"The Boy Heroes of Crécy and Poiters"

by Treadwell Walden, November 1879

Stories of knights and squires were always popular in St. Nicholas for showing a good example to boys under the guise of adventure story. Both fictional knights, as well as the real-life counterparts, appeared. "Albert Edward, son of Queen Victoria" later became Edward VII.

Almost every one has heard of the famous battles of Crécy and Poitiers, which were so much alike in all that made them remarkable that they are generally coupled together,—one always reminding us of the other. Yet there is one point they had in common which has not been especially remarked, but which ought to link them memorably together in the imagination of young people.

These two great battles really took place ten years apart; for one was fought in 1346 and the other in i356. The battle-fields also were wide apart; for Crécy was far in the north of France, near the coast of the English Channel, and Poitiers away in the south, deep in the interior, nearly three hundred miles from Crécy. But they have drawn near to each other in the mind of students of history, because in both cases the French largely outnumbered the English; in both cases the English had gone so far into the country that their retreat seemed to be cut off; in both cases there was a most surprising and unexpected result, for the French were terribly defeated; and in both cases this happened because they made the same mistake: they trusted so much to their overwhelming numbers, to their courage and their valor, that they forgot to be careful about anything else, while the English made up for their small numbers by prudence, discipline, and skill, without which courage and valor are often of no avail.

It is quite exciting to read the description of these battles, with their archery fights, the clashing together of furious knights, the first brave advance and the final running away; but, after a while, the battles at large seem to fade out in the greater interest which surrounds the figures of two youngsters,—one hardly more than fifteen, the other scarcely fourteen,—for one carried off all the honors of the victory of Crécy, and the other redeemed from total dishonor the defeat of Poitiers. Let us now take up the romantic story of the English lad in the former battle, and of the French lad in the latter.

When, in 1346, Edward III. of England had determined upon an invasion of France, he brought over his army in a fleet of nearly a thousand sail. He had with him not only the larger portion of his great nobles, but also his eldest son, Edward Plantagenet, the Prince of Wales. He had good reasons for taking the boy. The prince was expected to become the next King of England. His father evidently thought him able to take a very important part in becoming also the king of France. If all the accounts of him are true, he was a remarkable youth; wonderfully strong and courageous, and wonderfully discreet for his years.

There was only one road to success or fame in those days, and that was the profession of arms. The ambition of every high-born young fellow was to become a knight. Knighthood was something that both kings and nobles regarded as higher in some respects than even the royalty or nobility to which they were born. No one could be admitted into an order of the great brotherhood of knights, which extended all over Europe and formed an independent society, unless he had gone through severe discipline, and had performed some distinguished deed of valor. Then he could wear the golden spurs; for knighthood had its earliest origin in the distinction of fighting on horseback, while ordinary soldiers fought on foot. Although knighthood changed afterward, the word "chivalry" always expressed it, from cheval, a horse. And in addition to valor, which was the result of physical strength and courage, the knight was expected to be generous, courteous, faithful, devout, truthful, high-souled, high-principled. Hence the epithet, "chivalrous," which, even to-day, is so often heard applied to men of especially fine spirit. "Honor" was the great word which included all these qualities then, as it does in some measure now.

I have only time to give you the standard, and cannot pause to tell you how well or ill it was lived up to generally. But I would not have taken this story in hand if Chivalry had to be left out of the account, for it was chivalry that made my two boys the heroes they were.

As soon as King Edward had landed at La Hogue, he gave very clear evidence of the serious work he had cut out for his son, and of his confidence that the youngster would be equal to it. He publicly pledged his boy, beforehand, to some great deed, and to a life of valor and honor. In sight of the whole army, he went through the form of making him a knight. Young Edward, clad in armor, kneeled down before him on the wet sand, when the king touched his shoulder with his sword, saying: "I dub thee knight. Be brave, bold, and loyal!" You may imagine how proudly then the young fellow seized lance and sword and shield, and sprang into his saddle at a leap, and with what high resolve he rode on beside his mailed and gallant father to deserve the name which that impressive ceremony had given him.

The army moved rapidly forward and northward toward Calais, conquering everything on its way, till, when in the neighborhood of Crécy, the intelligence came that the French king, Philip, with an army of one hundred and twenty thousand men and all the chivalry of France, had come in between it and the sea. There was no retreat possible. Edward had but thirty thousand to oppose this great host. They were four to one. He was in a dangerous spot also; but after a time he succeeded in getting away to a good position, and there he awaited the onset. No one will doubt that he was anxious enough, and yet what did he do? After arranging his troops in battle order, three battalions deep, he sent young Edward to the very front with a brilliant group of his finest barons to take the brunt of the terrible charge that was now to come! It shows of what stern material the king and the men of that time were made, for all his present love, all his future hope, lay around that gallant boy. But he knew that the value of the glory which might be earned was worth all the risk. Besides, he was as much under chivalrous necessity to send him, as the lad was under to go. That pledge to knighthood, on the sea-shore, hail not been either lightly taken or lightly given. If Chivalry was not equal to sacrifice, it was equal to nothing. There was keen wisdom, too, in the act. The king could count all the more on the enthusiasm, self-devotion and valor of the knights and men-at-arms, in whose keeping he had placed so precious a charge. That whole first battalion would be nerved to tenfold effort because the prince was among them, for every one would be as deeply concerned as the father in the boy's success.

Edward carried this feeling of devotion to his son's best interests to such a chivalrous extent that he made it a point of duty to keep out of the battle altogether. He was nowhere to be seen. He went into a windmill on a height near by, and watched the fight through one of the narrow windows in its upper story. He would not even put on his helmet. That was the way the father stood by his son—by showing absolute confidence in him, and denying himself all the glory that might come from a great and important battle. And the young fellow was a thousandfold nerved and strengthened by knowing that his father fully trusted in him.

I need not give the details of the battle. It is sufficient to know that the first line of the French chivalry charged with the utmost fury. Among these was an ally of note. John, king of Bohemia, who with his barons and knights was not behindhand in the deadly onset; and yet this king was old and blind! His was Chivalry in another form!

He would have his stroke in the battle, and he plunged into it with his horse tied by its reins to one of his knight's on either side. A plume of three ostrich feathers waved from his helmet, and the chroniclers say he laid about him well. After the battle, he and his two companions were found dead, with their horses tied together.

But although the French were brave they were not wise. For not only had they brought on the fight with headlong energy before they were prepared; but they had allowed Edward to place himself so that the afternoon sun, then near its setting, blazed full in their eyes and faces. Edward's army fought in the shadow. The terrible English bowmen sent their deadly cloth-yard arrows so thick and fast into the dazzled and crowded ranks of fifteen thousand Genoese archers and the intermingled men-at-arms, that the missiles filled the air like snow. The Genoese were thrown into confusion, and this spread throughout the whole French army. The French king, with some of his dukes, flew foaming over the field in the rear, trying in vain to get up in time to swell the onset upon the English front.

But the onset had proved hard enough as it was. The knights around the young prince were frightened for his safety. One of them, Sir Thomas of Norwich, was sent back to Edward to ask him to come to the assistance of the prince.

"Sir Thomas," said the king, "is my son dead or unhorsed, or so wounded that he cannot help himself?"

"Not so, my lord, thank God; but he is fighting against great odds, and is like to have need of your help."

"Sir Thomas," replied the king, "return to them who sent you, and tell them from me not to send for me,whatever chance befall them, so long as my son is alive, and tell them that I bid them let the lad win his spurs; for I wish, if God so desire, that the day should be his, and the honor thereof remain to him and to those to whom I have given him in charge."

And there he stayed in the windmill till the battle was over. Soon the cry of victory reached him as the French fled in the darkness, leaving their dead strewn upon the field. Now the young prince appeared covered with all the glory that his father had coveted for him, bearing the ostrich plume which he had taken from the dead king of Bohemia. The boy rode up with his visor raised,—his face was as fair as a girl's, and glowed under a crown of golden hair. He bore his trophy aloft, and when it was placed as a knightly decoration above the crest of his helmet, he little thought that the triple tuft was to wave for more than five hundred years, even to this day, on England's front, for such it does, and that, next to the crown, there shall be no badge so proudly known as the three feathers which nod above the coronet of the Prince of Wales. Albert Edward, son of Queen Victoria, now wears it because Edward, the Prince of Wales, when still in his teens, won it at Crécy. We will leave him there, and go on ten years.

Philip, the French king, had passed away about six years before, and John, a wild character for such a trying time, had ascended the throne. He was always plunging himself into difficulties, and was often guilty of cruelty; and yet was of such a free, generous nature, and had so many of the virtues of chivalry in that day, that he was known as "John the Good." He was the extreme opposite to the grave, prudent, sagacious Edward III., who was still alive and well, and king of England.

Some time after the victory of Crécy, Calais had been taken, and then both nations were glad to arrange a truce. Nine years of this had gone by, when Edward thought it necessary to make another attempt on France. As soon as might be, therefore, young Edward, his son, now twenty-five, came over alone, landing at Bordeaux. He had, meantime, gained great fame. He was now known as "the Black Prince," because he had a fancy for having his armor painted as black as midnight, in order, they say, to give a greater brightness to his fresh blond complexion and golden hair. Marshaling his little army of 12,000 men, he set out into the interior of France. When he had reached the neighborhood of Poitiers, he was astounded by the news that King John was both after him and behind him, with a force of 60,000 men—five to one! Here was Crécy over again as to numbers, but there was one thing made it worse; for, as Edward III. not long before had instituted the famous "Order of the Garter," which is even now one of the foremost orders of knighthood in Europe, so John, not to be behindhand, and in order to give a new chivalrous impulse to his nobles, had just instituted the "Order of the Star." He made five hundred knights of this new order, every one of whom had vowed that he would never retreat, and would sooner be slain than yield to an enemy.

The Black Prince thought it almost impossible to fight his way through such a desperately determined host. So he offered to restore all he had just conquered and to make another truce, if he might pass by unmolested. But John would not consent. He must have Calais back again, and the prince, with one hundred of his best knights, into the bargain. "This will never do," thought the prince. "Better try for another Crécy."

On the morning of September 19, 1356, the battle began. John had with him all four of his sons, Charles, Louis, John and Philip; the eldest only nineteen, and the youngest fourteen. The three former were put under good guardianship in different portions of the field; but why the harebrained monarch took the youngest boy with him into the very front and thickest of the fight, it is hard to guess, unless it was another imitation of Edward, and he had also good reason to think that the lad was unusually well able to take care of himself, having been trained to arms and pledged to knighthood. But young "Sir Philip," as he was called, proved quite equal to the occasion.

King John himself led the van, moving down through a defile, into which, after a time, his whole army found themselves crowded. Meantime, the Prince of Wales had planted his army just where he would tempt John into that trap and had set his archers in good position. These men were clad in green, like Robin Hood's men, and carried bows seven feet long and so thick that few men of modern days could bend them. A cloth-yard shaft from one of these would fly with tremendous force. Edward had placed these archers in ambush, behind green hedges, and crouching in the green of the vineyards.

Just as the French king, with all his new chivalry around him, dashed down the narrow valley—the white standard of France on one side of him, his keen-eyed little son on the other—and began to deploy the whole advance battalion, preliminary to a grand charge—whiz! whiz! whir! whir! from both sides came the arrows, as thick as hail and as terrible as javelins, from the hidden archers. The astonished Frenchmen fell back. That crowded still more those who were yet wedged in the narrow space behind. Now came the English onset. Then a panic. Then a rout. Then a general flight. Dukes, barons, knights of all sorts fled with the rest; also Charles, Louis, John, the three elder sons of the king. The king was in great danger of being slain; but he did not move, and Philip stood, fighting by his side. The standard-bearer fell, and the white ensign lay in the dust. Many a faithful knight was cut down, or swept away a prisoner. But Philip flinched not.

The assailants—some of whom knew the king, while others were wondering who he might be—pressed them fiercely on every side, striking at them, but more anxious to take them captive than to kill them, for they were worth a heavy ransom. The Englishmen shouted all together, "Yield you! Yield you, else you die!" Little Sir Philip had no yield in him, as long as his father held out. He kept close to him, trying to ward off the blows which were aimed at him, and warning him in time, as his quick eye caught a near danger on either hand. Every instant he was heard calling out, "Father, ware right! Father, ware left!" Suddenly a mounted knight appeared, who hailed the king in French. It was a French knight, who was fighting on the English side.

"Sir, sir!" he shouted, "I pray you yield!"

"To whom shall I yield me?" said John. "Where is my cousin, the Prince of Wales?"

"Sir, yield you to me; I will bring you to him."

"Who are you?" said the king.

"Dennis de Morbecque, a knight of Artois; I serve the king of England, not being able to live in France, for I have lost all I possessed there."

"I yield me to you," said John, handing him his steel glove.

Then the whole crowd began to drag at him, each exclaiming: "I took him!" Both the king and the prince were sadly hustled, until two barons broke through the throng by dint of their horses, and led the two to the tent of the Prince of Wales, "and made him a present of the King of France!" says an old chronicler. "The prince also bowed full low before the king, and received him as a king, properly and discreetly, as he well knew how to do."

In the evening he entertained him and Philip at supper, "and would not sit at the king's table for all the king's entreaty, but waited as a serving man, bending the knee before him, and saying: 'Dear sir, be pleased not to put on so bad a countenance, because it hath not pleased God to consent this day to your wishes; for, assuredly, my lord and father will show you all the honor and friendship he shall be able, and he will come to terms with you so reasonably that you shall remain good friends forever.'"

Nor did all this end in words, but it went on for years during all the captivity of King John and Prince Philip,—first at Bordeaux and afterward at the then new Windsor Castle, in England, where galas, tournaments, hawking and hunting, and all sorts of entertainments were devised for them. When King John was brought from Bordeaux to England, where King Edward had prepared to meet him in great state, the French king was mounted on a tall, cream-colored charger, and young Philip rode by his side in great honor also, while the Prince of Wales sat on a small black horse, like a humble attendant on them both. The two royal fathers met midway in that London street, the houses which lined the way were hung with rich tapestries, the trades were out in companies of many colors, the people thronged round the steel-clad cavalcades as they came together, and they filled the air with shouts—but what two figures now most fill the eye when all that pageant has passed away? Not the father who stood by his son with such chivalrous faith, nor the father whose son stood by him with such chivalrous devotion, but the fair youth who carries that tuft of feathers upon his helmet, with its motto, "I serve," and the lad whom all have now heard of as "Philip the Bold;" the boy-hero of Crécy doing chivalrous honor to the boy-hero of Poitiers!

The Story of Betty, Chapter 3

by Carolyn Wells, originally begun January 1899
BETTY'S LETTER

If Betty was amazed at hearing her name pronounced by Mrs. Tucker in such a gentle, almost deferential tone, she was still more astounded when that lady said pleasantly:

"Come into my room, my child. I have something important to tell you."

The two went into the landlady's private sitting-room, and Betty nearly fainted when Mrs. Tucker offered her a chair with all the politeness she would have shown to her best boarder.

With her usual ready acceptance of a situation, Betty sat down with a vague feeling that Mrs. Tucker must have lost her mind, but that it was as well to enjoy the advantages of her mental weakness as they offered themselves.

"The postman brought a letter for you," Mrs. Tucker began, "and as I am your best friend and only guardian, I opened it, and I will now read it to you."

"You had no right to open a letter addressed to me," said Betty, sharply, her sense of justice at once on the alert.

"Oh, yes, my dear," said Mrs. Tucker, sweetly; "in the absence of a legal guardian, I will assume that relation toward you."

Betty was silenced, though not convinced; and, not daring to ask for the wonderful letter, she sat waiting to hear it read. You see, she had never had one before, and she would have dearly loved the excitement of breaking the seal of her own letter.

"It is from Miss Van Court," Mrs. Tucker continued, and then Betty was more puzzled than ever. What could Miss Van Court have to say, except in regard to the unfortunate sprinkling episode?—and why should any message about that make Mrs. Tucker so bland and dove-like?

The landlady went on:

"To Betty McGuire at Mrs. Tucker's:

"I may be mistaken, but if your name is as written above, I think a piece of good fortune is in store for you. If you were with your father in a railroad accident near Chicago, about ten years ago, and if you were afterward taken to an orphan asylum at Mapleville, and stayed there five or six years, then you are the Elizabeth McGuire that a friend of mine is looking for. My friend is a lawyer from New York, and is staying at my home for a few days; so, if you fulfil the above conditions, I would like you to let me know as soon as possible.

"Yours very truly,
"Grace Van Court.

"P. S. Perhaps it would be best for you to come here this afternoon between three and five o'clock."

"It's me!" screamed Betty, excitedly. "It's me, and I 'm going to see her right now!"

"Of course you 're going, my dear, and I 'll go with you," was Mrs. Tucker's reply.

Betty would have preferred to call on Miss Van Court alone; but she feared any opposition might break the charm and restore Mrs. Tucker to her normal state of temper; so the wise child decided to humor her.

"Yes, ma'am; we 'll go together; and please, ma'am, could I have me red sash again to wear?"

"That ridiculous rag? No, indeed. Put on your best frock, and I 'll lend you a neat collar and brooch."

Betty dared not disobey, and when three o'clock came she put on her skimpy and worn best frock, which Mrs. Tucker supplemented by a wide, stiff white collar, much too large, and fastened with a huge black rubber brooch. But while waiting for her companion to be ready, Betty found time to load her old straw hat with great bunches of the old-fashioned pink roses which grew all over the back fence.

This Mrs. Tucker viewed with dismay, and ordered the flowers thrown away at once. But the excitement of the occasion stimulated Betty's courage, and she refused to part with her flowers, adding: "You need n't go with me, if you don't like my posies." This apparently brought Mrs. Tucker to terms, and the two started off to the Van Court mansion.

It was characteristic of Betty that she gave not a thought as to what Miss Van Court might have to tell her, not a guess as to what the good news might be about. She gave all her attention to fully enjoying the happiness of the present moment. To be walking leisurely along, wearing a rose-trimmed hat, on her way to a great house, and assured of her welcome there—all this made little Betty so superlatively happy that even the unpleasant presence of Mrs. Tucker failed to annoy her. And, too, the Mrs. Tucker of to-day was so different from the Mrs. Tucker of all past days that it was almost a pleasure to be with her. She chatted affably; and though Betty would rather have been alone, so that she could "pretend" more successfully, she met the lady's overtures halfway, and they seemed the best of friends.

As they entered the Van Court gate, and went up the path under the great trees, and saw the beautiful landscape garden, Betty walked along like one in a dream. She had never seen such a place before, and it seemed to her like paradise. Even Mrs. Tucker's chatter passed unnoticed, for Betty was pretending to herself that this was her home and she was returning after an absence of a few days. One thing bothered her, though. All the time she was getting ready for this visit she had been thinking how much she would like to take a small gift of some sort to Miss Van Court—not anything of intrinsic value, but something that would be an offering, and would show how sorry she was that she had spoiled the parasol that day. She had looked carefully over her small store of treasures, but none of them seemed suitable, except, perhaps, a tarnished gilt buckle that Pete had given her. She had put it in her pocket, uncertain whether to present it or not; but as she walked by the glowing flower-beds that adorned the Van Court grounds, she had a brilliant idea. Nothing could be more acceptable to Miss Van Court than a bunch of flowers, and she would be sure to like such beauties as these were. So Betty broke off half a dozen stalks of pink gladioli, while Mrs. Tucker looked on aghast. She remonstrated; but Betty, keyed up to a high pitch of daring, paid no attention.

She felt a little shy when an important-looking servant answered the knock at the door; but when she entered the drawing-room, Miss Van Court greeted her with such a cordial manner that she felt at ease at once.

"I 've brought you some flowers," she said simply. "They 're from your own garden; but I had nothing myself that you would like, and I wanted to give you some thing nice."

Betty was so adaptable by nature, and so quickly responsive to the atmosphere of her surroundings, that she spoke quietly and with almost no trace of the Irish brogue that was so noticeable when she talked with Ellen, or the careless slang of her conversations with Jack.

"Thank you, dear," said Miss Van Court, taking the flowers as graciously as if from a duchess; "I am very glad you thought of me."

But if Betty felt at ease, it was not so with Mrs. Tucker. She could impress the waif with her sudden kindliness toward her, but Miss Van Court was not likely to forget how the angry landlady had berated the poor little drudge the morning of the drenching performance. And Mrs. Tucker trembled in her shoes as Miss Van Court said coldly: "I thank you for bringing Betty to me, but you need not wait; I will send her home after the interview."

Mrs. Tucker indistinctly murmured something about being very much attached to the child and her only friend and benefactor; but Miss Van Court said nothing, and was so evidently waiting for her to go that the disappointed landlady was forced to depart.

Then Miss Grace turned to Betty and looked at her critically. She smiled kindly at the earnest little face, crowned with the bunches of roses, so heavy that the old straw hat could scarcely support them; but she seemed to disapprove of the collar and brooch.

"Where's your red necktie?" she asked Betty abruptly.

"Mrs. Tucker took it and kept it, ma'am," Betty answered.

"Were you sorry?"

"Oh, yes, indeed; but,"—with an endeavor to look on the bright side,—"but I could n't have worn it with these pink roses, ma'am; they would n't like each other."

Miss Grace seemed much amused, but only said, "Come with me, Betty, into the library."

"Yes, 'm," said Betty, slipping her hand into that of her friend with a loving little squeeze; and together they went into the next room.

A big man sat at a table, writing. He looked at Betty somewhat kindly and very curiously, and presently said:

"Well, Miss Van Court?"

"This is Elizabeth McGuire," said Miss Grace; "and, Betty, this is Mr. Brewster."

"Yes, 'm," said Betty.

Then Mr. Brewster asked Betty a long string of questions, until he had found out everything she knew about her parentage and early life. At last he seemed satisfied, and, turning from the puzzled Betty, he said to Miss Van Court:

"There can be no doubt about it; I believe you may tell her."

Miss Van Court's face beamed with delight, and she held out her hands, saying, "Come here, Betty."

Betty almost ran across the room, and Mr. Brewster rose and placed a low chair for her, so that she could look right up into Miss Van Court's face.

The lady took both Betty's little brown hands in her own, and said:

"My dear, I have a wonderful piece of news for you—so great and splendid that I scarcely know how to tell it. But the principal fact is that you are the only heir to a large fortune."

"Where is it?" said Betty, looking around with wondering eyes, as if she expected to see bank-notes fluttering through the air.

"It is safe in trust for you. But you are really mistress of it; you are absolutely free in regard to its use, and can do exactly what you please with it. It does n't seem right, does it?" she added, turning to Mr. Brewster. For Betty's face expressed such blank amazement that it did seem as if there must be a mistake somewhere.

But the child was comprehending it, though slowly and with an effort.

"Tell me more about it," she said at last, still looking sfteadily at Miss Grace.

"Well, Betty, you know that long ago your grandfather went to Australia to seek his fortune in the gold-fields there. By years of hard work he succeeded in acquiring great wealth, and he sent for his son to come out and enjoy it with him. But word came back that his son had gone to America and married there, but further trace of him could not be found. Soon after this the old man died, and ever since his executors have been trying to find his son, Martin McGuire, or his heirs. It was through the accident of the garden hose that day that I learned your name was McGuire, and we have proved beyond a doubt that you are the rightful owner of old Dennis McGuire's money."

"Yes, 'm," said Betty; and then she rose and walked over to where Mr. Brewster still sat by the writing-table.

"Now, will you please tell me about it?" she said.

The request was from no lack of confidence in Miss Van Court's statements, but simply a desire to hear other particulars, and to have the added authority of the man's advice.

So Mr. Brewster began impressively:

"Miss McGuire, I have the honor to inform you that you are heiress to a large sum of money, probably a million of dollars, and that, according to the provisions of your grandfather's will, it is absolutely at your own disposal. For the will specially states that in the event of Martin McGuire's death the money shall belong to his children, and shall be spent or used as they desire, even though a nominal guardian must needs be appointed to fulfil the letter of the law. Mr. Dennis McGuire's lawyer came from Australia to New York some time ago to hunt up the heirs. His search seemed fruitless, and one day he told me about the case, in a casual conversation. I came down here on a few days' visit to my friend Mr. Van Court, and I happened to tell him about it in his sister's presence. She at once remembered that your name was McGuire; and though it seemed one chance out of a thousand, we investigated the case, and we feel convinced that the heir is found at last. I will write Mr. Morris, the Australian lawyer, and he will come to Greenborough at once. Meantime, Miss McGuire, you may be planning your future mode of life, which will, of course, be very different from your past."

"Yes, sir. Will you please pinch me, sir?" and Betty held out her scrawny little arm toward the gentleman.

He seemed a bit astonished; but the vagaries of heiresses are easily forgiven, and he nipped the arm between his thumb and forefinger, saying:

"Oh, you are awake; there is no doubt of that! But you have n't realized the case yet. Come, now; what do you think you will do with all this money?"

"First, I shall buy two things, sir—a white parasol and a home."

"Indeed! and why do you buy the parasol first?"

"Because that is to give to Miss Van Court, to replace the one I spoiled."

Miss Grace was too kind-hearted to oppose Betty's plan, so she said: "I shall prize the new one highly as a gift from my little friend. And then next you 're to purchase a home, are you?"

"Yes," said Betty, her eyes fairly dancing as she awoke to the possibilities. "Yes; I 've never had a home, and oh, I 've longed for one so! But I think I 'd better go back to Mrs. Tucker's now, ma'am. Ellen will be wanting me to pare the potatoes."

Mr. Brewster looked inquiringly at Miss Grace.

"Yes," said the lady; "she may as well go back there for to-night. It will be quieter and better for her than to stay here. And to-morrow morning, Betty, I will call for you., and we 'll go and buy you some new clothes, more appropriate to your changed fortunes."


...to be continued

"Your Happiness Job"

by Hildegarde Hawthorne, November 1921

This piece is as relevant now as it was 90 years ago.

We train and work and study for various ends. Be healthy, wealthy, and wise, we are told, and agree that the advice is excellent. It takes knowledge and horse sense and application to achieve these three things, certainly, but the gain is worth the effort. So we give our best years and strength to the job.

But there is another job which is somehow apt to be overlooked. We seem to believe that to achieve success in that direction we neither need to take thought nor to put forth effort. Success that way comes or fails to come, and little we have to do with the matter. Yet without that item, the other three are not what they are said to be.

Is it possible, then, to train and work and study for happiness as you do for the other good ends of life? Why not?

There are certain definite things that make for happiness. There is, for instance, work. If happiness is important, then the work you do should be of the kind you love doing. It should be work that uses the best of you, that interests you constantly, that keeps you keen and fit. You should do it for the joy of itself, not for what you get out of it in a money sense. Pay you should get, of course, selfsupport, independence. But of two working roads before you, you should choose the one that leads to a full development of your talents and your brains, rather than the one that brings in the greater money return. For if you lose your joy in work, you have paid a higher price for money than it is worth.

If you take your happiness job seriously, then, you will give a good deal of thought and plenty of time to selecting for your life's employment something that is going to be delightful to you. Probably the larger portion of your life will be spent at that work. You can see how important a part it must play in securing happiness for you. Happiness is not a slight thing, a thing of the moment, of a laughing day or a pleasant companion. It is a great and precious thing, built up on the very foundations of your being, part of each moment of your existence.

The man or woman who is bored is not happy. To have work that interests you and keeps you alert in mind and body is a great safeguard against boredom. But there are other safeguards. Here, in a world crowded with tremendous interests, where even the tiniest insect is a subject for wonder, where you could never exhaust the possibilities of a single acre of meadow or woodland, here it is not the world that is a bore, it is yourself who insists upon being bored despite the hundred thousand calls on your mind, on your sense of beauty, on your emotions. Your mind has a million windows through which you may look out upon marvelous and thrilling things, if you keep the windows open, if you learn how to open them. Even though the work you do gives you happiness in the doing, it is not enough, because our possibilities for happiness are endless. You want to cultivate as many of them as you can. You want to remember that nothing worth while comes for nothing. To get the joy of music, for instance, you need to know something of that art. The more you know, the greater your delight in it will be. It is the same with painting and sculpture. There is keen joy in these things, a joy that is developed by study and reflection and understanding. I have seen people look at the Victory of Samothrace or the Milo Venus as blindly as though there were no eyes in their heads. These forms of perfect beauty gave them no thrill of exquisite delight. For them the splendor of great art did not exist. They have failed to find one great source of happiness. Bored and dull, they stand before these mighty stones, which man's genius has transmuted to immortal spirit, and know it not and feel nothing.

Beauty, as we well know, is another of the definite items that bring happiness to the human being. Not only the beauty of art, but all beauty. If happiness is worth achievement, then cultivate your appreciation for beauty. Rejoice in it. Think how important it must have been considered, since so much time and detail is given to it in the building of the universe. Do you know that numberless tiny and intricate bones are placed in a bird's throat so that it may sing? Song is sheer beauty. Not only is the bird's throat marvelously made to sing, but your ear is wonderfully made to listen to that song. And the viewless air is fashioned to bear those notes from throat to ear, and so complete the amazing circle.

Truly, the more you think about beauty and its tremendous place in this world, the more your astonishment grows. Think of the ravishing effects of color in every sphere of life. To train that eager mind of yours to respond to these beauties is a task fullpacked with joy and happiness. Once you let yourself get interested, no walk you take but will be rich, no idle hour with nature as your only companion but will be full of excitement and pleasure to you. The people who love her and who study her are happy folk, and each step they take brings glorious return.

Training your capacity for reading, your understanding of the fine things of literature, is another sure pathway toward winning your happiness job. Language is one of our astonishing possessions, and is full of power and beauty. In great literature we find its highest expression, and we find, too, the thoughts and feeling of other men and women. Words are strange things. You can never walk side by side with John Muir, who has passed to farther trails than any he followed here. But take down one of his books from the shelf and read in it, and you seem to be walking with him, you see what he has seen, thrill to the adventures he has had, listen to his very voice as he speaks. You have had a glorious hour. Or take a simple story like "Jackanapes." You read those touching pages, so beautifully done, and you have added something to your own experience, something that will remain with you all your life. You have intimately shared another mind, another heart, through words, printed words. Is it not truly wonderful? And are not all sorts of lives and experiences and all the long thoughts of the generations of man yours if you choose to seek them? The love of books is a great love, a great power for happiness, and you can train yourself to find that love. To throw it away on cheap or vulgar stuff is to suffer a loss difficult to measure.

Play and the joy of bodily exercise are one of the simpler methods of getting at our happiness job that ought not to be overlooked. When we are youngsters we take to this form of happiness naturally; but as we begin to grow older, many of us neglect it. Girls especially are apt to let play and sport fade out of their lives. This is a great pity. There is no reason why a woman should not rejoice in play all her life long, should not take exercise for the sheer pleasure of it, if she be healthy. Walking and swimming and golfing are easy to keep up, and are valuable items toward happiness. And girls delight in them as well as boys. Keep your limbs sound and active and your lungs full of fresh air. Youth and joy too will companion you as a reward.

The great thing in training for happiness is to give time and effort toward developing the hundreds of avenues toward interest and activity which lie ready to hand within you—to train those bright eyes of yours to see, to observe, to quicken your understanding of the loveliness and wonder of this world; to train your powers of appreciation and discrimination to bring to you all that is most worth while. Life is a thrilling, mysterious business if we do not smother it under commonplaces and dullnesses. The things men are doing are tremendous, and we too can be of that band if we will. This new generation now coming to the fore is sure to discover immense secrets that are still hidden to us, to find new and great truths, to do splendid and important things that will help the whole race onward on its mighty march. Each one of you can play some part in this work, and can get the true happiness of understanding and sharing what the rest are doing.

Of the happiness to be got through friendship and from the other relations of life, I have not spoken. To get this happiness needs training, needs effort. You cannot be a good friend without trouble. You cannot, without charm, attract another. To be loved and valued is better than to achieve a business success that leaves you lonely and disliked. It is a fine thing to succeed in your business; give it your whole-hearted effort. But it is still finer to achieve a sincerity, a generosity, and simplicity that will make you good to be with, will make those who know you love you. Happiness comes with love, if that love is gentle and giving. You must work hard to make yourself lovable clean through, a work that goes on all your life and every minute of that life, but there is no surer way to grasp happiness than that.

Life is a dangerous business, certainly, and all we cherish most in it may be swept away in an instant. But the fiber of happiness is not so easily destroyed. Sorrow and loss come to all, to some more, to others less. But it is from the warp and woof of your days that you construct happiness. It is born of the full use and gift of yourself; it is born of character, of delight in the day's employment, of an open heart to the beauty and the wonder of the world you are in, of response to the great calls that reach even beyond it. You cannot buy happiness, you have to make it. Its material lies within you.

The Story of Betty, Chapter 2

by Carolyn Wells, originally begun January 1899
IN THE CELLAR

In obedience to to Mrs. Tucker's order, Betty started for the cellar, and as she went down the stairs she felt that her cup of woe was full indeed. To be brought in from her beloved fresh air and sunshine, and set to work in the dark, damp cellar, was bad enough, but far worse was the loss of her beautiful Turkey-red calico. And, too, Betty had had no breakfast that morning, and hunger does not add to the bravery of a little girl fourteen years old.

As she passed the kitchen door a goodly smell came out invitingly; but she dared not stop there, for Mrs. Tucker would expect the pile of split sticks to measure fairly with the time which might elapse before her appearance.

So Betty went on down-cellar, picked up the ax, and attacked a log of wood. She knew that Mrs. Tucker, in the parlor above, could hear her strokes, and that consequently they must occur in rapid succession.

"It's starvin' I am!" she said to herself. "Neither bite nor sup this blessed mornin', an' likely nothin' till noon—an' ine a-tryin' most especial this week to be good. But the more I tries, the more things happens from outside to pervent. I s'pose it's just my luck. Some folks is born to bad luck, and what luck comes we has to take. But I wish I had a home. Seems to me I would n't mind havin' bad luck if I had a pretty home to have it in. Hallo, Jack! come on down."

The crippled newsboy had appeared at the cellar window, and, in response to Betty's invitation, Jack swung himself and his crutch inside, with an agility that would have done credit to a boy who had full use of his legs.

"What's up, Betty? Where 's the old lady?"

"In the parlor, passin' the time of day wid the Miss Van Courts. Say, Jack, did you ever have a home?"

"A home? Naw—nothin' but the hospital, and I runned away from that."

"Don't you wish you did have a home?"

"Yep; but I 'd ruther have money. If yer have money, yer can buy a home."

"Oh, I never had any money. I 've just worked for clo'es and board. Of course, while you 're wishin', you might as well wish for money. But I 'd rather have schoolin'. I 'd just love to go to school, an' learn 'I am, thou art, he is.' That's what Ethel Green learns; and she learns beautiful map-questions and figgers, too."

"Stop yer choppin' a minute, Betty; I can't hear what yer say."

"I can't stop. She 's up above, listenin'."

"What a nipper she is! Will yer ketch it fer the hosin' performance, Bet?"

"S'pose so."

"It's a shame, 'cos that was my fault. Say, Betty, I 'm awful sorry I got yer in trouble."

"Oh, it does n't make any difference. If she was n't ragin' about this, it 'd be somethin' else. She 's gen'rally mad at somethin'. Oh, jiminy, Jack, she's comin'! You won't have time to get out. Hide behind the ice-box."

Jack scrambled behind the big refrigerator, the noise of his clattering crutch drowned by the vigorous blows of Betty's ax.

"You good-for-nothing looby!" began the landlady. "You have brought disgrace and reproach upon my house; you have spoiled the ladies' fine gowns, and you deserve to be turned into the street. After all I 've done for you, you have no sense of gratitude! After all I 've taught you, you have no sense of decorum, but stand out in front of my house, tricked out like an organ-grinder's monkey, and insult passers-by. Lay down that ax and look at me! What can you say for yourself?"

Betty dropped the ax and looked at Mrs. Tucker. Impressed by the lady's extreme rage, the thought struck her that she had nothing to lose and everything to gain, and she resolved on a bold stroke.

"I 'm sorry,"she said,—"awful sorry; but truly, ma'am, it was an accident. But please, ma'am, if you 'll give me back me red necktie, I 'll not wear it out o' doors again."

"Give it back to you!" fairly screamed Mrs. Tucker. "I 'll throw it in the fire; indeed you won't wear it out of doors again. Now, as part of your punishment, you may stay down here and split wood all the morning."

"But, Mrs. Tucker, I ain't had breakfast."

"And you don't deserve any. But there 's some cold tea in the pantry; you may have that and a slice of bread. You 'd better not dawdle over it, for all those sticks must be split and neatly piled up by the time Ellen calls you to pare the vegetables."

"Yes, ma'am,"said Betty, meekly; and Mrs. Tucker walked away, feeling doubtful whether she had punished her prisoner enough, and resolving that the careless girl should pay for her fault in some other way.

Betty chopped away sullenly, and Jack came out of his hiding-place and offered sympathy.

"She 's a mean old thing; but ain't yer goin' to eat nothin', Betty?"

"No; I don't want her food. I hate her!"

"Say, Betty,"—and Jack's kind voice was very comforting,—"I 've got a nickel, and if yer say so, I 'll skip down to Gruber's and buy you a hot muffin and a sausage, 'cos it was truly my fault that yer got trapped. Will yer eat 'em, hey?"

"Yes, indeedy! You 're awful good, Jack."

The lame boy hobbled off on his errand, and Betty whacked away at her task until he returned. Then she dropped her ax, and sat down to enjoy the hot muffin and sausage.

"My, but it 's good, Jack! But are n't you hungry yourself?"

"N-no—not to say hungry. I had some breakfast. But that's tiptop, ain't it?"

"It's prime; but I won't eat any more unless you take some, too. Here"; and Betty broke off a generous bit and gave it to him, and the two children sat nibbling away together.

"Let's pretend, Jack," said Betty; "that 'll make it last longer, and be more fun, besides. Let 's pretend we 're quality, and you 've come to dine with me. I 'm a grand lady with heaps of book-learnin', and a red silk dress trimmed with blue bugles, and I live in a home. You 're a hero who was lamed in the battle of Waterloo—"

"But I could n't be, Betty. That battle was years ago."

"Oh, was it? Well, never mind; any old battle will do. Now pretend. Good evenin', Mr. Kiley; it's pleased to see you I am—thou art—he is."

"Why do you say that?"

"Oh, that's grammar, Jack. The quality always talks grammar. It's all the grammar I know. But I know one bit of history. I heard Ethel Green studying it out of a book. She said it over and over, and I learned it while I was dusting her room."

"What is it?"

"Well, if you 'll pretend with me, I 'll say it. The quality brings in history as they talks."

"All right. Good evenin', Miss McGuire. You 're lookin' gorgeous to-night."

"Yes; me new gown is a becomin' color, though I say it as should n't. Will you have some of this strawberry ice-cream? It 's the best I 've ate since the crescent waved over the Church of St. Sophia and the Byzantine Empire fell forever."

"Whew! Is that your history, Bet?"

"Yes; but don't notice it. Just talk away. You 're no good at all at pretendin'. Why, I can pretend this cellar is a beautiful parlor, or a flower-garden, or a school-room. I like the school-room best, and I pretend there 's a kind, gentle teacher-lady, and lots of books and slates and things; and I learn away like fury; and when I say me lessons, the teacher says, 'That's excellent, my child.' I heard Ethel Green's teacher say that to her once. Now I must go back to me choppin', or I won't have sufficient of sticks to gratify me friend Mrs. Tucker. Clear out, Jack; I can't work if you 're here to talk to"; and as the boy hobbled away, she added:"I 'm awful thankful to you for the muffin. I 'll pay back your kindness when I come into me fortune."

Betty's fortune was a standing joke among her small circle of acquaintances. It was purely traditional, and no one but Betty had any faith in the authenticity of the tale.

The facts of Betty's early history were these: A young Irishman had come over to this country as an agent for a firm of Belfast linen-dealers. He had wooed and won a fair Boston girl contrary to the counsels of her parents, who had objected to Martin McGuire with no very good reason. But the young couple ran away and were married. For several years the parents continued implacable; then they relented, and wrote for Mr. and Mrs. McGuire and their baby daughter to come home and be forgiven.

With great joy the party started; but during their journey a serious railroad accident occurred, and the train in which they were traveling was thrown from the track. The wounded passengers were taken to various hospitals, and it so chanced that Mrs. McGuire was separated from her husband and child, and afterward received the report that they had both perished.

Though the report was true of Martin McGuire, it had been a mistake about the child, for the baby Betty had been found very much alive, and had been taken to an orphan asylum.

In his dying moments Martin McGuire managed to write a few words on a paper, which he pinned to his child's frock. The paper read:"Elizabeth McGuire. Possible heiress to a large fortune." He did this because he hoped it would attract attention to his orphaned baby and insure kind treatment for her; and as to the fortune, he had always lived in expectation of an inheritance from his father, who had long ago gone to Australia in search of gold. No news had ever been received from him since he started away with pick and pack, but if he had amassed wealth, Martin McGuire was his only heir and must inherit it.

Even this paper, however, failed to disclose Betty's whereabouts to her sorrowing mother, for no attention was paid to the scrawled message, and the paper was soon lost. But it had served to fix the child's name, and the episode remained in the memory of the matron of the asylum, and was told to Betty in after years.

As she grew old enough, she was made to work, and the hardest and most menial labors fell to her share.

When she was ten years old she was put out to service, and had drifted from one employer to another ever since. Although she inherited her father's indomitable pluck and energy, his good nature and sense of humor, yet the girl was very like her mother in innate refinement of character, her winning ways, and her sensitiveness; and so the poor little starved heart and brain suffered even more than her ill-clothed and ill-fed little body. In spite of her enforced association with ignorant people she felt a desire and a capacity for education, and although she naturally adopted something of the careless language and roughand-ready ways of her associates, yet the finer instincts were latent and ready to recognize and respond to true culture and gentleness wherever she might meet them.

Betty loved beautiful things, and, not possessing any, she tried to make up for the lack of substantial luxuries by furnishing her poor little air-castles with a lavishness which was limited only by her own ignorance.

But all her other trials and deprivations were as nothing to her longing for a home; or, rather, all the other sorrows were summed up in that. She wanted to feel that she belonged somewhere, that she would be welcomed somewhere; and her feelings of envy were roused only on seeing some manifestation of home happiness.

Betty had ambitions, and a dogged determination to achieve them, sooner or later; and she thought that, if she could ever get a place where, besides giving her board and clothes, they would pay even a small amount of money, she would save it all toward this future home of hers, which at present seemed as remote as the distant sun.

But the days went by, with no change for the better; in fact, Betty's hard life was made harder as the summer days grew warm and Mrs. Tucker became correspondingly more irritable and thoughtless.

And so it happened that one beautiful, bright morning, when Mrs. Tucker felt sure that Betty wanted to be out of doors, she sent her to the dining-room to kill flies.

Greenborough people, though living near the city of New York, were primitive and conservative; so in Mrs. Tucker's dining-room a pink mosquito-netting was spread over the always-laid table between meals. It chanced to be a new one, and of a very bright pink, and it suggested many possibilities to Betty's admiring eye.

She took it from the table, and tried it in various capacities—as a train, a shawl, a sash, and finally as a bridal veil.

This proved so satisfactory that she attacked the marauding flies with the pink gauze still fastened to the top of her head and floating behind her as she danced around.

So when Mrs. Tucker glanced in to see if the fly massacre was proceeding with sufficient rapidity, the waving pink cloud that met her eye failed to inspire her with mirth or admiration.

"You imp of wickedness!" she began; and then the situation seemed really beyond her range of epithets, and she paused and looked at Betty until the child shivered with dread.

She had done wrong, she knew; there was no excuse for her; but the temptation to see how the beautiful pink fabric would become her had proved too strong to resist.

"I 'm sorry," she began; but she shook in her shoes as Mrs. Tucker interrupted her and cried:

"Leave my house to-day! I 've been tormented with you for two years, and I 'll harbor such a minx no longer! Out you go this very day, you good-for-nothing, and seek some place where they will let you destroy their housefurnishings to gratify your jackanapes foolishness. Go at once, I tell you; I 'm done with you"; and Mrs. Tucker pushed the frightened and weeping child out into the hall.

Betty went on blindly through the hall and kitchen, and out on the little back porch, where she sat down and gave way to violent crying. Not that she loved Mrs. Tucker; not that she was sorry for her naughtiness; but the house from which she had been turned was the nearest approach to a home that she knew of, and where to go was a question with absolutely no answer.

Now, Mrs. Tucker had not really meant for Betty to go away—she was too useful a servant to lose; but the landlady thought that a lesson of this kind would do no harm, and might frighten Betty into more discreet behavior.

So Betty was left alone with her grief, and continued to sit sobbing on the back steps. Even Bumps, who poked his frowzy little head up within her arm, and blinked his sympathetic eyes at her, failed to show her a way out of her difficulties.

After a while a hobbling step was heard coming round the corner of the house, and Betty raised her head to see Lame Jack with an excited look on his face. He came up at a rapid pace, and did not wait for her to speak.

"Betty—I say, Bet, stop cryin' while I tell yer somethin'."

"Don't want to hear it," she mumbled.

"Yes, you do. You 'll want to hear this. The postman brought a letter for you."

"What?"

"He did, true as true. I was goin' by, and he asked me, did Betty McGuire live here, and I said yes, and he give all the letters to Ellen at the door. I asked him afterward if there was one for you, and he said there was."

Betty had stopped crying now, and her troubles were all crowded out of her mind by this new wonder.

"Jack! what can it be about? Where is the letter?"

"Dunno; s'pose old Tuck 's got it by this time. Like as not you 'll never see it," replied the crippled boy.

"But I must, Jack; it's mine."

Just then Mrs. Tucker's step was heard in the kitchen, and Mrs. Tucker's voice—but such a different voice from the one she generally used—said, "Betty!"


...to be continued

"Lady Jane Grey"

by Mrs. Oliphant, March 1881

Margaret Oliphant was a Scottish novelist and historical writer. Stories like that of the Lady Jane, emphasizing duty and submission, were popular subjects for children in the Victorian era.

I have been asked to tell you American children the story of one of the youngest and most beautiful of all the notable personages in English history—a girl who was at once a martyr, or saint, and a most noble gentlewoman, and who wore for a few unhappy days, unwillingly, the crown of a queen.

History has to deal with a great many terrible events, and a great many hateful people, and has to record bloodshed and misery and crime so often, that when there comes one lovely and gentle figure into it, our hearts are all the more touched, and tears gather in our eyes at the very name which suggests one chapter pure of all evil. This is the effect that is produced upon all elder readers by the name of Lady Jane Grey; and most of you, no doubt, have heard of the sweet young English girl who, without any ambition of her own, was taken out of her simple country life, and from her books which she loved, to be put upon a throne she had only a distant right to; and then she had to die, not quite eighteen, for a fault not hers.

There scarcely could be, I think, a more pitiful story; and yet it is more than pitiful, for Lady Jane had the soul of a true princess among women, and died royally, without a murmur, resisting all temptations to falsehood. Such trials and troubles do not come our way; indeed, they do not come in the way of our kings and queens nowadays; but that does not make them less interesting when we meet them in the words of that far-distant past, which it is so difficult to believe was once to-day and to-morrow, just as our days are.

Lord Dorset's daughter, Jane Grey, though her mother was of royal blood, had no more thought of what was going to happen to her than any of you boys and girls have of the troubles which you will meet in your future life. She was born in a high station, indeed, but not in one that seemed to expose her to special danger. Not like the king's daughters, Lady Mary and Lady Elizabeth, who both had a melancholy and agitated youth. But little Jane Grey's troubles were no more than those which any little maiden might have in the humblest life. Her father and mother were not so kind and indulgent as most of your fathers and mothers are. Perhaps they loved her just as much; but they were hard upon her, and exacted obedience sternly. Whether she liked it or not, whether she could do it or not, she was always forced to obey. On the other hand, there was something to be said for these severe parents; they had no sons. And this girl was their eldest child, and, no doubt, they thought it their duty to harden her, and accustom her to endure trouble and overcome difficulty, as one who had royal blood in her veins, and of whom nobody could be sure what she might be called upon to do.

I must tell you, however, what was the strange state of affairs in England at this period, respecting the royal family. Nobody then had begun to think that a country could do without a king—that is, nobody in England. You know that we have never learned that lesson yet, and still want our Queen as much as we want our fathers and mothers, which is quite different from the ideas you are brought up in. And at this particular moment there was the greatest difficulty in knowing who was the right heir to the crown. The king then reigning was a delicate boy, Edward VI, who fell into a consumption and died in his seventeenth year, and his natural successors were his two sisters, both older than himself: Mary, who was the daughter of Henry VIII. by his first wife, Katharine of Arragon, and Elizabeth, whose mother was Anne Boleyn, Henry's second wife. Both these princesses had been put out of the succession by act of Parliament, and declared illegitimate, although they were afterward restored, by their father's will, and a second act of Parliament. After Mary and Elizabeth, came the children of Henry VIII's sisters—Margaret, who had married the King of Scotland, and Mary, who, after having been nominally the wife of the old King of Erance, had married Charles Brandon, the Duke of Suffolk. The elder of these ladies had one grandchild, Mary Stuart, afterward so well known as Mary, Queen of Scots ; and the younger, also a daughter, who was the Marchioness of Dorset, and mother of Lady Jane Grey. You must try to master this account, although it is a little complicated. After poor young King Edward's death, there were only women who had a right to the throne. First Mary; then Elizabeth; then little Mary of Scotland; then Frances Brandon, Lady Dorset, represented by her daughter, Jane Grey. Thus, there were two direct princesses, the sisters, and two farther off, the little cousins, the child-queen Mary of Scotland, and Lady Dorset's little daughter, of whom Mary had been sent to France, and was married to the young King Francis II; and Jane grew up sweetly in her father's house, like a little English lady, and nothing more.

You must understand, however (but I cannot go into the whole story), that of these four, two—the two Marys—represented the Church of Rome; and two—Elizabeth and Jane—represented the party of the Reformation. Mary of England and Mary of Scotland were both brought up Catholics, and both taught to consider that the restoration of England to the old church would be the greatest and noblest work in the world, while young King Edward and his little cousin, Jane Grey, were fervent Protestants, thinking nothing in the world so important as the diffusion of the Bible, and the deliverance of England from Rome. Elizabeth was neither a devout Catholic nor a fervent Protestant. She was for England and her own right, and considered anything else secondary to these two things.

I need not tell you about King Edward's reign. He was said to have been a very wonderful boy,— so bright, so good, so clever, so wise, that the historians of his own time cannot say enough in his praise. But these great applauses do not always last, and some people tell you now that Edward was a little bigot, and if he had lived might have been as bloody on the Protestant side as his sister Mary was on the Catholic. Yet, you will easily understand that a poor boy who died at sixteen, and who had learned Latin and Greek, French, Italian, and Spanish, logic and philosophy, besides the more ornamental acquirement of music; who "knew all the harbors and ports in his kingdom, as also in Scotland and France, with the depth of water and way of coming into them," and who played on the lute, and kept a journal in Greek characters, could not have had much time to govern England. The statesmen who were about him in the end of his life were, however, very strong Protestants, and the chief among them, the Duke of Northumberland, carried matters with so high a hand in this way, that the idea of the Princess Mary succeeding was very alarming to him when the young king grew ill. He was a man of great ambition, who desired nothing less than the chief influence in the kingdom, and in order to gain that high place, he had done many things for which vengeance was sure to overtake him.

He, therefore, cast his eyes about him to see what it was best to do. We may believe that, perhaps, in his heart Northumberland sincerely desired the safety of the Protestant Church, as well as his own safety and supremacy, which were, however, so very much in jeopardy as to make anything else secondary. Perhaps, also, it was the fact that his young son, Guildford Dudley, had fixed his affections upon Lord Dorset's daughter, which turned his thoughts that way. At all events, this bold and desperate man suddenly perceived, or thought he perceived, a way of raising and advancing himself, if it could be accomplished,—a way which would, at the same time, save the nation, secure the progress of the Reformation, promote religion, and bring about everything that was good, at the cost of but one thing that was evil (even good men have sometimes fallen under such a temptation). Henry VIII had named the Greys next after his own daughters in his will; why should not poor young, dying Edward, for the good of England and the Protestant faith, put them first, and thus shut out Rome and preserve Northumberland? The dying boy and the innocent girl, and even his own son—who must rise or fall with his scheme—were nothing to the Duke in comparison. And thus this tragedy began.

It has taken me a long time to tell you this, which I am sure a great many of you already have read in your histories. While the plot was being formed, Jane Grey was growing up the sweetest of Puritan maidens, in all the freshness of English country life. The word Puritan was not in use so early, but in all we hear of her there is a gentle seriousness which suits the name. Though she had not any of the passionate force which belonged to the Tudors, she had their love of letters, and was as accomplished as her cousin, King Edward. Her parents were somewhat harsh to her, but her tutor was kind, and this gave her favorite studies a charm the more. Roger Ascham, who was a scholar of the time, and has written an account of this visit in one of his books, went one day to her father's house in Leicestershire when all the gay party were hunting, and the great house empty. But he found Lady Jane seated in one of those windowed recesses which distinguish the architecture of the time, reading that dialogue of Plato which tells about the wonderful death of the philosopher Socrates. Do you think some angel had put it into the girl's young head that by and by she, too, was to die unjustly, under false accusations, like Socrates? Mr. Ascham wondered at her sitting there, with the pale spring sky shining in upon her, and the distant sounds of the horns and the hounds and horses' hoofs coming from the great park, where all the rest were enjoying themselves. "I have more pleasure in my book than they have in their hunting," she said. It is the only distinct glimpse of her that we get until she emerges out of this tranquillity of her youth into the blaze of light which surrounds a throne.

King Edward was very ill and suffering when his young cousin became old enough to marry. Lord Guildford Dudley was but a few years older than his bride, and does not appear to have been involved in his father's plot. They married, he as innocent as she was, so far as appears, and were very happy; and thus took the first step toward their death. When the king died, what was the wonder of Lady Jane to see her father and mother come with the great Northumberland into the room where she was sitting with her husband! They told her that Edward was dead. Poor cousin! No doubt the happy young creature was filled with awe as well as grief, to hear that out of all his grandeur and state, another young creature whom she knew so well had been taken away. But while the tears were dropping from her eyes, and her gentle soul was full of sorrow for Edward, suddenly, like a thunder peal out of a clear sky, came the strange intimation that she was to succeed him.

Imagine the consternation, the trouble of the girl, when her father and mother knelt and offered her their homage as Queen of England, and her stern father-in-law, the great statesman who controlled everything, kissed her trembling hand! She would not hear of it. She protested, like a generous creature as she was, that Mary or Elizabeth was the just heir, and not she. She turned to her husband, calling upon him to support her. But it is very few people who have the courage to refuse a great elevation, scarcely any who will put aside a crown when it is offered to them. Caesar did it, you will read, both in history and Shakspeare, but no one believed that he meant it. And your own Washington refused what, if not a crown, was at least the supreme rank; for which you are all proud of him, and we, too; as you also may be proud of this English girl, standing far away in old London, weeping and protesting, amid all the older people, who were dazzled by the splendid prize that was offered to her. She was not dazzled; the wrong of it and the grief of it went to her heart. She turned to her husband, hoping that he would stand by her. But he did not; he was dazzled like the rest; perhaps, loving her as he did, he thought there was no one else in the world as worthy. But at least he added his own entreaties to those of the three others, all persons whom Jane was bound to obey. What could the girl do among them? She yielded; her own judgment, her own better instinct, were sacrificed sadly to their ambition,—her father and mother, against whom she never had rebelled; her husband, whom she loved; and his father, whom all England recognized as the most powerful noble in the kingdom,—how could Jane, seventeen years old, stand against them? They took her away to the Tower, which was then a royal palace as well as a prison, and proclaimed her queen.

Queen Jane! You will not even find her name in the roll of English monarchs. She was an innocent usurper, an unwilling offender against right and justice. And this poor, mock reign of hers, in which she never herself believed, lasted only nine days. Perhaps if England had known what Mary Tudor was, the country would not have been so determined to give her its allegiance; but few know which is the good and which is the evil till time has made it clear; and Jane had never a chance, never a hope. You hear people talk of a nine days' wonder; but hers was a nine days' reign. At the end of that time, even Northumberland, trying to save his head, himself proclaimed Queen Mary, and the melancholy little farce was over.

When they took the kingdom out of her hands again, the girl, as you may imagine, was not sorry. She had nothing to do with their schemes and conspiracies. She got her breath again when "the burden of that honor unto which she was not born" had been taken from her. But they did not let her go home. They kept her and her husband in that melancholy Tower of London, which has held so many prisoners. Most likely Mary and her advisers would have been glad, if they had dared, to let the young pair go free. They were not unkindly treated in the Tower, and though Northumberland lost his life, Jane's father, who had been made Duke of Suffolk, was spared.

But when six months had passed, there came a wild and desperate rising against Mary, which changed the aspect of affairs. It was put down, indeed, without much difficulty; but it was thought necessary to the Queen's safety that her innocent rival, her little cousin, the girl who, blameless as she was, might be made the occasion of other risings, should be made an end of, too.

When Roger Ascham saw Lady Jane reading Plato, it was the Phaedo, as I have told you, the story of the death of Socrates, which held her fast while all the household was abroad in the morning sunshine. It is a beautiful story. Some of you boys will know it, and I wish the girls could read it, too. It tells how the wise old philosopher, guilty of nothing but of teasing his countrymen in the truth which they could not understand, and questions they could not answer, was on false pretenses condemned to death as an enemy of the state. Now it was the young reader's turn to die on the same ground. And Lady Jane, though she was so innocent, was no doubt an enemy to the state. She did not complain any more than Socrates did. He was old and the wisest of men, and she was little more than a child. But she went out to the scaffold on Tower Hill with as great a courage. She wept and struggled when they made her a queen; but neither struggled nor wept when they led her out to die. The night before, she wrote a letter to her sister, full of sweet and pious counsels; not a word in it of complaint; not an allusion to her undeserved fate. She saw her husband led to his execution, and waved her hand to him from her window, in token of their near reunion; then went out with a noble exultation in his courage and steadfast patience, and laid her own young head on the block.

I have not told you half what this young martyr had to go through. Mary tortured all her latter days, by sending priests to persuade her to the faith of Rome. But I think her story is too pathetic, too tender and touching, to bring religious controversy into it.

The most prejudiced critic has never tried to sully this pure and perfect picture. She died for the faults of others; but she lives forever in the pure light of innocence and simple heroism. The history of England, or of the whole world as far as I know, holds no parallel to this girlish figure, so true in the sense of justice, so brave to endure, obedient and humble even against her judgment, and bearing the penalty of that obedience with a valor so steadfast and a submission so sweet.

"A Hundred Years Ago"

by W. H. Venable, December 1881

Which proves that nostalgia exists no matter what era—or that your elders always say "Look how good you have it today." :-) Note the spelling of "Alleghenies" back then, and also the casual racism.

The area of the original thirteen States, a century ago, was less than one-eleventh as great as that of our entire country now, and their population did not reach one-fifteenth the number at present within the nation's borders. New York, Pennsylvania, Ohio, and Illinois each had as many inhabitants in 1870 as the united colonies had in the year 1770.

A hundred years ago, the region west of the Alleghanies was styled The Wilderness, and only a few bold spirits, like Daniel Boone, had dared to penetrate its solitude. The Rocky, then called Stony, Mountains were known to exist, but no white man had explored them. Even within this century, the belief was held that the Missouri River had some connection with the Pacific Ocean.

The journey from Baltimore to Pittsburgh took twelve days, and was not only toilsome, but dangerous, for hostile Indians lurked in the woods. Wagons often stuck fast in the mire, or broke down on "corduroy" roads made of logs laid side by side in the mud. The heavy stage-coach of early times, although it made great show of speed when dashing through a village, was as long in lumbering from New York to Boston as a modern express train is in crossing the continent. In great contrast with the present mode of traveling was the journey made by Thomas Jefferson, in the year 1775, when he went in a carriage from Williamsburg, Virginia, to Philadelphia. He was ten days on the road, and twice was obliged to hire a guide, to show the way to the largest city in the country. In 1777, Elkanah Watson rode from Newbern to Wilmington, North Carolina, on horseback, and not only lost his way, but was embarrassed further by meeting a large bear.

A person traveling in New England, about a century ago, would have found there a frugal and industrious people, dwelling generally in or near villages, and employed mainly in trade and tillage. He might have seen, in the older towns, factories for the making of cloth, hats, shoes, axes, ropes, paper, and guns; and with a sail-boat he might have visited flourishing fisheries off the coast.

The life and habits of the common people were extremely simple. The furniture of an ordinary house, in 1776, was scanty, plain, and cheap.

In many houses, the floor had no carpet, and the walls of that day had no paper nor paint. Neither pumps nor cooking-stoves were in use. The sofa was a high-backed bench of unpainted wood. The rude, low bedstead was honored almost always with a coat of green paint. The sewing-machine was not dreamed of; but the spinning-wheel, flax-distaff, and yarn-reel found a place in all houses, and the weaver's loom could be seen in many.

Queen's-ware, or glazed earthenware, was unknown, yet well-to-do families often had sets of small china cups and saucers. The rich took pride in displaying urns and salvers of pure silver. There was no plated ware. The table was set with dishes of wood and of pewter.

Our forefathers depended upon the tallow-candle and the lard-oil lamp for artificial light. They knew nothing of kerosene, gas, and sulphur matches. The embers in the fire-place were seldom suffered to burn out, but when the last coal chanced to expire, the fire was rekindled by striking a spark from a flint into a piece of tinder. Sometimes a burning brand was borrowed from the hearth of a neighbor.

The dress of the common folk in town and country was more for use than beauty. A pair of buckskin breeches and a corduroy coat formed the essentials of a man's suit, and they never wore out. After the breeches had been rained upon a few times they hardened into a garment more durable than comfortable.

The wearing-apparel of fashionable people of the city, however, was very gay and picturesque. Men wore knee-breeches and hose, broad-skirted coats lined with buckram, long waistcoats, sometimes of gold-cloth, wide cuffs lined with lace, powdered wigs, three-cornered hats, and swords. Women's dresses were made of heavy silks and satins, called brocades, on which raised figures of leaves and flowers were woven, or worked, in colored silk or thread of silver and gold.

Both sexes took pains in dressing the hair. A stylish gentleman had his locks curled and frizzed, or suspended in a queue, as you have often seen in old pictures. A New England belle spent many hours in plastering her hair up into a sort of tower, decorated with powder and ribbons.

There were few, if any, millionaires in the early days of the Republic, and the power of money was not felt as it is now. However, the aristocracy was less approachable by the common people than are the higher circles of to-day, or, probably, of the future. This was owing to the fact that, at that time, American society was mainly copied after the English system, in which rank and title play an important part; and also to the influence of slavery, which existed in all the States.

Magistrates and clergymen were regarded, in New England, with extreme respect and reverence. Had our traveler dropped into a Puritan meeting-house, and sat through the service, he would have seen the minister and his family walk solemnly down the aisle and through the door-way before the congregation presumed to leave the pews.

The New England country people combined amusement with work, at their house-raisings, quilting parties, and like gatherings. The poet Bryant speaks of the process of cider-making as one that "came in among the more laborious rural occupations in a way which diversified them pleasantly, and which made it seem a pastime.

The time that was given to making cider, and the number of barrels made and stored in the cellars of the farm-houses, would now seem incredible. A hundred barrels to a single farm was no uncommon proportion.

"But," says Doctor Greene, in his charming Short History of Rhode Island, "the great pastime for young and old, for matron and maid, and for youth just blushing into manhood, was the autumn husking, where neighbors met at each other's corn-yards to husk each other's corn—sometimes husking a thousand bushels in a single meeting. Husking had its laws, and never were laws better obeyed. For every red ear, the lucky swain who had found it could claim a kiss from every maid; with every smutted ear he smutched the faces of his mates, amid laughter and joyous shoutings; but when the prize fell to a girl, she would walk the round demurely, look each eager aspirant in the face, and hide or reveal the secret of her heart by a kiss. Then came the dance and supper, running deep into the night, and often encroaching upon the early dawn."

Our traveler would be interested in Salem, next to the largest town in New England, and a flourishing sea-port; and he certainly would have gone to Boston, then, as now, a center of education and culture. Many of the streets of Boston were narrow and crooked. Shops and inns were distinguished in Boston, as in other cities and towns, by pictorial signs for the benefit of those who could not read. One did not look for a lettered board, nor a number over the street door, but for the sign of the "Bunch of Feathers," the "Golden Key," the "Dog and Pot," or the "Three Doves."

Had our traveler passed from New England to the State of New York, say at Albany, be would have had evidence that the frontier was not far off. Goods sent from Albany to supply the Indian trade, and the forts and settlements out West, were hauled in wagons to Schenectady, then loaded in light boats, and poled up the Mohawk to Fort Schuyler, then carried across to Wood Creek, and again transported in boats down Oneida Lake and Osage River to the great lakes. The town of Albany was, at that time, a quiet, shady, delightful place, with cow-bells tinkling in the streets. Lazy Indians went lounging about the principal thoroughfares with bead-work and baskets to sell.

New York State continued to show evidence of Dutch customs, as could be seen by going down the Hudson from Albany to Manhattan Island. The trip was taken in regular passenger sloops. The scenery along the Hudson was grander than now, for the wild forest had not disappeared from the hills. The passenger saw no large towns nor villages, but farm-houses nestled in the rich hollows, and the Dutch "bouweries" or farms spread to view broad acres of corn and tobacco, and thrifty orchards of apple and pear trees. Just below Albany the family mansion and great barns of General Schuyler used to stand. The good general had many negro slaves,—indolent fellows, who were scared into occasional fits of work by the threat that they should be sent to the West Indies, and traded off for rum and molasses.

New York City was an important commercial center, larger than Boston, but not so large as Philadelphia. It occupied but a small part of the southern end of Manhattan Island, the whole of which it now covers. Most of its streets were narrow and crooked. Tradition says that the Dutch settlers built their houses along the winding courses of cow-paths. Broadway, however, was a fine street, even in the days of the Revolution, and gave promise then of the splendor it afterward attained. New York City, in 1776, was lighted dimly with oil-lamps. Burning gas did not come into use till forty years later. Not unusually the New York houses were built with a flat space on the roof, surrounded by a railing, and where the people came out on the house-tops on summer evenings to enjoy the pleasant breeze from the bay.

Our traveler would have visited Philadelphia, the largest city in America, and the capital of the Republic. There he might have seen many evidences of wealth and social refinement. There were to be found noted public men from different parts of the country. The wise and benevolent Franklin lived there. There Congress met, and there Washington dwelt during the greater part of his administrations.

Philadelphia society claimed to lead the fashion in dress and amusements, though New York. Williamsburg, Charleston, and other places disputed this preeminence. Fashionable people frequently gave formal dinner-parties. The lady guests, robed in their stiff brocades, were handed from their coaches and sedans, and daintily stepped to the door of the reception-room. A sedan was a covered chair for carrying a single person, borne on poles in the hands of two men, usually negroes. The dinner consisted of four courses, with abundance of wine. The health of every guest at table had to be drunk separately, at least once during the sitting, as to neglect this compliment was considered a breach of politeness.

After dinner, a game of whist was in order. Smoking was not fashionable, but every gentleman carried a snuff-box, and the act of offering and receiving a pinch of snuff was performed with profound ceremony.

Dancing was a favorite amusement in all parts of the country. General Greene tells us that, on a certain occasion, George Washington danced for three hours without once sitting down. No doubt the stately Virginian chose to tread the dignified measure of the contra-dance rather than to trip through the lighter movements of the minuet. The quadrilles and round dances of our day were unknown in 1776.

The violin was held in high esteem, especially in the Middle and Southern States. Thomas Jefferson said of Patrick Henry, that "his passion was for fiddling, dancing, and pleasantry." Jefferson was himself famous for attending balls. Once, when he was away from home, his father's house burned down. A slave was sent to tell this bad news to his young master Thomas. "Did n't you save any of my books?" asked the future author of the Declaration of Independence.

"No, massa," answered the ebony messenger; "but we saved the fiddle!"

It was customary for young ladies to take lessons on the harpsichord or the spinet, as they do nowadays on the piano-forte.

Our traveler, extending his journey to the Southern States, would have found few towns of considerable size, excepting Williamsburg and Richmond, in Virginia, and Charleston, South Carolina. Wealthy planters of cotton and rice owned most of the fertile land. The Fairfax estate, on the Potomac, had five million acres. It was quite an expedition to go from one planter's house to another, for the distance, in some cases, was as much as ten or twelve miles, and the roads were bad. When a visit was undertaken, the great family coach, drawn by four or six horses, driven by a pompous black coachman, conveyed the ladies, while the gentlemen of the party went on horseback. Not unfrcquently ladies rode behind gentlemen, mounted on cushions, called pillions; but the more independent of the "fair sex" preferred to manage their own palfrey, and to grace the saddle alone. Colored servants, riding upon mules, jogged after their masters and mistresses, to carry bandboxes and parcels, and to open gates.

Southern estates were distinguished by descriptive names, such as "Mount Vernon," "Monticello," "Ingleside," "The Oaks." Particular mansions were known, also, by romantic titles,—such as "Belvoir," "Liberty Hall," "Greenway Court,"—reminding us of old English manor-houses. Such Southern mansions were large and strongly built, and some of them were costly and elegant. "Drayton Hall," on Ashley River, cost ninety thousand dollars—a vast sum to spend on a house at the period of which I write. "Drayton Hall" is yet standing, a fair specimen of old-fashioned architecture. The wainscot and mantels are of solid mahogany. The walls were once hung with tapestry.

The planters, like the English rural gentry, laid off their grounds with terraces, hedges, and ponds; and adorned them with shrubbery, summer-houses, and statuary. Many lived at ease in the midst of plenty. They had much pride, and looked down upon the laboring and trading classes of the North. All their work was done by slaves. The planters' sons were sent to the mother country to be educated. The daughters were instructed by private tutors.

Most fine gentlemen were fond of fine horses and dogs. There is a flavor of romance in the page of history that tells of Washington and his friends dashing through the forests of the Old Dominion, to the music of hound and horn.

The times of which this article treats are often spoken of as the "good old days" of our ancestors; we should be strangely at loss if we had to live in the good old ways of the last century. We should consider it inconvenient enough to do without steam-boat, railroad, telegraph, and daily newspaper, not to mention horse-cars, express companies, letter-carriers, and the telephone.

The farmer of 1776 had no grain-drill, harvester, or threshing-machine; and even his plow, ax, and hay-fork were so rude and clumsy that a modem laborer would laugh at them.

How great, to-day, should we regard the general loss, were the shipper deprived of his grain-elevator; the merchant of his fire-proof safe; the publisher of his revolving press; the surgeon of the use of ether; the physician of vaccination; the cripple of artificial limbs; the writer of envelopes and metallic pens; the ladies of pins, and hooks and eyes; the soldier of his breech-loading gun! All the articles and arts above enumerated, and many more now considered essential to comfort and convenience, are of modern invention. A hundred years ago they did not exist.

"The New Boy: A Foot-Ball Episode"

by S.V.R., November 1901

Today I suppose that boys complimenting another boy on his handsomeness would be interpreted differently.

It was a typical boys' school, with boys of all types and from all parts of the country. There were good boys, bad boys, handsome boys, ugly boys, interesting boys and uninteresting boys, athletic boys and bookworms; but Mr. Gushing, the headmaster, found them all worth while, and was deservedly popular in his turn. The school was out of town, just where it should be, where there was plenty of skating, tobogganing, football, baseball, and rowing. It had just reopened after the summer vacation, and the boys were beginning to swarm back. There were groups of them about the grounds and in the buildings, and a general hubbub pervaded the place. The "new boys" wandered helplessly about, not knowing what to do with themselves, and eying with envy the "old boys," who rushed back and forth, calling to one another in a jolly, intimate way, and seeming so entirely at home. A few of them made friends with one another, and walked off together down to the football field, or talked in the corridors and tried to seem at home also. Few of the old boys took any notice of them, as they were too busy and had too much to say to one another. And then, besides, the football captain had ordered all candidates down to the field, so that all the athletic crowd had disappeared.

A knot of such were hurrying along in their togs, and all talking at once. They were big fellows, some of them veterans of the previous year. They had nearly reached the field when they saw, sauntering along ahead of them, in a nonchalant manner, one of the "new boys." He wore a brown golf-suit, a cap on the back of his head, and his hands were thrust into his pockets, as he walked slowly along, swinging one leg in front of the other.

"Who 's this?" asked one of the veterans, noticing him.

"New boy. Good figure, has n't he?" said another.

"Yes. Wonder if he intends to play in that suit of clothes?"

"They 're new—he got them to come up here in."

A general snicker followed this shot, and they all turned a little to look at the target as they passed him. He glanced up also, and they saw a handsome face with a pair of dark eyes looking out curiously at them from under rather a shock of light-brown hair. He scanned them with a good-humored stare.

The crowd hurried past him, and no one spoke until they were some distance ahead. Finally Ames, the full-back, said, "I wonder how old that fellow was."

"Sixteen or so, I guess," returned Gould, the substitute tackle.

"Good-looking, was n't he?" put in Dean, who was handsome himself and always wore a nose-guard.

No answer was made to this, as they had reached the field, where Goodale, the captain, was tearing round from man to man, endeavoring to put some method into the confusion that reigned. One of the masters was there also, with the old men, and punts, drop-kicks, and place-kicks were flying from all quarters of the field.

"Here you are at last," he panted, stopping before the arrivals. "You, Ames, go down to where Mr. Williams is, and see if you can kick a goal before those new men. We 're going to line up two scrubs in a few minutes."

Then he rushed off again, leaving the boys to find their own places.

Meanwhile the "new boy" had sauntered on and had reached the field also. He climbed leisurely on to the fence which surrounded the gridiron, and surveyed the proceedings with an interested air.

Dean soon caught sight of him, and questioned Goodale. "Has that fellow tried for anything yet?"

"What fellow?"

"That good-looking one on the fence."

"No. Who is he?"

"Don't know—some new boy."

Just then a football bounded over the fence and rolled along the ground beyond.

"Thank you!" called several voices, directed toward the new boy.

He jumped down from his perch and chased the ball. Then he picked it up, gave a lunge, and sent it flying down across the fence to the other end of the field. It was a good seventy-yard punt, and drew forth a dozen exclamations of surprise and approval.

"Jove! Look at that!" ejaculated Dean. But Goodale was already hurrying toward the new boy, who had restored his hands to his pockets and was standing with an amused smile on his lips. Goodale felt, as he approached, that, somehow, he could not use his patronizing air of captain with this fellow, and, also, that the upper hand seemed to be on the other side. Still, this prize was not to be lost.

"Look here," he began awkwardly, "want to try for full-back on the team?"

The new boy regarded him a moment, and then answered with a smile that showed a double row of handsome teeth:

"Of course I would n't mind trying."

"All right; come on. Got any togs here?"

"I have some back at the school."

"Can't you find some here? We 're going to play a scrub game in a minute. Wait and I 'll get you some."

He rushed into the building, and the new boy followed him, still with his amused smile.

Goodale appeared, in a moment, with several suits in his arms.

"Get into one of these, quick as you can," he said. "Hold on—er—er—what 's your name?"

"My name?—oh, er—Parkinson."

Goodale hurried off and told his tale to some of the boys, and then, with the help of Mr. Williams, lined up two elevens. By the time all was arranged, Parkinson came on to the field, looking quite distinguished, and, somehow, older than when in his golf-suit. All eyes were fixed on him, and no one noticed Mr. Williams's start of surprise, nor did they understand the glance Parkinson directed at him.

"Come on, Parkinson," called Goodale. "Get down there at full-back. Now, boys, stand on your toes. Play hard and fast, and let 's see what the first game of the season will show! Mr. Williams, you 'll umpire, please."

The game began, and Parkinson was playing on Goodale's eleven. The other team had the ball. They gained five yards apiece on the first two rushes, and Goodale exclaimed, "This won't do! Come, get together! Parkinson, play up more—you don't get into the interference."

One more rush, and the opposing full-back skirted the end and tore down toward Parkinson. Goodale yelled, "Nail him, nail him! Get down more!" as he ran after.

Parkinson waited calmly, and then reached out and caught the runner in a clean tackle. Goodale was beside himself in his patronizing approval. They got the ball by a fumble in the next play, and the quarter-back passed it to Parkinson. He started to the right, following the interference, when he suddenly broke to the left, and in a minute more was tearing along with a clear field ahead of him, never stopping until the touch-down was made. And when he completed the feat by stepping back and kicking the ball squarely between the goal-posts, the boys' enthusiasm knew no bounds.

The play lasted only two ten-minute halves, and during the next half Goodale did not order Parkinson about quite so much.

Immediately after the game, however, Parkinson rushed into his dressing-room, and that was the last the boys saw of him. When those who had dressed at the building had reappeared and assembled in front to escort the hero back to school, Mr. Williams approached them, laughing.

"Whom are you waiting for, boys?" he asked.

"Parkinson," Goodale answered.

"Well, I would n't waste time doing that. He 's gone."

"Gone where? Back to school?"

"No. He has gone back to Cambridge. Who do you think that fellow was? Bob Forbes, the Harvard captain!"

"Forbes!" exclaimed Goodale. "Why, Mr. Williams, you 're joking. He 's Parkinson, a new boy."

"I beg your pardon. That was Bob Forbes, whom I know very well. Of course he was n't going to let you suspect by his name; but I knew what he was up to. He has just brought his little brother up here, and finding none of you knew him by sight, he played a joke on you. It 's just like him, too!" And Mr. Williams laughed till the boys joined with him.

"Do you think I ought to write and apologize?" Goodale said shamefacedly. "I was awfully flip with him."

"My dear boy, no!" Mr. Williams said. "It is the best joke of the year, and that would spoil it. At any rate, you all know Forbes now, and I 've no doubt but that he will send you all tickets during the season."

And he did.