Chapter XX: Perce Settles with His Partners (1)

There was no longer any question as to what should be done with the contribution the boarders had made up to reward the humane efforts of Olly’s rescuers.

They had collected ten dollars. To this Mr. Hatville begged the privilege of adding ten more.

“For finding my watch—and for my treatment of the finder!” he said.

But Percival couldn’t bear that anything like that should cloud the great joy with which the welcome light of truth filled his soul.

“I don’t want any reward for anything!” he exclaimed. “I can’t take your money!” And he pushed back Mr. Hatville’s contribution across the hall table. “But I’ve no right to refuse anything intended for my friends; and, if the ladies insist, I will take their money and give it to Moke and Poke.”

“Moke and Poke!” said Amy, with a laugh. “What names!”

“They are my partners, on the beach. The Elder boys—Moses and Porter,” Perce explained.

The ladies did insist; and, with light feet and a lighter heart, he hastened down the sandy path to the shore.

The twins, who had resumed their work, were inclined to show a little resentment of their partner’s prolonged absence. They wished to know what “that man” wanted of him, and where he had been all the while.

“I’ve been getting a reward for you!” said Perce gayly.

“A reward?” cried Moke.

“For what?” asked Poke.

“For rescuing Olly,” Perce replied, opening his hand and showing the money. “Here it is,—with the compliments of the lady boarders at Mrs. Murcher’s.

“Oh!” ejaculated Moke.

“Ho!” aspirated Poke.

“We didn’t want any pay for that!” said both together.

“But it took your time, and interrupted your work; and it really seemed a pleasure for them to give you something. Olly’s a great favorite up there,” added Percival.

“Five dollars!” shouted Moke, brandishing his share above his head.

“Five dollars!” shrieked Poke, capering wildly on the sand.

They had never in their lives been so rich. But where was Percival’s share?

“They offered me ten dollars—or at least the man did. But I didn’t take it. The truth is, boys,——” And, after a little hesitation, Perce told the story of the watch that he had found and restored to the owner.

“And it was Olly that borrowed and lost it?” exclaimed Moke.

“And never told us!” ejaculated Poke.

“Why didn’t _you_ tell us you found it?” cried both together.

“As we were partners,—going halves in everything,—I didn’t know—” Perce blushed and stammered—“I didn’t know but you’d want your share of that, too!”

“Oh, nonsense!” said Poke.

“Of course we shouldn’t!” said Moke.

So that matter was settled,—far more easily and satisfactorily, Perce thought, than might have been the case if no owner for the watch had been found.

“Come!” said Moke, looking again at his money before pocketing it; “we’ve done enough work for one day.”

“Never mind about hauling any more kelp,” said Poke.

“We’ll have the fun of coming again to-morrow,” said both together.

Perce himself was quite willing to go home to dinner. So, having dumped their last load of seaweed (which would not be much more than a third of a load when, after it was well rotted, they should haul it to the farms), they filled up the cart-box with driftwood. Upon that they laid their blankets; and presently climbed up to the top themselves, after bidding good-bye to the beach and the bright sea, and turning the oxen into the wild woodland road.

Then, mounted comfortably upon their loaded cart, they drove back through beautiful sunshine and shade, making the woods ring once more with their voices in glad chorus:

“Now, run and tell Elijah to hurry up Pomp,
And meet us at the gum-tree down in the swamp,
To wake Nicodemus to-day!”

Although he had no money to show, Percival was not the least contented of the three with the result of their work.

He had done something for his friend Olly, and for Mr. Hatville; and no reward could have given him quite so pure a satisfaction as the feeling that he had done it without reward.

Moreover, as he had liberated the watch and chain from their slimy environment of rockweed and kelp, even so his conscience and his good name had been freed from the entanglement that at one time threatened to drag them into a hideous abyss. To have kept his honor unsullied was a greater joy than the possession of many watches.

Yet I can not say that Perce Bucklin was made very unhappy when, not long after, he received by express from Boston a small package, which, on being opened, was found to contain a very pretty silver Swiss watch, and a card bearing Mr. Hatville’s name. It was certainly a gratifying token of that gentleman’s confidence and regard.

THE END.

OLD TIME ARMS AND ARMOR.

BY E. S. BROOKS.

Do you not think that the garments of iron, of steel, or of bronze in which the soldiers of five hundred years ago rode to the wars must have been very uncomfortable? Look at the “effigies,” as they are called, on the opposite page, representing four royal knights. These colossal statues, with those of twenty-four other noted warriors of history and romance, stand, a silent guard, around the magnificent tomb of the German Emperor Maximilian I., at Innspruck, in the Tyrol. These four mail-clad figures represent four of the bravest and most redoubtable of the knights of old—Arthur of Britain, Theodeobert of Burgundy, Ernest of Austria, and Theodoric, king of the Ostrogoths. The armor is rich in ornament and decoration, but I have not a doubt that King Arthur felt much more cool and comfortable when he was eating that famous “bag pudding,” which Mother Goose assures us the queen “did make” for him, than when he rode out from Camelot in the splendidly decorated iron war-clothes that are shown in the picture; and I am very sure, too, that the brave Theodoric was much happier and more at ease when as a boy he practiced Greek gymnastics at the Court of Constantinople, where he was held as hostage by the Emperor, than he did when, years after, he rode to the siege of Ravenna with that ridiculous iron kettle on his head and weighed down with the iron rosettes and jacket that we see in his picture before us.

But, while these metal clothes, uncomfortable, hot, and heavy though they were, have been a necessary style of wearing apparel ever since the forgotten ages when men began to quarrel and to strive, it was not until a comparatively recent date that warriors rode to battle wholly incased in armor. The Assyrians and Egyptians, the Greeks and Romans of the earlier days were satisfied with such partial protection as would shield the most vulnerable parts of their bodies—helmets, or head-coverings; greaves, or shin-protectors; and the short oval breastplates that guarded heart and ribs. The stout old Roman legionaries, bronzed and scarred with exposure and fighting, laughed rather contemptuously at the fresh levies which, when sent into the field, wished to shield their bodies as much as possible. Indeed, the first use of the word armor, as we understand it, is found in the works of a military writer of the latter part of the fourth century A. D., one T. Vegetius Renatus, who refers to armor as a defense worn only by the _young_ troops; so you see that, after all, the boys were the first to incase themselves in armor and were the earliest of the knights.

But gradually, as men grew more careful of their bodies, they increased the safety-coverings; breastplate and greave and helmet grew into coat-of-mail, and suit of plate, until in the days of the knights—the thirteenth, fourteenth and fifteenth centuries—the men who couched lance or wielded sword and met in the terrific battle-shock _seemed_ to be men of iron, whatever they really were beneath their clanging clothes.

Look at the picture (Fig. I, p. 938) of a knight in a splendid suit of armor, richly engraved. He lived and fought somewhere about the time of the heroic Edward of England, whom men, because of his sable armor, called the Black Prince. This warrior may have even followed the banner of Prince Edward; he may have fought with Bruce at Bannockburn, or against the cause of the people and Rienzi at Rome.

Certainly here is an instance in which “dress makes the man,” as the old proverb declares. Not one of us could recognize the gentleman by his countenance on a second meeting, for even his face is concealed behind a decorated visor, or beaver,—a sort of face-door that works up and down on well-oiled hinges. The short cloth sack, emblazoned with his crest and worn over his armor, is the _tabard_, and from his plumed helmet to his pointed _sollerets_, or shoes of iron, he is one mass of metal. The two knights, alongside, in Fig. 2, are incased in somewhat less elaborate iron suits, though they also belong to the age of splendid armor.

In those days of hard hitting with ax and lance, alike in tournament and in battle, the head and the breast generally received the stoutest blows and needed to be the most securely protected. The head-pieces grouped together on page 939 are what a merchant nowadays would call “an assorted lot”; the _casquetel_, or helmet with an iron cape for protecting the back of the neck; the _bascinet_, or helmet with a pointed visor, and another just beneath it that looks like three joints of stove-pipe; the _tilting-helm_, used in the tournament or in the “tilting-field,” looking very much like a “high hat” of to-day, in iron; the German _heaume_, or old Gallic helmet, with the basket-like cage to shield the face; the plumed _burgonet_, or old Burgundian helmet, and the rounded one, sometimes called a _morion_; and the last of the helmets, the helm and _casquetel_ of the harquebusiers—those stout old fighters of the seventeenth century, who gave and took plenty of hard knocks in the Dutch wars, or in the ranks of Cromwell’s Ironsides.

The breastplate, first worn in front only, was gradually added to until it became a _cuirass_, or iron jacket, laced at the sides. Around the neck was worn the metal collar, or _gorget_; the hands were incased in iron gloves, or _gauntlets_, sometimes armed with long, saw-like projections; and spurs of varying size and length were attached to the heels of the curious iron shoes that were known as _sollerets_.

Dagger and poniard, mace and lance, bill and battle-ax were the terrible weapons used by the gentlemen in the iron clothes to cut and carve, to pound and pummel, to hack and pierce one another,—and yet those were called the days of chivalry, of courtesy, and of courage!

War is always brutal, always terrible; but there seems something almost cowardly in the custom of those “knights of old” in thus crawling for safety into suits of steel and iron, while the poor people who followed their banners to the wars—vassals and serfs, archers and bill-men—had nothing but leather jerkins and iron head-pieces (often not even these) to protect them from the charge and thrust of the mail-clad knights. And the funny side of it all is that sometimes knights thus covered with plate, like modern ironclads, would fight all day without either being hurt. In one of the Italian battles of the sixteenth century, two armies of knights sheathed in the best Milan armor fought from nine in the morning until four in the afternoon without one valorous warrior being killed or even being wounded. Do you wonder that Cervantes made such sport of those men in kettles and stove-pipe, as he did in his marvelous story of “Don Quixote”?

But, as necessity is called the “mother of invention,” weapons, in time, were made that iron-cased warriors feared even more than mace or battle-ax. The archer’s “cloth-yard shaft” might not be able to pierce the Milan armor, but a steel-headed “bolt” or “quarrel,” sped with terrific force from the notch of a crossbow, has brought many a mail-clad knight to grief, as William, the Red King of England, and Richard, called the Lion-heart, found to their cost. For five centuries, the crossbow, or arbalist, was a favorite weapon in war and in the chase, as Mr. Maurice Thompson has already told you in his interesting “Story of the Arbalist.”[1] And many a boy of those olden days was taught either by the armorer of his father’s castle, or by that same knightly father, the baron and lord of the manor, how to string the bow and how to lay the bolt.

The battle of Waterloo, in which the iron-sheathed cuirassiers of Napoleon went down in defeat before the soldiers of Wellington, was the death-blow to defensive armor.

As gunpowder came into use in battle, and science improved the methods of warfare, the iron coats were found to be of little avail as a protection against shot and shell. Men grew braver as they dropped the heavy plates behind which they had hidden for centuries. And now they march unprotected by iron clothes, depending for victory upon their excellent drill and discipline and upon the deadly fire-arms which science has developed and perfected.

But, better yet, more helpful than casque or cuirass, lance or bill or battle-ax, more effective even than the ponderous Krupp cannon, the deadly Gatling gun, or the swift-loading Martini rifle, is the spirit of justice, of kindly courtesy, and of real courage, which now settles quarrels between men and nations. Argument, arbitration, and mutual concession are doing more to civilize the world than all the cruel war-weapons, and these kindlier methods render more and more useless the arms and armor of the long ago, which sprang, not from the friendships, but from the hatreds and passions of men.

But breastplate, helm, and sword, and all the knightly accouterments have served their purpose in the world’s advancement, and as they look down at us from the walls of library or museum could tell us many a story of daring and of valor in “the brave days of old.”

[1] See ST. NICHOLAS for September, 1882.

NED’S BUTTERCUP.

BY BESSIE CHANDLER.

Ned picked in the garden, one morning bright,
A buttercup, fresh and yellow;
And his warm, chubby fingers held it tight,
For it pleased the little fellow.

But soon it drooped its satiny head,
(Such a sorry trick to serve us!)
“Oh, give it some water, Mamma!” cried Ned;
“I think it is getting _nervous_!”

BY ANNA M. PRATT.

Such an ill-behaved man she never had seen!
When she wanted a picture, pray, what did he mean
By hiding his head? And, under her breath,
She whispered: “Mamma, is he frightened to death?”
She wondered and wondered when would he begin—
When, presto! that instant a round, dimpled chin,
And a mouth where sweet kisses seemed coming and going,
And two merry eyes with their fun overflowing
Were caught by the sunlight.—Now see! There she stands
With a flower on her breast and her doll in her hands,
Her bonny face framed in her fair, waving curls—
The sweetest and dearest of dear little girls!

THE BROWNIES AT BASE-BALL.

BY PALMER COX.

One evening, from a shaded spot,
The Brownies viewed a level lot
Where clubs from different cities came
To play the nation’s favorite game.

Then spoke a member of the band:
“This game extends throughout the land;
No city, town, or village ’round,
But has its club, and diamond ground,
With bases marked, and paths between,
And seats for crowds to view the scene.
At other games we’ve not been slow
Our mystic art and skill to show;
Let’s take our turn at ball and bat,
And prove ourselves expert at that.”

Another answered: “I have planned
A method to equip our band.
There is a firm in yonder town,
Whose goods have won them wide renown;
Their special branch of business lies
In sending forth these club supplies.
The balls are wound as hard as stones,
The bats are turned as smooth as bones,
And masks are made to guard the nose
Of him who fears the batter’s blows,
Or stops the pitcher’s curves and throws.
To know the place such goods to find,
Is quite enough for Browny-kind!”

When hungry bats came forth to wheel
’Round eaves and find their evening meal,
The cunning Brownies sought the store,
To work their way through sash and door.
And soon their beaming faces told
Success had crowned their efforts bold.
A goodly number of the throng
Took extra implements along,
In case of mishap on the way,
Or loss, or breakage during play.
The night was clear, the road was good,
And soon within the field they stood.

Then games were played without a pause,
According to the printed laws.
There, turn about, each took his place
At first or third or second base,
At left or right or center-field,
To pitch, to catch, or bat to wield,
Or else as “short-stop” standing by
To catch a “grounder” or a fly.

Soon every corner of the ground
Its separate set of players found.
A dozen games upon the green,
With ins and outs might there be seen;
The umpires noting all with care
To tell if hits were foul or fair,
The “strikes” and “balls” to plainly shout,
And say if men were “safe” or “out,”
And give decision just and wise
When knotty questions would arise.

But many Brownies thought it best
To leave the sport and watch the rest;
And from the seats or fences high
They viewed the scene with anxious eye,
And never failed, the contest through,
To render praise when praise was due.
While others, freed from games on hand,
In merry groups aside would stand,
And pitch and catch with rarest skill
To keep themselves in practice still.

And had our champion players found
A chance to view that pleasure-ground,
They might have borne some points away,
To put in use a future day;
For “double plays” and balls well curved
And “base hits” often were observed,
While “errors” were but seldom seen
Through all the games upon that green.

Before the flush of morn arose
To bring their contests to a close,
The balls and bats in every case
Were carried back and put in place;
And when the Brownies left the store,
All was in order as before.

ABOUT BREATHING.

BY HELLEN CLARK SWAZEY.

It is a curious fact that, although breathing is a very simple and necessary accomplishment, there are a great many people who have forgotten how to do it in the best way. If you will watch a perfectly healthy baby when it is asleep, you will see that its shoulders are quite low and even, that its mouth is usually closed, and that it is breathing comfortably from its lower chest. We know that the lungs are the chief purifiers of the blood; but to perform their duty satisfactorily the air-cells of the lungs must be filled with filtered air and they must have plenty of room in which to work,—so we are, on the whole, well satisfied with the baby’s method of breathing. In fact, we have reason to believe that the system has been taught by Nature herself; and when we can get Nature’s methods at first hand, it is seldom worth while to try to improve upon them very much.

But when the baby grows up, if it chance to be a girl, her clothing is usually such that it interferes with the free action of muscles that are concerned in enlarging the cavity of the chest, so that the lower part of the lungs, which should be busy taking in their share of oxygen to make the blood fresh and bright, are seldom used, and the blood goes away from the lungs only partly freed from its impurities, while the lungs themselves do not get exercise enough for their own good.

But tight dressing, though the most serious hindrance to the habit of good breathing, is not the only obstacle. There are careless ways of sitting and standing that draw the shoulders forward and cramp the chest; and it is as hard for the lungs to do good work when the chest is narrow and constricted as it is for a closely bandaged hand to set a copy of clear, graceful penmanship. Then there are lazy ways of breathing, and one-sided ways of breathing, and the particularly bad habit of breathing through the mouth. Now the nose was meant to breathe through, and it is marvelously arranged for filtering the impurities out of the air, and for changing it to a suitable temperature for entering the lungs. The mouth has no such apparatus, and when air is swallowed through the mouth instead of breathed through the nose, it has an injurious effect upon the lungs. A story is told of an Indian who had a personal encounter with a white man much his superior in size and strength, and who was asked afterward if he was not afraid. “Me never afraid of man who keeps mouth open,” was the immediate reply. Indeed, breathing through the mouth gives a foolish and weak expression to the face, as you may see by watching any one asleep with the mouth open.

It is well to establish the habit of deep breathing if it does not already exist, but, in addition to this, the reserve air which is left in the lungs after an ordinary expiration should be expelled and the lungs thoroughly ventilated at least twice every day. First, then, see to it that the air in the room is as pure and fresh as out-of-door air can make it. Then, with all tight and superfluous clothing removed, lie flat on the back and, with the mouth firmly closed, take a full, deep breath. Hold it eight or ten seconds, and then let it out. Take another, and yet another breath in the same way.

After that, take a breath into the lungs as slowly as possible, beginning to fill them at their lowest extremities, and inhaling gradually until they are filled to their full capacity, when the air should be exhaled in the same slow and steady manner in which it was taken in. Repeat this exercise three or four times. Now watch and see if the shoulders are kept drawn down and immovable while the air is inhaled, as they should be, or if they are drawn up, and are thus robbing the diaphragm and muscles of forced breathing of half their exercise.

When you have taken this movement again to make sure that the shoulders are in good position, throw your arms vertically over your head and take another quick, full inspiration, swinging the arms rapidly to the sides close to the body and back again over the head. Swing the arms up and down four times on the same breath, and repeat the exercise three or four times.

After this, it is a good plan to stand erect with the arms horizontal at the sides, and vigorously clap the hands from that position over the head a few times. When taking such movements in an erect position, always keep the chin two or three inches back of the vertical.

A few such exercises as these, for five or ten minutes at night and morning, will promote refreshing sleep and give increased vitality for duties and occupations of the day; and it may be noted in conclusion that an anæmic or low condition of the blood is seldom found where there is an established habit of full, deep breathing with the mouth closed.

A little bird sings from over the sea:
“I’ve been to a land that pleases me.
“’Tis a fabulous land where babies don’t cry
From the time they are born till the time they die.

You queer little baby, way over the sea,
Tell us, oh, tell us, how can it be.
Aren’t Japanese baby clothes ever too tight?
Don’t Japanese babies wake up in the night?

Do Japanese teeth come through without pain?
Or Japanese children tease babies in vain?
Don’t Japanese pins have points that prick?
Wont Japanese colic make little folk sick?

You queer little baby, if secret there be
Send it, oh, send it way over the sea!
There is no such secret. Far off in Japan
Some babies can cry, and they’ll prove that they can!

being words and pictures by アルフレド ブレンナン]

This quaint little bit of a man
Insisted on using a fan
Until it was known
By some he had flown,
But others said _sailed_, for JAPAN.

RIDDLES FOR VERY LITTLE FOLK.

Ever so many days ago, away back in June before any of the hot days came, ST. NICHOLAS gave the Very Little Folk some riddles to guess. And now here are some more. These riddles, like the others, have little pictures, and if you look well at the pictures, you can guess the riddles. But nobody more than seven years old must try to guess them.

First of all is a riddle about Little Tommy Tinderpeg. You must have seen him often. He makes a bright light when he burns his shoe.

Little Tommy Tinderpeg
Burnt his shoe and blacked his leg.]

And now here is a riddle about another queer fellow, “Black-a-middle Dick.” He is longer and stronger than Tommy Tinderpeg. And he leaves a black track behind him when he travels. You can guess who he is. Many little boys and girls know him very well, and have helped him to travel.

Black-a-middle Dick though he never can stand,
He’ll travel all day if you give him a hand.]

Next comes a good riddle about a dozen bold riders. Have you never seen the funny little fellows all riding one nag? When the wind blows, it is not easy for them to keep their places, and if it blows very hard, some of the little riders may fall off. But most of them ride well and hold on tight.

A dozen bold riders,
Astride of one nag;
No clothes on their bodies,
Not even a rag.
They ride without bridles
Or stirrups or spurs,
And stick to their saddles
Like so many burrs.]

Here, last of all, is another Tommy. He is not at all like Tommy Tinderpeg. He has a round, pretty face, and he talks fast and keeps saying the same thing over and over, all the time. You like to look at him, and to hold him up to your ear to hear what he says. You can guess who Tommy Locket is, just by his name. So this is the easiest riddle of all.

About Tommy Locket I’ll give you a rhyme
He rode in my pocket and always kept time.]

JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT.

I’m told, my friends, that a beautiful red flower, known as “painter’s-brush,” abounds in Colorado. As it lies on the grass or leans against the stones and fences, it looks in shape and color precisely as if some painter had dipped the soft part of his brush in his brightest paint, and thrown it carelessly down. In midsummer these painter’s-brushes are to be seen by the thousand. Now, as we look about us here in my meadow to-day, it seems as if a million painter’s-brushes had been at work, high and low. Not only brushes dipped in red, but brushes rich with yellows, browns, grays, pinks, and deep dark crimsons. Ah, but it’s a fine piece of color, and the painting has been gloriously done! And though I’m only a Jack-in-the-Pulpit, great thoughts stir within me at the sight.

But now let us take up the subject of

A PERFECTLY QUIET DAY.

One afternoon, not long ago, the Little School-ma’am lay in a hammock, looking up at the leaves.

“How perfectly still they are!” she said to herself. “Not a leaf moves!”

She was lying under an oak tree, a sturdy, steady kind of a tree, as you all know.

“Look at that tree yonder!” said one of the prettiest girl-scholars, pointing to a Norway poplar, the leaves of which are hung on long slender stems.

Lo, and behold, it was all in a quiver!

“Oh, that shakes just for the fun of it!” replied the Little School-ma’am, “for there is hardly a breath of air stirring. It is perfectly quiet.”

The Deacon happened by just then, and overheard her last words. He stopped and asked her if she had any idea how difficult it was to get a perfectly quiet day? Whereupon, she owned that she thought it would be impossible.

“Well,” he replied, “there was once an Italian named Guiglielmini, who wanted to try an experiment in which it was necessary that some balls should fall through perfectly still air from a certain height. So in August, 1791, he went up on a tower in Bologna, and tied the balls to the top with long, silken threads. Then he waited for a perfectly still day. Sometimes the air was quiet, but the tower would slightly tremble, and at other times the tower was steady, but the air was in motion. At last, in February, 1792, there came a day when the air and the tower were both still, and he climbed up as softly as a cat, and gently set his threads on fire, and down dropped the balls!”

“And what was the experiment?” asked the Little School-ma’am.

“Oh, it had something to do with the motion of the earth!” said the Deacon, as he walked away, smiling.

HOW HE PROVED IT.

That reminds me, by the way, of a funny rhyme sent to the Little School-ma’am by a friend of hers, Miss E. L. Sylvester. Here it is:

A clever old man of Montrose
Said: “I’ll balance my cane on my nose;
For so shall I prove
That the world doesn’t move
As a great many people suppose.”

WALKING WITHOUT LEGS.

A little girl has sent you a question. She says she found three pretty brownish shells in the woods, one day, and she took them home to her little brother. They looked, she says, “very like similar shells that often are found on the sea-shore.” Well, she put them on the sunny piazza, and ran to find Bobby.—And now you shall have the rest of the story in her own words:

“Bobby was eating bread and molasses, and so he ran out of the
kitchen all sticky. When we went together to look at the shells,
lo, and behold! the shells were gone! They had walked around
the corner of the piazza. And, oh Jack, what do you think? We
watched them, and they kept on walking! And they hadn’t any
legs!

“Now this is a true story, dear Jack, and I want you to tell it
to little boys and girls younger than Bobby and me (or Bobby and
I, whichever is right), and see if they know how those shells
walked, and what kind of shells they were, and if any other
little boys and girls ever found any of the same sort in their
woods or gardens.

“Your little friend,

“JAMESETTA C.

“I take up my pen again to say that we all know, of course,
that snakes move along the ground without legs. But they do
that motion entirely with their own insides, don’t they? Those
shells couldn’t possibly move as snakes do.

“For fear you may think my name is strange, I will tell you
that I am named after my grandfather, only James wouldn’t do
for a girl.”

A QUEER SUNSHADE.

A wise bird of my acquaintance, who has traveled far and wide, told me, not long ago, of a queer sunshade that was invented for the benefit of the British soldiers in the Soudan. (I don’t know where that is, I’m sure, and my bird was in too great a hurry to explain. But who cares? I know I can trust you young geographers to clear up any mystery of that sort.)

Well, as to the sunshade, my bird-friend said that the upright parts are simply light bamboo sticks. They are fastened to the shoulders of the wearer, and they support at the top a curved awning made of paper and painted green inside.

“But it would look so queer!” I said. “Would anybody have the courage to wear it?”—when from the grass near my pulpit up popped an old raven, whose specialties are ancient history, scarecrows, and eavesdropping.

“Don’t you know,” he croaked, “that the man who first carried an umbrella was ridiculed and hooted at?”

That raven, my dears, narrowly escaped a withering reply. But luckily I remembered something the Little School-ma’am read aloud, one sunny day, to a group of boys and girls, as they stopped to rest in my meadow. And what she read was the story of that very man—the original umbrella-carrier. And she was reading from ST. NICHOLAS itself!

The old croaker was right! So I assumed my most dignified air, and gave in.

But did that satisfy him? Bless you, no! Before he left, I had to admit that this new sunshade was merely a parasol carried on the shoulders instead of in the hand; that it was lighter than the common sunshade; that it left both hands free for sketching, playing ball, or what not; and that the old raven _might_ live to see every civilized boy or girl walking along on sunny days with a cupola of this sort over his or her unabashed head.—Between ourselves, my dears, you needn’t yet count upon this last as an up-and-down future certainty. I may take it back when I’ve had time to recover from the raven’s lecture.

By the way, there’s one good thing about that raven,—his memory.

A QUEER JUMBLE.

Talking of queer things, here comes a queer jumble from a young fellow who says he lives in Maine by the broad blue main; and that there’s nothing like using the rod and the “line-upon-line” method when you find a school of fish that won’t go to school; and——

Well, no Jack-in-the-Pulpit can make anything out of such stuff as that! But perhaps some of you clever youngsters can understand it. He sends these rhymes, too, which he calls

A LIQUID PRO QUO.

Oh, shun the ocean big with fate!
Nor strive to make the free strait straight.

Sauce, if thou wilt, the river’s source,
And brook no babbling brook, of course;

But keep the treacherous bay at bay.
(It’s tide no man hath tied, they say.)

And never see the midway sea,
But waive the wave that waits for thee!

THAT DEAR LITTLE LORD.

PITTSFIELD, ILL.

DEAR MR. JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT: I think it sounds rather saucy to
say just Jack, to the preacher. My Papa is a pulpit man, too,
and people call him Mr. Rose, but they leave off “in the
pulpit,” because he does not stay there all the time. He
can tell me nearly everything I want to know; but there is
one thing he is not sure about, and that is how to pronounce
Fauntleroy. Should it be Faunt-Le-Roy? Or should the middle
syllable be like the last syllable of the word little? I love
the little lord so much, I want to know his name exactly.

Your friend,

HORACE ROSE.

Faunt-le-roy is correct. The vowel is sounded in the middle syllable.

I’m always in my pulpit, dear Horace, but I’m not always preaching. One eloquent sermon, however, I feel called upon to deliver at this present moment, for it concerns little Lord Fauntleroy.—[Haven’t I heard all about him from the Little School-ma’am and the scholars of the red school-house, and, for that matter, from every boy and girl I know?]—Well, the dear little lord is my text. In fact, he’s the sermon, too. So I need say no more except to publicly announce from my pulpit, with all due solemnity, that he is a boy after your Jack’s own heart. And to every youngster among you, dearly beloved, I say, “Earl or no earl,—go thou and be like him!”

THE LETTER-BOX.

BANGOR, ME.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I am reading “Lord Fauntleroy,” and like it
very much, and I hope that the next number will be that the Earl
will want the mother to Lord Fauntleroy to come up and live with
them. I remain, yours truly,

K. W. S.

BUFFALO, N. Y.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I like you so much that I wish you would come
every week instead of every month. I like the story of “Little
Lord Fauntleroy” best of all. But you must not let him lose his
title.

M. C. W.

During the last few months, many of those who have been so deeply interested in “Little Lord Fauntleroy” have formed their own eager opinions of just how that beautiful story could, would, or should end. But all such readers, including K. W. S. and M. C. W., will agree that in the concluding chapters, printed this month, Mrs. Burnett has anticipated or fully satisfied their utmost desires.

* * * * *

CLOVERLEIGH, PA.

DEAR ST NICHOLAS: We are three little girls just the same age,
for we are triplets. We look and dress just alike, and our big
old brother calls us the “three little maids from school.” We
have a pony, a big dog, and a little cat, but we have no little
boy to play with, and we wish that little Lord Fauntleroy was a
really, truly boy and could come and play with us. We send our
love to you, dear ST. NICHOLAS, and we hope that this, our very
first letter, will be printed to surprise our dear Mamma and
Papa, and to spite our big brother, who says nobody would print
such a silly thing. Your loving little maids,

ROSY F., DAISY F., PANSY F.

Here it is in print, dear little maids,—with ST. NICHOLAS’S compliments to you and the big brother.

* * * * *

DETROIT, MICH.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I am nine years old; I have three sisters,
two older and one younger than I. Susie, the eldest, is a great
girl for reading; Helen, the next, is very fond of dolls,—she
has six; but Edna, the younger, is a little rogue and likes to
play ball with the boys best. We have taken you long before I
can remember. I enjoy the story of “Little Lord Fauntleroy”
very much. Is it a good long story? I hope it is. I went to
see the game of base-ball on the 19th between the Chicagos and
Detroits. I enjoy playing base-ball very much; although I am
only nine years old, I think I can pitch a curve. I hope you
will publish this. Your faithful reader,

JAMES C. M.

* * * * *

A CORRECTION.

COLORADO SPRINGS, COL.

EDITOR OF ST. NICHOLAS: I should like to correct two errors
that in some way have crept into my article on “Fishes and
their Young,” in the June ST. NICHOLAS. The two fishes figured
on page 601 are described under the cut as being from the
Sea of Galilee, and the impression given that they belong to
the genus _Ophiocephalus_. They really belong to the genus
_Chromis_, and are found in Lake Tiberias. On page 602, the
description of the sea-horse—“These have a perfect pouch, into
which the infant fishes are taken as soon as hatched”—is wrong;
it should read, The _eggs_ are taken into the pouch as soon as
laid and kept until hatched.

Very truly yours,

C. F. HOLDER.

* * * * *

PT. CHAUTAUQUA, N. Y.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I have been reading “Little Lord
Fauntleroy,” and it is one of the very few stories by which I
am _perfectly fascinated_. I am going to write a story myself,
sometime, although I have tried more than once, and they got so
stale I couldn’t finish them. But I am writing one now, and I
am going to finish it, however stale it may get, or die in the
attempt.

Whenever I read a real nice story, I just sit and wonder how
any person _can_ ever think of so many things to happen in
such a mysterious yet “every-day” kind of way, and come out
in the end all cleared up, and just as plain as though it had
really happened! Then my wonder grows into admiration, and my
admiration into awe, my awe into actual reverence, and then I
throw down my book and give it up as past understanding, and
go outdoors and play. I am on pins and needles to know whether
“Ceddie” _was_ the real Lord Fauntleroy or not; but he _must_
be,—he’s too good not to be!

Next Tuesday I shall be fourteen. I take the whole care of the
horse, and, of course, of the barn, too, and as father and
mother are in Brooklyn, I am Papa! It is very wearing to have
such a multitude of responsibilities, but I think that I shall
be able to keep my family (one member of which is an unruly
little girl of twenty) straight until my father comes to take
the burden off my shoulders.

Your venerable and careworn friend,

ARTHUR MASON M.

* * * * *

ST. LOUIS, MO.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I am one of your little readers, nine years
old. My sister began taking ST. NICHOLAS in 1876, and, though
she is now grown, papa still takes it for me. I have never
written to you before, but I enjoy the “Letter-box” very much,
and especially the letters about the pets the children have.
I would like to tell you about three pets we had. They were a
black-and-tan dog named Cricket, a Maltese kitten named Tiny,
and a pet chicken named Dick. They played together, and ate and
slept together. The dog had a rug on the side porch, and they
would lie down and cuddle up beside him, and all sleep soundly.
Morning, noon, and night we set a pan of milk out, and the
three pets would gather around and all drink at once. At play
they would roll over each other, and never, at any time, did
they disagree or seem to be tired of each other. The kitten and
chicken are both dead now, but we have the little dog yet; and
he knows a great many tricks, and seems to understand whatever
he hears us say about him, and always minds what we tell him.
If my letter is not too long, I hope you will print it. I love
your magazine very much, and am always impatient for it to come.

Your little friend,

M. C. S.

With the foregoing letter came also a letter from M. C. S.’s mother, conveying such kind and hearty words that ST. NICHOLAS can not refrain from printing it also:

ST. LOUIS, MO.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I wish I could tell you what a blessing
your magazine has been to our children, of whom the eldest,
now almost nineteen years old, enjoys it as much as her little
sister of nine. I have found it a great assistance in amusing
and instructing my little ones, and I am sure they will never
feel old enough to give it up.

We wish you a long and prosperous life, and hope you may for
many years to come send the same joy and delight to the hearts
of children everywhere that you have in years past, and to ours.

Respectfully,

MRS. S. E. S.

* * * * *

MEMPHIS, TENN.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I have been taking you for nearly five
years, but I never wrote you a letter before. I think little
Lord Fauntleroy is the sweetest little fellow I ever read
about. Every time I get a new number of ST. NICHOLAS, I sit
down on the rug by mamma and read “Little Lord Fauntleroy”
out loud for mamma and my little sister to hear. Mamma and
papa both like it ever so much. I liked “Davy and the Goblin”
very much, too, and was sorry when it ended. But if I were to
go on telling you how many of your stories I liked, I would
make you so tired you would never put my letter in print. I am
eleven years old, and I live out in the suburbs of Memphis. I
sometimes get to studying out every one of the Brownies’ faces,
and whenever I do, it makes me laugh heartily.

Your faithful reader,

E. P. P.

* * * * *

GARDINER’S ISLAND, N. Y.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: We have taken you for four years, and are
very glad when you come to us every month. We live on an
island, and are not very far away from Montauk Point, L. I.
The island is very beautiful, and of about three thousand five
hundred acres.

When we drive in the woods, we watch for the lovely deer, which
are wild and leap away when they hear the slightest sound.

We each have our riding-horse, and enjoy it very much here.

We like the “Letter-box” very much, and enjoy the letters from
Europe. My sister and I have crossed the Atlantic six times.
Last winter we spent in Germany studying. I liked the stories
of “Art and Artists” and “From Bach to Wagner” very much.
Hoping my letter is not too long, and that you will find a
corner for it in the “Letter-box,” as it is my first,

Very truly yours,

CORALIE L. G.

* * * * *

MONTVALE SPRINGS, BLOUNT CO., E. TENN.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I have heard people say that no one is
perfect, but I guess they did not know you, for the only fault
that any one could possibly find with you is that you don’t
come often enough. You were so much company to me all last
winter! For I live at a summer resort, and the children all go
away in the fall, and there is no school near, and my sister
and I have to be taught by a governess. I forgot to be lonesome
while you were telling me such nice stories.

I am ten years old.

I hope you will live to be a thousand years old, and make every
boy and girl that gets acquainted with you as happy as you make
me. Good-bye, dear, good friend.

Yours forever,

FRANK J. E.

* * * * *

DUBLIN, IRELAND.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I wonder if you ever had a letter from
Ireland. I have an uncle in America who sends you to me; we all
like you very much. The story of “Little Lord Fauntleroy” is
so nice. I have one sister and one brother; also a cousin who
lives with us. I do hope this will be printed, as this is my
first letter to a magazine. I remain, your constant reader,

FLORENCE E.

* * * * *

SPRING HILL, TENN.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I am a little Tennessee girl, and I live
in Maury Co. Mother gave you to me last year for a Christmas
present. Papa took you for me this year; and I think that
“Little Lord Fauntleroy” is the best thing of all. My little
brother is four years old; he likes the Brownies best. He calls
one of our Jersey calves “Dhonabar,” after a horse told about
in ST. NICHOLAS. I have a beautiful little brown pony. His name
is Bun. I am eight years old.

Your little friend,

IRENE M. C.

* * * * *

By an error in filing, several letters concerning curve-pitching were overlooked two months ago, and so they failed to appear with the others in the August “Letter-box.” But as the friendly correspondents who sent them have taken great pains to explain their theories, it would be unjust to withhold the letters and diagrams from the thousands of boy-readers who are interested in the vexed questions of how and why a ball curves. Some of these letters, therefore, are presented here; the remaining two or three will appear in next month’s “Letter-box.”

* * * * *

FRANKLIN, PA.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: May I have a word with your readers on
that vexed subject, curve-pitching? Though I am not one of
your subscribers, I have a younger brother who has been one
for several years, and who also pitches for an amateur club
here. Through him I have verified for myself the fact that a
ball will curve in the direction in which it is rotating; _i.
e._, it will curve to the right, or “in,” if it rotate in the
direction of the hands of a watch, and _vice versa_. In this, I
think, any careful observer of a curving ball will agree with
me.

Now, all will admit, I think, that if it were possible to throw
a ball in a straight line _without any rotation_ whatever,
there would be a cushion of air of greater density than the
surrounding atmosphere _exactly_ in front of the ball, and a
partial vacuum behind it. Nor would this cushion of air have
definite limits, but it would thin out gradually as it streams
over the sides of the ball, thus (Fig. 1):

But now, suppose the ball be rotating rapidly to the right,
in the direction of the hands of a watch. The sides of the
ball, as they rotate, must carry by friction some of the
surrounding air with them. That is, the point b (Fig. 2), as
the ball rotates, will tend to carry air from its present
location around to d, and so with any other point on the ball
in proportion as it is on or near the equator of rotation.

But when each point on the ball’s equator reaches the point
c with its load of air, it meets with a resistance produced
by this cushion of air in front of the ball, and, in order to
pass on, must leave its load behind it. In other words the air
carried around in the direction b c d becomes massed against
the cushion in front, and the cushion is thickened at and
around the point c. And, on the other hand, each point on the
equator tends to carry the air from the right-hand side of the
cushion, the point c, and consequently, to decrease the density
or thickness of the cushion at that point. So that we soon
have the cushion of air not exactly in front of the ball, but
somewhat to the left of front; thus (Fig. 3):

Now, since action is always equal to reaction, the cushion of
air must push back against the ball just as hard as the ball
pushes against it. And since the cushion is thickest where
the combined forces of the ball are greatest, the cushion must
push back hardest in the direction of a line drawn through the
thickest part of the cushion and the center of the ball; _i.
e._, in the line a, b, Fig. 3, a direction against that of the
onward motion of the ball, and to the right of it.

Finally, if at any instant we represent the force of the ball
and its direction by the line A, B (Fig. 4), and the backward
push of the cushion and its direction by the line A, C, then,
according to the law of physics, that, “if two forces act on
a point, and if lines be drawn from that point, representing
the forces in magnitude and direction, and on these lines, as
sides, a parallelogram be constructed, their _resultant_ will
be represented in magnitude and direction by the diagonal which
passes through that point,” the line A, D will represent the
actual force and direction of the ball at the given instant.

But both the forces, A, B and A, C, are constantly decreasing
from the moment the ball leaves the pitcher’s hand, and,
moreover, the force A, B decreases more rapidly than the force
A, C, inasmuch as A, B is acting against the resistance of
the air plus the attraction of gravity, while A, C is acting
against the resistance of the air alone. Consequently, the
direction of A, D is being constantly changed and away from A,
B, and becomes a curve, instead of a straight or broken line.
This curve will obviously have the direction, A, D (Fig. 5), or
to the right, which is the direction in which a ball rotating
to the right will curve.

This reasoning will hold for a ball rotating in any direction,
so long as the axis of rotation is, or tends to be, at right
angles to the line of progression. The problem of the “drift”
of a projectile from a rifle or rifled cannon is entirely
different, and one I should like to see discussed after this
one of “curving” is settled to your readers’ satisfaction.

I think the above explanation solves the problem as well as
explains all the fallacies of your former correspondents.

Very respectfully,

S. P. E.

* * * * *

ANNAPOLIS.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: In your February number are two letters
about curved pitching: one written presumably by an army
officer, from Fort Monroe,—the other from Philadelphia,
presumably by a naval officer. The army man states facts, and
gives no explanation; the navy man fails to solve a well-known
problem.