Chapter II: Part 2

It had become so dark that we might possibly have passed over the open space without being seen, but, for fear of accidents, we covered it on all-fours. The first persons I met were Baldwin and Frank, who took me to Mr. Hopkins. The ranchman greeted me with the assurance that the arrival of my party was a Godsend, and had probably saved their scalps.

I learned that the men at Date Creek, including Baldwin, numbered seven; that three were in the stable and four in the house. These buildings stood the same distance from the stream, and forty feet apart. The bank of the creek was perpendicular for nearly a mile either way, standing fully twelve feet above the surface of the water; but there was a notch with a sloping descent, midway between the buildings, down which the live-stock was driven to water. This slope afforded the only practicable point of attack, unless the Indians chose to move by one of the flanks over a long level.

Mr. Hopkins said he had crept out to a shrub on the edge of the precipitous river-bank to the left of the slope, just before my arrival, and had seen on the opposite shore a small party of men moving through the willow bushes to our left. He believed it was a flanking party intending to make a feint from that direction, and enable the main body to charge through the notch in the bank. Believing the repelling force to number but seven, the Indians could but count upon the certain success of such a movement. Their flanking party must be met, and to meet it would reduce the defenders of the slope to a number not worth considering.

I was convinced that Mr. Hopkins's inferences were correct; but in order that no mistake should be made, I sent two veterans in frontier service, Privates Clary and Hoey, to reconnoitre both flanks. They were gone half an hour, and returned with the information that no demonstration was being made towards our right, but that a dozen or more men had gathered on the opposite shore at a point where they could cross and turn our left flank.

Preparations to meet this movement were begun at once. Sergeant Frank was sent to the ambulance with orders for the men left in charge to bring in the animals, two at a time, and fasten them in rear of the stable and stack. This was easily accomplished in the darkness. The ambulance was left in charge of Vic.

While this was going on and I was overlooking the construction of rifle-shelters on the flanks, Sergeant Henry approached and asked if he could not be of some use. Something in the tone of the boy's voice showed me he felt he had been neglected, while his brother had been kept busy.

"What would you like to do?" I asked.

"Does a soldier choose his duty, sir?" was the reply, uttered with some dignity.

"Not usually, Sergeant, it is true. I have a very important thing for you to do--something for which I was just intending to look you up. Go and find Clary, and tell him to help you carry several armfuls of hay from the stack to the right of the slope. Make a heap, so that when it is lighted it will illuminate the approach from the creek. Ask Mr. Hopkins if he has any kerosene or other inflammable stuff to sprinkle on the hay and make it flash up quickly. Then throw up a shelter in which you can lie and be ready to light the hay when signalled.

"Yes, sir. Thank you. I'll attend to everything."

Not more than ten minutes had elapsed when the boy sergeant returned and reported that the bundle of hay was placed and a shelter constructed.

"Mr. Hopkins has one gallon of axle grease," said he, "two quarts of spirits of turpentine, and a pint of alcohol."

"Excellent. Mix the alcohol and turpentine, and sprinkle the liquid and grease on the hay. Then place yourself in the shelter, and when you see a light flash from the west window of the house light your bonfire."

"I'll do so, sir," and the boy ran away in the darkness.

Eight men were placed in each building, three on the threatened flank and two on the other. An hour had passed after completing our preparations, when we became aware of a considerable force approaching from the left. In fact, the enemy took pains to have us know of this movement by breaking into whoops, which we recognized to be those of the terrible Apaches. Not a sound came from the creek. I strained my eyes in that direction, eager to catch sight of any movement through the water toward the slope. The pool before the notch in the bank was calm, and the reflection of the starlit sky could be seen in its surface. On the shore beyond nothing was visible in the black darkness beneath the pendulous branches of the willows. At last I saw the fixed reflections of the stars in the surface of the pool diffuse themselves into myriads of sparkling atoms. A considerable body of Indians must be in the water, but none were in sight. Yes; they were crossing in two columns, to the right and left of the notch, concealed by the high shore, and would shortly unite and charge up the slope. I sent Baldwin to the stable to tell the men there that the Apaches were coming, and to be on the alert.

The whoops of the flanking party redoubled, and were accompanied by a desultory firing, which the three men opposing them answered in the same way. Then I saw the sparkling water of the pool cut off from my sight, and knew that a body of men stood on the slope between us and the creek.

"Frank, show the light. Men, ready!"

The lantern flashed from the window, quickly answered by a flash on the bank, and a mass of red flame threw its luminous tresses skyward, bathing the whole scene in light. In the notch, half-way up the slope, stood a momentarily paralyzed group of nearly a hundred painted warriors. Every rifle in the hands of the white men in the two buildings spoke, and instantly the notch emptied itself pell-mell of its living throng. Only a few prostrate bodies showed the Apaches had been there.

With the discharge of firearms a silence immediately fell upon the scene in marked contrast to the shrieking and yelling of a moment before. The bonfire burned low, and went out. Once more we were in darkness.

We believed the Indians would make no further demonstration; for the manner of their late reception had shown them that the ranch had been re-enforced. We waited nearly an hour, and then placing two-thirds of our force on the crest of the river-bank, where they could command the opposite side, I took the remaining third and forded the stream. We scouted the bosque to some depth, and right and left for a considerable distance. The Indians had gathered their dead and departed. Returning to the ranch, sentinels were posted, the ambulance run in by hand, the stock fed, and a midnight meal cooked.

While sitting by the camp-fire, listening to the sizzling of the bacon and sniffing the aroma of the coffee, Mr. Hopkins introduced me to his men and guests, and I heard an explanation of the tracks and blood at Soldiers Holes.

Early that morning three gentlemen who had passed the night at the ranch started for Prescott. They were a Mr. Gray, a Scotch merchant of La Paz; Mr. Hamilton, a lawyer of the same place; and Mr. Rosenberg, a freighter. When near the Holes, Mr. Hamilton, who was riding in advance, was shot by Indians concealed in the sage-brush. Mr. Rosenberg's mule was wounded, and plunged so that his rider fell to the ground. Mr. Gray, seeing the plight of the freighter, rode to his side, seized him by the collar, and aided him to leap to a seat behind him.

It is probable that this act of generous daring might have ended in the death of both men, but for a diversion caused by the sudden appearance of the military express-man. He came up a slope from a lower level, and taking in the situation at a glance, let fly three shots from his breech-loading carbine that caused the Indians to lie low. The three men rode to the ranch, and Mr. Hopkins and his three men accompanied them to bring in the body of Mr. Hamilton. The Indians did not begin to concentrate at the creek until after the burial.

Supper being over, the boys and I were getting into our blankets for the rest of the night, when Mr. Baldwin, who had been getting ready to depart, came near to bid us good-by.

"I seem to take frequent leave of you these times, Lieutenant," said he.

"Yes; and your farewell ride with the Whipple mail seems to be anything but monotonous. I think the Anabasis would be a more suitable subject for study on this route than the Memorabilia."

"'Hence they proceeded one day's journey, a distance of five parasangs, and fell in with the barbarians,' might well be said daily of this trip."

"Hadn't you better travel with me the rest of the way?"

"I think this is the last we shall see of the Apaches; they do not range south and west of here. Good-by, sir."

"Good-by, until we meet at Tysons Wells."

The next morning, when the boys, Vic and I, were taking our seats in the ambulance, Mr. Hopkins and his men, Mr. Gray and Mr. Rosenberg, approached us mounted. They informed me that all were going to La Paz.

"The Injins are gettin' a little too thick here for sleepin' well arter a hard day's work," said the ranchman. "Think I'll stay away till Uncle Sam thins 'em out a leetle more."

"Can I obtain a five or ten gallon keg of you, Mr. Hopkins?" I asked. "Ours was accidentally smashed on the road."

"Haven't a keg to my name, Lieutenant. One way 'n' ernuther all been smashed, gin way, or lent."

The ride from the ranch to the edge of the desert plain was twelve miles, a portion of it over a rugged ridge. To the point where we were to ford the creek was two miles, and there the hired men, pack-mules, and ranch cattle turned off on the Bill Williams Fork route to the Rio Colorado.

Once on the level of the Xuacaxélla our team broke into a brisk trot, and we rolled along with a fair prospect of soon crossing the ninety miles between the Date Creek Mountains and La Paz. Messrs. Gray, Rosenberg, and Hopkins soon turned into a bridle-path which led into a mine. Before taking leave of us Mr. Gray told me that my camping-place for the night would be at the point of the third mountain spur which jutted into the plain from the western range.

We had not travelled long before we realized our misfortune in having smashed our water-keg. Each individual in our party had a three-pint army canteen, which had been filled when we forded the creek in the early dawn. These were to last us until evening through an exceedingly sultry day. Frank, Henry, and I did our best to overcome our desire for water, but the younger boy could not refuse Vic a drink when she looked up with lolling tongue to the canteens.

The men were the greatest sufferers, unless I except their horses. Long before mid-day their canteens were empty, and their mouths so dry that articulation was difficult, and they rarely spoke.

At five o'clock we arrived opposite the third spur, where we found a wand sticking in the ground and holding a slip of paper in its cleft end. It proved to be a note from Baldwin, saying that this was the place to camp, and the Black Tanks were on the southern side of the spur, two miles distant.

We were too thirsty to spend time in examining the scenery. The boys and I were quickly out of the vehicle, the horses and mules were relieved of bridles, saddles, and harness, and all but two men, who were left to guard the property and collect fuel for a fire, were on the way to water. Closely followed by Vic, the boy sergeants and I preceded the men and stock. We passed through a leafless and almost branchless growth of the giant cactus, succeeded by a thick underbrush of mezquit, which put off our view of the height until we turned sharply to the right. Then we saw before us a long irregular range, apparently three thousand feet in height, which had been cleft from summit to base as if by a wedge. In this rent we found water--water deposited in a natural reservoir by the periodical rainfalls in millions of gallons--a reservoir never known to be dry.

Private Tom Clary, bearing a camp-kettle and coffee-pot, had outstripped the men driving the stock, and overtook us as we began the ascent into the cleft. Climbing the dike which enclosed the main deposit, we descended to the cistern, filled our cups, and swallowed the contents without taking a breath. When we dipped up a second, Tom Clary looked into the depths of his cup with knitted brows.

"Whist, now, b'ys!" he exclaimed. "Look into the wather! It's aloive with wigglers of ivery variety. They're as plinty as pays in a soup."

"Ugh! And we are full of them too, Tom," said Henry, looking into his dipper with narrow-eyed anxiety.

Pausing in the act of taking a second drink, I looked into my cup, and saw that it contained myriads of animalcula and larvæ, which shot and zigzagged from side to side in the liveliest manner.

"Will they hurt us, Tom?" questioned Henry.

"I rickon they've got the worst of it, Sergeant, laddy; but I think I'd fale a bit aisier if I was blindfolded or takin' a dhrink in the dark. I prefer me liquid refrishmint with a little less mate, not to minshin its being less frisky."

We had come to the tanks with fresh towels, intending to wash off the dust of travel. We now used one of them to strain the water, and were astonished to see that each quart left behind it a plump teaspoonful of animalcula. The water was sweet, but, after discovering the life in it, we drank sparingly.

As we pursued the narrow path to camp in single file, we noticed Vic a considerable distance to the right, scouting and nosing about in an earnest manner. Evidently she thought she had made an important discovery, for she several times looked in our direction and barked. But we were too hungry to investigate, and soon she disappeared from sight.

When we reached the ambulance the boys put a few cakes of hard bread in their pockets, and taking their shot-guns, went out to look for some "cotton-tails" while supper was being prepared. Believing we were well out of the range of hostile Indians, I did not object to their going alone. They passed a considerable distance beyond the growth of _Cereus giganteus_, over a level stretch covered with knee-high bunch-grass and desert weeds, without seeing a hare. Pausing on the brink of a shoal, dry ravine, they stood side by side, and rested the butts of their guns upon the ground. Just then a shout of "Supper! supper!" came from the group near the camp-fire.

"Hate to go back without anything," said Frank. "Strange we don't see a rabbit now, when we saw dozens on the way to the tanks."

"That was because we didn't have a gun," said Henry.

"You don't believe the rabbits knew we weren't armed then and know we are now?"

"Hunters tell bigger stories than that about 'Brer Rabbit.' Not one has bobbed up since we got a gun."

Suddenly, from the flat surface of the plain, not twenty yards beyond the ravine, where nothing but bunch-grass and low shrubbery had been seen before, sprang up sixteen Indians to full height, as startlingly as so many jacks-in-a-box.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

A BATTLE ROYAL.

You ought to have seen the terrible row we had in my room last night,
The elephant plush and the calico cat and my new little pug had a fight,
And though an elephant's great and strong, and a cat has powerful claws,
My little pug-dog came out on top with the aid of his teeth and paws.

The trouble arose in the simplest way; the cat was asleep on a chair.
And the elephant plush was standing about, and sniffing the cool night
air,
When Puggy rushed in, as he sometimes does, for a romp on the bed with
me,
And tripped on the trunk of the elephant bold, and over and over went
he.

He turned two somersaults up in the air, as he tripped on the elephant's
trunk,
And then went bang 'gainst the pussy-cat's chair with a really horrible
bunk.
He bunked so hard that the chair slid back, with a bang on the side of
the door,
And the calico cat, with a hiss and a scat, came tumbling down to the
floor.

And it happened as puss came tumbling down old Puggy lay down just
below;
He'd tumbled right flat on his poor little back, a picture of trouble
and woe--
And the pussy kerflop came down on top of my new little live little
pup,
And then came a mighty old struggle in which the cat was just chewed
all up.

Pug snapped and he yawled and he rolled and he kicked, but the calico
cat held fast;
And they slid o'er the floor in a mad embrace, until, pretty near the
last,
They came to the elephant made of plush, with celluloid tusks, so rare,
Who silently stood, as I said before, a-sniffing the cool night air.

And of course when they rolled underneath his legs, the elephant came
down too--
And oh, the row, the terrible row, I'm sure would have startled you.
Those three bold friends of my nursery days now got in a terrible
plight,
But the small live pug, with his teeth and his paws, soon had much the
best of the fight.

And now to-day I am gathering up from all parts of the nursery floor
Small pieces of cotton and calico shreds and samples of plush galore.
There are eyes and ears and tails and trunks from my bed to the
wash-stand rug
That tell of the glorious victory that was won by my brave little pug.

As for Puggy himself, he's still romping away, and he hasn't a scar
to show;
Nor does he remember, as far as I see, that terrible scene of woe.
And the only effect of his fight at all is he seems to be twice as
fat,
Which may come, I cannot with certainty say, from swallowing part of
the cat.

CARLYLE SMITH.

PUBLIC-SCHOOL BOY AFLOAT.

BY RICHARD BARRY.

To the passengers on the ferry-boats crossing between New York and Long Island City, through the sweeping tide of the East River, a view is given of a trim-looking craft lying just astern of the old battle-ship _New Hampshire_, moored to the Twenty-eighth-street wharf. She is very much dwarfed in appearance by the towering top sides of the three-decker, and during the winter months the deck-house that stretches above her bulwarks makes her look as if her days of freedom to plough the main were past and gone.

The vessel is the _St. Mary's_, the nautical training-ship connected with the public-school system of New York city. From the first of November to the middle of April she is indeed nothing but a floating school-house, and the long shed on her deck is divided into recitation-rooms, equipped with blackboards and chalk and benches, and presided over by uniformed teachers.

All this sounds dry enough, even if it is connected with a ship; but the scholars are very different in appearance from the lads who attend the public-schools, although they are drawn from the same sources. Every boy is togged out in the uniform of a naval apprentice, and he is very proud of his ship and of the name on the ribbon of his cap.

Life on a sailing-vessel, that depends entirely upon the wind for her motive power, is very different from the life on board a steamer or one of the steel cruisers of Uncle Sam's new navy. No boy who has ever read any of Marryat's stories, or those from the pen of Clarke Russell, but has been filled with a desire to try the sea for himself, and if he is able-bodied, and a boy with a good record and a desire to learn, he can step back, as it were, into the time when Marryat's or Russell's heroes lived and had their adventures. He can live on board the _St. Mary's_ the life of the sailor-boy of the old school, and find extant all its pleasures and excitements. Indeed, it is not all school-work and blackboard and chalk; there are long months of cruising in blue waters, and strange countries to be seen, and a chance also for a fine occupation, and good paying positions awaiting him at the end of his term of service.

To begin at the beginning, let us see how the New York boy, who has known nothing but the streets and the crowded houses, can accomplish all this, and how he goes about it, and what he learns and sees.

In the first place, it must be well understood that the _St. Mary's_ is not offered by the government as a floating reformatory for bad or unruly boys, or to help careless parents to get rid of them. It is exactly the reverse, and this is now well known.

Application for admission to the Nautical School must be made to the chairman of the executive committee of the Board of Education, or made in person to the Superintendent on board the _St. Mary's_ herself.

But to state a few of the requirements before the papers are signed and the school-boy becomes a sailor. The applicant must be between the ages of sixteen and twenty years. He must be of average size, sound constitution, and free from all physical defects. This means that a rigid examination is enforced, and the boy is measured and given tests of strength to prove that he is worthy by nature to put on the blue suit of service.

He must show testimonials of good character, and, of course, must have been influenced to enter by a taste for a seafaring life, and he must come to a decision of his own free will. The examination, outside of the physical one, is very simple. He must be able to read and spell, to write legibly, and to know enough of arithmetic to figure simple sums up to and including percentage. Lastly, as the boy is not of age, his parent or guardian must sign the necessary papers. Once enlisted, he is maintained at the expense of the city, but has to come provided with numerous articles necessary to a sailor. The list includes two pairs of black leather shoes, rubber boots, one black silk hand-kerchief, one strong jack-knife, tooth-brushes, clothes-brushes, and hair-brushes; thread, needles, wax, tape, and buttons, and many other things to keep him comfortable.

The blue uniform and the canvas working suit are given to him, and only thirty dollars are required to defray the expense of clothing and bedding for the two years' cruise.

The winter's school term, which begins in November, ends on April 1, when the boys are given a vacation of ten days and bid their farewells. Upon their return to the ship they find the temporary deck-house taken down, and they are put to work rigging the ship and preparing for what they have so long been looking forward to--the summer's cruise.

About April 20 the yards are all up, and the _St. Mary's_ is all-a-taunt-o and ready to go to sea. Now for a month, they cruise in the waters of Long Island Sound, learning to handle ship, and then when they have thoroughly learned their stations and the duties assigned to them, they set sail for the far countries and foreign ports which most of them are anxious to visit.

The writer remembers being in the harbor of Southampton, England, upon one occasion when the _St. Mary's_ came into port. It made his heart beat with pride to see the beautiful vessel (just as if she had sailed out of the past history of the good old days) come sweeping in from the Channel. All her white sails were set when she first was sighted, and the nimble little sailors aloft began to take them in one by one as she drew up to her anchorage.

The flag flying at her peak is the most beautiful thing to an American to be seen in foreign countries, and proud indeed was the writer to turn to an English friend and explain what the trim craft was, and to tell that the crew were New York boys, and Americans every one.

Soon after she dropped her anchor and trimmed ship a boat was lowered away, and it came dashing up to the pier. It was a pleasure to look at the brown, healthy faces, and to notice the well-kept cadence of the stroke pulled by the strong young arms.

Leaving one of the officers on shore, the lads pulled back to the ship, looking curiously at the town, and longing perhaps for the liberty which would be allowed them on the morrow.

Engaging a boatman to row us off, the author and his English friend were soon alongside the school-ship, where the former explained that he was a New-Yorker, and was asked to come on board.

Although she had been at anchor only an hour or so, all the running gear was being neatly stowed away, and the loose ends flemished (_i.e._, coiled down flat) on the deck. But a word as to the vessel herself:

The _St. Mary's_ was an old United States sloop-of-war, the type of a vessel, modernized a little, that had won honor and glory for the country. The _Wasp_ was such a one as this, and every one knows what she did during the war of 1812. The other craft that stung the English so badly when commanded by Lawrence, the gallant little _Hornet_, was about this type--a sloop-of-war--also. Although the _St. Mary's_ was very peaceful looking, because she lacked the rows of black carronades along her sides, still it required but little stretching of the imagination to change her into a man-of-war.

We spoke to a little wiry youngster, who told us he lived in "West Twenty-thoid" Street, and asked him how he liked being a sailor. The grin that accompanied his answer--"It's bully good fun"--convinced us that he, at least, was happy, and had rightly chosen his calling. In fact, we did not see an unhappy face amongst the crew, and this speaks volumes.

The _St. Mary's_ had stopped at the Azores, on the voyage out, where the boys had had fine times, according to account, and where the people had been looking forward to their coming, for they generally touched there on their cruises. Of course I had to explain to my English friend that these boys had nothing to do with the regular navy, but were intended for the merchant service, unless they wished, of course, to change it for life on board one of the new cruisers. Every one of them hoped to be an officer some day, and there is no reason, if they attend to duty, why this hope should not be fulfilled, for a better training for positions of command could not be had.

One of the officers told us of a little adventure that had happened upon one of the former voyages, which not only showed the spirit of the _St. Mary's_ crew, but also proved that most of the lads had profited by New York's being surrounded by water. One of the boys, a little fellow, had fallen off the boat-yard into the water. The tide had swept him quite a distance from the ship before his cries were heard. When "man overboard!" was shouted, in half a jiffy a score or more of the crew had plunged headlong from the railing and bowsprit after him. In fact, it looked as if the whole ship's company was going for an impromptu swim. Two of the rescuers laid hold of the drowning boy and kept him afloat, while the rest paddled about like a flock of ducks. It took some time for the boat that was hurriedly manned to pick them all up, as the tide had carried some of them quite a distance out. But they were all taken aboard safe and sound, and, as everybody writes when telling of a rescue from "a watery grave," "none the worse for their wetting."

From Southampton the _St. Mary's_ was bound to Cherbourg, France; then to Lisbon, Portugal; Cadiz, Spain; and Gibraltar.

I could well imagine what fun the boys were going to have at the last named place, thy strongest fortress of the English, and the "key of the Mediterranean," as every one says again when speaking of it.

It is from here that the lads always write the longest letters home, for there is much to tell about; and no matter how many times they visit the port afterwards, when in command of their own vessels, perhaps, they will never forget their first sight of the great frowning rock, and their visit to the hidden guns and casemates. In the harbor they find all sorts of strange sailing-craft of the Mediterranean, and hear the jargon of tongues of the multitude of foreign mariners that meet here from all quarters of the globe.

On the return voyage they stop at the Madeira Islands, and thence, setting sail, they make for home, arriving in Long Island Sound about, the last of August. Now, until the middle of October, they spend the time in practical exercises, cruising to and fro in calmer waters; and in the middle of October the _St. Mary's_ returns to her dock in the city.

A leave of two weeks is granted the boys, and it is easy to imagine what heroes they are to their younger brothers and to their old companions who have spent the hot summer in the city.

When they return to the ship on the first of November they find the topmasts housed, the yards taken down, and the deck-house in position for the winter's term of schooling, which begins at once. During the cruise at sea the whole time has been taken up with the study of seamanship and the practice of professional branches of knowledge. They have learned to tie knots, to hand, reef, and steer, and may be pardoned a slight roll in their walk and a tendency to indulge in nautical phraseology.

The boys whose second cruise it has been are found positions on board the American vessels who receive a subsidy under the postal-subsidy bill, for all such are required to be officered by Americans, and to carry a "cadet" for each thousand tons burden. This enables the graduates of the school to step at once into a paying situation, where their education will be of great advantage to them. Maybe some of them make up their minds to go into the navy, or others decide that they are not cut out for the sea, and take up some life on shore; but no matter what they do, they cannot but be benefited by what they have learned and seen.

The first-year boys and the new recruits begin to take up their studies, which are those taught in the common schools--geography, history of the United States, English grammar, arithmetic, algebra, and last, but not least, theoretical navigation. Ship's routine is followed in their daily life, but there is plenty of time for play and skylarking.

When a boy has been graduated from this school, if he has paid attention to his duties and his studies, he is competent to navigate a vessel, he understands thoroughly dead reckoning, and he knows how to find the latitude and longitude by the sun, moon, planets, or stars, and besides this, he knows the duties of a seaman from beginning to end. There is nothing for him to learn about the handling of a sailing-vessel, for he has taken his trick at the wheel, he has learned the rule of the road, and how to give proper orders. He can heave the lead like an old hand, and has had plenty of practice in handling small boats under both oars and sails. The American sailor has proved himself often indeed to be the best afloat, and the lad from the _St. Mary's_ is qualified to take first rank.

During the war of the rebellion many of the commissioned officers were drawn from the ranks of the merchant marine. Had the _St. Mary's_ then been in existence, her boys would have given accounts of themselves, and there is no question that, should at some future time a war arise, there would be places aplenty for them to make use of the knowledge they have gained, or to win laurels in the service of their country. Not long ago a big sailing-ship, returning home from a long cruise, had the misfortune to lose, by death and accident, all of her officers fit to navigate and command her. On board at the time was one of the _St. Mary's_ lads, only nineteen years of age, and the command and responsibility of bringing the great ship safely to port fell upon his shoulders. I am glad to state that he did not fear or shirk the responsibility, and that the grown men under him knew at once that they had a commander who was familiar with his business, and who could be trusted in any emergency, for they encountered severe storms after the boy Captain had assumed command.

The officers of the school-ship are all graduates of Annapolis and appointed by the government, and the petty officers are made up of old men-of-war's men, a few of whom are on board as assistant instructors. The boys, however, fill some of these positions themselves, and thus early assume the duties which teach them how to get on with men who are compelled to obey their orders.

If a boy has a taste for the sea, and his parents have no objections to his selecting it as a calling, he can find out a great deal about the world and not a little about himself by spending two years on board the school-ship _St. Mary's_.

THE TRANSFERRED FLAG.

BY JAMES BUCKHAM.

Frigate and schooner in conflict dread,
Banners throbbing at each mast-head;
England's jack in the smoke and reek,
Stars and stripes at the schooner's peak.

Clash and roar of the awful fight;
Sabres gleaming like shafts of light;
Crack of pistols; a musket's boom;
Shouts and groans in the drifting gloom.

Overhead, in the murk, the flags
Toss, with their edges torn to rags,
Lash at each other, and writhe and snap--
Silken musketry, clap on clap!

See! On the Yankee yard-arm stands
A daring middy, with outspread hands!
He bends, he leaps--and without a slip,
Catches the yard of the British ship!

Up, up, he climbs, till, the cross-trees past,
He reaches the top of the swaying mast.
Then, with a slash of his knife, he throws
The British flag to his country's foes.

Lo! from his bosom, like flame unfurled,
He draws the banner that rules the world,
And nails it there, with its crimson bars
And gleaming glory of unstained stars!

Quick was the brain that conceived the thought,
And brave the deed that the sailor-boy wrought;
Bright he his name on history's roll,
And far the flash of his hero-soul!

SEED-SOWING.

BY EMMA J. GRAY.

Gardening is said to come natural to Japanese boys and girls, but there is no reason why our amateur gardeners should not rival them.

Spring has been well named the "mother of the flowers," for then indeed nature wakes. The previously hard soil softens, gentle showers fall, the long sunny days follow one after the other, and serious mistake must indeed have been made at the time of planting if the cheerless winter garden is not readily transformed into beds and bowers of delicate richest color, and bewilderingly beautiful flowers do not send lavish and grateful odor.

An important matter, however, is the preparation of the soil, and another quite as important is to sow seeds late and not early. Then, too, attention must be given to their size and construction. Some seeds are round and tiny, such as the portulaca. These are scattered over the ground and gently mixed by the hand into the soil, while others must be planted, really embedded in the earth, such as sweet-pease. Again, other seeds have a shell-like covering, which must be removed before sowing, and others must be placed in the earth in a special direction. We have all heard of the boy who wondered why his beans didn't grow. On investigation he learned they were growing as fast as possible, only they would have bloomed and borne in China, for he had planted them upside down. Seeds such as the verbena must be planted lengthwise, and there are others which must be soaked before planting at all.

Young gardeners should commence with the easiest-raised plants, and wait until experience and study will lend a hand with the more difficult. And do not forget that the world is full of kind people who will gladly tell you what you do not know.

After sunset is the best time for seed-sowing. When they are sown, gently water, and then cover with an old piece of carpet. This is to keep the ground in a more equal temperature. Every evening pick up the carpet and examine the earth. Keep it moist--not wet--and when the seeds are sprouted replace the carpet with paper. To prevent this blowing, put stones on its outer edges. When the tender shoots are positively strong, hardy enough to withstand violent winds and hot suns, remove the paper. Keep on watch for the unexpected--such as insects, for example, which must be picked off. Weed carefully, and water when necessary.

Beginners may be sure of success if they sow any of the following seeds: Sweet-alyssum and candy-tuft, both of which have delicate white blossoms, and bloom freely from June to October; asters, which are very hardy, and whose colors are without number and exceedingly showy; balsam--or, as usually called, lady's-slipper, both double and single, is an old-fashioned favorite; morning-glories are beautiful, and fine to cover an unsightly pole or unpainted fence; mignonette and pansies will be sweet, while zinnia, portulaca, and marigold will lend brilliance.

A NATURALIST'S BOYHOOD.

MR. WILLIAM HAMILTON GIBSON'S START.

BY BARNET PHILLIPS.

I am enjoying a book, a picture, a statue, or say a piece of music. I know these to be the finished works of the man or the woman, but I invariably hark back to the boy or the girl.

What I want to discover is the precise time, in the lives of certain boys and girls, when the steel first struck the flint, the spark flew, and out streamed that jet of fire which never afterwards was extinguished.

I was reading an article entitled "Professor Wriggler," written by Mr. William Hamilton Gibson, which appeared in HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, in the number of October 31, 1893. I need not tell you that both old and young, at home and abroad, delight in reading what Mr. Hamilton Gibson has written, because he was not alone the most observant of naturalists, but a distinguished artist and a sympathetic author.

He thus filled a peculiar position in the literary and artistic world which is seldom given to any one man to fill. Besides being a naturalist from his boyhood, he was able to write better than most people what he wished to write, and to illustrate his articles in a way that was unique. Mr. Gibson's death a few days ago, therefore, has closed the career of a man who had the ability to interest a large number of people not only in natural history, but in art and literature.

The news of Mr. Gibson's death came to me suddenly, and as I was reading it I recalled an interesting talk I had with him less than a year ago about his work early in life and the way he got his start. I had been reading one of his articles to a lady, who, when she heard the name of the author, said:

"Why, I knew Mr. Hamilton Gibson long ago. When he was a lad he painted a lovely drop-curtain for us. He could not have been more than fifteen or sixteen then."

The next time I met Mr. Hamilton Gibson I asked him about this drop-curtain. "Do you remember it?"

"Certainly I do. We had a temperance society at Sandy Hook, Connecticut, and we gave a grand entertainment. I made the drop-curtain. It represented a wood. There was a rock in the foreground, and a Virginia-creeper was climbing over it."

"Was it an original composition?" I asked.

"I made many studies of the rock and the Virginia-creeper from nature. On the other side of the curtain I painted a drawing-room. There were a marble mantelpiece, a clock, and lace curtains. I don't think I enjoyed painting the clock as much as the Virginia-creeper."

"To paint a drop curtain at fifteen or sixteen means that you had then a certain facility. But that could not have been your beginning. When did you break your shell? What chipped or cracked your egg, so that your particular bird emerged, chirped, and finally took flight? That was what I wanted to know."

"Is that what you are after?" asked Mr. Hamilton Gibson. "From my baby days I was curious about flowers and insects. The two were always united in my mind. What could not have been more than a childish guess was confirmed in my later days." Then Mr. Hamilton Gibson paused. I could see he was recalling, not without emotion, some memories of the long past.

"I was very young, and playing in the woods. I tossed over the fallen leaves, when I came across a chrysalis. There was nothing remarkable in that, for I knew what it was. But, wonderful to relate, providentially I deem it, as I held the object in my hand a butterfly slowly emerged, then fluttered in my fingers."

"You were pleased with its beauty," I said.

"Oh! It was more than that. I do not know whether I was or was not a youngster with an imagination, but suddenly the spiritual view of a new or of another life struck me. I saw in this jewel born from an unadorned casket some inkling of immortality. Yes, that butterfly breaking from its chrysalis in my hand shaped my future career."

"But some young people may feel passing impulses, but how account for your artistic skill and literary powers?"

"As to the art side, at least deftness of hand came early. I had the most methodical of grandmothers. Every day I had a certain task. I made a square of patch-work for a quilt. I learned how to sew, and I can sew neatly to-day. I knew how to use my fingers."

"Did you like patch-work?" I inquired.

"I simply despised it. Sewing must have helped me, for it was eye-training, and when I went to work with a pencil and a paint-brush I really had no trouble. I read a great deal. I devoured Cooper's novels and the Rollo series; but there was one special volume, _Harris on Insects_, I never tired of. I studied that over and over again. It was the illustrations of Marsh which fascinated me. I never found a bug, caterpillar, or butterfly that I did not compare my specimens with the Marsh pictures. I learned this way much which I have never forgotten."

"Had you any particular advantages?"

"Yes; my brother was a doctor, and he let me use his microscope, and so I acquired a knowledge of the details of flowers and insects that escape the naked eye. I pulled flowers to pieces, but not in the spirit of destruction, but so that I might better understand their structure. When I was ten I had a long illness. When I was getting better, I was permitted to take an hour's or so turn in the garden. That hour I devoted to collecting insects and flowers. On my return to my room, what I had collected amused me until I could get out again next day or the day after."

"It was pleasure and study combined," I said.

"I was not conscious that I was studying. Then in my sick-room I began to draw and paint the insects. I think I was conscientious about it, and careful--perhaps minutely so. I tried to put on paper exactly what I saw, and nothing else. You say you like 'Professor Wriggler.' I drew him when I was ten or eleven, and I could not make him any more accurate to-day than I did thirty years ago."

"Were you encouraged at your work?" I inquired.

"Yes; once I was much pleased. I came across a curious insect. I could not find it in the books. I made a drawing of it and sent it to a professor of the Smithsonian, asking him to give me its scientific name. Back came by return mail my sketch, and under it the Latin name. The professor wrote me that if the people who were always annoying him with pictures of impossible bugs would only send him as accurate a picture as was mine, he never would have any more bother."

"Did you have any setbacks?"

"Yes; and I haven't forgotten it up to to-day. I was always collecting, and I had brought together every insect I had found in my neighborhood. As I took them home I pinned them in the drawers of an old-fashioned bureau. In time the whole of the drawers, bottom and sides, were full of pinned specimens, and there was room for no more. I had saved enough money to buy a cabinet, and I went to New York and purchased one. When I returned home the first thing I did was to look at my precious collection. When I opened a drawer there was a confused mass of wings only. One single wretch of a black ant had got in, and had passed the word to 10,000 other black ants. They had eaten the bodies of my insects in all the drawers. That quite broke my heart."

"But your writing. How did that come about?" I asked.

"I don't think that you can develop in one direction only. You must unbosom yourself. You are forced to tell or to write about the things you have most at heart. When I was a small boy I wrote a book for myself, and called it 'Botany on the Half-shell.' The first thing I ever wrote which was printed was an article for one of Messrs. Harper's publications, and I made the pictures for it. That was my début."

"Then your work went hand in hand?"

"Certainly. The one was the stimulant of the other. We all grew up together. The days spent in my room when I was ill helped me. I think I studied flowers then, so that their forms and colors were indelibly impressed on my mind. When I was older I made a small bunch of flowers in wax. Not a detail escaped me. I made moulds of all kinds of leaves. Once I put together a rose, some sprigs of mignonette and heliotrope in wax, and gave them to my dear old friend, Henry Ward Beecher. He was delighted with my flowers, and put them on his study table. Presently Mrs. Beecher came in. She ran to the flowers and broke the rose all to pieces.

"How could she have done that?" I asked.

"It must have been with her nose. She wanted to smell the rose."

Then Mr Hamilton Gibson showed me some monster drawings of flowers--Brobdingnagian ones. The flowers opened and closed when you pulled a string, showing their interior structure. Here were bees or other insects, and they flew into the flowers, collected the honey, and, above all, the pollen, and buzzed out again. He explained to me how plant life would perish were it not for certain insects, which bring a new existence to flowers; for without these winged helpers there would be no longer any varieties of flowers or seeds.

You will see, then, that in tracing the beginning of Mr. Hamilton Gibson's career what I mean by harking backwards.

I am certain, too, that in every boy and girl there is something good and excellent. Like the flower visited by the bee, all it wants is impulse. Then, as Mr. Hamilton Gibson explained it to me, will come the blossoming, and lastly perfect fruitage.

The choice of officials at the National Games is another subject which will bear discussion, and although I have reserved it until the last, it must not be considered that this is because I have considered it of any less importance than the various subjects connected with these games that have been discussed within the past few weeks in this Department. All who regularly attend interscholastic track and field games, especially graduates of the New York schools, and those who watch their young brothers and cousins in their indulgence in sport, were much surprised when they looked over the programme of the National Games and saw the list of men who had been invited to act as officials.

There is a certain number of gentlemen in this city who have become so thoroughly identified with school-boy sports that their names are always to be found on the list of officials at interscholastic games. At the National Games, however, it was different, and there are many who resented the change.

In the first place, school sports--and college sports, for that matter--are supposed to be somewhat different in tone from other sports, even from those of amateur athletic associations. We try to conduct them on a higher plane, and we try to give to them a purer spirit of amateurism and comradeship than can be obtained by other organizations. And in carrying out this idea it has always been the custom to have school or college graduates act as officials.

At the National Games this unwritten law or custom was not carried out, and many of the New York school-boys felt that the visiting athletes were receiving a wrong impression of the way in which we do things down here. Many questioned me concerning the change that they noticed on the first page of the programme, but being no wiser than they at the time, I was unable to enlighten them. Since then, however, I have learned that the change was due to ignorance on the part of the managers of the day rather than to any desire for reform.

INTERSCHOLASTIC RECORDS OF THE UNITED STATES.

Event. Record. Maker.
100-yard dash 10-1/5 sec. F. H. Bigelow.
220-yard run 22-2/5 " F. H. Bigelow.
440-yard run 50-3/5 " T. E. Burke.
Half-mile run 2 m. 1-1/5 " R. H. Hanson.
Mile run 4 " 32-2/5 " W. T. Laing.
Mile walk 7 " 11-3/5 " J. S. Eells.
120-yard hurdle (3 ft. 6 in.) 17 " E. C. Perkins.
220-yard hurdle (2 ft. 6 in.) 26-1/2 " E. D. Field.
Mile bicycle 2 " 34-1/5 " I. A. Powell.
Two-mile bicycle 5 " 18-2/5 " G. F. Baker, Jun.
Running high jump 5 ft. 11 in. S. A. W. Baltazzi.
Running broad jump 21 " 7 " A. Cheek.
Pole vault 10 " 9 " B. Johnson.
Throwing 12-lb. hammer 125 " R. T. Johnson.
Throwing 16-lb. hammer 118 " 2-3/4 " F. C. Ingalls.
Putting 12-lb. shot 42 " 5-1/2 " Patterson.
Putting 16-lb. shot 39 " 3 " M. C. O'Brien.

Event. School.
100-yard dash Worcester H.-S.
220-yard run Worcester H.-S.
440-yard run Boston English H.-S.
Half-mile run Boston English H.-S.
Mile run Phillips Academy, Andover.
Mile walk Hotchkiss, Lakeville, Conn.
120-yard hurdle (3 ft. 6 in.) Hartford H.-S.
220-yard hurdle (2 ft. 6 in.) Hartford H.-S.
Mile bicycle Cutler, N.Y.
Two-mile bicycle Hotchkiss, Lakeville, Conn.
Running high jump Harvard, N.Y.
Running broad jump Oakland, Cal., H.-S.
Pole vault Worcester Academy.
Throwing 12-lb. hammer Brookline H.-S.
Throwing 16-lb. hammer Hartford H.-S.
Putting 12-lb. shot Evansville.
Putting 16-lb. shot Boston English H.-S.