Chapter I: Part II: Six Months--May, 1886, to October, 1886

CONTENTS OF PART II., VOLUME XIII.

PAGE.

ABOUT BREATHING _Hellen Clark Swazey_ 946

ADVENTURE AT THE FLUME, OUR.
(Illustrated). _W. L_ 844

AMBITIOUS KANGAROO, THE.
Jingle _A. R. Wells_ 853

AMUSING THE BABY.
Verses. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) _Eva Lovett Carson_ 706

ARMY, AN. Verses _A. C_ 757

ART AND ARTISTS, STORIES OF.
English Painters. (Illustrated) _Clara Erskine Clement_ 803

AUNT DEBORAH'S LESSON. (Illustrated) _G. H. Baskette_ 694

AUTUMN TO SPRING. Poem _Edith M. Thomas_ 883

BABY'S DIMPLE, THE. Poem _William H. Hayne_ 731

BALLAD OF BASE-BALL, A. Verses _I. D_ 774

BELATED FAIRY, A. Picture, drawn by Mary A. Lathbury 693

BLOSSOM-TIME. Poem _Laura E. Richards_ 518

BOAT-BUILDING. (Illustrated) _George J. Manson_ 698

BOPEEP. Poem.
(Illustrated by Mary Hallock Foote) _Sydney Dayre_ 756

BOYS' CAMP, A. (Illustrated by W. A. Rogers) 607

BOYS' PARADISE, THE.
(Illustrated by W. A. Rogers) _Elizabeth Balch_ 604

BROWNIES AT BASE-BALL, THE. Verses.
(Illustrated by the Author) _Palmer Cox_ 943

BROWNIES AT LAWN TENNIS, THE. Verses.
(Illustrated by the Author) _Palmer Cox_ 857

BROWNIES IN THE MENAGERIE, THE.
(Illustrated by the Author) _Palmer Cox_ 707

BROWNIES ON ROLLER SKATES, THE. Verses.
(Illustrated by the Author) _Palmer Cox_ 543

BUBBLE BOWLING.
(Illustrated by the Author) _Adelia B. Beard_ 540

BUTTERFLY AND THE BEE, THE. Verse _Edith M. Thomas_ 599

CAPTAIN JACK'S FOURTH OF JULY KITE.
(Illustrated by the Author) _Daniel C. Beard_ 702

CARICATURE PLANT, THE.
(Illustrated by J. C. Beard) _.M. A_ 522

CHILDREN OF THE SUN, THE. Poem.
(Illustrated) _Arthur Wentworth Eaton_ 770

CHILDREN'S EXHIBITION, THE.
(Illustrated by E. J. Meeker) _Charles Barnard_ 916

CHILD'S FANCY, A. Poem _Frank Dempster Sherman_ 645

CONSIDERATE FARMER JONES. Picture, drawn by Culmer Barnes 843

CRAFTY CRAB, THE. JINGLE. (Illustrated
and engrossed by R. B. Birch) _Isabel Frances Bellows_ 845

CREW OF THE CAPTAIN'S GIG, THE.
(Illustrated by G. W. Edwards) _Rev. Charles R. Talbot_ 899

DAISY-SONG. Verses _Grace Denio Litchfield_ 662

DANGEROUS DOG, THE. JINGLE. (Illustrated
and engrossed by R. B. Birch) _A. R. Wells_ 837

DIFFERENCE OF OPINION, A. Verses _Lilian Dynevor Rice_ 679

DOG STORIES, ST. NICHOLAS. (Illustrated) 526, 624

"DO YOU LIKE BUTTER, BOSSY?" Picture, drawn by Culmer Barnes 791

DUEL WITH A STORK, A. Pictures, drawn by Frederick J. Hibbert 754

FISHES AND THEIR YOUNG.
(Illustrated by J. C. Beard) _C. F. Holder_ 600

FLY-FISHING FOR TROUT. (Illustrated by J. H. Cocks,
Henry Sandham, and others) _Ripley Hitchcock_ 655

FRESH FROM A DIP IN THE BREAKERS.
Picture, drawn by Mary Hallock Foote 670

FROG IN THE SHOE, THE. Jingle.
(Illustrated by Boz) _Aunt Fanny Barrow_ 791

FUN IN HIGH LIFE. Picture, drawn by Culmer Barnes 935

GEORGE WASHINGTON. (Illustrated by 505, 590, 663, 758,
H. A. Ogden and others) _Horace E. Scudder_ 838, 908

GIRAFFE, THE. (Illustrated) _Gerrish Eldridge_ 768

GIRLS' TRICYCLE CLUB AND ITS RUN DOWN THE CAPE, THE.
(Illustrated by W. A. Rogers) _E. Vinton Blake_ 494

GRANDPAPA ROSEBUSH. Verses.
(Illustrated) _Laura E. Richards_ 583

GREAT SPRING-BOARD ACT, THE. Picture, drawn by T. J. Nicholl 677

HANDIWORK OF SOME CLEVER SCHOOL-BOYS, THE.
(Illustrated by the Author) _J. Abdon Donnegan_ 547

HER PICTURE. Verses.
(Illustrated by Laura C. Hills) _Anna M. Pratt_ 942

HIGHLY COLORED. Picture, drawn by Culmer Barnes 869

HOW CONRAD LOST HIS SCHOOL-BOOKS.
(Illustrated by the Author) _Walter Bobbett_ 514

"HOW DOTH THE LITTLE BUSY BEE?" Picture, drawn by Culmer Barnes 757

HURLY-BURLY. Jingle.
(Illustrated by L. Hopkins) _Emma Mortimer White_ 871

IF. Jingle. (Illustrated) _E. A. B._ 703

IN THE GARDEN. Verses. _Bessie Chandler_ 898

INVERTED. Jingle.
(Illustrated by W. T. Peters) _John B. Tabb_ 828

"IT WAS A FAIR ARTIST NAMED MAY." Jingle.
(Illustrated by the Author) _O. Herford_ 501

JAPANESE BABIES. Verses. (Illustrated
and engrossed by R. B. Birch) _Anna C. Vincent_ 948

JINGLES. 501, 613, 630, 681, 687, 697, 703, 733, 748, 785, 791, 797,
828, 837, 845, 853, 949

JOLLY OLD KNIGHT, THE. Jingle.
(Illustrated by the Author) _Oliver Herford_ 748

KEEPING THE CREAM OF ONE'S READING.
(Illustrated) _Margaret Meredith_ 537

KELP-GATHERERS, THE. 584, 687, 776,
(Illustrated by W. A. Rogers) _J. T. Trowbridge_ 847,929

KNICKERBOCKER BOY, THE. Verses.
(Illustrated by Jessie McDermott) _Caroline S. King_ 542

LACE-LEAF, A SEARCH FOR THE.
(Illustrated by J. C. Beard) _Alice May_ 518

LA FAYETTE.
(Illustrated by F. H. Lungren) _Mrs. Eugenia M. Hodge_ 643

LAKE GEORGE CAPSIZE, A. (Illustrated) _Edward Eggleston_ 829

LAST CRUISE OF THE "SLUG," THE. (Illustrated by D. Clinton Peters) _Thomas Edwin Turner_ 671

LESSON IN GEOGRAPHY, A. Verses.
(Illustrated by Jessie McDermott) _M. B. Jordan_ 870

LITTLE BOYS WHO LOOKED ALIKE, THE. Verses.
(Illustrated by R. B. Birch) _Malcolm Douglas_ 928

LITTLE LORD FAUNTLEROY. 502, 564, 646, 734, 822,
(Illustrated by R. B. Birch) _Frances Hodgson Burnett_ 884

LITTLE MISS MABEL. Jingle.
(Illustrated by the Author) _Daisy Jones_ 613

LITTLE SEAMSTRESS, A. Verse. _Mary E. Wilkins_ 733

MAN OVERBOARD!
(Illustrated by the Author) _H. A. Johnson_ 775

MATTER-OF-FACT CINDERELLA, A.
(Illustrated) _Annie A. Preston_ 860

MAY SONG. Poem. (Illustrated
and engrossed by Laura C. Hills) _Laura E. Richards_ 492

MONSTER, THE. Verses. (Illustrated) _Maria I. Hammond_ 732

MORNING-GLORIES. Poem. _Laura Ledyard Pope_ 501

MORRA. (Illustrated) _Susan Anna Brown_ 846

MOTHER'S IDEA. _A. M. Platt_ 613

NAN'S REVOLT. (Illustrated 682, 749, 816,
by Jessie Curtis Shepherd) _Rose Lattimore Alling_ 896

NED'S BUTTERCUP. Verses. _Bessie Chandler_ 941

NEW THEORY, A. Verse. _Bessie Chandler_ 785

NEW VIEW OF THE MOON, A. Verses. _Eva Lovett Carson_ 551

NO MORE SCHOOL. Picture, drawn by Rose Mueller 571

NOTIONAL NIGHTINGALE, THE. Jingle.
(Illustrated by L. Hopkins) _A. R. Wells_ 748

NUMBER ONE. Verses. _Charles R. Talbot_ 705

OCTOBER. Poem. (Illustrated) _Susan Hartley_ 890

"OH, WHERE ARE YOU GOING?" Jingle. (Illustrated by E. Sylvester) 869

OLD TIME ARMS AND ARMOR. (Illustrated) _E. S. Brooks_ 936

ONCE-ON-A-TIME. Poem. _Emily Huntington Miller_ 563

ON THE WILLEY-BROOK TRESTLE.
(Illustrated by Henry Sandham) _Willis Boyd Allen_ 764

OWL, THE BAT, AND THE BUMBLE-BEE, THE. Verses.
(Illustrated by De Cost Smith) _Laura E Richards_ 747

PERSONALLY CONDUCTED. (Illustrated by E. J.
Meeker and others) _Frank R. Stockton_
Queen Paris. 572

PICTURES. 525, 571, 637, 670, 677, 693, 701, 715, 738, 754, 757,
791, 798, 843, 856, 869, 935, 947

PUSSIES' COATS, THE. Jingle.
(Illustrated by H. P. Share) _Esther B. Tiffany_ 687

PUZZLED BESSIE. Picture, drawn by Albert E. Sterner 947

PUZZLED PAPA, A. Verses. _M. L. B. Branch_ 603

QUAINT LITTLE MAN, A. Verses.
(Illustrated by the Author) _A. Brennan_ 949

READY FOR BUSINESS; OR,
CHOOSING AN OCCUPATION. (Illustrated) _George J. Manson_
Boat-building. 698

RECIPE, A. Verses.
(Illustrated by the Author) _Mary A. Lathbury_ 629

REGATTA. A. Game.
(Illustrated by the Author) _Frank Bellew_ 783

ROBIN'S RETURN. Poem. _Edith M. Thomas_ 612

ROCK-A-BYE. Poem. _Mary N. Prescott_ 535

ROCKY MOUNTAIN HERMIT, A. (Illustrated by
J. C. Beard and others) _Alfred Terry Bacon_ 723, 832

ROPE YARN SPUN BY AN OLD SAILOR, A.
(Illustrated by the Author) _C. W. Miller_ 786

ROYAL FISH, A. (Illustrated by W. L.
Sheppard, Henry Sandham, and others) _Ripley Hitchcock_ 739

SAD CASE, A. Verses.
(Illustrated by Mary Richardson) _Margaret Vandegrift_ 733

SAILOR BOY, THE. Verses. (Illustrated) _Wallace E. Mather_ 790

SALMON: A ROYAL FISH. (Illustrated by W. L.
Sheppard, Henry Sandham, and others) _Ripley Hitchcock_ 739

SATCHEL, THE.
(Illustrated by J. E. Kelly) _Tudor Jenks_ 616

SEARCH FOR THE LACE-LEAF, A.
(Illustrated by J. C. Beard) _Alice May_ 518

SEA-URCHIN, THE. Jingle. (Illustrated
and engrossed by R. B. Birch) _Isabel Frances Bellows_ 785

SHAKSPERE WHEN A BOY.
(Illustrated by Alfred Parsons) _Rose Kingsley_ 483

SMALLEST CIRCUS IN THE WORLD, THE.
(Illustrated by J. G. Francis) _C. F. Holder_ 533

SOME CURIOUS MARINERS. (Illustrated by
J. C. Beard and J. M. Nugent) _C. F. Holder_ 891

SONG OF SUMMER, A. Poem. _Emma C. Dowd_ 671

SPRING BEAUTIES. Poem.
(Illustrated by A. Brennan) _Helen Gray Cone_ 513

ST. NICHOLAS DOG STORIES. (Illustrated)
A Clever Little Yellow Dog _John R. Coryell_ 526
A Dog that Could Count _E. P. Roe_ 529
A Clever Sheep Dog 530
A Story of Two Buckets _Charlotte M. Vaile_ 530
The Left-field of the Lincoln Nine _C. F. Holder_ 624
A Dog that Could Climb Trees _C. F. Holder_ 626
A Sociable, Sensible Dog _E. P. Roe_ 626
A Dog whose Feelings were Hurt _E. P. Roe_ 628
A Dog that Repaid a Trick 628
Mephistopheles _Anna Gardner_ 628

STORIES OF ART AND ARTISTS.
English Painters. (Illustrated) _Clara Erskine Clement_ 803

TEA-PARTY, A. Verses. (Illustrated
and engrossed by the Author) _Margaret Johnson_ 865

TELL-TALE BARN, THE. Verses.
(Illustrated by the Author) _Esther B. Tiffany_ 924

"THE BIGGEST OF BIRDS." Jingle.
(Illustrated G. R. Halm) _E. E. Sterns_ 703

THEORETIC TURTLE, THE. Verses.
(Illustrated) _A. R. Wells_ 681

"THIS LITTLE PIG WENT TO MARKET." Picture, drawn by Rose Mueller 701

"THIS SEAT RESERVED." Picture. 856

THREE VELVETY BEES. Verses.
(Illustrated by F. E. Gifford) _M. M. D._ 654

TIMOTHY TIMID. Jingle.
(Illustrated by the Author) _A. Brennan_ 697

TIPPIE AND JIMMIE.
(Illustrated by H. P. Share) _Mary L. French_ 705

TODDLEKINS AND TROT. Verses.
(Illustrated by Laura C. Hills) _Anna M. Pratt_ 843

TROUT, FLY-FISHING FOR. (Illustrated by
J. H. Cocks, Henry Sandham, E. J. Meeker,
and others) _Ripley Hitchcock_ 655

UNDER THE SNOW. Poem. _Lilian Dynevor Rice_ 815

VEGETABLE CLOTHING.
(Illustrated by D. C. Beard) _C. J. Russell_ 523

VENETIAN MARQUETRY.
(Illustrated by the Author) _Charles G. Leland_ 866

WAITING FOR A COLD WAVE. Picture, drawn by C. Weaver 738

WEASEL AND THE ADDER, THE. (Illustrated) _Gerrish Eldridge_ 907

WHAT BERTIE SAW IN THE FLOWERS. Poem.
(Illustrated) _L. G. R._ 536

WHAT IT WAS. Verses.
(Illustrated by F. E. Gifford) _Malcolm Douglas_ 701

WHEN SHAKSPERE WAS A BOY.
(Illustrated by Alfred Parsons) _Rose Kingsley_ 483

WILD FLOWERS, THE. Verses. (Illustrated) _Jessie Penniman_ 603

WILD HUNTERS. (Illustrated) _John R. Coryell_ 681

WINGED SEEDS. Poem. _Helen Gray Cone_ 571

WOE TO THE FOREIGN DOLLY! Picture, drawn by R. Blum 525

WONDERS OF THE ALPHABET. (Illustrated) _Henry Eckford_ 538, 621,
677, 771, 854, 925

WORK AND PLAY FOR YOUNG FOLK. (Illustrated.)
A Rope Yarn Spun by an Old Sailor.
(Illustrated by the Author) _C. W. Miller_ 786
Venetian Marquetry.
(Illustrated by the Author) _Charles G. Leland_ 866

DEPARTMENTS.

FOR VERY LITTLE FOLK. (Illustrated.)
Riddles. _M. M. D._ 630
"Pretty Painted Bridges" }
"White Sheep, White Sheep" } _E. E. Sterns_ 630
"On Dormio Hill" }
A Letter from a Little Boy _Ralph Ranlet_ 710
"Dude" and the Cats 711
Riddles for Very Little Folk _E. E. Sterns_ 950

PLAYS AND MUSIC.
Easter Carol _William E. Ashmall_ 546

JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT. (Illustrated.)

Introduction--"Everything is Lovely, and the Goose Hangs
High"--Girls! To the Rescue!--About Little Lord
Fauntleroy--Fishing for Necklaces--A Suggestion to the
Bottled Fish--The Newspaper Plant (illustrated)--One More
Living Barometer, 552; A Bumble Grumble--Pretty Dusty
Wings--Trees that Rain--Shooting Stars--Coasting in
August--More about Turtles--A Fish that Weaves its Nest--A
Clever Humming-bird (illustrated), 632; Introduction--The
Seventeen-year Locust (illustrated)--The Great Lubber Locust
(illustrated)--The Dog and the Queer Grasshoppers
(illustrated), 712; Introduction--Longfellow's First
Letter--The Water-snake as a Fisherman--More Animal
Weather-Prophets--A Useful Bird with an Aristocratic Name--A
Wise Humming-bird--The Pitcher Plant (illustrated), 792;
Introduction--Poor Lark!--Those Mocking-birds Again--A Living
Island (illustrated)--Wrong Names for Things--Who can Answer
This? 872; Introduction--A Perfectly Quiet Day--How He Proved
It--Walking Without Legs--A Queer Sunshade (illustrated)--A
Queer Jumble--That Dear Little Lord, 952.

THE AGASSIZ ASSOCIATION. (Illustrated) 557, 636, 717, 794, 874, 957

THE LETTER-BOX. (Illustrated) 554, 634, 714, 796, 876, 954

THE RIDDLE-BOX. (Illustrated) 559, 639, 719, 799, 879, 959

EDITORIAL NOTES 554, 634

FRONTISPIECES.

"In Spring-time--When Shakspere was a Boy," by Léon Moran,
facing Title-page of Volume--"A June Morning," by E. C. Held,
facing page 563--"La Fayette and the British Ambassador," by
F. H. Lungren, facing page 643--"The Captain and the
Captain's Mate," by Mary Hallock Foote, facing page 723--"The
Connoisseurs," after a painting by Sir Edwin Landseer, facing
page 803--"Martha Washington," from an unfinished portrait by
Gilbert Stuart, facing page 883.

(SEE PAGE 490.)]

ST. NICHOLAS.

VOL. XIII. MAY, 1886. NO. 7.

[Copyright, 1886, by THE CENTURY CO.]

When Shakspere was a Boy

BY ROSE KINGSLEY.

On Henley street, in quiet Stratford town, there stands an old half-timbered house. The panels between the dark beams are of soft-colored yellow plaster. The windows are filled with little diamond panes; and in one of the upper rooms they are guarded with fine wire outside the old glass, which is misty with innumerable names scratched all over it. Poets and princes, wise men and foolish, have scrawled their names after a silly fashion, on windows, wall, and ceiling of that oak-floored room, because, on the 22d of April, 1564, a baby was born there--the son of John and Mary Shakspere. And on the following Wednesday, April 26, the baby was carried down to the old church beside the sleepy Avon and baptized by the name of William.

Little did John Shakspere and the gossips dream, when the baby William's name was duly inscribed in the register-book with its corners and clasps of embossed brass, that he was destined to become England's greatest poet. Little did they dream, honest folk, that the old market town and the house on Henley street and the meadows across the river, covered in that pleasant April month with cowslips and daisies and "lady-smocks all silver-white," would become sacred ground to hundreds of thousands of people from all quarters of the globe, who should come, year by year, on reverent pilgrimage to Shakspere's birthplace.

The baby grew up as most babies do; and when he was two and a half years old, a little brother Gilbert was born. As we walk through the streets to-day, we can fancy the little lads toddling about the town together, while father John was minding his glove and wool trade at the old house. John Shakspere, in those early days, was a well-to-do man. He was a chamberlain of the borough when little Gilbert was born; and in 1568 he was elected High Bailiff, or Mayor, of Stratford, although he, in common with many of his fellow-burgesses, could not write his own name. He had land, too, at Snitterfield, where his father had lived; and his wife, Mary Arden, was the owner of Ashbies, the farm at Wilmcote, hard by.

But, though the parents were illiterate, they knew the value of a good education. The Free Grammar School had been refounded a few years before by Edward VI. And although there is no actual record of his school days, we may take it as certain that little Will Shakspere was sent to the Free School when about seven years old, as we know his brother Gilbert was, a little later. The old Grammar School still stands; and boys still learn their lessons in the self-same room with the high pitched roof and oaken beams, where little Will Shakspere studied his "A, B, C-book," and got his earliest notions of Latin. But during part of Shakspere's school days the schoolroom was under repair; and boys and master--Walter Roche by name--migrated for a while to the Guild Chapel next door. And this was surely in the poet's mind when, in later years, he talked of a "pedant who keeps a school i' the church."

All boys learned their Latin then from two well-known books--the "Accidence" and the "Sententiæ Pueriles." And that William was no exception to the rule we may see by translations from the latter in several of his plays, and by an account, in one of his plays, of Master Page's examination in the "Accidence." An old desk which came from the Grammar School and stood there in Shakspere's time is shown at the birthplace. And when we look at it we wonder what sort of a boy little William was--whether his future greatness made a mark in any way during his school days; whether that conical forehead of his stood him in good stead as he learned his Latin Grammar; whether he was quiet and studious, or merry and mischievous; whether he hid dormice and apples and birds' eggs in his desk, and peeped at them during school hours; whether he got into scrapes and was whipped. Just think of Shakspere getting a whipping! No doubt he often did. Masters in those days were not greater, but rather less, respecters of persons than they are now, and they believed very firmly in the adage which is going out of fashion, that to spare the rod is to spoil the child. So we may think of little Will Shakspere coming out of the Grammar School and passing the old Guild Chapel and the Falcon Inn with two little red fists crammed into two little red and streaming eyes, and going home to mother Mary in Henley street to be comforted and coddled and popped down on the settle in the wide chimney corner, with some dainty, dear to the heart of small boys who got into trouble three hundred years ago just as they do now. Let us hope his cake was not like one he describes as "dough on both sides."

But I fancy that lessons bore a very small part in Will Shakspere's education. He certainly never knew much Latin; but he knew all about country things as only a country-bred boy can know about them. He and Gilbert must have run many a time to Ashbies, their mother's farm at Wilmcote, and watched the oxen plowing in the heavy clay fields; and cried, perhaps, as children do now "as the butcher takes away the calf"; and played with the shepherd's "bob-tailed cur"; and gossiped with Christopher Sly, who could tell them all manner of wonderful tales, for had he not been peddler, card-maker, bear-herd, "and now by present profession a tinker"?

They must have listened to their father and their uncle Henry up at the big farm close to Snitterfield church (where Henry Shakspere lived) as the two men discussed the price of a yoke of oxen at Stratford or Warwick fair, or debated whether they should "sow the head-land with wheat,--with red wheat, Davy,"[A] or grumbled over the "smith's note for shoeing and plough-irons," or told the latest turn in the quarrel between "William Visor of Woncot" and "Clement Perkes of the Hill." Very likely the little hazel-eyed boys took William Visor's part, though they wisely kept their opinions to themselves, since small boys in that period were not allowed the liberty of speech they enjoy in these degenerate times. William Visor was a neighbor of the Ardens, and possibly a friend of "Marian Hackett, the fat ale-wife of Wincot"; for Wincot, Woncot, and Wilmcote are all the same place. Or perhaps the young lads sided with Clement Perkes; for the Hill where he lived at Weston was known as Cherry Orchard Farm, a name full of tempting suggestions to little boys. And we know that Shakspere, like many less wise people, was fond of "ripe red cherries." He mentions them again and again. He and Gilbert, and their little friends the Sadlers and Harts and Halls, must have played bob-cherry, as we do now,--drawing up the stem of the cherry with our tongues, and, with a sudden snap, getting the round, ripe fruit between our lips,--and then have used the stones for "cherry-pit"--a child's game that is frequently mentioned by Shakspere and other old writers, which consisted in pitching cherry-stones into a small hole.

[Footnote A: 2d Henry IV., Act 5. Scene 1.]

Stratford lies just at the beginning of the fruit-growing country, which stretches right down the Vale of Evesham to Worcester and the Severn; and little Will Shakspere was well versed in the merits of all kinds of fruits. There were the plum-trees, that make you think in the spring-time that a snow-shower has fallen upon a sunny day all over the Stratford district; while in the autumn the branches are laden with "the mellow plum." Who can doubt that little Will climbed the damson-tree, "with danger of my life," as he said later that Simpcox did at his wife's bidding?[B] In the plays he mentions apples of many sorts--some of which, though rare or extinct in other parts of England, still grow about his native place--the bitter-sweetings and leather-coats, the apple-johns and the pomewaters. Many a time he must have stood with all the boys of the place watching, as we might do to-day, the cider-making on some village green, when the heaps of apples, red, green, and yellow, are brought in barrows and baskets and carts from the orchards, and ground up into a thick yellow pulp in the crushing-mill turned by a horse, and that pulp is put into presses from which the clear juice runs into tubs, while the dry cakes of pulp are carted away to fatten the pigs.

[Footnote B: 2d Henry VI., Act 2, Scene 1.]

There were grapes, too, growing plentifully in Warwickshire in his day; and "apricocks," "ripe figs, and mulberries," like those with which the fairies were told to feed Bottom the weaver. Blackberries and the handsome purple dewberries grew then as now, by the hedges in the orchards and in the shade of the Weir-brake just below Stratford mill, where, so says tradition, the scene of the "Midsummer Night's Dream" was laid. In the Weir-brake, too, and in all the woods about their home, the Shakspere boys must have gone nutting--that most delightful harvest of the year, when you bend down "the hazel twig," so "straight and slender," and fill baskets and pockets with the sweet nuts in their rough, green husks, and crack them all the way home like so many happy squirrels.

All the hedge-rows were full then, as they are to this day, of wild pear-trees, wild apples, and "crabs," as crab-apples are called in England. Roasted "crabs" served with hot ale were a favorite Christmas dish in Shakspere's time. And I doubt not that the boys rejoiced at the house in Henley street as the time of year came round "when roasted crabs hiss in the bowl."

How snug the "house-place" in the old home must have looked with its roaring fire of logs, on winter evenings, when the two little boys of nine and seven, and Joan and Anne, the little sisters, huddled up in the chimney-corner with baby Richard in his cradle, while the mother prepared hot ale and "roasted crabs" for her gossips. Will, I warrant, as with twinkling eyes he watched Mrs. Hart or Mrs. Sadler or Mrs. Hathaway, from Shottery, thought that it was Puck himself, the very spirit of mischief, who had got into the bowl "in very likeness of a roasted crab."

It must have been a recollection of those winter evenings that made little Will, in later years, write his delightful "Winter Song":

"When icicles hang by the wall
And Dick the shepherd blows his nail
And Tom bears logs into the hall
And milk comes frozen home in pail,
When blood is nipp'd and ways be foul,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
Tu-whit;
Tu-who, a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

"When all aloud the wind doth blow
And coughing drowns the parson's saw
And birds sit brooding in the snow
And Marian's nose looks red and raw,
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
Tu-whit;
Tu-who, a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot."

Among the gossips there would be much talk of wonders, appearances, mysterious occurrences, and charms; and the children listened with all their ears, you may be sure. Perhaps one of Mistress Shakspere's friends possessed the power that some people in Warwickshire still are said to possess, of charming away warts by a touch and some murmured invocation; or curing toothache and all other aches and pains. There are plenty of people now who, after your second cup of tea is finished, will take the cup, twist the grounds around three times, turn it mouth downward in the saucer, and then, by looking at the tea-leaves which still stick to the bottom of the cup, will undertake to tell you what is going to happen--of presents you will receive, or people who are coming to see you. And many Warwickshire women still believe firmly that whooping-cough can be charmed away by the patient walking nine times over running water.

The boys' games of those days were much the same as they are to-day. Each game then, as now, had its regular season in the year. In the season for marbles, no one would dream of playing anything else. "Knuckle-hole" is still the favorite game in Warwickshire. The standing-up game, pitching the taw from a mark scraped across the ground, is, I am told by competent authorities, rather going out of fashion; but it is still played. The marble season lasts through the late winter, much to the distraction of mothers, who have to clean and mend their sons' nether garments, which are worn with kneeling and plastered with mud at that time of year. Then comes the spinning-top, whip-top, and peg-top time. Later again there is tip-cat for the boys, and hop-scotch for the girls.

On the corn-bins in the Warwickshire ale-house stables we can still find the lines rudely cut for "nine men's morris." This, in Shakspere's day, was a favorite game, and one much in vogue among the shepherd boys in the summer, who cut a "board" in the short turf and whiled away the long hours by playing it. Little Will must often have gone to watch his father play "shovel-board" at the Falcon tavern, in Stratford, on the board upon which tradition says he himself played, in later life. And at home, he and his brother must have played "push-pin," an old game which is still played in remote parts of the country. Two pins are laid on the table; the players in turn jerk them with their fingers, and he who throws one pin across the other is allowed to take one of them, while those who do not succeed have to give a pin. This is the game Shakspere alludes to in "Love's Labour's Lost," when he says, "And Nestor play at push-pin with the boys."

Little Will knew a great deal about sport. All his allusions to sporting or woodcraft are those of a man who had been familiar with such things from his childhood. He and Gilbert must have set plenty of "springes, to catch wood-cocks," and dug out the "earth-delving conies" that swarmed in the commmonland of Welcombe, those dingles that in later years he fought so hard to preserve from inclosure.

They must have fished many a time, as the Stratford boys do to this day, in the slow waters of the Avon, sitting quietly intent for hours upon the steep clay bank

"to see the fish
Cut with her golden oars the silver stream,
And greedily devour the treacherous bait."[C]

[Footnote C: "Much Ado about Nothing," Act 3, Sc. 1.]

Then who can doubt that he often watched the hunting of the hare? Each line in his wonderful description of the hunted hare is written by a thorough sportsman and a keen observer of nature. How the purblind hare runs among a flock of sheep or into a rabbit-warren, or "sorteth with a herd of deer" to throw out "the hot scent-snuffing hounds." How they pause silent till they have worked "with much ado the cold fault cleanly out," and then burst into music again.

Of deer, Shakspere knew much--too much for his own comfort. In his childhood, there were herds at Fulbrooke,--and when he was older, at Charlecote, at Grove Park, and at Warwick. And probably there were a few roe in the wilder parts of the Forest of Arden, which came down within three miles of Stratford, and covered the whole of the country north of the Avon, out to Nuneaton and Birmingham. We can fancy how the boys stole out to watch the Grevilles and Leycesters and Lucys and Verneys on some great hunting party, and whispered to each other,

"Under this thick-grown brake we'll shroud ourselves,
For through this lawnd anon the deer will come."

But the time of all others in the year that we connect most closely with Shakspere is the sweet spring-time, when the long cold winter--very long and very cold among those undrained clay-lands of Warwickshire--had come to an end. How closely little Will watched for

"daffodils,
That come before the swallow dares, and take
The winds of March with beauty";

and for

"violets, cowslips, and pale primroses."

We can fancy the little boys hunting in some sheltered nook in the Welcombe woods for the first primroses; and climbing up Borden Hill just beyond Shottery, perhaps with Anne Hathaway from the pretty old house in the orchards below, to the bank--the only one in the neighborhood,--

"where the wild thyme blows,
Where oxlips, and the nodding violet grows";

or wandering over the flat sunny meadows along the Avon valley, picking cowslips, and looking into each tiny yellow bell for the spots in their gold coats,--

"Those be rubies, fairy favors,
In those freckles live their savors,"--

as they brought home baskets of the flower-heads for their mother to make into cowslip wine.

Spring, in this Stratford country, is exquisite. The woods are carpeted with primroses and wild hyacinths; while in the "merry month of May" the nightingale swarms among the hawthorn trees white with blossom.

On every village green there stood a painted May pole--one is still standing at Weston, near Stratford; and May-Day is still kept in Warwickshire with a "May feast" upon old May-Day, the 12th of May. Every one knows how the prettiest girl in the village was chosen Queen o' the May, and how all joined in the "Whitsun Morris-dance."

Long Marston,--"Dancing Marston," as it has been called ever since Shakspere's time,--a few miles from Stratford, was famous till within the memory of man for a troop of Morris-dancers, who went about from village to village, strangely dressed, to dance at all the feasts. Shakspere probably had the Marston dancers in his mind when he wrote of the "three carters, three shepherds, three neat-herds, three swine-herds," that made themselves all "men of hair," and called themselves "Saltiers," at the sheep-shearing feast which pretty Perdita presided over, in "The Winter's Tale." The sheep-shearing feast, which came when roses were out on the hedges and in the gardens, must have been a merry and important time for the Shakspere boys. John Shakspere was, of course, specially interested in the price of a tod of wool, for wool-stapling was part of his trade. Perhaps William himself was sent by his mother to buy the groceries for the feast, and stood conning the list as he makes the clown do, in "The Winter's Tale."

In the spring-time, too, came the peddler with all his wonders and treasures:

"Lawn as white as driven snow;
Cypress black as e'er was crow;
Gloves as sweet as damask roses;
Masks for faces and for noses."

Those last must have pleased the little boys more than all the rest of the peddler's goods. And perhaps it was from this very peddler that Will Shakspere bought the pair of gloves which, after the fashion of the day, he gave to Anne Hathaway at their betrothal.

But the great event of the year in the quiet country town was Stratford "Mop" or statute fair, on the 12th of October. The market-place was filled, as it is to this day, with clowns and mountebanks, wrestlers, and rope-dancers at their "rope-tricks." Oxen and sheep were roasted whole. A roaring trade was driven by quack doctors and dentists. All the servants in the country came and stood around to be hired, as the farm-hands and the maids for the farm-houses still do--the carters with a bit of whipcord in their hats; the shepherds with a lock of wool; the laborers with a straw. And next day, we need not doubt, there were many candidates for the town stocks, as there are now for the police court. There were bear-baitings, too, and bull-baitings--those cruel sports which have only been abolished in Warwickshire within the last hundred years. But in Shakspere's day bear-baiting was a popular and refined amusement. During Queen Elizabeth's visit to Kenilworth, in 1575, there was a great bear-baiting in her honor, of which a curious and most sickening account still exists. And when Shakspere went to London his lodgings were close to the bear-garden, or "Bear's College," at Southwark, whither all London flocked to see the poor beasts tormented and tortured.

There was, however, one amusement which, from his earliest years, must have delighted little Will Shakspere above all others--I mean a visit from the players. That he inherited his love for the drama from his father is more than probable; for it was during the year of John Shakspere's High Bailiffship that plays are first mentioned in the records at Stratford. According to the custom of the day, when the players belonging to some great nobleman came to a town, they reported themselves to the mayor to get a license for playing. If the mayor liked them, or wished to show respect to their master, he would appoint them to play their first play before himself and the Council. This was called the Mayor's Play, every one coming in free, and the mayor giving the players a reward in money. Between the autumns of 1568 and 1569,

"The Queen's and the Earl of Worcester's players visited the
town and gave representations before the Council, the former
company receiving nine shillings and the latter twelve pence
for their first performances."

And there is little reason to doubt that our little Will, then between five and six years old, was taken to see them by his father, the mayor, as a little boy named Willis was taken at Gloucester that same year, being exactly William Shakspere's age; and, standing between his father's knees, Master Will probably there got his first experience of the art in which he was to become the master for all ages. We wonder what that first play was--some quaint, rude drama probably, such as the one little Willis saw at Gloucester, with plenty of princes and fair ladies, and demons with painted masks, and the "Herod" in red gloves, of the "Coventry Mystery" players.

Not only in Stratford, but in most of the towns roundabout, there are various records of players giving performances. When little Will was eleven years old, Queen Elizabeth came on her celebrated visit, in 1575, to Lord Leycester at Kenilworth; and as all the country flocked to see the great show, it is probable that the boy and his father were among the crowds of spectators and saw some of the plays given in the Queen's honor.

A year or two later, troubles began to multiply at the house in Henley street. John Shakspere got into debt. The farm at Ashbies was mortgaged. His daughter Anne died in 1579; and two years before her death, young William, then thirteen, was taken from school and apprenticed--some accounts say to a butcher--or, as seems more probable, to his own father, to help him in his failing wool-trade.

For the next five years nothing is known about Will Shakspere. Then we find him courting Anne Hathaway in the pretty old brick and timbered cottage at Shottery, its garden all full of roses and rosemary, "carnations and striped gillyvors." A year or two later, he is stealing one of Sir Thomas Lucy's deer,--writing a lampoon on the worthy justice,--and flying to London from his wrath, to hold horses at the door of the Globe Theater before he joined the Lord Chamberlain's players, and became known to all posterity as Mr. William Shakspere, Writer of Plays.

May Song By Laura E. Richards

Is there anything new to sing about you,
May, my dear?
Any unhackneyed thing about you,
Pray, my dear?
Anything that has not been sung
Long ago when the world was young,
By silver throat and golden tongue?
Say, my dear!

So many have said that your eyes are blue,
May, my dear,
It must be a tiresome fact, though true,
May, my dear,
And if I for one, my gracious Queen,
Should boldly assert that your eyes were green,
'Twould be a relief to you, I ween,
Eh, my dear?

We know of the touch of your garments fold,
May, my dear,
The daisies come starring with white and gold
The way, my dear.
We know that the painted blossoms all
Come starting up at your gentle call,
By dale and meadow and garden-wall,
May, my dear.

We know that your birds have the sweetest tune,
May, my dear:
And lovers love best beneath your moon,
They say, my dear.
And I might add that that your perfumed kiss
Is considered productive of highest bliss;
But you must be so tired of hearing this!
Eh, my dear?

No, I really don't think there's anything fresh,
Or new, my dear.
For the world is small, and available rhymes
Are few, my dear.
So if I say naught about vernal bowers,
And forbear to mention the sunlit showers,
I think I shall make the best use of my powers.
Dont you, my dear?

And yet I cannot help loving you so,
May, my dear,
That the old words, whether I will or no,
I say, my dear,
And how you are fair, and how you are sweet
My loving lips forever repeat.--
And is that the reason you pass so fleet?
Ah! stay, my dear!

THE GIRLS' TRICYCLE CLUB AND ITS RUN DOWN THE CAPE.

BY E. VINTON BLAKE.

Tricycles had become an every-day affair in Sherridoc, and since the formation of the Girls' Club, lady tricyclers were not an extraordinary sight. So Charlotte, or "Charley" Van Rensselaer, as she was called, and her brother Starrett excited but little comment as they wheeled swiftly down Haymarket street, moving noiselessly and easily through the throng of carriages and other vehicles, until, as the houses grew less frequent and the pavements stopped altogether, they rolled through the suburbs of the town and so into the open country, without stay or pause.

For they were making time. The club itself, thanks to the failure of the express company to deliver Charley's new "Columbia" when promised, had several hours' start on the road; and Starrett, like the obliging brother that he was, had remained behind in order that Charlotte need not ride alone nor the club be longer delayed by waiting for her.

Charley Van Rensselaer, her cousin Cornelia, or "Corny" Hadwin, and their warm friends Mattie Hyde and Arno Cummings, were four bright and active young girls of from thirteen to sixteen, who composed the Girls' Tricycle Club. Little by little they had won first the interest and then the consent of their somewhat conservative parents to this novel but exhilarating exercise, and having now become expert riders, they were off for a long run of eighty miles down Cape Cod from Sherridoc City to Curtin Harbor, where their parents had summer cottages. Faithful and clever Joe Marston, Mr. Van Rensselaer's colored servant, and an expert tricycler, had gone ahead with the club as guide and commissary-general, and Starrett Van Rensselaer, Charley's younger brother, was invited to accompany them as an escort, on the odd-looking "Royal Mail" he had borrowed for the trip,--bicycles not being allowed.

And now the door-yards broaden out and the houses become still more rambling. There are wide-spreading orchard boughs, and cool woody spaces here and there between the farms. Now a youngster scampers into the house shrieking, "Ma, Ma! Oh, come here, Ma! Here's a girl a-ridin' three wheels at once!" and Charley, looking back, perceives the urchin's sisters and cousins and aunts peering at her from the door. Starrett too looks back, and laughs.

"You'll have to get used to that," he says.

"I expect to," responds Charley serenely; "but you must remember that four of these things have gone on before us on this same road and they must have taken off a little of the novelty."

Over the brow of Haymarket Hill they go, and the long steep sweep into the valley of the Owassee lies before them. Charley, with her feet on the "rest," commences to descend. An amazed cow grazing by the roadside makes a charge on the singular vehicle, but the girl never flinches, and with one hand on the steering-bar and the other on the brake she avoids every stone, every rut, every gully in the road. The irate cow, after nearly plunging on its nose down the first steep incline, pauses to recover its senses and then returns slowly up the hill. Starrett waves it a laughing adieu. "Sensible bovine that," he says; "she knows that a stern chase is a long chase."

"My, though!" exclaims delighted Charley, "we're just flying, Starrett! Aren't we?"

They are indeed. The bushes whiz past,--the wind sweeps their faces,--trees, stones, fences flit by like phantoms. Charley feels like a bird on the wing. Such exhilaration is there in a good tricycle "coast" downhill!

But it is not all such pleasure; for, a few miles farther on, they become acquainted with the other side of the story, as they go toiling up the long ascent of Comstock Hill, a sandy and winding incline that leads to the highlands of Fisherville.

"If it weren't for the sand," said Charley as she pushes her tricycle before her, "I would test the new 'power-gear' on my 'Columbia' by riding up Comstock Hill. But, dear me, I believe there are not three yards of solid earth on this road!"

"Never mind, we're more than half-way up," said Starrett, consolingly.

"Do you suppose it's sandy like this near Curtin Harbor?" inquired Charley.

"I haven't the least idea," Starrett replied. "If it is, we can branch off and take the cars at Minot Station."

"The cars? Why, Starrett Van Rensselaer!" exclaims Charley. "Why, I wouldn't take the cars--not for anything--unless--well, unless I were fairly driven to it."

And now they both draw a long breath, for the crest of Comstock Hill is won.

"Look behind you, Starrett," says Charley. "Did you ever see a prettier picture?"

Starrett acknowledges he never did. The low-lying valley is green and fair. The Owassee stretches like a silver ribbon across the picture, and there is not a human being in sight save these two tricyclers who take all this summer beauty into their impressible young hearts.

On they go, through Fisherville and into the open country again. Truly no grass grows underneath those flashing wheels. The new "Columbia" has the oil well worked in by this time, and the "Royal Mail," with its queer one-sided "steerer," seems undisturbed by any ordinary roads. The freshening wind is behind them; the blue sky, cloud-flecked, above; and all around, bird-song and the rustle of blowing grass and bending boughs.

"This is grand, Charley!" cries Starrett; "so much better than horseback riding--and I've tried both."

"You don't tire yourself much more, and you're sure your horse won't run away with you," Charley assents, whizzing along beside him. "I feel strong enough for a good long run yet, and we ought to catch up with them easily, before long."

The winding, woody road brings them suddenly to a hill-top. To the right, below, lies a wide expanse of velvety marsh meadow, with its vivid and variegated tints of green, olive, and reddish-brown, and occasional intersections of tottering, moss-grown fence; there is a starry glimmer as of lilies in the frequent pools that give back the glory of the sun. To the left are seen the dark, still reaches of a lake that winds in and out in the cool shadow of high woody banks. An old ice-house stands lonesome and gray on its margin.

The brother and sister halt on the brow of the hill, to enjoy a view that may be one of the memories of a lifetime; then the wheels roll slowly toward the descent. The slope is steep and winding; they do not "coast" with feet on the rest above the steering-wheel. It is not desirable to capsize or collide with any up-coming vehicle. So they glide warily on, with hands on the brakes, until the bottom is reached. But here a crazy guide-post at a fork in the road misleads them by pointing in the wrong direction for the Wareham road. But by great good luck, they strike a shady wood track, full two miles long, which cuts off five miles from the road they should have traveled, and which, so Starrett says when he recognizes it, will bring them just so much nearer the club. Dismounting at last, a pine-covered knoll, with a brook bubbling below, attracts them; and, seated on the brown pine-needles, the brother and sister talk over their adventures, and wonder how far ahead the others may be. Suddenly Starrett, who faces the road, drops his hands to his side with an exclamation of surprise.

"What now?" says Charley, looking quickly around, A glance makes her a partner in Starrett's astonishment; for, over the main road they have just now regained, come one, two, three, four tricycles, their glittering spokes flashing in the sun. They see Joe Marston's dusky face and stalwart figure, and behind him they catch the flutter of garnet and blue--the colors of the club. Occasionally a head in the procession turns to look expectantly behind.

Starrett and Charley keep close in the shade of the pines, restraining a laugh with difficulty.

"Here is a good place to stop, Joe," cries Cornelia Hadwin. "It's cool and shady, and we can see the road. I think they should have caught up with us by this time. Can anything have happened,--do you suppose?"

"Dunno, miss," answers Joe with a grave face. But as he dismounts to wheel his machine up the knoll, he stops short with a sudden smoothing out of all the perplexed lines from his dark brow. "Hi, dar!" he exclaims. "Look-a yer, Miss Corney!"

Cornelia does look, and so do all the rest. There is a perfect chorus of shrieks and laughter, a babel of voices, a torrent of questions.

"Oh, we travel, I assure you!" says Starrett. "We took a flying leap and came in ahead of you."

"How did it happen? When did you pass us?" These and countless other questions follow. Then all is explained, and at five o'clock the merry six are on the road again, rolling along in lively style.

So, in single file, with Joe in advance, and Starrett bringing up the rear, the club rides through the main street of Wareham, down the long slant to the bridge over the Wareham river. The evening mist hangs low along the stream; the bridge seems to stretch across the rushing tide and end abruptly in mid-air. The soft, grayish opaque cloud hides the farther shore from sight.

There are heads at doors and windows, and people on the street stop to gaze. At first the girls feel a little abashed at so much attention. But nobody is discourteous; Joe rides steadily on, and there is nothing to do but to follow.

"I suppose we do look queer to them," says Mattie Hyde.

"Oh, well, you are missionaries, you know," says Starrett assuringly. "Perhaps your club may be the means of introducing tricycles into many of the places we shall pass through."

"That's one of our objects, of course," observes Charley.

"If girls and women knew what comfort one can take with a tricycle, half the battle would be won," says Arno Cummings timidly.

"It isn't altogether that, Arno," says Charley, who, as the originator of the club, has her advanced theories to support. "A good many would like to, but don't really dare. You know that Shakspere says 'Conscience doth make cowards of us all.' I think that custom makes us cowards, too."

"Custom will be on our side, though, by and by," declares Mattie Hyde. "Doctor Sawyer told Mamma the other day that he would prescribe the tricycle rather than medicine for many of his patients. He said that the machines are much used in England, and that they are gaining ground in this country, though not so rapidly as he could wish."

But even this knowledge of the healthfulness and desirability of the tricycle does not make a hard piece of road any easier. After a night's rest at the hospitable house of an aunt of Mattie Hyde's, the club find themselves, next day, among the "Sandwiches," as Starrett facetiously dubs the town of that name which is divided into North, East, South, and West Sandwich. And there they come upon a wooded tract that sorely taxes their endurance and presents the most formidable obstacle they have yet encountered. The sand is impassable; it closes completely over the wheel-tires, and, after a short space of arduous labor, the club come to a dismayed standstill.

"What on earth are we to do?" queries Corny Hadwin in despair.

No one answers her. The boughs wave softly overhead; the small cloud of dust their efforts have raised floats slowly away and settles on the scant herbage underneath the pines. Near at hand sounds the shriek of the "up" train. They are not far from the railroad.

"Shall we give it up and take to the train?" Starrett asks, as they catch the sound of the locomotive.

"Dear me, we mustn't do that!" exclaims Charley. "Let's dismount and push the machines a little way. Perhaps the wheeling is better just ahead."

But it is not. The ruts are strewn with straw, shavings, and chips; everything indicates that the woods are extensive, and that others before them have found the sand a tribulation.

"Oh, this is the worst of all!" groans Corny.

"But we'll not give up, nevertheless," declares little Arno Cummings, developing unexpected grit in the emergency. "I shouldn't like to tell them at Curtin Harbor that we had to take to the cars to get around a difficulty."

Joe mops the perspiration from his dusky brow, and then stops to listen. A creak, a rumble, and a tramp, tramp are heard behind them. "Dar's sumfin a-comin!" says Joe.

The "sumfin" soon appears in sight,--a big, empty, four-horse wagon, making its unwieldy way in their direction. The same idea occurs to everybody at once.

"There! He'll carry us!"

Carry them! Of course he will--for a consideration. And almost before the driver has recovered from his evident astonishment at this vision of six tricycles in the heart of the Sandwich woods, the riders and their machines are safely in the big cart, and on their way through the sandy tract, which, they now learn, is several miles in extent.

It is impossible for the horses to go faster than a walk for the whole distance. The sand is a constant clog, and scarcely a breath of air can penetrate the close piny ranks on either side the narrow road. It is a slow and somewhat crowded ride, but the club tells stories, sings and jokes and answers the curious inquiries of their teamster, to whom a tricycle is a thing unknown till now. But in due time, the young folk have bidden him good day, and are speeding on toward Barnstable. The air grows salty, strong, and bracing.

"It's like a breath of new life," says Starrett; and soon they are rolling between the long row of grand old trees that line Barnstable's quiet main street. At the hotel they stop for dinner and a noonday rest.

It is four in the afternoon when they remount. The lady boarders, who have taken quite an interest in the young tricyclers, bid them farewell with all manner of good wishes, and one gray-haired society lady remarks, "Those girls are sensible; and their mothers are sensible too. Give young people the delights of nature and the freedom of outdoor sports, and keep them from late parties, and the whirl of folly and fashion. I've seen too many young lives warped and twisted and weakened in the endeavor to 'keep up' in fashionable society. Yes, those girls are sensible."

And, wheeling still, by hill and dale, the "sensible" girls and their escort roll merrily into old Yarmouth, with its broad, shady streets and big, substantial, old-fashioned houses. Quaint and picturesque indeed it is, with quiet nooks and corners, breezy streets, time-stained wharves where lie battered fishing craft and the smarter boats devoted to the summer visitors who have found out the beauties of the town. Here, too, Arno Cummings has an uncle, a bluff and breezy old sea-captain, who gives the whole party a hearty welcome; and at his house, the club spend two nights and the day between--a day of shade and shine, with the sea wind blowing everywhere. They explore the old town from end to end. They come continually upon pictures,--now a broad grassy lane with its moss-grown fences flanked by rising pastures of brownish grass; now a long slope ending in a rocky outlook over the blue sea; now a brown cottage nestled in among trees and hills. And on the second morning after their arrival, they bid the hospitable Captain Cummings adieu, and pass, single file, over the great drawbridge across the inlet that cuts Yarmouth in two, and so spin along through the succession of little towns which, leaving Yarmouth, almost join together into one. Such are the "Dennises"--divided as usual into North, East, South and West,--and the "Harwiches," where at Harwich proper the tricyclers bid farewell to the railroad which has kept them company at short intervals all the way down.

"Six miles to Curtin Harbor." So says the lazy youth at a cross roads store, and away they spin, while the spires and houses of Harwich disappear behind the trees.

And now how the wind blows! And all around the horizon the sky has that watery appearance that betokens the nearness of the sea. There is a peculiar, bracing freedom in the wild, salt wind; the very sway of the brown grass, the swing of the odorous wild pinks that nod in the corners of old mossy fences have a life and freshness that one misses greatly in tamer, more settled districts. For now they are plunging bravely into the long stretch of sand barrens and pine woods that, with only an occasional house, stretch for many a mile between Harwich and Curtin Harbor.

But here, in the afternoon, a sudden shower overtakes them. They can no longer pick their dainty way by the roadside, but must keep the middle track or run the risk of upsetting. There is scarce a quarter of a mile of level ground to be found. The pine woods close in upon them, and when at the summit of a hill they anxiously look for some other shelter than the thronging pines, they can see nothing but the long, winding, lightish streak of road and the endless outlines of monotonous pine-trees on either side against the dark sky.

"Six miles to Curtin Harbor!" cries Starrett at last. "That boy's a fraud. I believe it's sixty."

"Reckon dey're Cape Cod miles, Mas'r Starrett," says Joe. "Dey say down yer, yo' know, dat one on 'em 's equal to two ob good trav'lin' in any uthah part ob de worl'."

If it were only clear now, coasting merrily down these hills would be royal fun, but in this state of the weather caution is necessary. A halt is called for consultation. The six composedly dismount and sit down on the clumps of "poverty grass," beneath the doubtful shelter of the pines.

"Well, now," asks Starrett, "what are we going to do? I know you girls are tired and drenched; you needn't deny it. And there's no sign of a house this side of Jericho or Jerusalem."

Suddenly Charley has an idea. "O girls," she says, "let's camp out, right here! We're not badly off, for we all have our waterproof cloaks; but you've all been longing for an adventure, and here's one for a _finale_. We'll at least make a tent and have supper. It'll be just splendid!"

The club vociferously acquiesce. Joe alone, dubious, shakes his head. But he is outvoted and overruled.

A quantity of pine boughs are piled, by Joe and Starrett, tent-fashion, across and around four of the tricycles; a heap of dry leaves, carefully collected, makes a fragrant couch, whereon the young ladies compose themselves, wrapped and snugly covered with shawls and capes from the "luggage-carriers." Lastly Joe spreads the rubber waterproofs securely over the wheels and boughs, and the young campers are completely sheltered.

A rummage in the lunch-boxes and "luggage-carriers" of the six machines brings to light half a dozen soda crackers, two bananas, six pieces of gingerbread, a slice of dry cheese, three apples, and--this is Joe's surprise!--a small can of chicken.

A chorus of delight greets this last discovery, and Joe is at once besieged.

"Now, yo' jes' sot down, ef yo' please, young ladies," says Joe, holding the can above his head. "I'll 'tend to yo' d'reckly. Yo' jes' gib me de tings and I'll serve supper in fus'-class style."

When the chicken,--delicately served on the soda crackers,--the apples, bananas, and gingerbread are distributed, and the cheese toasted--in a fashion--at one of the lamps, the merry six leave not a crumb to tell the tale. It is true that a conscious vacancy still exists in the six hungry stomachs--such appetites have these young wheelers; but they are refreshed and no one thinks of complaining.

The merry meal finished, weariness and the patter of rain incline the girls to rest, and soon silence falls upon the camp, broken only by the sighing of the wind among the dark pine boughs, and the occasional chirp of some sleepy bird.

Then Starrett, also, wrapped in his waterproof coat, throws himself down to rest beneath the shelter of a friendly pine close by.

Joe, left alone as the sentinel, falls to thinking over the situation, wondering where they are and whether they have missed the right road. He walks about uneasily and then stands looking up and down the stretch of road. The tricycle lamp, which he has lighted to dispel the gloom, casts a yellow gleam over the tent and Starrett's shrouded figure, while beyond and all around are the pines with their swaying branches and the long black vistas between. Joe walks back and forth, in the rain, vainly trying to think in which direction they are to proceed.

He has been wondering thus for perhaps five minutes, when he becomes aware of a pair of fiery eyes watching him from the shadows. Joe starts. He does not know what peculiar class of wild beasts inhabits Cape Cod, but there are the eyes plainly enough. He stops and stands motionless. The eyes move, come boldly forward, and Joe, now doubly astonished, sees full in the glare of the tricycle lamp--a big grayish cat!

And the cat has a nickel-plated collar with a ribbon attached. Joe knows that even on Cape Cod no wild beasts roam about, in summer storms, with nickeled and be-ribboned collars, but what can a cat be doing away in the depths of a pine forest? And then he suddenly concludes that the cat's home can not be far away. The gray cat comes purring about his knees. Joe is fond of cats, so he takes it in his arms and fondles its wet fur, and it proves to be company for him and really helps him to forget the discomfort of the rain.

At about seven o'clock in the evening, however, the rain slackens, the clouds scatter, and rifts of light appear through the trees. And just as Joe is thinking of rousing the club for another "spin," he hears a whistle and a heavy step from across the road. Then an old farmer fellow of about forty-five, in search of a lost cow, comes to an abrupt and amazed halt at confronting among the pines Joe, the gray cat, Starrett's recumbent figure, the tent, and the glimmering tricycle wheels. He stands speechless until Joe's voice breaks the spell.

"Good-ebenin', sar," says Joe. "Can you tell me if dis is de road to Curtin Harbor?"

"Curtin Harbor!" exclaims the farmer, with his eyes still full of mute amazement. "No, it's not. 'T any rate not the direct one. If you've come over from Harwich, you've gone two miles out of yer way. You should have taken the other road, back there by the old school-house."

"Dar's whar I missed it!" cries Joe, slapping his knee. "I was suah I did sumfin' wrong somewhar, but I couldn't locate it, to save me! I'se much obliged."

"You can cut across to the main road by crossing my field yonder and going up by the house just beyond----"

"Hi, den dere is a house over yar!" says Joe.

"Why, certainly," says the farmer, "not more than forty rods from here." And when Joe finds how very near he has been to a comfortable farmhouse he says he feels "like kickin' hisself."

"But," says the visitor, still eying the camp. "How did it all happen. Are you traveling on foot?"

"No, sar; on tricycles," explains Joe, proudly; "we are de Girls' Tricycle Club, all de way from Sherridoc, wid Mas'r Starrett an' me along to look arter 'em and see 'em safe down to Curtin Harbor. We los' de track back yondah, an' de young gemman an' I jes' rig up dis tent for to keep the young ladies dry an' gib 'em a chance to rest till de shower was ober."

The farmer's surprise grows to interest.

"And so this is a tricycle," he says. "And did the young ladies ride those things all the way from Sherridoc?"

"All de way, sar," answers Joe, proudly, "'cept when we wus stuck in de Sandywiches and had to be carted froo wid a team."

After the good man's curiosity has been satisfied, and Starrett has summoned the girls to appear, the worthy farmer strolls off after his lost cow, first inviting the club to the farm to another supper. One by one, the girls emerge from their camp, but when they hear how near to a house they have been during the rain, great is the laughter.

"I don't care, though," cries Cornelia Hadwin; "we've really had a sort of a camping-out time, and I'm glad of it."

After hearing Joe's report, the club determines to push on at once to Curtin Harbor in the early evening, without accepting the hospitable invitation to supper at the farmhouse.

The two miles to the main road are quickly traversed, and before long the club wheels around a long curve in the road, and the blue expanse of Curtin Harbor lies beneath them. The clouds are gone by this time; the rising moon shoots slantwise through a few thin, dissolving folds, and brings out ripples of gold and silver on the long seas. There seems to be a breeze that stirs the water to darker ruffles beyond the head-land, but where the young folk sit on their tricycles, enjoying the beauty of the scene and the salty damp of the evening air, not a blade of the coarse, silvery beach-grass stirs; every spire and blade stands in sheeny silver in the mellow light.

Below the beach-road branches off a long winding descent to the quiet cottages which lie in the evening glow, seemingly fast asleep.

"Now, girls, for a good coast!" cries Starrett. "Here goes!"

And away indeed he goes, over the brow of the hill, rolling swiftly, and removing his feet from the pedals as his machine gathers way. Away also they all fly after him, merry as larks, waking all the echoes of the shore with their light-hearted shouts and laughter. The tricycle lamps flash out upon the seaward road, and soon it comes to pass, that as Charley's wheels whiz flashing into the wide, grassy dooryard of a certain pleasant little summer abode, a hand lifts the window curtain, and a voice, with a ring of irrepressible gladness but a great pretense of gruffness, calls out:

"Is this my noisy daughter, who has been running wild for a week over all the roads on Cape Cod?"

"Oh, Papa!" cries Charley, gleefully, "we've had a perfectly charming trip!"

And so says the entire club. And they pass a vote of thanks to Joe for taking faithful care of them, and to Starrett for his excellent escort duty. And now when the story of their eighty-mile ride is told, everybody votes tricycling a wonderfully health-giving and delightful exercise, and the first long trip of the Girls' Tricycling Club a grand success.

MORNING-GLORIES.

BY LAURA LEDYARD POPE.

My neighbor's morning-glories rise
And flutter at her casement;
_My_ morning-glories' lovely eyes
Peep just above the basement.

And both our morning-glories strew
With loveliness the railing,
And thrust their starry faces through
The vines about the paling.

But when at last the thrifty sun
A work-day world arouses,
Hers gather up their dainty skirts
And vanish in their houses.

They draw their silken curtains close,
There's not a soul can find them;
And mine run up the school-house path,
And shut the door behind them!

* * * * *

It was a fair Artist named May
If you looked at her sketch she would say,
"It's horrid, I know--
If you please _wont_ you go,
I'm not in the humor today."

LITTLE LORD FAUNTLEROY.

BY FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT.