[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]
Copyright, 1896, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.
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PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 18, 1896. FIVE CENTS A
COPY.
VOL. XVII.--NO. 851. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.
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[Illustration]
THE LITTLE CORPORALS.
BY JULIANA CONOVER.
There was a suspicious sniffle, then a series of gulps, and then the
letters grew blurred and indistinct, and even hard winking would not
keep the tears back; to Charlie's mortification they actually splashed
down on the page before him.
Herr Dr. Hartmann looked up, peering through his glasses at the boy.
"What dost thou read?" he asked, kindly. "It is not, I hope, bad news
from the home?"
"No," muttered Charlie, blowing his nose hard; "it's--a hockey story."
"Ach, du liebe Zeit!" ejaculated the puzzled master. "And what is
that--an American wild animal, perhaps?"
Charlie shook his head and smiled, such a pathetic, homesick smile. "No,
it's a game," he answered. "You play it on the ice with hockeys--sticks
with a crook at the end--and a block of wood or rubber."
"So? and our German boys they do not know it? Then thou must teach
them"--cheerfully--"yes? for the skating is good now, they tell me.
Komischer Junge!" he exclaimed a little later to his wife. "He reads for
pleasure, and then he cries. It is, of course, the homesickness, and I
fancy he misses the out-of-door life and the sports which they have
always in America."
Charlie Stanton was fourteen--quite old enough, he maintained, to be his
own master, even in a foreign country; but when his mother and father
had actually said good-by, leaving him in a German family in Berlin
while they went to Egypt for the winter, he began to regret his boasted
independence; and while not acknowledging himself homesick, even a
hockey story recalled too many happy memories to be read quite
stoically. Mr. and Mrs. Stanton had felt perfectly safe in leaving their
son with Dr. Hartmann, for he was a man who made it as much his concern
to know that his pupils were happy, as that they imbibed a sufficient
quantity of German and the classics.
At two o'clock the next afternoon Charlie started out for the West End
Eisbahn. It was a beautiful day, cold and crisp and clear, and the boy's
eyes glistened as he adjusted the lever of his skates. Then he stood up
and looked about. Germans to right of him, Germans to left of him,
Germans all around him, rising and falling. He watched them for a
moment, and then struck out rather dismally, for even skating lost half
its charm when one was quite alone. What was his astonishment, then,
when a small block of wood shot past him, propelled by a real hockey in
the hands of a boy about his own size.
"Stop him! head him off! he'll make a goal!" shouted Charlie, in great
excitement, forgetting his surroundings utterly; and seizing a cane that
was lying on a bench, he started off in mad pursuit, colliding
recklessly with girls and officers, and sending several stiff little
cadets sprawling on their backs. The next minute, by a dexterous stroke,
he knocked up the hockey, dislodged the ball, and before his astounded
opponent could recover himself, had carried it in triumph to the end of
the pond.
"Goal!" he cried, waving his stick as the other boy came up.
"You went out of bounds," he retorted; "but, George! you do know how to
play hockey! Are you an American?"
"Yes. Are you?"
"Rather"--emphatically. "We're only spending the winter here, because
Edith, my sister, is taking violin lessons. Here she comes"--as a
remarkably pretty girl, accompanied by a "colossal schneider" hussar,
glittering in blue and silver, skated towards them.
"Are you on the war-path, Dick?" Edith Hartley asked, laughingly, "Herr
Von Lutzow says that the dead and wounded are lying all over the pond,
and that the German army will have to hold you to account."
"All right. We'll challenge the German army to a game of hockey--won't
we!" turning to Charlie.
"Easily," he replied.
"Hear that, Rahden?" said Von Lutzow, to a Second Lieutenant in the
Infantry Guards who had joined Miss Hartley.
The young officer laughed. "Is it what you call the American cheek--yes?
I have heard of it. Guädiges Fräulein, may I have the honor?"
"Not if you insult my country. Oh, Herr Von Lutzow, do get up a hockey
game. It would be such fun to see you try and play."
"You think we could not? Too stiff--what? Rahden, we will have to show
them that the German army cannot be trifled with even in sport. Then,
Young America, get up your company, team, what you call it, and we will
meet you on the battle-ground of the Grunewald one week from to-day. Ah!
It will be the birthday of your great man, is it not? Your Mr.
Washington."
Dick and Charlie were old friends by the time they left the Eisbahn, and
they walked home together, discussing most earnestly the vital question
of "material" for their hockey team.
"A week is an awfully short time," Dick said, as they parted; "but if
the ice lasts we will show them what American boys can do."
The next day, however, brought a most discouraging note to Charlie.
"I can't find a fellow who knows a hockey from a hole in the ground,"
Dick wrote. "It's awfully hard luck. I could get Englishmen to burn; but
that wouldn't do, because we challenged the officers to an international
game, and we've got to stick to it, and play them somehow."
Charlie's spirits sank to zero. He didn't know a single boy in the whole
city, and, what was even worse, he could not go out that afternoon to
help in the search. But surely in all Berlin there must be at least
seven boys--for they needn't play eleven--who knew something of shinny,
or even football--if they could only skate. So he wrote back to Dick in
the words of the famous Lawrence, and then waited in a fever of
impatience for Dick's next bulletin.
"It's all right," Dick wrote. "I hustled like everything yesterday, and
managed to find some fellows who knew how to handle their hockeys pretty
well, but have never played on a regular team. They'll do, though. I
hope the officers won't crawl now."
So did Charlie, devoutly, for his spirits had risen so high with the
first sentence that he felt ready for any thing--artillery, cavalry,
infantry--let them all come on!
That afternoon the raw recruits were drilled with such energy by the
"little corporals," as the officers had dubbed the boys, that it began
to look dark for the German army.
Dick and Charlie really played a remarkably fine game for their age, and
were indefatigable in their efforts to teach the team how to dodge, and
stop short, and back up, and play together, etc.; and it was quite dark
when a dozen dead-tired but hopeful and enthusiastic boys started for
home, their skates over their arms.
Finally Washington's birthday dawned bright and clear.
"And it is to-day the great game--yes?" asked Dr. Hartmann, as he
watched Charlie's serious face at the morning coffee. "And the Kaiser,
he will be there?"
Charlie laughed such a clear ringing laugh it did the Herr Doctor's
heart good to hear it. There did not seem to be an atom of homesickness
left in the hoy, and all because of a game! Truly the sporting spirit
was a strange and unaccountable thing.
No, the Kaiser was not at the Grunewald, but quite a number of brilliant
uniforms lined the little sheet of ice on that memorable afternoon. The
boys were in old and variegated sweaters--a great contrast to the smart
military team that walked gingerly across the slippery ice while the
officers on the bank chaffed them in ringing tones.
"Stillgestanden! Kopf in die Höhe!" (halt! head up!) cried one. "Knochen
zusammen!" (legs together) called another; while a gaudy yellow hussar
exhorted one to "shake himself into his coat."
Their amusement only increased when the Prussian force stood up in line,
their faces crimson from the effort of putting on their skates without
the help of a Bursche.
Frank Moore, a friend of the Hartleys, had promised to act as umpire,
and had made all the necessary arrangements. After a little preliminary
skirmishing, Dick and a big hussar with a fierce red mustache shook
hands and declared themselves ready. Then the two teams lined up. The
umpire placed the block in the centre of the field, and the whistle
blew. Like a flash the forwards bore down upon the little solid
vulcanized rubber block, the officers reaching it first.
"Spread out!" cried Dick. "Guard your field!"
The big hussar tried to dodge, but he was between too many fires; so,
swinging his hockey, he gave the ball a tremendous whack, which sent it
spinning down towards the goal. "After it! after it!" he yelled to his
lagging team. "Great Scott! we'll--machen ein goal!" recollecting
himself suddenly. But there was no goal, for the ball went out of bounds
thirty yards from the posts.
It was brought out at right angles, and dropped by the umpire between
the hockeys of the two captains. There was a few seconds of feverish
scrimmage, in which all the forwards joined, and then a long hockey
darted like the tongue of a snake into the crowd from the outside,
skilfully hooking the block, and the owner whirled round in the very
faces of his own men, and then backwards and sideways he zigzagged,
until he found an open space, for which he made a dash, and before the
astounded hussars could recover themselves he had carried it, skating
like the wind, past the backs and the goal-keeper, in for a goal.
A storm of "Bravos!" greeted this successful trick, and Edith led with a
rousing American cheer, for it was Charlie who had scored one for his
country.
"That's jolly good hockey!" said a fat, breathless little Lieutenant;
and Dick turned and looked at him in surprise.
Then the block was put in play again, and back and forth it flew, until
the big hussar once more got the ball and a clear space, and by a
brilliant exhibition of fast skating and clever tricking, he too carried
it safely in for a goal.
"Deutschland, Deutschland über alles!" chanted the officers on the bank.
The German army was playing well, suspiciously well; their long passes
would have brought joy to a lacrosse-player's heart, and their clean
hits would have made a polo enthusiast shout with delight.
Dick and Charlie conferred together in low tones. Should they protest
against the pure English of the gay hussars? Something was clearly
wrong, though the uniforms seemed right. But no, they would not stop to
challenge them.
Up and down the ice the rubber block spun, alternately threatening the
well-guarded goal-posts. It was such pretty hockey that the officers on
the bank, in the excitement of the game, forgot to chaff their
representatives, and only when Charlie, "by playing for his man," had
bowled a stiff little hussar clean over, did they give way to
unrestrained mirth.
"You've broken my leg, you young idiot," roared out this forgetful
officer, as he struggled to his feet; and then he bit his lip, and
muttered "By Jove!" for he saw that he had given himself away.
"Was ist dann los?" (What's the matter) was called out from the bank as
the game hung fire for a minute.
"We are discovered," came back the answer, and there was a burst of
laughter from the crowd, for the fraud practised upon the boys had been
an open secret to them all.
"Take your mustache off, Mackintosh, it dazzles my eyes," cried some
one. And the boys looked up at the big hussar, who was grinning
sheepishly under his disguise.
"What Dummkophs we were!" they exclaimed. "Why, their uniforms don't fit
for a cent!"
At this the bogus officers shouted.
"Mine's horribly tight," said one. "I can't breathe."
"I can't bend in mine," groaned Thomas, the English chaplain's son;
"it's got a ramrod up the back."
"My stiffest chokers are cotton wool compared to these impossible
boards," said little Smith, wriggling his neck round inside the
beautiful gold collar.
"Is there _one_ real officer on the team?" demanded the little
corporals, who were sternly superintending the unmasking of the
impostors.
"No," answered Mackintosh, cheerfully. "We are all echt English
subjects--for I'm a Canadian."
The two Lieutenants who had "crawled" so ignominiously came forward with
Miss Hartley to make their peace.
"Your sister she have did it," said Von Rahden, for Germans too are
descended from Adam.
"Yes," acknowledged Edith, penitently, but with a twinkle in her eye,
"it was my fault. Herr Von Lutzow said, 'What is a German officer, a
hussar, without his sword or spurs? He is not, as you say, "inside
it."'"
"I have said, we had not the time," protested this maligned hussar.
"Or the skill," she answered, laughing. "At any rate, they regularly
backed out, Dick, so Mr. Moore and I concocted this scheme in order to
cover their disgraceful retreat, and redeem at least their uniforms."
"Beastly things," growled Mackintosh; "handicapped us like everything."
"Take them off, then," she retorted. "You'll play it out boys? America
against England instead of Germany?"
The little corporals looked at the strapping young Englishmen, all good
football-players, and some old hockey-players as well; but they did not
have the Napoleonic spirit for nothing.
"Yes, we'll play them," they said, and the whole team echoed it.
Then the bogus hussars peeled off their tight gold-laced jackets, and
breathed once more freely. It would be an international struggle, and
they must put forth all their strength and skill. The teams lined up.
"We'll pass the block to each other as we did before," whispered Dick,
"and then scoot for the open ice. And tell the fellows, Charlie, not to
try and stop Mackintosh, but to hook his hockey the way you did; and
we'll work that circling trick again, too."
Mackintosh was clearly a star player. He kept his body bent, his arm out
straight, and his hockey ever ready for the block to nestle in. And when
Thomas backed him, and the rest cleared the way, he was a formidable man
to tackle. But "Young America," led by the gallant little corporals,
never lost heart or head. They shinnied on all sides, they kept their
eyes right on the block, they hit it hard, they "babied" it, they shoved
it between legs and hockeys to an open field, and then darted like
lightning for it themselves, and they worked tricks which made the more
knowing spectators shout with enthusiasm.
The score kept running up, and still the apparently unevenly matched
teams kept even. Five goals each, and only five minutes more to play.
"Look out for the long pass and skirting round the edges," said
Mackintosh, and Thomas nodded.
The umpire blew his whistle, and once more the forwards charged down
upon the block, which became the centre of a fierce scrimmage. Dick
hovered on the outskirts, and when the puck flew from between the legs
of Smith he caught it on his hockey and started off; to the right of one
he dodged, to the left of another, and, when fairly cornered, he
managed, by a quick turn and lightning stroke, to hit the ball, and send
it whizzing down the pond.
Now there was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lea, and Mackintosh, the
big Canadian, got there first. Then squirming and worming, he worked his
way up the field. Edith held her breath.
"Hook his hockey! hook his hockey!" cried Charlie, who was guarding the
goal, cool even at this critical moment; and he started slowly towards
him, hoping to force him out of bounds. But Mackintosh, with Dick hard
behind, could not afford to lose speed by dodging, and--crash! the two
came together, and together went down, with a sound like falling
timbers--giant oaks. The ice shivered, and then split from end to end, a
long deep crack; but the game went on, for Dick, with the national honor
at stake, could not stop to see what besides the eight-inch ice was
cracked, and by a series of never-to-be-surpassed tactics he carried the
ball straight up the pond for a winning goal; and then, while the air
thrilled to the cloudburst of "Bravos!"--for the officers had basely
gone over to the enemy, and were backing America with all the lung-power
they could spare from their dignity--he skated back to find Charlie with
a bleeding head and broken collar-bone, but mad with delight because his
fall had saved the game. The crowd swarmed upon the ice, and the boys
were the heroes of the hour. But they bore their honors very modestly,
even though Edith declared it to be a double victory.
"They had beaten the Germans by default," she said, "and England by
_nerve_. Any one, to look at the two teams"--here she glanced up at
Mackintosh and down at Charlie--"would see that the boys were clearly
outclassed; but the great American spirit--"
"_And_ a week of hard practice," put in Mackintosh. "Only got our
hockeys yesterday."
"I accept the amendment. The great American spirit, _and_ a week of
practice have gained the day."
"Three cheers for the little corporals!" said Von Lutzow. "They have
nobly won their spurs. And we, Husaren of the Royal Guards, who cannot
fight with crooked sticks, will be proud to cross swords with them at
any time."
"And this," ejaculated Herr Dr. Hartmann, clasping his hands in horror
as Charlie, with head and shoulders bound and bandaged, but happy as a
king, was deposited at the door--"and this is called sport!"
THE RESTORATION OF "TIP."
BY J. PARMLY PARET.
Tip was a vicious young elephant, and during his brief life of
twenty-three years he killed several of his keepers. His last act of
violence came near causing the death of Snyder, the attendant who had
charge of him at the Central Park Zoo, and as a result he now stands
upon a wooden pedestal in New York's Museum of Natural History, where
all may look at the brute which caused so much trouble for the circus
people who owned him. For his attack upon Snyder, nearly two years ago,
the Park Commissioners ordered his execution, and he was killed with
powerful drugs given to him in his food. The process of mounting and
stuffing his hide, to be exhibited at the museum, was very interesting,
as the accompanying series of pictures will show.
[Illustration: 1.--THE FIRST BOARD AND THE WOODEN BONES.]
The preparation of the elephant's tough skin and the cleaning of his
bones took nearly a year before the actual work of mounting was started.
As it is intended to mount Tip's skeleton separately, exact
reproductions of his skull and a few of the other large bones were
carved in wood, to be used in modelling the form on which the hide was
to be mounted. All of the flesh, of course, was destroyed, and in its
place the museum workmen built up a dummy of his body, or manikin, as
they call it, from measurements and photographs taken of him before his
death. Building this lay figure and fitting the skin to it took nearly
six weeks' work, and the stuffed elephant then stood over two months, to
allow the hide to stretch and dry on its new body before the specimen
was ready to be shown. It has been on exhibition only a few weeks now.
[Illustration: 2.--THE WOODEN HEAD AND RIBS.]
The first part in the difficult task of mounting Tip was to build the
manikin. The workmen sawed out of heavy planking a flat piece about the
general shape of the big brute's side. This was supported by iron rods,
in place of legs, bolted to the frame-work and to the temporary pedestal
upon which the work was done. The wooden skull and leg bones were then
screwed to the body, and other pieces of wood the shape of Tip's sides
were fastened in place like ribs. A pair of handsome ivory tusks taken
from some other real elephant were fitted to the skull, while another
long plank was hung down between them for his trunk. Tip was nine feet
and a half high at the shoulder, and eleven feet in length, so it was no
easy task to reach all parts of his great body. Great ladders were built
at each end of the manikin, and ropes were rigged from the ceiling over
it, to haul up the heavy parts of the wooden animal they were creating.
[Illustration: 3.--AFTER THE LATHS HAVE BEEN PUT ON.]
Just as the carpenters build the walls of a house, these workmen covered
the great ribs of their wooden elephant all over with laths. They nailed
them to the frame-work, leaving his body hollow, and then for the first
time the manikin began to take on the shape of a real elephant. His body
looked more like some huge barrel, perhaps, than that of Tip, and his
legs were a trifle stumpy and unfinished at the ends; he lacked a tail
as yet, too, and his trunk was only a rough pine board; but the gleaming
ivory tusks were there, and his head had a lifelike appearance that was
very encouraging. But the difficult part of the work was just beginning,
for the body must be made to fit exactly to the shape of the hide before
it could be put on.
Excelsior was next called into use, and the lath-covered frame-work was
completely enveloped in those thin shavings from wood so often used for
packing china and glass. Bunches of it were tacked to the laths, and in
some places it was tied on with string, while here and there a little
lump was glued to the frame-work. The many photographs of Tip were
gotten out, and measuring-tapes were used to get the exact size in all
parts. For days the men were busy with nothing else but this work. They
trimmed off corners here, and added patches there, as the defects in the
manikin's shape were shown by the photographs and measurements.
[Illustration: 4.--THE CLAY MANIKIN READY FOR THE HIDE.]
At last the great hide was brought up from the cellar, and for the first
time fitted to the wooden elephant. When Tip was skinned a year before,
the men were careful to cut off the hide so that it would be easy to
work with when they came to mount it, the two sides and the head being
skinned separately. Now these three pieces of hide had undergone an
elaborate preparation. They had been soaked for months in acids, and had
been scraped and pared down to about an inch in thickness. If this tough
skin were kept long in the open air it would have hardened so stiff that
it would have been almost impossible to mount it. So it had been kept in
a solution the workmen call "tan liquor," and when the manikin was
finished an enormous tub containing these soaking hides was brought up
to where the dummy stood.
[Illustration: 5.--ONE SIDE OF THE HIDE IN PLACE.]
Ropes were fastened to one side of Tip's skin, and it was hauled up
against the manikin and fitted around the body. Then it was lowered back
into the tub again, and more excelsior added where the skin hung loose,
or bits cut away to make room for the clumsy dimples in the elephant's
hide. This was repeated over and over again, until the men were
satisfied with the fit of the final covering for their specimen. But,
like good tailors, they were not easily satisfied, and the patient
manikin had to have its new coat "tried on" many, many times before it
was ready to have the seams sewed up for good. Both sides had to be
treated in this way, and then the head, which, of course, needed more
fitting and alterations than the sides.
But it was finally finished, and the last work on the manikin was then
done. The great body with its woolly coat of excelsior was hidden under
a thin layer of modelling clay. This was spread over evenly and worked
down smooth with the men's hands; the body, the legs, the head, the
trunk, and even the tail were treated to this last coat, and at a little
distance Tip looked very natural, except for the lack of eyes and soles
for his feet. Again the big pieces of hide were hauled up out of the tan
liquor, and again they were fitted to the manikin. Here and there a few
final alterations were necessary, and then the body was ready to be
sewed into its new coat forever.
Clumsy seamstresses these workmen would have made if fine linen and
sewing-silk had been their materials, but with copper wire, and
brad-awls to punch the needle-holes, they managed to make fully as
strong, if not as neat, seams as the cleverest dressmakers. The two
sides of the skin were hauled up and matched together at the top of the
elephant's back. Then, with their clumsy needles and their wire thread,
the workmen climbed up on top of the manikin, and sewed together the
long seam where the knives of the skinners had opened the hide. Other
seams down the back of the legs and under the elephant's belly were
sewed up in this way, and Tip's hide once more held an elephant,
although a very different kind of an elephant from that it was intended
to cover. The skin of the head was put on in the same way, and the
trunk-covering was sewed over the padded plank in a most natural
position. Two large eyes of glass were fastened into the sockets, and
Tip was put away to dry out.
[Illustration: 6.--"TIP" RESTORED.]
Had any one who did not know the secrets of the taxidermist come upon
the elephant a few days later, he would have thought he had seen a
ghost--and the ghost of the famous white elephant, too, at that. There
stood Tip, to be sure, but all white. The effect of the chemicals in
which his skin had soaked so long had been to bleach the hide to a
streaky gray that looked almost ghostly. But the workmen expected this,
and they soon altered the disguise. They went over to the zoo in the
Park with big buckets of paint, and mixed a lot of it to match the skin
of Tom, another elephant there, whose hide is almost exactly the same
color as was Tip's. Then they painted the stuffed elephant from trunk to
tail, and varnished over the paint, covering up all the stitches they
had taken in his hide, and giving him once more the appearance of the
familiar old friend on whose broad back the children used to ride about
the circus ring until he got too ugly to be safe.
Never again will Tip attack his keepers. Behind a railing he stands in
the museum, as harmless as old Jumbo, whose skeleton stands nearby, but
still as natural as in life. On his label one reads,
ASIATIC ELEPHANT,
followed by a brief history of his twelve years' experience in America,
his death and restoration. His skeleton will be mounted by the museum
experts, and will stand at the side of the stuffed hide.
DOMINOES.
After the dominoes have been laid face down upon the table, and well
shuffled, each player--and there should be but two--draws seven cards,
the one having the highest "double" leading the game. In case there
should be no double out, the player holding the highest number of spots
on one card is entitled to lead. The two then play alternately until the
game is so blocked that one cannot match a piece; the other then
continues until he blocks himself or plays all his cards, thus winning
the game. In case both are blocked, each counts the number of spots on
the cards left in his hand, and whoever has the smallest number wins the
game.
The game is so simple, skill consisting almost entirely in the power of
memory, that it cannot be hampered by many rules, but there is much
advice which the learner would do well to remember.
In playing, lay down such cards as will enable you to play at either end
the next time, if possible.
Play the cards with the greatest number of spots on them first, so that
in event of the game being blocked to both you may stand a chance of
winning by spots.
The numbers of which you have the most are the best to play, since your
adversary is likely to have less.
When it is possible for you to block the game, do not do so if you have
been playing high cards and your adversary low ones, for in that case
the chances are that he will be able to "count out." It is dangerous to
block your own hand until you have become so skilled in the game as to
be able to form some idea of the size of your adversary's hand.
If you hold a double, and one or more with the same number, play it as
soon as possible; but do not try to make a number for it, otherwise your
adversary, if he be a good player, will see what you are trying to do,
and prevent it. But if you hold a double of an end at which your
adversary cannot play, work at the other end in the hope of shutting him
out of the game entirely.
With a heavy hand, play first on one end and then on the other, to
prevent any chance of blocking the game when the number of spots would
count against you. A good hand is that having the greatest variety of
numbers, as 6-3, 5-4, 2-1, 4-3, 1-0, 2-0, 0-0, and with it one can
generally play every time, while a bad hand would be 6-6, 5-5, 6-2, 6-4,
2-2, 2-1, 1-1, and of course the very worst would be to hold all the
doubles; but that would hardly occur in an actual game.
As an example of how doubles should be played, suppose your hand
consisted of 5-5, 2-2, 3-2, 2-4, 1-0, 5-0, 6-2, it would be better in
every way to play the 5-5, since your other double can be forced either
by the 3-2, 2-4, or 6-2.
_All Fives_, or _Muggins_, is and should be played similar to the one
above, save that the great object is to make the spots at both ends
amount to five, or any number divisible by five without a remainder. If
one plays 5-5 at the start, he counts ten. If 0-0 is played first, the
0-5 would count five to the player; then if 5-5 be played it counts ten,
and 0-0 played on 0-5 counts five also. If 6-6 is at one end and 4-4 is
played at the other, twenty is counted to the game, since twelve and
eight make twenty. In this game he who can play 5-5 has the lead; and
failing in that, he who holds 0-5, then 2-3; and failing in all, he who
holds the highest card. The game should be fifty or one hundred points,
and the winner counts all the spots in his adversary's hand at the
close, adding them to his score, or, in case of a block, adds the
difference between the lesser and the greater hand.
_The Drawing_ game is played like the Double Sixes, save that when a
player is blocked he must draw another card, and continue to do so until
he can play. He who plays out first, or, in case of the game being
blocked, he who has the smallest number of spots wins. This game really
requires the most skill, since a player must remember all the cards, and
try to form some idea of what remains in the pool and what his adversary
holds. It is quite common to unite this game with All Fives, thus making
a longer game of the former.
_The Matadore_ game has more of the element of chance in it than any
other. Each player draws three cards, and he who holds the highest plays
first. After that the next player can only go when his domino, added to
the one previously played, will make seven. Those cards having just
seven spots on them, and the double blank, are called matadores, and may
be played at _any_ time, regardless of spots. There are, of course, but
four matadores--6-1, 5-2, 4-3, 0-0. If one cannot play, he must draw
until he can, or until but two are left, when no more can be taken. The
number of points in this game may be made from twenty to a hundred, as
the players decide.
WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY.
'Tis splendid to live so grandly
That, long after you are gone,
The things you did are remembered,
And recounted under the sun;
To live so bravely and purely
That a nation stops on its way,
And once a year, with banner and drum,
Keeps its thought of your natal day.
'Tis splendid to have a record
So white and free from stain
That, held to the light, it shows no blot,
Though tested and tried amain;
That age to age forever
Repeats its story of love,
And your birthday lives in a nation's heart,
All other days above.
And this is Washington's glory,
A steadfast soul and true,
Who stood for his country's honor
When his country's days were few.
And now when its days are many,
And its flag of stars is flung
To the breeze in defiant challenge,
His name is on every tongue.
Yes, it's splendid to live so bravely,
To be so great and strong.
That your memory is ever a tocsin
To rally the foes of the wrong;
To live so proudly and purely
That your people pause in their way,
And year by year, with banner and drum,
Keep the thought of your natal day.
MARGARET E. SANGSTER.
THE SKATING BRIGADE.
BY ELIZABETH S. HICOK.
The boys worked hard that day, carrying sticks and dragging logs from
the woods that bordered the banks of the Curve. The Curve was one of the
many bends in the river that began its journey far up among the hills,
whose summits could be seen from the town of Landon on a clear day.
The Rambler had evidently started out in life with no definite plans as
to its future course, except, perhaps, the one purpose of seeking an
easy, pleasant way. To accomplish this it wandered in and out, and
formed many little bays and inlets as it flowed carelessly along. At all
seasons it offered irresistible attractions to the boys fortunate enough
to live near it. What swimming holes could be compared with those of the
Curve and the Dip? Where could better fishing be found than at the
Angle? Could there be a cooler place to rest on a hot day, after a good
pull at the oars, than under one of the stone arches of the bridge that
spanned the river two miles above the town? In fact, at almost any time
of year if a Landon boy was not around when wanted, it was pretty safe
to conclude that the river was responsible for his absence.
But now it is winter. Though there is but a thin mantle of snow on the
ground, the reeds and cat-tails are frozen stiff in the ice, and the
willows look more dejected than ever, as they droop their bare slender
branches to the ice-covered stream. But this winter scene is not a
dreary one to a boy fond of skating, and the ice for miles up and down
the river is as smooth as glass. The party at the Curve numbers sixteen,
and they are all skaters.
It was a queer collection of wood that the boys had brought
together--logs, large and small, branches of trees, and underbrush--but
it suited their purpose.
"We have worked long enough," said Ralph Waring, a tall, overgrown lad,
who was leaning lazily against a tree.
"We?" laughed a small energetic boy, pushing with all his strength
against a large log that refused to move. "We!"
"Well, _you_, then," said the first speaker, good-naturedly. "Mr.
Hastings did not bargain for this, I'll wager, when he said we could
have all the wood we could use. We'd better go into the lumber business,
with such a good start."
"Ralph is right," said Gordon Brice. "We have now more wood than we
need. Besides, it is four o'clock. If we are to meet here at seven we
must lay the logs and brush ready to light, and hurry home for a rest
and something to eat. I'm tired as a horse and hungry as a bear."
The boys set to work again, Ralph doing his share, and soon a large
cone-shaped pile stood in a cleared space near the shore.
"Now three good cheers for Washington's birthday," said Gordon. Hats
waved in the air, and three cheers were given with hearty good will by
all the boys, who then took the narrow path that led along the bank to
the town.
It was somewhat past the appointed time that evening before all the boys
were again at the Curve. Gordon had taken too long a rest, and
overslept; Max Utley had mislaid his skates; and Ralph, of course, was
late.
"On time?" drawled this delinquent, as he sauntered up to the group of
boys, some on one knee fastening their skates, others sitting on a log
as they performed this operation, and still others stamping a foot to
make sure that all was secure before starting out.
"Yes, your time--half an hour late," replied Jack Foster. "We are all
ready for the skate up the river, and do not intend to wait for any
one."
"Don't expect any favors; don't deserve any," said Ralph, not in the
least ruffled by Jack's remark. "Perhaps I can meet you on the down
trip. I shall make the effort, anyway."
"Well, shall we set fire to the pile?" said Max.
Half a dozen boys were ready for this work, and after a number of
matches had flared up and gone out in the haste of each boy to be the
first to start a blaze, little flames were seen creeping in among the
brush and reaching out blue and red fingers towards the logs.
Off the boys started then, Gordon at the head, and Ralph bringing up the
rear.
It was a clear starlight night.
"To the Dip!" shouted Gordon. "To the Dip!" was sent back along the
line, and on they sped.
It had all been planned. They were to skate to the Dip--a short distance
up the river--and then return to spend the rest of the evening at the
Curve, skating by the light of the fire.
At the Dip they rested a few moments, then started down the river, hand
in hand, sixteen abreast. They skated fast, and for the most part
silently, needing all their breath to maintain the steady motion.
"I wonder how the old Curve will look under fire?" said Clarence Bemen
at last, to Ralph, who was at his right, working hard to keep up with
his companions.
They were fast approaching the starting-place.
"We are almost there," said Ralph, breathlessly. "That's all I care
about."
They could catch a faint glimmer thrown out from the fire over the ice
directly in front. The boys, in their excitement, grasped hands tightly
as with a long sweep they went round the point of land into the Curve.
But what do they see? They all stop suddenly, for on the bank in the
full light of the fire was the figure of a man, tall and slight, and in
military dress. A coat with broad rolling collar and with epaulettes on
the shoulders was held together by three large buttons; the trousers
were short, and met at the knee by high boots with flaring tops. The man
wore a powdered wig, surmounted by a three-cornered hat. At his side was
a sword, sheathed.
The skaters were too astonished to move forward or say a word. But at
last Ralph, whose mind always moved faster than his body, said,
emphatically,
[Illustration: "GEORGE WASHINGTON! AS TRUE AS I LIVE."]
"George Washington! as true as I live."
Just then the man unsheathed his sword and waved it in the direction of
the boys, as if wishing to summon them nearer.
"The old fellow looks kind of ghostly," said Max, irreverently. "But we
are sixteen to his one. Come on! We will let him speak for himself, if
he can speak."
On the line moved with slow long strokes, in perfect unison, till they
came within a few feet of the shore.
"You come up in good style. I always like to see the young American show
himself the soldier," said the strange man.
Then Gordon, as spokesman, said, raising his cap, "Have we the pleasure
of welcoming to the Curve George Washington, whose birthday we
celebrate?"
"You have," replied the person addressed, bowing low, and speaking in a
deep bass voice. "Of all the places where the anniversary of my birth is
being honored to-day none has offered more attraction than this. It
reminds me of scenes from my past life which can never be effaced from
my memory. The cliffs that surround this Curve, this frozen stream, this
fire even, built in my honor, recall the terrible winter at Valley
Forge, and that memorable night when I with my brave followers crossed
the Delaware."
Here the General drew forth a large bandanna handkerchief from his
pocket and wiped his eyes.
"Who can it be?" whispered the boys.
"And where did he find that rig--'The old three-cornered hat, and the
breeches and all that'?" said Donald Gray, who was always ready, on
every occasion, with a quotation.
Meanwhile the General had recovered from his emotion, replaced his
bandanna, and resumed his speech.
"My experience amid the scenes of war has made me very sympathetic, and
I am easily affected to tears. If you have studied your histories, as
you should, you already know that I was very kind to my men, and always
tried to make them as comfortable as circumstances would permit."
"The Commander-in-Chief is pretty eloquent," said Clarence to Ralph, "He
is using large words. Have you any idea who it is?"
"I have my suspicions," answered Ralph, "but I am not sure. Hush! he
isn't through with his oration."
"You all know the old fisherman down at the Ledge?" continued the
speaker, inquiringly.
"Uncle Simon?" said half a dozen voices at once. "Should say so."
"Yes, Uncle Simon. I think there is not a boy here that he has not
befriended, mended his fish-poles, disentangled his lines, patched his
boats, saved him from drowning in summer and from freezing in winter.
Well, Uncle Simon is down with rheumatism, and hasn't fire enough to
keep him warm. When I happened to hear of the fine stock of wood you had
laid in for a big bonfire, I thought now is Uncle Simon's chance to get
warm. Now Uncle Simon's young friends can come to the rescue. What do
you say, boys, shall we form ourselves into a skating brigade, pile the
wood on these sleds that you forgot to take home, and carry it down the
river to Uncle Simon? All in favor say 'Aye.'"
The response to this appeal did not come at once. The boys thought this
rather a tame ending to their contemplated sport.
"One good turn deserves another," said the General, persuasively.
"Remember that Uncle Simon has helped most of you out of some
difficulty. Now, once more, all in favor say 'Aye.'"
This time there was not a boy that did not respond. The cliffs around
echoed with the young voices.
With the General's assistance they set to work. Two large logs were laid
on each sledge, with a third log on the top, and some brush that Max
said would do for Uncle Simon's kindling wood.
"Eight boys to a sledge, four on each side, with a firm grasp on the
strap, and no racing, unless--well, unless you have to keep up with the
other sledge," commanded the General. "Now on with your skates again."
"Can you skate, General?" asked Gordon.
"Skate? Of course I can. Brigade is a pretty high-sounding name for so
small a company, but we shall do the work of one."
"The fire is pretty low," said Jack, regretfully, as he looked at the
fast-dying flames.
"I don't care," said Hugh Bently. "Uncle Simon sha'n't suffer from cold
if I can help it."
Before starting off, General Washington produced a large covered basket
from behind a log. This he placed on the front of one of the sledges,
and secured firmly. He said that it was his present to Uncle Simon.
While these scenes were being enacted at the Curve, Uncle Simon, in his
cottage at the Ledge, sat by his hearth, looking despondently into the
fire that was fast disappearing up the chimney in smoke. His thoughts
ran something in this way:
"I shall have to go to bed pretty soon and stay there to keep warm. No
more wood, and nothin' to eat in the house."
Here a twinge of rheumatism made him screw up his face, and his thoughts
became, in consequence, still more bitter.
"I've done many a good turn to folks in my life. Every boy in Landon
ought to be here this minute waiting on me. The ungrateful little
rascals, never to think of--" Just here his thoughts were interrupted by
a loud rap on the door. "Come in," said Uncle Simon, starting up, then
sinking back in his chair as another twinge seized him. "Come in."
But he was not prepared to see sixteen of the young rascals march in
with skates on their arms, and headed by a tall figure in military dress
carrying a basket. The small room was full.
"What's this? What's this?" said the old man.
"We are the Landon Skating Brigade," said their leader. "Our
headquarters are at the Curve, and we have brought you some wood and
some provisions for Washington's birthday. We intend to split the wood,
too."
The boys looked at one another in dismay. This was more than they had
bargained for, and Ralph gave a low growl of disapproval. The spirit of
the occasion, however, was on them, and the General went on,
uninterrupted:
"Perhaps you don't remember the boy you fished out of the Dip five
summers ago, just as he was going down the third time?" With this remark
the General took off his cocked-hat, and with it came the wig.
"George Hastings!" exclaimed the old man.
"Yes, George Washington Hastings." Young Hastings explained that he was
home from college to spend his birthday, had heard of Uncle Simon having
a visit from his old enemy, the rheumatism, and of the preparations
going on at the Curve. "Then I planned this campaign," he ended.
"It beats everythin'--it beats everythin'! You are a second George
Washington," said Uncle Simon, in a choked voice.
The boys made three more trips to the Ledge that night, and on the last
one they insisted on giving George Washington a ride.
Uncle Simon did not suffer any more from cold or hunger, for he was
cared for by the Landon Skating Brigade.
FOR KING OR COUNTRY.
A Story of the Revolution.
BY JAMES BARNES.
CHAPTER XVIII.
A CONFUSION OF IDENTITY.
After Abel Norton had left the young man whom he supposed to be his
friend George Frothingham, the spy, he hurried over to the westward
toward the rocky shore of the Hudson. Abel had never seen the "other
half," and did not know that George had a twin brother who might pass
for his reflection in a mirror, even to the curve of his little
finger-tip.
The scheme for the capture of General Howe or his brother had fallen
through completely, and the two gentlemen, for some reason, had been
more wary than usual about accepting promiscuous invitations. Abel's
only wish now was to assist in relieving George (now that his wound
enabled him some freedom) from the danger of being a "mysterious
prisoner." He knew that if the latter's identity were disclosed he would
get short shrift and no favor.
"Was it not lucky I met him? They must fare well at the sugar-house,"
Abel said to himself, as he plunged down a steep bank into a rocky
hollow.
There was a cluster of huts nestling opposite. Wooden screens from which
in the spring and fall the fish-nets were hung to dry surrounded them. A
few boats were hauled bottom upward before the door, and the icy water
of the Hudson lapped the shore of a small inlet only a stone's throw
distant. As he reached the door of one of the larger hovels he was
seized with a violent attack of coughing, and in the midst of it the
door was opened, and a rough, bearded man stood there holding a
flickering candle, which he was shielding with his knotty fingers.
"What in the name of glory have we here?" he asked.
"Jonas, good friend, it is I," spluttered Abel. "There's work for you
and Roger to-night, and money in it."
"Well," replied the man, speaking in a deep drawling tone, "come
inside."
He held the door open, and Mr. Norton essayed to pass him. A coughing
fit more violent than the first struck him like an internal hurricane,
and, being close to the candle, the blast from his lips extinguished the
light in an instant.
"You must have swallowed the north wind," said the fisherman. "Roger,
lad, get a light."
There was a movement in the further corner, and a young man raking
together the embers of the fire in the large stone fireplace. A blaze
broke out, and the candle was soon relit, throwing dancing shadows over
the beams strung with gill and seine nets. Piles of floats were littered
about, a sheaf of oars and a few sturgeon lances stood in the corner.
The floor was covered with shavings.
"And what is the business on a night like this?" spoke up the younger
man, whom the other addressed as "Roger."
"You are to row a silent man across the river."
"It's a bad night to cross," growled the older fisherman, looking out
through the little window at the snow-flakes sifting through the ray of
light.
"There's gold for you in the venture," coughed Abel Norton, who had
regained his composure partly, but was wheezing badly. He shook the
water from the shoulders of his great coat, and dove into a capacious
pocket. "This will be doubled if you succeed," he said, putting two gold
pieces on the edge of a sawhorse.
"What time and where, Mr. Norton?" said the younger man, more
respectfully.
"Be at Striker's wharf at eleven o'clock. A tall young man will hail
you. Ask no questions, but put him on the other side. He may add
something to this himself."
"Will we try it, lad?" put in the older fisherman.
"Aye," was the response; "we have butted the tide at a worse hour for
good reason."
A minute more Abel was outside and climbing the bank; he skirted through
the vacant fields, and again was amidst the houses. The effect of his
illness was apparent, his steps were rather faltering, and it was ten
o'clock when he reached Broadway. He turned down the lane, and stopped
before the brick house in which Mr. Anderson had once held his school.
He knocked on the door, and a lanky servant girl admitted him. "I would
see your master at once," said Abel, as he passed on into the study.
Mr. Anderson was seated at the end of the long table, his great horn
spectacles giving him an expression of constant surprise. A green shade
shielded his eyes from the glare of a bright lamp. "Gadzooks!" he
exclaimed. "Are you not taking risks, out on such a night as this?"
"There are larger risks often taken," responded the older man, throwing
himself back in a chair and pulling at his neckerchief. "I am going to
break a rule, for the matter is urgent. We must talk despite the embargo
laid on certain subjects of conversation. Listen. Our young friend has
escaped. Number Four has broken out."