[to be continued.]
[A SURE CURE.]
Poor Bobby's sick! Dear little lad,
He's got a pain; it hurts him awful bad.
Just see his face!
In every line of it a trace
Of how he suffers from that pain.
What's that? His plate is back again
For buckwheat cakes? Oho, I see!
'Tis nearly nine o'clock. Ho!—hum!—tell me
What is this woe
That lays poor Bobby low
Each morning just at school-time, yet so fleet is?
Is it the olden time Nineoelockitis
That as a boy I had so frequently?
That comes at half past eight, and seems to last
From then till nine, or say a quarter past,
And then departs, and leaves him all the day
With twice the strength with which to go and play?
Oh—well—if this be so
I'll worry not. The symptoms well I know.
Only, instead of cakes to cure his ills,
Take him a spoon and fill it up with squills,
And by to-morrow
I doubt he'll suffer from his present sorrow.
[A STRANGE DISCOVERY.]
BY HUBERT EARL.
Napoleon and his army of soldiers were marching across the Alps in Switzerland before descending into Italy upon that famous campaign in which all Italy bowed low to the French conqueror. Up the long steep slopes the soldiers toiled in the shadow of the frowning and overhanging cliffs. Here and there patches of bare rock appeared, where the snow had been swept off by the fierce gusts of wind. For miles the army was strung along the roads, and wearily the men walked as they struggled with the heavy cannon. These cannon were mounted on improvised sleds, and the soldiers pulled them over the snow with ropes. At times one of the sleds would slip and tumble over a precipice, carrying with it a number of the men who were dragging it along. The air was bitterly cold, and many of the soldiers died on the road, or from weakness fell off the cliffs, to be dashed to pieces on the rocks below.
An officer had been riding back and forth along his command most of the day, helping here and encouraging there, and by kindly acts urging his men to bravely laugh off their despondency. Cold, frozen, poorly clad, and with but little to eat, such conditions were too crushing to arouse much enthusiasm among the soldiers, but a faint cheer time and again reached this officer's ears as he shouted his commands.
Darkness was gathering fast, and it was desirable that this officer's detachment should reach a small plateau some distance ahead before camping for the night. In order to reach this it was necessary to cross a narrow dangerous part of the road with a sharp descent of some hundred feet on one side and the walls of a cliff on the other.
The officer stood at the narrowest part directing the way. Most of the detachment had passed the spot and three cannon had already made the passage. The last one, larger than any of the others, was being slowly but surely worked over, when there was a sudden sinking of the snow, several shouts, and the heavy iron cannon commenced toppling over the cliff.
"Throw a rope over the end there, quick!" shouted the officer, at the same time grasping the rope attached to the forward end. But it was too late, or else the frozen hands of the soldiers prevented their working lively, and all but two of those having hold of the rope that was attached dropped it in fear of being pulled over the cliff.
Down it went into the black depths of the narrow crevice between the mountains, and with it went the two men who had kept their hold, and also the brave officer, for when the others had dropped the rope it had become entangled in his feet. A short, despairing cry was all that rose on the night air to tell the tale of those three deaths. Napoleon's soldiers were too accustomed to such sights and the hopelessness of an attempt at rescue to do more than shudder and move stubbornly on. Through many such scenes the army made its way over the Alps.
Many years later, in the summer of 1847, a party of people were taking a pleasure trip through Europe, and had stopped at one of the small villages at the foot of the mountains. From here they made occasional trips, exploring the surrounding neighborhood. In the party was a geologist, who was making studies of the geological formations of the Alps. Such work took him into unfrequented spots.
On one of these expeditions he wandered one day into a narrow chasm and slowly worked along, making notes of the walls of stone that rose above his head, seemingly coming together where he could see a narrow rift of light. As he stumbled along, now and then stopping to examine a loose stone, he came across a log-shaped rock. Upon closer inspection, however, he saw it was an old rusty cannon, and sitting down upon it, he fell to musing how it came there.
He had noted that the cannon was of a make used during Napoleon's time, and concluded that it must be one of those that were lost over the precipice when the great general had crossed into Italy. Stooping down, he poked into its mouth, mechanically scraping out the dirt that had accumulated there, and idly thought of the brave soldiers of those days. Suddenly he noticed a leathern book, in fairly good condition, lying in the little heap of dirt he had scraped out. Picking it up he opened it and found it full of papers. Thinking then that it was of no great importance, he placed it in his pocket and retraced his steps to the village. That evening he examined its contents, and among some papers relating to an old estate he found the following scrawl:
"I, one of Napoleon's officers, fell from the cliff above, dragged over by a rope attached to this cannon. The two men that fell with me were instantly killed, as I have not heard them moan nor seen them move. My leg and left arm are broken, and I know that I am hurt internally. Fortunately, I struck but once while falling, and then this soft bed of snow prevented instant death. I have enough strength left to write this and stick it into the mouth of the cannon, for possibly some one may discover it. My papers and such as will prove the right to certain property will be found in the leathern book, and I beg the finder will place them in the hands of the proper owners. My strength is leaving me and I must stop—" (Here followed the signature.)
Among the papers was found the right to an estate of considerable value, and when, after great difficulty, the descendants and owners were traced, it was discovered that the family had suffered more or less privation from the loss of these papers, restored after so many years.
[WHAT IT MEANS TO RUN AN OCEAN GREYHOUND.]
BY THE CAPTAIN OF THE "NEW YORK."
SUNDAY MORNING MUSTER OF THE CREW.
Above all, it means unceasing vigilance. It is said that a man who rides often over the same road can fall asleep in the saddle and still travel it safely. Such a man would be drummed out of the steamship service. Every man who has to do with the sailing of an ocean greyhound must be on the alert every moment of his tour of duty. No matter how many scores of times he may have sailed over the route between New York and Southampton, he must be constantly on the lookout for all that he can read in sea and sky, or in the earth beneath the sea. For two things he is responsible—the safety and speed with which the journey is made. Nothing else appeals to him. The greatest orator of the finest singer in the world might appear and perform on deck, and I doubt whether the men on the bridge would see him or hear him. The ship is like a great cannon-ball that has been shot out of one port to strike the other. The officers of the ship are to make that cannon-ball go true to the mark without deviating in the least degree from the course. That duty is so absorbing that nothing else can be allowed to interfere with it.
Gales cannot stop nor fogs hinder the swift passage of the transatlantic liner. She flies onward with what seems to be an entire disregard of storms. But these things are not disregarded. They are grappled with and fought against, and man triumphs over the fury of the elements. Nothing is left to chance. Every emergency that experience or imagination can suggest is prepared for and studied out long in advance. Friends sometimes ask the captain of a great ship if the nervous strain does not exhaust him; if he is not depressed by the responsibility for so many hundreds of lives and so many millions of dollars worth of property. The answer to that question is always no. If the captain were to give himself up to such reflections he would be unfit for his position. The captain's experience is long and varied before he becomes master of an ocean greyhound. His responsibility is small at first, but constantly grows greater, until he is no more worried by it than you would be worried by having to drive a pair of ponies.
THE PROMENADE DECK OF THE "NEW YORK."
The best ships of to-day are gigantic compared with the best of twenty or even fifteen years ago. The New York is 565 feet long, and of 63 feet beam. She extends 27 feet beneath the water. These mere figures do not convey much of an impression of her size. If she should be lifted out of the water, however, she would fill Broadway, from curb-stone to curb-stone, from Chambers Street to Park Place, and a man standing on her bridge could easily look into the fifth story of the houses on either side. A ship of this size costs more than two millions of dollars. Her engines have power equivalent to that of 20,000 horses. The crew of the New York averages 400 men all the year around. There are 70 in the navigating department, 180 in the engine department, and the rest are in the steward's department.
Just as the government of the city of New York is divided among the Mayor, Aldermen, and boards and commissioners of various departments, so the administration of a giant steamship is divided into specialties. The Mayor is the chief officer of the city. The Captain is the chief officer of the ship. He is more than that. From the time she leaves port until she enters port he is master of the life and liberty of every person aboard the ship, as well as of all the property in it. He is an autocrat. Of course he must administer his authority wisely. Unwise autocrats don't last long, whether afloat or ashore.
LOOKOUT IN THE FORETOP.
The head of each department is responsible for all that goes on in it. The first officer is at the head of the crew, or navigating department. The chief engineer directs everything connected with the engines. The chief steward has full control of all that has to do with the comfort of the passengers and crew. Each of these chiefs makes a written report at noon every day. Thus the Captain is kept informed of everything pertaining to the ship's welfare.
Every one of the senior officers of the ship is a duly qualified master, capable of taking her around the world if need be. The day is divided into "watches," or tours of duty, of four hours each. One junior officer is on the bridge with each senior officer on duty. The senior officer directs the ship's course. He never leaves the bridge while he is on watch. Should he do so he would be dismissed at once. There is no excuse possible. It would be just as if he had died suddenly. His friends would all feel sorry, but nothing could be done to help him. Two seamen are always on watch in the bow of the ship, and two more in the fore-top. Twice as many are on the lookout in thick weather. Observations are taken every two hours. In the good old sailing-ship days the Captain was content to "take the sun" at noon every day. If the sky was cloudy for a day or two, it really didn't matter much, for he could jog along on dead reckoning. But on an ocean greyhound, rushing over the course between New York and Europe at the rate of more than twenty miles an hour, it is highly important that the ship's position be known all the time. Fog may come down at any moment, observations may not be obtainable for ten or twelve hours. The positions of more than one hundred stars are known. By observing any one of these the ship's whereabouts can be ascertained in a few minutes. Of course the "road" becomes more or less familiar to a man who crosses the ocean along the same route year after year. Yet this familiarity never breeds contempt or any carelessness. No man knows all the influences that affect the currents of the ocean. You may find the current in one place the same forty times in succession; on the forty-first trip it may be entirely changed. Sometimes a big storm that has ended four or five hours before the steamship passes a certain place may have given the surface current a strong set in one direction. There is no means of telling when these influences may have been at work save by taking the ship's position frequently.
Those of you who are familiar with boat-racing know how often a race is lost by bad steering. The cockswain who lets his shell drift to one side and then to the other loses much valuable time in getting back to the course. You know that from the start of the race he has his eye fixed on a certain mark, and that he steers straight for that mark. It is the same way with the Captain of a steamship. His mark is the port on the other side of the ocean. He aims at it all the time. If his ship should go astray only for one hour she would lose valuable time getting back to her course. Every unnecessary mile travelled not only causes loss of time, but waste of coal, and wear and tear of machinery, ship, crew, etc.
Great caution must be used at all times, but especially on nearing the land. Old-fashioned ships use the lead and hand-line for finding the depth of water and nature of the bottom, so that by referring to the chart the navigator can tell just where he is. That apparatus is too clumsy for the swift steamship. We use Sir William Thompson's sounding-machine while the ship goes at full speed. A brass tube is fastened to the end of a piano-wire line. When this is lowered to the bottom the pressure of the water is exactly registered on a glass tube—somewhat resembling a thermometer—which is fastened inside the tube of brass. Upon reading the amount of pressure we know the exact depth. A cup on the end of the brass tube brings up a specimen of the bottom.
THE GREYHOUND IN A FOG—A CLOSE SHAVE.
By taking soundings frequently when nearing the land, knowing the ship's course and her position at the last observation, one can prick out her track on the chart even in the heaviest fog. One never can tell what slant of tide or current is silently sending the ship toward the shore, so soundings are taken every fifteen minutes.
The presence of a pilot on board is no excuse for the Captain whose ship gets into trouble. The lives of the fifteen hundred persons on board, the value of the cargo, which is always very great, and of the vessel herself, which is worth at least two millions, all are in his hands. But, as I said before, the responsibility never worries him. He simply watches everything closely. The heads of departments report to him every day, and should any emergency arise, he is kept informed of every new occurrence.
How is it possible, we are often asked, to steer such a great vessel as the modern ocean liner? Steam and electricity have made the work almost seem like play. The senior officer on the bridge can tell at any moment just how fast the ship is going, how many revolutions the port and starboard screws are making per minute, just at what angle the rudder is set—in one word, all about the ship's progress. This is all reported to him on automatic registering machines.
You know, of course, that the ocean greyhound of to-day is a twin-screw ship—that is, that instead of being driven through the water by one propeller, she has two—one on each side of the end of her keel. Each screw is worked by its own set of engines. These engines are entirely independent of each other. The rudder is moved to one side or the other by steam or hydraulic power. Should the rudder become useless from any cause, it is possible to steer the ship by these screws. Most of you know that you can steer a row-boat by putting more force on one oar than on the other. If you want to turn sharply you back-water with one oar and row ahead with the other. So it is with these screws. By backing one screw and going ahead with the other, the ship can be turned around almost within her own length, as the phrase is. The ordinary vessel that loses her rudder is in a sad fix. The twin-screw ship simply needs a little extra care in handling. In fact, it has happened more than once that an ocean greyhound has been steered for more than a thousand miles straight into port while the rudder was useless.
It is easy to appreciate the necessity for making fast time across the ocean when you remember that each idle moment means a loss of earning power. The vessel costs $2,000,000. She will be worn out, say, in ten years. Her value will be very small. So that every moment of her ten good years must be made to tell. Suppose her navigators should be so careless as to let her wander one hour's journey off her course. Another hour would be lost bringing her back. That would mean a clear loss of two hours. Mathematical experts could tell you exactly what that loss would amount to. All we know is that not one instant shall be thrown away.
COALING.
Perhaps you have been aboard one of the largest ships coming up the bay from Sandy Hook to New York. Have you noticed the churned-up white water that flows away behind her? Watch it, and you will observe that now on one side, now on the other, the foam ceases to flow so thickly. This shows that one screw or the other has almost stopped for a moment. The ship-channel coming up the bay is so narrow and shallow that at certain low stages of the tide a great steamship drags the water along with her body, just as your own body can drag the water in a bath-tub. The result is that the rudder has very little effect in guiding the ship. Under such circumstances the screw on one side or the other is slowed so as to steer the vessel.
Whole books might be written about the engines of an ocean greyhound. To inspect the engines thoroughly you go down through four decks. Every bit of machinery is constantly watched. A record is kept of every turn of the screw, of every engine's work. The chief engineer has three first assistants, and one of these three is always on duty. The engine-room is like a gigantic roaring factory—it is a factory that makes power for pushing the ship along. The four large dynamos that produce electricity for lighting and other uses are also in the vast engine-room. So is the machine that makes ice for the ship. This, by-the-way, is almost a magical apparatus. In it is made all the ice used by the ship's company, and from it pipes are led that supply the refrigerating-rooms. There are two of these immense refrigerators. They are on the fourth deck—away below the water-line. As nearly every article of food for the round trip is purchased in this country, practically all the perishable food is stored in these refrigerators—one being known as the "East-bound," and the other the "West-bound." The immense amount of provisions carried is something hard to imagine. A ship like the New York or the St. Paul, for example, takes 25,000 pounds of beef, more than three tons of game and poultry, 18,000 eggs, and other things in proportion. The law requires that enough provisions be carried to feed the ship's people for twenty-four additional days, in case of accident. We carry much more than that amount. In the refrigerating-rooms are also carried enough flowers to adorn the tables all the way to England and back.
Most of you, perhaps, think of an ocean greyhound as a swift-going floating hotel. I think you will admit she is more—that she is one of the greatest wonders of the deep.
J. K. Jamison.
[THE EARLY WORK OF THE AUTHOR OF "BEN-HUR."]
BY MATTIE DYER BRITTS.
The writer of this sketch has no need to depend upon the evidence of others for the facts given; she has but to cross a shady street and tap at the most hospitable door in the wide world, to sit at her ease in the fine old library enriched by the gifts of a king, and talk with General Wallace or his wife.
It was upon an occasion like this that she remarked: "General, the people who are so much interested in your work sometimes wonder how you came to begin it. Would you be willing to give us an idea of your method?"
"Method?" was the reply, with the genial smile and flash of the keen dark eye which still renews the youth of the veteran warrior-poet. "I have no method. If my composition has any excellence, set it down, first and last, to that simple fact. In writing, as in speech, I think that modes of expression should depend upon feeling—not studied, but the impulse of the moment."
"But you had a method of study in your school-days?"
"Not I. My school-days were very few when I was a boy. My father regularly sent me, and paid my tuition bills, but I as regularly played truant. I ran wild in the woods of my native Indiana as free and happy as the squirrels and rabbits, which scarcely took the trouble to keep out of my pathway, so accustomed to my presence did they become. I hunted, fished, staid in the woods, and slept with my dog, and came out as strong and healthy as an oak sapling, without the least idea that I was laying the foundation for the constitution which could in later years withstand the hardships and exposures of camp and field. Health was so absolute it was not thought of."
"You must, however, have been fond of books."
"Passionately so. I read every moment that I was still. In my runaway journeys through the woods I always carried a book in my pocket. I both read and remembered. My education, such as it is, is due to my father's excellent library, and the freedom with which I browsed at will upon the wholesome pastures of good old English literature."
"Doubtless you had certain favorite volumes."
"Yes. Plutarch's Lives was and is the work which had most influence upon me. Even yet, at the age of sixty-seven, when I grow drowsy and my ambition seems to fail, I pick up my old companion, and an hour with him restores me to myself."
"How did you first come to think of writing?"
Another smile of amusement over the recollections of those crude boyish days, and the General replied: "My first literary effort was made in a society of lads near my own age, of which I was a member when about sixteen. Berry Sulgrove, once editor of the Indianapolis Journal, was president, and assigned each one his part in our weekly meetings—a speech, essay, story, or poem. I was ordered to write a story. I undertook a love-tale of the crusades of the tenth century, in weekly instalments, with the title of 'The Man-at-Arms.'"
"Can you recall the plot of the tale?"
"The leading character was a Spanish grandee, a Duke of high Castilian line, who dwelt among the mountains of Spain. He had numerous valiant retainers, and one only child—a proud and beautiful daughter named Inez. In the service of the Duke was a handsome page of eighteen, brave, courtly, endowed with manly graces and a talent for music. This he used so skilfully that the love-songs he sang to his light guitar took captive the heart of the fair Inez. Their love was discovered, and the handsome page banished from the castle. But they managed to meet, and my hero carried off his prize. Together they mounted his snow-white steed, and dashed away to the hermitage of an old monk, who lived alone on a wild and dreary mountain-side. The Duke pursued the fugitives with armed retinue, and brought his disobedient daughter back to her ancestral halls. The page escaped, went to Venice, and enlisted in the army about to march to Palestine. He wore his armor by night and day, never opening his visor except to eat, so that his nearest comrades rarely saw his face. He performed prodigies of valor, was ever in the forefront of battle, a mysterious but conspicuous figure. He became famous, and was made a knight. By the time he returned to Spain all the countries of the Mediterranean had heard of his prowess, and were proud to do him honor. He was tendered a grand banquet at the Duke's castle; but the old enemy did not recognize in the Knight of the Closed Helmet his former page. The lovely Inez, of course, knew him at once, and he found her of true heart and constant mind. The father was delighted to see the impression his child made upon the gallant knight, and with his free consent they were soon betrothed and married. After the wedding the page disclosed his real name—I regret to have forgotten it—and all was forgiven, the old Duke only too willing to call the brave warrior of Holy Cross his son."
"Did you complete the story?"
"Oh yes! Every week my instalment was ready, my audience rapt and sympathetic, and the generous applause most encouraging."
"Was the MSS. lengthy?"
"Two hundred and thirty pages of foolscap, closely written."
"How much I should like to see it! Do you know what became of it?"
"I am sorry to say it was lost. I left it in my father's library when I went to the Mexican war in 1847; when I returned, the unfortunate 'Man-at-Arms' was not to be found. I never knew how he came to his end."
"Of course, as a member of the society, you obeyed the order of your president; but aside from that fact, what were your inducements to writing the story?"
"Merely boyish pleasure in composition—the natural stirring to write, as the singer is moved to sing. That was my first attempt at prose. Before that—when about fifteen, I think—I wrote a poem on the rescue of Captain John Smith by Pocahontas, perhaps two hundred lines, in the measure of the 'Lady of the Lake.' That reminds me of another early experience; our amusements were very few in those days—a circus once a year, and sometimes during the session of the Legislature a strolling theatrical company came by. We boys caught the fever, and got up an organization of our own, the 'Thespian Troupe,' which played Pocahontas with tremendous applause."
"You mean, I presume, the drama by Robert Dale Owen?"
"The same. My brother, William Wallace, was the Indian heroine. I took the part of her sister Nomona. McReady (a school-mate, not the famous actor) was Powhatan. I have forgotten who played Captain Smith, but the affair was a great success. Cox, the local artist, painted the scenery, the town band (then a volunteer service) played before the door to draw the crowd, and the receipts paid all expenses."
"Then you actually performed before a paying audience?"
"Indeed we did. It was in a brick house just where the old State-house used to stand. We provided seats, and had special accommodations for the ladies. Those were the days of sound and fury and the ranting style now happily entirely banished from the stage. But we enjoyed it hugely. My memories of the Thespian are among the most delightful recollections of earlier days."
"Do you think that the dramatic instinct and florid imagination necessary to such high-flown youthful work had any influence in developing your later literary genius?"
"I do not claim to have any genius. It may be that infinite patience and an unlimited capacity for hard work have taken the place of genius, and been of service to me. When I began to study a subject or an object, I could never bring myself to stop until I had mastered all there was to be known about it."
"You believe, then, that small details are of large importance in literary work?"
"More so than in almost any other calling. I have never allowed myself to take the opinions of others when it was possible to verify facts by my own eyes and ears. While writing Ben-Hur I once took the long journey from my Indiana home to New York city, and haunted one of the great libraries there persistently for days, merely to establish beyond a doubt a very small matter concerning the interior of a Roman galley. Yet, after all, it was not a small matter; trifles make perfection, and a little inaccuracy will result in imperfect work."
"Do you advise young authors to quote largely, or depend upon others for ideas?"
"By no means. Every man and woman is self-made. Every writer should be especially so. Let him look into his own heart, and write from it, if he would reach the hearts of his readers. He may gather information and incidents from books and from every-day life, but when he writes, let it be in his own words. Above all, let him write honestly, delineating people and things as they really are, not as a vivid or romantic imagination might make them."
Our social talk ended here. May I not be allowed to add that constant study of the best writers of old English has given a certain stateliness of expression and dignity of speech to the composition of General Wallace, which will not fail to be noted by the careful reader. The volumes he read were the very choicest, and the stalwart heroes of that olden time were the boy's daily companions instead of men and women.
[REGULAR EXERCISE FOR GIRLS.]
BY EVA LOVETT.
Regularity in bodily training is the "golden rule" of all physicians and gymnasium teachers. "A little exercise every day, taken at a certain time," is worth more than all the spasmodic exertion in the world. It accomplishes more in play and work. Nor need such exercise become monotonous. The work of to-day may call into use one set of muscles, and that of to-morrow another. It is well not to develop our arms and neglect our legs, or vice versa. The pleasure accompanying them makes outdoor sports more beneficial to the health; but indoor training, according to fixed rules, has a great value in teaching you how to use your limbs and joints easily and well. The practice it gives helps you to learn anything quieter than you would without it.
Any girl knows how easy it is to "fall out of the way" of doing things, whether the "thing" is a kind of fancy-work or a school task. So it is easy to "fall out of the way" of making use of your bodily powers. Your arms and legs and back and body were all given you to use, just as well as your lungs and other organs. And it is clearly your fault if you do not get the best service out of them by keeping them in practice. You must teach them to be supple, agile, and quick to respond to any calls you may make upon them to contribute to your good or amusement. Suppose you suddenly decide to play tennis, and have never learned to run! What will happen to you is that you will be an awkward and unlucky player until you learn to use your legs. Therefore the regular daily exercise is good all round—for health and for pleasure.
Our first impulse on waking in the morning is to yawn, to push out the arms, to throw out the legs, to stretch and twist and roll about the body, and so gradually work off the cramped feeling induced during sleep. These natural gymnastics, in which even babies indulge when they first waken out of a sound slumber, indicate pretty clearly what is the best time to take a regular daily dose of gymnastic work.
During the night the respiration has been slower, the heart-beats less frequent, and the muscles have become contracted from remaining too long in certain positions. We know, without being told, that our bodies need shaking, stretching—some exercise, in fact, to get us into shape for the day's work. The blood must circulate quicker, and mind and body partake of the bright, brisk feeling which helps us to do everything easily. For those who spare the time, fifteen minutes, or even ten, on first rising is the best time to select for gymnastics.
But many persons, young as well as old, must rise quickly and dress hastily, and have no minutes to spare for such morning exercise. They must choose some other time. Just before the daily bath is another opportune moment. The exercise taken induces perspiration, and this waste matter is removed by the bath following, leaving the skin in a clear, healthy, and normal condition. We feel wonderfully refreshed and full of vitality after the process.
At night, before retiring, certain exercises of the muscles can be used with good effect. If we are tired or have overused one set of muscles, we do not exercise those already used too much, but others in opposite directions. For instance, if we have stretched our arms up until over-tired, it is rest and relief to stretch them down—again and again, and again, so making the strain upon the muscles equal.
Or if we have used our arms too much, we rest ourselves by giving our legs a good amount of exercise—just as a long walk rests you after rowing, or as a good game of ball rests you after hard study. In the first case it is exercise in an opposite direction which gives the needed relaxation. In the second the same result comes from exercising the body after too much exercise of the mind.
This "law of opposition," as it is called, is a big subject. But the rule holds just the same, whether you understand "the reason why" or not. Exercise muscles or parts of the body in opposite directions or in different ways from the motions and actions which have tired you. To do this at night "promotes sleep and helps digestion," say the physical-culture teachers.
And who should know better than those who have studied up on the subject and who can give you the "reason why"?