Copyright, 1895, by Harper & Brothers. All Rights Reserved.

A FIGHT IN THE FOG.

BY YATES STIRLING, JUN., ENSIGN U.S.N.

"All hands to muster!" rang out from the harsh throats of the boatswain's mates of the U.S.S. Kearsarge, and the crew came tumbling aft to the quarter-deck. They were as fine-looking a set of bluejackets as one would care to see, the cream of the navy and the naval reserve.

The new Kearsarge was cruising off the coast of Great Britain for the purpose of intercepting one of the enemy's finest cruisers, which was known to have recently left England, and was on the way to join her sister ships in her own country.

Every one aboard the American ship was wild to meet the enemy, and the Kearsarge's crew had not a fear that the fight would result differently from the one fought by her namesake forty-five years before.

The lookout had just reported smoke to the eastward, from which direction the enemy was expected. When all hands were "up and aft," the Captain addressed his men upon the impending conflict.

"Men," he said, "we are here to fight the most formidable of our enemy's cruisers. She is equal in every respect to the mighty ship upon which we stand. There are no chances in our favor. The battle will depend upon your coolness and courage.

"Men of the main battery, upon you depends the result of the action. Your target is the armored sides and turrets.

"Men of the secondary battery, your nerve and endurance are to be put to the crucial test. Your guns must be directed at the unarmored gun parts and torpedo tubes.

"Remember, all of you, a lucky shot may turn the tide of battle.

"Officers and men, upon you depends whether the new Kearsarge shall win a name as lasting and illustrious as did the noble ship from which that name was inherited.

"The eyes of the world are upon you."

A few minutes later the Captain and the executive officers are upon the forward bridge, discussing the minor details of the plan of action, and casting apprehensive glances at the low line of black smoke on the eastern horizon.

The former is a fine-looking young officer, who has been rapidly advanced to commanding rank through his zeal and untiring labors to perfect the navy of his country.

Many an article from his pen on how a ship should be fought has been published in the scientific papers of America; but now he must put his theories to the test—to learn by experience, bitter or sweet, whether he merited the commendation which his numerous articles on naval science have won for him.

The Kearsarge, which was launched in 1900, is an armored cruiser of 9000 tons displacement, 420 feet in length, and 64 feet in breadth. The main battery consists of four 10-inch breech-loading rifles, firing projectiles weighing 500 pounds; two mounted in a 10-inch armored turret forward on midship line, and two in a similarly placed turret aft, and four 8-inch breech-loading rifles, firing projectiles weighing 250 pounds, mounted two each in a 6-inch armored turret on either beam.

The secondary battery consists of twelve 5-inch rapid-fire guns and eight 6-pounders mounted in armored sponsons on a covered gun-deck. On her superstructure rail, about 15 feet above the spar-deck, she carries twelve 37-millimeter revolver cannon and four long 1-pounders. With this tremendous battery she can hurl two tons of steel from one broadside of her main battery every minute, and 362 pounds of steel from her secondary broadside every five seconds. The velocity of this metal on striking within battle-range would be about twenty-five miles a minute. The heavy shells, if striking within the biting angle, can penetrate the armor of any war-vessel afloat.

On her berth-deck she carries five torpedo-tubes with two automobile Whitehead torpedoes for each tube. The charge used is sufficient to sink any cruiser afloat if exploded within ten yards of her bottom plating. The armor on her sides is 5 inches of steel, and her protective-deck is 3 inches in thickness.

Among the inventions which her Captain has given to his navy is a sound-detector, by means of which a sound can be magnified to a very great degree, and its direction accurately ascertained.

The Kearsarge had been fitted with one of these detectors before leaving the United States, for the Captain knew that many dense fogs would be met with off the English coast.

She has been cruising about in wait for her prey for over a week. The crew have been given incessant drill and sub-calibre target practice. The plan of attack has been discussed so often that it is known by all the officers.

The ship is "cleared for action." Every stanchion and boat-davit has been lashed to the deck. Every movable object on the deck below has been sent to the protective-deck to avoid, as far as possible, the danger from flying splinters.

The smoke on the horizon has approached, until now it is seen from the top to come from two smoke-pipes framed by something that looks suspiciously like two military fighting-masts.

The crew are gathered on the forecastle. The enemy is now in sight, and the Captain's glass is upon her. A careful scrutiny shows her to be a war-vessel similar in appearance to his own. At a sign from him the drummer beats to "quarters." This sound calls every man to some station. The Captain goes to the conning-tower, a small heavily armored turret beneath the bridge. An aid enters with him to steer the ship by his direction from the wheel within. A small opening near the top gives the occupants a view around the horizon, and numerous speaking-tubes and telephones put them in communication with all the vital parts of the ship. Crews of twelve men each enter the turrets in charge of an officer. Steam is turned on the turret-engines. The guns on the deck below are divided between two divisions of men, each division in charge of a lieutenant, who has an ensign and midshipman as assistants.

The men are stripped to the waist, and their guns are ready for battle; division tubs are filled with water, and the decks are covered with sand. On the berth-deck hatches and scuttles are opened, tackles are hooked, and the cooks are hoisting powder and shell for the battery.

The torpedo clews are charging their deadly weapons with compressed air. Below the protective-deck are half-naked men in the magazines and shell rooms, handling the missiles that are soon to speed towards the approaching enemy.

Down in the depths of the steel hull the firemen feed the mighty furnaces to a white heat. It is all the same to them now as when the monsters are engaged in a death-struggle. The sounds of the discharges, of the explosion of shells, and the cries of the wounded will be too distant and muffled to give them an idea of what is going on in the world above them. The first news will come when the terrible torpedo explodes against their ship's side, dooming them to a watery grave, or the merciless ram sinks into its very bowels, or when a heavy shell penetrates one of the huge boilers, dooming all hands in the terrific explosion that will follow.

The stranger has altered her course and is steaming in the direction of the Kearsarge. There are her two military masts, but no flag as yet to show her nationality. Suddenly something flutters from her mast-head. It is the flag of England! There is no time now to consider what must be done. The ships are but five miles apart, steaming for each other at twenty-knots speed. One minute more and the cruisers will be within battle-range.

The Captain is a man of quick judgment, and his mind is made up in an instant.

From his point of vantage on the bridge he takes a careful look at the stranger and then at the drawing he has of her, furnished by the Navy Department. It is the same vessel; yet why would she be cleared for action if a British cruiser?

Starboard!

The mighty ship swings around in answer to her helm, and is heading perpendicularly to the course of the stranger.

Two midshipmen stationed at the range-finders in the tops are pointing the delicate instruments towards the approaching ship. Dials at each gun automatically show that the distance is rapidly diminishing. The marines have taken their rifles to the superstructure-deck, and are crouching behind a breastwork constructed of closely lashed hammocks. The doctors have removed their medicines and instruments to the ward-room, and the long mess-tables are in readiness to receive the dead and wounded. The chief quartermaster stands ready aft with a spare ensign to hoist over the ship should his country's flag be shot away.

When the range-finder registers three and a half miles the Captain orders the forward turret to fire at the stranger. The air is rent immediately by the blast of the discharge.

The crew wait breathlessly while the shells reach the height of their trajectories. One strikes the sea short, while the other strikes the stranger and explodes.

The irrevocable step is taken. England's flag has been fired upon.

All hands wait to see what the stranger will do. Three miles told the range-finder.

A brown mist shoots from the stranger's forward turret; at the same time the British flag is hauled down, and the flag of the enemy floats defiance in its stead. Two 10-inch shells fall but a few yards short of the Kearsarge, and a moment later the sound of the discharge reaches the ears of her crew.

Two miles and a half registers the range-finder, and all the officers are directed to open fire. Shot after shot belches forth from the Kearsarge's broadside and speeds towards the enemy, exploding against her armor and topsides.

As yet the Kearsarge has not been hit, but now the vapor from the enemy's smokeless powder shoots from the muzzles of a score of guns not two thousand yards away, and two tons of steel are launched on their deadly flight.

The havoc aboard the Kearsarge will never be forgotten. The armor is pierced, the topsides are riddled. The carnage among the unprotected men on the gun-deck and superstructure is awful. But worst of all, many men not wounded by shot and shell are laid insensible by some unseen power.

Skulonite is the word that passes from lip to lip. The poisonous gas is the aftermath of the explosion of shells loaded with this deadly compound.

The men are carried from the compartments filled with the vapor, and the air-tight doors are closed to prevent the spreading of the noxious fumes to the magazines and engine-rooms.

The cruisers are now but fifteen hundred yards apart, steaming in opposite directions. As they circle about one another like mighty birds of prey they are fast approaching within range at which a new weapon will be launched against the other's steel hull, the silent but relentless torpedo. Then the ram will soon crash through one of the cruisers. Which will it be?

The Kearsarge's fire is becoming more desultory as the crew of one gun after another succumbs to the terrible influence of the skulonite.

Suddenly a steel fishlike weapon is seen shooting from the enemy's side. The Captain of the Kearsarge watches with breathless anxiety the line of bubbles on the water's surface, as the torpedo approaches his ship at a terrific speed. It suddenly swerves, and goes but a few yards clear of her stern.

The Kearsarge's breast torpedo is launched at the enemy. With a splash it leaps from her side and speeds on its errand of destruction. The bubbles in its wake show the aim is good. It must strike. But no, it has gone under the enemy's ram.

What is that hazy line to windward, but half a mile distant? It is a most welcome sight to the brave man in the conning-tower, and he heads his crippled ship for the oncoming mist. Soon she is swallowed up in the dense fog-bank, and shut out from her enemy's view.

The enemy gives chase, as the American commander had expected. He turns the trumpet of his sound-detector in the direction of the pursuing vessel, and from its dial ascertains her course.

The enemy is still firing, but the guns of the Kearsarge have ceased to roar, and "silence fore and aft" is commanded of the crew. The fleeing ship goes on until her Captain is sure that his foe has entered the fog, then the helm is put hard over, and the ship swings around until the instrument indicates that the other is dead ahead.

Again the Captain is hopeful of success, as he realizes that the enshrouding mist and the instrument before him place the advantage in his favor. His eye is fixed on the pointer of the dial, ever responsive to the electric current set up by the sound waves beating upon the sensitive diaphragm in the trumpet. The ship leaps forward until he hears through the ear-piece the throb of the enemy's engines. His heart beats fast, but he knows that he must be self-controlled.

The ships are coming together bows on. The American commander causes his ship to swing to starboard a little so as to point her bow away from the approaching enemy.

The instant for action has come. He starboards his helm in order to lay his ship across the course of the enemy. "Prepare to ram" is telephoned by the aid at his side. The ship swings around. The pointer swerves from the direction of her starboard bow to dead ahead. Has he been too late? Will he pass across her wake, or will he cross her path in time to receive her ram prow in his own broadside? The needle points ahead when the huge side of the enemy looms up through the fog.

In a moment, with a terrific shock, the ram bow of the victorious Kearsarge enters the side of the enemy, cleaving armor and deck-plating as though it were wood.

Slowly the victor backs off from her sinking enemy.

The rammed ship commences to deliver death-dealing shots; but she is fast sinking.

She can no longer elevate her guns enough to strike the Kearsarge. She has heeled too far. The firing eases.

All the Kearsarge's boats that are not disabled are manned and ready to render assistance to the vanquished.

Not a moment too soon. The ill-fated ship heels to starboard, her stern rising high in the air, her screws thrashing the fog in their upward flight, the flag under which her brave defenders had so well fought still waving at her trucks, and slowly sinks beneath the waves, sending up columns of water from her hatchways, and engulfing her crew in the mighty suction.

But few survivors were saved of the few hundred that had had victory so nearly in their grasp.

THE SAD STORY OF THE MOUSE.

BY KATHARINE PYLE.

One winter, when mamma was ill,
And scarce could move at all,
There used to come a little mouse
From out the bedroom wall.
Mamma would scatter crumbs for it;
'Twas company, she said;
She liked to see it run about
While she was there in bed.
And when mamma was well again,
The mouse would still come out,
And nose around in search of food,
And scamper all about.
At last one day—oh dear! oh dear!—
A naughty boy was I;
I set a trap to catch that mouse;
I'm sure I don't know why.
I'd hardly closed the cupboard door
Before the thing went, Snap!
I was afraid to go and look
At what was in the trap.
At last I looked; the mouse was there!
I carried it away;
I never told a soul of it;
I could not play all day.
And after that mamma would say,
"Why, where's our little mouse?
It must have found some other place
I think, about the house."
But, oh, I'd give my bat and ball,
My kite and jackknife too,
To see that mouse run round again
The way it used to do.

SHOOTING THE CHUTE.

BY WALTER CLARK NICHOLS.

More swiftly than the lightest-feathered swallow wings her flight southward in the fall, more rapidly than any railroad train in the world sweeps along its iron road, you speed down a long slide at an angle of about thirty-seven degrees. Your heart leaps into your throat as the boat you are in strikes the water and skims unevenly over the surface of a small pond, and then your heart comes back to its right place as you find you are unhurt. Then you give a gasp of pleasure, and are ready to try it all over again. For you have "shot the chute."

YOU SEE THE BOAT LEAP FORTY FEET AT A JUMP.

"Shooting the chute" is the invention of that intrepid swimmer and bold paddler Captain Paul Boyton. Captain Boyton, who is as brave as he is modest, is the man who has paddled over twenty five thousand miles on the principal rivers of the world in a peculiarly constructed rubber suit, over great falls, and through dark cañons, in Europe, Africa, and America; who has fought sharks and seals, and has had all sorts of strange adventures. The idea of the "chute" first came to him, he says, while shooting down the raging Tagus in Spain. In his book he says:

"The thought struck me as I was going into some subterranean passage, the perpendicular walls seeming to close in and swallow up the entire river. I was swept down by the mighty current, and was beginning to feel sure that I was being carried into some underground rapids, when I was suddenly dumped into a deep pool, where the course of the river was running smooth and placidly along."

The first chute in America was built in Chicago, and opened for business on July 4, 1894. It is nothing more nor less than an inclined roadway of wood or iron, starting at a height of from 60 to 75 feet, which, with a run of about 250 feet, descends to the surface of the water. On this roadway there are tracks upon which boats, each holding eight passengers, glide rapidly down. When the boat strikes the water, the impetus acquired in the descent causes it to "skim" over the water in a series of bounds, like a stone thrown by a boy in "ducks and drakes," some 300 feet to a landing-stage, where the passengers are disembarked.

But such a brief description doesn't even suggest the fun and the excitement of "shooting the chute." It is a sport where old and young can meet on common ground. In fact one poet has recently told how

"Little Jimmy was a scholar,
And his aptitude was such
That his parents and his teacher
Were afraid he'd know too much.
So his grandmamma said, 'Bless him,
I will take him into town,
And we'll go to Captain Boyton's,
Where they'll water-shoot us down.'"

Suppose you were to go down to the chute—for there are four chutes in different parts of the country now, in Chicago, Atlanta, Baltimore, and at Coney Island—you would see something like this: There is a big enclosure, with a high board fence around it, from which a huge incline stretches up. It looks like a toboggan slide, only far bigger than most. The man at the stile-gate says, "Tickets, please." So you pay twenty cents for each ticket, admitting you to the grounds and one ride each on the chute. Just as you go in you hear a roaring, rattling sound, and a boat comes rushing down the slide into the lake in front of you. You see the boat leap forty feet at a jump over the surface of the water, like some ocean demon, until it finally quiets down and allows itself to be paddled easily up to the bank. As the people in the boat are helped out by several of the fifty attendants dressed in sailor suits, you expect them to cry out some expression of disapproval, for you certainly heard them shouting out in a frightened manner as they rode down the chute. But no.

THE "CHUTE."

"Wasn't it perfectly splendid?" says one woman.

"It beats tobogganing!" exclaims another.

"Let's do it again!" says a small boy.

A little reassured, you move around with the crowd towards the entrance to the slide, and, after giving your tickets to the gateman, you all get into little cars—similar to those in use at Niagara Falls running down to the whirlpool rapids—attached to endless chains, which drag you up to the top of the chute as slowly as the boats in the other part go rapidly. As you get a little more than half-way up, a boatload of people rattles by within ten feet of you, and you wonder again whether you will have the courage to make the first trial.

Once up, you follow the others around to the other side of the chute, where boats are sent down every fifteen seconds. You glance down the slide. It looks very long, and the water, which the steersman says is only three feet deep, seems very far away and very deep. At last, with a sudden gulp of courage, you jump in, holding tight to the railings as the guard bids you. You see little streams of water bubbling up and trickling down every few inches or so along the slide, and 'way below the big pool of water looks yawningly upward. The boat-despatcher has his hand on the lever which holds the boat back. And now that is turned.

"Hold fast, ladies and gentlemen. Hats under the seat! Now, then, you're off!"

THE FIRST JUMP.

Quickly the boat rattles into the incline. A fraction of a second, and you are rushing along so fast that you almost scream. A second or two more, and you are going at the rate of seventy-four miles an hour. You have lost your breath, but the fresh air that rushes into your lungs gives you a delicious sensation. You feel as if you were flying through the air.

Boom! Splash! The boat strikes the water, almost jolting you off your seat, and whirling the spray high into the air. The people on the banks of the little pond whiz by, for the speed is still terrific, and the boat jumps forward in crazy leaps. After two or three of these spasmodic efforts the boat glides to the landing, thanks to the assistance of the man in the stern. Your breath comes back. You find you weren't hurt a bit, or even wet. You feel as if you jumped from the top of the barn into the lowest but softest hay-mow. You give an ecstatic gasp, this time of extreme delight, and plead with papa or Uncle Tom to "try it again."

THE SECOND JUMP.

You "try it again," and this time you are not scared a bit, just simply delighted. As you are being paddled over to the shore after the last violent plunge of the ride, you take a look at the boat, and notice that it is very strongly built—of hickory and oak, the boatman says, and costing over a hundred dollars. It has a long slope upward in the prow, less sharp than a yacht's bow, and thus the danger of getting wet is almost entirely done away with. Each boat has four seats, seating eight people altogether, besides the man who steers.

Perhaps you go down the chute a few times more. If you do, you will have acquired the "chute craze," and then it is only a question of how much money you can have spent for you. Abroad, several of the royal families acquired the "chute craze," and some of them have had amusing times on it. When the present Emperor of Russia, then the Czarovitch, was visiting England in July, 1893, he, the Prince of Wales, and the King of Denmark, went to Captain Boyton's water-show to "shoot the chute." An eye-witness, who wrote about it to a Chicago paper, said:

"TRYING IT AGAIN."

"They climbed to the top of the high incline, and the Czarovitch, with a twinkle in his eye, invited the King of Denmark to take the front seat in the boat in which they were to make the swift descent. His Majesty took the place, and his nephew quietly stepped in behind and put his silk hat under the seat. The Indian guide pushed off, and in a moment the boat was flying like mad down the steep incline. The King, who thought the boat would certainly plunge under the waters of the lake when it struck, crouched down and held on like grim death. The Czarovitch stood up and yelled with excited glee. The flat-bottomed boat dashed into the water with a tremendous splash, leaped four or five feet into the air, and a drenching shower of spray covered his Majesty on the front seat. As the boat approached the opposite shore the Czarovitch turned to the Indian who was steering, grinned, and put out his hand; the Indian grinned wickedly, and something slipped into his fingers. There had been a similar bit of pantomime before the boat started, and as skilful guides can take their boats through the exciting trips without wetting their passengers, it is supposed that the young Czarovitch played a little joke on his royal uncle. The Prince of Wales came down in another boat, and they all liked it so much that they all went back and tried it again."

So popular has the pastime been at the chute near New York that over 30,000 persons have frequently "shot the chute" in a day.

OAKLEIGH.[1]

BY ELLEN DOUGLAS DELAND.

CHAPTER XI.

Christmas morning dawned cloudy and very cold, but it had stopped snowing, and after a while the sun came out and turned the country into a radiant, dazzling spectacle.

The Franklins were to have a party during the holidays, and it had been planned for the following Tuesday—New-Year's eve.

"If we had only arranged to have it earlier we might have escaped that horrid Branson," said Cynthia, regretfully, the day after Christmas. "Now, of course, he will come with the Morgans, and, worse still, we shall have to be polite to him in our own house."

"I should hope so," said Edith. "You were rude enough to him at the picnic, and I do think good manners are so attractive. I am going to cultivate them as much as possible. No one will ever like you unless you are polite, Cynthia."

"I seem to have plenty of friends," returned her sister, composedly, "and I don't really care to have Bronson like me. In fact, I would rather prefer that he shouldn't. I wouldn't consider it much of a compliment to be liked by a—a—creature like that!"

It would be impossible to convey an idea of the contempt in Cynthia's voice as she said this.

"And if you are going to have such lovely manners, I should think it would be just as well to begin at home," she added.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I don't suppose you will like it, but really, Edith, sometimes it does seem as if you just tried to hurt mamma's feelings. I know I ought not to say this, perhaps, for you think I am only a younger sister, I suppose, and haven't any right to lecture you; but when I remember how nice you really are, I can't bear to have you act so. If you only would try to like her, instead of trying not to like her! There, don't cry, dear; I didn't mean to hurt your feelings."

And Cynthia threw her arms around her sister and kissed her.

"You have hurt them," said Edith, with a sob, "but I deserve it. I don't know what has gotten into me since the Gordons came. I can't like her being here. Oh, Cynthia, you don't know how I feel sometimes! I wish I didn't have such bad, wicked thoughts."

"Do you really try to get over it, Edith?"

"No-o, not very hard," she faltered. "I can't forgive her for coming and taking my place, and—and—I don't want to forgive her. There, I know you will think I am bad and horrible and everything else, but I can't help it."

And, rising abruptly, she left the room.

"Poor old Edith!" sighed Cynthia, compassionately. "She will come round some time; she can't help it."

On New-Year's eve was to be the Franklins' party.

"Edith, we must have it very original and unique, something quite different from anything we have ever had in our lives," said Cynthia, a few days before.

"How can we? There's nothing new."

"Yes, there is, right in my head. I have an idea."

"What in the world is it?"

"Well, I'll tell you," and she proceeded to unfold it.

It proved to be a good one, and with Mrs. Franklin's help it was carried into effect. The suggestion was to have a "character" party, but to enact the parts without dressing especially for them. A list was made of persons well known in history or fiction, and from this list Mrs. Franklin chose those she considered the best, and wrote against each name that of some girl or boy in Brenton. This she did without telling her daughters how she had apportioned the parts, that they might be as ignorant as their guests about one another's characters.

"It is a truly Bostonese party," said Mrs. Franklin, laughing, when they talked it over. "There is an intellectual flavor to it that you wouldn't find far away from 'the Hub,' but it is a capital idea, nevertheless, Cynthia."

When the list was duly made Mrs. Franklin drove about Brenton to the various girls and boys who were expected, and invited them for Tuesday evening, explaining to them at the same time what they were to do.

THE GIRLS CAME TRIPPING DOWN IN THEIR DAINTY EVENING DRESSES.

It was an old-fashioned tea-party, and the guests began to arrive at six o'clock. There were twenty in all, and they came hurrying in out of the cold, and up-stairs to remove their heavy wraps, the girls tripping down again in their dainty evening dresses, while the boys stood about the doorways in rather an aimless fashion, wondering what they were expected to do at such a very peculiar tea-party as this seemed to be.

It added to the mystery that each was given a card with his or her name prettily printed upon it, and a little pencil attached.

"I never heard of anything like it, don't you know," drawled Bronson. "I'll be hanged if I know what to talk about."

After supper, which was very jolly and effectually broke the ice, Mr. Franklin made a little speech.

"You are all supposed to be somebody, and no one but my wife knows which is which," he said. "The object is for each one to guess as many characters as possible from their conversation, and when you have made up your mind who some one is, you will write the name on your card, with the name of the person you are guessing about. When your card is filled with twenty-four names, which means that you have given a guess about every one here, you will hand it in. Then the prizes will be bestowed."

"Prizes!" was murmured by the girls; "how lovely!" while the boys looked relieved as the matter became clearer.

Cynthia turned to her neighbor and began to talk.

"Good-evening!" she said; "did you see anything of my broom? I forgot to bring it along. Dear me, there's a lot to be done up there," gazing towards the ceiling; "why didn't I bring it along?"

The neighbor chanced to be Dennis Morgan.

"I haven't seen your broom," he replied, "but I'm going to find out why you want it. The trouble is, I've come too soon, I think, and I can't find my way; but I can't tell you where I want to go, or you would guess me on the spot."

"Ho!" laughed Cynthia; "I know where you want to go. I think you would like a glass of water, wouldn't you? For I am sure you have burned your mouth," she added.

Then she wrote on her card: "Dennis Morgan—Man in the Moon."

"Pshaw! How did you guess me so soon? And I haven't the ghost of an idea who you are. Let me see, you want your broom. I can't imagine why you need a broom."

"Cobwebs, cobwebs everywhere," murmured Cynthia, as she turned away and listened to the conversation that was being carried on between Neal and Gertrude Morgan.

"I'm a wonderful man," said Neal. "In fact I don't know but what I'm about as great a person as you ever heard of. You can't mention my name without alluding to it."

"I don't believe you are half as great as I am," retorted Gertrude, "only I don't talk as much about it. Why, I am a queen."

"And I am a king. What kind of a queen are you?"

"I rule over a very important kingdom, and not only do I reign but I can cook, too. I am one of those very convenient people to have about that can turn their hand to almost anything, but I am chiefly celebrated for my cookery. I made something nice one hot summer day—"

"Take care, Gertrude!" cried Cynthia; "I know you." And she wrote on her card: "Gertrude Morgan—Queen of Hearts."

"Oh, come, Cynth, that's too bad!" exclaimed Neal. "I can't guess her at all, but it's because I am so taken up reading a wonderful book when I am very young, and making colored candles, and all that sort of thing."

"I thought you said you were a king!" said Gertrude.

"So I am; a terribly good sort, too."

At last Gertrude guessed him, and wrote "Alfred the Great" with his name on her card.

Neal, however, could not discover who she was, not being as well posted in "Mother Goose" as was Cynthia.

The one who was most mysterious was Edith. For a long time no one could imagine who she was.

"I have had a great many adventures," she said, as they gathered about her. "I have travelled to places that the rest of you have never been to. I have played games with a duchess, and I have taken care of a duchess's baby. A great many of my friends talk poetry. I have long light hair, and sometimes I'm tall and sometimes I'm short."

"Never short, Edith, I'm sure," said Neal. Everyone laughed, for they teased Edith about her stately height.

"I know you! I know you!" cried Cynthia, dancing with glee. "You told too much that time," and she hastily scribbled "Alice in Wonderland" on her card.

She herself, as the "Old woman who swept the cobwebs from the sky," was easily guessed, much to her own chagrin.

At last each one had written twenty-four names on his or her card, and they were given to Mrs. Franklin for inspection. Some funny mistakes were made, and as they were read out they created much merriment.

Somebody thought Yankee Doodle must be Paul Revere, because he had been spoken of as a rider; Julius Cæsar and Columbus were hopelessly mixed, both having mentioned themselves as crossing the water, and it being impossible, from the description given, to distinguish between the Rubicon and the Atlantic Ocean; the Lady of the Lake and Pocahontas were confused, as they each saved a life; and every one mistook the Old Woman that lived in a Shoe for Puss in Boots, because of her persistent talk about foot-wear.

Cynthia had made a greater number of correct guesses than any one, but as she was one of the hostesses she could not, of course, claim a prize, so it fell to Tony Bronson, who was next on the list. Cynthia turned away to hide the grimace which she could not repress when the dear little clock in a red-leather case was given to him as first prize.

Kitty Morgan, Gertrude's cousin, was awarded the "booby" prize, for having made the poorest guesses—a dainty little pin, which, she said, quite repaid her for her stupidity; while one of the Brenton girls, whose list was next best to Bronson's, received a pretty silver-framed calendar as "Consolation."

It made a merry evening, and after the game was over they danced and played other games until it was time to go home. It was eleven o'clock when the last sleigh drove away.

"Only an hour to midnight," said Cynthia; "can't we sit up and see the old year out? Do, papa, let us! We never have, and it must be such fun. We couldn't go to sleep, anyhow, after such an exciting evening."

Mr. Franklin consented, and they sat about the fire discussing the success of the game and the girls and boys who had been there, one or two of whom remained for the night at Oakleigh.

Neal and Cynthia were alone for a few moments. They had gone out into the hall to see the hour by the tall clock, and they found the hands pointing to ten minutes of twelve.

"Let us wait here for it to strike," said Cynthia, going to the window.

The lamp had gone out in the hall, and it was but dimly lighted from the room where the family were sitting. Outside, the moon was shining on the white fields and frozen river. The old year was dying in a flood of glory.

"I always feel so full of good resolutions on New-Year's Eve," said Cynthia, in a low voice; "I wish I could keep them all."

"So do I," returned Neal. "I am always turning over a new leaf. I must have turned over three volumes of new leaves by this time. But they don't amount to much."

"It is discouraging, isn't it? I have never said anything about it to any one before. It seems to me I am always breaking my good resolutions."

"I don't see how. First of all, it doesn't seem as if you did anything that is wrong—a girl doesn't have much chance to."

"Oh yes, she does. You don't know. And I have so many faults. There are my bureau drawers—I can't keep them neat, and my clothes would be all in tatters if it were not for Edith and mamma. And, worst of all, there is my tongue."

"Your tongue?"

"Yes. It is such fun to make fun of people and say sharp things when I don't like them—the kind of thing I am always saying to that Bronson."

Neal laughed, and then he sighed.

"You are putting me into a bad corner. If you think your faults are so tremendous, what must you think of mine? I'm a thief and a coward."

"Neal!"

"Yes, I am. I am a thief because I don't pay that money. I had no business to borrow it in the first place, and I could save it out of my allowance if I would take the trouble, but I am too lazy: and I am such a coward I won't ask Hessie for it, because I am ashamed to have your father know it. It's all a nasty business, anyway."

He looked moodily out on the snow, drumming his fingers on the window-pane.

"Neal," said Cynthia, softly touching his arm with her hand as she spoke, "let's turn over one more new leaf. I will look out for my tongue and my bureau drawers, and you will tell mamma everything and start fresh. Will you, Neal? Promise!"

Before he answered the clock began to strike.

"Happy New-Year! Happy New-Year!" was heard from the parlor. "Neal and Cynthia, where are you? Come in here, that we may all be together when the clock stops striking."

So the old year died, and Neal had not given the required promise.

One day, shortly before he returned to St. Asaph's, he said to his sister,

"Hessie, if I had been of age I think I would have tried to break the will of grandmother's."

"Oh, Neal dear, don't say that! What do you mean?"

"Well, it isn't that I mind your having the money; you have always been a brick about keeping me supplied; but the trouble is, I need more than you give me."

"Neal, I am afraid you are spending too much," said Mrs. Franklin, looking at him anxiously. "Are you in debt again? You know I would love to give you all I have, but your guardians and the trustees of the estate and John all think that you have a very large allowance for a school-boy, and it would not be a good plan to let you have any more."

"Bother them all!" exclaimed Neal, seizing the poker and giving the fire an angry thrust. A shower of sparks flew out, but he let one burn a hole in the rug without noticing. "I'm tired of being tied to your apron-string. I've a good mind to cut loose altogether."

"Don't say that!" cried Mrs. Franklin, in distress, going to him and putting her arm through his. He was taller than she, and she had to look up at him.

"If it were only you, it would be different," continued her brother; "but you see you're married now, and everything is changed."

"But John is fond of you, Neal; I know he is. But he knows all about boys, and his advice is good. Would—would five dollars help you?"

"You're a good little soul, Hessie," said Neal, looking down at her affectionately, his momentary ill-humor passing, "and I suppose it is not your fault if you can't give me any more. No, thank you; I won't take the fiver. Don't worry about me. Here comes Jack in the cutter; we're going to the village." And in a moment he was off.

The next day he went back to St. Asaph's.

The winter passed quickly after Christmas had come and gone, and all had settled down again to the regular routine of work. Mrs. Franklin could not help feeling anxious about Neal. She confided her fears to her husband, but he made light of them.

"The boy only wanted more spending-money, Hester. He is very extravagant, and you will be doing very wrongly if you supply him with more money. His allowance is too large, at any rate, for a boy of his age. Jack gets along perfectly well with just one-fifth the amount."

"But Jack is different."

"Very different, and Neal ought to be different, too. You paid his debts in the fall, which were enormous for a school-boy, and then he was free to start afresh. You will never cure him of extravagance if you keep him supplied with all the money he wants."

Mrs. Franklin was forced to acknowledge the truth of her husband's remarks. She said no more, though she was none the less worried.

Cynthia noticed that her step-mother was not as light-hearted as formerly. They were going in to Boston one Saturday morning to do some shopping together. Cynthia had decided to buy a watch with Aunt Betsey's money, and she had brought the gold pieces with her.

"I am so afraid of losing them I don't know what to do," she said. "Fifty dollars is so enormous, isn't it? Please take it in your bag, mamma; I know I shall lose it."

Mrs. Franklin smiled absently, and when she had put away the money she looked out of the window again.

"Mamma," said Cynthia, leaning towards her, "you are worried about something, aren't you? Tell me, is it Neal?"

Mrs. Franklin looked startled.

"I did not know I had such a tell-tale face," she said. "Yes, you have guessed it, Cynthia. I cannot help feeling worried about him. I have not heard from him for some time, and that makes me uneasy. But it is just fancy, and will pass off. Probably there will be a letter from him to-night."

Cynthia also had remarked on Neal's silence, and this confirmed her fears. She did not say anything more to Mrs. Franklin, however, for Neal had again made her promise to repeat nothing he had told her.

"I'll never confide in you again if you tell," he had said; so, of course, Cynthia had promised.

Her mind was busy during the remainder of the trip to Boston, and when the train glided into the station she had determined to put her thoughts into action.

"We will go to Shreve's and then to Bigelow's to look at watches," said Mrs. Franklin, as they walked across the Common. "We had better look at both places before you decide."

"I have changed my mind, mamma. I don't think I will buy a watch."

"Why, Cynthia!" exclaimed Mrs. Franklin, almost stopping short in her surprise; "you want one so much!"

"No, I don't think I do—at least not just now. Let us just go buy the clothes, and I'll keep Aunt Betsey's money a little longer."

She would give no further explanation, and her mother could not induce her even to glance at the watches in Shreve's window. No; she had decided that she did not need one.

When they reached home she took the money and went to her own room. She was standing by the window, carefully packing the coins in a little box with cotton, and about to do it up for the mail—for she knew no better way of sending the money—when she heard the sound of wheels on the drive.

Looking out, she saw one of the depot carriages approaching, and in the vehicle was Neal himself.

Full of apprehension, dreading she knew not what, Cynthia dropped the box of money and flew down stairs.

It was not vacation, it was the middle of the school-term.

Why had Neal come home?

[to be continued.]

CORPORAL FRED.

A Story of the Riots.

BY CAPTAIN CHARLES KING, U.S.A.

CHAPTER VII.

Even that drive of a dozen blocks was full of excitement. As the buggy whirled away from the post of the outermost sentry, after a brief impatient interview, the sergeant of the guard sang out to the only occupant whom he knew or in whom he felt personal interest, "Look out for 'toughs' down the street, Fred. A gang of 'em's just been scattered over at the Amity Works."

"That's where we're bound," was the answer shouted back over the lowered buggy top, and then our corporal turned to his whilom "boss," but now silent and embarrassed convoy. "Now, Mr. Manners, whether they recognize you or not they'll see my uniform, and while they're meek enough in front of a company, they're bold as a lion against a single militiaman. Hoist the buggy top. That'll fend off rocks from the back and sides, anyhow, and if anybody tries to stop us before we get to the works, whip up and drive for all you're worth."

It was good counsel. Turning out of the avenue with its electric lamps, the buggy was spinning through a dimly lighted, unpaved cross street. Knots of people were still hovering about the corners—even women and children. Loud, harsh voices were wrangling in a saloon, but for three or four blocks northward the buggy whirled unmolested, then ahead could be seen groups of uncouth-looking men arguing under the lamp-posts or skulking about the street corners, and presently, as Manners's swift roadster came springing up the street, the gas-light fell one instant on the buttons and white chevrons of the corporal's blouse. A burst of yells and taunts was the result as they drove by the first group. This drew the attention of the others, and redoubled yells and a crash of stones followed from the next, and presently the street ahead was alive with straggling rioters running out to head off this lone vehicle, freighted with they knew not what, but quickly divined to be of the hated "capitalistic class." Manners reached for his whip and lashed his spirited mare over the haunches. She seemed to leap into air, amazed and indignant, and two rough fellows who sprang at her head were banged aside as easily as an ironclad would burst through a shad net. But up the street the crowd was thicker. Only five blocks away now, around the second turn to the right, were the Amity Works and Fred's comrades of Company L, but between them lurked some hundreds of the foiled and furious mob, balked in their scheme of wrecking and burning the laden cars and the magnificently inflammable plant of the wealthy corporation, and eager to revenge themselves either on the owners or on those who had become its guardians and protectors. Some one recognized the buggy and Manners as they flashed by a lamp-post, and shouted his name. "Head 'em off!" "Stop 'em!" "Shoot 'em!" "Kill the bloody hounds!" were the only intelligible yells, and the gangs of "toughs" and tramps along the street and among the lumber piles yelled mad echo to the cry. Stones and other missiles came whirling through the night, some striking the mare and redoubling her wild speed, some clattering upon the buggy top, some few, better aimed, and from the front, whizzing into the buggy itself. One of these stung Manners on the cheek, just as Fred, bending low to dodge another, shouted to his companion, "Turn her to the right—next street—it's our only chance."

Not a second too soon. Galloping now, the game little mare was hard to guide, but Manners stood up and fairly dragged her around the corner, the dust whirling in clouds from the flashing wheels, the buggy nearly capsizing by the sudden turn. Here they came face to face and easily burst through a little knot of rioters running to join the crowd on the street they had just left, a yell of battled rage following them as they went dashing away up the dim, dusty lane. "Courage! Only three blocks more and we're safe," said Fred, as the manager, his grim mouth set, gripped hard at the reins and strove to regain control. But the mare was mad with fear and excitement now, and at the very next cross street swerved to the left, the shortest line to her stable. The buggy careened, whirled against the wooden curb, and in another instant, shooting its occupants across the sidewalk, went bounding and dashing up the street, shedding spokes, tires, cushions, and springs with every jump, and landing, a moment later, only a dangling wreck at the heels of the reeking mare in the hands of Company L, still ranked in front of the shops.

"It's Manners's buggy," cried Sercombe, "and he's spilled out somewhere up the street. The mob have got him. Save him if it's a possible thing."

So, too, said the Captain, and forty men of the "Backwoods Boys," as L was facetiously termed by the city companies, went doubling down the dusty street, peering eagerly ahead through the darkness.

"STAND BACK!" HE SHOUTED, "OR I'LL FIRE!"

Not a moment too soon, either. Stunned, bruised, and blinded, Mr. Manners lay like a log upon the wooden walk; but Fred, light and athletic, had bounded to his feet, despite the shock, and in an instant had picked up his rifle and run to the succour of his companion. With a yell of triumph the nearest rioters came rushing down upon them around the corner. Two blocks further away the gas-light showed other parties of excited, wolflike men hastening in pursuit. The nearest were some sixty yards away, but at least a dozen of them, with exultant howls and renewed cries of "Kill 'em!" "Slash 'em!" "Lynch' em!" bore down on the luckless manager and his sole defender. Instantly Fred slipped one of the long copper cartridges in the breech and slammed the block. "Stand back!" he shouted, "or I'll fire!" Then as they still rushed on he quickly raised the long brown Springfield to his shoulder and sighted square at the foremost man. "Halt, or I'll drop you in your tracks!" and the coward knew he meant it, and crouched and dodged, waiting for others to reach him. Then again, encouraged by the yells of those behind, on they came, but slower, skulking close to the fence, bending low, clucking and dancing to disconcert his aim. And then the words of his Colonel at the armory came ringing in his ears. "Not a shot, men—not a finger on the trigger except at the order fire!"—and there was none to order here. Yet dauntless and determined there he stood, and that one gallant Yankee boy, in whose veins the fighting blood of the Highland clans was boiling, in the simple service dress of the National Guard, was just enough to hold ten city "toughs" at bay one vital and all-important moment, for when, re-enforced by the coming of their fellows from the rear, they finally rushed on to work their cowardly hate on the one prostrate man with his sole defender, they were met face to face by the charge of Company L, and got the hammering they so richly deserved.

And so morning dawned at last on smoking yards, on half-burned shops, on slowly but surely moving mail and passenger trains, on the glistening walls and windows of the unharmed Amity Works, all stoutly guarded by businesslike detachments of the city's crack regiment, and the great mobs of the previous day and night were scattered far and wide. All night police and patrol wagons had been busily at work, and drunken or still riotous characters were being gathered in and trundled to the station-houses, or pitched neck and crop into some freight-car temporarily turned guard-house. The Steinmans, Frenzels, and other instigators had disappeared. Just as they had kept well behind the fighting line when the struggle was hottest, so now were they nowhere to be found when by their deluded followers as well as by the police they most were wanted. Stoltz, too, had been spirited away, and was in hiding somewhere among the outlying wards, but with a crack in his skull, said the doctor who gave first aid to the wounded, that would neutralize "the wheels in his head" for months to come. This at least was comfort to many, and the Wallaces were in sore need of comfort, for up to eight o'clock on this second morning of the strike not one word had been heard of the loved husband and father. At six the Colonel himself had ridden over to the Amity Works with a little escort, finding the neighborhood deserted, and only a few scowling, skulking rioters left. Taking Fred with him, he had patrolled the streets, and then given his anxious guide a chance to visit his home. "Stay as long as necessary, corporal; but— I've heard about last night, and shall want you later to-day after you've found your father."

But when and how were they to find father was the question. Jim, under the influence of opiates, still slept heavily. The policemen told off to search came back crestfallen to say they could hear nothing of the old man. No one had seen him since he left the shops the previous day. Anxiety deepened with every minute, and at nine o'clock poor Mrs. Wallace had practically abandoned hope. "They've murdered him," she sobbed; "I know they have. They hated him for standing by his duty."

And even as she spoke there was a stir and excitement on the street without. "Police patrol coming!" said some one, and come it did at rapid trot, but without clang of bell or warning cry. It reined up abruptly in front of the little cottage, and then there went up a shout of delight, and Mrs. Wallace, rushing from the house, sobbing anew in relief from dread and sorrow, seized and clasped her husband in her arms as with calm dignity he stepped from the wagon. The police seemed desirous of creating a pleasant impression. They were assiduous in their care of Mr. Wallace. They begged Mrs. Wallace to understand that he had had the best breakfast money could buy. There was evident cause of embarrassment and something to be explained and extenuated, yet everybody crowded around Wallace, and nobody seemed to care to listen to them. They hung about as though they wanted to shake hands with him, but the old foreman only very formally touched his hat as he said good-by.

"Where have I been? How did I escape?" he finally said in answer to appeals of friends and neighbors. "I've been spending the night in jail—with other desperate characters. I escaped by being arrested—in Jim's coat—as a leader of the riot. Where's Jim?"

This was actually the case. Too few in number to effect anything in face of such a mob, some police officers, scouting about their heels, had caught sudden sight of old Wallace issuing with defiant air from the side door of the threatened shops. These officers were new to that section and had never seen him before, but his demeanor, his dress, his badge all stamped him as a man prominent in the outbreak, and despite his protestations they bundled him with a load of other prisoners into a patrol wagon, and sent him to the main station two miles away. Not until this morning could he secure recognition and a hearing. The old man was exceeding wroth, but his wife was thankful. "He'd have been killed," said she, "if he hadn't been jailed."

But despite his indignation, old Wallace was on hand a few hours later when a pleasing little ceremony was enacted at the Amity Works. There the "backwoods boys" were drawn up in line to listen to some remarks of their Colonel. A man of few words was that veteran when on duty, but everybody seemed to know what was coming as he halted in front of them, and Corporal Fred brought his rifle to the carry, stepped a few paces forward, and stood there a little white, a little tremulous with emotion.

"Men of Company L," the Colonel said, "you've done soldierly service—valuable service, one and all, and some day I hope you'll get the recognition you deserve; but there's one of your number who even more than the rest deserves a word. Within twelve hours of the call for duty Corporal Fred Wallace has had the conspicuous honors of being discharged from his clerkship for obeying the summons, being knocked senseless while doing it, being the guide of his regiment into the thick of the riot, and finally of saving the life, at the risk of his own, of the very man who discharged him.

"It has been your province during the night to convert some few rioters, but it has been his to convert what is termed 'a soulless corporation,' and I know you'll all be glad to hear him promoted sergeant on the spot. So much for our side. Now we'll hear Mr. Manager Manners."

And amidst shouts of laughter and applause Mr. Manners limped forward from a group of stockholders, while the Colonel heartily shook his young guide by the hand. And behind Manners there loomed up in the doorway of the shops a goodly stack of luscious fruit and boxes of cigars, and it was evident the company meant to royally entertain its defenders.

And Mr. Manners was understood to express himself substantially as follows:

"Gentleman of Company L. If these works had been destroyed last night half a million dollars would have gone up in smoke. We couldn't get insurance for more than quarter of its value. You saved it. Never until last night did I know, or my associates, these gentlemen, what it meant to have a National Guard. We thought it was the same thing as the militia we used to join and have fun with forty years ago when we were young, and so had determined to have no more of it in our business. We've learned we didn't know the first thing about it. We're clean converted. We find that young men nowadays are doing better by themselves, their State, and their country than we did. Now I've got a boy at home—a good boy, if I do say it—who wanted to join you three months ago, and I wouldn't let him, and I'm going home this day to beg his pardon, as I beg yours, and tell him I'll be a proud father if he can wear the uniform in the same company with you and Wallace and Sercombe. You've made Wallace a sergeant. Well, the Amity Works will stand by what they've done, too. They discharged Mr. Wallace from what we'll call a second-class clerkship yesterday afternoon, and they now fill the vacancy by the promotion thereto of his friend Sercombe from the shops. They have established another first-class clerkship, and to fill that original vacancy they name Sergeant Fred Wallace, of Company L, and we'll drink his health in the best and coolest lemonade to be had in the whole State."

"Well," said old Wallace, as he sat later in the day with the mother's hand in his, "I didn't take much stock in that soldier business either. But where would we all have been this day but for Fred—Fred and his regiment?"

THE END.

HINTS OF A RACING CAT-BOAT AND ITS CARE.

The popular idea that a racing cat-boat is an expensive luxury has doubtless arisen from the cost entailed upon those who keep a racing boat, and either cannot or will not themselves attend to the labor connected with keeping such a craft in the best of condition. Many boat-owners after entering for a race put their boats in the hands of boat-builders to be gotten into condition so abundant around rivers and bays where boat-racing is popular. To these men are usually intrusted, besides getting the boat into condition, the procuring and training of the crew, and if the race is important, the command of that too. Most likely the crew will be composed of rivermen, amply compensated for their services, and an amateur or two, one of which perhaps is the owner. Of course all this costs, the builder having to be paid for his labor of getting the boat ready and if he wins the race he naturally expects something extra.

There are some owners, however, who attend to all these matters personally, and their expenses are reduced to a very low figure.

If a boy has become the happy possessor of a boat, and is desirous of becoming a good sailor, there is no reason why he shouldn't have the pleasure of racing his boat, even if his supply of pocket money is limited, provided he personally attends to all the work connected with his boat. Besides saving much expense, it will serve to thoroughly acquaint him with every part of his craft, a perfect idea of her construction and rigging. If he makes a point of rigging her in the spring and dismantling her in the fall, he will know what to do if some part of his rigging gives way when he is sailing: and not be obliged to do as the owner of a line boat on the Shrewsbury River did last year when the lashings of a throat-halyard block gave way, lower sail and wait for a friend to tow him in.

IN WINTER QUARTERS.

We will suppose it to be spring and the boat to be in winter quarters on shore. Naturally it is to be supposed that after being out of water for some months her seams will have opened considerably. Do not attempt to calk her in this condition, for if you should, you would run a good risk upon the boards swelling of badly warping the planking. First of all, put the boat in the water and allow her to fill, letting her remain in this condition until the planking has swollen to the utmost: then pull the boat up on land and let her dry for a day or so, so that the paint will take. If the bottom is dirty, take a scrubbing-brush and water and thoroughly clean it. After the boat is dry, examine all the seams carefully, and where the openings appear too large to be stopped with paint fill them with calking cotton soaked in white lead. Go over all the other seams with white lead, and allow the whole to dry. Give the bottom a good coat of either copper or arsenic paint, and paint the above water body. After these coats have dried, go over the hull carefully with sandpaper, and remove all inequalities. Give the bottom and upper body another coat, laying it smoothly so as to give that fine gloss so pleasing to the eye and so essential to the racing boat. Take up the flooring and give the inside of your boat a couple of good coats of paint, devoting particular attention to the centreboard trunk where it joins the keelson. Examine the deck, particularly the joint with the coaming. Where there are any knee openings, if the deck is painted, calk them with cotton, if varnished, fill them with putty.

STEPPING MAST WITH SHEARS.

If the deck is a varnished one, remove all the remains of last year's varnish with sandpaper, and give the deck several coats of marine varnish. The deck should be varnished at least once a month during the season to keep it in good condition. At this time it would be well to bring your sail out and lay it on the ground in the sun so as to allow it to bleach, and give the centreboard a good scraping and varnishing or painting, as the case may be. The boat is now ready to be put in the water. Bring out the mast and spars, scrape with glass and sandpaper, and varnish them. Now step the mast. If the boat is a small one it may be lifted in by hand, but if it is a large one a pair of shears must be rigged. (See sketch.) The shears consist of two poles, about half the length of the mast (better if longer), two extremities of which are lashed together, and the others planted firmly in the ground, the whole being supported at an angle of about 45° by a guy-rope. At the junction of the two poles lash one of the blocks of the throat-halyards, allowing the other to swing free. Attaching the mast or any other very heavy weight to this block it may be lifted in with ease. Put the gaff and boom in place, and lace the sail on. It will be quite a time before the sail will stretch to its fullest extent, and it will be necessary to stretch it along the gaff and boom after every outing for some time to come or it will not set properly.

A few words here about the care of the sail may not be out of place. Never roll a sail up when wet. Nothing will rot and mildew it more quickly. If you are compelled to put the boat up for the night when the sail is damp, tie a few stops around it at intervals, and allow it to hang loosely between them, just using a sufficient number to prevent the sail from thrashing about in case of a strong wind during the night. As soon as possible after a rain hoist the sail and let it dry. The quickest way to dry a sail is to hoist it to the full extent along the mast and drop the peak, and raise the boom quite high with the toppen lift. This will cause the sail to bag greatly, and the wind shaking it will soon dry the moisture out.

METHOD OF SCRAPING BOTTOM.

Your boat has been in the water for some time, and you have entered it for a race. The first thing to do in this case is to examine its bottom. This may be effected by selecting a shelving beach, and running your boat as far up as possible at high water, having previously removed all extra weights. Secure two guy-ropes to the mast-head, and drive stakes on each side of the boat about twenty feet off. Fasten the ropes to these stakes, so when the tide goes out they will hold the boat on an even keel, and on the receding of the tide it will be an easy matter to examine the under body of the boat.

If the bottom is so foul as to require repainting, construct ways and haul out, scraping and painting as in the beginning of the season. If the bottom should need only a slight cleaning and polishing slacken one of the guy-ropes so that the boat will rest on its side, and scrub clean with water and a stiff brush, polishing with cloths. After this side is finished pull the boat up to an even keel and slack away the other rope so it will rest on the other side, thus permitting you to get at the rest of the under-water body. If you are so fortunate as to possess a racing-sail and spars, unship the old ones and ship the racing-spars and sail. If you have not, your boat is about ready. Remove all extra weights (excepting ballast), and if movable ballast is permitted take it aboard. Examine all your rigging carefully, and do not omit to go over it again just before starting in the race. All this should be finished the day before the race.

Ranking almost equal in importance to the condition of the boat is the training of the crew. The length of time required before the race to get the crew in condition will, of course, depend upon the knowledge of the individuals. If the members have a fair idea of their business a few hours before the race will be sufficient, but if they do not, the sooner the training commences the better. For a racing crew to be handy, every man in it must know his especial part in all the manœuvres, and when a manœuvre is ordered must do it quickly and with the least confusion possible, and not try in an excess of zeal to attempt to do more than his part, unless so ordered. Above all, every man must obey implicitly and without question any order of the Captain, for no boat can be handled properly by its crew when anybody but the Captain is permitted to give orders. As to the number of the crew, the average cat-boat of, let us say, eighteen or twenty feet will require a helmsman, usually Captain, sheet-tender, centreboard-tender, and a man to look after the halyards. If your boat is so small as not to have so many men allotted to it, the centreboard and halyards may be tended by one man. If, on the contrary, more men than the requisite number are allowed, take the extra men, if the day is windy, as ballast only, or if movable ballast is permitted, as shifters.

Do not divide the work up into small parcels and give each one a little to do, it creates too much moving about when under way, a thing not in the least desirable. You might, however, have an understanding with them as to what they are to do in an emergency, such as taking in or shaking out a reef. Here a slight digression on taking in a reef when under way may be pardoned. When under way drop the sail so that the desired reef-points are about in a line with the boom, and when they are in the right position let the boat come up into the wind so that the boom will be inboard. Then order the crew to spread along the boom, and when the bow-man has fastened the desired cringle at the jaws of the boom, have them catch hold of the sail, stretch it along the boom, the sheet-tender making fast the cringle on the leach (outer edge) to the boom. As soon as this is accomplished tie the reef in. When all the reef-points are tied, let the boat's head fall off and continue on course, as the peak and throat may be properly hoisted, especially when you are strongly manned, nearly as well under way as when in the wind. This operation, so long on paper, may, with a well-trained crew, be accomplished almost in the time it takes to read this. Shaking out a reef is a very easy matter, and will need no mention. The whole aim in the training of a racing crew may be summed up as follows: Every man to know his part and do it when required. The first thing after explaining clearly to each man his particular station is to get the crew accustomed to the boat. A good way to do this is to take a spin at every opportunity with them over the course, making a careful note yourself of the bearings of the different marks by objects on shore, so that you will not lose valuable time in the race in finding them. Do not allow any lagging in these spins, for it is liable to lead to a blunder in the race, but maintain the same discipline as you would at that time.

A FLYING START.

The hour of the race is at hand. Your crew is aboard, and after a careful examination of the running rigging, blocks, mast-hoops, sail and its lacings, you set out for the starting-point. Arriving there, procure your racing number, and after fastening it upon the sail, take your boat out and cruise around in the vicinity of the starting-line, using this opportunity to practise your crew in tacking, gybing, and other evolutions likely to be encountered during a race. Upon hearing the preparatory gun, it is best to get near the line. If you feel confident that you have your boat well in hand, you might manœuvre for a flying start, but if you are a little uncertain, it is best to secure a good position, and let your sail flap in the wind close as the boat lies stationary close to the line.

If the first leg is close hauled or a thrash to windward, it is advantageous to get away as near the front as possible, as the boats slower in starting usually get off in a bunch and cut up each other's wind. If the start is off the wind this is not so important. A flying start is very desirable, but it requires careful calculation and handling to bring your boat to the line at the right moment; and if by some mistake you should cross a few seconds before the gun, you would lose lots of valuable time in recrossing again. In a one-gun start the importance of getting off quickly is greater than in a two-gun. Bang! goes the starting gun. You are over the line, close-hauled most likely, on the starboard tack (on account of having right of way). Do not make the common mistake of hauling your boom in nearly amidships and jamming your boat up into the wind; it will not pay. It increases the drift, and your boat will not "foot" it as fast as one that is allowed a little more leeway. Again, do not let your boat sag off too far or a heavy gust may cause a "knockdown," with the consequent loss of much ground. Always be ready to luff and take advantage of any little gust of wind, and it is astonishing the amount of windward gain a clever sailor makes in this way. This does not mean to luff so much at every putt as to dump the wind out of your sail, or attempt to sail so close to the wind as not to get its full power.

FINISHING BEFORE THE WIND.

The amount of sail carried should be proportionate to the wind; it is a great mistake to oversail a boat so that it wallows through the seas, necessitating luffing or dumping out the wind in the squalls and lowering of the peak when running before the wind. The angle of keel at which your boat sails best can only be determined by experiment, and it is a great blunder to carry sail so as to heel her to a greater one. When sailing close hauled or to windward, all obstructions that may catch the wind should be placed below deck if possible, or if it should be necessary to have the crew up to windward, let them lay close to the deck. (See sketch of start.)

As to the distribution of weight, aim to have your boat sail on the proper water-line at all times: do not allow your crew, when beating to windward, to pile aft, so as to escape spray, and so lift the bow out, at the same time do not get your bow too deeply in. When ready to go about (go on another tack), give the order "hard a lee," and let go the tiller, the unbalanced action of the wind on the sail will bring the boat up into the wind with a sweeping curve, and then use the rudder to put her on the other tack.

In this way you will go about easily, and will not lose headway, as is the case when the tiller is jammed over at the beginning. Immediately on hearing the order "hard a lee," the crew should stand ready to shift the ballast, and as the boat rounds up should change it rapidly, so as to have it to windward when the sail fills on the other tack. A manœuvre of the same character should be executed when luffing around a mark.

Always be sure before going about that you have plenty of board down. We will suppose that you have luffed around the first mark, and the next leg is a run with the wind aft of abeam. This will not be particularly exacting, the only points to keep in mind being to have your water-line on proper trim, a full sail, and a straight course.

The second mark will have to be gybed around. This is a manœuvre your crew cannot be too well drilled in. Give yourself plenty of room, and do not attempt to shave too closely. I witnessed last summer the capsizing of a boat resulting from this desire.

The mark was a buoy placed near a heavy stake, and the helmsman of the boat wishing to make a close shave steered too near it, and in passing fouled his sheet-rope on the stake before gybing; the result was the boat became unmanageable, and its momentum carrying it around gybed the sail over, causing an upset. As you near the mark have the man forward stand by the peak-halyard, ready to let go if anything happens wrong. As you are about to turn, have the board raised and come around with an easy sweep; but not so rapidly that the sheet-tender cannot haul all the sheet-rope in. The sheet should be brought in with a steady pull, and allowed to run out evenly. If any amount of slack is given as the sail goes over, the wind on catching on the other side, if it does not capsize the boat or carry away something, will bring her head up into the wind with such force that it will be some seconds before you can overcome it with the rudder.

PEAK LOWERED TO AVOID "GOOSE-WING"

The remaining leg of our course we will suppose to be nearly free. When running this way the board should be kept up, and all the weight in the boat aft, as a boat under the great pressure exerted by the wind when running this way has a tendency to dig its nose under. It is not necessary for your crew to lay down now, and you may allow them to stand and stretch themselves, as whatever wind they will catch will help the boat instead of retarding, as in the other cases. (See sketch of finish.) The only thing to be looked out for when running free, or nearly so, is a "goose-wing." This happens when the wind is so strong as to cause the boom to jump up parallel to the mast, and the sail wrap around it. If when running before the wind you find your boom is jumping too much, lowering the peak a little will lessen the pressure on the sail, and stop it.

It is impossible to prophesy the result of the race, but I can say that it depends equally on your boat and your management, with the training of the crew a close second.

RIGHTING A CAPSIZED BOAT.

A few hints on how to right a capsized boat may not be out of place here. If you should happen to be near some boat that has capsized you will, doubtless, feel it your duty to assist the unfortunate. It is not a difficult matter to right a boat when you go about it in the proper way. Run your boat alongside of the capsized one's mast and strip its sail off, unfastening the throat and peak blocks, unreeving the sheet-rope, and cutting the lashings of the sail to the mast-hoops. (Be careful that the sail does not sink.) Put your boat in a position alongside the bottom of the upturned boat, and unfasten your throat-halyard block from the gaff, fasten this to the mast of the capsized boat, as shown in sketch. It will then be an easy matter to pull the boat up to an even keel, when she may be pumped out.

We will suppose the autumn to have arrived, and you are ready to put your boat in winter quarters. After removing ballast, mast, sail, spars, etc., construct ways as shown in the sketch of winter quarters. They consist principally of two skids, on which the boat is run and hauled out, but if you care for the condition of the boat's bottom, a cradle had better be made following the idea shown in sketch. Pull the boat out to the end of the skids, and if it is desirable to get it farther away from the water, lay beams in front of the skids and pull the boat on them. When free of the skids take them up and lay them in front of the beams, repeating this operation until the boat is at the distance desired. After removing everything, cover the deck and cockpit with canvas. The sail should be sprinkled with salt and a little lime, not too much or it will cause rotting, the lime being used to bleach the sail only. This should be rolled up and packed away in a dry place, and the mast and spars should also be under shelter, but not where there is too great heat.

We have followed the fortunes of our boat from the beginning of the season until the end. Unfortunately the limited space of this article compels the mere mention of some points on which whole volumes could be written. It is only the purpose of this paper to treat this subject in the broadest fashion, and to give only general hints for the use of the beginner in one of the most manly of sports.

Dudley D. F. Parker.

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

I heard a girl spoken of the other day by one of her friends as a perfect candy fiend. It made me laugh, because I knew the girl in question, and I had never observed anything fiendish or malevolent about her. However, it is so much the fashion for girls to use sweeping expressions, that I am never a bit surprised when I hear "awful," "dreadful," "horrible," "terrible," and other strong words of that kind used without much reference to their exact meaning. I suppose the young girl described so alarmingly is very fond of candy, for which nobody can blame her; not I, certainly, especially if it be home-made. But I will imagine that each of my girls has an allowance, so much given her a week to spend as she pleases. What proportion of this should she devote merely to gratifying her taste for sweet things? Do you not think it rather foolish to spend so much on bonbons, caramels, and creams, that a girl has nothing left when she wishes to help clothe a poor family whose house has been burned over their heads, to buy a pretty framed photograph for her room, or to make a Christmas present for her mother or dear friend?