Produced by Annie R. McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]
Copyright, 1896, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.
* * * * *
PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, APRIL 28, 1896. FIVE CENTS A COPY.
VOL. XVII.--NO. 861. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.
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[Illustration]
THE APPRENTICESHIP OF ARTHUR.
BY FRANCIS STERNE PALMER.
One evening early in April two boys of about fifteen were talking
together at the home of one of them in New York city. They were close
friends as well as classmates in one of the largest schools for boys in
the city. In a few days this school closed for the spring vacation.
George Corey, who was a stalwart, athletic fellow, was speaking. "How
about the vacation, Arthur? Have you made any plans for spending it?"
"There are several works on chemistry that I want to read, and I think
I'll give the two weeks up to them," said the other, somewhat wearily.
He had a pale, intellectual face, and his languid movements were in
strong contrast to his friend's healthy alertness.
George laid his hand on his friend's shoulder. "See here, Arthur, you'll
kill yourself studying. I know it's fine in you to be ambitious and to
work so, and some day you're going to be a great scientist and make us
all proud of you. But you mustn't neglect your body altogether--'a
healthy brain in a healthy body,' as some old philosopher says."
"But there are so many things one ought to learn," protested the other.
"Yes, and there are some things that can't be learned from books. Now
I've a plan to propose to you. You know my uncle has a cottage at
Chateaugay Lake in the Adirondacks; I've visited him several times in
the autumn, and had a fine time. At this season, of course, there is no
shooting; but there's the fishing, and, I dare say, plenty of other
things to do. My uncle's there now for the salmon-trout fishing, and he
writes to know if I want to spend my vacation with him; and what's more,
he says I may ask a boy to go with me. Arthur, I want you to go."
At first Arthur could not reconcile himself to this disarrangement of
his plans; but by the next afternoon, having consulted his family in the
mean while, he was ready to go. Such an opportunity was not to be lost;
moreover, he hoped to be so strong after his return that it would be
easy to work harder and make up for lost time.
On a fine spring morning, two days later, the boys left the little
narrow-gauge railroad at Lion Mountain, and were driven to the shore of
Chateaugay Lake; there they were met by a boat of Mr. Corey's, and rowed
to his cottage.
That afternoon and the next day they spent trolling for salmon-trout.
Arthur enjoyed it; sitting quietly in the stern of a boat and being
slowly rowed over the lake required no unpleasant exertion of the body.
The fish did not "strike" often, and much of the time he could sit with
closed eyes and dream. But George chafed under this inaction, and
finally he took an old guide, Antoine Brusoe, into his confidence. "I
want to have some camping out and tramping in the woods; and that's what
my friend needs too."
"Ask your uncle to let me take you to Tamarack Lake. It's much wilder
than this, an' there's good fishin'. If you want to tramp, you can go
gummin'; that's about all that's goin' on at this season. An' if you
don't want to keep the gum, you can give it to me; spruce gum's worth
fifty cents a pound in Chateaugay village."
Tamarack Lake, or Pond, was little known and seldom visited; a dense
growth of tamarack-trees on its shores gave it a gloomy, wild
appearance. The friends and their guide reached it early in the
afternoon, and Antoine at once set to work to repair a little bark "lean
to" which he had built on a former visit.
That evening by the light of their fire Antoine made a "gumming-pole"
for each; this, as Antoine made it, was a stout pole about eight feet
long, to the end of which was firmly fastened a small coverless tin can.
It was a simple instrument; but Antoine assured the boys that this was
the best kind--much better than "the new-fangled poles you buy at the
store."
He added, to encourage them, "Spring is when the gum breaks off easiest,
an' we ought to get a big lot of it."
During the forenoon the boys staid near the camp, amusing themselves by
fishing and by gathering gum from the spruce-trees growing near by.
A large brook ran into the lake, and in the afternoon they decided to
follow this brook back into the woods. As long as they kept the stream
in sight there was no danger of getting lost. They started off, each
carrying a pole and having a gummer's bag slung from his shoulder. For
an hour or more they pushed on together, gathering gum as they went.
Finally they came to a place where the brook forked, and here they
decided to separate, each taking a branch of the stream.
"We can't get lost as long as we keep by the brook, but don't go too
far, for night comes on quickly in the woods," said George, as they
parted.
Arthur went on alone very contentedly; he was beginning to enjoy the
woods and appreciate them. As he followed up the brook he found himself
in a rocky ravine, a wild place where the stream tumbled over great
bowlders or--being swollen by the melting snows--spread into a pool. On
the bank of one of these pools, which must have been eight or nine yards
across and four or five feet deep, grew a tall hemlock. In the air near
its upper branches two hawks were circling. At short intervals they
screamed as if in anger and distress.
Arthur looked more carefully, and could now see their nest. His pleasure
in the woods had put him in an unusually adventurous mood, and he
decided, on the impulse of the moment, to try to secure some of the
hawk's eggs; they would be interesting mementoes of his trip to the
lake.
At first sight the tree seemed a difficult one to climb, for there were
no branches within twenty feet of the ground, and the trunk was too
large for him to clasp. But close to it grew a slender spruce, and
Arthur, leaving his pole and sack on the ground, had no trouble in
"shinning" up the smaller tree; it was then easy to transfer himself to
the hemlock's lowest branches. Some distance below the hawk's nest a
large branch stretched out from the trunk, and now, when Arthur looked
up at this branch, he saw what he had before failed to notice; along it
lay a plump little animal, gray in color, and about as big as a house
cat two-thirds grown. It looked at him stupidly, and did not move.
He thought it might be a young raccoon, or perhaps an opossum--his
knowledge of Adirondack animals was not very accurate--and as it seemed
so dull and meek he thought he would try to capture it. Near him a
partly dead limb stood out from the trunk; this, after some trouble, he
was able to break off, and then had a stout club in case any weapon was
needed. In the mean while the little animal watched him over the edge of
the big branch, but did not move. Arthur was now about twenty feet from
the ground, the animal being six or eight feet above him. Of a sudden it
seemed to grow interested in what was going on below, and putting its
head over the side of the branch, gave a low whine. Instantly there was
an answering whine from the ground.
A grayish catlike animal about as large as a spaniel-dog was crouching
at the foot of the hemlock; as it looked up Arthur could see its yellow
eyes shine angrily. Its shape and size made him think it was a lynx; and
the conviction flashed upon him that the little animal on the branch
above was the kitten of the savage-looking creature on the ground below.
He was separating mother from child, and it was evident from her grim
expression that the old lynx meant to call him to account for
interfering with her domestic affairs.
With a reassuring cry to her kitten, the lynx sprang from the ground and
began slowly to climb up the trunk of the hemlock.
Below the branches on which Arthur was sitting was the section of the
trunk, twenty feet in length, that rose from the ground free of any
branch, so that there was no vantage-ground from which the lynx could
spring upon him as she came crawling up. He drew up his legs, clutched
the club firmly, and got ready to do his best to beat her back; at the
same time he shouted as loudly as he could, hoping that George would
hear him.
His shouts and pounding on the tree made the animal hesitate, and when
she was eight or ten feet below him she flattened herself against the
bark and clung there, glaring up at him. What seemed a long time to
Arthur, but was probably not more than ten minutes, passed, and yet she
did not move. He kept up an almost continual shouting, for he hoped, as
the two branches of the brook joined each other at an acute angle, that
George was not far distant. The strain on his nerves was making him
faint. As the lynx eyed him, he recalled stories of cats that had
alarmed and captured their victims merely by looking at them; he
trembled violently, and his shouts became weaker and weaker.
It was a relief when, in answer to an especially plaintive cry from her
kitten, the lynx gave a low whine and began to creep upward, growling
defiance as she came. The spell was broken, and Arthur felt his strength
return. He raised his club and leaned forward; as the animal's round
head came within reach he struck it a heavy blow. With a scream of pain
the lynx shrunk back, and began watching him as before; every minute or
two she snarled and growled--evidently the blow she had received had not
improved her temper.
Arthur had just begun, with renewed vigor, to shout again, when there
was an answering shout, and George appeared, running towards him through
the woods. For a moment his joy in seeing a friend and possible rescuer
made the frightened boy forget everything else.
"Arthur! Arthur! Where are you, and what's the matter?" cried George.
"Here I am, up in this tree! And, oh, George, look out! there's a lynx
on the trunk just below me!"
The warning came late. George was already on the bank of the pool, and
only a few yards from the hemlock. The lynx saw him, and finding another
enemy in her rear, she turned as if to attack him.
George had only the briefest instant in which to grasp the situation and
act. He turned and sprang into the pool, and plunged to its centre;
there he could barely touch bottom.
The animal did not follow; like all the cat tribe, a lynx dislikes and
fears the water, and this one was daunted at the prospect of a fight in
the hated element. She circled about the pool, looking for some way of
reaching him without getting a wetting. Baffled on every side, she then
crouched at the water's edge and screamed with rage. A whine from the
hemlock made her remember the kitten. She turned and dashed up the tree;
there was now no hesitation; she was enraged, and meant to revenge
herself.
Her onslaught was so sudden that Arthur had no time for any preparation.
In his panic and hasty excited effort to settle himself so that he could
strike to advantage, the club slipped from his fingers and fell to the
ground. He cried out, and George saw what had happened. When the lynx
reached him, Arthur used his feet so vigorously against her head that
for a moment or two she was checked. He was screaming in a frenzy of
terror.
"Help me, George!" he cried. "Help! help! help!"
It seemed almost like inviting certain death to attack the enraged
animal when armed with no better weapon than his gumming-pole; but
George could not resist his friend's agonized appeal for help. He rushed
ashore and to the foot of the hemlock. From there he could just reach
the animal's flank--she having recoiled a little before Arthur's
desperate kicking--and he began to belabor it with the can on the end of
his pole. The lynx partially turned, seeming to hesitate whether to
charge the enemy above or to fling herself upon this new assailant.
While this noise and commotion was going on, the kitten had got more and
more frightened. Trying to seek safety in flight, it had crawled along
the big branch until it reached almost the extreme end; the branch
snapped under its weight, and with a long cry it fell through the air.
Fortunately for it, it had crawled so far along the branch that when it
fell, instead of striking the earth, it came down in the midst of the
pool.
It fell just as its mother was hesitating which one of the boys to
attack. She saw it strike the water, and forgetting all else in this new
peril to her offspring, she leaped over George's head and plunged into
the water to its rescue--showing that even in a lynx the mother's love
or instinct is stronger than rage or the passion for revenge.
Holding the kitten in her teeth, she got out of the water as soon as
possible. On the bank she paused for a moment, as if in doubt whether to
attack George or not. But again maternal feeling asserted itself. The
kitten was safe now, and she could not afford to further endanger its
precious life; holding it, drenched and whimpering, in her mouth, she
trotted off into the woods and disappeared.
It was dusk when the boys got back to Tamarack Lake, for Arthur found
himself badly exhausted after this experience, and they had walked
slowly. The legs of his boots were torn, and in several places claws had
left their marks on his ankles.
"I'll bet 'twas the same lynx that we saw here last year!" exclaimed
Antoine, when they told their story, sitting by the camp-fire that
evening, "An old Canada lynx with a kitten is about the savagest
creature in these woods--nearly as bad as a panther. I tell you, you
boys were lucky to get off as you did, with only a scare an' a few
little scratches! But don't get scared, thinkin' this is goin' to happen
every day; you're not likely to see a lynx again in a year--no, nor in
five years."
"Well, I suppose you've had enough of the woods," said George, as he and
Arthur rolled themselves in their blankets and prepared to go to sleep.
"We've had a rather tough experience, and perhaps we'd better start back
for Chateaugay to-morrow."
"No; I don't think I've had enough of the woods, and I'm in no hurry to
leave. If I'd had a little more of them in my life, I wouldn't have gone
to pieces as I did to-day, dropping my club and screaming like a baby!
And, George, I won't forget in a hurry how you, with only a gumming-pole
to fight with, came to the rescue and pitched into that angry lynx."
AN HOUR IN BICYCLELAND.
WITH AN ACCOUNT OF A PNEUMATIC CIRCUS.
BY HAYDEN CARRUTH.
II.
It was not hard to push through the crowd, because the people, when off
their bicycles, didn't stand very steadily, as Kenneth soon discovered
after toppling several of them over in brushing against them. All the
way through the crowd they kept hearing the man talking about the
wonderful horse, and warning people to keep back from the ropes, and
hold on their hats when the animal snorted. Just as they got to the
front of the crowd a man came round from behind with a measure of oats
on the end of a long pole, and pushed it cautiously through between the
bars.
Kenneth looked at the marvellous horse about which everybody was
excited. He saw a round and comfortable-appearing gray pony, which
looked as if it had always been employed in jogging about hitched to a
basket-phaeton, carrying some mild old gentlewoman, in a white cap, and
her grandchildren.
"Ladies and Gentlemen," shouted the man standing on a box beside the
cage, "watch the Titantic Terror of the Jungles lash his sides with his
Audacious and Caudalogical Tail as he devours his food with Ravenous and
Oats-destroying Teeth! See him stamp his Adamantine Hoofs as in his
Savage Imagination he tramples upon the Prostrate Form of that Victim of
a thousand battles, the Hardy Hunter! See him wave his crafty,
whisper-detecting Ears as he buries his Horriferous Snout in the
Iron-bound Oats and grinds them to Powder with his Dreadful and
Molariferous Fangs from which fly the Lurid Sparks in all directions!"
"Well," said Kenneth, "I'm sure I don't think it's QUITE so bad as that
man seems to think."
"Hush!" answered his companion; "the horse might hear you. I'm pretty
sure I saw one spark. And of course you don't expect things in a circus
to be _just_ as they say they are."
"I suppose not," admitted Kenneth; "but it does seem to me they might
have got a horse a _little_ bigger."
"Bigger?" replied the other. "Why, he's twice as high as a bicycle!"
"Oh yes, I suppose he'll do pretty well. But I don't believe he's
stamping his feet because he wishes he had the hardy hunter under them.
I think he's doing it to scare away the flies."
"Flies!"' exclaimed the young man, scornfully. "Do you think as large an
animal as that would be afraid of anything as small as a fly?"
"Well, it doesn't _seem_ so," said Kenneth.
"Though, to be sure," went on the other, thoughtfully, "a tack is small,
but how a bicycle will shy around one when it sees it! But we mustn't
stand here any longer. I want to get into the other tent, and see Señor
Chinchilla, the celebrated bare back-rider."
"Then they have more horses, do they?" asked Kenneth.
"It's _so_ hard for you to learn," answered his companion. "Of course
not! The Señor rides a bicycle."
By this time they were in their seats and looking down at the big ring,
which was much larger than the ordinary circus ring. There were
pneumatic cushions to sit on and to lean against. There was a brass band
at one side of the tent which seemed louder than any brass band which
Kenneth had ever heard before. He noticed that the musicians did not put
the horns and other brass instruments to their lips, but that they held
big rubber bags in their laps, to which they were attached. He asked his
companion about it.
"Pneumatic bags. Full of compressed air. Blows the horns. Saves wear on
lips," he answered, shortly. He was becoming much excited about the
coming performance.
Soon the band began to play louder than ever, the curtains at one side
of the tent parted, and the grand parade slowly filed in. The audience
broke into such a hand-clapping that Kenneth was obliged to hold his own
hands over his ears. It was like a dozen Fourth of July's. He looked
around to find the cause, and saw that everybody was wearing gloves with
big fat puffy palms, which they were clapping together as hard as they
possibly could.
"What are they?" he asked of the young man, who also had on the funny
gloves, and was clapping away harder than anybody else.
"Pneumatic! pneumatic!" he shouted, and kept on clapping.
In the ring the performers were all mounted on bicycles, which were
slowly bearing them around, two abreast. The wheels were painted all
colors, and the riders wore fancy and bright costumes. The band had also
mounted bicycles, and went round with the rest, playing as hard as ever.
The young man pointed out Señor Chinchilla and all of the noted
performers, and Kenneth could hear him above the uproar quoting more
from the bills. At the end of the procession was the clown, almost as
round as a ball, riding a wheelbarrow instead of a bicycle, but which
seemed to be trained to go nearly as well as the bicycles. Kenneth had
seen clowns wearing clothes all padded out before, but never one so
round and ball-like as this one; but his companion was laughing so at
the clown that it was a long time before he could explain, and then all
that Kenneth could catch was "pneumatic suit."
"Can't he walk?" asked Kenneth.
"Oh no," chuckled the young man. "He's too round. He just rolls
everywhere he wants to go. Did you ever see anything so funny?"
"Well, I don't know," answered Kenneth; "I guess the horse was _'most_
as funny."
The young man looked hurt. "Well, _I_ guess," he said, "that if that
horse took you in his jaws once and bounded away into the Trackless
Jungle, where the Baffled and Vociferous Cries of the--that is, I mean
you wouldn't think him so funny."
"What are they going to do next?" asked Kenneth.
"Ground and lofty tumbling," said his companion. "See the big pneumatic
mattress."
Half a dozen men came in and began turning all sorts of handsprings and
summersaults on this, always bounding up very high. The clown kept
getting in the way and rolling about, and sometimes the performers would
bound on him. Suddenly two of the men seized him and threw him on the
cushion, and he bounded up so high that he struck the top of the tent,
and everybody roared again.
"Suppose he should come down on a tack?" suggested Kenneth.
"My, I wish he would!" laughed the other. "Wouldn't it be fun? He'd look
just like a burst balloon."
There was a great deal more performing of various kinds, with the clown
rolling about in the way all the time. Once when two strong men were
tossing cannon-balls and lifting heavy weights, the clown bothered so
much that they took him and played football with him, kicking him back
and forth across the ring and having fine sport. There was also a grand
race of the trained pneumatic kangaroos. They played leap-frog and did
some high jumping, and were almost as funny as the clown. Suddenly
Kenneth's companion exclaimed:
"Señor Chinchilla comes next. Now look out!"
The Señor came rolling in, sitting gracefully on his bicycle, Sir
Sky-Rocket, all dressed in red and green. He dismounted, made a fine
bow, and stood fanning himself while the ring-master made a little
speech full of words which caused Kenneth's companion to open his eyes
and mouth in astonishment. Another man took the saddle and handle-bar
off the bicycle, and then the Señor bounded lightly on to the top of the
frame, where he stood easily as the ring-master cracked his whip and the
bicycle shot away around the ring. The clown was so impressed that he
rolled away and disappeared. The band played, and the young man became
so excited that Kenneth was sure he would tumble out of his seat, and so
took hold of his arm.
"The Ten-Thousand-Dollar Challenge Bareback Bicycle-Rider of the World!"
he exclaimed. "Without the aid of Saddle, Padding or Trappings, he
boldly performs feats upon the Rearing and Plunging Wheel which Startle
while they Enchant, and cause the Chilled Blood to stand still within
the Frightened Vein, while they hold the Enraptured Gaze with the
Marvellous Efflorescence of their Rich Ambiguity. That's what the man
said, and I believe he's going to do it!"
"He does ride well," said Kenneth, watching the performance with great
interest. Round and round went the Señor, leaping over banners and
through hoops, but always alighting on his bicycle without mishap. He
also turned summersaults, stood on his head, danced, and otherwise
showed his skill. Then the band played faster, and the ring-master
cracked his whip louder, and the bicycle also danced and cavorted first
on one wheel, then on the other; and then it leaped over hurdles and
finally through a big hoop, with the Señor still on its back. Then it
went around the ring a dozen times, so fast that it could hardly be
seen, with the Señor doing everything at once so fast that he could
hardly be seen. Then they shot away behind the curtains, and everybody
cheered harder than ever before, and the young man actually did fall out
of his seat at last, and Kenneth had to drag him back, though it was
scarcely necessary, as the performance was over, and they went out with
the crowd.
Outside they found their wheels, and got on them and rode away along the
road they had come, with the young man trying to do half the things he
had seen the Señor do, and talking about the wonderful horse. Everybody
was excited, and Kenneth's bicycle seemed to catch the excitement and
began to run away. He did his best to hold it, but it kept going faster
and faster. The young man tried to keep up, but he couldn't. The last
thing Kenneth heard was his voice shouting something from the bills;
then all he could feel was the rush of the wind as he shot along the
road like an arrow from a bow. But suddenly he stopped with a great
bump, and the next thing he knew he found himself lying on the grass
under a tree.
* * * * *
"Well did you have a good ride on your new bicycle?" asked Kenneth's
father. (They were at supper.)
"Oh yes!" answered Kenneth.
"Did you see anything new?" went on his father.
"Well, I don't know, or--no, I guess not much. I was reading circus
posters on a big fence while I was going out, and I got pretty tired,
and lay down under a tree to rest, and I think perhaps I may have fallen
asleep a few minutes, and--and--had a little nap."
"I'm glad you didn't catch cold," said his mother. "You oughtn't to
sleep on the ground."
PRACTICAL GOLF.
BY W. G. VAN TASSEL SUTPHEN.
(_In Five Papers._)
I.--THE GAME.
Given a bat and a ball, and the combinations that may be evolved are
practically infinite in their variety. Every generation or thereabouts a
new game or some modification of an old one suddenly rises into favor,
and all the world plays croquet or tennis or golf. To-day it is golf,
and yet the game divides with polo the honor of being the oldest of
which we have any records. It has been played in Scotland for hundreds
of years, but it is only within the last ten that it has become
generally known and taken up. In this country the game is hardly two
years old, but already there are over a hundred courses or grounds, a
national association, and championship meetings for nearly every class
of players. There must be something of good in a sport which has been
taken up with such enthusiasm, and although "Young America" is very
properly opposed to anything that harbors a suspicion of slowness, it is
only fair to look into a case before deciding upon it.
[Illustration: A TEEING-GROUND.]
Of course the first thing is to inquire into the object and nature of
the game. A golf course is generally laid out over rolling ground for
the sake of variety, and standing at the first _tee_, or striking-off
place, we see before us a stretch of turf that has been cleared of long
grass and bushes, and in the distance (say 150 or 200 yards away) a
square patch of smooth, hard lawn, in the centre of which a flag is
fluttering. The square patch is the _putting-green_, and the flag marks
the location of a small hole four inches in diameter and six inches
deep, and generally lined with tin. Each player is provided with an
assortment of curious-looking clubs and a small white hard-rubber ball,
and the object is to finally knock the ball into the hole in the _fewest
possible number of strokes_. Each player has his own ball, and the play
begins from a particular spot, called the _teeing-ground_, and marked by
whitewash or pins driven into the turf. This first stroke is called the
_tee-shot_, and the player is allowed to _tee_ his ball, or place it
upon a little mound of sand, so that he may have the best possible
chance of hitting it. But once the tee-shot is played, the ball cannot
be touched again, except by a club, and no matter how short a distance
it may go, or even if the ball is missed altogether, it still counts a
stroke. The player who is farthest away from the hole always plays
first, and he must keep on playing until he has passed the place where
his adversary's ball is lying. When both balls have finally been played
into the hole, the player who has accomplished the task in the fewest
number of strokes or actual hits at the ball is said to have won the
hole, and counts one scoring-point.
A short distance from this first hole is the second teeing-ground, and
the players take up their balls and, walking over to the new point of
departure, tee their balls, and strike off in the direction of the
second hole. We will suppose that A, the first player, holes his ball
this time in six strokes, and B does the same. The hole is then said to
be _halved_, and is counted for neither side. But A, having won the
first hole, is still ahead by one point, and this is called "one up." If
he had won this second hole, he would have been "two up." Or again, if
he had lost it, the game would have been "even all."
The full course is eighteen holes, but very good golf may be played on a
course of twelve, nine, six, or even five holes. The game is won by the
player who wins the greater number of holes, and this is the original
game, now called _match-play_. Nowadays _medal-play_ is more common, the
only practical difference being in the scoring. In medal-play the total
score for all the holes made by each player is added up, and the lowest
number wins. For instance, if A goes around a six-hole course in 40, and
B in 39, B is the winner.
One of the great advantages of the game is that you can play and have
good sport even if there is no one to go around with you. You can try to
beat your own best previous record, and, if possible, to lower the best
score ever made by anybody over the course. If you succeed in this last,
you will have gained the proud distinction of holding the "record for
the course." Another good modification of the game is the "foursome,"
where there are two partners on each side, striking alternately at the
same ball. But the ordinary match is against one adversary, and there is
no reason why a girl may not play an interesting game against her
brother. She may not be able to hit the ball quite so far, but once near
the hole, where accuracy and not strength is required, she should be
able to hold her own, and it is an old saying that many a game is won on
the putting-green. Or again, she may be handicapped by an allowance of
so many strokes, for in golf, as in billiards, handicapping does not
detract from the interest as it does in tennis. There is no fun playing
tennis against a very much weaker opponent, for you win rather on your
adversary's mistakes than by your own skill, and this is fatal to true
sport.
[Illustration: MODERN GOLF CLUBS.
1. Cleek. 2. Mashie. 3. Brassy. 4. Putter. 5. Driver.
6. Lofter. 7. Iron.]
Now that we know what we have to do, let us take a look at the
instruments with which the work is done. In the illustration seven clubs
are pictured, and there is, at first glance, but very little difference
between them. Of course, to see and handle the clubs themselves is far
more satisfactory than any description, but the following hints may
enable you to recognize them when you do see them. And first as to the
different parts of the clubs and their name.
The striking surface is called the _face_, and the bottom, or the place
where it rests on the ground, is the _sole_. The part nearest the angle
made by the handle is the _heel_, and the extreme end is the _nose_.
Both the wooden and the iron clubs are made in two pieces, the striking
part being called the _head_, the long handle the _shaft_, and the place
where they are joined together the neck or (in the case of the iron
clubs) the _hose_. Some of these names may strike you oddly, but
remember that the game is very old, and these terms have grown on to it
somewhat as barnacles upon a ship's bottom.
The _driver_ (No. 5) is a wooden club; it has generally the longest
shaft of all the clubs, and is supposed to be the most powerful. It is
always used for the first, or tee, shot, and in a good player's hands it
will drive the ball from 150 to 200 yards. A boy's driving, especially
at first, will be about 50 yards shorter, and a girl should be able to
cover from 70 to 100 yards.
After the tee-shot the driver may be used again if the ball is lying
clean--that is, in a good position--but most players prefer the _brassy_
(No. 3), which is so called because its sole is shod with a brass plate.
Generally, too, its face is _spooned_, or slanting slightly backwards,
so as to raise the ball in the air, and its range is but little short of
the regular driver.
Should the ball be lying in a hollow of the ground (called a _cup_), the
_cleek_ (No. 1) is the proper club to use. This is the straightest faced
of all the iron clubs, and usually has a slightly longer shaft than the
others. The cleek is also a powerful club, and its use is generally
confined to free hitting when the object is to send the ball the longest
possible distance.
But with the ball deeply imbedded in a cup, or with a sand bunker or
other difficulty to surmount, it is necessary that the ball should be
_lofted_, or raised higher in the air than the cleek can do it, and in
such a case use the _lofter_, or _lofting iron_ (No. 6), whose face is
still further laid back. Or in the bunker itself you may take the
_mashie_ (No. 2) with its short head and very much laid back face. Its
shape fits it to enter cart ruts and other places where the longer head
of the cleek or lofter would stick fast. The _iron_ (No. 7) is simply a
modification between the cleek and lofter, and its carrying or driving
power varies in about the same ratio. The beginner need not include it
in his set, nor bother about it at all until he has played for some
time.
Last of all comes the _putter_ (No. 4), with a perfectly straight face
and springless shaft. Its great essential is good balance, and it is
used for the final act of holing out or putting proper.
These six--driver, brassy, cleek, lofter, mashie, and putter--are all
that are actually needed for the game, and quite enough for the beginner
to experiment with. They cost at the shops from $1.25 to $1.50 apiece,
and they are made in lighter weights for girls and young boys.
[Illustration: POSITION OF THE HANDS IN HOLDING THE CLUB.]
The best way to start is to play a round at once, standing up square to
the ball and hitting naturally at it. Grip the club as though it were a
hammer, and you were about to strike a blow straight down upon the
anvil. Then, without altering the position of your hands, place the club
flat on the ground close behind the ball, and hit. By the time next week
comes around you will have shaken yourself down into some kind of
position, and will be ready for more detailed instruction.
_Keep your eye on the ball._
AN "OLD-FIELD" SCHOOL-GIRL.[1]
[1] Begun in HARPER'S ROUND TABLE No. 857.
BY MARION HARLAND.
CHAPTER VI.
"Do not move until I give you leave, if you have to sit there until
to-morrow morning."
Flea recalled the exact words, and said them over as her death-sentence.
For she would be dead when they opened the school-house to-morrow
morning. Even her father would not interfere when he heard that she was
kept in. He always upheld the teacher's authority, and this teacher was
put into his place and backed by Major Duncombe. Her father would not
dare to come for her to-night. She slid from the bench to the floor,
resting her aching head within her arms upon the seat. The roaring and
singing in her head hindered her from hearing the sound of the door as
it opened and shut softly. The rustling of a skirt and fall of feet upon
the floor were not louder than the play of the dead leaves had been. She
did start and spring to her feet as a hand was laid on her head, and
found herself face to face with Miss Em'ly.
"Why, my _dear_ little scholar!" cooed the visitor. "What _is_ all this
about? I _can't_ believe you mean to be naughty."
She pulled Flea to a seat beside her and kept hold of her hand. She had
never looked prettier than now. Her blue riding-habit and cap became her
fair skin and bright curls; her cheeks were like roses, her eyes were
kind. As she drew the girl to the bench she gave her a little squeeze
that opened the sluiceway of the tears Flea had believed would never
flow again.
"Tut! tut!" coaxed Miss Em'ly. "This will _never_ do. Eliza and Robert
and I came to get Mr. Tayloe to go riding with us. We've got his horse
out yonder. He says he _can't_ go because you must stay in until you say
something he told you to say. Now, dearie, you _won't_ spoil my
ride--will you?"
Flea could not speak, but she shook her head vehemently.
"That's what I _said_! and I ran _right_ off here to get you to say
whatever it is to me--don't you _see_? Then, I'll _make_ him let you
off. What is it? Say it, _quick_!"
Flea's wet eyes looked straight into her friend's.
"He wants me to say 'A thorn scratched my face as I came through the
woods.' It isn't true, Miss Em'ly."
"How _did_ you get hurt then? Tell me that."
The child took a sudden resolution.
"You'll never never tell, Miss Em'ly? Upon your word of honor?"
"Never, once! Never, twice! Never, _three_ times!" crossing her heart
playfully.
"And you won't feel bad about it?"
"You little _goose_! Why _should_ I feel bad about what _you_ have
done?"
When she had heard the short story, artlessly told, the young lady's
tone and countenance altered. Tears gathered in the blue eyes and rolled
down upon Flea's upturned face as the listener kissed her once and again
upon the scratched cheek.
[Illustration: "YOU DEAR, BRAVE, SPLENDID CHILD!"]
"You dear, brave, _splendid_ child! To think you have done all this for
_me_! I'll never forget it to my dying day."
"I would have died before I would have told on you, Miss Em'ly!" cried
the excited girl, her eyes shining with the enthusiasm of
self-sacrifice.
Miss Em'ly's serious mood had passed already. She called Flea "a little
goose" again, and bade her "get her books and things and run along
home."
"I'll settle everything with Mr. Tayloe. Kiss me 'Good-by' and be off."
"It's all right!" she called gayly from the school-house steps. "May she
go? She's said it."
"If you go security for her," answered Mr. Tayloe, coming towards them,
and Flea was off like an arrow out of a bow. He should not see that she
had been crying.
The teacher was not altogether satisfied.
"You really made her repeat what I said she must before she could go?"
he said, in settling Miss Emily in her saddle.
She pouted prettily, "I _really_ made her say,
'A--thorn--scratched--my--face--as--I--came--through--the--woods,'"
dropping the words in mock solemnity. "Now let us talk of pleasanter
things than school worries."
Not one of the horseback party gave another thought to the overseer's
daughter, racing through woods and over ploughed fields in an air-line
for home, her heart as light as a bird, and as full of music.
"I'll never forget it to my dying day," was to her a solemn pledge of
eternal friendship. To have won it was worth all she had borne that
day. As she ran, she sang and smiled like the owner of a blissful
secret. In the fullness of her joy she even forgot to hate Mr. Tayloe.
Her short-cut took her through a matted wilderness of shrubs and weeds,
past a deserted cabin set back from the main road. A negro, driven crazy
by drink, had murdered his wife and child there years before, and the
hut had never been occupied since. The negroes believed it to be
haunted. Not a colored man, woman, or child in the region would have
ventured within a hundred yards of it after nightfall. The deserted
hovel had a weird charm for Flea, and, finding herself a little tired
after her run, she sat down upon the stone door-step to enjoy the
sunset, and to go on with a "poem" inspired last week by the haunted
house. Four lines were already composed, written and hidden away in the
hair trunk where she kept her clothes at home. A nameless diffidence
kept her from speaking of the fragments of stories and rhyme entombed
under flannel petticoats and home-knit stockings. She said the four
lines aloud while she rested. Unpruned trees grew over the grass-grown
path leading to the closed door. Sumac bushes, vivid with scarlet leaves
and maroon velvet cones, had sprung up close to the walls. In what was
once a garden wild sunflowers bloomed rankly.
The girl's poetic soul felt the charm of a melancholy she could not
define; she longed to clothe with language the feelings excited by
mellow light, rich colors, and silence that yet spoke to her. She
recited her rhymes in a low, deep voice:
"It stands beside the weedy way;
Shingles are mossy, walls are gray;
Gnarled apple branches guard the door;
Wild vines have bound it o'er and o'er."
Then and there two more lines came to her with a rush that sent the
blood throbbing to her cheeks:
"The sumac whispers, with its leaves of flame,
'Here once was done a deed without a name.'"
She leaned against the door, weak and trembling. It was as if virtue had
gone out of her. She had _breathed_ poetry! When grown-up people have
such flushes and thrills we call them "poetic fire," and "the divine
afflatus." The halting lines were not poetry, but the child believed
that they were. That did quite as well--for her.
While she sat and exulted, the sound of a doleful whistle arose on the
evening air. Shaking off the spell that bound her, she tore her way
through a web of vines, sunflowers, and purple brush, jumped over the
broken palings, and ran down the sloping field to the road. Dee sat upon
a stone in a corner of the fence, whistling "Balerma." His hat was off,
and he looked tired and out of spirits.
"Why, Dee!" cried his sister, "I thought you were at home hours ago."
"I warn't a-goin' without you, ef I stayed here till plumb night. An',
Flea"--as she kissed his freckled face--"I tole Bea she might's well let
'em think at home 'twas me that was kep' in. Twouldn't be no rarity for
me to be kep' in, you see. One or two times more wouldn't make no
difference."
"Wouldn't that be acting a lie, Dee?" She could not scold him, but
conscience urged her not to let the matter pass without notice. "And I
couldn't let you be scolded instead of me. Perhaps father and mother may
not ask any questions. Maybe my luck has turned."
Their hopes were not disappointed. Mrs. Grigsby was busy in the kitchen
helping Chancy to make soap, and had not seen Bea return without the
other children. Mr. Grigsby did not get in from the plantation until
supper was on the table, and was too weary to ask questions. Flea's
secret was safe for the time.
"To-morrow will be another day," she said to Bea, who "reckoned," as
they were undressing that night, that Flea "had made a bad start with
the new teacher." "I'm going to do my best, and, as Chancy is always
saying, 'angels can't do no more.'"
People did not talk of "pluck" and "grit" and "sand" then. But our
heroine had an abundance of what the slang words imply.
The school settled down to the business of the session in a surprisingly
short time. With all his faults, Mr. Tayloe had the knack of imparting
knowledge. He was strict to severity, never letting an imperfect lesson
or a breach of discipline pass unpunished, and his pupils quickly
learned that they must work and obey rules or get into serious trouble.
Flea studied as she had never studied before, partly from sheer love of
learning, partly because she had determined to prove her fitness to
enter the higher classes in the face of the teacher's unwillingness to
promote her. Courage and spirits arose with every new obstacle.
On the last day of the month the severest test of will and courage was
laid upon her. At the close of the afternoon arithmetic lessons Mr.
Tayloe asked for her slate, worked at it for a while, and returned it to
her. The curve of his smile was like a horseshoe as he saw her eyes
dilate with alarm at what she read there:
1844)368873761575231504(
He had written the same upon Annie Douthat's slate, and also upon Fanny
Tabb's.
"If you three girls can do it by to-morrow morning, you can go into the
next higher class. If not, you stay where you are. And look here, all of
you, nobody must help you. If I find that you have been helped to so
much as a single figure, you will be publicly disgraced."
On the same afternoon the first monthly reports were given out. It was a
new measure to all the scholars, and when they learned that the papers
were to be taken home, signed by the parents, and brought back next day,
the most careless were impressed with a sense of the dignity of the
transaction. The roll was called, each boy and girl in turn marched up
to the desk, received a folded paper, and marched out of the
school-house. Flea Grigsby got with hers a glance that went to her heart
like the stab of ice-cold steel. It was unexpected, for her recitations
had been perfect throughout the month, and she had striven hard to carry
herself modestly and respectfully towards the despot of the little
domain. Warned by the peculiar gleam of the light-blue eyes, she tucked
the report between the leaves of her geography, instead of opening it,
as every one else did, on the way to the door or as soon as he or she
gained the outer air. Bea had walked on with another girl, but Dee was
waiting for Flea at the bottom of the steps. She wished that he had not
hung back to go with her. Even his honest, affectionate gaze would add
to the humiliation which she felt was in store for her when that fatal
bit of paper should be opened. She longed, yet dreaded, to know exactly
what form the new shame would take. No one seemed to think of asking her
what was in her report. The other scholars were too busy discussing
their own, and rejoicing or lamenting over the contents. Dee was
naturally incurious. He showed his report. It said, "Lessons
indifferent. Conduct good."
"It mought 'a' been worse," observed Dee, philosophically. "I don' see
what good the _doggoned_ things do, anyhow."
Flea changed the subject, chatting of any thing and everything except
the report she fancied she could hear rustling between the leaves of
Olney's Geography, her nerves more tense every minute. By the time they
reached the haunted house--they had taken the short-cut across the
fields--she could bear the suspense no longer.
She sat down upon the flat stone that did duty for a door-step, took off
her hat, and stretched her arms out, yawningly. "Don't wait for me, Dee.
It is so nice and quiet here that I think I'll begin to work at that
horrid sum. I can think better than at home with the children around.
Tell mother I'll be in before supper-time."
The little fellow obeyed dutifully. He was growing daily more fond of
the sister who helped him with his lessons, and never scolded him for
being slow, and told him secrets of what they would do together when she
became famous. Her conscience smote her slightly as he trudged off, his
hands in his pockets, his bag of books slung over his shoulder by a
twine string, and humping his calves as he walked. He knew but one tune,
and that was "Balerma." He began to whistle it as soon as he turned his
back. He would whistle it all the way home. He called it, "O happy is
the soul."
Flea laid the slate she had carried carefully, lest the test sum should
get rubbed out, as carefully upon the stone beside her, and took Olney's
Geography from her bag. The report was written upon an oblong piece of
foolscap, folded once. Mr. Tayloe wrote a round, clear hand:
"_October_ 31, 184-.
"_Felicia Jean Grigsby: Lessons, usually fair. Conduct--room for
improvement!_
_"James Tayloe_."
There was a sneer for Flea in each of the three words that came after
the dash. The line that emphasized them was heavy and black, and raised
a welt upon her heart.
The sun had gone down, and the recessed door-step was dim with the
shadows of the neglected vines overgrowing it, before she lifted her
head from her knees to listen to footsteps in the dry weeds at the back
of the cabin. Some laborer was probably passing by on his way home from
the field. If she did not move, he would go on without seeing her. The
steps came closer to her, until somebody stooped under the overhanging
creepers, shutting out the light of the sky, and Flea felt hot breath
upon her very face. She jumped up:
"Who are you?" she began.
A strong hand gripped her arm, another covered her mouth, and she was
lifted bodily from her hiding-place. As the light showed her features
the rough hold was slackened; a cracked laugh relieved her fright.
"Bless yo' soul, honey! How you skeered me! I 'clar' to gracious, I
thought you was a ghos', or maybe the Old Boy hisself. I won' git over
the turn you give me fur a week."
In proof of the shock to her nervous system Mrs. Fogg dropped herself
upon the stone from which she had drugged Flea, and began to suck in her
breath loudly and irregularly, as if the air were a thick fluid, fanning
herself at the same time with her gingham apron.
"I was sitting here thinking, Mrs. Fogg, on my way from school,"
stammered the girl, really shaken by the adventure. "It's one of my
favorite resting-places."
"I wouldn't come hyur much ef I was you, honey," sinking her voice, and
glancing over her shoulder at the closed door. "It's a norful place for
snakes an' scarripens" (scorpions) "an' lizards. An' it's wuss fur
ha'nts. I've been see things here with my own two eyes o' nights, an'
heered sech scritchin' an' bellerin' as 'mos' tarrified me to death.
Stay 'way from hyur, honey. You're too sweet an' pretty to be cyarried
off by the ole Satan."
Flea collected her bag, books, and slate from the ground, and gave a
hard, miserable laugh.
"Satan lives in a better house than this, Mrs. Fogg. He wears broadcloth
every day and Sunday too, and a fine gold watch and chain. I've seen him
too often to be afraid of him."
The old woman pricked up her ears sharply; her bony hand reached up to
clutch Flea's wrist.
"What you talkin' 'bout, honey-pie? Ole Nick couldn't w'ar a gold
watch"--cackling at her joke; "'twould git melted. Don' yer understan'?"
"He lays it on the desk by him to see how long boys and girls can stand
the torment," rushed on the girl, recklessly. "He lives most of the time
in the school-house. That's his work-shop, where he ruins people's souls
and tortures their bodies. Look here, Mrs. Fogg! I told you once that
I'd ask Major Duncombe to let your grandchildren go to school. He's been
away from home ever since, and I haven't had a chance to speak to him. I
tell you now that I don't mean to ask him any such thing. They'd better
grow up dunces, without knowing their _A B C's_, than to go to school to
that--that--_Evil_!"
It was the strongest word she could think of, and she flung it out in a
passion of loathing. The crone eyed her curiously, making odd noises in
her throat, like a clucking hen.
"You don' say so--you don' say so--now! I suttinly is mighty sorry to
hear it, my sweet young lady. I was jes a-sayin' to my daughter yistiddy
how I meant to stop you termorrer mornin' as you went by the gate an'
remin' you o' what you done promise' me. An' the chillens are crazy to
go to school. Larnin' is a mighty fine thing for anybody. That's what I
keep on a-tellin' on 'em. 'Larnin' is a good thing,' says I. In the fear
of the Lord, of course--"
"There's no fear of the Lord in that school!" interrupted Flea,
bitterly. "I ought to know, if anybody does. Good-by, Mrs. Fogg."
She had dashed over the tumble-down fence and was flying across the
field before the old woman could stop her, if, indeed, she wished to
prolong the interview.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
RICK DALE.
BY KIRK MUNROE.