Chapter XXIV: Phil Ryder Pays a Debt (1)

In a very few minutes Phil Ryder hastened back to where Alaric awaited him. "Now you come with me," he said, cheerily, "and we'll end this starvation business in a hurry. I won't take you to the hotel, for those swell waiters are too slow about serving things, and when a fellow is hungry he don't care so much about style as he does about prompt attention to his wants. I know, for I've been there myself. There's a little restaurant just around the corner on the avenue that looks as though it would exactly fill the bill. Here we are."

Almost before he realized what was happening Alaric found himself seated before the first regular breakfast table that he had seen in weeks, while the young stranger facing him, who had so unexpectedly become his host, was ordering a meal that seemed to embrace pretty nearly the whole bill of fare.

"Bring the coffee and oatmeal first," he said to the waiter, "and see that there is plenty of cream. If they burn your fingers, so much the better, for you never saw any one in quite so much of a hurry as we are. After that you may rush along the other things as fast as you please."

Alaric attempted a feeble protest against the munificence of the order just given, but Phil silenced him with:

"Now, my friend, don't you fret; I know what you need and what you can get away with better than you do, for I've experimented considerably with starving during the past year. As for obligation, there isn't any. I am only paying a debt that I've owed for a long time."

"I don't remember ever meeting you before," said Alaric, looking up in surprise from a dish of oatmeal and cream that seemed the very best thing he had ever tasted.

"No, of course not, and I don't suppose we have ever been within a thousand miles of each other until now; but I have been in your debt, all the same. Just about a year ago I was in Victoria without a cent in my pocket, no friend or even acquaintance that I knew of in the whole city, and so hungry that it didn't seem as though I had ever eaten anything in my life. Just as I was most desperate and things were looking their very blackest, an angel travelling under the name of Serge Belcofsky came along, and spent his last dollar in feeding me. I vowed then that I'd get even with him by feeding some other hungry fellow, and this is the first chance I've run across since. You needn't be afraid, though, that I am spending my last dollar on you, glad as I would be to do so if it were necessary. That it isn't is owing to one of the best fathers in the world, who hasn't had a chance to keep me in funds for so long a time that he is now trying to make up for lost opportunities."

"You must be very fond of him," said Alaric, who was now at work on beefsteak and fried potatoes.

"Well, rather," replied Phil, earnestly, "though I never knew how much a good father was to a boy until I lost him, and had to fight my way alone through a whole year before I found him again. It's a wonder my hair didn't turn gray with anxiety while I was hunting him up in the interior of Alaska; but it's all over now, and I have him safe at last right here in Tacoma, along with my aunt Ruth and little Nel-te and Jalap--"

"Is he the dog?" asked Alaric, beginning an attack on the omelette.

"Who?"

"Jalap."

"Not much he isn't a dog," laughed Phil. "He is one of the dearest of sailormen. He's one of the wisest, too, only he lays all of his wisdom to his old friend Kite Roberson. Besides all that, he is one of the most comical chaps that ever lived, though he doesn't mean to be, and it's better than a circus to see him on snow-shoes driving a sledge team of dogs. I should have brought him over here to cheer you up, only he's off somewhere among the ships this morning. He says he got the salt-water habit so badly that he can't keep away from them. Are you ready now for the buckwheats? Here are half a dozen hot ones to top off with, and maple-syrup too. Don't they look good, though! I say, waiter, you may as well bring me a plate of those buckwheats. I forgot to have any at breakfast."

So Phil rattled on, talking of all sorts of things to keep his guest amused, and allow him ample opportunity to attend strictly to the business of eating, without feeling obliged to answer questions or sustain any part of the conversation.

And how poor, heartsick, hungry Alaric was cheered by the thoughtful kindness of this strange lad who had so befriended him in his hour of sorest need! How grateful he was, and how, with each mouthful of food, strength and courage and hope came back to him, until, when the wonderful meal was finished, he was ready once more to face the world with a brave confidence that it should never again get the better of him! He tried to put some of his gratitude into words, but was promptly interrupted by his host, who said:

"Nonsense! You've nothing to thank me for. I told you I owed you this breakfast, and besides, though I haven't eaten very much myself, I have certainly enjoyed it as much as any meal of my life. Now we have a few minutes left before I must go, and I want you to tell me something of yourself. What is your name? Where is your home? And how did you happen to get into this fix?"

"My name is Rick Dale," began Alaric, who did not feel that he could disclose his real identity under the circumstances, "and my home is in San Francisco; but it is closed now. My mother is dead. I don't know just where my father is, and I was left with some people whom I disliked so much that I just"-- Here he hesitated, and Phil, noting his embarrassment, hastened to say,

"Never mind the particulars; I had no business to ask such questions anyway."

"Well," continued Alaric, "the result of it all is that I am here looking for work. I had a job, but it didn't pay anything, and I lost it about two weeks ago. Now I am trying to find another."

"What kind of a job do you want?"

"Anything, so long as it is honest work that will provide food, clothing, and a place to sleep."

"In that case," said Phil, thoughtfully, "I don't know but what I can put you in the way of one, though--"

"It must be a job for two of us," interposed Alaric, "for I have a friend who is in the same fix as myself."

"I only wish I had known that in time to have him breakfast with us," said Phil; "but the job I am thinking of, if it can be had at all, will serve for two of you as well as for one. You see, it is this way. There is a Frenchman over at the hotel whose name is Filbert, and who--"

Just here both lads started at the sound of a shrill whistle announcing the hour of noon.

"I had no idea it was so late," exclaimed Phil, "and I must run; for we leave here on the one-o'clock train."

"I must hurry too, for I promised to meet Bonny at noon," said Alaric.

"Who is Bonny?"

"The friend I told you of."

"Then I want you to give this to him from me, for fear he may not have found any breakfast." So saying Phil slipped something hard and round into Alaric's hand. "Now good-by, Rick Dale," he said. "I hope we may meet again sometime. At any rate, be sure to call on Monsieur Filbert at the hotel this afternoon. I guess you can get a job from him; but even if you don't, always remember that, as my friend Jalap Coombs says, 'It's never so dark but what there's a light somewhere.'"

Then the lads parted, one filled with the happiness that results from an act of kindness, and the other cheered and encouraged to renewed effort.

With grateful and loving glances Alaric watched Phil Ryder until he disappeared in the direction of the hotel, and then hastened to keep his appointment with Bonny. On the road leading to the wharves he passed a tall, lank figure, whose whole appearance was that of a sailor. His shrewd face was weather-beaten and wrinkled, but so kindly and smiling that Alaric could not help but smile from sympathy as they met.

He found Bonny impatiently awaiting him, and in such cheerful spirits as to be hardly recognizable for the despondent, half-starved lad of two hours before.

"Hello, Rick!" he shouted, as his friend approached. "I know you've had good luck, for I see it in your face."

"Indeed I have!" replied Alaric; "and, what's more, I've had the best breakfast I ever ate in my life."

"That's what I meant by luck; and I've had the same."

"What's more," continued Alaric, "I have brought something that was sent especially to you, for fear you hadn't found anything to eat."

Thus saying, he handed over a big bright silver dollar.

"Well, if that don't beat the owls!" exclaimed Bonny at sight of the shining coin, "for here is his twin-brother that was handed to me to give to you, or rather to the first fellow I met who needed it more than I did."

"I must be the one then," said Alaric, joyously, "for I haven't a cent to my name, and as you now have two dollars, I'm willing to divide with you. But who gave it to you, and how did he happen to?"

"The queerest and dearest old chap I ever saw. You know how badly I was feeling when we separated. Well, that was nothing to what came afterwards. I set out to board every ship in port until I should find a cook or steward who would fill me up and let me have something extra to bring to you. On the first half-dozen or so I was treated worse than a dog, and fired ashore almost before I opened my mouth. It made me feel meaner than dirt, and but for thinking of how disappointed you would be if I came back as miserable as I went, I should have given up in despair. I must say, though, that all the fellows who treated me that way were Dagoes, Dutch, or Chinamen.

"At length I boarded a Yankee bark that carried an Irish steward, and the minute I said I was hungry he cried out:

"'Don't spake a wurrud, lad, for ye couldn't do yer looks justice. Jist be aisy, and come wid me.'

"With that he led me to a sort of a cuddy at the forward end of the after deck-house, and set me down to such a spread as I haven't seen since I left Cape Cod. There was cold roast beef, corned beef, potatoes, bread and butter, pie, pickles, coffee, and--well, it would be no use to tell all the things that steward gave me to eat, for you just wouldn't believe it. He laid 'em all out, told me to pitch in, and then went off, so, as he said, I'd be free to act according to nature.

"I sat there and ate until I hadn't room for as much as a huckleberry. As I was looking at the last piece of squash pie, and thinking what a pity it was that it must be left, I heard a chuckle behind me, and turned around in a hurry. There stood one of the mates and the dear old chap I was just telling you about.

"'Why don't you eat it, son?' says the mate.

"'Reason enough,' says I; 'because I can't; but if you don't mind, sir, I'd like awfully to take it to my partner in starvation,' meaning you.

"'Who is he? And how does he happen to be starved?' says the dear old chap. Then I up and told them the whole story of our experience on the _Fancy_, being chased by the revenue-men, and all, and it tickled 'em most to death.

"When I got through, the stranger, who was just down visiting the vessel, slipped a dollar into my hand, and told me to give it to the first chap I met who needed it more than I did. He said he used to know Cap'n Duff, and told me a lot of yarns about him as we walked back here together."

"Was his name Jalap Coombs?" asked Alaric.

"I expect it must have been, for he had a lot to say about somebody named Kite Roberson, who allus useter call him 'Jal.' Why? Do you know him?"

"Yes. That is, I feel as if I did. But, Bonny, I mustn't stop to tell you of my experiences now, for I have made an important business engagement for both of us uptown, and we must attend to it at once."

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

IN THE TOWER OF MANY STORIES.

HENRY THE EIGHTH.

(_In Two Parts._)

BY MRS. LEW. WALLACE.

II.

Among Anne's maids of honor was a delicate girl of exquisite charm, and as witty as the Queen herself. Jane Seymour came of a haughty house, but had missed the imperious bearing that was the heritage of her race. The winsome presence, all sweetness and grace, caught the restless fancy of the ungoverned King, and so bewitched was Bluebeard that he determined to slip off the bonds that bound him, and lead another wife to the altar and throne. To be sure, he had worn the light fetters of his second marriage loosely enough, and how to rid himself of the tireless devotion of Anne must have made him ponder and hesitate.

Not for long did he ever wait; patience was not a trait of even the best of the Tudors. One day, at Greenwich Palace, the Constable of London Tower suddenly appeared, and announced it was the King's pleasure that the Queen should at once depart with him. She was in an agony of terror, but calmly said, "If it be the King's pleasure, I obey." Without changing her dress, she entered her barge and was silently rowed to the Traitors' Gate. Under the fatal black arch she knelt and solemnly protested her innocence, prayed and wept, then laughed, and cried again, distracted like one insane. Two of her worst enemies were appointed ladies in waiting, in reality to watch her every movement day and night, tormenting the woful prisoner with questions. "The King wist what he did when he put such women about me," cried the wretched Anne. Faithful friends were lodged near, but not allowed to come close enough to ward off her persecutors.

On the fourth day of her captivity the Queen wrote a heart-breaking letter to the brute she called her sweet lord. It is so touching and tender I wish for more space that I could give it in full. The original MS. you may see in the British Museum. She prayed for a lawful trial, not before her enemies, and generously begged she alone might be condemned, if any. Here is the conclusion:

"If ever I have found favor in your sight, if ever the name of Anne
Boleyn has been pleasant in your ears, then let me obtain this
request, and I will so leave to trouble your Grace any further,
with mine earnest prayers to the Trinity to have your Grace in His
good keeping, and to direct you in all your actions.

"From my doleful prison in the Tower this 6th of May.

"Your most loyal and ever faithful wife,

"ANNE BOLEYN."

The trial was held the 16th May in the great Hall of the Tower, the scene of much iniquity, but none so black as this. The twenty-six "lords triers" were picked men who knew Henry's will and pitiless cruelty. The defenceless prisoner had no counsel or advice of any kind, but she bore herself composedly, and fearlessly held up her hand and pleaded not guilty. The records of the trial were destroyed, but it is said she defended herself with power and eloquence. It was a mere form; she was sentenced to be burnt or beheaded in three days, at the pleasure of the sovereign, and was requested to lay aside her crown, which she did, swearing herself innocent of any crime against her husband. Then clasping her hands, she appealed from earth to heaven, to the One who judgeth quick and dead: "O Father! O Creator! Thou who art the Way, the Truth, and the Life! Thou knowest that I have not deserved this fate!"

The whole proceeding was a bitter mockery, the deliberate sentence of death of a wife to make room for another.

She knew him too well to entreat for life or an extension of time. Three days more were allowed her, and of the hundreds the lovely lady had befriended not one was bold enough to stand between the murderer and the Queen. He was surrounded by flatterers who compared him to Absalom for beauty, Solomon for wisdom, and heroes ancient and modern for courage. And the same day she was condemned bluff King Harry signed the death warrant of his "entirely beloved Anne Boleyn."

In the dismal Tower she wrote her own requiem, so pitiful, yet so brave a thing few souls could dare. It begins:

"O Death! rock me asleep!
Bring on my quiet rest;
Let pass my very guiltless ghost
Out of my careful breast.
Ring out the doleful knell;
Let its sound my death tell;
For I must die.
There is no remedy,
For now I die!"

Her old friend, Sir Henry Kingston, was charged to announce the dreadful sentence that she be beheaded at noon the 19th of May, 1536, and, instead of the axe, the King graciously ordered she be beheaded by a sword; there was an expert in the horrid business who should be sent for to come from Calais.

Said the messenger, "I told her that the pain would be little, it was so subtle"; and then she replied, "I have heard say the executioner is very good, and my neck is very slender," upon which she clasped it with her two hands and smiled serenely; was even cheerful.

A few minutes before noon the Queen of England, attended by four maids of honor, appeared on Tower Hill, dressed in a robe of black damask, with deep white crape ruffling her neck, a black velvet hood on her head. Her cheeks were flushed with fever, and her beauty, says an eye-witness, was fearful to look upon.

In sight of the scaffold she made a speech, resigned and gentle: "I come here to die, not to accuse my enemies.... I pray God to save the King, and send him long to reign over you, for a gentler and more merciful Prince was there never. To me he was ever a good and gentle sovereign lord.... Thus I take my leave of the world and of you, and I heartily desire you all to pray for me."

Then she bade her weeping ladies farewell, refusing to allow her eyes to be covered, and the skilful Frenchman, avoiding her reproachful glance, with one blow of the sharp steel parted the burning brain from the true heart, and Anne Boleyn entered the strange peace we call death.

The dripping head with its soft silky tresses and the dis-severed body reeking in blood, were thrown into an old elm chest that had been used for keeping arrows, and carelessly buried in the chapel, without hymn or prayer.

Again the Tower guns sounded--the signal for death, not life. The solemn knell was music of wedding-bells in the listening ear of Henry. Dressed for the chase, he had stood under a spreading oak waiting impatiently till the sun-dial told noon, when the heavy booming filled the air. "Ha! ha!" he cried, with unnatural joy. "The deed is done. Uncouple the hounds, and away!" And mounting his horse, he rode at fiery speed to his bride expectant at Wolf Hall. The peerless Seymour, the pure white lily-bud, in the freshness of life's morning married Bluebeard the very next day.

The wedding feast was spread, the coronation a cloudless splendor; submissive courtiers held to the ancient proverb that the crown covers all mistakes, and they kissed the bloody hand of their master and hung on the smiles of the youthful Queen.

The sins of Anne Boleyn lie lightly on her now. Whatever her vanity and follies, she was a thousand thousand times too good for her "merciful Prince."

The fair Seymour, happily for herself, died the next year after her marriage, and Henry made offers to several royal ladies, and to an Italian Princess who had the shrewdness to decline, saying she might consider the proposal if she had two heads, but could not afford to lose her only one by the axe. And it was a good answer. A German Princess married him, and was divorced for Catherine Howard, who was murdered as Anne Boleyn had been; and then came the last wife, Catherine Parr, widow of Lord Latimer. By that time the King was grown a beast, with savage will unbroken, ready to kill, kill, kill whatever opposed caprice or whim. She lived to nurse him, this proud lady, till his bloated body almost rotted; he became a loathsome object, polluting the air (I may say the world), fearful to approach; and she paid a high price for her diamond coronet and whatever else came by the death of the despot she outlived. Of the latter days of Henry the Eighth the less said the better.

* * * * *

Beloved, these are sorry tales to tell young readers, but the Tower is a dreary place, and the greater portion of its history was made in barbarous ages. The historian mousing through the records of a terrible past has little pleasure, except in the thought that these murderous old days are ended forever. It is now a government store-house and armory.

* * * * *

One more little story, and we say good-by to the famous Tower whose foundations were laid by Julius Cæsar.

Not every reader of its history remembers that the greatest of England's rulers was once prisoner there. When Bloody Mary, daughter of Henry the Eighth and Katherine of Aragon, was Queen, she had Elizabeth, daughter of Anne Boleyn, arrested for conspiracy. The Princess, who could look down a lion, clad herself in white to proclaim her innocence, and rode to her prison in an open litter, that she might be seen by the people. A sick girl, faint and pale, her mien was lofty and defiant. It was but eleven days since Lady Jane Grey had been beheaded, and no one, high or low, knew when he might be marched to the dungeon or the block.

At the Traitors' Gate the Princess Elizabeth refused to land. One of the lords attending told her she must not choose, and, as it was raining, offered her his cloak. She dashed it from her "with a good dash," and setting her foot on the stairs, exclaimed: "I am no traitor! Here lands as true a subject, being prisoner, as ever landed at these stairs. Before Thee, O God, I speak it, having no other friend but Thee." Instead of passing through the opened gates, she sat on a cold wet stone, determined not to enter the prison of her own mother. However, the dauntless maid was forced to yield. The death of her half-sister made her Queen, and she reigned long and wisely, with a strange mixture of weakness in the midst of her wisdom and strength.

Once in a time of peril she mounted a white horse and rode through her army, very stately, in a steel corselet, bareheaded, her page bearing her plumed helmet, and spoke in words unsurpassed for appeal:

"My loving people, we have been persuaded by some that are careful
of our safety to take heed how we commit ourselves to armed
multitudes, for fear of treachery; but I do assure you I do not
desire to live to distrust my faithful and loving people. Let
tyrants fear. I have always so behaved myself that under God I have
placed my chiefest strength and safeguard in the loyal hearts and
good will of my subjects; and therefore I am come amongst you as
you see me at this time, not for my recreation and disport, but
being resolved in the midst and heat of battle to live or die
amongst you all, to lay down for my God, and for my kingdoms, and
for my people my honor, and my blood even in the dust. I know I
have the body of a weak, feeble woman; but I have the heart of a
King, and of a King of England, too, and think foul scorn that
Parma of Spain, or any Prince of Europe, should dare to invade the
borders of my realm; to which, rather than any dishonor should grow
by me, I myself will take up arms. I myself will be your General,
judge, and rewarder of every one of your virtues in the field. I
know already for your forwardness you have deserved rewards and
crowns, and we do assure you, on the word of a Prince, they shall
be duly paid you.

"For the mean time my Lieutenaut-General shall be in my stead, than
whom never Prince commanded a more noble or worthy subject; not
doubting but by your obedience to my General, by your concord in
camp and your valor in the field, we shall shortly have a famous
victory over these enemies of my God, of my kingdoms, and of my
people."

No wonder the troops fell on their knees as one man, and shouted themselves hoarse in applause for their lion Queen, mother of all true Englishmen.

* * * * *

The gentlest of peacemakers is Time. The two daughters of Henry the Eighth--Mary and Elizabeth--so wide apart and repellent in life, are at one now. Henry the Seventh's Chapel of Westminster Abbey contains a narrow vault that holds what remains of the rival Queens. Their tomb allows no other tenant, and they will never more be divided. In calm after storm the unquiet Tudor sisters lie there alone, the leaden casket of Elizabeth resting on the coffin of Mary, well named the Bloody. Heirs of a contested throne, they sleep together in their Palace of Peace awaiting the call of the Angel of the Resurrection.

THE END.

DAISIES AND DANDELIONS.

"Doctor, lawyer, merchant, priest,
Rich man, poor man, beggar-man--"

The last petal was reached as my little friend came to "beggar-man."

"Oh, dear," she said, with a comical look of make-believe distress on her pretty face. "A beggar-man for a husband! It's too dreadful for anything! Naughty daisy! I don't believe you are a good fortune-teller."

She was right. The daisy is not a good fortune-teller. But it is a nice flower, or rather group of flowers, to study. The whole yellow centre is a crowded mass of flowers, and the white petals along the edge are not petals at all, but _rays_.

Squeeze a daisy between your thumb and finger. Let the rays drop off, but keep one of the tiny florets, as they are called, and place it under a reading-glass or, better still, a pocket microscope. You cannot spend two or three dollars better than for a pocket-microscope, which will make a small seed look as large as a pea. In our daisy floret we shall find all the parts which the larger flowers have. The calyx is low down, clinging to a single hard seed. Such a seed is called an _achenium_ (plural, achenia). The corolla is a tube with five points cut in the top. There are five stamens, joined, and making a ring by their anthers. The pistil is in the centre, where it belongs, with stigmas, and the style cut in two at the top. The flowers grow on a smooth white receptacle. There are two more things to notice about flowers belonging to this great Composite family: one, that each floret has a long, narrow bract standing beside it; the other, that the calyx-cup is crowned with stiff points, or coarse teeth, or bristles, or feathery-looking things. These are called the _pappus_. In the daisy there is no true pappus, but you have seen it in thistledown and in the dandelion-seed. The pappus serves for little wings for the flower, by which the wind blows the seed about.

Perhaps you like yellow daisies better than the too common white ones. Their seed was brought to us with clover-seed from the West, and now the yellow daisy or cone-flower is a tiresome weed to farmers about New Jersey, and soon will be over all New England. The florets are dark brown, and grow on a pointed receptacle. It is certainly a handsome thing, but it is a weed all the same. It differs from the white daisy in one particular. The rays of the white daisy have each a pistil like the florets, while the rays of the cone-flower are neutral--that is, have no pistil.

The marnta, or mayweed, is a small daisy growing on sandy roads. Its leaves are prettily cut, and smell like tansy leaves. The handsome asters which keep goldenrods company in autumn, marigolds, thorough worts, and hosts of others belong to the daisy family.

The dandelion has been called "the bright eye of spring." Did you ever curl its hollow stem or blow off its seeds? Blow three times, and you will have as many children as there are seeds left standing, so says this bit of flower-lore. The dandelion has no rays around the edge, but all the florets alike have rays. So the corollas, instead of being five-pointed tubes, are all spread out flat like the rays of the daisy. There are not so many flowers of this kind, but perhaps you know the wild-lettuce, the fall dandelion, the hawkweed, and the chicory. The last is a pretty blue flower. Blue flowers are rather rare. Red, yellow, and pink are commoner.

One of the hawkweeds has handsome leaves, all clustered at the root, light purple underneath, veined with darker purple. If you find such a rosette of leaves, with a tall slim stem bearing a few tassel-shaped yellow blossoms, you will have one of my favorites. Somebody has given it a bad name--rattlesnake-weed. It is not a weed, and only in its purple coloring may there be some suggestion of a snake-skin.

You will see now how the Composites are divided into two classes. The first is _tubular_, in which, like the daisy, ray-flowers grow only around the margin; the second, _ligulate_, in which, like the dandelion, all the corollas are alike, spreading out and flat.

These flowers are surrounded by an involucre composed of small leaves in rows, each one a scale. In thistles the scales are prickly.

A BRAVE WAR CORRESPONDENT.

It is a pleasure to cite the following case of an American correspondent whom Lord Wolseley encountered during the Ashantee campaign, and it cannot be done better than to cite it as the General told it, in a reminiscent mood, not long since: "It was at the beginning of the campaign, just after our landing, when a square-built little man came up to me, and said, speaking slowly, and with an unmistakable American accent: 'General, allow me to introduce myself. I am the correspondent of the _New York_ ----. I--.' Too busy to attend to him, I cut him short with, 'What can I do for you, sir?' He replied, imperturbably, with the same exasperating slowness, 'Well, General, I want to be as near you as I can, if there is any fightin' to be seen.' 'Captain So-and-so has charge of all the arrangements concerning correspondents,' I rejoined, curtly; 'you had better see him.' And with this I turned on my heel and left him. I saw no more of my correspondent with the aggravating coolness and slowness of speech for many a day. I did not even know whether he was accompanying the column or not. Personally speaking, I was only in danger once during the whole expedition. It was shortly before we entered Coomassic. I had pressed forward with the advanced troops, hoping to break the last effort at resistance and have done with the affair, when the enemy, utilizing the heavy covert, came down and fairly surrounded us. For a few minutes the position was critical, and every man had to fight, for the enemy's fire was poured in at close quarters. They pressed upon us from all sides, dodging from tree to tree, and continually edging closer, hoping to get hand to hand. In the hottest of it my attention was caught by a man in civilian's clothes who was some fifteen or twenty yards in front of me, and who was completely surrounded by the advancing savages. He seemed to pay no heed to the danger he was in, but, kneeling on one knee, took aim and fired again and again, and I seemed to see that every time he fired a black man fell. I was fascinated by his danger and coolness. As our main body came up and the savages were driven back, I went forward to see that no harm came to my civilian friend, who rose just as I reached him. To my astonishment it was the correspondent of the _New York_ ----, and he began again, in the same slow, calm way, 'Well, General----.' Again I interrupted him. 'You were lucky to escape. Didn't you see that you were surrounded?' 'Well, General,' he began again, 'I guess I was too much occupied by the niggers in front to pay much attention to those behind.'"

NURSERY BALLADS.

THE WANDERING COW.

"The cow has escaped from the Ark!" cried Noah--"the cow has escaped
from the Ark!
And wandered away and hid from the day somewhere in the nursery dark;
So, Billie, be careful, and, Jimmie, go slow; 'twould be horridly awful
I vow,
If you in your gropings should happen to step on a poor little dun-brown
cow

"Now where shall we look for a little dun cow--just where is she likely
to be?
Far off in the camp of the soldiers tin or swimming hard by in the sea--
A-swimming with joy in the saw-dust waves and tossing the boats on her
horns,
Or solemnly chewing the lacquered manes of the Japanese unicorns?

"Or else do you think she has clambered up the sides of the
mantel-piece,
And there, to the tick of the nickel clock, is taking a moment of ease?
Or, horrible thought, oh, terrible thought! must we fearsomely search
for her
In the zinc flue-pipe that leads far down through the nursery register?

"Do you think that perhaps she has wandered off and has tumbled adown
the stairs,
Or can she be up on the bureau there a-combing her painted hairs?
Is she down in the kitchen or up on the roof, or hid in the attic cold,
Or has she run off to the music-box to list to the "Warrior Bold"?

"Oh, where, oh, where would a dun cow go? Pray tell me if you can,"
cried Noah,
"The rain's coming on, and I want to close up and bolt fast my Arkian
door.
'Twould never do to be caught in the rain out there on the cold wet
moor,
For her color's not fast, and if it comes off she'll be a done cow for
sure."

CARLYLE SMITH.

FROM CHUM TO CHUM.

BY GASTON V. DRAKE.

XV.--FROM JACK TO BOB.

WHITE MOUNTAINS.

DEAR BOB,--I haven't written for some time because I tried an
experiment over in the bowling-alley one day week before last which
wasn't pleasant. I tried to put my finger in between two of the
balls and get it out again before anything happened and couldn't,
so I've had to have my whole hand swathed in a bandage ever since,
and that's why Sandboys is writing this letter for me. It was too
bad it happened the way it did, because we've been having a bowling
turnement, and our side was way ahead when I smashed my finger, and
we got beaten on the last game by five pins. Sandboys says when he
was young his life was saved by a bowling-ball. It was before all
the panthers that used to be thick in these mountains had all died
out. They used to play havick with this part of the country eating
up all the sheep and cows and horses and even tourists with good
money in their pockets, and very few families living hereabouts
dared to have their windows open at night in the summer-time for
fear a panther might jump in and devour them up, even on the top
floor. He says they are wonderful jumpers those panthers. He has
seen one go up Mount Washington in sixty-three springs, and come
down in twenty-nine, and as for jumping from the piazza of this
hotel up into the cupola he says that would be about as easy for a
healthy panther as falling off a chair would be to you or me. He
lived over at a place called Littleton at that time and had a room
in the top floor of his father's house. It was in midsummer and an
awfully hot night, but being afraid of the panthers that were
prowling around, when he went to bed he shut his window and his
shutters up tight. Three or four times some of the panthers tried
to break through and banged up against the shutters pretty hard,
but without success, and finally an hour went by without any more
attempts being made, and forgetting that strategy was one of the
panther's strong points Sandboys thought they'd gone away and that
it would be safe to open his window and get a breath of fresh air
because his room had become like an oven, being right under the
roof. So he opened the window softly and threw the shutters wide,
peeping carefully out first to see if there were any panthers in
sight. Unfortunately he looked down into the yard and didn't see
the wild animal sitting on top of the telegraph pole across the
street, waiting for his pray. "Good," said Sandboys, "they're all
gone. I can get a chance to cool off." And he crept back into bed
leaving the window wide open, and then the trouble began. He'd
hardly got into bed when there came a fearful bang on the side wall
just over him. The horrid beast that had been perched on the
telegraph pole opposite had jumped across the street, through the
window and landed ker-flump against the wall. Fortunately the force
of the bang stunned the panther for a minute and Sandboys had
presence of mind enough to snatch his pillow out of its case and to
pull the pillow-case over the panther's head. It was the work of an
instant, as the story-books say, and then he was off. That is,
Sandboys was off. He fled through the window, dropped down to the
soft earth and made a bee-line for the hotel. "Why did you go to
the hotel?" I asked. "Because," he replied, "nobody else ever went
there and I thought that would be the last place in which an animal
with ingenious instinctiveness would think of looking for me."

My, but Sandboys is wise, but it didn't work. The panther soon
recovered from his stun and after pawing at it for a minute managed
to get the pillow-case off his head, and began to look around for
Sandboys. He looked under the bed, and in the wardrobe and maybe in
the bureau drawers. Nobody knows where he didn't look, and finally
seeing that the door was still locked he of course knew that
Sandboys had escaped by the window which shows you what sagacious
animals panthers can be when they try. Well, when the panther saw
that, he was mad. When panthers start out to pray they want to
pray, and if they don't pray they want to know why, being, as I
said, sagacious. So he says to himself it's Sandboys or nothing for
supper and out he starts in pursuit and as luck would have it,
being hungry, he thought he'd stop at the hotel a minute and take a
bite out of the landlord. He stopped and the first thing he knew
was that he was face to face with Sandboys. Sandboys was
_nonplussed_--which is Latin for rattled--for a minute and so was
the panther, for Sandboys was the last person he expected to find
there. The panther's surprise was Sandboys' chance and he took it.
He rushed from the room before the panther had recovered and was
soon on the top floor whence, by a back staircase he rushed down,
and out into the night. But the panther started in pursuit as
usual. As he ran along Sandboys reasoned thus: "Nobody who has ever
been to that hotel once, ever was known to go back again. I'll go
back and delude the beast," which he did, but the door was locked
and he had to take refuge in the bowling-alley. But the panther
knew a thing or two and as Sandboys went in one door of the alley
and locked the door after him and threw the keys away, he climbed
in the window at the other end and there they were again, face to
face: Sandboys at one end of the alley, the panther at the other
and all was dark except one could see the glittering eye of the
other. The panther was delighted. Everything seemed to be going his
way and Sandboys was in despair. Escape seemed impossible. "I'll
play with him," thought the panther and he took one step and
crouched, smiling softly to himself when all of a sudden Sandboys
thought, "Here I'm the champion bowler of this town, it's my only
chance." The panther took another step and crouched. Sandboys took
a ball. "I'll aim between his eyes and hit his nose," said Sandboys
and he let go. It was dark, but it was a strike. The ball rolled
thunderously down the alley. The panther didn't know what it was,
and the first thing he knew as he laid his nose flat in the middle
of the alley the ball came crashing into it, broke his neck and he
lay dead, and Sandboys was saved.

How's that for an adventure?

Yours truly JACK per Sandboys.

P.S. (in an almost unreadable hand). I don't know what Sandboys has
told you in this letter from me, but whatever it is, the head
waiter says it must be a exagravation because Sandboys is given to
exagravations--by which I mean he draws the long bow when he tells
things about himself. Love to all,

JACK.

The spring meeting of the London Athletic Club was held on the club grounds at Stamford Bridge on April 11th. There were three scholastic events on the card, and as they do things somewhat differently in England from the way we do them over here, it may be interesting to the readers of this Department to hear of how this meeting was conducted. The first event for the schools was a 120-yard hurdle race on turf over ten hurdles 3 ft. 6 in. high. The English hurdles are fixed firmly in the ground, so that hitting an obstacle there means a fall--and this happened at these games to at least one man in each heat. After all, however, it seems a better arrangement than our way, for it compels the racers to jump the hurdles, and if a fall does result it is a good deal more like sport to fall on turf than to carry away several ounces of cinders in one's face and arms. As may be seen from the accompanying illustration, the course is laid towards the grand stand, instead of past it, which does not afford so good a view of a race as might otherwise be the case.

One pleasant feature of the occasion was that the in-field was kept perfectly clear. None but the half-dozen officials whose business required their presence there were allowed inside the track. Another improvement over our method was that the contestants came out for their heats without any clownlike bath-robes about them, and trotted down to their stations unassisted and unaccompanied by a horde of attendants, trainers, or rubbers. Their costumes, too, were more sightly than those seen in America, each man's shirt being provided with quarter sleeves. In many cases the hem of the sleeves and the bottoms of the running trousers were trimmed with the school colors, and the emblem, when the contestant wore any, was generally small and inconspicuous. In America, as we all know, there is frequently more emblem than athlete. The crouching start has not yet become popular in England; in fact, in all these races only one man leaned on his hands. The rest stood up, and they were by no means as steady on their marks as they would have been if they had adopted the American method of starting.

The hurdle-race was run in two heats and a final, and resulted in a win for Pilkington of Clifton School, who, I take it, is a relative of the Cambridge athlete who came over last fall with the English team that competed against Yale. His time was 17-2/5 sec., which is very fast over turf, and which he could doubtless improve upon on a cinder track. The best interscholastic record for the same event in this country was made by E. C. Perkins, of the Hartford High-School, at the Connecticut H.-S.A.A. games in '94, and was 17 sec. Jarvis of Bedford was second, and Kember of Ramsgate was third.

On the programme this race was set down as "120 yards hurdles Public Schools Championship Challenge Shield," with the additional information that the shield was "presented by Godfrey and Cecil Shaw." The former will be remembered as having given Stephen Chase a hard tussle over the hurdles at the international games last fall. In addition to this championship shield, which stands for a number of years, and on which the winner each year presumably has his name engraved, there was a first prize of a silver cup and a second prize of a silver beaker. This idea of having a challenge shield is an excellent one, as it adds an incentive to true sportsmanship, and makes the honor of winning the race greater than it would otherwise be. It would be a good fashion to introduce challenge cups and shields in this country.

The quarter-mile was run in three heats and a final. This was also for a championship challenge cup, and for three individual prizes. Harrison of Haileybury, who had the honor of seeing his name set down on the programme as the "holder" of the challenge cup, because he won it last year, was not fast enough on this occasion to maintain his supremacy. He took second place in his heat, and as his time for second was the fastest second of any of the heats, he was allowed to run in the finals, the programme stating that "First in each heat, and fastest second, to start in final." In this last heat were Holland and Hardie of Giggleswick, Davison of Sutton Valence, and Harrison. Davison ran too easily at first, and was some fifteen yards behind the rest at the 220 mark; but he then came away in great style. He was too late, however, to catch Holland, who won in 53-2/5 sec., with Davison second, and Hardie third. The best American interscholastic time for this event was made by T. E. Burke, the champion, in 1894, at the New England interscholastic games, when he was at the Boston English High-School.

RECORDS OF THE N.Y.I.S.A.A.

Event. Record.
100-yard dash 10-3/8 sec.
100-yard dash (Jun.) 11 "
220-yard dash 22-4/5 "
220-yard dash (Jun.) 23-4/5 "
440-yard run 52-2/5 "
880-yard run 2 m. 4-1/5 "
Mile run 4 " 52 "
Mile walk 7 " 30-2/5 "
Mile bicycle 2 " 34-2/5 "
120-yard hurdle 15-3/5 "
220-yard hurdle 26-3/5 "
High jump 5 ft. 11 in.
Broad jump 21 " 5 "
Putting 12-lb. shot 40 " 3/4 "
Throwing 12-lb. hammer 117 " 5-1/2 "
Pole vault 10 " 3/8 "

Event. Holder.
100-yard dash Wendell Baker, Bettins, 1880.
100-yard dash (Jun.) D. C. Leech, Cutler's, 1890.
220-yard dash E. W. Allen, Berkeley, 1895.
220-yard dash (Jun.) H. Moeller, Col. Gram., 1894.
440-yard run C. R. Irwin-Martin, Berkeley, 1895.
880-yard run J. A. Meehan, Condon, 1895.
Mile run C. Southwick, Harvard, 1893.
Mile walk L. B. Elliman, Berkeley, 1894.
Mile bicycle I. A. Powell, Cutler's, 1895.
120-yard hurdle A. F. Beers, De La Salle, 1895.
220-yard hurdle S. A. Syme, Barnard, 1895.
High jump S. A. W. Baltazzi, Harvard, 1895.
Broad jump F. L. Pell, Cutler's, 1891.
Putting 12-lb. shot A. C. Ayres, Condon, 1895.
Throwing 12-lb. hammer C. R. Irwin-Martin, Berkeley, 1895.
Pole vault E. F. Simpson, Barnard, 1895.

For the mile run ten starters turned out. They stayed bunched for the first quarter, but by the time three-quarters of the distance had been covered there were practically only four in the race. Down the straight Elliot of Giggleswick and Dyke of Sherborne were never more than a yard apart, and a fine finish resulted in a dead heat. The time was excellent--4 min. 42-3/5 sec. Both men fell exhausted at the finish, and Tippets of St. Paul's came in third, not far behind. The best American interscholastic time for the mile is 4 min. 34-2/5 sec., made by W. T. Laing of Andover in 1894, at the New England Interscholastics. The American figures given here are all records, and so the comparison with the English times is not exactly fair, since the English school records in every case may of course be better than the performances on this particular occasion.

The prizes were distributed in a much better way than is done in this country. After each event Mrs. Walter Rye, whose name appeared on the programme, presented the winners with their cups. This is a custom which has not yet been adopted in this country, although at St. Paul's School, Concord, a young lady usually presents the prizes to the winners at the spring meeting. It would be a pleasant and graceful feature if, at the National Games, some lady interested in the sports of our young men in the schools were invited to hand to them their prizes.

The fourth annual tournament of the Yale Interscholastic Tennis Association was held a week ago Saturday, on the grounds of the New Haven Lawn Club. There were thirteen entries from Hartford High, Hillhouse High, Black Hall, Hopkins Grammar, Taft's, and Hotchkiss schools. The day was cold and raw, but, nevertheless, the play on the whole was good.

In the first round the Lyman-Finke match was very interesting. Lyman made a plucky fight in the last set, but Finke won, 6-2, 6-4. The Whitmore-Watrous match showed some pretty tennis. In the first set the score changed many times, each man doing his best to win. Watrous got it, 9-7. Whitmore won the second set, 6-2, but Watrous took the last rather easily, 6-2.

The final round was between two Hotchkiss School players, Finke and Coy. At times the play was excellent, each man showing good judgment and coolness. Finke won 6-2, 6-1, 6-1. Coy might have done much better, but he seemed to be afraid to let himself out. Finke made the remarkable record of winning the tournament without losing a set. He outclassed all the other players. With practice he ought to develop into a player of the first class. He plays with coolness and excellent judgment. The prizes were a cup for first and second, and a banner to the school winning the greatest number of points, each match won counting one point. The banner went to Hotchkiss this year, as it did last year.

The Harvard Interscholastic tournament was held the same day on Jarvis Field, Cambridge, with twelve schools, represented by sixty-seven entries. With so large a number of contestants, the play dragged on into the early part of last week, making the finals come too late for proper notice in the present issue of this Department. Comment will be held over until next week.