How Matches Are Made

by F.H.C., March 1878

What this "how it works" type story won't tell you, of course, is of the hardships of the girls and women who worked in the match factories. They eventually got sulphur poisoning from being around the matches 12 hours a day, six days a week. Howver, they were better off than the workers in the original match factories, who faded away from the effects of "phossy jaw," from the phosphorus in those early matches.

A match is a small thing. We seldom pause to think, after it has performed its mission, and we have carelessly thrown it away, that it has a history of its own, and that, like some more pretentious things, its journey from the forest to the match-safe is full of changes. This little bit of white pine lying before me came from far north, in the Hudson Bay Territory, or perhaps from the great silent forests about Lake Superior, and has been rushed and jammed and tossed in its long course through rivers, over cataracts and rapids, and across the great lakes.

We read that near the middle of the seventeenth century it was discovered that phosphorus would ignite a splint of wood dipped in sulphur; but this means of obtaining fire was not in common use until nearly a hundred and fifty years later.

This, then, appears to have been the beginning of match-making. Not that kind which some old gossips are said to indulge in, for that must have had its origin much farther back, but the business of making those little "strike-fires," found in every country store, in their familiar boxes, with red and blue and yellow labels.

The matches of fifty years ago were very clumsy affairs compared with the "parlor" and "safety" matches of to-day, but they were great improvements upon the first in use. Those small sticks, dipped in melted sulphur, and sold in a tin box with a small bottle of oxide of phosphorus, were regarded by our forefathers as signs of "ten-leagued progress." Later, a compound made of chlorate of potash and sulphur was used on the splints. This ignited upon being dipped in sulphuric acid. In 1829 an English chemist discovered that matches on which had been placed chlorate of potash could be ignited by friction. Afterward, at the suggestion of Professor Faraday, saltpeter was substituted for the chlorate, and then the era of friction matches, or matches lighted by rubbing, was fairly begun.

But the match of to-day has a story more interesting than that of the old-fashioned match. As we have said, much of the timber used in the manufacture comes from the immense tracts of forest in the Hudson Bay Territory. It is floated down the water-courses to the lakes, through which it is towed in great log-rafts. These rafts are divided; some parts are pulled through the canals, and some by other means are taken to market. When well through the seasoning process, which occupies from one to two years, the pine is cut up into blocks twice as long as a match, and about eight inches wide by two inches thick. These blocks are passed through a machine which cuts them up into "splints," round or square, of just the thickness of a match, but twice its length. This machine is capable, as we are told, of making about 2,000,000 splints in a day. This number seems immense when compared with the most that could be made in the old way—by hand. The splints are then taken to the "setting" machine, and this rolls them into bundles about eighteen inches in diameter, every splint separated from its neighbors by little spaces, so that there may be no sticking together after the "dipping." In the operation of "setting," a ribbon of coarse stuff about an inch and a half wide, and an eighth of an inch thick, is rolled up, the splints being laid across the ribbon between each two courses, leaving about a quarter of an inch between adjoining splints. From the "setting" machine the bundles go to the "dipping" room.

After the ends of the splints have been pounded down to make them even, the bundles are dipped—both ends—-into the molten sulphur and then into the phosphorus solution, which is spread over a large iron plate. Next they are hung in a frame to dry. When dried they are placed in a machine which, as it unrolls the ribbon, cuts the sticks in two across the middle, thus making two complete matches of each splint.

The match is made. The towering pine which listened to the whisper of the south wind and swayed in the cold northern blast, has been so divided that we can take it bit by bit and lightly twirl it between two fingers. But what it has lost in size it has gained in use. The little flame it carries, and which looks so harmless, flashing into brief existence, has a latent power more terrible than the whirlwind which perhaps sent the tall pine-tree crashing to the ground.

But the story is not yet closed. From the machine which completed the matches they are taken to the "boxers"—mostly girls and women—who place them in little boxes. The speed with which this is done is surprising. With one hand they pick up an empty case and remove the cover, while with the other they seize just a sufficient number of matches, and by a peculiar shuffling motion arrange them evenly, then—'t is done!

The little packages of sleeping fire are taken to another room, where on each one is placed a stamp certifying the payment to the government of one cent revenue tax. Equipped with these passes the boxes are placed in larger ones, and these again in wooden cases, which are to be shipped to all parts of the country, and over seas.

All this trouble over such little things as matches! Yet on these fire-tipped bits of wood millions of people depend for warmth, cooked food and light. They have become a necessity, and the day of flint, steel and tinder seems almost as far away in the past as are the bow and fire-stick of the Indian.

Some idea of the number of matches used in North America during a year may be gained from the fact that it is estimated by competent judges that, on an average, six matches are used every day by each inhabitant; this gives a grand total of 87,400,000,000 matches, without counting those that are exported. Now, this would make a single line, were the matches placed end to end, more than 2,750,000 miles in length! It would take a railroad train almost eight years to go from one end to the other, running forty miles an hour all the time.

How apt to our subject is that almost worn-out Latin phrase, "multum in parvo"—much in little! Much labor, much skill, and much usefulness, all in a little piece of wood scarcely one-eighth of an inch through and about two inches long!

The Sapphire Signet, Chapter 16

by Augusta Huiell Seaman, beginning November 1915

CHAPTER XVI: THE SAPPHIRE SIGNET

Margaret was far from well, even for her. For two weeks she had been ailing, and appeared weak and listless. Corinne was not very much surprised on coming in one afternoon to find her no longer in her wheel-chair by the parlor window, but upstairs in bed in her room on the second floor. This had never happened before since the day that Corinne had first visited the little house in Charlton Street, and her heart misgave her as she climbed the stairs with the twins. But she entered the room, assuming a cheerfulness she was far from feeling.

"Taking a vacation in bed, honey? Well, I don't blame you, in such wretched weather! It was sleeting and freezing as I came in, and the walking is simply abominable. How cozy you are here with another open fire! You seem to have one in every room. I wish we did!"

Margaret greeted her with something of her old animation, but presently relapsed into listlessness again. Corinne chatted on for a time, as though nothing out of the ordinary were the matter:

"I 've got some news from the latest member of the Antiquarian Club! He has a proposition to make. He says that when the first nice spring weather comes, he 's going to invite the club to a series of 'antiquarian outings.' They 're to take place every pleasant Saturday afternoon. He will have a big, comfy automobile come here, and we 're all to pile in,—Margaret in the comfiest place of all,—and we 're going to 'do' old New York— the real, historic parts, I mean. One day we 'll take a run up to Van Cortlandt Manor, and see that place, which was Washington's headquarters at one time. Then another day we 'll do the lower part of the city, and have lunch at Fraunces' Tavern. And, oh! he's planned a lot of things like that. It's going to be great fun, I tell you!"

But Margaret failed to be roused to any extent even by this delightful prospect, though the twins were thoroughly enthusiastic. At last, when Bess and Jess had gone downstairs to investigate the refreshment proposition, Corinne determined to fathom, if possible, the curious apathy that seemed so new to Margaret.

"Honey, dear," she crooned, sitting on the bed-side and putting her face down by Margaret, "something 's bothering you, and I want you to tell me what it is! Something's troubling your mind. Can't you tell me about it, dear, even if you have n't any one else?"

Margaret raised herself on her elbow and faced Corinne. "Yes, something is bothering me," she acknowledged, "and no one but you has seemed to notice it. But I 'm going to tell you, Corinne, because I love you, and I have n't any secrets from you. I 'm just worried sick because that journal was destroyed! It was my fault. I 'm responsible for it all! It might have been very valuable, and been sold for a good deal of money. And that would have helped Mother a lot, because we 're not very well off, and she has to work awfully hard!"

"But, Margaret," exclaimed Corinne, "this is all nonsense! Of course, it's unfortunate that the thing happened, but you can't even blame Sarah, for she did n't know it was anything of value, and she thought she was acting for the best, and saving you from getting sick. Nobody's to blame! It's just one of those unlucky things that happen sometimes. It is n't as if you or any one else had been careless about it!"

"But you don't understand me!" insisted Margaret. "It was my fault, because I kept insisting that this thing should be a secret, and nobody else was to be told. It was terribly foolish—I can see that plainly now! And I never should have kept such a valuable thing in such an insecure place. We ought to have shown it at once to your father and let him keep it. Oh, I 'll never forgive myself—never, never!" She turned her face into the pillows and lay a long time silent,—not crying, but just in an apathy of self-reproach.

Corinne, meanwhile, argued and pleaded and consoled—in vain. Margaret would neither look up nor respond. And at last, in despair, she exclaimed:

"Margaret, I want to tell you something Father said last night. It may make you feel better about this very thing. He said that even though the original journal was destroyed, that did n't alter the fact that we youngsters had made a most remarkable 'find,' and had discovered a mystery that was well worth tracking to its finish. He says he 's proud to be a member of the Antiquarian Club, and hopes you have n't let any one else into the secret. He wants it kept quiet till we 've fathomed the riddle, if we ever do! You have n't told any one yet, have you?"

Margaret raised her head, at this, with a faint spark of interest. "No, I have n't even told Mother," she said, "because I hated to have her know how near we 'd been to finding something valuable, and then disappointing her by saying it was lost. Of course, we 've told her all about your father's visit, and she thought he was so kind to take such an interest in us. She said she supposed it was for your sake. Sarah has never said another word, even to me, about the things she burned up. I think she 's half ashamed of it, and yet feels that she really did right in taking away something that she supposed was hurting me. She 's awfully worried because I don't seem so well, and she 's almost killing herself taking care of me and doing all her other work, too. But, Corinne, did your father say he 'd really like this all kept a secret still? That's awfully nice of him, and makes what I did seem not quite so foolish! I believe I 'll feel a little better about it from now on!"

Margaret certainly appeared to improve in spirits after this interview, but still her bodily strength did not return, and day after day she remained confined to her bed. Her mother and Sarah grew almost ill themselves with anxiety about her. The doctor said it was the drain of the winter on her frail system, and prescribed a strong tonic, but even this did not seem to have the desired effect. But Corinne came in one day with news that actually brought a tint of pale pink to the little invalid's white cheeks.

"Father's been doing some tall thinking lately," she announced, "and this is the result. He wants me to submit the matter to the Antiquarian Club for due consideration, and would like every member present when I do so. Where are the others?"

The twins and Alexander were promptly gathered into Margaret's room, and Corinne continued:

"This is what Father 's been puzzling over. He says that sapphire signet must have been a very valuable thing, and it ought to be found, if there 's the slightest possibility of finding it. He knows a lot about precious stones and their history, and he says that a sapphire signet, especially an old one, is a very rare thing. The reason is that sapphires are so hard that it's very difficult to engrave them, and so signets were not very often made of them. So, if this signet were found, it would probably be worth a great deal of money. But, more than that, he thinks we owe it as a duty to the memory of little Alison to make some effort, at least, to find it and restore it to her descendants or family, if she has any left."

"That's what I've always thought, too!" murmured Margaret, parenthetically.

"Well, he says he 's been doing some 'Sherlock Holmes' thinking, and trying to imagine where she could possibly have concealed that trinket. He does n't think she kept it hidden about herself anywhere. She would probably have thought that too dangerous, for she might have been searched. And he can't bring himself to think that she concealed it anywhere about the house or in the grounds,—there would have been such slight chance, in such a case, of it ever getting back to Bermuda, or her relatives ever having a chance to find it. But he did wonder whether it might have been hidden in the secret beam with the other half of the journal. You would surely have found it, then, wouldn't you, Alexander?"

"Bet your life!" replied that youngster, promptly. "If that dinky little do-dab had been in there, yours truly would have cabbaged it all right! I knew well enough it was my last chance at that old dump, and I clawed over every square inch of it a dozen times before I rung off. No sirree! it wasn't there, and you can take your Uncle Dudley's word for it!"

"Then we 'll count that out," went on Corinne. "Father didn't think there was much likelihood of it—only a remote possibility. Then there remain only two other possibilities, and he thinks the most likely one was—the old leather covers of the journal!"

"Oh, why did we never think of it ourselves!" cried Margaret excitedly. Then, a moment later, with the droop of disappointment to her mouth: "But if that's so, then it's gone forever—thanks to Sarah! She had a red-hot fire that day, I know, and the thing would have dropped in the ashes and never been found in the world!"

"But how could the signet have been hidden in the cover?" queried Bess, skeptically. "It must have been rather bulky, and we never saw any evidence of such a thing!"

"No," corrected Corinne, "Father says the signet was probably rather flat, and if Alison was at all clever, she could easily have slid it under the lining of one of the covers (which were very thick, if you remember) and pasted it up so it would never be noticed. He says he 's known of stranger things than that being done. Anyhow, he thinks that is the place in which she would have been most likely to hide it. And if she did, of course, we have no hope of ever finding it now. But there 's one other possibility—and that's our 'last chance'!"

"Oh, what is it?" they all demanded, as she came to a provoking pause.

"The little hair-trunk!"

Margaret raised herself in bed and shouted feebly, "Hurrah!" and then added, "But how in the world are we ever to get at it?"

"That's just the point!" added Corinne. "He says we must devise a way of getting at that trunk, somehow, and since you all are better acquainted with Sarah and her vagaries than he is, he leaves it to you to concoct some plan. If you can't think of any other way, we 'd better tell your mother, and have her order Sarah to unlock the attic. But of course that would spoil our secret society, and we won't try that except as a last resort."

"I have an idea !" cried Margaret, suddenly. "I 'll ask Mother to-night about the trunk, and beg her to let me have it to keep some of my books and things in, because I 've taken a fancy to it. I 'm sure she won't refuse me. And if she orders Sarah to let me have the trunk, Sarah 'll just have to do it!"

They all agreed that the plan looked exceedingly hopeful, and Corinne left for home with the assurance that the trunk would soon be theirs to search from end to end.

But when Margaret came to talk it over with her mother that night, she met with an unexpected objection.

"Dear heart," said Mrs. Bronson, "you know that I 'd do everything in my power to grant you any reasonable wish, but don't you see that your request is a rather inconvenient one at present? You know that you have n't been really well for some time, and Sarah has been working very, very hard taking care of you days—and nights too, often. She 's very tired now and has been rather ill-humored lately. Now, I don't know just what she keeps in that little trunk, but I 'm perfectly sure that, if I ask her to empty it and change things about in the attic, she won't take it very pleasantly and may make an awful fuss! And we can't afford to have her get upset and leave just now, can we, dear?"

Margaret ruefully agreed, and had to be satisfied with her mother's assurance that perhaps, when she got better, and household matters had smoothed out, Sarah might be approached on the subject.

But this arrangement did not at all suit the rest of the Antiquarian Club when they held a solemn council next day.

"Suffering Simpson!" exploded Alexander. "If we wait for that hunk o' misery, Sarah, to get in a good humor, we 'll wait until horseradish tastes good on your ice-cream! Nix on that!"

"Well, what are we going to do, then?" demanded the others, despairingly.

"Just you leave it to yours truly!" announced Alexander. "I 've got a little scheme!"

"Quick! Tell us what it is!"

Alexander gave an impudent wink, and remarked casually: "I'm going to nose out where Sarah keeps the key to the attic!"

"Splendid!" cried Corinne. "And what then?"

"Then—" he finished dramatically, "we 're going to have a grand old meeting of the club some day when she 's out, and rip the stuffing out of that trunk!"

It had seemed a simple thing, when Alexander announced his plan, and every one supposed it would soon be accomplished. But it turned out to be a harder task than even he had anticipated. With infinite caution he searched Sarah's room and all her belongings when he knew she was safe in the kitchen, and the twins aided him by keeping guard on the stairs. But the key was not there. Next, one night when all the household was abed, he crept down and inspected every shelf and cubbyhole and possible or impossible receptacle in the kitchen and pantry. Neither was it there. Margaret declared that she knew Sarah did not carry it in her pocket, nor did she appear to have anything hanging round her neck.

"Then that lallypaloozer must have swallowed it!" affirmed Alexander, angrily. "But I 'll make one more grand hunt in her room this afternoon, if the twins will help me out by watching the stairs. Maybe I overlooked something!"

Half an hour later he burst into Margaret's room with a whoop. "Call a meeting of the whole club for next Thursday afternoon—it's Sarah's day out!" he whispered jubilantly. "I found it!"

"Oh, where, where?" demanded Margaret, scarcely believing it could be true.

"In the toe of one of her old shoes!"

On the last Thursday afternoon of each month it was Sarah's custom to go out by herself for three or four hours, leaving the house and Margaret in charge of the twins. This was the only outing she ever took. On the day in question it was understood that Corinne and her father (who insisted on being present at this important meeting) should arrive at three-thirty—after Sarah had gone, or she might, on seeing them, change her mind and stay home! Alexander was then to filch the key from her shoe, open the attic, and, with the help of the twins, carry the trunk down to Margaret's room.

Everything worked smoothly. Sarah departed as usual, Mr. Cameron and Corinne arrived, tingling with excitement, Alexander opened the attic, and the wonderful old trunk was at last deposited in triumph before Margaret's bed. They turned out the family's summer flannels carefully, that no spot or wrinkle on them might in the future disturb the equilibrium of the uncertain Sarah, and examined the false bottom with an actual thrill to think that here, in this very spot, poor frightened little Alison was wont to conceal the telltale journal.

But when the false bottom was removed, there appeared no trace of a jewel (as they had all secretly hoped there might be) nor any crack or crevice where it might be concealed. The old-fashioned lining was absolutely intact. Margaret gave a little sigh of disappointment, but Mr. Cameron remarked:

"Don't be discouraged! We haven't finished yet!" And he began to tap the inside of the trunk all over, carefully, with the handle of his penknife. Then, suddenly, they beheld him open the knife and skilfully slip up the figured lining far in one corner. In another second he had inserted his fingers in the opening and was feeling about eagerly. The next moment he laid something in Margaret's lap, with just this quiet remark:

"At last, Miss President! The sapphire signet!"

There was an instant of amazed silence. Then, at an indistinct sound from downstairs, Bess uttered a horrified cry:

"Merciful goodness! Sarah 's come back already! What shall we do?"

to be continued...

Tom, Dick and Harriet, Chapter 16

by Ralph Henry Barbour, beginning May 1907

CHAPTER XVI: FORMING THE TRACK TEAM


As though resolved that the Boreas should rest for a while on her laurels, the weather changed that night within the hour and when morning dawned there was a warm southwest wind blowing up the river. That afternoon Dick took Harry for a sail, but the wind by that time had died down to a thin, warm breeze that scarcely filled the sails, and in consequence the trip was not an exhilarating one. But exhilarating or otherwise, it proved to be practically the last of the season, for the warm weather held until the ice-cracks, air-holes and expanses of rotten ice which quickly developed made ice-boating at once dangerous and unpleasant. To be sure, there were occasional trips, but the river never returned to a state making possible another race between the Boreas and the Snowbird, a race which Joe Thurston was eager for and which Dick was not at all averse to. Finally the Boreas was drawn up beside the landing and dismantled, the sails and rigging being stored in the boat-house. As Chub poetically phrased it, "The career of the good ship Boreas has been brief, but ah, how glorious!"

February was a fortnight old when the school was thrown into a fever of mild excitement by a notice posted on the bulletin board in School Hall. The notice read as follows:

It is proposed to form a Track Team, and a meeting for that purpose will be held to-morrow (Friday) afternoon in the Gym at 4:15. All fellows are earnestly requested to be present.

Roy Porter,
T. H. Eaton.

I think you could have formed most anything at Ferry Hill just then, from a Croquet Club to a Sewing Society. February is a dull time of year, and tbe fellows were eager for anything which promised to supply a new interest. For two weeks the rink had been unfit to play on, and the river in scarcely better condition. Ferry Hill had won the first six games of its hockey schedule, including the first contest with Hammond. The second game with the rival school had been twice postponed, and Roy was beginning to lose hope of ever being able to play it, a thing which disgusted him not a little since the team had shown itself to be an unusually good one and able, in his and the school's estimation, to cope successfully with any hockey team in the vicinity. With skating and hockey at a standstill, base-ball practice confined only to light work in the cage, and the golf links still half a foot deep in snow, the forty-three students at Ferry Hill were ripe for any excitement. And as a result the meeting on Friday afternoon was about as well attended as it could possibly have been. Things.went with a rush from the start. Roy outlined the project and introduced Dick Somes, who had hitherto remained in the background. It did n't take Dick more than two minutes of talking to have every fellow on the edge of his chair with roseate visions of a track and field victory over Hammond floating before his eyes.

"Say, Roy," whispered Chub, "Dick's father is some sort of a promoter, is n't he!"

"Yes, I think so; sells mines, does n't he? Why?"

"Nothing much, only I know now where Dick gets it!"

Before the meeting was over thirty-seven out of thirty-nine fellows in attendance had put their names down for the track team and had agreed to contribute two dollars apiece. And there was n't one of them who was n't firmly convinced that he had the making of a sprinter, distance runner, hurdler, jumper, pole-vaulter or weight-thrower!

"I 've talked with Mr. Cobb," said Dick, "and he 's right with us in this; says there 's no reason why we should n't be able to turn out a dandy team. Of course, we must n't set our hearts on too much this spring; we 're new at it yet, and it takes a couple of years to get the stride. But I can't see why we have n't as good a chance to lick Hammond as she has to lick us. (Enthusiastic applause.) As soon as we 've elected officers we 'll get a challenge off to her, and I guess there 's no doubt but what she 'll be glad to meet us. We have n't got a very good outdoor track just now, but we 're going to fix that in time. Meanwhile we can do a whole lot of work indoors, and Mr. Cobb will arrange it so that he will be on hand here three afternoons a week to give instruction. But there must n't be any backing down, fellows. If you go in to this you must keep it up. It may seem like hard work at first, but after we get out of doors you 'll like it immensely. I 'm not afraid of your backing out then; only that you may get discouraged before that. But if you 'll just remember all the time that we 're going to show Hammond that we 're just as good on the cinder track as we are on the gridiron and the diamond and the river, why, I guess you 'll stick it out."

Dick sat down amid hearty cheers and Roy proposed the election of officers.

"I suppose," he said, "that we 'd better leave the selection of a captain until a little later, until we 've been together a while and have seen who 's capable of heading the team. So that leaves us the duty of selecting a manager and assistant manager. Nominations are in order."

Warren proposed Roy for manager, but Roy declined, pleading a press of other duties. Then Chub, who had his instructions, arose and nominated Dick. Dick was unanimously chosen. The position of assistant manager was not so quickly filled, but finally Sid Welch was put up and the meeting accepted him hilariously, demanding a speech. But Sid refused to make any remarks except to bob his head and mutter something about being much obliged.

On Saturday afternoon the candidates got to work in the gymnasium. A less optimistic person than Dick Somes would, I think, have been rather discouraged by the prospect. Few of the candidates for the team had ever seriously tried the work which they had selected. A good many of them, in fact, had very hazy ideas of what they had let themselves in for, and there was a deal of grumbling over chest-weights and dumb-bells. But the grumbling always ceased when Dick drew near, and his enthusiasm was contagious. Mr. Cobb shook his head afterward and said he was afraid there was n't enough material there to make a team that could hope to make a showing against Hammond. But Dick would n't listen to that.

"We may be weak in some events," he said, "but we 'll have some good sprinters, you mark my words, sir, and if we can get a lot of second and third places we 'll make a good showing for a new team. I wish every other fellow would n't insist on being either a hurdler or a hammer-thrower, though," he laughed. "I can't find but one chap who is willing to go in for the pole-vault, and he 's only doing it as a favor to me and will probably back out when he 's once tried it and has found that he can't do twelve feet the first time."

Dick had purchased every book on the subject of track and field athletics that he could hear of and was studying them diligently. He knew, perhaps, as little at the start as any fellow in school in regard to track and field work and training methods. But he talked with every one who could help him, especially Mr. Cobb, and, as I have said, studied all the literature to be found. The result was that by the time outdoor work was reached he knew a good deal on the subject, although much of his knowledge was as yet theoretical, and would have impressed the wiliest veteran athlete as being an old hand. A portion of Dick's philosophy, if ever formulated in words, would have run something like this: "Know how if you can; if you can't, keep your mouth shut and look wise."

When, three weeks after the formation of the team, an election for captain was held, the members suddenly realized that there was only one among them who possessed the requisite knowledge to fill the office successfully, only one whom they placed faith in. Six fellows got on to their feet at the same moment and nominated Dick Somes and about a dozen more seconded the nomination. Further nominations not following, Dick was unanimously elected, accepting the honor with becoming modesty. Sid was promoted to manager and Fernald became assistant.

"Well," said Roy after the meeting was over, "that went all right."

"According to program," agreed Chub cheerfully.

"You fellows may think it was cheeky of me to get up the team and then have myself elected captain," said Dick, "but I know that I 'm the only fellow here who can see the thing through. And I suppose that sounds conceited."

"Well, it might from some one else," said Roy, "but it does n't from you, Dick. Anyhow, it 's just about so. If any fellow can make a track team go here it 's you. And I hope you 'll succeed."

"Oh, I 'll succeed all right," answered Dick calmly. "Of course I don't look for many victories this year, but if we get the team started it 'll keep a-going, and next year or the year after that we 'll show a few of those conceited Hammondites what we can do."

"I wish I had some of your confidence," sighed Chub. "If I had I 'd feel better about base-ball."

"Chub 's an optimist when it comes to other people's affairs," laughed Roy, "and a confirmed growler about his own. Last year he was certain we were going to get licked by Hammond; went around for two weeks before the game looking as though he 'd swallowed a barrel of pickles."

"Were you?" Dick asked.

"Not a bit of it! We won, eight to seven."

"It was a close call, though," said Chub. "If you had n't—"

"Oh, Dick 's heard all about that," interrupted Roy. "When are you going to issue that challenge to Hammond, Dick?"

"Right away now. I told Sid to meet me this evening after supper and we 'd write it out. They 're probably still smarting over losing the second hockey game to us and that will make them eager to lick us at something else. I want them to propose their own grounds. In the first place, ours won't be fit for much this spring, and in the next place if we 're beaten, as we 're pretty sure to be, we 'll be able to point to the fact that Hammond had the advantage of being on her home field; as a matter of fact, it won't make much difference to us where we are. Then next year, when we may have a chance of beating them, they 'll have to come over here."

"Well, if you are n't the foxy one!" said Chub.

"Well, I don't want the fellows to be discouraged when they 're beaten," responded Dick. "And the more excuses they have the less they 'll mind a defeat. I guess I 'll leave you fellows here. I want to go to the Cottage a minute to see Harry."

"We 'll come along," said Chub.

Dick smiled and shook his head.

"It 's a private matter," he said. "You fellows run along."

"What do you think of that?" exclaimed Roy. "He and Harry have been mighty chummy for the last week or two, Chub. Wonder what 's up, eh?"

"You 'll find out presently," said Dick.

They had been sauntering slowly along the path from the gymnasium and now Dick turned to the right and walked across the wet turf.

"Where are you going?" demanded Roy.

"Just here," answered Dick, stopping and looking off down the slope toward the river. "You get a great view from here, don't you?"

"Yes," answered Roy as they joined him. "What of it?"

"Nothing, only I 've been thinking that this would be a fine site for the new dormitory."

"Gee!" exclaimed Chub. "I 'd forgotten all about it. Anything doing yet?"

"N-no, not to speak of," answered Dick as he turned back toward the path. "Still, I rather think there 'll be a meeting before very long."

"Is n't he the mysterious chump?" asked Chub. "Bet you he 's thought out a scheme. Have you, Dick?"

"I 'll tell you after a while," was the answer. "So long."

"Oh, well, of course we don't want to know," replied Chub. "Farewell, O Man of Mystery!"

to be continued...

"How Pinkey Turned the Tables on Himself"

by Captain Harold Hammond, U.S.A., May 1906

Pinkey Perkins + "Red Feather" = a humorous tale of revenge that doesn't work out. I wouldn't have been surprised to see this story on Leave It to Beaver fifty years later.

With the approach of "Arbor Day," the teachers of the Enterprise public schools began to make their plans to observe the occasion with ceremonies which should be both enjoyable and appropriate. It was the general desire to create a real and lasting interest in trees and plants among the children, and to this end certain outdoor programs were to be carried out.

This day was one to which all school-children looked forward with a. certain amount of pleasure, for the exercises always consumed a part of the study and recitation hours, and sometimes school was dismissed early in honor of the day. This latter possibility was the chief attraction which the day offered to "Pinkey" Perkins, for his boyish mind never could see the real reason why it should take twenty-five or thirty children to plant one or two little trees, and why they always had to be planted on a certain day.

"Say, Bunny," said Pinkey to Bunny Morris one morning a few days before Arbor Day, "what do you say to going to the country Thursday afternoon? I heard that 'Red Feather' is going to give us a half-holiday as soon as we get the tree planted."

"That 'll be great!" replied Bunny, enthusiastically. "It 'll be worth learning a verse to say at the exercises, and dressing up in your good clothes, if we can get off for the rest o' the afternoon. But how do you know she 's going to do it?"

"Joe Cooper said so, and I guess it came pretty straight. His sister, who teaches in the primary, told him, most likely. He wouldn't say for certain who told him. There 's no use asking Red Feather."

The proof which Pinkey had produced satisfied Bunny's doubts, and forthwith the pair began laying their plans for their outing. "Going to the country" meant a visit to the farm of one of Pinkey's uncles, who lived near Enterprise, and included a whole assortment of pleasures gathered together into one delightful excursion. It meant a swim in the pond when the weather was warm enough, a potato and apple roast in an outdoor oven dug in the hillside, and somersaults and other daring acrobatic feats in the large hay-mow.

When the program for Arbor Day had been arranged, each of Red Feather's pupils was given a sentiment or a few appropriate lines of poetry to commit to memory, it being her plan to have all her scholars take part in the actual planting of the tree, and the verse was to be repeated as each pupil tossed his or her shovelful of earth around the roots of the tree. The scholars entered into the spirit of the celebration with more interest than was customary on such occasions, for the rumor of a prospective half-holiday had spread through the school and had become a certainty in the minds of all.

Arbor Day came at last, and was heralded with delight on all sides. A more perfect spring day could not have been desired, the soft, balmy air provoking the outdoor spirit in all to arise and demand release from the oppression of the school-room. The morning session went on as usual.

Noontime finally came, and the children hurried homeward to prepare themselves for the afternoon's exercises. It was to be no ordinary occasion. All were to come in their best Sunday attire, and Red Feather had announced that she desired each of her pupils to wear a small twig of some sort in honor of the day.

It was a very different-appearing crowd that filed into the school-room when the last bell rang that afternoon. Several were tardy, their mothers having bestowed many unusual touches to the noonday toilet of their sons and daughters. Boys, wearing stiff, uncomfortable collars about their seldom-fettered necks, and with shoes which still retained their original store polish and telltale squeak, tiptoed to their seats, their faces shining from the effects of recent scrubbing. Girls, with stiffly starched skirts hovering over new stockings and tightly buttoned shoes, and with their hair so tightly drawn back by their crescent-shaped combs that to close their eyes seemed almost an impossibility, marched proudly to their desks, each evidently remembering her mother's final assertion that she would be the prettiest girl there.

After singing, "Under the Greenwood Tree," as being appropriate to the day they were celebrating, and listening to an elocutionary recitation of "Woodman, Spare that Tree" by a city niece of Red Feather's who was visiting in Enterprise, the pupils were marched from the building to a certain spot in the yard, where preparations had already been made for the planting of the tree. Pinkey and Bunny were sorely disappointed when Red Feather instructed them all to leave their hats on the hooks in the hall, for this meant the loss of at least two minutes, when the exercises should be over, before they could be off. The pupils of the other rooms were congregated here and there in gaily dressed groups, all bent on similar observances of the day.

"I 've got old Polly all bridled now," whispered Pinkey to Bunny as the procession wended its way through the yard; "and all we 'll have to do as soon as it 's over is to get our caps, hurry home and change our clothes, and scoot for the country. I 'll come by for you, and you must be all ready."

When all had reached the appointed spot, Red Feather arranged the boys and girls in a circle around the hole in which the tree was to be planted. The tree lay on the ground on one side, and a brand-new shovel, on the handle of which were a few bows of red ribbon, lay on the other. All were anxious for things to begin, and when Red Feather did not seem to be in as much of a hurry as did her pupils, they grew impatient at the delay.

"Now, children," admonished Red Feather, severely, as two or three of the boys began to nudge each other and to give evidences of suppressed mirth, "this is no time for play. We are here to carry out a noble purpose,—one greatly to be admired by all,—and I wish you to conduct yourselves in a manner befitting the occasion."

With that, she detailed Pinkey and Eddie Lewis, whom Pinkey had reason heartily to dislike, to place the tree in position and to support it until enough earth had been thrown in to hold it upright. A sudden movement of the tree, when Red Feather was not looking, caused Eddie to lose his balance and fall into the hole, thus soiling his new shoes and stockings and affording corresponding amusement to the rest of the pupils, among whom Eddie was known as "teacher's pet."

When all was ready the pupils stepped forward, one at a time, and tossed in a shovelful of earth, each pausing long enough to repeat the assigned verse or sentiment. When Pinkey's turn came, he failed to experience any thoughts which could be called appropriate to the fulfilment of a noble purpose. He took the shovel, filled it with earth, cleared his throat, and began the recitation of the lines he had committed to memory:

"Here thou hast found a resting-place,
Where, more and more sublime,
Thy towering height may glorify
The corridors of Time."

When he had finished he stepped back into the circle, a load lifted from his mind in the realization that his part was over. More than anything else, Pinkey disliked being required to "speak a piece" of any kind, of any length, and on any subject.

Bunny got off easier than did Pinkey. With his short, jerky style of delivery, he declared that "Great oaks from little acorns grow," hastily tossed a small shovelful of earth against the roots of the tree, and retired from the scene of action.

One after another, the other pupils stepped up and did their parts, until, when "Putty" Black came forward and announced, "Just as the twig is bent, the tree 's inclined," the tree was firmly planted, the earth was well packed about its roots, and the pupils only awaited the word which would set them free.

"That finishes the program, children," said Red Feather; "and now you may all return to the school-house. You will have fifteen minutes for study before I call the 'A' class in grammar."

For a moment the pupils were struck dumb and motionless with amazement. "Return to the school-house!" "'A ' class in grammar!" Could it be that they had understood Red Feather aright? Surely no one could utter such heartless words as these and still live to enforce them! Something dreadful must happen to such a monster!

"Pinkerton, what are you muttering about?" demanded Red Feather, severely, as audible expressions of wrath escaped from Pinkey's lips.

"I thought we were going to have a half-holiday as soon as the old—" Pinkey checked himself— "as soon as the tree was planted." Already the pupils of one of the other rooms were leaving the yard, shouting noisily in anticipation of the afternoon of freedom before them. Pinkey boiled with rage as he saw one of the liberated boys toss a base-ball bat to another, and watched them place their hands alternately one over the other, contesting for first choice in the prospective game of "scrub." The fact that his dreams for the afternoon had been so ruthlessly shattered made his envy of the pleasure of others seem all the more keen.

"Arbor Day is not a holiday," announced Red Feather with emphasis. "It is a day to be observed in a dignified, serious manner. Pinkerton, you may take the lead in marching back to the schoolhouse."

"I don't see why we can't—"

"Not another word," interrupted Red Feather. "Take your place in front, as I bade you. Your conduct is highly improper, and you shall be punished for it."

Pinkey reluctamly placed himself at the head of the column, and at the word of command shuffled sullenly along the walk leading to the schoolhouse.

"Pick up your feet, Pinkerton, and walk properly," shouted Red Feather, as she noticed these unmistakable signs of Pinkey's disapproval.

Although Pinkey knew that he would suffer for his open display of resentment, yet his feelings were so rebellious, when he thought of the afternoon's outing of which he and Bunny had been "robbed," that he was goaded to further acts of indiscretion. When Red Feather ordered him to stop dragging his feet, he tried walking very slowly and deliberately stepping as high as possible. Going to this extreme only incensed Red Feather all the more, and she pounced upon him with both hands, and subjected him to a series of the most wholesome, teeth-chattering shakes that he had experienced for many a day.

All this provoked not a little mirth in the ranks behind Pinkey, and his feelings were somewhat relieved when he heard unmistakable sounds from the rear which told him that he was not the only one in disfavor. Bunny and two or three others were recipients of shakings similar to the one Pinkey had received, for being so indiscreet as to laugh at him.

Red Feather posted herself at the hall door, and with severity marshaled her flock into the school-room, administering reproving and effective touches here and there, as she detected evidences of undue hilarity or sullenness.

The afternoon session was resumed at once, but study was of the most unsatisfactory character and the recitations were correspondingly poor.

Pinkey sat at his desk, morose and gloomy. The day to which he had looked forward with such bright anticipations was a failure. He wished he could quit school and never see a book or a slate again. Why did Red Feather take especial delight in picking him out as the one to use as an example for all the rest? It seemed that she had decreed that there should be no holiday just because he and Bunny had planned an afternoon's enjoyment on this occasion. Had he known that the school board had authorized a half-holiday for the lower grades only, and that Red Feather had nothing to say about it, his indignation probably would not have been so violent nor so lasting. As it was, he merely knew that those rooms below Red Feather's had been excused, and he could not see why hers was not.

All the afternoon, and on the way home, Pinkey kept revolving in his mind different schemes by which he might show Red Feather that her pupils felt that she had done them a great injustice.

"What 're you goin' to do, Pinkey? " inquired Bunny, as the pair wandered disconsolately homeward after school, discussing their blighted afternoon.

"I dunno, exactly," observed Pinkey; but the more they talked about it, the more abused they both felt and the firmer became their resolve to do something about it.

They separated, however, before anything definite was decided upon, and it was not until after supper that evening that a plan occurred to Pinkey which suited him. Once his mind was made up, he lost no time in getting operations under way.

Leaving the house by the front door, he stole silently around to the woodshed, quietly procured the wheelbarrow and the shovel, and departed by way of the back gate for Bunny's house.

Five minutes later Bunny's alert ears caught the sound of Pinkey's low, signal whistle and he knew at once that his presence was desired and that there was something up which needed his* assistance. He obeyed the summons as soon as he reasonably could, for any suggestion that there was any connection between the whistle, in case anyone else had heard it, and his departure might bring forth questions which he could not answer.

When he came out he could not locate Pinkey anywhere, then after another whistle from Pinkey, Bunny was able to distinguish a form which he recognized as that of his chum, and on coming closer he was surprised to see also the wheelbarrow and shovel which Pinkey had brought along with him.

"What 's up, Pinkey?" inquired Bunny, in surprise. "What are you goin' to do with the wheelbarrow this time o' night?"

"Goin' to celebrate Arbor Day again," answered Pinkey, without going into details; "come on."

"Goin' to what?" questioned the bewildered Bunny. "I got enough Arbor Day today to last me for a while, didn't you?"

"Yes, but it did n't suit me. I 'm goin' to dig up that tree we planted to-day and take it down to Red Feather's yard and plant it again. She took our holiday away from us so let 's give her the old tree too."

"Whew, Pinkey, that 's what!" exclaimed Bunny, enthusiastically, "wo n't she be mad when she has to pay to have it brought back?"

"We "ll just show her that if we can't have what 's ours, we do n't want her buying trees for us, and puttin' ribbons on the shovel we plant 'em with."

" Yes, an' makin' us dress up and say a lot o' speeches too." That was the part of the program which had appealed to Bunny less than all the rest.

In high glee, though with as little noise as possible, the pair started for the schoolhouse yard. They took a roundabout way in order to avoid possible detection and approached the enclosure carefully. They found it impossible to take the wheelbarrow through the turnstile and left it outside the fence, at a point as near as possible to the tree. There being only a little-used path on that side of the yard, they were in no danger of being seen.

Silently and hurriedly they worked, first one and then the other, throwing out the earth which was still quite loose, and soon they had reached the roots of the tree. It was now but a small task to lift it from the hole and carry it to the fence.

"Pass 'er over, Bunny," said Pinkey, after he had climbed the fence. "We got to hurry now or it 'll be late before we get through."

With the tree safely loaded on the wheelbarrow, the boys set out for Red Feather's house, several blocks distant. They took the middle of the road for it, that being considered by Pinkey as safer than the sidewalk.

At length they reached the street parallel to that on which Red Feather's house faced. Here they lifted the tree and the shovel from the wheelbarrow and dropped them over the fence into the vacant lot which adjoined Red Feather's back yard. After hiding the wheelbarrow by turning it upside down in the ditch at the side of the road, they climbed the fence, picked up their tree and shovel again and cautiously approached the house. To their delight, the front part of the house was dark and with proper care they could complete their task without detection.

Selecting a conspicuous spot in the front yard, not far from the gate, Pinkey set to work digging a hole in which to plant the tree. He was relieved by Bunny when he grew tired and, after a few changes, they had the hole ready to receive the tree.

"Never mind sayin' your speech, Bunny," said Pinkey gleefully, when they had set the tree in position, "just you shovel the dirt in as fast as you can while I tramp it down," at the same time holding on to the tree and dancing around it, packing down the loose earth as Bunny threw it in.

"I ought to have a few ribbons on this shovel," observed Bunny, straightening up to rest his back a moment," I always like to have ribbons on a shovel when I plant trees."

"This is no holiday," repeated Pinkey, after the manner of Red Feather. "This is a serious occasion. Get to work."

Thus joking and in high spirits over their escapade, Pinkey and Bunny completed their task, packed the sod neatly around the trunk of the tree, and stood for a few minutes gazing on their handiwork with unconcealed admiration.

"Looks pretty fine, does n't it," said Bunny, "it seems perfectly at home."

"I wonder if this 'resting-place' will last as long as the other one did, said Pinkey, remembering his verse, "That 'corridor of time' at the schoolhouse yard was a pretty short one, seems to me." At this bright remark they both enjoyed a good laugh.

With one last look at their clever piece of work, and a few contented chuckles, Pinkey and Bunny departed by the route they had come. They loaded the shovel in the wheelbarrow once more and started home well pleased at the outcome of their venture, and feeling that they had well repaid Red Feather for her heartlessness of the afternoon.

"And won't the rest o' the fellers wish they 'd had a hand in it?" said Pinkey, as they separated, "Tell you what, Bunny, it takes us to keep even with Red Feather!"

Pinkey replaced the wheelbarrow and the shovel in the woodshed and entered the house with an air of unconcern that aroused no suspicion that he had been doing anything unusual. It was quite the custom for the boys of Enterprise to congregate in the evening and join in spirited games of "Tally-ho," so his absence caused no comment and brought forth no embarrasing questions.

Next morning, Pinkey and Bunny met on the courthouse corner and proceeded schoolward together. They were still in high spirits over their night's work, and as they walked along they confidentially told several of their companions who joined them, what they had done. As they entered the schoolhouse yard, the open hole, around which several pupils were already gathered, offered conclusive proof of the truth of their assertions, had proof been necessary.

"Here 's Pinkey Perkins!" shouted one. "He knows who did it, don't you, Pinkey?"

"What makes you think so?" replied Pinkey, visibly flattered. "If I did know I would n't tell." There was a knowing look on his face, however, which admitted' beyond question that he was the person responsible for the disappearance of the tree.

"Where 'd you take it, Pinkey?" demanded Joe Cooper.

"Who said I took it anywhere?" retorted Pinkey.

"I believe I saw it in Red Feather's yard as I came by," spoke up one in whom Pinkey had confided, "maybe she took it home for safe keepin'."

Just then some one noticed Red Feather coming in the gate and the crowd dispersed to see what she would do. Her way led directly past the spot where the day before they had planted the ill-fated tree with so much ceremony. To the disgust of all, she did not even look toward the place. With her eyes straight to the front, she pursued her unerring way to the schoolhouse and disappeared within.

A few minutes later, the last bell pealed forth its summons, the boys put away their marbles and balls and bats, and the girls folded up their skipping ropes, and all filed in and went obediently to their seats. As he sat down, Pinkey scrutinized Red Feather's face to see if he could foretell what the future had in store for him, but ehere were no telltale signs there and he was unable to reach any definite conclusions.

When the opening exercises were over, Red Feather arose from her desk and stood at the edge of her platform. For a full minute she stood silently looking over the room. Rinkey began to feel uncomfortable, and try as he would to sit still and appear unconcerned, he could not. He fidgeted in spite of himself. He would have given a good eal to steal a glance at Bunny, to see how he was taking it, but he dared not. He felt his face growing redder and redder in spite of himself and he fastened his gaze on the collar of the boy in front of him.

Presently, Red Feather broke the heavy silence. "Children," said she, with no trace of anger in her voice, "some of you" -and she looked squarely at Pinkey- "have done me a kindness which I very much appreciate and I wish to thank the ones who are responsible. The tree which we planted yesterday was not the kind the school board desires planted in the schoolhouse yard. I was disppointed in not getting the tree I ordered, so was forced to get the one I did for the exercises. I had arranged to have it take up to-day and planted in my yard, replacing it by the one I had originally ordered.

"I want to thank those of you who so kindly saved me the trouble of having the tree transferred, and who went ot all the trouble of doing it for me. I am fully aware of the amount of labor it involved and of the kind thoughts which prompted such a generous act."

By the time Red Feather had finished, Pinkey's face had turned several shades redder than it was at first and had become a brilliant crimson. His eyes shifted helplessly from one corner of his desk to the other and he seemed first hot and then cold. Suppressed titters here and there told him that his companions were having a good laugh at his and Bunny's expense. He was enraged at himself, and at himself alone, for there was certainly no one else to blame that he had failed in turning the tables on Red Feather and had turned them on himself instead. Also, he knew that unless they took a firm stand, he and Bunny were in for it. Their companions would not fail to improve such an excellent opportunity to tease them.

Pinkey managed to brace up a little and to shake off his depression to a certain extent, until by recess time he had almost resumed his usual assurance.

"Where are you goin' to plant your tree now," asked Joe Cooper, as they were leaving the room to enjoy their morning playtime.

"I 'm goin' to leave it right where it is. If I 'd take it to the north pole, Red Feather 'd say she was just goin' to send it up there. Now the next feller that says 'tree' to me will wish had n't," and Pinkey's manner indicated that the less said about Arbor Day the better for all concerned.

"Margaret's Favor Book"

by Susan Anna Brown, June 1884

Though Mary Mapes Dodge's aim was for St. Nicholas not to become didactic, certain amounts of instruction were included, like vegetables hidden among the meat. However, this seems like a sweet way to "count one's blessings."

Margaret Dana was one of the practical, earnest girls who are always ready to try new things, and ambitious to make the most of every opportunity. She had one trial, and that was, that her father would not let people call her Maggie, or Marguerite, or Daisy, or Pearl, or Madge, or anything but plain Margaret. That had been his mother's name, and he said it was good enough for her grand-daughter, without any modern improvements. To be sure, most of the girls in her class at school were Bessies, and Minnies, and Nellies, and Fannies ; but in spite of the affliction of having a name which did not end in "ie," Margaret took life pleasantly enough. In school, she studied sufficiently to keep her place in the class, and outside, every moment was filled with work or play.

It was a rule of the Dana household, however, that the children should write at least a few lines every day, in the form of a letter, or a diary, or a composition. Copying did not count, or Margaret would have finished her daily task without much thought. Mrs. Dana had an idea that people found many things burdensome only because they were not accustomed to do them, and resolved that her children should form the habit of expressing their thoughts on paper, hoping that it would be as easy for them as talking when they grew older. Margaret had a brother in college, and three or four cousins, with whom she exchanged letters occasionally, and her school compositions came once in two weeks, so that she was seldom at a loss for an object in her daily writing. Sometimes, when she read stories where the heroine kept a journal in which to record her very sentimental ideas, Margaret was tempted to begin one; but she never proceeded far, for she could not think up any trials to philosophize over, and what she was doing amd enjoying seemed unworthy of a place in so dignified a volume. So that after she had written a few pages, in which she had told about their old-fashioned house, which she could never make sound as interesting as the "vaulted halls" and "dim old libraries" which the heroines described, her journal was apt to languish, and, after a few more entries, was usually put into the fire. Once the family tried the experiment of a general diary, which was to be written every night, and was to record the doings of the whole household. But as Mr. and Mrs. Dana, and Grandma Edwards, and Ned, and Kate, and cousin Fanny, and even little John, all were expected to take their turn at it, Margaret wrote in it only now and then. And, besides, it was not half so interesting to write in that great book in the sitting-room as it was to scribble off something of her very own in the sacred privacy of her own corner. This corner was a very cozy sort of place. Kate and Margaret shared a long, low room, which they took great pride in decorating with every pretty thing which came in their way. Sometimes they used to talk over the changes they would make in it if they were rich: The simple, light paper was to be exchanged for an elegant dark tint with a wonderful frieze: the somewhat dingy carpet was to give place to a beautiful inlaid floor, adorned with oriental rugs in soft colors; the air-tight stove was to be replaced by an open fire-place, where a cheerful blaze was always to be glowing (they usually made their plans in the cold weather). In fact, the furniture was all to be of the most new-old-fashioned kind, such as they saw now and then in the house of some friend. To tell the truth, I am very doubtful whether they would have liked the room one bit better if some indulgent fairy had transformed it to the splendid apartment of which they dreamed.

As it was, the two girls took much comfort in its friendly shabbiness. The two windows looked west and south. At the western one, Kate had a table where she used to sit and write or paint, and when she was resting she could look over the river at the low line of blue hills, where the scene seemed the same, and yet ever changing with the changing seasons, like the expression of a familiar face. Often the two girls sat there together and watched the sun sink down behind those wooded slopes, and saw the dark line of trees printed for a moment on his flaming disk, and then standing out distinct and clear on the background of red sky. Sometimes, in the hot July afternoons, they leaned far out at the window to catch the first breath of a summer shower, which they could see coming up over the hills, and watched the thick veil of drops draw nearer and nearer, until the first noisy pattering could be heard on the roof above them. This west window was Kate's corner, where she had all her very special belongings. The southern one was in the slope of the roof, and had little side-lights, which made it almost like a bay-window. In this little nook, Margaret had her low easy-chair, and a sort of folding leaf which could be put up when she wanted a table, or suffered to hang down when she only wished to read or to look out at the cool freshness of the elms. Directly under the window-sill were two little shelves, where she had a few favorite books and her writing materials. This was her cozy corner, and the two girls were very careful to leave each other's possessions undisturbed, so that there might be that sort of separateness which only makes companionship more pleasant. Here they dreamed their dreams, as girls will, and had long confidential talks together; for these two sisters appreciated each other, and if they had friends who seemed at first brighter and more entertaining, they never forgot that close tie of sisterhood which was more than any passing fancy.

One evening, the two sat together in their own room. Kate was writing diligently on an essay which was to be read on the last day of school, and Margaret was biting the end of her pen and half-closing her eyes, as she had a habit of doing when she was thinking intently. At last she burst out with, "I think people who keep journals in books are horrid!"

"How else can you keep one?" inquired Kate, without looking up from her work.

"Oh, I don't mean that!" said Margaret; "I mean that people in books who keep journals are horrid, because they write down such doleful things; and she glanced at the story which she had just finished reading, which certainly was a rather depressing account of the trials and afflictions of a self-scrutinizing young lady. "Why can't they write down the fun they have, and the kind things people do for them, instead of always telling their troubles, and making one feel dreadfully sorry for them?"

"Try it," said Kate, as she wrote the last word in her essay, and then ran down-stairs to read it to her father.

"I declare, I believe I will," said Margaret slowly to herself, after she had thought awhile. "Something pleasant happens almost every day; and if I write down at night what people have done for me during the day, I shall not be always forgetting to thank them for it, as I do now, and it will be great fun to read it over some time."

Margaret was never one of the dilatory sort; when she made up her mind to do anything, she never waited until her enthusiasm had cooled. That very night she sewed a few sheets of paper into a little book, and made her first entry in this novel kind of diary.

"I have resolved to keep a 'Favor-Book,' and to write down in it all the kind and pleasant things people do for me."

If it had not been for the rule about writing every day, the "Favor-Book" might have been neglected, as the rest of the winter went by; but before the spring came, Margaret was herself surprised to see how full it had grown.

One night, during the first week in March, she sat in her favorite seat and turned over the pages and read the simple record. It was only a list of the little favors of every day, such as all receive, but Margaret was glad to recall every one of them.

Jan. 4. My brother let me read the St. Nicholas first, because I wanted to. I must remember to let him have it first, next time.

Jan. 5. Alice Williams invited me to a party, and I had a splendid time.

Jan. 7. Mother said I might go out skating when the rest did, and she would wipe the dinner dishes for me.

Jan. 8. I received a fine letter from brother Ned, and he hates to write letters to us girls when he has so much other writing to do.

Jan. 9. Cousin Fanny mended my dress for me, because she thought I did n't know how to do it in the best way.

Jan. 10. Kate tried hard and found a capital subject for me to write a composition about.

Jan. 11. Nellie Forbes waited for me to-day, because I was not quite ready to go to walk when the other girls went.

Jan. 12. Mother let me ask two of the girls to tea.

Jan. 14. Because I was so busy, Fred went down street on an errand which Mother had asked me to do.

Jan. 15. Ellen lent me her new story-book.

Jan. 16. Alice came over and brought her work, and taught me some of the stitches for Kensington embroidery.

Jan. 17. Father took Kate and me to a concert.

Jan. 18. Mary came over and stayed with me, because I had a cold. And it was splendid skating, too.

Jan. 19. Ellen came to ask how I was, on her way to church.

Jan. 20. Cousin Fanny read to me quite a while to-day. Fred sat down and played backgammon, because I had such a cold,—and he don't like games very well, either.

Jan. 21. Father taught me how to play checkers, because he said staying in the house was dull work for me. Mrs. Williams sent me some jelly.

Jan. 22. Mary came over again.

Jan. 23. Kate made the bed in our room today, although it is my week to keep it in order. I must make it for her some time.

Jan. 24. My kitten climbed up in a tree, and I could not get her to come down, she was so much frightened. Henry Lund came along and said he would help me; so he went into the house and got a broom, and put my sacque on it, and climbed part way up and coaxed her to get on the sacque, and then got her down.

Jan. 25. Grandma gave me a bottle of cologne this morning. I mean to give half of it to Ellen, for she likes it so much, and hardly ever has any.

Jan. 26. Mother helped me ever so much on my Sunday-school lesson.

Jan. 27. I could not get any more worsted like my cushion, and it was almost done. I felt very much disappointed, because I wanted to finish it for Mother's birthday. Agnes Willis heard me talking about it at recess, and came all the way over here after school, although it rained, and brought her bag of worsted to see if she had n't some that would match. I don't think I have ever been over polite to Agnes, either. I have never tried much to get acquainted with her.

Jan. 29. Mary is getting up a dialogue just for fun, and she has asked me to take the very nicest part in it.

Jan. 30. Mrs. Williams lent me a cape to wear at our dialogue.

Feb. 3. The night of the dialogue, Mary's sister Julia helped us all she could. She fixed my hair for me, and was very kind in many ways. When I told Mother about it, she said, "That 's the sort of older sister I want you to be to Johnny and the baby."

Feb. 4. Grandma told me something which she said would be a good motto for my "Favor- Book." I told her about this book a good while ago, and she said she "heartily favored the 'Favor-Book' idea." The motto was something which a very old lady said to her a long time ago. It was this: "Wherever I go, I learn something, either to avoid or practice." Grandma said that every favor I note down would be something for me to practice. She gave all us children something to do last Sunday, when there was such a dreadful storm that no one could go to church. She made us all find verses in the Bible about doing favors to people. We found ever so many.

Feb. 5. I had a letter from cousin Sarah. I did not answer her last one very promptly, so it was very good in her to write again so soon.

Feb. 6. Old Miss Stone called this afternoon, and I am afraid I was not very glad to see her. She asked Mother why I looked so sad, and Mother told her that my cat was sick, and I felt worried. Miss Stone said, "I must send her some catnip," and before tea her girl came over and brought me a box, and in it was a bunch of dry catnip, tied up with a blue ribbon. And Pussy was almost well the next day.

Feb. 7. Mrs. Williams sent for me to come over and spend the day, and I had a happy time.

Feb. 8. Brother Ned came home and brought a package of candy for us all, and a new book for Kate and one for me.

Feb. 10. Mother went into the city to-day and brought me home a new neck-tie and a box of writing-paper. Johnny was very good all the time she was gone, and helped me amuse the baby.

Feb. 11. Ned took me out sleigh-riding to-day. The last sleigh-ride of the season, we think.

Feb. 13. Agnes helped me with my algebra. She has such a nice way of helping; she does not act as if you did not know anything.

Feb. 14. Aunt Mary helped me about my patchwork and found me some new silk pieces.

Feb. 15. I was walking out to see Agnes Willis, and Ellen Stone overtook me and asked me to ride, and then called at Agnes's house for me, an hour later, and brought me home.

Feb. 18. Yesterday was my birthday, and I had presents from Mother, Ned, and Kate, and cousin Sarah sent me a birthday card. Mother asked two of the girls here to tea.

Feb. 20. I went in to Mrs. Johnson's of an errand this morning, and she went upstairs on purpose to get a new book to lend to me.

Feb. 21. Kate let me use her paints this afternoon.

Feb. 22. I was invited to a lovely party at Ellen's, to celebrate Washington's birthday.

Feb. 24. Mrs. Forbes stopped me on the street to ask how our baby was, and to say she was so sorry to hear she had been sick.

Feb. 27. Miss Saunders found something very interesting for me to read at our missionary meeting, and I know she is very busy and does not have much time to spare.

As she read the last entry and laid aside the book, her mother came softly into the room and sat down beside her.

"You told me that your 'Favor-Book' was full, my dear," she said. "I have bought you a new one, that you may keep on remembering the kindnesses which you receive," and she laid down in Margaret's lap a pretty volume in a red leather binding, on which was stamped her name, and underneath it the words,

"Freely ye have received, freely give."

The Sapphire Signet, Chapter 15

by Augusta Huiell Seaman, beginning November 1915

CHAPTER XV: SARAH TAKES A HAND IN THE GAME


Corinne came rushing home with the girls next day. Margaret, who rather expected her, had been waiting in considerable impatience, and not a little secret dread, for her arrival.

"Girls," she panted, throwing aside her wraps, "it's all right! I had the loveliest time telling Father all about it last night! You 've no idea how perfectly absorbed he was in the story! He was like a boy listening to a pirate yarn! I read him all the translation of the journal that Margaret made me, and he was just about wild when it came to the end so abruptly. He thought, with me, that it was best not to take the original from here, because you never can tell what accident might happen to it, carrying it around, but he says he ought to see it at once.

"And, do you know, he said we 'd done very clever work indeed, in puzzling out what we had of this mystery all by ourselves! I was so proud! And he said, also, that Alexander deserves special credit for the work he did in finding the secret beam. It is n't every boy who would have had such a good idea. He says Alexander is going to make a bright man, and a prosperous one, too, some day! Where is that youngster, by the way? I want to tell him!"

"Oh, he hasn't come in yet!" exclaimed Margaret, hastily returning to the main subject. "But tell us, Corinne, what else did your father say?"

"Well, I have n't half told you yet! To begin with, he says that we have really stumbled on something very valuable indeed—just as I told you! This journal ought to make one of the most interesting additions to the curiosities of history that have come to light in many a long day. And he says he should n't wonder but what it would be very valuable from the money side, too. There are people and institutions that will pay hundreds and hundreds of dollars for rare manuscripts like that, if they 're genuine! And there 's no doubt but that this is genuine, all right! And he says we may be able to think out where the signet was hidden, too.

"But, first of all, he wants very much to see the journal, and, of course, he must come here for that. He wanted to come and call on your mother some afternoon very soon. But I told him that was not possible, because your mother is away at business all day, and anyway, your mother was n't a member of the club, and perhaps you would n't want to explain the whole thing to her just yet. So he said he would telephone to her to ask if he might stop in here with me some afternoon; and he called her up this morning about it. She said she would be very glad to have her girls meet the father of such a dear friend of theirs. Was n't that lovely of her? If you all are agreeable, he 's coming day after to-morrow, because he happens to have that afternoon free. He will meet the twins and myself at high school, walk down with us, and be initiated into the Antiquarian Club. He says that being shown that wonderful journal ought to constitute a sufficient initiation ceremony, and I agreed with him! Now, what do you say?"

Margaret agreed unhesitatingly, yet in her secret soul she was filled with just the same consternation that she always felt in being called upon to meet a stranger. But she tried to school herself to the ordeal by reminding herself how easy it had been to make the acquaintance of Corinne. The father of so lovely and wonderful a girl ought surely to be no more difficult to meet. Corinne had brought light and pleasure and manifold interest into her drab little existence. Might not the father do the same? Thus she argued with herself as the time slipped by, till at length the day itself dawned that was to bring a new factor into her life.

"Wheel my chair over to the bookcase, please, Sarah!" she commanded that afternoon, when she had been made ready to receive company in the parlor. "I 'll read, I guess, till the girls come. Corinne may bring her father to-day, so could you have something kind of nice to eat, Sarah dear?" The woman gave her an odd look.

"Always that Corinne!" she grunted jealously. "Ye be fair daffy over that gur-rl, I do believe! An' now her father 's comin' wid her! Why is she bringin' him? I ain't got refreshments fur the likes of them!" She muttered and growled herself out of the parlor, but her remarks gave Margaret no uneasiness. Too well she knew that, though Sarah migh fuss and fume over some imagined imposition, she would ascend later with the daintiest of trays and serve the same maligned company with food fit for the gods! So Margaret contentedly settled herself to wait and pass the time by giving the curious old journal one further inspection.

Meanwhile, the day's session at high school came to an end, and, at the gate, Corinne and the twins found Mr. Cameron awaiting them. Whatever mental picture the twins may have had of Corinne's father, they found it very little like the reality. At once they were captivated by his twinkling blue eyes, his crisply curling, slightly gray hair, his friendly smile, and the thoroughly charming way he had of crinkling up his eyes when he laughed. They liked, too, his big, deep voice, his fine, tall, athletic-looking frame (and they wondered how he could be ill so often, when he looked so robust), and the jolly way he had of laughing at his own or other people's remarks. No longer did they wonder at his being such a chum of his daughter's, for before they had gone three blocks, he had become as interested in their accounts of basket-ball as though that game were the chief occupation of his existence.

But it was when he came to talking of their wonderful mystery that he showed to his best advantage, in their eyes. Alexander himself could not have exhibited a more thrilling interest in the whole affair than did Mr. Cameron. And as they proceeded down Varick Street, he branched off into talking of other historical associations connected with the neighborhood; told the most fascinating little anecdotes, pointed out hitherto unnoticed nooks and corners of odd shape and architecture, and explained the probable reasons for their existence. So enthralling was his conversation that they reached their own corner almost before they noticed it. Just as they turned down the street, however, they encountered Alexander. After the renewed introduction, Mr. Cameron voted that they all have a look at the former site of McCorkle's stable, and that Alexander should point out the exact location of the secret beam, long since removed to give place to iron subway-girders.

This naturally captured the heart of Alexander, and before they returned to the house, he was fairly ready to worship, in his boyish manner, this remarkable specimen of a grown man who seemed equally interested in baseball, Indian wigwam-building, hockey, skating, and boy affairs of all descriptions. But Alexander would sooner have been torn limb from limb than confess this worship to the girls!

At last they all approached the house, went up the stoop, and waited while Bess opened the door with her latch-key. The girls thought it rather strange that Margaret was not sitting in the window, waiting to wave to them as she always did, but they concluded that she must have had a fit of shyness, because of the new visitor, and had remained behind the curtains. In the hall they called gaily to her, and were again a little surprised to hear no response. Then they all entered the parlor.

To their utter astonishment they beheld Margaret, huddled in her chair by the bookcase, her eyes wide and frightened, her face bearing plainly the marks of recent tears.

"What is it, honey?" cried Corinne, the first to spring forward. "Are you feeling ill?"

"No," murmured Margaret, almost inaudibly.

"Well, here's father!" went on Corinne. "You must welcome the latest member of the Antiquarian Club, Miss President! And don't be afraid of him, for he knows you very well!" Corinne said this in a tone of forced gaiety, thinking that perhaps Margaret was really frightened at the prospect of meeting a stranger. Her father shook the little outstretched hand cordially, said some pleasant things of a general nature, and then plunged at once into the important subject of the day.

"Now you must initiate me, Miss Margaret! Show me this wonderful thing you clever people have unearthed! I want to see it so badly that I could hardly sleep last night with expectation, and that's no exaggeration! It's the real truth!"

To the utter astonishment of every one, Margaret burst suddenly into wild tears.

"It's gone! It's gone!" she sobbed. "It is n't there any more!"

"What do you mean, honey?" cried Corinne, rushing to her and trying vainly to hush the child's hysterical weeping. "It can't be gone! What's happened to it?"

At this the sobbing came with renewed violence, and it was several minutes before Margaret was able to whisper the one word:

"Sarah!"

"What about her? Do you want her to come up?" inquired Bess. Margaret frantically shook her head.

"Childie," said Corinne at last, very gently, "try to calm yourself and tell us what has happened. You 'll be ill if you keep on like this!"

After a moment, Margaret straightened herself, with a great effort stopped the sobbing, and spoke:

"I know I 'm a silly to act like this, but a terrible thing has happened. The journal is gone! I looked for it in its usual place this afternoon, and—it was n't there! I had n't taken it out for several days, and I knew the rest of you had n't either. I could n't imagine what had become of it, and I did n't like to ask directly, of course. So I called Sarah up and asked her if she 'd been cleaning the bookcase, because I missed something. She gave me just one queer look. Then she said no, she had n't been cleaning, but if I was looking for that old rubbish I kept back there, I need n't look any more, because she 'd taken it all out and—burned it up!" Margaret sobbed afresh at the memory.

"Burned it up!" shouted every one in a chorus of consternation.

"But why under the sun should she do such a thing?" demanded Corinne, indignantly. "Even if it were n't valuable, it seems to me simply cruel in her to destroy anything she knew you were interested in and prized! I can't understand it!"

"Did she say anything else?" asked Bess.

"No," added Margaret, "She just stalked out of the room and downstairs. She seemed awfully mad about something. And I was so stunned I could n't say a thing. But I just sat and cried and cried till you all came in."

"This all seems very extraordinary!" began Mr. Cameron. "And it is the more so to me, because I have always understood Corinne to say that Sarah was devoted to all of you, especially to Miss Margaret. As Corinne suggests, it would appear simply wanton cruelty in her to deliberately destroy anything she knew her favorite prized. Maybe there is something we have n't understood. Perhaps the woman has n't really burned the thing up—is only trying to tease you. Would there be any objection to our seeing her, and perhaps putting a few questions?"

"None at all!" declared Bess, though she secretly felt that there might be many. And with some very uncomfortable qualms, she rang the bell that Margaret always kept by her side. In two minutes they heard the heavy footsteps of Sarah on the basement stairs, and in two more she had opened the parlor door and stood before them.

"Is anything the matter?" she inquired as her hostile glance swept the room and its occupants. But they all noticed that her manner lacked its usual assurance, and that she was decidedly ill at ease.

"We were wondering if you could explain what became of Miss Margaret's papers and blank-books," began Mr. Cameron, constituting himself spokesman. "She tells me you have removed them. They are rather interesting, and I had come to-day on purpose to see them."

At this Sarah uncorked the vials of her wrath.

"Ye do well to be askin' afther them dur-rty owld bits of paper filled so full wid ger-rms they was probably fightin' to hang on! I told her I 'd bur-rned them up, an' I told the truth. If she don't get the typhoid-new-mon-i-ay, it won't be fur want of hangin' over them mouldy rags day afther day! I been watchin' her, an' don't ye fergit it! She ain't been well this month past—ever fur her. I guess she ain't told ye I 'm up wid her the better part of every night wid the pain in her back! Even the docther don't know what's the matter wid her, she's ailin' so much worse lately. I ain't watched her all her life fur nuthin', an' I been watchin' her closer than ever lately, though she didn't guess it. I usually come up them stairs like a rhinoceros-horse—I know that! But I can come up pretty soft when I choose —an' take the time! I seen her draggin' these things out from behind the books, an' shovin' em back if she thought any one was comin', an' breakin' her poor back bendin' over 'em, studyin' 'em 's though they wus made of gold! An' I says to meself, this has got to stop! So I jest took 'em out the other day an' burned up the whole clamjamfray of 'em. An' ye kin say what ye like about their bein' interestin',— I don't believe it! The dur-rty, disgustin' owld rubbish!" And with this final shot, Sarah turned and tramped heavily out of the room, leaving an astonished and speechless group behind her.

The remaining time that Corinne and her father were there was spent in comforting Margaret. There was no denying that Sarah had finally, definitely, and fatally ruined every hope they had cherished of disclosing to the world a new and startling historical discovery. And Mr. Cameron was more bitterly disappointed than he dared to show. But he tried to cheer Margaret as best he could, and when he came to go, he left her with this pleasant consolation:

"Never mind about the original journal now. That's gone, and no good ever did come of crying over spilt milk! Remember that the mystery remains, just as good as ever it was, and it is still the business of the Antiquarian Club to solve it! I, the latest member, am just as interested as the rest of you. Some day—mark my words!—we 're going to fit the pieces of this puzzle together!"

to be continued...

Tom, Dick and Harriet, Chapter 15

by Ralph Henry Barbour, beginning May 1907

CHAPTER XV: THE RACE OF THE ICE-BOATS


A bitterly cold, lowering day with a northeasterly gale blowing almost straight down the river, nipping fingers and ears and noses. Now and then a fitful flurry of snow, driving past like a miniature blizzard.

In front of the Ferry Hill landing two ice-boats, heads to the wind, sails snapping and wire rigging singing in the blasts; one with red hull and a cherry-and-black flag whipping from the masthead, the other glistening in new green and bearing the brown-and-white banner of Ferry Hill on high. About them some sixty boys from the rival schools, turning and twisting in and out on their skates in an effort to keep warm in the face of the biting gale. And over all a leaden, cheerless sky.

The race was to be windward and return, a distance of about fourteen miles. The starting-line was opposite the northern end of the boat-house, the turning-point some seven miles up the river at a place called Indian Head, where a small islet rose from the river near the west bank to serve as a mark. The boats were to finish opposite the boat-house. On the Snowbird were Joe Thurston and his friend Bob Cutler, while the Boreas held Dick and Chub. Whitcomb, with a small starting pistol in his gloved hand, was trying to push the crowd back so that the boats might swing into the wind at the signal.

The warning was given, the rival skippers declared themselves ready and the pistol barked, its sharp report being instantly whisked away on the wind. The slender noses of the two boats were turned, the sails filled slowly, and after a moment of seeming hesitation the Snowbird and the Boreas started slowly across the ice on the first tack to starboard, while behind them the rival groups shouted encouragement to the yachtsmen and defiance to each other. With every instant the boats gathered headway, gliding across the glassy surface like gaily-hued dragon-flies above the surface of a pool. The white wings became taut under the steady wind and the windward runners left the ice as the boats heeled further and further. It was nip-and-tuck on that first tack, the boats keeping their relative positions until the farther shore was reached and the helms were put over. Around swung the crafts and pointed their noses toward the right bank of the river.

On the Boreas Dick and Chub lay on opposite sides of the backbone which divided the steering-box into halves. Dick held the tiller. They were wrapped in the warmest clothing they had been able to find, but it was far from warm enough. The wind came slanting against them and bored its way down necks and up sleeves. Fingers were already tingling and foreheads aching.

"Cold!" shouted Dick above the singing of the runners and the whistle of the wind. Chub nodded and made a grimace without taking his gaze from the Snowbird, which, some fifty feet away, was bowling along finely.

"She 's gaining," said Chub presently. Dick turned and looked, glanced at his sails and eased the helm a little. Then it was time to go about again, since the shore was becoming dangerously near. The Snowbird was already turning, slowing for a moment as she pointed dead to windward and then springing away again as the gale slanted across the sails. The Boreas had lost and on this tack she was sixty or seventy yards behind her rival. The latter's larger sail area was telling. Chub looked anxiously at Dick, but that youth was gazing across at the Snowbird, a hand held in front of his face to break the wind. When he turned there was a little frown on his face and he pointed the nose of the Boreas closer into the wind. For a while she seemed to be holding her own. Then the Snowbird went about again, this time on a mile-long reach made possible by a bend in the river. The Boreas was almost half a minute behind now and Dick was growling things to himself that Chub could n't catch. The wind seemed to be growing stronger, though perhaps it was merely that it had a broader sweep here where the stream turned toward the east.

"How fast?" asked Chub, his hand to his mouth.

"Twenty-five, I guess," Dick shouted back.

Chub tried to whistle, but could n't. Beside them the ice was only a blurred surface that rushed by without form or substance, a grayish-green nothing, as it seemed, above which they were speeding with a rapidity that almost took the breath away. The wind shrieked and roared and strove to blow them from the box to which they were clinging. A sudden flurry of snow rushed down upon them, hiding the shore and the other boat from their sight, and blinding them so that for a moment they had to close their eyes.

"Look out for the shore!" cried Chub, with a gasp. There was an unintelligible word from Dick in reply as a gray shape suddenly sprang out of the snow-mist. "Hold hard!" he shouted. Chub had just time to obey when over went the tiller, there was a loud slur—r—r as the runners ground sideways against the ice arid the Boreas threw herself about so suddenly that it was all the boys could do to keep their places. Then a quick leap forward and the boat was on the other tack and the snow-squall had passed. They looked eagerly for the Snowbird. She had gained some, but not much. The Boreas with a rush and a roar swept after her. It was a short tack this time, since Hopple Rock lay dead ahead off the west shore, and soon they were once more on the port tack, the windward end of the runner-plank standing high above the ice.

"There 'a the Head!" said Dick.

Perhaps two miles up the frozen river a somber rock, tree crowned, arose from the gray ice like a rugged sugar-loaf. There was no mistaking it, although neither Dick nor Chub had ever journeyed so far up-stream. The boats must pass around it before they turned homeward. Dick, as best he could, shading his eyes with one mittened hand, studied the river. Then he moved the tiller slowly and cautiously until the boat was heeled so far over that Chub was forced to cling frantically to the backbone to keep from rolling off onto the ice. But the boat responded with increased speed. Chub, with the tears streaming from his eyes, held on, at once fearful and fascinated. Surely they were flying through air and that grayness flowing swiftly beneath them was cloud! It was hard to believe that they were on solid ice!

"Hold tight!" cried Dick.

Chub wondered how he could hold any tighter with his numbed and aching fingers. Then the windward runner dropped quickly to the ice, the Boreas swung about on her heel and Chub found himself rolling over against the backbone as the new tack began. Half a mile ahead the Snowbird, a low streak of red topped with a snowy spread of sail, was crossing in the opposite direction, the cherry-and-black flag at the masthead standing out as stiff as though starched.

"She 's got us beaten!" said Chub.

But Dick made no answer. He was calculating his chances. It was evident that the Snowbird was going to round the rock on the starboard tack. That meant, as Dick figured it out, that she would make two more reaches first. But to Dick it seemed that perhaps something was to be gained by hauling closer to the wind at the next turn and making a long tack to port until a point was reached near the east shore and slightly below the rock. From there he could round the mark with a short tack to starboard and start home on a long course with the wind abeam. It meant allowing the Snowbird to gain now in the hope of cutting down her lead later. So when the Boreas again came about Chub found that it was not necessary to hold on for dear life. The boat was headed closer into the wind and the steering-box was no longer canted at an alarming angle. The speed was less, but the boat demonstrated the fact that she could do fast work when close-hauled. The Snowbird crossed twice ahead of them during the next few minutes and finally, just as the Boreas was nearing the end of her final reach to port, she shot from around the island and turned homeward. Chub looked anxious and perplexed. Then over went the helm once more, there was a sharp swirl as the Boreas swung about and the black rock rushed toward them. As they skirted it the starboard runner was scarcely more than six yards from the gray boulders that lay about it. Then the wind was behind them and with a rush and a bound the Boreas started toward home. The Snowbird was, as Dick estimated, three quarters of a mile ahead, running fleetly on the opposite tack.

A stern chase is a long chase, they say, and the crew of the Boreas found it so. And yet, before half the distance to the finish had been reeled off, they knew that they were gaining slowly but consistently on their opponent. Joe Thurston was making the mistake of sailing too closely before the wind. Dick, on the other hand, strove to keep the wind well on his beam, and while, in order to do this, it was necessary to put the Boreas on shorter tacks, the result was warranting it. Little by little the green boat cut down the distance that separated her from the red. But with three miles still to run it seemed that the handicap was too large. The Snowbird looked then very much like a winner to Chub and he wondered how Harry would reconcile the defeat of the Boreas with the fact that her lucky Ferry Hill banner was flying from the masthead. If the boats had made speed going up the river they were simply flying now, although as the wind was behind them the difference was not very appreciable to the boys. Thirty miles an hour when you are scarcely a foot above the surface seems a terrific pace.

Two miles above Ferry Hill the Snowbird was scarcely a quarter of a mile ahead. She was starting on a long reach which, if all went well with her, would be the last but one to bring her to the line. The Boreas was on the opposite side of the river and as she swung across on a new tack it was evident that Dick was ready for any hazard. Chub found himself in danger of rolling off onto the ice, while Dick seemed every moment about to topple down upon him. The Boreas was like a boy standing on one leg and kicking the other into the air. Then another change of course and it was Chub's turn to go up. There were moments when he vowed that if he reached home safely he would never trust himself again on an ice-boat with Dick Somes. But they were gaining every moment now and the quarter-mile lead was down to an eighth. Suddenly Chub, who was peering ahead at the Snowbird, gave an exclamation of surprise. The Snowbird, then in midstream, had suddenly left her tack and had headed again toward the east shore.

"Ice-crack!" shouted Dick in explanation. "I saw it when we came up."

"Better change your course then," said Chub anxiously. But Dick only shook his head. That the Snowbird had decided to go around it and so give him a good chance of winning was no reason why he should follow suit. The Boreas held her course. Chub glanced in alarm at the calm, set face beside him and something he saw there quieted his fears. He looked forward. Ahead, rushing toward them, was a black fissure, an ice-crack which extended for over a hundred yards almost directly across the ice. How wide it was Chub had no idea. Nor did he have time for much speculation, for:

"Hold for all you 're worth, Chub!" cried Dick.

Then a twelve-foot expanse of water and broken ice swept up to them, Dick eased the helm until the boat was at right angles to the crack and the fore runners struck the slightly raised edge of the fissure at the same instant. Chub closed his eyes and held on convulsively. The Boreas rose bodily in the air, there was a momentary sensation of being swept through space, and then the runners clanged down upon the ice with a soft jar and the Boreas was tearing along toward the finish, having taken the gap with a twenty-foot leap as a hunter takes a fence!

Chub opened his eyes. The crack was just a dark thread behind them. Near at hand the Snowbird was charging along with them neck and neck. A half-mile away was the finish line and the groups of dark figures.

"Hold on!" cried Dick again. And this time there was exultation in his voice. The Boreas heeled to the blast and drew away from the red boat, foot by foot, yard by yard. Twenty seconds—and there was a gap between them! Thirty seconds—and there stretched the length of a boat between! Forty seconds—and the Boreas was charging past the waving figures at the finish, the brown-and-white flag at the masthead flapping in triumph. Dick had won by a scant ten yards!

to be continued...