III.—ARTHUR AND THE KNIGHTS.

"Arthur must have been tickled to death," said Jack, when his father told how Sir Ector and Kaye knelt before him and hailed him as King. "Wouldn't it be fine, Mollie, if somebody should ring our front-door bell now, and come in and prove that you and I were King and Queen of somewhere, and that papa was bringing us up for Queen Victoria or Emperor William, for instance?"

"I don't think so at all," said Mollie. "I don't want to be Queen, and I don't think you'd make a good King, either. You slide down the banisters too much to make a very royal King. Kings don't do such things."

"I guess they would if they could," said Jack. "What's the good of being a King if you can't do whatever you wanted to?"

"I'd rather be a President, though," put in Mollie. "Kings have to wear solid gold crowns with prongs on 'em all the time, and it must be dreadfully uncomfortable."

"Very true, my dear," said her father. "A crown is about the most uncomfortable possession a man can have, and Arthur, I fancy, felt very much at first as you do. He felt very badly indeed when he learned that Sir Ector was not his father, and that Kaye was nothing but a chum, instead of a brother, as he had always thought, for he loved them both more than he did any one else in the world. So when Sir Ector knelt before him and said, 'You are the rightful King of England,' Arthur opened his eyes as widely as he could and started back in amazement."

"I guess he thought it was an April-fool," laughed Mollie.

"At first he may have thought that," said the Story-teller, "but when he remembered that great Knights like Sir Ector wouldn't play jokes of that kind he didn't think it any more. He began to grow uneasy and unhappy, for instead of throwing his cap into the air and crying hurrah, as Jack would do if he were elected President of the United States to-morrow, he gave a groan and an exclamation of dismay.

"'Alas!' he cried; 'why do my father and brother kneel before me?'

"'I am not your father, nor is Kaye your brother,' replied Sir Ector.

"'Then who am I?' cried Arthur, in great distress.

"'That I know not,' returned Sir Ector, 'save that you are our King. You were brought to me by Merlin to care for when you were an infant, and from that day to this you have been treated as my son. Whose child you are I do not know, nor have I ever known—nor has any one known except Merlin.'"

"Didn't Sir Ector know who paid his board?" asked Jack. "Who'd he send his bill to?"

The Story-teller smiled. "I don't believe Sir Ector charged anything for his services," he said. "He was a true Knight, and was willing to perform a knightly service for another without charging anything for it or asking too many questions."

"You couldn't get anybody to do that nowadays, I imagine," said Mollie, thoughtfully. "I think very likely they'd ha' sent him to an orphan asylum if he'd lived now."

"I am not at all sure that you are not right about that," said her father; "but whether you are or not, the fact remains that Sir Ector took Arthur in, and without knowing whence he came or who or what he was, was as good to him as he was to Kaye, his own little boy; and when Arthur learned that Ector was not his father, it pained him deeply, and he heartily wished he had never seen the sword in the stone which had made known the secret of his high position to the world."

SIR ECTOR TOOK ARTHUR TO THE ARCHBISHOP AND TOLD HIM ALL.

"Then Sir Ector asked Arthur to be his gracious lord when he had become King, and to make Kaye the steward of all his lands. This Arthur promised, for, as he said to Sir Ector, he owed more to him and his wife than he did to all others in the world. The promise made, Sir Ector took Arthur to the Archbishop, and told him all that had occurred, and the Archbishop was as much surprised as Arthur had been, and being a wise man, he foresaw that all others would be surprised as well, and some of them unpleasantly so, so he advised that the matter be kept secret for a little while, when he would summon the Knights for another trial, at which Arthur could do publicly what he had already done unobserved.

"On Twelfth Day the plan was carried out. The Knights again rode to the church-yard and tugged at the sword, but no more successfully than before. Then Arthur came forth to try, and they all laughed at him. Some of them sneeringly asked why a mere boy should be brought forward to try to do what they, the most gallant and the strongest Knights, had been unable to do, but they soon stopped smiling and sneering and began to frown. Arthur, as he had previously done, walked easily up to the stone, and grasping the sword by the hilt, pulled it out with as little effort as if it were a weed in a garden."

"That ain't always easy," said Mollie, who had tried weeding in her own little garden patch.

"No," said her father; "not always, but sometimes they come up with scarcely an effort, and that is the way the sword came out of the stone as soon as Arthur grasped the hilt."

Jack chuckled. "You can bet on a boy to beat a man in a game o' stunts every time," he said, proudly.

"Well, you can in many cases," said his father, with a smile, "but the Knights did not like it any the better for that. They were not used to playing games of stunts with boys, and in this particular instance the prize was so great a one that their anger ran very high, and they asked some very embarrassing questions.

"'Who is this boy?' asked some, and nobody was prepared to answer the question. All Sir Ector knew was that he had brought him up from a baby, and that he had been a very good boy, but this was not enough for the Knights. With the crown at stake, they wanted to be certain that his parents were people of high birth. They didn't want the son of a stable-man to rule over them and to sit on the throne, and they grew so bitter about it that to save trouble the Archbishop ordered another trial to be held at Candlemas."

"I don't think that was fair," said Mollie. "He'd won, and they'd ought to have given him the prize."

"True," said her father. "He certainly had won it, but the Archbishop felt that having won it once, he would do it again, and it was better to wait."

"He was all right," said Jack. "I think it wasn't quite fair as Mollie says, but it was good business."

"Yes," said the Story-teller; "for, as you will soon see, Arthur didn't lose anything by it except time."

[to be continued.]

NUMBER 100.

FRANK HOWELL'S OWN ACCOUNT OF HIS ADVENTURE IN A PRIVATE CAR.

BY WILLIAM DRYSDALE.

It was in a handsome private car without any name that I made the acquaintance of Frank Howell. He was already in the car when I boarded the train; and as the owner of the car, who was also the owner of the railroad we were riding over, was busy at the moment dictating letters to his private secretary in the little office at one end, Frank and I were left alone together in the principal room, and we soon became acquainted. I was surprised to see him there, for although I had made frequent journeys in the car, I had never seen any boy in it before; but he seemed very much at home and quite contented. He was a handsome boy—or, rather, I should say he is a handsome boy, for this was only a few weeks ago—with dark bright eyes and wavy brown hair, and a pleasant manner that would make almost any one take an interest in him at once.

We soon fell into a little conversation, and I learned that he was a Chicago boy, fourteen years old, and that he was spending the winter with his father and mother in the Seminole Hotel, in Winter Park, Florida. This accounted for his presence in that neighborhood, for we were then riding through one of the central counties of Florida; but it did not account for his presence in the private car, and when I dropped a hint in that direction, he told me that he had known the owner of the car for only about a week. When we had reached this stage of our acquaintance, Mr. H. B. Plant, the owner both of the car and the railroad, came out of his office and spoke to us. After shaking hands with me he introduced Frank Howell.

"He doesn't look like a dangerous boy, does he?" Mr. Plant said, smilingly. "But he had hardly got down into this country before he ran away with my car, so I thought I had better take him along with me to Jacksonville, for fear he might run away with the whole railroad."

"Indeed I think it was the car that ran away with me, Mr. Plant," Frank broke in. "Anyhow, I brought it back again."

"He is the first person I have ever known," Mr. Plant went on, "to travel about the country in a private car, without a cent of money to buy anything to eat with. You must tell that story, Frank, while I finish my letters; and try to tell it as well as you told it to me the other day."

"How far did you go with the car, Frank?" I asked, when we were left alone together again.

"About twenty-five hundred miles," he answered.

"What!"

"Twenty-five hundred miles, they say it was. I'll tell you about it," he replied.

I saw there was a story coming, and that Frank was able to tell it well in his own words; so I made no further interruptions.

"You know, after you've seen the lakes at Winter Park," he began, "and the pine woods and the caged alligator, and a few hundred orange groves, there isn't very much more for the people to see, so they go down to the station about six o'clock every evening to see the last mail come in. That brings through cars from the North—one sleeper from New York and one from Chicago, that meet in Jacksonville. I got into the habit of going to the station every evening too, and, of course, I soon got to know all the sleepers by name. There were the Olivia, and the Tagus, and the Marion, and perhaps a dozen in all, but only two in any one train.

"Well, one evening I was in the crowd looking at the passengers get off, when I happened to see that there were three big cars in the train, instead of two. The biggest of all, and the finest of all, was the last car in the train, and I was sure I had never seen it before, so I pushed down the platform to see its name. Queerly enough, it didn't have any name at all: it just had the figures '100' painted in gilt letters on its side. I looked in the windows, and saw that it was a great deal handsomer than any of the sleepers. There were only two or three gentlemen in the car, and they were sitting in big, comfortable arm-chairs in a room that shone with mirrors and polished oak. There were flowers on a table in the centre, and, at one end a couch that looked as soft as down. But I needn't describe it to you, because it was this very room, in this very car.

"It was only a glance I had before the train started, but that was enough to show me that it was a private car, and to make me wonder whether I should ever have a chance to take a ride in one. I didn't suppose I should, at least not for a great many years. But you never can tell about things, can you? After that the car seemed to be going up or coming down every day or two, and I always looked into it whenever I had an opportunity. One morning I happened down by the station, and there stood No. 100 on a side track, with no engine, and nobody about it.

"'Here's my chance,' I thought to myself, 'to see the finest car on the road'; and I went up to it, and walked all around it, and climbed over the platforms, and saw just nothing at all, for all the shades were pulled down tight.

"'That's too bad,' I was just saying to myself, or I guess I must have been saying it out loud. 'I do wish I could see the inside of that car'; and the minute I said it I heard somebody alongside of me say:

"'Do you? Then come along with me, for I am going into it.'

"I looked around, and there was a gentleman I often saw in the hotel, and, of course, he often saw me there.

"'Oh!' said I; 'can you get into it?'

"'I think so,' said he, half laughing. 'I am the superintendent of the road.'

"He unlocked the door with a key, and took me in, and that was the first time I ever set foot in this or any other private car. It fairly took me off my feet to see how fine it was. He showed me the office at the end, with its big windows on three sides, and its soft sofa and velvet carpet and rugs; and the two big state-rooms, each with its broad double bed and its bath-room; and this dining-room where we're sitting, as big as the dining-room in a French flat, and much handsomer; and the two 'sections' like a sleeper; and another bath-room; and the tiny baggage-room; and at the end of the car the kitchen, all stocked with copper kettles and pans; and the refrigerator, and away up over that a berth for the cook. My, but didn't it all look fine! You see, it was the first time I was ever in a private car; I wasn't so used to them then as I am now.

"I asked whose car it was, and the Superintendent said it belonged to Mr. Plant, who owned the hotel I was staying in and the other big hotel in Tampa, and was president of that railroad and a dozen others, and two or three steamship lines. No wonder he had a beautiful car all to himself, was it? Well, I was just going to say that that was the way I happened to get acquainted with the superintendent, and it was through him that I happened to go down to Tampa alone a few days afterwards to see the big hotel and the Steamships, because he was going down, and he said he'd see me safe in the train to come back.

"You know how the trains start just back of the big hotel in Tampa? Well, I was to take the 3.15 train in the afternoon to come home, and I was there in good time; but I didn't see any thing of the superintendent at first. I saw this car standing there, though, with its shades all down; but it was some ways down the track, and not coupled to any train. The last car of my train was the parlor car, and I got in that, for I had exactly fifty cents left to pay my parlor-car fare with, besides my return ticket, of course. In a minute or two the train began to back, and I saw the conductor outside making signals to the engineer, so I went to the rear door and looked out.

"What do you think? They were backing right down to this car, and in a minute they had it coupled to my train; and just as the coupling was made the superintendent opened the door and came out on the platform, and as soon as he saw me he told me to come over there.

"I was sure then that he was going to ride somewhere in this car, and maybe he might let me ride with him a little ways. Wasn't it the luckiest thing in the world, I thought, that I happened to be there just at the right minute? We both went inside, in the little office at the end where Mr. Plant is now; and the first thing the superintendent said, said he, 'I am going to take this car up the road, and if you like you can ride up to Winter Park with me.'

"Well, sir, it was so sudden I didn't know for a minute whether I stood on my feet or my head. But the train began to move off, so I saw it was really true.

"'Isn't Mr. Plant going to use it?' I asked him—for I was so excited I hardly knew what I said.

"'Mr. Plant sailed for Jamaica this morning,' he answered, 'and will not be back for two weeks. The car is going up to New York now to bring Mrs. Plant and some of her friends down. It has just been thoroughly cleaned for her use, so I do not care to open it up much and let the dust in; but you can make yourself comfortable here in the office while I look over some papers. I am only going as far as Lakeland myself, about thirty miles up the road; but you can go on to Winter Park in the car if you'll be sure to slam the door when you get out. It locks with a spring lock.'

"Make myself comfortable! Well I should rather say I could. I was as proud as a peacock. It was foolish, of course, but, you see, I'd never had a ride in a private car before. I was sorry none of my friends had seen me start off in it, and that none of them would be likely to see me get out, for the train was not due at Winter Park till after eight o'clock. It seemed just like being in a house, it went so smooth and firm; and when people looked in the windows at stations, I'd imagine they were wondering what nabob that boy was, to be travelling in such style. And then I'd think of having only fifty cents in my pocket, and I'd have to laugh.

"It seemed just no time at all before we got to Lakeland, where the superintendent left me. He told me to take a nap on the sofa if I got sleepy, for I still had a four hours' ride, and to be sure and slam the door when I got out. Then I had the grand car all to myself, and wasn't I just prouder than ever! I wanted to go all over it and look at all the handsome things, but I wouldn't do it, because that would be just like sneaking over anybody's house. I staid right in the office, and pretty soon it began to grow dark, for there was nobody to light the lamps in the car, and I began to grow sleepy. So I spread out a newspaper for my feet, and lay down on the sofa.

"Did you ever see anything as soft as these sofas? It was like floating in the air, and I imagined myself riding on that magic carpet in the Arabian Nights. But there was something lacking, as there always is. I was as hungry as a bear, for I'd eaten nothing since morning. Then I thought of the fifty cents in my pocket, and the buffet they always have in the sleepers and parlor cars in Florida, and how easy it would be to go into the next car and buy some supper. But didn't I fasten back the catch of the door carefully before I went out? You see, I'd have been only an ordinary passenger if the door had locked after me, for I couldn't have got back.

"The waiter in the parlor car looked at me a kind of queer when I ordered my supper. 'Do you belong in this car?' said he.

"'Oh no,' said I. 'I have a private car in the rear.' Well, sir, after that you'd have thought I was the President of the United States from the way he waited on me. My fifty cents didn't buy very much, but it was enough.

"In a few minutes I was back on my sofa in No. 100, with the door locked. It was almost dark, and getting chilly, but having a fine private car all to myself more than made up for that. Just think of it! It was almost as though I owned the car. Even the conductor didn't come in, for they don't go into a railroad president's private car to ask for tickets.

"I took a soft rug off the floor and pulled it over me, and thought I might as well take a nap. It would be safe to sleep for an hour, or even two, and I was tired with my day's travel. Of course I was asleep in no time. My, how good it felt!—a private car all to myself, soft sofa to sleep on, nobody to bother me."

"WELL, SIR, IT WAS ENOUGH TO MAKE A BOY'S HAIR TURN GRAY."

"Suddenly something woke me up. I didn't know where I was at first, but it came back to me in a minute, and I was awfully cold. A little scared, too, for if I had slept any longer I might have been carried past Winter Park, and a pretty thing that would have been. I jumped up and looked out, but it was too dark to see anything much. We were running very slow, and I thought by the way things looked we were just getting into a station. So I sat down by the window and watched, and, sure enough, we were just about to stop. When we did stop, my car stood right square in front of the bay-window of a station. And what do you think I saw? Well, sir, it was enough to make a boy's hair turn gray. There was a big sign on the front of the building, WAYCROSS; and the clock inside the window said 4.35.

"Then I knew I was in for it; for Waycross, you know, is in Georgia, about half-way between Jacksonville and Savannah, and nearly three hundred miles above Winter Park. Instead of taking a little nap, I had slept for eight or nine hours, and I was three hundred miles away from my friends, without a cent in my pocket. My first thought was to get out, but while I had my hand on the door-knob I thought better of it. What would become of me if I got out? I had no money to go home with—not even a cent to telegraph to my folks with. Go to the conductor, do you say? You see, we were on an entirely different railroad from the one we started on, and had a different conductor, of course. This one wouldn't know anything about me, and probably would not believe my story.

"It was a pretty tough place, wasn't it? Private car, soft sofa, fine rugs, great style, and not a cent of money. While I was trying to make up my mind what to do, the train started. But that was all right; for somehow I couldn't get it out of my head that the best thing I could do was to stick to the car. You see, I figured it this way: when I didn't come home at nine o'clock, they'd begin to worry about me. They'd telegraph to the superintendent, and he'd understand how it was, and telegraph along the line, and have me found and sent home.

"Had it all reasoned out fine, didn't I? And it would have turned out so, only for one thing. The superintendent drove out in the country somewhere from Lakeland, where he couldn't be reached by telegraph, and he didn't get back to Winter Park for two days. Nobody else knew that I was in this car. Wasn't that a fix for you?

"But I'm getting ahead of my story. I'd made up my mind to stick to the car, if I had to ride all the way to New York. But of course my folks and the superintendent would find me long before that. You see, I've read in the papers how lost boys in New York are taken care of by the police, and their friends telegraphed to. But I had a better plan than that to try first, if it came to the worst; I'd go to a good hotel and get them to telegraph, and my father would send on money for me. The summer clothes I wore would be some proof of my coming from Florida. You see, I had to think out every little point.

"Well, I'll not tire you with telling you how I rode on and on and on, and how nobody came into the car after me. You know the road, of course. We were in Savannah, and then we were in Charleston, and in Wilmington; but nobody inquired for me. I may as well own up that I was pretty well frightened when night came on again. I kept the door locked, of course, and most all the shades down, for somehow I didn't care much about looking at the scenery.

"But I had to break my rule about not going through the car, for by night I was almost starved. There must be something to eat in the kitchen, I thought; and I went and looked. Not a thing there! Closets empty, and all scrubbed out clean, refrigerator open and empty, not so much anywhere as a scrap of bread. I'd have eaten some, you know, if there'd been any there—for what would a railroad president care for a slice of bread when a fellow was hungry? That made me kind of desperate, and I tried the dining-room—this room. Well, sir, in the closet under that cabinet in the corner I found a big earthenware jar half full of Boston water-crackers—those fearfully hard ones, you know. But didn't they taste good, though! I felt kind of mean about eating them, but it was all right— Mr. Plant says it was, and he's sorry I didn't find a porter-house steak there.

"Lying down that second night was the worst time of all. Did I cry, you say? Yes, sir, I did cry. Mind you, I'm only fourteen, and a bigger boy than that would have cried. Then sometimes I laughed, too. When I began to wonder whether I was a nabob travelling in a private car, or a tramp looking for a supper, that made me laugh. It was frightfully dark, and of course I did not dare light a lamp. It was cold, too; but I managed that with more rugs. There were plenty of rugs. By that time I was nearly a thousand miles away from my friends, and nobody seemed to be making any inquiries about me. But I knew that was nonsense, for do you think my mother wouldn't hunt me? When I thought of how she must be worrying about me, it made me cry again, and I cried myself to sleep. The next thing I knew somebody was shaking me by the shoulder.

"'Wake up, young man!' the somebody was saying. 'Are you Frank Howell?'

"'Yes, sir,' said I, as soon as I got my senses.

"It was a tall young gentleman, as I could see by the light through the window, and the train was standing still.

"'Then come along with me,' said he. 'It's half past five in the morning, and this is Washington. You've only about twelve minutes to eat your breakfast in.'

"Then I knew I'd been found, and do you know it almost took away my strength. We were in the railway restaurant, and I was eating like a starving man before I had a chance to ask any questions, and then it was the gentleman who did the asking.

"'Have you come far?' said he.

"'Come far!' said I; 'I was carried past Winter Park. Didn't you know?'

"'I didn't know anything about it,' said he. 'I'm just obeying orders. I got this telegram only about two hours ago.' And he laid on the table a telegram which read:

"'To Fred Roblin,
Washington.

"'Mrs. Plant desires you to find Frank Howell, a boy probably coming North in her car in Train 14. See that he has breakfast and anything else he wants, and send him on to New York. Telegraph Seminole Hotel as soon as found.

"'H. S. Haines,
Vice-President.'

"'That's all right, then,' said I. 'Somebody's found me; I don't know who it is.'

"'All right!' said he; 'I should say it was. You're the luckiest boy in the country if Mrs. Plant is looking after you. There goes the bell. Now is there anything more I can do for you?'

"I told him not a thing more, and he said he would telegraph to my father, and that of course somebody would meet me in New York. Well, sir, it was a different ride after that, though the car got colder all the time. I pulled up all the shades and made things look cheerful, and unlocked the door, for I wasn't afraid any longer of being put out. And somebody did meet me. It was a man in livery, and he had a warm overcoat for me, and took me across the ferry, and put me in a beautiful coach with two horses, and in a few minutes I was in one of the finest houses I ever saw in my life, and a beautiful lady was stroking my head.

"'Why, you poor child,' Mrs. Plant said (for the lady was Mrs. Plant), 'what a fright you must have had! But your troubles are over now, for I shall take you back with me to Florida to-morrow. I was so afraid you would be starving in the car, as it was all cleaned out.'

"I told her about the crackers I found, and that made her laugh. After a while I asked her how she had found me out, and why my folks had not hunted me up.

"'Hunted you up!' she repeated. 'Why, child, we had the whole line turned upside down looking for you. The whole trouble was that the superintendent did not get back to Winter Park till late last night, and no one else knew that you were in my car. But as soon as he returned he telegraphed the New York office what had happened, and they sent word to me. It was after midnight then, and Washington was the first place I could catch the car.'

"Say, did you ever see such a kind lady as Mrs. Plant? She said I was her guest, because it was her car had carried me off; and that night she took me to the opera, and the next day we started back for Florida. We didn't live on crackers on the way down, either, I tell you; nor the car wasn't cold or dark. I didn't find out till after I got back that Mrs. Plant thought my folks would be so worried that she'd telegraphed to a dozen of the agents to find me, and had told them all 'the boy is to be treated as my guest, wherever found.' And you see how kind Mr. Plant was about it after he got home. This is the second time he has had me out to ride with him. Oh, it's jolly, being carried away in a president's private car—after you're found.

"Some of the boys at the hotel say I was a chump not to tell the conductor after I found I was carried past, and have him send me home. But was I? Well, I rather think not. They're jealous, that's all."

A NAUTICAL FIRE-BALLOON.

BY W. J. HENDERSON.

It was blowing fresh from the eastward and southward, and the Alice Tree, under two lower topsails, spanker, and a bit of head-sail, was roaring along on a taut bowline, and looking well up toward her course. That was as nearly due east as a good compass, a cool hand at the wheel, and an honest desire to cross the fiftieth meridian in latitude 40° 30' could make it. All the way from Sandy Hook Light-ship the stanch ship had leaned to a soldier's wind till the mid-watch of this day, and even now, under shortened canvas and with weather clews a-tremble, she was making eight knots an hour on her great circle track. The wind boomed out of the arching, creamy hollows of the two topsails, and hummed through the tense shrouds and back-stays.

Out forward the sweeping curve of the clipper bow swung swiftly upward, with bobstay and martingale dripping with sparkling brine, and again plunged down with a thunderous roar and a boiling of milk-white foam up to the hawse-holes. Ever and anon a hissing shower of iridescent spray would hurtle across the forecastle deck, and lose itself in the smother of yeasty froth that blew along the lee rail.

Up to windward the sea hardened itself against the luminous horizon in a steel-blue field of cotton-tufted ridges, leaping and falling in wide unrest. Overhead sheets of wreathing vapor rushed across the dense blue sky, and in and out of the rifts the dazzling white sun shot wildly as if in meteoric flight. Captain Elias Joyce leaned against the weather rail of his poop deck, and looked contented.

"It'll blow harder before it blows easier, Mr. Bolles," he said to his mate, "but it'll go to the south'ard."

"Ay, ay, sir," said the mate. "And I reckon we'll do very well as we are."

"Yes, let well enough alone," said the Captain. "Come, gentlemen, let's go to dinner."

The gentlemen were Joseph and Henry Brownson, the twin sons of the owner of the ship. They were making this voyage on a sailing-ship for health and recreation after a hard struggle with their final examinations at college. They were well used to the sea, and had served an apprenticeship in many a hearty dash around Brentons Reef Light-ship and the Block Island buoy. They were enjoying every minute of their voyage, but they had yet one great desire to gratify. They wished to get the Captain to spin them a yarn of some strange experience at sea. Up to the present time he had refused to accept their hints. But they had not yet abandoned hope. At the dinner table they renewed the attack, but without result. When the meal was ended, the Captain filled a pipe, and the conversation drifted in various channels. Henry spoke of college celebrations and the foolishness of sending up fire-balloons. The Captain took the pipe out of his mouth, blew a big cloud of smoke, and said, reflectively:

"Well, I don't know. I remember once when a fire-balloon turned out to be a mighty useful thing at sea."

"I'd like to know how," said Joseph.

"Well, if you two young gentlemen won't be bored by hearing a sea yarn, I'll just spin it for you."

The two young men looked at one another. Bored? Well, that was good, after all their clever hints.

"It was a matter of thirty years ago," began the Captain, "when I was only a boy, and was making a voyage much as you gentlemen are, for the pleasure of it. My father, who was a sea captain, was part owner in the Ellen Burgee, and he thought it would be a good thing for me to go out and sniff salt air and see blue water. The Ellen Burgee was an old-fashioned ship, with long single topsails, a mackerel-head bow, and tumble-home sides. Her stem was rounded out in a big arch, and she had quarter galleries like a line-of-battle ship. She was a roaring good sailer, though, and her skipper was likely to use bad language if he caught her doing anything under eight knots in a breath of air. She had a handsome cabin, too, had the Ellen Burgee, and when the swinging lamp was shedding its soft yellow light over the polished mahogany table, the cushioned lockers, the rugs, and the white and gold paint, it looked like the owner's saloon in a modern schooner yacht. I suppose I didn't know at that time how comfortable I was, but, looking back now, I can't say that I was ever any better off on shipboard."

THE CREW GAVE THREE HEARTY CHEERS AS THE BALLOON AROSE.

"The Ellen Burgee was bound from New York for Table Bay. It's not necessary to go into any account of her cargo, seeing that it has not anything to do with this story, and that it never arrived at its port of destination, anyhow, but went to feed fishes. However, that's running ahead of my reckoning, so I'll just heave to and drift back. We passed Sandy Hook with a fair wind and all kites flying. We didn't take a tug every time we went to sea in those days, but used to lie in the Horseshoe for a favoring breeze. I don't know that there's anything serious to tell you about, except that we stopped at Bermuda for three days, and I had my first look at those happy islands. What's more to the point is that a week later, in latitude 18° 15' N., longitude 56° 30' W., we sighted a derelict brig. She was water-logged and abandoned; but our old man thought there might be something aboard her worth saving, and so, as the wind was very light, and we couldn't lose much by backing our fore-topsail yard for a time, he sent a boat to her. The second mate went in it, and came back with a cargo of tissue-paper, ink, pens, and a few other loose things he'd picked up in her cabin. The tissue-paper, he said, would do for the boy—me—to play with. I laughed at him at the time, for I didn't see what use the tissue-paper would be to me. But I made a fire-balloon out of it afterwards, and we were all pretty glad that we had it aboard.

"We were getting down toward the equator when it fell a dead flat calm. I never saw such a calm before or since, except once. The sea looked like gray oil, its surface was so smooth and glassy. But out of the southwest there came a swell that kept growing bigger and bigger and bigger. There was not a breath of wind stirring, and the whoo, whoo, whoo of the rush of air in the rigging as the ship rolled sounded like the whistling of some ghostly fog siren. And how she did roll! Every spar and timber in her groaned and squeaked as if in mortal pain. Pots and dishes rattled and banged in the galley, and the whole interior of the ship was filled with strange unaccountable noises. Up above the sky was a sort of dull yellow, and the sun looked as if it were behind smoked glass. The old man looked at the barometer, and decided that we were in for a gale of wind. So he had the ship made snug under close-reefed main-topsail, a storm jib, and a rag of spanker. In those clothes she was ready for anything that might come along. We lay there rolling in that mad fashion until nearly midnight, and, boy as I was, I thought I should go insane with the deadly, inexorable, heartless swaying of the helpless fabric. I don't believe any man except a hardened old sailor—and not many of them—could keep this side of lunacy if he were becalmed under an equatorial sun in a swell like that for twenty-six hours.

"However, it ended all of a sudden about midnight. I was in my bunk, but I couldn't sleep because of the thumping of the cabin-doors on their hinges. I heard a man come lumbering down to call the Captain, and I slipped out of bed and into my clothes. I reached the deck in time to see a sudden glitter of stars in the northwestern horizon, and to feel a splash of cold wind on my cheek. The next instant the whole air above me was filled with a series of wild yells, as if a million souls were in agony. The gale had struck us, and for an instant I felt as if my breath were driven back into my lungs, so great was the pressure of the wind in my face. The ship heeled over till her lee scuppers ran two feet deep in bubbling water.

"'Down with your helm! Hard down!' shouted the Captain.

"Slowly the vessel's head came up, and she righted herself. She was now close-hauled, and she began to thresh out to windward with a fearful bellowing of the wind out of the straining main-topsail. There was no sea yet; on the contrary, the terrific force of the wind cut down the great swells, and blew the ocean out flat in a sheet of ghostly foam. But that did not last long. The sea began to run, and the Ellen Burgee began to rear and plunge over the ragged crests, and to thunder down into the black hollows that looked like clefts extending to the bottom of the ocean. At daybreak a mad, a crazy sea presented itself to the sight. The effect of the gale blowing at right angles to the original swell was to pile up the billows in great writhing pyramidal masses. The ship labored and groaned fearfully. Tons of water broke over the forecastle deck, and the Captain was alarmed lest the deck seams should open. At six bells in the morning watch the main-topsail blew out of the bolt-ropes with a report like a gun's, and went swirling away into the flying spoondrift down on our lee quarter. A stay-sail was set to do the main-topsail's work, but nothing would prevent the ship from falling so far off at times that the seas broke on her decks in masses. All day long she was driven by the wind, and pounded by the seas. Our drift was something frightful, but it was not much out of our course. At four bells in the first watch, ten o'clock at night—but I forget you know all the bells—the carpenter reported a foot of water in the hold. Then began the heart-breaking business of working the pumps. All night long I heard the weary clank, clank, under-running, as it were, the yelling of the wind, the roaring of the sea, and the groaning of the stricken ship. At daylight the gale broke, and a few hours later there was only a gigantic swell to tell the story of the storm. But the Ellen Burgee had received her death warrant. She was slowly filling under us in spite of all that we could do. The Captain gave orders to prepare to abandon ship. The crew was at work at this when a new idea seemed to strike the skipper.

"'We can't be many miles from St. Paul's Rocks,' he said; and he set to work to make some calculations. The result was that a man was sent to the masthead to look for the rocks, sail was made on the ship, and the pumps were manned again. St. Paul's Rocks, you must know, are a small cluster of rocky projections, rising at the highest point about sixty feet above the sea. They are in latitude 56' N., longitude 29° 20' W., and our old man figured that we weren't over fifteen miles away from them. Half an hour later the masthead lookout sighted the rocks, and a little later we sighted them from the decks.

"'My idea is,' said the Captain to the mate, 'to run the ship on the rocks. That will enable us to save all our dunnage and all the boats, and give us a breathing-spell to decide what's the next best move.'

"The mate agreed that it was a great scheme. The Captain went aloft to pick out a place to run the ship ashore. He found a good spot where her bow would wedge up on the rocks, so that she would not slip off and sink, and he headed her for it. She struck pretty hard, and the foretop-gallant-mast went by the board, taking the flying jib-boom along with it; but we did not mind that, for we found that the ship had taken the ground for nearly half her length, and was in what you might call a mighty comfortable berth for a sinking craft. Two of our boats were smashed by the falling spars, but the long-boat was all right, and that was what the Captain counted on to take us off the rocks.

"Now the nearest land to St. Paul's Rocks is the north-eastern extremity of Brazil, Cape St. Roque, and that's something over 500 good sea miles away. I was only a small boy, but I had sense enough to know that a voyage of that length in a ship's boat would be a desperate undertaking, and even if successful, sure to embrace terrible hardship and exposure. The Captain and the mate knew it, too, and they decided to remain right where they were for a few days on the chance of sighting a passing ship. That was a mighty poor chance, too, for very few vessels pass within sighting distance of St. Paul's Rocks. The great circle track from England to the Cape of Good Hope lies between fifty and sixty miles to the westward of them, and vessels are more likely to deviate to the westward of the track than to the eastward. Every sensible navigator gives those rocks a wide berth, anyhow. It was when I heard the Captain and the mate talking those matters over that I conceived my great fire-balloon scheme. I didn't say a word, but fished out a lot of stout wire that was aboard the ship, got my stock of tissue paper together, and set about making one of the biggest fire-balloons on record. It was a whopper, and no mistake, for, you see, I wanted it to have carrying and travelling power. When I had it finished, I secured a stout bottle. Then I wrote this brief and direct message on a piece of brown paper:

"'The ship Ellen Burgee is on St. Paul's Rocks. All hands safe and well, but would like to get away.'

"I put that in the bottle and corked it up tight. Then with a stiff piece of wire and a square of red bunting I made a flag, which I stuck up on top of the cork. Next I made a wire bridle, and swung the bottle below the neck of the balloon, so far down that the flag could not catch fire. I ballasted the bottom of the bottle first, and experimented with it so that it would float upright, even with the weight of wire hanging to it. The Captain saw me at work, and said,

"'What are you up to, Elias?'

"'Oh,' I said, 'I'm getting up a balloon ascension to kill time.'

"That night, as luck would have it, there was a nice gentle southeasterly breeze, and I made ready to send up my balloon. The Captain and the crew gathered around me and chaffed me a little, but I didn't mind that.

"'What's the bottle for?' asked the mate.

"'Just for a sort of ballast,' I answered.

"'What do you have the flag for?' asked one of the men.

"'Oh, for instance,' I answered, in school-boy fashion.

"I now lighted the flare in the neck of my balloon, and had the pleasure of seeing my contrivance slowly but surely inflated with the heated air. In good time it was ready to rise, and as I released it, to my intense satisfaction it gently rose toward the sky, carrying the bottle with it.

"'Hooray for the Fourth o' July!' cried one of the sailors, and the crew gave three hearty cheers.

"Then they all stood about, watching it as it soared away into the nor'west like a comet.

"'If some ship sights that thing,' said one old fellow, 'she'll think a picnic has got lost.'

"'By the great hook block!' exclaimed the mate, 'maybe they'll hunt around and find us.'

"'If that should happen,' said the Captain, 'it would turn out that your sport paid, Elias.'

"'Yes, sir,' said I, smiling, and rubbing my hands behind my back.

"Well, we're pretty near the end of this yarn now, gentlemen. I watched that fire-balloon till it faded out of sight in the nor'west, and then I turned in and dreamed all night about ships picking up bottles with messages in them, and saving shipwrecked crews. And the next day I did nothing but go aloft and look for a sail, but not one hove in sight. The following day I did the same thing, and that night I think I cried a little because no vessel appeared. On the third day I didn't go aloft till after breakfast, and then I nearly burst my lungs screaming, 'Sail ho!' Sure enough, there was a vessel about twenty miles off to the nor'west. The Captain had a big fire started on the rocks, and sent a good column of smoke into the air. The vessel rose, and in a couple of hours we saw plainly that she was heading right for us. Maybe we didn't all dance for joy! In another hour she hove to abreast of the rocks and sent a boat. The officer in charge of it stepped out, and holding up my bottle with a tangled mass of wire and pulp, said,

"'How did you get this thing out there?'

"'Out where?' demanded our Captain.

"'We picked it up forty miles nor'west of you.'

"'Hurrah for my fire-balloon!' I cried. 'And was the message all right?'

"'Of course. Ain't we here?'

"And he handed my message to our Captain, who threw his arms around me, and exclaimed:

"'You little angel! You'll be a sailor yourself some day.'

"And sure enough," said Captain Elias Joyce, rising from the table, "he told the living truth."

This Department is conducted in the interest of Girls and Young Women, and the Editor will be pleased to answer any question on the subject so far as possible. Correspondents should address Editor.

If I were you I would make up my mind, once for all, never to talk about ailments. A headache or neuralgia or a cough is hard enough to bear in one's own case; there is no need of troubling other people about it. Among so many girls there are no doubt those who are not always well, and there may be some who have to suffer a great deal of pain, but the pain must be kept in its place, which is in the background, not the forefront of conversation.

Talk always of pleasant things, if you can, and of what is interesting to others rather than of what concerns yourself. The mistake often made by invalids is that their world being narrowed by confinement to their rooms or by the care their illness makes necessary, they fancy that their aches and pains, the medicines they have to take, and the diet they are obliged to be contented with are as important to other people as to themselves. This is a point to guard against. Let nothing about liniments and pills and prescriptions creep into your talk, for though you are an invalid to-day, you expect to be well to-morrow or next week, and illness is only temporary, while health is the rule, and the state to look forward to with eagerness and hope.

It is worth while for us all, even when suffering pain, to refrain from frowning and wrinkling up our faces, and saying impatient words. Every passing thought and feeling write themselves upon the countenance, and the young girl is making day by day not only the woman she will be in character later on, but the woman she will be in looks. Handsome or plain, agreeable or the opposite, the woman of forty is dependent for her looks on the girl of fourteen. You owe an amount of thought and consideration to the woman you are going to be, and the friends who will love her, and so you must not let needless lines and furrows come to your pretty brows, but keep your foreheads smooth, and do not draw your lips down at the corners, nor go about looking unhappy. It is possible, even when bearing much pain, to wear a tranquil expression if one will, but remember that the tranquil mind in the end can conquer pain.

Crossing town the other day in haste to catch a train, the horse-car was three times blocked by great vans which stood upon the track. The van-drivers appeared to be unloading their goods in a very leisurely manner; to us in the car, with the precious minutes slipping away like grains of sand in the hour-glass, they seemed exceedingly slow and unhurried. I looked about on my fellow-passengers. Some had flushed and angry faces, some could not sit still, but tapped the floor with their feet, and uttered exclamations, and looked at their watches. One or two stepped out with their bags and walked hastily onward. But a dear old lady in the corner of the car was a pattern of sweetness and amiability, and I heard her observe to her neighbor, "We will probably lose our train, but at this time of the day there are trains every half-hour, and it's never well to be put out by little accidents of this sort." She had the right philosophy.

Through life when little things go wrong it will be wise to accept the situation without fretting, and by maintaining composure, you will often be able to set them right again.

Mina K. asks whether it is proper to allow a friend whom she happens to meet in a public conveyance to pay her car fare and ferriage. As a rule it is not proper. The meeting is an incident, and does not affect the relative positions of either friend. Each should pay for herself, precisely as if she had not met the other. Of course, this rule is equally and perhaps more imperative when a girl happens to meet a man whom she knows, her friend or her brother's chum. He should not offer to pay for her, nor should she accept the offer if he make it. The only exceptions to this rule are such as commonsense indicate. A girl will not make a fuss nor quarrel about a matter of five cents with an elderly acquaintance, who might easily be her father or mother. Generally speaking, however, each person pays her own way, except when in company with others by invitation, and where she is the guest of her entertainer, who does not permit her to be at expense when sight-seeing or jaunting about.

GREAT STATE PAPERS.

OUR LAWS AND PROCLAMATIONS.

BY HENRY CLEMENT HOLMES.

"Father," said my fourteen-year-old son, "Ted Nichols declared to-day that he had the Wilson tariff bill in his pocket. He said Mr. Wilson gave it to him to take to Ted's father, who is also from West Virginia, you know, to read, and say what he thought of it."

My son's tone had in it both incredulity and interest, and so I replied:

"I thought you had lived long enough in Washington not to be surprised at anything. Did not Senator Maybee read his speech to us the other evening, before he had delivered it in the Senate? And did we not, in the corridor of the State Department, recently meet the original Constitution of the United States coming down the granite staircase three steps at a bound? You and I helped pick up the bits of glass from the broken frame, which our friend Cochrane had dropped, greatly to his alarm, in carrying it from a closet to the library.

"It would be quite possible for Ted Nichols, or any other lad, to have the Wilson tariff bill in his pocket, provided he took it at the right time. If Mr. Wilson should give it to you to carry to your father for examination, while your father's opinion was wanted regarding a proposed change, you could readily carry it in your empty lunch-basket. But if he waited until his bill became a law, you would need to be pretty big and pretty strong to carry it far.

"The Wilson, McKinley, and all tariff bills, the silver bill, on the authority of which the silver dollar in your pocket was coined, the anti-Chinese, and all similar laws of the United States, have, in their early stages, half a dozen different forms, but when engrossed and signed they have one unchangeable form that has obtained ever since the first law was passed by the First Congress.

"I remember having seen in one of your Round Table puzzles a question about the 'Father of the Greenback.' The first draught of the law, which gave Mr. Chase this nickname, was written by Congressman Spalding, of the Buffalo, New York, district, on both sides of four sheets of common legal cap paper. Mr. Chase then made some changes in it, using red ink. President Lincoln suggested some additional changes, making his notes on a slip of paper, which he pinned to one of the sheets.

"But that was before the day of type-writing machines. Nowadays first draughts of most bills are prepared on type-writers. In this form a bill is introduced into Congress, read by the clerk by title, a number is given to it, and it is referred to the committee having in charge the business to which it relates. Once in committee, it is ordered printed, and the first draught, often bearing the compositor's marks, may be returned to the author of the measure as a souvenir. At least the first draught of the legal-tender act, bearing Mr. Chase's and Mr. Lincoln's suggestions about changes, was returned to Mr. Spalding, and by him kindly shown to me.

"Great measures, such as the Wilson, the McKinley, and the seigniorage bills, are changed many times before they are passed by Congress, and each change means new printed copies. Some of these copies are printed on paper about the size of a Harper's Round Table leaf. The type is very large, and the lines are very wide apart and numbered. Other printed copies are in the form of a pamphlet, in order that they may be mailed to friends of the member whose measure it is, and to men whose business is likely to be affected.

"Only a very small fraction of the bills that reach the pamphlet stage are ever finally passed and become laws. But even this small fraction is large enough to fill many shelves in the State Department, where originals of all laws are kept. The originals are engrossed on parchment that is fourteen by nineteen inches in size, and bound into book form. The penmanship is coarse, but very regular, and all of the signatures are originals, not copies, because this form of the law is the one that all copies must conform to—the one that the President of the United States is sworn to execute."

THE "SHERMAN" SILVER LAW—TITLE PAGE.

"But let me tell you just how the Sherman silver-purchase law looks. You remember this law. Or at least you recollect how Congress sat in extra session for several months of 1893 in order to repeal one clause of it. At the top of the large parchment sheet there is a printed heading:

"'FIFTY-FIRST CONGRESS OF THE UNITED STATES,

AT ITS FIRST SESSION,

Begun and Held in the City of Washington,' etc.

"In the middle of the line are these words,

"AN ACT.

"Immediately thereafter follows the writing, which extends in a single line across the entire page. It describes the bill thus, 'Directing the purchase of silver bullion, and the issue of Treasury notes thereon, and for other purposes.' There is a space, and then follows the enacting clause, 'Be it enacted by the Senate and House of Representatives,' etc. The text of the law, written in this large hand, fills two and a half pages, the right-hand page containing the text, and the left-hand page being blank. Around the edge of both written and unwritten pages is a pale red line or border rule.

"At the head of the first sheet, and written over the printed title, appears the name 'Kennedy,' carelessly written with a blue pencil, and the initials 'C. B. F.' scrawled across the top in red. These are the attests of the Representative and Senator, respectively, who examined this engrossed copy of the law before it had been sent to the President for his signature, to make certain that the engrossing clerk had committed no errors, and that this original was the same as the form that passed Congress."

THE "SHERMAN" SILVER LAW—LAST PAGE WITH SIGNATURES.

"At about the middle of the third page are the signatures of the presiding officers of the Senate and House. Vice-President Morton did not sign the original Sherman silver-purchase law on behalf of the Senate, but Speaker Reed did on behalf of the House. Senator Ingalls, as President pro. tem. of the Senate, signed on behalf of that body, and when he had affixed his name he thoughtfully noted in the margin the hour of the day—'12.37 p.m.' The signature of President Harrison comes last, and is at the lower left-hand side of the paper."

THE "McKINLEY" TARIFF LAW—TITLE PAGE

"The original McKinley tariff law is written on parchment similar to that of the Sherman law, and like it, it is bound into a big book that contains the original documents of many other laws. It fills sixty-three of these large parchment sheets, and the engrossing of it was done by three different clerks. The title of the bill is, 'An Act to Reduce the Revenues and to Equalize Duties.' It is attested in the same manner as the Sherman law, and signed by Speaker Reed, Vice-President Morton, and President Harrison. The Wilson bill, which supplants the McKinley bill, fills about as many pages of the heavy unruled parchment, which, by-the-way, we send to England to buy. The Wilson bill mentions almost every article of commerce that one can think of, grouping similar things into paragraphs, and naming the duties that shall be paid upon each. There is a long list of articles on which there is no duty."

THE "McKINLEY" TARIFF LAW—LAST PAGE WITH SIGNATURES.

"Proclamations by the President of the United States have maintained one form since the foundation of the government. The original Emancipation Proclamation issued by President Lincoln is written upon very heavy white unruled paper that is folded once. The fold is at the left, like a sheet of four-paged letter-paper, and each page is ten by fourteen inches in size. It begins, as do all Presidential proclamations, 'By the President of the United States of America—A Proclamation.'

"The first line is written with a pen in a bold hand, and the words, 'A Proclamation,' form a line of themselves—printing characters, although executed with a pen. It proclaims that on a certain date, and under certain conditions, a race is free from bondage, but it nowhere calls itself an 'Emancipation Proclamation.' That is a popular name given to this, one of the most famous of state papers. The text is in the hand-writing of Secretary Seward—a hand that was strikingly like that of Mr. Lincoln.

"Thanksgiving proclamations, which you see reprinted in the newspapers, are prepared in the same form. The one issued by President Cleveland last autumn fills only two pages.

"Our reciprocity treaty with the Brazil Republic is similar to other treaties, with original and exchange copies, and is written in English and Spanish. The document proclaiming it begins by quoting from the McKinley law, by which it is authorized, and recites that we, having agreed to let in free of duty sugar, coffee, molasses, and hides from Brazil, are entitled to send to Brazil, and have admitted to that country free of duty, a long line of products of the United States.

"At the bottom of the third page—proclamations, unlike laws, are written on both sides of the paper—is the Great Seal of the United States, and near this seal is the signature of President Harrison, preceded by the words, 'By the President.' At the left, and just beneath the great seal, is the signature of the Secretary of State, James G. Blaine.

"Mr. Blaine's writing, like Mr. Cleveland's, was small, regular, and easily mistaken for a feminine one. His signature to this reciprocity proclamation is so small and effeminate that it does not seem to stand for the stalwart man who wrote it. Even less does President Cleveland's womanlike signature hint the giant in stature that he is."

This department is conducted in the Interest of Stamp and Coin Collectors, and the Editor will be pleased to answer any question on these subjects so far as possible. Correspondents should address Editor Stamp Department.

Perforation sizes are determined by the number of holes contained in the space between the two vertical white lines.

Last week we printed an illustration of the different kinds of perforations. This week we illustrate the scale of regular perforations. If you will look at your U. S. stamps of the 1857 issue you will see that the scale is "perforated 15." The Baden stamps of 1864 are "perforated 10." To find the scale take the stamp and lay it face downward on the scale, and when the perforations on the stamp correspond exactly to those on the scale you have the required scale of perforations. Take the common 2c. of the current U. S. issue, lay it on the line of dots marked 12 on the scale, and you will find it just fits. By moving the stamp just one-half the distance between two dots, and placing the stamp just a little below the row of white dots, you will get a series of black circles, the top of which is made by the row of white dots on the scale, and the bottom by the row of perforations on the stamp. This is a very important matter, as a stamp perforated 12-1/2 may be very common and cost little, while the same stamp perforated 15 may be a very rare and a very valuable stamp. All U.S. stamps since 1861 are perforated. One of the chief merits of stamp-collecting is that it strengthens the powers of observation in so many different directions.

Copies of the "Bismarck celebration postal-card" are now on sale with the dealers. There are a number of varieties, some printed in tint, others in three or four colors. It has not been established whether these cards were good for postage without any stamp being affixed or not.

The orange special delivery stamp will probably be the most valuable of this class, as it was in circulation a short time only. Some of the previous issues can still be had at the smaller post-offices.

It is rumored that the $1 black of the current issue will soon be printed in another color. Collectors should secure it now.

The eight-cent current issue it is said will soon be issued with the "white line" triangles.

Melbourne S. Mayer.—The stamp you have is probably one of the first lot printed under the present contract. Most collectors consider it a distinct variety.

Amy Lincoln.—You probably have the 3c. rose of 1861. The pink is very rare, and of a peculiar shade on a bluish ground.

Henry L. Watson.—The Tuscany stamps are worth 30c. for the one crazie, 12c. for the two crazie, 15c. for the six crazie. The San Marino stamps are worth 25c. and 50c. respectively. If used on the original envelope probably twice as much.

Gardner B. Weeks.—Postal-cards are collected entire only. Cut copes have no value.

E. G.—I have never seen the 3c. embossed stamp mentioned by you. Probably it is blurred in printing. The German stamp is a local, the Italian a revenue.

J. S. Green.—There are two kinds of 10c. Confederate blue which are very common. Stamp dealers sell them at 10c. and 25c. respectively.

A. Grant.—As the date cannot be seen on the coin it has no value for collection purposes.

J. G. W.—There is no 25c. Columbian. The stamp you mention is twenty-five centavos Venezuela, which looks just like the Columbian issues.

Lawrence.—Blood's Despatch, gold, is worth from $2 to $3 if on the original letter. Bouton's Rough and Ready is quoted from $5 to $25 if on original envelope. Boyd's have been reprinted and affixed to old letters so much that genuine copies have suffered in value.

D. McKillop.—The 10c. green U. S. 1861 is worth 6c., the 6c. Lincoln 2c., the one shilling English 15c., the threepenny English 1c.

Philatus.

THE OLD STAGE-COACH.

Dingy and old and worn,
Battered and scratched and torn,
Flapping in every sudden gust
Doors that creaked with their ancient rust,
So it stood in the Burbank shed—
One hundred and ten years old, they said—
When I was a lad, and used to play
"Driving stage," at the close of day.
Never an inch did the old wheels stir;
Rusted fast at the hubs they were.
Yet how strong were my steeds, and fleet,
Streaming out 'neath the driver's seat!
Over what hills and plains I sped,
Rocking there in the Burbank shed!
Crack! and the leaders sprang away;
Satin-sheened in their coats of bay,
Six broad backs at the driver's feet,
Surging into the village street.
Oh, it was grand! What a race we led!
Though the stage stood still in the Burbank shed.
Ah! the fright of a certain day,
Just at dusk, in the month of May,
When I climbed to the creaking door—
Bolder, surely, than e'er before—
Crying, "Out here, you ghosts—be quick!"
And struck the seat with resounding stick.
Ha! with a din that would wake the dead
Straight there sprang at my shrinking head
Something winged and as white as snow!
Down I sank in a heap below,
While with cackle of loud reproach
Flew a hen from the old stage-coach,
Leaving there on the tattered seat
Something fit for a king to eat!
Long ago to the junkman's store
Last of the old stage-coach they bore;
Bolt and axle and rusty tire
All were mixed in the forge's fire.
But I can see it in tattered state
Waiting yet for its ghostly freight:
Powdered sirs with their shovel-hats,
Stately dames with their cloaks and mats;
While to the box, with a shivering joy,
Climbs a rosy-faced country boy!
Oh, the charm of the Long Ago,
Youth's Valhalla, and Fancy's glow
Lighting many a dim old page
With such a relic as Burbank's stage!
Just for a glimpse of its chrome and red,
Fading there in the ruined shed!
Just for an hour of the rare old play,
"Driving stage" at the close of day!
What are all one may say or do
To what he dreams when his life is new?
James Buckham.

THE PROPER USE OF A SHOT-GUN.

Though shooting, like many other sports, can be a very dangerous amusement for boys—and men, too, for that matter—there is no reason why boys as well as men should not learn how to use a gun, and get much amusement and benefit out of hunting. It is all a question of learning what the dangers of gunning are, and learning how to avoid them. Fire is a dangerous thing in its way, and yet we all have fires. Gunning is no more dangerous, if carefully taken up, and a boy of fifteen or sixteen is quite old enough to learn what the dangers of a shot-gun are, to respect them and avoid them. Naturally any parent, especially one who knows nothing about rifles or shot-guns himself, is very chary about letting his son go off alone with one on his shoulder, and it is quite as natural for his mother to think she has seen the last of her boy as he disappears in the woods on his first sporting expedition. But there is really no other reason for this than that boys are naturally careless, and guns can be dangerous and deadly if treated in a careless manner.

The whole secret of shooting and the use of fire-arms can be stated in a few words: Never, under any circumstances, point a gun at any one, whether loaded or not, whither in pieces or ready for use. If it is never pointed at any one, it cannot very well kill or wound any one. In like manner you can never succeed in shooting yourself unless you have already pointed the muzzle at yourself. I have seen many a crack shot and old-time sportsman shudder as he saw a green hand hold up the detached barrel of a shot-gun while cleaning it, and point it at some one. Of course the two steel barrels could not possibly "go off" by themselves, with no butt and no cartridges, and the sportsman shudders only because he dreads the greenhorn who, even under such circumstances, allows himself to get into the habit of putting up the muzzles in such a position. If he does it at home while cleaning the barrels, he may do it out in the woods some day when the barrel is attached to the stock, and perhaps loaded with cartridges, and then there may really be danger for any one who is near by.

The only accidents that can occur if the muzzle is never pointed at any one are, first, the bursting of the gun itself, which is unlikely, unless the piece is badly made, cheap, or very old; and secondly, the presence of some one in the woods who is not within the cognizance of the sportsman. As I say, the first is uncommon nowadays with the carefully made breech-loading guns. The second never occurs if the sportsman invariably keeps his muzzle pointed toward the earth, about five feet or less in advance of him, and if, when he does fire, he makes sure what he is firing at and where his shot is likely to go after firing.

A good sportsman is familiar with his piece, and brave enough to be afraid of it. From the time he takes it out of the case the muzzle of the barrels is on his mind until he has taken it to pieces, cleaned it, and put it away in his case. When he starts out in the morning, he takes out the barrels, and pointing them towards the earth as he holds them in his left hand, he springs the stock into its place with his right. Then having fixed on the little piece of wood which clinches the two parts together, he passes his right arm around the barrels, so that as he carries it the stock points up and behind him at an angle of about forty-five degrees, and the barrels point down toward the earth at a similar angle in front of him. Around his waist or in his pockets he carries cartridges. No charge goes into his gun until he has not only left the house but actually arrived on the grounds where he expects to find game. If he has to drive to the proper woods or the shooting-stands or blinds, he places the piece in the bottom of the wagon, pointing out towards the rear, never once allowing it to point towards himself or any one else who may be standing by. If he is near enough to the woods or shore to walk he carries the gun as described, unloaded, until he reaches the proper place. When climbing over fences, whether with cartridges in place or not, he places the gun under the fence flat on the ground, climbs over or under, and then picks it up from the other side. Resting a shooting-piece against a fence or wall in an upright position shows the greenhorn or the careless and therefore poor sportsman. The fence may be rickety, or the stones on the wall easily detached. In either case it only takes a little jarring to cause the shot-gun to slide one way or the other and fall to the ground, and in doing so it may very easily go off. If it is unloaded this would, of course, do no harm. But if it is never allowed to get into the position where it may so slide, it certainly can never go off, loaded or unloaded. In other words, form the habit of never giving a gun the chance of sliding or going off, and then you can never have an accident. This is not a sign of timidity, and you would soon realize it if you could see how carefully some famous old sportsman who is a friend of your father's handles his firing-piece.

On arriving finally at the particular woods you have planned to cover, or the "blinds" which you are going to lie in, put in the charges, and then all is ready for the sport.

Most of the danger after this stage of the proceedings has been reached is again only through carelessness or excitement over the sport, which is only another word for carelessness. For example, you are in the woods and a bird flies out among the branches. In your excitement at the sudden flush of the partridge you throw up your gun and "blaze away," forgetting that the other man with you is just ahead. That is rank carelessness. For no two sportsmen ever lose track of each other. If they happen to be out of sight of each other, and within range, they keep up a constant conversation, or call to each other continually, so that from moment to moment each knows where the other is. Again, when two men are standing close beside each other and a covey jumps up under their guns, there has to be a quick swing to right or left. Usually, under these circumstances, the man on the right takes the right-hand shot, and the one on the left takes the left-hand shot. If the right-hand man swings to the left he may very easily bring his friend in the line of his muzzle.

As regards the half and full cock of the hammers, there is one safe rule to follow. When on the actual ground, and following dogs on the scent or pointing, the gun must, of course, be at full cock. But whenever a fence is to be climbed, or a bad bit of close underbrush broken through, the hammers should be dropped carefully to half cock, or, if the gun is hammerless, the half-cock trigger should be sprung.

In all this the important point is that every man or boy, while carrying a shooting-piece, should have his mind on what he is doing, and should never for a moment lose his head. It is far better to lose a shot than to hit a friend or take the slightest chance of hitting him. On the other hand, if a boy thinks the matter over and follows out these rules, there is not the least danger in his owning and using a shot-gun, and the amount of exercise to both brain and body which he can get out of it is astonishing. When you begin you need your father's advice as to the proper way of holding the gun, taking aim, and bringing down the game. But after that nothing is necessary but your own coolness, presence of mind, and care.

The butt should come up quickly and firmly to the shoulder, resting against the shoulder itself rather than the biceps or top of the arm, and you should acquire the habit, which can only come with practice, of getting it up quickly, steadily, and firmly the first time in the right place. Otherwise the "kicking" may be severe and painful. The aim should be taken with both eyes open, though the right eye does the aiming. The objection to sighting with the left eye closed is that the operation of closing the left-eye always half closes the right, and hence makes your sight a little less distinct and somewhat unnatural. This sighting with both eyes open is a little bewildering at first, but it soon becomes natural, and the whole operation then becomes a kind of second nature. For quick wood shots, the left hand should hold the barrels some distance out towards the muzzle, the left arm being almost extended to its full length, while the right arm is bent up short, the right elbow stuck out in a nearly horizontal position to the cheek hugging the stock. At the same time stand firmly on the feet, and do not, as many older and supposedly better sometimes do, bend the knees just as you fire.

WHEN YOU FIRST BEGIN, YOU NEED YOUR FATHER'S ADVICE

The squabble which has disgraced the close of the New York Interscholastic baseball season was as undignified as it was unnecessary, and it has surely brought no credit to the Harvard School or to any of its athletic authorities. Knowing, as it seems they all did, that Ehrich was absolutely and unequivocally disqualified from competing in sports held under the rules of the N.Y.I.S.A.A., he was nevertheless put in to catch in the most important game of the season. Zizinia, the captain of the Harvard team, had been advised to substitute Dillenback if Ehrich was protested on the field, but for some unexplained reason, when De La Salle did protest him, he was nevertheless allowed to play. This was a bit of gross misjudgment, to say the least, and has resulted in Harvard losing the pennant, which might have been won with Dillenback behind the bat. By pursuing this course, Harvard School not only allowed an inferior team to represent the N.Y.I.S.B.B. League at Eastern Park on June 8th, thus doing an injustice to the entire association, but made itself liable to expulsion and disgrace, which will probably only be avoided because of the personal friendship of the League delegates for the Harvard representatives. As for the unsportsmanlike spirit of the whole performance, perhaps the less said about it the better.

The De La Salle nine is, no doubt, inferior both in fielding and batting qualities to the Harvard team, but I do not believe that the latter would have made a much better showing against the strong men from Garden City had they met them. These are baseball-players, and no mistake; and they worked just as hard all through the game with De La Salle as if they were not having a "merry-go-round," as their rooters constantly exclaimed. It certainly was a merry-go-round, and all the mirth was on the St. Paul side of the fence, for a poorer exhibition of baseball-playing has doubtless seldom been seen at Eastern Park than the game put up by the representatives of the New York Association. The out-fielders could not judge the easiest of flies, and dropped almost every ball that they did manage to get their hands on, and the in-fielders were not much better. To any one who saw the game, or who was acquainted with the record of the St. Paul nine, it was not surprising that the Garden City players piled up thirty-five runs to their opponents' one, or that they made twenty-six base hits, with six home runs.

Baker, Howard, Foster, Henderson, Goldsborough Robinson, Hill.
3d b. sub. 2d b. coach. r.f. sub. sub.
Hall, p. Lum, l.f. and capt. S. M. Starr, c. E. Starr, 1st b.
Mortimer, s.s. Flippen, c.f.
ST. PAUL'S, GARDEN CITY, BASEBALL NINE.
Winners of the Inter-City Championship, Eastern Park, Brooklyn, June 8, 1895.

The St. Paul nine have played thirteen games this season, and have not suffered a single defeat. They have scored 179 runs to their opponents' 51; they have made 192 hits to their opponents' 69; and they have committed only 54 errors to their opponents' 84. Their batting and fielding averages reckon up as follows:

Batting.Fielding.
Hall, p..407.915
S. Starr, c..371.937
E. Starr, 1 b..393.948
Foster, 2 b..375.893
Baker, 3 b..375.714
Mortimer, s. s..333.709
Lum, l. f..360.923
Flippen, c. f..339.813
Goldsborough, r. f..378.900

It is evident from the above that St. Paul had a hard-hitting team, and I have no doubt the fielding averages—especially of Baker, Flippen, and Foster—would have been higher if the men had tried to make records rather than to accept every chance that came their way. Hall's pitching throughout the season has been up to a high standard, and his fielding has been excellent. In one game he had thirteen fielding chances, which he accepted without making an error. Foster, too, has done well, and has spoiled many an apparent base hit. Next year the managers of this nine should seek games with stronger teams than can be found in either the New York or the Long Island leagues. I should like to see them play Andover or Lawrenceville. The latter claim they cannot find opponents worthy of them outside the colleges. Perhaps Garden City can give them good practice.

OAKLAND HIGH-SCHOOL ATHLETIC TEAM,
Champions of the Academic Athletic League of the Pacific Coast.

The men shown in the picture of the Oakland High-School Athletic Team are Cheek, Jackson, Jenks, Gooch, Hoffman, Guppy, Russ, McConnell, Hanford, Rosborough, and Dawson. They won the championship of the A.A.L. for the O.H.-S. at the last two field meetings—March 16th and May 4th—and most of them return to school next year. W. B. Jackson, the mile runner, enters the University of California this fall, and if that enterprising college sends a team to Mott Haven next spring, Jackson will be one of its members, and he will push the Eastern cracks in the mile run.