CHAPTER I

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[Illustration: LA FAYETTE AND THE BRITISH AMBASSADOR.]

ST. NICHOLAS.

Vol. XIII. JULY, 1886. No. 9.

[Copyright, 1886, by THE CENTURY CO.]

LA FAYETTE.

By Mrs. Eugenia M. Hodge.

One hundred and nine years ago, in the month of February, 1777, a young

French guardsman ran away to sea.

And a most singular running away it was. He did not wish to be a sailor,

but he was so anxious to go that he bought a ship to run away in,--for he

was a very wealthy young man; and though he was only nineteen, he held a

commission as major-general in the armies of a land three thousand miles

away--a land he had never seen and the language of which he could not

speak. The King of France commanded him to remain at home; his friends and

relatives tried to restrain him; and even the representatives, or agents,

of the country in defense of which he desired to fight would not encourage

his purpose. And when the young man, while dining at the house of the

British Ambassador to France, openly avowed his sympathy with a downtrodden

people, and his determination to help them gain their freedom, the

Ambassador acted quickly. At his request, the rash young enthusiast was

arrested by the French Government, and orders were given to seize his ship,

which was awaiting him at Bordeaux. But ship and owner both slipped away,

and sailing from the port of Pasajes in Spain, the runaway, with eleven

chosen companions, was soon on the sea, bound for America, and beyond the

reach of both friends and foes.

On April 25, 1777, he landed at the little port of Georgetown, at the mouth

of the Great Pee Dee river in South Carolina; and from that day forward the

career of Marie Jean Paul Roch Yves Gilbert Motier, Marquis de La Fayette,

has held a place in the history of America, and in the interest and

affection of the American people.

When he first arrived in the land for which he desired to fight, however,

he found but a cool reception. The Congress of the United States was poor,

and so many good and brave American officers who had proved their worth

were desirous of commissions as major-generals, that the commission

promised to this young Frenchman could not easily be put in force so far as

an actual command and a salary were concerned.

But the young general had come across the sea for a purpose, and money and

position were not parts of that purpose. He expressed his desire to serve

in the American army upon two very singular conditions, namely: that he

should receive no pay, and that he should act as a volunteer. The Congress

was so impressed with the enthusiasm and self-sacrifice of the young

Frenchman that, on July 31, 1777, it passed a resolution directing that

"his services be accepted and that, in consideration of his zeal,

illustrious family and connections, he have the rank and commission of a

Major-General of the United States."

General Washington was greatly attracted by the energy and earnestness of

the young nobleman. He took him into what was called his "military family,"

assigned him to special and honorable duty; and when the young volunteer

was wounded at the battle of Brandywine, the Commander-in-Chief praised his

"bravery and military ardor" so highly that the Congress gave La Fayette

the command of a division. Thus, before he was twenty, he was actually a

general, and already, as one historian says, he had "justified the boyish

rashness which his friends deplored and his sovereign resented, and had

acquired a place in history."

Notwithstanding General Washington's assertion to Congress that La Fayette

had made "great proficiency in our language," the young marquis's

pronunciation of English was far from perfect. French, Spanish, and Italian

were all familiar to him, but his English was not readily understood by the

men he was called upon to command. It was therefore necessary to find as

his aid-de-camp one who could quickly interpret the orders of his

commanding officer.

[Illustration: STATUE OF LA FAYETTE BY A. BARTHOLDI,--

UNION SQUARE, NEW-YORK CITY.]

Such an aid was at last found in the person of a certain young Connecticut

adjutant on the regimental staff of dashing Brigadier-General Wayne,--"Mad

Anthony" Wayne, the hero of Stony Point.

This young adjutant was of almost the same age as Lafayette; he had

received, what was rare enough in those old days, an excellent college

education, and he was said to be the only man in the American army who

could speak French and English equally well.

These young men, General La Fayette and his aid, grew very fond of each

other during an intimate acquaintance of nearly seven years. The French

marquis, with that overflow of spirits and outward demonstration so

noticeable in most Frenchmen, freely showed his affection for the more

reserved American--often throwing his arms around his neck, kissing him

upon the cheek and calling him "My brave, my good, my virtuous, my adopted

brother!"

After the battle of Monmouth, which occurred on June 28, 1778, and in which

La Fayette's command was engaged against the British forces, who were

routed, the marquis was enthusiastic in praise of the gallant conduct of

his friend and aid. Not content with this, he sent to him some years after,

when the aid-de-camp, then a colonel in rank, was elected to political

honors, the following acrostic, as a souvenir, expressive of the esteem and

remembrance of his former commander. The initial letters of each line of

the poem will spell out for you the name of this soldier friend of La

Fayette. And here is an exact copy of the acrostic and of the postscript

that accompanied it:

Sage of the East! where wisdom rears her head,

Augustus, taught in virtue's path to tread,

'Mid thousands of his race, elected stands

Unanimous to legislative bands;

Endowed with every art to frame just laws,

Learns to hate vice, to virtue gives applause.

Augustus, oh, thy name that's ever dear

Unrivaled stands to crown each passing year!

Great are the virtues that exalt thy mind.

Unenvied merit marks thy worth refined.

Sincerely rigid for your country's right,

To save her Liberty you deigned to fight;

Undaunted courage graced your manly brow,

Secured such honors as the gods endow.--

Bright is the page; the record of thy days

Attracts my muse thus to rehearse thy praise.

Rejoice then, patriots, statesmen, all rejoice!

Kindle his praises with one general voice!

Emblazon out his deeds, his virtues prize,

Reiterate his praises to the skies!

M. D. LA FAYETTE.

P.S.--The Colonel will readily apologize for the inaccuracies of

an unskillful muse, and be convinced the high estimation of his amiable

character could alone actuate the author of the foregoing.

M. D. LA FAYETTE.

So the name of the young general's friend and aid-de-camp was Samuel

Augustus Barker.

* * * * *

Years passed. The Revolution was over. America was free. The French

Revolution, with all its horrors and successes, had made France a republic.

Napoleon had risen, conquered, ruled, fallen, and died, and the first

quarter of the nineteenth century was nearly completed, when, in August,

1824, an old French gentleman who had been an active participant in several

of these historic scenes arrived in New York. It was General the Marquis de

La Fayette, now a veteran of nearly seventy, returning to America as the

honored guest of the growing and prosperous republic he had helped to

found.

His journey through the land was like a triumph. Flowers and decorations

brightened his path, cheering people and booming cannon welcomed his

approach. And in one of those welcomings, in a little village in Central

New York, a cannon, which was heavily loaded for a salute in honor of the

nation's guest, exploded, and killed a plucky young fellow who had

volunteered to "touch off" the over-charged gun when no one else dared.

Some months after, the old marquis chanced to hear of the tragedy, and at

once his sympathies were aroused for the widowed mother of the young man.

He at once wrote to the son of the man who had been his comrade in arms in

the revolutionary days half a century before, asking full information

concerning the fatal accident, and the needs of the mother of the poor

young man who was killed; and having thus learned all the facts, sent the

sum of one thousand dollars to relieve the mother's necessities and to pay

off the mortgage on her little home.

I have before me, as I write, the original letter written by the General to

the son of his old friend, the paper marked and yellow with the creases of

sixty years; and as I read it again, I feel that of all the incidents of

the singularly eventful life of La Fayette there are none that show his

noble nature more fully than those I have noted here: his enthusiastic

services in behalf of an oppressed people, his close and devoted affection

for his friend and comrade, and the impulsive generosity of a heart that

was at once manly, tender, and true.

And as I write, I am grateful that I can claim a certain association with

that honored name of La Fayette; for the young adjutant to whom the

acrostic was addressed and the friend through whom the gift to the widow

was communicated were respectively my grandfather and my father.

It is at least pleasant to know that one's ancestors were the intimate

friends of so noble a man, of whom one biographer has recently said: "He

was brave even to rashness, his life was one of constant peril, and yet he

never shrank from any danger or responsibility if he saw the way open to

spare life or suffering, to protect the defenseless, to sustain law and

preserve order."

At the southern extremity of Union Square, in the city of New York, there

is a bronze statue of La Fayette. As you have already been told in ST.

NICHOLAS, it represents him in graceful pose and with earnest face and

gesture, "making offer of his sword to the country he admired--the country

that sorely needed his aid. The left hand is extended as if in greeting and

friendly self-surrender, and the right hand, which holds the sword, is

pressed against the breast, as if implying that his whole heart goes with

his sword." Lafayette's words, "As soon as I heard of American

independence, my heart was enlisted," are inscribed upon the pedestal of

the statue; and a short distance from it, in the plaza adjoining the

square, is an equestrian statue of Washington. It is fitting that the

bronze images of those two great men should thus be placed together, as the

names of Washington and La Fayette are forever coupled in the history and

in the affections of the American people.

A CHILD'S FANCY.

BY FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN.

The meadow is a battle-field

Where Summer's army comes:

Each soldier with a clover shield,

The honey-bees with drums.

Boom, rat-ta!--they march and pass

The captain tree who stands

Saluting with a sword of grass

And giving the commands.

'T is only when the breezes blow

Across the woody hills,

They shoulder arms and, to and fro,

March in their full-dress drills.

Boom, rat-ta!--they wheel in line

And wave their gleaming spears.

"March!" cries the captain, giving sign,

And every soldier cheers.

But when the day is growing dim

They gather in their camps,

And sing a good thanksgiving hymn

Around their fire-fly lamps.

Ra-ta-ta!--the bugle-notes

Call "good-night!" to the sky.--

I hope they all have overcoats

To keep them warm and dry!

LITTLE LORD FAUNTLEROY.

BY FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT.

CHAPTER X.

[Illustration]

The truth was that Mrs. Errol had found a great many sad things in the

course of her work among the poor of the little village that appeared so

picturesque when it was seen from the moor-sides. Everything was not as

picturesque, when seen near by, as it looked from a distance. She had found

idleness and poverty and ignorance where there should have been comfort and

industry. And she had discovered, after a while, that Erleboro was

considered to be the worst village in that part of the country. Mr.

Mordaunt had told her a great many of his difficulties and discouragements,

and she had found out a great deal by herself. The agents who had managed

the property had always been chosen to please the Earl, and had cared

nothing for the degradation and wretchedness of the poor tenants. Many

things, therefore, had been neglected which should have been attended to,

and matters had gone from bad to worse.

As to Earl's Court, it was a disgrace, with its dilapidated houses and

miserable, careless, sickly people. When first Mrs. Errol went to the

place, it made her shudder. Such ugliness and slovenliness and want seemed

worse in a country place than in a city. It seemed as if there it might be

helped. And as she looked at the squalid, uncared-for children growing up

in the midst of vice and brutal indifference, she thought of her own little

boy spending his days in the great, splendid castle, guarded and served

like a young prince, having no wish ungratified, and knowing nothing but

luxury and ease and beauty. And a bold thought came into her wise little

mother-heart. Gradually she had begun to see, as had others, that it had

been her boy's good fortune to please the Earl very much, and that he would

scarcely be likely to be denied anything for which he expressed a desire.

"The Earl would give him anything," she said to Mr. Mordaunt. "He would

indulge his every whim. Why should not that indulgence be used for the good

of others? It is for me to see that this shall come to pass."

She knew she could trust the kind, childish heart; so she told the little

fellow the story of Earl's Court, feeling sure that he would speak of it to

his grandfather, and hoping that some good results would follow.

And strange as it appeared to every one, good results did follow. The fact

was that the strongest power to influence the Earl was his grandson's

perfect confidence in him--the fact that Cedric always believed that his

grandfather was going to do what was right and generous. He could not quite

make up his mind to let him discover that he had no inclination to be

generous at all, and that he wanted his own way on all occasions, whether

it was right or wrong. It was such a novelty to be regarded with admiration

as a benefactor of the entire human race, and the soul of nobility, that he

did not enjoy the idea of looking into the affectionate brown eyes, and

saying: "I am a violent, selfish old rascal; I never did a generous thing

in my life, and I don't care about Earl's Court or the poor people"--or

something which would amount to the same thing. He actually had learned to

be fond enough of that small boy with the mop of yellow love-locks, to feel

that he himself would prefer to be guilty of an amiable action now and

then. And so--though he laughed at himself--after some reflection, he sent

for Newick, and had quite a long interview with him on the subject of the

Court, and it was decided that the wretched hovels should be pulled down

and new houses should be built.

"It is Lord Fauntleroy who insists on it," he said dryly; "he thinks it

will improve the property. You can tell the tenants that it's his idea."

And he looked down at his small lordship, who was lying on the hearth-rug

playing with Dougal. The great dog was the lad's constant companion, and

followed him about everywhere, stalking solemnly after him when he walked,

and trotting majestically behind when he rode or drove.

Of course, both the country people and the town people heard of the

proposed improvement. At first, many of them would not believe it; but when

a small army of workmen arrived and commenced pulling down the crazy,

squalid cottages, people began to understand that little Lord Fauntleroy

had done them a good turn again, and that through his innocent interference

the scandal of Earl's Court had at last been removed. If he had only known

how they talked about him and praised him everywhere, and prophesied great

things for him when he grew up, how astonished he would have been! But he

never suspected it. He lived his simple, happy child life,--frolicking

about in the park; chasing the rabbits to their burrows; lying under the

trees on the grass, or on the rug in the library, reading wonderful books

and talking to the Earl about them, and then telling the stories again to

his mother; writing long letters to Dick and Mr. Hobbs, who responded in

characteristic fashion; riding out at his grandfather's side, or with

Wilkins as escort. As they rode through the market town, he used to see the

people turn and look, and he noticed that as they lifted their hats their

faces often brightened very much, but he thought it was all because his

grandfather was with him.

[Illustration: "THE WORKMEN LIKED TO SEE HIM STAND AMONG THEM, TALKING

AWAY, WITH HIS HANDS IN HIS POCKETS."]

"They are so fond of you," he once said, looking up at his lordship with a

bright smile. "Do you see how glad they are when they see you? I hope they

will some day be as fond of me. It must be nice to have _every_ body like

you." And he felt quite proud to be the grandson of so greatly admired and

beloved an individual.

When the cottages were being built, the lad and his grandfather used to

ride over to Earl's Court together to look at them, and Fauntleroy was full

of interest. He would dismount from his pony and go and make acquaintance

with the workman, asking them questions about building and bricklaying, and

telling them things about America. After two or three such conversations,

he was able to enlighten the Earl on the subject of brickmaking, as they

rode home.

"I always like to know about things like those," he said, "because you

never know what you are coming to."

When he left them, the workmen used to talk him over among themselves, and

laugh at his odd, innocent speeches; but they liked him, and liked to see

him stand among them, talking away, with his hands in his pockets, his hat

pushed back on his curls, and his small face full of eagerness. "He's a

rare un," they used to say. "An' a woise little outspoken chap too. Not

much o' th' bad stock in him." And they would go home and tell their wives

about him, and the women would tell each other, and so it came about that

almost every one talked of, or knew some story of, little Lord Fauntleroy;

and gradually almost every one knew that the "wicked Earl" had found

something he cared for at last--something which had touched and even warmed

his hard, bitter old heart.

But no one knew quite how much it had been warmed, and how day by day the

old man found himself caring more and more for the child, who was the only

creature that had ever trusted him. He found himself looking forward to the

time when Cedric would be a young man, strong and beautiful, with life all

before him, but having still that kind heart and the power to make friends

everywhere; and the Earl wondered what the lad would do, and how he would

use his gifts. Often as he watched the little fellow lying upon the hearth,

conning some big book, the light shining on the bright young head, his old

eyes would gleam and his cheek would flush.

"The boy can do anything," he would say to himself, "anything!"

He never spoke to any one else of his feeling for Cedric; when he spoke of

him to others it was always with the same grim smile. But Fauntleroy soon

knew that his grandfather loved him and always liked him to be near--near

to his chair if they were in the library, opposite to him at table, or by

his side when he rode or drove or took his evening walk on the broad

terrace.

"Do you remember," Cedric said once, looking up from his book as he lay on

the rug, "do you remember what I said to you that first night about our

being good companions? I don't think any people could be better companions

than we are, do you?"

"We are pretty good companions, I should say," replied his lordship. "Come

here."

Fauntleroy scrambled up and went to him.

"Is there anything you want," the Earl asked; "anything you have not?"

The little fellow's brown eyes fixed themselves on his grandfather with a

rather wistful look.

"Only one thing," he answered.

"What is that?" inquired the Earl.

Fauntleroy was silent a second. He had not thought matters over to himself

so long for nothing.

"What is it?" my lord repeated.

Fauntleroy answered.

"It is Dearest," he said.

The old Earl winced a little.

"But you see her almost everyday," he said. "Is not that enough?"

"I used to see her all the time," said Fauntleroy. "She used to kiss me

when I went to sleep at night, and in the morning she was always there, and

we could tell each other things without waiting."

The old eyes and the young ones looked into each other through a moment of

silence. Then the Earl knitted his brows.

"Do you _never_ forget about your mother?" he said.

"No," answered Fauntleroy, "never; and she never forgets about me. I

shouldn't forget about _you_, you know, if I didn't live with you. I should

think about you all the more."

"Upon my word," said the Earl, after looking at him a moment longer, "I

believe you would!"

The jealous pang that came when the boy spoke so of his mother seemed even

stronger than it had been before--it was stronger because of this old man's

increasing affection for the boy.

But it was not long before he had other pangs, so much harder to face that

he almost forgot, for the time, he had ever hated his son's wife at all.

And in a strange and startling way it happened. One evening, just before

the Earl's Court cottages were completed, there was a grand dinner party at

Dorincourt. There had not been such a party at the Castle for a long time.

A few days before it took place, Sir Harry Lorridaile and Lady Lorridaile,

who was the Earl's only sister, actually came for a visit--a thing which

caused the greatest excitement in the village and set Mrs. Dibble's

shop-bell tingling madly again, because it was well known that Lady

Lorridaile had only been to Dorincourt once since her marriage, thirty-five

years before. She was a handsome old lady with white curls and dimpled,

peachy cheeks, and she was as good as gold, but she had never approved of

her brother any more than did the rest of the world, and having a strong

will of her own and not being at all afraid to speak her mind frankly, she

had, after several lively quarrels with his lordship, seen very little of

him since her young days.

She had heard a great deal of him that was not pleasant through the years

in which they had been separated. She had heard about his neglect of his

wife, and of the poor lady's death; and of his indifference to his

children; and of the two weak, vicious, unprepossessing elder boys who had

been no credit to him or to any one else. Those two elder sons, Bevis and

Maurice, she had never seen; but once there had come to Lorridaile Park a

tall, stalwart, beautiful young fellow about eighteen years old who had

told her that he was her nephew Cedric Errol, and that he had come to see

her because he was passing near the place and wished to look at his Aunt

Constantia of whom he had heard his mother speak. Lady Lorridaile's kind

heart had warmed through and through at the sight of the young man, and she

had made him stay with her a week, and petted him, and made much of him and

admired him immensely. He was so sweet-tempered, light-hearted, spirited a

lad, that when he went away, she had hoped to see him often again; but she

never did, because the Earl had been in a bad humor when he went back to

Dorincourt, and had forbidden him ever to go to Lorridaile Park again. But

Lady Lorridaile had always remembered him tenderly, and though she feared

he had made a rash marriage in America, she had been very angry when she

heard how he had been cast off by his father and that no one really knew

where or how he lived. At last there came a rumor of his death, and then

Bevis had been thrown from his horse and killed, and Maurice had died in

Rome of the fever; and soon after came the story of the American child who

was to be found and brought home as Lord Fauntleroy.

"Probably to be ruined as the others were," she said to her husband,

"unless his mother is good enough and has a will of her own to help her to

take care of him."

But when she heard that Cedric's mother had been parted from him she was

almost too indignant for words.

"It is disgraceful, Harry!" she said. "Fancy a child of that age being

taken from his mother, and made the companion of a man like my brother! The

old Earl will either be brutal to the boy or indulge him until he is a

little monster. If I thought it would do any good to write----"

"It wouldn't, Constantia," said Sir Harry.

"I know it wouldn't," she answered. "I know his lordship the Earl of

Dorincourt too well;--but it is outrageous."

[Illustration: "'I WAS THINKING HOW BEAUTIFUL YOU ARE,' SAID LORD

FAUNTLEROY." (SEE PAGE 651.)]

Not only the poor people and farmers heard about little Lord Fauntleroy;

others knew of him. He was talked about so much and there were so many

stories of him--of his beauty, his sweet temper, his popularity, and his

growing influence over the Earl, his grandfather--that rumors of him

reached the gentry at their country places and he was heard of in more than

one county of England. People talked about him at the dinner tables, ladies

pitied his young mother, and wondered if the boy were as handsome as he was

said to be, and men who knew the Earl and his habits laughed heartily at

the stories of the little fellow's belief in his lordship's amiability. Sir

Thomas Asshe of Asshaine Hall, being in Erleboro one day, met the Earl and

his grandson riding together and stopped to shake hands with my lord and

congratulate him on his change of looks and on his recovery from the gout.

"And, d'ye know!" he said, when he spoke of the incident afterward, "the

old man looked as proud as a turkey-cock; and upon my word I don't wonder,

for a handsomer, finer lad than his grandson I never saw! As straight as a

dart, and sat his pony like a young trooper!"

And so by degrees Lady Lorridaile, too, heard of the child; she heard about

Higgins, and the lame boy, and the cottages at Earl's Court, and a score of

other things,--and she began to wish to see the little fellow. And just as

she was wondering how it might be brought about, to her utter astonishment,

she received a letter from her brother inviting her to come with her

husband to Dorincourt.

"It seems incredible!" she exclaimed. "I have heard it said that the child

has worked miracles, and I begin to believe it. They say my brother adores

the boy and can scarcely endure to have him out of sight. And he is so

proud of him! Actually, I believe he wants to show him to us." And she

accepted the invitation at once.

When she reached Dorincourt Castle with Sir Harry, it was late in the

afternoon, and she went to her room at once before seeing her brother.

Having dressed for dinner she entered the drawing-room. The Earl was there

standing near the fire and looking very tall and imposing; and at his side

stood a little boy in black velvet, and a large Vandyke collar of rich

lace--a little fellow whose round bright face was so handsome, and who

turned upon her such beautiful, candid brown eyes, that she almost uttered

an exclamation of pleasure and surprise at the sight.

As she shook hands with the Earl, she called him by the name she had not

used since her girlhood.

"What, Molyneux," she said, "is this the child?"

"Yes, Constantia," answered the Earl, "this is the boy. Fauntleroy, this is

your grand-aunt, Lady Lorridaile."

"How do you do, Grand-Aunt?" said Fauntleroy.

Lady Lorridaile put her hand on his shoulders, and after looking down into

his upraised face a few seconds, kissed him warmly.

"I am your Aunt Constantia," she said, "and I loved your poor papa, and you

are very like him."

"It makes me glad when I am told I am like him," answered Fauntleroy,

"because it seems as if every one liked him,--just like Dearest,

eszackly,--Aunt Constantia," (adding the two words after a second's pause.)

Lady Lorridaile was delighted. She bent and kissed him again, and from that

moment they were warm friends.

"Well, Molyneux," she said aside to the Earl afterward, "it could not

possibly be better than this!"

"I think not," answered his lordship dryly. "He is a fine little fellow. We

are great friends. He believes me to be the most charming and

sweet-tempered of philanthropists. I will confess to you, Constantia,--as

you would find it out if I did not,--that I am in some slight danger of

becoming rather an old fool about him."

"What does his mother think of you?" asked Lady Lorridaile, with her usual

straightforwardness.

"I have not asked her," answered the Earl, slightly scowling.

"Well," said Lady Lorridaile, "I will be frank with you at the outset,

Molyneux, and tell you I don't approve of your course, and that it is my

intention to call on Mrs. Errol as soon as possible; so if you wish to

quarrel with me, you had better mention it at once. What I hear of the

young creature makes me quite sure that her child owes her everything. We

were told even at Lorridaile Park that your poorer tenants adore her

already."

"They adore _him_," said the Earl, nodding toward Fauntleroy. "As to Mrs.

Errol, you'll find her a pretty little woman. I'm rather in debt to her for

giving some of her beauty to the boy, and you can go to see her if you

like. All I ask is that she will remain at Court Lodge and that you will

not ask me to go and see her," and he scowled a little again.

"But he doesn't hate her as much as he used to, that is plain enough to

me," her ladyship said to Sir Harry afterward. "And he is a changed man in

a measure, and, incredible as it may seem, Harry, it is my opinion that he

is being made into a human being, through nothing more nor less than his

affection for that innocent, affectionate little fellow. Why, the child

actually loves him--leans on his chair and against his knee. My lord's own

children would as soon have thought of nestling up to a tiger."

The very next day she went to call upon Mrs. Errol. When she returned, she

said to her brother:

"Molyneux, she is the loveliest little woman I ever saw! She has a voice

like a silver bell, and you may thank her for making the boy what he is.

She has given him more than her beauty, and you make a great mistake in not

persuading her to come and take charge of you. I shall invite her to

Lorridaile."

"She'll not leave the boy," replied the Earl.

"I must have the boy too," said Lady Lorridaile, laughing.

But she knew Fauntleroy would not be given up to her, and each day she saw

more clearly how closely those two had grown to each other, and how all the

proud, grim old man's ambition and hope and love centered themselves in the

child, and how the warm, innocent nature returned his affection with most

perfect trust and good faith.

She knew, too, that the prime reason for the great dinner party was the

Earl's secret desire to show the world his grandson and heir, and to let

people see that the boy who had been so much spoken of and described was

even a finer little specimen of boyhood than rumor had made him.

"Bevis and Maurice were such a bitter humiliation to him," she said to her

husband. "Every one knew it. He actually hated them. His pride has full

sway here." Perhaps there was not one person who accepted the invitation

without feeling some curiosity about little Lord Fauntleroy, and wondering

if he would be on view.

And when the time came he was on view.

"The lad has good manners," said the Earl. "He will be in no one's way.

Children are usually idiots or bores,--mine were both,--but he can actually

answer when he's spoken to, and be silent when he is not. He is never

offensive."

But he was not allowed to be silent very long. Every one had something to

say to him. The fact was they wished to make him talk. The ladies petted

him and asked him questions, and the men asked him questions too, and joked

with him, as the men on the steamer had done when he crossed the Atlantic.

Fauntleroy did not quite understand why they laughed so sometimes when he

answered them, but he was so used to seeing people amused when he was quite

serious, that he did not mind. He thought the whole evening delightful. The

magnificent rooms were so brilliant with lights, there were so many

flowers, the gentlemen seemed so gay, and the ladies wore such beautiful,

wonderful dresses, and such sparkling ornaments in their hair and on their

necks. There was one young lady who, he heard them say, had just come down

from London, where she had spent the "season"; and she was so charming that

he could not keep his eyes from her. She was a rather tall young lady with

a proud little head, and very soft dark hair, and large eyes the color of

purple pansies, and the color on her cheeks and lips was like that of a

rose. She was dressed in a beautiful white dress, and had pearls around her

throat. There was one strange thing about this young lady. So many

gentlemen stood near her, and seemed anxious to please her, that Fauntleroy

thought she must be something like a princess. He was so much interested in

her that without knowing it he drew nearer and nearer to her and at last

she turned and spoke to him.

"Come here, Lord Fauntleroy," she said, smiling; "and tell me why you look

at me so."

"I was thinking how beautiful you are," his young lordship replied.

Then all the gentlemen laughed outright, and the young lady laughed a

little too, and the rose color in her cheeks brightened.

"Ah, Fauntleroy," said one of the gentlemen who had laughed most heartily,

"make the most of your time! When you are older you will not have the

courage to say that."

"But nobody could help saying it," said Fauntleroy sweetly. "Could you help

it? Don't _you_ think she is pretty too?"

"We are not allowed to say what we think," said the gentleman, while the

rest laughed more than ever.

But the beautiful young lady--her name was Miss Vivian Herbert--put out her

hand and drew Cedric to her side, looking prettier than before, if

possible.

"Lord Fauntleroy shall say what he thinks," she said; "and I am much

obliged to him. I am sure he thinks what he says." And she kissed him on

his cheek.

"I think you are prettier than any one I ever saw," said Fauntleroy,

looking at her with innocent, admiring eyes, "except Dearest. Of course, I

couldn't think any one _quite_ as pretty as Dearest. I think she is

the prettiest person in the world."

"I am sure she is," said Miss Vivian Herbert. And she laughed and kissed

his cheek again.

She kept him by her side a great part of the evening, and the group of

which they were the center was very gay. He did not know how it happened,

but before long he was telling them all about America, and the Republican

Rally, and Mr. Hobbs and Dick, and in the end he proudly produced from his

pocket Dick's parting gift,--the red silk handkerchief.

"I put it in my pocket to-night because it was a party," he said. "I

thought Dick would like me to wear it at a party."

And queer as the big, flaming, spotted thing was, there was a serious,

affectionate look in his eyes, which prevented his audience from laughing

very much.

"You see I like it," he said, "because Dick is my friend."

But though he was talked to so much, as the Earl had said, he was in no

one's way. He could be quiet and listen when others talked, and so no one

found him tiresome. A slight smile crossed more than one face when several

times he went and stood near his grandfather's chair, or sat on a stool

close to him, watching him and absorbing every word he uttered with the

most charmed interest. Once he stood so near the chair's arm that his cheek

touched the Earl's shoulder, and his lordship, detecting the general smile,

smiled a little himself. He knew what the lookers-on were thinking, and he

felt some secret amusement in their seeing what a good friend he was to

this youngster, who might have been expected to share the popular opinion

of him.

Mr. Havisham had been expected to arrive in the afternoon, but, strange to

say, he was late. Such a thing had really never been known to happen before

during all the years in which he had been a visitor at Dorincourt Castle.

He was so late that the guests were on the point of rising to go in to

dinner when he arrived. When he approached his host, the Earl regarded him

with amazement. He looked as if he had been hurried or agitated; his dry,

keen old face was actually pale.

"I was detained," he said, in a low voice to the Earl, "by--an

extraordinary event."

It was as unlike the methodic old lawyer to be agitated by anything as it

was to be late, but it was evident that he had been disturbed. At dinner he

ate scarcely anything, and two or three times, when he was spoken to, he

started as if his thoughts were far away. At dessert, when Fauntleroy came

in, he looked at him more than once, nervously and uneasily. Fauntleroy

noted the look and wondered at it. He and Mr. Havisham were on friendly

terms, and they usually exchanged smiles. The lawyer seemed to have

forgotten to smile that evening.

The fact was he forgot everything but the strange and painful news he knew

he must tell the Earl before the night was over--the strange news which he

knew would be so terrible a shock, and which would change the face of

everything. As he looked about at the splendid rooms and the brilliant

company,--at the people gathered together, he knew, more that they might

see the bright-haired little fellow near the Earl's chair than for any

other reason,--as he looked at the proud old man and at little Lord

Fauntleroy smiling at his side, he really felt quite shaken,

notwithstanding that he was a hardened old lawyer. What a blow it was that

he must deal them!

He did not exactly know how the long, superb dinner ended. He sat through

it as if he were in a dream, and several times he saw the Earl glance at

him in surprise.

But it was over at last, and the gentlemen joined the ladies in the

drawing-room. They found Fauntleroy sitting on a sofa with Miss Vivian

Herbert,--the great beauty of the last London season; they had been looking

at some pictures, and he was thanking his companion, as the door opened.

"I'm ever so much obliged to you for being so kind to me!" he was saying;

"I never was at a party before, and I've enjoyed myself so much!"

He had enjoyed himself so much that when the gentlemen gathered about Miss

Herbert again and began to talk to her, as he listened and tried to

understand their laughing speeches, his eyelids began to droop. They

drooped until they covered his eyes two or three times, and then the sound

of Miss Herbert's low, pretty laugh would bring him back, and he would open

them again for about two seconds. He was quite sure he was not going to

sleep, but there was a large, yellow satin cushion behind him and his head

sank against it, and after a while his eyelids drooped for the last time.

They did not even quite open when, as it seemed a long time after, some one

kissed him lightly on the cheek. It was Miss Vivian Herbert, who was going

away, and she spoke to him softly.

"Good-night, little Lord Fauntleroy," she said. "Sleep well."

And in the morning he did not know that he had tried to open his eyes and

had murmured sleepily,

"Good-night--I'm so--glad--I saw you--you are so--pretty----"

He only had a very faint recollection of hearing the gentlemen laugh again

and of wondering why they did it.

* * * * *

[Illustration]

No sooner had the last guest left the room, than Mr. Havisham turned from

his place by the fire, and stepped nearer the sofa, where he stood looking

down at the sleeping occupant. Little Lord Fauntleroy was taking his ease

luxuriously. One leg crossed the other and swung over the edge of the sofa;

one arm was flung easily above his head; the warm flush of healthful,

happy, childish sleep was on his quiet face; his waving tangle of bright

hair strayed over the yellow satin cushion. He made a picture well worth

looking at.

As Mr. Havisham looked at it, he put his hand up and rubbed his shaven

chin, with a harassed countenance.

"Well, Havisham," said the Earl's harsh voice behind him. "What is it? It

is evident something has happened. What was the extraordinary event, if I

may ask?"

Mr. Havisham turned from the sofa, still rubbing his chin.

"It was bad news," he answered, "distressing news, my lord--the worst of

news. I am sorry to be the bearer of it."

The Earl had been uneasy for some time during the evening, as he glanced at

Mr. Havisham, and when he was uneasy he was always ill-tempered.

"Why do you look so at the boy!" he exclaimed irritably. "You have been

looking at him all the evening as if--See here now, why should you look at

the boy, Havisham, and hang over him like some bird of ill-omen! What has

your news to do with Lord Fauntleroy?"

"My lord," said Mr. Havisham, "I will waste no words. My news has

everything to do with Lord Fauntleroy. And if we are to believe it--it is

not Lord Fauntleroy who lies sleeping before us, but only the son of

Captain Errol. And the present Lord Fauntleroy is the son of your son

Bevis, and is at this moment in a lodging-house in London."

The Earl clutched the arms of his chair with both his hands until the veins

stood out upon them; the veins stood out on his forehead too; his fierce

old face was almost livid.

"What do you mean!" he cried out. "You are mad! Whose lie is this?"

"If it is a lie," answered Mr. Havisham, "it is painfully like the truth. A

woman came to my chambers this morning. She said your son Bevis married her

six years ago in London. She showed me her marriage certificate. They

quarreled a year after the marriage, and he paid her to keep away from him.

She has a son five years old. She is an American of the lower classes,--an

ignorant person,--and until lately she did not fully understand what her

son could claim. She consulted a lawyer and found out that the boy was

really Lord Fauntleroy and the heir to the earldom of Dorincourt; and she,

of course, insists on his claims being acknowledged."

There was a movement of the curly head on the yellow satin cushion. A soft,

long, sleepy sigh came from the parted lips, and the little boy stirred in

his sleep, but not at all restlessly or uneasily. Not at all as if his

slumber were disturbed by the fact that he was being proved a small

impostor and that he was not Lord Fauntleroy at all and never would be the

Earl of Dorincourt. He only turned his rosy face more on its side as if to

enable the old man who stared at it so solemnly to see it better.

The handsome, grim old face was ghastly. A bitter smile fixed itself upon

it.

"I should refuse to believe a word of it," he said, "if it were not such a

low, scoundrelly piece of business that it becomes quite possible in

connection with the name of my son Bevis. It is quite like Bevis. He was

always a disgrace to us. Always a weak, untruthful, vicious young brute

with low tastes--my son and heir, Bevis, Lord Fauntleroy. The woman is an

ignorant, vulgar person, you say?"

"I am obliged to admit that she can scarcely spell her own name," answered

the lawyer. "She is absolutely uneducated and openly mercenary. She cares

for nothing but the money. She is very handsome in a coarse way, but----"

The fastidious old lawyer ceased speaking and gave a sort of shudder.

The veins on the old Earl's forehead stood out like purple cords. Something

else stood out upon it too--cold drops of moisture. He took out his

handkerchief and swept them away. His smile grew even more bitter.

"And I," he said, "I objected to--to the other woman, the mother of this

child" (pointing to the sleeping form on the sofa); "I refused to recognize

her. And yet she could spell her own name. I suppose this is retribution."

Suddenly he sprang up from his chair and began to walk up and down the

room. Fierce and terrible words poured forth from his lips. His rage and

hatred and cruel disappointment shook him as a storm shakes a tree. His

violence was something dreadful to see, and yet Mr. Havisham noticed that

at the very worst of his wrath he never seemed to forget the little

sleeping figure on the yellow satin cushions, and that he never once spoke

loud enough to awaken it.

"I might have known it," he said. "They were a disgrace to me from their

first hour! I hated them both; and they hated me! Bevis was the worse of

the two. I will not believe this yet, though! I will contend against it to

the last. But it is like Bevis--it is like him!"

And then he raged again and asked questions about the woman, about her

proofs, and pacing the room, turned first white and then purple in his

repressed fury.

When at last he had learned all there was to be told, and knew the worst,

Mr. Havisham looked at him with a feeling of anxiety. He looked broken and

haggard and changed. His rages had always been bad for him, but this one

had been worse than the rest because there had been something more than

rage in it.

He came slowly back to the sofa, at last, and stood near it.

"If any one had told me I could be fond of a child," he said, his harsh

voice low and unsteady, "I should not have believed them. I always detested

children--my own more than the rest. I am fond of this one; he is fond of

me," (with a bitter smile.) "I am not popular; I never was. But he is fond

of me. He never was afraid of me--he always trusted me. He would have

filled my place better than I have filled it. I know that. He would have

been an honor to the name."

He bent down and stood a minute or so looking at the happy, sleeping face.

His shaggy eyebrows were knitted fiercely, and yet somehow he did not seem

fierce at all. He put up his hand, pushed the bright hair back from the

forehead, and then turned away and rang the bell.

When the largest footman appeared, he pointed to the sofa.

"Take"--he said, and then his voice changed a little--"take Lord Fauntleroy

to his room."

(_To be continued_.)

THREE VELVETY BEES.

BY M. M. D.

[Illustration]

Three velvety, busy, buzzing bees

Once plunged in a thistle plant up to their knees.

Alas! Though plucky and stout of heart,

They bounded away with an angry start.

For the thistle's the touchiest thing that grows;

It's the firework plant--as every one knows.

And every buzzer should pass it by

On the day that is known as the Fourth of July.

FLY-FISHING FOR TROUT.

BY RIPLEY HITCHCOCK

There was once a boy who thought that he could choose his birthday present

more wisely than could his father and mother. He wanted an "arrow rifle"--a

useless affair which has long since gone to the place where toys which are

failures go. He was disappointed however. His birthday brought him not an

"arrow rifle," but a light, jointed fishing-rod. Now this boy had already

done some fishing with a heavy bamboo pole, or with one cut from an alder,

jerking the fish out of the water, and swinging them over his head. To be

sure the heavy pole made his arms ache, but his new rod, which bent at

every touch, seemed to him too slender and flimsy to be of any use

whatever.

I fear he was not very grateful at first, but he was properly rebuked when

his father took a day from professional cares, and opened the lad's eyes to

the pleasure of fishing with light tackle. When he had learned to "cast"

flies with his elastic, strong rod, without hooking somebody or something

not meant to be hooked; when he had seen the beautiful vermilion-spotted

trout flash clear of the water, tempted by the flies; and when he had found

that he could tire out and land larger fish than he had ever caught before,

simply by pitting against their cunning and strength, skill and patience

instead of mere brute force,--then there was opened to that boy a new world

of sport and healthy recreation. He has never regretted the "arrow rifle";

and he now proposes to tell the boys as well as the girls who read ST.

NICHOLAS how to obtain something which is within the reach of both,--the

greatest possible pleasure from fishing.

If one could take a bird's-eye view of our country at any time in the

summer, he would see boys and girls catching all kinds of fish in all kinds

of ways; some off the coast in sailboats, tugging at bluefish or mackerel,

others profiting by ST. NICHOLAS'S lessons in black-bass fishing,

some "skittering" for pickerel in New England lakes, others trolling for

pike in the lakes and rivers of the West. But of all the fresh-water game

fish there is none more beautiful and graceful or more active than the

trout.

[Illustration: RAINBOW TROUT.]

[Illustration: RANGELEY LAKE TROUT.]

Any New York boy who has never caught a trout should go down to Fulton

Market at the opening of the trout season, when trout are gathered there

from all parts of the country. He will see "rainbow" trout from the Rocky

Mountains, their sides iridescent, and stained as if marked by a bloody

finger. These are being introduced into Eastern waters. He will find trout

in the blackest of mourning robes and others gayly dressed in silver

tinsel. Sometimes the vermilion spots on the side shine like fire; again

they are as dull as if the fire had gone out and left only gray ashes. For

there are several varieties of trout known to naturalists and traveled

fishermen, and even the brook trout, called by the formidable name of

_Salmo fontinalis_, varies greatly in color and shape in different

localities. In Arizona, I have caught trout which were fairly black. In

Dublin Lake in New Hampshire, the trout look like bars of polished silver

as they are drawn up through the water. I never saw a more sharply marked

contrast than that between the trout of two little Maine lakes, near the

head-waters of the Androscoggin River. In one, the trout were long, and as

thin as race-horses, and their flesh was of a salmon-pink hue; in the

other, not half a mile away, the trout were short, thick, and almost

hump-backed, with darker skins and lighter flesh. The first lake had a

sandy, gravelly bottom, and the water was clear as crystal; the bottom of

the second was muddy, and the water dark and turbid. This explained the

difference in the fish, a difference always existing in trout of brooks or

lakes under the same conditions.

[Illustration: _Trout-rod and Tackle_.]

In the great Androscoggin Lakes of Maine, the trout, which are brook trout,

grow to the largest size known anywhere. They have been caught weighing

twelve pounds, and many claimed that they were lake trout, until the famous

naturalist Agassiz decided that, although living in lakes, they were true

brook trout. These immense trout have very thick bodies and cruel hooked

jaws; but the guides can point out many contrasts between trout from

different lakes, or even from different parts of the same lake. There are

trout nearly as large in the rivers of the British Provinces, Nova Scotia,

New Brunswick, and Quebec, but these are usually lighter colored, and they

are quite another variety, being known as sea trout, or _Salmo trutta_. All

this adds to the interest of trout-fishing by inducing the angler to

acquaint himself with what the Natural Histories have to tell him about the

various kinds of trout. Then the differences in one kind teach him to be

observant and excite a curiosity as to the habits of the trout. Here the

Natural Histories will fail him. Only by following trout brooks and

tempting the larger trout of lakes, can he properly study the ways and

curious moods of this cunning, timid fish. And even then, if he be modest,

he will often confess himself sadly puzzled; for the trout's wits are

sometimes more than a match for the fisherman's. And this adds to the

pleasure of trout-fishing; for if one had to deal with a fish which would

bite at any bait, under any circumstances, and give up the fight as soon as

hooked, the sport would soon grow very stupid. In trout-fishing, one will

study the best conditions of wind, weather, and water, and learn how to

approach one of the shyest of fish, how to delude one of the most wary, and

how safely to land one of the pluckiest. To do this it is necessary to have

reliable "tackle," a term which includes rod, reel, line, leaders, flies,

and landing net. The rod must be so light that one can cast with it easily

and persistently, and yet it must be strong enough to bend into all manner

of curves without breaking, and to tire out large trout. If it is too

stiff, the fisherman's arm will soon be wearied, and if it is too flexible

or withy, it will not cast flies well, and it will not hold fish firmly if

the angler needs to bring a strain upon them. In attempts to meet these

requirements, fly rods have been made of split bamboo, ash and lance-wood,

bethabara, greenheart, cedar, hickory, hornbeam, iron-wood, snake-wood,

shadblow and perhaps twenty other woods, and there have even been

experiments in making rods of thin steel tubes. The split bamboo rods are

made of four or six triangular strips cut from the rind of Calcutta bamboo

and carefully fitted and glued together. Sometimes the surface is rounded,

but oftener it has six sides. These rods, when they are really good, are

the best of all. Indeed, Americans may justly claim to make the finest rods

in the world and also the finest lines. But I should not advise any of my

readers to buy a split bamboo fly rod, because these rods are very

expensive, they require very careful treatment, and if broken they must go

back to the maker to be repaired. The fly rod which I recommend to the boys

and girls of ST. NICHOLAS is one with an ash butt, and the second joint and

tip of lance-wood. It should be from ten feet to ten feet and a half in

length, and should weigh about seven ounces and a half. Such a rod can be

obtained from any reliable dealer in any large city. I emphasize reliable

because there are fishing-tackle stores where one may get rods nice to look

at, but worthless to use. Nearly all dealers keep what is called an "all

around" rod, intended to be used, for either fly or bait fishing, but this,

like most compromises is usually unsatisfactory. This, or something like

it, will probably be shown you if you ask for a boy's rod, so that it is

better to tell the dealer or rod-maker exactly what you want, and to accept

nothing else. If he takes a pride in his work and has a reputation to

sustain, he will interest himself in picking out a rod of sound,

well-seasoned wood, evenly balanced, elastic, with a good action, and a

peculiar "kick" in the second joint, which is of great service in casting a

fly. If some one can help you in making your choice, so much the better.

Then it will be well to attach a reel and line to the rod and try it in

actual casting, if this is possible; and when the rod is bent, see that the

bend is an even curve. The pleasure of fly-fishing depends upon the quality

of the rod, and the choice should therefore be made deliberately and

wisely. Some fishermen make their own rods, and there are dealers who

supply materials for amateur rod-makers; but this is a difficult

undertaking and can not be described here.[A] I should advise any boy to go

to a professional maker for his first fly rod.

[Footnote A: "Fly Rods and Fly Tackle," by Mr. H. P. Wells, explains

methods of making and repairing rods and other tackle, and gives much

valuable instruction in fly-fishing.]

[Illustration: YOUNG ANGLERS.]

The "enameled water-proof" lines are the best. These are braided from

boiled silk, and prepared to resist the action of water, which will cause

the decay of an ordinary line. Of the various sizes, which are

distinguished by letters, that known as F is perhaps most desirable,

although either E or F will answer the purpose. The line should be "level,"

not tapering, and at least twenty-five yards in length. This will be wound

upon a "click" reel of equal capacity, preferably nickel-plated. But this

is of less importance than the internal construction of the reel, for which

you should have the maker's guarantee. Now come the flies. There are names

enough to fill a directory, and a greater variety of colors than the woods

show in autumn. A few flies like the "Montreal," "Professor," "Scarlet

Ibis," "Coachman," and "the Hackles," are to be found in almost every

angler's book. For the rest, it will be well to learn, from some

experienced angler or intelligent dealer, the flies best suited to the

particular waters which you intend to fish. At the Rangeley lakes, for

example, you will find that large, gaudy flies are much used, like the

"Parmachenee Belle," "Silver and Golden Doctor," and "Grizzly King," and

there is one local fly called the "Katoodle Bug." In the Adirondacks,

smaller flies of quieter colors are favored. For brook-fishing, very small

flies of neutral tints are much used except when the water is very dark. A

fly-book will be needed to contain flies and also leaders. The leader is a

piece of "silk-worm gut," which should be about six feet in length. One end

is fastened to the line, and the stretcher-fly is made fast at the other.

One or two other flies, called droppers, are usually attached at intervals

of two feet or more along the leader. Before making your choice, the

leaders should be closely examined to see whether any part is frayed or

cracked. They can be tested by a pull of four or five pounds on a spring

balance. The leader is used as being less conspicuous than the line in the

water, and, therefore, less likely to frighten away trout approaching the

flies. Most leaders are dyed a misty bluish color which, it is thought,

will escape even the keen eyes of the trout. A landing-net, the size and

strength of which depend upon the fishing-ground, completes the list of

tackle.

[Illustration: TROUT FLIES.]

The next step is to learn how to cast a fly, and here practice and the

advice of some experienced fly-fisherman will be worth more than printed

instructions.

It is not necessary, however, to wait for summer nor for access to water,

in order to practice casting. A housetop, a dooryard, or even the spacious

floor of an old-fashioned barn, as the case may be, offers just as good a

chance for practice as a lake or river. When the rod is jointed together,

the reel attached, and the line passed through the rings and beyond the tip

about the length of the rod, the learner is usually seized with a wild

desire to flourish rod and line like a whip with a long snapper. This

feeling must promptly be suppressed. Fly-casting is a very simple movement,

and not a flourish. The elbow is kept down at the side, the forearm moving

only a little, and most of the work is done by the wrist. Holding the rod

by the "grip," the part of the butt wound with silk or rattan to assist the

grasp, one finds that the reel, which is just below the "grip," aids in

balancing the rod. The reel is underneath in casting. After hooking a fish,

many anglers turn their rods so as to bring the reel to the upper side,

thus letting the strain of the line come upon the rod itself instead of

upon the rings. In holding the "grip," the thumb should be extended

straight along the rod, as this gives an additional "purchase." For the

first cast, take the end of the line in the left hand, and bring the rod

upward and backward until the line is taut. As you release the line, the

spring of the rod carries the line backward. This is the back cast. Then

comes an instant's pause, while the line straightens itself out behind, and

then, with a firm motion of the wrist, helped a little by the forearm, the

rod is thrown forward, and the line flies easily out in front. Begin with a

line once or once-and-a-half as long as the rod, and lengthen it out by

degrees. The main points to be remembered are: to keep the elbow at the

side, to train the wrist, to move the rod not too far forward or back,

always to wait until the line is straight behind on the back cast, and to

make sure that in this the line falls no lower than your head, a process

which it will take time to accomplish. There is no more awkward fault than

that of whipping a rod down to a level with the horizon before and behind,

and swishing the flies through the air until some of them are snapped off.

When the learner becomes accustomed to handling his rod, he must try to

perfect himself in two matters of great importance--accuracy and delicacy.

Place a small piece of paper fifteen or twenty feet away, and aim at making

the knot in the end of the line fall easily and quietly upon it. Your

efforts will be aided if you will raise the point of the rod a trifle, just

as the forward impulse of the line is spent, and the line itself is

straightened in the air for an instant in front. This is a novel kind of

target-shooting, but its usefulness will be realized when the angler finds

it necessary to drop his flies so lightly just over the head of some

particularly wary trout, that the fish, although too shy or lazy to move a

yard, will be persuaded that some tempting natural flies have foolishly

settled on the water just within reach of his jaws. By practice of this

kind, which is an excellent form of light exercise in itself, any boy or

girl can learn a very fascinating art. It is not necessary to make very

long casts. At fly-casting tournaments in Central Park, casts have been

made of about ninety feet, but in actual fishing a third of that distance

is usually sufficient. Never cast more line than you can conveniently and

safely handle.

[Illustration: CAPTURING TWO FISH AT ONCE,--OR "LANDING A DOUBLE."]

And now that we are ready to go a-fishing, the question arises, "Where

shall we go?" The cold, bitter weather common in early April is not

favorable to fishermen or fish. When May sunshine brings the leaves out on

the trees, and fields are green and skies are blue, then Long Island may

well tempt any New York boy who has a holiday to spend in fly-fishing.

Years ago, any Long Island water could be fished without question, but now

nearly all the Long Island brooks and ponds are "preserved,"--that is,

kept for personal use by clubs or private owners. A boy who has a friend

or relative among the owners of these preserves, or can hire a fishing

privilege, can enjoy trout-fishing within a journey of two or three hours

from his New York home. Within a few hours' ride, also, are trout streams

in the southern counties of New York State and in Pennsylvania, although

the former are so often visited that the fish have not time to grow large.

The New England boy finds trout brooks in western Connecticut, in northern

Massachusetts, and in the Cape Cod region, in northern New Hampshire and

Vermont, and especially in Maine. Once, almost every stream and lake in

New England contained trout. But forests were cut down, and some of the

streams dwindled until they went dry in summer. Saw-mills were built, the

streams were dammed up so as to be impassable for trout, and the trout

eggs were buried under sawdust. Manufactories have poisoned the water of

some rivers and others have been literally "fished dry." The trout of any

brook near a large New England town have a very poor chance of long life.

All this is discouraging enough, but yet there are trout to be caught, as

every New England boy knows.

[Illustration: INTERIOR OF A FISHING-CAMP.]

The most famous fishing-places in the East are the Rangeley Lakes in Maine

and the Adirondacks in New York. About the third week of May the ice goes

out of the great chain of lakes forming the head-waters of the Androscoggin

River in Maine. Then the red-shirted river-drivers come down with "drives"

of logs, which dash through the sluiceways of immense dams between the

different lakes. And while the brown pine trunks are still shooting through

the dams, fishermen begin to gather from all parts of the country, for in

the clear cold water of these lakes the trout, feeding upon myriads of

minnows, grow to be the giants of their race. I can wish no better

piscatorial fortune for the children of ST. NICHOLAS than a visit to Maine

with father or brother, and the capture of one of these large trout. I must

confess, however, that the large trout are not to be depended upon; but

there are small fish always to be caught in the little lakes and brooks of

the region, and there are pleasant forest camps with cheerful fires blazing

in great stone fireplaces. The host of one of these camps was for a long

time a hunter and guide, and every winter he lectures before Boston

schoolboys, dressed in his hunter's garb, and tells them about trapping and

the adventures of life in the woods.

If one can continue further into the North-east, better fishing can be

found in New Brunswick and Quebec than in Maine, although the trout of the

Provinces are sea trout, a distinction which does not seem to me important.

The trout of the Adirondacks are much smaller than those of Maine or New

Brunswick, and now that the Adirondack country is overrun with visitors,

one must go back some distance into the woods to find good sport. South of

Pennsylvania, there is trout-fishing in the mountain streams of West

Virginia and North Carolina. To the west, northern Michigan tempts the

angler, and still further north are the large trout of the Nepigon river

which flows into Lake Superior. The States along the Mississippi Valley are

sadly deficient in trout, but a great deal can be done with black bass, as

Mr. Maurice Thompson has told you. Trout abound all along the Rocky

Mountains. There are the lusty five-pounders of the Snake River in Idaho,

the rainbow trout of California, found also, I think, in Colorado, and the

dusky fish of New Mexico and Arizona. I do not expect that many of ST.

NICHOLAS'S readers will visit these remote fishing-places, but between the

three corners of the continent in which I have caught trout--Quebec,

Washington Territory, and Arizona--there are so many chances for

trout-fishing, that very few need fail to enjoy this most delightful of

outdoor sports.

The best month for fly-fishing is June, and the best weather a light

southerly or southwesterly breeze and a slightly overcast sky. Morning or

evening is the best time. The worst is the middle of an intensely hot,

bright, still day. It is usually thought that a change in the weather makes

trout more active. Very high or very low water is undesirable. Yet when all

the conditions seem perfect, one may cast over a whole school of trout

without inducing them to stir a fin; and on the other hand, when the

weather is most unfavorable and when the fish are gorged with food, they

will, sometimes, fairly hustle one another in their eagerness to get the

flies. On one hot July noon, the air and water around my boat were alive

with trout for half an hour, when they stopped rising as suddenly as they

had begun, without any apparent reason in one case or the other. Within two

forenoon hours, I once caught twenty-five pounds of trout at the mouth of a

brook emptying into one of the Rangeley lakes. Early next morning, I was

rowed to the same spot and found only one solitary trout. On another

occasion, I landed a five-pound and a three-pound trout from a pool in a

Canadian river, without unduly disturbing the water; but although the pool

contained several other fish, including one estimated to weigh over five

pounds, not another trout could be induced to look at any fly in my book.

Trout are very fickle and changeable, and the ingenuity sometimes required

to coax them to rise adds as much zest to the sport as the suspense and

excitement of hooking and landing them.

[Illustration: A MOUNTAIN LAKE.]

But when the trout does rise, what do you suppose he thinks? Does he really

believe that the curious creature with a barbed tail hovering over his head

is a natural fly? I doubt it. The flies ordinarily used would drive an

entomologist to distraction. The great scarlet and white and yellow flies

which have caused so many Rangeley lake trout to come to grief are, I

fancy, unlike any living insect in that region, or anywhere else. The trout

sees something moving on the water, and as experience has taught him that

such fluttering objects are usually good to eat, his weakness for live food

tempts him to pounce upon it without stopping to reason out the matter. But

when he finds that this deceitful fly is entirely tasteless, he will drop

it at once, unless the fisherman is prompt in "striking." This means a

quick upward movement of the tip of the rod, a motion imparted, of course,

at the butt, but communicated along rod and line. The movement "strikes"

the hook into the fish. One can not be too quick in striking, but if too

much force be used, the rod may be snapped at the second joint. Yet that is

not the way in which rods are most frequently broken. If you have drawn in

your flies so closely that you can not readily recover them, and your rod

is pointing nearly straight upward, even a gentle attempt to strike a small

fish is likely to break a rod. Once, I was fishing with a heavy rod from a

raft which was drifting across a Canadian lake. The wind was so strong that

I was obliged to cast with it, and then the raft rapidly drifted down upon

my flies. A trout weighing not a quarter of a pound rose when my rod was

nearly perpendicular, and the flies were close before me; instinctively I

struck. The reward of my carelessness was that the rod, which would have

landed a ten-pound fish, was cleanly broken into two pieces. Never draw the

flies so near you that you have not safe and complete control of your rod,

either for the back cast or for a strike.

The importance of the high back cast of which I have spoken, will be

especially appreciated by ST. NICHOLAS'S boys and girls, for most of their

trout-fishing will probably be done upon brooks where a low back cast would

involve entanglement in grass or bushes. In brook-fishing it is usually

necessary to use a comparatively short line, and one must learn to make

under-hand casts,--that is, with the rod down to a horizontal level on

either side, instead of being upright, something easily learned after one

can cast properly over-hand. Of course my readers will see that they must

keep themselves and their shadows out of the sight of the timid trout. When

a fish is hooked, let him run out the reel if he is large enough, unless he

makes for stumps or brush where the line may get entangled. Then as much of

a strain must be brought to bear upon him as the tackle will withstand; and

always reel in line when it is possible. The line should never be slack. If

the trout will not rise at first, change your flies and try the old rule of

looking closely at the insects which hover over the water and selecting a

fly from your book that imitates those insects as nearly as possible. The

best general rule is to use small dark flies in bright, clear water, and

larger bright flies in dark or turbid water. I need hardly say that fish

are not to be lifted out of the water with a fly-rod. Let the trout run and

struggle until the strain of the rod tires him out so that he can be easily

drawn within reach and lifted out with the landing-net.

[Illustration]

So you see that in fly-fishing for trout you learn a very fascinating art,

which can be practiced among the most delightful of outdoor surroundings in

the pleasantest months of the year. You will learn much more than books can

tell you about the habits and curious ways of a fish which the most

experienced anglers have considered for hundreds of years as, next to the

salmon, their most worthy game. You will learn patience, perseverance, and

all manner of practical lessons on trout streams, including the tying of

knots and the repairing of rods. And the sunshine, the fragrance of flowery

meadows, and the cool breath of the woods will give you a health which can

not be found indoors. But let me urge upon you to remember that the true

sportsman is always generous in his treatment of the noble fish which he

pursues. He will never catch trout out of season. He will never kill more

trout than can be made use of, nor will he ever kill them by unfair means.

And he will never catch tiny troutlings, too small to afford sport, lest he

should exhaust the streams, but he will carefully restore to the water any

trout which are not at least six inches long. ST. NICHOLAS'S fly-fishers

who meet the gallant trout on fair and even terms will surely give the

beautiful fish honorable treatment.

And when you go a-fishing, bearing these words in mind, may you be rewarded

by baskets well filled with trout of noble size.

DAISY-SONG.

BY GRACE DENIO LITCHFIELD

I am only a plain little daisy-flower,

Sprung up at hap-hazard 'neath sunshine and shower,

To live out as I may my life's poor little hour,

Yet who is so happy as I?

Oh, the days they burn hot, and the nights they blow cold,

And the shadows and rains,--true they fall, manifold;

But my dress is all white, and my heart is pure gold,

And who is so happy as I?

There's many a gladsomer meadow than mine,

Where greener trees shelter and softer suns shine

For others than me; but how can I repine,

For who is so happy as I?

There 's a brook I can't see by that far-away beech,

And a bird that wont whistle, for all I beseech,

And stars are up yonder, quite out of my reach,

But who is so happy as I?

I just look up at Fate with my brave little face,

I stir from my post in no possible case,

And I keep my dress clean, my gold heart in its place,

And who is so happy as I?

GEORGE WASHINGTON.

[_An Historical Biography_.]

BY HORACE E. SCUDDER.

CHAPTER XVII.

AT VALLEY FORGE.

The winter of 1777 passed with little fighting; and when the spring opened,

Washington used his army so adroitly as to prevent the British from moving

on Philadelphia, and finally crowded them out of New Jersey altogether.

That summer, however, was an anxious one, for there was great uncertainty

as to the plans of the enemy; and when at last a formidable British army

appeared in the Chesapeake, whither it had been transported by sea,

Washington hurried his forces to meet it, and fought the battle of

Brandywine, in which he met with a severe loss. He retrieved his fortune in

part by a brilliant attack on the enemy at Germantown, and then retired to

Valley Forge, in Pennsylvania, where he went into winter quarters; while

the British army was comfortably established in Philadelphia.

The defeat of Burgoyne by Gates, at Saratoga, in the summer and

Washington's splendid attack at Germantown had made a profound impression

in Europe, and are counted as having turned the scale in favor of an

alliance with the United States on the part of France. But when the winter

shut down on the American army, no such good cheer encouraged it. That

winter of 1778 was the most terrible ordeal which the army endured, and one

has but to read of the sufferings of the soldiers to learn at how great a

cost independence was bought. It is worth while to tell again the familiar

story, because the leader of the army himself shared the want and privation

of the men. To read of Valley Forge is to read of Washington.

The place was chosen for winter quarters because of its position. It was

equally distant with Philadelphia from the Brandywine and from the ferry

across the Delaware into New Jersey. It was too far from Philadelphia to be

in peril from attack, and yet it was so near that the American army could,

if opportunity offered, descend quickly on the city. Then it was so

protected by hills and streams that the addition of a few lines of

fortification made it very secure.

But there was no town at Valley Forge, and it became necessary to provide

some shelter for the soldiers other than the canvas tents which served in

the field in summer. It was the middle of December when the army began

preparations for the winter, and Washington gave directions for the

building of the little village. The men were divided into parties of

twelve, each party to build a hut to accommodate that number; and in order

to stimulate the men, Washington promised a reward of twelve dollars to the

party in each regiment which finished its hut first and most

satisfactorily. And as there was some difficulty in getting boards, he

offered a hundred dollars to any officer or soldier who should invent some

substitute which would be as cheap as boards and as quickly provided.

[Illustration: BUILDING THE HUTS AT VALLEY FORGE.]

Each hut was to be fourteen feet by sixteen, the sides, ends, and roof to

be made of logs, and the sides made tight with clay. There was to be a

fireplace in the rear of each hut, built of wood, but lined with clay

eighteen inches thick. The walls were to be six and a half feet high. Huts

were also to be provided for the officers, and to be placed in the rear of

those occupied by the troops. All these were to be regularly arranged in

streets. A visitor to the camp when the huts were being built, wrote of the

army; "They appear to me like a family of beavers, every one busy; some

carrying logs, others mud, and the rest plastering them together." It was

bitterly cold, and for a month the men were at work, making ready for the

winter.

But in what sort of condition were the men themselves when they began this

work? Here is a picture of one of those men on his way to Valley Forge:

"His bare feet peep through his worn-out shoes, his legs nearly naked from

the tattered remains of an only pair of stockings, his breeches not enough

to cover his nakedness, his shirt hanging in strings, his hair disheveled,

his face wan and thin, his look hungry, his whole appearance that of a man

forsaken and neglected." And the snow was falling! This was one of the

privates. The officers were scarcely better off. One was wrapped "in a sort

of dressing-gown made of an old blanket or woolen bed-cover." The uniforms

were torn and ragged; the guns were rusty; a few only had bayonets; the

soldiers carried their powder in tin boxes and cow-horns.

To explain why this army was so poor and forlorn, would be to tell a long

story. It may be summed up briefly in these words--the army was not taken

care of because there was no country to take care of it. There were

thirteen States, and each of these States sent troops into the field, but

all the States were jealous of one another. There was a Congress, which

undertook to direct the war, but all the members of Congress, coming from

the several States, were jealous of one another. They were agreed on only

one thing--that it was not prudent to give the army too much power. It is

true that they had once given Washington large authority, but they had

given it only for a short period. They were very much afraid that somehow

the army would rule the country, and yet they were trying to free the

country from the rule of England. But when they talked about freeing the

country, each man thought only of his own State. The first fervor with

which they had talked about a common country had died away; there were some

very selfish men in Congress, who could not be patriotic enough to think of

the whole country.

The truth is, it takes a long time for the people of a country to come to

feel that they have a country. Up to the time of the war for independence,

the people in America did not care much for one another or for America.

They had really been preparing to be a nation, but they did not know it.

They were angry with Great Britain, and they knew they had been wronged.

They were therefore ready to fight; but it does not require so much courage

to fight as to endure suffering and to be patient.

So it was that the people of America who were most conscious that they were

Americans were the men who were in the army, and their wives and mothers

and sisters at home. All these were making sacrifices for their country and

so learning to love it. The men in the army came from different States, and

there was a great deal of State feeling among them; but, after all, they

belonged to one army, the continental army, and they had much more in

common than they had separately. Especially they had a great leader who

made no distinction between Virginians and New England men. Washington felt

keenly all the lack of confidence which Congress showed. He saw that the

spirit in Congress was one which kept the people divided, while the spirit

at Valley Forge kept the people united, and he wrote reproachfully to

Congress:

"If we would pursue a right system of policy, in my opinion, ... we should

all, Congress and army, be considered as one people, embarked in one cause,

in one interest; acting on the same principle, and to the same end. The

distinction, the jealousies set up, or perhaps only incautiously let out,

can answer not a single good purpose.... No order of men in the thirteen

States has paid a more sacred regard to the proceedings of Congress than

the army; for without arrogance or the smallest deviation from truth it may

be said, that no history now extant can furnish an instance of an army's

suffering such uncommon hardships as ours has done, and bearing them with

the same patience and fortitude. To see men, without clothes to cover them,

without blankets to lie on, without shoes (for the want of which their

marches might be traced by the blood from their feet), and almost as often

without provisions as with them, marching through the frost and snow, and

at Christmas taking up their winter quarters within a day's march of the

enemy, without a house or hut to cover them, till they could be built, and

submitting without a murmur, is a proof of patience and obedience, which,

in my opinion, can scarce be paralleled."

The horses died of starvation, and the men harnessed themselves to trucks

and sleds, hauling wood and provisions from storehouse to hut. At one time

there was not a ration in camp. Washington seized the peril with a strong

hand and compelled the people in the country about, who had been selling to

the British army at Philadelphia, to give up their stores to the patriots

at Valley Forge.

Meanwhile, the wives of the officers came to the camp, and these brave

women gave of their cheer to its dreary life. Mrs. Washington was there

with her husband. "The General's apartment is very small," she wrote to a

friend; "he has had a log cabin built to dine in, which has made our

quarters much more tolerable than they were at first."

The officers and their wives came together and told stories, perhaps over a

plate of hickory nuts, which, we are informed, furnished General

Washington's dessert. The General was cheerful in the little society; but

his one thought was how to keep the brave company of men alive and prepare

them for what lay before them. The house where he had his quarters was a

farmhouse belonging to a quaker, Mr. Potts, who has said that one day when

strolling up the creek, away from the camp, he heard a deep, quiet voice a

little way off. He went nearer, and saw Washington's horse tied to a

sapling. Hard by, in the thicket, was Washington on his knees, praying

earnestly.

[Illustration: AT VALLEY FORGE.]

At the end of February, light began to break. The terrible winter was

passing away, though the army was still in wretched state. But there came

to camp, a volunteer, Baron Steuben, who had been trained in the best

armies of Europe. In him Washington had, what he greatly needed, an

excellent drill-master. He made him Inspector of the army, and soon, as if

by magic, the men changed from slouching, careless fellows into erect,

orderly soldiers. The Baron began with a picked company of one hundred and

twenty men, whom he drilled thoroughly; these became the models for others,

and so the whole camp was turned into a military school.

The prospect grew brighter and brighter, until on the 4th of May, late at

night, a messenger rode into camp with dispatches from Congress. Washington

opened them, and his heart must have leaped for joy as he read that an

alliance had been formed between France and the United States. Two days

later, the army celebrated the event. The chaplains of the several

regiments read the intelligence and then offered up thanksgiving to God.

Guns were fired, and there was a public dinner in honor of Washington and

his generals. There had been shouts for the King of France and for the

American States; but when Washington took his leave, "there was," says an

officer who was present, universal applause, "with loud huzzas, which

continued till he had proceeded a quarter of a mile, during which time

there were a thousand hats tossed in the air. His excellency turned round

with his retinue, and huzzaed several times."

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE CONWAY CABAL.

There is no man so high but some will always be found who wish to pull him

down. Washington was no exception to this rule. His men worshiped him; the

people had confidence in him; the officers nearest to him, and especially

those who formed a part of his military family, were warmly attached to

him; but in Congress there were men who violently opposed him, and there

were certain generals who not only envied him but were ready to seize any

opportunity which might offer to belittle him and to place one of their own

number in his place. The chief men who were engaged in this business were

Generals Conway, Mifflin, and Gates, and from the prominent position taken

in the affair by the first-named officer, the intrigue against Washington

goes by the name of the Conway Cabal. A "cabal" is a secret combination

against a person with the object of his hurt or injury.

It is not easy to say just how or when this cabal first showed itself.

Conway was a young brigadier-general, very conceited and impudent. Mifflin

had been Quartermaster-general, but had resigned. He had been early in the

service and was in Cambridge with Washington, but had long been secretly

hostile to him. Gates, who had been Washington's companion in Virginia, was

an ambitious man who never lost an opportunity of looking after his own

interest, and had been especially fortunate in being appointed to the

command of the northern army just as it achieved the famous victory over

Burgoyne.

The defeat at Brandywine, the failure to make Germantown a great success,

and the occupation of Philadelphia by the British troops, while the

American army was suffering at Valley Forge--all this seemed to many a

sorry story compared with the brilliant victory at Saratoga. There had

always been those who thought Washington slow and cautious. John Adams was

one of these, and he expressed himself as heartily glad "that the glory of

turning the tide of arms was not immediately due to the

commander-in-chief." Others shook their heads and said that the people of

America had been guilty of idolatry by making a man their god; and that,

besides, the army would become dangerous to the liberties of the people if

it were allowed to be so influenced by one man.

Conway was the foremost of these critics. "No man was more a gentleman than

General Washington, or appeared to more advantage at his table, or in the

usual intercourse of life," he would say; then he would give his shoulders

a shrug, and look around and add, "but as to his talents for the command of

an army, they were miserable indeed."

"Gates was the general!" Conway said. "There was a man who could fight, and

win victories!"

Gates himself was in a mood to believe it. He had been so intoxicated by

his success against Burgoyne that he thought himself the man of the day,

and quite forgot to send a report of the action to his commander-in-chief.

Washington rebuked him in a letter which was severe in its quiet tone. He

congratulated Gates on his great success, and added, "At the same time, I

can not but regret that a matter of such magnitude, and so interesting to

our general operations, should have reached me by report only; or through

the channel of letters not bearing that authenticity which the importance

of it required, and which it would have received by a line over your

signature stating the simple fact."

Gates may have winced under the rebuke, but he was then listening to

Conway's flattery, and that was more agreeable to him. Conway, on his part,

found Gates a convenient man to set up as a rival to Washington. He himself

did not aspire to be commander-in-chief, though he would have had no doubt

as to his capacity. Washington knew him well. "His merit as an officer,"

wrote the Commander-in-chief, "and his importance in this army exist more

in his own imagination than in reality. For it is a maxim with him to leave

no service of his own untold, nor to want anything which is to be obtained

by importunity." Conway thought Gates was the rising man, and he meant to

rise with him. He filled his ear with things which he thought would please

him, and among other letters wrote him one in which these words occurred:

"Heaven has determined to save your country, or a weak general and bad

counselors would have ruined it."

Now Gates was foolish enough to show this letter to Wilkinson, one of his

aids, and Wilkinson repeated it to an aid of Lord Stirling, one of

Washington's generals, and Lord Stirling at once sat down and wrote it off

to Washington. Thereupon Washington, who knew Conway too well to waste any

words upon him, sat down and wrote him this letter:

"SIR,--A letter which I received last night contained the following

paragraph:

"'In a letter from General Conway to General Gates he says: Heaven has

determined to save your country, or a weak general and bad counselors would

have ruined it.'

"I am, Sir, your humble servant,

"GEORGE WASHINGTON."

That was all, but it was quite enough to throw Conway and Gates and Mifflin

into a panic. How did Washington get hold of the sentence? Had he seen any

other letters? How much did he know? In point of fact, that was all that

Washington had seen. He had a contempt for Conway. He knew of Mifflin's

hostility and that Gates was now cool to him; but he did not suspect Gates

of any intrigue, and he supposed for a while that Wilkinson's message had

been intended only to warn him of Conway's evil mind.

Gates was greatly perplexed to know what to do, but he finally wrote to

Washington as if there were some wretch who had been stealing letters and

might be discovering the secrets of the American leaders. He begged

Washington to help him find the rascal. Washington replied, giving him the

exact manner in which the letter came into his hands, and then closed with

a few sentences that showed Gates clearly that he had lost the confidence

of his commander-in-chief.

That particular occasion passed, but presently the cabal showed its head

again, this time working through Congress. It secured the appointment of a

Board of War, with Gates at the head, and a majority of the members from

men who were hostile to Washington. Now, they thought, Washington will

resign, and to help matters on they spread the report that Washington was

about to resign. The general checkmated them at once by a letter to a

friend, in which he wrote:

"To report a design of this kind is among the arts which those who are

endeavoring to effect a change, are practicing to bring it to pass....

While the public are satisfied with my endeavors, I mean not to shrink from

the cause. But the moment her voice, _not that of faction_, calls upon me

to resign, I shall do it with as much pleasure as ever the wearied traveler

retired to rest."

The cabal was not yet defeated. It had failed by roundabout methods. It

looked about in Congress and counted the disaffected to see if it would be

possible to get a majority vote in favor of a motion to arrest the

commander-in-chief. So at least the story runs which, from its nature,

would not be found in any record, but was whispered from one man to

another. The day came when the motion was to be tried; the conspiracy

leaked out, and Washington's friends bestirred themselves. They needed one

more vote. They sent post-haste for one of their number, Gouverneur Morris,

who was absent in camp; but they feared they could not get him in time. In

their extremity, they went to William Duer, a member from New York, who was

dangerously ill. Duer sent for his doctor.

"Doctor," he asked, "can I be carried to Congress?"

"Yes, but at the risk of your life," replied the physician.

"Do you mean that I should expire before reaching the place?" earnestly

inquired the patient.

"No," came the answer; "but I would not answer for your leaving it alive."

"Very well, sir. You have done your duty and I will do mine!" exclaimed

Duer. "Prepare a litter for me; if you will not, somebody else will, but I

prefer your aid."

The demand was in earnest, and Duer had already started when it was

announced that Morris had returned and that he would not be needed. Morris

had come direct from the camp with the latest news of what was going on

there. His vote would make it impossible for the enemies of Washington to

carry their point; their opportunity was lost, and they never recovered it.

It was not the end of the cabal, however. They still cherished their

hostility to Washington, and they sought to injure him where he would feel

the wound most keenly. They tried to win from him the young Marquis de La

Fayette, who had come from France to join the American army, and whom

Washington had taken to his heart. La Fayette was ambitious and

enthusiastic. Conway, who had been in France, did his best to attach

himself to the young Frenchman, but he betrayed his hatred of Washington,

and that was enough to estrange La Fayette. Then a winter campaign in

Canada was planned, and the cabal intrigued to have La Fayette appointed to

command it. It was argued that as a Frenchman he would have an influence

over the French Canadians. But the plotters hoped that, away from

Washington, the young marquis could be more easily worked upon, and it was

intended that Conway should be his second in command.

Of course, in contriving this plan, Washington was not consulted; but the

moment La Fayette was approached, he appealed to Washington for advice.

Washington saw through the device, but he at once said, "I would rather it

should be you than another." La Fayette insisted on Kalb being second in

command instead of Conway, whom he disliked and distrusted. Congress was in

session at York, and thither La Fayette went to receive his orders. Gates,

who spent much of his time in the neighborhood of Congress, seeking to

influence the members, was there, and La Fayette was at once invited to

join him and his friends at dinner. The talk ran freely, and great things

were promised of the Canada expedition, but not a word was said about

Washington. La Fayette listened and noticed. He thought of the contrast

between the meager fare and the sacrifices at Valley Forge, and this feast

at which he was a guest. He watched his opportunity, and near the end of

the dinner, he said:

"I have a toast to propose. There is one health, gentlemen, which we have

not yet drunk. I have the honor to propose it to you: The

Commander-in-chief of the armies of the United States!"

It was a challenge which no one dared openly to take up, but there was an

end to the good spirits of the company. La Fayette had shown his colors,

and he was let alone after that. Indeed, the Canada expedition never was

undertaken, for the men who were urging it were not in earnest about

anything but diminishing the honor of Washington. It is the nature of

cabals and intrigues that they flourish in the dark. They can not bear the

light. As soon as these hostile intentions began to reach the ears of the

public, great was the indignation aroused, and one after another of the

conspirators made haste to disown any evil purpose. Gates and Mifflin each

publicly avowed their entire confidence in Washington, and Conway, who had

fought a duel and supposed himself to be dying, made a humble apology. The

cabal melted away, leaving Washington more secure than ever in the

confidence of men--all the more secure that he did not lower himself by

attempting the same arts against his traducers. When Conway was uttering

his libels behind his back, Washington was openly declaring his judgment of

Conway; and throughout the whole affair, Washington kept his hands clean,

and went his way with a manly disregard of his enemies.

CHAPTER XIX.

MONMOUTH.

The news of the French alliance, and consequent war between France and

England, compelled the English to leave Philadelphia. They had taken their

ease there during the winter, while hardships and Steuben's drilling and

Washington's unflagging zeal had made the American army at Valley Forge

strong and determined. A French fleet might at any time sail up the

Delaware, and with the American army in the rear, Philadelphia would be a

hard place to hold. So General Howe turned his command over to General

Clinton, and went home to England, and General Clinton set about marching

his army across New Jersey to New York.

The moment the troops left Philadelphia, armed men sprang up all over New

Jersey to contest their passage, and Washington set his army in motion,

following close upon the heels of the enemy, who were making for Staten

Island. There was a question whether they should attack the British and

bring on a general engagement, or only follow them and vex them. The

generals on whom Washington most relied, Greene, La Fayette, and Wayne, all

good fighters, urged that it would be a shame to let the enemy leave New

Jersey without a severe punishment. The majority of generals in the

council, however, strongly opposed the plan of giving battle. They said

that the French alliance would undoubtedly put an end to the war at once.

Why, then, risk life and success? The British army, moreover, was strong

and well equipped.

The most strenuous opponent of the fighting plan was General Charles Lee.

When he was left in command of a body of troops at the time of Washington's

crossing the Hudson river more than a year before, his orders were to hold

himself in readiness to join Washington at any time. In his march across

New Jersey, Washington had repeatedly sent for Lee, but Lee had delayed in

an unaccountable manner, and finally was himself surprised by a company of

dragoons, and taken captive. For a year he had been held a prisoner, and

only lately had been released on exchange. He had returned to the army

while the cabal against Washington was going on, and had taken part in it,

for he always felt that he ought to be first and Washington second. He was

second in command now, and his opinion had great weight. He was a trained

soldier, and besides, in his long captivity he had become well acquainted

with General Clinton, and he professed to know well the condition and

temper of the British officers.

Washington thus found himself unsupported by a majority of his officers.

But he had no doubt in his own mind that the policy of attack was a sound

one. All had agreed that it was well to harass the enemy; he therefore

ordered La Fayette with a large division to fall upon the enemy at an

exposed point. He thought it not unlikely that this would bring on a

general action, and he disposed his forces so as to be ready for such an

emergency. He gave the command to La Fayette, because Lee had disapproved

the plan; but after La Fayette had set out, Lee came to Washington and

declared that La Fayette's division was so large as to make it almost an

independent army, and that therefore he would like to change his mind and

take command. It never would do to have his junior in such authority.

Here was a dilemma. Washington could not recall La Fayette. He wished to

make use of Lee; so he gave Lee two additional brigades, sent him forward

to join La Fayette, when, as his senior, he would of course command the

entire force; and at the same time he notified La Fayette of what he had

done, trusting to his sincere devotion to the cause in such an emergency.

When Clinton found that a large force was close upon him, he took up his

position at Monmouth Court House, now Freehold, New Jersey and prepared to

meet the Americans. Washington knew Clinton's movements and sent word to

Lee at once to attack the British, unless there should be very powerful

reasons to the contrary; adding that he himself was bringing up the rest of

the army. Lee had joined La Fayette and was now in command of the advance.

La Fayette was eager to move upon the enemy.

"You do not know British soldiers," said Lee; "we can not stand against

them. We shall certainly be driven back at first, and we must be cautious."

"Perhaps so," said La Fayette. "But we have beaten British soldiers, and we

can do it again."

Soon after, one of Washington's aids appeared for intelligence, and La

Fayette, in despair at Lee's inaction, sent the messenger to urge

Washington to come at once to the front; that he was needed. Washington was

already on the way, before the messenger reached him, when he was met by a

little fifer boy, who cried out:

"They are all coming this way, your honor."

"Who are coming, my little man?" asked General Knox, who was riding by

Washington.

"Why, our boys, your honor, our boys, and the British right after them."

"Impossible!" exclaimed Washington, and he galloped to a hill just ahead.

To his amazement and dismay, he saw his men retreating. He lost not an

instant, but, putting spurs to his horse, dashed forward. After him flew

the officers who had been riding by his side, but they could not overtake

him. His horse, covered with foam, shot down the road over a bridge and up

the hill beyond. The retreating column saw him come. The men knew him; they

stopped; they made way for the splendid-looking man, as he, their leader,

rode headlong into the midst of them. Lee was there, ordering the retreat,

and Washington drew his rein as he came upon him. A moment of terrible

silence--then Washington burst out, his eyes flashing:

[Illustration: WASHINGTON REBUKING LEE, AT MONMOUTH.]

"What, sir, is the meaning of this?"

"Sir, sir," stammered Lee.

"I desire to know, sir, the meaning of this disorder and confusion?"

Lee, enraged now by Washington's towering passion, made an angry reply. He

declared that the whole affair was against his opinion.

"You are a poltroon!" flashed back Washington, with an oath. "Whatever your

opinion may have been, I expected my orders to be obeyed."

"These men can not face the British grenadiers," answered Lee.

"They can do it, and they shall!" exclaimed Washington, galloping off to

survey the ground. Presently he came back; his wrath had gone down in the

presence of the peril to the army. He would waste no strength in cursing

Lee.

"Will you retain the command here, or shall I?" he asked. "If you will, I

will return to the main body and have it formed on the next height."

"It is equal to me where I command," said Lee, sullenly.

"Then remain here," said Washington. "I expect you to take proper means for

checking the enemy."

"Your orders shall be obeyed, and I shall not be the first to leave the

ground," replied Lee, with spirit.

The rest of the day the battle raged, and when night came the enemy had

been obliged to fall back, and Washington determined to follow up his

success in the morning. He directed all the troops to lie on their arms

where they were. He himself lay stretched on the ground beneath a tree, his

cloak wrapped about him. About midnight, an officer came near with a

message, but hesitated, reluctant to waken him.

"Advance, sir, and deliver your message," Washington called out; "I lie

here to think, and not to sleep."

In the morning, Washington prepared to renew the attack, but the British

had slipped away under cover of the darkness, not willing to venture

another battle.

Pursuit, except by some cavalry, was unavailing. The men were exhausted.

The sun beat down fiercely, and the hot sand made walking difficult.

Moreover, the British fleet lay off Sandy Hook, and an advance in that

direction would lead the army nearer to the enemy's re-enforcements.

Accordingly Washington marched his army to Brunswick and thence to the

Hudson river, crossed it, and encamped again near White Plains.

After the battle of Monmouth, Lee wrote an angry letter to Washington and

received a cool one in reply. Lee demanded a court-martial, and Washington

at once ordered it. Three charges were made, and Lee was convicted of

disobedience of orders in not attacking the enemy on the 28th of June,

agreeably to repeated instructions; misbehavior before the enemy on the

same day, by making an unnecessary and disorderly retreat; and disrespect

to the Commander-in-chief. He was suspended from the army for a year, and

he never returned to it. Long after his death, facts were brought to light

which make it seem more than probable that General Lee was so eaten up by

vanity, by jealousy of Washington, and by a love of his profession above a

love of his country, that he was a traitor at heart, and that instead of

being ready to sacrifice himself for his country, he was ready to sacrifice

the country to his own willful ambition and pride.

But his disgrace was the end of all opposition to Washington. From that

time there was no question as to who was at the head of the army and the

people.

(_To be continued_.)

* * * * *

[Illustration: FRESH FROM A DIP IN THE BREAKERS.]

A SONG OF SUMMER.

BY EMMA C. DOWD.

The flowers are fringing the swift meadow brooks,

The songsters are nesting in shadowy nooks;

The birds and the blossoms are thronging to meet us,

With loveliness, perfume, and music they greet us,--

For Summer, the beautiful, reigns!

The bobolink tilts on the tall, nodding clover,

And sings his gay song to us over and over;

The wild roses beckon, with deepening blushes,

And sweet, from the wood, sounds the warble of thrushes,--

For Summer, the beautiful, reigns!

The white lilies sway with the breeze of the morning,

In raiment more fair than a monarch's adorning;

The bright-throated humming-bird, marvel of fleetness,

Comes questing for honey-blooms, draining their sweetness,--

For Summer, the beautiful, reigns!

High up in the elm is the oriole courting,

A new suit of velvet and gold he is sporting;

With gay bits of caroling, tuneful and mellow,

He wooes his fair lady-love, clad in plain yellow,--

For Summer, the beautiful, reigns!

The blossoms and birds bring us, yearly, sweet token

That Nature's glad promises never are broken.

Then sing, happy birdlings, nor ever grow weary!

Laugh on, merry children, 'tis time to be cheery!--

For Summer, the beautiful, reigns!

THE LAST CRUISE OF "THE SLUG."

BY THOMAS EDWIN TURNER.

[Illustration]

Clifford and Jack went down from Brooklyn last summer to spend a few weeks

with Clifford's aunt, in the cozy old homestead on the Shrewsbury River.

Yachting was to be their chief enjoyment. To be sure, they were not

practical yachtsmen; but Jack said he "had read up the subject," and Cliff

"had been out in a yacht once or twice," so they had no fears.

Clifford and Jack were second cousins, and great friends; but Jack had been

in the habit of spending his summers at Saratoga, and accordingly he looked

forward to his present trip with the feeling of an adventurous explorer of

unknown regions. And in order to be prepared for every emergency, he

brought an "outfit" that filled a strong trunk, two valises, a shawl-strap,

and a number of queerly-shaped packages.

[Illustration: CAESAR AND THE PEACOCK. (SEE NEXT PAGE.)]

Clifford, who for several years had spent a part of each summer at his

aunt's, carried a handbag. When Jack asked him where the rest of his things

were, Clifford, with a glance at his cousin's paraphernalia, answered that

he preferred to keep his "outfit" at his aunt's. He was not likely to need

it elsewhere, and he saved expense for extra baggage.

But Caesar was Jack's chief reliance and most weighty responsibility. Caesar

was a dog;--according to Jack, a setter-dog. And as Clifford was unable to

state what was the dog's breed, if it were not a setter, Jack felt that he

had established his point. Moreover, when Caesar, upon their arrival at Mud

Flat, immediately celebrated the occasion by slaughtering eight out of a

brood of eleven Cochin China chicks that were great pets of their hostess,

Jack claimed that his pet's success as a game dog was assured beyond cavil.

Jack was somewhat discouraged on learning that the principal "game" in that

vicinity was the sideling "shedder," or crab, and he acknowledged that in

the pursuit of such plunder he feared even Caesar was not ambitious. But

nothing ever discouraged Caesar, and he had more fun with Miss Goodmaid's

favorite peacock than all the game in New Jersey would have afforded him;

as subsequent events developed the fact that he was mortally afraid of a

gun. This is not strange, considering that he had spent the previous eight

months of his short life in a stable on Henry street, in Brooklyn. Indeed,

his principal amusement during the rest of the boys' visit, was to chase

the gorgeous bird of Juno into the branches of a pear-tree, and stand below

and bark.

Though this was severe on the nervous organism of the peacock, it seemed to

afford unlimited satisfaction to Caesar, and it kept him out of so much

other possible mischief, that he was rarely interfered with on these

occasions.

[Illustration: JACK EXHIBITS HIS "OUTFIT."]

As soon as Jack could have his luggage taken to the house and put in the

room the boys were to occupy, he hastened to unpack his outfit before the

wondering eyes of Clifford. A handsome double-barreled shot-gun, Clifford

suggested, might be used in trying to kill his aunt's three remaining

chickens; a delicate split-bamboo fishing-rod might come in well for

catching live bait, if they were not in a hurry; and an extensive

collection of artificial flies would perhaps serve to frighten away the

mosquitoes. A large horse-pistol Cliff thought would be "just the thing for

picking off bull-frogs in the marshes"; but he was forced to tell his

cousin that he feared his shooting-coat, his fine yachting suit, his

knickerbockers for mountain climbing, and his tennis flannels, would

scarcely be needed in that vicinity.

Poor Jack looked ruefully at his expensive "outfit," which Clifford seemed

to prize so little, and then he asked his cousin to tell him what

specialties of costume and accouterments were best fitted to the Shrewsbury

region. Without answering in words, Clifford simply pointed to a closet,

through the open door of which could be seen, hanging from hooks, a

broad-brimmed straw hat, a blue flannel shirt, a stout pair of trousers,

and a lanyard. A large jack-knife lay upon the shelf, and a substantial

pair of high shoes stood firmly on the floor.

Little more was said concerning the subject that evening, but Jack went to

bed in a very sober frame of mind. In the morning, he put all his fancy

toggery back into his trunk, selecting only such useful garments as

Clifford suggested, and took an early opportunity of purchasing a hat which

was an exact counterpart of the one worn by his cousin.

Indeed, it was dangerous to mention the word "outfit" in Jack's hearing for

a long time.

Clifford's aunt, Miss Goodmaid, was asked to tell them where they could

hire a sail-boat for their proposed trip; she had heard that Johnny

Peltsman, the carriage-maker's son, in Mud Flat, had such a boat, and to

him the boys went to "negotiate."

Johnny Peltsman _did_ have a boat, which he said he would let, if he "could

get his price." The Slug, he admitted, looked a trifle heavy, and, while

under "proper conditions" she would go fast, Johnny confessed that she

couldn't sail very close to the wind. Upon payment of five dollars, he

said, the boys might have the boat for two weeks.

"Done!" cried Jack, eagerly. "I dare say she will suit us perfectly. Some

people may like boats that sail close to the wind. But a boat to suit me

must be able to slide away from the wind, and not stay crawling around

close to it!"

Clifford's face was a study as his partner thus aired his nautical

opinions, while Johnny Peltsman greeted the remark with open-mouthed

astonishment; and when Jack concluded his observations, Johnny said

earnestly:

"By the way, young friend, it is understood, of course, that if you sink or

wreck the Slug, you must pay damages."

"Certainly, if we lose the yacht, you shall be paid for it," Jack answered,

feeling rather indignant at the suggestion.

[Illustration: THE BOYS ENGAGE THE "SLUG."]

Being directed to the place where the Slug lay, the boys hastened away to

take immediate possession. Johnny stood looking after them until they were

out of sight. Then turning to enter his shop, he soliloquized:

"Well, that beats all! The idea of hiring a boat without seeing it, and not

caring to have it to sail close to the wind! I suppose, of course, those

chaps can swim." And with an ominous shake of the head, Johnny resumed his

carriage-making.

Our heroes found their prize lying in a little cove just above the bridge.

The Slug was a flat-bottomed center-board boat, fifteen feet long, five

feet across the stern, and narrowing gradually to a point at the bows. A

more clumsy sail-boat was never seen. But Jack only noticed the two large

lockers, and with unbounded satisfaction, remarked to his cousin:

"We can stow away a big stock of provisions in those boxes, Cliff."

It was Friday, so the two boys decided to give the "yacht" a short

trial-trip down to the Highlands and back. In that way they would become

familiar with the boat, and on Monday morning would be ready to start on a

week's cruise. It chanced that a flood-tide was just beginning when the

lads shoved the Slug well out into the river, while the wind was blowing a

brisk gale straight down-stream, the very direction in which the boys

wished to go. Clifford was enough of a sailor to step the little mast and

properly set the leg-of-mutton sail for a breeze directly astern. With a

strong wind behind her, and only a weak tide opposing, it was not

surprising that the Slug made a progress quite satisfactory to the two

amateur yachtsmen. As the tide increased in force, however, the boat went

slower and slower, and it was six o'clock when the Highlands "hove in

sight," as Jack said--having learned that and other nautical terms from his

story-books. On finding how late it was, Clifford remarked:

"We'd better be making for home."

The boys managed to put the Slug about, and very soon Jack ascertained that

there were times when it was an advantage to have a boat able to sail close

to the wind; for, as the breeze still blew down-stream, Clifford found it

simply impossible to beat up the river in the Slug. The truth was, the only

"proper conditions" under which Johnny Peltsman's boat would sail at all

were those of going straight before the wind!

[Illustration: "'HOW CAN YOU SLEEP?' ASKED CLIFFORD."]

Clifford told Jack that they must "row the old tub back to Mud Flat," and

both boys pluckily bent to the work. It was hard work, too. The oars were

long and heavy, the boat was as unwieldy as a raft of logs, and at length

Jack exclaimed:

"It seems to me, Cliff, that the scenery along this river is very

monotonous. We passed just such banks and houses as those over there, ten

minutes ago."

Clifford threw a hurried glance shoreward, looked down at the water, and

immediately pulled his oar into the boat, saying:

"The fates are against us, Jack. In spite of our pulling and tugging, we

are actually drifting down-stream. The tide has turned; it's dead against

us, and so is the wind. It would take a Cunarder to tow this miserable scow

back to Mud Flat, now."

"What's to be done?" asked Jack, suddenly realizing that they might be

swept out into the bay, where the whitecaps gave evidence that a very high

sea would be encountered.

"Neither of us can swim very far," said Clifford. "Our only chance is to

land on that little island, yonder. Luckily we're drifting straight toward

it."

Favored by the current, the boat was carried close to the sand-bar of the

island, and by a vigorous use of the oars they were able to bring their

craft safely to land.

"We'll have to stay here until slack water," said Clifford, "and then

perhaps we can row across to the shore. The next slack will be about

midnight, so we'd better camp here and take advantage of to-morrow

morning's slack. Then we can cross to the Highlands Landing, a short

distance below here, and go back by steamboat. The Seabird will tow the

Slug home for us."

"All right; I'll stand by you," laconically answered Jack.

They at once set about gathering grass and sea-weed with which to make a

bed, intending to use the Slug's sail for a covering. After a couch had

been arranged to their satisfaction, the two friends strolled around their

domain, which they found to be a little larger than a city lot. During

their walk, the boys caught four or five soft-shell crabs, which the

epicurean Jack prudently stowed away in one of the lockers.

The mosquitoes had troubled the lads greatly from the moment they landed on

the sand-island; and, as they had no matches and could not make a "smudge,"

they soon decided to "turn in" as Jack technically stated. But then the

vicious insects attacked their victims in clouds, until the boys were

forced to cover their heads and hands completely with the sail; and in that

uncomfortable condition they finally fell asleep.

It seemed but a short time to Clifford before he became conscious of a

stinging, smarting sensation on his face that was almost unbearable, and he

awoke to find that he was literally covered with swarms of the poisonous

little pests, while Jack, snugly rolled up in the sailcloth of which he had

taken complete possession in his sleep, snored loudly.

Slapping, brushing, and shaking off his tormentors, Clifford punched his

companion and exclaimed:

"How can you sleep through this?"

"Oh, _I'm_ all right," answered Jack, in smothered tones.

"Well, _I'm_ not!" growled Clifford, as he sprang to his feet and proceeded

to spend the few hours until daybreak in battle with his small but

ferocious enemies.

At sunrise, the castaways refreshed themselves with a prolonged bath; and

then, hungry as bears, they impatiently waited for slack water, when they

sprang into the Slug, and by long and hard work, at last reached the

mainland not far above the Highlands.

[Illustration: "THE TWO HUNGRY LADS WERE SOON DISPATCHING THEIR

BREAKFAST."]

An investigation of their finances showed the boys that they had, together,

exactly sixty-five cents. With that sum, therefore, they had to provide a

breakfast, pay steamboat fares home, and meet unknown incidental expenses.

A little shop was soon found where coffee, butter, and a roll would be

furnished to each boy for thirty cents. Their fares home would amount to

twenty cents; and the boys decided to take the chance that fifteen cents

would prove adequate to the unforeseen. Remembering the soft-shell crabs in

the locker, Clifford induced the good-natured landlady to cook them

"without extra charge;" and soon the two hungry lads were dispatching their

thirty-cent breakfast, which included fried potatoes, also "donated" by the

kind-hearted hostess.

At ten o'clock on that eventful Saturday morning, the young navigators

re-embarked and dropped down with the tide to the steamboat landing at the

Highlands.

The boys soon saw the Seabird plowing her way to the landing. When she had

landed, the Slug was quickly made fast to the stern of the larger boat, and

ere long the steamer was bearing them homeward.

Seated well forward on the upper deck, the boys were congratulating

themselves on being at last free from all anxiety, when suddenly they were

startled by loud cries from the stern of the steamboat:

"Hi! Hi! You lads who own the little boat astern! Hurry! quick! quick!

She's sinking! she's sinking!"

Running to the spot whence came those warning shouts; Clifford and Jack

looked down at the Slug and saw that the small center-board had been thrown

entirely out of its trunk by the force of the water which had been churned

to a white foam under the huge paddle-wheels of the Seabird,--and a broad

stream pouring through this opening into their "yacht" threatened each

moment to swamp it.

"Bother that yacht! She's going to haunt us all our lives!" cried Jack, in

dismay; but Clifford, taking in the state of affairs at a glance, ran to

the lower deck, and with one stroke of his pocket-knife cut the Slug's

painter, and then the two boys silently and sadly watched their boat drop

far behind in the fan-shaped wake of the larger vessel.

"She may be picked up by some one alongshore, but, more likely, she'll go

to the bottom," thoughtfully remarked Clifford.

"I don't believe it," said Jack; "that yacht will never sink! She will be

turning up against us all through life, bringing trouble and disgrace."

In due time, the boys arrived at the Goodmaid homestead, where they

received a warm welcome from Clifford's aunt, who had almost begun to fear

that her young guests were at the bottom of the Shrewsbury.

On Monday morning, bright and early, the two boys started down the left

bank of the river to find their boat. They found it after an hour's walk.

It had been hauled out upon the beach. The Slug had been sighted and

recovered by a farmer living alongshore. After paying two dollars as

salvage, Jack asked the farmer concerning the best way of getting the boat

home.

"There are three ways," answered the man, thoughtfully. "The first is to

wait till there's a hurricane blowing straight up the river, when perhaps

you can sail up. The second is to hire me to row her up. And the third is

to let me put the boat on my lumber wagon, and haul it up to Mud Flat."

"Of the three, which would be best?" persisted Jack.

"Well," replied the farmer, "you may have to wait weeks for the hurricane;

I will haul the boat for two dollars; and I will undertake to row it up the

river--(though, understand, I don't say how long I shall be about it)--but

row her up I will, somehow, and charge you only two hundred and fifty

dollars for the job. And that's very cheap, I can tell you, for I know that

boat!"

It is hardly necessary to say that the boys decided that the Slug should go

home on wheels, provided they might ride, too, without increase of pay. By

the use of rollers, an inclined plane and levers, the boat was safely

hoisted upon the wagon. The farmer occupied the bow, and Jack and Cliff

each sat on a thwart.

And now, for the first time in her history, the Slug was under complete

control. The whip cracked, the horses strained at their collars, the wheels

rolled, and away went Jack's "yacht," trundling homeward. The road led past

the Goodmaid farm, and over the long bridge crossing the Shrewsbury. As

they neared the farm, the boys raised a shout, and Caesar, Jack's mongrel

and mischievous dog, leaving the peacock for a moment, came bounding out to

meet them.

True to his nature, he at once began a series of noisy gambols about the

farmer's young and high-spirited horses. But soon wearying of that harmless

jumping at the wagon, the dog suddenly ran under the forward wheels, and

sprang at the long fetlocks of the "near" horse.

Like a flash, the team made a wild plunge, and dashed down the road. The

wagon was jerked from beneath the Slug, and the boat and its passengers

fell heavily to the ground. The anchor, dropping between the wagon-box and

a wheel, became firmly fixed; while the line to which the anchor was

attached, being good manilla rope, was uncoiled and dragged after the

horses with great rapidity.

Fortunately, the boys and the driver had time to jump out of the "yacht"

before the anchor-rope was all "paid out," and so, with the exception of a

bad shaking-up and a few bruises, they suffered no injury from their

unceremonious disembarking. But the sudden fall had "broken the backbone"

of the Slug, as Jack expressed it; and, as if that were not enough, the

poor boat, as it hung by the painter, was swung, bumped, knocked, and

dragged along, until it was literally reduced to fragments. There was

scarcely a residence in all Mud Flat that did not have, long afterward,

some satisfactory reminder of the last cruise of the Slug.

But all agreed that the old boat had one virtue--it made famous firewood!

[Illustration: THE GREAT SPRING-BOARD ACT.--BY THE ENTIRE COMPANY.]

WONDERS OF THE ALPHABET.

BY HENRY ECKFORD

FIFTH PAPER

In tracing back our letters, we now have reached Chalkis, where the

Phoenicians under Kadmus taught the Greeks their letters. A funny thing

occurred to the wise men who ferreted out all these facts. They could read

Greek, and they could read Hebrew, and the strange likeness between many of

the names for the letters in the two languages made it certain that in some

way they were related or connected. But what meant those letters on rocks,

metal vases, and earthenware jars that we now call Phoenician? Single

letters looked like Greek letters distorted; but the words would not read

as Greek. Nor would they read as Hebrew, although the characters appeared

to have some connection with Hebrew. Greek is written like our writing,

from left to right; but Hebrew, Arabic, and Persian are written from right

to left. So, in those languages a book begins where our books end. It was

found, too, that the Hebrew writing now in use is very different externally

from that used by David and Solomon, although the names and general shape

of the letters are the same. Have you ever seen a Hebrew Bible? The

alphabet in which the Old Testament was originally written looked very

different from that which the Jews now use in their Bibles; it was much

nearer the Phoenician in appearance.

For a long time it never dawned on men's minds that perhaps the Phoenician

way of writing, from right to left, was not followed by the Greeks; but at

last they remembered that in very early times the lines of Greek writing

were made to read alternately from right to left and from left to right.

Such inscriptions were called _boustrephedon_ ("turning like oxen in

plowing"), because the letters had to be read as the oxen move from furrow

to furrow in the field that they plow, first one way, then the other. That

gave the needed clew.

After all, if we do not connect letters one to the other, as in running

handwriting, does it make much difference whether we set the separate

letters down in a sequence which begins at the right and ends at the left,

or in one that begins at the left and ends at the right? Some nations, like

the Chinese and Tartars, find it convenient to write signs _under_ each

other. The Egyptians used to write in at least three several directions,

namely, downwards, from right to left, and from left to right. Generally

one can tell how to read hieroglyphs in Egyptian and Mexican manuscripts by

noting the direction of the faces of animals and persons pictured, and then

reading in the opposite direction. Sometimes Egyptian hieroglyphs were

engraved one upon the other, like a monogram.

Well, putting some or all of these facts together, it suddenly flashed on

some one that the oldest Greek letters might be nothing more or less than

the Phoenician letters turned the other way. And when they came to examine

the very oldest Greek inscriptions to be found, they discovered that this

was the main difference between the two! The Greeks had borrowed the

Phoenician letters and merely added some new characters to express sounds

peculiar to their own tongue and neglected others that were of no service.

It was this alphabet that the Greek-Phoenicians brought to Italy. When,

centuries later, Latins and Sabines and Etruscans and Oscans, banded

together and formed the great city of Rome, it was this alphabet they

inherited from their forefathers. Several of the letters which the

Etruscans thought necessary to express sounds in their language, were

dropped before the Romans came to power and produced their great poets and

essayists.

So, now you know how the alphabet came to you, which the Irish monks taught

our heathen forefathers. It came through the Latins from the people of

Boeotia, or Greeks, who learned it from the Phoenicians.

But that great mercantile people, the Phoenicians, also left to the nations

near their old home in Palestine, the same precious gift of an alphabet.

Very old inscriptions in Hebrew, lately found, are seen to be written in

almost the same alphabet as the Phoenician. Perhaps you are beginning to

wonder how many peoples there are who owe their letters to that old

sea-folk who were the traders, pirates, and buccaneers of the

Mediterranean! There is the Hebrew, which people have called the alphabet

of God, because the Holy Scriptures were written in it, and which was also

used by magicians for their amulets and talismans; there is the Greek, in

which the epics of Homer, the long poems of Hesiod, and the rhapsodies of

Pindar were taken down; there is the Latin, in which all the wisdom of the

ancients reached us; and there are all the differing alphabets, printed

characters, and script handwritings of Europe and America! In fact, I could

not tell you here, so numerous are they, the names of all the languages in

Asia, Africa, Europe, and America, that were and are written in some

alphabet, which traces its descent from the twenty-two Phoenician letters.

The connection between Greek and Phoenician is much easier to believe than

that Arabic, a sentence of which you see here represented, should be also a

writing derived from the Phoenician. Arabic letters are used by so large a

portion of the inhabitants of the earth that it stands second among the

great national, or rather, the great religious alphabets of the world. Some

of you know, I suppose, that Mohammed was a very wise and imaginative Arab

of an important though poor tribe of Arabia Felix. He was a great poet and

statesman; he had visions and called himself the Prophet of God. He wrote

the Koran, which is used by an immense multitude of men as their only

law-book and Bible. The dialect which he and his clan used became, through

the spread of his doctrines, the standard, first for all Arabia, and then

for all the enormous countries a hundred times larger than Arabia which his

disciples and their followers won by force of arms.

[Illustration: This Arabic sentence is a famous inscription upon the

colonnade of one of the great mosques at Jerusalem. The mosque is known as

the "Dome of the Rock," and it is thought to stand upon a portion of the

site of the great Jewish Temple. This inscription is placed near the great

southern door of the mosque. It is in one continuous line, however, instead

of two as represented in this fac-simile. It reads from right to left, and

is thus translated: "This dome was built by the servant of God, Abd

[allah-el-Imam-al-Mamun, E] mir of the Faithful, in the year seventy-two.

May God be well pleased, and be satisfied with him. Amen."]

Of course the alphabet he used did not spring up suddenly. It was handed

down from the early times of the Phoenicians, and gradually became so

changed in most of the letters that you would hardly believe they had ever

been the same as the Phoenician letters. Writers of it were so careless, or

so proud of being able to read and write when the mass of their neighbors

were ignorant, that, neglectfully or intentionally, they allowed many

letters to become almost like one another. In the Arabic, Turkish, and

Persian languages, it is hard to tell a number of the letters apart. In

order to distinguish them, later writers devised a set of dots, like the

dot over our small i. The same difficulty occurred among the Hebrews, whose

wise men seemed to enjoy making writing hard to write and to read. Another

reason why Arabic is hard to make out is because many of the letters change

their forms according as they stand alone (unconnected), or stand at the

beginning of a word (initial), or in between two other letters (connected)

or at the end of a word (final). Think of having to distinguish the same

letter under four different forms! What a bother to the children of the

Arabs, Turks, and Persians as they sit tailor-fashion, or kneel patiently

on the floor, their shoes left outside the threshold, while the

school-master flourishes his rod over their puzzled noddles, or raps the

soles of their tired little feet!

Now Arabic letters and Hebrew, too, if you try to trace them back to

Phoenician, are found to have passed through the hands of a people who

occupied the high lands of Asia Minor, where the two great "rivers of

Babylon," the Euphrates and the Tigris, begin to run their course. This

land was called Aram and the ancient language spoken there, the Aramaic.

Between Phoenician and Aramaic the connection is close. The Aramaic took

the place of the Phoenician language, when the Phoenicians were edged out

of Palestine westward over the Mediterranean. So we see that Arabic, which

looks so strange and is so elegant and fantastic when embroidered on

banners or traced on tiles or written on the beautiful mulberry-leaf paper

of the Orient, really uses, in the main, the same alphabet that looks so

plain and simple on the page you are reading!

[Illustration: PERSIAN SENTENCE.]

Both Phoenician and Aramaic were in all probability spoken and written in

Palestine and Aram. It was in Aramaic, too, that the words of Christ and

his apostles were spoken; and a few of the actual words are still retained

in the New Testament, for example "Talitha cumi," meaning "Maid, arise!" It

was probably Aramaic that prevailed also in the great capitals of

Mesopotamia, while the rich and haughty kings of Babylonia and Assyria were

using on their stone and plaster images and in their queer books of

inscribed and baked brick, the writing that is called "cuneiform." It is so

called because the letters appear to to be formed of little _cunei_,

wedges, or nails. "Arrow-headed writing" is another name for it. Look well

at this curious writing made by engraving on brick. Several different

languages have been written in it.

[Illustration: SPECIMEN OF CUNEIFORM WRITING.]

A DIFFERENCE OF OPINION.

BY LILIAN DYNEVOR RICE

I.

Six sturdy lads lay curled up in their beds

When the Birthday of Freedom had faded to night,

With burns on their fingers and pains in their heads,

And scarred like the heroes of many a fight.

But, strange to relate, as all sleepless they lay,

Though ten from the steeple had chimed loud and clear,

They sighed: "What a perfectly glorious day!

Too bad it can only come once in the year!"

II.

The six patient mothers, who loved the six boys,

Were resting at last, now the daylight was done;

For, with the wild racket and riot and noise,

No peace had been theirs since the dawn of the sun.

And they sighed, as they said in the weariest way

(And full cause had they for their feelings, I fear):

"This has been _such_ a terrible, ear-splitting day!

How lucky it only comes once in the year!"

[Illustration: THE LEOPARD BROUGHT TO BAY BY WILD DOGS.]

WILD HUNTERS.

BY JOHN R. CORYELL.

Everybody knows the old story of the father who taught his sons to be

united by showing them a bundle of sticks. Taken together, the sticks could

not be broken; but taken singly, they were snapped in two very quickly.

The wild dogs of South Africa, like the bundle of sticks, furnish an

example of the value of unity. A single wild dog is not very formidable,

but a pack of wild dogs is the dread of every living creature in the part

of Africa where they dwell; and more persevering, savage, and relentless

hunters do not exist.

The wild dog has keen scent, quick intelligence, great powers of endurance,

and great speed; so that, however swift may be the animal pursued, it has

cause to fear this tireless hunter. Indeed, the wild dog never seems to

take into consideration the size, strength, or agility of its game. Even

the lion, it is said, has learned to dread those small hunters, which seem

to have no fear of death, but rush with fierce courage to attack the mighty

monarch himself, should he be so unlucky as to become the object of their

pursuit.

One traveler tells of having witnessed the pursuit and destruction of a

large leopard by a pack of wild dogs. Whether or not the dogs had set out

with the intention of capturing the leopard, he could not tell. He saw them

start up the great cat in a low jungle. The leopard made no effort at first

to fight off its assailants; but, with a series of prodigious springs,

sought shelter in the only refuge the plain afforded--a tree which had

partially fallen.

There the hunted beast stood, snarling and growling in a manner that would

have frightened off any ordinary foe. The savage dogs, however, never

hesitated a moment, but with agile leaps ran up the sloping trunk, and gave

instant battle to their furious game. One after another, the dogs were

hurled back, each stroke of the terrible paw making one foe the less. Yet

they continued to throw themselves against the enraged creature, until,

wearied by the contest and wounded in fifty places, it fell from the tree;

when, still struggling, it was quickly torn to pieces.

It must not be supposed, however, that the wild dog usually prefers as

formidable game as the leopard. A sheep-fold is always an attraction too

great for the wild dog to pass.

And now, after calling this wild hunter a dog, I shall have to say that it

is not a dog at all, but is only a sort of cousin to the dog, and really a

nearer relative of the hyena, though it so resembles both animals as to

have gained the name of hyena-dog. Its scientific name is _Lycaon

venaticus_; and besides the two common names already mentioned, it has half

a dozen more.

Being neither dog nor hyena, and yet akin to both, it is one of those

strange forms of the animal creation which naturalists call "links." It has

four toes, like the hyena, while it has teeth like the dog's.

Some attempts have been made to tame it, so as to gain the use of its

wonderful powers of hunting; but none of these efforts have yet been

successful, because of the suspicious nature of the animal. It seems to

feel that every offer of kindness or familiarity is a menace to its

liberty.

THE THEORETIC TURTLE.

BY A. R. W.

[Illustration]

The theoretic turtle started out to see the toad;

He came to a stop at a liberty-pole in the middle of the road.

"Now how, in the name of the spouting whale," the indignant turtle cried,

"Can I climb this perpendicular cliff, and get on the other side?

If I only could make a big balloon, I'd lightly over it fly;

Or a very long ladder might reach the top, though it does look fearfully

high.

If a beaver were in my place, he'd gnaw a passage through with his teeth;

I can't do that, but I can dig a tunnel and pass beneath."

He was digging his tunnel, with might and main, when a dog looked down at

the hole.

"The easiest way, my friend," said he, "is to walk around the pole."

NAN'S REVOLT.

BY ROSE LATTIMORE ALLING.

CHAPTER I

There was a gentlemanly raising of hats and a womanly fluttering of skirts

at the Ferrises' door. The hats were borne down the dark avenue, and could

be seen, occasionally, swinging briskly along under the light of successive

lampposts. They were very stylish hats.

The skirts made a soft scurrying sound as they rustled upstairs, and along

the dim hall, disappearing into the rooms of their owners. They were very

dainty skirts.

Nan closed her door, turned up the gas, stood a moment pouting at herself

in the glass, pulled the wilted roses from her belt with an impatient jerk,

tossed her pretty evening dress across a chair, exchanged her boots for a

pair of slippers, and stole noiselessly into Evelyn's room to talk over the

party with that dear sister and Cathy, who was staying with them, as a

guest.

She found those two persons waiting for her, while they straightened out

the fingers of their long gloves.

"Well, girls," began Nan, seating herself lazily upon the middle of the

bed, "there is just one solitary comfort left after an utterly stupid

evening like this: you can express your feelings to your dearest friends,

and here I am to express!"

"Go on, then," sighed her sister, ruefully examining a stain on her fan;

"but don't speak too loud or you will waken the household."

"Oh, you needn't be afraid, Evelyn; I'm not in one of my fire-cracker

moods. No, I'm cool; I have the calmness of stern resolve; I speak from

that tranquil height which lies beyond emotion!" declaimed Nan, pulling out

the hairpins from her artistic coils.

"What notion have you in your busy head now? Hasten to divulge, for it is

very late," suggested Cathy.

"Late! who cares? I shall save years of sleep by wasting this midnight's

gas!" and Nan showed a gleam of fire in her eye as she gave the pillow a

vindictive thump.

"Well," yawned Cathy, "proceed at once"; and forthwith the audience curled

itself up on the lounge, regarding the speaker with expectant amusement,

while she, after finishing off an intricate pattern in hairpins, thus

began:

"Ahem--ladies--the subject of society in general and parties in particular,

ladies and gentlemen," waving her hand toward sundry photographs standing

about on Evelyn's writing-desk, "has been under consideration for some

time. _Ergo_, _I_ don't go to another one! So there! That's settled. From

this time forth I shall proceed to enjoy life in a rational way."

With this conclusion to her rapid speech, she scattered her design over the

bedspread with one destructive finger, and flashed upon her hearers two

bright, snapping eyes, showing that she was in earnest, despite her

nonsense.

Cathy gasped, while Evelyn exclaimed:

"Why, Nan, what happened? Didn't you have a gay time?"

This remark set Nan off, like a match to powder.

"_Gay?_ Oh, bewilderingly, intensely gay! Yes, it was just that--'gay,' and

nothing more. The party was all right, indeed better than most, from a high

moral point of view, for my hair staid in curl and my gloves didn't burst;

I danced with the most stylish goose in the room; I ate an ice with

conceited Tom Lefferts in the conservatory; I opened and shut my fan and

smiled and raised my eyebrows the requisite number of times to produce the

effect of having a delightful time! Oh--

'I would not pass another such an eve,

Though 't were to buy a world of happy days.'"

This vivid speech was uttered in irony so cold that it would have been

quite thrilling if Nan hadn't given the pillow another vehement poke in the

middle, which made its four corners swell up in stiff remonstrance.

"Goodness!" exclaimed Cathy, with a laugh, "what in the world are you going

to do about it, Nan? There is a full supply of nonsense in the world, I

admit, but we can't reform the feature of the time, and we must have some

fun----"

"_Fun!_" interrupted Nan hotly. "Who is objecting to fun? Who loves fun

better than I? But who has fun at these shows? Did you have a really happy

time to-night, Cathy? Own up now. You know that, when the flutter is over,

you can't remember one single thing worth remembering. Does it pay?"

"But we can't help it. What are you going to do--turn blue-stocking or

prig, Nannie, love?" mildly inquired Evelyn.

"'Prig'--'blue-stocking'--no, I hate the very words," said Nan, adding,

"I'm seeking just what you are; the only difference is, _I'm_ going to get

it and you are not. But go on, sweet children, go on giving your hair extra

frizzlings, go on smiling divinely at vapid nothings, and eating numberless

plates of cream--it is a noble future to contemplate! But let me tell you,

deluded creatures, that you will drag home just so many times neither

benefited nor amused, and the last state of all such will be worse than the

first. Let us weep!"

[Illustration: THE GIRLS DISCUSS THE PARTY.]

And now the poor pillow went flying off upon the floor, while Nan laughed

at her own peroration.

Her spell-bound hearers gave two gigantic sighs, while Cathy seized a

cologne-bottle to restore Evelyn, who reclined tragically upon the lounge,

feigning to be completely overcome.

After they had succeeded in controlling their emotions, Cathy said in a

wailing voice:

"Yes, Nan, I have a realizing sense that you are more than half right; for

I do believe that, when, after such an evening, I survey my giddy self in

the glass, I sigh more often than I smile."

Nan, who was venting her yet unspent spite in braiding her hair into tight

little curls, gave her head an emphatic nod and declared her fell intention

of finding some way out of her slough of despond. Then as the last braid

dwindled to three hairs, she descended from the platform, and thus

concluded:

"Ladies and gentlemen, thanking you for your kind attention, I beg leave to

announce that there will be another solemn conclave in regard to this vital

subject, on the side veranda, to-morrow morning at ten o'clock. Good-night,

you dear old things, you are nearly asleep, and I've wearied you more than

did that wretched party. Why, no! Cathy's eyes are wide open! Mercy on us,

Cathy thinks she's thinking! Go on, dear, it wont harm you at all."

[Illustration: "NAN LAY IN THE HAMMOCK THINKING."]

With this parting fling, she hopped to the door, holding in her hand one

slipper, which she waved tragically, exclaiming, "Farewell, base world!"

and was gone.

"What a girl she is!" said Evelyn, as the audience unbent itself. "She

didn't give me a chance to agree with or to combat her theories; but, do

you know, I am tired of it, too, just as much as Nan is, only she has vigor

enough to rebel at the thraldom of her bright, natural self, while I keep

on and on from mere inertia."

"Well," said Cathy, slowly winding her watch, "I _was_ thinking, as Nan

said--but it is one o'clock, and I shall not say another word until

to-morrow."