[to be continued.]
[THE POLO PONY.]
BY J. CONOVER.
The polo pony is becoming such an important and conspicuous feature in modern life that a short article upon his nature, training, and habits may be interesting to those who either hope to make his acquaintance on his native range, or to import him for use in riding or driving, or in playing that most exciting of all games.
The bicycle is said to be driving horseflesh out of the market, that good horses, even thoroughbreds, are being canned by the thousand, and sent to all parts of the world. This may be a necessary and practical use to which to put that noble animal, the friend and companion of man from all ages; but one cannot help being thankful that the pony has so far escaped this fate, and that the demand for these singularly intelligent, plucky little beasts is growing rather than diminishing.
A COW PONY.
So long as there are cattle ranges the cow pony will be a necessity. One could not "round up" or "cut out" or "rope" or "corral" on a bicycle or from a self-propelling carriage of any kind, and even if this dreadful day should come and the cow pony lose his prestige, the polo pony will still have his place in the world of sport, from which the most modern and improved wheel could never dispossess him. The cow pony or polo pony, like the poet and the athlete, is born, not made. Out of a drove of a hundred ponies there may be only twenty-five or less that are good for anything, who have the instinct of sport, the quick eye, steady foot, the grit and endurance of the true sportsman.
A good cow pony is good from the start. He learns, of course, much by experience, but he is not only first-class "material," as they say of football candidates, but a star player from the very first. Running wild with the mares, their mothers, on the big ranges of Texas, Mexico, Montana, and Indian Territory, they grow marvellously fleet of foot, and as hardy as mountain-goats.
When about three years old the ponies—all these horses under fifteen hands high—are taken out of the drove, and broken either for cattle or polo. The process of breaking is not a difficult one, though sometimes troublesome and tedious. The pony is first corralled—that is, driven out of the bunch into a pen by himself—then roped, often thrown, and saddled and bridled. As a rule they make a great show of resistance. They buck, they kick, they rear, they lie down and roll, they run into fences or trees—in short, there is nothing that the instinct of self-defence can prompt that a spirited pony will not do, and persist in doing, until he learns the futility of kicking against the pricks. His spurred and booted rider is prepared for any exhibition of temper or ingenuity that he can devise, and wrestles with him gently but firmly, sticking to his seat until the frantic efforts of the rebellious pony have exhausted themselves. Then, subdued, if not overcome, he is unsaddled and staked out, or tied up for the night, only to go through the same performance the next day.
After several days' experience of the bit and bridle, and the singular persistence of the load upon his back in staying there under all provocation, the pony as a rule gives in—all the sensible ones, at least; the bad-tempered broncos—the chronic buckers and kickers and bolters—fight on spasmodically, and sometimes do not become thoroughly broken, if ever, for weeks. When the pony has once recognized and accepted you as his master, his future usefulness depends very largely upon your treatment of him. If he is ridden hard and handled roughly he will grow rough and unmanageable or mean and uncertain in temper; but if treated gently and kindly he becomes docile and dependable, and as faithful as a dog. He learns to know and love his master very soon, and is as susceptible to flattery and petting as a dog or a woman. Some ranchers, especially those with the reputation of being able to "make a pretty good horse talk," will tell you that their favorite ponies, even when in the pasture, come at their whistle like a dog; but it is not very safe to trust to this devotion and obedience, for the majority are as wild as hawks, and as difficult to catch, and unless one wishes the exercise of a hard chase, it is better to hobble them when the saddle and bridle are taken off and they are left to graze.
In buying ponies, either for polo or cattle, it is well to know the owner's reputation, and how he breaks and handles them, for a good cow-puncher is sure to have good ponies, fast and bridle-wise—"mighty handy," in the vernacular, and trained to stop quickly and hold hard. In roping, a good pony is as strong as any steer, and ought to be able to hold no matter how hard the steer may jerk or pull when the rope is thrown. There are no particular breeds in this country; any small horse on the range is called "bronco" or "pony" indifferently, and they are taken from all classes indiscriminately, being picked out by their size and build, and the polo pony only differs from others by his superior speed and agility, and his record as a cow pony.
The small fleet Arab horses which are sold so much in England for polo have had no early training in cow-practice, but as a breed are very intelligent, very quick, and yet extremely docile.
The Shetland-pony, which is such a favorite with children, is not agile enough for either polo or cattle, and there are all sorts and conditions of ponies that are useful in other respects, but absolutely useless in rounding up or cutting out, or on the polo-grounds.
POLO PONIES.
In advertising for polo ponies one usually sends out a circular stating the necessary requisites: the size—fourteen hands one inch—and the temper and disposition; and it takes a trained eye to pick out the most promising from all those brought for inspection.
A good cutting pony is always safe, and the prices range according to their value in cutting and penning cattle. They can be bought from thirty-five to a hundred and fifty or two hundred dollars, and even up to such fancy prices as five hundred. Some first-class cutting ponies cannot be purchased at any price, for love or money, a cow-puncher or ranch-owner being just as willing to part with his wife and children, his house and land, as with his prize cow pony.
This cutting cattle is a wonderful thing, and a fruitful theme for the tall stories with which the cowboy enlivens the tedium of the many idle hours of his varied and precarious life. "Stuffing the tenderfoot" with Munchausen tales of the marvellous performances of these remarkably clever little animals, or swapping yarns with other gifted companions whose imaginations have never been broken in by the strong hand of truth. But even the stories which are strictly and literally true sound almost incredible to the uninitiated, for the cutting pony shows not only the sagacity and resources of the Scotch collie, but the quickness and agility of the cat, in separating or cutting out the particular cow or steer from the herd which his master indicates, sometimes by riding the pony at her, or by following for a few yards.
The cattle may stampede, the steer or cow may run, double, stick like a burr to the herd, but the clever little pony, cool and keen, heads her off, turns her round, cuts her out, and finally drives her triumphantly into the open, where she can be roped, or into a pen. He separates a cow from her calf, cuts out a steer without even disturbing the others, and uses as much judgment as an experienced man. The cow-puncher gives him his head after the steer has once been selected, and only holds his lasso in readiness to rope him when he has been successfully cut out from the bunch.
A Texas cow-puncher offered once to bet a hundred dollars that his cow pony could, without a bridle, cut any steer from the herd of cattle after he had once understood which one he was to separate. The bet was taken by a tenderfoot, who had sporting spirit enough not even to grudge the money when he saw how cleverly it was done, the little pony going to work, on his own account, with the same skill and judgment the keenest cow-puncher in the country might have shown.
They get to be so fast and sharp, to turn and stop, and head off so quickly, that it is almost bewildering to ride them in a difficult case. Another Texas ranchman, a famous cow-puncher in his day, sold his celebrated cutting pony because it was too fast for him; he was growing too old for the pace.
This cutting-out work shows a pony to better advantage even than the polo game. In heading off he acts more quickly than a man can think, playing the game himself, which in polo is a very undesirable thing.
It is most amusing to watch the businesslike air with which a cutting pony starts in to put a calf, one who is particularly fresh and obstreperous, through a fence or into a pen, or to simply corner him. There is nothing so exasperating as a calf, except, perhaps, a sheep. Was it not John Randolph of Roanoke who maintained that he would walk twenty miles to kick a sheep? Just so cowboys feel about a "fool calf."
A pony, however, when he chooses, can be equally aggravating. As in polo he is sometimes too knowing, so in cutting cattle the very best ones use their superior knowledge to be most exasperating.
They learn to gauge the distance and length of the rope with such certainty that they know just when to stop for the throw; and when they feel lazy and disinclined for the hard work of holding a steer, they fool their master by coming to a stand a yard or two from the cow, and the rope falls that much short.
One first-rate but obstinate cutting pony worked this trick so often that his master was only saved from selling him by the humor of the situation—his appreciation of the joke on himself.
It would be hard to choose from the stories current among cattle-men of their cutting ponies—stories proving how "powerful smart," "plumb human," etc., they are, for they all swear to the same class of what the ignorant might call fiction, but which, in their opinion, does not even come under the head of "tall horse talk."
Perhaps the —Z (bar Z) brand story is a fair example. The cow-puncher assures you seriously that the cutting pony always knows his master's brand, and can pick out a cow with this brand from a mixed herd of any size, and they cite the following anecdote in illustration of this fact:
A certain —Z-brand cutting pony, who was sold after years of experience, continued, in spite of all that his new master could do, to cut out every cow or calf with the —Z brand that he could find in any bunch. His owner was finally indicted for stealing cattle, but pleaded his pony's record in self-defense. The court, sympathising in his peculiar and delicate position, released him with a small fine; but the pony, like Werther's Charlotte, went on cutting —Z cattle to the end of his days, which might mean fifteen, sixteen, or even twenty years, for, if well cared for, they often live that long. Both the cattle and polo ponies are shod, even on the range, and if used hard are generally fed in winter, though grazing all summer. They are ungroomed, and their tails left flowing freely; and their first sensations, after a transfer from their native heath to the luxurious and well-ordered stables of the East, where they are docked, clipped, curried, rubbed down, and blanketed, must be somewhat like those experienced by the tramp who is forcibly bathed and groomed in a model lodging-house, though the polo pony yields to the civilizing influence more readily than does the tramp.
But the comforts of life and even the excitement of polo may seem to the cutting pony a poor exchange for the lost delights of rounding up and penning steers, and what is a Rockaway Cup to the glory of winning the prize in a roping contest at a county fair? These roping contests are the pride of the cattle-men, and the great feature of the Texan county fairs.
STEER THROWN AND TIED IN FORTY-EIGHT SECONDS.
The steer is put in a pen, and a man with a flag placed about fifty feet from him. The man on the cutting pony stands near the pen, with the rope ready. And at a given signal the steer is let out, and as he passes the flag it is dropped, the pony dashes after him, and the man who can rope, throw, and tie the steer in the shortest time wins the prize. It has been done in twenty seconds, but the average time is about a minute; any duffer, they say, can do it inside of five minutes. It is a dangerous method of roping, and is only used in contests, never on the range, for the pony is going at full speed, and the rope is thrown as he shoots by the steer, the rider giving it a little fling and jerk on the off side, and it is a close call whether the steer throws the pony or the pony the steer.
The prize cow ponies are the ones most sought after for polo. They make by far the best and most steady and reliable playing ponies. The training for polo is of course different from that employed in roping cattle, but a good cow pony has all the necessary qualifications, and learns the game very quickly.
In order to accustom them to the mallet, one rides for several days simply carrying it and waving it about, but not attempting to hit the ball. The pony jumps at first, and is very nervous, but gradually grows used to it, and after about ten days of flourishing the mallet round the head and tapping the ball gently he is ready for the game with its fierce scrimmage. As the warrior in olden times donned his armor—his helmet, breastplate, greaves, and shield—before going to war, and as his modern prototype, the football-player, prepares for battle with shoulder and thigh pads, head and ear bandages, elastic knee and ankle-bands, nose and teeth guards, so the polo pony is made ready for his part in the great contest, being booted to the knees in heavy leather leggings, which protect him from the blows of the mallet. A few ponies, the very nervous or stupid ones, wear blinders, but as a general rule they are played without them, and being able to see on either side gives them a decided advantage.
With the light English saddle instead of the heavy Mexican monstrosity which is universally used in roping cattle, the pony is led out, blanketed by the groom, who is as careful of the condition of his polo ponies as a jockey is of his race-horse. They are exercised regularly when not playing, and given as much food as they will eat, and the knowing little ponies are well aware of their true value, as one learns in hearing polo men talk, or in reading Mr. Kipling's story of the Maltese Cat.
As is the case in all fields of sport, the pony who plays for the gallery is not nearly so useful in the long-run as the quiet, sensible, steady ones who do not try to show off or play the whole game themselves. Sometimes the high-strung, nervous ponies are the very best, the quickest, and brightest, but they require most careful handling, and are apt to get flighty, to have "wheels in their heads," and to want to run, or they show every sign of equine nervous prostration. The dispositions of the ponies are as varied as those of the superior animal, man. They can be stubborn or yielding, uncertain or even-tempered, tricky or steady, plucky or cowardly, nervous or phlegmatic. They are ambitious, conceited, lazy, timid—in short, there is no human trait of character that they do not at times exhibit.
Some ponies play very well at first, and then seem to lose their nerve, and are never good for anything again.
When you know your pony's temper to be uncertain, the most cautious handling is necessary. At the first symptom of becoming wicked it is better to give in and get off.
A very fine polo pony belonging to Mr. Keene was entered in a contest in one of the horse shows. The ponies had to go in and out between posts in order to show how quickly they turned, and how well they minded the rein. After three rounds, and before the final one, Mr. Keene quietly jumped off and led his pony out of the ring. In explanation, he said that his pony had made up his mind to be nasty, and simply wouldn't go; he might spur or whip him till he was tired, but it would be of no use when he had once become exasperated and stopped short.
The same sort of temper was shown in a match at Newport. It was very close and exciting, when suddenly one of the best ponies on the ground balked. His rider could not make him budge. Time was finally called, and it took eight men five minutes to get that stubborn little beast off the field.
Outside of this uncertain temper, the most incurable faults in a polo pony are shying, and stopping on the ball instead of following, and not turning quickly enough.
They are plucky as a rule, but some ponies will play very well alone, be sharp, and turn and stop in splendid form, but will not go into a game with other ponies; the crowd seems to frighten and distress them.
Others will play a fine open game, but refuse a scrimmage, while a scrimmage is to some the cream of the whole game, and they will never give way, no matter how hard others bear against them, but stand like a Yale or Princeton line in the teeth of an onslaught.
In a hard match ponies are only played for about seven minutes, they get so winded; but often they go off the field most reluctantly, and chafe to get back into the game.
The majority of polo ponies really seem to enjoy it, and in spite of injuries and bad accidents, to enter into it with the zest of a true sportsman; and the stories of their grit and endurance ought to go down in history side by side with the tales of old war-horses and famous cavalry chargers.
A game little pony named Ink was struck by a mallet in a scrimmage, and though his master knew that he had been hit, the pony showed no signs of being badly hurt, until the goal they were trying for was made, and then he stood still, refusing to move. Two men and a boy tried to make him walk, but could not, and they found that his leg was broken just below the knee, and he was suffering so that they were obliged to shoot him on the spot.
Another pony fell only the other day, and broke his neck without uttering a sound, only beseeching them with his eyes to put an end to his pain.
One could multiply examples of their heroism indefinitely, if it did not seem to imply that the game was brutal. That is emphatically not the case, though, as in all branches of athletics there are possibilities of accidents more or less serious.
The object of this article, however, has been not the glorification, justification, or explanation of the game of polo, but to give a brief history of the noble little pony who plays it, and so long as he thoroughly enjoys the excitement of the sport one cannot feel that he is to be pitied, and one may wish him a long and prosperous career, and a future even greater than his past.
[ODD VESSELS DESIGNED FOR SPEED.]
In a few days a very curious vessel, named Ernest Bazin, will be finished at the Cail Dock-yards, at St. Denis, France. At first glance it looks like a large broad platform, pointed at one end and round at the other. There are three huge hollow disks, or wheels, on each side of the platform, that rest in the water. These wheels support the vessel, and when it is propelled by the use of a screw, the wheels revolve, and the whole structure simply rolls over the surface of the water.
On the platform will be the usual cabins, saloons, etc., and in a boxlike structure that sinks below the platform will be placed the engines. It is claimed by the designers that the motion of the ship will be very slight, thus doing away with seasickness, and the consumption of coal will be considerably less than in ordinary steamships. As the wheels roll over the water, the friction will be lessened, and with this advantage it is expected that the vessel will do some astonishingly quick travelling.
Another curious vessel was finished last June, and lay at a private wharf in Virginia for some time. She was named the Howard Cassard and nicknamed the "Razor-back." With a length of 222 feet, she had only 16 feet beam. Her equilibrium was maintained by an extremely heavy keel and some 50,000 pounds of machinery below the water-line.
The razorlike sharpness of the boat gave it a curious look, and it was expected that when moving through the water the sharp prow would cut it like a knife, thus reducing the resistance to a minimum. The narrowness of her beam necessitated some economy in her interior arrangements, but this was successfully overcome by adopting somewhat the idea of a sleeping-car. But the Howard Cassard was an experiment that evidently has not been successful, as the claim of the designer to cross the ocean in three-fifths of the time now required has as yet not been fulfilled by his odd craft.
Probably one of the strangest ideas in marine construction was that of the man who proposed placing in the stern of a vessel a number of compressed-air cannons. These were to be fired one after the other, the force of the air striking the water and driving the vessel forward. Somewhat similar is the idea of another engineer and inventor. It is to run a series of hollow pipes through the entire length of the keel. The pipes are to receive the water at the bow and carry it to the centre of the vessel, where it is shut off. Then a powerful pressure of compressed air is brought into play, and the separated body of water is shot out of the pipe in the stern, the power of the contact driving the vessel forward. As the water is to be received and discharged alternately, there would be no jerking motion.
[OUR ROMAN TWINS.]
BY OLIVE MAY EAGER.
THE ROMAN TWINS.
When the twins were born in Rome, all of our friends exclaimed at once, "Oh, Romulus and Remus!" but we did not name them for the city's twin founders. One reason was that one of our babies was a girl, and although we might have called her Romola, we could not make up our minds to name the dear little brother in honor of that ill-natured Remus. So notwithstanding their classic birthplace, our twins answer to common, every-day names.
We lived at the foot of the Capitol, within a stone's-throw of the Roman Forum, around which clusters so much of legend and history. The nursery window overlooked the Capitol garden, where two wolves were always stalking restlessly about in their cages. Before our twins knew a word of English, and almost as soon as they could lisp in sweet Italian accents, they heard the tale of Romulus and Remus, and knew that the great city of Rome honored this legend by keeping two live wolves at the Capitol.
When they grew older and walked through the ancient streets, they became familiar with the picture of the babes and the wolf as seen on sign-boards and placards, as well as in marble and bronze reliefs. Thus the old legend grew into their lives, and they talked it over in wise baby fashion. Whenever they went to play hide-and-seek around the statue of Marcus Aurelius, in the Capitol square, they stopped long before the poor old caged wolves, and wondered why two wolves were kept, if Remus had to be killed for his bad behavior. Once they suggested to nurse that one wolf and two babies would seem more true to history; but when she replied that they would do splendidly for the babies, they dropped the subject, lest the city fathers hear of it in some way, and feel inclined to carry out so brilliant an idea.
In their own logical way, they were quite decided as to the place where Remus, in derision, jumped over the city wall, for it would be very easy to leap a certain low point up near the Macao, where they once went to see King Humbert review his troops in honor of the German Emperor's visit to Rome.
Of course mother wrote to America about the twins' sayings and doings, and one day they received a letter from the auntie whom they had never seen. She wrote that she had a globe of goldfish, and each fish had a name, except two tiny ones, which she would leave for them to name and to own when they came to see her in the spring.
The twins were very sober over this serious matter, though they did not even discuss the names, but from the start called their fish Romulus and Remus. When spring came, mother left for America with her five-year-olds, who stood the travelling well, and were made much of in the old home where mother spent her girlhood.
True to her promise, auntie gave them the fish in a tiny globe, and they would sit on the floor watching the goldies by the hour. It was a source of regret that they had no means of telling which was which, but one day they came pitching up stairs, too excited to speak plainly, "Oh, mother! we've 'scovered Remus, 'cause he jumped over." Sure enough, there lay the poor fish gasping on the floor, and although we put him back in the water immediately, he hobbled around for days with a broken fin, and moved stiffly ever afterwards.
With the autumn we prepared to journey Romeward, and sad good-byes were said. Everybody was in tears except the twins, and as we started for the train they appeared with the precious goldfish. Here was a dilemma! Mother said firmly that she could not possibly go all the way to Rome with more than one pair of twins. Grief and dismay made their eyes brim over, and uncle said: "Let's keep some dry eyes in this party. I'll bring the fish to the station." He brought them in a little tin pail with holes in the cover for air, and in this style Romulus and Remus set forth on their wanderings. The sleeping-car porter looked on them with a friendly eye, and thus we arrived safely in New York, where we went aboard a Mediterranean steamer bound for Naples. Mother left the twins with their pail in a safe place on deck, while she looked after the baggage. They were gone when she returned, and rather frightened, she rushed to her state-room, where she was still more startled to find the Captain stooping over something on the floor. He rose and spoke courteously, "I beg your pardon, madam, but I found the children and their Romans on deck. I am a Roman myself, and I will give orders that no one of this quartette lack for anything on my ship." Thanks to the Captain's patriotism, we had a most comfortable voyage as we steamed across the Atlantic and past Gibraltar, through the beautiful Mediterranean. The eyes of the twins opened wide when they reached Naples and saw the fires of Vesuvius, but in the hurry to reach Rome we drove straight to the railway station. As we stood in the long line of people who were pushing and crowding to the train, some impatient traveller jostled the pail so that poor Romulus and Remus wriggled on the stone floor. Mother almost abandoned them to their fate, but a porter was quick-witted enough to clap them into the pail and rush off for fresh water. He returned in time to hand them through the train window to their beaming owners, and with an eye to further reward he brought a bottle of water also. There is no water on Italian trains, and but for this happy thought the fish would have perished during the seven hours by rail to Rome. The swaying motion of the train was far worse than that of the steamer, and mother and twins were kept busy filling the pail as fast as the water splashed out. By-and-by we rolled into the Roman station, and father was so glad to see his loved ones that he declared he felt like eating the whole party, fish included.
Thus the little American goldfish came to live in the shadow of the Roman Capitol, in sight of their wolfish namesakes. Every visitor heard the story of their adventures, and one sympathetic listener brought them a new globe with two dear little bronze wolves in the bottom; but, alas! their stay on classic soil was brief. During the long sea-voyage they had lost their bright golden hue, and wore rather a pale, silvery look, so that the twins became anxious about the health of their pets. A fish-dealer said that goldfish thrive best when fed with the wafers used for taking medicine. Half a wafer was dropped in for their supper, but next morning poor Romulus and the wafer floated on the water together. The twins were inconsolable, till mother organized a grand funeral procession to the flat house-top, where Romulus was buried in state under a peach-tree which mother had grown in a packing-box from a seed brought from her American home.
Remus lived on alone without the luxury of wafers, for the fishman, when interviewed by the tearful twins, said that Romulus died of over-eating, since wafers are mince pie and plum-pudding to goldfish, who are such gluttons that they can be trusted with but a pin-point of their favorite dish. The tragic end of Romulus was forgotten in the joys of Christmas-time, when the twins showed some little Italian friends their first Christmas tree, for they know nothing of Santa Claus in Rome, but receive gifts from an old woman called Befana. She comes at Epiphany, when there is also a procession up the 124 marble steps that lead to the Ara Cœli Church, in which there is a "presepio," or representation of the infant Christ in the manger. The nursery window overlooked these steps, and just underneath was a fine array of toys and sweets to tempt the Roman children, who go every year to recite poetry before the "presepio." The twins spent the morning watching the crowd and driving an occasional bargain with the toy-seller beneath their window. They borrowed the servant's basket, which she lets down with a string, Roman fashion, when she hears the postman's knock and does not want to go down the long stairway to the portone, or big street door, to receive letters. They sent down pennies in the basket, and drew it up with the desired plaything, until lunch called them from their fascinating employment. Poor lonely Remus was set in the window to enjoy the fun, but on their return the globe was tenantless. The toy-woman below saw the dismayed little faces peeping over the window sill, and called up to say that she had picked up a dead fish on the cold marble step. The basket went down once more, and was drawn up slowly and sadly with poor Remus's body.
We buried him, too, under the peach-tree on the house-top, and set up the little bronze wolves for a double monument; but the twins have never wanted any more goldfish. They write their own letters now, and seal them with a tiny stamp of the Roman wolves; but to this day they bemoan the fact that while Remus met rather a historic fate, their favorite Romulus died a glutton. But father comforts them by saying that those "noble Romans" were very fond of good things, and their fish no doubt followed the example of many another Roman citizen.
To continue the subject of aquatics, which the Department took up last week, let us turn to the art of diving. Before learning to dive, the beginner should accustom himself to keep his head under water as long as he can hold his breath, and he should practise opening the eyes under water in order to become used to the appearance of things below the surface. Diving, even more than swimming, demands that a boy or man should have confidence in himself. Nobody should attempt to learn how to dive when alone; even more than when learning to swim, he should have some one near at hand in case help is needed.
To learn how to dive, the beginner should first squat down on the edge of the float or spring-board from which he is to plunge into the water, holding his hands out before him just as he does in the breast stroke in swimming (described in this Department last week)—that is, with the arms extended, the hands horizontal, and the fingers close together, the thumb tips and the forefinger tips touching one another. Then he should allow himself to tumble forward into the water, striking with his hands first. The eyes must be kept closed when plunging into the water, and should not be opened until after the head is immersed.
It is very dangerous to plunge into the water with the eyes open, and a number of people have been blinded by so doing. Always duck the chin a little in toward the breast just before the head strikes the water. As soon as the body has entered the water the hands should be bent back and the head raised to an upright position. The bending back of the hands sends the body upward toward the surface again. As I have said, the first trials at diving should be mere drops into the water off the edge of the float from a sitting position.
After the beginner has learned to do this he should lean from the waist over (as shown by the dotted lines in Fig. 6), and likewise fall forward. When he has mastered this method he may stand upright, as shown by the figure drawn in heavy lines in Fig. 6, and as also shown in the photographic illustration No. 1.
The accompanying series of pictures illustrating the dive in detail are made from instantaneous photographs of Professor Gus Sundstrom. They show, in No. 1, the upright pose of the body just before taking the plunge. The diver stands upright on a spring-board or on the edge of a float, with the arms held stiff to the sides, the chest well filled with air so as to give buoyancy to the body, and the eyes resting on about that spot in the water where he expects to plunge below the surface.
The diver then raises his arms before him, the palms downward, not held closely together like an arrow-point—a position assumed by many divers who do not know the correct way. He then allows his body to fall forward, bending his knees and giving a slight spring with his legs. As the body rises in the air the arms are gradually lifted, until, when the body is about to enter the water, it lies practically in a straight line from toes to fingers. Fig. 6 shows very clearly what happens as soon as a man plunges into the water and turns his palms upward. The body describes a sort of arc under water, and the head comes to the surface about six feet from the point where it entered.
The whole science of diving depends upon the spring taken before leaping into the water—that is, the diver should be careful to give enough spring to throw his body sufficiently forward to give the legs time to follow a curve, otherwise the body will fall flat on the water, and this might result in serious injury to the performer.
The high dive is different from the low dive only in that a run is taken, instead of plunging into the water from a standstill. Of course in this case the spring is greater, the body goes higher into the air, describing a greater arc, and dives deeper under the water, unless some effort is made to prevent. This effort is very simple, and consists of bending the hands back as aforesaid, in throwing the chest back, and in bending the legs back.
If the intention of the diver is to sink to the bottom of the stream or pool, to pick up something, for instance, he should not perform any of these motions, but allow his body to go unrestrained. To rise again from the bottom, keep the hands well below the shoulders, and work the feet as when treading water. The body will thus come to the surface very quickly.
As was said last week, the fastest way to swim on the breast is to use the over-hand stroke. It is the most common stroke in racing, both for long distances and short distances. But in order to acquire speed in swimming, one must practise considerably and maintain a certain kind of more or less strict training. The swimmer needs plenty of sleep. He should go to bed not later than 10.30 every night, and should rise early. He should then take a very light breakfast—a glass of milk and a piece of toast, for instance—and take a walk of a mile or so.
When he comes home he should exercise with light dumbbells and rub down with a coarse towel. Then he should take a more solid breakfast, consisting of coffee, eggs, and steak. An hour or so afterwards he should go for another walk, this time of from five to ten miles, and every now and then during this promenade he should sprint from 50 to 100 yards. This sprinting limbers the legs, which is necessary for the swimmer.
FIG. 6.—THE DETAIL OF DIVING.
Punching the bag is another good exercise, and of course a certain amount of swimming should be done, though it is not necessary by any means to swim every day. Mr. Arthur T. Kenney, the champion amateur swimmer of America, swims only three times a week, and manages, in that way, to keep himself in first-rate condition. He believes in keeping the muscles pliant and in preventing them from becoming hard. Therefore it is well for the swimmer not to indulge in much rowing, for that is the exercise which hardens the muscles of the arms.
It goes without saying that when training for a race the swimming should be done in a stream or lake, and not in a tank in-doors, for the open air is much better to exercise in than the close air of the tank or gymnasium. Young swimmers should practise short swims in order to develop a speedy stroke, and not attempt long distances until they have acquired the leg action necessary for racing. Short swims of 50 or 100 yards are the best distances.
Furthermore, it should be remembered that fast and hard work should not be attempted before the body has been gotten into perfect condition, otherwise the swimmer becomes overwearied, and is unable to perform the work which he otherwise could.
It is only natural to suppose that any one who expects to enter a swimming race has been swimming enough during the summer to be in fair condition. Therefore if he follows the course of training briefly described above for about a week—which is Mr. Kenney's method, and has made him the champion of American amateurs—he will then be in condition to work systematically in the water.
As in every other kind of athletic sport, a swimmer must give the greatest attention to form. Do not allow yourself to be carried away by the desire to acquire speed, but try so to master the action of the arms and legs that presently they will work almost automatically, and perform to the best advantage for the expenditure of energy. It is well to swim half the distance of the race about three times a week, but no more, and after this has been done for about two weeks it will be noticed that the action of the body has become much easier, and that speed has increased. Then a certain amount of time should be devoted to the practice of starting.
A start in a swimming race is very much like the action of a standing broad jump; it is a spring from a mark. The proper attitude to assume at the starting-line is to have the legs bent, the arms held back, the body leaning forward just as far as equilibrium will allow. As soon as the pistol is fired, or the word to start is given, swing the arms forward, and spring with all the strength of your legs as far out into the water as possible. Pay no attention to the other competitors, and do not look forward into the course, but give all your thoughts to making a long leap. This start should be a low dive (what swimmers call a "skip-jack"), and the head should be brought to the surface as quickly as possible by taking a stroke under water.
An important thing to remember is to have the arms in position to take a strong, steady stroke as soon as the head comes above the surface. It will require a great deal of practice to master all these details of the start, and therefore it is advisable to practise these things on the intermediate days of swimming. For instance, swim half your distance one day, practise starting the next, and then swim half your distance the next day, and so on.
After coming out of the water the swimmer should be well rubbed down with a coarse towel, and he should, if possible, have somebody to knead his muscles, for this sort of massage helps greatly to limber the tissues.
The football season will open in the colleges in a very few weeks, and the schools will follow their elders shortly afterwards. The question of summer training for football-players has been more or less mooted for the past few years. I believe that the best opinion among athletes is that for young players it is not advisable to try to get into training much before September. The summer is intended for recreation and not for work, and sport is a pastime, not a business.
Those college-men who set to work in August, gathering at the training-table a month before the term opens, are making a business of football. They are devoting their energies to the sport for the sake of winning, and not for the pleasure they get from playing. And this sort of thing is bad for athletics, and bad for that particular branch of athletics which becomes the victim of summer training. Nevertheless, there are cases where a little preliminary thought and work may be of service—I mean especially with captains of teams, or with half-backs and quarter-backs, who have the ambition to make their school or college teams, but who feel that they have not had enough experience as yet to feel sure that their work in the fall will assure them of the place.
It is a very different thing if an individual, or two individuals, at their homes in the country, choose to kick a football over an improvised goal-post, or choose, two or three times a week, to go out on the grass and fall on the ball, or to go out in the road and run a few miles to improve their wind. It is a different thing from getting eleven men together for concerted work. In fact, it is well for the amateur sportsmen who recognize their own weaknesses to try to remedy them at home in the early fall. This is not making a business of sport—it is rather developing a healthy interest and ambition.
Captains of teams, as I have said before, can spend several weeks prior to the opening of the school term in reading and learning the rules of the game, and in planning out plays and tricks which they think can be effective against their opponents. The captain of a school team has usually played one year or more on his school's eleven, and is consequently more or less familiar with the style of play of the other schools in his league; and by giving thought to the work as he has seen it performed by each one of his rivals, he may very well be able to develop some sort of counter-strategy which shall prove most effective later in the season.
Recognizing the fact that the school captains all over the country will probably wish to be giving some consideration to the new season from now on, this Department will shortly begin a series of four papers on the science of football, and on this game as it is to be played this year, illustrating the text with photographs and diagrams. But before we begin with the theory of the game, it will probably be well to touch lightly upon training and practice.
Let us assume that the majority of school teams will be getting together toward the end of September. At that season of the year, especially after a long summer vacation, in which, if there has been any exercise taken at all, it has been exercise of an entirely different kind from football, most of the players will be soft, and their muscles will need hardening. During the first few days practice should not exceed more than twenty-five minutes at a stretch. It should consist of dropping on the ball, and of snapping the ball back from the centre to the quarter, and of passes from the half-backs to the full-back and to one another. A little running, for wind, is also advisable.
The running should not be of the long-distance kind to begin with, but sprinting, and very short sprints at that. A good way is to line the whole team up across the field, and to have them sprint to the 25-yard line. This might be done twice a day—once at the beginning of the practice, and once at the end. As the days go by, the second sprint can be lengthened, until the men are required to run as far as the 50-yard line, and a week or so later they should be made to run the entire length of the field.
Where it is possible, the players should return home from the field on which they have been practising at a swinging trot, and upon reaching their various rooms they should bathe and rub down so as to avoid stiffness resulting from the new exercise. It ought not to be necessary for me to say that football-players, and especially young football-players, should make a point of getting to bed early—before ten o'clock, if possible—and of rising regularly in the morning.
After this preliminary work has been going on for a week or two, more serious practice can be undertaken. The candidates should be divided into squads, the centres and quarter-backs, the half-backs and the line-men working together. Practice may now be kept up for three-quarters of an hour each afternoon, the backs, of course, devoting themselves to punting and catching, whereas the line-men work at breaking through, and at tackling, and at falling on the ball. Not more than half of the time devoted to practice should be spent in playing the game itself; but in that time, when the two teams, the first and the scrub, are opposed to one another in regular football array, they should play as hard and as carefully as if they were indulging in a contest with some strong rival.
On alternate days the scrub team should keep the ball in its possession constantly, in order that the first team may get practice in defensive play. On the other days the first team should hold the ball, in order to develop the strategy of offensive work. It is also well, as the season grows older, to have the regular half-backs play on the scrub team, in order that the rush-line players of the first team may have the advantage of playing against the best backs their schools can turn out.
H. P. Boardman, Burlington, Vt.—You can get the information you ask for in Zimmerman's book on bicycling. Any dealer in sporting goods can secure the book for you.