an instant; for Charley Brown has distanced Jack Merks by a pace or two,
and now comes panting back, with the ribbon streaming from his
shoulders.
Then follows the sack race, in which Ed Primstone falls and rolls two
steps for every one he attempts to walk, to the irrepressible mirth of
all the small boys, and the consternation of his mother.
Next came the potato race, in which each boy was provided with a basket
and a row of potatoes, the latter being placed about three feet apart,
all the rows of course being of equal length. The task consisted in
trying who could first transfer a row of potatoes from the ground to the
basket.
But we have not time to further describe this nor the succeeding
three-legged race, in which the right and left legs of two boys were
tied together, and their arms placed around one another's necks, the
object being to run faster than other pairs similarly fettered. We must
hasten on to the grand feature of the programme, the bicycle race, the
riders in which presently made their appearance on the track trundling
their machines.
There were five entries for the contest--Frank Le Grand, Harry Clare,
Dick Summers, Murray Hart, and Alec Barsbey. The latter is pale but
determined-looking, and there is that in the ease with which he slides
into his seat that causes a by-stander to remark, "That slim young
fellow in the blue shirt doesn't make much show, but he has the look of
both speed and endurance."
The start was to be from the saddle, and the distance twenty-one times
around the track, which latter was simply marked out with lime, as a
barrier offering any resistance was apt to prove dangerous.
Quickly and quietly the five lads range themselves in line, with the
help of their friends, and when the word is given, off they glide, all
abreast, on their smooth-running steeds. Very soon, however, Harry Clare
shoots ahead, and a great shout goes up from the spectators as he keeps
the lead for the remainder of the first lap.
But sharp eyes can see that he is overexerting himself too early in the
race, and now the applause of the multitude inspires him to an
additional spurt, which so exhausts him that he is soon obliged to
materially slacken his speed.
Alec and Murray Hart keep together for round after round, and it is
evident that both are saving themselves for the finish.
Frank Le Grand comes next, not far behind; but poor Dick Summers is soon
dropped "out of sight," so to speak, and before making the tenth lap he
rides outside the line, dismounts, and resting his elbow on the saddle,
good-naturedly turns his attention to cheering on the others.
By this time Alec has left Murray, and is rapidly gaining on Clare, who
now reaps the fruits of his over-enthusiasm at the start. He loses inch
after inch of his lead, until finally Alec dashes past him amid the wild
cheers of the spectators and a special burst of brass from the band.
Harry, however, has no intention of giving up so easily; for after his
friends have provided him with a match or two to chew on, he appears to
feel re-inspired, and rolls around the track with old-time swiftness.
And now the excitement begins in earnest. Frank Le Grand having followed
Dick's example, there are only three competitors left; and as Murray
seems to be taking things pretty comfortably, all eyes are centred on
Alec and Harry. The former is exerting every nerve, resolved not to
take second place again, while Clare seems as determined that he shall.
Around and around they fly, their noiseless movements lending an
additional interest to the race. They look neither to the right nor
left, except that Alec, every time he approaches a certain spot opposite
the grand stand, gives a single glance toward one corner of it.
"Keep it up, Harry!"
"Go it, Alec!"
"Catch 'em, Murray!"
These and other cries, sent forth with the full power of youthful lungs,
urge their subjects on to victory, and presently keen observers can
trace a gradual widening of the breach between Barsbey and his pursuer.
Both boys are working terribly hard, and an on-looker not accustomed to
such contests, and ignorant of the careful training that is supposed to
precede them, might expect to see one or both lads fall in their tracks.
Suddenly Alec gives an extra spurt, and an instant later reaches the
point where he is in the habit of throwing his strange glance toward the
grand stand. True to his custom, he raises his eyes, and at once a
troubled expression overspreads his face. Then, instead of continuing on
for his triumphant eighteenth lap, to the amazement of all he steers
into the centre field and quickly dismounts. He leaves his machine lying
on the grass, runs back across the track, and disappears among the crowd
on the stand.
What can it mean? He has certainly not given out, or he could not have
moved about so easily. A number of the boys, in their curiosity, hurry
over to examine Alec's machine, but a warning shout from Murray turns
the general attention back to the race between the only two now
remaining in it.
Harry seems to be completely exhausted, while Hart, who is only half a
lap behind now, appears to be almost as fresh as at the start. Harry
makes a feeble final effort, and thus causes the race, amid the wildest
excitement, to result in a tie.
What was to be done? The bicycle could not be presented to both, nor
could the race be repeated later on, as the games were now over.
In the midst of the discussion Murray disappeared, for he was anxious to
find out what had happened to Alec. Somebody had seen him leave the
grounds; so, tired as he was, Hart mounted his machine and posted off to
the Barsbeys'. He met Alec at the gate, just coming out.
"Who won?" was the latter's first question; but Murray did not answer
it.
"Tell me, Alec Barsbey," he exclaimed, "why on earth you dropped out of
that race?"
The other colored, glanced back toward the house, and then linking arms
with his friend, drew him out toward the orchard as he replied: "I'll
tell you, Murray, but don't look so fierce about it. You know how
nervous mother is? Well, I told her she'd better not come to the games
if she thought she'd worry about me; but she declared she'd worry worse
if she didn't keep me in sight. She's never very well, and any
overexcitement may bring on one of her bad turns. At first I didn't know
what to do about it. I hated to give up the race, although I knew that
was the safest plan, and at the same time didn't want to run the risk of
frightening mother into another sick spell. Then I thought of a way to
fix matters, which was to have mother go with father, and take a seat
near the entrance where I could see her every time I came around. She
was to carry in her pocket a green silk handkerchief, which I believe
once belonged to some Irish ancestor of the family, and when she found
the excitement was becoming too much for her nerves she was to wave it,
and I would stop at once--which I did, as you saw, and just in time,
too, for she hated to give the sign, and had nearly fainted. Father and
I helped her out, brought her home, and now she's all right. Of course
I'm no end sorry to have missed the finish, but then it would have been
dreadful to have gone on and let mother suffer. And now tell me who's
won the machine."
"You have," cried Murray; "and if you'll go up to your room and rest,
and promise not to stir out of it until I come back in about fifteen
minutes, I'll have it brought over and duly presented."
"But why can't I go--" began Alec.
"Hush! not a word!" returned his friend, authoritatively. "Imagine your
mother's feelings if you should go near those grounds again to-day! Now
go in and tell her the good news, with my compliments."
"But I don't see how I could have won, when--" but Murray was already
speeding off on his "wheel," and Alec could do nothing else than wait
patiently for him to come back.
When Mr. Lancewood heard the story of the green silk handkerchief he
hailed it as the best solution possible of the difficulty caused by the
tie to announce Alexander Barsbey as winner of the bicycle.
Harry Clare declared that no way of settling the matter could have
pleased him better, while as for Murray, he hurried back to the
Barsbeys' so eagerly that he took two "headers" in one block.
Of course the machine itself could not be presented until the size of
the winner was known. Murray had forgotten this fact when he promised
Alec to return with the prize, but the precious slip of paper Mr.
Lancewood had given him to deliver answered every purpose.
The bicycle, which was truly a beauty, arrived early the next week, and
all Vilney affirms that it was most bravely won.
AUTUMN LEAVES.
BY A. W. ROBERTS.
Last year hundreds of persons obtained from the Superintendent of
Central Park, in New York, special permits to gather autumn leaves,
_from the ground only_, in any part of the Park. These leaves, when
dried, are used by artists and designers as types of nature's beautiful
forms and color-work, also by botanists and wax-flower workers, and for
home decoration, or are disposed of to city florists, at so much per
hundred leaves, to be worked up in various floral designs. Thousands of
"American Autumn Leaves" are sent every year to Europe, where they are
highly prized.
Among some of the best varieties of leaves as regards color, form, and
durability are those of the maples, sweet gum, sumac, dogwood, Virginia
creeper, and crane's-bill geranium. The popular idea that an early frost
is needed to insure the brilliancy and perfection of autumn foliage is a
mistake. A lingering and moist fall is all that is required to produce
the most brilliant colors.
When gathering leaves, always select those that are fully matured, and
are leathery and fibrous. It is always best to secure them in small
bunches, each bunch to contain several leaves attached to a small twig.
Be careful also not to have the twig so long or thick that it will
interfere with the pressing. I have found a small and light box with a
close-fitting cover very useful when collecting leaves. A layer of damp
(not wet) moss or grass should be placed on the bottom of the box to
keep the air moist, and thus prevent the drying up or wilting of the
leaves.
For drying the leaves, old and smooth newspapers, useless books, old
sheet music, and old account-books will answer just as well as the most
expensive botanical dryers. When arranging the leaves in the dryers, try
and place those of the same thickness together, so that there may be a
uniform pressure when the weights are applied. I have found a soap-box,
filled with stones or other heavy material, and placed on the dryers,
one of the best of make-shifts in the way of a well-ordered botanical
press.
The time required for drying the leaves is governed by the amount of sap
they contain, and the dryness of the atmosphere. Never attempt what is
known as "hot-pressing"--that is, pressing with a hot flat-iron--unless
you wish to sacrifice the delicate tints of the leaves, and turn to an
unpleasant brown the masses of heavy and strong color. I have found by
experience that coating the surfaces of the leaves with varnish,
bees-wax, and other materials of a waxy nature, is not an advantage.
This is particularly true of varnish, which gives to the leaves a glossy
and unnatural look, while bees-wax, stearine, and spermaceti cause dust
to adhere, which soon disfigures and obscures their beautiful colors.
Some years ago I became acquainted with a large number of children who
lived on "our block," and their mothers and their fathers; in fact, I
was one of the fathers. As a rule, they were all pleasant young people,
and it became a pastime with me to entertain, amuse, and find them
something to do, particularly during holidays and on Saturdays. In
course of time two large and vacant rooms were secured in one of the
houses, and I received a sort of standing commission from the parents of
the children to fit up and furnish the two rooms as a play house. The
following description will give a pretty fair idea as to how the walls
were furnished.
First a reliable and communicative colored kalsominer was called in to
kalsomine the walls of one room in alternate perpendicular bands of a
very light blue and a very quiet gray tint, each band or stripe of color
being nine inches in width. The other room was papered with a cheap
wall-paper which cost about nine cents a roll. This paper was twenty
inches wide; the pattern consisted of several styles of imitation
chestnut-wood graining. Having on hand a very large quantity of autumn
leaves, we set to work disposing of them on the walls of the rooms in
the following manner:
[Illustration: FIG. 1.]
First two glue-pots were made, as shown in Fig. 1, from empty fruit
cans, the inner or smaller can to contain the glue, and the outer or
larger boiling water. To the outer can a wire handle is attached. With
the two cans a constant supply of hot glue was always on hand.
[Illustration: FIG. 2.]
[Illustration: FIG. 3.]
To the grained paper the leaves and tendrils of the Virginia creeper
were fastened as shown in the right hand part of Fig. 2. The design,
which is here horizontal, will of course be upright on the wall. To
every other stripe of graining the leaves of the Virginia creeper
without the tendrils were fastened, so as to avoid too much sameness. In
this room the top bordering consisted of sumac leaves and berries, as
shown in Fig. 3.
[Illustration: FIG. 4.]
[Illustration: FIG. 5.]
To the blue and gray bands of kalsomine were fastened the brilliant
leaves and clusters of the crimson berries of the staghorn sumac, as
shown in Fig. 4, and a top bordering of sumac and maple leaves, as shown
in Fig. 5.
The leaves were used in a bold and vigorous manner; all fine and close
work was avoided, as it would be lost, and the general effect spoiled.
For the amount of time expended and the labor and trouble this work
cost, we felt well repaid, and every one decided that the result was a
great success, and that we had certainly discovered a novel and
beautiful use for autumn leaves.
THE DARING MICE.
BY PALMER COX.
Some mice in council met one night,
And vowed by this and that
That they would arm themselves for fight,
And brave the tyrant cat.
[Illustration]
Said they: "Why longer fear her power?
'Tis time our strength to try.
We'll hang her by the neck this hour,
Or in the effort die!"
[Illustration]
Two pistols and a carving-knife,
A rifle and a rope,
Were instruments of war enough
To justify their hope.
So with the Captain in the front,
The hangman in the rear,
They started out to search for puss
Without a thought of fear.
Through silent halls and broken walls
With cautious step and slow,
And furtive glances right and left,
From room to room they go.
Now pausing by a nook or sill,
Where trouble might be found,
Now crowding close and closer still
At every trifling sound.
[Illustration]
But when before an open door
The cat appeared in sight,
The very instruments they bore
Seemed paralyzed with fright.
The Captain shrinking in the van,
The hangman crouched behind,
The pistol-shot and rifleman
Had but a single mind.
In doubt and dread they turned and fled,
And lucky mice were they
To find a hole so large that all
At once could run away.
[Illustration: TWILIGHT.]
OUR POST-OFFICE BOX.
NEW YORK CITY.
DEAR READERS OF THE POST-OFFICE BOX,--I have a story to tell you
which will certainly please all those who have cute little kittens
to pet and play with. I hope, too, it will put into some of your
hearts a sweet thought of imitating the children I am going to
write about. I think I will call the story
PUSSY'S CONTRIBUTION.
"That ends it; not another one will I make! Bother! just to break
off when I wanted it! Well, I don't care."
The speaker was a boy about fourteen, sitting in a scantily
furnished room, busily cutting sticks by the light of a small lamp,
and surrounded by a plentiful supply of chips. On a bed in one
corner was a little girl some four years younger, the last of a
family who had moved out West, father, mother, and some older
children having died, leaving only these two. The little girl had
been for some years a cripple with spinal trouble, and the boy the
worker and care-taker.
Very pale looked the little face, and sad the voice sounded that
called just then,
"Andrew, can you come here a minute?"
"Yes, Jessie. What's the matter?"
As he sat down on the bed she took his hand, saying:
"What was it broke? Your knife? I was afraid that was it. What will
you do?"
"Do? Nothing, except give you a nice blaze with those old sticks.
You don't often have one."
"And give up the Cot? Oh, Andrew!" and her dark eyes spoke the
disappointment even more than her voice.
"Well," said Andrew, a little upset by her distress, "what's the
use? My knife's broken; I can't pay to have it mended, nor buy
another, and even if I wanted to, I don't know where I could borrow
one, and then, when I get my sticks all made, it will be only a
dollar, which great sum won't go far to help buy the Cot that the
paper wants. Besides, after all, it will really be Mrs. Fuller's
money, for I know she could get them made cheaper at the
carpenter's. I heard her say to her daughter the day she gave me
the order, 'Nellie, as Andrew is wishing to make some money to give
to Young People's Cot, I will let him make the flower sticks for me
instead of giving them to Mr. Dawson, and he will have that to
give--ten dozen, at ten cents a dozen.' I suppose you told Miss
Nellie what I was wishing for?"
"Yes, after she brought the paper asking for the money for the Cot.
Don't you remember, you read it to me, and how we were wishing we
could make some money to give? I think it is very kind of Mrs.
Fuller to think of you."
"Well, at first I thought so too; but to-night, as I sat working at
the sticks, I felt as she was somehow _giving_ it to me, and just
taking the sticks to make believe I was working for the money, and
it made me feel angry. Then I have only six dozen finished, and it
is tiresome, after working hard all day, to spend the evening
working too, and I don't believe it worth all the trouble, just for
one dollar."
Throwing himself on the bed, he looked as if he considered the
matter settled.
Not so Jessie, the little comforter.
"Why, Andrew, Miss Nellie said the other day, when she was here,
how fast you had worked, and how nicely the sticks looked tied up
in bundles, and I should not wonder if she could mend your knife. I
think she can do almost anything."
"Why, Jessie," said Andrew, laughing merrily, "she couldn't do
that. Girls can't mend knives."
"Miss Nellie is not a girl, Andrew. You should not speak so of
her."
"Well, she's a young lady, and that's pretty much the same. They
can't do much."
"Oh, Andrew, how can you speak so?" said Jessie, indignantly. "I
should like to know who it was persuaded Mr. Fuller to give you the
place in his office, and often gives you shoes and clothes, but
Miss Nellie, and who lent us money to help pay the rent the time
you were sick, and comes to see me so often, bringing books,
papers, and many things, but a _young lady_, even Miss Nellie. You
ought to be ashamed of yourself." And the voice which began so
strongly to fight Miss Nellie's battle ended in a sob.
In a moment Andrew, who was really a kind-hearted, manly boy, only
just now tired and disappointed, had his arm around the little
girl.
"There, don't cry, Jessie; you know I didn't mean anything. I know
Miss Nellie is very good to us. I don't know what we would do
without her, only I'm sure she couldn't mend a knife," boy-like,
not willing to give up his opinion.
"Well, Andrew, I don't know about that, only I wish I could be just
such a young lady as she is, and I'm sorry I spoke so cross, and
just when we were trying to work for the good of others; that's a
poor way to copy Miss Nellie."
"Meow, meow," now sounded in very decided tones from somewhere
below the quilt.
"Oh, Andrew, I forgot kitty," said Jessie, pulling out from under
the covers a very pretty little Maltese kitten, with a blue ribbon
on its neck, the latter a present from the famous Miss Nellie!
The kitten had strayed into the room some weeks before, and staid
with Jessie ever since then, a much-loved companion to the lonely
little girl. At present she had been occupying her usual abode
under the covers near Jessie, and in the making up of the children
had rather suffered from close quarters. When pussy had been made
comfortable again, Jessie said:
"Andrew, I want to tell you a secret. Put your head down on the
pillow by me, but don't hurt Twilight"--the name Jessie had chosen
for her cat because of its color and its coming to her at that time
of day. "I was talking to Miss Nellie the day she was speaking of
the Cot, and wished I could do something for it, but could not, as
I was not able to work. She said perhaps I could find something to
give up that would bring some money, something to bear instead of
do, and said she would try and think, and so must I. Well, she had
not been gone more than an hour when there was a knock on the door,
and in came a lovely-looking little girl about my age, holding
Twilight in her arms, and saying, 'Is this your kitty? Will you
sell her to me? I'll give you a dollar for her. I just want a
little cat, and saw this one as I passed, and came in to see if you
would let me have her. My name is Helen Lathrop, and I live in that
big house on the hill that you see from here.' 'Sell my kitty!' I
said; catching her rather roughly, I am afraid, out of her hands,
'no, indeed, not for any money,' and at once I put Twilight under
the covers for fear she might take her away. 'I think you might,'
she said; 'I will take such good care of her--better than you can
here,' looking round the room. Then turning to me, she said, 'Why
don't you get up, and not lie in bed this time of day; it is 'most
three o'clock?' When I told her I was sick, and could not get up,
she seemed very sorry, and said she would not ask any more for
kitty, only if I ever wanted to sell her, she would buy her, and
went away. When she was gone I gave Twilight a scolding for being
out, and then had a good cry to think how near I came to losing
kitty, and was so startled with my strange visitor. After I got
quiet I lay looking at the house on the hill, and telling kitty all
my trouble, but she seemed quite happy, and would shut her eyes and
then open them partly, just, I think, to let me know she was
listening, and finally went to sleep, but I could not, I felt so
upset. While I lay looking at the house suddenly a thought seemed
to jump into my mind: 'You were wishing to make some money for the
Cot. Here is a chance--sell Twilight.'"
"Oh, Jessie, you wouldn't, would you?" for besides Jessie's
pleasure, Andrew had a soft little corner in his own heart for
kitty.
"Wait, Andrew, until I tell you. I said nothing to you, and Miss
Nellie did not come for a few days, so I just thought and talked to
Twilight. At first it seemed so hard I told her I would never let
her go, and then I would think of all Miss Nellie told me of the
poor little sick children in New York so much worse off than I
am--you know, she used to live there--and how comfortable they were
made at St. Mary's Hospital. So I thought and thought in the
daytime, and dreamed about it at night, until Miss Nellie came, and
we had a long talk about it, and Miss Nellie said she thought it
would be a great deal for me to do, and told me the story of the
widow's mite, and said it would be something like that, though I
couldn't see exactly why, as I don't think kitty a mite, but a
great deal, so I made up my mind, and kitty must go. I couldn't
help crying over her some, Andrew. You know I shall miss her so!
And I think Miss Nellie was sorry to lose her too, for I saw tears
in her eyes as she kissed me good-by, and she is going to write a
note to Helen Lathrop, and tell her she can buy dear Twilight."
"Jessie, you must not give puss away. How can you get along without
her? she is all you have to love," said Andrew, taking one of the
little dark paws lying out of the covers and rubbing it softly.
Puss blinked her eyes, as much as to say she knew very well how
important she was.