THAT DISREPUTABLE SCHOOL-HOUSE STOVE.
BY ARTHUR WILLIS COLTON.
The district school-house in Hagar was very old, but it never looked so, on account of the paint. When the Selectmen concluded not to do something that ought to be done, because it would cost too much, they violently painted the school-house instead. It relieved their feelings and did not cost too much. Also, the school-house standing prominently by the cross-roads, it gave a thrifty appearance to the village.
The inside of the school-house was seldom painted by the violent Selectmen, or its individuality interfered with in any way. Its desks became more whittled from year to year, its ceiling smokier, and its blackboards dingier with adding and subtracting. The water-pail that stood over the cellar stairs was often upset for different reasons, so that now and then there was a new water-pail. The stove stood in front of the teacher's desk, and, on cold days, an enormous distance from the back seats. The stove-pipe was strung along the ceiling on precarious wires.
This stove was not an adequate stove. The sphere of its influence fell short of the back seats. It was an uncertain and variable stove. It sulked; sometimes it dropped legs and severed connections with the pipe. On windy days it shook, roared, threw sparks, and interrupted lessons. The Selectmen, namely, Deacon Crockett, Harvey Cummings, and Mr. Atherton Bell—who had been to the Legislature—were told that the stove was not an adequate stove, and denounced the school-house as a source of endless expense.
In the fall and spring the school was taught by different young ladies, who were much to be pitied. In the winter it was taught by a man—for some years by a man named Pollock, who had ideas. When the school became very unruly he flung the bell on the floor to produce silence. It was a large yellow-colored bell. When it was rung, the sound of it was as the sound of lamentation, and when it was flung on the floor it made us think of a number of funerals all mixed up. Mr. Pollock also taught algebra to those whom he thought deserved it; that was his idea of rewarding merit. It seemed to us that his idea was wrong.
But this story which I have to tell is not about the school in general, but a particular story intended to bring out a moral about the putting of horse-chestnuts in a stove, namely, that it is very revolutionary, and a good way to play nihilists, if you wish to play nihilists. It concerns one Willy Flint, who was an imp; not one of those nervous black little things, however, such as you would expect an imp to be. He had light hair, rather thin red eyelids, and no nerves; but for all that he was an imp. His sister's name was Angelica Bertina and some other names. She also was an imp. I believe she was, or grew up to be, a very pretty girl, but at that time I had no opinion of such matters.
Angelica kicked the snow against the entry-door and mentioned a desire to smash things. She felt that way, perhaps, more often than most people, but we all know how it is when it is a relief, although nothing in particular has happened, to get a large club and pound a rock. It is partly surplus energy and partly discontent. Bobby Bell stared at Angelica admiringly. It was the noon-hour. Willy Flint reached the bottom of his lunch-pail, shook up the crumbs, and fitted it deftly on the head of Bobby Bell, who escaped and ran into Angelica. Angelica collared him and shook him out of the dinner-pail, but respectfully, for Bobby Bell was a gentleman, though very little, and though only five or six years old, greatly admired Angelica.
"You let Bobby alone," snapped Angelica; but Willy Flint was thinking of something else. Angelica, holding Bobby by the collar, brushed off the crumbs, and Bobby became contented and conversational.
"My fatha's comin' to thee the thtove," he announced.
"How do you know?" asked Willy Flint, blinking his red eyelids.
"My fatha thaid tho. Tho'th Deacon Cwockett. Tho'th Mithta Cummin'. Tho'th my fatha."
Willy Flint blinked his eyelids at Bobby Bell for some minutes, and then, without looking to the right or left, started on a run through the drifts to the road and along the road eastward. The entire school stopped snowballing and watched him in dumb amazement. Just as he turned into the Flints' gate, a quarter of a mile away, Mr. Pollock came to the entry and rang the lamentable bell. Therefore Willy Flint was late, and had to do a strange sum, involving two men who exchanged commodities in such a manner as never ought to be done in this world.
Willy Flint sat, pretending to do this sum, on the seat behind the stove, because he was an imp, and Mr. Pollock wished to keep an eye on him. The scholars on the back seats were good but cold; those in between were middling. Angelica Bertina was reciting geography, which she did very well. I suppose it practised her memory to remember her name. When one can say Angelica Bertina and the other names easily, it helps one out with Liberia and Porto Rico.
Willy Flint looked at Mr. Pollock, who looked at him, and asked Angelica about the products of Liberia. Willy Flint sighed despondently and drew spindle-legged people on his slate. Angelica stated the products of Liberia to be coffee, ivory, and rofia-palm fibre, and Mr. Pollock did not deny it, though of course rofia-palm fibre belongs with Madagascar and not with Liberia. He was wondering what Willy Flint was about to do.
Angelica saw his abstracted eye and went on, "Arrowroot, sugar, chewing-gum."
Here Moses Durfey giggled and Mr. Pollock started.
"What's that?"
"Cotton," said Angelica, "cocoa, oranges, and lemons."
"Ah," said Mr. Pollock. "Correct."
And Willy Flint looked more cheerful.
This was the situation when the Selectmen came: the stove behaving in various ways, Willy Flint considering what he was about to do, Mr. Pollock wondering what that was, and Angelica reciting geography.
There was a loud knock at the entry-door, and Mr. Pollock and the entire school, with the exception of Willy Flint and Angelica, left whatever they were doing, and concentrated their minds on the door. Willy Flint leaned swiftly forward and slipped something through the damper of the stove. Angelica cast a glance after Mr. Pollock, closed her eyes, and recited in a loud voice:
"Abyssinia, eastern Africa, three kingdoms—Shoa, Tigre, and Amhara, elevated table-land, of which majority of people—m-m-m-m—pastoral pursuits."
Willy Flint again leaned forward and slipped something through the damper.
"Ah!" said Mr. Pollock, at the door. "Come in." And the violent Selectmen entered, namely, Deacon Crockett, Harvey Cummings, and Mr. Atherton Bell—who had been to the Legislature. Again Willy Flint leaned forward.
"Exports, skins," shouted Angelica, "ivory, gums—"
"Angelica," said Mr. Pollock, sternly—"Angelica Flint, that will do." And Angelica, with an eye on Willy's movements, thought that very likely it might.
"We've come to see about that stove," said the fluent Mr. Atherton Bell. "Now I don't see anything the matter with the stove. Do you, Deacon? It appears to me to have an excellent draught."
Deacon Crockett nodded gloomily.
"Furs rate," said Mr. Cummings.
"A good serviceable stove," said Mr. Atherton Bell.
Bang! went something in the stove; boom! crack! bang!
The top of the stove rose and danced about in an angular manner. The pipe came down and covered Deacon Crockett and Willy Flint impartially with soot. Legs went here and there. The door bounced off, followed by ashes and coals, and smote Mr. Cummings sorely on the foot. Then the stove settled down, propped only by one leg plainly showing and declaring itself the most disreputable stove in the town of Hagar; and the school resolved itself into anarchy, which proves just what all wise men say, that nihilism results in anarchy.
"Who done that?" shouted Mr. Cummings, angrily. Deacon Crockett said nothing, but glared. Willy Flint, being also covered with soot, looked in every respect like the down-trodden victim of conspiracy. Mr. Pollock wiped his glasses, which meant that he intended to maintain his presence of mind; and Mr. Atherton Bell, whom neither soot had touched nor flying missile smitten anywhere, seeing the misfortunes of his colleagues, immediately saw also the humor of the thing in a broad and liberal manner, thumped his sides and laughed loudly.
"Now, Harvey, tut, tut! Now, deacon—"
Then Bobby Bell, who greatly admired his father, joined in shrilly; then the rest of the school saw the humor of it too. Mr. Cummings, polishing his toe, smiled feebly. Mr. Pollock's eyes, as he brushed the Deacon's back with the broom, twinkled behind his glasses. The only persons who seemed really chagrined were Deacon Crockett and Willy Flint. Such it is to have an eye for the humor of a thing.
"Why—why," gasped Mr. Atherton Bell, "Pollock—Pollock—you don't mean to tell me it acts like this—I might say—customarily?"
Mr. Pollock wiped his glasses slowly. "No," he said, "I never saw it act just like that before—not so badly as that."
And all the school agreed that it had never acted so badly as that before.
And so it came about, what with Mr. Atherton Bell's sense of humor and the intense dislike which Harvey Cummings conceived for the ancient stove, that a new stove was put in—a large flat-topped satisfactory stove on which could be baked nearly a quart of chestnuts.
I remember distinctly how Chub Leroy, Moses Durfey, and I argued it over, and concluded that Willy Flint was to be a nihilist. After that we collected horse-chestnuts, and did things with them for which Moses Durfey was spanked. And Angelica, whose language was vigorous, like her stride, remarked that Mr. Pollock was "game." He was, in fact, a very honest and kindly gentleman, who always maintained his presence of mind, and that was about what Angelica meant.
[FRENCH BOYS' GAMES.]
The games of the children of France are the games of the children of the world—for games are the same all the world over.
This discovery is a great blow to your patriotic feeling of proprietorship in them. "Hide-and-Seek" and "Blind-Man's-Buff" are as much American to us as "The Star-spangled Banner" and "Yankee Doodle." English children might perhaps know them, because the English are our cousins and speak our language; but they had certainly never got so far from home as across the Channel. And now, when you begin to look into the subject, you find that "Hide-and-Seek" is represented in one of the old paintings found in the ruins of Herculaneum, and that not only children, but grown people as well, played this fascinating game in India long before we Americans were born or thought of. Rousselet, a French traveller who wrote about India, says that an Indian Emperor in the sixteenth century built a palace expressly for playing it. The palace contained a wonderful labyrinth in marble, and little cabinets for people to hide in, with a marble pillow in the centre for a goal.
And "Blind-Man's-Buff" is equally of very ancient lineage, and is really a French game, though it is not called by that name in France. This is the way it came to be invented: In the year 999 Robert, the son of Hugh Capet, had attached to his service a warrior named Colin, surnamed Maillard, or Mallet, because a mallet was his favorite weapon. In a campaign against the Count of Louvain, Colin Maillard had his eyes put out; but he kept on fighting, guided by his squires. So, in memory of his bravery, King Robert established a military game, a sort of tournament named after him, which was nothing more nor less than "Blind-Man's-Buff." One of the titles to distinction of the celebrated crusader Godfrey de Bouillon was his having kept successfully the rôle of Colin Maillard five times.
Bowling is another very old French game, and the French word boulevard comes from it. It is made up of boule, or bowls, and vert, or green; so that the word means "the green bowling-place." The celebrated French boulevards, overhung by their green trees, were once upon a time the places where people congregated to bowl, and you can see how easily vert became vart, and how that was changed again into vard. Even nowadays one sometimes sees it written in old signs boulevart.
So in nearly all of the French games we find some of our old favorites, only changed more or less, according to the imagination of the people who have played them. The French are very imaginative, and the children always personify something or somebody in their games. For instance, "Tag," which is as popular here as at home, becomes "Chat," or "Cat." The person who is "it" is always a cat, and the others playing are generally supposed to be mice. There are several varieties of "Chat," such as "Chat perché" and "Chat coupé." In "Chat perché" the mouse is allowed to perch on anything it pleases, and is safe so long as it can hang on. Or the cat perches, and the mice watch the moment when the cat can no longer hold on and must fall. Generally the players agree that nobody is to be kept perched too long at a time. In "Chat coupé," the person who is cat chooses one person to run after. Any one else playing may cut in between the two running, when the cat changes her course to run after him.
Girls play "La Mère Gigogne," a running game in which one of the players is chosen to be the old Mother Gigogne. A line is traced, or some sort of boundary is decided on, behind which la Mère Gigogne is supposed to live. She calls out "La Mère Gigogne va sortir" (Mother Gigogne is going out), and then makes a dive for the children, who run as hard as they can with the mother Gigogne after them. The children, as they are caught one after the other, are put inside the boundary, and must take hold of hands in a line until all are taken. This line can bar the passage of the others, so the Mother Gigogne can catch them more easily. This is a favorite game in the girls' pensions or schools, and in the lycées and common schools both girls and boys alike play the "Jen de Barres," or "Prisoner's Base."
"Prisoner's Base" is exactly like our own "Prisoner's Base," and perhaps it may interest you to know that this game was invented by the Greeks about five hundred years before Christ. That and "Theque" are perhaps the two favorite boys' games in France. "Theque" is a kind of feeble imitation of our baseball, played in a babyish sort of way that would make an American college team faint. Indeed it is only lately that they are beginning to realize in France that boys need a certain amount of athletics to make them healthy and manly, and are trying to encourage out-door sports in all the schools. There has recently been held in Paris a grand international congress to promote the re-establishment of the old Olympic games, but exactly what these re-established Olympic games are going to be it is too early to say yet. Meanwhile lawn-tennis is getting to be as popular in France as at home, and croquet is a perpetual favorite.
The French have all sorts of pretty rounds, like the charming old "Pont d'Avignon"—when they used to dance "en rond"—which is not so popular as a round now as it used to be in the olden time; but there are many others. Instead of "Little Sally Waters," all the "babies in our block" in Paris would sing, "J'ai un joli bouquet, à qui le donnerai-je?" (I have a charming bouquet, to whom shall I give it?) or "Nous n'irons plus au bois."
Perhaps this last is the most popular of the French rounds, so that it is given in full. The idea is something like this: "We will go no more to the wood, for all the laurels are cut. But the beautiful one I present to you will go and pick them up. Enter into the dance, sing and waltz, and embrace the one that you love the best."
"Nous n'irons plus au bois,
Les lauriers sont coupés;
La belle que voilà ira les ramasser.
Entrez dans la danse;
Voyez comme on danse;
Chantez, valsez, embrassez celle que vous aimez."
Another game that is a sort of round is called "Mon beau Guillaume." All the players form a circle, while "handsome William" stands in the centre. Then he asks, "Where are you going, mes belles dames?" And the belles dames answer that they are going to take a walk. "Mes belles dames, you will wear out your slippers." "Mon beau Guillaume, you will mend them for us." "Mes belles dames, and who will pay me for it?" "The one that you catch." Then beau Guillaume closes his eyes, and the circle turns around very fast three times, when beau Guillaume must catch somebody and guess who it is.
The French play some pretty in-door games which are not known in America, a favorite of which is "Why am I on the sellete?" Sellette means literally "stool," and it is represented by a chair in the centre of the room. One person goes out, while another of the players goes around and asks each one why So-and-so is "on the sellette." When all the answers are given, the player who has gone out is called in, and takes his place on the chair. "Why am I on the sellette?" he asks, and the person who has collected the answers gives one after another, while the person in the centre tries to guess who are their authors. You can see that all the fun of this game, like that of many others, depends upon the cleverness of the players, for each one tries to make a witty hit in his answer at some characteristic or some event in the life of the person in question that is known to the speaker alone. If the person on the sellette guesses the author of the answer, the latter takes his place on the sellette.
"If I were a little piece of paper, what would you do with me?" is another game of the same sort, where the interest depends on the cleverness of the answers. "I'd make you into a bank-note." "I'd make you into a love-letter." You can see how an endless number of bright replies is possible. "I've lost my valise—what was there in it?" is another, in which any little foible or characteristic of the questioner is good-naturedly hit off. "Pigeon, vole, oiseau, vole," is a game very much like our "Simon says thumbs up." You twirl your two forefingers and put them down on your knees, saying, "Pigeon, fly, bird, fly," etc. But if you say "rabbit, fly," or any other animal that hasn't wings, and any fingers go down, their owners must give a forfeit.
And now to end with one more game, "Marriage and Divorce." All the players but one form in couples, one behind the other. The one left out stands in front of them in this way .::: and claps his hands three times, when the last two players run, one on one side and one on the other, and try to come together again and join hands behind the one standing alone before he shall have been able to catch either one of them. If he does not succeed in doing this the couple are still married, and take their place at the head of the others. If he succeeds, the one caught takes his place, and he "marries" the other, and takes his place with his bride at the head.
[IMPORTANT "TRIFLES" ON WAR-SHIPS.]
BY FRANKLIN MATTHEWS.
I.
Suppose that a state of war exists between the United States and some other country well supplied with modern war-ships. Suppose, also, that one of our best battle-ships—like the Kentucky, soon to be built—is cruising off New York Harbor. A monster battle-ship of the enemy appears, and the ships are to fight until one is sunk or conquered. The alarm for general quarters has sounded. Every gun is loaded; the decks are cleared; ammunition is ready for instant use. The captain has taken his place in the conning-tower. The enemy approaches. The signal runs through the ship, "Stand by to fire!"
When the enemy gets within 3000 yards, the Kentucky's 13-inch forward guns will each hurl a monster bullet, weighing more than a thousand pounds, at the other vessel. Not a shot must be fired until the enemy is exactly 3000 yards away. Both ships are moving swiftly. In less than one second the enemy will be exactly 3000 yards off. An awful roar follows. A tongue of fire, followed by a rolling, bounding ball of smoke, darts from a great cannon. Nearly a quarter of a mile away the eye can see the half-ton projectile darting straight toward the other ship. It hits the very place it was intended to hit. Half a dozen such shots, or perhaps fewer, may send the other vessel to the bottom. The battle rages. Shot after shot is fired, and finally one vessel hoists the white flag, or careens, and the order is given for every man to save himself as she plunges to the bottom.
THE RANGE-FINDER.
Marvellous as the shooting has been, still more marvellous is the way it has been done. The gunners have fired without seeing, or even looking to see, the other ship. They have fired by looking rather at little dials close by each gun. They have aimed each gun without trying to see the enemy. Still, each shot goes straight to the mark, and the havoc is terrific. How is it all done? Long before the firing began you might have observed a sailor-man, half-way up each mast of the battle-ship, looking at the enemy through a telescope. Attached to each telescope are a telephone-receiver and mouth-piece. The receiver is fitted to the sailor-man's head, and the mouth-piece comes close to his lips as he looks through the telescope. One of the sailor-men says to the other, through the telephone:
"I am looking at the forward smoke-pipe. Keep your eye on that until I tell you to change."
DIAGRAM SHOWING TELEPHONIC CONNECTIONS BETWEEN RANGE-FINDERS AND GUNNERS.
A.—Central Telephone Station. B.—Dial on which Distance is conveyed to Gunners from A. C.—Range-finder who conveys Angle to A. D.—Gun-firer who presses Firing-button when Range is Found.
"All right," comes the answer; and then, as the enemy nears the Kentucky, these two telescopes follow the ship, turning gradually as the vessel comes nearer. Down at each gun there is another man looking at the enemy through a telescope. He is the gun-firer. Another man at the gun, the gunner, has turned a wheel to elevate the gun so as to shoot a certain number of yards, as marked on the dial in front of him. The vessel is rolling from side to side. The gun now points high in the air, and now down into the water. It is known that the enemy is the exact distance away to be hit by the projectile if the Kentucky did not roll. The gun-firer watches as his ship comes to a level. He sees the other ship exactly in the centre of his telescope, or at the juncture of the cross-hairs on the glass. Not a tenth of a second must be lost. The gunner has already pressed down a button, showing that his aim is all right for a certain distance. The gun-firer presses his button as the target shows itself in the centre of the cross-hairs; an electric current flashes through the primer of the projectile, and a thunder-bolt of war speeds through the air at the rate of about 2000 feet a second. The gun cannot be fired unless both gunner and gun-firer press down the buttons in front of them. How do they know when to do this? Who tells them when to fire? The answer is that no one tells them when to fire after they have received their general orders. It all results from those two sailor-men on the masts following the path of the enemy.
Those men on the masts are working the range-finders. There are electrical instruments that tell automatically the exact distance from them of any object. All that the men have to do is to keep looking at the enemy, and the guns will keep on hitting the mark if fired at that instant in the roll or plunge that the target comes at the centre of the gun-firer's telescope. All that is absolutely essential, as a first requisite, is that the two men at the range-finders shall be looking at the same spot on the enemy's ship. Electricity does most of the rest of the work. Now you must know that there are instruments in navigation by which distances of objects from a ship can be reckoned accurately. A sextant is one of these instruments. It requires a lot of figuring, however, to fix the distance. It would be useless to try to use these instruments in a battle. Long before the distance of an enemy could be computed his ship, and your own as well, would have changed its position, going as war-ships in time of conflict do at the rate of more than a quarter of a mile a minute. A shot fired at the distance computed would perhaps be a mile wide of the mark.
Nor will it do to fire at an enemy in the old hit-or-miss style that used to be followed. In the old days the gunner sighted the gun, made an allowance as best he could for the distance the ship would go before he fired, and when the roll or plunge of his own vessel was favorable he pulled a string, as he turned away his head, and took chances of hitting the other ship. He had to guess the distance largely. He first tried a certain range, and then another, until he gradually got the right distance, and then he fired, whenever he got the right chance. Those were the days of the old smooth-bore cannon; the days when a captain could make himself heard by a speaking-trumpet anywhere on deck, and almost anywhere below-deck by shouting down a hatchway. All that is changed now. The roar on a war-ship in battle is like that on a mountain-top encased in a violent thunder-storm. Then, too, ammunition is too costly and too limited nowadays to be wasted by experiments in finding the range of the enemy, and in taking chances on hitting him. One shot from one of these guns of modern times may win the battle by piercing the vitals of the enemy's ship, and not even the smallest chance must be taken to miss that target. It is for that reason that the wonderful aid of electricity has been called into use on war-ships in many devices. Probably the most wonderful of all these devices is the range-finder.
RANGE-FINDERS AT WORK ON THE ENEMY FROM THE FORE AND MAIN TOPS.
It isn't necessary for us to go deep into electrical science to understand how this instrument does its work. Electricity itself is a great mystery, and a puzzle in many ways to those who understand it best. Most of us have not been able to grasp its simpler puzzles until we studied them in college, and even then it would not be well for us to boast of what we knew. All we need to know, however, to understand the range-finder is a little problem in geometry. Most of you understand that if we have a triangle, and know the length of one side and the size of the angles at the ends of that side, we can figure exactly the length of the other two sides and the distance of the point where those two sides meet. Well, that explains just how the range-finder works. The exact distance between the two men looking through the telescopes is known and fixed. Each man looks, as we have seen, at the same point out in the distance on the enemy's ship. That point is where the two unknown sides of the triangle come together. There is no time to figure the distance. A tenth of a second in these days is too much time to be lost. We must use electricity to do our figuring. This is the way it is done: The telescopes are turned about on electric circuits; that is, they are attached to a metal circle charged with electricity. The wires from these circles run to a little dial down in the hold. The Wheatstone bridge or electrical balance system is used. That means that the resistance of a current through a wire through a given distance is measured finally by a dial on a marking-instrument.
Now it is impossible to turn one or both of those telescopes on the range-finders without moving the dial on the marking-instrument. Electricity has progressed so far that to the exact foot the dial will indicate the distance an object is away from the base of the line connecting the range-finding instruments. At any instant that dial will tell how many yards off the enemy is. The men at the telescopes know nothing of what the dial is doing. The dial is down in the central telephone exchange of the ship. One man is stationed there to do nothing else than to watch what it records. He has a little instrument beside him called a range-indicator. The dial of the range-finder says that the enemy is so many yards away. He simply presses a button on the range-indicator, which sends a current to other range-indicators in ten different places on a battle-ship like the Kentucky. The needles of these ten instruments, one at each of the guns of the main battery, and at some of the guns of the secondary battery, tell the gunner how far off the enemy is. The indicators have simply transmitted the news to the gunners which the range-finders have discovered automatically.
Every gunner knows, by the sliding-scale attached to his gun, just how far to elevate the gun so as to carry its projectile a certain number of yards. He does not look along his gun. He pays no attention to the enemy himself. He keeps one hand on a little wheel, which he turns with his fingers, and the slightest twist alters the range of the piece. In a twinkling he can change the range a hundred yards. Suppose, now, the dial of the range-finder in front of the man in the telephone central indicates 2580 yards. He presses his button on the range-indicator, and in ten places on board the Kentucky the gunners know that the enemy is 2580 yards away. Previous warnings have fixed that distance approximately. With a quick twist of the wrist the range of each gun in action is fixed for 2580 yards. The gunner keeps his eye on the range-indicator, and when his gun is pointed to carry its projectile that distance he presses down his firing-button. But it will not do, perhaps, to fire at that instant. The ship may be rolling or pitching. The gun-firer is looking through his telescope. Suddenly the ship is shown to be on an even keel, because the cross-hairs of the telescope centre on the enemy. The gun-firer presses his button, and the gun is discharged.
Suppose, now, that the range has changed between the time that the gun is aimed and the time the Kentucky has reached an even keel. Of course the gun-firer at the telescope can know nothing of it. He presses his button, and perhaps is surprised to find that the gun does not fire. That simply means that the gunner has taken his finger off his firing-button while he is changing the range of the gun to the new figures just telegraphed to him from the range-finder. The gun cannot be fired unless the buttons of both gunner and gun-firer are pressed down at the same time. This is done to avoid waste of ammunition. The gunner keeps his finger on his firing-button all the time the range remains fixed. During that time the man at the telescope can fire the gun whenever the cross-hairs of his instrument tell him it is the proper time to fire. If the range is being changed, the gun does not go off. If the range is set, the gun does go off. In either case the man at the telescope has nothing to do with the range. All he has to do is to watch the enemy and press his button. All the gunner has to do is to see that the range of his gun is the same as the range-indicator registers, and to keep his button pressed down so long as the range is fixed. All the man in the central telegraph and telephone exchange on ship has to do is to see what range the range-finders are indicating and telegraph it to the gunners. All the men at the range-finders have to do is to keep pointing their telescopes at the enemy, and let the rest of the work take care of itself.
All this seems like a complicated bit of mechanism. So it is; but, as with all electrical appliances, it is difficult to understand and extremely simple to use them. It may surprise you to know that from the time that the range-finder sailors fix their telescopes on the enemy less than one second need elapse before the guns are fired. Of course every man is at his station. Each gun is already fixed at near the proper range. The range-finders give the exact distance. The man in the central office telegraphs it to the gunners. The gunners adjust their weapons and press down their buttons. The gun-firers wait to get the proper sight, probably in the same twinkling of an eye that all this information is being sent over the ship, and he finally fires the gun. Of course, where the ship is rolling or pitching considerably, the time between fixing the range and firing the gun may be longer. After the gun is all ready for firing, however, even the fifth of a second may make the difference between a hit and a miss, and hence the need for the lightning quickness of electricity.
The range-finder and the other appliances used with it are the inventions of Lieutenant Bradley A. Fiske, of the United States navy. No other navy than ours has them, although the naval authorities of other nations are thinking of adopting them. If we should have a war right away, we should have an advantage over an enemy. Constant experience has shown their complete success.
In another article we shall consider some more of these "trifles" that are used in connection with electricity on war-ships.
[A LOYAL TRAITOR.]
A STORY OF THE WAR OF 1812 BETWEEN AMERICA AND ENGLAND.
BY JAMES BARNES.
CHAPTER III.
THE BURNING.
The fire must have eaten through the chimney, and had probably been burning in the walls along the staircase and in the floors of the rubbish chambers for some minutes before we had inkling of it. It was almost beyond imagining, the way it spread. But the steps of the staircase itself were firm underfoot, although inside the walls, and even to the roof, the roaring crackling flames were gutting the left wing of the house.
The doctor did not stop to help Mr. Edgerton find the key; he threw his weight against the door I pointed out again and again. It went open with a crash at last, after I had thought that the doctor would have stove his own side in first.
There was no smoke on this side of the house, but it followed us from the hallway, choking the throat and stinging the eyes. There was the box in the middle of the room.
Now we were all three encouraging one another and shouting for haste. Twice did the lawyer drop the bunch of keys as he tried to fit the lock.
"Take them, lad," he cried at last, looking over his shoulder; "your fingers are the nimbler. But make haste!" The tears were pouring down his face; he hurriedly rose from his knees, and, making a leap for the window, kicked out the glass and the shutter that had been nailed fast, and thrust his head to the air, coughing, struggling, and gagging as if his last day had come.
In the mean time the doctor was bending over, with his face close to mine, and whispering admonitions to be cool; but his hand on my shoulder shook as if the ague had possession of him. Upon my soul, I think I was the coolest of the three! Key after key I tried without success. Suddenly the doctor slipped his fingers into the handle at the end.
"OUT OF THE WINDOW WITH IT!" HE SPLUTTERED.
"Out the window with it!" he spluttered. "What jack-asses! What dunces! Bear a hand here, Edgerton!"
The lawyer turned back into the room. He took the other end of the box, and they heaved with all their strength, I, still on my knees, helping them. We might as well have tried to pull the big oak before the house up by the roots.
"It's nailed down!" roared the lawyer, running his fingers along the edge.
There was a crash in the lower hall, and a great tongue of flame, like a red thirsty blade, licked in at us through the doorway. There was such a roaring now in our ears that we could not make ourselves heard except by shouting.
"Out of the window for our lives!" cried the doctor. "The stairs have fallen!"
The lawyer bestowed some angry but useless kicks on the lid of the box, and we piled out of the window on the roof of the back piazza. The wind, blowing strongly from the eastward, had kept most of the smoke and the flame away from the north side of the building.
But it was a fearsome sight to see the way things were going. The whole of the west wing, and the south also, to the roof, was one red smooch of flame against the tree-tops. The dark smoke curled over and hung close to the damp earth. It was some twelve or fifteen feet from the piazza roof to the ground, but a chinaberry-tree grew close to hand, spreading to the eaves.
The lawyer made one leap of it into the tree and crashed through it; and just as the roof on which we were standing shook and sloughed away and the flames burst up from below, the doctor and I caught at a branch and swung off together; but the limb broke beneath our weight. Down we came by the run, I landing full and fair upon the doctor's chest, which almost did for him for good and all.
Scrambling to our feet, Mr. Edgerton and I hauled him away to some distance from the house, and the cool rain helped to revive him, although for some minutes he drew breath with difficulty.
Then the three of us sat there on the wet grass and watched the house burn. I shall never forget it or the mixture of feelings which filled my mind and bosom. A sense of unreality, an inability to grasp the idea that it was really happening probably was uppermost.
The lawyer, whom I had always thought a cold-tempered person, was squatted cross-legged, Turk fashion, grasping the toes of his boots in either hand, and rocking himself to and fro, all the time muttering and scolding like a child, and, whether from the smoke or his anger and disappointment, the tears following one another down his cheeks.
The doctor, who had raised himself on his elbow, was the first to speak coherently.
"The burning of a mystery," he said. "Now what's to be done?"
A shrill, frightful scream, the like of which I had never heard before or since, roused us to our feet.
"In the name of all the powers, what's that?" cried the lawyer.
"The horses, man—we have forgotten them!" answered the doctor, starting on a run to the front of the house around the east wing.
The oak to which the two beasts had been made fast was close to the side of the house. One of them had broken loose, and had made off into the garden, towing the chain behind him. The other (the saddle-horse) had wound the halter around the trunk of the tree, and, half strangled, was snubbed close to it, backing away with all his might. As we saw this again he emitted the horrid cry of fright and agony. I had never known that such tones were in the voice of any animal. The heat had shrivelled the upper branches of the oak, and even the bark on the side toward the house was singed and smoking.
The lawyer drew out a knife, and hastening up, shielding his face, cut the poor beast adrift. He galloped away toward the swamp.
The wooden wing was completely eaten by this time, and the flames were pouring from every window of the brick portion of the older part of the dwelling. Soon the walls alone would be left standing. I turned away from the sight and looked out to the river. A long white row of wild swan swayed in the current. Their halloings and cries, like those of a crowd of school-children at recess, came down to us on the damp wind. The smoke had evidently been seen from one of the plantations up the Gunpowder, for a boat under a small sprit-sail was making out from the farther shore.
The doctor was now in the garden examining the chaise, which had been overturned in a patch of brushwood. He tried each wheel mechanically, and I could see he felt relieved that no damage had been done.
"Well, what are we going to do now?" I nervously asked of Mr. Edgerton, speaking for the first time, and repeating the doctor's words of a few minutes before.
The lawyer fumbled in his pockets and drew forth the miniature and the paper he had taken from the desk. I remembered having noticed also that the doctor had slipped the coins in his pocket.
"This is all we have to go by," he replied. "Lord only knows what you've lost, Master Hurdiss. Oh, confound the thought that made me light the fire!" he added, kicking and pawing at the soaked ground like an angry bull.
Well, to make a short story of a long one, we watched the house burn down to a mass of smouldering heated ashes, and then we started to drive back without speaking. On the return we met a number of men on foot and horseback, who had sighted the conflagration from the cross-roads and were coming down the lane, but it was too late to do anything, and in a few words we explained what had happened. That night we spent at the tavern, and the next day we returned to Marshwood, followed by many curious persons. We dug in the still warm ruins, and there, to show the heat of the fire, we discovered nothing of the strong-box but the hinges, melted out of shape, and two or three small bits of metal as large as bullets that had once been gold pieces. These were turned over to me as being my lawful possessions, and they made, with what the doctor had saved and the miniature and the paper, my sole inheritance. So now begins the time I must act for myself.
CHAPTER IV.
WHEREIN I FALL IN LOVE WITH THE SEA.
On the twelfth day of November, 1811, my new life began. But before I go on I should explain that on the outside of the paper which the lawyer had saved, and which I had deciphered on the day of the burning of Marshwood House (and which has staid in my mind, as I transcribed it also), an address had been found. In some way it had been overlooked upon the first reading. It was important, however, as it gave the address of my uncle, Monsieur Henri Amedee Lovalle de Brienne, as Miller's Falls, near Stonington, Connecticut.
The lawyer had written to this place a letter at some length, but we had waited in vain for a reply; letters often went astray in those days, and in some way, as I afterwards discovered, this one was most likely lost. In the mean time I had become a member of Mr. Edgerton's family. I was treated with kindness, but of course it was not expected of him to take charge of my maintenance, and the proposition for a change came from my own lips. In walking along the water-front one day I discovered that a little brig, the Minetta, was about to sail for Stonington, and I proposed to Mr. Edgerton to take passage in her and search out my relative, if he were living.
The lawyer, who I could see felt himself responsible in some way for the beginning of my misfortune, exacted a promise that should I fail in finding M. de Brienne, I would return to him, and I should have done so had affairs terminated otherwise than as they did.
The consultation in which this decision was arrived at took place on the evening of the tenth of the month; and it was two days later, as I have written, that my new life began. For bright and early that morning I was standing at the taffrail of the little brig that was being warped out into midstream.
Mr. Edgerton and his family, consisting of a maiden sister and a grown daughter (he had been a widower for some ten years), together with Mr. Thompson, the school-master, the major, the kind doctor, and some of my boy companions, were on the dock. And I must not forget that Aunt Sheba, Ann Martha, and Ol' Peter were there also, all three of them in tears.
The lawyer had promised to take care of Peter, and the doctor had taken Aunt Sheba and Ann Martha into his household. I am glad to say that I had not sold the old people, although I had a perfect right to do so, as they were my property, but had given them their freedom, and knew they were left in kind hands and keeping.
Soon the faces on shore became indistinct. The brig took in her kedge anchors, the trilling of her capstan falls ceased, her jibs rattled up the stays, the yards creaked aslant, and we caught the light westerly breeze. The tide was setting out, and we made good travelling of it.
I was not the only passenger. There was a Virginian, by the name of Chaffee, a tobacco-planter, who was going on the voyage as a sort of supercargo, and his wife (a slight, black-eyed woman of much spirit) accompanied him.
The Captain and first mate were both New Bedford men, and tiptop sailors, as circumstances proved afterwards. The crew of eight men were Americans also, so far as I could judge, three of them being negroes—great, deep-chested black fellows, worth large sums of money in the market; but they were free men, and held themselves differently from slaves, although one, Pompey, waited on the cabin table.
Whether the Minetta's crew was a picked one or not I do not know, but no man would have felt ashamed of being over them. I can say that much. As for the brig, she was something over one hundred and eighty tons burden, and loaded with tobacco, sole-leather, and turpentine; she was light in ballast, and in good trim for fast sailing.
The crew for the most part slept in a tall deck-house on the forecastle, built around the foremast, and the cabin was given up to Mr. Chaffee and his wife; the two officers and myself bunked in a little cubby-hole forward of the after-skylight.
The Minetta was old-fashioned, and her high poop and top sides gave her a clumsy look; her spars and masts were very heavy for her tonnage, and I think had been built for a larger vessel; but she spread a great show of canvas, and the way she boiled the water up in front of her proved she was no laggard.
We kept well to the eastern shore as we went down the bay, but, nevertheless, I soon made out the mouth of the Gunpowder River, and could see the stark walls of my old home standing out against the trees.
Here I was, scarce fourteen years of age, and starting into the wide world alone, verily with my bridges burned behind me! Mr. Chaffee had entered into conversation with me, and he and his wife displaying great interest, I told him as much of my story as I thought proper. So far as the Captain and first mate went, I might not have existed.
That night as I lay on my narrow little shelf, I was so full of thinking that at first I could not sleep. I longed for comfort, and would have given worlds to have rested my head on Aunt Sheba's shoulder. I half sobbed aloud from loneliness, but at last I dozed off, and was awakened some hours afterwards by feeling the vessel pitching heavily.
THE SOUND OF A SCURRYING ON DECK CAUSED ME TO START UP SUDDENLY.
Strange noises sounded all about me. Every plank overhead and on each side seemed to have a voice of its own. It was the first time I heard these sounds. Some loud bawling and the sound of scurrying from on deck caused me to start up suddenly, and I almost cracked my skull against a beam. After that I could not sleep, and lowering myself from the bunk I dressed and climbed out to the air.
I had imagined, from the patter of many feet, that I should find the whole crew trying to save the ship from some distress, and I was not prepared for the calm sight which met my eyes. It was moonlight, and all sail was set. The brig rose and fell steadily, occasionally taking a sea-chug under her broad bows with a jar which made her quiver, and the water would fly up in a gleaming sprinkle and scatter along the wet rail. Only four men were in sight—one at the wheel, two gathered in the lee of the forward deck-house, and the first mate leaning back against the skylight, smoking a long clay pipe.
(Oh, I have forgotten to mention that I had noticed the captain snoring in his bunk as I left the cabin, which had been reassuring.) The cool breeze and the damp on my cheeks were grateful to me, and then and there I fell in love with the sea (and I have truly never lost it). I staid on deck breathing a strange freedom until the morning watch.
About noon of this day the breeze had freshened, and we were carrying only our lower sails. The planter and his wife both kept the cabin, suffering much from the unusual motion, but as for myself I can here record I have never felt a touch of that sickness which is expected to accompany a first voyage or to follow a long stay ashore. I revelled in the swinging of the vessel, and wished it would blow harder, which it did.
At four o'clock in the afternoon a sail was made out to the northward, and holding the course that we already were we would have passed close by her, as she was bearing down on us before the wind. I noticed, however, that as the stranger became clearer, and her lower courses could be seen, the first mate went aloft with a glass, and hurrying down held consultation with Captain Morrison. In pursuance to orders, the brig's course was altered a few points, and we stood to the eastward to give the approaching vessel a wider berth. But no sooner had we done so than the latter held up a trifle, as if it were her intention to intercept us, and an hour's more sailing brought her into plain view.
She was a vessel the like of which I had never seen up to that day. Her hull appeared as large as one of the many-windowed warehouses of the wharves of Baltimore, and her towering tiers of canvas gleamed white in the sunlight. A smother of foam rolled under her forefoot.
A few more turns of the wheel now, and we were holding a course due east, sailing close on the wind.
"She means to head us off," said Captain Morrison, looking about with a scowl.
Why he should have any cause for alarm I did not know; but I could see that the crew were much disturbed, and were gathered in a whispering cluster at the break of the forecastle, watching the vessel with anxious eyes. I timidly approached Mr. Norcross, the mate.
"Is she a pirate?" I inquired, half fearing.
"Yes, about that," was the gruff return. "She's a British line-of-battle ship, and keeps the seas, with all her kind, by robbery."
"Will she harm us?" I inquired again.
"Not you, my son," he answered. "But she would like to get her clutches on some of our brave lads yonder." He nodded his head toward the group of seamen.
Slowly but surely we were nearing the huge vessel now holding the same course as our own. It was a grand sight! As she heeled over, the gleam of her copper showed in the hollows of the waves that swept past her, and the shadows on her white sails were as blue as the sky overhead. Her ports were open, and the muzzles of the black guns could be made out plainly. The red coats of a party of marines on her forecastle made a bright patch of color, and some men sprawling out on her great yard-arms were no bigger to the eye than ants.
The Captain was giving nervous glances at our shaking foresail. Then he took a look across the water, as if measuring the distance and the rate of the other's travelling. Suddenly a smile wrinkled his cheeks.
"We're outpointing the old whale, Mr. Norcross," he said, grinning.
"Ay, sir; given the wind hold as it is and she will pass astern of us."
The crew by this time had noticed this fact, and a movement began amongst them. One, a tall fellow with light hair and a well set up figure, took a few steps of a horn-pipe.
"Not this time, Johnny Bull; not this time," he laughed, slapping one of his companions on the shoulder. "I know her; it's the Plantaganet; and I'd go overboard with a shot at my heels before I put a foot on her deck. She reeks of the cat!"
I was soon to learn why this man, whose name was Dash, knew so much. As soon as he had finished his dancing, the tall sailor and another man ran aft.
"Shall we show our colors, sir?" the former asked of Captain Morrison.
"Ay; toss them out," replied the Captain, whose good humor had now returned.
A minute later the stars and stripes were crackling at our peak. The line-of-battle ship was almost even with us by this time. Faces could be seen above her bulwarks. Suddenly a puff of white smoke burst out from one of her forward ports, and a ball skipped and plashed across our bows—so close that we heard the slap of it against the water; then the report came to us. The Captain mounted the bulwarks, and taking off his hat, made an elaborate bow.
"Sorry I cannot stop, you great big hog," he said; and then standing there bareheaded, he burst into such a torrent of cursing that Mrs. Chaffee, who had come out of the cabin, and was anxious to see the sight, sought its refuge again. But we had outpointed the battle-ship, and crossed athwart her bows.
Not three hundred yards astern of us she roared past.
"She dassent fire a broadside at us, or she'd do it in a minute," muttered Mr. Norcross, looking back over his shoulder.
He had taken the wheel himself during the last few minutes, and had handled it amazingly, I can tell you.
As if afraid to acknowledge her discomfiture, the three-decker went on in silence, like she had not seen us, and our men, who were now all in the rigging of the brig, burst out into a cheer.
But they were cheering too early in the game, and this was soon to be proved.
Somehow, despite Captain Morrison's excited profanity, I had begun to admire him hugely.
[to be continued.]
[THE TRUE STORY OF ONE OF QUEEN VICTORIA'S DOGS.]
BY KATHARINE DE FOREST.
This is the way I came to hear the story: One summer afternoon, two or three years ago, I was sitting in front of a hotel in a Normandy watering-place, watching for the diligence to come from Fécamp. At last it appeared in the distance. And then began my surprise. For when I had first caught sight of the figures in the imperial there had seemed something familiar about them, and as they came nearer and I could see the faces, they looked so much like some faces I knew that I could hardly believe my eyes. It was—but no, it could not be—yes, it was; it was the MacAlpines! There were Mr. and Mrs. MacAlpine getting out from inside the diligence, and there were Janie and Isa and Fédie, Tom and Alec and the maid, climbing down from the top, with, in Janie's arms, the dearest little dog—the dearest little blue Skye terrier—you ever saw.
"And who is this?" I said at last, looking at the little dog that Janie still held in her arms, while Mrs. MacAlpine was talking to Madame Ernestine, the landlady of the hotel, about rooms, and Mr. MacAlpine was watching the men take down the luggage, and counting the different pieces. "This is a new member of the family. I thought you said you never would take a dog about with you, Mr. MacAlpine."
"And so I did," said Mr. MacAlpine. "But this isn't an every-day dog. This is a family dog, and a dog of high degree. Almost anybody would be glad to take her about."
"This is the Queen's dog," said Alec, giving her a pat, "or it used to be."
"Has it ever been to court?" I asked.
"Yes, indeed, she has!" said Janie. "Haven't you, Lassie darling? She's done all sorts of wonderful things, Aunt Katharine." (I was not really the children's aunt. They only called me so because we loved each other so much.) "She doesn't look like other dogs. She's much prettier."
"Yes, and more clever," put in Tom.
"She's certainly a very wonderful little dog," said Mrs. MacAlpine, who had finished arranging about the rooms. "And of all the strange stories you ever heard, Aunt Katharine, hers is the strangest. We'll tell you all about it when we've been upstairs and got a little of this dust off. What are you going to do this afternoon? Can't we have tea together by-and-by when we're clean and rested?"
"Oh, my cake!" I called out, suddenly remembering it. "My beautiful Paris cake! I must go and get it. We'll have our tea in the cabin on the beach, and Tom and Alec shall carry down the tea-things. We'll meet at the front door of the hotel at four o'clock;" and off I ran to get my parcels.
At four o'clock we went down in procession to the beach, and settled ourselves in front of our bathing-cabin.
And then Mr. MacAlpine began the story: "Once upon a time I lived with my father and mother and brothers and sisters in the beautiful islands called the Hebrides. The Hebrides, you know, are islands off the coast of Scotland, and they are noted for their wild and romantic scenery. But scenery, I am sorry to say, was something that I didn't much appreciate when I was a boy, and I would have given the whole of it for some boys of my own age to play with. My brothers were all older and my sisters younger than I, so I had to get my lessons and go to the manse to recite them by myself; and very lonely work it was too, until one day my father brought me home a blue Skye terrier, Lassie, just like this little dog here.
"From the first moment I saw her I loved her almost better than anything in the world. She was so little that I could take her about with me everywhere I went, tucked away in my plaid when we climbed the rocks and went long distances, and she always sat by me when I did my lessons, and I spent all my spare time playing with her and teaching her tricks. She could beg, and play dead, and wink one eye, and sneeze, and do more things than I ever heard of a dog's doing before or since, and she could understand everything I said to her exactly like a person, and altogether I was perfectly happy with her up to the time Lady Jane came to see us.
"Lady Jane was a cousin of my father's who was one of the Queen's ladies-in-waiting, and a very grand lady she was, indeed. She always came with so many boxes and bundles that we boys had a sort of feeling it would be polite for us to move out and give the house to her, and she also made us feel that everything she said must be obeyed, because she represented the Queen, and we had been brought up to be very good and loyal subjects. So you can imagine how I felt one day when she said to me: 'Tom, I'm going to take your little dog back with me as a present for her Majesty. You've trained her so nicely, and you won't care, will you? I'll send you something else in its place.'
"My very heart stood still at these words. Lady Jane had a way of having her own way if she wanted it, and none of us could stand out against her, and so I went to my mother about it. 'She wouldn't take Lassie, would she, mother?' I said, looking into her eyes to try to read there what she thought. And my mother said of course not, and comforted me, and I went off for a long walk and tried to think no more about it. But I couldn't help but feel uneasy, and after that I kept my dog out of the way as much as possible until in a little while Lady Jane seemed to have forgotten her. She was away nearly all the time—on excursions or visiting at the great houses in the neighborhood—so that we children seldom saw her, and by-and-by the last evening of her stay came.
"There were fine doings at our house that night. I can see the big hall now with a roaring fire in the chimney-place at one end, throwing its light over the deer-heads and odd birds and trophies with which the walls were hung. And the Highlanders came up with their bagpipes and played for us all to dance Sir Roger de Coverley up and down the polished floor, and Lady Jane and my father danced a jig, and my sisters sang, and I put Lassie through her tricks, and made her perform the celebrated double somerset, which was the last trick I had taught her. Everybody laughed, Lady Jane the most of all, and then she kissed us children good-night and bade us good-by, and I went up stairs happy. For Lady Jane would be gone in the morning; her trunks were strapped and in the front hall now, and I went to sleep with Lassie curled up by me, and a lighter heart than I had since the day when she first spoke to me about the dog.
"It seemed to me I had only slept a moment when I began to dream of icebergs, and then I was waked up suddenly by some one's pulling all the bedclothes off from me. Then a hand snatched up Lassie, and before I could realize what was happening Lady Jane's voice, very fresh and wide-awake, said: 'Now, Tom, don't feel badly, but you know I must have Lassie, and I've come after her. I'll send you something nice in her place, my boy,' and before I could say a word she was out of the door and my little dog was gone.
"There was no time for thinking. Like a flash I was out of bed and into my clothes and rushing along the road to the pier where Lady Jane's boat lay, trying to keep back the big tears as I went. But it was too late. Just as I came up to the landing the boat sailed slowly out of the harbor, and there in the stern was Lady Jane standing, waving her handkerchief to the people on the shore, and under one arm I could see a little shaggy head and a pair of bright eyes that seemed to look at me with a sad farewell look, and my little dog went sailing away on the unknown sea, and I burst into tears with my heart breaking, for I never expected to see her again."
"And did you?" I asked, eagerly. "Is this dog—"
"Ah, that's the strange part of the story," said Mr. MacAlpine. "Janie is the one who can tell that. Janie, tell Aunt Katharine the rest."
Janie's rosy Scotch face dimpled, and smiling up at her father, she went on:
"Well, you know that was always our favorite story, about when papa was a little boy in the Hebrides, and about the little dog he lost, but we always wanted to hear the end of it. We wanted to know what became of Lassie after Lady Jane took her, and if the Queen liked her, and if she did her tricks; but Lady Jane died soon after she went back to Balmoral, and papa's father went to Canada and took papa with him, and so we could only guess about Lassie, and make papa make up what happened to her.
"And then one time mamma and Isa and Fédie and I were going home from England, and mamma and the maid were so seasick they had to stay down in the cabin, but we children sat in steamer chairs on the deck, so miserable, and with nothing to do to amuse ourselves. And then a little bit of a dog that belonged to the lady sitting in a chair next ours jumped down from her lap and came over and stood in front of us, and stood up on her hind legs and began to sneeze. We all began to laugh, and then we said how exactly she was like papa's little dog that he used to tell us about, and she used to sneeze too, and they were the only dogs we had ever heard of that did. And then we said we wished we knew what the dog's name was, and the lady it belonged to said it was Lassie, and then we couldn't help but cry out,'Oh, how strange!' Then the lady asked us what was strange, and we told her about our Lassie, and she told us about her Lassie, and we found out that hers was the granddaughter of ours. And this lady, who had been one of the Queen's ladies-in-waiting herself, could remember when Lady Jane brought Lassie there.
"The Queen had liked papa's little dog, and had always kept her, and when her maid of honor left England for Canada her Majesty had given her one of Lassie's puppies to take with her.
"Before the ship reached Quebec we all got to be great friends, and just the last day out the lady called me to her, and said, 'My dear, I'm going to make you a present of this little dog if you'll take her. My maid doesn't like dogs, and I'm not strong enough myself to take care of her. And it was Lady Jane that carried your father's Lassie away, and it shall be Janie that brings her back.'"
"Yes, because the oldest girl in the MacAlpine family is always named Jane," put in Tom.
"And then when papa came down to the wharf to meet them," said Alec, "there was Janie standing on the ship and waving to him, and under her arm was a bundle and a pair of bright eyes, and there was Lassie come sailing back when he was a grown-up man."
[BOXING FOR BOYS.]
BY S. SCOVILLE, JUN.
There are two reasons why a boy should understand and practise boxing. First, because in the life of every one there come times when it is necessary to defend one's self or others. There are very few occasions when a boy need ever fight on his own account. Sometimes, of course, it is absolutely necessary, but more often it only seems so, and the older a boy becomes, the more he is convinced that in boys' affairs, as well as in those of nations, arbitration is the only sensible and civilized way of settling disputes. Occasionally, however, there comes a crisis when a boy must defend another weaker than himself, and then it is that a boxer knows what to do and does it, while an untrained boy either shirks his duty or, if very brave, tries to interfere, and usually makes matters worse by being hurt himself.
At a Yale-Harvard football game in Springfield, the writer noticed an incident which illustrates very forcibly the advantage of knowing how to box. Some rows ahead of the writer in the grand stand, a slim young fellow, certainly not more than eighteen years old, was sitting with a lady in the aisle seats. During the intermission between the halves he stepped some distance down the aisle to speak to a friend. Just then a rough-looking character, who had been drinking enough to be quarrelsome, pushed his way into the row, insisting that the lady was in his seat, and seizing her by the shoulder, tried to pull her out into the aisle. The boy turned at her call and sprang back. As the rough faced him the other stepped easily forward, and like a flash his left shot out from the shoulder and landed just under his opponent's chin—a clean scientific lead with all his weight back of it. The rough went down, striking his head heavily against the boards, lay there a moment, and then climbing unsteadily to his feet, slunk off without a word. There were no police officers nearer than the field, the lady was in the boy's care, was insulted, and in danger of being injured. In time the crowd would have interfered, but it was a case for immediate action. To protect a woman at any cost is the duty of every American boy. This one had developed and trained his strength so as to make it effectual for exactly such an emergency. He knew just how and where to strike, and—the thing was over. Altogether the incident convinced the writer more than ever that boys owe it to themselves and their manhood, as protectors of all things weak, to learn to use their strength most effectively. And it is wonderful how effective a knowledge of boxing will make a very small amount of strength. The writer remembers seeing a skilled light-weight boxer in a college boxing-room easily best the stroke oar of a class crew—a man of tremendous strength and weight, but one who had never learned to box.
The second reason why a boy should learn to box is because boxing not only teaches him how to utilize the strength that he has, but before long it tremendously increases that same strength. Nearly every muscle of the body is brought into play. The triceps, or pushing muscles on the back of the arm, the shoulder and back muscles, are the ones especially developed in boxing. The bare back of a boxer is a perfect mass of muscle. Great knots and coils appear between and across the shoulders with every movement, while the ridges stand out clear down to the base of the spine. Let a boy practise a single left-hand lead in front of a mirror in gymnastic costume, and note how many muscles are used. Besides the above-mentioned ones, the leg, thigh, fore-arm, stomach, and breast muscles are all called upon indirectly. Besides strengthening all the muscles, boxing trains the eye, gives quickness and a lithe, easy carriage, broadens and deepens the chest, and enlarges the lungs, and, best of all, teaches self-control, and gives a certain indefinable feeling of strength and safety that comes only with a strong well-trained body.
So much for the advantages of boxing. It is not the writer's purpose in this article to do more than give the most general hints in regard to the actual blows and parries. Boxing cannot be taught on paper, and a boy can learn more in one lesson from a good teacher than by reading volumes. But a few brief hints may aid those who are not fortunate enough to be under an instructor.
And first, as to the selection of a teacher. Above all things, get one that is a scientific boxer, not some strapping bruiser that will knock you around at so much an hour. Every town has some veteran boxer who will be glad to give boys a start in sparring. The first principles should be learned thoroughly and correctly, or the pupil will always be bothered by some clumsy habit picked up as a beginner. It was only this winter that the writer broke his thumb by a wrong blow learned ten years back from his first teacher, and which, in the excitement of a hard-fought bout, is only too apt to crop out in spite of years of warning from half a dozen instructors.
FIG. 1.
FIG. 2.
The first important thing to learn in boxing is the position. Figure 1. represents what the writer considers an ideal position. The left foot should be in front, with the right foot from fifteen to eighteen inches in the rear and from six to eight inches to the right. The left hip should point nearly front. By that position the whole body can be protected from any right-hand blows by simply dropping the left arm as shown in illustration No. 2. The right arm should rest across the chest, with the glove on the left nipple, while the left arm should be held as in the illustration. In connection with the subject of position comes the management of the feet. The weight should rest equally on both feet, and in breaking ground, as movement to one side or the other is termed, or in advancing or retreating, the feet should never be raised from the ground as in walking. Advance first the front foot some six inches, and then the back foot, so as to always keep the same relative distance between them.
Always "counter" (i.e., give a return blow with the hand not used in parrying) every lead of your opponent. Remember that a straight line is the shortest distance between two points, and always lead a straight blow. It comes more natural for every one to hit "round"—i.e., swinging—blows. But a straight hard lead is the more effective. Swing, if swing you must, when countering, never when leading. Try as much as possible to avoid blows at the face by ducking.
The left hand lead, either at the face or the body, is the most important lead of all, the first taught, and by far the hardest to learn. One of the best boxers the writer has ever met was not allowed by his teacher to practise anything else for a whole year, until it was almost impossible to avoid or parry his left-hand lead or counter, so quick did he become.
FIG. 3.
Illustration No. 3 shows a left-hand lead at the face getting home. Observe the tremendous force and drive that the blow has, while the boxer can step back instantly into perfect position, and is not thrown at all off his balance, as is the case with swinging blows. The requisites of a good left-hand lead either at face or body are:
First, that the left foot shall be advanced in a perfectly straight line with the hit (notice how straight the toe is in the illustration), otherwise the blow is apt to be pulled across in the parry and leave one desperately exposed.
FIG. 4.
Second, the weight of the body should follow the lead. This is what gives the "kick" to the blow, and more than anything else shows the difference between the veteran and the novice.
Third, the wrist should be held perfectly straight, and the blow be struck by that portion of the hand between the knuckles and the second joints of the fingers. Practise this lead constantly, either in actual boxing or at a punching-bag as it swings from you, and the instant the blow lands get away and back into position. The left-hand lead once learned, the straight left-hand counters will come easily.
FIG. 5.
Next in importance to the left-hand lead—for in our modern boxing offence is of much more importance than defence—come the parries. The guard for a right-hand body blow has already been shown in illustration No. 2. The safest parry for a left-hand body blow is by "barring"—i.e., laying the right hand across the body and letting the blow land on the rigid muscles of the fore arm—at the same time countering with the left, as shown in illustration No. 4.
FIG. 6.
The best answer to a lead at the face is to duck to one side or the other and counter either on the face or on the body, as shown in illustration No. 6. But sometimes it is necessary to parry it in the regulation manner. This should be done by shooting the arm out perfectly straight as if leading. This will make the blow glide easily off the wrist or arm, as shown in illustration No. 5.
Never parry with the arm bent, as is often done, for then the arm receives the full concussion of the blow, and may be badly bruised. The left-hand lead and the different parries form the first principles of boxing. Practise them again and again until they come instinctively. With these well learned a boy can do much towards defending himself, even before mastering the counters, cross-counters, upper cuts, side-steps, and all the more complicated part of boxing which can only be taught effectively by a teacher.
A last piece of advice—practise continually. Spar with everybody and anybody who will put the gloves on. By so doing one perfects what has already been learned, besides continually picking up new ideas from the different styles of his various opponents.
One of the most important of recent events in the world of interscholastic sport is the reconciliation between Exeter and Andover, and the renewal of athletic relations between these two great schools. The first meeting of the two old rivals occurred on the football field at Andover last Saturday; which was too late for any comment to get into this issue of the Round Table. Next week, however, we hope to be able to devote to the game the space due to so important an event.
It was decided on November 5 that there should be an Exeter-Andover game. On that day Andover sent a challenge to Exeter, and Exeter at once accepted. Two days later the Exonian confirmed the news of the reconciliation, and spoke editorially as follows:
It is now three years since these contests were broken off, and this thought, taken with the history of the years which went before, may well give us cause for sober reflection. We, the school of to-day, stand far enough apart from the school of '93 to consider calmly the events which then took place, and to draw from them such lessons as shall help us in the conduct of our athletics in the future. We are able now to see that the spirit of rivalry between the two schools, which was at first but a healthy stimulus to all forms of athletics, had grown to such unhealthy proportions as to cause a doubt in the minds of thinking people as to the beneficial results of such athletics, not only to those who took part but to the larger school bodies.
The "Exonian" then goes on to say that the students at Exeter now realize that their predecessors allowed their excitement and rivalry to carry them too far, and it asserts that it may be that the three years in which the two great schools have stood apart may not have been without their usefulness. It is to be hoped that this is true, and it is to be hoped that both Exeter and Andover will go into the new contests with a firm determination to respect not only the letter of the law of amateur sport, but likewise the spirit.
The game with Exeter, however, will not be Andover's last match of the year. They play Lawrenceville day after to-morrow. Although at the present writing the Lawrenceville team is not so strong as it was last year at this time, it is probable that with the coming days of practice, and the games with outsiders that are to be played in the meantime, the men will improve very materially. Dana's work at centre has improved considerably of late, but much of this is due to the assistance he gets from Richards and Cadwalader. There is still room for progress in his method of snapping the ball back. Another weak position is that of full-back, where Kafer is weak on catching punts.
Some of the schools of the Cook County League are still keeping up their great game of "protest." Their capacity for this sort of thing has become so great that the Chicago newspapers have even commented upon it. It would seem as if almost every team that loses a game immediately protests, with the result that most of the League matches have to be repeated. Next to protesting, the Cook County football teams seem to be ablest at forfeiting. On November 1 Northwest Division failed to meet its obligations toward Hyde Park. Northwest Division has little to be proud of in its football record this year. It has not won a game in the High-School League, and it does not seem likely that it will if it continues to forfeit.
Because a football team is weak is no excuse for not fulfilling its agreement to play another team—an obligation which it assumed when it became a member of the League. The Oak Park team is a weak eleven, but it won a victory nevertheless when it met the West Division eleven. Oak Park started in boldly and scored, and her players were so surprised at this success that they kept right on, and closed the game with a score of 32-0.
But this same game afforded an excellent illustration of the disease of "protest" which is afflicting Cook County just at present. At one point of the play, just as Hyman of Oak Park was being forced over the goal-line for a touch-down, he lost the ball, which rolled twenty feet away from him. Holdrich and Brown both made long dives for the ball, and both, falling upon it at about the same moment, claimed the leather. The referee decided in favor of Holdrich of Oak Park, and immediately the captain of the West Division team made great objections, and said that he would protest the game. Fortunately, however, better judgment prevailed later in the afternoon, and this particular game was, after all, not protested. But some of the Cook County League games have been carried before the Executive Committee on smaller grounds than these.
A close and interesting match was that between North Division and Manual Training, which resulted in favor of Manual, 6-0. For the first time in any of the League games this fall there was not a single dispute of any kind during the entire game. That is undoubtedly the principal reason why the players put up such an excellent game of football. Men cannot play football and quarrel among themselves at the same time, and, consequently, when they are weak enough to allow their tempers to get the better of them, the sport invariably suffers. Manual Training was superior in line-bucking, and made most of its games in that way.
In the game between Englewood and Evanston the former was victorious, 12-0. Evanston forced the ball to within two or three yards of Englewood's goal twice, but lost the leather on a fumble the first time, and on downs the second time. Excepting perhaps Teetzel, the two elevens were very evenly matched. Prather had the better of Fowler, and occasionally made a hole through his position. Englewood's tackles, Ryden and Prentiss, were weak at times, and allowed several gains to be made through them.
The game between Hyde Park and Oak Park, resulting in a victory of 16-0 to the former, was of no particular interest, as the sport was marred by disputes between the players and the umpire over slugging. There must be something radically wrong with the officials of the Cook County League. Fully half the games played so far have been marred, in some way or another, by misunderstandings between the players and the field officers.
BERKELEY'S FOUR BACKS.
Pell, Bien, Rice, Wiley.
The Berkeley School team has made considerable progress within the last two weeks. Hasbrouck is putting up a strong game at left end, and is developing a good capacity for breaking into opposing interference. Both he and Boyesen are learning rapidly to get down the field after punts. Hasbrouck runs well with the ball, and is being depended upon a good deal in tricks. He is making an excellent Captain for the team, and although he does not insist quite strongly enough upon his rights against opposing teams sometimes, this is a shortcoming which will promote rather than injure the welfare of amateur sport. Boyesen is a new man to the game, and a trifle light, but he tackles splendidly and has good grit.
Huntington, who has been playing right tackle, is a trifle careless in his work; he is a powerful player, however, and runs well, and can tackle when he sets his mind on it. Granberry and Thomas have been candidates for the tackle positions; Granberry has been doing hard work and has improved steadily, but Thomas has the advantage over him in stature and physical strength. With the exception of Hasbrouck, Gilson, who plays right guard, is probably the best man in the line. He is well-developed, and is as strong a player as any in the New York League. He knows the game well, but unfortunately, owing to his class-room work, he has not been able to devote as much time to field practice as is necessary to keep him in tiptop shape. Irvine, at left guard, has been running considerably with the ball; he is better in this position than he was at tackle, where he played early in the season. One of the weakest men in the line is Walker, at centre; he has the strength, but he is very slow, and does not seem able to catch the knack of putting the ball into play properly.
The backs are putting up a higher quality of football than the line-men. They are natural athletes, and all except Rice were members of last spring's baseball team. Their experience in catching seems to stand them in good stead now. Pell has been making rapid strides in his knowledge of the game. He is a clever dodger when running with the ball, but needs to overcome a slight timidity against being tackled. He punts fairly well, and is the best drop-kicker on the team. On the offensive he plays close up to the line and breaks through well, but his eagerness sometimes leads him to run too far, thus putting himself out of the play.
The best football-player that Berkeley ever boasted is undoubtedly Bien, at full-back. He is as good a man in that position as there is in the New York League this year. He is a first-rate ground-gainer and knows the game thoroughly. He is a strong tackler; and as for kicking goals, it is asserted that he has not missed one this season. Wiley puts up a hard game, but does not use his head enough. He punts pretty well, and may be counted on to catch every ball that comes his way. He is a sandy player, and sometimes plunges too boldly into the scrimmage.
Rice at quarter can hardly be ranked on a par with the other backs. He interferes well at the kick-off, but does not keep up this standard in close plays. He is a sandy tackler, but being a new man at the game frequently wastes his energy. He is badly handicapped by his centre rush.
THE ST. PAUL'S SCHOOL, GARDEN CITY, FOOTBALL SQUAD.
Considerable improvement is to be noticed in the work of the Garden City football-players. Lorraine is doing all that can be required at end. Since my last criticism of his play he has gone into the game with more vim and dash, and is playing good hard football all the time. Symonds, until the Lawrenceville game, was playing a miserable game at tackle; since then, however, he has improved greatly, particularly in defensive play.
Everett Starr is heavier than he was last year, although he is still the lightest man in the line. His experience, however, makes him as reliable a man as there is on the team. Cluett as snap-back and in attacks on the centre is first rate, but he seems to have the idea that his work ends there, as he very seldom breaks through and is slow in following the ball. Kinney is new at the game this year, but nevertheless he is playing as good football as any of the older members on the team. He is strong and exceptionally quick for his size. He makes many tackles and sure ones, is generally to be found where the ball is, and when he runs with the ball is pretty sure of making a gain.
Thus far Brown has not by any means played the game he is capable of. He has met no opponents of his own weight. He is fairly quick, and has a good knowledge of the game. With these conditions his work should be of the brilliant order, but, on the contrary, it has been even at the best mediocre, and at times lamentably weak.
White is probably the best end on any school team about New York. Very seldom is a gain made around his end, and an attempt usually results in a loss. Owing to an injury to Goldsboro, he has taken the latter's place at right half in offensive play, and has done exceptionally good work, getting down the field on kicks in good style. Goldsboro may not be able to play again this year.
Blount, who last year was only a substitute on the second eleven, is a fixture at quarter-back. He gives the signals, and is playing his position and handling the team like a veteran. The chief fault he has to overcome is in missing tackles. Weller is a good runner and a sure hard tackler. He interferes and follows interference well.
Captain Starr is showing rare form at full-back this year. He has developed into an exceptionally good punter and place-kicker; moreover, in the games with Cutler and Poly. Prep. he dropped in each a pretty goal from the field. As a line-bucker and an interferer he can be relied upon thoroughly. In defensive play he plays rush-line half-back. His work is often brilliant. Temple is a fast runner, but owing to lack of experience he has a tendency not to make the best use of his interference. This was particularly noticeable in the Poly. Prep. game. He made some good runs, but with a good end he would have been downed for a loss in nearly every case.
By the time this number of the Round Table reaches the reader the deciding game of the Connecticut League championship series will have been played, and as the match will probably be a close one I hardly dare hazard the guess that the banner will go to New Britain. The New Britain team defeated Norwich Free Academy last week to the tune of 50-0, and although Brinley was seriously injured in the game, and may not be able to play any more this season, the eleven will still be a strong one without him.
On the same day that New Britain played Norwich, Meriden H.-S. took Bridgeport into camp, 20-12. It is evident that this year the smaller schools turned out the better teams. Hillhouse, Hartford, and Bridgeport all got defeated in the race for the Yale Cup.
Andrew T., Rochester.—The "halves" in a football game may be of any duration agreed upon beforehand. In championship games, however, they must be thirty-five minutes each.
J. C. Finch, Fort Anne, New York.—See Harper's Round Table for September 22, or for fuller particulars see W. H. Lewis's A Primer of College Football.