Chapter I: Front Matter

Copyright, 1896, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.

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PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, MAY 26, 1896. FIVE CENTS A COPY.

VOL. XVII.--NO. 865. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.

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THE CRUISE OF A COMMERCE-DESTROYER.

BY YATES STIRLING, JUN.

The officer of the deck is pacing his last hour of a very dull forenoon watch upon the bridge of the U. S. S. _Minneapolis_. The tropical sun beats down with unflinching savageness upon his head; his eyes are restlessly scanning the horizon at every turn, but nothing has disturbed the monotony of its outline, as his sullen pacing bears witness. The sentries and men on lookout are at their stations, and are listlessly walking to and fro on the small patch of deck called their posts. Small knots of men are gathered together here and there on the spar-deck, under the shade of a boat or a gun-shield, spinning yarns or playing at sailor games. Some of the younger officers can be seen aft on the quarter-deck gazing fixedly over the wide expanse of ocean, as if they expected an enemy to rise up before them from the sea. Some of the more impulsive ones occasionally lift their voices in expostulation at the dull life they are leading, while others are seeing active service on fighting-ships. The great hull of the cruiser is slowly forging ahead in the quiet sea; her huge and powerful engines are barely turning over.

Like a picture in a kinetoscope, all this has changed. Every man on board has awakened from his lethargy. All hands are alert and gazing at the horizon to the eastward. What is the cause of this sudden awakening? Two words from the lookout in the foretop: "Sail ho!" Yes, broad on the port-bow can be seen a low line of black smoke that to any but a sailor's eye would appear to be a cloud on the distant horizon. Scarcely a quarter of an hour, and with all speed the cruiser is cutting the sea in the direction of the fast-approaching smoke.

Eager young officers have ascended into the tops to be the first to make out the character of the stranger. In the foretop are two midshipmen, still in their teens, class-mates at the Naval Academy, and stanch friends. Scarcely a thought has one the other does not share. With that reckless ambition that is one of the attributes of youth they are both longing for excitement. Their dreams of battle and glory have toppled like a castle of cards.

As yet the _Minneapolis_ has seen no fighting; she has been doing the work cut out for her without bloodshed. Merchantman after merchantman has been overhauled and captured or ransomed in the last six months, and the cruiser's name has become the terror of the enemy's merchant marine.

Once only, while coming out of a neutral port, she had to run the gauntlet of two of the enemy's cruisers, but with her superior speed two hours sufficed to put the enemy hull-down astern, with but slight damage to the commerce-destroyer. Her orders were, on the outbreak of the war "to capture or destroy the enemy's commerce wherever met; refuse battle," and this order had been faithfully carried out. All hands had grown rich in prize-money; fresh provisions were obtained in abundance.

Coal was the problem. It had been attempted to coal at sea from captured vessels, but this mode could not be relied upon to replenish the bunkers of a ship with such a tremendous expenditure. So a certain amount of risk had to be run in coaling in neutral ports.

The _Minneapolis_ and her two sister ships were the prizes coveted of all the enemy's cruisers. When the United States was building them other nations laughed at the idea, and put their dock-yards at work building ships of greater armament but less speed. But now they saw too late the awful advantage of these beautiful toys, as the foreign press were wont to call them, that could give or refuse battle at pleasure.

Ship after ship of the enemy's navy was in search of these "freebooters," but very few had even had the honor of coming within signal distance. One of these was the _Whistle_, a cruiser of a little heavier armament, but several knots less speed. The _Minneapolis_ was in the port of St. Thomas, coaling, when this warlike hull hove in sight. Very little time was lost in putting to sea, but not before two or three shots had been exchanged, and some very taunting signals had been displayed by the disappointed ship.

All the officers and men would gladly have accepted battle, with but small fear of the result, but each and every one knew what awful odds would be on the _Whistle_'s side. America had but a few handfuls of ships; if these were pitted against the navy of the enemy, they would be overwhelmed, annihilated. No; the quickest way to humble the foe is through her commerce. So the bitter pill had to be swallowed in silence. But the mere thought of the occurrence brought a hot flush to the cheek of every man aboard.

The stranger has drawn near, and is soon made out to be a merchantman, an ocean liner, one of the greyhounds that had plied between New York and Harborport before the outbreak of hostilities. Large volumes of black smoke from her immense smoke-pipes show she has scented danger, and is making all speed to escape.

The young officers in the foretop are thrilled with excitement as their glass shows them the character of the stranger. The younger is a boy of eighteen, his light hair and blue eyes betokening his Saxon ancestry. He is clad in a neat-fitting blue uniform, and his cap set jauntily on the back of his head revealed a mass of light curly locks. With his eyes fairly sparkling, he bears a striking contrast to his companion. Dark and sullen, with lowering eyes and heavy forehead, the other showed not by a single sign that he realizes that in a short time the first and long-cherished battle of his life will be enacted.

The younger lad has dreamed of battles both in his sleep and his waking moments, in which he has cut his way with his sword to honor and distinction. He has oftentimes pictured his friends, his mother, and his sweetheart reading of his heroic deeds in the daily papers of his home, and now it seems to his youthful mind his dreams are to be fulfilled.

As his glass scans the stranger he realizes that in the eyes of naval experts the stranger is nearly equal to the _Minneapolis_ in fighting qualities. He knows that these fast ships have been subsidized by the hostile government, and are heavily armed and protected. His dreams fairly dance before his eyes. But another picture flashes across his mental vision. He is on the battery-deck; the decks are wet and slippery with blood; the terribly mangled dead and wounded are lying all about him; he sees brave men struck down around. A cold shiver runs through his well-knit frame as he shakes from him the ghastly nightmare.

The other lad is not a dreamer. Morose, almost cynical, he never gives himself up to such reveries. To him everything appears in a less gilded light. He knows that if the stranger has not superior speed, his services and his companion's will soon be needed on the deck below.

The two lads scramble down through the hollow mast as the drummers are beating the long-roll to quarters. All during the hot sultry day the chase continues, and when night settles down on the watery waste the _Minneapolis_ is still out of gun-shot astern. The night is bright, and when morning dawns the blood-hound is still upon the trail. The crew of the 8-inch breech-loading rifle on the forecastle is called to quarters, and a shell is sent speeding over the water in the direction of the fleeing ship. Slowly the distance diminishes. Suddenly a white cloud of smoke bursts from the liner, and a heavy shell strikes close aboard the American ship.

All hands are soon at their stations, and in a short time all is in readiness for battle. The stars and stripes at her trucks flaunt a challenge to the enemy's ensign at the _Calabria_'s gaff.

The two ships are now within battle range, and the thunder of their heavy ordnance breaks the stillness of the ocean.

Shells go speeding through the unarmored sides of the ships, their explosions making terrific havoc among their unprotected crews. The picture before the midshipman's eyes is now a reality. Tirelessly the two lads work; their guns are next to each other. As they give their commands in sharp decisive voices, the contrast seems less striking. A shell comes in the gun-port and strikes down the captain of the younger lad's gun; the lock-string falls from his lifeless hand. Gently laying the dead man aside, he takes the lanyard.

As he stood at his gun before the heat of action, he was seized with an awful trembling, and he feared lest he might show by his actions the white feather to his men. Then came the bursting of shells and the explosion of discharges, and then the shell striking down his gun-captain, spluttering his life-blood all about him. At once his fears left him, his eyes brightened, and a terrible anger awoke in him, the like of which he had never known. He fired his gun at the enemy with a fierce exultancy, wondering in a cruel way how many lives the shell had cut down. It seems ages since the battle started. With his eyes always on the enemy, he is spared from seeing his friend, struck by a flying splinter, being carried below to the surgeons. He sees the _Calabria_, her sides ablaze with fire, sweep majestically across his small horizon, and then disappear. He is always aware of her awful presence from the never-ceasing bursting of her shells around him. Then again she appears, and is once more in his angle of fire. During this small space of time his gun has done all that could be expected; he has watched shell after shell from it explode aboard the enemy; he can see large rents in her black hull, and he notices her fire is becoming more desultory; the fight will soon be over. As she disappears again, he musters up courage to look about him. There is but little life on the battery-deck, that only a half-hour before was the scene of so much activity. The gun next his is not in action; a shell has completely shattered the breech-plug; nearly its entire crew are lying about on the deck, their dark life-blood staining the white planking. His companion's cap is lying near a dark mass on the deck. Is it his blood? His senses are so paralyzed that he feels his mind must give way. The enemy emerges into view; his hand is upon the lock-string; the elevator and trainer are attentively watching for their orders. They do not come. His thoughts are far away in the midst of a modest New England home. He sees a beautiful motherly woman, her face pale and anxious, and by her side is a young girl in the first blush of womanhood.

He is suddenly conscious of a young seaman standing before him, giving him a message. In a dazed way he relinquishes his lock-string to one of his gunners, and is making his way over the reeking deck toward the bridge. He hears a voice, as if in a dream, giving him orders to be ready to board the prize. Then the enemy has surrendered? His gaze seeks the other ship. But a short distance away he sees her shattered hull rolling in the smooth sea. A huge white flag flutters from her signal-halyards. The boats are ready and alongside. The men are embarking. He takes his place, and they shove off, and are soon scaling the side of the captured vessel. Her decks are almost deserted, scarcely a living man is about, but everywhere death and destruction reign. He hears a well-known voice close to him. Has the last hour been an awful nightmare, or has his mind been shaken at last? He cannot grasp the situation. There is his friend, looking paler than ever, his right arm in splints, and his head tied up in a huge bandage. His joy knows no bounds. With a fervent "Thank Heaven!" they embrace. There is no time now for explanations; it is enough to know that his companion is still alive. With orders from his Lieutenant, he is leading, pistol in hand, a gang of tars down into the _Calabria_'s bowels. The surprised firemen and stokers are quickly manacled, and ready Americans have taken their places. An engineer officer is giving rapid orders to his men; the huge engines start ahead, slowly at first, then the revolutions increase, till the shafts are revolving at a terrific speed. When he again reaches the deck everything is again calm and peaceful. On the port quarter, but a short distance away, he sees the _Minneapolis_. Both ships are going at full speed; and astern, just out of gun-shot, he sees the hulls of three more ships. He understands it all now. The _Calabria_ had nearly led them into a trap.

A red wigwag flag is waving on board the white cruiser: "Must reduce speed in order to reach port." Coal is running short. The horribly significant signal can hardly be realized. Will she fall a prey to the enemy's cruisers after such a glorious victory? Foot by foot the hostile ships draw nearer to the commerce-destroyer and her prize. In case they are overtaken, the _Calabria_ is to go on and reach Hampton Roads in safety. It is the only thing to do. Why sacrifice another ship unnecessarily? For two days and nights the pursuit continues. Cape Henry Light-house is sighted on the port bow. Just within gun-shot astern are the three heavily armed cruisers, using their bow chasers with great rapidity and precision on the fleeing ships. Large volumes of brown smoke pour from the American cruiser's smoke-pipes. She is making her last spurt for life. Bulkheads, furniture, and all combustible material have been fed to the mighty furnaces.

Slowly they draw away from their pursuers. The light-house is close on the port beam. The heavy guns there are directed against three dark hulls to the eastward. They are the baffled enemy.

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There is a story told of an Irishman who went out in the woods to shoot a bear. It was winter-time, and the Irishman wanted a fur coat very badly. When he finally sighted his bear he cried out, "Ah, there is my fur overcoat!" The bear was very hungry, and when he saw the hunter, he cried out, "Ah, there is my meal!" Well, the hunter fired his rifle and the bear jumped behind the tree. Now, the amusing part of the story is, that the hunter fired his rifle and didn't hit the bear; still he got the fur of the bear for an overcoat because the bear ate the hunter. Which of the two was the better satisfied is still in doubt.

PRACTICAL GOLF.

BY W. G. VAN TASSEL SUTPHEN.

(_In Five Papers._)

V.--STYLE AND FAULTS.

The question of style is a ghost that will not down. There are those who say that form is the all-important point, and that if you get the swing right all the rest will follow. And there are others who as stoutly affirm that the only thing to do is to thump away at the ball, and trust to nature and the laws of mechanics. Now it is certainly true that style by itself will never drive a ball, and it may be laid down as an axiom that whenever the mind is intent upon some point of how to strike rather than upon the actual business of hitting, a miss more or less palpable is sure to follow. But it is just as true that hands or feet or body may be in such a position that a fair stroke is utterly impossible, and this is surely not golf. Evidently truth lies between the two extremes.

There can be no question but that in all games the right way is easier and productive of better results than the wrong way, and golf cannot claim to be entirely independent of this general principle. Therefore it is wise to begin our practice on the general lines laid down by the wisdom of the ages, subject of course to the necessary modifications due to age, sex, or previous conditions of servitude to tennis, baseball, and other obsolete forms of amusement. Undoubtedly the most satisfactory method is instruction from a competent coach. The beginner may think that he is following faithfully the instructions given him in these papers, and yet be unconsciously going wrong in a dozen ways, imperceptible perhaps except to an expert eye. By all means seek the counsel and instruction of a professional golfer or expert amateur, if there be one within reach, for he can certainly save you many false steps.

But supposing that there is no way of obtaining this practical assistance, must we give up golf as unattainable and book knowledge as untrustworthy? Not at all. Study and digest the instructions and hints given in these papers as thoroughly as you can, and do your best to put them into practice. There is only one thing to guard against, and that is the tendency of exaggeration in any or all points. For instance, I tell you that the left wrist must be kept taut, and this is indeed necessary. But if you go to work with the idea that in a stiff wrist lies the secret of all golf, you are turning a caution into a fetich, and the result must be unsatisfactory. Even the italicized injunction at the end of each article, about the necessity of keeping the eye upon the ball, is not the whole of golf, and, important as it is, it must not absorb the whole of your attention. All these things work together for golf, and the moment that you exalt any one of them above the others you destroy both your mental and your physical balance, and the result is no game. Finally, let the forming of style be reserved for practice play. Once engaged in a tournament (and, by-the-way, you should enter as many regular competitions as possible), you must let your style take care of itself, and devote the whole of your attention and energy to hitting the ball clean. If you begin to think _how_ you are going to hit it, or how _far_ you will drive it, or anything about it except the simple duty of _hitting_ it, you will fail altogether. In practice let your aim be style; in a match let it be the hitting of the ball.

The detection and cure of specific faults are difficult tasks on paper, for very often different causes may produce what is apparently the same effect, and it is obvious that the particular remedy depends upon the specific disease.

For example, the ball has a great tendency to go off to the right of the line instead of straight. Now the reason may be that the player is putting a cut on the ball by drawing in his arms ("slicing" proper), or he may have the face of the club turned back (wrong grip), or he may be hitting off the heel of the club ("heeling") and at the same time putting a "slice" on the ball. Evidently the same corrective will not answer in every case. For "slicing" proper it will be well to attend to the precept of "slow back," so that the body muscles may be used, and the arms allowed to go freely out both in the up swing and in the "follow on." Perhaps the right foot is too far advanced, and a change in position (not distance) may encourage the loins and shoulders to get in the work. Try drawing the right foot back in proportion to the amount of "skid." Laying the face back is the result of a wrong grip. The left hand may be too far under, and the right hand may be holding too loosely. Look up the instructions for the proper grip. "Heeling," or hitting off the heel, is due to poor aim. Stand up and hit more carefully.

"Pulling" or "hooking," which sends the ball off to the left of the proper line, is not so common a fault. Generally it is the result of having the club face turned in, and this in turn comes of "pressing," or trying to strike too hard and without the proper swing. Give up the idea that you are hitting at a baseball, and guard against stooping forward.

When a ball is "topped" or hit above the centre it is nearly always due to carelessness, or overdue concentration on some point of style. If your swing is too straight up and down, and you are drawing in your arms across the line of fire, a "top" is pretty sure to follow. Let your arms go out so that the curve of your swing may be longer, or rather flatter, and try to look at the side of your ball, and not straight down upon it. If you are looking persistently at the top of your ball, and your "eye is in," the club head must perforce obey its instructions. It is not only the ball but the side of the ball that you want to hit. Another reason why players "top" is because they are afraid of the ground and of breaking their clubs. Now, as a matter of fact, an honest "sclaff" or scrape does no harm either to the club or to the flight of the ball, except perhaps when the ground is frozen, and the game cannot properly be played at all. Therefore get down to the ball always.

In the approach stroke "slicing" is the most troublesome fault to mend. It is a great help in the shorter shots to keep the right arm rubbing lightly against the body, for the sake of its support, and, indeed, without some such aid steadiness is impossible. And keep the left wrist taut.

When a player goes off in his putting, the case is pretty sure to be mental, _i.e._, lack of patience and concentration. And this is particularly true of the short holing-out puts of thirty inches or so. Still, the sin may be one of commission: the player is playing with a jerk, or he is looking at the hole instead of at the ball, or both of his arms are hanging clear of his body, and consequently deprived of its support, or, finally, his putter may be badly balanced. Once the cause is discovered, the remedy is easy of application.

The beginner will do well to study carefully the illustrations that have appeared in the preceding articles. The professional Willie Dunn, who appears in most of them, is not only a fine player himself, but his form is especially good, and a safe model upon which to pattern. The incorrect positions illustrate faults in stand and swing into which the beginner is particularly liable to fall, and a study of them may save him from many misconceptions.

It is to be noted that no distinction has been made in these articles between the girl's game and that of her brother's, and, indeed, none is necessary. The same instructions apply, and virtually the same results should follow. The girl may not be able to drive so far, but there is no reason why she should not hold her own in approaching and putting, and a sensible costume will obviously be of advantage.

Left-handed players must of course make the necessary correction in the instructions, but if possible they should try to play in the ordinary style. It is a curious fact that, unlike tennis, billiards, or baseball, first-class golf is seldom acquired by left-handers.

Finally, don't think the game too easy, and so play carelessly, and, on the other hand, don't get discouraged and give it up as too difficult. In the words of an old-time hero of the green, "It's dogged as does it."

CATCHING SHAD FOR MARKET.

BY J. PARMLY PARET.

Hooks and lines are about as useless in shad-fishing as nets would be if eels were wanted. Not one of those long rows of shad you see in the markets was caught with a hook. They were all foolish enough to swim straight into nets spread out to trap them, and they hadn't sense enough to swim out again. So when you see Mr. Shaddie served up before you for your breakfast, you may remember that it is because he has more bones than brains that you have a chance to eat him. Mr. Shaddie inherits two fatal features--his lack of brains and the breadth of his shoulders. One gets him tangled up in fish-nets, and the other prevents his getting out again. Were it not for this, shad would be as scarce in the market as terrapin.

Just as soon as the last ice has left the rivers the shad-fishermen begin to prepare for the fishing season. They must make the most of the few weeks while it lasts, so they never fail to have all their nets ready as soon as the shad begin to "run"--as they call it when the fish commence to swim up the rivers.

There are two ways of catching shad--by small nets set on poles, and with "seine" nets. Most of the fish we see in the markets are taken in the small nets, as the poles are always used in the rivers where the current runs too fast for the "seines." These poles are simply long saplings, like telegraph poles, with their lower ends sharpened so as to stick up in the muddy bottom. The fishermen pick out some part of the river where their nets are not likely to be torn and broken up by passing boats, and then drive down their poles in long rows.

These poles are generally "planted" in water forty or fifty feet deep, so it is not easy to drive them into the bottom so far under the water. Pontoon boats, built by joining two scows or row-boats together, are anchored at the place selected for the row, and the sharpened ends of the long saplings are pushed into the ground. A crossbar is fastened to one of the poles, high out of water, and the fishermen jump up and down on this until the sapling is driven down firmly into the mud. There are anywhere from twenty to forty of these poles in a row, and they are placed about thirty feet from each other.

At the first sign of the fish the nets are set out on these poles. These shad-nets are like enormous fly-traps, open at one end. The meshes are large enough to let the shad put their foolish heads in the nooses, but not big enough to let their shoulders through. The top and bottom of each net are fastened to two long ropes, and the ends of these ropes are tied to wooden rings like barrel hoops, slid over the poles, and sunk down under the surface of the water by weights. So the open end of each net is stretched between two poles, and the meshes belly out with the swift current like a big bag. All along the row these nets are fixed by the fishermen soon after the tide has turned, and then they go ashore to wait for the next tide.

Along comes Mr. Stupid Shaddie, swimming rapidly with the current. Suddenly he runs against the net, and before he knows what has happened his head is thrust through one of the openings in its meshes. Mr. Shaddie foolishly tries to push through the barrier, and soon finds his gills tangled up with the thin cords that hold him. He has not sense enough to turn around when he first finds himself in the net and swim out again the way he came in. The door is still open, but he hates to swim against the tide, so he goes on trying to push ahead until he is hopelessly caught in the net, and the more he struggles the tighter he is held. Mr. Shaddie's brothers, too, are equally stupid. They follow his silly example, and soon there are a number of them struggling in each net.

The fishermen in the mean time have waited patiently on shore. Just before the tide turns again they row out to their nets and haul them up. If they waited too long, Mr. Shaddie and his foolish friends would get out, for the turn of the tide would swing the net in the opposite direction and soon release the struggling fish. The long fishing-boat is manned by four men, and they row out to the nets. The boat is tied at each end to one of the poles, and the "haul" begins. Long notched sticks or boat-hooks are thrust down under the water beside the poles, and the net-ropes pulled up to the surface.

Slowly and cautiously the fishermen, two at each end, pull in the ropes that hold the net. They soon reach the mouth of the bag, and pulling this over the edge of the boat, they quickly haul up the rest of the meshes; for it is then too late for any of the fish to get away. As the net comes up to the surface, Mr. Shaddie and his companions seem too stupid or too much dazed to struggle. When they are jerked out of the water, however, and into the boat, they hop around excitedly for a few minutes, but it is then too late to escape. The fishermen throw their catch into the bottom of the boat, and cast the net back into the water. Then they push along to the next poles, and repeat the same work with the next net.

Down the long row they go, the boat's bottom gradually filling up with the big shad. Sometimes a net will have only one or two in it, while fifteen or twenty are occasionally caught in a single net when the season is at its height. A good haul will often yield three hundred shad, and the fishermen hurry ashore to pack them off to the markets. But shad are not the only fish they get in the nets. Catfish are often pulled up with shad, as well as many other varieties. Some of them are taken ashore and cooked, and others are thrown back into the water.

Then, too, there are the "blackfish," as the fishermen jokingly call the pieces of drift-wood that get tangled up in the meshes. Sometimes these are so heavy as to tear open the nets, and then the shad escape with the "blackfish." Careless captains of passing boats often tear them, too, and occasionally pull down the poles in steering through the fishermen's rows. Extra nets are always carried in the fishing-boats, and when a torn one is found it is taken ashore to be mended, and a whole net is put in its place.

The shad-fisherman's life is not an easy one. During the short season when his trade is profitable he works both night and day. He must live close by the water, and sleep only between the tides. When the boat first comes in after hauling the nets, the men must take out their fish and pack them for the market. Then there are the torn nets to be mended; and when all this is finished, and the meals are cooked and eaten, the fishermen may get a few hours' sleep, perhaps; but they never lie down without first setting an alarm-clock for an hour before the tide turns again. For, rain or shine, by night and by day, those nets must be hauled up at every turn of the tide, and the tide turns every six hours. "Time and tide wait for no man."

PARTS OF A FLOWER.

Whenever we study science we have some hard names to learn. One advantage that scientific people have over others is that they know how to apply precise names to things. A botanist, for example, does not speak of flower leaves. He says _sepals_ if he means the outside green leaves; _petals_, if the inside, colored. A complete flower has four distinct parts or organs.

In early spring the big trees and little plants awake out of a long nap and bestir themselves to grow. They have a good deal to do, and they set to work very industriously. Ants and bees are not busier than plants in spring. At first the awakened plant thinks only of forming fresh branches and lovely expanding green leaves. But after a time it seems to say to itself, "I must not forget to make seed, so that if I should die in the autumn my race may not die with me, but live on and on."

The plant may not be going to die in autumn. It may be a _perennial_, living year after year. But it always acts as if it might perish, and provides against contingencies. Plants which live one year only are called _annuals_.

In order to produce a flower, the branch stops growing in length. The end becomes a _receptacle_. First, upon the receptacle comes a circle of small green leaves, called a _calyx_; separately, _sepals_. Sometimes the calyx is not cut up into sepals, but makes a little round vase, notched or pointed, in which the rest of the flower is held. Inside the calyx, and just a bit higher up, appear the colored _petals_, the beautiful and fragrant parts of a flower. It is the _corolla_. Like the calyx, sometimes the corolla is a vase or cup, and it is a _monopetalous_ corolla.

If you want to speak of both calyx and corolla in one word, you may say _perianth_. _Floral envelopes_ mean the same thing. The purpose of these parts of a flower is, mainly, to cover and protect the seed while ripening. A second purpose, and probably the reason why they are so prettily colored and sweetly fragrant, is to attract insects. This we will talk about later. But we shall smell of a rose and admire it just as much, as if it were made for our special enjoyment. All the same, if the plant did not protect its seed, and invite insects to crawl into its tubes, I fear all flowers would be like the lizardtail to secure which I once nearly fell into the water. I had to cross an old rotten mill-dam, over and through which water was trickling, step on slippery stones, catch hold of a tree with one hand, and reach away down with the other. One foot got wet, but that was a trifle. I plucked my lizardtail, and have it now in my herbarium. It has no calyx and corolla, only the two organs essential to making seed, called _stamens_ and _pistils_.

Next to the petals, and slightly higher, the stamens stand like little soldiers with caps on, in a circle, or two or more circles. The stem is called _filament_, a word meaning thread-like. The cap is an _anther_, containing in one or two pockets a fine yellow or brown dust--the _pollen_. You may get pollen on your nose if you smell of a lily; for when the anther-pockets split open, the pollen lies around loose, and gets on anything that touches it. Bees collect it in pouches on their legs, and make bread of it for their winter use.

AN "OLD-FIELD" SCHOOL-GIRL.

BY MARION HARLAND.