Chapter II: Part 2

The boy's only thought now was to force the gate, escape into the tunnel, and close the mouth again behind him. That was his one chance of escape. The maddened red-skins, their eyes glittering in the weird light, waving their glittering candles from which smoulders of burnt wick were dropping, chanting some sort of exultant song, ran about the cellar as if they were the figures of a monstrous nightmare. Their eyes at last fell on the pyramid of barrels, and they darted at the expected treasure-trove. Harold had never ceased tugging frantically at the gate, and when the bolts jangled back and he slid the barrier, it seemed his dangerous companions must have heard. Luckily the blissful thought of "fire-water" made them blind and deaf to all else. He passed the portal, softly closed it again, and sped with whirling senses up the dark passage. But the strain had been too great, and he collapsed in a dead faint, with a crash in his ears as if the earth had been shattered to its core.

* * * * *

When Harold recovered his senses a disk of light in front marked the outlet to sunshine, but in the rear the tunnel was choked, and his legs were tangled fast in a mass of earth and débris. He extricated himself and made his way to the entrance, sore but sound of bone. One of the block-houses had been blown to fragments, and the other partly tumbled into ruins, while about fifty of the savages had been slain or terribly maimed. Groups of Indians stood in the distance sobered and awe-stricken. When he crossed to the Kinzie mansion after dark, he found the captives there under guard, but the captors altered into a merciful mood. Black Partridge had improved the occasion to impress on their minds that the awful catastrophe was a divine punishment for their treachery.

STRIKING "PAY DIRT."

BY ANNIE HAMILTON DONNELL.

"No beans? Why, Thanny!" The rich creamy spoonful dripped back into the tureen. Millia Thacher's tired face put on astonishment as a garment. "No _beans_?"

"Well, that's what I said, wasn't it?" her brother snapped across at her. "I don't know's the world has got any call to stand still because I don't want 'em, either. I don't want any dinner."

"Why, Thanny!"

"Well, I don't. That's all there is to it."

"But, Thanny, I've got rhubarb pie. I made it a purpose, and I guess it's real good. You ain't going to slight that, Thanny?"

"Milly Thacher, for pity's sake do stop Thannying me! Anybody'd think I was ten years old instead of twenty. There! I'm sorry. I'll be a good boy now."

He reached his long arm across the table, and touched Millia's face with big, contrite fingers very gently. The sudden remorse softened the morose lines in his face, and lifted for a minute the cloud upon it. It was a strong enough, comely enough young face, its chin rounded out boldly, and the clean-cut mouth above was not at all weak. But Nathan Thacher's face was listless and discouraged, and altogether unhappy.

He pushed away his chair, rasping it over the uneven floor as if the discord accorded with his mood.

"It's no use, Milly; I'm going to give it up. It's no _use_."

"Oh no, Thanny--no, no! You're only tired out and down-spirited this morning, that's all. You don't feel like yourself. The idea of us _giving it up_!" She laughed nervously, with a little shrill, hysterical note in her voice. "Why, we've got to keep right on, Thanny Thacher, just as we promised father we'd do. We've got to keep the old farm running--"

"Till it runs down hill into the poorhouse. It's more'n two-thirds down now."

"I don't care! Then we've got to pull it up again. We promised father."

Millia's defiance had the thrill and surrender of a sob in it, and suddenly she sank down into a heap on the kitchen floor and cried in smothered dreary abandon.

The door being open, Nathan looked out, across Millia's huddled shoulders, at the bare stretch of rough uncultivated acres. The scant unthrifty grass divided the honors with rocks and underbrush. There was nothing beautiful nor "sightly" nor encouraging in the prospect, and Nathan Thacher's mouth puckered into a low whistle of contempt. He whistled still louder, and shuffled his feet about to drown the low monotony of Millia's sobs, filling the little room drearily.

"Hush up, Milly; there's a good girl," he said at last, prodding her arm gently. "What's the good of wasting all that salt water? Salt may go up."

He made a sorry attempt at laughing, and strode past her out of the door. The girl sat on the floor, rocking back and forth with even swaying motion for a long while. The cheerless world outside oppressed her through the net-work of her fingers and chilled her heart. Pitifully distinct she saw the same barren stretch of fields that Nathan had seen--the same sparse, worn-out vegetation. It looked as forlorn, as discouraging, as it had to him. But Millia Thacher's troubled soul held stubbornly to its one anchor of unswerving loyalty to the poor old farm, and of faith to their promise--Thanny's and hers--to poor old "father."

Give it up? Never! Oh, no, not. They must stand by the farm. Thanny must work--she must work.

She got up hastily, and peered out across the fields in the eager hope of seeing Thanny with old Bess ploughing. Surely he would plough to-day; yes, there he was, but walking idly, moodily, about, with stooped-over shoulders, like an old man.

Poor Thanny! He hadn't wanted, anyway, to be a farmer, and after his brave little beginning out in the world--after father died--it had been hard to come home and settle down on the old "run-out" farm among the stumps and rocks and the meagre timothy heads.

Poor Thanny! Millia watched him with loving eyes. He looked so dismal in the dismal setting of stubbly fields, backgrounded by the dull sky, that she had no heart to upbraid him. Poor Millia!

The little kitchen wore its late-afternoon spick-and-span dress, and Millia sat in it, humming a little brave tune over her mending-box, when Nathan came hurrying, springing in. There was rare buoyancy in his step, and Millia wailed, astonished.

"Why, Thanny!" she cried, as soon as he got within hearing range.

Nathan Thacher's tanned face radiated excitement and triumph from every feature. His eyes were shining. Into Millia's hands he thrust a bit of jagged rock.

"Look at that, Milly--_gold_!"

"My goodness me, Thanny!"

"_Gold_, I tell you--g-o-l-d! Milly Thacher, there's gold on this farm--do you hear? It's under your face and eyes, in that rock. It's in all the rocks."

He laughed shrilly, executing shuffling dance steps around her chair.

"Thanny Thacher, you ain't in your right mind! You scare me."

"Milly Thacher, it's the live truth! Dan Merriweather thought so as long ago as he worked for father, but father didn't believe it, nor I either. I didn't think there could be any such good luck. But there is--there is!" The boy's face was radiant. "Dan's an old Forty-niner, and he ought to know. I didn't believe him, though--not till this afternoon, when I found that rock. Seeing's believing, and can't you see? Can't you see all those little gold grains, Milly Thacher, if you've got half an eye? They're _there_. All we've got to do is to get 'em out. I guess I know gold when I see it!"

Millia held the little rock in limp, unbelieving fingers. She saw the tiny sparkles in it; but--_gold!_ Visions of wealth and luxury and rest hurried through her brain, of Thanny looking happy and satisfied again, and of herself--plain, tired little Milly--wearing becoming clothes, and letting her roughened fingers grow smooth and white. Perhaps she would wear soft kid gloves; people did who had gold. Perhaps Thanny would too; Thanny's hands were slender and shapely. Luxuries read of and dreamed of appealed suddenly to her dazzled vision as possible, probable realities; people with gold on their farms had such things, of course.

Nathan broke in upon her dreaming:

"They found gold on a farm over in Bentley. Over Easton way, too. I guess it's all over these parts. Anyhow, it's on the Thacher farm!" He laughed jubilantly. Then he pocketed the little sparkling pebble, and said, briskly: "Don't you wait supper for me, Milly. I'm going down to the Forks to see Amasa Flagg. He can advise me some about working the vein. Amasa knows everything."

Working the vein! How mysteriously important it sounded to Millia as she sat there, confused and awed! Could that be Thanny--_Thanny!_--swinging along with great springy strides, his shoulders unstooped, and importance and energy trailing in a little wake behind him?

Would Amasa Flagg advise him to dig a mine--Millia's thoughts were couched in familiar words--and wear a candle in his hat, and burrow round in the earth in unsafe places? My goodness me!--would there be real miners round the place, perhaps wanting to board right in the family?

In the midst of things Millia fell asleep.

Nathan came home at night rather sobered, but still confident. There was gold there; how much nobody could prophesy till it could be looked into systematically, and that took money. There was no money on the Thacher place, and Nathan scorned any suggestion of borrowing.

So the money must be earned. When that was done, he would sink a shaft and find his gold. When that was done--the money earned! Well, it looked a little appalling just at first; but Nathan Thacher had his grandfather Thacher's courage, once aroused, and he set his teeth for the struggle.

"Crops," Amasa Flagg had said, succinctly.

Nathan had thought of his barren waste fields, and gasped inwardly. Well, crops, then, if crops it must be; but what?

"Corn," the oracle had declared. "There's money in sweet-corn, now 't them factories are runnin full tilt over to Easton. They want all they can git. You won't make no mistake if you plant your fields full of it, an' I calc'late you'll find that the nighest road to your gold-mine. I calc'late so. But you'll have to hustle considerable, an' make your hoe fly real stiddy. You can't make a corn crop payin' without you do everything thorough. You've got to hustle, my boy, early 'n' late!"

And how Nathan Thacher hustled those long hot summer days! How, from daylight to sunsetting, he delved and toiled in his fields, working miracles in them with slow stubborn courage! He lost courage once or twice, but Millia never knew it. She watched his eager determined face steadily, and always read quiet resolution in it, and, as the weeks multiplied to months, a new expression of self-respect that delighted her soul.

"Thanny's losing his old down-spirited looks," she would muse happily over her work. "He holds up his head straight and kind of proud now; but, my goodness me, how he is working!"

And Millia, too, worked. She hurried through with her house duties, and went out to the fields with Nathan to do whatever lighter work he would let her do out there. Side by side the brother and sister toiled, seeing the waste places bloom under their eyes, and gradually the rough acres smooth out into beautiful thrifty corn rows.

Millia walked between them in cool evenings, and let her skirts flip the tiny stalks gently. They grew tall, and she could nudge them in friendly greeting as she passed down and up between them.

Of course all this success came only out of the hardest possible wrestling with nature. There went before it weeks of mighty work with drag and pick, wresting out rocks and uprooting stumps and weeds. Only Grandfather Thacher's grim persistence, descended like a mantle on Nathan's aching young shoulders, carried those hard days. The neighbors helped at odd times, and Nathan repaid them in rainy intervals. So at last the two big fields were smooth and ready for the ploughing, that left them seamed with long ridges wavering gently away into perspective. How good the upturned earth had smelled to Millia! She stood outside and drew in long satisfying whiffs of it.

It was so good to see the old place thriving at last--to smell it and watch it and be proud of it. Millia forgot all about the gold-mine some days.

Nathan never did. He repaired the fences to keep intruders out. He drew out loads upon loads of dressing for his land from stores of hitherto wasted fertility beneath the old barns. He nurtured and tended and worked unstintingly, but always with the glitter of the gold grains in his rocks before his eyes. Nathan never forgot. He studied books on mining in the evening until his tired head nodded over the blurring letters. Once, when the corn was all planted, and there was a little interval of rest, he went to a city, a day's trip distant, and had his little samples of glistening rock assayed. It was when he came home from that journey that Millia thought she could detect a little look of disappointment in his face, and perhaps a faint crestfallen note in his voice. But she forgot about it soon, because they were so busy weeding the corn rows.

One evening, when the green stalks towered more than elbow-high around them, Thanny and Milly walked through the rows, talking to each other across them. They both looked happy. Milly's small thin face had rounded out a little, and turned to a golden brown. She walked with little quick jubilant steps. The old farm looked so beautiful to-night! What would father say?

Suddenly she began to laugh. In front of her dangled her scarecrow--the work of her own hands--mincing and bowing to her ludicrously. A slight breeze stirred his hempen hair and swayed his coat skirts. It was Thanny's coat and Thanny's hat and Thanny's trousers and boots. He was an unwieldy, unflattering travesty of Thanny, with, oddly enough, his stooped shoulders, and old air of depression and gloom. Had Thanny bequeathed them to Milly's scarecrow, for once and all?

For to-night Thanny's shoulders were not stooped, and his whole expression was cheery and manly.

He stopped too and laughed.

"My goodness me! Thanny, ain't he a beauty?" giggled Milly, delightedly.

"Milly," Thanny said, "that's me. I've been watching myself this long time--stooped over and hangdog and down in the mouth. I've been seeing myself the way you and other folks used to see me, and--well, it was kind of a bitter pill, but I took it, and I guess it's done me good. I guess so."

The summer days swelled the sweet-corn kernels and brought the ears to their perfection. It was almost time to cut them and carry them away to the factory, when one day Nathan found Millia among the rows, and stopped to put both his big hands on both her shoulders with unusual gentleness. Looking up into his face, she thought how serenely happy it seemed.

"Milly," he said, laughing a little in quiet triumph, "they offered me eighty dollars an acre for this corn to-day."

"Why, Thanny!"

"Yes'm; and I took it." He walked away, down one row and up another. Then he faced her again. "Milly, we've struck pay dirt a'ready. We've found the gold," he said.

"Why, Thanny! Why, I thought--" And then Milly caught his sudden sweeping gesture, comprehending all the golden stalks of corn, row after row, and understood. "Why, yes!" she cried; "so it is, Thanny Thacher--it's our gold!"

"Yes," Thanny said, thoughtfully, as they walked home together, and there was quiet contentment in his voice. "Yes, I guess it's all right. The assayer said there wasn't enough gold in the rocks to make it worth while, but there's gold in the old sod, Milly. We've struck 'pay dirt.'"

A FAIR RETORT.

It is quite as hard as ever to get ahead of Pat. This was proved the other day during a trial in an English court-room, an Irish witness being examined as to his knowledge of a shooting affair.

"Did you see the shot fired?" the magistrate asked, when Pat had been sworn.

"No, sorr. I only heard it," was the evasive reply.

"That evidence is not satisfactory," replied the magistrate, sternly, "Stand down!"

The witness proceeded to leave the box, and directly his back was turned he laughed derisively. The magistrate, indignant at the contempt of court, called him back, and asked him how he dared to laugh in court.

"Did ye see me laugh, your Honor?" queried the offender.

"No, sir; but I heard you," was the irate reply.

"That evidence is not satisfactory," said Pat, quietly, but with a twinkle in his eye.

And this time everybody laughed, even the magistrate.

DANIEL WEBSTER'S SCHOOL DAYS.

BY ALBERT LEE.

The house where Daniel Webster boarded while he was a scholar at the Phillips Academy, Exeter, still stands at the corner of Water and Clifford streets, in that little New Hampshire town. The external appearance of the building has been changed somewhat; the protruding logs in the back part of the house have been covered with planed boards, and the large old-fashioned chimney that stood until within a few years has been torn down, but the little room on the second floor is still in about the same condition as it was in the days when Webster studied there.

He was fourteen years of age when brought by his father to Exeter and placed in charge of Mr. Clifford, a worthy gentleman of the town. The precise date of Daniel Webster's entrance at the academy is the 25th of May, 1796. It was the first time that the boy had been away from home, and he describes his feelings himself as follows: "The change overpowered me. I hardly remained master of my own senses among ninety boys, who had seen so much more and appeared to know so much more than I did." When Webster's father had bidden his son farewell, he said to Mr. Clifford that "he must teach Daniel to hold his fork and knife, for Daniel knows no more about it than a cow does about holding a spade."

From all accounts this comparison must have been a good one, for Daniel Webster's table manners were so rude that it is said that the other boys who boarded at Mr. Clifford's requested the latter to send Webster away. But Mr. Clifford, of course, never for a moment considered this, and knowing that young Webster was of a most sensitive disposition, he tried to correct the lad by example rather than by advice and remonstrance. Webster was accustomed to hold his knife and fork in his fists; one day Mr. Clifford held his own knife and fork in the same way, and continued doing so at intervals, until Webster saw how ungraceful it was, and corrected himself.

Daniel Webster was not much of a success as a student while at Exeter. He admits this in his autobiography. He seemed unable to recite in a room full of boys; and although he spent many hours in study, he could never, having learned his lesson, make a good recitation. The strangest thing of all, however, is that he could not be induced to speak in public; and when the day came on which it was usual for his class to declaim, although he had learned his piece, he was utterly incapable of rising from his seat when his name was called. "The kind and excellent Buckminster," says Webster in his autobiography, "sought especially to persuade me to perform the exercise of declamation, like other boys, but I could not do it. Many a piece did I commit to memory, yet when the day came when the school elected to hear declamations, when my name was called and I saw all eyes turned to my seat, I could not raise myself from it. Sometimes the instructors frowned; sometimes they smiled. Mr. Buckminster always pressed and entreated most winningly that I would venture, but I could never command sufficient resolution. When the occasion was over, I went home and wept bitter tears of mortification." To think that such should have been the nature of the boy who afterward became so famous an orator, and whose speeches, as a man, have become classical, and whose presence "has graced the courts of justice in the national halls of legislation"!

Daniel Webster was so greatly discouraged at this inability to declaim before his comrades, and by the treatment he received at the hands of his fellow-students because of his awkwardness and shyness, that at the end of his first term he said to Dr. Abbott, the principal, that he thought he would not return after Christmas. The principal knew very well that Webster's rustic manners and coarse clothing had been the cause of the misconduct of the other boys toward him, and he therefore encouraged Webster to remain in school, and assured him that he was a better scholar than most of the boys in his class, and he promised the lad that if he would return at the commencement of the next term, he would be placed in a higher class, where he should "no longer be hindered by the boys who cared more for play and dress than for solid improvement." Webster says that these were the first encouraging words that he had ever received with regard to his studies, and because of them he resolved to return to school, and to work with all the ability he possessed.

But in spite of his best determinations, Webster was never able to do well in the class-room, and he therefore left Phillips Academy after having attended its classes for nine months. His father placed him then, in February, 1797, in charge of the Rev. Samuel Wood at Boscawen, who prepared him for college. Even with Mr. Wood young Webster's success as a student was not very great, for at the end of a year the reverend gentleman said to his pupil, "I expected to keep you till next year, but I am tired of you, and I shall put you into college next month."

Daniel Webster went to Dartmouth College, and there he did much better, both in his studies and in his intercourse with his fellow-students, and he managed a number of times to speak in public.

THE AMERICAN NIGHTS' ENTERTAINMENTS.

A JAPANESE MATINÉE.

BY EMMA J. GRAY.

The members of the Senior Class in the Frotinbas Institute wished to give a complimentary entertainment to their friends. There were many informal suggestions and discussions as to the character of the entertainment, and had not a class meeting been called, such a condition of affairs might have been kept up indefinitely. But the meeting decided matters, for then the different suggestions were formally examined, weighed, and voted upon. That receiving the most votes being a Japanese matinée.

The question now settled, committees were appointed to complete arrangements, so that at the time of entertainment there would be neither balk nor anxiety.

To the girls were given the important duties of decoration and refreshment, the boys declaring that "girls had a knack at such things," and therefore there was not the slightest use of their blundering awkwardness.

While the boys on their part promised to furnish sufficient and clever amusement. And when the day of days at last arrived, for everything is sure to come in time, and too soon sometimes, no sky could be bluer, nor sunshine give heartier welcome, for it was a perfectly delicious atmosphere. As a consequence, therefore, the new gymnasium, in which this pretty entertainment was held, was crowded to its utmost limit. Such a wealth of charming girls and manly boys! There were older people there, too--mothers and fathers, whose love for their children made them sure to come and see how they did things, and, indeed, to be quite honest, we must not fail to mention the dearest of dear little people, whose chubby dimpled hands would clap with all their baby might, and whose gleeful laugh, whenever their big brothers or sisters would particularly delight them, would spread contagion through the entire audience.

All the girls looked quaint and interesting in Japanese costume. Some of these had been hired, and others made at home by the nimble fingers of the wearers. In order to learn how to do things, the girls carefully examined the portraits of Japanese women, and also received many ideas from a large Japanese emporium. At this place they made all their purchases, even to such small though important items as hair-pins, for, notwithstanding that none of the girls were over sixteen, each had her hair rolled, and altogether dressed in the Japanese fashion. This hair-dressing effected an enormous change, for instead of a cloud of windy curls, long waving hair, or braids, to which we were accustomed, the smoothly arranged and fantastically decorated locks seemed odd indeed, and gave the girlish faces an almost unnatural look, as though they were masquerading after the fashion of their baby sisters when they roguishly look through grandmother's spectacles. But notwithstanding the change wrought by upturned hair, there was no change in their winsome manner, and therefore every guest was instantly won.

The gymnasium had been arranged to represent a salon. The boys and girls hall contributed some of the furnishing, such as bric-à-brac and hangings, the sort that could be most safely conveyed from home, others had been hired, and some of the less expensive articles, for example--large paper parasols, balloons, cotton crêpe materials, and fans--had been bought. The tone of the room was perfect, indicating the thought with which the different articles had been selected and placed.

There was a raised platform, so that the tricks, which were the prime feature of the entertainment, could be seen. This platform was artistically decorated, and chairs, screens, tables, gauze hangings, and all the accessories required by the exhibitors were conveniently near. To the left of the platform there stood an upright piano, on which low music was played throughout the performance.

The hour stated for the matinée was three in the afternoon, and as most of the guests were present, it opened promptly with a succession of college songs furnished by a mandolin quartet, after which the following tricks, were shown.

It will be noticed that many of these tricks are already familiar, and very easily executed, when you know how. We will hope the accompanying explanation will stimulate some readers to try

THE NUT TRICK.

The shell must be prepared before the performance. Remove the kernel by boring a hole, or opening the nut at one end. Take out the contents by the aid of a lady's hat-pin, and instead of the kernel, slip in a short piece of scarlet-colored baby-width ribbon. Then putty or wax the opening over, and color the putty or wax with a dye, crayon, or paint the exact shade of the nut. The nut being thus prepared, you may now lay it on the table before your friends, and present a bunch of many-colored ribbons of the same width and length to them. Ask that some one select any piece he choose; you must have a don't-care air, as though it didn't make any difference to you which piece was chosen. While, on the contrary, you care so much, that should a wrong selection be made you must at once tell an interesting story, which will help your friends to forget that the ribbon has already been selected, and you should make use of this opportunity to offer the ribbons over again. This time the selection will likely be correct. It would be wise to have the majority of pieces of ribbon the color of the piece in the nut, as that color would catch the eye first and stand a better chance of being taken.

The right ribbon now being chosen, make a great point of looking at it; hold it up at arm's length, so that all the audience may see it. Then ask the party who made the selection to put it back in the bunch with the others and mix them all up to please himself. When he has finished, face the bunch of ribbons, and loudly repeat, three times over, "Ribbon, go into the nut." Then ask your friend to go forward and take the little hammer which he will find on the table and crack the nut open. When the nut is opened, sure enough inside is a scarlet ribbon.

BURN A LADY'S HANDKERCHIEF, BUT RETURN IT WHOLE AGAIN.

This requires a tin cylinder about eight inches in diameter and twelve inches in height. Into this put a perfectly fitting tin vessel, which is divided strictly in half. When this vessel is slid inside of the cylinder the whole does not look unlike a canister with a cover at each end. Having the handkerchief, hold it so that everybody sees it, and talk fluently, keeping the body constantly in motion, indeed making so many motions that no one has noticed that you have packed this handkerchief in the upper division of the tin vessel, and that, as you are walking towards the candle, you have turned the cylinder upside down, and that also the handkerchief you are now holding is really not a handkerchief at all, but a thin piece of muslin you have prepared to simulate a handkerchief. Pour on it a few drops of alcohol, which will help it to burn even more rapidly; tear it, if you think it more effective. When the owner thinks that her handkerchief is forever destroyed, cleverly manage to invert the cylinder, take out the handkerchief, shake it well, holding it so that all the audience sees that it is not even scorched, and then return it to the lady.

THE BOWL TRICK.

Fill a tiny tumbler with water and cover it with a bowl. Then state you will drink the water in the tumbler underneath without moving the bowl.

Of course the company do not believe you, and you ask all to turn their backs, or close their eyes, if they will promise not to look, until one of the party counts ten. Immediately they have turned their backs, or closed their eyes, you pick up another glass of water and hastily swallow a few mouthfuls. They hear the sound, but no one can look until ten is counted. By that time the glass from which you drank is hidden again, and the company catch you wiping your moist lips. Undoubtedly one of the number will be so suspicious that he will lift the bowl to see, and then is your opportunity, for you at once pick up the glass and drink, saying, as you put it down, "_I_ didn't touch the bowl."

AN IMPOSSIBLE JUMP.

Take a gentleman's hat, and, turning it around so that every one sees it, ask your friends whether, if you put it on the floor, they could jump over it. Of course they will answer "yes." Then stand it close to the wall, and tell them not to all try at once, but take their turn to jump.

TURN A GOBLET UPSIDE DOWN WITHOUT SPILLING THE WATER.

Fill a glass goblet so as not to allow any water to drop over the edge. Cover the top with a piece of paper; on the paper put your hand, and turn the goblet rapidly over; then remove the hand. The upward pressure of the air will prevent the water from spilling.

THE HAT OMELET.

Everybody who enjoys tricks is no doubt familiar with this. It is very easy to do.

First state that you are about to make an omelet. Then break three eggs into the hat, and appear to add a little milk and flour, after which shake all together and hold the hat over a lighted lamp, candle, or gas. After a few moments lift out the hot flaky omelet and pass it to your friends, otherwise they will think they have been deceived.

The secret is the omelet was cooked on the range, and was in the hat when you commenced to exhibit the trick, the hat being held too high for the audience to see inside. The eggs were not full, only the shells, the contents having been previously drawn through a tiny aperture at one end. Laugh and talk a great deal, and it will not be noticed that you do not put in the corn-starch and milk; also let a real egg drop, as if by accident, on a plate standing on the table before you, or let a table-spoon or knife fall. This will attract all eyes and further prevent discovery. As in other tricks, you should practice it before showing it to your friends.

THE WONDERFUL CARAFE.

An empty carafe is brought by your confederate. This you should rinse and drain in the presence of your audience in order to satisfy them that there is really no mistake, that the carafe is positively empty. After it has well drained dry it, wiping it around with the greatest care. In the towel which your confederate brought you he also brought a bladder, in which was a weak preparation made up of spirits of wine, sugar, and water. In this way the carafe is filled without the audience detecting. The glasses are already in position, and in each one has been put a drop or two of flavoring extract, such as pineapple, lemonade, orange, peppermint. The magician then inquires if any one would like a glass of lemonade, and being answered in the affirmative, he pours the same from the carafe by filling the glass in which the drops of lemonade extract have been placed. In like manner he will give a glass of orangeade, or whatever drink corresponds to the extract in the glasses.

THE VANISHING TEN-CENT PIECE.

Put this coin in the palm of your hand and take pains to let everybody see it. Then state that if any one of the audience will call out "Vanish" it will disappear.

The reason why is because the nail of your middle finger is covered with white wax, and closing the hand forcibly the coin instantly fastens itself to it. You must then open the hand wide and show that the ten-cent piece has really gone.

The tricks now being over, the audience rose to congratulate their young entertainers and also to exchange a few words with one another, and in so doing many of them did not discover that refreshments were about to be served until they were asked to take seats at the small tables that had most mysteriously appeared.

The refreshments were very simple, being only vanilla and strawberry rolled wafers, and delicious tea. The tea was, of course, poured into the prettiest of Japanese cups, and carried on richly decorated trays on which were laid divers colored Japanese napkins, while the graceful, cordial, Japanese-robed young girls added an indescribable charm.

And thus closed this dainty, interesting entertainment amid the pleasant chatter of the happily seated, congenial company.

THE NORMAL EYE.

BY JNO. GILMER SPEED.

If six persons casually thrown together look at the moon when it is high in the heavens, and each be asked how large the moon seems to be, it is more than likely that the questioner will receive six different answers. This probably would not be the case if the moon were near the horizon and just rising or just setting.

The differences in the answers to the first query will be due to the perfect or imperfect action of the various eyes. The comparative uniformity of the answers in the second instance would be due to the nicer adjustment of the eyes by seeing at the same time with the moon familiar objects on the earth, such as houses and trees, which would afford a standard of measurement.

Many persons old and young have remarked what I have just noted. I have often observed such differences of vision, but never gave any particular thought to the matter until the beautiful gilded statue of Diana on top of the lofty tower of the Madison Square Garden was erected as a weather-vane. The arrow of the chaste huntress points in the direction of the prevailing wind.

To me the statue, when it was first erected, seemed at least ten feet tall. To another of my friends it seemed a trifle smaller, and so did the appearance vary, until the sixth of my companions said that to him the statue seemed no larger than a good-sized doll--that is, about two feet in height.

Then we turned to the moon, and here again were six opinions. They varied from between attributing to the moon the size of a barrel-head, eighteen inches in diameter, and the size of a breakfast plate, about seven and a half inches. I was puzzled and interested, and as I saw larger than any of my friends, I was afraid that my eyes were in some way out of focus.

Next day I went to an optician to ascertain whether or not I had normal vision. I was put through the usual tests of reading, without the aid of glasses, sentences in different-sized letters. Then the optician declared that I saw with most unusual accuracy. I was puzzled at this, for I regarded Mr. Augustus St. Gaudens, who had made the weather-vane statue of Diana, as the most gifted sculptor in America, and Mr. Stanford White, the designer of the tower upon which the statue stands, as one of our most accomplished architects. These gentlemen could not have made a mistake, I thought, for surely they did not mean that Diana should have to one standing on the ground the appearance of a giantess.

It happened that the shop of the optician I consulted was in the neighborhood of Madison Square. Looking from the windows, one could see Diana changing her front as the spring winds shifted. Still she seemed at least ten feet in height. I turned to the optician.

"Have you normal vision?" I asked.

"I am not so fortunate," he replied.

"Is there any one here whose vision has been frequently tested, and about which there can be no doubt?"

A young man was sent for, and I was told that his eyesight was as perfect as human eyesight ever gets to be. I took him to the window and pointed out Diana, who now seemed in the act of shooting her arrow directly over our heads, and was therefore facing us.

"How large does she look?" I asked.

"Oh, she is too large," he responded, with a laugh; "she seems fully ten feet high to me." Here was confirmation of my own opinion.

I then went to Mr. St. Gaudens. He told me frankly that the statue was too large, and that it was to be replaced by a smaller one--five feet shorter, a diminished replica. With the modelling he was entirely satisfied, as are all other competent art critics, I believe, but he was convinced that the statue was too tall.

I asked him what the custom was in determining how much a figure that was to be placed at an elevation should be exaggerated. He told me that in modelling ordinary statues a platform could be made of the same size as the base upon which the finished work was to rest, and that then the sculptor's sense of proportion would guide him. In this case, however, where a statue was to be placed at an elevation of 325 feet, such a test was impracticable.

Hence the proportions had to be determined by a scale-drawing which showed all the various parts of the building and tower in relation to each other and to the whole. This drawing was modified until it completely satisfied the sense of proportion of both architect and sculptor. Such a method, however, appears not to have been exact enough to have prevented two of our ablest men from falling into a costly error of judgment.

By marking off a base-line for one side of a right-angled triangle, and letting another side of the triangle be the height of the tower, the length of the hypothenuse, or third side of the triangle, which would also have been the line of vision, could have been easily calculated. Then if another right-angled triangle be constructed, the hypothenuse of which is just as long as the normal human vision can see without diminishing an object of the size that it is desirable that the elevated object should appear when fixed in place, then the height of this given object would be to the hypothenuse of the second or subsidiary triangle as the hypothenuse of the larger triangle is to the height of the desired object. That is, if the normal vision will reach accurately 200 feet, that would be the hypothenuse of the second triangle. Suppose, then, that the hypothenuse of the first triangle be 500 feet, and it was desired that the elevated object should appear six feet high; then the architect would have to make it fifteen feet high for the proper result to be attained.

By applying such a plain mathematical rule as this the costly mistakes made in New York might have been obviated, and by its aid it can be determined at any time just how much an elevated object should be exaggerated so that it will look of a natural size. Such a rule as this can be applied by any school-boy who has mastered his trigonometry; but there are few, if any, architects who resort to calculations to determine a mere matter of size when it does not relate to the strength of the structure. The strength of walls and floors is of course calculated with mathematical nicety, but those matters of construction and ornamentation which only affect the appearance of buildings are determined by the taste and the sense of proportion of the designer.

And it may be that it is scarcely worth while for architects and designers to take any greater pains than they do to arrive at mathematical accuracy in those things which, after all, have only an æsthetic value. The first Diana on the tower was too large; but if a thousand had been randomly gathered in Madison Square Garden, and a census of their opinions taken, it would probably have been found that the vote stood something like this: 50 would have thought the statue 15 feet high; 100, 10 feet; 200, 8 feet; 200, 6 feet; 200, 5 feet; 100, 4 feet; 100, 3 feet; 50, 2 feet.

The statue, which was at an elevation of 325 feet from the ground, was really 18 feet in height. The present statue, which has replaced the one of which I have been speaking, is 13 feet high.

The percentage of persons having normal vision is very small, and those who by the use of glasses or spectacles correct such defects are also comparatively small, if we except those who realize the impairment of their vision as they realize, after the meridian of life has been passed, the impairment of other faculties. Children, as a rule, have normal vision; but I am assured by numerous practical opticians that not more than ten per cent. of the men and women who have passed their twenty-first birthday still have normal vision; and when a person has got beyond forty-five and can still see with the accuracy of youth, then that person affords so exceptional a case as to be worthy to be placed among the living curiosities. A small percentage of persons with abnormal vision see large, but, as a rule, eyes that are not as they should be see objects in a diminished form.

This being the case, an architect who has a normal vision, or corrects his vision by the aid of properly adjusted spectacles, and whose sense of proportion is also of a high order, will very likely continually be designing things that only a small percentage of those who are to look at them will be capable of appreciating. Out of a thousand grown persons who see his accurately proportioned work, one hundred will see it with normal eyes, and two hundred more, perhaps, will see it with eyes corrected by spectacles. Three hundred will therefore view his work as he does himself, and seven hundred, not knowing that their vision is defective, will judge that his work has been badly done. Therefore, build he ever so well, he is building only for a small minority. The children, with eyes ordinarily in a normal condition, should be the best friends an architect could cultivate, for they, in one sense, at least, usually have the capacity to look upon his work and say whether it be well done or not. But, unfortunately, about the time that young people reach an age when they begin to think seriously about art and architecture, the great majority of them also begin to lose that normal sight, without which distant objects can no longer be seen in accurate proportions. Or perhaps the architects might impress upon all those who criticise their work that a consultation with an oculist and a call upon a spectacle-maker would enable a critic to reform his adverse judgment. Such a course would be a good thing both for the eye specialist and the optician. But if an architect himself have defective vision, he can either design his structure by mathematical rules, or do for himself what has just been suggested for his critics. At any rate, the statistics available, and these are to a large extent only approximated, show that the eyesight of Americans is getting all the time more defective, and lead to the conclusion that in the course of a few more years the exceptional person will be the one who does not wear eye-glasses or spectacles or squint impertinently through the "monocle," that distinguishing mark of English and Continental dandyism.

THE LAST BEAR OF THE SEASON.

When the boys, after a long and tedious railway journey from the hot city to the cool wooded mountain country, arrived at the much-beloved hotel where they had spent several very happy summers, the first person to greet them was Sandboys, the curly-headed hall-boy with the twinkling eyes and rapid-running feet. Sandboys, as they entered the great, comfortable hotel office, was in the act of carrying a half-dozen pitchers of iced water up stairs to supply thirsty guests with the one thing needful and best to quench that thirst, and in his excitement at catching sight once again of his two little friends, managed to drop two of them with a loud crash upon the office floor.

"It's Sandboys," said Jack, gleefully. "I was afraid we wouldn't see him this year. He's been studying theelygy."

"He'll never be any kind of a preacher," returned Bob, with a laugh at the idea. "He can't hardly open his mouth without tellin' a fish story or a bear story, and I don't think his kind of stories would do for sermons."

At any rate, whatever the cause might have been, there Sandboys was, plying his old vocation, and apparently no further along in the study of theology than he had been when, a year before, he had bade the boys "good-by forever," with the statement that as he was going to be a missionary, the chances were they'd never see him again.

"I don't see why the proprietor of this hotel keeps a careless hall-boy like that," said a cross old lady, upon whose dress Sandboys had managed to spill some of the water.

"Well, you will see in a few days," returned an old maid who was sitting at her side, sharply. "Those two boys as has just come in is fearful noisy and lively, and that Sandboys last summer was the only person around here as could keep 'em quiet. When he wasn't around they was a-climbin' all over the men and a-settin' in the laps of all the ladies."

"They look movey an' noisy," said the cross old lady, eying Jack and Bob narrowly. "Whose boys be they?"

"They're cousins--their fathers is brothers. Their last name's Drake," replied the old maid.

"Humph!" sneered the cross old lady. "Seems to me, if they behaves as you say they do, they'd oughter been named Gander. Gander's a good name for all boys, 'pears to me, anyhow, a-squawkin' an' a-sissin' around all the time."

But Bob and Jack and Sandboys were blissfully unconscious of the severity of the old lady's criticism, and had eyes for the moment for none but each other.

"Hull-lo!" cried Sandboys, joyfully. "You back again?"

"Looks so, don't it?" said Jack.

"Didn't expect to see you, though, Sandboys," said Bob. "Thought you'd be off preachin'. Given up theelygy?"

"Sorter," said Sandboys. "Didn't like the prospect o' bein' et by Samoans and Feejees, so I thought I'd stick to bell-boyin' another season, anyhow; but I'll see you later, boys. I've got to hurry along with this ice-watter. It's overdue now, an' we've got the kickin'est lot o' folks here this year you ever see. One man here the other night got mad as hooky because it took forty minutes to soft bile an egg. Said two minutes was all was necessary to bile an egg softer'n mush, not understandin' anything about the science of eggs, where hens feeds on pebbles."

"Pebbles?" cried Jack, astounded at the idea.

"Certainly. Pebbles," reiterated Sandboys. "Nothin' extryordinary about that. Chickens has got to eat somethin', and up in these here States o' New Hampshire an' Vermount there ain't much left for 'em after we human bein's has been fed except pebbles, in which the soil is partickerlarly fertile. Well, when a hen fed on pebbles comes to lay eggs, cobblestones ain't in it with 'em for hardness, so's when you come to bile 'em it takes most a week to git 'em soft--an' this feller kicked at forty minutes. Most likely he's swearin' around upstairs now because o' the delay in gettin' his ice-watter; and 'tain't more'n two hours since he sent for it, neither."

With this, Sandboys, gathering up the remaining pitchers of water, bounded up the first flight of stairs like an antelope and disappeared, while Bob and Jack went with their parents in to supper, to which they did full justice, for their luncheon on the train that day had been very scrappy and meagre.

They did not see Sandboys again that night, for they were pretty well tired out with their day's exertions, and most reluctantly obeyed their parents' commands to tumble into bed at an early hour. But the next morning they were down bright and early, and there in the office, humming softly to himself, sat Sandboys, patiently awaiting such summonses as might come to him from the awakening guests above.

"It's nice to see you again, boys," he said, as they greeted him. "Somehow the hotel 'ain't seemed natural without you. It's been too sorter peaceful an' quiet like; but now that you're back, I reckon the band'll begin to play a few tunes. All been well?"

"First rate," said Jack. "How about you?"

"Pretty good," said Sandboys. "'Ain't had much to complain about. Had the measles in December, and the mumps in February; an' along about the middle o' May the whoopin'-cough got a holt of me; but as it saved my life, I can't kick about that."

Here Sandboys looked gratefully at an invisible something--doubtless the recollection in the thin air of his departed case of whooping-cough, for having rescued him from the grave.

"That's queer," put in Bob, looking curiously at his old friend. "I don't see how whoopin'-cough could save anybody's life. Do you, Jack?"

"I guess I don't," replied Jack; "but it isn't queer if it saved Sandboys's life, because somehow or other queer things happen so often to him that they've stopped being queer to me."

"Well, I must say," said Sandboys, with a pleased laugh at Jack's tribute to the wondrous quality of his experiences, "if I was a-goin' to start out to save people's lives generally I wouldn't have thought a case o' whoopin'-cough would be of much use; but as long as I'm the feller that has to come up here every June an' shoo the bears out o' the hotel, I ain't never goin' to be without a spell o' whoopin'-cough along about that time if I can help it."

"What do you mean by shooing out the bears?" asked Jack.

"It's part o' my business," said Sandboys. "I told you once before about how the bears come down from the mountains in winter and sleep here in the hotel rooms, an' lead a reg'lar hotel life among 'emselves, until the snow melts, when we have to drive 'em out. They climb in the windows of the cupola generally, burrowin' down to it through the snow, an' divide up the best rooms in the house, an' enjoy life out o' the wind an' storm, snug 's bugs in rugs. Last June there must ha' been a hundred of 'em here when I got here, an' one by one I got rid of 'em. Some I smoked out; some I deceived, gettin' 'em to chase me out through the winders, an' then doublin' back on my tracks an lockin' 'em out. Others I gets rid of in other ways; but it's pretty hard work, an' when night comes I'm generally pretty well tired out.