Chapter XXVI: Preparing for an Ascent (1)

Monsieur Jean Puvis Filbert was a Frenchman of wealth, a distinguished member of the Alpine Club, an enthusiastic mountain-climber, and had for an especial hobby the making of botanical collections from high altitudes. He was now on a leisurely tour around the world, and had recently arrived in Tacoma on one of the Northern Pacific steamships from Japan. This was his first visit to America, and he was filled with enthusiasm by the superb mountain scenery that greeted him on all sides as his ship steamed through the Strait of Juan de Fuca and up the glorious waterways of Puget Sound.

As his knowledge of English was very limited, our mountain-climber began his preparations for this arduous undertaking by engaging an interpreter. The only one whom he could find was a Canadian, who spoke French nearly as badly as he did English, and whom his employer was quickly obliged to discharge for drunkenness and utter incompetence. Then it seemed as though the expedition on which M. Filbert had set his heart must be given up, and he was in despair. At this critical moment Alaric Todd appeared on the scene seeking employment, though never dreaming that it would come to him through his knowledge of French, and was received literally with open arms.

Of course he was engaged at once, and was able to secure a situation for Bonny Brooks as well, though the precise nature of the young sailor's duties were not defined. Thus Bonny was allowed to regard himself as also holding the rank of an interpreter, whose services would be invaluable in the event of an encounter with Indians, who, for all he knew, might contest every foot of their way up the great mountain.

M. Filbert wished the boys to spend the night with him at the hotel, but Alaric was still so sore over his morning's experience that he begged to be excused. So when they were left to themselves they carried their recently acquired belongings down to the railway station, and persuaded the agent to allow them to sleep in that corner of the baggage-room devoted to their employer's collection of chattels. Here they put on their new suits, and then, feeling once more intensely respectable, and well content with their own appearance, each invited the other to dine with him. Had they not two whole dollars between them, and was not that enough to make them independent of the world?

They procured a bountiful dinner in the restaurant where Alaric had breakfasted, and with it ate up one of their dollars. The place was so associated in their minds with the fine young fellow to whom they owed all their present good fortune that they thought and talked much of him during the meal. Recalling what he had said concerning his father reminded Alaric of his own parent, and caused him to wonder if he were yet aware that his younger son was not travelling around the world with the Sonntaggs as he had planned.

"If the dear old dad has heard of my disappearance," reflected the boy, "he must be a good deal worried, for he has no idea of how well I can take care of myself. I'll write to Cousin Esther, and ask her to tell dad all about me. She is sure to see him on his way home, for he always visits Uncle Dale's when he is in Boston."

So after supper, Alaric, who was beginning to have a lively appreciation of the value of money, as well as of fathers, cautiously invested four cents in a sheet of paper, an envelope, and a stamp, all of which he was able to procure from the proprietor of the restaurant. The boy smiled, as he carefully pocketed his one cent of change, to think on what a different scale he would have made a similar purchase less than a month before. Then he would have ordered a box of note-paper, another of envelopes, and a whole sheet of stamps. As for the change, why, there wouldn't have been any, for he would simply have said, "Charge it, please," and it would have been charged to his father's account.

When Bonny saw that Alaric was about to write a letter he decided to write one to his aunt Nancy at the same time, "For," said he, "she probably imagines that I am in China by now, and would never think of sending word to me here in case she got any news of father." So Bonny also invested four cents in stationery; and the restaurant man good-naturedly allowing them to use a table, besides loaning them pens and a bottle of ink, they sat down to compose their respective epistles. When Alaric's letter was finished it read as follows:

"DEAR COUSIN ESTHER,--I have taken your advice and run away--that
is, I have done what amounts to the same thing, for I just sat
still and let the other folks run away. By this time I expect they
are in China, while I am here in the very place you said you would
be if you were a boy. I wish you were one so you could be here with
me now, for I think you would make a first-class boy. I am learning
to be one as fast as I can, a real truly boy, I mean, and not a
make-believe. I have already learned how to smuggle, and catch a
baseball, besides a little batting, and to swim, sail a boat,
paddle a canoe, talk some Siwash, and have had a good deal of
experience besides.

"Now I am an interpreter and engaged in the mountain-climbing
business. We start to-morrow.

"I have a partner who is a splendid chap, about my age, and named
Bonny Brooks. I know you would like him, for he is such a regular
boy, and knows just how to do things.

"When you see my dear dad, please give him my warmest love, and
tell him I think more of him now than I ever did. Please make him
understand that it was the Sonntaggs who ran away, and not I. Tell
him that when I am through experimenting with my heart, and have
become a genuine boy like Bonny, I am coming back to him, to learn
how to be a man--that is, I will if I can afford to pay my way to
San Francisco. But you have no idea how much money it takes to
travel, especially when you have to earn it yourself, and so far I
haven't earned any. Still I have not starved--that is, not very
often--so far, and am in hopes of having plenty to eat from this
time on. Now I must say good-by because we are going to sleep in
the station to-night, and it closes early.

"Ever your loving cousin, RICK."

"P. S.--The principal reason I let the Sonntaggs go was because
they called me 'Allie.' Please tell this to Dad."

Bonny's letter was not so long as Alaric's, but it described the situation with equal vagueness. He wrote:

"DEAR AUNT NANCY,--I am not in China, as you may suppose, having
quit the sea after rising to be first mate. Have also been a
smuggler, but am not any more. Am now engaged by the French as
interpreter, and so far like the business very well. Have also gone
into the climbing trade. We are to do our first mountain to-morrow.
Have for a chum one of the cleverest chaps you ever saw. He can
talk most any language except Chinook, and is a daisy ball-catcher.
His name is Rick Dale, and I am trying hard to be just like him. If
you have any news from father, please let me know. You can send a
letter in care of Mr. P. Bear, Hotel Tacoma, which is our
headquarters.

"Ever your loving nephew,
B. BROOKS, Interpreter."

Both these letters were sent to Massachusetts, Alaric's being addressed to Boston, and Bonny's to Sandport. After they were posted, and our lads were on their way back to the railway station, they began for the first time to realize how very tired and sleepy they were. They were so utterly weary that as they snuggled down in their corner of the baggage-room, on a bed made of M. Filbert's tents and blankets, Alaric remarked,

"This is what I call solid comfort."

"Yes," replied Bonny, "we certainly have struck a big streak of luck. Do you remember how we were feeling about this time last night?"

"No," answered Alaric, "I can't remember. It's too long ago. Good-night." And in another minute both boys were fast asleep.

They had taken "through tickets," as Bonny would have said, and slept so soundly that they hardly stirred until the agent flung open the baggage-room door at six o'clock the following morning, and caused them to spring from their blankets in a hurry by shouting, "All aboard!" A dash of cold water from the hydrant outside drove all traces of sleep from their eyes, and so filled them with its fresh vigor that they raced all the way up town to the restaurant. Here, although their appetites were keen as ever, they managed to fully satisfy them with a ninety-cent breakfast, "and left the place with money still in their pockets," as Alaric expressed it.

"That's so," responded Bonny. "We've just one cent apiece. Let's toss up to see who will have them both."

"No," said Alaric, "for that would be gambling; and I promised my mother long ago at Monte Carlo never to gamble. She said more fortunes were lost and fewer won in that way than by any other."

"But one cent isn't a fortune," objected Bonny.

"Why not? A man's fortune is all that he has, and if you have but one cent, then that is your fortune."

"I guess you are right, Rick Dale," laughed Bonny. "I hate gambling as much as you do; but it never seemed to me before that tossing pennies was gambling. I expect it is, though, so I'll just keep my fortune in my pocket, and not risk it on any such foolishness."

As the lads hastened back to the station, where they were to meet their employer, the glorious mountain that was now the goal of their ambition reared its mighty crest, radiant with sunlight, directly before them. So wonderfully clear was the atmosphere that it did not seem ten miles away, and Bonny, shaking a fist at it, cried, cheerfully, "Never you mind, old fellow, we'll soon have you under foot."

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

THE CORONATION OF A CZAR.

BY JOHN RUSSELL DAVIDSON.

The greatest spectacles the world ever sees are the most solemn; consequently, when a nation places upon a man, chosen by God as they often believe, the symbols of sovereignty, the occasion is celebrated with ceremonies of the most impressive character.

The last important crowning of a King occurred in Moscow on the 27th of May, 1883, and by that event Alexander III. was created Czar of all the Russias.

For two centuries the Russian imperial coronations have taken place in Moscow, within the Kremlin, an enclosure in the heart of the holy city in which are gathered the cathedrals and palaces whose walls have witnessed all the celebrations of the great events of Russian history for centuries. The coronation programme carried out nearly one hundred and seventy-five years ago has remained unchanged in its important details. Just before the coronation the sovereign retires from public life, and spends a few days in fasting and prayer to fit and prepare him for the occasion that is to be the grandest and most solemn in all his lifetime.

On the present Czar's birthday, the 18th of May, began the official and non-official ceremonies by which Nicholas Alexandrovich will be proclaimed supreme ruler over a nation numbering one hundred and twenty millions of people.

The actual crowning of this twenty-seven-year-old monarch will take place on the 26th of May, and under conditions far happier than those which made his father's coronation, though one of the grandest spectacles in history, a festival clouded with a dreadful gloom that fell upon the Russian people at the untimely death of the second Alexander.

The royal procession starts from the palace, and, approaching the Cathedral of the Assumption, is met by a party of the clergy led by the archbishop of the realm. The latter carries a cross that is kissed by the royal pair; then the Emperor and Empress, and the road upon which they walk, are sprinkled with holy water. Entering the cathedral, where the decorations vie with the brilliant robes and uniforms of the assembled priests and officers, their Majesties tread upon the richest Persian carpets, and, passing through a balustrade of gold, seat themselves in two ancient arm-chairs beneath a scarlet canopy ornamented with golden emblems, and yellow, black, and white ostrich feathers.

The services at the cathedral are essentially of the highest religious order, and are performed by the leading ministers of the Greek Church, of which the Czar himself is the exalted head.

A banner, called the Holy Banner of Russia because the pole is surmounted by a spear-head made from a piece of the true cross, is blessed and handed to the Emperor, who waves it three times before the assembled congregation, and restores it to the primate. His Majesty kneels, and the imperial mantle of silver and ermine is thrown over his shoulders; the sword of John III., King of Poland, is fastened to his side, while in his right hand is placed the sceptre, and in his left hand the orb; rising in his place he then crowns himself with the imperial crown, which is made in two parts, representing the Eastern and Western empires. The Empress kneels before her husband, and for an instant he rests the crown upon her brow. Another and smaller crown is then given to Her Majesty by the Emperor, and at the same time the ladies in waiting cover her with a robe similar to the Czar's. While all this is going on, prayers are offered for the welfare of the new ruler, and for the land during the reign just begun, and a great company of singers chant the canticles; but as yet the people have made no demonstration--they wait until the new Czar has been anointed.

The most important part of the ceremonials is now to be performed. The Archbishop of Moscow holds a silver bowl filled with holy oil in which a fragment of the crown of thorns has been immersed, and dipping a golden palm branch into the liquid, touches the Czar's brow, his eyelids, ears, lips, and the palms of his hands. Opening the monarch's vestments, the priest traces, in holy oil, the cross upon the royal breast, pronouncing at the time sentences of the greatest solemnity. Immediately after this sacred act, cannon, trumpets, and drums announce to the people without the church that from now and forever the person of the Czar is consecrated, that he is a man anointed of God and the delegate of His power.

In the mean time the Empress comes forward and is anointed by the high-priest on the forehead only. The Holy Sacrament is then administered to both their Royal Highnesses. While the Czar and Czarina stand upon the platform of the throne a great chorus of joy is sung, after which a mass is celebrated. At the moment the Czar receives back the sceptre and globe the priest proclaims the imperial titles, and this is hailed by a great outburst of cannon and bells, and everything that can aid the people in a hearty acknowledgment of their new sovereign's absolute right and power to rule them as long as his life shall last.

This concludes the holy service, and the splendid assemblage proceeds to the Cathedral of St. Michael, where the royal pair kneel before the tombs of their ancestors, and receive more sprinklings with holy water. The procession is then formed and faced towards the Church of the Annunciation, where still further religious services close an event which is the grandest and most brilliant ever witnessed.

PRACTICAL GOLF.

BY W. G. VAN TASSEL SUTPHEN.

(_In Five Papers._)

IV.--APPROACHING AND PUTTING.

Up to this point all of our hitting has been free, and our one object has been to drive the ball the longest possible distance. But now, with the hole within the reach of practical politics, the problem takes on a new feature, and it is the _right_ distance that becomes the important thing. If we know by practice that we can drive on an average 110 yards with the brassy, and the putting green is about that distance away, we will of course take that club and do our best. But supposing that it is ninety yards, it would be a great mistake to try and make an easy swing with the brassy, and the attempt would probably result in a "top" or some other form of "foozling" or missing. It would be much better to play the full cleek stroke, which is generally from fifteen to twenty yards shorter in carry. Or, again, if it is too near for the cleek, we may use the medium iron or the lofter. But when we are inside of a full stroke with the lofter or iron, we must devise some method of making a shorter shot than the full swing, for the ground is probably too rough for the putter, or there may be a bunker just in front of the green.

The books on golf go into the subject of approach-shots in a most elaborate fashion, and we are told that the three-quarter, the half, and the quarter shot must now be brought into play, and the different positions for making these strokes are described in a most minute and yet confusing and contradictory manner. As a matter of fact, although everybody talks of half and three-quarter shots, yet very few authorities will agree on what they really are, or can clearly explain how to make them. Is there any definite ground upon which to stand?

You remember that in discussing the full drive we arrived at the conclusion that it must be a swing and not a hit, and that in a swing the force is derived from velocity rather than from weight. Now the same principle applies in this case. Supposing that we use exactly the same effort of muscle for one swing that we do for another, but that the club head at one time swings back to our shoulder, and at another time only half-way. Evidently in the shorter swing it will be travelling at a lower rate of speed when it strikes the ball, and consequently with less power, and consequently again the ball will not go so far. Well, this is about as close as we can get to the secret of how to measure distance. The shorter the swing the shorter the carry, provided always that our grip is the same. And it should be always the same--that is, close and firm, particularly with the left hand. If we tighten it more than usual it means that we are about to hit instead of swing at the ball, or, in other words, we are "forcing" or "pressing." If our grip is too loose it means that we are about to flop at the ball in a feeble, uncertain way that is neither hit nor swing, and this is called "sparing." Both forcing and sparing are equally wrong, and sure to lead to unsteadiness and all kinds of misses. The grip should always be about the same, certainly always firm, and we should endeaver to reduce yards of carry to simple inches of swing. Of course this is not an easy thing to do, and in fact the "short game," as approaching is called, is generally the weak point in most people's play. These strokes that are short of a full swing are often called "wrist" strokes; but do not be deceived into thinking that the term implies a free use of those joints. On the contrary, the left wrist in particular can hardly be kept too stiff. These strokes, again, are never played with a brassy or wooden driver, their use being confined to the iron clubs, and particularly the lofter or mashie, whichever weapon you may use habitually in approaching the hole.

The stance, or position of the feet, is one point upon which all the doctors are agreed. A few players approach off the left leg, but the great majority stand half-facing the hole, with the right leg very much nearer the line of fire than the left one; in fact, the position is just the opposite of the one advised for the full driving swing. Moreover, the arms are drawn closer in, and in the case of a very short stroke the right arm should be lightly pressed against the body to insure steadiness. Get the general position right, and the rest will follow in due course.

Two strokes may be specially considered--the high lofting shot, and running the ball up with the iron. The first is used when there is some obstacle directly in front of the green which must be cleared, and at the same time there is danger on the other side. The problem, then, is to loft the ball high into the air so that it may fall dead on the putting green with little or no run. The position is still half-facing the hole, and the swing should be almost straight up and down. And in this one particular stroke you may allow the wrists to be as flexible as possible, for the problem is to describe a small ellipse with the club head, and not, as before, the segment of a circle. Of course you will use a lofter or a mashie for this stroke.

The running-up stroke is very useful when there is rough ground between you and the green, but no bunker to clear. To make this stroke the player should have his hands well in front of the ball, which tends to make the face of the lofter more upright than is its natural lie. This is called turning in the face, and the effect is to skim the ball close to the ground. The club should be carried back close to the ground, and then brought forward with a slow dragging motion, both wrists being kept perfectly stiff. It is worth while practising this stroke, for it is a very effective one in its results.

And now, after all our trials and misadventures, we are at last on the putting green, and it only remains to hole out. Putting is not particularly interesting, but you must remember that a stroke wasted at the hole counts just as much as a foozle from the tee. Carefulness and concentration are especially necessary, and although putters, like poets, are said to be born, not made, you should at least aim at going out in two strokes from any part of the green three times out of five.

Putting may be done in almost any position, but whatever stance you do adopt, stick to it, and go in for results rather than for theoretical experiments. The position shown in the illustrations is a sound one, and you cannot do better than to adopt it. You will notice that the ball is comparatively near the right foot, and that the right arm is lightly steadied on the hip. Let the stroke itself be as near to a push as you can manage it without actually committing that offence, and it will aid you in controlling your distance if the club head is allowed to "sclaff" along the turf or scrape it lightly. Remember, too, that after getting your direction you must look at the ball and not at the hole.

Putting is divided into approach puts and holing out. In the first-named the distance is the important thing. Of course you will play directly for the hole in the hope that you may go out in one; but failing in that, your ball must remain in such a position that the next stroke shall be a dead certainty. The great tendency is not to be up with the hole--_i.e._, you are so afraid of going too far past that your ball stops that much short. It is an old St. Andrews maxim that the hole will not come to you. Harden your heart, therefore, and play for the back of the hole rather than attempt a dribble just over the edge. In other words, use enough strength to run your ball at least a foot and a half beyond the hole in case it fails to drop in. You are in no worse position than if you had stopped that distance short, and you have had the extra chance of a "gobble."

"Holing out" is, in nine cases out of ten, simply a question of keeping your eye on the ball rather than on the hole. If you cast a glance at the promised land the fraction of an instant before the ball is struck, you will be sure to put off the line. Remember also that the precept of always being up with the hole applies with equal force to your approach-shots to the green. Always play for the hole itself the instant that it comes within practical range of _any_ club, and you will save many a put.

The "stymie" demands just a word. In a match, or hole, game the one farthest from the hole must always play first, and this rule holds good on the putting green. If the balls are in line with the hole and _within_ six inches of each other, the nearer ones may be lifted, to be replaced after the shot; but if _more_ than six inches separate them, the ball farthest away must be lofted over if it is to have any chance for the hole. The stroke is not difficult with a little practice, but you must have your grip firm, and your calculations must be based chiefly on your distance from the hole. If properly hit, the club will loft your ball over the other one, and if the strength be right it will drop or run into the hole. In medal, or score, play the ball in line and nearest the hole is always holed out, and the stymie is never played.

And here and now and always--

_Keep your eye on the ball._

A LEAF PROM AN DIARY.

The largest slave-holder and manager in this country in 1856 was said to be Mr. J. Hamilton Cowper, of Darien, Georgia, who was reputed as directing the labor of 1500 slaves. On our way home from Cuba, in April of that year, where we had been inspecting the system of slave labor, we had the good luck to meet Mr. Cowper on one of the sea islands of South Carolina. He was a remarkable man physically and mentally, and it was said he could throw up two apples into the air and hit both with his two single-barrelled pistols.

A few years before the date of our meeting him he had been wrecked off Cape Hatteras, an account of which we drew from him as follows: He had embarked at Charleston, South Carolina, on the paddle-wheel steamer _Pulaski_, bound to New York, having under his care a Mrs. Nightingale and her young baby, and another lady with a small child. Before turning in he had inspected the small boats, as was his custom in those dangerous voyages before ocean navigation by steam had been perfected, and when about midnight the boiler burst he went straight to the ladies, told them to hurry on their clothes and wait for him while he ran to explore. Seeing that the steamer was absolutely wrecked by the explosion, he took the two women to the nearest boat, lowered them and their two children into it, and, with half a dozen sailors, pushed off from the sinking ship. They pulled all next day, in company with another small boat, towards the surf-beaten shore of Hatteras, he taking command of the boat. They pulled along the surf for an opening, and saw the other boat try to land, and swamp. At last his crew, without food or water, refused to pull any further, and insisted on trying to land. After trying in vain to show them the danger, he had to submit, but made one of the best men promise to help save the women when they turned over, as he told them they were sure to do. The boat capsized, and his comrade made for the shore; but Cowper called him back. One woman Cowper gave to him; the other had sunk, but he caught her by her long hair, raised her, and the baby under her shawl smiled as she came up. It was Miss Isabella Nightingale, now a bright girl of eighteen, with whom we had just breakfasted. Mr. Cowper managed to get all of his protegées above the surf, and then fell exhausted. All this was drawn out of him without any boasting or exaggeration. It shows what a cool head and firm hand can do in an emergency.

Space will not permit me to give here Mr. Cowper's opinions on the rebellion, and of the relative value of free and slave labor. He was a man of remarkable intelligence and executive ability, and it was said that he kept a record of the work done and the produce gathered on each field of his large domain during his long life. He told me that he considered the popular notion that the white men could not work at the South a mere fallacy. He, however, believed in the economy of slavery, and doubtless, under his skilful administration, it worked better than elsewhere.

SOMETHING ABOUT BUDS.

There are two classes of people--those who are forehanded and provident, and those who neglect to look out for the future. One is wise, the other foolish. Our Mother Nature, as she is sometimes called, belongs to the wise class. She constantly and most wonderfully provides for the future. Plants are her children, and foreseeing the winter, she does what she can to preserve them from the severe cold, so that they may revive in spring. She has several ways of doing this. In summer, to provide for new growth of branches and leaves, the next season's buds are formed under the bark. You can only find them by cutting into the bark.

Buds are the beginnings of leaves, branches, or flowers. They are tender babies, and need to be cradled and blanketed. Here is a tough old shagbark-tree. In the coziest manner possible the next year's buds are tucked away under gummy and thick scaly leaves. Frost and icy wind cannot injure them. Many forest trees protect their buds with scales. A locust and buttonwood form their new buds under the hollow stem base of the old leaf. Dr. Gray likens the old leaf to a "candle-extinguisher." You have only to pull off a locust leaf any day in summer to see next year's bud. It grows under the old leaf till it has strength to take care of itself when the leaf falls in autumn.

We cannot tell at first, and from the outside, just what the bud is going to produce. Some buds contain a whole branch, with all its leaves, in embryo, curled up and tucked into a very small space. Often a flower bud grows beside a leaf bud, and it may come out first in spring. Some of the maples do that. The forsythia is a shrub which is covered with yellow flowers in the early spring before a leaf appears on the bush.

Some plants protect their buds by keeping them underground. Plants have stems running along or under the surface as well as straight up. The horizontal stems are _root-stocks_. The pretty prince's-pine, the sour-leaved wood-sorrel, peppermint, and indeed many of the common flowers, have a horizontal main stem, with ascending branches. One of the most curious is the Solomon's-seal. A new leaf is sent up every year from the tip end of the root-stock, and the old, dropping off, leaves a sear, which is the "seal." Buds formed on these underground stems are protected from too great changes of temperature by a few inches of soil. Those buds that lie on the surface must be protected by the dead leaves which fall in autumn. They, the buds, are the real "babes in the wood," you see.

Our baby bud, just like children, must have nourishment as well as protection in order to grow in spring. This is provided by the thick leaves that cover, or by the stem, or in some other way. The story of an Irish potato is the most curious of them all. The potato is a collection of underground buds and starch. The eyes of potatoes are true buds, and each one can make a new plant. Have you ever seen the potatoes sprouting in the cellar? Back of the eye is a scale, which is a sort of leaf. The place for buds is just within the old leaf--that is, in the _axil_, or space between the leaf and stem on the upper side. So that potato buds are _axillary_. When our cooks pare potatoes for boiling they have to dig these buds out with a sharp-pointed knife. But they are a boon to the farmer. If he had to plant seed of potatoes he would wait two years for his crop. But now he cuts a potato in pieces, taking care to leave an eye on every piece. It would be wasteful to plant a whole potato with several buds in one hill. Plenty of starch, the nourishment necessary for the growing bud, is in one potato for all of its buds.

Propagation by buds and shoots is very common. More vegetation appears from buds than from seeds, although most plants are none the less anxious to produce seeds. They provide in both ways for the perpetuation of their species.

It is for this reason that the spring, once started, comes on so rapidly. One week there are only bare trees and brown fields; the next, everything is in leaf and bloom. Every leaf of a horse-chestnut-tree seems to grow an inch in a single night. The buds are all ready just as soon as mild weather sets the sap running, and they almost jump into active life.

THE EDUCATED GOOSE.

"What do you think, mamma," said Johnny, the other day. "I have just read a real funny story in the paper, and it is all about a goose."

"Well, what did the goose do?" asked Johnny's mother, with a smile of expectation.

"Why, this goose didn't do anything, but she is being taught her letters with big red blocks, and after awhile I suppose she'll be able to read _Mother Goose_. Won't she be surprised to find out that there was ever a poet in the family?" As Johnny's mother made no reply, he continued, pleasantly:

"I hope the poor goose won't ruin her eyes when she does know how to read, because it would be awful if she had to wear eye-glasses like grandmamma. I suppose she is now studying hard and going to school just like a little girl."

"There isn't any school for geese, is there, Johnny?"

"No; I forgot when I said she was going to a regular school. She is being taught at home by her owner. Don't you think it very kind of this good man to teach the poor goose to read?"

"It is, Johnny; but I can't see the use in it."

"There may be no use in it," replied Johnny, who was not a little surprised at his mother's view; "but I think it will be very nice for the goose to be able to enjoy picture-books and read fairy tales, especially when the pond's frozen and she cannot go swimming, and when the snow is so deep that she can't go rooting around. Besides, when the lawn is nice and green she can read the sign 'Keep off the Grass,' and, of course, she will do it, because when she is educated she will be more polite and refined. And then when the goslings crawl under her at night she can put them to sleep by singing to them little songs, and she can also tell them pretty stories about giants and fairy princesses when they are swimming around the mill-pond, and then she will teach the goslings to read. But there's one thing they will never do."

"What's that, Johnny?"

"Why, if they ever learn to write they won't do it with goose-quills. But I suppose they will wander into the house, and sit on the sofa in the library, and read books. Now suppose you were a goose, mamma, wouldn't you like to be able to read?"

"I don't know, Johnny."

"Well, I would; but I would never like to read anything about the goose having his head chopped off and being stuffed with potatoes and onions. But I suppose when the goose can read she will be worth too much to eat, because she can be used as a nurse, and read stories to little boys on rainy days. And she may be able to teach little boys to read by using blocks, and I can tell you that would be just fine, and a great deal better than going to school, because the goose couldn't keep us in. Do you know what I'd do if I were an educated goose?"

"No. What would you do, Johnny?"

"I'd start a swimming-school, and I could teach every kind of swimming except swimming on the back. I think I know why the chicken can't swim."

"Why, Johnny?"

"Why, because she is afraid to try. Now, mamma, which would you rather be, a wild goose or a tame goose?"

"Johnny, why do you ask so many questions?"

"Because, mamma, I have to answer questions all day at school, and the only chance I have to ask them is at home."

"Then I wish you would hurry off to school now."

Johnny took his books and started; but when he was on the street he looked back inquiringly at his mother. She opened the window and asked him what he wanted, and he replied:

"Say, mamma, if the goose ever does have to go to school, and it is too far to walk, how do you suppose she'll ever be able to fly with her blocks and books under her wings?"

BY GASTON V. DRAKE.

XVI.--FROM BOB TO JACK.

PARIS.

DEAR JACK,--Had a fine time yesterday. We hired a great big open
wagon that used to belong to Napoleon the Third and drove out to
Versailles. If it wasn't wrong to bet I'd bet you a quarter you
can't pronounce that word. Two to one you'd call it Ver-sales,
which it isn't at all, but Vare-sigh. That's a queer thing about
French. It isn't spelt the way it's pronounced, which I can't see
the good of, and people who don't know it get lost. Take the word
Luxemburg for instance. We'd pronounce it Luks-um-berg, but these
people here wouldn't recognize it if we did it in their hearing,
but if we said Loo-ksaun-boor they'd understand right away. And all
the streets are Roos or Boolyvars. Boolyvars is French for
Boulevards, and it's all right to call them that if they want to
because that's what they are, but what's the sense of changing an
easy word like streets into a silly little word like roos I can't
even guess, and I'm generally a good guesser.

I sat next to the driver going out and it was very interesting. He
couldn't speak English and I couldn't speak French, so we spent
most of our time laughing. He'd say something to me and laugh and
then I'd get one of my jokes at him and laugh, and I must say it
was just about as good as if we understood what we were saying to
each other--anyhow, it was more successful than Pop's attempts to
talk to him. Pop said something to him in his patent French, as
Aunt Sarah calls it; he asked him what a certain building was and
as far as we could make out his answer, he replied that he thought
it might before night, though it was clear enough when we started.

Speaking of Pop's patent French, it sounds quite as good to me as
real French. He just takes an English word and Frenchifies it. For
instance if you don't know French for building, you say bildang.
Kesserkersay cet bildang la, in Pop's patent French means what
building is that there. In some cases it works without your knowing
it, like Pudding. If you take pudding and Frenchify it into
Pooh-dang it's near enough for a Frenchman to understand, and if
there is any, and there generally is, he'll bring you some.

It's a beautiful drive from Paris out to Versailles and you see
lots all the way. The first thing we passed was the obelisk. It's
kept cleaner than the one in Central Park and I don't like it as
well. It doesn't seem so old, because it is so clean. Ours always
looks as if it was on its last legs as it has a right to be, while
this Paris one is as spick and span as it would be if it had been
polished up with tooth-powder that very morning. The next thing to
be seen on the drive was the Arc de Triomphe. That means Arch of
Triumph and was put up when the French people used to triumph. It's
got a fence around it now so that nobody can wear it out by walking
under it. That's sarcasm as Aunt Sarah calls it, which is saying
what you don't think with your nose turned up. The real reason why
it's fenced in I guess is that the French people aren't triumphing
as much as they were when they had a man like Napoleon at the
hellum. France isn't any Yale College nowadays and hasn't won
anything for a long time, and I don't see how she can expect to
with the funny looking soldiers she has. Pop says they're all fuss
and red pants, but Aunt Sarah thinks they're fine because there
isn't any pomp about them, they're content to be plain soldiers of
the Republic and wear what the government thinks is good for 'em.
Pop says they make up in vanity what they lack in pomp, and when it
comes to a question between Pop and Aunt Sarah I always side with
Pop because he's a man and knows more. Anyhow I don't think much of
the French soldiers. They haven't got great big chests like the
English soldiers have and somehow their uniforms make me think of
hand-organs. I wish we had a few arches like that Arc de Triomphe
about New York or even America.

You can see this particular one from all over the city and there's
no use of talking about it it makes you think more of the people
and you learn more of their history looking at arches than when you
don't see anything but elevated railroads and big sky-scraping
office buildings. That's one thing Paris hasn't got and I guess
it's one reason she's such a bright sunshiny looking city. All your
light and air and sunbeams aren't shut out by life-insurance
companies and newspapers. Elevated railroads, and life-insurance
companies and newspapers don't teach you much but arches of Triumph
do and I sort of think if we Americans would put up a few arches
like that even if they cost a lot of money and took ten years to
build there'd be more patriotism around about. I know this: I've
learned more history over here in a week from what I've seen, than
I could learn home in forty years from books, which is all we
Americans can learn from except the newspapers which don't even
agree and leave us worse off after we've read 'em than we were
before.

Then we went through the Bois de Bologne which as I told you before
is French for Central Park and it was great. They have woods and
lakes and avenues all through it and best of all you don't have to
keep off the grass either. What good grass is if you can't enjoy it
is a thing I never understood. Pop says he can't understand it
either except that people who can't make anything else like to make
rules which accounts for all the signs in Central Park forbidding
you to do everything you want to do, like "Don't tease the
monkies," and "keep off the grass" and so on. In our American parks
all you can do is walk where you're let, but here you can do
anything you please in the parks and no one's any the worse off.
What's more the folks that enjoy parks go to 'em and get all the
fun out of 'em there is to be had, here. You see Frenchmen pushing
two baby-carriages at once and smiling all over even if it isn't
easy work, and you can't ride a mile without seeing a half a dozen
picnics going on right square on the grass, any day of the week;
only a French picnic isn't a bit like an American one. It lacks
lots of things that makes an American picnic pleasant, particularly
lemon pie. It's queer these people over here don't seem to know how
good real pie is--but anyhow they all come out and sit on the grass
and sing together and have a good time. That's what I like. Pop
says I like it because it's something I never saw before, but he's
only half right. I like it because I like to see people having a
good time and that's what they have in the Bois de Bologne. Then
there are caffys where you can get ice-cream and cake all through
it with bands and fountains playing all day.

(_This letter will be continued next week._)

Winner N. E. I. S. Tennis Tournament.]

Although there was a larger number of entries for the New England Interscholastic Tennis Tournament this year than last, the standard of play was considerably lower. But it is hardly to be expected that every season will develop such men as Ware and Whitman. The winner of this year's tourney, T. M. Edwards, shows more promise than ability just now, but he is made of good material, and is bound to develop. To win the National Interscholastics, however, he will have to work hard between now and Newport, for Fincke, I think, could defeat him to-day.

The matches were very uneven in the early part of this Cambridge tournament, the winners, as a rule, taking two straight sets. In the preliminaries only eleven three-set matches were played. The four men left for the semi-finals were Edwards of English High to play Howe of Cambridge Latin, and Seaver of Brookline High to play Cummings of Newton High. Both matches were won in two straight sets, Edwards defeating Howe, 8-6, 6-4, and Seaver getting the better of Cummings easily, 6-1, 6-3. The final match between Edwards and Seaver created considerable interest and developed some good tennis. Seaver took the first set, 6-3. After that Edwards drew himself together, and showed some good up-hill work. His winning score was, 3-6, 6-1, 8-6, 7-5.

Winners of the Yale Interscholastic Tennis Tournament.]

The standards of performance which must be attained by the athletes who are to represent the New England I.S.A.A. at the National Games were fixed by the Executive Committee at a recent meeting. They are as follows: For the 100, 10-2/5 sec.; for the 220, 23 sec.; for the quarter, 53-2/5 sec.; for the half, 2 min. 6 sec.; for the mile, 4 min. 40 sec.; for the walk, 7 min. 40 sec.; for the 1-mile bicycle, 2 min. 40 sec.; for the high hurdles, 18 sec.; for the low hurdles, 28 sec.; for the shot, 37 feet; for the hammer, 115 feet; for the pole vault, 10 feet; for the high jump, 5 ft. 7 in.; and for the broad jump, 21 feet. These are very high standards indeed, and a team composed of two men in each event with records represented by these figures will be a hard crowd to beat.

At this same meeting the Executive Committee passed a very good rule, to the effect that contestants at the association's games shall pay the regular admission of fifty cents, like spectators. This course was adopted because in the past complimentary tickets have frequently failed to reach contestants; sometimes they have not even been printed, and the result has been that men have come to the games, and have had to pay a fifty-cent admission anyway. This money is supposed to be returned after the games, but seldom is. Under the new rule contestants will be sure of not having to pay more than fifty cents.

Sheffer, sub. G. Robinson, 3rd b. Goldsborough, r.f. O. E. Robinson, sub.

A. Robinson, s.s. S. Starr (Capt.), c. Hall, p. E. Starr, 1st b.

ST. PAUL'S BASEBALL TEAM.]

The St. Paul's, Garden City, baseball nine promises to be a strong team this year, although, with the exception of four men, it is made up of inexperienced players. Hard training, however, begun in February, has developed strong team play and excellent base-running. Sidney Starr, captain and catcher, is a first-class back-stop and a speedy and accurate thrower. Hall, who did such good work last year, has made great improvement in form and effectiveness. He has been troubled with a lame arm, but will soon be in good condition. Everett Starr at first base is playing a much better game than he did last year. Second base is covered satisfactorily by Johnson, while Arthur Robinson, the young sprinter, is proving himself a clever short-stop, good batter, and excellent base-runner. George Robinson at third is new at the position, but fills it acceptably. Hill, left field, and J. K. Robinson, centre field, will, before the season is over, be in a class by themselves. Goldsborough, right field, is slower, but makes up for this by his stick-work. The substitutes are Sheffer and O. E. Robinson. (This nine seems to be largely a Robinson family affair.)

The important games thus far have been with Berkeley and Brooklyn High. The former resulted in a victory for St. Paul's by 7 to 4. The St. Paul's vs. Brooklyn High-school game was a fine exhibition of scholastic baseball. Although the teams were very evenly matched and the game was close from start to finish, St. Paul's, by steadier play at critical points and superior base-running, won by the score of 3-2. The probability is that this victory secures the L.I.I.S. championship to St. Paul's, as Brooklyn High is certainly the strongest school team in Brooklyn.

Martin, l.f.

Arrott, p. Kafer (Capt.), c. Cadwalader, 3d b., and p. Jones, s.s.

LAWRENCEVILLE BASEBALL TEAM.]

The Lawrenceville nine is slowly getting into trim for its important games. So far the team is not noteworthy in any special particular, although the general work is of a high order. The coaches have been trying new men at first and third bases, short-stop, and centre field; and yet with many of the old players back the team has been slow in getting into form. Cadwalader, who played third last year, is alternating with Arrott in pitching, and is doing fairly well. Arrott is stronger than he was last year. Kafer, the Captain and catcher, is a valuable man, and does the back-stop work satisfactorily, though his throwing to bases is not yet sure or reliable. Watson, a new man at first, is only fair. Jones, at short-stop, is a short, lively fellow, who develops slowly, but surely and steadily. When not pitching, Cadwalader fills third base well. In the out-field all the men are quite sure on the high flies, though not at all reliable on the running catches, and are slow in fielding in line drives.

As a whole the men may realize that success in a game is due to hard work and determination and everlasting perseverance, but they surely do not show it by their actions. They show little judgment in batting, being puzzled continually by the pitchers; and many of them simply wait, hoping to get a base on called balls. When on the bases the men have thus far not shown their ability to seize every opportunity offered to advance the bases. The coaches keep hammering away, however, and hope for good results against the Hill School and Andover later on.

Lawrenceville has had some valuable practice games with the Princeton consolidated team, which is the next to the 'Varsity, and beat them twice in four games. The school team also did better in the second game with the Princeton 'Varsity, 15-1, in nine innings; the first game resulting 16-1, in five innings. Princeton has a strong batting team this year. Eight of the fifteen runs in the second Lawrenceville game were made in the first inning, but after that the school team steadied down, and shut the 'Varsity men out for several innings.