CHAPTER XX.

AN EXCITING RACE FOR LIBERTY.

"What do you suppose it all means?" asked Alaric, as the boat containing the two white men sailed away.

"If it is true, it means that somebody has been fooling us, and you know who he is as well as I do," replied Bonny, who did not care to mention names within Bah-die's hearing. "If I'm not very much mistaken, it means also that he is trying to hold on to us until the cutter comes back. You know they offered him a reward to find us."

"Only twenty-five dollars," interposed Alaric, who could not imagine anybody committing an act of treachery for so small a sum.

"That would be a good deal to some people. I don't know but what it would be to me just now."

"If I had once thought he was after the money," continued Alaric, "I would have offered him twice as much to deal squarely with us."

"Would you?" asked Bonny, with a queer little smile, for his comrade's remarks concerning money struck him as very absurd. "Where would you have got it?"

"I meant, of course, if I had it," replied the other, flushing, and wondering at his own stupidity. "But what do you think we ought to do now?"

"Sail over to Tacoma as quick as we can, and see whether the cutter is there or not. When we find that out we'll see what is to be done next."

"But we may meet John on the way."

"I don't care. That's a good idea, though. I've been wondering how we should get our friend here to agree to the plan." Then turning to Bah-die, and speaking in Chinook, Bonny suggested that as the fishing was not very good and there was a fine breeze for sailing, they should run out into the sound and meet the big canoe on its way back from Tacoma, to which plan the Siwash unsuspectingly agreed.

Half an hour later the swift canoe was dashing across the open sound before a rattling breeze that heeled her down until her lee gunwale was awash, though her three occupants were perched high on the weather side. The city was dimly visible in the distance ahead, and near at hand the big canoe which they were ostensibly going to meet was rapidly approaching. Bonny was steering, and Bah-die held the main-sheet, while the jib-sheets were entrusted to Alaric.

Skookum John had already recognized them, and as they came abreast of him motioned to them to put about; but Bonny, affecting not to understand, resolutely maintained his course. They were well past the other craft, which was coming about as though to follow them, before Bah-die realized that anything was wrong. Then obeying an angry order shouted to him by his father, he let go the main-sheet without warning, causing the canoe to right so violently as to very nearly fling her passengers overboard, and attempted to wrest the steering-oar from Bonny's hand.

Seeing this, and with the desperate feeling of an escaped prisoner who sees himself about to be recaptured, Alaric sprang aft, seized the young Indian by the legs, and with a sudden output of all his recently acquired strength, pitched him headlong into the sea. Then catching the main sheet, he trimmed it in. Down heeled the canoe until it seemed as though she certainly must capsize; but Alaric, looking very pale and determined, held fast to the straining rope, and would not yield an inch.

It was well that he had learned this lesson, and was possessed of the courage to apply it, for the canoe did not gather headway an instant too soon. Bah-die, emerging from his plunge furious with rage, was swimming toward her, and made a frantic attempt to grasp the gunwale as she slipped away. His clutching fingers only missed it by the fraction of an inch, and before he could make another effort the quick-moving craft was beyond his reach. He was too wise to attempt a pursuit, and turned, instead, to meet the big canoe, which was approaching him.

"That was a mighty fine thing to do, Rick Dale!" cried Bonny, admiringly, "and but for you we should be on our way back to that hateful camp at this very moment. Of course they may catch us yet with that big boat, but we've got a show and must make the most of it. So throw your weight as far as you can out to windward, and don't ease off that sheet unless you see solid water pouring in over the gunnel."

"All right," replied Alaric, shortly, almost too excited for words.

Both lads realized that after what had just taken place it would be nearly as unpleasant to fall into the hands of Skookum John as into those of the revenue-men themselves, and both were determined that this should not happen if they could prevent it. But could they? Fast as they were sailing, it seemed to Alaric as though the big canoe rushing after them was sailing faster. Bonny dared not take his attention from the steering long enough even to cast a glance behind. Managing the canoe was now more difficult than before, because they had lost one hundred and fifty pounds of live ballast.

When Alaric looked at the water flashing by them it seemed as though he had never moved so fast in his life, while a glance at the big boat astern almost persuaded him that they were creeping at a snail's pace. It was certain that the long wicked-looking beak of the pursuing craft was drawing nearer. Finally it was so close at hand that he could distinguish the old Indian's scowling features and the expression of triumph on Bah-die's face. The lad's heart grew heavy within him, for the city wharves were still far away, and with things as they were the chase was certain to be ended before they could be reached.

All at once an exclamation from Bonny directed his attention to another craft coming up the sound and bearing down on them as though to take part in the race. It was a powerful sloop-yacht standing toward the city from the club-house on Maury Island, and its crew were greatly interested in the brush between the two canoes.

Either by design or accident, the yacht, which was to windward of the chase, stood so close to the big canoe as to completely blanket her, and so take the wind from her sails that she almost lost headway. Then, as though to atone for her error, the yacht bore away so as to run between pursuer and pursued, and pass to leeward of the smaller canoe. As the beautiful craft swept by our lads with a flash of rushing waters, glinting copper, and snowy sails, a cheery voice rang out: "Well done, plucky boys! Stick to it, and you'll win yet!"

Alaric could not see the speaker, because of the sail between them, but the tones were so startlingly familiar that for a moment he imagined the voice to belong to the stranger who had talked with him on the wharf at Victoria, and whom he now knew for a revenue-officer. If that was the case, they were indeed hopelessly surrounded by peril. He was about to confide his fears to Bonny, when like a flash it came to him that the voice was that of Dave Carncross, whom he had not seen since that memorable day in Golden Gate Park.

Although he had no desire to meet this friend of the ball-field under the present circumstances, he was greatly relieved to find his first suspicion groundless, and again directed his attention to the big canoe, which, although she had lost much distance, was again rushing after them. The boy now noticed for the first time, not more than half a mile astern of her, a white steamer with a dense column of smoke pouring from her yellow funnel, and evidently bound for the same port with themselves.

Soon afterwards they had passed the smeltery, saw-mills, and lumber-loading vessels of the old town, and were approaching the cluster of steamships lying at the wharves of the Northern Pacific Railway, which here finds its western terminus. Off these the yacht had already dropped her jib and come to anchor. The big canoe was again overhauling them, and looked as though she might overtake them after all. A boat from the yacht was making toward the wharves, and Bonny, believing that it would find a landing-place, slightly altered his course so as follow the same direction.

All at once Alaric, who was again gazing nervously astern, cried out: "Look at that steamer! I do believe it is going to run down the big canoe."

Bonny glanced hastily over his shoulder, and uttered an exclamation of dismay.

"Great Scott! It's the cutter," he gasped. "And they are right on top of us. Now we are in for it."

"They are speaking to John, and he is pointing to us," said Alaric.

"Never mind them now," said Bonny. "Ease off your sheet a bit, and 'tend strictly to business. We've still a chance, and can't afford to make any mistakes."

A few minutes later, just as a yawl was putting off from the cutter's side, the small canoe rounded the end of a wharf and came upon a landing-stage. On it the yacht's boat had just deposited a couple of passengers, who, with bags in their hands, were hastening up a flight of steps.

"Here, you!" cried Bonny to one of the yacht's crew who stood on the float, "look out for this canoe a minute. We've got to overtake those gentlemen. Come on, Rick."

Without waiting to see whether this order would be obeyed, the boys ran up the flight of steps and dashed away down the long wharf. They had no idea of where they should go, and were only intent on finding some hiding-place from the pursuers, whom they believed to be already on their trail.

As they were passing a great ocean steamer whose decks were crowded with passengers, and which was evidently about to depart, a carriage dashed up in front of them, so close that they narrowly escaped being run over. As its door was flung open a voice cried out:

"Here, boys! Get these traps aboard that steamer. Quick!"

With this a gentleman sprang out and thrust a couple of bags, a travelling-rug, and a gun-case into their hands. A lady with a little boy followed him. He snatched up the child, and the whole party ran up the gang-plank of the steamer as it was about to be hauled ashore.

Our lads had accepted this chance to board the steamer without hesitation, and now ran ahead of the others. The clerk at the inner end of the gang-plank allowed them to pass, thinking, of course, that they would deposit their burdens on deck and immediately return to the wharf.

With an instinct born of long familiarity with ocean steamers, Alaric made his way through the throng of passengers to the main saloon, and Bonny followed him closely. Here they placed their burdens on a table, and, with Alaric still in the lead, disappeared through a door on the opposite side.

Five minutes later the great ship began to move slowly from the wharf, and our lads, from a snug nook on the lower deck, watched with much perturbation a revenue-officer, who had evidently just landed from the cutter, come hurrying down the wharf.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

A MAY-DAY PLAY.

BY CAROLINE A. CREEVEY AND MARGARET E. SANGSTER.

_Characters:_

QUEEN OF THE MAY. FIRST MAID OF HONOR. SECOND MAID OF HONOR. FIRST MAY-POLE DANCER (_girl_). SECOND MAY-POLE DANCER (_boy_). THIRD MAY-POLE DANCER (_girl_). FOURTH MAY-POLE DANCER (_boy_). THE PHILOSOPHER (_boy_). THE DRUMMER-BOY. THE MESSENGER-BOY. FIRST GUEST (_girl_). SECOND GUEST (_boy_). CLERK OF THE WINDS AND SHOWERS. ROBIN HOOD. MAID MARIAN. FIRST HUNTER. SECOND HUNTER. TITANIA. CALLA-LILY. ROSEMARY. SWEET-WILLIAM.

SCENE.--_A lawn or field. Upon a small raised platform a chair covered with green (the throne) is placed. A drum is heard in the distance. It approaches, and appears upon the stage. Behind the_ Drummer-Boy _in procession march the_ May-Queen, Maids of Honor, May-pole Dancers, Guests, Philosopher, Messenger. _They march two or three times around the stage._

_Drummer-Boy_. Here our long march ends. My lady Queen, behold your rustic throne. Be pleased to grace it, and rest yourself.

_Queen_. But I am not your Queen yet. I have no crown.

_Philosopher_. Madam, 'twere wise to secure your throne. A crown is an empty honor. Better a throne without a crown than a crown without a throne.

_Queen_. But, sweet sir, may I not have them both?

_First Guest_. Lady, thou mayst. Had I a thousand crowns to give, they should be thine.

_Philosopher_. Pity of the head with the weight of a thousand crowns upon it. Under one, the neck is often sorely bent.

_Queen_. There thou art right. One is enough for most mortals. But one I fain would have.

_First Maid of Honor_. Dear Queen, thy crown is here. Trust me, it has not been forgotten. My sister and I will lightly place it on thy brow.

[_The two_ Maids of Honor _hold a wreath over the head of the_ Queen, _who kneels._]

_First Maid of Honor_ } (_in concert_). _Second Maid of Honor_ }

We crown thee Queen of May. Rule gently, fairest maid; Let flowers strew thy way On hill and glen and glade.

[_The_ Maids of Honor _lead the_ Queen _to her throne, and sit on the platform at her feet. Others sit on the grass or stand about her._]

_Messenger-Boy_ (_presents a sceptre_).

Take this sceptre, gracious lady, Hold it with imperial sway. We are watching, only anxious All your bidding to obey.

_Queen_ (_accepting_).

The sceptre is a trust indeed; I'll bear it lightly as a flower; And yet no wand like this I need, So much I trust your hearts this hour.

_First Guest_. Truly a gracious Queen!

_Second Guest_. One worthy of the day and the lovely spring.

_Queen_. Most true and loyal subjects, it is our will that you pass a merry holiday. Leave care behind. Let no one dare to frown. Let all be generous and mirthful. And first let the May-pole dancers come forward. Know ye where a May-pole grows--tall, straight, beautiful?

_All the May-pole Dancers_. We know.

_Queen_. Fetch one, then, right soon. See that it be gorgeously bedecked with flowers and greens and waving streamers. (_Exeunt_ May-pole dancers.) And now we desire to secure a fair day. Come hither, Messenger. Take our love to the Clerk of the Winds and Showers, and beseech his attendance at our May-day festival.

_Philosopher_. Thou must mount to the top of the weather bureau. 'Tis a tall place and hard to climb.

_Messenger_. I can climb. I go then to bid the Clerk of the Winds and Showers to be thy guest. [_Exit._]

_Queen_. And while we wait, let our Master Philosopher here propose us riddles.

_Philosopher_. What is the first flower of the spring?

_First Maid of Honor_. Call'st thou that a riddle?

_Philosopher_. Canst answer?

_First Maid of Honor_. Not I.

_Second Maid of Honor_. Nor I.

_Queen_. Go, then, search and find. Shame upon us if we cannot answer his riddle. (_Exeunt_ Maids of Honor.) And now another, sir, if it please you.

_Philosopher_. What is the first bird that comes from the south and sings to the north in spring?

_First Guest_. Why, that is no better than the other.

_Philosopher_. Canst answer it?

_First Guest_. Not I.

_Second Guest_. Nor I.

_Queen_. Haste, then, fair Guests, go to the forests and find out. Do not let these riddles go unanswered.

[_Exeunt_ Guests.]

_Philosopher_. And now I would ask thy Drummer-Boy a riddle.

_Queen_. Thou mayst ask. Attend, sirrah.

_Philosopher_. Where maketh the bumblebee his nest?

_Drummer-Boy_. I think in the hollow of a tree.

_Queen_. Go, child, find the bumblebee's nest, and answer his riddle.

_Philosopher_. But look not in hollow trees.

[_Exit_ Drummer-Boy.]

_Queen_. Knowest thou thyself the answers to thine own riddles?

_Philosopher_. Madam, a true philosopher finds riddles everywhere, but the answers are harder to get.

_Queen_. Then thou knowest them not. Fie! a child can ask questions.

_Philosopher_. And a fool can answer them. What would your Majesty for a riddle? A play upon words or a silly question? Nay, then, ask not me for riddles.

[_A distant horn is heard._]

_Queen_. Who comes hither? If friends, Sir Philosopher, we will proffer our hospitality. If foes, why, then, we would best retreat. (_Enter two_ Hunters.) Good-day, sirs. Come ye to grace our May-day festival, or do ye come to disturb our holiday?

_First Hunter_. Fair Queen, we had forgot that 'tis the first of May. We were bent on duty stern. But far be it from us to mar the pleasure of the Queen of May.

_Second Hunter_. We marvel that she seems to celebrate in a lone fashion, saving only this old man to attend her.

_Philosopher_. _Old_ man, sayest thou?

_Second Hunter_. Old, I said. Thou art not toothless nor blind, but wise, if I mistake not; and how canst thou be wise and not old?

_Philosopher_. I take no offence. But, sir, I dare say thee now, thou art older than I.

_Second Hunter_. It may be. I too am old. We are all old beside thy lovely Queen.

_Queen_. A flatterer. But what is thy stern duty of which thou didst speak?

_First Hunter_. Our chief hath lost his lady. She did but walk by herself awhile, and hath disappeared. He, her husband, is disconsolate.

_Queen_. Who is this bereft husband?

_First Hunter_. The renowned Prince of the woods--no less a person than Robin Hood.

_Queen_. Ay, we have heard of Robin Hood.

_Philosopher_. And the lost lady is?

_First Hunter_. Maid Marian.

_Queen_. Well, indeed! We sorrow greatly for the Prince. But will not your lord grace our May-day feast with his presence? (_To_ Philosopher.) This is a rare opportunity. We have long wished to see this renowned Robin.

_Philosopher_. The Queen invites Sir Robin Hood to her feast. Will it please you to find him and bring him hither?

_First Hunter_. That we will, right gladly.

_Queen_. And come yourselves.

_Both Hunters_. Thanks, Queen. We will. [_Exeunt._]

_Queen_. Now if only Maid Marian could be found.

_Enter_ Messenger _with_ Clerk of the Winds and Showers.

_Clerk of the Winds and Showers_ (_dropping on one knee_). Your Majesty, thanks for your courtesy. It gives me much pleasure to attend your May-day festival.

_Queen_. Gracious sir, thou honorest us by coming. What is the outlook for the weather?

_Clerk of the Winds and Showers_. Madam, there is a disturbance in the Barbadoes travelling slowly northward. The storm over the lakes is concentrating its energy along the fiftieth parallel of latitude. It will reach Hudson Bay to-morrow evening. Stationary temperature prevails in the Gulf, cloudy to partly cloudy weather, with high barometer, on the Pacific coast.

_Queen_. Sir Philosopher, do you make out a pleasant afternoon?

_Philosopher_. Nay, ask me no weather questions. They are riddles which no man can make out.

_Queen_. We would we knew if the sun would hold till nightfall.

_Clerk of the Winds and Showers_. A violent electric disturbance is noticeable around the north pole.

_Philosopher_. May it shake the north pole to its imperilling. Fellow, why canst thou not give our Queen a straight answer? Will it rain to-day?

_Clerk of the Winds and Showers_. I have given thee the morning bulletins, and thou mayst gather for thyself--that is, if thy wits be not already gone a wool-gathering.

_Queen_. No disrespect. I pray thee. We will hope for the best.

_Enter_ May-pole Dancers _and_ Maid Marian.

_First May-pole Dancer_. Hail, fair Queen! We bring thee a fine pole, tall, straight, well bedecked, as thou didst desire.

_Queen_. You have indeed found a pretty pole. We will ourself join in a dance around it. But whom hast thou here? What stranger lady?

_Second May-pole Dancer_. Dear Queen, this is a lost damsel. She hath become separated from her friends. So we asked her to join our merrymaking, and forget for a time her woes.

_Queen_ (_to_ Philosopher). Mayhap this is the lost maid. I will speak to her. Dear lady, who art thou, and why art thou astray in these woods?

_Maid Marian_. Fair Queen, I am called Maid Marian, but in truth I am the lawful wife of Robin Hood, of whom your Majesty may have heard. I was taking a stroll by myself in the woods, and missed my way, so that I could not return.

_Queen_. Thou art young to be a wife; but I counsel thee not to mourn. Enjoy thyself with us, and it is possible thy husband may find thee. Thou art our honored guest.

_Maid Marian_. Thanks, madam. Could I forget him whom I have lost here in your sweet company, I could be well content.

[_The_ May-pole Dancers _set up the pole, and, catching the streamers, dance around it._]

_May-pole Dancers_.

Merrily, merrily round and round We dance for the purest pleasure; Cheerily, cheerily o'er the ground We tread to a joyful measure.

Happily, happily here we pass, And the blue sky bending o'er us, Tenderly, tenderly, clear as glass, Lists to our lilting chorus.

_Queen_. That is well danced and sung. But here come our Maids of Honor, and with them pretty children.

_Enter_ Maids of Honor, Titania, Calla-Lily, Rosemary, Sweet-William.

_First Maid of Honor_. Dear Queen, we have sought far and near for the answer to the Philosopher's riddle. We bring thee several early spring flowers; but now they are blooming all together, how can we tell which was first?

_Second Maid of Honor_. And as we were looking we found these sweet wood-fairies, and have asked them to join in our mirth to-day.

_Queen_. Right glad am I to welcome you, sweet wood-fairies. How may we call you?

_Titania_.

Call us elves and trolls and fays, Call us friends who love you dear; Down beneath the tree-roots for you We are spinning all the year.

Right gladly I will stay awhile, And bask within the May-Queen's smile, But soon I'll have to flit away; The fairy Queen not _long_ can stay.

_Calla-Lily_.

I bring grace and Parian whiteness, Where I bloom is loveliest brightness.

_Rosemary_.

For remembrance, Queen, am I; Let me in your bosom lie.

_Sweet-William_.

I am always your true knight; I will serve you at your will; Always ready, brave, and steady, Sweet and cheery still.

_Queen_. It is well. And now shall we learn about the flowers?

_First Maid of Honor_. Here are what we have found--anemones, wind-flowers, saxifrages, red columbines.

_Second Maid of Honor_. Claytonias, beauties of spring, and violets soft and yellow.

[_They throw the flowers in the_ Queen's _lap._]

_Queen_. Are these the first?

_Calla-Lily_.

Deep in the shadow, where the pine-trees grow, I found the sweet arbutus, it will blow Where brown leaves lie; you push them soft away, There, shy and pink, the darling flowerets stay.

_Rosemary_.

Blood-root and anemone, These, fair Queen, my gifts to thee.

_Sweet-William_.

I know you love the graceful ferns, The slender maiden-hair; They seem to suit your style, my Queen, So innocent and fair.

_Titania_.

Hepaticas, blue-bells, and buttercups sweet I will weave a rich carpet to lay at your feet. And the sweet nodding grasses and dear blushing clover One day I'll make ready for you to step over; But the first and the coyest of all the sweet flowers Is hepatica, favorite of spring's early hours.

_Philosopher_. Right art thou, Titania. The first and the sweetest flower of spring is the hepatica. (_Enter two_ Guests.) And now methinks we shall hear the reading of the second riddle. Our Guests have returned.

_Queen_. We are glad to welcome you again. Tell us then, what is the bird that first comes from the south and sings to the north?

_First Guest_. The woods are full of birds, and how can we tell which came first?

_Second Guest_. There are sparrows and finches, red-polls, warblers, brown thrushes, and cheery bobolinks. Each one we asked, "Wert thou the first?" and they but cocked their funny little heads one side and warbled sweet notes. How could we tell what they said?

_Calla-Lily_.

You have to learn bird language And live among the dears, And really to know them well Would take a hundred years.

_Titania_.

Song-sparrows and robins and bluebirds bring luck In the very first dawn of the spring.

_Queen_. Here, then, we have thy second riddle answered.

_Sweet-William_.

If the mortals choose to look, Open eyes all secrets read; Nature's page is but a book, Never sealed to those who read.

_Enter_ Hunters _and_ Robin Hood.

_Maid Marian_ (_rushing into_ Robin Hood's _arms_). Oh, my Robin! I truly had thought never to see thy face again, and now thou comest to me.

_Robin Hood_. Poor little lass! Thou wast hunting for me and I for thee. Didst thou not hear these fellows' horns?

_Maid Marian_. My ears were closed with fright and grief. But I will present thee to the lovely May-Queen, and do thou, Robin, kneel and kiss her hand after thy most knightly fashion.

_Robin Hood_. Gracious Queen, thou shalt reckon me one of thy loyal knights and true subjects.

_Queen_. Our thanks, brave Robin. You shall grace our merrymaking. (_Enter_ Drummer-Boy, _crying_.) But now we hear a sound that comports not with merrymaking. What ails thee, child?

_Drummer-Boy_. Madam, do not let Mr. Philosopher send me on more riddle-reading. Truly I have met with many mishaps, yet the bumblebee's nest found I not. I spied a hole in a tree. With much ado I climbed to it and thrust my hand within. Something bit me sorely, so that I cried out with pain and hastened to slide down. A squirrel's saucy eyes peered at me from the hole. Then I would fain have pelted her with a stone, but that she withdrew quickly within her hole.

_Rosemary_ (_picking a leaf_). Boy, give me thy hand. So, I will bind it in this leaf, and the wound will quickly heal. Doubtless the squirrel hath young ones, and looked upon thee as an intruder.

_Philosopher_. Said I not to thee, look not in hollow trees?

_Drummer-Boy_. Too late I remembered that. Well, I wandered on, and soon I saw what I took to be a bumblebee. I followed him till he came to a fence-post, and I saw him enter a little hole. "Here I have him!" said I, and I gave the post vigorous knocks to make him come forth. He did, indeed, and his fellows with him, and I was well stung for my pains.

_Calla-Lily_. What kind of a bee was it that stung thee?

_Drummer-Boy_. A long thin black body had he, and it concealed a wicked needle.

_Calla-Lily_. Thou hast been stung by a mason-wasp. I have some ointment that will take away the pain, and thou shalt anon forget thy adventures.

_Drummer-Boy_. The pain is gone already.

_Titania_. Come here, and I will whisper the answer to the riddle. [_Whispers._]

_Drummer-Boy_. The bumblebee maketh her nest in the ground. She diggeth a long narrow hole, layeth her egg, placeth beside it a lump of pollen and honey, then closeth that cell, and maketh another over it, providing food for the grub in like manner, then closeth that cell, and so on till all her eggs are laid.

_Philosopher_. Well said, boy. Thou hast found a rare teacher.

_Queen_. A gracious teacher, surely. And now shall we gather for the dance?

_Robin Hood_. It were well, my Queen, to proceed with the merrymaking. I see a darkening of the sky in the west, and fear a shower later on.

_Queen_ (_to_ Clerk of the Winds and Showers). Sir, how is that? Did we not desire thee to keep the skies bright?

_Clerk of the Winds and Showers_. There are signs of wet. The barometer is falling, the wind is shifting. But I will telephone to the weather bureau. The storm may be diverted to another quarter. [_Exit._]

_Queen_. We hope he may succeed. Take partners all and form the dance.

[_The_ May-pole Dancers _go about and form the figure for the dance._ Queen _and_ Robin Hood, Maid Marian _and_ Philosopher, Titania _and_ Sweet-William, Calla-Lily _and_ Messenger, Rosemary _and_ Second Guest, First Maid of Honor _and_ First Hunter, Second Maid of Honor _and_ Second Hunter, First Guest _and_ Drummer-Boy, First _and_ Second May-pole Dancers, Third _and_ Fourth May-pole Dancers. _They march and dance around the pole, singing:_]

We dance for love of moving, Our hearts are light and free; What joy in pleasant May-time It is alive to be,

When buds are fast unrolling, And birds are on the bough, And all the world is stepping To merry music now!

We dance, because we cannot Walk soberly and slow When round the flowery May-pole We're moving to and fro.

_Enter_ Clerk of the Winds and Showers.

_Clerk of the Winds and Showers_. Hasten, Queen, and ye merry men and maidens all. The storm cometh. It is at my heels. I have tried, but could not keep it back. Lightning flashes, thunder rolls. The May-day merrymaking must cease.

_Queen_. Alas! where shall we fly for shelter?

_Maid Marian_. Are we so far from our house in the woods, Robin dear?

_Robin Hood_. No, not far. We may go thither and be safe. It is a rustic place, madam, but not a drop shall fall on thy fair head, so we reach it anon. Huntsmen, take your partners and lead the way. Bid prepare a supper for these friends, and we will follow.

[_Exeunt_ Hunters _and partners._]

_Queen_. So the hospitality is from thee, and not from us. Oh, fie! my Clerk of Winds and Showers! Why couldst thou not make the sun shine till we had finished our dance?

_Philosopher_. Grieve not for that which cannot be cured. Meet disappointment with a smiling face, and you turn it into good fortune.

_First Maid of Honor_. Will it not be in the way of pleasant adventure to visit the abode of Robin Hood?

_Queen_. You are right. It will make our day the merrier. And after the storm there may be time to tread another dance before we go to our homes. Follow, all, and let us run a race with the gathering clouds.

[_Exeunt omnes, except_ Clerk of the Winds and Showers.]

_Clerk of the Winds and Showers_. Curious. That's the fifth time the weather bureau has had it wrong this week. That storm now, in the lake region. It should have passed to the north. There was no word sent to us of "local showers." Think I'll take a dance around the pole myself. (_Dances._) It seems to be growing lighter. That shower is not coming here, after all. See, it is passing by to the north. They will come back and have another dance. And they will thank me for my good offices in their behalf. After all, the weather reports are occasionally correct.

[CURTAIN.]

TOMMY ON NATURE.

The blossoms ripple in a sea About the garden way, And on that old black apple-tree, With bluebirds more than gay,

I watch those fragrant flakes of snow That tremble in the air, And in the breezes softly blow, And frolic here and there.

I think that Nature is too slow-- For she that blossom spray Should turn to apples all aglow, And do it right away.

R. K. MUNKITTRICK.

A LITTLE HERO.

Ruggsy was black, and it would have been a difficult matter to discern him in the dark tunnel of the mine were it not for the little flickering lamp he carried, and his occasional "Go 'long there, Lazybones!" that he addressed to his patient mule. Ruggsy drove a tram-car through the tunnels of a coal mine, and all his little life was wrapped up in the mule, the miners, and the click of their picks. But Ruggsy is a hero, and the way he became one is best told as he describes it:

"You see, boss, it wuz jes like this. De mule an' I wuz er workin' up towards de upper gallery on de steep grade when Ise heerd a rumblin'. Ise knew what dat meant. One of dem trams had slipped de brake, an' wuz er comin' down de grade mighty fast. Tell yer, boss, Ise wuz er scared little nigger. Way down de grade, in de narrow part, der wuz er lot er men widenin' de tunnel, an' Ise knew de car would be on dem befo' dey could get outen de way. Ise hit ol' Lazybones er smash wid de whip, an', he! he! dat wuz funny! He neber felt it dat way befo', yer see. He gib an awmighty kick, an' started pullin' like mad. Yer see, dere wuz a switch 'bout a short bit ahead er me, and er blind sidin' ran offen it. If Ise could get dere befo' de tram got dere, Ise could throw de switch an' send her plum into de wall at de end o' de sidin'. But, boss, I's mos' frightened; dat rumblin' was growin' louder an' louder, and Ise spect dat Ise would be too late. Ise could see it er comin', an' old Lazybones saw it, an' he done gone an' balked, a thing he neber done befo'. Ise jumped off de car an' ran as fast as Ise could to de switch. It wuz stiff, an' Ise tugged at it till de car wuz on me. Ise felt a smash an' Ise knew de switch turned, but somethin' hit me. Say, boss, when Ise come to dey had me up to de surface, an' all de whole crowd er miners wuz up dere too. Dey cheered like dey does 'lection-times. I wuz hurt bad, but Ise been a hero eber sence, an' de foreman gib me a job up here in de engine-room."

FROM CHUM TO CHUM.

BY GASTON V. DRAKE.

XIII.--FROM BOB TO JACK.

PARIS.

MY DEAR JACKY,--Did I say London was a circus? If I did, this place is two of 'em. And I tell you what, one of the queerest things in the world is to get into a country where people speak another language, even the children. Pop says there's even such a thing as French baby talk. It seems awful queer to ask a fellow what time it is in just the simplest way you know how, and have him look as if you'd asked him a question in algebra that he hadn't ever studied about. And yet that's happening all the time. They don't even understand the word Hullo; and Pop says some of 'em don't know French very well either, because he'd tried some of his on them, and they've just stood still and looked blank at him. I don't know what I'd do if Pop hadn't hired a courier to look after things. Ma said she didn't think a courier was necessary, but Pop said he thought he was. "You can talk French well enough to make yourself understood," Ma said. "I know that," said Pop, "but these French can't. If I want to go to the Luxemburg in a hurry I can ask a John Darm the way, but when he tells me, I have to sit down on the curb-stone for an hour or two and get out my pocket dictionary to translate what he says into English so that I can make use of his information." "But a courier is expensive," said Ma. "Three dollars a day," said Pa, "and I waste fifteen dollars' worth of nerves every hour going on as we do now." So we took him. His name is Jules and he's a dandy. He can speak all languages except Chinese and a few others, and he's a native of France and Germany. He was born in Alsace when it was French, which made him French, and now Alsace is German, which makes him German. That gave him two tongues to start with and he's picked up all the others since that time. His English is splendid, but as Pop says a little unexpected sometimes because he's got some of his words out of a slang dictionary, like corker for instance. When Pop asked him if there were any fine pictures to be seen anywhere he said the Luxemburg was full of "shay doovers--or as ze English say it has in it the very best corkers of modern times."

He's a fine fellow, Jules is, and for exciting times he can beat Sandboys and Chesterfield. He's seen a bull-fight in Spain and if he hadn't learned how to play leap-frog when he was a boy he'd have been killed at it, because the bull got loose and came straight for him, being angered by Jules's red necktie. His first impulse was to run, but when he saw how fast the bull was coming he knew he wouldn't have any chance in a running match, so he just stood still and the minute the bellering beast came within reach he grabbed hold of his horns and leap-frogged right over his back. The bull stopped short and kept gazing round the sky after him, thinking he'd tossed him and intending to catch him on his way down, and while this was going on Jules pulled the sword out of his cane, crept around in front and stabbed him to the heart. So you see leap-frog isn't such a waste of time after all, though I don't know what we could use it for at home unless it was to escape from a cable car, and that would be pretty hard work unless you were ten feet high.

We first met Jules at the railway station. The proprietor of the hotel sent him to see that we got through the French custom-house all right. I guess maybe he knew that we weren't quite used to the French language and that Jules would help us out and it was a good thing he did because I never saw Pop so excited as he was when we got here. He wasn't feeling well anyhow. We'd all been so awfully seasick crossing the British Channel that Pop hadn't time on board to be seasick himself, so he'd saved up a headache for the land. Then he was pretty mad at a French waiter at Calais who was such an idiot he didn't know what eggs were even in his own language. Pop asked him for uffs eight times and the fellow couldn't understand until finally Pop got mad and grabbed up a half a dozen buns and made a rush for the train forgetting to pay, with the waiter and a John Darm after him. We got the row all straightened out after a little while, but Pop couldn't get over it all the afternoon, and finally when he reached Paris he was ready to fight the whole French nation, and I heard Ma tell Aunt Sarah she was glad he didn't know enough French to insult anybody with it because she didn't want to have any trouble. And then Jules turned up and took charge of us all, even Pop. Pop didn't know who he was at first, but Jules told him, and then Pop got calm again and didn't want to fight anybody.

I have a sort of an idea that Jules is really a duke in disguise, because everybody sort of gives up to him. The custom-house people as soon as they saw Jules with our trunks never said a word but past 'em right through, and all he did was to shake hands with 'em for their trouble. Then we got in a fakir and rode to the hotel. Ma and Aunt Sarah and the children had gone ahead in an omnibus. Fakir is French for hack. They generally have only one horse and are open like a phaeton, with a little seat for boys just behind the driver. The drivers all have red faces and wear beaver hats made of patent leather some of 'em white but mostly black, and even when they cheat you they're awful cheap.

Pop tried some of his French on our driver on the way and you'd ought to have seen Jules try to keep his face straight. The driver looked amused too but Pop said he understood his French better than any other man he'd found yet in France.

"Yes, sir," said Jules. "I haf no doubt. Ze coshay he is vat you call a Irrishman."

The Paris streets are fine. They're so clean you could fall down and get up cleaner than you were when you fell and everybody's as polite as a dancing master. The hotel keeper acted as if we were some long lost relatives that he knew by the strawberry marks on our arms, he was so glad to see us, and when we went up to our rooms where the rest of the party already were, we found Ma and Aunt Sarah in a gorgeous parlor with fresh flowers on the centre table, but they still had their things on.

"We don't want this do we?" said Ma.

"Why not?" said Pop. "I think it's very nice."

"But it must be a million a day," said Ma.

"Oh no," said Pop. "I fixed that. It isn't any more expensive than back rooms on the top floor of a Yonkers hotel."

"All right," said Ma, taking off her coat and hat. "If that's so, I think we'll need two more rooms."

That shows you how very cheap everything is here.

To-morrow Jules is going to take us to see Napoleon's tomb, and I'll tell you about that and other things when I write again. I'm going out now with Pop to take a bicycle ride in the Boys de Bologna which is French for Central Park.

Good bye then for the present.

BOB.

THE ONE-MILE WALK.

From Instantaneous Photographs of Phillips, the Harvard University Walker.

The only artificial event now remaining on the Inter-collegiate card, and on the cards of the more important interscholastic associations, is the mile walk; and there is good reason to believe that within a year or two this will be relegated, with the standing-high-jump and the high-kick and the tug-of-war, to those regions whence acrobatic performances never return. Nothing in this life is worth doing or working at unless it is for some useful purpose, or unless there is an advantage to be gained by some one in its successful accomplishment. If the man who labors at becoming proficient in the mile walk does so because he believes he can afford amusement to the crowd in the grand stand by his acrobatics, very well. It is commendable to desire to add to the gayety of nations. But if he trains at walking--I am speaking now strictly of the heel-and-toe method--because he thinks he is doing athletic work, he is deluding himself.

Nothing, however, that is said here derogatory to _artificial_ walking, as practised by the athlete, should be construed as reflecting in any way upon _natural_ walking. There are few exercises for the general run of men any better than walking--walking across country at a natural gait, head up, chest out, toes turned out, and arms swinging easily at the sides. Such walking is natural and healthful. "Athletic" or "heel-and-toe" walking--exaggerated stride, heel pounding, toeing in, and all that--is artificial, and of no particular benefit. It is not harmful, of course, because it is exercise, and all normal exercise is beneficial.

The true test of the value of any field or track event is that of common-sense. For instance, it is well to learn to run 100 or 220 yards at great speed, because there are frequent occasions when it is necessary to cover those distances in quick time. It is well to train for quarter-mile and half-mile running, because if one wants to go to any place distant a half a mile of so, the quickest way to get there unaided is to run. It is the same way with the mile or the three-mile run. If you come to a brook, you use your knowledge of the running broad jump to get over it--not the standing broad jump. If you want to clear a fence (to escape a bull, for instance) you try the running high jump--not the standing high jump. If it is a high wall, and you have any knowledge of the pole vault, you likewise have an advantage. Hurdle-racing teaches you to get across country fields and fences, and both the hammer and the shot events on the card give good training for emergencies that may arise.

But there is no emergency that I can think of where proficiency in the mile walk would be of the slightest service. When it becomes necessary to travel a mile, running is by far the easier and the faster gait. There is no good word of any kind, so far as I know, to be said, for the mile walk. Yes, I will make one exception: it is a great thing for the digestion. I recommend it to dyspeptics! The rolling motion of the hips keeps the digestive organs in such constant exercise that they cannot become stagnant, and so perhaps for the American nation a little heel-and-toe now and then may be of value. But still, there are less acrobatic methods of helping the digestion than mile-walking.

However, so long as mile-walking is an acknowledged feature of athletic meetings, we must recognize it--with a protest--and set down here a few hints as to how to go to work to cover the ground in the most approved fashion. The muscles that require the greatest development for walking are the abdominal and the fore-thigh muscles. Training should be begun, as soon as the snow is off the ground, by taking walks across country. Begin, of course, by taking short walks, in order to inaugurate a general hardening process, and each day, when you come to a good stretch of road, try two or three hundred yards of strict heel-and-toe walking, giving especial attention to acquiring the free and rolling motion of the hips. This motion is very clearly shown in illustration No. 3. To become a successful walker it is absolutely necessary to be loose and supple about the hips. The novice will notice pains about the abdomen at first, but he need not feel in any way alarmed. He has not caught cold. He has merely set some muscles to work that are not usually called upon to exert themselves under ordinary circumstances, and for a week or two they will feel sore and lame.

After a week of general unlimbering, the walks should be extended, and distances between five and ten miles should be covered. In all this walking the athlete must train himself to set his foot down straight, for walkers may not toe out. At the end of two or three weeks begin the alternate work as has been told of in the previous papers about the running events--that is, one day take a ten-mile walk at an easy gait, and the next day take a three-mile walk as fast as you can travel, and keep this up until you are ready to go on the track. But always rest on Sunday. One day's rest out of seven is imperative.

When work on the track begins, form is the principal thing to devote your attention to. Take long, slow walks around the cinder-path, putting the feet down straight and firmly, and devote all your energy to acquiring an easy stride, and, as far as possible, a long, swinging one. Work at the hip motion until you are master of it, and train yourself in the swinging of the arms until these become a means of assistance rather than an annoyance.

The only way to acquire speed in walking is to "sprint" (not a running sprint, but a walking sprint) from 100 to 200 yards. Here again alternate work should be done, that is, walk half or three-quarters of a mile and rest; then walk half a mile one day, and on the alternate days do short sprints several times, with rests in between. Don't try to go a mile at speed until you have been at work several months. After the first couple of weeks it may be well to take a trial half or quarter on time, but this should never be done oftener than once in a week or ten days. When you have gotten into condition at the end of four or five months, try a mile on time; but thereafter never attempt to go the full distance at speed more frequently than once in ten days or two weeks.

The costume for walking is the same as for running, except that the shoes have no spikes. The heels, too, are somewhat different, being built with a slight projection of the sole at the back, so as to make the constant pounding on the heels less severe. It seems almost needless to say here that walking differs from running in that one of the athlete's feet must be constantly on the ground; he must not lift the rear toe until the forward heel has struck, and the rear knee must lock. The illustrations show the rear knee locked in every instance. By speaking of the knee as "locked," is meant that the joint is closed.

In a race it is always well to take the lead, if possible, and walk your own mile. Before going into a contest the athlete ought to know pretty well how fast he can cover his distances, and he should disregard his competitors as much as circumstances will allow. Walking has fallen somewhat into disrepute of late, because unscrupulous athletes, proficient in the heel-and-toe method, can frequently run without apparently altering their form, and when the Judge of Walking is not at their very heels they travel rapidly but unfairly over the course. But this is not sport.

In the next issue of the ROUND TABLE will appear the last descriptive paper on track athletics of the series which has been running from time to time in this Department during the past winter. The subject will be the pole vault, and the illustrations have been made from instantaneous photographs of C. T. Buchholz, the inter-collegiate champion. All the articles and illustrations of this series, with many additional pictures, have been collected, and will be published early next month in a book to be called _Track Athletics in Detail_. This volume will be the first of a collection of books on all branches of amateur athletic sport, to be known as "HARPER'S ROUND TABLE Library of Sports."

The Pittsburg I.S.A.A. has done a very wise thing in limiting the entries for its games on June 6th to two representatives from each school. But even with such a restricted field I fear it will take the officials well into the night before they can get through, for the schedule includes fifteen events. Among these we have one circus feature--the hop, step, and jump. Four of the numbers on the card are to be bicycle-races. Through some process of reasoning, which I should be interested in having explained, the Pennsylvanians have adopted a scoring system of 3 points for first place, 1 for second, and 0 for third. I refer the Pittsburg I.S.A.A. officials to this Department in the issue of March 31st, where they will find a few paragraphs on the subject of scoring by points. I think they must acknowledge the arguments offered there to be just.

The notable feature of the Trinity School games, a week ago Friday, was Hipple's performance in the mile run. His time was 4 min. 48-2/5 sec. This breaks the scholastic record of 4 min. 55-4/5 sec., made by Tappin at the Poly. Prep. games last year, and is also better than Southwick's interscholastic record of 4 min. 52 sec.

The next few weeks will be crowded with interesting events to all lovers of interscholastic sport, and we may count on hearing of smashed records from every quarter. In a little over two weeks the New York and Long Island I.S.A.A.'s will be holding their field meetings, and then will come the Inter-City games; and then, before we know it, it will be time for the National meet. Before that, however, all the interscholastic associations in the East will have held their games, and perhaps we shall be able to form some kind of opinion as to where the national championship will go. It looks now as if it would go to Boston, but this is only a very rough guess, and I do not offer it in any way as a prophecy--but merely as a suspicion.

No trophy has been provided yet for this National championship. It is very important that there should be one, and the graduates of the schools ought to bestir themselves to collect a sufficient sum of money for the purchase of a suitable cup. I am very much afraid, however, that there is no single graduate with enough enthusiasm for the welfare of school sport to devote his time and energy toward persuading others to subscribe for a trophy, and even if there were he would have such a limited time in which to exercise his efforts that he would doubtless not be able to obtain a large enough subscription for his purpose. The cup which shall represent the National Interscholastic Championship ought to be as good as any of its kind, and ought to be put up for a number of years--say ten--and each year the name of the winning league should be inscribed upon it, the trophy to finally go to that association having its name upon it the greatest number of times. Further, I think that if such a cup were offered by the graduates, the National Association ought to award each year to the winning league a miniature cup of the same pattern, as a special evidence of that year's victory.

It would be far more to the interest of sport to have a valuable trophy of this kind to be contested for by the leagues, with small tokens only for individual prizes. Let the contest be among the league teams rather than among the individuals of the associations.

The tennis season is likewise upon us. Next Saturday will see the Harvard, Yale, Princeton, and Columbia interscholastic tournaments in full swing. There will also be an interscholastic tournament in Chicago, and it is possible that the winner may go to Newport for the championships.

The baseball season of the New England League began last Friday, and although it is too early yet to tell much about the various teams, it looks as if there would be some pretty good ball put up this season. Both C. H. & L. and Hopkinson's, who tied last year for first place, have strong nines. Lochman, who was the best catcher in the league last year, will take first base this season, and let Columbus go behind the bat. John Clarkson is to pitch, and his brother will play third. Both are brothers of the well-known professional pitcher, and ought to have baseball blood in their veins. Saul, captain of last year's victorious football eleven, is going into the field, and is counted on to do some batting.

For Hopkinson's, Captain Dickson will hold his old position of short-stop. Stillman is to pitch, and Carlton, who played half-back on the eleven, will catch him. Hallowell, also a member of last year's eleven, will look after left field. New men mostly will be tried for the other positions.

It seems necessary to repeat that no answers can be given in these columns to anonymous correspondents.

J. E. DOWNING, LOCUST VALLEY, N. Y.--In training for any kind of athletic event it is best not to eat sweets or pastry of any kind; but the most important thing is to take your meals at regular hours, and not to eat between meals.

THE GRADUATE.

This Department is conducted in the interest of stamp and coin collectors, and the Editor will be pleased to answer any question on these subjects so far as possible. Correspondents should address Editor Stamp Department.

About six months ago a 10c. Baltimore stamp on bluish paper was shown in Boston. This unique copy was badly damaged, and when offered at auction a short time ago failed to realize the reserve price of $1500 which was placed on it. The great find of St. Louis stamps in Louisville, Ky., last winter, stimulated every owner of old correspondence in that city to overhauling the same. Some good stamps were found, among them a 10c. Baltimore on white paper. This stamp has been sold to a New York collector for $4500, the largest price ever paid for a single stamp. The New Haven envelope sold for $2000, and one of the largest dealers in New York has since offered $3000 for it, or for a duplicate equally as good, but without success.

The Canadian 15c. now current has been withdrawn, and probably will not be reprinted. Collectors here, looking over their duplicates, find that they have very few copies. It will probably be scarce and advance rapidly in value.

England is about to issue stamps surcharged O. W. for the use of the officials in the "Office Works" department. As but few copies will be used, these stamps will be much sought after.

Z.--The 1872 U.S. 12c. is worth 60c.; the 24c. is worth $2; the 40 centavos Costa Rica official, $1.

C. BROODSTONE.--There is no duty on stamps imported into the U.S. I cannot give names of societies, officers, etc.

NORMAL, ILL.--Your coin is a Spanish half-dollar. They were largely used in this country before the war, and hence are quite common.

H. M. C.--The Continental note is a curiosity, but has very little monetary value. Most of the notes can be bought of dealers at 10c. to 25c. each.

PHILATUS.

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This Department is conducted in the interest of Bicyclers, and the Editor will be pleased to answer any question on the subject. Our maps and tours contain much valuable data kindly supplied from the official maps and road-books of the League of American Wheelmen. Recognizing the value of the work being done by the L. A. W., the Editor will be pleased to furnish subscribers with membership blanks and information so far as possible.

Resuming our route to Buffalo, leave Richmond Hotel at Batavia, run a little south of west across the river, and keep to the right for a few rods, taking the middle fork a short distance out where three roads converge. Follow this turnpike, which is called the Buffalo road, direct to Corfu, eleven miles from Batavia; thence, following the same straight road, proceed five miles further on to Crittenden, and thence three and one-half miles further on to Peters Corners. This Buffalo road runs a little south of west almost in a straight line from Batavia to Buffalo, and it is possible to keep to it all the way into the city; but from Peters Corners on it is not in nearly as good condition as the road which is marked as the best route. Up to Peters Corners it is hard clay, level, and in dry weather makes excellent bicycle-riding. It is not so good in rain, however. The rider is advised to take the right fork at Peters Corners, and run out through Mill Grove to Bowmansville, which is seven miles from Peters Corners. From Bowmansville keep slightly to the right, and afterwards to the left over a bridge, and cross the railroad; continue on through Shultz Corners and Pine Hill to the city line, where asphalt pavement begins; thence proceed down Genesee Street to the corner of Main Street, where the rider may put up either at the Genesee or Iroquois Hotel. The distance from Batavia to Buffalo is thirty-seven miles, and if you have reached Buffalo you have done at least 461 miles since leaving New York.

For any bicyclist, whether he lives in New York, Albany, Utica, Syracuse, or Rochester, or anywhere along the route given in the last few weeks, this tour, either towards Buffalo or towards New York, is one of the best that can possibly be taken in this part of the United States. It is the long route which is most patronized by wheelmen. Consequently people are more likely to receive and more glad to see bicyclists; the hotels are more accustomed to them, and the facilities are greater than along any other route in the United States of similar length. And these stages, as given in this Department, will be well worth the study of any wheelman who has had some little experience in short runs, and who wants to spend his vacation during the coming summer by taking a somewhat more extended trip. If he runs out through Albany and over the route as explained to Buffalo, and wishes to return to New York, it will be well for him to take the route through New Jersey and Pennsylvania, which, perhaps, may be given some time in the future in the Bicycling Department. No one nowadays can find a better way to put in a two weeks' vacation than by doing some such nine-hundred-mile run as this. He need not ride every day. He may take it easily, running ninety or one hundred miles in a day, if he feels in condition for such riding, or he may stick to the thirty-mile distance marked on these charts.

NOTE.--Map of New York city asphalted streets in No. 809. Map of route from New York to Tarrytown in No. 810. New York to Stamford, Connecticut in No. 811. New York to Staten Island in No. 812. New Jersey from Hoboken to Pine Brook in No. 813. Brooklyn in No. 814. Brooklyn to Babylon in No. 815. Brooklyn to Northport in No. 816. Tarrytown to Poughkeepsie in No. 817. Poughkeepsie to Hudson in No. 818. Hudson to Albany in No. 819. Tottenville to Trenton in No. 820. Trenton to Philadelphia in No. 821. Philadelphia in No. 822. Philadelphia-Wissahickon Route in No. 823. Philadelphia to West Chester in No. 824. Philadelphia to Atlantic City--First Stage in No. 825; Second Stage in No. 826. Philadelphia to Vineland--First Stage in No. 827; Second Stage in No. 828. New York to Boston--Second Stage in No. 829; Third Stage in No. 830; Fourth Stage in No. 831; Fifth Stage in No. 832; Sixth Stage in No. 833. Boston to Concord in No. 834. Boston in No. 835. Boston to Gloucester in No. 836. Boston to Newburyport in No. 837. Boston to New Bedford in No. 838. Boston to South Framingham in No. 839. Boston to Nahant in No. 840. Boston to Lowell in No. 841. Boston to Nantasket Beach in No. 842. Boston Circuit Ride in No. 843. Philadelphia to Washington--First Stage in No. 844; Second Stage in No. 845; Third Stage in No. 846; Fourth Stage in No. 847; Fifth Stage in No. 848. City of Washington in No. 849. City of Albany in No. 854; Albany to Fonda in No. 855; Fonda to Utica in No. 856; Utica to Lyons in No. 857; Lyons to Batavia in No. 858.

This Department is conducted in the interest of Girls and Young Women, and the Editor will be pleased to answer any question on the subject so far as possible. Correspondents should address Editor.

Can I tell you how to go about learning to write a story? Well, my dear Lucie, I would do so if I could, but unless the story comes to you of its own accord, I fear there is no chance of your ever being able to write it. You may acquire the art of writing essays and poetry and letters; but stories are like visits from the fairies or the angels, and they must come floating in at your open windows and doors, like flower-seeds carried by the wind. The story-writer is born, not made.

In a general way, however, there is this to be said: Let a story tell itself naturally, and do not waste your time on an introduction. Begin at the beginning, and stop when you get through. I have said before, and I here repeat the advice, to read good books. Every girl who has an ambition to write should form her style by reading the best books and thinking them over. A very good plan is to make an abstract of every book you read, and to copy parts you like into a common place-book of your own.

Now for something quite different.

I am asked by a girl friend to give my opinion about a pretty foot. Is it a short or a long foot, a broad or a narrow one, and do I recommend a particular shoe. How is one to avoid ingrowing nails, corns, and bunions?

My dear child, these painful deformities are caused, as a rule, by ill-fitting shoes. A shoe too short for the foot or a very high heel will cause an ingrowing toe-nail, a source of endless trouble and suffering. Wear low heels, and have your shoes a little longer than your feet, and you will not be troubled by bunions, which are swellings of the joints. Change your stockings very often, and bathe the feet twice a day to prevent corns. A pretty foot is a foot in the right proportion to the rest of the figure. It is not always a small foot. Indeed, a tall, large girl should not care for a foot fit only for a wee midget who needs a tiny boot and an elfin slipper. Never be ashamed of the size of your foot, but keep your shoes and boots in the nicest possible order.

Be very careful about buttons. A shoe with one or two yawning spaces where all should be neatness and trimness gives a disagreeable impression of its wearer. Whenever you can manage it, have several pairs of shoes at a time. They last much longer if relieved by one another; and when not in use keep your shoes in a box or bag away from dust, and with tissue-paper stuffed inside their toes to preserve their shape. Wear the nicest stockings you can procure. It is true economy to purchase the best foot-gear one can afford.

MARGARET R. B.--I prize your beautiful little letter, and am very glad that you like Eugene Field's verses. Do you like Stevenson's _Child Garden of Verse_? I hope so.

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A STORY OF STRIFE.

FIRST-PRIZE STORY.

BY F. M. MACNAUGHTON.

Was Jake Lawson a coward? Well, according to Strife Settlement standards there could be but one answer to that question, for how could a boy be anything else who was afraid of the river? The river! Why, the Strife babies were almost born in it. Its roaring was the first sound they heard. It was the lullaby that hushed them to sleep, and the morning call that wakened them. Ask any Strife boy what was the first sight he remembered, and he would say the river. Ask him when he learned to swim, find ten to one he could not tell you. Every boy in Strife learned to swim very soon after he learned to walk, and thenceforth lived almost as much in the water as out. Jake, the youngest of the four stalwart sons of Lawson, the lumberman, had done as the others--bathing, swimming, fishing, paddling--till the day when he had stood on the rocks overhanging the Big Rapid and seen his brother Jim drowned. To shoot this rapid was the ambition of every boy living within a day's journey of it, and one day Jim, then in his thirteenth year, said to eight-year-old Jake, "I am going to shoot the Big Rapid to-day, and if you want to see me you can run down to the rocks." So little Jake had trotted off, not for a moment doubting his brother's ability to successfully accomplish this or anything else he undertook. What could not Jim do? The handsome, strongly built, daring boy was the idol of the rather delicate little brother, and Jake stood on the rocks in fancy already announcing to his playmates that Jim had run the rapid, a feat not yet performed by any boy of his age. But poor Jim had undertaken a task beyond him this time, and Jake, looking helplessly down, had seen the canoe overturned and his brother swept away by the rushing, foaming waters. Once his head appeared above the current, and Jake fancied he caught an imploring look in the dark eyes, and then he remembered no more. When a Strife boy is missed he is sought by the river-side, and there Jake was finally found unconscious. A serious illness followed, and since then his dread of the river had been unconquerable.

The Lawsons mourned their son in their rough way, and when the bruised and battered body was recovered there were sad scenes in their humble home. But there were seven other children, and as time passed Jake's affliction, for so they considered it, was perhaps the greater trial. In the lumber region a boy who is not as much at home in the water as on the land is not worth much to his family, and Jake could give little or no assistance in the labor by which the family bread was gained. To his mother, who was often weak and ailing, he was of great assistance, there being as yet no grown daughter in the Lawson household; but the shame of his position preyed upon him. He knew that in the settlement he was an object of pity if not of contempt. He could fancy that the younger boys pointed at him as "that no-account Jake Lawson, skeered of the water and only fit to help women folk." And he knew that to strangers who came out to fish he was mentioned as the one boy over fifteen who had never shot the Big Rapid. He made many efforts to overcome his timidity, even "wrestling in prayer," but no help came. He used to force himself to go down to the banks of the Strife and watch the swirling, writhing, tossing waters, only to return with an access of terror. Why! the rapid seemed to him possessed of life! It was a very demon with teeth and claws, continually roaring for prey. Fierce eyes seemed to glare at him out of the foam, and shadowy arms to stretch towards him. At this stage he commonly turned and ran, only too thankful if he could gain home unobserved by the settlement boys.

He had one comfort. Education was not much thought of in the rough-and-ready backwoods family; "but bein' as Jake is so unlike other folks," said his father, "he might as well try to get a little larnin'. It's not as though we could ever make a man of him, so I don't keer so much about his spendin' his time; and they do say that book stuff sometimes comes in handy. I don't know nothin' about it, but if Jake can make a show anywhere let him get his chance." So, though the village school was six miles distant, Jake managed to attend pretty regularly for several years. The schoolmaster, who also did the little doctoring required in the settlement, took a great interest in the boy, in whom he soon discovered an unusual aptitude for study. He taught him many things not usually included in a village school course, and Jake while studying with him forgot his misery, but at home he could not get away from it. The roaring of the Strife seemed often like a voice proclaiming his cowardice. Sometimes he fancied that even strangers must hear it shouting "There goes Jake Lawson; he is a coward, coward, coward!" About this time his dream was to do some heroic deed and then die. Once owned brave, he would be too happy to live.

One afternoon he was feeling unusually depressed. A good job of lumbering at a distant drive had offered, and his brothers, with all the men able to work, had gone off gayly in the morning. Unusually good wages were offered, and old Lawson, who had been prevented from going with the others on account of a badly sprained ankle, had been unable to conceal his vexation that Jake could not join the party. He had said a few bitter words that the son could not forget, and then hobbled off to the yard. He had not been gone ten minutes when Jake heard a fall and a cry, and, rushing out, found that his father had stumbled over a log of wood, and, falling on an axe he was carrying, had made a terrible gash in his arm. By the spurting of the blood Jake knew at once that an artery had been severed. Without an instant's hesitation he tore open his father's shirt-sleeve and grasped his arm, pressing firmly against the inner edge of the biceps muscle, calling loudly at the same time for his mother. Mrs. Lawson came in haste and uttered a scream when she saw the quantity of blood that had already flowed from the cut, which was just above the elbow.

"Do not be frightened, mother," said Jake. "Father has cut himself badly, but I know just what to do. Please take the lace out of his shoe and give it to me."

The stout leather lace was handed to Jake, who bound it firmly round his father's arm above the wound, making a deep pressure, and explaining quietly to his mother, just as Dr. Barnes had to him, why this must be done. "And now, mother," said he, when Mr. Lawson had been helped into the house, "I must leave you and go for the doctor at once; but remember that the pressure _must_ be kept up. I do not think that the bleeding will begin again, but if it does do not get frightened, but tie a fresh cord, bringing the knot just over the same place. Tilly," addressing his twelve-year-old sister, who had stood by, "help mother all you can. Keep up your courage, father. Good-by."

He snatched up his hat and hurried out. By the road it was six miles to the village, and a mile in an opposite direction to the nearest place where he might hope to get a horse. And there were many chances that the horse might be away at work. No, he must walk, and it would be over two hours before he could bring help to his father, whose situation he knew to be critical. But there was one other way. If he went by the river the swift current would land him at the doctor's door in half an hour. It must be by the river, and he resolutely took the side path leading down to the pool where the boats were kept. A thought struck him that for a moment stayed his feet. He might not get through, and then no help would reach his father. It might be his duty to take the road, after all, unless a messenger could also be sent that way. But at that moment he sighted a boy who could be sent. Benny Masters, a ten-year-old boy, and one of the swiftest runners in the village, sat idly rocking in one of the boats.

"Benny," said Jake, "will you do something for me? Father has cut himself very badly. He may bleed to death. So I am going down to the doctor's by the river; it is father's best chance, but some one ought to go by the road in case anything happens to me. Will you go right off? And if I have not reached there, bring the doctor at once, and be sure to tell him just what the trouble is. Don't wait one minute for anything."

"Be you goin' to run the Big Rapid, Jake?" said Benny, with eyes wider open than they had ever been before.

"Yes; but don't wait a moment. I'll give you my knife if I get back; now run."

Benny raced up the path, and Jake, who had meantime untied the canoe, jumped into it and pushed it from the shore. And now for a moment his courage failed him, and he made no effort to guide the canoe, but covered his face with his hands, trying vainly to shut out sight and sound. He did not fear death; he had often wished to die, and to die giving his life for another, but he feared the demon; he felt himself in the grasp of the horrible creation of his fancy, that had held him in thrall for so many years; but the boat swept round the curve that brought the Big Rapid in sight, and the deafening roar of the waters brought him to himself, and, grasping the paddle, he headed the boat for the centre of the river.

The Big Rapid was nearly half a mile in length, and not really dangerous to an experienced person except in one spot, about the middle of it, where an enormous bowlder rises from the river, and, dividing the current, sends it rushing to the shores, only to fall back from the rocky walls in a wave that would upset the largest boat likely to be found on the Strife. Jake had heard so much about the rapid all his life that he knew the one chance of safety lay in passing as close to the large bowlder as possible without striking on a little reef of jagged rocks that surrounded it, and he exerted all his strength to head the boat accordingly. The waters foamed and roared all round him, and the boat was tossed about like an egg-shell; but he managed to keep it right side up and headed for the rock. In a few moments he had reached it, and was being carried towards the shore by the mighty side sweep of the current. He did his best to pull across it, but his strength was as nothing against the fierce rush of the water. Once within the grasp of that foaming wave, he knew that he and the canoe would be rolling over and over, and all hope be lost, and he redoubled his efforts. It was no use; he shut his eyes, expecting all to be over in a moment, when a sudden shock almost threw him out of the canoe, and, opening his eyes, he found he was again in the centre of the river. Looking back he saw he must have been struck by a side wave from an almost sunken rock, whose head he could see just above the water a few feet from the shore, and so carried out into the river again.

How he finished the run he never quite knew, but seemed to waken from a dream to find himself floating round and round in an eddy of the pool in which the rapid ended. The river was in flood at the time, and he was doubtless safely carried over many dangers, which might have beset him at low water. Fearing he had lost time, he paddled out into the current as quickly as possible, and in a few moments he ran alongside the doctor's landing. He jumped ashore at once, and, entering the little front garden, was met by Dr. Barnes himself, who exclaimed:

"Why, Jake, where did you spring from? You don't mean to tell me you came down the river?"

"Yes, sir," said Jake; "father has cut an artery, and we had to have help at once. I sent Benny Masters by the road in case I could not get through; if you meet him tell him it's all right, but would you please go as quickly as possible? I tied up his arm as you told me it should be done, but I am afraid that if the bleeding starts again mother will be frightened." Jake got out the words with difficulty. The excitement and strain of the last half-hour had been too much for him, and, his message given, he staggered and fell into the arms of the doctor, who carried him in, and, while his horse was being saddled, applied restoratives. Then, asking his housekeeper to get Jake to bed, he galloped off to Mr. Lawson's, arriving just in time to prevent serious results from the bleeding, which had recommenced in spite of Mrs. Lawson's efforts.

When Jake awoke next morning he could not understand what had happened to him. The rushing of the river sounded like music to him. He walked down to the shore half expecting that at the sight of the water the old terror would revive. But no; his burden had fallen from him; it was buried in the bright, cold waters of the Strife.

He was aroused by the clatter of a horse's hoofs, and turned round as Dr. Barnes, who had remained at Lawson's all night, rode up to the gate. He brought word that Jake's father was doing well, and wishing to see him; so, having already breakfasted, Jake started at once for home.

His mother was waiting for him on the door-step, and clasped him in her arms. She had, motherlike, always clung to the one of her children least promising, according to the accepted standards, and triumphed greatly that he had now won his spurs. His father did not say much, but grasped his hand in a way Jake never forgot, and the altered demeanor of his brothers when they returned went far to heal the wounds of the past. In fact, now that the stigma of cowardice was removed, the family began to recognize in Jake a higher type than themselves, and, advised by Dr. Barnes, who pointed as proof of his leaning that way to his coolness and nerve in dealing with his father's wound, they decided to give him an opportunity to become a doctor.

* * * * *

Prizes for Pen Drawings.

The Table offered three prizes of $25 each for the best stories written by Knights and Ladies of the Order. These prizes were awarded, and then a prize of $10 was offered to members who would best illustrate one of the stories. Those who wished to try for this illustration prize applied for and had mailed to them a proof, with hints about size. They were allowed to select their own subject. In order to afford them the largest possible scope proofs of all three stories were sent them. Out of three hundred who applied for proofs sixty return drawings. The best drawing received is the work of Philip E. Goodwin, aged 14, who lives in Providence, R. I. It is an illustration for "A Story of Strife," and it is now reproduced and printed with that prize story.

Although we offered but one prize, we award two others of $5 each, because two other drawings were received that seem to deserve that recognition. One is an illustration for "The Duke of Alva's Humiliation," drawn by Edmund F. Webber, New York, aged 17, and the other an illustration for "How Hector Saved the Train," drawn by Carl A. Bostrom, Washington, D.C., aged 16. Both drawings will be published with the prize stories which they illustrate.

Following are awarded honorable mention: Beverly S. King, Brooklyn; Robert Jerome Hill, Jun., Tex.; Louise C. Walter, Pittsburg; Annis Dunbar-Jenkins, Miss.; George J. Smith, Brooklyn; P. B. Greene, Philadelphia; Elizabeth Wright, Mass.; Francis Barrett Faulkner, N. H.; James Edmonds, Miss.; William O'Neill, Baltimore; and Caroline Bonsall Silves, Pa.

The prize money has been forwarded with the Table's congratulations, and all drawings returned to their owners save the three first-prize ones, which are retained for reproduction.

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A MUSICAL PAIR.

"We are a wonderful musical pair, Our notes go sailing up into the air, And then like rain Come down again. When Mr. Frog, as will be seen, Will catch 'em all in his tambourine, And put our notes Back in our throats To use once more On another score.

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* * * * *

MAMMA. "Ethel, what is the matter with you? You have been jumping all day long."

ETHEL. "I think it must be my spring tonic that makes me feel so."

* * * * *

OVERHEARD AT THE CIRCUS.

I've seen a whale that did fine tricks, And nothing could be moister; But what I most do wish to see 's An educated oyster.

The monkeys race on ponies, And the elephants all dance; They've dogs that sing right in the ring, And even pigs that prance.

They've boars that play at muggins, and They've storks that know the waltz; They've horses that stand on their heads, A kangaroo that vaults.

But none of them, it seems to me, The equal could be rated Of one small shell-clad oyster that Was really educated.

"You didn't shoot the lady through the hoop to-day," said the Hippopotamus to the Cannon.

"No," replied the Cannon. "They discharged me yesterday."

"I didn't think the Clown was very funny to-day," said the Kangaroo.

"No," replied the Hyena. "I was the only creature that laughed, and I only did it to prove that I was a real hyena."

"I had a bully time yesterday," said the Monkey.

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"Humph!" said the Elephant, "I'm going to resign from this circus."

"What's the matter?" asked the Leopard.

"I only received one pea-nut yesterday," replied the Elephant, "and that got mislaid in my trunk."

"Oh dear!" sighed the Hippopotamus. "I am so tired of this circus life. I wish some nice little boy would buy me for a pet. I'd love to sit in a little boy's lap and have him call me Fido, and let me crawl into his bed and bite his toes every morning like a puppy-dog."

"I don't see why boxes are so popular," said the Elephant, as he gazed about the arena. "I prefer a bag."

"A bag?" laughed the Hyena.

"Yes, a bag," said the Elephant. "A bag of peanuts."

* * * * *

"What we want is a breakfast."

The remark came from one of three very hungry young men who were aimlessly walking the streets of Paris. The other two agreed with the speaker, but wondered where the meal was to come from.

"Let us see," said the first; "a breakfast for us three will cost about ten francs. Now I have an idea, and all you've got to do is to follow me, taking the cue as I proceed."

He entered a music-store, the other two obediently following him. "I wish to sell you a song," said he to the proprietor. "My friend here will write the music, and my other friend will write the words, and I will sing it."

The proprietor looked at him in astonishment, but agreed to listen to the song, and, if it had any merit, to purchase it. Finally it was completed, and the young man sang it.

"Humph! it isn't much of a song, but I'll give you fifteen francs for it," said the proprietor.

"Done!" cried all three young men in a breath.

Alfred de Musset was the author, Hippolyte Maupon the composer, and Gilbert Duprez was the singer. The song was entitled, "Connaissez-vous dans Barcelone," and it had a great success, netting the publisher forty thousand francs.

* * * * *

End of Project Gutenberg's Harper's Round Table, April 28, 1896, by Various