CHAPTER IX.

The last excitement of the summer before school began was a river picnic, given by Gertrude Morgan. A note was brought to Edith one afternoon which ran thus:

"MY DEAREST EDITH,--Will you, Cynthia, Jack, and Neal Gordon join us on the river to-morrow? My cousins, Tom and Kitty Morgan, are here, and another fellow, awfully nice, that Tom brought with him, and we want to do something to entertain them. This is such perfect weather for the river. We will come up from Brenton early, and reach Oakleigh before noon. You can join us in your boats, and we will go higher up above the rapids for dinner. If you will bring your chafing-dish and your alcohol lamp for the coffee it is all I ask. On the whole, you need not bring the lamp. We will build a fire. But the chafing-dish would be nice. _Do_ come! _Don't fail._ _Au revoir_ until to-morrow at about twelve. Devotedly,

"GERTRUDE.

"P.S.--I am sure you will lose your heart to Tom's friend. I have!"

The next day, shortly before noon, the Franklins were awaiting their friends on the Oakleigh boat-landing. They had two canoes, one that the family had owned for a year or two, and another that Mrs. Franklin had given her brother on his birthday.

Baskets were packed in the boats, containing the chafing-dish, some sandwiches, and delicious cake that Mrs. Franklin had had made as her contribution to the picnic, and a large box of candy which Neal had bought.

It was a glorious day. The September sun shone brightly, and a trifle warmly, on the dancing river. The gay foliage along the banks--for the autumn tints had come early this year--was reflected in the clear water, and a gentle wind stirred the white birches. An army of crows had encamped near by, and the woods rang with their cawing as they carried on an important debate among themselves.

Presently around the curve came the advance guard of the picnic, a canoe containing Dennis Morgan and his cousin Kitty, while closely following them was another, paddled by Tom Morgan, in which sat Gertrude and a stranger.

They all waved their hats and handkerchiefs, and when they came within speaking distance Gertrude shouted:

"Isn't it fun? Such a perfect day, and more fellows than girls! You know my cousins, don't you, except Neal? Kitty and Tom, let me present Mr. Gordon, and this is Mr. Bronson. The Misses Edith and Cynthia Franklin, Mr. Tony Bronson. There, now, did I do it correctly? Did I mention the ladies' names first, and then the gentlemen's? I picked up a book on etiquette in a shop the other day, and it said you must."

Every one laughed, and no one noticed but Cynthia that Neal's face darkened when he heard Bronson's name and saw him for the first time. Of course, she knew at once who he was.

"There ought to be a grand change of partners," continued the lively Gertrude, "but it's too much trouble. However, Tom, you had better get out and take one of the Oakleigh canoes, and an Oakleigh girl and Jack can get in here--unless Mr. Bronson would rather be the one to change."

This was said with a coquettish glance at Bronson, who in a low voice hastened to assure her that he was more than satisfied with his present position.

He was a handsome fellow of about seventeen, tall and of somewhat slight build, with very regular features. His eyes were his weak point. They were of a pale greenish-blue, and were too close together.

His greeting to Neal was most cordial. "Holloa, old fellow!" he said; "this is a piece of luck. Miss Morgan told me you were stopping here, so I was prepared for the pleasure."

"As if he hadn't known it before," muttered Neal to Cynthia, as he helped her into the canoe, and they pushed off. "He sent that letter here and he got mine from here. He's a hypocritical ass."

"Look out, Neal!" cautioned Cynthia; "you know how sound carries on the water." And she was quite sure from the expression on Bronson's face that he had heard.

There was some discussion as to where their destination should be.

"Let's go as high as we can," said Gertrude. "Above Charles River village."

"But there is the 'carry,'" objected her brother.

"What of that? We've often carried before."

"Not with an average of one fellow to a boat. No; I say we stop the other side of the small rapids. If any one wants to explore above there on his own account he can do so."

It was finally settled thus, and the party set forth. It was a pretty sight. The cedar canoes, with gay carpets and cushions, and freight of girls and boys in white boating costumes, gave the needed touch of life to the peaceful Charles River. So Mrs. Franklin thought when she came down to see them off.

"I have not been invited," she said, "but I really think I must drive up this afternoon and see your encampment."

"Oh, do, Mrs. Franklin!" cried Gertrude, enthusiastically. "We would just love to have you come, and we ought to have a chaperon, though we _are_ all brothers and sisters and cousins! She is the most perfect creature," she added to Bronson, as they moved off. "You know she is the Franklins' step-mother. Isn't she a dear, Jack?"

Jack, who was paddling, acquiesced. Bronson sat at ease in the bow. He was always lazy. Neal, though averse to hard work which was work only, was ready for anything in the way of athletics. He was now an accomplished paddler, and had already far outstripped the others.

Their destination was some two or three miles up the river. The water was low, and Cynthia kept a sharp look-out for rocks.

"Keep to the left here, Neal," she directed; "that ledge runs all across the river."

"I bet those Brenton fellows will scrape going through here. Not one in a hundred would take the left. I haven't scraped once since I had the canoe. The bottom is as smooth as the day she came, and that is saying a good deal when the river is as low as it is now."

They skirted a huge oak-tree which had fallen half across the river, and, passing through some gentle rapids, reached the cleared shady spot on the bank where they were to eat their luncheon. The others soon arrived, and preparations were immediately begun for building a fire. The boys explored the neighborhood for dry sticks, and a cheerful little blaze was soon crackling away on the bank. Potatoes had been buried beneath to roast in the ashes, and the coffee-pot, filled with water from a neighboring spring, was placed above. Dennis Morgan, whose coffee was far-famed and unrivalled, superintended this part of the work.

The girls unpacked the baskets, and spreading a table-cloth, arranged the goodies most temptingly thereon.

"Edith, you must do the oysters on the chafing-dish," said Gertrude; "no one does them like you."

"Oysters! Have you really got oysters? How perfect!" cried Cynthia, who, laden with cups and saucers, was stumbling over some stray boughs at the imminent risk of herself and the crockery.

"Let me help you, Miss Franklin," said Bronson, coming languidly forward.

"Oh no, thanks!" returned Cynthia, tartly. "I would not trouble you for the world. You have quite enough to do."

Dennis Morgan, who heard her, turned away to hide a laugh. Bronson had been leaning against a tree most of the time with his hands in his pockets.

"Come, now, don't be too hard on a fellow, Miss Franklin. I'll do anything you ask. A fellow feels kind of out of place, don't you know, with so many working."

"Really! Well, if you are truly anxious to make yourself useful, perhaps you will get some ferns to decorate the table?"

"Certainly," said Bronson, looking about him in a helpless way: "will these do?" and he broke off a large brake.

"No, of course not. The ones I want grow at quite a distance from here, over in those woods there," pointing. "Please get some."

"Oh, Miss Franklin, so far? But you will go with me, of course."

"'Of course,' did I hear you say?" asked Cynthia, straightening herself from her arrangement of the table and standing very erect, with a bottle in one hand and an olive on the end of a fork in the other. "What can you be thinking of? Of course _not_. _I_ am busy. But you have no time to lose if you want to get them here before lunch is ready. It is a good half-mile there and back."

"When Miss Franklin commands I have but to obey," said Bronson, with a bow, though there was a disagreeable light in his steely eyes. "Who will take pity on me and go with me? Miss Morgan, surely you will be so good?"

Gertrude was much pleased at being singled out by the guest of the occasion, and although she knew that the ferns which were growing in profusion all about them would adorn the table just as well, she gave no hint of it, for she was not averse to taking the walk with Bronson.

"Tell me about the Franklins," said he, as he took her red umbrella and opened it. "Are they fond of their step-mother?"

"All but Edith, and she can't bear her, and I don't think she is over-fond of Neal, either. Tell me something about him, Mr. Bronson. He is a school-mate of yours, you say?"

"Oh, don't ask me! I think it's awfully bad form for one fellow to give away another, don't you know. Of course, some fellows would, but I'm not that kind."

Gertrude admired these sentiments extremely. She wished that Bronson would hold the umbrella at an angle that would shield her a little more. It was entirely over him, while she herself was in the sun, and it was rather warm walking. However, it was a pleasure to have her umbrella carried by such an elegant-looking individual, even though she derived no benefit from it.

From his words and manner Gertrude gathered the idea that Bronson, if he chose, could tell something very much against Neal Gordon, but his high sense of honor held him back.

"What a lovely fellow he is!" thought Gertrude; then she said aloud, "Of course I would not have you for the world. I have always fancied there might be something, don't you know?"

Now Gertrude had really never fancied anything of the kind, and yet she did not dream of being untruthful. It was an idea born of the moment. Her vanity prompted her to agree with Bronson, who was apparently such a very charming fellow.

"Oh, don't say that, Miss Morgan! I didn't mean to give you that idea. You're so awfully clever, you have guessed what I never intended to say. Don't ever tell what I said, will you? I wouldn't take away the fellow's character for the world."

Gertrude blushed and promised, pleased to find herself in the position of having a secret with Bronson. She told her cousin Kitty, afterwards, that he really talked most confidentially with her.

When they returned, luncheon was ready. Cynthia took the ferns with a cool "Thank you," looked at them critically and somewhat dubiously, and laid them on the impromptu table.

"Terribly anty," she said, shaking a spray vigorously in the air. "Ugh! look at the ants!"

"Perhaps those that grow over here would not have had any ants," said Bronson, "but I am so much obliged to you for sending me for these, Miss Franklin. I had such a charming walk. It quite repaid me, even though you are so chary of your thanks."

"I'm so glad," returned Cynthia, "but not as glad as I am famished."

She left Bronson, and walking around to the farther side of the table, sat down. Neal followed her, and presently they were all seated and enjoying the dainty meal. Never was there such clear and fragrant coffee, and the rich cream that the Franklins had brought made it "equal to the nectar of Olympus," said Bronson; he was addicted to airy speech.

The oysters were done to a turn and seasoned to a nicety, and the sandwiches melted in one's mouth. In the midst of the feast they heard the sound of wheels on the bridge, and looking up, they saw Mrs. Franklin, who was driving herself.

"You see I couldn't stay away," she called to them. "Jack, come tie Bess for me, and then let me have a bite, if you have anything to spare."

Edith's face clouded. "Why did she have to come so soon?" she thought, and her expression was not lost on Bronson.

"So this is the rich sister and step-mother," thought Bronson; "and the eldest daughter doesn't like her coming. Now, I don't exactly see why Gordon can't settle the balance if she has such a pile. But I'll lie low and work him easily."

He watched his opportunity, and after luncheon he followed Neal to the river-bank, where he was getting a pail of water for dish-washing purposes.

"I say, Gordon, old fellow, I haven't had a chance before to thank you for sending me the fifty. You see I was in a confounded hole myself, and there was no way out of it but to ask you. I hated to dun you. As for the rest, there's no hurry about that whatever."

Neal looked at him. His brown eyes could be very searching when occasion required. Bronson stooped, and picking up a flat stone from the little beach on which they were standing, he tossed it across the river.

"Five skips," said he, lightly, as he turned away.

"Hold on a minute," said Neal. "Your offer is very kind, but you may be pretty sure that I'll pay you as soon as I can. I've no wish to be under obligations to you any longer than is necessary."

"As you like," returned Bronson, with a shrug. "I only thought it might ease your mind to know that there's no actual hurry. Ah, Miss Franklin," as Cynthia drew near, "can't I persuade you to go out on the river with me?"

"I am afraid not. I should think that you hadn't paddled a great deal, as I noticed that you took your ease coming up."

"Miss Franklin, I never should have imagined that you were timid on the water. How little one can tell!"

"I am not a bit timid, but I don't care to be upset."

"Upset!" laughed Bronson. "Why, I've been upset a dozen times. In such a shallow ditch as this it wouldn't make much difference, as long as we're suitably dressed."

Cynthia looked at him slowly, criticisingly, scornfully. Then she said:

"I should think bathing clothes were the only things suitable for upsetting. And the Charles River isn't a ditch. Of course you didn't know, and we can pardon the ignorant a good deal."

Bronson turned away and left them.

"That last was a scorcher," chuckled Neal, who had been listening attentively. "If there is one thing Bronson hates above another, it is to be thought not to 'know it all,' and he caught on to what you meant."

Cynthia, however, felt a little remorseful. She was quite sure that she had been rude. Bronson was a stranger, and should have been treated with the politeness due to such. But then he was Neil's enemy, and Cynthia could never be anything but loyal to Neal. Thus she soothed her conscience.

When luncheon had been cleared away and the baskets packed to go home, Bronson asked Edith if she would go out with him on the river.

"Just for a little paddle, Miss Franklin," he said. "Do come!"

Cynthia heard him, and she frowned and shook her head vigorously at her sister, hoping that she would not go, but Edith had no intention of declining the invitation. She said yes, with one of her prettiest smiles, and accompanied Bronson to the place where the canoes were drawn up on the bank.

"I suppose it doesn't make any difference which one I take," he said, and, either by accident or design, he singled out Neal's boat and put it into the water. Edith stepped in, and then watched Bronson's movements with some trepidation. He did not seem to know much about the management of a canoe, and they rocked alarmingly with his short, uncertain strokes.

"I'll soon get the hang of it," he said, reassuringly. "I have never been much on a river, but it's easy enough."

Cynthia walked along the bank, watching them.

"I hope you've got a life-preserver, Edith! Mr. Bronson says he is in the habit of upsetting--likes it, in fact--and I'm dreadfully afraid for you. You know you can't swim, and Mr. Bronson will never be able to save you _as well as_ himself. _Do_ be careful of my sister, Mr. Bronson. The ditch is rather deep just there. Oh, look at him wiggle!" she added to Neal, who had followed her.

"And the fellow has taken my canoe!" growled Neal.

"Poor Neal! You boasted too soon. You'll never again be able to say there isn't a scratch on the bottom."

"I only hope I shall ever see the boat again. He'll probably smash her all to smithereens."

"I suppose it makes no difference if Edith is 'smashed to smithereens,' only the canoe," remarked Cynthia, demurely.

In the mean time Edith was having an exciting voyage. Bronson paddled slowly and unevenly up the river until he found himself in the rapids, which were much swifter and more dangerous than those they had passed through on the way from Oakleigh. The canoe scraped and creaked over the rocks. The only wonder was that a hole was not stove at once in the bottom.

They were in the midst now of the rushing water. Suddenly the boat lodged for a moment on a rock, and swayed to and fro. Down to the very water's edge went first one side and then the other. A half-inch more and they would have capsized.

Edith sat perfectly silent, scarcely daring to breathe. Bronson, never before so quick in his movements, righted the craft, and with a vigorous push of the paddle got off the dangerous rock.

"I--I think it would be rather pleasanter to tie up," faltered Edith.

"So do I. Wish you had said so before. Not that I mind exploring, but it's hot work such a day as this."

They found a shady bank and drew up under the bushes. Edith gave a sigh of relief.

"Do you mind if I smoke?" asked Bronson, getting out a silver cigarette-case with a _blase_ air.

"Oh, not at all."

"That's nice. Now we can be comfortable. I am so glad you came with me this afternoon, for I want to talk to you, Miss Franklin. I want in talk freely to you about something."

Edith's face expressed her astonishment.

"You look surprised," he continued, "but you will not be when I tell you what it is. You are the only person whom I can rely on to manage the matter well and to help me. It is connected with Neal Gordon."

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

AN EXPLANATION.

MAMMA. "Why do you come in every minute for something to eat, Herbert?"

HERBERT. "Because, mamma, I am so small that I cannot eat enough to last me over an hour."

ON THE EARTH AND IN THE SKY.

THE EARTH YESTERDAY, TO-DAY, TO-MORROW.

BY N. S. SHALER,

PROFESSOR OF GEOLOGY AT HARVARD UNIVERSITY.

From ancient days men have been seeking to learn the history of the earth; how it came to be set in the orderly array of the heavenly bodies; how it has step by step come forth from the ancient chaos to the existing perfection; how and to what end it is to go forward in ages beyond our own. In this century many thousands of able men have been engaged in these inquiries.

The studies of astronomers have made it evident that in the olden days, indeed before days began, at a time which is to be reckoned as many hundred million years ago, the sun and the other bodies of the solar system, including our earth, the kindred planets and their satellites, were parts of a great mass of vapor or star dust, which extended throughout the spaces in which these spheres now swing about the sun. As time went on this nebulous mass, just like many such masses which the telescope reveals in the distant heavens, drew together, because its particles were impelled by gravitation towards the central point, and as it contracted it began to revolve, much as our earth and the other spheres as well now turn on their axes. Thus turning, it divided into successively formed rings, each of which in time broke up, the matter of the ring gathering into a separate planet. At first this planet, like the original mass, was gaslike, and when separated from the sun it began to gather in on itself, in most cases forming rings, which in time were to alter into the lesser spheres--the moons. The earth and all the planets lying further away from the sun have these little bodies about them, but in one case, as if to show the stages of creation, the unbroken ring remains, forming the magnificent circles which girdle Saturn. When, in the history of these wonderful processes of growth which have taken place in our solar system, our earth parted from the shrinking sun, the separate life of the sphere began. In the course of ages it set off the mass of the moon, and after that process was effected by further shrinking, it was reduced from a body several hundred thousand miles in diameter to a relatively small sphere. Such are the steps which led to the birth of our planet.

As the earth's matter gathered into a smaller bulk, its heat was greatly increased, so that for a time it was a hot, shining star like the sun. Gradually, however, it parted with so much of its heat that it, as we may say, froze over or became covered with a solid crust which soon became cool enough to permit the waters hitherto in the state of steam to descend upon the surface of the sphere. With this descent of the waters, which led to the formation of the seas, another stage of great importance in the history of the earth began. In the earlier ages the heat of the earth, which came from within its mass, was so great that the temperature coming from the sun was of no consequence, but when the earth acquired a crust of cold rocks, a new period began, that in which the solar heat was thereafter to be the source of most of the movements that occurred in this limited world. Thenceforward to the present day, and yet on through the ages, the sun and earth are linked together in their actions in a marvellously entangled way.

When the sun's heat began effectively to work on the earth in the manner which we now behold, the winds began to blow, the ocean waters under their influence to circulate currents, and the moisture to rise into the air to be carried to and fro and to fall as rain. It seems likely that these movements of air and water, which we know to be due to the action of the sun's heat, took place at first upon the surface which was everywhere covered by the ocean, a vast continuous sea through which the lands had not yet pierced, and in which living creatures had not begun to dwell. This universal field of waters could not have long continued, and this for the reason that certain changes in the earth itself brought about the creation of broad folds on the sea-bottom, which grew upward until dry lands rose above the level of the waters. The way in which this process took place can in general be easily understood.

After the earth had cooled to the point where its outer parts were what we term cold, and the whole of its mass approximately solid, it remained as it does to-day, exceedingly hot in its central portions, and therefore kept on slowly cooling. What we call the outer or crust part, because it had already become cool, had little heat to lose. The greater portion of the temperature, which crept away into the frigid places of the heavens, where the thermometer is always some hundred degrees below the freezing-point, came from the interior of the sphere. Because of this cooling in the deeper parts of the earth the mass shrunk in its interior portion, while the outer part, losing less heat, because it had less to lose, did not contract to anything like the same extent. Thus it came about that this crust portion which forms the surface, and that which is below to the depth of many miles, were forced to wrinkle in order to fit the diminished centre. The action may be compared, in a way, to what takes place when in an apple or other similar fruit or vegetable with a distinct skin the water dries out of the interior parts. The skin wrinkles, because it has little water to lose. Let us conceive that the heat which keeps the particles of matter apart in our earth answers to the water which separates the solid portions of the fruit, and the likeness becomes clear.

When the great wrinkles of the earth's crust were high enough to bring their surfaces in part above the level of the ocean, another important stage in the history of the sphere was begun. Before that time, the water which the sun's heat had lifted into the air, and sent back to the earth in the form of rain, had fallen into the ocean whence it came without in any way affecting the solid parts of the crust. But now a portion of it came down on what we call the dry land, making the beginning of the rivers and the lakes, and in its course to the sea wearing away the rocks over which it flowed, conveying the debris to the oceans, where it served to build layers of rocks upon the bottom, which with the further upward growth of the continent might in turn rise above the sea. Thus we may fairly reckon the appearance of the land above the seas as the third great event in the history of the earth.

After the earth had cooled down so that the waters had something like their present temperature, and probably after the lands had appeared, came the fourth and, on many accounts, the most interesting episode in the history of the planet. This was the beginning of what we call life, those little temporary gatherings of the earth's substance which take shape in the form of animals and plants. As yet we do not know, we are not likely indeed ever to know, just when or how this change from the earlier stage in which the earth knew no living creatures to that in which they were to abound in seas and on land. All that has been found out concerning the matter leads us to believe that the first steps led to the creation of very simple species--jellylike forms having but few of the qualities which we commonly associate with living beings. But the first steps taken in the immemorable ages, the others followed in quick succession, so that the earliest fossil remains which we find in rocks formed on the sea-bottom, a hundred million or more years ago, show that the earth was richly peopled with a lowly life.

Probably at some time after the lands had risen above the sea, and had begun to yield their waste in the form of mud, sand, and pebbles, to provide strata on the sea-bottoms, volcanoes began to break forth on the sea-bottom and along the margins of the continents. These strange outbursts, mainly of steam, but often accompanied by molten rock, appear to owe their formation to the accumulation of beds on the bottom of the ocean, which as they are formed are to a great extent filled with water. Accumulated to a thickness of many miles, the water in the lower part of these strata gradually becomes exceedingly heated. In the end it breaks forth in steam, having a temperature quite as hot as molten iron, so that it may melt ordinary rocks.

The beginning of volcanic action on the earth was in a way important, though the event is less noteworthy than any of those which have been previously remarked, for tremendous as a volcanic eruption may be (that of Kratakoa in 1883 shook a large part of the earth's surface, perturbed all its atmosphere, and sent its dust to every part of the world), they, after all, are not leading features in the earth's history, but rather incidents. It is otherwise with the last great physical event in the history of the earth, which we shall now have to consider.

As the earth became divided, so that there were a number of continents and oceans, its climate became diversified. This was in part accomplished by the changes in the course of the ocean currents, such as our Gulf Stream; in part it may have been by slight variation in the sun's heat. However brought about, from very ancient days to the present time large portions of the earth's surface have occasionally had climatal conditions which cause the rainfall to descend in the form of snow, the snow falling in such quantities that it did not melt away in the summer season. This condition now exists about either pole, and to a certain extent on the high mountains, even those of tropical lands.

From time to time, owing to the variable adjustments of climate, these periods of excessive snow have endured for ages, in which the glacial sheet has extended in either hemisphere far towards the equator. In our present day the earth is just escaping from the last of these wonderful ice epochs. At a time so recent that it may be called a geological yesterday the greater part of Europe and of North America was buried beneath accumulations of snow, or rather of ice formed from it, the sheets having in places the depth of a mile or more, and, according to their strange nature, moving slowly over the surface, crushing and grinding the rocks as they went, until the ice either reached the sea, where it would float off as icebergs, or a place on the land where it was far enough south to be melted away.

On the surface of North America the ice sheet, the remnant of which still covers Greenland, expelled all life from the region of Canada and the United States from a line a little to the east of the Rocky Mountains, and in general north of the Ohio and the Mississippi rivers to the sea-coast. It was deep enough to flow over the top of Mount Washington in New Hampshire, and a primitive man (for there were such in those days) might possibly have journeyed over all the realm without discerning the least trace of the earth's rock surface, for even the higher mountains were buried.

We do not yet know how many of these glacial periods there have been, or whether they occur at the same time in both the northern and southern hemispheres, but it is clear that they have been of frequent occurrence. In the intervals between the ice epochs warm conditions appear to have prevailed even up to the pole of the hemisphere, which was shortly afterwards to experience the dreadful winter of an ice-time. Thus, at a period which in its geological sense was not long before the last glacial epoch, the Greenland district bore a forest much like that which now exists in parts of the Southern States of this country. It seems probable from the history of the past that the next revolution in our northern hemisphere will dissipate the ice about the arctic pole, and make a wide realm now uninhabitable to man fit for his use.

The foregoing little sketch of a few of the great events of the earth's history does not take into account the greatest of them all, the coming of man. But the conditions which surround the appearance of this flower of the earth are as yet so imperfectly known that they cannot well be considered.

HINTS TO YOUNG BOTANISTS.

BY CAROLINE A. CREEVY.

ROOTS.

When we are about to do a thing thoroughly and systematically we often say we will "begin at the root of the matter." That is because the root of a plant is supposed to be the first thing in its life. It is indeed the foundation, the substructure of a plant, but not strictly the first thing that starts to grow. The little stem feels the first quiver of life, and the root follows. You can see the little stem, or _caulicle_ in fat seeds like squash and melon, beans and pease. Split a squash seed, and between the two fat sides the caulicle lies cozily tucked, like a tiny tail or handle. Plant a squash seed in the earth. The caulicle, fed by the two fat sides, pushes its way upward into the air, making a stem with leaves, and finally a big vine, while from its lower end the root develops and pushes itself as fast as possible into the earth.

The roots of some plants are small. I think most weeds make pretty large and strong roots, which are hard to pull up. But when a tree has grown to its full size its roots are almost as large as its branches. I once saw a fine old maple-tree cut down, and its roots dug up to make room for a cellar. I was surprised to see what a big hole the roots made. Two men dug for several days before they had the roots all up.

The work for the roots to do is to drink water. The upper half of the plant is very thirsty, and calls constantly for water. The roots push and dig into the moist soil, drink in water, and pass it up by a sort of pumping process. Only think, drinking and pumping! That is what roots do. And so if the earth is dry, and the roots can find nothing to drink, the plant will die. But after a shower see how glad the leaves seem, and how stiff and straight they stand, because the roots are sucking up great draughts of water.

To protect roots in their hard burrowing work a little cap of hard cells is fitted over their tips. Little hairs grow all over them, whose purpose is to help absorb moisture.

Some thick and fleshy roots are good to eat. They form many of our best vegetables. Beets, turnips, parsnips, and carrots are such roots. They belong to biennial or two-year plants. The first year they store up food in their roots; the second year draw upon this food, and produce flowers and fruit. They are named from their shapes. _Fusiform_, like radishes, when thicker in the middle, tapering at both ends. Carrots are _conical_, thicker at the top. Turnips bulge out in the middle, and are _napiform_. When clustered like a dahlia the roots are _fascicled_. All are _taproots_, or main roots. Besides these _primary_ roots there are _secondary_. You may have noticed secondary roots springing from the joints of a corn-stalk above ground. The wonderful banyan-tree sends down roots from its branches, making new trees, until one tree is the mother of a colony.

There are plants which take their nourishment from the air alone, and not from the soil. They need roots as hold-fasts, not as drinking-cups. Some lovely orchids grow in that way. Those leathery patches which you have seen on old fence-rails and rocks are lichens. They have roots for attachment only, and such are called _aerial_ roots.

Then there are _climbing_ rootlets. Look at the poison-ivy, but do not touch it, and you will see it climbing over tree-trunks and fence-posts by means of rootlets. The trumpet-creeper will show you the same thing. These rootlets are very strong, as you will find if you try to pull, as I did once, a trumpet-creeper out of a grape-vine.

A large class of plants are beggars and thieves. This is a hard thing to say of them, but, what would you call them when they press their roots into the bark of other plants and suck their sap, which is the same to the plant as life-blood? Why can't they dig in the soil for themselves? Some of these plants wear fine clothes, and look innocent enough. There is the beautiful yellow fox-glove. Many times I have seen it, tall and showy on hill-sides and in woods. But they were root-parasites, that is, fastened by their roots on the roots of other plants, sucking juices dishonestly. The delicate purple gerardia sometimes does the same thing. So, you see, appearances are deceptive, and in plants, as well as people, you cannot always tell character from the outside.

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.

It does not surprise me to find a number of bright girls asking for directions about the entrance to the difficult road of authorship. It is quite common for young people to think that nothing on earth can be so delightful as to write songs and stories, and have them published for the world to read. The fact, dear girls, that many of you overlook, is that no trade or profession or business is ever learned without time, study, and effort--what I might call the serving of an apprenticeship. Very few authors succeed at the beginning, although there is a contrary impression. Even those who seem at once to achieve eminence have really been getting ready for their work all their lives. You can see what I mean if you will read Miss Alcott's _Life and Letters_, or Mrs. Burnett's story of _The One I Knew the Best of All_, or, better than either, a charming little essay by Robert Louis Stevenson, in which he describes the books he read as a boy, and the pains he took to cultivate a good and clear style.

It is perfectly right for any reader of the ROUND TABLE to wish to become an author. In days to come the youthful Knights and Ladies for whom Kirk Munroe, Ellen Douglas Deland, W. J. Henderson, Captain Charles King, and your friend of the Pudding Stick are now writing, will be grown men and women, and some of them will be furnishing the literature of the next generation. I cannot say too strongly to all my correspondents, who are interested in this subject, be patient, be fearless, be thorough. Do not be in haste to send some busy editor the story which you have just written. Never send anything to an editor until you have written it four or five times over, and are satisfied that it is the very best thing that you can do, and that it is expressed in the briefest possible compass. A very good school for aspiring young authors is found in the beautiful little amateur papers which many young people publish for circulation among their friends. The several school and college literary papers are also excellent fields for beginners in journalism. Among the rising authors of the day I know a half-dozen whose first laurels were gained in school and college magazines.

I would like to suggest that some of you who belong to Round Table Chapters should try the plan of having a little paper in connection with your Chapter. You could easily appoint one member of the Chapter the editor, then different girls and boys could furnish contributions. In every neighborhood there are a great many interesting things happening from day to day, so that your local column might be very spicy and entertaining. You could give your paper an attractive name, and should any of the members possess a typewriter you could have as many copies made each week as you have subscribers. Perhaps somebody among your friends has a little hand-press on which the little paper could be printed. Subscribers would be willing to pay two or three cents for a number of the paper, and thus you could have a little fund over expenses for the charities of the Chapter. Wouldn't that be charming? I cannot enter into all the little details of such an enterprise, but if any of you shall adopt this suggestion I hope to hear all about it, and to know whether you think that it pays. I once knew a family in which a little home paper was kept up for years, each brother and sister in turn acting as editor, and different members of the household copying out the matter. They had a serial story, which ran on in the most exciting way for a long time, and on Saturday evenings father, mother, children, and friends always assembled to read and listen to the new number. This paper was called _The Busy Bee_.

A few sentences ago I said, let me know if you think it pays. Speaking of payment, do not make the mistake of supposing that I principally mean payment in dollars and cents. The money one earns by writing is the smallest part of the pleasure it gives. Several girls inquire of me what price they ought to put on their poems and stories, and what sort of letter they should send with a contribution when addressing an editor. All that is really necessary in the case is to write your full name and post-office address plainly at the top of your opening page, in the right-hand corner. In brackets at the other side you may, if you choose, write "offered at usual rates." Be sure always to write only on one side of your paper, to send a folded and never a rolled manuscript, to have it typewritten, if you can; if not, to have your writing very legible, and to send an envelope addressed to yourself, and enough stamps to pay return postage should your manuscript be declined. The stamps may be loose, or may be attached to the envelope, as you prefer. As a rule the first contributions of young people are worth very little money, and it is not good form to set a price on what you write unless you are an author of assured reputation. You must remember that publishers pay for work according to its market value, just as we pay for sugar and soap, and calico and note-paper, chairs, and tables, or anything else we buy. When you go to a shop you always try to get good value for the money you give in return for goods. It is the same with articles and poems which are offered to the press. Hundreds and thousands of people are writing, and you must expect to face difficulties and have a struggle before you find your place, even if you are very well prepared for it.

I would like the Chapters of the ROUND TABLE which have paid me the honor of naming themselves for me to write me a letter through their secretaries. I have a reason for asking this favor. I would also like to receive copies of amateur papers, published by young people who read the ROUND TABLE.

ON BOARD THE ARK.

BY ALBERT LEE.