"Nicknames"

by Henry Frederic Reddall, September 1885

Looks like M.C. Hammer has a long precidence! For years I'd wondered why they were called "Methodists." Now I know. :-)

There are, probably, very few young people who have not, at one time or another, helped to christen some companion or acquaintance with a nickname.

You single out a peculiarity of person, or a hobby, or a habit, in your friend, and confer on him a nickname that may be absurd, satirical, or honorable and complimentary.

Now, this is exactly what your elders, who, as Dryden says, are only "children of a larger growth," have been doing in every period of the world's history. Nicknames applied in derision or affection hundreds of years ago are yet often heard, and are still full of meaning to us.

Nicknames are coined every day in the year, and I have no doubt that many of you can at once recall some nicknames that have been conferred on eminent men, and have accompanied them into history.

Let us together glance at a few historic nicknames.

Quite a number of eminent men are now familiar to us solely by a nickname that, in course of time, has taken the place of their rightful title. Thus, the proper designation of a painter now known as Guercino was Giovanni Francesco Barbieri. But on account of a defect in his sight, he was nicknamed Guercino; that is, "squint-eyed." One of the wickedest of the Roman emperors received from his soldiers a playful nickname on account of the boots he wore. They called him Caligula, "little boots," and by that title he figures in history. And the painter Tintoretto's baptismal name was Robusti; but his fellow-townsmen dubbed him Tintoretto, "little dyer," because his father was a dyer, the Italian word for which is tintore. Many similar nicknames might be mentioned.

Of sarcastic nicknames there are scores of instances in history and biography. The eminent Doctor Abernethy, of London, wrote a book called "Surgical Observations," and from his invariable habit of advising his patients to read it, he became known as "Doctor My-Book." The brave English Commodore Byron, from the fact that stormy weather nearly always attended him on his voyages, was dubbed by his sailors "Foulweather Jack"; and still another naval officer, Admiral Vernon, because of his custom of wearing a "Grogram" cloak in bad weather, was called "Old Grog." It was this same Admiral Vernon, by the way, who instituted the custom of serving out a mixture of spirits and water to the seamen of the royal navy, a beverage which they called "grog," in memory of its originator. Talleyrand, the French statesman, who was famed alike for his wit and his sarcasm, was at one time Bishop of Autun, and his many enemies jocularly spoke of him as "His Irreverent Reverence." A similar play on words occurs in the case of Lindley Murray, who has been facetiously called the "Ungrammatical Grammarian."

Several historical characters, because of the vigorous blows they dealt their foes, or on account of the energy with which they fought some real or fancied abuse, have been called "Hammers."

Judas Asmonaeus, the Jewish patriot, better known as Judas Maccabaeus, was the first to bear this surname. Maccabeus means "the Hammer."

The next personage to win this title was Charles, the great Frankish king, grandfather of Charlemagne, commonly called Charles Martel. Martel signifies "the Hammer;" and he gained the surname, because of the mighty blows he inflicted with his mace on the heads of the Saracen invaders at the battle of Tours. This victory saved Europe from the Mohammedan power.

And in the inscription on the tomb of Edward the First, in Westminster Abbey, he is called "the Hammer of the Scotch," in memory of his many victories over that people. This king in his lifetime was nicknamed "Longshanks."

Thomas Cromwell, the English statesman who flourished in the time of Henry the Eighth, was called the "Hammer of Monasteries." By a curious coincidence his illustrious namesake, Oliver Cromwell, was, in the next century, nicknamed "the Hammer of Kings."

Military commanders have been the recipients of nicknames more generally than any other class.

The Duke of Wellington—the "Iron Duke"—was invariably alluded to by the troops of the line regiments as Nosey, on account of his enormous nasal feature; and even that stern martinet, Frederic the Great, delighted in the fact that his grim grenadiers called him Old Fritz. The soldiers of Napoleon manifested their regard for their leader by calling him, long after he had outstripped his humble rank, "the Little Corporal"; and Napoleon became the subject of a great many fanciful names and titles, such as: "The Soldier of Democracy"; "Heir of the Republic"; "The Man of Destiny"; "The Nightmare of Europe"; "The Child of the Revolution "; and "The Ogre of Corsica,"—all of which sufficiently explain themselves. The Abbe de Pradt dubbed him "Jupiter Scapin," or "A Scamp Jupiter," in allusion to the strange manner in which nobility and puerility, greed and power, were mingled in his mental make-up. Jupiter was the noblest figure in the old heathen mythology, while "Scapin " signifies cunning and knavery.

Coming to our own land, we find American life largely given to the coining of nicknames for public men. Every boy knows that General Putnam, the revolutionary hero, and General Jackson, the victor at New Orleans in the war of 1812, were called respectively "Old Put "and "Old Hickory,"—the latter having earned his nickname by subsisting unflinchingly on a diet of hickory nuts, to which his troops were at one time reduced during the campaign of 1813. John Randolph, for his haughty manners, was often called "the Lord of Roanoke"; Zachary Taylor was "Old Rough and Ready." Stephen A. Douglas was known as the "Little Giant," and his successful rival, the martyr Lincoln, earned the deserved title of "Honest Abe." And the American soldier is as ready as the European to adopt nicknames for those in authority over him. A recent article by Mr. George F. Williams, published in The Century Magazine, and entitled "Lights and Shadows of Army Life," mentions some nicknames of the Civil War. Almost every general of prominence, it says, had a nickname bestowed upon him by his troops. Some of these names were of a sarcastic nature, but usually they indicated the confidence of the men in their leaders or their admiration for them. General Grant was commonly known over the watch-fires in the Army of the Potomac as "Old United States," from the initials of his name; but sometimes he was called "Old Three Stars," that number of stars on his epaulettes indicating his rank as lieutenant-general. McClcllan was endeared to his army as "Little Mac." General Meade, who wore spectacles, was not displeased to learn that the soldiers had named him "Four-eyed George," for he knew it was not intended as a reproach. Burnside, the colonel of the First Rhode Island regiment, rose to the dignity of "Rhody" when he became a general. General Joseph E. Hooker was called "Fighting Joe." Sigel, the German general, was known in the other corps as "Dutchy." General Hancock won the brevet of "Superb," from a remark made by General Meade at Gettysburg, when the Second Corps repulsed a fierce attack upon it. Humphrey, being a distinguished engineer, was invariably styled "Old Mathematics." General Logan, with his long black hair and dark complexion, was "Black Jack" with his men. Sheridan, the cavalry leader, was "Little Phil," and the troops of General Sherman, whose full name is William Tecumseh Sherman, spoke of him as "Uncle Billy" or as "Old Tecumseh." The sterling nature and steadfast purpose of General George H. Thomas earned for him the significant and familiar name of "Old Reliable." The New York City regiments in the Fifth Corps called General Sykes, "Syksey"; and Rosecrans had his name shortened to "Rosey." One General was derisively nicknamed "Old Brains." General Lew Wallace was "Louisa" to the soldiers under his command; he was a great favorite for his fighting qualities, and the soldiers adopted that inappropriate name for want of a better. General Kearny, who had lost an arm in Mexico, was invariably known in the ranks as "One-Armed Phil.'' General Butler was styled "Cockeye," for obvious reasons. General Kilpatrick was nicknamed "Kill," and General Custer was called " Ringlets," on account of his long, flowing curls; and so the catalogue might be prolonged indefinitely.

Among the Confederates, familiar nicknames were not so common as with the Federals. The soldiers of the Army of Northern Virginia usually spoke of General Lee as "Bob Lee," and General Thos. J. Jackson will live in history as "Stonewall Jackson."

Finally, the custom of bestowing nicknames has entered even into the religious life of the world.

The famous mediaeval scholar, Thomas Aquinas, when a student was called by his mates the Dumb Ox, because of his seeming dullness. His teacher, however, is said to have remarked: "If that ox should begin to bellow, the earth would resound with the noise!" The prediction came true; and in after life, when his talents and attainments spread his fame over all Europe, the offensive nickname was exchanged for such honorable epithets as "The Eagle of Divines" and "The Angelic Doctor."

Nearly two thousand years ago, there came to the rich, beautiful, and cultured city of Antioch, in Syria, a band of travel-stained strangers, who had fled their houses to escape the clutches of persecuting enemies.

Hardly were these hunted ones settled in the city before they began to teach and to preach; and though of different races, they all delivered the same glad message, and revered the same Name. Numbers of the townsmen forsook their faith in the heathen divinities of Greece and Rome, and followed the heavenly precepts of the new-comers.

The men of Antioch were famed for their ready wit in bestowing appropriate nicknames; even the Emperor Julian was not secure from their jests, and the philosopher Apollonius was driven from the city by the merciless raillery of the inhabitants. It would have been strange, then, if a name had not been found to fling at those of the new belief. So, thoughtlessly enough, and half in ridicule, half in contempt, the volatile populace called the new community "Christians," after Him in whose name they taught and performed works of mercy. But ere many years passed, the epithet that was at first intended as a term of reproach became a name full of glorious and joyful meaning to the world.

And here is one more instance, showing how powerful for good a mere nickname may become.

In 1739, a few students in the old English university of Oxford formed themselves into a club, pledged themselves to a closer observance of college discipline than had prevailed before that time, and afterward united in works of practical piety and benevolence.

They were the objects of the unsparing ridicule of both students and tutors, and were dubbed in derision "The Holy Club," "Bible Moths," and "Bible Bigots." But what incensed their lawless fellow-students most was their strict attention to the rules laid down by the university authorities; and so, to express their hatred and contempt, they called them "Methodists." This name stuck, and the "club" proved to be the germ of one of the greatest religious denominations of modern times.

Schooldays in 1903

"Books and Reading"

by Hildegarde Hawthorne, May 1904

Miss Hawthorne addresses a number of subjects here, including the familiar ones of children reading good literature, but also that good literature, even if written for children, can be read equally by children and adults. Goodness! I always liked to write, but I'm glad my parents didn't assign me "a little composition" after I finished each book!

Regarding Misquotations.

One of the rules that even young writers and readers should bear in mind is this: "Verify your quotations." And, if possible, go to the original source rather than to rely on other authority. The reason for the rule is easy to see. Usually a quotation becomes popular because it is worth while, and to misquote is often to lose the value of the words. Thus people often say, "A little knowledge is a dangerous thing." But that is not true. All knowledge is worth having, even a little. They mean "half-knowledge," or incorrect knowledge, which is not really knowledge at all! What Pope wrote was: "A little learning is a dangerous thing"; and what he meant was that a little learning makes one presumptuous, while thorough learning gives humility—an idea likewise set forth in the saying that wisdom begins with the feeling that one is ignorant.

So, verify your quotations for fear you may put into currency a counterfeit note.

At the same time it is to be remembered that some few quotations have been improved by changes introduced by those who have misquoted. These improvements are rare, however, and it is safest to retain the old forms where there is any doubt.

Another usual misquotation besides that mentioned is —

"The quality of mercy is not strained;
It falleth as the gentle dew from heaven"—

which you may correct for yourself, and then may inquire whether it is likely that the popular change is an improvement, when the nature of dew is understood.

A Father's Encouragement.

From the father of a young citizen of New York comes a letter explaining his very successful method of making the reading of good books delightful to his son. He says: "I believe it is well he should read those books he has before acquiring new ones, and so we have entered into the following arrangement. For every book he reads himself from cover to cover, and of which he tells me in a little composition, I am to give him a new book of his own choosing; the right to veto the choice remaining with me, if I do not think the choice a good one." There comes with the letter one of the little "compositions," showing how this nine-year-old boy carries out his part of the agreement.

The idea seems an excellent one; but would it not be improved if the father also should write an opinion of the book, so that his son might be guided in his judgment? It might also be a good plan for the father to make suggestions as to the new book given as a reward—especially as the father writes us that his son's taste for books is inherited.

A Correspondent's Views on "Fables."

In one letter sent to this department a young girl writes that she finds "all fables dull," and cannot read any except the "Fables in Slang," a book that even the author would admit was only the merest fooling. Here, it would seem, is a taste that needs cultivating. Evidently this young reader prefers to read without much thinking. Fables are, at their best, wisdom-stories. The greatest teachers this world has ever seen have chosen fables as the means of conveying the deepest thoughts. Some of the most beautiful possessions in all literature are in this form. Indeed, the subject is so great that in writing of it one glances in bewilderment from one sort of fable to another, wondering which to choose in proof of their value. A greater part of ancient wisdom lies in fables, and in the mythology that is little more than one great series of fables—stories conveying the views of ancient people on the most important teachings about nature and life. Perhaps this young girl might learn to change her idea of fables if she should read a book like Ruskin's "Queen of the Air," an interpreting of the myth or fable of Athene, from whom the Parthenon at Athens was called the Maiden Temple. But it may be this young despiser of fables did not quite understand the meaning of the term she used. She may not like Aesop's Fables. Even then, one feels that this comes from hasty, thoughtless reading without setting the imagination to work. Let her look for the expansion of some of these fables by the poets, and we are sure she will find how much lies in the brief and suggestive little stories. Who will tell her where to find, for example, the story of "The Town Mouse and the Country Mouse," or of "Belling the Cat," told as some good poet tells it? It seems a pity for any young reader to lose the many delights to be found in Fableland and its outlying countries.

Companionship In Reading.

One of the advantages in reading the best books is in their fitting themselves to any age. If you keep to the so-called "juvenile books" you will lose the pleasure of having the sympathy and companionship of your parents in the reading. The best books are for older and younger readers alike, and parents and children may enjoy them together, thus doubling the pleasure of reading. That young readers love to discuss the books they read is evident from the letters sent to this department. It is enjoyable to find whether your views of a book, its incidents and characters, are shared by others. Agreement is gratifying, and disagreement is interesting, even if discussion should fail to convince either that the other has taken the correct view.

Kingsley's Water Babies.

This book is a good illustration that "one man's meat is another's poison." Some readers say, "I think it is babyish; I don't see anything in it." Some write, "I cannot find anything I like in it; it seems very foolish to me." Yet here is a letter from one who certainly finds more than one good quality in the same volume:

Richmond, Ind.

Dear St. Nicholas:

Your request for opinions on Water Babies gives me an opportunity of speaking a word for the book I never tire of commending. Although I am eighteen, I recently read it for the third or fourth time, and enjoyed it as much as when I read it for the first, about eight years ago. Not only has the fascinating story lost none of its charm, but my enjoyment has rather increased, since I am now able to see what qualities made the book so delightful to me when I was younger. For instance, I now see how much the easy conversational style adds. Was there ever such spontaneous, irresistible humor or such vivid imagination? And see with what art Kingsley has put in details of natural history and what not until his pictures seem so real that to turn from one and behold a real Water Baby would be no surprise! Everything is so novel, so original, and yet so natural that I am at a loss to see how any one could not like the book. Where can you find any finer literature than the description of Tom's journey over the moor, or where anything more ridiculously funny than those curious lists of things, the remedies the poor doctor had to take, or all that nonsense about those remarkable back stairs? I have heard it said that Water Babies means nothing to younger children, but I really think that if some older person reads it aloud to them, they will enjoy it as much as they would in later years. I say "read aloud" because the long words are truly formidable but do not detract from the story when the discouraging influence they might exert on the inexperienced little reader is obviated.

Yours sincerely, Gordon H. Graves.

Now—what is to be done? Shall we quote the old Latin proverb, "De gustibus non disputandum est"—"There is no use in argument as to tastes"? Or shall we content ourselves with the common-sense conclusion that different books suit different minds? There seems nothing strange in the belief that even a very excellent book may bring no message to you or to me. So let us be charitable with one another's tastes in reading, as in other things; remembering, however, that we all admit the possibility of good taste and bad taste, and believe bad tastes may be refined.

The Report From Librarians.

In the newspapers often appear lists of the books called for by the public. To one who cares what children are reading, it is very discouraging to see under the head of "Juvenile Fiction" the same old favorites repeated week in and week out. There is no reason to criticize these books; they are excellent books: but children owe it to themselves to widen their horizon a little. Librarians say that children keep calling for the same authors merely through mental laziness.

We don't believe that St. Nicholas readers do this. They seem, by their letters, to be reading much more widely and more wisely than these library reports indicate. If the St. Nicholas boys and girls are wiser, it would be kind of them to help their friends and playmates to know there are more than half a dozen writers for the young, and that some of the best books for young people may be found among those not appearing every week in the library lists. Who will do this missionary work?

"Now, or Then?"

by Gail Hamilton, December 1877

Things never change; here, over 100 years ago, the writer is still decrying the loss of good manners in young people. Imagine, the author met a man who remembers the surrender that ended the Revolutionary War!

I suppose the wise young women—fourteen, fifteen, sixteen years old—who read St. Nicholas, who understand the most complex vulgar fractions, who cipher out logarithms "just for fun," who chatter familiarly about "Kickero" and "Iuliuse Kiser," and can bang a piano dumb and helpless in fifteen minutes—they, I suppose, will think me frivolous and un-aspiring if I beg them to lay aside their science,—which is admirable,—and let us reason together a few minutes about such unimportant themes as little points of good manners.

A few months ago I had the pleasure of talking with a gentleman who thought he remembered being aroused from his midnight sleep by loud rejoicings in the house and on the streets over the news that Lord Cornwallis had surrendered the British to the American forces. He was only two years old at that time; but, he said, he had a very strong impression of the house being full of light, of many people hurrying hither and yon, and of the watchman's voice in the street penetrating through all the din with the cry—" Past twelve o'clock and Cornwallis is taken!"

Among many interesting reminiscences and reflections, this dignified and delightful old gentleman said he thought the young people of to-day were less mannerly than in the olden time, less deferential, less decorous. This may be true, and I tried to be sufficiently deferential to my courtly host, not to disagree with him. But when I look upon the young people of my own acquaintance, I recall that William went, as a matter of course, to put the ladies in their carriage; Jamie took the hand luggage as naturally as if he were born for nothing else; Frank never failed to open a door for them; Arthur placed Maggie in her chair at table before he took his own; Nelly and Ruth came to my party just as sweet and bright as if they did not know that the young gentlemen whom they had expected to meet were prevented from attending; while Lucy will run herself out of breath for you, and Mary sits and listens with flattering intentness, and Anne and Alice and—well, looking over my constituency, I find the young people charming.

It is true that all manners are less formal, that etiquette is less elaborate, now than a hundred years ago. Our grandfathers and grandmothers—some, indeed, of our fathers and mothers—did not sit at breakfast with their fathers and mothers, but stood through the meal, and never spoke except when spoken to. I cannot say I think we have deteriorated in changing this. The pleasant, familiar, affectionate intercourse between parent and child seems to me one of the most delightful features of domestic life. The real, fond intimacy which exists between parents and children seems a far better and safer thing than* the old fashion of keeping children at arm's length.

But in casting aside forms we are, perhaps, somewhat in danger of losing with them some of that inner kindness of which form is only the outward expression. Without admitting that we are an uncivil people, insisting even that we compare favorably with other nations, I wish our boys and girls would resolve that the courtesy of the Republic shall never suffer in their hands!

Does this seem a trivial aim for those who are bending their energies to attain a high standing in classics and mathematics? There is perhaps no single quality that does as much to make life smooth and comfortable—yes, and successful—-as courtesy. Logarithms are valuable in their way, but there are many useful and happy people who are not very well versed even in the rule of three. A man may not know a word of Latin, or what is meant by "the moon's terminator," or how much sodium is in Arcturus, and yet be constantly diffusing pleasure. But no man can be agreeable without courtesy, and every separate act of incivility creates its little, or large, and ever enlarging circle of displeasure and unhappiness.

One does not wish to go through life trying to be agreeable; but life is a great failure if one goes through it disagreeable.

Yes, little friends, believe me, you may be very learned, very skillful, very accomplished. I trust you are: I hope you will become more so. You may even have sound' principles and good habits; but if people generally do not like you, it is because there is something wrong in yourself, and the best thing you can do is to study out what it is and correct it as fast as possible. Do not for a moment fancy it is because you are superior to other people that they dislike you, for superiority never, of itself, made a person unlovely. It is invariably a defect of some sort. Generally it is a defect arising from training, and therefore possible to overcome.

For instance: two girls in the country have each a pony phaeton. One drives her sisters, her family, her guests, her equals, and never thinks of going .outside that circle. Another does the same; but, more than this, she often takes the cook, the laundress, or the one woman who often is cook, laundress, house-maid, all in one. And to them the drive is a far greater luxury than to her own comrades, who would be playing croquet or riding if they were not with her. Now and then she invites some poor neighbor, she takes some young sempstress or worsted-worker to town to do her shopping, she carries the tired housewife to see her mother, she asks three little girls—somewhat crowded but rapturously happy—three miles to see the balloon that has alighted on the hill; she drives a widowed old mother-in-Israel to a tea-drinking of which she would otherwise be deprived. These are not charities. They are courtesies, and this bright-faced girl is sunshine in her village home, and, by and by, when her box of finery is by some mistake left at the station, a stalwart youngster, unbidden, shoulders it and bears it, panting and perspiring, to her door-step, declaring that he would not do it for another person in town but Miss Fanny! And perhaps he does not even say Miss Fanny—only Fanny. Now she could get on very well without the villager's admiring affection, and even without her box of finery; yet the goodwill of your neighbors is exceeding pleasant.

Another thing Fanny excels in is the acknowledgment of courtesy, which is itself as great a courtesy as the performance of kindness. If she is invited to a lawn party or a boating picnic, whether she accept or not, she pays a visit to her hostess afterward and expresses her pleasure or her regrets; and she pays it with promptness, and not with tardy reluctance, as if it were a burden. If she has been making a week's visit away from home, she notifies her hostess of her safe return and her enjoyment of the visit, as soon as she is back again. If a bouquet is sent her,—too informal for a note, —she remembers to speak of it afterward. You never can remember? No; but Fanny does. That is why I admire her. If she has borrowed a book, she has an appreciative word to say when she returns it; and if she has dropped it in the mud, she does not apologize and offer to replace it. She replaces it first and apologizes afterward, though she has to sacrifice a much-needed pair of four-button gloves to do it! Indeed, no person has as little apologizing to do as Fanny, because she does everything promptly; and you may notice that what we apologize for chiefly is delay. We perform our little social duties, only not in good season, and so rob them of half their grace. It takes no longer to answer a letter to-day than it will take to-morrow. But if the letter requires an answer instantly, and you put it off day after day, your correspondent is vexed, and your tardy answer will never be quite a reparation. Remember that no explanation, no apology, is quite as good as to have done the thing exactly as it should be in the first place.

"How Paul Called Off the Dog"

by Lavinia S. Goodwin, September 1885

What to do when the dog appears more cunning than the humans? Don't you wish you could have taken a trip to Europe when such things could be seen, with people in national costume rather than the same old shirts and pants? Although I'm sure the French women are glad they don't have to scrub clothes this way any longer!

On the margins of the beautiful winding streams and rivers of France, washerwomen may often be seen at their work, presenting, under the leafy shade of the grand old trees, a very picturesque effect. No doubt you have seen pictures of these washing-places. They are furnished with a row of shallow, three-sided boxes, open toward the shore, and with the back resting on posts set in the water. Just below the surface of the water a smooth board slants downward, and the washerwoman, kneeling in the box, holds her piece of washing upon this slanting board with her left hand, while in her right she grasps a kind of paddle, with which she beats the linen, turning it again and again, until with the beating and the force of the running water it becomes entirely clean and white.

One summer day, many years ago, a washerwoman who was too fond a mother to leave her baby in any one else's care, brought it with her, and while at work, placed the child in the box where she was half kneeling, half sitting at her washing, and where she could occasionally bend down to fondle her darling baby. Suddenly, and without any warning, the child sprang from the mother's lap and slipped over the side of the washing-box into the bubbling river. The mother's shriek was echoed by the startled cries of the other washerwomen as the child was borne off by the current; and the poor mother was with difficulty restrained from leaping in after her child. At that moment, some one watching the tiny form perceived a dark object making its way from shore straight toward the drowning baby, still kept afloat by its clothing.

"A dog! it is a dog!" they cried. "See! he is swimming for the baby!"

The few seconds of suspense that followed seemed almost like hours. Then the watchers embraced the agonized mother, with words of cheer.

"He has her by her frock!" they cried. "See how he keeps the darling's head above the water! She is saved; yes, nearly saved!"

For a moment, the strong animal buffeted with the strong current and then struck out bravely,—but for the opposite shore. Then a new fear assailed the watchers, for that opposite shore was solitary and uninhabited; there were reports every season of prowling wolves that were seen there. What if this great creature were no dog, but a ferocious wolf that had saved the child only to devour it? And the dismayed women stepped before the weeping mother, so that she might not see the other shore.

The four-footed swimmer reached the land; he laid the rescued child on the ground, shook the water from his heavy coat, and then—calmly stretched himself panting and watchful by the silent form.

A cry of relief came from the watchers, and with swift feet they hurried to the ferryman's hut, not far up the stream. They found the old ferryman sitting in his boat, mending a rowlock, and chatting with his nine-year-old grandson, little Paul Dericker, who was on a visit to his grandfather from his home near Peaolo, on the Rhine. As soon as he heard the story, the ferryman untied his boat and quickly landed the excited washerwomen on the opposite bank. First to spring ashore, little Paul darted to the spot where the baby lay, but was speedily back with the information that the child was alive, for he had seen it move its arms and kick up its little feet, but that the dog would not let him come near.

Here was a dilemma. The dog guarded his prize determinedly, rolling a pair of fiery eyeballs and snarling savagely at the intruders when they attempted to approach. In the intervals, he would lick the face and hands of the infant, now cooing contentedly, and would give it the most affectionate attention. But let one of the party advance a step, and it was the signal for him to turn on them and drive them back. No coaxing had the least effect; and when one of the women, remembering a lunch of bread and meat in her pocket, tried to win him with food, he scorned to look at it. Losing patience, the ferryman provided himself with a club, and thought to try what a show of force could do. This merely enraged the dog, who was more than a match even for an armed man. Very much in earnest, then, Paul's grandfather sent the boy to bring from the boat his duck gun, declaring that the dog must be shot.

Away flew Paul, while the women set up such a lamentation because of the necessity of killing the dog that had saved the baby from drowning, that the ferryman made them go some distance away, lest the dog, if only wounded, should spring upon them indiscriminately, at a time when he would have all he could do to defend himself. But the gun, too, was a failure. It was evident the dog understood a gun. but supposed that they intended to shoot the child; for he protected its body so closely with his own, that to fire at one would be to fire at both. Completely baffled, the old man threw the weapon on the ground.

"Hold! Grandpa!" cried Paul, at his elbow, "I know what I can do!" And the swift feet were off toward the ferry once more.

"He is going to try a lasso on the beast—the way he caught the pig that broke out of the pen yesterday," said grandfather to himself; and then he shouted, but too late to be heard, "Don't take the rope that ties the boat, Paul! Don't let the boat loose!"

The women, waiting in terror for the report of the musket, saw Paul run past, and thought of him no more until three minutes later, when a cry for help attracted their attention, and Paul was seen to fall headlong over the boat's stern into the deep water. As he rose to the surface he grasped the rudder with one hand, but long before help could arrive, his hold slipped and he disappeared. The old man, running as fast as his stiff limbs could carry him, reached the boat at the same time as the women; but he was less frightened than they.

"Why—that chap can swim—like a duck," were his words, as he caught his breath. "He drowning?—I would n't—would n't have believed it!"

"He was frightened by the accident," some one remarked, while the old man worked at a disadvantage in getting off the boat, as he kept his eyes turned on the water.

"There! away yonder! so far down—oh!" came the cries from the shore, as the women, shielding their eyes from the sun with their hands, caught sight of the lad's head and shoulders above the surface, nearly opposite the point where the child had been landed. All felt that he was drowning, but none dared say so to the fond old grandfather. In the same breath Paul gave one last, long, piercing cry, and sank gradually amid the curling waves.

That call had an instant effect. True to his lifesaving instincts, the great dog leaped into the river again, and swimming to the boy, drew him, a heavier burden than the baby, slowly ashore at the spot where the baby had lain. But the baby lay there no longer; for its mother, whom the shriek of distress had also aroused, had snatched it up, as the dog left it, and borne it away in joy and triumph. And as soon as Paul was on land, he stood up and hailed the boat, swinging his arms and shouting:

"All right, Grandpa. Carry over the womenfolks, and when I 'm ready presently, I 'll walk across."

He broke into a laugh that startled the echoes, the merriest laugh, those who heard it said, that ever fell on their ears.

"The young rascal," cried his grandfather, gayly, while a tear of gratitude stole down his bronzed cheek, "to frighten and fool us so!"

"But how fine for him to have fooled the dog!" said the women.

The dog did not appear to take the loss of his former prize to heart, as he had now secured a larger and better. In a little while the boat was seen approaching. Paul stood up on his feet, patting the rather astonished dog upon the head, and the pair trotted along shore to meet the ferryman.

"We were just going to swim across for sport—can't we, Grandpa?" cried Paul.

But his grandfather thought there had been enough of that kind of sport for one day, and so the boy and his new playmate crossed in the boat.

Some hours later a sportsman fully equipped appeared at the ferry, inquiring for a dog answering the description of the one that now, hearing his master's voice, came rushing out of the ferryman's cottage. Both were glad to meet again, and the sportsman, when he had heard the story, expressed his delight that his noble runaway had so well employed his time.

"Queer Fuel"

by Crittenden Marriott, April 1907

think nutrition concerns are modern? Read on! Vegetarians may not like this one...

How many people, I wonder, ever pause to consider that their bodies are merely machines to do work, furnaces in which necessary fuel is burned, workshops in which worn-out parts are supplied, and store rooms in which fuel and food are laid away for use when needed. Further, like any other piece of apparatus the body works better under certain circumstances: its fires burn better with fuels of certain sorts, mixed in certain proportions and it cannot keep in perfect condition unless furnished with proper materials.

Man thinks he eats because he is hungry; he really eats because his body is crying out for building materials with which to repair the waste that is always going on, and for fuel to keep itself warm—and it is rather "finicky" as to the supply it wants for each of these purposes. At a pinch, it can use almost anything digestible for either, but it groans and complains, and punishes its unfortunate possessor if it is not properly treated.

What the body considers proper treatment is not always that which the palate or the sense of taste considers such. In fact, the palate is the spoiled child of the house; he is always demanding things that are not good for him, and like other spoiled children, the more he is indulged, the more he demands. Sometimes he can make things very unpleasant, for he may refuse to permit any food to pass the portal where he stands on guard, and hence may bring the whole machinery to a standstill. As a rule, however, if treated firmly, he will give in and work for the good of all.

"Savoury" food pleases the palate and causes a greater flow of the various juices and ferments and so promotes digestion. It is therefore a good thing within proper limits, but what the body really needs is "protein" and heat.

"Protein" is a word with which few of us are familiar; we are familiar enough with the thing, however, and it is really impossible to talk about these matters without using one or two scientific words. The lean of meat, the white of eggs, the gluten of wheat are all mostly protein, and we all know how necessary a supply of one or more of these, or of similar things, is to us, if we do not wish to suffer from hunger or from need of nourishment.

While protein can be used for heating, if necessary, its natural use is for repairing purposes, and for this end the body needs one-fourth of a pound a day. Different amounts are required for old and for young, for men and for women, for those living in cold and for those living in hot climates, for laborers and for clerks, but one-fourth of a pound is the right amount for a full-grown man living in a temperate climate and doing moderately active work.

So much for repairing; now for heat. The body, one will say, needs a definite amount of this too. Scientific men have ascertained through countless experiments, the amount necessary for the average man and have found that it is equal to 3,050 "calories" of heat. (Dear me, there goes another unusual word!) A "calorie" is the amount of heat that will raise the temperature of about one pound of water four degrees Fahrenheit. Sugar, starch, and fats are ideal fuels, though protein will burn well, if necessary. Nothing, however, will take the place of protein as a rebuilding material.

What the body needs, then, is a daily supply of one-fourth of a pound of protein and enough sugar, starch, and fat to supply it with 3,050 calories of heat. This is an average for the year, of course. In our climate, the ration, especially the fuel ration, should be varied with the seasons.

True, certain other elements also are needed by the body, but they are required in very minute quantities, and are so widely distributed in nature, that their supply is always assured. On the other hand, any food which supplies protein and fuel in different proportions than these, is not perfect; if it supplies too much heat to the right amount of protein, it is wasteful, if nothing worse; if it supplies too much protein to too little heat, it compels the body to use some of the protein for fuel, which throws an undue strain on the digestion and will probably result in disease sooner or later.

As most of us know, the price of food has little relation to its value to our bodies, however much it may have to our taste. The larger part of the price of the costlier foods is due to their fine appearance, or their pleasant flavor, or their rarity. Tenderloin of beet is less nutritious than shoulder, but it costs more, as you will find out if you go to buy it; and so with many other articles.

Then again, some foods are more digestible than others, as we have all proved again and again, generally when we have eaten something particularly nice. We live, of course, not on what we eat but on what we digest.

During the last eight or ten years, scientific men have been hard at work finding out the facts in regard to all the commoner articles of food; and these facts have been set forth in huge tables of figures that it makes one's head ache merely to look at. They contain some interesting facts, however, if one has the patience to dig them out.

Ordinary white bread, for instance, is about one-third water, one-twelfth protein, and one-half other digestible matters. If all were used as fuel, a pound of bread would supply 1,200 calories; two and a half pounds per day will supply 3,000 calories, about the amount required. If the protein in the bread be used for its usual purpose of rebuilding, leaving the other digestible substances for fuel, three pounds of bread would furnish just a trifle more of both fuel and protein than is required in a temperate climate by a man doing moderately active muscular work. Bread alone, then, is theoretically very nearly a perfect or "balanced" diet—though three loaves a day would certainly stir that bad boy, the palate, to rebellion.

If a man lived on bread alone he would eat, in a lifetime of seventy years, about 75,000 pounds; or say, he would devour a loaf 30 feet high by 10 feet square, which would cost him about $4,000.

But living wholly on lean meat would be a good deal worse than living wholly on bread. To do this, a man would have to eat three and one-half pounds a day to supply himself with needed food, and would not thrive then as he would on bread. One and a half pounds of meat would supply him all the protein needed, but would yield, in addition, only about one thousand calories of heat. To make up the balance, two pounds more of meat must be eaten, all of it for fuel. Meat is a very poor fuel, and to burn two pounds of it a day would throw a heavy strain on the digestion and probably lead to disease. Fancy eating three and a half pounds of meat a day!

Living on lean meat alone, a man would eat, in seventy years, an ox about thirty-five feet long, fifteen feet high and twelve feet thick, supposing it to consist of solid meat without bones. This would weigh about 90,000 pounds and cost about $15,000.

Thus, bread alone worries the palate and is in time refused; meat alone furnishes too much protein and not enough heat; candy, pastry, and the like supply too much heat, which must be laid away in fat in the body's storehouse or be worked off in nervous energy. No one of the three is good without the others.

On the other hand, a mixed diet makes things a great deal better all around. One pound of bread, one and one-third pounds of lean meat, and one-sixth of a pound of butter daily would supply almost the exact ideal proportions. In seventy years, this would run to 25,000 pounds of bread, 33,000 pounds of meat and 4,000 pounds of butter—62,000 pounds in all, costing, say, $9,000.

If a man lived wholly on fish, he would require eleven pounds a day, or 275,000 pounds in a lifetime—say, a fish 70 feet long by 30 deep by 10 thick. If he lived on rice alone, he would have to eat three pounds a day, or 75,000 pounds in a lifetime—an amount which would furnish him with about 50 per cent, more heat than he had any use for. By combining fish and rice, however, as the Chinese do, in the proportion of one pound of the former and two of the latter, he could live very well. The relative cost in this country would be about $30,000 for fish alone, and $6,000 for rice alone. The two combined would, of course, cost much less than the fish alone.

His hardest time, however, would be when he tried to live on green vegetables or fruits alone, avoiding bread and beans, both of which play such a part in vegetarian bills of fare. Of ordinary vegetables, such as beets, cabbages, tomatoes, and the like, he would have to eat 20 pounds daily. Of fruits, he would have to eat 30 pounds daily, and even of potatoes, 15 pounds.

On the other hand, two pounds of rye bread, two pounds of potatoes, and a taste of fat, either animal, or vegetable, make a very cheap, well-balanced ration, costing only about $1,500 in a lifetime. Thousands of Russian peasants live on just such a diet.

As I said before, all these estimates are for a man doing moderately active muscular work in a temperate climate. A man doing hard muscular work requires about one-fifth more and a man in an office about one-fifth less. Boys require only one-half as much at six years of age and nine-tenths as much at sixteen. Women generally require one-fifth less than men of equal activity.

Lost Island, Part 3

by Ralph Henry Barbour and H.P. Holt, originally begun November 1917

OFF TO SEA

"Gone! Gone where?" asked the captain, with a frown of annoyance.

"I met him on the wharf and he said he'd left the ship, sir," Dave replied.

Suddenly the captain's face wore a smile. The situation appeared to amuse him.

"What d'you know about that!" he said, with a deep laugh. "You 'll get on, son, if you 're always as smart as this. Come back and talk to me in a week. From what I can see of you, I reckon you 'll fill the billet, but I'm too busy to waste time on you now. Come along next Thursday, and then I 'll run the rule over you."

Dave's heart beat a little faster than usual as he walked home. Nothing had been farther from his mind earlier in the day than definitely to ask for a job on a vessel. Now he was as good as booked to sail in a week! In the excitement of the moment he had quite forgotten to ask where the ship was bound for. All he knew was her name—the Pacific Queen. As a matter of fact, he was not deeply concerned as to her destination. Any point of the compass was equally satisfactory to him. Perhaps he rather favored China or Japan, but any other old place would do nearly as well. He felt supremely happy and much more important than he ever remembered. Although he had not officially "signed on," the big captain with the deep laugh had said he would fill the billet, and Dave was prepared to take the captain's word for it. The only thing that made him thoughtful was the fact that he would have to go without telling his father or Aunt Martha. There did not seem to be any way out of that difficulty. If he told Aunt Martha, she would make a fuss and his father would hear of it, and Dave knew what that would lead to. Captain Hallard had definitely said his son was not to go to sea until the following year, and when Captain Hallard said a thing he meant it. Dave weighed the whole situation up carefully on his way home and decided the best thing was to disappear quietly to prevent a scene. He would just leave a note for his dad, explaining matters, and promising to return home immediately he got back to America.

That programme was all right in theory until he reached the house. As soon as he entered the door he felt that Aunt Martha's eyes were on him, and that she somehow knew. As a matter of fact Aunt Martha did glance at him, but not more closely than she always did. He was as dear to her as her own son would have been. David tried to act in a perfectly natural manner, but when, a boy has just arranged to go to sea on the impulse of the moment, he would be more than human if he failed to show that something unusual was in the wind.

"What's come over the lad?" Aunt Martha exclaimed after a while. "You 're dancing around like a pea in a hot frying pan."

This surprised Dave. He was under the impression that lie was exceptionally quiet.

"You 're all excited and worked up," declared Aunt Martha. "I expect you've been to one of these ball games or watching red Indians at the movies, haven't you?"

"No," replied Dave, subsiding into a chair and making an iron resolution not to move a muscle for five minutes at least.

"Then I guess you 're feverish. Why, I never saw your cheeks so flushed."

Dave stood the ordeal well. He buried himself in a book, pretending to read, but the words danced under his eyes. He, David Hallard, was it sailor at last, or at least as good as a sailor.

In seven short days school and Brooklyn would be things of the past. He would be "outward bound." The words had a fine ring to them. There was to be no waiting for twelve dreary months.

Dave lay awake many hours that night, and, with the first streaks of dawn, crept quietly down the stairs, for he wanted to set his eyes on the Pacific Queen again. He felt an air of proprietorship in regard to the vessel. Also, he half dreaded to find she had disappeared in the night, and it was with positive relief that he saw her lying snugly tied up at her berth.

He had learned in recent months to judge the cut of a vessel, and the Pacific Queen looked a trim craft to him. She was a single-screw steel freighter that had not been launched more than three years. No mail-boat that ever tore her way out of New York seemed half so magnificent in Dave's eyes as the Pacific Queen lying at her moorings that early summer morning. There was no sign of life on board except a thin stream of smoke from the galley stack, and the boy stood feasting his eyes on his future home for a full hour before a healthy appetite sent him hurrying home to see what Aunt Martha had for breakfast.

The problem of what to take on the voyage puzzled him somewhat. There were not many things he could take, as the money-box into which he had been dropping dimes and five-cent pieces for a couple of years contained only a few dollars. A large clasp-knife, of course, must be included. Of that there was no question. Whoever heard of a sailor without a clasp-knife? Dave was not absolutely certain what it was for, but he knew it was indispensable, so he boldly laid out a dollar and a half on a fearsome weapon with a bone handle. Fortunately, he had a new pair of heavy shoes. One problem gave him many uneasy hours. His father had once told him that when the time came for him to go to sea he could have the binoculars that formed one of Captain Hallard's souvenirs of the sea. The clasp-knife was a treasure already, but those binoculars were the crowning point of Dave's desires. They had cost an awful lot of money at one time and were not a necessary part of a boy's outfit, but Dave felt it would be a great thing to have them with him.

Choosing a suitable opportunity, he asked: "Dad, do you remember saying I could have your glasses when the time came?"

"Surely," his father agreed, "and I hope you will remember always to treat 'em as carefully as I have done. They've got fine lenses in them, and I don't know that I ever handled a better pair of binoculars in my life. There's many a sea-captain tramping round the ocean who'd give a whole lot to own a pair of glasses like them, so you 'll have to be careful or they will get stolen. Not that stealing is common on board ship. It's the unforgivable sin at sea. I have seen a man thrown overboard and near drowned for taking what wasn't his. All the same you 'll have to keep your eyes open, but if you've still got them when the time comes for you to be pacing the bridge they 'll be worth a sight more to you than the junk you can pick up for good money at most stores. When there's a thick haze and you 're driving down on a vessel that's blowing her buzzer fit to wake the dead, you can't tell which direction the sound is coming from. The lives of everybody on board may depend on your being able to spot the other boat. That's when you want a good pair of binoculars to see through."

"Can I use them now just as if they were mine?" Dave put in anxiously. He had a nice sense of honor. Nothing would have induced him to take them on the Pacific Queen without a favorable reply to this question.

"Why, I don't see any objection," Captain Hallard replied good-naturedly, puffing away at his pipe. "Only, as I say, take care of them, and mind you don't scratch the lenses. They were given to me nigh on thirty years ago by an old deep-sea pilot once when we were in the North Sea, making Flushing on the Dutch coast. I was second mate at the time. It had been blowing a regular gale, and we'd got to the lightship where the pilot cutter was generally hanging around. Dark! Tou couldn't see your hand before you, away from a lamp; and there was a heavy ground swell running. All of a sudden we saw the flare off the cutter, signalling that a pilot was coming to us. It means fifty dollars at least for a few hours' work, so they 'll board you in a mighty bad sea if their small boat can stand it. Our skipper didn't reckon they could make it, but he sent up a flare in answer, and pretty soon the dory bumped alongside with two men at the oars besides the pilot. I'd slung a rope ladder over and was standing by. The pilot got ready to catch hold of the ladder when the ship was n't rolling extra hard. The dory was bobbing up and down and I felt kind of nervous for the old man. He had boarded hundreds of ships in the dark, but the sea is a queer thing, my lad. She's always waiting. You never know when she's going to get you. Just as the pilot was reaching out for the ladder a big wave caught us on the starboard quarter and rolled us right over on top of the dory. It crumpled up like an egg, and I made sure all three men in her must have been killed.

"I gave a yell up to the bridge, bent a line on to a stanchion, took hold of one end of it, and slipped over the side. I could swim quite a bit in those days, but I didn't fancy paddling around in the North Sea under such conditions without something to hang on to the old ship by. I couldn't see a thing, but presently I touched a man's head. I got one arm round him and when we were heaved on board we found it was the pilot. He'd got a nasty bump on the forehead, and was dazed for a while, but he came round after the skipper had given him a stiff glass of grog. We never saw anything of the other men. Before we dropped the pilot he gave me these binoculars that he had in his overcoat pocket, saying he'd made up his mind to retire anyhow, and reckoned he could take a hint from the sea as well as any man."

At times Dave felt almost bursting with the desire to tell one of his school friends the wonderful thing that was to happen on the following Thursday, but he kept his own counsel and waited as patiently as he could. On his last night at home he wrote two letters, one to his father and one to Aunt Martha. The first ran:

Dear Dad:

I couldn't wait, and I'm going to sea. Please forgive me. I 'll take good care of the binoculars and write to you often.

Your loving son,

David.

He propped the two letters up against the clock on the mantelpiece and then went to bed in his own room for the last time, after packing his few possessions in an old suitcase. Dave hardly dared close his eyes lest he should sleep too long. Before it was light he slipped on his clothes.

The stairs creaked as he walked down them in his stocking-feet, with his shoes in one hand and the suitcase in the other. He dreaded waking either his father or Aunt Martha, and yet had to fight with a desire to say good-by to them. He had to bite his lips hard and a lump came into his throat when he passed his father's door.

The lock and bolt on the front door took an eternity to manipulate in the dark. His fingers seemed to be all thumbs. He had never noticed before how much noise the key made in that lock. He wondered vaguely how long it would be before he turned it again. Quite a lot had to happen before then. The lump in his throat grew bigger. Not until he had closed the door ever so softly, and stood on the path, did he realize exactly how dear home was to him, or what a lot Aunt Martha had done for him in her prim fashion. The great adventure was starting. No, it had actually started! From that moment onwards he was to be a wage-earner and a sailor.

For three hours Dave waited on the wharf, until there were signs of life on the Pacific Queen. When Captain Chisholm turned out of his berth he was told there was a boy waiting to see him.

"A boy!" he said. "What does he want?"

"Says you told him to come, sir. He's been on deck since four o'clock."

"Oh, I know," said the captain. "Send him here."

The master mariner was having breakfast when Dave was ushered in. He had already ascertained that the boat was bound for Auckland, New Zealand, and other Australasian ports.

"So you want to go to sea, eh?" the big man asked, attacking a pile of bacon and eggs.

"Yes, sir," Dave replied.

"Ever been afloat?"

"Not yet, sir."

"What's your name?"

"David Hallard."

"How old?"

"Sixteen, sir."

"Got a father?"

"Yes, sir."

"What does he say about it?"

"He says I can be a sailor, sir," he answered, after a moment's hesitation. "He was a ship's master, but he's got rheumatism now."

"Well, you seem a smart enough lad. You 'll have to jump around a bit at sea. We've no use for lazy folk here. Go and report to Mr. Quick, the first mate. He will tell you what to do. He's rough and ready, but he knows his business. Don't let him have to tell you twice and you 'll be all right. We sail at noon. Run along now."

Dave found that Mr. Quick was a very different type of man from the captain. He seemed to bark instead of talking, nor did he appear to be in a particularly pleasant frame of mind that morning. He had fiery red hair and piercing eyes. Mr. Quick devoted precisely sixty seconds to the new hand, during which he gave Dave some terse and emphatic advice, after which he hustled him off to the galley, where he was placed under the wing of Barnes, the ship's cook.

"Well, and what have they sent to plague the life out of me now?" Barnes asked in a high, squeaky voice. If Dave had not been trying hard to make a good impression on every one he might have laughed, for Barnes had the most comical face he had ever seen. In reality he was good-natured enough, but for some reason he always tried to give the impression that he was cranky and unapproachable, perhaps because people had been taking advantage of his amiability for forty years at sea. His fat cheeks were red, and his eyebrows stood out like two white bushes. In spite of the greeting, Dave liked Barnes instinctively on sight, and grew to like him still more in the course of time; and he is a lucky person who makes a friend of the cook afloat.

"I've come to help you," the boy said. "So far, I only know how to peel potatoes, though."

"Well, I sha'n't be askin' you to bake doughnuts or fry chickens for the passengers yet a while," the cook growled, "'cause there ain't no passengers this trip, and again there ain't no chickens to fry. Ship's biscuits, cold, with plenty o' weevils in 'em, is all the hands get on this ship week-days. Sundays it 's different. We has to warm the biscuits up into a puddin' for a change."

"Then what do we want a cook for?" asked Dave, with a grin.

"Look here, youngster, I 'll not stand for any impidence," Barnes declared, puffing out his cheeks and doing wonderful things with his bushy eyebrows. "You'll have a frying-pan about your ears in a brace of shakes. Don't stand there like a dummy! Why don't you get to work? Do you expect me to wash all them dishes?"

Dave whipped off his coat and started on the task with a alacrity which brought a grunt of satisfaction from the cook—a sound which Barnes hastily strove to hide with a cough.

It occurred to the new hand that he might be able to extract some information from the cook.

"Can you tell me what other duties I 'll have on board this boat, Mr. Barnes, besides washing dishes?"

The cook glared at him.

"Not a thing, my son," he said. "It's one of the rules on this ship that the boy isn't allowed to do anything but wash dishes. When he's got through he has to part his hair in the middle and dine with the skipper—if there isn't some more dishes to wash, which there allus is. What are you pesterin' me with fool questions for, anyhow? Do you take me for the navigatin' officer or only the owner? Eeach me that frying-pan down and I 'll belay your ears with it."

Dave promptly obeyed, and got a thump on the shoulders with it for "more impidence." After that, he was kept busy with various duties in the galley until, for the first time in his life, he felt the peculiar vibration of a ship's engines. The propeller had begun its endless song of "chugchug-a-chug."

Another Hallard had started on his first voyage.

"Can I go on deck a few minutes, Mr. Barnes, please?" he asked. The idea of cutting up cabbages while the lights of his home town dropped astern did not appeal to him.

"Why, yes, son," the cook replied, working his eyebrows so ridiculously that the boy had to laugh in spite of the curious feeling it gave him to know that Aunt Martha was probably in tears at the moment and that his dad was possibly watching that very ship from the window upstairs. "Go right along. Don't forget to ask Mr. Quick for a deck-chair and plenty of cushions. You 'll need the cushions if Mr. Quick catches you admirin' the scenery."

Dave slipped up the companion-way. Already they were steaming along at seven or eight miles an hour, a thick trail of smoke hanging astern.

All was hustle and hurry on deck. The boy dodged out of the way of the sailors, and, standing on a coil of rope, watched familiar scenes disappear. It seemed difficult to realize that he was not dreaming. The lump was there in his throat bigger than ever when he went back to the galley, and something in his expression caught the watchful eye of the cook.

"Never mind, laddie," said Barnes. "This is your first trip, isn't itf Left the old folks behind, eh? We've all been through it. It's a dog's life at sea, but you 'll be back eatin' cornbeef an' cabbage at home afore you know it."


...to be continued