Chapter XII (1)

As soon as George had spoken he disengaged himself gently from his mother's arms. She was still weeping, but blessing him.

"God will reward you, my son, for this yielding to your mother!" she cried.

"I don't know, mother, whether I deserve a reward, or not," he answered, in the same strange voice in which he had first spoken. "I am not sure whether I am doing right or not, but I know I could not do otherwise. I did not yield to your command, but to your entreaty. But let me go, mother." And before she could stop him he was out of the room, and she heard his quick step up the stairs and his door locked after him.

He tore off his uniform as if every shred of it burned him, put on his ordinary clothes, and then sitting down on the bed, gazed blankly before him.

And blank looked the life before him. He had suffered himself to dwell upon the thought of a naval or military career until it had become a part of his life. He foresaw that the same strange weakness on his mother's part which kept him from joining the navy might keep him out of the army. True, if there should be war between the French and English in the Northwest it would be his duty to defend his country, and no pleadings could keep him back then; but that was only a contingency. And, in any event, he could not again ask the help, in getting a commission, of the only persons who could serve him--his brother Laurence, and Lord Fairfax--after this unfortunate ending of his first attempt. And, worst of all, he was not sure that he was right, and he was very sure his mother was wrong. That of itself was a staggering blow. He had always fancied his mother perfect, and her weakness, her blind partiality for him over the rest of her children, at once shattered his ideal. She was a true and devoted mother, but in a great emergency she showed a tender unwisdom that seemed foreign to her character. George did not love her any the less for this, but he realized that after this he must think and act for himself. She had not thought of how far he was committed in the matter, or that his brother Laurence might be justly offended at his course--she only thought of the anguish of giving him up. It was all hard and inscrutable to the boy, sitting with rigid face and dry eyes, gazing before him and seeing nothing. He did not know how long he sat there. He heard Betty's light step, and lighter tap upon the door, and she called him softly through the key-hole.

"Go away, dear Betty," answered George; "I can't see anybody just now."

It seemed to him days, not hours, before he heard the bell for dinner. He gathered himself together and went down stairs. Betty almost cried out when she saw him, he was so haggard. His mother saw it too, and it made her heart ache; but in her heart she felt that it was better to have him as he was than to say good-by to him forever, which she was firmly persuaded would be the case had he gone in the navy. Madam Washington, being naturally a woman of great integrity, was not at ease in her mind. She had not forgotten the light in which she would appear before Laurence Washington and Lord Fairfax. She read again and again that letter from Joseph Ball, which George had appalled her by calling both ignorant and foolish. She had been taught to think brother Joseph a monument of wisdom, but she was not so sure of it after having acted on his advice in this great event.

At dinner both George and his mother were perfectly composed and polite. Neither the children nor the servants knew that anything was the matter, until Betty betrayed it. But little Betty's heart was so full for George's disappointment that she could not eat her dinner, and tears dropped upon her plate. Towards the last of the dinner one of the little boys suddenly exclaimed,

"Brother, I saw you in your uniform this morning; are you going to wear it every day?"

At this Betty burst into a loud sob, and getting up from the table, rushed to George and threw her arms about him. George rose and led the weeping girl out of the room. Usually such an infraction of discipline and table manners as George and Betty leaving the table without permission would have been strictly prohibited. But their mother saw that these two young souls were wrought up to the keenest distress, and as she had gained her victory she could afford to be magnanimous.

"Betty," said George, hurriedly, when they got out of the room, "put on your hood, and let us go into the woods. It makes one feel better, when one is sad, to go into the woods."

The day was dull and overcast as the boy and girl, hand in hand, tramped across the fields to where the fringe of cedars formed the advance-guard of the woodlands. George held Betty's hand very tightly in his. _She_ understood him, at least.

They said but little until they were well in the heart of the woods, and had sat down upon a fallen tree. Then George, laying his head on Betty's shoulder, burst into tears, and cried as if his heart would break.

No creature was ever better formed to feel for others than sweet little Betty. She had never seen George weep like that; but she was not frightened or disconcerted. She only laid her wet cheek against George's, and sighed so deeply that he knew that his burden lay as heavy on her heart as on his. Presently, when he had become more composed, Betty spoke:

"Brother, hard as it is, I am glad of one thing--nobody can say anything to you about it, after you have said that you gave way to our mother, for no boy, or man either, can let anybody in the world find fault with his mother."

"Yes, Betty," answered George, sadly. "I will not be such a poltroon as to let any one say my mother has not acted right."

"She meant to act right," said Betty; "but--" Betty paused, and the brother and sister looked into each other's eyes and said no more, but each understood the other.

"Of course," sighed Betty, "it would have been the hardest thing in the world to have you go away; but if you wanted to go, dear George, and it was best for you, _I_ would have given you up; and I would have tried not to cry when you went away, and I would have thought of you every single day while you were away, and if you had not come home for ten years or twenty years, I would have loved you just as much as ever."

George had always loved Betty dearly, but he felt now, at the hour of his cruelest disappointment, what it was to have that tender sister, to whom he could reveal his whole heart. Much as he loved his brother Laurence, deeply as he revered Lord Fairfax, and with all his love and reverence for his mother, he felt obliged to keep up before them a manly fortitude; but Betty was young and inexperienced, like himself, and, because of that, in some ways she was nearer to him than anybody else.

The two sat there until late in the afternoon, and so quiet were they that a squirrel came boldly out of his hole and hopped past them, and a robin, with a weak little pretence of a song, in spite of the wintry weather, swung within reach of them. It was nearly sunset before they took their way homeward. George, like all boys, was not glib of tongue in expressing his emotions; but when they got to the edge of the woods he kissed her, and said:

"Betty, I don't know what I would have done if it hadn't been for you this miserable day."

The little sister's loyal heart grew almost happy at this.

A hard task remained for George. He had to write to his brother Laurence and to Lord Fairfax, announcing what he had done. They were not easy letters to write, but he carefully refrained from any hint of blame upon his mother.

Madam Washington, having gained her heart's desire, could not now do too much for George. He was already far advanced beyond Mr. Hobby's school, and his mother determined to have a tutor for him. Nothing was too good for him now; his tutor must be a university man, with every qualification in family and manners as well as learning. But there was no such person within reach, and communication in those days being slow and uncertain, there seemed no immediate chance of finding one. George went his way calmly, but with his disappointment eating into his heart. He studied surveying, in which he was already proficient, with Mr. Hobby, but he did nothing else. Even his beloved hunting and shooting palled upon him. He would spend the day at work, having Mr. Hobby's help in the afternoon, and at night he would work out at home what he had done during the day. Mother and son never failed in courtesy and even affection for each other; indeed, Madam Washington lavished affection upon him in a manner hitherto unknown to him; but there was a little shadow between them.

Heretofore George had not escaped being lectured for his youthful shortcomings, but no fault was ever found with him now. Even Billy's laziness was excused, and he might be as idle as he pleased; like his young master, he enjoyed a complete immunity from fault-finding. This was not a natural or a healthy way for the mother and son to live; and one day, when George walked in and laid a letter from Lord Fairfax in his mother's hand, saying, simply, "I think I should like that, mother," Madam Washington, with one sharp pang, felt that they must part--at least for a while.

The letter was brief, and had no mention of the warrant in the navy, by which George subtly understood that Lord Fairfax knew it was a delicate subject, and would say nothing about it. The Earl wrote, however, that he had determined to have his lands across the mountains surveyed during the coming summer, and offered George for it a sum of money so large that to the boy's unsophisticated mind it seemed a fortune. But Lord Fairfax stipulated that George should have a license from the State of Virginia, as his surveys would no doubt often be called in question, and there must be a recorded proof of his efficiency.

Madam Washington sighed deeply, yet there was no doubt that he must go. He would be sixteen within a few days, and he was already as developed in mind and body as a young man of nineteen. Her plans for his further education seemed impossible to realize, and it was plain there was but one thing to do--to let him go. She told him so that night, and the first gleam of sunshine came into his face that she had seen since the day after his return home. Betty's comment was like her.

"If you want to go, George, I want you to go; but it will be doleful at Ferry Farm without you."

George immediately made preparations for his examination in surveying, and having passed it successfully and got his certificate, he was ready to start on his journey as soon as the spring should open. He wrote to his brother Laurence, stating his plan, and saying he would spend a night at Mount Vernon on his way. Laurence had shown the same consideration for George's feelings that Lord Fairfax had, and, in reply to the letter returning the midshipman's warrant, had merely said that he regretted he had not known of Madam Washington's determination sooner. One sentence at the end touched George: "Your little niece is well, but she is but a frail child, and I have a presentiment that Mount Vernon will never come to any child of mine. For that reason, as you will some day be master of this place, I would like to have you here as often and as long as your mother can spare you. My own constitution is delicate, and nothing is more probable than that you will have Mount Vernon for your own before you are of age."

Madam Washington made the preparations for George's departure with a steady cheerfulness that belied her sad heart. She herself proposed that he should take Billy along. She offered him such a considerable sum of money that George knew she must be depriving herself of many things, and refused to take it all. In every way there was a strong though silent purpose to make up to him for her one moment of weakness. George felt this, and when, on the morning of his departure, his mother bade him good-by, with a smile on her pale lips, he felt a softening of the heart towards her that lasted not only during this separation, but through all the coming years, with their tremendous events.

Little Betty wept torrents of tears, protesting all the time. "Dear George, I am glad for you to go--I don't want you to stay--I can't help crying a little, though."

George held her in his arms with a full heart, and wished that he had words to tell her how much she was to him; but Betty understood well enough. When the last farewells were said, and George was out of sight of his mother's brave smile and Betty's tears, a sudden revulsion of feeling came to him, as it does to all healthy young natures. He had got to the very extremity of his despair, and there was a strong reaction. He was essentially a boy of action, and action was now before him. Indeed, he was no longer a boy, but a man, with responsibilities upon him that seldom fall to young people of his years. He had his surveyor's license in his pocket, and upon the use he made of it might depend not only issues of property, but of peace and war; because he knew that the unsettled state of the frontier was the real reason why Lord Fairfax meant to have the wild lands in his grant surveyed. The day was bright, it was in the spring-time, and he was well mounted on a good horse. Billy, riding a stout cart-horse and carrying the saddle-bags, was behind him, and Rattler was trotting by his side. Things might be worse, thought George, as he struck into a canter, and wondered that his heart was so blithe. He would see his brother and sister that night, and little Mildred, and in a few days more he would be again at Greenway with the Earl and Lance; and he would have all the books he wanted to read, and fencing whenever he liked. He wondered how much he had forgotten of it; he had not fenced since leaving Mount Vernon at Christmas. But neither had he read or done anything else, it seemed to George, so blank was the time from the day he came home until then. Billy hankered after the flesh-pots of Mount Vernon, where things were conducted on a much grander scale than at the simple Ferry Farm homestead. George heard him chuckling to himself, and turning in the saddle, asked,

"What pleases you so, Billy?"

"Tuckey, suh," answered Billy, promptly, "wid sassages roun' dee necks--an' oshters an' sp'yar-ribs an' chines an' goose, an' all dem t'ings dee black folks gits in de kitchen at Mount Vernon."

It was a good forty-five miles to Mount Vernon, but George made it by eight o'clock that night.

His brother and sister were delighted to see him, and little Mildred had not forgotten him. After a traveller's supper, George told them all his plans. He passed quickly over the giving up of his midshipman's warrant, merely saying, "My mother begged me not to leave her for the sea, and I consented. But," he added, after a pause, "it nearly broke my heart."

He was distressed to see his brother looking so pale and thin, and still more so at the despondent tone Laurence took about himself. He would have had George go into the study, and there with him discuss the present state of the place and its future management, as if he were certain that one day it would be George's; but this the boy refused.

"No, brother," he said, "I can only inherit Mount Vernon through misfortune to you and yours; and do you suppose I like to think about that? Indeed I do not; and I neither think nor care about what you do on the place, except that it shall be for your own satisfaction."

The next morning George was off, much to the regret of his brother and sister, and also of Billy, who had promised himself a regular carnival in the Mount Vernon kitchen.

The road was the same that George had taken nearly five months before, on his first expedition to Greenway Court. Then it had been at the fall of the leaf, and now it was at the bursting of the spring. Already the live-oaks and poplars were showing a faint and silvery green, and in sheltered sunny spots grass was sprouting. The water-courses were high from the melting of the snow, and fording them was not always without difficulty, or even danger. At every mile that George travelled his mind and heart gained a better balance by quick degrees. He was sorry to be parted from his mother and Betty, but he was at a time of life when he must try his own strength, and he was the better for it. He stopped at the same taverns that he had halted at when with Lord Fairfax. Billy proved himself to be an excellent hostler as well as valet, and George did not mean to forget mentioning to his mother, when he should have an opportunity of sending a letter, how extremely useful Billy was. On the fourth day, being well up in the mountains, they came to Lord Fairfax's coach-house, as it was called; but instead of stopping, George pushed on to Greenway Court, much to Billy's disgust, who had no taste for long journeys on traveller's fare. On a March night, that, although cool, had a touch of spring in the air, and under a glorious moon, George rode up to the door at Greenway Court, and joyfully dismounted. Lord Fairfax did not know the exact day to expect him, but knew he would arrive about that time. When George's loud rat-tat resounded upon the great oak doors, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to have them opened by old Lance, who said, as if he had seen George half an hour before:

"Good-evening, Mr. Washington; my lord is expecting you. Billy, take the horses around to the stable."

George walked in, and almost ran into the Earl's arms. Lord Fairfax was overjoyed to see him, and although he did not say much, his pleasure shone in his eyes. George's room was ready for him; there was a fine young half-thoroughbred in the stables that was waiting for George's saddle and bridle to be put on him; Lance had some bears' paws for his supper whenever he should arrive; there were some books on surveying imported from England for him. Had he been Lord Fairfax's son and heir he could not have been received with greater consideration. The Earl could not do enough for him. It was:

"Lance, is Mr. Washington's room prepared for him?"

"Yes, sir. It has been ready for a week."

"And, Lance, Mr. Washington will probably want you in the morning in the armory."

As soon as supper was over, George displayed proudly his license as surveyor, and would have plunged into the affair of the surveys at once, but Lord Fairfax gave the first intimation then that he did not consider George a full-fledged man.

"Never mind for to-night, George. Very young gentlemen like you are apt to go at things like a hunter at a five-barred gate, but you can wait awhile. Besides, you must go to bed early after your journey, so as to get sleep--a thing that growing boys cannot do without."

George felt several years younger at this speech, and blushed a little for his mannish airs, but the Earl's advice about going to bed was sound, and in five minutes after finding himself in the great high-post bed he was sleeping the sleep of healthy and active boyhood.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

THE JUJUBE MAN.

BY ALBERT LEE.

At the foot of Spice Lane, in Carameltown,
Lives a funny little jujube fellow;
His body is red and his legs are brown,
And his hands and his feet are yellow.

This jujube man has a nice little farm,
With a rooster, a hen, and a hog,
All well watched over and kept from harm
By a little red jujube dog.

But the jujube man does not like the heat,
For it almost makes him melt,--
And his head bends over 'most down to his feet,
And his toes bend up to his belt.

THE VOYAGE OF THE "RATTLETRAP."

BY HAYDEN CARRUTH.

IV.

We were a good deal disappointed in not getting over into Nebraska, because we had seen enough of Dakota, but there was no help for it. A log had got caught in the paddle-wheel of the ferry-boat and wrecked it, and there was no other way of crossing.

"Old Blacky could swim across," said Jack, "but Browny would go to sleep and drown."

It is rather doubtful, however, about even Blacky's ability to have swum the river, since it was a half-mile wide, and with a rather swift current. In the afternoon we walked back to Yankton and bought the biggest felt hats we could find, with wide and heavy leather bands. We knew that we would now soon be out in the stock-growing country, and that, as Jack said, "the cowboys wouldn't have any respect for us unless we were top heavy with hat."

We were camped on the high bank of the river, opposite a farm-house. It was getting dusk when we got back to the wagon, with our heads aching from our new hats, which seemed to weigh several pounds apiece. Jack, as cook, announced that there was no milk on hand, and sent Ollie over to the neighboring house to see if he could get some. Ollie returned, and reported that the man was away from home, but that the woman said we could have some if we were willing to go out to the barn-yard and milk one of the cows. The others decided that it was my duty to milk, but I asked so many foolish questions about the operation, that Jack became convinced that I didn't know how, and said he would do it himself. We all went over to the house, borrowed a tin pail from the woman, and went out to the yard.

We found about a dozen cows inside, of various sizes, but all long-legged and long-horned.

"Must be this man belongs to the National Trotting-Cow Association," said Jack, as he crawled under the barbed-wire fence into the yard. "That red beast over there in the corner ought to be able to trot a mile in less than three minutes."

He cautiously went up to a spotted cow which seemed to be rather tamer than the rest, holding out one hand, and saying, "So, bossy," in oily tones, as if he thought she was the finest cow he had ever seen. When he was almost to her she looked at him quickly, kicked her nearest hind foot at him savagely, and walked off, switching her tail, and shaking her head so that Ollie was afraid it would come off and be lost.

"Can't fool _that_ cow, can I?" said Jack, as he turned to another. But he had no better luck this time, and after trying three or four more he paused and said:

"These must be the same kind of cows Horace Greeley found down in Texas before the war. When he came back he said the way they milked down there was to throw a cow on her back, have a nigger hold each leg, and extract the milk with a clothes-pin."

But at last he found a brindled animal in the corner which allowed him to sit down and begin. He was getting on well when, without the least warning, the cow kicked, and sent the pail spinning across the yard, while Jack went over backwards, and his new hat fell off. There was one calf in the yard which had been complaining ever since we came, because it had not yet had its supper. The pail stopped rolling right side up, and this calf ran over and put his head in it, thinking that his food had come at last. Jack picked himself up and ran to rescue the pail. The calf raised his head suddenly, the pail caught on one of his little horns, and he started off around the yard, unable to see, and jumping wildly over imaginary objects. Jack followed. A cow, which was perhaps the mother of the calf, started after Jack. The family dog, hearing the commotion, came running down from the house and began to pursue the cow. This wild procession went around the yard several times, till at last the pail came off the calf's head, and Jack secured it. Then he picked up his hat, the brim of which another calf had been chewing, rinsed out the pail at the pump, and tried another cow.

This time he selected the worst-looking one of the lot, but to the surprise of all of us she stood perfectly still, only switching him a few times with her tall. As soon as he got a couple of quarts of milk he stopped and came out of the yard. Ollie and I had, of course, been laughing at him a good deal, but Jack paid no attention to it. As we walked toward the house he said:

"Well, there's one consolation; after all of that work and trouble the woman can't put on the face to charge us for the milk." A moment later he said to her, "I've got about two quarts; how much is it?"

"Ten cents," answered the woman. "Didn't them cows seem to take kindly to you?"

"Well, they didn't exactly crowd around me and moo with delight," replied Jack, as he handed over a dime with rather bad grace.

That evening a neighbor called on us as we sat about our camp fire, and we told him the experience with the cows.

"Puts me in mind of the time a fellow had over at the Santee Agency a year or so ago," said our visitor. "There's a man there named Hawkins that's got a tame buffalo cow. Of course you might as well try to milk an earthquake as a buffalo. Well, one day a man came along looking for work, and Hawkins hired him. Milking-time came, and Hawkins sent the man out to milk, but forgot to tell him about the buffalo. The man was a little green, and it was sort of dark in the barn, and the first thing he tried to milk was the buffalo cow. She kicked the pail through the window, smashed the stall, and half broke the man's leg the first three kicks. He hobbled to the house, and says to Hawkins, 'Old man, that there high-shouldered heifer of yourn out there has busted the barn and half killed me, and I reckon I'll quit and go back East, where the cows don't wear sleigh-robes and kick with four feet at once.'"

Bright and early the next morning we got off again. Nothing of importance happened that day. We were travelling through a comparatively old-settled part of the country, and the houses were numerous. A young Indian rode with us a few miles, but he was a very civilized sort of red man. He had been at work on a farm down near Yankton, and was on his way to the Ponca Reservation to visit his mother. As an Indian he rather disgusted Ollie.

"If I was a big six-foot Indian," he said, after our passenger had gone, "I think I'd carry a tomahawk, and wear a feather or two at least. I don't see what's the advantage of being an Indian if you're going to act just like a white man."

We camped that night in a beautiful nook in a bluff near a little stream. The next day we reached Running Water. The ferry-boat was a little thing, with a small paddle-wheel on each side operated by two horses on tread-mills. A man stood at the stern with a long oar to steer it. The river was not so wide here as at Yankton, but the current was swifter, which no doubt gave the place its name. It looked very doubtful if we would ever get across in the queer craft, but after a long time we succeeded in doing so. It gave us a good opportunity to study the water of the river, which looked more like milk than water, owing to the fine clay dissolved in it. The ferryman thought very highly of the water, and told us proudly that a glass of it would never settle and become clear.

"It's the finest drinking-water in the world," he said. "I never drink anything else. Take a bucket of it up home every evening to drink overnight. You don't get any of this clear well-water down me."

We tasted of it, but couldn't see that it was much different from other water.

"Boil it down a little, and give it a lower crust, and I should think it would make a very good custard pie," said Jack.

We found Niobrara to be a little place of a few hundred houses. We went into camp on the edge of the town, where we staid the next day, as it was Sunday. Early Monday morning we were out on the road which led along the banks of the Niobrara River. We were somewhat surprised at the smallness of this stream. It was of considerable width but very shallow, and in many places bubbled along over the rocks like a wide brook. We spoke of its size to a man whom we met. Said he:

"Yes, it ain't no great shakes down here around its mouth, but you just wait till you get up in the neighborhood of its head-waters. It's a right smart bit of a river up there."

"But I thought a river was usually bigger at its mouth than at its source," I said.

"Depends on the country it runs through," answered the man. "Some rivers in these parts peter out entirely, and don't have no mouth a' tall--just go into the ground and leave a wet spot. This here Niobrara comes through a dry country, and what the sun don't dry up and the wind blow away the sand swallers mostly, though some water does sneak through, after all; and in the spring it's about ten times as big as it is now. The Niobrara goes through the sand hills. Anything that goes through the sand hills comes out small. You fellers are going through the sand hills--you'll come out smaller than you be now."

This was the first time we had heard of the sand hills, but after this everybody was talking about them and warning us against them.

"Why," said one man, "you know that there Sarah Desert over in Africa somewhere? Well, sir, that there Sarah is a reg'lar flower-garden, with fountains a-squirting and the band playing 'Hail Columbia,' 'longside o' the Newbraska sand hills. You'll go through 'em for a hundred miles, and you'll wish you'd never been born!"

This was not encouraging, but as they were still several days' travel ahead, we resolved not to worry about them.

About the middle of the afternoon we came upon a great level prairie stretching away to the west as far as we could see. There seemed to be but few houses, and the scattering fields of corn were stunted and dried up. It had apparently been an extremely dry season, though the prospects for rain that night were good, and grew better. It was hot, and a strong south wind was blowing. Night soon began to come on, but we could find no good camping-place. We had not passed a house for four or five miles, nor a place where we could get water for the horses. As it grew dark, however, it began to rain. It kept up, and increased to such an extent that in half an hour there were pools of water standing along the road in many places, and we decided to stop. It was wet work taking care of the horses, but the most discouraging thing was the report from the cook that there was no milk with which to make griddle-cakes for supper, and as he did not know how to make anything else, the prospect was rather gloomy. But through the rain we finally discovered a light a quarter of a mile away, and Ollie and I started out to find it. Jack refused to go, on the plea that he was still lame from his Yankton trip after milk.

We blundered away through the rain and darkness, and after stumbling in a dozen holes, running into a fence, and getting tangled up in an abandoned picket-rope, at last came up to the house. It was a little one-room board house such as the settlers call a "shack." The door was open, and inside we could see a man and woman and half a dozen children and a full dozen dogs. We walked up, and when the man saw us he called "Come in!" tossed two children on the bed in the corner, picked up their chairs, which were home-made, and brought them to us.

"Wet, ain't it?" he exclaimed. "Rainy as the day Noah yanked the gang-plank into the Ark. I was a-telling Martha there was a right smart chance of a shower this afternoon. What might you-uns' names be, and where might you be from, and where might you be going?"

We told him all about ourselves, and he went on:

"Rainy night. Too late to help the co'n, though. Co'n's poor this year; reckon we'll have to live on taters and hope. Tater crop ain't no great shakes, though. Nothing much left but hope, and dry for that. Reckon I'll go back to old Missouri in the spring, and work in a saw-mill. No saw-mills here,'cause there ain't nothing to saw. Hay don't need sawing. Martha," he added, turning to his wife, "was it you said our roof didn't need mending?"

"I said it did need it a powerful sight," answered the woman, as she put another stick of hay in the stove, and a stream of rain-water sputtered in the fire.

"Mebby you're right," said the man. "There's enough dry spots for the dogs and children, but when we have vis'tors somebody has got to get wet. Reckon I oughter put on two shingles for vis'tors to set under. You fellers will stay to supper, of course. We 'ain't got much but bacon and taters, but you're powerful welcome."

"No," I said, "we really mustn't stop. What we wanted was to see if we couldn't get a little milk from you."

"Well, I'll be snaked!" exclaimed the man. "That makes me think I 'ain't milked the old cow yet."

"I milked her more'n two hours ago, while you was cleaning your rifle," said his wife.

"That so?" replied the man. "Where's the milk?"

The woman looked around a little. "Reckon the dogs or the young 'uns must 'a' swallered it. 'Tain't in sight, nohow."

"Oh, we can milk 'er again," exclaimed the man. "Old Spot sometimes comes down heavier on the second or third milking than she does on the first."

He took a gourd from a shelf, and told us to "come on," and started out. He wore a big felt hat, but no coat, and he was barefooted. Just outside the door stood a bedstead and two or three chairs. "We move 'em out in the day-time to make more room," explained the man. The rain was still pouring down. The man took our lantern and began looking for the cow. He soon found her, and while I held the lantern, and Ollie our jug, he went down on his knees beside the cow and began to milk with one hand, holding the gourd in the other. The cow stood perfectly still, as if it was no new thing to be milked the second time. We had on rubber coats, but the man was without protection, and as he sat very near the cow a considerable stream ran off of her hip bone and down the back of his neck. When the gourd was full he poured it in our jug, and at my offering to pay for it he was almost insulted. "Not a cent, not a cent," he exclaimed. "Al'ays glad to 'commodate a neighbor. Good-night; coming down in the morning to swap hosses with you."

He went back to the house, and we started for the wagon.

"He wouldn't have got quite so wet if he hadn't kept so close to the cow," said Ollie, as we walked along.

"What he needs," said I, "are eave-troughs on his cow."

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

HOW CAPTAIN JACK GOT HIS TITLE.

"Captain Jack," said Tommie, as he and Bobbie drew near to the Old Sailor at the sea-shore, shortly after their arrival, "you've told us a great many stories, but you never told us how you came to be a Captain. Was it for bravery in battle?"'

"No, my lad," replied the old Captain. "I've been brave enough in battle to be an Admiral, but I never got no promotion for it. It was indoorance won my title for me."

"Endurance?" said Bobbie. "That's as good as bravery, isn't it?"

"Better," said Captain Jack. "A great deal better. A great many brave people give out when they oughtn't to, but indoorin' people never gives out."

"Nor in, neither," said Tommie, "I guess."

"I guess likewise," said Captain Jack. "It wuz this way: In eighteen seventy-one--no, I guess it was eighteen seventy-three--no--waal I never--when was it?"

"Make it 1874," said Bobbie. "Three and one make four."

"That's when it was," said Captain Jack. "In eighteen seventy-four I shipped as a able-bodied seaman before the mast with Captain William Bilkes, of East Gloucester, Massachusetts, of the brig _Peter J._, of Nantucket. The _Peter J._ was a pretty good boat. They called her a brig, but she wasn't nothin' in particular, as far as I could see. She was a composite boat--like them fortygrafts. The owners of her bought her stern in New York, an' fastened it onto the bow of a wrack they'd purchased in a junk-shop at Plymouth. The rudder wuz a relict of a defunct Spanish man-o'-war, an' the masts wuz bought at a bargain sale o' ship stuffs at Phillydelphy. Whar the cabin come from I dun'no', but it was amatoor from way back.

"When I fust seed the ship I says, No, I don't want none o' her in mine. I'm fond o' swimmin', but I wants it as a diwersion an' not fer bizness. But Cap'n Bilkes he says to me, says he: 'Jack you're the best sailor afloat, an' I needs yer. Come with me, an' I'll give yer two thousand dollars a month!'

"'Cap'n,' says I, 'that ain't what I gen'rally gets, but to oblige ye I'll come at them figgers;' an' I went, not askin' at all where we was a-goin' to go to.

"Waal, we sets out, me before the mast with the others, an' the Cap'n an' two mates, four midshipmen, three soupycargoes, an' others behind the mast.

"First day out, down comes the Cap'n with the mumps. Dies. Chucked overboard.

"Second day out, down comes the two mates with measles. Dies. Buried at sea.

"Third day out, down comes the soupycargoes with whoopin'-cough. Dies. All's over.

"Fourth day out, down comes the hull crew, except me, with shycumotis, due to havin' eat too much tomatoes. Dies. Nothin' left aboard but me with the _Mary Jones_--"

"_Peter J._," said Bobbie.

"The _Peter J._," observed Captain Jack. "Git 'em mixed sometimes; they's so many boats, I 'ain't more trouble to-- There was me all alone by myself aboard the _Henry Q._ to bring her into port, loaded as she was with olives an' fried potaters.

"It was a tarrable responsibility, but I took it on. So, my boys, there bein' no soupycargoes, nor no mates, nor no cap'ns, nor no nothin' save me an' the decks onto the ship, I 'p'inted myself commander-in-chief, an' thar ye be."

"It's very interesting," said Tommie.

"You bet it is!" said Captain Jack; "but it ain't half so interesting to me as a box o' imported cigars would be."

And the boys walked off, and later on Captain Jack received a box of imported cigars--"just," as Tommie said, "to interest him."

A SMALL ELECTRIC-LIGHT OUTFIT.

HOW TO MAKE THE BATTERY AND HOW TO SET IT UP.

BY THOMAS R. TALTAVALL.

All young readers of HARPER'S ROUND TABLE are probably familiar with the appearance of the electric light--that wonderful little glass bulb that we see in stores, hotels, theatres, etc.--and no doubt many have wondered what causes the hairlike loop inside the bulb to become so brilliantly luminous. Electricity does it; but no one knows what electricity is, not even the most advanced scientific thinker of the day. We know how to produce it and how to handle it, but further than that we are still in ignorance.

The electricity necessary to light an incandescent lamp, such as we see in stores, etc., is generated in a machine called a _dynamo_. The dynamo is driven by a steam-engine, and produces electric current in large quantities for electric-lighting on a large scale. Electricity can also be produced by a battery, but in very small quantity as compared with that produced by a dynamo; and in order to light a house by electricity from a battery, so many cells would be required that it would be decidedly inconvenient and troublesome to keep them in order.

It may interest the boys among the readers of HARPER'S ROUND TABLE to know that with a little ingenuity a battery can be constructed by themselves which will give sufficient current to light a small electric lamp. Such an outfit is full of interest and instructive to young people, and its use creates a desire for a wider knowledge of this most fascinating subject.

Electric lamps are made of all sizes, from the size of a pea to that of the lamp we see every day and are most familiar with, and they are used for a great variety of purposes. The lamps referred to here are those having a pear-shaped glass bulb, and which are known as incandescent lamps. The kind we see in the streets, giving a very powerful light, are called arc-lights. With this class of lights, however, we will have nothing to do here. The object of this article is to give plain directions for the construction of a battery to light a small electric lamp. Some boys may think that because electricity is something mysterious it must be very difficult to produce; but that is not the case. A battery is easily made, and by following the directions here given we can produce just the same kind of light we see in stores and other public places, only on a smaller scale.

We must provide three things, namely, the battery, the lamp, and the wire to conduct the current from the battery to the lamp.

First, the battery. A cell of battery, such as we shall need, is made up of four constituent parts--the glass jar, a rod of zinc, a couple of carbon rods, and the solution in which the carbons and zincs are to be immersed. Two such cells will be needed to give a brilliant light.

For our purpose ordinary glass tumblers will answer very well for the jars. Tumblers are suggested, because almost every boy can obtain his mother's consent to use a couple for this purpose.

The next things to provide are the zincs and carbons. The zinc may be of any shape, flat, square, or round, but we have selected the round form for our battery because it is easily obtained, and more easily handled and prepared by the amateur for an experimental battery. All electrical-supply houses keep Leclanche zincs, which are rods of that metal about 3/8 of an inch in diameter and 9 inches long. One such zinc cut in two will give us two pieces each 4-1/2 inches long, which will be ample for our battery.

Carbons, like zincs, are made in many forms, but for our purpose we have also selected the round shape because they are likewise more easily obtained. Such carbons as are used in electric-arc street lights will answer very well indeed. These carbons are usually plated with a thin coating of copper, which must be removed before we can use them for our battery. This can often be done by scraping the copper off. Should that fail to completely remove it, nitric acid will; but I would not advise using acid if the copper can be removed the other way. Nitric acid is dangerous stuff to have around on account of the fumes it gives off, and its corrosive propensities when it comes in contact with fabrics and almost every other substance.

Having procured your carbons, cut them off the same length as the zincs, which can be easily done with a scroll or any other small saw. Be careful, though, because carbon is rather brittle, and will break rather than bend. The zincs and carbons should be of the same length, and should be at least an inch higher than the top of the tumbler. Two carbons and one zinc will be required for each cell.

The next step in our work is to provide means for suspending the zincs and carbons in the tumblers. This will require a little carpenter-work. Get two pieces of well-seasoned and very dry wood (any kind will do), each about 1-1/2 inches wide, 4 inches long, and 3/8 or 1/2 an inch thick, and bore three holes in each in the manner shown in Fig. 3. The holes should be, as nearly as possible, of the same diameter as the zincs and carbons, and the middle one should be midway between the ends of the wooden "hanger." The zincs and carbons are to be placed in these holes, and suspended in the tumblers as shown in Fig. 4, the zinc rod being placed in the centre, with one carbon rod on each side.

We are now ready to attach the wires to the zincs and carbons for the purpose of conveying the current from the battery to the lamp. Use No. 18 braided wire, which can be obtained of any dealer in electrical supplies. Any one caring to go to the extra expense, however, can get a silk-covered cord which is very neat and convenient, because two wires are twisted together, forming one cord. Each conductor of this cord is made up of several fine copper wires, instead of one solid wire, which makes it very flexible. But whether the cord or separate single wires are used, the connections with the zincs and carbons are the same. It is understood, of course, that it is necessary to have two wires to connect the battery and lamp. One end of each of the wires is connected with the lamp, and the other ends with the battery--one with the zincs and the other with the carbons.

Fig. 1 shows how these battery connections must be made. One of the lamp wires is connected with the two carbons of cell No. 1 and the zinc of cell No. 2, and the other wire is connected with the zinc of cell No. 1 and the two carbons of cell No. 2.

To make these connections, have a sufficient length at one end of each of the wires to wrap four or five times around the carbons and zinc, allowing a little slack between them. Wrap as firmly as possible so as to insure a tight joint, as nothing is more wasteful of current than a loose connection. We need all the current for our lamp. Before wrapping the wire it should be well scraped and cleaned, in order to secure a good connection with the zinc and carbons. A dirty connection is as bad as a loose one.

Having connected the two wires with the carbons and zincs in the manner shown, in Fig. 1, we are now ready to connect the lamp. Remove the braid, or covering, of the free ends of the two wires for about two or three inches, and after scraping and cleaning the ends of the wire, twist them tightly with the two wires projecting from the lamp; then all the connections are made. If you now place the zincs and carbons in the solution (which I will presently refer to more particularly), your battery will produce a current which will make the little lamp give a light as sparkling as a diamond. The lamp is the most important part of the outfit, and cannot be made by amateurs. It must be bought of a dealer.

Fig. 2 is an illustration of a lamp that will give a light of 1/2 candle-power or more with the battery described above. This illustration is the actual size of a 1/2 candle-power lamp. The lamp is a small glass bulb, inside of which is a short length of carbon in the shape of a small arch. This carbon is connected with the wires running through and outside of the glass bulb, and when the current flows through the wires the carbon becomes "incandescent"--that is, white-hot. This carbon is in a vacuum, the air having been exhausted from the bulb in the process of manufacture. The vacuum is essential. Should there be none, and the space be filled with air, the carbon would be destroyed by the oxygen in the air the moment the current rendered it incandescent.

In handling the lamp while making connections with the battery wires, care must be taken that the lamp wires are not broken off close to the glass by too much twisting. Should this happen, the lamp would be rendered useless, because then we could not get a connection with the carbon filament.

All the connections having been made, everything is ready to charge the battery. Charging means to fill the cells with the proper chemical solutions which, in their action upon the zinc and carbons, produce the electric current. The chemicals necessary to make the solution for the battery can be bought at any drug-store, but those of our young friends who live in cities can buy the battery fluid all ready prepared at any electrical-supply house, if they do not care to bother with making it themselves. I would advise making it fresh, however, because it gives young experimenters some experience and something to think about. The fluid is called in the trade "electropoin fluid," and is sold by the pint, quart, gallon, or any other quantity, by the regular dealers. All batteries using this fluid are generally called "Electropoin" batteries.

To make this fluid the following ingredients are necessary: bichromate of potash, sulphuric acid, and water. Bichromate of potash comes in lumps, and is of a dark red or wine color; it can be bought at any drug-store. Sulphuric acid can also be bought at any drug-store; it must be handled very carefully, as it has a disagreeable habit of burning, and otherwise destroying almost everything it comes in contact with. Glass is one of the few substances it does not attack, therefore it is safe in a glass bottle.

The following is a receipt for preparing electropoin fluid: take 1-1/2 lbs. of bichromate of potash, and after crushing the lumps as fine as possible, dissolve it in 2 quarts of boiling water. After this solution has become cold, add to it a solution composed of 1 quart of sulphuric acid and 3 quarts of water, and thoroughly mix the two. After the mixture is cool it is ready for use. This will be enough for several charges of the battery. A smaller quantity may be made by proportionate reduction in quantity of the several ingredients.

It is a very strange fact that pouring sulphuric acid into water produces no different effect than if the acid were so much water, but if the water is poured upon the acid a greatly different effect takes place. Heat is very rapidly developed, causing the liquids to boil violently, and sputtering and scattering in every direction. Care must be taken, therefore, to _pour the acid into the water_.