Produced by Annie R. McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]
Copyright, 1896, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.
* * * * *
PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, AUGUST 25, 1896. FIVE CENTS A COPY.
VOL. XVII.--NO. 878. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.
* * * * *
[Illustration]
AT THE TURN OF THE TIDE.
BY W. G. VAN TASSEL SUTPHEN.
Jack Howard looked with some perplexity at the letter which he had just
received from his chum Fred March. The latter had been spending a month
of the long vacation at his uncle's, on the northern sea-coast, and that
good-natured relative had been kind enough to suggest that the house was
quite large enough to entertain Jack also. Hence the letter embodying
the invitation, together with an earnest request that Jack should come
by the earliest train on Monday morning. That was plain enough, besides
being entirely satisfactory; but there was something else, a postscript,
and this was the puzzle over which Jack was knitting his brows:
"I'm not to bring my bicycle, since the country roads are too sandy for
good riding; but I must send on at once the three bicycle wheels stored
in the loft of the machine-shop, together with half a dozen heavy coil
springs, as per the enclosed specifications of the foreman of the shop.
Well, what on earth--for it can't be a flying-machine--is Fred up to
now?"
But the letter vouchsafed no further information upon the mystery, and
Jack's duty was clearly to obey and ask no questions. Evidently Fred had
some new idea, and that meant fun ahead--possibly an adventure. And so
the commission was executed upon the spot, and Jack saw that the box
was shipped early on Friday morning by the fast freight. It should be
delivered to Fred at Agawam Beach by Monday, and Jack would be there
himself that evening.
"It's a rattling good place for sailing and blue-fishing, and all that
sort of thing," said Fred, on that Monday night, as the two boys left
the house for a stroll down to the beach. "Uncle Win has let me knock
about the bay in his little sloop--there she is at the pier, the white
one, with the red at her water-line--and he says that I've picked it up
as though I had been christened with salt-water. Sailing is nailing good
fun. But look there!"
The ten-mile stretch of Agawam Beach lay before their eyes, just around
the point that jutted out to form Half-Moon Bay. It was dead low tide,
and the beach sloped so gradually that the receding water had left a
wide floor of hard glistening sand, smooth and firm as a macadam road.
"I should think you could wheel along that easily enough," said Jack.
"So you can, and people often drive up to Cape Fear, ten miles off; they
even have trotting matches when the county fair is on. I don't believe
there's another beach like it in the world. But my idea will beat
bicycling and sulky driving out of sight if it works, and I think it
will. We'll go on now and take a look at the 'Jolly Sandboy'."
"The what?" began Jack; but Fred only laughed, and led the way to the
boat-house.
It was a mysterious-looking creation that occupied the centre of the
floor. The body of the machine was a skeleton frame-work of hard-wood
strongly braced and bolted together, with a shallow-floored box at the
acute angle. The centre timber bisected this acute angle and the base,
and projected a few feet beyond. The bicycle wheels were attached to and
supported the frame-work at the three corners, the one at the apex being
pivoted so that it could be turned by a tiller in any direction. Just
forward of the base-line, or what corresponds to the runner-plank in an
ice-yacht, was a chock that was evidently intended for the reception of
a mast, the end of the centre timber serving as a bowsprit, steadied by
wire guys that ran to either extremity of the runner-plank. It was
certainly original in design and appearance, and Jack Howard examined it
with respectful curiosity.
"And what do you call it?" he inquired again.
"A 'beach-comber,'" said Fred. "The principle of an ice-yacht, you know,
but with wheels instead of runners, for use on the hard sand at low
tide. There was just one thing that bothered me in the way of practical
detail, and that was how to provide for the heeling over in a strong
breeze or a sudden flaw. You know that when the sails fill, as an
ordinary boat, she lies over, and it is her keel or centreboard that
keeps her from drifting to leeward. In an ice-yacht the sharp runners
keep her up, but there must be some sideways yielding to the force of
the wind, and so an ice-boat rears--that is, one runner lifts free of
the ice, and thereby takes off the strain. Otherwise you must either
luff or be capsized. But with beach-sailing this rearing would probably
throw too much weight on the leeward wheel, causing it to sink into the
sand, and perhaps stop her way altogether. The sand is fairly hard when
wet, but it can't be so unyielding as ice. I was just about to give it
up, when I happened to recollect a wrinkle that the Dutchmen use in
their ice-yachts on the Zuyder Zee. In their boats the mast is pivoted
in the chocks, and consequently the sail and all lie over under the
strain. When a squall strikes a fleet of Dutch ice-yachts it looks
exactly as though you had winged a whole covey of partridges. It must be
safer than our American plan, but of course you lose in speed. The
difficulty in my mind was to understand how the mast would come up again
to its proper position; but that's always the way with the people who
write books--they never tell you clearly the one little thing that is
absolutely necessary for a fellow to know to understand what they are
describing. So I had to work it out for myself."
"This must be where the coil springs come in," said Jack, with sudden
perception.
"Exactly. The mast is to be stayed by wire guys, each one ending in a
coil spring attached to the extremities of the runner-plank. Of course
we'll have to experiment to see just how many are needed on each side to
give her the best results in the way of stiffness. We don't want her
lying down at every little puff, or we would never go ahead at all.
Neither must she stand up like a church, for something has got to give
way when a squall hits her. We'll set up the mast and give the 'Jolly
Sandboy' a trial trip the first thing to-morrow morning."
There is little to add to Fred's description, except to say that the
wheels were rather different from the ordinary bicycle type. They had
been built by Mr. March while he was experimenting on the "Happy
Thought," and the two forward ones were twenty-four inches in diameter,
while the rear wheel was but twenty inches. Moreover, the spokes were of
hickory, and the tires were enormous--four inches in diameter, and of
very heavy material. Even in soft sand they would cut in but little, and
the spokes, being of hard-wood covered with water-proof varnish, would
not be subject to rust and corrosion from the salt air and water. Of
course the hubs were fitted with the usual ball-bearing. The sail plan
of the "beach-comber" was that of a sloop, as being the easiest to
handle, and the pivoted rear wheel acted as the rudder.
The boys, after a little experimenting with the coil springs of the
standing rigging, were delighted to find that the "Jolly Sandboy" would
really go. Of course there was no such thing as tacking; and, indeed,
the "beach-comber's" best point of sailing was with the wind on the beam
or on the quarter. As we all know from our physical geographies, the
prevailing wind at the sea-shore is off the ocean during the daytime,
and consequently favorable to the "Jolly Sandboy." Moreover, the gentle
downward slope of the beach, as opposed to the direction of the wind,
helped to keep her on an even keel. The speed was not very high, but it
was nevertheless great sport to race along the edge of the breakers, and
an occasional ducking from an extra big comber only gave the true salt
flavor. It was hardly practicable to sail except when the tide was going
out or on the half flood, and the best time was when it was dead low, as
so much more of the level beach was then available. Fred generally
occupied the cockpit and did the steering, while Jack stood on the
weather runner-plank and held on to the shrouds, as is the custom in
ice-yachting.
The "Jolly Sandboy" had been in commission for a week, and the boys had
become fairly expert in her management. On this particular afternoon
they had made the ten-mile run up to Cape Fear, and the conditions were
so favorable for "beach-combing" that Jack proposed that they should go
on past the cape for a mile or two before beginning the homeward
journey. Now between Cape Fear and Cape Thunder, a mile further on, was
a peculiar formation of the coast-line known as Shut-in Bay. It was
surrounded on all sides by precipitous cliffs, unscalable from below,
and at high water it was entirely cut off from the rest of the beach by
the rocky projections of Capes Fear and Thunder. It was a dangerous trap
in which to be caught by the tide, for at ordinary high water there were
only two or three small ledges to which one might climb for safety, and
even then the thoughtless adventurer would have to remain a prisoner
until the ebb. At the time of the spring tides, twice in the month, even
these precarious places of refuge were under water, and the only chance
of a rescue was in being seen by a passing fishing-smack and taken off
by boat. Fred was well acquainted with the dangerous character of the
place, and he looked a trifle dubious when Jack proposed going on.
"But it's only a mile across to Cape Thunder, and it's not low water yet
for an hour," insisted Jack. "I've got the table here in my pocket; I
cut it out of last week's _Guardian_."
The table, compiled from the government observations, gave low water for
four o'clock at Agawam, which would make it half past four at Cape
Thunder. Fred looked at his watch and saw that it was just half past
three. Certainly there was a plenty of time to run on for two or three
miles, and then get back beyond the danger-point before the tide was
fairly on the flood. Fred hauled in the sheet, and the "Jolly Sandboy"
plunged forward.
Well, perhaps they had gone a little further than they intended, and the
tide had certainly turned when they started homeward. But the wind was
fresh, and Fred kept the "Jolly Sandboy" close to the water's edge,
where the sand was the firmest. Every now and then a big wave would
break ahead of them, and shoot a wide tongue of white crackling foam
athwart the bows of the "beach-comber." But there was no time to make
détours, and it was glorious fun, these short, sharp dashes through an
acre of shallow water, with the wash filling the cockpit, and the salt
spray flying over the head of the mainsail. Finally Cape Thunder loomed
up ahead, and ten minutes later the "Jolly Sandboy" had swept around the
point, and was ploughing across the treacherous Tom Tiddler's ground of
Shut-in Bay.
It must have been a piece of broken bottle, but whatever the cause, the
tire of the lee bearing-wheel had suddenly gone flat. It was impossible
to proceed; but was there time to repair the damage and yet get around
Cape Fear? Fred glanced at his watch. The tide looked as though it were
coming in very fast; but the tide-table was authoritative, and the water
would not be up to the cape until about half past five o'clock. It was
now exactly five by Fred's watch, which would give a margin of at least
twenty minutes. If they could repair the puncture in ten they could
easily get clear. Otherwise they might be obliged to desert the "Jolly
Sandboy," and save themselves by running. Fred shoved his watch back
into his pocket, seized the repair kit, and went to work at the injured
tire.
It was a good job and quickly done. Certainly not more than five minutes
had elapsed when Jack took the pump to blow her up. But surely the water
was rising faster than ever. And what was that? A sparkle of foam on the
black rocks at the base of Cape Fear! It could not be more than ten
minutes past the hour; they still had fifteen minutes to spare, and Fred
pulled out his watch again.
_The hands still pointed to exactly five o'clock._
With one jump Fred was at Jack's side, and had snatched the pump from
his slower hands. How many of the lost minutes had there been since his
watch had stopped? Five, ten, fifteen, twenty, or was it but a question
of seconds? They were midway between the capes, and it was half a mile
to safety. An instant later and the tire was full again. But beyond a
doubt there could be but little time to spare. Already the big racers
were tossing their white manes against the dark background of the cruel
black rocks that formed Cape Fear; and now, too late, Fred recollected
that it was a spring tide that was coming to the flood, and one of the
highest of the year. Faster and faster the "Jolly Sandboy" drove along,
but now it was certainly a question of seconds. A hundred yards away and
there was still a narrow strip uncovered at the base of the cape. If
they could reach it just after a third wave had gone back they might
squeeze through. There came the first breaker, and the "Jolly Sandboy"
had gained another twenty yards. The second broke close under the reef,
sending a fountain of spray over the rocks and high into the air. The
third and largest was slow in coming, and the "Jolly Sandboy" was close
to the gap. Fred had made a slight miscalculation in timing his speed,
and it was now a question of whether to stop and wait for the backwater
or to race the third wave for the one chance of going clear. There was
no time to weigh the odds, and on tore the "Jolly Sandboy." For an
instant it looked as though they would make it; and then with a sudden
roar the long smooth green wall of water seemed to fall forward at
double its former speed, and took the ground just this side of the cape.
The "Jolly Sandboy," quivering at every rivet, came to a stop as the
surge swept over her. The mainsail caught the full force of a ton of
salt water, and the mast went over the side, snapping the weather
ratlines as though they had been made of tow. It was a matter of hardly
two seconds, and the "Jolly Sandboy" was a wreck.
It was a hard pull to get clear, but Fred and Jack finally managed to
drag the "beach-comber" back to safer ground. Safer, but for how long?
Already the strip of sand had entirely disappeared at the foot of Cape
Fear, and a full fathom of salt water was boiling and eddying among the
jagged rocks. It would take some ten or twelve minutes for the water to
finally cover the beach of Shut-in Bay, and then what? The ledges to
which they might climb could only save them at ordinary high water, and
at this the highest of the spring tides they would be covered six feet
deep. The overhanging cliff offered no way of escape, and not a boat was
in sight. Like drowned rats in a trap. But no! the thought was too
horrible. There must be some way. There was the mast! Could it not be
set up again, and its broken guys spliced with the mainsheet? It was a
stout stick, some eleven feet in length, and the rise of the water would
be less than ten. The jaws of the gaff would afford a foothold--a
precarious one, it is true, but still a chance to keep their heads above
water.
With desperate eagerness the "Jolly Sandboy" was run up close to the
cliff and the sail unbent. With the water already boiling about their
knees the boys worked on. And then Fred did a peculiar thing. With a
rapid cut of his knife he severed the stay which had just been spliced,
and the mast fell over again. Seizing a hatchet, he knocked out the pin
that pivoted the stick in the chocks, and let the mast drift away. Jack
looked at him in speechless dismay.
"Too much dead weight," said Fred, coolly. "Don't you see that those big
tires filled with air are really life-preservers, and with the wooden
frame-work they make a very decent raft?"
And so it turned out. The raft, though deep in the water, still
supported them; and a quarter of an hour later the steam-trawler _Alice_
came along and took them on board.
"Well," said Fred, as they walked up to Uncle Win's, wet and weary but
safe, "you can't deny that the 'Jolly Sandboy' is a good all-around
machine. She carried us on land and saved us in the water; what more do
you want?"
"I think," said Jack, softly, as he snuffed up the grateful odors from
the kitchen, "that I should like a piece of that fried bluefish."
AMERICAN CAGE BIRDS.
BY JAMES STEELE.
The rules for keeping cage birds well and happy are few. Cleanliness is
the first requisite; then temperance in feeding, fresh air, and
exercise, in the order mentioned. But these rules should be followed
with care and intelligence if you would keep your birds in good
condition.
Some people have an idea that all that you have to do is to get a bird,
put it into a cage, and give it food and water as directed. This is very
far from being enough. The habits of your bird must be studied; the
climate of the room in which it lives, the amount of daylight which it
should enjoy, the atmosphere which it breathes, its freedom from sudden
alarms, all have to be considered if you wish your bird to be happy, and
without happiness there is little chance of its being a pleasant
companion.
Canaries are not included in this article, because they are bred in
captivity, and have inherited the capacity for living in cages.
In a state of nature small birds flit about and sing only during
daylight, and they always retire to rest at sundown. You must look out
for this if you keep your birds in cages. They do not understand that
they had better keep silent after the lamps are lighted. They
instinctively keep on singing, as if it were still daylight. The
immediate effect of this is that the birds become over-fatigued; they
are apt to moult, grow thin, suffer from exhaustion, and quickly perish.
The cage should be removed to a darkened room at nightfall; or, if this
is not convenient, cover up the cage with a dark cloth before lighting
the lamps. In covering the cage care should be taken so to arrange the
cloth that the bird can have plenty of air. In removing birds from one
room to another it is important to see that there is no change in
temperature. If removed to a different temperature there is a strong
chance that they will begin to moult, which generally leads to something
serious. Remember that Nature supplies a coat to suit heat or cold in
which her creatures are placed, and that sudden and frequent changes in
temperature are a severe tax upon a bird's vitality.
The object in the construction of a bird's cage should be to furnish
plenty of light and air, and the cage should always be kept perfectly
clean. It is well to have a night covering of dark cloth, which should
cover the top of the cage and extend half-way down the sides, as many
birds are likely to take cold.
It is almost impossible to rear woodpeckers and fly-catchers, for they
live on a special kind of food, such as grubs and other insects, seldom
touching seeds and fruit; and there are some birds that it is
exceedingly difficult to keep in a small confined space.
Birds of the thrush variety--and this of course includes robins and
blackbirds--are hardy and docile pets, and will live in a cage with
_varied_ food from seven to ten years. The principal disease to which
they are subject is consumption, and this should be guarded against with
care. Of the thrushes, the robin finds it most difficult to accustom
himself to cage life, and in the spring, at pairing-time, he usually
pines for freedom. I cannot bear to see robins caged, although many
people have succeeded in keeping them happy and contented.
All of the finches, birds of the mocking-bird type, which includes the
cat-bird, will thrive well in cages.
Birds should not be taken when too young, as they are likely to sicken
and die; but if caught about the time the pin-feathers begin to show
they will generally live. At this time it is necessary to feed them
almost constantly, and they will devour more than their own weight in
food every day.
The mocking-bird is by all odds the best American cage bird. The best
food for a young mocking-bird is thickened meal and water, or meal and
milk, mixed occasionally with tender fresh meat, minced fine. Young and
old birds require berries of various kinds, such as cherries,
strawberries, etc. Any kind of wild fruit of which they are fond is good
for them, but this should not be given too freely. A few grasshoppers,
beetles, and other insects, which may easily be obtained, as well as
gravel, are also necessary.
The mocking-bird can easily be taught a tune, as can the cat-bird,
which, despite his cat-call--generally a cry of warning or distress--is
one of the sweetest singers among our common birds.
Finches are very bright and animated, and make very desirable pets. They
may be taught many amusing tricks. They will learn to fire small cannons
and imitate death. They may be taught to draw up their food and water in
a little bucket by means of a fine chain.
Of the finches, the bullfinch is probably the best cage bird. It can be
taught to whistle a tune. This is done by keeping it in a dark room, and
admitting light only at intervals. Every time the light is let into the
room you should whistle one air to it, over and over again. Soon it will
pick up a few notes, and often will be able to whistle the whole tune in
a very short time. The bullfinch is not indigenous to America, although
we have many varieties of finches, and some that closely approach those
native to England; but bullfinches can be purchased at any bird-store.
Finches should be fed chiefly on poppy and hemp seed--the first to be
given as its usual food. Now and then some unflavored biscuit may be
given them, but they should never be fed on sweetened cake.
Game-birds and birds that build their nests on the ground almost never
breed in captivity. Birds that are enemies when in their natural state
will live together contentedly in a cage.
In regard to the feeding of birds, it may be stated in a general way
that birds with short triangular bills, like the finches, live on seeds
or some form of vegetable food entirely, and never require any meat.
Birds with long slender bills, like the thrushes, mocking-birds, crows,
etc., require animal as well as vegetable food, while birds with long
hooked bills, like hawks or gulls, live on a diet entirely of meat. The
reason that the birds in the bird-stores are always in such good health
is because the bird-fancier understands how to feed them, and varies
their diet as their condition demands.
The importance of giving a bird plenty of water, both to drink and in
which to bathe, cannot be overestimated. Birds suffer frightfully from
thirst when neglected, and as they have no power to express their wants,
they often go for hours unheeded, when a little thoughtful attention
would give them relief. Care should always be taken to see to it that
their water-cup is filled, and that it does not become twisted to one
side or the other so that the bird cannot reach it.
MORRO CASTLE.
BY T. R. DAWLEY, JR.
After Columbus discovered Cuba the island seems to have been forgotten
by the Spaniards, who bent all their efforts to explore and colonize the
neighboring island of Haiti, to which they gave the name of Hispaniola,
meaning pertaining to Spain or "Spanish land." Although the rising
promontory of Cape Mayzi could be discerned on a clear day from the
coast of Hispaniola, it was not until nearly twenty years after Columbus
had made his memorable discovery that Diego, his son, determined to
conquer and settle the island of Cuba. Diego Columbus was then Governor
of Hispaniola, and under his orders Captain Valazquez disembarked with
300 men on the eastern coast of Cuba and founded the city of Baracoa.
Then the Spaniards crawled around to the south and founded Santiago,
which they made their capital, and then followed in quick succession the
cities of Trinidad, Bayamo, Puerto Principe, Sancti Spiritus, and
Remedios.
In 1515 the colonists founded a city near the present site of Batabanó,
to which they gave the name of Habana, but the marshy land of the
southern coast proved a very undesirable place for such a city as they
intended to build. Proceeding to the north about thirty miles, they
crossed the island and came to a beautiful little bay, surrounded by
hills on one side and a stretch of flat land on the other. The bay
resembled a huge bowl, with only just one narrow outlet into the sea
where the two points of land almost met--the ridge of rock on one side
and the flat land on the other. A more delightful nook for a city could
not have been hit upon, so the new city of Havana was transplanted from
its original site on the south coast to the shore of the bowl-like bay
on the north.
[Illustration: A SPANISH TRIAL IN MORRO CASTLE.]
Captain Velazquez was enthusiastic over his new city, and cutting loose
from the Governor of Hispaniola he set up a government of his own. He
made rapid strides in subjugating the peaceful inhabitants, whom he
allowed to be treated with great cruelty, and Habana soon rose to be a
city of importance. To protect it from any probable invasion from the
sea, a fort was built on each of the points of land which nearly met,
forming the narrow entrance to the bay. The one constructed on the city
side of the bay was called La Punta. Upon the rocks on the opposite side
was built the famous El Morro, which, in the Spanish language, is called
a castle.
In 1762 the English sailed into the bay in spite of these forts, and
took possession of Havana, which they held for nearly a year. After the
English went away the Spanish government ordered the forts to be
rebuilt, and neither money nor labor was spared to make them
impregnable. By the construction of the forts an immense amount of money
was put into circulation, which necessarily contributed to the
development of many industries.
As the traveller approaches Havana to-day the old castle walls are the
most curious thing which greets him, for within those walls has
originated many a story of suffering, cruelty, and barbarism. As you
gaze upon those walls a ship's officer may stand by your side and tell
you, as he points to the towering light-house, a sad story of how the
builder of that light--an Englishman, I believe he was--so pleased his
Spanish masters that they, jealous that he might impart the secret of
his work to his countrymen or build for them another such light,
confined him in one of the dungeons and put out his eyes.
When I sailed by that huge fortress for the first time, and a
fellow-passenger jokingly pointed out a little square window which he
designated as opening into my future cell, I did not think how near his
prophecy would be realized. But El Morro is not designed to hold
criminals. By criminals I mean men who have sinned against their
fellow-beings, men who have robbed and murdered--in fact, have not lived
up to the golden rule to do unto others as they would have others do
unto them. But men, and even boys, who are suspected of not being in
favor of Spain's rule in the island of Cuba, these are called political
prisoners, and Morro awaits them. And so I became a political prisoner
too. And not till I was finally bound by the arms and marched before
soldiers, who held me by a rope as though I was some sort of
domesticated animal, did I remember that little window in Morro's walls,
and wonder if that really was going to be the prison-barred window from
which I could watch the ships bound home. But no; they put me in a cell
with sixteen Cubans, who one and all greeted me as though I were a
friend come to bring them news and consolation. I did see the other side
of that little window, however, and that was when they took me before
the judge and gave me a trial.
[Illustration: MORRO CASTLE.]
The Spanish have a queer way of trying folks, according to our notion.
They do not take you into a big court-room full of people, where there
is a judge and a jury and a prosecuting attorney, and where your
accusers are brought before you and made to tell all they know, and if
they tell something they don't know, you have the right to question them
and prove that they are not telling the truth. But they send you into a
little room, where a prosecuting officer examines you all by himself,
and a soldier writes down what you say. And then your trial becomes
something like a simple sum in arithmetic. Some one must swear that you
have done wrong, and then if you get one witness besides yourself who
swears that you did not commit the wrong, then your two statements count
against the government's one, and so it goes. If the government produces
six witnesses you must produce seven; and then again the officer who
takes you into the little room is very powerful, for a great deal
depends upon just how he makes out the papers in your case, and he has a
hand very susceptible to Spanish gold. So it becomes very easy for a
suspect to get off (if he is given a trial), and the government knows
this; so instead of giving their political prisoners a trial, unless
they are sure of convicting them, they keep them shut up in Morro
Castle. They gave me a trial because our government at Washington
demanded it, and as by their simple methods they were unable to find out
what I had been doing, they were obliged to let me go.
ODD INDIAN SPORTS.
BY M. W. GIBSON.
It is not of bows and arrows that I wish to tell in this paper, nor of
lacrosse and shinny--games of Indian origin with which most boys are
familiar--but of other sports with which our copper-colored friends
amuse themselves, and which, I presume, few readers have witnessed.
_Spinning Stones._--This is a sport that, as a youth, I often watched
the boys of the Winnebago tribe play upon the frozen surface of
Wisconsin lakes and rivers. A number of smooth stones, usually three, as
round as could be found, and about the size of hens' eggs, were placed
in a bunch on the smooth ice. A whip, made of two or three buckskin
thongs fastened to a handle three feet long, was swung slowly and
brought down upon the ice with a gentle swish, so that the lashes might
curl round the stones.
Then a swift, deft jerk, so delicately applied as not to scatter the
stones, sent them spinning. When once the stones commenced to rotate,
the swing and the jerk were gradually quickened, growing faster and
faster, until the two motions became merged in one, and the player
settled down to a steady stroke that made the stones hum like so many
tops. These Indian lads could keep a bunch of stones spinning like this
for ten minutes at a time, without allowing one of them to get away. I
used to think they must have inherited their skill in this sport, for I
could never acquire the art, though I tried a hundred times.
I could start the stones spinning easily enough, but before they fairly
began to hum one or two, if not the whole three, would whiz off, each in
its own direction, beyond the reach of my whip.
The sport seems to require a peculiar drawing stroke of the whip that I
could never acquire.
_The Snow-dart._--Another sport, in which I approached a little nearer
to the skill of these same Indian boys, was that of throwing the
snow-dart. The dart was a perfectly straight piece of hickory about five
feet long, made three-cornered, and rounded up at one end. It was about
an inch wide and half as thick, and was thrown with the flat side up. It
had to be made with the greatest care and polished as smooth as glass.
It was always a marvel to me how the Indians, with no other tools than a
hatchet and knife, could make these little hickory flyers so perfectly.
It was wonderful, too, to see how far these Winnebago youths could send
one of them. Selecting a level stretch of snow, as upon a frozen river
or lake, and where the surface was somewhat hardened by thawing and
freezing, the players would stand at a great distance apart. One of them
would take the dart by its middle, lightly balance it between his thumb
and the two first fingers, and with a strong underhand throw launch the
shaft toward his opponent.
If the snow was just soft enough to allow the sharp under edge of the
dart to sink slightly into its surface, and thus hold it straight upon
its course, then the sport was at its best.
_The Grass Game of the Digger Indians of California._--I first saw it
played in the Russian River Valley, a great hop-growing region, where,
at the close of the picking season, these Indians, to the number of two
or three hundred, gather to feast upon watermelons and other good
things, and to indulge in pony-races, foot-races, wrestling-matches,
shinny, and other games for several days in succession. I had hard work
to make my way through the crowd that pressed around a large circular
enclosure made of tall willow bushes stuck in the ground where the game
was going on. The players, four in number, were men grown, and squatted
on their knees, two on one side of the enclosure, facing the other two
on the opposite side. On a third side, and equally distant from both
sets of players, sat the umpire. Each player had a little pile of dry
grass in front of him; but only the two on one side made use of the
grass at the same time, for the game is but an elaborate form of "hide
the pencil" that every school-boy is quite familiar with, and while the
players on one side did the hiding those on the other did the guessing.
To begin the game the player takes a little round stick about
three-quarters of an inch in diameter, sharpened at each end, and about
two inches and a half long. This he holds up in plain view of his
opponent on the opposite side of the enclosure, whose keen eyes follow
every movement as the player takes up handful after handful of the grass
in front of him and winds it about the stick until he has formed a ball
perhaps as large as his head. During this performance the player works
himself into a frenzy of excitement, and makes all manner of frantic
endeavors to "rattle" his adversary. Twisting and squirming about, he
bends his body in all sorts of contortions. Time and again he pretends
to pluck the little stick out of the ball he is forming, and hide it
under a knee or a foot. He tosses the ball high in the air, then from
hand to hand, then into the air again, and catches it behind his back.
Now his chant is low and soft, his movements slow and measured; then
higher and higher he pitches his voice, and faster and faster become his
motions, until one can scarcely see his hands as they dart about in a
cloud of flying grass.
Presently, at a signal from the umpire, he drops the ball of grass in
front of him, and holds his closed hands behind his back.
Slowly his adversary extends his left arm as if grasping a bow, and
raising his bent right arm to the level of his eye, as if drawing an
arrow upon an imaginary enemy, with the forefinger of his left hand he
points to the exact spot in which he expects to find the little stick.
Every breath is hushed, and a deathlike silence prevails as he points
steadily for a moment, then lets his right hand fly back against his
chest with a hollow thud, as if he had let fly an arrow.
With a wild yell, in which every spectator joins, the player then
produces the little stick--from the ball of grass, from under a knee or
a foot, or from one of his closed palms, as the case may be. If he has
been cunning enough to deceive the sharp eye of his opponent, the stakes
are his; but if the guesser correctly locates the stick, the umpire
throws to him the string of wampum, or whatever the stake may be. The
sticks are then thrown across to the opposite players, and the game goes
on.
THE VOYAGE OF THE "RATTLETRAP."
BY HAYDEN CARRUTH.
III.
Our first night in the Rattletrap passed without further incident--that
is, the greater part of it passed, though Ollie declared that it lacked
a good deal of being all passed when we got up. The chief reason for our
early rise was Old Blacky, a member of our household (or perhaps
wagonhold) not yet introduced in this history. Old Blacky was the mate
of Old Browny, and the two made up our team of horses. Old Browny was a
very well behaved, respectable old nag, extremely fond of quiet and
oats. He invariably slept all night, and usually much of the day; he was
a fit companion for our dog. It was the firm belief of all on board that
Old Browny could sleep anywhere on a fairly level stretch of road
without stopping.
But Old Blacky was another sort of beast. He didn't seem to require any
sleep at all. What Old Blacky wanted was food. He loved to sit up all
night and eat, and keep us awake. He seldom ever lay down at night, but
would moon about the camp and blunder against things, fall over the
wagon-tongue, and otherwise misbehave. Sometimes when we camped where
the grass was not just to his liking, he would put his head into the
wagon and help himself to a mouthful of bed-quilt or a bite of pillow.
He was little but an appetite mounted on four legs, and next to food he
loved a fight. Besides the name of Old Blacky, we also knew him as the
Blacksmith's Pet; but this will have to be explained later on.
On this first morning, just as it was becoming light in the east, Old
Blacky began to make his toilet by rubbing his shoulder against one
corner of the wagon. As he was large and heavy, and rubbed as hard as he
could, he soon had the wagon tossing about like a boat; and as the
easiest way out of it, we decided to get up. It was cool and dewy, with
the larger stars still shining faintly. We found Jack under the wagon.
Ollie stirred him up, and said,
[Illustration: "SEE ANY VARMINTS IN THE NIGHT, UNCLE JACK?"]
"See any varmints in the night, Uncle Jack?"
"Yes," answered Jack, as he unrolled himself from his blanket. "Or at
least I felt one. That disgraceful Old Blacky nibbled at my ear twice.
The first time I thought it was nothing less than a bear."
"Did he disturb Snoozer?"
"I guess nothing ever disturbs Snoozer. He never moved all night. How's
the firewood department, Ollie?"
"All right," replied Ollie. "Got up enough last night. Nothing to do
this morning but rest."
"Then build the fire while I get breakfast."
This pleased Ollie, and he soon had a good fire going. I caught Old
Blacky, who had started off to walk around the lake, woke up Old Browny,
who was sleeping peacefully with his nose resting on the ground, quieted
the pony, who was still suspicious, with a few pats on the neck, and
gave them all their oats. Soon the rest of us also had our breakfast,
including Snoozer, who seemed to wake up by instinct, and after waiting
a little for somebody to come and stretch him, stretched himself, and
began waving his tail to attract our attention to his urgent need of
food.
"Before we get back home that dog will want us to feed him with a
spoon," said Jack.
It was only a little while after sunrise when we were off for another
day's voyage. We were headed almost due south, and all that day and the
three or four following (including Sunday, when we staid in camp), we
did not change our general direction. We were aiming to reach the town
of Yankton, where we intended to cross the Missouri River and turn to
the west in Nebraska. The country through which we travelled was much of
it prairie, but more was under cultivation, and the houses of settlers
were numerous. The land on which wheat or other small grains had been
grown was bare, but as we got further south we passed great fields of
corn, some of it standing almost as high as the top of our wagon-cover.
For much of the way we were far from railroads and towns, and got most
of our supplies of food from the settlers whose houses we passed or,
indeed, sighted, since the pony proved as convenient for making landings
as Jack had predicted she would. Ollie usually went on these excursions
after milk and eggs and such like foods. The different languages which
he encountered among the settlers somewhat bewildered him, and he often
had hard work in making the people he found at the houses understand
what he wanted. There were many Norwegians among the settlers, and the
third day we passed through a large colony of Russians, saw a few Finns,
and heard of some Icelanders who lived around on the other side of a
lake.
"It wouldn't surprise me," said Ollie one day, "to find the man in the
moon living here in a sod house."
Perhaps a majority--certainly a great many--of all these people lived in
houses of this kind. Ollie had never seen anything of the sort before,
and he became greatly interested in them. The second day we camped near
one for dinner.
"You see," said Jack, "a man gets a farm, takes half his front yard and
builds a house with it. He gains space, though, because the place he
peels in the yard will do for flower-beds, and the roof and sides of his
house are excellent places to grow radishes, beets, and similar
vegetables."
"Why not other things besides radishes and beets?" asked Ollie.
"Oh, other things would grow all right, but radishes and beets seem to
be the natural things for sod-house growing. You can take hold of the
lower end and pull 'em from the inside, you know, Ollie."
"I don't believe it, Uncle Jack," said Ollie, stoutly.
"Ask the rancher," answered Jack. "If you're ever at dinner in a sod
house, and want another radish, just reach up and pull one down through
the roof, tops and all. Then you're sure they're fresh. I'd like to keep
a summer boarding-house in a sod house. I'd advertise 'fresh vegetables
pulled at the table.'"
"I'm going to ask the man about sod houses," returned Ollie. He went up
to where the owner of the house was sitting outside, and said,
"Will you please tell me how you make a sod house?"
"Yes," said the man, smiling. "Thinking of making one?"
"Well, not just now," replied Ollie. "But I'd like to know about them. I
might want to build one--sometime," he added, doubtfully.
"Well," said the man, "it's this way: First we plough up a lot of the
tough prairie sod with a large plough called a breaking-plough, intended
especially for ploughing the prairie the first time. This turns it over
in a long, even, unbroken strip, some fourteen or sixteen inches wide
and three or four inches thick. We cut this up into pieces two or three
feet long, take them to the place where we are building the house, on a
stone-boat or a sled, and use them in laying up the walls in just about
the same way that bricks are used in making a brick house. Openings are
left for the doors and windows, and either a shingle or a sod roof put
on. If it's sod, rough boards are first laid on poles, and then sods put
on them like shingles. I've got a sod roof on mine, you see."
Ollie was looking at the grass and weeds growing on the top and sides of
the house. They must have made a pretty sight when they were green and
thrifty earlier in the season, but they were dry and withered now.
"Do you ever have prairie fires on your roofs?" asked Ollie, with a
smile.
"Oh, they do burn off sometimes," answered the man. "Catch from the
chimney, you know. Did you ever see a hay fire?"
"No."
"Come inside and I'll show you one."
In the house, which consisted of one large room divided across one end
by a curtain, Ollie noticed a few chairs and a table, and opposite the
door a stove which looked very much like an ordinary cook-stove, except
that the place for the fire was rather larger. Back of it stood a box
full of what seemed to be big hay rope. The man's wife was cooking
dinner on the stove.
"Here's a young tenderfoot," said the man, "who's never seen a hay
fire."
"Wish I never had," answered the woman.
[Illustration: "I'LL SHOW YOU HOW TO TWIST IT."]
The man laughed. "They're hardly as good as a wood fire or a coal fire,"
he said to Ollie, "but when you're five hundred miles, more or less,
from either wood or coal they do very well." The man took off one of the
griddles and put in another "stick" of hay. Then he handed one to Ollie,
who was surprised to find it almost as heavy as a stick of wood. "It
makes a fairly good fire," said the man. "Come outside and I'll show you
how to twist it."
They went out to a haystack near by, and the man twisted a rope three or
four inches in diameter, and about four feet long. He kept hold of both
ends till it was wound up tight, then he brought the ends together, and
it twisted itself into a hard two-strand rope in the same way that a bit
of string will do when similarly treated. There was quite a pile of such
twisted sticks on the ground. "You see," said the man, "in this country,
instead of splitting up a pile of fuel we just twist up one." Ollie bade
the man good-by, took another look at the queer house, and came down to
the wagon.
"So you saw a hay-stove, did you?" said Jack. "I could have told you all
about 'em. I once staid all night with a man who depended on a hay-stove
for warmth. It was in the winter. Talk about appetites! I never saw such
an appetite as that stove had for hay. Why, that stove had a worse
appetite than Old Blacky. It devoured hay all the time, just as Old
Blacky would if he could; and even then its stomach always seemed empty.
The man twisted all of the time, and I fed it constantly, and still it
was never satisfied."
"How did you sleep?" asked Ollie.
"Worked right along in our sleep--like Old Browny," answered Jack.
The last day before reaching Yankton was hot and sultry. The best place
we could find to camp that night was beside a deserted sod house on the
prairie. There was a well and a tumble-down sod stable. There were dark
bands of clouds low down on the southeastern horizon, and faint flashes
of lightning.
"It's going to rain before morning," I said. "Wonder if it wouldn't be
better in the sod house?"
We examined it, but found it in poor condition, so decided not to give
up the wagon. "The man that lived there pulled too many radishes and
parsnips and carrots and such things into it, and then neglected to hoe
his roof and fill up the holes," said Jack. "Besides, Old Blacky will
have it rubbed down before morning. When I sleep in anything that Old
Blacky can get at, I want it to be on wheels so it can roll out of the
way."
We went to bed as usual, but at about one o'clock we were awakened by a
long rolling peal of thunder. Already big drops of rain were beginning
to fall. Ollie and I looked out, and found Jack creeping from under the
wagon.
"That's a dry-weather bedroom of mine," he observed, "and I think I'll
come upstairs."
The flashes of lightning followed each other rapidly, and by them we
could see the horses. Old Browny was sleeping, and Old Blacky eating,
but the pony stood with head erect, very much interested in the storm.
Jack helped Snoozer into the wagon, and came in himself. We drew both
ends of the cover as close as possible, lit the lantern, and made
ourselves comfortable, while Jack took down his banjo and tried to play.
Jack always tried to play, but never quite succeeded. But he made a
considerable noise, and that was better than nothing.
The wind soon began to blow pretty fresh, and shake the cover rather
more than was pleasant. But nothing gave way, and after, as it seemed,
fifty of the loudest claps of thunder we had ever heard, the rain began
to fall in torrents.
"That is what I've been waiting for," said Jack. "Now we'll see if
there's a good cover on this wagon, or if we've got to put a sod roof on
it, like that man's house."
The rain kept coming down harder and harder, but though there seemed to
be a sort of a light spray in the air of the wagon, the water did not
beat through. In some places along the bows it ran down on the inside of
the cover in little clinging streams, but as a household we remained
dry. Jack was still experimenting on the banjo and the dog had gone to
sleep. Suddenly a flash of lightning dazzled our eyes as if there were
no cover at all over and around us, with a crash of thunder which struck
our ears like a blow from a fist. Jack dropped the banjo, and the dog
shook his head as if his ears tingled. We all felt dizzy, and the wagon
seemed to be swaying around.
"That struck pretty close," I said. "I hope it didn't hit one of the
horses."
"If it hit Old Blacky, I'll bet a cooky it got the worst of it,"
answered Jack, taking up his banjo again. "Look out, Ollie, and maybe
you'll see the lightning going off limping."
It was still raining, though not so hard. Soon we began to hear a
peculiar noise, which seemed to come from behind the wagon. It was a
breaking, splintering sort of noise, as if a board was being smashed and
split up very gradually.
"Sounds as if a slow and lazy kind of lightning was striking our wagon,"
said Jack.
Ollie's face was still white from the scare at the stroke of lightning,
and his eyes now opened very wide as he listened to the mysterious
noise. Jack pulled open the back cover an inch and peeped out. Then he
said,
"I guess Old Blacky's tussle with the lightning left him hungry; he's
eating up one side of the feed-box."