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Other documents randomly have
different content
The Project Gutenberg eBook of Harper's Round Table,
October 13, 1896
 This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other
parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may
copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License
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located before using this eBook.

Title: Harper's Round Table, October 13, 1896

Author: Various

Release date: May 10, 2019 [eBook #59467]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Annie R. McGuire

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HARPER'S ROUND TABLE, OCTOBER
13, 1896 ***
 THE LOST HOMER.
PET SQUIRRELS.
THE REBELS DID NOT RUN.
THE REASON WHY.
IN THE OLD HERRICK HOUSE.
A VIRGINIA CAVALIER.
TURKEY, "THE SICK MAN."
THE VOYAGE OF THE "RATTLETRAP."
INTERSCHOLASTIC SPORT.
BICYCLING.
THE CAMERA CLUB.
STAMPS.

Copyright, 1896, by Harper & Brothers. All Rights Reserved.

published weekly. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, OCTOBER 13, 1896. five cents a copy.
vol. xvii.—no. 885. two dollars a year.
 THE LOST HOMER.
BY WEBB DONNELL.
"Not back yet, Ned?" The tone hardly indicated that Mrs. Sinclair expected an affirmative
answer. The disappointed look on Ned's face told its own woful tale.
"No, mother," said Ned, looking out of the window upon the valley sloping to the Hudson,
a quarter of a mile away. "No, he isn't back yet, and I've given up all hope that he ever
will come back."
Ned drummed dismally on the window-pane before he went on. "If Helen 'tossed'
Fleetwing a hundred miles out at sea, the pigeon would have been here before dark that
day, for the steamer sailed at noon."
"Yes, one would think so," assented Mrs. Sinclair.
"Now it's the third day," went on the boy at the window, disconsolately. "Helen either
forgot to set the bird free until the steamer was too far out for him to be able to fly back,
or Fleetwing has been shot by a pot-hunter. When can we hear from Helen, mother?"
"Well, the steamer is due at Queenstown next Friday," said Mrs. Sinclair, "Then it will be
six or seven days before her letter can get back to us. I guess we will have to wait ten
days longer, Neddie; but I'm just as sorry as I can be about Fleetwing, dear."
"Yes, mother," said Ned, brightening at the sympathy.
"And we'll hope for the best," went on Mrs. Sinclair. "You know, homing-pigeons have
returned to their lofts after weeks of absence. We won't give up Fleetwing till we hear
from Helen, anyway."
"I know that some homers are out a long time from the loft and then get back all right,"
said Ned, "but Fleetwing always attends strictly to business. You know, he came straight
home from the World's Fair flight from Chicago, more than a thousand miles."
Ned Sinclair's hobby—most boys of fifteen have one or more—was homing-pigeons. He
had become interested in the subject through a visit to a pigeon-loving uncle, who taught
him the secrets of caring for pigeons, homing and training them to make longer and still
longer flights to their loft from far-away points.
Ned's father had built for him a splendid loft in the chamber of the stable, with a wire-
covered "flight" stretching out over the green grass at the side. Great pains had been
taken in stocking the loft to get only the best "strains" of homers, and the result
appeared in the speedy return of almost every bird that Ned had ever sent away to be
liberated.
Very often a bird would be intrusted to a friend going upon a journey, with a request that
it be liberated at a certain hour and place.
Mr. Sinclair, too, had almost always taken a bird or two with him when he went down to
New York city on business, a hundred miles from home. It had frequently happened that
in an hour after being liberated from the Grand Central Station the swift little homer
would trip the alighting-board at his own loft window, far up the Hudson, and so ring the
little electric bell that in the house announced a pigeon's arrival home.
Then, later on, Ned had joined a Homing-pigeon Club in a near-by city, and successively
from the two-hundred, the three-hundred, and the five-hundred mile "stations" his
homers had flown home, making excellent records for speed.
While the record made in the World's Fair flight was not at all noteworthy for speed,
Ned's birds did make the long distance, and returned to their loft, though thoroughly
tired out—something that could not be said of many Eastern lofts that sent birds to
Chicago for that contest.
A few days before, Ned's sister Helen had started with a party of friends for a trip
through Europe. Ned had proposed that she take one of his homers a hundred miles out
to sea, then send a message back to them from the steamer. He had selected the most
reliable pigeon in the loft, and had packed it carefully in a light basket. Then he had
waited patiently on the day the steamer sailed from New York for the tinkle of the little
bell that should tell of its return home.
Again and again he visited the loft, thinking the bell might have rung in his absence from
the house, but always to return disappointed. It was not until Helen's hastily scribbled
note from Queenstown arrived that any clew to the mystery was given.
"Tell Ned," the note ran, "how sorry I am that I could not follow out his directions about
the pigeon. Beth was taken frightfully seasick before we were down the bay, and I was so
anxiously attending to her for some hours that I entirely forgot about liberating Fleetwing
and sending a message home. When I did have a chance to think about it the steward
said we were two hundred and fifty miles out. Then I didn't know what to do. I couldn't
carry a homing-pigeon all over Europe with me, and I hesitated about liberating it so far
out for fear it might not reach land, especially as the weather was not very clear. I had to
decide quickly, and so concluded the best thing to do was to set Fleetwing free, but not
to hamper him at all with a message tied to his flight feathers. I 'tossed' the little fellow
from the deck, and he went straight up into the air, circled a moment, and then flew
away America-ward. I do hope he got home safely."
"That explains it," said Ned. "Probably a thick fog came up, and Fleetwing lost his way,
and got exhausted before he could get to land. That's the end of that bird," he
concluded, dismally.
But Ned was not altogether correct in his conclusions, though a fog did gather over the
sea soon after Fleetwing turned his breast landward, and the bird did become nearly
exhausted before he finally reached the shore. But reach it he did, after a brave struggle
in the air, and then he did what exhausted homing-pigeons will sometimes do. He
alighted at a strange pigeon-loft in one of the towns above New York city. The sight of
other pigeons, homers like himself, and his own utterly wearied condition, made him very
willing to stop for rest, despite his strongly rooted homing instinct. Then, as has been the
case with many another of his race, the charms of new comradeship caused him to linger
in the new quarters.
Two mornings later a man entered this loft and caught a half-dozen of the pigeons,
Fleetwing among the number. The man evidently did not keep homing-pigeons for the
love of it, since he did not know his birds by sight, but took those that came first to hand.
He packed the pigeons carefully in a hamper, carried them out to the street, where a
carriage was in waiting, and was driven to the railway station.
A few hours later, with the hamper of homing-pigeons still beside him, he went on board
a great transatlantic steamship in New York and sailed for Europe.
Two weeks later, while Ned Sinclair was hunting for a tennis-ball in the bottom of the hall
closet, he heard the pigeon bell ring loud and clear. He started suddenly.
"What's that?" He said to himself, excitedly. "There's no pigeon out of the 'flight'!"
He hurried out to the loft, tennis and all else but pigeons banished wholly from his mind.
In the loft, pecking in a quite-at-home way at a pan of split-pease and hemp seed was
Fleetwing, the lost homer. Ned knew him instantly.
"Where under the sun—" he began, excitedly, but stopped on catching sight of the bird's
wing and tail feathers. They certainly had something most unusual attached to them.
Ned caught the pigeon and investigated the mystery. The quills of two of the flight
feathers of each wing, and of three of the tail feathers, had bits of thin oil-silk bound
firmly about them, and these were tied with strong silk threads.
It took but a moment to cut the thread and to unroll the silk from one of the quills.
Within were three small stones, that flashed and sparkled in the light. The other feathers
had similar revelations to make.
Here was an incident quite new to the homing-pigeon fancy. As a rule, it may be said,
homing-pigeons do not go flying about the country for weeks at a time, finally returning
to their own lofts loaded with what even to the inexpert eye appeared marvellously like
diamonds. The stones had not yet been cut as for setting, but their quality appeared
even in their unfinished state.
It is small wonder that Ned was highly excited over the occurrence. His delight at the
safe return of his favorite homer, that he had given up for lost, was quite over-balanced
by his astonishment at the treasures he had brought back.
He hurried from the loft to find his father and mother to show them the stones. Very
soon every member of the family was very nearly as excited over the matter as was Ned.
"If it were a strange homer I should think it might be a case of attempted smuggling,"
said Mr. Sinclair, remembering that the most persistent and ingenious attempts are being
made constantly to get diamonds into the United States without payment of the high
import duty, "but that Fleetwing should become engaged in any such disreputable work is
perfectly inexplicable!" he continued, with a laugh.
"Are you sure it is Fleetwing, Ned?" asked Mrs. Sinclair.
"I'm certain sure of that, mother," said Ned, fingering the pieces of oil-silk. "I should
know him anywhere; but to be perfectly certain about it, I examined his seamless leg-
band, and it has his loft number and my initials."
As he spoke, smoothing out the pieces of silk in his fingers, Ned suddenly started, and
held one piece up to the light. It had a line of writing across it that could be deciphered
readily.
"Take at once to No. — L—- Street," the line read.
Mr. Sinclair had already planned to go to New York city on business the following day. Ho
took the stones and the bits of oil-silk with him.
Some hours later an official of the United States Treasury Department was looking them
over most intently. He touched a button beside his desk, and a messenger appeared.
"Ask Mr. Armstrong to come here a moment," he said.
When the expert appeared, the official handed the stones to him without a word.
"They are diamonds of exceptionally fine quality," said Mr. Armstrong, after a moment's
examination.
"We shall have to condemn the property, Mr. Sinclair," said the Treasury official, "as there
can be no doubt that an attempt was being made to smuggle them into the country. In
fact, we had already discovered that homing-pigeons were being used in this way, the
birds being carried to Europe, then brought back and liberated, with their burden of
diamonds, before reaching Quarantine. But how on earth your boy's homer became
pressed into this service," continued the official, "I can't conceive. He deserves a medal,
at any rate," he went on, "for flying straight to his own loft with the diamonds."
The Treasury official picked up the bits of oil-silk.
"I feel quite hopeful," he said, "that with this clew we may be able to break up this
particular attempt to rob Uncle Sam of his just dues."
Ned was a very interested listener to the story his father had to tell that night, and an
exceedingly interested reader, a little later on, of a letter that came from the national
Treasury Department, enclosing a handsome sum of money as his share of the value of
the diamonds, since Ned—or Ned's pigeon—stood in the place of the "informer," who is
given a generous share of the value that is thus turned in to the government through his
efforts.
The money made Ned's eyes sparkle. "Here's a pony, a dog-cart, and a russet-leather
harness," he shouted; and then, with a fine realization of the eternal fitness of things, he
rushed off to give Fleetwing an extra dish of hemp seed.
 PET SQUIRRELS.
BY JAMES STEELE.
The five varieties of squirrels that are found in North America are commonly known as
the red squirrel, the gray, the flying, the striped squirrel or chipmonk, and the fox and
black squirrels. These last two are extremely rare, and are found only in the West. In the
Middle and Eastern States the red squirrel is the most abundant. He is to be seen almost
everywhere in the woods, and his noisy impudent call, which has earned him the name of
chickaree, is one of the most familiar sounds in the woods and trees along the road-side.
The larger and shyer gray squirrel, although still abundant, is not so numerous or so
often seen as the red squirrel, and the flyers are still more rare. The chipmonk finds his
home among the stone walls and along the fences; he has little value as a pet. The red
and gray are easily caught and tamed, but the flying-squirrel makes the best pet of all.
The red squirrel lives in a hole in the ground, or the hollow of a tree, and both he and the
chipmonk can be caught in an ordinary box-trap placed upon the ground near their
familiar haunts. They are usually easy victims.
The gray squirrel, who lives in a nest that he builds himself, is much more wary than the
red squirrel or the chipmonk. The trap for him should be set in his runway on the ground,
or in the branches of the tree which he frequents.
The flying-squirrel lives sometimes, like the chickaree, in a hole in a dead limb, or he
often takes the old abandoned nest of a gray squirrel for his home, lining it with very
much softer material than the former occupant used. But most frequently he lives in the
hollow of some limb. While he does not really fly, in the time sense of the word, the
curious parachutelike folds of skin extending from the fore to the hind legs enable him to
make very long leaps, sometimes a distance of forty feet from one tree to another,
although this is unusual. He is the brightest and most interesting of all the squirrels, and
when once tamed he makes the most affectionate and loyal pet.
A good way to catch a flying-squirrel that lives in a hollow limb—usually an old
woodpecker's hole—is to take a stocking, put it over the hole, and then have some one
beat with a stick upon the limb below. Presently the little fellow will come plunging out,
and, of course, into the stocking, where he can be tied up, carried home, and emptied,
as it were, into the cage.
To tame a squirrel is no easy matter, especially if he is a very old one. His bite is very
severe, but when once tamed he can be handled with impunity so long as he is not hurt.
To teach a squirrel to become accustomed to handling, however, requires some patience.
Every time he is fed it is well to make a little clucking sound, or something he will
recognize as a friendly call meaning feeding-time. After having tamed him so that he will
eat while you are watching him, which he will sometimes do in one or two days, get him
accustomed to having your hand around the cage. Then lasso or noose him around his
body with a small cord, and take him out of the cage without lifting him by the cord. Take
care, for he will bite and sink his little teeth almost through the bone of your finger if he
has the chance.
Now take a glove that has been stuffed full of cotton, and stroke him gently with it. If he
attempts to bite, which he is almost certain to do, give him a little tweak. Repeat this as
often as he tries to bite, and he will soon learn that if he sits still he is all right. Now feed
him from the thick glove. In a surprisingly short time he will give up all idea of biting, and
you can stroke him or pick him up with your hand, and carry him about in your pocket.
He will grow wonderfully attached to you, and when once tamed thoroughly he will never
run away; although he may pay short visits to his mates, he will return to you. But pray
remember this, that his deadly enemy is the cat.
His cage should be made as much as possible of metal, and kept scrupulously clean. It
should be provided with an exercising wheel, or treadmill, although when a squirrel is
perfectly tame and permitted to run about he will get all the exercise he needs on his
little excursions about the house or up in the trees.
Never give a squirrel any seasoned cake or soft bread to eat. Nuts, grains, such as dried
corn, and now and then a bit of apple, are enough for him, and he should always have
access to plenty of fresh, clean water. Do not make the mistake of supposing that when
your squirrel has become on sufficiently good terms with you to be permitted to take little
trips among his old haunts he will forage for himself. When he once becomes accustomed
to being fed he speedily forgets how to find food for himself in the natural way.
Squirrels are remarkably intelligent, and a whole book might be written about them and
their habits, after the manner in which Mr. Frank Buckland wrote his celebrated volume
about rats. A little incident that happened to one of my own pet squirrels shows how
intelligent they are, and how appreciative of kindness. A little flyer that was seated on the
window-sill of an upper-story room suddenly disappeared. Thinking he had gone out
upon the roof, I called him in the usual way repeatedly, but no squirrel came.
I searched for him for some time, and finally concluded that he had decided to take a
vacation. Three days after the little fellow had disappeared I was sitting with my uncle
upon the piazza, when we heard a scratching noise, which appeared to come from a tin
leader or rain pipe that extended from the roof down the corner of the house to a cistern.
The pipe made a sharp angle at the piazza, and it was from this point that the sound
seemed to come. As soon as we began to talk the sound stopped, to be repeated the
moment we became quiet. I tapped the pipe gently, and spoke, and the frantic scratching
from the inside convinced me of the truth at once. It was poor little "Chatters"; and now
the question was how to get him out.
At last the plan was suggested of removing a section of the pipe and lowering a cord,
which was done. I shall never forget the sensations I felt when I lowered that miniature
life-line. Presently I felt a tug, and soon, sure enough, I could feel something climbing
up. It was suggested that it might be a rat, but in a moment a little squirrel's head
appeared, and "Chatters" gave one leap, landed on my shoulder, and then quickly hid
himself in my pocket. If any boy spends his summer in the country, he will find more
pleasure taming these little animals than cruelly pursuing them with sling-shot or stones,
or shooting them with a rifle for the sake of so-called "sport."
 THE REBELS DID NOT RUN.
A CUBAN WAR PICTURE.

BY THOMAS R. DAWLEY, JR.

Darkness turned to the gray of dawn and revealed the hazy outline of the Cuban camp.
An expanse of wood and bush and swamp, dotted here and there with lofty palms. A
labyrinth of winding paths guarded by impenetrable thickets. Within an open space, far
within, scattered with the palm-leaf tents of the Cuban patriots, smouldered the camp-
fires.
Maceo had crossed the Trocha! The word spread
through the rebel camp, and the camp bestirred
itself. A gaunt peasant, mounted on a shag-headed
pony, brought the news, and it was voiced from
mouth to mouth. The gray fog lifted slowly. Through
the dim haze the rebels saw the gaunt peasant on his
shag-headed pony as though fastened there.
Maceo had crossed the Trocha! The camp was
impatient to hear the rest. Nearly two months had
passed since the rebel general had gone with his
army down into Pinar del Rio to fulfil his promise of
marching from one end of Cuba to the other. The
Spaniards drew a line across a narrow part of the
island, and put their soldiers there, and called it the
Trocha. They said they had Maceo entrapped. He
never could pass the Trocha.
The rebels had waited patiently, longingly, for the
A GAUNT PEASANT chief's return. Morning after morning they had
MOUNTED ON A SHAGGY huddled over their fires, or those who had blankets
PONY. remained swathed in them until the sun came out
and warmed the steaming earth. Then the rebels
foraged. They chewed sugar-cane for breakfast, and stewed beef and sweet-potatoes for
dinner. They begged cigarettes from their comrades, and there were many who went
without. The Spaniards had not been after them for days, for they had gone off to hold
the Trocha or chase Maceo down in Pinar del Rio.
Occasionally the Havana papers found their way into the camp. They brought news
always discouraging. Maceo was continually fleeing before the valor of Spanish arms. He
would certainly be forced to throw himself against the Trocha, where disastrous defeat
awaited him. Once a battle was fought, and, according to the papers, Maceo had left six
hundred of their comrades on the field. The camp doubted. A giant mulatto, who had
seen eight years' service in the last war, said the Spaniards lied! They always lied!
Thus down the labyrinth of winding paths, through wood and bush and swamp, the rebel
camp had waited. And now Maceo had crossed the Trocha! The peasant brought the
news, and the peasant did not lie.
The morning mists rolled up and away. The camp-fires crackled with a new vigor as their
smoke followed the mists. The air was cool and crisp, for Cuban winters know cold nights
and mornings. Ill-clad rebels gathered around the fires, while others refused to unwind
themselves from tattered blankets captured in the last raid. They looked over the fires
and through the smoke. The gaunt peasant was still there. He was big and bony. He
looked like a giant on the little dingy horse; his bones were so big, and the horse was so
little. And it seemed that his bones swung on hinges, well oiled. He gesticulated wildly.
His arms went up and down, and his body turned from side to side. A rebel chief, tall and
dignified, with grizzled mustaches, stood by his brown tent and listened carefully to every
word he said.
Maceo had crossed the Trocha! The peasant did not lie. Once more he threw out his arms
wildly. Then he brought both palms down upon the pommel of his saddle, and
straightening his long arms, hunched his shoulders upon them and rested there. He had
finished.
The chief's whistle sounded through the camp. The rebel band was happy. It had been in
the swamp so long. It was impatient. It longed for a move; anything for a move, and the
chief's whistle meant that it was going to move now.
The sun warmed the earth, and the camp rose. There was a hurrying to and fro, a sound
of cracking twigs and numerous voices. Sorry-looking nags were pulled away from
scattered heaps of cane-top fodder bordering the camp, over which they had been
chewing and dreaming all night.
A mule which did not propose to budge was called a rude name. Cubans are not violent.
They are not addicted to using harsh words. The Cuban simply tugged at the mule's long
halter-rope, called him by his wrong name, turned and tugged again. The mule was
obdurate. A half-naked black spanked the animal suddenly. The mule relented and
stepped quickly forward, and the Cuban fell headlong. The half-naked black grinned with
a scared expression; another roared. The fallen rebel picked himself up, and laughed too.
There was a jingling of bridle-bits and a rustling of saddle-gear; a cry of impatience as a
girth broke in the attempt to tighten it. A little Major yelled an order to a distant
subaltern. A Captain demanded his spurs from an orderly; another his gun. The negro
element worked mechanically and said little.
The last rope was coiled, the last buckle tightened, and the men flung themselves astride
their saddles.
The rebel band was moving.
Two scouts with long machetes at their sides and carbines ready resting upon their thighs
galloped down the path. Others followed. They wound in and around and through the
wooded expanse. The path forked and twined and forked again, leaving little islands of
dense brush and scrubby trees. The scouts followed these twining paths, each in his own
way, and the rebel band came scurrying on behind.
The many twining paths merged into a grove of guava-trees, and were lost in the dry
matted grass. Out came the scouts from between the islands of brush. Into the guava
grove they spurred their horses, bending here and dodging there to escape the low
branches, and out upon the open they halted.
A long savanna spread before them. A scout urged his horse out upon the plain, and he
was followed by another. The two galloped to the right and rose on a ridge overlooking a
stretch of country beyond. There they paused; and as one, bending in his saddle, peered
into the distance, the other shielded his eyes and looked too. Then they wheeled and
rode up and down the ridge. Nothing! Nothing but cane-fields, palm-trees, and a tall
chimney in the distance.
The halted ones advanced. In a reeling, waving line they came sweeping over the plain.
They wheeled to the left and they wheeled to the right, and as the plain narrowed they
wheeled together again, and plunged into a road through a broad field of cane bearing
the marks of repeated forages.
Led by the tall grizzly chief, the rank and file emerged from the guava grove and scurried
into one long, ragged, irregular column aiming straight for the road.
The road aimed for the tall chimney.
The grizzly chief could see his advance galloping on ahead, and his rank and file came
swinging on behind. The cane-field changed from green to brown and black. It had been
burned. Beneath the tall chimney could be discerned rootless walls, charred riblike
rafters, and broken sheds grinning between dark green mango-trees.
Suddenly, where the road seemed to end between the mango-trees and a gray wall,
appeared two horsemen. The gallop of the advance changed to a walk. It moved
cautiously. Two little puffs of smoke and the crack of distant rifles told that the enemy
was there. The rebel band halted, and the advance-guard came swinging back down the
road.
A Lieutenant touched his hat and said, "Orders, my chief?"
"Tell them to spread out and reconnoitre! Maceo has crossed the Trocha, and we must
advance to meet him."
The Lieutenant spurred ahead and met the flying guard. It stopped. The men looked over
their shoulders worriedly as the Lieutenant delivered his message.
"Maceo has crossed the Trocha." The words were like magic, and the men turned and
urged their horses into the burned field. The charred and rotten cane broke beneath the
horses' hoofs as they made a wide circle, with the tall chimney for a centre. The
horsemen at the end of the road disappeared.
The rebel band advanced. Again the horsemen appeared at the top of the road—two,
four, six, eight, dozens of them. In rapid succession they rode out from the gray walls
and dark mango-trees. There was another crack of rifles and puffs of blue smoke.
"Remingtons!" exclaimed the chief, as the advance-guard cautiously halted in the wide
circle which it had mapped out for itself. "A local guerilla force!" And raising himself in his
stirrups, the grizzly chief turned to his men, and flourishing his long blade, shouted:
"Scatter out! Advance, and let them have it!"
To the sound of thumping hoofs and snapping canes the rank and file of the rebel band
went plunging through the field.
The guerrilleros drew up in one serried rank just where the ground sloped into the cane-
fields. They would meet the on-coming storm. They knew the rebels would run; they
always ran. And they raised their loaded carbines and fired. As the smoke cleared away
they saw a wide circle of yelling rebels and their horses dashing through the cane. They
stuffed cartridges into their carbines and fired again.
Their shots were answered. They saw the puffs of smoke, they heard the "ping! ping!" of
rebel Winchesters, and they saw the circle growing smaller as the horses grew larger. It
seemed that they were monsters as they reared above the cane, crushing it down with
their heavy hoofs and breasts. They saw gleaming steel flashing high in the sunlight, and
they heard the rebel cry, "Á la machete!"
"Crack! crack!" rang out the Spanish Remingtons. "Ping! ping!" answered the rebel
Winchesters, and a Spaniard cried, "I'm hurt!" as he swayed from his saddle. A comrade
caught him and swung him back, and the serried rank could stand it no longer. It gave
way—broke and ran. Helter-skelter by the ruined buildings, through the yard, scampered
the frightened ponies. Down by a gaping broken wall the road commenced again. With
loose rein and unguiding bridle the horses reared and plunged into one another, jolting
the wounded man terribly. His carbine clanked on the ground, and he knew his only
chance was to hang on.
The fleeing Spaniards heard the rebel yells close behind them, and the "ping! ping!" of
their Winchesters. "Tack! tack!" the bullets struck the gaping corner wall, and a long
stretch of road lay before them.
In the distance a church tower, and red tile roofs spread beneath it. The sunlight glinted
upon them as it never had done before, and to the fleeing Spaniards they seemed as
though made of gold and silver. Would they ever reach the sheltering cover?
And now rang out a fierce, exultant yell. The guerilleros knew that the rebels had
reached the corner wall. They dug their spurs frantically into their horses' sides as they
clung closer to their necks.
Again the rebel cry of victory rang out. But the distance was greater, and the Spaniards
knew that the band was not pursuing.
Maceo had crossed the Trocha! And that was the time the rebels did not run.
THE REASON WHY.
Now the football season's here
Our muscles we prepare,
And, 'though perhaps it may seem queer,
We cultivate our hair.

We don't do this, you must well know,

Because we have to, but
We let it sprout and tangle so
Because we have to butt.
 IN THE OLD HERRICK HOUSE.[1]
BY ELLEN DOUGLAS DELAND.

CHAPTER VII.
"Come, do hurry up, Elizabeth, and promise," urged Valentine. "The time is going on, and
the aunts will come home and catch us. You must be down stairs as if nothing had
happened when they do come. Of course I know you are not going to give me away. If I
had not thought I could depend on you pretty well, I should not have come. We were
good friends when we were here before, and, after all, you are my own sister."
"I know, Val, and I want to help you," said Elizabeth, slowly; "but—"
"But what?"
"It does not seem right to deceive Aunt Caroline."
"Oh, what difference does that make? I am sure you used to deceive her enough when
you came to this room all the time and had the Brady girls here, and everything else. You
have changed very much, I think."
"I know I have changed. You see, I am a whole year older, and in a year you learn lots of
things, and I am sure it is not right to deceive any one."
"I do call it a shame," exclaimed Valentine, walking about the room. "Here have I come
all this distance expecting to find a sister who would help me, and now you go and turn
your back on me. There is no use expecting anything of a girl. There never was one that
was worth anything but Marjorie. I was going to tell you the whole story, and you know
you like to hear things."
"Oh, I know I do!" cried poor Elizabeth. "I am just crazy to hear. What shall I do about it?
I wish I had some one to advise me."
"Come, Elizabeth—there's a good girl! Don't tell, and I will begin right away to explain. I
know you won't, so I will tell you, anyhow! You see, the other day at school—"
"Wait, wait, Val!" interrupted Elizabeth. "I must not hear, for if you once tell me I shall
have to keep to it, for it would be a bargain; but if you don't I can decide later. I am
going down stairs to think it over."
Valentine, left alone, scarcely knew what to think.
"I am in for it now," he said to himself. "Who ever would have thought of that meek little
Elizabeth going back on me? I'm in an awful scrape, and I have a good mind to run away
now, only I might meet Aunt Caroline on the doorstep, just as the Brady girls did. No, I
have got to stick it out, now that I am here, and perhaps after all Elizabeth will come
around. She is awfully curious to know what it is all about, that is one thing, and it may
bring her to her senses. It is awfully poky up in this room all alone, and I do wish she
would come back."
It was an hour and more before she did. Then the door was quietly opened, and
Elizabeth stood before him.
"Well, you are going to promise now, aren't you?"
"No, Val, I have come to suggest something. If you will come over to one of the other
rooms and hide, I will help you all I can. Aunt Caroline would not find you if you were in
one of the other rooms—the one next to mine, for instance. Even that does not seem
quite right, but it is better than being here. I have been thinking it over, and I am sure it
is not right to have you here when Aunt Caroline told me never to come into this room
again, and I actually had to go to her desk to steal the key. Will you come to one of the
other rooms?"
"No. It has got to be this room or none. I might just as well go sit in the parlor as be in
any room but this. Great Scott! how the fellows will laugh!"
"What fellows?"
"Never mind. Do you think I am going to tell you anything, Miss Spoilsport, Tattletale,
and everything else?"
"Oh, Val, I am so sorry! I do want to help you!" Elizabeth was crying now.
"Oh, don't stand there blubbering! Go down and tell auntie all about it. How Val came
and made you steal the key, and made you open the door, and made you do everything
else. It was all his fault—oh yes!"
"Val, you are hateful!" cried Elizabeth, drying her eyes. "You know I am not that kind of a
girl at all. I am sure I want to help you, and I want to know dreadfully why you came,
but I know if I asked any one but you whether I ought to have let you into this room,
they would say no. Mrs. Loring would, I know."
"And who is Mrs. Loring?"
"Patsy's mother."
"Oh, Patsy again! Everything is Patsy now. That is the reason you don't want to help me,
because you have got a new friend. Even your own brother is of no account now."
"That is not a bit true, and you have no right to say it; and I don't think you are a very
good brother to ask me to do what is not right."
"But there is no harm in it, really, Elizabeth! I am not doing the room any harm, and it
can't possibly hurt Aunt Caroline to have me here. Where is the wrong of it?"
"The key," persisted Elizabeth. "I ought not to have taken the key."
"Oh, nonsense! You got it, and that's all there is about it. You can't undo what you have
done, and now the best thing is to keep quiet about it and it won't hurt any one. But if
you were to go and tell it would make a terrible fuss, and every one would be upset, and
nobody would be a bit better for it."
There seemed to be some truth in this reasoning. After all, it would be easy to keep her
aunt in ignorance, thought Elizabeth. She would never do such a thing again; but now
that it was done—
Valentine saw that his argument had some effect, and he hastened to follow it up.
"And I do want to tell you all about it!" he added, craftily.
"Oh, Val," said Elizabeth, hurriedly. "I want to hear about it and I want to help you. And,
after all, it is too late about the room. I—I—think I'll promise!"
"That you won't tell?"
"That I won't tell."
"Elizabeth, good for you! You're a brick! I knew you would come out all right. I just knew
it."
"But wait! I have not altogether promised. Only almost."
"Oh, it's the same thing. I'm sure of you now!"
And Valentine capered about the room in excitement, until Elizabeth remembered that it
was important that he should not be heard, and warned him to keep still.
"After all, it is not a secret for always," he said. "In two weeks you can tell them all about
it if you want to. You see I am not binding you down forever." This with an air of
generosity.
"It will be harder to tell then than now," remarked Elizabeth. "But I must go! I hear some
one calling me. I'll tell you for certain when I come back."
She slipped out of the room, and it was but just in time. Her aunts had returned, and
Miss Herrick wished to see her in the library. She met the maid who was looking for her
on the stairs. The library was directly under the closed room, and Elizabeth wished that
she could again warn Valentine to be very quiet. He was so careless.
She found her aunt in an unwonted frame of mind. Miss Herrick put her arm about
Elizabeth and drew her to her side.
"I have been hearing very good accounts of my niece," she said. "I met Mrs. Arnold this
afternoon, and she told me that your teacher speaks very highly of you, Elizabeth."
How this demonstration would have pleased Elizabeth yesterday, or even this morning!
Now she felt like a hypocrite.
"And she is very anxious that I should allow you to take drawing-lessons." Here Miss
Herrick paused and sighed heavily. "And you wish to yourself, do you not, Elizabeth?"
It had been the dearest wish of Elizabeth's heart since she began school, but now she
felt as if she would be doing wrong if she were to take advantage of her aunt's kindness.
"I—I don't know," she faltered.
"If that is not human nature," exclaimed Miss Rebecca, who had not spoken before.
"When you were not allowed to draw, nothing could keep a pencil out of your hand, and
now that you are given permission you don't wish to do it."
"Oh, I do want to, Aunt Rebecca!" cried Elizabeth, recovering herself; "I want to,
dreadfully. Are you really going to let me, Aunt Caroline?"
"I suppose so. Mrs. Arnold put it before me in such a light that I could not very well
refuse. She says she has an excellent teacher, and if you have so much talent, Elizabeth,
it seems wrong not to give my consent. But it is very hard for me to say yes! You must
be a very good girl if I do."
Elizabeth hid her face in her aunt's shoulder. If she had heard this earlier she would not
have yielded to Valentine's entreaties. It was too late now. She had allowed him to stay
in the locked room, she had almost promised not to tell. There was a weight like lead on
her heart.
"Stand up straight, Elizabeth," said Miss Herrick, her momentary tenderness passing.
"Naturally you cannot understand my repugnance to the idea of your perfecting yourself
in drawing and painting, and it is not to be expected that you should. It is connected with
events which happened before you were born." Again she paused.
At any other time Elizabeth's curiosity would have been aroused, and her indignation
also, at the fact that there were more mysteries, but now she paid no heed. If only she
were not deceiving her aunt!
"There must be something queer about our family," she thought, desperately, "that we
are all the time hiding something from one another. I do wish I were one of the Lorings.
They never have any mysteries or secrets, and it is so nice."
Suddenly there was a loud thump overhead. Miss Herrick started and looked terrified.
Elizabeth exclaimed aloud, and then again hid her face behind her aunt. Even Miss
Rebecca seemed stirred from her usual indifference.
"What was that?" murmured Miss Herrick. "Was it—was it in the room overhead?"
Miss Rebecca nodded. "It sounded so," she said.
"What can it be?"
They listened, but there was no further sound.
"Shall I go and see, Aunt Caroline?" asked Elizabeth, in a timid voice.
"You, child! Why should you go? If we hear anything more I will send James. It is very
strange."
"Perhaps the cat has been shut up somewhere," suggested Miss Rebecca; "or probably
one of the servants has been in one of the empty rooms getting something. It does not
necessarily follow that it is that room, Caroline. I would not give it another thought."
"True, the box of oranges was put in the upper store-room. You are right, Rebecca.
Strange how my thoughts always fly to the one place when I hear anything overhead. I
suppose it was because we were talking about the drawing-lessons when it happened."
And she relapsed again into thought.
"So the locked room has something to do with Aunt Caroline not liking to have me learn
to draw," said Elizabeth to herself. "I thought so. But, oh dear, it will never do for Val to
make so much noise! I must go and tell him."
She slipped away very soon, and after going to her own room crept down the short flight
of stairs and along the passageway to the door of the mysterious chamber. She found
Valentine sitting on the floor, convulsed with laughter.
"Did you hear me?" he asked, in a stage whisper. "I haven't dared to move since. I upset
a chair. Giminy! it scared me to death! And I expected the whole family to march in the
door the very next minute. Didn't you hear me at all?"
"Hear you! I should think we did. It was a very narrow escape, and I have come to tell
you that you must be more careful. You had better not stir at all, for we are in the library,
right underneath. And oh, Val, I do feel so guilty! Aunt Caroline is so kind, and says I can
take drawing-lessons, and here I am deceiving her! I suppose you would not let me off
now?"
"Well, I should like to see myself letting you off now! No, sir. You have just the same as
promised, and that is the end of it."
Elizabeth sighed deeply and was about to leave him, but he detained her.
"I say, Elizabeth, what about dinner? I'm awfully hungry."
"Hungry again? Why, I brought you a lot of things to eat."
"Gee whiz, girl! Do you think I can live for hours on crackers and cake? Don't you think
you can smuggle up some dinner for me?"
"I will try," said Elizabeth, though somewhat doubtfully; "but I don't see how I am to do
it."
"Put some things in a basket, and pretend they are for the Brady girls."
"I have not had anything to do with the Brady girls for ages," returned Elizabeth, with
some contempt. "Not since I ran away."
"Ran away? You ran away? Ho, ho! so you're not so awfully good after all! What did you
run away for?"
"I can't tell you. I can never tell you. And now I must go."
"Well, I like that," said Valentine, as he closed the door behind her; "she ran away, and
isn't going to tell me about it! But I hope she will remember my dinner."
It was easy enough to remember his dinner, but not so simple a matter to secure it.
Elizabeth was so absorbed in thinking it over that she forgot to eat anything herself.
"You are not eating a morsel," said Miss Herrick. "This will never do! I had hoped that
going to school and companionship with other children would keep up your appetite.
Don't you feel well?"
"Oh yes, Aunt Caroline, only I am not hungry. Perhaps, if you don't mind, I could have
something to eat later."
It was an inspiration. In this way she could get something for Valentine. But she was
doomed to disappointment.
"I do not approve of eating just before you go to bed," said her aunt. "Eat now or not at
all."
Elizabeth was quite desperate. She must take the chance of finding something in the
pantry. When dinner was over and her aunts had returned to the library she slipped into
the pantry. Unfortunately nothing had been left there. All that she could find for Valentine
were a few more crackers and some bread. However, it would keep him from starving.
Her brother received them with small thanks, but they were better than nothing. Then he
wanted Elizabeth to stay with him, but this she would not do.
"I must go down stairs again to say good-night, and then I must go to bed," she said,
firmly.
"Come here instead, and I will tell you the whole story," suggested Valentine, who had no
desire for a lonely evening.
"No, this is the last time I am coming to-night. I—I think, Val, I will not hear your story at
all. If I have deceived Aunt Caroline I have deceived her, but I am not going to be paid
for it. I have been thinking it over. You are not to tell me. Good-night!"
It was half an hour later, and Valentine had come to the conclusion that he might as well
go to bed himself, when there was a faint tap at the door. The room was lighted by but
one candle—they had thought that a gas-light might show beneath the door, and attract
attention—and the place was so gloomy and mysterious that when the knock came
Valentine was startled in spite of himself.
"It is ghosts, maybe," he muttered. "This room is so queer and uncanny."
The tap was repeated, and he moved cautiously to the door. There stood Elizabeth, her
dark eyes shining in the candle-light, and a deep color burning in her cheeks. For a
moment she said nothing. Valentine was the first to speak.
"Good for you! So you have come to hear the story. Come in," he whispered.
"No, I am not coming in. I have only come to tell you that—that—"
"What?"
An awful dread seized Valentine's heart.
"That I cannot give that promise. I am going down now. I have been thinking and
thinking, and I know it isn't right to deceive, and I don't want to hide anything. There is
too much hiding in our family. I am going down now to tell Aunt Caroline you are here."
Valentine did not speak. She could scarcely see his face, for it was in shadow, but
somehow it frightened her.
"Oh, Val, say something! I am so sorry, but I must. Will you ever forgive me?"
"No. You have the same as broken your promise."
He closed the door, and she turned and ran down stairs. Her aunts were sitting as she
had left them. Miss Herrick was writing notes at the desk, while her sister read by the
lamp on the table. The shelves which lined the walls were filled with books, and the
engravings and etchings which hung above added to the sombre aspect of the room. It
was absolutely still except for the scratching of Miss Herrick's pen, and for a moment or
two Elizabeth stood there in the silence unnoticed.
"Aunt Caroline," she said at last.
It was in such a weak voice that no one heard her.
"Aunt Caroline!" she repeated.
"Yes," said Miss Herrick; but still her pen travelled swiftly across the page. It was
provoking to be interrupted.
"Aunt Caroline!" said Elizabeth for the third
time.
"What is it, Elizabeth?" said her aunt, at
last laying down her pen. "I hear you, and
I have answered. Don't stand there
repeating my name like a parrot. Why are
you not in bed?"
"Because I have something to tell you. I
could not go to bed. I—I have something
to tell you."
"So it appears. Suppose you tell me now,
instead of this endless repetition. Come, I
have no time to waste."
"Aunt Caroline," said Elizabeth, drawing
nearer, and standing with her hands
clasped behind her back, as she did when
she had anything of importance to say,
"Val is here."
"Val? What Val? What do you mean?"
"My brother Val." "I TELL YOU I AM NOT ILL, AUNT
"Is here? Oh no! you are mistaken, CAROLINE," CRIED ELIZABETH.
Elizabeth. Let me feel your hands. You ate
no dinner, and you are feverish. Your eyes are very staring. Rebecca, do you suppose the
child is delirious, or is she walking in her sleep?"
"I am not either, Aunt Caroline. I am not de—that long word, and I am wide awake. Val is
here. He came this afternoon, and he is up in the locked room."
Miss Herrick rose to her feet, and even Miss Rebecca dropped her book.
"She is certainly ill. Rebecca, ring the bell for James to go for the doctor."
"I tell you I am not ill, Aunt Caroline," cried Elizabeth. "Val came and said that he wanted
to hide, and that he must hide in that room. I got the key from your desk—you left your
desk unlocked—and I let him into the room. It was very wrong, Aunt Caroline. I know it
was wrong. And I am so sorry. That is the reason I am telling you, because I ought not
to have done it. If you don't believe that he is here, come and see."

[to be continued.]
 A VIRGINIA CAVALIER.
BY MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL.

CHAPTER XVIII.
The next day, the 31st of October, 1753, George set forth on his arduous mission. He had
before him nearly six hundred miles of travelling, much of it through an unbroken
wilderness, where snow and ice and rain and hail at that season were to be expected. In
the conference with the Governor and his advisers, which lasted until after midnight,
George had been given carte blanche in selecting his escort, which was not to exceed
seven persons, until he reached Logstown, when he could take as many Indians as he
thought wise. He quickly made up his mind as to whom he wanted. He wished first a
person of gentle breeding, as an interpreter between himself and the French officers. He
remembered Captain Jacob Vanbraam, a Dutch officer, now retired, and living at
Fredericksburg, who might be induced to make the journey. Then there were Gist and
John Davidson. It was thought best, however, to take an Indian along as interpreter for
the Indians, as they might complain, in case of a misunderstanding, that Davidson had
fooled them. In regard to the other three persons George concluded that it would be well
to wait until he reached Greenway Court, which was directly in the route of his outward
journey, as he would be most likely to find in that vicinity a person better used to such an
expedition than in the lower country. Armed with full credentials by the Governor, and
with a belt around his body containing a large sum in gold and negotiable bills, George at
daylight took the road he had traversed the night before.
He determined not to take Billy on the expedition, but he rather dreaded the wild
howlings and wailings which he thought it was certain Billy would set up when he found
he could not go. George therefore thought it well as they trotted along to make Billy ride
up with him, and describe all the anticipated hardships of the coming journey. He did not
soften one line in the picture, and enlarged particularly upon the scarcity of food, and the
chances of starving in the wilderness, or being scalped and roasted by Indians. Billy's
countenance during this was a study. Between his devotion to George and his terror of
the impending expedition Billy was in torment, and when at last George told him he must
remain either at Mount Vernon or Ferry Farm, Billy did not know whether to howl or to
grin.
George reached Fredericksburg that night, and went immediately to Captain Vanbraam's
house. The Dutchman, a stout, middle-aged man, yet of a soldierly appearance, at once
agreed to go, and, in the few hours necessary for his preparations George took the
opportunity of crossing the river and spending the night with his mother and sister and
brothers at Ferry Farm. His mother was full of fear for him, but she realized that this
brave and gifted son was no longer solely hers—his country had need of him as soon as
he came of age. Next morning Betty went with him across the river, and bade him good-