Produced by Annie R. McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]
Copyright, 1896, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.
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PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, JUNE 16, 1896. FIVE CENTS A COPY.
VOL. XVII.--NO. 868. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.
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[Illustration]
A VIRGINIA CAVALIER.
BY MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL.
CHAPTER I.
"_Nature made Washington great; but he made himself virtuous._"
The sun shines not upon a lovelier land than midland Virginia. Great
rivers roll seaward through rich woodlands and laughing corn-fields and
fair meadow-lands. Afar off the misty lines of blue hills shine faintly
against the deeper blue of the sky. The atmosphere is singularly clear,
and the air wholesome and refreshing.
Never was it more beautiful than on an afternoon in late October of
1746. The Indian-summer was at hand--that golden time when Nature utters
a solemn "Hush!" to the season, and calls back the summer-time for a
little while. The scene was full of peace--the broad and placid
Rappahannock shimmering in the sun, its bosom unvexed except by the
sails of an occasional grain-laden vessel making its way quietly and
slowly down the blue river. The quiet homesteads lay basking in the
fervid sun, while woods and streams and fields were full of those soft
harmonious country sounds which make a kind of musical silence.
A mile or two back from the river ran the King's highway--a good road
for those days, and showing signs of much travel. It passed at one point
through a natural clearing, on the top of which grew a few melancholy
pines. The road came out of the dense woods on one side of this open
space, and disappeared in the woods on the other side.
On this October afternoon, about three o'clock, a boy with a gun on his
shoulder and a dog at his heels came noiselessly out of the woods and
walked to the top of the knoll. The day was peculiarly still, but only
the quickest ear could have detected the faint sound the boy made, as
with a quick and graceful step he marched up the hill--for George
Washington was a natural woodsman from his young boyhood, and he had
early learned how to make his way through forest and field without so
much as alarming the partridge on her nest. No art or craft of the
woods, whether of white man or Indian, was unknown to him; and he
understood Nature, the mighty mother, in all her civilized and
uncivilized moods.
A full game-bag on his back showed what his employment had been, but now
he gave himself over to the rare but delicious idleness which
occasionally overtakes everybody who tramps long through the woods. He
sat down and took off his cap, revealing his handsome blond head. The
dog, a beautiful, long-eared setter, laid his nose confidentially upon
his master's knee, and blinked solemnly with his large tawny eyes into
his master's blue ones. The boy's eyes were remarkable--a light but
beautiful blue, and softening a face that even in boyhood was full of
resolution, and even of sternness. His figure was as near perfection as
the human form could be--tall, athletic, clean of limb and deep of
chest, singularly graceful, and developed, as the wise old Greeks
developed their bodies, by manly exercises and healthful brain-work and
the cleanest and most wholesome living. Neither the face nor the figure
could belong to a milksop. The indications of strong passions, of fierce
loves and hates and resentments, were plain enough. But stronger even
than these was that noble expression which a purity of soul and a
commanding will always write upon the human countenance. This boy was a
gentleman at heart and in soul--not because he had no temptation to be
otherwise, but because he chose to be a gentleman. He sat in silence for
half an hour, the dog resting against him, the two communing together as
only a boy and a dog can. The sun shone, the wind scarcely ruffled a
dying leaf. A crow circled around in the blue air, uttering a caw that
was lost in the immensity of the heavens. The silence seemed to grow
deeper every moment, when, with a quick movement, George laid his ear to
the ground. To an unpractised ear there was not the slightest break in
the quiet, but to the boy's trained hearing something was approaching
along the highway which induced him to sit still awhile longer. It was
some time in coming, for the heavy coaches in those days hung upon wide
leather straps, and with broad-tired wheels made much commotion as they
rolled along, to say nothing of the steady beat of the horses' hoofs
upon the hard road. George's eyes were as quick as his ears, but he
caught nothing of the approaching travellers until the cavalcade flashed
suddenly into the sun, and with its roar and rattle seemed to spring out
of the ground.
First came four sturdy negro outriders, in a gorgeous livery of green
and gold, and mounted upon stout bay horses, well adapted for hard
travel. Then came a magnificent travelling coach, crest-emblazoned,
which would not have discredited the King's levee. It was drawn by four
superb roans, exactly matched in form, color, and action. They took the
road as if they had just warmed up to their work; but from the dust on
the whole cavalcade it was plain they had travelled far that day. With
heads well in the air, the horses threw their legs together with a style
and at a gait that showed them to be of the best-blood in the horse
kingdom. A black postilion in green and gold rode the off horse of the
leaders, while a black coachman handled the reins. On the box, next the
coachman, sat a white man, evidently a servant out of livery. One glance
told that he was an old soldier. He had at his side one of the huge
holsters of the day, in which he carried a pair of long horse-pistols;
and a stout wooden box, upon which he rested his feet, showed that the
party had means of defence had it been attacked.
George was so stunned with admiration at the splendor of the equipage
that he scarcely glanced at the interior of the coach until the sunlight
flashed upon something that fairly dazzled him. It was a diamond-hilted
dress-sword, worn by a gentleman of about fifty, who sat alone upon the
back seat. The gorgeous sword-hilt was the only thing about him that
shone or glinted, for his brown travelling suit was as studiously simple
as his equipage was splendid. He wore plain silver buckles at his knees
and upon his handsome high-arched feet, and his hair, streaked with
gray, was without powder, and tied into a club with a black ribbon.
One glance at his face fixed George's attention. It was pale and
somewhat angular, unlike the type of florid, high-colored Virginia
squires with which George was familiar. He had been handsome in his
youth, and was still handsome, with a stately, grave beauty; but even a
boy could see that this man had had but little joy in life.
From the moment that George's eyes fell upon this gentleman he looked
upon nothing else. Neither the great coach nor the superb horses had any
power to attract his gaze, although never in all his short life had he
seen anything so splendid. His mother had a coach, and so had most of
the people roundabout, but all had a common air of having once been
handsome, and of having reached the comfortable, shabby-genteel stage.
And many persons drove four horses to these great lumbering vehicles,
but all four would not be worth one of the gallant roans that trotted
along the road so gayly.
It was out of sight in a few minutes, and in a few minutes more it was
out of hearing; but in that short time George, who was quick-witted, had
shrewdly guessed the name and rank of the gentleman with the plain
clothes and the diamond-hilted sword. It was the great Earl of
Fairfax--the soldier, the wit, the rich nobleman--who for some
mysterious reason had chosen to come to this new land and to build a
lodge in the wilderness. The boy had often heard his mother, Madam
Washington, speak of Earl Fairfax. Meeting with him was one of the
events of that great journey she had made in her girlhood to England,
where for a time she lived in the house of her brother, Joseph Ball, at
Cookham, in Berkshire, who had left his Virginia home and had taken up
his residence in England. Here Mary Ball had met Angustine Washington,
then in England upon affairs connected with his property. Augustine
Washington was one of the handsomest men of his day, and from him his
eldest son George inherited the noble air and figure that marked him.
Mary Ball was a Virginia beauty, and although admired by many Englishmen
of distinction, she chose rather to marry Augustine Washington, albeit
he had been married before, and had two motherless boys. In England,
therefore, were they married, sailing soon after for Virginia, and
within twelve years Mrs. Washington was a widow with five children. She
loved to talk to her children of those happy English days, when she had
first pledged herself to Augustine Washington. It had also been the only
time of excitement in her quiet life, and she had met many of the wits
and cavaliers and belles of the reign of George the Second. She
sometimes spoke of Lord Fairfax, but always guardedly; and George had
conceived the idea that his mother perhaps knew Lord Fairfax better, and
the reasons for his abandonment of his own country, than she cared to
tell.
He began to wonder, quite naturally, where the Earl was bound; and
suddenly it came to him in a flash--"He is going to pay his respects to
my mother." In another instant he was on his feet and speeding like a
deer through the woods towards home.
The house at Ferry Farm which was home to him was a good four miles by
the road; but by paths through the woods and fields, and a foot-bridge
across a creek, it was barely a mile. It took him only a short time to
make it, but before he could reach the house he saw the coach and
outriders dash into sight and draw up before the porch. The old soldier
jumped from the box, and opened the door and let down the steps, and the
Earl descended in state. On the porch stood Uncle Jasper, the venerable
black butler, in a suit of homespun, with a long white apron that
reached from his chin to his knees. George saw him bowing and ushering
the Earl in. The outriders loosened their horses' girths, and after
breathing them, led them to the watering-trough in the stable lot back
of the house. They then watered the coach horses, the coachman sitting
in solitary magnificence on his box, while the old soldier stretched his
legs by walking about the lot. George saw this as he came through the
stableway, his dog still at his heels. Uncle Jasper was waiting for him
on the back porch.
"De madam," he began, in a mysterious whisper, "will want you ter put on
yo' Sunday clo'es 'fo' you come in ter see de Earl o' Fairfax. He's in
de settin'-room now."
George understood very well, and immediately went to his room to change
his hunting-clothes, which were the worse for both dirt and wear. It was
a ceremonious age, and the formalities of dress and manners were very
strictly observed.
Meanwhile, in the sitting-room, on opposite sides of the fireplace, sat
Madam Washington and the Earl. Truly, the beauty that had distinguished
Mary Ball remained with Madam Washington. Her figure was slight and
delicate (not from her had her eldest son inherited his brawn and
muscle), and in her severely simple black gown she looked even slighter
than usual. Her complexion was dazzlingly fair, and little rings of
chestnut hair escaped from her widow's cap; but her fine blue eyes were
the counterpart of her eldest son's. The room was plainly furnished,
even for the times, but scrupulously neat. A rag-carpet covered the
middle of the floor, while around the edges the polished planks were
bare. In one corner a small harpsichord was open, with music on the
rack. Dimity curtains shaded the small-paned windows, and a great fire
sparkled in the large fireplace. Over the mantel hung the portrait of a
handsome young man in a satin coat with lace ruffles. This was a
portrait of Augustine Washington in his youth. Opposite it was a
portrait of Madam Washington as a girl--a lovely young face and figure.
There were one or two other portraits, and a few pieces of silver upon a
mahogany bullet opposite the harpsichord--relics of Wakefield, the
Westmoreland plantation where George was born, and of which the house
had burned to the ground in the absence of the master, and much of the
household belongings had been destroyed.
The Earl's eyes lingered upon the girlish portrait of Madam Washington
as the two sat gravely conversing.
"It was thus you looked, madam, when I first had the honor of knowing
you in England," he said.
"Time and sorrow and responsibilities have done their work upon me, my
lord," answered Madam Washington. "The care of five children, that they
may be brought up to be worthy of their dead father, the making of good
men out of four boys, the task of bringing up an only daughter to be a
Christian gentlewoman, is no mean task, I assure you, and taxes my
humble powers."
"True, madam," responded the Earl, with a low bow; "but I know of no
woman better fitted for so great an undertaking than Madam Washington."
Madam Washington leaned forward and bowed in response, and then resumed
her upright position, not once touching the back of her chair.
"And may I not have the pleasure of seeing your children, madam?" asked
the Earl, who cared little for children generally, but to whom the
children of her who had once been the beautiful Mary Ball were of the
greatest interest.
"Certainly, my lord," answered Madam Washington, rising, "if you will
excuse me for a moment while I fetch them."
The Earl, left alone, rose and walked thoughtfully to the portrait of
Mary Ball, and looked at it for several minutes. His face, full of
melancholy and weariness, grew more melancholy and weary. He shook his
head once or twice, and made a motion with his hand as if putting
something away from him, and then returned to his chair by the fire. He
looked into the blaze and tapped his foot softly with his dress-sword.
This beautiful, grave widow of forty, her heart wrapped up in her
children, was not the girl of eighteen years before. There was no
turning back of the leaves of the book of life for her. She had room now
for but one thought in her mind, one feeling in her heart--her children.
Presently the door opened, and Madam Washington re-entered with her
usual sedate grace. Following her was a young girl of fourteen, her
mother's image, the quaintest, daintiest little maiden imaginable, her
round white arms bare to the elbow, from which muslin ruffles fell back,
a little muslin cap covering her hair, much lighter than her mother's,
and her shy eyes fixed upon the door. Behind her were three sturdy,
handsome boys of twelve, ten, and eight, as alike as pease in a pod. In
those days the children of gentle people were neither pert and forward
nor awkward and ashamed at meeting strangers. Drilled in a precise
etiquette, they knew exactly what to do, which consisted chiefly in
making many low bows to their elders, and answering in respectful
monosyllables such questions as were asked them. They learned in this
way a grace and courtesy quite unknown to modern children.
"My daughter, Mistress Betty Washington, my Lord of Fairfax," was Madam
Washington's introduction.
The Earl rose from his chair and made the little girl a bow as if she
were the Princess Royal, while Mistress Betty, scorning to be outdone,
courtesied to the floor in response, her full skirt making a balloon as
she sunk and rose in the most approved fashion.
"I am most happy to meet you, Mistress Betty," said he; to which
Mistress Betty, in a quavering voice--for she had never before seen an
Earl, or a coach like the one he came in--made answer, "Thank you, my
lord."
The three boys were then introduced as Samuel, John, and Charles. To
each the Earl made a polite bow, but not so low as to Mistress Betty.
The boys returned the bow without the slightest shyness or awkwardness,
and then took their places in silence behind their mother's chair. They
exchanged keen glances, though, among themselves, and wondered when they
would be allowed to depart, so that they might further investigate the
coach and the four roan horses. Madam Washington spoke.
"I am every moment expecting my eldest son George; he is out hunting
to-day, and said that he would return at this hour, and he is always
punctual to the minute. It will be a severe disappointment to me if I
should not have the pleasure of showing your lordship my eldest son."
It did not take a very acute person to note the tone of pride in madam's
voice when she said "my eldest son."
"It will be a disappointment to me also, madam," replied the Earl. "I
hope he is all that the eldest son of such a mother should be."
Madam Washington smiled one of her rare smiles. "'Tis all I can do, my
lord, to keep down the spirit of pride, so unbecoming to all of us, when
I regard my son George. My other sons, I trust, will be as great a
comfort to me, but they are still of too tender years for me to depend
upon." Then, turning to the three boys, she gave them a look which meant
permission to leave the room. The boys bowed gravely to their mother,
gravely to the Earl, and walked more gravely out of the room. Once the
door was softly closed they made a quick but noiseless dash for the back
door, and were soon outside examining the roans and the great coach,
chattering like magpies to the negro outriders, until, having made the
acquaintance of the old soldier, Lance by name, they were soon hanging
about him, begging that he would tell them about a battle.
Meanwhile, within the sitting-room, Madam Washington heard a step upon
the uncarpeted stairs. A light came into her eyes as she spoke.
"There is my son now going to his room. He will join us shortly. I
cannot tell you, my lord, how great a help I have in my son. As you
know, my step-son, Captain Laurence Washington, late of the British
army, since leaving his Majesty's service and marrying Mistress Anne
Fairfax, has lived at the Hunting Creek place, which he has called Mount
Vernon, in honor of his old friend and comrade-in-arms, Admiral Vernon.
It is a good day's journey from here, and although Laurence is most kind
and attentive, I have had to depend, since his marriage, upon my son
George to take his father's place in the conduct of my affairs and in my
household. It is he who reads family prayers night and morning, and who
presides with dignity at the foot of my table. It may seem strange to
those who do not know his character how much I rely upon his judgment,
and he but fifteen. Even my younger sons obey and respect him, and my
daughter Betty does hang upon her brother. 'Tis most sweet to see them
together." At which Mistress Betty smiled and glanced at the Earl, and
saw so kind a look in his eyes that she looked at him quite boldly after
that.
"It is most gratifying to hear of this, madam," replied the Earl; "but
it is hardly merciful of you to a childless old man, who would give many
worldly advantages had he but a son to lean upon in his old age."
"You should have married twenty years ago, my lord."
Something like a gleam of saturnine humor appeared in the Earl's eyes at
this, but he only replied, dryly. "Perhaps it is not wholly my fault,
madam, that I find myself alone in my old age."
At that moment the door opened, and young Washington stood upon the
threshold.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
A GIRL IN TRAINING.
BY MARY TAYLOR BISSELL.
There are three things which every girl would undoubtedly wish for if
she believed they were within her reach. First, to be healthy, so that
she might enjoy life with zest; second, to be graceful, for beauty's
sake; and third, to be skilful, physically accomplished; and it is
probable that if she knew that a certain training in life would give her
these qualities she would follow it gladly.
Unfortunately there is no royal road to health or to skill any more than
to learning. These are only gained by a little effort here and a little
more there. It is known to every one, however, that training will do
wonders in the way of improving and making over the human body.
Every girl who has a brother at college knows how ruddy and muscular and
alert the college teams become when they have been in training for a
season, and no one imagines that any miracle has been worked for their
benefit. It is only that every man in the team is so devoted to the idea
of being strong and skilful that he is faithful as the sun to the rules
which regulate his eating and sleeping and exercise and bathing, so that
he comes out of this so fortified that no ordinary exertion can fatigue
him, and he enjoys life and its occupations with a zest which no
weakling can imagine.
Of course this is the experience of men who are already healthy. Even
greater differences could be shown between the condition of persons in
originally poor health before and after they had adopted a suitable
course of training. Now if girls of fourteen or fifteen would only agree
among themselves to go into training for about four years, what fine
types of young women we might hope for!
[Illustration: BICYCLING.]
For our young American girl of fourteen or fifteen is a tall young
creature, who seems for the most part to need only a little widening,
and sometimes a little straightening, to give her a fine figure, and the
systematic exercise and wholesome food and sleep, that are part of real
training, to make her healthy.
Training does not mean exercise only, as many seem to think. It means
the best sort of treatment of the body to develop and beautify and
strengthen it. It means plenty of good food for bone and muscle and
blood, it means plenty of sleep to keep the nerves calm and strong,
plenty of pure air, and regular activity and exercise which shall be
felt all over the body.
Now if this girl of fifteen or thereabouts is in earnest in wishing to
develop herself into a fine specimen of womanhood, she must follow a few
rules, which may be the text of her training. She can have them printed
on the type-writer and hung up over her looking-glass, where she will be
likely to see them often. They should include the following, and others
may be added from time to time.
1. Sleep nine hours every night, beginning as early as 9.30 P.M. The
beauty sleep is in the first part of the night. When thoroughly awake in
the morning do not lounge in bed, but rise at once. Bathe first, or
exercise before bathing as you prefer. In any case,
2. Take a sponge-bath every morning in water as it runs from the
cold-water faucet. If you begin the practice in warm weather you will
not notice the gradually lowered temperature of winter. Rub the skin
well with a coarse towel until it is reddened. This will give you a fine
sense of freshness, and prevent your catching cold easily.
3. Exercise for ten minutes at least before breakfast, if strong and
hearty, in the way suggested later; if delicate, take five minutes'
exercise, and the remainder two hours after breakfast or at five o'clock
in the afternoon.
4. Wear no tight clothing of any kind. Tight bands about the limbs
interfere with the circulation, change the natural curves of the part
into ugly ones, and restrain the muscles unnaturally. About the waist,
as a corset, they interfere with the lungs, with the stomach, and with
other abdominal organs, and when all these are unnaturally cramped
health and grace are impossible. The most graceful of actresses wear no
stays, for they know that perfect ease and grace are impossible in tight
clothing.
Also, if you would walk gracefully, never wear tight shoes, French
heels, or pointed toes. The graceful Greek girl wore a broad sandal, and
had the use of her toes, which our modern girls cannot have in the
fashionable shoe, but which is essential for a dignified and graceful
step.
5. Spend at least one hour out-of-doors every day in some form of
exercise, and two or three whenever possible.
6. Use your mind actively in study for a few hours daily, for an idle
mind is not a healthy one, but finish your studies at a definite hour,
and then rest--_i.e._, play or exercise your body.
[Illustration: GOLF.]
Some of the girls who may read this doubtless have the good fortune to
be absolutely healthy, and perhaps their circumstances offer them all
the exercise they need, although in city life this is improbable, and
the healthiest will be benefited, kept in trim, physically, by following
the rule for daily morning exercises.
But the girl who wishes to be strong and symmetrical often finds that in
one way or another she needs a little help to straighten her shoulders,
or to bring out her chest, or to give her an erect carriage; yet it is
difficult for her to train herself, as she cannot see her own defects.
One device to aid self-instruction is the following: Take any old long
mirror, and mark it with horizontal lines, about ten inches apart, in
white chalk. The lines should be exactly straight. Then stand in front
of this in your natural position, and notice whether the line of your
shoulders agrees with the straight line across the mirror at their
level. Probably you will see the reflection of a girl with one shoulder
a little higher than the other, or perhaps standing unevenly, so that
one hip is higher than the other. More than likely you will see that her
chest is not full enough to make a fine figure. Perhaps the shoulders
stoop a little, or possibly, while none of these defects are noticeable,
the mirror shows a figure that needs only a little setting up, a more
erect carriage, and the expression of a little more muscular energy, to
make it satisfactory. A few special exercises that we shall add here
will be excellent for all of these slight deviations from the normal;
but it will be well to begin exercising every morning with two or three
simple movements that will warm and limber the muscles and joints.
Begin by rising slowly on the toes and sinking back to the heels ten
times. Then increase the speed, rising and falling quite rapidly twenty
times, or more, if not fatigued. Then give the arm and shoulder-joint a
chance. Swing the right arm out from the shoulder in a circle, and
repeat this ten times. Then the left arm. After a week's practice use
both arms fifteen times. Next use the trunk a little. Bend the body
forward at the waist slowly as far as possible without bending the
knees, and repeat this ten times. Next bend slowly to the right side
without raising the left foot, and then to the left, each ten times.
Repeat the foot-raising rapidly five times, the arm-swinging and the
body-bending five times each, and you will feel fresher already.
Now let us take a shoulder exercise. Take a one-pound dumbbell in each
hand; face the mirror, standing firmly on both feet, with head erect and
knees firm. Count one, strike the bells lightly against the thighs, with
the palms turned in; on two, raise the arms to the sides, horizontally,
shoulder high; and on three, stretch them backward as far as possible
without lowering them, while the palms are turned forward. Hold them in
this position a moment, then drop to the sides. Repeat this until slight
fatigue is felt.
Exercise No, 2. Also for shoulders and back. Place both hands behind the
neck, throwing the head and elbows back. Now bend stiffly forward from
the waist, holding the body in that position for a moment. Rest a
moment, and repeat this for a few times. If this is done properly it
will be felt in the shoulder-blade region.
If fatigue is felt now, rest the upper muscles by skipping about the
room. Use as many fancy steps as you can invent, or such as you may have
learned in dancing-school or at the gymnasium.
Now take two or three movements for the chest. Take dumbbells, holding
them down at the sides. On one, carry them forward in front,
horizontally; on two, swing them back to shoulders with some force; on
three, carry them straight up above the head, then back to the
shoulders, horizontally; and on four, down again to the sides.
These movements can be done without dumbbells, but give a little more
vigorous exercise with them.
Next take a breathing exercise. Hold arms at sides, palms forward.
Inhale deeply and slowly with closed mouth, at the same time raising the
arms slowly above the head, with the palms facing forward. Hold the
breath with arms in this position for a moment, then slowly exhale it,
lowering the arms slowly, as the breath goes out, until they reach the
original positions at the sides. The elbows should be kept stiff all
this time, and the palms facing forward. Repeat this slowly five times.
Another good breathing exercise may be taken with dumbbells. Hold the
bells at the sides, waist high, palms up and elbows crooked. Then take a
deep breath, and hold it while you swing the arms back vigorously past
the hips, holding them in that position as long as you can retain the
breath. The palms should face forward, and this position will throw out
the upper chest finely. This movement should be repeated three or four
times.
All of these movements should be taken in loose clothing, without
corsets. If taken in the morning, they may be practised before the
mirror in undress costume. At any time a loose waist is absolutely
necessary.
Movements that keep the body balanced on the toes are good for grace and
poise.
Such an exercise is walking on tiptoe on a narrow board about six inches
high and thirty feet or more long, with arms extended wide, and a light
weight on cushions balanced on the head. Such an exercise cultivates the
spinal muscles, and helps to give the control over them that is
necessary for a graceful and even carriage of the body.
Peasants in foreign countries, who carry baskets full of produce up and
down hill, where walking is more difficult than on a level, are often
noted for their graceful bearing, which is undoubtedly cultivated by
this exercise.
What is called the deep-knee bend is another excellent balancing
movement, and may be practised as follows: Stand erect, hands on hips.
Rise on toes; then, bending the knees, sink down on the toes as far as
possible, holding the upper part of the body erect. Rise and rest on the
whole foot; then repeat. This is still more difficult if taken with arms
held above the head, or sidewise, shoulder high.
When out-of-doors a girl should learn to climb nimbly and well, trying
first on a low fence or a stout low tree. It is excellent practice, and
gives her good control of herself. For the same reason practise climbing
a ladder up and down, inside and outside. This is considered worthy of
being taught in the gymnasium, and girls may well learn it at home in
the country.
The practice and the courage it gives may some time save a girl's life,
and to learn how to use one's body in every sort of position is a part
of good training.
[Illustration: BASKET-BALL.]
For the same reason girls should play ball or other games that cultivate
dexterity and quick judgment, and that train the eye; and in the summer
many such sports are open to them as well as to boys.
A girl should also practise running whenever possible, and learn to run
in good form. It is an excellent exercise for the chest, and helps to
cultivate physical endurance.
Very few girls run properly. In running the arms should be carried close
to the sides, the elbows bent, and a rather long step taken, running on
the ball of the foot. If new to the exercise, the first two or three
trials should be made slowly and only for a short distance, perhaps the
length of a city block. The speed, as well as the distance, may be
gradually increased, always beginning and ending slowly, the highest
speed being attained in the middle of the run.
In the country opportunities for this practice are numerous, but in town
a gymnasium hall is the only opportunity that is always open.
Walking is indispensable for a girl who hopes for health and vigor, and
training for this consists in beginning with moderation, but
systematically, to walk short distances, gradually increasing the length
of the excursion, until ordinary country jaunts and mountain climbs
become easy and delightful matters.
Another exercise which is excellent for girls, and which is now being
very widely indulged in by them, is bicycling. It is an excellent
exercise if not overdone. Girls should remember when they first begin to
ride that the muscles which are brought into play are not ready to stand
the work which they may be able to perform after having been trained for
some months. Therefore, only short rides of from four to five miles
should be taken at the beginning, making the excursions a little longer
week by week, but always stopping as soon as fatigue begins to be felt.
Most girls will find that they can ride much farther, and with less
fatigue, if they will rest for about fifteen minutes midway in their
journey.
THE CASTLE NEAR THE WINDOW-SEAT.
BY CARLYLE SMITH.
There's a castle here near the window-seat, a castle made of wood,
Where dwells full many a wondrous wight, some very bad, some good.
On the tiptop floor lives Crusoe bold, and Mr. Gulliver, who
Once sailed afar on the broad salt sea; and there's Columbus too;
And next to them lives Robin Hood and all of his merry band,
With his little namesake Riding-hood, upon his strong right hand;
And funny old Don Quixote, too, lives 'way up there with these,
With his battered helmet on his head and tin caps on his knees.
On the lower floor is a fairy store--Titania and her fays,
And Brownies by the dozens who are pranking all their days;
And Cinderella lives near them, with her good old fairy friend,
And close to her Aladdin dwells with stores of gold to spend.
Hop-o'-my-Thumb lives up there too, and Jack with his bag of beans,
And Alice of the Looking-Glass, with her queer old fussy Queens;
And all the Barbers dwell therein, of the old Arabian Nights,
And strewn about are heroes of at least a thousand fights.
'Tis a wondrous band of persons grand that nursery castle holds;
With fearful beasts, and fearful birds, and witches too, and scolds;
And you'd almost think it would frighten me to know, when I go to bed,
That all these creatures live so close, almost at my very head.
But it doesn't, you see, for I am King, and I hold the castle keys;
Not one can stir from his settled place within unless I please.
And, after all, they are safe enough, in spite of their wicked looks,
For the castle walls of which I speak make the case where I keep my
books.
MARY KENT ON DECK.
BY W. J. HENDERSON.
The bark _Bunker Hill_, of Boston, homeward bound from Rio Janeiro, was
staggering across as wild a stretch of the north Atlantic as ever
frightened the heart of man. She had left Rio in early October, with a
wafting of gentle winds among the swelling curves of her snowy
studding-sails, and had floated northward to the equator in a sea of
lucent blue that looked as if it had never known how to frown. Once
across the line, the _Bunker Hill_ had run into the doldrums, and for
ten long days had slatted the lax folds of her canvas against her tall
yellow masts, until Captain Elisha Kent's heart turned sore and heavy
within him. Then the northeast trades reached down into those latitudes,
and the bark began to fight her way northward against a breeze that
would not let her lie within four points of her course.
But at length, early in November, she was somewhere to the northward and
eastward of Bermuda, when the barometer began to go down with a steady
rush, and the wind died completely out. A sickening roll of mountainous
swell set in from the southeast, and the sky hardened down to a callous
unbroken gray. Captain Kent walked the quarter-deck with his daughter
Mary, a brown-cheeked, healthy girl of sixteen. Every day Mary took a
trick at the wheel, for she could steer a compass course as well as any
fore-mast hand. Better still, she could work out a ship's
dead-reckoning, and "shoot" the sun for latitude or longitude, as well
as her father, who had taught her how.
"It's coming, lassie," he said to her, as they walked the reeling deck
together.
"Yea, father, there's a storm down there somewhere," she answered.
"Well, I think we're as snug as we can be," he said, gazing aloft.
The morning and forenoon watches had been spent in preparing for the
gale, and with extra lashings on everything movable about the deck, and
the bark down to a close-reefed main-topsail, a shred of spanker, and a
storm jib, Captain Kent and his pretty little mate felt that all that
was possible had been done.
"I'd feel easier in my mind, though," said the Captain, "if one of my
mates was able to be on deck."
"I know I'm only a girl, father," said Mary, "but I think I've been of
some use to you on this voyage."
"Bless you, my girl," said the Captain; "you've been the greatest help
in the world to me with your bright face and cheerful ways. But I don't
think you can stand watch in a heavy gale, dear, and I'm worried for
fear this one that's coming may outlast my strength."
"Then I'll tell you what I think you ought to do, father."
"And what's that, Mary?"
"The bark is snug, so you go and lie down now. See if you can't get two
or three hours of sleep before the gale begins. I'll keep the deck, and
call you at the first change in the weather."
The Captain looked at her thoughtfully for a moment, and remembered how
thorough her sea-training had been. But she was so young!
"Well," he said, "I fancy there's some sense in your idea. Now pay
attention."
"Yes, father."
"You see that particularly hard-looking spot down there in the
southeast?"
"Do you mean where the clouds look so much like slate-pencil?"
"That's the place exactly. Now you keep your eye on that spot, because
that's where I'm expecting the wind to come from. If that spot grows
lighter, you call me at once."
"All right, father," said the girl; "you make your mind easy. I sha'n't
lose sight of that spot."
"But at the same time, Mary," continued the Captain, "you mustn't
neglect to keep a sharp lookout all around, for the wind may come from
some unexpected quarter."
"Don't be afraid, father dear," said Mary, smiling up at him bravely;
"you know I've been at sea before."
"Yes, my girl, I know; but you've never had quite so much responsibility
on your shoulders. There, now, I'll go below and lie down just to please
you."
Captain Kent paused a moment at the door of his cabin and shook his
head.
"It's a strange thing to leave a young girl like that on watch at such a
time, but what else can I do? She knows more in a minute than those
muttonheads forward do in a month."
And with that thought in his mind the Captain went below and tried to
snatch a brief rest before the coming of the storm. Mary, who was well
accustomed to the wild movements of a vessel's deck, stood balanced with
her shapely feet well apart and her hands clasped behind her back. With
her knitted woollen cap pulled down over her ears, a big muffler around
her neck, a heavy pea-jacket, and a plain skirt, she looked not unlike a
picture of one of those old Dutch skippers that one sees in pictures of
the days when the Netherlands were a power on the high-seas. The sharp
frosty air made her cheeks as red as roses, and her brown eyes sparkled
like stars. The man at the wheel, who had little enough to do in such a
villanous calm beyond keeping the spokes from jumping, gazed at her in
admiration, and the men forward nodded their heads approvingly at one
another as they saw the Captain go below.
"Sorra's the weather we'll be afther havin' afoor noight," said Pat
Maginn, "an' it's good the Cap'n goes to resht lavin' the foinist mate
oi iver see on watch. But oi wish thim fellies that's sick beyant war on
the deck too."
At four o'clock in the afternoon, just at the beginning of the first
dog-watch, Mary saw a sudden glow of ghastly light in the hard spot in
the southeast. Springing to the head of the companionway, she called
down into the cabin:
"Father! Father! It's coming!"
The next moment Captain Kent hastened on deck, and after a quick glance
said:
"Good, Mary, you caught it at the start. We'll have a capful of wind
here presently, and a sea fit to swallow us before morning, for the
centre of this storm is southwest of us, and we're on its worst side. We
must get the bark hove to on the port tack."
A few moments later ragged patches of grayish-brown cloud began to fly
over the bark, and then the wind burst upon her with a wild and
terrifying shriek. It came fair over the starboard-quarter, and drove
the _Bunker Hill_'s lee rail level with the water; but under Captain
Kent's orders the canvas was trimmed, the bark's head fell off, she wore
round, and came up to the wind on the port tack. The ocean was blown out
into a flat plain of boiling foam for a few minutes, but that state of
things could not last long. Before five o'clock a tremendous sea was
running, and the _Bunker Hill_ was reeling through it like a crazy
vessel.
Mary was already tired. She would not have confessed it, but she felt
the strain of the long voyage, with its succession of nursing and
service as assistant to her father. So she was glad enough to see him
looking fresh, hearty, and reliant as he stood near the lee rail.
"Well, dear," he roared in her ear, "we are as snug as we can be, and
you and I'd better go below and get a bite to eat."
The girl willingly accompanied her father to the cabin, where they made
shift to get such a meal as the crazy swoops and lurches of the vessel
allowed. They had hardly finished when there was a report like a
cannon-shot, and one of the men bawled down,
"The main-tops'l's gone, sir."
"Stay you here, Mary," said the Captain, as he sprang up the steps to
the deck.
Mary heard his strong voice shouting orders that rang above the roaring
of the gale. Then there was a confusion of cries forward and the crash
of tons of water falling on the forecastle deck. Mary knew that the bark
had shipped a great wave, and she felt instinctively that something had
happened. She rushed on deck. The lee scuppers were running off water in
great spouts, and the deck forward was littered with disarranged
rigging. But that was not what terrified Mary. She saw her father half
lying and half leaning against the lee rail, apparently in an agony of
pain.
"Father! father!" she cried, as she ran to his side, "what is the
matter?"
"A thump--in the ribs," he gasped. "I guess--something's broken."
For an instant the girl's courage faltered, and she felt as if she would
faint; but her innate strength of character supported her.
"Something must be done for him at once," she said to herself, as she
called to some of the men to come and help her. They picked the Captain
up and carried him to his cabin, where they laid him gently on a
cushioned locker.
"What on earth'll--we do--now?" gasped the Captain. "I'm laid out--for
the rest--of the voyage."
"Oh no, father," said Mary, with a cheerfulness that she did not feel;
"you'll be all right again before this gale is over, and we'll pull the
_Bunker Hill_ through that all right. Won't we, men?"
"Ay, ay, miss; that we will."
"God bless you, my child," gasped the Captain; "and you too, men;
but--I've got two--broken ribs here."
They were all silent for a few minutes, while the cabin reeled from side
to side, and the hollows of the vessel were full of groans from the
straining of her timbers.
"Father," said Mary at length, "don't worry about the bark, anyhow.
You've got a good crew, and they'll take care of the bark."
"Yes, sir, Cap'n Kent," said one of the men; "we're mortal sorry for to
see you done up, sir, for you've treated us good, an' we knows it."
"Thank you--men," said the Captain, and then he fainted. Mary sent the
men on deck, and with the assistance of the cook put her father in his
bunk, where he presently recovered his consciousness, but was still in
great pain. Mary sat beside him in deep thought.
"Dare I do it?" she said to herself. "I am so young; yet I am not
inexperienced, and something must be done. Half the crew and the mates
down with berri-berri, and the Captain disabled; the bark must be-- I'll
do it."
"What are you--thinking about, Mary?" asked her father.
"This. We must make for the nearest port that you may have proper
medical attention, father, and we must do it the minute the gale
moderates enough to let us clap more cloth on the bark. The barometer is
rising, and the wind has shifted four points. The gale will break by
morning. We are on the outside edge of it, and we'll soon be out of it.
Now, father, put me in command of the bark, and I'll take her into New
York."
"But will the crew--obey you?"
"Ask them."
Mary went on deck and asked the men, except the helmsman, to come to the
cabin.
"Men," she said, "the Captain is hurt, the mates and half the crew are
sick. The bark ought to go to the nearest port. I can take her there.
Will you help me? What do you say?"
"That you're right, miss," said one of the men. "And we'll take our
orders from you same as from the Cap'n. Won't we, lads?"
"Yes, yes!"
"Now, father," said Mary.
"I turn over--the command--to you, dear," said the Captain.
The next day at noon the gale had moderated to a fresh breeze, and
though a heavy sea was running, the clouds had broken and the sun was
peeping through. Mary went on deck with the sextant to get the ship's
latitude. She poised herself on her graceful limbs, and handled the
instrument like a veteran. Presently she got the sun's highest altitude.
"Make eight bells!" she cried.
"Ay, ay, sir--I mean, ma'am!" cried one of the men forward as he sprang
to obey the order.
Mary went below and worked out her reckoning, while her father eyed her
lovingly as she thumbed the navigation tables and the nautical almanac.
"It's three hundred and thirty miles west nor'west to Sandy Hook,
father. The wind is sou' sou'west, and we can lay our course."
The Captain smiled faintly, for he was in much pain, and murmured,
"Bless you!"
[Illustration: "ALL HANDS MAKE SAIL!"]
Mary went on deck and shouted, "All hands make sail!"
Every able man in the crew, including the cook, sprang on deck with the
activity of cats, eager to show their willingness to serve her. The bark
was still under the flying-jib, maintopmast stay-sail and reefed spanker
which she had carried through the end of the gale. The men were anxious
to know how their young skipperess would go to work. The girl's face was
calm and confident. Her cheeks glowed and her eyes burned. In a clear
musical voice she cried:
"Shake out the reefs in the spanker! Hoist the jib and haul out the
spanker!"
As soon as these orders were executed she cried again, "Loose the
foretop-sail and maintop-gallant sail!"
The men danced aloft to attend to these orders.
"Stand by! Let fall! Sheet home and hoist away!"
The men flew about like bees.
"That's sail enough till the sea goes down," she said. "Brace sharp up
and haul out the tacks! West nor'west," she added to the man at the
wheel.
"Three cheers for Miss Captain Kent!" cried one of the men, and they
were given with a will. Two days later the bark _Bunker Hill_ went up
the Swash Channel behind a tug, and dropped anchor off Quarantine, where
the ship-news reporters learned of her remarkable story and filled the
papers with Mary's fame. In the following summer Mary was granted a
master's license, and when Captain Kent went to rest in the old
churchyard, his daughter took command of his ship, and was one of the
few women sea-captains in the world.
RICK DALE.
BY KIRK MUNROE,
AUTHOR OF "SNOW-SHOES AND SLEDGES," "THE FUR-SEAL'S TOOTH," "THE 'MATE'
SERIES," "FLAMINGO FEATHER," ETC.