Project Gutenberg's Harper's Round Table, November 12, 1895, by Various This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. Title: Harper's Round Table, November 12, 1895 Author: Various Release Date: March 22, 2015 [EBook #48556] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HARPER'S ROUND TABLE, NOV 12, 1895 *** Produced by Annie R. McGuire FOR KING OR COUNTRY. THE BRIDGE OF AN OCEAN LINER. A FLORAL BALL. THE ATTRACTION OF LEVITATION. STORIES OF PRESENCE OF MIND. THE GRIND. HOW A DEBT WAS PAID. THE STORY OF THE FLOUNDERING BEETLE. YOUNG FOLKS' SAVINGS. ZINTKA LANUNI ("LOST BIRD"). THE IMP OF THE TELEPHONE. INTERSCHOLASTIC SPORT. ALL WAS NOT WELL. BICYCLING. THE PUDDING STICK. STAMPS. HARPER'S ROUND TABLE Copyright, 1895, by Harper & Brothers. All Rights Reserved. PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 12, 1895. FIVE CENTS A COPY. Vol. XVII.—No. 837. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR. [Pg 25] FOR KING OR COUNTRY. A Story of the Revolution. BY JAMES BARNES. CHAPTER II. SOME FURTHER ADVENTURES. As the hand reached out of the water it could be seen that William had twined his free arm about his brother's waist, and that the latter was still struggling weakly. At this moment a shout sounded from the hill. "I's comin'! I's comin'!" called a voice. There was a crushing sound, and through the alders and tangle of hardback bushes came the old colored man. His face was ashy gray; but he took in the situation in one frightened glance. Without pausing, he threw himself head foremost into the pool, and in an instant he had grasped both boys, and, puffing loudly after his exertions, landed them safely upon the shelving bank. Grace's cries had softened to a nervous whimper, and the old man was the first to find his tongue. Probably he knew that neither of his young masters could reply to him just then, for he pitched into them furiously as they lay helpless and spluttering in the sand. "You heah me," he said, "young Mars Willem an' young Mars George. I see you'll git a trouncin' fur all dis nonsense; scaring Miss Grace half out ob her wits, and spoilin' your bes' clo's; and look at me!" he added, "jes look at me! My waistcoat is plum ruined, an' whar—whar's my hat?" The huge three-cornered affair lost in Cato's jump was drifting slowly down the brook. William rolled over on his elbow and caught his breath with an effort. "Silence!" he shouted. "Where's that fishing-rod?" "You's done gwine ter ketch a fishin'-rod," said the old man. "Look at your brudder George, 'most drownded; I spec you dared him to jump in." George managed to look up. "No," he said; "I went in by myself." The old man, muttering and grumbling, stepped over to the boys, and stood both of them on their feet. It was all that either could do to keep his balance; but at last, they looked at one another, and William half laughed. [Pg 26] "Oh, won't we catch it when Aunt Clarissa sees us!" he exclaimed. At this, Grace, looking toward the bridge, called out, excitedly, the tears still running down her cheeks, "There's Mr. Wyeth! There he is at last! And, look! there's some one with him. It must be our Uncle Daniel!" She pointed up the road. Little clouds of dust rose here and there through the trees, and two thick figures, each mounted on a steadily plodding gray nag, were seen riding down the hill. "Come on, we'll meet them," said William, and taking his brother's hand, they walked out into the meadow with as much dignity as two small dripping figures could assume. Cato picked out two of the largest and straightest of the discarded switches, and, gazing disconsolately at his ruined waistcoat, strode after them. Mr. Wyeth and his companion had seen the boys coming, and had halted at the bridge. The merchant was a short, fat man, with a round rosy face, like a ripe New Jersey apple. As he watched the little party walking slowly across the meadow his face took on a quizzical expression, and then wrinkled up into a smile. As they came nearer he burst into a laugh. The other man, who was larger and quite as florid, joined him. "Well, bless my soul," he said, leaning forward in his saddle, his sides shaking. The twins by this time were within speaking-distance. They did not smile, but still holding each other's hands bowed quite gravely. "Mr. Wyeth, your presence, sir," they said. "In the name of St. George," said the fat man, "what have you been doing?" "We fell into the water," said the twins, together. "You'll pardon our appearance," went on George, "but we are glad to see you here at Stanham Mills, I do assure you, sir. I—I suppose this is our Uncle Daniel? Is it not?" This was said with such a fine imitation of Uncle Nathan's courtliest manner, that Mr. Wyeth could hardly repress another burst of laughter. But Mr. Daniel Frothingham—for it was none other—gravely lifted his hat, and said: "Young gentlemen, I salute you. The honor is mine, I do declare." Then seeing Grace, he took his feet from the stirrups. "Will the young lady come up here with me?" he asked. In a minute the little girl, with her garland of oak leaves trailing to the ground, was seated before her uncle from London on the old gray horse. "Well, this is an unexpected greeting," remarked the huge man to the merchant. The twins had started down the road, leaving a trail of water dripping from their soggy coats. "What are you doing with those switches, Cato?" asked Mr. Wyeth, turning in his saddle and winking at Uncle Daniel. "I reckin, sah," said the old darky, smiling grimly, "Mars Nathaniel may have need of 'em. I's tol' Miss Frothingham dat dose chilluns oughter be teached ter swim." Daniel Frothingham gazed at the soaked figures ahead, and his eyes twinkled merrily. Just to the right of the highway, a short distance from the edge of the pond, a lane fringed with trees led up a gentle incline, at the end of which could be seen a large rambling building, with great white pillars supporting an overheavy Grecian portico. Before the twins had turned the corner, two figures on horseback came down the main road at a steady trot. The two boys did not move out of the way a single step, and if the first rider had not drawn off to the road-side they would have been almost under his horse's hoofs. But the twins appeared to pay no attention to this. In fact, so far as any motion of theirs was concerned the two riders might not have existed. One was a tall man with long leather leggings, and the other a boy of fourteen on a small brown pony. As they passed Mr. Wyeth both gravely acknowledged his salute. "Who are they?" asked Mr. Daniel Frothingham. He had not spoken for some time, and had been listening to his niece's description of the adventure up the brook. "Dat's Mr. Mason Hewes and his son Carter," answered the old negro before Mr. Wyeth could reply. "I reckin you's heard 'bout de boundary-line trubbles, sah." "Oh yes," replied Mr. Wyeth, and he smiled significantly; "that was the man of whom I spoke to you," he went on, addressing Mr. Frothingham. "He is the most advanced rebel in this colony. I have heard utterances attributed to him that ought to—if true bespoke them—place a halter round his neck. It is said that he has proposed resisting the impost taxes with the force of arms. He is a leader of the so-called Sons of Liberty." Mr. Wyeth said the last words with a sneer. "An arrant scoundrel. I know of him. He should be clapped in prison," rejoined Daniel Frothingham in a voice so like Uncle Nathan's that little Grace looked up in fright. The pleasant expression had vanished from the old man's face. "This is not England," remarked Mr. Wyeth, sententiously. "No; I would it were," answered the other. "There's law for such a one as this. A 'Whig' he calls himself? He's a rebel, and naught else." By this time they had turned into the lane, and could see two figures waiting by the great white pillars. One was a large man in a red coat, and the other was a tall gray-haired lady, who stood very straight and prim beside him. The twins had prudently fallen behind, and one observed to the other, as they watched the greetings from a distance: "Did you see Carter Hewes? He made faces at us." "Wait until we catch him off some time," was the reply. Then both boys ran for it, and dodged into the house through the kitchen door; but they had not escaped Aunt Clarissa's eagle eye. However, they received no punishment that night, and went to bed in peace. The next day was quite as fine as the one that had preceded it. The morning was spent in a visit to the various works about the place, but the result of the inspection was not encouraging, and the family party at Stanham Manor was much depressed. Uncle Daniel had proved to be a large edition of the Frothingham characteristics bound in red. His hands were thick and his fingers short. His manner of speech was ponderous, yet emphatic. Nothing in the new country pleased him; he longed for London. Besides this, he saw that the mining property promised little for the future. Early in the afternoon Uncle Nathan might have been seen seated on the broad piazza in a great, easy-chair; opposite to him sat Mr. Wyeth, and beside him Uncle Daniel. All three were smoking long-stemmed clay pipes, and blowing the white clouds into the air. For some time no one had spoken. The bees were delving into the honeysuckle blossoms that grew about the pillars, and Aunt Clarissa was plying her white fingers at a tatting-frame close by. Little Grace, seated in the sunlight on a low hassock, was playing with a small black kitten. The sound of busy wheels and the roar of the waterfall at the dam drifted across the stretch of green, for besides the foundry the Frothinghams maintained a grist-mill, where most of the grinding for the neighborhood was done. Uncle Nathan was not in the best of spirits. The discord and dispute over the eastern line worried him more and more each day. He had confided this to his brother and to Mr. Wyeth at some length the night before, and had worked himself into a towering rage. Mr. Wyeth was also troubled, but it was mostly owing to the trend of political events throughout the country. The spires of the city on a clear day could just be descried through a strong glass, away off to the east, from the top of Tumble Ridge. "There's trouble, sir, trouble, I fear me, ahead," said Mr. Wyeth, breaking the silence at last. "Business is again at a standstill, and the spirit of discontent is slowly growing throughout the colonies. In fact, among our friends some rebellious spirits have dared to breathe a word against Parliament and the court, and are almost ripe even to disown allegiance to his Majesty. You find some of this here about you in its worst form; that we all know." He said the last in a low tone of voice. Uncle Nathan's face turned red, and he quivered with excitement. Aunt Clarissa stopped in the middle of a purple blossom in her embroidery. "Yes," went on Mr. Wyeth, "I fear me we'll have trouble. Many people whom I see every day, and whose loyalty no one could have doubted some time since, appear to be outraged at what they term 'the oppressions of the crown' forsooth. The new duties, they maintain, must be removed. It will require a strong hand and action to repress the growing discontent." Mr. Nathaniel Frothingham stammered in his rage, finding his tongue at last. "The soldiers treated the villains right in Boston, March two years ago," he shouted, with an approach to an oath, "and they called it 'a massacre! a massacre'!" "Pay the tax, say I, and avoid the trouble," ventured Mr. Wyeth, who had not expected to call forth such an amount of feeling. Here Uncle Daniel put down his pipe, and struck the arm of his chair a mighty blow. "A few hangings and the marching of some regiments under the standard of King George would bring them to their senses," he hissed. "Traitors and plotters against our King are enemies to this country's welfare." "His Majesty will send us troops enough, I trow," said the merchant again. "Doubt me not, we'll need them." Just then a figure came about an angle of the house, and approached the group sitting in the shadow of the pillars. "Here's that rascally looking overseer of yours, Nathaniel," said the elder brother. "He is the evilist-looking man, I swear, I ever clapped my eyes on." "Well, Cloud," interrupted Uncle Nathan, speaking loudly, "what is it now?" The newcomer had removed his hat, and was standing bareheaded in the sunshine. The black hair was worn short and stood up stiff as a pig's bristles; his narrow eyes were half hidden under the thick eyebrows, but were shifty, like a [Pg 27] ferret's; his long nose came down over his thin colorless lips. Another curious thing that would strike an observer at first glance was the man's underpinning; his legs were strong and powerfully muscled, entirely out of keeping with the lean shoulders and narrow chest. "Mr. Frothingham, I would have a word with you," he began. "Well, speak out," returned Uncle Nathan. "I have no secrets with you from these gentlemen." The overseer shifted uneasily. "There's something going on yonder across the hill," he said. "Some mischief, I take it, on the ridge shaft, for they have posted guards up there with rifles." "I've told our people not to trespass," said Uncle Nathan. "Is that all?" "No, sir; they have been casting cannon. I saw them at the foundry." The three gentlemen on the porch looked at one another and then back at the overseer. "There's no market for iron in that shape," said Nathaniel Frothingham, quietly. "Some people say that Hewes is mad; it must be true. If that is all, Cloud, you can go." The man, without replying, turned about the corner of the house. "For some reason he hates Mason Hewes even worse than I do," remarked Uncle Nathan. "But he is a good man- driver, and works the people well." "Some time they'll have revenge for all his bullying," said Mr. Wyeth. "But it is well at times to have a bully in one's pay," rejoined the manager of Stanham Mills. "Come, where are those two young nephews of ours?" asked Uncle Daniel, as if to change the subject. Aunt Clarissa glanced up. "That is a question, brother Daniel, no one can answer," she said. As Aunt Clarissa spoke, however, two young figures were ascending the rough hill whose outline cut sharp and dark against the afternoon sky. They were walking in single file, and over the shoulder of the first, grasped firmly in both hands, was the barrel of a huge horse-pistol. It was the twins' greatest treasure, for they had discovered it one day up in the rafters of the old store-house near the mill. It was for this the blasting powder had been procured. They did not know, as they climbed upwards, that they were being watched by a dozen pairs of eyes from the fringe of timber along the ridge, but such was the fact. "Did you put in a big load this time, William?" inquired the second figure, as the boys left the clearing and plunged into a thicket of scrub-oak. "The biggest we have fired yet," was the answer. "Methinks it will take both of us to hold it still." "We won't shoot now," said the other. "Wait until we get further beyond in the wood up by that big rock, where Cato killed the rattlesnake. Perhaps we'll see another there." They went on some distance, and finding a little path, turned sharply to the right. Suddenly William stopped. "Did you see that?" he said. "What was it?" said George, the tone of his brother's voice making his heart jump quickly. "A fox, I think," said William, bringing the huge pistol down into the position of charge bayonet, and cocking the ponderous hammer. "Where! Where!" whispered George, coming to his brother's side. "It ran behind that big stone yonder," was the excited answer. "Let's move up closer. It's your turn to shoot," said the holder of the aged weapon, turning half around. "You shoot for me," was the whispered reply. Moving on again they stepped quickly around the trunk of a great spreading pine-tree, for the woodman's axe had as yet spared this particular part of the forest. The heavy branches shadowed the ground, and the hulk of great stone, close to an overhanging bank, made the light seem even more indistinct, but as they stepped deeper into the shadow, and their eyes became accustomed to the half light, they started suddenly. There, a few feet from them, stretched on the ground, was a creature such as they had never seen before. It was as large as a big dog, with a gaunt body, small narrow head, and gleaming yellow eyes. It was crouching close to the ground, its haunches raised somewhat, its tail moving slightly and rustling the leaves of the bushes behind it. William felt as if the pistol in his hands was almost too heavy for his arms to lift. A terrible thumping came into his temples. "Shoot! shoot!" said George, behind him, his voice sounding to himself as if it were some miles away. There was a tremendous roar and a cloud of sulphurous smoke. Probably no weapon that had ever gone to the wars of the times of good Queen Anne had ever withstood such a charge before. Backwards fell William, as if he had been kicked by a horse, and both boys rolled over down into the path, but there was a thrashing tearing sound at the foot of the pine-tree, and the strange creature was rolling over and over, clawing the air, and lashing about to right and left. For some reason the old pistol had shot straight, and two of Aunt Clarissa's best pewter spoons, hammered into irregular lumps of metal, had done their work. After a few struggles, the beast lay still, and the boys recovered themselves quite slowly, for the report and fall had almost stunned them. "I thought I was killed," was William's first speech. "I didn't have much time to think," was the rejoinder. "S'death! you must have put in all the powder that we had." "We hit something, anyhow. What was it?" said William, rubbing his head ruefully. His hands were blackened, and the old pistol, with the hammer broken and the pan blown out, lay on the ground a short distance off. As the boys rose to their feet, they heard the sound of something coming stealthily down the path in their direction. In a moment a tall figure stood beside them. It was Mr. Mason Hewes, and only a few rods away, seated in the bushes, well hidden from sight, were a dozen rough-looking men. It was they who had watched the young Frothinghams coming up the hill. The boys recovered their dignity at once, and Mr. Hewes himself was less composed than they were. He glanced at the big catamount, lying dead on the blood-stained leaves, and then at the young hunters, in mute astonishment. "Are we on your property, sir?" inquired William, breathing hard, and hiding his tingling hands behind his back. "You are, sir," said Mr. Hewes; "but what of that? You're welcome to go here when you please." "We did not mean to trespass, I assure you," said George, "and I suppose that animal is yours." "You are welcome to him also," said Mr. Hewes, "and you are brave boys. What!" Again his astonishment overcame him, and he bent down to pick up the pistol. "Well, of all things in the world!" he remarked again, almost at a loss for something else to say. The boys had gathered themselves together by this time, and were standing like two soldiers at attention. "You had better go and tell your uncle what you have done," said the tall man, with a half smile. The prospect was too much for the twins. They exchanged a frightened glance. "Oh no, no, no!" they both exclaimed. "That would never do at all," said George. "You don't know Uncle Nathan." After this outburst they recovered their composure, and looked as if killing a catamount was an every-day occurrence. Mr. Hewes took out his watch. "Is there any one working in your uncle's mine on Tumble Ridge to-day?" inquired, casually. "No, not to-day," said William. "They're doing something else. I think—" George plucked him by the sleeve, and his mouth closed like a trap. "I'll tell you what we'll do," said Mr. Hewes, who appeared much relieved at what he heard. "To make it equal, you take his ears and scalp, the way all hunters do, and I will keep the rest." He leaned over, and deftly cut the skin from around the catamount's head, and handed the trophy to the two young warriors. They bowed politely, and taking up the remains of their old friend, the Queen Anne pistol, went off down the hill. Mr. Hewes gazed after them. "There's an odd lot," he said to himself. "By Saint George, if their uncle were made of stuff like them, there'd be no trouble between us, I'll wager safe enough." He turned on his heel and went up the path to where the strange party was hiding in the bushes. There was another tall man there with a rifle over his shoulder, and most of the men were fully armed. Mr. Hewes told of the adventure in a few words, and the party moved forward to the scene of the short conflict. At dinner that evening the boys were so subdued that Mr. Wyeth wondered what could have happened. Uncle Daniel's questions were answered in monosyllables. Just as they all were about to leave the table, a rumbling explosion shook the air, coming from the direction of the disputed territory. The party jumped to their feet. "That scoundrel Hewes!" fairly shouted Uncle Nathan, in a voice much like a blast itself. "He's blown into our galleries on the ridge! I feared he would. The scoundrel. He'll pay for this; the villain, oh! the villain!" He caught a chair for support, and went on in a torrent of imprecation. The dinner ended abruptly, and every one ran out on the broad veranda. Loud voices could be heard coming from the direction of the foundry, and far off on the hill-side lights were moving as if people were there with torches. [Pg 28] [to be continued.] THE BRIDGE OF AN OCEAN LINER. BY FRANKLIN MATTHEWS. If you should go down into the engine-rooms of one of the ocean fliers, when the ship is going at full speed in mid- ocean, and should feel the heat and see the tremendous activity there, you might think you knew exactly how these modern monsters of the sea were propelled. The engines are the heart of the craft, but there has to be a brain, and you find that on the bridge. The bridge is a platform, walled in by canvas about five feet high, and stretching clear across the ship, usually above the wheel-house. You see the hardest kind of work in the engine-rooms, but on the bridge no one seems to do anything, when you look up there from the deck, but stand around and be dignified. If, however, you can get the Captain to take you on the bridge, and tell you of the amount of work done there, you will soon see that the real work in running a ship is on the bridge. The difference between the work in the engine-rooms and that on the bridge is exactly the difference between manual and mental labor. THE BRIDGE AFTER A WINTER VOYAGE. Of course you know in a general way that the steering of the ship is done on the bridge, and that the Captain must have some way of communicating with the engine-rooms. In small ships there are speaking-tubes and jingle-bells, but in the ocean fliers the distance between the bridge and the engine-rooms is too great for these devices. It would be a most difficult task to use a speaking-tube in a howling gale, and make a man nearly three hundred feet away, in a compartment where the roar is like that of a Niagara, hear what you are trying to say. Jingle-bells might get out of order at a critical time. Another agent must be used, and this agent is electricity. When the Captain wants to give orders to the engineer in all large vessels nowadays he telegraphs to him. He practically controls his ship from stem to stern by the use of electricity. Were it not for that, big ships could not be operated. The day of calling out orders is passed, and perhaps this is why the bridge seems to be such a quiet place. WORKING UP INTO THE WIND ON A RAINY NIGHT. Let us spend an hour with Captain Randle, of the American liner St. Louis, on the bridge in mid-ocean. He first takes us into the wheel-house. It is a room about ten feet long and ten feet wide, with a curved front. A wheel about three feet in diameter is placed in the centre of the room, and you are surprised to see that the quartermaster keeps turning it [Pg 29] almost constantly. You have always thought that he had simply to keep his eye on the floating compass in the box directly in front of him and hold the ship steady on her course. As you look at the compass you see the ship veering now this way and now that as she rolls and plunges, or as one screw turns faster than the other, and thus pulls the ship around. It is hard to make two independent screws go at exactly the same speed, and so this man at the wheel is busy all the time turning the ship straight. He has to fight the waves and the screws and the winds at the same time, and he is a busy man. This steering-wheel controls the ship by means of a small column of oil in a little tube. By turning the wheel this way or that the oil in the tube is forced up or down, and that opens or closes certain valves in the steam steering-gear four hundred feet away, and the rudder is turned as easily as if a child had done it. In most steamships the steam steering- gear is controlled by hydraulic power—that is, by water—but the use of a column of oil is an improvement. As you look about, you see fastened to the cornice directly in front of the wheel-man a little scale in black with white lines marked off on it. There is a dial on it, and as the ship rolls you see that this is a device to mark the degree of the roll. You may notice that it takes about a second for every degree of a roll. On each side of the room is another long black gauge, and the dials point to certain figures, generally between ninety and ninety-five. These dials are little electrical devices, showing exactly how many revolutions the screws are making. The Captain at a glance knows what is going on in the engine-rooms. Over in the corner of the room is another curious electrical device. It is a little box with a clock in it. The Captain tells you it is the machine that controls the whistle in time of fog. The law requires a long blast of the whistle at such times every two minutes. By pressing in a button on this little clock apparatus, and by setting the clock in a certain manner, the whistle is blown automatically for seven seconds every minute. There can be no error of man in that work. Just as sure as every minute comes around that whistle will blow seven seconds. Under the old way, when a man pulled the whistle cord there was no exactness in the work. When the fog is over the button is released, and the whistle stops. Over on the other side of the room is a little switchboard. It has two sets of three switches. These switches control the side and mast-head lights of the ship. In the old days oil was used for these lights. The coming of electricity changed that. In each of the lanterns now used as a side or mast-head light there are two large electric lamps. Now, as you know, the film often burns out or breaks in these lamps, and suddenly you are in darkness. It would never do to have this happen on shipboard. The light might be out for a long time, and it would not be noticed, and in that time dreadful things might happen. This is obviated by having two lamps in each lantern and an instrument called a "buzzer," which makes a fuss right behind the steersman if one of the lights in a lantern goes out. When the buzzer sounds, the man in charge simply turns on the spare light, and probably not five seconds are lost. Step out now on the bridge. You will notice that it has three kinds of telegraphs. They consist of circular disks on standards about as high as the hand. Above the disks are handles on frames to which a dial is attached. Inside the disks lights may be placed. The glass surface is divided off into regular spaces on which different words are printed. By moving the handle back and forth the dial points to certain words, and a bell is rung. If the telegraph in use, for example, is that to the starboard engine-room, and the Captain has rung for "half-speed," he knows that his order is being recorded on a similar disk in that room, and that as soon as the engineer down there receives it, he will repeat the order to the bridge, so that the Captain may know instantly that the orders have been received and obeyed. In addition to two of these telegraphs to the engine-rooms, there is one called the docking telegraph, and one called the steering telegraph. The docking telegraph is used in making fast to or leaving a pier, and the steering telegraph is for use in case the steering apparatus in the wheel-house should break down, and it should become necessary to steer the ship by hand, from the after part of the vessel. On the engine-room telegraph you read these marks: "stop," "stand by," "slow," "half-speed." On the docking telegraph you read: "hold on," "heave away," "not clear," "slow astern," "slow ahead," "all clear," "slack away," "let go." On the steering telegraph you read: "hard-a-port," "port," "steady," "course," "steady," "starboard," "hard-a-starboard." It is through the use of this docking telegraph that you understand why a big ship can come up to her pier in the most deliberate way, occupying sometimes an hour, without any apparent confusion, and, so far as the average person can see, without any one giving orders. The Captain stands on the bridge, and the first officer on the forward deck. The Captain can give orders to the first officer by a simple wave of the hand. He must talk to the officer in charge at the stern by the telegraph. This he is doing constantly, but no one hears him, and few realize what is going on. It is a hard task to bring 11,000 or 12,000 tons of iron up to a given spot, and stop it with its tremendous momentum within a few inches of a certain place. The docking telegraph helps to do this. In looking about further you see two or three little spigotlike affairs turned under the rail. When you ask about them the Captain will tell you that they are electric arrangements to stop the whistle-blowing device, and to turn on the whistle direct from the bridge. In case of fog, and the whistle of another ship is heard, it is necessary to make certain signals. Turning one of these little spigots cuts off the regular whistle and turns on the sound as long and as often as the Captain desires. After the danger is passed the spigots are turned back under the rail, and the electrical device in the wheel- house continues its regular seven seconds blast. You see on each side also sockets in which to place the lights that are burned, or the bombs that are exploded at sea. When passing ships at night, the St. Louis, for example, burns one red and two blue lights. That tells the other ship the name of the St. Louis. There is a standard on the bridge from which an explosive rocket can be sent up. The noise from such a rocket can be heard six miles, and the rocket is set off by a lanyard, like a cannon. These are the appliances that you see on the bridge. There is constant work there. The log is being kept all the time; the floating compass in the wheel-house is compared with the standard compass outside every half-hour. When a change in [Pg 30] THE DAILY OBSERVATION. course is made, all the compasses on the ship are compared. Every morning at daylight the whip's position is worked out by the north star, and every day at 11.30 o'clock the dead reckoning of the position of the ship is handed to the Captain by the junior officers. All the officers are required to be on the bridge ten minutes later when the daily observation is made. Day and night there is constant activity there. "How do you know in a fog," I asked of Captain Randle, "which way the sound of another vessel comes from?" "I stand square in the centre of the bridge with my face exactly to the front," he replied; "and I have trained my sense of hearing so accurately that I can tell which ear the wave sound strikes first as it rolls by. It is rare that we mistake the direction from which a sound comes." This shows how delicate and at the same time how responsible the task of running a big steamship is. A FLORAL BALL. BY EMMA J. GRAY. Why not give one, girls, on your next birthday night? The entire house, including the halls, should be trimmed with asparagus and Japanese lanterns. From the drawing-room ceilings suspend inverted cones of asparagus, and as pendants from these fasten Japanese lanterns. String evergreen around the stair bannisters and halls. Indeed, make of your house, including the dining-room, a sort of fairy bower, on which the Japanese lanterns at happy intervals cast light and color. The orchestra should be hidden in a tiny forest, and their music should be jolly, light, and pretty. Among the numbers have the "Dance of the Flowers" by Tschaikowsky. Follow this with several flower dances. Example, "The Sweet- Pease Waltz." The girls' costumes should be white tarlatan, effectively trimmed with sweet-pease. The boys should have sweet-pea boutonnières. The Pansy Cotillion.—For this dance wear crêpe lissè, tarlatan—indeed, any flimsy material you choose, but it must be one of the pansy colors; and as the pansy has so many shades of brown, yellow, purple, deep rose, etc., the variety which would mingle as the several figures are given would result in a kaleidoscopic effect of color and beauty. Perhaps a few solo dances could be arranged. If so, have a Cowslip dance, when the little maiden should be frocked in pale yellow, or the Heliotrope, with a frock of lilacs. Another might dance the Forget-Me-Not, and wear a gown of blue. While still another dance might be termed the Water-Lily, which would necessitate a frock of white and gold, and the blue and pink water-lilies are comparatively rare. Whichever flower is represented should be worn either on the hair or on the dress. Then should come the Wild-Flower Minuet, when daisies, buttercups, clover, chiccory, violets, honeysuckle, and other wild flowers could vie with each other in the stately, graceful movements. Follow the minuet with the Butterfly promenade and dance. In this a large number should engage, as it is quite proper there should be butterflies flitting from flower to flower. Whatever dance is decided to appropriate to the butterflies, they should select their own partners from any of the flowers they please. The butterflies will wear almost as many colors as the pansies, and silver, gold, or other butterflies should be fastened on their shoulders or on other parts of their costume. THE ATTRACTION OF LEVITATION. BY H. G. PAINE. "Oh, dear!" said little Johnny Frost, "Sleds are such different things! When down the hill you swiftly coast You'd think that they had wings; "But when uphill you slowly climb, And have to drag your sled, It feels so heavy that you'd think 'Twas really made of lead. [Pg 31] "And all because an Englishman, Sir Isaac Newton named, Invented gravitation, and Became unduly famed; "While if he had reversed his law, So folks uphill could coast, It seems to me he would have had A better claim to boast. "Then coasting would all pleasure be; To slide up would be slick! And dragging sleds downhill would be An awful easy trick!" STORIES OF PRESENCE OF MIND. BY DAVID GRAHAM PHILLIPS. IN THE TOWER OF BERKELEY MANOR. Catharine Burton was waiting in the hall, when Dr. Langsdale came from her father's room. "Why don't you obey my orders?" he demanded. "I thought you were in bed an hour ago." "I wanted to hear the latest news," she said, smiling apologetically. "How is he now, doctor?" "Just as before—sleeping. He will come around all right, always provided he has absolute quiet. I am more alarmed about you. You have not slept for two nights, and your nerves are like the strings of a tuned violin. You must go straightaway to bed. And don't neglect taking that sleeping draught I gave you. Now, good-night." And Dr. Langsdale turned into his own room, near Mr. Burton's, so that the nurse could have him at the sick man's bedside in an instant. Catharine went slowly toward her apartments in the tower. Her whole body ached with weariness. Three days before her father was stricken suddenly, and Dr. Langsdale was called by telegram from New York city. She had not slept because, until that afternoon, it was uncertain whether her father would live or die. And he was all she had in the world. Her bedroom was low-ceilinged and quaintly furnished, with three deep windows looking out over the Hudson. Berkeley Manor stood on the very edge of the Palisades, and its tower rose two hundred feet above the rocky shore of the river. She threw herself into one of the huge curving window divans, and, with her eyes upon the village that straggled over the opposite hill, watched its lights vanish one by one. She sat there nearly an hour, and then, remembering the doctor and his medicine, went to her dressing-table. She sat in the chair in front of its low mirror and wondered how she could be so wakeful, how her mind could be so active, when she had been sleepless so long. As she thought, she stared vaguely into the mirror, without seeing anything. It was so turned that there was a reflection of the floor half-way under the big bed. She presently became conscious that two small, bright circles were shining from the darkness under there. "The cat," she thought, looking more closely. She was about to call it, when she saw, a little further down, a streak of brightness. The image in the glass was gradually getting clearer as her eyes grew accustomed. Slowly, but with awful distinctness, she traced the outlines of a man lying under the bed. From the shine of his eyes, she thought he was looking straight at her. She fell back in the chair so that he no longer could see the reflection of her face. She felt as if the blood were leaving the surface of her body and freezing solid around her heart. "I must not faint," she thought, hurriedly. "I must do something. He does not know I have seen him. He thought he was hidden by the darkness. What shall I do? What shall I do?" She went back to the window and leaned far out. There was some comfort even in getting her head out of that room. Her thoughts were running in circles like a flock of bewildered chickens. She could not think of anything definite. Disconnected bits of stories she had read about people in this position raced through her brain, but she could bring back nothing helpful. "I'll ring the bell," she said to herself at last, and half started away from the window. Then she remembered that the bell had been so muffled that its sound would not reach the ears of the sleeping servants. Again her thoughts whirled round and round, getting nowhere. And again a definite idea flashed. "I'll go and lock the door on the outside. He will be locked in. Before he can get the door broken down, I will have them all here." A ROUGH-LOOKING MAN WAS SHAKING HER. This pleased her so much that she was stronger, more courageous. "Yes," she thought, glancing at the key which was on the inside. "I can change it to the outside easily. Where he is lying he cannot see what I am about." She went to the closet and pretended to be searching for something. "Pshaw!" she exclaimed, in a vexed tone, and went on toward the door. Her hand was on the key, when she stopped and shivered. "I forgot father," she thought. "If I lock this man in and go for help there will be a terrible uproar. It will surely awaken father and alarm him. And Dr. Langsdale said that would be fatal. The man will fight, the revolver will go off, and perhaps some one will be killed." Her thoughts were flying straight along and to a purpose as she stood there with the door closed and her hand upon the key. They reached the end in an instant, and she almost smiled, it was so simple. Instead of opening the door she locked it, and tried the handle to make sure. She took the key out and almost ran to the window. She sent the key whirling out over the Hudson. She was shut in with the burglar, behind a door which she could not unlock and he could not easily break down. She fell into the window-seat and lost consciousness. When she opened her eyes a rough-looking man was shaking her. "Where's the key to that door, miss," he said, gruffly. "I threw it out of the window," she answered, her voice trembling. She was looking straight at the man, and his eyes shifted. "What did you do that for?" he asked at last, as if dazed. "I did it on purpose." Her courage was coming back, now that the man was actually before her, the danger actually on. "I saw you under the bed when I was sitting at the table there. My father is sick down stairs. The slightest excitement would kill him. I thought of several things. The only thing to do was to lock you and myself in so that neither could get out. If I had locked you in there would have been a great noise when I brought the others to attack you. If I had locked you in and gone away and left you for the night you would have tried to break the door down some time before morning, and that would have made a noise." The burglar was listening with rage, wonder, admiration following one another in his expression. She was glad to see that wonder and admiration were winning over rage. The idea of what she had done seemed to please him. "Well, I—" He did not finish, which she took as another good sign. He threw himself into a chair, crossed his legs, and put something away in his inside coat pocket. "Thank you," she said, smiling faintly. "I feel much better now." The burglar fidgeted, as he invariably did when she fixed her eyes squarely upon him. "But I don't see, miss," he began —"I don't see how you've helped yourself much, after all. What's to prevent me from breaking that door down?" "Well, I'll explain it to you," she said. She was making desperate efforts to get on friendly terms with him. "You cannot possibly break that door without rousing everybody. There are three men-servants, and there is Dr. Langsdale. They will come up here armed. You cannot kill all of them. One of them will be sure to kill or wound you. And if you are wounded, you will be captured. And if you are captured after killing somebody, why, you'll—I don't know just what the law is." "Why, I'll hang, miss," said the burglar, laughing at his own grim humor. "Well, you don't want to get killed or to hang, do you?" went on Miss Burton. She was now feeling almost at ease. "So this is my offer: If you will stay quietly here until five o'clock, the servants will be astir. I'll ring the bell, and when my maid comes I'll ask her to go and get the extra key and unlock the door. I'll send her away, and take you downstairs and let you out myself. And so that you won't have your night for nothing, I'll give you the hundred dollars I have in my purse in the drawer over there—that, or anything else you want." She was waiting eagerly for his answer, smiling persuasively at him. He kept his eyes down, shifted in the chair, crossed and recrossed his legs. He rose, went to the window, and leaning out, looked down. He came back and stood before her. "How do I know that you will not play a sharp trick on me, and then get me into trouble?" he said, trying to make his voice rough. "I promise that I will deal fairly, if you will. I don't break promises. But if that is not enough, remember, if there were to be any noise, it would kill father." [Pg 32] "I'll go you," he said, after he had looked out of the window again and had examined the heavy door. "And here's my hand on it." Miss Burton, of Berkeley Manor, without hesitating, took the hand of Mr. Burglar. An embarrassing wait of five hours was before them. Under the new excitement she was wide-awake. She realized that she must keep him in good humor. She drew him out, made him tell her about himself, his struggles, his plans, his hopes. And, under the flag of truce, this enemy of society sat at his ease, talking freely, trying to win the approval of the beautiful brave young woman. As the hands of the little clock on the mantel neared five he reminded her, roughly apologizing for keeping her up. She pulled the bell-cord and went on talking to him. At the first quarter past five he got up himself and pulled the cord again. Soon there was a knock. The footman's voice answered the query. "Oh, it's you, John," said the young woman, "Will you get the extra key and unlock the door? I am locked in." When John was heard putting in the extra key Miss Burton motioned the burglar toward the closet. When the door was unlocked she opened it, thanked the footman, and closed it again. Through the half-open closet door she saw that the burglar had his hand in the pocket of his coat. She called him out, pointed toward the pocket and the hidden hand, and smilingly shook her head. The burglar flushed at being caught doubting her, and took his hand out quickly and awkwardly. She got the money from her purse and held it toward him. He hung his head and made no motion to take it. "Take it," she said, gently; "it may help you on to—to some other kind of a life. I give it to you freely. I think you have earned it, in a way." She pressed the money into his hand. She led the way down the stairs, through the deserted hall and the conservatory, and so to the door into the gardens. He hesitated in the doorway, and glanced at her quickly. She held out her hand. "Good-by," she said, smiling frankly and kindly. "And—and—please do the best you can—for my sake." He looked humble and miserable as he just touched her fingers and hurried away. Miss Burton went back to her tower- room. She was tired in mind as well as in body, and she knew that she would sleep soundly without the medicine. Her heart was light. She was thinking that she had saved her father, and, perhaps, another. THE GRIND. BY JULIANA CONOVER. "Look at old Atkins, Sleep, reading again. George! he must be soured on life to do that." "Oh, he's a freak," answered "Sleep" Forsyth, yawning and stretching himself, "or he couldn't glue his nose to an old book while the team was practising. I haven't any use for grinds. Hang this German! 'Meine Mutter ist krank, und mein Vator'—How did the Welsh Rarebit do to-day, Doggy?" "Pretty slick. We worked that new trick in great shape; it ought to be a sure thing against Williston. Well, I suppose I might as well tackle these sentences too. 'My mother's a crank'—nice sentiment that. Do you think Travers keeps his eye on the ball, Sleep? 'Meine Mutter'—Hurrah! there goes the old bell at last!" St. James was not a very large school, averaging only about a hundred and fifty boys, but it had a great football team, whose record was the envy of all the other schools in that part of the country; and yet, though the masters were all intensely interested in its success, they were in the very act, when my story opens, of passing resolutions which might have the most disastrous effect upon the prospects of the season. "I am sorry to be obliged to take this step," said Dr. Langford, the Rector, "but it really seems necessary if we wish to keep up the standard of scholarship in the school. Not only the dull boys, but the bright and naturally studious ones are neglecting their work shamefully, and becoming absolutely demoralized by this craze about football. Would you believe it, Mr. Watson, but Robert Fitzhugh in class to-day actually translated the line, 'Manes indium cursim ludo facto recipiunt,' in this way, 'The hair of the players, the game being finished, immediately received a cutting.'" The masters all laughed, it was so characteristic of the right tackle. "The plan will be worth trying, at all events," continued Dr. Langford. "I fancy, though, it will cause great consternation." And it did. "Wake up, Sleep! Have you heard the game they have sprung on us?" cried Buck Graham, bursting in upon Forsyth. "It's outrageous; it's unconstitutional; it's—it's—low-down," he spluttered, pounding the table with his fist. "They say— Mr. Watson told Travers and Sargent, so it's straight—that the Doctor has made a new rule, and every fellow who doesn't get over sixty in classics will have to stop playing football." [Pg 33] "Well, I'll be—kicked!" ejaculated Sleep Forsyth. "That will finish poor old Buff Miller." "It knocks us all out," said Graham, indignantly, "except the Welsh Rarebit. The fellows are having a mass-meeting in the gym about it now; they're in a fearful way. Come on over, Sleep." The gymnasium was filled with an excited crowd of boys, all talking at once, and breathing out, like Saul of old, threatenings and slaughter. The inherent "meanness" of the new law went without saying, but how to circumvent it was the grave question. "We might send in a petition in good Latin," suggested Fitzhugh. "Yes; you write it," jeered Doggy Parker. "How about 'the hair of the players getting a cutting'? That's the way Fitz translated the sentence about the shades receiving the gladiator after the contest, Atkins," turning to a tall boy who was leaning against the bars, "to the Doctor, too. Wasn't it a bad break? I believe that's the reason he's put up this game on us." "Well, it's all up with football," said Captain Miller, gloomily. "How can any one expect a team to play decently if they have to grind like so many old machines?" "You'd better order patent duplex-burner, double-reflecting spect...