Chapter III: On Tumble Ridge (2)

_Elise_. A letter lay upon the top of the basket, addressed to you. I have not opened it. Do hurry and read it.

_Ethel_ (_opens and reads_).

"MY DEAR ETHEL,--For some time I have had my eye upon you. I see
in you a brave little girl struggling under burdens too heavy to be
borne; your little sister is scarcely less brave and sweet in the
care she gives her sick mother. She wins my love also. Children,
will you come and live with me for a while? I will send your mother
to a private room in the hospital, where she shall have everything
to make her better. God grant she may recover! Meanwhile, and for
as long thereafter as you and mamma are willing, you shall stay
with me and be my little girls. When mamma is well, why, we have a
house big enough for her too. My coachman will place at your door,
during the night, your Thanksgiving dinner. I hope it will taste
good. I will call in the course of to-morrow afternoon, and learn
if you are coming to me. Remember, children, I need you. My heart
is a mother's although I am an old maid, supposed not to have any
heart. Will you come to

"Your loving friend,
"PHEBE WILSON.

"P.S.--I have spoken to madame, and Elise is not to return to her
work there. She may call the morning after Thanksgiving and receive
what wages are owing her."

_Elise_. How wonderful! It is all like a fairy story!

_Ethel_. It is a fairy story. I did not know who was going to take us, though. Elgin did not mention her name. But I wonder I did not think of Miss Wilson. She is rich and lonely, and has a warm heart. Those were Elgin's conditions, and he found her.

_Elise_. Elgin?

_Ethel_. That's the dream again. Come, Elise, let us see if our dear mother is awake. I am nearly bursting with this good news. And I must tell you my dream. For, you see, the letter and the basket just agree with the dream. And after I have told my dream, and we have read the letter, and seen our Thanksgiving dinner, why, if you and mamma don't believe in fairies, you're funny people, that is all. (_Kisses her hand to the air._) I believe in you two dear fairies, at all events.

EXEUNT.

ABSALOM.

BY R. K. MUNKITTRICK.

It was a few days before Thanksgiving, and Herbert was out in the woods with his father shooting. It was lovely autumn weather, and the dreamy Indian-summer smiled upon the few yellow leaves that still fluttered on the woodland boughs. Herbert was the first to break the silence:

"Papa, I hope you are not going to kill dear old Absalom for Thanksgiving. Let's try to shoot a wild gobbler, instead."

"But there are no wild gobblers around here, my boy," replied the father.

Herbert thought of the solitary turkey in their barn-yard, and it made him very sad to think that that poor bird should be beheaded for the Thanksgiving feast. And this was because the early summer rains had killed Absalom's little brothers and sisters, and left him to make his way on the farm as best he could. Herbert well remembered the morning when he brought Absalom, limp and almost dead, from the coop, and wrapt him in flannel, and put him under the kitchen stove to dry. And he reflected upon the pleasure he had experienced in bringing the little fellow up until they became companions. Many a time the gobbler had jumped upon his knee and made himself as much at home as he possibly could have done upon the bough of a tree. Herbert had fed him with scraps of meat and bread, until Absalom followed him about and seemed to feel that they were brothers. Herbert, like Absalom, had neither a brother nor a sister, and this may have been one reason that they were inseparable friends. Now when Herbert thought of Absalom in the light of a feast, it was like a little Chinese boy thinking of his pet poodle being made into pies and patties.

"You are not really going to eat Absalom on Thanksgiving, are you, papa?" asked Herbert, sadly.

"He's a fine fat gobbler," replied the father, evading a direct answer--"he's a fine fat gobbler, Herbert, and you know what the gobbler's mission is."

Herbert knew very well from his father's remarks that Absalom would be killed that very night, to be eaten upon the morrow, and he was very sad as they trudged homeward. But when he did arrive at his home he determined to do his best to save the old gobbler's life. Going down to the barn-yard, he was met by the bird, which, not being suspicious of his impending doom, ran gayly to meet his little friend.

"Oh, Absalom," he said, "they would eat you to-morrow!"

"Eat me to-morrow?" mused Absalom, wearily, for up to this time he had imagined that he was simply ornamental, like a peacock. "I don't quite understand you. Pray explain."

Then Herbert told him about Thanksgiving day and its sacred traditions, and the poor bird was so badly upset that he couldn't conceal his emotion. He hurriedly wiped a tear from his eye with his left wattle, and thrust his head beneath his wing to conceal the fact that he was weeping. Herbert took him gently in his arms, and said, as he laid his cheek against his head,

"Well, they sha'n't kill you if I can help it."

And then he stole softly into the house, and, without being seen, carried Absalom up to the garret, and perched him gently on a rafter in a dark corner. He then put a little red shawl over him to protect him against the draughts, and fastened it just over his wish-bone with a safety-pin.

"Now you must keep perfectly still until to-morrow is over."

"I will do so," promised Absalom.

"Promise me that you will not forget yourself and go 'gobble, gobble, gobble,' for if you should do so you would certainly be discovered, only to become a memory and a dinner."

"I won't gobble once," replied Absalom; "I fully appreciate the importance of keeping still."

Then Herbert gave him an ear or two of pop-corn that was hanging in the garret to dry, and afterwards went down stairs and brought him some tea-biscuits and cracked English walnuts.

"You shall be the first gobbler on record to celebrate Thanksgiving by having a feast instead of making one. Here is some nice celery, and here is a handful of minced meat, and you shall have all you can eat to-morrow."

"I shall never forget your kindness," said the gobbler, with feeling. "This is twice you have saved my life--once from being drowned in the rain, and once from being eaten with cranberry sauce. Believe me, I shall never forget your kindness."

Just then they were startled by the voice of Herbert's father downstairs.

"Michael," said he, "just go down to the barn-yard and chop the head off that gobbler!"

It was an awful moment for Absalom, who almost shivered himself off his perch.

After awhile Michael returned, long-faced and empty-handed.

"I cannot find the gobbler, and I think the old Uncle Ned who works here by the day has stolen him for his Thanksgiving dinner."

Herbert's father was so indignant at the disappointment occasioned by the reported loss of the gobbler that, without the slightest consideration for the old darky, who was working in the celery ditch, he shouted,

"See here, Uncle Ned, why did you steal our last turkey?"

"I didn't steal him, sah!" replied Uncle Ned, with a crestfallen air.

"Then get right off the place, and don't let me see you around here again," shouted the proprietor, with great indignation.

Uncle Ned dropped his spade and went sullenly away, while Absalom smiled through his tears on the old dusty rafter in the dark corner of the garret.

"Now what are we going to have for Thanksgiving dinner?" inquired the head of the house. "It's three miles to the village, the butcher's will be closed in an hour, and we can't even get a steak!"

"Say, papa," suggested Herbert, "let's have nothing only dessert. What do you say? Nothing but plum pudding; that'll make a fine old dinner."

Although the adults of the family frowned on such a suggestion, the family had to make out a dinner on plum pudding or go hungry. Herbert had never eaten so fine a dinner before; and when it was over he slipped up to the garret with a plateful for Absalom.

"What in the world is this, Herbert?" asked the bird, as he smacked his bill.

"It's plum pudding with hard sauce for your Thanksgiving dinner."

"Well, it's mighty fine, and I think it must be called hard sauce, because it's hard to find anything else quite so good."

So he ate away until he fell asleep. In the bright rosy morning he returned to the barn-yard, greatly relieved and in buoyant spirits.

"Take Uncle Ned right back to work at once," said Herbert's father at about noon to Michael.

"What, after stealing the gobbler?" asked Michael.

"He didn't do it," responded Herbert's father, meekly; "he didn't do it. I just met the gobbler, and I admit that while I am not oversuperstitious, the mysterious disappearance of that bird when he was ripe and due for the axe, and his sudden return when the danger had passed, fills me with dire foreboding, and makes me think he'll bring me good luck if I only treat him right. So I am not going to kill him even for Christmas, but intend to feed him on the fat of the farm, and let him die of old age. When I saw him a little while ago he actually winked at me and grinned, and that was too much for my suspicious temperament."

So Uncle Ned was at once restored to his former position, and Absalom thrived and lived to a grand old age, the faithful companion of his devoted little friend and preserver.

THE REAL DOLL.

BY H. G. PAINE.

On little Frances's birthday
She had dolls of every size:
Baby dolls and lady dolls,
And dolls in mannish guise.

She had china dolls and rubber dolls,
Wax, worsted, wood, and some
That squeaked when Frances squeezed them hard,
And others that were dumb.

She had a little sailor doll,
A boy doll dressed in blue,
A doll that rode a bicycle,
A colored dolly, too.

But one and all she passed them by,
And cried with glad surprise:
"Oh, look, I've got a _real_ doll!"
'Twas the doll that shuts its eyes.

STRADDLED ON A MAD MOOSE.

BY HUBERT EARL.

We sat around the big open brick fireplace in the main cabin of the camp, watching the birch logs as the flames greedily licked them and threw forth a strong ruddy light upon our faces. What with the guides and a few old veterans we made quite a party. Hunting stories had been the topic of the evening's conversation, and I, who had seldom hunted (this being, in fact, my first trip into the region), had listened to these stories very much interested. The camp was situated on an island in one of the numerous lakes found along the borders of northern Maine. It consisted of a few log cabins, with a large one in the centre, where we were at the moment congregated. The night air was very cold, and Billy, our host, had predicted a frost before morning. Billy was practically born in the woods, and knew every sign that could be learned. It was a pleasure to watch his quiet face as he pulled away on a big black cigar, gazing the while reflectively at the blazing logs. While I watched him my eyes drifted now and then around the walls of the cabin. Stacked in the corners were rifles and shot-guns of all descriptions, and strung along the log sides, upon wooden pins, rested fly-rods innumerable, their polished reels catching and reflecting the flicker of the fire.

Off in the shadowy corner a rude stairway, with moose-legs for rails, went climbing up into the loft overhead, and in the deepest part of the shadow I made out the head of a magnificent bull moose with immense spreading antlers. As I looked at it, it seemed to appear exceedingly savage, and the glass eyes had been so skilfully placed that in the flickering light they stared in the most baleful manner. Involuntarily I drew my chair closer to Billy's, and patiently watched his cigar dwindle down, ever and anon glancing at the ferocious-looking head behind me.

In a short time the conversation lulled, and I ventured to ask Billy to tell the story connected with the shooting of the moose behind us. "It is sure to be interesting," I said, "for he looks as if he died fighting hard."

Billy glanced at me in a protesting sort of way, but the chorus of requests for the story was too much for him.

"Well, boys," he said, "just give me a moment till I load my pipe, and I'll tell it to you; and you can judge for yourselves whether it is interesting or not.

"It was ten years ago coming winter when I had a camp near the mouth of the river below here. Some of you saw what's left of it when you came over the Parmachene trail yesterday. I was all alone that fall, except for an occasional hunter or so going up the trail, and for some reason deer was scarce. Well, I was hugging the fire one cold evening early in November, when I heard a loud crash outside the camp. Now that meant one of two things: either a windfall had taken place, or some large game was floundering through the bog near at hand. Seizing my rifle, I slipped out of the cabin.

"I looked in the direction from which the crash had come, but I could see nothing. Softly launching my canoe, I placed the rifle in the bottom of it, to be handy, you know, and started to paddle up the stream a little way. I had probably gone about fifty feet when a branch snapped, and then came a tremendous crash. The sound was close at hand, and I gave a quick look in the direction whence it came. The night was too black to see much, but I made out the huge stump of a tree that I had often thrashed for trout from. Immediately back of this stump lay a tangle of dead trees. I had stopped paddling, and the current of the stream was slowly drifting the canoe towards it, and, with my rifle ready, I waited for a sight of the game. Judging from the noise of the last crash, I knew it must be near the stump.

"Most of you boys can appreciate what my feelings were at the moment, for I felt pretty sure of big game and a good stock of meat. It took but a few seconds to drift around to the lee of that stump, and I quickly brought up with a thump against some of the dead wood in the bog. What I saw gave me a start, for there in the deep shadow stood the largest bull moose it has ever been my fortune to run across.

"Well, I'm an old hunter, guide, or whatever you want to call me, and have tracked deer from boyhood, also bear, moose, and caribou; but, boys, when I saw that magnificent bull glaring at me I grew feverish with excitement, and for a few minutes I simply stared back at him. I guess we were not more than twenty feet apart, and as far as I could tell through the steam rising from him, he was caught in the bog some way, and was fighting mad.

"I had been at close quarters with moose before, but never saw such dangerous-looking eyes. Raising my gun, I aimed as well as I could just back of his fore-shoulder. I felt shaky, though, and the sights went bobbing up and down like a cork float. I tried hard to get her steady, and when I had her fairly so I fired.

"There was a most unearthly, savage cry, and the dark body with those fearful eyes and antlers launched itself forward at me. I had hit him, but, as I afterward discovered, the bullet had cut along through the skin behind the fore-legs, and the pain forced the supreme effort by which he freed himself from the bog. He was rapidly coming for me when I let fly at him again. By this time my blood was up, mad with disgust at having missed killing him at such close range. I hit him the second time, and hit him hard, but on he came as though nothing could stop him, and I had just time enough to plant another bit of lead in him when he threw himself half out of the water and planted his forehoofs clean through the canoe. I knew I could never get away from him, as his savage eyes were watching me, so when I saw what his game was, I made a leap for his back as his hoofs went crashing through the canoe. As I landed on him I caught his antlers with one hand, drawing my knife with the other. Well, boys, I actually laughed at my queer position, and I dare say that moose was more than surprised. For a moment he couldn't realize where I had gone to and what was on his back. That moment of hesitation probably saved my life, for I reached over and drove the knife into him as near the heart as I could judge.

"There were a few seconds of trouble, during which I hung on to his antlers, until finally, with a big toss of his head, he threw me out into the stream. I had lost my knife in the struggle, and knew if he was not done for it was all up with me. So I swam away as rapidly as I could, expecting every minute to hear him after me. But his last effort had settled him, and, with a cry of satisfaction, I looked around, to find him again caught in the bog. He was dead at last, and with a rope I hitched him to the stump. The next morning I hauled him up to the camp, and, after some trouble, secured the canoe and rifle. He gave me the gamiest fight of my life, and that is the reason his head--the finest specimen you've probably seen--stands in the camp to-day."

This Department is conducted in the interest of Amateur
Photographers, and the Editor will be pleased to answer any
question on the subject so far as possible. Correspondents should
address Editor Camera Club Department.

PAPERS FOR BEGINNERS, No. 15.

BROMIDE PRINTS.

Bromide paper differs from the printing-out papers both in manner of using and in the finished picture. Bromide paper is a paper coated with silver bromide and gelatine in emulsion, and is first printed and then developed in the same way as a negative. The prints when finished are a brilliant black and white.

This paper may be prepared by the amateur, but the ready-prepared papers are so reliable and so inexpensive, that it is really cheaper to buy the paper already sensitized. One great advantage of bromide paper over printing-out paper is that in using it one is entirely independent of day or sunlight. Strong "plucky" negatives are the best for bromide printing, but very good prints may be made with weak negatives by carefully timing the printing.

All the process of working bromide paper, except that of the printing, must be conducted by a red or yellow light. Open the package of paper in the dark-room, and the negative being already in the printing-frame, adjust a sheet of paper over the negative. The face of bromide paper may always be distinguished by its _curling in_. Cover the frame with a dark cloth, open the door of the lantern, and get your timepiece ready, for one must always print by exact seconds; never guess at the time. Uncover the frame and hold the negative about fifteen inches from the flame of the lamp, and if the negative is an ordinary printing one, expose to the light for ten seconds. Cover the frame immediately, close the door of the lantern, take the print from the frame, and if you wish to develop it at once soak the paper in clear water till it is limp enough to lie flat. Place it in the developing-tray face up, and flood it with developer. One may use almost any kind of developer with bromide paper. Eikonogen and hydrochinon are good developers, and do not stain the hands; but ferrous oxalate is the developer most used.

The image on the paper should develop rather slowly, and come up clear and brilliant. Develop till the detail is well out and the shadows deep enough. Pour off all the developer, leaving the print in the tray, and cover it with a solution composed of 1 dr. acetic acid, and 32 oz. of water. Allow this to act one minute; turn off, and repeat the operation twice more. Wash the print thoroughly, and place in a fixing bath of hypo, 3 oz.; water, 16 oz. After fixing, wash for an hour in running water, and hang up to dry. If prints are washed in running water they should be taken from the bowl two or three times during the washing, and the bowl filled with clean water. If running water is not used wash in ten changes of water, allowing the prints to remain ten minutes in each change of water.

In bromide prints one must be very careful to have all dishes used in the operation strictly clean. Greenish tones in the prints are caused by over-exposure and too much bromide in the developing solution. Yellow prints are caused by under-exposure, and too long development. In developing rock the tray in all directions. If it is rocked in one direction only, the prints will be streaked. Do not let water run directly on the prints, as it will cause blisters.

Bromide prints are always satisfactory, require no burnishing, do not fade, and when well printed and developed resemble engravings. They can be used for book illustrations, and will not curl or exhibit any of the disagreeable traits of the aristo prints.

Will SIR KNIGHT HARRY HAMNER, of Philadelphia, please send his
street and number? The Editor wishes to write to him in regard to a
branch Camera Club in Philadelphia--which it is hoped he will
organize.

THE IMP OF THE TELEPHONE.

BY JOHN KENDRICK BANGS.

III.--ELECTRIC COOKING.

"Hurrah!" cried Jimmieboy, in ecstasy. "This is great, isn't it?"

"Pretty great," assented the Imp, proudly. "That is, unless you mean large. If you mean it that way it isn't great at all; but if you mean great like me, who, though very, very small, am simply tremendous as a success, I agree with you. I like it here very much. The room is extremely comfortable, and I do everything by electricity--cooking, reading, writing--everything."

"I don't see how," said Jimmieboy.

"Oh, it's simply a matter of buttons and batteries. The battery makes the electricity, I press the buttons, and there you are. You know what a battery is, don't you?"

"Not exactly," said Jimmieboy. "You might explain it to me."

"Yes, I might if I hadn't a better way," replied the Imp. "I won't explain it to you, because I can have it explained to you in another way entirely, though I won't promise that either of us will understand the explanation. Let's see," he added, rising from his chair and inspecting a huge button-board that hung from the wall at the left of the room. "Where's the Dictionary button? Ah, here--"

"The what?" queried the visitor, his face alive with wonderment.

"The Dictionary button. I press the Dictionary button, and the Dictionary tells me whatever I want to know. Just listen to this."

The Imp pressed a button as he spoke, and Jimmieboy listened. In an instant there was a loud buzzing sound, and then an invisible something began to speak, or rather, to sing:

"She's my Annie,
I'm her Joe.
Little Annie Rooney--"

"Dear me!" cried the Imp, his face flushing to a deep crimson. "Dear me, I got the wrong button. That's my Music-room button. It's right next the Dictionary button, and my finger must have slipped. I'll just turn 'Annie Rooney' off and try again. Now listen."

Again the Imp touched a button, and Jimmieboy once more heard the buzzing sound, followed by a squeaking voice, which said:

"Battery is a noun--plural, batteries. In baseball the pitcher and catcher is the battery; in electricity a battery is a number of Leyden jars, usually arranged with their inner coatings connected, and their outer coatings also connected, so that they may be all charged and discharged at the same time."

"Understand that, Jimmieboy?" queried the Imp, with a smile, turning the Dictionary button off.

"No, I don't," said Jimmieboy. "But I suppose it is all right."

"Perhaps you'd like an explanation of the explanation?" suggested the Imp.

"If it's one I can understand, I would," returned Jimmieboy. "But I don't see the use of explanations that don't explain."

"They aren't much good," observed the Imp, touching another button. "This will make it clear, I think."

"The Dictionary doesn't say it," said another squeaking voice, in response to the touch of the Imp on the third button; "but a battery is a thing that looks like a row of jars full of preserves, but isn't, and when properly cared for and not allowed to freeze up, it makes electricity, which is a sort of red-hot invisible fluid that pricks your hands when you touch it, and makes them feel as if they were asleep if you keep hold of it for any length of time, and which carries messages over wires, makes horse-cars go without horses, lights a room better than gas, and is so like lightning that no man who has tried both can tell the difference between them."

Here the squeaking voice turned into a buzz again, and then stopped altogether.

"Now do you understand?" asked the Imp, anxiously.

"I think I do," replied Jimmieboy. "A battery is nothing but a lot of big glass jars in which 'lectricity is made, just as pie is made in a tin plate and custard is made in cups."

"Exactly," said the Imp. "But, of course, electricity is a great deal more useful than pie or custard. The best custard in the world wouldn't move a horse-car, and I don't believe anybody ever saw a pie that could light up a room the way this is. It's a pretty wonderful thing, electricity is, but not particularly good eating, and sometimes I don't think it's as good for cooking as the good old-fashioned fire. I've had pie that was too hot, and I've had pie that was too electric, and between the two I think the too-hot pie was the pleasanter, though really nothing can make pie positively unpleasant."

"So I have heard," said Jimmieboy, with an approving nod. "I haven't had any sperience with pie, you know. That and red pepper are two things I am not allowed to eat at dinner."

"You wouldn't like to taste some of my electric custard, would you?" asked the Imp, his sympathies aroused by Jimmieboy's statement that as yet he and pie were strangers.

"Indeed I would!" cried Jimmieboy, with a gleeful smile. "I'd like it more than anything else!"

"Very well," said the Imp, turning to the button-board, and scratching his head as if perplexed for a moment. "Let's see," he added. "What is custard made of?"

"Custard?" said Jimmieboy, who thought there never could be any question on that point. "It's made of custard. I know, because I eat it all up when I get it, and there's nothing but custard in it from beginning to end."

The Imp smiled. He knew better than that. "You are right partially," he said. "But there aren't custard-mines or custard-trees or custard-wells in the world, so it has to be made of something. I guess I'll ask my cookery-book."

Here he touched a pink button in the left-hand upper corner of the board.

"Milk--sugar--and--egg," came the squeaking voice. "Three-quarters of a pint of milk, two table-spoonfuls of sugar, and one whole egg."

"Don't you flavor it with anything?" asked the Imp, pressing the button a second time.

"If you want to," squeaked the voice. "Vanilla, strawberry, huckleberry, sarsaparilla, or anything else, just as you want it."

Jimmieboy's mouth watered. A strawberry custard! "Dear me!" he thought. "Wouldn't that be just the dish of dishes to live on all one's days!"

"Two teaspoonfuls of whatever flavor you want will be enough for one cup of custard," said the squeaky voice, lapsing back immediately thereafter into the curious buzz.

"Thanks," said the Imp, returning to the table and putting down the receipt on a piece paper.

"You're welcome," said the buzz.

"Now, Jimmieboy, we'll have two cup custards in two minutes," said the Imp. "What flavor will you have?"

"Strawberry cream, please," said Jimmieboy, as if he were ordering soda-water.

"All right. I guess I'll take sarsaparilla," said the Imp, walking to the board again. "Now see me get the eggs."

He pressed a blue button this time. The squeaky voice began to cackle, and in a second two beautiful white eggs appeared on the table. In the same manner the milk, flavoring, and sugar were obtained; only when the Imp signalled for the milk the invisible voice mooed so like a cow that Jimmieboy looked anxiously about him, half expecting to see a soft-eyed Jersey enter the room.

"Now," said the Imp, opening the eggs into a bowl, and pouring the milk and flavoring and sugar in with them, and mixing them all up together, "we'll pour this into that funnel over there, turn on the electricity, and get our custard in a jiffy. Just watch that small hole at the end of the funnel, and you'll see the custard come out."

"Are the cups inside? Or do we have to catch the custards in 'em as they come out?" asked Jimmieboy.

"Oh, my!" cried the Imp. "I'm glad you spoke of that. I had forgotten the cups. We've got to put them in with the other things."

The Imp rushed to the button-board, and soon had two handsome little cups in response to his summons; and then casting them into the funnel he turned on the electric current, and Jimmieboy watched carefully for the resulting custards. In two minutes by the clock they appeared below, both at the same time, one a creamy strawberry in hue, and the other brown.

"It's wonderful!" said Jimmieboy, in breathless astonishment. "I wish I had a stove like that in my room."

"It wouldn't be good for you. You'd be using it all day and eating what you got. But how is the custard?"

"Lovely," said Jimmieboy, smacking his lips as he ate the soft creamy sweet. "I could eat a thousand of them."

"I rather doubt it," said the Imp. "But you needn't try to prove it. I don't want to wear out the stove on custard when it has my dinner still to prepare. What do you say to listening to my library a little while? I've got a splendid library in the next room. It has everything in it that has ever been written, and a great many things that haven't. That's a great thing about this electric-button business. Nothing is impossible for it to do, and if you want to hear a story some man is going to tell next year or next century you can get it just as well as you can something that was written last year or last century. Come along."

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

By defeating St. Paul's at Garden City a week ago Saturday, Pratt Institute won the Long Island interscholastic football championship for 1895. If the players and the students of the Institute are satisfied with the methods by which this victory was obtained they should be welcome to the empty honor. The Pratt eleven is a good one, and might very probably have won the game by fair and square football; but to send one of their players to Garden City as the guest of that school a number of times during the early fall, and to allow him to make note of the signals and the plays in use by his hosts, and then to play against St. Paul's, armed with this ill-gotten knowledge, is an act beneath contempt, and one for which any sportsman must turn away in disgust. The man who did this can offer no excuse for his sneaking and dishonorable conduct. When caught in the act of taking the St. Paul's signals he was driven like a malefactor from the field, but he returned brazenly with his companions, and put his ill-gotten knowledge to disgraceful use in a contest with gentlemen. The guilt of all the Pratt Institute football players is second only to that of their informant, for by using the information he obtained by such dishonorable means they showed approbation of his course, and placed themselves upon a level with him who violated the confidence of a host.

The St. Paul's team this year is a very good one. The men have not had the advantage of as many games as the other teams of the Long Island League, but there is a strong school spirit at Garden City and an excellent system of training, both of which tend to the development of good athletes. I have seen several of the league teams play this fall, and have carefully noted the game put up by each eleven. St. Paul's plays a harder, faster, and more scientific game than any other team on Long Island. Their play is more like that of a college Freshman team. This is well illustrated by the way they line up, the quick work of the quarter in giving signals, and the knack which all the men have of getting into every play. The offensive play is much stronger and better than the defensive, the latter being rather weak. I noticed little fumbling by the St. Paul's players, and that is the hardest of any fault to overcome.

In the game with Pratt Institute, the play on both sides was sharp and snappy throughout, in spite of the fact that the Garden City team was badly crippled. Glenny, the right guard, broke a rib while skylarking just before the game, and played against the advice of his physician. E. Starr was also laid up with an injury to his knee, and could not play. The line was therefore considerably weakened, and the team did not put up the game it is capable of. Only eight points were scored in the first half--one touch-down and goal, and a safety. During the first three minutes of play in the second half, St. Paul's carried the ball to Pratt's five-yard line, but lost it on a fumble. This seemed to dishearten the team, and after that Pratt forced the centre for long and steady gains. The halves were of twenty-five and thirty minutes' duration, and the final score was 26-0. St. Paul's took their defeat manfully, and do not intend, as has been reported, to enter any protest against the Pratt team. There is another and a better course for them to pursue.

An agreement has been made between St. Paul's and the Berkeley School, covering a period of three years, to play an annual game of football on Thanksgiving day, the first contest of the series to take place (at Manhattan Field, if possible) a week from Thursday, in the morning. This is a good thing, for it will bring together representative schools from the sister cities, and the great game cannot fail to be benefited thereby. Such annual contests between large schools, if properly conducted, should soon attract almost as much of the public interest as inter-collegiate contests, for there are more school-boys in New York and Brooklyn than there are college men, and if not as many persons interested in the sports of the former as in those of the latter, they are at least of a better and less promiscuous class. The schools should aim to have these tournaments as free as possible from the quarrels and bickerings that have lately characterized inter-collegiate football, and that frequently crop up in interscholastic sport; but between two institutions of the standing and make-up of Berkeley and St. Paul's there should be small likelihood of any such unpleasant occurrences. One good feature of the meetings that I have already heard of is that the admission fee will be twenty-five cents. The debarring thus of the speculative evil on the part of the managers is a good omen.

The Berkeley School team that is to meet St. Paul's is undoubtedly the strongest that the school has ever put into the field. It is made up of excellent material, and has been coached by a man thoroughly familiar with the game. By defeating De La Salle at the Berkeley Oval a week ago the team won first honors in the second section of the New York League, and it will undoubtedly take the championship on the 29th. Immediately after the Pratt-St. Paul's game Berkeley challenged Pratt Institute to play a match at any time, but the Pratt Captain hesitated about accepting, and the matter is still unsettled. As there is no agreement for an inter-city game this year, it is to be hoped that the Pratt management will have sufficient sporting spirit to accept the challenge.

Lawrenceville and the Hill School of Pottstown will meet on the gridiron next Saturday, and the contest should be a close one, for up to date of writing the Pennsylvania School has met no defeat this season. Their chief victory was over the Princeton second eleven, and their hardest game against U. of P. '98, in which neither side scored. The team is a light one--very much lighter than Lawrenceville's--but it has had good training, although it has suffered from a lack of frequent games with other elevens. This last disadvantage will tell in the contest with Lawrenceville, and, although I expect to see the Jersey men win, they will by no means have a walk-over.

Mills, r.g. Paxton, r.t. Dean, l.g. Dallam, sub.

Monypeny, f.-b. Rodgers, l.e.

Fincke, q.-b. Chadick, c.

THE HILL SCHOOL FOOTBALL TEAM.]

The Hill School eleven is particularly strong behind the line, where Kiefer, Schuyler, and Monypeny make a trio of backs of which any preparatory school might well be proud. Kiefer, Captain, who plays left half-back, has played several years on the team. He is the fastest runner in the school, and a remarkably clever dodger. His punting has improved noticeably this year, and he tackles hard and low. Schuyler, the right half-back, was also a member of last year's eleven. He is a brilliant though unsteady player, running low and hard. When he hits the line he rarely fails to make his distance. Owing to his tendency to fumble he is not so reliable as the other backs. Monypeny, who fills the position of full-back, has proved a great surprise. Last year he played on the second eleven, but was never regarded as anything above an ordinary player. Since the present season opened he has shown steady improvement, until at present he is regarded as one of the best all-around men on the eleven. He is a strong line backer, and for hard and sure tackling is not surpassed by any man on the team. Fincke, at quarter, is another old man. He is cool and clear-headed, his strongest point being his ability to get into the interference quickly. His tackling has improved greatly over that of last year. In the line, Chadick, at centre, is new to the position. Compared with the average centre he is small and light, but what he lacks in these respects is more than offset by his strength and grit.

The guards are being played by Dean and Mills. Dean played on the second eleven last year, and has improved steadily through the season. Mills is a new man, but has the making of a good football player in him. Carelessness seems to be his main fault. Lowndes and Paxton, the tackles, are also old men, though the former has played one of the guards before this year. As an all-round football player Lowndes undoubtedly excels any other man who ever represented the Hill. He is not as heavy as could be desired, but he more than makes up for this lack by his great strength and activity. In every play his tackling is fierce, and as a ground-gainer he can always be relied on. His early football experience was obtained at St. Paul's. Paxton, the right tackle, still shows the effects of a severe illness, which necessitated his leaving school last year. His work, though, has shown steady improvement of late, and in the interference he is especially strong. The ends are looked after by Davis and Rodgers, both members of last year's second eleven. Davis has developed into one of the best ends the school has ever had, while Rodgers, who plays a sandy game, is somewhat handicapped by his light weight.

Owing to the Hill School's somewhat isolated location--isolated in the sense of neighborhood to other large private schools--it has no close rival, such as Andover used to have in Exeter and now has in Lawrenceville, and such as the Berkeley School in this city and St. Paul's of Garden City are gradually becoming. At present Lawrenceville comes the nearest to occupying this position, but the Jersey school is so much larger in point of numbers that it out-classes the Hill in most contests. Considering this superiority of Lawrenceville's, therefore any victory over her by the Hill School must be doubly creditable.

The difficulty between the Brooklyn Latin and High-Schools has been referred to a committee for settlement, although it seems as if the Association ought to have decided upon the question at once at their last session. The dispute originated in the recent football contest between the two schools. When the game was about half over, Captain Lutkins of the Latin School team protested to the officials that the High-School team were playing their ends back of the line, which he said was a violation of Rule 30, Section C. The officials held different opinions as to the interpretation of the rule, and the game was allowed to go on as before. At the League meeting the representatives from the Latin School protested the game for this reason, but the protest was not decided, and a special committee was appointed to pass on the question. The umpire, in a letter to the League, said that an agreement was entered into, previous to the game, by which it was understood that both teams could play both ends back of the line. The referee in his letter has denied that any agreement was entered into before the game relative to this point. To complicate matters further, it appears that the umpire had been coaching the High-School, and the referee was an ex-member of the Latin School. (The moral-seeker will find food for meditation in this situation!)

The absurdity of the argument that both teams had agreed to allow the ends to play back of the line is apparent. The teams were playing under the rules of the L.I.I.S.F.B.A., and these rules clearly state that in football contests the Intercollegiate code is to be followed. This code is equally clear in its statement that "Not more than three men shall group themselves at a point behind the line of scrimmage before the ball is in play. Seven men or more shall be on the line of scrimmage until the ball is in play, except that the man playing the position of either end rusher may drop back, provided he does not pass inside the position occupied by the man playing adjacent tackle before the ball is put in play." A delegate from Poly. Prep. quoted this paragraph at the League meeting, and very justly objected that the captains had no right to make any agreement, even if they had done so, because such an agreement obviously violated the rules.

The League delegates, however, in their ponderous wisdom did not take this view of the question, and threw the responsibility from their shoulders by appointing a committee to decide the knotty issue. The latter ought to have but little difficulty in doing this if they can read the English language. Two things are plain: 1st. That the rules were violated if two end-men played back of the line, whether or not the captains had an agreement. 2d. That both the referee and the umpire who officiated at the game are ignorant of the rules, and incompetent, and should never be permitted to act as officials again until they have proved themselves capable of fulfilling the duties required of them. Further, the Latin School Captain is entirely in the right in the matter, and the game should go to his men, or, better, since both elevens violated the rules, the match should be void.

Comment on the game between Bridgeport and Hartford High-Schools for the championship of the Connecticut High-School League must be deferred until next week, owing to lack of space in this number. It was a stirring contest, and I want to devote more space to it than I should be able to to-day. A criticism of the Berkeley School team is also crowded out.

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This Department is conducted in the interest of Girls and Young
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subject so far as possible. Correspondents should address Editor.

Sally B. asks me how I would set about getting up a little fair for a charity, what one must first do, and how such an enterprise can be made a success.

First talk it over with your mother, and get her advice and co-operation. Girls can always carry on affairs of this sort best if they have their mother's help and sympathy. It is very nice to talk all one's plans over with one's mother.

If mamma approves, write notes to your most intimate friends, asking them to a meeting at your house on the first convenient day. Saturday afternoon at four o'clock, for instance, is a good time for most girls to spare an hour. Of course there are some girls whom you can invite verbally. It is not worth while to write a note to Mary Adrain, whom you walk to school with every day, or to Susie Spader, whose seat in school adjoins your own.