Chapter XII: On the “calf’s” Back (1)

Let us take advantage of this lapse of time to go back a little and see what had become of Olly Burdeen.

The salt water and the barnacles told but too true a tale: he had been thrown upon the lesser rock, which the next tide would submerge.

If he had still any doubt of that terrible fact, it must have been dispelled when the moon rose amid broken clouds and showed him the “Calf’s tail” churning the waves at the end of his surf-fringed reef; also the glimmering back of the “Old Cow,” with its encircling surge, a furlong or more to the south.

An old, sad moon it was, with a distorted, melancholy face peering above the illimitable desolation of waters; yet a welcome sight to the drenched and shivering castaway, waiting on his lonely ledge for the tide to return and cover it. No wonder it appeared to him not the cheerful orb he knew, but some ancient, decayed satellite coming to look for the last time on a lost world!

After his long labor with his rude paddle, and the effort it had cost to swim to the rock and scramble out upon it, he was nearly exhausted; and the discovery of barnacles in the pool had quenched what remained of his courage. There was no shelter from the wind; and in his wet clothes he felt a deadly chill striking to his bones.

Then followed another discovery, which did not tend to restore his spirits.

He had from the first given up the boat as lost. It had disappeared in the dark and turbulent water almost as soon as he left it; nor could he see anything of it afterward.

It was an old dory that had been hired for the season by one of Mrs. Murcher’s boarders. Olly had taken that, too, without leave; but it was the custom on the coast for people to make rather free use of any boats that came in their way. With it had gone his sole means of escape from certain death; otherwise he would have cared little for the loss.

In his fearful anxiety about his own safety, he had thought little even of the safety of the watch. He hated the recollection of it; for, probably, if it had not been for that, it might never have occurred to him to row out from shore in order to get a sight of the returning yacht, around the point.

After the moon rose, he looked across the tumbling billows at the “Old Cow” wallowing in their froth, and felt that his salvation lay in reaching that before the rising tide should sweep him from the “Calf.” Yet, how was that possible? The very thought of swimming so far, alone in the night, in the wild ocean, was frightful to him. Yet as a last resort he might be driven to make so desperate an attempt.

As for the water, it could hardly seem colder than the wind that pierced his drenched clothes. He no longer thought of any injury to them—the stylish suit that had been a delight to his soul a few hours before! He wept with despair as he thought of the joy that had turned to such bitter woe; and he wished he had never seen the giver or his gift.

Salt water might ruin the watch; but, if so, that was probably ruined already. At all events, it was past being returned to its case in Mr. Hatville’s room, without that gentleman’s knowledge of its having been removed.

Past, indeed! Thinking of it, Olly put up his hand to his pocket. It gave him a start of fresh terror, even in his utter misery and wretchedness, to find it empty.

The watch was gone! That was his last disheartening discovery.

How long it had been gone he had not the slightest means of knowing. His teeth chattered, and he trembled from head to foot, as he hurriedly searched his clothing for the timepiece, but in vain.

He at first believed that he had lost it in his struggle between the boat and the ledge; for he remembered having looked down and seen the golden glitter of the seal, not long after he went adrift. But now the moonlight disclosed the seal still hanging by the hook in his button-hole. The guard had been broken, and everything, excepting the seal and a few dangling links, had gone with the watch.

He concluded that he must have lost it when he had his first tumble in the boat. The oar, when it struck his breast, and flew from his hand, had doubtless caught in the chain, and snatched the watch from his pocket. Of course he couldn’t know that this was so; but if he had foreseen what Perce Bucklin was to find on the beach a few hours later, he would have argued that no watch could have been conveyed so far, in so short a time, by waves or tide.

However it might have happened, it was hopelessly gone; and now, in his enfeebled, frightened state, he began to consider how he should escape the suspicion of having stolen it, if ever his body reached the shore alive or dead.

“Nobody knows I had it,” he said miserably to himself. “And why should anybody ever know?”

He unhooked what was left of the guard, and held it, with the seal, for a moment in his shaking fingers, considering whether he should destroy that evidence against him by flinging it into the sea.

But he could hardly make up his mind to cast away irrevocably what might prove of value, should the watch and the rest of the guard be found. That might still be possible, he reasoned; and, after a few minutes of sickening doubt and hesitation, he put the shining trinkets into his pocket. Even as he did so, he went about mechanically searching for what he had hardly the faintest expectation of finding. Who that has ever lost a prized object has not done the same?—looking again and again in places where a superstitious hope whispers that it may be mysteriously lurking.

He felt sure that it could not, without his knowledge, have dropped from his pocket when he had stooped over the pool to grope for barnacles; and even if it had, the moonlight must show so bright an object shining in the shallow bottom. Yet he explored it carefully with his hands, and went back and explored it again, after examining other parts of the ledge.

But why be so anxious about the watch, when he was in despair of saving his own life? He said that to himself, as he searched every crevice and hollow of the slope where he had crawled out of the sea.

It was fortunate that he had something thus to engage his wretched thoughts and benumbed hands. And a still better employment awaited him.

He had some time before he heard a strange thumping and grinding sound, which he supposed must be caused by the motion of the “Calf’s tail.”

The hunt for the watch had kept him from investigating it. But now that very search led him to make a different, but even more welcome discovery.

The side where he had landed was in shadow. As he followed it around, just out of reach of the waves, he saw to his great joy something rising and falling in the black seaweed that grew below the gray girdle of barnacles, and bumping on the reef. It was his boat, which the wind had blown against the little island, and lodged not far from the “Calf’s tail.”

It was lying on its side, and a heave of the sea threw up the dark gunwale into the moonlight that slanted across the surf-vexed end of the island. As the wave drew back, sucking heavily along with it the somber fringe of rockweed, Olly stepped cautiously down on this slippery footing, and, seizing the rail of the dory, held it fast. Then with the next swell he lifted the end upon the barnacled rocks and held it again, while its heavy freight of water spilled out over the side into the sea.

Getting hold of the painter, he now had the boat safe, and, by a little management, he was able to haul it higher up the slope and tip the rest of the water out. The exertion warmed him, and success gave him new courage.

True, he had no oars, and the thwart he had used for a paddle was lost. But there was a second thwart which he could detach. The dory appeared little the worse for the rough usage it had received, and he did not doubt but it would prove seaworthy when it should become necessary for him to intrust his life to it, in escaping from the rock.

That might be some time yet, for it was now low water. With the turning of the tide, the wind might change or go down; and it would probably be near daylight before the “Calf” would be submerged.

“The trouble will be,” he reflected, “to get the dory upon that highest part.”

That was something more for him to do. He worked it along inch by inch, pulling seaweed from the rocks to put under it in order to make it slide easily over the barnacles.

But this device came near causing him a sad accident. Once, when he released his hold of the boat to take breath after violently lifting, it broke away from him and started back down the descent, which the seaweed he had placed there made slippery. He sprang to seize the painter, which was dragging on the rocks, but it pulled him after, and boy and boat barely escaped plunging together into the brine.

As it was, though, he arrested its progress just as it struck a billow. He was compelled once more to tip it over—for he had no other means of getting the water out—and then to perform over again the labor of lifting it up the ledge.

But this was, perhaps, a fortunate accident, since it kept him in exercise until he felt that his clothes were getting dry. And it showed him, besides, the danger that would attend the final launching of the dory.

(_To be continued._)

REGATTA.

A GAME FOR THE LAWN OR PARLOR.

BY FRANK BELLEW.

Perhaps you have never heard of a yacht-race ashore, yet that term might almost be applied to this picturesque game, which will be found not only exciting, but a source of great fun. It can be played out-of-doors on the lawn or in a large room.

Two players are required for each “yacht”—the “captain,” who directs the course of the vessel, and the “crew,” who carries the boat in his cap or “helmet,” and obeys the orders of the captain.

To play the game, it is first necessary to lay out the “course” on the lawn or the floor, which represents the sheet of water that is to be the scene of the regatta. Any convenient objects can be taken for the “stake-boats” and “turning-buoy,” and the course can be made as difficult as desired by placing obstacles, such as chairs, boxes, or cushions, in the way, to represent “rocks,” “reefs,” “shoals,” and “islands.” The crews that are to compete are first allowed to sail over the course to inspect it, and are then drawn up in line at the start, where each puts on his “yacht-rig,” and is carefully blindfolded by the captain of a rival yacht. At the “first gun,” or signal to make ready, each crew turns around three times. At the “second gun,” or signal to start, they all proceed, under command of their respective captains, to go over the course, keeping always in “deep water” and avoiding the reefs and other obstacles, around the turning-buoy, and back to the starting-point. The yacht which is the first to come in wins the race.

A captain must always address his crew by the name of his yacht, and must give his orders in nautical terms. If he fail to do so, his yacht must stop, and turn once around before going on. The same penalty is exacted if the crew does not understand an order and asks for an explanation; and also whenever, through the unskillful management of the captain or the poor sailing of the crew, the yacht runs into any of the obstacles or into one of the other yachts.

Of course, unless the players know how to sail real boats, the orders will often be very ridiculous; but as long as they are given in nautical language, and the crew understands what they mean, it makes no difference, except to add to the fun.

For instance, let us imagine the Genesta to be racing the Puritan. The orders might sound something like this:

“Steady, Genesta, steady!” from the captain of the English cutter.

“Keep her off about two points to starboard, Puritan—steady!” from the American skipper.

But such a command as “Hard a-port, Genesta—no, no, the other way, you goose!” would compel the captain of that craft to stop his yacht and make it turn once around; while, if on receiving the order, “Shake out a reef, Puritan, and head her nor’-nor’east!” the crew should ask, “Oh, I say, Billy, what do you mean by ‘shake out a reef’?” or “‘Which direction is nor’-nor’east’?” then the Puritan would have to stop and turn around. And if the captain of the Genesta, wishing to take advantage of his rival’s set-back, should exclaim, “Now, Sam, let her go!” the English boat would have to pay the same penalty.

Many modifications of this game will naturally suggest themselves to those who understand sailing. The sport can be made much more difficult and interesting by supposing the wind to blow directly up the course, so that the yachts will have to beat down to the turning-buoy and then come home before the wind. When the game is played out-of-doors and there is a breeze blowing, a great deal of skill and ingenuity can be exercised in keeping the yachts in the courses they would have to take if they were actually propelled by the wind.

The nattiest yacht-rig is made of a square piece of cardboard that will go just around the head of the crew. The two edges are then stitched together to form a “helmet,” like a high hat without crown or brim. Two notches should be cut in the top of the helmet, as shown in Fig. 1, to receive the hull of a small toy yacht, such as can be bought cheaply at any toy shop. The yacht is held in place by lashings passing through holes made in the helmet. Strings should be fastened to the sides of the helmet to tie under the chin, and a curtain of some thick, close material may be sewed on in front, as a blindfold. The cardboard should be colored blue to represent waves; but the curtain, flags, and strings should be of some distinctive tint, so that each vessel can sail under its own colors.

A simpler form of yacht-rig (Fig. 2) consists of a roll of cloth about twenty inches long, the ends of which are sewed together, forming a ring-shaped pad to rest upon the head. The yacht, a home-made affair, cut out of a shingle or a piece of board, is fastened upon the pad. This helmet also has the blindfold, and strings to tie under the chin. A third style of helmet (Fig. 3) was once formed by scooping out the end of a watermelon to fit the crew’s head, and rigging it up with a twig mast and a brown-paper sail. It was cheap, ingenious, and uncomfortable, and is not recommended. There is a fourth and entirely different rig, which consists in fastening the sails directly to the crew’s body. (See Fig. 4.) The spars—boom, sprit, and bowsprit—are of wood, shaped as in A, and are fastened to the body by strings run through holes in the broad ends. The sails should be attached to the spars as in real boats. A small flagstaff in the front of the cap bears the pennant, and completes the rig.

For the benefit of those who are not familiar with sea terms, a few of the more common directions used in this game of Regatta are here given with their explanations:

“Port” means the left side of the yacht. “Starboard” means the right side. To “luff” means to bring the yacht so that it will point more toward the direction from which the wind is blowing. To “luff a-lee” is to point the yacht directly at the wind, in the “wind’s eye.” To “tack” is to change the course of the yacht so that it receives the wind on the other side. The maneuver is accomplished by “luffing a-lee,” and keeping on until the yacht presents its other side to the wind. To “fall off” is the opposite of to “luff.” Experienced yachtsmen will know and use many other terms, but these are sufficient for conducting a game. Stories and books about the sea will suggest other useful words, and any one who plays the game often will soon gain an ample vocabulary.

There once was an Untaught Sea-Urchin,
Who said that for years he’d been searchin’
For a place in the sea
Where he quiet could be,
For the waves kept him pitchin’ and lurchin’.

A NEW THEORY.

BY BESSIE CHANDLER.

At the telegraph poles Grace was looking,
When she solemnly said: “I think
Those little glass things are the bottles
That hold all the telegraph ink.”

WORK AND PLAY FOR YOUNG FOLK.—XV.

A ROPE YARN SPUN BY AN OLD SAILOR.

BY C. W. MILLER.

There are many things you boys can do with a rope, if you only know how. Let an old sailor spin you a “yarn” or two.

I. SPLICES.

If you wish to put up a swing, to make a lasso, to fasten a rope to your sled, or if you live on a farm and desire to make a halter or a hay-rope, you should know how to make an “eye-splice.”

The tools you will need are a hammer and a marline-spike. A sailor’s marline-spike is made of iron, and is about six inches long, like that in Fig. 1; but you can easily whittle from a bit of any hard wood a peg that will answer the purpose of a marline-spike.

To begin the splice, take a small rope, like a clothes-line (if possible, a new one in which the strands are unworn), and first untwist, or, as we sailors say, unlay, about four inches of it. Then wind thread tightly around the end of each strand to keep it in shape. Next bend the rope around into a loop of any size desired, letting the loose strands or cords cross on the upper side and project beyond the rope. Be sure that, as you hold the loop toward you, the rope bends toward the right.

At the point of crossing, twist the solid or “standing” part of the rope the wrong way, so as to open it a little, and thrust the spike in between the strands, pushing it in until the strands are well apart. Now draw the spike out and put the end of the first loose strand into the enlarged opening. To do this easily you should insert the spike with its point toward the loose ends, so that, as you draw it out, you can follow it closely with the first end before the separated strands close. Draw the end up tight, as shown in the cut. Then take the spike and separate the next strand in the rope from the others, and insert the second loose end in the same way, and similarly place the third end under the third strand of the rope. At this stage, your splice will look like Fig. 1, and a little study of that diagram will show you, better than I can tell you, just how to insert the strands.

Continue the work, by passing the first end over one strand and under the next, and do the same with the second and third ends.

When each end has been woven in twice, take off the thread from the ends and cut about a third from the under side of each one, making it that much thinner than before. Bind the ends again with the thread, and weave each one under another strand of the rope. Again take off the thread and cut off half of what remains from the under side of each of the loose ends; replace the thread, weave under again, draw each end up tightly, and cut it off close to the rope. If you have carefully followed the directions, each end will pass over and under the strands alternately, and no two ends next each other will pass under the same strand.

You must always remember, in working with a rope, to twist every strand hard and tight, and to draw it snugly to place. And in making a splice, the rope should be pounded frequently with the hammer or a piece of wood, and rolled back and forth under your foot. This operation makes the strands sink into one another and look smooth and even.

Another splice, quite as useful as the one just described, is that by which the ends of two ropes are joined so firmly that they form one continuous rope. There are two forms of it, one called the “short splice,” and the other the “long splice.”

The short splice, is more often used, because it is quickly made, it does not waste much of the rope, and it is nearly as strong as the long splice. There is one objection to it: It makes part of the rope somewhat larger than the rest, so that it can not be run through a narrow pulley-block. The long splice, on the other hand, though using much more material, may be made without increasing the size of the rope at any point, and is, in fact, somewhat stronger.

To make the short splice, first untwist about eight inches of each of the two ends you wish to join, and bring them together in such a way that the ends of the untwisted parts are squarely and closely against each other as though they were one rope, while the six loose strands stand out all around, each one of the right-hand strands being between two of those on the left hand, or interlocked.

Now what you are to do is to weave the loosened strands of the right-hand rope into the untwisted rope of the left side, and the loosened strands of that rope into the solid part of the right-hand rope. To hold the two ends in place while you work, begin by drawing all three of the left-hand strands down over the right-hand rope, and tie them there with a piece of cord.

Now weave the three loose strands into the solid rope by the help of the spike, just as you did in making the eye-splice. When you have finished this side, untie the twine and weave the loose strands into the left-hand rope in the same manner. The directions given for making the eye-splice apply also to this splice. It must be well pounded and twisted back and forth until the ends work into the strands and it is smooth and firm; and this splice, too, will look better if part of the rope-yarns are cut off before weaving in the last time, but if you are not particular you may cut the ends off just as they are left in Fig. 2. To help you to see how the ends go under and over the strands of the rope, each one is marked in Fig. 2 with a different line of dots and dashes, and, by following any one line, you will learn exactly where that one strand passes in and out.

The long splice, though a little more trouble than the short splice, makes a much neater joining. For this splice, you must untwist three feet of one end of each rope and bring the two closely together as in making a short splice, with the loose ends interlocked. Next take one of the strands of the right-hand side and untwist it, or separate it from the rope an inch or two, and into the space it leaves vacant “lay” one of the loose ends from the other side. (By “laying” I mean twisting the strand tightly and pressing it into place.) Go on in this way, untwisting the strand from one side and laying in its place the strand from the other side, until the latter has only about eight inches free, while the one you have been untwisting has nearly six feet free. What you have now done is merely replacing a strand belonging to one rope by a strand from the other. Do the same thing on the other side; that is, untwist one of the strands of the left-hand rope and twist into its place a loose strand from the right-hand rope. When you have done this, your splice will look like Fig. 3, the six untwisted strands ending in pairs in three places. The pair in the middle will be three feet long each; while at the ends there will be one long and one short strand, although, as seen in Fig. 3, they all must be cut off short for the next operation.

This consists in weaving the ends in, and it is done by forcing the spike under the strand next to the end you wish to weave in, passing the end through the opening, then over the next strand, and under the third, which you have opened in the same way. Now cut off a portion from the under side of the strand, pass it over and under once more, and cut off closely. Repeat this with the second strand of the pair, and your joining will look like Fig. 4, which represents a long splice finished. This figure, of course, shows only one woven-in end, the other being on the opposite side.

Having thus disposed of one pair of the loose ends, treat the other two pairs in the same way. Notice that the strands are nowhere turned back on themselves, but that they always work on in the same way they started; that is, those which turned out from the middle turn out to the end, while those that turned toward the middle (or those you untwisted to make place for the others) still turn toward the center, as they began.

II. SENNIT, OR BRAID.

The first thing a boy learns when he goes to sea is to make braid, or, in sailors’ talk, “sennit,” and I think land boys will find it very convenient to know a few of the different kinds in use. All boys wish to make whip-lashes or to swing hammocks; and for those of you who own sail-boats, or even row-boats, there are endless uses for these braids. Fenders to protect the sides of boats from injury are best made from a short, thick piece of sennit; and many boats have a guard, made of about seven large strands, like Fig. 5, running all around just under the gunwale.

On a ship these braids are used to wrap around parts of the rigging, to keep them from chafing, so they are called “chafing-gear.” And the sailors make it by the barrelful, so that it will be on hand when needed.

In beginning a braid, tie a string around one end of the strands and fasten it to any convenient object, such as a hook in the wall or a door-knob, in order to keep the braid taut, as it is very important to draw the strands up snug and even every time. The simplest kind of sennit may be made of any uneven number of strands. It is shown in Fig. 5.

To begin, take five strands and separate them, holding three in the right hand and two in the left. First take the outside strand of the three in the right hand, pass it over the two next it, and lay it inside the two in the left hand. Now you have three in the left hand. Then take the outside strand of the three in the left hand, pass it over the two next it, and lay it inside of the two in the right hand. So you go on, always taking the outside strand from the side which has three together, passing it over its two neighbors, and laying it inside the two in the other hand. It is very easy, you see, and you will soon have a piece like that in the figure, in which the outside strand from the left side has just been laid over inside of the right. You can make this kind of braid of any uneven number of strands, and the only rule is always to bring the one from the outside of the greater number over all its neighbors to the inside of the smaller number.

To make a whip-lash, you should try a braid like that shown in Fig. 6, which is a round sennit. The one in the drawing is made of large round strands to show the braid better; but for a lash you should take flat strips of leather, and taper them to make your lash the proper shape.

This braid is made of four strands. Take two in each hand, pass the outside strand in the right hand under its neighbor and also under the inside strand in the left hand. Bring it up between the two in the left, and lay it over the inside strand next to it, placing it at last beside the one strand in the right hand, only inside of it instead of outside, where it was first. Do the same with the outside strand of the left hand; that is, pass it under the one next to it and the inside one of the right hand, bringing it up between the two in the right, turning it over the inside one, and laying it next to the one remaining in the left hand, on the inside. Keep on doing this and you will notice that the same two strands always stay in the same hand, but each turn of one interlocks it through the two in the other hand.

In Fig. 6 the outside strand on the right side has just been passed under and up between the two on the left side, over the inside one of the left and beside the strand on the right.

This method of braiding is pretty to use in covering many things, round, square, or tapering. Even a turned vase and many articles of varying shape may be covered by it. Where the object is wide the strands cross each other at a wide angle, and where narrow, run more nearly parallel to the object, but in every case it is covered. Some very pretty things are made with this braid.

For a flat braid, which, when made of rope-yarns or cord, is very nice for a dog or goat harness, you will need the “French” sennit shown in Fig. 7. At sea, it is sometimes made eight or ten inches wide, and half an inch thick; but you will not need it so heavy. To begin, take nine strands as in the figure, though it may be made of any other number.

First spread the strands out flat, take the middle one (in this case, No. 5), bend it to the right and over No. 4, which is bent to the left. Take No. 6, bend it to the right, and under No. 4. Take No. 3, bend it to the left, over No. 5, and under No. 6. Take No. 7, bend it to the right, over No. 4, and under No. 3. Take No. 2, bend to the left, under No. 5, over No. 6, and under No. 7. Continue in this way until all the strands are in. Then take No. 5, which, you remember, was bent to the right, and now occupies the outside place on that side, bend it up and over No. 6, which is next it, and then braid it in alternately over and under just as before. Braid in the outside strand from the left side in the same manner. Go on in this way, and the braid will look like Fig. 7. So many directions make it seem hard; but when you try it with the figure before you, you will find it very easy. If the braid is made from an even number of strands, as in Fig. 8, the strands will begin on both sides by turning over; but if the number is uneven, as in Fig. 7, the strands on one side will begin by turning under.

Be careful to draw the strands even and snug. This braid has one great advantage over others. It may be split into two or more narrower braids, as you see in Fig. 8, and afterward braided together again, leaving an open loop, or a sort of button-hole. A glance at Fig. 8 will show you just how this is accomplished, and that it is an easy task.

In a navy hammock, the cords which support the body are woven into a flat braid which starts with two or three strands and has the others gradually woven in, two at a time, one on each side. This finishes it off very neatly, and keeps the cords from tangling, and is a great improvement on simply putting the cords through the ring, which has a bungling appearance, as they are generally in a snarl. This braid may be more easily made by “putting the cart before the horse”; that is, by beginning at what is apparently the wrong end. Take the cords double length, and draw them all through the ring, until half the length is on each side. There will be twice as many strands as you had cords. Begin a flat braid, as in Fig. 8, until all the strands are woven in. If there are twelve, you then leave out the outside strand on each side and continue the braid with ten; leave out two again, and continue with the middle eight; and so on until you have but two left. Tie these firmly together, and the braid will not work loose.

The queer-looking flat open-work braid shown in Fig. 9 is much used at sea, but it is hard to make of anything but tarred hemp rope-yarns, because it always inclines to loosen. The tarred rope does not slip like ordinary cord. In this braid, the strands do not cross the braid, but each one simply locks into its neighbor. To make it, you twist the first strand around the second, the second around the third, the third around the fourth, and so on across the braid. In the figure, the first has been twisted around the second, and the second is ready to twist around the third.

These braids can be easily learned by following the descriptions, and by referring to the cuts. Girls may use them in many ways; that shown in Fig. 5 is pretty for the hair. But I need not point out the various uses to which they may be put, for I am sure you all will discover them for yourselves.

III. THE “MADERWOCKER.”

This object bears no relation to the famous Jabberwock; in fact, it is simply a knot in common use among sailors; and the mysterious-sounding name is merely a very bad way of pronouncing “Matthew Walker.” Matthew Walker was an inventor, and, though his name has become gibberish, his knot is as good as ever, and is a very useful one. Whenever a rope is put through a hole and held by a knot, there is the place for a maderwocker, one that is not clumsy, will hold fast, and never loosen. The boys can use it on sled-ropes, swings, rope handles to boxes, and in many other places.

To make it you must first untwist, or unlay, about six inches of one end of the rope, and tie a string firmly around it where the knot is to be. Now, hold the rope in your left hand with the untwisted ends standing up, take one strand and bend it downward and around the second. Do not draw it tight, but leave a loop. Next bend the second strand around the third, and the third around the first, bringing the third one up through the loop left in the first. Draw all the ends tight and snug, and the knot will look like Fig. 10, which is a “single maderwocker,” or “single wall.”

If this knot is not enough you may put a “crown” on it. Bend down the first end and leave a loop; bend the second over the first, the third over the second, and put the end through the loop left in the first. Draw all the ends down snug and cut them off, and you will have a neat and strong knot like Fig. 11. Perhaps you will understand this crown better by looking at the end of the braid, Fig. 13.

A “double maderwocker,” or “double wall,” is a variety of this knot, made in the same way, excepting that each strand passes around two others, instead of one, as in the single maderwocker. Thus, the first strand is bent down and around the second and third, the second around the third and first, and up through the loop of the first; the third around the first and second, and up through the loop of the second, which also has been left a little loose. Draw all snug and you have a larger knot than the single one. (See Fig. 12.) You can finish it either by putting a “crown” on it, as described before, or by binding the strands close to the knot and cutting off the ends.

A series of crowns makes a very pretty and useful round braid like Fig. 13. The one represented has but four strands, though you will notice that it looks as if it had eight. Any number of strands may be used for this, and it will always appear to have double the number it really has. To make it look even and smooth, you must always bend the strands down in the same way; that is, always bend them to the right or always to the left. Girls will find this pretty cord convenient for many things; made of fine silk braid, it is nice to hang a fan from the belt, or for other purposes. Made of heavier materials, boys, I am sure, will find use for it.

THE SAILOR BOY.

BY WALLACE E. MATHER.

I knew a little youngster
Who would a sailor be;
He did not care for top or ball,
For marbles, kites, or trinkets small,—
He did not care for these at all,
For he would go to sea.

The things he really cared for
Were queer things such as these:
Odd knots of rope, and bits of string,
A marline-spike, a hammock ring,
India ink, or anything
That might a sailor please.

He liked to read of voyages,
And navigators’ lore.
“And I can tell you how,” he said,
“To make a splice or a ‘Turk’s head,’
To hold the reel, or heave the lead,
And—oh! a great deal more.”

And if perchance you missed him,
When others were at play,
You’d find him stowed in some odd nook,
Off cruising in his sailor book
With Frobisher or Captain Cook,
In regions far away.

He has not gone from home as yet,
To ship before the mast;
But only wait and you shall see—
Sailors are made from such as he;
I’m very sure that he will be
An Admiral at last.

“Hi! Yi! What’s the matter with you?”
“My! My! There’s a frog in my shoe!
I just took ’em off to paddle, you know,
In the beautiful lake where the pond lilies grow,
And when I turned ’round, that frog, don’t you see?
Sat up in my shoe and made faces at me.
My! My! Oh, what shall I do?”
“BLUP!” said the frog—and jumped out of the shoe.

JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT.

Try not to mind it, dearly beloveds. It is merely “the sensation caused by caloric, or the principle of heat, in excess; the bodily feeling experienced on exposure to the sun’s rays; the reverse of _cold_.” What is there to grumble about in so simple a thing as that? And yet that is all that makes these sunny days uncomfortable. Just fan yourselves with that fact, my dears. I’m assured you have the highest authority for it—a big, wise book named Webster.

And now that your thoughts are cooled and refreshed, you’re ready for this communication which the Little School-ma’am wishes to lay before you.

LONGFELLOW’S FIRST LETTER.

MY DEAR LITTLE SCHOOL-MA’AM: My mamma has found in a new book (the “Life of Henry W. Longfellow,” edited by his brother Samuel), a copy of the very first letter ever written by the poet. We reckoned his age, and found that he was six years and eleven months old when he wrote it. It interested my brother Kit and me so much that Mother said we could copy it for you to show the ST. NICHOLAS boys and girls. I think it was very nice in him to put his sister Ann in first, and Kit says I ought to explain that a billet was sometimes good to get.

This is the letter:

“PORTLAND, 1814.

“DEAR PAPA,—Ann wants a little Bible like little Betsey’s. Will
you please buy her one, if you can find any in Boston. I have
been to school all the week, and got only seven marks. I shall
have a billet on Monday. I wish you to buy me a drum.

“HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.”

As some one may wish you to tell whether Henry got the drum or not, I think I’ll copy next a part of the father’s answer to the letter. He was in Boston at the time, and he wrote:

... “I have found a very pretty drum, with an eagle painted
on it, but the man asks two dollars for it; and they do not
let any vessels go from Boston to Portland now. But if I can
find any opportunity to send it down, I shall buy it. And if
I cannot, I shall buy something else which will please you
as well. I am glad to hear that you have been a good boy at
school, and are likely to get a billet. You must save all your
billets till I get home.” ...

P. S.—What do you think my father says? He says Henry’s letter was pretty hard on Boston.

Your little friend and admirer,

DOROTHY G——.

THE WATER-SNAKE AS A FISHERMAN.

DEAR JACK: I once had some tame fish in a lake at the foot of my garden,—or, rather, some fish that came every afternoon about five o’clock to be fed. My children were in the habit of taking bread daily and throwing it into the lake for them to eat. The fish became so tame that they would eat out of our hands, and when a foot-fall was heard coming down the terrace that leads into the small flower-garden by the lakeside, the fish would rush through the water by hundreds, expecting their food. They were of many kinds,—from the large catfish, or bullpout, weighing three or four pounds, to the small minnow.

Once, while I was feeding them from my hand, a water-snake suddenly caught one of the fish by the head, and, as a snake always must do after catching his prey under water, he held the fish up out of the water for a moment while he took breath. I instantly caught the fish, and attempted to pull it out of the snake’s mouth, but the snake as quickly twisted his tail around a root under the water and resisted my attempt to deprive him of his expected dinner. With all the strength I could exert, I could neither pull the fish out of the snake’s mouth nor tear loose his hold upon the root.

While I continued to pull, I very soon found that the snake was beginning to swallow the fish, and was visibly sucking it in. Notwithstanding all my efforts to wrench it from his grasp, the fish gradually disappeared into the snake’s mouth until I felt my thumb and finger touch against the jaws of the reptile, and even then they were irresistibly pushed back until my grasp was only upon the tip end of the fish’s tail. Then the snake, with a sudden jerk, pulled it quite out of my hand and swam away. I was defeated, and the snake had gained the victory.

Yours truly,

H. E. S.

MORE ANIMAL WEATHER-PROPHETS.

It never rains but it pours! as I’ve often heard the Deacon say. We have lately been discussing the habits of some animal weather-prophets, but we have considered them one at a time. Now, lo and behold!—my young friend Ida G. Egerton sends me this letter and a newspaper extract, which describes a long list of such weather-prophets.

BOONVILLE, N. Y.

DEAR JACK: Seeing your readers are interested in living
barometers, I thought I would send you this paper. From

IDA G. EGERTON.

“I do not know of any surer way of predicting the changes in
the weather, says a correspondent, than by observing the habits
of the snail. They do not drink, but they imbibe moisture
during a rain, and exude it afterward. The snail is never seen
abroad except before a rain, when you will see it climbing the
bark of trees and getting on the leaves. The tree-snail, as it
is called, two days before rain, will climb up the stems of
plants, and if the rain is going to be a hard and long one, it
gets on the sheltered side of a leaf, but if a short rain, on
the outside. Then there are other species that before a rain
are yellow in color, and after rain blue.

“Take the ants, too; have you ever noticed the activity they
display before a storm—hurry, scurry, rushing hither and yon,
as if they were letter-carriers making six trips a day, or
expressmen behind time? Dogs grow sleepy and dull, and like
to lie before a fire, as rain approaches; chickens pick up
pebbles, fowls roll in the dust, flies sting and bite more
viciously, frogs croak more clamorously, gnats assemble under
trees, and horses display restlessness.

“When you see a swan flying before the wind, spiders crowding
on a wall, toads coming out of their holes in unusual
numbers in the evening, worms, slugs, and snails appearing,
robin-redbreasts pecking at the windows, pigeons coming to
the dovecotes earlier than usual, peacocks squalling at
night, mice squeaking, or geese washing, you can put them
down as rain-signs. Nearly all the animals have some way of
telling the weather in advance. It may be that the altered
condition of the atmosphere with regard to electricity, which
generally accompanies changes of the weather, makes them feel
disagreeable or pleasant. The fact that a cat licks herself
before a storm is urged by some naturalists as proof of the
special influences of electricity. Man is not so sensitive. Yet
many persons feel listless before a storm, to say nothing of
aggravated headaches, toothaches, and rheumatic pains.”

It appears, from this, that even boys and girls may sometimes be classed among the animal weather-prophets. But, as they seem to have a rather painful way of indicating storms, I hope none of you excel in prophesying.

A USEFUL BIRD WITH AN ARISTOCRATIC NAME.

WARWARSING, N. Y.

DEAR JACK: We were lately much interested in watching a family of Baltimore orioles that lived in a nest in a tree near our house. There were several young birds in the nest, that kept their father and mother busy all day long feeding them. The nest was rather small for its inmates, and some time ago a little bird fell out. Though the nest is about fifteen feet above the ground, it did not hurt itself. We saw it fall, and put it on a small tree near by, where its mother could see it. Afterward I climbed a ladder and put it in the nest. Then the mother bird arrived and hunted all over the small tree, trying to find it and give it something to eat, and seemed very anxious about it. It was a very pretty sight to watch her.

This oriole’s nest has been in the tree for some years. It hangs from one of the highest limbs, to which it is fastened by strong cords made from the material of which the nest is built. We are glad to have orioles about, for they feed the young birds with insects injurious to the garden and orchard. Insects seem to be their principal food; and I have seen them eat hornet’s eggs.

The name “oriole” is from the old French “oriol,” which is derived from the Latin “aureolus,” meaning golden. They are sometimes called “golden robins.” The orchard oriole, which we occasionally see, is of a pure yellow color, with stripes of black on its back, and is about the size of a canary-bird. The colors of the Baltimore oriole are orange and black. They are so called because orange and black were the colors of the coat of arms of Lord Baltimore, who was Governor of Maryland under King Charles I.

Respectfully,

NORMAN T. SAUNDERS.

A WISE HUMMING-BIRD.

Wisdom does not depend on size, as you all know, my dears. The ant and the bee, in fact, often seem to know more than some of the largest animals. The humming-bird, too, though the smallest of birds, is not lacking in intelligence. A friend of the Deacon tells a pleasant little story of one that was trying to secure the honey from a flower with a deep cup, and at the same time was plainly very tired. The flower grew near a porch where a family was sitting, and seeing the trouble of the bird, a young girl walked slowly toward him, holding out her finger. The tired bird looked sharply at her and then accepted the offered perch, alighted on the finger, and, when it was held close to the flower, returned to his work of honey-gathering. The girl stood quietly, and he used her finger as a resting-place till he had finished his meal, when he flew away home. A wise humming-bird that, say I,—and a wise girl, too.

THE PITCHER PLANT.

You were lately told in ST. NICHOLAS, I hear, about a curious lace-leaf that grows in a far-off corner of the world called Madagascar. Well, the Little School-ma’am asks me to show you now this picture of another queer plant, which, she says, is a near neighbor to the lace-leaf, for it is found in the marshes along the coast of Madagascar, and it is known as the pitcher plant.

At the end of each leaf, which narrows to a mere stalk at the tip, it carries a little vegetable vase very like a pitcher with lid and all complete. And this curious cup is indeed a pitcher, given to the plant for the express purpose of keeping its leaves well supplied with moisture; for travelers report that they have frequently found quite a quantity of water in those queer little natural cups. Besides, they have big ears, so of course they’re little pitchers.

The Deacon says that, according to all accounts, Madagascar must be a sort of palace of the vegetable kingdom.

SIXTY-FOURTH REPORT.]

A FINAL WORD ABOUT THE BADGE.

Since Mr. Hayward went out of business, Mr. N. M. Shepard, 85 Nassau street, N. Y., has consented to succeed him as our badge-manufacturer.

He is quite enthusiastic in the matter, and has designed some very pretty badges, which seem to us a decided improvement upon the styles shown in the hand-book. The scarf-pin and lace-pin are most attractive, because least noticeable,—which is a paradox.

For further information communicate with Mr. Shepard, whose address is given above.

A FRIENDLY WORD FROM PRINCE KRAPOTKINE.

It is a pleasant thought that even those men whose personal experience of sorrow has led them to take dark views of life in general can find in our Association something worthy their commendation—something to be built up, rather than destroyed. Would that we could extend our brotherly influence as widely as Prince Krapotkine suggests in the following extract from his article, “What Geography Ought To Be,” published in “The Nineteenth Century” for December, 1885: