Chapter III (1)

The first week of Valentine's stay passed rapidly. So much of his time was occupied in visits to the oculist and in seeing the sights of the city that he was not in the house during the greater part of the day.

The Misses Herrick began to fuel some degree of liking for the boy, who, though occasionally noisy, was always polite, and he and Elizabeth were soon firm friends.

She had carried out her intention of consulting him about the affairs which most interested her. She had told him of her longing for their father's return and of the letter she had written to him; she had even conducted him to the mysterious room.

Her aunts had gone out of town for the afternoon, and Miss Rice was also absent. The coast was exceptionally clear, for Marie, who had charge of the little girl, was only too ready to neglect her duties.

Elizabeth was somewhat disappointed, however, by the effect produced upon Valentine by the disclosure of the room, or rather, the lack effect. He was apparently not in the least impressed.

He looked about him, inspected the letters, took down a little clock from the mantelpiece and examined it, and then walked to the window.

"Well," said Elizabeth, who was impatiently waiting for some expression of wonder, "what do you think of it?"

"I don't see anything to make such a fuss over. Just a room, like anybody's else."

"But whose was it?"

"Don't know and don't care."

"You don't? Why, I think it is the most exciting thing I ever heard of!"

"If that isn't just like a girl! I suppose Marjorie would go wild over it too. But come along down to the garden. I haven't seen the Brady family yet, and I believe that is one of the girls down in the alley now."

"It is," said Elizabeth, joining him at the window. "It is Eva Louise. Very well, we will go down. But I do wish you would be more excited over the room."

"It takes a good deal to excite me," replied her guest. "If it were a game of football, now, or a bicycle-race, I might get excited; but just a room!"

It would be impossible to convey an idea of the lofty scorn expressed by Valentine's voice; and much disappointed and feeling somewhat crushed, Elizabeth put away the keys. Then getting her hat and warm jacket, for the fall days were growing colder, she followed Valentine to the garden, and together they went out through the back gate.

It is one of the peculiarities of Philadelphia that small streets known as "alleys" intersect the larger thoroughfares, and in many cases behind the handsomest houses are small dwellings in which live very poor families.

The Herricks' garden occupied a large amount of space, and the alley and its inhabitants were almost too far away to be noticeable; but they were there, all the same, and here Elizabeth's friends, the Brady family, lived in a manner which formed a startling contrast to her own home.

"I have thought of something," exclaimed Elizabeth, stopping short in the alley. Eva Louise, seeing them coming, had disappeared behind her own back gate. Even in so humble an abode as that of the Bradys it was only the back which opened upon the alley.

"What is it?" asked Valentine.

"It is about the Bradys," said Elizabeth, standing close to him and speaking in a low, mysterious voice that she might not be overheard from the other side of the fence. "Don't you think, Val, that it must be very hard for those girls to live in such a tiny little house and never to have a bit good time? Why, Eva Louise thinks the very nicest thing she can do is to play jack-stones on people's door-steps. Just think of it, Val, jack-stones! And she told me once that she had never been inside of any house, except those in their street that are like their own!"

"Well, what of it? We can't help it; and what is your idea?"

"But we can help it! That is just what I am going to tell you. We can invite the Bradys in to see us."

"Oh, my eye! What would Aunt Caroline say?"

Elizabeth was silent for a minute. She had not thought of that. "I don't know," she said, slowly. "I don't suppose Aunt Caroline would like it. We will have to give it up."

"No, we won't," returned Val, who was becoming bored with city life and longed for excitement of some kind. "Let's have a party to-day while the aunts are away. They would never know."

"We might; but I should tell them afterwards, of course. I really should, Val."

"Seems to me you are getting pretty particular all of a sudden. How about that room that you go to all the time on the sly?"

"That is true. I don't believe that is right. Why didn't you say so before, Val? I will tell Aunt Caroline to-night."

"I say," interrupted Valentine, "I've got a dandy idea! Let's ask the Brady family over, and take them up to that room! No one will ever know, and it would be a jolly lark. I'll open the front door, and the servants won't know, either. It will be no end of fun. You go after them now and bring them over. You see, if we had them in the other part of the house we couldn't keep them out of sight, and the servants would make a fuss."

Elizabeth looked doubtful. "I should like to," she said, "but we shall have to keep very quiet there, and not disturb the things in the room much. It really seems as if we ought to give them a good time, though, and when I explain it all to Aunt Caroline I don't believe she will mind; do you? At least, not so very much."

"Of course she won't," said Valentine, hopefully, upon whom the scheme had taken a strong hold. "Go and get them and bring them around to the front door, and I will let you in."

And without giving her time to remonstrate, Val left her and ran up the garden walk to the house.

"After all," said Elizabeth to herself, "it can't be a wrong thing to do, for it says in the Bible that when people give parties they ought to invite all kinds of queer people. I remember perfectly it says to call in the lame, the halt, and the blind. I always thought 'call in' was such a funny expression, but I am sure it says it somewhere in the Bible, and I think it was about that party. Now the Brady family are not lame or blind, but perhaps they are halt. I never knew what halt meant, and very likely they _are_ halt. Anyhow, I mean to call them in." And suiting the action to the word, she raised her voice and called loudly: "Eva Louise! Eva Louise!"

Eva Louise had been surveying her neighbors through a hole in the fence for some time. She had even caught a word or two of the conversation, and had heard her own name mentioned, but she had not understood what it was all about. Now, seeing that Elizabeth was alone, she opened the gate.

"What do yer want?" she asked.

"Is Bella at home?"

"Guess so."

"And Tom?"

"Nope."

"Is Dick?"

"Nope."

"Isn't George?"

"Nope."

"Nor Billy?"

"Nope."

"Oh, dear me, I am so sorry! Then who is at home?"

"Me an' Bella an' the baby an' ma an', I guess, pop. He's mostly home. Pop ain't workin' now, but the boys is. What do yer want?"

"Well, I want to invite you all over to our house. I am sorry the boys are not at home." Here Elizabeth paused, somewhat embarrassed. She did not care particularly about having "ma" and "pop" Brady. The former was inclined to be cross, and there was a disagreeable odor about Mr. Brady which it was well to avoid. Elizabeth did not know just what it was, but it reminded her of that which was sometimes wafted to her from a corner saloon. Clearly it would not do to "call in" Mr. and Mrs. Brady. "Well," she said, with a sudden inspiration, "this is to be a young people's party. My brother and I are going to give it. I want to invite you and Bella to my house right away."

"To your house?" repeated the wondering Eva Louise.

"Yes. And we will go around outside to Fourth Street. Go get Bella."

So Eva Louise went into the house and informed her astonished family that she and Bella were "axed to a party over to Herrickses." Whereupon Mrs. Brady promptly seized first one and then the other of her daughters, vigorously applied a scrubbing-brush to hands and faces, set upon the tangled heads two gaudy hats with lace and flowers, pinned together the gaping rent in Bella's frock, and pronounced them ready.

"And mind yer manners," she cautioned. "Act pretty, an' mebbe the ladies'll give yer each a present. There's no knowin'."

And then they rejoined Elizabeth in the alley, where she had waited, their hearts beating high with hope.

The little group passed out of the alley and around through Spruce Street to Fourth Street. A number of people turned and looked at the oddly assorted trio walking so soberly along, Elizabeth, in her large felt hat and pretty jacket, between Eva Louise and Bella, in their tawdry finery and ragged frocks; but Elizabeth was quite unconscious of attracting attention.

Her mind was absorbed with a new question which had presented itself. She had never heard of a party where the guests were not given some kind of refreshment, and she knew of no way in which she could provide it for the present occasion.

It would not do to ask the servants for something to eat, neither would it be proper to stop and buy what was necessary at the cake-shop while her guests were with her. She must consult with Valentine.

Her fellow-conspirator was watching for them, and opened the door at once.

"Everything is all right," he whispered to Elizabeth. "The cook is busy making cake, and the other girls are all chattering, and James has gone round to the stable to see the men there. There won't be anybody around to see us. We'll take them right up."

"But wait a minute, Val," returned Elizabeth; "I want to ask you something. And first I must introduce you. That is the way I have heard Aunt Caroline do sometimes. This is my brother, Mr. Valentine Herrick, Miss Eva Louise and Miss Bella Brady. Now you know each other and can talk. If I had not introduced you, you know, you would not have been able to talk at all."

Apparently the introduction did not have the desired effect of promoting conversation, for Bella put her finger in her mouth, and Eva Louise turned her back upon the company, while Val himself with difficulty repressed a laugh.

"Will you please walk into the drawing-room and sit down a minute?" said their hostess. "I must speak to my brother, if you will please excuse me."

The guests obeyed, and were presently seated upon two of great-grandfather Herrick's chairs with the high carved backs, while Julius Cæsar from the window-seat stared in astonishment.

"We must give them something to eat, Val," whispered Elizabeth, in the hall. "How shall we get it?"

"I will go buy it," returned Val, promptly. "Let's see; have you got any money?"

"Yes; I have seventy-five cents, and if that isn't enough, I have some more in my little bank."

"Oh, that is enough, with what I've got. You will have to stay in the parlor till I get back, so as to let me in," and seizing his cap, he was off.

Elizabeth rejoined her visitors in the drawing-room and tried to make a conversation. Somehow, to talk to the Brady girls had never before been so difficult. In the alley there was always so much to say. Now they sat stiffly and straight upon their chairs, and their faces looked preternaturally solemn. There was silence in the room for a few minutes, and Julius came and rubbed himself against Elizabeth's feet. This suggested a topic.

"Do you like cats?" she asked.

"Yes," said Bella.

"Nope," said Eva Louise, simultaneously.

There was another pause.

"It is a very nice day to-day."

"Yes," they both replied.

Elizabeth thought deeply for several minutes. What could she say next?

"Are you at all halt?" she asked, presently.

The Misses Brady merely stared.

"Are you at all halt?" she repeated.

"Yes, I guess so," answered Bella, who, though doubtful, thought it polite to agree.

"Oh, that is a good thing," said Elizabeth, in a relieved tone. "I did not exactly know, you know, so I thought I had better ask. I am very glad you are halt. That makes it all right. And there is my brother come back. I will go and let him in, and then we will go up to the party."

Valentine returned laden with oddly shaped packages, and the four ascended the stairs together.

"It's a dandy old feast I've got," whispered the boy; "all the things that look so good, but you never have at home. We shall need some plates, though. I'll put these bundles down at the door, and while you are getting the keys I'll run down to the dining-room for the plates."

He came back in a short time with a pile of Miss Herrick's best china, the plates which were used for the salad course when she gave a dinner; and Elizabeth having procured the keys, they entered the room. The guests were still under the spell of silence. Being invited to remove their hats, they did so and laid them on the bed. Then they gazed at the floor.

"What shall we do?" said Elizabeth to Val, in an under-tone. She had never before realized what hard work it was to give a party.

"Let's begin on the grub," suggested her brother, whose appetite was sharpened by the thought of the cake-shop dainties which could never be enjoyed at home.

This seemed to be the best thing to do under existing circumstances, and Elizabeth removed the few articles which were on the table, and Val lifted it over to the centre of the room. A towel was spread over it for a table-cloth, the plates were set thereon, and then Val opened his packages and proudly placed the contents upon the plates.

There was a half pie, presumably custard, four large cocoanut balls, four sour-balls, four huge doughnuts, four buns (generously speckled with currants), and, crowning delicacy, a paper box of vanilla ice-cream.

Valentine made another raid upon the dining-room, and returned with forks, knives, and spoons, announcing that he had barely escaped meeting James, who was on his way up the back stairs just as Val left the pantry.

The guests were then invited to draw up their chairs, which they did with an alacrity that was most encouraging.

"I wonder if 'halt' means hungry?" thought Elizabeth. "I shouldn't wonder if it did."

She politely ignored the fact that both visitors scorned the assistance of forks in eating the pie, and devoted herself to removing currants from a bun. Somehow it did not seem an appetizing feast to her, but Valentine and the Brady girls were enjoying it, and that was all that was necessary.

At last the repast was over, the final course, consisting of a sour-ball, which so protruded the cheek of each member of the party that speech was for a time impossible, and then Elizabeth wondered what they should do next.

"Suppose we play a game," suggested Val, as soon as he could speak.

"So we will," agreed Elizabeth. "What shall it be? Eva Louise, do you know any nice games?"

"Nope."

"Do you, Bella?"

"Jack-stones."

"Oh yes, jack-stones. Well, we haven't got any."

"Yes, we have, too. I brung 'em."

"Oh, did you?"

Apparently there was no help for it. Elizabeth despised jack-stones, which hurt her knuckles, and which she never could catch; but one must be polite in one's own house.

"I say, you are funny ones!" said Val, who had thoroughly enjoyed his luncheon, and had now time to grasp the situation. Elizabeth's company manners amused him extremely, and the whole thing was "no end of a lark," as he expressed it.

"Why don't you play something you don't play at home?" he asked. "Let's try 'Fish, flesh, or fowl,' or 'When I was in Spain,' or some other nice game?"

Bella said nothing, but Eva Louise at last found her voice.

"Ef we don't play jack-stones, we ain't agoin' to play nuthin'. We're agoin' home."

Bella here nudged her sister's elbow.

"We ain't agoin' home till we get our presents. Yer know what ma said."

This aside was so plainly audible to the host and hostess, that Elizabeth looked shocked, but Val roared with laughter.

"Very well," said Elizabeth; "we will play jack-stones."

But at the first throw Val, in the exuberance of his feelings, tossed them so high that one landed on the table, right in the centre of one of Miss Herrick's delicate china plates, breaking it squarely in two.

"My eye!" exclaimed the boy. "What have I done?"

"Jack-stones are a hateful game, anyhow," cried Elizabeth, whose dismay caused her to forget her manners. "I don't know what Aunt Caroline will say. It is all your fault, Eva Louise, that Val broke the plate, for you made us play jack-stones."

"'Tain't, neither," returned Eva Louise, with asperity. "No one didn't tell him to throw the jack up there. An' ef this is what yer call a party, I don't think much of it. We hev as good pie as that at home, an' we can get ice-cream o' the ice-cream man any day he comes round. I say, Bella, let us go home."

But Bella still held back. Elizabeth looked at them for a moment in silent wrath, and then her feelings found words.

"Well, I should be very glad indeed if you did go home. I think you are very rude girls. And I never knew you had ice-cream whenever you wanted it, and all those nice things."

"No more we do," interposed Bella; "leastways, I never seen it. Eva Louise was makin' that up, I guess."

"Oh, was she? Then she tells stories, does she? I don't want to have anything more to do with you. You are very, _very_ rude girls, and I am sorry I invited you to the party. I only asked you because you were halt."

"I dun'no' what yer talkin' about," replied Eva Louise, as she put on her hat; "only I guess yer'd better not name me no names, or I'll hev yer 'rested. Halt! I ain't no halt;" and with her head held high as she proudly sniffed the air, she walked from the room. Bella still lingered.

"Don't yer give no presents at yer party?" she asked.

Elizabeth had already begun to repent of her hasty speech. She feared that she had been rude, and she felt that she must make amends.

"Wait a minute," she said, flying up the short flight of stairs which led to her own room.

Eva Louise delayed her departure, and Bella looked more hopeful. Valentine hovered in the background, wondering what was going to happen next.

Presently Elizabeth returned. In one hand she held a silver calendar which had ornamented her desk, in the other a handsomely bound book.

"These are all I can find," she said, bestowing one upon either guest. "You see, I have to give you things that are really my own, and not Aunt Caroline's or Aunt Rebecca's. Val, we will go down with them to the front door."

The little procession in silence descended the two long double flights of stairs. The front door was opened for them, and the two visitors were about to depart, one carrying the silver calendar, which flashed gayly in a ray of sunlight, the other holding the large red-covered book.

"Good-by!" they said, cheerfully, feeling mollified by the presents.

"Good-by," returned Val and Elizabeth.

And even as they spoke a carriage drew up at the door, and from it stepped Miss Herrick. She paused in astonishment, and looked at the two strange figures emerging from her own front door, and at the two frightened faces in the hall beyond.

"What does this mean?" she asked, as she swept by them into the house and the door was closed.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

THE AMERICAN NIGHTS' ENTERTAINMENTS.

THE AMUSEMENT CLUB.

BY EMMA J. GRAY.

The sun was setting one afternoon in late September. The deep blue sky was dappled with rosy golden and white clouds, but a glance at the brown-stone houses opposite revealed the unhappy thought that we were once again in our old town-house. I tried to imagine I was mistaken; that the lapse of summer-time had never been; that, indeed, all the happy vacation had not drifted by; that the moss-grown bridges, low-hanging branches, and piny woods were yet to come; that I must be asleep and having a horrible nightmare.

But, "Amy! Amy! Where are you?" woke up my foolish reverie, and "Will and I have been hunting all over for you!" were the half-annoyed words which followed, as my friend Irene Sloane and her brother stood before me in our second-floor front room.

Irene was my most intimate friend; it was rare when a day passed without her being in my house or I in hers. Therefore the absence of ceremony in the hunt she had just made. Her brother, too, I had known always, and now that they had rushed in--for rushed is the only way to describe their entrance, so excited and all of a flutter they seemed--I forgot all about my foolish dreaming, and exclaimed, "Do sit down both of you, and tell what's up!"

But Irene was too excited to sit down; she had come to tell a "splendid plan. And don't you think so, Will?" and it was "Mamma's idea," and much more of a similar purport, until Will, who had taken a chair, hastily rose, and with a most sober face and energetic manner, exclaimed:

"Irene, what's the use of beating about the bush any longer? Tell Amy all about it, and then she'll have a chance to have her say too."

"Well, the plan is to form an Amusement Club. It will seem awfully stupid to be at home after all our fun last summer. Don't you think so?"

"Certainly I do, for I was thinking just before you came that we'd gotten back to hardtack sure enough; there seems nothing to look forward to but books and study."

"Oh, hardtack fiddlestick! I'm ashamed of you both," interjected Will; "though I'm willing to admit," the boy continued, with a deep sigh, "it does come awfully hard to study after such a long loaf. But this Amusement Club will fix us up fine; it will give no end of jolly times, for, only think, we'll all meet once a week, or once a fortnight, and that will be amusement enough for one evening."

"Do explain it, Will. I can't make any sense out of what you are trying to tell me."

"Mamma will explain, for she said she would take charge of the first meeting."

"Yes," interrupted Irene, and then excitedly tossing her two long braids back, "the first meeting is to be at our house next Saturday afternoon at three o'clock. What do you think of that for a starter?"

"All right; only where do I come in? You haven't asked me yet?"

"Aren't you ashamed to talk so, Amy De Nyse, when you know that not only are you expected to come, but to help Will and me invite all the other girls and boys?"

"Which way could we invite them the easiest? And do you think you'd tell what they were invited for, or surprise them?"

"I say, surprise them. Don't you, Will?" And Irene looked questioningly toward her brother; and as he nodded his head she continued, "But I'd tell them it's important and a secret."

"Good! people are sure to be on hand if there's a secret around."

"And as to the way of inviting them," Will said, "the best way would be to make a list of names, and then cut them apart, each take an equal number--or I don't care if I take one or two extra."

"And you know what mamma said," his sister replied; "not to invite too many for the first meeting."

"Now what do you think of the prospect, Amy?"

"Capital! I've heard so much about clubs, that I've been wanting to join one for a long time."

"And I too," exclaimed Irene.

"An athletic club, you refer to, I suppose, running-matches, etc.," said mischievous Will as he pulled his sister's long braid, for he was a great tease, and knew that both Amy and Irene had lost at a running-match during the summer, and indeed they were anything else but athletes, taking far too kindly to hammocks, and lounging around generally.

And after a little more merry conversation, in which "vacation" and "club" were prominent words, the brother and sister took their departure.

Thus it was that the following Saturday afternoon found twenty jolly girls and boys seated in Irene Sloane's library. And what a chattering! Magpies were silent by contrast. Indeed, it was more like a riot than a meeting until Mrs. Sloane entered, when, presto! what a change! Not that she was feared, however, for, on the contrary, she was greatly beloved by all of her children's friends. It was only that the children were half awed, being so full of expectation, anticipating they knew not what, and also because the sudden presence of an older person always does result in changing the atmosphere of a room.

A few moments after the cordial greetings were extended Mrs. Sloane explained the purpose of their meeting.

For example, several of them had returned from vacation with scores of new ideas on the subject of entertaining; many new games and amusements had been learned. Now why not help others by teaching these. That each member, in fact, must pledge himself or herself to advance the cause of amusement by teaching a new game, charade, or something pertaining to entertainment once a month. And with that point in view, everybody must keep wide awake, and on the constant lookout. Also establish a habit of getting up novel entertainment and inventing games. Remember, somebody originated every game known.

By being members of this club, each person would also receive help as to the management of business meetings, for, in the main, every business meeting was conducted in a similar manner, and as many middle-aged people did not understand even the ordinary duties of chairman, they could not do better than learn when young.

One of the boys interrupted by inquiring if they might come to her for advice if they were in a quandary.

"Certainly; any time," was the assured answer; "but I know I can trust everybody here to help one another;" and Mrs. Sloane looked thoughtfully around. "Indeed, I am confident you will all take so much pleasure out of this organization that you will wonder you had not started an amusement club before. You will be too proud to have failure;" and then, with a cordial smile, added, "you have too good comradeship to have discord."

"Before we proceed to the election of officers, I wish to say I will stay in the chair this afternoon until about the time to adjourn, when your president will assume his position, and hereafter he will always be in charge of each meeting, unless necessarily absent, in which event the vice-president will act in his stead." Then, with a pleasant look around on all the upturned faces, Mrs. Sloane said, "We are now ready for the nominations for president."

Several names were promptly mentioned, and as none of the nominees declined, they were voted upon by ballot. Mrs. Sloane named three boys to distribute and afterwards count the ballots.

The ballot papers were very small, about three inches one way and two the other, and as they had been prepared beforehand, there was no hinderance. Therefore it was but the work of a few minutes to distribute a paper to each person, on which every one immediately wrote the name preferred. The ballots were then collected and counted; each nominee received some votes, but the largest number being for Will Sloane, he was announced as president. Whereupon one of the club immediately rose and said, "I move the vote to be made unanimous." This being seconded, Will Sloane's name was called amidst cheers, claps, and huzzahs, for the excitement was now too great for the children to keep altogether quiet.

After this there followed the elections of vice-president, secretary, and treasurer, all being elected in a similar manner.

There was also a board of directors added, consisting of eight people and the president. This board Mrs. Sloane selected, and of the eight named five were girls; the duty of the board being to talk over various questions affecting club work; for example, how money could be expended, whether entertainment would be given for charity--indeed, all matters of import. After such discussions by the board, the matter would be presented by one of its members at the first regular club meeting, and there acted upon.

It was decided to hold the meetings every second Saturday evening at seven o'clock, and that no meeting could extend beyond one hour and a half; that the chairman would open the meetings promptly, and that twelve people would constitute a quorum. And any matter by them decided must be acceded to by the entire club.

That the fee would be ten cents a week, paid regularly. That they should have more members; but Mrs. Sloane advised the number should be limited to thirty, as too great a number would be difficult to control.

The duty of the treasurer would be to receive and keep a correct account of the reception and disbursement of money, and that he should give a report of the same at the first meeting of each month.

The secretary should enroll the names and residences of the officers and members; he should write the minutes of each meeting, and read them at the following one.

The order of conducting the meeting would be:

Calling to Order; Secretary's Report; Treasurer's Report; Unfinished Business; New Business; Adjournment.

As Mrs. Sloane now thought that the children were taxed enough for one day, and that they would enjoy an after-talk by themselves, she thanked the club for their courtesy, and with a most gracious smile towards her son, added, "I now have the pleasure of conducting you to the chair."

This said, she stepped one side. He pleasantly bowed, and took the place made vacant by his mother.

No sooner had she retired than Mrs. Sloane laughingly said, "I move we adjourn."

When at once Amy De Nyse, who had been unusually quiet, jumped to her feet. "Before that motion is seconded, I move a vote of thanks to Mrs. Sloane," and she was about to add, "for her patience and goodness to us this afternoon," but her voice was drowned in the hearty ringing voices of the happy children who had now informally gathered about their leader, and each one thanked her warmly and heartily over and yet over again. And then were heard such expressions as, "You'll have to come to all of our entertainments," "Won't we have jolly fun practising the different charades, tableaux, and games?" and "When we get money enough, perhaps we can have a regular club-room, with a platform, curtain, and scenery."

And that thought proved the inspiration for another and yet another, until one of the boys reached a grand climax by waving a handkerchief over his head and shouting: "I have a scheme. Let us get up specialties, and make a charge to show them. Why, this club may make us all rich yet!"

Out on Long Island there is to-day an exceedingly angry farmer. He can usually be found nursing his wrath on the top of a rail-fence near his barn an hour before sunset. His big jack-knife digs deeply into the piece of wood it is whittling as the farmer emphasizes his wrath.

"Talk about the benefit newspapers are to the country--bah!" he exclaims. "The other night I had all my chickens stole 'cept two, and that old town paper recorded it in big type, and let the whole country know about it in less than no time. What do you suppose the result was, eh? Why, the thieves that took them chicks thought they got them all, and when they read in the paper that two was left behind, what did they do but come around the very next night when I never expected them, and they took the other two. I don't see much use for newspapers that tells everything a thief wants to know."

THE GREAT SEAL OF ENGLAND.

Many people doubtless know that upon the accession of a new monarch to the throne of England a new Seal is struck, and the old one is cut into four pieces and deposited in the Tower of London. In former times the fragments of these great Seals were distributed among certain poor people of religious houses. When her Majesty Queen Victoria ascended the throne of England, the late Benjamin Wyon, R.A., the chief engraver of her Majesty's Mint, designed the beautiful work of the present Great Seal of England. The details of the design are: obverse, an equestrian figure of the Queen attended by a page, her Majesty wearing over a habit a flowing and sumptuous robe, and a collar of the Order of the Garter. In her right hand she bears the sceptre, and on her head is placed a regal tiara. The attendant page, with his bonnet in his hand, looks up to the Queen, who is gracefully restraining the impatient charger, which is richly decorated with plumes and trappings. The legend "Victoria Dei Gratia Britainniarum Regina, Fidei Defensor," is engraved in Gothic letters, the spaces between the words being filled with heraldic roses. The reverse side of the Seal shows the Queen, royally robed and crowned, holding in her right hand the sceptre, and in her left the orb, seated upon a throne beneath a niched Gothic canopy; on each side is a figure of Justice and Religion; and in the exergue the royal arms and crown, the whole encircled by a wreath or border of oak and roses.

The Seal itself is a silver mould in two parts, technically called a pair of dies. When an impression is to be taken or cast, the parts are closed to receive the melted wax, which is poured through an opening at the top of the Seal. As each impression is attached to a document by a ribbon or slip of parchment, its ends are put into the Seal before the wax is poured in, so that when the hard impression is taken from the dies the ribbon or parchment is neatly affixed to it. The impression of the Seal is six inches in diameter and three-fourths of an inch in thickness. The Great Seals of England are interesting from their bearing portraits of the sovereigns, as in the Seals of Offa and Ethelwolf, and that of Edgar with a bust in profile. After William I. all the Kings are on one side on horseback, the face turned to the right, except that of Charles I., which is turned to the left. Edward IV. first carries the close crown; Edward the Confessor and Henry I. and Henry II. are seated with the sword and dove. Wax was not uniformly used for Seals, as impressions occur in gold, silver, and lead, also in various other substances. The colors have varied, but red appears to have been the most ancient.

THE VOYAGE OF THE "RATTLETRAP."

BY HAYDEN CARRUTH.

VI.

Besides the cactus, another form of vegetation which began to attract more and more of Ollie's attention was the red tumbleweed. Indeed, Jack and I found ourselves interested in it also. The ordinary tumbleweed, green when growing, and gray when tumbling, had long been familiar to us, but the red variety was new. The old kind which we knew seldom grew more than two feet in diameter; it was usually almost exactly round, and with its finely branched limbs, was almost as solid as a big sponge, and when its short stem broke off at the top of the ground in the fall it would go bounding away across the prairie for miles. The red sort seemed to be much the same, except for its color and size. We saw many six or seven feet, perhaps more, in diameter, though they were rather flat, and not probably over three or four feet high.

The first one we saw was on edge, and going at a great rate across the prairie, bounding high into the air, and acting as if it had quite gone crazy, as there was a strong wind blowing.

"Look at that overgrown red tumbleweed!" exclaimed Jack. "I never saw anything like _that_ before. Jump on the pony, Ollie, and catch the varmint and bring it back here!"

Ollie was willing enough to do this, and the pony was willing enough to go, so off they went. I think if the weed had had a fair field that Ollie would never have overtaken it, but it got caught in the long grass occasionally, and he soon came up to it. But the pony was not used to tumbleweed-coursing, and shied off with a startled snort. Ollie brought her about and made another attempt. But again the frightened pony ran around it. Half a dozen times this was repeated. At last she happened to dash around it on the wrong side just as it bounded into the air before the wind. It struck both horse and rider like a big dry-land wave, and Ollie seized it. If the poor pony had been frightened before, she was now terror-stricken, and gave a jump like a tiger, and shot away faster than we had ever seen her run before. Ollie had lost control of her, and could only cling to the saddle with one hand and hold to the big blundering weed with the other. Fortunately the pony ran toward the wagon. As they came up we could see little but tumbleweed and pony legs, and it looked like nothing so much as a hay-stack running away on its own legs. When the pony came up to the wagon, she stopped so suddenly that Ollie went over her head. But he still clung to the weed, and struck the ground inside of it. He jumped up, still in the weed, so that it now looked like a hay-stack on two legs. We pulled him out of it, and found him none the worse for his adventure. But he was a little frightened, and said:

"I don't think I'll chase those things again, Uncle Jack--not with that pony."

"Oh, that's all right, Ollie," said Jack. "I'm going to organize the Nebraska Cross-Country Tumbleweed Club, and you'll want to come to the meets. We'll give the weed one minute start, and the first man that catches it will get a prize of--of a watermelon, for instance."

"Well, I think I'll take another horse before I try it," returned Ollie.

"Might try Old Browny," I said. "If he ever came up to a tumbleweed he would lie right down on it and go to sleep."

"Yes, and Blacky would hold it with one foot and eat it up," said Jack. "Unless he took a notion to turn around and kick it out of existence."

We looked the queer plant over carefully, and found it so closely branched that it was impossible to see into it more than a few inches. The branches were tough and elastic, and when it was tossed up it would rebound from the ground several inches. But it was as light as a thistle ball, and when we turned it loose it rolled away across the prairie again as if nothing had happened.

"They're bad things sometimes when there is a prairie fire," said Jack. "No matter how wide the fire-break may be, a blazing tumbleweed will often roll across it, and set fire to the grass beyond. They've been known to leap over streams of considerable width, too, or fall in the water and float across, still blazing. Two years ago the town of Frontenac was burned up by a tumbleweed, though the citizens had made an approved fire-break by ploughing two circles of furrows around their village and burning off the grass between them. These big red ones must be worse than the others. I believe," he went on, "that tumbleweeds might be used to carry messages, like carrier-pigeons. The next one we come across we'll try it."

That afternoon we caught a fine specimen, and Jack securely fastened this message to it and turned it adrift:

"Schooner Rattletrap, September --, 188-: Latitude, 42.50;
Longitude, 99.35. To Whom it may Concern: From Prairie Flower,
bound for Deadwood. All well except Old Blacky, who has an
appetite."

The night after our stop by the unfinished house we again camped on the open prairie, a quarter of a mile from a settler's house, where we got water for the horses. This house was really a "dugout," being more of a cellar than a house. It was built in the side of a little bank, the back of the sod roof level with the ground, and the front but two or three feet above it.

"I'd be afraid, if I were living in it, that a heavy rain in the night might fill it up, and float the bed-stead, and bump my nose on the ceiling," said Jack.

It had been a warm afternoon, but when we went to bed it was cooler, though there was no wind stirring. The smoke of our camp-fire went straight up. There was no moon, but the sky was clear, and we remarked that we had not seen the stars look so bright any night before. The front of our wagon stood toward the northwest. We went to bed, but at two o'clock we were awakened by a most violent shaking of the cover. The wind was blowing a gale, and the whole top seemed about to be going by the board. We scrambled up, and I heard Jack's voice calling for me to come out. The cover bows were bent far over, and the canvas pressed in on the side to the southwest till it seemed as if it must burst. The front end of the top had gone out and was cracking in the wind. I crept forward, and as I did so I felt the wagon rise up on the windward side and bump back on the ground. I concluded we were doomed to a wreck, and called to Ollie to get out as fast as he could. I supposed a hard storm had struck us, but as I went over the dashboard I was astonished to see the stars shining as brightly as ever in the deep, dark sky. Jack was clinging to the rear wagon wheel on the windward side, which was all that had saved it from capsizing. He called to me to take hold of the tongue and steer the craft around with the stern to the gale. I did so, while he turned on the wheel. As it came around, the loose sides of the cover began to flutter and crack, while the puckering-string gave way, and the wind swept through the wagon, carrying everything that was loose before it, including Ollie, who was just getting over the dashboard. He was not hurt, but just then we heard a most pitiful yelping, as Jack's blankets and pillow went rolling away from where the wagon had stood. It was Snoozer going with them. The yelping disappeared in the darkness, and we heard frying-pans, tin plates, and other camp articles clattering away with the rest. The Rattletrap itself had tried to run before the gale, but I had put on the brake and stopped it. The three of us then crouched in front of it, and waited for the wind to blow itself out. We could see or hear nothing of the horses. There was not a cloud in sight, and the stars still shone down calmly and unruffled, while the wind cut and hissed through the long prairie grass all about us. It kept up for about ten minutes, when it began to stop as suddenly as it had begun. In twenty minutes there was nothing but a cool, gentle breeze coming out of the southwest. We lit the lantern and tried to gather up our things, but soon realized that we could not do much that night. We found the unfortunate Snoozer crouched in a little depression which was perhaps an old buffalo wallow, but could see nothing of the horses. We concluded to go to bed and wait for morning.

When it came we found our things scattered for over a quarter of a mile. We recovered everything, though the wagon-seat was broken. The horses had come back, so we could not tell how far they had gone before the wind.

"I've read about those night winds on the plains," said Jack, "and we'll look out for 'em in the future. We'll put an anchor on Snoozer at least."

This intelligent animal had not forgotten his night's experience, and stuck closely in the wagon, where he even insisted on taking his breakfast.

The road we were following was gradually drawing closer to the Niobrara, and we began to see scattering pine-trees, stunted and broken, along the heads of the cañons or ravines leading down to the river. There was less sand, and we made better progress. The country was but little settled, and game was more plentiful. We got two or three grouse. We went into camp at night at the head of what appeared to be a large cañon, under a tempest-tossed old pine-tree, through which the wind constantly sighed. There was no water, but we counted on getting it down the cañon. A man went by on horseback, driving some cattle, who told us that we would find a spring down about half a mile.

"Can we get any hay down there?" I asked him. "We're out of feed for the horses, and the grass seems pretty poor here."

"Down a mile beyond the spring I have a dozen stacks," answered the man, "and you're welcome to all you can bring up on your pony. Just go down and help yourselves."

We thanked him and he went on. As soon as we could we started down. It was beginning to get dark, and grew darker rapidly as we went down the ravine, as its sides were high and the trees soon became numerous. There was no road, nothing but a mere cattle-path, steep and stony in many places. We found the spring and watered all the horses, left Blacky and Browny, and went on after the hay with the pony, Jack leading her, and Ollie and I walking ahead with the lantern. It seemed a long way as we stumbled along in the darkness, all the time down hill.

"I guess that man wasn't so liberal as he seemed," said Jack. "The pony will be able to carry just about enough hay up here to make Snoozer a bed."

We plunged on, till at last the path became a little nearer level. It crossed a small open tract and then wound among bushes and low trees. Suddenly we saw something gleam in the light of the lantern, and stopped right on the river's bank. The water looked deep and dark, though not very wide. The current was swift and eddying.

"We've passed the hay," I said. "It must be on that open flat we crossed."

We went back, and turning to the right, soon found it. I set the lantern down and began to pull hay from one of the stacks, when the pony made a sudden movement, struck the lantern with her foot, and smashed the globe to bits.

"There," exclaimed Jack, "we'll have a fine time going up that badger-hole of a cañon in the dark!"

But there was nothing else to do, and we made up two big bundles of hay, and tied them to the pony's back.

"She'll think it's tumbleweeds," said Ollie.

"If she'd headed in the right direction I hope she will," answered Jack.

We started up, but it was a long and toilsome climb. In many places Jack and I had to get down on our hands and knees and feel out the path. The worst place was a scramble up a bank twenty feet high, and covered with loose stones. I was ahead. The heroic little pony with her unwieldy load sniffed at the prospect a little, and then started bravely up, "hanging on by her toe-nails," as Ollie said. When she was almost to the top she stepped on a loose stone, lost her footing, went over, and rolled away into the darkness and underbrush. Jack stumbled over a little of the hay which had come off in the path, hastily rolled up a torch, and lit it with a match. By this light we found the pony on her back, like a tumble-bug, with her load for a cushion and her feet in the air, and kicking wildly in every direction. While Ollie held the torch, Jack and I went to her rescue, and after a vast deal of pulling and lifting, got her to her feet just as the hay torch died out. Again she scrambled up the bank, and this time with success. We went on, found the other horses, and were soon at the wagon. We voted the pony all the hay she wanted, and went to bed tired.

The next day, the ninth out from Yankton, though it was a long run, brought us to Valentine, the first town on the railroad which we had seen since leaving the former place. Before we reached it we went several miles along the upper ends of the cañons, down a long hill so steep that we had to chain both hind wheels, forded the Niobrara twice, followed the river several miles, went out across the military reservation, which was like a desert, saw six or eight hundred negro soldiers at Fort Niobrara, and finally drove through Valentine, and went into camp a mile west of town. On the way we saw thousands of the biggest and reddest tumbleweeds, and two or three new sorts of cactus. The colored troops surprised Ollie, as he had never seen any before.

"It's the western winds and the hot sun that's tanned those soldiers," said Jack. "We'll look just that way, too, before we get back."

Ollie was half inclined to believe this astonishing statement at first, but concluded that his uncle was joking.

We went into camp on the banks of the Minichaduza River, a little brook which flows into the Niobrara from the northwest. It gurgled and bubbled all night almost under our wheels. A man stopped to chat with us as we sat around our camp-fire after supper. We told him of our experience in getting the hay the night before. He laughed and said:

"Ever steal any of your horse feed?"

"We haven't yet," answered Jack. "We try to be reasonably honest."

"Some don't, though," replied the man. "Most of 'em that are going West in a covered wagon seem to think corn in the field is public property. A fellow camped right here one afternoon last fall. He was out of feed, and took a grain sack on one arm and a big Winchester rifle on the other, and went over to old Brown's corn-field. He took the gun along not to shoot anybody, but to sort of intimidate Brown if he should catch him. Suddenly he saw an old fellow coming toward him carrying a gun about a foot longer than his own. The young fellow wilted right down on the ground and never moved. He happened to go down on a big prickly cactus, but he never stirred, cactus or no cactus. He thought Brown had caught him, and that he was done for. The old man kept coming nearer and nearer. He was almost to him. The young fellow concluded to make a brave fight. So he jumped up and yelled. The old man dropped his gun and ran like a scared wolf. Then the young fellow noticed that the other also had a sack in which he had been gathering corn. He called him back, they saw that they were both thieves, shook hands, and went ahead and robbed old Brown together."