"Why has he come home?"
This was the question on the lips of each one of the family when they
heard of Neal's arrival.
It was soon answered. He had been suspended.
He would give little explanation; he merely asserted that he was
innocent of that of which he was accused. Some of the boys, the most
unmanageable at St. Asaph's, had plotted to do some mischief. Neal,
being more or less intimate with the set, was asked to join in the plot,
but refused. He was with the boys, however, up to the moment of their
putting it into execution. Afterwards circumstances pointed to his
having been concerned in it, and his known intimacy with these very boys
condemned him.
There was but one person who could prove absolutely that he had not been
with the culprits that night, and that person held his peace.
Of course Cynthia rightly suspected that it was Bronson.
A letter came from the head master of the school, stating the facts as
they appeared to him, and announcing with regret that he had been
obliged to suspend Neal Gordon for the remainder of the term.
It was an unfortunate affair altogether. Neal was moody and
low-spirited, and he was deeply offended that his story was not
generally believed, for the household was divided in regard to it.
Jack and Cynthia stoutly maintained his innocence, Mr. Franklin and
Edith looked at the worst side of it, while Mrs. Franklin was undecided
in her opinion.
She wanted to believe her brother's word, she did believe it, and yet
all the proved facts were so hopelessly against him. The other boys that
had been suspended were his friends. Neal had been reproved before for
mischief that he had been in with them. It was one of those sad cases
when a man's past record counts against him, no matter how innocent he
may be of the present offence. But Hester could not believe that her
brother would lie to her.
One morning Edith drove her father to the train. Not a vestige of snow
was left near the road; only a patch or two on the hills, and even that
was rapidly disappearing in the spring sunshine which every day grew
warmer.
"Have you heard much about St. Asaph's from any one but Neal?" asked Mr.
Franklin, quite abruptly. "Doesn't that cousin of the Morgans go there?"
"Do you mean Tom, papa? Yes, he does, and Tony Bronson, too, who stays
at the Morgans' occasionally."
"I think I remember. Did you ever hear either of them speak of Neal, or
discuss him in any way?"
Edith hesitated.
"Tom Morgan never did," she said at last.
"And the other fellow?"
"Yes, he said something. Really, papa, I wish you wouldn't ask me."
"What nonsense! Of course it is your duty to tell me, Edith. It is right
that I should know how Neal stands with his class. What did the boy
say?"
"He spoke as if Neal were in some scrape, and he wished that he could
help him out."
"He is a friend of Neal's, then?"
"I don't know. He spoke very nicely of him, and really seemed to want to
help him; but Cynthia didn't believe that when I told her. She seemed to
think he was an enemy of Neal's. But then Cynthia can't bear him, you
know. She took one of her tremendous prejudices against Tony Bronson,
the way she often does, and she wouldn't believe that there was a bit of
good in him."
"But you liked him?"
"Yes, very much. I think he is conceited, but then so many boys are
that. As far as I could see he is a very nice fellow, and the Morgans
like him ever so much. The only people that I know of who don't like him
are Jack and Cynthia and Neal."
"I don't believe there is much doubt that Neal has been very wild all
the time he has been at St. Asaph's," observed Mr. Franklin. "This only
goes to prove it. Bronson was not in that set, evidently, as he was not
one of those who were suspended, and I have no doubt he is a very good
sort of fellow. It is a pity Neal doesn't see more of him."
They drew up at the post-office, and Mr. Franklin went in to get the
letters. He came out with quite a budget, and stood at the carriage
looking hastily over them.
"All of these are to go home," he said, giving a number to Edith. "Here
is one for me with the St. Asaph's postmark. I will see what it is."
He tore it open, and glanced at the signature. Then he looked up
quickly.
"What was that Bronson fellow's name, Edith?"
"Tony."
"Then this is from him. Odd we should just have been talking about him.
Humph!"
Mr. Franklin's face grew grave, then angry, as he read the letter.
"That boy will come to no good end," he muttered. "I don't know what we
are going to do with him."
Edith watched him curiously. She wished that her father would give her
the letter to read, but he did not. People were hurrying by to the
station, which was but a few steps from the post-office.
"You will miss your train, Franklin," said some one, tapping him on the
shoulder.
Mr. Franklin glanced at the clock in the station tower, found that he
had but half a minute, and with a hasty good-by to Edith, and strict
injunctions not to mention Bronson's letter at home, he ran for his
train, thrusting the mysterious note into his pocket as he went.
Edith did the errands and drove home again, after a brief call upon
Gertrude Morgan, who was full of curiosity about Neal's return.
"I always knew he was pretty gay," she said. "Of course Tom and Tony
Bronson wouldn't say much--boys never do, you know; but I gathered from
certain things that Neal was--well, rather sporty, to say the least."
Edith drove homeward rather slowly. She was very sorry about it all:
sorry for Neal himself, whom she liked, despite the fact that he was a
Gordon; sorry for her step-mother, whom she told herself she disliked;
and yet Mrs. Franklin's unvarying kindness and sweet temper had not been
without good results. Edith had softened greatly towards her, more than
she herself was aware of. She still continued to assure herself that it
was an unfortunate day for them when the Gordons came, and she worked
herself into a temper when she thought of the added worriment it gave
her father to have Neal behave as he had done.
"Papa looked so anxious this morning when he read that letter," she said
to herself. "It is too bad. I do wonder what was in it, and from Tony
Bronson, too! What would Gertrude have said if I had told her?"
In the mean time Mr. Franklin was reading his letter again.
"MY DEAR MR. FRANKLIN [it ran],--It is with great regret that I am
obliged to call a little matter to your attention. I had hoped
that it would not be necessary. Your brother-in-law, Neal Gordon,
owes me a small amount, fifty dollars, in fact, and I am at
present really in need of the money. I have waited for it a good
while, nearly a year, and there are one or two bills that I am
expected to pay out of my allowance, which I am unable to do until
Gordon pays me.
"Of course I dislike very much to dun him for it when he is in
disgrace, but really I see no other way out of the difficulty than
to ask you if you will kindly forward a check to my order.
"Very truly yours,
"ANTHONY BRONSON.
"St. Asaph's, _April 2d_."
This letter had cost the writer much thought. He had written several
copies before he was altogether satisfied, but at last the result
pleased him.
"I call it rather neat," he said, as he folded it carefully and
addressed the envelope with an extra flourish. "This will bring the roof
down on our fine high-and-mighty Mr. Gordon, if nothing else does. I
fancy that brother-in-law of his has a nice little temper of his own,
and it will be so pleasant for Gordie to be nagged by a brother-in-law!"
* * * * *
When Edith got back to Oakleigh the morning that Bronson's note was
received she found wild excitement raging, which, for a time, made her
forget the letter.
Some of the Leghorn pullets, which, unfortunately, could fly high, had
escaped from the yard, notwithstanding the wire netting which enclosed
them, and had been having a fine time scratching and pecking in entirely
new hunting-grounds, when Bob happened along.
Here was his chance. For many months he had been waiting for this very
moment. What was the use of being a sporting dog, if he could not now
and then indulge his hunting proclivities? His master had gone on the
river and left him at home--his master did not treat him well, nowadays.
Bob felt neglected. He would have one good time.
He waited his opportunity, and when it came he made the most of it. A
fine fat hen, peacefully picking a worm, found the tables suddenly
turned. Instead of the worm being in her mouth, she found herself in the
mouth of the horrible black object which she had often seen peering
greedily at her through the fence. Oh, that she had never flown over
that fence! She gave one despairing "cluck" as she was borne madly
through the air, and then was silent forever.
Janet and Willy, playing near, heard the noise and followed in pursuit,
calling Cynthia as they did so, who, seeing what was the matter, flew
from the house, dogwhip in hand. The boys were both on the river.
For a time the chase was hopeless. Bob had not waited all these months
for nothing; he had no intention of dropping the prize at the first
command. Round and round he tore, leading his pursuers a pretty dance
through orchard and field, over the lawn, and through the
currant-bushes. Cynthia fell at this particular point, with Janet and
Willy on top of her, but they picked themselves up and started again.
At last Mrs. Franklin, coming out, headed Bob off, and Cynthia grasped
his collar.
"Bad dog!" she cried. "Neal told me I was to punish you, and I mean to
do it."
She cut him with the short whip, but it was of no avail. Bob had dropped
the chicken, and, wild with excitement, sprang from her hand. She only
succeeded in lashing herself with the whip.
"It's no use," she said at last. "I've got to punish him some other way.
The boys won't be home for ever so long, and it won't do to wait."
"I have always heard the only way of curing a dog of killing hens was to
tie one around his neck," said Mrs. Franklin, doubtfully. "Perhaps it
had better be done. We will call one of the men."
"No, I will do it all," said Cynthia; "it's not a very nice piece of
work, but I'll do it."
[Illustration: POOR BOB! HIS JOY HAD BEEN QUICKLY TURNED TO MOURNING.]
Cord was brought, and she finally succeeded in attaching the defunct hen
to Bob's collar. Poor Bob! His joy had been quickly turned to mourning.
And now this stern Cynthia--she who had hitherto been apparently so
affably disposed towards him--fastened him to the hitching-post, and
came with a horrid horsewhip to chastise him! Bob never forgot that
morning. He always thought of Cynthia with more respect after that.
When Neal came home he highly approved of all the proceedings except the
horsewhip.
"Couldn't you do it with his own whip?" he asked. "It places a dog at a
mean disadvantage to tie him up and then whip him. It is so lowering to
his dignity."
"One of us had to be at a disadvantage," said Cynthia, indignantly, "and
I should think it was better for Bob to be at it than for me. And as
for his dignity, I think it ought to be lowered."
To which wise remark Neal was forced to agree.
Jack was much disgusted at losing one of his best hens. What with the
fox last winter, and a neighbor's dog that had killed seven, and a
peculiar disease which had taken off fifty, luck seemed to be against
the poultry business. But, undiscouraged, Jack had refilled the machine
and was awaiting results. Some of last year's hens had begun to lay, and
he was sending eggs to the Boston markets. There were actually a few
more figures on the page for receipts.
Bob's misdemeanor temporarily diverted the minds of the family from the
trouble about Neal, but Mr. Franklin's return that night brought up the
subject again to some of them.
He told his wife that he wished to speak with her, and together they
went into the library and shut the door. He laid two letters before her
on the table--the one he had received that morning from Bronson, and a
second one from the same source, which had come by the evening mail. The
latter was very brief:
"MY DEAR MR. FRANKLIN,--The very day that I sent my letter to you
I received a money-order from Gordon for the amount he owed me.
"Regretting very much that I should have troubled you, I have the
honor to be
"Very truly yours,
"ANTHONY BRONSON."
"What does it mean!" asked Mr. Franklin, when his wife had finished
reading the letters.
"I cannot imagine," said she, looking up, completely mystified.
"Did you lend him the money?"
"No, certainly not. I should have told you, John, if I had," she added,
reproachfully.
"I know," he said, as he walked up and down the room, "but I could not
account for it in any other way. It is extraordinary."
"Suppose we send for Neal and ask him about it."
When Neal came he was given the two letters to read. He did so, and laid
them down without a word.
"Well, what have you got to say for yourself?" asked his brother-in-law,
impatiently.
"Nothing."
"Neal dear, you must explain," said Hester.
"Why should I explain? I paid the debt. It doesn't make any difference
to either of you how I did it."
"It makes a great deal of difference," exclaimed Mr. Franklin, who was
rapidly growing angry. "In the first place, how did you come to be owing
fifty dollars so soon after the other debt was paid? What did you do
with the first fifty your sister gave you in the fall?"
"Spent it."
"Neal!" cried Hester. "Didn't you pay your debts then? Why didn't you?"
He said nothing.
"It is an abominable affair altogether," said Mr. Franklin. "You were in
debt, which you had no business to be. You obtained money from Hester to
pay the debt, and then, according to your own words, you spent it
otherwise. You get into a bad scrape and are suspended. And now you
obtain money in some peculiar way, and refuse to explain how."
"Hold on a minute, Mr. Franklin," said Neal, who was in a towering rage
by this time. "You go a little too far. I don't consider that it is at
all necessary for me to explain to you, but I am willing to do it on
Hessie's account. I did not say that I spent her money otherwise. I
merely said that I spent it, which was perfectly true. I spent it paying
half my debt. I owed a hundred dollars at that time, instead of fifty as
I told you. I paid half then, and the rest I paid a few days ago, and it
doesn't make any difference to you or any one else how I got the money.
As for the scrape, I was not in it. You can believe my word or not, as
you like. I've said all I am going to say, and if you don't mind I'll
leave you. I've had enough of this."
He stalked out of the library, and went up to his own room. No one saw
him again that evening.
"You are too hard on him, John," said Mrs. Franklin.
"Hard on him! It would have been better for the boy if some one had
begun earlier to be hard on him. It is the most extraordinary thing
where he got that money."
Nothing was said to the others about it all. They knew that Neal was in
fresh disgrace, but Mr. and Mrs. Franklin withheld the details at
present. Neal himself was dumb. Not even to his only confidante,
Cynthia, did he unburden himself. He was too angry with her father to
trust himself to speak to her on the subject, and his silence made
Cynthia miserable.
Neal did not acknowledge for a moment that the stand taken by Mr.
Franklin was perfectly justifiable and natural, and he allowed his
resentment to burn furiously, making no effort to overcome it.
His mistake from the beginning had been concealment, but this he had yet
to realize. He fancied that it would be lowering to his pride to make
any explanation whatever.
Let them think what they liked, he did not care, he said to himself
again and again.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
THE RIGHT AND THE WRONG OF IT.
There is perhaps a question as to what is the proper position for the
best and healthiest bicycle riding. Some good riders sit in one
position, have one length of pedal stride, and use one kind of ankle
motion, and others--just as good riders--believe in something entirely
different, and prove it by riding long distances or at great speed
without either injury or discomfort to themselves. The suggestions given
below must stand, therefore, only as suggestions, which can only be
proved by you yourself to be correct after you have followed them for
some time, and found them of benefit to yourself. They are followed by
many good road riders and racers, and that is some recommendation, and
for the practical pleasure of wheelman they are probably the best that
can be had.
In the first place, it is taken for granted that you are riding a
bicycle for pleasure, not as a business: that you ride of an afternoon
say thirty miles or so, not much more, that occasionally you make a
day's trip to some place and do fifty miles, and that perhaps you take a
fortnights trip of five or six or seven hundred miles. In other words,
the readers of the ROUND TABLE, both boys and girls, are the subject of
this article. They do not ride five hundred miles in twenty-four hours
on a track on thousand-dollar wagers, and they refrain from trying to do
a mile in a minute and fifty seconds. They do not "train" for their
trips, but they treat their wheels as they would cat-boats or horses or
tennis, or any other healthy out-door sport.
For such people bicycle riding is not by any means the healthiest
exercise that could be found. In the first place, it is an extraordinary
stimulus to the heart. If you dismount after working up a bad hill you
may very possibly find your pulse at 150--something unusual in almost
any running game. Then again, while riding exercises certain muscles of
the legs admirably, the shoulders and back muscles are not only not
getting much training, but in certain too common positions they are
actually being distorted. Still again there is a constant tendency to
overdo the thing, to ride too much, and especially in the case of girls
to tire yourself out, and bring a strain on the system that may result
in something more or less permanent in the shape of injury.
All this is not set down at the beginning to scare any one away from
bicycling. Imperfect exercise is better than none, and many people ride
a wheel religiously who would not be persuaded to take any other regular
exercise. The hours in the open air on a wheel are far better than
nothing, therefore, and then, too, a good many other exercises which
are far more general, are for one reason or another beyond the reach of
some of us. Horseback riding, for example, is a much more general and
temperate exercise, but we cannot all support a stable. Walking is no
doubt better than bicycling; but few of us will walk regularly day after
day ten miles in the proper form and costume, while just now we are all
willing to do twice that amount on a wheel and in correct costume. So
that bicycling, in spite of its drawbacks, is distinctly to be
encouraged. There is, however, a right way and many wrong ones, and
though people may disagree on some of the details, they do not fail to
agree on general principles.
Bicycling for boys is different in most details from bicycling for
girls, and we must speak separately of these, as indeed the two should
be enjoyed separately generally. A boy always has more endurance, and
can tire out a girl in four miles. He should therefore either ride only
in company of his own sex, or he should, when riding with a girl, keep
to her standard rather than try to bring her up to his. This is hard
work for the boy, and needs his constant attention during the ride, so
much so, indeed, that he will do better not to ride with girls at all.
To begin with, then, let us take the ordinary upright position, such a
position as will correspond to the upright position assumed by any one
who is walking, by a good horseman in the saddle, by a cross-country
runner in his run. There are rules for all these, and they are
relatively the same. You want to give yourself plenty of room to breathe
in. The chest ought to be well out, therefore, the shoulders thrown
back, and the head up, so that you will not be crowding all the veins
that send blood into your head by letting your neck sink into your
shoulders. This is the same in horseback riding, running, walking, and
rowing. You can assume this position while sitting and reading this
article by following this simple rule: Sit squarely on the chair. Then
fix your mind on an imaginary spot in your chest bone or "sternum," just
half-way between your pectorals and on a line with them. Then try to
"lift" this point up as high as you can. Your abdomen will naturally be
contracted, or will "go in," as you say. The small of your back will
curve in, and the back of your neck at the base of the brain will press
backwards, while your chin is brought in close to your neck in front, at
the same time the shoulders are pressed back. When this position is
exaggerated, it looks somewhat pompous and idiotic, but it is the
correct position for the trunk of the body, and when it becomes natural
it looks natural.
This is the position you should assume when you are in the saddle of a
bicycle. Of course no one, man or boy, can keep up in this position all
the time, but you should keep as near it as you comfortably can. Comfort
is really the basis of all such positions, and while, to a certain
extent, comfort is the result of habit, still a more upright position is
more natural to one than to another rider.
[Illustration: CORRECT ROAD POSITION.]
[Illustration: INCORRECT ROAD POSITION.]
This upright seat is dependent on itself. That is to say, you should get
in the habit of taking it so easily that, supposing you could ride with
handles, you would sit thus nevertheless. In other words, you should not
depend on your hands and the grip they have on the handles for support
at all. The hands and arms are not needed as you sit in a chair, nor as
you walk, nor as you ride a horse, except as guides in one case to guide
the horse, in the other to keep your balance while walking, and finally
on the bicycle to guide the wheel and keep yourself balanced on it. If
you will examine the two cuts accompanying this article, entitled,
respectively, "correct road position" and "incorrect road position," you
will at once see the difference. The incorrect position shows a rider
"leaning" on his hands and arms. The seat is a very common one,
unfortunately, and if you examine the next twenty riders you meet,
especially those who have ridden fifteen or twenty miles, you are likely
to find most of them in this condition. The arms are rigid, the body is
leaning on them. This thrusts the shoulders back until the
shoulder-blades touch each other behind the shoulders. The lungs and
neck are pushed forward, and every single muscle and nerve in the upper
part of the trunk and neck is out of place. The result is that neither
heart nor lungs get good opportunity for action, and the shape of your
upper body is slowly but surely being deformed. In the other position,
the correct one, the rider could at any moment take his hands from the
handle-bar and not alter his position in any way. The two contrasted
speak for themselves.
It may, of course, be said that when a rider becomes tired with riding,
the incorrect position is a great rest. In the first place, this is not
true if he has faithfully learned to ride in the upright seat. Then the
other becomes uncomfortable. In the correct position the wheelman has
his arms a trifle bent, at the elbow, so that when he goes over any
unevenness in the road his arms give, and he avoids the shaking of his
whole body by the jounce, to say nothing of the certainty of giving his
wheel an unpleasant shaking up.
In the most modern wheels the position of the rider is almost that of a
pedestrian--that is, the pedals are almost under the saddle, so that he
treads directly up and down. This helps him in keeping his seat without
the aid of hands and arms, and it makes all the muscles of the legs and
thighs work in their proper places, and the whole action of his body
thus becomes natural. All this can be seen in the "correct position,"
and there can hardly be a question that this is the natural position for
a man to take when he mounts his wheel for a run of a few miles. It
naturally brings part of the weight of the body on the pedals, relieves
the very uncomfortable weight on the saddle, and helps a rider to
balance himself without the use of handle-bars, thus avoiding the
"wriggling" of the wheel, which is so tiresome and so deadening to a
steady road gait.
The position of a man who is racing is, of course, quite different, and
it has a parallel in horse-racing. A jockey when he is riding a racing
horse in a big race rises in his stirrups, leans far forward, and
crouches on the horse's neck: but because a jockey does this in a
race--and advisedly so--is no reason for a gentleman to do the same when
he is out for a jaunt on his cob of an afternoon. The two seats are both
correct, but each belongs to its sphere. So it is with the bicycle. The
racing or "scorching" position is a difficult one to represent in a
photographic reproduction, because each man has his own particular
ideas, and as most men who race make a study of the subject, the result
is that there are many different ideas. The general principle is,
however, to get a strong purchase on the handles in order to give
yourself greater power in thrusting down on the pedals, and at the same
time to curl up the body in order to give as little resistance to the
air as possible. Any one who has ridden against the wind will realize
what an enormous difference the air makes on his speed, and this is, of
course, multiplied when the rider is going at a record-breaking speed.
[Illustration: CORRECT SCORCHING.]
[Illustration: INCORRECT SCORCHING.]
But there are correct and incorrect racing positions, and the two
illustrations on the subject will give you a suggestion of these. A
"scorching" position cannot be taken on a bicycle where the saddle and
handle-bars have been arranged for the upright road position. This can
be easily seen by referring to the illustrations again. In the correct
scorching position the handles are very low down, and the seat is raised
and tipped forward, so that the rider, while pulling up strongly on the
handles, is practically only leaning against the saddle, and putting all
his weight on the pedals. The back is curved rather than straight,
because a much greater purchase can be obtained in this way; and indeed
the curved back makes a much more vigorous and symmetrical attitude.
The important point to remember is, however, that you cannot assume the
scorching position and the upright road position on the same bicycle
without putting on different handle-bars. Hence, when you see a man
trying this portion with high handles you know he is wrong. On the other
hand, to start out for a pleasant afternoon run through the country for
twenty-five miles in a scorching position is just as absurd as it would
be if a man riding a horse in the Park for pleasure should assume the
jockey seat. There is neither rhyme nor reason in it. Finally, a
half-way position--one between the upright and the scorching
positions--is worst of all.
[Illustration: CORRECT LENGTH OF REACH.]
[Illustration: TOO LONG A REACH.]
Another important point in road-riding is the height of the saddle above
the lowest point in the arc described by the pedals. Experience has
shown that when the pedal is at its lowest and you are sitting squarely
on the saddle, your heel should be on a level with the toe of the boot
and your knee a trifle bent. Or, to put it differently, it should be
possible for you to place the ball of your foot on the pedal and follow
it around in its circle without absolutely straightening your leg to its
utmost. Or, still again, as other people describe it, you should be able
to put the toe of your shoe _under_ the pedal and keep it there all the
way round, the leg being straightened at the longest stretch. The
illustration representing this shows the correct length of stride, and
by referring to another cut you will see what results when the rider has
raised his seat so high that he is obliged to let his toes point down
with a straight leg in order to follow the pedal around. This
illustration, representing too long a stride, shows by the wrinkles in
the rider's trousers and shirt that he is compelled to lower not only
his hips but his whole side and shoulder, and, of course, the same is
repeated alternately on the other side. As these photographs were taken
by an instantaneous slide, and the riders were in motion, they are all
actual positions during riding, and as such illustrate exactly what
happens in each case.
In this case of too long a stride there is real danger to health in the
long-run. The wheelman makes many thousand revolutions in a week, and
rides throughout a good part of the year, and any one can see in a
moment that this constant working of all the vital parts of the body
must be anything but healthy. Furthermore, aside from the question of
health altogether, a wheelman becomes quickly tired out with this
continual shifting. He may not know what is the cause of his weariness,
but it is sure to be partly due to it if he rides in that way. There is
no reason why a rider should want to have a long stride. It does not
make any greater speed, and it actually detracts from the power of his
stroke.
Now a word as to the ankle movement. Of course the force applied through
the foot to the pedal at the moment when the latter is one-quarter way
round the circle from the top, or, in other words, half-way "down," is
the most valuable and powerful. Just as in rowing, the strength put into
the oar when it is exactly at right angles with the boat is the most
valuable. And, furthermore, the earlier or later the strength is applied
to the pedals the less and less powerful it becomes so far as sending
the wheel ahead goes. If you press down hard when the pedal is nearly or
fully down to its lowest point you are scarcely sending the wheel ahead
at all, and all your exertion goes for nothing therefore. Practically
speaking, in order to get the best of your strength in at the
quarter-circle point you should begin to push, and push vigorously, the
moment the pedal has passed by its highest point. The push should be
quick and short, and should stop as soon as possible after the
quarter-circle point has been passed. There is an instant of rest there,
and then the heel should be raised a little and a sharp upward and
backward pull made on this same pedal at the same instant that the
downward push is being made on the other pedal with the other foot. As a
result, the rider is pulling up with one foot while he is pushing down
with the other, and there are therefore two distinct motions with each
leg during a single revolution of the pedal. Many riders only push
downward, and allow the pedals to rise of their own accord, so to speak,
but they waste a part of the force of each revolution by this--not a
half, but fully one-third of what they might easily put into it.
As a result of this the heel takes a different position relative to the
toe at different parts of one revolution. At the top and bottom the two
are on the same level, but the heel goes down quicker than the toe and
comes up quicker. This is very tiresome for the beginner, and he soon
finds the calves of his legs aching sharply, but in time he will become
accustomed to it, and the added amount of speed which he gets out of his
machine is surprising even to himself.
There is not space enough left to say anything of girls' riding, but
some time in the future this should have a short article by itself.
MAY BE SO.
BY RUTH McENERY STUART.
September butterflies flew thick
O'er flower-bed and clover-rick,
When little Miss Penelope,
Who watched them from grandfather's knee.
Said, "Grandpa, what's a butterfly?"
And, "Where do flowers go when they die?"
For questions hard as hard can be
I recommend Penelope.
But grandpa had a playful way
Of dodging things too hard to say,
By giving fantasies instead
Of serious answers, so he said,
"Whene'er a tired old flower must die,
Its soul mounts in a butterfly;
Just now a dozen snow-wings sped
From out that white petunia bed;
"And if you'll search, you'll find, I'm sure,
A dozen shrivelled cups or more;
Each pansy folds her purple cloth,
And soars aloft in velvet moth.
"So when tired sunflower doffs her cap
Of yellow frills to take a nap,
'Tis but that this surrender brings
Her soul's release on golden wings."
"But _is this so_? It ought to be,"
Said little Miss Penelope,
"Because I'm _sure_, dear grandpa, _you_
Would only tell the thing that's _true_.
"Are all the butterflies that fly
Real angels of the flowers that die?"
Grandfather's eyes looked far away
As if he scarce knew what to say.
"Dear little Blossom," stroking now
The golden hair upon her brow,
"I--can't--exactly--say--I--know--it,
I only heard it from a poet.
"And poets' eyes see wondrous things,
Great mysteries of flowers and wings.
And marvels of the earth and sea
And sky, they tell us constantly.
"But we can never prove them right,
Because we lack their finer sight;
And they, lest we should think them wrong,
Weave their strange stories into song
"So _beautiful_, so _seeming true_,
So confidently stated too,
That we, not knowing yes or no,
Can only _hope they may be so_."
"But, grandpapa, no tale should close
With _if's_ or _buts_ or _may-be-sos_,
So let us play we're poets, too,
And then we'll _know_ that this is true."
NEW THINGS THAT ARE OLD.
In spite of the protests of inventors, and of those who believe they
have investigated everything since the deluge, that there is nothing new
under the sun, the Psalmist was right when he put that thought into the
colloquial language. On the Assyrian slabs, and on more than one old
European fresco, is seen the paddle-wheel for boats, although the
propeller is not in evidence. The bicycle seems to have been known in
China more than two hundred years ago, and the velocipede was seen in
Europe even before that. On a pane of the ancient painted glass in the
old church at Stoke Pogis, England, may be seen the representation of a
young fellow astride of one of these machines. He is working his way
along with the air of a rider who has introduced a novelty, and is the
object of the unbounded admiration of a multitude of witnesses.
[Illustration: THE PUDDING STICK]
This Department is conducted in the interest of Girls and Young
Women, and the Editor will be pleased to answer any question on
the subject so far as possible. Correspondents should address
Editor.
Vacation is almost over. Indeed, for some of you school has already
begun again, and I like to fancy you as taking up your studies with
renewed zest and ardor.
"The rich air is sweet with the breath of September,
The sumach is staining the hedges with red;
Soft rests on the hill-slopes the light we remember,
The glory of days which so long ago fled,
When, brown-cheeked and ruddy,
Blithe-hearted and free.
The summons to study
We answered with glee.
Listen! oh, listen! once more to the swell
Of the masterful, merry Academy bell."
This stanza describes the feelings of grown people, mothers and aunties,
and grandmothers, who used to go to school, and have now arrived at the
stage on the road where the mile-stones are inscribed "Remember." You
have not yet come in sight of these mile-stones. Yours are still marked
with "Hope," "Onward," "Courage," and similar cheery words.
If I were a girl again, and could go to school, I would be careful, at
least I think I would be careful, not to lose any time. Yours is
foundation-work, and it is very important that this should be, because
the habits of care and diligence you are forming in your class-rooms
will help you through your whole lives. It is really less what you study
than the way you study it which is the main thing to be considered now.
A girl at school cannot, of course, always be provided with every
appliance for her work, but, as a rule, she ought to have her own books,
her own pads, pencils, ink-eraser, crayons, drawing-paper, penknife, and
whatever else she needs in order to do her work, so that she is under no
necessity to borrow from her friends. What would you think of a
carpenter who came to your house without tools, and had to ask the loan
of some? or a doctor who forgot his prescription-book or his medicines,
and had to lose time and pains until he could send around to an
acquaintance and procure others, while his patient was waiting to be
relieved? Have your tools, girls, and keep them in order, and, if you
must sometimes lend, exact a speedy return, politely and gently, but
firmly, for we must sometimes insist on our rights, and then just as
firmly resolve not to borrow unless the circumstances are exceptional.
Have your own tools.
School-books should be laid aside as you leave them for other and more
advanced books, neither given away nor parted with out of the family,
though you may allow a younger sister or brother to use them, if you
choose. By-and-by you may be glad to have your school-books to refer to,
and you will find that they are as useful as much larger volumes, and
easier to keep at hand; they have been prepared by learned and
thoughtful experts, and have the advantage of being carefully condensed.
After your school-life is over you will very much enjoy the possession
of a shelf full of text-books, once your daily companions.
Your teachers will tell you of histories, books of travel, poems, and
novels which they would like you to read outside of your regular work.
Time spent in this way is very pleasant, so do not shirk your
supplementary reading. Do not, in fact, shirk anything. School days are
such happy days that they ought to be free from any omissions of which
conscience will have a right to complain.
Your dearest friend, and the next and next dearest, are at school with
you, and what pleasures you share, what ambitions, what confidences! Do
not let any stupid person laugh at you for being enthusiastic about your
friend; you have a beautiful time with her, and she has with you and if
any one makes fun of it, she shows that she has forgotten how girls
feel. Mothers never consider their daughter's friendships as matters of
small importance, and usually they love Marcia's and Edith's friends
almost as dearly as the girls themselves do. Be sure to have friends
whom you are proud to introduce to the dear mother, who is a girl's very
truest friend, when all is said.
May I speak to you now about something else? All this summer I have been
travelling twice a day on a suburban train. Early in the morning I have
hit the beautiful mountains, and, whirling through pleasant villages and
thriving towns, finally skirting lovely meadows and broad marsh-lands, I
have come to this busy, bustling city of New York. In the afternoon I
have gone back over the same way, leaving the city behind me, and
returning to the beautiful country in the hills in time to see the
lingering sunset. From day to day, through the car windows, I have had
glimpses of the most beautiful flowers. This morning the meadows and
swamps were gorgeous with the bloom of the marshmallow--a vivid,
blushing pink. I have never seen so many wild roses in my life as this
summer, nor such acres of daisies in the day of them, and now the whole
country is gay and glowing with our beautiful American flower, the
golden-rod. My views through the car windows have been charming, but
inside the car I have sometimes observed what was very much less
pleasant to see. For example, on a warm afternoon a young girl will
calmly take a whole seat, when she is entitled only to half of it,
piling her bags and bundles on the other half, on the shady-side of the
car too; then, becoming absorbed in a book, she will pay no heed to the
needs of other people, who have to seat themselves in the sun. The other
day a girl persisted in keeping a window open, though this was evidently
to the great discomfort of an elderly gentleman, unmistakably an
invalid, who was sitting quite near. Do not let us fail in small
courtesies on the road of life. We shall be much happier at the end of
the day if we have always been polite and kind to every one whom we have
met.
[Illustration: Signature]
ON BOARD THE ARK.
BY ALBERT LEE.