Chapter III: Part 3

Let us see how one of the most important of these dials may perhaps save the ship from destruction. Down in the coal-bunkers there is a little instrument attached to the side of each compartment that looks like a little thermometer. It is not more than four or five inches tall. It is simply a thermometer with an electric attachment. A fire has started in a coal-bunker, as happens sometimes on large steamships, through what is known as "spontaneous combustion." It may smoulder for several days and give no indication of its existence. At last it breaks into a flame. Some one has felt a hot deck through his shoes as he has walked along, or perchance has accidentally placed his hand on the iron-work of the compartment and found it blistering hot. Instantly the fire-alarm is rung, and if the fire is not too far advanced the ship may be saved. On war-ships, however, no such risk must be run. In the economy of space on such ships it frequently happens that these coal-bunkers are placed very near, and sometimes next to, the powder-magazines. A fire in the coal-bunkers would mean an awful explosion, the loss of the ship and hundreds of lives.

Here is where that little thermometer plays its heroic part. It is called a thermostat, and it is so arranged that as the heat increases, the mercury in the bulb slowly rises to what is known as the danger-point. When the heat reaches that point the mercury sets an electric current going. At once the bell on the indicator where the sentry outside the Captain's door stands rings violently. The sentry hurries to it and sees a fire-alarm from a certain compartment, and he hastily awakes the Captain. The latter presses a button, perhaps without getting out of bed or up from his chair, and instantly there rings the general fire-alarm throughout the ship, and every man on board is called to quarters. For a few seconds it is time of immense confusion and noise. Great gongs are ringing in various parts of the ship. Men are hurrying half dressed, if it be in the night, here and there, and there is much shouting in the giving and passing of orders. In a twinkling, however, order prevails, and through the aid of that little automatic thermometer the ship and the lives of those on board are saved. This thermostat is an insignificant-looking affair--a mere trifle in the ship's construction--but see what an important thing it really is. These instruments are used in many buildings on land, but nowhere are they of such importance as when placed in coal-bunkers or on the outside walls of magazines in war-ships.

Another dial on the indicator where the sentry paces also plays an important part in war-ships. It is called the water-alarm. All modern war-ships have what are known as double bottoms. They are built to prevent the ship from sinking or from becoming flooded in the chief compartments of the vessel below the water-line. Sometimes a ship may scrape along the top of an unknown rock or reef, or may strike some obstruction floating unseen beneath the waves. No one on board may feel the shock, especially if it is a light one. The water may rush into one of these double bottoms, and although the ship may be safe from sinking, the danger in time may be most grave. As the water fills the compartment which has been broken, a little piece of wood rises with it, and finally, when it reaches a certain height, it too establishes an electric current, and the alarm rings outside the cabin door of the Captain. Again the alarm sounds through the ship, and if possible, the break is mended temporarily, and the pumps set going to clear the compartment of the water.

In time of battle, however, this water-alarm may tell a more important story. Perhaps a torpedo from the enemy has struck the ship, and a gaping wound has been torn not only in the outside bottom of the ship, but through the inner hull as well. Instantly the news reaches the Captain through the water-alarm. The Captain simply presses a button, and at once not only does the general alarm ring, but the "siren" whistle on the ship is set to shrieking most horribly. Those siren whistles are seldom heard either in port or at sea. They begin their noise with a low moan, and run up to an awful shriek, with a thin, ear-piercing note that is almost unendurable. The siren may be blown by electricity as easily as an electric door-bell may be rung. When the siren is heard it is a signal throughout the ship to close all the water-tight doors in the various compartments, and thus confine the inrushing waters to a limited space. If only one or two compartments are torn open by the torpedo, the ship may be saved from sinking and a great tragedy of war may be averted. When the siren howls, however, there is such a scurrying on shipboard as is never seen at other times. Nearly every compartment has men in it at work. The alarms and the whistles are their only warning, except, perhaps, the shouts of their companions. A mighty rush is made to get out of some of these compartments. No time must be lost, and there can be no waiting for a man to escape. If shut in, he may be drowned. It is a question of his life or that of the ship and the lives of the rest of the crew, and there is only one way to answer that question.

These water-alarms are used in many large buildings in connection with the fire-alarm, but one can see how much more important they are on ships, especially on war-ships, than on land. They are a most simple contrivance, and, like the thermostat, mere trifles; but they may turn the tide in a naval battle, and directly or remotely settle the fate of a nation.

In the early days of steam navigation the Captain of a vessel could speak to the engineer through a tube and regulate the speed of the ship. When the vessels grew larger, the signalling was done by means of bells. That method is in common use to-day in many vessels that ply in harbors, such as river steamboats and tug-boats. As the ocean-liners increased in size the bell system of signalling became antiquated. The Captain or the navigator was 300 or 400 feet away from the engineer, and from 20 to 40 feet above the engine-room. In time of emergency it became necessary to send word to the engineer exactly what to do in half a dozen different cases. He must stop, back, go slow now with one engine and now with another, or with both. A long chain was run from a contrivance on the bridge to the engine-room. When the Captain pressed forward or backward a handle on a vertical dial, a handle in the engine-room would move on a similar dial, and a bell would ring to call attention to it, and the engineer knew at once what to do. This system is in use at the present time on all large passenger-ships and most war-ships in the world.

Electricity has invaded this field also, and on the newer war-ships of the navy we have the signalling done by this agent. By the electric-engine telegraph, which Lieutenant Fiske of our navy has invented, not only does the engineer know at once when to go at full speed, half-speed, when to stop and back, and all that, but the Captain can tell at an instant, by looking at a little dial attached to his signalling apparatus, whether his orders have been understood. The little dial is connected with that part of the signalling apparatus in the engine-room on the same electric circuit, and thus the Captain knows exactly what is going on in the engine-room. But the new invention goes farther than that. It tells the engineer just how many revolutions of the screws a minute the Captain desires the engines to make. Full speed, for example, in the old way of signalling may mean anywhere from 80 to 90 or 100 revolutions of the screws. Half-speed may mean anywhere from 60 to 80 revolutions. The engineer in those cases has to use his own judgment as to what speed to employ, unless a message is sent especially to him from the Captain. In the electric device which we are just beginning to use there are certain notches on the dials, and the Captain can signal exactly the number of revolutions he desires each engine to make. He not only gets a signal back, but he has a telltale instrument before his eyes which shows that the engines are making 59, or 73, or whatever number of turns the Captain wishes them to make.

Now this regulation of the revolutions of the ship's engines has a most important part to play in warfare. One of the most essential things in naval manoeuvring is that ships shall keep a certain distance from one another. It avoids collisions, and preserves regularity in fire and in changing positions at critical times. It is as essential as that soldiers shall present a solid line to the enemy in battle on land. A helter-skelter fleet would be beaten from the start in a fight. It is most difficult for ships to keep at regular intervals. The engines of one turn just a little faster than the engines of another, and little by little a ship creeps up or drops away from its fellows. Sometimes the distances are preserved by guess-work. Lately a little instrument has been invented by which the Captain can see at a glance how far he is from the ship ahead of him. It is a modification of the sextant. The height of a certain object on the ship in front is known. That is the base of a triangle. The size of the angles at the end of that base are seen at a glance by the observer, and by the manipulation of a screw or two the Captain of a ship can see on a sliding-scale whether he is going too slow or too fast. In either case he signals a change or two in the number of revolutions he wishes the engines to make, and he preserves his required distance. Accuracy in this matter may win a battle.

So great is the din and confusion on war-ships in time of battle that what are called "visual signals" are demanded. This has brought several contrivances into operation that are new. For example, we have a transmitter of orders. It tells the gunners when and what guns to load, and with what kind of shot; when to stand ready to fire; when to fire, and when to cease firing. In the old days, and even in the present days, such orders are conveyed in speaking-tubes or by telephone on most ships. In the great noise an order may be mistaken, but with a visual signal in the shape of an indicator, operated by the mere pressing of a button, orders from the Captain may be conveyed clearly and instantly.

Another apparently trifling thing in the development of navigation is an electrical signalling device for indicating the exact angle the Captain wishes the helm set in making a turn. He presses a button, and the man at the wheel sets the rudder accordingly. A dial informs the Captain that the rudder is set as required. This is most important, because it tends to avoid collisions as the war-ships suddenly change their positions in column. We all remember how serious a collision, even going at slow speed, may be when we recall how three years ago the _Camperdown_ sunk the _Victoria_ of the English Mediterranean squadron on a peaceful day off the coast of Africa, in going through some simple evolutions, and when hundreds of brave sailors, including the Admiral of the fleet himself, were drowned, as the _Victoria_ went down before the small boats of the other vessels of the fleet could reach them.

One of the great problems in naval tactics is to secure an effective method of signalling orders from ship to ship. In the night it is comparatively easy. A string of red and white alternating electric lights is strung from a yard downwards. An operator sits in front of a little box in which there are a lot of black keys on which are stamped a certain number of red and white dots. As he presses these keys, which are arranged in a circle and look like so many fancy dominoes, the red and white lights flash out in certain combinations. The operators see them, and signal back the same light. Each key pressed down means a certain letter, and it takes little time to send an order. In the daytime signals must be sent by flags, or by means of a contrivance with long arms such as we see on signal-towers on a railroad. As these arms are jerked into certain positions they tell a story of their own.

During a battle by day or night all such systems are of little value because of the smoke. Whistles can be of little use, because the noise of battle would drown them. Electrical experts are trying to devise a system of telegraphing through the water, of course without the use of wires, but the outlook in that direction is not promising at present.

Then there are important new devices which we can only mention. One of them is the sounding apparatus, by which the depth of water can be taken when going at full speed. The pressure of water on a column of air varies at certain depths of the ocean. This pressure is marked by the discoloration of a fluid in a tube through the agency of the salt water. The electric firing of guns is also interesting. A current of electricity is passed through a filament, such as we see in the incandescent lamp of a house electric light, and at once the heat sets the gun off as effectively as if a spark had ignited the powder. Then there is the aerophone, or fog-indicator, which points out the exact direction of some noise-making object by cutting the sound-wave in two, so as to send it first in one ear and then the other of the man who operates the invention, until finally he gets it in equal volume in both ears, and the dial on the machine points straight to the object which cannot be seen.

All these inventions, which of themselves seem mere trifles, are necessary in these days, because of the wonderful advance in warfare and the construction of ships. In the old days the Captain could roar his orders out and make himself heard almost everywhere. Nowadays a fraction of a second may determine the outcome of a battle. He must be able to find the distance of his enemy, must fire his guns without aiming them in the old way, must regulate the speed of his ship to the single turn of a screw, must put his own helm at a certain angle to a degree. Without electricity he would be helpless in the noise and confusion. Even with electricity he is hampered, and so we may expect that the invention of these little devices will go on, until one man in a ship may control that engine of war as completely as if he were in every vital place in the ship at one and the same time.

HOW TO USE THE VOICE.

BY FELIX BEAUMONT.

"Now, my friends," said Mrs. Martin, as she gathered a knot of young people about her on the breezy veranda of her pleasant country house, one moonlight evening in September, "we have had picnics, and drives, and walks, and rows upon the lake in the daytime, and dances almost every night since you have been visiting me, and I believe that you may be getting sufficiently tired of these sports, as the weather grows cooler, to wish to change about and settle down to something at once more instructive and more artistic. You are, all of you, students of music--Ethel reads it very well at sight, Kenneth plays the 'cello, Patty plays the violin, Beatrice sings charmingly and plays accompaniments, besides being a general helper and strong inducer of merriment, while the rest of you have good voices, very pretty taste, and some knowledge of music. So I am going to organize a musical club, which shall meet here regularly once a week after you leave me, having finished your visits. And I am going now to attempt to explain to you so thoroughly the best methods of getting up a 'musical' that other boys and girls who wish to amuse themselves in the same way may learn from your example. A great deal of fun may be had from the preliminary practice and rehearsals. I should advise you to form, in the first place, three quartets: one of mixed voices--that is, you know, soprano, alto, tenor, and bass--besides one of male voices, first tenor, second tenor, first bass (or barytone), and second bass. Then a quartet of female voices--two sopranos and two altos, and this last can sometimes do trios as well as quartets. For all of these different sets of voices the most beautiful and pleasing music has been made. Mendelssohn's collection for mixed voices, called 'Open-Air Music,' is intended to be done without accompaniment, which, as you see, fits it to be sung independently in any place--in the woods, or on the lake, or while driving. It is as full of inspiration and of the true sweet Mendelssohnian melody as anything that ever dropped from the pen of that sociable and amiable composer; the harmonies are delicious, and the words are full of the poetry of land and sea and love. For male voices there is a large literature; but perhaps the heaviest mass of writing is found in compositions for women's voices, either in the form of duets--as, for instance, those of Abt, Mendelssohn, Rubinstein, or Dvorák--in trios, and in quartets.

"In this connection let me tell you," said Mrs. Martin, who now saw that her young audience was thoroughly attentive and interested, "that Schubert has written a most lovely 'Serenade' for alto solo and women's chorus. For all three kinds of quartet, as I have said, there is a large choice of music. The old Scotch, English, and Irish songs and ballads have been arranged to be sung by male, female, or mixed voices, so that 'Robin Adair,' 'The Bluebells of Scotland,' 'Annie Laurie,' 'Tom Bowling,' 'Hearts of Oak,' 'The Bay of Biscay,' 'Kathleen Mavourneen,' 'The Last Rose of Summer,' and 'The Harp that once through Tara's Halls' take on new beauties from their harmonizations. Then there are humorous things, such as Homer Bartlett's 'The Frogs' Singing-School,' or Caldicott's 'Spider and the Fly,' and all Ingraham's nine 'Nonsense Songs,' set to Lear's words, from 'The Owl and the Pussy-cat' to 'The Duck and the Kangaroo.' Italian folk-songs, too, have been transformed into harmonized versions, and there are hosts of waltzes so pretty and inspiriting that you will hardly be able to keep from whirling about while you sing them. 'Cradle Songs' and 'Slumber Songs' may be selected when for variety you need a bit of reposeful quiet in your programme; and you know enough of Franz Abt's pure, sweet, pleasing melody to be able to choose judiciously on the occasions when he would be useful to you.

"Of course," added Mrs. Martin, "these musical attempts presuppose some knowledge of sight-reading on the part of you young people; and as nothing is accomplished without application and effort, you must be willing to take a little trouble in the practice and perfection of whatever you undertake to perform. Each of you must carry his part home and study it separately, until you are perfectly familiar with it, then you must rehearse together until the whole thing goes smoothly. Do any of you understand," said Mrs. Martin, giving a comprehensive glance along the semicircle of sun-browned smiling faces in front of her, "what you must do to make _ensemble_ singing sound sweetly to the listener? In the first place, never sing too loud. There is a great temptation for each member of a chorus or quartet to use all the power of his voice as soon as he feels other voices pushing against him; but whether in solo or other work, one of the cardinal rules is to avoid singing as loudly as the vocal chords will permit. One must think continually of the sound he is producing, must listen carefully to himself, by which method one can modify and improve the quality of tone to a remarkable degree. Some people undoubtedly make a much more successful effort than others in managing their voices before they are cultivated. The best general advice to be given for the help of a novice is, sing freely and naturally, with relaxed muscles. You should try to open the throat by a movement which at once forces the tonsils apart and depresses the roots of the tongue, somewhat as in the commencement of a yawn. Let the column of air which carries the tone come straight through the middle of the open throat, and focus or strike in the roof of the mouth just behind and above the upper teeth. Try to enunciate distinctly without disturbing the continuity of tone emission."

"Do you think any of us can do solos, Aunt Martha?" asked little Patty, timidly.

"Oh yes, indeed," replied Mrs. Martin, drawing Patty close to her. "We must have some, of course; they are so good for making boys and girls conquer shyness and nervousness and consciousness. At first you should select simple songs of limited range, with attractive flowing melodies. You will find plenty of just this kind among the works of Gounod, Abt, Ries, Cowen, Sullivan, Curschman, Kücken, Fesca, Tosti, and Bohm. Brahms's 'Lullaby' is a charming and easy bit of singing; so is Ries's 'Cradle Song.' Those by Adalbert Goldschmidt and Gerrit Smith are pretty also. Indeed, slumber songs lend themselves admirably to early efforts in solo work. Other song writers to whom you may look for furnishing the best material are Jensen, Eckert, Lachner, Taubert, Bemberg, Gumbert, Goring-Thomas, Bizet, Lassen, Delibes, Widor, Arditi, Mattei, Godard, Saint-Saëns, Massenet, and so on, up to the classic heights of Rubinstein, Mendelssohn, Liszt, Schubert, Schumann, Grieg, and Brahms. Of extreme modern writers who make pleasing music you can rely on Chaminade, Nevin, Neidlinger, Bartlett, Johns, and Pizzi. Of course among these names you will not find many opera-composers, for I have only cared to mention the makers of songs. I will tell you something else, a little foreign to our immediate subject of _ensemble_ or solo singing, which, however, will, I am sure, afford you much enjoyment and merriment. There are compositions called in German 'Kinder Symphonien,' or 'Children's Symphonies.' Dear old Father Haydn made one of the best of these, and they have been followed by others, by Romberg, Chwatal, Grenzebach, Meyer, and Schulz. They are played by about ten or twelve persons. There will be a piano score for either two or four hands, one for violin, and for a number of toy instruments. One of the instruments is somewhat like a pair of bellows in construction. When it is pressed together the most illusive sound of 'cuckoo, cuckoo,' comes from it, so natural as almost to deceive the bird himself if he were listening.

"Another instrument is a china mug with a spout like a teapot. The mug must be half filled with water, and on blowing into the spout a melodious gurgling arises. This is supposed to be an exact imitation of the ravishing song of the sad poetic nightingale. Then there is a drum, a trumpet, a triangle, and many other things conducive to noise and music. Each performer has a separate sheet to read his notes from, and the effort to count properly, to wait for rests, and to make the right entrances, gives much serious employment. But when at last everything goes well together the effect is very merry and pleasing. One of Chwatal's symphonies is called 'The Sleigh-Ride.' The jingling of a set of small sleigh-bells is a feature in this. I should think," added Mrs. Martin, "that some of these symphonies would be a great addition to your musicals, and give lots of fun. The trumpeter of the occasion must take pains, however, not to fall into the error of the man who blew a tremendous blast upon his horn in the middle of a piece of music, producing a horrid discord. When the leader asked him, angrily, 'What in the world did you play that dreadful wrong note for?' the man meekly replied, 'Ach Himmel, there was a fly on the fourth line of the staff, and I _played him_!' Nor must you," went on Mrs. Martin, smiling at her reminiscences, "copy the negligent daring of a friend of mine who sang in a well-known German _Verein_. Things had been going badly, and finally the conductor in despair cried out, as he stamped his foot and gesticulated wildly, 'Tenors, tenors, you are a measure behind!' Whereupon my friend called back lustily to him, 'Ach! muss man denn _so genau_ sein?'--must one then be so very particular?" The children laughed heartily at their dear hostess's jokes, as they tried always to do when it was at all possible.

"And now," said tall Ethel, "won't you please tell us all about the evening of the musical, and what we shall wear, and how to write the invitations?"

"Wear?" said Mrs. Martin. "Why, of course you would wear your very best evening gowns, you girls, and of course, to my mind, those who were dressed in white would look the prettiest. And the boys would wear their Tuxedo suits, or whatever they looked smartest in. As to the invitations, do not send out so many as to crowd your parlor uncomfortably. The rule which I have found safe to believe is that one-third of all the people invited will decline. This gives a hostess the liberty of paying a compliment to many more of her friends than her house will actually hold. The form of the invitation may be thus:

"_Mrs. Dudley requests the pleasure of Mr. and Mrs. Allison's
company on Thursday evening, November 12, at half past eight._

"_Music at nine o'clock._
"_160 Saint Bernard Street._

"Or your mother's ordinary visiting-card will do, if she writes in one corner, 'Music at nine o'clock.' Invitations should be sent at least a week or ten days beforehand. If it is possible for you to have a grand-piano, never use a square or an upright one. If you must use either of the latter kinds, turn it away from the wall, and drape the back of the upright with some pretty soft drapery, which can be held in place by books, vases, and a lamp on the top of the piano. All the portières or other curtains that can be taken down should be removed, and all the rugs and heavy furniture carried out of the room. Music sounds so much better in a place free from soft thick hangings.

"It is good to have programmes, for people enjoy listening to pieces much more if they know their names. Should expense deter you from having them printed, they may be nicely written off on a sheet of note-paper. For printed programmes, a card ten inches by three and a half, folded once in the middle of its length, makes an extremely good form.

"Would you like me to give you some idea of the programme, musically and spiritually considered, as well as from its purely material stand-point?" said Mrs. Martin, after a few moments' silence, "for I believe, with that exception, that I have told you all I can. Get out your note-book, Bertram, and put down what I tell you."

PROGRAMME.

1. Mixed Quartet { 'Farewell to the Forest' _Mendelssohn_
{ 'O, Hush Thee, my Baby' _Sullivan_
2. Piano Solo, 'Spring' _Grieg_
3. Female Chorus, { Lullaby _Brahms_
{ 'My Flaxen-haired Lassie' _Koschat_
4. Tenor Solo, 'Máppari,' from 'Martha' _Flotow_
(Or song by Chadwick, 'Du bist wie eine Blume.')
5. Male Quartet, { 'Verlassen bin ich' ----
{ 'The Owl and the Pussy-cat' _Ingraham_
6. Violin Solo, 'Simple Aven' _Thorne_
7. Piano, four hands, Ballet Music from Feramors _Rubinstein_

PROGRAMME NO. 2.

1. Piano, four hands, 'Hochzeitsmusik' _Jensen_
2. Female Chorus, 'Rest Thee on this Mossy Pillow' _Smart_
3. Violoncello Solo, 'Love Scene' _Victor Herbert_
4. Soprano Song, 'Parting' _Rogers_
5. Violin Solo, 'Romance' _Mrs. Beach_
6. Male Quartet, 'It was not So to Be' _Nessler-Vognih_

"And then," said Mrs. Martin, "you could finish with the Kinder Symphony as a merry ending, or add one or two numbers to those I have suggested, and keep the Kinder Symphony for a separate evening's entertainment. At all events, I hope you will find that I have inspired and helped you a little, and that you will carry out the plans I have laid down."

"Yes, we will!" cried all the young people, in a breath; and Bertram, putting his note-book in his inside coat pocket, said, dreamily, "It's awfully late; suppose we go in and take the gift of sleep!"

OLD-TIME THANKSGIVING.

BY M. L. VAN VORST.

Come, will you help me harness the bay?
Come, will you help me hitch up the gray?
Grandfather's lent us the great big sleigh.
Hip hurrah for Thanksgiving-time!
Chestnuts and cider and fire's glow,
Five good miles through the woods to go,
Clear cold winds and a driving snow.
Hip hurrah for the bells achime!

Fly by the hedge of the country-side,
By the gleaming fields and the farm-lands wide.
Hey for the boys and the girls as they ride!
Hip hurrah for the gray and the bay!
Snow-wreaths hang on the fir and pine,
And the bells are ringing like silver fine;
Bright cheeks are glowing and bright eyes shine.
Hip hurrah for the jolly sleigh!

Come, will you go with us, one and all,
To the games and romps in the country hall,
Where the rafters ring with our shout and call?
Hip hurrah for the fun and cheer!
Months of the holly and mistletoe
We would hold you fast, for we love you so.
Thanksgiving and Christmas and sparkling snow
Gladden the days of the dying year.

THE HANGING OF TEDDY.

Halloween was sure to see a variety of pranks played in Scottsville. It was a fortunate front fence which had its own gate the next morning. All of which shows that there were boys in Scottsville.

"Well, gates are good enough if you can't do any better," said Teddy, on the afternoon of a last day in October, "but I'm getting tired of them."

"What about signs, then?" asked Joe.

"Signs are all right--genuine signs up on buildings--not these pasteboard cards saying 'To Rent,' and sewing-machine boards nailed on fences, and such stuff."

"You don't think you could get a big store sign down, do you?" asked Fred.

"Yes, I do."

"Whose?"

"Oh, a lot of 'em. Mr. Parks's would be an easy one."

"But it's up over the door, and runs clear across the front of the building!" protested Joe. "And it's fastened up with irons!"

"Don't care if 'tis. We're good for it, if we only think so. I've been looking at it. The irons are loose, and there's room to stand on the ledge behind it. It would be just as easy as nothing to take it down."

"What would you do with it?" asked Joe.

"Well," answered Ted, slowly, "it says on it, 'M. Parks. Cheap Cash Grocery.' I think it would look sort of funny to take it up and put it on the school-house."

The other boys instantly fell in with this idea, though they still doubted their ability to get the sign down. Then Fred thought of the village's night watchman, who spent most of his time in the business part of town.

"But what about Billy Snyder?" he asked.

"Oh, my pa says Billy goes to sleep every night at nine o'clock," answered Teddy, confidently. "He says burglars might pull Billy's boots off and he'd never know it."

"Well, if he sleeps all night, he must walk in his sleep," said Joe, who lived farther down town than the others. "I've been awake 'way in the night sometimes, and heard him tramping round."

"But, don't you see, to-night he'll be up town looking out for fellows lugging off gates," returned Teddy, not to be convinced that there was any danger from the watchman. "Besides, Billy can't run for shucks."

It was accordingly arranged that the boys should meet that night across the street from Mr. Parks's store at half past ten; and promptly at that hour they were all on hand. It was a dark night, and the streets were deserted.

"It's--it's pretty dark, isn't it, Ted?" said Joe, in a loud whisper.

"Course," answered Teddy, contemptuously. "Want it dark, don't we?"

"Y--yes. Seen anything of Billy?"

"Oh, he's all right--way off somewhere. He won't be down here to-night."

They tiptoed cautiously across the street, and looked up at the sign.

"Has he been raising it?" said Joe, very earnestly.

"No, of course not," answered Teddy, impatiently.

"Well, it never looked so high to me before," insisted Joe.

"Oh, you're scared!" returned the brave Ted. "Better run home."

"I'm not scared. How are you going to get up?"

"Climb the eaves-spout on the corner. It's easy as nothing," and he started up.

He went up for five or six feet, but found it harder work than he expected. He stopped and rested a moment, then struggled on. This he did twice, feeling his hold weakening all the while. The last time he stopped he looked down. It seemed a long ways. His hold suddenly grew still weaker, and he slid back and rolled over on the ground.

"Are you hurt, Ted?" anxiously inquired the other boys.

"Of course not," answered Teddy, impatiently. "Came down to rest and put a little dust on my hands," and he went out into the street and spatted his palms on the ground.

"We ought to had Tom Ketcham along," said Joe, when Teddy came back. "He's a bully climber."

"Oh, pshaw!" said Ted. "If Tom Ketcham can climb any better'n I can I'd like to know it. Just watch me now;" and he started up again.

Thanks to the street dust or to a determination to show Joe that he was as good a climber as Tommy, he managed to get up this time and wriggle in on the cornice, which made a sort of ledge behind the sign. He loosened the iron on that end of the sign, and walked cautiously along, taking a piece of clothes-line out of his pocket, with which he intended to lower it. Just then footsteps were heard approaching.

"Billy's coming!" cried Fred, in a hoarse half-whisper, and he and Joe started down the street.

"Hold on there!" called Teddy to the younger boys, in a fierce tone. "Get in the doorway and keep still."

The others obeyed, and Ted himself lay down on the ledge behind the sign and flattened out as much as possible. It proved to be only a man on his way home, and he passed without seeing the boys.

Teddy's heart was thumping pretty hard as he thrust his chin over the edge of the sign and whispered, "You fellows down there?"

"Yes," answered the boys.

"Well, what you so scared at?" he asked, tauntingly, as a way of keeping up his own courage. "Look out, now, and I'll have this sign down there before you know it." He rose up and started to hurry along the cornice, but stumbled over something and went down with a great thump. Fortunately he fell on the ledge, and the sign kept him from rolling into the street.

"What's the matter, Ted?" asked the others, excitedly.

"Nothing. Don't know. Fell over something." He felt about in the darkness, and added: "Iron thing to put a big flag in. Forgot it was here."

He crawled on to the other end, and readily pulled up the other iron that held the sign in place. Then he crept back to the middle, looking out for the flag-staff bracket this time, and tied one end of his clothes-line around the sign. He took a half turn with the line around the flag-holder, which he stood astride, lifted up on the sign to release it from the supports on which it rested, and began to lower it slowly. "Get ready, there!" he whispered to the other boys. The sign was heavier than he had expected, and the rope hurt his hands. But he shut his teeth together and hung on, and slowly paid out the line. Just then there came the sound of a heavy step up the street. Teddy tried to let the rope go a little faster, but it suddenly shot through his hands. The sign struck the stone sidewalk broadside with a report like a gun, and the end of the rope, which was entangled with his feet, jerked him off the ledge, and he shot down after the sign. But the flag bracket which had tripped him up before saved him this time. Its upturned end caught under the back of his jacket, and stopped him with a jerk, his shoulder-blades against the front of the ledge, and his legs dangling in the air above the doorway. Between the crash of the falling sign and the heavy footsteps, which sounded precisely like the watchman's, the other boys had been too frightened to think, and had scampered down the street faster than they had ever run before.

Teddy's first thought was to call for help, but he was too frightened to call; and by the time he had found his voice he had concluded that it would be best to wait a few minutes, since he was not particularly uncomfortable, and see if he could not get himself out of the fix he was in without being caught. The approaching footsteps had ceased, and there was not a sound to be heard. "Billy has stopped and is trying to make out what all the racket is about," Teddy thought to himself. "If I keep still he may not see me in the dark, after all." His jacket was drawn pretty tightly across his chest, and there was a good deal of strain on the buttons, but he knew his mother had sewed them on and that there was not much danger of their giving way. But it was rather hard to breathe. He wriggled about a little, and tried to get his elbows up on the cornice in the hope of raising himself, but he couldn't do it. Nothing more was heard of Billy, and the earth seemed to have swallowed up Joe and Fred. It seemed to Teddy that he had hung there half an hour, though it probably wasn't more than three or four minutes, when he ventured to call, in a subdued voice, "Joe!"

"Is that you, Ted?" came from directly beneath him in Tom Ketcham's voice.

"Yes, Tom. I'm caught. Help me down, somehow."

"Is that you hanging up there?"

"Yes. I'm caught on the flag-holder."

"Yes; we heard it fall. Phil's with me."

"Was that you I heard coming? Thought the walk sounded like Billy."

"We--we had a gate, and I guess that made us walk pretty heavy."

Just then Joe and Fred crept back, emboldened by the sound of the voices. The four boys on the sidewalk now held a whispered consultation as to the best way of getting Teddy down, but they reached no decision. Tom thought Ted ought to take his knife, cut off his buttons, and drop out of his jacket, but Teddy objected to this. Joe thought a ladder was the only hope, but Fred was of the opinion that if they had a long pole he could be got down with that; but no one knew where either a pole or ladder could be found. Teddy himself thought that if two of the boys should climb up on the ledge that they could pull him up, and as Phil shared this view it was decided to try it.

"And hurry up," pleaded poor Ted, "'cause I'm getting pretty tired of this, and can't hardly breathe."

Tom and Phil accordingly started up the leader, and soon wriggled on to the ledge as Teddy had done. The sign being gone, there was great danger of their slipping off into the street, and they crept along very cautiously. When they found themselves over the suspended Ted, they rose up on their feet, stooped over, and each got a good hold on his collar with one hand. Then they lifted together with all their strength, but they might as well have lifted on a thrifty oak-tree for all they accomplished. Ted had settled down so far that his shoulders were half drawn under the cornice, and though he tried to wriggle about and help them as they lifted, his wriggling really consisted of nothing but thrashing his legs about in the air.

"We can't do it, Tom," said Phil.

Tom felt around on the front of the building, and replied:

"'Fraid we can't. If there was only something for us to hold on to we could lift a good deal more; but there isn't."

"Not a thing. And if we lift another pound we'll pull ourselves into the street and break our necks. What shall we do?"

"Don--don't leave me," implored Teddy, with just a suspicion of a whimper in his voice. "Wish I'd never heard of the sign. It's my last sign if I ever get down."

"We'll get you down some way, Ted," answered Tom. "Just you keep a stiff upper lip."

"I--I am," returned Teddy. "But I can't hang much longer. Feel like I was going to die, or something."

Just then distant footsteps were heard on the sidewalk.

"Ssh!" said Phil. "Somebody's coming. Get in the doorway, you fellows down there."

Joe and Fred obeyed, and the footsteps came nearer.

"That's Billy's walk, for sure," whispered Tom. "Can't fool me on that. Lie down, Phil," and the two boys flattened out on the ledge.

Poor Teddy could do nothing but hang, as if he were a sign put out in front of a store where small boys were kept for sale. Nearer and nearer came the footsteps, till they were almost in front of the building. Then there was a sudden stumble, a smothered ejaculation, and a man fell full length on the walk, while something which showed a little point of light went rolling along the walk. It was Billy, and he had fallen over the sign, and his dark-lantern had rolled away. The boys all had hard work to keep from laughing, except Teddy.

"Geewhillikans!" howled Billy, as he scrambled to his feet and made a dive for his lantern. "What's all this?"

The next second he flashed his bull's-eye on the walk, and began an investigation.

"You may shoot me if it ain't old Parks's sign!" he went on, throwing the stream of light along the board. "More Halloween monkey business, I s'pose. I'd like to catch the scalawags! Wonder how they got it down?" He stepped back to the edge of the walk and turned the light upward.

"Well, _well_! If there ain't a boy, then I'm a goat! Come down here, you young imp!"

Teddy only swung his legs.

"Come down, I say, or I'll--I'll--I'll--" and Billy paused, unable to think of anything terrible enough.

"I--I can't, Billy," Teddy managed to get out.

"Hung up, hey? Good enough for you. You ought to be hung up by the _heels a week_! I'll get you down, young man. Just you be calm till I fetch Whitney's ladder," and Billy started up the street on a trot, muttering to himself.

The new danger sharpened Master Teddy's wits, and made him think faster than he had ever done before.

"You fellows get down quick as you can," he cried to Tom and Phil. "Hurry!" The boys scrambled along the ledge and slid down the leader. "Get hold of that sign, the whole four of you, and stick one end of it up here like a ladder," went on Teddy, his voice all in a tremble, but the words coming with a rush. Up came the sign beside him. He got his legs over and around it, half wriggled his back onto it, reached his arms over his head, and by exerting every muscle in his body to the utmost, managed to pull and kick himself up enough to release his coat. Then he shot down the steep sign like a toboggan, and struck the ground all in a heap. Billy was coming down the street with his ladder and lantern. "Down with it!" said Tom, and he put his shoulder against the sign.

"No you don't," cried Teddy; "I've had enough of signs and Halloweens. Let's git;" and he did with all his might, a sadder but a wiser boy.

There has not been a case of sign lost on Halloween or any other day or night since in Scottsville.

THANKSGIVING.

BY MARGARET E. SANGSTER.

When the Indians used to prowl
Round the house at dead of night,
And the north wind's angry howl
Sounded fierce by candle-light;
When the very babies learned
How to whisper when they cried,
And the young boys early earned
Right to carry arms with pride--

In those wild exciting days,
Often hungry, often cold,
Men uplifted songs of praise,
Women's hearts were strong and bold.
And amid their penury,
In their want and peril, they
Set apart, with courage free,
Their first brave Thanksgiving day.

Over harvests gathered in
With a stealthy foe anear,
Over scanty byre and bin,
Over joys which cost them dear,
Gallant souls that would not bend
Met their trustful grace to say,
Heart to heart and friend to friend;
So they kept Thanksgiving day.

Ours to-day a happier fate:
Royal wealth on us outpoured,
Wide our pleasant land, and great
Is the throng about our board.
Run the dear old flag aloft;
Let it float from ship and spire!
Wake Thanksgiving, field and croft,
House and home, and child and sire.

MARTY'S PUMPKINS.

BY RAY STANNARD BAKER.

"M-a-rty! Mart--e--e!" called a shrill voice from the woodshed door.

The speckled rooster stopped scratching in the chip-pile, raised his head, blinked his eyes, and chuckled protestingly.

"Mart-e-e!" called the voice again, and a plain woman in a calico dress stepped out into the morning sunlight. "I wonder where thet child has gone. She'd try the patience of a saint. Mart--e--e!"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Come right here this minute."

Around the corner of the chicken-coop ran a little figure with flying hair.

"Where hev you been?" demanded Mrs. Tucker, impatiently.

Marty's bare brown toes burrowed in the chip-pile, and she hung her head. She was a slender girl, and a pair of big, wistful eyes looked out from under her sun-bonnet.

"Out lookin' after my punkins," she answered, shyly.

"Your punkins!" said Mrs. Tucker, explosively. "You won't have punkins long ef you don't answer when I call."

"I didn't hear you, ma'am."

"Stuff an' nonsense! I tol' Eb it wa'n't good sense to put such punkin notions in yer head. Now take this cup an' run over to Mis' Wiskins an' ask the loan of some yeast."

Marty's feet twinkled as she ran, and Mrs. Tucker was so surprised to see her back so soon that she sent her on another errand. But at last Marty was free to hurry again into the corn-field. Here she went about among the shocks, and lifted the yellow pumpkins, one by one, and carried them to a "double-decker" wagon that stood not far away, climbed up on a stepladder, and dropped them in. Some of them were so large that when she tried to reach around them the sleeves of her outgrown gingham dress drew up over her sunburnt elbows. But she tugged and staggered and wrinkled her freckled nose until the wagon was heaping full. Just as she was completing her task old Ebenezer Tucker came out to the field.

"Got 'em loaded?" he asked, gruffly.

"Yes, sir."

"Well, we'll take 'em to town to-morrow and see what they'll bring."

Marty jumped up and clapped her hands.

"Oh, Uncle Eb--"

"There! neb mind," he said, but there was a note of kindness in his voice.

The sun had gone down and the air was frosty and still. Marty's bare toes tingled with the cold, but her face glowed with joy as she trudged toward the house at her uncle's side. She would have liked to take hold of his hand, not only to rest her tired legs, but because her happy heart wanted to show the affection of which it was so bubbling full, but she was afraid.

Marty was happier than she had ever been before in her life. That wasn't saying much, for Marty's mother had died when she was very young, and had left her and little Tim alone in the world. They had been passed around from relative to relative for a number of years, and Marty had taken care of Tim, and lavished on him all the affection of her timid heart. While they were together she hadn't minded poor clothes and hard work, but when Uncle Ben had taken "the boy," and Uncle Eb had taken her, Marty's heart was quite broken. For Uncle Ben lived in Shelbyville, miles away, and how would little Tim get along without her?

Aunt Tucker was known and respected in the community as a "good provider" and a good Christian, but she didn't understand Marty. Besides that, she had Elly and Susie and John, her own children, to look after. Marty was shy and timid and dreamy, and so it happened that she became little maid-of-all-work, a kind of country Cinderella. But she tried to keep a brave face, and dreamed of the time when Tim would be big enough to earn his own living and could take her away.

As the summer passed, Marty had grown more and more lonesome; she felt as if she hadn't a friend in the world. One day she was in the barn-yard, and Dot--Uncle Eb's old white cow--looked around at her so sympathetically with her big, kind eyes that a knot tied itself in Marty's throat, and she ran and threw her arms around Dot's neck.

"You'll be my friend--won't you, Dot?" she sobbed.

Dot was evidently about to say something sympathetic, when Marty felt a hand on her head. It was Uncle Eb's.

"What's the matter, Marty?" he asked, and his raspy voice sounded as if it had just been oiled.

She had always been afraid of Uncle Eb. He was big and silent, and his bushy eyebrows scowled. But she said:

"I'm lonesome. I want to see Tim."

The old farmer stopped and patted her head, and then sat down to milk. One day he said,

"Want to earn some money, Marty?"

Marty's head swam. With money she could see Tim. Her face flushed faintly.

"Yes, sir," she said.

"Well, you pick up the pumpkins in the corn-lot and load 'em on the wagon every day, and I'll give you one load."

There were a great many loads of pumpkins, and it was very hard lifting for Marty; but she worked bravely, because she remembered Tim. She could have finished the loading much sooner if Aunt Tucker hadn't called her so often--Aunt Tucker didn't like the pumpkin idea; she said she didn't believe in children having money. But now, after weeks of work, the last load stood in the field.

"Thet's yours," Uncle Eb had said, quietly.

And that is why Marty's heart was almost bursting with joy.

The Tuckers were up at sunrise the next morning. For Uncle Eb was going to town with Marty's pumpkins.

"You're foolish to whim thet child," said Aunt Tucker, complainingly; "you're treating her better'n you do yer own kith an' kin."

Uncle Eb didn't reply; but an hour later he and Marty were perched on the high wagon seat, and the sun was looking jolly at the end of the long road to town. Marty wore Elly's hat and a plain but clean dress, and her eyes sparkled with joy. She wanted to tell Uncle Eb how happy and thankful she was, but she didn't dare to. So she tapped her precious pumpkins with her toes as she was bounced about on the high spring seat.

How proud she felt when they reached the Centre and the men on the street nodded to Uncle Eb! She wondered if they knew that the pumpkins were all hers, and that she would soon have the money for them. Only once in her life had she ever had any money of her own, and that was only ten cents, which had looked as big as a silver dollar when she first spied it lying at the road-side.