Produced by Annie R. McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]
Copyright, 1896, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.
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PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, MAY 26, 1896. FIVE CENTS A COPY.
VOL. XVII.--NO. 865. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.
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[Illustration]
THE CRUISE OF A COMMERCE-DESTROYER.
BY YATES STIRLING, JUN.
The officer of the deck is pacing his last hour of a very dull forenoon
watch upon the bridge of the U. S. S. _Minneapolis_. The tropical sun
beats down with unflinching savageness upon his head; his eyes are
restlessly scanning the horizon at every turn, but nothing has disturbed
the monotony of its outline, as his sullen pacing bears witness. The
sentries and men on lookout are at their stations, and are listlessly
walking to and fro on the small patch of deck called their posts. Small
knots of men are gathered together here and there on the spar-deck,
under the shade of a boat or a gun-shield, spinning yarns or playing at
sailor games. Some of the younger officers can be seen aft on the
quarter-deck gazing fixedly over the wide expanse of ocean, as if they
expected an enemy to rise up before them from the sea. Some of the more
impulsive ones occasionally lift their voices in expostulation at the
dull life they are leading, while others are seeing active service on
fighting-ships. The great hull of the cruiser is slowly forging ahead in
the quiet sea; her huge and powerful engines are barely turning over.
Like a picture in a kinetoscope, all this has changed. Every man on
board has awakened from his lethargy. All hands are alert and gazing at
the horizon to the eastward. What is the cause of this sudden awakening?
Two words from the lookout in the foretop: "Sail ho!" Yes, broad on the
port-bow can be seen a low line of black smoke that to any but a
sailor's eye would appear to be a cloud on the distant horizon. Scarcely
a quarter of an hour, and with all speed the cruiser is cutting the sea
in the direction of the fast-approaching smoke.
Eager young officers have ascended into the tops to be the first to make
out the character of the stranger. In the foretop are two midshipmen,
still in their teens, class-mates at the Naval Academy, and stanch
friends. Scarcely a thought has one the other does not share. With that
reckless ambition that is one of the attributes of youth they are both
longing for excitement. Their dreams of battle and glory have toppled
like a castle of cards.
As yet the _Minneapolis_ has seen no fighting; she has been doing the
work cut out for her without bloodshed. Merchantman after merchantman
has been overhauled and captured or ransomed in the last six months, and
the cruiser's name has become the terror of the enemy's merchant marine.
Once only, while coming out of a neutral port, she had to run the
gauntlet of two of the enemy's cruisers, but with her superior speed two
hours sufficed to put the enemy hull-down astern, with but slight damage
to the commerce-destroyer. Her orders were, on the outbreak of the war
"to capture or destroy the enemy's commerce wherever met; refuse
battle," and this order had been faithfully carried out. All hands had
grown rich in prize-money; fresh provisions were obtained in abundance.
Coal was the problem. It had been attempted to coal at sea from captured
vessels, but this mode could not be relied upon to replenish the bunkers
of a ship with such a tremendous expenditure. So a certain amount of
risk had to be run in coaling in neutral ports.
The _Minneapolis_ and her two sister ships were the prizes coveted of
all the enemy's cruisers. When the United States was building them other
nations laughed at the idea, and put their dock-yards at work building
ships of greater armament but less speed. But now they saw too late the
awful advantage of these beautiful toys, as the foreign press were wont
to call them, that could give or refuse battle at pleasure.
Ship after ship of the enemy's navy was in search of these
"freebooters," but very few had even had the honor of coming within
signal distance. One of these was the _Whistle_, a cruiser of a little
heavier armament, but several knots less speed. The _Minneapolis_ was in
the port of St. Thomas, coaling, when this warlike hull hove in sight.
Very little time was lost in putting to sea, but not before two or three
shots had been exchanged, and some very taunting signals had been
displayed by the disappointed ship.
All the officers and men would gladly have accepted battle, with but
small fear of the result, but each and every one knew what awful odds
would be on the _Whistle_'s side. America had but a few handfuls of
ships; if these were pitted against the navy of the enemy, they would be
overwhelmed, annihilated. No; the quickest way to humble the foe is
through her commerce. So the bitter pill had to be swallowed in silence.
But the mere thought of the occurrence brought a hot flush to the cheek
of every man aboard.
The stranger has drawn near, and is soon made out to be a merchantman,
an ocean liner, one of the greyhounds that had plied between New York
and Harborport before the outbreak of hostilities. Large volumes of
black smoke from her immense smoke-pipes show she has scented danger,
and is making all speed to escape.
The young officers in the foretop are thrilled with excitement as their
glass shows them the character of the stranger. The younger is a boy of
eighteen, his light hair and blue eyes betokening his Saxon ancestry. He
is clad in a neat-fitting blue uniform, and his cap set jauntily on the
back of his head revealed a mass of light curly locks. With his eyes
fairly sparkling, he bears a striking contrast to his companion. Dark
and sullen, with lowering eyes and heavy forehead, the other showed not
by a single sign that he realizes that in a short time the first and
long-cherished battle of his life will be enacted.
The younger lad has dreamed of battles both in his sleep and his waking
moments, in which he has cut his way with his sword to honor and
distinction. He has oftentimes pictured his friends, his mother, and his
sweetheart reading of his heroic deeds in the daily papers of his home,
and now it seems to his youthful mind his dreams are to be fulfilled.
As his glass scans the stranger he realizes that in the eyes of naval
experts the stranger is nearly equal to the _Minneapolis_ in fighting
qualities. He knows that these fast ships have been subsidized by the
hostile government, and are heavily armed and protected. His dreams
fairly dance before his eyes. But another picture flashes across his
mental vision. He is on the battery-deck; the decks are wet and slippery
with blood; the terribly mangled dead and wounded are lying all about
him; he sees brave men struck down around. A cold shiver runs through
his well-knit frame as he shakes from him the ghastly nightmare.
The other lad is not a dreamer. Morose, almost cynical, he never gives
himself up to such reveries. To him everything appears in a less gilded
light. He knows that if the stranger has not superior speed, his
services and his companion's will soon be needed on the deck below.
The two lads scramble down through the hollow mast as the drummers are
beating the long-roll to quarters. All during the hot sultry day the
chase continues, and when night settles down on the watery waste the
_Minneapolis_ is still out of gun-shot astern. The night is bright, and
when morning dawns the blood-hound is still upon the trail. The crew of
the 8-inch breech-loading rifle on the forecastle is called to quarters,
and a shell is sent speeding over the water in the direction of the
fleeing ship. Slowly the distance diminishes. Suddenly a white cloud of
smoke bursts from the liner, and a heavy shell strikes close aboard the
American ship.
All hands are soon at their stations, and in a short time all is in
readiness for battle. The stars and stripes at her trucks flaunt a
challenge to the enemy's ensign at the _Calabria_'s gaff.
The two ships are now within battle range, and the thunder of their
heavy ordnance breaks the stillness of the ocean.
Shells go speeding through the unarmored sides of the ships, their
explosions making terrific havoc among their unprotected crews. The
picture before the midshipman's eyes is now a reality. Tirelessly the
two lads work; their guns are next to each other. As they give their
commands in sharp decisive voices, the contrast seems less striking. A
shell comes in the gun-port and strikes down the captain of the younger
lad's gun; the lock-string falls from his lifeless hand. Gently laying
the dead man aside, he takes the lanyard.
As he stood at his gun before the heat of action, he was seized with an
awful trembling, and he feared lest he might show by his actions the
white feather to his men. Then came the bursting of shells and the
explosion of discharges, and then the shell striking down his
gun-captain, spluttering his life-blood all about him. At once his fears
left him, his eyes brightened, and a terrible anger awoke in him, the
like of which he had never known. He fired his gun at the enemy with a
fierce exultancy, wondering in a cruel way how many lives the shell had
cut down. It seems ages since the battle started. With his eyes always
on the enemy, he is spared from seeing his friend, struck by a flying
splinter, being carried below to the surgeons. He sees the _Calabria_,
her sides ablaze with fire, sweep majestically across his small horizon,
and then disappear. He is always aware of her awful presence from the
never-ceasing bursting of her shells around him. Then again she appears,
and is once more in his angle of fire. During this small space of time
his gun has done all that could be expected; he has watched shell after
shell from it explode aboard the enemy; he can see large rents in her
black hull, and he notices her fire is becoming more desultory; the
fight will soon be over. As she disappears again, he musters up courage
to look about him. There is but little life on the battery-deck, that
only a half-hour before was the scene of so much activity. The gun next
his is not in action; a shell has completely shattered the breech-plug;
nearly its entire crew are lying about on the deck, their dark
life-blood staining the white planking. His companion's cap is lying
near a dark mass on the deck. Is it his blood? His senses are so
paralyzed that he feels his mind must give way. The enemy emerges into
view; his hand is upon the lock-string; the elevator and trainer are
attentively watching for their orders. They do not come. His thoughts
are far away in the midst of a modest New England home. He sees a
beautiful motherly woman, her face pale and anxious, and by her side is
a young girl in the first blush of womanhood.
He is suddenly conscious of a young seaman standing before him, giving
him a message. In a dazed way he relinquishes his lock-string to one of
his gunners, and is making his way over the reeking deck toward the
bridge. He hears a voice, as if in a dream, giving him orders to be
ready to board the prize. Then the enemy has surrendered? His gaze seeks
the other ship. But a short distance away he sees her shattered hull
rolling in the smooth sea. A huge white flag flutters from her
signal-halyards. The boats are ready and alongside. The men are
embarking. He takes his place, and they shove off, and are soon scaling
the side of the captured vessel. Her decks are almost deserted, scarcely
a living man is about, but everywhere death and destruction reign. He
hears a well-known voice close to him. Has the last hour been an awful
nightmare, or has his mind been shaken at last? He cannot grasp the
situation. There is his friend, looking paler than ever, his right arm
in splints, and his head tied up in a huge bandage. His joy knows no
bounds. With a fervent "Thank Heaven!" they embrace. There is no time
now for explanations; it is enough to know that his companion is still
alive. With orders from his Lieutenant, he is leading, pistol in hand, a
gang of tars down into the _Calabria_'s bowels. The surprised firemen
and stokers are quickly manacled, and ready Americans have taken their
places. An engineer officer is giving rapid orders to his men; the huge
engines start ahead, slowly at first, then the revolutions increase,
till the shafts are revolving at a terrific speed. When he again reaches
the deck everything is again calm and peaceful. On the port quarter, but
a short distance away, he sees the _Minneapolis_. Both ships are going
at full speed; and astern, just out of gun-shot, he sees the hulls of
three more ships. He understands it all now. The _Calabria_ had nearly
led them into a trap.
A red wigwag flag is waving on board the white cruiser: "Must reduce
speed in order to reach port." Coal is running short. The horribly
significant signal can hardly be realized. Will she fall a prey to the
enemy's cruisers after such a glorious victory? Foot by foot the hostile
ships draw nearer to the commerce-destroyer and her prize. In case they
are overtaken, the _Calabria_ is to go on and reach Hampton Roads in
safety. It is the only thing to do. Why sacrifice another ship
unnecessarily? For two days and nights the pursuit continues. Cape Henry
Light-house is sighted on the port bow. Just within gun-shot astern are
the three heavily armed cruisers, using their bow chasers with great
rapidity and precision on the fleeing ships. Large volumes of brown
smoke pour from the American cruiser's smoke-pipes. She is making her
last spurt for life. Bulkheads, furniture, and all combustible material
have been fed to the mighty furnaces.
Slowly they draw away from their pursuers. The light-house is close on
the port beam. The heavy guns there are directed against three dark
hulls to the eastward. They are the baffled enemy.
* * * * *
There is a story told of an Irishman who went out in the woods to shoot
a bear. It was winter-time, and the Irishman wanted a fur coat very
badly. When he finally sighted his bear he cried out, "Ah, there is my
fur overcoat!" The bear was very hungry, and when he saw the hunter, he
cried out, "Ah, there is my meal!" Well, the hunter fired his rifle and
the bear jumped behind the tree. Now, the amusing part of the story is,
that the hunter fired his rifle and didn't hit the bear; still he got
the fur of the bear for an overcoat because the bear ate the hunter.
Which of the two was the better satisfied is still in doubt.
PRACTICAL GOLF.
BY W. G. VAN TASSEL SUTPHEN.
(_In Five Papers._)
V.--STYLE AND FAULTS.
The question of style is a ghost that will not down. There are those who
say that form is the all-important point, and that if you get the swing
right all the rest will follow. And there are others who as stoutly
affirm that the only thing to do is to thump away at the ball, and trust
to nature and the laws of mechanics. Now it is certainly true that style
by itself will never drive a ball, and it may be laid down as an axiom
that whenever the mind is intent upon some point of how to strike rather
than upon the actual business of hitting, a miss more or less palpable
is sure to follow. But it is just as true that hands or feet or body may
be in such a position that a fair stroke is utterly impossible, and this
is surely not golf. Evidently truth lies between the two extremes.
There can be no question but that in all games the right way is easier
and productive of better results than the wrong way, and golf cannot
claim to be entirely independent of this general principle. Therefore it
is wise to begin our practice on the general lines laid down by the
wisdom of the ages, subject of course to the necessary modifications due
to age, sex, or previous conditions of servitude to tennis, baseball,
and other obsolete forms of amusement. Undoubtedly the most satisfactory
method is instruction from a competent coach. The beginner may think
that he is following faithfully the instructions given him in these
papers, and yet be unconsciously going wrong in a dozen ways,
imperceptible perhaps except to an expert eye. By all means seek the
counsel and instruction of a professional golfer or expert amateur, if
there be one within reach, for he can certainly save you many false
steps.
But supposing that there is no way of obtaining this practical
assistance, must we give up golf as unattainable and book knowledge as
untrustworthy? Not at all. Study and digest the instructions and hints
given in these papers as thoroughly as you can, and do your best to put
them into practice. There is only one thing to guard against, and that
is the tendency of exaggeration in any or all points. For instance, I
tell you that the left wrist must be kept taut, and this is indeed
necessary. But if you go to work with the idea that in a stiff wrist
lies the secret of all golf, you are turning a caution into a fetich,
and the result must be unsatisfactory. Even the italicized injunction at
the end of each article, about the necessity of keeping the eye upon the
ball, is not the whole of golf, and, important as it is, it must not
absorb the whole of your attention. All these things work together for
golf, and the moment that you exalt any one of them above the others you
destroy both your mental and your physical balance, and the result is no
game. Finally, let the forming of style be reserved for practice play.
Once engaged in a tournament (and, by-the-way, you should enter as many
regular competitions as possible), you must let your style take care of
itself, and devote the whole of your attention and energy to hitting the
ball clean. If you begin to think _how_ you are going to hit it, or how
_far_ you will drive it, or anything about it except the simple duty of
_hitting_ it, you will fail altogether. In practice let your aim be
style; in a match let it be the hitting of the ball.
The detection and cure of specific faults are difficult tasks on paper,
for very often different causes may produce what is apparently the same
effect, and it is obvious that the particular remedy depends upon the
specific disease.
[Illustration: BEGINNING OF FULL SWING--INCORRECT.]
For example, the ball has a great tendency to go off to the right of the
line instead of straight. Now the reason may be that the player is
putting a cut on the ball by drawing in his arms ("slicing" proper), or
he may have the face of the club turned back (wrong grip), or he may be
hitting off the heel of the club ("heeling") and at the same time
putting a "slice" on the ball. Evidently the same corrective will not
answer in every case. For "slicing" proper it will be well to attend to
the precept of "slow back," so that the body muscles may be used, and
the arms allowed to go freely out both in the up swing and in the
"follow on." Perhaps the right foot is too far advanced, and a change in
position (not distance) may encourage the loins and shoulders to get in
the work. Try drawing the right foot back in proportion to the amount of
"skid." Laying the face back is the result of a wrong grip. The left
hand may be too far under, and the right hand may be holding too
loosely. Look up the instructions for the proper grip. "Heeling," or
hitting off the heel, is due to poor aim. Stand up and hit more
carefully.
"Pulling" or "hooking," which sends the ball off to the left of the
proper line, is not so common a fault. Generally it is the result of
having the club face turned in, and this in turn comes of "pressing," or
trying to strike too hard and without the proper swing. Give up the idea
that you are hitting at a baseball, and guard against stooping forward.
[Illustration: END OF FULL SWING--INCORRECT.]
When a ball is "topped" or hit above the centre it is nearly always due
to carelessness, or overdue concentration on some point of style. If
your swing is too straight up and down, and you are drawing in your arms
across the line of fire, a "top" is pretty sure to follow. Let your arms
go out so that the curve of your swing may be longer, or rather flatter,
and try to look at the side of your ball, and not straight down upon it.
If you are looking persistently at the top of your ball, and your "eye
is in," the club head must perforce obey its instructions. It is not
only the ball but the side of the ball that you want to hit. Another
reason why players "top" is because they are afraid of the ground and of
breaking their clubs. Now, as a matter of fact, an honest "sclaff" or
scrape does no harm either to the club or to the flight of the ball,
except perhaps when the ground is frozen, and the game cannot properly
be played at all. Therefore get down to the ball always.
In the approach stroke "slicing" is the most troublesome fault to mend.
It is a great help in the shorter shots to keep the right arm rubbing
lightly against the body, for the sake of its support, and, indeed,
without some such aid steadiness is impossible. And keep the left wrist
taut.
[Illustration: INCORRECT "STANCE."]
When a player goes off in his putting, the case is pretty sure to be
mental, _i.e._, lack of patience and concentration. And this is
particularly true of the short holing-out puts of thirty inches or so.
Still, the sin may be one of commission: the player is playing with a
jerk, or he is looking at the hole instead of at the ball, or both of
his arms are hanging clear of his body, and consequently deprived of its
support, or, finally, his putter may be badly balanced. Once the cause
is discovered, the remedy is easy of application.
The beginner will do well to study carefully the illustrations that have
appeared in the preceding articles. The professional Willie Dunn, who
appears in most of them, is not only a fine player himself, but his form
is especially good, and a safe model upon which to pattern. The
incorrect positions illustrate faults in stand and swing into which the
beginner is particularly liable to fall, and a study of them may save
him from many misconceptions.
It is to be noted that no distinction has been made in these articles
between the girl's game and that of her brother's, and, indeed, none is
necessary. The same instructions apply, and virtually the same results
should follow. The girl may not be able to drive so far, but there is no
reason why she should not hold her own in approaching and putting, and a
sensible costume will obviously be of advantage.
Left-handed players must of course make the necessary correction in the
instructions, but if possible they should try to play in the ordinary
style. It is a curious fact that, unlike tennis, billiards, or baseball,
first-class golf is seldom acquired by left-handers.
Finally, don't think the game too easy, and so play carelessly, and, on
the other hand, don't get discouraged and give it up as too difficult.
In the words of an old-time hero of the green, "It's dogged as does it."
CATCHING SHAD FOR MARKET.
BY J. PARMLY PARET.
Hooks and lines are about as useless in shad-fishing as nets would be if
eels were wanted. Not one of those long rows of shad you see in the
markets was caught with a hook. They were all foolish enough to swim
straight into nets spread out to trap them, and they hadn't sense enough
to swim out again. So when you see Mr. Shaddie served up before you for
your breakfast, you may remember that it is because he has more bones
than brains that you have a chance to eat him. Mr. Shaddie inherits two
fatal features--his lack of brains and the breadth of his shoulders. One
gets him tangled up in fish-nets, and the other prevents his getting out
again. Were it not for this, shad would be as scarce in the market as
terrapin.
Just as soon as the last ice has left the rivers the shad-fishermen
begin to prepare for the fishing season. They must make the most of the
few weeks while it lasts, so they never fail to have all their nets
ready as soon as the shad begin to "run"--as they call it when the fish
commence to swim up the rivers.
There are two ways of catching shad--by small nets set on poles, and
with "seine" nets. Most of the fish we see in the markets are taken in
the small nets, as the poles are always used in the rivers where the
current runs too fast for the "seines." These poles are simply long
saplings, like telegraph poles, with their lower ends sharpened so as
to stick up in the muddy bottom. The fishermen pick out some part of the
river where their nets are not likely to be torn and broken up by
passing boats, and then drive down their poles in long rows.
[Illustration: DRIVING A STAKE.]
These poles are generally "planted" in water forty or fifty feet deep,
so it is not easy to drive them into the bottom so far under the water.
Pontoon boats, built by joining two scows or row-boats together, are
anchored at the place selected for the row, and the sharpened ends of
the long saplings are pushed into the ground. A crossbar is fastened to
one of the poles, high out of water, and the fishermen jump up and down
on this until the sapling is driven down firmly into the mud. There are
anywhere from twenty to forty of these poles in a row, and they are
placed about thirty feet from each other.
At the first sign of the fish the nets are set out on these poles. These
shad-nets are like enormous fly-traps, open at one end. The meshes are
large enough to let the shad put their foolish heads in the nooses, but
not big enough to let their shoulders through. The top and bottom of
each net are fastened to two long ropes, and the ends of these ropes are
tied to wooden rings like barrel hoops, slid over the poles, and sunk
down under the surface of the water by weights. So the open end of each
net is stretched between two poles, and the meshes belly out with the
swift current like a big bag. All along the row these nets are fixed by
the fishermen soon after the tide has turned, and then they go ashore to
wait for the next tide.
[Illustration: DRAGGING THE NETS.]
Along comes Mr. Stupid Shaddie, swimming rapidly with the current.
Suddenly he runs against the net, and before he knows what has happened
his head is thrust through one of the openings in its meshes. Mr.
Shaddie foolishly tries to push through the barrier, and soon finds his
gills tangled up with the thin cords that hold him. He has not sense
enough to turn around when he first finds himself in the net and swim
out again the way he came in. The door is still open, but he hates to
swim against the tide, so he goes on trying to push ahead until he is
hopelessly caught in the net, and the more he struggles the tighter he
is held. Mr. Shaddie's brothers, too, are equally stupid. They follow
his silly example, and soon there are a number of them struggling in
each net.
The fishermen in the mean time have waited patiently on shore. Just
before the tide turns again they row out to their nets and haul them up.
If they waited too long, Mr. Shaddie and his foolish friends would get
out, for the turn of the tide would swing the net in the opposite
direction and soon release the struggling fish. The long fishing-boat is
manned by four men, and they row out to the nets. The boat is tied at
each end to one of the poles, and the "haul" begins. Long notched sticks
or boat-hooks are thrust down under the water beside the poles, and the
net-ropes pulled up to the surface.
[Illustration: THE FIRST CATCH OF THE SEASON.]
Slowly and cautiously the fishermen, two at each end, pull in the ropes
that hold the net. They soon reach the mouth of the bag, and pulling
this over the edge of the boat, they quickly haul up the rest of the
meshes; for it is then too late for any of the fish to get away. As the
net comes up to the surface, Mr. Shaddie and his companions seem too
stupid or too much dazed to struggle. When they are jerked out of the
water, however, and into the boat, they hop around excitedly for a few
minutes, but it is then too late to escape. The fishermen throw their
catch into the bottom of the boat, and cast the net back into the water.
Then they push along to the next poles, and repeat the same work with
the next net.
Down the long row they go, the boat's bottom gradually filling up with
the big shad. Sometimes a net will have only one or two in it, while
fifteen or twenty are occasionally caught in a single net when the
season is at its height. A good haul will often yield three hundred
shad, and the fishermen hurry ashore to pack them off to the markets.
But shad are not the only fish they get in the nets. Catfish are often
pulled up with shad, as well as many other varieties. Some of them are
taken ashore and cooked, and others are thrown back into the water.
Then, too, there are the "blackfish," as the fishermen jokingly call the
pieces of drift-wood that get tangled up in the meshes. Sometimes these
are so heavy as to tear open the nets, and then the shad escape with the
"blackfish." Careless captains of passing boats often tear them, too,
and occasionally pull down the poles in steering through the fishermen's
rows. Extra nets are always carried in the fishing-boats, and when a
torn one is found it is taken ashore to be mended, and a whole net is
put in its place.
The shad-fisherman's life is not an easy one. During the short season
when his trade is profitable he works both night and day. He must live
close by the water, and sleep only between the tides. When the boat
first comes in after hauling the nets, the men must take out their fish
and pack them for the market. Then there are the torn nets to be mended;
and when all this is finished, and the meals are cooked and eaten, the
fishermen may get a few hours' sleep, perhaps; but they never lie down
without first setting an alarm-clock for an hour before the tide turns
again. For, rain or shine, by night and by day, those nets must be
hauled up at every turn of the tide, and the tide turns every six hours.
"Time and tide wait for no man."
PARTS OF A FLOWER.
Whenever we study science we have some hard names to learn. One
advantage that scientific people have over others is that they know how
to apply precise names to things. A botanist, for example, does not
speak of flower leaves. He says _sepals_ if he means the outside green
leaves; _petals_, if the inside, colored. A complete flower has four
distinct parts or organs.
In early spring the big trees and little plants awake out of a long nap
and bestir themselves to grow. They have a good deal to do, and they set
to work very industriously. Ants and bees are not busier than plants in
spring. At first the awakened plant thinks only of forming fresh
branches and lovely expanding green leaves. But after a time it seems to
say to itself, "I must not forget to make seed, so that if I should die
in the autumn my race may not die with me, but live on and on."
The plant may not be going to die in autumn. It may be a _perennial_,
living year after year. But it always acts as if it might perish, and
provides against contingencies. Plants which live one year only are
called _annuals_.
In order to produce a flower, the branch stops growing in length. The
end becomes a _receptacle_. First, upon the receptacle comes a circle of
small green leaves, called a _calyx_; separately, _sepals_. Sometimes
the calyx is not cut up into sepals, but makes a little round vase,
notched or pointed, in which the rest of the flower is held. Inside the
calyx, and just a bit higher up, appear the colored _petals_, the
beautiful and fragrant parts of a flower. It is the _corolla_. Like the
calyx, sometimes the corolla is a vase or cup, and it is a
_monopetalous_ corolla.
If you want to speak of both calyx and corolla in one word, you may say
_perianth_. _Floral envelopes_ mean the same thing. The purpose of these
parts of a flower is, mainly, to cover and protect the seed while
ripening. A second purpose, and probably the reason why they are so
prettily colored and sweetly fragrant, is to attract insects. This we
will talk about later. But we shall smell of a rose and admire it just
as much, as if it were made for our special enjoyment. All the same, if
the plant did not protect its seed, and invite insects to crawl into its
tubes, I fear all flowers would be like the lizardtail to secure which I
once nearly fell into the water. I had to cross an old rotten mill-dam,
over and through which water was trickling, step on slippery stones,
catch hold of a tree with one hand, and reach away down with the other.
One foot got wet, but that was a trifle. I plucked my lizardtail, and
have it now in my herbarium. It has no calyx and corolla, only the two
organs essential to making seed, called _stamens_ and _pistils_.
Next to the petals, and slightly higher, the stamens stand like little
soldiers with caps on, in a circle, or two or more circles. The stem is
called _filament_, a word meaning thread-like. The cap is an _anther_,
containing in one or two pockets a fine yellow or brown dust--the
_pollen_. You may get pollen on your nose if you smell of a lily; for
when the anther-pockets split open, the pollen lies around loose, and
gets on anything that touches it. Bees collect it in pouches on their
legs, and make bread of it for their winter use.
AN "OLD-FIELD" SCHOOL-GIRL.
BY MARION HARLAND.
CHAPTER X.
Felicia Grigsby sat alone by the fire in her room on the afternoon of
December 24. A book was open upon her lap, but she was not reading. Her
hands were thin and white; her gray eyes were unnaturally large and dark
in a face that had wasted until it looked like an elf's. She had lain in
bed for six weeks, and was still so weak that her father had carried her
up and down stairs to her meals.
He had been very kind to her throughout her illness, but never tender,
and he was always grave nowadays. Flea was thinking of these and other
puzzling things this afternoon. While she thought, two tears arose and
enlarged in her eyes, until their weight carried them over the lower
lids, and they plashed down upon the book. The first snow-storm of the
season was driving at a sharp slant past the windows; the wind cried in
the chimney in a low-spirited, feeble-minded way; the fire kept up
heart, and spat snappishly as stray hailstones and snowflakes flew down
the throat of the chimney.
Flea kicked one foot out of the blanket shawl laid over her lap, and
moaned fretfully: "I don't care for anything or anybody, and nobody
cares whether I live or die!"
The door opened and her father came in. He looked unusually grave even
for him. He laid more logs on the fire, and stirred the coals below the
blazing fore-stick. "Is it too hot for you?" he asked, as the fire
leaped up with a greedy roar.
"A little," Flea said, shielding her eyes with her hand.
Her father took hold of her rocking-chair with one hand, the cricket on
which her feet rested with the other, and lifted her away from the
flaring flames. Then he rearranged the covering over her knees and feet.
It was a checked blanket shawl, red and green, that belonged to Mrs.
Grigsby. It was always brought out when an invalid was able to sit up,
or not quite ill enough to be put to bed. In Flea's mind it was joined
with the remembered taste of jalap, Epsom-salts, castor oil, and tansy
tea. The checks were just two inches square. She had measured them a
hundred times. Her mother used to give her medicine; her father read
aloud to her when she had the measles, and chills and fever after the
measles.
She got hold of his hand and laid her face against it with a sob that
seemed to bring her heart up with it.
"Father! you haven't called me 'lassie' all the time I've been sick.
Don't you love me any more?"
He let her keep his hand, but he did not press hers. He stood
bolt-upright, his eyes upon the driving snow; his tone was constrained:
"A father never stops loving his children, my daughter, let them do what
they may."
Flea twisted around to get a good view of his face.
"Have I done anything to displease you, father? Maybe 'twas some silly
thing I said when I was out of my head. Mother says I talked dreadfully
sometimes. You know I didn't mean it. Won't you forgive it, and let me
be your own lassie again?"
She was crying fast, clinging to his hand and covering it with kisses.
He drew it away gently, and put his thumb and finger into the pocket of
his waistcoat, bringing out with them a paper, creased and worn by much
handling.
"Look at that!" he said, in a tone that arrested her tears.
[Illustration: FLEA UNFOLDED IT AND GAVE A CRY OF SURPRISE.]
Flea unfolded it, and gave a cry of surprise.
"My report! Where did it come from?"
"You ought to know."
"But I don't! We looked for it all the way to school that last day. I
thought likely that I had dropped it on the step of the old cabin--the
haunted house, you know. I sat down there the day before to look at the
report, and staid there ever so long. When I saw what was in it I just
_hated_ to bring it home. I didn't think how late it was, until Mrs.
Fogg--the old Mrs. Fogg--came round the corner of the house and scared
me. I scared her too"--laughing nervously at the recollection; "and
although I was sure that I had put the paper back into my geography, it
wasn't there when I got home. We hunted all about the door-step--Dee and
I--next morning, but couldn't find it. We supposed the wind must have
blown it away, if I dropped it there."
Her father drew up a chair and sat down beside her, a little back of
her, so she could not study his face. He tried to speak carelessly.
"What was Mrs. Fogg doing there at that time of day?"
"I don't know, I am sure. She is a funny old woman, always turning up
just where you wouldn't expect to see her."
"Did she go into the house?"
"Why, no, sir. It's nailed up, I think--windows and doors too. She said
that she mistook me for a ghost--h'ant,' she called it. Father!"
She had his hand again, and again raised it to her cheek. Her voice was
tremulous.
"Well?" watching her out of the corners of his eyes.
"I did something wrong and foolish that day. I told her once that I'd
ask Major Duncombe to let her grandchildren go to school. I was sorry
for the little fellows. I told her that day that she'd better send them
to the Old Harry than to Mr. Tayloe. You see, I was as mad as fire about
my report."
"And then?"
"I ran home, and left her there sitting on the step."
"Did you ever see her again?"
She hesitated visibly; the color came and went in the thin sensitive
face. She dropped her voice:
"She came to the spring next day. Mr. Tayloe sent me for a bucket of
water--after school, you know. He said you did help me with that awful
sum, and made me stay in and do it all over again. I never felt so angry
before. I wished that I could kill him. And Mrs. Fogg began palavering,
and I tried to get away from her. She would help me up the hill with the
bucket, and I wasn't decently polite to her. When I got into the
school-house, there was my slate on the bench where Mr. Tayloe had put
it while I was gone, and he had rubbed out the sum I had done. Then--I
think it was like being possessed of a devil, for my head went round and
round, and I got hot all over. For there he sat, with that horrid smile
on his face, as if he were making fun of me, when I had done my very
best, and been disgraced for nothing at all. I jumped up and threw the
bucket on him, and ran away as fast as I could. That's all. Oh, father,
please don't let us talk any more about that horrible day!" Her voice
arose into a piteous cry.
"No, lassie, never again!"
He gathered her into his arms, and held her there as he had in that
wonderful ride through the woods the night he found her asleep in the
school-house, and she sobbed herself calm upon the heart where there was
always love for his children, and where she knew at last the warmest
place was for her.
When he appeared belowstairs he found his sister in the chamber alone,
but for the sleeping baby whom she had offered to look after, while the
other children in a gale of spirits superintended and hindered the
frying of the doughnuts.
"Does that amuse you, David?" asked Mis. McLaren, smiling at the pains
he took to tear a scrap of white paper into bits, all exactly the same
size, and to throw them one by one into the fire. Each was seized by the
hot draught and whirled up the chimney.
"It pleases me--mightily!" he rejoined, his face as sunny as hers. "I am
disposing of the last objection I had to putting my bit lassie into your
hands. I can trust her the world over now."
He sat down by his sister, stretching his long legs in front of him, and
locking his hands at the back of his head, with the air of one who has
shaken off a burden.
"I've had a long talk with the bairnie, Jean. I'm willing to trust her
away from me. You'll do better for her than I can."
"It will be a trial to your mother and myself to let you go," he said to
Flea on Christmas day, in telling her of Aunt Jean's wish to take her
and Dee home with her. "We will bear it for the sake of the good you'll
get."
What the trial was to himself nobody comprehended. All through the quiet
winter that shut down upon the river-lands early in January the most
momentous events to the father's heart were the weekly arrival of the
letters from his daughter. They were long and, to him, wonderful. He was
kept in touch with her home life, her school, her reading, her
sight-seeing, her growth in knowledge and her burning thirst for more
knowledge. She sent him books now and then; his sister provided him with
two weekly papers and a monthly magazine, but the short days and long
evenings wore away tediously.
The months seemed like as many years in looking back upon them on a
certain June morning, when he and Flea set out for a ride on horseback.
She had been at home but eighteen hours, and he had still to persuade
himself from time to time that he was not dreaming.
He looked her over pridefully as they rode off from the house.
"You are more like yourself this morning, lassie. Last night you were
paler and quieter than seemed just natural. I suppose you were tired
after the journey."
Flea blushed and averted her face. "I feel beautifully rested out
to-day," she said. Honest as ever, she could not say more without
revealing what would have pained his loyal heart.
I have made no secret of her faults, and I do not excuse what her father
was never allowed to guess. Her homecoming had been a dismay as well as
a disappointment to her. Nothing had come to pass as she had expected
and planned, except the look on her father's face when he had espied her
on the deck of the boat, waving her hand to him on the wharf, and the
long, silent hug she received as she sprang into his arms. She had never
heard the word "disillusion," or she would have known better what the
next few hours meant. Mr. Grigsby had come to the landing in a
blue-bodied "carryall." A plank laid across the front served him for a
seat. Two splint-bottomed chairs were set for the children, leaving room
behind them for their trunks. It was not heroineic, but it was natural
that, seeing her late fellow-passengers eying the equipage from the
boat, Flea grew hot with embarrassment, and wished that her father had
thought of borrowing a better-looking vehicle from Greenfield.
The road over which they jolted was rutty and straggling, the fences
ungainly. Nothing was trimmed and well-kept to eyes used, for five
months, to spick-and-span Philadelphia. Her own home was sadly unlike
her recollection of it. It had been newly whitewashed in honor of her
coming, but she had forgotten that there never were shutters at the
windows. They stared at her like eyes without lids and lashes. The
calico half-curtains were "poor-white-folksy," the furniture was scanty
and common. Her mother wore a purple calico. She was "partial to purple
calico"; it kept its color, did not show dirt, and looked so clean when
it was clean. She did not bethink herself, or she had never known, that
purple is, of all colors, most trying to women of no particular
complexion. Her hair was pulled back tightly from her temples, and done
at the back of her head in a knot that would not come undone of itself
in a week. On her head was a cap of rusty black cotton lace. Bea had
bedecked her fair self in a light blue lawn, short-sleeved, and low upon
the shoulders. A double string of wax beads was about her neck, and a
single string upon each wrist. Her yellow hair was braided and tucked
up. Bea was fifteen, and quite the young lady now. About her head was a
narrow band of black velvet, fastened above her forehead with a
breast-pin containing a green glass stone. Bea thought it was an
emerald. Flea knew that it was not, yet felt horribly ashamed that she
could notice all these things and that they dampened her spirits.
They had a "big supper," to which Dee's boyish appetite did abundant
justice. Flea berated and despised herself for seeing that the
coffee-pot was tin and was the boiler in which the coffee had been made,
and that the handles of the two-tined forks were of bone; that her
mother poured her coffee into her saucer to cool before drinking it,
and that everything--fried chicken, ham, fish, preserves, cake,
pudding, pie, frozen custard, and waffles--was put on the table at once.
It was unkind, ungrateful, undaughterly, and every other "un" she could
think of, to let such trifles destroy the comfort of the first evening
at home.
Her pillow was moistened with remorseful tears, and the more she hated
herself for such meanness, fickleness, and ingratitude, the more
plentiful was the flow of briny drops.
Things were more tolerable in the morning. With the elasticity of youth
she adjusted ideas and feelings to suit her circumstances, or, as she
put it to herself, she "came to her senses." She donned the neat habit
her Aunt Jean had ordered for her, and tripped down stairs when the
horses were ready, radiant with pleasurable anticipation. The habit
found little favor in the sight of her mother and sister. They called
the gray linen braided with black "Quakerish." To her father's eyes she
looked the little lady from crown to toe.
The clover-fields were aflush with bobbing blooms, and a thousand bees
were swinging and humming above these; the hay was ripe for cutting; the
corn-fields shook glossy lances in the face of the sun; in the woods
every bird that could sing was swelling his throat and heart with music;
hares scampered fearlessly in the open road under the horses' feet; and
striped ground-squirrels raced on the top rails of the fences for a mile
at a time, just ahead of the riders.
"I must have been tired last night," repeated Flea, filling her lungs
with the scented air. "I didn't feel a bit like myself. I am all right
again. How dear and beautiful everything is to-day! There's nothing like
the country, after all, especially the country in Old Virginia."
With that her tongue was loosened, and she opened to her indulgent
confidante her hopes, aspirations, and plans. Aunt Jean was as gentle
and tender as a mother to her; her teachers were wisdom and goodness
personified; she was doing well in all her classes, and had taken two
prizes on Examination day, the first for composition, the second for
history.
"It's like a fairy-tale," she prattled on, happily. "When I was young
and foolish I used to dream of such things as are coming to pass every
day, and I take them as a matter of course, until I stop to think how
wonderful and nice it all is. I often call Aunt Jean my fairy
godmother.'"
In return, her father talked of his hope of being his own master and a
land-owner by the time her school days should be over, hopes he had
shared with no one else, he said, not even her mother, who might be
disappointed if they came to nothing. "My canny little lassie can always
be trusted," he said, with fondness.
Happy, honored little Flea! Riding close beside him, his hand on the
neck of her horse, her eyes, moist and beaming, upturned to his, she
would not have exchanged places with a princess of the blood. The
weakness and false pride of yesterday were recalled only to brighten by
contrast the joys of to-day.
As the day neared noon the bird-music ceased, and the stir of green
leaves in the weak wind did not rise above the thud of hoofs upon the
dead leaves that had fallen and lain on the bridle-road for fifty
winters. The crash of a falling tree, that might have been a mile away,
boomed and echoed like the report of a cannon, and was a long time in
dying upon the distant hills. From the virgin forest, where oaks and
hickories locked arms above their heads, they emerged upon a swampy spot
through which a fire had swept in April, leaving a deserted track behind
it. Ferns and wild flowers were springing up as though eager to hide the
blackened ruins.
"The Major is having this swamp cleared," remarked Mr. Grigsby. "The men
are about other work to-day, but they have been cutting in here all the
week."
Rounding an evergreen thicket, they saw a horse harnessed to a low gig,
which the riders recognized at once. The carriage was empty, and the
gray mare was tethered to the stump of a sapling. She neighed long and
wistfully at sight of Mr. Grigsby. He patted her in passing.
"The Major cannot be far off," he said. "He is looking to see what we
have been doing, I suppose. I am glad to see him show interest in
plantation work once more. He never opens his lips to me on the subject,
of course, but there is something heavy on his mind. The gossips say
that he is bitterly opposed to Miss Emily's marrying Mr. Tayloe."
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
RICK DALE.
BY KIRK MUNROE.