Chapter V (1)

"Do you think they will really like me?" asked Mrs. Franklin for the hundredth time, and for the hundredth time her husband answered, smiling, "I think they really will."

They were just arriving at Brenton. Many inquiring eyes had been turned towards them in the train, for every one knew John Franklin, and every one surmised at once that this was the much-discussed second wife.

It was decided by those who saw her that she was a very attractive-looking woman. She was rather slight and of medium height, and she was quietly dressed in black, for she was in mourning. Though not actually pretty, she had a charming and very expressive face, and she was very young-looking. Somebody who sat in front of her said that her voice was low and very musical.

Brenton decided at the first glance that Mr. John Franklin had done very well for himself.

"There is the carriage," said he, as they crossed the station platform.

"And this is Jack, I am sure," said his wife, holding out her hand with a smile which won her step-son on the spot. He was too shy, however, to do more than grasp it warmly as he stood beside her with uncovered head.

"He is a dear," she said to herself, "and just like John. If only the others are as cordial. Somehow I dread Edith."

She was quite as excited as were her step-daughters when she drove up the avenue, and her eyes fell for the first time upon the group on the piazza.

Cynthia walked down the path to meet her, holding Janet and Willy by either hand. Edith remained standing on the step.

"How do you do?" said Cynthia, with a cordial smile.

Mrs. Franklin looked at her. Then she put her arms around her and kissed her.

"This is Cynthia, I am sure," she whispered, tremulously, "and these are 'the children.'"

She kissed them and passed on to her husband's eldest daughter, while they greeted their father.

Edith was very tall, and her position on the step gave her the advantage of several inches in addition. She fairly towered above the new-comer.

"How do you do, Mrs. Franklin?" she said, holding out a very stiff hand and arm. She had made up her mind that she for one would not be kissed.

"And are you Edith?"

"Yes, Mrs. Franklin. I am Edith. I hope your journey has not tired you?"

"Not at all. I am not easily tired."

Edith kissed her father, then turned again to the stranger.

"Let me show you the way upstairs."

And thus Mrs. Franklin entered her new home.

"I am afraid it is going to be war with Edith at first, but I won't be disheartened," she thought. "I'll make her like me. It is natural for her to feel so, I suppose. Ah me, I am in a difficult position."

* * * * *

Edith and Cynthia shared the same room. It was a large one with a bay-window, which commanded a fine view of the winding river and the meadows beyond.

One could tell at a glance upon entering the room which part of it Edith occupied, and which Cynthia. Cynthia's dressing-table, with its ungainly pin-cushion, its tangle of ribbons and neckties tossed down anywhere that they might happen to fall, its medley of horseshoes, tennis balls, and other treasures, was a constant source of trial to Edith, whose possessions were always kept in perfect neatness. She scolded and lectured her sister in vain; Cynthia was incorrigible.

"It's too much bother to keep things in order," she would say. "After you have been around with your duster and your fixings-up I never can find a thing, Edith."

The night of Mrs. Franklin's arrival they talked over the new state of family affairs.

"I think she is nice," said Cynthia, with decision. "I like her, and so does Jack."

She was perched on the side of the bed, leaning against the tall post, her favorite position when she had anything of especial interest to discuss.

"I don't," said Edith, who was brushing out her long hair with great vigor. "I don't like her, and I _won't_."

"That is just it, Edith. You have made up your mind you won't like her just because you didn't want her to come. Now she is here, why don't you make the best of it? What do you dislike about her?"

"Her coming here. She had no right to."

"Edith, how silly you are! She wouldn't have come if papa had not asked her, and she wouldn't have if she had not loved papa. I should think you would like her for that if nothing else. I do. And she is pretty and sweet and dear, and I am going to help her all I can. I think I shall even call her 'mamma.'"

"Cynthia, I shall never do that. Never, to my dying day!"

"Well, I shall; that is, if she doesn't mind."

"She will. It will make her seem too old."

"I don't believe she would mind that, and any one can see she isn't a bit old. I think we are very fortunate, as long as papa was going to marry again, to have him find such a nice, lovely woman."

Edith did not reply. She finished her braid and tied it up. Then she said:

"Of course, it is a great deal harder for me than for the rest of you. I thought I was always going to help father, and now I can't."

"Of course it's hard, Edith, but--but don't you think you could still help him if--if you were nice to his wife?"

"I don't want to help him that way," said Edith, honestly, as she blew out the light.

The next day when Cynthia asked somewhat timidly if she might call her step-mother "mamma," she was surprised and touched by the expression that came into Mrs. Franklin's face.

"Oh, thank you, Cynthia!" she said. "I thought I would not ask you, I would just leave it to you, but I should like it so much."

And so they all called her by her new title except Edith.

Preparations for the tennis tournament were in full swing, and Cynthia and Jack, who were to play together in mixed doubles, were practising hard.

The court at Oakleigh was not a good one, so they were in the habit of going to the tennis club at the village when they could get there in the afternoon. It was not always easy, for they were short of horses, and it was too far to walk both ways.

"Why do we not have some more horses?" said Mrs. Franklin one morning when the question was being discussed.

"Why, we can't afford to," replied Cynthia, in some surprise. "Besides the farm horses we only have two, you know, and they get all used up going to and from the village so much."

Mrs. Franklin glanced at her husband. Then she said, "It seems as if we ought to have more. You know, John, there is all that money of mine. Why not buy a horse and trap for the children to use?"

"My dear Hester, I can never consent. You know I wish you to keep all your money for your own exclusive use. You may have all the horses you want for yourself, but--

"John, don't be absurd. What can I do with all that money, and no one but Neal to provide for? Your children are mine now, and I wish them to have a horse of their own."

The thing of all others for which Edith had been longing for years. But she determined that she would never use her step-mother's gift.

"Is Neal your brother?" asked Cynthia.

"Yes. Haven't I told you about him? He is my dear and only brother. He is off on a yacht now, but he is coming here soon. He is older than you and Jack, just about Edith's age."

Jack looked up with interest.

"I'm glad there's another fellow coming," he said. "There are almost too many girls around here."

"Jack, how hateful of you, when you always have said I was as good as another fellow!" exclaimed Cynthia.

"Well, so you are, almost; but I'm glad he's coming, anyway."

The new horse was bought, and a pretty and comfortable cart for them to use, a "surrey" that would hold two or four, as occasion required. At first Edith would not use it. She jogged about with the old horse and buggy when she went to the village, thereby exciting much comment among her friends. Every one suspected that Edith could not reconcile herself to the coming of her step-mother.

The day of the tournament arrived. Before Mr. Franklin went to Boston that morning he called Edith into the library and closed the door.

"I have something to say to you, Edith. I have been perfectly observant of your conduct since I came home, though I have not spoken of it before. I preferred to wait, to give you a chance to think better of it. Your treatment of my wife is not only rude, it is unkind, as rudeness always is."

"Father, I haven't been rude. Why do you speak to me so? It is all her fault. She has made you do it."

"Hester has not mentioned the subject to me, Edith. You are most unjust. You are making yourself very conspicuous, and are placing me in a very false light by your behavior. Are you going to the tennis tournament to-day?"

"Yes, papa."

"How do you intend to get there?"

"Drive myself in the buggy, of course."

"There is no 'of course' about it," said her father, growing more and more angry. "If you go, you will go as the others do, in the surrey. I will not have them go down with an empty seat, while you rattle in to the grounds in the old buggy in the eyes of all Brenton."

"Then I won't go at all. The buggy was good enough before; why isn't it now?"

"Not another word! I am ashamed of you, Edith, and disappointed. I have no time for more, but remember what I have said. You go in the surrey to the tournament, or you stay at home."

He left her and hurried off to the train. Edith went to her own room and shut herself in. For more than an hour a bitter fight raged within her. Her pride was up in arms.

If she gave up and drove to the club in the surrey, every one would know that she was countenancing her step-mother, as she expressed it, and she had told Gertrude Morgan that she would never do it. If she staid at home, she would excite more comment still, for it was generally known that she was to act as one of the hostesses, and she had no reasonable excuse to offer for staying away.

Altogether Edith thought herself a much-abused person, and she cried until her eyes were swollen, her cheeks pale, and her nose red.

Cynthia burst in upon her.

"What is the matter, Edith? You look like a perfect fright! Are you ill?"

"Ill! No, of course not. I wish you would leave me in peace, Cynthia. What do you want?"

"To come into my own room, of course. But what is the matter, Edith? Was papa scolding you?"

Edith, longing for sympathy, poured out the story, but she did not receive much from that practical young person.

"I wouldn't cry my eyes out about that. Of course you will have to do as papa says, or he won't like it at all. And it is a thousand times nicer to drive in the surrey than that old rattle-trap of a buggy. The surrey runs so smoothly, and Bess goes like a breeze. You had better give in gracefully, Edith. But see this lovely silver buckle and belt mamma has just given me to wear this afternoon. Isn't it perfect? She says she has more than she can wear. It was one of her own. _I_ think she's a dear. But there is Jack calling me to practise."

And happy-hearted Cynthia was off again like a flash.

Edith bathed her face and began to think better of the subject. After all, she would go. It was a lovely day, every one would be there, and it was not worth while to make people talk. Above all, she would be sorry to miss the affair to which she had been looking forward for weeks.

She dressed herself that afternoon in a simple gingham that had seen the wash-tub many times, and took her place on the back seat of the surrey, with Mrs. Franklin, Jack and Cynthia sitting in front. Mrs. Franklin was in the daintiest of summer frocks, and Edith glanced at her somewhat enviously.

"I wish we were the ones that had the money," she thought, "and that she were poor. I believe then I should not mind having her so much."

Mrs. Franklin had a gay and cheery disposition, and she tried to pay no attention to Edith's coldness.

"I wish I were going to play myself," she said.

"Why, do you play?" asked Cynthia, in surprise.

"To be sure I do. I used to play a great deal at one time. I mean to ask your father to have the tennis-court at Oakleigh made over, and then we can have some games there."

"How jolly!" exclaimed Jack and Cynthia together.

"We cannot afford to," put in Edith, coldly.

Mrs. Franklin paid no attention to this. "It will be nice when Neal comes," she added.

"Neal, always Neal," thought Edith. "Pleasant for us to have a strange boy here all the time. Oh, dear, how hateful I am! I don't feel nice towards anybody. If only papa had never seen or heard of the Gordons, how much happier we should all have been."

But she was the only one of the household that thought so. The younger children had been completely won over, and it was a constant source of surprise and chagrin to Edith to see how easily their step-mother managed the hitherto refractory pair.

Before long the party reached the grounds. The Brenton Tennis Club was a very attractive place. The smooth and well-kept courts stretched away to the river, which wound and curved towards the old town, for the club was on the outskirts of the village. The river was wider here than it was farther up at Oakleigh, and picturesque stone bridges crossed it at intervals.

Benches had been placed all about the grounds, from which the spectators could watch the game, and under a marquee was a dainty table, with huge bowls of lemonade and plates of cake. Edith presided at the tea-kettle, looking very pretty, notwithstanding her old gown and the stormy morning she had passed.

Mrs. Franklin, upon whom most of the Brenton people had already called, sat on one of the benches with some friends, and was soon absorbed in the game.

Cynthia played well. She flew about the court, here, there, everywhere at once, never interfering with her partner's game, but, always ready with her own play. She and Jack, though younger than the other players, held their ground well.

It was only a small tournament, and "mixed doubles" were finished up in one afternoon, Jack and Cynthia carrying off second prizes with great glee.

"Just what I wanted, mamma," said Cynthia, as she displayed a fine racket of the latest style and shape; "I hope they will have another tournament before the summer is over, so that I'll have a chance to win first prize with this new racket."

They were driving home in the dusk, for the game had lasted late, when they overtook and passed a boy who was walking on the road to Oakleigh, with a bag slung over his shoulder on a stick, while a black spaniel trotted along at his heels. Mrs. Franklin did not see him.

"I say there, Hessie! Can't you give a fellow a lift?" he shouted.

"Why, Neal!" exclaimed Mrs. Franklin; "where did you come from? Jack, stop, please. It is Neal! You dear boy, I am so glad to see you! This is my brother, children; and, Neal, here are Edith, Cynthia, and Jack Franklin."

"Whew, what a lot! I say, Hessie, what were you thinking of when you married such a family as that? But I fancy you haven't got room for me in there. I can walk it easily enough. Don't mind a bit."

"Nonsense! we can squeeze up," said his sister, which they did forthwith, and Neal Gordon climbed into the cart.

"No room for you, Bob," he remarked to the spaniel, who danced about the road in a vain endeavor to follow his master; "you can go ahead on your own legs."

He was a tall, well-developed fellow, with a hearty, cheery voice, and a frank, sometimes embarrassing, way of saying the first thing that came into his head.

"What a crowd!" he continued. "Any more at home?"

"Yes, two," said his sister, gayly--"Janet, and Willy. I am so glad you have come, Neal. But why didn't you let us know?"

"Couldn't. The _Dolphin_ put in at Marblehead, and I had gotten rather tired of it aboard, so I thought I'd cut loose and drop down on you awhile. Got out of cash too."

"Oh, Neal!"

"Now you needn't say anything. You didn't give me half enough this time. Too much absorbed getting married, I suppose. I say," he added, turning to Jack, "what kind of a step-ma does Hessie make?"

"Bully," replied Jack, laconically.

"I thought she would, but, she's on her best behavior now. She'll order you all round soon, the way she does me."

"They don't deserve it as you do, you silly boy," said his sister.

They were a merry party that night at supper. It seemed as if Neal would be a great addition to the family, and even Edith thawed somewhat. This pleased Mr. Franklin, who had been thoroughly annoyed by her behavior, and who had been really afraid that she would stay at home from the tournament rather than use his wife's gift.

"Everything will run smoothly now," he said to himself, and, manlike, he soon forgot all about the trouble.

"By-the-way, what relation am I to this family?" asked Neal, presently. "If Hester is your mother, of course I must be your uncle. I hope you will all treat me with proper respect."

"I hope we shall be able to," said Cynthia, looking up with a saucy smile. She liked the new-comer immensely.

"Did you ever run an incubator?" asked Jack, after supper.

"Not I. Have you got one?"

"Yes. Come along down and see it."

They descended to the cellar, and Jack turned the eggs while he explained his methods to his new friend.

"Is there money in it?" asked Neal.

"Lots, I hope. But the trouble is, you've got to spend a lot to start with, and if you're not successful it's a dead loss. My first hatch went to smash."

"How would you like to take me into partnership? I want to make some money."

"First-rate."

They were deep in a discussion of business arrangements when they went back to the others.

"We'll make a 'go' of it," said Neal. "It's just the thing I've been looking for."

"I have an idea, Jack," said Mrs. Franklin, as they came in. "When are the chickens to come out?"

"Next Thursday."

"Then we will celebrate the event in proper style. We will ask our friends to come to a 'hatching bee.'"

"But suppose they don't hatch? Suppose they act the way they did before?" said Jack, dubiously.

"Oh, they'll hatch, I will answer for them. You have learned how to take better care of them, and no one has interfered, and--oh, I am sure they will be out in fine shape!"

Only Edith objected to this proposition, and she dared not say so before her father.

Apparently the Gordons were going to carry all before them, and she, who until so recently had been to all intents and purposes the mistress of the house, was not even asked if she approved of the idea. She went to bed feeling that her lot was a very hard one.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

WHEN ROYALTY TRAVELS.

BY WILLIAM HEMMINGWAY.

To live like a king is all very well, but to travel like one--may we all be delivered from such a fate! The modern monarch flits from his palace like the pheasant from his covert. True, the hunter may not pot him this time, but the danger of being killed is very great, and the king, like the golden-hued bird, knows that many of his brothers have fallen before the destroyer, who is constantly on the alert. Pheasants may be shot only during certain weeks, but anarchists never cease devising and trying new ways of king-killing.

Whenever a monarch starts on a journey he is haunted by the belief that the anarchists must have found out all about it beforehand in their usual way, and that they are busy with plots for his destruction. Even Queen Victoria, that best-beloved wearer of a crown, is bound to use almost as many precautions as the Czar of Russia. No common traveller has so much to be thankful for at the end of a journey as a safely arrived monarch. It is much pleasanter to be a President of the United States, pay your own fare, and feel afraid of nobody.

When the Queen of Great Britain starts for Windsor or Balmoral, or on any other railway journey, a time is chosen that will cause the least inconvenience to traffic; for the invariable rule is that no other trains may run over the road the Queen is using. All the switches are locked. Preceded and followed by galloping troopers of the Household Guard, the Queen's carriage is driven to the railway station at a furious pace. No one--I mean no ordinary person--knows the hour at which she will start or the streets through which she will go. The special royal train is waiting at the platform, and the royal carriage goes whirling toward it through the most unexpected streets. Every loyal Briton loves to show his love for her Majesty by a hearty roar, but no one has a chance to cheer her on her travels. There is a distant clatter of hoofs; it comes nearer, and you hear the rattling of sabres and whir of wheels. A blur of redcoats and nodding plumes shoots past, and the hoof-beats are dying in the distance before you can say, "There goes the Queen."

Of course the royal coach goes at a sedate pace during a royal progress or parade. Then there are more soldiers along the streets than you or I could count, and the Queen appears bowing in her open carriage of state, with all her outriders and officers and guards and the burly English footmen and Scotch gillies necessary for display.

When the Queen of Great Britain and Ireland and Empress of India travels she occupies her own special car. A special locomotive is reserved for her, and it is run by a special engineer, always the most experienced man in the company's service. On the London and Southwestern Railway, for example, engine No. 575 draws the Queen's car. Thomas Higgs, a fine, keen-eyed old Briton, an engineer for nearly forty years, holds the lever and the throttle. It is his boast that during this long period of service not one of his millions of passengers has ever been killed. Not one even has been injured. He is more careful than ever when her Majesty is aboard. Between Windsor and Gosport alone there are fifteen junctions, and every one of these is a possible danger-spot. A pilot train runs a short distance in advance of the Queen's special to make sure that the way is clear, and that the track has not been put out of order.

The interior of the Queen's car is furnished after the fashion of the white drawing-room at Windsor Castle. There are white silk cushions, embroidered with the initials V.R. (_Victoria Regina_), and the Garter and its motto, all in gold thread. The carpet is of velvet. The curtains at the windows are hung on silver poles, and the door-handles are plated with gold. The Queen's own comfortable arm-chair is at the rear of the saloon and faces the engine, and there are three other arm-chairs. The walls of the car (Englishmen call it a "carriage") are of polished satin-wood. The whole car cost about $35,000. The Queen and her suite are furnished with special time-tables printed in purple ink on white satin, adorned with the royal arms and an embossed border of gold. In winter the car is heated with hot-water pipes, and in summer it is cooled by an extra rooting of wet cloths, which are frequently soaked with very cold water, and by blocks of ice placed in the interior of the car.

If by any chance the railroad journey includes a night of travel, her Majesty sleeps in her own bed in her car. The Prince of Wales has a private car too, but he often travels in an ordinary first-class coach. Whenever it becomes known--such things will leak out at times--that the Queen or the Prince is travelling over the line, great crowds gather at the stations and hurl cheer after cheer at the royal train. This is much nicer than the Russian style of hurling something explosive.

The King and Queen of Portugal have a train of three special cars that were built for them in France upon American plans. This shows what wide-awake, intelligent persons the King and Queen of Portugal are. They are not particularly afraid of dynamiters or any other kind of assassins, and although poor--among kings--they manage to have a fairly good time on wheels.

In planning the royal train King Charles of Portugal went so far in his Americanism as to demand vestibuled platforms. Of course, any one may ride in a vestibuled train in our country by simply paying a few dollars, but in Europe it takes a king of strong will power to obtain such luxury.

The royal train of Portugal consists of a dining-car, a car for the royal ministers, etc., and the car especially reserved for the King and Queen. All three are of the size and general appearance of high-class American cars. Outside their color is a dark rich green, relieved with tracings of gold and red. The escutcheon of the royal arms of Portugal is painted in the middle of each side. The dining-car is fitted up in the style of Louis XV. The table can be folded and put away when not in use. The interior ornamentation of carved oak, amaranth, citron-wood, etc., is very rich indeed. Next to the dining-room is the smoking salon, where the King, or even Queen Amelia, may relieve the monotony of travel with a cigarette.

There are four sleeping-rooms in the royal car besides rooms for the attendants. The most remarkable thing about this car is the dais and divan at one end of the salon. No one may sit on this raised divan but the King or the Queen. A drapery of silk velvet forms the background. Above the back of the divan the royal arms are carved. Probably it diverts his Majesty's mind to sit here on high now and then while journeying and call his ministers around him and ask them questions and make wise comments, as Kings always do--in certain books.

Downright worry drove Czar Alexander III. of Russia to his death. Taller and stronger than any of his subjects, not one of whom could cope with him in wrestling, this imperial giant was actually tormented into his grave by fears of nihilistic plots to destroy him. Nowhere was this fear greater than when on railroad journeys. Again and again Alexander abandoned long trips at the last moment because the nihilists had learned his plans, and there was reason to believe that they had dug mines under the railroad track and were ready to blow him and his train to fragments. His son has not been on the throne long enough, the nihilists say, for them to decide whether or not they shall try to kill him.

Alexander's train was a fort on wheels. It was built in 1889, two years after a terrible underground explosion of dynamite, which wrecked the Czar's train at Borki, when he was on his way from the Crimea to St. Petersburg with the Empress and their family. In that accident twenty-one persons were killed and thirty-six were wounded, but not one of the imperial family was injured. The Czar showed himself a brave man by going to the aid of the wounded as soon as he could climb out of the wreck. All the cars in the train were of wood.

The new train of 1889 was made of wood too, but the cars were armored. The outside of each car was of heavy iron, inside of which was a layer of eight inches of cork. All of the four cars in the train were exactly alike outwardly, so that a nihilist would find it hard to pick out the Czar's car should he by any accident get within shooting distance. When the Czar travelled he often spent his time in a car that was so built and painted as to look like a baggage-car from the outside. When the Czar visited Emperor William III., at Berlin, in October, 1889, six Russian workmen put gratings of wrought-iron at the tops and bottoms of all the chimneys of the old Schloss and palace at Potsdam, which the Czar occupied. This was to keep out nihilists' bombs. Armed sentries patrolled the roofs. When the Czar started for home all the railroad bridges, as well as the streets of Berlin, Marienburg, and Dantzic, were guarded by soldiers, policemen, and detectives. Not until after the Czar left Dantzic was it known whether he had proceeded by train or on the imperial yacht _Derjava_. When the train started for the border 50,000 Russian troops were placed on guard along the railroad tracks. Every journey the unhappy ruler made was attended by similar precautions.

When Francais Felix Faure, the newly-elected President of the French Republic, made his first railroad journey after election, he found that being a mere President is almost as unpleasant as playing king. For fear of anarchists a strong force of soldiers and four sappers and miners guarded each of the railway bridges and grade crossings between Versailles and Paris. Extra policemen and a little army of five hundred detectives watched the palace in which the National Assembly sat. A strong battalion of lancers and more foot soldiers than you could count escorted the new President to the special train in waiting at Versailles at 8 o'clock on Friday morning, January 18th. Fortunately no anarchist got a shot at the President as he was whirled along, but as he emerged from the St. Lazare railway station in Paris voices in the crowd yelled at him, "Down with the check-takers!"--a pointed hint that M. Faure was implicated in the Panama Canal scandal.

A CORRECTION.

"I've dot two Movver Gooses,"
Said Mollie. "If you please,"
Said Johnny, "Don't say Gooses,
Because it's Mother Geese."

DR. RAINSFORD'S ADVICE TO BOYS.

When we were boys we did things without thinking much about them. Boys do not generally think much; yet I think even when I was a boy I found myself sometimes wondering why it was so hard to do the things I wanted to do well. It was ever so much harder, of course, to do well the things that one did not specially want to do. I want to talk to you a little about the reason that lies back of this difficulty of doing things well.

When I was thirteen my father gave me a gun. That birthday long ago is one of the very reddest of red-letter days in my life. I have had many a good time since; but none of these good times, I think, have quite come up to that hour, so full of astonishment and delight, when I saw the very thing I had been longing for and dreaming about so long--saw the soft-looking brown barrels lying snugly against the green-baize lining of the case, and felt the ring of the lock under my fingers as I drew the hammers of my own gun back. (Those were the days of muzzle-loaders, boys.) But when I had got that gun--the desire of my eyes, the pride of my life--it was, oh, how long, before I could hit things flying with it. On Saturday half-holidays (we had only one half a holiday a week when I was at school), I used to practise steadily. All my savings went to shot, powder, and wads. I almost lost the desire for candy with its disuse. I even turned my back on the pond where we used to fish for roach. I had seen my father kill birds flying, one with each barrel, and there was neither rest nor satisfaction for me till I could do the same. I think I took to shooting naturally; yet how long it was, and how hard I had to work, before I learned to shoot steadily and well.

It was the same story over again when I had grown older and gone to college. There I determined to row. If ever you are in old England in May, go, if you can, to Oxford or Cambridge, if it is only to see the college races. The river-banks then are green, so green, and the hedges and trees are one waving nosegay. The big buttercups grow in yellow bunches by the brink. Where the meadows slope down to the stream crowds of gayly dressed people are standing, for the sisters and friends of every college lad have come up to see the sight. This is on one side of the river; on the other stretches the towing-path, and along it surge a mighty throng of "men" clad in all the colors of the rainbow, wild with excitement, shouting themselves hoarse. They are out to see their college crew row. And what a sight those crews are! Round the bend, here they come at last, the eight-oar crews, the men's bodies swinging like pendulums, the eight pair of hands dropping at the end of each stroke as one, and then shooting out altogether. With a sweep and a swish they dash by, and the rushes of college color struggle to keep up with them. Ah, the very memory of it makes me thrill still! When first I saw their ease and splendid strength, how simple it looked. Surely, any fairly strong man could make those broad-bladed oars come swishing through, leaving behind them, well below the surface, a clear track of white water. So it seemed to me, and I determined there and then, that first May morning, I too would row. But I tell you it costs something to sit in a good eight-oar. Long months of hard work, obedience to orders, and patient drudgery have to be undergone before the broad-bladed oar comes swishing through as I have tried to describe it. Your back aches, your wrists feel limp as wet strings, and your chest is absolutely bursting, and yet you do not seem to be able to put one good stroke in; the boat slips away from you all the time. So for weeks and months runs your daily experience. But when the rudiments of rowing are mastered at last, when patient attention and hard exercise have made you strong, and taught you when and where to use your strength, then comes the reward. And whatever delightful experiences life may have in store for you, few indeed of them can surpass the exhilaration, the sense of triumphant power, that none know, perhaps, so well as those who have rowed on a first-class eight-oar crew.

Do you see what I am driving at? I have been talking of our pleasures, the things we want to do and choose to do. These, I say, cost us trouble, and a great deal of care and painstaking. If any boy thinks he can command success, even in his sports, without putting into them all the will and all the brains, as well as all the brawn, he has as his own, he must soon find himself left out in the cold. At best he can only be a second-rate. Now this law of life, namely, that you must work hard to succeed in anything, does not apply to us, who are lords of creation, alone. One of the most wonderful things about our world is that the rules of the game of life are obeyed by the smallest atom that lives as well as by "king man" himself. If any living thing neglects or disobeys those rules, that disobedient being, whether it be common or low, suffers for its disobedience. If it obeys those rules, it grows stronger by obedience, and increases and develops its own power.

Let me tell you one or two instances of obedience by the creatures round us to these hard rules of life.

Have you ever seen a little salmon? A dainty, plucky little fellow he is. It takes him two years to grow from the egg to your finger's length. These two years of babyhood are spent in the quiet waters of his river home. By the time the second summer is passed he is about five inches long, golden-sided, with bright crimson spots, and weighs perhaps two ounces. Then he starts on his first great journey to waters unknown. No one knows where he goes, what lonely places he visits, where in the great sea the little adventurer makes his winter home. Certainly the Arctic Ocean is not too cold for him, for the waters of the far Mackenzie, emptying themselves into the polar sea, swarm with salmon; but wherever the little fellow does winter, the climate, food, and life must agree with him amazingly. He goes seaward in August. Next summer he is back in the same old river; and not only that, but in the very pool in it where he was hatched out. He is the same, but not the same; for now he weighs from three to five pounds. In the river it took him two years to grow five inches and weigh two ounces. In those six months of sea life he has gained at least twenty-four times his own weight. There is a reward for you! He felt he ought to go away and fight it out in the great sea. He went, he fought, he won, and now he revisits the old river a very different fish indeed. There is no longer any reason why he need lurk behind stones and dash aside to avoid the rush of the voracious trout. The very trout that once tried to gobble him must move out of the way, for he is almost a salmon. What has made him the strong beautiful fish he is? One thing, and one only--the struggle with the deep sea, and all the deep sea means. If he had been content to stay behind his fellows in the warm clear river he would be scarcely any bigger than he was last fall. His red spots would not be quite so bright, nor he himself so vigorous. Nature whispered to him to go forth and strive and grow, and since he obeyed her, and did his best, she kept her word with him.

Have you ever tried to crawl up on a bunch of wild ducks, or sat behind a blind while your wooden decoys were spread on the water all around you? If you have done either, I know you will agree with me when I say the wild duck is a very smart fellow indeed. His eye is keen, he is full of sense, and very hard to fool. Now his cousin, the tame duck, is next door to an idiot. He cannot hide himself or protect himself in any way. Strangely enough, too, while the wild duck finds one wife and one family quite all he can attend to, the big, hulking tame duck is a regular Mormon, and prefers a dozen wives, and neglects his children sadly. It is not hard to guess why these two birds are so different. The tame duck is only a wild duck domesticated, that is, put in such a position that he could not continue to live the natural sort of life that was best for him, the life of continuous struggle. He is, in short, a degenerate wild duck; his wings are not so broad or so strong, the muscles of his breast have grown puny and shrunken; he does not even want to fly far north in spring or far south in winter. He is content with his farm-yard and puddle. He has stopped _trying_, and so has stopped _growing_ too.

One more instance I will give you, boys, of the important place this law of struggle plays in the lives of the very beasts. I was visiting some time ago the museum in one of our universities. One of the professors was with me, and we came to a case full of plaster casts of brains, the brains of animals. While looking at these you could, of course, easily compare their size and character, and form some opinion of the intelligence of the animal itself. The professor pointed out to me one very interesting brain cast. It was taken from the head of a rhinoceros that had lived very long ago--lived at the same time as mammoths and other antiquated animals. It was quite a large and well-developed brain. We next went to another case and took out the cast of a common rhinoceros, such a one as lived in our own times, and it was very evident that the present-day rhino was not nearly so large or intelligent as his progenitor of long ago. This seemed at first very strange; for why should the rhino's brain have degenerated while they are still struggling forward in the march of life? The answer is to be found in the sort of battle they have to fight. When the antediluvian rhino lived, the world was peopled with terrible monsters, brutes of great strength and savagery. With these he had no easy time of it. He had to match himself against them. Great strength alone was not enough; he needed cunning as well. Struggle he must, and struggle hard or go under; and he survived because he did struggle hard and did not go under. When, however, most of the monstrous forms of life had gradually passed away, the rhinoceros had no enemy he stood much in dread of. The milder animals of a later day get out of his way. There is nothing to be gained by contending with him. He needs no longer to strive; life comes easily, and food is plenty. Thus it is that a perpetually "good time" resulted in weakening his head and lowering his intelligence. He is, indeed, the degenerate descendant of a noble parent.

So, boys, wherever we look, the same result is taught us. The very beasts of the field can only hold their own by doing their best. We, their kings and lords, must put our right hand to the work, too. We can only live our best life, develop our true self, by striving. The tallest and strongest trees are what they are because they have overcome the mighty force of gravitation that seeks to drag down and hold down to the earth every particle of matter within them. Life, even in the tree, means something that _overcomes_, rises above a force that holds it down; and yet only holds it down that its most beautiful and best nature may be developed to the full. So it is with us men. The brave man is not he who never felt fear. If a man is intelligent he must, under fearful circumstances, feel fear; but he who, feeling fear, overcomes his feeling and stands unmoved, or does in spite of danger the right and brave thing--this man has true courage, this man is the real hero. You may have heard the story of the officer who, when the cannon balls began to cut down files of his men, stood all trembling in front of the regiment. It looked as though he was terribly afraid. His knees were shaking under him, and his face was set and white. Some one standing near heard him talking to himself, heard him say, as he looked down at his trembling legs, "If you only knew where I was going to take you, you would give way altogether." That, I take it, is true courage. On the walls of a great school-room in one of the largest public schools in England is written this motto--and you cannot find a better:

"So near is glory to our dust,
So near is God to man;
When Duty whispers, 'Lo, thou must!'
The youth replies, 'I can.'"

W. S. RAINSFORD.

* * * * *

BOBBY'S GARDEN.

BOBBY. "I have just finished digging and raking my garden, and now I want five cents."

MAMMA. "What, five cents for making your garden?"

BOBBY. "No, mamma, not for making the garden, but to buy a package of succotash seed."

This Department is conducted in the interest of Amateur
Photographers, and the Editor will be pleased to answer any
question on the subject so far as possible. Correspondents should
address Editor Camera Club Department.

PAPERS FOR BEGINNERS, No. 8.

OVER-EXPOSED PLATES, AND HOW TO TREAT THEM.

The process of developing a negative would be very easily and quickly mastered if the exposure of the sensitive plates were always timed exactly right. Correct exposure, however, is the exception rather than the rule of amateur photography. To get good negatives, therefore, the amateur must learn to distinguish between a correct and incorrect exposure of the plate, and how to treat it, if incorrectly exposed, in order to preserve the image which is impressed on it.

Over-exposure is the most common fault of the beginner in photography. A properly exposed plate grows into a negative step by step, until the whole image, with all its delicate gradations of lights and shadows, is fully developed. An over-exposed plate acts in a very different manner. When placed in the developer, instead of the high lights first appearing and the objects coming out gradually, the whole image comes out almost at once--"flashes up" is the technical and really appropriate term. If the plate is left in the developer, the image will fade away almost as quickly as it came out, and the result will be a thin negative, from which satisfactory prints cannot be made.

TREATMENT.

As soon as the image flashes up, showing that the plate has been over-exposed, take it from the developer and place it in a dish of clean water to stop development. Turn the developer from the tray and rinse the tray. Mix up a weak solution of developer, or dilute this same developer one-third with water. Add to this weak developer a few drops of a solution of bromide of potassium, prepared with a quarter of an ounce of bromide of potassium and five ounces of water. This solution should be mixed and kept always ready for use. Label the bottle "Restrainer." The bromide is called a restrainer, as it makes the development of the image proceed more slowly.

Put the plate back in the tray, and turn the developer, to which the bromide has been added, over it, rocking the plate gently. Watch the development closely, and if the image still comes up too fast add a few more drops of bromide. Unless the plate has been very much over-exposed, by taking it from the developer and using the restrainer carefully, a good negative can usually be obtained. If the plate has been too much over-exposed, there is no way of saving it.

If one knows or thinks that a plate has been over-exposed, the plate should not be put in a normal developer--that is, a developer which would be used for a correctly exposed plate--but it should be put into the weak developer to which bromide has been added.

Some amateurs, in developing, have three trays of developer. The first tray contains normal developer, the second tray contains developer prepared for over-exposed plates, and the third for under-exposed plates.

If a plate is found to be under or over exposed, it is washed and removed to the tray containing the proper solution. This is a very good plan if one has a quantity of plates to develop which have been exposed at different times and under different circumstances, as it saves preparing fresh developer after development has been started.

SIR KNIGHT FRANK KANE asks what is meant by a flat negative. A
flat or thin negative is one which has been over-exposed, and not
sufficiently developed to give the necessary density, so that the
light passes through all parts quickly, and gives a flat picture,
wanting in contrast. The next number of the ROUND TABLE will give
methods for strengthening or redeveloping thin negatives.

A RAINBOW TEA.

BY MARY J. SAFFORD.

Suggestions for pretty effects at church fairs are always in order, and one which I attended recently was so attractive in its arrangements, and so well carried out in every detail, that a description may be of service to those who are planning a sale.

Even the tickets were in harmony with the remainder of the decoration. They bore diagonally across the centre, the upper left-hand and the lower right-hand corners, a rainbow, while the lettering ran:

RAINBOW TEA.

IN AID OF

_The_............................................

_At_.............................................

Admission, 25 cents.

Entering the room one saw directly opposite to the door the seven tables, each representing one of the colors of the rainbow. All were the same length and width, covered with the pretty, inexpensive crepe cloth, and bordered with a frill of crepe-paper the same shade. From the end of each table ran a width of the crepe cloth, through whose centre was a strip of satin ribbon the same shade about four inches wide. These extended to a small square table and fastened on the top. This table was placed midway between the red and the violet one, which stood on the same line, perhaps six feet apart, the other five tables being set between in the order of the colors of the rainbow, the green at right angles with the red and the violet, and the remainder slanting. The effect of the semicircle was extremely pretty, and it also afforded room for attendants and buyers to gather around the lower ends of the respective tables.

The central ornament of each was a banquet-lamp, corresponding in color with the table on which it stood; that on the red one had a red porcelain vase in an iron stand, with a red shade; the green lamp had a green pillar and green shade; the yellow table bore a brass lamp, etc.

The red, orange, and violet tables contained a bewildering variety of articles for sale, and it was an interesting study to note the ingenuity with which the respective colors had been introduced into the fancy-work, painted china, etc., displayed to tempt purchasers.

On the orange table, for instance, were small gilded straw baskets, filled with delicious home-made molasses candies, tiny emery-cases covered with brown velvet, and surrounded by petals cut from deep yellow cloth, perfectly representing the daisylike flower known as "black-eyed Susan," sunflower penwipers, handkerchief-cases, made by folding an embroidered handkerchief over a square of yellow perfumed silk, the four corners meeting in the centre, laundry-bags, embroidered with yellow silk, sachet-cases with yellow buttercups strewn over them, teacups decorated with gold, etc.

The red table bore similar testimony to the cleverness of those who had supplied its wants, while the violet one was a marvel of daintiness and suggestion of spring-time loveliness. The banquet-lamp had a silver stand and shade of violet silk and white lace; near it was a sofa cushion of sheer white linen lawn embroidered with violets, and surrounded by a wide insertion of lace, finished with a ruffle edged with lace. Beside this was a little bag, of white silk, with a pattern of lilac sweet-pease, in the bottom of which a needle-book was inserted, and not far off lay a table-centre embroidered with violets.

The yellow table was tempting, with a large glass bowl filled with lemonade, served with a variety of yellow cakes. The green one dispensed ice-cream. The blue, besides tea, sold pretty blue-and-white china cups and saucers, tied together with blue ribbon; and the indigo one was sought by lovers of chocolate.

The attendants at each table wore its colors. And another pretty feature of the occasion was a large pine-tree, standing in one corner of the hall, from whose branches hung oranges made of yellow paper, each one containing some prize for the purchaser.

QUEER MONEY.

Here is an amusing account of a traveller who went many years ago to Mexico, and found the natives using a strange kind of currency. Says he: