Chicago, at a cost of $500. It is the intention of the

club to fit up the second story as a gymnasium and club-room. Reeding

and Goff form their crack team. They won the junior double in the

Chicago Navy regatta last year at Pullman, and later the junior double

in the M. V. R. A. regatta. It is an ambitious, energetic club, and

intends to do great things in future. Mr. Catlin is their main stay,

and though not an oarsman himself, is exceedingly popular with his

followers.

OGDEN CLUB.

What is known as the “gilt-edged” club of Chicago, being very exclusive

in its tendencies, is the Ogden Club, so named from the first Mayor of

Chicago. Its boat-house was originally near the foot of Chicago Avenue.

But Lake Michigan, with a reprehensible disregard for the feelings of

so aristocratic a club, proceeded to wash it down as fast as it was

erected. It was finally removed to the foot of Superior Street, where

it now stands in safety. It is the largest club on the North Side,

and, as one of its prominent members expresses it, “looks more to the

social than physical status of its members.” Heretofore it has devoted

its attention to barge parties, pleasure rowing and sailing, but

proposes to give more time to racing in the future. A costly “Goldie”

rowing-machine was purchased this winter, and several new boats and

shells have been ordered. The president, Mr. James W. Scott, who is

proprietor of the Chicago _Herald_, has offered five gold medals to be

competed for at the club regatta next fall.

Among its honorary members is Professor David Swing, the famous

preacher. A prominent active member is W. M. Le Moyne, who was captain

of the Harvard University crew in 1876-77. The club owns a number of

fine boats, including two four-oared gigs, four sailing canoes, six

shell-bottom working boats, five pleasure boats, a single-scull shell,

and a barge that will carry fifteen people.

[Illustration: CLUB-HOUSE AT EVANSTON.]

E. D. Neff, captain of the club, who is also secretary of the Chicago

Navy, won the single sculling race in the Navy regatta last year,

defeating a competitor who was considered invincible. He has competed

in the single sculling races this year, in the regattas of the

Chicago Navy, Mississippi Valley, and Northwestern Associations.

There is a project afloat to issue bonds and erect a club-house which

shall cost thirty thousand dollars, and contain theatre, gymnasium and

billiard rooms, but no action will be taken until the course of the

Lake Shore Drive has been settled.

[Illustration: J. F. CORBET, FARRAGUT BOAT CLUB.]

TIPPY-CANOE CLUB.

This club is, as its appropriate name indicates, a canoeing

organization. It has a fleet of sixteen canoes, which for beauty of

model and excellence of finish compare favorably with those of any club

in the country. The captain of the club, Mr. D. H. Crane, who unites a

wide experience in boating matters with unusual skill as a draughtsman,

is the designer of these canoes.

At the first annual regatta of the Chicago Canoe Club, in 1884, J. B.

Keogh, in the _Phantom_, of Class A, won the sailing race, and again

in 1885. In this same year A. W. Kitchin won the “paddling” races for

Classes 2 and 3, in the _Gypsy_, and in the “upset” race won again in

_The Bells_. The tandem race was won by J. B. Keogh and H. B. Cook.

In 1885, the Chicago Canoe Club became defunct, its members joining the

Tippy-canoe, which is now the representative canoe club of the State of

Illinois.

No club regattas were given last year, but the members carried off all

the prizes in paddling at the Navy regatta at Pullman. Later in the

season, several of the members attended the Western Canoe Association

meet at Ballast Island, and carried off many laurels.

Kitchin won the paddling race again in the _Tippy_. B. W. Wood’s

_Vivum_ won the free-for-all “no ballast” sailing race. R. P. McCune’s

_Idler_ won the “hurry-scurry” race, as well as the free-for-all

sailing race around Ballast Island for the Nixon special prize; while

in the “Tournament,” the contest that always proves so edifying to

spectators, G. C. Messer and his partner succeeded in capsizing all who

entered the lists against them.

IROQUOIS CLUB.

Organized in 1882 and incorporated in March, 1888, this club did

not escape the misfortune of many of its fellows, for in 1884 their

boat-house was blown down and washed away, and many boats and shells

destroyed.

Nothing daunted, they erected a new home at the foot of Chicago Avenue

on the lake front.

They own a fleet of twelve boats, one, a four-oared shell, being the

finest in the West. Their uniform is very handsome, and they have

patriotically selected red, white and blue for their colors.

[Illustration: A RACE OF THE TIPPY-CANOE CLUB.]

One of their single shells won two victories at Pullman last season.

They are workers, and propose to make themselves felt in the future.

EVANSTON CLUB.

The preliminary organization of the Evanston Club was effected in

September, 1880, and incorporated in February, 1881.

Their equipment is good. They own forty boats, including single shells,

double sculling boats, four-oared shells and several canoes. Canoeing

is quite as popular with them as rowing. This club holds every year

a series of local regattas which attract considerable attention, the

contestants all being members of this club. The membership numbers one

hundred and sixty-one. They possess a neat and commodious club-house,

which is beautifully situated.

The club seems to be of a genial, social nature, and does not greatly

thirst for glory.

HYDE PARK CLUB.

This club devotes its energies chiefly to sailing, and has a fleet of

thirty sail-boats, two steam launches and one cat-boat.

[Illustration: UNDER WEIGH.]

QUINTARD CLUB.

The name of this organization is derived from George W. Quintard, the

wealthy iron manufacturer of New York, and the club is composed of very

young men. It was the winner of the Cregier Challenge Cup, which was

contested for in 1886, at St. Charles, Illinois.

DELAWARE CLUB.

The phenomenal record of William Weinand and John F. Korf, the champion

amateur double scullers of the country, has rendered this club famous.

In 1883 this noted team entered the races of the M. V. R. A. and took

second place among four starters. Heartily encouraged, they worked

actively for the rest of the season, and in ’84 were entered, with

five other starters, in the junior double sculling race. They won this

race and also the senior double, winning the latter race of two miles

and turn in the fastest time on record of twelve minutes and forty

seconds. From that time they have never been beaten, and have won over

twenty-five races. The most notable of these are: 1884-85-86-87, of the

M. V. R. A.; 1885-86-87, of the N. W. R. A.; the race for the medal at

the New Orleans Exposition; the race for the National Championship at

Albany, N. Y., in 1886, and that on Lake Chautauqua in ’87.

[Illustration: THE FARRAGUT CLUB-HOUSE.]

By a decision of the referee, they were disqualified after winning the

latter race by forty seconds, and being dissatisfied with this result,

they are anxious to meet any amateur double sculling team in the United

States or Canada. Indeed, they challenged the famous Metropolitan

double to a race on Lake Calumet, offering to put up an appropriate

prize, and pay all the expenses of their competitors, but the offer was

declined. Few teams, it is apparent, care to meet these all-conquering

oarsmen. They will no longer be allowed to row in the races of

the M. V. R. A. and the N. W. R. A., as they, of course, prevent

competition.

[Illustration: J. F. CORBET.]

In future they will turn their attention to bringing a four-oared crew

to the front that shall win fresh laurels for the Delaware.

There are only sixteen members, but they intend to become known by

works rather than numbers.

“We have no wall-flowers,” said handsome, athletic John Korf, “but men

that are willing to try to win races.”

The club has a fleet of thirteen boats, and a good-sized boat-house,

the second story of which is used for a gymnasium, and is well stocked

with apparatus for the development of the muscles.

PULLMAN CLUB.

The history of the Pullman Club is so interwoven with that of the

Athletic Club of the place, that it requires almost a separate paper.

There is a beautiful island of about three acres in extent lying in

Lake Calumet. This has been most handsomely laid out for athletic

sports by command of Mr. Pullman. Here is located a substantial

club-house, and here are erected two grand-stands with a seating

capacity of four thousand.

Under these grand-stands are accommodations for thirty rowing clubs,

at the least calculation, and from them one obtains a fine view of the

regattas.

The Pullman Rowing Association was formed in 1881, and the next year

the international regatta took place there.

Many professional oarsmen from Canada, England and this country were

present, and the universal verdict was one of favor for Pullman’s

rowing course.

Through the efforts of Mr. Lyman Glover, President of the Mississippi

Valley Rowing Association, that organization holds its annual regattas

on this lake, and efforts are being made to induce the Northwestern

and International Associations to do likewise. Lake Calumet seems well

adapted to aquatic sports, being a mile and a half in width by four

miles in length, and can always be depended on for smooth water in the

evening. The property of the club consists of one six-oared racing

barge, two four-oared racing shells, two single shells, two gigs, and

eight pleasure-boats. The club entered crews in the National regatta

at Detroit in ’83, and got second place among seven starters. It has

defeated the Farragut and Delaware clubs in match races. It won the

barge race and four-oared shell race at the Chicago Navy regatta of

last summer, and the four-oared junior race at the M. V. R. A. regatta

a few days later.

Thus it will be seen that Chicago can point with pride to the

achievements of her oarsmen, and, with admirable audacity, she

prophesies greater victories in the future.

I wish to acknowledge my indebtedness to Mr. Lyman B. Glover, of the

Farragut Club, and Mr. Thomas P. Hallinan, of the Catlin Club, for

their invaluable aid in procuring data for this sketch.

[Illustration]

[Illustration: A SCAMPER ON THE BREEZY DOWNS OF SUSSEX.]

A TALK ABOUT THE PIGSKIN.

BY A SPORTING TRAMP.

“This gallant

Had witchcraft in’t--he grew unto his seat;

And to such wondrous doing brought his horse,

As he had been incorpsed, and demi-natured

With the brave beast.”--_Hamlet._

To deliberately sit down and write on the subject of riding is a

task which is attended with no slight difficulty. Such themes are

invariably hard to handle, but riding has special difficulties. Much

that is apropos and correct has been written on this most engaging

subject from the day of Xenophon onward, but it is nevertheless an

impossibility--nay, more, it is an absurdity, to suppose that rules can

be shaped by which all can regulate their particular styles of riding.

It is as futile to try to frame a code for the direction of both the

fashionable crowd of a metropolis and the ranchmen of the West as to

compare the Indian squaw, crouched on the pony that drags the “tepee”

poles, with the blithe damsels enjoying a scamper on the breezy downs

of Sussex.

Not only do different surroundings and objects alter the style, but

Mother Nature has endowed her sons with limbs of varying shapes. It

is no more possible for the short, stout man of vast avoirdupois to

emulate the methods of a McLaughlin, a Fred Archer or a Tom Cannon,

than it is for the same person to look elegant on a ball-room floor.

“Circumstances alter cases,” and every man must adapt himself to the

saddle as best he can.

Again, what may be a very taking display of horsemanship in Rotten Row,

or Central Park, would look sadly out of place in rounding up a “bunch”

of cattle on a Wyoming ranch. An equestrian might look very nice at a

meet of fox-hounds, about whom we entertain grave doubts whether after

forty minutes’ run across a stiff country he would be still well to the

fore. The method that in one place is a near approach to perfection is

worse than ridiculous in the other In this connection arises the fact

that, though there are many brilliant exceptions, the great jockeys of

the English flat are, generally speaking, by no means so much at home

when following hounds as when braving the dangers of Tattenham Corner.

Of course, however, it is by no means impossible, and it is often the

case, that a man can adapt his style to his immediate circumstances,

but it is rare to find a man who excels in all styles.

Some few years ago a “Britisher,” who though young had already made

a name for himself in the noted hunting counties of Ireland and

Leicestershire, migrated to the far West to try his luck in the

ranching business. His scorn was great when he saw the unwieldy saddles

that cowboys used, and he promptly determined to keep an English

hunting saddle for his own use. His lesson was soon learnt, and after

a few “almighty croppers,” he adapted himself to circumstances and the

saddle of the country. Ere long his fame as a rider spread among the

very “broncho busters” who had laughed at him on his first arrival.

The finishing touch to his lasting renown was reached when he managed

to sit a certain animal yclept the “Camel,” which had disposed of all

previous aspirants to the honor of mounting him.

Such cases are rare, and though some few Englishmen have acquired a

great reputation as riders in the West, the majority find that the

style to which they have been brought up stands in their way when it

comes to riding cow-ponies. Mayhap Buffalo Bill’s visit to Earl’s

Court, London, may prove to have inculcated the necessary lesson.

One thing is very apparent to English visitors to New York, and it is

that the English seat is now the thing. By the English seat we mean

what is called, “across the herring pond,” the park seat, though we

see occasionally symptoms of the adoption of the hunting seat. But

before going farther, it would be well to say a few words as to the

differences between the two. The park seat is the dandified style

mostly taught in riding-schools. It is, however, an indispensable

qualification of any man who wishes to “show” his horse. The general

appearance is rather similar to that one may notice among the horsemen

of the Southern States. Though a difference exists, it is hard to

define, but may be summed up thus: while every Southerner seems part

and parcel of the animal he bestrides, whence comes the common dictum

that all Southerners are born cavalrymen, the possessor of a park seat,

however perfect, lacks the appearance of being perfectly at home on his

horse. The reason is obvious, viz., that the park seat is artificial,

and the rider’s attention is chiefly given to producing good action on

his hack’s part. He carries his hands high, often very high, and as he

rides he “lifts” his horse, and is answered by correspondingly high

action. The bit is often severe to further this. The rider’s feet are

carried rather wide, and all the while the calf of the leg is never

quite at rest, for while the grip of the knee is neglected, the calf

is kept continuously but gently in motion. The spur never touches the

flank, but the horse feels the necessary reminder at his ribs, and

frets and moves with vigorous action as his rider wishes. In such a

seat the foot is thrust but a short way through the stirrup, and rests

on the iron at or about the ball of the great toe. The rider has, of

course, to sit well down in his saddle, and stick to his horse mostly

by balance, as the seat-preserving grip of the knee is so slightly

maintained.

Youatt, in his book “The Horse,” gives the following instructions

regarding the riding of hackneys: “He does wrong who constantly pulls

might and main: he will soon spoil the animal’s mouth. He does worse

who carelessly throws the reins on the neck of the horse. _Always feel

the mouth lightly_, with a simultaneous pressure of both legs. By these

means, the rider will insure a regularity of pace, and command the

safety and speed of his horse. If he depends entirely upon the feeling

of the hand, the mouth may become too sensitive, and refuse to have the

proper bearing upon the bit.... Again, if the horseman neglects the

elasticity and fine feeling of the hand, and makes too much use of his

legs alone, a callous mouth and boring upon the bit will most likely

result from the practice.... By this constant gentle _feeling_ he will

likewise be induced to carry his head well, than which few things are

more conducive to the easy, beautiful, and safe going of the horse.”

To turn to the other style of English riding, it must be said that

here there are many variations in style. The older school adopts a

very short “leather” and feet thrust well home into a heavy stirrup,

with a tendency to disregard the smaller niceties of the art. Look at

an old gentleman nearly approaching the span of life allotted by the

Psalmist, as he makes his way to covert. If he allows his horse to go

out of a walk at all, the pace does not exceed a slow “jog” or trot,

in fact, what is called the “huntsman’s jog.” He goes along, bump,

bump, bumping, or, perhaps, for some hundred yards effecting a kind of

shuffling rise from his saddle, while his knees seem to have no grip

whatever on his horse’s sides and sway to and fro with every motion.

Probably any stranger to the country could make many greater errors

than to follow this old gentleman when hounds are running a rattling

pace with a breast-high scent, for as necessity calls, a change takes

place in his riding. See him as he lifts his flagging hunter at that

stone-wall, his grip on the saddle is wonderful and he seems glued

to it! This style is still common in England, and every man who has

hunted there will see in his mind the picture of some white-haired old

gentleman to whom this description might apply. Such men were the older

generation who were content to rise before daylight, to ride long miles

to the covert side without taking their horses out of a walk or a slow

jog, so that they might arrive fresh and fit for the day’s sport. One

may see them still, jogging behind the huntsman and his hounds, leaving

the more rapid conveyances of train or tandem to sportsmen of the

modern stamp.

One reaches the meet, and though the time appointed is eleven o’clock

_sharp_, the master is not here yet. He belongs to the younger school

of sportsmen with whom punctuality is not one of the cardinal virtues.

But after twenty minutes, which are profitably employed in exchanging

greetings and inquiries after absent friends, he is seen in the

distance.

Down the bridle-path he comes as fast as his smart little covert-hack

can lay legs to the ground. He is a perfect picture of the more modern

school of cross country riding. A dim suspicion crosses the mind

that he may at some period have held a commission in a crack cavalry

regiment. Decidedly there is a _soupçon_ of the military seat about

him. Stirrups long, feet thrust in to an extent half way between the

old hunting and the park style, hands kept low, sitting well down

in the saddle, very probably with only a snaffle, or, at any rate,

but a merciful double bridle, he looks as graceful a knight as ever

championed dame of old in the jousting field.

In no costume is there such a happy blending of the dandified and

workmanlike as in a well-appointed hunting man. Nowhere is the scorn

showered on the luckless dude who has missed the workmanlike part

of his equipment so great as in the hunting-field. The top-boots

glittering in the gleam of sunshine in spite of their perfection of

fit are stout enough to keep the wearer’s feet dry, should he do such

an unlikely thing as take a walk in them on a rainy day. The spotless

leathers are warm and comfortable--the smart “pink” is a roomy and

serviceable garment. The resplendent silk hat will perhaps save the

wearer a broken neck or fractured skull ere the day’s work is done.

That milk-white scarf so neatly and dexterously tied that it also takes

the place of collar, protects the throat and chest and relieves its

wearer from the galling confinement of a collar. And the horse’s saddle

and bridle, how simple and yet how handsome! not a buckle too much, but

yet a man could rely on such work if he rode for his life.

[Illustration: ONE OF THE OLDER SCHOOL OF SPORTSMEN.]

The fashion for the last few years in England has been all for

plain-flap saddles, _i. e._, with no knee-rolls at all. No doubt they

look neater, and give no artificial support, making the rider rely

entirely on his own powers, but there are disadvantages. Should

a horse take it into his head to buck, or “pig-jump,” the merest

pretence of a knee-roll will save a good rider, who without it may cut

a somersault, from being taken unawares. Again, the absence of them

no doubt affects the riding somewhat, giving an increased looseness

of seat. Hence it seems a pity that the arbitrary Goddess of Fashion

should lay down a hard and fast law, instead of allowing her votaries

to follow their own inclinations.

Another fashion which has a bad side to it, is the recent introduction

of very long-necked hunting spurs. They look very tidy and trim, with

the long, straight piece of highly-polished metal finishing off the

heel of the smart boot. Few men, however, find themselves capable of

wearing such a spur with rowels left in. The danger of cutting the

horse, most probably in the shoulder, is too great; hence has arisen

the foolish custom of making spurs without rowels, or with plain

round rowels, merely for appearances’ sake. In truth the short spurs,

with curved necks, of our fathers may not have been so effective

in appearance, but when punishment was to be given to a refractory

horse, they had the pull. With the introduction of the English method

of riding has come the adoption of the English riding-breeches for

men, and the short, safe, plain skirt for ladies. In regard to the

latter the Tramp has but little experience, and feels but slightly

qualified to speak, though in the English sporting papers he has read

vast columns of correspondence on the question from the pens of such

authorities as Mrs. O’Donoghue Power. But to any practical horseman

it must be a patent fact that the modern style is in every respect

superior to the old-fashioned. To see a lady following hounds in one

of the once fashionable flowing habits was a sight to make any one

capable of reflection shudder. Without entire knowledge of all the

intricacies of elastic loops, shot-weighted skirts, etc., one could

not but feel how impossible it was that in an accident those flowing

lengths should fall clear of a pommel, or fail in some way to entangle

the fair wearer. Even with the modern style of skirt, accidents are

rife enough. Some few years ago, while hunting in a southern county

of England, the Tramp saw a young lady, married only a few months,

dragged by her habit. Over a stone-wall flew the horse, and a battered,

life-scarred visage took the place of the bright, pretty face of five

minutes previous. One such sight is enough for a lifetime.

[Illustration: A MODERN DIANA.]

After all, nowadays a lady has but little more encumbrance than a man,

and who shall say modesty is in any respect violated, clamorous as

was the outcry at the first adoption of the short skirt? To watch a

beautiful woman on a fine thoroughbred, clad in a neatly-cut habit with

its plain severe folds, and the suspicion of a dainty patent-leather

jack-boot apparent, is to see God’s noblest work to every advantage.

Even the increased masculinity that fashion has dictated of late years,

is becoming, under the circumstances, and the shining silk hat, dainty

tie and collar, and trim edges of fancy work simulating the male

waistcoat, all add to the _tout ensemble_.

The trouble with ladies in the saddle is often said--alas! with

considerable truth--to be that they are unmerciful: that to them a

horse is as an engine, bound to go at any pace desired until it is

stopped. One cannot but feel admiration when one sees a lady calmly

and dexterously manage a fretting, restless horse in a crowded ride.

Too often it is that sharp, cruel little spur beneath the habit that

is the cause. On the other hand, it is an undoubted fact that many a

horse unmanageable to the heavier hands of a man, will become docile

under a lady’s touch. Let ladies, then, remember that nature has made

them capable of more sensitive handling of the horse’s mouth than any

man, and that the horse’s mouth is more delicate and responsive than

any piano. The glory is not by needless torture and aggravating teasing

to excite the baser side of the equine nature, but to so convey to the

horse by the reins their smallest wishes that the willing beast may

take a delight in compliance.

Men can by no means lay the sole claim in these times to workmanlike

simplicity. The ladies have adopted this as their motto. The days are

gone for trailing skirts, plumed hats, lace collars and such stagey

effects, and the modern Diana relies not on her winning feminine

graces, but her ability to rival man in his own field.

Well does she press her claim. To see the score or so of young ladies

that follow an English pack must prove an eye-opener to those of an

older generation when riding to hounds was thought unladylike, and a

gentle palfrey of easy paces considered the right mount for the sweeter

half of humanity. Now, whether it be in Central Park or Rotten Row,

the hunting field or the road, the lady assumes the place that is her

right, if her ability equal her ambition. All lackadaisical ideas are

thrown overboard, and the best one is she who rides best.

Nor do the ladies lack leaders in such a movement. With the Empress

of Austria showing the way across country, and the Princess of Wales

gracing Hyde Park with her presence, who shall say that bright examples

are lacking? Many more might be quoted; the Empress Victoria of Germany

was accounted a good rider in her day, and, in fact, Queen Victoria and

all her family have been fairly expert in the saddle.

Concerning the male riding costume the Tramp has formed decided

opinions, for he has tried all shapes and kinds. His conclusion has

been that nothing equals breeches, carefully made by a good tailor.

The feeling of snugness about the knee is pleasant, and enables the

rider to get a good grip, and _feel_ his horse; with the ordinary

garments of the male biped there is a great tendency to wrinkles and

such discomforts. For hunting, the lower parts of the limbs are best

equipped in top or butcher boots, while for ordinary hacking a neat

pair of lace shoes, with gaiters cut loose in the lower part, are the

best outfit. But above all eschew hooks for the laces; nothing is more

prone to cause serious mishaps in accidents than these consolations

for the lazy. They are simply a patent invention to ensure that a foot

stuck in a stirrup may never come out of it till the owner has been

dragged or kicked to death. As to the upper part of the body, every man

should follow his own inclinations.

In England, however, custom has made certain rules which are not to be

lightly transgressed. No man should don a black tail-coat with a low

hat, nor a shooting-jacket with a tall hat, nor a tall hat and black

coat with gaiters. In the hunting field, no man should wear white

riding-breeches and top-boots with anything but either a pink or black

tail-coat and a tall hat or hunting-cap. By the by, the hunting-cap

has almost become obsolete for any but the hunt servants, _e. g._,

huntsman, two-whips, and second-horsemen--and sometimes the master,

except in a few woodland counties, _e. g._, the Braes of Derwent, in

Northumberland. Again, no one should wear anything but white breeches

and top-boots (_i. e._, boots with tops of leather of a different

color, white, mahogany, pink, etc., as fashion dictates) with a black

or scarlet coat and a tall hat; while top-boots should not be worn with

breeches of any color but white, though, of course, plain boots (called

in England butcher-boots) may be. Such rules are, of course, entirely

lacking in any real reason, but the observance of them is almost

universal, and the effect produced is good.

Fashion, as is her usual habit, varies every few years in most points.

The color of tops may alter, the length of spurs may vary, the correct

coat may be cut with a full skirt or a swallow-tail, but these rules

are as unchanging as the laws of the Medes and Persians.

But leaving the mandates of the goddess who shares with Fortune the

reputation of fickleness, let us return to riding proper. It is a

common thing to hear riders, and good riders too, declare that riding

cannot be taught, meaning thereby that if nature did not intend a man

to be a finished equestrian, no practice or tuition can make him such.

This is no doubt to some extent true, but surely even a bad rider can

by determination so improve himself as to become moderately good.

Again, ideas differ much as to the advisability of teaching children

to ride while quite young. The general opinion seems to be that

the younger they begin the better, for that, unless they happen to

meet with a serious and nerve-shaking accident, they will become

accomplished and bold riders. This opinion is, however, by no means

universal, and is not shared especially in some of the English

colonies, where a boy who rides boldly when young is regarded as likely

to “lose his nerve” about the time he reaches maturity. Whyte-Melville

gave his observation in one of his books that among the boldest riders

to hounds that he had ever seen were men who had never followed hounds

until after twenty years of age.

Much depends on the way in which a youngster is taught. It is very

possible to make a child imbibe a hatred of the saddle which will last

him into later life. The idea, then, to be kept in mind is that lessons

should be made a pleasure, and not a torture. Begin with easily-learnt

instruction and short lessons, and the child will enjoy it. But begin

with lessons lasting till the poor little legs are aching, and the head

is muddled with complicated commands, and the youngster will regard

his teacher as his torturer. As the aptitude and capacity grows, the

lessons can be made harder and longer, till almost before the teacher

or the pupil can recognize the fact, a fair, if not a good, rider has

been turned out.

As to the methods of teaching riding, this must be left for

riding-masters to discuss, but some few points should, I think, be

insisted on. Chief among these is that the horses or ponies on which

the pupil is mounted should be changed often. This enables him both

to learn how to handle horses with differing qualities of mouth, and

how to sit the variations of gait. The most successful results seem

to ensue where the first lessons are given on a plain saddle-cloth,

or “numnah;” and another important elementary lesson is to make the

pupil keep his toes turned up so as to harden the muscles of the inner

side of the thigh, and thus acquire a strength of grip. Snaffles

should invariably be used, to foster that great essential of a good

rider--lightness of hand. The pupil must be taught to ride by balance,

that indispensable quality without which all the grip in the world

is useless. But above all the master must see that the pupil has

confidence in him, or his best efforts will be in vain.

Grip without balance is of no use. One often hears people say that they

ride by balance, or that they ride by grip. In reality the one is a

necessary concomitant and supporter of the other.

Some few years ago a man with whom the Tramp was acquainted, when

slightly in his cups, undertook to go home by a short cut across

country. His attempted negotiation of a fence ended in a somewhat

ignominious “voluntary.” As he sat on the ground, he plaintively

remarked: “Old B---- says that I ride blamed well ’cos I ride by

balance. Old B---- ’s a blanked old fool. What the thunder’s the good

of balance?” And he had to a certain extent hit the point. No man in

creation can ride all the time by grip--the constant strain on the

muscles soon brings cramp.

There is in one of England’s fairest counties a certain sporting young

squire whose grip on his horse is so terrific that to prevent galling

the animal’s sides, a space in the padding of the flaps of his saddle

is left where his knees come, with thick padding round the edges. But

even this man could not ride always by grip.

This is demonstrated by the schooling which a recruit undergoes on

entering an English cavalry regiment. He has to ride on a “numnah” at

first, after such preliminary lessons as to how to lead a horse, etc.

Next he is placed on a “stripped” saddle, without stirrups--meanwhile

riding with only a “biddoon”--and is put to jumping obstacles some two

feet high, with his reins tied and his arms folded behind his back. If

such discipline as this is not calculated to inculcate the doctrine

of both balance and grip one can scarcely say what is. This course is

found so severe that many a man who enlists with the idea that he is a

crack rider begins to doubt it before he is through the school.

As, however, was said at the beginning of this paper, it is impossible

to lay down arbitrary rules for all cases. Any one who has tried it can

vouch for the extraordinary difference between riding in an English

hunting-saddle and, say, a McClellan army saddle. A follower of the

old-fashioned hunting seat would be much put about to follow hounds

in one of the peaked wooden saddles, excellent in their own line as

they may be. In all truth the saddle has more to do with the formation

of a seat than is usually supposed. An uncomfortable saddle makes the

unfortunate rider twist and writhe in vain endeavor to find an easy

spot. A jogging horse that won’t walk, and an uneasy saddle which seems

to be galling one in a dozen places at once, is enough to make a man

eschew equestrianism for the rest of his life. It is a man’s fault if

he cannot find a saddle to suit him, and in selecting one it should be

remembered that as a rule the more comfortable the saddle the better

the seat. It is great folly to try to save a few pounds extra weight

at the expense of comfort. A large roomy saddle is certainly more

comfortable to a rider, and generally easier for the horse, which,

unless the work to be done is exceptionally long and wearisome, will

never notice the slight increase in weight.

In the same way everything should be as large and roomy as possible

without being clumsy. The stirrups should be large and heavy enough to

slip easily from the feet in case of accident; the reins broad enough

to hold firmly, and the bit or bits solid enough to give the horse

something to play with.

One thing should always be borne in mind, which, alas! people are

too apt to forget. A horse is not a machine. He is a sensible,

affectionate, willing animal, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred

wishing to do his best for one. He is, therefore, entitled to as

much kindness and sympathy as possible, and no one will be worse for

remembering the old, well-worn saying, put in the horse’s mouth: “Up

hill worry me not, down hill hurry me not, on level ground spare me

not.”

[Illustration]

THE SOFT LIGHT BEAMED.

The soft light beamed, with glow benign,

O’er purpling hill-tops fringed with pine,

As seated snugly, side by side,

We drifted with the glist’ning tide,

Adown the classic Brandywine.

We heard the lowing of the kine--

We saw the trees their boughs entwine,

And o’er the meadows newly mown

The soft light beamed.

I held her dimpled hand in mine,

And from each dainty, curving line

I read her fate--till, bolder grown,

I dared to join it with my own;

While from those eyes, so deep, divine,

The soft light beamed.

_Howell Stroud England._

MEMORIES OF YACHT CRUISES.

BY THE LATE CAPTAIN R. F. COFFIN.

Continued from page 517.

~Note.~--~Outing~ for November will contain a richly

illustrated article on “The Cruise of 1888,” in consequence of

which the next article by the late Captain Coffin will appear in

~Outing~ for December.

[Illustration]

In 1878 the cruises of the New York and Atlantic Yacht Clubs occurred

at the same time, and while at Greenport the Atlantic Club had a

regatta with the New York Club as spectators. The two clubs, however,

did not fraternize to any greater extent then than they do now. Both

have always inclined to conservatism, the Atlantic particularly so, and

among the list of eighteen starters in this regatta, there is not a

single New York Club yacht, and, in fact, the New York squadron was got

under weigh for New London before the Atlantic race had ended, the two

fleets meeting in Gardner’s Bay. Very many owners in the New York Club

have found it to their interest to join the Atlantic, but comparatively

few of the distinctively Atlantic Yacht Club members have joined the

New York. Still, as the years have gone by, the relations between the

New York and Atlantic clubs have become more and more friendly, and if

there is any club in this neighborhood that the old and aristocratic

club could be induced to fraternize with, it would probably be the

Atlantic.

On this particular occasion, however, the courses of the fleets on

leaving Greenport diverged, the Atlantics going to Newport, the New

Yorks to New London. Practically, the Atlantic Club disbanded at

Greenport, only six of the yachts going on to Newport. Commodore Kane

was a great favorite at the Pequot House, and the proprietor and guests

went to the extreme of courtesy to do honor to the club while it

tarried there. This cruise, like that of the previous year, was a great

success.

To those who know the gentlemen--the announcement of the correspondents

with the fleet on this cruise, that divine service was held on board

the _Estelle_--Mr. John Oakey officiating as chaplain, and Alexander

Taylor, Jr., and John R. Dickerson leading the choir--is an assurance

that the service was interesting and impressive.

At this time the sloop _Thistle_, the same yacht now owned by Mr.

William Zeigler, belonged to Mr. E. C. Palmer, president of the

Louisiana State Savings Bank and a member of the Boston Yacht Club. She

was considered to be the fastest sloop in Boston. She has been much

altered since then and doubtless much improved, but she would stand no

chance at all to-day with the crack sloops of the “Hub,” which is a

convincing proof, if any were needed, that Boston yachtsmen have been

moving in the past ten years.

The _Active_, the _Regina_ and the _Vixen_, at that time the three

fastest sloops of the New York Yacht Club, were selected to polish off

the _Thistle_ when she was encountered in the harbor of New Bedford. I

was fortunate enough to receive an invitation to sail on the _Thistle_

during that race. The _Thistle_ was beaten, but she was miserably

equipped, not half manned, and sailed in the most lubberly manner.

In elapsed time she was only about a minute behind the _Vixen_ and

_Active_, but was beaten about thirteen minutes on corrected time by

the _Vixen_. Had she, however, been as well equipped and handled as

the New York yachts she would have beaten them, I think, and that was

the general opinion. After all, what are any of these yachts compared

with the yachts of to-day? I think that to yachts of this class we have

added at least a knot an hour in speed, and to the larger craft, such

as _Gracie_, _Fanny_, _Shamrock_ and _Titania_, fully two knots are

added, and these are, withal, safer yachts than their predecessors.

The New York Yacht Club managed to get back from Vineyard Haven to

Newport, and then it disbanded. As usual, a race had been arranged, but

there were not sufficient entries and the thing was given up.

[Illustration: Fred S. Cozzens.

SLOOP FANNY, NOW THE PROPERTY OF JOS. P. EARLE, ESQ.]

The Atlantic Yacht Club, I think, made its first visit to Black Rock

in 1879. After a rendezvous at Whitestone as usual on a Saturday

afternoon, the fleet sailed thence to Glen Cove. Next day, for a

wonder, not one of the twelve chaplains of the club was available,

and the usual divine service had to be omitted. What then were the

yachtsmen to do? Glen Cove was dreary enough, and there was a fine

breeze blowing from the southwest. At that time Mr. Fish was the

commodore, and after consultation with the owners he found that a

majority of them were in favor of disregarding the traditions of the

club as to Sunday sailing, and at noon he hoisted the signal for the

fleet to get under way. Whether or not this was its first visit to

Black Rock, I know not, but matters were found so pleasant there that

I believe it has been the rendezvous of this club ever since. The

George Hotel there is a splendid hostelry, in the season always full

of guests; the harbor, though small, is good, and the anchorage close

to the shore and handy for the embarkation of ladies. So since this

year the club leaves Whitestone on the afternoon of some Saturday and

sails to Black Rock, where on Sunday there is divine service on board

of one of the schooners, which is attended by a great majority of the

hotel guests. This service on board a flush-decked yacht enclosed with

awnings is peculiarly impressive. The Rev. Dr. Thomas has usually been

the officiating clergyman, but the club has many other chaplains that

can be called upon in an emergency. Its list of chaplains comprise the

following well-known divines: Revs. A. A. Willets, of Philadelphia,

whose club connection dates back to 1866; J. T. Duryea, D.D., of Boston

(1868); H. M. Gallaher, of Brooklyn (1868); C. H. Hall, D.D., Brooklyn

(1869); G. F. Pentacost, Brooklyn (1870); W. H. Thomas, Cambridge,

Mass., and E. Murphy, Brooklyn (1871); E. Van Slyke, Syracuse, N. Y.

(1873); H. M. Scudder, D.D., Brooklyn (1874); G. H. Hepworth, New York

(1875). For eleven years after this the club did not add to the list,

but in 1886 it elected R. Heber Newton, D.D., of New York, and its

latest addition to its chaplains was Joshua Reynolds, Jr., of Brooklyn,

elected May, 1888.

[Illustration: Fred S. Cozzens

SLOOP VIXEN, NOW THE PROPERTY OF W. C. LOVING, OF BOSTON.]

The Atlantic Club has never desired to leave Black Rock sufficiently

to induce it to break through its rule with respect to sailing on the

Sabbath. After the lunch which follows the sermon, the guests find an

afternoon at the hotel on shore pleasant. For those who so desire,

there are very pleasant drives, and in the evening there is music at

the hotel and companionship sufficiently pleasant to detain the boats

at the landing to a late hour.

Black Rock is easily accessible from the city, and guests who cannot

join on Saturday may come up by the late train on Sunday.

In those days, nine years ago, neither the Larchmont, New Rochelle,

nor the American yacht clubs had established their headquarters on the

Sound, and possibly the rendezvous of the future when a club is about

to start on a cruise will be at one of these congenial anchorages.

The American Club, as being farthest east and as affording the best

anchorage, will doubtless be the favorite, but the Atlantic Club has

strong affiliations with the New Rochelle members and may make that

its first rendezvous in place of Whitestone, and start thence to Black

Rock. It will hardly, in any event, neglect the George Hotel, with

which so many pleasant memories are associated.

As to this particular cruise in 1879, there is not much to tell, as it

was very tame and monotonous. The yachts on their passages from port to

port had exceedingly light airs. They visited New London, Greenport,

Newport, New Bedford, and Martha’s Vineyard, the old, old route, and

there the fleet disbanded. Why on earth cruises are not continued,

returning from this point direct to the place of departure, or making

stoppages on the way, I have never been able to discover. Bound East

there is generally no weather at all, or if there is, it is accompanied

by “dirty” weather. A beat back to Black Rock would show what the

yachts really could do.

This was the year that Commodore Thomas had command of the New York

Yacht Club fleet, and the big _Rambler_ was his flagship. A fleet of

over twenty yachts left Glen Cove, and went to New London and thence to

the Manhansett House, Shelter Island, where a grand reception awaited

the yachtsmen. There was an illumination and fireworks in the evening,

and this was followed by a ball which continued until after daybreak.

It is not possible, as far as I know, to vary the route, and yet I

think some change might be made. This year, as usual, the yachts

went from Shelter Island to Newport and thence to New Bedford. Here

the New Bedford people arranged a regatta that was a great success;

six schooners and six sloops starting and filling four classes. The

_Vision_ and _Niantic_ (now the _Hildegard_), at that time, were the

crack sloops of the New York Yacht Club, and their close match in

this race will be remembered by all who were present. The _Niantic_

was sailed by her owner, the late Mr. R. M. Huntley, and was admirably

handled.

There is no port which the yacht fleet visits where the welcome is so

cordial as in the old whaling city of New Bedford. On this occasion,

the mayor and the prominent officials visited the flagship, and

extended a welcome to all the yachtsmen. In the evening, a number of

citizens passed through the fleet with a band and tendered a serenade.

There were also fireworks and all sorts of jollifications, and all

hands left with regret the next morning.

[Illustration: Fred. S. Cozzens

SLOOP GRACIE, NOW THE PROPERTY OF MESSRS. FISKE BROS.]

The reach down the Vineyard Sound, while the fleet was _en route_

for Oak Bluffs, was one not easily forgotten. There was a cracking

breeze from the southwest and the schooner _Dreadnought_ was the

first vessel through Quick’s Hole, followed by the _Wanderer_, after

which came the _Rambler_. All three had all balloons pulling, and

the _Rambler_ easily established her claim to be the fastest sailing

vessel in the world with a free wind. She went through the _Wanderer’s_

lee as if that vessel had been anchored, and was coming up with the

_Dreadnought_--which was doing full thirteen knots--hand over hand,

but, when just at her taffrail, the head of the _Rambler’s_ mainmast

went just above the rigging. Her racing career was over for the rest

of the cruise. She ran into Vineyard Haven to clear away the wreck

preparatory to returning to the city, and the _Dauntless_ became the

flagship, with Vice-Commodore John Waller in command. The next day the

fleet returned to Newport and disbanded.

[Illustration]

A YACHTING SONG.

Keen is the clear, free air,

Sharp with a salty tang,

Far o’er the waters blown--

Blown on the winds that fly.

Up with the topsail, there!

Gray have the shore-lines grown,

Dim where the mountains sprang

Bold, as we turned toward Skye.

Never a flaw in the breeze,

A fair and favoring gale,

Never a guy-rope wrong,

Never a sheet awry!

Over the summer seas,

Gay as a lover’s song,

Merrily on we sail

Up to the Straits of Skye.

Let them prate of their joy,

Footing firm on the earth;

Oh, they may prate who will,

Ours is the joy, say I!

Bliss of the buoyant boy,

Tremble and throb and thrill--

Sound of the wild sea’s mirth,

Loud on the Strand of Skye!

_Clinton Scollard._

CANADIAN FISHING SKETCHES.

BY HIRAM B. STEPHENS.

II. SPEARING FISH AT THE LACHINE RAPIDS.

The Lachine Rapids are well known to many American tourists, as they

are included in a circuit of tourist travel adopted by large numbers,

viz.: from Niagara Falls through Lake Ontario, the Thousand Islands,

the Rapids of the St. Lawrence, down to the ancient city of Quebec, and

on to the mysterious Saguenay. The average tourist’s knowledge of the

Lachine Rapids is confined to the personal experience of running them

in the steamboat. But few realize that this is historic ground, trod by

“the pioneers of France in the New World;” that Champlain endeavored

to ascend these rapids in a small boat two centuries and a half ago,

and that La Salle built a fort or house here which is still standing,

though fast falling into decay. Here have been Champlain, Maisonneuve,

Frontenac, Joliette, and La Salle himself, all of whom have left their

indelible records, not alone in Canadian history, but in that of

America.

The Lachine Rapids rush madly past, whitening with foam in their

ceaseless career. The old name of the rapids was the “Sault St. Louis.”

The Catholic mission here has been famous; it was situated on the south

shore, and has changed its home several times, till now it is located

in the Indian village of Caughnawaga. In this village lived La Salle

some twenty years previous to the “massacre at Lachine,” perpetrated by

the Iroquois on the night of the 4th August, 1689, when, in not more

than an hour, over two hundred persons were butchered. In Caughnawaga

lived Charlevoix, the author of the celebrated “Histoire de la Nouvelle

France,” and his desk is still to be seen there in the _Presbytère_.

Not many months ago, the writer was called upon by two dusky Indians,

and asked by them to translate a certain parchment. It was dated early

in the seventeenth century, written in old Norman French, and signed

“~Louis Roy~.” It was the deed of the _seigneurie_ to the

mission, which these Indians had carefully preserved, without any safe

deposit company, through all their wars and massacres, their fires and

revolts. But I am not to write historical notes and must cease, much as

the subject interests.

Above the villages of Lachine (so named by La Salle, who thought of

going to China from this point) and Caughnawaga, the St. Lawrence is

wide and forms what is known as Lake St. Louis. This lake narrows very

much at the two villages. A few miles below, the river, taking a turn,

rushes over a bed of rocks and boulders, forming the Lachine Rapids,

and then widens out into Laprairie Bay below, and passes on more

peacefully to the good city of Montreal.

The south shore from the Lachine Rapids down past and below Laprairie

Bay, is an excellent fishing-ground, and deserves a few notes which it

has never yet, to the writer’s knowledge, received in any important

publication.

The fish which can be secured here are sturgeon, bass, dory, carp, and

mullet of different kinds, and the eel. There are also bream, shad,

and a fish known as the _loche_, and at times whitefish and small

perch. The Indians of Caughnawaga devote much of their time to fishing.

These Indians, by the way, have intermarried with the surrounding

French Canadians to such an extent that the blood is far from pure, if

there be even one pure-blooded Indian remaining, except an old squaw

107 years old, who still smokes her pipe and is somewhat active. But

theirs is a commercial pursuit and not for any love of sport. They

use nets principally, and in the spring spear the carp and eels in

large numbers. Apart from their fishing pursuits, their chief means of

livelihood lies in running timber rafts down the rapids. The majority

of them speak French, and some of them English. Their squaws are

engaged in the making of Indian “curiosities” for sale to tourists.

A visit to the village is interesting in more ways than one. The

locality is not an inviting one, as it is rocky and somewhat barren,

and if the original intention in placing the Indians here was to

instruct them in agricultural pursuits, no more unsuitable locality

could have been found. They could drill, and that is all, for there

is nothing but solid rock. The houses are all of stone, as might be

supposed, with quaint little windows. In some of them the old irons

still remain, placed there in colonial days. There is one long street,

the houses being built on each side at varying distances. The church

is a plain building, very simply appointed, free from the gorgeous

elaborateness of more modern Roman Catholic churches, and contains

some curious old pictures, more curious than valuable. Last summer,

while the floor of the church was being altered, a quantity of bones

were discovered; but the Indian workmen were not disturbed, continuing

their work, and probably relaying the floor without paying any further

attention.

The _pappooses_ are worth seeing. They are so old-fashioned and

wise-looking that one is tempted to think they are born with all the

knowledge and wisdom they ever possess, and merely require time for

the purpose of acquiring a larger growth. They never cry, and would

probably starve to death without a single whimper. With their dark

complexions, jet black eyes and severe expressions, they very much

resemble scheming imps of darkness.

The rapids are delightful as an experience of steamboat travel, and a

more exciting episode is a descent of them on a raft of timber, and

a still more exciting and certainly foolhardy event is to run them

in a canoe, as has been done on several occasions. It is, however,

regarded in much the same light as an attempt to swim through the

Niagara rapids. It is exciting enough, and yet not too dangerous to

persons of cool temperament to take what is known as a “dug-out” and a

French-Canadian _pêcheur_ and have a day’s bass-fishing in the rapids.

The “dugout,” somewhat out of date now, is merely a log hollowed out

to form a canoe, and it is fully as treacherous as a bark canoe. No

paddle is used; a pole is the arm of progression, and it is really

wonderful with what skill one of these French-Canadian fishermen will

take you from eddy to eddy, in and out between the rocks and across mad

currents. The crude boat seems to be part of himself. Other boats are

used ordinarily of a safer description, made more like a punt, from

which one can throw a fly with some security and with little fear of

taking a “header” and being swept toward the ocean. The bass fishing is

excellent, and splendid sport can be had during the proper season. Dory

(pickerel) can be caught here with the minnow, and though they are not

game-fish, they are excellent eating.

But _the_ sport at the foot of the Lachine Rapids is spearing fish,

_i. e._, sturgeon, carp and eels.

In June the large red-finned carp, known locally as the “_carpes des

rois_,” weighing from three to fifteen pounds each, ascend the river;

the eels are present in large numbers, and the sturgeon come in-shore

to feed.

A flat-bottomed boat is secured and an arrangement for the light put in

place. This usually consists of an open basket made of a few strips of

hoop-iron. In this pine and cedar knots are burned, emitting a pleasant

odor and a somewhat fitful glare over the water. Another means of

lighting is to split cedar rails in long, thin strips six or eight feet

in length, and make them into bundles, a boy in the boat holding them

at the required position over the water. The boat is allowed to float

broadside on down the river over the best places, the torch of pine

burning with its crackling noise. The spear usually consists of either

five or seven barbs and those used by the French-Canadian fishermen

are frequently made by themselves out of hammered iron, and are clumsy

instruments, which when they strike a fish sometimes almost cut it in

two.

The best plan is to have one made out of No. 4 wire, or buy one of

the light steel spears; and with a light ash handle about one inch

in diameter and ten feet in length, an exciting time can be had,

especially if one has never been out before. One misjudges the distance

so as the boat floats on, and is fortunate if no upset occurs. A

waving weed is mistaken for a huge eel, and a frantic dart ends only

in disappointment, or an eel is thought to be a useless weed, and

annoyances ensue at the mistake. But the art or knack is soon learnt,

and then the enjoyment is keen. Round about, on the same purpose bent,

are other boats, each with their blaze of light, like some huge red

Cyclops.

The night is dark and one floats on, darting at each successive finny

denizen, missing some and lifting many a fine fellow with the cruel

barb into the boat _sans cérémonie_. A huge eel, four feet in length,

is speared and with some difficulty hauled into the boat, and his

wriggling form gives one the shudders.

Then a large sturgeon that appears to weigh thirty pounds is seen

lazily moving his tail and merely maintaining himself against the

current. _C’est un gros_--“He’s a big fellow,” and every one is stilled

into expectancy. The spear is held in the water till the time for

striking is come--down goes the spear, and as you press on it you feel

the points are crushing through bone and flesh and are firmly fixed.

There is a cruel joy or satisfaction as you thus fix the spear in him;

he turns, and you hold on like grim death; the boat swings end on in

the struggle; you have to go with the current and the fish, resisting

as firmly as you can. And so the struggle continues; your boatman has

been gradually poling nearer and nearer to the shore. The water is only

two feet deep here, and shouting to you to look out, the boatman is in

the water and has the sturgeon by the gills, and with a few steps is on

_terra firma_. You follow, regardless of wet feet, and find you have

speared the largest one of the season, so far. Your spear has to be cut

out, so firmly are the points imbedded, and the sturgeon’s sufferings

are over. He is weighed, and tips the scales at 65½ pounds.

This is picturesque work--the swarthy, indistinct forms in a circle of

flickering light, looking for all the world, with their spears, like

attendants of some fresh-water Neptune. The boats float slowly down

stream, the shores are invisible in the gloom, and all is still. A

splash, and another fish is secured, and so the night draws on. There

is an end to all things, and the evening’s spearing is over.

One drives back to the village hotel in the quaint town of Laprairie,

or else “bunks” with a friendly French-Canadian, paying him _trente

sous_ for the accommodation. In many cases no charge will be made, but

some gratuity ought to be given, and for this nothing is better than

tobacco.

The fish congregate on these shallows as the water is not deep, and

therefore is of a higher temperature, which in the spring months

attracts them.

An _al fresco_ lunch on one of these islands at the foot of the Lachine

Rapids is a delightful experience on a bright blue sunny day, so

happily frequent in the valley of the St. Lawrence. The rushing of the

waters and the rustling of the leaves in the trembling silver maples is

a sweet chorus of music, ever changing and ever harmonious; the _coup

d’œil_ up the rapids is unequaled in interesting beauty, and there is a

sense of communing with Nature entirely different in spirit and feeling

to that in the solitudes and hearts of the great forests.

One reads everywhere the records of past winters and of winters to come

in the ruggedness of the entire landscape, in the hardy look of the

timber, in the robustness more than tenderness of the herbage and signs

of latent strength conserved to contend with the mighty snows. The

present is the more enjoyable by very reason of this knowledge; and the

lunch is a royal repast, made so by the royal appetite which the ozone

of the woods and waters always produces. We enjoy our lunch of fish

chowder, baked beans, strong tea, and such extras as may be in supply,

and look upon these magnificent rapids, the “last escapade” of the St.

Lawrence in its eternal march to the sea.

I have written of the spring months and their wealth of fishing. But

there are the duck, the _outardes_ and the snipe to be shot in the

fall, when Nature is donning her winter suit and the days are getting

shorter and more sombre, when there is a change that renders one

thoughtful and pensive, except in the excitement of the chase.

One ponders over this mighty St. Lawrence, one of the grandest highways

of the globe. “Its history, its antecedents are unparalleled. The great

lakes are its camping-grounds; here its hosts repose under the sun and

stars in areas like that of states and kingdoms, and it is its waters

that shake the earth at Niagara. It is a chain of Homeric sublimities

from beginning to end. The great cataract is a fit sequel to the great

lakes; the spirit that is born in vast and tempestuous Superior takes

its full glut of power in that fearful chasm.”

[Illustration: MAIN BUILDING OF THE BUFFALO INTERNATIONAL FAIR

ASSOCIATION.]

ONE MAN’S WORK FOR CYCLING.

BY HOWARD P. MERRILL.

No man has ever given such an impetus to any recreative sport as Henry

E. Ducker has given to cycling. Almost wholly by individual efforts, he

has brought cycling to the foremost position it now holds in America.

In his own town he has raised an obscure club to a position of such

prominence as to be almost without a rival in the whole country. It

was Ducker who inaugurated the tournaments which have without doubt

done most toward giving bicycling its present pre-eminence. And it

is this same Henry E. Ducker who is now quickening the whole cycling

world by his latest and most daring project of an Annual World’s

Cycling Tournament, under the auspices of the Buffalo International

Fair Association, the first meet of which gathered in the “Queen City”

on the shores of Lake Erie, ten thousand wheelmen, besides making

the event one of the most notable in the history of cycling. But,

though his name be familiar to the whole world of sport, there is no

widespread knowledge of the individual man.

It is, therefore, the purpose of ~Outing~ in this article to

present to cyclists and all lovers of sport a short but compendious

sketch of this giant among wheelmen.

Henry E. Ducker was born in London, England, forty years ago, and came

to New York with his parents in 1853. In 1863 the family removed to

Springfield, Mass., where he lived until June, 1887. Early in life Mr.

Ducker learned the printer’s and bookbinder’s trade. While still a

youth he became foreman of the large establishment variously known as

the Clark W. Bryan Company and the Springfield Printing Company, and

for five or six years he was the superintendent of this establishment.

In June, 1887, he went to Buffalo to accept the superintendency of the

printing department of Gies & Co. Within the past few months he has

devoted himself entirely to cycling, and now expects to make it the

work of his life.

Mr. Ducker, from his boyhood, has been an ardent admirer of all

athletic sports--boating, shooting, fishing, skating and baseball, but

he has a special passion for cycling.

Mr. Ducker’s cycling career dates from May, 1880, when he purchased his

first bicycle--a “Harvard”--and in that year he rode 800 miles. In 1881

he rode 1,183 miles; in 1882, 1,218 miles; in 1883, 1,030 miles; in

1884, 1,087 miles. Since 1884 he has preserved no records. He kept his

“Harvard” until 1883, when he changed to a “Sanspareil.” During 1885 he

again changed his machine, this time to a “Victor.” Later, he adopted

an “Expert Columbia” for his mount, which he rides to-day, and he has

in addition a Columbia tandem. Gifted with an enthusiasm as exhaustless

as his energy he quickens all with the same love for cycling that

possesses him. Thus every member of his own household has been made an

enthusiastic cycler.

Mr. Ducker’s prominence as a cycler dates from the organization of

the Springfield club, which he, together with several other gentlemen,

called into life.

[Illustration: HENRY E. DUCKER.]

Every cycler in the world has heard of this Massachusetts cycle

club,[1] and its fame is due solely to the enterprise and push of its

founder. The first meetings of the club were held at his house and

were well attended. Never in the club’s history has the percentage of

attendance at club meetings been larger than during its first year. As

chairman of the entertainment committee, Mr. Ducker, in the fall of

1881, arranged with a committee from the local post of the G. A. R.

to give bicycle races in connection with the Grand Army field-day. He

supplemented these with a very successful evening exhibition of fancy

and trick riding at the local skating rink, and it was the prosperous

issue of this enterprise that started the bicycle “boom.”

* * * * *

[Illustration: W. M. WOODSIDE.]

The following year Mr. Ducker was inspired with the idea of giving

a tournament, or race meeting, similar to the trotting fixtures. He

was elected president of the Springfield Bicycle Club, and after

mapping out a program, boldly announced that a one day’s tournament

would be given, at which $1,200 in prizes would be distributed. The

tournament was advertised far and wide, and wheelmen came from all

over the United States to attend this innovation in racing events. The

tournament was a grand success, and the Springfield club cleared over

$800. Record-breaking, which has always been the characteristic of the

Springfield or Ducker tournaments, dates from this event. Frank Moore,

of England, who was under the care of ~John S. Prince~, astonished

everybody by putting the mile at 2m. 57¼s., and made what was then

considered wonderfully fast time for five miles. He gave all the

starters (among them ~George M. Hendee~, in his first year of racing)

a start of thirty seconds, and broke the record of 16m. 10¾s., making

a new record of 15m. 47¾s. Moore was the lion of the town, and perhaps

the proudest moment of Mr. Ducker’s life was when he distributed the

prizes at the rink, and announced that two records had been made. The

racing was done on the mile track.

The success of this first tournament aroused the citizens of

Springfield as much as Mr. Ducker, and the bicycle club had large

additions to its membership. Moore’s records had whetted Mr. Ducker’s

appetite, and he started to have a special racing track built.

When the three days’ camp and tournament of 1883 were announced,

everybody was on the _qui vive_. This was the year in which “Doodle”

Robinson posed as England’s fastest amateur rider. He was, however,

pitted against Geo. M. Hendee and ignominiously defeated. Mr. Ducker

had now raised the Springfield people to such a pitch of enthusiasm

that, on the second day of the tournament, all the banks and principal

manufactories, many of the stores, and even the public schools, were

closed. Nearly every one of Springfield’s 33,000 inhabitants caught

the infection. The days of 1883 and 1884 seem almost like a dream. It

appears incredible that one man should have so completely dominated a

whole city. In those days Ducker was a king in all but the name; he had

but to express a wish and it was instantly executed.

[Illustration: J. S. PRINCE.]

The tournaments of 1884 and 1885 only showed slight diminution in

popularity. But in 1886, owing to the non-appearance of the Englishmen,

who had been announced, the tournament was not so well patronized.

Mr. Ducker has been the uncompromising advocate of the rights of the

racing bicyclers. Single-handed, he gamely fought the League on the

makers’ amateur issue. He even carried the war to England and nearly

won the N. C. U. over to his standard. He has always believed that the

racing men have rights, and, therefore, has done everything to promote

their interests. The racing men, however, are not the only ones who

have been befriended by him. He is generosity personified, and though

he has been in many disputes, his bark is worse than his bite.

The money expended in tournaments and cycle exhibitions during Mr.

Ducker’s administration in Springfield amounted to upward of $60,000.

These large expenditures have given rise to the silly charge that

Mr. Ducker went into cycle racing for the money to be made out of it.

How far from the fact this imputation lies may be judged by this. The

Springfield Bicycle Club, on one occasion, after a very profitable

meet, presented Mr. Ducker with five hundred dollars in recognition of

the time and labor expended by him in behalf of cycling. On his removal

to Buffalo he was presented with a dinner set of 150 pieces, and these

are the only two instances in which he “made” anything. His work was

for the club, and not for himself. If there was any profit, so far as

he was concerned, it went into the club’s treasury.

[Illustration: W. A. ROWE.]

Mr. Ducker attributes his success in promoting tournaments to the

cordial and unqualified support of the Springfield Bicycle Club.

Whatever he suggested was cheerfully carried out, and whatever work

he laid out was taken up with a will and faithfully performed. An

indefatigable worker himself, he influenced others to perform herculean

tasks. Without the Springfield Bicycle Club Mr. Ducker’s fame would

probably not be as widespread as it is, and without Ducker the

Springfield Bicycle Club would not to-day rank as the leading cycle

club of the country. The one was the indispensable complement of the

other.

[Illustration:

R. JAMES. F. WOOD. E. P. BURNHAM.

]

Mr. Ducker is essentially an originator. Whatever tends to make a

successful race meeting when traced back, nine times out of ten, will

be found to have its impetus from him. The arranging of programs, track

building, timing, scoring, novelty races, all bear his stamp. Everybody

concedes that the Springfield tournaments were models; everything was

managed with clockwork precision, and rarely was there a hitch in the

program. So great was their reputation that Mr. Ducker has often been

called upon to furnish details and even personal assistance for other

meetings, and he has received letters asking advice from Switzerland,

Germany, and even Australia. His motto has always been: “The best is

none too good,” and as a result of strict adherence to that rule, the

Springfield track holds to-day a large proportion of the existing

records.

His ideas on track building were the result of personal observation

and study. Good side-paths in the country were the means of awakening

and guiding his attention. It occurred to him that if a path could be

built of nearly the same materials, the problem of good tracks would

be solved. That he successfully followed up this idea as well as the

accuracy of his reasoning, the Springfield track, and, more recently,

the Buffalo track indisputably prove.

In 1885 and 1886, Mr. Ducker was chief consul of the Massachusetts

division, L. A. W., and his work in that office speaks for itself. He

was also for two years a member of the racing board of the L. A. W.,

and representative for Massachusetts. He was for five years president

of the Springfield Bicycle Club, of which he is a life member; he is

a member of the Massachusetts Bicycle Club of Boston, the Ixion Club

of New York City, the Ramblers of Buffalo and the N. C. U. of England.

In connection with the Springfield tournaments, Mr. Ducker founded

the _Springfield Wheelmen’s Gazette_. It was intended at first only

as a tournament “boomer,” but it made such a hit, that he yielded to

the public demand for its permanent publication. Upon his removal to

Buffalo, the _Gazette_ was sold to Darrow Brothers, of Indianapolis.

While in Mr. Ducker’s control it was a crisp, sparkling sheet, and

commendable from a literary standpoint. He was also the publisher and

editor, in connection with Henry Goodman, of “The Wheelmen’s Reference

Book.”

Mr. Ducker’s cycling correspondence is simply enormous. His private

office is the headquarters for cycling information of every kind, and

in Springfield it was constantly besieged by newspaper men.

Until within a few months, Mr. Ducker has worked regularly at his

business, consequently his cycling work has been done after business

hours. He is of medium height and inclined to stoutness. He is of light

complexion, with sandy, curly hair and heavy imperial and mustache.

Nature has not endowed Mr. Ducker with a very good voice, having

oversupplied him with tones of the upper, entirely to the neglect

of those of the lower register. But his voice is no handicap to his

ability to talk. He is an enthusiastic conversationalist, and can

convert the most skeptical to his optimistic way of thinking.

For the past few months, Mr. Ducker has given his entire attention to

the World’s Tournament at Buffalo, which is his latest project. The

management of the Buffalo International Fair Association, recognizing

Mr. Ducker’s abilities, secured his services by most liberal offers of

support. And Mr. Ducker’s first official act was to appoint his friend

G. M. Hendee as starter.

A full report of events as they shall become a matter of record in

connection with the Buffalo meet, will appear in later issues of

~Outing~.

It now remains for us to recall a few of the names of the noted cyclers

who, under the management of Mr. Ducker, visited Springfield during his

prominent connection with the cycling history of that most noted of

American cycling clubs.

In the year 1886, W. A. Rowe defeated George M. Hendee and Fred Wood,

of England, for the world’s championship. Rowe is, of course, very well

known to the cycling world by his wonderful record, holding as he does

all from a ¼ mile to 22 miles. These have been, however, made at record

trials, _i. e._, against time and not in races. Recently Rowe visited

England, but he has twice been unsuccessful in holding the title of

the world’s champion as against Richard Howell.

M. V. J. Webber, or “Alphabet” Webber, was one of the fast English

amateurs who raced at Springfield in ’85. He made 21 miles within the

hour during a race. It was a 10-mile race, but he was anxious to keep

on, and was allowed to do so with the result above mentioned. He has

been off the path since his return to England.

[Illustration: G. M. HENDEE.]

George Weber was America’s champion Star rider, but he died in ’85. He

was a plucky rider, and though he did not secure many first places in

track riding, he was unconquerable in road racing and hill climbing. He

won the great 100-mile road race in the spring of ’85.

[Illustration: HAMPDEN PARK, IN SPRINGFIELD, MASS.]

Richard Howell, of England, professional, is undoubtedly the world’s

champion. Indeed, he has for a long time been called “King of the

Wheel.” His recent defeats of Rowe have put his right to the title

beyond dispute. He has rarely been beaten and is a marvelous rider,

having a spurt that cannot be approached. He was the first to do a mile

in 2m. 31 1-5s. It was a trial against time and was made just after the

’85 tournament at Springfield.

Percy Furnivall, while on the path, was England’s fastest amateur

rider, holding the amateur championship of England for two years. He

raced at the ’85 Springfield tournament and won every event in which he

started. He was to have raced against Hendee, at that time America’s

champion amateur, but Hendee was “spilled” and prevented from racing.

R. A. Cripps was another English amateur who raced at Springfield in

’85. He was first-class as a tricycle rider.

Another English professional of note who has appeared on the

Springfield track is Fred Wood. He was formerly Howell’s great rival.

In ’86, Wood was the only scratch man in a mile handicap at Hartford,

and won, his time being 2m. 33s., the fastest mile ever made in a

_race_ in America. The race was run on a trotting track, and if it had

been the Springfield track the time would have been nearer 2m. 31s.

Wood made 2m. 35s. at Springfield the following week.

E. P. Burnham is what is known as a “luck” rider, for in several races

he has been first through accidents to others. He is, however, a good

rider, and very hard to beat on a tricycle. He has been off the track

for two years. H. G. Crocker is a _protégé_ of Burnham, and is one of

America’s best riders.

William M. Woodside is known as the Irish champion, and is a member of

W. J. Morgan’s American Racing Team. Woodside has sometimes been styled

the champion of America, but has never really held the title. He is

best known by his having done so much “donkey work” in races, _i. e._,

he has set the pace for others and thus sacrificed his own chances for

a position. He is a professional rider.

John Shillington Prince is also a professional. He was the first to

put the mile record down to 2m. 39s., which performance was shortly

afterwards equaled by Sanders Sellers, the fast English amateur, who

defeated Hendee in 1884. Prince has also posed as America’s champion

rider. He formerly gained much prominence when he was racing against

John Keen, England’s old war-horse.

Of course, numerous other prominent riders have taken part in the

Springfield tournaments. Lewis B. Hamilton was a very popular amateur,

and was known as the Yale College rider. Robert James, professional,

and Reuben Chambers, amateur, are Englishmen who have appeared several

times. In ’85, R. H. English performed as an amateur, but is now a

professional, while at the same time W. A. and G. H. Illston, both

amateurs, were in America for the Springfield tournament. Space fails

us to mention all the prominent riders whose names have been on the

programs of the Springfield tournaments, but the few we have mentioned

will convince the unprejudiced reader of the omnipotence in the

bicycling world of Henry E. Ducker.

[Illustration]

[1] An article on this club appeared in ~Outing~, Vol. II., page

337. Another is now in preparation.--~Ed.~

WILD DUCK SHOOTING.

BY W. G. BEERS.

[Illustration]

Among the memorable events of my youth I can scarcely recall any rival

to the days spent on foot and in canoe hunting wild duck. It was the

master passion of the boyhood of many I know, becoming in later years

a passion to master. It was the acme of enjoyment in the days when

one was light-hearted and _débonnaire_, and went whistling through

birthdays with that enviable serenity so few of us manage to retain.

Wild duck! With the last fall of leaves and the first fall of snow,

their quack was music to the ear. Steeped to the lips in classics, one

wondered if there were no duck on the coast of Campania, that Tiberius

tired of the pleasures around him and sighed in vain for more; or

if there were none in Assyria, that Sardanapalus sought to have new

amusements invented; or if there were no real ones where Loelius and

Scipio made them on water with flat stones.

The first wild duck one kills, like first love, or one’s first

proof-sheet, causes a sensation that is never duplicated. The history

of its mysterious and ecstatic thrill through the veins, its wild

rush through the soul, never knows a repetition. The duck may be in

the “sere and yellow,” stricken in years, scraggy on the crown, weak

in the wings, tough to your teeth as parchment--aye, indeed, with one

foot in the grave and the other shot off, and have long ago ceased to

scud between earth and sky for mere fun--just as the first love may

have been nearly old enough to have been your mother, and with no more

love in her eyes than an oyster; or as the first proof-sheet may have

been an immature production to which you are now thankful you did not

append your name. But in the heyday of life a vivid imagination throws

a halo around our achievements, and though other duck, like other love,

may turn out more “tender and true,” yet there lingers about the memory

of the first experience an inexpressible charm which no gross soul can

know.

I do not think I shall ever forget the first wild duck I shot. It

was impressed upon me in a manner too striking. During the school

holidays a few of us undertook to dispose of our superfluous energy by

a pedestrian pilgrimage around the Island of Montreal, and as a dose

for the game we might encounter, we managed, by coaxing a big brother,

to muster a single-barreled gun and liberal supply of ammunition.

There was a strong suspicion of rust down the barrel, and a disabled

look about the hammer, but the owner declared it was good enough for

boys, with that sublime faith manifested by watermen who let boats to

inexperienced lads, that Providence takes special care of people who

cannot take care of themselves. A well-worn inscription on the butt was

ominously deciphered as “_Memento mori_.” I’ve seen more defective guns

since--but they had burst.

[Illustration: MALLARD DUCK (ANAS BOSCHAS).]

We started from the Place d’Armes, and when we reached “the Cross,” at

Hochelega, held a council of war about loading the gun, as a scared

squirrel had just darted under a fence and roused our thirst for blood.

Opinions conflicted as to whether the powder or shot should be put

in first, as one dogmatic adventurer, whose experience in squibs and

fire-crackers entitled him to respect, declared with the positiveness

of error that the shot should have the preference. Better reasoning,

however, prevailed, and to make assurance doubly sure, down went a

double charge of powder. “It’s not near full yet,” sneered young

Dogmatism. I hoped not; but to make assurance trebly sure, up came

the flask again and down went more powder. I remember one of the

group, whose characteristic caution provoked us throughout the trip,

suggested mounting the gun in an embrasure in the fence, laying a train

of powder to the nipple, and testing its safety at discreet distance;

but there was a display of fear in the proposal that we, as of Saxon

blood, could never countenance, and so we strangled it at birth. It is

a memorable fact, that may go some way to sustain the belief that I

have mentioned above, that, as if prompted by instinct, the gun refused

to go off on several occasions, in spite of repeated cleanings of the

nipple, coaxing with grains of powder and fresh caps. We were unable

to “distill the soul of goodness” in this apparently evil and obdurate

circumstance; so the charge was withdrawn, the barrel cleaned, and to

make assurance quadruply sure, the powder was poured down with even

more liberality than before.

The third day we reached the upper end of Ste. Anne’s, near the old

French fort. At that time the village was even a quieter spot than

now, where never a speculator had looked with greed upon the soil;

its greatest stir made by the visits and voices of the boisterous

voyageurs; its rapids sacred to the memory of the poet Moore, and the

soft refrain of his “Canadian Boat Song.” Moreover, its surroundings

made it a perfect paradise for wild duck.

We were marching along, when some one’s sharp eyes espied a solitary

black duck feeding close to the shore, about thirty yards away.

Suddenly it rose with a frightened flutter. With considerable

difficulty I had managed to cock my gun. I raised it to my shoulder,

with a strong fear that it would go off, and an inward prayer that it

wouldn’t, took accurate aim by pointing in the direction of the bird,

and shutting my eyes--with the Latin inscription brought at that moment

vividly before me, as if the letters had elongated from the butt to the

barrel--I thought of my past sins and pulled the trigger.

[Illustration: EIDER DUCK (SOMATERIA MOLLISSIMA).]

Once I participated in a railroad accident when a locomotive almost

telescoped our car; but it was an insignificant impression to the

condensed crash and astonishing concussion that followed the snapping

of the cap. As if weary of well-doing, the old gun went off with a

vengeance, blowing the stock off the barrel with a retrograde movement

that met my shoulder on the way with a deliberate intention to

dislocate, sent the hammer into the air, singed the hair from around

my eyes closer and more speedily than I have ever been professionally

shaved on my chin, and gave the trusting hand that was supporting the

barrel a shake of extreme familiarity--a left-handed compliment--that

was reflected up my arm and down the spinal column until it bred my

deepest and most heartfelt contempt. Like Richard, when about to fight

for his kingdom, I was depressed, and

“Had not that alacrity of spirit

And cheer of mind that I was wont to have.”

After having carried that gun round the island for three days, sparing

no pains to keep it dry, to oil its rusty barrel and wash its musty

stock, I felt it had been an ungrateful companion, undeserving of the

personality with which we had almost invested it, and, to use a modern

metaphor, that it “had gone back on me.” It evoked on my part an _et

tu, Brute_! sort of feeling. As I looked at it in silent woe, lock,

stock and barrel lying in bits, I felt sore enough at its conduct to

have given it a retributive kick, and sent it into the river, but the

kicking capacity of my legs had been too materially weakened by the

last kick of the gun.

Gun gone to glory, vision of some one’s big brother with possible heavy

fist and inevitable “good, round, mouth-filling oath,” hand, head, and,

indeed, all my anatomy aching, there was a consolation that poured

metaphorical oil on my wounds and alleviated the pangs of pain--I had

shot the duck!

You won’t find wild duck at Ste. Anne’s to-day, except some stray ones

of over-curious trait, who refuse to be advised by their experienced

friends. You’ll be lucky if you hit upon a spot within thirty miles of

Montreal where you do not find “pothunters” by the dozen--that New

World species of the _genus homo_ who should have lived in Arcadia,

where they would certainly have utilized their propensity to good

purpose by driving away the birds which haunted Lake Stymphalus,

without the brazen clappers of Vulcan or the arrows of Hercules.

For short holidays, one of the most popular localities, and therefore

one which has been well spoiled, was in the vicinity of Carillon Bay.

You may enjoy a varied autumn vacation by taking the steamer _Prince

of Wales_ at Lachine, landing at Carillon, and staging about twenty

minutes to the beautifully situated village of St. Andrews. There beg,

buy or borrow a dug-out canoe, small enough to be concealed in cover,

and paddle down the charming North River, with its picturesque rocks

and pretty shadows, until you cast anchor at the portage of the Presqu’

Isle. Here you will find remnants of old camp-fires, plenty of free

fuel, hay-stacks in the vicinity to make your bed, and elderberries

ripe in September, luscious in October, waiting in thick and tempting

clusters to be eaten on the spot, or taken home and made into wine.

Pitch your tent at this point, and portage your canoe through the

narrow strip of loose soil and water to some convenient slip in what is

called “The Bay.” You fasten a stout stick through a rope or chain on

the nose of the boat, and two getting abreast of it where the portage

is heavy, or at each end with outstretched arms where the water is

deep, you have quite an enjoyable tug, while the novelty of being up

to your knees in mud and water, without getting wet if you wear “beef”

moccasins, or a delicious indifference to wet feet if you do not, gives

you a sensation of “roughing it,” that not even the pain you’ll get

across your shoulders can make you impugn.

The Bay, which is two miles across, is picturesque, and, were it not

getting too well known, a glorious place for duck. From it you see

St. Placide, about seven miles away, its church spires gleaming in

the sunshine; and nearer, Presqu’ Isle Point, Borwash Point, Point de

Roche, Coon’s Point, Jones’ Island, and Green Island--between which and

the end of the Presqu’ Isle you can see any vessels that pass up and

down the Ottawa River. Mount Rigaud--mysterious hill, with its “Lake of

Stones”--rises to the west, while the few farms and houses of the Bay

settlement lie on the uplands to the north. Over the islands the smoke

of steamers miles away may be seen, and the plash of the paddle-wheels

heard like the distant “rat-tat” of kettledrums.

The most unique echo I know in Canada follows your shot in this Bay,

and is one of the “lions”--a roaring lion at that--of the place. It

travels in tremulous waves of sound across the water, lurks for a

moment in the bush of the Presqu’ Isle, then shoots out abruptly on the

other side and flies over the Ottawa to strike Mount Rigaud, where it

reverberates from hill and dale, now to the right, now to the left, in

a mysterious prolonged monotone, as if at hide-and-seek in the “Lake of

Stones.” Then it returns with a scared suddenness, only to fly back in

broken flutterings of sound, from crag to crag, from haunt to haunt,

again to be repeated, like frightened deer, chased and cooped up on

every side, with no escape, till, after several such re-echoes, it

calms to a lullaby, and dies away on the distant hills. A marsh fringes

the Presqu’ Isle, and on its borders are many good feeding spots for

the duck. The grass of the marsh is mowed with scythes and heaped in

large stacks, which you can mount to spy for duck that may be feeding

among the lily stalks--though, if your experience is limited, or your

vision none of the best, you will often be puzzled to know whether the

moving objects are lily stalks or duck.

For many years, a few Canadians of French descent, the inheritors of

the old voyageur-sportsman spirit of the _ancien régime_, who dread

legitimate labor with all their hearts, but love harder work that

smacks of adventure, have camped in the vicinity of the Bay, trapping

musk-rats, catching fish or shooting duck and snipe. The veritable

chief of the clan bears the martial name of “Victor,” and is a

character in his way. I first saw him with his breeches rolled above

his knees, loading his gun in the marsh. Nature evidently made him

in haste, for there is an unfinished look about his face, and enough

indentations around his head to give a phrenologist the blues. His nose

is mostly nostril, and fiery enough to make the nose of Bardolph look

pale, while his eyes are black as a sloe and piercing as a falcon’s.

Though he can neither read nor rhyme, he has a taste in common with

Byron--he hates pork and loves gin. When he swears--and then he best

pronounces English--spiders feign death, and his dog turns his tail

between his legs and moans. He is said, like sheep, to undress only

once a year. When he changes his clothes the very pores of his skin

open themselves in mute astonishment. If you can hire him by the day

as your “Man Friday,” it will add very much to your sport, for he is a

walking map of the haunts of duck, and has a perfect genius for waking

them up. He will steal with his canoe through the marsh wherever they

can go, quietly as a snake in the grass, until he is within gunshot of

his game. To crown all, he is the presiding genius of _bouillon_; and I

canonize him for this, if for nothing more.

Have you ever tasted _bouillon_ made in camp? It is not “fricasseed

nightmare,” _mon ami_. It is more savory than tongue of lark or

peacocks’ brains, or other rarest dish that epicures of ancient Rome

ever compounded. Yes, it even throws the wild boar of Apicius or the

roast pig of Charles Lamb into the shades of unpalatableness. You take

water, fish, musk-rat or squirrel (in lieu of beef), potatoes, onions,

butter, pepper and salt, and boil them all together in a pot, in the

open air, over a glowing wood fire. Pour off the soup, and you have the

nectar of the gods; the balance is a dish I would not be ashamed to

set before a hungry king. I would not give one sip of _bouillon_ made

by Victor for a bottle of the wine in which Cleopatra dissolved her

precious pearl.

But where are the wild duck?--for this seems all digression. Ah! there

they come, with the flutter of wings which starts something of the

same sort in your heart, their long necks stretched out, following

their leader in Indian file, or wedged together like the Macedonian

phalanx, or spreading out when they come nearer in _échelon_ or

like skirmishers, as if knowing the risk of receiving your shot in

close column. You lie low, concealed by the long stalks of the marsh

grass--the point of your canoe hidden by the house of a musk-rat. What

a quiet few moments as they come within range! You can almost hear

your heart beat. Gun at full cock, nerves steady as a rock, ducks

coming straight to their fate--look out! Forty yards off, up goes gun

to shoulder in a twinkling, eye following the game, a gentle pressure

of the trigger--deftly, as if all your care and coolness had been

concentrated for that instant in your right forefinger--down drop the

legs of a duck, denoting mortal wound, off goes your dog at a plunge,

back in boisterous haste and trembling, with a frothy mouthful which he

drops at your feet with an almost human sense of importance, and an

expressive wag of his tail that quivers delicious delight from every

hair! If a “fellow feeling” does not make you “wondrous kind” to that

dog--if you do not realize the touch of nature that Darwin declares

makes you kin--if, after his companionship, you are not sparing in your

chastisement, generous with your pats, and loath to treat him like a

dog, you must be a brute, beneath the stature of a trained retriever,

and unworthy to have the meanest and most mongrel cur whine at your

grave.

Education has ennobled your dog. His senses have gained a keenness

you may envy, while more eloquence and gratitude is gestured from his

tail than can be uttered by many a human tongue and eye. I will not

question the propriety of Solomon’s instructions in training a child,

but I protest against its applicability to a dog. A dog that has been

bullied into obedience possesses the same sort of training as a boy

who has been whipped into morality. They both become white-livered;

the dog carries his tail between his legs, and so would the boy if he

had one. You may have seen a hot-tempered drover beat an obstinate cow

in unsuccessful attempts to make it move, while another simply twisted

its tail, and at once stimulated its muscles of locomotion. If you have

to chastise a dumb brute at all, you may as well do it mercifully, and

on the Italian system of penmanship--the heavy strokes upward and the

light ones down; specially so with a dog you wish to be your companion

in hunting duck or partridge.

If you have done much duck-hunting you will have discovered that within

rifle-range of civilization the instinct of duck is surpassingly keener

than outside the pale. In spite of the “blue unclouded weather,” soft

calm on the water, and stillness in the air, you cannot catch them

asleep any more than a weasel. If you would get within range of them

at their feeding-ground you must slip slyly and softly. They sniff

gunpowder in the air, and know it from the smell of burning bush.

Victor vows they know an empty cartridge-case or gun-wad a mile away.

You cannot make them believe your canoe is a musk-rat house, however

you try. You cannot put an empty calabash on your head as they do in

China, and wade among them, so as to pull them under the water and

secure them by a strap. You may fool a Chinese or a Hindoo duck in that

way, but not a Canadian. They will play in the water twenty yards

away when you have not a gun; but they know the difference between the

barrels of one peeping from a marsh and the grass stalks or lilies,

better than many people know the difference between a duck and a crow.

[Illustration: WOOD DUCK (AIX SPONSA).]

There is at least one virtue displayed by enthusiastic hunters of

duck--it is that of patience. You may not get a shot for days, or even

catch a glimpse of a bird, except your tame decoys, and be tempted to

waste a cartridge for change on a stump or a branch; but it is not all

monotony, sitting quietly in your camp or in your canoe, or paddling

through the marsh, and, Micawber-like, waiting for “something to turn

up.” There is a physical and intellectual enjoyment, if you have the

capacity to take it in--a pleasant antithesis to the excitement of a

shot. If you’re in camp it is expended in a hundred ways. If you do

nothing more than lie on your back, with your arms under your head for

a pillow, and look up through spreading branches of trees, gorgeous

with autumnal tints, into “the witchery of the soft blue sky”--if you

only let your mind lie fallow, and your hard-worked body feel the

luxury of a genuine rest, it is not time misspent. Toward the close of

day the duck exercise their wings and take their supper, and you may

then get some good shots. If you are in your canoe waiting for their

appearance, I commend to you the magnificent sunset for which the Bay

is famed.

Flocks of blackbirds whiz and whir over your head in wild _abandon_,

as if conscious they were not in danger; the melancholy “too, too,

too, to-o-t” of the owl is heard in the woods, as if it were mourning

for Minerva; kingfishers flutter in one narrow compass of mid-air

over their prey, as if trembling with apprehensive joy, and shoot

down suddenly like meteors to seize the unsuspecting minnow below;

the “schayich” of the “ritualistic” snipe is heard as it rises from

the bog in graceful evolutions and gyrations a _danseuse_ might envy;

the incense of autumn is borne to your nostrils; a _conversazione_

of swallows is going on throughout the bush near by, while a perfect

tempest of twitter rages on a tree-top. Is it love, jealousy or

scandal, is it an Œcumenical Council to proclaim the infallibility of

the kingfisher or the peacock, or are they only scolding their young

ones to bed?

To complete the delight of your senses, you will be sure to add to your

knowledge of entomology the penetrating fact that, though the black

flies have absconded, the marsh in autumn is “the last ditch” of the

mosquito. Here it conjugates the verb “to bite,” in all its moods and

tenses, until the frost-king subdues its ardor, or the dragonfly saves

the frost the trouble. It does not interest you to know that its wings

vibrate three thousand times a minute, and that with these and the

rapid vibrations of the muscles of its chest it produces its soothing

sound. Its sting is certainly very complex and attractive under the

microscope--not so under your skin. You may be ever so gallant, and

yet be unable to pardon the fact that only the female mosquitoes bite.

You may be reduced to believe with Gay’s fable of the man and the flea,

“that men were made for fleas (or mosquitoes) to eat.” The mosquito

is far too insinuating in its manner. It depresses one’s mind, but it

elevates one’s body. When you’re sitting in your canoe on the _qui

vive_ for a shot, its familiar evening hymn is heard in a halo of

buzzing around your head. Sting first, like a sapper with his heel on

his spade in the trenches in the face of the enemy, it digs into you

with a perseverance worthy of a nobler aim. A summer’s sucking has not

satiated the thirst of the seniors, while the junior cannibals are

eager to try their stings; but the weather has curbed their power if

not their desire, and you may slap them into eternity with comparative

ease. If there is no food for powder in the air, You can live in hope

and wish there was, or you can meditate on your sins, or, what is

more popular and pleasant, the sins of your friends and enemies; but

it somewhat disturbs the equanimity of your thought and humiliates

your dignity to find a corduroy road of mosquito bites on the back of

your neck, and suddenly to realize that the last of the Mohicans is

determined to “play tag” with the tip of your nose, or to say its

vespers vigorously in the hollow warmth of your ear.

If you’ve never shot wild duck, at least you’ve eaten them. Charles

Lamb may extol roast pig, but, as Victor says, “Pigs can’t lay eggs,

nor can dey fly.” I doubt if the genial essayist ever ate wild roast

duck, done to a turn, with sage dressing, plump bellies and legs

trussed, hung for a day or two before being dressed, well basted while

cooking, and sent to table hot, with apple sauce. Plutarch says that

Cato kept his household in health, when the plague was rife, by dieting

them on roast duck. Can anything be finer than the mellow sniff that

steals up the nostrils from a tender roasted one, that you’ve shot

yourself?

The end of the hunting season is the ducks’ Thanksgiving Day. What

tales they must hiss and stories they must quack of shots escaped; and

of nervous marksmen down whose very gun-barrels they stared and quacked

out defiance. How the veterans of the season must brag, and the Gascons

of two put on airs, and be envied as the heroes of many battles! How

they must raise their wings and show their scars, and be looked up to

as ducks of valor and experience!

[Illustration]

PADDLES AND PALETTES.

BY EDWARD L. CHICHESTER.

Concluded from page 510.

A few miles below Seneca Falls the river forks. One branch, flowing in

a northeasterly direction, is used as the canal; the other, probably at

one time the only course of the river, turns southeast toward Cayuga

Lake. A loose pile of rocks, forming an irregular wall, keeps the water

from entirely forsaking the commercial channel, but enough gushes over

and through the barrier to form a very respectable stream that eddies

off between its own banks with a kind of jolly flow of freedom, like a

boy escaped from school.

On reaching this fork, we lifted the canoes over the obstruction and

joined our fortunes with the runaway, much preferring its adventurous

course to the one laid down by the State.

Large trees hung over the water, and an occasional rock or snag,

crowned with a matted mass of eel-grass that floated back on the

surface like a mermaid’s hair, lifted its head in front of our bows

and seemed to rush toward us. The stream, though far from being rapid,

was at first swift enough to give us plenty of occupation to avoid

obstructions, but, like some people, gained both breadth and repose as

it neared its end.

The village of Cayuga is built on a gentle slope near the foot of

the lake by that name. A railroad passes through the place and turns

abruptly west, carried over a mile or so of water on a trestle. North

of the trestle extends the foot of the lake, very shallow here, and

full of weeds that end in a bank of cat-tails, stretching away toward

Montezuma. The outlet cuts a broad swath in the flags and winds slowly

northward, now widening into a reedy lake and again narrowing, till the

current becomes perceptible enough to bend the rushes at its sides.

As we glided quietly along our course through the outlet, an occasional

duck darted among the rushes, or a big blue heron lifted himself from

the water and flew slowly overhead, preserving his air of dignity in

spite of the long, bare legs sticking out behind. Bass and sunfish,

lying close to the surface, shot away from our bows, streaking the

water with little wakes. As the day advanced, we looked anxiously about

for a place to camp, and at last came to an island that lifted itself

like a whale’s back from the surrounding swamp.

To be sure, it was rather bare--a stony ridge, growing mullen stalks

and teasels, and inhabited by some retired army mules, whose gaunt

forms stood black against the sky; but it was a relief to see something

higher than the flags, and we gladly landed at the first opening and

pulled the boats well up on the shore.

We had a visit here from a genuine son of the soil, if such a country

could be said to possess a soil. He sauntered down to the camp before

we were well settled for the night, and frankly gave us his opinion of

the boats and our other belongings.

He was a queer youngster, not more than fourteen years old, with

innocent blue eyes and the modest air of a little child when he asked

questions, but changing instantly to the most reckless braggadocio when

he referred to his own experiences. He was born, he said, at Montezuma,

pointing to a distant spire, and hoped some day to jump from the

Brooklyn Bridge. It has been a query in our minds ever since, whether

the mere fact of being born on a flat would gender such ambitions.

Below this island the stream flows under the aqueduct of the Erie

Canal, and putting waterproof blankets over our heads we shot under

a dripping arch, coming out dry, but with decks glistening with the

shower-bath. The river widens here, becomes very shallow, and at last

spreads out in all directions like a huge Delta. It was often difficult

to find the current, and the air seemed loaded with the heaviness of

the swamp.

Acres of water-lilies spread before us, small flowers of a waxy

whiteness gleamed among patches of sagittaria, and the interminable

walls of reeds were weighted down with a plant resembling the hop-vine,

and bearing clusters of pink blossoms, that added their perfume to the

heaviness of the air.

[Illustration:

A bit of Clay

]

[Illustration]

Slowly we worked our way through this strange region, the paddles

after every stroke coming up laden with dripping plants, while we were

kept anxiously alert lest we should lose our way in the labyrinth.

We occasionally stood up in the boats in vain efforts to see where

we were. At one spot the _Sybaris_ moored herself in a lush mass of

lily-pads and grasses, from which the soft mud oozed as her keel

pressed it down, while Simpson, who had been exerting himself manfully,

ceased his efforts in disgust. I took advantage of his experience to

avoid the slough, and as I paddled past, heard him remark, as if to

himself: “Query, is this land or water?”

But, like Bunyan’s pilgrims on the enchanted ground, we “made a good

shift and wagged along,” and before night struck a _State ditch_--not

a canal, but a broad channel dug to drain the region--a channel with a

current that bore us along with scarcely an effort on our part.

We were glad enough to escape, even through a ditch. This was our last

day spent in a swamp, for the country soon became more broken, the

water clearer, and the air lost its malarial heaviness and blew fresh

over green hills. Even the mosquito stayed behind.

One evening Simpson was sitting by the fire, having arrived at a good

camping-place and put the _Sybaris_ in order for the night before I

had come up. He was frying potatoes, holding the spider in one hand

and running his eye over a letter that had reached him through the

Weedsport post-office. He had laid a stone on the letter to prevent

its being blown away, and occasionally his eye would wander from the

closely-written page to the graceful lines of the canoe, whose jauntily

striped tent was flapping back and forth in the breeze.

In addition to these occupations he was singing something about his

“Bonny over the Ocean,” and his voice, which is not unmusical, came

floating up to where I had moored the _Rena_, and was trying to catch a

sunset effect. The musical cadence fell in with the place and hour, and

I found myself humming the air while I worked; but suddenly it stopped,

and I paused a moment in my drawing, thinking I heard thunder.

Certainly there was a roar, though there was no sign of a storm

overhead. I put my sketch under the deck, pushed off the boat, and

paddled down toward the camp.

On rounding a point I caught sight of Simpson, running toward the water

with the _Sybaris_ clasped in his arms. She would weigh fully ninety

pounds with her tent and bedding, and I was astonished to see him lug

her along in that reckless manner; but in a moment a bull tore through

a hedge and bore down upon him. The canoeist had a good start, and in

another moment had run into the river, plunged head-first into the

boat, leaving his heels sticking out from under a torn tent-flap as he

floated away, while the bull stopped short on the shore, pawing and

bellowing.

[Illustration: Entrance to Montezuma Swamp

Cross Lake]

When my friend’s head emerged from the cockpit the boat was some rods

away, and the bull had turned his attention to the potatoes. It was

only by means of a red Jersey flaunted on the end of a paddle that the

animal’s attention was diverted from the camp long enough to rescue the

duffle. I diverted him, as Simpson flatly refused to again assume that

rôle.

Nothing was injured but the letter, which had been trampled in the mud.

I naturally felt elated at escaping with so little loss, but Simpson

was grumpy all the rest of the evening.

From Weedsport to Cross Lake the Seneca River winds through a rich,

rolling country, and we were delighted with views of farm-yards with

weather-beaten barns and stacks of grain. Fine cattle stood in shallow

places in the stream, chewing their cuds and lazily switching of the

flies, and herds of colts tossed their heads and galloped away as we

came suddenly upon them. A settlement of old houses clustered about

the end of a bridge bore the name of Mosquito Point. Though the place

provided us with excellent bread and butter, we did not want to remain

there, notwithstanding the inhabitants stoutly asserted that the

village bore a misnomer. “It’s nawthin’ to Montezumy,” remarked one

gray-bearded citizen, whom we took for the oldest inhabitant, and we

believed him. They told us a legend here of the Great Swamp.

The story ran, that a single pair of mosquitoes had their abode there,

and these specimens were so large they would devour an Indian without

taking the trouble to peel off the canoe, much as a pig would eat a

beech-nut. In time, the tribes grew restive under this annoyance, and

organized a grand hunt, which resulted in the destruction of their

enemies; but while rejoicing over the victory, myriads of a smaller

breed rose from the carcasses, and have infested the country ever since.

One of the pleasantest spots along the whole course of the Seneca River

is Cross Lake, a beautiful sheet of water crossed by the stream. Here

we remained some time. The camp was made on a gravelly beach not far

from the village of Jordan. The scenery had that peculiar quality found

in an uneven, partially cleared country.

It composed well.

Some buttonwood grew near us on a side hill. A strip of swampy shore

stretched away to the south, and above us some bars, opening through a

rickety fence overhung with bushes, led into a pasture beyond.

[Illustration: “ASTRIDE THE DECK.”]

The owner was going to fix the fence, but had not “got round to it.”

We were glad he had not. Early in the mornings we were awakened by

the shrill cries of the tip-ups that fed in the marshy spots with

the woodcocks and schytepokes, the last-mentioned a brown-backed,

wading bird, resembling at a distance a crook-necked squash on stilts.

Simpson was fond of shooting at this fowl with his revolver, for,

though holding the views promulgated by the Audubon Society, he said

he had not signed the pledge to abstain from wearing the feathers of

non-edible birds--“besides,” he argued, ignoring this point to make

another, “we could eat a schytepoke.” We did not try it, however,

mainly because he never hit one.

On the last night of our stay here we neglected to button down the

tents and were well-nigh drowned out by a storm; but the rain ceased

with the first streak of dawn, and the grand panorama that was

disclosed as we stepped out into the fresh wind was worth hours of

discomfort to witness. The clouds, though still black and threatening,

were whirling off in ragged masses, and the lake stretched a steely

gray plain, seamed with the dark lines of its waves, and reflecting the

first dull glow of the morning.

The freshness of the air and the sense of conflict felt in a storm

made one want to shout, while the wild grandeur awed one to silence. It

did not clear until late that afternoon, and the wind that blew all day

in wet gusts carried us swiftly down the river.

We found the current more rapid as we advanced, and the stream wound

between rocky and, at times, precipitous banks.

At one point a blasted oak stood white against the forest behind, and

then flashes of sunlight lit up stretches of stony pasture or revealed

the wet roof of a barn hidden among the trees. As we bowled along under

full sail, I let out the trolling-line and captured some fine black

bass and a pike before we reached Baldwinsville, eight miles away.

Onondaga Lake empties into the Seneca River through a narrow outlet,

scarcely a mile long, and when we reached the mouth of this stream we

turned and paddled against the current. As we entered the lake the city

of Syracuse loomed in sight, looking a smoky purple in the distance.

On the left rose the high chimneys of the salt-works of Liverpool,

making the village look like a huge burying-ground dotted with the

monuments of a former industry. We secured supplies at this place, and

wandered through some of the buildings, now falling to decay.

In some places nature had tried to soften the outlines of ruin with

grass and creeping vines; but tall brick chimneys do not readily lend

themselves to decoration, and there is something in rusting machinery

that reminds one of unburied bones, a kind of skeleton in chains doomed

to be a blot on the landscape so long as the gallows stands.

Half a day’s paddle from the lake brought us to the village of Clay, or

New Bridge, as it is commonly called. This place was old and ruinous,

but presented a most picturesque aspect as we came suddenly upon it,

perched on the hillsides on either side of the river.

The unpainted houses, stained a dingy gray by the weather, were

embowered in thick masses of apple and plum trees, and down by the

water stood a forsaken warehouse with a sunken canal-boat before its

doors. We spent a Sunday within a mile of the town, and rainy weather

kept us some days longer in the vicinity, so that we had a fine

opportunity to study the old place. “God forsaken,” the farmers called

it. It was a sort of supply depot for passing canalers and certainly

not a flourishing port, but perhaps possessed an artistic interest in

proportion to its ruin.

“If you want any good eatin’ apples, you’ll find ’em under them trees,

an’ there’s green-corn in the garden beyond; help yourselves.” This

hospitable remark was made by a farmer who came to see our sketches,

and it was accompanied with a handful of ripe tomatoes and cucumbers.

[Illustration: “LANDED FOR SUPPLIES.”]

This sort of open-handedness had become a feature of the cruise, and

on our last day on the river we gave a lock-tender a goodly supply of

superfluous vegetables. In fact, our living expenses were made so small

by the bounty of the people on whose land we camped, that we felt like

distinguished foreigners who had been given, not the liberty of the

town, but of the whole country.

A few miles below Clay the Seneca unites with the Oneida River, the two

forming the Oswego at Three River Point, and by following this broad

stream we reached the milling town of Phoenix. We were delayed here by

a short portage, but again in the canoes the stream carried us on, now

heaving under the boats as its deep volume eddied over hidden rocks, or

spreading out into placid stretches that seemed to have no perceptible

current.

At one point we were whirled through an eel-weir rift and well

spattered with spray; and again, while passing under a bridge, a sunken

pier caught one of the canoes as a submerged monster might snatch a

fly, but fortunately with no damage to the boat. A muskrat, drawing a

long line across the stream, ended it suddenly with the quotation mark

of his tail as our bows came almost on him. Then the river grew broad

and still, and paddling on we entered the canal at Fulton. I had an

embarrassing adventure here. I had landed for supplies, and was again

getting into the boat that lay some four feet below, when the uneasy

craft slipped under the docking, carrying my feet with her, leaving me

hanging by the elbows and shouting for Simpson, who was some distance

away.

The muddy water of the canal never seemed less inviting than during

those anxious moments, as I hung with my arms gradually slipping,

certain, if the _Sybaris_ did not come quickly, of going in head

foremost. But fortunately she came quickly and I was rescued dry.

Below Fulton lies the historical spot known as Battle Island, the

theatre of some exciting events of the war of 1812. Near this island

the river is obstructed by a dam, and here we lowered the boats over

with ropes.

The _Sybaris_ went first, and, once over, shot off through a stretch of

rapid water.

Simpson, in his efforts to guide her, broke his paddle, and was

obliged to jump overboard in order to keep her off the rocks. He came

back dripping to help me with the _Rena_, and told me exactly how to

steer when I was cast adrift; but in rapids a little experience is

certainly worth more than a good many directions; and once started I

found it useless to try to recall a word he had said. The sensation of

being carried through a rift is certainly peculiar. With the attention

so closely exerted to avoid danger, the boatman has no opportunity to

watch the shores, and, as the Irishman expressed it, “see himself go

by.” On the contrary, he must fix his gaze forward, and soon has the

feeling of standing quite still, while the rocks bob up in front of him

and rush at his boat. As I whirled along, a formidable line of boulders

rose at my left and swung steadily around to embrace me. Work as I

would, they came nearer and nearer, then there was an ominous grating,

a rattle of iron (I carried the pots and kettles), and the _Rena_

stuck fast, with the water surging and boiling round her. I expected

she would roll over, but she lay wedged just where she struck, and

observing there was no change, I pulled off my shoes, and, taking hold

of the combing, raised myself out, and sat down astride the deck just

back of the cockpit.

[Illustration: “NOT EXACTLY A PADDLE.”]

I had not calculated the effect of this change of position on the

boat, for her stern dropped instantly, and rearing like an impatient

sea-horse she dashed forward, while I clung on as well as I could,

feeling like an amateur Neptune, or “a water imp,” as Simpson said. But

I was really a little nervous at the time and much relieved to reach

still water in safety.

Lower down we landed, and my friend mended his paddle, and then

stretched himself out in the sun and read “Lorna Doone” till his

clothes were dry. Then we went on--gliding under overhanging trees,

passing bare sand-banks crowned with sumac, and catching glimpses

of little gullies full of poplars, and fence corners yellow with

golden-rod. Some houses and barns strung along the hill-top marked the

outskirts of Bundy’s Corners, and later we heard the roar of a fall,

down at Minetto.

When we reached this village we found another high dam with a wooden

apron below.

We inquired particularly about the channel: Was it deep under the

dam? Did boats ever go over?--Questions the people who came down to

see the canoes answered readily. It _was_ deep on the other side, and

_flat-bottom_ boats _had_ gone over. “Then we can go,” said Simpson,

and pushed off with his paddle.

I followed, and we skirted the upper edge of the dam, cautiously

working across the river. The water overflowed the obstruction in one

thin sheet, and fell spattering among piles of ugly-looking stones,

until we reached the extreme east end; here a breach had been made and

a heavy stream poured itself through, tumbling into a great white,

seething pool some ten feet below. We landed and surveyed the place

thoroughly, then removed the sketches, together with a pail of milk and

some eggs from the _Sybaris_, when Simpson entered the boat, worked a

few rods back, and rested on his paddle.

Slowly the little craft moved forward, then her speed increased as

she felt the resistless drawing of the current, and in a moment her

delicate bow was trembling on the brink. She seemed to hesitate an

instant--then plunged!

As her keel struck the apron she turned on one side, and the same

instant the rudder bearings caught some obstruction and whirled her

bottom up. A dark hull and a weather-stained felt hat bobbed about,

making two blots in the white foam that swirled and tossed under the

fall; then the hat moved toward the boat, and in less than a minute

Simpson’s broad shoulders emerged, hauling the _Sybaris_ toward the

bank. Two fishermen, catching caddice-worms for bait a short distance

below, hastened to the rescue, and came up in time to help in bailing

out; and before I was ready to follow with the _Rena_ the canoe

was again afloat, uninjured, but with a slightly damaged cargo. I

considered the situation very carefully, and in view of the fact that

it was late in the afternoon and the only spare dry suit of clothes

between us was stowed in my boat, decided, for Simpson’s sake (who, I

remembered, had a slight cold), to go round through the canal.

I did so, and the fishermen carried my craft down to the river.

This caution on my part proved quite unnecessary, so far as Simpson

was concerned. I left him an hour later, clad in my best suit and with

sails unfurled to dry; but the wind gradually drew the boat off, and

when he discovered her she was well out in the river. Of course, in the

absence of the other canoe, there was nothing to do but run for it, and

when I returned it was to find him steaming by the fire. We stayed in

this, our last camp, for some time. It was only four miles from Oswego,

and we lingered, reluctant to leave the river we had followed so long.

In the cool evenings we would sit by the fire and watch its flickering

blaze reflected in the water, or strolling along the shore would

startle the fish that had come up into the shallows.

The season was approaching Indian summer, and all nature seemed hushed

and expectant. Some mornings the sun rose in a burst of splendor,

converting the whole earth, wet with dew, into a vast sparkling mirror.

Again a bank of fog made it seem as if our point were the end of the

earth, projecting into space, till the light in the east glowed through

and showed us the forms of trees and houses looming up like phantoms

across the river. A kindly old man living near often came to see us,

and seating himself on a camp-stool would give long accounts of the

country in the early days. But one morning we pushed off and took our

last voyage on the Oswego, drifting down through its broad mouth into

Lake Ontario, where, putting the canoes on board a steamer, we sailed

for Charlotte.

The passengers were most of them from the Thousand Islands, one of

those well-mixed companies. There was the jaunty girl who read a

novel all the way, and actually looked stylish in a hat as forlorn

as Simpson’s. And the aggressive old gentleman with convictions, who

hammered his theories of government into the self-satisfied senator

from Maryland--the latter a large English-looking man, with sandy hair,

a tweed suit and green necktie, who listened with an air of amused

patience.

The lake was very quiet, and the steamer left a long, shining wake in

the greenish-gray expanse, while the smoke rolled back till it settled

into a haze on the darkening horizon.

Gradually the colors faded from the sky. The groups on deck drew their

wraps about them and moved closer together. It grew quite dark, then a

bell clanged--we moved slower.

Lights flashed, people started to their feet. We had reached Charlotte,

and our cruise was over.

[Illustration]

“EELIN’ OFF GOOSE P’INT.”

BY SCOTT CAMPBELL.

A large dory, old and weather-beaten--as weather-beaten as the

sunburned faces of the three fishermen who sat motionless upon the

thwarts--it was a mud-stained, patched old hulk, battered by hard

knocks, scraped by harder rocks, beaten by harsh waves. Three men sat

silent, thoughtful, absorbed, with grim countenances portraying sombre

reflections; a little child--a boy of scarcely ten years--seated alone

in the bow, his small brown hand clutching the rail on either side; a

child with a round, rosy face, and great dilating blue eyes, opened

wide, and a timid, awe-impressed look--all floating upon a wide creek

of placid water, unruffled by a breath. All slowly, silently drifted

on the ebbing tide, out toward the broader waters of the distant bay,

down toward a long, low, narrow point of mainland--Goose Point--which

stretched out into the sea like a huge index finger directing attention

to the thin silver crescent of the new moon, hovering for one last

moment on the western horizon.

The tide had well-nigh ebbed; the dusk of the early evening was fast

fading into darkness; the cooling dampness of the summer atmosphere had

begun to gather in the form of dew.

Almost motionless the cumbrous boat floated upon the surface of the

sluggish and devious waters; from the unplied oars, extended to either

side, silver drops now and then fell to disappear into the darker

depths below. A solemn silence reigned--a silence unbroken save by the

faint, dull, far-away note of the frogs from the distant meadows, or

the cry of some night-bird wafted over the marsh-land.

The moon slowly sank from the view of the silent sitters; the narrow

line of quivering, silvery light disappeared from the surface of the

waters; one by one the stars came out in the cloudless heavens. The

child in the bow of the boat, awed by his sombre surroundings, awed

by the death-like silence, awed by the faces before him, gazed mutely

aloft at the star-lit dome above him.

At length the impressive silence was broken.

The child started quickly, and his eyes were turned from the heavens

to gaze at the grizzled, wrinkled neck and broad back of the speaker.

“So thet wear the vardict, wear it, Nathan?” The tone was solemn--as

solemn as the expression upon the aged face of him who asked the

question; and the hands which held the oars were raised till the broad,

dripping blades again parted the dark waters.

The man addressed selected a long, wriggling worm from a rusty tin pail

between his feet, and calmly wound it with a piece of strong thread

upon the “eel-bob” in his hand.

“Aye, thet wear the vardict, Abram; he air to be detained pendin’ the

investigation.”

“Pendin’ the investigation,” slowly repeated the other, dubiously. “An’

what might be the ackerite meanin’ o’ thet, Nathan?”

“Well, ez nigh ez I can come to’t, he air to be jailed till the woman

be found, or suthin’ definite larned consarnin’ her.”

“And thet wear the decision at the perliminary examination, wear it?”

asked the third man, speaking now for the first time.

“Aye, it wear, Seth.”

There was another spell of silence. Abram Skellet, who held the oars,

pulled one sturdy stroke, which sent the heavy boat away from the dark,

thatch-grown mud-bank it was approaching, out into the deeper water of

the creek; and again they floated silently on toward the low point of

land, which, in the increasing darkness, now appeared only as a dim

irregularity in the line of demarcation between the sea and sky.

After a few moments--

“What wear the evidence, Nathan, agin’ the man?” asked Seth Skellet,

dangling an “eel-bob,” composed of a round ball of mingled thread and

worms, over the side.

“It wear bad--’tarnel bad; though the man mout not be guilty for

all o’ thet, ez he wear not seen to do the woman any harm; an’ the

evidence air all what they call suckumstantial. Thus it wear, in a

nutshell: night afore last he wear seen to meet her on the old bridge

ez crosses the herrin’-brook, beyond the parsture to the suth’ard o’

Parson Greenleaf’s ten-acre lot. She wear obsarved to be waitin’ there

for a long time afore he come--John Jenkins’s son seen her; an’ bein’

supplied with more natural curosity than air gen’rally ’lowed to a

male, an’ wonderin’ what she wear doin’ out there all alone, he kind

o’ hung round to see. She mout hev been there a half-hour, when Paul

Gramley come hurryin’ across the fields an’ jined her. They hed some

sharp words--leastwise so young Jenkins says; an’ arter awhile they

walked off together. Thet air nuthin’ in itself; any two air prone to

hev hard words at some time or ’nuther; but, ez ye all know, the next

mornin’ the parson’s darter, Hetty Greenleaf, wear missin’, an’ a sarch

high an’ low didn’t reveal her. Then young Jenkins come to the front

with his story; an’ on the strength o’ thet Paul Gramley wear arrested

an’ examined, bein’ ez it wear that he wear the last pusson ez is known

to hev seen her.”

“It hev a dark look, Nathan,” remarked Seth, as the narrator paused

long enough to dip into the rusty tin pail for another worm.

“Aye, it hev so. But Paul Gramley declares thet he left her not a

hun’ed feet from her own door, an’ jest ez the village clock wear

strikin’ nine. An’ he swears thet the last he see of her she wear

movin’ slowly toward the house; but the parson, on the other hand,

claims thet she wear not in the house arter seven o’clock--an’ the

parson’s word air ez reliable ez the gospel. An’ thet air the evidence

agin Paul Gramley; an’ he air detained pendin’ the investigation.”

“Ez I obsarved afore, it hev a dark look,” muttered Seth, shaking the

water from his “bob,” and turning in his seat to gaze earnestly in the

direction of the Point, toward which they were drifting.

“Nathan, what air your opinion?” asked Abram Skellet, leaning upon the

oars. “You air putty well acquainted with young Gramley.”

“Aye, Abe, so I be; for he hev boarded at my wife’s house ever since he

come to this ’ere town, twelve months agone. He air a hot-headed young

buck, an’ one ez is prone to gay company, an’ the like o’ thet; but,

harkee to me--he hev a heart in his bosom ez big ez the heart of an ox,

an’ ez soft ez a woman’s; an’ he loved Hetty Greenleaf; every throb o’

thet great heart o’ his beat for her; an’ the man ez says he harmed a

hair o’ her head, lies, boys! I tell ye, he lies! for I know ’twan’t

in him!”

And the wrinkled old man, loud in his vehemence, brought his brawny

fist down upon the thwart beside him with a blow that made the old boat

quiver from stem to stern.

And the eyes of the child opened wider.

“What do Paul Gramley say hisself?” asked Seth, with a nod of approval.

“Nary a word, save to say that he air innocent o’ meanin’ her harm. I

know how he loved her, lads, for I hev obsarved him, when he thought

he wear alone by hisself; all the love in his heart wear given to her.

He air a stranger among us, an’ little enough we know about him or

his; but when a man hev lived under my roof for a year, I calkerlate

thet I larn suthin’ about him; an’ I tell ye, boys, thet Paul Gramley

air a better man to-day than them ez hints at him ez Hetty Greenleaf’s

murderer--if so be she air dead, which no one knows. He wear a

young man yesterday, full o’ life an’ hope; to-day he air old an’

broken--more so than years o’ wind and weather would a done; for his

heart air turned to ice--an’ I know it.”

“Wear he home night afore last?”

“He wear--about midnight; an’ he says he wear walkin’ alone by the

sea-shore, arter he left her. I believe him!”

The old man made the assertion as if he wished to hear no opposition;

and for a few moments they floated on through the silent night. All

three men were gloomy and thoughtful, for Paul Gramley was a favorite

with all who claimed his acquaintance.

“Pull on your right oar, Abe.” The command came in a low tone from Seth

Skellet’s lips. “We air too nigh the flats for the best o’ the eels.

Steady--that’ll do. Youngster, drop over the anchor.”

The child in the bow moved again, and taking a large stone from the

bottom of the boat, dropped it over the side. It fell with a splash

into the black waters; the cumbrous craft rocked to and fro, swayed

here and there, then swung in toward Goose Point, and finally came to

rest.

“Youngster, light the torch.”

The child searched in his pocket till he found matches, and taking a

pitch-pine brand from beside him, applied the fire. The wood spluttered

and crackled and burst into a flame.

“Here, change seats with me.”

Mutely the child did as he was bidden, and took his place upon the

seat which the oarsman had occupied.

“Now, hold the light out over the water--and hold it still.”

Without a word the child obeyed; and fixing himself as comfortable as

was possible, gazed from one to the other of those about him, then down

upon the water, where the three balls of mingled, tangled thread and

worms bobbed up and down upon its surface in the light of that flaming

torch.

A weird scene to those wondering blue eyes.

The glories of the soft summer night were lost upon him; the enchanting

stillness of the breathless heavens had no charm; the tranquil sea,

dark mirror of a myriad of burning stars, claimed not his attention.

His one hand held the blazing brand out above the black waters; upon

his other rested a chubby chin, close to the boat-rail; and his eyes

were fixed upon the circle of bright light cast by the flaming torch--a

circle fading away in the near distance, till its circumference was

lost in dim and dark shadows.

The faces of the three men were grim visages, now clearly defined,

white and ghastly, now faint and spectre-like, as the smoking flame

rose and fell.

For a long time there was silence. Despite the gloom that was on them,

the three men were pursuing an habitual occupation--“Eelin’ off Goose

P’int.”

About the bobs, which rose and fell on the water, dark, writhing

objects came and went, now plainly seen, now lost again; and ever and

anon a white hand would jerk a bob from the surface, and take therefrom

one, and sometimes two, of the slimy, wriggling forms and cast them

into a basket.

Then a faint ejaculation would escape the lips of the child; he would

look up for a moment at the struggling, squirming creatures; then turn

his intent gaze back again on the waters.

“What air your opinion ez to where she mout be, Nathan?” asked one of

the fishermen, who could keep neither mind nor tongue from the subject.

“Wal, thet air hard to tell. She mout hev left town, but, in thet

case, some one or nuther would likely hev seen her; she mout hev met

with a mishap ez yit undiscovered. There air many things ez could hev

happened.”

“She mout be in trouble,” ventured Seth, timorously; “though thet air

not likely, bein’ ez how she air a parson’s darter,” he added, half

apologetically.

Nathan bowed gravely, to Seth’s surprise; and, after a moment, said

slowly:

“Parson’s darters air human, the same ez the rest o’ we worms o’ the

airth. Seth, ye hev hit the nail o’ my own idee on the head. They hev

passions, godly or ungodly, an’ air ez prone to yield ez the weakest

among us. She wear in love with Paul Gramley, and he wear in love with

her; there air no doubt o’ thet. Whate’er may be the outcome o’ thet

love, or the obstacles agin it, I know not. But this ’ere I believe,

she hev left the town alive, or else she air in it--wal, if she air in

it, God knows how she be!”

And the child heard, but he did not understand.

“Ye do not think he harmed her?”

“I hev said my say on thet p’int,” replied Nathan, gravely. “Men air

not prone to harm those ez they love with all their soul. It air my

opinion she will be found afore many days--God knows where, or how.”

The eyes of the child were fixed upon the grim waters. Without

comprehending the meaning of what he heard, he was impressed by their

solemn tones and miens, and a tremor ran through his slender frame, and

a chill, like the chill that curdles young blood at ghost-legends told

in the twilight.

And he thought he observed a strange change in the waters, whereon he

was gazing; he imagined he saw in the depths a white, ghastly face--the

face of a woman, with wide-staring eyes, and parted lips where the

teeth could be seen, and long, dishevelled hair, in which the green

sea-grasses were intertwined. He thought that the deathly face, with

its awful, fixed smile, was rising toward his own so close to the

water--rising, as if to press those cold, chilled lips to his--rising,

nearer and nearer, till the staring eyes were close to the surface,

where the hair and grasses now floated.

His hand clutched harder than ever the flaming torch; he was frozen

by fear; he was chilled into silence; he saw, as one sees in a dream,

vaguely and doubting, for in all of his experience he never had seen

such an apparition as that which now appeared in the waters.

A wild, hoarse, terrified cry broke the tranquil stillness of the

night, and resounded far over the sea; the old boat quivered and

trembled as the man in the bow suddenly sprang to his feet.

“’Fore God! what is that?”

“What?--Ha! Reach me the hook--there! by ye feet, Seth! Air ye turned

into stone, man? It air the hand o’ God, raisin’ the dead out o’ the

depths, and sendin’ a light through the darkness!”

But Nathan himself was obliged to get the boat-hook, for Seth Skellet

was palsied.

And the child’s blue eyes, not wondering, but terrified now, saw the

three men lift the cold, dead form into the boat and lay her dripping

before him; and the torch fell from his grasp and its flame expired, as

her life’s flame had, in the black, choking waters.

Through the darkness they rowed to the shore--an hour of darkness, when

it seemed that even the stars were dimmed and withheld their accustomed

light--an hour of darkness, while the child stared, fascinated, at the

void eyes, which were staring at him, and his innermost soul shrieked

in fear for _it_ to move and ease the horrible spell that held him.

“Youngster, run to the village store an’ tell ’em we hev found it.”

They were hoarse words from Seth Skellet’s lips, spoken as she was

borne, by strong, tender hands, away from the rippling waters that sang

upon the beach, and laid upon the grass-land which her feet had often

trod.

And the child obeyed; turned and fled, across fields and meadows--fled

from that awful presence, which, to him, was and was not--fled, and

paused not till he stood in the village store, where some half-dozen

loungers were sitting.

And one man there was who saw in the terrified face the shadow of

death; and he cried:

“My life! my Hetty!”

“Dead! drowned!” gasped the child. And he saw the man--tall and grand,

with curling hair and warm, dark eyes--spring to his feet, with a cry

of anguish; saw him grasp the clothing above his heart, then reel,

totter, and fall--fall, as if shot, face downward upon the floor.

* * * * *

A few days after, the boy heard the bells tolling; saw a sorrowing

throng pass through the village street; followed, and saw two forms

laid near together in a quiet corner of the country churchyard. He

heard the weeping people speak of love, of retribution, of mercy; heard

them speak of a wife, _his_ wife--who had been thought dead, but lately

discovered--discovered, when _his_ love was another’s; heard them speak

of a heart, _his_ heart, broken by anguish; heard them speak of a

child, _his_ child and _hers_--a child, who had died when _she_ died.

And the boy heard, but he did not understand.

* * * * *

Do not ask me where Goose Point is, nor in what year these foregoing

episodes occurred, for I would prefer not to tell you; but, hearing

with the ears of a child, seeing with the eyes of a child, I relate

their sadness in the language of a man; for their impressive stamp,

undimmed by time, is still vivid upon the tablets of my memory.

[Illustration]

THE TRAINING OF A UNIVERSITY CREW.

BY FREDERIC A. STEVENSON,

Captain of the Yale Crew, ’88.

Very few among the many thousands who witness the annual boat race

between the universities of Yale and Harvard on the Thames at New

London, appreciate what the preparation for that event means. Of

course, nearly every one has heard that the crews have been in

training, and from the newspaper articles that come thick and fast

about the time of the race, has formed certain vague and often

erroneous ideas as to how that training is effected.

The winning crew is most elaborately praised: their stroke was

perfect, their backs rose and fell in unison, they worked like a

piece of well-oiled machinery. On the other hand, the losing crew is

characterized in terms no less strong: their work was ragged, such a

man in the boat gave out, the men were not properly trained. Thus, by

reading the usual newspaper reports of a race is the general idea of

a boat race and the work required for it formed. How well the average

correspondent can be relied on for authentic and accurate information

was well illustrated this year at New London. The day before the

Yale-Harvard race, one paper published an article praising the Harvard

stroke, speaking of “the perfect stroke of the Harvard eight.” The

result of the race entirely changed the tone of the next article. The

same paper then described the same stroke of the same crew, thus: “The

rowing was of the most ragged kind, and their style abominable.” This

was scarcely true and was most certainly very unjust. It would surely

have been impossible for a crew to go backwards to that extent in a

single day. The fact is that both articles were greatly exaggerated,

the first as badly in one direction as the second was in the other.

Let us see if we cannot come right down to hard facts concerning

training and ascertain what it really means in the case of a university

crew.

One race is but just over when the work for the next begins. The

summer’s work, however, is mainly confined to the captain, for he must

during that time make a careful study of the manner of coaching, of

the theory of the stroke, and of the styles of rigging a shell, in

preparation for the year’s work. Then, too, the truly enthusiastic

oarsman endeavors as much as possible to improve during the summer,

mainly in getting thoroughly acquainted with the feeling and motion of

the water.

But now autumn is with us again, the university is open, and once more

another college athletic year is begun. The first event in the rowing

department is the fall regatta. In this only the class crews take part,

and the training is short and not so severe as in the spring. But

these fall regattas, unimportant as they may seem to an outsider, are

really a great factor in the university crew work, and should never be

neglected.

The class crews are the main feeders of the university crew, and it is

all-important that they should get as much practice as possible, so

that they be taught the regular university crew stroke. The members of

the past year’s crew act as coaches. This is doubly advantageous, for

it both instills the right principles into the crew, and teaches the

coach not only to think about the stroke and to see faults, but also

to learn how they may be corrected, which is of immense advantage to

him when his own work begins.

After the class races the men start work for the university crew. The

captain selects from the class crews the men whom he considers fitted

to train. To this number are added some who, though they may never have

rowed, yet seem to have in them suitable material, and the old crew men

who are not playing football. The work is light, consisting of a daily

short row, and lasts only so long as the water is open.

After the Christmas recess, the real work begins. All through the fall

the “weeding-out” process has been in operation. Now the ranks are once

more filled, mainly with those who have been playing football during

the fall, so that the number of candidates who begin the real training

will be between twenty-five and thirty. Now is the time, therefore,

to ask the questions of what does the training actually consist? what

are the requirements for a crew man? and how are the standards of

excellence to be applied?

We will consider first the training itself. The work will take from

two to three hours a day. During the winter, the men assemble at the

gymnasium at some fixed hour; their clothes are quickly changed,

knickerbockers, running shoes and “sweaters” being substituted, and

the work of the afternoon begins. After a few moments’ work in the

gymnasium, a short run is taken, outside if the weather permits; if

not, inside on the canvas-covered track. A distance of five or six

miles is covered at a pace varying from a fast walk to a sharp trot,

according to the fancy of the captain. On the return to the gymnasium,

after cooling off somewhat after the run, the men in a body go through

a series of exercises designed to limber up the rowing muscles.

Then the men are taken in squads of eight and set to work on the

rowing-machines, or, what is far better, in a tank. A well-built tank

is as much superior to the ordinary rowing-machine as the modern racing

shell is to the old-style racing boat.

A few words will describe a tank. The only one that I know of is at

Yale, and is used by the university crew in their winter work. A wall

a little over three feet in height encloses a space about fifty feet

in length to thirty feet in width in the basement of the gymnasium.

The bottom and sides are cemented and it contains water to the depth

of about two feet. A barge, securely fastened at both ends, lies in

the water. This is of full size and regularly rigged to suit the men.

The blades of the oar have to be either of less width or have a hole

cut in the centre of the blade to diminish the great pressure. The

tank is arranged so as to accelerate the current of water as much as

possible as it is driven by the oars. This current is guided by means

of the curved corners of the tank and by partitions running parallel

to the barge over which the shank of the oar passes. By the stroke,

the water is driven toward the stern outside the partition, _i. e._,

in the channel farthest from the boat, and flows back toward the bow

on the inside. These side partitions come just above the surface of

the water, while a partition about two-thirds as high as those at the

sides runs beneath the boat and practically divides the tank in half,

giving two distinct and separate circular currents. The theory is that

the oarsman’s strength is expended in driving the water round where

ordinarily it is used in sending the boat ahead.

The crew is now seated in the boat, oars in hand, ready for the real

work of the afternoon. The captain or the “coach” stands on the edge of

the tank. At the command “Get ready!” off come the “sweaters,” and the

men come up into position ready for the catch. The coach runs his eye

quickly along the boat, straightens up the men, and satisfies himself

that everything is right. The rowing is now begun and lasts from a half

to three-quarters of an hour. The coach goes completely round the boat

on the edge of the tank, correcting faults, explaining points, often

stopping the crew, and making individual men practice certain difficult

points. At the close of this work the men take a shower-bath, and after

being rubbed down are ready, with hearty appetites, for the supper at

the training table.

Such is the general afternoon’s gymnasium work during the winter. When

spring comes, the tank gives way to the harbor and the gymnasium to the

boat-house. Then the entire time is spent on the water, and the men are

carefully watched by the coach from a steam launch.

The question of the selection of the men is the most difficult point

that the captain and coach have to decide. Of course, certain physical

traits are essential for a crew man, and he must have perfectly sound

heart and lungs. This must be decided by a doctor’s examination. He

must be tough, strong and enduring, and this is shown by the work he

can stand.

But more is required for the modern university crew man. The day of

“beef” and mere strength is past; for rowing has kept up with the

times and it is now the era of skill in rowing. Brain-work is just

as necessary in crew-rowing as muscular exertion. Neither is of use

without the other, the two carefully combined give the winning crew.

So nowadays the crew candidate has to undergo a mental as well as a

physical examination. In passing judgment on these qualifications the

greatest care must be used. Only those men can be selected in whom not

only the captain and the coach, but every man in the boat has full

confidence. This man may not always be the most skillful individual

oarsman, but the fact that the ideal is a _crew_, and that eight must

be chosen who will work as one man, must constantly be kept in mind.

How can a crew row a hard race when there is a feeling that there is

one man in the boat whose “sand” will give out when the final test

comes? Every good crew man must be an enthusiast, a hard and faithful

worker, a conscientious trainer, and a man who feels at all times that

the honor and glory of his university are entrusted to his care.

Too much stress cannot be laid on the subject of harmony in a crew. All

must work with the same will, with the same ideal in view. Often a man

must take the coach’s word for what seems to him in his inexperience

like a fatal blunder. Where there is mutual confidence between crew

and coach, a strict adherence to what is believed to be the right

principles, and honest, faithful work, defeat will come but seldom,

disgraceful defeat never.

Such are the men who make up the university crews of to-day. How these

men are regarded in college may be judged by a remark made this year by

the Dean of Yale. He said, “The rowing men are the best class of men in

college, the men with whom the faculty have the least trouble.”

In conclusion, I would like to say a word in reply to the oft-repeated

question, whether it is beneficial to take part in college athletics.

If I may be permitted to express an opinion after four years of

rowing, I will most certainly answer, yes, for that branch of college

athletics builds a man up physically as every one admits. It does not

prevent a man from standing well in his studies. The men who are most

relied on in a crew are, as a rule, those who make a good showing in

the recitation room. The training a man undergoes as a member of the

university crew sends him out into the world not only with a sound,

healthy body, but also with the habits of regularity, promptness,

obedience, self-control and self-restraint thoroughly ground into him;

in short, with all the personal characteristics that combine to make

a successful man fully developed. I have never found a crew man who

regrets the time and labor he gave to it. Every one loves it with an

affection that only a crew man can understand, and looks back upon it

as one of the most pleasant as well as most profitable parts of his

college course.

[Illustration]

HOW TO TAKE A TRAMP TRIP.

BY LEE MERIWETHER.

Author of “A Tramp Trip; or, Europe on Fifty Cents a Day.”

[Illustration]

When I wrote my book I did not imagine any one would care to take a

Tramp Trip except on paper, hence the brevity of the chapter on “Hints

to Tramp Tourists.” The publication of each new edition, however,

brings forth letters from young men in all parts of the country

requesting further hints and suggestions as to the manner in which

one should set about taking a pedestrian tour, not on paper, but _in

propria persona_ among the people of Europe, as I did. These letters

of inquiry have become altogether too numerous to permit individual

replies. I shall, therefore, try to answer them here, and give, as

briefly as I can, an outline of the way to plan and carry out a

pedestrian trip through Europe.

The first thing, of course, is to decide on the countries to be

visited. “If I cannot see all Europe, which portion shall I see?”

Undoubtedly, Italy, by reason of its history, ruins, art, scenery,

and picturesque people, stands first of all. My own preference would

then take me to Switzerland, next to Germany, then to France, Austria,

Hungary, and so on, to the far East. England I place last on the list,

because, in comparison with the other countries mentioned, it is almost

like America. When I landed at Folkestone after a year on the Continent

and in Asia Minor, the English faces, English language, English cities,

all seemed American--they were so much more American than any of the

things I had been accustomed to. To the student always, and to the

traveler, if fresh from America, England is novel and interesting.

But it is not half so novel or interesting to the mere sightseer as

Continental Europe, hence it stands last on the list.

Assuming that the candidate for pedestrianism agrees with me as to

beginning his tour in Italy, the first step should be to familiarize

himself with Roman and Italian history. He who has read Tacitus and

Gibbon will look with far greater profit and pleasure on the palace of

Nero, the Caprian villas of Tiberius, the rugged walls of Stamboul,

than will a stranger to those authors. As to language, the better the

tourist’s command of Italian, the greater his profit and pleasure;

but he need not be discouraged if without such command, for Italian

is not difficult. A few months’, or even a few weeks’, study of the

grammar, capped by a three-weeks’ voyage to Naples or Palermo in an

Italian steamer, surrounded by Italians, will enable the traveler to

“get along” fairly the first day he lands; and as he proceeds on his

tour, being careful to avoid American consulates and tourists’ hotels

where English is spoken, he will find his command of the language equal

to all ordinary occasions. The dialects in the Neapolitan states, in

Tuscany, Venice, etc., differ one from the other, but not so much so as

to embarrass the traveler who has followed the course indicated above.

He will, unless deficient in acquiring languages, find after the course

I have mentioned that he knows enough to make himself fairly understood

in Naples, Rome, Florence, Venice, or any other Italian city.

Many people have an idea that French is the most essential language for

the traveler in Europe. It is for all except the tramp traveler. In

Spain, Italy, Germany, Russia, Turkey--in short, in any part of Europe,

French is spoken in your five-dollar-a-day hotels, but in workingmen’s

inns it is of little use outside France and French Switzerland. The

most important languages for the _tramp_ traveler are Italian and

German. German, of course, is all that is needed in Germany, Austria

and German Switzerland; in addition it will often be found serviceable

in Belgium, Western Russia, Sweden, and in the southeastern European

States, as Hungary, Servia, Bulgaria and Roumania. Italian is of use,

not only in Italy, but all along the Mediterranean, from Gibraltar

to the Bosporus, and even in the Black Sea ports of Russia, where

Italian commerce has made the people familiar with Italian sailors

for centuries past. My guide and interpreter in Constantinople was a

young scamp of a Turk, who had picked up a colloquial knowledge of the

language from Italian sailors.

It is far more difficult to acquire German, and unless the tramp has

some previous acquaintance with that language, I fear he will fare

badly in the Fatherland. I was fortunate in having some knowledge of

German, acquired by long residence with a German family in America. But

for this I do not think my tramp through Germany and Austria would have

been half so enjoyable and profitable as it was.

As to outfit, little can be said more than is already said in the final

chapter of my book. A knapsack can be bought for two dollars; into

this pack a change of underclothing, a woolen shirt, a note-book, and

a few etceteras, and you are ready for the trip. It is not advisable

to carry fire-arms. The most serviceable weapon is a heavy club or

walking-stick. The possession of a revolver may incur untold trouble in

an Italian _dogana_, and is really of no use, since no one is in the

least likely to attack so shabby a person as the tramp tourist becomes

after a voyage in the steerage across the Atlantic.

The tramp tourist, not having and not requiring much money, need not be

bothered with letters of credit or bills of exchange. Bank of England

notes can be bought in New York for from $4.84 to $4.90 the pound,

according to the rate of exchange. Buy about a hundred Italian lire

($20.00) for immediate use, and put the rest of your funds in English

bank notes, which, for safe keeping, should be buttoned or sewed in

some well-secured inner pocket. These notes can readily be exchanged

anywhere in Europe for the money of the country in which you happen to

be, and as several hundred dollars value can be carried without even

making a lump in the pocket, they form a convenient and reasonably safe

way of carrying one’s funds.

Having arrived at Naples, Palermo, or some other Italian city, the

reader of my “Tramp Trip” will, nine chances to one, say something not

suited to polite society, and not flattering to my veracity. For,

notwithstanding my repeated expositions of Italian trickery, the tramp

fresh from America will overlook some loophole, and the first days of

his arrival, before he is taught by his own experience as well as by

mine, will in all probability be charged, or rather overcharged, as

much as though he were going first-class, with glasses slung over his

shoulder and a red guidebook in his hand. I recall one of my first

experiences in Naples. At a restaurant, before taking a seat, a certain

sum was stipulated upon for a dinner. When it came to settling, the

Italian charged just double the amount agreed on--_perche_? “Because,”

and the rogue shrugged his shoulders as he said it--“because, signore,

you took _two_ pieces of meat instead of one.”

Of course it was a mere cheat, but what can you do? At first you pay,

as I did; later, when you see such things are going to occur, not once

but twenty or a hundred times a day, you lay down the right sum and

walk off.

The tomb of Virgil is a few yards without one of the gates of Naples.

Within the walls cab drivers are limited in their charges by a

tariff--without, they charge what they like, or what they can get. I

knew this, and so when I started for the poet’s grave, I bade the Jehu

stop just inside the gate, where I meant to get out and walk the few

yards to the tomb. But when we reached the gate Jehu drove on through,

despite my remonstrance, saying he wished to let his horse stand

outside in the shade of the wall. On this slight ground he built an

outrageous charge, four times as much as the tariff rate to the gate.

When he had driven me back to the city and I offered him the correct

fare, he fumed like a Turk, swore he would have me arrested, that he

had taken me into the country, into the _campagna_, and that he didn’t

mean to let himself be cheated by a base foreigner. And all the while

he danced and jumped about me, shaking his fist like a madman. When

my curiosity was satisfied, I threw the right fare, one lira, on the

ground, and walked off. Instantly there was a transformation that would

have done credit to a veteran comedian. The cabman, seeing I did not

mean to be cheated, ceased his fierce antics, stooped and picked up the

silver, and waved me an “addio” with a smile as pleasant and as fresh

as a May morn.

In Vienna I stepped into a money-changer’s to buy Turkish money.

“Wait a few minutes,” said the manager, “I must send to the Börse to

see what the exchange is to-day.” I took a seat. In ten minutes the

money-changer came to me with the Turkish gold, and I rose to go. But

in passing out the door a man stopped me and demanded a gulden. “For

what?” “I went to the Börse to find out the exchange.” His going to

the Börse was none of my affair; I refused to pay him forty cents for

running the money-changer’s errand. Then followed a curious scene.

The man threatened to invoke the power of the entire Empire unless he

received his gulden. I told him to invoke. An excited crowd began to

gather and block the narrow street.

“Young man, you are wrong,” shouted one in the crowd. “He went to the

Börse; you must pay him.”

“The law is on his side; you will have to go to jail,” shouted another.

Whereupon I sprang on a box that stood in front of the money-changer’s

window, and harangued the crowd in the best German I could command. I

told them I was traveling to see strange sights; that nothing would

interest me more than an experience in a Vienna jail. “That,” I said,

“will be something to tell my countrymen and make them stare. Come, I

am ready; take me to jail.”

The man who wanted a gulden looked puzzled, but finally made up his

mind to brave it out. Summoning a gendarme, he made his complaint, and

I was placed under arrest. Away we went, followed by a hooting, jeering

crowd, some of whom tried to shake my determination by shouting out the

horrors of an Austrian dungeon. But the gulden not being forthcoming,

there was no change in the line of march, and at length we brought up

at the police station. Here the accuser spoke to me in a low tone,

and said if I would pay half a gulden he would withdraw his charge.

No. Well, ten kreutzers, five--anything, and finally nothing! For,

unwilling or unable to deposit the necessary security for the costs of

the case should he fail to prove his charge, he at length strode away

sullen and furious because he had failed either to frighten or to cheat

me.

I mention these incidents that the reader may understand what

fifty-cents-a-day traveling means. The majority of tourists would

have paid that gulden, and other similar guldens, and thus run their

expenses up to five or ten dollars a day. Perhaps they would rather it

should be twenty dollars than go through such scenes. It all depends

upon one’s “point of view,” as Henry James says. For my part, I

refused to pay that cheating messenger not so much to save my gulden,

as for the sake of the scene. That surly, disappointed churl, the

mob, the scene at the station before the stern gendarmes afforded me

more enjoyment than I could have bought with twenty guldens. I would

advise none to take a tramp trip who cannot, if necessary, enter such

scrimmages with a feeling of positive delight. If you have not that

disposition--if you cannot enjoy this close contact with and study of

the lower classes--stay at home, else will your trip be one not of

delight, but of petty humiliations and counting pennies.

One of the most frequent questions put to me by my inquisitive

correspondents is: “How is it possible to find cheap lodging-places the

_first_ night in strange cities? and if you don’t find them, if you

must go, even temporarily, to a first-class hotel, how is the per diem

to be kept within fifty cents?”

The reason this question is so often asked is because the writers

have never been to Europe, and have never traveled as tramps. They

are thinking of their occasional trips to New York or Philadelphia,

when, with a heavy valise in their hands, they are compelled to go

straightway to an hotel. Different is it with the tramp tourist abroad.

He has nothing but a cane in his hand; his knapsack now fits like

another garment, and is unnoted. So accoutred, he arrives in town,

walks about, sees the sights, and when he sees also the legend “_casa

locanda_” over a door, he stops to investigate. If prices do not suit,

off he goes again, looking until he finds one that does suit. When

that is done he will do well, in stipulating a price, to say over and

over again, “_Tutti compresso_”--everything included--else will he be

obliged to pay not, indeed, more than the five soldi agreed on for the

room, but twenty, thirty, one knows not how many soldi more for the

candle, or the furniture, or the soap, or the water and towels, or

_something_ that was not agreed on. In Verona, home of Juliet, I had

a pitched battle (of words) with a landlord who wanted to charge two

lire (forty cents) extra for the candle, when I had bargained for the

room “_tutti compresso_” for _una mezza lira_ (ten cents). But for that

magic phrase he might possibly have succeeded in his demands--possibly

only, for I had then been in Italy some months, and was not so easily

“squeezed” as the day when first I stepped on her historic soil at

Genoa.

A question sometimes asked is, whether one could work one’s way should

funds give out. I think not. In the first place, labor is so poorly

paid; in the second place, a foreigner could scarcely get work at any

price. I met a Philadelphia cigarmaker in Italy. He had tried in vain

to secure work at his trade--in vain, because he was not a member of

the necessary guilds, or unions. At home he could travel to his heart’s

content, finding work in New York as well as in San Francisco, in St.

Paul as well as in New Orleans. But in Europe he could not get a chance

to make even the forty cents a day that European cigarmakers are able

on the average to earn. It is the same with other trades. I advise the

pedestrian, therefore, not to depend in the least degree on making ends

meet by work anywhere in Europe.

In Eastern Europe pedestrianism is not advisable; the roads are poor,

the villages often few and far between. West of Vienna there are few

districts where the traveler will fail to find excellent roads and

villages every few miles. Indeed, except in places like the Black

Forest in Germany, the Higher Alps in Switzerland, the Pontine Marshes

in Italy, you no sooner leave one village behind you than another

appears in sight before you, so there need be no anxiety about being

overtaken at night “in the woods.”

Baedeker’s Guide-Books are, in my opinion, the best. Besides much

historical information, they contain minute maps and directions as to

finding one’s way about a country. So minute and accurate were the

directions in the Handbook for Switzerland, I was able to find my

way over the most solitary mountain paths without other aid. Meier’s

Guide-Books are cheaper than Baedeker’s, and almost if not quite as

good, but they are printed only in German. Baedeker should be bought

in New York, and carefully studied on the voyage across the Atlantic.

It will prepare the traveler for many necessary details which would

otherwise be learned only by troublesome experience. Be sure to cover

the Baedeker with a quiet-colored cloth or paper, else will its flaming

red binding betray that you are a tourist, and involve you in all of a

tourist’s troubles.

These few hints will, I hope, suffice to start the traveler on his way;

and in concluding I can make him no better wish than that he may derive

as much enjoyment from his journey as I did from my “Tramp Trip.”

[Illustration]

COURSING IN IRELAND.

THE “ENCLOSED” MEETING ON THE MOURNE MOUNTAINS.

BY ROBERT F. WALSH.

In the autumn of last year, I was enjoying a holiday at Rostrevor, in

County Down, Ireland. One bright morning a friend woke me early and

proposed a visit to the Mourne Park Coursing Meeting.

Two hours later we were “on the ground” in Lord Kilmorey’s beautiful

park on the Mourne Mountains. On the road from Rostrevor we had met

numberless sporting people, and men, women and children of all sorts

and conditions on their way to see the fun. I must say the variety of

class that comprised that living stream was almost outrivaled by the

variety of modes of conveyances. Everything, from the common “butt”

or cart, drawn by an old horse whose visit to the tannery was almost

due, to the coach-and-four of the Earl, was brought into requisition to

carry these lovers of sport. There were lords and beggarmen, betting

men and priests, ladies and work-girls, old and young, athletes and

cripples. It was a curious crowd, but most good-humored. All seemed

determined to enjoy their drive through the beautiful scenery of Mourne

and to forget care while the deity of the leash catered for their wants

and amusement. On the ground were collected several thousand pleasure

seekers and sporting men, and about two hundred and fifty beautiful

greyhounds, well cared for and covered with heavy “clothing.” Some of

these dogs, I was told, were worth from $5,000 to $10,000 each, and

many of them had been brought from England and Scotland.

On a gentle slope of the mountain there is a large meadow walled in

on two sides. One end is fenced, but the bottom is open and partly

secured so as to allow the hares to get away from the dogs if they are

lucky enough to reach this “escape.” At the other end of this large

field (nearly half a mile away) there is a V-shaped fence with several

sliding shutters at the bottom. About twenty yards from the point

of this V (in the field) is a screen made of branches, behind which

the “slipper” stands with the brace of dogs ready to be slipped from

the leash when a hare is driven through one of the shutters I have

described.

Some days before the meeting, several hundred hares are driven from

the mountains into the shrubbery or “enclosure” directly behind the

V-shaped fence. This enclosure is about forty acres in extent, and when

the sport begins, the hares are collected near the shutters.

When the dogs are handed over to the slipper and all is ready, the

“slip-steward” signals to the beaters and opens one shutter, which is

immediately closed again when a hare appears. Then begins the fun. The

hare is allowed nearly one hundred yards start before the dogs are

slipped. When the slipper is certain that both dogs have sighted their

fleet-footed prey, he pulls the string and off they go. Picture two

beautiful dogs, with straining necks, careering headlong after a little

hare which knows they are seeking her death. On they go at almost

lightning pace, and as they near the hare, one shoots ahead and makes

a drive at the “quarry”; but “puss” is too cunning and suddenly turns

from her pursuers. Then the dogs get closer and closer. Sometimes one

leads, sometimes the other; but puss doubles as often as they get close

to her “scut,” and so the hunt continues until the death or escape of

the hare.

The onlookers are breathlessly intent as they watch and count the

“points” scored by each dog in the course. Then, finally, madame

escapes or one dog “drives” right into her and kills; or, perhaps, in

her endeavor to turn from the leader, she is caught and killed by the

dog behind.

At the Mourne Park Coursing Meeting, I learned that it was not always

the dog which killed that won the course. It was explained to me in

this way: The “run up” to the hare, that is, the first dog that “turns”

or causes her to swerve to one side or other, counts one or two points

according to whether the hare is turned on the inside or outside of the

line of the course. Every turn after this counts one point.

A “go-by,” that is, where the second dog passes the first by one clear

length after the first turn, counts two, and the death counts one point

off the other dog’s turn, or two off the turn of the dog that kills.

In this way, a clever dog may often beat a much faster one, as was the

case when Snowflight won the Waterloo Cup--“the blue ribbon of the

leash.” The “Cups,” “Plates,” or “Purses” are all run off in ties. The

names of all the dogs entered for each stake are placed in a hat the

evening before the meeting, and are drawn out one by one. The first and

second drawn run the first course, and so on until the entire number

are drawn. Then, as is the case in most games or sports where matches

are contested for in ties, the winner of the first course runs against

the winner of the second, the winner of the third against that of the

fourth, etc., until only two dogs remain. And then is run the final

tie, on the result of which, in an important meeting, many thousands of

pounds are bet.

The sport seemed to me to be much more exciting than horse-racing.

I noticed also that the betting fraternity have much more scope for

their “trade” at a coursing meeting than on a race-course. Along the

fence were hundreds of “book-makers” placing their bets and incessantly

yelling their changes in “the price” of each dog as the vagaries of the

hare made it more difficult to decide which would win.

But the principal betting takes place on the evening before the

meeting, when the “draw” has been arranged. The chairman (usually a

nobleman and president of the club) calls out the names of each dog.

Then _vive voce_ bets are offered and taken, and repeated by the

chairman, first at “long odds” on the chance of an individual dog

winning the stake, and afterwards on the individual courses. The “long

odds” betting ranges from even money on a favorite to five hundred

to one against an outsider or unknown contestant. The betting on

the individual courses is, naturally, much closer. At meetings like

Waterloo, Gosforth Park Gold Cup Meeting, or at Epsom, where the prize

for the winner has often been $50,000--upwards of $1,000,000 change

hands on the different results. Report says that ten times that amount

has been invested about the Waterloo Cup, months before the meeting

takes place.

In my description of the sport I have almost forgotten to tell the

impression it produced on me. It is truthfully this: I was fascinated

by its excitement and uncertainty, and so thoroughly pleased was I with

my first day’s coursing that I traveled many a mile to be present at

other meetings before I left the Green Isle.

[Illustration]

YSLETA.

BY E. HOUGH.

’Pache and I were tired. There was not any question about that. Fifty

miles since morning, without getting out of the saddle, either one of

us--though ’Pache always tried to get out of the saddle every morning,

and sometimes nearly did.

’Pache was my horse. At least he was before Bill Stitt’s gang stole

him. Now, why did they ever steal ’Pache, I wonder? The ugliest horse

on earth without doubt, the dirtiest clay-bank that ever was, and the

most simple, ingenuous, unexpected, naïve bucker! But ’Pache had the

black streak down his back which plainsmen prize; and for a long goer

he was hard to beat. Farewell, ’Pache! God bless you, you miserable

india-rubber demon, wherever you may be now!

’Pache and I were tired. No question of it. And hungry? ’Pache took

a piece out of my leggings once in a while, to testify to that. And

thirsty? Yes, pretty thirsty; but we knew it was forty miles between

water-holes, so we loped on, heads down, joints loose; loppity-lop,

loppity-lop, loppity, loppity, lop, lop, lop.

’Pache struck a trot at the foot of the long climb up the Sierra

Capitan divide. In and out among the cañons, winding around where it

was easy to get lost--for by only one combination of these cañons was

it possible for a horseman to cross this divide--and going up all the

time. ’Pache coughed; it sounded dull. I tried to whistle; it sounded

as small as a cambric needle.

The black piñon hills hustled and huddled and crowded up together,

frightened by the threatening fingers of the Capitans--a lonesome

range, the Capitans--a lonesome, waterless range. Spirits and demons

in these hills, said the natives. The biggest cinnamon bears on earth

in them, said the hunters, and black-tail deer so old they wore

spectacles; and elk, and maybe plesiosauri and mastodons, for aught I

know.

Tradition said there was a lake of water up on top of the highest peak.

Tradition said you could find pieces of smoky topaz up there as big as

your fist. Tradition said there was a cave over in the middle of the

range, painted blue inside, and walled up in front, and with the whole

interior covered with strange characters. Tradition said that one Señor

José Trujillo had found, not far from this cave, a large piece of stone

covered with sign-writing no one could read--a second Rosetta stone.

Tradition said that Señor Trujillo dwelt in a little _placita_ hidden

somewhere back in the Capitans.

’Pache and I topped the divide. Did anybody say we were tired? Did any

one believe that for a minute? That was a mistake. Why, when you throw

off this chrysalis of pain and grief, when you drop your poor, sad

mockery of a body, and pull up over the Range, you’re not going to be

_tired_, are you? Are they tired on Pisgah? Are wings going to be tired

like legs and arms and brains? No. Because--well, ’Pache knew that much.

A soft breeze from the south reached us upon the crest, and at its

touch there hummed through ’Pache’s head the words of Goethe’s song in

“Wilhelm Meister,”

“Ein sanfter Wind vom blauen Himmel weht;”

and the refrain,

“Kennst du das Land?”

And, verily, the Italy for which Mignon sighed might have been this

that lay before us, stretching on and on in long lifts and falls of

hills and valleys; in architecture of the ribs of eternity; in color

the sum of Nature’s grand and simple touch. You can’t mix that! You

can’t paint in royal purple, argent and aurum run together in one

liquid, unburning fire! Take it up on a knife-blade, and perhaps it

wouldn’t drop off. It wouldn’t run. But spread on by the brush of

the Eternal hand, mellowed in the middle distance, softened in the

background by the rays of the evening sun--there was color, above art,

above description, above talk, above thought almost, fit to make ’Pache

and me despair.

Off in the other direction, to the northwest, stretched the black

foothills, and beyond them the brown and level plains, waterless,

endless. That way--home lay that way, once. But if ’Pache and I should

gallop night and day, we wouldn’t be as far as we see, and we wouldn’t

have reached the nearest water-hole.

Tired? Why, we were on the crest of the divide, on the uplift of the

earth, above the earth and its ailments. I could feel ’Pache’s wings

under the saddle-flaps!

And ’Pache lifted up his head, whereon the mane was lightly blowing,

and pitched his ears forward and neighed loud and cheerily. And some

Valkyr steed behind a flat rock heard him and laughed at him, and so

did another, and so did many others; and spirits came out and jeered at

’Pache, and small demons afar off mocked at him, and trumpet-calls for

the assembly of the spirits of the mountains echoed and called back to

us, fainter and fainter, passing on to the regions of the inner range.

They might have had the Holy Grail in there in those wild heights,

those spirits of the Capitans. I do not know. There might be better

than ’Pache and I to send for it!

Down the long reaches on the other side we rattled, in and out,

loppity, loppity, loppity; down into cañons which grew darker as the

sun went down. ’Pache didn’t mind it now. He knew where he was, and

into his wise, yellow head came visions of a pint of hard, blue Mexican

corn, and a whole _rio_ full of water. Happy ’Pache!

But what made the creature stick his ears forward so, and throw

his head up, and look around at me out of the corner of his eye?

Anything to make a fellow hitch his belt around a little? Ah! There

it was. Piñon smoke! The faint, pungent odor came up the cañon quite

unmistakably now, and ’Pache and I knew that someone had gone into

camp down on the _rio_, more than a mile below. We had expected to

camp there that night ourselves, though it wasn’t plain what we’d

have to eat, outside that one pint of Mexican corn, unless Providence

should favor a pin-hook, or send a cotton-tail our way. So ’Pache and I

scrambled up out of the cañon, at a shallow place, and reconnoitered a

bit.

Greasers--a man and a boy--a bull-team--empty--going home from the Fort.

’Pache turned up his nose in disgust. How he did hate Greasers!

We scrambled back into the cañon, and came down the trail on a run, in

great style, to show the Greaser outfit that, though we had traveled

far, there was still some life in us. ’Pache stopped short at the edge

of the wagon, and fell to stealing corn, while his rider threw the

bridle down and advanced to the campers, saying, “_Como l’va?_”

“_Como la va, Señor?_” said the elder Mexican; and soon he added,

seeing that I did not ride on, “_Que queres?_”

“_Quero comar_,” said I, briefly and to the point--which is to say, “I

want to eat.”

“_O, si, muy bien!_” said he, smiling gravely, and with a real dignity

handing me the camp frying-pan, and then poking the embers up around

the coffee-pot. They had just finished their supper.

What there was in that frying-pan I never knew. I only know there was

less when I got through than when I began. I dared look at it only

once, and then saw a greenish-looking semi-liquid which would have

done to tell fortunes over. I suspect _chili verde_ and sheep; maybe

cotton-tail, perhaps flour--_possibly_ onions.

After supper I led ’Pache down to drink. He would have died of thirst

before he would have left off stealing corn. It was a matter of

principle with him!

It was a beautiful place, this wild little mountain spot, and the big

clumsy _carro_ and the broad-horned oxen hardly detracted from the

picturesque, neither did the half-wild teamsters who lay stretched out

on the ground. The stream, troutful and delicious, poured melodiously

by, just big enough to hold one-pounders. The cañon walls swept

widely out into a perfect amphitheatre, back of which rose the solemn

Capitans, now of a wondrous, mournful purple in the dying sunlight.

The evening chill was coming on. The big stars were showing. The _rio_

babbled vaguely, whispering of cold, black mountain depths beyond;

grieving, maybe, that no man had ever been found good enough to attain

the Holy Grail.

Alone, ’Pache and I would not have been lonesome. We would have lain

down there with our one blanket and slept the sleep of the ingenuously

wicked, as calmly as two babes. But now the two-legged gregariousness

came out. The Greasers were yoking up their cattle. They were going to

pull out. It would be lonesome. We would go too.

No, it didn’t matter where. The trip to the Fort might wait. _Mañana.

Poco tiempo._ After a while. What was the difference?

I approached the elder Greaser, as with much liquid, beautiful Southern

profanity he labored with his lead yoke. I did not offer him money

in return for his supper, for I knew he would not take it under the

circumstances. There are a few gentlemen in the mountains, though they

are mostly getting killed off.

“_Yo vamos_,” said my Mexican, smiling and showing a good set of teeth.

“_Quantos milas a placita?_” (How many miles to the village?) I asked,

boldly, guessing that he couldn’t be far from home, since he was

starting out with a full team at that time of day.

“_Sies_,” said he, soberly and politely, as one who says,

“Good-evening.” Indeed, he soon added, “_Adios!_”

But I made _mille gracias_ for my supper, and begged a thousand

pardons, too. And could I not accompany him to the _placita_? Consider,

it was late, it was far to the Fort; I had no _serape_. Moreover, I was

most anxious to learn of one Señor José Trujillo, who had found a stone.

The Greaser brightened up, smiled, and said that though there was not

Señor Trujillo, there were plenty of stones in the _placita_, which,

_por Dios!_ I might buy. Stones through which one could barely see; as

well as some of blue. _Oh, Si._ I might _vamos tambien_.

These half-savage hill people are not fond of having Americans come to

their villages; but they cannot resist the fascination of exchanging

smoky topaz and turquoise for silver _pesos_. I said nothing further,

but set out with my new companions, not caring much how far we went, or

where. One leaves his senses at the edge of the Capitans.

We pulled down along the _rio_ a half mile or so, half in half out

of the water, slipping on the stones, swishing in the stream which

whispered up to ’Pache and me not to go on, and clanking over stones

which sent up dull, grating objurgations at us through the water. Then

we left the stream and entered a black-mouthed cañon which tunneled

sharp north, right into the Capitans.

The wonderful Southern moon swam stately up the blue sky and silvered

the hills above us, and once in a while shed its light into the cañon.

The bull-team plodded and coughed. The big _carro_ creaked and groaned.

The Greaser swore musically.

The moon climbed higher; lit up the cañon, glorified the peaks beyond,

softened and melted the rocks along the trail into white, trembling

heaps of silver. I dismounted from ’Pache, and tied him at the end of

the _carro_. As a matter of courtesy, I hung my belt and .45 over the

pommel of the saddle; but, as a matter of fact, I kept a tidy .41 in

its usual dwelling-place. In case of any foolishness, I thought the

.41 would do. It is always well to be polite; but it is always well

also to have a reserve fund when you are dealing with human nature,

Greaser or white, in mountains or city.

“_O toros_, sons of infants of sin, name of the devil and twelve

saints, bowels of St. Iago, can ye not _vamos_, then? It is late.

_Vamos_, refuse of the earth, _vamos_!”

I inferred that my host was a domestic sort of Greaser. I heard him say

that their being so late would cause the _madre_ to be in wonder. And

the boy replied, “_Si; y Ysleta._” (“Yes, and Ysleta also.”)

Ysleta? What a pretty name! Then I laughed and winked at ’Pache.

Ysleta would be thirty years old, and would weigh 230 pounds. Bah! You

couldn’t fool ’Pache and me!

We groaned into the placita somewhere before midnight. ’Pache sat up

all night and stole corn, but I rolled in under the wagon, dead tired,

and was asleep in a minute.

II.

I awoke in Palestine.

There was the broken, bare-hilled country I had seen in the pictures

pored over when I was a child. There were the short, black, scrubby

trees, just as I had pictured them on the Mount of Olives. There were

the low, flat-roofed, earth-covered houses. There were the flocks,

attended by the shepherds. There was Esau, shaggy, swart and fierce.

And there--why, _buenas dias_, Rebecca! But who would have expected to

see you at the well so early in the day, Rebecca?

_Olla_ on her head, the Mexican girl walked down to the well. Walked,

did I say? We have but the one word for it. It means, also, the stumpy

stumble of our deformed American women. Let us say that this girl did

not walk, but swam upright over the ground, as angels do in a fairy

spectacular, with a wire at the waist, scorning the ground.

At the well the girl rested the big jar on the curb, and stood looking

toward the east, falling into poses of pure grace and beauty as

naturally as a shifting scene of statuary--the poses of a noble, grand

and normal physical life, ripe and untrammeled for centuries. That they

were not poses for effect, or at least for the spectator under the

wagon, was very plain, for when I crawled out and appeared, the girl

screamed, left her water-jar, and ran into the house near by. “So, this

is Palestine,” thought I. “I wonder where is Jacob?”

The inhabitants of the little placita, fifty or sixty in number,

perhaps, turned out _en masse_ to see the _Americano_. Doubtless there

were those among them who had never before seen a white man. I do not

think curiosity was altogether mingled with approbation, though no

positive distrust was shown beyond a black look or two.

It was not altogether a comfortable situation. I could assign, even to

my own mind, only the flimsiest reasons for my intrusion; and it did

seem almost as much an intrusion as if I had forced my way into a home

uninvited. I sighed at my own foolishness, made my morning salutations,

bought three pieces of turquoise, and then coming swiftly to the point,

said I was hungry. ’Pache didn’t say anything. He wasn’t hungry. He bit

an occasional piece out of an unwary dog, but he just did that for fun.

He wasn’t hungry.

With that grave courtesy which is coin sterling the world round, the

centuries through, these simple people asked me into a house, invited

me to sit upon a sheepskin mat, and brought me what they had.

After breakfast I found that the little crowd had dispersed, though

where they went was not apparent. Many of the men, Italian fashion,

followed the business of wood-cutting in the hills, and quite a little

troop of pannier-laden burros could be seen moving down the trail bound

for the Fort with their big burdens of piñon wood.

I wandered about the little place, which soon sank into apathy again,

and approached several houses under pretense of wishing to buy some

smoky topaz. As I stopped at the door of one I heard an exclamation--

“Ysleta! _el Americano_.”

I waited at the door till I was invited by a stout and wrinkled dame to

enter. I did so, and found two other women within; one a young woman of

no especial noteworthiness; the third--Ysleta--the most beautiful woman

I ever saw or expect to see. She was the girl at the well; the Ysleta

spoken of by my companions of the night before.

Where this girl got her wonderful dowry I do not know. Beauty is not

common among the lower caste Mexicans, though good eyes, hair and teeth

are the rule. Yet here was a beauty faultless at every point, a royal

beauty which would have become a queen, and with it the queenly grace

and superiority which beauty arrogates as of right unto itself, no

matter who may be its possessor, or in what land it may be found. And

well it may. There is nothing really nobler than a grand human form,

just as God thought it. Conscious of the sins of our ancestors still

alive in our own misfit forms, we are ashamed and humbled before the

fruit of unhurt nature, and we reverence it, appeal to it, almost dread

it.

But if Ysleta knew, consciously or unconsciously, that she was

beautiful, she was as yet unspoiled by flattery, and, moreover, there

appeared in her air a certain humility, a gentle dependence. Advanced

thinkers among women will labor a long time before men cease to love

this in a woman--no matter what they may theoretically conclude.

Taken as she was, this half-wild creature would cause in New York or

Washington society a stir which no “professional beauty” has ever yet

approached.

Seated on the floor, clad in the lightest attire, Ysleta was a model

such as painters do not often find. It seems to me almost sacrilege

for a man ever to attempt a description of a beautiful woman. It isn’t

quite right. There is something wrong about it. Especially is it wrong

where justice is impossible; and that is the case here. I know that

the girl’s hair was very long and silky, quite free from the usual

Mexican coarseness, and her eyes were very clear and soft. Her half

sitting, half reclining position showed every supple line of a perfect

figure: such a figure as in three generations would make reform schools

needless, churches only half so needful, and doctors a forgotten thing.

Ysleta sat on the floor. In her arms she held a young child. As the

stranger entered, she, with some slight confusion, started and turned

half about, looking up with wondrous, wondering eyes. But in a short

time she was again absorbed in the infant, which she now rolled and

caressed as if it were a kitten, and now regarded thoughtfully, with

a wondering, puzzled look, half awed, and with so great a mother-love

shining in her eyes as made one almost hold his breath. Ysleta left me

to the others. What time had she for aught else in life, when here, in

her arms, was this strange and most wonderful gift--moving, living,

crying, laughing?

Ysleta held up the child before her face. In her gaze was all the

melancholy of youth, all the infinite sadness and mystery of love,

and all the immeasurable tenderness of the maternal feeling. The poor

girl’s face was so tender, so innocent, so dependent! I think the

Recording Angel has more than one tear for Ysleta’s fault. With face

illuminated she gazed at the child. Her eyes softened, swam, fairly

melted--nay, they did melt.

“_Muchachito!_” she murmured; “_muchachito mio! Ah, carissimo mio!

Americano mio!_”

“My American!” Then Ysleta broke into a storm of sobs, and rocked her

boy in her arms, with a big cry for something which she didn’t have.

Perhaps the sight of a white face, even though that of a stranger,

touched some tender spot. As quickly as I could, and with a feeling

that Providence hadn’t got all the kinks out of the world yet, I went

away.

This is Ysleta’s story, as her father, the _carretero_, told me.

“It was one day at the _fiesta_ in the large town. Ysleta had not been

from the _placita_ before that day.

“Ysleta had not made any sin, but she felt sad, as if she had made

a sin. Therefore she went to the _padre_. The _padre_ was busy with

others, richer, and Ysleta must wait. Ysleta had not made any sin, but

she was sad. She stood at the door of the church. All was new to her.

She was afraid.

“There came to Ysleta, so she has said, an _Americano_. He was not as

the men of this country. His skin was white, his hair yellow, his eyes

blue. Ysleta thought he was more than a man. Perhaps he was less than a

man. She loved him, doubtless. Such things are. Why? _Quien sabe?_”

“Was Ysleta married to _el Americano_? Señor, I am a man of travel and

of knowledge. I have been twenty _leguas_ from this spot. Therefore, it

is plain that I know easily what marriage is. But Ysleta--Ysleta is a

hill girl. It is not alike. I asked of Ysleta if she was married, and

she said, ‘_Si_,’ for that she loved, and would love no other. Is that

marriage? Who knows? I believe Ysleta thinks so.

“There is no mother here who loves a child as Ysleta loves hers. It is

not good, so much to love. But Ysleta loves no man. ‘I am _esposa_,’

says Ysleta.

“_El Americano?_ It is not known. He disappeared. He never came back.

Ysleta has of him a picture, not painted as the saints in the church

are painted. And she has a paper; but what the paper may say we do not

know here. He is gone. And Ysleta grieves. And because Ysleta grieves

and will not love any young man, the young men will kill you to-night,

since you, too, are _Americano_.”

“Thanks!” said I, as this last information was calmly conveyed.

“Thanks, awfully; but, excuse me, I believe I will _vamos_. Sorry to

inconvenience your young gentlemen, but really--!” And I exchanged a

glance of intelligence with ’Pache, who nodded and winked in reply.

I gave my watch-chain to Ysleta and the little fellow; and which

admired it more I could not say. I further divided my few _pesos_ among

the simple folks, and rode away with such store of smoky topaz that I

wouldn’t have liked a hard run down the cañon with it behind the cantle.

I rode away, thinking of the most beautiful woman I ever saw; perhaps

the saddest, also. Poor girl! Born to a wealth the wealthiest woman on

earth would envy, she was a beggar in happiness. A child of nature, a

creature of the outer air, an Undine-woman of the hills, she suffered

and lost her simple joy forever, when, at the touch of what we call

a higher civilization, she felt the breath of what we call a higher

love, and groaned at the birth in her heart of what we call a soul.

As in some quiet court, sheltered from every wind, and turned always

to the rays of the stimulating sun, some rare fruit, waxy-cheeked and

tender, ripens and swells into full perfection, knowing no reason for

its access save the unquestioned push of nature’s hand--as this fruit

shrinks and shivers at the breath of a fence-breaking northern wind, so

Ysleta, thoughtless as a fruit, as ripe, as sweet, as soulless, shrank

and shivered at the marauding breath of feelings new to her--the breath

of the mystery and the sorrow of a lasting love. I wondered about this.

I wondered about it one day as I rode up where, morning, noon and

night, spring, summer and autumn, the broad, white, snowy arms of the

undying Holy Cross lie stretched out on the Sangre de Christo range. I

wondered if those arms didn’t stretch over the poor hill-girl as much

as over the _Americano_ who, with tinkling spur, and light song on his

lips, rode out through the hills, up through the cañons, up to the

gate of the little valley--Launcelot bringing the curse to the Lady of

Shalott!

“’Pache,” said I, “I’m disgusted. What does all this civilized life

amount to? It only brings curses with it. Let us go into the hills. Let

us run wild, and never be heard of again. Let us forget a world whose

business it is to forget us as fast as it can. Come. There are two of

us. We’re not afraid. What do you say? Shall we go back?”

But ’Pache shook his head.

I yielded with a sigh; and so I went on out through the Capitans,

overruled by ’Pache. I don’t believe ’Pache liked the Mexican corn.

Out from the Capitans, which still rose grim, mysterious, silent,

unexplored--out from the spirits which guard the Holy Grail. ’Pache and

I couldn’t find it. I think--I feel sure--that no man will ever find

it. But I believe that if Ysleta came and sought it, the demons and

spirits of the Capitans would cease mocking, and stand hand on mouth. I

believe the wide gates would open; that the white-garmented angels of

the inner shrine would draw back to let Ysleta by, and that the Grail

would glow red and pure and warm to let itself be taken in her hand.

’Pache and I went down the cañon; heads down; loppity-lop, loppity-lop.

’Pache, you clay-colored, india-rubber angel, God bless you, wherever

you are!

A RAINY DAY.

The clouds have darkened down again,

And all the world is sad with rain,

As if the dead of many years

Were all awake and shedding tears.

Before the window-pane I stand

And gaze upon the reeking land,

Till I am cold and damply blue,

Dejected quite, and shivering too.

Roll up, thou blesséd luxury,

Thou ample arm-chair made for me!

Roll up before the open fire,

Whose merry flames leap high and higher.

I’d rather watch these devils play,

Than see the angels weep all day!

Bring me my pipe, whose ample bowl

Is filled with that which cheers the soul;

Soft comfort’s very essence lies

In the weed which only fools despise!

Bring, too, a glass with taper waist,

Broad, shallow, and demurely chaste;

Meet vessel for the quickening wine

That knoweth not chill sorrow’s brine!

The clinging smoke curls lovingly

About, as if caressing me;

And with a most entrancing pop,

The wine flows forth with gems atop,

Which, sparkling, burst in tiny spray

As if small sprites were there at play.

The dreary drip I cannot see--

I sip my “Clicquot” cozily,

And need no further joy than this,

Together with my meerchaum’s kiss.

The weather’s just as bright for me,

As if the sun were high and free!

So what care I for all the rain?

I’m happy till it shines again!

_H. J. Livermore._

[Illustration: Editor’s Open ~Window~.]

~Outing~ begins another volume under the most favorable

auspices. The twelfth volume inaugurated many changes. Baseball was

made a feature, the Records were restored, the art work was greatly

improved, the variety of each number became the object of special

study, and so the volume grew in improvements with each successive

issue from April to September. The present number speaks for itself.

~Outing~ does not make fair promises simply to break them.

Its present management believes in the performance rather than

in the pledge. When the changes were inaugurated last spring, no

startling announcement heralded a new era. The improvements were not

even pointed out from month to month. The remarkable superiority of

~Outing’s~ constituency over that of general sporting papers is

an acknowledged fact. Our readers exact a high standard of excellence,

and ~Outing~ proposes to reach that standard.

The rapidly growing interest in sport and athletics broadens the field

for ~Outing~ considerably. Clubs are organizing daily, and it

is difficult indeed to serve all sections of this vast and growing

country as well as all the rest of the English-speaking world without

neglecting here and there, at times, this or that particular sporting

body or game--but in the end ~Outing~ will cover the field,

and no organization entitled to representation in this magazine shall

long have reason to complain of neglect at the hands of a management

determined ere another volume is begun to have all fair-minded people

acknowledge as the ~World’s~ best illustrated magazine of

recreation, our own beloved ~Outing~.

* * * * *

~Outing~ is delighted to find its esteemed contemporary, the

_Canadian Sportsman_, so thoroughly appreciative of the excellence

of the August number as to reprint entire the article “A Rare Fish”

under the _original_ title, “The Famous Winninishe.” Unfortunately,

the _Canadian Sportsman_ forgot to tell its readers that the article

originally appeared in the pages of ~Outing~.

* * * * *

THE RICHMOND BICYCLE TOURNAMENT.

The bicycle tournament to be given at Richmond, Va., under the auspices

of the Old Dominion Wheelmen, October 23d and 24th, promises to be an

interesting affair. The races will be on a new half-mile track, now

being laid by the Mechanical and Industrial Exposition of Old Virginia.

The program of races, eighteen in number, is varied and includes nearly

all classes of bicycle riding. The prizes are sufficiently tempting

to attract all lovers of the wheel, professionals as well as amateurs.

Entries must be made to Alexander H. Meyers, 601 East Broad Street,

Richmond, Va., on or before October 20th.

* * * * *

BOWLING.

The bowling season began last month. Although it has hardly yet got

into full swing, the indications are that bowling is increasing in

popularity. The outdoor season of all kinds of sports just now drawing

to a close has been remarkably successful. It is a healthy sign that

gentlemen, and, for that matter, gentle women are becoming more and

more impressed with the necessity of taking exercise. No better

stimulant can be indulged in than a half-hour’s exercise in a good ball

alley and a tussle at bowling.

* * * * *

[Illustration: SETH GREEN.]

Seth Green, whose name will be associated with pisciculture as long as

the artificial reproduction of fishes is known, died at his home in

Rochester, August 20, in the seventy-second year of his age.

To those who knew personally, as the writer did, the strong, rugged,

gray-headed and grizly-bearded man, whose appearance seemed to

indicate a longer life of usefulness, the announcement came like

a shock. But it had been known to others for some months that the

grand old “Father of Fishes,” as he was sometimes called, was lying

hopelessly ill, and that his precious charges at Caledonia Springs--the

little fishes--would know him no more. Mr. Green had from his early

youth the tastes of the sportsman, and, with the proper education,

would have made a great naturalist. He had great powers of observation;

even in ascertaining such minutiæ as whether fishes can hear.

In 1864 Mr. Green bought a piece of property at Caledonia Springs, near

Rochester, and his success in raising trout there was so great as to

lead many others to embark in the business in different parts of the

State. Dr. Theodatus Garlick had preceded him in the successful raising

of trout, but not to a sufficient extent to detract from Mr. Green’s

fame as a great trout breeder.

As a pisciculturist, however, Mr. Green will be best remembered for

his discovery that the eggs of certain sea fishes, particularly the

shad, require a continuous motion of the water to prevent the eggs

from adhering to each other. The floating shad-box which bears his

name, was the result of this discovery. Although it was superseded by

the invention of Mr. Fred Mather, and later by the hatching jar of

Colonel McDonald, Fish Commissioner of the United States, the credit

of the discovery belongs to Mr. Green. Mr. Green was at one time Fish

Commissioner of the State, with the Hon. Horatio Seymour and the Hon.

R. B. Roosevelt. Of late years, however, he had been Superintendent of

the State Fish Hatchery at Caledonia Springs.

He was a voluminous writer on the subject of fishes. He edited the

Angler’s column of the _American Angler_, and wrote, in conjunction

with Mr. Roosevelt, a charming little book called “Fish Hatching and

Fish Catching.”

~F. Endicott.~

* * * * *

YACHT RACING RESULTS.

Whether yachting is an expensive pastime or not, it certainly is

popular and growing in favor every year. The waning season of 1888

shows a marked increase in the American pleasure fleet over that of

1887, with a proportionate number of new yacht owners--not all owners

of new yachts, however, for there are plenty of old ones fast enough

and shapely enough to satisfy the average business man, who does not

care to order a new boat. So versatile are our yacht designers and

builders of the present day, that one can have his order filled at

short notice for a sloop or schooner, while just as fine a cutter of

the most pronounced type may be had without crossing the Atlantic.

Although the first half of the season gave us but little racing worth

chronicling, the latter half, beginning with the New York Yacht Club’s

cruise, gave promise of some lively work, and, what is better, some

surprising results.

It is an acknowledged fact among yachtsmen who witnessed the races for

the Martha’s Vineyard cups, and the two following, where the schooners

_Sea Fox_, _Sachem_ and _Grayling_ did such remarkably close sailing,

that it was the finest schooner racing for the distance ever seen in

these waters. Moreover, the victory of the old cutter _Bedouin_ over

the new sloop _Katrina_ has brought the “keel or centreboard, cutter or

sloop” question to the front again, with odds a good deal in favor of

the cutter.

The events of the cruise have shown us that there is quite as much

genuine sport in schooner racing as there is in big sloop contests, for

two new schooners, the _Alert_ and _Sea Fox_--the first a heavy keel

cruising boat, the second a light centreboard craft, built for racing

purposes--have, by their recent performances, shown themselves to be

very dangerous antagonists to their class rivals. The _Marguerite_,

_Elma_, _Enone_, _Tampa_, and other new schooners of this year, have

not been entered with the crack yachts of their class, so no fair

estimate can be formed of their stability or speed, but among the

new sloops and cutters the results have been very satisfactory. The

_Puritan_ and _Mayflower_ have fought it out nobly to windward and

leeward, the _Genesta’s_ rival proving more than a match for the

_Mayflower_ under some conditions. In the smaller classes, the old

sloop _Bertie_ easily disposed of her class-mates, and, the _Pappoose_,

that famous little cutter from Boston, outsailed everything in her

class in all conditions of weather.

The season thus far has given the sloop men and the cutter men plenty

of food for thought, and the results bring them back to the question,

“Will the English challenge for the cup next year; and if so, with what

yacht?”

It is safe to say that an International contest for the Cup in 1889

is a certainty, and that a compromise cutter of Watson design, and

one that will sail in our 60-foot class, will be the challenger. Mr.

Ralli’s _Yarana_, for instance, the handsome cutter that ever since her

_début_ last spring has been winning races from the _Patronilla_ and

the famous _Irex_, might, if she were sent over, prove a good match for

our _Shamrock_, _Titania_, or _Katrina_. Of course we believe that when

Burgess or Carey Smith or Ellsworth are called upon to design a sloop

to beat the world, each of them will produce something very fast, but

it is nevertheless a fact that Watson’s latest production has all the

beauty of the _Thistle_, with none of her faults, and plenty of speed

both to windward and before it. So if the public have been disappointed

because they saw no international race this season, they may be sure of

one next that will amply repay them for waiting.

With commendable enterprise, the New York Yacht Club has decided to

have a fall race every season. The first one will be sailed late in

this month, when strong breezes and fine racing may be looked for; at

any rate, it will bring together most of the new and old fliers, and

probably give us better results than the spring regattas have.

~J. C. Summers.~

* * * * *

CANOEING.

THE NINTH ANNUAL A. C. A. MEET AT LAKE GEORGE.

Canoe building is becoming quite as much a science as yacht building.

The boat that won nearly all the sailing races and made the highest

record ever attained at an A. C. A. meet was built by the same man

who turned out Dr. Rice’s paddling canoe, which won the paddling

championship--Ruggles, of Rochester. M. V. Brokaw, of Brooklyn, who

sailed the _Eclipse_, did excellent work, but no better than Paul

Butler, who sailed canoe _Fly_ beautifully. Never before has so fine

a lot of canoes been at the meet and sailed in the races. A large

proportion of the canoes that entered the races were well built,

perfectly finished, smooth, clear and clean, and very lightly, yet

strongly, rigged. The influence of Mr. Barney’s success in canoe

_Pecowsic_ in 1886 and 1887 was very clearly seen in the rigs at the

meet this year. It will be remembered that the _Pecowsic_ had five

sails, all of different sizes, laced to the masts, incapable of being

reefed, only two of which were used at one time, or in one race. The

power of the wind at the start governed the selection of the two most

fitting for the particular day. Once started in the race, no changes

could be made. Many canoes this year carried the standing rig, notably

_Eclipse_. The standing rig is a bad thing, more especially if the

sail cannot be folded up easily and stowed, as was the case with many.

Butler and the Lowell men had by far the best sails in camp--reefing

sails, well cut, neatly bent, all of one piece of cloth, with no bites

in them, so the muslin spread a perfectly smooth surface to the wind

when flattened down by the sheets for work, on trim and scientifically

shaped spars.

One lesson Mr. Barney taught the canoeist which has come home very

forcibly to the many, and will not soon be forgotten--the very great

advantage of lightness in masts, spars and rigs generally, as well as

in the canoes themselves, especially lightness aloft. A very general

movement in this direction has set in, and many very clever devices

were noticeable at the meet to gain this point without loss of strength.

The perfect sailing canoe and rig have not yet been made. The

improvements and progress each year only serve to put the goal still

higher and keep showing larger possibilities all the time. Methods of

building have been wonderfully improved, and the metal fittings that

are now used are marvels of mechanical skill. The secret of it all is

the very great rivalry in canoe sailing, and the many minds continually

working out improvements to attain greater speed.

The racing this year in some ways, was a marked advance over that of

last year--the boats of the fleet sailed better. No one has yet equaled

R. W. Gibson’s sailing at any A. C. A. meet--that was true science.

Butler did the best sailing this year, and showed a knowledge of the

finer points in making and rounding buoys without loss of time, headway

or a foot. Brokaw sailed wonderfully well and showed pluck in the heavy

weather. Where there was luck he had it--as in the cup race, when

Butler led, and the wind fell to a breeze best suited for the sails

Brokaw had; and again, in the Barney cup race, when he caught up to

and passed the _Jabber_ in _If_ by a lucky fluke, _If_ lying becalmed

all the time, or nearly so. Brokaw is one of the very few strong men

and good paddlers who does any sailing. This fact gave him a chance to

accomplish what has never been done before--win the highest possible

number of points on the record. He first won the unlimited sailing

race (3 miles) in a fleet of thirty-three canoes, twenty-one of which

completed the course. He scored ten points for this. Next he won his

class paddling race (Class IV.), beating four others. His luck helped

him here also. His boat in beam was 29¾ inches, the very lowest limit

in the class; but, more than this, both Dr. Rice and Johnson (the best

paddlers in the A. C. A.) raced in Class III., so he did not have to

meet them. In the combined race (1½ miles paddle, 1½ miles sail) there

were six men against him, and he won by strong paddling, quick work in

hoisting and stowing sail, and fast sailing with no luck or flukes.

Three races, ten points each, thirty points. The second man on the

record was E. Knappe (Springfield, Mass.), three races, 16.95 points.

The third, fourth and fifth men, all prize winners, got, respectively,

15.50 (Leys, Toronto), 14.60 (Patton, Yonkers), and 13.70 (Quick,

Yonkers) for two races each.

The Lowell men won the club race, securing the club championship flag,

and they well deserved it. Seldom has a meet witnessed such excellent

boats, plucky sailing, and genuine club fellowship as existed among its

members. Butler won the club race in _Fly_, and took the individual

prize. He won the same race last year, when no prize was given to the

winner, and when his men did not give him the support they did this

year, for the club flag then went to Brooklyn.

A tournament was added to the program at the meet and greatly

interested the spectators, canoeists and visitors to the camp; also a

tug-of-war--four men in two canoes, paddling in opposite directions,

with the boats securely tied together, end to end, with a stout rope.

Walter Stewart, who came from England to race for the Trophy, and take

part generally in the meet, did not win a race. He is the holder of the

Royal Canoe Club championship challenge cup, won on Hendon Lake, both

in 1887 and 1888. His canoe _Charm_ beat Baden-Powell and other English

canoeists in each race. In 1886, when Stewart was out here before,

it will be remembered Powell came with him, and defeated him in the

sailing races. Stewart entered three record races, won 13.35 points,

and thus got sixth place, missing the fifth record place (and prize)

only by 35-100 of a point. Before returning to England he will sail

again for the New York Canoe Club challenge cup on New York Bay, now

held by C. Bowyer Vaux.

No review of the canoe meet would be complete without a mention of the

paddling done by Dr. Rice, who won the championship flag. He proved

conclusively that fast paddling can be done gracefully, and without

any body or back movement. His arms alone do the work, while he sits

firmly on the seat with his back well braced. Johnson paddled the class

races, sitting high up in his boat, as usual, and with his old-time

reach forward at every stroke. Rice, however, beat him. In the mile

championship race, Johnson paddled standing up, a feat never before

seen at an A. C. A. meet, though it is not unknown in Canadian races

when the double paddle is used. As the race was down the wind this may

have been a slight advantage. Rice and Knappe won the tandem race in

fine style against three other crews. They paddle in the same manner,

keep perfect time, and work like machines, so regular is their stroke.

One feature of the camp must not be overlooked. The men seemed to think

much more of dress than is usual at the meets, no doubt on account of

the many ladies who camped on what in former years was known as Squaw

Point. The nearness of hotels made it very easy for lady visitors to

appear in camp daily, and during the racing days they were everywhere.

As a Canadian commodore was elected for 1889, the next meet will be

held on the St. Lawrence, or somewhere in Canada once again.

~C. Bowyer Vaux.~

* * * * *

THE POLITICS OF CYCLING.

~Outing’s~ mission is to entertain and instruct, to elevate and

encourage legitimate outdoor sport and recreation, to the end that the

manhood and womanhood of its clientèle may benefit thereby in mind and

body.

Occupying this high place, and having selected this noble part as our

particular field of enterprise in the world, we have always deemed it

best to take little active, and positively no partisan, interest in the

politics of the League of American Wheelmen. We are content to leave

the exclusively cycling press in undisputed possession of that field

which treats of League offices and the doings of League officials.

Sometimes, when scanning the brilliant editorials of our weekly cycling

contemporaries, we have grown envious and have been sorely tempted

to take a hand and out with our opinions. The legislative wisdom

that bristles on our pen point, however, has been restrained by the

knowledge that we appear before the wheel-world but once a month,

when the question under discussion has often been disposed of by the

weeklies before we go to press.

We, along with all who have the best interests of cycling at heart,

have been greatly interested in the arguments, pro and con, concerning

the new League constitution. As we are minded to jot down these few

remarks, there lies before us copies of the _Wheel and Cycle Trade

Review_ and copies of the _Bicycling World and League Bulletin_.

Apropos of the subject under discussion there is, to say the least, a

“friendly difference of opinion” between them.

“Rings,” “wire-pullings,” “gangs,” etc., are openly talked of, and

dark hints lurk between lines and words. Some of the remarks and

insinuations indulged in are refreshingly frank, and yet the impression

is left, that the pens of the writers have been held under restraint,

so as not to reveal the depth of their inmost thoughts. It is, or

appears to us to be, almost a case of “you have” and “we swear to you,

by all that’s holy, we have not--so there!” not to say “you’re another!”

It is in such moments as these that ~Outing~ takes unto itself

much solid comfort in the reflection that, as a non-combatant and a

mutual friend and well-wisher, it can take the non-partisan stump and

out with a word or two of timely wisdom to the rank and file of the

League, whilst the rival champions are fighting it out.

Whether ringsters, wire-pullers and gangs have really taken possession

of the politics of the L. A. W. is a matter that every member of the

organization should judge for himself from the evidence advanced. The

League is not made up of children, nor of dotards, but, for the most

part, of intelligent young men capable of knowing their own minds and

forming their own opinions.

~Thomas Stevens.~

* * * * *

BASEBALL.

The League pennant race during August was made intensely interesting

to the New York patrons of the game by the continued success of the

New York team, and the fact that they finally gained the lead during

that month. The falling off in the Detroit team was also a noteworthy

feature of the month’s campaign, while Chicago, too, lost their

previous winning pace. The surprise of the month was the brilliant

rally made by the Boston team after their demoralizing experience of

July. Chicago went to the front in May, after Boston’s April spurt,

Boston being second and New York third. By July Detroit had pushed

Boston to third place, while Chicago still kept in the van, New York

having dropped to fourth position. Before the end of July, however,

New York had not only taken Detroit’s place as third in the race, but

by the end of the month they had reached the front and had pushed

Chicago back to second place. The last week in August saw New York

at the head of the list with a percentage of .663 to Chicago’s .579

and Detroit’s .527, Boston being fourth with .516, and Philadelphia

fifth with .500, the other three being entirely out of the race. The

last week in August, however, saw Boston rally for a higher position

in brilliant style, three straight victories over New York at the Polo

Grounds being one of the noteworthy events of the month, no other club

having been able to win three straight games from the New York team

during the season before this. This left September’s campaign the most

interesting of the season, as on the games of that month would depend

the virtual settlement of the championship question, though the season

would not end until the middle of October. The fact that New York would

finish its season at home, from September 28th to October 16th, greatly

favored the anticipations of the club, and the close of August left

them confident of ultimate success in winning the pennant.

A feature of the early Fall campaign in the League arena was the

contrast between the Boston club’s record of victory and defeats

in July, and their August record. During July the Boston team lost

seventeen games out of twenty-two, while in August--up to the

30th--they had won fifteen out of twenty. New York’s records in June

and that in July were almost as striking in their contrast. In June

that club’s team only won thirteen games out of twenty-three, while

in July they won eighteen out of twenty-three. On the other hand,

the falling off in the play of the Chicago team in July as compared

with their June record was equally surprising; as in June they won

fourteen games out of twenty-two, while in July they lost fourteen out

of twenty-three. But the worst series of defeats of the season was

that sustained by the Detroit team in August, when they lost sixteen

games out of twenty-two, after winning fourteen out of twenty-four in

July. These changes are all in accordance with the uncertain character

of the national game, which gives it much of its attraction to our

chance-loving sporting public.

In the American arena the contest for the pennant still being confined

to the four leading teams of the St. Louis, Cincinnati, Athletic and

Brooklyn clubs, lost much of its interest to the metropolitan patrons

of the game, owing to the unexpected collapse of the Brooklyn team,

which, from its occupancy of first position on July 15th with a

percentage of .676, with St. Louis second with .639, and Cincinnati

with .600, fell within one month to fourth place. By the last week in

August they had only a percentage of .585, while the Athletic team

had worked itself up ahead of Cincinnati into second place with a

percentage of .625, Cincinnati being third with .608, and St. Louis

first with .701, with a fair promise of ultimate success in winning

the pennant. The New York League team, when they themselves took up

their leading position, had hoped to see the Brooklyn team keep pace

with them so that the two might eventually compete for the world’s

championship honors, as they well knew that in such a series of

contests the Brooklyns would draw thousands of spectators where the St.

Louis would only attract hundreds. It is almost a certainty that St.

Louis will win, while the struggle for second place will be between

Brooklyn, the Athletics and Cincinnati, the other four being completely

out of the race. Bad management lost Brooklyn the chance of winning the

pennant, as they unquestionably had the material at command to have

kept the lead.

~Henry Chadwick.~

[Illustration: ~The Outing Club.~]

THE OPEN GAME SEASON IN CANADA.

The season for shooting woodcock in Canada commenced August 15th, and

birds may now be shot till the 1st of January. Grouse, pheasants,

partridges, snipe, rail, golden plover, ducks of all kinds, and all

other kinds of water-fowl, excepting geese and swan, may also be

lawfully killed from the first of September until the first of the

year. The open season for geese and swans runs from September 1st to

May 1st. The quail season does not begin until October 15th, and quail

must not be killed after December 15th. The deer season begins October

15th and ends November 20th. Moose, elk, reindeer or caribou are

protected entirely until the year 1895.

PONY RACING.

A sport which has attained great dimensions in England of late years,

and has to some extent been popularized in America, is pony and

galloway racing. It is, in fact, this sport which has revived the

word “galloway,” which was falling quite out of use, and never seen

except occasionally in an auctioneer’s catalogue. The word is defined

by “Stonehenge” as applying to “full-blooded ponies which are bred

in the south of Scotland and which show more Eastern blood than the

Highlanders.” He goes on to say that they “seldom exceed fourteen

hands, and are described as possessing all the attributes of a clever

hack.” That the sport has a real use no one can doubt, for the breeding

of ponies had become an industry sorely in want of an impetus, which

it now has in the extra inducements offered to breeders by the high

prices obtainable for really speedy animals. In proportion to size, a

pony is a better animal than a horse, and can do far more work “for

his inches.” The improvement of speed and better development of the

various breeds is therefore a highly desirable object. The sport is

a great favorite among military men in India, and, according to all,

it is a truly wonderful sight to see what welter weights a small pony

will carry without apparent distress. In America the recruits for

the sports of the East, whether racing or polo, are largely obtained

from the West. From the improved stock which is now brought in large

quantities to New York and other eastern towns every year, judicious

selection can obtain really first-class material. Though the ponies

are usually “in the rough” when they arrive, careful handling and good

stable management will soon reduce them to such shape that, were it not

for the tell-tale brand on the quarters, no one would recognize them as

specimens of that much-maligned class, “cow-ponies.”

FROM KANSAS ON A WHEEL.

Mr. Elmer E. Junken, of Abilene, Kansas, has made a long ride on a

52-inch “Expert” Columbia. He left his home May 16th, and arrived in

this city August 18th. He traveled the whole distance on his wheel, and

with the exception of being sunbrowned and travel-stained, appeared

nothing the worse for the wear and tear of his journey. The route

lay through Kansas City, St. Louis, Ill., along the National Road

to Terre Haute, Indianapolis, Richmond, Ind., Springfield, Dayton,

Columbus, Cleveland, O., along the Ridge Road to Buffalo, through

Rochester, Syracuse, Utica, the Mohawk Valley to Albany, thence through

Pittsfield, Northampton, Ware, Worcester to Boston and to New York. The

journey was made for pleasure and sight-seeing, and for this enjoyment

Mr. Junken covered over two thousand miles. The roads he describes as

variable, and he gives credit to Ohio and Indiana for having the best.

His outfit consisted of a change of underwear, a serviceable cyclist’s

suit, and a rubber coat. Mr. Junken will make the return journey home

partly on his wheel, with an occasional lift on the cars.

MANHATTAN’S VICTORIOUS ATHLETES.

The Manhattan Club team returned from England, August 12th, after an

absence of ten weeks, during which time its members won a half dozen

championships in the national games at Crewe and the international

games in Dublin. The team, when it went away from here, consisted of

G. A. Avery, T. P. Conneff, H. M. Banks, Jr., and Frederick Westing,

who were joined on the other side by Thomas Ray and C. V. S. Clark,

English resident members of the club. From Queenstown Conneff went to

Belfast, and won the four-mile Irish championship run. From that time

the team’s career was a series of victories. The men went into training

at the grounds of the London Athletic Club, and soon had themselves in

excellent trim. Besides winning his four-mile race, Conneff won the

English one-mile and the international one-mile championship races.

He also beat Carter in a five-mile match race. Thomas Ray won the

pole-vaulting championship, and Westing carried off the honors in the

100-yard race at Crewe, besides winning at the international races in

Dublin at the same distance. Westing’s time in the latter race was

ten seconds. Clark, another member of the team, completed the list

by winning the seven-mile walk at Crewe. Gold medals were awarded in

each event. Westing has challenged Great Britain for the 100-yard

championship of the world, the race to take place on the Manhattan

Athletic Club’s grounds. Messrs. Ritchie and Woods have accepted the

challenge. A similar challenge by Conneff for the mile championship has

been accepted by Messrs. Hickman and Leaver. When these championship

events come off they will excite great interest.

THE TRIP OF THE CHICAGO BALL-PLAYERS.

The Australian tour of the Chicago Baseball Team, which is now in

everyone’s mouth, is a novel scheme, the credit of which is due to Mr.

Leigh S. Lynch, the well-known theatrical manager. During his travels

in Australia Mr. Lynch perceived how great was the love of outdoor

sports displayed by the Anglo-Saxons of that rising young continent.

He also noted the complete ignorance of baseball which prevailed. The

outcome of his observations was the undertaking of the Australian tour

by Mr. A. G. Spalding. Mr. Lynch was dispatched to make arrangements,

and on his return in the spring the work of organizing two teams was

undertaken. Not content with instructing the people of Australia in

the art of baseball, Mr. Spalding has determined to take with him men

capable of playing cricket and football also. The work of selection has

resulted in the choice of the following teams: A. C. Anson, (captain),

E. Williamson, F. Pfeffer, T. Burns, J. Ryan, F. Flint, M. Sullivan,

R. Pettit, M. Baldwin and T. Daly, and this team is to be known as

“The Chicagoes.” The second bears the name of “The Picked Club,” and

comprises: John M. Ward (captain), M. Kelly, Boston; F. Carroll,

Pittsburgh; M. Tiernan, New York; Wood, Philadelphia; E. Hanlon,

Detroit; Fogarty, Philadelphia; Comiskey, St. Louis; while it is hoped

that the services of Caruthers, of Brooklyn, and McPhee, of Cincinnati,

will also be secured. John A. Rogers, of the Peninsular Cricket Club

of Detroit, has been made captain of the cricket team. All players

are bound by strict contracts as if they were playing in a league or

association club.

After a series of farewell games in America, beginning in October at

Chicago and continuing in Milwaukee, Des Moines, St. Paul, Minneapolis,

Omaha, Denver, Salt Lake City, Stockton, Los Angeles and San Francisco,

they will embark on November 17 at the last-named place. S. S.

_Alameda_ has been chartered, the owners agreeing to do the trip in

twenty-five days. The foreign campaign will begin at Honolulu, where

two games will be played, one with a local club, the other between the

two teams. It is hoped that King Kalakaua will honor the field with his

august presence. The first antipodean city visited is Auckland, then

Sidney, and hence the route lies to Melbourne, Adelaide, Brisbane and

other cities. Altogether it appears likely that the tour will prove a

phenomenal success.

POLO.

The season of outdoor sports is once more on the wane, and soon the

morning papers will no longer teem with reports of sports of every

kind, from the baseball which interests all, down to the small and

ragged urchin who can scarcely toddle, to aristocratic polo, with its

select clique of followers. Each has its own field to fill, but to each

is vouchsafed the mission of strengthening and filling with robust

health the systems of its votaries.

Polo is, and except under very exceptional circumstances always must

be, the game of the rich. Unless it be in a community where each man

has for part of his stock-in-trade horses and ponies, none but the

wealthy can afford to keep the necessary ponies, and none but they care

to run the risk of damage to their stock involved in this sport. In

its original home, India, its nimble exponents certainly often manage

with but one pony each, but the result of this appears in the way in

which English officers, inferior in skill, by the superiority of their

horseflesh, succeed in beating the native players.

In its limited circle Polo has, however, taken firm root, as the

papers testify, and though the crack players are not elevated to the

questionably pleasant position of popular heroes, to be lauded to the

skies one day, and the next hissed and hooted, they are to a few

select admirers little short of demi-gods. In spite of the ardor,

however, with which this game is now pursued in America, competent

judges dare to hint that it has not yet reached the English standard.

Again, it is sure that in England there are few who can emulate the

dexterity of the natives of India. In the American game, a certain lack

of vigor in the strokes is especially noticeable, and but few seem to

have mastered the difficulties of the sweeping overhand stroke.

With such a basis as the game has attained, it is only a matter of time

and practice for a high pitch of excellence to be reached. Let us hope

that in the course of but few years the exponents of this fine and

manly sport may become masters of all the skill they can desire.

RETURNING THE BALL IN LAWN-TENNIS.

A correspondence which has been going on in the columns of the English

sporting paper, _Land and Water_, has elicited the following remarks

from the editor, which seem to contain such an important point that

they are well worth reproduction:

“The majority of gentlemen make their best drives by taking the ball

when near the ground. This is undoubtedly the best way to ensure

accuracy and certainty, combined with severity; but it has the

disadvantage of giving the opponent plenty of time to get into position

and recover his composure. Besides accuracy and severity, rapidity of

return is a very important factor against the best players, who all of

them possess great aptitude in covering the court. The deadliness of

the volley, of course, lies in the fact that the ball is returned so

soon after it has passed the net, calling for redoubled exertion on

the part of the muscular and mental faculties employed. What applies

to the volley also applies to the ground-stroke, and players who

recognize this in practice endeavor to return the ball with as little

delay as possible, when circumstances are favorable, as is generally

the case with high-bounding second services, when the ball is taken at

elbow-height, and even higher. With beginners and indifferent players

no practice is more to be condemned than that of running in to meet

the ball, and in doing this lies the secret of the failure of so many.

But if one watches the play of those at the very top of the tree he

will find that they never lose an opportunity of getting at the ball as

soon as they can safely do so. Mr. H. F. Lawford is especially good at

this tactic, and he has explained in print that he considers the time

gained to be more than a recompense for the risk run of losing some of

his accuracy. Mr. E. Renshaw takes the ball, under the circumstances,

overhanded; but both Miss L. Dod and Mrs. Hillyard (to mention only

the case in point) manage to get over it, returning it at great speed.

To take the ball in this way with proper effect is difficult of

accomplishment, which is the reason why we mention the circumstance.”

THE AMERICA’S CUP ONCE MORE.

The prospects are that next season will see another comer from across

the ocean in American waters to offer battle for the America’s Cup. The

new visitor will probably be Mr. Paul A. Ralli’s new cutter _Yarana_, a

vessel designed by G. L. Watson, the designer of the famous _Thistle_

and the almost equally well-known _Irex_. The _Thistle_ we know from

her performances in American waters last season; the _Irex_ we only

know from her honorable record in British contests. The _Yarana_ is

a cutter 66.08 feet long on the load water line, and has a 14.08 feet

beam. Her draft is not given. This craft has been in all the principal

British regattas since her _début_, May 22d, in the Thames Yacht

Club event, and her performances have all come up to her designer’s

expectations. In fifteen matches with the _Irex_--and the _Irex_ is

one of the crack yachts of old England--the _Yarana_ won nine and the

_Irex_ four. Two of the races must not be taken into account, as the

_Irex_ ran aground. Last year the _Thistle_ had nine to her account

against the _Irex_, but when it is remembered that the small boat is

not put on an equal footing with the large sloop by any rule of time

allowance now in use, the record of the _Yarana_ may be fairly said

to prove that Mr. Watson has improved on his previous creations. If

the _Yarana_ comes here she will be welcome as a visitor, and equally

welcome as a challenger for a trophy which has a reputation the world

over. The advent of a smaller boat competing for this much-valued prize

will prove beneficial. It will create more interest among yachtsmen

generally, as it will give a chance for the smaller boats to enter the

lists. The owners of the _Shamrock_, _Titania_ and _Katrina_ have great

faith in their craft. Possibly they might have a chance next season to

measure speed with the new Britisher. Let us hope so; and may the best

boat win, be she American or English!

AMATEUR OARSMEN AND THE NATIONAL ASSOCIATION.

Henry W. Garfield, President of the National Association of Amateur

Oarsmen, in the annual communication to the organization, thus

discourses on rowing matters in general and what constitutes an amateur:

The conditions which brought the National Association into being may

be well known to some, but are hardly appreciated by those boating

men whose interests in aquatic sports commenced at a later date. In

1872 there was in the United States no generally accepted definition

of an amateur oarsman, and the constant formation of new clubs, and

consequent increase in racing, made the adoption of some uniform

definition eminently desirable. A convention of boating men was

accordingly called to meet in New York city, and then and there was the

National Association of Amateur Oarsmen organized. In the following

year its first regatta was held in Philadelphia. The merits of the new

definition were early seen, and the value of its Laws of Boat-Racing

soon recognized, until both have since been generally adopted and

followed by every amateur rowing association and club.

When, however, the Association attempted to enforce its rules and to

discipline offenders, it was for several years sturdily opposed by

powerful clubs from one or two localities. The attempt was made to

prejudice the minds of some by alleging that your Executive Committee

had in several instances misused its great powers for the punishment

of those who were personally inimical to some of its members, or

seemed dangerous antagonists of their clubs. But the gentlemen to

whom you delegated authority had full confidence that their laborious

and, at first, thankless efforts, would in due season be appreciated,

and so they patiently bided their time. We feel that whatever errors

of judgment your successive Executive Boards may have committed,

the work the Association has accomplished through them is generally

recognized. We believe the Association to be worthy the hearty

loyalty and undivided support of every section. Under its fostering

care and encouragement other associations have sprung up and grown to

vigorous strength, both in the East and the West. In their prosperity

we cannot but rejoice, and we have always found in them important and

influential allies, ever willing to assist in any movement tending to

advance our mutual interests, the promotion of rowing among amateurs.

It still continues important that some central authority should

adjudicate disputed cases, conduct annual meetings for the decision of

championships, revise laws when desirable, and endeavor not only to

retain the results of a persistent and long continued warfare for the

purification of aquatics, but to still further advance the lines, so

that in every State may be seen an increase in the number of active

boating men, assured that they will be asked to compete only with their

equals.

As a further step in this reform we have taken pleasure in following

your mandate of a year since, and have submitted to the clubs for

action here tonight an amendment to Article III. of the Constitution,

reading as follows:

We further define an amateur to be one who rows for pleasure or

recreation only, and during his leisure hours, and who does not abandon

or neglect his usual business or occupation for the purpose of training.

Of course, it is not by this intended to forbid legitimate training

during vacation periods, or to exclude those who, more fortunate than

their fellows, have a competency and can devote time to training

which, in the case of others, would be irregular. It is intended

to reach men who (to the detriment of legitimate amateur sport and

the discouragement of those rising oarsmen who, following business

pursuits, have limited opportunity to practice) spend a whole summer

on the water and are undesirable participants at nearly every race

meeting. Their number is not so large, but the injury they are able to

accomplish is unquestionable. The interpretation of the law must be

left to the discretion of prudent men, and if your present Board does

not merit your confidence in this particular, we would gladly give

place to worthier men who do.

THE BUFFALO DOG SHOW.

One of the attractive features of the Buffalo Exhibition was the Dog

Show. Much interest, from the time it was first announced, was felt in

its success. The National Dog Club, at the meeting of its executive

committee, voted to give fifteen bronze medals as special prizes

for the best American bred dog or bitch of the following breeds:

Mastiffs, St. Bernards, deerhounds, English setters, Irish setters,

Gordon setters, pointers, toy dogs, sporting spaniels, pugs, collies,

fox-terriers, greyhounds, bull-dogs and terriers (except fox-terriers).

HOW CROWS EAT FISH.

The _Allgemeine Sport Zeitung_ published a letter from a correspondent

recently which gave a curious account of the manner in which crows

eat fish. He stated that during a visit to the country for sporting

purposes he found the estate largely under water from long-continued

rains. At the edge of the retreating waters were large flocks of crows

engaged in eating the half-stranded fish fry. They evidently did not

confine their attentions entirely to the small fry, for he found the

skeleton of a trout which must have weighed a pound at least, picked

quite clean.

[Illustration: ~Among the Books~]

We are pleased to call the attention of our readers for once to a book

which will actually fill a gap in the literature of athletic sports.

It is the second volume of the ~Outing~ Library of Sports,

“Janssen’s American Amateur Athletic and Aquatic History. 1829-1888.”

(New York: ~Outing Co.~, 239 Fifth Avenue.) As Mr. Janssen says

in the preface, on undertaking the work of compilation, he planned

a small pamphlet. The result has, however, spread it to a portly

volume required by the real extent and scope of the subject, and we

have before us a book that will have a larger circulation and prove

of greater value than any other contribution to athleticism. In the

opening of the book are given the champion and best amateur records of

America and England, and these are supplemented on the last page by

the records of 1888, bringing the book down to the moment of going to

press. In all other respects the same thoroughness characterizes the

work, and every one who inspects the book will agree with the author in

saying that “if any organization, record or champion has been omitted,

it has simply been from either lack of reliable information, or for

want of interest on the part of those communicated with.” The volume is

such that no athlete will be without it. It is indispensable as a book

of reference, but it is also a book worthy of diligent study.

A book which should be on the shelves of every sportsman, is “Names and

Portraits of Birds which Interest Gunners,” by Gurdon Trumbull. (New

York: Harper & Brothers. 1888.) The best explanation of the purport of

the book is found in the continuation of the title, “with descriptions

in language understanded of the people.” The author’s method is to

give the scientific name of a bird, and describe its appearance,

measurements, habitat, etc., with illustrations of male and female, and

then to give the ordinary name applied, locally or otherwise. The sole

disappointment in connection with the volume is to find that the birds

mentioned are only those of the eastern half of the United States.

We note with pleasure that Messrs. Macmillan & Co. have published a

cheap edition of that most excellent novel, “Mr. Isaacs,” by F. Marion

Crawford. It is a great blessing to the public to be able to obtain

such literature at a moderate rate, instead of having to weary brain

and eye with badly-printed “penny awfuls.”

Another book which has become accessible to the traveler by land or

water, is Andrew Carnegie’s “An American Four-in-Hand in Britain.” (New

York: Charles Scribner’s Sons.) In connection with recent events, it is

just now of special interest.

Marvelous as every one knows the improvements to be that have been

effected in the illustrative art of late years, nobody will see the

photogravure series issued by Messrs. Nims & Knight, of Troy, N. Y.,

without genuine delight. In them one would say that the limit has

been reached, for anything more delicately beautiful in this line of

illustration is inconceivable. Four of the series are from photographs

by S. R. Stoddard, and each one of them is as near perfection as

possible.

“Lake George Illustrated” is described on the title-page as a book of

pictures. This is, we think, too much modesty, for such are the powers

of the reproductive process used that this and each volume possesses

the charms of a perfect sketch-book. Not only are the views of the

lovely scenery exquisite, but the decorative efforts to complete the

pages are most beautiful in result. A second of the series is “The

Adirondack Lakes,” and this is in no whit inferior. Except one saw the

exquisite delineation of details due to photography, he would imagine

that the lovely effects produced were in sepia by a master hand. With

eager avidity, every lover of the beautiful in nature will turn to

the rest of the series. The next is “The Adirondack Mountains,” and

again wonder arises at the effects produced. Especially beautiful are

the effects of water, which show a delicacy and truth to nature most

fascinating. In the fourth of the series to which Mr. Stoddard’s name

is attached, “The Hudson River,” we have a succession of lovely views

of the grand river from its source to its mouth.

In “Bits of Nature,” Messrs. Nims & Knight have published ten gems of

the photogravure process. Of these the pick seems to us to be the view

in Prospect Park, Brooklyn, in which the light and shadow effects and

the water are very charming, while in the illustration entitled “Road

to Grand Hotel,” the effect of the rugged bark on the tree in the

foreground is beautifully reproduced. In the smaller series, “Corners

in the Catskills,” we have some lovely pieces of Nature.

In the “Log of the _Ariel_,” illustrated by L. S. Ipsen, the same

publishers have reproduced in most artistic form the log of a trip on a

steam yacht on the Gulf of Maine. The illustrations are clever, and the

whole is produced with exquisite taste.

~Messrs. Nims & Knight~ have also published a volume of poems,

“The Two Voices: Poems of the Mountains and the Sea,” selected by John

Chadwick, which is a fitting handbook to go with the above volumes. It

contains choice morsels of poetry culled from the best sources.

Worthy of mention among its host of contemporaries, is the midsummer

number of _The Richfield News_. While professedly “devoted to the

interests of American summer resorts,” it possesses a genuine interest

for a wide circle of readers with its chatty, pleasant style. The

general appearance of the paper and its illustrations is most

wonderfully effective. We are looking forward with pleasure to the

early reappearance of its twin sister, _The St. Augustine News_.

[Illustration: AMENITIES.]

[Illustration: HOW BASEBALL WILL PROBABLY BE PLAYED 100 YEARS HENCE.]

[Illustration: ~Cabby~ (_who has been paid his bare fare before

hiring_): Bring yer box in? What, I leave my young ’oss a-standin’ ’ere

of hisself!--(_with determination_)--No, I can’t leave my cab! Spozin’

he runs away, ’oos to pay for the damage, I should like to know?]

[Illustration: ~Our MONTHLY RECORD~]

~This~ department of ~Outing~ is specially devoted to paragraphs

of the doings of members of organized clubs engaged in the

reputable sports of the period, and also to the recording of the

occurrence of the most prominent events of the current season. On

the ball-fields it will embrace _Cricket_, _Baseball_, _Lacrosse_

and _Football_. On the bays and rivers, _Yachting_, _Rowing_ and

_Canoeing_. In the woods and streams, _Hunting_, _Shooting_ and

_Fishing_. On the lawns, _Archery_, _Lawn Tennis_ and _Croquet_.

Together with Ice-Boating, Skating, Tobogganing, Snowshoeing,

Coasting, and winter sports generally.

Secretaries of clubs will oblige by sending in the names of their

presidents and secretaries, with the address of the latter,

together with the general result of their most noteworthy contests

of the month, addressed, “Editor of ~Outing~,” 239 Fifth Avenue,

New York.

TO CORRESPONDENTS.

_All communications intended for the Editorial Department should

be addressed to “The Editor,” and not to any person by name.

Advertisements, orders, etc., should be kept distinct, and

addressed to the manager. Letters and inquiries from anonymous

correspondents will not receive attention. All communications to be

written on one side of the paper only._

AMATEUR PHOTOGRAPHY.

~The~ Hartford Camera Club had an agreeable outing in August

over the Meriden, Waterbury and Connecticut River Road. The club

frequently makes trips of this character. Among those who participated

in the excursion were: James B. Cone, president; Mr. and Mrs. E. M.

White, Mr. and Mrs. W. J. Hickmott, Mr. and Mrs. J. C. Kinney, Mr.

and Mrs. F. O. Tucker, Mr. and Mrs. A. F. Woods, Mr. and Mrs. F. A.

Thompson, Henry Fuller, Lawrence Cody, W. G. Abbott, A. L. Butler, J.

C. Hill, H. O. Warner, C. F. Butler, T. S. Weaver, Miss Helen Cody,

Miss Abbott, Miss Sarah Green, Miss Mary Green, Miss Harbison, Miss

Weaver, Mrs. W. P. Marsh and Misses Mills, all belonging in Hartford.

The Meriden party who accompanied them were: Mr. and Mrs. Geo.

Rockwell, T. S. Rust, C. S. Perkins, G. L. Ellsbree, A. Chamberlain,

Rev. A. H. Hall, A. S. Thomas, J. M. Harmon, G. A. Fay, E. Miller,

Jr., Dr. Mansfield, Supt. Crawford. A pleasant stay at Highland Lake

was made, and several pretty views were taken of the scenery in the

neighborhood.

* * * * *

~The~ fifth annual convention of the Photographers’ Association

of Canada was held in the rooms of the Ontario Society of Artists, at

Toronto, Canada, July 31 to August 2. Among the exhibits the following

were noteworthy: C. A. Tenjoy, of Collingwood, fine large pictures and

cabinets; S. J. Dixon, of Toronto, large prints of unusual merit; S.

D. Edgeworth, of St. Louis, a fine collection from various sources;

W. F. Johnson, of Pictou, a large exhibit of excellent work; R. D.

Bayley, Battle Creek, Mich., fine cabinets; Guerin, of St. Louis,

some splendid work in cabinets. H. Barraud, of London, Eng., had a

fine exhibit, also his relative and namesake, of Barrie, Ontario. E.

Poole, of St. Catherine’s, had one of the largest exhibits and of the

first order. Brockenshire, of Wingham, also exhibited some very fine

bromides and enameled pictures. T. J. Bryce, of Toronto, exhibited a

number of large, fine Rembrandt effects and some excellent cabinets.

E. D. Clarke, of Guelph, showed colored bromides that called forth

much admiration. Poole and Robson, of Port Perry, also had a good

exhibit. William Davison, of Brampton, exhibited a number of pictures.

W. Mecklechwaite, of Toronto, also had a very good exhibit. Zybach, of

Niagara Falls, Ontario, had a magnificent exhibit of large photographs

of the Falls, both in winter and summer.

ATHLETICS.

~The~ Board of Managers of the Amateur Athletic Union held

a meeting at the new club-house of the New York Athletic Club, on

Travers’ Island, August 25. A resolution intended to put a stop to any

conflicting claims to athletic jurisdiction in the United States, and

to prevent any minor organizations from holding championship field

meetings, was passed. The resolution unanimously adopted by the board

is as follows:

_Resolved_, That any amateur athlete competing in any open amateur

games in the United States not governed by rules approved by the

Amateur Athletic Union shall be debarred from competing in any

games held under the rules of the Amateur Athletic Union. This

resolution shall take effect immediately.

This wholesale legislation was deemed necessary on the part of the

board, and it is thought it will be productive of perplexing results.

The Manhattan Athletic Club of this city, it is said, will virtually

be the only sufferer by the new arrangement, as it is the only club

hereabouts giving games under rules other than those approved by the

union. It will be compelled either to recognize and adopt the rules of

the union, or to create a new field of athletics, as far as its track

members are concerned. Of these the Manhattan Club has about fifty,

and as it is supposed they will not submit to being debarred from the

privileges of competing in games given by the various clubs in and

around New York, the club, it is asserted, will have to adopt the

union’s rules. The Manhattan Club, it is claimed, is leaning too far

toward professional methods.

The Board of Managers also considered the case of the Staten Island and

the New Jersey athletic clubs, each of which advertised a carnival of

athletic sports for Labor Day, Sep. 3. The Staten Island Club was shown

to have the right to the day by reason of priority of announcement,

and the New Jersey Club was censured for choosing a date that directly

conflicted with that of a sister club in the union.

The Investigating Committee reported on the cases of J. Cunningham

and P. Cahill. Cunningham was disqualified by a unanimous vote, and

Cahill’s case referred back to the Committee, with instructions to

investigate his fight with Robinson. The board decided to investigate

the amateur status of E. Hickey and J. J. Sampson, both of whom are

under suspicion.

The delegates at the meeting were: President, Harry McMillan, of

Philadelphia; secretary, Otto Ruhl, of New York; treasurer, Howard

Perry, of Washington; Jas. E. Sullivan, of New York; F. W. Janssen, of

Staten Island; Edward Milligan, of Philadelphia; W. O. Eschwege, of

Brooklyn. John F. Huneker, of Philadelphia, represented the Detroit

Athletic Club, and Daniel G. French that of Chicago.

* * * * *

~William J. M. Barry~, of the Queen’s College Athletic Club,

Cork, Ireland, holds the world’s championship in throwing the 16-lb.

hammer. August 11 he succeeded in putting the hammer, on his fifth

throw, the unprecedented distance of 129 ft. 3¼ in. G. M. L. Sachs,

C. C. Hughes, and L. E. Myers were the judges of the performance.

* * * * *

~The~ Orange Athletic Club will hold an athletic meeting October

6, and one and two mile bicycle races will be prominent features. The

meeting is open to all amateurs, and some of the best athletes in the

country are expected to compete.

* * * * *

~The~ Philadelphia Clan-na-Gael Association held its annual

games at the Rising Sun Park, Philadelphia, August 13. It is estimated

30,000 people witnessed the games. The events resulted as follows:

Putting the 16-pound stone--George Ross, 44 ft.; J. A. MacDougall, 43

ft. ½ in.; P. J. Griffin, 41 ft. 9½ in.

Standing long jump--John F. Hartnett, 13 ft. 6 in.; P. J. Griffin, 12

ft. 9½ in.; Con. J. Sullivan, 12 ft. 6 in.

150-yard dash--First, S. J. Farrell, 16s.; second, M. C. Murphy; third,

Thos. Aitken.

Throwing 16-pound hammer--J. A. MacDougall, 100 ft. 2 in.; Philip

Cummings, 99 ft. 4½ in.; George Ross, 89 ft. 7 in.

Running long jump--Con. J. Sullivan, 20 ft. 9 in.; David Ader, 20 ft.

8½ in.; Wm. Henderson, 20 ft. 4 in.

Members’ 150-yard dash--First, John Flynn, 17½s.; second, Philip

Cummings; third, Patrick Lyons.

Throwing 56-pound weight, between legs--Philip Cummings, 26 ft. 10 in.;

John A. MacDougall, 25 ft. 2 in.; P. J. Griffin, 25 ft. 1 in.

Half-mile race--First, S. J. Farrell, 2m. 10s.; second, E. Case; third,

T. C. Riordan.

Running hop, step and jump--Con. J. Sullivan, 46 ft.; William

Henderson, 45 ft. 8 in.; Thomas Aitken, 45 ft.

150-yard sack race--First, John Cahill; second, William Irvine; third,

Thomas Aitken.

Putting 63-pound weight--George Ross, 22 ft.; Patrick Lyons, 21 ft. ½

in.; Philip Cummings, 21 ft.

Standing high jump--P. J. Griffin, 5 ft. 6 in.; John Hartnett, 5 ft.

5¾. in.; Archie Scott, 5 ft. 5 in.

Three standing jumps--P. J. Griffin 39 ft. 6 in.; John F. Hartnett, 38

ft. 9½ in.; Archie Scott 36 ft. 9 in.

150-yard dash, boys--First, Thomas Pierce; second, Thomas Harrington;

third, William Washington.

Half-mile dash, members--First, John Lyons, 3m. 28s.; second, P. Lyons;

third, Lawrence O’Dea.

Running high jump--Thomas Aitken, 5 ft. 10 in.; second, 5 ft. 9 in.,

tie between Archie Scott and William Henderson.

Throwing 56-pound weight, for height--Philip Cummings, 13 ft. 9 in.; J.

A. MacDougall, 13 ft. 8¾ in.; third, George Ross, 13 ft. 6 in.

Running high jump, amateurs--First, J. E. Terry, Schuylkill Navy

Athletic Club; second, William Haar, Turner’s Club, Philadelphia.

One-mile race, amateurs--First, W. H. Morris, colored, Young Men’s

Christian Association, 5m. 20s.; second, Thomas Crawford, Caledonian

Club.

Putting 16-pound shot, amateurs--James Kane, Jr., Schuylkill Navy

Athletic Club, 35 ft. 1 in.; J. K. Shell, same club, 34 ft. 8¾ in.

Standing hop, step and jump--John F. Hartnett, 35 ft. 7 in.; Archie

Scott, 35 ft. 3 in.; P. J. Griffin, 34 ft. 1½ in.

One-mile race--First, E. Case, 4m. 48s.; second, James Grant; third, T.

C. Riordan.

Pole vault--Archie Scott, 10 ft. 1 in.; Thomas Aitken, 10 ft.; William

Henderson, 9 ft. 11 in.

Hitch and kick--George Slater, 9 ft.; Archie Scott, 8 ft. 11 in.;

Daniel Aider, 8 ft. 10 in.

Three standing jumps, members--Lawrence O’Day, 35 ft. 11½ in.; P.

Lyons, 34 ft. 5 in.; Philip Cummings, 34 ft. 2 in.

150-yard hurdle race--First, M. C. Murphy; second, P. J. Griffin;

third, Archie Scott.

Throwing 56-pound weight between legs, members--Philip Cummings, 25 ft.

9 in.; John O’Day, 23 ft. 8 in.; P. Lyons, 22 ft. 4 in.

Five-mile race--First, James Grant, 28m.; second, Edward Case; third,

T. C. Riordan.

The final heat of the tug-of-war was won by the Napper Tandy Club--John

McLean, F. Corrigan, William Reed, Joseph Hughes, Hugh Scullen, Harry

Kearney, F. Mullen, E. E. Hackett, John Dillon and Frank Coxe. The

prize was $500 and an emblem.

* * * * *

~The~ Pavilion Pastime Club--another notable addition to

Brooklyn’s large list of outdoor societies--was organized last month

with the following officers: Dr. H. O. Rockefeller, President; Messrs.

J. A. Cruikshank, vice-president; A. H. Weston, secretary, and Charles

E. Bevington, treasurer. A Governing Committee was formed by the

election of Messrs. Webster, Pattison and Hollister, Mrs. Weston, Mrs.

Bevington, and Misses Nellie Molloy and Phœbe Crawford.

Suitable grounds have been obtained on Arlington Avenue and Jerome

Street, directly opposite the headquarters, and the work of leveling,

grading, rolling and enclosing is now in progress at a cost of several

hundred dollars.

Lawn tennis, archery, croquet and other games and sports are to be

indulged in during the summer, while later on lacrosse, football, and

later still tobogganing will be introduced. The club-house is now

crowded with working paraphernalia, and it is the intention of those

in charge to increase the initiation fee to $10.

* * * * *

~The~ American Legion of Honor held its decennial celebration,

August 29, at the city Colosseum in Jones’ Wood, New York City. About

10,000 people were present during the day. The athletic games, which

were the chief attractions of the day’s festivities and for which

handsome prizes were provided, resulted as follows:

100-yard run--T. J. Lee, first; E. C. Bauman, second. Time, 10 4-5s.

Half-mile run--A. Bair, first; W. F. Beck, second. Time, 2m. 20s.

One-mile “Go-as-you-please”--F. Howell, first; T. Curran, second. Time,

9m.

100-yard three-legged race--J. J. O’Brien, champion light weight

wrestler of America, first; T. Gillan, second. Time not taken.

Half-mile run, for members’ sons under sixteen years of age--W. E.

Garrity, first; P. Fanning, second. Time, 2m. 30s.

One-mile walk--S. F. Moen, first; J. J. Barker, second. Time, 8m.

High jump--D. J. Cox, 5 ft. 5 in., and B. Kline, 5 ft. 3 in.

Broad jump--T. J. Lee 17 ft. 4 in.; W. R. Hooper, 17 ft.

Tug-of-war, four each side--Won by the Turn Verein Society’s team.

Five-mile “Go-as-you-please,” for professionals only--I. E. Regan,

first; P. J. McCarthy, second. Time, 27m. 30s.

The judges were Thomas Namack and Gus Guerrero. P. J. Donough was

referee.

* * * * *

~The~ programme of events proposed for international competition

by the team of the Gaelic Athletic Association, who are to visit this

country shortly, is as follows: 100, 220, 440 and 880 yards and one

mile races, 120 yards hurdle race, running long jump, running high

jump, running hop, step and jump, standing hop, step and jump (or

three leaps instead), with weights; standing long jump, with weights;

throwing 14-pound weight, under Gaelic A. A. rules; putting 16-pound

shot, 7 ft. run, no follow; pushing 56-pound weight from shoulder, G.

A. A. rules; throwing 16-pound hammer, G. A. A. championship rule,

unlimited run and follow, and American style.

* * * * *

~The~ Orange Athletic Club has finally determined upon October 6

for the date of its fall games.

* * * * *

~The~ Executive Committee of the National Association Amateur

Athletes of America decided to postpone the Championship Meeting

announced for September 15th to October 6th.

It will be held on that date, at the Manhattan Athletic Club Grounds,

Eighth Avenue and 86th Street, New York City.

This postponement will enable the athletic team from England and

Ireland, which is expected to arrive in New York about October 1st, to

participate, and will make the meeting an international one.

* * * * *

~The~ Staten Island Athletic Club had a great celebration Labor

Day. The attendance exceeded expectations. The first event was the

final tennis contest in singles and doubles. Mr. J. W. Raymond, of the

Twenty-third Regiment Tennis Club, won the singles, by defeating J. C.

Elliot. In the doubles, E. P. McMullen and C. Hobart beat Elliot and

Smith.

One hundred and twenty yards run--The starters were M. W. Ford, S. I.

A. C.; R. T. Hussey, S. I. A. C.; M. Bishop, S. I. A. C.; S. Toch, S.

I. A. C.; George Popham, S. I. A. C,; S. E. Corbett, S. I. A. C.; H. W.

Partridge, S. I. A. C., and F. A. Errington, S. I. A. C. The final heat

was won by Ford in 12 4-5s.

Half-mile run--Won by W. T. Thompson, in 2m. 5s.; Stewart Barr, second.

Running high jump--R. K. Pritchard and M. W. Ford, each cleared the bar

at 5 ft. 10¼ in. in the running high jump. Pritchard won by a toss.

Weight throwing--C. A. J. Queckberner won, covering a distance of 26

ft. 4¾ in., beating his best previous record 1½ inches.

Two-mile bicycle race--Won by A. B. Rich, in 6m. 58 1-3s.

Running broad jump--Won by A. A. Jordan, 21 ft. 11 in. Mr. Ford, 21 ft.

7 in.

Two hundred and ten yards run--Won by W. C. Dohme, 21 3-5s.

One-mile steeple-chase--Won by W. T. Thompson, in 4m. 50 3-5s.

Lacrosse game--This match between the Staten Island team and the

Druids, of Baltimore, was won by the Staten Islanders. Result, 7 goals

to 2.

Eight-oared shell race--Six boats competed in this race. The course was

one mile straightaway, and resulted in a dead heat between the Passaic

and the Schuylkill Navy Crews. Time, 5m. 28½s.

* * * * *

~The~ first fall field-meeting of the New Jersey Athletic Club

was held on September 3 at Bergen Point. It was successful and the

attendance was large. The events were as follows;

One hundred yards run (handicap)--Forty starters and seven trial heats,

winner in each heat and winner in second men’s second trial running

the final. Won by Charles Hagemeyer, P. A. C.; in 10½s.; H. Luersen

second.

One-mile bicycle race (novice)--Won by F. N. Burgess, of Rutherford, in

3m. 9 4-5s.; M. S. Ackerman, of Plainfield B. C., second.

One-mile walk--Won by W. R. Burkhard, P. A. C., in 6m. 28 4-5s.; W. F.

Pohlman second.

Three hundred yards run (handicap)--Three trial heats, first and second

in each in final heat. Won by C. Devereux, M. A. C., in 33s. A. W. S.

Cochran, N. Y. A. C., second.

Eight hundred and eighty yards run (handicap)--Won by J. A. Byrne, P.

A. C., in 1m. 58 4-5s.; F. J. Leonard, B. L. C., second.

Relief race (one hundred yards, each man carrying his mate half the

distance)--Won by C. T. Wiegand and F. H. Babcock, N. Y. A. C., in 20

2-5s.; J. T. Norton and A. F. Copeland second.

One-mile bicycle handicap--Won by E. P. Baggot, N. J. A. C., in 3m.

1-5s.; L. H. Wise, L. I. W., second.

Two hundred and twenty yards (handicap hurdle, first and second in each

trial in final)--Won by F. H. Babcock, N. Y. A. C., in 27s.; E. A.

Vandervoort, M. A. C., second.

One-mile run (handicap)--Won by P. C. Petrie, O. A. C., in 4m. 38

4-5s.; A. S. McGregor, Brighton A. C., second.

Potato race (10, two yards apart)--Won by W. H. Roberts, B. A. A., in

51 1-5s.; J. Nurberg, P. A. C., second.

Quarter-mile run (club championship)--Won by A. D. Stone, in 58s.; H.

H. Hatch second.

Mile bicycle race (club championship)--Won by W. H. Caldwell, in 3m.

3s.; S. B. Bowman, second.

Senior four-oared shell race (one mile with turn)--Newark Bay course of

N. J. A. C.--Won by Varuna B. C., Brooklyn, in 4m. 15s.; New Jersey A.

C. second.

Tandem paddling--Won by F. A. Beardsley and Alexander Oliver, in 4m.

19½s.

Single paddling--Won by Thomas Garrett, in 4m. 38½s.; F. A.

Beardsley second.

Hurry-skurry race--Won by Alexander Oliver, with J. P. Wetmore second.

No time.

The prizes were valuable gold and silver medals. The Pastimes carried

off the banner, scoring 24, or ten more than the next highest club--the

New York Athletic Club.

In the baseball contest, the Hilands, of Philadelphia, were whitewashed

by the New Jersey Athletic Club, who scored three runs and played an

errorless game. The home club gave a hop in the evening at the La

Tourette House.

* * * * *

~The~ annual fall games of the American Athletic Club took place

September 1, at the baseball grounds of the old Metropolitan Club. The

track was new and slow.

There were over sixty entries in the hundred yards dash. The final

winners in this event made a magnificent struggle, all coming in in a

bunch with R. T. Hussy, of the Staten Island A. C., first, in 10 2-5s.;

C. Wood, of the New York, second, and L. Oppenheimer a close third.

The 300-yard handicap was run in three heats, with a final dash for the

winners. W. S. Dingwell came in first, in 33 3-5s., with Thomas Namack

and C. Devereux a close second and third.

The one-and-a-half-mile race was uninteresting. It was won by W. H.

Pohlman, who received a handicap of a minute and twenty seconds, in

11m. 46s.; E. D. Lange second.

The 220-yards hurdle race was amusing, inasmuch that the leader left

the hurdles down for his followers. W. Schwegler won, in the slow time

of 28s.; C. T. Wiegand and G. Schwegler second and third.

M. Mundle won the half-mile run, in 2m. 35s.; F. J. Leonard second, and

J. S. Paxton third.

The one-mile novice race was won by W. R. Hooper, with W. J. Carr

second, and H. L. Spencer third.

The one-mile run was won by J. T. McGregor, with 100 yards start, in

4m. 37s.

* * * * *

~The~ New Jersey Athletic Club, of Bergen Point, N. J., has

now over 500 members, and gives promise of becoming one of the

largest athletic clubs in the country. Its features embrace baseball,

bicycling, rowing, yachting and canoeing, to which lawn tennis,

lacrosse, gymnastics, etc., are to be added. The grounds of the club

are located on Avenue A, in the city of Bayonne.

BASEBALL.

~The~ close of the August campaign in the League championship

arena left New York well in the van, with Chicago a good second and

Detroit third, Boston being fourth. August proved to be a disastrous

month for Detroit, while it was the very reverse for Boston. Pittsburgh

made a good rally in August, in the hope of getting a position in

advance of Boston; but the latter’s recovery from their temporary

demoralization put an end to that. Chicago fell back somewhat during

August, and New York’s successful career was checked, but not to any

damaging extent. Philadelphia more than held its own and improved its

position, while Washington managed to push Indianapolis into the last

ditch. The first two weeks of September saw several important changes

made in the positions of the contestants. During this period the

Eastern teams began their last tour westward, and while New York held

its own well, Boston fell off badly, Detroit pushing the Bostons back

to fourth place after they had lost third a week before. Indianapolis,

too, reversed positions with Washington, the latter being forced into

the tail-end place. Chicago began a good rally to overcome New York’s

lead, but it was too heavy up-hill work for them. The full record up

to the 10th of September left the eight clubs occupying the following

relative positions:

A: New York.

B: Chicago.

C: Detroit.

D: Boston.

E: Philadelphia.

F: Pittsburgh.

G: Indianapolis.

H: Washington.

I: Victories.

J: Possible victories.

K: Played.

L: To play.

M: Per cent. of victories.

------------+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--++---+---+---+--+----

~Clubs.~ |A |B |C |D |E |F |G |H || I | J | K |L | M

------------+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--++---+---+---+--+----

New York |--| 4| 8|12|14| 7|13|11|| 69|103|106|34|.651

Chicago | 8|--|10| 9| 8| 9|12| 6|| 62| 93|109|31|.569

Detroit | 5|10|--| 5| 7| 9|11|10|| 57| 91|106|34|.538

Boston | 8| 7| 6|--| 6| 5|10|15|| 57| 89|108|32|.528

Philadelphia| 5| 5| 5| 9|--|12| 7|10|| 53| 88|105|35|.505

Pittsburgh | 3|11| 7| 7| 4|--|13| 6|| 51| 85|106|34|.481

Indianapolis| 4| 5| 8| 4| 4| 6|--|10|| 41| 70|111|29|.369

Washington | 4| 5| 5| 5| 9| 7| 4|--|| 39| 72|107|33|.364

+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--++---+---+---+--+----

Games Lost |37|47|49|51|52|55|68|70||429| | | |

------------+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--++---+---+---+--+----

The American pennant race, which during the summer promised such an

interesting contest between the Athletic and Brooklyn teams, at the

finish had its aspect materially altered by the result of the August

campaign, during which the Brooklyn team lost so much ground that they

were driven from first place down to fourth. During early September,

however, they rallied successfully to recover a portion of their lost

ground, and by the 10th of that month they had got back to third place,

and were pushing the Athletics for second place.

In the interior, the St. Louis team had almost secured a firm grasp of

the pennant, they being ten victories in advance of Brooklyn and nine

ahead of the Athletics, which team occupied second place, Cincinnati

falling off badly in September. By the 10th of September, too,

Cleveland had got ahead of Baltimore, and Louisville was being pushed

into the last ditch by Kansas City.

The Eastern teams began their last Western tour in September, and on

the result of that tour would depend the championship. Before the

middle of September, the St. Louis Club began making arrangements to

take part in the World’s Championship series of 1888, so sanguine were

they of ultimate success in the race. But “there is many a slip between

the cup and the lip” in baseball contests. Here is the full record up

to September 10, inclusive.

A: St. Louis.

B: Athletic.

C: Brooklyn.

D: Cincinnati.

E: Cleveland.

F: Baltimore.

G: Louisville.

H: Kansas City.

I: Games won.

J: Per cent. of victories.

K: Possible victories.

L: Games played.

M: Games to play.

------------+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--++---+----+---+---+--

~Clubs.~ |A |B |C |D |E |F |G |H || I | J | K | L |M

------------+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--++---+----+---+---+--

St. Louis |--| 8| 7| 6|14|11|12|12|| 70|.673|106|104|36

Athletic | 6|--| 7|10| 8|11|13|12|| 67|.644|103|104|36

Brooklyn |10| 8|--|11|11| 7|11| 8|| 66|.595| 95|111|29

Cincinnati | 7| 6| 5|--| 8|12|11|11|| 60|.571| 95|105|35

Cleveland | 3| 6| 4| 6|--| 7| 9| 9|| 43|.413| 79|104|36

Baltimore | 4| 4| 7| 5| 7|--| 8| 9|| 44|.405| 76|108|32

Louisville | 2| 4| 6| 3| 6| 9|--| 9|| 39|.364| 72|107|33

Kansas City | 2| 2| 9| 4| 7| 7| 4|--|| 35|.333| 70|105|35

+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--++---+----+---+---+--

Games Lost |34|37|45|45|61|64|68|70||424| | | |

------------+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--++---+----+---+---+--

* * * * *

~In~ the amateur arena, the contests between the four clubs

of the New York Amateur League are the only events worthy of special

mention. The addition of the Orange Athletic Club, of Rosewell, N.

J., to the League has harmonized things since the New Jersey Athletic

Association took their team out of the League, and the new member has

done some good work in the field this past month. The Staten Island

Athletic Club nine is thus far in the van, with the Staten Island

Cricket Club team second, and that of the Brooklyn Athletic Club third.

Here is the record to August 31.

A: Staten Island A. C.

B: Staten Island C. C.

C: Brooklyn A. C.

D: Orange A. C.

E: Victories.

F: Games played.

G: Per cent. of victories.

--------------------+--+--+--+--++--+--+----

~Clubs.~ |A |B |C |D ||E |F | G

--------------------+--+--+--+--++--+--+----

Staten Island A. C. |--| 3| 7| 3||13|17|.813

Staten Island C. C. | 2|--| 4| 2|| 8|14|.571

Brooklyn A. C. | 0| 2|--| 3|| 5|16|.312

Orange A. C. | 2| 1| 0|--|| 3|11|.272

+--+--+--+--++--+--+----

Defeats | 4| 6|11| 8||29| |

--------------------+--+--+--+--++--+--+----

~Note.~--For report of the A. C. A. Meet see Editor’s Open

Window.

BOWLING.

~The~ semi-annual meeting of the Progressive Bowling Club was

held on August 12, in the Y. M. H. A. Hall, Plane Street, Newark, N.

J. The following were elected officers: Leon M. Berkowitz, president;

Philip Bornstein, vice-president; Harry Leucht, secretary; Nathan

Straus, financial secretary; E. Schloss, treasurer and assistant

captain; D. R. Block, captain; M. Mendel, scorer.

CANOEING.

~The~ interest in canoeing is on the increase in Maine. The

number of canoes afloat in the neighborhood of Bath has increased

from eight in 1887 to nearly thirty at present. The Star Canoe Club,

recently organized, has the following list of officers: Captain, W. B.

Potter; mate, H. O. Stinson; secretary and treasurer, H. H. Donnell;

steward, C. B. Coombs.

* * * * *

~The~ Washington Canoe Association, which is composed of the

Washington and Potomac Canoe Clubs, gave a complimentary “Camp Fire”

to its many friends on the night of Thursday, August 22. The usual

success of the association’s entertainments was quite eclipsed on this

occasion. The grounds selected were in a half-cleared glen on a wooded

side of Arlington Bluffs, and a vastly pretty picture was presented

by the white tents and pretty lanterns among the trees, while in the

midst a giant bonfire lit up the surrounding shadows. The weather was

all that could be desired, and a pleasant breeze obviated the too great

heat of the huge fire. The trip to the rendezvous on the steamer was

delightful, and the supper provided was all that could be desired.

After the meal fun reigned rampant, and what with songs, stories and

music, the party passed a delightful evening. At length the return trip

was reluctantly begun, and the eyes of the returning merry-makers, on

approaching the Canoe-house, were greeted with the pretty sight of that

structure illuminated throughout with lanterns.

* * * * *

CRICKET.

~The~ Arapahoe Cricket Club is the title of a new club recently

organized in Denver, Col. Its officers are David D. Seerie, president;

Robert D. Macpherson, field-captain; Robert Findlay, secretary and

treasurer.

* * * * *

~Two~ cricket matches were played at Central Park on Saturday,

August 18; one between the New Yorks and Cosmopolitans, and the other

between the Amateur League and the Claremont Cricket Club of New

Jersey. In the first named match, Mr. Hammond, of the New Yorks, was

severely hurt. The Cosmopolitans won by a score of 56 to 36. In the

other match, the New Jersey visitors defeated their opponents with

ease. The Claremonts scored 50, while the Amateurs were only able to

make 13 runs.

* * * * *

~The~ Manhattan Cricket Club gave the Kings County Club a

terrible thrashing at Prospect Park on August 18. After putting the

Kings County out for 41 runs, the Manhattans ran up 189 for five

wickets. J. G. Davis, 69, not out; M. R. Cobb, 40, and G. Robinson, 30,

hit very hard for their runs, especially the latter, who made a hit for

seven.

* * * * *

~The~ Albion Cricket Club easily defeated the Brooklyn Club at

Prospect Park, August 18. The scores were: Albion, 111 runs; Brooklyn,

22. Only one inning was played.

* * * * *

~Two~ teams, composed of junior members of the Seabright Cricket

Club, one under the captainship of Mrs. Herman Clark and the other

headed by Miss L. Shippen, played a match at Seabright, August 18. Mrs.

Shippen’s side won by a score of 116 to 107. Mrs. Clark distinguished

herself by making a fine hit for three runs in her score of seven. Miss

Shippen made four runs in good form.

* * * * *

~A record-breaking score~ was made at Boston in September by the

Longwood Club Eleven, in their match with the Thornton Club Eleven, of

Rhode Island, the score of the Longwood’s first innings reaching the

unprecedented figures of 412, the largest single innings score yet made

in America. A feature of the innings was George Wright’s individual

contribution of 120 runs, the highest score ever made in a match in

Boston by any one individual cricketer. Of the Longwood Eleven in this

contest, nine of the batsmen contributed double figures, Mudie’s 47

being the next best score to George Wright’s. No less than 376 runs

were made off the bat, the extras being 36. There were 758 balls bowled

by the eight bowlers of the Thornton Eleven during the four and a half

hours the Longwoods were at the bat, Asling being the most successful

bowler of the visiting eleven, he taking 5 wickets for 77 runs. On the

other side, Chambers took 7 wickets for 7 runs, and George Wright 1

wicket for 9 runs, the Thornton eleven being disposed of for 18 runs

only. The full score of this remarkable game is appended.

LONGWOODS.

Caton, b. Asling 39

G. Wright, c. and b. Asling 120

Bixby, c. and b. Asling 6

Chambers, c. Vine, b. Asling 12

S. Wright, b. Guy 1

L. Mansfield, c. R. Beastall, b. Guy 24

H. C. Tyler, b. R. Beastall 34

Mudie, b. Dove 47

F. Mansfield, c. North, b. Asling 30

Burton, not out 31

Hubbard, run out 32

Byes, 19; leg byes, 11; wides, 4; no balls, 2 36

---

Total 412

THORNTONS.

Oborne, b. Chambers 4

Guy, b. Chambers 2

Dove, c. G. Wright, b. Chambers 2

North, b. G. Wright 0

Asling, b. Chambers 1

Collett, c. L. Mansfield, b. Chambers 6

Burton, b. Chambers 0

C. Beastall, c. G. Wright, b. Chambers 1

R. Beastall, not out 0

Vine, did not bat 0

Davidson, did not bat 0

Byes 2

Total 18

BOWLING ANALYSIS.

LONGWOODS.

Balls. Maidens. Wickets. Runs.

Dove 194 5 1 85

R. Beastall 96 1 1 50

Guy 96 2 2 50

North 78 1 0 47

Asling 168 3 5 77

Oborne 90 3 0 38

Vine 24 0 0 14

C. Beastall 12 0 0 15

Guy bowled 3 wides and Asling 1, and the latter and North each bowled a

no ball.

THORNTONS.

George Wright 24 1 1 9

Chambers 24 0 7 7

~The~ return match between All Canada and the Gentlemen of

Ireland took place at Toronto, September 1. It resulted in a draw, but

slightly in favor of the Canadians, who scored 172 to their opponents’

65 for seven wickets. The Irish distinctly wished it to be understood,

however, before playing the return game, that it was simply a “scratch”

game, and the result either way would not have counted in the record of

the tour. Stratton, Saunders, Jones and Gillespie all played well for

their runs, especially the first named, who played with great judgment.

Ogden, near the call of “time,” bowled with great effect. The fielding

was sharp and clean. The Irishmen did not, however, play with much

spirit, but went in for hit or miss style, and in this manner lost

seven wickets for 65 runs, when stumps were pulled.

* * * * *

~Two~ teams of the juniors of the Seabright Cricket Club played

an interesting match, September 1. Mrs. Herman Clark captained one and

Miss G. Shippen the other. Mrs. Herman Clark’s team won by a score of

213 to 212, with two wickets to spare. Mrs. Clark played an excellent

innings.

CYCLING.

~The~ Capital City Bicycle Club was organized recently

in Trenton, N. J., with a membership of twenty active racers.

The following officers were elected: President, Frank S. Warren;

vice-president, Charles D. Gandy; secretary and treasurer, Schuyler C.

Fell; captain, Howard M. White; lieutenant, George Watson.

* * * * *

~About~ a dozen members of the Orange Wanderers left the

club-house at 6.30, August 18th morning for a run to Greenwood Lake,

which they reached about noon. The rest of the day was passed in

fishing, bathing and boating. Early in the evening they started for

home, part of the trip being made by moonlight.

* * * * *

~On~ the quarter-mile cinder track of the New Jersey Athletic

Club at Bergen Point a series of prize bicycle races, open to all

amateurs, and to be contested four successive Saturdays, were begun

August 18. W. H. Caldwell, New Jersey Athletic Club; S. B. Bowman,

New Jersey Athletic Club, and Hudson County Wheelmen, and J. E. Day,

Hudson County Wheelmen, all started from the scratch in the first

event, distance one mile. Caldwell led throughout, and won by nearly

one-eighth of a mile. Time, 3m. 6s. Day never challenged Bowman for

second place. In a two-mile race, S. B. Bowman and Capt. E. P. Baggott,

of the Hudson County Wheelmen, started from the scratch. Baggott set

the pace for the first mile, making the distance in 3m. 19s. Bowman

then went to the front and won by five yards. Time, 6m. 24¼s. The

last quarter was made by Bowman in 42¼s.

* * * * *

~A Bicycle~ meet of importance was held on the track of the

Imperial Trotting Horse Company, Chadinka Grounds, Moscow, Russia, July

11. The festival was opened by a parade, in which twenty-three bicycle

and tricycle riders appeared in racing dress. The score was as follows:

One-mile race (for amateurs who have never won a prize)--H. Davis, 1st;

L. E. Barusdin, 2d; M. W. Nowomlinsky, 3d. Time, 3m. 54½s. The track

was soft, and through this slow times were made.

One-mile tricycle race--N. P. Oboldnew, 1st; S. W. Dokutschaew, 2d.

Time, 5m. 39½s.

Six-mile race--F. W. Bjeloussow, 1st; M. W. Nowomlinsky, 2d. Time, 27m.

10s.

One-mile safety race--K. Kossonrow, 1st; D. G. Engel, 2d. Time, 4m. 47s.

Two-mile race--F. Zemlicka, 1st; F. F. Schukow, 2d. Time, 7m. 16s.

One-mile tricycle race (ladies only)--E. L. Zemlicka, 1st; A. A.

Skworzowa, 2d; A. S. Sosnina, 3d. Time, 8m. 35½s.

One-mile championship race--F. Zemlicka, 1st; H. Davis, 2d; M.

Nowomlinsky, 3d. Time, 3m. 38s.--_Cyclist._

* * * * *

~A Bicycle Tournament~ was held at Riverside Park, Binghamton,

August 2, which resulted as follows:

Half-mile, scratch--W. W. Windle, Lynn, 1m. 18s; J. F. Midgley,

Worcester, second; E. E. Budd, Elmira, third.

One mile, novice--C. J. Iven, Rochester, 3m. ¼s. Chas. Perley, Deposit,

second; L. E. Edgcomb, Cortland, third.

One mile, State championship--W. S. Campbell, Niagara, 3m. 16 2-5s.; H.

C. Hersey, Elmira, second by a long way; E. Budd, Elmira, third.

Two miles, 6.45 class--C. J. Iven, Rochester, 6m. 21¼s.; W. E. McCune,

Worcester, second; E. L. Shefter, Williamsport, 0; E. Budd, Elmira, 0.

Half-mile heats between Mesdames Von Blumen and Oakes.--Heat 1--Von

Blumen first, after a desperate struggle. Time, 1m. 51s. Heat 2--Von

Blumen first; Oakes nowhere. Time, 2m. 1½s. Heat 3--Von Blumen

first; Oakes, 0. Time, 1m. 52¾s.

Half-mile, junior club wheel championship--W. Loveland, 1m. 43¼s.;

W. Schultz, second; F. Newing, 0; H. Nicholl, 0.

One mile, scratch--W. Windle, 2m. 52¼s.; W. S. Campbell, second; J. F.

Midgley, third. Won easily.

One mile, Binghamton club wheel championship--F. S. Cox, 3m. 20s.; J.

Cutler, second; A. French, third; S. W. Newton, fourth.

Three miles, handicap--W. Windle, scratch, 8m. 57¼s.; J. F. Midgley,

second; J. Cutler, third. Handicaps not reported.

One-mile safety race--J. B. McCune, 2m. 53¾s.; J. F. Midgley second.

One-mile team race--Windle and Midgley, of Worcester, first.

One mile, consolation--C. J. Connolly, Rochester, 3m. 8¾s.

The judges were S. B. Vaughn, Kingston, Pa.; Geo. A. Jessup, Scranton,

Pa.; W. H. Stone, Binghamton Wheel Club. Timers, W. D. Cloyes,

Cortland, N. Y.; H. C. Spaulding, Elmira, N. Y.; W. J. Stephenson,

Binghamton, N. Y. Scorers, C. C. King, Pittston, Pa.; M. C. Craver,

Binghamton Wheel Club; and the referee, Henry E. Ducker, Buffalo, N. Y.

* * * * *

~The~ programme of races for the Bicycling Tournament at

Richmond, Virginia, October 23 and 24, will be as follows:

FIRST DAY.

One-half mile, novice, open, value of two prizes, $40.

Two miles, amateur, “Rovertype Safety,” open, one prize, gold watch and

chain, value $75.

One mile, professional, open, one prize, $100 in cash.

One mile, Virginia Division L. A. W., championship, two prizes, valued

at $50.

Two miles, team, lap (three men each team), open, three medals, valued

at $50.

One-half mile, without hands, open, one medal, valued at $25.

One mile, tandem tricycle handicap, open, two prizes, valued at $60.

One mile, Old Dominion Wheelmen, championship, one prize, valued at $20.

One-half mile, consolation, one prize, valued at $25.

SECOND DAY.

One-half mile, novice, Virginia Division L. A. W., two prizes, valued

at $50.

One mile, amateur handicap, open, prize, Star or Crank racing machine.

One-half mile, ride and run, amateur, open, two prizes, valued at $40.

Three miles, professional, lap, one prize, $100 in cash.

One mile, team, lap (teams of three men each, Virginia Division L. A.

W. only), one prize, consisting of three medals and a cup, valued at

$65.

One-half mile, steeplechase (any kind of a wheel), two prizes, valued

at $35.

One-half mile, amateur, open, gold watch, valued at $75.

Three miles, Virginia Division L. A. W., championship, two prizes,

valued at $50.

One-half mile, consolation, one prize, valued at $20.

* * * * *

~The~ Huntington, L. I., Bicycle Club races took place August 3,

and resulted as follows:

Half-mile dash--F. G. Brown, K. C. W., 1m. 29¼s. W. T. Murphy, K. C.

W., second.

One mile, novice--F. W. Lincoln, Mercury W. C., 3m. 14s.; Frank Asbury,

Q. C. W., second.

Two miles, 6.45 class--H. P. Matthews, B. B. C., 7m. 2½s.; H.

Quortrop, Q. C. W., second.

One mile, open--F. G. Brown, K. C. W., 4m. 3½s.; H. B. Matthews, B. B.

C., second.

One mile, Huntington Club championship--S. C. Ebbets, 3m. 21½s.; Chas.

B. Scudder, second.

Three miles, handicap--H. P. Matthews, B. B. C., 25 yards, 12m. 12s.;

W. T. Murphy, K. C. W., 25 yards, second.

One mile, consolation--J. G. Ebbets, Huntington B. C., 3m. 37½s.; J.

Magee, Q. C. W., second.

* * * * *

~The~ Seventh Annual Tournament of the Toronto Bicycle Club took

place on the Rosedale grounds, August 13--weather fine, wind fresh,

track in fair condition. The summary is as follows:

One mile, green; first round--First heat, J. H. Gerrie, W. B. C., 3m.

5 1-5s.; R. S. Peniston, W. B. C., second; B. W. Woods, W. B. C.,

third; W. J. Moody, W. B. C., fourth; H. Wood, T. B. C., fifth. Second

heat--G. C. Willmott, T. B. C., 3m. 21 2-5s.; J. A. Knight, St. Louis,

second by two lengths; C. W. Hurndall, T. B. C., third; A. Bryant, T.

B. C., fourth. Final heat, first three in first heat and first two in

second heat to start--Gerrie, 3m. 18 3-5s.; Woods, second by ten yards;

Knight, third by a yard; Willmott, fourth; Peniston did not finish.

Half-mile--W. Windle, Lynn, Mass., B. C., 1m. 21 2-5s.; W. S. Campbell,

Niagara Falls, N. Y., second; L. B. Cooper, Belleville, third; W. M.

Carman, Norwich, fourth.

Two miles, club--W. M. Carman, Norwich, 6m. 33s.; M. F. Johnston,

second, by three yards; F. J. Whatmough, third, by ten yards.

Fancy riding--N. Campbell, Niagara Falls, did many difficult feats, and

rode a quarter of a mile on one wheel in 1m. 5 2-5s.

One mile, handicap--W. Windle, Lynn, Mass., scratch, 2m. 56 4-5s.; W.

S. Campbell, Niagara Falls, N. Y., twenty yards, second, by ten yards;

B. Woods, W. B. C., 150 yards, third, by three yards; L. B. Cooper,

Belleville, forty yards, fourth; W. A. Lingham, Belleville, forty

yards, fifth; F. Midgley, Worcester, Mass., fifty yards; C. R. Fitch,

Brantford, fifty yards, and W. M. Carman, Norwich, seventy-five yards,

did not finish; F. J. Whatmough, T. B. C., seventy-five yards, fell.

One mile, 3.20 class--W. H. Brown, W. B. C., 3m. 15 2-5s.; W. M.

Carman, Norwich, second, by two lengths; W. A. Lingham, Belleville,

third, by half a wheel; C. R. Fitch, Brantford, fourth.

Five miles--W. Windle, 15m. 52 2-5s.; W. S. Campbell quit at 4½ miles;

C. R. Fitch quit at half a mile.

Quarter-mile combination race--The competitors drew their bicycles 110

yards, rode with one foot 110 yards, lifted them over a hurdle, pushed

on one wheel and then on two wheels to the finish. C. W. Hurndall, 1m.

12½s.; A. G. Peacey, second; C. J. Lowe, third; G. C. Willmott, fourth;

R. T. Blackford, fifth; A. Bryant, sixth.

Three-mile roadster race--F. Midgley, Worcester, Mass., 9m. 58

2-5s.; J. H. Gerrie, W. B. C., second, by 200 yards; W. A. Lingham,

Belleville, third, by twenty yards; J. A. Knight, St. Louis, fourth; L.

B. Cooper, Belleville, did not finish.

One mile, Safety machines--M. F. Johnston, T. B. C., 3m. 11 2-5s.;

T. Fane, W. B. C., second, by fifty yards; R. S. Peniston, W. B. C.,

0; W. J. Moody, W. B. C., 0. F. Midgley wished to ride a Springfield

roadster, and, though ruled off by the referee, started and finished

first.

* * * * *

~The~ widespread influence of cycling is well shown by the

publication _La Révue du Sport Vélocipédique_, the official cycling

organ of France. It is a brightly conducted paper, and will do much to

advance the cause of wheeling among our French brethren.

* * * * *

~The~ tournament at the Buffalo Exposition proved very

successful. It commenced September 4th, extended over several days,

and closed on the 10th. H. E. Ducker officiated as general director;

Howard P. Merrill, referee; T. J. Kirkpatrick, George R. Sidwell, W. S.

Bull, Charles H. Potter, Harry H. Hodgson, C. H. Luscaub and Charles A.

Payne, judges; George M. Hendee, starter; J. H. Isham, C. H. Kimball,

W. N. Watson and H. D. Corey, timekeepers. The following is a record of

the races:

One mile, tandem, professional--F. W. Allard and Jack Lee, England,

first, in 3m. 16 3-5s.; Jules Dubois, Paris, France, and W. F. Knapp,

Denver, Col., second, by twenty yards.

One mile, amateur, novice--Kenneth Brown, Cambridge, Mass., first, in

3m. 3 3-5s.; Robert W. Jameson, Rochester, second, by two lengths; W.

B. Milley, Buffalo, third; F. N. C. Jerauld, Niagara Falls, fourth.

Ten miles, L. A. W. championship--Will Windle, Millbury, Mass., first,

in 31m. 37 1-5s.; H. R. Winship, Chicago, second, by fifty yards.

One mile, professional--H. G. Crocker, Newton, Mass., 10 yds. start,

first, in 2m. 43 2-5s.; W. F. Knapp, Denver, Col., 20 yds., second, by

thirty yards; Sidney Eastwood, Denver, 100 yds., third.

One mile, amateur, 3.10 class--Bert Myers, Peoria, Ill., first, in 2m.

54 4-5s.; A. C. Barker, Pittsburgh, second, by thirty yards; E. O.

Rasicoe, Woodstock, Ont., third.

Two miles, amateur, N. Y. State championship--W. S. Campbell, Niagara

Falls, first, in 6m. 22 2-5s.; H. J. Hall, Jr., Brooklyn, N. Y.,

second, by five yards; C. J. Iven, Rochester, third.

Three miles, amateur, tandem--W. E. Crist and P. S. Brown, Washington,

D. C., first, in 9m. 48 2-5s.; A. C. and W. D. Banker, Pittsburgh, Pa.,

second, by fifty yards; C. P. Adams, Springfield, and H. E. Ducker,

Jr., Buffalo, third.

Two miles, professional (rovers), handicap--F. W. Allard, Coventry,

Eng., 10 yds. start, first, in 6m. 20s.; Jack Lee, Nottingham, Eng.,

scratch, second, by three feet; George Seymour, 150 yds., third.

Three miles, team race--This was between teams representing Buffalo and

Rochester. In the first mile, Charles P. Forbush, of Buffalo, took a

header and broke his wrist, in consequence of which the race went to

Rochester by default.

One mile, tandem--A. C. and W. D. Banker, Pittsburgh, Pa., first, in

3m. 1-5s.; H. J. Hall, Jr., Brooklyn, and R. H. Davis, Cambridge,

Mass., second, by twenty yards; P. M. Harris and Val. H. Muller, New

York, third.

SECOND DAY, SEPT. 5.

Two miles, novice--Kenneth Brown, Cambridge, Mass., first, in 6m.

25 2-5s.; F. M. Brinker, Buffalo, second, by a yard; W. B. Milley,

Buffalo, third; Robert W. Jameson, Rochester, fourth.

Half-mile, special unicycle--W. H. Barber, Rochester, first, in 2m.

22s.; Marshall, second.

Half-mile, professional--W. F. Knapp, Denver, first, in 1m. 23 4-5s.;

William A. Rowe, Lynn, Mass., second, by six inches; Ralph Temple,

Chicago, third; H. G. Crocker, Newton, Mass., fourth.

Five miles, N. Y. State championship--W. S. Campbell, Niagara Falls,

first, in 18m. 26s.; H. J. Hall, Jr., Brooklyn, second, by thirty

yards; Theodore W. Roberts, Poughkeepsie, third, three yards away.

Three miles, professional--William J. Morgan, Chicago, 400 yds. start,

first, in 9m. 5s.; H. G. Crocker, Newbury, Mass., scratch, second, by

twenty yards; Ralph Temple, Chicago, 60 yds., third; William A. Rowe,

Lynn, scratch, fourth.

Three miles, amateur (rovers), roadster--R. H. Davis, Cambridge, Mass.,

150 yds., first, in 9m. 57 4-5s.; P. J. Berlo, South Boston, 160 yds.,

second; W. D. Banker, Pittsburgh, Pa., 150 yds., third.

One mile, team race--Chicago Club won, with 20 points; Washington Club,

second, 10; Rochester Club, third, 6. W. H. Van Sicklen, Chicago, was

first home, in 2m. 58s.; H. K. Winship, Chicago, second, by three feet;

W. E. Crist, Washington, third.

Five miles, tandem, professional--H. G. Crocker and Robert Neilson, 120

yds. start, first, in 16m. 20 1-5s.; J. Dubois and W. F. Knapp, 300

yds., second, by ten yards.

Five miles, tricycle, L. A. W. championship--W. E. Crist, Washington,

D. C., first, in 21m. 47s.; Fred Foster, Wanderers’ Club, Toronto,

Ont., second.

Two miles, tandem, open--A. C. and W. D. Banker, Pittsburgh, Pa.,

first, in 6m. 51s.; R. H. Davis, Cambridge, Mass., and H. J. Hall, Jr.,

Brooklyn, N. Y., second, by thirty yards; P. M. Harris and Val. H.

Muller, New York, third.

One mile (rovers), professional--F. W. Allard, England, scratch, first,

in 3m. 4 3-5s.; Jack Lee, Nottingham, Eng., scratch, second, by three

feet; Jules Dubois, Paris, France, 40 yds. start, third.

One mile, amateur, handicap--H. L. Kingsland, Baltimore, Md., 70

yds. start, first, in 2m. 47 2-5s.; Bert Myers, Peoria, Ill., 100

yds., second, by three yards; H. R. Winship, Chicago, Ill., 100 yds.,

third; N. H. Van Sicklen, Chicago, Ill., 90 yds., fourth; Will Windle,

Millbury, Mass., scratch, fifth.

THIRD DAY, SEPT. 6.

Three miles, L. A. W. championship--Will Windle, Millbury, Mass.,

first, in 9m. 27s.; A. E. Lumsden, Chicago, Ill., second, by thirty

yards; H. R. Winship, Chicago, third.

Two miles, amateur (rover), open, road wheels--H. R. Davis, Cambridge,

Mass., first, in 6m. 59 3-5s.; P. J. Berlo, South Boston, Mass.,

second, by twenty yards; W. E. Crist, Washington, D. C., third.

Five miles, amateur, 16.00 class--A. C. Banker, Pittsburgh, Pa., first,

in 17m. 50s.; W. D. Banker, Pittsburgh, second, by half a length,

the latter having three broken spokes in his wheel; S. W. Merrihew,

Wilmington, Del., third.

One mile, tandem, professional--H. G. Crocker and Robert Neilson,

scratch, first, in 2m. 58 3-5s.; Jules Dubois, Paris, and W. F. Knapp,

Denver, 50 yds. start, second, by ten yards; F. W. Allard and Jack Lee,

England, scratch, third, thirty yards away.

Half mile, amateur, tandem--A. C. and W. D. Banker, Pittsburgh, Pa.,

first, in 1m. 26 2-5s.; R. H. Davis and H. J. Hall, Jr., Brooklyn, N.

Y., second, by thirty yards; W. E. Grist and Phil S. Brown, Washington,

D. C., third.

One mile, amateur--Will Windle, Millbury, Mass., first, in 3m. 5s.;

Fred Midgley, Worcester, Mass., second; William J. Wilhelm, Reading,

Pa., third.

Five miles (rovers), professional--F. W. Allard, Coventry, Eng.,

scratch, first, in 17m. 51 1-5s.; Jack Lee, Nottingham, Eng., scratch,

second, by a foot; H. G. Crocker, Boston, Mass., 40 yds., third, by

over two hundred yards.

Two miles, amateur--H. R. Winship, Chicago, Ill., 250 yds. start,

first, in 6m. 9 3-5s.; A. E. Lumsden, Chicago, 175 yds., second, by

thirty yards; A. C. Banker, Pittsburgh, Pa., 250 yds., third.

Three miles, tricycle, professional--Jack Lee, Nottingham, Eng., first,

in 12m. 7 3-5s.; F. W. Allard, Coventry, Eng., second, by twelve feet;

H. G. Crocker, Newbury, Mass., third, ten feet behind.

One mile, championship of Buffalo--W. B. Milley, Buffalo, first, in

3m. 22 1-5s.; F. M. Brinker, Buffalo, second, by thirty yards; J. B.

Milley, Buffalo, third.

On the fourth day, September 7, there was a run from Buffalo to Niagara

Falls. On the fifth day, the track races were postponed on account of

the weather, but the road race took place as follows:

One hundred miles, on the road, Erie to Buffalo--Frank M. Dampman,

Honeybrook, Pa., first, in 9h. 52m. 29 3-5s.; Frank McDaniels,

Wilmington, Del., second, in 9h. 55m. 23 4-5s.; Frank G. Lenz,

Pittsburgh, Pa., third, in 10h. 4m. 44 4-5s.; G. A. Tivy, St. Louis,

Mo., fourth, in 10h. 8m. 21 3-5s.; S. W. Merrihew, Wilmington, Del.,

fifth, in 10h. 10m. 52 4-5s.; Roy S. Blowers, Westfield, N. Y.,

sixth, in 10h. 25m. 45s. The start was made in the midst of a severe

rain-storm, the roads were bad all the distance, and the contestants

suffered greatly from the weather.

On Monday, Sept. 10, the races were ridden on the one-mile trotting

track, which, though heavy, was not as soft as the cycling track.

One mile, tandem, open, road wheels only--W. E. Crist and P. S.

Brown, Washington, D. C., first, in 3m. 46s.; A. C. and W. D. Banker,

Pittsburgh, Pa., second, by thirty yards; R. H. Davis, Cambridge,

Mass., and H. J. Hall, Jr., Brooklyn, third, a length away.

Half-mile, amateur--Will Windle, Millbury, Mass., first, in 1m. 22

3-5s.; W. S. Campbell, Niagara Falls, second, by thirty yards; A. E.

Lumsden, Chicago, Ill., third, two yards away.

Two miles, professional--W. A. Rowe, Lynn, Mass., scratch, first, in

5m. 54 3-5s.; Ralph Temple, Chicago, Ill., scratch, second, by a yard;

H. G. Crocker, Newton, Mass., scratch, third, by five yards; W. J.

Morgan, Chicago, 250 yards start, fourth, a length behind.

Ten miles, amateur--A. E. Lumsden, Chicago, Ill., 400 yards start, in

32m. 15s.; H. R. Winship, Chicago, 600 yards, second, by twenty yards;

W. J. Wilhelm, Reading, Pa., 600 yards, third, beaten off.

One mile, tandem, amateur--A. C. and W. D. Banker, Pittsburgh, 120

yards start, first, in 2m. 47s.; P. M. Harris and Val H. Muller, New

York, 300 yards, second.

One mile, amateur--E. O. Rasicoe, Woodstock, Ont., first, in 3m. 2s.;

Bert Myers, Peoria, Ill., second, by a yard; C. J. Iven, Rochester, N.

Y., third, by the same distance.

One mile, tandem, professional--H. G. Crocker, Newton, and R. Neilson,

Boston, Mass., scratch, first, in 2m. 56 1-5s.; J. Dubois, Paris, and

W. F. Knapp, Denver, 30 yards start, second, by five yards; F. W.

Allard, Coventry, and J. Lee, Nottingham, Eng., third.

One mile, amateur, open--Will Windle, Millbury, Mass., first, in 2m. 58

4-5s.; W. J. Wilhelm, Reading, Pa., second by five yards; W. E. Crist,

Washington, ten yards off.

One mile, professional (rovers)--Jules Dubois, Paris, France, 40 yards,

first, in 2m. 51 3-5s.; F. W. Allard, Coventry, Eng., scratch, second,

by two yards; Jack Lee, Nottingham, Eng., scratch, third, ten yards

behind.

One mile, amateur, consolation--E. P. Cochran, Leroy, N. Y., first, in

3m. 9s.; C. J. Connelly, Rochester, second, by five yards; R. T. M.

McLaren, Adams, third, one hundred yards away.

Professional races for the world’s championship--First heat, three

miles: H. G. Crocker, Newton, Mass., first, in 11m. 7 2-5s.; W. A.

Rowe, Lynn, Mass., second, by three yards; W. F. Knapp, Denver, Col.,

third, close up. Second heat, five miles: W. A. Rowe first, in 18m. 43

1-5s.; H. G. Crocker second; Robert Neilson, Boston, third; W. F. Knapp

fourth. Ralph Temple finished first, but was disqualified for fouling

Rowe. Final heat, one mile: Rowe first, in 2m. 52 3-5s.; Crocker

second, by five yards; Knapp third, twenty yards behind; Neilson fourth.

FOOTBALL.

~The~ last of the football games was played August 18, between

the St. Paul and Thistle clubs of Minneapolis, and resulted in a

victory for the latter by eight goals to one. This finished the series

and gave the pennant or Shaw cup to the Thistles. The teams were as

follows: _St. Paul._--Goal, J. A. Jenkins; backs, L. Owen and A.

McCulloch, “captain;” half backs, J. Wilson, J. Brown and S. L. Titus;

forwards, L. A. Shirley, W. Pollock, G. Douglas, C. Murphy and J. B.

Darling. _Thistle._--Goal, J. Henry; backs, K. Henry and Wm. Pringle,

“captain;” half backs, Andrew Gray, D. McMillian and A. Richmond;

forwards, G. Anderson, J. H. Barry, J. McKendrick, J. Emslie and R. H.

Teeple. Below is given the summary of the four clubs belonging to the

“Twin City Hall Association”:

_Played._ _Won._ _Lost._

Thistle 5 4 1

St. Paul 5 3 2

Tam O’Shanters 2 0 2

North Star 2 0 2

_Goals scored._ _Lost._

Thistle 23 4

St. Paul 11 8

Tam O’Shanters 1 7

North Stars 0 16

~The~ football season in New England opened at Fall River,

Mass., with an exhibition game between the Rovers, who hold the

championship of the American Association, and the Olympics, who hold

the local Bristol County championship. The match was finely played, and

the Rovers won, 1 to 0.

* * * * *

~The~ announcement comes from London that the Canadian football

team, September 1, defeated the County Antrim Irish team in a match by

six goals to two.

KENNEL.

~President Belmont~, of the American Kennel Club, at a meeting

of the club recently, appointed a committee, consisting of C. J.

Peshall and A. P. Vredenburg, to draft a circular to be sent to all

breeders of the country. The object of this document is to set forth

the history of the A. K. C., its aims and also its ineffectual attempt

to consolidate all existing registers into one stud-book, and to

explain and thoroughly set forth the meaning and animus of its enemies

who are working against it.

* * * * *

~The~ third annual bench show of the American Fox Terrier Club

was held at Saratoga, August 22, 23 and 24, and in point of quality

excelled its predecessors, though the number of entries was not as

great as that of the preceding years. The following is a list of the

awards:

Champion Dogs--1st, the Blemton Kennel’s Lucifer (as _in præsenti_, by

Splinter, out of Kohinoor); 2d, the Blemton Kennel’s Bacchanal (by the

Belgravian, out of Bedlamite).

Champion Bitches--1st, the Blemton Kennel’s Rachel (by Result, out of

Heather Bell); 2d, the Blemton Kennel’s Diadem (by Dugdale Joe, out of

Diamond Dust); V H C, the Blemton Kennel’s Marguerite (by Brokenhurst

Spice, out of Daisy).

Open Class--Dogs--1st, the Blemton Kennel’s Blemton Rubicon (by

Regent, out of Rachel); 2d, the Blemton Kennel’s Dusky Trap (by Dusky

Splinter, out of Spider); 3d, Mr. Jno. E. Thayer’s Raby Mixer (by

Raby Mixture, out of Richmond Olive Bud); 4th, Mr. Jno. E. Thayer’s

Reckoner (by Regent, out of Nita); V H C, Blemton Kennel’s Blemton

Volunteer and Blemton Coronet, Mr. Jno. E. Thayer’s Luke; H C, T. L.

Drayton’s Blemton Sentinel; C, Blemton Kennel’s Blemton Volunteer, H.

P. Frothingham’s Mugwump and Clarence Rathbone’s Beverwyck Tippler.

Open Bitch Class--1st, the Blemton Kennel’s New Forest Ethel (by

New Forest, out of Auburn); 2d, Jno. E. Thayer’s Richmond Dazzle

(by Raby Mixture, out of Richmond Puzzle); 3d, the Blemton Kennel’s

Blemton Consequence (by Result, out of Diadem); 4th, Jno. E. Thayer’s

Princess (by Venetian, out of Lurette); V H C, Jno. E. Thayer’s

Fraulein Mixture; H C, the Blemton Kennel’s Blemton Dahabiah; C, Mr. C.

Rathbone’s Blemton Arrow.

Dog Puppies--1st, Blemton Kennel’s Blemton Rubicon (by Regent--Rachel);

2d, Blemton Kennel’s Blemton Coronet; 3d, Blemton Kennel’s Blemton

Volunteer; V H C, reserve, Blemton Kennel’s Blemton Grumbler; V H C,

Blemton Kennel’s Blemton Calculus; V H C, Mr. F. Hoey’s---- by Lucifer,

out of Regent Virtue; C, Jno. E. Thayer’s Hillside Monk.

Bitch Puppies--1st, Blemton Consequence (by Result, out of Diadem); 2d,

Blemton Kennel’s Blemton Rainbow (by Regent, out of Rachel); 3d, H. P.

Frothingham’s Fidget (by Faust, out of Blemton Lottery).

Novice Class--1st, Blemton Kennel’s Blemton Rubicon (by Regent, out

of Rachel); 2d, Blemton Kennel’s Blemton Coronet (by Result, out of

Diadem); V H C, reserve, Jno. E. Thayer’s Princess, Blemton Kennel’s

Blemton Calculus and Blemton Rainbow; H C, Blemton Kennel’s Blemton

Dahabiah; C, H. P. Frothingham’s Mugwump and Blemton Lottery, Jno. E.

Thayer’s Raby Chance, R. S. Ryan’s Linden Splint and Fred Hoey’s----

(by New Forest, out of Regent Virtue).

Selling Class--1st, Blemton Kennel’s Blemton Grumbler (by Lucifer,

out of Garuma); 2d, Jno. E. Thayer’s Sly Mixture (by Mixture, out of

Shame); V H C, Blemton Pepper.

Wire-haired Champion Class--1st, Mr. Samuel Insull’s Bristles (by

Pincher, out of Squish).

Open Dogs--1st, Jno. E. Thayer’s Dare Devil (by Surprise, out of

Vixen); 2d, Jno. E. Thayer’s Rat Trap (by Surprise, out of Vixen); V H

C, Samuel Insull’s Pinwire.

Puppies--1st, Charles W. Cornwell’s Miss Bristle (by Broxton Tantrum,

out of Champion Bristles); other prize withheld.

Welsh Terriers--1st, Mr. Prescott Lawrence’s Which; 2d, Mr. Prescott

Lawrence’s T’other.

Irish Terriers--Dogs and Bitches--1st, Mr. Thomas Wise, Jr.’s, Badger

Boy; 2d, Mr. Thomas Wise, Jr.’s, Gypsy Maid (by Dushing, out of Gypsy

Girl); 3d, Mr. Thomas Wise, Jr.’s, Gypsy Girl; H C, Mr. Thomas Wise,

Jr.’s, Dan.

English Terriers--Mr. O. H. P. Belmont’s Diamond Spark (by Diamond, out

of Juno); 2d, Mr. O. H. P. Belmont’s Lonely (by Spring, out of Lady

Florence).

Bedlington Terriers--Dogs and Bitches--1st, Mr. E. D. Morgan’s Tees

Rock.

Hard-haired Scotch Terriers--1st, Mr. E. D. Morgan’s Highland Laddie

(by Charlie, out of Flossie).

Dandie Dinmonts--1st, John H. Naylor’s Cromwell (by Shern, out of Queen

of the Border).

Bull Terriers--1st, W. F. Hobbie’s Cairo (by Champion Max Marx, out of

Champion Mistress of the Robes); 2d, W. F. Hobbie’s Bonnie Princess (by

Silver King, out of Kettering’s Maggie); V H C, George House’s Duchess

of York and Grabbler; C, Frank F. Dole’s My Queen.

Bull Terriers under 30 lbs.--1st, Frank F. Dole’s Nell Bright (by

Bendigo, out of Daisy); 2d, Frank F. Dole’s Sensation (by Bulrush, out

of Fancy); V H C, Marion Randolph’s Peggy; H C, Fannie W. Ogden’s Gypsy.

Puppy Class--1st, Fannie W. Ogden’s She (by Grabbler, out of Gypsy).

Rough-coated Toy Terriers--1st, withheld; 2d, Frank F. Dole’s Napper

(by Little Wonder, out of Bella).

Selling Class, any variety except fox terriers--1st, F. F. Dole’s Nell

Bright; 2d, John H. Naylor’s Cromwell.

* * * * *

~John S. Wise~, President of the Richmond, Va., Bench Show,

writes that the entries for the October fixtures will be large. The

entries of fox hounds will be particularly large.

The Virginia A. M. & T. Exposition offers the following special prizes

for the best kennel, to consist of not less than four, and at least two

kennels to compete, each kennel to be owned by one exhibitor.

Class A--For best kennel English setters, $25.

Class B--For best kennel of pointers, $25.

Class C--For best kennel of collies, $25.

Class D--For best kennel of fox hounds, not less than six, $25.

They also offer the following specials:

Class E--For the best setter dog or bitch of any breed in the show that

has run in a field trial, $20.

Class F--For the best pointer dog or bitch in the show that has run in

a field trial, $20.

Class G--For the best blue-mottled fox hound dog or bitch exhibited,

$20.

The American Fox Terrier Club offers:

Class H--For the best exhibit of fox terriers, $20.

A Friend of Beagles offers:

Class I--For the best brace of beagle bitches, owned by one exhibitor,

$25.

The American Gordon Setter Club offers:

Class K--A special prize of a solid piece of silver, valued at $25, for

the best Gordon setter dog or bitch in the show, $25.

The Collie Club of America offers:

Class L--Its club medal, or $10 in cash, for the best collie bred and

owned by a resident of any Southern State, Maryland included, $10.

LACROSSE.

~The~ deciding game in the series for the championship of the

National Amateur Lacrosse Association of Canada was played in Montreal,

August 18, by the teams of the Shamrock and Brockville clubs, the

former winning by a score of three goals to one.

* * * * *

~The~ Brooklyn Lacrosse Team played the Jersey City Club at

Oakland Park, Jersey City, August 25. Each side made two goals in a

contest lasting over an hour.

LAWN TENNIS.

~The~ Lawn Tennis Tournament at Narragansett Pier, August 4th,

resulted as follows: Preliminary Round, singles--W. R. Weeden beat

Elliott, 6-3, 8-6; F. Hill beat H. C. Phillips, 6-1, 6-2; F. Warren

beat S. Smith, 6-3, 6-2; R. B. Hale beat F. Keene by default; E. T.

Lynch beat J. Weeden by default; H. W. Slocum, Jr., beat S. M. Colgote,

6-0, 6-1; M. Graham beat A. O. Taylor by default. First round, Weeden

beat Hill, 6-3, 6-2; Hale beat Warren, 6-2, 3-6, 6-1; Slocum beat

Lynch, 6-0, 6-0; J. A. Ryerson beat Graham, 6-1, 6-1; C. A. Chase beat

T. S. Tailer, 6-2, 6-0; O. S. Campbell beat L. Saltus, 6-2, 9-7; H.

Post beat E. Wilbur, 6-0, 6-0; Q. A. Shaw, Jr., beat J. Bryant, 6-0,

6-2; C. E. Smith beat W. Billings, 6-0, 6-1; D. G. Snow beat J. S.

Brown by default; P. V. Lansdale beat W. Smith, 6-0, 2-6, 6-0; L. H.

Dulles beat S. P. Griffin, 6-3, 6-4; A. E. Wright beat W. R. Graham,

6-0, 6-3; H. W. Cozzens beat G. H. Gilman, 6-1, 9-7; H. A. Taylor beat

J. Colgate, 6-0, 6-4; S. Hodge beat T. J. Stead, 11-9, 6-3. Second

round, Slocum beat Ryerson, 6-2, 3-6, 6-3; Shaw beat Post, 7-5, 4-6,

6-0; Smith beat Dulles, 6-2, 6-1; Wright beat Cozzens, 6-1, 6-1; Snow

beat Lansdale, 4-6, 7-5, 6-1; Hale beat Weeden, 5-7, 6-4, 6-4; Chase

beat Campbell, 4-6, 6-1, 6-3; Taylor beat Hodge, 7-5, 6-3. Third

round, Slocum beat Hale, 6-1, 6-3; Smith beat Snow, 7-5, 7-5; Taylor

beat Wright, 4-6, 6-1, 6-3; Shaw beat Chase, 6-2, 6-4. Fourth round,

Slocum beat Shaw by default; Taylor beat Smith, 6-1, 6-1. Final round,

H. A. Taylor beat H. W. Slocum, Jr., 6-4, 8-6, 7-5. Second prize: H.

W. Slocum, Jr., beat S. Colgate, 9-7, 6-1. Preliminary round, mixed

doubles, Miss A. Robinson and Mr. H. Taylor beat Miss M. Colby and

Mr. S. Colgate, 6-3, 6-4; Miss E. C. Roosevelt and Mr. O. Campbell

beat Miss Satrope and Mr. Post, 7-5, 7-5; Miss G. W. Roosevelt and Mr.

Wright beat Miss Lynch and Mr. Garrett, 4-6, 6-2, 6-2. First round,

Miss Roosevelt and Mr. Campbell beat Miss Roosevelt and Mr. Wright,

6-3, 6-3; Miss Robinson and Mr. Taylor beat Miss Stoughton and Mr.

Slocum, 6-3, 6-4. Final round, Miss Roosevelt and Mr. Campbell beat

Miss Robinson and Mr. Taylor, 6-2, 6-2, 4-6, 6-3. In the final, for

second prize, Miss Robinson and Mr. Taylor beat Miss Roosevelt and Mr.

Wright, 6-4, 8-6.

The ladies’ singles were won by Miss A. Robinson defeating Miss E. C.

Roosevelt in the final round with the greatest of ease, 6-0, 6-1, 6-0.

The second prize was won by Miss E. C. Roosevelt over Miss Colby, 6-2,

6-1, 6-0.

* * * * *

~Cooperstown, N. Y.~, August 15.--The third annual Lawn Tennis

tournament was given on the courts directly back of the Cooper House.

None of the “cracks” were entered, as in previous years. In the final

round of the gentlemen’s singles, Mr. R. M. Wright defeated R. R.

Perkins, 7-5, 8-6, 6-3. In the gentlemen’s doubles, H. C. Bowers and

H. G. Trevor were victorious over their opponents, C. Metcalf and J.

McKim, defeating them easily in three straight sets, 6-3, 6-1, 6-1.

* * * * *

~Greenwich, Conn.~, August 16.--The tennis courts at Greenwich

were crowded on the above date by spectators who had come to witness

the second annual lawn tennis tournament of the Greenwich club. The

fair sex never played better, and fairly outdid themselves. Miss

Rathborne and Miss Mason won the ladies’ doubles, receiving two very

handsome lace pins. In the singles Miss Moore easily defeated all her

opponents and received first prize, a handsome silver bangle.

* * * * *

~Bar Harbor, Me.~, August 16.--In the final round of the

gentlemen’s singles, Morton S. Paton, of New York, defeated L. Bonsai,

6-3, 6-2, 6-4, and challenged R. L. Beeckman, winner of the cup last

season. On the following day the match was played, resulting in a

victory for Mr. Beeckman. The score stood 6-1, 6-2, 6-4. This makes Mr.

Beeckman the holder twice in succession, and if he succeeds in winning

it a third time next season the cup will become his own property. The

gentlemen’s doubles, which were handicap, were won by Paton and Robbins

over the Cushman Brothers by the following score: 5-7, 6-2, 6-3, 6-4.

* * * * *

~The~ tournament to decide the Lawn Tennis championship of the

United States for singles, at Newport, R. I., August 20, resulted as

follows: Preliminary round, singles--H. W. Slocum, Jr., beat C. A.

Chase, 4-6, 6-2, 1-6, 6-2, 6-3. First round, J. S. Clark beat F. L.

V. Hoppin, 6-3, 3-6, 6-1, 6-2; J. Dwight beat F. W. Taylor, 6-3, 6-1,

6-2; E. Tuttle beat C. E. Stickney by default; C. P. Wilbur beat C.

Beatty, 6-3, 6-3, 9-7; O. S. Campbell beat W. Waller, 7-5, 6-3, 6-2;

M. Fielding beat Fiske Warren, 6-1, 6-2, 6-3; A. E. Wright beat G.

F. Brown, Jr., 6-2, 6-3, 6-3; G. W. Lee beat A. R. Weeden, 6-4, 7-5,

6-2; P. S. Sears beat W. L. Jennings, 6-2, 6-3, 6-2; B. B. Lamb beat

A. L. Rives, 6-1, 6-2, 6-1; H. A. Taylor beat F. Kellogg by default;

R. B. Hale beat G. M. Brinley by default; A. L. Williston beat V. G.

Hall, 6-4, 6-8, 7-5, 3-6, 6-2; J. A. Ryerson beat A. Hubbard, 8-6, 6-3,

3-6, 6-0; P. S. Presbrey beat T. S. Tailer, 19-21, 8-6, 1-6, 6-3, 6-4.

Second round, Dwight beat Tuttle, 6-1, 6-0, 6-1; Campbell beat Wilbur,

6-2, 6-1, 6-3; Wright beat Fielding, 6-2, 1-6, 6-1, 6-1; Sears beat

Lee, 6-2, 6-0, 6-1; Ryerson beat Lamb, 6-2, 6-0, 3-6, 11-9; Taylor

beat Hale, 6-1, 6-1, 6-1; Williston beat Presbrey, 4-6, 6-4, 6-4, 6-4;

Slocum beat Clark, 6-3, 6-2, 6-2. Third round, Campbell beat Wright,

4-6, 6-3, 1-6, 8-6, 6-2; Sears beat Ryerson, 5-7, 6-3, 6-2, 6-2; Taylor

beat Williston, 6-2, 6-3, 7-5; Slocum beat Dwight, 4-6, 6-2, 6-0, 6-3.

Fourth round, Slocum beat Campbell, 6-2, 6-3, 6-4; Taylor beat Sears,

5-7, 6-4, 6-2, 6-2. Final round, H. W. Slocum, Jr., beat H. A. Taylor,

6-4, 6-1, 6-0. By defeating Mr. Taylor, this makes Mr. Slocum the

champion of America, since Mr. Sears was prevented by sickness from

defending his title. In the consolation prize, F. L. V. Hoppin won over

W. L. Jennings in the final, 6-2, 4-6, 6-2. And this ended one of the

best tournaments ever held on the Casino grounds.

* * * * *

~The~ Rochester Lawn Tennis Club held its annual open tournament

Tuesday, September 18, and the following days. The prizes offered

were as follows: First prize, singles, value, $100; second prize,

singles, value, $40; first prizes, doubles, value, $60; second prizes,

doubles, value, $30; first prize, singles, veterans’ class, value, $30.

Entrance fees for singles, $3; for doubles, $4 for the two players.

The veterans’ class was open to players forty years of age and over. A

bisque was given for every two years over forty-five. The rules of the

U. S. National Association governed the games. Wright & Ditson’s balls

were used. Except in the finals, matches were the best two in three

sets. In the finals, the best three in five. All sets were deuce and

advantage. David Hoyt was chairman of the tournament committee.

* * * * *

~Lenox, Mass.~, September 4.--The Annual Lawn Tennis tournament

of the Lenox Club was won by L. A. Shaw, Jr., defeating W. E. Glyn,

the English player. In the finals the score stood: 5-7, 6-0, 8-6, 6-2.

Mr. Glyn before his defeat was looked upon as a sure winner, since on

the previous day he had defeated with such ease P. S. Sears (younger

brother of the champion), who is considered a better player than Mr.

Shaw. In the final doubles, P. S. Sears and L. A. Shaw, Jr. won over

their opponents, Fowler, a lad of only sixteen, and his partner, Mr.

Worthington, by the score of 6-1, 6-3, 7-9, 6-1. The second prize in

the singles was captured by Mr. Glyn, who defeated Mr. Trevor, 2-6,

6-1, 6-2. Both the courts of Miss Furniss and the one at the Lenox

Club-house were used. Among the numerous spectators who applauded

were Prince Henri d’Orleans, Count Artchot, Count Sala, and other

distinguished guests of the cottagers, including Admiral Temple. The

tournament was, without doubt, the best ever given.

* * * * *

~All~ the blue blood of Newport collected at the Casino,

September 1, to witness a court tennis match between Mr. Foxhall Keene

and O. M. Pettitt, and Boakes, the Canadian champion, and Hickey.

There was a splendid contest and some good play. The winners gave half

thirty. Keene and Pettitt won, 3-6, 6-2, 6-3, 6-4.

POLO.

~The~ Polo grounds at Newport, R. I., were filled with

carriages, September 1, to witness the last match for the Handicap Cup.

The blues were S. S. Sands, Jr., J. L. Kernochan, Thomas Hitchcock,

Jr., and W. K. Thorne, Jr. The yellows were H. Keene, A. Belmont,

Jr., S. Mortimer and E. C. Potter. Three innings were played. Keene

and Belmont for the yellows and Hitchcock and Kernochan for the blues

scored one each in the first. In the second innings Kernochan and

Hitchcock each scored for the blues and Mortimer for the yellows. In

the third innings Mortimer scored after a well-contested game. The

yellows won the match.

ROD AND GUN.

~The~ recently elected officers of the St. Lawrence River

Anglers’ Association, are W. W. Byington, president; H. S. Chandler and

Garanca M. Skinner, vice-presidents; W. H. Thompson, secretary, and R.

P. Grant, treasurer. An executive committee of twenty-one members was

also named. The object of the association is the prevention of illegal

net-fishing so threatening to the permanence of the St. Lawrence River

as a fishing resort.

* * * * *

~The~ last copy of the London _Field_ received tells of great

but lawful slaughter of game throughout Great Britain during the second

week of August. At Hunthill, Forfarshire, 279 brace of grouse were

killed by six guns, and at the same place on the next day 265 brace

were killed by five guns. An average of a half of 106 birds to a man

for a day’s shooting would be considered remarkable good luck in any of

the older parts of the United States.

The next largest bag reported was at Retreats, in Forfarshire, when, on

August 13, 207 brace were killed by five guns.

The subject of limiting by law the number of grouse which a man may

kill in the course of a season or in the course of a day, and also of

limiting the shipments of grouse by express companies in some such

way as deer are now controlled, has been freely discussed in many

associations of sportsmen, but nothing has come of it. If some one

should bring in a few bags such as those reported in England, there

would be a renewal of the discussion that might lead to a change of the

present law.

* * * * *

~The~ Cumberland Valley Game and Fish Association, of

Mechanicsville, Pa., recently elected the following officers for the

year: President, A. G. Hade; secretary, Robert Wilson Short; treasurer,

Jess D. Muller; executive committee, A. B. Rupp, F. S. Mumma and John

S. Weaver. The association has in course of construction a club-house,

which, when finished, will excel any building of a similar organization

for completeness, etc. The members of the association have, during the

past three months, placed 50,000 brook trout fry in the trout streams

of Southern Pennsylvania.

ROWING.

~A match~ between four-oared crews, representing the Bradford

and Riverside Boat Clubs, the latter being the champions of the New

England Amateur Rowing Association, was decided on the three-mile

course on the Charles River, August 11. Weather pleasant, water

rough. Time, 21m. The opposing crews were made up: Riverside--William

Kivlin (bow), William Balmer, Thomas Riley, Eugene Sullivan (stroke).

Bradford--John Cumming (stroke), J. D. Ryan, D. H. McPhee, Joseph

Skelton (bow). The Bradford won easily with fifteen lengths to spare.

Time, 21m.

* * * * *

~A single-scull~ race, open to members of the New York Athletic

Club, for the Osborne Trophy, was rowed over the new course near

Travers Island, August 25. The contest resulted in a victory for F.

McDougall, with F. Rodewald second and R. W. Rathborne third.

* * * * *

~The~ third annual regatta of the Long Island Amateur Rowing

Association came off at Bowery Bay, L. I. Course, a not guaranteed mile

and a half straightaway. Weather lowering, wind fresh, water lumpy. The

following is the record:

Single-scull gigs--G. Freeth, Varuna B. C., 10m. 54s.; A. P. Walker

second.

Junior single-scull shells--J. M. Douglas, V. B. C., 10m. 29s.; R.

Hillman, Nautilus B. C., second; G. S. Muhling, V. B. C., and M. D.

Hettrick, U. B. C., quit at a half-mile.

Senior four-oared shells--Seawanhaka B. C., A. Rave (bow), J. J.

Fogarty, R. H. Pelton, C. G. Ross (stroke), 8m. 24s.; Varuna B. C.

second.

Four-oared gigs, with coxswains--Nautilus B. C., S. Manly (bow),

C. Sutton, L. M. Mullaney, D. Voorhees (stroke), J. Schallenberg

(coxswain), 8m. 43s.; Varuna B. C. second; Seawanhaka B. C. third;

Ariel B. C. fourth.

Junior four-oared shells--Nautilus B. C., A. S. Oswald (bow), A.

Petersen, H. S. Ayers, A. Hillman (stroke), 8m. 37s.; Pioneer B. C.

second, and Varuna crew third.

Double-scull shells--Varuna B. C., G. E. Laing (bow), T. Heild

(stroke), first; Nautilus B. C., A. H. Beckwith (bow), B. J. Johnson

(stroke) second.

Senior single-scull shells--A. Rave, S. B. C., first; J. F. Hettrick,

N. B. C., finished first, but was disqualified for fouling Rave; G.

Freeth, V. B. C., did not go the correct course.

Eight-oared shells, with coxswains--Passaic B. C., H. P. Cashion

(bow), A. J. Stephens, J. Chambury, B. Van Clief, Jr., C. A. Lunjack,

F. Freeman, J. Weldon, M. Quigley (stroke), E. L. Rodrigo (coxswain),

first; Union B. C., P. Schile (bow), J. W. Bell, R. Haubold, G. W.

Kuchier, E. Weinacht, M. B. Kaesche, G. W. Eliz, R. Schile (stroke),

H. Roche (coxswain), second, by half a length; Nonpariel R. C., G.

Bates (bow), J. Hannon, J. M. Miller, W. Talbett, T. F. Wade, H. C.

Boedecker, J. Canavan, I. Maas (stroke), H. W. Nelson (coxswain),

third, by half a length; Pioneer B. C., A. Kuhn (bow), M. Muldener, R.

Whitney, W. A. Boger, J. F. Caldwell, W. Tucker, T. Sanderson, W. Zaiss

(stroke), G. L. Thatcher (coxswain), fourth, by a length; Atalanta

B. C., A. Davenport (bow), O. Fuchs, M. Lau, W. H. Van Milligen, J.

Mullen, W. Lau, E. H. Patterson, B. Jackson (stroke), E. P. K. Coffin

(coxswain) fifth.

* * * * *

~The~ second annual regatta of the Duluth Boat Club took place

at Duluth, August 18, with the following results:

First race, pleasure boats, for Bement cup, between B. F. Myers, John

Chisholm, Duncan McLeod, W. E. Perry and Tom Moore; Myers and Chisholm

won by a length and a half; Perry and Moore second.

Second race, single-scull--H. Pearson and W. B. Silvey; won by Pearson

by one length.

Third race, four-oared--first crew, F. D. Banning (stroke); W. B.

Silvey, third; H. W. Pearson, second; H. L. Mahon (bow).

Second crew--Dean Burke (stroke), F. A. Lewis third, McLeod second, W.

B. McLean (bow). Won by first crew with 15 seconds handicap.

Fourth race, single-scull, for novices, between J. L. Hopkins, Raymond

Moore, W. B. McLean. Won by Moore, with Hopkins second.

Fifth race, double-sculls--J. L. Hopkins and H. S. Mahon; H. D. Pearson

and Raymond Moore. Won by Pearson and Moore.

* * * * *

~The~ Chicago Navy held its second annual regatta on Lake

Calumet, at Pullman, Ill., August 11. Course, one and a half miles and

return, except for the canoe races, which were one mile straightaway.

The day was cool and the water rough. The following is the summary of

the events:

Junior four-oared shells--Pullman Athletic Club Crew No. 1, Wm. Fleeman

(bow), L. Haas, A. Banderob, Wm. Henderson (stroke) defeated Crew No.

2, same club, who swamped.

Tandem canoes, one mile--Tippy Canoe Club, A. W. Kitchen and W. M.

Dunham, first; Pappoose Canoe Club, R. P. McCune and W. B. Lavinia,

second; Social Athletic Club, A. Gundelach and F. J. Essig, third.

Double-scull training boats--Delaware Boat Club, John F. Korf and

William Weinand, first, in 11m. 10s.; Pullman Athletic Club, Harvey

Madden and Ed. Fraser second, in 11m. 41s.

Class B canoes, one mile--Wm. M. Dunham, Tippy Canoe Club, first; R. P.

McCune, Tippy Canoe Club, second.

Single-scull training boats--Wm. D. Hills, Ogden Boat Club, first, in

12m. 52s.; Elmer E. Beach, Delaware Boat Club, second; T. W. Reading,

Catlin Boat Club, third; Edwin D. Neff, Ogden Boat Club, fourth.

Senior four-oared shells--Farragut Boat Club, G. B. Jennison (bow), H.

C. Avery, Ed. Hunter, Chas. G. Plummer (stroke), first, in 10m. 18s.;

Pullman Athletic Club, J. M. Price (bow), J. Henderson, Ed. Fraser,

Harry Madden (stroke), second, in 10m. 26s.

Senior double sculls--Delaware Boat Club, E. C. Goff, William Weinand

(stroke) rowed over alone.

Junior single sculls--E. C. Brown, Farragut Boat Club, first, in 12m.

9s.; W. S. McDowell, Iroquois Boat Club, second, in 12m. 10s.; Ed.

Fraser, Pullman Athletic Club, third; Harry Madden, Pullman Athletic

Club, fourth; L. M. F. Whitehead, Iroquois Boat Club, fifth.

Class A canoes, one mile--A. W. Kitchen, Tippy Canoe Club, first; A.

Gundelach, Social Athletic Club, second; Will Lavinia, Pappoose Canoe

Club, third; F. J. Essig, Social Athletic Club, fourth.

Senior single sculls--John F. Corbett, Farragut Boat Club, scratch,

first, in 13m. 5s.; W. S. McDowell, Iroquois Boat Club, 15s. start,

second, in 13m. 20s., actual time.

Upset canoes, 150 yards--P. M. Cune defeated A. Gundelach.

Four-oared gigs--Union Boat Club, S. P. Avery (bow), F. C. Avery, G. A.

Wheeler, Wm. Avery (stroke), F. Avery (coxswain), first, in 10m. 43s.;

Catlin Boat Club, H. C. Michaels (bow), C. T. Goff, H. A. Cronin, T.

W. Reading (stroke), H. P. Hallinan (coxswain), second, in 10m. 53s.;

Delaware Boat Club, J. J. Cummiskey (bow), J. F. Reedy, L. Zimmerman,

M. Hartnett (stroke), A. J. Pedersen (coxswain), third; Pullman

Athletic Club, J. Dunner (bow), J. Allen, J. W. Walpole, T. Chadwick

(stroke), W. McDonald (coxswain), fourth.

Tub race--G. B. Jennison, first; A. T. Fake, second; Guy McLean not

finishing.

Referee, E. M. Schenck; timekeepers, W. F. Fowler, E. D. Neff and T.

P. Hallinan; judges, L. B. Glover, G. A. McClellan and George Lunt; at

turn, Fred Wild and C. B. Beach.

* * * * *

~The~ Institute Boat Club, of Newark, held its tenth annual

regatta on the Passaic River, September 1. The distance in all the

races was a mile straightaway.

The single-scull race was won in 8m. 59s. by F. Colburn.

Three crews were entered for the double-scull gig race, which was won

in 10m. 50s. by the crew composed of James T. Smith, T. Crane and P.

O’Toole.

The six-oared gig race had two entries. It was won in 7m. 22s. by J.

Monahan, J. J. Kelly, J. Behan, H. Hoey, W. Dempsey, O. F. Conlon and

J. H. Knowles.

J. J. Kenny and E. J. Carney won the double-scull shell race in 7m. 32s.

There were five entries in the swimming race, which was won by P. J.

O’Toole. The officers of the day were F. R. Fortemeyer, referee, and F.

P. Crane, judge at the finish.

SWIMMING.

~The~ annual contests for the amateur swimming championship of

the United States took place August 25, on Long Island sound, under the

auspices of the New York Athletic Club, in front of that organization’s

new home on Travers Island. The weather and water conditions were

favorable. The result of the contests were as follows:

100 yards--Herman Braun, Pastime Athletic Club, first, in 1m. 16 1-5s,

thus beating the American record for the distance; H. E. Touissaint,

New York Athletic Club, second, close up, the finish being the same as

it was last year.

One mile--Herman Braun, Pastime Athletic Club, first, in 26m. 57s.;

William Brice, West Side Athletic Club, second, in 28m. 11s.; F. T.

Wells, New York Athletic Club, third, in 28m. 16s. Braun led from the

start.

* * * * *

~Jack Williams~, the Canadian natator, August 12, swam down

the Mississippi River from Alton, Ill., to St. Louis--twenty-five

miles--with his hands strapped to his sides and his legs bound

together. The current was running at the rate of three miles an

hour, and he accomplished the journey in a little over eight hours,

propelling himself by working his legs, and swimming the entire

distance on his back.

* * * * *

~The~ first swimming tournament of the Young Men’s Christian

Association took place on the Harlem River, September 1. Captain

Connell, of the Dauntless Boat Club, acted as referee.

The first was the half-mile race for members, and brought out the

following: W. Kennell, N. Johnson, C. Curtiss and F. C. Schwartz.

Kennell won easily in 14m. 41s.; Johnson second.

For the mile race only three competitors put in an appearance: Chas.

Holdeman, a one-legged man; C. Bell, Pastime Athletic Club, and R.

Ruhl. The race was virtually a walk-over for Bell, who made the mile in

27m. 14s.; Holdeman second in 28m. 21s.

Nine men competed in the 100-yard swimming race. At the word “Go” all

dived simultaneously. Al Cammacho cut out the work, with W. C. Johnson

second, and the rest strung out in a straggling line. Cammacho won,

after a hard struggle with Johnson, in 1m. 17 2-5s.

TRAP.

~The~ New York Suburban Shooting Grounds Association is a

corporation recently organized under the laws of the State of New

Jersey. At a recent meeting it elected the following officers:

Charles Richards, president; August Schmitt, vice-president; Charles

M. Hathaway, treasurer; O. E. Morton, secretary. Board of directors:

Charles Richards, August Schmitt, Charles M. Hathaway, O. E. Morton,

Charles Tatham, Hugh O’Neill, Charles B. Reynolds, J. P. Dannefelser

and David Ellis. The grounds of the club are located at Claremont, N.

J., on the Central Railroad of N. J., close by the depot. It takes but

eighteen minutes to reach them from the foot of Liberty Street.

This association is not a club in the ordinary sense of the word,

but a business enterprise, which the originators believe is certain

of success from the start, as it is a well-known fact that there are

thousands of gun owners in this city alone who have no convenient place

to shoot, and who for many reasons do not care to join an ordinary

gun club, where, in most cases, a few ruling spirits monopolize all

the prizes, and make their expenses in shooting sweepstakes at the

cost of the majority who are less proficient. It is believed that

these grounds offer special inducements to the beginner and to those

who wish to improve themselves in marksmanship. It is the object of

this association to elevate the standard of this sport, and make

trap-shooting one of the popular amusements of the day.

YACHTING.

~The~ Larchmont Yacht Club gave its annual oyster-boat regatta

August 18. It came off with its usual success. The following is the

official summary:

CLASS 1--CABIN SLOOPS OVER 35 FEET.

_Start._ _Finish._ _Elapsed._ _Corr’d._

H. M. S. H. M. S. H. M. S. H. M. S.

Watson 12 30 33 5 44 20 5 13 47 5 12 17

Lizzie D. Bell 12 28 34 5 47 11 5 18 37 5 13 22

C. D. Smith 12 34 34 6 11 02 5 36 28 5 36 28

CLASS 2--CABIN SLOOPS UNDER 35 FEET.

Jennie Baker 12 29 44 5 55 00 5 25 16 5 19 16

Allie Ray 12 30 31 5 57 12 5 26 41 5 24 26

Bertha 12 28 39 5 59 52 5 31 13 5 31 13

Lucy Neal 12 30 47 6 14 10 5 43 22 5 40 16

Alice B. 12 29 40 6 18 29 5 48 49 5 42 57

Maggie Holly 12 28 45 6 22 26 5 53 41 5 43 56

Annie K., 12 33 38, Puritan, 12 29 33, and Eliza Bird, 12 29 57,

did not finish.

CLASS 3--OPEN SLOOPS OVER 30 FEET.

Loon 12 32 20 6 19 28 5 47 08 5 47 08

CLASS 4--OPEN SLOOPS UNDER 30 FEET.

Jennie A. Willis 12 36 33 5 59 25 5 22 52 5 19 15

Addie B. 12 36 44 6 03 10 5 26 26 5 21 11

Delphine 12 31 53 6 02 33 5 30 40 5 26 10

Minnie S. 12 31 42 6 02 00 5 31 18 5 27 18

Emma C. 12 30 15 6 02 50 5 32 35 5 27 50

Florence May 12 28 52 6 02 40 5 33 48 5 33 48

Georgie B., 12 29 44, Curlew, 12 32 11, and Frou-Frou, 12 36 05,

did not finish.

CLASS 5--CATRIGGED BOATS.

Joke 12 32 05 6 27 48 5 55 43 5 43 58

Fannie M. 12 32 24 6 50 28 6 18 04 5 57 19

Barthenia 12 28 27 6 49 09 6 20 42 6 20 42

* * * * *

~The~ Cape Cod Yacht Club sailed the sixth race of the club

off Orleans, August 11, in a light southeast wind. The courses were

triangular 6½ miles for first and second classes and 4⅞ miles for

third class. There were fifteen entries, and the winners were _Madge_

in the first class, _Mischief_ in the third class. The second class is

to sail over again August 18. Summary:

FIRST CLASS.

_Actual._ _Corr’d._

H. M. S. H. M. S.

Madge, Cummings & Howes 1 43 23 1 21 21

Percy Allen, F. S. Allen 1 46 20 1 22 27

No Name, A. Lake 1 57 54 1 32 07

Fawn, J. Smith 2 08 01 1 46 55

SECOND CLASS.

Mystery, George Dinnell 1 56 23 1 27 20

Leola, L. E. Nickerson 1 58 00 1 29 20

Pemigewassett, W. M. Crosby 2 11 17 1 30 34

Carrie L., George Clark 2 08 15 1 36 46

THIRD CLASS.

Sachem, A. A. Hurd 1 41 42 1 18 55

Mischief, E. Snow 1 46 17 1 29 00

Prince, P. Doane 1 54 38 1 33 59

Susan, J. Ryder 2 15 53 1 42 59

Rob Roy, H. Hewins 2 09 49 1 43 20

Tempest, E. Smith 2 11 39 1 46 40

Una, George Paxton, withdrew.

* * * * *

~The~ annual regatta of the Jersey City Yacht Club was sailed,

August 18, in a light southerly breeze. The course was from a line

between the judge’s boat and Bedloe’s Island; for class A to and

around buoys 11 and 16 and return, keeping buoys on the port hand; for

classes B, C and D, to and around buoy 15 and return, finishing at the

club-house; for class E, to and around Ellis’ Island, twice over the

course, and class F, to and around Robbins’ Reef bell buoy and return.

The time allowance was one minute to the foot. The chief interest

centred about the _Naushon_ and _Gertrude_, but they were not able to

finish. The following table gives the result:

CLASS A.

Gertrude, 1 53 50, and Naushon, 1 55 00, did not finish.

CLASS B.

_Start._ _Finish._ _Elapsed._ _Corr’d._

H. M. S. H. M. S. H. M. S. H. M. S.

Eleanor 12 41 00 5 26 20 4 45 00 4 42 50

Mary 12 44 00 5 35 00 4 51 00 4 51 00

CLASS C.

Knight Templar 12 45 06 4 02 00 3 17 54 3 17 54

Psyche 12 52 35 5 37 00 4 45 25 4 41 25

CLASS D.

Bessie 12 43 00 4 03 10 3 20 10 3 20 10

Jessie G. 12 41 05 Did not finish.

CLASS E.

Emma 12 17 00 1 53 00 1 36 00 1 36 00

May E. 12 16 00 1 55 00 1 39 00 1 37 00

CLASS F.

Alanta 2 25 30 3 30 00 1 04 30 1 04 30

Fannie 2 25 00 Did not finish.

* * * * *

~The~ Newark Bay Yacht Club had an interesting race August 13.

The course was a triangular one, twice round, making ten miles in

all. There was a strong northwest wind blowing and a chop sea on. The

following is the official record of the race:

CLASS 4.

_Start._ _Finish._ _Elapsed._ _Corr’d._

H. M. S. H. M. S. H. M. S. H. M. S.

Lizzie V. 3 19 04 4 57 30 1 38 26 1 37 31

Ada B. 3 16 30 4 56 00 1 39 30 1 37 50

Smuggler 3 15 00½ Disabled.

CLASS 5.

Annie C. 3 18 00 5 03 20 1 45 20 1 45 20

Daisy 3 17 18 5 07 48 1 50 40 1 48 36

Gala-Water 3 17 00 5 08 02 1 51 02 1 51 27

Juliette 3 15 00 Withdrew.

The Smuggler led round the course first round, when she was

disabled, and had to give up.

* * * * *

~Sixty-four~ boats started in the third open regatta of the

Beverly (Mass.) Yacht Club, sailed off Marblehead, Mass., on August

25. At the start the wind was light and unsteady from the south. The

performances of the yachts were but ordinary. The winners were: Second

class, J. Bryant’s _Shadow_; third class centreboards, C. C. Hanley’s

_Mucilage_; third class keels, H. Babson’s _Mignon_; fourth class

centreboards, C. L. Joy’s _Sea Bird_; fourth class keels, Hall and

Johnson’s _Thelga_: fifth class centreboards, F. L. Dunne’s _Mabel_;

fifth class keels, C. H. W. Foster’s _Mosca_; sixth class, H. M.

Faxon’s _Rocket_; jib and mainsail class, G. Hutchins’ _Eureka_.

* * * * *

~The~ Canarsie Yacht Club held a race from off their club-house, in

Jamaica Bay, to Rockaway Inlet buoy and return, August 25. The weather

was fine, with a fairly good west wind, and the half dozen boats

participating made excellent time over the course. They turned the

outer mark in the following order: _Birdie W._, _Kate_, _Lizzie R._,

_Belle_, _Americus_ and _Klam_. They retained these positions all the

way home, the _Birdie W._ taking the prize of $50 and 25 per cent. of

the sweepstakes.

* * * * *

~The~ annual regatta of the Corinthian Yacht Club, of Boston,

took place August 18, off Marblehead. The winners were: special class,

E. C. Neal’s _Magic_; first class keels, W. P. Fowle’s _Saracen_; first

class centreboards, C. C. Hanley’s _Mucilage_; second class keels,

Everett Paine’s _Brenda_; second class centreboards, Aaron Brown’s

_Black Cloud_; third class centreboards, W. Abbott’s _Coyote_; fourth

class keels, Rufus Benner’s _Vesper_; fifth class centreboards, W. P.

Tave’s _Alpine_.

* * * * *

~The~ American Yacht Club, of Newburyport, Mass., held a second

open regatta on August 14, the courses being respectively fifteen,

twelve and eight miles. Results: First class, _Mignon_ first, in 2h.

44m. 12s.; _Hazard_, second, 2h. 49m. 2s., corrected time. Second

class, _White Cloud_ first, 2h. 29m. 58s., corrected time; _Climax_

second, 2h. 31m. 26s. Third class, _Alpine_ first, in 1h. 36m.,

corrected time; _Pert_ second, 1h. 40m. 6s.

* * * * *

~The~ annual fall regatta of the Larchmont Yacht Club took

place September 1. A light wind prevailed at the time of starting,

but dark clouds in the southeast looked as though they held more

wind than water. The breeze continued to freshen, and before eleven

it looked as if it would remain. The wind, however, disappointed all

expectations, and after enticing the fleet over the starting-line left

the yachts to finish in the “doldrums.” The following is the award of

the regatta committee, announcing the winners. In class E, the schooner

_Agnes_ won; in class 4, the _Mischief_ or _Anaconda_, subject to

remeasurement; in class 7, the _Baboon_ first and _Nymph_ second; in

class 8, _Iseul_ beat her competitors; class 9, _Amazon_ captured the

prize; class 11, _Lackshmi_ won; class 12, _Sirene_ was a victor, and

in class 16, _Ione_.

ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

[_This department of_ ~Outing~ _is devoted to answers to

correspondents seeking information on subjects appertaining to all

sports._]

_Fox-terrier, Brooklyn._--There is no great difficulty in removing

warts from a dog’s eyelids. Take a forceps and a sharp penknife; then

raise the wart with the forceps and cut out the wart, afterwards

touching the wound with nitrate of silver. The other question is more

difficult to answer, for, without seeing the dog, it is hard to say

whether he is suffering from distemper or not. Your safest course is to

consult a good veterinary surgeon.

* * * * *

_Transatlantic, Washington, D. C._--All kinds of cures have been

suggested for sea-sickness, and in cocaine the doctors seemed to

think they had found the long-sought relief. Nothing, however, to the

best of our experience, can equal good champagne and cracked ice as a

preventive. The _Perrier-Jouet_ of Messrs. Du Vivier & Co., 49 Broad

Street, New York, and the _Great Western Champagne_, sold by H. B. Kirk

& Co. (see page xv.), are wines we can heartily recommend.

* * * * *

_Druid, Cleveland, O._--There is to be an International University

boat-race next year between England and America. The details are, we

believe, not yet settled; but it is much to be hoped that the winner of

the Yale-Harvard race will meet the winner of the Oxford-Cambridge race.

* * * * *

_Amphibious, Long Branch._--You will find that the unpleasant condition

of your skin and head, which you describe, is undoubtedly the result

of too much salt-water bathing. This is best remedied by taking

fresh-water baths, and using a soap of good hygienic properties, such

as Packer’s Tar Soap. You can obtain this at most druggists’, or if

not, from the Packer Mfg. Co.

* * * * *

_Sportsman, Baltimore, Md._--We think you will find that the prejudice

against machine-loaded cartridges has entirely vanished from the

public mind. This has been in a great measure brought about by the

excellence of the Peters cartridge. It is agreed now that for pattern,

penetration, and absence of recoil this cartridge is unexcelled,

while, whatever may be the chemical constituents of the Peters wad,

no cartridge loaded with black powder leaves the barrel so clean and

unfouled. In every respect it compares more than favorably with the

hand-loaded crimped shell.

* * * * *

_Sprinter, Detroit, Mich._--C. H. Sherrill, New Haven, Conn., on June

15, 1888, made a record of 15s. for 150 yards, and on the same day, 25

4-5s. for 250 yards. These are, we believe, the latest amateur records

for those distances. The Secretary of the Chicago Amateur Athletic

Association is George L. Wilson, 241 Lake Street.

* * * * *

_Horse-master, Charleston, S. C._--The breast-strap is seldom used in

England in place of the collar. It is in some measure no doubt due to

the fact that English people use much heavier vehicles than are in

vogue in America. With at all a heavy weight, the breast-strap confines

the shoulders.

* * * * *

_Tennis Enthusiast, Boston, Mass._--(1) H. W. Slocum and Howard A.

Taylor are graduates of the rival Universities. Mr. Slocum graduated

from Yale in the class of ’83, and Mr. Taylor from Harvard in ’85. (2)

Mr. Taylor is the junior by some three years. (3) Mr. Taylor plays with

his left hand.

* * * * *

_G. B. T., Fellowcraft Club._--Fishes Eddy is on the New York, Ontario

& western Railway, 154 miles from New York, with two trains each way

daily. It has one small hotel. It is located on the East Branch of the

Delaware. The country is wild, mountainous, and abounds in game both

large and small--deer, black bear, partridge and woodcock. The trout

fishing in the small streams and lakes is excellent. Guides can be had

for about $3.00 per day.

* * * * *

_A. L. M., Boston, Mass._--The recent high commendations given to

Californian brandy by the medical journals would seem to point to its

decided superiority to French products. The brand which we should

specially recommend to your notice is the Royal Grape Brandy, furnished

by the California Vintage Company, 21 Park Place, N. Y.

* * * * *

_Bird Hunter, Washington, D. C._--Audubon explains the “drumming” of

the cock pheasant as follows. After telling how the bird struts and

plumes itself on some decayed trunk, he continues: “The bird draws the

whole of its feathers close to its body and, stretching itself out,

beats its sides with its wings in the manner of the domestic cock, but

more loudly, and with such rapidity of motion, after a few of the first

strokes, as to cause a tremor in the air, not unlike the rumbling of

thunder.” Indeed, this seems to be the only method vouchsafed by nature

for the cock to summon his mate in the early spring, during the period

of incubation.

* * * * *

_Amateur Photographer, Albany, N. Y._--You can procure the outfit you

require from the Rochester Optical Company, who are perfectly reliable

dealers.

PRINCETON HEARD FROM.

~The~ following communication from W. L. Hodge, of Princeton, is

given a place in ~Outing~ with a view to making as perfect as

possible the data of college baseball. No intention to do Princeton an

injustice was intended by Mr. Chadwick, whose interest in the progress

of the game with which his name is so honorably associated is now as

great as it was in years gone by when the game and the veteran were

younger. ~Outing~ is ever ready to correct an error as well as

to vindicate the truth.

_To the Editor of_ ~Outing~:

~Dear Sir~,--I have just this moment finished reading an

article in the August number of ~Outing~ entitled “Baseball

in the Colleges,” by Henry Chadwick, and beg leave to correct

several mistakes which he makes, and by which he does Princeton

gross injustice. At the close of the article he gives a summary of

the championship matches played between 1880-88, inclusive, and

says Harvard won the championship in 1882. Now, if he will refer

to his tabulated summary, he will find that instead of Harvard

winning the championship in that year, she was third in the race,

winning five and losing five games, while, if I remember rightly,

Princeton and Yale tied for the championship, and Yale won the tie

game played in New Haven. Yale has never lost the championship but

once, and that was in 1885. Again, he says that Princeton was third

on the list during the whole period from 1880 to 1888, inclusive.

Now, if Mr. Chadwick will refer to his summary once more, he will

see that Harvard has held that honorable position quite as often

as Princeton, for in 1888 Princeton was a close second, tried for

second place in 1881, and won the second place in 1882 and 1883,

Harvard being a bad third. In 1885 Princeton and Yale tried for

second place, and Princeton won the “play-off” game at New Haven by

the score of 15 to 13. I simply mention these facts to do Princeton

justice.

Yours,

~W. L. Hodge~, Princeton, ’88.

* * * * *

~As~ we go to press we hear with great pleasure of the victory

of our lawn tennis correspondent, Mr. V. G. Hall with his partner Mr.

O. S. Campbell in the double championship tournament at Staten Island.

OUR PREMIUM.

=~Outing~ readers, not regular subscribers to the magazine,

will find it to their advantage to consult the advertising pages xx.

and xxiv. Subscribers to other publications should consult our Clubbing

Rates on p. xx.=

* * * * *

=During the approaching Australian Baseball Tour (see advertisement

page), Mr. Harry Palmer, the noted baseball writer, will act as the

special correspondent of OUTING. Mr. Palmer will accompany the party

throughout the trip, from October 15, the date of the start, and

will regularly send full and interesting accounts, to appear in the

different issues of OUTING. We feel sure that our readers will take a

keen interest in these articles. In OUTING for November will appear an

article by him giving the intended program of the teams as they proceed

on their long westward journey, besides many interesting details of the

personnel of the party.=

[Illustration:

Painting by J. Carter Beard. Engraved by W. H. F. Lyouns.

WASHINGTON AND HIS HOUNDS.]

~Outing.~

~Vol. XIII.~ NOVEMBER, 1888. ~No. 2.~

OUTDOOR LIFE OF THE PRESIDENTS.

BY JOHN P. FOLEY.

[Illustration]

I. ~George Washington.~

The great cities have not yet given the country a President. From

Washington to Cleveland the chief magistrates have all come from great

Southern plantations, lonely Western farms, rural towns or villages,

scattered up and down the Republic. The early Virginia Presidents were,

as a rule, more fortunate in the circumstances of their birth than

any of their successors. Washington’s infant eyes opened amid scenes

of rare natural beauty. The home of his parents was on the banks of

the Potomac, one hundred miles below Mount Vernon. It was a large,

comfortable cottage, filled with all the luxuries which a wealthy

planter of that period could command. From its lawn could be seen a

wide expanse of the majestic river, ten miles broad at that point, and

on the opposite shore the forest-crowned hills and plains of Maryland.

Thomas Jefferson was born on the handsome estate of his father, in

Albemarle County, part of which he afterward inherited. Madison’s

father, too, was a large landed proprietor, the owner of slaves, and

the possessor of a fortune sufficient to gratify his ambition. James

Monroe was equally fortunate. His father lived in a fair Virginia home,

surrounded by all the semi-feudal splendor of that distant slave era.

To complete the group of the Revolutionary Presidents the name of John

Adams must be added. In his youth his prospects in life were as cold

and hard as his native New England hills. His father was poor, and

had to strain every pecuniary nerve to send him to Harvard College.

When he left that institution he was compelled to earn his living as a

teacher. The story of the deeds of these five men in the cabinet, the

field, and the halls of legislature has been written by many pens and

told in many tongues. Their fame is one of the precious inheritances of

the Republic whose foundations they so materially helped to lay, and

to whose magnificent structure of popular government they contributed

perhaps more than any other five leaders and statesmen of the

Revolution. But it is with their private home life, and that of their

successors, we are now concerned.

Washington is the most stately figure in our history. It requires

an effort of the imagination to think of him except, as it were, in

full-dress. He is ever the commander-in-chief, mounted on a spirited

war-horse; serene in the hour of victory; undaunted in adversity;

full of hope and confidence when all others are in gloom and despair.

Again, we love to picture him as the majestic President, ceremonious

as the most imperial of monarchs, provoking the harsh criticism of

enemies by what they termed his mimicry of foreign potentates--of

the English court and king whose political fetters he had shattered.

And, still again, he towers up in our imagination as the American

Cincinnatus, laying down the sword and the sceptre, retiring from

the pomp and power to which he had been so long accustomed, to his

picturesque home in the Virginia woods, leaving behind him an example

of lofty patriotism without a parallel in all human annals. But there

was another Washington whom we seldom see except in stray glimpses,

when the curtain rises before the scene is fully set, or when the side

wings hitch and halt in their grooves. His biographers tell us that

his military propensities were early developed; that when a boy he was

in the habit of forming his school companions into military companies,

who paraded, marched, and fought mimic battles, and that he showed

his genius for command by being always the leader of one of the rival

parties. He was fond of athletic amusements; of running, jumping,

tossing heavy bars, and other feats of agility and strength. “Indeed,”

says Mr. Sparks, “it is well known that these practices were continued

by him after he had arrived at the age of mature life.”

[Illustration: WASHINGTON SKIPPING THE ROPE FOR EXERCISE.]

This story is told of him while he was commander-in-chief of the

Continental armies: Colonel Timothy Pickering, to whom Washington was

very much attached, had a negro body-servant named “Primus.” Washington

visited Pickering’s quarters one day, and found him absent.

[Illustration: WASHINGTON GIVES THE COLT HIS FIRST LESSON.]

“It does not matter,” said General Washington to Primus, “I am greatly

in need of exercise, and you must help me to get some before your

master returns.”

Under Washington’s directions the negro tied a rope to a neighboring

tree, about breast high, and Primus was ordered to stand at some

distance and hold it horizontally extended. Washington ran forward and

backward for some time, jumping over the rope as he came and went,

until he expressed himself satisfied with the exercise. It is said

that he frequently visited Primus and amused himself in this primitive

fashion.

He learned fencing when he was quite young; his teacher being an old

soldier who had seen service with his brother in the Indies. His

stone-throwing feats across the Rappahannock, over the Palisades, and

to the top of the Natural Bridge in Virginia, are mentioned by nearly

all his biographers. Charles W. Peale, the artist, tells us that when

he was at Mount Vernon in 1772, painting Washington’s picture, he saw

him toss a bar very much farther than the most athletic and expert of a

number of young men who were, on one occasion, testing their strength

in that way. He was then forty years old, and proudly remarked, “You

perceive, young gentlemen, that my arm yet retains some portion of the

vigor of my early days.” He was a good wrestler, and many stories of

his prowess in this respect are told.

[Illustration: LORD FAIRFAX’S COTTAGE.]

General Washington was a splendid horseman. There was no animal he

could not master, and he never lost his seat in the saddle. The

well-known hatchet dialogue between his father and himself is suspected

to have no better foundation than the imagination of the Rev. Mr.

Weems. The following incident in his young life, and the subsequent

interview between his mother and himself, rest on more substantial

historical data: Lady Washington owned a fine span of gray horses, in

which she took very great pride. One of them had never been broken

to the saddle. It entered into the heads of some young friends of

Washington to give the colt his first lesson in this particular

branch of his education. The animal resisted their efforts, and would

not allow any one of them to mount him. George, although one of the

youngest of the party, managed to pacify the terrified creature and

to bestride him. Then came a battle royal between horse and boy. All

the animal’s efforts to free himself from his rider were vain, and

he started to run. Washington gave him free rein. The horse never

stopped till he fell prostrate beneath his young master. George, as

may be imagined, was very much alarmed at what had occurred, but he

immediately told his mother. “I forgive you,” she replied, “because you

have had the courage to tell me the truth at once.”

Washington loved a good horse, and long before the war of the

Revolution his blooded stock was not inferior to any in the country.

Fox-hunting was one of his favorite amusements, and at the “meet”

few of his planter friends and neighbors were better mounted than he

was. All his hunting paraphernalia was imported from England. His

costume was made by the best tailors in London. It consisted of a

blue cloth coat, scarlet waistcoat, buckskin breeches, with velvet

cap, and admirably became his splendid form and figure. He usually

rode a large, fiery animal of great endurance, called “Blueskin.”

The names of some of his other horses were “Chinkling,” “Valiant,”

“Ajax,” and “Magnolia.” “Will Lee,” his huntsman, was famous through

the province as a daring rider. “Mounted on Chinkling,” we are told,

“this fearless horseman would rush through brake and tangled wood in

a style at which modern huntsmen would stand aghast.” Washington’s

kennel was an excellent one. When a mere boy he rode to the hounds

with Lord Fairfax, who brought a pack from England, the only one, it

is said, in the country at the time. Washington, therefore, knew what

a good pack should be, and “it was his pride,” says Lossing, “to have

it so critically drafted as to speed and bottom that, in running, if

one leading dog should lose the scent another was at hand immediately

to receive it, and thus, when in full cry, to use a racing phrase ‘you

might cover the pack with a blanket.’” Here are the names of some

of the dogs: “Vulcan,” “Ringwood,” “Singer,” “Truelove,” “Music,”

“Sweetlips,” “Forester” and “Rockwood.” Lafayette sent Washington some

hounds after the close of the war, but he had then given up hunting.

Previous to that he hunted in the season two or three times a week.

He is candid enough to admit, in his correspondence and diary, that

the foxes nearly always escaped, but he philosophically consoled

himself with the reflection that the main end in view--excitement and

recreation--had been achieved.

During the Presidency he sometimes drove six horses to his carriage

in New York and Philadelphia. His servants wore livery, for which

Tom Paine bitterly attacked him, and he was often accompanied

by outriders. George W. Parke Custis, his adopted son, in his

“Recollections and Private Memoirs of Washington,” gives an interesting

account of the management of the stables when the seat of government

was at Philadelphia. “The President’s stables,” he says, “were under

the direction of ‘German Tom,’ and the grooming of the white chargers

will rather surprise the moderns. The night before the horses were

expected to be ridden they were covered entirely over with a paste,

of which whiting was the principal component part; then the animals

were swathed in bed-cloths and left to sleep upon clean straw. In the

morning the composition had become hard, and was well rubbed in, and

curried and brushed, which process gave to the coats a beautiful glossy

and satin-like appearance. The hoofs were then blackened and polished,

the mouths washed, the teeth picked and cleaned, and the leopard-skin

housings being properly adjusted, the white chargers were led forth

for service.” When Washington rode out he was always accompanied by

his servant “Bishop.” This was his favorite exercise in New York and

Philadelphia while he was President. He sometimes walked, however,

and around the Battery, then a fashionable promenade in New York, and

now given over almost entirely to immigrants from all quarters of the

world, was the direction he most frequently took in this city. He

frequently drove and rode what was then called the “fourteen miles

around.” This route was up the old King’s Bridge road to McGowan’s

Pass, at 108th Street, thence across on a line with the Harlem River to

Bloomingdale, and down on the west side of the island to the city.

[Illustration: MOUNT VERNON.]

Fowling was another favorite amusement of the first President. His own

estates and the country around them abounded in game of all kinds. A

century and a half ago, and, we suppose, long before that time, the

waters of the Chesapeake were the resort, as they are now, of the

incomparable canvas-back and other wild-duck. Tradition has it that

Washington was a good shot. He knew the favorite feeding-places of

the finest flocks, and he could steal a march on them as secretly

as, in after years, it was his wont to surprise the fortified camp

lines of the British redcoats. Although Washington loved to follow

his own game-birds and bring them down when he could, he rigorously

prohibited other people from breaking in on his preserves. His

principal biographer has preserved a story from oblivion which

illustrates his sentiments in this respect together with his personal

courage and resolution. A lawless person was in the habit of crossing

the Potomac opposite Mount Vernon in a canoe, and, concealing himself

in the woods, filling his game-bag at Washington’s expense. Repeated

warnings to desist were sent him, but, poacher-like, he was a believer

in the doctrine that game is common property and belongs to him who

can capture it. Washington was determined to stop the raids upon his

birds, and the poacher’s end at last came. Hearing a shot one day, and

suspecting who had fired it, Washington mounted his horse and rode in

the direction of the sound. The poacher discovered his approach, and

had time to enter his canoe and push a few yards from the banks before

the master of Mount Vernon appeared in view. When Washington, with

anger in his eye, became visible, the poacher raised his gun, cocked

it, and took deliberate aim. Washington did not betray the slightest

sign of alarm or timidity. He strode into the water, seized the canoe

and pulled it ashore. Disarming his antagonist, Washington gave him

so severe a chastisement that he never again ran the risk of meeting

a similar reception. Washington in the latter part of his life was

something of a fisherman. There is an entry in one of his diaries,

while the Federal Convention was in session in Philadelphia, telling

of a fishing party near Valley Forge. While President, he also drew in

a codfish with his own hand on the fishing banks off Portsmouth, New

Hampshire.

[Illustration: WASHINGTON CHASTISING THE POACHER.]

No one of the presidents lived so much in the open air as Washington.

With the exception of the eight years in the Presidency, he was almost

constantly in the field, the woods, the wilderness, or the farm. His

first occupation was that of a surveyor, upon which he entered when he

was sixteen years of age. During his last summer at school he amused

himself by surveying the grounds around the school-house. The adjoining

plantations then became the field of his experiments, and their angles

and boundaries were all marked down by him with the most minute

detail. At this time he thought of going to sea. His brother Lawrence

obtained a midshipman’s warrant for him, but his mother objected, and

an admiral, perhaps, was lost to the navy of the English king whose

most famous general he was destined to defeat. He then received a

commission to survey the western lands of Lord Fairfax. This led him

across the first range of the Alleghany Mountains into the wilderness.

He was accompanied on this expedition by George, the eldest son of

William Fairfax. They endured much hardship and privation, but the

trip, in all probability, was the means of laying the basis of the

splendid physical health which Washington enjoyed all through life. The

country was almost uninhabited. The dwellings, mere huts at the best,

were few and far apart. Storms very often swept away their tents, and

frequently they were compelled to sleep with no roof except the skies.

Three years, the severe winter months excepted, were spent in this

work, which, like everything Washington undertook, was well executed.

His success led to promotion. He received an appointment as official

surveyor, which enabled him to make his entries in the county offices.

The lands surveyed lay on the south bank of the Potomac, seventy miles

above the present Harper’s Ferry. Washington did not foresee that in a

short time he would have an opportunity to turn to very great advantage

in the public service the knowledge he was then acquiring of this

comparatively unknown region. But, nevertheless, the French-Indian war,

in which he bore so conspicuous a part, was not far distant. In 1751,

the western boundaries of the colony of Virginia were so harassed by

the Indians that measures had to be adopted for their protection. The

country was divided into districts, to one of which Washington was

appointed inspector with the rank of major. He was now a soldier. In

1755, when he was only twenty-three years of age, the command of the

Virginia troops was given to him. He resigned his commission in 1758

and the following year he was married.

Washington was barely twenty-seven years old when this interesting

event took place, and when he may be said to have settled down to

lead the life of a country gentleman. He was in every sense of the

term what is called a favorite of fortune. Rich, honored, loved,

married to a beautiful woman of distinguished family and large wealth,

the possessor of a splendid estate, which he had just inherited, of

handsome person and superb health, with more fame than falls to the

share of most young men at his period of life, a keen relish for the

good things of the world with the means to obtain and the capacity

to enjoy them--the prospect before him was, indeed, an alluring one.

Mount Vernon was one of the loveliest homes in the country and the

landscape around it unrivaled on the continent. Through its hospitable

gates came the governors and leading men of old colonial Virginia as

the friends and guests of its master. Gay hunting parties, with hounds

and horns to rouse the fox in his hill-side cover, gathered on its

spacious lawns. Stately dames talked over the latest society gossip

from the colonial capitals and across the seas on its broad verandas

and under its overarching trees. To speak of more material things,

there was a small army of slaves to employ, to clothe, to feed, to

watch and to attend, for Washington was one of the most humane of

masters. Thousands of broad acres awaited cultivation and improvement,

while flocks and herds innumerable claimed protection from winter

storm and summer heat. Into this manifold life, with all its cares

and responsibilities, Washington entered with the keenest zest. His

ambition in a public way seemed to have been satisfied with the fame he

had won in the French war. But, whatever may have been his thoughts or

aspirations, he set himself to the task of cultivating and adorning his

property. Mount Vernon consisted of five farms, each one of which had

its own appropriate set of laborers under the direction of an overseer.

Washington visited them all daily and gave instructions for the day

following. He was one of the most methodical of men, rising at a

regular hour in the morning, and retiring at a fixed time at night. He

loved his stock, and paid particular attention to their comfort. Prize

cattle shows and exhibitions had not then come into fashion. If they

had existed at the time it is very certain that the name of the young

soldier-planter would have headed the lists of exhibitors, and that he

would have filled Mount Vernon with cups and premiums testifying to

his pre-eminence as a breeder. He had an attachment even for the lower

animals, and never destroyed life when there was no necessity for it. A

gentleman, who at one time lived in his family as secretary, tells us

that, as he was walking one day with Washington in his grounds, a snake

of a harmless species started up in front of them. The secretary lifted

his heel to crush the reptile, when Washington caught his arm and

exclaimed, “Stay, sir! Is there not room enough in this world for you

and that harmless little reptile? Remember that life is all--everything

to the creature--and cannot be unnecessarily taken without indirectly

impugning its Creator, who bestowed it to be enjoyed with its

appropriate pleasures through its own natural term of existence.”

He was the model farmer of his time. Though not a student in the

ordinary acceptation of the term, he read a good deal on agricultural

and kindred subjects, investigated the nature and character of his

soils, and grew his crops on a scientific basis. Fond of flowers and

trees, he was never weary of ornamenting his estate with the choicest

specimens, native and foreign, that he could find. Life for him had

flowed along in this tranquil way during a period of fifteen years when

the first mutterings of the Revolutionary storm were borne to Mount

Vernon. He was as eager to do battle for the rights of his country as

any gentleman within the boundaries of the thirteen colonies. The war

came, and he was chosen commander-in-chief. Before he departed for the

scene of operations in New England, he gave his superintendent minute

instructions in regard to the management of his property while he was

absent. During the progress of the long struggle, he corresponded

with him as frequently as possible, and an immense number of letters,

written from the camp and his ever-shifting headquarters, many of them

before and immediately after important engagements, attest the deep

interest he took in the smallest matter connected with his beloved

home. The manager is told what crops to sow in different fields; the

precise spots on which young trees of different families should be

planted, and what old and decaying ones should be cut down. We can see

in these curious and interesting letters how deeply he was attached

to every animate, and indeed inanimate, object on his estate, and

how he yearned to be restored to them. Only once in the long eight

years did he visit Mount Vernon. He was then on his way to lay siege

to Cornwallis at Yorktown, and finally receive the sword of the best

English general in America. To describe his outdoor life while in the

army would be to re-tell the story of the Revolution.

At last the end came, and the foremost commander of his age, the

liberator of his country, was again a private citizen and a country

gentleman. Mount Vernon had suffered severely from his long absence,

for his instructions had been imperfectly carried out. The soil was

in many places exhausted by successive crops of tobacco, while the

necessity for extensive repairs confronted him on every hand. He was

fifty-one years of age. The work of restoring his estate to its former

splendid condition was at once begun. He plunged into agriculture

with all the ardor of his youthful days. In a letter to Lafayette,

he describes his feelings at this time. “At length,” he writes, “I

am become a private citizen on the banks of the Potomac, and, under

the shade of my own fig-tree, free from the excitement of the camp

and the busy scenes of public life, I am solacing myself with those

tranquil enjoyments of which the soldier, who is ever in pursuit of

fame, the statesman whose watchful days and sleepless nights are spent

in devising schemes to promote the welfare of his own, perhaps the ruin

of other countries (as if this globe were insufficient for us all), and

the courtier, who is always watching the countenance of his prince in

hopes of catching a gracious smile, can have very little conception.”

Troops of friends and admirers visited him in his retirement and were

entertained in a most hospitable manner.

In the autumn he began on a systematic plan to renovate his worn-out

fields; each parcel of land was numbered, and the precise crops to

be planted in it were set down several years in advance. This method

proved so successful that he adhered to it during the remainder of

his life. He next turned his attention to his grounds. Early in the

spring he began with the lawn. To it he transferred the choicest

trees in his forests, setting them out with evergreens and flowering

shrubs intermingled in such a manner as to produce the most pleasing

effect. The removal and replanting of each one received his personal

attention, and from day to day he watched them with the greatest

solicitude, keeping in his diary the record of their life or death.

Next came the replenishing of his orchards and gardens. Fruit-trees of

rare and valuable varieties were procured at whatever cost. Flowering

shrubs were planted in abundance--in fact, nothing that could add

to the beauty and decoration of Mount Vernon was left undone. The

pruning-knife now took the place of the sword, and he never tired of

wandering among his plants, cutting away useless branches and shoots

which marred their beauty or hurt their growth. There was no law on the

statute book against foreign contract labor, and he imported skilful

gardeners to enable him to carry out his plans of improvement. His

habits were most regular. He was out of bed with the sun, and the hours

until breakfast were passed in his study, writing letters or reading.

Breakfast over, his horse was ready at the door to take him on the

round of his farms. If his guests wished to accompany him, or to make

excursions into the surrounding country, horses for them also were led

out. Returning from his fields, he again shut himself up in his study,

where he remained until three o’clock, when dinner was announced. The

remainder of the day and evening was given to his guests until ten

o’clock, when he retired.

The repose of this fascinating life was not destined to be of long

duration. With the close of the war the young confederacy found

itself confronted with new difficulties and dangers. To meet them,

and bring order out of the political chaos, there assembled that

body of patriotic and illustrious men who, as the result of their

deliberations, gave the world the constitution of the United States.

Washington presided over their deliberations, and, in due time, his

election to the Presidency followed. It was hard to be compelled again

to leave Mount Vernon and to abandon all his cherished plans for its

improvement. This entry is found in his diary in the summer of 1789:

“At ten o’clock I bade adieu to Mount Vernon, to private life and

to domestic felicity, and with a mind oppressed with more anxious

and painful emotions than I have words to express, set out for New

York, having in company Mr. Thomson and Colonel Humphrey; with the

best dispositions to render service to my country in obedience to

its call, but with less hope of answering its expectations.” He was

loath to leave home for many private reasons, chief among which was

his desire to pursue the system he had matured for the improvement of

his estate. Since the war he had procured from England the best works

on agriculture, and was impatient to put his ideas and theories into

practical operation. Now all had to be given up, at least for four

years, when, he hoped, the term of his second servitude in public life

would come to an end. But what was to be done in the meantime? The seat

of government was hundreds of miles away, and roads next to impassable

except at certain seasons of the year, made communications tedious and

difficult. He did the best thing possible, namely, to appoint a manager

and leave with him instructions in writing for his guidance.

These instructions throw a strong light on the character of Washington,

a light for which we might search in vain among the many volumes of

his State papers, public addresses and private correspondence. His

dearest interests were involved in the management of his property, and

he naturally wrote with a freedom, directness and emphasis concerning

it which he scarcely could have employed on any other occasion. In

these simple memoranda, made when he was on the eve of assuming the

highest honor his country could confer--an honor all the greater

because of the transcendent ability and character it was supposed the

position demanded--we can see, that while the world was ringing with

the fame of his achievements, his innermost thoughts were occupied

with those beloved fields on which he had lavished so much care. He

intended that everything should run along in his absence precisely as

if he were present. There is a military ring in the following sentences

which reveals the old commander-in-chief: “One thing I cannot forbear

to put in strong terms. It is that whenever I order a thing to be

done it must be done; or a reason given at the time, or as soon as

the impracticability can be discovered why it cannot be done, which

will produce a countermand or a change. But it is not for the person

receiving the order to suspend or dispense with its execution; and,

after it has been supposed to have gone into effect, to be told that

nothing has been done in it; that it _will_ be done or that it could

not be done--either of these is unpleasant and disagreeable to me,

having been all my life accustomed to regularity and punctuality.

Nothing but system and method are required to accomplish any reasonable

requests.” Due notice that he will expect every man to do his duty at

Mount Vernon while he is in New York is given as follows: “To request

that my people must be at work as soon as it is light; work until it is

dark, and be diligent while they are at it, can hardly be necessary,

because the propriety of it must strike every manager who attends to

my interests, or regards his own character, and he, on reflecting,

must be convinced that lost labor is never to be regained.” His plan,

or system, was very comprehensive. It contained instructions what to

plant and where to plant it, not only for the year but for many years

in advance. Every one of the five overseers was required to make a

minute weekly report concerning the operations on the farm he had in

charge. This was given to the manager and by him sent to the President.

The work performed by the laborers and their condition, whether ill or

well, were to be noted. The slightest incident or accident connected

with everything on the estate--the stock, the crops, the trees, the

fences, the farming implements--was to be made known to him. And, no

matter how public business pressed, time and opportunity were found or

made, during all the eight years of the Presidency, to consider and

attend to the affairs of Mount Vernon. Each weekly report was closely

examined and answered, sometimes at great length.

[Illustration: “STAY SIR! DO NOT KILL THAT REPTILE.”]

This extract from one of his communications shows how closely he

watched his slaves and how well he was acquainted with them personally:

“What sort of sickness is Dick’s that he should have been confined

with it for weeks? And what kind of sickness is Betty Davis’s that it

should have a similar effect upon her? If pretended ailments without

apparent causes or visible effects will screen her from work, I shall

get no service out of her, for a more lazy, deceitful and impudent

huzzy is not to be found in the United States than she is.” In another

letter, he refers to a young negro whom he wished to have trained as a

house-servant. “Put him in the house,” he says, “give him good clothes,

so as to make him self-respecting, and a stout horn comb. Make him comb

his hair, or wool, so that it will grow long.”

What a many-sided character Washington possessed! No President ever

held the helm of state more firmly than he did during those eight years

while the young Republic was beginning its career as a nation. The

ablest men in our history as a people were then in public life, but he

was the master of them all. He was supreme in a cabinet containing two

men of such vast acquirements as Hamilton and Jefferson, and he ruled

them as completely as he governed “Dick” and “impudent Betty Davis”

down at Mount Vernon.

The summer months were usually spent on his estate, though not

invariably. During the Presidency, he traveled a good deal in different

parts of the country--Long Island, the Eastern States, and down South

and out West. No man of his time probably knew the geography and

topography of the country better than he did. As we have pointed out,

the French-Indian war led him across the Alleghanies, and he twice

again visited that region, less known then almost than the middle of

Africa is to-day. He explored the middle of New York with De Witt

Clinton, penetrated to the very centre of the Dismal Swamp, and took

the field once more when the Whisky Insurrection broke out.

After the expiration of his second term, he again returned to the

banks of the Potomac and resumed the occupations he laid down eight

years before. Writing to a friend soon after his arrival, he tells

him that he “began his daily course with the rising of the sun and

first made preparations for the business of the day. By the time I

have accomplished these matters breakfast is ready. This being over, I

mount my horse and ride around my farms, which employs me till it is

time to dress for dinner, at which I rarely miss to see some strange

faces, come, as they say, out of respect for me.” The farm was over

eight thousand acres in extent, and these rides averaged twelve or

fifteen miles in length. This description of Washington at the time was

given by young Custis to a gentleman who had inquired for him: “You

will meet with an old gentleman riding alone, in plain drab clothes, a

broad-brimmed white hat, a hickory switch in his hand and carrying an

umbrella with a long staff which is attached to his saddle-bow. That

person, sir, is General Washington.” Another call to duty came in the

threatened war with France. Washington was made lieutenant-general, but

the storm soon blew over.

He was now sixty-eight years old, and the end of all was coming. He

rode out as usual one morning in December, caught cold, and died in a

few days. The trees he planted in his youth bend above his grave on the

banks of the Potomac.

THE PROGRESS OF ATHLETISM.

BY C. TURNER.

[Illustration]

Athletism is one of the distinctive forces of the nineteenth century,

and of all the forces, acting upon the social, moral and physical life

of the century, it is probably destined to be the most permanent in its

effects. No impulse has had a swifter or a wider scope. While other

forces of aggregation have welded together peoples having a common

ethnological origin into a nation, such as Italy, and consolidated

independent states into a system, such as Germany, it has been

the function of athletics to unite in a common interest the whole

(Anglo-Saxon) world. America and Australasia have felt its influence,

and passed under its discipline, in no less degree than the scattered

colonies and dependencies of “Greater Britain.” Remarkable as it may

at first sound, it is true, that no fact to-day “flashed round the

girdle of the globe” would excite so widespread a curiosity, or so much

personal interest, as that an amateur athlete had succeeded in covering

one hundred yards of space in one second less than the recorded time of

the great classic contests of the century.

[Illustration: THE HURDLE RACE AT CAMBRIDGE UNIVERSITY.]

In the United Kingdom, Ministries may come and Ministries may go,

Governments may wax and wane; such news will interest few but the

inhabitants of Great Britain. In America contests of deep interest

may rage round a Presidential Election and rend public opinion, but

the very knowledge of the contest will be confined largely to the

American continent. The fiercest controversies in science and religion

may rise and subside, the whole current of ecclesiastical thought may

change, whilst the “Tracts for the Times” will remain a mere phrase to

the millions who are keenly alive to the more cosmopolitan questions

involved in athletism. On the remote sheep-farms of Australia, in

the cattle ranches of Texas, on the pampas of South America, amongst

the snows of the Himalayas, round the kraal fires of Southern Africa

and in the busy marts of China and Japan, there will be auditors who

will gather with keener interest to hear of the battles of pluck and

endurance by the Isis and the Cam than would be displayed about any

contest for dominion among the powers of the world. In the island home

of its birth, and the land of its most earnest adoption, no system of

news, in its ingathering and dispersion, is so regular, systematic and

universal, or so anxiously scanned as the sports of the Queen’s Club

Grounds, or the progress of the baseball nines of New York, Boston or

Chicago. It puts into operation a system as perfect and as rapid as if

the fate of nations hung in the balance.

[Illustration: WINNING THE HUNDRED YARDS.]

Whence is all this? Partly, it may be, that the subject dealt with

and the competitors involved touch the most abiding and deep-seated

instincts of our common nature, carrying us back, by their very

mention, to those halcyon days when we too marked the scudding form or

joined in the thrilling race.

“Be it a weakness, it deserves some praise;

We love the play-place of our early days,

The scene is touching, and the heart is stone

That feels not at that sight, and feels at none,”

sang one of our early English poets, and again:

“The pleasing spectacle at once excites

Such recollections of our own delights,

That, viewing it, we seem almost t’ obtain

Our innocent, sweet simple years again.”

But how came the natural aptitude and expertness of the Saxon in

outdoor sports to be so totally obliterated, as undoubtedly it was,

up to within the past forty years? That England, above all, with her

old Viking blood, should have lain torpid and effeminate; that that

“hard gray weather,” which, as Kingsley says, “makes hard Englishmen,”

should have become barren in results, is one of the most puzzling

facts of a now happily remote past. It was not ever thus; the early

poets teem with allusions to training and skill in manly sports and

outdoor pastimes, but the records of the eighteenth century as surely

point to their almost universal eclipse. Read Cowper’s “Timepiece,”

written in 1783, and more especially his “Tirocinium; or, a Review of

the Schools,” written in the following year. What a picture do they

present! The tavern and the play-house, cards and the race-course,

license and riot, fill the terrible picture of the youth of the period,

the product of the school and college. Study languished, emulation

slept, and virtue fled, is his uncontested verdict.

“See womanhood despised and manhood shamed,

With infamy too nauseous to be named;

Fops at all corners, ladylike in mien,

Civeted fellows, smelt ere they are seen.

Else coarse and rude in manners, and their tongue

On fire with curses and with nonsense hung,

Now flush’d with drunkenness, now with excess pale,

Their breath a sample of last night’s regale,

All these, and more like these, were bred at schools.”

[Illustration: THE TRINITY HALL CREW, CAMBRIDGE UNIVERSITY.]

It certainly is a picture which, thank God! could not be painted now.

Nor could it be written of the well-to-do youth of the nation, as

was written by South and quoted by Dr. Johnson in his Dictionary in

illustration of the word “athletick”--“strong of body, vigorous,

robust,” that “seldom shall we see in rich families that athletick

soundness and vigor of constitution which is seen in cottages where

nature is cook and necessity caterer.” The youth of “rich families”

have now, happily become the very pink of the “strong of body,

vigorous, robust,” and a practical refutation of such an opinion, in

every English-speaking land.

[Illustration: WINNING THE HIGH JUMP.]

It was fitting, though singular, that the revival of outdoor sports,

which received its first check from the narrow fanaticism and

repressive bitterness of the puritanical period, that saw Beelzebub in

the quarter-staff and Satan in a foot-race, should have received its

first impulse into new life largely from the disciples of “Muscular

Christianity,” of whom Canon Kingsley may perhaps be taken as the

type. Yet so it was; they fanned into life the embers in which still

burnt the hidden fire, and rekindled the dormant passion for rural

sports into more than its old vigor with a new purity and with a force

which, ere half a century had passed, was to restore athletism to its

legitimate sphere throughout the Anglo-Saxon world.

Many other things combined to help the movement. Not the least of these

was the dawning belief that Juvenal’s oft quoted “_mens sana in corpore

sano_,” contained a fallacy, and that the healthy body must precede

and render possible the healthy mind. This doctrine, in “the forties,”

was feebly struggling for recognition, but is now recognized as lying

at the very root of social and moral regeneration. England’s danger

in the period of the Crimean war, tended to turn the minds of men to

the seriousness of our national position, and to the advantages of

systematic training to resist hardship. The volunteer movement, with

its platoon exercises and its outdoor drills, often on the old “Butts

Green,” which the wisdom of our forefathers had provided for their day

and generation, drew further marked attention to physical training. All

this tended to create in the rising generation an inclination to return

to our older, more natural, and more healthful custom of outdoor life.

Whatever were the causes, and whether this enumeration of them

be either accurate or complete, certain it is that in the early

“fifties” athletism took a new and marked departure. As was natural,

that departure received its concrete form in the two ancient English

universities “where students most do congregate.” In athletics it can

with truth be said, “the boy is father of the man.”

For all the higher interests of athletism this was fortunate. In those

two centres the young plant was at least in a soil with materials for

its growth, and in an atmosphere where its grosser forms could scarce

take root, and where that parasite, the professional blackleg, could

certainly not develop. Thus it has transpired that those concomitant

evils which at one time threatened even the existence of cricket have

been kept from the field of amateur athletics. The watchful eye, the

timely warning, the friendly aid of authority, which, without crushing,

silently regulated the mode and conduct of these sports, has enabled

them to spread a beneficent and not a corrupting influence. That there

were evils, inherent, latent, and which might have become powerful, all

will admit; that they were surely and deeply rooted and ineradicable

was the fear of many; that they showed a tendency at first to develop

is a matter of record, but that they no longer affect athletism, where

it is conducted by gentlemen for gentlemen, is equally certain and

satisfactory.

That the development of athletism, regulated and purified as it soon

became, was a distinct advance on the antecedent pastimes is perfectly

clear. Athletics soon obtained a recognition and a warm welcome from

the public. Let those who are old enough cast back their minds thirty

years and recall the scenes of brutality which filled the columns

of public newspapers, the very existence of which is now almost

forgotten. Turn even to the _Times_, and it will be found that in that

exclusive journal and great reflex of the age, “prize fighting” holds

quite a significant space. But the work unostentatiously begun in the

universities, and spreading to the schools, was preparing a public

which would become interested in the more scientific development of the

human frame for higher and nobler purposes.

To Oxford belongs the honor of initiation in the Athletic Club of

Exeter College founded in 1850. Five years later the sister university

followed Oxford’s example; but, as is her habit, though slower to

the influence of innovation than Oxford, when once she has accepted

an idea, she makes more rapid progress. St. John’s College led the

van; Emmanuel, and one by one the rest, followed. So rapid, indeed,

was the development, that within two years the whole of the seventeen

colleges and halls were ready for a “federation,” and in 1857 the first

intercollegiate sports were held. Three years after, Oxford, too, was

ready for its extended sphere, its “United States” constitution.

Naturally, the existence of these two friendly yet rival corporations

led to a trial of strength between them. Cambridge challenged Oxford

to a friendly tournament, and in 1864 the first of those since famous

meetings of the students of the two universities was held. Nothing can

be more significant of the then position of athletism than the manner

of its announcement. In an obscure corner of the _Times_, crushed

almost out by the more engrossing incidents of the German-Danish war

and of the American Rebellion, still may be seen the two small lines

announcing: “Athletic Games.--The athletic games between Oxford and

Cambridge will take place on the 5th March at 12 o’clock.” But small as

was the space, it was a clear indication that athletism had become a

subject of national and not entirely of local interest. From this event

may be measured all the subsequent career. “The events took place in

Christ Church new cricket ground, in the presence of a vast number of

persons, including many of the college authorities, and some hundreds

of ladies, who took a very keen interest in the proceedings,” says the

_Times_. But even more interesting is the fact that at the baptism of

these inter-university sports there should have been the sponsorship of

official recognition. Of the two judges, one was the Rev. A. H. Faber,

of New College, Oxford; the other was the Rev. H. Mortimer Luckock, of

Trinity College, Cambridge (now Canon of Ely Cathedral), whilst the

office of referee was filled by the Rev. Leslie Stephen. As Oxford “had

gathered there her beauty and her chivalry” as spectators, so amongst

the competitors were no mean representatives of the universities at

their best. Oxford had her Gooch and Darbyshire, and Cambridge that

very paragon of all graceful power, C. B. Lawes (who has since enriched

sculpture by so much that is admirable in art). What son of Cambridge

who saw Lawes is ever likely to forget him? He was a sight for the

gods!--a very athletic “Admirable Crichton.”

Emulation and imitation, that sincerest form of flattery, quickly

produced followers; the flame which the universities had lit, raised

to a beacon’s height by the _Times’_ reports, spread like a wildfire.

Trinity College, Dublin, Eton College and Wellington, before the year

was out, appeared in the lists, and were quickly followed by those

nurseries of the universities, Harrow and Winchester, Rossall and

Cheltenham, Westminster and Charterhouse, whilst Sandhurst and Chatham

added to the list the military students, and the “United” Hospitals the

students in medicine. Nor was the agitation confined to one side of the

Atlantic, for within an extremely short period, the foundation of that

now world-renowned association, the New York Athletic Club, was laid.

Is it to be wondered at that this sudden, simultaneous, and widespread

movement should have raised grave apprehensions, and anxious, if not

bitter, critics? The first warning voice was raised against the alleged

existence of gambling and against the debasing influence of money

as prizes. It is singular to remember, under present circumstances,

the fact, which has almost passed from memory, that at the first

inter-university sports the prizes were given in money. Nor was the

friendly yet apprehensive critic alone in the field. Mr. Wilkie

Collins, the novelist, with less knowledge and more animus, mixed gall

and wormwood with his criticism and produced in his “Man and Wife” a

caricatured monster so overdrawn as to be, fortunately, ineffective.

Even so good an authority as Mr. Leslie Stephen was apparently ranged

against the child of his adoption (for he was the first referee); but,

as a matter of fact, he was merely tempted to use the athlete as a

“bogey” to frighten “the characteristic doctrine out of the university

Tory;” but having to invoke a “bogey” for his purpose he was compelled,

by the exigencies of the case, to draw the university athlete in

language more forcible than elegant. This having served its purpose,

may now well be charitably consigned to oblivion. The Hon. Edward

Lyttleton, following suit to Mr. Stephen, urged the aid of “variety in

education” as a corrective to the engrossing attractions of the sports.

The fears which haunted Mr. Lyttleton, and still find expression, were

born of a too contracted view of the facts. To him, the enervating

effect was its growing popularity. He saw the increasing multitudes

flocking once a year to see the public exhibitions, in which but few

students competed, and he forgot the thousands who plodded, day after

day, month after month, through the weary details of practice, for the

development of their frames, or in private contests.

Nor were the tutor, the schoolmaster and the novelist alone in their

onslaughts; a far more dangerous attack came from certain medical men,

of whom Dr. Richardson may be taken as the type. To them the athlete

was a man doomed to a premature decay, a broken and exhausted wreck.

Budding athletism had the good fortune to secure, in Dr. E. Morgan,

of Manchester, a champion whose exhaustive labors and conclusive

deductions from authentic facts, made short work of the adverse theory,

and established, beyond future cavil or dispute, that the death rate

amongst those who had passed the most trying ordeals was 30 per cent.

lower than the national average.

The combination of assaults on lines like these, and the anxieties

generated in maternal minds, led the university authorities

to discourage the spirit of rivalry which, it was feared, the

inter-university contests might develop to excess. Cambridge was

staggered, in 1867, by an official prohibition against the Oxford and

Cambridge sports taking place within the precincts of the university.

No other step could so certainly have produced the very results which

it was aimed to prevent. Driven from Cambridge, where the contests

might long have continued comparatively subordinate, under the

immediate guardianship of the official eye, they were forced into the

extended, and by no means preferable, area of the London world, of

which they have since formed an important annual fixture.

Athletism rose triumphant over these as over the many other

difficulties and dangers which surrounded its early path. The

varying “uses” of distant and conflicting schools were reconciled,

the barnacles of corruption cleared off, and the authority firmly

established of that great central governing body the Amateur Athletic

Association.

Cambridge, which by its early example did so much to popularize

athletics, has had a long succession of faithful, loyal and patriotic

sons to carry her colors through many a hard-won fight and many

a stubborn fray. Who that has seen her career through the past

quarter of a century cannot recall, with all the glow of rekindled

satisfaction, her champions, from the day, in 1865, when R. E. Webster

(now the learned attorney-general) twice lowered Oxford’s colors

by defeating the Earl of Jersey for the mile in 4m. 44¼s. (on a

slow, wet ground) and for the two miles in 10m. 38½s. down to W. C.

Kendall’s exciting “odd event” jump this spring? Between these dates

what memories crowd the scene! Pitman and Ridley, Churchill and R. H.

Macaulay (now head-master of Rugby), who covered the quarter of a mile

in 1881 in 50 1-5s.; I. L. Stirling, “three stride Stirling,” of 1870,

over his 120 yards and 10 flights; A. B. Loder, who, in 1876, plucked

the honors from Upcher, the very classic of the hurdlers, in 16s.; S.

Palmer, lithe as a leopard, who, in 1883, carried the “light blue”

through in the same time; phenomenal E. J. Davies, short and spare of

build, who, with his second thrust in midair, covered 22 ft. 10 in. in

the broad jump; F. B. Roberts, who, in 1886, covered 21 ft. 9 in., and

W. C. Kendall’s winning jump of 1888; W. W. Hough, lean and light of

foot, who put the three miles behind him in 15m. 1 1-5s.; the mighty

hammer throws of G. H. Hales, in 1876, 138 ft. 3 in. and E. O’F. Kelly

putting the weight--these and hundreds more flit across the mind.

And who that has seen thirty generations--for each year brings its new

generation--of under-graduates “strip” can have failed to recognize a

distinct, general improvement in the average physique, in build, in

carriage, and even in the quality and condition of the flesh. It is

undoubted and palpable even to the casual eye, and it has, singularly

enough, within the past few months, received confirmation from an

authority anything but casual. Dr. Sargent, of Harvard, in his

“Physical Proportions of the Typical Man,” has proved with mathematical

accuracy and from reliable and exhaustive measurements, that “man

cultivated both in mind and body along the lines of least resistance

shows that the tendency of the race is to attain the perfect type, the

order of growth is regular towards it.” Nor is it necessary at this day

to elaborate the point that this physical advance is not only no injury

to, not only compatible with, but a promoter of moral and spiritual

benefits, as well as a direct aid to withstanding the wear and tear

of modern business. The Universities’ missions to South Africa and

China, abroad, Toynbee Hall, the White Cross Society, and other like

efforts at home, are a standing testimony on the one hand, while on the

other the presence “thick as autumn leaves in Vallombrosa” of old-time

champions in the high offices of state and in every walk of science,

art, enterprise and commercial life, is a ready and complete answer.

An author, whose modesty conceals his name, but whose good sense

justifies the quotation, has well summed up the situation. “Athletism

may not have crowned all its votaries with the laurels of social

heroism, but it has disseminated a thoroughly healthy and energizing

taste among our young men. It has taken them away from the smoking and

the billiard rooms at unreasonable hours and stamped out that physical

and moral malady, which was once powerfully described by the author of

‘David Copperfield’ as the ‘dry-rot in men.’”

In her physical training of the youth of the nation, those “trustees

for posterity,” may its motto long express the universal verdict

“_Floreat Cantabrigia_.”

~Comparative Table of Amateurs’ Records.~

===============+==============+================+==============

| Oxford and | Oxford and | London

| Cambridge | Cambridge | Athletic

| Inter- | Inter- | Club,

| university, | university, | 1886.

| 1864. | 1888. |

---------------+--------------+----------------+--------------

100 Yards Flat | 10½s. | 10 4-5s. | 10s.

120 Yards, and | | |

10 flights | | |

of hurdles | 17½s. | 17 1-5s. | 16s.

Quarter Mile | | |

Flat | 53s. | 51 2-5s. | 49 4-5s.

Half Mile | | | 1m. 59s.

One Mile | 4m. 56s. | 4m. 29 2-5s. | 4m. 25 2-5s.

Two Miles | | |

Three Miles | | 15m. 28 1-5s. |

High Jump | 5 ft. 5 in. | 5 ft. 10¼ in. |

Broad Jump | 18 ft. 0 in. | 20 ft. 10¾ in. |

Putting the | | |

Weight | | 37 ft. |

Throwing the | | |

Hammer | | 93 ft. 10 in. |

---------------+--------------+----------------+--------------

===============+===============+===============+================

| New York | Harvard | Cambridge

| Athletic | Champions’ | Champions’

| Champions’ | Times. | Times.

| Times. | |

| | |

---------------+---------------+---------------+----------------

100 Yards Flat | 10s. | 10s. | 10s.

120 Yards, and | | |

10 flights | | |

of hurdles | 16 1-5s. | -- | 16s.

Quarter Mile | | |

Flat | 47¾s. | -- | 50 1-5s.

Half Mile | 2m. | | 1m. 56 2-5s.

One Mile | 4m. 30s. | 4m. 36 4-5s. | 4m. 25 3-5s.

Two Miles | 9m. 38s. | 10m. 7s. |

Three Miles | 14m. 50 3-5s. | | 15m. 1 1-5s.

High Jump | 5 ft. 11 in. | | 5 ft. 10½ in.

Broad Jump | | 21 ft. 7½ in. | 22 ft. 10¾ in.

Putting the | | |

Weight | 44 ft. 9½ in. | | 39 ft. 1 in.

Throwing the | | |

Hammer | 119 ft. 0 in. | | 138 ft. 3 in.

---------------+---------------+---------------+----------------

[Illustration: AVTVMN]

Shrill cocks salute the tardy dawn

That glimmers o’er the landscape blurred;

Somewhere upon the barren lawn

Is piping one lorn little bird--

A robin red-breast, loath to leave,

Although he only stays to grieve.

The thresher’s flail rings clear and loud

All day long from the open barn;

The pigeons on the rafters crowd,

Torn is the spider’s silvery yarn.

The frosts have left their ghostly prints

Upon the meadow’s russet tints.

Beneath the sunset’s lurid light,

The pinewood holds its plumes of black--

The pilot moon brings in the night,

His white boat in a windy track--

One tall, far spire across the land,

In warning lifts a fiery hand.

November, born to poverty,

The winds are mournful with her prayer;

A vagrant, pleading charity,

And yet her hands are always bare;

And still within her clouded eyes

Are lurking dismal prophecies.

Too late for Autumn’s golden wealth,

The harvest-dance, the merry stir;

Too soon for Winter’s lusty health,

And yet our fond hearts welcome her;

For ’tis her cold breath that first lights

The happy household fire o’ nights.

_Susan Hartley Swett._

A DAMP JOURNEY ON A DOWN GRADE.

BY RALPH K. WING.

Time was when a trip into the woods meant “roughing it.” Nowadays it

may mean anything. An arm-chair in the stern of a skiff, propelled by

a backwoods laborer, who lugs your boat from one lake to another over

the highways of such travel--this is the ordinary type of the modern

Adirondack voyage. The tourist languidly views the scenery through his

eye-glass, and returns to his city friends to rapturously descant upon

the perils and hardships undergone, and the bravery required for a

sojourn in this “uncombed” region.

We had never taken an outing in such a manner. It was our intention to

“do” the North Woods on business principles, take a tent, shun hotels,

keep away from the usual paths of travel, carry our own canoe, do our

own paddling, and, in fact, get the real benefit of genuine wild life

in wild places.

Our canoe was at Blue Mountain Lake; and thither Will Maynard, my chum,

and I made the thirty-mile stage ride from North Creek, the terminus

of the railway. We reached the lake in the afternoon; and desiring

to avoid the necessity of stopping over night at any of the hotels,

we immediately looked around for a wagon to start us on our way. Our

objective point was Rock Lake, about seven miles from Blue Mountain

Lake, and a mile off the regular road. This pond gives rise to the

Rock River, which flows into the Indian River, which again makes a

junction with the upper Hudson far back in the remote wilderness. These

water-courses we desired to follow, and continuing on the Hudson River

to a few miles below the village of North Creek, portage over into

Schroon River, from which Lake George, our ultimate destination, could

easily be reached.

Good luck brought us an empty returning wagon, and it was soon engaged.

About sunset we were landed at an inn at a point a mile and a half from

Rock Lake. We discussed the feasibility of packing our boat and luggage

this distance over a trail not too good and entirely unknown to us,

before darkness settled down. Meanwhile we ate our supper, and then cut

the Gordian knot by hiring two backwoodsmen to help us.

As, lagging somewhat behind our guides, we emerged from the end of the

path we met them returning noiselessly, motioning to enjoin silence.

“What is it?” we whispered.

“Hist! Keep quiet. There’s a bear about the camp. Perhaps we can get a

shot.”

We tiptoed after them. They had their rifles and I my revolver. The

fading light glimmered faintly across the lake and over the open,

swampy margin. We peered eagerly through the gloaming; but, strain eye

and ear as we might, we scanned the landscape in vain. Bruin wisely

concluded not to do battle at such great odds against him. A few shots,

that provoked hollow, lonesome echoes from the wilderness, we fired in

the direction in which the bear had last been heard.

We turned to look at our surroundings. On the verge of the woods, a few

hundred yards from where the path terminated at the lake, was a very

small log cabin, with one window, breast high, and a low door. This was

to be our quarters for the night. Our friends, quickly starting a brisk

fire at the front, sat down for a few minutes’ chat before they began

their dark, and, to less practiced persons, uncertain journey home.

We took occasion to glean all the information we could regarding our

proposed route. Great were our astonishment and dismay at their replies.

“Well,” remarked one, “when I hear’n that you fellows were going down

the Rock and Cedar rivers, I just said right out loud to myself, ‘They

can’t do it.’ Do you know how far you will get to-morrow if you begin

work early in the morning and work all day just as hard as you can?

You won’t go no farther than six miles below--to where the Cedar River

comes in. There ain’t enough water, and it’s rough and rocky all the

way. When you get down to Cedar River there be some still water; but it

is all filled up with logs. There isn’t no paths, and the woods be too

thick for you to carry your things around any of the bad places. You

will have to drag your boat over the rocks a smart bit of the way, and

you stand a mighty good chance of getting it smashed.”

“Would you advise us to take our outfit back to the road and wait for

some team to take us to North River?” we inquired. “The water is deep

enough there, is it not?”

“I wouldn’t say what I think you ought to do ’cept as you ask it. We

ain’t trying to frighten ye; but I don’t think any of the boys livin’

up this way, unless they had a blamed good reason, would think to try

what you said you wanted to do. It’s too late to get back through the

woods to-night. I would stay right here on this pile of balsam boughs

in your shanty till morning, then carry your things back to the road,

and wait until an empty wagon comes your way. But we’ve got to get

home, so good-night!”

Maynard and I built up the fire with green wood to make smoke and drive

off the insect pests, universal in these dense woods; and each crawling

into his sleeping bag, made by sewing several blankets together, slept

until long after sunrise.

I stepped over to a little brook that dashed by our camp to take my

morning’s wash. A large flat stone was lying in the middle of the

stream. On this I stood, and while making a liberal lather, discovered

on another rock only three feet away a big green bullfrog, staring

at me with a fixed, immovable, owl-like gaze. After several efforts,

which did not seem to alarm him in the least, I finally succeeded in

landing some soapsuds in his eyes. This made him relax sufficiently

to wink violently two or three times, but not enough to change his

posture or the glassy gleam of his optics. With no better effect I

again anointed him, but the third time I gave him such a nasty dose

that he deliberately waddled down to the water, put his head under, and

removed the objectionable foreign substance. Then he ambled back to his

old roost, composedly resuming his position in a way which seemed to

say, “Keep it up if you want to; it don’t hurt me any.” I laughed till

I was tired, and left this genuine humorist of nature in undisturbed

possession.

After breakfast we very leisurely carried our canoe and equipment back

to the road. We reposed under the trees, waiting for “something to turn

up,” but as hour after hour slipped by, we found it very monotonous. We

had almost reconciled ourselves to staying where we were for the night,

when with joy we saw a wagon coming our way.

The driver, who intended to make an all-night journey to the railroad

terminus, was an employé of one of the Blue Mountain Lake hotels.

He was a native of the district, well versed in all the stories and

traditions of the wilderness, and was evidently glad of an audience. He

told of the last of the Indians in that region; of the deer and bear

that had been shot at different points as we passed; the uselessness

of attempting to farm on the rocky precipitous slopes; and, now that

the section was open to competition with the products of more fertile

localities, the dependence of the inhabitants on the summer tourists.

Despite the talk, the banter, and the songs, our not over-soft seats on

the bow of the canoe and the sides of the springless wagon became no

easier. As the result of our two days’ severe work and the lateness of

the hour, we would find ourselves dropping off into a short doze, to

awake just in the nick of time to avoid falling out of the wagon by a

desperate grab at the first available support. The small hours of the

morning overtook us: still the wheels rolled on in their dusty course,

still the horses trotted down a decline to toil panting up the crest

of the next hill; still the dim shadows ahead would, as we approached,

disclose the faintly outlined forms of rocks, stumps and trees; still

the mountains bathed their feet in the fogs of the valley and in their

sable garments draped the scene in mourning. Soon black, threatening

clouds shut out the small remnant of light that the giant mountains

failed to obscure. Presently we heard a deep muttering, as if these

Titans roared in anger to each other, then the illuminating flashes,

as if they exchanged shots with one another, proclaimed more certainly

than a weather bulletin that it would become moist in our vicinity.

Rubber coats afforded us as good protection as could be expected in the

postures we were obliged to assume.

But soon the stars reasserted their sway; then the first glimmer of the

river, as after its long _détour_ through the virgin forest, it once

more approached the highway, could be caught through the trees from the

hill we were descending. Then a house or two appeared, and we rattled

up in front of the inn at North River, a hamlet about six miles above

North Creek, the terminus of the railroad.

Very thankful we were to see a light burning. Our elation was but

short-lived, for we were told that every room in the house was

occupied. We were, however, more prepared for emergencies than the

ordinary traveler, and carrying our blankets into the barn, we were

easily convinced, and not for the first time, that a haymow has its

advantages as a sleeping-place.

Before launching next morning we repaired to the only store in the

place to make a few purchases. In this remote country store, surrounded

by a well-nigh uninhabited and inaccessible region, we did not expect

to find anything to remind us of the teeming marts of trade from which

we had recently come. Judge then our surprise when upon entering the

place we found the proprietor cornered by the everlasting, ubiquitous

drummer. This particular specimen was not carrying a general line,

but was a specialist, traveling for a soap powder. I expressed my

astonishment, and was informed by the storekeeper that there had been

already ten salesmen in there that day. Probably these fellows had an

idea that in a place so remote from the ordinary routes of travel, if

the storekeeper wanted anything in their line, he would take a large

amount. Be that as it may, it furnished a striking illustration of

American business enterprise.

In the store was a child, not over three years of age, complacently

smoking a full-sized cigar. This was the proprietor’s son, and it

seemed to give the father much pleasure to exhibit the little wretch’s

accomplishment. “He uses tobacco just like a man,” he beamingly

remarked. “He takes to it naturally. He chewed a piece of my fine-cut

before he was out of the cradle, and he is now never without a cigar,

pipe, or quid. He can take his little toddy, too, without winking,

just like his old man,” and the unnatural parent fairly gloated over

the precocious depravity of his offspring. It must be said, though, in

favor of this “infant prodigy,” that he seemed to survive the treatment

with remarkable success. A sturdier young sinner, with rosier cheeks,

would be hard to find.

Directly across the road, opposite the hotel and the few houses

comprising the hamlet, flowed the river, which at this point was much

contracted, booming and roaring for half a mile in a not insignificant

rapid. As soon as it became noised about that we intended to embark

at the head of this, the place was on the tiptoe of expectation. The

inhabitants were accustomed to nothing but rowboats, and could not

appreciate the advantages possessed by a canoe in lightness and in

the ability of the occupant to see his course as he proceeds, so

many skeptics were found. As we loitered about, making purchases and

getting things in shape, the number of doubters increased, some of them

being unkind enough to hint at a lack of “sand” on the part of “them

city dudes.” This was our first rapid of the season, and it must be

confessed that as we shoved off we did not feel exactly stiff in the

knees.

We made directly for the centre with our quickest, most powerful

strokes, and sooner almost than thought itself the banks were whizzing

past us, and we were plunging in the midst of the foam and the billows,

dodging the rocks as they sought our frail craft, and zigzagging from

one side of the stream to the other in quest of a channel. We had

hardly time to get frightened, hold our breath hard, and receive a few

dashes of spray before we found ourselves in comparatively smooth water

at the foot of the run.

The distance to North Creek, six miles, was, in the high state of the

river, very easily and most enjoyably made. The sun was shining, the

water clear, the current swift but free enough from dangerous stretches

to allow us to give our full attention to the charms of the landscape,

rendered doubly attractive by the rain of the previous night. The road

ran close to the river. The driver of a conspicuous red wagon, drawn by

a team of spirited horses, going in our direction, became filled with a

desire to show us the greater expedition of his method of travel. With

this end in view he lashed his horses up hill and down, speeding them

to the best of his ability. Not being in the racing mood, we enjoyed at

our leisure his manifest desire to leave us in the lurch, finding that,

aided by the swift water, we were able to keep the lead by the exercise

of only ordinary effort.

In less than an hour we had traveled the six miles to North Creek.

While there it rained heavily, to the relief of my chum, who utilized

the time by flirting with the pretty post-mistress. Female charms

must always be recognized as dangerous, especially when placed in the

vantage-ground of a post-office. Owing to the indiscretion of Uncle Sam

in placing this maiden in a position to practise her seductive wiles

on my susceptible friend, our departure was delayed till late in the

afternoon, so bringing upon us a catastrophe before the day was done.

Although it was five o’clock before we started, we judged from the

quick and easy run that we had already made, that the ten miles to

Riverside, the point at which we intended to leave the Hudson, could

readily be made before darkness overtook us. The road had now turned

off from the river, and for the nonce we plunged once more into the

primitive wilderness.

Forests overhung the water on both banks, and no landing for our boat,

much less a camping-place, could be found. This deprivation of a last

resort, obliging us in any case to continue, we soon found to be a

most serious matter. Rapids began to be frequent, presenting many

undesirable features. Angular boulders of immense size threatened to

monopolize the current at these points, while we were forcibly reminded

of that great feature of the Hudson, the lumber traffic, by enormous

piles of logs. These had drifted on the rocks in the freshets, and

had been left high and dry far above us, blockading the channel and

shutting off the view of what lay before us. Our hands were in now, and

recking little of what was concealed, we plunged boldly in, paddling

fast even in the swiftest water, and trusting to experience and

intuition to get us through.

The mountain air grew cool in the lengthening shadows; but coats, vests

and hats were thrown aside. Amidst the boom and surge of the rushing

water, one interval of white, foam-crested waves succeeding another in

almost unbroken succession, we shouted to each other in the din and

plied our paddles from side to side, now backing with heavy stroke or

desperately shoving ahead on the opposite quarter. Our blood was on

fire with excitement and the spirit of battle pervaded every nerve.

The rocks thickened, the current quickened. White water appeared at

the beginning of a bend, and we made right for it with the confidence

born of recklessness. As we slid on to the dancing billows, we were

coolly discussing the relative merits and demerits of decked and open

canoes for running rapids, when on turning the point such a sight

was presented as made even our madcap hearts pause in their tattoo

against our ribs. For half a mile extended a toboggan slide of water,

with all element of smoothness omitted. Rocks were piled in confused,

broken heaps as in the crater of a volcano; and between, round and

over them rushed and plunged, like an aqueous cannon-ball, the deep

contracted, resistless tide. No escape: the alternatives were to

get through on our muscle or die game. We became self-possessed from

desperation. Onward and downward, like a descent into a maelstrom, we

dived and tossed. To attempt to shape our course to suit ourselves

was almost useless: the depth and volume of the narrowed flood was

too great. Suddenly the broad stream became a funnel, and tumbling

down a miniature cascade of some three feet, swept over a partially

submerged flat rock a few yards below the middle of the plunge. Toward

this we were irresistibly drawn. The bow of the canoe was higher than

the stern when we dived down the incline, so the prow glided over

the obstruction, the bottom gave a sharp rasp, and the stern was

lifted high upon the rock. At once we shoved our paddles against the

unyielding surface to push off ere our predicament was made worse. The

boat would not budge; the water was driven hard against it, threatening

by its force alone to tear the wood apart; the craft, balanced nicely

on the end of its heel, tipped violently with the slightest movement,

several times admitting water.

We calmly discussed the situation. There seemed to be little hope for

us. Maynard was in the stern, I in the bow. In a hoarse, deliberate

voice, he said, “If we capsize here we are both lost. I am going to

attempt to get out on the rock and pull her loose. If I succeed you

will go down alone, stern first, but you may get through all right. It

is our only hope.”

Carefully rising, gathering his strength, he made a leap. He landed

on the rock. Pressing his foot against a projection, by a succession

of powerful efforts he got the boat loose, and before it had time to

take the momentum of the water and be swept from his hands, he made

a desperate grab at the gunwales as far forward as he could reach,

drawing himself off of the stone and out of the water, and resumed his

paddle before the canoe had a chance to drift broadside.

The sweat of exertion and terror stood out on our brows--but the worst

was over; a few more vigorous strokes and we floated where we might

again feel moderately secure.

The sun was just sinking. We thought anxiously of camp, and to our

great relief, a house appeared. It must be near Riverside, so we

landed. The dwelling was close to the bank, and a few cultivated fields

lay around it, another habitation appearing in the distance. With

these exceptions all was wild. However, a glorious blaze on the beach

soon dried our wet garments. The moon was full, and as no signs of

human proximity were visible, by its light we proceeded to investigate

the house. A tumble-down fence and a rankly overgrown garden betokened

a neglect which was soon explained by a deserted home. We shoved our

dark lantern through all the windows, and being satisfied that the

house was vacant, and we would not be disturbed, we produced our

bedding and wrapping ourselves up on the porch were soon lost in our

dreams. So ended an eventful day, the scenes of which in our slumber

were re-enacted with terrifying variations. The house, fences, trees,

moon, and the solid earth seemed to have an insecure, tumbling,

rolling tendency; and as the roar of an actual rapid below where we

landed filled the air and was echoed to our sleeping ears, one of us,

as a corner of a blanket covered his mouth, would fancy that he was

taking his last plunge into the cold, hurrying waters, and wake with a

suffocating gasp.

The dawn found us stirring. It ushered in a day so full of queer

circumstances as to seem like a chapter from “Alice in Wonderland.”

After a breakfast of dried beef, bread, hot chocolate and oatmeal,

which we thoroughly appreciated, our first solicitude was to find

a wagon to convey our canoe to Loon Lake, via which and its outlet

we intended to reach the Schroon River. This was an occasion of the

mountain coming to Mahomet; for we had hardly finished our breakfast

when three men bent on a swim, and attracted by the revolver practice

in which we had been indulging, made their appearance. Living at a

distance from any improved road, they had no wagon suitable for our

purpose, but a neighbor who was to be found nearly a mile across

country, might be able to satisfy our wants. Maynard made the quest;

and after an hour or so of weary waiting, beguiled by the conversation

of the granger delegation, I spied a box lumber wagon coming slowly and

carefully through the fields. The duffle and the light little boat were

soon aboard and snugly lashed down.

Now began a journey of seven miles by land, requiring as much care,

but lacking the excitement of the previous day’s river trip. We took

turns walking, the man on foot keeping behind to see that the craft

did not lurch over to one side so that the delicate cedar would be

chafed against an uneven board or protruding nail. Listening to our

driver, alternately trudging and riding, picking berries, telling

stories, singing and declaiming, we made our portage. Along the borders

of Loon Lake we passed for about half a mile to a spot where our guide

informed us we could obtain a meal. Carrying our outfit down to a

beautiful sandy beach, and leaving all ready for a launch, we stormed

the house. Though it was in the afternoon, the prospect of earning a

little money was sufficient inducement to these frugal folks to quickly

produce a dinner in which that inevitable last resort of a remote

farmhouse--fried pork--largely figured.

We swept rapidly through the lake, a small body of water. Paddling down

the narrow outlet, we soon reached the dam, which marked its terminus.

A boom of logs on the near side of the structure, and the lack of an

available place to land after the obstruction was passed, said plainly

to boatmen, “No thoroughfare.” We dragged the canoe through a clump

of willows uncomfortably close to a pig-sty, and much to our chagrin,

frightened away two pretty girls who stood farther down on the path.

We were soon at the dam, only to find by glancing below that the

water supplied to the mills on the brook down which we had expected

to float had been almost entirely shut off. We were in a quandary

how to proceed. Inquiring, we learned that a mile below the stream

received a tributary, and that beyond the junction we would probably

find water enough to float. We tried the Adirondack plan; and one of

us shouldering the boat and the other carrying as much as he could of

what remained, we let down bars and climbed fences, cutting across

fields in approved style, to strike the road at the most direct point.

Perspiring, but persevering, we pushed on. The sky now began to darken.

A thunder-storm was evidently rapidly approaching.

A desire for sleeping under a wooden roof took possession of us.

Carefully concealing the canoe in the bushes by the brookside, we made

for a farmhouse near by. We had taken a solemn oath not to sleep in

beds. To get the concession of spending the night in the barn, we used

diplomacy. After telling who we were, what we were doing, where we were

going, and producing our canvas “Saratoga” in proof of our statements,

we would say, “If you will allow us to sleep in your barn we will not

smoke nor light any matches,” that being the regulation bugbear of the

average farmer. Generally, as in this case, the granger had become

intensely interested in our adventurous journey by field and flood,

and would warmly press upon us the hospitalities of his home. This

invitation we invariably declined.

“At peep of dawn we brushed, with hasty steps, the dews away,” and

trudging across the meadow, found the small stream now deep enough

for our purposes. We moved slowly through beautiful, fresh meadow

land along the winding stream, the water clear as the air above it,

and varying from five to fifteen feet in width, and of a depth just

sufficient for our purpose. The bottom was covered with sawdust from

the mill, over the yielding beds of which, as occasion required, we

could easily pole our craft. The banks were now open and lined with

rushes, ferns and sweet-smelling grasses, and again rose crested with

thickly crowded trees, overhanging and enclosing the thread of silver.

The brook was in charming harmony with our diminutive bark, affording

us uninterrupted enjoyment.

Continuing several miles in this manner, making, it is true, slow but

delightful progress, we arrived about dinner-time at Chestertown,

a village which, though ten miles from any railroad, is surrounded

by beautiful drives, and is on the turnpike to famous Schroon Lake,

and other of the less wild and most fashionable resorts of the

Adirondacks. It is itself possessed of several fine hotels, containing

not a few rich city people, who are content to spend their summers

in simply breathing the pure air of this region, and occasionally

making a carriage excursion to some of the fine fishing ponds in the

neighborhood.

We saved the time necessary for preparing food by making a savage

inroad on a civilized hotel dinner, much to the terror of the other

guests and the holy horror of the landlord. I believe we paid before

sitting down, otherwise, judging from the merits of the case, we should

have left with purses as light as our meal had been heavy.

The stream now led through the village, and we were viewed by the

inhabitants with as much curiosity as if we hailed from the spirit

world. After flattening out for several low bridges, and posing as the

“only greatest show on earth,” we found ourselves once more free from

the confines and criticism of people and society.

Then we immediately found ourselves surrounded by thick woods.

Occasional open vistas showed gently rising hills clothed in harmonious

proportions with timber and pasture, and disclosed a fine perspective

of lofty mountains in the background, marking the untraveled

wilderness. The forest continued for a number of miles--in fact, until

we emerged into the Schroon River. Occasionally a duck would fly up

just out of reach of the eager revolver, or an animal of some kind

would manifest itself by scurrying off through the thick undergrowth

before we had a chance to get a glimpse of its form.

Suddenly we came to an obstruction which occupied a large part of the

small stream, and though in an alluvial bottom appeared to be a large

rock. As we came up with it, to our unbounded surprise this boulder

became endowed with motion, and resolved itself into a turtle of huge

dimensions. In spite of a shot fired excitedly with rather uncertain

aim, it managed to disappear in the water. Although the stream was

so shallow, a thorough probing of the bottom failed to reveal the

hardshell’s retreat.

Higher ground on the immediate banks of our brook, and a rift which

obliged us to wade and float the canoe, warned us that we were nearing

the Schroon River. This was entered so very abruptly that we at first

supposed it to be a sudden lake-like expansion of the diminutive creek

which we had been following.

The Schroon is known among the lumbermen as “Still River,” to

distinguish it from the Hudson. At first it seemed to justify this

local designation. It flowed sluggishly, the banks were of a rich,

loamy soil, and immense forest trees grew close to the water’s edge,

or had been undermined by the erosion of the light earth by the

slow-moving current.

Soon we were undeceived. An ominous thunder broke upon our ears, at

first nothing but a murmur, then for a while it was lost altogether,

only to grow louder as we turned a favoring bend, until finally the

heavy, sustained roar warned us that we were getting dangerously near

to a genuine cataract. We landed, forced ourselves through the impeding

fringe of thick, young growth, and carefully making our way out in

the stream on a succession of half-submerged rocks, found the fall to

be about eight feet high. The descent was at somewhat of an angle,

and at one place, a few feet wide, there seemed to be enough water to

float a steamboat. But so great was the force, and so problematical our

ability to shape our course over this particular spot, and the memory

of our recent narrow escape so fresh in our minds, that after due

consideration we wisely made a portage.

The sun was now throwing his copper-colored lance of light upon the

tops of the highest hills. Another mile was made, a large lumber mill

was discerned, and pulling out on to a closely cropped meadow at the

foot of a loudly-talking rapid, we prepared to spend the night. The

air was mild. We determined to dispense with a tent, and pulling our

blankets closely round us, lulled by the silvery gurgle of the rushing

water close by our heads, we slept as birds must sleep after a day’s

free flight into the untrammeled recesses of the air.

A quarter of a mile carry, a brief sojourn at a store which we found

locked, and the proprietor at work in an adjoining field, and once more

we started on to turn the leaves of the book of fate. The river now

showed constant current, and the landscape much diversity and beauty.

Again the low, portentous monotone of a waterfall caught the ear. This

one, like that of the day previous, was just possible, but not very

inviting. It consisted of three low falls, not far apart, and, though

the volume of the water was ample, the sinuosities of the channel, and

particularly the sight on the rocks at the foot of the third, of a

skiff crushed to the fineness of kindling wood, sufficed, not, perhaps,

to dampen our ardor, but to prevent it from getting dampened.

After hauling our things around, we had barely paddled away from the

all-pervading din, when, as that sound grew less, the noise of another

rush of water took its place. This, as we advanced, possessed the air,

and disclosed its source in an apparently unbroken line of white water.

We were by this time rather ashamed of having backed out so frequently.

A man whom we saw just at that moment was interrogated with regard to

what lay below.

“I calkerlate you fellows can’t run it,” he drawled, “leastwise in that

bit of a thing. The big lumber skiffs do sometimes go to pieces down

thar. No, they ain’t no falls,” he added in a reply to our inquiry,

“but you be like to find two miles of as stiff rapids as you ever see.”

Rather than undertake such a long, laborious carry, we determined to

take our chances. The morning was now well advanced, and the sun so

warm that we could dry our things that might get wet. Elevating all our

belongings above the bottom of the canoe, so as to get them out of the

way of the waves we anticipated would wash in, and lashing everything

firmly into position, we headed with misgiving hearts directly for the

most available opening.

What a glorious run that was! A storm at sea, with massive walls

of mountainous waves making clean breaches over flooded decks, a

cavalry charge, the rattle of musketry, the groans of the wounded

and the dying, the shouts of the attacked and of the assailants, the

impetuous momentum of the gigantic missile of flesh and blood--all

these might seem tame to those who have been through them, as they

lose themselves in the ecstasy of the wild rush over foam-crested

billows and the plunge down the rock-studded declivity with a speed too

great to realize. The waves bounded in fine style. Half way down we

encountered an eddy, and taking advantage of it, ran the boat up to the

rocky shore, and clinging desperately, made a hasty inspection of our

condition.

We were kneeling in water. Where was the sponge? It was not to be

found. It must have been left at the head of the rapid. While Maynard

held the boat I made my way at my best speed to where we recollected

having landed. Although walking my fastest, it took me twenty minutes

to go and return. The passage by water had occupied hardly two. We

accounted ourselves most fortunate in getting as far as we had. I

wielded the stern paddle, and it was agreed that, upon my saying left

or right, as the case might be, Maynard was to paddle on the side

indicated. Shoving off, we were at once in the fray again. The earth

and everything solid seemed to reel and revolve. The waves of rapids

are not uniform undulations--they roll and curve in all directions. As

we were thrown high into the air, twisted sideways or backwards, jerked

hither and thither, shot forward into a yawning depression, nothing

seemed stationary--we had apparently nothing by which to be guided.

Instead of our going toward the rocks they appeared to be moving,

like spent cannon-balls, right up stream. We dodged these to the

best of our ability. The fun waxed fast and furious. The immediate

surroundings, the channel just ahead, and the course far below, had

all to be considered at once. The combination had to be worked like a

mathematical puzzle, but it must needs be solved instantly. The mental

and physical acrobatics proved nearly too much for me. I could not

speak my own name. I wanted Maynard to make certain moves, but was

utterly unable to utter the words--I could not tell left from right.

My companion remembered our understanding. Until told, he did not

intend to make a stroke. We whizzed straight for a rock. I could not

avoid it unassisted; and Maynard, not knowing my intentions, did not

try to keep off. Luckily, it was of a gentle slope, and not much above

the surface, so the canoe, instead of hitting it a fair blow, was

simply lifted clean out of the river by the tremendous force of the

current and launched in the water on the lower side of the obstruction.

A few more spasmodic strokes, a little more spasmodic steering, and we

found ourselves out of the vortex. The river that erstwhile shook its

rumpled mane in anger, looked with eyes of gentle peace again. We swept

through a narrow channel past a beautiful island, and, turning a bend

at its foot, found ourselves in a gentle current, and in the bright

sunshine of a pastoral scene, the angry roar of furious waters replaced

by the sweet melody of birds.

“You fellows did pretty well to come out of that all right,” said a man

who had come up behind us. “It’s no fool trick to get through there.

Last summer there was a young millionaire blood that came up from

Warrensburg, just for the fun of running these rapids. He had a fine

cedar boat that cost him considerably over $100, and he was skillful

enough to go to everlasting smash just a half mile above here.”

After a hearty dinner we spent the afternoon in getting through some

minor rapids, eventually, just at dusk, pulling out to portage round

a bit of water that was absolutely impassable. Our route lay over a

hill, on the crest of which we paused to drink in the inspiriting scene

made by the river as it leaped, bounded and reverberated through the

perpendicular cañon at our feet. A house, a green meadow with a barn in

the centre, made the end of the carry a most inviting spot for camping.

The next day was one of hard work. We had reached the quiet part

of Schroon River. The shores were now entirely alluvial. The valley

broadened and the stream wound in and out in snake-like curves.

Trees, swamps and sand-bars constituted the scenery. The banks were

uniformly low, and any mile, like one of a block of city houses, was a

counterpart of every other.

We had been afloat that morning at seven o’clock. By unremitting labor,

at eleven ~A. M.~ we had covered the distance of twenty-two

miles to the village of Warrensburg. This beautiful place lies

scattered in wide, shaded avenues, fine houses and attractive gardens

close along the river, as if fearful lest the stream in its winding

course might escape from those who prize it so highly.

Our trip was now practically ended. Lake George lay but six miles to

the eastward. At the lower part of the village, a few miles before the

Schroon joins the Hudson, is a rapid with an ugly reputation. We were

anxious to stir our blood once more by a farewell wrestle with the

river demon that had been so long slumbering. Engaging a conveyance

to meet and carry us from the foot of the rapids to Lake George, I

put the canoe upon my back, and marching ceremoniously through the

business thoroughfare, a crowd followed us to the huge wood-pulp paper

mill, at which point began our half-mile run. Well-nigh unanimous was

the testimony regarding our inability to do what we had announced. An

ominous shaking of all heads proclaimed that it was generally expected

that we stood a better chance of getting to the bottom of the river

than the bottom of the rapid, and made us feel half fool and half

hero, filling us with a strong desire to act the part of neither by

taking the land route out of the difficulty. However, having committed

ourselves, we threw the town and people over our shoulders by slipping

out into the stream. It was like a salmon ladder--all zigzag. We had a

very good aquatic representation of broncho riding:

A forward plunge,

A sidelong lunge,

A dash, a splash,

A just-missed smash;

The paddles fly,

The waves run high.

The end is reached

Without a breach.

We pull ashore,

Our journey’s o’er.

[Illustration]

ON THE CONNECTICUT.

Delicious is it, of a day in fall,

Your native river to be drifting down,

To turn your back upon the clumsy town,

That is so crooked and so stiff withal

That to the water’s edge it scarce can crawl;

While like a child that in its mother’s gown

Takes refuge, comforted from soul to crown,

Betwixt green bank you slip and gray stone wall;

Past here a plume and there an entire patch

Of golden-rod submerged or islanded,

Past many a bit of color hard to match,

But which the swift stream tempers to its mood,

To bind it all together with a thread

Of its own weaving, as a poet would.

_Lucy C. Bull._

THE RIFLE IN THE SACRAMENTOS.

BY WILLIAM H. JOHNSTON, JR., U. S. A.

There has been so much said and written of hunts phenomenally

successful and so little of those phenomenally unsuccessful, that it

occurs to me to record a few memories of a recent hunt of the latter

class, a hunt which could by no charitable figure of speech be termed

successful. It has, however, left recollections to be cherished with

pleasure, as the sailor looks fondly back to a storm outridden, or the

soldier to an engagement won.

From our little fort on the Rio Grande, but a few yards from sunny

Mexico and its tropical climate, the distant mountains to the

northeast, crowned with snow, were until this hunt a fairyland. Beyond

their confines all the wonders and delights of a Northern winter might

be found--and perhaps more, for snow and ice and frost, glaciers

perhaps, and slides, almost within the tropics, were indeed loadstones

to the adventurous and curious. All these “delights” of a Yankee

Christmastide we found, and this is the way it happened.

Late in November Mr. X. and I were granted leave of absence for

twenty days for the purpose of hunting. Several days were devoted to

preparations for the expedition, which promised as much success and

glory, content and happiness, as the average candidate for office and

solicitor of votes. Sufficient guns, knives, ammunition and general

hardware were procured to establish ourselves in business, as my cook

expressed it, “on an expensive scale,” while our provisions, clothing,

bedding, tents and equipage would have kept a polar expedition in

comfort for years. We had to travel more than one hundred miles over

sand-flats before reaching the first water--the Sacramento River--so we

deemed it wise to go prepared to live on our mess-chest rather than “on

the country.”

The first wagon, called through courtesy and time-worn custom an

ambulance, carried us, with two soldiers, a driver and a cook, and

“Grover Cleveland.” The last mentioned name refers, by the by, not to

the Commander-in-chief of our Army and Navy, but to a dog of the setter

type and lazy variety, who, though of good blood, from want of training

was only valuable as a watch-dog. If he should not prove of much use

in hunting deer or retrieving a few elk, it was thought he might scare

away wolves, “lions” and wildcats, or do noble service with the lizards

and field mice scented on the way. In the hope that he might not care

for all the interior of the wagon, we threw into it a general stock

of rifles, shot-guns, ammunition, canteens, belts, field glasses,

overcoats, etc. Our hope was vain. Grover could cover more territory

than a litter of less distinguished dogs. Changing base frequently

from our shoulders to the doorstep, and from the front seat to the

lunch-basket, he was very largely an element of the party. Two men rode

on the heavy wagon, loaded down as it was with grain for eight mules,

two barrels of water, tents, bedding, rations and camp implements.

With as much noise as possible we drove through the main streets of the

little city adjacent, to excite the envy of those at home. We moreover

procured a few delicacies for our mess until the skies should rain

venison steaks and turkey giblets.

Even on dress occasions Texas is not intensely interesting. For scenery

one could as well go to sea. Indeed, the endless “flats” so abundant in

its western portion, seemingly bounded by watery limits--mirages--might

well be thought oceans by travelers more than half sober. Their vast

expanses are covered with sand and dry bunch-grass or cactus, with

occasional patches of a few miles of alkali or gypsum. On our first

day the sand came almost to the wagon’s hubs, and in six hours we had

gone only eighteen miles. The first camp was dry--quite so, as most

of the water hauled had leaked, and the rest had been given to the

mules, though the animals could live without it for three days. For

fuel we had “soap weed,” the fibrous root of the cactus, called Spanish

bayonet, which we gathered near camp. Its odor is disagreeable, and

food cannot be broiled over it, but in a Sibley tent stove it “comes

out strong” for warmth and comfort. With a supper characteristic of a

soldier’s prodigality on ration day, pipes, cards and chips, we were

able to forget even the ills of Texas sand for an evening. The city

tenderfoot wedded to sheets and pillows knows not the solid comfort to

be found in a bed of blankets under canvas and in the sand. Nothing

more delightful can be imagined than waking before daylight, after an

eight hours’ sleep, to hear the camp-fire puffing and cracking and the

fresh meat broiling and sizzling over the coals, as the cook prepares

a starlight breakfast. Here is a perfect cure for dyspepsia, and no

charge is made for the prescription.

We commenced our second day’s march without a drop of water, while

the coffee that morning, either because of a surplus of sediment or

scarcity of dilution, would have surprised the average boarding-house

customer by its strength. But during the morning we found hope and

water at once and in a barrel. A label attached warned off all poachers

in this language:

“Tip Whyo owns this.

Let it alone,

Dam yer soles.

By order of the V. C.”

Trusting to luck and the absence of Mr. Whyo and the V. C., we sampled

his water; so did the mules, and we now look suspiciously at persons

likely to bear such uncanny names.

At noon we came to some bare rocky peaks on both sides of the road,

and finding some stagnant rain-water at the base of one, camped. These

were the Hueco Tanks. Any shallow rock that will hold rain-water is

called in this country a tank. It may be only a few inches deep and

fewer feet in circumference, but it is a tank. From the level of the

plain to the height of two hundred feet we discovered numerous tanks,

some holding soil and good water. The summit of each great mass of

boulders was capped with a stone monument to indicate to travelers

the presence of water. As on the same day we had to dig up mesquite

roots for fuel, we realized the truth of the proverb, that in Texas

one climbs for water and digs for wood. With great care and labor we

scooped up enough stagnant rain-water to fill our kegs, and next day

resumed the drive, with sixty-five miles still between us and the

Sacramento. The country improved, grass in tufts succeeding the sand,

and rolling prairie, called “jumps” by the natives, following level

deserts. At Owl Tanks the water had gone, so we depended upon our kegs

again, with green grass and soap-weed for the fires. No game had come

to cheer us, but the blue outline of the wooded Sacramento was dotted

with white patches of snow, and we could almost scent the victims of

our guns. On the fourth day we came to the foot-hills and walked ahead

of the teams to keep deer and elk from the mules and to learn the way.

Our road, on which we had not met a single team since leaving the

vicinity of El Paso, had dwindled to a mere cattle trail, and at times

this scattered into several, each leading up a different cañon. It was

absolutely necessary to cross this first range to reach the river--the

only permanent water in the country.

At dark we came to the river. It should have been labeled, for only

a shrewd detective would have believed that the dry line of rocks at

the bottom of the cañon had ever seen water. After the fashion of most

rivers in this portion of our prairie land, the Sacramento had sunk in

a few miles above its “mouth,” if such eccentric streams may have a

mouth, possessing a range of ten miles or more.

However, we found a well, a house, and some log fences. So, with water

from the first, wood from the last, and hay from the barn, we camped

with all the comforts of the season. Finding no one at home, we excused

the host and helped ourselves. “Home” was a log cabin by the side of a

hill, but in the choice language of Lincoln County (we had then reached

New Mexico), it became a “chosy,” from the Spanish _casa_, a house.

When its owner, Mr. Shorthorns, a typical cowboy, appeared, we took him

in to supper, and gained his good will and permission to help ourselves

to everything in sight. If soldiers ever neglect such an invitation,

they must be quite unworthy of their calling. I think Sacramento

fences will average less in height than was once fashionable, and that

potatoes and turnips will be scarce for a season. But I can testify

that no “slow deer” (calves, sheep and goats), were killed by our

party.

Shorthorns assured us that in the Piñon country turkeys grew on the

trees, deer ranged with cattle, and elk were lassoed for sport and

released. We dreamed of game all night, and imagined ourselves climbing

the ladder of fame over the backs of monster bucks and sailing through

life on turkey wings and elk antlers.

Next morning we chose an objective in the Piñons and entered the

theatre of war.

At daylight Mr. X. and I, followed by the light wagon, with a teamster

and cook, our blankets, mess-chest and a keg of water, led the attack.

“Grover Cleveland” was scout, and his black and white hair was ever

seen where snow-birds and robins, lizards and rabbits, were thickest.

We on foot as the vanguard preceded the light wagon up a cañon toward

Piñon Tanks, while our heavy troops--that is, the heavy wagon--remained

at the “chosy.”

At noon we had walked eight good country miles, and established our

first foothold in the enemy’s territory. Not satisfied, we left the

cook in command of the garrison (four mules and the dog), and selecting

divergent lines of operations, reconnoitred the hostile country. In

military parlance, this country was close--close in all possible

constructions of the expression. The stunted piñons were close to

the ground and to themselves, ravines and draws were quite numerous,

thorns, cactus and sharp rocks were uncomfortably close to one’s feet

and shins, and after walking on a seemingly straight, though really

circuitous course, one would turn up close to camp. Each column of

troops--or troop--carried a rifle, shot-gun, two ammunition belts, and

enough implements to care for the dead and wounded of the enemy. Each

column advanced and retreated, marched and countermarched, deployed

and rallied, charged and halted, and when at dark all assembled at the

base of operations for rations and rest, the enemy seen consisted of

one jack rabbit, at which I had almost fired, and one “sign.” This word

is here inserted to indicate the professional training of our troops.

Always used in the singular, it means the mark of anything sought--in

this instance, a deer’s footprint. Had Longfellow been versed in

mountaineer dialect, his great men might leave sign, rather than

footprints in the sands of time.

But if we could not hunt, we could certainly eat. As we rallied

about our Chief Commissary, and toasted bacon on long switches,

drinking coffee right from the coals, we agreed that dining was our

favorite occupation. Our fire would have filled a fair house, and was

replenished at intervals by entire cedar trees, shooting flames up high

into the stars, apparently, and defying the deer and elk. We had heard

that game would approach a bright fire by night, so we rather hoped to

see pairs of anxious eyes peering through the trees. If they did, it

must have been after we retired. To retire meant literally to bivouac.

It was grand to sleep, wrapped in blankets and tent-flies, with one’s

feet to a roaring fire, gazing at the same stars which shone down upon

countless deer, elk, lions, wolves, and so on. It was a little less

grand to wake in the night with a chill, and to renew the fire with a

piñon tree. And it was far from grand to wake at daylight and find the

fire quite out and frost all over our blankets.

Sunrise found our expedition of the day before on the march. Game

has never been hunted with closer adherence to all the rules and

superstitions, yet two-thirds of our force failed to establish even a

speaking acquaintance with the animals which we had been led to believe

existed in such abundance. The other third, Mr. X., saw two deer, but

as he had been accustomed to shooting game in the same county only, he

did not hit either. So we changed base to the river within striking

distance of Shorthorns’ fence-rails and hay.

In the evening, at the chosy, we heard just why we had missed the

game, which was attending a political convention up at the summit.

So the cowboys all said, and cited numerous “sign” pointing in that

direction as their authority. Resolved to attend this convention and

exert a little “influence” upon its members, we started next day with

both wagons and all our troops and camp followers for the summit,

twenty-five miles northwest of Shorthorns’ place.

This was an operation unexcelled in the military annals of Dona Ana

County, and occupied two days. The road, whenever we found it, followed

the river--either a bank, a bluff, or the bed of the river--losing

itself in water a few feet deep occasionally, and reappearing on a

hillside a mile or two farther. We crossed the eccentric little stream,

which is sometimes ten, sometimes thirty miles long, and always greater

as one approaches its source. The two-thirds of a crossing was made

when our heavy wagon slipped off a hillside into the water, and Mr. X.

and the men had to dig and swear it out. Being ahead as advance guard,

and a novice in profanity as well, I escaped this duty. The experience

gained was something remarkable. We cut down trees frequently, took

down log fences, and (were anyone in sight) put them up again, broke

and mended each wagon daily, and lost a mule. We tried to lose the way,

but the cañon’s sides were so steep that it was impossible.

As we ascended the stream, cedar and piñon were succeeded by pine and

quaking asp, and snow, first in patches, then covering the ground,

appeared. Wherever the cañon was wide enough, some enterprising

mountaineer had enclosed a few acres, and as the little garden thus

formed received the alluvial deposit of the hillsides, grain and

vegetables had been cultivated successfully and extensively.

At the summit, nearly ten thousand feet above sea level, we found snow

so deep that we took possession of Shorthorns’ summer residence, a

log-hut twelve feet square. As we had cached our grain at the lower

ranch, we helped our mules to Shorthorns’ hay and settled down for a

week’s good hunting. The hut had been plastered with adobe, but this

was so conspicuous by its absence that innumerable holes rendered

the building capable of defense by musketry, and promised unwelcome

draughts at night.

We hunted all that afternoon, tramping about in snow several inches

deep, but my bag contained only one squirrel, while a teamster reported

the slaughter of one squirrel and “about” two jays--from which we

gathered that he had killed one and missed another of those carrion

birds. And we had now consumed eight days of our leave!

At night Shorthorns turned up rather unexpectedly, and as I saw no

blankets on his saddle, I had “many a doubt, many a fear,” which were

vividly recalled when he chose me for his bed-fellow. Tradition says

that a cowboy can pull his hat over his eyes and sleep oblivious of the

weather. As I woke several times that night on the floor and saw my

host snugly tucked up in my bedding, I weaken on tradition and call for

more valuable testimony.

My heart ceased beating for a whole second when next morning, charmed

with our fare and my bed, Shorthorns offered to accompany us on the

hunt and back to El Paso. The pleasure of hunting lost a little of its

lustre, and we were one more step removed from Paradise.

One day at the summit Shorthorns promised to show me game. I thought it

must be time, so saddled a little buckskin mule and rode out with him.

It was as cold as Christmas, and had I been alone I should have chosen

a later hour and a milder day. But with the honor of the entire army

resting on my shoulders I did not complain of frosted toes and aching

fingers. I rode in the rear that he might not notice my squirms of

anguish, and when he ventured the opinion that it was “right peart,” I

nonchalantly kicked the mule’s ribs and said nothing. What could I say,

when my teeth played a reveille and tattoo and fire alarm all at once?

Doubtless he suffered as much as I and had the same pride in concealing

it.

The first sign was a homesteader’s, two logs across two others--all on

snow a foot deep. A notice on a pine-tree adjacent stated that this was

the foundation of a house and claim to 160 acres under the homestead

law. Two witnesses vouched for this claim, though quite unnecessarily,

as no sane man would live at that bleak place, and deer and elk,

despite their reputed domesticity, are not given to jumping homesteads.

We saw several sign, and trailed all morning on foot or mule-back. At

noon we struck it rich. I didn’t see the riches, but Shorthorns did, as

he ordered a dismount to fight on foot. We tied the animals in a little

aspen thicket, and my guide sent me in one direction, while he chose

the deer trail, with a little advice about springing a cross fire on

the buck. I wondered why I had been sent in an opposite direction from

that taken by the deer, but when presently I heard Shorthorns shoot,

I saw the reason. Abandoning my course, I rushed toward the location

of the shots, plunging through snow to my boot-tops. I heard him shoot

again, and pushed ahead to obtain a shot on my own account.

I found the tracks, and for a mile Shorthorns trailed the deer and I

trailed Shorthorns.

Receiving no encouragement, and yielding to hunger and fatigue, I

followed the trail back to the animals in order to get to my lunch.

This consumed much time, as the woods were so full of an undergrowth of

shin oak, called there “shinnery,” that it was very difficult to find a

way, or to follow it when found.

After calling to my guide in vain, I mounted the mule, slung my guns

over my shoulder and led the pony with one hand, following the tracks.

The finest prescription for dampening the ardor of a sportsman is to

require him to try what I did that day. Even in light doses it works

like a charm. It dampened not only my ardor but also my feet, and--when

my saddle turned and I landed in a snowdrift--my head and arms too.

After various accidents and involuntary dismounts, I lost all desire

for venison and wanted to go home.

Playing horse-holder for a cow-puncher was not my ideal sport.

Then the mule cut his foot and refused to be comforted; so I mounted

the broncho and led Buckskin. This arrangement was worse. Whenever we

came to a log, Broncho would take it as a circus horse does a hurdle,

but Buckskin would stop short and almost wrench my arm from its socket.

Sometimes the beasts decided to take different sides of a tree, and

I was powerless to prevent them. Overhanging boughs would brush me

from the saddle as Buckskin jumped under them, or deluge me with snow

as he ran against them. All this time I had to follow the footprints

of my escort--the man who had promised to show me game. At sunset I

gave it up and returned to the main cañon to wait for him. Tying the

animals, I built a huge fire as a beacon and ate Shorthorns’ lunch. At

dark I fired my rifle three times as a signal, and later he appeared,

though without any deer. He claimed to have seen them, but of course

had some good excuse for not shooting one. Excuses all the way from

poor ammunition to tenderness of heart, are as thick in that country

as “leaves in Valombrosa.” Mr. X. had not even had the excitement and

happiness (?) of trailing a deer--or a cowboy.

Besides a few snipe killed at a swamp called by Shorthorns a “cineky,”

from the Spanish _sieneca_, we still depended upon Uncle Sam’s

subsistence stores for our daily bread.

Preferring hunting to mule whacking, I one day tramped all over the

mountain tops, and halting for lunch at the _rincon_ (Spanish for inner

corner) of the range, enjoyed some of the finest scenery outside a

modern theatre. Here the ground fell precipitously for several hundred

feet, and at a height of 9,000 feet I could look down upon several

neighboring ranges. Peaks and ranges that from the plains seemed

mountains, were now but ant-hills and ploughed furrows in an otherwise

velvet carpet of rich brown. The Guadaloupe range, covered with snow

and ice, was a vast iceberg, beyond what my friend Shorthorns called

the “mirredge.” The distant Rio Grande was plainly visible, and one

could fancy smoke rising from the site of El Paso, more than a hundred

miles to the south. A gypsum formation, called the White Sands, covered

miles of the prairie, and from my lofty position resembled a sea lashed

to foam.

It was beautiful, but it was not game.

One Saturday night, a fierce rain-storm added to the complications.

It came to stay, too. All day Sunday we could do no more than hug the

chosy fireplace and tell lies about former hunts. One newspaper was

found, and we read an account of a polar expedition’s suffering. We

feared we should need a few points before escaping from our situation,

and studied “Grover Cleveland’s” ribs and hams, and our well-oiled

hunting-boots, and wondered how long canine steaks and leather soup

would prove palatable. As no abatement of the storm came at night, we

reached the good resolution stage and agreed never to do ever so many

things.

On Monday it cleared slightly, and we lost no time in packing up and

moving to a lower altitude and milder climate. Going down the cañon,

ropes were tied to the wagons, and all hands lowered each in turn over

the dangerous places. With an abrupt descent, our teams made good time,

and we were proud of the veteran manner in which our wagons shot down

the cañon with the reckless abandon of mountain trains. On the way,

we bought a side of fresh pork, and it was surprising how game it did

taste when seasoned with jelly and a good appetite.

That night, while camped on the way to Shorthorns’ place, something

dropped. It was snow. Early in the morning, the cook lighted a fire

in our tent and said it was cold. We thought so too, and as we dug

our clothing from drifts inside the tent, we wished the author of

“Beautiful Snow” could have a little of it in his. We washed our faces

in the beautiful white article and looked at the weather. The animals

were tied to the wagons only a few feet from our tent, yet so fierce

was the storm, that we could hardly see them. Breakfast that morning

was light--all except the bread--as Sibley stores are not intended

for cooking, and no fire could live outside. We devoted the day to

shoveling snow from the tents, feeding the fire and wondering how the

deer and elk enjoyed the weather. Our curiosity on this score, however,

was not sufficient to lure us from shelter.

Next morning, cold and still snowing. Peeping out at daylight, I saw

only three mules. Strange the others should have deserted us! But they

were trailed through the snow and recovered. To keep warm we had to

remain in bed. Wood was too scarce and too wet to waste for other than

cooking purposes.

In the afternoon we gave in, and with superhuman efforts packed the

wagons and pushed ahead toward the foothills. Game had now become a

question of secondary consideration.

The wagons ploughed through snow to their hubs, and we walked to avoid

a sudden immersion in a drift.

Once more near Shorthorns’ many supplies, we camped to spend our last

day in rest, before returning to the post.

At dark mine host, who had ridden off to look for his stock, came into

camp with a deer across his saddle. The lucky cowboy, who cared nothing

for sport, had ridden right over four deer, and, as he was always

armed, had killed one. To see our whole party, from Mr. X. to the

junior teamster and “Grover Cleveland,” gather about this interesting

spectacle, would have proved the condition of our game-bag. The venison

was given to us, and as we had as little pride as game, we accepted it.

It proved that there was, or had been, one deer in the country anyhow.

On this, our last day of grace, Shorthorns and I rode out to continue

the motion. The weather had moderated, and being in the foothills,

snow was only of depth sufficient to facilitate trailing. When I least

expected it, of course, my guide bleated as a fawn, and I saw a great

buck jump from under a piñon. We both fired and the deer dropped, but

limped off at a lively gait. Of course, my bullet went off to meet the

moon, while Shorthorns’ cut several legs and pierced the intestines of

the buck. At least, so the modest cowboy told me. Just which intestine

he did not say, though with a frontier veracity he would doubtless have

deposed to it, if asked. We could easily follow the trail by the blood

on the snow, and found several places where he had lain down to rest

and bleed. At one such halt Shorthorns dismounted, and, giving me his

bridle, ran on to finish the buck.

But I was not to be taken in in that manner again. Tying the animals,

I outran him, and found him hot on the trail. His welcome was not as

cordial as it might have been, but together we chased the wounded buck

over hills and cañons, in snow and mud, through brush and over stones

and cactus, for five miles, finally losing his trail in that of four

others almost at the prairie’s edge. Shorthorns showed me four black

spots on a hillside, distant several hundred yards. He called them

deer, but they might have been calves, goats, sheep or dogs for aught I

knew, and I had lost some confidence in his veracity since gaining his

acquaintance. Still I thought that if the black spots should wait long

enough, or if they could be lassoed and tied, I might make it lively

for at least one of them. So we sneaked and sneaked and sneaked. Almost

within range we halted, drank some melted snow from a tank, took some

cartridges in the left hand and instinctively fingered the triggers

of our rifles. It became intensely interesting. I could smell venison

steak broiling, and began mentally to distribute deer hams and saddles

to our less fortunate friends at the post.

Just below where the black spots should be we ascended the hillside,

cautiously stopping just this side of the summit; we had seen no deer

and none were in sight. Black spots? Yes--lots of rocks; but whether or

not there had ever been deer there, I must not say, as I may wish to go

there again, and Shorthorns is a good shot.

On the weary tramp back to the animals, I heard my guide repeat his

little fawn solo in a minor key and saw him fire at two does that

seemed to spring from a hole in the ground. Then followed one of the

grandest displays of firearms--if not of marksmanship--known to Fourth

of July celebrations.

Each fired as often as his rifle permitted, and if we did not hit

either doe, we at least scared them well for the next sportsmen.

Shorthorns explained that if his first cartridge had not snapped, he

would have pierced the upper right-hand corner of the first doe’s

heart, and the sixth rib and left lung of the second doe. If you don’t

understand how this could have been, draw a plan, or let Shorthorns

draw it for you in the sand, and it will at once assume the perspicuity

of all hunting stories.

It was late when we found our animals and ate lunch, and when we

returned to camp our record consisted still of one wounded buck and

four black spots. Mr. X. had hunted quail near the ranch and killed

more than a hundred, many others having been wounded and lost. We

regretted our soaring ambition for large game, which had deprived us of

much real sport.

Early next morning, with Shorthorns’ deer, Mr. X.’s quail, some ancient

elk horns picked up by one of the men, and a small allowance of bacon

and hard bread, we commenced our return drive.

Only one incident of importance marked our progress homeward. This was

on Sunday, and assumed the form of a sick mule: one more variety of

experience for us.

Every driver of large teams has a favorite animal upon whom he vents

all his anger or affection. The pet of our ambulance team was a large

black wheeler which the driver called “Bill.” No matter which mule

lagged, the crack of the whip was accompanied by vigorous advice to

Bill, and the driver’s sentences and oaths were liberally punctuated by

blows upon poor Bill’s hide. Bill stood this seventeen days and then,

without warning, dropped in harness.

Having thus asserted his independence, he swelled up, not with pride

alone, but with wind also, and though we took him from harness, jumped

on his ribs, rolled him and rode him, and performed other kind offices

dear to a sick mule, Bill lay on his back, kicked his heels in the air

and looked unhappy. So I undertook to lead his muleship to camp--ten

miles ahead. A teamster followed, lashing Bill into a trot to prevent

him from lying down, while I, giving the mule the road, stepped along

the side over cactus and mesquite bushes. He would stop to roll

occasionally. On one such roll the soldier tried to help Bill, and

grasped his off forefoot with great familiarity. In a second the man

was seen flying over cactus stalks, propelled by a kick in the shin. He

rode after that, and no longer rolls sick mules.

After a while we decided to give Bill a dose. Mr. X. emptied a bottle

of choice pickles and mixed a drench of salt and water. Then came the

circus. As there were no trees in the vicinity we were obliged to

administer the drench on the ground. One man held the halter-strap,

another knelt on Bill’s shoulder to hold him down, a third held the

bottle, and a fourth held the mule’s tongue and opened his mouth. At

the critical moment, when Bill’s cavernous mouth opened, we had to

dash the bottle’s contents into it, hold his nose, finger his throat,

look out for his heels, hang on to the halter-strap and seek safety in

flight. This dose was repeated many times, once or twice successfully,

while its possible sameness was relieved by acrobatic exercises by a

soldier on the mule’s ribs. At times we moved him a short distance

towards camp.

Then, as evening approached, we tied a rope to the strap, started Bill

by twisting his ears or threatening as a dose, and passed the rope

to Mr. X. in the ambulance. The buckskins were whipped into a canter

and Bill towed along to camp. As I rode on the step to catch the rope

should the mule drop, Mr. X. looked through the rear window and gave

bulletins of his symptoms.

In camp Bill was tenderly wrapped in canvas and fed on gunpowder, salt

and soap, with a little grain to prevent the formation of extravagant

tastes.

On the last day of our leave we drove through El Paso, not triumphant

exactly, nor with undue pride, but by as quiet a route to the post as

we could select.

Parties desiring to hunt in the Sacramento Mountains will consult their

best interests by calling upon us for information. Anyone wishing to

establish a hardware store may buy of us sufficient ammunition to stock

his business for years.

THE HAUNTED WHEEL.

BY PRESIDENT BATES.

The great house of Dalrymple & Dalrymple went down and left no wreck

behind--not even the heap of “dust” that so often remains concealed

under the débris of a commercial crash. If a great brick block had

suddenly collapsed with a roar and rumble, and, after the dust had

blown away, there was not so much as a cellar to show where it had

been, the ruin could not have been more strangely complete. It was as

if the great business--capital, credit, stock, connections, goodwill,

everything--had blown away like a fog and left no vestige. Even the

great sign, whose gilded letters used to stretch clear across the tall

front of the store in the middle of the block, was painted over in less

than a month with the less fashionable, but perhaps as useful, legend,

“Juggers & Wesch, Flour and Feed.” And the plate-glass windows, that

for so many years displayed the most fashionable fineries, were now

devoted to dusty bags of bran and barrels of cornmeal, beans and oats.

It was not a great failure either--only $30,000. Nobody lost much. The

Dalrymples sold everything, after the fashion of the honest merchants

of the elder time, and nearly paid all their debts. They were only

$30,000 to the bad--merely a descent from wealth and ease to poverty

and $30,000 less than nothing. And it was not their fault. Their

misfortunes began in the failures of others, and ended in their own.

The Dalrymple brothers, everybody said, were left with their honor

unimpaired. But everybody did not add the unhappy facts that they were

left with honor alone past the age of active life, from long ease unfit

to begin a new struggle for existence, bankrupt both physically and

mentally as well as in fortune.

The bachelor Dalrymple went away to California, where a relative

offered him an asylum.

James Dalrymple looked about for awhile vainly for something to do,

and then died out of a world that had no use for him. His wife, aged

fifty-five, and his daughter, aged eighteen, had a hard time of

it--poor souls! Luckily the daughter was a business woman. She had

often aided her father as his amanuensis. She knew how to use those

modern instruments of commerce, the typewriter and short-hand. She

could make out a bill, keep accounts, and write a terse, polite, clear

business letter. She had been a society belle, but she had imbibed

mental solids from natural taste. She was not too proud to walk with

quiet strength on the bottom level, no matter how proudly she had

walked at the top. So she sought and found employment, and kept her

mother and herself in two or three rooms of a small cottage on an

unfashionable street. With all the airs and graces and pretensions of

wealth she put away also all the old loves and friendships. She thought

they did not keep the true ring of heart soundness. She became simply

Dibble & Dribble’s typewriter.

A lady she was, every inch of her--accomplished, refined, gracious,

charming, beautiful; not a fine lady; merely a poor young woman,

without piano, wardrobe or “style.” She became only a straightforward,

faithful, hard-working, modest business girl, known as Miss Dalrymple;

for she was, after all, a little sensitive and proud, and permitted few

except her mother to call her by her beautiful and stately old name of

Daphne Dalrymple.

By and by, in spite of her fine physique, she fell ill. Overwork in

the hurry of the spring trade, unhealthful quarters, lack of generous

food, damp, cold, miserable weather, worry of mind and exhaustion

of body, all combined to bring her down with typho-malarial fever.

Her employers, appreciating her value to them, permitted her salary

to run on, and almost forgave her for being ill when she was most

needed, on condition that she employed another girl, less efficient,

but ambitious, to attempt to fill her place, and largely fall short of

doing so.

Typhoid fevers disorder the brain. The sick girl was seized with

strange and vivid fancies. She longed for outdoor air and exercise.

If she could only ride out again as she used when she was an heiress,

upon her dainty tricycle, she knew she would soon be well and strong.

But her wheel had disappeared with her piano and all the rest of the

wreckage. So she lay fevered and in pain, and fancied herself following

and hunting it down, she knew not where, and taking possession of it

wherever found, and enjoying it. By some strange divination, she saw

its owner--a young man--and grew familiar with his appearance in her

sick fancy, even to the details of his dress. But, strangely, she could

never hear the vision, though she knew by intuition and by his actions

what he said sometimes. For more than a week these phantasms held her

mind, to the alarm of the doctor, who pronounced her disease morbid and

obstinate, and felt grave doubts of the result.

Then a strange thing happened. An unknown young gentleman called at

the cottage door and insisted upon being admitted to see her, and his

claims were backed by the doctor.

* * * * *

David Dewness was one of the most popular members of the bicycle club.

When he first joined the club there was an amiable freshness about him

that the club wits soon educated into an amiable ripeness. He was a

fellow that would bear cultivation. He could take or give a joke with a

pleasantness that disarmed everybody. But with his other qualities was

a sweet obstinacy in certain directions. Nobody could ridicule him out

of doing a kindness, however great the apparent folly. He would laugh

as merrily as any of his critics over the foolishness of some of his

good actions; but he would persist in doing them just the same.

Moreover, David carried what the club men called a level business head.

In the club business affairs his judgment commanded respect. He earned

a fair salary in a commission house, and was much trusted by the firm.

There was one of his investments, however, that the firm laughed at.

Having saved a couple of hundred dollars about the time Dalrymple &

Dalrymple failed, Dewness bought of that wreck forty acres of wild

land, situated in the wilderness of mountain and swamp of the Upper

Peninsula of Michigan, and nowhere near any of the then known mines.

To be sure, the price he paid was only one hundred dollars; but his

employers told him he might as wisely have thrown his hard-earned

dollars into the river. David merely replied that he had always longed

to be a landowner, and he had never had a cheaper chance to become one.

The truth was that he had once visited that region, and there he had

heard an iron-mining explorer, while intoxicated, declare that he

positively knew that there were rich beds of ore in the township

where this forty acres lay. If iron should be discovered anywhere near

his forty acres, he could sell at a large advance. Perhaps it might

be found on his forty acres. In that case his fortune would be made.

He knew the explorer to be one of the most expert and reliable of his

strange class, and at the same time one of the most close-mouthed. Men

of wealth believed the fellow to be full of valuable secrets; but he,

like others, hoped that some day, in spite of his reckless gambling

and drinking, he should possess means to use some of his secrets for

himself, and not be forced to sell them for the advantage of others.

David shrewdly thought he had surprised one of these secrets, and his

hundred-dollar purchase was simply gambling on a frail chance. It was

not much to lose; it might be very much to keep. So he kept it and his

own counsel.

David had one foible--a common one. Like many a young man, he believed

himself in love with a pretty girl, when he was really only in love

with the idea of being loved. May Bentley was _piquante_, saucy,

friendly, and heart-free. She liked David much, tyrannized over him

more, was his good comrade always, and really loved him no more than he

did her--that is, not at all. She simply loved having a lover--some one

whom she could command and the other girls admire. Thus, there being

no real and deep feeling between them, they got on admirably together,

and were quoted by the aforesaid “other girls” as “just too happy for

anything.” And yet the “other girls,” and likewise the club, very

clearly knew that there wasn’t anything substantial in the supposed

loves of Dewness and May Bentley. Though excellent friends, they would

never be anything more, unless they should both make a dreadful mistake.

Being an enthusiastic wheelman, David often wished that he possessed a

tricycle, upon which May could ride. What a pretty picture she would

be, and what a charming companion! he on his bicycle and she on a

tricycle, at the club “ladies’ runs.”

One day a dealer offered him a charming lady’s tricycle, nearly new

and of an excellent style, for the low price of seventy-five dollars.

Its owner must have money at once. Dewness looked it all over, and was

satisfied that he could resell it for at least a hundred, and bought

it. And presently he was enjoying the longed-for companionship of Miss

May on his excursions, to the envy of various club men and ladies.

Besides, he had bids for the tricycle of over a hundred dollars; but he

held out for a higher price, at least for the time.

One evening, just after sunset, David’s tricycle stood waiting for

him in the street in front of the Bentley home. Miss May had been

out with it, and Dewness, after riding his bicycle home and eating

his supper, had returned, chatted and laughed awhile with May, and

was then to ride home on the tricycle. As he walked down the path to

the gate, still smiling at a joke that the vivacious girl had played

on him, he suddenly saw a young woman sitting on his tricycle. Her

face was partly turned from him, but the graceful pose of her figure,

the proud carriage of her head, and a certain noble and womanly life

that seemed to pervade and radiate from her presence, struck him as

something rarely charming. She was the most vividly distinct of any

object visible in the uncertain twilight. And yet there was that about

her singularly indistinct.

Mr. Dewness is one of those happily rare men who possess the feminine

faculty of seeing what a lady wears. But, unaccountably, he could not

tell whether this young woman, who had so coolly taken possession of

his tricycle, was dressed in a gray wheeling costume or a dark walking

dress. He had stopped suddenly on first seeing her, and now he put

both hands on his knees and stooped to get a better view. No use. Her

costume seemed to fluctuate, so to speak, alike in colors and style.

But what business had she to be there at all? She certainly was not one

of the club ladies, but a stranger. No one he knew possessed, or could

possibly assume, that graceful air, or that noble womanliness.

He walked a little nearer. As he did so the figure grew indistinct.

Nearer yet. She seemed to fade like the delusion of a magic glass. He

stooped down; he stretched himself up on tiptoe--the effect was the

same. He passed through the gate, and stood within a dozen feet of the

machine. There it stood, waiting for him, motionless and untenanted,

just as a respectable Boston-bred tricycle, with ball-bearings and a

front-steering handle-bar, ought!

There wasn’t a woman anywhere in sight within a block!

Mr. Dewness whistled the first two bars of “Sweet Little Buttercup”

very softly, with his hands thrust into his pockets and his feet

planted apart. Then he stopped and reflected a full minute. Then he

suddenly cocked his hat back so as to give it a bold, semi-piratical

rake, walked up to the machine and put one hand upon the nearest

handle, gave it a smart jerk, brushed the other hand across the saddle,

as if feeling to see if there was any obstruction there, and began

to whistle “I’m a Dutchman” with a fierce and ear-piercing emphasis.

Nothing coming of this, he rather gingerly slid into the saddle and

melted into the twilight of the distant street.

Two days later, David called again at the Bentley’s to invite Miss

May to take a spin with him. May and her mother were sitting upon the

piazza. David approached and saluted the ladies, and asked the girl

to go for a ride. She greeted him coldly, and declined, to his great

surprise. Her manner made him ask for an explanation.

“Who was the lady you took out yesterday?” she asked.

“Nobody. I did not go out yesterday,” he answered, with evident

perplexity.

“Who was the girl I saw sitting on your tricycle in front of the store,

waiting for you?”

“You didn’t see any girl on my tricycle. When?”

“Last evening, just after supper, I passed the store. The tricycle

stood in front of it, and there was a young lady sitting on it, waiting

for you to come out. I was going to stop for you, when I saw you had

her company, and came home.”

“Why, you are surely mistaken! There was nobody there!”

“Didn’t you have the tricycle there?”

“Yes. But there was no lady there.”

“Perhaps you mean to say I can’t see, sir! There _was_ a young lady

sitting on it and waiting for you to come out.”

David thought for a minute, with an air of embarrassment that confirmed

her suspicions. Then he slowly and reluctantly, and yet with evident

anxious interest, asked:

“How did she look? Did you see her face?”

“No: she kept her face turned away from me, as if she didn’t wish me

to know her. She was a handsome girl, I should judge; but she acted as

though she was ashamed of herself.”

This with a cutting severity that, however, failed to wilt the

offending David. On the contrary, it only seemed to increase his

anxiety.

“How was she dressed?” he demanded.

“Dressed? As though that made any difference! Well”--seeing that David

really expected an answer--“she wore a gray riding-suit.”

“Gray?”

“No; now I think, it wasn’t a riding-suit. It was a black

walking-dress.”

“Sure it was a black walking-dress?”

“Pshaw! Who cares how she was dressed?”

“I do. I want to find out who, if anybody, took the liberty to occupy

my trike while I wasn’t present.”

“It was strange; but, really, I don’t know how she was dressed. I

thought at first that she wore a gray riding-suit. Then, when I looked

again, I thought it was a black street-dress.”

“What did she wear on her head?”

“A gray riding-hat with a feather. No; it was a bonnet.”

“A hat? A bonnet?”

“Well, no. She was bare-headed, with thick brown hair.”

“Bare-headed? in the street!” interrupted Mrs. Bentley. “Why, May!”

“Well, mother, she had on a hat with a feather when I first saw her,

half a block away. When I looked again, a little nearer, I thought it

was a bonnet. But when I came quite near, she was bare-headed. She had

large brown eyes, anyway.”

“Brown eyes?”

“Well, hazel.”

“But you said she kept her face turned away from you, as if not wanting

to be known.”

“So she did. She didn’t look at me; still, I knew she had big

brown--hazel--eyes.”

Mrs. Bentley laughed.

“Come, child! you are not very ingenious in making up a story to bother

Mr. Dewness.”

Mr. Dewness, however, did not laugh, or seem at all relieved.

“Did you leave her sitting there?” he asked.

“I leave her? No, sir; I went about my business, and she went into the

store after you.”

“Did you see her go into the store?”

“No. But when I came quite near she was gone. Where else could she go?”

“May,” said David, earnestly, “there was no person there! No young

woman nor anybody else came into the store. I left the wheel standing

not over ten minutes, and then came out and rode it home. Come, now,

you are mistaken; let us go for a spin in the park.”

“No, sir! You accuse me of telling a--a fib. I won’t have anything to

do with a man who doesn’t believe my word! I know what I saw with my

own eyes. While you have a girl come to visit you at the store, after

business hours, you needn’t come to see me, Mr. Dewness!”

“Come, come, May, you are too hasty,” interrupted Mrs. Bentley. “You

haven’t heard what Mr. Dewness has to say,” looking at the young man

inquiringly.

“Mr. Dewness has nothing to say--just look at him, mother!”

Poor David really had nothing to say. His face was enough to convict

him. It wore an expression of bewilderment, very like that of a person

who was wondering how it could have been found out, and not at all the

injured surprise of an innocent party.

“Well, sir; well,” said May.

No reply.

“Can’t you explain this” (hesitating for a mild word) “mistake?” asked

Mrs. Bentley.

David sighed hopelessly.

“I can’t say any more than I have, Mrs. Bentley. There was no lady

there! Miss May was mista--deluded in some strange way.”

Mrs. Bentley rose in stately fashion.

“I fear she was, Mr. Dewness! Good-evening, Mr. Dewness! Come,

daughter!”

The pair went into the house, leaving poor David staring after them,

and twirling his cap in his hands. After they had quite disappeared, he

remarked, softly and solemnly to himself:

“The dickens!”

He twiddled his cap some more, and let it fall. Then he picked it up

and dusted it off, vacantly. Then he clapped it on the back of his

head--“devilish” (as the Arkansans say)--and walked out of the gate

whistling with a fiercer but melancholy emphasis his favorite air of

“I’m a Dutchman,” mounted his wheel and rode away pensively, but with a

“devilish” jauntiness.

* * * * *

Two days later Mr. Dewness was found by several of the clubmen in one

of the city parks about sunset, walking behind his empty tricycle and

pushing it along the smooth paths. Occasionally he took a short run and

sent it rolling a long way by a vigorous push. He had set up the screw

of the steering head so that it would not turn easily, but would run

straight. His actions were exactly as though there was some invisible

person on the saddle whom he was pushing about out of pure kindness.

The serious courtesy of his manner in this apparently ridiculous

proceeding attracted attention, but nobody ventured to question

him--a liberty his grave but somewhat menacing demeanor to those who

approached distinctly repelled--until his club comrades appeared and

fell to jeering him. To them he paid not the slightest attention for

some minutes, but continued his strange occupation. But after a little,

as if the imaginary occupant of the tricycle was gone, he stopped it,

loosened the steering-head, mounted the saddle and rode about with

the club as jolly as usual, but wholly impervious to their gibes and

questioning.

The truth was, he was becoming well acquainted with the ghost that

haunted his tricycle. He had seen her presence several times every day.

His fixed and curious attention had noticed that she seemed anxious to

make the wheel move. She seemed to push vainly upon the treadles.

David was probably not at all braver than anybody else in the presence

of the supernatural. But to him this apparition was not--never had

been--supernatural. He knew very well that it was a phantom, and not

composed of flesh and blood; but he was confident that it was the

phantom of some real person. To his consciousness it was a shadowy

disembodiment of a real woman, how explicable or inexplicable was of

small consequence. Enough that it was some one who evidently appealed

to him for a kindness. He knew that nobody except himself saw this

person--knew it by their actions. He could not see her himself except

when at a distance of at least several feet. Upon a near approach she

took refuge in invisibility. But every day he could approach a little

nearer before she vanished, as if she trusted him more and more. But

she did not permit him to see her face until he bethought himself of

pushing the wheel, so as to give her the motion for which she seemed to

long.

Then, when he gave it a careful start and permitted it to run by

itself, she turned her face over her shoulder, and smiled her pleased

thanks back at him. At first the face was indistinct and evanescent.

But it was growing more fixed, confident and clear. It was a

handsome--a noble face. He should recognize it anywhere. Its first

wistful, half-doubting expression of appeal was becoming reassured,

serene, and confidently friendly.

Face and figure gradually took possession of his fancy. There was

something about this shadow-woman that touched his enthusiasm of

benevolence--a strong point in his character. He was sure that this was

a woman in trouble, needing help, longing for sympathy, companionship

and kindness--a woman isolated and weary of sorrow and struggle. He

loved to help the helpless. From loving to help to loving the helped is

an easy transition. The shadow-woman filled him, not with the desire of

passion, but with the gentle affection which is the deepest root of the

truest love, only the later flower of which is passion.

Thus far, beyond a natural curiosity, he had not cared to search

for the living woman, whom he felt certain existed somewhere near

him. Still her influence quite drove out of his mind every idea

of being a lover of May Bentley, or aught toward her more than a

pleasant acquaintance and friend. He now saw their relations in their

true aspect. He should always admire and like May Bentley, but the

shadow-woman was one whom it would be a perpetual delight to know,

serve and protect.

On Saturday morning two gentlemen called at the store and inquired for

David Dewness. Finding him, they inquired if he owned the southeast

quarter of the northwest quarter of Section 21, town ---- north, of

range ---- west. He stared. Then, remembering his forty acres, he begged

them to wait a moment, while he got his deed.

Yes, he owned it.

“What do you hold it at?”

“I have not thought of selling.”

“Will you take twenty for it?”

Twenty dollars an acre, he thought. There must be some discovery on

or near it. He reflected a moment. If it was worth that, there would

certainly be other offers pretty soon. They wanted the refusal for

twenty-four hours, inquired curiously about the title, and finally went

away, first giving him one hundred dollars for the refusal for one day.

Three hours later another party called and wanted the land. Being told

of the refusal given to the first comers, this party asked the price

offered, and being told, exclaimed:

“Twenty thousand dollars! Why I’ll give you fifty, and one thousand for

the refusal, if you will agree to sell to me for that price if they do

not bid higher.”

David refused. Before night two other parties wanted it, and were

deferred.

The next day they all called nearly together and began bidding for it.

Meanwhile David had not only thought it all over, but had taken shrewd

counsel. He positively refused to sell at any price. He would lease the

forty acres for a term of years to the highest bidder. The result was

that before night he had leased it to one of the parties, who agreed to

pay a royalty of forty cents per ton for all ore mined and sold, with

the further agreement that not less than twelve thousand five hundred

tons per year should be mined and sold for a term of twenty years, and

$5,000 bonus was to be paid in advance.

But this party insisted that there was a weakness, if not a defect,

in the title that must be cured. The title ran through the firm of

Dalrymple & Dalrymple, but the signature of Mrs. Dalrymple was lacking,

and though her husband had never been sole owner, the title would be

made perfectly secure by a quit claim from her, and any heir direct who

might ever claim through her.

This put Dewness upon a search for Mrs. Dalrymple. While going about

the city on this search he met, in crossing one of the parks, his

quondam flame, May Bentley, riding with young Oriel Pilaster, Jr., upon

Pilaster’s new tandem.

Oriel Pilaster, Jr., was the proudest young man in the city that day.

He was proud of having been recently admitted to partnership with his

father, the noted architect. He was proud of his fine new tandem. He

was proudest of all of having, as he fondly believed, “cut out” David

Dewness with the pretty and _piquante_ May Bentley, whom he had long

admired at a distance. He was about to pass his supposed rival with a

smile and nod of lofty triumph when, to his extreme consternation and

chagrin, Miss May put on the brake hard and brought the machine to a

standstill, at the same instant calling out:

“Mr. Dewness! David!”

David instantly went to her, hat in hand, and she smiled her very

friendliest smile, and put out her hand, which David shook frankly.

“Excuse me a minute, Mr. Pilaster,” she said to that shocked youth, “I

want to say a word to Mr. Dewness.”

So saying, she alighted nimbly, took David’s arm, and walked a few

steps away, coolly leaving young Pilaster a statue of petrified chagrin

seated on a tricycle, in full view of all the park loungers. That

amazed young gallant was at first half inclined to ride off in a huff,

but he wisely concluded that his best plan was to try and look just as

happy as though this was exactly what he had all along been expecting,

and wait until he knew the reason.

As soon as they were a little out of hearing, May volubly explained:

“I know who she is, David! It’s all right! The nicest girl! If you’d

only said who it was I shouldn’t have cared. But, dear me! what a fool

I was to quarrel with you, anyway! Because, you know, really and truly,

you and I don’t care a button for each other except as friends, and it

was nonsense to pretend anything else. Why, she’s just the girl that I

should pick out for you! I half thought I knew her all the time, though

she kept her face away from me. But the instant it flashed upon me--why

I couldn’t mistake her for anybody else if I tried! Come, shake hands

again over it!”

David shook hands again with a great pretense of enthusiasm. Then he

calmly asked.

“Well, who do you think she is _now_?”

“Why, Miss Daphne Dalrymple, of course. Ah, you needn’t try to fool me

any longer!”

David started in evident astonishment.

“Miss Daphne Dalrymple!”

“Yes; Miss Daphne Dalrymple, Dibble & Dribble’s typewriter. We used to

be great friends; but, since the Dalrymples failed, she has dropped

out of sight of her old friends, and is quite distant. But I love her

dearly all the same, and I hope you will persuade her to come and see

me. Now do. Good-bye! I expect Mr. Pilaster is angry clear through by

this time.”

Mr. Dewness led her back, and thanked her earnestly, wished Mr.

Pilaster a jolly time, and went off rapidly in the direction of Dibble

& Dribble’s, while May proceeded to restore Mr. Pilaster’s spirits by

explaining with a simulated sigh:

“Well, there! that is probably the last _I_ shall see of Mr. Dewness.

He’s gone mad for a pretty girl, and I’ve been sending him straight to

her. Mr. Pilaster, I’m too good. Here I go, like a fool, and send away

a good friend, merely because he thinks he’ll be happier with another.

But a girl is alway foolish to permit a man to be her friend; he is

sure to desert a mere friend to run after the first pretty face that

catches his fancy.”

Mr. Pilaster warmly defended his sex, and especially himself as one

who would never prove a deserter, with such appearances of success as

fully restored his pride, and filled his artful enchantress with almost

irrepressible chuckles.

Dibble & Dribble received Mr. Dewness’s inquiries with cold civility.

Miss Dalrymple was ill they believed, had been absent from her desk

more than a fortnight. Perhaps the errand-boy could give him her street

and number. The errand-boy, being called, did so with an evident

interest in Miss Dalrymple. He said that Dr. Pulse’s office was right

on the way, and perhaps Mr. Dewness had better see him before calling.

Mr. Dewness did so, and the doctor accompanied him to the house.

Mrs. Dalrymple at the door reported her daughter better. She was

sitting up in a rocking-chair with a shawl about her. The moment they

entered the room her eyes were fixed upon Dewness, and her thin face

lit up with a smile of pleased welcome. She paid no attention to the

doctor, and did not wait for David to be presented, but offered her

wasted hand eagerly to the young man, as to a well-known friend, and

said, with a sick woman’s child-like trustfulness:

“You have come! I knew you would! Did you bring the wheel?”

David took her hand with a grasp of warm friendliness, and a look of

gentle and kind sympathy, as he answered:

“Not now. If the doctor says you are well enough to go out a few

minutes in the afternoon, I will bring it, and you shall have it every

day.”

He, too, spoke as to a familiar friend, while he noted how wan and

frail she appeared, and yet how beautiful and strong of body and soul

she would be in health. Her mother interposed, saying:

“Why, Daphne, dear, I did not know you were acquainted.”

The girl colored faintly, but David answered, with one of his frank,

straight looks in the eye:

“We are not old acquaintances, Mrs. Dalrymple, but, if you will allow

me to say so, Miss Dalrymple has no truer friend than me.”

The sick girl’s eyes filled with tears, through which she smiled upon

him.

“This is the gentleman who bought your tricycle, then, that you have

spoken of so often this week. But, my dear, I thought you did not know

his name.”

“I fear, madam,” said David, “that she didn’t quite catch my name when

we were made acquainted,” and he turned such a droll look upon the girl

that she laughed the first merry laugh heard in that room in a long

time.

Then David turned the conversation by asking the doctor if he thought

Miss Dalrymple was well enough to ride out once or twice a day, say,

up and down the block, if he pushed the wheel, and saw that she did

not exert herself. The doctor thought that five or ten minutes of very

gentle exercise in the open air every day, morning and evening, after

breakfast and after tea, would do her great good. But it must be only

on clear, sunshiny days, and she must not be out after sundown nor

before the air was dry and warm in the morning.

“Then,” said David, turning to the girl, “may I come this afternoon?”

“If you will. How good you are! And I do so long to go out, and to get

well!”

The tears came into her eyes again, as she looked gratefully at David.

But she was sick and weak, and intensely weary of being so, and also

more or less _exaltée_ from the effects of medicine and illness. David

smiled upon her with kind cordiality, as he said:

“Well, then, we’ll have you well and strong again in a little while.

Trust the doctor and me.”

Then he turned to her mother and explained his errand about the land.

“I bought it at the Dalrymple sale for one hundred dollars. I wish to

dispose of it now. You have no real claim, but you could annoy the

owner by setting up one, and compelling him to perfect his title in

court. In order to save any trouble I propose to buy it over again of

you at the regular price for wild land--two dollars and a half an acre.

That is, I will pay you one hundred dollars for your signature to this

quit claim,” showing it, “and if you suppose you have any real rights,

I will accompany you to any lawyer you may please to select, and pay

for his opinion.”

Mrs. Dalrymple had some business knowledge, and remembered the land

which her husband had taken for the firm on a bad debt, together with

a horse which she used to drive. Her husband had often laughingly

said that the horse was about as worthless as the land. She therefore

cheerfully signed the deed, as also did Daphne; and Mr. Dewness

insisted upon paying them the one hundred dollars, first going to

fetch a notary to take the acknowledgment.

In their situation this money seemed almost a restoration of wealth,

and Daphne once more said to Mr. Dewness, “How good you are!” with a

fervor that was worth a great deal more than the money. He took his

leave with a light heart, and he left light hearts behind him.

The money that he paid to the two desolate women did more than relieve

their immediate needs--it lifted off their hearts the depressing

influence of fear for the future. It restored their courage. If Daphne

should lose her situation with Dibble & Dribble, this would last till

she could get another. When Dewness had gone they kissed each other and

wept softly together.

Then Dewness’s call had done the girl a world of mental and spiritual

good. He had said very little, but his cheerful, sunshiny temper, his

kindly interest, his quick sympathy and gentle courtesy were more

blessed than the money. No doubt the pride that had caused her to

retire from the society of her old friends upon her fall in fortune,

and resolutely accept the position of a working-girl, was morbid in

part, because she did not replace her former friends among the rich

with new acquaintances among the lowly.

Youth cannot bear isolation. Solitude is for age, full stored with

memory, knowledge and mental resources. Youth cannot bear it and

preserve mental or spiritual health; youth must have companionship,

sympathy and friendships.

Under incessant toil and loneliness the high courage of the girl broke

down when illness fell upon her. She was, therefore, in the very best

mood to accept this new friendship and society, as a prisoner accepts a

release from prison.

For the first time since she had fallen ill, she lay down and slept the

dreamless, wholesome, restoring sleep of returning health, ate with a

slight but real relish, and when Mr. Dewness called, after supper, she

looked marvelously brighter and better.

With what delight she greeted her lost wheel, when, carefully wrapped,

they placed her upon its familiar saddle! How keenly she relished the

balmy outdoor air of the quiet, maple-shaded street! With what sweet,

womanly childishness she laughed at David’s gentle pleasantries! It was

only a few minutes, for David was very careful to take her in before

she was tired, and then he hastened away and presently returned with a

boy bearing a tray on which were luscious ripe strawberries, a little

pitcher of fresh cream, sugar, three or four big juicy oranges, a lemon

and ice-cream. She was permitted by the doctor to eat just a taste

of the berries and a teaspoonful of the cream, while David and Mrs.

Dalrymple and the doctor ate to keep her company. And then David went

away, and she slept like a tired child. Sometimes how very little makes

a great happiness!

The ghost having become alive, the rest of the story almost tells

itself. How they plighted their troth and named the day; and how

the wedding was one of the happiest the club ever attended, and

everybody said they were the most suitable and loving pair ever joined

together--all these items the reader can imagine.

But the mystery remains to be cleared. One evening while the house was

not yet complete, the two lovers sat together in the moonlight, talking

over, for the twentieth time, their strange experience, when David said:

“After all, Daphne, there is one thing that puzzles me more than all

the rest. I never could tell, when I saw your ghost, exactly what you

wore.”

Daphne blushed celestial fire, and hid her face with her hands, peeping

through her fingers shyly at David, and wondering to see him evidently

seriously in earnest.

“You seemed to me,” continued David, not noticing her confusion, “at

one moment to be in a gray riding-habit, but the next moment you wore

your black or brown walking-dress, and when you faded out of sight,

my last vision of you was in some sort of white robe. Now, how do you

account for that?”

“Then I never appeared to you except in some dress? You could see me

only in some dress, David?”

This timidly, and watching his face narrowly.

“Why, of course not,” said honest David, opening his eyes wide with

surprise, “only I couldn’t ever quite make it out.”

She laughed softly and blushed vividly.

“Well, David--now you are in earnest?”

“Of course I am. Why, what’s the matter?”

“You know I was half delirious with the fever?”

“Yes.”

“And I longed to take a ride on my--your--wheel. How I did long to get

out of that stuffy little room! It seemed to me that if I could find

my wheel, and take a run in the pleasant outdoor air, it would do me

so much good! Well, it seemed to me that I went out and wandered about

the city till I found it. It was in front of Miss Bentley’s. And I saw

you, and I knew by your face that you would be kind and lend it to me,

because I was ill. Of course, when I found it, I bethought me that I

should have a riding-suit, and I seemed to be clothed in the gray dress

I used to wear. How funnily you acted! Do you remember stooping down,

with your hands on your knees, to look at me?”

David grinned.

“That alarmed me a little, and when you came closer I walked away, and

I remember changing my dress to a walking suit. And sometimes my mind

changed from one to another, and I always seemed to myself to wear

whatever I thought of. But, after you were so kind, and took so much

trouble to push the tricycle about for me, and I saw you wanted to help

me, out of pure sympathy, I ceased to be afraid of you, and got quite

familiar, and--and--”

“Well. And what?”

“I was sick in bed, you know, when I had those strange dreams.”

“Yes, of course.”

“And, of course, I wasn’t wearing any dress in bed.”

“Of course not.”

“Well--now, don’t you laugh.”

“I won’t.”

“Some of the last times--after I wasn’t afraid of you any longer--I

forgot.”

“You forgot what?”

“Why, I forgot to walk away in my street-dress and go home. I seemed

to drop right out of the saddle and my riding-dress into my night-robe

and my bed in the little room at home all at the same time, and without

first going away from you.”

David laughed heartily in spite of his promise not do so. But it was

such an honest laugh that it reassured her.

“And you were afraid that I saw the ghost longer than I

ought?”--chuckling.

“Ye-es,” hiding her blushing face against his shoulder.

“Well, darling, I didn’t. You vanished, I thought, like an angel in a

white cloud; but I never dreamed it was merely like a sick girl in her

white robe.”

He laughed again until she slyly reached up and gave one of his ears a

pinch that changed his laughter into a howl.

TO THE PACIFIC THROUGH CANADA.

BY ERNEST INGERSOLL.

PART I.

One hundred years ago, “through Canada to the Pacific” was first

achieved by Sir Alexander Mackenzie. Making his way in a birch canoe

from Montreal up the Ottawa and connecting rivers to Lake Huron, he

came to the Sault Sainte Marie. Then followed hundreds of miles of

paddling along the homeless shores of Lake Superior until civilization

was seen again at Fort William on the northern shore. Yet that was

only the real starting-point. Here Mackenzie began one of the most

adventurous and productive explorations of that era, when the world

was busy with exploration. Through rivers, ponds, and portages to Lake

Winnipeg, across it and up the Saskatchewan, he pursued a well-defined

route of the Hudson Bay Company’s _voyageurs_. But finally he reached

even the fur-trader’s frontier, and pushed forward into a region never

then penetrated by a white man. He came to the Peace River and began

its ascent. It led him into, and guided him through, the mountains. At

its sources he found water flowing westward, and through weeks of hardy

adventure traced this river or that until he scented the salt breezes,

and looked abroad upon the Pacific--the first man to cross Canada!

That is only a century ago; yet when you place Mackenzie’s canoe beside

our transcontinental railway train, the contrast is as wide as between

the first and last page of history; but put the courage of the old

fur-trader beside the pluck which built this railway, and the extremes

meet again.

The transcontinental trip by the Canadian Pacific Railway, then, is

the subject of this article. We shall not precisely follow Mackenzie’s

devious route, but shall touch it here and there, and see all the way

the same kind of things that he saw.

Let us, first of all, have a clear understanding of what this journey

is to be.

The Canadian Pacific is the largest railway system on the continent,

yet there is none so little known to the general public in the United

States, and none so widely misapprehended. It lies wholly in Canada.

From Quebec it follows the St. Lawrence to Montreal, and then the

Ottawa to the capital of the Dominion. From Ottawa it directs an

almost straight course to the northernmost angle of Lake Superior,

and skirting its shore for a hundred miles, strikes west to Winnipeg.

Thence it crosses 900 miles of prairie, enters the Rocky Mountains 150

miles north of the United States boundary, and forcing its way through

250 miles of magnificent highlands, descends to the Pacific coast near

the mouth of the Fraser River.

This main line is 3,070 miles in length, and reaches from ocean to

ocean. Its through trains do not change their sleeping-cars all the

way. An English family bound for China need make only two changes of

conveyance between Liverpool and Hong-Kong--one at Montreal from the

steamer to the cars, and another in re-embarking at Vancouver, the

Pacific terminus. This is a notable advantage over the pieced-up route

through Europe or the United States.

Yet this main line is only the _stem_ of the great system. One

side-line goes to Boston. Two others communicate with railways in New

York State, at Brockville and Prescott, on the St. Lawrence. Short

branches reach a dozen towns in Quebec. Westward, Montreal and Ottawa

are connected with Toronto, whence branches ramify through all Ontario.

Lake Huron is reached at Owen Sound, whence a line of ocean-like

steamships on the Great Lakes is sustained. From Sudbury, a station

443 miles west of Montreal, a branch runs along the northern shore of

Lake Huron to Sault Sainte Marie, where it is joined by a bridge over

those historic rapids with two new American lines--one to Minneapolis,

and another to Duluth. In Manitoba, branches penetrate all the corners

of that rich wheat-growing province. Thus, the total length of its

railways approaches 5,000 miles, and a year hence will be increased

by a direct line to St. John, N. B., and Cape Breton, to connect with

especially swift steamers, forming a new Atlantic ferry and carrying

England’s Oriental mails. Yet, as has been said, few Americans know or

realize these important facts in Canadian progress.

[Illustration: “SMOKING IN A SNUG CORNER.”]

The new station in Montreal, whence we take our departure for the

transcontinental journey one summer evening, is a magnificent piece

of architecture. It stands just at the corner of Dominion Square,

where the first strains of the band concert are calling together the

loitering, pleasure-making crowds which twice a week throng its gravel

walks or lounge upon the turf of its green parterres.

Out from the station stretches a series of broad stone arches, carrying

the tracks upon an elevated way that reminds one of London, to the

outskirts of the city, and into the quaint French villages named by

pious founders after some Ste. Rose, Ste. Therése, or St. Phillipe, or

other revered personages of the olden times.

We go to sleep, and do not know when Ottawa, Canada’s pleasant capital

and lumber market, is passed at midnight. We are oblivious to this and

all the world besides until a cheery call of “Breakfast-time, sir!”

rouses our energies, and we peep out of our window to find ourselves

rushing through a dense green forest, still glistening with the night’s

dew. Then the breadth of Lake Nipissing opens like a plain of azure

amid the green woods, and we halt at North Bay, where a road from

Niagara Falls and Toronto terminates and makes a junction with ours.

We step out and take a run up and down the long platform. The sunlight

seems unusually bright and clear, the breeze from the lake is “nipping

and eager”--everything and everybody has an air of alertness and glee

which is inspiriting. We have slept well--we are wide awake; this

balsamic odor of the woods is appetizing--we are hungry. The dining-car

is therefore doubly inviting. Its furnishing is in elegant taste; its

linen white as the breaking of the lake-waves; its silver glitters in

the sunlight; on every table is a bouquet of wild flowers, masking a

basket of fruit. There are tables for two and tables for four. One of

the latter holds a family party--father, mother and two young ladies,

Vassar girls, perhaps. We seat ourselves opposite, and as the train

moves smoothly on, eat and talk with a gusto forgotten since last

summer’s outing.

Our _vis-à-vis_ at table proves to be an official of the company, who

knows the whole line, as he says, “like the book.” He is going clear

through to attend to matters on the western coast. This is great luck,

for he seems quite as willing to answer our eager questions as we are

to ask them. He is intensely interested in this great achievement,

as is everybody connected with it, and wants us to become equally

enthusiastic.

“This ought to be a good region for fishing,” we suggest, looking out

upon the beautiful lake whose rocky shores we are skirting.

“Excellent,” the official agrees, as he quarters his orange. “Lake

Nipissing abounds in big fish, and so does French River, its outlet

into Lake Huron. I have had capital sport at the end of the steamboat

pier at North Bay, ‘whipping’ with a rod and spoon for pike, bass,

pickerel, whitefish, etc. Sometimes muskallonge weighing forty or fifty

pounds are caught by trolling from a boat.”

“How about trout?”

“Well, if you’re bent upon trout, and don’t want to go up to the

Jackfish or Nepigon River (which we shall cross to-morrow morning),

your best plan is to go to Trout Lake and down to the Mattawan. Trout

Lake lies four or five miles inland, behind those hills, where the

scenery is exceedingly beautiful and the fishing practically untouched.

In the lake itself are huge bass, pickerel and muskallonge. I know of

one caught there by a lady, which weighed thirty-five pounds. Down to

the lake, through tortuous, shady ravines, come cataract-rivers filled

with untroubled trout. You can get a boat at a settler’s, or take your

own and camp where you please, and fish in a new place every day all

summer. Then from Trout Lake you can run a canoe down through a chain

of lakes into the Mattawan River. Each of these lakes and streams

has plenty of fish of several kinds, and charming camping places.

The Mattawan carries you into the Ottawa, which you can descend in a

boat--fishing all the way--to the St. Lawrence.”

“That’s an alluring story,” we say.

“It’s literally true; and in the fall and winter, sport with the gun

is equally good. Moose, caribou, and deer are plentiful, and the town

of Mattawan forms an excellent outfitting place for a shooting trip.

Indian and white guides can be got who know the country, and the many

lumberers’ roads and camps facilitate the sport. New Brunswick used to

be the best place for that sport, but now this part of Canada is far

more accessible and convenient.”

At noon we come to Sudbury, where extensive mines of copper and gold

are worked, and a brisk village is growing up, with some farming and a

great deal of lumbering in the neighborhood. Here branches off the new

“Soo” route to St. Paul.

All the afternoon we run through forested hills, the line bending

hither and yon to avoid rocky ridges and crystalline lakes, cutting

athwart promontories, and bridging ravines. Here and there are

extensive tracts of arable land, but little agricultural settlement can

be expected in these forests as long as the rich prairies westward,

all ready for the plow, are only half-tenanted. Yet the cabins of

settlers, who are part farmers, part lumbermen, part trappers, and part

“Injun,” are scattered all along the line; and every hundred miles

or so we encounter a railway “divisional” station, where there are

engine-houses, repairing shops, and the homes of the men employed on

that section of the line.

In the evening, groups gathered in our brilliantly-lighted palaces--for

every one had become acquainted, like a cozy ship’s company at sea--and

whiled away the time with books, story-telling and whist. The Vassar

girls, the Official and the Editorial _We_ had a grand game, closing

with a tie at eleven o’clock. Just then we were at Missanabie, where

you might launch a canoe--“that frail vehicle of an amphibious

navigation,” as Sir George Simpson styled it--and run down to the

fur-famed--

“Beware of puns!” cried Miss Dimity Vassar.

--Michipicoten, in Lake Superior; or, with a few portages, glide

northward to Hudson’s Bay.

Bidden to be awake early, at six next morning we were astir, and, lo!

there was Lake Superior. All day we ran along its shores, here taking

advantage of a natural terrace or ledge, there rolling with thunderous

roar along some gallery blasted out of the face of the gigantic cliffs

whose granite bases were beaten by the waves; next darting through a

tunnel or safely overriding a long and lofty bridge, beneath which

poured some wine-colored torrent. This is daring and costly engineering.

Always high above the water, which sometimes dashes at the very foot

of the trackway, and sometimes is separated from us by barriers of

vine-clad rock, the eye overlooks a wide and radiant scene. A line

of distant and hilly islands cuts off this interior part (Nepigon

Bay) from the open lake; and as we swerve hither and yon in our

rapid advance, these islands group themselves into ever changing

combinations, opening and closing lanes of blue water, displaying

and hiding the silvery horizon, letting passing vessels appear and

disappear, and taking some new charm of color with each new position.

Nor was this all. Cliffs and shore are grandly picturesque in form,

brilliant in color, and constantly varied. After we had reached

Jackfish River--a famous fishing-place--and the gaudy overhanging

cliffs had been left behind, the lake began to be hidden by a line of

trap-buttes, masked in dense foliage; and these beautiful table-lands

lasted all the way to the crossing of the Nepigon, where again we were

face to face with Nepigon Bay. You may say later that the scenery

of the Rocky Mountains is better than this morning ride along Lake

Superior; but you will not forget, nor be willing to omit it, all the

same.

[Illustration: INDIAN TEPEES.]

Nepigon River, up which we have a long view, is the prince of

trout-rivers, and at the railway station canoes, camping supplies and

Indian crews are always obtainable. Think of brook-trout weighing five

or six pounds, to be caught, and bass and whitefish and what not in

plenty besides!

That afternoon we passed Port Arthur, a town of 3,500 population, on

Thunder Bay, and the port for the fine Canadian Pacific steamers, which

present an alternative summer route between the East and West by way

of the lakes, Owen Sound and Toronto. Five miles farther on we came to

old Fort William, now a growing village and grain port. Here, on the

fertile flats of the Kaministiquia, more than two hundred years ago,

was planted an Indian trading-post, which a century later became the

headquarters of the great Northwest Fur Company, and then an important

post of the Hudson’s Bay Company, to which, after years of warfare,

the Northwest corporation finally capitulated. Some of the storied old

buildings, to which a whole magazine article might easily be devoted,

still stand, but they are overshadowed by the railway shops and

warehouses, the huge elevators and coal-bins, which here, as at Port

Arthur, testify to an enormous shipping traffic.

For four hundred miles west of Fort William, where we bid good-bye

to Lake Superior, the road passes through a wild, rough region of

rocks and forest, reticulated with lakes and rivers. It is the most

unattractive piece of country on the whole line, but it abounds in

minerals, and supplies the treeless region beyond with lumber. Near its

eastern border, at Rabbit Mountain, exceedingly rich silver mines are

worked. The Lake of the Woods, in the centre of this tract, is a very

beautiful spot, and one whose water-power supplies many large mills.

Morning found us among open groves and thickets--the fringed-out

western edge of that almost continental forest which sweeps behind

us to the Atlantic, and northward until it half envelops Hudson’s

Bay. Finally even this disappeared in an expanse of verdant turf--the

prairie of Manitoba,--its perfectly level horizon broken only by the

tall buildings and steeples of the city of Winnipeg.

Winnipeg stands at the point where Red River receives its largest

western tributary, the Assiniboine. It has been the site of an Indian

trading post, and the centre of the “Red River settlements” for almost

a century; but until ten years ago it was nothing more. Then it

sprung at one bound, amid an ecstasy of speculation, into a city. It

had a hard time after this injudicious exuberance began to subside;

but it survived, and now Winnipeg is as well founded, and growing as

healthfully, as is Denver or Omaha. The town has ridiculously wide

streets, which it cost a fortune to pave with cedar blocks, and which

make the really tall and fine business buildings look dwarfed. There

are several expensive churches, hundreds of elegant residences, and

some stately public buildings. The width of the streets; the great

number of vacant lots, due to the large expectations of the “boom”

period, which spread the town beyond all reason; and the use of

cream-colored brick and light paint in the buildings, give to Winnipeg

a singularly pale and scattered appearance, likely to diminish in the

eyes of a casual visitor the city’s real wealth and importance.

[Illustration: THE VIEW FROM THE HOT SPRINGS, BANFF, LOOKING DOWN THE

BOW.]

“While you would find here in Winnipeg,” says our _cicerone_, as we

sat smoking in a snug corner, “if you studied the matter a little, the

key to much that you will see beyond, you must look beyond for the

key to much you will see in Winnipeg. Situated just where the forests

end and the vast prairies begin, with thousands of miles of river

navigation to the north, south and west, and with railways radiating in

every direction into the wheat lands of all Manitoba, like spokes in a

wheel, Winnipeg has become, what it must always be, the commercial

focus of the Canadian Northwest. Looking at these long lines of

warehouses filled with goods, and these twenty miles or more of railway

side-tracks all crowded with cars, you begin to realize the vastness of

the country we are about to enter. From here the wants of the people in

the west are supplied, and this way come the products of their fields,

while from the far north are brought furs in great variety and number.”

[Illustration: NEARING THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS.]

The surrounding prairie is absolutely flat, and was the bed of a

prehistoric lake--the last remnant of the waters that once covered

the whole interior; and as we race across it we can picture how

the wavelets rose and fell before the ancient wind by noticing the

olive-and-gray ripples that flow over the long grass under this noonday

breeze. Here and there cattle are standing up to their bellies in the

lush meadow. Far off to the southward a dark line indicates the fringe

of trees along the Assiniboine. Nothing else breaks the verdant flats

that sweep around us save the track and the telegraph poles, straight

as a ray of light behind and ahead to their vanishing points on each

horizon. After a while habitations and farms grow more numerous, for we

have imperceptibly risen to a region lighter in soil and formerly held

at a cheaper price than the speculative tracts near the city, whose

owners have seen settlers go steadily past them.

The centre of this is the far-scattered town of Portage la Prairie,

an old landing-place of the _voyageurs_, who here loaded their

boat-cargoes into carts and carried them across to Lake Manitoba, there

to be re-embarked for the long canoe voyage inland. Here are now great

wheat elevators and mills, and hence a railway has pushed 250 miles

northwestward, to continue nobody knows how much farther. Brandon,

seventy-five miles beyond, is a wide-awake, handsomely built young city

on the Assiniboine, sustained by an immense agricultural environment.

In regard to this let me quote somewhat from a standard work on the

prairies: “Leaving Brandon, we have fairly reached the first of the

great prairie steppes, that rise one after the other at long intervals

to the Rocky Mountains; and now we are on the real prairie, not the

monotonous, uninteresting plain your imagination has pictured, but a

great billowy ocean of grass and flowers, now swelling into low hills,

again dropping into broad basins with gleaming ponds, and broken here

and there by valleys and by irregular lines of trees marking the

watercourses. The horizon only limits the view; and, as far as the

eye can reach, the prairie is dotted with newly made farms, with great

black squares where the sod has just been turned by the plow, and

with herds of cattle. The short, sweet grass, studded with brilliant

flowers, covers the land as with a carpet, ever changing in color

as the flowers of the different seasons and places give to it their

predominating hue.... Here is produced, in the greatest perfection,

the most famous of all varieties of wheat--that known as the ‘hard

Fyfe wheat of Manitoba’--and oats as well, and rye, barley and flax,

and gigantic potatoes, and almost everything that can be grown in

a temperate climate.... Three hundred miles from Winnipeg we pass

through the famous Bell Farm, embracing one hundred square miles of

land. This is a veritable manufactory of wheat, where the work is done

with almost military organization--plowing by brigades and reaping by

divisions. Think of a farm where the furrows are ordinarily four miles

long, and of a country where such a thing is possible! There are neat

stone cottages and ample barns for miles around, and the collection

of buildings about the headquarters near the railway station makes

a respectable village, there being among them a church, an hotel, a

flour mill, and, of course, a grain elevator, for in this country these

elevators appear wherever there is wheat to be handled or stored.”

The fertile, pleasantly habitable region of the Canadian West is a

triangular region with a base 800 miles in width east and west, and a

northern limit marked by the forests beyond the Saskatchewan. Between

these forests and the Rocky Mountains the arable country extends

almost to the borders of Alaska, and through it are scattered trading

stations and small settlements among a peaceful and semi-industrious

Indian population. The climate is dry, yet the rainfall (except in the

southwestern part) is quite sufficient for agriculture. The winters

are rigorous, but not so long as those of Quebec, and the snowfall

is light. Wheat, oats, barley and vegetables grow to perfection even

farther north than the Peace River valley, in latitude 56° to 57°--the

parallel which in the east passes just north of Labrador. Settlement on

these fine prairies (which are often bushy, and show no sage-brush and

little alkali) is only a decade old, yet last year there was produced a

surplus for export of twelve million bushels of wheat alone.

Not far beyond the Regina wheat plain, which is about 1,800 feet above

the sea, the altitude is abruptly increased by a rise to the top of the

_Coteau de Missouri_, where the average of elevation is 3,000 feet.

Here the climate is drier, and grazing becomes the principal industry,

especially toward the foothills, where enormous herds of horses, cattle

and sheep are pastured. Of this great and growing business Calgary is

headquarters.

Only ten years ago this was the home of millions of buffalo, whose

trails and wallows mark the surface in every direction; but not a bison

is now to be seen within a long distance northward. The prairies from

Regina westward are dotted with lakes, generally of fresh water, are

well grassed, and broken by wooded eminences. The elk and mule-deer are

still common, and in the autumn immense herds of antelope, migrating

southward, are still to be seen from the car windows. Around the lakes

crowd countless wild fowl at all seasons, while flocks of prairie

chickens whirl away on each side at our approach. In the seasons of

migration geese and ducks are here in myriads.

We cross the South Saskatchewan near some extensive coal mines, and

toward evening of Friday (we left Montreal on Monday night and Winnipeg

on Thursday morning) we catch our first brief glimpse of the Rockies--a

serrated white line notching the sunset horizon. To-morrow morning we

shall awake within their glorious gates.

[Illustration: STONE POGAMOGGANS OF THE CANADIAN SIOUX.]

THE NEW YORK YACHT CLUB CRUISE OF ’88.

The annual cruise of the New York Yacht Club grows in importance with

increasing years. From the organization of the club, far back in the

forties, its history has been a progressive one. Its vessels have won a

reputation for their fleetness the world over; members have attracted

the attention of all aquatic sportsmen who love

“A wet sheet and a flowing sea,

And a wind that follows fast;”

and the club pennant of the red cross, with the single star sparkling

like a gem in its deep azure field, is known in every harbor of the

maritime world. Well may the members of this famous old club look back

upon its record with pride, and well may Elbridge T. Gerry, the present

commodore, rejoice in his proud position as commander of as magnificent

a fleet of pleasure boats as ever sailed the waters blue of old ocean.

Great strides have been made, since the establishment of the club

in 1844, not only in the sport of yachting, but in all things else

besides. It probably never dawned upon the vision of Commodore Stevens,

in those early days, when from his quaint little castle on the point of

rocks overhanging the Elysian Fields, in Hoboken, looking out on the

waters of the Hudson, as they rolled on to the Narrows and out into

old ocean, that the club would make so proud a mark in the history

of a pastime which the lovers of daring deeds so fondly cultivate. A

great city has grown up since then all around him; buildings now occupy

the space where, in those early American yachting days, leafy groves

afforded shade to yachtsmen, and long lines of wharfs take the place of

the gentle grassy slopes, kissed by the waters of the Hudson. All is

changed since then. Even the old club has undergone a transformation.

The fact, however, remains that the keystone of its success, the

brightest gem in its diadem of honorable record, is that which was won

in ’51, when Commodore Stevens’s _America_ sailed away from the whole

fleet of English yachts and carried off the Queen’s Cup.

This aquatic feat did much to permanently establish yachting in this

country. It was a surprise to the well trained, brave and skillful

sailors of the tight little island that Yankee sailors, after an

ocean voyage, should beat them in their own waters. But they took the

_America’s_ victory in good part, and though it was a difficult pill

to swallow, they got it down with a smile, for your true Englishman is

always manly.

“Yankee Doodle had a craft,

A rather tidy clipper,

And he challenged, while they laughed,

The Britishers to whip her;

Their whole yacht squadron she outsped,

And that on their own water;

Of all the lot she went ahead,

And they came nowhere arter.”

From those early days in the fifties, until the war broke out the New

York Yacht Club grew strong in membership and vessels. Its cruises and

its regattas became popular, the latter especially, for they served to

afford a pleasant day’s amusement to people who enjoyed a holiday on

the water. Many of our best known men and grand old merchant princes

were devoted yachtsmen. What cruise was complete without rare old Moses

Grinnell on board some one of the flyers of days gone by? When the war

broke out, did not many of these same yachtsmen lend a hand in the

struggle for the Union? If we mistake not, James Gordon Bennett put

his vessel, the _Rebecca_, into commission, and did service himself

on board, off the Southern coast. Hundreds of other instances might

be cited to prove the patriotism, daring and pluck of “the men who

went down to the sea in ships,” even though these ships were pleasure

craft, and the men who sailed them simply on pleasure bent.

When “the cruel war” was over there came renewed interest in yachting.

Then the challenges from the other side were received. English

yachtsmen looked with longing eyes across the ocean and declared their

readiness to do battle for the possession of the _America’s_ cup.

With the true spirit of sportsmen American yachtsmen met their Island

brethren with equal ardor to defend the possession of the prize--the

greatest yachting trophy of the world.

The races in which the _Cambria_, _Livonia_, _Genesta_, _Galatea_,

_Thistle_, _Columbia_, _Sappho_, _Puritan_, _Mayflower_, _Volunteer_,

etc., took part, are too well known to the readers of ~Outing~

to require more than a mere passing notice. These contests form proud

chapters in the history of the club of which Elbridge T. Gerry is

commodore.

No less important pages in its history are the great ocean races, in

which the _Vesta_, _Fleetwing_, _Dauntless_ competed, the _Dauntless_

and _Cambria’s_ ocean race, and again, the race in midwinter between

the _Coronet_ and _Dauntless_, when the Atlantic was in its most angry

moods. The famous schooner _Sappho_, owned by William P. Douglass,

ex-vice-commodore of the club, was another fair skimmer of the briny

deep that carried the burgee of the club with honor in any and every

contest in which she was entered in home or foreign waters. And so the

list might be strung out in a magnificent array of the names of those

white-winged beauties of the sea that muster in the roll of Commodore

Gerry’s fleet.

For the nonce, let us turn from the past and look upon the present.

Let us survey the fleet of this season as they came together in the

harbor of New London, on the morning of August 9. Never did the famous

old rendezvous present so brilliant an aquatic spectacle. The event

was ushered in with a clear, bright blue sky. As the day grew older

the scene grew in activity. Fifty-three sailing yachts and twenty odd

steamers responded to the sunrise gun, and sent aloft the club signal

to kiss the breeze that stole out from the southwest almost as gently

as summer zephyr laden with the odor of the sea. It was not the piping

breeze loved so well by your true yachtsman, when close-reefed sails

and housed topmasts are the order of the day. At 10.47 the preparatory

gun was given from the flag-ship _Electra_; ten minutes later the

signal gun to start. And what a busy scene presented itself! With

anchors weighed and all sails set, the magnificent fleet began to move

out of the harbor into the waters of the ocean, with the _Puritan_,

true to her record, showing the way over the line, closely followed

by the _Grayling_, _Troubadour_ and _Sea Fox_. It was in this way the

annual cruise began.

As the squadron passed the flagship _Electra_, a beautiful picture

was presented to the eye. The wind being light, the yachts had all

available sails spread, and the view at the start was of an almost

solid mass of canvas.

Before going further it will be well to give an explanation regarding

the races that took place from New London to Newport, from Newport

to Vineyard Haven, from Vineyard Haven to New Bedford and thence to

Newport.

[Illustration: DEAD BEFORE THE WIND.]

A feature of past cruises has always been this racing from port to

port. Until this year, however, the arrangements in connection with

it have been eminently unsatisfactory, both as regards methods of

starting and the way in which a large yacht arriving first at the

common destination would be disqualified on time allowance and the

victory awarded to a smaller vessel. The methods of former years

having then proved inefficacious in deciding the actual merits of

the competing boats, Commodore Gerry, Vice-Commodore C. H. Colt and

Rear-Commodore E. D. Morgan resolved this year to present prizes to

that yacht in each of the eleven classes which made the best record in

the runs from port to port. These prizes consist of handsome lamps of

solid silver resting on ebony stands. On one side is an inscription

of the names of the donors, while on the other the New York Yacht

Club flag is represented. All the eleven prizes are exactly alike. A

novelty of the trophy is the fact that the lamp may be lifted from its

receptacle, when the stand forms a handsome cup with two handles. These

prizes did much to stimulate the energies of the captains, and some

fine races resulted.

Twenty minutes instead of the usual ten were allowed as starting time

in these contests. Soon after the fleet had started the wind gradually

died away, and for half an hour the water was scarcely ruffled, but

the Commodore’s proverbial good luck did not desert him long. Soon

sufficient breeze returned to carry the yachts bowling merrily into

Newport harbor. The following table tells the story of the day’s run:

FIRST CLASS SCHOONERS--THIRTY-FIVE MILES.

_Elapsed_ _Corr’d_

_Start._ _Finish._ _Time._ _Time._

NAME. H. M. S. H. M. S. H. M. S. H. M. S.

Ambassadress 11 06 00 5 33 35 6 27 35 6 27 35

Dauntless 11 09 33 4 42 37 5 33 04 5 33 04

Norseman 11 05 25 4 52 05 5 46 40 5 45 31

Palmer 11 12 54 4 32 05 5 19 11 5 15 34

Wanderer 11 09 45 5 10 55 6 01 10 -- -- --

Alarm 11 06 00 4 48 30 5 42 30 -- -- --

SECOND CLASS SCHOONERS.

Intrepid 11 09 45 4 46 27 5 36 42 5 36 42

Gitana 10 56 00 4 43 40 5 47 40 5 46 26

Montauk 11 09 45 4 29 05 5 19 20 5 16 40

Columbia 11 13 30 4 52 58 5 39 28 -- -- --

THIRD CLASS SCHOONERS.

Sea Fox 11 01 12 4 10 52 5 09 40 5 09 40

Sachem 11 09 45 4 19 20 5 09 35 5 07 49

Troubadour 11 00 40 4 24 19 5 23 39 5 21 18

Varuna 11 03 04 5 11 30 6 08 26 6 05 52

Miranda 11 07 58 4 26 14 5 18 12 5 15 26

Grayling 11 00 40 4 24 25 5 23 45 5 18 50

Atalanta 10 56 30 4 44 33 5 48 03 -- -- --

Elma 11 12 30 3 40 33 5 28 03 -- -- --

FOURTH CLASS SCHOONERS.

Marguerite 11 02 07 5 51 45 6 49 38 6 49 38

Iroquois 11 05 03 4 21 48 5 16 45 5 15 36

Magic 11 08 35 4 44 29 5 35 54 5 33 44

Halcyon 10 56 00 4 38 18 5 42 18 5 40 42

Princess 11 16 10 5 29 23 6 13 13 -- -- --

FIFTH CLASS SCHOONERS.

Harbinger 11 11 32 5 03 14 6 51 42 -- -- --

Triton 11 09 40 5 28 27 6 18 47 -- -- --

Lotus 11 17 00 5 05 14 6 48 14 -- -- --

Azalea 11 14 38 5 37 52 6 23 14 -- -- --

Lydia 11 12 08 5 28 27 6 16 19 -- -- --

Whim 11 06 00 5 32 40 6 26 40 -- -- --

Clio 11 17 00 5 50 37 6 33 37 -- -- --

FIRST CLASS SLOOPS.

Volunteer 11 08 54 4 21 32 5 12 38 5 12 38

Mayflower 11 50 20 4 16 03 5 10 43 5 09 56

Puritan 11 02 07 4 08 39 5 06 32 5 03 14

THIRD CLASS SLOOPS.

Katrina 11 12 30 4 26 42 5 14 12 5 14 12

Bedouin 11 05 03 5 35 55 6 30 52 6 29 23

Fanny 11 05 15 4 20 12 5 14 57 5 11 28

Pocahontas 11 01 30 4 47 04 5 45 34 5 34 34

Nonpareille 11 09 45 5 36 43 6 40 58 -- -- --

Huron 11 11 00 4 52 18 5 41 08 5 34 04

FOURTH CLASS SLOOPS.

Hildegarde 11 03 53 4 27 02 5 23 09 5 23 09

Dare 11 10 27 5 52 02 6 04 55 6 00 00

Medusa 11 10 50 5 21 24 6 10 34 6 02 22

Whileaway 11 06 00 4 35 17 5 29 17 5 22 52

Thistle 11 09 45 5 12 45 6 03 00 -- -- --

FIFTH CLASS SLOOPS.

Athlon 11 14 08 4 50 25 5 36 17 5 36 17

Cinderella 11 09 40 5 54 04 5 44 20 5 43 36

Gaviota 11 15 31 4 54 06 5 38 35 5 37 28

Bertie 11 08 22 4 47 11 5 45 49 5 40 55

Concord 11 11 00 5 51 17 6 40 17 6 34 17

SIXTH CLASS SLOOPS.

Regina 11 05 30 5 07 00 6 01 30 -- -- --

Nymph 11 08 56 5 27 47 6 18 51 -- -- --

Crocodile -- -- -- 5 13 25 -- -- -- -- -- --

Iseult -- -- -- 5 01 40 -- -- -- -- -- --

~Winners~--First class schooner--Palmer; second class

schooner--Montauk; third class schooner--Sachem; fourth

class schooner--Iroquois; fifth class schooner--Lydia. First

class sloop--Puritan; third class sloop--Fanny; fourth class

sloop--Whileaway; fifth class sloop--Athlon; sixth class

sloop--Regina.

In the evening red lights were burned on the yachts, lighting up the

harbor and producing a fine effect.

The next day, Friday, August 10, the race for the Goelet cups took

place over the Sow and Pigs course, off Newport Harbor. At 10.20 the

preparatory gun was fired, there being at the time a light northerly

wind. Ten minutes later the starting signal was given, and the

_Volunteer_ crossed the line in the lead, with the _Mayflower_ second.

Then came the _Miranda_ leading the schooners, followed by the _Sea

Fox_ and _Sachem_. At West Island Light the _Volunteer_ had established

a lead of half a mile with the _Mayflower_ still second, followed by

the _Palmer_, _Sea Fox_, _Puritan_, _Sachem_ and _Katrina_ in the order

named.

At the Sow and Pigs lightship the order was somewhat changed among the

leaders. The _Sachem_ had taken the lead and the _Mayflower_ had tailed

off. The order and time as the yachts rounded the lightship were as

follows:

_Sachem_, 3.27.33; _Volunteer_, 3.37.32; _Sea Fox_, 3.43.15; _Puritan_,

3.45.58; _Miranda_, 3.48.26; _Grayling_, 3.49.07; _Katrina_, 3.49.51;

_Iroquois_, 3.50.30; _Palmer_, 3.51.27; _Troubadour_, 3.53.22;

_Mayflower_, 3.53.32; _Dauntless_, 3.55.46; _Montauk_, 3.56.36;

_Magic_, 3.59.00; _Ramona_, 3.59.30.

The _Katrina_ had the race in hand at this point, and she increased

her lead to the Hen and Chickens. During this run of four miles, the

_Katrina_ gained three minutes on the _Volunteer_ and _Puritan_,

proving herself to be a remarkably fast boat. Just as the boats reached

the Hen and Chickens buoy the wind dropped again, shifting round to the

southwest. The time at this mark, so far as taken, was as follows:

_Sachem_, 4.40.03; _Volunteer_, 4.44.49; _Sea Fox_, 4.48.36; _Puritan_,

4.51.00; _Grayling_, 4.52.01; _Katrina_, 4.52.38; _Miranda_, 4.58.21;

_Mayflower_, 4.58.53; _Iroquois_, 4.59.33.

The _Katrina_ was 5m. 44s. ahead of the _Volunteer_ by corrected time

at this mark. The _Sachem_ and _Volunteer_ having rounded the mark some

four minutes ahead of the next boat, the _Sea Fox_, had an immense

advantage by the shift of the wind, which came just after they turned

the buoy.

It was now a beat to windward to Brenton’s Reef and the finish line.

The wind freshened and hauled more to the westward and became a good

steady breeze. The _Sea Fox_ in this beat pointed very high--her

pointing was something remarkable. The time at the finish was as

follows:

_Elapsed_ _Corr’d_

_Start._ _Finish._ _Time._ _Time._

NAME. H. M. S. H. M. S. H. M. S. H. M. S.

Volunteer 10 30 57 6 52 32 8 21 35 8 21 25

Sachem 10 32 09 7 12 57 8 40 48 8 27 48

Grayling 10 33 40 7 19 34 8 45 54 8 29 22

Katrina 10 33 17 7 19 49 8 46 32 8 35 10

Puritan 10 32 47 7 15 35 8 42 48 8 39 07

Sea Fox 10 31 58 7 23 34 8 51 26 8 40 23

Mayflower 10 31 51 7 33 05 9 01 14 9 00 21

_Miranda_, 10.31.53; _Palmer_, 10.32.25; _Montauk_, 10.32.40;

_Troubadour_, 10.32.52; _Intrepid_, 10.33.32; _Magic_, 10.33.49;

_Dauntless_, 10.34.25; _Elma_, 10.36.00; _Iroquois_, 10.36.38, and

_Ramona_, 10.40.00; not timed.

In the schooner class, the _Sachem_ won the cup, beating the _Grayling_

1m. 36s. on corrected time. In the sloop class, the _Volunteer_ won,

beating the _Katrina_ 13m. 44s.; _Puritan_, 17m. 31s.; _Mayflower_ 38m.

46s., corrected time. _Katrina_ beat both _Puritan_ and _Mayflower_.

On Saturday, August 11, a start was made for Vineyard Haven, Martha’s

Vineyard. Once more every yacht was accurately timed from Newport, this

being the second of the runs from port to port for the class prizes.

[Illustration: SEA FOX--OWNER, A. CASS CANFIELD, ESQ.]

Again did the _Puritan_ take the lead at the line, closely followed

by the _Lydia_, _Clio_, _Montauk_ and _Volunteer_. Everything went

smoothly till the _Mayflower_ and _Grayling_ came along, and then

occurred the only accident or collision of the cruise of ’88.

Immediately after crossing the line the _Mayflower_ was directly behind

the _Grayling_ and was sailing a trifle faster. Almost before any

one realized that an accident was about to happen, the _Mayflower’s_

bowsprit caught the end of the _Grayling’s_ mainboom. This of itself

was nothing serious. The sloop _Regina_ was, however, right ahead of

the _Grayling_, and by the _Mayflower_ pressing upon the _Grayling’s_

boom, the latter’s stern was pushed to windward, her bow swung off, and

in a moment her big bowsprit struck the _Regina’s_ mainsail just abaft

the mast. The little sloop keeled over to starboard, when her topmast

snapped, and the rigging came rattling down on her deck. Three of the

guests on board the _Regina_ became excited, and jumped overboard, and

then immediately started to swim for the boat which they had just left.

Lines were thrown from the _Grayling_ and caught by the swimmers, but

the big schooner did not lose her headway, and the men grasping the

rope were towed through the water.

[Illustration: I have the honor to remain, Elbridge T Gerry, Commodore

N.Y.Y.C.]

The _Electra_, _Grayling_, and _Mayflower_ soon had boats out, the

_Electra’s_ gig being first. By the time the excitement had subsided

all the yachts had crossed the line, and the faster boats were rapidly

moving to the front. Soon the _Volunteer_ passed the _Puritan_ and took

the lead, which she kept until almost to the line, only to be defeated

by the _Puritan_, after having victory apparently within her grasp.

The way in which Commodore Forbes regained the lead was a clever piece

of work. The _Volunteer_ was leading and was encountering a strong

head tide; but the _Puritan_ and others were rapidly overtaking her,

not being bothered with the tide, while they had the full advantage of

the wind. The _Puritan_ was soon equal with the leader, and though not

gaining, was gradually working toward the shore away from the current.

Meanwhile the _Volunteer_ had dropped anchor, not being able to make

any headway. As soon as the _Puritan_ came near the shore and out of

the strong current, she slowly moved toward the line, and crossed it a

victor. The results of the day’s run were:

FIRST CLASS SCHOONERS.

_Actual_

_Start._ _Finish._ _Time._

NAME. H. M. S. H. M. S. H. M. S.

Norseman 10 46 06 7 58 00 9 12 54

Palmer 10 47 07 7 59 45 9 12 38

Alarm 10 47 35 8 13 50 9 26 15

Dauntless 10 49 25 8 16 20 9 26 55

Wanderer 10 51 00 8 41 00 9 50 00

Ambassadress 10 51 35 -- -- -- -- -- --

Ramona 11 00 00 7 51 15 9 51 15

SECOND CLASS SCHOONERS.

Montauk 10 41 58 7 55 30 9 13 40

Gitana 10 44 00 -- -- -- -- -- --

Columbia 10 46 17 8 02 58 9 16 41

Intrepid 10 47 35 -- -- -- -- -- --

THIRD CLASS SCHOONERS.

Troubadour 10 43 30 8 34 30 9 51 00

Sea Fox 10 43 47 7 21 17 8 37 30

Sachem 10 44 43 7 23 45 8 39 02

Miranda 10 45 15 7 31 23 8 46 08

Grayling 10 48 08 7 21 17 8 33 09

Varuna 10 51 00 -- -- -- -- -- --

Elma 10 58 55 7 53 40 8 54 45

FOURTH CLASS SCHOONERS.

Iroquois 10 43 16 7 30 43 8 47 27

Halcyon 10 45 00 8 06 25 9 21 25

Marguerite 10 47 35 8 37 00 9 49 25

Magic 10 49 10 7 53 00 9 03 50

Clytie 10 51 00 -- -- -- -- -- --

FIFTH CLASS SCHOONERS.

Lydia 10 41 15 8 36 15 9 55 00

Clio 10 41 41 8 35 00 9 53 19

Harbinger 10 45 48 8 11 11 9 25 23

Lotus 10 57 00 -- -- -- -- -- --

Whim 11 00 00 -- -- -- -- -- --

FIRST CLASS SLOOPS.

Puritan 10 40 53 7 14 25 8 33 32

Volunteer 10 41 58 7 22 45 8 40 47

Mayflower 10 48 08 7 49 22 9 01 14

THIRD CLASS SLOOPS.

Pocahontas 10 42 40 8 12 35 9 29 55

Katrina 10 42 40 7 52 23 9 09 43

Huron 10 44 28 -- -- -- -- -- --

Bedouin 10 48 08 7 26 52 8 38 44

Fanny 10 50 37 -- -- -- -- -- --

Vision 10 54 22 8 34 30 9 40 08

Nonpareille 10 54 49 8 44 25 9 48 36

FOURTH CLASS SLOOPS.

Whileaway 10 45 48 -- -- -- -- -- --

Hildegarde 10 47 55 -- -- -- -- -- --

Thistle 10 48 08 8 26 00 9 37 52

Medusa 10 49 35 8 40 00 9 30 25

FIFTH CLASS SLOOPS.

Athlon 10 44 32 8 05 06 9 20 34

Bertie 10 45 48 -- -- -- -- -- --

Cinderella 10 47 35 -- -- -- -- -- --

SIXTH CLASS SLOOPS.

Crocodile 10 44 28 -- -- -- -- -- --

Regina 10 46 40 -- -- -- -- -- --

Nymph 10 52 20 8 08 58 9 16 38

~Winners~--Schooners--First class, Alarm; second, Montauk;

third, Grayling; fourth, Iroquois; fifth, Harbinger; Sloops--First

class, Puritan; third, Bedouin; fourth, Medusa; fifth, Athlon;

sixth, Nymph.

[Illustration: ELECTRA, THE FLAGSHIP--OWNED BY COMMODORE E. T. GERRY.]

During Sunday the fleet lay at anchor in Vineyard Haven. At a meeting

of the captains, held on board the flagship _Electra_, it was decided

to abandon the cruise to Marblehead for this year and to accept the

offer made by the Newport citizens, of cups, to be sailed for over

the Sow and Pigs course before the cruise terminated. It was also

decided to go to New Bedford on the day after the race for the Martha’s

Vineyard Cup, and then from New Bedford to go to Newport and sail the

race for the cup offered.

Monday, August 13, was the day set for the race for the Martha’s

Vineyard Cup, but after the flagship _Electra_ had taken her position

ready for the start the Regatta Committee decided to postpone the race.

On Monday, therefore, the yachts lay anchored in Vineyard Haven, while

their owners enjoyed themselves at Cottage City.

[Illustration: IROQUOIS--OWNER, T. JEFFERSON COOLIDGE, ESQ.]

On Tuesday, the day was clear and bright, with a wind strong and fresh

from the southwest. It was an ideal yachting day. The result was the

finest race of the cruise.

The prizes were a series of valuable cups offered by the citizens

of Martha’s Vineyard, as follows: $250 for keel schooners, $250 for

second-class centre-board schooners, $200 for third-class centre-board

schooners, $250 for first-class sloops, $200 for second-class sloops,

$150 for third-class sloops, $100 for fourth-class sloops and $100 for

fifth-class sloops.

The course gave a beat to windward of eighteen nautical miles to and

round a stakeboat off Gay Head and return to starting line off Cottage

City.

The starting signal was given at 10.10, and the _Puritan_ was again

first over the line. The _Alert_ was next, closely pursued by the _Sea

Fox_ and _Grayling_. General Paine was aboard the _Alert_, and it was

generally believed that his presence did not keep her back at all.

The wind increased shortly after the start, and soon a heavy sea came

rolling in from the eastward, striking the big sloops first. The

_Puritan_ was still leading, but the _Mayflower_ seemed to make better

weather of the seas, and soon passed to leeward of the _Puritan_.

About the same time the _Grayling_ ran through the _Sachem’s_ lee, and

the _Sea Fox_ was holding a splendid wind and going fast through the

water. She was to the windward of both the _Sachem_ and the _Grayling_.

Soon after the start the schooner _Palmer_ carried away her fore

gaff, but she held on under whole mainsail, fore topsail and jib.

The _Grayling_ and _Sachem_ had it hot for a while on the starboard

tack; the _Sachem_ got a little the best of the bout. The _Alert_ now

hoisted a small maintopmast staysail and came along at a slashing pace,

apparently outsailing all the schooners. The first mark of the course

to be turned was the bell buoy off Nobska Point, which was turned by

the leaders as follows: _Puritan_, 11.17.30; _Mayflower_, 11.18.45;

_Sachem_, 11.21.10; _Sea Fox_, 11.22.05; _Alert_, 11.25.00; _Grayling_,

11.29.00.

On the way from Nobska Point to Gay Head the wind rather moderated,

topmasts were sent up, and reefs shaken out on most of the boats. The

time taken at Gay Head stakeboat was as follows: _Puritan_, 12.42.50;

_Mayflower_, 12.47.00; _Sachem_, 12.50.30; _Alert_, 12.52.22; _Sea

Fox_, 12.53.26; _Grayling_, 12.58.32; _Miranda_, 1.01.45; _Montauk_,

1.14.00; _Iroquois_, 1.06.30; _Katrina_, 1.09.55.

It was a free wind from Gay Head to the finish off the Sea View House

at Cottage City. All the yachts sent their kites up soon after turning,

and all made splendid time. The _Alert_ was at a great disadvantage

here in not having any spinnaker or balloon topsails on board, so that

the _Miranda_ was able to overhaul her. The race between the _Sea Fox_

and _Sachem_ was most exciting and very close; the _Katrina_ also

pulled up on the _Bedouin_, but not enough to save her loss outside.

The _Grayling_ did not do as well as usual in this home run; she was

outsailed by both the _Sachem_ and _Sea Fox_. The finish line was

crossed in the following order: _Puritan_, _Sachem_, _Mayflower_, _Sea

Fox_, _Alert_, _Grayling_, _Miranda_, _Montauk_, _Iroquois_, _Bedouin_,

_Katrina_, _Intrepid_, _Troubadour_, _Hildegarde_, _Halcyon_, _Bertie_,

_Athlon_, _Vixen_, and _Usher_.

The following tables show the result:

FIRST CLASS SCHOONERS.

_Elapsed_ _Corr’d_

_Start._ _Finish._ _Time._ _Time._

NAME. H. M. S. H. M. S. H. M. S. H. M. S.

Alert 10 10 44 2 21 32 4 10 48 -- -- --

Intrepid 10 11 43 2 44 14 4 32 31 4 30 10

Miranda 10 11 45 2 27 55 4 16 10 4 05 14

Palmer 10 17 58 Did not finish.

Ramona 10 10 24 -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

SECOND CLASS SCHOONERS.

Sea Fox 10 11 23 2 20 08 4 09 45 4 08 23

Grayling 10 11 25 2 26 23 4 15 03 4 10 34

Sachem 10 11 48 2 17 08 4 06 20 4 04 33

Montauk 10 13 23 2 29 46 4 16 23 4 16 23

Troubadour 10 15 00 2 47 20 4 32 20 4 28 47

THIRD CLASS SCHOONERS.

Iroquois 10 12 10 2 34 12 4 22 02 4 22 02

Halcyon 10 14 59 3 10 38 4 55 39 4 54 54

FIRST CLASS SLOOPS.

Puritan 10 10 16 2 12 58 4 02 42 4 00 07

Mayflower 10 13 14 2 17 44 4 04 30 4 04 30

SECOND CLASS SLOOPS.

Bedouin 10 11 25 2 37 39 4 26 14 4 24 43

Katrina 10 14 26 2 42 37 4 28 11 4 28 11

THIRD CLASS SLOOPS.

Hildegarde 10 14 11 3 09 43 4 55 32 4 55 32

FOURTH CLASS SLOOPS.

Bertie 10 13 41 3 26 42 5 13 01 5 07 59

Athlon 10 20 00 3 59 45 5 39 45 5 39 45

FIFTH CLASS SLOOPS.

Vixen 10 16 30 4 01 30 5 45 00 -- -- --

Hesper 10 16 48 4 03 47 5 46 59 -- -- --

Thistle 10 16 54 -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

Winners and prizes: _Alert_, $250; _Sachem_, $250; _Iroquois_, $200;

_Puritan_, $250; _Bedouin_, $250; _Hildegarde_, $150; _Bertie_, $100,

and _Hesper_, $100.

On Wednesday morning the fleet started for New Bedford. The wind was a

regular sou’wester, and fast time was made.

The preparatory signal was given at 9.50, and ten minutes later the

starting gun was fired. The race abounded in exciting manœuvres, and

much good seamanship was displayed. It was a grand sight to watch the

_Sea Fox_, _Grayling_ and _Sachem_ contesting for first place, and so

close together were they at the finish that all three crossed the line

within one minute.

The following table shows the actual results of the race:

FIRST CLASS SCHOONERS.

_Elapsed_ _Corr’d_

_Start._ _Finish._ _Time._ _Time._

NAME. H. M. S. H. M. S. H. M. S. H. M. S.

Ramona 10 04 30 3 40 45 5 36 15 5 36 15

Palmer 10 20 00 3 54 04 5 34 04 5 31 59

Intrepid 10 02 56 3 42 42 5 39 46 5 37 21

THIRD CLASS SCHOONERS.

Grayling 10 00 56 3 03 07 5 02 11 4 58 38

Sea Fox 10 01 21 3 02 18 5 00 57 5 00 57

Sachem 10 02 15 3 03 09 5 00 54 4 59 27

FOURTH CLASS SCHOONERS.

Iroquois 10 01 21 3 26 15 5 25 54 5 23 54

Halcyon 10 02 09 Did not sail the course.

FIFTH CLASS SCHOONERS.

Lydia 10 02 59 5 09 23 7 08 24 -- -- --

Clio 10 01 21 4 07 14 6 05 53 -- -- --

Harbinger 10 00 38 Did not sail the course.

FIRST CLASS SLOOPS.

Puritan 10 00 35 3 03 40 5 02 05 4 59 26

Mayflower 10 02 19 Did not sail the course.

THIRD CLASS SLOOPS.

Pocahontas 10 02 52 3 56 20 5 53 28 Not meas.

Katrina 10 07 00 3 14 37 5 07 37 5 07 37

Bedouin 10 05 24 3 13 13 5 07 49 5 06 13

Fanny 10 11 27 Did not sail the course.

FOURTH CLASS SLOOPS.

Hildegarde 10 10 12 4 06 30 5 56 18 5 56 18

FIFTH CLASS SLOOPS.

Athlon 10 04 00 4 48 52 6 44 52 6 44 52

Bertie 10 01 16 4 35 10 6 33 54 6 28 43

Cinderella 10 01 31 4 39 56 6 38 25 6 37 39

Concord 10 04 12 Did not sail the course.

SIXTH CLASS SLOOPS.

Nymph 10 03 53 Did not sail the course.

Pappoose 10 04 30 5 07 31 7 03 01 -- -- --

~Winners~--First class schooners, Palmer; third class

schooners, Grayling; fourth class schooners, Iroquois; fifth class

schooners, Clio; first class sloops, Puritan; third class sloops,

Bedouin; fourth class sloops, Hildegarde; fifth class sloops,

Bertie; sixth class sloops, Pappoose.

In the evening a meeting of the captains was held on board the

_Electra_, after which a reception was given to the captains and their

guests by Commodore Gerry. On Thursday the fleet remained in New

Bedford harbor, and on signal all hands “dressed ship,” and the quaint

old harbor, with its whaling vessels along the docks, presented a very

pretty sight. During the afternoon cutter, gig and dingey races were

rowed. In the evening the visiting yachtsmen and their friends were

received by the local club.

When the preparatory signal was given on Friday morning for the final

run of the cruise, the wind blowing fresh from the southwest, caused

most of the yachts to house topmasts and tie two reefs in their

mainsails. The _Grayling_ crossed the line first, followed closely by

the _Puritan_ and _Lydia_. The great surprise of the day was the way

in which the _Mayflower_ “walked away” from the _Puritan_ and all the

others.

After the finish the yachts continued into Newport harbor. The results

of the day’s run were:

FIRST CLASS SCHOONERS.

_Elapsed_ _Corr’d_

_Start._ _Finish._ _Time._ _Time._

NAME. H. M. S. H. M. S. H. M. S. H. M. S.

Palmer 10 23 52 3 14 18 4 50 26 4 47 37

Intrepid 10 22 13 3 20 24 4 58 11 4 53 37

Dauntless 10 22 13 3 42 25 5 20 12 5 20 12

Ramona 10 31 29 4 35 22 6 03 53 6 03 04

THIRD CLASS SCHOONERS.

Sachem 10 23 00 3 06 08 4 43 08 4 43 18

Miranda 10 33 17 3 26 20 4 53 03 4 51 11

Grayling 10 21 07 Did not finish.

FOURTH CLASS SCHOONERS.

Iroquois 10 24 20 3 34 35 5 10 15 5 10 15

FIFTH CLASS SCHOONERS.

Clio 10 22 20 -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

Lydia 10 21 15 -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

FIRST CLASS SLOOPS.

Mayflower 10 23 17 2 30 04 4 06 47 4 06 47

Puritan 10 21 12 3 03 48 4 42 36 4 40 40

THIRD CLASS SLOOPS.

Bedouin 10 25 45 3 12 26 4 46 41 4 45 32

Katrina 10 23 55 3 10 55 4 47 00 4 47 00

FOURTH CLASS SLOOPS.

Hildegarde 10 21 45 3 59 54 5 34 09 5 38 09

FIFTH CLASS SLOOPS.

Bertie 10 22 29 4 07 19 5 44 50 5 41 03

Cinderella 10 24 30 4 27 44 6 03 14 6 02 40

Athlon 10 22 29 -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

Active 10 32 55 -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

SIXTH CLASS SLOOPS.

Papoose 10 25 29 4 41 22 6 15 53 -- -- --

Nymph 10 27 05 -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

Kelpie 10 35 00 -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

~Winners~--First class schooners, Palmer; third class

schooners, Sachem; fourth class schooners, Iroquois; first class

sloops, Mayflower; third class sloops, Bedouin; fourth class

sloops, Hildegarde; fifth class sloops, Bertie; sixth class sloops,

Pappoose.

On Saturday and Sunday the yachts remained in the harbor, and their

owners spent the time in Newport.

On Monday, August 20, the 50-mile race for the cups offered by the

citizens of Newport was sailed, but the wind being very light the event

caused much disappointment. The run was to be before the wind, and so

the big sloops lowered their spinnaker booms as they came toward the

line. The _Puritan_ crossed first, and next came the _Fanny_, noted

for her light-weather qualities, then the _Dauntless_, followed by the

_Alarm_, _Hildegarde_ and _Volunteer_ in the order given.

The _Volunteer_ gradually gained on the leader, passed her adversaries

one by one, and shortly before rounding the stakeboat was first. The

wind was light, and variable all day, and died out at most inopportune

times. The _Volunteer_ alone crossed the finish within the time limit.

At colors on Tuesday the fleet was formally disbanded, and so ended the

very successful cruise of 1888.

[Illustration: SACHEM--OWNERS, MESSRS. C. D. OWEN AND JESSE METCALF,

PROVIDENCE, R. I.]

[Illustration]

BASEBALL IN AUSTRALIA.

BY HARRY PALMER.

~Note.~--~Outing~ gladly places at the head of this article the

portrait of Mr. A. G. Spalding, the projector and promoter of the

American Baseball Tour to Australia.--~Editor.

[Illustration]

“Ho, for Australia!”

What a world of pleasant memories the thought must awaken in the heart

of every one who has plowed the depths of the broad Pacific; past the

land of the Kanakas and the dominion of King Kalakaua; on through the

Samoan group, to the shores of New Zealand; finally, under the light of

the Southern Cross, to drop anchor in the harbor of Sydney, the most

wonderful natural harbor in the world.

Just at present Australia and the Australians are objects of special

interest to a large majority of Americans. Next to home, young America

loves nothing so well as the national game of baseball. Popular

enthusiasm aroused by the game is a matter for wonder to all people

not Americans. This arises from the fact that in no other country is

baseball so thoroughly practised or understood. The probable reason

why England, Canada, Australia, and other countries, with their innate

love for sports and athletics, have not become enamored of the game, is

that our best exponents find America too attractive and profitable a

field, from a professional standpoint, to find time or opportunity for

introducing the pastime into other lands. Other considerations operate

against the scheme of a mission of instruction. The expense of taking

two selected teams abroad, the possibility of meeting unfavorable

weather, accidents to players, and numberless other obstacles,

would occur to the mind of any ambitious baseball manager who might

contemplate such a scheme.

An invasion of foreign territory was, however, made in 1875. The Boston

and Athletic teams, embracing many of the leading players of that

period, went to show the Englishmen the game of baseball as played in

America, and to play cricket with them.

In connection with that tour of ’75 Mr. A. G. Spalding, then the

hard-working young pitcher of the Boston Club, was a prominent figure.

Now, the same man, having become the head of the great mercantile house

that bears his name, is, with the same spirit, about to introduce the

game into a land ten thousand miles away. Bold as is the enterprise,

the man who has undertaken it has not only the nerve and courage to

carry it out, but also the ability to make the venture successful in

every sense of the word. That the Australians will be afforded the

opportunity to see the attractive features of the game demonstrated to

the best possible advantage, is assured by the make-up of the visiting

teams. If the Australian people admire a game in which skill, training,

endurance and daring are requisite qualifications, they will be

staunch admirers of America’s national game before the teams have half

finished their tour.

Twelve months ago no plan of the tour had been formulated. In January

of the present year it was for the first time seriously contemplated.

At that time Leigh S. Lynch, a gentleman widely known, and of long

experience in amusement enterprises, met Mr. Spalding, and the subject

of an Australian baseball tour, once broached, was seriously and fully

discussed. The greatest obstacle that had heretofore existed, viz.,

the want of a capable and experienced associate in the venture, was,

to Mr. Spalding’s mind, overcome by the advent of Mr. Lynch. Almost

immediately the two began to make arrangements for the tour, on which

they had with little hesitation decided. Captain Anson was interested

in the project, and together with Messrs. Lynch and Spalding,

entertained the view that there was but one policy to adopt if success

was to be attained. It must be an undertaking on a large scale. Money

would have to be expended without stint, and all chances taken of the

venture proving financially successful. In spite of their broad-minded

view of the case, and though the limit of expense for the trip was

placed at the liberal figure of $30,000, the venture has grown with

each month since its inception until it has attracted the attention and

awakened the interest of every lover of sport in England, America and

Australia by its magnitude.

In February Mr. Lynch started for Australia, and on his arrival

promptly secured the sole right to use the cricket grounds at Sydney

and Melbourne for baseball games during the winter of 1888-9. Before

returning to America he announced the contemplated tour to the press

of these cities. Much to his gratification, the news awakened marked

interest.

[Illustration:

JOHN M. WARD. LEIGH S. LYNCH. A. C. ANSON.

]

Hitherto baseball has never been introduced in Australia in such a

form as Americans know. Some few of the American residents in the

larger cities have played it in amateur fashion, but never have two

professional teams, such as these comprising the National League,

crossed bats upon Australian soil. It is, therefore, evident that the

tour will be watched with interest in America, while the reputation

of the Australians as lovers of all kinds of sport, together with the

attractive character of baseball, seem to promise the awakening of no

small degree of enthusiasm among them.

In America baseball has surpassed in public favor horse-racing, aquatic

and field sports of every character. Its growth has been one of nearly

twenty years, and with each succeeding year it has commanded an

increase in public patronage, until it has beyond all question become

the national game of Americans.

[Illustration: THE CHICAGO TEAM.

MARTIN SULLIVAN. F. N. PFEFFER. JOHN K. TENER.

MARK BALDWIN. ROB’T PETTITT. THOS. P. DALY.

JAMES RYAN. E. N. WILLIAMSON. THOS. BURNS.

A. C. ANSON, CAPTAIN (SEE PAGE 158).

]

[Illustration: THE ALL-AMERICAN TEAM.

EDWARD HANLON, DETROIT. JOHN HEALY, INDIANAPOLIS.

M. J. KELLY, BOSTON.

JAMES G. FOGARTY, PHILADELPHIA. M. J. TIERNAN, NEW YORK.

H. H. SIMPSON, NEWARK.

J. A. DONNELLY, WASHINGTON. F. H. CARROLL, PITTSBURG.

GEORGE A. WOOD, PHILADELPHIA.

JOHN M. WARD, NEW YORK, CAPTAIN (SEE PAGE 158).

]

In America there are two prosperous leagues, or associations, of

professional baseball clubs, known as the National League and the

American Association. These organizations are each composed of

eight clubs, each club being located in one of eight cities, which

comprise the circuit of each organization. Each organization has its

constitution and by-laws governing the affairs of each and every club

in membership, and each organization has its prearranged schedule of

games, which are played during each season. According to the schedule

of 1888, each team was scheduled to play 140 games during the

season--seventy at home with visiting teams, and an equal number

abroad, or ten games on the grounds of each competing club--the seasons

at home and abroad being so arranged as to give lovers of the game

two or three weeks of continuous ball playing, and then a like period

of rest. It is needless to say the return of the home team is made

the occasion of a great outpouring of people and a hearty reception

in each city of the circuit, while its fortunes in other cities are

eagerly followed by its friends at home. The daily press of the country

devotes columns of space in each issue to the victories and defeats on

the “diamond,” and in nearly all of the larger League and Association

cities the evening papers issue an extra edition containing the

accounts of the afternoon’s games. These find a large and ready sale,

not only in the cities where they are published, but each outgoing

train bears its package of “extras,” which are waited for by crowds of

expectant and impatient watchers at every station.

No attempt has been made in these lines to color the picture. Public

enthusiasm in America over the national game is something more than

the cleverest pen could depict. From day to day the relative standing

of the teams in the championship races is stated in tabulated form at

the head of the baseball column of every reputable American daily,

and the slightest change in the positions of the teams in the race is

sufficient cause for exultation in the home of the fortunate team, and

for a corresponding degree of depression in the home of the team that

has been supplanted in its position. The position of a team in the race

is determined by the percentage of the games it has won, the percentage

being determined by dividing the number of games won by those played.

Thus a team may have won 51 games and lost 47, consequently it has

played 98. Now, divide 51 by 98, adding to the dividend three ciphers,

and for a quotient you have .520, which would be the percentage of

games won to the number of games played by that team.

The theory of the game of baseball is in itself simple. It is that

two contesting teams must endeavor to send the greatest number of men

around the circuit of the bases under prescribed rules within a limited

number of innings. That is the cardinal point in the theory of the game.

Now, as to the rules and requirements to which players must adhere in

attempting to make the circuit of the bases, and the means by which

they can be prevented.

Each team must invariably consist of nine men, and the game must be

played upon a regularly marked or laid-out field, as illustrated upon

page 165.

The field, it will be seen, consists of a continuous runway, these

runways being clay-covered paths, laid out in the shape of a huge

diamond. At each corner of the diamond is a basebag of canvas filled

with sand or other material, and strapped securely to the ground.

Now, to the average American youth, the duties of the players in

two contesting ball teams, and their positions upon the field, are

known in a general way. There are many spectators, even in America,

however, who, if asked to explain the simplest points in a game,

would find themselves lamentably ignorant upon the subject. Baseball

correspondents, writers, professional players and rule makers, probably

because long experience has made them thoroughly familiar with the

rules and terms of the national game, have fallen into the use of

technicalities, that in many instances cause the game to seem intricate

to the uninitiated. In truth, however, the game’s greatest charm is

its simplicity, combined with the manifold opportunities it offers for

brilliant and daring work by the players. A simple description of the

cardinal points in the game, therefore, divested of all technical terms

that cannot be plainly defined, will, perhaps, aid many a reader in

America, as well as in other countries, to understand baseball, where

the simple reading of the professional playing rules, framed by the

rules committee, would mystify rather than inform a reader not already

familiar with the game.

Let it be understood, therefore, that the basebags are known as first,

second, third base and home plate, first base being the first bag to

the right of the batsman as the latter faces the pitcher. The distance

between bases is ninety feet. The players are known as pitcher,

catcher, first baseman, second baseman, short-stop, third baseman,

right fielder, centre fielder, and left fielder. The pitcher (or

bowler) stands in the centre of the diamond, within prescribed lines

four feet wide by five feet four inches long, known as the pitcher’s

box. The forward line of the pitcher’s box is fifty feet from the

home plate, which the pitcher faces when ready to deliver the ball,

and beside which the batsman stands as he faces the pitcher. Behind

the home plate stands the catcher, it being his duty to receive the

ball from and return it to the pitcher, should it not be batted by the

batsman. Just behind the catcher stands the umpire, who is expected

to judge every ball pitched and every play made during the game, his

decision being final in every instance. At first base stands the first

baseman, and at second base stands the second baseman. The short-stop

is stationed midway between the second and third basemen, in or near

the runway, and the third baseman at third base. These four men

constitute the “infield” of the team. Facing the diamond, and stationed

from 100 to 125 yards from the infield, are the right, centre, and left

fielders. These men constitute the “outfield” of the team.

The choice of going to bat or to the field for the opening innings of

the game is optional with the captain of the home team--that is, the

team upon whose grounds the game is being played. Should he decide

to send his men to the field, he stations them as above indicated,

while the nine players of the opposing team take their seats upon the

visiting players’ bench. These players go to bat in the order in which

their names appear upon the score card. When the fielding team has

taken its position, the first batsman of the opposing team steps to

the plate, and others follow him in regular turn, until three batsmen

have been retired by the efforts of the opposing fielders. Then the

positions of the teams are reversed, the side which was at bat going to

the field, and the side which was doing fielding duty coming in to take

their turn at bat in regular order. When three of the second team’s

batsmen have been retired, or put out by the efforts of the opposing

fielders, the innings is ended, each team having sent three or more

men to bat, and each having had three men retired. Nine such innings,

requiring from one hour and a half to one hour and fifty minutes of

play, constitute a game, and the team which has scored the most runs

wins the game. Should rain, or any other cause, stop the game before

five full innings have been played, however, the game must be contested

over again before it can count in a championship record.

When the batsman steps to the plate he is expected to hit the ball so

that it will pass the intercepting fielders, and go to such distance

in the outfield as will enable him to reach first base before the ball

can be returned to the fielder stationed there. If he can reach second

or third base, or make the entire circuit of the bases before the ball

has been intercepted by any one of the infielders, or before it has

been captured by an outfielder and returned to the infield, so much the

better, for the base-runner’s object is to ultimately make the circuit

and touch the home plate, by which he scores a run for his side. To

put a batsman out, a fielder must catch the batted ball before it has

reached the ground, or must recover it in time to throw it to the base

for which the base-runner is making, before the base-runner reaches it.

The pitcher is required by the rules to pitch the ball _over the plate

and between the knee and shoulder of the batsman_. Each time he tries

and fails to do so the umpire calls “ball,” and upon five such balls

being pitched, the batsman is entitled to take first base. When three

_fair_ balls have been put over the plate, however, and the batsman has

failed to hit them, the batsman is _out_, whether he has struck at the

ball or not. For each fair ball the umpire calls “strike.”

From the home plate along the runways to and past first and third

bases, are drawn two chalk lines. These are known as foul lines, and

any ball batted outside these lines is called a foul ball, and does

not count against either the pitcher or batsman unless it should be

caught by a fielder before touching the ground, in which case the

batsman is out. Very frequently a swiftly pitched ball is struck at by

the batsman, who fails to correctly judge it, and the ball being just

grazed by the bat, shoots into the catcher’s hand. This is called a

“foul tip,” and puts the batsman out.

When the innings begins, and there are no base-runners on bases, the

catcher usually stands well back from the plate and takes the ball on

the bound, so as to save his hands as much as possible. When three

balls or two strikes have been called by the umpire, however, or when

a batsman has succeeded in reaching first base on a hit, or by other

means, the catcher puts on his protecting mask and pad and stands close

up behind the batsman, taking the balls as they come over the plate.

This is done that he may more quickly take advantage of any opportunity

that may offer to put the batsman out, or retire the base-runner, who

may already have reached first base.

There are many terms applied to the different plays in a game of

baseball, which, as a rule, are but imperfectly understood. The writer

has known a spectator who, though familiar with the make-up of every

ball team in the League and Association, was so ignorant of baseball

parlance as to call a “foul tip” a “fly,” an “out” from second to

first baseman a “sacrifice,” and a “wild pitch” a “wild throw.” An

understanding of all the terms used in connection with the game is, of

course, not requisite to a reasonably clear conception of the points

therein, yet ability to designate a play and a player’s position

correctly, is positively necessary in scoring.

A careful perusal of the following terms and their meaning will greatly

help the uninitiated to follow the playing and grasp its significance:

A Batsman is the player who stands at the plate for the purpose of

hitting the ball. A Base-runner is what the batsman becomes after he

has batted the ball. A Fielder is any one of the nine players opposing

the side at bat. A Coacher is one of the players belonging to the

side at bat, who takes up his position near first or third base, and

advises, or coaches, the base-runner. The Battery--A term usually

applied to the catcher and pitcher. The Back-stop--A term sometimes

applied to the catcher. The Infield--A term applied to the first,

second, third baseman and short-stop. The Outfield--A term applied to

the right, centre, and left fielders. A Strike--A strike is called

when the ball has passed over the home plate, between the knee and

shoulder of the batsman, whether he has struck at it or not; three

strikes send the batsman to his seat. A Ball--“Ball” is called by

the umpire when the ball delivered by the pitcher has passed above

the shoulder or below the knee of the batsman, or has gone wide of

the plate; five balls so delivered entitle the batsman to take his

base. A Foul Hit--Any hit which sends the ball outside of the foul

lines. A Fair Hit--Any hit which sends the ball across the diamond so

that it will land inside the foul lines. A Fly-ball--A ball hit into

the air and caught by a fielder before it touches the ground; such a

catch retires the batsman. A Liner--A ball batted straight across the

diamond toward any infielder. A Grounder--A batted ball which strikes

the ground inside the diamond. A Wild Pitch--An unsteady delivery

of the ball by the pitcher which passes the catcher, and permits a

base-runner to advance a base. A Passed Ball--A ball which bounds

from the catcher’s hands on coming from the pitcher, and permits a

base-runner to advance a base; each base-runner may start for the base

ahead of him on a passed ball or wild pitch, and hold it, provided he

reaches it before the catcher recovers the ball, and sends it to the

fielder at the bag for which the base-runner is making. A Muff--The

failure of a fielder to hold a fly or thrown ball after it has fairly

struck his hands. A Fumble--The failure of a fielder to quickly

handle and throw a batted ball to the base for which the base-runner

is making. A Steal--Frequently a base-runner will start for the base

ahead of him immediately upon the pitcher’s delivering the ball, and

depending upon his sprinting ability for success; if he succeeds he

may be said to have stolen a base; if he fails, through the catcher’s

receiving the ball and throwing it to the fielder at the base for which

the base-runner is making, the latter may be said to have been put out

on an attempted steal. An Error--When a fielder fumbles or muffs a

ball, or fails to stop a batted ball which it may be fairly presumed

he _could_ have stopped, or when he in any way fails to make the play

he might and should have made, he has been guilty of an error, and is

charged with the same in the score. A Wild Throw is a ball thrown over

the head or out of reach of the fielder to whom it is directed, thus

permitting a base-runner to gain a base. A Base Hit--A base hit is a

ball so batted toward fair ground that the opposing fielders cannot

reach it before it strikes the ground, or so that they cannot recover

it in time to throw it to the base before the base-runner reaches

there; a base hit may be for one, two, three, or four bases, according

to the distance to which the ball is batted. A Single is a base hit

upon which the batsman reaches first base, usually referred to as a

_safe_ hit. A Double is a hit upon which the batsman reaches second

base. A Triple is a hit upon which the batsman reaches third base. A

Home Run is a hit upon which the base-runner makes the entire circuit

of the bases. A Double Play is a play by the fielders which retires

two men simultaneously. A Triple is a play that retires three men

simultaneously; for instance, a double play may be made thus: with a

base-runner on first base, the batsman sends a grounder to the second

baseman; immediately the ball is hit, the base-runner on first starts

for second and is touched out by the second baseman as he passes him,

and then the second baseman quickly throws to first base, the first

baseman receiving the ball before the base-runner gets there, thus two

men are retired; should the first baseman, after putting his man out at

first, then throw to the home plate in time to shut off a base-runner

running in from third base, it would be a triple play. A Slide--When

a base-runner sees that there is a chance of the fielders getting the

ball to the base for which he is making before he gets there himself,

he will plunge head first, or feet first, for the bag, sliding over the

ground upon his stomach or back, a distance of ten feet or more to the

base; this is called base-sliding, and is a reckless and daring feature

of the game that invariably arouses much enthusiasm in America. A Balk

is any motion made by the pitcher as though he intended to deliver

the ball, but made for the purpose of deceiving the base-runner; a

balk advances a base-runner a base. A Blocked Ball is a ball batted

or thrown into the crowd; in case of a “block” the base-runner may

continue on around the bases without being put out until the ball has

been returned to the pitcher’s box. Hit by Pitched Ball--When a batsman

is hit by a pitched ball he is entitled to his base then and there. A

Sacrifice Hit--A fly-ball (usually to the outfield) so batted as to

retire the batsman but assist a base-runner on first, second, or third

base to reach the base ahead of him.

To return, however, to the Australian expedition. The tour is now

begun, and the party of ball players is this month _en route_ to

the Pacific coast by slow stages, in order that the teams may play

exhibition games in the more populous cities between Chicago and San

Francisco. There are among them twenty-two ball players--including

Captains Ward and Anson--half a dozen representatives of the leading

newspapers of the country, OUTING’S special correspondent, and quite

a number of tourists who have taken advantage of the opportunity and

the reduced rates to make the trip. In addition to these there are:

President Spalding and family, Mrs. John M. Ward, _née_ Helen Douvray,

the well-known actress, and Mrs. Anson. The journey is performed in two

special cars, with hotel and sleeping accommodations, these cars going

through to San Francisco. As to the program of the party from the time

of leaving Salt Lake City, it was admirably outlined to the writer by

Leigh Lynch before his departure for Australia in September to prepare

the way for the teams at points between Chicago and San Francisco, at

Honolulu, Auckland, Sydney, Melbourne, and other points in New Zealand

and Australia which the teams will visit. Mr. Lynch’s present trip is

the fourth he has made, and his knowledge upon every point of interest

connected with the present tour is complete.

This was his plan of campaign: “Our design is that the teams shall

separate at Salt Lake City, the All-American team, under Ward’s

management, proceeding direct to San Francisco, where a series of

games will be played with the San Francisco ball clubs. The Chicago

team, under Anson’s management, will, on the other hand, go up through

Oregon and Washington Territories to Portland, Seattle, Spokane Falls,

and other points, afterwards going south from Portland, where it will

join the All-American team. Two exhibition games will be played by

the combined teams in San Francisco before sailing. The sailing hour

is fixed for two ~P. M.~, November 17; but I shall endeavor to

arrange with the steamship company to defer it till eight o’clock,

so that we may play our farewell game the day we leave. Many of the

players have already visited San Francisco, consequently they will not

care to do much sight-seeing.

“After leaving San Francisco, the trip will, however, be replete with

interest for the party. From the time the _Alameda_ passes through the

Golden Gate, we shall have a continuous voyage of seven days before we

strike land. These seven days will constitute a sort of preparatory

period for what is to follow, and every member of the party will want

to get his sea-legs as soon as possible. Our steamer, the _Alameda_,

is the best equipped boat in the line, of 3,200 tons measurement, and

provided with electric lights, baths, and every convenience of a modern

house. The table is excellent, and the officers considerate and kind in

every way.

“A voyage across the Pacific is rarely attended by such rough weather

as one encounters upon the Atlantic, and as a rule the great ocean is

true to its name. On board ship every possible method is adopted to

pass the time. There is music and dancing on the deck, and the ordinary

ship’s games, while nothing is more delightful than to lie back in

a blanket-covered steamer-chair and gaze at the seemingly boundless

ocean stretching away on every side. The fragrant breezes of the South

Pacific fan the brow, and the light from a gorgeous moon and a million

stars flood the deck and sails of the ship which is steadily plowing

along through the billows of the mightiest stretch of water upon the

globe. Nowhere can one so truly realize the grandeur and the immensity

of nature as on the Pacific Ocean.

“At Honolulu the tourists will see with surprise the high state of

civilization and cultivation encountered on every hand. Honolulu is

upon the island of Oahu, and has a population of about 25,000 people,

including whites, natives, and Chinese. The harbor is natural, and

the city very handsomely constructed. The public parks are among the

most beautiful in the world. The trees and shrubberies at night blaze

with incandescent electric lights, and colored fountains play, while

the walks are ornamented at every turn with artistic statuary. The

royal band, which gives concerts nightly at the Royal Hawaiian Hotel,

is without doubt one of the best I ever heard, and I have heard the

bands of every civilized nation. The drives surrounding the city are

naturally beautiful and are admirably cared for. The Kanakas are a

remarkable and interesting race. Their skin is dark, not unlike that

of the American Indian, the features small and regular, and the hair

straight and luxuriant. They are excellent swimmers, and invariably

surround every steamer that touches at Honolulu, eager to exhibit their

skill for the most trivial recompense.

“We stop at Honolulu between twelve and fifteen hours, and play two

games of ball--one between the Chicagos and All-Americans, and the

other between the Chicagos and the local Honolulu team, which, by the

way, is very good. I shall endeavor to arrange so that King Kalakaua

may witness both games, and think I shall be able to do so, for he is

very fond of athletics.

“Seven days after leaving Honolulu we stop at Tutuila, in the Samoan

group. It is distant about 2,000 miles from the Hawaiian capital,

and nearly as far south of the Equator as Honolulu is north. Twelve

hundred miles from Honolulu our ship crosses the Equator, and Neptune

is invariably received with due honors upon every boat that passes the

line.

“Six days after leaving Tutuila, where our ship stops only two or three

hours, we reach Auckland, the capital of New Zealand. There we stop

about ten hours and propose to give the inhabitants a game of ball.

Auckland is a pretty provincial town, of about 40,000 people, built in

the English style. The cricket grounds are among the finest I ever saw.

“From Auckland we go to Sydney, and there our Australian tour proper

commences. So much has been said of the cities of Sydney and Melbourne

that the less I say now, perhaps, the better.

“When we leave America we shall leave not far from midwinter. When we

arrive in Australia we shall arrive in midsummer, for our December is

their July. So it will be necessary to the comfort of every member of

our party to dress for the trip just as though they were providing for

an approaching summer at home. A steamer coat may be a good thing to

carry with one, as the nights are at times chilly.

“As to the program of the ball teams in Australia, that I cannot give

you definitely now. Suffice it to say, however, that our teams will

stand ready to meet Australian cricket elevens or football teams at

any city they visit, and that as a result of their visit baseball will

be better known, and probably better liked, by the Australian people

when we bid farewell to Sydney. There will be ball games in Sydney,

Melbourne, Adelaide, Bathurst, Ballarat, and every other point that we

can visit to advantage. As to the recreative features of the trip, I

feel sure they will be taken care of. Australians are a generous and

hospitable people, and the visiting teams will doubtless become well

acquainted in every city they visit. Of course we shall have a kangaroo

round-up, while there will be many interesting and novel sights to

entertain our party from the time we arrive on the continent until we

leave it.”

[Illustration: A BASEBALL TEAM IN POSITION ON THE FIELD.]

To Mr. A. G. Spalding, the principal baseball legislator in America,

and the head of the Chicago Club, is due the credit of the enterprise.

His pluck, money and position made the project feasible.

To Leigh Lynch, the business manager, is due the credit of having

perfected all details, a duty for which his long experience as an

amusement enterprise manager fully qualifies him. For nine years he

was associated with Mr. A. M. Palmer as business manager of the Union

Square Theatre, New York City, afterward becoming acting manager of

Niblo’s. During the winter of 1887 he assumed management for Mrs.

Langtry. He has traveled all over the globe; is familiar with the

peoples of all countries; is well informed upon any topic, and is

possessed of influential friends in every civilized nation. Both in

capability and experience Mr. Lynch is a valuable ally to Mr. Spalding.

As to the players, they will form representative teams in every sense

of the word. The Chicagos, under the captaincy of Anson, embracing

the flower of the regular team’s talent, will go as a well trained,

thoroughly drilled body of ball players, capable of putting up as

strong, finished, and brilliant a game of ball for the edification

of the Australian people as Americans have ever had the privilege of

witnessing. Anson, Pfeffer, Williamson and Burns will certainly be

as representative an infield as Pettitt, Ryan and Sullivan are an

outfield. Baldwin and Tenner, with Tom Daly and Frank Flint to hold

down their delivery, can without doubt ably illustrate the points in

battery work. All are gentlemanly, experienced, and capable men, and

can as a body, and individually, scarcely fail to prove a credit to the

game and to America upon the coming trip.

The All-American team, traveling under the captaincy of John M. Ward,

the popular and intelligent ex-captain of the New Yorks, is composed

of men picked from the ranks of the representative ball teams of

America. They have been chosen not only for their proficiency as ball

players, but because of their clean professional records. Kelly, Wood,

Fogarty, Hanlon, Carroll, Tiernan, and the balance of the players who

compose the All-American team, are all capable of coping with Chicago,

so as to give all who witness the coming games abroad some admirable

illustrations of America’s National Game.

THE UNIFORM OF THE TEAMS.

CHICAGO.

Light gray shirts and knee breeches, with black stockings, caps and

belts; black letters across the breast, ~Chicago~.

ALL-AMERICAN.

White flannel shirts, knee breeches, with blue stockings; blue

letters across the breast denoting the home club of the individual,

thus, ~New York~, etc.; caps of blue and white flannel;

belts of white duck, covered with American flag of silk draped

round waist and knotted on left hip.

[Illustration]

LOVE AT FISHING.

Put one arm here, and with the other fling

The silken string,

Steel hook, and gadfly bait into the cool,

Transparent pool,

And drive love’s prattle tiptoe ’cross the lip,

Or let it turn to language-gaze, and sip

Its honey from a stillness. Watch the dip

And glimmer of the cork, and how they slip--

The scarlet fish--below the water, like

The thoughts that strike

Athwart the mind. How else could lovers wish

Than thus to fish?

Though I have cut no strand of yellow hair

To spin my silken cord from what you wear,

In long warm tresses over face, to stare

Through quaintly; nor a golden hook to snare

The water’s fruit! or more than this cool nook,

With that one look

Between the willow branches at the sky

From where we lie,

Edged round with ribbon grasses tangled in

The lover’s knots, as if they meant to win

Love hither by a meaning that is kin;

For nature holds love’s thought and origin!

That bird dropped down upon the pool’s near hem

Like a red gem,

Shook off the hand; and left a vision glint,

That faint song-print--

Just gone.... Mark how the fishes flit and chase,

Lit to a passion, ’cross the water’s face--

So like the minutes moving in the space

Of this one day. What are the words they trace

Therein?... That bird flew to its nest just now

Upon the bough.

The stooping sun trails long red fingers through

The grass. The dew

Slips off the willow leaves. It cannot be

The day is over, and the fish still free--

Except the fish of happiness that we

Have caught; with love’s gold ring for you and me!

_Edward A. Valentine._

[Illustration: Editor’s Open ~Window~.]

Franklin Satterthwaite, a genial sportsman, a good fellow, and a

journalist whose pen ofttimes described the sports and pastimes

he loved so well, died September 16, at his home in Newark. Mr.

Satterthwaite was among the best known writers on field sports in this

country. He was the son of John B. Satterthwaite, who married Miss

Duane, a daughter of the celebrated W. J. Duane, Secretary of the

Treasury during Andrew Jackson’s presidency. Franklin Satterthwaite

was brought up in Philadelphia. The name of Franklin descended to him

from his great grandfather, Benjamin Franklin. He had a wide circle

of friends. His place will be missed among the men who love outdoor

sports, for Franklin Satterthwaite was not only an enthusiast in their

pursuit, but his ready pen never flowed so freely as when recounting

some exciting or interesting adventure of flood or field. May his name

continue as green in the memory of those who knew and loved him as the

sod which covers his grave!

* * * * *

THE DISSENSIONS IN THE ATHLETIC WORLD.

It is a matter for regret, that just at this season the National

Amateur Athletic Association and the Amateur Athletic Union should be

at daggers’ points with each other. It is to be deplored particularly

now, when a visiting organization is here, three thousand miles from

home, to engage in contests for championship honors. That the main

object the two great organizations of amateur athletes have in view is

praiseworthy is not for a moment put to question. It is to be presumed

that both are influenced by a similar idea--the purification, or

the attempted purification, of the athletic arena from the taint of

semi-professionalism.

Young men who interest themselves in outdoor amusements belong to

one of two classes--the amateur or the professional. Strange as it

may seem, it is not so easy to draw the line between the two. The

gentlemen, however, who are in a position to pilot the course of the

great athletic bodies, and frame the rules for their government,

certainly ought to be able to discriminate. A man who interests

himself in athletic sports is either an amateur or a professional. He

either goes in for pastime or sport; for the love of it, or for the

gain it affords him; the badge or medal for the one--the purse for

the other. The lines between these two are so strongly marked that a

blind man can feel them. There is, however, a class of men who have

crept into the amateur ranks which requires careful watching. We refer

to those who are neither amateurs or professionals, but for want of a

better designation may be classed as “professional amateurs.” These

men will not enter the professional arena for purses, but they do

not hesitate to become members of amateur clubs under questionable

conditions. Men who devote nearly all their time to training on the

cinder track, on the river, on the bicycle path, or in the baseball

field, and who do not pay club dues, or who have their club dues paid

for them, are tainted with the worse taint of professionalism. To

pit one of these men against the amateur enthusiast, who goes in for

outdoor sports for the pure love of them, is manifestly unfair. He has

no chance to distinguish himself, if he feels so inclined, against

such odds. It also discourages other younger amateurs from making a

trial in the public contests. To protect the honest amateur athlete,

the genuine lover of sport, against the tricksters who, under the

guise of amateurs, do nothing else but hang about club-houses, and

who are encouraged because they are “smart”--“smart” in more senses

than one--is an accomplishment worthy of any great body. If this is

the knotty problem which lies directly at the base of the difficulty

between the two great central bodies of American amateur athletes, it

ought not to be a difficult one to solve; but on the other hand, if it

is a desire on the part of one to carry out a policy of rule or ruin,

the sooner an understanding is arrived at the better. We have invited

both the National Association and the Amateur Athletic Union to state

their cases fairly in the pages of ~Outing~, and we await their

action without further comment.

* * * * *

THE FOOTBALL SEASON.

The season of football just inaugurated gives every evidence of being

an active one. The interest in the game has increased to such an

extent in the last few seasons that the sport has rapidly advanced to

a leading position among the outdoor amusements of this country. The

recent victories of the Canadian team in England and Scotland, too,

have given an additional impetus to the game with the sturdy young

men across the border. If the promise of the preliminary preparations

produce good fruit the present season of football here and in Canada

will be a most exciting one.

* * * * *

THE CLOSE OF THE YACHTING SEASON.

The season of the year is now with us when the yachts comprising the

American pleasure fleets go out of commission. With topmasts housed,

sails unbent, and running gear coiled away below, they will lie up in

winter berths until May, 1889.

Now, therefore, is the time to ask: “What has the season of 1888

done for yachting in America?” and ~Outing~ answers, “Much.”

True, we have had no international race, but what of that? When our

friends in England are ready to challenge, we are ready to build, and

meanwhile the interval has been profitably spent on both sides of

the Atlantic. The Englishmen have been building boats to beat their

previous productions. And so have Americans, with very satisfactory

results. Our keel boats have done well, but the centreboards have done

better. It has been a lively season, with more events and better racing

and cruising than any previous. New boats have broken old records,

and two important features have been developed, _i. e._, schooner

racing, and “class racing.” At no time in the past ten years has there

been such interest in the former class of sport, while the results

of the latter were shown in the recent races off Larchmont. There

half a dozen boats of almost equal dimensions--_Pappoose_, _Baboon_,

_Nymph_, etc.--contested, and the results proved that it is not only

more interesting to the spectator, but also very satisfactory to the

yachtsmen whose boat has too often been hampered by being compelled to

sail in annual races in a class with others nearly double her length.

Class racing should be encouraged in New York waters, as it is in

Boston and on the Lakes.

There has been much said this season about a summer club-house down the

bay for the New York Yacht Club, but nothing definite has been done

toward securing one as yet. It appears very necessary that the premier

club of America should have an anchorage and house somewhere near the

point from which their races are started. The club that has shown the

most enterprise this year is the Larchmont. They have not only provided

themselves with what may be justly termed the most perfectly appointed

club-house in the country, but by inaugurating the class-racing spoken

of, and encouraging the sailing of small boats by Corinthian crews,

they have made themselves deservedly popular among all classes of

yachtsmen. Boston, Marblehead, Hull, Beverley and Dorchester as usual

wind up the season with the longest roll of events to their credit.

It seems curious that our New York yachtsmen do not join and organize

a Yacht Racing Association, by which the time allowances, and other

racing details, might be governed. The Eastern Association, that meets

in Boston, have all the principal clubs on their roll, and they have

done much good work since they started.

~J. C. Summers.~

* * * * *

THE EXPENSES OF THE KENNEL.

Few but those who are intimately acquainted with the minutest details

of keeping and training thoroughbred dogs can estimate the vast amount

of time, labor and money expended nowadays on the canine race. This

time, labor and money all go for the improvement and elevation of the

dog, for scientific breeding, and preparation for shows and field

trials.

With the daily increase of bench shows, we witness quickly growing

extravagance in the prices paid for high-class dogs, and see money

spent with a freer hand for dog furnishings and kennel accommodations.

Dog furnishings alone, including such articles as collars of all

grades, blankets, muzzles, leads, chains, snaps, swivels, couplings,

etc., etc., and kennel fixtures, from dog-houses and porcelain-lined

food-pans down to brushes, combs, dog-soap, and multitudinous patent

medicines for every ailment, employ hundreds and hundreds of people of

both sexes throughout the year, and these industries are undoubtedly on

the increase.

As to prices paid for dog-flesh, we can cite a few, some of which have

come under our personal notice. For instance, it is well known that the

owner of the pointer dog Beaufort could have found a purchaser for him

at any moment at a figure somewhat better than a thousand dollars; in

fact, it is understood that that figure was about the price paid for

him when little more than a pup. Another instance is the sale of the

liver and white pointer Robert le Diable, at the New York show a year

ago, for one thousand dollars. Again, we have the huge St. Bernard

Rector, sold by Mr. E. R. Hearn to Fritz Emmet, bringing four thousand.

Then, in the case of the English pointer Graphic, twenty-seven hundred

was the cost of his transfer from one gentleman’s kennels to another’s,

and the instance of the collie Bendigo, at the Westminster Kennel

Club’s show last spring, bringing a thousand and a half in cash,

showed how much his present owner wanted him. Now comes the latest

thing in this line. That great and noble St. Bernard, loved throughout

England, and for whom at his departure from his native place children

wept and people of maturer years grew sad, has come to us--we refer to

that grand dog Plinlimmon. Much ink was wasted and many offers made

before his recent owner could be induced to part with him; at last the

climax was reached, however, when a most luring and seductive bait of

_one thousand pounds_ was offered, which sealed the good dog’s fate.

He is in this country now, having lately arrived on the _Britannic_.

Mastiffs, too, have been bringing long prices, with spaniels (the black

variety) and setters, some of these kennels being worth a small fortune

in themselves. So, with new additions every month to the list of shows,

dog interests increase and values enhance, until well-bred specimens

may be seen at every hand where formerly mongrels predominated.

~Nomad.~

* * * * *

FENCING.

With the return of cold weather, fencing comes once again to the

fore. Indeed, fencing is growing more popular every year. We remember

the time--and that not many years ago--when there was but a single

professor of the art in New York, and a pretty poor one at that. Now,

fencing academies are cropping up in all parts of the city. Fencing

clubs are numerous and well attended. The two leading ones are the

Knickerbocker and the Fencers’ Club. The two great athletic clubs of

New York encourage fencing by devoting large and convenient rooms

for _salles d’armes_, and giving valuable prizes to the winners of

contests. The Manhattan has secured the services of Professor Louis

Rondelle, the able and courteous master of the Knickerbocker. They

promise magnificent fencing rooms in their new building, which will be

the finest in America.

~Outing~ would like the secretaries of all the fencing clubs to

report about the doings of their fellow-members. We will also furnish

all desired information about fencing and fencers. An article on

“Fencing for Ladies,” by Mr. Eugene Van Schaick, the author of “A Bout

with the Foils,” and “A Bout with the Broadsword,” will be published in

one of the early numbers of ~Outing~ for 1889.

[Illustration: ~The Outing Club.~]

REVIVAL OF A FINE OLD ENGLISH GAME.

The average young Canadian is more devoted to outdoor sports in all

kinds of weather than his American neighbor. Even those among the

Canucks whose hair is silver-sabled, as well as they whose locks are

sable-silvered--to quote a phrase from that delightful old boy, the

Autocrat, of Boston, as true a sportsman as ever breathed or wrote--are

more devoted to almost all kinds of vigorous exercise, driving,

perhaps, excepted, than those who live in the dominions of Uncle Sam.

Not only do cricket, baseball, tennis and curling find thousands of

enthusiastic players in Canada, but shinty, golf, and bowls have their

adherents. The game last mentioned has of late taken an extraordinary

hold in Ontario. Its great recommendation is that it is found to give

just the degree of exercise in the open air to make it especially

agreeable to those of middle age or to those

“Whose age is as a lusty youth,

Frosty, but kindly.”

Lawn bowls resembles curling somewhat. In fact it consists in trying

to do on level grass what it is the object of curlers to accomplish on

smooth ice, _i. e._, to get one side’s bowls near a central object and

to cut out those of the other side. Another point of resemblance is

that the “in-turn” or “out-turn” of the curling-stone is initiated by

the “fore-hand” or “back-hand” bias of the _lignum-vitæ_ bowl. There

is, however, no sweeping at bowls, so that the assistance, real or

imaginary, toward the progress of a stone that a roaring and perspiring

curler derives from his efforts with the broom, is denied to the bowler.

Outing; Vol. XIII.; October, 1888 to March, 1889 An Illustrated Monthly Magazine of Recreation. · 第 1 / 16 章