Chapter IV: The "empress" Loses a Passenger (1)

Professor Maximus Sonntagg, a big man with a beard, and his wife, Mrs. Dr. Ophelia Sonntagg, who was thin and mysterious, had come out of the East to seek their fortunes in the Golden City about a year before, but up to this time without any great amount of success. The former was a professor of almost everything in the shape of ancient and modern art, languages, history, and a lot of other things, concerning all of which he wrote articles for the papers, always signing his name to them in full. The Mrs. Doctor had learned the art of saying little, looking wise, and shaking her head, as she felt the pulse of her patients.

These people had managed to scrape an acquaintance with Amos Todd, whom the Professor declared to be the only patron of art in San Francisco worth knowing, and to whom he gave some really valuable advice concerning the purchase of certain paintings. Thus it happened that when the busy millionaire, in seeking to provide a safe and congenial amusement for the son whom he firmly believed to be an invalid, conceived the idea of sending him around the world by way of China, he also thought of the Sonntaggs as most suitable travelling companions for him. Where else could he find such a combination of tutor and physician, a man of the world to take his place as father, and a cultivated woman to act as mother to his motherless boy?

When he proposed the plan to the Sonntaggs, they declared that they could not think of giving up the prosperous business they had established in San Francisco, even for the sake of obliging their dear friend Mr. Amos Todd. With this the millionaire made them an offer of such unheard-of munificence that, with pretended reluctance, they finally accepted it, and he went on his way rejoicing.

The next evening the Sonntaggs dined at Amos Todd's house for the purpose of making Alaric's acquaintance. The Professor patted him on the shoulder, and, in a patronizing manner, hoped they should learn much and enjoy much together. The Mrs. Doctor surveyed him critically, and held his hand until the boy wondered if she would never let it go. Finally she shook her head, sighed deeply, and, turning to his father, said:

"I understand the dear child's case thoroughly. What he needs is intelligent treatment and motherly care. I can give him both, and unhesitatingly promise to restore him to you at the end of a year, if nothing occurs to prevent, strong, well, and an ornament to the name of Todd."

Alaric found no difficulty in forming an opinion of the Sonntaggs, and wondered if going to France with his father and sister would not be preferable to travelling in their company. So occupied was he with this question that he hardly ate a mouthful of the sumptuous dinner served in honor of the guests--a fact that was noted with significant glances by all at the table.

It was planned that very evening that the Pacific should be crossed in one of the superb steamships sailing from Vancouver, in British Columbia, and a despatch was sent off at once to engage staterooms. The journey was to be begun, two days later, for that was the date on which Amos Todd and his daughter were to start for France; and though the _Empress_ would not sail from Vancouver for a week after that, the house would be closed, and it was thought best for Alaric to travel up the coast by easy stages.

During those two days of grace the poor lad's mind was in a ferment. He had no desire to go to China or anywhere else outside of his own country. Having travelled nearly all his life, he was so tired of it that travelling now seemed to him one of the most unpleasant things a boy could be compelled to undertake. He did not want to go to France, of course, and decided that even China in company with the Sonntaggs would be better than Europe.

Still, he tried to escape from going away at all, and asked his brother John to let him stay with him and go to work in the bank; but John Todd answered that he was too busy a man to have the care of an invalid, and that their father's plan was by far the best. Then, as a last resort, Alaric went to the park, hoping to meet Dave Carncross, and determined, if he did, to lay the whole case before him, and ask his advice. Even here fate seemed against him; for, from a strange boy of whom he made inquiry, he learned that Carncross had left the city a day or two before, though where he had gone the boy did not know.

So preparations for the impending journey went busily forward, and Alaric, who felt very much like a helpless victim of misfortune, could find no excuse for delaying them. Even in the preparations being made for his own comfort he was given no active part. Everything that he was supposed to need and did not already possess was procured for him. His father presented him with a superb travelling-bag, fitted with all possible toilet accessories in silver and cut glass, but the boy would infinitely have preferred a baseball bat, and a chance to use it.

At length the day for starting arrived, and, with as great reluctance as he had ever felt in his life, Alaric entered the carriage that was to convey the Todds to the Oakland ferry. Crossing the bay, they found the Sonntaggs awaiting them on the other side, where the whole party entered Amos Todd's palatial private car that was attached to the Overland Express. In this way they travelled together as far as Sacramento, where Alaric bade his father and sister good-by. Then he and his newly appointed guardians boarded the special car provided for them, and in which they were to proceed by the famous Shasta route to the far North.

Up to this point the Sonntaggs had proved very attentive, and had striven by every means to make themselves agreeable to their fellow-travellers. From here on, however, the Professor spent most of his time in smoking and sleeping, while his wife devoted herself to reading novels, a great stack of which had been provided for the journey. Alaric, thus left to his own devices, gazed drearily from the car window, rebelling inwardly at the lonely grandeur with which he was surrounded, and wishing with all his heart that he were poor enough to be allowed to travel in one of the ordinary coaches, in which were several boys of his own age, who seemed to be having a tantalizingly good time. They were clad in flannels, knickerbockers, and heavy walking shoes, and Alaric noted with satisfaction that they all wore gray Tam o' Shanter caps such as he had procured at Esther Dale's suggestion, and was now wearing for the first time.

They left the train at Sisson, and Alaric, standing on the platform of his car, gathered from their conversation that they were about to climb Mount Shasta, the superb rock-ribbed giant that lifted his snow-crowned head more than 14,000 feet in the air a few miles from that point. What wouldn't he give to be allowed to join the merry party and make the adventurous trip with them? He had been familiar with mountains by sight all his life, and had always longed to climb one, but had never been given the opportunity.

It was small consolation to notice one of the boys draw the attention of the others to him, and overhear him say: "Look at that chap travelling in a special car like a young millionaire. I say, fellows, that must be great fun, and I'd like to try it just for once, wouldn't you?"

The others agreed that they would, and then the group passed out of hearing, while Alaric said to himself, "I only wish they could try travelling all alone in a special car, just to find out how little fun there is in it."

The following morning Portland, Oregon, was reached, and here the car was side-tracked that its occupants might spend a day or two in the city. The Sonntaggs seemed to have many acquaintances here, and for these they held a reception in the car, gave a dinner at the Hotel Portland, and ordered carriages in which to drive about, all at Amos Todd's expense. In these diversions Alaric was at liberty to join or not, as he pleased, and he generally preferred to remain behind or to wander about by himself.

The same programme was repeated at Tacoma and Seattle in the State of Washington, and at Vancouver in British Columbia. In the last-named place Alaric's chief amusement lay in watching the lading of the great white ship that was to bear him away, and the busy life of the port with its queer medley of Yankees and Britishers, Indians and Chinamen, tourists, sailors, and stevedores. The last named especially excited his envious admiration--they were such big men, and so strong.

At length the morning of sailing arrived, and as the mighty steamship moved majestically out of the harbor, and, leaving the brown waters of Burrard Inlet behind, swept on into the open blue of the Gulf of Georgia, the boy was overwhelmed with a great wave of homesickness. Standing alone at the extreme after end of the promenade deck, he watched the fading land with strained eyes, and felt like an outcast and a wanderer on the face of the earth.

After a while the ship began to thread a bewildering maze of islands, in which Professor Sonntagg made a slight effort to interest his moody young charge; but finding this a difficult task, he quickly gave it up, and joined some acquaintances in the smoking-room.

Alaric had not known that the _Empress_ was to make one stop before taking her final departure from the coast. So when she was made fast to the outer wharf at Victoria on the island of Vancouver, the largest city in British Columbia, and its capital, he felt like one who receives an unexpected reprieve from an unpleasant fate.

As it was announced that she would remain here two hours, the Sonntaggs, according to their custom, at once engaged a carriage to take them to the most interesting places in the city. This plan had been suggested by Amos Todd himself, who had bidden them spare no expense or pains to show his son all that was worth seeing in the various cities they might visit; and that the boy generally declined to accompany them on these excursions was surely not their fault--at least, they did not regard it so.

The truth was that Alaric had taken a dislike to these pretentious people from the very first, and it had grown so much stronger on closer acquaintance that now he was willing to do almost anything to avoid their company. Thus on this occasion he allowed them to drive off without him, while he strolled alone to the head of the wharf, tossing his beloved baseball, which he had carefully brought with him on this journey, from hand to hand as he walked.

"Hello! Give us a catch," shouted a cheery voice. And, looking up, Alaric saw a merry-faced squarely built lad of about his own age standing in an expectant attitude a short distance from him. Although he was roughly dressed, he had a bright, self-reliant look that was particularly attractive to our young traveller, and without hesitation he tossed him the ball. They passed it back and forth for a minute, and then the stranger lad, saying, "Good-by; I must be getting along; wish I could stop and get better acquainted, though," ran on, with a laugh, and disappeared in the crowd.

An hour later Alaric was nearly half a mile from the wharf, when the steamer's hoarse whistle sounded a warning note that signified a speedy departure. He turned and began to walk slowly in that direction, and a few minutes later a carriage containing the Sonntaggs dashed by without its occupants noticing him. At sight of them Alaric paused. A queer look came into his face; it grew very pale, and then he deliberately sat down on a log by the way-side. There came another blast of the ship's whistle, and then the tall masts, which he could just see, began slowly to move. The _Empress_, with the Sonntaggs on board, had started, and one of her passengers was left behind.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

* * * * *

BOBBY (_who heard his uncle say he lost his lawsuit_). "That's nothing: why don't you ask papa for one of his old business suits?"

THE COURAGE AND ENDURANCE OF ARCTIC ANIMALS.

BY THE CHIEF OF THE GREELY EXPEDITION.

Among the many errors that enter into popular belief regarding the arctic regions there are none more pronounced than some of those relating to its animal life. In many of their ideas the general public have been justified, for until the early part of this century even works of scientific research were not wholly free from fables and fictions of this character. Among these errors is one--_i.e._, that all arctic animals migrate to the south with coming winter--which especially pertains to the subject under consideration, for the fact that the animals treated of in this article are permanent residents of the arctic regions is one of the most convincing signs of their courage and endurance.

It was not unnatural for early travellers to believe that all arctic animals were migratory, and one need not go back farther than the narratives of Parry to find this opinion advanced. Instinct and a desire for self-preservation, it was said, impelled animals to pass to the southward, where the rigors incident to winter life would be less severe, and when spring came, with a similar instinct, they fled their coming foes from the south to seek safe breeding-places in the north. We now know that these animals abide in the north through the winter, but most people do not know how bitter their struggle for existence is.

Consider for a moment the winter environment of arctic animals, so as to fairly view the very adverse conditions under which, with a courage and endurance scarcely equalled elsewhere, they manage to maintain life from the passing of one summer to the coming of another. In order to speak with truth and exactness, the writer dwells on the arctic regions best known from personal observation--_i.e._, those portions of Greenland and Grinnell Land beyond the 80th degree of north latitude. These countries stretch not less than a thousand miles beyond the arctic circle, to within four hundred miles of the North Pole, and are from two to three hundred miles farther north than any human inhabitants.

Here arctic animals live and thrive in large numbers, under the disadvantages of darkness, cold, the inland ice, snow, and limited food-fields. The sun is totally absent for a period ranging from four to five months, during which time the darkness is such that even at mid-day first-class stars are clearly visible. With the passing sun comes the winter cold, so extreme that quicksilver becomes and remains solid for weeks at a time, and so prolonged that for successive months the temperature never rises above zero. Indeed, for only six scant weeks following midsummer does water remain unfrozen.

It should be borne in mind that the greater portion of these regions is eternally covered with what is known as the inland ice or ice-cap, which at irregular intervals covers and destroys the fertile meadows that furnish vegetable food. So it is that in this age there remain feeding-grounds for herbivorous animals only in such valleys as are yet untouched by the advancing ice-sheet, or from which the changing conditions of a thousand years have withdrawn the glaciers and restored the hardy arctic plants.

At first sight it would seem that no animal could live a single winter under the physical conditions just enumerated, the disadvantages of which are, if anything, understated. In truth, not only do these animals flourish, but it may be even said that the very severity of the climate and the difficulties of existence are the primal causes which populated these lands with races of selected mammals of unusual endurance, strength, and courage. Here stern nature extends no favor to the weak, slothful, or improvident, and only the best, the strongest, and the most cunning survive in person or by descendants.

Of the smaller mammals the lemming and hare entered the very high regions to escape their inveterate enemies, the ermine and the fox, who in turn followed these--their main food supply. Wandering here and there for pasturage, the musk-ox found the more northerly grounds less infested with wolves, and not at all frequented by man, so that here, in a measure unmolested, are now found the only known extensive herds of musk cattle. The predatory wolf naturally followed the musk-ox, the fox, and other smaller animals on which he subsists.

Let us now turn to the means and methods by which these animals succeed in maintaining life, which, it has been made evident, can only be done by the highest order of intelligence, courage, and endurance.

The smallest of these arctic animals is the lemming, which looks to one not a naturalist like a thick, short-tailed mouse, some four inches long, excluding his scant inch of tail. The lemming forms the principal food of the ermine and fox, while in summer it is likewise pursued by the robber gulls and the arctic owl. His color is not unlike that of the mouse in the summer, but with advancing winter the tips of the individual gray hairs gradually blanch and become pure white. Whenever the wind blows, or the lemming's fur is rubbed, it presents in winter a pepper-and-salt appearance, for the lower portion of the hairs always retain the summer coloring. The little fellow feeds entirely on arctic vegetation, but his principal and probably favorite food is the buds of the purple (_oppositifolia_) saxifrage.

This plant is possibly the hardiest of all arctic vegetation, and early in February, after weeks of cold which kept the mercury solid, specimens covered scarcely by an inch of snow were found to be sending forth their tender green shoots. But how does the lemming reach the snow-covered plant? Farther to the south, in the Parry archipelago, Dr. Sutherland observed that the snow near the lemming's burrows in the shingle was marked by his tracks, and here and there he had been scratching to reach the vegetation beneath. In one place the snow surface was broken over a tuft of purple saxifrage, which was covered by half an inch of snow. "What instinct," he adds, "could have led the creature to single out the exact spot on which to bestow its toil?"

Farther north the problem changes with increasing darkness, and the field-mouse meets it by building his house under the snow, in the centre of a flourishing patch of saxifrage or dryas. The tiny animal shows himself to be a nest-builder equal to some of our Southern birds. Finding a valley favored with vegetation, whereon the drifting snow from the adjacent hills has spread a protecting layer, the lemming proceeds to sink a shaft to the ground. He drives tunnels hither and thither until he has opened up a good pasture-ground, and then, gathering bits of grass from the bare ground elsewhere, constructs in the most suitable place a comfortable nest, which serves as his headquarters for the winter and as a cozy birthplace for the babes. He knows well that he is not safe from the ravenous ermine or the cunning fox, so be proceeds to tunnel from his nest in an opposite direction to the entrance of the burrow--a passage which ends in the open air at a considerable distance from the original place of entrance. The dry arctic snow above the nest packs with such closeness that any footfall thereon extends its vibrations a long distance, so that unless the little lemming is asleep, his acute senses give him warning of the stealthy coming of the ermine or fox in his pursuit.

In the open the lemming can easily escape if the friendly snow is at hand, for his pure white fur makes it difficult for the eye to follow the tiny animal on the surface of the new snow, while the rapidity with which he burrows in it astonishes an observer, and usually discomforts a pursuer. Now and then the mouse is caught napping, and doubtless he meets often as sudden and untimely a fate as did one under my notice. Hurrying along the ice-foot with one of the largest of our Eskimo dogs, we started a lemming under our very feet. The animal instantly backed up against a rock and uttered shrill cries of rage and defiance at the dog, who jumped for the lemming, and I for the dog. As my hands were closing around the dog's neck, he seized the unfortunate rodent, and actually gulped him down without stopping to bite. As far as I could judge the lemming must have gone into the dog's stomach in a living condition--a process easy for the dog, who was daily accustomed to bolt pieces of meat much larger than the animal he had swallowed.

There is no doubt that the lemming's characteristic rashness is as fertile a source of danger as is the activity of his pursuers. Often when escape is certain, a delay to show his courage proves fatal. If he is quite a distance from his burrow or a snow-bank, his chance of escape by direct flight is hopeless. When this is the case, he always dies with his face to the foe. Backing up against a stone or any inequality of the frozen ground he shows no sign of fear, boldly making little rushes towards the enemy, and as suddenly retreating to his coign of vantage as they fail to stop. All the while the air is vocal with a series of sharp little squeaks that are most surprising to the observer. The diminutive size of the animal and the small volume of sound are so disproportionate to the evident courage with which he utters his notes of defiance, as to make the lemming at bay a most amusing were it not a pathetic sight for an observer. One cannot fail to feel an admiration for his courage, not unmixed with pity for the helplessness of so tiny an animal.

It is probable that the arctic lemming shares with his Norwegian cousin periodical frenzies of migration, so that the large number in Grinnell Land in 1876 was followed by a great diminution in 1881-3 in the same region. Whether the migration was towards Greenland is unknown, but it is certain that in 1882 the lemming was found along the coast of Greenland to the most northerly point ever reached by man. At this extreme northern point two lemmings were caught, one being run down by the ravenous, half-starved sledge dogs, the most fortunate dog swallowing him whole to avoid having the lemming torn from his jaws.

The lemmings that were held in captivity gradually yielded to kind treatment, but they showed always an irritable, uncertain temper, and even in mildest moods tried their teeth gently and playfully, but with a certain air that promised aggressive action if Mr. Lemming's rights were not fully respected.

The naturalist in naming the common hare called it _timidus_ (timid), which in popular opinion describes its most striking quality. If this species lacks the elements of courage, it would be injustice to bring this charge against his northern brother, for the polar hare is bold, tenacious, and enduring to an astonishing degree. He thrives in the most northern regions under apparently the most adverse conditions, for within five hundred miles of the North Pole, at Lady Franklin Bay, a hare, killed two weeks before the return of the sun, after a winter of unparalleled severity, was in such excellent condition that it weighed eleven pounds, against an average of nine pounds for his kind.

He keeps the field throughout the year, and, like the hare of the south, does not regularly burrow. For the greater part of the year he lives in a "form," or a depression in his pasture among the saxifrages, willows, or lichens; occasionally one seeks a sheltered crevice or overhanging rock.

Nature, indeed, provides him with a winter undergrowth of fur consisting of the finest, fleeciest hair imaginable, resembling delicate down; but even with this defence it seems astonishing that he can endure an almost continuous exposure to temperatures that hold quicksilver as solid as steel. In a manner the polar hare accommodates himself to the situation, and if he does not, like the lemming, gather materials for a shelter, he does at least learn to use snow as a protection against the worst of weather. Possibly he would burrow like the rabbit if the frozen earth was not like iron, for he does at times tunnel the snow, to which uncheery quarters he resorts from his adjacent pasturage. These snow excavations or burrows are infrequent, for while they add to the bodily comfort of the hare, they render him more liable to fall a victim to the fox or wolf, always in search of this arctic dainty.

One of these snow burrows is described by Colonel Feilden, the naturalist of the Nares expedition in 1875, in 82° 27' N. Hunting the hare, two weeks before the sun reappears at mid-day, February 24th, in a temperature 56° below zero, Feilden continues: "I started a hare from its burrow, a hole about four feet in length scratched horizontally in the snow. I have no doubt but what the same burrow was regularly used, as the snow was discolored by the feet of the animal and a quantity of hair was sticking on the sides." All around the hole he had been scratching up the snow and feeding on the saxifrage, nibbling off the delicate green buds which were shooting out from the brown withered plant of last year's growth.

Dr. Sutherland, some three hundred miles further to the south, says: "The hares burrow in the snow. One burrow which I measured was eight feet in length, in a southern exposure, but it was never more than five or six inches beneath the surface. From the appearance of the snow which must have been removed in the process of excavation, it was my impression that the burrow had been opened during the winter. The hares were so wary, standing on their hind legs and spinning away in this upright posture, with watchful eyes on all our movements, that all our efforts to shoot them were useless."

The skill, rapidity, and peculiar manner with which the hare travels when closely pursued are worthy of attention. The first case noted was by Sergeant Rice, one of my command, who shot and pursued a hare which escaped him, although wounded. The animal would travel for a hundred yards or more at a time on its hind legs alone, jumping a distance of six to eight feet at each jump, when he would land upon his hind feet, only to repeat the operation, never touching the ground with his fore feet. Occasionally, for a change, he resorted to the usual method of travel. Rice at first thought he was suffering from an optical delusion, but as the actions were repeated he carefully examined the tracks, which confirmed his eyesight, showing that only the hare's hind feet touched the ground. Later the same method of travel fell under my own observation, except that the hare did not follow it for any considerable distance; probably it is resorted to only in dire distress.

Other instances could be cited of the tenacity to life and desperation with which a wounded hare struggles, but the following experience of Lieutenant Kislingbury, of my party, was probably the most striking that fell within our experience.

Kislingbury first shot a hare through one of its hind legs, and knocked him over, but he immediately straightened himself up and commenced to hop away, leaving the snow marked with his blood. He travelled so rapidly that the Lieutenant followed him for more than a mile before he was able to get another shot, when a ball was put through the hare's stomach; still it proceeded, losing here and there pieces of its entrails. For two miles further the animal was followed, when a third ball broke both fore paws just as the animal was in the act of jumping to reach a high rock. The force of the blow carried the animal over a cliff, where it rolled down a steep decline for nearly two hundred feet, and when picked up it still showed signs of life. It seemed to us to be a most astonishing example of tenacity on the part of any animal, much more of one usually thought to be timid and weak.

A. W. GREELY.

LITTLE SCARECROW.

A SPANISH TRADITION.

Once upon a time there was a comely hen who lived comfortably in a farm-yard, surrounded by her numerous family of chickens, noticeable among which was a lame and deformed one. But this was precisely the one which the mother loved most dearly; for that is always the way with mothers. The lame chicken, that had been hatched from a very diminutive egg, was, in fact, only half a chicken, and to look at him one might have supposed that the sword of Solomon had executed on his person the famous sentence pronounced on a certain occasion by that wise King. He had only one eye, one wing, and one leg; yet for all that he put on more airs than his father, who was the handsomest, the most valiant, and the stateliest rooster in all the farm-yards for twenty leagues around. The chicken thought himself the Phoenix of his race. If the other young roosters made sport of him, he thought it was through envy, and if the young hens did so, that it was because he took so little notice of them.

One day he said to his mother: "Mother, I have something to say to you. The country bores me. I have made up my mind to go to the court; I want to see the King and the Queen."

The poor mother trembled when she heard these words. "Son," she exclaimed, "who can have put such nonsense in your head? Your father has never left his native place, and he is the honor of his race. Where will you find a yard like this? Where wholesomer or more abundant food, a hen-house so sheltered and so near the station, or affection like that of your family?"

"_Nego_," said Little Scarecrow in Latin, for he prided himself upon his learning, "my brothers and sisters and my cousins are nothing but a set of ignoramuses."

"But, my son," responded his mother, "have you never looked at yourself in the glass? Don't you see that you have only one foot and one eye?"

"Since you take that tone," replied Little Scarecrow, "let me tell you that you ought to drop dead with shame to see me in such a condition. Pray who is to blame for it but yourself? But perhaps I may meet with some skilful surgeon," he added, with his comb as red as fire, "who will supply the members that I lack. So say no more, for I am going away."

When his mother saw that there was no way of dissuading him from his purpose, she spoke as follows:

"Hear at least, my son, the prudent counsels of an affectionate mother. Try to avoid passing by any church where there is an image of St. Peter; the saint has little liking for cocks, and much less for their crowing. Shun also certain men whom there are in the world called cooks. They are our mortal enemies, and they would wring the necks of us all, if they could, in the twinkling of an eye. And now go and ask your father for his blessing."

Little Scarecrow approached his father, bent his head to kiss his parent's foot, and asked him for his blessing. The venerable cock gave it to him with more dignity than tenderness, for, owing to the bad disposition of the chicken, his father had no love for him. His mother, however, was so greatly affected that she was obliged to wipe her eyes with a dry leaf.

Little Scarecrow started off at a trot after he had flapped his wing and crowed thrice by way of farewell. Presently he came to the edge of a Brook that was almost dry--for it was summer--whose slender current had been stopped on its way by some branches. The Brook, as soon as it saw the traveller, said to him:

"You see, friend, how weak I am. I can scarcely take a step, and I have not strength enough to push aside those troublesome branches that obstruct my way. Nor can I give a turn and avoid them, for that would fatigue me too greatly. You can easily take me out of this difficulty by removing them with your beak. In exchange, not only can you quench your thirst in my current, but you may count upon my services when the waters of heaven shall have restored my strength."

"I could, but I will not," responded the chicken. "Do I by chance look like the servant of a shallow and miserable Brook?"

"One of these days, when you least expect it, you will remember me," murmured the Brook in a fainting voice.

"All that was wanting was that you should give yourself the air of a great river," said Little Scarecrow, insolently. "Any one would suppose that you had drawn a prize in the lottery or that you were counting to a certainty on the waters of the deluge."

A little further on he met the Wind, who was lying stretched on the ground, almost lifeless.

"Dear Little Scarecrow," said the Wind to him, "in this world we all have need of one another. Approach and behold me. Do you see to what a condition the heat of Summer has reduced me--me who am so strong and so powerful; who raise up the waves, who lay low the fields, whose force nothing can resist? This sultry day has killed me. I fell asleep, intoxicated with the fragrance of the flowers that I was playing with, and here I am now completely exhausted. If you would only raise me a couple of inches from the ground and fan me with your wing, that would give me strength enough to fly, and to go to my cavern where my mother and my sisters, the Storms, are busy mending some old clouds which I tore to pieces. There they will give me some soup, and I shall gather new strength."

"Cavalier," responded the perverse chicken, "many a time you have diverted yourself with me, pushing me from behind, and spreading my tail out like a fan, for every one who saw me to laugh at me. No, friend, to every pig comes his St. Martin's day, and so good-by to you for the present, Sir Harlequin." So saying, he crowed thrice in a clear voice and strutted haughtily away.

In the middle of a field covered with stubble, to which the harvesters had set fire, a column of smoke was rising. Little Scarecrow drew near, and saw a tiny spark which was fast dying out among the ashes.

"Beloved Little Scarecrow," said the Spark, when it saw him, "you have come just in time to save my life. For want of nourishment, I am at the point of death. I don't know where my cousin, the Wind, who always helps me in these straits, can have hidden himself. Bring me a few straws to revive me."

"What have I to do with your affairs?" answered the chicken. "Die if you wish. For my part, I have no need of you."

"Who knows but you may yet have need of me," responded the Spark. "No one can tell what he may one day be brought to."

"Hello!" said the perverse animal. "So you are still haranguing. Take that, then." And so saying, he covered the Spark with ashes; after which he began to crow, according to his custom, as if he had just performed some great exploit.

Little Scarecrow arrived at the capital, and passing by a church, which he was told was St. Peter's, he stood still before the door, and there crowed himself hoarse, solely for the purpose of enraging the saint, and having the pleasure of disobeying his mother.

As he approached the palace, which he desired to enter to see the King and the Queen, the sentinel cried out to him, "Back!" He then went to the rear of the palace, and entering by a back door, saw a very large apartment where a great many people were coming in and going out. He asked who they were, and was told that they were his Majesty's cooks. Instead of running away, as his mother had warned him to do, he went in with crest and tail erect; but one of the scullions caught him on the instant and wrung his neck in the twinkling of an eye.

"Bring some water here and let us pluck this scarecrow," said the scullion.

"Water, my dear Doña Cristalina," cried the chicken; "please don't scald me! Mercy! Have compassion upon me!"

"Had you compassion upon me when I asked your help, perverse bird?" answered the Water, boiling with rage and flooding the chicken from head to foot, while the scullions left him without so much as a feather.

The cook then took Little Scarecrow and put him on the gridiron.

"Fire! brilliant Fire!" cried the unhappy bird, "you who are so powerful and so resplendent, take pity upon my situation, repress your ardor, quench your flames, and do not burn me."

"You impudent rogue!" responded the Fire, "how can you have the courage to appeal to me, after having stifled me, because you thought, as you said, that you would never need me? Come here and you shall see something fine."

And, in fact, not content with browning the chicken, the fire burned him until he was as black as a coal. When the cook saw the chicken in this condition he took him by the foot and threw him out of the window. Then the Wind took possession of him.

"Wind," cried Little Scarecrow, "my dear, my venerated Wind, you who rule over everything, and who obey no one, powerful among the powerful, have compassion upon me; leave me at rest on this heap."

"Leave you!" roared the Wind, seizing him in a gust and whirling him about in the air like a top. "Never!"

The Wind deposited Little Scarecrow on the top of a belfry. St. Peter extended his hand and fastened him firmly to it. From that time to this he has remained there, black, thin, and bare, beaten by the rain and pushed about by the Wind, whose sport he forever is. He is no longer called Little Scarecrow, but Weather-Cock; but there he is, expiating his errors and his sins, his disobedience, his pride, and his perversity.

* * * * *

A MARINE SIMILE.

The fish are ships that swim the sea
In sunshine and in gales;
Their tails the trusty rudders are,
Their fins the spreading sails.

FROM CHUM TO CHUM.

BY GASTON V. DRAKE.

V.--FROM JACK TO BOB.

OLD MAN OF THE OUT HOUSE.

DEAR BOB,--Your two letters from the steamer got here yesterday.
Sandboys says your polite Pirate was stuffing you about that money
in Venezuela, and he thinks you'll get your money back when oysters
climb trees and not before, and I sort of agree with him. That
story about jumping overboard and getting washed back don't seem to
me ought to be told to people that love truth. Anyhow Sandboys
didn't like it, and he told me to tell you to tell your old Pirate
that he can do his own Grand Viziering when he gets to his Island
Kingdom and save his ten dollars a week--there's more money in
carrying ice-water up and down stairs here, Sandboys says, and he's
going to stick to it.

I'm pretty lonesome for you this summer, though there's a half a
dozen pretty good fellows here; one of 'em's named Billie Tompkins
and he lives out in Chicago. He says there's no place like Chicago
in this world for fun. It's situated right out in the prairies and
he's got a sand-yacht that he goes sailing about in every spring. I
never heard of a sand-yacht before and neither did Sandboys, but
Billie Tompkins described it to us and I should think it would be a
pretty good thing to have. It has wheels, and is built just like a
cat-boat with a mast and a rudder, but no keel. He says that he's
sailed over pretty much all of Illinois with it and had lots of
adventures with Indians and kiyoots. Of course you know what
kiyoots are, they're prairie wolves and they're very dangerous to
people that need sleep because they howl all night. He's had lots
of trouble with them, but the Indians have bothered him worse than
anything, frequently chasing him for miles just to get his scalp.
One of 'em caught him once, when he was out sailing one day in
March. He had a little seal-skin cap on fortunately, and the Indian
ran away with that thinking sure he'd caught his head of hair. Ever
since that time he's worn seal-skin caps for sailing. The most
exciting time he ever had though was last spring. He'd gone out for
an afternoon's cruise and had got about forty miles out on the
prairie. He was sailing along beautifully before the wind when he
saw a black speck off on the horizon coming towards him like
lightning. He didn't know what it was at first but as it alarmed
him just a little he took a tack off to the East, and then he knew
that the object was bearing down for him for it changed its course
just as he had and came on in hot pursuit. In about five minutes he
saw that it was an Indian on horseback and he began to get sorry
that he'd disobeyed his father and come so far out. You see his
father isn't a millionaire and was rather put out about his losing
that seal-skin hat, and he'd told him to keep away from where the
Indians were. It's pretty tough to be placed where you're bound to
get hurt whatever happens, and Billie got pretty anxious
contemplating--how's that for a word?--getting scalped or spanked.
He steered his yacht right about, so's she'd fly before the wind,
which was his only chance, but it was too late. The Indian was
close enough to lasso him. Suddenly the pursuer's rope shot out,
but by some mistake in the aim didn't catch Billie, but got the
mast right in the noose. The horse stopped short, braced himself
and the Indian began to grin, expecting to see the boat capsize,
but he forgot that the boat had a speed of a hundred miles an hour
on and weighed three times as much as the horse in the bargain. He
found out in a minute though, for the rope snapped taut, yanked the
horse out from under the Indian, threw the Indian over on his own
neck and broke it, and went sailing over the prairie with the poor,
kicking horse in tow. Billie stopped the yacht as quick as he could
for the horse's sake, though it couldn't hurt him much towing him
through the soft sand. The horse got on his legs again, as meek as
you please. Billie fastened him to the rudder post and went back to
where the Indian was and found he was deader than a door-nail, and,
strangely enough, hanging from his girdle was the identical
seal-skin cap that had been scalped off Billie's head two years
before.

He sailed home in triumph, having made a horse and recovered his
cap as well, and his father forgave him for not having minded, and
when the horse was sold later on for fifty dollars he gave Billie
five dollars of it all for himself.

Sandboys says that was a wonderful adventure and I sort of feel
that way myself. He says if Billie keeps on having adventures like
that there's no reason why he shouldn't grow up to be as successful
a man as your Pirate, but he thinks Billie ought to stick by
Chicago and not go seeking his fortune anywhere else because there
isn't another city in the world where a thing like that could
happen, which I guess is true. It certainly couldn't happen
anywhere around Boston, because even if they had a prairie and
Indians you couldn't steer a yacht through the fearful crowds of
bicyclers they have there, without having a collision.

Speaking of bicyclers there's a fellow here that's going to coast
down Mt. Washington next week and he's awfully proud of himself,
which he needn't be. It would be much harder work to go up Mt.
Washington on a bicycle, Sandboys says, and he ought to know,
because he's done both, and last year he came down all the way on
one roller skate without touching his other foot once. If you see
your Pirate ask him what he thinks of that.

Barring Billie and Sandboys everything's pretty slow here. We've
only changed the boots in the hall once, and the new head waiter
has got eyes like a ferret so's no one can sneak an apple or a
banana out of the dining room without its getting in the bill. We
boys are going to hold a Mass Meeting this week to see what can be
done about this. It isn't any fun eating fruit at the table, and
what's the good of nuts and raisins if you can't carry 'em off in
your pockets? If you see any live Dukes tell me about 'em.

Always yours,
JACK.

From instantaneous Photographs of T. E. Burke, Champion Quarter-miler of the World.]

Start of Half-mile Race at the Inter-collegiate Games, 1895.

RUNNING THE MIDDLE DISTANCES.]

The middle distances are the hardest events for an athlete to work at without the assistance of a trainer; but this fact should not discourage the beginner, because there is a vast amount of preliminary work that he can do which will put him into such condition that when he does at last come under the care of a coach he will be able to make rapid progress toward proficiency. The term "middle distances" is usually applied to the quarter and half mile races only, for these have become recognized as the standards by amateur associations and clubs. The quarter-mile is sometimes set down on the card as a 440-yard dash--for it is practically a dash from start to finish, as run nowadays--and the half-mile is frequently called the 880-yard run. It is becoming more usual, however, to look upon these events as fractions of a mile.

The preparatory work for the quarter should begin at the close of winter with walks of from two to three miles across country, ending up with a half-mile jog and a good rub-down. This sort of exercise should be taken every day for three weeks, in order to harden the muscles and get the body into regular habits of physical exercise. Let us presume that at the end of this time the weather has moderated sufficiently to permit of out-door work in light running costume. This should consist of running at an easy gait distances longer and shorter than a quarter-mile on alternate days. For instance, on Monday, run 220 and 300 yards a couple of times, with a rest in between; on Tuesday run 600 yards or half a mile; on Wednesday run the short distances again; and keep on doing this for a month or more. Occasionally--say once a week--try a 100 yards for speed, and about every tenth day take a trial quarter on time.

The most important of all things in running the middle distances is that the athlete should become a judge of pace. He must know just how fast he is going. It takes time, of course, to acquire this knowledge, but the good men in the events know just how rapidly they are travelling around the track, and can tell to a fifth of a second what their gait has been for any fraction of the course. That is why these events are the hardest to run. The best way to acquire this knowledge of gait is to get some one to hold a watch on you every time you run. When you have not a trainer, however, this is not always possible. But there is no reason why you should not hold the watch yourself. And it is well to keep a record of your speed as it increases.

Frequent runs of 150 and 300 yards on time will serve to show how your speed is getting along, and the distances being short, this will enable you to judge of pace so that you can tell very closely how you are travelling over the various portions of your distance. As I have said, the quarter as now run is a sprint from start to finish, and the best thing to do in competition is to jump into the lead at once and head the field all the way if you can. As in the 100 and 220, no heed should be given to the other competitors, and, above all things, never look back.

There is little more to be said in the way of instruction for this event, for it is one that must be worked over according to the powers and capabilities of each individual. The general training after the first four or five months is about the same as for the sprints, which was described in this Department last week. As for the start, it is optional with the individual whether he shall stand or crouch. Burke, the world's champion quarter-miler, who is represented in the series above, uses the standing start, but many others get off from the crouching position. The second picture of the series gives a good idea of the pace and the general position of the body, both of which are identical with sprinting form. The finish is somewhat different. There is always plenty of space ahead after a quarter-mile race (which, of course, has to be run on a curved track) for the runner to keep on going as long as he wishes to, and thus he can pass the tape at top speed and keep on as far as he likes. Many hundred-yard sprinters coming down a short straight track lose a fraction of a second of their speed by slowing up too soon.

The half-mile run requires even a greater judgment of gait than does the quarter, and it is a much harder race to run, having now been developed into such a speedy contest that a man should never attempt to enter any other event in games where he runs a half-mile. Moreover, the athlete who adopts the half-mile as his specialty should give up every other event and train continuously and solely for that distance. He must get himself into such shape that he can tell to a fraction of a second just how fast he is going. This is learned only by having a watch going all the time, and while training there ought to be some one on the track to shout the time every furlong or so.

The preparatory work for this distance is similar to that of the quarter--that is, there should be long and short work, over and under the distance, on alternate days. A half-mile trial on time once in two weeks is sufficient. The start and gait are the same as for the quarter. In the illustration of the start of the half-mile race at the Intercollegiates of 1895 it is plain to see that Kilpatrick is determined to get the pole if he can, while Siebel and Kingsley, who have inside positions, are determined to keep them even if they have to take a sprinting start. Hollister, on the other hand, has apparently made up his mind to let Kilpatrick set the pace, and then try to pass him. This was wise of Hollister, because he knew Kilpatrick's habit is to run a very fast first quarter, and he himself has been trained to sprint hard at the finish. Thus he felt that if he could keep up with Kilpatrick for the first three-eighths he could sprint past him at the finish. Hollister won.