Author of "Snow-shoes and Sledges," "The Fur-Seal's Tooth," "The 'Mate' Series," "Flamingo Feather," etc.
CHAPTER XXXI.
A DESPERATE SITUATION.
f the many trying experiences through which our lads had passed since their introduction to each other in Victoria, none had presented so many hopeless features as the present. They were high up on a mighty mountain, whose terrible wilderness of rock and glacier, precipice and chasm, limitless snow-field and trackless forest, stretched for weary leagues in every direction; beyond hope of human aid; only a mouthful of food between them and starvation; with night so close at hand that near-by objects were already indistinct in its gathering gloom; without shelter; inexperienced in wood-craft; and one so badly injured that he lay moaning on the rocks, incapable of moving.
As all these details of the situation flashed into Alaric's mind he became for a moment heart-sick and despairing at its utter hopelessness. He was so exhausted with the exertions of the day, so unnerved by the strain and anxiety of the perilous hours just passed, and so faint for want of nourishment, that it is no wonder his strength was turned into weakness, or that he could discover no ray of hope through the all-pervading gloom.
Suddenly and as clearly as though spoken by his side, came the words: "Always remember that, as my friend Jalap Coombs says, 'It is never so dark but what there is a light somewhere.'" The memory of Phil Ryder's brave face as he uttered that sentence came to our poor lad like a tonic, and instantly he was resolved to find the light that was shining for him somewhere.
With such marvellous quickness does the mind act in an emergency, that all these thoughts came to Alaric even as he bent anxiously over his injured friend and began to examine tenderly into the nature of his hurts. As he lifted the left arm the sufferer uttered a cry of pain, and its hand hung limp. The other limbs were sound, but Bonny said that every breath was like a stab.
"One arm broken, and I'm afraid something gone wrong inside," announced Alaric at length; "but it might be ever so much worse," he continued, in as cheerful a tone as he could command. "One of your legs might have been broken, you know, and then we should be in a fix, for I couldn't carry you, and we should have to stay right here. Now, though, I am sure you can walk as far as the timber if you will only try. Of course it will hurt terribly."
Very slowly, and with many a stifled cry of acute pain, Bonny gained his feet. Then, with his right arm about Alaric's neck, and with the latter stoutly supporting him, the injured lad managed to cross the few hundred feet intervening between that place and the longed-for shelter.
Both Bonny's weakness and the darkness, which was now that of night, prevented their penetrating deep into the timber; but before the sufferer sank to the ground, declaring that he could not take another step, they had gone far enough to escape the icy blast that, sweeping down from the upper snow-fields, had chilled them to the marrow. This alone was a notable achievement, and already Alaric believed he could perceive a glimmer of the light he had set out to find.
Now for a fire, and how grateful they were for M. Filbert's forethought that had provided each one of his party with plenty of matches! Feeling about for twigs, and whittling a few shavings with his sheath-knife, Alaric quickly started a tiny flame, and with its first cheery glow their situation seemed robbed of half its terrors. An armful of sticks produced a brave crackling blaze that drove the black forest shadows to a respectful distance.
With Bonny's hatchet Alaric next lopped all the branches from the lower side of a thick-growing hemlock and wove them among those that were left, so as to form a wind-break. An armful of the same flat boughs, cut from other trees and strewn on the ground, formed a springy bed on which to unfold the sleeping-bags, that by rare good fortune had remained strapped to the lads' shoulders during all their terrible journey from the summit camp of the night before.
After making his comrade as comfortable as possible, Alaric hurried away into the darkness. He was gone so long that Bonny, who did not know the reason of his absence, began to grow very uneasy before he returned. When he did reappear, he brought with him a quantity of snow that he had gone back a quarter of a mile up the dark mountain-side to obtain. He wanted water, and not hearing or finding any stream, had bethought himself of snow as a substitute.
In each of the packs they had so fortunately brought with them was a handful of tea, for M. Filbert had insisted that all the provisions should be divided among all the packs as a precaution against just such an emergency as had arisen. Therefore Alaric now had the materials for a longed-for and much-needed cup of the stimulating beverage. To make it, an amount of the precious leaves equal to a teaspoonful was put into one of their tin cups while snow was melted in the other. As soon as this came to a boil it was poured over the tea-leaves in cup number one, which was allowed to stand for two minutes longer in a warm place to "draw."
While Bonny slowly sipped this, at the same time munching a handful of hard biscuit, which, broken into small bits, was all the food they had left, Alaric boiled another cup of water for himself.
From all this it will be seen that our one-time helpless and dependent "Allie" Todd was rapidly learning not only to care for himself under trying conditions, but for others as well.
As soon as Bonny had been thus strengthened and thoroughly warmed, Alaric made a more thorough examination of his injuries than had been possible out in the cold and darkness where the accident occurred. He found that the left arm had sustained a simple fracture, fortunately but little splintered, and also that two ribs on the left side were broken. For these he could do nothing; but he managed to set the broken arm after a fashion, bandage it with handkerchiefs torn into strips, and finally to place it in a case formed of a troughlike section of hemlock bark, which he hung from Bonny's neck by straps. Then he helped his patient into one of the sleeping-bags, encouraging him all the while with hopeful suggestions of what they would do on the morrow.
After thus making his charge as comfortable as circumstances would permit, the lad busied himself for another hour in collecting such a quantity of wood as should insure a good fire until morning. Then, utterly fagged out, he crept into his own bed, and lay down beside his friend.
When he next awoke daylight was already some hours old, the place where the fire had burned was covered with dead ashes, and Bonny lay patiently regarding him with wistful eyes.
"I am so thirsty, Rick," was all he said, though he had lain for hours wide-awake and parched with fever, but heroically determined that his wearied comrade should sleep until he woke of his own accord.
"You poor fellow!" cried Alaric, remorsefully. "Why didn't you wake me long ago?"
"I couldn't bear to," replied Bonny; "but now, if you will please get me a drink."
Only pausing to light a fresh fire, Alaric hastened away to the distant snow-bank, returning as speedily as possible with as much of it as their two tin plates would hold. A handful was given to Bonny to cool his parched tongue while the remainder was melting.
So small a quantity of water could be procured at a time by this slow process that in a very few minutes Alaric found he must go for more snow. As he went he realized how faint he was for want of food. "I wonder how much longer I shall be able to hold out?" he asked himself. "How many more times can I make this trip before my strength is exhausted?" A mental picture of Bonny begging for water, and he too weak to fetch it, caused his eyes to fill with tears, and a black despair again enfolded him.
At this moment the voice of the previous night came again to him: It is never so dark but what there's a light somewhere. "Of course there is," he cried, "and as I found it last night, why shouldn't I to-day?" Even as the lad spoke he caught its first gleam in the form of a rivulet of clear water that rippled merrily down from the snow only a few yards from where he stood. Hastening to this, the lad drank long and deeply.
On lifting his head from the delicious water, he could hardly believe his eyes as they rested on a solitary bird, that he knew to be a ptarmigan, crouching beside a bowlder. Hoping against hope and almost unnerved by anxiety, he flung a stone, and in another minute the bird was his. "Hurrah for breakfast!" he shouted, as he ran back to Bonny with his trophy proudly displayed at arm's-length.
Awkward as Alaric was at the business, he had that heaven-sent bird stripped of its feathers, cleaned, and spitted over a bed of glowing coals within ten minutes of the time he had first spied it, and a little later only its cleanly picked bones remained to tell of its existence.
Bonny was disinclined to eat, but he drank two cups of hot tea, that threw him into a perspiration, greatly to Alaric's satisfaction. As he also seemed drowsy, Alaric encouraged him to sleep, while he should go in search of more food and assistance, with one or both of which he promised to return before noon.
CHAPTER XXXII.
HOW A SONG SAVED ALARIC'S LIFE.
When Alaric made that promise he had no more idea of how it was to be kept than he had of what was to become of Bonny and himself. He only knew that active exertion of some kind was necessary to keep him from utter despair. Besides, it was just possible that he might discover and secure another bird, though not at all probable, as the one on which he had breakfasted was the first that he had encountered since coming to the mountain.
By the time he emerged from the timber the morning clouds had rolled away, the sun was shining brightly, and the whole vast sweep of gleaming snow and tumultuous rock, from timber line to distant summit, lay piled in steep ascent before him. It was a wonderful sight, but as terrible as it was grand, for in all its awful solitude there was no movement, no voice, and no sign of life.
Oppressed by the loneliness of his surroundings, and having no reason for choosing one direction rather than another, the lad mechanically turned to the right and began to make his way along a bowlder-strewn slope, where every now and then he came to the bleached skeletons of stunted trees, winter-killed, but still standing, and seeming to stretch imploring arms to their retreating brethren of the forest.
He had not gone more than a mile when there came something to him that caused him to halt and glance inquiringly on all sides. At the same time he lifted his head and sniffed the air eagerly, like a hound on the scent of game. He was certain that he had smelled smoke. Yes, there it came again; a whiff so faint as to be almost imperceptible, but the unmistakable odor of burning wood.
Facing squarely the breeze that brought it to him, the lad pushed forward, and a few minutes later stood on the verge of a little mountain meadow, sun-warmed and rock-walled on all sides save the one by which he had approached. Here the slope was so gentle that he started down on a run. He had thus gone but a short distance when he suddenly paused with his eyes fixed on the ground where he was standing.
He had been unconsciously following a path, faintly marked and hardly to be distinguished, but nevertheless one that he felt certain had been trodden by human feet. The discovery filled him with excitement, and he bounded forward with redoubled speed. Half-way down the slope, at a point commanding a lovely view of the flower-strewn valley, the trail ended at a crystal spring that bubbled from among the roots of a tall young hemlock. Other trees were grouped near by, and beneath them stood a rude hut built of poles and boughs, but having a rain-proof roof of thatch. Before it smouldered a log fire, from which rose the thin column of smoke that had directed Alaric's attention to the place.
Filled with exultation and wild with joy over his discovery, the lad gazed eagerly about for some sign of the proprietor or occupants of this lonely camp, and at length, seeing no one, he began to shout. Receiving no response, he entered the hut, and was surprised at the absence of even the rude comforts common to such a place. There was a heap of white goat-skins in one corner, and a quantity of meat, either smoked or dried, hung from a rafter overhead. A kettle and fry-pan lay outside near the fire, an axe was driven into the trunk of one of the trees, and, so far as Alaric could see, there was nothing else. But even these things were enough to indicate that this was a place of at least temporary human abode, and wherever its proprietor might be, he would return to it sooner or later. Then, too, Alaric believed it to be the camp of a white man; for though his knowledge of Indians was limited, it in no way resembled that of Skookum John.
"At any rate," he said to himself, "I must try and get Bonny here as quickly as possible, for he will be a thousand times better off in this place than where I left him."
So, with a lighter heart than he had known since his comrade's accident, Alaric started back over the trail by which he had come. Bonny was awake and sitting up when he reappeared, and the sufferer's face brightened wonderfully at the great news of at least one other human being, a camp, and an abundance of food so near at hand.
"Do you really think I can get there, though?" he asked.
"Yes," replied Alaric, "I know you can; for, as you said yesterday when we were looking at that precipice, it is something that must be done. We can't stay here without either food or shelter, and we don't dare wait for the owner of that camp to come back and help us move, because he may stay away several days. I know it is going to hurt you awfully to walk, but I know too that you'll do it if you only make up your mind to."
"All right, I'll try it; but, Rick, don't you forget that if I ever get down from this mountain alive, never again will I climb another."
As Alaric was doing up the sleeping-bags a familiar-looking baseball rolled from his, and caught Bonny's eye.
"If you aren't a queer chap!" he exclaimed. "What ever made you bring that ball along?"
"Because," answered the other, "it means so much to me that I hated to leave it behind, and then I thought perhaps it would be fun to have a game on the very top of the mountain. When we reached there, though, I forgot all about it."
"Yes," said Bonny, grimly, "we did have something else to think of. Ough! but that hurts."
This exclamation was called forth by the poor lad's effort to gain his feet, which he found he was unable to do without assistance.
Although Alaric carried both packs, and lent Bonny all possible support besides, that one-mile walk proved the most difficult either of the lads had ever undertaken. Brave and stout-hearted as Bonny was, he could not help groaning with every step, and they were obliged to rest so often that the little journey occupied several hours. At its end both lads were utterly exhausted, and Bonny was suffering so intensely that he hardly noticed the place to which he had been brought. The moment he gained the hut he sank down on its pile of goat-skins with closed eyes, and so white a face that he seemed about to faint.
When Alaric was there before he had mended the fire and set on a kettle of water, with a view to just such an emergency as the present. The water was still boiling, and so within three minutes he was able to give his patient a cup of strong tea that greatly revived him. Food was the next thing to be thought of, and Alaric did not hesitate to appropriate one of the strips of goat's flesh that hung overhead. Not being quite sure of the best way to cook this, he cut one portion into small bits, put these into the kettle with a little water, and set the whole on the fire to simmer. Another portion he sliced thin and laid in the fry-pan, which he also set on the fire. Still a third bit he spitted on a long stick and held close to a bed of coals, where it frizzled with such an appetizing odor that he could not wait for it to be cooked before cutting off small bits to sample. They were so good that he went to offer some to Bonny; but finding the latter still lying with closed eyes, thought best not to disturb him. So he sat alone and ate all the frizzled meat, and all that was in the fry-pan, and was still so hungry that he procured another strip of meat from the hut, and began all over again.
They had been nearly two hours in the camp before his ravenous appetite was fully satisfied, and by that time the contents of the pot had simmered into a sort of thick broth. At a faint call from Bonny, Alaric carried some of this to him, and had the satisfaction of seeing him swallow a whole cupful. Then, as night was again approaching, he helped his patient into one of the sleeping-bags, which he underlaid with several goat-skins, and sat by him until he fell into a doze. When this happened Alaric went softly outside and, to dispel the gathering gloom, piled logs on the fire until it was in a bright blaze. Sitting a little to one side, half in light and half in shadow, and having no present occupation, the lad fell into a deep reverie. How was this strange adventure to end? Who owned that camp, and why did he not return to it? What would he think on finding strangers in possession? Had any boy ever stepped from one life into another so utterly different as suddenly and completely as he? One year ago at this time he was in France, surrounded by every luxury that money could procure, carefully guarded from every form of anxiety, and dependent upon others for everything. Now he was thankful for the shelter of a hut, and a meal of half-cooked meat prepared by his own hands. He not only had everything to do for himself, but had another still more helpless dependent upon him for everything. Was he any happier then than now? No. He could honestly say that he preferred his present position, with its health, strength, and glorious self-reliance, to the one he had resigned.
Still there had been happy times in that other life. Two years ago, for instance, when his mother and he had travelled, leisurely through Germany, halting whenever they chose, and remaining as long as places interested them. Thoughts of his mother recalled the plaintive little German folk-song of which she had been so fond.
Muss i denn. Yes, that was it, and involuntarily Alaric began to hum the air. Then the words began to fit themselves to it, and before he realized what he was doing he was singing softly:
"Muss i denn, muss i denn
Zum Städtele 'naus, Städtele 'naus:
Und du mein Schatz bleibst hier—"
So engrossed was the lad with his thoughts and with trying to recall the words of the song running in his head that he heard nothing of a soft footstep that for several minutes had been stealthily approaching the fire-lit place where he sat. He knew nothing of the wild eyes that, peering from a haggard face, were fixed upon him with the glare of madness. He had no suspicion of the brown rifle-barrel that was slowly raised until he was covered by its deadly aim. But now he had recalled all the words of his song, and they rang out strong and clear:
"Muss i denn, muss i denn
Zum Städtele 'naus, Städtele 'naus:
Und du—"
THE STARTLED LAD SPRANG TO HIS FEET IN TERROR.
At that moment there came a great cry from behind him: "Ach, Himmel! Wer ist denn das!" and the startled lad sprang to his feet in terror.
[to be continued.]
[THE MANUFACTURE OF GUNPOWDER.]
BY FRANKLIN MATTHEWS.
here would be no sense in having powerful war-ships, enormous cannons, and hard, tough projectiles to use in them, if we did not have improved powder to make them all effective. The high-grade powder used in warfare in these days is known in this country as "brown powder," because of its color. In Europe such powder has a dozen or more names, generally called after the men who have invented each kind. There are only two places in this country where the powder used in our big guns is made. One of them is the works of the E. I. Du Pont de Nemours & Company's plant on the Brandywine Creek, near Wilmington, Delaware, and the other is the works of the California Powder Company, near Santa Cruz, California. In both of these places the process is secret, and no one except those employed about the works is supposed to know exactly how "brown powder" is made.
All powder, whether it is intended for blasting, hunting, rifle-shooting, or warfare purposes, is made in the same general way, and so, in telling of a visit I recently made to the Du Pont Works, near Wilmington, I shall reveal no secrets if I describe the various mills and processes which practically all powder goes through before it is finished. Ordinary powder is composed of three ingredients—saltpetre, sulphur, and charcoal, or nitrate of soda, sulphur, and charcoal. Powder intended for blasting is generally made with soda; powder intended for shooting is generally made with saltpetre. It takes a great deal more than these ingredients, however, to make powder. There must be a lot of small buildings, generally scattered about a ravine, through which a stream runs to furnish power to the mills. These mills are for the most part small, one-story structures, that look at first glance like tumble-down affairs, out in the woods. Closer examination shows that they are built for the most part of stone on three sides and wood on the fourth, and that they all have light wooden roofs. Still closer examination reveals that the floors are laid with big wooden pegs instead of nails, and that so far as possible all the machinery they contain is made of wood. All the shovels and other implements used by the workmen are of wood, and every man about the place wears shoes with wooden-pegged soles instead of shoes which have nails. Fancy these conditions in a beautiful wooded park, running for three miles along the picturesque Brandywine Creek, near Wilmington, and you can imagine something of the attractive external appearance of the Du Pont Works.
There is good reason for the use of wood instead of metal in the thirty or forty buildings which make up this plant. You may not know it, but, it is said to be a fact that there must be a spark to ignite powder. You may take a live coal, for example, and drop it into a dish of powder, and the result will be that the powder will simply burn rapidly. Strike a spark and let it come in contact with the powder, and there is an explosion. All powder-mill explosions, with their dreadful losses of life, are caused by sparks. It is to avoid sparks that wooden-pegged floors and shoes are required in the mills, and that wooden shovels and machinery are used. You can see how dangerous metal is about a powder-making plant when your guide takes a bunch of keys from his pocket to unlock a mill where the work is done for the day. He inserts the key in the padlock as slowly and as gently as if he were performing a most delicate surgical operation, one where life is at stake by the mere turn of the wrist. He turns the bolt as carefully as if the lock were made of an egg-shell, which he didn't want to break. Your life and his really are at stake, and neither he nor you can exercise too much care.
THE CHARCOAL-MILL.
There are two distinct stages in powder-making. The one is the part that is not dangerous of itself, and the other is the part that is dangerous—so dangerous, in fact, that the life of no one engaged in the work is safe. Still, so thorough are the precautions taken that the percentage of loss of life at this work is really very small, and one sees about the Du Pont Works men who have been employed there for thirty and forty years. The part of the manufacture that is not dangerous consists of the preparation of the ingredients that compose the powder. In one of these mills the charcoal is made. For the higher grades of powder only willow wood is used in making the charcoal. For blasting-powder almost any wood of good grain is used. The willow is grown largely on the grounds of the beautiful park, and the smaller limbs of trees are taken. Willow has an especially fine grain and texture, and this makes it valuable for powder manufacture.
In another mill the saltpetre is refined by boiling. The refined product is dumped into vats, from which it is shovelled into barrels to be taken to the mixing-house. The saltpetre in the vats is so pure and white that one might fancy that the roof had opened and an old-fashioned snow-storm had fallen inside the building, and the men who are shovelling it up resemble snow-shovellers, except that they are not bundled up. The sulphur is prepared in another place, and then the ingredients are taken to the mixing-mill, where they are weighed and mixed, and there the part of the work that is not dangerous ends.
THE ROLLING-MILL.
Near by the mixing-mill are the rolling-mills. Now we are close to danger. In the centre of this mill is a big iron saucer, probably six feet in diameter. The rim of the saucer is about eighteen inches high. Standing up in the saucer are two wheels. They seem to be about six feet in diameter also, and their rims about a foot broad. These wheels and this saucer do the rolling of the powder—that is, they grind the three substances that compose the powder into a new mixture. The wheels are swept around and around in the saucer, and they also turn on their own axes. It is as if they were kept rolling over and over, just as the wheels of a carriage roll, but also as if some power kept them turning about constantly in the small circle of this saucer. This mill is where wooden machinery cannot be used, and of course that makes it a very dangerous place.
The mixture of the ingredients of the powder is brought in and dumped carefully in the saucer. It is spread about smoothly by a workman, who, after this work is done, goes outside the mill, and does not come back until the powder is rolled thoroughly. The workman goes to a wheel a few feet away from the building and turns it very slowly. It starts the machinery that moves the wheels in the saucer. The greatest danger in rolling comes at this time. The rolling must be begun in the slowest possible way. The danger is that there may be a lump in the mixture in the saucer that will raise one of the wheels as it turns around and then drop it suddenly in the saucer, causing a spark. If this comes, away goes your mill and machinery, and possibly the workman's life with them. There are many of these rolling-mills in the Du Pont plant, because the owners act on the principle that it is not a good thing to carry all your eggs in one basket. Rarely is more than 150 pounds of powder rolled at one time, and it takes from three to eight hours to do the rolling, according to the grade of powder that is being made. The workman in charge will go to the door of the mill from time to time to look in, but he never steps inside until he has stopped the machinery and the rolling is done.
After the powder is rolled it is shovelled up and taken to a press-mill. It is put into a long wooden trough about two feet high and two feet broad, and packed between thin plates of aluminum. Pressure is applied by water-power to one end of the trough, and the powder is squeezed into thin slabs of hard dry cakes. After all the moisture is squeezed out, these cakes are removed, and one by one they are slipped down into a slot between some rollers, where each is broken up into bits that resemble the small stones that are used in making macadam roads. This breaking-up process makes a terrific noise, and when one thinks of the dangerous compound that is being handled, this noise is likely to cause a feeling of great fear in one who hears it for the first time. At this stage of the process it is difficult to restrain the impulse to take to one's heels and run out of hearing of the terrifying sound.
THE GRAINING-MILL.
After the cakes have been broken up into these bits of rough, dirty stone, the powder is taken to a graining-mill. This is really the most dangerous part of all the work. One man runs each of these mills. He cannot start the machinery in motion and go away, like the man who has charge of a rolling-mill, but he must stay in the place all the time, and feed the stones to the machinery that crushes them into grains of various sizes. He shovels the powder into a large hopper, big wooden wheels go around and around, and the powder passes between zinc rolls and through sieves of various sizes. It is a grewsome place. The machinery reminds one of the pictures that we have all seen of some of the contrivances they used to have in the days of the Inquisition with which to torture people, and it is hard to keep back a shudder as one looks at this work. Sometimes there is as much as a ton of powder at one time in the big hopper of this machine. In one of these mills at the Du Pont Works you will notice that the stone wall is eight feet thick on one side. This is on the side next to a press-mill. One side of the place is entirely of wood. This is toward the creek. The idea is to save as much property as possible in case of an explosion.
After the powder is broken up into grains it is taken in bags to another mill. This is known as a glazing-mill. It is here that the powder is polished and made shiny. There are several sheet-iron hoppers that resemble enormous barrels in this place. The powder is dumped into them, and they are turned over and over. A certain quantity of lamp-black is put into each barrel, according to the amount of powder each contains, and the barrel is turned until every grain has received a polish. The polish simply gives the powder a nice appearance. It adds no strength to the product, but it helps to keep out moisture, and it prevents the powder from losing some of its strength in damp weather. Every one knows how much better a pair of shoes look when they are polished, and how desirable it is at all times to have one's shoes kept in this condition. It is for that same reason that a polish is put on the grains of powder.
When the powder is polished, and separated by means of sieves again into grains of various sizes, it is ready for packing. It is then run into tin or wooden kegs, and is ready for storage in a magazine in a remote part of the grounds. The kegs are made in another part of the grounds, and painted in various colors, each color indicating the kind of powder the keg contains. It is then ready for shipment to the places where it is used. The powder that goes into cartridges for shooting purposes goes to the factories where cartridges are made, the blasting powder goes to the men who sell it, and thus it is carted off the place, and the mills go on making a supply to take its place.
The government powder is made in a general way in the same manner that ordinary powder is made. The chemical ingredients are somewhat different, of course, but it may be said that powder for use in cannons is simply of a finer grade than ordinary powder. It is what is technically known as a "slow" powder. That is, it ignites slowly, and burns more slowly than ordinary powder. Of course to the eye it goes off in a flash, like ordinary powder, but really it is slow in its explosion compared with ordinary powder. The object of this is to secure the full force of the power in the powder, and also to start the projectiles in cannon very slowly in their terrible journey of destruction. By using a slow powder there is less strain on the cannons and less danger of their bursting. There must be as little shock as possible to the cannons, when they contain such a terrible power as an ordinary charge of powder, and it is desirable that all of the powder should be used. Hence the need for "slow" powder. The government powder is packed in small cakes or prisms, with a little hole through the centre. These prisms look like the nuts used on the hubs of big wagons. A lot of them are put together in a package and stowed away in the cannon behind the projectile, and a spark is used to set the charge off.
One soon gets used to danger, and in going through a powder plant it is interesting to watch the men go about their tasks with as little concern apparently as if they were employed in a flour-mill. It is healthy work, aside from its danger, and for that reason it would be difficult to find a sturdier lot of men than those employed at this task. The men saunter about the place as if they preferred that sort of life to any other. In their manner there is no indication that they are oppressed by the possibility that some day they may be blown into bits. Most of them seem to be what are known as fatalists. One must die sometime, and a powder explosion provides a speedy and painless exit. They can get no insurance on their lives, but doubtless they console themselves with the thought that the percentage of the loss of life is small, much smaller than in many other kinds of hazardous employment.
These men may count with reason upon a long life, and a physician is rarely needed by any of them. They live in comfortable homes in the park where they are employed, and seem most contented with their lot. The Du Pont people have fitted up a delightful club-house on the grounds for their employees, and these find existence in their lot in life so attractive that they remain in it year after year, a contented and prosperous set of men.
[A PALM-LEAF FAN.]
BY CAROLINE A. CREEVEY.
When ministers preach sermons they take texts. We will make a text out of a palm-leaf fan.
Palms do not grow around Brooklyn, where I live; but the children of North Carolina, and further south, know their straight slim palmetto-tree, bearing a cluster of large frondlike leaves at the top, as we know a chestnut-tree. Indeed, one of the Southern States is called the Palmetto State, and has a palm-tree in its State emblem.
Small palms may be obtained at a florist's, and are fashionable parlor ornaments. But in a greenhouse they do not grow very large. In hot countries they sometimes reach a height of 150 feet. The bud at the top must not be broken off, else the tree will die; for, unlike Northern trees, palms do not branch, but continue always to grow straight up. As the leaves become old, they drop off, leaving curious scars on the trunk. New leaves grow one at a time from the apex. A maple-tree branches in all directions, and you may pinch off its buds anywhere without interrupting its growth. But it is rare to see a palm with even two branches. Such are called forked palms, referring to old-fashioned two-tined forks. Another curious thing about a palm is that it has no bark. My fan-handle is the natural stem of the leaf, and it has never had more bark than it has now.
Have you noticed a trunk of a hickory or chestnut tree which has been sawn straight across? There is a distinct centre, with rings of wood around it, growing larger and larger, all covered by bark. On such trees the outside ring of wood forms new every year, and if you can count the rings you can tell how old the tree is. When the tree is cut lengthwise into boards, these rings make beautiful grainings. A palm-tree has no apparent centre, no rings of wood, and no real bark. It is a very different kind of tree from the chestnut. There is wood, of course, in the palm trunk, else it would not be stiff enough to stand up so straight and tall. But the wood is in threads, long and slender, scattered without order through the trunk. The dots in the end of my fan-handle are the tips of threads of wood. If you were to see a palm sawn across you would find hundreds of similar dots. You cannot tell how old the palm is. The cut end of a cornstalk will show the same kind of structure, woody dots in soft juicy tissue. Grasses grow in the same way, and so do orchids, lilies, hyacinths, daffodils, iris, flag-root, cat's-tails, and many of our pretty spring wild flowers—-the yellow dog-toothed violet, lily-of-the-valley, Solomon's-seal, etc. Our grains—corn, wheat, oats, rye—are humble but useful members of this same grand division of Endogens. All other trees and herbs which have bark, wood, and pith, and which when long lived increase by additional rings of wood under the bark, are Exogens.
Next examine the spread-out part of our fan. Ridges start from a common centre, where the stem joins the blade, and radiate towards the circumference. These ridges are the paths for the veins, and all leaves whose veins run side by side are called parallel-veined leaves. A plantain leaf shows this plainly. A chestnut leaf has an arrangement of veins like a feather. There is a central midrib, from which veins spring, running across the leaf, joined irregularly with intertwining veinlets. These leaves are net-veined, and grow on exogens. The parallel-veined leaves of endogens often clasp and surround the stem, the upper leaf growing from within the lower. Even the seed of endogens grows differently from that of exogens. A grain of corn sends up one first leaf; so do lilies and grains. A squash seed sends up two first leaves. The first leaves of a seed are cotyledons, and the one-leafed seed is monocotyledonous, while two-leafed seeds are dicotyledonous.
Banana-trees are endogens, and produce such abundant fruit in their native soil that ground which planted in wheat would support two persons, if planted with bananas would nourish fifty. If you were cast away on a desert island you would fare better if the trees above you were endogens than if they were exogens. A grove of bananas and a cocoanut palm would support you better than chestnuts, hickories, oaks, and maples.
[JENSEN FALLS OVERBOARD.]
BY OSCAR KING DAVIS.
he United States Revenue-cutter Corwin was taking the court officials from Sitka to Juneau to hold court. There was to be a term to deal with the seizures of seal-poachers that had been made by the patrol fleet in the Bering Sea that summer. They were in a hurry, and the Corwin was doing her best. It was perhaps 4 o'clock in the afternoon of a dismal dull November day that the revenue-cutter rounded a point in Chatham Straits, and came plump upon a sleek little Columbia River fishing-sloop beating down the channel. Something in her trim suggested smugglers to the officer of the deck. The Captain was below with some of the court officials when the messenger from the Lieutenant reported. When he got on deck a quartermaster was already standing by the flag halyards, ready to send aloft the signal to the sloop to stop, and a boat's crew stood ready to clear away the dingy. The Captain took in the situation at a glance, and almost with one breath ordered the signal flown and the boat cleared away. The men in the little sloop had been watching with eyes of experience, and as the signal-flags fluttered from her spanker-gaff they swung their boat up into the wind and dropped the jib.
On the cutter the men were lowering the dingy, and the Lieutenant stood by the rail ready to go the moment his boat caught the water. Three sailor-men were in the boat, two at the fall-ropes and one in the middle with the oars and cushions. Jensen, the man at the after fall-rope, was a fine big Swede, broad-shouldered and stalwart. A drizzling rain was driving down from the mountains that line the Straits, and all the men were in their oil-skins and sou'westers. Jensen had added a great pair of rubber boots with long tops that reached up to his hips. The fall-ropes had begun to slip through the sheaves, and the dingy had started toward the water, when the eye-bolt at the stern, to which the lower block of the fall-rope was hooked, broke with a snap like a pistol crack. Instantly the stern of the boat fell into the water, but quickly as it fell the sailor-men were quicker. As they heard the snap of the breaking bolt and felt the boat begin to go out from under their feet, all three threw up their hands and grasped the wire stay that stretches between the davits. Two caught it with both hands, but Jensen missed with his right. The lurch with which the dingy fell had given him a twisting motion, and as he clung to the stay with his left hand he swung around until his arm could be twisted no further, and then he let go.
Instantly there was a tumult on the cutter, but it was not the crew of the Corwin that made it. The court officials from Sitka and their wives had come on deck to see the fishing-sloop examined, and the instant they saw Jensen fall and heard the splash of the water as he struck, they set up a shout of "Man overboard!" Then they began to throw things over to the sailor-man, who was rapidly drifting astern. The first signal to the fishing-sloop had been accompanied by an order to the engine-room to stop and back, but the Corwin was still under good headway when Jensen fell. As the dingy struck the water it turned bottom up, and all the oars and cushions and movable gratings in the bottom fell out and floated astern with the sailor-man. Added to these things were a lot of deck-gratings and things slung over by the excited Sitkans. Half a dozen life-buoys that were thrown over at the first alarm promptly went to the bottom. They had been cleaned and painted so many times that not even the heavy salt water would float them.
At the cry of "Man overboard!" Captain Hooper's orders were short and sharp. In response to them a boat's crew leaped at the big whaleboat. Almost in the twinkling of an eye it was in the water, and eight sturdy fellows were responding with all their might to the bo's'n's exhortations to "give way." But at the same time another crew had cleared away the Captain's gig, and the young Lieutenant who was to have boarded the suspected sloop from the dingy was placidly going about his errand in the gig.
It takes a long time to tell it, almost as long, perhaps, as it seemed to Jensen, but all this really occupied a very few minutes. The people from Sitka, hanging over the taffrail and wondering if the cutter would never begin to go astern, saw Jensen go down, and held their breath with the instant's fear that he had given up. But presently he bobbed up again, and then one, with a glass, made out that he had taken off his heavy oil-skin coat. He had his big sou'wester in his teeth, and was treading water. As he stood up out of the water he lifted one side of the heavy coat. He caught the air under it, when he dropped the edge of it again, and the man with the glass could see the coat float by itself. Then Jensen disappeared under the water again. He was down what seemed an interminable time, and they thought that surely this time he was gone for good. But he came up again, and this time he had his long rubber boots in his left hand. He caught his sou'wester in his teeth again, and, swimming with his right hand and holding his boots in his left, and pushing his coat with his brawny chest, he struck out comfortably for the whaleboat that was rapidly bearing down on him.
Before it reached him, however, there floated by one of the gratings that had been flung over after him. They were half a mile or more astern of the revenue-cutter, and the thick day prevented the nervous watchers on the Corwin from seeing what happened. But the bo's'n in the whaleboat saw Jensen grasp one end of the grating with his right hand and try to crawl up on it. Its buoyancy wasn't enough to stand the weight of the burly Swede and his heavy boots. His end sank, and the other end rose out of the water further and further as Jensen scrambled up. At last, with a smash, it turned end for end, and cracked the plucky sailor-man a resounding whack on the head. He went down as if he had been lead, and even the bo's'n in the whaleboat thought it was all up with him. But Jensen apparently was not born to drown. He was up again almost as soon as the grating was, and as the whaleboat dashed alongside he flung his big boots in and crawled over its side, helped by half its crew.
Then the whaleboat started back for the Corwin, and as it went along it stopped at intervals, and picked up the oars and cushions and seats and gratings and things that had been spilled out of the dingy, or flung over for Jensen. The water was desperately cold. A glacial current sets down the coast through Chatham Straits, and it was this ice-water that Jensen had been in for what seemed half an hour, but was really not half so long. His teeth chattered when he got into the whaleboat, and he needed something to warm him up. When the whaleboat returned to the cutter the court officials and their wives crowded along the rail, expecting to see a half-drowned man lying in the bottom of the boat. They saw only the boat's crew, and one extra man, not Jensen, standing up in the stern sheets, beside the bo's'n.
"Why, where's Jensen?" some one asked Captain Hooper.
"There he is," said the Captain, "pulling the bow-oar."
That was Jensen's way of warming up. He scrambled up on deck in his wet clothes and in his stocking feet, with his coat and rubber boots under his arm, saluted the Captain, and stood at attention. There was an ugly cut on his face where the grating had hit him.
"How did you fall?" asked the Captain.
"The bolt broke, sir," said Jensen, "and she went down."
"Go forward and get some dry clothes," ordered the Captain; "and here, messenger," he added, to his boy, "tell the apothecary to give Jensen something to warm him up!"
The Captain turned to one of the Sitkans and said, "He goes overboard almost every other day just to get warmed up afterwards."
As the whaleboat was slung in the davits again, the gig came back from the fishing-sloop.
"She's apparently all right, sir," reported the Lieutenant. "They say they are examining the coast, looking for a place to found a colony."
There was a jingling of bells in the engine-room, and the Corwin steamed full speed ahead again, hurrying to Juneau.
BY GASTON V. DRAKE.
XIX.—FROM BOB TO JACK.
Genoa.
DEAR JACK,—-Maybe we haven't been travelling! My! Pop met a man in Geneva and he says going to Venice aren't you? Not much said Pop. New York's wet enough for me. Then you make a great big error said the man. It's fine this time of year and anybody that gets as far into Italy as Genoa without going a little further to see the most unicorn city in the world doesn't know as much as he thinks he does and wastes an elegant importunity. So Pop spoke to Ma about it and Ma said she'd sort of like it and as for Aunt Sarah she was so pleased she forgot all about the music-boxes and recovered her health right away, but it's kept us on the jump, and I've seen so many things I hardly know how to begin telling you about 'em. The first jump was to Luzerne where we only stayed all night though Pop was afraid we might have to stay there forever in order to get money enough to pay our bill. They had a band playing in the office of the hotel which seemed very nice until the bill came in the next morning and they'd charged us forty cents apiece, babies and all for it. Pop said it would have been cheaper for us to have bought an orchestrion and sat up with it in the Park all night. Next day we took the corkscrew train and bored our way right through the Alps, over the St. Gothard railway into Italy, landing at Milan late in the afternoon, where there isn't much for boys to see, though Jules says the cathedral collectors think it's bully; and then we went on to Venice and of all the places yet it's the best. Talk about going yachting, or sailing across the ocean in a great big ship—it's all nothing to living in a place like Venice where you can sit in your parlor at home and still be on the water, with no motion to make you seasick and no fear that a big wave will come up to engollop you in its midst. We stayed at a hotel that used to be a palace and it was palatial—that is, it was in front. All the parlors were fine, but the bedrooms in the rear wouldn't do for store-rooms home. These old Dukes that used to live there were great on parlors, salongs they called them, but when it came bed time most anything was good enough.
I suppose you know that Venice is built mostly on water—like American railroads Pop says, though I never saw one of them and I guess that's what Aunt Sarah calls one of Pops suttle political whimsies. The houses are held up by spiles that have been driven down into the mud, and when people want to go anywhere they hire a gondola and get paddled off to where they want to go. Of course they haven't any horses and Pop says the only driving they can do is spile driving. He told Jules to get a team of quiet gentle spiles that a lady could drive and let me try 'em, but Jules was so stupid he didn't understand—-though he pretended he did and promised to have 'em at the door at three o'clock, and when three o'clock came he told Pop he was very sorry but every one in town had been hired for the season. Jules is smart even if he can't understand American jokes.
Venice is a great many years old and used to be managed by men they called Dodges. They didn't have mares the way we do in our cities because horses couldn't get along there, but they whacksed very rich and built magnificent houses and churches and palaces. They have a great big public square called St. Marks where the bandolins play every night and it's full of pigeons.
Pigeons are so sacred here that when they have 'em on the bills of fare at the hotels they call them squab for fear the populace would rise and tear them limb from limb for eating pigeons. They make glass in Venice too, smelling bottles and tumblers and chandeliers, but the best part of the whole thing is the canals. The water isn't very clean but it's clean enough and I tell you what a boy has a great advantage over a nurse in a place like Venice. One morning when Pop and I were getting gondoliered along the Grand Canal we heard a fearful shrieking in one of the palaces and in a minute we saw a boy being chased by his nurse. He was only about a foot ahead and she almost had him when he jumped off the front stoop into the canal and swam up and down just out of her reach and my, wasn't she mad! I don't know what she said because she spoke Italian, but I could guess generally what she meant. Just think of it for a minute. If you want to go swimming or fishing or boating you can do it all right in front of your own house. We'd be pretty rich in America if we could stand on our front door steps and catch all the dinner we needed.
One great thing for children is to stand in the square and feed the pigeons I was telling you about. Pop bought me three bags of corn and the minute I dropped one little kernel of it on the walk about a hundred pigeons flew down. A lot of 'em roostered on my arms and one fellow sat on my hat, and then we went inside the cathedral which is magnificently furnished with things the Venetians used to steal from the heathen they went out to convert, but they're a little sore because Napoleon came down and stole a few things from them. People over here don't like to put the boot on the other leg any more than they do at home, which Aunt Sarah says shows that human nature is the same in Italian as it is in English.
Where they haven't got canals in Venice there are little narrow streets about three feet wide mostly and you'd have as hard a time finding your way about through them as Pop would trying to follow the lines of a sailor suit for a boy of seven through one of Ma's Bazar patterns. That's what Pop said. He said Venice must have been laid out after a Bazar pattern and he asked Ma to go up in a high tower they have there called the Campanini to get a bird's eye view of it and see whether it was a bicycle costume or a pignoir they had in mind when they laid it out. Ma said Pop was flippant and he said all right my dear, I'll let you find our way home and she tried it and in ten minutes she had us lost and she turned to Pop and said I guess you're right about the Bazar pattern, popper, this is the worst yet.
We all wanted to stay there a week but it wasn't possible. A birds eye view of it was all we had time for and so we left for Genoa after two days at Venice. To-morrow we sail for Hoboken on the Werra and my next letter will be from home, when I'll tell you all about Gibraltar, Genoa, and Hoboken.
Good-bye Bob.
P.S. The bandolins came and sang under our window at Venice the last night and it was very romantic Pop says even if the soprano did fall into the water reaching up for a ten cent piece Pop had.
W. M. ROBINSON,
St. Paul's School.
A notable event in interscholastic baseball was the defeat of Lawrenceville, May 27, on their own grounds, by the St. Paul's nine. The game was a hard one, and lasted for twelve innings, the final score being 3-2. As the score indicates, the teams were very evenly matched, but St. Paul's excelled slightly in team-work, and (Cadwalader being unavailable for Lawrenceville) was stronger in the box. Hall, the Garden City pitcher, is a better man than either Arrott or Blake. He showed himself to be especially strong when he had men on bases.
In batting, the teams were about equal, in spite of the fact that the tabulated score credits St. Paul's with ten hits to Lawrenceville's six. Arthur Robinson, the clever young sprinter who did such remarkable work at the Long Island Interscholastics, played short-stop in this Lawrenceville game without an error; he had five difficult chances, and accepted them all. The out-fielders on the St. Paul's team distinguished themselves not only in field-work, but also at the bat. This victory, coupled with the fact that the St. Paul's nine has not been defeated by any school team for two years, places the Garden City team in the front rank of scholastic ball-players.
The Columbia Interscholastic Tennis Tournament, which was played on the Oval at Williamsbridge, was won by J. M. L. Walton, of the Callisen School. He met R. D. Little, of Cutler's, in the final round, and took the match in three straight sets—6-1, 6-2, 6-1. His work was steady throughout the tournament, and he showed good head-work, especially in his contest with Little.
T. R. PELL,
Winner of the N.Y.I.S.A.A. Tennis Tournament
First place in the tournament for the tennis championship of the New York I.S.A.A. was taken by T. R. Pell, of Berkeley. This tourney was held on the Berkeley Oval, but no playing of a very high order developed. Pell won all his matches in straight sets, and defeated Wenman of Drisler's in the finals—6-3, 6-1, 6-1. In the semi-final round he met R. D. Little, who lost to Walton in the Columbia tournament, and disposed of him—6-4, 6-2.
The winning of the New York I.S.A.A. Tennis Tournament does not entitle Pell to play at Newport. Walton, however, as the winner of the Columbia-Interscholastic Championship, has the privilege of representing this district at the national event, and will no doubt be seen on the courts at Newport in August.
The Hotchkiss School baseball Team is rapidly getting into shape, and promises to be a stronger nine than that which represented the school last year. Five of the old men are back, and the new material is developing rapidly. The batting is considerable of an improvement over last season's. Warner, the catcher, makes a good back-stop, but is not reliable in his throwing to bases. He is weak too on high fouls, and somewhat slow; but he makes up for these deficiencies in his batting, and runs the bases well.
Cook, in the box, is a new man, and promises to develop into a strong pitcher. He is liable to be wild at times, but grows steadier at critical points of the game. He bats well and he runs well. Noyes, at first, is very strong on high throws, but muffs badly on grounders. His throwing is only fair, but he handles the stick pretty well. McKelvey, at second, is a veteran, and is keeping up to his old standard. He still retains his old fault, however, which is a very bad one, of stepping back from the ball when he is batting. This is a fatal weakness for a man who hopes to become a hard hitter. He slides well, but does not run quite fast enough around the bases.
Decrow, r.f. Cook, p. Noyes, 1 b. Coy, l.f.
Fincke, s.s. Camp (Capt.), 3 b. Warner, c.
McKelvey, 2 b. Parton, c.f.
HOTCHKISS SCHOOL BASEBALL NINE.
Fincke, at short-stop, is a good athlete, and comes from good athletic stock. He is a cousin of the quarter-back of last year's Yale team, and he has only recently made a record for himself by winning the Yale Interscholastic Tennis Tournament. This is his first year on the team. He throws and fields well, but bats only fairly. He is slow on the bases, but has the promise of an excellent ball-player. Captain Camp, at third, is steady both in fielding and in throwing. He bats well, but would have a better average if he were not constantly trying to make home runs. He is a good base-runner, but his responsibilities as captain have somewhat weakened his all-round work.
Coy, in left field, is another new man who has also done well on the tennis-court. He is sore on high flies, but unreliable on running catches. He does not throw well, and his batting is only fair, whereas his base-running is open to great improvement. Parton is also new to the team. He is not sure of line drives, and would be an excellent thrower if he could cultivate accuracy. He is good on the bases. Decrow is probably the best fielder on the team; he covers more ground than any of the others, and shows good judgment on flies. He throws better than he did last year, and his batting is improving, but he needs a good deal of coaching on base-running and sliding.
The Fourth Annual Interscholastic Meet of the Illinois high-schools was held at Champaign on May 16, and the banner went to Rockford H.-S. with 23 points, Englewood High, the favorite, coming second with 21 points. But as the bicycle-race was protested, and has gone to the L. A. W. for final decision, Englewood may yet attain the title of champion.
On account of heavy rains in the morning, the events were postponed until afternoon, and considering the heavy track, the performances were very creditable. A dark horse, Machin of Duquoin, took a good many points away from Englewood in the sprints, and proved a surprise to the knowing ones. These dashes and the mile run were the most interesting events of the day, although the quarter-mile afforded a spirited finish. The field events were fairly well contested, but the wet condition of the turf hindered the hammer-throwers considerably, and many fouled repeatedly.
The list of events is one of the most acrobatic and non-athletic that I have seen for a long time. It included such events as the high kick, which must have been an imposing event to watch on an athletic field, and a hop, step, and jump; the standing broad jump, a quarter-mile bicycle-race, and a 50-yard dash. Of course there is no special objection to the last two events in themselves, although they are not recognized as standards for interscholastic field days in this part of the country, or in any place where track sports have become thoroughly systematized. But there is an objection to them when they are put on the programme to the exclusion of such standard events as the hurdles.
Some of the performances in the standard events, however, were above the average. The mile was run in 4 min. 46-2/5 sec.; the 100-yards was taken by Machin in 10-2/5 sec.; the quarter went to Egbert in 53-1/5 sec.; Martin ran the 220 in 23-3/5 sec.; and Hutchinson cleared 20 ft. 3 in, in the broad jump. The score by points follows: Rockford, 23; Englewood, 21; Hyde Park, 11; Duquoin, 10; Chicago English High and Manual Training, 9; Peoria, 9; West Aurora, 8; Urbana, 8; Canton, 7; East Aurora, 6; Champaign, 6; Springfield, 5; Mattoon, 5; Chicago Manual Training, 5; Macomb, 5; Jacksonville, 5; Lake View, 4; Winnetka, 3; Tuscola, 3; Pekin, 1.