THE TRUE STORY OF THE MOOSE HEAD.
For a great many years—for as long, indeed, as either Bob or Jack could remember—there had been over the great fireplace in the office of the Mountain House, as its chief decorative feature, a huge moose-head, from either side of which rose up majestic antlers, concerning which Bob had once remarked that "they'd make a bully hat-rack."
To this sage remark Bob's father had replied that he thought so too; and he added that he thought it somewhat of a pity that Bob, when he chose his pets, should choose pug-dogs and rabbits, that were of no earthly use, instead of an occasional moose, which might be trained to sit in the hall and allow people to hang their hats on his horns.
"Just to think," he said, "what a convenience a real live walking hat-rack would be! When you wanted your hat, all you would have to do would be to whistle, and up the hat-rack would trot; you'd select the hat you wished to wear, and back would go the moose again to his accustomed place between the front door and the window."
"I'm willing," Bob had answered. "You buy me the moose, daddy, and I'll be glad to make a pet of him."
But it so happened that at the moment his father had something else to think about, and as a result Bob never got the moose.
Curiously enough, up to this particular summer of which I am writing, it had never occurred to either of the boys to inquire into the story of this especial moose, who had been so greatly honored by having his head stuffed and hung up to beautify the office of the hotel. They had both of them often wondered somewhat as to how it came to lose the rear portions of its body—that from its shoulders backward—but at such times it had so happened there had never been anybody about who could be counted upon to enlighten them on the subject. Now, however, it was different. Sandboys seemed always at hand, and considering that he had never failed them when they had asked for an explanation of this, that, or the other thing, they confidently broached the subject to him one afternoon during the music hour, and, as usual, Sandboys was ready with a "true story" for their satisfaction.
"Oh, that!" he said, when Bob had put the question. "Yes, I know all about it; and why shouldn't I? Didn't my father catch him? I guess!"
The boys were not quite sure whether the guess was correct or not, but they deemed it well to suppose that it was, and Sandboys went on.
"Some folks about here will tell you wonderful stories about that moose," he said. "Some will tell you it came from Maine; and some will tell you it came from Canady; and some will tell you they don't know nothin' at all about it; an' generally it'll be the last ones that tell the whole truth, though it did come from both Canady an' Maine; and, what's more, if it hadn't come, I wouldn't ha' been here. Nobody knows that but me, for up to now I haven't breathed a word about it to a soul, but I don't mind tellin' you boys the whole truth."
"You don't mean to say it got you your position here as a bell-boy, do you?" asked Jack.
"Yes, I do—that is, it did in a way, as you'll see when I've told you the whole story," returned Sandboys, and he began:
"My father, when he was a boy, used to live up in Canady. I don't recollect the name of the exact place. He told me its name lots o' times, but it was one o' them French-Canadian names with an accent to it I never could get the hang of. Names of English towns, like London or New York, I can always remember without much trouble, because I can spell 'em and pronounce 'em; but the minute they gets mixed in with a little foreign language, like French or Eyetalian, I can't spell 'em, pronounce 'em, or remember 'em to save my life. If anybody'd say to me, 'Remember the name o' that town or die,' I think that I'd simply have to stop breathin' an' die. I do remember, though, that it was a great place for salmon and mooses. My daddy used to tell me reg'lar slews of stories about 'em. Why, he told me the salmon was so thick in the river back of his father's barn, that if you took a bean-shooter and shot anywhere into the river, usin' pebbles instead o' beans, you couldn't help hittin' a salmon on the head and killin' it—or, rather, knockin' it unconscious, so's it would flop over and rise to the surface like it was dead, after which all you had to do was to catch it by the tail, chop its head off as you would a chicken's, cook it, and have your marketing done for two weeks."
"Jiminny!" said Bob. "It's too bad you can't remember the name of that place. A hotel at a place like that would be good as a mint."
"Oh no—it's all changed now," said Sandboys, sadly. "They've put a saw-mill in there now, and the salmon's mostly all gone. Sometimes they tell me they do catch one or two, and they're so big they cut 'em up in the saw-mill just like planks, and feed on 'em all through the winter."
"I've heard of planked shad," put in Bob, very anxious indeed to believe in the truth of Sandboys's statement, and searching in his mind for something in the way of a parallel which might give it a color of veracity.
"Hyops!" said Sandboys. "Planked shad is very good, but it can't hold a candle to planked salmon. But, as I was tellin' you, the place was full of moose too. They used to catch 'em and train 'em to go in harness. I don't believe anybody up there ever thought of buying a horse or a team of oxen to pull their wagons and plough their fields, moose were so plenty, and, when you could catch 'em hungry, so easy to tame. They'd hitch 'em to the plough, for instance, with ropes tied to their horns, and drive 'em around all day, and when night came they weren't a bit tired. But sometimes daddy said they'd strike a fearfully wild one, and then there'd be trouble. Pop told me he hitched one up to the harrow once, and the thing got a wild fit on and started across the field prancin' like a Rocky Mountain goat. He pulled up all the fences in his way with the harrow's teeth, and before he stopped he'd gone right through my grandfather's bay-window, into the dinin'-room, out the back door into the kitchen, takin' all the tables and chiny in the place with him. Where he went to nobody ever knew, though the harrow was found on top o' one of the mountains about sixty miles away, three years afterwards. I'd tell you the name of the mountain, only it had one o' those French-Canadian names too, so of course I can't.
"Time went on, and pop got to be a pretty big boy, and on his thirteenth birthday his father gave him the gun he'd used in the war—the war of the Revylation, I think it was, when George Washington was runnin' things. With it he gave him a powder-flask and some bullets, and I tell you pop was proud, and crazy to go huntin'. His father wasn't anxious to let him, though, until he thought pop knew enough about fire-arms to kill something besides himself, and he told him no, he couldn't. He must wait awhile. So pop tried to be good and obey, but that gun was too much for him. It kept hintin', 'Let's go huntin'—let's go huntin',' and one night pop could not resist it any longer. So after everybody'd gone to bed, he got up, sneaked down stairs into the parlor, took down the gun from the bricky-brack rack, and set out for the lonely woods.
"'If I don't kill nothin',' he said to himself, 'I'll get home before they wake up; and if I do kill somethin', pa will be so pleased an' proud he'll forgive me.' He little thought then he was leavin' home forever. He opened the door softly, an' in half an hour he was off on the mountain, 'longside of a great big lake. Pretty soon he heard a sound, and through the darkness he see two big eyes, flamin' like fire, a-lookin' at where he was. It was that moose up there as was a-lookin' at him. For a minute he was scart to death, but he soon recovered, upped with his gun, an' fired—only he was too excited, and he didn't do any more than graze the moose's cheek. You can't see the scar. It's been mended. It was a tarrable exciting moment, for in a jiffy the moose was after him, head down. Pop tried to run, but couldn't. He stumbled, an' just as he stumbled he felt the big moose's breath hot on the back of his neck. He thought he was a goner for sure; but he wasn't, as it turned out, for as he rolled over and the moose tried to butt him to death, pop grabbed holt of his horns, and the first toss of his head the moose gave landed pop right between 'em, sittin' down as comfortably fixed as though he was in a rockin'-chair. If you'll look at the antlers you'll see how there's a place in between 'em scooped out just right for a small boy to sit in. That's where pop sat, hangin' on to those two upper prongs, with, his legs dangling down over the moose's cheeks."
"Phe-e-e-ew!" whispered Bob. "He was in a fix, wasn't he? What did the moose do?"
"Him?" said Sandboys. "He was absolutely flummoxed for a minute, and then he began to run. Pop held on. He had to. He didn't want to go travellin', but there warn't anything else he could do, so he kept holt. That moose run steady for three days, down over the Canadian border into Maine, takin' a short-cut over Maine into New Hampshire, droppin' dead with weariness two miles from Littleton, where I cum from. That let pop out. The moose was dead, and he wasn't afraid any more; so he climbed down, walked into Littleton, and sold the animal's carkiss to a man there, who cut off its head, and sent it up here to this hotel, an' it's been here ever since. Pop took the money and tried to get back home with it; but there wasn't enough, so he worked about Littleton until he had enough; and just then he met my mother, fell in love with her, married her, and settled down right there; and that's how it is that that moose-head is responsible for my bein' here. If the animal hadn't run away with dad, he'd never have met my mother, and I'd have been nowhere."
"It's very interesting," said Bob. "But I should think he'd have sent word to his father that he was all right."
"Oh, he did," said Sandboys; "and a year or two later the whole family came down and joined him, leavin' Canady and its French names forever."
And here the narrative, which might have been much longer, stopped, for the cross old lady near the elevator sent word that that "talkin' must stop," because while it was "goin' on" she "couldn't hear what tune it was the trumpeter was blowin'."
[THE GAME OF CHOLE.]
BY W. G. VAN TASSEL SUTPHEN.
Chole (pronounced shōl) is a capital game for the enthusiastic golfer at this time of year, when the fields are brown and bare, and the careful green-keeper has closed the regular golf course for fear of harm to his precious putting greens. It is golf, and yet it is not golf, the essential difference being that but one ball is used, one player striving to advance it towards a certain agreed-upon goal, and his opponent as strenuously endeavoring to thwart him in the attempt. But, on the other hand, it is not hockey or anything resembling it. Each player has for the time being absolute possession of the ball, and cannot be interfered with while he is making his stroke. It is an old Belgian game, and undoubtedly one of the ancestors of our modern golf. As a matter of fact, it is still played in the Low Countries with rude iron clubs and an egg-shaped ball of birchwood. The following extract from a historical paper on the beginnings of golf explains very clearly the purpose and method of the play at chole:
If Tom Morris and Hugh Kircaldy were going to play a match at chole, they would first fix on an object which was to be hit. A church door at some five miles distance, cross country, seems to have been a favorite goal. This settled on, match-making began—a kind of game of brag: "I will back myself to hit the thing in five innings," Tom might say. (We will explain in a moment what an "innings" meant.) "Oh, I'll back myself to hit it in four," Hugh might answer. "Well, I'll say three, then," Tom might perhaps say, and that might be the finish of the bragging, for Hugh might not feel it in his power to do it in two, so he must let Tom try. Then Tom would hit off, and when he came to the ball he would tee it and hit it again, and so a third time. But when they reached the ball this third time, it would be no longer Tom's turn to hit, but Hugh's. He would be allowed to tee the ball up and dechole, as it was called—that is to say, to hit it back again as far as he could. Then Tom would begin again and have three more shots towards the object; after which Hugh would again have one shot back. Then if in the course of his third innings of three shots Tom were to hit the church door, he would win the match; if he failed, he would lose it.
It is evident, from this explanation, that chole gives first-class practice in driving; in fact it is nothing but a succession of tee shots, and the longest driver ought always to win, unless he is so over-confident of his powers that he is induced to bid too low for the honor of being choleur. It may be added that hazards in the lie of the ball are not fairly a part of the game. Each striker has a right to tee his ball, and he should be allowed to do so anywhere within two club-lengths of where the ball has dropped. In the case of a lost ball or a ball in water, the player must go back to the place whence the lost ball was struck, and play a new one, without penalty. Of course only a driver, or play club, is carried, and a caddie is not necessary, as the players themselves should be able to keep track of the ball. In Belgium the game is played with three or more on a side, but in this case the players have to wait too long for their turn to strike, and the interest must be correspondingly diminished. Here is a better plan for a match game at chole:
DIAGRAM OF THE FIELD.
The battle-ground should be a field of about 400 yards in length, the fence at either end serving as the goal over which the ball is to be driven. The width of the field is of no account, providing that there is a clear space of at least fifty yards to give a chance for straight and open play. In practice it might be well to roughly indicate these side-lines by means of stakes, and if the ball is knocked out of bounds it must be brought back precisely as in football. Supposing that there are six on a side, the most skilful player should act as captain, and arm himself with the ordinary wooden driver. The second man should carry a brassey, the third a cleek, the fourth a lofter, the fifth a niblick, and the sixth a putter. Or there may be any other selection among the ordinary clubs used at golf, provided that each side is armed with virtually the same weapons, and, most important of all, that every combination must at least include a driver, a lofter, and a putter. Three is the smallest practicable number for a side, and the maximum may be put down at six or seven. The object of each side is to drive the ball over their adversary's goal-line, but the strokes are taken in turn, and there is nothing resembling the free hitting and scramble of hockey. The captains toss for the opening stroke, and the winner tees the ball at the centre of the field, and strikes it with his driver as far as possible towards the enemy's goal-line. After he has had his stroke, it is the turn of the other side; and now comes in the essential point of the game. The return shot must be made by the weakest club on the opposing side, viz., the putter. The idea is that the players shall all strike in regular rotation, but the order of the sides is exactly opposite. In other words, one side strikes in succession with driver, brassey, cleek, lofter, niblick, and putter, their opponents answering with putter, niblick, lofter, cleek, brassey, and driver. It is evident that if A leads off their attack will grow weaker as the less powerful clubs come into play, while B, the defence, will grow stronger in the same proportion. Theoretically, after a full exchange of shots the ball should be again at the centre of the field from where it started, but of course, in practice, accidents will happen and shots will be foozled.
The field should be long enough to give the defence a fair chance to rally, and it therefore should not be less than 400 yards in all. It should not be much longer, as then it would hardly be possible for ordinary players to ever get near enough for a goal. Supposing that in actual play the Captain of the Blues drives off and sends the ball 130 yards out of the 200, the putter on the Red side must reply, and he may succeed in driving the ball back 30 yards. Brassey of the Blues has now a carry of 100 yards to make to put the ball over the fence and win a goal. If he does it, it is perfect play, and the Blues are credited with one point. But if he tops his ball or drives short, the niblick man of the Reds may get it back to, say, the 100-yard point, and the Blues have now a chance with the cleek to get it over. If this attempt fails, the Red goal should be out of danger for a while, for their long driving clubs are now coming into play to carry the war into Africa. But at any stage of the game some one may slip up on a difficult shot, and so the advantage be gained or lost. The exact size of the field will largely depend upon the driving ability of the players, and that can only be arrived at by experiment. Theoretically, the goal should be made on the third or cleek shot—that is, with perfect play on each side. Of course only the captains have the privilege of teeing the ball; all the other players must take it as it lies. A ball knocked into a hazard must be played as in match-play at golf; but if it has not been extricated after each side has taken a shot at it, it may be lifted and dropped a club-length outside of the hazard at a point agreed upon between the two captains. A ball in a hazard may not be teed, and this gives a chance for finesse. For instance, suppose that the ball is perilously near the Red goal, and it is Red putter's turn to play. With a straight drive he can only get it a few yards back, and Blue driver, whose turn it is to follow, will be almost certain to get it over. But if Red putter can play it into a hazard or behind a tree, Blue driver will probably fail to make the goal, and that will give the Reds another chance. Other variations will occur in the playing of the game, and may be readily worked out by any boy with a turn for generalship. After each point the sides change goals, so as to equalize the chances of the hazards, and the side that has lost the goal drives off. A ball driven through or under the goal-fence does not count for either side. It must be brought out to a point half-way distant between the centre of the field and the point where it went over the goal-line, and there teed for the player whose turn it is to strike. A ball over the side-line is brought inside, as in football, and dropped a club-length from the line. In the case of a lost ball, the inning begins again as though no play had been made. A player may not strike the ball back over or through his own goal-line. If he does so, accidentally or otherwise, the ball is brought out and teed precisely as in the former case, where the attacking player had failed to put it fairly over.
The game may be made still more scientific and interesting if a regular field be laid out with chalk lines, as in football. In this case the goal at each end should be a circular pit six feet in diameter and six inches deep. The diagram gives the other proportions and the general arrangement of the field. The "vantage"-lines indicate the spot where the ball is to be teed in the case of a failure of a try for goal. There is no restriction upon the direction in which the ball may be played, except in the case of a player who knocks it over his own goal-line. The ball is then teed at "vantage." Balls out of bounds are placed on the side-line at the crossing-point. To make a goal, the ball must drop in the pit and stay there.
It is evident that the interest of the game will depend upon the evenness with which the players are matched. As a general thing a player should be assigned to the club which he is most expert in handling, and the players are known by the names of the clubs they carry. In no case must the rotation of play be altered, and driver always leads off at the beginning of an inning. It would be possible for two men to play the game, using their clubs in the prescribed rotation, but the match between sides gives a chance for more interesting work. If the sides are uneven, one man may, by special agreement, be allowed to play two clubs.
[THE PIRATE'S TREASURE.]
BY CAPTAIN HOWARD PATTERSON.
"Ralph," said Grandfather Sterling, one hot August morning, looking over the veranda rail to where the boy was stretched full length upon the lawn, "did I ever tell you about the time that I went hunting for a treasure that had been buried by a pirate on one of the islands in the West Indies?"
The lad came bounding up the steps in delight, for there was no greater treat to him than one of the old sea-captain's stories concerning the long and adventurous life that he had led from the time of his first voyage as cabin-boy until his retirement from the sea about two years before.
"No, indeed, Grandpop, and it will be jolly, I'm sure. Please fill up your pipe, so that you won't have to stop just when you get to the most exciting part. Here's your box of matches; and now, as you often say, 'let the reel hum.'"
Captain Sterling smiled affectionately into the eager face upturned to his, and commenced his story:
"It was when I was second mate of a brig called the Nellie, a good many years ago, that this yarn really begins. We were homeward bound from Brazil, with a cargo of coffee, when the yellow fever broke out on board. First the captain sickened and died, then in order followed our first mate, leaving me in command. Next the oldest member of our crew was struck down, and to give him a chance for his life, as well as to humor the wishes of the men, I had him taken out of the dark hot forecastle and brought aft into one of the spare state-rooms in the cabin. Here I nursed him as well as I could; but although the fever broke after the third day, it left him so weak that he could not rally, and his end was hastened on account of his not being able to retain the slightest nourishment. He seemed to be very grateful for my care. On the afternoon of the fifth day of his sickness he said to me that he knew his end was near, and that he wished to show his gratitude while there was yet time. In his chest in the forecastle, he stated that there was a leather wallet, which I was to get and give to him. I did as he requested. He took from it a sheet of paper, on which was rudely sketched the outline of an island, with a compass showing the cardinal points. On the western side of this island there was an indentation resembling a bay having a very narrow entrance from the sea, and in about the middle of the sketch there was a small circle, about west of which a cross was marked.
"'Take this,' he said to me, 'and listen to what I say. This is a chart of a little island known as San Juan, in the Windward West Indies. You will see that I have given its latitude and longitude. Twenty years ago I was one of the officers of the pirate schooner Don Pedro. We went on shore at San Juan to divide the contents of the treasure-chest and to carouse. During the night, when all others were sleeping, I stole away to the spring, which is shown by the circle on the chart, and buried my share of the treasure—nearly ten thousand dollars in gold—three feet in the sand. I dug the hole right in the wake of the rising moon, with the spring between it and me. Go to the island, count fifty paces west of the spring, and dig.'
"'But,' I said to him, 'how do you know but what the money was found years ago?'
"'The island is uninhabited, and no one but myself ever knew that I had hidden it there. Two weeks after that the Don Pedro was captured. They hung the captain, and imprisoned the rest of us for life. One year ago I escaped. Since that time I have been waiting for a chance to recover my treasure. I intended to use the wages made on this voyage to buy a passage to St. Croix, which is the nearest inhabited island to San Juan, and then by some means reach the place where my gold is safely hidden. The money is yours now, and I want you to take it as a gift from me for your kindness.'
"Later on, when I visited his room, he was resting peacefully, with a little ivory crucifix pressed against his cold white lips. The spirit of the pirate had sailed on its last voyage across the sea of eternity.
"Three weeks later I carried the Nellie into the harbor of New York, and received a handsome present in money from the owners for my services, with which I bought a passage on a sailing-vessel, known as the Dart, bound to St. Croix, and reached that place after an uneventful voyage.
"During our trip I stated to the captain that my business was to look after some interests of an acquaintance, and that I hoped to have the same attended to in advance of the time that the vessel was to sail, so that I might return in her. I volunteered the same explanation at the house where I secured board, and then found myself at liberty to go and come without arousing interest in my movements. Having an object to gain, I made it a point of keeping up very friendly relations with the captain of the Dart, several times inviting him to dine with me, and showing him many other courtesies, which he responded to by having me as a guest at his table on board whenever I could make it convenient to visit his vessel. One evening, as we sat under the quarter-deck awning enjoying our Havanas, I said, carelessly:
"'Captain, I've been thinking that I would like to hire your long-boat for the time that we shall be here. Being fitted with lug-sails, she can easily be handled by one man, and I would enjoy running about the harbor in her, and even making little trips along shore when I have nothing else to do.'
"'You can have her in welcome,' he said. 'Don't say a word about pay. As long as you will return her all right you can use her to your heart's content. I will get her overboard in the morning, and have her put in shape for you.'
"The next day I made a trial spin in the boat, and found her all that a sailor could wish for in the way of speed and sea-going qualities. The pirate's island was something less than sixty miles away, and I knew that in the constant trade-winds that I had to count upon to give me a fair breeze there and back, I should be able to reach it in about ten hours.
"During the next two or three days I made several short excursions along the coast, gradually paving the way for the dash I had in view. At last the day arrived when I determined to stretch away for the little coral island below the horizon. In the early morning I left the house, carrying a valise, in which was food sufficient for my anticipated needs, a large garden trowel, and a boat compass that I had brought from the States. Folded in the pocket of my coat I carried a chart of the Windward Islands, and with this equipment I stepped on board, hoisted the two jib-headed sails, and started on my voyage.
"Hour after hour I was swept swiftly onward over the wind-whipped waves, holding the brave little vessel steadily to her course. It was about four o'clock in the afternoon that I lifted the island into sight, bearing directly ahead, and an hour later found me sailing through the narrow inlet that the pirate had laid down on his chart. I ran the boat head on to the sandy beach, securing her painter to one of several stunted palm-trees that grew in a bunch close to the water. The island was not much more than a mile in circumference, and was impoverished in the matter of vegetation, although the cactus-plant showed here and there, and a few cocoanut-trees with a fringe of sickly scrub underbrush occupied the centre of this otherwise barren island. I reasoned that the site of the spring must be found within the little grove; so, providing myself with the trowel and compass, I made my way toward it.
"From the time that I had first become familiar with the pirate's secret up to the hour when I landed on the island my head had been perfectly cool and my nerves tranquil; but now, as I approached the spot that I had travelled two thousand miles to find, I grew dizzy, and my limbs trembled, so that I was obliged to throw myself on the sand to rest for a few minutes and to force a return of my self-control. Then I arose and stepped within the circle of the little oasis.
"If there had been a spring there twenty years before, it had dried up in the interval, although a bowl-shaped hollow in the soil possibly showed where the water had once oozed through the sand.
"I asked myself if I had not been too credulous in pinning my faith to a pirate's wild tale. Had I been chasing a rainbow? Had I spent hard-earned savings and wasted several months' time on a wild-goose errand? Such thoughts made me sick at heart and half desperate. I placed my compass on the ground, carefully measured fifty paces due west of what I was forced to consider the site of the old spring, and fell to digging with my trowel.
"At the depth of about three feet I struck coral; then I commenced a trench running north and south, and dug away for an hour, meeting with nothing but fine white sand and the coral foundation. Hope as good as deserted me. Looking at the sun, I saw that it was almost touching the horizon-line, and knew that in a short time darkness would fall—for there is no twilight in the tropics. I dropped my trowel, and sat down on the edge of the hole that had promised so much in the beginning. As I gave loose rein to my bitter thoughts I savagely kicked the toe of my boot into the sandy wall of the opposite side of the pit.
"Was I dreaming? Had disappointment turned my brain, or had I really heard the clink of metal? I held my breath, and again drove my boot heavily against the wall.
"A piece of the soil fell into the pit, and out of the hole that it left a golden waterfall poured down with a merry, maddening clink, clink, clink; and there I sat, motionless, fascinated, while the treasure ran over my feet and literally hid them from sight. Then my senses partly returned to me, and I dragged my boots out of the gold and jumped and shouted in a delirium of joy.
"It was no myth, after all, for the thousands so secretly hidden away by the pirate looked upon the light of day for the first time in twenty years, and as I gazed down at the golden heap I realized that it was mine—all mine!
"The sun went down and the deep shadows fell on sea and land as I sat gloating like a miser over my riches. I slept in the ditch that night, lest during absence my fortune should be spirited away, and when morning came I stowed the gold in the valise that I had brought from the boat, then dug into the pocket from which it had flowed, to discover that it yet contained a few scattered pieces, and the rotten remnants of the canvas bag in which it had been buried.
"I set sail with my precious freight, and late that afternoon I reached St. Croix, where I pottered about the boat until nightfall; then, under cover of the darkness, I carried the valise to my room on shore and stowed it in my sea-chest.
"Little remains to be told. I returned to New York in the Dart, and used the little fortune that had come to me to purchase a captain's interest in a fine vessel."
[IMPORTANT "TRIFLES" ON WAR-SHIPS.]
BY FRANKLIN MATTHEWS.
II.
Just outside the door of the Captain's cabin, on every ship of the navy, there stands a sentry. He paces up and down for a distance of about ten feet. On one of the sides of the cabin is an electric indicator similar to those seen in the large hotels back of the clerk's desk. The sentry on the ship passes that indicator every time he paces from one end of his limited beat to the other. He cannot escape hearing its bell when it rings, and his eye at once sees whence the signal comes that is telegraphed to the Captain in time of emergency. That indicator is placed there so that, when necessary, there shall be instant communication with the Captain. Some of the dials tell stories of the utmost importance to the safety of the ship. They tell these stories automatically.
Let us see how one of the most important of these dials may perhaps save the ship from destruction. Down in the coal-bunkers there is a little instrument attached to the side of each compartment that looks like a little thermometer. It is not more than four or five inches tall. It is simply a thermometer with an electric attachment. A fire has started in a coal-bunker, as happens sometimes on large steamships, through what is known as "spontaneous combustion." It may smoulder for several days and give no indication of its existence. At last it breaks into a flame. Some one has felt a hot deck through his shoes as he has walked along, or perchance has accidentally placed his hand on the iron-work of the compartment and found it blistering hot. Instantly the fire-alarm is rung, and if the fire is not too far advanced the ship may be saved. On war-ships, however, no such risk must be run. In the economy of space on such ships it frequently happens that these coal-bunkers are placed very near, and sometimes next to, the powder-magazines. A fire in the coal-bunkers would mean an awful explosion, the loss of the ship and hundreds of lives.
Here is where that little thermometer plays its heroic part. It is called a thermostat, and it is so arranged that as the heat increases, the mercury in the bulb slowly rises to what is known as the danger-point. When the heat reaches that point the mercury sets an electric current going. At once the bell on the indicator where the sentry outside the Captain's door stands rings violently. The sentry hurries to it and sees a fire-alarm from a certain compartment, and he hastily awakes the Captain. The latter presses a button, perhaps without getting out of bed or up from his chair, and instantly there rings the general fire-alarm throughout the ship, and every man on board is called to quarters. For a few seconds it is time of immense confusion and noise. Great gongs are ringing in various parts of the ship. Men are hurrying half dressed, if it be in the night, here and there, and there is much shouting in the giving and passing of orders. In a twinkling, however, order prevails, and through the aid of that little automatic thermometer the ship and the lives of those on board are saved. This thermostat is an insignificant-looking affair—a mere trifle in the ship's construction—but see what an important thing it really is. These instruments are used in many buildings on land, but nowhere are they of such importance as when placed in coal-bunkers or on the outside walls of magazines in war-ships.
Another dial on the indicator where the sentry paces also plays an important part in war-ships. It is called the water-alarm. All modern war-ships have what are known as double bottoms. They are built to prevent the ship from sinking or from becoming flooded in the chief compartments of the vessel below the water-line. Sometimes a ship may scrape along the top of an unknown rock or reef, or may strike some obstruction floating unseen beneath the waves. No one on board may feel the shock, especially if it is a light one. The water may rush into one of these double bottoms, and although the ship may be safe from sinking, the danger in time may be most grave. As the water fills the compartment which has been broken, a little piece of wood rises with it, and finally, when it reaches a certain height, it too establishes an electric current, and the alarm rings outside the cabin door of the Captain. Again the alarm sounds through the ship, and if possible, the break is mended temporarily, and the pumps set going to clear the compartment of the water.
A TORPEDO BURSTING AN OUTER COMPARTMENT.
In time of battle, however, this water-alarm may tell a more important story. Perhaps a torpedo from the enemy has struck the ship, and a gaping wound has been torn not only in the outside bottom of the ship, but through the inner hull as well. Instantly the news reaches the Captain through the water-alarm. The Captain simply presses a button, and at once not only does the general alarm ring, but the "siren" whistle on the ship is set to shrieking most horribly. Those siren whistles are seldom heard either in port or at sea. They begin their noise with a low moan, and run up to an awful shriek, with a thin, ear-piercing note that is almost unendurable. The siren may be blown by electricity as easily as an electric door-bell may be rung. When the siren is heard it is a signal throughout the ship to close all the water-tight doors in the various compartments, and thus confine the inrushing waters to a limited space. If only one or two compartments are torn open by the torpedo, the ship may be saved from sinking and a great tragedy of war may be averted. When the siren howls, however, there is such a scurrying on shipboard as is never seen at other times. Nearly every compartment has men in it at work. The alarms and the whistles are their only warning, except, perhaps, the shouts of their companions. A mighty rush is made to get out of some of these compartments. No time must be lost, and there can be no waiting for a man to escape. If shut in, he may be drowned. It is a question of his life or that of the ship and the lives of the rest of the crew, and there is only one way to answer that question.
These water-alarms are used in many large buildings in connection with the fire-alarm, but one can see how much more important they are on ships, especially on war-ships, than on land. They are a most simple contrivance, and, like the thermostat, mere trifles; but they may turn the tide in a naval battle, and directly or remotely settle the fate of a nation.
In the early days of steam navigation the Captain of a vessel could speak to the engineer through a tube and regulate the speed of the ship. When the vessels grew larger, the signalling was done by means of bells. That method is in common use to-day in many vessels that ply in harbors, such as river steamboats and tug-boats. As the ocean-liners increased in size the bell system of signalling became antiquated. The Captain or the navigator was 300 or 400 feet away from the engineer, and from 20 to 40 feet above the engine-room. In time of emergency it became necessary to send word to the engineer exactly what to do in half a dozen different cases. He must stop, back, go slow now with one engine and now with another, or with both. A long chain was run from a contrivance on the bridge to the engine-room. When the Captain pressed forward or backward a handle on a vertical dial, a handle in the engine-room would move on a similar dial, and a bell would ring to call attention to it, and the engineer knew at once what to do. This system is in use at the present time on all large passenger-ships and most war-ships in the world.
Electricity has invaded this field also, and on the newer war-ships of the navy we have the signalling done by this agent. By the electric-engine telegraph, which Lieutenant Fiske of our navy has invented, not only does the engineer know at once when to go at full speed, half-speed, when to stop and back, and all that, but the Captain can tell at an instant, by looking at a little dial attached to his signalling apparatus, whether his orders have been understood. The little dial is connected with that part of the signalling apparatus in the engine-room on the same electric circuit, and thus the Captain knows exactly what is going on in the engine-room. But the new invention goes farther than that. It tells the engineer just how many revolutions of the screws a minute the Captain desires the engines to make. Full speed, for example, in the old way of signalling may mean anywhere from 80 to 90 or 100 revolutions of the screws. Half-speed may mean anywhere from 60 to 80 revolutions. The engineer in those cases has to use his own judgment as to what speed to employ, unless a message is sent especially to him from the Captain. In the electric device which we are just beginning to use there are certain notches on the dials, and the Captain can signal exactly the number of revolutions he desires each engine to make. He not only gets a signal back, but he has a telltale instrument before his eyes which shows that the engines are making 59, or 73, or whatever number of turns the Captain wishes them to make.
Now this regulation of the revolutions of the ship's engines has a most important part to play in warfare. One of the most essential things in naval manœuvring is that ships shall keep a certain distance from one another. It avoids collisions, and preserves regularity in fire and in changing positions at critical times. It is as essential as that soldiers shall present a solid line to the enemy in battle on land. A helter-skelter fleet would be beaten from the start in a fight. It is most difficult for ships to keep at regular intervals. The engines of one turn just a little faster than the engines of another, and little by little a ship creeps up or drops away from its fellows. Sometimes the distances are preserved by guess-work. Lately a little instrument has been invented by which the Captain can see at a glance how far he is from the ship ahead of him. It is a modification of the sextant. The height of a certain object on the ship in front is known. That is the base of a triangle. The size of the angles at the end of that base are seen at a glance by the observer, and by the manipulation of a screw or two the Captain of a ship can see on a sliding-scale whether he is going too slow or too fast. In either case he signals a change or two in the number of revolutions he wishes the engines to make, and he preserves his required distance. Accuracy in this matter may win a battle.
So great is the din and confusion on war-ships in time of battle that what are called "visual signals" are demanded. This has brought several contrivances into operation that are new. For example, we have a transmitter of orders. It tells the gunners when and what guns to load, and with what kind of shot; when to stand ready to fire; when to fire, and when to cease firing. In the old days, and even in the present days, such orders are conveyed in speaking-tubes or by telephone on most ships. In the great noise an order may be mistaken, but with a visual signal in the shape of an indicator, operated by the mere pressing of a button, orders from the Captain may be conveyed clearly and instantly.
Another apparently trifling thing in the development of navigation is an electrical signalling device for indicating the exact angle the Captain wishes the helm set in making a turn. He presses a button, and the man at the wheel sets the rudder accordingly. A dial informs the Captain that the rudder is set as required. This is most important, because it tends to avoid collisions as the war-ships suddenly change their positions in column. We all remember how serious a collision, even going at slow speed, may be when we recall how three years ago the Camperdown sunk the Victoria of the English Mediterranean squadron on a peaceful day off the coast of Africa, in going through some simple evolutions, and when hundreds of brave sailors, including the Admiral of the fleet himself, were drowned, as the Victoria went down before the small boats of the other vessels of the fleet could reach them.
THE ADMIRAL WORKING SIGNALS AT NIGHT.
One of the great problems in naval tactics is to secure an effective method of signalling orders from ship to ship. In the night it is comparatively easy. A string of red and white alternating electric lights is strung from a yard downwards. An operator sits in front of a little box in which there are a lot of black keys on which are stamped a certain number of red and white dots. As he presses these keys, which are arranged in a circle and look like so many fancy dominoes, the red and white lights flash out in certain combinations. The operators see them, and signal back the same light. Each key pressed down means a certain letter, and it takes little time to send an order. In the daytime signals must be sent by flags, or by means of a contrivance with long arms such as we see on signal-towers on a railroad. As these arms are jerked into certain positions they tell a story of their own.
During a battle by day or night all such systems are of little value because of the smoke. Whistles can be of little use, because the noise of battle would drown them. Electrical experts are trying to devise a system of telegraphing through the water, of course without the use of wires, but the outlook in that direction is not promising at present.
Then there are important new devices which we can only mention. One of them is the sounding apparatus, by which the depth of water can be taken when going at full speed. The pressure of water on a column of air varies at certain depths of the ocean. This pressure is marked by the discoloration of a fluid in a tube through the agency of the salt water. The electric firing of guns is also interesting. A current of electricity is passed through a filament, such as we see in the incandescent lamp of a house electric light, and at once the heat sets the gun off as effectively as if a spark had ignited the powder. Then there is the aerophone, or fog-indicator, which points out the exact direction of some noise-making object by cutting the sound-wave in two, so as to send it first in one ear and then the other of the man who operates the invention, until finally he gets it in equal volume in both ears, and the dial on the machine points straight to the object which cannot be seen.
All these inventions, which of themselves seem mere trifles, are necessary in these days, because of the wonderful advance in warfare and the construction of ships. In the old days the Captain could roar his orders out and make himself heard almost everywhere. Nowadays a fraction of a second may determine the outcome of a battle. He must be able to find the distance of his enemy, must fire his guns without aiming them in the old way, must regulate the speed of his ship to the single turn of a screw, must put his own helm at a certain angle to a degree. Without electricity he would be helpless in the noise and confusion. Even with electricity he is hampered, and so we may expect that the invention of these little devices will go on, until one man in a ship may control that engine of war as completely as if he were in every vital place in the ship at one and the same time.
[HOW TO USE THE VOICE.]
BY FELIX BEAUMONT.
"Now, my friends," said Mrs. Martin, as she gathered a knot of young people about her on the breezy veranda of her pleasant country house, one moonlight evening in September, "we have had picnics, and drives, and walks, and rows upon the lake in the daytime, and dances almost every night since you have been visiting me, and I believe that you may be getting sufficiently tired of these sports, as the weather grows cooler, to wish to change about and settle down to something at once more instructive and more artistic. You are, all of you, students of music—Ethel reads it very well at sight, Kenneth plays the 'cello, Patty plays the violin, Beatrice sings charmingly and plays accompaniments, besides being a general helper and strong inducer of merriment, while the rest of you have good voices, very pretty taste, and some knowledge of music. So I am going to organize a musical club, which shall meet here regularly once a week after you leave me, having finished your visits. And I am going now to attempt to explain to you so thoroughly the best methods of getting up a 'musical' that other boys and girls who wish to amuse themselves in the same way may learn from your example. A great deal of fun may be had from the preliminary practice and rehearsals. I should advise you to form, in the first place, three quartets: one of mixed voices—that is, you know, soprano, alto, tenor, and bass—besides one of male voices, first tenor, second tenor, first bass (or barytone), and second bass. Then a quartet of female voices—two sopranos and two altos, and this last can sometimes do trios as well as quartets. For all of these different sets of voices the most beautiful and pleasing music has been made. Mendelssohn's collection for mixed voices, called 'Open-Air Music,' is intended to be done without accompaniment, which, as you see, fits it to be sung independently in any place—in the woods, or on the lake, or while driving. It is as full of inspiration and of the true sweet Mendelssohnian melody as anything that ever dropped from the pen of that sociable and amiable composer; the harmonies are delicious, and the words are full of the poetry of land and sea and love. For male voices there is a large literature; but perhaps the heaviest mass of writing is found in compositions for women's voices, either in the form of duets—as, for instance, those of Abt, Mendelssohn, Rubinstein, or Dvorák—in trios, and in quartets.
"In this connection let me tell you," said Mrs. Martin, who now saw that her young audience was thoroughly attentive and interested, "that Schubert has written a most lovely 'Serenade' for alto solo and women's chorus. For all three kinds of quartet, as I have said, there is a large choice of music. The old Scotch, English, and Irish songs and ballads have been arranged to be sung by male, female, or mixed voices, so that 'Robin Adair,' 'The Bluebells of Scotland,' 'Annie Laurie,' 'Tom Bowling,' 'Hearts of Oak,' 'The Bay of Biscay,' 'Kathleen Mavourneen,' 'The Last Rose of Summer,' and 'The Harp that once through Tara's Halls' take on new beauties from their harmonizations. Then there are humorous things, such as Homer Bartlett's 'The Frogs' Singing-School,' or Caldicott's 'Spider and the Fly,' and all Ingraham's nine 'Nonsense Songs,' set to Lear's words, from 'The Owl and the Pussy-cat' to 'The Duck and the Kangaroo.' Italian folk-songs, too, have been transformed into harmonized versions, and there are hosts of waltzes so pretty and inspiriting that you will hardly be able to keep from whirling about while you sing them. 'Cradle Songs' and 'Slumber Songs' may be selected when for variety you need a bit of reposeful quiet in your programme; and you know enough of Franz Abt's pure, sweet, pleasing melody to be able to choose judiciously on the occasions when he would be useful to you.
"Of course," added Mrs. Martin, "these musical attempts presuppose some knowledge of sight-reading on the part of you young people; and as nothing is accomplished without application and effort, you must be willing to take a little trouble in the practice and perfection of whatever you undertake to perform. Each of you must carry his part home and study it separately, until you are perfectly familiar with it, then you must rehearse together until the whole thing goes smoothly. Do any of you understand," said Mrs. Martin, giving a comprehensive glance along the semicircle of sun-browned smiling faces in front of her, "what you must do to make ensemble singing sound sweetly to the listener? In the first place, never sing too loud. There is a great temptation for each member of a chorus or quartet to use all the power of his voice as soon as he feels other voices pushing against him; but whether in solo or other work, one of the cardinal rules is to avoid singing as loudly as the vocal chords will permit. One must think continually of the sound he is producing, must listen carefully to himself, by which method one can modify and improve the quality of tone to a remarkable degree. Some people undoubtedly make a much more successful effort than others in managing their voices before they are cultivated. The best general advice to be given for the help of a novice is, sing freely and naturally, with relaxed muscles. You should try to open the throat by a movement which at once forces the tonsils apart and depresses the roots of the tongue, somewhat as in the commencement of a yawn. Let the column of air which carries the tone come straight through the middle of the open throat, and focus or strike in the roof of the mouth just behind and above the upper teeth. Try to enunciate distinctly without disturbing the continuity of tone emission."
"Do you think any of us can do solos, Aunt Martha?" asked little Patty, timidly.
"Oh yes, indeed," replied Mrs. Martin, drawing Patty close to her. "We must have some, of course; they are so good for making boys and girls conquer shyness and nervousness and consciousness. At first you should select simple songs of limited range, with attractive flowing melodies. You will find plenty of just this kind among the works of Gounod, Abt, Ries, Cowen, Sullivan, Curschman, Kücken, Fesca, Tosti, and Bohm. Brahms's 'Lullaby' is a charming and easy bit of singing; so is Ries's 'Cradle Song.' Those by Adalbert Goldschmidt and Gerrit Smith are pretty also. Indeed, slumber songs lend themselves admirably to early efforts in solo work. Other song writers to whom you may look for furnishing the best material are Jensen, Eckert, Lachner, Taubert, Bemberg, Gumbert, Goring-Thomas, Bizet, Lassen, Delibes, Widor, Arditi, Mattei, Godard, Saint-Saëns, Massenet, and so on, up to the classic heights of Rubinstein, Mendelssohn, Liszt, Schubert, Schumann, Grieg, and Brahms. Of extreme modern writers who make pleasing music you can rely on Chaminade, Nevin, Neidlinger, Bartlett, Johns, and Pizzi. Of course among these names you will not find many opera-composers, for I have only cared to mention the makers of songs. I will tell you something else, a little foreign to our immediate subject of ensemble or solo singing, which, however, will, I am sure, afford you much enjoyment and merriment. There are compositions called in German 'Kinder Symphonien,' or 'Children's Symphonies.' Dear old Father Haydn made one of the best of these, and they have been followed by others, by Romberg, Chwatal, Grenzebach, Meyer, and Schulz. They are played by about ten or twelve persons. There will be a piano score for either two or four hands, one for violin, and for a number of toy instruments. One of the instruments is somewhat like a pair of bellows in construction. When it is pressed together the most illusive sound of 'cuckoo, cuckoo,' comes from it, so natural as almost to deceive the bird himself if he were listening.
"Another instrument is a china mug with a spout like a teapot. The mug must be half filled with water, and on blowing into the spout a melodious gurgling arises. This is supposed to be an exact imitation of the ravishing song of the sad poetic nightingale. Then there is a drum, a trumpet, a triangle, and many other things conducive to noise and music. Each performer has a separate sheet to read his notes from, and the effort to count properly, to wait for rests, and to make the right entrances, gives much serious employment. But when at last everything goes well together the effect is very merry and pleasing. One of Chwatal's symphonies is called 'The Sleigh-Ride.' The jingling of a set of small sleigh-bells is a feature in this. I should think," added Mrs. Martin, "that some of these symphonies would be a great addition to your musicals, and give lots of fun. The trumpeter of the occasion must take pains, however, not to fall into the error of the man who blew a tremendous blast upon his horn in the middle of a piece of music, producing a horrid discord. When the leader asked him, angrily, 'What in the world did you play that dreadful wrong note for?' the man meekly replied, 'Ach Himmel, there was a fly on the fourth line of the staff, and I played him!' Nor must you," went on Mrs. Martin, smiling at her reminiscences, "copy the negligent daring of a friend of mine who sang in a well-known German Verein. Things had been going badly, and finally the conductor in despair cried out, as he stamped his foot and gesticulated wildly, 'Tenors, tenors, you are a measure behind!' Whereupon my friend called back lustily to him, 'Ach! muss man denn so genau sein?'—must one then be so very particular?" The children laughed heartily at their dear hostess's jokes, as they tried always to do when it was at all possible.
"And now," said tall Ethel, "won't you please tell us all about the evening of the musical, and what we shall wear, and how to write the invitations?"
"Wear?" said Mrs. Martin. "Why, of course you would wear your very best evening gowns, you girls, and of course, to my mind, those who were dressed in white would look the prettiest. And the boys would wear their Tuxedo suits, or whatever they looked smartest in. As to the invitations, do not send out so many as to crowd your parlor uncomfortably. The rule which I have found safe to believe is that one-third of all the people invited will decline. This gives a hostess the liberty of paying a compliment to many more of her friends than her house will actually hold. The form of the invitation may be thus:
"Mrs. Dudley requests the pleasure of Mr. and Mrs. Allison's company on Thursday evening, November 12, at half past eight.
"Music at nine o'clock.
"160 Saint Bernard Street.
"Or your mother's ordinary visiting-card will do, if she writes in one corner, 'Music at nine o'clock.' Invitations should be sent at least a week or ten days beforehand. If it is possible for you to have a grand-piano, never use a square or an upright one. If you must use either of the latter kinds, turn it away from the wall, and drape the back of the upright with some pretty soft drapery, which can be held in place by books, vases, and a lamp on the top of the piano. All the portières or other curtains that can be taken down should be removed, and all the rugs and heavy furniture carried out of the room. Music sounds so much better in a place free from soft thick hangings.
"It is good to have programmes, for people enjoy listening to pieces much more if they know their names. Should expense deter you from having them printed, they may be nicely written off on a sheet of note-paper. For printed programmes, a card ten inches by three and a half, folded once in the middle of its length, makes an extremely good form.
"Would you like me to give you some idea of the programme, musically and spiritually considered, as well as from its purely material stand-point?" said Mrs. Martin, after a few moments' silence, "for I believe, with that exception, that I have told you all I can. Get out your note-book, Bertram, and put down what I tell you."