Chapter XI: A Flood of Light (1)

As the brilliant light flooded the place where the boys stood, they were for a minute blinded by its radiance. Bonny was bewildered and frightened, and even Alaric was greatly startled. Gradually, as their eyes grew accustomed to the brightness, they became aware of a single figure standing before them, and regarding them curiously. Alaric looked, rubbed his eyes, and looked again. Then he sprang forward with a great shout.

"Dad! you dear old dad! I never was so glad to see any one in my life!"

"Rick! you young rascal!" cried Amos Todd. "How could you play your old father such a trick? Never mind, though; you've won your game, and at the same time made me the very happiest and proudest man on the coast this night. Stand there, sir, and let me have a good look at you."

With this the proud father held his stalwart son off at arm's-length and gazed at him with loving admiration.

"The very neatest trick I ever heard of--the most impudent, and the most successful," he murmured. "But don't you ever be guilty of such a thing again, you young smuggler."

"Indeed I won't, dad, for I know I shall never have any reason or desire to repeat it," replied Alaric, promptly, his voice trembling with joyful excitement. "But, dad, you mustn't forget Bonny; for whatever I have gained or learned this past summer, I owe to him."

"God bless the lad! Indeed I will never forget what he has done both for you and for me," cried Amos Todd, stepping forward, and seizing Bonny's hand in a grasp that made him wince.

Poor bewildered Bonny, standing amid the glitter of silver and plate-glass, surrounded by furnishings of such luxurious character as he had never imagined could exist in real life, vaguely wondered whether he were under the spell of some beautiful enchantment or merely dreaming. There must be some reality to it all, though, for the stranger in the shabby garments, whom he had befriended only the day before, and still wearing the hat he had given him, was surely holding his hand and saying very pleasant things. But who could he be? He certainly was not acting like a tramp, or one who was greatly in need of charity.

Alaric came to the puzzled lad's relief. "He is my father, Mr. Amos Todd," he cried. "And, Bonny, you will forgive me, won't you, for not telling you before? You see, I was afraid to let even you know that I was the son of a rich man, because I wanted you to like me for myself alone."

"You know I do, Rick Dale! You know I do!" exclaimed Bonny, impulsively, finding his voice at last. "But, Rick," he added, almost in a whisper, "are you sure there isn't any mistake about it all? Amos Todd, you know, is President of the Northwest Company, and the richest man on the coast. They do say he is a millionaire."

"It's all right, Bonny. I expect he is a millionaire," answered Alaric, joyously. "But we won't lay it up against him, will we? And we'll try not to think any the less of him for it. I didn't know he was President of the Northwest Company, though. Are you, dad?"

"I believe I am," laughed Amos Todd. "And I certainly have cause to be grateful that I hold the office, for it was while making my official inspection of the camps yesterday that I ran across you boys. I didn't know you, though, Rick--'pon my word, I didn't. You bore a faint resemblance to my little 'Allie' as you came riding those logs down the skid-road, but I knew you couldn't be he, for I was certain that he was on the other side of the world by this time. And so you shook the Sontaggs, and let them run away from you. It was wrong, Rick, very wrong, but I don't blame you--not one bit, I don't. I'd have done the same thing myself."

"But, dad, how did you come to find me out? I don't understand it at all."

"By your own letter to Esther, lad. She forwarded it to me in France; but I had gone when it reached there, and so it was sent to San Francisco. I left Margaret on the other side for the winter, and came back by way of Montreal and the Canadian Pacific, intending to stop here and inspect the lumber camps on my way home. I telegraphed John to send this car and all my mail up here, and they came last night. As soon as I read your letter I felt pretty certain that it was you whom I had seen doing the circus act on those logs. I wasn't quite sure, though, and didn't want to make any mistake, so I just sent word to Linton to fetch you in, that I might take a good look at you."

"So it was you who sent for us?"

"Certainly. And you thought it was the revenue officers, and so decided to give 'em the slip, and beat your way home to claim protection of your old dad--eh, you rascal? And Bonny here took me for a fellow-tramp who could put him on to the racket. Ha, ha, ha! Ho, ho, ho! Oh my! I shall die of laughing yet at thinking of it. It was all the hat, though, wasn't it, Bonny? I hated to cut it up, for I only bought it in Paris the other day, and hadn't another with me; but I wanted to inspect the camp without being known, and it was the only disguise I could think of. But, boys, what do you say to supper? If you are as hungry as I am, you must be more than ready for it."

Indeed they were ready for supper, and when they sat down to that daintily served meal in the exquisitely appointed dining-room of President Todd's own private car, Bonny at last realized why Alaric had ordered that strange lot of supplies for the sloop _Fancy_.

After supper they returned to the saloon, where Amos Todd lighted a cigar, and listened to the wonderful story of trial and triumph, privation and strange vicissitude, that had transformed his pale-faced weakling into the strong, handsome, self-reliant youth upon whom he now gazed so proudly. When the long story was ended, he asked, quietly,

"How much have you earned by your summer's work, son; and what have you to show for it?"

"If you mean in money, dad, not one cent; and all I have to show, besides what you've already noticed, is this." Here Alaric held out a dilapidated baseball, at which his father gazed curiously. "With that ball," continued Alaric, "I took my first lesson in being a boy, and it has led me on from one thing to another ever since, until finally, this very evening, it brought me back to you. So, dad, I should say that it stood for my whole summer's work."

"I am thankful, Rick, that you haven't earned any money, and that through bitter want of it you have learned its value," said Amos Todd. "I am thankful, too, that there is still one thing for which you have to come to your old dad. More than all am I thankful for what you have gained without his help, or, rather, in spite of him; and had I known last spring what that baseball was to do for you, I would gladly have paid a million of dollars for it."

"You may have it now, dad, for one hundred, which is just the amount I owe Bonny."

"Done!" cried Amos Todd; and thus he came into possession of the well-worn baseball that, set in a plate of silver and enclosed in a superb frame, hung above his private desk for many years afterwards.

Here our story properly ends, but we cannot help telling of two or three things that happened soon after the disappearance of our hump-durgin boys from camp No. 10, and as a direct result of their having lived there. To begin with, Mr. Linton felt himself so insulted by the manner in which President Todd made his inspection that he resigned his position, and, on the recommendation of Alaric, Buck Raulet was given his place. On the strength of this promotion the big "faller" went East to marry the girl of his choice, and both Alaric and Bonny were present at the wedding.

Through the liberality of Amos Todd, the ex-hump-durgin boys were enabled to present the camp with their shack, converted into a neat little library building and filled with carefully selected books, in which the occupants of the camp are greatly pleased to discover many of the tales already told to them by Rick Dale.

A certain famous and badly used up hat, carefully removed from the camp, belongs to Bonny Brooks, and adorns a wall in one of a beautiful suite of rooms that he and Alaric occupy together at Harvard. Here Alaric is taking an academic course, while Bonny, whom Amos Todd regards almost as an own son, is sturdily working his way through the mathematical and chemical labyrinths of the Lawrence Scientific School. They entered the university just one year after completing their studies as hump-durgin boys; and while they were still Freshmen, the splendid baseball-player, who, though only a Sophomore, was captain of the 'varsity nine, happened to be badly in need of a catcher.

"I can tell you of one who can't be beat this side of the Rocky Mountains," suggested his classmate and pitcher, Dave Carncross.

"Who is he?"

"Rick Todd, a Freshman."

"Son of Amos Todd, your San Francisco millionaire?"

"Yes."

"Then I don't want him. Millionaires' sons are no good."

"This one is, though," insisted Carncross; "and I ought to know, for I taught him to catch his first ball. You just come over to Soldiers' Field this afternoon and size him up."

The captain needed a first-class man behind the bat so badly that, in spite of his prejudices, he consented to do as his pitcher desired. He was amazed, delighted, and enthusiastic. Never had he seen such an exhibition of ball-catching as was given by that Freshman. Finally he could contain himself no longer, and rushing up to his classmate, he exclaimed:

"Carncross, I tell you he's a wonder! Introduce me at once."

"Rick Todd," said Dave Carncross, "permit me to present you to my friend Phil Ryder, captain of the 'varsity nine."

As the two lads grasped each other's hands, there came a flash of recognition into each face, and both remembered where they had met each other last.

THE END.

IN THE TOWER OF MANY STORIES.

THE EARL OF ESSEX AND HIS RING.

BY MRS. LEW. WALLACE.

The name of Queen Elizabeth is dear to loyal English hearts, and her reign is named to-day as second only to that of the gentle and gracious Victoria. She was strong and wise, ready to sacrifice small things for a great end, and all things for the good of her subjects. The many portraits of her I have seen are much like the pictures of George Eliot: red hair, a pale high forehead, keen dark eyes, a nose hooked like the beak of an eagle, sharp chin. Such is not the face to win admiration, much less to waken love; yet, when nearly seventy--an age which no art can conceal--she listened to the soft flatteries of her courtiers as tributes to her beauty which they could not repress. When one shaded his eyes at her approach, as though the lustre of her face dazzled his sight like the sun, and said "he could not behold it with a fixed eye," she was delighted with the foolish speech, as a young girl with the roses of her first ball. One can hardly keep from laughing at the idea of high-born youths of twenty-five or thirty hanging breathless on her withered smiles and pretending worship of her charms. Such was her daily portion from the shining train of courtiers surrounding her, and she never tired of it. One said of her red hair: "A poet, madam, might call it a golden web wrought by Minerva; but to my thinking it was paler than even the purest gold--more like the last parting sunbeam of the softest day of spring."

The great ruler never learned to rule her own spirit. She swore at her maids of honor, and boxed the ears of the Lord-Lieutenant for appearing before her in muddy boots, and sent him in disgrace to the Tower. She vowed that England was her husband, whom she loved with a perfect love, and she would have none other; she had wedded herself to the kingdom at the coronation by the ring then placed upon her finger: in remembrance thereof she wished engraved on her tombstone these words: "Here lies Elizabeth, who lived and died a Maiden Queen."

There was another ring, of which I shall presently tell, more precious than that which went with the crown, because life and death were in its keeping.

It was her custom to select from her courtiers one on whom she lavished a fickle love and transient favor. When the court was beginning to tire of Raleigh, Leicester, a former favorite, introduced his step-son, Robert Devereux, second Earl of Essex, in hope of weakening the influence of Raleigh. Essex was a spirited boy of seventeen, fresh from Oxford, with handsome face and graceful mien. Clad in the pictorial dress of the period, wearing crest and plume, badges and ribbons of honor, he was a figure to claim the glance of a king as he greeted his sovereign, and it is not strange that the susceptible virgin felt the fascination of such a presence, although she was then fifty years old.

Before he was twenty he fought gallantly with the English army in Holland, and was foremost in the battle of Zütphen, where Sir Philip Sidney fell. On his return to court the Queen's fancy deepened into dotage, and, fond and foolish, she would hardly let him quit her presence. This became so irksome that he ran off to the war in Spain, and refused to return when she sent an officer after him. When he was pleased to come back she forgave all, and redoubled her favors in hope of keeping the wanderer; but in a short time he again disappeared, and secretly married the widow of Sir Philip Sidney. The Queen could never endure the marriage of her courtiers, still less that of a favorite. She banished him; but he reappeared in a few months, and only regained the Queen's grace by neglecting his fair, sweet wife, who lived in seclusion in the country while he shone at court.

When Essex was about twenty-nine years old he set out with the royal army for Cadiz, and at parting Elizabeth gave him a ring, telling him, "whatever crimes his enemies might accuse him of, or whatever offences he may have committed against her, if he sent it to her she would forgive him." The precious gift was probably a true-love-knot, set with a gem that means unchanging; for the time was rich with sentiment in trinkets, and we may be sure the compact was sealed with vows and kisses on the proffered hand. He returned from Spain unsuccessful, and although the Queen still petted him, from this time on they quarrelled. Essex was haughty and insolent; and she, violent and exacting with him, yet forgiving in the end.

When she decided to appoint a Lord-Deputy for Ireland, then in a state of revolt, she called to her private room three of her court officers--Cecil, the Clerk of the Seal, and Essex. He expected the appointment, but failed to get it, spoke angrily to the Queen, and turned his back on her. She boxed his ears, and told him to "go and be hanged." So furious was he that his hand reached for his short sword, but Cecil stepped between them; and Essex said, with an oath, "that he would not have taken that blow from King Henry, her father, and it was an indignity he neither could nor would endure from any one." Then muttering something about "a king in petticoats," he rushed madly from her presence. In any one else such conduct would have been death.

Again the Earl disappeared from court, and he and Elizabeth never were good friends afterwards, although a peace was patched up, and she made him Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland. His enemies persuaded her that the Lord-Lieutenant wanted to make himself King of Ireland; spies were sent to watch him, but one of them was kind enough to warn Essex of his danger. With his usual rashness, on learning this he at once returned to London, without permission of the Queen--an act in itself treason--and finding court adjourned to "Nonesuch" in the country, he rode at speed through mud and mire to anticipate his enemy, Lord Gray, who had heard of his arrival, and started in haste to give his version of the affair before Essex could reach her. Gray had been closeted with the Queen's councillors a half-hour when he arrived. Hearing this, Essex lost all sense of propriety, hurried unannounced to the Queen's apartments, and not finding her in the outer reception-room, pushed on into her private bedroom. Her maid was combing her hair, which, gray and thin, was hanging about her bony shoulders--for she had not yet made choice of her eighty wigs of many colors for the day--nor were her paint and powder on, and patches pasted over the wrinkled cheek.

He threw himself at her feet, covered her hand with kisses, poured out his story with oaths of fidelity, vowing that he had ever borne in his heart the picture of her beauty, completely winning the "most sweet Queen" to him. He retired to dress, and in an hour was recalled to an audience, and was again well received. But by night the fitful maiden had changed her mind, influenced by the Cecil faction, and perhaps by thinking how ugly she must have looked in the morning. She was then sixty-eight years old, and as vain as in youth. When he again offered respectful homage she received him with great sternness, and commanded him to confine himself in his apartments until sent for to appear before her council the following day. His ever-active enemy Cecil brought against him many charges--not least, "his over-bold going to her Majesty's presence in her bedchamber."

The Queen then ordered him to be held a prisoner at York House, where he remained many months. He pretended to be sick--a trick he had to gain forgiveness when his royal mistress was out of humor; but it did not move her this time, although it soon became reality. His wife was not permitted to visit him, nor even write to him. He had only one true friend at court, the gentle Lady Scroope, his cousin, and sister of the Countess of Nottingham. She wore mourning for him, and endured bad treatment from Elizabeth on his account, but stood faithful to the end.

Yet the lovesick woman could not entirely banish thought of her proud favorite, although her mind was constantly filled with suspicions by Cecil and Raleigh. To forget him she had bear-baitings, jousts at the ring, and a splendid tourney in honor of her coronation day. These frivolities filled the weeks that poor Essex passed alone and wretched in one room at York House. Elizabeth would not listen to the prayers of his sisters and Lady Scroope for his release, but she accepted the costly presents they offered, among them a gown worth £500 (about $2500). Essex finally fell so ill that his life was despaired of. On hearing his pitiable state the Queen wept, and sent him her own physician, and had prayers read for him in all the churches of London, but something changed her mood again, and she was harsher than ever. Not until March 16, 1600, did she allow him to go to his own home, Essex House on the river and the Fleet, first sending away his family and all the servants but two. Essex was kept there prisoner for seventeen weeks, when the Queen removed his keeper and allowed him to become a prisoner on parole.

During this time he was examined before a commission of his enemies, appointed for the purpose, and was treated most cruelly. They let him stand, occasionally leaning for rest against a cupboard, from nine in the morning till eight at night; and when accused of treason, he replied:

"I should do God and mine own conscience wrong if I do not justify myself as an honest man. This hand shall pull out this heart when any disloyal thought shall enter it."

The following August his tyrant again summoned him to York House, where he was told that her Majesty was pleased to give him his liberty, but he must not enter her presence nor come to court. Though free, he was constantly spied upon. Through the remainder of the summer his friends appealed to the Queen to restore him to favor. Essex wrote her imploring letters, that brought no answer. He brooded over his fall and loss of power, until he grew desperate, and gathered about him at Essex House all the disaffected people of London, among them a host of Puritans. They formed many wild schemes--at one time a plan to capture the Tower and palace; at another, to march to the court and compel Essex's enemies to give him a hearing. The Queen remained cold and silent. He talked of her and of his own wrongs, and said "she was an old woman crooked both in body and in mind." Sir Walter Raleigh insisted that this speech sealed his doom; for spies reported everything he said and did.

His last piece of folly was to raise a riot one morning in the streets of London with three hundred followers, declaring that "the kingdom was sold to Spain by Cecil and Raleigh." The mob was quickly dispersed, and Essex slipped back to his house alone in a small boat. He had shut up as prisoners there some officers of the court who had been sent to talk with him and bring him to reason. He had hoped to secure his own safety by giving these as hostages, but Sir Ferdinando Georges, one of his own men, had liberated them, and as he had already been proclaimed traitor, there was nothing to be done but to barricade the house. It was surrounded by the Queen's troops, and he held out till 10 o'clock at night, and only surrendered then because "he was sore vexed with the tears and incessant screams of the ladies." He was confined that night in Lambeth Palace, and on Monday, February 9, 1601, together with his followers, was taken to the Tower. When the boat glided through the Traitors' Gate beneath St. Thomas's Tower, he must have realized the hopelessness of his case, for those who went in by that low dark tunnel rarely came out again.

The apartment to which he was committed was only nineteen feet in diameter, the walls eleven feet thick, and, in memory of the chivalric Earl, it is to this day called Devereux Tower. When he passed the ponderous door his brightness of soul was yet undimmed, but a short while in that chill lone chamber would subdue it to silence if not to resignation. Love of life cannot long endure in such a prison, and rapid changes in the career of soldier, statesman, courtier, had taught him the uncertainty of fortune which hangs on the caprice of king or queen.

On the 19th of the same month he and Southampton were brought to trial, and, as usual, he was unfairly treated. Even Lord Bacon, to whom he had given an estate, and who was not of the Queen's counsels, appeared against him. One lawyer compared him to a crocodile; another called him an atheist and papist, when it was well known he was a Puritan. The trial lasted from nine o'clock in the morning to six o'clock in the evening. He was sentenced to death, and on hearing it, said: "I am not a whit dismayed to receive this doom. Death is welcome to me as life. Let my poor quarters, which have done her Majesty true service in divers parts of the world, be sacrificed and disposed of at her pleasure."

As he marched through the streets to the Tower, with the edge of the headsman's axe carried toward him--the custom when prisoners were condemned to die--he walked swiftly, with his head hanging down, and made no answers to persons who frequently spoke to him from the crowds. He was allowed six more days to prepare for death. It is said that Elizabeth signed his death-warrant firmly, and with even more than the customary flourishes, but she wept and hesitated about appointing the execution.

Meanwhile where was the gay gold ring given to him in the bloom of his youth, as he marched to Spain with the beauty of banners and roll of drums, under no shadow deeper than the folds of the royal standard? Many times Essex must have looked at the amulet, and in the long, slow waiting sickened for gracious message or friendly sign, but none came. And Elizabeth, too, must have wondered what had become of the token; and why did not he, so wildly loved and deeply mourned, send the pledge and claim the pardon?

Early one morning while this time was passing, not knowing whom to trust, he chanced to see from his window, which overlooked the street, a lad with an honest, open face, which so pleased him it won his confidence. He managed to throw down a small bribe and the ring, and told him to take it to his good cousin Lady Scroope, and she would send it to the Queen. The boy took the keepsake, but gave it into the hand of the wife of one of Essex's worst enemies, the Countess of Nottingham, who passed it to her husband.

How terrible must have been the suspense of Essex, for, in spite of everything, he trusted the word of his sovereign. The day broke that was to see his execution. Still no sign of pardon or reprieve. Calmly he prepared for death, and dressed with his usual care and elegance. He wore a long black cloak of wrought velvet over a satin suit, which consisted of a doublet of brocade with ruffles of lace in the sleeves, a silken scarf confining it at the waist, short breeches of satin, silken hose, and leather buskins. Usually with this costume a jewelled sword was worn, and an immense ruff of lace around the neck. On this occasion both were omitted. His picture shows a well-turned head, with dark curling hair, straight nose, brown eyes, a mustache, and the pointed beard affected at that period.

Essex had begged as a last privilege that he might have a private execution. The poor petition was granted, and he was permitted to suffer death on Tower Hill. The Earl was then in his summer prime--only thirty-three years of age. Valor, beauty, fortune had been his from birth, but failed to avert his fate. The place of execution was hallowed by the best blood of England, and there two fair queens had laid their young heads on the block to satisfy the brutal rage of Elizabeth's father.

Ash-Wednesday, February 25, 1601, at 8 o'clock in the morning, he was led to the fatal block. As he knelt to place his head in position he showed no fear, and three strokes of the axe, the first one mortal, severed his head from his body. They were buried in the Tower Chapel, though some believed the Queen kept the skull in her own private room. Notwithstanding it was a cold gloomy day, one hundred gentlemen sat near the scaffold, and Sir Walter Raleigh secretly watched the execution from a window of the armory, little thinking that thirteen years later he would meet the same fate in the same place. During this tragedy Queen Elizabeth amused herself playing on the spinet. But there came an hour of repentance bitter as death.

About two years afterward the Countess of Nottingham was taken with an illness, which proved her last. She begged to see the Queen; she could not die in peace without it. Elizabeth came, and when the Countess confessed having kept the ring of Essex, the Queen wept, and then flew into a fury, and shook the dying woman in her bed, crying, "God may forgive you, but I never can!"

This disclosure affected her so she could neither sleep nor eat. The dreadful secret pressed on her soul, and the old love and longing came back with remorse for tenderness turned to hate.

Dreams of Devereux in his morning beauty kneeling at her feet must have risen to her sight. The hand whose touch had made her pulses quicken, that never drew sword except for England's glory, was laid low; the brilliant nobleman--a headless corpse--was buried among criminals in Tower Chapel, when a word from her would have saved him.

Who may tell her anguish when she lay on the palace floor ten days and nights, refusing to be comforted, haunted by memories of crime unpardonable, till death came to close the scene?

FLOWER BORDERS.

BY EMMA J. GRAY.

"I tell you, Cousin Bess, there is everything in the way garden-beds are arranged. There is that old couple who live next door, so old they have to just hobble out to their flowers, and what do you suppose they've done?"

"I have no idea, but if I may judge from your tone, something very queer," and Cousin Bess laughed lightly, while she laid the book she had been reading on the table, and then looked up at Charlie.

"Well, around each bed they've put white stones, just about the size of this," and the boy picked up an ostrich egg, "and so close that one stone touches the other."

"Have you never seen that before?"

"Never, Cousin Bess; but it makes their yard look fine; and as for ours--well, the contrast is simply awful. I've come to you for points. Our ramshackle fence and half-rotten flower-bed boards are too much. I am ashamed, and simply will not let those two old people outstrip me. I'm bound to go right ahead and even up with them if I can."

And Cousin Bess looked into the boy's eager face before she replied: "That's a good resolution. I am glad to hear you say so." And then followed the words:

"'Go make thy garden fair as thou canst;
Thou workest never alone;
Perchance he whose plot is next to thine
Will see it, and mend his own.'

"But pardon my moralizing. I know, Charlie, you are impatient to get to work. Let's begin with the fence. Cover that with wild-cucumber vine."

"Plant it all around?"

"Oh no. Sow the seed, and almost before you will know it the fence will be a mass of green foliage. And a few days later buds and blossoms will appear, and the yard will be perfumed with sweet-scented flowers.

"Dig up your rotten bed-boards and burn them. Sow a narrow line of sweet-alyssum along the edge. It is of easy culture, and will produce a similar effect to your neighbor's white stones. Should you prefer a complete change, however, edge your beds with low-growing coleus plants. They come in many colors. I would advise bronze.

"You should also group your plants, putting the lilies all together, the pansies, the pinks, and so on. The old-time method of having a patch here, a patch there, divided by other flowers, is not nearly as effective as to mass them.

"The most unique, and also the most beautiful, small garden I ever saw was at Cape Vincent. The owners were French people, and it was altogether of blossoms. There was not a blade of grass nor a foot-path visible anywhere. Nevertheless, there were spaces through which a single individual might walk; but these were wellnigh hidden by the nodding flowers. It was a perfect wilderness of bloom, and the air was laden with sweetness.

"You may have just such a garden, and it will be a beautiful enchantment. But you must be careful about blending complementary colors, and also to place your tall and short plants effectively."

WILLIE'S LITTLE CELEBRATION.

(_As told in Letters from different Members of Willie's Family._)

BY HAYDEN CARRUTH.

I.

FROM WILLIE'S SISTER TO WILLIE'S MOTHER.

WASHINGTONVILLE, _July 4_.

MY DEAREST MAMMA,--Something _awful_ has happened. Willie has been
burned pretty nearly _all over_, I guess. You know, this is the
Fourth of July, and we have had _such_ a time! You can't know how
nervous I am, and I hope you will _never_ go away again and leave
me to look after Willie when there is going to be a Fourth of July.
He simply would _not_ mind one thing I said to him, just because he
is a year and a half older than I am--the idea!--when he _knows_ I
have better judgment than he has. Boys never have any judgment,
anyhow, on Fourth of July--that's been my experience. Why, Willie's
judgment was worse than Carlo's--_he_ knew enough to be scared, and
Willie didn't. The poor dog just sat in the wood-shed all day and
barked, and to-night he is so hoarse that I am going to put a
flannel around his neck. And poor darling Miss Mouser, I don't know
_where_ she is. I would be _very_ much alarmed about her if I
hadn't seen two big yellow lights under the barn, which I _hope_
and _trust_ were her eyes.

Of course Aunt Lou helped me to look after Willie a good deal, but
I'm very sorry to tell you that he didn't _always_ mind her. As for
papa, I think he was 'most as bad as Willie. Not that he let off
fire-crackers in his hat, or had any horrid fireworks go off in his
pocket, but he would just let Willie go on awfully, and never say a
word to him. But he _was_ frightened when Willie got burned. Oh, I
almost forgot to tell you about _that_. I don't know how it
_happened_ hardly, but there was a lot of boys and a _bushel_ of
fire-crackers and torpedoes and fireworks and _everything_, and it
all went off together, and Willie was right down in it. I was
dreadfully frightened, and Aunt Lou screamed, and Carlo barked, and
papa just took Willie by the collar and lifted him right out. We
had _two_ doctors. Harry Austin got burned too, half an hour later,
but I believe they had only one doctor. I must stop and go and look
after Miss Mouser.

Ever your loving little MOLLIE.

II.

FROM WILLIE'S AUNT LOU TO WILLIE'S MOTHER.

WASHINGTONVILLE, _July 4_.

MY DEAR SISTER,--I fear I cannot hold a pen to write, I am so
nervous after all we have gone through with to-day. Willie began to
celebrate at three o'clock this morning, and did not pause till
five this afternoon, when there came near being a terrible
accident. I do not know how it came about, but he was considerably,
though not seriously, burned. I had been scolding him all day for
his noise, but when he was brought in you may be sure I forgave him
all. Poor little darling, I fear it hurt him a good deal. He is in
the large bed, with three pillows, and I have been with him until
just now. I must close, as he is asking for matches, and I must see
that he does _not_ get them. Do not be alarmed, as we shall take
the best care of him. Both Dr. Barlow and Dr. Strowbridge say that
in a day or two he will be well. There! he must have got the
matches, as a fire-cracker has gone off under the bed. I _must_
stop. The boy will drive me mad.

Your sister, LOUISE.

III.

FROM WILLIE'S FATHER TO WILLIE'S MOTHER.

MY DEAR WIFE,--Let us be thankful to-night that we still have our
darling Willie. Louise and Mollie have written you of the accident.
Both doctors say he will soon be well. There was a large box full
of explosives, and just as they went off Willie sat down in the
box. Poor little fellow, it was a somewhat dismal ending for his
day's sport--though I suspect that it has not yet wholly ended, as
I hear explosions in the bedroom. I gave him some matches--he
seemed so lonesome--but I did not know that he had any crackers. He
must have induced Bridget to give him some. I must hurry down, or I
shall have to send for the fire company instead of the doctor. As
ever,

YOUR LOVING HUSBAND.

IV.

FROM WILLIE HIMSELF TO HIS MOTHER.

WASHINGTONVILLE, _July 4_.

DEAR MA,--I s'pose Sis and Aunt Lou and Pa have been writing you a
lot of stuff about it all, but they get scared so easy. It wasn't
anything. A lot of crackers and things went off in a box, but
nobody wouldn't have paid any attention to it if I hadn't happened
to be down in the box on my back. I got out all right. Pa helped a
little. I thought he wasn't going to mind, but just because my
clothes was smouldering, and maybe blazing a little in spots, he
got excited, and called in 'bout a dozen doctors, and now they've
got me bundled up with more'n twenty pillows. Aunt Lou encouraged
him, and of course Sis cried, or I don't think he'd have had quite
so many doctors.

Anyhow, Ma, it was a rip-snorting day, and I wish Washington and
those fellows had made it a week instead of a day. I tied a string
to my toe and hung it out of the window for the milkman to pull,
but I guess the cat or something got at it, and woke me up 'bout
two or three o'clock; so I staid up, just to make sure. While I was
dressing I let off a cracker or two, or maybe three, on the
wood-shed roof, and I guess Aunt Lou knew it some way, as I could
hear her in her room talking in her sleep. You ought to have been
here, Ma, and had some fun.

I gave the milkman one or two while he was looking for the string,
and his horse got nervous, and I guess he had to chase him a little
'fore he caught the cart, and I heard the cans rattle a good deal;
but folks oughtn't to complain at a little rattling on the Fourth
of July. Pa called out of his room that I was a nuisance, so I went
down stairs and sat on the back stoop. In a little while I heard
Bridget walking about the kitchen on torpedoes. She said might the
Saints preserve her, and I guess they did, 'cause after a while we
had breakfast. After breakfast Sis's cat went under the barn. I
guess business must be good under there, 'cause she hasn't been out
since.

No use of my trying to tell you of everything that happened to-day.
If Tommy Snyder hadn't pushed me I wouldn't have been down in the
box when those things went off. A fire-cracker or two got into his
jacket pocket somehow, and exploded there, and then he pushed me.
He needn't have done so, either, 'cause it didn't make much noise
in his pocket. Did you ever try putting a cracker in a fellow's
pocket, Ma? The noise sounds kind of smothery. Pa didn't need to
pull me out of that box, 'cause I was going to get out, anyhow.

A policeman went by our house three times to-day, and every time he
stopped and looked at me, I wasn't doing anything either time. Oh,
I 'most forgot to tell you! You know what a nigger-chaser is, Ma?
Well, Harry Austin said they wouldn't. I said they would. He said
it was just a _name_ they had. I said, how did they get the name?
We had just one left. You know Uncle Eben, who takes away our
ashes? Well, he came along, going to a picnic. Ma, _it did_! I saw
Uncle Eben talking to a policeman on the corner, and then the
policeman came down and looked at us awhile. We wasn't doing
anything. Did you know my waist burns better than my trousers? I
think there must be better stuff in it. Pa put me out with a rug.

I can't write much more to-night, 'cause they've just boosted me
into bed. I could have got in myself, but Pa seemed to want to
lift. Don't pay any attention to what he writes, nor Aunt Lou, or
Sis. They are all scart. I think Carlo will have to gargle his
throat with something, he has barked so much. I never saw a cat
stick under a barn like Sis's has. I think if I was a big striped
cat I could do better than stay under a dark barn on such a day as
this. Aunt Lou said she wished to goodness she was small enough to
get under the barn too, so I pried out another stone, and told her
she could get under now, but I guess she didn't--at least I didn't
miss her. I guess she was glad she didn't, too, 'cause if she had
she wouldn't have seen me burn. My straw hat staid in the box, and
it mostly went. Good-night. I hear the milkman and Uncle Eben
talking very serious with Pa out at the gate. Guess they must be
discussing politics. I must close. Don't worry about me, 'cause I'm
all out and getting 'most cool.

Your dutiful son, WILLIE.

The delegates to the National I.S.A.A.A.A. held a meeting in the evening after the championship games, and transacted much important business. One of the most prominent subjects of discussion was as to whether next year's games should be held in New York or in some other city. The New England delegation was strongly in favor of having the 1897 meeting in Boston or Worcester, but finally accepted the arguments of the better advised; and although they voted against New York on the first ballot, the New England delegates subsequently proposed that the decision to hold the games in this city be made unanimous.

Their principal argument in favor of having next year's meeting in some other city was that the sports would take on too local a color if always held in New York, and more of a national importance if held at the headquarters of the different interscholastic leagues in turn. The A.A.U. has tried this travelling championship business, and has found it unsuccessful. I believe that in the future the A.A.U. championships will be held in New York city, which will eventually become (even if in the minds of outside residents it is not already) the metropolis of sport as well as of commerce.

There is little doubt in the minds of impartial observers that New York is in every respect the best city for any large meeting, such as that of the National I.S.A.A.A.A. New York is easier of access to most of the leagues than is Boston or Trenton or Hartford or Worcester or Philadelphia. It would be out of the question, of course, to hold a National meet in Iowa; but if the championships were made a movable event there would be no just reason why Iowa should not have a chance to welcome the teams as well as Maine or New Jersey. But how many Eastern athletes would go to Cedar Rapids or Sioux City? Very few, I believe.

The reason for this is that Eastern athletes are not compelled to travel to Iowa in order to get up a representative championship meeting, because the majority of strong school teams are in the East. With the Iowans, on the other hand, or with any of the school sportsmen of the West, it is different. If they are the strongest team in their section of the country, and believe themselves stronger than any other scholastic team, they cannot prove this by challenging or inviting those who have shown themselves to be record-makers to come to them; they must seek out the Eastern athletes, and meet them on their own grounds.

Yale and Cornell have to go to Henley to row with English crews. They may feel that they are stronger than the Englishmen, but the Britishers are very well satisfied with their own rivers, and are content to race their own crews. They welcome the Americans, and are glad to contend against them; but they never would think of coming over here to race on the Hudson. We are as young in college sports, when compared with England, as the Iowa schools are young in interscholastic sport when compared with Eastern institutions. To win at Henley means much both for Englishmen and Americans. For an English crew to win at Poughkeepsie would mean little to the English public. There would scarcely be a paragraph about such a victory in the London dailies. In the same way there would scarcely be a paragraph in the New York papers if the National games were held in Cedar Rapids or Sioux City, because neither of these cities is of national fame or importance.

Therefore it is the wisest plan to hold the National games in the largest city of the land--in the city to which the dwellers of other cities are always glad to come; in the city which affords the best accommodations; in the city which can contribute the largest crowd (even if it does not do so at first); in the city which can offer the greatest entertainment; in the city where live the largest number of well-known sportsmen. No other city of the United States can boast of so great a number of amateur athletes as New York--men who have been famous when in college, and who now take a lively interest as officials in the welfare of sport. As one of these gentlemen said, on the day of the National games, when one of the Boston delegation asked his opinion about the location for next year's meet, "Crum is reported to have run the 100 yards, in 9-4/5 sec. in Iowa, but nobody believed it until he came to New York and won the event at the Inter-collegiate games."

There is a great deal of truth in the suggestion implied in this remark. If the National games were held out West somewhere, and all the interscholastic records were broken, few people would take much stock in the figures, because they would have but little confidence in the local officials. Not that these local officials might not be just as good as those of New York (although they probably could not be, for they are not able to have as much experience), but the general public interested in sport would not place full confidence in them, simply because those officials would be unknown to them.

In this discussion I have purposely made the comparison between New York and another city a comparison between New York and a Western city, because I think it makes the argument clearer and more forcible. Many of the objections to having the meet outside of New York would not hold for Boston or Philadelphia--because both of these are large centres, and to each of these cities New York officials of national importance and reputation could easily be induced to go. But, as I said at the start, it would not be fair to the other leagues in the National Association to hold the meetings alternately at the homes of two or three of its favored members. It would not be fair to Iowa and to Maine to hold the meet alternately at Philadelphia, New York, and Boston. Unless the event is held _always_ in the same place there is no reason why each league should not have a chance to see the games on their own grounds, but, as I have said before, very few Eastern athletes could be persuaded to travel as far as the Iowans did to come here. Another reason, although a minor one, why it is well to hold the meetings each year not only in the same city but on the same grounds, is that the comparison between records made is then an absolute one, the only error in the equation being one of weather or temperature.

The question of grounds is an important one, and one that should be discussed very carefully before any decision is arrived at concerning next year's meeting. There are two important factors to be considered. The first is that the grounds, considered merely as a track and a field, should be of the best available--that is, the cinder path should be well laid, should be firm and springy, and the turf of the infield should be "old" and well rolled. The second point to be considered is the convenience of access, the accommodations for spectators, the relation of the grand stand to the track, the general picturesqueness of the surroundings, and other minor conveniences. I am not at all certain that the Columbia Oval comes up to all these requirements--it certainly does not come up to some of the latter. There may be some points, however, in which the Columbia Oval excels other available ground for interscholastic meetings, and although I should not care to declare myself of that opinion at present, I think it would be well to discuss the question at greater length before coming to an absolute or final decision.

There are a number of other subjects concerning the National Association which need to be talked over--the choice of officials, for instance, the inclination of certain delegates to introduce politics into the affairs of the association, and the problem as to whether it is better to have the games in the future managed by a club, or by the schoolboys themselves. But, unfortunately, there is not space in the Department this week to go as thoroughly into the questions as the importance deserves. We must therefore leave them to another time.

An excellent step taken by the committee was the fixing of a date for all future meetings to be on the first Saturday in June. Next year, therefore, the meeting of the I.S.A.A.A.A. will be held on June 6. This will be much better than having it as late as was necessary this year, and because of the early date the attendance both of contestants and spectators will doubtless be very much larger.

The officers elected for the ensuing year were C. B. Cotting, of the New England League, president; Hugh Jackson, of the Iowa League, vice-president; J. D. Tilford, of the New York Association, secretary; George Smith, of the New Jersey Association, treasurer. The executive committee will consist of President Cotting, _ex officio_, C. F. Luce, of the Connecticut Association, F. Hewins, of the Maine Association, L. F. Herrick, of the Long Island Association, H. N. Dunbar, of the New England Association, and J. D. Tilford, the secretary.

Another important step taken by the delegates at this meeting was the formation of an alliance with the Amateur Athletic Union. The advantages to be derived by both associations may be gathered from the following clauses taken from the body of the Articles of Alliance:

At all meetings of the Amateur Athletic Union the National
Interscholastic A.A.A.A. shall be entitled to representation by not
more than four delegates, or duly elected alternates of such
delegates, having collectively one vote.

From among these delegates one shall be chosen to become a member
of the Board of Governors of the A.A.U., who shall have voice,
vote, and privilege equal to the other members of said Board upon
all matters coming before it.

All games open only to members of the N.I.S.A.A.A.A. shall be held
under N.I.S.A.A.A.A. Rules; but games open to all amateurs shall be
held under rules of the A.A.U.

Each party to this Alliance shall respect and enforce all penalties
of suspension and disqualification inflicted by the other party.

These Articles of Alliance shall be terminated by either party upon
thirty days' notice to the other.

On account of Hartford's having taken a greater number of points at the games than any other individual school, the Connecticut delegates wished to have H.P.H.-S. pronounced the "Champion School" of the United States or of the Association. While at first thought this claim may seem to have some justification, I am of the opinion that a little sober reflection will show the injustice of allowing any school to assume any such title. Hartford deserves the greatest credit for scoring the highest number of points at the National games, and this Department has given such credit by printing a list of points scored by schools.