"Festina Lente"

by Thomas Hughes, February 1877

Hughes, the author of the school story Tom Brown's Schooldays, was nearly as popular in the US as he was in England, and it must have been quite a coup for the magazine to have received a piece from Hughes. It seems that not only in modern times that chiding words were written about children who seemed to be in a hurry to grow old before their time.

A Summons from St. Nicholas! One of those fresh and sincere voices, which seem to me to be very truly characteristic of the New World, comes across the three thousand miles of sea rolling and leaping under these wild south winds. It reminds me of certain good intentions of mine, of pledges half given years ago, and never even half redeemed. It asks, not indeed for payment in full, but for some small installment, some acknowledgment of the debt, which will serve to prevent the statute of limitations from running. It tells me of a crowd of eager and bright young listeners, who think I may have some word to say to them which they want to hear,—an eager, bright young crowd of American boys, from nine to eighteen years of age,—and asks "if I can have the heart to refuse" to say it.

Not I, indeed! For I never had the heart to refuse anything to such applicants. But how to redeem my pledge—what word to say to such an audience—how to reach the hearts of "the youth that own the coming years" in a land which is not my own, though I can scarcely look on it as a foreign land,—there lies the puzzle.

The sight of an ordinary crowd, we are told, is—in England, at least—always a sad one,- if you take note of the expression of the faces in repose; though it may be inspiring enough when any strong wave of feeling is passing through or over them. I should say, from my own experience, that "pathetic" rather than "melancholy" is the true word, even for a grown-up crowd, and it most certainly is with a crowd of boys. Who can help being roused and lifted out of the humdrum jogtrot of the daily life of middle age when he gets in touch with them—lifted, though it may be only for a short hour or so, by the inspiring contact of overflowing health, and joy and hope, into the breezy, buoyant atmosphere of early morning?

When all the world is young, lads,
And all the trees arc green,
With every goose a swan, lads,
And every lass a queen,—
Then heigh for boot and horse, lads.
And round the world away!
Young blood must have its course, lads.
And every dog his day.

Yes, pathetic is the true word. For even while looking on the young faces, and feeling the pulse and inspiration of the dawn of life down to one's finger ends, thoughts of another kind will crowd up into the mind,—"thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears,"—of beginnings cut short, of projects abandoned, of designs marred, of expectations unfulfilled.

But fair, and softly! How soon one's pen runs away with one! These are not the words I meant to say, or the thoughts I meant to suggest, to you, the young readers of St. Nicholas. You will touch the pathetic side of life, all of you, soon enough. Why should I thrust it on you before the appointed hour?

Meantime I say, revel in the dawn. Rejoice in your young strength and life; aim high, and build your castles like brave young architects, only taking care to dig the foundations deep, and to lay them with care and patience. Whether you will ever be able to build on them such brave and lofty towers and halls as you dream of now, matters comparatively little to you or your country. A thousand accidents and chances will determine in the coming years what the superstructure shall be,—accidents and chances we call them for want of a better name,—which you cannot control in the outset, but which will be controlled and settled for you.

What materials you will have to work with who can say? "To one clay, to another wood, to another marble, to another jewels and precious stones, will be served out in the great workshop of the world. You cannot make your choice; it will be made for you. But this you can and may do, and should be doing now: You can so prepare the ground and the foundations, that whatever material shall come to your hand hereafter, shall surely be made the most of, and used in the best way; so that whether you have to build marble palaces, or brick houses, or log huts, the work shall be faithful and strong, and fit to stand the stress of the wildest weather, and the wear and tear of time.

What are these foundations but the principles and habits which underlie the character of the man, and which can only be laid to good purpose by the boy? Truthfulness, self-control, simplicity, obedience,—these are the great corner-stones, to be welded and bound together by the cement of patience. "If I had only one word to speak to my boys," said one of the wisest and best educators of our time, "it should be Patience, Patience, Patience, over and over again." The world is getting into such a feverish hurry, and we are going so fast, that we are all in danger of missing the best things in life—the common sights and sounds which lie by the way-side on every stage of the journey, and nowhere in greater profusion than on the first stage. This is our trouble, and likely to be more and more the trouble of our children.

But, happily for us, our boys are the least affected by the disease of any section of society. The upper-school boy, unless he is a mere shiftless ne'er-do-well (a very small section of any community), is, as a rule, more than content with his daily life; he is rejoicing and glorying in it. And his daily life repays him with interest. He stands there, at seventeen or eighteen, on the verge of manhood,—a boy still in heart, full of enthusiasms and aspirations, but with an intellect and body patiently and carefully trained, looking hopefully to the next step in life, but unwilling to hurry it,—the best poised and most equally developed human creature, take him all round, that our life can show. He has not sold his birthright, and the grand morning hours of life, when boyhood is maturing, have passed slowly over him, leaving behind them a bouquet and fragrance which will sweeten the coming years, and a reserve of strength for the labor and heat of the approaching midday.

"Ah, your boy keeps his birthright, and ours sells it for a very poor mess of pottage," writes one American friend to me; while another says, "You, in England, have a proverb, 'Boys will be boys;' ours should run just the other way, 'Boys won' t be boys,'—I wish to heaven they would, and no one would grudge paying for broken glass and crockery."

"Have you had any American boys under you?" I asked of one of the ablest English masters, who has had great experience at two of our best public schools.

"Yes," he said, "I have had several as pupils, and have known a good many more; and nice, clever fellows they were. Very like our own boys, too, but older of their age, as a rule."

"Ah, you found it so!" 1 said. "I suppose they did n't care so much for games. Is that what you mean?"

"Well, partly so; but not exactly. They seemed rather to endure than to enjoy their lives, not only in the playing-fields, but in the schools. There were several promising cricketers, for instance, amongst them; but they did n't work at it as most of our boys do, or get the same zest out of it. And it was much the same with their school-work. They did it because they were sent there to do it, and did n't care to be left behind. But they could n't throw themselves into the life with any enthusiasm, and so lost much of the pleasure, as well as the profit, of it."

"But might n't that come from early associations and training? Our boys have a world of their own which is sufficient for them. To be captain of the school, or of the eleven, or of bigside football, or of the boats, is to be famous in that little world which they have heard their big brothers talk of ever since they were breeched. But an American boy has not been reared in the traditions, and so can't care so much for our boy's world. He feels like an outsider at an English school."

"Possibly. At any rate, it's a great loss, and would hinder me from sending over a boy of mine if I were an American."

"What! Not even to learn to write Greek and Latin verses? 1 fancy that art is ignored on the other side, and you know you think in your secret soul that life must be a poor thing to a man who can't amuse himself in a leisure half-hour by turning the last popular song into iambics, or longs and shorts."

"Well, so be it. Great, I own, are iambics, and great are longs and shorts; but you may pay too much for them, and the Yankee boy, I 'm afraid, buys our culture too dear. It does n't satisfy him. It isn't what he wants. Over here he isn't willing to remain a boy; very likely, as you say. because he feels like an outsider in our boy's world. Probably at home he would find something answering to it, in which he could let himself out, and be satisfied, without wanting to discount life, and be a man before his time."

How is it, my boys? Are my correspondents and friends right? Are you hurrying up your own lives, and therefore, so far as you can, spoiling the life of your country? Well, if so, the only word I have to say to you (like my friend above referred to) is—patience, patience, patience! But I am a stranger, and know little of your needs or your hopes. Let me cite, then, one who has the best right to speak to you, and whose words ought to go straight to the heart of every American boy. Take down your Lowell, and look out a little poem (not one of his best in workmanship, but a gem in spirit and motive) called "Hebe." The gods' messenger descends to earth, bearing in her hands their choicest gift, the cup brimming with nectar—inspiration, and solace, and strength—for the lip of him whom the gods approve. The youth rushes to meet her—will snatch the cup from her hand. In his haste it is broken, and the precious contents spilled on the ground.

"O spendthrift haste! await the gods:
Their nectar crowns the lips of Patience:
Haste scatters on unthankful sods
The immortal gift in vain libations.
Coy Hebe flics from those that woo.
And shuns the hand would seize upon her;
Follow thy life, and she shall sue
To pour for thee the cup of honor."

Yes, follow your lives, and you will control them; get ahead of them, and they will slip from under your hand. You are bred with a strong faith in your country and her destiny; justify that faith then, and remember that "he that believeth shall not make haste."

"The Champion Lobster Company"

by Martin M. Foss, May 1906

This is a very typical story of the era in its themes: that a young man, or even a boy, could make a success of himself simply with a new idea and hard work, and that city living was bad for your soul.

Harold Drake stretched his wiry body along the counter of the Frank D., one hand resting idly on the tiller, the other trailing in the water. His thin face, covered with a network of wrinkles, and his forehead, tied in a hard knot of worry, seemed to belong rather to an old man than to a boy of fourteen.

"I guess I could make some money if I went to New York, Mr. Stewart."

Mr. Stewart turned from the sunset glow, reflected in the flooding tide, and smiled quietly at the barefooted boy before him.

"What would you do, lad?"

"What did you do?" Harold asked in reply.

"I? Oh, well, I worked as office-boy for two years at four dollars a week—and I worked hard, too. Would you like that?"

"Four dollars is more than I can make here, and mother has to go out to work, too. Yes, I should."

For several minutes Mr. Stewart gazed over the quiet bay as the Frank D. slipped quietly toward the river's mouth. Now and again he lifted his eyes to the rugged outline of the hills and mountains which rose beyond the broad stretches of field and woodland. A man of sixty at least, browned by a month on the water, he seemed scarcely to bear in his face the signs of care and work which seamed Harold's cheeks and brow.

"Harold, boy, you are much better off right here."

Harold turned his face toward the ocean to hide his disappointment.

"If I could only stay here, too! Boy, do you know I 'd give up business gladly, if I could, just to settle down here to your life? I would n't loaf, for no man has a right to do that; nor has any man in business, as I am, a right to leave the responsibilities and supervision of it. There are too many dependent upon him. But to fish, to have a little garden like yours, to live out of doors, even though I were tired at night and could n't have all the luxuries I do in the city, to see this beautiful stretch of water and those hills—"

Mr. Stewart stopped suddenly, apparently lost in the contemplation of those joys which success had not brought to him. Harold headed the Frank D. a little closer to the wind, trimmed his main-sheet, and settled back upon his elbow, his face still drawn downward with disappointment.

"I know you want to make money, Harold. I did at your age. Nearly every man who has a healthy mind does. And it is right that you should. I have made money—not a great deal, but a lot more than I have needed; but I have n't lived right. I 'd give more to look out on this water mornings, and on these hills at sunset, to breathe this air—you don't know what the city means. You see all this every day, and you can't realize how it shapes your life. The distances and the peace ought to make you a strong, sincere man, and that is worth more than all the money you can make. You live in God's presence."

Harold stirred a trifle impatiently, his face set and worried.

"I guess you would n't think much about all of that if your mother had to go out to work and you did n't know whether the fish were going to bite, or whether you 'd get any lobsters. I 'd like it if I did n't have to worry."

The thought of this little boy of fourteen bearing the burden left by a dead father, staggering, almost, under the load of a grown man, pained Mr. Stewart.

"Yes, boy, I know. But you are getting older now, and you will soon be able to make a good living. Lobsters are plenty, are n't they?"

"There are some, but you can't get much for them."

Mr. Stewart was silent again for a long time, seemingly as far away as the peak which loomed above the broken line of hills on the shore. Out of all this he had gone as a boy, rilled with the ambition which had burned as hot in him as it did now in Harold. Only within a few years had he known what the cost had been, what the city did for a man. He spoke aloud at last, just as they reached the end of the breakwater which kept the shifting sands from the river channel.

"If you could only know how the crowded, irregular life of the city, the swarms of hurrying, selfish people, roughen and harden a man's nature. They take all the humanity out of him. I went away from here forty years ago, and it was n't until I had lived thirty years in New York that I knew what it did to men and was doing to me. When you are there you scarcely think any more of the people about you, unless you know them, than you do of the fish you catch. We are all fishing there for something that belongs to other people."

The flame of ambition was not to be quenched in Harold's breast by such a course. Mr. Stewart knew it—and knew, too, that he liked his sailing companion of the past month the more for his earnest devotion to the life problem before him. It was out of this line of thought, however, that an idea came to him which was to solve the problem. There had been another of the long pauses when the sweet simplicity of the country held the city man's mind, while the boy's heart, fixed on the golden tints of the city's promise, raced away to the crowds, cruel as they might be, and the opportunities, boundless and obtruding as he felt they were. The Frank D. was almost at the little dock, under the bank which sloped from Harold's house to the river, when Mr. Stewart spoke again.

"I 've always thought, lad, that money could be made anywhere, if sound business methods were employed. Of course you could hardly do as well here as in a big place with more people and more money. But your life does n't require so much. Suppose we two go into business here and try it for a year? If it succeeds, you stay here. If it does n't, we 'll see what can be done in New York."

There was little of eagerness in Harold's answer.

"I don't see what we can do. Everybody here has something, and there does n't seem to be anything for anybody else."

"You said lobsters were fairly plenty?"

"Sometimes; but we don't get much for them."

"How much? About ten cents a pound, on the average?"

"Yes, summers. A little more, winters."

"In a big city competition develops all business. Men have something to sell, and they work to make it cheaper, so that they can sell it for less, or give a better quality for the same money. In our linen-mills we have two or three men studying all the time to increase the output and lessen the expense. Do you know that if you should study lobsters so that you could have more of them in the dull seasons of winter,—more of them and better ones,—you could make a lot of money?"

Harold's face lighted for the first time.

"I 've thought of that sometimes. I read about a man who raised strawberries in the winter, when they were scarce, and made a lot of money."

The beginnings of "The Champion Lobster Company" were very small. For two weeks, until business demanded Mr. Stewart's return to New York, they worked and studied together,—Mr. Stewart reading in the books he had procured from New York, and fitting the observations of natural historians to the shrewd ideas of a fisher-boy who knew the lobsters as only one can who has lived by catching them all his life. For a beginning Mr. Stewart wanted only to learn how they could be caught as fast as possible, which Harold knew without books—and how, too, they could be made more plentiful and more safely and comfortably caught throughout the cold stretches of winter.

A new boat came first, heavier in construction than Harold's cat, with broad bilges for rough weather, and more storage-room for lobster-pots. Systematically they tried new ideas for feeding a few lobsters which they gathered in the Pool, as the little basin which formed in back of Harold's house was called, fencing it off with heavy netting sunk deep in the mud. If lobsters could reason, those about the mouth of the Pentock River would have grown suspicious, as voters do when a district leader in politics grows friendly and obliging with the approach of a caucus.

Mr. Stewart's plan was simple. He told Harold how expensive, yet how highly prized, good lobsters—really large, fresh lobsters—were in New York, especially in the winter. He told him, too, how many well-to-do men there were who would pay well for selected lobsters, just as they bought strawberries and grapes in the winter season. If Harold could learn how to get lobsters, to grow them systematically as a farmer would his hens, and to keep them alive, above all, in the Pool until winter, there was an opportunity—an opportunity which Mr. Stewart made all the more attractive by pointing out that the city's wealth, in some degree, would be turned toward the Champion Lobster Company, without exposing Harold to the hardening influences of the life itself.

Perhaps the little package of paper and envelopes which came to Mr. Stewart, neatly printed with the name of the concern, and up in one corner, "Harold Drake, Manager," gave the boy greater joy than the promises which Mr. Stewart held out.

Harold threw himself into his new life as many a country boy does when he reaches the office of a great city firm, but as very few do when, bred in the routine of a quiet village, they tackle a new phase of life's problem in old surroundings. For a time Mr. Stewart insisted on paying him a small salary,—as much as Harold had been earning before,—so that he could devote his days to preparations for winter. Daily Harold's stock grew ; daily, too, his watchfulness taught him how to prevent the losses which came from death, sometimes at the claws of other lobsters, sometimes perhaps because the food was wrong or scarce. Harold soon learned that there must be separate pens, so that all of his stock would be sure of food, and, too, so that there might be less danger of a wholesale slaughter when some bloodthirsty old warrior went out on a marauding trip. Long before the trees began to turn, there were hundreds of lobsters living the quiet, undisturbed life which nature had mapped out, but had not planned under exactly these circumstances, with more to eat and less of strife than they had ever known.

Neighbors—regular fishermen generally— scoffed a little.

"Water ain't deep enough. They 'll all freeze the first cold snap," Captain Thomas said.

Captain Dean had a more intimate interest.

"You just take my advice, boy, and sell 'em now. You 're just stowing them up here, and when the fishing gets hard other fellows will come along and steal them. Sell 'em to the next smack that comes along. What 's Jim Stewart know about fishing, anyhow?"

Harold consulted the president of the company (Mr. Stewart preferred to be called the "New York representative"), and received advice as to the manner of dealing with thieves and encouragement to hold all of the stock until the "season was on in New York."

There were plenty of troubles in the day-to-day routine. One day a lot of lobsters escaped through a large hole which appeared in the outside netting.

"Driftwood, probably," Ben Tarbox said. "A piece of an old wreck."

Harold thought it more likely that the driftwood was some malicious rival, but he kept his peace. Only to Mr. Stewart did he explain the danger from such marauders, and in reply Mr. Stewart sent a huge Danish bloodhound from his kennels, a brute so ferocious that Harold was uneasy at first; but there was a marked and permanent decrease in the number of inquisitive loafers about the Pool. Day and night the great dog lived in a little kennel back of the house, not a hundred feet from the "Lobster Beds," as they were called; and ponderous and undemonstrative as he was, he seemed to grow into a sense of his guardianship over the premises.

The months until fall were crowded with work. Somehow, the life came to mean more and more to Harold ; and the broad ocean, very blue in the crisp air, and the hills, now turning into golden mounds, came into his mind even in the busier days. He began to feel sure, too, that he could raise lobsters as well as store them—if only they would sell. This little "if" was the cause of so many knots in his forehead. Some days he would stop for a minute, as he was pulling the lobster-pots, or working about the "beds," his face wrinkled into lines of worry, like that of an old man. Perhaps, after all, Mr. Stewart could not sell the lobsters. Mr. Stewart, however, buoyed his hopes with the promises he had received from various men.

"About November 1st," Mr. Stewart wrote, "I 'll send some trial orders. Fill them from the pots if you can; but if you can't, take them from the beds. With the venture so new, we can hardly hope to get a sufficient supply this year, to last all winter; but your last weekly-report shows such a splendid gain in numbers and so much decrease in deaths that I am much encouraged."

These neatly type-written letters, addressed to "Harold Drake, Manager, The Champion Lobster Company," made the business very real to Harold, and filled him with the zest which comes to men when they are first assigned to a roll-top desk with a revolving chair.

Perhaps the Champion Lobster Company had an unusual advantage in its New York representative. Certainly he never lost an opportunity to tell business associates, friends at his clubs, and all whom he met in a casual way, of the new venture. He confessed that he felt almost as much interest in it as he did in anything he controlled, and certainly, for a business that was still all investment, he devoted a great deal of time to it. He clung steadfastly, however, to the idea of withholding all lobsters from the market until the season of "great public dinners" was on. Then, one day early in November, he sent Harold the first order, as briefly and concisely phrased as if he had been instructing a great and long- established business house. Harold has that order tacked up over his desk now, and he confesses that he has a little glimmer of the great joy of that day, even now, as he reads it over.

Harold Drake, Manager,
  The Champion Lobster Co.,
          Renton, Maine.

Dear Sir: Ship at once, by Adams Express, fifty selected lobsters, to the Calumet Club, New York. Mail bill to the same address, charging them at forty cents a pound. Wire me the date of shipment.
          Very truly yours,
          (Signed) James Stewart,
          N. Y. Representative.

There was a friendly little postscript underneath:

Dear Harold : We shall be lobsters if we can't make money out of this idea. Don't work too hard, and don't forget to look at the ocean, the hills, and the sky for me.

Beside this letter, on the wall, there is a gilded menu card, at the bottom of which Mr. Stewart had printed, "Lobsters supplied by the Champion Lobster Company." He made it a rule, that winter, that every club and public dinner for which he supplied the lobsters must print this notice. The very fact that there were not a tenth enough lobsters in the beds to supply the demand only made them the more highly prized. Mr. Stewart told about the work at his first dinner, and nobody suspected him of advertising.

The skill with which the whole plan was executed made "Champion lobsters" famous. A lobster, previously, had been good or bad; but now there was a brand the very name of which became synonymous with sound, fresh shell-fish. There might be a hundred other fishermen sending in the best of lobsters, but "Champion lobsters" were known to the public, and no other lobsters would do.

Every neighbor in Benton, Maine, had a pool the next season, and many another town. tried to push a brand upon the market. In the second year, after a summer of work together, Mr. Stewart and Harold had several pools, larger and better constructed, and into these they placed the finest specimens of shell-fish which they could catch. And it was not long after the opening of another winter that Harold found his rivals glad to sell their fish at a slight advance on the regular market prices. Practically he controlled the output of Benton.

The business is a fine one now, with a New York office, and a Boston office, too; and both Harold and Mr. Stewart are working on a plan to ship the lobsters alive all over the country.

Yet in all the triumphs of the Champion Lobster Company, Harold has never known a day like the one which brought the first order. It makes his heart beat a little faster to think of it; to think of how he worked, preparing the shipment and sending it to the express office. Somehow, he had no confidence in express companies; nothing but absolute conviction that somebody, somewhere, would fail. He wanted to go to New York with the lobsters. Two days later there was a telegram from Mr. Stewart announcing the satisfactory arrival of the shipment, with one word, "congratulations," added. For the first time Harold gave way to the boyish joy of it all, running into the house where his mother sat, he waved the telegram and yelled like a madman:

"They got there, mother! They got there!" Mother's heart answered the yell in its own quiet way. Together they went out on the porch overlooking the river; and somehow, that day, Harold felt what the ocean meant, and the hills, too, and he felt sorry for Mr. Stewart, the New York representative.

The Sapphire Signet, Chapter 7

by Augusta Huiell Seaman, beginning November 1915

CHAPTER VII: THE DISCOVERIES CORINNE MADE

Corinne did not reappear for nearly a week. During all that time the twins, who only saw her in school, reported that she would have nothing to say to them outside of this statement:

"Let me alone, girls, just for a while. I 'm working hard at it. When I 've run to earth something worth while, I 'll tell you, and we 'll have another meeting!" And that was absolutely all they could get from her.

Meanwhile, Margaret was passing the slow days in a fever of impatience and baffled expectation. Now that she no longer had her mind occupied by puzzling out the curious old journal and could only sit and wait for the results of Corinne's work, she grew terribly restless. So much so, indeed, that the lynx-eyed Sarah, who watched her beloved charge like a cat, made up her mind that Margaret was beginning to have symptoms of a real fever. She prepared, therefore, a huge bowl of boneset tea to be taken in instalments.

Now, if there was any one thing under the sun that Margaret hated more than another, it was boneset tea! And, moreover, in this case she knew that there was absolutely no need of the remedy. But this she dared not confide to Sarah lest she awaken fresh suspicion in that handmaiden's already too suspicious mind. So she swallowed her bitter doses uncomplainingly, and longed for Corinne's coming for more reasons than one!

And then at last, six days later, Corinne came flying home with the twins one afternoon, and all three burst in unexpectedly on the delighted Margaret. Corinne was armed with a load of volumes that were plainly not school-books, and these she planked down on the floor beside the invalid-chair with just one brief remark:

"I 've got it!"

Questions and inquiries were hurled at her thick and fast, but not one of them would she answer till all were seated about Margaret's chair in the usual half-circle by the open fire. Then she began quietly, but with much suppressed excitement in her voice:

"Yes, girls, I 've got it—at last! I 'm going to tell you all about it, and you 're going to have the surprise of your lives! It took me a long while before I struck just the right clue. I 've spent about every afternoon reading at the library near us. I even went up to the big one at Forty-second Street yesterday. And every evening at home has found me still digging at it. I 've neglected my school work completely, and have failed in everything this week; but I don't care!

"Margaret's a trump! She put us all on the right track in the first place by sensibly suggesting the Revolution. That was fine! But, of course, the subject was a big one and concerned the whole thirteen original colonies. In thinking it over, I decided that since Alison came from Bermuda, the 'city' she keeps speaking of would most likely be the nearest one to Bermuda. On looking it up, I found the nearest was Charleston, South Carolina. So I started in and hunted up every bit of Revolutionary history I could find about Charleston, but never a thing did I strike that helped a bit.

"Then I gave that up and tried another city. As there didn't seem to be any very likely places south of Charleston, I turned north and tried Richmond, Baltimore and Philadelphia. Not a single thing in any one of them that threw a ray of light on our troubles! Finally, I began on New York—and hit it right away!" Her listeners gave a little jump. "Yes, right here in old New York. And come to think of it, that was the most likely place, after all, and I might have saved myself all that other bother, if only I 'd used a little common sense!"

"But how did you know right away that it was New York?" demanded Margaret.

"Why, the simplest thing in the world! Almost the first thing I came across, in reading up about New York during the Revolution, was about a place called—Richmond Hill!"

"What? Where?" they all cried in one breath.

"Yes, Richmond Hill! It was the name of a big mansion and estate outside of the city, and was a very famous place in its time."

"But how did you know it had anything to do with Alison?" they demanded incredulously.

"Well, just about twenty things pointed to it without a doubt. I 'll tell you all about it. In the first place, I read that this mansion was built in 1760 by the paymaster-general of the British army, and his name was—Abraham Mortier!"

She stopped significantly, but no one seemed to catch her meaning till Margaret suddenly cried:

"Madame M.!"

"Precisely!" said Corinne. "I wondered if you 'd catch it. 'Madame M.' must have been Madame Mortier, his wife, of course!"

"But Alison didn't say anything about Abraham Mortier," objected Bess.

"That's just it,—she didn't, because Madame Mortier was then a widow. Her husband died quite suddenly, just at the outbreak of the war. So that's accounted for. And don't you remember that Alison said Madame M. allowed the steward to transact all the business of the household. She wouldn't be doing that if her husband were alive! Well, except for that, I could n't find out another thing about the Mortiers. History does n't mention them again. But it tells a lot about other things we 're interested in. To begin with, after the siege of Boston, Washington came to New York, and was there several months. Now then, while he was in the city, he made his headquarters at—Richmond Hill! What does that suggest to you?"

Again they all looked blank for a moment, and once more Margaret was first to catch the idea.

"I 've got it! Washington is the 'he' that Alison says so much about but never names!"

"Right!" cried Corinne.

"How do you know?" clamored the less astute twins.

"This way," explained Corinne. "Everything that Alison says about 'him' tallies with the descriptions of Washington—'grave, courteous, stately, kindly, thoughtful.' There is n't a shadow of doubt! She speaks of his servants and men and guards. Only a commander-in-chief would be likely to have all that retinue."

Suddenly Jess, who had been deep in thought, interrupted: "But, see here! If it was Washington, why did Madame M. act so hateful about him? Alison said if she had n't been sick, she 'd have gladly slammed the door in his face. I don't understand it!"

"Oh, that's easy! Madame Mortier was, without doubt, a Tory! You know, New York was full of Tories at the time, and they hated Washington and all the rebels like—like poison!"

"But I still don't understand," insisted Jess, "how, if Madame Mortier was a Tory and hated Washington so, he should come to be using her house for his headquarters. I don't wonder she was furious!"

"I thought of that too," said Corinne, "and it seemed strange to me; but, from what I 've read, I think it was this way: he had to have his headquarters somewhere while he was in New York, and just at first he had them way down in the lower part of the city, in the Kennedy house. But later he wanted to get outside of the city for some reason; perhaps it was on account of one of those plagues of smallpox or yellow fever that were always breaking out there. Then, of course, there were so few houses outside that he had to take anything he could find that was suitable. So he chose Richmond Hill, and Lady Washington followed him there later."

"How do you know?" again demanded the ever-skeptical listeners.

"Well, didn't Alison say, just toward the last, that 'his lady' had come?"

"True enough!" assented Jess. "And that makes me think of something else. Was that the 'Lady Blank' she spoke of first, do you think?"

"Without doubt, for she even says, 'I do not think she remembers me.' But where or how she met her before, I have n't had time to work out. Anyhow, it explains why Madame Mortier began to be suspicious of Alison. Of course she would be if she was such a staunch Tory and found Alison talking to the wife of her worst enemy!

"But here 's something very important, and it's the real proof of the whole thing. The rest was just rather easy guesswork. Do you know, while Washington was at Richmond Hill, that summer of 1776, the Tories in the city got up a big plot to kill him, blow up his fortifications, massacre all his soldiers, and spoil everything for the Americans? And—it very nearly was accomplished, only some one discovered it and gave the whole thing away. That's the plot, evidently, which was brewing when Alison felt that something strange and mysterious was going on. And here's my positive proof: one of the chief conspirators in the plot was a man who kept a tavern near the edge of the woods close to Washington's headquarters, and his name was—Corbie!"

"Did n't we say that name would be of great help?" cried Margaret, excitedly. "Why, all this seems like a fairy story coming true! Is there anything else, Corinne?"

"Yes, there 's one other thing. But before I tell you, I 'm curious to know why you have n't asked one question."

"What?"

"Why, the exact location of Richmond Hill. You have n't exhibited the least curiosity about that!"

"But you said it was outside of the city somewhere," put in Bess, "and I suppose it was up around Fordham or West Farms, or even White Plains. It must have been pretty far out."

Corinne laughed. "Do you realize that the 'city' only extended to about City Hall Park in those days? And all beyond that was out in the country! No, Richmond Hill was right here in Greenwich Village!"

They all stared at her in such frank amazement that she broke into a giggle.

"Perhaps you think that's rather astonishing, but I 've something to say that's even more so. I told you I 'd give you the surprise of your lives, and here it is: the exact spot where the Richmond Hill mansion stood was—just about where this house stands now!"

to be continued...

Tom, Dick and Harriet, Chapter 7

by Ralph Henry Barbour, beginning May 1907

CHAPTER VII: HARRY EVENS OLD SCORES

It seemed to Roy many long minutes before he ceased to sink and was able to struggle upward again to the surface and daylight. Luckily the current was sluggish at that point and when he came up he found himself in the pool of broken ice. Afterward, remembering how thin that ice proved to be, he wondered that it had held him for as long as it had. But now, gasping for breath, choking and numbed with the cold, his only thought was to find something to support him until help came. He gave no outcry; it never occurred to him to do so, nor, for that matter, had he breath for it. Weighted with skates and heavy clothing, including the thick crimson sweater which he usually wore, he was seriously handicapped from the start. And to make matters worse, the thin ice broke under the slightest weight he put upon it. If he could keep himself afloat long enough to break his way to the side of the cutting and reach the thick ice he might hold on until some one reached him. But the chill in his body threatened cramp every instant and made him feel as weak as a kitten. Gasping and choking, he fought hard, smashing the ice with one mittened hand and using the other to keep himself afloat. Now and then, in spite of his efforts, the water with its scum of floating ice fragments rose across his face, and each time a dreadful fear gripped him. But he thrashed and fought his way back again and again, each struggle leaving him weaker than before. There was no time to look for succor; he saw only the horrid brittle surface against which he battled. He could not tell whether he was working toward thick ice or not.

By degrees hopelessness seized him and he began to feel indifferent; the lower part of his body seemed to have left him; he believed that he was working his legs in an effort to tread water, but there was no sensation there. Once he stopped struggling, and only when the water had closed over his eyes did he realize that he was sinking. Then, terror mastering him, he fought blindly and impotently for an instant. But the effort did not last; he was too weak now to even break the imprisoning ice; a pleasant lassitude crept over him. It was no use, he told himself; he was going to give up. And having reached that decision he experienced a delicious sensation of relief. He had no thought of drowning; he was merely going to rest, to sleep; and he was glad, because he could not remember ever having been so dead tired! And then two things happened simultaneously; he heard his name called and found his fingers tightening about something that was not ice, something that did not break and dissolve in his grasp. With a sudden return to his senses he opened his eyes, said "Hello, Harry," quite calmly and closed them again. He did not remember much about it after that.

When Roy had shouted Harry had heard and waved to him. She was already skating toward him, although a long distance away, and when, an instant later, she had looked again to find only empty ice where he had been she realized instantly what had happened. With a shrill cry of warning to Dick, some distance behind, she flew onward, skating harder than she had ever skated before. But the wind was almost dead ahead of her and seemed to be striving to beat her back with its savage blasts. She repeated a little prayer to herself over and over as she sped along, in time to the ringing of her skates: "Please, God, let me be in time! Please, God, let me be in time!" And presently, as she drew near, she saw Roy's head above the surface and was sure that her prayer would be answered. Off came the brown sweater with the white F. H. upon it and away blew Harry's tam-o'-shanter across the ice. And then she was down on her knees, crawling anxiously across the edge of the treacherous surface.

Roy, with white face and closed eyes, his light brown hair plastered down upon his forehead, was heating the air feebly with his hands. With a silent prayer for success Harry caught her sweater by the end of one sleeve and tossed it toward him. It fell beside his hand but the wind whipped it past. Again she tried, calling his name as she did so, and a corner of the sweater fell under his grasping fingers and with relief she felt the garment strain and tighten. Roy opened his eyes and looked at her; even smiled a little, she thought; and said her name. Then she was putting all her strength into keeping her place, for he had closed his eyes again and seemed bent upon pulling her after him into the water. But help was close at hand. With a shout of encouragement Sid came racing up, followed breathlessly by Chub and Dick.

"Hold on a minute more," cried Dick. "Get hold of my legs, Chub, and I 'll work out to him."

But even after Dick had seized Roy firmly by the hands and was himself lying half in the water it was no easy task for the others. Chub had Dick by the ankles and Sid held onto Chub, but it was slow work getting back to solid ice. Yet in the end they succeeded, and Roy, dripping and unconscious, lay safe.

"Is he dead?" whispered Sid brokenly.

"Not a bit of it," Dick panted. "But we 've got to get him home mighty quick or he will catch cold and have pneumonia and all sorts of things." As he spoke he peeled off his sweater and wrapped it around Roy's shoulders. "Let me have yours, you fellows," he commanded.

"Look!" cried Harry. "There 's the ice-boat!"

Chub's signaling was unnecessary, however, for the two occupants of the boat had already seen the catastrophe and were headed toward the group. Harry's sweater, as well as Chub's and the two worn by Sid, were thrown over Roy, and Dick and Chub were rubbing and slapping him when the iceboat rounded to and came up into the wind with flapping sail.

"Want any help!" asked one of the occupants.

"Yes, we want to get him home right away," answered Dick. "Can you take him aboard and get him to the Ferry Hill landing?"

"Sure! You pile out, Bob. Lift him in here, will you! There is n't much room, but I guess you can get him on somehow. That 's the ticket. Shove her nose around, Bob. All right! I 'll meet you over there!"

The sail filled and the boat, with Roy lying like a log in the tiny cockpit and Joe Thurston crouched beside him, leaped away. The others, shouting their thanks to the marooned Bob, who, having no skates, decided to stay where he was until his chum returned to pick him up, hurried after the boat. At any other time they would have felt the cold terribly, deprived as they were of their sweaters, but just now they were far too excited. All talked at once as they raced along and Harry was forced to listen to much enthusiastic praise of her pluck and readiness. When they reached the landing the boat was up on the beach and Joe Thurston had lugged Roy into the boat-house, where, warmed by the piled-up sweaters, he was beginning to take an interest in life once more. He waved a hand at them as they entered, but he still looked pretty white and weak.

"Well, you 're a fine one, are n't you!" asked Chub in simulated disgust. "What were you trying to do? Commit suicide?"

"You must n't scold him!" cried Harry. "He almost drowned!"

"I guess I would have if it had n't been for you," said Roy soberly. "Thanks, Harry; you 're a trump."

"Oh, don't mention it," answered Harry flippantly, to hide the fact that her lip was trembling. "Besides, I just evened things up. You know," she explained, turning to Dick, "I might have burned up to a cinder last winter if it had n't been for Roy. My dress caught on fire at an entertainment we gave and I came pretty near frizzling, I guess."

"That 's so," said Chub. "You two are even now."

"Besides," added Harry, "I did n't do anything much, after all. It was Dick and the others who got you out."

"If it had n't been for you," said Dick, "he would n't have been there when we reached the place. I did n't know anything about it until I heard Harry scream. Then I saw her hitting the high places down the river and guessed what was up. Say, Harry, you sure did skate some!"

"I guess I 'd better be getting back," said Joe Thurston, edging toward the door. "Bob will be frozen if I don't. I hope you 'll be all right," he added to Roy.

"Thanks; and I 'm awfully much obliged to you for bringing me across," answered Roy.

"That 's so," said Dick. "It was mighty nice of you. Want any help with the boat?" Joe protested that he did n't. At the door he hesitated and finally asked, looking at Dick:

"Say, are you the fellow that came to our school and left?" Dick nodded.

"I 'm the chap," he said. "Why?"

"Oh, nothing," was the reply. "Only—" and this was said over his shoulder as he went out— "only I 'm sorry you did n't stay!"

"Cheeky cuss!" muttered Sid.

"I think he meant it for a compliment," laughed Chub.

"Of course he did!" exclaimed Harry. "And I think, he 's a real nice boy, and I 'm going to tell his sister so. It 's too bad he goes to Hammond, is n't it?"

"Why don't you kidnap him too?" asked Chub mischievously.

"Now what are we going to do with you, Roy!" interrupted Dick. "Want a carriage or an automobile! Or do you think you can walk if we give you a boost now and then!"

"Of course I can walk! And look here, you fellows, I don't see that it 's necessary for people to know about this, is it!"

"I guess the fellows 'll find out pretty quick," said Chub.

"Well, don't you go and tell them. How about you, Harry!"

"I won't say anything unless some one asks me," said Harry.

"That 's all right, then," said Roy. "Here, take some of these sweaters; you folks must be freezing to death. I 'm as warm as toast now."

"Does n't make any difference," Dick declared. "You keep as many of those around you as you can. And when you get up the hill you sneak up to the dormitory and lie down and keep warm until supper time."

"You ought to have some peppermint tea," said Harry. "I 'll make some and give it to Chub to take over to you. It 'll warm you up inside beautifully!"

The program was carried out as arranged, and, save that for the rest of the evening Roy felt rather played out, he experienced no unpleasant results from his adventure. Of course the meeting of the F. H. S. I. S. called for that evening did not take place, for although Roy professed his readiness to attend, the others would not hear of it.

"You 've had a shock," declared Harry firmly, "and must be very careful of yourself for several days. I 'll make some more peppermint tea for you to-morrow, and, and—what are you making such a face about?"

"Oh, nothing, only could n't you manage to get a little sugar into it the next time?"

"Did n't I put any-" began Harry. "Oh, I did n't, did I? I 'm awfully sorry, Roy! Was it terribly nasty?"

"Well, there are some things I have n't tasted," answered Roy judicially, "but it was pretty bad, Harry."

"I forgot all about the sugar," Harry mourned, "but I 'll put in enough the next time to make up!"

As Chub had predicted, the story of Roy's accident and rescue was all over school on Monday, while on Wednesday a graphic and highly-colored account of it appeared in the Silver Cove paper. One result was that Harry found herself once more in the glare of publicity at Madame Lambert's School and another was that Doctor Emery promulgated a rule restricting skating on the river to the immediate vicinity of the boat-house.

On Monday forenoon at eleven there was a full attendance of the Improvement Society in the barn. It was such a busy meeting that it is quite impossible to give an account of it in detail. Strange to say, every one had tried his or her hand at composing an appeal to the graduates, just as they had agreed to do, and each one read his production aloud and listened good-naturedly to the criticisms from the others which followed.

"What we 've got to do now," said Dick, "is take these four and work them over into one. But I suppose there is n't much hurry about that, because we decided that the best way to begin is to make an appeal to some chap with a lot of money and get him to give a lump as a starter. To do that we 've got to find out who the rich ones are. That means taking the Doctor into the scheme the next thing. So I move that Roy and Chub be appointed a committee of two to wait on him this afternoon, or as soon as possible, and tell him about it. And Harry and I will get to work on this circular."

"Well," said Chub, "if I must I must, but it seems to me that Dick ought to take my place because he can talk a lot better and explain the thing."

"Let Roy do most of the talking," advised Dick. "I have no objection to taking your place, only you 're an old boy here and I 've just come; he 'd pay more attention to what you said."

"All right," sighed Chub. "I 'm the goat."

"And Roy 's the goatee," added Dick.

"Well, let 's do it this afternoon," said Roy, "and get it over with."

"Yes," said Dick, "and we 'll meet again here this evening and hear the committee's report."

"Hooray!" cried Chub. "That 's me! I 'm a Committee!"

"You 're only half a one," Roy objected. "I appoint myself chairman of the committee."

"Seconded," said Chub. "The chairman does the talking, does n't he?"

"Don't forget to tell papa that we 've elected him honorary president," reminded Harry. "That will please him, I know."

"Bet you he 'll kick us out!" murmured Chub.

"Don't you worry," laughed Dick. "Roy, as chairman, will receive all the honors. You can dodge."

Methuselah, who up to this point had been huddled silently in a corner of his box, with only one beady eye showing, began to chuckle softly.

"Hello," said Dick, "old 'Thuselah 's awake. I thought he was frozen up. Hello, you old rascal!"

The parrot put his head on one side and walked slowly to the front of the box.

"Howdy do!" he muttered.

"Pretty well, thanks," answered Chub. "How are you?"

"Stop your swearing," replied Methuselah severely. "Can't you be quiet?"

"Well, that 's a nice way to answer a polite inquiry," said Chub. "You ought to teach him better manners, Harry."

"I can't teach him anything," mourned Harry. "He knew all he knows now when I got him. Roy and I tried one day to—"

"Roy," observed Methuselah slowly, experimentally. Then, as though to hide his embarrassment, "Well, I never did!" he shrieked. The four stared at each other in astonishment. Harry found her voice first.

"That 's the first new thing he 's ever said!" she whispered in awe.

"See if he will say it again," Dick suggested. But in spite of all their coaxing Methuselah was obdurate. You would have thought he had never heard the word in his life, much less pronounced it.

"Well, it shows who 's the favorite, anyhow," laughed Chub.

Harry blushed a little and answered quickly:

"That 's because Roy has been nice to him, and does n't make fun of him."

"Maybe," teased Chub, "but I notice he does n't break out with my name or Dick's. And Dick just loves him; don't you, Dick?"

"Of course I do," answered Dick, walking over and rubbing Methuselah's head through the slats. "We 're pretty good friends considering that we have n't known each other very—Ouch! Great guns!"

"What 's the matter?" laughed Roy.

"Why, he pretty near bit my finger off! 'Thuselah, you 're a hypocrite. After this when you want your old top-knot scratched you ask Roy; I 'm through with you."

"Did he hurt you much?" asked Harry anxiously.

"No," said Dick, "he just nipped me."

"Oh, that was just a love-nip," said Chub. "That 's the way he shows his affection. He 's so fond of me that I have to keep away from him; I was getting all black-and-blue spots!"

"You 're a naughty 'Thuselah," said Harry sternly. "For that you shall go to bed. Goodnight."

She let the piece of canvas fall over the front of the box. For a moment there was silence. Then came a subdued rustling followed by insulted mutterings:

"Well, I never did!" croaked Methuselah.

"Is the meeting over?" asked Chub. "Because I 've got about two minutes to find my books and get to class."

"Yes," answered Dick. "It 's adjourned until to-night at eight o'clock."

"Then I 'm off! This half of the committee has duties!"

to be continued...

"Picnics"

by Susan Anna Brown, July 1884

A 19th century picnic sounds almost as complicated to prepare as a vacation! Yet my own mother, born in 1917, prepared a picnic in the same way, with everything in dishes and bringing along plates, forks and glasses which must be washed when one got home, even in the late 1960s. Not once were we allowed to stop for sandwiches or burgers. That picnic in a cool wood next to a stream sounds quite nice, though!

Some writer has defined a picnic as "a day's laborious frolicking, under the impression that you are having a good time"; and that is certainly an excellent description of some out-of-door entertainments. But almost all of us can recall some picnics which were not at all "laborious," and of which even the recollection is very pleasant.

It is possible that you have heard your mothers express some dismay at the thought of fitting out a party for a day in the woods. It seems to bring up to them visions of baskets which must be filled with a variety of eatables, difficult to procure, and almost impossible to pack. A person needs to live through a generation of picnics in order to know the easiest and best way of carrying them out.

One common mistake is that of taking too much food. The result is that it must either be brought back, not at all improved by the journey, or else wastefully thrown away. This trouble usually arises from want of forethought. Have it clearly understood beforehand what part of the lunch each person is to provide. This will be less trouble for each one, and the necessary quantity can be easily estimated. One should provide all the bread and butter, another the cold meat, another the cake, and so on. Pack the articles with care, so that their appearance will not be injured in carrying them. Always take the bread in the loaf, as it dries so quickly after it is cut. Press the butter into a cup, and push a bit of ice into the center to keep it cool. Spread each slice before cutting it from the loaf. Have a sharp knife and you will find it easy to cut it thin without breaking the slices. Cake should never be cut beforehand, as it is in that case sure to crumble. Wrap the food tightly in old napkins, which can be lost without breaking a set. Japanese paper napkins are not strong enough to keep the loaves in shape, but they are very useful in serving the lunch.

Cold meat should be sliced, sprinkled with salt, and wrapped in a damp napkin, or put in a tin box.

Be careful to have nothing in the baskets which can be spilled. All liquids should be put into tightly closed bottles or jars. Sugar and salt in boxes, with the covers carefully secured. A large piece of ice is very desirable. The only objection to taking it is the weight; but if it is put in a tightly covered pail, it can be carried without much inconvenience, and a supply of cold water will be very refreshing.

Do not try to take too many dishes. They are very heavy, and if you can not be content without all the comforts of a well-appointed table, you 'd better stay at home, and eat in peace in a convenient dining-room. A wooden plate for each of the company is almost indispensable. These are very light, and cheap enough to be thrown away after using. A cup or tumbler should be provided for every one. Tin teaspoons are also a great convenience. Sometimes they are ornamented with a bit of bright ribbon, and brought home in remembrance of the day. A table-cloth should be carried, and each should bring what is necessary in serving his or her part of the entertainment, a can-opener and fork for sardines, a spoon for jelly, etc.

It is much easier to squeeze the lemons for the lemonade and put the sugar with the juice, before leaving home. A pound of sugar is about the right quantity for a cup of lemon juice. It can be carried in a glass jar, and will only need the addition of water when it is to be used.

If coffee is to be made in the woods, you will need to take for a party of twelve at least three cups of ground coffee. This should be tied in a flannel bag, allowing room for it to swell; -and when you have three quarts of water boiling hot, throw in the bag of coffee, and let it boil fifteen or twenty minutes before serving.

This is all very pleasant, especially as you can roast potatoes or green corn in the ashes; but it should never be attempted unless some of the party are experienced in the matter. To safely kindle a fire out-of-doors requires considerable skill, as some unnoticed spark or creeping line of flame may reach the dry grass and bushes, and break out hours afterward into a serious forest-fire.

When the time comes to unpack the baskets, let two or three of the girls spread the cloth, and arrange everything as tastefully as possible, with the ready ornamentation of flowers or ferns, if they like. They must be careful, however, not to sacrifice convenience to effect. It is much better to avoid as far as possible the necessity of passing the dishes. Put several plates of bread and butter on the cloth, and divide the other eatables in the same way, as reaching is almost impossible when, the table-cloth is spread on the grass.

After the meal is finished do not let the debris remain, but re-pack the baskets at once. Put back neatly the food which is left, remembering that if you do not want it, some one else may. See that the dishes and napkins are put into the baskets from whence they came, and do not leave an unsightly pile of banana-skins and sardine boxes to disfigure the place for the next picnic party, but throw them all out of sight.

The most important part of a picnic, however, is not the weather or the place or the dinner. You may choose the most beautiful spot in the world, and spread the most delicious lunch ever prepared, and yet have the whole thing a complete failure, simply because the company was not well selected. Out-of-doors, where people are free from formality, unless they are congenial friends, and what Mrs. Whitney calls "Real Folks," they will be likely to feel ill at ease, and miss the support given by company clothes and manners. Small picnics, for this reason among others, are usually much pleasanter than large picnics.

In making up the party, be sure to leave behind the girl who is certain to be too warm or too cold, or to think some other place better than the one where she is, and who has "a horrid time," if she has to submit to any personal inconvenience for the sake of others; and with her, the boy who loves to tease, and who is quite sure that his way is the only good way. Put into their places some others, young or old, who have a taste for simple pleasures, and are ready to help others to enjoy them.

Next in importance to the company is the place. It must not be at a great distance, or you will all be tired, not to say cross, when you arrive there. It must be reasonably shady, and not too far from a supply of good drinking water. If the company are to walk, you must be especially careful not to be overburdened with baskets and wraps, as carrying all that is necessary, even for half a mile, is not easy, and the bundles which seemed so light when you started are sure to weigh down heavily before you reach your destination. Be careful to have this work fairly distributed.

Never start until you are sure that you know just where you are going, and the best way of getting there. Wandering about to choose a place, and thinking constantly to find one more desirable, is very fatiguing. That matter should be settled beforehand by two or three of the party, and the others should go straight to the spot, and make the best of it. If any do not like it, they can choose a different place when their turn comes to make the selection. As the ground is always more or less damp, be sure to spread down plenty of shawls, and do not let a foolish fear of appearing over-careful cost you a cold which may lead to a severe illness.

In regard to the matter of dress, fine clothes are never more out of place than at a picnic. Thick, comfortable shoes and clothing which will not be injured are always in fashion among sensible people for such occasions.

Those who truly love the woods will not be at a loss for amusement, in wandering about, seeking flowers, or in search of the finest views. Perhaps some of the company can sketch a little, and even if they attempt nothing more difficult than a bunch of grasses or a rustic seat, they will find pleasant occupation, and secure for themselves a little souvenir of every excursion.

Singing is better still; for those who can not join in this can have the pleasure of listening to others.

Sometimes all the party will like to unite in games. If the day is warm, these must be of the quiet kind ; but if the weather will allow, it is always pleasant for young and old to join in the active sports which are usually left to little folk.

People on a picnic must lay aside their conventionalism, and come down to the simple pleasures of childhood. Only remember always that there is a certain sort of self-respecting dignity which can never be laid aside, and be careful not to let your fun degenerate into a rude romp which you will be ashamed to remember afterward.

All sorts of pleasant amusements will suggest themselves to sociable people, and there will be no fear that the time will drag heavily, unless you have made the mistake of planning to stay too long.

It is always better to come away while you all are enjoying yourselves than it is to wait until the fun begins to grow tiresome, and most of the party hail the proposal to start for home with ill-concealed relief. It is better to have it close like Sam Weller's valentine, while they "wish there was more of it."

But oh, the coming back! Let each one watch tongue and temper carefully; for the memory of many a pleasant picnic has been spoiled by hasty words from those who seemed the most amiable of the party when they started in the morning. It is so much easier to be smiling and good-natured with a pleasant day in prospect, than it is when one returns, sun-burned, tired, and dusty,with a general feeling that all the fun is over. And even a picnic is not "all well" unless it "ends well."

"Elizabeth and Her Grandmother"

by Elizabeth Morgan, July 1901

Every child goes through a period where they think their parent (or grandparent) couldn't possibly understand them because they couldn't ever have been a child--just-like-them. The 1901 child was no different, especially when standards of perfection were held so high back then.

Elizabeth did not love her grandmother. She had even decided, after careful consideration, that she positively disliked the sound of her name. This is a strange thing to have to tell of a nice little girl, for Elizabeth was a nice little girl in spite of all conclusions to the contrary, and, indeed, was as much shocked at herself as any one else could be.

But I must explain to you how it happened. Elizabeth had never seen her grandmother. Her portrait, which hung on the sitting-room wall, was that of a beautiful woman with great soft eyes and shining hair. She was dressed in gray satin, and wore a kerchief of delicate lace over her white shoulders.

Aunt Clarissa had the dress still, folded away upstairs in a camphor-wood trunk, and had shown it to Elizabeth more than once, when she had been an unusually good girl.

So Elizabeth had every reason to believe that her grandmother's appearance had been all that could be desired, and from what she had been told of her character, it was evident that she had been in that respect also a paragon of excellence, uniting in her single person all the virtues possible to womankind. And that was where the trouble lay. Since her earliest infancy Elizabeth had had her grandmother held up to her for imitation, a shining, brilliant example of impossible perfection. Sometimes the little girl almost felt sorry for her, when she thought how miserable her life must have been.

For her grandmother was always industrious and neat. She never soiled or tore her clothes. She always knew her lessons. She was always polite and respectful to every one, never noisy or getting in people's way, or asking questions when they had no time to attend to her.

She always took the most uncomfortable seat, the smallest apple, and the shortest stick of candy. She had done everything that a person naturally would not want to do, and had had it all carefully handed down for the discomfiture of her unfortunate descendants. Elizabeth argued that it was not fair.

Of course if any one wanted to be so uncomfortably perfect themselves, that was their own business, but they had no right to insist that others should follow their example. Still, Elizabeth had faithfully tried, for with Aunt Clarissa always at hand to point out her failures and remind her of her duty, it was not possible to forget or neglect it for long at a time.

Not that Aunt Clarissa was unkind, or even meant to be discouraging, but the more devotedly she loved her little niece, the more she wished her in all things to be as perfect as it was possible for human nature to be. With this end in view, there was no better example for her imitation than the beautiful grandmother for whom she was named.

She never dreamed how tired Elizabeth had grown of the endless tale of the ancestral virtues. She never guessed that the little girl was hesitating on the verge of revolt when she left her that summer afternoon in her little chair by the window with her work in her lap.

Miss Clarissa had to go to a meeting of the Ladies' Aid Society. It was held at the minister's house, and there were some important subjects to be discussed. She was sorry to leave Elizabeth all by herself, but Jane Adams was in the kitchen, with orders to look out for the child, and Jane Adams was considered a dependable girl.

Elizabeth had her work to occupy her time—a napkin that she was to finish hemming. It was already half done, and if she was industrious she would have nearly an hour to play before her aunt came back at tea-time.

The napkin was shiny and stiff. Elizabeth knew how beautifully her grandmother would have hemmed it. From her place by the window she could see her Aunt Clarissa as she walked away, in her black silk dress and her bonnet trimmed with pansies. She had turned at the gate to wave her hand to Elizabeth and call to her to be a good girl.

Then she was gone ; but other interesting people were passing all the time. First a man with a gun and two beautiful dogs. Elizabeth did not approve of him. She was afraid he was going to shoot some little brown quail that she had seen the day before when she went walking through the fields with Aunt Clarissa. When he was out of sight, two men went by with a cart piled full of great green melons, and after them came a boy on horseback. It was quite impossible to sew with so much going on in the street, though Elizabeth seemed to hear her Aunt Clarissa's voice saying : "Your grandmother always did her tasks first and played afterward."

Elizabeth jumped up, and putting her work down in her chair, went over to her grandmother's picture, and stood looking up at it in indignant remonstrance.

"Grandmother, did n't you ever do one little, little thing that was naughty?" she cried.

But her beautiful grandmother only looked down at her, stately and sweet, without replying.

"If you had done only one thing that was bad," Elizabeth went on, "I think perhaps I could have liked you—a little; but as it is, I don't like you at all. I wish you were not any relation to me!"

But still her grandmother looked at her as sweetly as ever, and made no reply, and hopelessly Elizabeth went back to her work.

"I 've done just three stitches since Aunt Clarissa went out of the gate," she said; "and grandmother would have had it all done and folded up and put away long ago! The moon will be shining before I finish." Then, as she sewed, she began to sing:

"Lady Moon, Lady Moon, where are you roving?
Over the sea, over the sea!
Lady Moon, Lady Moon, whom are you loving?
All that love me, all that love me!"

"I love the Lady Moon," Elizabeth said, "but I do not love my grandmother." Then she started and rubbed her eyes. The room had grown quite dark. It was so late she must surely have dropped asleep over her work. There was a light behind the trees by the gate, where the moon was rising.

"I had better go look for Jane Adams," she thought; and then she caught a glimpse of the moon, and stopped. It was just beginning to show above the branches of the lilac-tree, and there seemed to be something unusual in its appearance.

It was a three-quarter moon, and as it rose higher, instead of the man whom she could usually see quite plainly, it was her grandmother's face that looked down at her, smiling and sweet, framed in its beautiful golden hair.

Little Elizabeth stared in surprise and dismay.

"Oh, grandmother," she cried, "were you so good that they put you up there, for every little girl all over the world to see you shining, and try to be like you?" Elizabeth began to cry: "Oh, it 's not fair! It 's not fair! We would all rather have the Lady Moon to look at!"

But her grandmother was gazing down at her sorrowfully and tenderly. All the soft, sleepy sounds of the summer night seemed to be blending together into the song Elizabeth had been singing about the Lady Moon:

"All that love me, all that love me!"

It echoed so sadly and reproachfully that Elizabeth hung her head ashamed; but she looked up again, quickly, in self-defense.

"If only you had been like other little girls, I would have loved you, grandmother," she said; and the echoing murmur that might have been the voice of the summer night answered softly:

"Like you, dear. Just like you!"

Elizabeth looked up eagerly.

"Grandmother, do you mean that?" she cried. "Oh, grandmother, did you ever get blots on your copy-book?"

"Yes, I did. Just like you!" said the voice.

Elizabeth caught her breath.

"Grandmother, did you ever forget and climb the lilac-tree by the gate to look at the little young robins in their nest, when you had on your bestest Sunday frock, that gets holes in it so easy?"

"Just like you! Just like you!" was the answer.

Elizabeth clasped her hands in ecstasy. Her grandmother was looking down at her so kindly that her beautiful smile seemed brighter than the moonlight. The next question came hopefully:

"Grandmother, did you ever forget to learn your Sunday-school lesson?"

"Yes, I did," said the voice.

"Grandmother,"— Elizabeth was determined to have a few points settled forever,—"grandmother, did n't you like cake and jam better than bread and milk?"

Her grandmother's smile was so bright then that Elizabeth felt it lighted all the room.

"Yes, I did. Just like you!" said the voice, and Elizabeth sprang to her feet.

"Aunt Clarissa says—" she was beginning; but something had happened all at once. Her grandmother was gone. It was just the Lady Moon that was shining in at the window; the rest of the room was dark. She heard her Aunt Clarissa's voice in the hall, speaking very severely:

"Jane Adams, what do you mean by letting that poor child wait all this time for her supper? She must be famished!" Then the door opened, and she hurried in, Jane following with the light.

"Elizabeth!" she cried. "Where are you, child? I had no idea of being so late. I thought they never would get through with their meeting."

She took off her bonnet trimmed with pansies, and Jane Adams curtsied, and said tea was ready.

"Ready! I should think tea had better be ready!" said Aunt Clarissa. Then she took Elizabeth by the hand, and they went into the dining-room.

There was broiled chicken, and hot toasted muffins, and raspberry jam, and little escalloped seed-cakes for tea; but Elizabeth was very silent while her aunt told her how little Ellen Williams, the minister's niece, had made a beautiful centerpiece for her aunt's tea-table, all embroidered with wild roses and forget-me-nots.

"You might like to learn to do something of the sort," Aunt Clarissa said. "Your grandmother used to embroider beautifully."

When tea was over, Aunt Clarissa arose and took Elizabeth by the hand again.

"Come in the sitting-room, child," she said. "It 's time you were in bed hours ago, but you can't go the instant you have swallowed your supper. Come and sit in my lap and tell me what you were doing while I was away."

Miss Clarissa seated herself in her rocking-chair, and Elizabeth curled herself up comfortably, with her head on her aunt's shoulder.

"Did you finish your hemming?" she asked.

"No," said Elizabeth; "it grew dark, and I was talking to grandmother."

Miss Clarissa gave a great start at this.

"What do you mean, child?"

"Yes, it was grandmother," Elizabeth repeated tranquilly. "I did not love her, and I told her so."

"Not love your grandmother!" And Aunt Clarissa nearly dropped Elizabeth from her lap in her horror at such a state of things.

"She was too good. No little girl could love her," Elizabeth explained.

"Too good!" gasped Aunt Clarissa.

"I thought she was too good," Elizabeth amended. "But, Aunt Clarissa, she told me that when she was little, she blotted her copybooks, tore her Sunday frock climbing lilac-bushes, forgot to learn her lessons, and liked cake and jam better than bread and milk. She said she was just such a little girl as I am."

"Elizabeth, you were dreaming," said her aunt; but she did not speak severely, as she was asking herself, "Is it possible I have been too strict with the poor child?"

"I did not love my grandmother before," Elizabeth went on, "but now I do, and I am going to try and do the good things she did because she did some other things I do. And then, Aunt Clarissa, perhaps I '11 be put up in the moon sometime, where I can sail round and round, and see what all the little girls in the world are doing."

Aunt Clarissa did not answer. She was pondering many things to herself.

Elizabeth's eyes were nearly closed; she was very sleepy. Outside she could still hear the murmuring voices of the summer night—the sounds of crickets and grasshoppers and katydids—all singing drowsily together, and still repeating her grandmother's words:

"Like you, dear! Just like you!"

The Sapphire Signet, Chapter 6

by Augusta Huiell Seaman, beginning November 1915

CHAPTER VI: A SURPRISE

T he girls got together again on the following afternoon, for they could not possibly have stretched their patience to the limit of another day! Margaret had promised to work like a Trojan till they arrived and to have much to read to them. It was with breathless interest that they drew their chairs around her.

"My! I couldn't study a thing, or keep my mind off this a single minute to-day in school!" sighed Jess. "I guess I failed in every blessed recitation."

"Me too!" echoed Bess. "If this suspense does n't come to an end soon, I 'll be a failure for the term!"

"Same here!" agreed Corinne. "I do envy Margaret, for she at least can be working at it all day and satisfying her curiosity. Have you discovered much more, honey?"

Margaret smiled her slow, mysterious smile. She was certainly enjoying herself in a brand-new fashion these days. And between meetings she guarded her secrets like a veritable sphinx.

"Something's happening right along!" she answered enigmatically. "But I 've rather a surprise for you to-day."

"What is it?" they demanded in one voice.

"I sha'n't tell you till we come to it!" was her maddening reply. "Shall I go on now?"

"Just a minute," said Corinne. "I want to say that I looked up that old song last night. In this collection I have, there is given a little history of each song. Now, 'The Lass of Richmond Hill' was written about a young girl, a Miss Janson, who lived on Richmond Hill, which is near the little town of Leybourne, in England. It was written way back about 1770, and the song was said to be a favorite of King George the Third. It was quite popular at the time. That's absolutely all about it. Of course, it's possible that place may be the one where Alison was, but somehow I don't feel very sure of it. I rather think that what she says about 'Richmond Hill' must have some other connection. Now go on, Margaret!"

"Very well," began Margaret. "We left off with the words, 'He has come!' He seems to be a very mysterious person, and some one of great importance evidently. She goes on to say:

"The house has been put at his disposal. Not, however, by Madame M., for she would gladly slam the door in his face were she able, but she is still in bed, ill. He is very considerate, and does naught to disturb or annoy her. His servants and men are all about, but they do not molest any of the household. Phoebe remains the housekeeper and caters for him. She adores him, as does her father, so she tells me.

"I have exchanged no words with him. I have only seen him as he sits in the library or walks about the grounds. He is absent much—away in the city, Phoebe says. He is handsome and grave and stern, but I think he is kind and gentle. I long to speak with him, but I dare not. I am too carefully watched.

"The steward is still here, and frequents much Corbie's tavern. He asked me yesterday a few questions about Bermuda. I did not care to have speech with him so I cut him short. He gave me an ugly look as he walked away."

Margaret stopped here to say, "Now comes something exciting!"

The listening three sighed ecstatically.

"There have been strange doings in this house. I have now turned spy myself. Last night at a late hour, when all the household was asleep, I heard stealthy footsteps passing my door. The sound was most unusual, for lie was away in the city, and there was consequently no guard. When the footsteps were past, I rose, opened my door, and peeped out. I saw the steward. He was tiptoeing softly down the hall toward the stairs, a candle in his hand. A sudden resolve seized me. I would follow him in the dark, and see what he did. I felt sure he planned some evil. I seized a dark-colored shawl, drew it round me, and, in the shadow, crept after the light of his candle.

"Down the stairs he went, and I felt sure he would pause on the lower floor and perchance enter his room to rifle it. I crouched on the stair and held my breath, but he passed on and opened a door which gives on the stone steps leading to the wine-cellar. Once he glanced back suspiciously, then the door closed behind him. As soon as I dared, I followed. Opening the door with the greatest caution, I peered down. His back was toward me, and he was drinking from an upturned bottle. In a moment he put the bottle back on its shelf and stood long in thought.

"I was about to conclude that this was all he had come for and that my fears were for naught, when he turned aside, took a knife from his pocket, and went toward the far end of the cellar, leaving the stairway in heavy shadow. Taking advantage of this, I crept down the steps and watched him from the shelter of one of the pillars that supported the floor above. In a moment he stopped, raised his hand, and felt along the great beam above his head. I noted 't was the second beam from the end. At a distance of about ten feet from the wall he pushed his knife-blade into the timber, and, behold! something like a small door fell open!

"Into the aperture thus left he thrust his two hands, and drew forth a small iron box. This he placed on the ground near the candle, and pressing a spring, threw back the lid. It seemed to be filled with papers, and with something else that shone in the candle-light. The latter, I soon learned, was a mass of golden coins, for he plunged in his hand, took out a fistful, and put them in a small leather bag he carried. Then he closed the box, put it back in the hollow space, and shut the door of the secret opening in the beam. I stayed to see no more, but fled hastily to my room. 'T is all most strange. What hides he in this secret place? Whose gold is that? What evil does he plot?

"Is n't that the most exciting thing you ever heard?" demanded Margaret, breaking off.

"Frightfully exciting!" agreed every one.

"It's like an adventure in a book—only better!" added Corinne. "But, Margaret, is that the surprise you had for us?"

"No, it isn't! That's coming just a little later. "The next entry says:

"She has come! He seems most glad to have his lady with him once more. I have not yet spoken with her. She has only passed me, bowing with stately courtesy. I think she has forgotten how I once spoke with her. No wonder. Her mind is filled with anxious care. Madame M. is still confined to her bed, and knows not that she is here. I think Madame M. is truly right ill."

"She must be his wife, I suppose," interrupted Bess. "I do wish Alison would call 'em by their names! This is so confusing!"

Margaret only stopped long enough to say: "Now, the surprise is coming. This is the next entry:

"He passed me in the hall to-day and wished me a good morning in his grave, courtly fashion. Then he inquired after the health of Madame M., and offered to send her up some fruit that he had just received for his table. I knew not what to say. I was right embarrassed. For Madame M. will accept naught from him, and—"

Margaret stopped short.

"Go on, go on!" they chorused.

"I can't!" she answered.

"Why not?" they inquired in wonder.

"Because that's all there is!" she replied quietly. "We 've come to the end. That's the surprise I had for you!"

"Well, I never!" ejaculated Bess in disgust, picking up the old account-book and examining it curiously. The back cover was missing, and it was not difficult to conjecture that many pages might also be lacking.

"That's the queerest!" mused Corinne. "Of course, the book is rather thin, but I had n't imagined that we 'd finish it so soon. Those characters are large, and take up more room than plain writing, I suppose. But, my gracious!" She got up and began pacing around the room impatiently. "This is perfectly maddening! To have it leave off in such a place, without a sign of explanation of it all! Where 's the other part of that book? Could it possibly be in the old trunk where we found this? Let's go up and see!"

"No use in doing that," said Jess, "because Sarah 's done exactly what she threatened to—locked the attic door and hid the key. But anyhow, I remember distinctly that there was n't a sign of anything else under that false bottom. It was absolutely empty after this fell out. Wherever the rest is, it is n't there!"

"Well," exclaimed Corinne, coming to an abrupt pause in her impatient tramping, "there's one thing I 'm firmly determined upon! I sha'n't rest day or night till I 've found some sort of an explanation for all this! Do the rest of you agree with me? It's the most fascinating mystery I ever came across, outside of a story-book, and I 'm bound I 'm not going to be stumped by any obstacles!"

"We surely do agree with you!" echoed Margaret. "We 're just as crazy as you are to unravel it all. And what's an antiquarian club good for, I 'd like to know, if not for something just like this! That's our business from now on!"

"The motion's carried!" agreed Bess. "But how in the world are we going to go about it? Somehow it seems as if we 'd reached a stone wall a mile high—no getting around it or over it!"

"Then we 'll tunnel under it!" laughed Corinne. "But first of all, there 's a question I 'd like to settle. Where did that old hair-trunk come from? How did it get in this house? Who owned it before you did?"

"I can answer that," replied Margaret, "for I asked Mother about it the other night. I did it in a roundabout sort of way, so she wouldn't suspect why I wanted to know or think it queer that I asked. She said it belonged to Father. He told her once that a friend of his, a sea-captain, had given it to him years ago. The captain said it was an heirloom that had been in the family many years. An ancestor of his had found it in a vessel that had been wrecked, and had been floating around for several months—a 'derelict,' Mother called it. This old captain said it was so handy and substantial that he had carried it with him on all his voyages. But as he was n't going to sail any more, and had n't any children to leave it to, he gave it to Father."

"Well, at least it explains one thing—how this strange book came to be in your house," mused Corinne. "But it does n't help a bit about unraveling the rest of the mystery, after all. Now, the next thing is to go over all this writing carefully, and see if we can find anything we 've overlooked that might be a clue. Oh, girls, I wish you 'd let me show this to Father! He 'd be so interested, and perhaps he could help us with it, too!"

"Well, as far is I 'm concerned, you 're welcome to," answered Bess, and Jess nodded her head vigorously in assent. But Margaret cried out pleadingly:

"Oh, no, no, Corinne! Don't do that yet! It would spoil all our lovely secret society to have grown folks know about it. Let's wait awhile and see what we can do ourselves. And then if we find we can't make any headway, I 'll consent to telling Corinne's father."

She was so earnest and so pathetic in her appeal, that not one of the others had the heart to deny her request, knowing, as they did, what the little club and its absorbingly interesting secret meant to her shut-in, circumscribed life.

"Very well, honey! We will do just as you say!" agreed Corinne, giving her a hug. "Now let's read this whole thing over, and see if we can unearth a clue."

They started once more at the beginning, reading slowly and thoughtfully through the strange record till they came again to the allusion "The Lass of Richmond Hill." Suddenly Margaret interrupted:

"I 've thought of something! I lay awake a good part of last night, because my back was hurting me, and I had a chance to think of things rather hard. And then, some things we unearthed to-day and what Corinne found out about that old song made this idea pop into my head just now. You remember she said the song was written about 1770 and was a favorite of George the Third? That made me think of the Revolution. And then I suddenly remembered what Alison had said about 'rebels.' Girls, you can take my word for it—all this thing happened right here in America, and during the Revolutionary War! Can't you see it?"

Corinne sat up very straight for a moment. Then she burst out:

"We 're a pack of lunatics—all but Margaret. She 's the only one that's got a grain of common sense! Of course it was during the Revolution—every other word Alison says points to it! And that being the case, the rest is easy! Good-by! I 'm going straight home to look up Revolutionary history!"

And flinging on her hat and coat, without further ceremony of farewell, she was off, leaving the three staring speechlessly after her!

to be continued...

Tom, Dick and Harriet, Chapter 6

by Ralph Henry Barbour, beginning May 1907

CHAPTER VI: ON THE ICE AND THROUGH

When the thermometer on the north side of School Hall registers four degrees below zero at noon it means cold weather; and that is just what the thermometer did on Saturday. In sheltered angles where the sun shone it was not so bad, but on the way across the campus, where the wind blew unobstructed, fellows in knickerbockers moved rapidly, Jack Frost in pursuit and pinching their calves sharply. By half past three, what time the hockey game with Cedar Grove School was scheduled to commence, the mercury had dropped another point and the audience about the rink consisted of exactly six boys, among them Dick and Sid Welch, and one girl. Of course the girl was Harry. I doubt if there was another girl for miles up or down the river who would have braved the cold that afternoon for the sake of sport and patriotism.

The rink is some three hundred yards down the shore from the boat-house. Years before a ferry plied between this point and the opposite town of Coleville, but with the completion of the new bridge below Silver Cove the enterprise, like many similar ones in the vicinity, had ceased to be profitable. Ultimately the boat had disappeared and only the ferry house and landing remained. But that was last year; now even those were gone, the lumber—such of it as was fit for the purpose-having been used in the construction of the barrier around the rink. Many of the old joists and planks, however, were too rotten to hold nails and these had been left piled up on the beach. Sid, struck by a brilliant idea, had looted the pile, and by the time the game had begun a big bonfire was blazing merrily. The handful of spectators divided their attention between the fire and the contest until the first half was over, with the score three goals for Ferry Hill and one for Cedar Grove. Then every one, players, spectators, substitutes, and referee—who was Chub—gathered as near the flames as safety permitted and alternately turned faces and backs to the warmth.

"You 're a wonder, Sid," declared Roy. "If I had half your brain—!" He shook his head eloquently, at a loss for words.

"Oh, Sid 's a great fellow for scheming how to be comfortable," said Billy Warren, who played right center for Ferry Hill. "Did you ever hear about the contrivance he rigged up on his bed the first year he was here?"

Every one replied that he had, except Harry; and Harry demanded to be told.

"Well," said Warren, "Sid used to go to sleep with two blankets over him and the comforter over the foot of the bed, you know. Then along toward morning it would get cold and Sid would want the comforter, but he was too sleepy to reach down and get it."

"That 's right," interrupted Chub, whose bed was next to Sid's in the Junior Dormitory, "I used to find him all curled up in a ball in the morning with his teeth chattering like—like—"

"I did n't!" declared Sid.

"Shut up, Sid, you know you did," said Warren. "Well, so what does Sid do but get a piece of clothes-line and tie an end to each corner of the comforter. Then when he woke up and found he was freezing to death all he had to do was to take hold of the rope and pull the comforter up. Oh, he 's a wonder, Sid is!"

"Just the same, it worked all right," said Sid with a grin, as the laugh went around. "And I wish I had that comforter now."

"I don't see how you could get much more on," said Dick, as he viewed Sid's rotund appearance. "You look like a bale of sweaters now."

"I 've only got two on," was the reply. "I was going to borrow Chub's, but he went and wore it himself."

"How dare you, Chub!" laughed Roy. "You ought to have more consideration for others."

"Thunder!" replied Chub good-naturedly, "Sid would borrow everything I have if I 'd let him. As it is he wears more of my things than his own. Last week I tried to find a pair of stockings and could n't; Sid had the whole lot in his locker."

"They had holes in them," answered Sid gravely.

"They certainly had when you got through with them," laughed Chub. "Come on, fellows; time 's up."

The two teams went back to the ice, peeling off sweaters and gloves, and presently the game was on again. It was the first contest of the year and the play was pretty ragged. But there were exciting moments, as when Harris, who played point on the home team, got away with the puck for a long race down the rink, passed to Fernald in
front of the Cedar Grove goal, captured the disk again on the quick return and smashed it past goal-tender's knees for a score. Toward the latter part of the period the visitors weakened and Ferry Hill's tally grew rapidly, until at the final call of time the score stood 12—4 in favor of the home players. Cheers were exchanged and the Cedar Grove fellows hurried away toward the station. The others went back to the replenished fire and leisurely donned their sweaters. Dick, who had a moment before wandered away toward the edge of the river, called to Roy.

"What 's that thing over there?" he asked.

"What thing? Where?"

"Across the river. It looks like a boat, but I don't see how any one can sail a boat when there is n't any water."

"Oh," answered Roy, joining him, "that 's an ice-boat, you silly galoot. Have n't you ever seen one before!"

"No, but I 've seen pictures of them. I did n't recognize it, though. Say, that 's pretty slick, is n't it? Look at the way it scoots around over there! How the dickens is it made?"

"Oh, you make a frame-work of timbers kind of three-cornered like and stick a skate or a runner at each corner, and put a mast in with a sail or two, and have another runner at the back with a tiller for steering, and there you are."

"You don't say? Well, that 's the most—er— enlightening explanation I ever heard, Roy; lucid 's no name for it!"

"Well, it 's the best I can do," Roy laughed. "If you want further particulars I advise you to run over and take a look. I 'm no boat-builder."

"That 's what I 'll do," answered Dick, tightening the straps of his skates. "Come along!"

"Are you crazy? Want me to freeze myself?"

"Freeze nothing! It 'll warm you up. Come on; it won't take but a minute or two." Roy hesitated. Then:

"All right," he consented, "I 'll go you. Only it is n't likely that the boat 's going to stay there and wait for us."

"Bet you I can catch her if she does n't have too big a start," said Dick.

"Oh, sure!" scoffed Roy. "She only makes about thirty miles an hour!"

"Get out!"

"That 's right, though," answered Roy. "They say some of them can do pretty near a mile a minute in a good wind. I don't know about that one there, though; don't think I ever saw her before; she 's got a red hull, has n't she?"

"Yes, if you call that thing a hull," replied Dick. "Are there any more around here?"

"Two or three, I think."

"Well, then, maybe I 'll let this one go if it tries to get away," Dick said. "Are you ready?"

Roy said that he was, but at that moment Chub hailed them.

"Where you fellows going?" he shouted.

"Across the river," answered Roy. "Dick wants to study ice-boats. Want to come?"

Chub and Harry and Sid joined them, the latter begging them to wait until he could get his skates on.

"All right, slow poke," answered Roy. "How about you, Harry? It 'll be beastly cold out in the middle there."

"Oh, I 'm nice and warm," answered Harry. "What did you say about an ice-boat?"

"Dick never saw one before and he wants to go over and make the acquaintance of that one over there. Whose is it, Harry? Do you know?"

"Yes, it belongs to Joe Thurston, Grace Thurston's brother. He goes to Hammond. She 's in my class at Madame Lambert's."

"Who, the ice-boat?" asked Chub.

"No, Mister Smarty, Grace Thurston. Anyhow, I said 'it.'"

"You said 'she!'"

"I said 'it!'"

"Ladies! Ladies!" remonstrated Roy. "No disturbance, I beg of you! Remember there 's a gentleman present."

"Where?" asked Chub, looking carefully around.

"Here," grunted Sid, tugging at a strap.

"For that lie, Sid," answered Chub severely, "we will go and leave you. Come on, fellows."

"Wait, wait please!" begged Sid. "I can't get the buckle in the right hole. My fingers are frozen stiff. You might help a chap, Chub."

"All right, I will if you 'll tell the truth. Are you a gentleman, Sid?"

"No," answered Sid diplomatically. "It 's that fourth hole, Chub. That's it. Thanks." He got up, hobbled to the edge of the ice and skated away. "Neither are you, Chub!" he shouted tauntingly. Chub instantly gave chase, leaving the other three to follow more leisurely. Across the frozen river and a little further down-stream the ice-boat was skimming up and down near shore, luffing, filling
and turning in the brisk wind as though trying her sails.

"That 's just about what she 's doing, I guess," said Roy as they skated, three abreast, a hundred yards or so behind the flying forms of Sid and Chub. "Those sails are brand-new, I think. She 's coming around again. If we were nearer now you could get a good view of her, Dick."

"I 'm going to try, anyhow," answered Dick, as he dug his blades in the black ice and sped away from them.

"Shall we try it, too?" asked Roy. Harry nodded her head.

"I 'll race you," she cried, and, suiting action to word, darted off after Dick. She had obtained a good lead before Roy had gathered his wits together, and he realized that to attempt to overtake that flying form was quite useless for him. He was a good skater, but Harry had held the school supremacy for several years and had, as she had stated to Dick, even beaten Hammond's best talent the winter before. But Harry had found more than her match at last, for, try as she could and did, she could not gain an inch on Dick, who was putting in his best licks in an endeavor to head off the ice-boat as it passed up-stream close to the farther shore. In a trice Roy was left to himself. He saw that he could not hope to intercept the boat even if the others did, and so kept on diagonally across the river toward the ice-houses below Coleville. Sid and Chub were still busy with their own affairs, the former leading the latter a difficult chase, turning and doubling and thus far avoiding capture. The wind swept across the ice with stinging buffets against legs and face, and Roy rubbed his ears vigorously to keep them from freezing. Presently he drew near where they had been cutting ice and found that to continue on toward the shore and the path of the returning boat he would either have to cross the cuttings or skate for some distance up or down the river to get around them. New ice had formed in the lanes and it looked fairly thick. Roy slowed down and examined it. Then he struck at it with the heel of one skate, found that it did n't break, and skated quickly across. It was a narrow lane down which the cakes of ice had been floated to the house and he was soon over it. Then came thick ice again. He looked up the river. The boat was still before the wind and had passed Dick while that youth was some distance away. Now he had paused, apparently undecided whether to remain there or to join the others down-stream. Harry had already given up the chase and headed toward the icehouses. Sid and Chub were still chasing madly about in mid-stream. Roy shouted and the wind carried his voice so well that both Harry and Dick heard and waved to him. Then a wide expanse of new ice confronted him and as he skated unhesitatingly on to it he noted the different sound which it gave forth under his blades. And then, without the least warning, the surface gave beneath him like paper and he was fighting for breath with the green water ringing in his ears and clutching at his heart with icy fingers.

to be continued...