Part II (part 1 of 2)

Part II (part 1 of 2)

For four years the game in Virginia, all undisturbed, increased and multiplied at an astonishing rate. There was no shot to be had in the Confederacy, and the only way an ardent sportsman, when home on furlough, could take a shy at the game, was to hammer out from a leaden bullet long, square blocks, and then cutting off the ends with a knife, to use a brick to roll these bits on the floor until each pellet became round enough for use. It would take a man a day, and exhaust all his patience, to make one pound of shot; and he would naturally be very chary about using his ammunition, and rarely pull a trigger except when certain of his game. In most sections of Virginia to fire a gun was a dangerous pastime, for what with raids, irruptions, incursions and forays, the people were in a state of siege, and the report of a firearm was as likely as not to be followed by a bullet from some traveling soldier, prowling bushwhacker, or passing cavalryman, thrown just for good luck in the direction of the sound. Then, if it should happen that a raid was in progress, the shot would attract the videttes and scouts, and the luckless gunner would find himself in hostile hands; and if too old or too young for military service, he might consider himself lucky if he were allowed to depart minus his fowling-piece and dog.

In the mountains of Virginia the wild turkeys were more numerous than they ever were before, the various bivouacs furnishing them in winter with an ample supply of food, while, best of all, they were allowed to feed unmolested. The water-fowl on the Potomac kept up their ratio of increase, for except the officers of the gunboats patrolling up and down the river, none dared to fire a gun. There were hunters of men in those times scattered along the banks, as well as floating on the bosom of the blue water. The explosion of a sportsman’s gun, and its smoke, might serve as an admirable target for the boatswain of an iron-clad with a crew nearly dead with listlessness and ennui, and glad to get an excuse to blaze away at anything.

In the fall of 1865, those Virginians who loved sporting, and had the good luck to return to the homes of their youth with their arms and legs intact, had a rare and royal time among the fur and feather, and a moderate shot would return in the evening and show such a bag as the result of the day’s sport as would last the family for a week. A couple of sportsmen living about ten miles from Culpeper Court House, Virginia, killed, in one day, eighty-four rabbits and fourteen wild turkeys. If a gunner can start even half a dozen cotton-tails now in a long day’s tramp he considers himself fortunate, and he won’t see a wild turkey in a season’s shooting. I well remember a hunt that I had in the autumn of 1865, just after the war ended. It was a perfect day in November, with the morning mists still hanging around the tree-tops. I had borrowed a double-barrel from one friend, and a good, staunch pointer named “Josh” from another. I climbed the fence of an orchard, and put the dog out in a huge field near Warrenton Junction, where portions of both armies had often encamped. Josh had not gone seventy-five yards before he came to a dead stand, and with beating heart I advanced and hied him on. As the birds rose I let fly both barrels, and--did not touch a feather! Loading up, I again sent Josh careering over the stubble. In ten minutes he had pointed a covey, and I again emptied the gun with the same result as before. If ever a dog’s face expressed contempt Josh’s was surely the one. His dewlaps curled up, and he absolutely showed his teeth, whether in anger or derision I never found out. The third time I approached a covey that Josh had cornered in a big patch of briers, and two more loads were sent harmless as Macbeth’s sword “cutting the intrenchant air.” This was enough for that disgusted dog. He sneaked off, and I never laid my eyes upon him again.

It was no great matter, the birds were so plentiful that I had merely to walk up and down the field, and I banged away most lustily. All in vain! I could not touch one. I fired with both eyes open, then with one shut, and still no partridge lingered on that account. I became superstitious and fired with both eyes shut. I doubled the charges, until I swept that meadow with leaden pellets, as a field is cleared by grape-shot. But there were no dead. At last, in my despair, I would shoot even if the bird was half a mile off. I went home that evening, after shooting away about ten pounds of shot, with one solitary partridge in my game-bag, and this bird, when I flushed him suddenly, was so scared that he flew from the edge of the field across a fence and against the trunk of a black-jack tree with such force as to knock himself silly, and before he could hustle himself away I had jumped the fence and wrung his neck.

There was apparently enough fur and feather in Virginia just after the war to supply the whole of America with small game, but in one decade the state of the case was completely altered. First came the invention of the breech-loader, which enables one to shoot all day without intermission. The game stood but little chance against these machines of perpetual destruction. But worse even than the breech-loader was the old army musket, loaded with a handful of shot, with a lately enfranchised freedman behind the big end of it. The darkey is a nocturnal prowler, as much so as a ’coon or ’possum, and his prowls through meadow, woods and fallow cause him frequently to stumble on the wary turkey that forgets his cunning as he struts around preparatory to flying to his roost, generally a dead limb on a lofty tree. He bags many a molly cotton-tail loping down the road to get his evening drink at the branch. But it is when “our friend and brother” catches sight, in the shades of the evening, of a flock of partridges settling in some field for their night’s rest, that he becomes dangerous. It is then that the old army musket is converted into a terror, and when its muzzle bears upon the whole covey squatted in a space that can be covered by a bandana handkerchief, and its contents are turned loose, every bird will be either killed or crippled.

The freedman’s musket, battered and patched though it be, must look down upon the handsome, resplendent breechloader as a great orator does upon the garrulous, loquacious youth who talks upon every subject at any time, and at any length, while he only opens his mouth to make knock-down arguments, or to utter words of great import that thrill and convince. When the reverberating roar of that old A. M. was heard, it was safe to bet that something that did not come from the barnyard would fill the shooter’s iron pot that night.

A weather-beaten old darkey said to me once: “It dun cos’ me nearly five cents to load that air musket, countin’ powder, caps, shot and everythin’, an’ I ain’t gwine to let er off ’less I knows I’se sartin to make by de shot.”

The baybird-shooting in the summer, and the duck-shooting outside the Virginia capes, was at its zenith some fifteen years ago. Then, too, the canvas-back, that king of water-fowl, before whose name the gourmand bows in homage, still lingered in the tributaries of the Chesapeake Bay, but now it is nearly extinct. A sportsman may gun for a whole winter in the bay and not kill half a dozen “canvas-backs,” but, if a good shot over the decoys, he can count on the kind known as the “red-head”--and if he knew how to pull out a few feathers, as does the professional pot-hunter, he could easily follow that gentleman’s example and sell them at fancy figures for “canvas-backs,” which in another decade will be as utterly annihilated as the dodo. Still, great is the culinary chef’s art, and if he can, by the magic power of his sauces, herbs and seasonings, pass calf’s head off for green turtle, and the skillpot for diamond-back terrapin stew, then nobody is hurt. His patrons enjoy it just the same, and to the average man the red-head duck tastes as well with his champagne as its incomparable relative.

Fifteen years ago--even ten years--many an amateur would pack his trunk with ammunition, and taking steamer for Old Point Comfort, disembark there, and after a few hours’ wait at the Hygeia Hotel, proceed on his way to the eastern shore of Virginia by crossing the Chesapeake Bay. Or he would go outside the capes, and stop at Cape Charles, or Cobb’s Island. Once at his objective point, he could be certain in the right season of having his fill of shooting every day at the baybirds. They were so plentiful that all along the Virginia Broadwater every oyster-bar or mud-flat would be covered with them, and all the shooter would have to do would be to make a blind out of sea-grass, place his decoys around him, and then try his hand on singles, doubles and flocks, striking them on the turn, while a hundred pair of yellow-legs, or willet, would not be considered anything out of the way. As it is now--well, the finest shot in the country could not kill that many snipe in a week, simply because they are not there to kill. The vast flocks of robin-snipe that tarried in their migrations along the shores of the Chesapeake and the Broadwater of the Atlantic coast have entirely disappeared. The curlew still haunt their favorite places, but have become so wary that neither blind nor decoys can lure them, except, indeed, at the earliest dawn of day, before their eyes are wide open. Half a dozen curlew, between sunrise and sunset, in the blinds, is something for a sportsman to be proud of, for no crow is keener-eyed, more suspicious, and keeps a sharper lookout than these birds. Fifteen years ago I have often killed from thirty to fifty from sun to sun, at Smith Island or Cape Charles, but now one has to load his shell with No. 3 shot to bring down the high-circling, distrustful curlew.

The willet is still fairly plentiful. They lay their eggs and rear their young in the neighboring sea-meadows, and though preyed upon by crabs, snakes and raccoons from the time the egg is laid until the bird is able to fly, they still hold their own. They are such sociable birds that whenever a flock of snipe is fired into, one of the dead is almost certain to be a willet.

The ox-eye, another variety of the snipe family, is found in abundance on the shores and sea-meadows, and they owe their preservation, like the sandpipers, to their insignificant size. There are no birds in existence that keep so close together when on the wing as these ox-eyes. A large flock resembles a solid mass, and dire is the destruction that a double-barrel makes as it pours forth its contents of No. 8 shot at point-blank distance and strikes them on the turn. I asked old Nathan Cobb, of Cobb’s Island, which is outside the Virginia capes--a pot-hunter of half a century’s experience, who has grown independent from the proceeds of his gun--what was the greatest number of snipe he had ever killed by one discharge of his double-barrel.

“Wal,” said Nathan, with his Eastern Shore drawl, “I was out gunning one spring, about thirty years ago, and had a No. 8 muzzle-loader that would hold comfortably six ounces of shot. I ran in on a solid acre of robin-snipe on the beach, and fired one load raking them as they fed, giving them the other barrel as they rose. I picked up three hundred and two.”

I next asked him the greatest number of brant he had ever killed in one day over the decoys, with single shots.

“I bagged,” he answered, “about ten years ago, one hundred and seventy brant, and nearly every one of them was a single shot.”

I can easily believe this, for I have shot in blinds with many sportsmen, at redhead, shufflers, black duck and brant, and I never yet saw amateur, professional, or pot-hunter, whose aim was so unerring and deadly at the flying ducks as Nathan Cobb’s. I do not believe this score has ever been beaten in this country.

At the present day this same story of the disappearance of the waterfowl on the Virginia coast and along the Capes becomes dreary from repetition. It does not pay the sportsman to go to Cobb’s Island now. I spent three seasons there in the winter, during the “Eighties,” and found that the brant were so wild that they would not stool. Then I went to Cape Charles, just outside the Capes, and, though it is a most inaccessible place, the brant would not come near the decoys.

Two winters ago, I tried Currituck Sound, and found palatial club-houses open all about that noble sheet of water. Some of these houses are so splendid in appointment that when you glance around the elegantly furnished rooms, with their damask curtains, Brussels carpets and open grates where the anthracite is piled high, it is impossible to imagine that just outside roll the dark waters of the Sound, while miles upon miles of barren sea-meadows, marshes and swamp separate the house from civilization. All of these club-houses are owned by Northern men--rich in world’s gear, of course--men who count their incomes by thousands, where ordinary bread-winners of the professions count their earnings by tens. Think of having in the magazine of a club-house thirty thousand dollars in guns! Gordon Cumming, starting for a ten years’ game hunt in the jungles of Africa, or Stanley, setting out to fight his way through the “Dark Continent,” with countless hordes of savage “Wawangi” disputing his passage, never had that amount invested in weapons--and all to kill the wary geese and swift-flying ducks.

Even with such perfection of outfit--with guns of every imaginable make from the 12 to the 4 bore, and trained gunners to oversee every arrangement, the clubmen were talking gloomily about the sport fast deteriorating. Pot-hunters, “duck pirates,” countrymen, freedmen--all who lived or robbed along the shores of the Sound had their shy at the ducks, day in and night out, and such a fusillade was never heard since Burnside stormed and carried Roanoke Island, some miles below, in the glinting spring days of 1862. I found good enough sport on the private point of a friend who lived on a large farm by the shores of the Sound. Still the birds were thinning rapidly.

Last winter’s experience with Currituck made me determine never to go to that spot again for sport. I do not think I overstate matters when I say that wildfowl-shooting on the finest grounds in the world is doomed. Gone are the vast flocks, decimated are the swans and geese that were so plentiful in certain localities even three short years ago, and indigo blue are the rich sportsmen who quaff their champagne in silence and puff moodily at their twenty-five cent cigars as they think of the meagre bags they have made, and how matters, now so bad, are always getting worse, thereby proving the old saw which saith “Nothing can be so bad that it cannot be made worse.” The club men should, however, be glad that the snipe will always be with them.

For keen trading, guileless equivocation and general deviltry commend me to the “cracker” of the North Carolina Coast. He could discount the Jersey Yankee upstairs and down-stairs. The typical specimen is slab-sided and always thin; I never met a fat one yet. Their complexion shows that they have wrestled for years with “chills,” and their cheeks are as yellow as a newly-pulled gourd; they drawl in their speech, look at you with half-shut eyes, are afraid of neither man nor devil, have no hero-worship in their composition, and are as familiar with the captain of a yacht as with the roustabout. They are as keen as a brier, despite their listless, indifferent air, and to them more than any other cause is due the extermination of the wild fowl in Currituck Sound. They cleaned out the wild geese by setting steel traps on the bars. What they did not catch they frightened away.

Mr. William Palmer, the superintendent of the Palmer Island Club, states, moreover, that the number of sportsmen who come to Currituck to shoot has increased twenty-five per cent., while the natives have crowded the Sound with their blinds, and every male “cracker” who can hold a gun straight is on the watch.

It is true that there are stringent State Laws against the illegal killing of wild fowl, and also a close season. If these rules were enforced there would be first-class shooting in Currituck Sound for years to come, but the laws seem to be completely ignored; there is not even a pretense of observing them. The law makes a strong provision against a gun being fired at a duck after sunset, but there are numbers of murderous, greedy natives who have their skiffs hid in the woods and swamps in which are the huge ducking guns already referred to. Every hour during the night can be heard the sullen boom of these swivels floating across the waters, and the true sportsman, as he listens to the echoing roar, can only grind his teeth with rage, for he knows what a slaughter is going on, and how the survivors will take wing and abandon the Sound for good and all.

But the worst remains to be told. As if steel traps and big guns were not enough to destroy the wild fowl, the ingenious natives make fires on the banks of the creeks that run through the marshes, and, as the ducks float in ricks up to the illuminated waters, the ambushed assassin gets in his deadly work. Unless the sportsmen who own the club-houses on the Sound, by concerted action and vast outlay, can prosecute the offenders, then “Othello’s occupation’s gone.”

My own idea is that these clubs are too exclusive. They should make it a point to cultivate the entente cordiale with the sportsmen of the State of North Carolina, and thus, by gaining their co-operation, they could induce the State authorities to take stringent action against the law-breakers. Unless this is done the sporting code will remain a dead letter as far as Currituck is concerned. The people shrug their shoulders when the subject is mentioned and say, “Those fancy Northern sportsmen don’t want a North Carolinian to kill a North Carolina duck in North Carolina waters,” and so on, and so on. Had I the arranging and the forming of a game protective association of the club men in Currituck, I would extend a pressing and standing invitation to every member of the Legislature and every officer of the State Government to make the club-houses their own, and the Governor and his staff should be kidnapped every winter, and be made to enjoy the gilt-edge sport of the “Yankee” clubs.

Seeing in a State paper that the Light-house Board intended to abandon the Pamlico (N. C.) Light-house, I applied to the Treasury Department to turn it over to me for a “shooting box.” This was done, and I hope to have some good sporting in the future.

Southward the sportsmen must make their way, and find more inaccessible spots than Currituck to establish club-houses. This being the case, the topography and charts of the regions lying south of Currituck become interesting to the handlers of the gun. Four miles across the mainland is that grand sheet of water, the Albemarle Sound, some fifteen miles wide. Though this sound cannot compare with Currituck for the number and variety of its waterfowl in past years, at the present time it is filled with the birds that have been driven by night-shooting away from Currituck to find safer quarters there. Undoubtedly there will, in the next few years, be erected many club-houses in Albemarle Sound. Some twelve miles as the crow flies across the peninsula, another sheet of water is encountered. This is the Crotan Sound, apparently of about the area of Currituck. There is an abundance of waterfowl here, and but few, if any, club-houses, which will, however, soon follow.

Ten miles southward, across a swampy, barren pine country, there appears the largest and grandest sound of all, the Pamlico. I have no data to furnish the exact size, but the steamer travels over 100 miles before it arrives at Pamlico Point light, at the spot where the Pamlico River enters the Sound. Here is the home and haunt of the swan, and, as they have been but comparatively little hunted, they furnish fine sport to those who have their own yachts and plenty of time. There are no spots at Currituck that can afford more exciting sport or show a greater abundance of all kinds of waterfowl than Pamlico Point, Porpoise Point, about five miles distant, or Brant Island, some twelve miles away. The inaccessibility of the place prevents the shore pot-hunters from disturbing the game, and the “duck murderer,” with his night-shooting, has not yet put in an appearance.

The water of Pamlico Sound is neutral to the taste; sometimes fresh, again decidedly saline, but, for most of the time, it is simply brackish. This condition arises from the fact that the Neuse and Pamlico Rivers pour fresh waters into its area, while New Hatteras and Oregon inlets and Core Sound admit the salt waters of the ocean. This mixture of fresh, brackish and salt waters in a common receptacle naturally attracts every variety of waterfowl. The red-head and shuffler haunt the mingling of the fresh-water rivers with the Sound waters, while the black duck, mallard, and that king of aquatic birds, the gamest of all--the brant, stay in the vicinity of Oregon Inlet. In my opinion, within a few years Pamlico Sound is destined to be the greatest sporting-ground in the country, and the costly and expensive club-houses at Currituck will be discounted by the new ones at Pamlico Sound.

How long it will be before the breech-loader in the hands of the natives and the swivel gun, killing in the night, will drive the wild fowl out of that extensive region is a question that none can answer. Many sportsmen who have been forced southward and still southward during the past years in quest of game hope that Pamlico Sound will furnish winter sport to last them at least the balance of their days.

MR. PERKER’S BEAR; OR, MR. BEAR’S PERKER?

BY PRESIDENT BATES.

Since his marriage with Effie Cameron, Mr. Perker has greatly improved in many respects. In his attire, his wheel, and his general style, Mr. Perker still retains his proud pre-eminence as the pink of fashion of the club. Taken all in all, he is the nattiest wheelman that ever sat on a saddle. But now it is a chastened and refined glory. The little “loudness,” indicative of an ambition soaring after effects not quite attainable, which formerly marred Mr. Perker’s brilliancy at times, has given place to a subdued chasteness, suggesting that he could be still more elegant if a rival should appear. Plainly he exhibits evidences of being toned by feminine taste.

Mr. Perker still clings fondly to his bicycle gun, but nowadays he keeps it in the barn. Mrs. Effie will not permit it to be brought into the house. I mention this for the tranquilization of visiting wheelmen, so that they need not hesitate to accept an invitation to one of the elegant lunches with which Mrs. Effie is wont to regale the club and its guests on occasions. And pilgrim wheelmen, who have read ~Outing~ in former years, do not need to be assured that Mrs. Effie Perker is an altogether charming hostess, and one of the prettiest and most warm-hearted Scotchwomen that ever made a home happy.

Former readers of ~Outing~ also know that Mr. Perker’s remarkable dog, Smart, gave promise in his puppyhood of becoming one of the most intelligent animals in the country. In fact, he achieved wide notoriety in his early career. He is now famous for sagacity and accumulated wisdom. As a bicycle hunting dog he is not only peerless, but the founder of a new race--bicycle hunting dogs--a species of dog not hitherto known; and several clubs have obtained specimens of his progeny.

When Mr. Perker was required by the firm to whose interests he devotes his talents to visit a settlement upon the northern coast of Lake Michigan, upon business that would occupy him for two or three weeks, he determined to take with him his dog, his bicycle gun and his wheel. Mrs. Perker protested mildly; but yielded sweetly upon hearing Mr. Perker’s solemn promise not to hunt wildcats. For a woman whose girlhood was spent in the frontier wilds of Canada, Mrs. Perker entertains a singular apprehension of wildcats--all on Mr. Perker’s account. Of course, he is a hero in her wifely estimation; but she does not consider him a wildcat hero. And she has very little faith in Mr. Perker’s bicycle gun, or in the tried courage and sagacity of Mr. Perker’s dog Smart, as against wildcats. She mingled with the packing of Mr. Perker’s clean linen a loving remonstrance against hunting wildcats; and she mixed with Mr. Perker’s toothbrush and razor a tender warning against being led by “that fool, Smart,” into danger. Mr. Perker solemnly promised, with his parting kiss, to take good care of himself. And he meant it.

When Mr. Perker left the city, in Southern Michigan, the spring was well advanced. The roads had dried and were ridable, while the trees were beginning to show yellow-green buds. When, however, he arrived in the Northern woods, the snow still lingered in patches in the dim shades of the pine and hemlock forests, and ice clung to the shores of the lake. The rivers and brooks had cleared themselves, but were still in spring flood. The sharp frosts at night were followed by warm, sunny days, and occasionally by a day that remained cold enough not to melt the surface frost. There was no chance to ride except along the lake shore, where the sloping sands had frozen smoothly and were firm when their surface was unmelted. At various distances from the shore, generally ten to thirty rods, ice-banks, in some places twenty feet high, had formed in the shoal water, from great fields of drifting ice being driven upon the coast by the winter gales, and breaking and piling up their shore edges. Between the ice-banks and the shore sands the ice was reasonably flat, with a top surface of roughly frozen snow. Wherever a swollen river discharged into the lake, its freshet had cut an open channel through the flat ice and through the ice-banks, though the ice-banks still furnished bridges by which to cross the channels of the smaller streams.

At that season of the year there was little hunting, for most game was protected by the game-laws. To be sure the open spaces of water were visited by flocks of wild fowl flying northward, and there were rabbits in the woods, and of them Mr. Perker bagged a few. But, as of old, his hunter’s soul longed for larger game, and only his solemn promise to Effie prevented his joining the settlers in their wildcat hunting. There were wolves in the woods--large gray wolves. But it requires good hunting to get sight of one of these wary prowlers; and Mr. Perker had not the time to take long tramps into the swamps where they kept their lairs. The bears had also come out from their winter sleep, and almost every day Mr. Perker heard of their slaughter. But bears require skilled hunting, unless one happens upon a specimen by accident. If there was any one thing more than another that Mr. Perker longed for it was a bear. He ached for the glory of killing a bear. A bearskin, captured by his own hand, would elevate him several degrees in the estimation of the club and would greatly enhance the reputation of his bicycle gun. But the days of his sojourn in the wilderness were waning fast, and an encounter with a real live bear still remained the thing “he long had sought and mourned because he found it not,” as the hymn-book feelingly remarks. What made his disappointment more bitter was the fact that everybody in the settlement freely conceded that Smart undoubtedly possessed all the faculties and qualities of a good bear dog, except that of finding a bear. Smart, with his master, had made the acquaintance of every dead bear brought into the settlement, but the live bears perversely avoided his distinguished society.

Bears have provokingly peculiar ways. When you arm yourself with rifle, axe, knife and dog, and go hunting expressly for bear society, every bear in the woods hangs out a sign, “not at home,” and declines to be interviewed. When you particularly prefer not to be disturbed in your solitude, as your gun is at home, and you forgot to bring either axe or knife, and your dog is a mile off, rushing around after fugacious rabbits, then is the time that the largest and savagest, and most impudent of all bears is most apt to thrust himself upon your attention, with alarming indications of begging for a chew.

Mr. Perker had reached the last day of his stay in the settlement. It was a fine but cold Sunday. There was a moderate northwest wind swaying the dull evergreen tree-tops and ruffling the gray-blue waters of the lake, but in the woods and along the shore, sheltered by the bordering pines and hemlocks, the air was still and just cool enough not to melt the surface of the frozen sand. Five miles up the shore lived a man with whom Mr. Perker had done business for the firm. Mr. Perker desired to call upon him once more, not really on business, but to show him attention and leave a good impression. This man had a thirteen-year-old boy who, during a visit to a city the previous summer, had seen cowboys perform in a circus, and this had fired his youthful spirit with ambition to lasso something. Mr. Perker thought to win the heart--and custom--of the father by making the boy a present of a lasso. To this end he bought a suitable rope, thirty-six feet long. On one end he had a sailor make a Turk’s-head knot, to prevent its slipping through the grasp. On the other end was the lasso loop. But, lest the ambitious youth should accidentally strangle his younger brother, or his father’s favorite calf or pig, the sailor put a knot in the rope so that the loop could close sufficiently to hold but not to choke. The rope was stretched and limbered with oil and wax, making it a very good lasso for a boy, and strong enough to hold a mule.

Mr. Perker would not go a-hunting on Sunday--he never did. There was, however, no service till evening, so he determined to ride along the beach on his wheel, make the visit, return in time for the service, and start for home on Monday morning. He coiled the lasso and tied it with a thread, so that he could easily carry it on the head of his wheel, and though he did not take his bicycle gun, Smart, of course, accompanied him. The beach sand proved hard and moderately smooth, so that the riding was fair. He was in good spirits, having succeeded well in his business, and at peace with the world, and had no thought of seeing game of any kind.

He had gone nearly half-way, and was riding quietly and comfortably along, minding his own business, when he was startled by seeing a large bear come out of the woods, ahead of him, and walk down to the shore, where it turned and went leisurely forward, evidently not having seen him.

Smart, as was his habit, was--very sagaciously--somewhere else when he was wanted to put himself in danger. If Smart had reasoned that he did not know that his master would meet a bear but, in case his master should meet a bear, it would be a great deal safer for him to be absent, he could not have acted with shrewder wisdom. At that moment he was a quarter of a mile behind in the woods, enjoying himself greatly, trying to ram himself down a woodchuck’s hole, at the bottom of which, his wise nose informed him, a woodchuck either was or recently had been. He was sternly resolved to have that woodchuck out, if it took all day. So now and then he would pull out his head to bark, by way of signaling his master for help, and then ram it down the hole again, so that the woodchuck couldn’t get out without running down his yawning throat.

In the absence of Smart, Mr. Perker conceived a brilliant scheme for the capture of the bear. He would lasso the beast, and then call Smart, whom he supposed to be somewhere close at hand. So breaking the thread that kept the coils of the rope together, he opened the loop, slipped the knotted end under his right thigh, and drew it around the saddle behind him, holding the knot in his left hand, and then pedaled rapidly toward the unconscious and innocent forest monarch, the rubber-tired wheel making no noise. As he was an excellent rider, he could have done this without using either hand; but he kept his left hand, with the knotted end of the lasso in it, upon the handle-bar.

He was almost upon the bear, stealing silently upon his prey, when the bear caught a glimpse of him over his shoulder. Instantly the bear wheeled about, reared upon his hind legs, exhibited a frightfully open countenance and spread claws, at least three inches long, in a way that betokened a warm welcome. At the same time every hair on the animal’s body seemed to bristle with fury, and it snarled in a blood-curdling baritone voice, which would have made a fortune for an opera star villain.

Mr. Perker was not entirely prepared for this reception. It had not occurred to him that his advances toward a familiar acquaintance would be met in that way. He hastily concluded not to intrude. But not having his right hand upon the handle-bar, in a position to put down the break, it was a great deal easier to wish to stop than to accomplish it. Therefore, he simply stood on the pedals, and they pitched him headlong over the handles, right at the bear, like heaving a bag of bran off a wagon.

It was now the bear’s turn to be astonished. He had not calculated upon any such method of assault. He was prepared for a fair fight; but he wasn’t used to having men thrown at him, all doubled up in a wad. “Take any shape but that, and my firm nerves shall never tremble.” But that shape!--well, he was the scaredest bear probably ever seen upon the coast of Lake Michigan. He was so scared that he didn’t have presence of mind enough to run into the woods; but, with a loud snort of panic, he scattered the frozen sand straight down the beach.

In falling Mr. Perker somehow gave the lasso loop such a flirt that it went over the head of the bear and drew about his neck, when he started to run. Mr. Perker did not intend to do it, and the bear ought not to have laid it up against Mr. Perker. It was purely an accident--a liberty with a stranger that Mr. Perker would not have taken under such circumstances, if he could have helped it. In fact he couldn’t have lassoed a bear by the neck if the bear hadn’t been surprised by his header, for a bear on guard is as practiced a boxer as can be found, and one can no more get a noose about his neck than one can over a man’s neck with his hands and arms free to fend it off. As it was, however, the bear was caught; and, as he ran, the knot of the rope caught under the bicycle saddle, and that machine was dragged, rattling, bounding, banging and glittering after the flying brute, adding to his panic, like a tin-pan tied to a dog’s tail.

Mr. Perker scrambled to his feet quicker than he ever did before in his life. His first instinctive impulse was to ascertain if he was still alive, with none of his members missing. Having discovered that he was all there, his next impulse was to run after his beloved wheel, which he did, shouting like a lunatic for “Smart! Smart!” This did not tend to lessen the fright, nor diminish the speed of the bear--quite the contrary.

About twenty rods ahead a small brook had cut a channel through the flat ice with its spring flood, but the ice-banks were still intact a dozen rods from the shore, compelling the outflowing flood to find a channel beneath them. When Mr. Perker first formed the scheme to lasso the bear he had counted upon this open water to stop the animal in case he ran that way. Now he expected the bear to either turn into the woods or else go around the open mouth of the brook on the ice-bank. But, as may be guessed, Mr. Perker was not familiar with bears. This bear, frightened half out of his wits by the bicycle clattering at his heels at the end of the rope, didn’t turn at the brook. On the contrary he plunged into it and swam across, no doubt with the notion that his mysterious pursuer could be stopped by the icy water. Clambering out on the ice on the opposite side, as soon as he got the length of the rope from the brink the bicycle caught under the ice and anchored him. This the more easily because the ice upon which he stood was glassy smooth from the recent overflow, and gave his claws no hold, let him strain, and yank, and dig in his toes and swear as savagely as he might.

Seeing this Mr. Perker hurried faster and shouted louder, doing his best to get around the end of the open channel by way of the ice-bank. He was afraid that the rope would break or be gnawed off and let his beloved wheel sink where the water was probably twenty feet deep. Coming around the head of the channel, he ran along the edge of the ice to get between the bear and the water, and haul up the bicycle. If he could recover his wheel he would be willing to let the bear go. Meanwhile he kept shouting for Smart. On his approach the bear redoubled his efforts to break away, but in vain. Mr. Perker reached the spot and managed to loosen his wheel from its hold under the ice by pulling on its handle-bar. It naturally came up out of the water with a jerk that upset Mr. Perker with great violence, jamming one of his feet between the spokes as he fell.

The bear now set off again, plunging and snarling, this time toward the woods, only a hundred feet away, dragging Mr. Perker by the foot, flat on his back. In hopes of stopping the procession, Mr. Perker flopped over upon his breast, and tried to dig his hands into the ice. No go. He only skinned his hands. As he struck the rougher ice it felt hot from friction, and he turned over again on his back. But it was equally hot that way. When he struck the sand, it seemed red-hot. It was like being drawn over a rasp. Luckily the sand was only a few feet wide, the woods coming down at this point almost to the shore. Here the bear turned slightly, and in a moment Mr. Perker’s free leg went on one side of a small tree, while his caught leg went on the other side. The tree did not break nor his leg pull out by the roots, though Mr. Perker thought for a moment that it would, and the procession was anchored again. By way of backing the anchor Mr. Perker threw his arms about the tree and hugged it with all his might, while he yelled for Smart.

The frightened bear, after a few frantic tugs, became convinced that he could not get away. Then he turned upon the prostrate and yelling Perker with dire intent; but the instant the strain slackened on the rope, Mr. Perker was able to kick, and a single kick freed his caught foot. Before he could rise, however, the bear would have been upon him but for an interruption. That interruption was from Smart who came tearing around the ice-bank and charged bravely to the rescue of his imperiled master.

Finding that the woodchuck--if there was any woodchuck in the hole--evidently intended to stay there, Smart paused in the work of excavation, and sat down to reflect and catch his breath. The instant he was thus quiet he heard the far-off voice of his master calling him in a manner that indicated urgency. Smart ran after his master at full speed, and coming to the spot where Mr. Perker first encountered the bear, stopped as if he had run against something. His nose whispered “bear!” to his brain. The hair on his back bristled. Then he heard Perker shout, and set off on his track again. Coming around the open channel by way of the ice-bank he caught sight of the bear, and charged fiercely upon the unknown enemy, intending to incontinently scatter his vitals all over that part of the coast.

Attacked by the dog, the bear halted in his rush at Mr. Perker, sat up on his haunches, and bestowed a buffet upon poor Smart that rolled him over and over, a dozen feet away. Smart, though a remarkably intelligent dog, did not know much about bears; but that single cuff taught him much. He caught the general idea immediately, and rushed behind Mr. Perker for protection, while the bear rushed after him. Mr. Perker shinned up that small tree very much faster than a boy after a bird’s nest. By the time he was up his own length, spreading his legs as wide as he could, to get them higher, Smart, with admirable strategy, perceiving that the shelter of Mr. Perker’s legs was withdrawn, ran around the tree, looking for a good place to climb it also. The bear ran around after Smart. This wound the rope around the tree; and, when Smart ran off at a tangent, the bear rushing after him was brought up with such a violent jerk of the noose upon his neck that he turned end for end and hit Smart with his hind legs, like the snap of a whip, while every bone in his back cracked. The shock almost jerked Mr. Perker out of the tree, but he hung on grimly, and crawled up a few feet farther. By the time he was eight feet from the ground, however, the tree, which was only as large as a man’s leg at the bottom, began to bend over with his weight, and he could go no higher.

The dog being out of his reach, the bear now ran back at Mr. Perker, and rearing up against the tree, tried to reach him. Mr. Perker again spread his legs wide apart, and drew himself up as far as he could. The bear cautiously raised himself a little higher and managed to give one of Mr. Perker’s swaying legs a scratch that drew from him a yell of pain and fear. Then Smart rushed in and hung upon the bear’s flank, and the bear and Smart dropped upon Mr. Perker’s wheel. The bear got one foot through the spokes, and he and Smart went wildly cavorting about with the wheel, till Mr. Perker’s anguish of mind and failure of muscle let him drop with a yell upon them, knocking the bear down. He did not, however, hold the bear down. On the contrary, he executed a prompt strategic movement, and did not stop rolling over until he brought up twenty feet away. Smart followed him, with that devotion for which he is noted, and the bear followed Smart, until snubbed again by the rope.

At this moment, when Mr. Perker most needed repose, his nerves were startled by the crack of a rifle. The ball sang over his head and pierced that of the bear, who immediately turned slowly around twice, and then sank down in a heap, quivering and kicking, whereupon Smart, with renewed courage, ran in and tugged terribly at one of his ears. As soon as Mr. Perker could comprehend what had happened, he was grateful. He thought the voice of the man who ran forward and asked: “Are you hurt?” was the most welcome sound he had ever heard. He replied that he was “only just a little out of breath.” This reply, wasn’t strictly accurate. A sorrier looking object than Mr. Perker has rarely been seen on Sunday.

The man kicked Smart off the bear’s ear, and then said, looking curiously at the disconsolate Mr. Perker:

“Why! Mr. Perker! how are you?”

Perker limply took his hand, looked at him, and answered:

“Hello! Smith!”

Then he shook Smith’s hand heartily, for Smith was the identical man he was going to see. With Smith was the boy to whom Mr. Perker was taking the lasso. The boy had stood gazing in open-mouthed wonder at the lassoed bear, at Perker, and at Smart, with which sagacious beast he had already struck up a treaty of amity and mutual admiration.

Smith noticed the rope and drew it from the neck of the dead bear.

“Was a tame critter, eh?” he asked.

Perker answered with unnecessary heat: “Tame! not by a blamed sight!”

“You wasn’t trying to lead a wild bear into town with a rope, was you?” asked Smith, grinning.

“That’s what I started to do,” said Perker, seeing that honest confession was best, “but he came near leading me into his camp.”

Then Perker told the whole story, and Smith sat down and laughed till exhausted. Finally he slapped Perker on the shoulder and said, with vast soberness:

“Well, Perker, you’re the pluckiest chap I ever met! You couldn’t have hired any man about here to undertake that job for ten dollars an hour!”

And he laughed again and fell to skinning the bear, chuckling. Then the boy wanted to know what he was going to do with the rope. This reminded Perker and he gave it to him. Never was a boy so thoroughly delighted. He had a lasso that had actually lassoed and held a wild bear, and a big one at that!

Perker found his idolized wheel in a sad state. Its rim was badly buckled, and half a dozen spokes were bent, but after some straightening and tightening, with Smith’s aid, except for a wet saddle, rapidly drying, the wheel was as good as ever.

Mr. Smith proposed to cure the skin and send it to Mr. Perker, taking his city address for that purpose. This pleased Perker immensely; and they parted with mutual satisfaction.

When Mr. Perker reached the city, he limped home, and Mrs. Effie, while she tended his hurts, remarked: “Theophilus, you’re too big a fool to be trusted to go alone into the woods! And the sooner you get rid of that fool of a dog the longer you’ll be likely to dodge the Foolkiller!”

Mr. Perker did not report this observation to the Club, but Mrs. Perker’s kitchen-girl reported it to Mrs. Littleweed’s cook, and a course of pumping, by the Club wits, extracted the other facts from Mr. Perker.

This is the reason the members, when Mr. Perker proudly exhibits the bear-skin, sometimes speak of “Mr. Perker’s bear,” and sometimes of “Mr. Bear’s Perker.”

FAST ICE-YACHTS.

HOW THEY ARE BUILT, RIGGED AND HANDLED.

BY CHARLES LEDYARD NORTON.

On a rocky promontory of the Hudson River, a few miles above Poughkeepsie, there stands, half hidden by the foliage in the summer, a long, low, neatly painted structure instantly suggestive to the nautically inclined of boats and their belongings.

But there is an unaccountable lack of the familiar characteristics of such localities. Even in midsummer there are few, if any, boats anchored in the cove, or hauled up on the shelving rock that serves in lieu of a beach. Through the open doors of the boat-house one may, perhaps, see certain varnishing and rigging operations under way. There are bundles of sails, coils of rope, rows of blocks, and long, curiously curved spars resting upon racks--long enough they are to serve as topgallant-yards for an old-fashioned man-of-war, but no ordinary sailorman would see any use for them with their nautically impossible curves and angles, and their unfamiliar and unshipshape attachments of galvanized iron.

This boat-house, however, is the headquarters of a yacht club that stands easily at the head of its class in all the world; but its fleet of racers is dismantled and laid aside in summers when other yachts are in the height of their glory. This fleet goes into commission only when the floating fields of new ice are fast welded together, and the river surface is solid from the Highlands to the Mohawk.

The Hudson River is by no means the only club, though it may not unfairly be designated as the leading one. At the neighboring towns of Poughkeepsie, New Hamburg and Newburg, and up stream at Hudson, Athens, Saugerties, Albany, and elsewhere, are other associations, with fleets of yachts always eager to try conclusions with their down-stream rivals. Poughkeepsie, and its immediate vicinity, however, has always been, and is likely to remain, the headquarters for ice-yachting.

This is due to several favorable conditions, natural as well as artificial. The river narrows and becomes tortuous at the Highlands--about forty miles from the sea--and this natural obstacle largely determines the permanency of ice in the river above. In a large stream the ice rarely forms across from shore to shore in a single night. It freezes in bands and patches, which become detached from the shore and float up and down with the tide until they become jammed and frozen together. North of the Highlands, too, the average winter temperature is considerably lower than it is to the southward, and sharp frosts come earlier and stay later. The beautiful and picturesque banks, moreover, have since early colonial times proved attractive to lovers of the country, and the riverside is for many miles almost continuously occupied by residents who have abundant means and leisure for such recreations as suit them best. Again, the great harvest field of the Hudson River ice-crop finds here its southernmost limit. At this point in the stream the admixture of sea-water renders the ice more or less unmarketable, and the ice-yachtsmen are therefore not so likely to be interfered with by the armies of men who are set to work by the great companies as soon as the ice is thick enough to pay for cutting and storage.

It is proverbial that no sooner is a good surface formed for ice-yachting than it is hopelessly buried under a shroud of snow; but here again nature comes to the rescue, for the latitude is far enough south to render alternations of frost and thaw probable all through the winter. Accordingly the white surface soon becomes streaked with gray, and ere long the yachtsman looks out of a morning and sees his highway once more practicable for steel runners.

This year engineering science has arrayed itself on the side of the yachtsman, and has built two huge piers in the river at Poughkeepsie. Primarily these are intended for the new cantilever railroad bridge, but incidentally they are welcomed by the winter-sailing clubs, because they will undoubtedly keep the ice in the river longer than it has heretofore been in the habit of staying. This is highly important in their eyes, for not infrequently there are cold “spells” in March which render the ice available for good sport, provided it could be held in position long enough to be temporarily re-frozen and prevented from floating away down stream on the ebb tide.

Despite all these favorable conditions, however, the goddess who presides over the destinies of ice-yachting is but a coy and fickle divinity. Sometimes she vouchsafes to her devotees not more than a day or two of sailing in an entire winter. Often she limits her favors to ten or fifteen days, and only at rare intervals does she smile upon them for thirty days, all told. The ice-yachtsman may, therefore, plume himself upon being the most select and exclusive of all sportsmen. He cannot, if he would, spend very much time en voyage, so he makes up for it as well as he may by contriving and perfecting all the details of his craft during her hours of enforced idleness. The result is that he has evolved a fabric that is a marvel of construction, adapted for lightness and strength in a wonderful degree.

Many of our readers have never seen an ice-yacht, but probably most of them have seen and made a common diamond-shaped kite--the simplest and easiest form of kite known to ingenious boyhood. This frame is in its general principles of construction identical with that of the modern ice-yacht, as shown in the working plans published herewith. The cross-piece corresponds with the runner-plank, the upright represents the center-timber, and the cord that passes around the whole is identical with the side-stays. (See Fig. 1.)

It is only necessary to set up a mast at or near the intersection, rig sails upon it, attach some kind of runners to the ends of the runner-plank and to the long or aftermost end of the center-timber, and you will have a very passable model, constructionally speaking, of the modern ice-yacht. Magnify it a hundred-fold, substitute wire-rope with turn-buckles for the side-stays, fit the timber ends with cast-metal caps, bolt everything together with cunningly contrived fittings, mount her upon a set of hardened iron runners, equip her with a “tailor-made” suit of sails, launch her on reasonably smooth ice, and, given a twenty-mile breeze, she will carry you forty miles, or maybe sixty miles, an hour, if you know how to make her do her best.

It may be remarked in passing that very pretty sport may be had with model ice-yachts, constructed somewhat after the manner indicated. Pieces of tin or sheet-iron will do for runners and steering-gear at a pinch, and if the sails are moderate in area and the center-timber tolerably long, so that ballast can be suitably adjusted, she will go like a witch and skim over a mere veneering of ice to the admiration of all beholders. There are always several days at the beginning of winter before the ice is available for skating, when model ice-yachts might be made to do duty instead of the sticks and stones with which impatient boyhood usually disports itself, thereby ruining the ice for the legitimate pastimes of colder weather.

In the regions where the ice rarely becomes thick enough for satisfactory skating, these little ice-yachts may easily afford a deal of not altogether unprofitable amusement. Model yachts have not as yet gained much of a foothold in the nonfreezing United States, but in England, where there are prosperous clubs almost everywhere, even in Hyde Park, in the heart of London, the conditions are very favorable. Sails and rigging are all ready and need only to be mounted upon a suitable frame with runners, steering gear and adjustable ballast. The average Englishman may probably regard this suggestion as unwarrantable, because ice-yachting is wholly beyond his range of experience, but if once he tries it he will find that it opens up possibilities of seamanship not dreamed of heretofore, and he will cover the frozen Serpentine with miniature fleets that will rival in beauty and vastly excel in speed those that dance over its ripples during the summer months.

In its main features the Hudson River ice-yacht now closely approaches perfection. Improvements will, of course, be made from time to time in the minor details of rig, and occasionally some phenomenally fast boat will be built, the secret of her speed remaining perhaps, in some degree, unexplained.

A few years ago the lateen rig was simultaneously adopted by the Hudson River and Shrewsbury (N. J.) clubs, and for a time it bade fair to supersede the jib and mainsail boats that had long held the championship pennant. Several very large lateen-rigged yachts were constructed, notably the Scud of the Shrewsbury, and the Avalanche of the Hudson River Club. Experience has shown, however, that craft of that size and rig are phenomenally fast only when the wind rises to No. 70 of Beaufort’s scale, that is to say, something nearly approaching a full-grown hurricane. With such a wind the big lateens are undoubtedly very fast, but the rarity of such conditions leaves them in the lurch on ordinary racing days, and it is by no means certain that even in a hurricane they are sure to win when pitted against a jib and mainsail. At all events, some of the large lateens have been altered to the sloop rig, and their owners are not disposed to try back.

On small or moderate sized yachts, however, the lateen is an admirable rig, and in average racing weather such boats not infrequently distance their larger competitors. In this connection it may be well to compare the respective weights of the two rigs as taken by Mr. John A. Roosevelt, Commodore of the Hudson River Club.

Comparative weights of the Icicle (sloop) and Avalanche (lateen):

Icicle. Avalanche.

Center-timber and box, lbs. 776½ lbs. 768½ Runner-plank and strap, 565 520 Mast, 250 361 Runners, 150 186½ Boom and two blocks, 146½ 451½ Rigging, 125 -- Blocks, -- 93 Rudder-post and tiller, 91 81½ Gaff, 47½ -- Yard, -- 198 Jib-boom and two blocks, 47 -- Blocks, -- 18½ Blocks and halyards, 62 50 Sails, 172 206 --------- --------- lbs. 2,432½ lbs. 3,007¾

It is seen, therefore, that the lateen outscales her rival by about 575 lbs., the two boats being nearly the same size. Theoretically, the Avalanche having only a single sail--and that capable of being set almost as tight and flat as a drumhead--should out-point and out-foot anything of her size, but practically the extra weight hinders more than the better fitting canvas helps her.

The “cat-rig,” too, has been tried, but without the good results anticipated, and a sharpie rig has, it is said, done fairly well with a small boat on the Shrewsbury.

It may be confidently stated that the sloop rig is the safest to count upon for allround work, particularly in the largest-sized boats. In boats of the second and third class the lateen may be used with a chance, not altogether assured, of superlatively good results.

It is not likely that ice-yachts will ever be built larger than the present, the Avalanche, Icicle, Northern Light, Scud, and their class, i. e., about fifty feet long, and spreading something like 600 square feet of canvas. To sustain such a boat requires comparatively heavy ice; to drive her at a high rate of speed calls for a living gale of wind, and to tow her home when becalmed, or collect her scattered fragments should she chance to be shipwrecked, is a work demanding a large store of patience and endurance. In average blustering wintry weather, with a wind not to exceed, say, twenty-five miles an hour, boats of the second class stand a very fair chance of beating those of a larger spread and heavier weight.

The art of sailing an ice-yacht is sui generis. It is, indeed, of comparatively modern origin. A generation ago sheets were started on an ice-yacht when running free, much as they are in an ordinary sailing-boat, and the singular properties of the close-hauled sail were not understood. The modern ice-yachtsman never slacks away his sheet except, perhaps, when he wants to turn a stake with certainty, or when the ice softens. Given a hard surface and a stiff breeze, he will outrun the wind in any direction.

One who hears this paradox stated for the first time may be pardoned for incredulity, nor is it easy in all cases to make clear the possibility of such a feat. A very large majority of intelligent people when confronted with the proposition, simply say that it is impossible and absurd, and are hardly convinced when they actually see an ice-yacht running straight down the wind, with her pennant streaming out astern. To yachtsmen. it had been known for several years that a comparatively light wind would send ice-yachts ahead of the fast express trains on the Hudson River Railroad. After a time the mathematical experts heard of it, and they said it could not be so; they took their little slates and proved their position to the satisfaction of all properly constituted scientific minds. But this did not prevent the yachtsmen from sailing faster and faster, and presently other mathematicians rose up and demonstrated the contrary of the proposition, thereby showing, for the ten-thousandth time, that all save the truth can be proven by figures.

The fundamental principle of sailing an ice-yacht faster than the wind may be readily demonstrated by means of a very simple mechanical device.

Let A, E, B, F be an open frame, A-B a wire stretched diagonally from corner to corner, and G a ring running upon the wire. C-D, another wire, reaches from end to end of the frame, passing also through the ring G at the intersection of the wires. This second wire (C-D) is movable back and forth between A-F and E-B, and parallel to them. It is evident that when C-D is moved the ring G will slide along both wires, and that while C-D is passing from A-F to E-B, G will slide from A to B--twice as far, that is, as the distance traversed by C-D, the moving agent.

Now, suppose G to be an ice-yacht; let the movement of C-D across the frame represent the direction and velocity of the wind and the diagonal A-B the distance to be traversed. The ice-yacht G moves twice as far, that is to say, twice as fast as does C-D (the wind) that drives it. Such is, perhaps, as plain a statement of the conditions as can be devised. In practice the elements become more complicated. Let Fig. 3 represent a section of frozen river, with the wind blowing across it in the direction indicated by the arrows. Applying the principle shown in Fig. 2, an ice-yacht may run from A to B while the wind is moving across the river from A-F to E-B. It is not the purpose of this paper to go into the logistics of sailing in general, but any one who can sail a boat will see at a glance, that with the wind as shown in Fig. 3, an ordinary boat would sail nearly or quite as fast from C to D, or from E to F, as she would from A to B. The same rules apply, of course, to an ice-yacht, but with this important difference, while an ordinary sailing-boat meets with increasing resistance from the water the faster she goes through it, an ice-yacht meets less and less frictional resistance from the ice the faster she goes over it. Again, if she is pointing more or less toward the wind (as on a line from E to F), she increases the apparent force of the wind by her own motion. The only considerable resistance is that offered by spars, rigging, etc., in passing through the air, and this is trifling when compared with her large sail area, and the propulsive energy of even a moderate breeze.

In sailing an ice-yacht there is none of the vexatious handling of ropes unavoidable in an ordinary sailing-boat. The sheets usually take care of themselves in going about, and the steersman has only to move his tiller a little to starboard or port to secure instant obedience and an eagle-like swoop of the yacht in the desired direction. In high winds, however, the yacht is apt to lift her weather runner clear of the ice, upon which she at once becomes unmanageable and must be brought down to her bearings as soon as possible. If properly balanced she should shortly do this of her own accord, but during the few seconds when she has the bit between her teeth she may do untold mischief.

The astonishing rapidity with which an ice-yacht under control may be handled was well instanced last winter in an encounter between the Polaris and Arrow, as indicated in the diagram, Fig. 4. The Polaris was running dead before the wind, heading to pass a space of open water where ice-cutters were at work, when her steersman became aware of the Arrow approaching on his starboard hand at a fearful rate of speed, but with her weather runner in the air, and evidently with the bit between her teeth. A collision was imminent, for the Polaris could not bear away in either direction; on one side was open water and on the other was the Arrow, too near to be passed astern. Under the circumstances it was instinct rather than a process of reasoning that led Commodore Roosevelt to jam his helm hard a-starboard and send the Polaris spinning on her center, making a complete revolution almost within her own length (see Fig. 4). She did it, and was on her former course again almost before any one knew what had happened, her jib-boom barely clearing the after leach of the Arrow’s mainsail as she passed astern of her. Such a gyration as this is justifiable only in extreme cases, for of course everything is subjected to a sudden and tremendous strain, and if nothing gives way it speaks well for the perfection of equipment.

Sometimes an ice-yacht will perform this maneuver on her own responsibility and without an instant’s warning, and this is especially true of the smaller class of lateen-rigged boats. With them, however, damage is less likely to result, as the strains are proportionately less severe.

Sailing on the wind is a comparatively simple matter, though, of course, where a number of boats are breaking tacks, as in a thrash to windward on a regatta day, a quick eye and a steady hand are indispensable if collisions are to be avoided and the most made of every turn.

Running down the wind, however, calls for the more skillful seamanship, and involves a closer calculation of chances. Not many years ago, when a fleet of ice-yachts sailed down the wind, it was a straight run with lifted sheets, but after a while some bright fellow discovered that by putting his boat on the wind at her very best point for speed, she would in a few seconds attain a maximum velocity. Then, bearing away, she would run sometimes for several minutes through the wind, her pennant flying out astern, and she sliding past her free-sailing competitors at an astonishing rate.

Fig. 5 roughly shows the comparative courses of two ice-yachts, A running dead to leeward and B tacking after the method described. The proportions between the tacks across the wind and the runs through it cannot be preserved on so small a map; but it is evident that B traverses a far longer course. That she invariably beats A, other things being equal, is the unanimous testimony of all practical ice sailors. In other words, if a balloon could be persuaded to drift down the wind at a convenient height above the ice, B could let it have a fair start, and could, if properly handled, sail completely around it in a run of two or three miles.

This “proper handling,” however, is not so simple as it seems. It involves an intimate knowledge of and sympathy with one’s boat. Her best point of sailing varies with every variation in the force of the wind, and her skipper should know by instinct exactly when she is doing her very best under existing conditions. She must not be forced so that she will lift her weather runner clear of the ice, for the moment that runner lifts the grip of the lee runner weakens, and the yacht is in danger of making leeway. She must not be turned too sharply, for the rudder checks her headway, and so does the lateral resistance that she encounters while changing directions. A knowledge of the course is of vital importance. Instead of the currents and tide-rips of summer, the winter yachtsman must be familiar with the “windrows,” air-holes, cracks, ice-imbedded drift-wood, and the like, that beset his course. After every storm these are liable to change and new obstructions from similar causes likely to appear. Hence every tack must be calculated to a nicety, so that the next change of direction can be made to the best advantage.

When running for the stake it is important to gauge headway so that the turn can be made without being carried too far beyond the mark; and here again a personal knowledge of the boat and her whims is indispensable for nice seamanship. In the excitement of the moment one may readily lose control, and it is said to be a good plan to slack away the peak halyards a trifle just before rounding. This enables the rudder to act with certainty, and as soon as the turn has been made the halyards can be again hauled taut. This operation necessitates the best modern appliances in the way of hoisting-tackle, for the halyards all lead aft to the “box,” and one man should be able to slack away or haul taut with one hand. Then, of course, there are all the devices known to sailing experts intensified a hundred-fold by the altered conditions.

An absolutely even start can always be had since the contestants can be held at anchor till the signal is given, though, of course, the windward position gives an advantage. Once under way seamanship and knowledge of the course begin to tell, and bold maneuvering may quite as often win a race as in the slower evolutions of regular sailing craft. The swiftness with which any plan can be executed renders the game extremely exciting. One sees an opponent making a short and seemingly unnecessary tack. The natural results must be comprehended instantly or, peradventure, one may find one’s self presently forced to yield the right of way when every second is of the last importance. It is jockeying, perhaps, but when one knows that by crowding a dangerous rival a trifle he will be forced to tack a mile farther on by an insurmountable windrow, one were more than mortal to resist the temptation. It calls for quick thinking and equally quick action to sail an ice-yacht successfully and well in a modern regatta; but the excitement is of the wildest description, and all the accessories are fascinating in the extreme to one who has robust health and does not care a rap for exposure in a northern midwinter.

Our frontispiece is from an instantaneous photograph which caught the Northern Light (holder at the time of the Challenge Pennant) just as she was rounding the home stake, off Poughkeepsie, on Valentine’s Day, 1887. She was probably moving at the rate of twenty miles an hour when the picture was taken. The sleet thrown up by her lee runner can be seen flying off astern. Her weather runner was, in fact, just clear of the ice at the moment, though so slightly as to be imperceptible in the picture. This is probably the best photograph of a moving ice-yacht that has ever been taken.

Every year sees improvements in fittings and rig. The “Haggarty hoist” is now used on the mainsails of the best boats instead of the ordinary mast-hoops. This hoist consists of a series of metal clamps attached to the luff of the sail and engaging a wooden cleat shaped like a T-rail and fastened vertically to the after-side of the mast.

To secure a better “set” the luff of the sail is no longer doubled over on itself, but instead, a canvas binding is sewed on. This gives three thicknesses of canvas instead of five thicknesses, as was often the case under the old system, and, consequently, the sail stretches along the mast, where the greatest hoisting strain falls, and where any inequality is most readily taken up without causing wrinkles elsewhere. The elliptical box, with its comfortable cushions and its central hand-rail for the passengers to grasp in case of need, is suggestive of luxury but in itself it is largely delusive, for no position is less endurable than a half-reclining one with the head raised, as was formerly unavoidable. To render the sitting position possible the iron tiller is now given an upward curve, so that the steersman can sit with his legs across the center-timber, the tiller swinging freely above his knees. This posture, however, necessitates some sort of a backboard, and the best appears to be an upholstered iron frame, as shown in Fig. 6.

The flat extensions, A A, pass under the cushion, and a firm back and brace is thus supplied. Another device is to make the central portion of the side of the box higher than the rest, with a narrow cushion to fit, effecting the same end. This matter of cushions is not mere luxury. The rapid passage of the runners over any save the very smoothest of ice produces a jarring motion that speedily becomes unendurable wherever the person rests against a hard or angular surface. In previous articles it has been suggested that stout chair-seats, with arms and back, might be adjusted to the center-timber in connection with a foot steering-gear, similar to those used in canoes. Such seats could be fastened anywhere on the center-timber by means of thumb-screws, thus moving the weight forward or aft according to the special conditions of wind or weather.

The season for ice-yachting in the latitude of New York rarely begins before January and often holds off until February. The daily morning papers always mention the condition of the ice on the preceding day, and by taking an early morning train one may easily reach the sailing-ground by noon or shortly after. The weather, in New York is no criterion of that north of the Highlands. It is often raining on the coast when the sky is clear and the weather fine in the interior. When, therefore, good ice is announced by the papers, the correct thing to do is to take the next train to Poughkeepsie, irrespective of weather. You may be disappointed, for wind and temperature are proverbially fickle; but if you have reasonably good luck you may see the finest ice-yachts in the world, and learn by personal observation how they are managed.

THE LAKE CHAMPLAIN YACHT CLUB.

FREDERIC G. MATHER.

“This is a great day for Lake Champlain,” said a rustic who had been discussing with his fellow the difference between a cat-boat and a sloop. “I may not know the difference, but there’s plenty about here who do--and I say, ‘Hurrah for old Champlain! anyhow.’”

The rustic, like many others who are right, spoke better than he knew. It was a mild morning in September last. Rain had fallen all through the neighborhood, and more was to come according to that never failing test--the low-hung clouds which still covered the eastern slopes of the Adirondacks and refused to lift even when an occasional ray of sunshine gave them every chance. From the opposite shore of New York the early morning hours were watched with intense interest. The alternate layers of mist and mountain showed also stretches of lake, and the larger objects in Burlington appeared through the rifts--the whole making nature’s mise en scène for what was to come.

And, indeed, it was a great day. The Lake Champlain Yacht Club was organized May 16, 1887, with a constitution, by-laws and sailing regulations patterned closely after those of the New York Yacht Club. Its rules for sailing were no stricter than its rules for uniforms. In a word, at the time of the regatta everything that experience and enterprise could suggest had been in preparation for sixteen months under the guidance of such gentlemen as W. Boerum Wetmore, commodore; W. A. Crombie, vice-commodore; J. Gregory Smith, president; W. S. Webb, first vice-president; Henry Ballard, second vice-president; Joseph Auld, secretary, and Horatio Hickok, treasurer. An executive committee of thirty included not only the above but also such names as H. J. Brookes, H. Le Grand Cannon, H. H. Noble, Jacob G. Sanders, J. A. Averill, A. C. Tuttle, W. H. H. Murray and Alvaro Adsit--all of them well-known sailors upon fresh water; while the total membership of two hundred took in navigators as far to the southward as Albany and New York. In fact, it will be noticed that many of the names are those of New Yorkers who spend the summer months along the shores of Champlain, and one enthusiastic member, Robert W. Rogers, comes all the way from New Orleans. Among the members who have not, according to popular belief, made any aquatic record is G. F. Edmunds, the U. S. Senator from the State of Vermont.

Thus all that hard work, good discipline and natty uniforms could do had been done. The day was a great one because it would bring what had been attempted to a practical test. The lake is about one hundred miles long with a breadth varying from half a mile at the southern end to twenty miles (including islands) at the northern end, so that the greatest stretch of clear water from east to west is ten miles, and the longest unobstructed sweep lengthwise is forty miles. There is no perceptible current, although the drainage is northward into the valley of the St. Lawrence. The prevailing winds are from the south, with occasional winds from the north and, near the shores, frequent puffs that come down through the notches in the Green Mountains on one side and the Adirondack Mountains on the other. Given, then, such a lake not so steady for sailing purposes as Long Island Sound, the chain of the Great Lakes, or even the inland lakes of Chautauqua, Seneca and Cayuga with their low-crowned banks, and yet less treacherous than smaller mountain lakes, like George and Memphremagog--to find the craft that will sail it best with speed and safety. This was the problem that had been discussed and solved and solved over again for months, and which had now come to the point where all theories must show their value or cease to be entertained.

Yachting on Lake Champlain was a plant of slow growth. It was hardly an exotic, because some kind of craft had been known there for 250 years. The xebecs of the early French gave way to the sloops and schooners of the English; and the latter, in the decline of commerce, have been followed by the “long-lakers,” and the Canadian square-sail galleys of to-day. Sail boats of uncertain age, and still more uncertain origin, have flitted about the lake for generations; but nothing was ever evolved from them that met the requirements of the modern yacht. It was reserved for the Rev. W. H. H. Murray to bring thither some of the ideas that he had gathered among the oystermen along the coast of Connecticut and to adapt them to a fresh-water lake. Everyone credits Mr. Murray, better known as “Adirondack,” with calling attention to the broad expanse of lake opposite Burlington that had not been used as it might be by sails and hulls of modern cut; and everybody agrees that the present yacht club is the outcome of his earlier efforts, although, in many respects, it has outgrown what he developed and contended for at the first. So Mr. Murray shall have the credit in these pages.

It had occurred to Mr. Murray that the type of oyster-boat known on Long Island Sound as the “sharpie,” would fill all the conditions on Champlain noted above. The sharpie was the successor of the old V-shaped punts, or “flat-iron” scows, that brought the earlier oysters to market. When the demand for more bivalves led to the transplanting of Southern oysters to Long Island Sound, the larger boat, the sharpie, was produced, as the one which would combine cheapness, light draught, broad bottom, ready handling with the sail or oar, sea-worthiness, and fair sailing qualities.

So Mr. Murray constructed the White Wings in Connecticut, and brought it to Burlington to show his faith in his new theory. We may quote liberally from his description of a sharpie adapted for use on Lake Champlain. The length over-all is 50 feet; depth, 4 feet amidships; extreme width of deck, 12 feet; length of center-board, 16 feet; width, 5 feet; distance between masts, 30 feet; sail-area, 200 to 300 yards; length of foremast, 50 feet; length of mainmast, 47 feet. The sails are laced to small booms, or the sprit can be used. The sails can be of strictly “leg-o’-mutton” shape or “clubbed” in form, which is desirable when a large spread of canvas is demanded, because it allows a large sail area, and, at the same time, keeps the major section of the sail low down, where the wind-pressure should be located. These boats are decked and staved in hard woods--oak, cherry, birch or Southern pine. White pine is of course allowed, but it is soft and liable to be marred by indentations. The sides are of white pine plank, 2 inches in thickness, 8 inches wide, and from 16 to 20 feet in length. Such plank-work is easily shaped, and makes a strong boat. The bottom is of Southern pine, finest quality, 2 inches thick and 6 wide, and the stern-piece of best white oak, with plenty of size to it. Fourteen feet abaft the stem is the front of the cabin, and the length of cabin is adapted to suit service. If for home sailing, it can be twelve feet, divided amidships into two apartments--one for men, the other for women. The front section of each apartment, say 4 × 5, is fitted with a lavatory like a Pullman car; height of cabin, six feet in the clear. This gives an elevation of sides above deck-line of, say, two feet, three sides to be built in two or three panels which can be opened inward in fair weather, and buttoned to cabin roof. The cabin is thus converted, at will, into a charming sitting-room, in which ladies and children can be protected from the sun, and yet enjoy the sight of water and mountains beyond. If the boat is intended for cruising, the cabin can be made longer, say twenty-two feet. This would still leave a large cockpit, and accommodate a party of a dozen with berths and tables for sleeping and eating, whether the weather was fair or foul. The table-leaf can be hinged to the center-board case, so as to hang vertically to it and take up no room when not in use. Berths, on bed frames, made of wicker, 6 × 2 feet, are hinged to the cabin sides, and like the table, hang pendant when not in use. Cook’s galley, immediately ahead of the cabin, is entered by a hatch of large size, say 3 × 4 feet, built to be slid forward in close-fitting grooves, so that in rough weather it would be practically water-tight. The cabin should be of quartered oak or cherry, or any desirable wood. Fifty chairs can be placed in the cabins and cockpit.

Such were the boats of which Mr. Murray wrote: “They are well adapted to meet the wants of amateurs, and will do much to make yachting a popular recreation to a degree never hitherto realized.” The appearance of the White Wings led to the building of other sharpies, and an organization under the name of the Sharpie Yacht Club of Burlington became the nucleus of the present yacht club.

Since Burlington boasts no canoe or rowing clubs, it was Mr. Murray’s idea to combine all the boating interests as a part of a general scheme which should take charge of all kinds of sports and pastimes natural to such a magnificent body of inland water, and yet the boating section of the club was to be devoted to sharpies--the model to which Mr. Murray still pins his faith. As the club grew it showed decided tendencies toward a regular yacht club. This carried with it the erection of a $5,000 club-house on one of the best wharves in the harbor at a point about which all the boating tendencies of the lake might rally, the expenses of membership being only $10 yearly with no financial responsibility beyond this figure.

As an illustration of the very effective and concise way of doing things, it will be of interest to repeat a statement that was posted upon the bulletin board: “The regatta committee will announce before each race in which direction the course shall be sailed, which will depend upon the wind. If the course is first to the north from the club-house, all yachts will pass to the right of all rounding marks, leaving them on their port sides. In case an overlap exists between two yachts when both of them, without tacking, are about to pass a mark on the required side, then the outside yacht must give the inside yacht room to pass clear of the mark. A yacht shall not, however, be justified in attempting to establish an overlap and thus force a passage between another yacht and the mark after the latter yacht has altered her helm for the purpose of rounding. When a yacht is in danger of running aground, or of touching a pier, rock or other obstruction, and cannot go clear by altering her course without fouling another yacht, then this latter shall on being hailed by the former, at once give room, and in case one yacht is forced to tack or to bear away in order to give room, the other shall also tack or bear away, as the case may be, at as near the same time as is possible without danger of fouling.”

The regatta should have taken place on the first Tuesday in August, and that will be the date hereafter; but last year it was postponed till September 21, in the hope that certain new boats might be finished and enter the races. The Nautilus, the most eagerly expected of all, failed to appear. We will make note of her later on.

It was required in every instance that there should be three starters or no race. The club course of about 8-5/16 miles commenced on a line inside the breakwater and at right angles to the club-house, round the south end of the breakwater, south of Rock Dunder, south of Juniper Ledge buoy, west end of Juniper Island, north end of breakwater to starting line. This was the course for the first class sailing yachts (33 feet and upward), the time not to exceed 2¾ hours. The first prize was $60, and the second $20.

There had been a brush, a few days before, for the championship pennant. The Flyaway, a sloop built by Lawler, of Boston, for Dr. W. S. Webb. had covered the course in 1h. 30m. 42s. Next came the Ripple, a sloop built and owned by Adsit and Bigelow, in 1h. 32m. 50s.; and last came the sharpie, White Wings, built under Murray’s eye, and owned by C. B. Gray, her time being 1h. 48m. 30s. The same boats started in the first class race, except that the sharpie, Burlington, owned by Joseph Auld and others, having less freeboard and an improved stern, took the place of the White Wings. Time allowance was waived by the Ripple and the Burlington. The Ripple came over the line first and held the lead till, on rounding Juniper Island, she was passed by the Flyaway. Then came a very close contest, the Ripple afterward claiming she would have won if she had had the time allowance. The elapsed time was: Flyaway, 1h. 45m. 3s.; Ripple, 1h. 46m. 33s. The Burlington was becalmed and withdrew.

By this time a drizzling rain had set in; but the yachtsmen and their friends had had enough taste of the sport to want more. The second class race was for sailing yachts measuring between 20 and 33 feet. The prizes were $45 and $15. The course was the club course, omitting the turning of Juniper Ledge buoy--distance, 7⅓ miles, to be covered in 2¾ hours. There were five starters, and the prospects were for the best race of the day. But the rain beat down the wind; the race became a drifting match, and was postponed till the next day. The starters were: the White Wings, sharpie; the Agnes T., a sloop owned by T. A. Taft; the Princess, a sloop owned by R. W. Rogers; the Puritan, a sloop owned by W. C. Witherbee, and the Eagle, a schooner-rigged keel-boat owned by W. S. Hopkins. The same yachts were allowed to sail in the postponed race on the following day, but only the Agnes T. appeared. She sailed over the course in 1h. 14m. 25s. Two entries of the day before were barred out because they did not start at that time.

There was still more rain and still less wind when the third class yachts (under 20 feet) were called. The course was 5-13/16 miles, starting around the north end of the breakwater, thence about Rock Dunder, and homeward around the south end of the breakwater. Two hours was the time limit; and the prizes were $30 and $10. The only starter was the sloop Goat, owned by W. C. Witherbee--and so the race was declared off.

But no amount of rain or lack of wind could keep back the steam and naphtha launches of under 50 feet from racing for the $100 cup offered by Commodore Wetmore. The course was around the north end of the breakwater, north of Appletree buoy, south of Proctor’s shoal buoy and around the south end of the breakwater, a distance of 7 1-5 miles. The time limit was 1½ hours. Four of the starters finished the race; the fifth, the Idlewild, owned by Averill & Kellogg, having passed the first buoy only. The starters, together with their owners and elapsed time, were these: the Nymph, Dr. W. S. Webb, 41m. 55s.; the Cecil, Myers & Clough, 49m. 33s.; the Adonis, J. B. Tressidder, 52m. 14½s.; the Comus, R. W. Rogers, 58m. 17s. It was evident from the start that the Nymph would win--but there was a very exciting contest for second place, the Cecil finally leading the Adonis. In figuring the result the Isherwood rule was used, because the lengths of all the boats were less than 50 feet. If they had been more than 50 feet, the Emory rules of the American yacht club would have held. The Isherwood rules provide that the speed in knots per hour is divided by the cube root of the length on the waterline of the yachts respectively, and the quotients represent, relatively, the merits of the different yachts. Based on this rule, the ratios were: Nymph, 1.13; Cecil, 0.97; Adonis, 0.91.

The Nymph is 46 feet long, 8 feet beam, and 3 feet draught. She divides with the Dolphin, owned by Commodore Wetmore, the honor of being the fastest steam launch on the lake. The Dolphin is 42 feet long, with the same beam and draught as the Nymph. On October 15 there was a test of speed between the two for the champion pennant of the lake. The Nymph won by 11½s. over a 7-mile course, there being no time allowance. On November 1 another race over a course of 6½ miles was won by the Dolphin by 32½s. We may look for good time from both the Dolphin and the Nymph in the steam race of 1889.

The greatest race of all came off upon Saturday, September 22, the second and final day of the regatta. This was for the $500 cup made by Tiffany, and presented by the ladies of Burlington. It is an elaborately-made punch-bowl, with a fine engraving, on the outside, of the harbor of Burlington. According to the rules of the club, “the Ladies’ Cup” shall be a perpetual challenge, and shall be sailed for each year by the yachts belonging to the members of the club at their annual regatta. The course shall be about ten miles, and the sailing allowances, etc., shall be governed by such rules of the club, as from time to time may obtain. The course, etc., may be changed from time to time by the regatta committee as the exigencies of the club may require. They, or their successors in office, are made custodians of the cup for the club, and shall award the same each year to the successful yacht; which yacht shall have its name and the date of the regatta engraved on the cup by the committee, and shall hold it until the next annual regatta, giving bonds to the committee in the sum of $600 for the safe keeping of the same. Any damage or loss to the cup while in the possession of a yacht shall be appraised and deducted by the committee from the bond on the return of the cup, which shall be one week before the next annual meeting. Owners of yachts failing to return the cup at the time specified, shall sacrifice their bonds and cease to be members of the club. A yacht holding the cup and not competing for its possession, is considered as having competed and lost. In all races, at least three yachts must start or no race, unless a race has been postponed; but should the yacht which is in possession of the cup be a competitor, she may sail the course, without this limit as to the number starting.

The wind being from an unfavorable quarter, the course of 9⅞ miles was reversed. It led from the south end of the breakwater, south of Rock Dunder, south of Juniper Ledge buoy, west of Juniper Island, north of Appletree buoy, and around the north end of the breakwater. Eight yachts entered the lists; the Flyaway, the Agnes T., the Ripple, the White Wings, the Burlington, the Gypsie, Phelps & Son, the Surprise, Joseph Labelle, and the Virginia, Peter Thust, the two latter being Canadians. There was a splendid start, the eight boats all crossing the line within a space of 1m. 14s. They kept well together, and on turning the Ledge buoy they were so closely bunched as to be in each other’s way. Then came more than four miles of beating. The White Wings capsized in trying to house her jib, and the Canadian boats gave up the fight. The Agnes T. had led thus far with a prospect of winning, because she was allowed 2m. 10s.--a figure that would have given her the race over the Flyaway the day before. But her narrow beam kept down the area of her sails, and she dropped out, while the Flyaway spread her gaff-topsail and shot ahead. The Burlington held her port tack well into the broad lake, the Gypsie tacking nearly as long. It was evident the race belonged to the Flyaway or the Agnes T. The latter was 6½m. behind in turning the Appletree buoy. Then the race homeward was commenced. The Flyaway set her jib-topsail, and the Agnes T. set her spinnaker. It was to be a very close thing--for the Flyaway had allowed her rival 2m. 26s., and the Gypsie 9m. 50s. Had not the spinnaker gone overboard, the Agnes T. might have won.

The score stood--

Elapsed Corrected Time. Time. H. M. S. H. M. S. Flyaway 2 03 19 2 03 19 Agnes T. 2 09 10 2 06 44 Gypsie 2 17 20 2 07 30 Burlington 2 16 28 2 22 55

It should be stated that the Burlington was obliged to give an allowance of 6m. 27s. to the winner--thus making her fourth, although she was third in elapsed time. As soon as the Flyaway crossed the line there was a welcome from all the steam-whistles in and about the harbor, such as old Champlain had never heard before.

Now came an incident that showed the esprit de corps of the new yacht club. Many of the older clubs do not venture upon the Corinthian race, wherein every boat must be sailed by its owner, assisted solely by members of the club to which he belongs. Even if the members want a race of this sort, it is only after years of hard work and constant sailing contests, that it will be worth the trouble. But Commodore Wetmore had with him upon the Dolphin--the official boat--Col. W. A. Crombie, vice-commodore; Chester Griswold, fleet captain; Joseph Auld, secretary; Maj. M. B. Adams, U. S. Engineers; Captain Abbott, of the 6th U. S. Cavalry, and one or two civilians, who were also land-lubbers. It was suggested to the commodore that it was of no use to start the Corinthian race because there could be none--the Agnes T. alone offering to sail. But the commodore blew his whistles, the proper flag appeared on the club-house, and the race was started in good form--all except the boats. Then the Commodore delivered himself: “I propose to let everybody know that we go through the forms of starting every race, whether there is anybody to start or not. Next year every boatman and every visitor will know just what to expect. It is better to start our first regatta right and educate everybody up to the proper way to do these things.”

The final whistle was blown and the first annual regatta of the Lake Champlain Yacht Club was over; and over with great credit, thanks more particularly to the energetic Regatta Committee, W. Boerum Wetmore, Chester Griswold and H. Le G. Cannon, of New York, and Elias Lyman and Lieut. A. S. Cummins, of Burlington. Then the sharpies, cutters, sloops and cats sailed away; and if you were “handy there” you must have heard the old refrain taken up and echoed back from the hills!--

“Watch her! catch her! Jump up in a ju-ba-ju; Give her sheet and let her howl, We’re the boys to put her through. Oh! you ought to hear her howling When the wind is blowing free.”

Among the sailing-yachts that did not race, were--the Emily, Rev. C. H. Kimball, of Hartford, Conn.; and the Champlain, J. Armor Knox, of New York. The list would not be complete without a mention of three screw-yachts: the Sappho, owned and sailed by the ever-hospitable Dr. W. S. Webb; the Scionda, which knows every reef and bay of Champlain, under the guidance of the genial commodore, Jacob G. Sanders; and the Alexandria, upon whose decks and within whose cabins Mr. Alexander Macdonald, of St. Johns, dispensed true Canadian hospitality, and added much to the social features of the regatta by the presence of his guests, Mayor Macdonald, U. S. Consul Bertrand, and Mr. Charles Aspin, of St. Johns, and Judge Davidson, Col. and Mrs. Bond, Miss Bond, Miss Wood, and Miss Grant, of Montreal.

It is hoped, and rather expected, that another year we may see a race for steam yachts. The Sappho is 104 feet long, 15 feet beam and 7 feet 6 inches in draught. The Scionda is 98 feet long, 17 feet beam and 6 feet in draught. The Alexandria is about 85 feet long, with a beam and draught nearly the same as the Scionda. She is built not so much for speed as for porpoise and other fishing off the coast of Newfoundland, and all of her arrangements and appliances are of the most complete and compact kind. An engine, from Providence, R. I., gives the motive-power.

The new yacht club starts with all the advantages that the experience of the older clubs can offer. It is really the pioneer of strict yachting on the inland waters of the United States. Even on salt water the history of yachting commences with the New York Yacht Club less than fifty years ago; and all the developments of the present day date from within the past twenty years. The pioneer of clubs in New England, the Boston, was not formed till 1865. The South Boston was formed in 1868; and the Bunker Hill and the Portland in 1869. At the latter date there were only fifteen clubs in the United States--all of them on salt water. So the new club enters the lists not much behind the others in age, and with every inducement and opportunity to avoid their mistakes, and to profit by their success. In these days of steam-power the yachtsmen are the only ones left to keep alive the tone and vigor of the old-time seamanship which was the theme of song and story. And when the American navy finds its reserve--as it surely will--in the well-trained yachtsmen of the day, then the Champlain Club will offer aid that is worth having upon a lake that saw the transit of arms for more than 200 years.

But the Lake Champlain Yacht Club is thus early in the process of changing from its original design and scope. We have already seen how it has grown beyond the sharpie. In spite of schooner or barque rigs and lower freeboards and more cutter-like sterns the sharpies that entered the races showed that they were both out-pointed and out-footed by the sloops. In other words, they failed to hold that grip upon the water that all boats must have when beating. Their narrow beams also keep down the area of their sails. As racers, therefore, the regatta showed them to be failures--although they are safe, roomy and comfortable boats for cruising. The accident to the White Wings should not tell against the sharpie model, for even a broader beamed boat is liable to go over when a gybe comes along and the booms and the ballast are on the same side of the keel. In running before the wind, however, the sharpie proves to be a safe and a fairly speedy boat.

The other extreme--to which the club seems to be tending--is the salt-water sloop of the latest design. Such an one, the Nautilus, was expected to be ready for this regatta, but it will surely be on hand next year, prepared to beat all comers, if what is claimed can be proved. The hull floats a mile or two down the lake, and the spars and boom are laid aside till another season. Burgess, of Boston, finished the lines, and they are very nearly those of the Volunteer, the defender of the America’s Cup, but on a smaller scale. The length on deck is 53 feet, and on the waterline 40 feet. The beam is 15 feet and 3 inches, and the draught is 5 feet--or about 13 feet with the 12-foot center-board down. The color is white, but the gunwales are of oak, and the combings are of mahogany. Steel rigging is used. The mast is 42 feet high, and the topmast is 34 feet more, a total of 76 feet from the deck. From the step of the mast to the end of the bowsprit is 39 feet, while the boom is 47 feet long. This makes the lower edge of the sail-plan triangle 86 feet. With a single rig of sails spread the Nautilus will carry about 350 square yards, but if the flying-jib, the spinnaker, and other extra sails are included, the area will reach about 700 square yards.

Of course the building of the Nautilus is tentative. It remains to be seen whether as much sail area as can be spread to the steady breezes of salt water can be spread with profit, or even with safety, to the comparatively unsteady and uncertain winds of an inland lake that is surrounded by mountains. The American Canoe Association has proved, on a smaller scale, that big sails on a mountain-locked lake are to be avoided. Experience has shown that a moderate area of sail, well handled, wins the day; but there are times when a light wind gives the race to the man who has the largest area. The same experience is likely to come to the yacht club, and our prediction is that it will soon be shown that the Nautilus has too many and too large sails for her hull, and that by the time of the regatta in August she will appear with a smaller area. But if the Nautilus can go through the narrow pass in the lake known as Split Rock, with its varying currents of air and water, and its sudden and terrific squalls from off Whallon’s bay, then she can do anything; for that is the test of seamanship, according to the old sailors on the lake. Such a severe trial, however, should not be asked of the Nautilus, or of any other new boat that is built for the same purpose. Her mission is not so much to tempt Providence as to mark an era in the advancement of yachting upon the unsalted waters.

Whatever may be thought of Burlington as a place of winter resort, it is certain that it is developing into a more popular place for the passing of the warmer months. Instead of the winter carnivals we have not only yacht-racing, but all the other pleasures that the water can afford. While the principal rivers of the New York shore are bounded by rocks, those on the Vermont shore are bounded by long bars of sand. To the northward of Burlington the Lamoille sends out a long sand-bar on which, with a little assistance by men, a drive has been formed to one of the larger islands. It goes by the name of the Sandbar Bridge. Then there is the Winooski, or Onion River, which empties into the lake seven or eight miles south of the Lamoille River, and a mile or so north of Burlington. The river rises close to the Connecticut River, on the southern borders of Vermont breaks through the range of the Green Mountains and shows caves at Duxbury and many other points along the slope of the Camel’s Hump. The river, in fact, runs through the valley between Mansfield and the Camel’s Hump, and presents a series of surprises to the tourist.

Burlington was in the old seigniory of La Manaudiere on both sides of the Lamoille River, and belonged to Pierre Rainbault, who was one of the French victims at the time of the conquest of Canada by the English. Burlington has many beautiful spots, and the monuments to Lafayette and Allen are especially worth visiting. The isolated rock Dunder, only a mile or two off from the wharves, has always been an object of mystery, many claiming that it was the original boundary between the French and English Indians. Then there is Juniper Island, on which the United States has established a light-house, and the breakwater which forms the real harbor of the city except when, as occasionally happens, the waves break down the breakwater itself. Only a short distance down the lake are Shelburne town, and the neighboring resort known as Cedar Beach. Then we come to the extensive grounds, thousands of acres in area, recently purchased by the Vanderbilts and their connections, and now developed into most beautiful parks and all kinds of driveways, that would do credit to cities of much larger growth.

Indeed, Burlington is the city which Edward Everett Hale recently described as a fitting answer to Matthew Arnold’s strictures upon the homeliness of Americans and their surroundings. Mr. Hale spoke of the new hospital in Burlington, and its fund of half a million dollars, and said: “If this be a commonplace monument, let us thank God that we live in a commonplace land.” He spoke of the public library with its choice collections, and was informed that it was a question whether there were three or four paupers in the poorhouse. Then Mr. Hale went on to say: “This is so distinguished a condition of affairs that I should not dare tell that story in any social science congress in Europe. It would be set down as a Yankee exaggeration. People would say it was impossible. It is not impossible, because the men and women of Burlington have known how to give themselves to the administration of the wealth in common.”

THE BREAKING OF WINTER.

BY PATIENCE STAPLETON.

“That’s the fust funerel I’ve went to sence I was a gal, but that I drove to the graveyard.”

“I dunno as that done the corp enny good.”

“An’ seems all to onc’t I miss old Tige,” muttered the first speaker half to herself.

It was snowing now, a fine mist sifting down on deep-drifted stone-walls and hard, shining roads, and the tinkle of sleigh-bells, as a far-away black line wound over the hill to the bleak graveyard, sounded musical and sweet in the muffled air. Two black figures in the dazzling white landscape left the traveled road and ploughed heavily along a lane leading to a grove of maples, cold and naked in the winter scene.

“They say Ann Kirk left a good prop’ty,” said the first speaker, a woman of fifty, with sharp black eyes, red cheeks, few wrinkles and fewer gray hairs in the black waves under her pumpkin hood. She pulled her worn fur cape around her neck and took a new grasp on her shawl, pinning it tight. “Ann an’ me used to take a sight of comfort driving old Tige.”

The man, her companion, grunted and went sturdily ahead. He was enveloped in a big overcoat, a scarf wound around his neck and a moth-eaten fur cap pulled down over his ears. His blue eyes were watery from the cold, his nose and chin peaked and purple, and frost clung to the short gray beard about his mouth.

“Who’ll git the prop’ty?” panted the woman. She held her gown up in front, disclosing a pair of blue socks drawn over her shoes.

“Relashuns, I s’pose.”

“She was allus so savin’, keepin’ drippins for fryin’, and sellin’ nearly every mite of butter they made; an’ I’ve heered the Boston relashuns was extravagant. Her sister hed on a black silk to the funerel to ride to the grave in; I guess they are well-to-do.”

“Dunno,” gruffly.

Somehow then the woman remembered that glossy silk, and that she had never had one. Then this sister’s husband, how attentive he was leading his wife out to the sleigh, and she had seen them walking arm-in-arm the past summer, when no man in Corinth ever offered his arm to his wife unless it were to a funeral and they were first mourners. “Silas never give me his arm but the fust Sunday we were merried,” she thought; “bein’ kind to wimmen wan’t never the Lowell’s way.” A sharp pain in her side made her catch her breath and stop a moment, but the man paid no heed to her distress. At the end of a meadow on a little rise looking down a long, shady lane, stood a gray old farm-house, to which age had given picturesqueness and beauty, and here Maria Lowell had lived the thirty years of her married life. She unlocked the door and went into the cold kitchen where the fire had died down. A lean cat came purring from under the table, and the old clock seemed to tick more cheerily now the mistress had returned.

“A buryin’ on Christmas Eve, the minister said, and how sad it were, and I felt like tellin’ him Ann an’ me never knowed Christmas from enny other day, even to vittles, for turkeys fetched better prices then, an’ we sold ourn.” She went into a frozen bedroom, for Corinth folks would have thought a man crazy to have a fire in a sleeping-room except in sickness; she folded her shawl and cape and laid them carefully on the feather bed, covered with its gay quilt, the fruit of her lonely hours. Mechanically she set about getting supper, stirring the fire, putting a pan of soda biscuits in to bake, and setting a dish of dried-apple sauce and a plate of ginger cookies on the table. “Berried on Chrismus Eve, but little she ever thought of it, nor me, and little of it Jimmy hed here to home.”

She looked at her biscuits, slammed the oven door, glanced cautiously around to see if Silas, who had gone to milk the cow, were coming; then drawing her thin lips tighter, went back into the cold bedroom. With ruthless hand tearing open an old wound, she unlocked a drawer in the old mahogany bureau and took out something rolled in a handkerchief--only a tiny vase, blue and gilt, woefully cheap, laughed at by the cultured, scorned by the children of to-day. She held it tenderly in her cold hand and brought back the memory that would never die. It was years and years ago in that very room, and a little child came in holding one chubby hand behind him, and he looked at her with her own bright eyes under his curly hair. “Muver, Jimmy’s got a s’prise.” She remembered she told him crossly to go out of the cold room and not bother her. She remembered, too, that his lip quivered, the lip that had yet the baby curve. “It was a present, muver, like the minister sed. I got candy on the tree, but you didn’t git nawthin’, and I buyed you this with my berry money.” The poor little vase in that warm chubby hand--ay, she forgot nothing now; she told him he was silly to spend good money on trash, and flung the vase aside, but that grieved childish face came back always. Ah, it would never fade away, it had returned for a quarter of a century. “I never was used to young ones,” she said aloud, “nor kindness,” but that would not heal the wound; no self-apology could. She went hurriedly to the kitchen, for Silas was stamping the snow off his feet in the entry.

“I got fifty dollars for old Tige,” he said, as he poured his tea into his saucer to cool; “he was wuth it, the honest old creetur!”

The little black-eyed woman did not answer; she only tightened her lips. Over the mantel where the open fireplace had been bricked up, was a picture in a narrow black frame, a colored print of Washington on a fine white horse, and maidens strewing flowers in his pathway.

“When Tige was feelin’ good,” continued Silas, “he’d a monstrous likeness to thet hoss in the pictur, monstrous! held his hed high an’ pranced; done you good to see him in Bath when them hosses tried to parss him; you’d a thort he was a four-year-old! chock full of pride. The hackman sed he was a good ’un, but run down; I don’t ’low to overfeed stock when they ain’t wurkin’.”

“Ourn has the name of bein’ half starved,” muttered the woman.

Silas looked at her in some surprise. “I ginerelly gits good prices for ’em all the same.”

“We ginerelly overreach every one!”

“Goin’ to Ann’s funerel hez sorter upset ye, M’ri: Lord, how old Tige would cavort when Jim would ride him; throw out his heels like a colt. I never told the hackman Tige was eighteen year old. I ain’t over pertikler in a hoss trade, like everybody else. He wun’t last long I calc’late now, for them hack horses is used hard, standin’ out late nights in the cold an’--”

“Was the Wilkins place sold out ter-day?” said the woman hastily, with agonizing impatience to divert his thoughts to something else.

“Yes, it were,” chuckled Silas, handing his cup for more tea, “an’ they’ll have ter move ter Bosting. You was ginning me for bein’ mean, how’d you like to be turned outer doors? Ef I do say it, there ain’t no money due on my prop’ty, nor never was.”

“Who air you savin’ it fur?” said Maria, quietly. She sat with downcast eyes tapping her spoon idly on her saucer; she had eaten nothing.

“Fur myself,” he growled, pushing his chair back. He lit a pipe and began to smoke, his feet at the oven door.

Outside it was quite dark, snow and night falling together in a dense black pall. Over the lonely roads drifted the snow, and no footfall marred it. Through drear, silent forests it sifted, sifted down, clung to cheery evergreens, and clasped shining summer trees that had no thought for winter woes; it was heaped high over the glazed brooks that sang, deep down, songs of summer time and gladness, like happy, good old folks whose hearts are ever young and joyous. Over the wide Kennebec, in the line of blue the ferry-boat kept open, the flakes dropped, dropped and made no blurr, like the cellar builders of temples and palaces, the rank and file, the millions of good, unknown dead, unmentioned in history or the Bible. The waves seething in the confined path crackled the false ice around the edges, leaped upon it in miniature breakers, and swirled far underneath with hoarse murmur. In the dark water something dark rose and fell with the tide. Was there a human being drifting to death in the icy sea? The speck made no outcry; it battled nobly with nature’s mighty force. Surely and slowly the high wharfs and the lights of Bath faded; nearer grew the woods of Corinth; the ferry landing and the tavern-keeper’s lamp.

“I heered suthin’ on the ferry slip,” said a little old man in the tavern, holding his hand behind his ear.

“Nawthin’, night’s too black,” said the tavern-keeper; “you’re allus a hearin’ what no one else do, Beaman.”

No star nor human eye had seen the black speck on the wild water, and no hand lent it aid to land.

In ugly silence Silas smoked his pipe, while equally still, Maria washed the dishes. She stepped to throw the dish-water outside the door and then she heard a sound. The night was so quiet a noise traveled miles. What was it, that steady smothered thud up the lane where so seldom a stranger came? Was it only the beating of her heart after all? She shut the door behind her and hurried out, wrapping her wet cold hands in her apron. Suddenly there came a long, joyful neigh!

“How on airth did that critter git home?” cried Silas, jumping to his feet.

Nearer, nearer, in a grand gallop, with tense muscles and quivering limbs, with upraised head and flying mane, with eager eyes, nearer, in great leaps thrusting time and distance far behind, came that apparition of the night.

“Oh, my God!” cried the woman wildly, “old Tige has come home--come home to this place, and there is one living thing that loves it!”

The light flared out from the open door. “How on airth did he git across the river?” said Silas, querulously. “An’ how am I goin’ to git him back in this weather?”

There he stood, the noble old horse that her boy had raised from a colt, had ridden, had given to her when he went away. “Mother,” her boy had said, “be good to old Tige. If ever father wants to sell him, don’t you let him. I’d come back from my grave if the old horse was abused--the only thing I loved, that loved me in this place I cannot call a home. Remember he has been so faithful.”

Ay, he had been faithful, in long, hot summer days, in wide, weary fields, in breaking the stony soil for others’ harvest, in bringing wood from the far forest, in every way of burden and work.

He stood quivering with cold, covered with ice, panting after his wild gallop; but he was home, poor brute mind! That old farm was his home: he had frolicked in its green fields as a colt, had carried a merry-voiced young master, had worked and rested in that old place; he might be ill-treated and starved, he did not grieve, he did not question, for it was home! He could not understand why this time the old master had not taken him away; never before had he been left in Bath. In his brute way he reasoned he had been forgotten, and when his chance came, leaped from the barn, running as horse never ran before, plunged off the wharf into the black waves, swam across and galloped to his home.

“If there is a God in Heaven, that horse shall not go back!” cried the woman fiercely; “if you take him from here again it shall be over my dead body! Ay, you may well look feared; for thirty years I have frozen my heart, even to my own son, and now the end’s come. It needed that faithful brute to teach me; it needed that one poor creature that loved me and this place, to open the flood-gates. Let me pass, and I warn you to keep away from me. Women go mad in this lonely, starved life. Ay, you are a man, but I am stronger now than you ever were. I’ve been taught all my life to mind men, to be driven by them, and to-night is a rising of the weak. Put me in the asylum, as other wives are, but to-night my boy’s horse shall be treated as never before.”

“But M’ri,” he said, trembling, “there, there now, let me git the lantern, you’re white as a sheet! We’ll keep him if you say so; why hadn’t you told me afore?”

She flung him aside, lit the lantern and then ran up to an attic chamber under the eaves. “M’ri, you hain’t goin’ to kill yourself?” he quavered, waiting at the foot of the stairs. She was back in a moment, her arms full of blankets.

“What on airth!”

“Let me alone, Silas Lowell, these were my weddin’ blankets. I’ve saved ’em thirty years in the cedar chist for this. They was too good for you and me; they air too poor fur my boy’s horse.”

“But there’s a good hoss blanket in the barn.”

“The law don’t give you these; it mebbe gives you me, but these is mine.”

She flung by him, and he heard the barn door rattle back. He put on his coat and went miserably after her.

“M’ri, here’s yer shawl, you’ll git yer death.” The barn lit by the lantern revealed two astonished oxen, a mild-eyed cow, a line of hens roosting on an old hay-rack and Maria rubbing the frozen sides of the white horse. “Put yer shawl on, M’ri, you’ll git yer death.”

“An’ you’d lose my work, eh? Leave me, I say, I’m burning up; I never will be cold till I’m dead. I can die! there is death ’lowed us poor critters, an’ coffins to pay fur, and grave lots.”

Silas picked up a piece of flannel and began to rub the horse. In ghastly quiet the two worked, the man watching the woman, and looking timorously at the axe in the corner. One woman in the neighborhood, living on a cross-road where no one ever came, had gone mad and murdered her husband, but “M’ri” had always been so clear-headed! Then the woman went and began piling hay in the empty stall.

“You ain’t goin’ to use thet good hay fur beddin’, be ye, M’ri?” asked Silas in pathetic anxiety.

“I tell you let me be. Who has a better right to this? His labor cut it and hauled it; this is a time when the laborer shall git his hire.”

Silas went on rubbing, listening in painful silence to the click of the lock on the grain bin, and the swish of oats being poured into a trough.

“Don’t give him too much, M’ri,” he pleaded humbly, “I don’t mean ter be savin’, but he’ll eat hisself to death.”

“The first that ever did on this place,” laughed the woman wildly.

Then standing on the milking-stool she piled the blankets on the grateful horse, then led him to the stall where she stood and watched him eat. “I never see you so free ’round a hoss afore,” said Silas; “you used to be skeered of ’em, he might kick ye.”

“He wouldn’t because he ain’t a man,” she answered shrilly; “it’s only men that gives blows for kindness!”

“Land of the living!” cried Silas, as a step sounded on the floor, and a queer figure came slowly into the glare of light by the lantern, a figure that had a Rembrandt effect in the shadow--an old man, lean and tall, shrouded in a long coat and bearing on his back a heavy basket.

“You can’t be a human creetur, comin’ here to-night,” said Maria; “mebbe you’re the Santy Claus Jim used to tell on as the boys told him; no man in his senses would come to Sile Lowell’s fur shelter.”

“M’ri’s upsot,” said Silas meekly, taking the lantern with trembling hand; “I guess you’ve got off the road; the tavern’s two mile down toward the river.”

“You’ve followed the right road,” said Maria; “you’ve come at a day of reck’nin’; everythin’ in the house, the best, you shall have.”

She snatched the light from Silas and slammed the barn door, leaving Tige contentedly champing his oats, wondering if he was still dreaming, and if his wild swim had been a nightmare followed by a vision of plenty. In the kitchen Maria filled the stove, lit two lamps and began making new tea.

“Thet was a good strong drorin’ we hed fur supper, M’ri,” said Silas, plaintively, keenly conscious of previous economies; “’pears to me you don’t need no new.” She paid no heed to him, but set the table with the best dishes, the preserves--Silas noted with a groan--and then with quick, skillful hand began cutting generous slices of ham.

“I hope you’re hungry, sir?” she asked eagerly.

“Wal, I be, marm,” said the stranger; “an’ if it ain’t no trouble, I’ll set this ere basket nigh the stove, there’s things in it as will spile. I be consederable hungry, ain’t eat a bite sence yesterd’y.”

Silas’s face grew longer and longer; he looked at the hamper hopefully. That might contain a peddler’s outfit and “M’ri” could get paid that way.

“An’ I hain’t money nor nawthin’ to pay fur my vittles ’less there was wood-sawin’ to be done.”

“Wood’s all sawed,” said Silas bitterly.

“I wouldn’t take a cent,” went on Maria, with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes. “Ann Kirk thet hed the name of bein’ as mean as me, was berried to day, and folks that keered nawthin’ fur her is a goin’ to hev her money an’ make it fly. They say ’round here no grass will ever grow on her grave, fur ev’ry blade will be blarsted by the curses of the poor.”

“M’ri, you a perfessed Christian!” cried Silas.

“There’s good folks unperfessed,” interposed the stranger; “but I dunno but a near Christian is better nor a spendthrift one as fetches up at the poorhouse.”

“Right you air!” said Silas, almost affably feeling he had an advocate.

The stranger was tall and bony, with a thin, wrinkled face bronzed by wind and weather, with a goatee and mustache of pale brown hair, and a sparse growth of the same above a high bald forehead; his eyes were a faded brown, too, and curiously wistful in expression. His clothing was worn and poor, his hands work-hardened, and he stooped slightly. When the meal was ready he drew up to the table, Maria plying him with food.

“Would you rather have coffee?” she asked.

“Now you’ve got me, marm, but land! tea’ll do.”

“I should think it would,” snarled Silas; but his grumbling was silenced in the grinding of the coffee mill. When the appetizing odor floated from the stove, Silas sniffed it, and his stomach began to yearn. “You put in a solid cup full,” he muttered, trying to worry himself into refusing it.

“We want a lot,” laughed Maria.

“Set up an’ eat,” called the stranger cheerily; “let’s make a banquet; it’s Chrismus Eve!”

“That ham do smell powerful good,” muttered Silas, unconsciously drawing his chair up to the table, where the stranger handed him a plate and passed the ham. Maria went on frying eggs, as if, thought her husband, “they warn’t twenty-five cents a dozen,” and then ran down into the cellar, returning panting and good-humored with a pan of apples and a jug of cider; then into the pantry, bringing a tin box out of which she took a cake.

“That’s pound cake, M’ri,” cried Silas, aghast, holding his knife and fork upraised in mute horror. She went on cutting thick slices, humming under her breath.

“Might I, marm,” asked the stranger, pleasantly, “put this slice of ham and cake and this cup of milk aside, to eat bymeby?”

“How many meals do you eat in a evening?” growled Silas, awestruck at such an appetite; “an’ I want you to know this ain’t no tavern.”

“Do eat a bite yourself, marm,” said the stranger, as Maria carried the filled plate to the cupboard. The impudence of a tramp actually asking the mistress of the house to eat her own food, thought Silas. “We’ve eat our supper,” he hurled at the stranger.

“I couldn’t tech a mite,” said Maria, beginning to clear up, and as he was through eating, the stranger gallantly helped her while Silas smoked in speechless rage.

“I’m used to being handy,” explained the tramp. “I allus helped wife. She’s bin dead these twenty years, leaving me a baby girl that I brought up.”

“You was good to her?” asked Maria wistfully; the stranger had such a kind voice and gentle ways.

“I done the best I could, marm.”

Doubting his senses, Silas saw Maria bring out the haircloth rocking-chair with the bead tidy from the best front room.

“Lemme carry it,” said the tramp politely. “Now set in’t yerself, marm, an’ be comfurble.” He took a wooden chair, tilted it back and picked up the cat. Maria, before she sat down, unmindful of Silas’s bewildered stare, filled one of his pipes with his tobacco.

“I know you smoke, mister,” she smiled.

“Wal, I do,” answered the tramp, whiffing away in great comfort. “’Pears to me you’re the biggest-hearted woman I ever see.”

She laughed bitterly. “There wan’t a cluser woman in Corinth than me, an’ folks’ll tell you so. I turned my own son outer doors.”

“It was part my fault, M’ri, an’ you hush now,” pleaded Silas, forgiving even her giving his tobacco away if she would not bring out that family skeleton.

“I’ve heered you was cluse,” said the stranger, “an’ thet you sent Jim off because he went to circuses in Bath, an’ wore store clothes, an’ wanted wages to pay for ’em.”

“All true,” said Maria, “an’ he wanted to ride the horse, an’ was mad at workin’ him so hard.” She went on then, and told how the old animal had come home.

“An’ me thinkin’ the critter was a speerit,” said the stranger in a hushed voice. “Beat’s all what a dumb brute knows!”

“I thought mebbe,” went on Maria, twisting her thin fingers, “as Jim might be comin’ home this time. They says things happens curious when folks is goin’ ter die--”

“Your good fur a good meny years, M’ri,” said Silas, pitifully.

“There’s folks in this wurld,” said the stranger, his kindly face growing sad and careworn since the mother’s eager words, “that ain’t mean enuff, an’ comes to charity to the end--”

“That there be,” assented Silas.

“And as can’t bring up their folks comfurble, nor keep ’em well an’ happy, nor have a home as ain’t berried under a mortgage they can’t never clear off.”

“Ay, there’s lots of ’em,” cried Silas, “an’ Mis Lowell was a twitting me this very night of bein’ mean.”

“An’ this good home, an’ the fields I passed thro’, an’ the lane where the old hoss come a gallopin’ up behind me, is paid fur, no mortgage on a acre?”

“There never was on the Lowell prop’ty; they’ll tell ye thet ennywhere,” said Silas.

“We uns in the South, where I come from,” said the stranger, shading his face with his bony hand, “ain’t never fore-handed somehow. My name is Dexter Brown, marm, an’ I was allus misfortinat. I tell you, marm, one day when my creditors come an’ took the cotton off my field, thet I’d plarnted and weeded and worked over in the brilin’ sun, my wife says--an’ she’d been patient and long-sufferin’--‘Dex, I’m tired out; jest you bury me in a bit of ground that’s paid fur, an’ I’ll lie in peace,’ an’ she died thet night.”

“Mebbe she never knowed what it were to scrimp an’ save, an’ do without, an’ never see nawthin’, till all the good died in her,” muttered Maria.

“Part o’ my debt was wines an’ good vittles fur her, marm.”

“I’ll warrant!” said Maria quickly, “an’ she never wept over the graves of her dead children, an’ heered their father complainin’ of how much their sickness hed cost him. Oh, I tell you, there’s them that reckons human agony by dollars an’ cents, an’ they’re wus’n murderers!”

“M’ri!” cried Silas.

“Mebbe, marm, you are over-worrited ternight,” said the stranger softly; “wimmen is all feelin’, God bless ’em! an’ how yer son loved ye, a tellin’ of yer bright eyes an’ red cheeks--”

She turned to him with fierce eagerness. “He couldn’t keer fur me, I wan’t the kind. I don’t mind me of hardly ever kissin’ him. I worked him hard; I was cross an’ stingy. He sed to me, ‘There’s houses that is never homes, mother.’ I sneered an’ blamed him for his little present.” She ran and brought the vase. “I’ve kept that, Mr. Brown, over twenty years, but when he give it to me, bought outer his poor little savin’s, I scolded him. I never let him hev the boys here to pop corn or make candy; it was waste and litter. Oh, I know what he meant; this was never a home.”

“But he only spoke kind of ye allus.”

“Did you know Jim? Been gone this ten year, an’ never a word.”

Silas, a queer shadow on his face, looked eagerly at Brown.

“I did know him,” slowly and cautiously--“he was a cowboy in Texas, as brave as the best.”

“He could ride,” cried Maria, “as part of a horse, an’ Tige was the dead image of that Washington horse in the pictur, an’ Jim used to say thet girl there in the blue gown was his girl--the one with the bouquet; an’ I used to call him silly. I chilled all the fun he hed outer him, an’ broken-speerited an’ white-faced he drifted away from us, as far away as them in the graveyard, with the same weary look as they hed in goin’.”

“An’ he took keer of much as a hundred cattle,” said Silas; “they has thet meny I’ve heerd, in Texas?”

“They has thousands; they loses hundreds by drought--”

“Wanter know?” cried Silas, his imagination refusing to grasp such awful loss.

“Wal, I knowed Jim, an’ he got merried--”

“Merried!” from both the old parents.

“He did. He says, ‘I wunt write the home-folks till I’m well off, for mother will worrit an’ blame me, an’ I hain’t money, but Minnie an’ I love each other, an’ are satisfied with little.’”

“Minnie,” the mother repeated. “Was she pretty?”

“Woman all over you be, to ask thet, an’ she was,” said Brown, sadly “with dark eyes, sorter wistful, an’ hair like crinkled sunshine, an’ a laugh like a merry child, fur trouble slipped off her shoulders like water off a duck’s back.”

“An’ they got prosperous?” asked Silas uneasily.

“They was happy,” said Brown with gentle dignity; “they was allus happy, but they lived under a mortgage, an’ it was drift from pillar to post, an’ ups an’ downs.”

“An’ they’re poor now,” muttered Silas, visions of Jim and his family to support coming to him.

“Hush!” cried Maria. “Tell me, sir, was there children? Oh, the heart hunger I’ve had for the sound of a child’s voice, the touch of baby hands. You an’ me grandpa and grandma, Sile! an’, my God! you think of money now.”

“Set calm,” pleaded Brown, “for I must hev courage to tell ye all.”

“An’ they sent ye to tell us they was comin’?” asked Silas, judging of their prosperity from the shabby herald.

“They asked me to come, an’ I swore it. There’s a queer blight as creeps inter our country, which without thet might be like everlasting Paradise. Ourn is a land of summer an’ flowers, but up here in this ice-bound region, the air is like water in runnin’ brooks, it puts life an’ health in ye.”

“There’s the blight o’ consumption here. We’re foreordained to suffer all over this airth,” muttered the woman.

“But there it comes in waves of trouble--in awful haste--an’ takes all at once, an’ them that’s well flees away and the sick dies alone. So the yellow fever come creepin’ inter my home, fur Minnie was my child--the daughter I’d keered fur; an’ fust the baby went from her arms, an’ then little Silas (arter you, sir). Then Minnie sickened, an’ her laugh is only an echo in my heart, for she died and was berried, the baby in her arms, and Jim was took next--an’ he says” (only the ticking of the clock sounded now, never so loud before): “‘I want you, dad,’ (he called me dad) ‘to go to my old home in Maine. I want you to tell my father I named my dead boy for him, and I thought of his frugal, saving life with pain, and yet I am proud that his name is respected as that of an honest man, whose word is his bond. I’ll never go up the old lane again,’ says Jim, ‘nor see mother standing in the door with her bright eyes and red cheeks that I used to think was like winter apples. And the old horse, she said she’d care for, I won’t see him again, nor hear the bells. In this land of summer I only long for winter, and dad, if I could hear those hoarse old jolly bells I’d die in peace. Queer, ain’t it? And I remember some rides I took mother; she wan’t afraid of the colt, and looked so pretty, a white hood over her dark hair. You go, dad, and say I was sorry, and I’d planned to come some day prosperous and happy, but it’s never to be. Tell mother to think of me when she goes a Sunday afternoon to the buryin’-ground, as she used to with me, and by those little graves I felt her mother’s heart beat for me, her living child, and I knew, though she said nothing, she cared for me.’ He died tellin’ me this, marm, an’ was berried by my girl, an’ I think it was meant kind they went together, for both would a pined apart. So I’ve come all the way from Texas, trampin’ for weary months, for I was poor, to give you Jim’s words.”

“Dead! Jim dead!” cried Silas, in a queer, dazed way. “M’ri,” querulously, “you allus sed he was so helthy!”

She went to him and laid her hand on his bowed head.

“An’ we’ve saved an’ scrimped an’ pinched fur strangers, M’ri, fur there ain’t no Lowell to have the prop’ty, an’ I meant it all fur Jim. When he was to come back he’d find he was prosperous, an’ he’d think how I tried to make him so.”

“The Lord don’t mean all dark clouds in this life,” said the stranger. “Out of that pestilence, that never touched her with its foul breath, came a child, with Minnie’s face and laugh, but Jim’s own eyes--a bit of mother an’ father.”

The old people were looking at him with painful eagerness, dwelling on his every word.

“It was little May; named Maria, but we called her May for she was borned three year ago in that month; a tiny wee thing, an’ I stood by their graves an’ I hardened my heart. ‘They drove her father out; they sha’n’t crush her young life,’ I said. ‘I’ll keep her.’ But I knowed I couldn’t. Poverty was grinding me, and with Jim’s words directin’ me, I brought her here.”

“Brought her here!” cried the poor woman.

“Ay! She’s a brave little lass, an’ I told her to lie quiet in the basket till I told her to come out, fur mebbe you wan’t kind an’ would send us both out, but I found your hearts ready fur her--”

With one spring Maria reached the basket and flung open the lid, disclosing a tiny child wrapped in a ragged shawl, sleeping peacefully in her cramped bed, but with tears on her long lashes, as if the waiting had tried her brave little soul.

“Jest as gritty,” said Brown, “an’ so good to mind; poor lass!”

Maria lifted her out, and the child woke up, but did not cry at the strange face that smiled on her with such pathetic eagerness. “Oh, the kitty!” cried May. “I had a kitty once!” That familiar household object reconciled her at once. She ate the cake eagerly and drank the milk, insisting on feeding the ham to the cat.

“Him looks hungy,” she said.

“We’ve all been starved!” cried Maria, clasping the child to her heart.

Such a beautiful child, with her merry eyes and laugh and her golden curls, a strange blossom from a New England soil, yet part of her birthright was the land of flowers and sunshine. Somehow that pathetic picture of the past faded when the mother saw a blue and gilt vase in the baby’s hand--Jim’s baby’s.

“It’s pitty; fank you!” said the little creature. Then she got down to show her new dress and her shoes, and made excursions into the pantry, opening cupboard doors, but touching nothing, only exclaiming, “Dear me, how pitty!” at everything. Then she came back, and at Brown’s request, with intense gravity, began a Spanish dance she had learned when they stopped at San Antonio, from watching the Mexican senoritas. She held up her little gown on one side and gravely made her steps while Dexter whistled. The fire leaped up and crackled loudly, as if it would join her, the cat purred, the tea-kettle sung from the back of the stove, and little snowflakes, themselves hurrying, skurrying in a merry dance, clung to the window-pane and called other little flakes to hasten and see such a pretty sight. Maria watched in breathless eagerness, and Silas, carried beyond himself, forgetting his scruples, cried out:

“Wal, ef that don’t beat all I ever see! Come here, you little chick!” holding out his silver watch.

With a final pirouette she finished with a grave little courtesy, then ran to Silas: “Is there birdie in der?” and he caught her up and kissed her.

* * * * *

When the old lane is shady in summertime, and golden-rod and daisies crowd the way, and raspberries climb the stone-wall, and merry squirrels chatter and mock the red-breasted robins, and bees go humming through the odorous air, there comes a big white horse that looks like Washington’s in the picture; and how carefully he walks and bears himself, for he brings a little princess who has made the old house a home. Such a fairy-like little thing, who from her sunshine makes everybody bright and happy, and Silas’s grim old face is smiling as he leads the horse, and Maria, with her basket of berries, is helped over the wall by Dexter Brown, who always says he must go but never does, for they love him, and he and Silas work harmoniously together. And grandma’s eyes are brighter than ever and her cheeks as red.

“What comfortable folks they air gittin’ to be,” say the neighbors, “kinder livin’, but I dunno but goin’ a berryin’ a hull arternoon is right down shiftless.”

Winter is over and forever gone from that household on the hill; the coming of gracious, smiling spring in a sweet child’s presence has made eternal sunshine in those ice-bound hearts.

HINTS TO FOOTBALL CAPTAINS.

BY WALTER C. CAMP.

Much has been written from time to time of the growth of the game of football, and the reasons for its popularity, but no one has described that which is the real secret of its fascination; viz., planning the campaign. Planning a football campaign is a most interesting piece of strategic work, and the amount of thought expended on it would astonish the majority of that eager audience which crowds the Polo Grounds on Thanksgiving Day.

“Get some of your old men back to coach,” is a bit of advice often given to captains of crews and ball nines. But to no one is it so invaluable as to football captains. It is the careful planning of the season’s work that will bring victory in November. Through the summer the captain has been counting over the material he will have as a nucleus in the fall, and he has also calculated about how much he can rely upon from preparatory schools. As a rule he treats with distrust all reports of wonderful men in the incoming class, for the players who may have been giants on school teams are generally lost in the crowd on a university field.

His first interest on looking over the men he means to make use of is this: Are there enough old men to steady the team? With five old men no captain should be discouraged, and with six or over he ought to be hopeful, provided he has a half-back and a quarter among them. The reason for this is that he can then arrange to have a veteran next to every novice in his team, by scattering the three old rushers. It is amazing what steadiness can be infused into a team in this way. If the captain has six instead of five, he can then strengthen the weak side of his team by putting an old hand as an end-rusher on the side of the green half-back.

This plan of formation is merely for the early weeks of the season until the real campaign can be laid out. The veterans act as coaches to the new men, and after ten or fifteen days of playing in this way, the novices, if they be at all promising men, will have learned the general system of play, for the positions in which they stand. That is, the rushers will have learned not to bunch, i. e., keep too close to the next man, and also not to lag, or be slow in lining up when the ball is down. They will have been repeatedly cautioned against tackling high and not getting through hard. A new half will have learned about how far back he ought to stand, and how quickly he has to kick. In this way the captain can accomplish a double amount of work, for while he is looking over his new material, and deciding upon what men will develop into the service, his old players are giving very efficient assistance to him by coaching the new ones and rapidly breaking them in. Were it not for this, things would be in almost as much of a mess after ten days’ playing as at the start, for it frequently happens that a green captain will make so little use of his old men in the way of coaching that the new men will be blundering on in the middle of the season full of faults which might have been stopped the first week.

Two weeks’ work will enable the captain to select about sixteen men from whom he sees his team must be drawn. If he is wise he will be inclined at this period to favor those men who are showing rapid improvement rather than those whom he knows have already reached their best days. He will also put some thought upon the general weight of his team as well as the probable weight of the other teams he must meet.

When he has considered these matters well, and made up in his own mind the strongest team he can select, he should play these men together as nearly as possible for some three or four days, and after making any changes that may seem to him necessary, get his coaches together and stand with them for one afternoon, when all will have a good look at the practice. That evening he should have a meeting of the team and coaches, and a thorough discussion of the strength and weakness of the team. One learns very rapidly at such a meeting what the team considers its strong points and where they fear an enemy. During the next week the captain and coaches should decide finally upon what the strongest plays of the team are likely to be. The great necessity of doing this early is to thoroughly provide against accident, not only by being more than usually careful of the one or two men most engaged in these plays, but also to train others up to a moderate degree of skillfulness to take the places of men who may be injured. A decision must also be reached regarding the weak points of the team, and these not only strengthened but made less evident to opponents.

Following upon these decisions should come a week or more of very hard individual coaching. Each man is taken by himself and worked at as though upon him and his particular plays depended the victory or defeat of the team. A curious fact is that just at this point in the season, not only the team, but very often the captain and coaches are sure that their playing is poor and that defeat stares them in the face. The true explanation of this is that the enthusiasm has been worked off to a great extent, and the players have not yet gained the dexterity that practice will give, so that the poor playing is really painfully apparent.

Let us review the plan of the campaign up to this point. The captain first sprinkled his veterans among the raw recruits, so that it was necessary for them to mingle. By doing this he has prevented the old men from banding together and looking down upon the new ones, and has also compelled the green men to ask questions of the experts. While all were thus being well shaken together, he has had an opportunity to select the best team, and, by actual trial, to judge in what line of action they would prove strongest. All this has been effected with the least possible loss of time, for, owing to the shortness of the football season, time is too valuable to be wasted even in experiments. Of individual coaching, little need be said, as it is only a means of improving details, and does not affect the campaign, except in the way of dexterity.

The captain next begins to study the best offensive and defensive tactics for his team. He starts with the problem in such shape as this: Given the kick-off with an adverse wind, what is the best opening for the style of game his team plays? He may kick the ball as far down the field as possible. But this is very seldom a good opening, because the side that wins the toss, having the choice of goal or kick-off, it invariably happens that the kick-off is made against the wind. The captain knows that if he makes a straight kick down the field under these circumstances it will be returned, and with the help of the wind, will most surely be put back some distance into his own territory, so that the play will have lost him considerable ground.

The next thing to be considered is a long kick down the field and out of bounds on the side. This opening was a strong feature of the Yale game for several years, owing to the combination of two happy possessions--a strong place-kicker and a very fast end-rusher. The play usually means that the ball, when it goes into touch, is first reached by the opponents and they return it into the field at the point where it went out. Of course, the ball has made considerable advance into the enemy’s territory; but as an offset to this, they have gained possession of the ball, and, if their play is strong and accurate, they should be able to return it past the center of the field on their first kick. While the above is the usual result of the play, it does happen that a fast end-rusher, in perfect unanimity with the place-kicker, will succeed in reaching the ball before the opponents. In this case there is an actual gain of the distance from the centre of the field to the spot where the ball crossed the touchline. Another opening is to dribble the ball and then pass it back for the half to punt. This gives the rushers a chance to get up the field and prevent a return kick. In this case, unless the ball is fumbled, there is only an apparent gain, for the ball is in the possession of the enemy and after the down will be returned probably beyond the centre of the field.

The opening most popular during the past season was the “running break” or “V.” The ball was dribbled and passed back to a half who was protected by the rushers enough to insure his having a fair start. He then made a break for the opening in the line and carried the ball as far as he could. The amount of interference allowed last year made this a strong opening, because the player usually made several yards, and that without losing the ball.

From this point on, however, comes the real strategy of the game. An illustration of this is the statement made and carried out by one of the coaches of a team which competed one Thanksgiving Day, not many years ago. After a conference with the captain and other coaches the night before the game, he made the astonishing statement that his team would, if they lost the toss, put the ball over the enemy’s goal-line in less than five minutes from the time of kick-off. The diagram of the plans was laid out on paper, and is still in the possession of one of the men. The plays were these: The ball was dribbled and passed by a long throw to the right half-back, whose run was made successfully. The ball was snapped and passed to the rusher next the end on the same side. This play was strong, because the position of the men and the throw of the quarter made it appear that the ball was again going to the half, and the opposing rushers went through the more eagerly. The next play was a centre-play--the guard giving the ball to the quarter for a run, and the final play, which carried the ball over the line, was out next the end once more. The immense superiority of such a system over the usual method of sending the ball wherever there seems the most chance was conclusively proven, for, with the exception of a slight fumble, which caused one more down, there was no break in the chain, and each man made within a few yards of the spot which had been marked on the paper.

While it is, of course, impossible to lay out the entire progress of the game, owing to the element of uncertainty introduced by ignorance of what line of action may be adopted by one’s opponents, it is possible to plan what ought to be done at certain stages in the game.

For instance, for many years it was thoroughly believed by all the best football men that the kicking game could not be played against the wind under even the most favorable circumstances. This theory has, however, fallen through, and it is generally concluded that with fast, good rushers, and strong, accurate kickers, the running game can with advantage be supplemented with a few timely kicks.

The opening of the game has been discussed; the next point is the placing of the men on the first down by the opponents. This is something of vital interest to the captain, for if the opponents have any strong line of play they will undoubtedly develop it early in the game. To discover and prevent the surprise is, therefore, the end to be aimed at, for a strong play successfully made at this point seriously weakens the adversaries, not only taking from them the actual ground, but upsetting their confidence and nerve as well.

Upon the use of the quarter depends the style of this first defensive play. Some captains keep him back of the line where he may assist the half-backs; others send him up into the line as an extra rusher. Neither of these two plans can be said to be the right one in all cases, for there are two elements which govern the play and should enter into the decision. The first is the relative skill of the rushers and halves. It is always possible for a captain to say whether he is strongest “in the line” or “behind it,” and the quarter is most needed with the weaker set of players. The second is the wind. If this is very strong and straight with the opponents, there is the greatest necessity of checking their running before they shall have advanced the ball within kicking distance of the goal, even though by doing this the captain for the time being leaves his halves and back less secure. Therefore the wise captain brings up his quarter into or just behind the rush line, and concentrates all his strength on preventing the gain of five yards on three downs. In this way he can oblige his opponents to kick or lose the ball before they are far enough advanced to be in dangerous proximity to his goal. Of these two elements, then, it may be conclusively argued the wind is the greater, and if very strong, should decide him to bring his quarter up, even though his line of forwards be exceptionally strong.

The next point worthy of consideration is the offensive and defensive play about the goals. Most important are: guarding a goal against the wind, and trying for a goal with the wind. The former is of the most vital importance, and time spent upon studying the situation will prove of advantage to every captain. Let us suppose the case of a touch-back (i. e., where the ball has crossed the goal-line, but without compelling a safety), for it is generally at this point that the condition becomes most serious. The captain finds himself driven back into his own goal and facing a wind and a team encouraged by success. His own team, on the contrary, are tired with the effort of contesting the ground, and they are also nervous with the feeling that the least slip on their part means a goal or a touch-down. The privilege of a kick-out--at best a privilege of less than twenty-five yards start--seems pitifully small in the face of the odds. The situation is the same as at the kick-off upon beginning, with the exception of the proximity of the goal and the attendant danger. The ball may be place-kicked or drop-kicked down the field or out of bounds; it may be dribbled and passed back for a punt or run. There is one thing which must not be done, and that is to kick or pass the ball out toward the centre of the field or across the goal, for as surely as the ball falls into the enemy’s hands in front of the goal, they will, if their play be accurate, not fail to score. Next to be borne in mind is that when the ball does go into their hands it must be either a down or a fair, i. e., it must not be a fair catch, but must go out of bounds, or into their hands on the roll with a rusher close enough to make them have it down. There are three ways to accomplish this: the first is to place or drop-kick the ball down the edge of the field and out of bounds, or accomplish the same result by a dribble and punt; the second is to attempt the running game until two downs are exhausted, and then kick out of bounds; and the third, and most aggressive of all, to kick the ball a short distance ahead but well up in the air, and putting all the men on side, rely upon getting possession of the ball in air or in the scramble as it falls. If the last plan is adopted every man in the line must go forward with one idea in his mind, and that is to prevent a fair catch at all hazards.

Another question is often discussed regarding the protection of a goal, and that is: Is a man ever justified in running round behind his own goal with the ball on the chance of getting out far enough on the other side to gain ground? The only answer to this question lies in the head of the man who has to do it. There are some who can be trusted to know when it can be done, but most should be told to never do it unless at that point in the game a safety will turn the balance of the score, and they should not do it in the first half.

But to pass to the attack. A side has advanced the ball within kicking distance of their opponents’ goal, having the wind and the ball with them. Should they at once attempt a field-kick, or by running try to get nearer, or even rely upon a touch-down? If they try a field-kick, should it be a drop at goal, or should they punt the ball just short of the goal and chance a muff or a fumble by their adversaries to yield a touch-down? Unless a team is remarkably strong in the running game, and has been making their five yards, it is silly to try a touch-down or nothing. Again, unless there is plenty of time remaining, it takes too long to work the ball up to the line and get it across, beside the many risks of losing possession of it in the meantime. Finally, a punt up in front of the goal is too decidedly a confession of the lack of a good drop-kicker.

As a rule, then, the first down had better be utilized by getting the ball in front of the goal if it is off at the side of the field. The second down should be an attempt to get somewhat nearer only in case the snap-back and quarter are sure men. Otherwise the drop-kick should be tried after the first down. One thing to be said in favor of trying the drop-kick at once, without attempting to bring the ball in front of the goal, is that the adversaries are then much less prepared for the try, and hence the kicker has a more uninterrupted aim and longer time. After the first down the opponents concentrate their attention more upon the kicker.

These are salient features, but, of course, there is an infinity of detail, of which the present article does not give space to speak.

THE NATIONAL HORSE SHOW.

“It’s an ill wind that blows nobody good;” and let the press, comic and otherwise, deride anglomania as it may, the good effects of this same craze are plainly visible in some directions. Since Richard Ten Broeck won the Cesarewitch Stakes with Prioress in 1857, since the victories of Foxhall and Iroquois, no one has doubted that the race-horses of America are in every respect equal to the English standard. But the same can scarcely have been said of the carriage-horses, hacks, cobs, and ponies, while until a comparatively recent date the hunter, in the English acceptation of the term, was unknown. The rankest “laudator temporis acti,” who took a stroll in Madison Square Garden during the horse-show week, would not venture to deplore “the good old days” as far as horseflesh is concerned. The prevalence of the “bang” tail and hog mane may offend the eye of some, and when such treatment is carried out on an elephantine dray-horse--as was the case with some of the exhibits--the result is truly absurd. But the sporting, capable class of horse with the best of action, which was so well represented--more so than in any previous year--must of necessity have favorably impressed the true disciple of horseflesh.

The exhibition was very good--in some cases extremely so--and in a rising scale from Mr. Pierre Lorillard’s happy family of Shetlands up to Mr. A. Palmer Morewood’s colossal Clydesdale “Marlborough,” there were shapes and sizes to please every eye. From East, West, North, and South they came to constitute this goodly array, and in some cases laurels gained in English show rings were supplemented with American honors.

In the high-jumping, however, as in former years, lay the special feature of the show. When it is possible for green hunters--save the mark!--to be put to jump 6 ft. 6 in., even though it prove somewhat beyond their powers, it may well make even old horsemen open their eyes, and wonder where this emulation will stop. Such feats have never been accomplished or indeed attempted in England, but in the New York Show the standard rises year by year, and the record, unlike that of trotting, is all the time being broken. The jump of 6 ft. 9⅞ in., accomplished by Mr. F. Gebhardt’s “Leo,” ridden by “Pete” Smith, the only man who can induce this wonderful horse to put forth his powers, and Messrs. Durland & Co.’s “Filemaker,” ridden by that graceful rider, Mr. McGibbon, is something which, unless one has seen it done, he receives with doubting ears. The riding and driving was very good. In the latter department, Mr. F. Asshenden, as usual, distinguished himself. He drove in every competition which enters into his province, with such success that only on one occasion did he leave the ring without a “ribbon.”

The management of the show was very well conducted, and with the exception of some complaints of dampness--which was attributable to Jupiter Pluvius and not to the management--there were no grounds for objection. The health of the horses was excellent, the veterinary department under Drs. Carmody and Field left nothing to be desired, and the equine visitors left the Garden after their week’s sojourn in strange quarters in no way the worse for their experience.

~Sporting Tramp.~

* * * * *

PLAIN TALK ABOUT STEEPLE-CHASING.

For several years past the steeple-chase associations and hunt clubs have been making strenuous efforts to raise the cross-country branch of racing to its proper level. Five years ago steeple-chasing was a byword and a reproach. The scandalous and open swindles that took place at some of the large tracks were a disgrace, and the managers of these tracks sat with folded hands while the press exposed the swindles and urged them to do something or expunge altogether the cross-country farces from the programme, but nothing was done. The truth is the managers did not understand steeple-chasing, and would not learn, and yet it was too lucrative a branch to expunge, as the public enjoyed the excitement and liked to see the accidents and falls.

About four years ago the members of the Rockaway Hunt Club formed the Rockaway Steeple-chase Association, and with the Meadow Brook Hunt Club as well as members of all the other hunt clubs, joined in trying to raise the level of steeple-chasing. That they were successful is shown by the records. What the cost was to their private purses they themselves only know. It is hardly to the credit of the general public or to the society element in New York, that associations of this kind that provide honest and fair sport, should lose thousands at each meeting. Naturally the members object to this continual drain, and a change of some kind will have to be made. Neither the Rockaway Steeple-chase Association nor the Country Club Steeple-chase Association can continue running at a loss any longer.

It might be well, however, to analyze the reason for the loss. When in 1886, the future of racing in this State was jeopardized and politicians were endeavoring to stop the sport for purposes of their own, the leading men of both these associations cheerfully lent a helping hand and worked to get the Pool bill through. Their endeavors were successful. Racing was limited to the dates between May 15 and October 15. So far so good. Then came the question of the dates for the respective meetings, and the large associations at once seized all they could get. The principal sinner in this respect has been the Brooklyn Jockey Club, which has shown great precocity in its grabbing propensities during the short time it has been in existence. Not content with taking the days the Rockaway people wanted, the Brooklyns encroached on Jerome Park’s dates and wanted those also. The Country Club Association had to deal with Jerome, and found that association very fair and open about its dates. No attempt was made to “grab,” and every help was cheerfully given that could be. The weather, however, knocked out the Country Club Association, and also took a hand in marring the chances of the Rockaway, which, buffeted on all sides, lost money steadily. Now for the cure. The Steeple-chase Associations will have to reduce their meetings to the level of hunt races, pur et simple, with cups and very small money added--with perhaps one large handicap of $1,000 at most, and wait for better times. Another alternative is to induce the Legislature to alter the Pool bill in such a way that steeple-chasing may commence in New York State on May 1 and end on Nov. 1, thus giving the Association a month to hold their meetings. The third remedy would be to discontinue the meetings altogether, a course which would be very regrettable. The Rockaway people have an expensive plant at Cedarhurst, and the Country Club is making arrangements for something of the same kind. Some measures will have to be taken to protect their interests as well as those of the other hunting clubs.

~C. S. Pelham-Clinton.~

* * * * *

THE GAME OF LACROSSE.

The season which closed November 1 has not been so productive of good results as those interested in the success of Canada’s national game anticipated. Certain innovations, which were introduced last spring and promised well, have proved to be impracticable. Then, again, the splitting of the old National Association into two minor leagues has not brought about closer relationship between the clubs. Not one of the New England clubs has signified its intention of joining the Eastern Association. A local championship series and a few games with outside clubs have satisfied them.

The Western Association, and its doings during the first season of its existence, remain unknown to the lacrosse men in the East. For some reason efforts to bring about cordial relations between the two sections of the country have failed. The Western men appear to think that enough deference is not paid them on account of their possession of the National Championship, which was gained, not on the field, but on paper.

The Brooklyn Club will have the honor of being the champion club until 1889. It has made astonishing strides forward. Faithful practice and attention to team-play has made it a strong organization. The Staten Island Club, on the other hand, may safely be relied upon making every effort next spring to regain the coveted honor which so long was theirs.

The other clubs in the Eastern Association--Philadelphia, Baltimore, Jersey City, Staten Island Cricket Club--have not done much during the summer, except to build up their organizations. There is every indication, however, that the season of 1889 will witness some exciting games.

That nothing encourages so much as success, is seen in the vigor and enthusiasm with which Princeton, the champion of the College League, has gone to work since the opening of college. Usually the lacrosse men do very little in the fall in the way of practice. But this year, intent upon again winning the championship in 1889, class games have been played, and the University team has also had several games with outside clubs. This has not escaped Harvard, her most dangerous rival. The Crimson has repeatedly called upon the college to give better support to the lacrosse team, which has at times been almost the only one to bring back a championship. In the spring the time is too limited to get the men into first-class condition, and fall and winter work should be indulged in when possible.

Lehigh is thoroughly delighted with lacrosse, and Cornell is taking it up. Williams is considering whether it will not draw too many men from the other sports, and other colleges and schools are getting ready to introduce the game. This is very gratifying. To play the game well requires so much attention to training, and such thorough self-command, that, as a mere matter of discipline, it ought to be recommended; besides, no game is more exciting, and certainly none more graceful.

~J. C. Gerndt.~

* * * * *

RABBIT COURSING.

For every man who owns a greyhound, at least a dozen own some kind of a terrier. The terrier is essentially man’s companion among all the dogs. Bright, intelligent, and full of spirits, he also has the happy knack of knowing how to make his presence unobtrusive. Among the many breeds which have at the present day attained popularity, the fox-terrier is facile princeps, and of late years owners have bethought themselves of a good plan to avail themselves of the natural instinct of the dog. The fox-terrier is naturally possessed of a speed out of proportion to his looks, and since “the nature of the beast” is to pursue anything in the line of game or vermin, he has readily fallen in with man’s scheme to course the rabbit with his aid.

The advantages of this sport over coursing with greyhounds are many. The grounds have not to be so spacious or complete; the dogs are not so expensive, either in initial cost, maintenance, or elaboration of training; impromptu matches can be easily arranged, and, especially in this country, the difficulty of supplying the requisite quarry for greyhounds is obviated. The rabbit, on the contrary, is fairly plentiful in the Eastern States, and a goodly supply of them is generally forthcoming. The meetings that have hitherto been held have been very successful, and it is a cause of great satisfaction to all sportsmen that the recent case at Hempstead reached such a favorable termination.

This sport has not as yet, in America, gone beyond the limits of the select circle which patronizes polo and fox-hunting; but no real reason exists why this should be so. The writer has witnessed and taken part in very successful impromptu coursing-matches in the South, where the intentions of the dogs were better than their looks or breeding. It is, in fact, a sport open to every man who owns a decent terrier, and as such it is regarded in many parts of England, where the farmers will not only allow but will take part in matches run over their land.

~Sporting Tramp.~

THE DISSENSION IN THE ATHLETIC WORLD.

Some time since ~Outing~ entered into communication with the various gentlemen who are taking leading parts in the serious disruption which has shaken the athletic world of America to its very centre. For some reason best known to those addressed, the majority of these gentlemen have not seen fit to favor us with their views on the situation. We have, however, been placed in a position to give the public some extracts from what appears to us to be an impartial review of the facts, from the Union’s side of the question. We quote as follows:

“In 1879 the New York Athletic Club decided to give up the management of the Amateur Championship Meeting, so successfully established by it three years previously. This course was taken because it brought a great deal of additional work on the officers of the club, and although the games had been profitable to the organization, its officers no longer desired to be continually appealed to for decisions and rulings upon athletic matters. For these reasons the N. Y. A. C. was willing to relinquish the conduct of the championship games to properly organized associations of clubs.”

Thus it came about that in the spring of 1879 the National Association of Amateur Athletes of America was organized. In 1880 we find the list of clubs that were members numbered twenty-one. In 1885 we find that this number had sunk to twelve, and in 1887 it was still twelve, while the New York Athletic Club, “through some personal club trouble,” had resigned in 1885.

“With these facts before us it can readily be seen that although the Association may have been, and no doubt was, national some years ago, it failed to keep pace with many of the leading clubs during the past three or four years. Some of these, notably the New York and Staten Island Athletic clubs, made such rapid strides that not only were meetings given that were far superior to the championships, but also many championship of America events were given by them and at their expense, among them being the boxing, wrestling, swimming, general gymnastic, general athletic, etc.

“In 1887 the Athletic Club of the Schuylkill Navy started the Amateur Athletic Union of the U. S.” The why and wherefore of its inception is thus accounted for. “The first time the A. C. S. N. participated in any other athletic competition than those held under its own management was in February, 1886, when a number of entries were made in the championship boxing and wrestling tournament given under the auspices of the New York Athletic Club, at Tammany Hall, New York. Of the three representatives of the A. C. S. N. at this competition, one, Mr. Charles A. Clark, won the championship at feather-weight boxing, and another, Dr. J. K. Shell, was fortunate enough to meet Joe Ellingsworth in the middle-weight boxing class; the latter, it was learned just in time to enter a protest, was so tainted with professionalism as to render his presence at an amateur competition preposterous. The protest against Ellingsworth was made by Captain Huneker of the A. C. S. N. to the New York Athletic Club, by whom he was referred to the National Association of Amateur Athletes of America for a decision as to Ellingsworth’s standing. The latter association refused to take any action, claiming that they had no jurisdiction in the matter.

“The inconsistent part of the National Association’s action in this matter is the fact of its having refused to take any action in this instance and claiming that it had no jurisdiction, while many will undoubtedly remember that sufficient jurisdiction was claimed in the cases of the wrestlers who were disqualified about six months previous for competing at unapproved meetings.

“From the time of this occurrence dates the desire of the A. C. S. N. to see formed an association national in character, which would take cognizance of and exercise jurisdiction over all kinds and classes of athletic sports over which no recognized association already in existence, exercised special authority. This, together with the sincere wishes of the club to contribute by every means within their power to an effort to exclude from the amateur ranks the semi-professional, ‘tough’ and ‘shady’ element which has proved so great a detriment to the natural growth and popularity of all true amateur sport, dwarfed its possibilities and rendered competition in many of its classes obnoxious to gentlemen, are the reasons which mainly influenced the A. C. S. N. to request the New York Athletic Club, which organization was not a member of the National, to join in a call for a meeting of all the recognized amateur athletic organizations of the United States to consider the formation of a new association.

“The meeting of such a body and its outcome is a matter of athletic history. From this convention emanated the Amateur Athletic Union. From the inception of the Union the A. C. S. N. at once became prominent in its councils, one of its delegates, Mr. W. H. McMillan, being unanimously elected president of the new association.

“When the circular calling for a meeting of all the clubs to consider the formation of an association was received by the Staten Island A. C., a letter was at once sent to Mr. John F. Huneker, captain of the A. C. of the Schuykill Navy, inquiring what club was at the bottom of this move, and what were the ideas and reasons in forming such an organization. The reply, as received, was read to the Board of Directors, and, after satisfying themselves as to its honesty and advisability, a committee with power was appointed, consisting of President J. W. Edwards, Secretary W. C. Davis, Treasurer G. M. Mackellar, and Director F. W. Janssen.

“This entire committee attended the first meeting of the A. A. U. After carefully noting and satisfying themselves on every point, they unanimously decided to join; so the Staten Island A. C. at once became a member of the Union.

“Later on, the Union showed so many advantages over the National, and had so many respectable clubs in it, its affairs being conducted on so much better and more business-like principles, that after duly considering the case, the Staten Island A. C. sent its resignation to the National Association. When the Union selected September 19, 1888, at Detroit, as the date and place of their championship of America games, the National scheduled its similar meeting for September 15, 1888, at New York, and, in order to detract from the Detroit meeting, empowered the Missouri Athletic Club of St. Louis to hold a Western championship on its grounds September 9. The Union, to show its strength, at once authorized the Chicago Athletic Club to hold a Western championship meeting on its grounds September 1, in order to establish a set of Western champions for 1888 before the National meeting could be held.

“As time went by, the Union representatives considered the advisability of taking some final action in the matter, and, after some six weeks’ deliberation, at a meeting held August 25, 1888, unanimously passed the following resolution:

“‘Resolved, That any amateur athlete competing in any open amateur games in the United States not governed by rules approved by the Amateur Athletic Union, shall be debarred from competing in any games held under the rules of the Amateur Athletic Union. This resolution shall take effect immediately.’

“The idea was to have the Western clubs and athletes recognize but one championship meeting of the West (that of the A. A. U. at Chicago).

“The National (or rather now the Manhattan A. C.) found it impossible to hold its championship meeting in New York, owing to the fact that all the athletes, with very few exceptions outside the Manhattan Club, belonged to Union clubs, and would not compete under the National rules; so a cable was sent by the Manhattans to the Irish Gaelic Team to the effect that the meeting had been postponed until October 6 in order to allow them to compete.

“In the West the two championship meetings were held, and those athletes who took part at the St. Louis National meeting were debarred from competing at the Detroit Union games.

“The Union Board held a full meeting of the Executive Committee at Detroit, on September 18, 1888, when the above resolution was again unanimously approved of. The committee also unanimously refused to rescind the same or to reinstate any of the athletes who competed at the St. Louis National meeting.

“The so-called National meeting held in New York city, on October 13, 1888, was, with very few exceptions, between the teams of the Irish Gaelic Association and the Manhattan Athletic Club.

“At the Detroit meeting of the Union, a committee consisting of Otto Ruhl, James E. Sullivan, and Fred W. Janssen was appointed, with power to confer with Mr. Cullinan, the manager of the Irish team. To him, after explaining matters, the following proposition was made, on condition that his team should not recognize the National Association as an authorized body to give a championship of American meeting, viz.: The A. A. U. would give his team a testimonial meeting whenever he desired; would give all the American and Irish championship events, and an all-round competition. His association was to take all the gate receipts over and above expenses, and the following guarantees were made for tickets: Staten Island Athletic Club, $500; N.Y. Athletic Club, $500; Pastime Athletic Club, $200.

“This offer was refused by Mr. Cullinan, and he wrote a letter to the Secretary of the Union asking that the resolution be not enforced so far as his team was concerned. As a similar request was made at Detroit on behalf of the Western athletes, and Messrs. Schifferstein and Pursell of the Olympic Club, San Francisco, and refused, no action was taken. The request could not have been granted owing to the fact that the Irish team seemed bound by contract to the Manhattan A. C., and paid little or no attention to the Union’s propositions.

“The National published on its official circular the following Executive Committee: President, Walton Storm, Manhattan A. C.; vice-president, Wm. Halpin, Olympic A. C.; secretary, C. H. Mapes, Intercollegiate A. C.; treasurer, W. C. Rowland, Staten Island A. C.; S. S. Safford, American A. C.; W. G. Hegeman, Nassau A. C.; Geo. S. Rhoades, Missouri A. A. A.; and on the Games Committee, W. C. Rowland, Staten Island A. C.; Walton Storm, Manhattan A. C.; W. G. Hegeman, Nassau A. C.

“Now, the following delegates and clubs mentioned on the Executive Committee were not members of the National, viz.: Vice-President, William Halpin, Olympic A. C.; treasurer, W. C. Rowland, Staten Island A. C.; S. A. Safford, American A. C.; W. G. Hegeman, Nassau A. C.; and of the Games Committee: W. C. Rowland, Staten Island A. C.; and W. G. Hegeman, Nassau A. C., the clubs having resigned and joined the Amateur Athletic Union. This left on the Executive Board of the so-called National: President Walton Storm, Manhattan A. C.; secretary, C. H. Mapes, Intercollegiate A. A., and George S. Rhoades, Missouri A. A. A., with Walton Storm on the Games Committee. On both the circulars and postal-cards, issued respectively under dates of September 3 and September 18 by the so-called National, were found no names whatsoever, nor did the parties left claim any more members. Therefore, the following articles taken from the constitution and by-laws of the so-called N. A. A. A. A. proved beyond a doubt to any fair-minded person that such an association was virtually out of existence since the resignations of afore-mentioned organizations, to wit:

CONSTITUTION.--ARTICLE III.

Membership.

The membership of this association shall be limited to amateur athletic clubs, and any associate club not giving at least one public outdoor athletic meeting each year, to consist of not less than five games, open to all amateurs, shall pay a fine of twenty-five dollars, to be paid at or before the next annual meeting, and in default of such payment such club shall forfeit its membership.

And the Intercollegiate Athletic Association may become a member of this association, such Intercollegiate Association to be deemed an amateur athletic club for all purposes herein.

ARTICLE VI.

Application for Membership.

Any amateur athletic club desiring to join the association shall send to the secretary an application for membership, a copy of its constitution and by-laws, and a list of its officers and members. The secretary shall submit this application to each member of the Executive Committee in turn, and these members shall endorse their decision. The approval of seven members of the Executive Committee shall be necessary to constitute an election.

BY-LAWS.--ARTICLE III.

Meetings.

The annual meeting of the Executive Committee shall be held at the close of the annual meeting of the association. Special meetings of the Executive Committee shall be called by the secretary either at the written request of three members of the committee or by order of the president, and one week’s notice of said meeting shall be sent to every member of the committee. At all meetings of the committee five members shall constitute a quorum.

“By the first it is proven that the Intercollegiate Association was but a single organization in the so-called National Association. The second shows that it was necessary to have seven members of the Executive Committee present in order to elect a new club to membership, and the third that there should have been five members present to hold a meeting. As the so-called N. A. A. A. A. had not been able to hold a meeting or transact business under its own constitution and by-laws, the organization in the Union refused to recognize the existence of the so-called National Association of Amateur Athletes of America, and in so doing stated that the respective clubs comprising the Union positively denied having in any way boycotted the Irish Gaelic Team, owing to the fact that the latter simply joined with the Manhattan and Missouri Athletic clubs in preference to the Amateur Athletic Union which was composed of twenty-seven leading associations.

“The M. A. C. Chronicle of October, 1888, published the following clubs as having had delegates present at the so-called National’s annual meeting held about October 13: Missouri A. A. A., St. Louis; Manhattan A. C., New York City; Star A. C., Long Island City; West Side A. C., New York City; Allerton A. C., New York City; and Intercollegiate A. A.

“The Allerton A. C. was organized in September, 1888, by members of the Manhattan A. C. Mr. G. M. L. Sacks is treasurer, and Mr. G. M. L. Sacks of the Manhattan A. C. represents the club on the so-called National Association’s Executive Committee. Of late the Manhattan A. C. men have organized several so-called athletic clubs in order to swell the list of clubs belonging to the so-called National Association, and in the M. A. C. Chronicle of November, 1888, we find Walton Storm, G. M. L. Sacks and Fred A. Ware, three well-known M. A. C. men on the Executive Committee of the so-called National Association, and probably two or three others of which it is not positive.

“None of the so-called National clubs own any property, except the land which Mr. Walton Storm of the M. A. C. lately purchased for about $160,000, on which it is proposed to build a club-house. We, therefore, arrive at the following totals:

National Clubs. Membership. Property. Manhattan A. C. 400 None. Missouri A. A. A. 200 “ Star A. C. 60 “ West Side A. C. 40 “ Allerton A. C. 50 “ --- -------- Entire National 750 Nothing.

“The so-called National during the past year has given the St. Louis championship meeting, New York championship meeting, and a ten-mile championship run. (The New York meeting was twice postponed and the ten-mile run was also postponed.)

Union Clubs. Membership. Property.

New York A. C. 2,500 $410,000 New York Turn Verein 2,500 150,000 A. C. of Schuylkill Navy 680 85,000 Staten Island A. C. 900 85,000 Columbia A. C. (Wash.) 400 65,000 Orange A. C. 650 60,000 Detroit A. C. 500 35,000 New Jersey A. C. 500 35,000 Flushing A. C. 200 25,000 Jersey City A. C. 500 35,000 Berkeley A. C. 250 225,000 ----- ---------- Eleven Union Clubs out of membership of 29 9,580 $1,210,000

“During the past ten months of the A. A. U.’s existence, six championship meetings have been given, namely:

“Boxing, wrestling and fencing championships; general gymnastic championships; swimming championships; Chicago Western championships; Detroit American championships; New York indoor American championships.”

The programme for the coming year, arranged by the A. A. U., is most extensive and comprises a really notable list of events.

“In view of all these facts it can readily be seen that the Amateur Athletic Union has done more during its short period of existence to encourage and foster athletic sports than the National has done in almost its entire history of ten years. The Union has nationalized athletics, and has proved itself to be national in character. It is composed of more and stronger clubs than the National, and it has not only come to stay, but also to make itself felt throughout the entire United States.”

In regard to the personal attacks made upon the leading spirits of the Union by the Manhattan Athletic Club Chronicle, we do not propose to say anything. We pass them by with the remark that “abuse is not argument,” and that such indiscriminate scattering of verbal mud can further no cause.

In conclusion, we wish to remark that the evil effects of this disruption are already becoming apparent. “Union is strength,” and the following fact shows that the athletic world is losing its unity:

“A Western Association has now been formed with a view to governing the sport solely in the West. To further this cause, the Missouri Club resigns from the N. A. A. A. A. and the Union, while the Wanderers of Chicago club resigned from the A. A. U.”

OUR THEATRICAL PLAYGROUND.

The Casino, for the time being, has deserted the French and German composers of comic opera and taken up the early English humor of Gilbert wedded to the modern English music of Sullivan. “The Yeoman of the Guard,” the latest production of these two writers, is now in the full tide of its run at the Casino. It is doubtful, however, if its prosperity will approach anywhere near that of its predecessor, “The Mikado.” The theme does not admit of the same supply of fun, life, color or picturesqueness in acting, and while Sir Arthur Sullivan has given us some of the best music he has ever written, it is not destined to strike the popular fancy. A comic opera that does not win popular taste is sure to be short-lived. This may not be evidence of good taste, but it is true, nevertheless. The manner, however, in which “The Yeoman of the Guard” is put on the stage here, as regards costumes and appointments, is good; but when the cast is considered it is time to hesitate in praise. With the exception of Miss Bertha Ricci, Mr. Ryley and Mr. Solomon, the other principals engaged to present it are unequal to the task. In women, particularly, is “The Yeoman” weak. Miss Sylvia Gerrish and Miss Isabella Urquhart are, to put it mildly, not happy in the rôles to which they are assigned. Vocally, they are not up to the mark, and their acting is on a parallel with their singing. The male members of the company are also of inferior make-up. All the coaching of Mr. Richard Barker, the London stage-manager, cannot make singers and actors without the proper material. With a good caste, “The Yeoman of the Guard” would have been a great success here, as it is now given. While it is by no means a failure, it has disappointed numbers who anticipated with pleasure its production.

A MELODRAMATIC UNDER-CURRENT.

Augustin Daly has once more plunged into the exciting scenes and thrilling situations of melodrama. With the production of “The Under-Current” at Niblo’s, he has gone back to his first and early love. “The Under Current” is a reminiscent kind of work in which familiar scenes are called to mind, but Mr. Daly has been candid enough to acknowledge the source from which he had taken them. To “Under the Gaslight,” one of the most successful local dramas of its day, and “A Flash of Lightning,” he is indebted for some of his effects. Both plays named were written by Mr. Daly. He has availed himself of some of the material contained in these works effectively. “The Under-Current” is English in story, English in character, and the scenes are all laid in England. The play was not successful, and after a short time was withdrawn from the stage of Niblo’s.

THE ROUGH-AND-TUMBLE DRAMA.

Charles H. Hoyt is one of the most prolific writers of the present day in a class of so-called farcical comedies. “A Hole in the Ground,” “The Parlor Match” and “A Brass Monkey” are the names of a few of his most successful works. They have been played in this and other cities to overflowing houses. One peculiarity of the Hoyt pot-pourri is that while people as a rule declare that the productions are rubbish and “all that kind of thing,” they crowd the theatres in which they are given, to enjoy the Hoyt nonsense and be amused at its absurdities. It is not, however, the story, its manner of construction, or the dialogue of a Hoyt skit which entertains, nearly so much as the situations, music, and rough-and-tumble business of a number of fairly clever people of variety-show tendencies. The Hoyt order of play will not live long, but the prolific author of this curiously named theatrical driftwood is bright enough to perceive that amusement seekers relish nonsense and absurdity on the stage, no matter how ridiculous, and he furnishes a supply equal to the demand.

OUR MARY’S RETURN.

Mary Anderson’s return to the United States and her reappearance in this city was hailed with welcome. It is three years since she left here to play a return engagement in England. Her success abroad has been such as she may feel just pride in. It moreover serves as a rebuke to a certain class of people who claim there is no English recognition for American talent. The absurdity of this assumption is self-evident. “A Winter’s Tale,” as presented at Palmer’s Theatre by Miss Anderson and her company is a creditable production.

ENGLISH BURLESQUE BY ENGLISH PLAYERS.

Nellie Farren and Fred Leslie, of the Gaiety Theatre, London, arrived in this city just prior to the presidential election, and opened at the Standard Theatre shortly after in the burlesque, “Monte Cristo, Jr.” Miss Farren has been the pet of the London public for twenty years or more. She won her place to honorable regard by her acknowledged abilities as an actress of burlesque characters. Her talent, however, is not confined to this class of entertainment alone. A long experience on the stage--she began her career before the footlights when she was a child--has given her opportunity to attempt all kinds of parts. In the romantic, domestic and Shakespearian drama she has made a commendable record. Boys’ parts are her particular specialty, and in these she excels. Miss Farren has introduced English burlesque in its best form to New Yorkers. The attempt has been made before by other companies from London, but shapely forms in scanty costumes were suborned to the artistic requirements of the performers. In English burlesque, as given by Miss Farren and her Gaiety Company, we get an attractive travesty told with intelligent action, bright music, movement and life. It has made an impression as it deserved, while it has given contradiction to the theory entertained by the few that because Londoners could not recognize the burlesque elements in an American company sent hastily abroad, a New York public would reject an English burlesque company here. Bringing coals to Newcastle must, in the regular order of things, prove unprofitable, but there was no good reason why the theatre-goers of this city should withhold their patronage from an entertainment which has won the attention of the amusement seekers of the British metropolis. The engagement of the London Gaiety Company at the Standard has taught us much in the line of burlesque.

~Richard Neville.~

~A story~ which deals with a routine of life, strangely unlike the common every-day existence of civilization, is the novel, entitled “A Mexican Girl,” by Frederick Thickstun (Boston: Ticknor & Co. 1888). The most blasé novel reader will find his attention riveted by the novelty and wildness of the scenes depicted. The word-painting and dialect are good throughout, and, as a rule, the characters are very strongly drawn; but there is a striking improbability in the supposition that any man could, like the New England schoolmaster, have reached the age of thirty, or thereabouts, and remained so ignorant of the ways of the world. The climax of the story is, moreover, somewhat unsatisfactory. The principal character is dismissed rather summarily. In spite of such disadvantages, the volume is full of strong situations, and the interest is well sustained, while the scene, laid in the Southwest, in a community composed of Americans, Anglo-Americans, and Mexicans, serves as a weird and picturesque background.

* * * * *

~An~ amusing and interesting account of a yachting expedition is to be found in “The Devil of a Trip; or, The Log of the Yacht Champlain,” by J. Armoy Knox, the well-known editor of Texas Siftings (New York: National Literary Bureau). The volume forms a number of “The Unique Series,” and is entitled to its position. It consists, in fact, of a photo-engraved reproduction of the letters from Colonel Knox, as they originally appeared in the columns of sundry well-known daily papers, with the addition of clever marginal sketches by Thomas Worth. The voyage was an inland one, and apart from the entertainment to be derived from the book, it may serve to furnish many hints to intending voyagers of desirable routes of travel.

* * * * *

~Messrs. A. G. Spalding & Bros.~ have issued a little hand-book entitled “Baseball,” by Harry Palmer, in view of their Australian tour. It contains short and interesting biographies of the players who compose the Australian teams, and careful directions and explanations as to the science of the game. Every lover of the national game should own a copy of this manual, if only for reference in settling knotty points in the intricacies of play.

* * * * *

~When~ Mr. W. W. Greener adds another to his list of works on the subject of guns, the sportsman may feel sure of gaining valuable information by the perusal of the volume. “Ne sutor ultra crepidam,” is a motto which should especially apply to writers of books on such subjects, and a volume of this description, unless from the pen of an expert, is worse than useless. In “Modern Shotguns” (Messrs. Cassell & Co.) the author, without reiterating what he has already published, has given sportsmen a valuable guide to the selection of the right weapon in the right place. The mass of useful and interesting facts and information incorporated will please every one interested in such matters, while the cuts and diagrams are a markedly useful feature.

* * * * *

~An~ account of a winter sojourn in the kindly climate of a tropic land may, to readers enduring the rigors of a northern latitude, serve either of two purposes. It may inspire with envy and malice, or serve to transport one for a while far from the interminable snow and slush. Such as can read, without evoking the darker passions, a prettily told narrative of a winter spent in the pleasant warmth of a land blessed with

“A snow of blossoms, and a wild of flowers,”

should promptly peruse “A Winter Picnic,” by J. and C. E. Dickinson and S. E. Dowd (New York: H. Holt & Co. 1888). The ladies who have contributed to the book seem to have basked the winter through in the glorious sunshine, but also have not neglected to chronicle, in an amusing way, many a small inconvenience and drawback. The primitive civilization of Nassau, the queer traits of the negroes, and, in short, all the curious features of a country utterly unlike the great marts of commerce, are duly set forth in an entertaining fashion.

* * * * *

~The~ literature of amateur photography--that most fascinating pastime--grows apace. “The International Annual of Anthony’s Photographic Bulletin, for 1888” (New York: Messrs. E. & H. T. Anthony; London: Messrs. H. Greenwood & Co.), is a charming contribution. It embodies a vast collection of papers on the various aspects of the art from the pens of the best authorities on the subject. Information on any and every point can be found in the pages, and no amateur photographer should omit to study it. Messrs. Anthony’s manual for amateurs, “How to Make Photographs,” contains a variety of practical instructions and formulæ which are of substantial service.

* * * * *

~We~ have received some charming children’s story-books of an exceptionally interesting character. Messrs. Lee & Shepard, Boston, and Charles T. Dillingham, New York, are the publishers, and the excellent appearance of these seasonable little volumes reflects much credit on them. The mere fact that the text of “The King of the Golden River, or the Black Brothers,” a legend of Stiria, is from the pen of John Ruskin, and the illustrations by Richard Doyle, speaks for itself. “The Last of the Hugger-muggers, a Giant Story,” and its sequel, “Kobboltozo,” by Christopher Pearse Cranch, are thrilling tales for the delectation of the little ones. Other two books for juvenile readers, but for those out of the nursery, from the same publishers, are “A Start in Life,” by J. T. Trowbridge, and “Little Miss Wheezy’s Brother,” by Penn Shirley. Both are admirably calculated to effect the purpose for which they were written, and will prove admirable gift-books for this holiday season.

THE BRITISH FOX’S LAMENT.

“‘A southerly wind and a cloudy sky,’ So runs a line of the hunting song; But a bleak nor’-easter is what suits me, Driving and whirling the snow along.

“From the times of yore has the fox been sung As a sly old rogue and merry wight, Who loves the gay sound of the horn and hound And gobbles chickens the livelong night.

“Such things may have been, but the times are changed; Chickens are scarce, and the farmers keen, And with all the hunting that’s going on, I’m quite played out and am growing lean.

“Now, a neighbor was lately telling me Of a land that sounds like Paradise, Where instead of a fox they hunt a bag, Where chickens are cheap and very nice.

“And I wonder much if such things can be; Egad! how I’d laugh to see that sport; But they ‘break us up’ when they catch us here-- What do they do when the bag is caught?

“I have half a mind to speak to my wife And take the cubs to these promised lands: As I go back home, I’ll call at the bank And see how much to my credit stands.

“But, hark! I’ll be hanged if it ain’t that horn-- I guess I’ll skip ere the hounds catch on.” A few minutes after, the pack came up And found the old “varmint” home had gone.

Sporting Tramp.

AT THE RIDING SCHOOL.

~In~ her new riding habit of soft olive green She appeared quite as lovely and proud as a queen, As around the big ring with a petulant bob She sailed on the spine of the old sorrel cob.

She rocked like the reed in the breezes a-dream, She rocked like a lily upon a wild stream; And she made the old cob like a bald-eagle fly When she hit him right over his only good eye.

Oh, she seemed like a queen in the yellow side-saddle, When she made the wild horse to “Erminie” skedaddle! And when the band ceased, from the stirrup she dropped, And over the platform most gracefully hopped.

Then I heard her observe with a gesture elate: “I am now riding daily to pull down my weight-- I am losing flesh daily by riding, and that Is the reason I’ve stopped taking Smith’s anti-fat!”

--Puck.

* * * * *

~Miss Gushington~ (enjoying a sleigh ride): I think you have a lovely horse, Mr. De Lyle. About what does such a fine horse cost?

~Mr. de Lyle~: Two dollars an hou--oh--er--yes, that horse is worth about eight hundred dollars, Miss Gushington.--Epoch.

* * * * *

~Smith~: What paper are you working on now?

~Jones~: Ain’t working on any paper. The season is over with me.

“How’s that?”

“I was the humorist on the Bugle who got off jokes on the baseball umpire. As soon as the baseball season closed I was bounced. I’m trying to get a position as a coal-dealer and slipped-up-on-the-ice humorist.”--Texas Siftings.

* * * * *

~A pretty~ maiden fell overboard at New Bedford the other day, and her lover leaned over the side of the boat, as she rose to the surface, and said: “Give me your hand.” “Please ask papa,” she gently murmured, as she calmly sank for the second time.--Boston Herald.

* * * * *

ANOTHER HUNTING INCIDENT.

~Doctor P.~ had been asked to make one of a party to shoot over some private preserves. It turned out to be one of his unlucky days.

“I give you my word,” he at last exclaimed, in despair, “I can’t kill a thing!”

“Come, doctor,” suggested his host, “just imagine that you are at the bedside of a patient.”--Judge.

* * * * *

~Oh~! music sweet has charms, you know, To soothe the savage breast; It lightens troubles, calms all woe, And gives the weary rest.

In order, then, to kill his cares, And all his sorrows check, The blear-eyed, big-mouthed bull-dog wears A brass band round his neck.

--New York Journal.

* * * * *

~Wife~ (indignantly): I’ve heard through a certain married lady in town, John, that you bet me against a horse the other night that your candidate would win?

~Husband~: Well, what of it? My candidate is bound to win; the other man hasn’t the ghost of a show, and, as you’ve always wanted a riding horse, I thought I would just get you one, and get it cheap.--The Epoch.

* * * * *

~Parson’s Wife~: Why, Johnny, you’re not going fishing on Sunday, are you?

~Johnny~: Oh, no--no. I--I only thought I’d take the pole away from the house so that my brothers needn’t be tempted.--Life.

* * * * *

~Captain~: Well, what do you make it out to be?

~Miss Culture~ (of Boston): Why, it is a feline vessel, a Grimalkin craft.

~Captain~: Oh, yes; we call ’em cat-boats.--Ocean.

* * * * *

~Jones~: Ramrod, they say that it takes a temperature of 64° below zero to kill a wild goose.

~Ramrod~: Well, what of it?

~Jones~: Oh, I was just thinking that you won’t be likely to get any wild geese this season, that’s all.--Burlington Free Press.

~The~ following extracts from Mr. H. H. Johnston’s paper in the Fortnightly Review for October will interest sportsmen. Mr. Johnston grows enthusiastic over the new territory ceded by the Sultan of Zanzibar to the Imperial British East African Company:

“The animal products of this region are typically African, and at the time of my journeyings therein it was a sportsman’s paradise.... Buffaloes, which abound so as to be dangerous, provide very eatable beef. Rhinoceros are so numerous in the interior that the horns are an important item in trade, for they may be sold on the coast for three or four rupees each (say 6s.). Hippopotami are abundant in the rivers and lakes.... The elephant abounds in the neighborhood of Kilimanjaro and Kenia to the extent of many thousands. He here becomes quite a mountaineer, and ranges through the magnificent forests that clothe the upper slopes of these giants among African peaks. The natives waylay his forest tracks with artfully devised pitfalls and traps, preferring this more cowardly way of procuring their ivory to facing the elephant in the chase.... Lions’ skins are less easy to obtain from the natives, as that animal is rarely killed by them; but sportsmen might shoot him to a considerable extent, as he is both common and bold. Monkey skins of the handsome variety of bushy white-tailed Colobus, which is alone found in this region, are valuable.

“Ostriches are exceedingly numerous throughout this district of East Africa; the species which is here represented is the Struthio Danaoides of Captain Shelley’s determination. It differs from the widespread Struthio Camelus in the color of the soft parts and naked skin, and the size and markings of the egg. When living in Taveita, in the summer and autumn of 1884, I and my men used to largely subsist on their eggs, which were brought us in numbers by the natives, and sold for about a pennyworth of cloth each. Of course, to any ornithologist, this country is exceedingly interesting, and there is an abundance of guinea-fowl, francolin, pigeons, and bustards.”

* * * * *

~Should~ the disappearance of all kinds of game, with which we are so much threatened in America, really come to pass, it looks as if Scandinavia would be a good field to seek. Bears and wolves were unusually numerous in Sweden last summer; in the province of Jemtland four were seen on one occasion, and much damage to cattle was reported. Elks were very plentiful, in consequence of rigid preservation, particularly in Central and Southern Sweden, large herds having been seen of these noble animals. A great royal elk hunt took place recently on the Hunneberg estate, in Sudermania, a Swedish crown property, when upwards of 100 elks were killed. As to feather game, the season in Sweden was better than was anticipated after so long and severe a winter. From several parts came good reports of blackgame, capercailzie and partridges. For the protection of the last during the winter, when the snow makes feeding difficult, the Swedish Shooting Association has decided upon granting awards to farmers who feed these birds during that season.

In Norway, however, game was scarce, owing to the terribly severe and long winter. This was particularly the case with the rype, or brown ptarmigan. The reindeer shooting was good, and bears seem to have been more than usually numerous last summer, particularly in South-central Norway.

* * * * *

~The~ following facts may, however, prove instructive to Americans who think of emulating the example set by some few of their countrymen, and seeking their sport abroad at the present time. In the Valuation Appeal Court for Inverness, held recently, the first case called was that of Donald Cameron, of Lochiel, who appealed against the valuation of his deer forest at the rate of £25 per stag, and of his grouse-shootings at 10s. per brace. Finally the case was settled at the rate of £20 per stag, and 10s. per brace of grouse. It would be of much interest to know what the rating of these properties would be if they were used for agricultural purposes. It is worthy of note that Scotch venison does not fetch more than 10c. per pound for the hind quarter in the London market, and half that sum for the fore quarter.

* * * * *

~The~ following chronology of railways affords a good index to the progressiveness of the countries mentioned: The first railway was opened in England on Sept. 27, 1825; Austria, Sept. 30, 1828; France, Oct. 1, 1828; United States, Dec. 28, 1829; Belgium, May 3, 1835; Germany, Dec. 7, 1835; Cuba, in 1837; Russia, on April 4, 1838; Italy, in September, 1839; Switzerland, on July 15, 1844; Jamaica, Nov. 21, 1845; Spain, Oct. 24, 1848; Canada, in May, 1850; Mexico and Peru, in 1850; Sweden, in 1851; Chili, in January, 1852; India, on April 18, 1853; Norway, in July, 1853; Portugal, in 1854; Brazil, April 21, 1854; Victoria (Australia), Sept. 14, 1854; Columbia, Jan. 28, 1850; New South Wales, Sept. 25, 1850; Egypt, in January, 1856; Natal, on June 26, 1860; and in Turkey, on Oct. 4, 1860.

~This~ department of ~Outing~ is specially devoted to paragraphs of the doings of members of organized clubs engaged in the reputable sports of the period, and also to the recording of the occurrence of the most prominent events of the current season. On the ball-fields it will embrace Cricket, Baseball, Lacrosse and Football. On the bays and rivers, Yachting, Rowing and Canoeing. In the woods and streams, Hunting, Shooting and Fishing. On the lawns, Archery, Lawn Tennis and Croquet. Together with Ice-Boating, Skating, Tobogganing, Snowshoeing, Coasting, and winter sports generally.

Secretaries of clubs will oblige by sending in the names of their presidents and secretaries, with the address of the latter, together with the general result of their most noteworthy contests of the month, addressed, “Editor of ~Outing~,” 239 Fifth Avenue, New York.

TO CORRESPONDENTS.

All communications intended for the Editorial Department should be addressed to “The Editor,” and not to any person by name. Advertisements, orders, etc., should be kept distinct, and addressed to the manager. Letters and inquiries from anonymous correspondents will not receive attention. All communications to be written on one side of the paper only.

AMATEUR PHOTOGRAPHY.

~At~ a meeting of the Photographic Society of Philadelphia, held recently, the executive committee of the Interchange reported that it had selected from the slides of 1886-’87 two hundred specimens to be sent to England in exchange for the same number to be sent to this country.

* * * * *

~During~ the past year the Chicago Lantern Slide Club has added materially to its numbers. The following new members were admitted some time since: C. E. Bradbury, J. L. Atwater, E. H. Reed, G. H. Daggett, Charles Stadler, F. S. Osborn, B. D. Washington, and Wallace Fairbank. Three members were added to the executive committee: Dr. C. F. Matteson, E. J. Wagner, and G. A. Douglas.

* * * * *

~The~ Society of Amateur Photographers of New York gave a Smoking Concert, November 18, which proved a very enjoyable affair. There was some good vocal and instrumental music, and after the concert was over, the audience had a “German-American tea”--the tea having been brewed in a keg, after the manner of the German. Strange to say, on the conclusion of the repast there were several “kegs full,” after the manner of the American.

* * * * *

~The~ New Orleans Camera Club has recently taken a number of sketches of an “outing” along the line of the Northeastern railroad. Some pretty bits of scenery and quaint negro characters were taken during the trip. The following gentlemen headed the excursion party: President William Mandeville, Vice-President Joseph A. Hincks, Secretary Charles E. Fermer, Treasurer Harry T. Howard.

ATHLETICS.

~The~ fall handicap meeting of the Harvard Athletic Association was held November 5, on Holmes’ Field, Cambridge, Mass. The events were as follows:

100-yards run--First heat, O. K. Hawes, ’92 (2 yds.), first. Time, 10½s. Second heat, E. C. Moen, ’91 (scratch), first. Time, 10 2-5s. Final heat, O. K. Hawes, ’92 (2 yds.), first. Time, 10 2-5s.

Running broad jump--G. R. White (scratch), first. Distance, 20 ft. 2½ in.

One-mile walk--C. T. R. Bates, ’92 (30 sec.), first. Time, 8m. 1½s. J. E. Howe, ’91 (scratch), second.

One-mile run--J. L. Dodge, ’91 (100 yds.), first. Time, 4m. 34s. A. M. White, ’92 (100 yds.), second.

Running high jump--E. W. Dustan, ’89 (3 in.), first. Distance, 5 ft.

440-yards run--T. J. Stead, ’91 (10 yds.), first. Time, 52¾s. W. H. Wright, ’92, second.

Half-mile run--G. L. Batchelder, ’92 (40 yds.), first. Time, 2m. 3s.

220-yards run--S. Wells, Jr., ’91 (12 yds.), first. Time, 23 2-5s. O. K. Hawes, ’92 (5 yds.), second.

The officers of the course were: Referee, G. B. Morrison, ’83; Judges, J. D. Bradley, L. S., F. B. Lund, ’88; Judge of Walking, H. H. Bemis, ’87; Timekeepers, J. G. Lathrop, F. D. Fisher, ’86, J. T. Taylor, E. S. Wright, L. S.; Scorer, Allston Burr, ’89.

* * * * *

~The~ fall games of the Friends’ Central School, Philadelphia, were held November 4, at the University Grounds.

Pole vault--Stuart, 7 ft. 5 in.

One-mile run--Emerick, 6m. 13 3-5s.

Running high jump--Sill, 4 ft. 8 in.

Standing broad jump--Goldsmith, 9 ft. 2 in.

Half-mile walk--Wilkeson, 4m. 27½s.

100-yards run (juniors)--Final heat, Stuart, 11 4-5s.

Throwing baseball--Burrough, 1.

100-yards run (seniors)--Final heat, Goldsmith, 11 4-5s.

440-yards run--A’Becket, 1.

Three-legged race--Burrough and Marter, 11 4-5s.

One-mile bicycle race--Mode, 3m. 38 2-3s.

Putting the shot--Meredith, 27 ft. 9 in.

Running broad jump--Dumont, 18 ft. 4 in.

Hurdle race--Dickeson, 22 2-5s.

Tug-of-war--Class of ’89, 1, by 3 inches.

* * * * *

~The~ Athletes of the Gaelic Club of Ireland left for home on the City of Rome, October 31. The trip to this country did not prove a great financial success.

* * * * *

~The~ first annual games of the Outing Athletic Club were held on the grounds of the Brooklyn Athletic Association, November 6. The attendance was large, the management good, the track in fine condition, and the racing events were closely contested and interesting. Nearly six hundred people witnessed the sports, which resulted as follows:

100-yards professional race, handicap--E. Herline, Wilmington (5½ yds.) first; Steve Farrell, Rockville, Conn., second. Time, 10 1-5s.

120-yards run, handicap (amateur)--Thomas Lee, N. Y. Y. M. C. A., first; N. Linicus, Olympic A. C., second. Time, 12½s.

Running high jump, handicap--M. O. Sullivan, Pastime A. C., first; R. K. Pritchard, Staten Island A. C., second. Height, 5 ft. 5 in., handicap 5 in.; second, 5 ft. 8½ in.

One-mile walk, handicap--W. F. Pollman, Pastime A. C., first (40 sec.); J. B. Keating second. Time, 7m. 1-5s.

Half-mile run, handicap--A. Aspengein, Prospect Harriers (42 yds.), first; W. H. Moore, N. Y. A. C. (45 yds.), second. Time, 2m. 2 3-5s.

350-yards run, handicap--R. R. Houston, I. H. (20 yds.), first; W. E. Hughes, Pastime A. C., second. Time, 39 4-5s.

Running broad jump, handicap--S. D. See, (36 in.), Brooklyn A. C., first, 18 ft. 9½ in.; W. Neuman, Olympic A. C. (30 in.), second.

One-mile run, handicap--P. C. Petrie, Olympic A. C. (43 yds.), first; E. Hjertberg, Olympic A. C., (35 yds.), second.

220-yards hurdle race, handicap--A. Brown, Pastime A. C. (8 yds.), first; W. H. Struse, S. I. A. C., second. Time, 27½s.

Putting the 16-lb. shot, handicap--W. Neuman, Olympic A. C. (6 ft.), first; Alf. Ing, Y. M. C. A. (1 ft.), second. Distance, 31 ft. 4½ in.

* * * * *

~I. B. Meredith~, the well-known sprinter and football player of Ireland is coming to America.

* * * * *

~Schifferstein~, the California amateur sprinter, has decided to become a professional. He and Bethune will be a great pair at 100 yards.

* * * * *

~An~ athletic enterprise has been set on foot by the National Assoc. of Amateur Athletes of America. It is this: The association has determined to hold a national meeting immediately before their international championship next May. The meeting will be open to every amateur in the United States, and the winners of contests will form an international team which will make a tour of Europe, entering all amateur championship games held in foreign countries. The team will also hold a series of games at the Paris Exposition of 1889. Many prominent men interested in athletics are very favorably impressed with the scheme and believe that it will be a successful one.

* * * * *

~The~ following definition of an amateur has been adopted by the Western Association: An amateur athlete is one who has never competed with or against a professional for a prize, or who has never competed for a staked bet or other monetary consideration or under a fictitious name, or who has never, directly or indirectly, either in competition or as an instructor, or as an assistant or through any connection whatever with any form of athletic games obtained any financial consideration, either directly or indirectly; who has never sold or pledged any prize or token won or obtained through connection with athletics, or whose membership in any athletic organization is of no pecuniary benefit to himself, directly or indirectly.

* * * * *

~The~ games of the Manhattan Athletic Club, November 6, were of a high order. Four new records were made, two on the running path and two on the field. The cinder-path was in excellent condition. Arthur George and G. L. Young, the champion cross-country runners of England, gave exhibitions of their style. Conneff and Mitchell, the Irish runner and the weight thrower, made new records. The following is a summary of the events:

100-yards run--First heat: F. Westing, M. A. C. (scratch), and A. F. Copeland, M. A. C. (2 yds.), a dead heat, in 10 2-5s. Second heat: J. S. Wieners, Jr., M. A. C. (9 yds.), first, in 10 4-5s. Third heat: H. Shipman (4½ yds.), first, in 10 4-5s. Fourth heat: J. C. Devereaux, M. A. C. (5 yds.), first, in 10 4-5s. Fifth heat: W. M. Macdermott, M. A. C. (7 yds.), first, in 10 4-5s. Final heat: Macdermott first, Devereaux second, Copeland third; time, 10 1-5s. It was a fine race, and less than 18 inches divided the four men at the finish.

Two-mile walk--E. D. Lange, M. A. C. (scratch), first, time 14m. 45 2-5s.; F. Fillistrand, W. S. A. C. (80 sec.), second, in 16m. 21s.; F. A. Ware, M. A. C. (25 sec.), third, not timed.

Throwing 16-lb. hammer--M. W. Ford, Brooklyn (25 feet), first, at 78 ft. 11 in.; J. S. Mitchell, M. A. C. (scratch), second, at 101 ft. 4 in.; F. L. Lambrecht, M. A. C. (scratch), third, at 101 ft. 3 in.

Two-mile run--T. P. Conneff, M. A. C. (scratch), first, in 9m. 43s.; A. Sheridan, W. S. A. C. (175 yds.), second; T. Owens, W. S. A. C. (205 yds.), third; won easily. Conneff made 1 mile in 4m. 48s.; 1¼ miles, 6m. 3 4-5s.; 1½ miles, 7m. 19s., and 1¾ miles, 8m. 32 2-5s. His time at 1¼ miles supplants P. D. Skillman’s 6m. 5 4-5s. made at Brooklyn, July 4, 1887, and his time at 1¾ miles is the best American record, there having been no previous record for the distance. Had Conneff been pushed he could have broken Carter’s two-mile record of 9m. 38 3-5s.

120-yards hurdle race over 3 ft. 6 in. obstacles--A. F. Copeland, M. A. C., first; H. Mapes, Columbia College, second; E. M. Vandervoort, M. A. C., third. Won easily in 16 2-5s. The record is 16 1-5s., by A. A. Jordan, N. Y. A. C.

Quarter-mile run for novices--J. E. Gounison, Columbia College, first; W. Bogardus, M. A. C., second; J. A. Allen, Star A. C. C., third. Won by 5 ft., after a good race, in 58 4-5s.

Running broad jump--Victor Mapes, C. C. A. A. (1 ft. 6 in.), first, at 22 ft. 4½ in.; A. F. Remsen, M. A. C. (1 ft. 3 in.), second, at 22 ft. 4 in.; Z. A. Cooper, U. A. C. (3 ft. 6 in.), third, at 22 ft. 3 in.

350-yards run--J. C. Devereaux, M. A. C. (9 yds.), first; A. F. Copeland, M. A. C. (3 yds.), second; H. Shipman, M. A. C. (12 yds.), third. Copeland got a good start, but was unable to get through the field. He ran a close second in the good time of 39 3-5s.

Field officers: Referee, G. W. Carr, M. A. C.; Judges, C. H. Mapes, Columbia College; W. Gage, M. A. C., and G. L. M. Sacks, M. A. C.; Timers, M. P. Bagg, M. A. C.; G. A. Avery, M. A. C., and A. F. Kimbel, M. A. C.; Judge of Walking, G. L. M. Sacks; Starter, H. P. Pike, M. A. C.

* * * * *

~The~ amateur athletic clubs of Chicago and vicinity, at present members of the Amateur Athletic Union, have organized a local committee, to be known as the Executive Committee of the Associated A. A. U. Clubs of Chicago and vicinity. The committee will be composed of three delegates from each A. A. U. club within fifty miles of Chicago, and will legislate, under the board of managers of the A. A. U., on all matters pertaining to the interests of the associated clubs and Western athletics in general. The committee is at present composed of delegates from the following clubs: Chicago Amateur Athletic Association, Garden City Athletic Club, First Regt. (I. N. G.) A. A., and Pullman Athletic Club. Officers: Hall T. K. Fake, P. A. C., chairman; Noah Clark, C. A. A. A., secretary and treasurer. The following circular has been issued:

~To the Amateur Athletic Organizations of Chicago and Vicinity~:

The Executive Committee of the Associated A. A. U. clubs of Chicago and vicinity beg to call your attention to the enclosed announcement. It is to the interest of all amateur athletic clubs to associate themselves with a national and thoroughly representative governing body, having for its object the advancement of American amateur athletics and whose rulings shall be final and authoritative on all points of importance in such matters, and whose decisions shall have international recognition. The formation of the local executive committee insures the proper representation of each local club, as well as the thorough investigation and care of the mutual interests of the associate clubs and Western athletic interests in general.

Respectfully, ~Noah Clark~, Sec’y.

Chicago, Oct. 17, 1888.

* * * * *

~The~ American Athletic Union held its first supplementary indoor meeting for the Championship of the United States, November 21, at Madison Square Garden in this city. W. B. Curtis was referee and the judges A. V. De Gorcouria, E. C. Carter, and John Huneker. The following is a summary of the events:

Seventy-five yards--First heat, W. C. White, N. Y. A. C., first; A. J. Murburg, second; time, 8 2-5s. Second heat, Horace Walker, Yale A. C., first; W. E. Hughes, P. A. C., second; time, 8 2-5s. Third heat, F. W. Robinson, Yale College and N. Y. A. C., first; H. Luerson, P. A. C., second; time, 8 2-5s. Fourth heat, Thomas J. Lee, O. A. C., first; N. H. Strusse, S. I. A. C., second; time, 8 2-5s. Fifth heat, S. J. King, Col. A. C., Washington, first; F. H. Babcock, N. Y. A. C., second; time, 8 2-5s. Sixteen competed. Final heat, Robinson, Walker, King and Lee competed, the others being beaten in the supplementary heats. Robinson won by a foot; time, 8 2-5s; King second.

200-yards hurdle (3 feet 6 inches)--Run in one heat. Won by A. A. Jordan, N. Y. A. C.; time, 30 4-5s.; G. Schwegler, second; E. Lentilhon, Yale College and N. Y. A. C., third. Four ran. Jordan won as he pleased.

Three-quarter mile walk--T. Sherman, N. J. A. C.; W. R. Burckhardt, P. A. C.; H. Dimse, P. A. C.; Otto Hassell, Chicago A. A. A., and J. C. Kouth, P. A. C., competed. Won easily by Burckhardt; time, 5m. 14s.; Sherman second, Kouth third.

Standing high jump--W. Norris, S. I. A. C.; A. Shroeder, N. Y. A. C.; S. Crook, M. A. C.; F. T. Ducharme, Detroit A. C.; Samuel Toch, S. I. A. C.; R. K. Pritchard, S. I. A. C.; J. R. Elder, Columbia A. C., Washington, D. C.; John Scheurer, O. A. C.; E. Giannini, N. Y. A. C., and B. L. Harrison, Orange A. C., competed. Crook won with 4 ft. 11½ in. This is within three-quarters of an inch of the American record, and beats the English record 1½ inches. The start was made at 3 ft. 6 in.

1,000 yards run--G. V. Gilbert, N. Y. A. C.; E. A. Merrick, M. A. C.; S. Barr, S. I. A. C.; W. T. Thompson, S. I. A. C., and W. J. Gregory, Birmingham A. C., competed. It was a good race, and during the last lap and a half Gilbert and Thompson were in advance and running for their lives. Gilbert lasted the longest and won by several yards. Time, 2m. 26 4-5s.

150-yards run--First heat, W. C. White, N. Y. A. C., first; Thomas S. Lee, O. A. C., second; time, 17 1-5s. Second heat, S. J. King, Col. A. C., Washington, D. C., first; W. E. Hughes, P. A. C., second; time, 17½s. Third heat, F. T. Ducharme, Detroit A. C., first; S. E. Corbett, S. I. A. C., second. Final heat, White won a splendid race by less than a foot. Time, 17 1-5s. King was second and Hughes third.

Kicking Football (for accuracy)--C. T. Schlesinger, N. Y. A. C.; T. O. Speir, Orange A. C.; Frank Cunningham, S. I. A. C.; E. J. Chapman, S. I. A. C.; D. A. Lindsay, S. I. A. C.; W. F. Allen, M. A. C.; C. T. Hollister, M. A. C.; E. J. Laidlaw, N. Y. A. C.; G. A. White, M. A. C.; H. Sinclair, M. A. C., and J. J. Barker, P. A. C., competed. Cunningham won, Sinclair second and Allen third.

600-yards run--Stewart Barr, S. I. A. C.; J. F. Robinson, S. I. A. C.; E. E. Barnes, O. A. C.; A. W. S. Cochrane, N. Y. A. C., and J. P. Thornton, N. Y. A. C., competed. Thornton won in hand. Time, 1m. 23 2-5s. Barnes was second and Cochrane third.

56-lb. weight (for height)--E. Giannini, N. Y. A. C.; George R. Gray, N. Y. A. C.; C. A. J. Queckberner, S. I. A. C.; J. Hackett, P. A. C., and M. O. Sullivan, P. A. C., competed. Sullivan won it with 13 ft. 11⅝ in., beating his own record 2⅝ in., made October 2, 1886. Queckberner was second at 13 ft. 7⅝ in. and Hackett at 13 ft. 5⅝ in.

300-yards hurdle (2 feet 6 inches)--Run in one heat. A. A. Jordan, N. Y. A. C.; A. Brown, P. A. C.; G. Schwelger, A. A. C., and E. Lentilhon, Yale College and N. Y. A. C., competed. Jordan won without trouble. Time, 41s. Brown was second and Schwelger third.

Running hop, step and jump--Nine of fourteen entries competed. G. R. Robertson, M. A. C., won with 43 ft. 1 in.; E. E. Smith, B. A. A., second, 40 ft. 5 in., and T. H. Babcock, N. Y. A. C., third, 40 ft. The world’s record is 48 ft. 3 in., by J. Purcell, Limerick, June 9, 1887, and the American 44 ft. 1¾ in., by M. W. Ford, New York, May 10, 1884.

Putting 24-lb. shot--George R. Gray, N. Y. A. C.; C. A. J. Queckberner, S. I. A. C.; M. O. Sullivan, P. A. C., and J. Hackett, P. A. C., competed. Gray was in grand form, and covered 32 ft. 6¾ in., which beats the world’s record 4 ft. 7¾ in., it being 27 ft. 11 in., made by George Ross, Salford, England, November 13, 1876. Gray then made an exhibition put, and covered 33 ft. 9½ in. Queckberner was second in the competition, with 31 ft. 3 in., and Sullivan third, with 27 ft. 3½ in. The American record was 25 ft. 7 in., made by M. Markoe, Princeton, N. J., May 13, 1876.

Two-mile run--T. A. Collett, P. A. C.; A. B. George, Spartan Harriers, England; P. C. Petrie, O. A. C.; G. Y. Gilbert, N. Y. A. C.; H. A. Smith, S. I. A. C.; W. F. Thompson, S. I. A. C.; J. Adelsdorfer, P. A. C., and E. Hjertberg, O. A. C., competed. George, who is a brother of W. G. George, the well-known professional long distance runner of England, won easily. Time, 10m. 18 1-5s. The American record is 9m. 38 3-5s., made by E. C. Carter in the open air. E. Hjertberg, O. A. C., was second in the competition, and T. A. Collett, P. A. C., third.

300-yards run, in one heat--J. P. Thornton, N. Y. A. C., won with few inches to spare. Time, 34 3-5s. W. H. Strusse, S. I. A. C., was second, and Horace F. Walker, Yale College, third. Five started.

Four-mile walk--H. Druise, P. A. C.; S. Cramer, P. A. C.; J. C. Korth, P. A. C.; O. E. Paynter, S. I. A. C.; W. R. Burckhardt, P. A. C.; W. Donahy, Prospect Harriers; W. Pollman, P. A. C., and W. A. Berrian, M. A. C., competed. Cramer won. Time, 32m. 13s. The first mile was in 7m. 52 4-5s.; two miles, 16m. 1 3-5s., and three miles, 24m. 14 2-5s.

* * * * *

~The~ Naval Academy cadets had their usual Thanksgiving Day sports, November 29, at Annapolis, Md. The athletic tournament which came off in the forenoon was witnessed by a large number of people. The boys were defeated after an exciting contest in a football game with the Johns Hopkins University team of Baltimore. The score stood--Johns Hopkins, 25; cadets, 12.

In the athletic tournament Cadet Camden cleared 21 ft. 4 in. in a running long jump; Cadet Hoff reached 5 ft. 4 in. in a running high jump; Cadet Chase 7 ft. 8 in. in pole vaulting; Cadet McDonald put a 16-pound shot 32 ft. 10 in., and Cadet Taylor 31 ft. The one hundred yards dash was won by Cadet Brand in 10 sec., or rather so said the timers, beating Cadet Sullivan ¼ of a second.

Throwing the baseball was won by Cadet Beck, who reached 107 yards; Cadet Trickle, second, 103 yards.

In the tug-of-war the contestants were the first and third divisions of cadets against the second and fourth, about 100 on a side. The first and third walked away with their competitors.

* * * * *

~The~ following detailed account of the Montreal Athletic Fair may prove of service in affording hints to organizations of a similar description:

In September, 1887, the Montreal Amateur Athletic Association purchased a fine piece of property in the West End for an athletic ground. The purchase price was $45,000; of this they paid $15,000 in cash. An active canvass among the members and friends resulted in $17,000 being subscribed towards the liquidation of the liability. The leveling of the grounds, fencing, grand-stands and cinder-path (one-third of a mile) cost upwards of $10,000 more, with pavilions and dressing-rooms and other improvements yet to build. The idea of a bazaar or fair, which had been mooted two years previously, was again advanced, the fair friends of the members becoming enthusiastic over it. After some preliminaries the idea took shape; a committee was formed to further the scheme; each club in the association formed a fair committee. A lady was chosen and appointed president of each club table, with power to select as many young ladies as were deemed necessary to assist. Before the summer holidays the scheme was well under way, and during the months of July and August, at most of the Canadian summer resorts, groups of ladies could be seen at work making costly and handsome fancy work for the fair.

The Executive Committee finally stood as follows: F. M. Larmonth, president; D. J. Watson, hon. sec.; Wm. Bruce, treasurer. James Paton, S. M. Baylis, A. G. Walsh, I. Sutherland, A. G. Higginson, and the following chairmen: W. H. White (association), F. C. A. McIndoe (lacrosse), A. W. Stevenson (snow-shoe), F. G. Gnaedinger (bicycle), M. Freeman (toboggan), G. L. Cains (football), W. D. Aird (hockey), W. J. Cleghorn (Junior Lacrosse Club), Harry Brophy (Cinderella), Fred. S. Brush (baseball), W. A. Coates (entertainment).

The lady presidents of each table had from twenty to forty young ladies as assistants, each wearing their particular club color. The lady presidents were as follows: Mrs. W. L. Maltby (association), flower table; Mrs. F. M. Larmonth (lacrosse) fancy table; Mrs. Fred. Birks (snow-shoe), general store table; Mrs. C. W. Dickinson (bicycle), candy and fruit table; Mrs. I. L. Wiseman (toboggan), bric-a-brac table; Mrs. Geo. Drummond (football), art gallery; Mrs. Will H. Whyte (Cinderella), refreshment parlor; Mrs. James Paton (hockey), fancy goods table; Mrs. Fred. Massey (junior lacrosse), fancy table; Mrs. Fred. S. Brush (baseball), linen and basket table. In all ten tables and two hundred and fifty assistants.

The fair was held the last week in September, in the Victoria Skating Rink. Booths for each club were erected on the promenade around the sides of the building, leaving the centre part free for the visitors and patrons, with the exception of the flower table, which occupied a place in the centre. Each table or booth was arranged differently, and prettily decorated with the bunting and ribbons of each club color, and the various and distinct implements of each particular sport. Lacrosses, snow-shoes, bicycles, toboggans, footballs, hockey sticks and skates, baseballs and bats, were decorated and used to decorate in every conceivable way. Many of the ladies wore costumes made in their favorite club colors. Gifts poured in from every quarter. Among the many donations received was a $500 piano, $200 (pipe-top) organ, $250 sealskin sacque, three sewing-machines, six ranges and stoves, desks, writing cabinet, bookcase, Remington typewriter, silverware from Tiffany of New York, fancy goods from A. G. Spalding & Bro. and Peck & Snyder, of New York, and hundreds of smaller and equally handsome gifts.

The fair realized from the sales of goods about $8,500; this, with the handsome donation of a cheque for $1,000 from Sir Donald A. Smith, who kindly presided at the opening, and a cheque of $500 from Mr. R. B. Angus, will make the total result about $10,000, a very satisfactory week’s work, and a gratifying result to the ladies interested in the association, who worked so faithfully and steadfastly to achieve this great success.

In order to show that the members had brains as well as muscles, a literary magazine entitled “Athletic Leaves,” with original articles from a dozen of the members, was published under the editorship of Messrs. Baylis and Whyte. Three thousand copies were issued to serve as a souvenir of the fair, some $800 being made for the fair out of the venture. Where all worked well it would be invidious to particularize. Both the ladies’ and gentlemen’s committee of each section did everything in their power to make the event a success; the brunt and responsibility, however, devolved on the lady presidents and Executive Committee, and how well they did their allotted parts the result testifies.

BASEBALL.

~Captain Willard~, of the Harvard University nine, has begun work. The positions left vacant by Campbell and Gallivan at shortstop and second base, respectively, will be difficult to fill, as these men were perhaps the strongest all-round players on the team. Henshaw will probably again go behind the bat, and with Bates will make a first-class battery. Of the latter great things are expected. He has all the curves and a wonderful command of the ball.

* * * * *

~The~ New York League Club and the St. Louis American Association, the respective champions of the two organizations, competed in an annual series of games for the baseball championship of the world in October, the series consisting of ten games, four of which were played in New York, four in St. Louis, and one each in Brooklyn and Philadelphia. The League team won the pennant by their victories in six out of the first eight games played, their success being largely due to the effective battery work of Keefe and Ewing, and the splendid infield play of shortstop Ward. Here is the full record of the series:

Oct. 16. New York vs. St. Louis, at New York. Pitchers, Keefe and King. 2--1

“ 17. St. Louis vs. New York, at New York. Pitchers, Chamberlain and Welch. 3--0

“ 18. New York vs. St. Louis, at New York. Pitchers, Keefe and King. 4--2

“ 19. New York vs. St. Louis, at Brooklyn. Pitchers, Crane and Chamberlain. 6--3

“ 20. New York vs. St. Louis, at New York. Pitchers, Keefe and King. 6--4

“ 22. New York vs. St. Louis, at Philadelphia. Pitchers, Welch and Chamberlain. 12--5

“ 24. St. Louis vs. New York, at St. Louis. Pitchers, King and Crane. 7--5

“ 25. New York vs. St. Louis, at St. Louis. Pitchers, Keefe and Chamberlain. 11--3

“ 26. St. Louis vs. New York, at St. Louis. Pitchers, King and George. 14--11

“ 27. St. Louis vs. New York, at St. Louis. Pitchers, Chamberlain and Titcomb. 18--7

Total games won: New York 6, St. Louis 4. Total runs scored: New York 64, St. Louis 60. Batting average: New York 275, St. Louis 223. Fielding average: New York 930, St. Louis 918. Keefe pitched in four victories and no defeats; Welch and Crane in one victory and one defeat each, and King and Chamberlain in two victories and three defeats, and George and Titcomb in one defeat each. The financial result of the series of contests was as follows: Receipts in New York, $15,406.50; St. Louis, $5,612; Philadelphia, $1,781; Brooklyn, $1,562. Total, $24,362.10. Expenses, $8,000. Amount cleared, $16,382. Messrs. Gaffney and John Kelly acted as umpires under the double umpire rule of one official judging the balls and strikes, and the other the base running.

* * * * *

~The~ fall exhibition contests between the League and the American clubs in October resulted as follows:

ASSOCIATION.

Victories. Defeats.

Brooklyn 5 0 St. Louis 5 6 Baltimore 1 1 Cincinnati 1 2 Athletics 1 2 -- -- Totals 13 11

LEAGUE.

Victories. Defeats.

New York 6 5 Pittsburgh 2 1 Philadelphia 2 1 Indianapolis 1 3 Washington 0 3 -- -- Totals 11 13

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~The~ contest for the diamond medal offered by the Cincinnati Enquirer, for the longest throw of the season, resulted in the success of shortstop Williamson of the Chicago Club. The best on record was John Hatfield’s throw of 400 feet 7 inches, made over a dozen years ago. Crane, the pitcher of the New York Club, claimed to have exceeded this by two feet, but the trial was not officially recorded. John Hatfield stated recently that he once threw a ball 420 feet, but it was not officially scored and was never counted. The record of the official contest of 1888 is as follows:

Player. Club. Distance thrown.

1. Williamson Chicago 399 ft. 11 in. 2. Griffin Baltimore 372 8 3. Stovey Athletic 369 2 4. Vaughn Louisville 366 9 5. Burns Brooklyn 364 6 6. O’Brien Brooklyn 361 5 7. Collins Brooklyn 354 6 8. Tebeau Cincinnati 353 0 9. Gilks Cleveland 343 11 10. Reilly Cincinnati 341 6 11. Brennan Kansas City 339 6 12. Stricker Cleveland 337 8 13. Foutz Brooklyn 335 4 14. Davis Kansas City 333 6 15. O’Connor Cincinnati 330 0 16. McTamany Kansas City 327 6

CANOEING.

~The~ Princeton College Canoe Club was organized October 4, 1888. The following officers were elected: Commodore, A. N. Bodine, ’90; vice-commodore, C. Agnew, ’91; secretary, George Trotter, ’91; treasurer, G. Agnew, ’91. All the members of the club are students. It is probable the Princeton canoeists will apply for admittance to the American Canoe Association in the Spring.

* * * * *

~The~ Pequot Canoe Club elected the following Board of Officers: Commodore, W. A. Borden; vice-president, T. P. Sherwood; secretary-treasurer, F. P. Lewis; measurer, E. C. Bogert; Rev. A. N. Lewis, chaplain.

COURSING.

~The~ Hempstead Coursing Club began its second season at Cedarhurst, November 3. The morning was bright and clear, but before the sport commenced rain came on, and it continued to shower until the afternoon. As was the case last year, rabbits were scarce. The law allowed their capture only since November 1. The consequence was the demand exceeded the supply, and several nominators “scratched” their entries. As a whole the rabbits were a fairly good lot.

The officers were: Judge, Mr. A. Belmont Purdy; breed judge, J. E. Cowdin; field steward, O. W. Bird; flag steward, J. L. Kernochan; secretary, A. Belmont, Jr. and slipper, German Hopkins. The following is a summary of the events:

NOVICE STAKES.

An open sweepstakes for fox-terriers of 20 lb. or under, at $2 each, play or pay, with a silver cup presented by Mr. James L. Kernochan to the winner. The runner up to receive 25 per cent. of the stakes and a pewter mug. Fifteen entries.

First Round.--J. B. Kernochan nominates A. Belmont Purdy’s white, black and tan dog Pincher, who beat T. B. Burnham’s white, black and tan dog Jack. L. and W. Rutherford’s white dog Warner Spider beat S. D. Ripley’s white dog Bayonet. H. B. Richardson’s white, black and tan dog Meadow Brook Jack beat E. Kelly’s white and tan dog Earl Leicester. H. P. Frothingham’s white and tan dog Mugwump, C. Rathbone’s white, black and tan dog Beverwyck Tippler, F. O. Beach’s white, black and tan bitch Media, Blemton Kennel’s white and tan bitch Tiara, and O. W. Bird’s white, black and tan bitch Warren Jingle had byes.

Second Round.--Pincher beat Mugwump, Beverwyck Tippler beat Warren Spider, Tiara beat Media, and Meadow Brook Jack beat Warren Jingle.

Third Round.--Beverwyck Tippler beat Pincher, Meadow Brook Jack beat Tiara.

Final Round.--Beverwyck Tippler beat Meadow Brook Jack.

ROCKAWAY CUP.

An open sweepstakes for fox-terriers of 18 lb. or under, at $3 each, play or pay, with a cup presented by the Rockaway Steeplechase Association for the winner. The runner-up to receive 25 per cent. of the stakes and a pewter mug. 19 entries.

First Round.--L. and W. Rutherford’s white dog Warren Spider beat T. B. Burnham’s white, black and tan dog Jack. C. Rathbone’s white, black and tan dog Beverwyck Tippler beat A. T. French’s white and tan dog Blemton Volunteer. J. B. Kernochan nominates A. Belmont Purdy’s white, black and tan dog Pincher, who beat F. O. Beach’s white, black and tan bitch Medice. O. W. Bird’s white, black and tan bitch Warren Jingle beat H. P. Frothingham’s white and tan bitch Lottery. H. V. R. Kennedy’s white, black and tan dog Antic beats Blemton Kennel’s white, black and tan dog Regent Fox. Edward Kelly’s white, black and tan bitch Votary a bye.

Second Round.--Warren Spider beats Votary, Beverwyck Tippler beats Pincher, Antic beats Warren Jingle.

Third Round.--Warren Spider beats Tippler, Antic a bye.

Final Round.--Antic beats Warren Spider, after an undecided.

COTTON-TAIL STAKES.

An open sweepstakes for fox-terriers of 16 lb. or under, at $2 each, play or pay, with $20 added, to the winner; the runner up to receive 60 per cent. of the stakes and a pewter mug. Sixteen entries.

L. and W. Rutherford’s white and tan bitch Warren Dainty beat H. P. Frothingham’s white and tan bitch Lottery. C. Rathbone’s white, black and tan bitch Blemton Lilly beat Blemton Kennel’s white, black and tan dog Dusky Trap. A. T. French’s white and tan dog Blemton Volunteer, E. D. Morgan’s white, black and tan dog Tancred, L. and W. Rutherford’s white dog Warren Discord, and James Mortimer’s white, black and tan bitch Suffolk Syren had byes.

Second Round.--Warren Dainty beat Tancred, Blemton Lilly beat Blemton Volunteer, Warren Discord beat Suffolk Syren.

Third Round.--Warren Dainty beat Blemton Lilly; Warren Discord a bye.

Deciding Round.--Warren Discord beat Warren Dainty.

CRICKET.

~The~ most successful cricket club in Brooklyn in 1888 was the Manhattan Club. The club’s elevens played thirty-two matches, of which they won twenty-seven, lost four, and had one drawn. Their first eleven won twenty-six and lost but three, while their second eleven won one, lost one, and had one drawn. The record of the leading contests of the club is as follows:

DATE. CONTESTING CLUBS. RESULT OF CONTEST. SCORE.

May 21 Manhattan vs. Won with 10 wickets Young America to spare 88 to 86

May 30 Staten Island vs. Lost by score of first Manhattan inning 70 to 83

July 13 Manhattan vs. Won by score of first Pittsburgh inning 133 to 91

July 28 Staten Island vs. Lost by score of first Manhattan inning 76 to 127

Aug. 15 Manhattan vs. Won by score of first Seabright inning 78 to 62

Sept. 3 Manhattan vs. Won with 10 wickets Newark to spare 125 to 123

Sept. 5 Manhattan vs. Won by score of first Seabright inning 191 to 57

Sept. 12 Manhattan vs. Won by score of first Newark inning 60 to 54

Sept. 29 Manhattan vs. Won with 7 wickets All New York to spare 107 to 77

Besides these leading contests the Manhattans defeated the Albions three times, the New Yorks twice, the Amateur League twice, and the New Haven, St. George, Alma, Cosmopolitan and Claremont clubs once each, and lost one game each with the New Havens and Cosmopolitans, they having drawn games with the Almas and New Yorkers. The second eleven had a drawn game with the Staten Islanders, and won one and lost one with the Brooklyns.

The club had its annual meeting in October, and elected the following officers for 1889: Edwin C. Squance, president; H. S. Jewell, first vice-president; B. H. Beasley, second vice-president; J. G. Davis, secretary; S. E. Hosford, treasurer; S. J. Fisher, captain; H. S. Jewell, sub-captain; S. J. Fisher, M. R. Cobb, J. E. West, H. Coyne, executive committee.

* * * * *

~The~ Peninsular Cricket Club, of Detroit, Mich., elected the following officers for the ensuing year: President, C. R. Emery; vice-president, D. F. O’Brien; secretary, J. J. Dodds; treasurer, W. S. Waugh; managing committee, A. W. Anderson, R. Humffreys-Roberts, F. D. C. Hinchman, A. C. Bowman, Dr. W. R. McLaren and Dudley Smith; match committee, F. Bamford, R. B. Ridgley, E. F. Laible.

CYCLING.

~The~ total number of members in the L. A. W. ranks is 11,804.

* * * * *

~An~ International Cycle Show is to take place in Leipsic next February.

* * * * *

~R. T. McDaniel~ of the Wilmington, Del., Wheel Club, has one of the big records for 1888. He has traveled 5,300 miles. His largest mileage in one day was 115½ miles.

* * * * *

~The~ cyclists of New Orleans will participate in the coming Mardi Gras festivities. They will endeavor to present the characters of Mother Goose’s melodies astride of bicycles.

* * * * *

~T. W. Busst~, of Victoria, Australia, now holds the title of ten-mile champion of Australia. He won it recently at the centennial championship meeting of the Australian Bicycle Union at Sydney.

* * * * *

~George B. Thayer~, of Hartford, in five months covered over 2,600 miles in Europe on his bicycle.

* * * * *

~G. P. Mills~, the English rider, succeeded some time back in lowering the 100-mile tricycle record to 6h. 58m. 54s. During October, ’88, he covered fifty miles on a tricycle in 2h. 53m. 25s., or 41m. 22s. better than that for ordinary bicycle record.

* * * * *

~A. D. Peck~, of the Massachusetts Club, has a cycling record to be proud of. He began wheeling in ’83, and since then has gone over 17,863 miles of road. Each year’s records were as follows: 1883, 1,760 miles; 1884, 1,840 miles; 1885, 2,785 miles; 1886, 4,404 miles; 1887, 4,002 miles; 1888, 3,102 miles. It is doubtful if there is another Boston wheelman who can show such a record.

* * * * *

~At~ the first century run of the Kings County Wheelmen’s Club, the starters were M. L. Bridgman, Harry Hall, Jr., John Bensinger, Robert Hipson, Frank Douglas, and three others. They had selected a course which was 7¾ miles roundabout, and they proposed to make the circuit of this as many times as possible. John Bensinger did the best work of the day. He not only made his 100 miles, but his total score was 102 5-8.

* * * * *

~I. W. Shurman~, a cyclist of Lynn, Mass., with a national reputation as a hill-climber, started one fine morning in October last at the foot of the Orange Mountain to beat Fred Connigsby’s record of climbing the hill thirteen times without dismounting in 3h. 15m. 45s. Shurman made the attempt and succeeded, accomplishing the feat in 3h. 5m., beating Connigsby’s record by about 10m. Not content with that, Shurman continued, and made twenty-four round trips, a distance of forty-eight miles, in 6h. 24m. 15s., thus establishing a record which doubtless will hold good some time.

* * * * *

~The~ 24-hour road-riding craze has struck Chicago wheelmen, and record after record has been going up. John Mason has the latest--277 miles.

* * * * *

~During~ the winter months the Manhattan Bicycle Club will hold a smoking concert every Wednesday evening.

* * * * *

~The~ five-mile Challenge Cup of the Pennsylvania Bicycle Club can be raced for by members of that organization once a month.

* * * * *

~Members~ of the Racing Board of the League of American Wheelmen have had assigned to them by Chairman Davol the following territory:

Col. George Sanderson, Scranton, Pa., in charge of New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania and Delaware.

George S. Atwater, 1206 Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington, D. C., in charge of Maryland, Virginia, West Virginia, North Carolina, South Carolina, Georgia, Florida, Tennessee and Kentucky.

George Collister, care of Davis, Hunt & Co., Cleveland, O., in charge of Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Michigan, Wisconsin, Minnesota and Iowa.

W. M. Brewster, 309 Olive Street, St. Louis, Mo., in charge of Missouri, Kansas, Nebraska, Colorado, California and Oregon.

H. H. Hodgson, New Orleans, La., in charge of Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama, Arkansas, Texas and Nevada.

The chairman will have charge of the district embracing the New England States.

* * * * *

~The~ second annual handicap road race of the Harvard Bicycle Club was held November 8 over the ten-mile course through North Cambridge, West Somerville and Arlington. The day was raw and windy, and the road rough, yet the time was very good. Of the twenty-two entries only ten appeared, of whom eight finished. The order of the finish, with the handicaps and actual time, was as follows:

1. Barron ’91, 7 min. handicap, 38 min. 45 sec. actual time. 2. Greenleaf ’92, 3 “ “ 35 “ “ 3. Holmes ’92, 7 “ “ 39 “ 5 “ “ 4. Bailey ’91, 2½ “ “ 34 “ 45 “ “ 5. Rogers ’90, 6 “ “ 38 “ 30 “ “ 6. Kelley L. S. 6 “ “ 38 “ 45 “ “ 7. Saunders ’89, 7 “ “ not taken. 8. Davis ’91, scratch “

Davis was so heavily handicapped that he was practically out of the race from the beginning.

FOOTBALL.

~The~ Trinity College team defeated the Stevens Institute team, November 3, on the St. George Grounds, at Hoboken, by a score of 6 to 0.

* * * * *

~The~ Cornell team beat the team of Union College, 30 to 4, at Ithaca, November 3. The Cornell footballers played a very good game during the season.

* * * * *

~The~ first championship game of the season of the Intercollegiate Football Association games--between Yale, Harvard, Princeton, Wesleyan, University of Pennsylvania--was played November 3, on the Field, at New Haven, between Yale and the University of Pennsylvania. The latter team did not show the strong game that had characterized her playing in the other contests this year. Yale, on the other hand, showed some improvement. In the first half Yale scored 28 points, to which 30 were added in the second half, due in great part to the excellent playing of Wallace, McClung and Wurtenberg, thus defeating her opponents by a score of 58 to 0. For Pennsylvania the best playing was done by Hulme, Wagenhurst, Cash and Hill. The positions were as follows: Yale--rushers, Wallace, Hartwell, Newell, Corbin (captain), Pike, Heffelfinger, Stagg; quarter-back, Wurtenberg; half-backs, McClung and S. Morrison; full-back, McBride. University of Pennsylvania--rushers, Wagenhurst, Harris, Spaeth, Meirs, Rhitt, Cash, Van Loon; quarter-back, McCance; half-backs, Hulme (captain) and Price; full-back, Hill. Referee, Walter C. Camp, Yale, ’80. Umpire, H. Hodge, Princeton, ’86.

* * * * *

~The~ second championship game was played on the Polo Grounds, November 6, between Princeton and Wesleyan, before a large number of people. Many serious faults in Princeton’s play were made evident. Some of the most noticeable were high tackling, losing the ball when tackled, and failure to get in a kick when needed. Bovaird played a splendid game, Channing and Black, the half-backs, also did well. In the first half Princeton made 20 points and in the second 24, defeating Wesleyan by a total score of 44 to 0. The elevens played as follows: Princeton--rushers, S. Hodge, Cook, Irvine, George, Janeway, Cowan (captain), Bovaird; quarter-back, R. Hodge; half-backs, Black and Channing; full-back, Ames. Wesleyan--rushers, Floy, Glenn, Heath, Gardner, Eaton, Pierce, Crane; quarter-back, Eggleston; half-backs, McDonald and Hall; full-back, Slayback.

* * * * *

~One~ of the most stubbornly fought contests in the history of interscholastic football took place November 10, at Andover, N. H., the occasion being the annual football game between Phillips Exeter and Phillips Andover academies. For thirty-five minutes after the game began the ball stayed near the centre of the field. Both teams played a hard game, but were so evenly matched that neither could gain any appreciable advantage. At last a fumble by Andover allowed Stickney, of Exeter, to secure the ball with a clear field before him. He was downed about five yards from the line, and a rally on the part of the Andover eleven prevented Exeter from making a touch-down, and after four downs, having failed to advance the ball five yards, it went to Andover. Bliss got the ball, and dodging the entire Exeter eleven ran almost the entire length of the field, scoring a touch-down for Andover, from which a goal was kicked. Score at end of half time, 6 to 0 in favor of Andover. In the second half the ball was kept in Exeter’s territory, and a short time before the end of the game Upton secured a second touch-down for Andover. No goal. The game ended with this score: Andover, 10 points; Exeter, 0. The teams were made up as follows: Andover--rushers, Hunt, Mowry, Coxe, Speer, Upton, Townsend, Gilbert; quarter-back, Owsley; half-backs, C. D. Bliss and L. T. Bliss; full-back, Sprague. Exeter--rushers, Hill, Bardwell, Stickney, Beattie, Furman, Erskine, Heffelfinger; quarter-back, Barbour; half-backs, Morse and Graves; full-back, Trafford. Referee, Mr. Finney, Princeton. Umpire, W. J. Badger.

* * * * *

~The~ football teams of the Crescent Athletic Club, of Brooklyn, and of the New York Athletic Club, met on the Polo Grounds, November 3. The New Yorkers played a good game under discouraging circumstances. From the beginning the Crescents had things their own way, although the wind was against them and the sun shone in their faces. Their rush-line was better than that of their opponents. Although the New York men made some brilliant individual plays, they were forced backwards steadily. The game wound up with a score of 30 for the Crescents to 0 for the New York Athletic men. This was the make-up of the teams:

ATHLETIC CLUB. CRESCENT.

W. Scott Rusher P. Lamarche. H. H. Steers Rusher M. Mathews. C. T. Schlesinger Rusher H. Lamarche. James Carter Rusher W. Ford. M. J. Austin Rusher C. Chapman. Eugene Kelly, Jr. Rusher J. Verner. W. Littauer Rusher Warren Smith. W. B. Coster, Jr. Quarter-back Duncan Edwards. Alex. E. Jordan Half-back J. Smith. John P. Thornton Half-back H. Sheldon. W. Lawson Full-back John Lamarche.

Umpire--George Goldie, Jr. Referee--W. R. Thompson.

* * * * *

~A football~ match, under the Rugby rules, was played November 6, at Orange, N. J., between the teams of the Orange Jr. and Clinton football clubs. The Clinton team won by a score of 4 to 0.

* * * * *

~Several~ hundred college men braved the rainstorm, November 10, to witness the championship game between the Harvard and Wesleyan elevens on Jarvis, Cambridge. The ground was wet and slippery. The Harvard team as a whole showed marked improvement, and in the first half played with great determination, scoring 32 points. In the second half, however, the men weakened. The game was only two half-hours long, and the total score was: Harvard, 50 points; Wesleyan, 2. The following men made up the elevens: Harvard--rushers, Cumnock, V. Harding, Carpenter, Cranston, Trafford, Davis, Crosby; quarter-back, G. Harding; half-backs, Lee and Porter; full-back, Sears. Wesleyan--rushers, Crane Pierce, Eaton, Gardner, Heath, Glenn, Faber; quarter-back, Eggleston; half-backs, Floy and Slayback; full-back, Clark. Mr. Landon, Wesleyan, was referee, and W. H. Corbin, Yale, ’89, umpire.

* * * * *

~Princeton~ and the University of Pennsylvania attempted to play a championship game in Philadelphia, November 10, despite a heavy rain. As it was impossible to forfeit the game, a course of action was agreed upon to the effect that play was to be started and Princeton be allowed to make a touch-down. The game was then to be called, and because of a dispute awarded to Princeton by a score of 4 to 0. The teams were: Princeton--rushers, Riggs, Cook, Tredinnick, George, Janeway, Cowan, Bovaird; quarter-back, R. Hodge; half-backs, Black and Channing; back, Ames. University of Pennsylvania--rushers, Van Loon, Cash, Wright, Meirs, Gray, Harris, Wagenhurst; quarter-back, Vail; half-backs, Hulme and Valentine; full-back, Hill. Referee, Mr. Price; umpire, Mr. Corwin.

* * * * *

~About~ 5,000 people witnessed the great game between Princeton and Harvard, which was played November 17 on the University Grounds, Princeton. It was perfect football weather. The Harvard men were bothered considerably by the mud which covered the field. Princeton being used to the grounds, played a splendid though somewhat rough game. From the first it was seen that Harvard was overmatched, the heavy rush-line of the orange and black withstanding every onslaught by the crimson. In the first half Princeton secured three touch-downs, but failed in every instance to kick a goal. In the second half, after thirty-five minutes of desperate playing, during which the ball traveled up and down the field, Princeton secured a touch-down and kicked a goal. Harvard, a few minutes later, rushed the ball down the field toward the home goal, and Davis made a touch-down from which a goal was kicked. The result was: Princeton, 18 points; Harvard, 6. This is the team that appeared on the field:

Harvard--rushers, V. Harding, Davis, Trafford, Cranston, Carpenter, Woodman, Cumnock; quarter-back, G. Harding; half-backs, Porter and Lee; full-back, Sears (captain).

Princeton--rushers, Riggs, Cook, Irvine, George, Janeway, Cowan (captain), Bovaird; quarter-back, R. Hodge; half-backs, Mowry and Black; full-back, Ames. Mr. W. C. Camp, Yale, ’80, was referee, and Mr. W. H. Corbin, captain Yale eleven, for the first half, and Mr. E. L. Richards, Yale, for the second half, were the umpires.

* * * * *

~On~ the Yale field at New Haven the Yale eleven ran up what is thus far the largest score of the season, in a championship game with Wesleyan, November 17. Although the latter eleven played an unusually good game, it could not resist the excellent team and individual work on the part of the Yale men. Gill and Stagg distinguished themselves, as did Heffelfinger and Wurtenberg. The men were arranged as follows: Yale--rushers, Stagg, Hartwell, Woodruff, Newell, Heffelfinger, Gill, Wallace; quarter-back, Wurtenberg; half-backs, McBride and McClung; full-back, Bull. Wesleyan--rushers, Floy, Glenn, Heath, Gardner, Eaton, Johnson, Crane; quarter-back, Eggleston; half-backs, Hall and McDonald; full-back, Slayback. Referee, Landon, of Wesleyan; umpire, H. E. Peabody, of Harvard. Score: Goals, 11-65 points; touchdowns, 8-32 points; goal from field, 1-5 points; safety by Wesleyan, 2 points. Total, 105 points.

* * * * *

~Harvard~ defeated the University of Pennsylvania November 19, after a rough battle in mud and water, on the University Grounds, at Philadelphia, Pa. Cumnock, Sears and Porter played a splendid game for Harvard, and Wagenhurst, Hulme and Hill did good work for Pennsylvania. The score was 42 to 0 in favor of Harvard. The teams were: Harvard--rushers, Crosby, Davis, Longstreth, Cranston, Trafford, Woodman, Cumnock; quarter-back, G. Harding; half-backs, Porter and V. Harding; full-back, Sears. University of Pennsylvania--rushers, Wagenhurst, Sypher, Tunis, Meirs, Bowser, Cash, Ziegler; quarter-back, Church; half-backs, Hulme and Colladay; full-back, Hill. Referee, R. N. Corwin, Yale, ’86; umpire, L. Price, Princeton, ’87.

* * * * *

~What~ was undoubtedly the best game of the season was played on the Polo Grounds, November 24, between Vale and Princeton, in the presence of about 15,000 spectators. The day was admirably suited to football, and the slight east wind was not strong enough to materially aid either side. The teams were composed as follows:

~Yale.~

F. W. Wallace, ’89 Left end rusher Weight, 150 C. O. Gill, ’89 Left tackle “ 170 W. W. Heffelfinger, ’91 S. Left guard “ 192 W. H. Corbin, ’89, capt. Centre “ 185 G. W. Woodruff, ’89 Right guard “ 183 W. C. Rhodes, ’91 Right tackle “ 164 A. A. Stagg, T. S. Right end rusher “ 150 W. C. Wurtenberg, ’89 S. Quarter-back “ 138 W. P. Graves, ’91 Left half-back “ 154 S. L. McClung, ’92 Right half-back “ 152 W. S. Bull, P. G. Full-back “ 161

~Princeton.~

R. E. Speer, ’89 Left end rusher Weight, 166 H. W. Cowan, ’88 Left tackle “ 179 H. K. Janeway, ’90 Left guard “ 203 W. J. George, ’89 Centre “ 179 W. M. Irvine, ’88 Right guard “ 166 J. F. Cook, ’89 Right tackle “ 174 D. Bovaird, Jr., ’89 Right end rusher “ 158 R. M. Hodge, P. G. Quarter-back “ 134 R. H. Channing, Jr., ’90 Left half-back “ 141 J. Black, ’92 Right half-back “ 168 K. L. Ames, ’90 Full-back “ 150

Yale’s rush line averaged 170 4-7 pounds, and the whole team 163 6-11, while Princeton averaged 175 in the rush line and 164 9-11 pounds in the whole team.

Mr. W. A. Brooks, Jr., Harvard, was referee, and Mr. Fred Fisk, Harvard, umpire.

Play was begun at 2.22, Princeton having the ball and Yale the east goal. Princeton opened with the V play, and at first gained ground, but a few of these attacks seemed to weaken their rush line and Yale successfully opposed the human battering-rams. There followed next a great deal of open play, in which Cowan, Black, Janeway and Ames distinguished themselves for Princeton, while Wallace, Gill, Corbin, and McClung did admirable work for Yale. The kicking of Bull was superb, and his excellent judgment in placing the ball aided Yale materially. Gradually the ball was forced into Princeton’s territory and several long punts and drop-kicks by Bull from the field landed the ball back of Princeton’s line. At last Yale secured the ball on the ten-yard line, it was passed to Bull, who succeeded in kicking a goal, being enabled to do so by the splendid blocking of the rush line. Time, 35m.

From the kick-off the ball was again forced toward the Princeton goal, and when half time was called the ball was on the five-yard line. Score at half time: 5 points to 0 in Yale’s favor.

Second half.--Yale had the ball and played against the wind. Princeton showed renewed strength, and the play continued near the middle of the field. For twenty-five minutes neither side could gain any great advantage, but after hard work on both sides Princeton was forced back. Wurtenberg was disqualified, McClung taking his place at quarter, while Harvey was taken on as half-back. Good rushing by their half-backs gained about forty yards for Princeton. Yale then secured the ball, and a kick sent it well into Princeton’s territory. Ames kicked, and Harvey made one of the longest and most successful runs of the day, passing nearly all the Princeton rushers. Strong rushes by Heffelfinger advanced the ball twenty yards. Cowan was disqualified and Riggs substituted. The ball was near the Princeton line, and attempts by Yale to force it over having failed, Bull was given another opportunity, and kicked a second goal from the field. But a few moments remained for play, and, with the ball in the centre of the field, time was called. Score at the end of the second half: 10 points for Yale; for Princeton, 0.

The most noticeable feature of the game was the open play of Yale. Princeton’s strong rush line, while doing admirable work, was not able to take advantage of opportunities as quickly as should have been the case. Yale was too quick, and her men were on the ball before the Princeton’s half-backs could get started.

In winning this game Yale won the championship for 1888.

* * * * *

~The~ last game of the intercollegiate football series was played Thanksgiving Day, on the Polo Grounds, between Wesleyan and the University of Pennsylvania. As both teams were evenly matched a close game resulted. Walter Camp was referee, and Richard M. Hodge was umpire. The teams, as they lined up at 2.30, were as follows: Pennsylvania--rushers, Wagenhurst, Sypher, Dewey, Savage, Bowser, Cash, Ziegler; quarter-back, Church; half-backs, Hulme and Colladay; full-back, Hill. Wesleyan--rushers, Floy, Glenn, Heath, Gardner, Eaton, Gibson, Crane; quarter-back, Opdyke; half-backs, Manchester and McDonald; full-back, Slayback.

The first half was marked by a very fierce style of play, and numerous scrimmages resulted in more or less injury to the players. After twenty-five minutes Ziegler succeeded in making a touch-down for Pennsylvania, from which a goal was kicked. When time was called at the end of the first half no additional points had been made, though Wesleyan had tried desperately to equal the score. This she succeeded in doing in the second half. However, after that Pennsylvania rushed well, and the ball seldom went out of Wesleyan’s territory, and at the end of the last forty-five minutes she had scored 12 points more, winning the game by 18 points to 6 for Wesleyan. Altogether it was one of the roughest games played this year.

* * * * *

~In~ the New England Intercollegiate Football Association a series of interesting games has been played as follows:

Oct. 27. At Boston--Massachusetts Institute of Technology, 48; Amherst, 0.

Nov. 7. At Amherst--Williams, 53; Amherst, 0.

Nov. 10. At Hanover, N. H.--Dartmouth, 30; Technology, 0.

Nov. 14. At Hanover, N. H.--Dartmouth, 36; Williams, 6.

Nov. 17. At Williamstown, Mass.--Williams, 42; Stevens Institute, 4.

Nov. 19. At Williamstown, Mass.--Stevens, 30; Dartmouth, 0.

* * * * *

~K. L. Ames~, ’90, the famous full-back, has been elected captain of the Princeton team for 1889.

* * * * *

~The~ Intercollegiate football record is as follows:

A: Yale. B: Princeton. C: Harvard. D: University of Penn. E: Wesleyan.

---------------------------+----+----+----+----+----+----- ~Clubs.~ | A | B | C | D | E | Won. ---------------------------+----+----+----+----+----+----- Yale | -- | 1 | 1 | 1 | 1 | 4 Princeton | 0 | -- | 1 | 1 | 1 | 3 Harvard | 0 | 0 | -- | 1 | 1 | 2 University of Pennsylvania | 0 | 0 | 0 | -- | 1 | 1 Wesleyan | 0 | 0 | 0 | 0 | -- | 0 +----+----+----+----+----+----- Lost | 0 | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | -- ---------------------------+----+----+----+----+----+-----

* * * * *

~Yale~, last fall, made the largest total score ever made by a Yale eleven--698 to 0.

* * * * *

~The~ three highest scores made this season on the football field were: November 3, Harvard vs. Amherst, 102 to 0; same day, Princeton vs. Johns Hopkins, 104 to 0; November 17, Yale vs. Wesleyan, 105 to 0.

* * * * *

~The~ annual Cornell-Lehigh football game was played in Elmira, November 29, resulting in the defeat of Cornell by a score of 4 to 0. The grounds never presented a worse appearance, and the mud was fully five inches deep, with a pool of water covering one-half the area of the territory. The game was called at three o’clock, and Lehigh won the ball. In ten minutes she had secured a touch-down, but failed to kick a goal. Then Cornell played better and got the ball into Lehigh’s territory. At one time she was within a few feet of the line, but by tremendous exertions Lehigh prevented Cornell from scoring, and when time was called for the first half, the score was 4 to 0 in favor of Lehigh. In the second half no scoring was done, though Cornell secured a touch-down, which was not allowed by the referee. The game was thus won by Lehigh, 4 to 0, although this has been protested by Cornell, who claim that the game should go to them, by a score of 8 to 4. Mr. Ray Tompkins, Yale, ’84, was referee, and H. M. Morton, Lafayette, ’87, was umpire.

* * * * *

~A. J. Cumnock~, ’91, has been elected captain of the Harvard team for 1889.

* * * * *

~William C. Rhodes~, ’91, has been elected captain of the Yale team for 1889.

* * * * *

~The~ class games at Columbia College resulted as follows: November 30, the class of ’92 defeated ’91 by a score of 12 to 8. The same day, ’90 defeated ’89 by a score of 30 to 0. December 1, the deciding game was played between ’92 and ’90. The juniors outplayed the Freshmen, and won by a score of 28 to 0. C. H. Mapes, of Columbia, was umpire, and Mr. W. Smith, of the Crescents, was referee.

* * * * *

~Three~ thousand persons, November 29, witnessed what was undoubtedly the greatest football event that ever took place in the West. The game was between a team made up of Chicago and other college men, most of whom had played in some one of the famous Yale, Harvard or Princeton teams, and an eleven representing the present students at the Ann Arbor University of Michigan.

The game took place on the grounds of the Chicago Baseball Club. It was a victory for the Chicagos by a score of 28 to 4. Michigan had the kick-off, and the game started with the teams in position as follows:

MICHIGAN. POSITION. CHICAGO.

J. Van Inwegan Right end A. Farwell. S. S. Bradley Right tackle H. Hallin. W. E. Malley Right guard B. B. Lamb, Capt. H. M. Prettyman Centre F. G. Peters. R. W. Beach Left guard E. L. Burke. R. E. Hagle Left tackle A. S. Bickham. L. MacMillan Left end B. Lockwood. E. L. Smith Quarter-back B. Hamlin. E. W. McPherran Half-back W. Crawford. J. E. Duffy, Capt. Half-back J. Waller. W. D. Ball Goal J. Cowling.

* * * * *

~The~ Cambridge Latin and High School eleven has won the championship in the interscholastic football series of games for the challenge cup, which was donated by a number of Harvard men to encourage football playing in the preparatory schools of Boston and vicinity. The cup, which is a very handsome one of solid silver, is between eight and nine inches high and about the same in diameter. The body of the cup resembles in shape half a Rugby football. About the top of the cup is a band of olive leaves in raised silver, and below this is another band on which is placed the name of the cup. Upon the wide space below, which runs round the body of the cup, are morning-glories and leaves raised in silver, the leaves being left blank for the inscriptions of the names of winning teams and players from year to year. At some distance below this is an imitation of a ribbon in repoussé work, which runs around the cup and twines about the handles, and on which are the names of the donors. The cup rests on four lion-claws in heavy silver, and in each claw is a tiny football.

* * * * *

~Unfortunately~ the Yale and Harvard elevens did not meet during the season. This was due to the refusal of the Harvard faculty to allow the Harvard eleven to play Yale on the Polo Grounds on Thanksgiving Day. Yale adhered to the strict letter of the constitution, which fixed the Polo Grounds as the place where the championship game had to be played.

* * * * *

~The~ Harvard Freshmen defeated the Yale Freshmen, December 1, on Jarvis Field, Cambridge, Mass., in the presence of a large audience, by a score of 36 to 4. Lee, of Harvard, played a remarkable game, as did Cranston, of the same eleven, and McClung and Heffelfinger for Yale.

* * * * *

~Lehigh~ is tied with the University of Pennsylvania in the race for the championship of Pennsylvania. Both have won two games and lost one, but in playing against last year’s champion, Lafayette, Lehigh won both games, while the University of Pennsylvania lost one of them. It would thus seem as if Lehigh had the superior team and the better claim to the championship.

* * * * *

~The~ Advisory Committee of the Intercollegiate Football Association met at the Fifth Avenue Hotel, Saturday evening, December 1. R. M. Hodge, of Princeton, presided. Yale was represented by W. C. Camp, Wesleyan by H. H. Beatty, and the University of Pennsylvania by W. S. Harvey. Harvard had no representative. Inasmuch as there was no protest entered as to the championship, it was awarded to Yale without further action.

In considering the rules of the game the committee took occasion to define the rule with respect to disqualifying a player for roughness and foul tackling. It was determined that the phrase “unnecessary roughness” included jumping on a prostrate player with knees merely, and that the disqualifying of Cowan and Wurtenberg was needless, because they were not breaking the rule as defined by the committee. The next meeting will be in March, for the purpose of arranging a set of rules to be presented to the convention of the Football Association, which will take place the following month.

ICE-YACHTING.

~In~ connection with Colonel Norton’s article on “Ice-yachts,” the following record of all the races sailed for the challenge pennant is kindly furnished by Commodore Roosevelt, to whom the author is indebted for much valuable information, and for the illustrations that accompany the article:

Regattas for Challenge Pennant of America, open to all comers:

1881, March 5, at New Hamburgh, N. Y., Poughkeepsie Ice-Yacht Club challenging New Hamburgh Ice-Yacht Club. Won by the Phantom, N. H. I. Y. C. Course, 20 miles; time, 57m. 14s.

1883, February 6, at New Hamburgh, Poughkeepsie Ice-Yacht Club challenging New Hamburgh Ice-Yacht Club. Won by the Avalanche, P. I. Y. C. Course, 20 miles; time, 57m.

1833, February 23, at Poughkeepsie, N. Y., North Shrewsbury Ice-Yacht Club challenging Poughkeepsie Ice-Yacht Club. Won by the Jack Frost, P. I. Y. C. Course, 25 miles; time, 1h. 14m. 35s.

1884, February 9, at Poughkeepsie, N. Y., North Shrewsbury Ice-Yacht Club challenging Poughkeepsie Ice-Yacht Club. Won by the Haze, P. I. Y. C. Course, 20 miles; time, 1h. 5m. 30s.

1885, February 14, at Poughkeepsie, New Hamburgh Ice-Yacht Club challenging Poughkeepsie Ice-Yacht Club. Won by the Haze, P. I. Y. C. Course, 20 miles; time, 1h. 1m. 15s.

1885, February 18, at New Hamburgh, N. Y., North Shrewsbury Ice-Yacht Club challenging Poughkeepsie Ice-Yacht Club. Won by the Northern Light, P. I. Y. C. Course, 20 miles; time, 1h. 8m. 42s.

1887, February 14, at Poughkeepsie, Hudson River Ice-Yacht Club challenging Poughkeepsie Ice-Yacht Club. Won by the Jack Frost, H. R. I. Y. C. Course, 16 miles; time, 43m. 40s.

1888, at Crum Elton, North Shrewsbury Ice-Yacht Club challenging Hudson River Ice-Yacht Club. Won by the Icicle, H. R. I. Y. C. Course, 12 miles; time, 34m. 50s.

KENNEL.

~At~ the meeting of the Board of Governors of the New Jersey Kennel Club, held in Jersey City recently, the Bench Show Committee reported progress. So far nothing has been decided as to the building in which the show is to be held. It is probable, however, that the Oakland Rink will be selected. It is centrally located, and is well known all over New Jersey and the Heights. Mr. Peshall expressed his intention of handing in his resignation at the next meeting as delegate to the A. K. C. He is the oldest delegate, and, believing in rotation, wants to make room for another member of the N. J. K. C. He is of opinion that it would be for the good of the A. K. C. if delegates were elected to serve for a stipulated period, not to exceed two years. This would bring new material into the management of the A. K. C., and would help to dispel the impression existing in the minds of many that the club is managed by a clique.

* * * * *

~A meeting~ of the Connecticut State Kennel Club was held at Bridgeport, October 30, A. R. Kyle in the chair. A number of applications for membership were received and acted upon; constitution and by-laws were adopted, and the following executive committee appointed: John White (chairman), Bridgeport; E. Sheffield Porter, New Haven; A. R. Kyle, South Norwalk; A. R. Crowell, Campville; Dr. Burk, South Norwalk; Samuel Banks, Bridgeport; Sherman Hubbard, Bridgeport. Also the following bench show committee: W. D. Peck, New Haven; A. R. Crowell, Campville; E. F. Way, Hartford; A. R. Kyle, South Norwalk; Dr. Jas. E. Hair, Bridgeport. It was the most successful meeting the club has held, and from the way the applications for membership are coming in it would seem that the dog-men in all parts of the State were interested in making the club a thorough success.

* * * * *

~Mr. R. P. H. Durkee~, of Chicago, has purchased from Mr. Sidney W. Smith the St. Bernard dog Burns, a well-known prize winner. Mr. Durkee has also purchased the prize-winning bitches Gloriana and Miscabel, from Mr. J. F. Smith, and Chieftainess, V. H. C., at Brighton, from Mr. Edward Durrant. These dogs were selected and bought for Mr. Durkee by Mr. H. L. Goodman, who went to Europe for the purpose of selecting dogs for Mr. Durkee’s kennel.

* * * * *

~A correspondent~ of the French kennel journal Le Chenil recommends this method of measuring a dog’s height: One of my friends, a veterinary surgeon, tells me of a method as simple and ingenious as it is sure, to take a dog’s exact height at shoulder. Take hold of one of the forelegs of the animal, and the dog, forced to support itself on the other leg, holds it out stiffly and does not bend it, as is usually the case when it sees the preparations for measuring. With this precaution the height of a dog varies scarcely an eighth of an inch, while without it the difference is often considerable.

LAWN TENNIS.

~At~ Cornell University, Ithaca, N. Y., November 12, Pope and Wilkinson beat Jackson and Crouch in the finals for the college tennis championship, in doubles, by a score of 6-2, 6-4, 5-7.

* * * * *

~The~ Brooklyn Hill Tennis Club finished its handicap tournament on the grounds, Nostrand Avenue and Herkimer Street, Brooklyn, November 1. In the second round of the mixed doubles Miss Shreve and T. W. T. Maxwell defeated Miss and Mr. Hotchkiss by 6-5, 5-6, 6-1. The final round was won by Miss Brush and J. C. Tatum, who defeated Miss Shreve and her partner, 6-3, 6-4, 6-3.

First prize in the ladies’ singles was won by Miss Hanly. She beat Mrs. West in the final round after an exciting contest, 4-6, 6-5, 6-2, 6-3. The final round, gentlemen’s singles, was not finished. Mr. Raymond and Mr. W. Tomes played three sets, the score being in favor of the former, 6-1, 6-1, 5-7. The winner will be decided by lot.

ROD AND GUN.

~The~ Salt Lake (Utah) Sportsman’s Club was incorporated under Utah laws, August 25, 1888. President, M. B. Sowles; vice-president, Thos. J. Almy; secretary and treasurer, H. M. Miller; board of directors, M. B. Sowles, H. M. Miller, Thos. J. Almy, Charles Read, Wm. M. Bradley, I. M. Barratt and Phillip Klipple.

* * * * *

~A gun~ club has been organized at Lost Nation, Ia., under the name of the Lost Nation Gun Club. The officers are: President, L. Scott; vice-president, M. Stevenson; secretary and treasurer, F. M. Frazier; director, F. B. Nichols.

* * * * *

~The~ officers of the Commercial Rifle Club of New Orleans, La., are: President, Frank Dumas; vice-president, Wm. Monrose; treasurer, Charles Barnes; secretary, Geo. C. Hanser; superintendent, Wm. Marquetz.

* * * * *

~October 15, 1888~, the Salt Lake (Utah) Gun Club was organized. President, Wm. M. Bradley; vice-president, Thos. J. Stevens; secretary and treasurer, W. J. De Bruhl; board of directors, W. M. Bradley, T. J. Stevens, W. J. De Bruhl, M. R. Evans, and W. F. Beer.

* * * * *

~In~ shooting for the Founder’s Cup at Harvard, November 1, Messrs. Post and Mackay tied for first place, with a score of 12 out of 15. In shooting off Post won.

* * * * *

~The~ Fly Casters’ Association, of Albany, held a tournament, October 27, which proved very successful. The judges were James H. Manning, Charles B. Andrews and W. W. Byington. There were eleven prizes, which were awarded as follows:

Association class--Thomas W. Olcott, first prize, a Spalding split bamboo rod; W. D. Frothingham, second, a Mills & Son standard split bamboo fly-rod; W. G. Paddock, third, an automatic reel; Howard Paddock, fourth, a Bray fly-book; Dayton Ball, fifth, fifty yards metallic centre-enameled line; B. F. Reese, sixth, two dozen trout flies; Stuart G. Spier, seventh, a trout basket. Amateur Second Class--Chas. A. Gove, first, an L. Levison fly-book; H. A. Goffe, second, a lancewood fly-rod; John M. Quinby, third, a gogebic reel; W. Story, fourth, pocket tackle-case.

* * * * *

~The~ ducking season began, in Pennsylvania, November 1. The lower Delaware and adjacent bays and inlets are said to be swarming with ducks. Extensive preparations have been made in Philadelphia by a club of well-known men, who call themselves “The Innocent Eight,” for an active ducking season. Among the Innocents are: Messrs. Michael B. Andrews, Clarence B. Kugler, Joseph Wright and Colonel William B. Mann. Members of the club have purchased a “rigging” at a cost of $2,000. It contains over a thousand decoys, many sink-boxes, both double and single, and all the improved paraphernalia used in ducking.

* * * * *

~The~ season for ducking opened, in Maryland, November 1. Back, Middle, Gunpowder and Bush rivers are all first-class waters for duck shooting. The best duck shooting in the country is to be found on the flats near the mouth of the Susquehanna River. On these flats grow the choicest celery, which, combined with the shallowness of the water, makes the spot most attractive to the fowl. The delicacy of the food imparts to the ducks a flavor that has given the Havre de Grace canvas-back a world-wide reputation. The State has passed stringent laws governing the flats, and collects quite a revenue from the boats engaged in shooting. A special police-force is maintained to enforce the laws.

ROWING.

~Harvard~ expects to have a rowing tank, similar to the Yale tank, shortly. The old gymnasium will probably be used for the purpose. An effort is also being made to raise funds for a new steam-launch. Harvard rowing men recognize that they must show by deeds that they deserve the support of the college.

All the crews have left the river and are at work in the gymnasium. The university crew is rowing on the machines and pulling chest-weights. The number of candidates is small, but it will be greatly increased after the vacation. With the exception of the freshmen, the class-crews are not in strict training. Eighty-nine played football during the fall for exercise; ’90 and ’91 are taking walks and pulling chest-weights. The freshmen are rowing in the ’varsity room on the machines. They are obliged to be through by five o’clock, and as they have nearly three crews at work, the lack of room is very apparent, and interferes greatly with their work. Their average weight is at present nearly 156 pounds.

* * * * *

~The~ Cornell oarsmen are very ambitious to send out next June an eight-oared crew, which, it is hoped, will beat Columbia, win the “Child’s Cup” for the third and last time, and, if possible, win against Yale. The whole amount needed for the purpose is estimated at $2000; $500 for a new shell, and $1500 for crew and trainer. The Cornell Era recently began raising a fund for this object, and over half the amount is already pledged, and the collections are coming in at the rate of $200 a week. The young women connected with the university have subscribed $100. There is no doubt but that the full amount will be raised. Courtney will train the crew.

* * * * *

~By~ reason of the expense, the class crews of Bowdoin have been given up.

* * * * *

~The~ famous old Atalanta Boat Club has now established winter quarters apart from the boat club, and have settled down in an elegant establishment on Fifth Avenue. The building is arranged and furnished so as to provide every facility for indoor amusement while the water is sealed in icy bonds. The billiard-rooms and bowling-alleys are located in the lower part of the house, and the other apartments are so arranged as to conduce to the comfort and enjoyment of the members.

* * * * *

“~Rock~” ~Kent~, one of the most promising scullers on the Harlem River, is, it is said, about to give up rowing altogether. He is one of the prominent members of the Metropolitan Rowing Club, and his withdrawal from that organization, if the report be true, will be a sad loss.

* * * * *

~The~ Union Boat Club, of Boston, which has a membership list of 200 names, has elected the following officers for 1889: President, Henry Parkman; vice-president, Edward B. Robins; captain, A. Van Courtlandt Van Rensselaer; lieutenant, Warren F. Kellogg; treasurer, Edward D. Blake; secretary, William R. Richards; directors, Arthur B. Ellis, Courtenay Guild, Thornton H. Simmons; election committee, William Appleton, J. F. Bush, Robert Bacon, William S. Eaton, Jr., William S. Hall, James M. Olmstead, Henry T. Spooner, Guy Wilkinson.

SKATING.

~The~ Lachine Skating Club held its second annual meeting recently and elected the following officers: Mr. T. A. Dawes, re-elected honorary president; C. Thos. Danford, president; Albert Dawes, vice-president, and Wm. A. Shackell re-elected secretary-treasurer. The following were selected for the committee: A. P. Bastable, H. K. Danford, J. MacGowan, A. Noad, E. W. H. Phillip and A. Perry. Several new members were elected.

* * * * *

~The~ annual meeting of the National Skating Association of England was held at the Bath Hotel, Cambridge, Oct. 27, Mr. Neville Goodman in the chair.

The committee, in their report, congratulated the members on the position of the association. Numerous attempts were made during the past season to bring off the championship race, but when all preparations had been made the changes in the weather upset the arrangements and the meetings had to be abandoned.... The committee were sanguine of being able to pay their way, but this could not be done without gate proceeds. It was pointed out that scarcely any sporting pastime was now participated in without a charge for admission being made, especially when valuable prizes were given. Owing to the paucity of members it was impossible to hold race-meetings without relying upon a “gate” to meet the heavy expenses. Under the present régime this rule would have to be adhered to, but should funds allow, free meetings would be held....

Mr. H. G. Few, R. S. O., Willingham, Cambs, was re-elected treasurer, and Messrs. J. D. Digby and J. Newton Digby were appointed joint honorable secretaries. Baron de Salis, of Holland, was elected an honorary life member.

The chairman, in accordance with notice, brought forward the question of the definition of an amateur; and proposed that in lieu of the present rule the following be adopted: “That an amateur is one who has never competed in a skating contest for a money prize.” This gave rise to discussion, the motion being opposed by the secretary, but it was carried.

SNOW-SHOEING.

~The~ following officers were elected by the Montreal Garrison Artillery Snow-Shoe Club: Hon. presidents, Lieut.-Col. Turnbull and Lieut.-Col. Oswald; Hon. vice-presidents, Major Cole and Capt. Levins; president, Capt. Lewis; vice-presidents, Lieuts. Crathern, Ogilvy and Foy; secretary-treasurer, Staff-Sergeant Cooper; assistant secretary-treasurer, Gunner Wilson. Committee: Lieut. McFarlane, Sergeant-Major Benton, Battery Sergeant-Major Murdock, Sergeant-Major Wilson, Sergeant McDonald, Sergeants Drysdale, Bonet, Pingel, Gunner Cokers, Trumpeter Shaw, Corporal Laurency. Delegates to Council Committee: Captain Lewis, Sergeant-Major Jones, Staff-Sergeant Cooper, Gunner Bremner.

SWIMMING.

~J. Nuttall~, one of the foremost of swimmers in the English amateur ranks, has cast his lot with the professionals, and, in his first race for the 1,000-yard professional championship, which took place at Lambeth Baths, Westminster Bridge Road, London, October 19, he met J. J. Collier, ex-champion; J. Finney, previous holder of the championship, and George Kistler, all first-class swimmers. The men swam in a tank 40 yards long, and Nuttall took the lead directly after the dive, holding it to the finish. Nuttall beat all previous records from the outset, as the following times will show:

*2 lengths 0m. 54s. *4 lengths 1 55½ *6 lengths 3 00½ *8 lengths 4 08½ *10 lengths 5 17 *12 lengths 6 28½ *14 lengths 7 38¼ *16 lengths 8 48½ *18 lengths 10 00 *20 lengths 11 11 *22 lengths 12 25½ *24 lengths 13 40 *25 (1,000 yards) 14 17¼

* Record beaten from the start.

The previous best on record was by Finney, 14m. 43¾s.

TOBOGGANING.

~The~ Essex County Toboggan Club recently elected the following Board of Governors for the season of 1888-’89: John Firth, F. W. Hall, E. P. Hamilton, Charles T. Minton, Clarence D. Newell, John H. Sprague, Louis E. Chandler, Dr. F. A. Levy, Dr. G. B. Dowling, R. G. Hopper, Frank Lyman, D. H. Carstairs, Charles Hendricks, N. B. Woodworth, and C. F. Whiting.

YACHTING.

~The~ schooner-yacht Brunhilde, Captain John J. Phelps, owner, started on her second voyage round the globe November 1. Captain Phelps is accompanied by his wife. The crew consists of ten men before the mast. The Brunhilde sailed direct for Bermuda. Captain Phelps has not yet determined how long he proposes to remain away.

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~From~ England comes the news that steps have been taken by yachtsmen there as well as on this side of the Atlantic to have a grand international race next May of sloop and cutter yachts in the forty, fifty, and sixty foot classes. It is understood that the Seawanhaka-Corinthian, Eastern and other clubs are arranging with the English clubs for the race, which is to be settled in American waters for prizes independent of the America’s cup.

* * * * *

~As~ we go to press it seems probable that James Coates, Jr., the Scotchman who owns the Thistle, will challenge for the America’s cup within thirty days.

* * * * *

~The~ report that another challenge for the America’s cup will shortly be issued from the other side of the Atlantic is again on the rounds. A correspondent of the London Times in Queenstown, Ireland, has heard that the Jamiesons, of Irish whiskey and Irex fame, have been quietly building a large steel sloop, with the end in view of challenging for the America’s cup. Richardson, the designer of the Irex, is said to be the designer of the new production. The author of the story has even learned the fact that the intended challenger is to be named the Shamrock. Mr. Jamieson has more than once been reported to have designs on the cup, and it is barely possible that a challenge may at some future day emanate from the Royal Irish Yacht Club, of which he is a member.

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~The~ winter quarters of the Newark, N. J., Yacht Club are at 740 Broad Street, Newark. The new rooms are cosily fitted up, and members of the club and their friends love to linger in the parlors and spin yarns of the water and about the men who go down to the sea in yachts.

* * * * *

~The~ Harlem Yacht Club a short time ago moved into its new quarters, the old Randall mansion on East 121st Street. It was previously occupied by the Eastern Boulevard Club. The present officers of the club are: Commodore, James T. Lalor; vice-commodore, McEvoy; secretary, T. J. Dempsey; corresponding secretary, W. J. Parker; treasurer, H. M. Jones; measurer, T. P. Bates.

ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

[This department of ~Outing~ is devoted to answers to correspondents seeking information on subjects appertaining to all sports.]

Scot, Boston.--For the game of lawn bowls you must have turf in the finest possible condition. The dimensions of the ground should be about forty-two yards long, and, if possible, the same breadth. There should be ditches at both ends, about twelve inches wide and three inches deep, with a bank about eighteen inches above the level of the lawn, to stop the bowls. The reason why it is advisable to have the ground square, is that one can then change the direction of play and so save the grass.

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Chas. T., Baltimore.--Your horse is probably suffering from irregular teeth. What you describe is called “quidding.” You should have a veterinary surgeon to see to his teeth, and if necessary rasp them down. If it does not come from the teeth, he is probably suffering from catarrh, with sore throat, and when he is swallowing water you will be able to notice a peculiar gulping effort. This, of course, would need treatment.

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Breeder, Buffalo, N. Y.--The New Forest ponies are no good. They have much of the blood of Marsk, the sire of the famous English horse Eclipse, in their veins, but in spite of it they are about as ill-looking animals as one can imagine, with most hideous heads and necks. They are, however, hardy and useful. The best all-round specimens of the Shetland that we have ever seen, certainly in America, are the family of them exhibited by Mr. Pierre Lorillard at the New York Horse-Show. They are of exactly the right stamp for that class of pony, and the stallion, Montreal, was well described as having “the build of a cart-horse and the carriage of a thoroughbred.”

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Matador.--The sword is passed between the skull and the first cervical vertebra, in a perpendicular direction only.

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Fred, H. L., Brooklyn, N. Y.--The best method to render shoes impervious to snow is to apply castor-oil. It must be applied twice, after the boots have been warmed at the fire. Of course, the oil must be used again at intervals, when the leather shows signs of needing it. The best plan is to wash off all blacking first, and apply the oil to the sole as well as the other portions of the shoe.

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R. S. B., Broadway.--The length of the Cambridgeshire course, at Newmarket, England, is 1 mile and 240 yards.

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Gunner, Washington, D. C.--Strictly speaking, the correct plural is with the s; but that letter is very commonly omitted. Indeed, among sportsmen, it may be said that “snipe” is invariably used in the plural as well as the singular sense; but naturalists use the plural “snipes” as meaning the different species of snipe. With woodcocks it is more usual to add the s, but many sportsmen omit it.

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Canine, Hartford, Conn.--(1) Your best plan is to wash the ears out and brush in some green iodide of mercury twice a week. (2) Puppies at the age of three months or so, often show crooked legs with enlarged joints, but these generally come right later.

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Athlete, Cambridge.--You can obtain just the kind of jewelry you require from Shreve, Crump & Low Co., Washington Street, Boston. They also give special attention to designing and making prizes for clubs.

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C. A. S., New Haven, Conn.--Excellent shooting can be obtained at Barnegat, Delaware and Chesapeake bays; for the last place Havre de Grace is the usual starting-point. At Crisfield, Md., near the swamps of the Pocomoke, geese and different kinds of ducks are abundant. The trip, however, if you procured boat, sink-box, etc., at the more popular places, would prove expensive. Good Ground, Long Island, on the Great South Bay, is highly recommended, and, being off the usual line of travel, should afford satisfactory shooting. We should hardly advise you to go farther north at this time of year; and on the Maine coast the birds are fishy to the taste. You could, however, get some sport with the seals--with a rifle, for they are too shy for a shotgun. At this time of year we would suggest Camden as a starting-point, where you can obtain outfit and guides at a reasonable figure, while in the back country you could get some woodcock and partridges. On the whole, our advice would be to try Long Island or Barnegat Bay.

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John R. S., Indianapolis.--Although trotting as a sport has not assumed any large dimensions in England, some English stock is still imported to gain fresh blood. Mr. Fairfax, of Virginia, recently purchased the stallion Matchless for 1,000 guineas from Mr. Brough, of Londesborough Wold, Yorkshire. Trotting is, however, making some headway on the other side, and a gentleman is at present laying out a half-mile track at Aintree, near Liverpool, where it is proposed to hold a meeting this year.

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H. B. P., Quebec.--(1) The Northwestern Amateur Rowing Association has its headquarters at Detroit, Michigan. It was organized in October, 1868, and is composed of some 47 clubs. (2) The laws in regard to “water” read as follows:

(a) A boat’s own water is its straight course, parallel with those of the other competing boats, from the station assigned to it at the start to the finish.

(b) Each boat shall keep its own water throughout the race, and any boat departing from its own water will do so at its peril.

(c) The umpire shall be sole judge of a boat’s own water and proper course during the race.

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1158 Springfield, Mass.--(1) Road-books are issued by Connecticut and Massachusetts. For former, write to Weed Sewing Machine Company, Hartford, Conn.; for latter, to H. W. Hayes, 103 State Street, Boston, Mass. (2) The States that publish road-books can make their own regulations as regards selling them to persons not members of the League. All the information and statistics are furnished by members to the compilers free, and the idea of not selling the book to outsiders is to retain the benefits afforded by the organization for members only. It is thought by some that this will increase the membership. New York State sells the road-book to outsiders for $1.50, and to League members for $1.00.

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Whist-Player, Yonkers.--The best thing we have seen in the line of card-tables, are those made by Keeler & Co., Washington Street, Boston. The folding pattern is especially commendable.

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Paterfamilias, Springfield, Mass.--You will find that the repeating air-gun made by H. H. Kiffe, 318 Fulton Street, Brooklyn, is the very thing for your boy.

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J. E. M., Lynchburg, Va.--Chapped heels arise from exposure to wet and cold, or from imperfect drying of the legs after washing. You will find white lead or zinc ointment beneficial.

~Outing.~

~Vol.~ XIII. FEBRUARY, 1889. ~No.~ 5.

BY WILL H. WHYTE.

Hark to the sleigh-bells--how they charm the ear With crystal music exquisitely clear! Watch the light sleighs, how merrily they go O’er firm new roads macadamized with snow! The skies are blue, the sunbeams, as they play, Eclipse the splendors of a summer day, And rubies, sapphires, emeralds, diamonds blaze, Beneath each horse’s footfall, with prismatic rays.

--G. Murray.

When old Winter, the king of the Arctic Circle, issues from his polar domain for his annual visit to southern latitudes, accompanied by his stalwart henchman Jack Frost, he binds tight with icy chains the great rivers and lakes, and even the mighty St. Lawrence bows to and acknowledges his power. Then the country and roads lie deep beneath the snow-king’s mantle, and man, who cannot hibernate like the bears, adopts a mode of locomotion different from those he uses in the long days of summer. The noisy wheel he replaces with the silent runner.

In all northern countries, where the snow covers the ground to any depth, the inhabitants use some kind of sleigh or sled to enable them to travel during the winter. In the Arctic zone the Laplanders and Esquimaux traverse their ice-bound land in low but comfortable sledges drawn by reindeer or dogs. Around the shores of Hudson’s Bay, and in sections north of Lake Superior, where the iron horse has not yet made his appearance, the winter vehicle in use is the “traineau,” drawn by a team of dogs. In Manitoba and the Canadian Northwest, until its annexation and settlement some years ago by the Dominion, this was the sole means of communication in winter between many of the scattered settlements; and even now, in the far north, the mails are so conveyed. In these days of high pressure, time is an object, and few would care to spend fourteen days in a sleigh when fourteen hours by rail would bring one to his destination. There are, however, yet living, old travelers who could many a tale unfold of tragic adventure over frozen field and flood--some even thrilling enough to stir the blood of the reader of sensational novels.

In those early days, when for four months in the year the sleigh afforded the only means of transportation, it was not regarded as a sport or pastime. The highways followed the windings and indentations of the lakes and rivers, and were frequently blocked with heavy snowdrifts. The ice made a shorter and more level path, and was consequently preferred as soon as it was strong enough to bear the weight of a horse and sleigh, so affording, during the colder months, a pleasant road. But toward the spring of the year, when the returning power of the sun honey-combed the ice, it made a dangerous track, and many a sleigh with its living freight has disappeared beneath the treacherous ice. Even without such tragic incidents, excitement would often be afforded by the loss of horses and sleigh, and a weary, perilsome walk to the nearest village or settlement. In those days no one thought of leaving home without his rifle, for in wood and bush lurked the ravenous wolf, and, still more to be dreaded, the Indian of those days. Happily this has all passed away, and the present generation travels by steam in comfortable cars, and the traveler has no fear of being brained by a tomahawk or losing his scalp. His sleigh-riding is limited to perhaps the next town or village, and usually combines pleasure with business.

In Dakota, Minnesota, and other northwestern States, and in Manitoba, during the months of February and March, when that American product, the “blizzard,” is on the trail, sleighing at any distance from civilization is somewhat perilous. We have a vivid recollection of a sleigh drive in the province of Manitoba, when for twenty miles we never saw the horse that was drawing our sleigh. With fearful velocity the blizzard overtook us, and in an instant the air was filled with a whirlwind of snow. Covering our faces, we left our “shaginappi” pony to follow the trail as best he could, trusting that somehow the sagacious animal would find his way to some house or settlement. After many weary hours, when hope was almost expiring, benumbed and nearly exhausted, just as the shadows of night were closing in around us, our steed suddenly drew up in front of a house, and the most gladsome sight we ever beheld was the light in the window of that little shanty. A warm, comfortable room and something to eat soon thawed us out, and after seeing that our four-footed friend was well housed, we were soon sound asleep, fagged out with our tussle. Never since have we yearned for a similar experience.

In lumbering, that great industry of Maine, Michigan, Wisconsin, and Canada, the sleigh and sled plays a very important part. When frost makes the swamps firm and snow levels the ground, the lumber-camp is in all its activity. The vast forest trees are cut and then easily drawn on sleds to the nearest lake or river, whence in spring they are floated to market.

Ever since the days when the “lily flag” of the Bourbons floated over “La Nouvelle France,” ice-trotting has been a Canadian winter pastime on the great St. Lawrence River, either at Quebec, Three Rivers or Montreal. In fact, in any of the inland villages, wherever a stretch of ice can be found, may be seen the French Canadian, seated on a sleigh after the style of a skeleton-sulky, no matter how cold or stormy it may be. He is happy if he can show the good points of his trotter in a race with a neighbor before an admiring audience of countrymen, and when not racing he will spend hours speeding his horse over the glassy track. The Canadian horse is hardy for his size and weight, unsurpassed for pluck and endurance, and usually possesses good action and temper. Many are descendants of Norman stock. Ice-trotting has always been a favorite sport at Montreal, and many of the trotters of the present day are descended from horses that have been used in this sport. Among those that made a name for themselves on the ice forty years ago was the well-known St. Lawrence.

In Canada sleighing has attained the greatest pre-eminence as a pastime, and perhaps in the whole Dominion it is nowhere so popular as in the ancient province of Quebec. Here the climate is absolutely unsurpassed for the thorough enjoyment of outdoor sports. When winter once sets in a thaw rarely occurs, with the exception of one in January, which seldom lasts longer than two or three days. Jack Frost is the ruler of the weather. Consequently, though the air may be cold, it is clear and dry and enjoyable, the roads hard and smooth, the runners glide easily and quietly, while the bells jingle merrily. All who can afford it keep some kind of a sleigh and horse, while the livery-stables in the larger towns do a thriving and profitable business. The country and city roads present a gay appearance. Every variety of turn-out is there, from the home-made “cariole” and French-Canadian pony of the habitant, to the handsome sleigh and team of the millionaire. What a revelation would a procession of all the styles of sleigh that have been in vogue since the settlement of the province afford! Or even those of the present century. There would be the little market-box, or “Berlin;” the ancient but still fashionable “cariole,” on runners so low that a chance upset does not present much danger; the trotting-sulky; the light but dashing cutter, a style more in vogue over the border than in Quebec, and dozens of fashionable equipages mounted on single or double runners and furnished with a wealth of furs that would make a Russian prince envious.

Montreal stands unsurpassed for winter vehicles. St. Petersburg, the Russian capital, can perhaps compete in furs, but the Canadian metropolis is unsurpassed in the beauty and variety of its sleighs. Nor can the pleasure of sleighing be enjoyed to greater perfection than in the “Royal City.” The clear, bracing atmosphere gives color to the faces of the fair occupants of the sleighs; the merry music of the bells, and the sound of the runners over the crisp and frozen snow, all lend a charm to the sport, and furnish a tonic finer and far more exhilarating than anything physicians can prescribe. Even the horses seem to trot with a full instinct of enjoyment.

What is more glorious or inspiring than a drive on a beautiful clear Canadian winter’s evening? The night is glorious; possibly there is not even a breath of wind to stir the mass of snow that covers the fields. The stars twinkle and sparkle in the blue sky; the moon transforms the snowy piles into heaps of sparkling diamonds and sketches in exquisite tracery the outlines of trees and leafless branches upon the virgin carpet beneath. The solemn stillness is only broken by the melodious chimes of the sleigh-bells and the patter of the horses’ hoofs upon the frozen crystals.

If on such a night, with some fair companion at your side, you are not moved to an appreciation of the beautiful in nature, then there is no romance in your composition. If at such a time you cannot throw off the petty cares and trials of the busy world, then, my friend, you are past cure. How the jingle of a sleigh-bell will recall memories of former drives! What visions will loom up of glorious nights, with a charming companion carefully wrapped up in warm and cozy robes! How easily did the sleigh slip along behind the pair of Canadian ponies, or how gayly that chestnut or bay would step out without requiring all the attention of the driver; for when eyes are sparkling in the moonlight, and cheeks glowing ruddy in the crisp and frosty air, it is remarkable what a tendency sleigh robes have to require one’s constant attention! Under such circumstances a horse that does not require all your care is a treasure, for you have plenty of occupation for your left arm keeping the sleigh robes in their proper place, you know. Ah! those glorious sleigh rides around Mount Royal. What can be compared to them, and what an auxiliary they have been to that little god Cupid, many and many a time!

Let poets idly dream and sing The beauty of the windy spring, And in green fields go Maying: Better by far is a winter night, When snow lies deep and hard and white, And the stars look down with twinkling light On Nan and me out sleighing.

The moonlight makes a fairer day-- The restless horses seem to say, “Oh, why are you delaying?” They spurn the ground with flying feet, The sleigh-bells tinkle clear and sweet-- Life has never a joy to beat Nannie’s and mine out sleighing!

My love then nestles near my arm, Among the furs so soft and warm, And I, my heart obeying, Bend down to see her beaming eyes, Bend down to catch her loving sighs, And oh! the time too swiftly flies, When Nannie and I are sleighing!

Montreal Star.

Sleigh parties to many of the neighboring villages around Montreal have long been a fashionable recreation. Large sleighs, that will hold thirty or forty each, convey the party to some village hotel, and there, in the ballroom, which is invariably a part of the establishment, a merry and pleasant time is spent.

In the larger cities of Canada there have existed for many years driving clubs. These possess a greater or less degree of organization, and are in operation only during the winter months. Montreal, Quebec, Halifax and Kingston have all had their “tandem clubs.” Montreal and Quebec have probably older organizations than the others. Since they all were garrison towns, during the occupancy of the Imperial troops the officers of the various regiments were among the chief factors in keeping alive these clubs. Quebec’s Tandem Club is said to have been in existence at a time which the memory of the oldest inhabitant reacheth not. One of its oldest presidents is still living, and years ago drove four thoroughbreds of his own breeding. A number of Quebec’s well-known and wealthy merchants have been presidents of the club, and with Lord Alexander Russell and the Earl of Caledon have frequently driven four-in-hand around the streets of the ancient capital. The value, it is said, of some of their magnificent outfits--sleighs, horses and robes--often exceeded $5,000. In the days of the military, the club usually consisted of five or six four-in-hands and thirty to forty tandems, besides pairs and singles. This old club has never entirely lapsed, and consists at present of the officers of the battery of artillery which garrisons the Citadel, and the wealthier shipping and lumber merchants.

The Montreal Tandem Club, as a distinct organization for the pastime of sleighing, was formed many years ago, during the occupancy of the Imperial troops. In those days it was a most fashionable and aristocratic assemblage, and usually mustered twice a week, Wednesdays and Saturdays. It was an inspiriting sight to watch the long stream of handsome equipages as they followed in line. Among those who handled the ribbons with skill and dexterity were the old, gray-haired hero of Kars, Lieutenant-General Sir Fenwick Williams, whose deep love of sport endeared him to the Canadian youth; Sir James Lindsay; Sir W. Windham, who earned the distinction of being the first to enter the famous Russian Redan in the Crimean war; Lord Paulet (the handsome guardsman); Lords Dunmore and Elphinstone; Major Penn, Colonel Bell, and many others whose names we cannot at present recall. Two should, however, not be forgotten--two whose names have since become well known the world over--Colonel Wolseley, now General Lord Wolseley, and Lieutenant Butler of the 60th Rifles, now General Sir Redvers Butler. Pleasant days they were, and as the long line of four-in-hands, unicorns, tandems and pairs filed past, filled with the happy and smiling faces of the Canadian belles and gallant officers, many of the latter little thought that in after-years, far from Canadian snows, they would find soldiers’ graves, and “sleep the sleep that knows no waking” in lands where such a thing as a snowflake was never dreamed of.

After the withdrawal of the British troops, the Tandem Club for a few years had a feeble existence; but in January, 1882, principally through the exertions of some of the older members of the Montreal Hunt Club, it was reorganized. Mr. Joseph Hickson, the general manager of the Grand Trunk Railway was elected president, while in 1883 Mr. Andrew Allan, of the well-known Canadian Steamship Company, was the president--Mr. Joseph Hickson being again elected to the office in 1884. Every Saturday, at two o’clock, the club meets on Dominion Square, opposite the Windsor Hotel. A gay and pleasing sight it is to watch the smart “turn-outs” as they circle round the square before making a start for the selected destination. A favorite resort is Peloguin’s Hotel, at Sault-au-Recollect village, about seven miles from the city, on a northern branch of the Ottawa River. A six-mile trip eastward along the banks of the St. Lawrence, brings one to Longue Pointe, while westward a favorite road leads through the suburb of Côte St. Antoine, past the “Blue Bonnets,” to Lachine, about nine miles distant. Other favorite drives are to “The Kennels,” the headquarters of the Hunt Club, or round the winding, zigzag road to the park at the summit of picturesque Mt. Royal. The time spent at the rendezvous is usually about an hour, just enough for some light refreshments and perhaps a dance or two. Should the weather prove somewhat stormy and the sleighing heavy, a drive around town is the order of the day.

The Saturday meet always draws a crowd of citizens to watch and admire the handsome sleighs and horses. The cavalcade is steadily augmented by the new arrivals until the signal for starting is sounded from the coaching-horn of the leading four-in-hand. The four-in-hands always take the lead, followed by the unicorns, which rank next. Next come one or two randoms, and then follow a long line of tandems, then the pairs, the rear being brought up by another tandem, which acts as whipper-in.

Since the introduction of the Montreal winter carnivals, the sleigh parade, or “Carnival Drive,” has been one of the week’s events each year, and is a sight worth seeing. These drives are a commingling of all sorts and conditions of men, wealth and affluence in the private equipages of the wealthy merchants and members of the Tandem Club, and rural comfort and simplicity in the humble but substantial outfit of the habitant. The athletic clubs turn out en masse in huge sleighs of various shapes and designs, holding fifty to sixty uniformed members, and drawn by eight, six, and four horses. There are double and single sleighs, carioles, box-sleighs, light cutters, family sleighs, habitant sleighs, skeletons, sulkies, “haysleds,” Russian sleighs, and nondescripts on runners impossible to classify, but all lending their aid to make up a spectacle.

Besides the fashionable Tandem Club, Montreal has other driving associations. The contractors, who in most large cities are well off, have a driving club, and visit the neighboring villages during each winter. The Hackmen’s Association have turned out sleighs by the hundred at the carnival drives, and their costly and handsome outfits have been the admiration of all, many of the master carters having sleighs that equal in style and finish those of the wealthy merchants.

ACROSS WYOMING ON HORSEBACK.

BY LEWIS P. ROBIE.

During a recent winter it became necessary for me to leave Cheyenne for Buffalo, Johnson County, in the northern part of the Territory. I could reach Buffalo either by rail to Rock Creek on the Union Pacific, thence by stage or team 250 miles, or by riding direct across country. The latter route would be the least expensive, but older and more experienced men advised me not to ride, particularly at that time of the year. Severe blizzards were common in April, much rain had fallen, and as I should have to cross many streams, which of course would be swollen by the rain, it would be a hazardous journey. Besides, the country to be traversed was entirely without towns or settlements, and the distances were long between ranches and places of shelter. I thought of the possibility of my horse falling lame, or of my losing him altogether, or of being taken sick myself or disabled in some way; and since I was only a “tenderfoot,” such a journey was, in my opinion, as well as that of others, quite an undertaking.

The first thing was to get a good horse, and I purchased a dark mouse-colored one, eight years old, tough, and full of life, at the same time kind and affectionate. I named him “Terry,” and he cost me $75.00, with saddle, halter and bridle complete. I purchased a pair of boots, leather chaperajos, broad-brimmed sombrero, blue flannel shirt, revolver and cartridges, and attached to my saddle an overcoat and “slicker,” a fur cap and mittens, and bought a good map of Wyoming and a pocket compass. Thus equipped, I bade farewell to my friends in Cheyenne, and on the morning of April 3 started on my eventful trip across the frontier.

The Magic City was soon far in the distance, as my horse covered the ground with a pacing gait, peculiar to him. About five miles out I climbed a high range, to take my last look at the city, and then descended to the rolling plains beyond. A strong head wind sprang up and retarded my progress considerably, so that it was not until after twelve o’clock that I struck a ranch nine miles away, where I put up for dinner. After enjoying a hearty meal, I re-saddled and continued my journey on the stage road for about four miles, when I turned to the left and followed a cattle trail to Pole Creek.

The morning had dawned pleasantly, but now the weather looked very dubious, and I could see a storm coming up toward the mountains, which were almost hidden from view. It was almost four ~P.M.~ before I reached Dyer’s sheep camp, on Pole Creek, about twenty miles from Cheyenne. The storm and wind seemed to grow worse, and it was dark, just as the rain came down in torrents, when I reached Lowe’s ranch, on Horse Creek; and well it was that I did, for as night came on I could hardly see two feet ahead of me. In crossing the creek Terry stumbled and fell on his knees, but I pulled through all right, though considerably wetted. Just as the cowboys were making the round-up I rode into camp and was cordially received. Supper over, pipes were lighted, and I played my flute for a while, but, being very tired after my hard ride in such inclement weather, I soon turned in on a rough bunk of blankets and fell asleep.

My route now lay east for a few miles along the creek, and I rode along lighthearted in the glorious morning. At Goodwin’s ranch I turned north, on the stage road, and by noon reached Bard’s, at Little Bear Springs. About six miles farther on I overtook a camp of freighters, and had a pleasant talk with a few old-timers, all of whom thought my trip would be rough, and told me that they would hesitate before taking such a journey themselves. The scenery had varied little. From day to day I crossed rolling plains, with thousands of cattle, sheep and horses quietly grazing, with numerous antelopes and prairie dogs in sight, and occasionally elk and black-tailed deer. Toward the west were the Laramie Range of the Rocky Mountains, with their snow-white peaks glistening in the sun.

Time flew by, and for ten miles I rode in silence until I came in view of a lone sheep-herder with his flock. Being interested in the details of a sheep-herder’s life, I went over to where he was seated on a ledge. He was dressed in rough, cowboy’s garb, his head bowed between his knees as if he were in deep thought, smoking a pipe. As his back was turned toward me he did not see me coming, and I rode up to him and said: “A pleasant afternoon, sir!” He started, but regained his composure in a second, and without taking his pipe from his mouth, grunted a simple “yes,” not even troubling to look up. “Your sheep are in good condition,” I continued. He raised his head suddenly, gave me a wild, murderous look, but answered not a word. Concluding he did not wish to be questioned, I proceeded on my journey. At Chugwater, on inquiring about this strange fellow, I heard that many years ago he lived in New England, was of good family, very well to do, and exceptionally well educated and intelligent. He fell in love with a girl, who jilted him, and he never could get over it, but left his home, came West and started to herd sheep, living alone and shunning all society.

Toward sundown I ran into a prairie-dog town, where hundreds of these little animals were running hither and thither, in and out of their holes, and filling the air with their clatter and squealing. It was now close to six o’clock, the sun was almost out of sight, and I was as nearly as I could judge seven miles from the Chug. Terry, however, was as impatient for his supper as I was, and at my “Get up, old boy!” he started into a gallop, which he steadily kept up till the bridge was reached. It was just seven o’clock as I rode up to the post-office at Chugwater--twenty-nine miles that day, and sixty of my trip ended.

This was one of the most important places on my route, containing a post-office, stage station, a ranch hotel, a general store, and the stock ranches of the Swan Land and Cattle Company, one of the largest organizations of its kind in the world, operating 250,000 head of cattle, and having three millions capital. It is also a lay-over for the stages of the Cheyenne, Fort Laramie and Black Hills Company. There was quite a gathering of ranchmen and others, on their way south to the annual meeting of the Stock Association at Cheyenne, a very important event to the cattle owners of Wyoming.

In the morning I arose early, with the intention of reaching by noon a ranch called Hunton’s on the map. I found myself, however, so stiff in the limbs, not being thoroughly used to the new saddle and the action of the horse, that I concluded to allow Terry a run in the corral and rest till the afternoon before starting.

I passed the morning in looking into the workings of a model cattle ranch, preparatory to the spring round-up, and was particularly interested and amused in watching the men break some bronchos to the saddle. The life of one of these “broncho busters,” as they are called, requires much nerve and daring. Not unfrequently they are badly hurt by the kicking and struggles of these fiery beasts.

I had left the Chug scarcely more than three miles behind me, when, on turning a bend in the trail, I came suddenly on a band of a dozen or more antelopes, quietly grazing a short distance to my left. If I had had a rifle I might have distinguished myself, but I could only pop away at them with my six-shooter, much to the disgust of Terry, who kicked and bucked till I was nearly thrown. Between four and five o’clock, I reached Richard’s Creek, with four miles ahead of me to Hunton’s, where I intended to spend the night. As I approached the creek, I was overtaken by a brown, sunburnt individual, who, after we had exchanged “Hows,” invited me to spend the night at his camp half a mile down the creek. He was one of six who were on their way south to Colorado for the purpose of gathering up three hundred ponies for the round-ups in Northern Wyoming.

After enjoying a rough but palatable supper of frying-pan bread, bear meat and coffee, we lit our pipes, and with stories of frontier life, Indian raids and adventures, interspersed with music on the violin, flute and harmonica, the evening passed pleasantly. One has to put up with anything in this country, and when I had to roll myself up in blankets and sleep on the ground, it was not unexpected. I should probably have slept well if, toward morning, I had not been awakened by a rain and wind storm, which came up so suddenly that my coverings were blown away, and I was well drenched before I could find shelter under the camp wagon. It was soon over, however, and the morning broke clear and pleasant.

Soon after breakfast I started north, while the campers pulled out in the opposite direction for Colorado. Terry felt lively from his run on the plains, and I was at the ranch in less than an hour. There were now before me twenty miles to the Laramie River, and then sixty miles of very hard traveling over the foot-hills and mountains to Fort Fetterman on the North Platte, where the worst part of the trip would be over. All the afternoon, till the sun had nearly set, did I travel over the monotonous plains without seeing a sign of human life. About half-past five I heard a shot from my right, and, hastening over the hill, saw a hunter fire again at an antelope which was among a small “bunch” of cattle. Unless forced by want of water, or decoyed, these timorous creatures seldom allow hunters to approach so near; but this unfortunate in some way had got among the cattle, which were not afraid of the hunter, and so it quietly stood its ground till the first shot was fired, when it was too late to escape. The man proved to be the owner of a ranch on the river that I was bound for. I dismounted and helped him place the antelope, a fine young one, on his horse. Then, leading our horses, we started for the ranch, three miles away, anticipating with sharpened appetites the treat of fresh antelope for supper.

In the evening I was attracted by a camp-fire across the river, and thinking I might get more information as to trails, ranches, etc., I crossed the river on the logs. It proved to be a freighting outfit bound for Cheyenne direct from Buffalo. They spoke of my probably having a very hard pull to Fetterman, and thence I would be apt to get lost and turned about, unless I stuck to the stage road, and they advised me not to try to strike cow ranches, as I had planned. On recrossing the river I thought that I could get over as before, on the logs, but I missed my footing, made a misstep, and fell in. As I sank down into the cold water of the river, I thought before I could get out “my name would be Dennis;” but I grasped the logs for dear life, and, crawling and struggling, reached the shore wet as a drowned rat.

The next morning I was none the worse for my accident, or for being obliged to sleep in wet clothing. I here made a trade with my saddle, getting one lighter and cheaper, that would answer my purpose and save my horse, as the former one weighed forty pounds, being a regular cow saddle.

The morning dawned very threatening, and as I rode into the hills it began to snow. I reached Horseshoe Creek late in the evening, making twenty-eight miles that day in the face of a severe snow-storm. Early the next morning I started for Lebonte Creek, twenty-two miles away, thinking to reach there by noon, and Fetterman, twenty-two miles farther, that night. But, as I got farther into the foot-hills, I found it would be impossible through the snow, which in places was very deep, so that if I got through it in two days I would be lucky.

For some ten miles I rode, admiring the magnificent view of the Rocky Mountains, now plainly visible, with their snow-white peaks apparently touching the clouds, when, on dismounting to walk up a long and steep hill, I heard a clatter of hoofs behind, and on looking down the hillside, was astonished to see one of the gentler sex coming in my direction. All sorts of conjectures as to who she might be crossed my mind, and I thought of stories, read long since, of “Calamity Jane,” “Fearless Kate, the Female Highwayman,” etc., but I was again surprised, as she approached, to find one of apparent refinement and culture. I was thinking just how and what to say, when she bade me a pleasant “Good-morning, sir! Rather cool”--presumably referring to the weather, not to myself. I soon found use of my powers of speech, and we chatted away at a great rate. The young lady was returning from a visit to her nearest neighbors twenty miles down the creek, and lived at a ranch which I hoped to make by noon. The remaining twelve miles did not seem half so long as the first ten.

At Lebonte her father made it exceptionally pleasant. I concluded not to attempt to make the fort that day, but to accept their kind invitation to remain till morning. In the evening, seated before the open fire, we had a long and interesting conversation. This “Rose of the Mountain” lives twenty miles from the post-office and nearest neighbors, and she and her younger brother and sister have their ponies and nature in its grandeur for their society. I made a trade with one of her brothers, and for my watch obtained a fine Winchester rifle.

During the night a storm came up, and in the morning I was confronted by a regular Wyoming blizzard. I put on overcoat and slicker, crossed the creek, and pushed into the mountains. After less than five miles, I almost wished I had remained at the ranch till the storm was over. A very high wind, accompanied by a driving, drifting snow, retarded my progress, so I could hardly make three miles an hour. As I got into the mountains, the storm increased in violence, and it grew colder. I could hardly see the trail, and but for the government telegraph-poles connecting Fort Russell with the north, which I had used as a guide so far, I should surely have been lost. At Wagon Hound and Bed Tick Creek I was obliged to make a crossing, where, had the water been a foot deeper, I should never have been able to get over. As it was, poor Terry almost gave up, the water was so cold and deep, and at Bed Tick I had to go three miles east to find a place where I dared to enter the icy water. A great part of the way I had to walk, fighting against wind and snow, till late in the afternoon, when, utterly exhausted and chilled, I dragged weak and tired Terry into Fort Fetterman, twenty-two miles that day, and one hundred and seventy miles of my journey ended.

Fort Fetterman is situated on a high plateau, at the base of which the North Platte River winds its course for miles and miles, as far as the eye can reach, through the finest grazing country in the world, giving a view more extensive and grand than at any other point on my route. The storm cleared toward sundown, and during the night the characteristic Chinook wind of Wyoming came up--a dry wind, which blew away and absorbed nearly all the snow. When I awoke the next morning and looked out upon the vast expanse of plains and mountains, I was astonished to find hardly a trace of the storm, except in isolated places high up in the foot-hills.

Fort Fetterman used to be a Government fort, but has been abandoned for several years. It now contains two ranch hotels, several cow ranches, a post-office, Government telegraph office, half a dozen saloons and a general store, and is the largest place between Cheyenne and Buffalo. It has the reputation of being the hardest point in the Territories, being the rendezvous of all the cowboys in Central Wyoming. I kept very quiet, and with the exception of a few disagreeable solicitations to drink from some of them, I was not molested. I was a little concerned, but not at all shaken in my purpose, by authentic reports from the telegraph office, which connects with Fort McKinney, near Buffalo, of serious disturbances among the Crow Indians, who had left their reservation in Montana, and were only waiting for grass to make war on the settlers in Johnson County. I concluded, however, if they were to make a break, I would be as safe under the protection of the troops as I would be here, where a tenderfoot was never known heretofore to live more than ten days.

A true story is told of a young man who was stationed here as a telegraph operator. He belonged to the class designated dudes, whom the cowboys love less than any other breed of tenderfeet. He was much pleased with the country and life in the Far West, but he was not satisfied with simply seeing the boys ride on horseback into saloons and shoot the lights out, common everyday fights, and an occasional lynching bee. He sighed for Indians and gore. He wanted to “spread himself” fighting the wary redskin. Finally the cowboys thought they would see if there was as much stuff in him as he bragged, so half a dozen or more dressed themselves up as Indians, with paint, feathers and tomahawks, and hid in a secluded place not far from town. In the meantime our hero was informed that some Indians had been seen a few miles up the river, and he was invited, if he wanted some sport, to join in and add his great fighting ability to help the rest. So they all started, but had hardly got out a mile or so when the secreted pseudo-Indians commenced yelling and firing in the air. The would-be Indian fighter, thinking they were an advanced guard of a host of others, turned and fled with his hair on end, and did not stop till the telegraph office was reached. He immediately wired to the Governor at Cheyenne, “Dispatch troops at once; two thousand Indians are on us,” and then hurried out to warn all to arm themselves for their lives. The postmaster, whose office was in the same room as the telegraph, directly sent another message: “Don’t deliver telegram just sent,” and the return of the cowboys soon gave the trick away. They gave the St. Louis tenderfoot no peace whatever. The territorial papers got hold of the story, and one morning he packed his grip and silently boarded the south-bound stage for parts unknown.

Early on April 9 I crossed the North Platte River. At noon I reached Sage Creek, and after resting an hour or so, left the stage road and struck a trail to my right, leading, as I was told, to Andrew’s cow ranch, on South Fork Cheyenne River, fourteen miles distant. I could see by my map a ranch in that direction, so I felt perfectly safe in venturing away from the telegraph poles, which had been my faithful and silent guides hitherto.

I was now leaving the mountains and approaching the sage-brush plains, a most monotonous and dreary-looking country. For miles I plodded along, alternately riding and walking, without seeing any sign of human life, or anything to break the monotony of the sage-brush. About half-past six, as I approached the river, I ran into a barbed-wire fence, which, when followed up for a mile or so, led me to the door of the ranch, where I dismounted and camped for the night.

I left the ranch in fine spirits. I had gone perhaps four miles when two men overtook me, passed, then turned and came back, scrutinizing me and my outfit as they came. As they drew up, one said: “Where did you get that horse?” Was it a case of mind-reading, or a mere freak, that led me to match his impertinence by saying, “Stole him.” “Yes,” he replied, “we know you did,” drawing out at the same time a warrant for the arrest of a horse-thief. My bill of sale for the horse and other papers sufficed, however, to prove that I was not the thief, and Terry carried the proof of his identity in a brand under the saddle, though answering strangely well in other respects to the description of the missing horse. They apologized for their mistake, and bidding me good-day turned toward the hills in the hope of capturing the real thief. I felt much relieved as they disappeared, for a horse-thief once caught in Wyoming stands but little chance for his life.

After dinner at Warner’s, I turned to the left across the plains, towards the stage road again, not seeing any stop for me nearer than the Wyoming stage station at Antelope Springs. On the ranges adjacent to Bear Creek and Stinking Water I came across many carcasses and bones of dead Texan cattle, which had been unable to pull through the severe winter, and as I turned north on the stage road I saw a lone buffalo.

The sun had disappeared behind a lofty range of the Rockies as I pulled up at the ranch at Antelope Springs, with only ninety miles ahead of me to Buffalo. After supper the stock-tender suddenly asked for my rifle, and almost within a second fired down the creek, where we found that he had killed an enormous gray wolf. He then bought my rifle for $15.00. I was told here that sixteen miles to the northwest I could find a cow-camp, which would not make my journey more than five miles longer, and would save an expensive stop on the stage road. I could see no ranch designated on the map in that direction, but supposed that it was a new outfit. So, the next morning I turned to the left, and followed a very narrow and almost indistinct trail till late in the afternoon, making fully twenty-five miles, without seeing any sign whatever of a human habitation, when, upon looking ahead of me at the sun, now near the horizon, I found that I was traveling due west instead of going northwest, as I should have gone. The trail had been growing much more indistinct for the last hour, so much so that it was with great difficulty I could distinguish it at all. Near by was a high bluff, which I ascended, and from which I had an extended view in all directions--north, south, east and west, as far as my eyes could reach. Not a sign of human life met my gaze. A few cattle in the foot-hills, that was all.

Lost!

I thought it could not be more than twenty-five miles northeast to the stage road, but was afraid that poor Terry would not be able to make it with ten miles more to the ranch. Besides, as darkness came on, I might get lost and turned about worse than ever. The best and only course for me was to camp out all night and wait till morning.

Acting on this decision, I descended into a ravine, beside a small stream, which I found by looking at the map was probably a “dry” fork of the Powder River, so called because during the summer months the water dries up. Now, however, it was quite a creek, from whose cold, clear water both Terry and I gathered much refreshment. Dry cottonwood timber lay about in considerable quantity, and I soon had a fire. I had been advised, if night should overtake me, to picket my horse near what grass he could reach, with a chance of his being devoured by wild beasts, rather than to let him run on the plains with a greater chance of his getting away. The old frontier saying is, “It is better to count bones than tracks.” I had about thirty feet of rope, with which I securely fastened Terry to a scrub pine not far from the fire, where he could partially satisfy himself with the bunch and buffalo grass that abounds in the foot-hills. I piled on the wood for a big, rousing fire, for as the night came on it grew very cold, though fortunately it was clear.

The night continued to grow cold, and I found it impossible to get any sleep with my simple coverings of overcoat and slicker. Finally I built two fires, and lying between them at length managed to get warm, and was just falling into a gentle sleep when my ears were greeted with the unearthly yelp of the coyote, or timber-wolf, which soon grew louder and nearer, till apparently I was surrounded by hundreds of them. I started up in alarm, drawing my revolver, and assumed a position of defense, for I momentarily expected they would close in on me. But my being awake, and the light of the fire, kept them at a safe distance, though the yells and cries were kept up till late in the night. To add to my misfortune, poor Terry, frightened at the uproar, broke his fastenings and decamped. I was not supremely happy at the serenade, but when I saw my faithful horse disappear in the darkness, my heart sank within me. Even if I should live through the night, how could I get out and reach food and shelter without Terry? I hoped, however, that I might find him the next morning, as he had grown to be very affectionate of late, so much so that he would eat out of my hand and follow me at my bidding. Knowing that my only safety was in keeping a bright fire steadily burning, I piled on the wood, plenty of which was fortunately near at hand. Toward daybreak the wolves began to disperse, and I breathed a sigh of relief as I heard their distant yelps, thanking God that danger from that source was now over.

As soon as the daylight enabled me to distinguish objects, my thoughts were bent on finding Terry. I had hardly left the camp-fire when he made his appearance through the timber, running directly towards me, neighing, whinnying, and apparently much pleased to find me safe.

I saddled, and, breakfastless, struck out northeast by the compass, knowing that if I kept on in that direction I was bound to reach the road. I pushed ahead as fast as possible, but my progress was necessarily very slow, as my route lay through frozen mud, fallen timber and gulches. Suddenly the horse stopped at a sandy place. I urged him with whip and spur. He would not budge an inch. I jumped off and tried to lead him over, but he would only pull back. I remounted to see what he would do, and much to my surprise he went round and crossed where the water was nearly three feet deep. “There must be something the matter with the sand,” I said to myself. To satisfy my curiosity, I rode back on the opposite side, and as the gray tinge of the breaking day lighted up the surroundings, I was astonished to discover, a few feet ahead of me, the horns of a cow sticking out of the sand. It instantly flashed across me why the horse refused to cross.

Late in the afternoon I arrived at Seventeen-mile Ranch, horse and rider hungry, sleepy, and utterly exhausted. As soon as I lay down on a rude bunk I fell into a sleep from which I did not awake till early the next morning, with a little headache, but in other respects feeling first-rate. I found that the boys at Antelope Springs bulldozed me into leaving the road, as there was no cow-camp for a hundred miles in the direction I had taken.

I had now seventeen miles to Powder River, and fifty from there to Buffalo, with a stage station between at Crazy Woman Creek. I had proceeded about two miles when I was overtaken by two cowboys racing. Terry, plodding along at his usual gait, braced up as he heard them coming, and started into a dead run so suddenly that I was almost upset. He was bound not to be left behind, and surprised me by his spirit after such a hard trip. Away we went for a mile or so, neck and neck, till the cowboys turned to the left for their ranch down the river. The incident gave me encouragement to think that Terry was all right for getting there anyway.

About four o’clock I reached the post-office at Powder River, the scene of a noted Indian massacre a few years ago. Here I was overjoyed to find letters from Cheyenne and home, the first I had received since starting on my trip. The postmaster informed me that I could strike a camp eighteen miles northwest that would save me enough distance to make Buffalo at the end of the next day, but I had had experience enough in trying to strike cow-camps, and concluded to stick to the road, even if it did take me a day longer. So, very early the next morning I started on the road, in a drenching rain, for Crazy Woman, thirty-three miles.

This was the most disagreeable day I had had during the whole trip, and a very lonely ride. I saw nothing but a water-hole at Nine-mile Gulch. The ranch here consists of only a bar-room divided by a curtain from a room used for sleeping, cooking and eating, with the stables and corral beyond. I had just entered the bar-room when I was accosted by, “Here, stranger, come and have something. Turn out some more whiskey, Bill!” I felt now I had come to what I had expected all along the line, an invitation to drink, where to refuse would be to risk death; but I was going to fight it out as long as I could. I replied, “Boys, you must excuse me; I don’t drink.”

“What’s that? Don’t drink? You ---- tenderfoot! I never had anybody refuse to drink with me yet, and, I tell yer, you do what I say--you drink!” drawing his revolver and pointing it at me.

“Well, I’ll take some light drink,” I said, knowing they had nothing but whiskey, “but I won’t drink that stuff.”

“What do you take us for? We don’t have any ---- dude drinks here. You do as I tell yer--drink whiskey!”

I went over to the bar, took up the glass, and was about to drink, when a thought occurred to me. I turned to the owner of the place, who was turning out the drinks, and said:

“Now, sir, I come here a stranger. I propose to attend to my own business, and when I leave pay my bills and go on my way. The reason I don’t want to drink is that the liquor will make me crazy. If I take one glass I shall want five, and I shall not be responsible for what I do. I appeal to you to see I get fair play. I’ll take a cigar with the boys, but I would rather not drink.” To which the cowboy who had insisted on my drinking replied:

“That’s all right, stranger. If you don’t want to drink, you needn’t. Here, have a cigar. Give him a whole box, Bill; I’ll pay for it.”

I humored them for awhile, but preferring Terry’s dumb society to the noise and disturbance of the drunken cowboys, I soon joined him.

The storm cleared during the night and the morning broke very pleasant. The “cow-punchers” had pulled out late at night for their ranch, and congratulating myself that I was free from them, and had but twenty miles more, I ate a hearty breakfast, and started for my last ride. I was getting now into more of a farming country, where crops of oats and wheat are very successfully raised by irrigation. The Big Horn Mountains were plainly visible to the northwest, and together with the foot-hills, which were covered with a green carpet of spring grass, looked very fine. At ten o’clock I rode into Buffalo, heartily congratulating myself upon the happy termination of a long and perilous journey.

WINTER SHOOTING IN SOUTH CAROLINA.

BY C. W. BOYD.

Notwithstanding boasted advancement in civilization, the love of camp-life, with its unrestrained freedom and absence of care, is strong in many a bosom, though the demands of duty and calls of interest may lead one to suppress it. In my opinion, at any rate, there is nothing so thoroughly enjoyable as to throw off the trammels of conventionality and do as one pleases, without fear of restriction or comment.

When, therefore, towards the latter part of February, after a winter spent in town, without a chance to pull a trigger, my friend C---- proposed a “camp-hunt” up the country, I was not slow to join him. I was living at the time in the northwestern part of South Carolina, a famous country for quail, though persistent hunting and the clearing of heavy tracts of timber have made other game scarce. Having settled our destination--a spot locally known as “Indian Camp,” on Fair Forest River--and engaged the services of a teamster, with his two-horse wagon, we set to work to make up our outfit.

This, although it may seem a simple matter to the uninitiated, requires some experience, in order to know just what is necessary. I must own that, although not without some knowledge in the matter, I never went on a trip of the kind without forgetting something that I afterwards needed. In the first place, we took a tent, a cot apiece, blanket, a couple of camp-stools, water-bucket, cups, and cooking utensils. The staples of our commissariat (a very important department) were bacon, flour, lard, coffee, sugar, a few dozen lemons, and last, but not least, a little brown jug, which C---- insisted on taking, saying it would come in handy for carrying water when emptied of its original contents. These things, with sundries too numerous to mention, and our guns and cartridges, completed our outfit. We took two dogs, a pointer and a setter, each thoroughly trained.

As we had determined to go in style, the next point was to find a cook. We were soon overwhelmed with applications, and the only trouble was to make a good selection. We finally decided to take Barney, a somewhat dark mulatto of gigantic proportions, a genuine Southern negro, with thick lips, broad, good-humored face, and somewhat of a character in his way. His accomplishments were considerable. From heeling a gamecock to turning the jack in “old sledge” his skill was unrivaled among his colored brethren. Not an event of importance took place in local sporting circles of which Barney did not know, and of which he was not magna pars, as Virgil puts it. Add to this that he was a first-rate cook, and in social intercourse constantly inclined to risibility, with a never-failing flow of conversation, and no one, I think, can disapprove of our choice.

We arrived at Indian Camp late in the afternoon, and immediately set about making ourselves comfortable for the night, sending away our conveyance with instructions to return for us in a week. We pitched our tent at the foot of a steep, wooded bluff, a few feet from a spring, whose cold waters sprang from a cleft in the rock. We soon had a fire of dry branches crackling and blazing in front, with a goodly oak, felled for the purpose, to serve as a back-log. After a hearty supper and a glass of usquebaugh, we enjoyed a pipe and talked over our plans for the morrow, and then retired, to dream of slaughtered quail and turkey until daylight.

With the first dawn we were up, soused our hands and faces in a somewhat greasy tin-pan (it had been mixed up with the side of bacon coming up in the wagon), and were soon discussing breakfast. A heavy mist hung over us, shutting out from sight the tall cottonwoods on the banks of the river, and the outlines of the hills beyond. This, however, rapidly rolled away as the sun rose, leaving the landscape clear and the weather just cool enough to be bracing. We decided to employ our first day with quail, crossing the river, or, as it is more generally called, creek, being about twenty yards wide, and hunting the hillsides, where, as the weather had been very rainy lately, we knew we would find most of the coveys. As the bottoms were in a very miry condition, I put on a pair of rubber boots, but most sincerely did I afterwards repent it, as, when I was tramping over the stony hillsides, after the sun became warm, they were almost unendurable.

We “crossed the river on a hickory log,” as the song says, and forcing a way through a dense jungle of vines and canes at least twenty feet in height, were just emerging on the other side, when, whir! whir! whir! came the sharp and well-remembered whistle of retreating wings. We dashed out into the edge of a field of young wheat, just in time to see the last brown wing settling in the distance, and our dogs, which had preceded us, rising from a dead point. The covey had been lying so close to the edge of the canebrake that we walked right into them, not knowing that our dogs had pointed. There is no use crying over spilt milk, as the country people say, and so we started in pursuit.

We had not gone half across the field when we saw my setter, that in the meantime had half circled it, drop on the border of a patch of brown straw, on the other side. We hurried across, but, on approaching, were surprised to see the dog creep several yards forward, indicating, of course, that the birds were moving, and consequently that we had found a new covey, for after being once flushed and scattered the birds always lie close. We moved forward cautiously, and, in my own case at least, somewhat nervously, for it was my first shot of the season. Suddenly--it always comes suddenly--the shock of rushing wings, and bang, bang, bang!--bang! the three first reports almost simultaneous. On searching the ground we succeeded in finding only one bird, much to our chagrin, as we supposed we had made three shots without result. This, however, was not the case, as while hunting in the direction the flushed birds had taken, through a thicket of scrub-pine, we came out into a new clearing, where some boys were burning brush, and there found two more birds where they had dropped stone dead, several hundred yards from where they had been shot. While hunting here we had the same experience many times; in fact, I have never elsewhere seen quail that were so hard to kill. We tramped all day, finding birds in abundance, and towards evening had a fine bag, although the country was very unfavorable for shooting, being extremely hilly, with numerous thickets of scrub-pine, in which the birds would seek shelter after being flushed. These were so dense that it was hard to get a glimpse of the bird as he whistled away.

On my arrival in camp I found my feet badly blistered by the rubber boots, and determined to eschew them in future for any except wading purposes. However, after bathing my feet in cold water and whiskey I began to feel comfortable, and did ample justice to a supper of smothered quail, etc.

While we were cleaning our guns, an old negro named Ralph, with two half-grown boys, made his appearance, and we derived considerable amusement from their quaint notions and ready credulity. Even the old man had probably never been a dozen miles from his native cabin in his life. For a “dram” and some pieces of silver money they brought us eggs and very tolerable butter, promising a fresh supply on the morrow. In camp one is never troubled with sleeplessness, and we were soon snoozing away comfortably under our canvas roof, dogs and all, except when it became necessary to replenish the log-fire, which we had built in front of the tent-opening to keep off the dampness.

Next day, about four in the afternoon, being tired of tramping, I determined “to take a stand” in the heavy timber near the banks of the river, for any sort of game that might chance to appear. I took a seat at the butt of a huge fallen poplar, with a maple swamp on one hand, its swelling crimson buds already showing signs of spring, and a canebrake on the other. It was almost too early in the afternoon for anything in the game line to be stirring. But the forest was grand, solitary and primeval. To the mind, however, accustomed to commune with nature, there was nothing of loneliness, for innumerable voices of the wood cried out, and the spirit of life was busy in the wilderness, and its unrestrained freedom seemed to lift and stimulate the soul like old wine. Here was a splendid field for an ornithologist. Rare birds of many species flitted about from tree to tree, or rested in the cool shade. Conspicuous above all for brilliancy of plumage, and also the noise they make in the world, were the many species of woodpeckers, from the white-and-black Indian hen, as large as a spring chicken, to the minute sapsucker no larger than a man’s thumb. These kept up an incessant hammering and boring that resounded throughout the forest like the noise of a gigantic workshop. Here and there, on the highest branches of decayed trees, lazy turkey-buzzards sat, stretching at intervals their huge wings with a slumberous effort towards the afternoon sun, while high in the air a pair of “rabbit” hawks, disturbed from their perch, circled with shrill cries.

Presently I heard the sharp bark of a squirrel, and a little fellow, with his tail over his back, jumped over the ground for a neighboring tree. I let him alone, for I knew, if undisturbed, he would be presently followed by others; the old cautious fellows letting the young and more rash bloods go first from the holes, from which, if the coast seem clear, they follow. In a few minutes the woods appeared full of them, chattering away, and jumping from tree to tree, eating the young buds with such gusto that it seemed almost a sin to disturb them. A sportsman or a hungry man, however, is not apt to indulge in sentiment, and the hills were soon reverberating with the reports of my breech-loader. C---- soon came to the spot to find out what all the racket was about, and we managed to bag about twelve before the others, frightened by the noise, regained their dens. Then we gave the birds another turn, which lasted until we could not see to shoot, and returned to camp.

Near the tent stood a small haw-tree, on whose branches we strung up our game so as to be convenient for use. By the end of the week it was pretty well loaded. But it did not remain so for long. On Saturday night a party of friends from town came up to visit us, and game and other provisions disappeared with astonishing rapidity.

We made a merry party that night gathered around the camp-fire, and song, story and jest followed each other in rapid succession. With our supply of lemons a huge bowl of punch was brewed.

Old Ralph, scenting the good cheer from afar, came down from his cabin on the hill with several other darkies, and their hearts were all made glad with a “dram.” Tired and sleepy, about two o’clock I retired. The last thing I remember seeing as I dozed off was R---- (who I think staid up all night), seated on a camp-stool, explaining to the darkies how earthquakes were caused by a certain unmentionable gentleman who resides below, moving his furniture about with other scientific facts and theories of a like kind. In the meantime his audience sat on the ground, presenting a circle of black faces on which the firelight shone, revealing open mouths and eyes as large as saucers, all of which made a tout ensemble that was ludicrous in the extreme.

Next morning the weather was cloudy, and as it began to rain about eleven o’clock, we procured a wagon, packed up our equipment, and reluctantly abandoned our camp for the realms of civilization.

THREE DAYS’ GRACE.

The tiny slipper she had dropped He lifted from the brookside dust, And placed it on the dainty foot That had so lightly held its trust.

“Ah! Cinderella,”--but she waived His homage of the eye and knee; Half mockingly, half tenderly-- “I am your debtor, sir,” said she.

“Ay, and I wait the payment, love!” She flushed, then laughed back, as she sped From stepping-stone to stepping-stone: “Give me three days of grace,” she said.

He cleared the streamlet at a bound, And whispered, gazing on her face, “The favor is not mine to grant, For all your days are Days of Grace!”

Sarah J. Burke.

AMERICAN COLLEGE ATHLETICS.

II. YALE UNIVERSITY.

BY RICHARD M. HURD,

Author of “A History of Yale Athletics.”

Yale student life has changed much in all aspects since the beginning of the present century, but in no respect has the advance been more marked, or the evolution more complete, than in the department of athletics.

The picture of the Yale student of eighty years ago, to whom the words “physical culture” were unknown, and whose ideas of out-of-door exercise were limited to an impromptu running or jumping contest, a game of “one-old-cat,” or the kicking of a football, forms the strongest contrast to the present Yale undergraduate life, with its five branches of intercollegiate sports, its long and arduous months of preparation for a contest, its highly organized system of management, and its yearly expenditure of thousands of dollars. The difference between what athletics meant to the student of that period, and what they mean to-day, presents a more striking contrast, however, than the change in their mere outward form. They were then passing amusements, acting as a safety-valve for exuberant spirits; they are now serious and absorbing pursuits scientifically studied, to which are devoted the highest qualities of courage, skill and endurance in their accomplishment, the greatest resources of experience, foresight and generalship in their command, and the best organizing and business ability in their management to be obtained in the undergraduate body. In a word, the contrast lies between the student world of the old days, which directed its best efforts into channels mapped out and set before it by authority, and the body of modern students who find in all the duties connected with athletics, the opportunities to develop by actual experience, untrammeled by supervision, those qualities, of physique, of organization, or of command, to which their tastes most tend.

To forge, then, the connecting links between the Yale athletics of 1800 and those of to-day, and to show how the latter have gradually grown out of the former, will be the purpose of this article.

Regarding it as settled that the sports of our predecessors were confined to “one-old-cat,” or the kicking of a football, the first indication of any interest in athletics occurs in 1826, when the corporation appropriated $300 to erect gymnastic apparatus upon an uncovered piece of ground. About 1840 there sprang up an annual game of football between the sophomore and freshman classes, which has survived to the present day in the form of an annual “rush.” To call this class scrimmage football is a decided stretching of the term, as may be judged from the contemporary description of a game whose participants, attired in a unique grotesqueness of style, and with faces painted in all imaginable hues, formed wedges and phalanxes, and charged and scrambled with a most healthy rivalry, but in whom all knowledge of football was evidently lacking.

Turning to rowing, we find that to Yale belongs the honor of having the oldest rowing club in America, four boats having been purchased by the students in the spring of 1843, with the idea of rowing for exercise and recreation, an idea hitherto unthought of. The system of class boat-clubs prevailed at Yale until the first Yale-Harvard race in 1852 led to the formation of the “Yale Navy,” in which all the active boat-clubs were consolidated. This first intercollegiate rowing match originated as an advertising expedient in the mind of an enterprising railroad man, who desired to bring into notice the Boston, Concord and Montreal Railroad, then a new road.

Of preparation for this race there was almost none, as may be judged from the remark of a member of the Harvard crew, to the effect that “they had not rowed much for fear of blistering their hands.” Harvard won the race, largely owing to their superior boat, the Oneida, which being probably the best of her class, deserves a description. She was an eight-oared, “lap-streak” barge, thirty-seven feet long, three and a half feet beam, quite low in the water, and fitted with gratings at each end. Flat wooden thole-pins were used, a plain bar of hard wood served as stretcher, and a red baize cushion covered each seat. The oars were of white ash, and ranged in length from thirteen feet six inches in the waist to twelve feet at bow and stroke.

Occasional races were rowed between Yale and Harvard at Springfield and on Lake Quinsigamond up to 1864. These were three-mile, turnabout races, usually rowed in six-oared barges, although sometimes four-oared and eight-oared boats would contend with them, in which case an allowance of eleven seconds per extra oar would be made in favor of the smaller boats.

Baseball as an organized game was first played at Yale in 1859, but it was not until 1864 that the formation of the Y. U. B. B. C., and the three victories won by the first Yale nine caused it to become a recognized college institution. Yale’s first intercollegiate game occurred in this year, when she defeated the Agallian Club of Wesleyan University by a score of 39 to 13 runs. For the next few years the game continued to grow at Yale, some five or ten games a year being played, mostly with professional clubs. Yale met Princeton and Harvard for the first time on the diamond in 1868, defeating Princeton easily by 30 to 23.

The game at this time, it will be understood, was a “natural” sort of game, in which the individual capacities of the players counted for far more than either team-play or training or science. Harvard defeated Yale in their first game, and continued to do so until 1874, when the tide was turned in favor of Yale, largely by the able captaincy and fine individual playing of Mr. C. Hammond Avery, who broke the chain of eight Harvard successes by winning four straight victories over Harvard.

In 1872 a series of games, the best two in three, was substituted between Yale and Harvard, in place of the annual game, and in the following year the same arrangement was made between Yale and Princeton.

It will be seen that the chief need of the Yale nines up to this time had been, not only a better knowledge of the game, but also greater coolness at critical points, which faithful practice could alone give them. The causes of Harvard’s uniform success were that baseball was started earlier and on a more scientific basis at Harvard than at Yale, and also because in and near Boston there were, in the early days of baseball, many nines, professional and amateur, whose influence in the way of example and practice tended always towards a high degree of skill.

Returning to football, we find that, owing to a lack of grounds, the students having been forbidden to play on the city green, the annual game was given up in 1858, and football was dead until 1870. In this year it was resurrected by the classes of ’72 and ’73, who were unusually enthusiastic over athletic sports, and becoming immediately a popular game, a match was arranged with Columbia in 1872. In this match twenty men played on each side, a game that consisted chiefly of kicking, bounding and batting the ball, one of the rules being, “No player shall pick up, throw or carry the ball.” Yale was outplayed and defeated by Princeton in the following year, the latter displaying much science. Two years later Yale attempted to play Harvard under what were called “modified Rugby rules,” and the other colleges under the old rules, with the disastrous result, which might have been expected, of being defeated by Columbia as well as by Harvard.

This brings us to the year 1876, which we will take as a starting-point for modern athletics, and retrace our steps to the Yale-Harvard races of ’64 and ’65. These were the races famous in Yale annals, won by Wilbur Bacon and his crew of giants. These men were picked out for strength, without regard to previous experience, and by dint of tremendous efforts, combined with the best discipline, they were transformed into very fast crews, despite their undoubtedly bad style. The training they underwent was, as one of their number said not long ago, “what no college crew could be asked to undergo at this time.” During the two months before the race, in which their training lasted in all its severity, they rose at six, walked and ran before breakfast from three to five miles, and rowed four miles at speed both morning and afternoon. Their diet was of the plainest, beef, mutton, toast, rice, and weak tea being the staples, with few vegetables. The time made by the ’65 crew, 17m. 47½s., for a three-mile turnabout race, six-oared, broke all previous records, and was a noteworthy performance.

From 1872 to 1875 inclusive, the regattas were very large, as many as thirteen boats being entered in one race, and were characterized by much fouling of boats, and great dissatisfaction. Stories are told of crews fighting each other with their oar-blades when fouled, and whether this be true or not, it is certain that the overcrowding of the course and the impossibility of avoiding accidents had much to do with the withdrawal of the Yale and Harvard crews in 1876. The Yale crew of ’72, the worst that ever represented Yale, contained the Freshman who, as captain and stroke of the Yale crews for the four succeeding years, was destined ultimately to bring more improvement and prestige to Yale rowing than any other individual ever connected with it.

It was in the early spring of 1873 that “Bob” Cook took his trip to England to study rowing, in which, during some months spent among the university oars of Oxford and Cambridge and the watermen of the Thames, he largely acquired that complete mastery of rowing which has enabled him to raise Yale to the first rank as a boating college. Among the sacrifices that were made to enable Mr. Cook to go to England were his being dropped a class in his studies and the pawning of a gold watch by a Senior, now a Yale professor, in order to raise the necessary funds.

It was after the three Yale victories in the University, Freshman and single-scull race, in 1873, that by the energy of Mr. C. H. Ferry the sum of $16,500 was raised to build the fine boat-house that Yale now possesses.

The year 1876, bringing as it did the formation of the Intercollegiate Football Association, the introduction of eight-oared four-mile Yale-Harvard races, and the presentation of the Mott Haven Cup, may be taken as a starting-point for modern athletics. It is not so much that there was any distinct stride in advance in this year, but rather that with the better organization of athletic sports, better opportunities were given for their development.

FOOTBALL SINCE 1876.

In this year the American Rugby rules and the oval Rugby ball were adopted by the association composed of Harvard, Princeton, and Columbia. Yale declined to join this association, but defeated every member of it, thus being virtually champion for that year.

In the following year Yale desired to play with elevens, and the other colleges with fifteens. No game was played with Harvard, but for the sake of a game Yale consented to play Princeton with fifteens. The game, which was a draw, was probably the best exhibition of football thus far given in America. The only possible drawback was the fact that weight and roughness were to some extent substituted for skill in the Yale team.

For the next two years football was played by fifteens, but since 1879 it has been played by elevens only. In the fall of 1878, the Yale Faculty permitted absence from recitation on account of football, to enable the team to play Harvard in Boston, which action put football on the same basis as baseball, and marked an epoch in its history. The victorious Yale team, having defeated Harvard by one goal to none, were met at the station at two ~A.M.~ by three hundred students, who were thus probably the first to inaugurate the present custom of a triumphant reception to the team winning an important victory.

It was largely owing to the overconfidence of the Yale team engendered by this game, that they were defeated by Princeton a few days later. It was the more unfortunate that Princeton should have won this game in that it caused them to introduce the “block” game, which has done so much harm to football in America. The “block” game consists of a defensive style of play, whose sole object is to prevent the scoring of the opposing team, by which the college having won the year before may still retain the nominal glory of the championship. For the three ensuing years the Yale-Princeton games were draws. During these years the Yale-Harvard games were all well-fought contests, the Yale men winning by a more thorough understanding of the game, and by the aid of fine individual players.

In 1881, a change in the rules was made with the idea of destroying the “block” game, by which safety touch-downs were made to count. This rule could be avoided, however, by making touch-in-goals, which were only technically different from safeties.

Yale began her football season in 1882 three weeks earlier than usual, and consequently played more practice games. In the Yale-Harvard game, Yale forced the play, making a touch-down a few moments after play began. The Harvard eleven, although they found themselves outmatched by the “finest rush-line ever put on an American field,” to their credit be it said, played the game for what it was worth and did not attempt any “blocking” tactics. The chief feature of the Yale-Princeton game was the long-distance kicking of Moffat for Princeton and of Richards for Yale, which was described as resembling a game of lawn-tennis. The most brilliant play of the game was the superb goal kicked from the sixty-five-yard line by Haxall of Princeton.

A new system of counting by points was introduced in 1883, by which a goal from touch-down was made to count six points, a goal from field five points, a touch-down two points, and a safety one. Up to this time goals from touch-downs and from field had been equivalent, and four touch-downs had equaled one goal.

The Yale team of ’83 had a giant rushline averaging 185 lbs., while the whole team averaged upwards of 173 lbs. In the Yale-Princeton game, which was distinguished by many brilliant plays, Yale made a touchdown and goal eight minutes after play began, after which no scoring was done by either side.

The Harvard Committee on Athletics having come to the conclusion that football was a brutal sport, before the Yale-Harvard game, only permitted it to be played on condition that the referee should be an alumnus, and that he should have full power to send any player off the field for unfair play, which was not in this sense to include offside play. These conditions were incorporated into the rules of the game at the annual convention, it being ruled that (1) a player can be offside but once during a game, and (2) the referee shall disqualify a man for three times intentionally delaying the game. In scoring, the system now in use was introduced, a touch-down being made to count four points instead of two, and a safety two instead of one.

The Yale eleven of 1884 defeated Harvard by 52 to 0, her eleven being by far the poorest she had ever turned out, ranking fifth among the college teams. In the Yale-Princeton game a goal from touch-down was made by Yale just three minutes after play was called. Princeton secured a touch-down, but no goal, and with the score 6 to 4 in favor of Yale, the game was called before time on account of darkness, thus making it technically “no game,” and depriving Yale of the formal championship.

For the season of 1885 the Football Association embraced but four members, Yale, Princeton, Wesleyan and Pennsylvania, Harvard being forbidden intercollegiate football by the action of their Faculty. At Yale one of the finest elevens ever turned out was formed from almost entirely new material, and, although defeated by Princeton by six points to five, this material has abundantly repaid the efforts made in its behalf by forming the backbone of Yale’s magnificent elevens of 1886 and 1887. In the first half of the Yale-Princeton game of 1885, Yale scored a goal from the field. In the second half, Lamar, of Princeton, made his famous run, seizing the ball on a long, low punt, and by clever dodging obtaining a clear field for a run, he made a touch-down between the goal-posts, thus winning the championship for Princeton. It was a marvelous feat, and one to be long remembered.

In the fall of 1886 Harvard was readmitted to the association, and proved that she had not been idle during her year of class football contests by displaying better football than she had ever shown before. In one of the most exhausting games ever played, Yale defeated her by 29 to 4. In this game Yale, according to her usual policy, forced the play from the beginning, obtaining two goals in the first twelve minutes’ play. The Yale-Princeton game of this year was something more than a disappointment to the thousands from New York, New Haven, and elsewhere, who gathered in Princeton only to be soaked by a fierce rain and to witness an unfinished game, in which good play, owing to the slippery ground, was impossible.

The resolutions adopted by the convention are worthy of record:

Resolved, 1, That this convention cannot, as a convention, award the championship for 1886.

Resolved, 2, That Yale, according to points scored, should have won the championship.

In the fall of 1887, the chief innovation was the appointment of an umpire, in addition to the referee, whose duty it was to prevent and punish violations of the rules of behavior. No delays of over one minute were allowed this year. Despite the heavy rain during the Yale-Princeton game, which rendered brilliant plays impossible, it was a very satisfactory game, being free from delays, slugging, foul-tackling, etc.

The Yale-Harvard game played at the Polo Grounds, New York, on Thanksgiving Day, in the presence of some twenty thousand people, was without doubt the finest game of football ever played in America, and one which, owing to its freedom from disagreeable incidents, did incalculable good in influencing popular opinion in favor of the game. In the first half Yale scored a goal from field and one from touch-down. The touch-down was made by the Yale centre, who, being unguarded by the Harvard centre, instead of snapping the ball back when the elevens lined up, kicked it a few inches forward, and, picking it up, made a long run. Time for the first half was called just as the Harvard back was making a run, and the Yale rushers not attempting to stop him, he secured a touch-down too late to be counted. In the second half Yale made a safety, and Harvard a goal from touch-down, making the score 11 to 8 in favor of Yale. One of the Yale half-backs, however, by a brilliant run of thirty-five yards, secured a touch-down, from which a goal was kicked, which rendered the final score 17 to 8.

The year 1887 was a most encouraging one to all lovers of football in the elimination of many disagreeable features and in the adequate enforcement of the rules by two officials. The last bugbear to football that seems to be gradually disappearing is the practice of “slugging,” or striking with the closed fist. What might be called a stricter attention to business necessitated by the more intricate system of team-play, aided by the appointment of a special umpire, has almost completely removed this stumbling-block. Two dangers remain that must be in some way overcome before the future of football is assured, and these are “holding in the line” and “interference.”

The different styles of play evolved at Harvard, Princeton and Yale in this year showed a more marked individuality than is usually the case. Harvard’s game was one of heavy rushing in its most aggressive form, with but little kicking. Princeton, on the other hand, adhered to their traditional game of agility, selecting their players for skill and sacrificing strength and weight, while Yale possessed an all-round team, capable of playing a rushing or a kicking game, and one which, being ably generaled, suited its style of play to that of its opponent.

There were but two games of interest in the fall of 1888, owing to the unfortunate action of the Harvard Faculty in not allowing the Yale-Harvard game to be played in New York. In the first of these Princeton defeated Harvard by 18 to 6, the victory being won by superior play, against a weak rush-line. The Yale-Princeton game was a magnificent and stubborn contest, being won by Yale by two goals from the field to nothing. Harvard having forfeited to Yale, the championship remained in New Haven for another year.

Football in American colleges, despite the severe crisis of 1884 and 1885, is at present in far better shape than it ever has been, and promises to become a great national game on this side of the water, as it has so long been on the other.

The record that Yale has made in football is too good to be omitted. She has won 93 out of 98 games played, having lost three games to Princeton, one to Harvard, and one to Columbia. Since 1878, Yale has lost but one game, and that by one point. In points Yale has won, since points began to be counted, 3,001 to her opponents’ 56; in goals, 530 to 19, and in touch-downs, 219 to 9.

ROWING SINCE 1876.

By a vote of the Y. U. B. C., Yale withdrew from the general rowing association and challenged Harvard to an eight-oared four-mile contest, a challenge which she promptly accepted. For this race all undergraduates of either college and all of the graduates of either who were studying for another degree were declared eligible. The ’76 race was an easy victory for Yale, being won by half a minute. Mr. Cook, the Yale stroke, set the stroke about thirty-three, and did not vary one point in the last two miles, while the Harvard stroke was very irregular, ranging from thirty-five to forty a minute. The boats used in this race were of cedar, and were the first eight-oared shells used in America. In the fall of this year a picked four from the Yale crew, stroked by Mr. Cook, won the international and intercollegiate regatta of the Centennial Exhibition at Philadelphia.

The withdrawal of Yale from the general regatta, followed next year by the withdrawal of Harvard, so effectually discouraged the smaller colleges that no rowing was done by any of them for a number of years.

The Yale-Harvard races, after being rowed at Springfield for two years, were moved in 1878 to New London, where they have since been rowed. The advantages offered by this place in the way of its easy access from the great cities, its clear and straight course, and the “moving grand stand” of platform cars running along the west bank of the river, are so strongly in its favor that it appears probable that the races have found their permanent home.

The races of ’77, ’78 and ’79 were won by Harvard with increasing ease, the first-named being won by seven seconds and the last by one minute and forty-three seconds. The spectators in this year were amazed, according to the papers, to see “how badly the Yale men rowed;” but with this disgraceful defeat came the spur to greater effort, and for the two ensuing years victory came to Yale.

In 1882 there occurred the famous “eel-grass” race, the most disappointing race ever rowed in America. The Yale captain, with the assistance of Mr. Davis, devised a new style of boat in which the oars were separated into pairs of starboard and port, by which device so much room was required that the boat measured sixty-eight feet, or nine feet longer than the average racing shell. The ultimate object was to attain a high stroke, scientific principles being sacrificed to a sort of “get there” way of rowing forty-two to forty-eight strokes a minute. The story of the race is soon told. Yale led at the mile-and-a-half by a length of clear water, and at the two miles, where Yale emerged from the eel-grass, Harvard led by six lengths. The Yale crew gave a splendid exhibition of “sand,” spurting right up to the finish line at a forty-five stroke, and finishing half a length behind Harvard. The fact that they rowed every individual half-mile excepting the fourth, when in the eel-grass, faster than Harvard, sufficiently proves their superiority.

Under the same captain, the Yale crew adhered to the same style of rowing in the following year, nor is it to be wondered at, considering the fast time they made both at New London and in New Haven harbor. The ’83 crew, however, lacked the snap and life and the severe training that alone can bring success to a crew rowing so incorrect a stroke as they used. Harvard’s victory by fifteen lengths killed the so-called “donkey-engine” stroke at Yale, which in itself was of more benefit to Yale rowing than many victories. Mr. R. J. Cook again came to the rescue of boating at Yale in 1884, and turned out the finest Yale crew that had yet sat on the water, and one that lowered the record to 20m. 31s.

In 1885 the Yale crew, as they rowed up to the starting flag, appeared very heavy and very ragged, owing to the difference in height. They were a powerful set of men, averaging 175½ pounds, wretchedly trained, four being over-trained and four undertrained, and rowing a combination Cook and “donkey-engine” stroke. Compromises in rowing are almost invariably fatal, and so it proved in this instance, the Yale crew finishing, very much distressed, some sixteen lengths behind Harvard. The Harvard crew used one of the best strokes they had ever rowed, it being characterized by a long, smooth pull, stronger in the middle of the stroke than at either catch or finish, and by a well-controlled slide at both ends of the stroke.

In the past three years, owing largely to the personal efforts of Mr. Cook, “the father of Yale boating,” in coaching a most faithful and painstaking set of men, victory has remained with the Yalensians, and Yale now leads Harvard in the number of eight-oared races won. The ’86 race was a comparatively easy one, Yale winning by eight lengths, while the ’87 race was a desperate struggle, won by but four lengths. The race of last spring will be long remembered by Yale men as the most crushing defeat ever administered to Harvard oarsmen. The strict adherence on the part of the Yale crew to the principles of rowing practised in the two preceding years, backed up by great enthusiasm and assiduous labor, turned out a crew that rowed the course in 20m. 10s., lowering the record easily without being pushed. At Harvard, the dissensions among the members of the rowing committee, their adoption of antiquated English ideas in regard to boats, oars, rigging, etc., and the curious notions of rowing held by Mr. Watson the chief coach, turned out a crew that lost a length in the first ten strokes, and crossed the finish line a quarter of a mile behind the Yale crew. “Too many cooks spoil the broth,” is an old but true adage. Yale is fortunate in possessing one Cook, who certainly makes most excellent broth. It seems probable that, in view of the practical working of their rowing committee, Harvard will either again seek the aid of professional oarsmen, or select one man, such as Mr. Frank Peabody, or Mr. J. J. Storrow, to have entire control of her boating interests. The diet of the ’88 crew may be given as fairly representative of the latest ideas in regard to this branch of the training. For breakfast and supper the crew ate oatmeal, beefsteak, mutton-chops, eggs, and stewed or baked potatoes; for dinner, roast beef, mutton, fricasseed chicken, water-cress, potatoes, rice, macaroni, tomatoes and puddings. Occasional ale was allowed, especially after the crew had rowed on time, or on particularly hot days. The work of the crew occupied about three hours a day, besides which as much work was done in pair-oars in the mornings during the spring, as recitations would permit.

The summary of Yale-Harvard races stands: Harvard 22, Yale 17; Harvard’s lead being obtained between 1852 and 1870, when rowing was in its infancy at Yale.

It is interesting to notice that neither age, weight nor height have any decided advantage among the Yale and Harvard crews, the oldest crews having won seven times in thirteen, the heaviest five times in thirteen, and the tallest four times in eleven.

It would thus appear that the qualities that bring success in rowing are not merely physical, to be computed mathematically, but that the moral qualities of pluck and endurance, added to skill and judgment, must be equally considered in selecting a typical rowing man.

The average rowing man, physically considered, of Yale and Harvard for the past twelve years has been a man 21¾ years old, 167½ lbs. in weight, and 5 ft. 10½ in. in height. It is rather remarkable that the average Yale and the average Harvard rowing man does not vary more than a slight fraction in any of these three respects, despite the wide differences between individual Yale and Harvard crews.

The principles of good rowing laid down by Mr. Cook in the last two years, and re-enforced by his constant attention, have resulted in a settled style of rowing at Yale, which bids fair to be modified only as the needs of individual crews may require. There are a few oarsmen who still favor somewhat the rapid stroke of the ’82 Yale crew, basing their arguments upon the fast times made by that crew both at New London and on New Haven harbor. The answer to be made to the advocates of their style of rowing is that they were a set of giants, capable of rowing forty-five strokes to the minute for four miles, a feat impossible to modern oarsmen. It is conceivable that the rapid stroke, so much trusted in by professionals, might with men of immense strength, who were incapable of attaining to the finish and detail of a crew of the present day, turn out a faster eight than the “Bob Cook” stroke with the same men, still it is much to be doubted. While with the present tendency towards selecting light and muscular, rather than beefy men, there can be no question but that the fastest rowing of which they are capable will be done by the “Bob Cook” stroke, which with its long swing and slow slide takes advantage of every pound of impetus, and with its slow catch gives the oarsman between every stroke a chance to recover his breath and nerve himself for the next pull. And this present method of selecting material is more than justified by the magnificent rowing of the ’88 Yale crew, which in the opinion of Mr. Frank Peabody, the Harvard coach, could defeat any crew, amateur or professional, English or American, that should be pitted against it. In other words, the ’88 Yale crew made the finest exhibition of rowing ever seen in America, and may be safely said to have been the fastest crew that ever sat in a boat.

BASEBALL SINCE 1876.

After the Yale successes in baseball in ’74 and ’75, the Yale nines played much closer games with Harvard, although for the four succeeding years the series of games was invariably won by Harvard.

One of the Yale-Harvard games in 1877 was remarkable in that the Harvard nine went to the bat only twenty-seven times, each player going out in the order of striking. Not a single hit was made off Carter, the Yale pitcher. In 1878 Yale defeated Harvard on her own grounds for the first time, which inspired so much over-confidence in the Yale team that they were defeated in three straight games by Harvard. This is but one of many instances of the truth that college nines do best when least is expected of them, and that it is confidence unfortified by hard work which most surely issues in defeat.

The Intercollegiate Baseball Association was formed in December, 1879, with Yale, Harvard, Princeton, Amherst, Dartmouth and Brown as members. Yale shortly withdrew from the association because it voted to allow the playing of college men who had played on professional teams. Series of games were arranged, however, with Harvard, Princeton and Amherst, in which Yale won seven out of eight games, virtually winning the championship. In her games with professionals Yale was singularly successful, winning eleven out of thirteen played.

From 1880 to 1888 inclusive Yale has won the championship, with but one exception, when in 1885 Harvard won it by ten straight victories. In 1884 Yale and Harvard were tied for first place, and the deciding game, played in Brooklyn, was won by Yale.

The year 1885 was the most disastrous in athletics ever experienced at Yale. The Yale nine, although possessing individual players of merit, had no reliable pitcher, and lacked team play and discipline. Yale’s first defeat in 1886 was in an exhibition game with Columbia, whose brilliant team of this year defeated Harvard also. This team was in reality a graduates’ nine composed mostly of Law School men, and included graduates of Yale, Princeton, etc. The tie game for the championship was played off in Hartford, between Harvard and Yale, on the day after Yale’s victory on the water. The Yale nine, who had been practising on the Hartford grounds while the Harvard nine watched the race, played with great determination, and won by a score of 7 to 1. The now famous battery of Stagg and Dann first came to the front in this year.

After this season’s play, Harvard, Princeton and Yale withdrew from the Intercollegiate Association and formed a triangular league. Into this “College League” Columbia was admitted, but after a few games she withdrew owing to various difficulties. The first Yale-Harvard game in 1887, played in New Haven, resulted in a crushing defeat for Harvard by a score of 14 to 2. The game was quite close until the eighth inning, in which the Yale nine completely knocked Boyden out of the box, making eight hits with a total of twelve, and allowing every member of the nine to make a circuit of the bases.

The baseball season of 1888 opened with a severe check to Yale’s hopes in her defeat by Princeton in the first game played. The loss of this game made it appear that Princeton, after having for several years assisted Yale to the championship by winning a game or two from Harvard, would now render a like service to Harvard. The first Yale-Harvard game, however, was reassuring, Yale winning by 7 to 1. The next game, played in Cambridge, being won by Harvard, 7 to 3, put an entirely different aspect upon affairs, necessitating, as it did, in order for Yale to win the championship, her winning the three remaining games of the series. This difficult feat was brilliantly accomplished by the aid of much “sand” in the Yale team. The most notable feature was the game played in Cambridge, won by Yale, 8 to 0, in which Stagg held the Harvard batters down to two hits. As was the case in 1886 and 1887, Yale’s chief strength this year lay in her battery, Stagg and Dann.

Yale’s baseball record is, on the whole, most creditable, she having won 130 out of 177 college games played. With Harvard, Yale has won 32 games and lost 30, while with Princeton Yale has won 33 and lost 11. To other colleges than these two, Yale has lost but six games, two to Amherst, two to Brown, one to Columbia and one to Dartmouth. In all her games, with professionals as well as amateurs, Yale has made about 550 more runs than her opponents.

An innovation was made last fall in the matter of getting together a university nine for practice games in the fall. During the winter the nine practised batting daily in the baseball cage, and got in good physical condition by gymnasium work and out-of-door running. A simple machine, enabling the nine to practise sliding in the cage, was devised last spring, and its results are evident in the number of stolen bases accredited to the Yale nine in its past season’s play.

The number of annual championships in Rowing, Football, and Baseball since the establishment of intercollegiate associations in these branches, won respectively by Yale, Harvard and Princeton is a source of pride to Yale men, the numbers being: Yale 21, Harvard 7, and Princeton 2.

TRACK ATHLETICS.

Track Athletics at Yale started in 1872, about the time that the first intercollegiate athletic meetings were being held in Saratoga. Yale sent two representatives, born athletes devoid of instruction, to the intercollegiate meetings of ’74 and ’75, who won a first prize apiece each year. Fall games were started at Yale in 1875, and were an unqualified success, the most interesting event being the running high jump of Gale, ’78 S., who cleared 5 ft. 3 in., pronounced to be “the finest amateur jumping ever done in America.”

It is a curious commentary on the taste of this period that the hurdle and the one hundred yard races were regarded as tame, while a three or a seven mile walk was considered most interesting and exciting. The presentation of the Challenge Cup, valued at $500, now commonly known as the Mott Haven Cup, served as a great stimulus to track athletics in all the other prominent athletic colleges except Yale, whose apathy and indifference to this branch was so great that from 1877 till 1880 she sent no representatives to the meetings. In 1880 Mr. T. Dewitt Cuyler, of Yale, established a record of 4m. 37 3-5s. in the mile run, a record which was not broken for seven years. From 1880 on, Harvard continued to win the cup with an unvarying regularity, with Columbia a good second and Yale a poor third.

In 1882 one of Yale’s best runners appeared, Mr. H. S. Brooks, who won the intercollegiate 100 yards and 220 yards for two years, doing the 100 in 10 1-5s., and the 220 in 22 5-8s.

The famous 220 yards run between Brooks and W. Baker of Harvard, occurred in 1884, and was a magnificent exhibition of running, Baker winning in 22 2-5s.

In 1886 the contest for the cup between Yale and Harvard was most closely fought, resting as it did upon the decision in the 100 yards, which was, at any rate, a very difficult decision to make. It is hardly worth while to recount that Sherrill of Yale was cheered and congratulated as winner, or that the decision rested with one judge, a Harvard graduate, who alone, out of the three judges, witnessed the finish, for Yale lost the cup. The policy of Yale men after defeat has always been to make no excuses for failure, but to turn with greater determination to the work of retrieving the past by victory in the future.

Yale has had a large number of fine individual track athletes in the past two years, among them being Sherrill, ’89, amateur champion in 1887 for 100 yards, and easy winner this year in the intercollegiate 100 yards and 220 yards; Coxe, ’87, with his records of 101 ft. 1 in. in the hammer throw, and of 40 ft. 9½ in. in putting the shot; Ludington, ’87, who has hurdled in 16¾s.; Harmar, ’90, who has run a mile in 4m. 32 2-5s., and Shearman, ’89, who jumps 21 ft. 7½ in. in the broad jump, 5 ft. 8½ in. in the high jump, and pole vaults 10 ft. 3 5-8 in.

To the fact that Yale had so many crack performers in 1887 was due her winning of the cup, aided by the fact that Harvard found very strong competition from the other colleges in her events. Yale lost the cup this year for the opposite reasons, having no luck in winning events, and having but three crack performers left. As to men of medium ability, Yale never possesses them, her success depending solely upon her first-class men. It is a notable commentary on the system of track athletics at Yale, that her three best performers this year won five first prizes, and that these were the only ones taken by Yale.

Until Yale follows in Harvard’s footsteps in training carefully and skilfully a large number of men for her athletic team she can never hope to compete on an equality with Harvard. And this will not be possible at Yale until greater interest is taken in this branch of athletics, and until the cup is valued as highly as a football championship or a Yale-Harvard race.

LAWN TENNIS.

The game of lawn tennis, first played in this country in 1875, was long a popular game among college students before it became an object of intercollegiate strife. In 1883, at the proposal of Trinity College, an association was formed embracing Amherst, Brown, Harvard, Trinity and Yale. This association has grown in numbers since that time, until it has now eleven members, the added ones being Columbia, Lehigh, Princeton, University of Pennsylvania, Wesleyan and Williams. The tournaments for the first two years were held in Hartford, and for the last three years in New Haven. In the first year of the association two tournaments were held, both won by Harvard, but since then one annual championship has been held every fall.

The difference in the expenses of the tournaments of 1883 and 1888, will indicate somewhat the increased importance of this annual event, the total expenditure in the first year being $8, while for prizes alone there was spent last year $285. The number of college men who are reckoned among the best players of this country, is worthy of note, including as it does such names as Mr. R. D. Sears, Mr. H. W. Slocum, Mr. J. Clark, Mr. G. M. Brinley, Mr. H. A. Taylor, and others.

Mr. R. D. Sears, the well-known ex-champion of the United States, only played once, in 1884, in the intercollegiate tournament, and was then beaten, principally owing to the poor grounds, by Mr. W. P. Knapp, of Yale, who of all individual players has the best record in the college tournaments, having won two first prizes in singles and three in doubles. In the five annual championship tournaments, Yale has won five first places and three seconds, Harvard five firsts and one second, Trinity one first and four seconds, Columbia one first and three seconds, and Amherst one second.

There are now in Yale five athletic organizations for the five branches of athletics, each of which is a member of an intercollegiate association for that branch. Each organization has its own president, vice-president, treasurer and secretary, elected annually, of whom the president is usually an academic senior, the vice-president a scientific senior, and the treasurer and secretary either underclassmen or, in the case of the boat club, a professor of the college. The annual expenses of the various organizations are about as follows: Football, $3,000; baseball, $4,000; crew, $5,000 to $7,000; track athletics, $2,000 to $2,500; tennis, $250. Of these the football, baseball and tennis associations are self-supporting, the Track Athletic Association is very nearly so, and only the expense of supporting the crew falls upon the students. In this the undergraduates are assisted by graduate subscriptions, by glee-club concerts, and by concessions from the railroads that run into New London, and from the town itself. The Football Association, especially in lucky years, nets the largest sum from its games, although there is usually also a substantial baseball surplus remaining.

A scheme of uniting all the organizations, with a common treasury, has often been proposed; but it would seem to be inadvisable owing to the probable increased expenditure, where each organization would not let the others surpass it in expensive uniforms or luxurious living.

To sum up what Yale has done for athletics would be entirely beyond the scope of this article, and equally impossible would it be to calculate what athletics have done for Yale. Suffice it to say, that Yale has always been on the side of manly, fair and honest sport, and that in the persons of such men as Mr. Robert Cook, Mr. Walter Camp, and others, as well as in the devoted labors of many hundred athletes, with the head as well as with the hand, she has always striven to advance the science and elevate the tone of every athletic sport. While, as to what athletics have done for Yale, leaving out of consideration the lower purposes served of bringing glory and prominence to Yale among American colleges, and the undoubted attraction of larger numbers of students, athletics have turned out from Yale many hundreds not to say thousands of men, manly and democratic in ideas, possessed of constitutions able to endure almost any amount of work, and competent to struggle and hold their own in whatever circumstances they may in afterlife find themselves placed.

The saying of Mr. Robert Cook applies to other sports as well as boating: “A successful oarsman is always a successful man.” The qualities absolutely necessary in athletics, of self-mastery, of patience, of perseverance, of pluck, of endurance, and of obedience, form the best endowment to a young man about to enter life.

~Note.~--The illustrations of the different groups of athletic, football, baseball, lacrosse, and other teams in this series of articles on college athletics, are from photographs by Pach Brothers, of 841 Broadway.

A RUSSIAN WOLF HUNT.

BY TOM BOLTON.

During the winter of ’82 business complications made it necessary for me to take a journey into a wild and remote part of Russia. The house with which I was connected had had some very unsatisfactory dealings with one of its branches, and things had come to such a pass that a visit from a member of the main establishment had become imperative.

It was late in January when I had to make my start, and the weather had been unusually cold. I could travel 750 miles out of my journey of 1,000 by rail; but the balance of the trip would have to be made by sledges, not a very rapid or convenient mode of transportation, though it has the advantage of enabling the traveler to regulate his time as he feels disposed. Being extremely fond of field sports, and knowing that the section of country I was going to visit would, in all probability, contain plenty of game, I carried my Colt’s breech-loading shotgun and a fine Winchester repeating rifle, with a good store of ammunition for both.

Well, I arrived at the end of my railroad journey without any accident or incident other than the regular daily skirmishes for meals and hot tea at the not overclean stations. We were fortunate in having a clear line, no snow having fallen for over a week--rather a remarkable circumstance in Russia--so we were not compelled to dig out any snowbanks, though this form of amusement is by no means unusual. The morning after my arrival at Udalla I sent to make arrangements for a sledge at the posting-station. This was soon done, and in an hour I was clear of the town and fairly started on the second half of my long journey.

In Russia the sledges are generally roofed over--especially those used for traveling--somewhat after the fashion of our buggies, and are very low, so that, provided there are plenty of rugs and furs, one can make a trip comfortably enough, and even sleep at his pleasure. The picture in the mind of travel of this description is of three horses abreast, gayly dashing along in fine style; but in my case the actual facts were very different. Before we had gone two versts from Udalla, the road became very bad, for the snow was deep on each side of the track, and though the track itself was broken, the snow was in great lumps. Over these the sledge thumped and banged, while the horses stumbled and floundered along as best they could. The driver, meanwhile, consoled himself by alternately cursing the horses, the road, and his bad luck at having to come out, with an occasional vogtd at me for a crazy Englishman who wanted to kill something so badly that he had to go hunting in the dead of winter; my language and impedimenta giving rise to various unfounded rumors, while every one speaking English is put down as an Englishman by the peasantry in this part of Russia.

We reached the post-station, at the end of our first day’s travel, long after nightfall. After a hot supper, I continued my journey all night, taking a number of naps, but no regular sleep, because, as soon as I began to doze, I would imagine my ribs to be a corduroy road, and my vertebræ a troop of army mules crossing it and kicking off flies. However, I managed to get along tolerably well, all things considered, and had the satisfaction of knowing that my unfortunate driver was having considerably the worse time of the two.

During the fourth day’s journey, while we were passing through a very extensive forest, several wolves came out into the road and followed us a mile or more, but at quite a respectful distance. Their number was too small to cause me any uneasiness, though my driver did not at all like their presence, and the horses betrayed their alarm by their evident desire to hurry along. One large black fellow tried to get up some excitement, and howled most dismally, so I made my driver stop, while I got out my heavy Smith & Wesson revolver. Taking a rest over my left elbow, I let fly at his shoulder as he stood sideways to me, and had the satisfaction of seeing him stumble forwards, and take to the timber again with his friends at his heels. My driver told me that a sledge had been attacked by wolves on this very road a couple of winters before, and both horses and passengers eaten up, but that the wolves had been rather scarce since.

I had heard much about wolf-hunting as practised by the Russians of the Steppes, viz., driving a sledge through the woods and over the plains with a piece of meat dragging behind to attract the wolves, thus giving the hunters in the sledge an opportunity to kill them. I had promised myself to try this plan and have some sport in spite of the fact that my driver told some blood-curdling tales of the fierceness of the wolves when banded together and made desperate by hunger.

It was nearly night on the fifth day, before I arrived at my destination, and, as may be imagined, I enjoyed a good night’s sleep, as well as a much better supper than I had been having.

The following morning I had to attend to the business that had brought me so far. I soon discovered that only prompt action would save us heavy losses, so I at once discharged the local manager, as well as two collectors, whose honesty I had cause to suspect. This threw much work on my hands, so I had very little time at my own disposal. However, I managed to make the acquaintance of a Captain Komanoff, who owned a small estate in the neighborhood, and who was devoted to sport in all its branches. When I mentioned my desire for a wolf hunt to him, he laughed and said he had been on several, and had generally had good sport. He added that he would arrange to go with me whenever I should be ready.

In the course of ten days I had the rather complicated affairs pretty well in hand, and as there had been a damp fall of snow, followed by a frost, I concluded I could spare time for my hunt. Accordingly, I notified Komanoff, and one clear, calm night we entered an open sledge, that is, one without any top, and with three good horses harnessed abreast, set out.

I carried my shotgun, with a bounteous supply of cartridges loaded with small buckshot, thinking it a better weapon than a rifle to use at night, while Komanoff had an army carbine, carrying a large-sized ball, with which, he told me, he had killed many a bear and wolf. Each of us was also armed with a revolver and heavy hunting-knife. The driver whom we had engaged for the night had a couple of pistols and a knife in his belt, and as he was a plucky fellow and had hunted (or been hunted by) wolves before, we were pretty well prepared for anything. Ivan (the driver) took care that we also had a small basket of lunch and a bottle of brandy, so we were quite in the humor to make a night of it.

The snow was well crusted over, and easily bore our horses, thus making a hard, level surface to travel over, also reducing the chances of a capsize, which, if one were pursued, might give the sport a very different ending from that intended. When well out from the village and near the edge of the timber, the bait (in this case a quarter of a calf, well rubbed with asafœtida and bound with straw) was thrown over and allowed to drag at the end of a stout cord about forty feet behind us.

It was certainly a grand night, the moon being at the full, and the reflection on the snow made objects almost as clearly discernable as in the daytime. Far up on the northern horizon the Aurora Borealis alternately flashed and paled, now throwing up bars and rays of violet and gold, and again diffusing itself over the heavens in a soft but ever-changeful glow.

We had been riding slowly along for a couple of hours, when Komanoff remarked:

“I am afraid we shall have our trip for nothing; the wolves don’t seem to be about to-night, and yet this wood is a famous place to look for them.”

“Don’t be uneasy, Captain,” said Ivan; “I am going to make a circle and cross our track again, and I think you will have some shooting yet.”

The words were hardly spoken before we heard, far off to our right, the long-drawn, sepulchral howl of a wolf. He had evidently struck our trail, and the veal smelled good, so he was yelling for his friends. The team was at once stopped, while we listened and heard several more howls in response. The horses heard them too, and at once showed their fear by an attempt to get away, but Ivan had them well under control, and only permitted them to walk, not wishing to blow them before the beasts began to gather.

“I see a wolf,” said Komanoff; “look away back there on our track, right under the moon. Ah! and there are several more; I think they will come along now.”

Looking back, I saw several black objects coming out of the timber, which we knew to be wolves, and the way they increased in size showed they were following us at full speed. Every now and then several more would dart out of the woods and join our pursuers; but not a sound was heard, for wolves, unlike dogs, run mute. We now prepared to receive them, and we removed our heavy outer coats so as to allow us a better chance to shoot. The horses were allowed to trot, though it was all Ivan could do to hold them, as they were pulling the sledge by their bits, whilst they showed by their rolling eyes and quick backward glances, their extreme terror.

Our friends in the rear now numbered fully twenty, and to my surprise they came rushing boldly on, as though we were no more to be feared than some timid deer which they had cornered.

When they had come within thirty yards I gave the foremost my right barrel and instantly followed it with my left among the pack. I saw the leader’s tail go up as he plunged forward on his head, and Komanoff exclaimed that two more had dropped to my second shot. I fully expected that the rest would scatter in all directions, but they did nothing of the kind; they simply fell upon their defunct companions and tore them to pieces almost before they had done kicking, and then immediately resumed their pursuit of us.

When Komanoff saw this he looked rather grave, and told Ivan it would be well to head for home. “For,” said he, “when they eat each other in that manner, it’s a sign that they are starving, and should a large pack gather, we would have a poor chance of escape.”

Accordingly, Ivan let his team go along at an easy gallop. The wolves were again coming along in hot pursuit, and were almost in range, when Ivan uttered a shout, and the horses made a sudden swerve, so that the sledge was nearly upset. Komanoff and I were thrown in a heap in the bottom, his gun being discharged by his fall, fortunately without doing any damage. Quickly recovering ourselves, we saw that a fresh and large pack of wolves had come out of the woods, and had nearly run into us, causing the team to bolt at full speed. I fired right and left into the thick of them (they were only a few yards away), while Komanoff began to empty his revolver.

This fusillade checked them for a few moments, till our original pack had come up and joined them. Then, having devoured the slain, they came for us again with redoubled vigor, their appetites having evidently been sharpened by the taste of blood. As they closed upon us we fired as rapidly as we could load, but without alarming them at all, only a few stopping to bury the dead (in their stomachs), while the main body tried to come up with our horses and sledge.

Komanoff now cut our bait loose, for we had had all the fun we wanted. As the wave of wolves, as one might say, rolled up over it, we fired into the thick of it, and, as they were in a dense mass, must have done considerable execution. But they were only delayed a moment, and on they came again, their long, tireless gallop soon bringing them up with us.

It was indeed a fearful sight, and enough to shake the stoutest nerves. There was that vast pursuing horde, crazy with hunger and wild with lust of blood, dashing after us relentless as death. Their long black bodies swept over the snow, the hindmost constantly leaping over the foremost in their eagerness to press on, their eyes a-shine, with great flecks of foam on breasts and sides, while the glimpses we caught of their long white teeth showed us just what our fate would be should there be an accident to team or vehicle. Komanoff turned to me and said: “If they ever pass us and leap on the horses we are dead men. Keep cool and shoot only those that try to pass on your side and I will do the same on mine.”

So we dashed on for a mile or so, keeping up a rapid fire, and shooting a number of our dusky friends. They were thoroughly in earnest, and made repeated attempts to get at our horses, but so far we had been able to foil them, when suddenly a big gray fellow dashed past on Komanoff’s side (who missed him), and flung himself on the outside horse. Ivan shot at him as he did so, but the horse swerved and stumbled, breaking both traces before he could recover himself. The wolf fell as the ball struck him, but our team was now almost unmanageable, and we were liable to be upset at any moment. Fortunately Ivan kept his head, and succeeded in turning his horses towards a deserted charcoal-burner’s hut, which he knew, and applied his whip lustily, so we dashed forward with renewed speed.

“I know where he is going,” said Komanoff, “but our chance is poor unless the door be open; but it’s our only hope now, therefore be ready to jump the instant I do. Take you the arms, while I help Ivan with the horses.”

A short distance farther and we sighted the cabin. The door was ajar, and as we pulled up I tumbled out the guns, robes and lunch-basket, and with a revolver in each hand faced our pursuers.

Our sudden stop and the rapid crack of my pistols seemed to confuse the pack, and checked them long enough to enable my companions to cut the horses loose. They instantly dashed off through the forest, a portion of our hungry assailants after them in hot pursuit, whilst we ran into the house and barred the door in the faces of those that remained. In a few seconds there was a perfect cloud of wolves round us, some of them frantically digging at the walls, and others trying the door with their teeth. Fortunately it was a stout one, or this story would never have been written.

After resting a little, we found a chink or two in the walls through which we could shoot, and again opened fire. After we had knocked over some twenty-five or thirty of them, the survivors drew off, though they still continued to prowl round and fight over the bones of the dead, for all we shot were instantly devoured by their companions. Meanwhile we had contrived to start a fire, and having eaten our lunch we lit our pipes and waited for day to break, thinking then our savage foes would raise the siege. In this hope we were not disappointed, for as the morning light became clear the wolves sneaked off one by one, casting, however, many wistful glances in our direction. We gave them a few parting shots by way of farewell, and as soon as the sun was fairly up we came out of our house of refuge and started on our five-mile tramp for home.

We had not proceeded far, however, before we met a well-armed company of men coming to look for us, as one of the horses had reached home, and they judged from his condition, as well as the cut harness, that we were in a scrape of some kind. We arrived home safely, and after a good sleep were none the worse for our adventure. The other two horses, however, never turned up, but their bones were found in the forest the following spring not far from the hut, just where the poor animals had been pulled down.

This experience cured me of all desire for wolf hunting, and though I spent several months at the post, and had plenty of sport, I never cared to see a wolf again.

HERNE THE HUNTER.

BY WILLIAM PERRY BROWN.

~Herne the Hunter~ was tall, brown and grizzled. The extreme roundness of his shoulders indicated strength rather than infirmity, while the severing of his great neck at a blow would have made a feudal executioner famous in his craft. An imaginative man might have divined something comely beneath the complex conjunction of lines and ridges that made up his features, but it would have been more by suggestion, however, than by any actual resemblance to beauty traceable thereon. The imprint of strength, severity and endurance was intensified by an open contempt of appearance; only to a subtle second-sight was revealed aught nobler, sweeter and sadder, like faint stars twinkling behind filmy clouds.

Some town-bred Nimrod, with a misty Shakespearean memory, had added to his former patronymic of “Old Herne” that of Windsor’s ghostly visitor. The mountaineers saw the fitness of the title, and “Herne the Hunter” became widely current.

His place of abode was as ambiguous as his history, being somewhere beyond the “Dismal,” amid the upper caves and gorges of the Nantahalah. The Dismal was a weird, wild region of brake and laurel, walled in by lonely mountains, with a gruesome outlet between two great cliffs, that nearly met in mid-air hundreds of feet over a sepulchral cañon, boulder-strewn, and thrashed by a sullen torrent, that led from a dolorous labyrinth, gloomy at midday, and at night resonant with fierce voices and sad sighings.

Far down in Whippoorwill Cove, the mountaineers told savage tales of adventure about the outskirts of the Dismal, yet, beyond trapping round the edges or driving for deer, it was to a great extent a terra incognita to all, unless Herne the Hunter was excepted.

“The devil air in the man, ’nd hopes him out’n places no hones’ soul keers to pester hisse’f long of.”

This was common opinion, though a few averred that “Old Herne ’nd the devil wern’t so master thick atter all.” Said one: “Why, the dinged old fool totes his Bible eroun’ ez riglar ez he do his huntin’-shirt. Onct when the parson wuz holdin’ the big August meetin’ down ter Ebeneezer Meetin’-house, he stepped in. The meetin’ was a gittin’ ez cold ez hen’s feet, ’nd everybody a lookin’ at Herne the Hunter, when down he draps onto his knees, ’nd holdin’ on by his rifle he ’gun ter pray like a house afire. Wal, he prayed ’nd he prayed, ’twel the people, arter thur skeer wuz over, ’gun ter pray ’nd shout too, ’nd fust they all knowed, the front bench wuz plum full of mou’ners. Wal, they hed a hog-killin’ time fur a while, ’nd all sot on by Herne the Hunter, but when they quieted down ’nd begun ter luk fer him--by jing!--he wern’t thar. Nobody hed seed him get erway, ’nd that set ’em ter thinkin’, ’nd the yupshot wuz they hed the bes’ meetin’ old Ebeneezer hed seed in many a year.”

Once a belated hunter discovered, when the fog came down, that he was lost amid the upper gorges of the Nantahalahs. While searching for some cranny wherein to pass the night, he heard a voice seemingly in mid-air before him, far out over an abyss of seething vapor which he feared concealed a portion of the dreaded Dismal. Memories of Herne the Hunter crowded upon him, and he strove to retrace his steps, but fell into a trail that led him to a cave which seemed to bar his further way. The voice came nearer; his blood chilled as he distinguished imprecations, prayers and entreaties chaotically mingled, and all the while approaching him. He fled into the cave, and peering thence, beheld a shadowy form loom through the mist, gesticulating as it came.

A whiff blew aside shreds of the fog, and he saw Herne the Hunter on the verge of a dizzy cliff, shaking his long rifle, his hair disheveled, his eyes dry and fiery, and his huge frame convulsed by the emotions that dominated him. The very fury and pathos of his passion were terrifying, and the watcher shrank back as old Herne, suddenly dropping his rifle, clutched at the empty air, then paused dejectedly.

“Always thus!” he said, in a tone of deep melancholy. “Divine in form--transfigured--beautiful--oh, so beautiful!--yet ever with the same accursed face. I have prayed over these visitations. I have sought in God’s word that confirmation of my hope which should yet save me from despair; but, when rising from my supplications, the blest vision confronts me--the curse is ever there--thwarting its loveliness--reminding me of what was, but will never be again.”

He drew a tattered Bible from his bosom and searched it intently. He was a sight at once forbidding and piteous, as he stood with wind-fluttered garments, his foot upon the edge of a frightful precipice, his head bent over the book as though devouring with his eyes some sacred antidote against the potency of his sorrow. Then he looked up, and the Bible fell from his hands. His eyes became fixed; he again clutched at the air, then fell back with a despairing gesture, averting his face the while.

“Out of my sight!” he cried. “Your eyes are lightning, and your smile is death. I will have no more of you--no more! And yet--O God! O God!--what dare I--what can I do without you?”

He staggered back and made directly for the cavern. The watcher shrank back, while Herne the Hunter brushed blindly by, leaving Bible and rifle on the rock without. Then the wanderer, slipping out, fled down the narrow trail as though there were less peril from the dizzy cliffs around than in the society of the strange man whose fancies peopled these solitudes with such soul-harrowing phantoms.

Thus for years Herne the Hunter had been a mystery, a fear, and a fascination to the mountaineers; recoiling from men, abhorring women, rebuffing curiosity, yet at times strangely tender, sad, and ever morbidly religious. He clung to his Bible as his last earthly refuge from his darker self, and to the aspirations it engendered as a bane to the fatalistic stirrings within him.

He was a mighty hunter and lived upon the proceeds of his skill. Once or twice a year he would appear at some mountain store, fling down a package of skins, and demand its worth in powder and lead. The jean-clad loungers would regard him askance, few venturing to idly speak with him, and none repeating the experiment. His mien daunted the boldest. If women were there he would stand aloof until they left; on meeting them in the road he would sternly avert his eyes as though from a distasteful presence. One day the wife of a storekeeper, waiting on him in her husband’s absence, ventured to say, while wrapping up his purchases:

“I’ve all’ays wonnered, Mr. Herne, what makes ye wanter git outen the wimmen folks’ way? Mos’ men likes ter have ’em eroun’.”

Herne the Hunter frowned heavily, but made no reply.

“I’m shore, if ye had a good wife long with ye way up thar whur ye live, she’d make ye a leetle more like a man ’nd less like a--a--” she hesitated over a term which might censure yet not give offense.

“Like a beast you would say.” He exclaimed then with vehemence: “Were the necks of all women in one, and had I my hands on it, I’d strangle them all, though hell were their portion thereafter.”

He made a gesture as of throttling a giant, snatched his bundle from the woman’s hand and took himself off up the road with long strides.

* * * * *

That night was a stormy one. Herne the Hunter was covering the last ten miles between him and the Dismal in a pelting rain. The incident at the store, trivial as it was, had set his blood aflame. He prayed and fought against himself, oblivious of the elements and the darkness, sheltering his powder beneath his shirt of skins where his Bible lay secure. In his ears was the roar of wind and the groans of the tortured forest. Dark ravines yawned beside him, out of which the wolf howled and the mountain owl laughed; and once came a scream like a child, yet stronger and more prolonged. He knew the panther’s voice, yet he heeded nothing.

At last another cry, unmistakably human, rose nearer by. Then he paused, like a hound over a fresher scent, until it was repeated. He made his way around a shoulder of the mountain, and aided by the gray light of a cloud-hidden moon, approached the figures of a woman, a boy and a horse, all three dripping and motionless.

“Thank God! we will not die here, after all,” exclaimed the female, as Herne the Hunter grimly regarded them. “Oh, sir, we have missed the way. This boy was guiding me to the survey camp of Captain Renfro, my husband, on the upper Swananoa. He has sprained his foot, and we have been lost for hours. Can you take us to a place of shelter? I will pay you well--”

“I hear a voice from the pit,” said Herne, fiercely. “It is the way with your sex. You think, though you sink the world, that with money you can scale Heaven. Stay here--rot--starve--perish--what care I!”

After this amazing outburst he turned away, but her terror of the night overbore her fear of this strange repulse, and she grasped his arm. He shook himself free, though the thrill accompanying her clasp staggered him. For years no woman’s hand had touched him; but at this rebuff she sank down, crying brokenly:

“What shall I do? I should not have started. They warned me below, but I thought the boy knew the way. Oh, sir! if you have a heart, do not leave us here.”

“A heart!” he cried. “What’s that? A piece of flesh that breeds endless woes in bosoms such as yours. All men’s should be of stone--as mine is now!” He paused, then said abruptly; “Up with you and follow me. I neither pity nor sympathize; but for the sake of her who bore me, I will give you such shelter as I have.”

He picked up the boy, who, knowing him, had sat stupefied with fear, and bade the woman follow him.

“But the horse?” she said, hesitating.

“Leave it,” he replied. “The brute is the best among you, but whither we go no horse may follow.”

He turned, taking up the boy in his arms, and she dumbly followed him, trembling, faint, yet nerved by her fears to unusual exertion. So rapid was his gait, encumbered though he was, that she kept him in view with difficulty. Through the gloom she could divine the perils that environed their ever upward way. The grinding of stricken trees, the brawl of swollen waters harrowed her nerves not less than the partial gleams of unmeasured heights and depths revealed by the lightning. A sense of helplessness exaggerated these terrors among the unknown possibilities surrounding her.

It seemed as though they would never stop again. Her limbs trembled, her heart thumped suffocatingly, yet their guide gave no heed, but pressed on as though no shivering woman pantingly dogged his steps. They traveled thus for several miles. She felt herself giving way totally when, on looking up once more, she saw that the hunter had vanished.

“Where am I?” she cried, and a voice, issuing seemingly out of the mountain-side, bade her come on. Her hands struck a wall of rock; on her right a precipice yawned; so, groping toward the left, she felt as she advanced that she was leaving the outer air; the wind and rain no longer beat upon her, yet the darkness was intense.

She heard the voice of the boy calling upon her to keep near. Into the bowels of the mountains she felt her way until a gleam of light shone ahead. She hastened forward round a shoulder of rock into a roomy aperture branching from the main cavern. The boy lay upon a pallet of skins, while Herne the Hunter fixed the flaring pine-knot he had lighted into a crevice of the rock. Then he started a fire, drew out of another crevice some cold cooked meat and filled a gourd with water from a spring that trickled out at one end of the cave.

“Eat,” he said, waving his hand. “Eat--that ye may not die. The more unfit to live, the less prepared for death. Eat!”

With that he turned away and busied himself in bathing and bandaging the boy’s foot, which, though not severely sprained, was for the time quite painful. Mrs. Renfro now threw back the hood of her waterproof and laid the cloak aside. Even old Herne--women hater that he was--could not have found fault with the matronly beauty of her face, unless with its expression of self-satisfied worldliness, as of one who judged others and herself solely by conventional standards, shaped largely by flattery and conceit.

She was hungry--her fears were somewhat allayed, and though rather disgusted at such coarse diet, ate and drank with some relish. Meanwhile, Herne the Hunter turned from the boy for something, and beheld her face for the first time. A water-gourd fell from his hands, his eyes dilated, and he crouched as he gazed like a panther before its unsuspecting prey. Every fibre of his frame quivered, and drops of cold sweat stood out upon his forehead. The boy saw with renewed fear this new phase of old Herne’s dreaded idiosyncrasies. Mrs. Renfro at length raised her eyes and beheld him thus. Instantly he placed his hands before his face, and abruptly left the cavern. Alarmed at his appearance, she ran toward the boy, exclaiming:

“What can be the matter with him? Do you know him?”

“I knows more of him ’n I wants ter,” replied the lad. “Oh, marm, that’s old Herne, ’nd we uns air the fust ones ez hev be’n in hyar whar he stays. I ganny! I thort shore he’d hev yeaten ye up.”

“Well, but who is he?”

“Well, they do say ez the devil yowns him, not but what he air powerful ’ligyus. No one knows much ’bouten him, ’cep’n’ he’s all’ays a projeckin’ eround the Dismal whar no one yelse wants ter be.”

“Has he been here long?”

“Yurs ’nd yurs, they say.” Tommy shook his head as though unable to measure the years during which Herne the Hunter had been acquiring his present unsavory reputation, but solved the riddle by exclaiming: “I reckon he hev all’ays be’n that-a-way.”

An hour or more passed. Tommy fell asleep, while the lady sat musing by his side. She did not feel like sleeping, though much fatigued. Finally she heard a deep sigh behind her, and turning saw the object of her fears regarding her sombrely. The sight of her face appeared to shock him, for he turned half away as he said:

“You have eaten the food that is the curse of life, in that it sustains it. Yet such we are. Sleep, therefore, for you have weary miles to go, ere you can reach the Swananoa.”

There was an indescribable sadness in his tone that touched her, and she regarded him curiously.

“Who are you,” she asked, “and why do you choose to live in such a place as this?”

“Ask naught of me,” he said, with an energy he seemed unable to repress. “Ask rather of yourself who am I and how came I--thus.”

He struck himself upon the breast, and without awaiting an answer again abruptly left the cave. She sat there wondering, trying to weave into definite shape certain vague impressions suggested by his presence, until weariness overcame her and she slept.

Hours after, Herne the Hunter reentered the cave, bearing a torch. His garments were wet, the rain-drops clung to his hair, and his face was more haggard than ever. He advanced towards the slumbering woman softly, and stood over her, gazing mournfully upon her, while large tears rolled down his cheeks. Then his expression changed to one that was stern and vindictive. His hand nervously toyed with the knife in his belt. Milder thoughts again seemed to sway him, and his features worked twitchingly.

“I cannot, I cannot,” he whispered to himself. “The tears I thought forever banished from these eyes return at this sight. There has never been another who could so move me. Though thou hast been my curse, and art yet my hell--I cannot do it. Come! protector of my soul; stand thou between me and all murderous thoughts!”

He drew his Bible from his bosom, kissed it convulsively, then held it as though to guard her from himself, and drawing backward slowly, he again fled into the storm and darkness without.

* * * * *

The gray light of morning rose over the Dismal, though within the cave the gloom still reigned supreme, when Herne the Hunter again stood at the entrance holding a flaring light. Then he said aloud:

“Wake, you that sleep under the shadow of death! Wake, eat, and--pass on!”

Mrs. Renfro aroused herself. The boy, however, slept on. Herne fixed his torch in the wall, and replenished the fire. Then he withdrew, apparently to give the lady privacy in making her toilet.

She was stiff in limb and depressed in mind. After washing at the spring, she wandered listlessly about the cave, surveying old Herne’s scanty store of comforts. Suddenly she paused before a faded picture, framed in long, withered moss, that clung to an abutment of the rock. It was that of a girl, fair, slender and ethereal. There was a wealth of hair, large eyes, and features so faultless that the witching sense of self-satisfaction permeating them, added to rather than marred their loveliness.

The lady--glancing indifferently--suddenly felt a thrill and a pain. A deadly sense of recognition nearly overcame her, as this memento--confronting her like a resurrected chapter of the past--made clear the hitherto inexplicable behavior of their host. She recovered, and looked upon it tenderly, then shook her head gently and sighed.

“You cannot recognize it!” said a deep voice behind her. “You dare not! For the sake of your conscience--your hope in heaven--your fear of hell--you dare not recognize and look upon me!”

She did not look round, though she knew that Herne the Hunter stood frowning behind, but trembled in silence as he went on with increasing energy:

“What does that face remind you of? See you aught beneath that beauty but treachery without pity, duplicity without shame? Lo! the pity and the shame you should have felt have recoiled upon me--me, who alone have suffered.” He broke off abruptly, as though choked by emotion. She dared not face him; she felt incapable of a reply. After a pause, he resumed, passionately: “Oh! Alice, Alice! The dead rest, yet the living dead can only endure. Amid these crags, and throughout the solitude of years, I have fought and refought the same old battle; but with each victory it returns upon me, strengthened by defeat, while with me all grows weaker but the remorselessness of memory and the capacity for pain.”

She still stood, with bowed head, shivering as though his words were blows.

“Have you nothing to say?” he asked. “Does that picture of your own youth recall no vanished tenderness for one who--self-outcast of men--fell to that pass through you?”

“I have a husband,” she murmured, almost in a whisper.

“Aye, and because of that husband I have no wife--no wife--no wife!” His wailing repetition seemed absolutely heartbroken; but sternly he continued: “You have told me where he is. I say to you--hide him--hide him from me! Even this”--he struck his bosom with his Bible feverishly--“may not save him. I have prayed and wrought, but it is as nothing--nothing--when I think--when I remember. Therefore, hide him from me--lest I slay him--”

“You would not--you dare not harm him!” She faced him now, a splendid picture of an aroused wife and mother. “He is not to blame--he knew you not--he has been good to me--and--and--I love him.”

He shrank from the last words as though from a blow, and stood cowering. Then he hissed out:

“Let me not find him. Hide him--hide him!”

Tommy here awoke with a yawn, and announced that his foot was about well. Herne, closing his lips, busied himself about preparing breakfast, which cheerless meal was eaten in silence. When they finally emerged from the cave the sun was peeping into the Dismal below them; bright gleams chased the dark shadows down the cliffs, and the morning mists were melting. The storm was over; there was a twitter of birds, the tinkle of an overflowing burn, and a squirrel’s bark emphasizing the freshness of the morn. The pure air entered the lips like wine, and Mrs. Renfro felt her depression roll off as they retraced the devious trail of the night before.

They found the lady’s horse standing dejectedly near where he had been left. The fog, in vast rolls, was climbing out of the Dismal, disclosing dark masses of forest below. The flavor of pine and balsam slept beneath the trees, every grass blade was diamond-strewn, and every sound vivified by the sense of mighty walls and unsounded depths.

After Mrs. Renfro had mounted, Herne the Hunter swept an arm around. The scene was savage and sombre, despite the sunlight. The intensity of the solitude about them dragged upon the mind like a weight.

“Behold,” he said sadly, “this is my world. I can tolerate no other.”

She inwardly shuddered; then a wave of old associations swept over her mind. Beneath the austerity of the man, beyond his selfish nurture of affliction, she--for the moment--remembered him as he once was, homely, kindly, enthusiastic and true. Had she indeed changed him to this? Or was it not rather the imperativeness of a passion, unable to endure or forget her preference of another? Whatever the cause, her heart now ached for him, though she feared him.

“Come with us,” she said. “You were not made to live thus.”

“I cannot--I dare not. It will take months to undo the misery of this meeting.”

“My husband--”

“Do not name him!” he cried fiercely; then abruptly lowering his tone, he said, with infinite sadness: “Ask me no more. Yonder, by that white cliff, lies the Swananoa trail you missed yesterday. The kindest thing you can do is to forget that you have seen me. Farewell!”

He turned away and swung himself down the mountain-side into the Dismal. She saw the rolling mists close over him, and remained motionless in a reverie so deep that the boy spoke twice to her before she turned her horse’s head and followed him.

* * * * *

Above the surveyor’s camp lay the Swananoa Gap, a gloomy, precipitous gorge through which the river lashed itself into milder reaches below. Mrs. Renfro found her husband absent. With a single assistant he had started for the upper defiles, intending to be gone several days. They told her that he would endeavor to secure the services of Herne the Hunter as a guide, as one knowing more of that wilderness than any one else.

Here was fresh food for wifely alarm. Herne had never met her husband, yet the latter’s name would make known his relationship to herself. She shuddered over the possibilities that might result from their sojourn together--far from aid--in those wild mountains, and made herself wretched for a week in consequence.

Meanwhile the transient fine weather passed; the rains once more descended, and the peaks of Nantahalah were invisible for days amid a whirl of vapor. The boom of the river, the grinding of forest limbs, the shriek of the wind, made life unusually dreary at the camp. She lay awake one night when the elements were apparently doing their worst. Her husband was still absent--perhaps alone with a possible maniac, raving over the memory of fancied wrongs.

Finally another sound mingled with and at last overmastered all others--something between a crash and a roar, interblended with sullen jars and grindings. Near and nearer it came. She sprang to the tent-floor and found her feet in the water. The darkness was intense. What could be the matter? Fear overcame her resolution and she shrieked aloud.

A man bearing a lantern burst into the tent with a hoarse cry. Its gleams showed her Herne the Hunter, drenched, draggled, a ghastly cut across his face, with the blood streaming down, his long hair flying, and in his eyes a fierce flame.

“I feared I would not find you,” he shouted, for the roar without was now appalling. “It is a cloud-burst above. In five minutes this hollow will be fathoms deep. The tents lower down are already gone. Come!”

He had seized and was bearing her out.

“Save--alarm the others!” she cried.

“You first--Alice.”

In that dread moment she detected the hopelessness with which he called her thus, as though such recognition was wrung from his lips by the pain he hugged, even while it rended him.

“My husband?” she gasped, growing faint over the thought of his possible peril--or death.

“Safe,” he hissed through his clenched teeth, for his exertions were tremendous. With a fierce flap the tent was swept away as they left it. About his knees the waters swirled, while limbs and other floating débris swept furiously by.

What seemed to her minutes--though really seconds--passed amid a terrific jumble of sounds, while the rain fell in sheets. It seemed as though the invisible mountains were dissolving. They were, however, slowly rising above the floods. She heard Herne’s hard breathing, and felt his wild heart-throbs as he held her close. Something heavy struck them, or rather him, for he shielded her. One of his arms fell limp, and he groaned heavily. Then she swooned away, with a fleeting sensation of being grasped by some one else.

Later, when she revived, there was a great hush in the air. Below, the river gently brawled; there was a misty darkness around, and the gleam of a lantern held before a dear and familiar form.

“Husband--is it you?” she murmured.

“Yes, yes,” said Captain Renfro, “I thought I had lost you. You owe your life to Herne the Hunter. In fact, but for him I would have been overwhelmed myself.”

“Where is he?” she asked feebly.

“The men are searching for him. Just as one of them got hold of you, he fell back--something must have struck him, and the flood swept him off. I tell you, Alice, that man--crazy or not--is a hero. We were on our way down and had camped above the Gap, when the cloud-burst came. We knew you all would be overwhelmed before we could get round here by the trail; so what does Herne do but send us on horseback by land, while he scoots down that cañon in a canoe--little better than an eggshell. Risked his life in that awful place to get here in time. I insisted on going with him at first.”

“Just like you, George,” said the wife fondly, though in her mind’s eye came a vision of Herne the Hunter battling with that Niagara to save and unite the two, through whom his own life had been made a burden. She sighed and clasped her husband’s hand, while he resumed:

“I was a fool, I expect, for the canoe would have swamped under both of us. He knew this, and ordered me off with a look I did not like; there was madness in it. Well, we hurried round by the trail with one lantern; Herne took the other. When we got here, you were apparently dead, Herne and two of the men swept off--the camp gone from below, and so on.”

A cry was now heard. Several men hastened down, and soon lights were seen returning. Four of them bore Herne the Hunter. One arm and a leg were broken, and his skull crushed in; yet the wonderful vitality of the man had kept him alive and sensible.

“We found him clinging to a sapling,” said one. “But he’s about gone--poor fellow!”

Poor fellow, indeed! Mrs. Renfro felt the lumps rise in her throat as she gazed upon that wreck, and thought. Presently Herne opened his eyes--already filling with the death-mist--and his gaze fell upon her face.

“Alice,” he whispered, “my troubles--are over. This”--he tugged at something in his bosom with his uninjured arm, when some one drew forth his Bible, drenched and torn--“ this saved me. I could have killed him--” he glanced at Renfro, who amid his pity now wondered. “I could--but--I saved you. And--now--Jesus--have mercy--”

These were his last words, for in another minute Herne the Hunter was a thing of the past, and a weeping woman bent over him. After that there was silence for a while. Then the wife said to her husband, while the others removed the dead man:

“It was his misfortune, not my fault, that he loved me. Has he not made amends?”

And the husband, with his hands clasped in hers, could find no other heart than to say:

“Aye--most nobly!”

AN OUTING.

Down country lanes, O’er treeless plains, And seas of prairie grasses, I wheel along, With cheers and song To every breeze that passes.

I leave the town, Walls bare and brown, The bustling, sordid masses-- The business boom Of counting-room, The dandies, dudes, and asses.

Awheel, awheel, The miles I reel, Afar from heated highways, And odors greet Of verdure sweet, Along the country by-ways.

By fields of grain, O’er daisy plain, Adown the pretty valley; By drowsy kine, By cot and vine, So joyfully I sally.

O, healthful steed! My only creed, Beyond dissent or doubting, Is Nature’s way, In holiday Upon a summer outing.

Jay Gee.

MEMORIES OF YACHT CRUISES.

BY THE LATE CAPTAIN R. F. COFFIN.

No. IV.

Despite the charms of the cruise on an individual yacht, much is to be said in favor of the cruise in squadron. The cruise in the solitary craft may be very pleasant at first, but it is apt to become monotonous after a few days, unless the party on board has been most happily selected. While en route from port to port every craft bound in the same direction is at once made a contestant in an improvised race, and unless she, too, is a yacht, she is too easily disposed of. As has been often proven, the slowest of the yachts is more than a match for the fastest coasting vessel. Probably the fastest vessels encountered will be the fishing schooners, and some of these nowadays sport nearly as much fancy canvas as the yachts do. They are finely modeled craft, and generally sail, as the yacht does, in good ballast trim. As a matter of course, they are admirably handled, and occasionally the tedium of the individual cruise is enlivened by a more or less spirited trial of speed with a well-appointed fishing schooner. Always, however, so far as my experience goes, these trials end in favor of the pleasure craft, none of which can properly be considered slow, except by comparison with some other yacht. Nothing proves more conclusively that yachting means racing than the fact that the chief interest and pleasure of the individual cruise arise from these chance contests with vessels encountered en route.

Now, in the squadron cruise all this is furnished to hand, and as part of the regular order of things. Each passage between ports is a race, and each yacht selects her class competitors, and cares for the movement of no others in the fleet. Very much more now than formerly, care is taken to have these races fair, and a matter of official record. In some instances the New York Yacht Club has hired a tug to accompany the yachts for the whole cruise, and from her the time is taken accurately at the start and finish of each day’s sail. Commodore Gerry (as noted in the September ~Outing~) has the regatta committee on the Electra, and makes a specialty of having a correct record of the daily runs kept, making manifold copies of the result, and sending a copy to each yacht almost as soon as her anchor is down. This increases the interest in the cruise immensely. The New York, however, is the only club, except, of course, the American, which has a steam yacht for its flagship, and certainly there are few commodores who would take the trouble that Mr. Gerry does. I have no hesitation in saying that he is, in this respect, the best commodore that the old club has ever had.

In the Eastern, the Atlantic, the Seawanhaka, and other clubs which cruise in squadron, this matter of accuracy in timing is receiving more and more attention each year. In the printed orders of the commodore it is expressly provided that the first yacht to arrive at a designated point shall note her own time, and then the times of all that follow, and shall report the same to the commodore. The start is not entirely fair, as it is made by general signal, and some yachts must of necessity, where the squadron is large, be in a better position than others. It is, however, the much-vaunted “one-gun start,” so strenuously advocated--for no reason that I can think of except that it is the style common in Great Britain. The British clubs, however, rarely start a large fleet, and where there are but five or six yachts, comparatively little trouble need be feared from permitting them all to crowd upon the line at once; while if there were thirty, forty, or more, vessels, confusion, and perhaps collision, would certainly result. After all, what can be fairer than the present American method of timing each yacht to a second at start and finish?

It is the continuous series of races, then, which gives the squadron cruise a charm lacking in all other forms of yachting; but it also has other attractions. The interchange of visits between the guests on the different yachts, the jolly dinners, the pleasant shore parties--all these make the cruise exceedingly pleasant, and no club whose fleet is at all respectable should fail to encourage it. None, of course, can present such a fleet of fine vessels as the New York, Atlantic and Eastern clubs; but much enjoyment may be had, even if the fleet is not so imposing. The Knickerbocker Club can in numbers equal any, and its short cruises--generally in the early part of July--have been very enjoyable. The cruise of the Seawanhaka Corinthian Club this year was a great success, although its fleet was not large. The Larchmont Yacht Club has never yet found itself in a position to essay the cruise, but as in all other respects it has placed itself in the front rank, it may well be expected to in the future.

The difficulty where the yacht is small is to accommodate the guests. Roughing it is all very well in theory, but in practice it is unsatisfactory. Men on a pleasure trip do not care to rough it. There is also a difficulty in the small craft to find stowage for water and ice, two prime necessities; but if the runs are made short, so that the supply may be replenished daily, the small craft can manage very well, and I think in the future the annual cruise will become as much a regular feature of the yacht club programme as is the annual regatta.

If I am not mistaken, the Seawanhaka Corinthian Yacht Club had its first cruise in July, 1879, and it was a Corinthian one, only a few professionals being allowed on the yachts. Well, it’s all right for the guests on board a yacht to take a pull at sheets or halliards once in a while, but as for doing all the deck duty, turning out and washing down the decks, cleaning the bright work, and making and taking in sail continuously all day long, it is quite absurd. But this has to be done, if the wind be paltry and baffling. But as for calling it amusement, I think that when turning a grindstone becomes a pleasurable occupation, then strict Corinthian yachting will be a pastime, and not until then.

The Corinthian Club, on this its first cruise, assembled at Glen Cove, and sailed thence to Black Rock, with a fleet composed of one schooner and four sloops; among them the Schemer, then owned by Mr. C. S. Lee, who was lost last March in the yawl Cythera. He was a very intelligent gentleman, and one of the most skillful of the yachting men of the time.

Mr. Lee was one of the earliest converts to the cutter theory, and in 1881 he had the cutter Oriva built from a design by John Harvey, who at that time was in business in London. Her advent not only introduced a new style in design, but also in workmanship, she being by all odds the best constructed yacht ever built in this country. She was not as narrow as the ordinary British cutter of her length at that time, and would have been still better had she been given another foot of beam. At that time, however, there was a mistaken notion on the part of those most violently affected by the “cutter craze,” as it was called, that the British yachts sailed fast because they were narrow. People wholly ignored the fact that each builder made his yacht as broad as possible under the rule, and as soon as it was relaxed the Thistle was produced, by far the most speedy cutter yet turned out from a British yard. I think that, should a 90-foot boat be designed as a challenger for the America’s Cup, the Thistle’s proportion of beam to length will probably be exceeded in her, and that her success will be greater than that of the Scotch challenger.

At the time of this first cruise of the Seawanhaka Club, Mr. Samuel J. Colgate, of the schooner Idler, was the commodore, but the fleet on this cruise was under the command of its vice-commodore, Oliver E. Cromwell, and the schooner Eddie was the flagship.

From Black Rock the fleet sailed to New London. At that port it was joined by the Muriel, another of the Harvey cutters built in this country, and which antedated the Oriva by some three years. The first spar plan of this cutter was entirely too small, and her performance for her two first seasons only confirmed the centreboard men in their opinions as to the superiority of the broad and shallow model.

The Seawanhaka fleet went on to Newport, and later to New Bedford, where the cruise practically ended, the flagship having carried away her foremast on the passage from Newport.

The cruise of the Seawanhaka Club in 1880 was under the command of Commodore W. A. W. Stewart, who recently owned the yawl Cythera, which he had purchased in England, and who was lost in her. His loss, like that of Mr. Lee, who accompanied him as his friend and guest, was most serious to the yachting interests of this city, and one from which the Corinthian Club, of which these two gentlemen were the chief supports, will hardly recover.

The fleet of the club on this cruise was larger than in the previous year. It had as schooners the Wanderer, Mr. James Stillman, and the Clytie, Mr. Anson Phelps Stokes; and there were nine sloops, the Regina carrying the pennant of the commodore. The fleet assembled at Glen Cove, July 13, and sailed thence to Morris Cove, at the entrance to the harbor of New Haven, a most inconvenient stopping-place. It is four miles from the city, has an inconvenient landing-place, and except in the daytime there is no regular communication with the city. No supplies of any kind can be obtained there. Still it is handy for a fleet of small yachts bound from Glen Cove, being about half way to New London.

At this latter port, whither the fleet next proceeded, it remained for a day, and had a sweepstake race between three of its sloops, for the delectation of the lady guests at the Pequot House, with whom, of course, the Corinthian “tars” were great favorites. This harbor will always be a favorite stopping-place for yachts. From the first of June until the first of October there is hardly a day that one or more of the pleasure fleet may not be seen at anchor off the Pequot House, or off the Edgecombe House, on the opposite side of the harbor. There is good water clear up to the city, for the largest yachts; supplies of all kinds are as abundant and cheap as in this city. There are facilities for hauling out, and several well-appointed shipyards where any kind of work on hull, rigging, spars or sails can be well done, at a fair price. In the afternoon the wind as a general thing is fair for a run up to the city, and in the early morning there is usually, during the summer months, a light air from the northward to bring the yachts back to the anchorage at the mouth of the harbor.

The fleet this year, as in that previous, went on to New Bedford, where some racing had been arranged. Stormy weather prevented this, and a return to Newport was made, where the cruise ended.

The Atlantic Yacht Club, this year, had a fine muster of yachts, excelling, I think, that of any previous cruise. It left Whitestone July 31, under command of Commodore L. A. Fish, the present owner of the Grayling, with seven schooners and seventeen sloops. Its flagship was the schooner Agnes, the same which capsized at her anchor, with sails furled, while lying off Staten Island, in a hard squall last June. Her mishap has always been a mystery to me, for although an extremely shallow vessel, she had great initial stability. The squall must have been extremely heavy.

The fleet pursued its usual route from Whitestone to Black Rock, where it remained over Sunday, and started the next day for New London. Here, on Monday evening, a ball in its honor was given at the Edgecombe House, and then, varying the ordinary route, it went to Block Island. Two or three attempts have been made by different yacht clubs to utilize Block Island as a stopping-place, but never with any satisfactory result. The anchorage is bad, and the harbor is but an apology for such. However, the Atlantic club desired to skip Newport if it were possible. The passage to New Bedford from Block Island was rather rough, and a stormy time there spoiled the hospitable intentions of the New Bedford Yacht Club in its behalf. There is no port at which the cruising yachtsman tarries, where he receives a warmer welcome than at the city of New Bedford. It is a hard place to emigrate from. As a harbor, however, it has its disadvantages; the entrance is narrow, and, with the wind blowing in, large and sluggishly-working yachts have to tow out.

The Atlantic club went on to Cottage City and had a great time there. Mr. Joseph Spinney entertained the members and guests at his cottage, and there were fireworks on the yachts, etc. Next day the fleet sailed for Newport. This plan of taking Newport in on the return to the westward is an excellent one, and the beat back from Cottage City is a better test of the qualities of the yachts than all the previous runs have been. From Newport the club ran over to Greenport, where it disbanded. It was by far the most successful cruise which the club has ever had, and I doubt whether it has ever been improved upon; much of this, of course, being due to its excellent commodore. Whatever Mr. Fish undertakes he accomplishes, as a rule, successfully.

The fleets of the New York and Eastern yacht clubs were joined in the cruise of 1880, the Eastern club coming west as far as New London, where it had to wait one day longer than had been expected on account of the tardy movement of the New York fleet. They had been delayed by calm weather on the passage from Glen Cove. Together, the two fleets went over to Shelter Island, making a magnificent display in front of the Manhansett House. From there, the combined squadrons sailed to Newport and thence to New Bedford, where there was a set race in which seven schooners and eleven sloops were started. The schooner Halcyon, then owned by General Paine, made the best time over the course, but the Peerless captured the prize from her on allowance of time. The Halcyon was originally a New York yacht and only of fair average speed; but after General Paine had purchased her, that skillful yachtsman experimented with her to such good purpose that he made her the fastest light-weather schooner in the fleets. For years, when the New York yachts raced in Eastern waters, she regularly captured the prizes.

The Peerless, which won on this occasion on allowance of time, was originally rigged as a sloop, having been built by the Poillons, in Brooklyn, for Mr. J. Rogers Maxwell, the present owner of the sloop Shamrock. She did not please the leading experts of the time, one of whom christened her “the Bull Pup.” Mr. Maxwell, however, was not discouraged, and he finally made of her a fairly fast sloop. He then lengthened her and altered her rig to that of a schooner, and as such made her the fastest second-class schooner in America. At the time of this race she belonged to the New Bedford Yacht Club, having been sold to Vice-Commodore Hathaway of that club. The two squadrons proceeded together to Vineyard Haven, where, after the usual interchange of courtesies, the Eastern club parted company, going on to Boston, while the New York club returned to Newport, where it disbanded, having been kept together for ten days.

This was the year that the steel cutter Vanduara came out in English waters, and created such a furore. The New York yachtsmen on their return from this cruise were greeted by rumors from across the Atlantic that another bid was about to be made for the America’s Cup. This rumor did not trouble them much, but in the light of subsequent events, it is tolerably certain that if the Vanduara had come in 1881, as threatened, she would have carried the cup back to England in her locker. Fortunately, or otherwise--for I do not know that it would be a misfortune if the cup was fairly captured by a foreign club--the Vanduara did not come, but the Atalanta did, and was disposed of with all ease.

The schooner Agnes was the flagship of the Atlantic club during the cruise of 1881, once more carrying the pennant of Commodore Fish. In number, the fleet was not as large as in the previous year, but there were five schooners and twelve sloops in the squadron when it left Black Rock, a very respectable fleet. The same old route was pursued--New London, Shelter Island, Newport and New Bedford; but here the monotony of the cruise was varied by a race, the entries comprising four New Bedford and three Atlantic club schooners and six Atlantic and seven New Bedford sloops. The New Bedford schooner Peerless and the Atlantic sloop Fanita and New Bedford sloops Hesper and Nixie were the winners in the several classes, so the honors were decidedly with the New Bedford club, as it captured three out of the four prizes.

The cruise of the New York Yacht Club for the year 1881 promised at its beginning to be the most brilliant in its history. It assembled at New London under the command of Commodore Waller, with the Dauntless as the flagship. By way of opening the cruise in an interesting manner, Mr. Charles Minton, who was then the secretary, offered a $250 cup for a schooner prize on the run to Newport the following day, to be taken by the first yacht in, without allowance of time. It was shrewdly suspected that the secretary believed that without allowance of time there was no yacht in the fleet which could beat the Dauntless, on board which he was sailing, and that he intended the cup as a prize for the commodore. Had the start been made as arranged, all would have been well; but at the hour named a fog hung over the harbor and Sound like a pall, and there was scarcely any wind, so the race for the Secretary’s Cup was declared off.

In the afternoon, however, the fog lifted, a good breeze sprang up, and the fleet started. When the schooner Tidal Wave passed Point Judith, there was not a schooner in the fleet which was not hull down astern of her. It had been resolved to sail for the Secretary’s Cup the next day from Brenton’s Reef Lightship to Clark’s Point, off New Bedford; but in view of the performance of the Tidal Wave in this run from New London, she seemed a certain winner, and such a state of affairs was particularly distasteful to Fleet-Captain Robert Center and the others on board the flagship.

What was to be done to avert the threatened calamity? I know not who was responsible for the action, and should not state it if I did, for it was peculiarly disgraceful. A half hour before the start, Fleet-Captain Center rowed through the fleet and gave notice that no yacht could sail for the Secretary’s Cup unless the owner was on board. By a curious coincidence, as the elder Mr. Weller might have said, the only yacht which did not have her owner on board was the Tidal Wave, the yacht which had run all the other schooners out of sight on the previous day.

No meeting of the club had taken place in the meanwhile, and where any one obtained authority for such an unheard-of rule it is impossible to say. Captain Center, however, frankly admitted at New Bedford the next day, that the action was taken solely with a view to barring out the Tidal Wave. He, however, based his action on a personal feeling against Captain “Joe” Elsworth, who, because he had sailed the Countess of Dufferin in her second race for the America’s Cup, had excited Captain Center’s ire. He had determined--so he said--that Captain “Joe” should never again sail for a cup in the New York Yacht Club. Since that time, as we all know, the club and the public have been glad to avail themselves of Captain Elsworth’s skill, and he has been an important factor in the preservation of the great yachting trophy. After all, this disgraceful business was not at all necessary; for although the Tidal Wave started with the fleet, and although Captain Elsworth did his best to get to Clark’s Point ahead of the lot, the little New Bedford schooner Peerless, the once despised “Bull Pup” of the New York experts, captured the Secretary’s Cup.

Of course, after this plain expression of feeling on the part of the officers of the club, Captain Elsworth could not consent to remain with the squadron, and immediately left it. The result was the loss of the only light-weather schooner that had any chance against the Halcyon, and in the races which were sailed while the fleet was at New Bedford for the cups presented by Mr. E. A. Buck of the Spirit of the Times, the Halcyon, as usual, captured the schooner prize.

This was rather a disastrous cruise, although it had promised so fairly. Commodore Waller had gone to the expense of having a large barge towed to New Bedford, and on board her a ball was given, the music being furnished from New York. But there were several days of foggy weather which interfered materially with the programme. Finally a start was made, from Vineyard Haven for Boston, but, threatening weather being encountered, the fleets returned to Vineyard Haven, and the Eastern club concluded to part company and go to Newport. So it was arranged that next day, if the weather was favorable, the New York club should go on to Boston. During the day, however, there were many defections, and next morning but a small fleet remained. The commodore also was taken seriously ill, and the fleet was disbanded. No cruise ever cost flag-officers so much money, and none was ever less satisfactory.

The Seawanhaka Corinthian Yacht Club postponed its cruise this year until August, hoping to have the British cutter Madge accompany it, but the canny Scotchman who had charge of her did not care to have her speed measured with other yachts until her regular races came on. The club made its muster at Whitestone on this occasion, and went from there to Morris Cove. Commodore Stewart had his pennant on the schooner Sea Drift, and his fleet was very small, there being, besides this schooner, only seven sloops. Among these was the cutter Oriva, on her first cruise. The cruise was very tame, and only extended as far as Newport. It was the summer of President Garfield’s death, and he was just hovering between life and death when the club started, a circumstance which prevented some of the yacht owners from joining.

Although the Seawanhaka club did not obtain much credit from its annual cruise in 1881, it covered itself with glory by its matches with the cutter Madge. There can be no doubt but that the two sloops selected as the champions of the club in the Madge contests were as good as any of their sizes in the club. It is equally certain that they were brought to the line in a miserably slipshod condition. The fact was, that at that time the yachting men of this country had the most thorough contempt for the British cutter. Captain Ira Smith, who sailed the Schemer in her race with the Madge, when his attention was called to the miserably setting topsail on his yacht--an old one borrowed for the occasion--shrugged his shoulders and said, “Oh! it’s good enough; anything will do to beat that thing,” pointing to the cutter, which was lying a short distance away attired in one of Lapthorn’s most perfect suits; and the captain’s remark exactly expressed the general feeling at that time.

Mr. Henry Steers, Captain “Joe” Elsworth, and many members of the clubs had been to England and had seen these yachts sail, and knew that they were speedy; but their utterances were received with incredulity. “They sail well enough when compared with each other,” it was said, “but put them alongside of our centreboard yachts and they will be beaten easily.” The average Bay Shore boatman hitched up his trousers and said oracularly: “It stands to reason them things away down on their sides can’t sail; a boat has got to have bottom fur to sail on.”

Had the Madge been the Vanduara, the America’s Cup would have gone back to Great Britain, beyond a peradventure. That was one chance of which John Bull failed to avail himself; he has another this season--will he avail himself of it? Quien sabe?

ON BLADES OF STEEL.

BY D. BOULTON HERRALD.

To the enthusiastic skater even the pleasures afforded by the enclosed rink are manifold, but who will compare them to those offered by the far-stretching reach of the frozen river or lake?

However tastefully decorated the rink may be, it cannot bear comparison with the arena supplied by Nature. Instead of flags and streamers we have the green pines on the distant hill-tops, while closer at hand the trees, clothed with leaves of autumn tints, are painted by Nature’s brush. The carpet of brown, withered ferns and grass is dotted here and there with drifted heaps of early snow. In place of long lines of promenading, gossiping humanity, our boundaries are the barren shores, their sameness relieved here by an upturned boat and there a stranded log. Replacing the glare of the electric light, we have the sun’s genial rays, or the softer and more beauteous moon. Gone is the damp vapor that will ever arise from even the best-appointed rink, and we can revel in the crisp and bracing air of autumn. Surely, then, is outdoor skating entitled to the palm. In the rink the never-ceasing round from left to right, and, at the sound of the bell, from right to left, grows wearily monotonous, even though the most charming of partners may glide by one’s side. Round and round the skaters promenade in endless procession. You dare not go too fast nor yet too slow, for the one will surely bring you into collision with some one who blocks the way; the other will still more certainly run some one into you.

But in the glorious open all is changed. Your skates locked on, away you glide, fast or slow, turning and twisting without let or hindrance, as fancy prompts your path. Do not go near that hole! Beware of yonder stick! Though half hidden in the ice, it yet projects enough to catch the point of your skate and give you an ugly “cropper.” Crack! You are on thin ice. Keep nearer to the shore. Who is this coming up behind so fast? He evidently wishes to have a “brush,” and you are not unwilling.

So on you fly, past the creek, with timorous children and girls covering its surface. They prefer to skate over the shallows to trusting themselves upon the deeper river. Here’s the deserted pottery, bleak and dismal, with sashes that hold naught but the ragged edges of the panes that once kept out the weather--victims of the small boy and his “sling.” And here the Fair Grounds, the long rows of whitewashed stabling, grand-stand and buildings glaring in the bright sunshine. The oblong race track recalls memories of the close finish between “Little Vic” and “Chestnut Jim.” How your heart stopped still until “Vic” showed her nose under the wire, a short head to the good, for she carried your “pile” on her handsome shoulders! On and on, until the bridge stops your progress. The ice beneath it is not of sufficient strength to bear your weight.

Then, after walking across the road and climbing the fences, you come to the narrows, where the ice is ever frail. Keep well in, under the trees, skate swiftly, and do not tumble, or you will surely get a ducking. Halloa! the man ahead seems to be in difficulties. He has fallen into a water-hole! Now, put on a burst and try to avoid meeting with a like mishap. You near the victim as he stands over the waist in water. His coat collar seems to offer a good hold--and the idea is no sooner thought of than acted on. As you pass, you grasp him, and with the impetus of your speed drag him from his involuntary bath to a spot where the ice is firm.

He betrays ingratitude, however, of the basest description, for he consigns you to a hotter place than--skating, because, forsooth, you gathered some of his back hair in your fist. Well, such is life! “Men were ungrateful ever.”

Now you near the worst place yet encountered, open water, with ice here and there between the boulders on the shore. In and out you thread your way, dulling the skate blades sadly on the stones; but soon the obstruction is passed, and the “going” is again good. There, to the right, is the tamarac swamp, where you have bowled over many a “bunny” and many a grouse. There the wooded point where you had such a pleasant picnic and met jolly Miss Jones. But duck your head, for here is the railroad bridge, and in case of contact with those jutting iron bolts your cranium would be apt to come out second best.

Why, here we are at the locks already! A short four miles it has seemed, covered in little more than twenty minutes. Now off with the “acmes,” for why should one blunt them, or stumble over the portage like a drunken man, when he can so easily unlock the skates and saunter over comfortably?

Another mile and a half is passed, and a second set of lock-gates is reached, which must be crossed ere we can come to the lake-like expanse on their farther side, made by the widening of the river. Halloa! there is a sail, and a large one at that. What can it be? Oh, the ice-boat, of course. How stupid of me not to think of it before.

When we cross over the rise the boat comes into full view, dashing along at high speed as it tacks from shore to shore. It is the only craft of the kind in Central Canada, and is consequently regarded as a wonderful machine. To me, however, it looks a crude affair indeed, after the far-famed fleets that grace the frozen waters of the Hudson.

Mile after mile we skim along, now jumping a crack, now avoiding a miniature drift of snow. The sun is in my eyes, and I cannot keep a good lookout. Suddenly I am startled by a warning shout, which brings me to a standstill to discover that there is open water but a few feet ahead.

The shadows of evening are falling, so we turn homeward. The scenes of the outward journey meet the eye again, mellowed in the deepening twilight. At length we reach the landing, with a keen appetite for dinner, and in a condition to thoroughly enjoy the after-dinner pipe before an open fire, and the perusal of the latest novel.

OUTDOOR LIFE OF THE PRESIDENTS.

BY JOHN P. FOLEY.

III.--ANDREW JACKSON.

The life of Andrew Jackson has been tersely described as “a battle and a march.” Washington, Jefferson, Madison, Monroe, were all born in the purple of slavery. They were the sons of wealthy planters; educated at the best schools; provided with private tutors, and, with one exception, graduated from the leading colleges of the period. They moved in the best circles of society, and could choose whatever profession or pursuit they pleased. Seats in the House of Burgesses of Virginia awaited them as soon as they became of age, and whatever other political preferment young native-born Americans could obtain under the colonial régime was easily within their reach. Very different the early life and fortune of Andrew Jackson, the fifth of the Southern Presidents.

Two years before he was born his father was a poor linen weaver in the North of Ireland, beaten in the struggle for existence and preparing with some of his relatives to emigrate to the new world. This little colony, made up of Jacksons and Crawfords, landed at Charleston, in 1765, and immediately started for the Waxhaw settlement, which lay partly in North and partly in South Carolina, in the region bordering on the Catawba River. This point, no doubt, was chosen because a number of colonists from the same part of Ireland had already made their homes there. The Crawfords bought good land in the centre of the settlement, while the Jacksons, not having the means to purchase, went on new land some miles distant. There Jackson, senior, built a hut and began to clear the woods around him. At the end of two years he became ill and died. Mr. Parton, in his excellent life of President Jackson, tells us that the widow, accompanied by her little family, brought the remains of her husband in a rude wagon out of the wilderness to the Waxhaw churchyard, and did not again return home after the interment. Instead, she went to the house of a brother-in-law, and in a few days gave birth to a son, whom she named Andrew. The log-house, where this event took place on March 15, 1767, was at a point on the North Carolina side, less than a quarter of a mile from the boundary line between the two provinces; so that the hero of New Orleans, many years later, erred in the matter of his nativity, when, in his celebrated manifesto to the nullifiers of South Carolina, he addressed them as “Fellow-Citizens of my native State.” Mrs. Jackson, at the end of three weeks, left her eldest son to assist this relative on his farm and went with her second son and the infant Andrew to the house of her brother-in-law, the Mr. Crawford with whom she and her husband crossed the Atlantic two years before. Crawford was then in comfortable circumstances. He had some capital when he arrived, and, in addition, was a good, thrifty and successful farmer. This was young Jackson’s home during the next ten or twelve years. His life was indeed “a battle and a march,” and march and battle began with his very infancy.

North Carolinians have long and tenacious memories, and when, more than a quarter of a century ago, Mr. Parton made a pilgrimage into Mecklenberg County to collect materials for the life of the great democratic chieftain, he was able to gather many an anecdote of the early life of his hero. “He was a wild, frolicksome, wilful, mischievous, daring, reckless boy, who loved his friends and detested his enemies.” Truly, the boy was father of the man. He allowed no one to impose upon him. On one occasion, we are told, some boys gave him a gun loaded to the muzzle in order to see him knocked over when he fired it. He was kicked over, and springing to his feet exclaimed: “If one of you laughs I’ll kill him!” And there was no laughter. It is said that the larger boys had trouble in getting along with him; but that he was idolized by the smaller ones, who always found in him a protector and a champion. “He was,” said one who knew him in youth, “a bully, but never a coward.” In boyish games and sports of every description he was thoroughly proficient. It was easy to make a wrestling match when “Andy” Jackson was present; but, although tall and active, he was not strong in proportion to his height, and was frequently thrown. He was fond of running and jumping, feats in which he excelled. He was addicted to gibberish or slang, and one of his favorite expressions was this: “Set de case: You are Shauney Kerr’s mare and me Billy Buck; and I should mount you and you should kick, fall, fling and break your neck, should I be to blame for that?” Young John Quincy Adams, who was born in the same year as Jackson, and who was at this time studying diplomacy under his father in Europe, would probably have fled in as great horror from his successor in the Presidency, if he then propounded to him this problem, as in after years he fled from him on the day of his inauguration. The woods of Waxhaw were full of deer, wild turkey and other game, and owing to the household demands of the colony, to hunt and kill them was much more of a necessity than a pleasure. Jackson, it is needless to say, became expert with the rifle, and the bird or animal that came within range rarely escaped with its life.

His mother’s ambition was to make him a clergyman, and in due time he was sent to what in those days was called “an old field school.” By and by he attended schools of a better class, at which lads were prepared for college. Where the means to pay for this superior education came from is not known, but it is believed that his mother was assisted by members of her family in Ireland. Jackson was not a studious boy, so he learned little except reading, writing, and arithmetic. His educational equipment all through life was very light, but, nevertheless, his name stands on the roll of the learned Doctors of Harvard, an act for which the younger Adams never forgave his old university. When the colonies decided to draw the sword, Jackson was a child nine years old, and the war was half over before its tide rolled along to the banks of the Catawba. From the very beginning, however, the Scotch-Irish settlers of Waxhaw were as loyal and devoted to the patriotic cause as the descendants of the Puritans who fell at Lexington and Bunker Hill. Many of them and their children went into the army, among others Hugh Jackson, Andrew’s eldest brother, who was “a man in stature if not in years.” He was killed in the battle of Stono. Robert Jackson, the second son, too young to bear arms, and Andrew were with their mother when Tarleton’s dragoons swept along to Waxhaw. A body of militia was taken by surprise and a large number killed and wounded. This was Jackson’s first lesson in war. He was then about thirteen, and he and his brother aided their mother in nursing the unfortunate victims of the raid. Tarleton’s troopers rode hard and fast over the Waxhaw farms, little dreaming that in one of its log-cabins they had left behind them a rough, ungainly boy who in after years was destined to defeat one of England’s ablest generals at the head of veteran soldiers bearing on their conquering banners the memorable names of Talavera and Badajos. Next came Lord Rawdon threatening to imprison all who refused to promise not to participate in the war. Mrs. Jackson fled with her two boys into the wilderness rather than make the pledge. A short time after both sons were present in the engagement at Hanging Rock, near Waxhaw, where the patriots were so nearly victorious. The defeat of Gates brought the victorious Cornwallis to the little settlement, and the terrified inhabitants, Mrs. Jackson and her children among them, again fled before the soldiery. Andrew found a refuge in a temporary home on a farm where he gave his services in exchange for his board. His principal duties were fetching wood, driving cattle, picking beans, going to the mill and the blacksmith’s shop. “He never,” says Mr. Parton, “went to the blacksmith’s without bringing home something with which to kill the enemy. Once he fastened the blade of a scythe to a pole, and on reaching home began to cut down the weeds, exclaiming, ‘Oh! if I were a man I would sweep down the British with my grass blade.’” The Jacksons were all home again in 1781, when the Waxhaw country became quiet.

Andrew was now fourteen, tall as a man, but without much bodily strength. He and his brother thought, however, that they could be of some service to their country, and from time to time joined small raiding parties, organized to retaliate on the enemy. Cornwallis sent a body of troops to suppress these disorders, and in a conflict the Jackson boys were captured. Then occurred that memorable incident in his life which so embittered him ever afterward against England. The officer who had captured him, ordered him to clean his boots. Jackson indignantly refused, declaring that he was a prisoner of war and expected to be treated as one. A fierce sword-blow aimed at his head was the answer. He warded it off with his arm, but the weapon struck his skull, inflicting a wound on arm and head, the marks of which remained to the day of his death. The brutal officer then gave the same order to the brother. He, too, refused to obey and was prostrated with a blow which nearly killed him. One day, while a prisoner, Andrew was threatened with death unless he guided the troops to the house of an obnoxious patriot. He pretended to comply, but went by a route which gave the intended victim notice of their approach and enabled him to escape. The two brothers were next marched off prisoners of war to Camden, forty miles distant. They and their companions were treated with horrible barbarity on the way. Forced to walk the entire distance without food, they were not even allowed to drink the muddy water by the wayside. In Camden jail they were nearly starved to death. Small-pox broke out among the ill-fed and ill-clothed captives and it became a very pest-hole. At length General Greene appeared before the place and there were hopes of a rescue. Jackson cut through a knot-hole in the fence and saw the operations in the field, which he reported to his fellow-prisoners. The Continental troops were defeated and the captives were in despair. But the faithful mother had not forgotten or abandoned them, and one day she appeared offering to exchange for her boys and some other prisoners, thirteen soldiers who had been captured by the men of Waxhaw. Her sons were so worn-out by starvation and disease that she scarcely knew them. What a journey that was home to the Waxhaw! They could procure only two horses for the entire party. The mother rode one; on the other was her son Robert, stricken with small-pox and held in his seat by the exchanged prisoners. By their side trudged Andrew, shivering with fever and ague, shoeless, almost naked, his feet and legs bleeding and torn by rocks and briers. Still the battle and the march!

But the battle was only beginning for this seemingly ill-starred boy. When peace came, sending sunshine and joy through all the land, this heroic North of Ireland mother had been sleeping beside her husband in the Waxhaw graveyard more than a year, and the orphaned Andrew was striving hard to learn the trade of a saddler. His health was bad, and his spirit seemed broken. Perhaps it was grief for the mother whom he so deeply loved, and whose memory he revered all through life. Gradually, however, the spring and buoyancy of his nature asserted themselves. He made the acquaintance of some boys of his own age whose parents had fled from Charleston, when it was captured, to Waxhaw, and who were waiting for the evacuation to return. He was the owner of a horse at this time, but it is not clear whether he obtained him by gift or purchase. At all events, he ran races; very often rode them, and, impartial history bids us say, “gambled a little, drank a little, and fought cocks.” It was a rude age; the little society that existed was demoralized by war, and there was no one to restrain, perhaps no one even to advise, this young orphan boy. He followed his friends to Charleston, “riding his horse, a fine and valuable animal which he had contrived to possess.” His career in that city was wild and reckless. He ran up a long bill with his landlord, which he paid by a lucky throw at dice; the wager being his horse against two hundred dollars. All at once his conscience seems to have smitten him. He resolved to return home and reform. Never again through all his life did he throw dice for a wager. His scheme of reformation did not, however, include the abandonment of horse-racing and chicken-fighting, for during the next two years his biographers continue to record many achievements and adventures in this line. His other pursuits, if he had any, are not known. Some say he taught school. If he did, teachers must have been few and far between at that time in North Carolina. When he was seventeen or eighteen years of age, he went to Salisbury to study law. Unable to find an opening, he went to Morgantown, in Burke County, where he was equally unsuccessful. At length he succeeded in persuading Mr. Spruce McCoy, of Salisbury, a lawyer of eminence, and subsequently a distinguished judge, to undertake his instruction. The story of his career in Salisbury is a sad one, if certain traditions be true. He was, according to some of his biographers, “the most roaring, rollicking, game-cocking, horse-racing, card-playing mischievous fellow that ever lived in Salisbury.” The portrait is probably from the easel of a political enemy, or a well-meaning admirer, who deemed these the highest qualifications a young man could possess. In the first place, a life of this description involved the expenditure of considerable money even in a small North Carolina town a century ago, and Jackson had none. To suppose that he lived by gambling and horse-racing is absurd. It is certain, however, that on one occasion he ran a foot-race there under somewhat ludicrous conditions. The champion runner of the town was one Hugh Montgomery. A match was made between him and Jackson on these terms: Montgomery to carry a man on his back and get a start of half the distance. Jackson won by one or two feet, “amid the laughter of the town.”

He received his license to practice law before he reached his twentieth year. This he could not have accomplished if his life had been the wild and reckless one which some writers would have us believe. He left Salisbury immediately and went to live at Martinsville in Guilford County. Two of his friends kept a store there, and he probably assisted them, although, it is said, he earned a livelihood by serving as a constable. The following year a friend of his was appointed judge of the Superior Court in Tennessee. He appointed Jackson public prosecutor. The position was not one for which there were many applicants. In the first place, it led into the wilderness where the red man was yet very successfully disputing the advance of the pale-faces, and, in the next, the whites whom Jackson was coming to prosecute were not much higher in the scale of civilization than the native savages. Jackson induced some friends to accompany him in quest of fortune and fame, and a start was made for Jonesboro’, then the principal settlement in Eastern Tennessee. Thence they proceeded to Nashville, where they arrived in October, 1788. The journey was full of peril, and were it not for the watchfulness of Jackson one night the whole party would probably have been massacred. Having a presentiment of danger, he determined to sit up on guard. Toward midnight the hooting of an owl fell on his ear. This was followed by another and another, until in a short time all the owls in Tennessee appeared to have collected overhead of them. Jackson suspected that these owls carried scalping-knives and tomahawks, and awoke his companions. They were troubled no more by owls that night. At Nashville he found as much law business as he could attend to, and he set to work with his usual energy and vigor. In his capacity of public prosecutor he was obliged to attend court at Jonesboro’, which compelled him to make frequent journeys through the Indian-infested wilderness. This was hard and perilous work. No one dared attempt the trip alone, and travelers were in the habit of making up parties in order to be the better prepared for attack. Jackson one time was delayed, and his friends started without him. He followed and soon came upon their track, and, at the same time, the unmistakable trail of Indians immediately behind them. This was a situation which would have caused ninety-nine in a hundred men to turn back, but not so Jackson. Although his servant declined to go with him he determined to push ahead, and divided his provisions with his attendant, who turned homeward. Jackson came to a point where the Indians had branched off with the intention of surprising and attacking the whites with a certainty of success. At length he overtook his friends and warned them of their danger. It was snowing heavily at the time, and the entire party were turned away from the camp of some hunters from whom they had asked shelter. When returning home they again stopped at the camp, but every one of the hunters had been scalped.

Jackson now began to accumulate property, and he married Mrs. Robards, establishing his home, the first he really ever had, in Nashville. This was almost the first halt thus far in “the march and the battle” of his life. It was not, however, the famous home called the Hermitage, for that did not come until many years later. If money was scarce in Tennessee at that time, there was an abundance of land, and six hundred and forty acres, or a square mile of real estate, was the ordinary fee for trying a case at court. Jackson was in fact a land speculator, as well as a lawyer, and he was a purchaser whenever he could command the money. So large were his possessions that he sold six thousand dollars worth of land in one block to a gentleman in Philadelphia, and after that large transaction for that time, had still several thousand acres left. Some years later he engaged in business on his place at Hunters Hill, thirteen miles from Nashville. This plantation embraced several thousand acres, and he erected on it a house which was one of the finest in that part of the country. In a smaller building near it he opened a store and sold goods to the Indians through a small window. His prosperity, however, received a sudden check. The Philadelphia gentleman, whose notes he had taken for his land, failed, and the protection of the notes devolved on Jackson, who had discounted them. This he did at an enormous sacrifice.

He determined to retrieve his fortune, and to that end enlarged his operations in every direction. His slaves numbered one hundred and fifty, and in their management he was greatly assisted by Mrs. Jackson. He raised corn and cotton, which he shipped on his own boats. At his large store he took produce of all kinds in exchange for goods. He had on his plantation a cotton-gin, which was so recently invented that it had scarcely ceased to be a curiosity. With it he cleaned his own cotton and that of his neighbors, which was another source of income. He was an excellent farmer and very proud of his crops, which were nearly always good. But this was not all. In his youth he had been exceedingly fond of horses, and his equine tastes grew stronger as he advanced in years. He brought the famous “Truxton” from Virginia to Tennessee and won fame and money as a turfman. Few races came off in the country around in which his name was not among the entries, and, as he ran his animals with care and judgment, he was a frequent winner. His stable was in fact the best bred in all that section, and proved a large source of income to him. Down even to the present day there is a “Truxton” strain in Tennessee which is highly prized. In addition he amused himself with an occasional cockfight. On at least one occasion the ownership of six hundred and forty acres of land depended upon the issue of the battle between the game birds. During these years, while he was pursuing the avocation of a planter, of a dealer in the goods of every description needed in a new country, of a horse-breeder and of a speculator in land, he also found time to hold various public positions. He was a delegate to the convention that framed the constitution of the State; a member of the legislature; then a congressman and a judge. His service in Congress was very brief, and he resigned his position on the bench in order to recover the fortune he had lost. Jackson was a good public officer. He was not a great lawyer or jurist, but he fearlessly prosecuted every lawbreaker, and his decisions were always honest. Every scoundrel in the territory was his enemy, but he never quailed before one of them.

While he was on the bench the sheriff one day told him that a ruffian, who had been guilty of cutting off his child’s ear in a drunken passion, was in the court-house yard, armed with dirk and pistols, and defied arrest. Jackson directed him to summon a posse of citizens. The sheriff reported back that the citizens were too terrified to act. “He must be taken,” said Jackson; “summon me!” With a pistol in either hand, Jackson walked into the yard and strode up to the outlaw, who at once surrendered to him.

Jackson possessed undaunted courage and nerve. A mob assembled one time with the intention of tarring and feathering him. He was ill in bed when a committee waited on him to communicate the cheerful intelligence. “Give my compliments,” said he, “to Colonel ---- [the leader of the party], and tell him my door is open to receive him and his regiment whenever they choose to call upon me, and that I hope he will have the chivalry to lead his men and not to follow them.” His brave defiance cowed the mob. It dispersed, and its leader apologized to Jackson.

Long years after, while Jackson was President, he told a story of one of his experiences during these frontier days, which we shall insert here.

“Now, Mr. B----,” said Jackson, “if any one attacks you I know you will fight with that big black stick of yours. You will aim right for his head. Well, sir, ten chances to one he will ward it off, and if you do hit him, you won’t bring him down. Now, sir [taking the stick into his own hands], you hold the stick so and punch him in the stomach, and you’ll drop him. I will tell you how I found that out. When I was a young man, practising law in Tennessee, there was a big bullying fellow that wanted to pick a quarrel with me, and so trod on my toes. Supposing it accidental, I said nothing. Soon after he did it again, and I began to suspect his object. In a few moments he came by a third time, pushing against me violently and evidently meaning fight. He was a man of immense size, one of the very biggest men I ever saw. As quick as a flash I snatched a small rail from the top of the fence and gave him the point of it full in the stomach. Sir, it doubled him up. He fell at my feet, and I stamped on him. Soon he got up, savage, and was about to fly at me like a tiger. The bystanders made as though they would interfere. Said I, ‘Don’t; stand back; give me room; that is all I ask, and I will manage him.’ With that I stood ready with the rail pointed. He gave me one look and turned away a bewitted man, sir, and feeling like one. So, sir, I say to you, if any fellow assaults you, give him the point in his belly.”

Jackson fought several duels, killing his antagonist in one of them; but these episodes in his life do not fall within the limits of this paper. His military career may be said to begin with his appointment, in 1802, to the command of the militia of Tennessee, although he was not called into active service until the following year. Jefferson had then completed the Louisiana purchase, and it was thought the Spaniards would not be willing to acknowledge the authority of the United States, and, possibly, might resist it. Troops were ordered to the frontier, and if necessary were to be marched to New Orleans. Tennessee promptly responded, and Major General Jackson discharged so well the duty assigned him that he was thanked by the Federal Government.

The ambitious, restless, brilliant Burr was at this time revolving in his fertile brain the erection of an empire in Mexico, and looking around for lieutenants to aid him in the realization of his dream, his eye fell upon Jackson, whom he had doubtless met in Philadelphia while he was Vice-President. In the summer of 1805 Jackson rode from his plantation into Nashville. The little town was gayly decked with flags and banners, and the streets were thronged with people from the surrounding country. Aaron Burr was expected, and the demonstration was in his honor. After an entertainment by the people of Nashville he rode home with Jackson as his guest. Burr’s project appealed to the imagination of Jackson and he offered his services. Next day Burr went away. A year later he was again in Kentucky and Tennessee, and Jackson again offered to join his expedition. The enterprise was then discussed everywhere, but no one had suspected, or at least given expression to, the suspicion that Burr’s plans were hostile to the interests of the United States. Rumors of this nature, however, were soon afloat, and Jackson laid the matter before Governor Claiborne. He at the same time wrote Burr, declaring that if his designs were inimical to the government, he desired to have no further relations with him. Burr was tried shortly afterwards for treason. He was always one of Jackson’s friends and entertained the highest opinion of his military capacity. When Congress declared war against England in 1812, Burr said that Jackson was the most capable general in the country. During the next five or six years Jackson was in private life.

The outbreak of hostilities with England called him again into the field. The Mississippi Valley was loyal to the core and promptly furnished a larger number of men than had been called for. Jackson, at the head of 2,500 volunteers, descended the Ohio and Mississippi to Natchez, where he received word from Wilkinson, at New Orleans, to await further orders. Wilkinson was jealous of Jackson and did not desire his co-operation if he could do without it. Jackson, angry at the delay, went into camp. Later on he was enraged when, instead of receiving an order to advance, he was instructed to disband his forces 500 miles from Nashville. It was a cruel order to give; cruel treatment of men who had so promptly rushed to the defense of their country. Jackson resolved to disobey it. He would not abandon his men so far from their homes. His quarter-master refused to furnish proper supplies. Jackson solved that problem by borrowing $5,000 on his own responsibility. The journey back was severe, and many of the men fell sick. Jackson placed one of the sufferers on his own horse and walked 400 miles on foot. His officers and mounted men who were strong enough followed his example and gave their horses to their companions who had succumbed to the hardships of the march. One soldier became so dangerously ill that it was proposed to abandon him. “Not a man shall be left as long as life is in him,” said Jackson. He watched over the sufferer as if he had been his own child, and saved his life.

In the summer of 1813 the terrible massacre of Fort Mimms occurred. The legislature of Tennessee authorized the raising of 3,500 men, and Jackson began operations against the Creeks in the following October. So great was his popularity that in a short time he had over five thousand men under his command. His name soon became a terror to the Indians, whom he mercilessly followed and fought whenever they dared to oppose him. But there was a tender heart in the breast of Jackson. After a fierce encounter at Tallahassee, an Indian woman was found killed on the field. An infant boy lay on her bosom vainly striving to satisfy his hunger. The child was brought within the lines and adopted by Jackson. Mrs. Jackson, who had no children of her own, became as attached to the little war-waif as her husband, and he grew to be a fine youth. When he died Jackson was deeply grieved, and the remains are buried at the Hermitage. The timely assistance rendered by Jackson to the besieged at Fort Talladega prevented a repetition of the Fort Mimms horror, for it was on the point of surrender when he appeared and put the savages to flight. His own supplies now fell short, and his men were threatened with famine. The volunteers in his command attempted to leave for their homes, but were prevented by the militia. The militia shortly after threatened revolt, and they were held in check by the volunteers. Both parties next united and resolved to abandon the field. Jackson rode to the head of the column and presenting his pistol declared he would kill the first man who advanced. So dire was the distress that he lived on acorns picked up in the woods. At the Great Horseshoe Bend of the Tallapoosa River, Jackson struck the Creek Indians a blow from which they never recovered. More than one thousand warriors took their final stand at that point in a strongly fortified camp. The battle was one of the fiercest in all our Indian annals. Six hundred braves were killed, for they had resolved to die rather than yield. Finally, the remnant of the band, their brethren nearly all slain, laid down their arms on the now historic Hickory Ground, at the fork of the Coosa and Tallapoosa rivers. Among those who surrendered was the famous Weatherford, the most valiant of all their leaders.

The Waxhaw lad, who thirty-three years before had been struck down by one of Tarleton’s officers for refusing to clean his boots, was now Major-General in the Regular Army of the United States and in full command of the division of the South. The war with England had been in progress two years with varying success on either side. Florida was a province of Spain, and its governor, while openly professing friendship for the United States, had allowed British vessels to land supplies in the harbor of Pensacola, where they were forwarded by officers on shore to the Indians in arms against us. He resolved to attack the place, and let Mr. Madison at Washington settle the difficulty which was certain to follow with Spain as best he could. An appeal for volunteers was promptly answered, and early in November Jackson was drawn up in front of the place with a demand for an immediate surrender. This was refused, and an attack was ordered next day. In a short time he was in possession of Pensacola, and the British ships were weighing anchor to escape the fire of his artillery. Fort Barancas blew up as he was making preparations to assault it. He had no further business in Pensacola, and resolved to leave, sending this note to the governor: “The enemy has retired; the hostile Creeks have fled to the forest, and I now retire from your town, leaving you to occupy your forts and protect the rights of your citizens.” Then came New Orleans, where the trained veterans of the Peninsula War were driven to their ships by the raw levies of the Mississippi Valley. The story is known to every school-boy. It did not end the war with England--for the treaty of peace had been signed at Ghent before the battle was fought--but it more than compensated for all our reverses during the long struggle, and added an imperishable laurel to our military fame. Praise of Jackson fell from every tongue, and the fighting back-woodsman of Tennessee became the idol of the country. While the whole Republic was resounding with laudation of his deeds and thanking him in set addresses and formal resolutions from Congress down to the smallest town council, his wife was awaiting him in a small log-hut in the forest. Before the war the bankruptcy of a relative for whom he was security had forced Jackson to sell everything in order to meet his liabilities. To this humble home he returned from the city he had saved. His next military service was in the Seminole War. Spain still held the Floridas, and her officers were again secretly assisting the savages against the United States. Without instructions, he entered the Spanish possessions, seized St. Marks, and sent its officials to Pensacola. The trial and execution of Arbuthnot and Ambrister followed, after which he captured Pensacola and Fort Barancas. Negotiations for the cession of Florida were pending at the time, and Jackson’s action became the subject of official investigation. He was sustained by public opinion and Congress. In a trip through the Middle and Eastern States he was everywhere received with the greatest enthusiasm. When Florida was annexed, Jackson became the first governor of the new Territory. His civil career was as vigorous and energetic as his military one had been, but he resigned at the end of a few months, and returned home to the Hermitage, which had in the meantime been built. He was next elected to the United States Senate, and declined the mission to Mexico offered him by Mr. Monroe. His defeat for the Presidency in 1824 was a severe blow, and the next four years were spent at his home near Nashville. In 1828 he swept the country, but his joy was turned to sorrow by the death of his wife a short time after his election.

Jackson was the first President inaugurated with what may be called military honors. He was surrounded by a body-guard of Revolutionary veterans, militia and military companies from all quarters of the Union. Martial music filled the air; the city was gayly decorated with flags and banners, and when the ceremonies were over artillery thundered out all over the capital. “I never saw such a crowd,” Daniel Webster wrote. “Persons have come 500 miles to see General Jackson, and they really seem to think that the country is rescued from some dreadful danger.” Jackson rode a magnificent charger to the Capitol, cheered by thousands of admirers who lined the sidewalks and filled every window and point of vantage. The reception at the White House which followed presented some extraordinary scenes. Indian fighters from distant Tennessee, hunters from Kentucky, trappers from the Northwest, and a mob of office-seekers from all sections of the Union, mingling with the refined society of the capital and visitors from other cities, surged through the great East Room. They clamored for refreshments, and in a short time emptied the barrels of punch that had been provided for their entertainment. Large quantities of glass and china were broken in the scramble, and the rush to see “Old Hickory” and shake his hand was so great that his friends found it necessary to surround and save him from injury.

His favorite exercise was driving and horseback riding. He retired about ten o’clock and rose early. He frequently took a short canter before beginning the labors of the day, but his usual hour for relaxation was in the afternoon. He was always accompanied by a servant. Mr. Van Buren sometimes rode with him, but more generally his nephew and Secretary, Mr. Donelson, who, with his family, lived at the White House. The summers he spent at Old Point Comfort in Virginia. There were occasional pilgrimages to the Hermitage, and trips North and East which were ovations at every point where he stopped. He narrowly escaped assassination, in 1834, while he was descending the steps of the Capitol in a funeral procession. A crazy painter out of employment fired twice at him without exploding the powder. On another occasion he was assaulted while in the cabin of a small steamer, at the wharf in Alexandria, by a Lieutenant Randolph who had been dismissed from the Navy. He was seventy years old lacking eleven days when his second administration closed. Like Jefferson, Madison and Monroe, he placed the reins of government in the hands of his Secretary of State, and immediately retired to the Hermitage, now as famous and as sacred to his followers as Mount Vernon, Monticello or Montpelier. There, in June, 1845, he died, surrounded by his grandchildren and favorite slaves; his last words being an expression of the hope that he would meet them all, black and white, in heaven. The march and the battle were at last ended.

THE JERSEY CITY ATHLETIC CLUB.

BY CHARLES LEE MEYERS.

Ten years have elapsed since the idea of an athletic club for Jersey City had its origin in the brains of two gentlemen. These were J. McF. Tappen and D. R. Van Winkle, and to their number they added a third counselor, W. J. Tait. From the action of this triumvirate sprang the present flourishing organization known as the Jersey City Athletic Club.

Support was quickly afforded. Soon some forty gentlemen were at work on the scheme, and quickly organized themselves into a regular body. The following officers were elected: W. J. Tait, president; J. McF. Tappen, vice-president; E. N. Wilson, treasurer, and E. F. Emmons, secretary. Matters immediately assumed such a flourishing condition, that the membership reached a century before the second meeting.

The idea uppermost in the minds of the originators, from the first inception, was that the club should unite the social element with physical culture, and so afford the exercises the air more of a pleasurable pastime than simply hard work for muscle’s sake. Acting on wise counsel, the executive officers of the new organization made but a modest venture, and finding that the higher they went the lower the rent, they secured a large garret over a row of brick buildings, at 723 Grand Street. Their first home was, however, admirably adapted for their purpose, for the rafters were very high, and afforded ample space and accommodation for the disposal of climbing-poles, trapezes, and other gymnastic paraphernalia. The work of fitting, ventilating, painting, etc., was undertaken with a will; a new floor was laid, an instructor--Mr. Louis Kline--engaged, club colors adopted (red and blue, with an emblem of a red Greek cross on a blue ground), and the club was in full swing.

Directly the premises were completed, they were put to practical use, and to the good effect of this vigorous action may be attributed the fact that the club gave its first outdoor games in the spring of 1879. These games consisted of five club events and four open events, and were held at the West Side Driving Park. All the noted athletes of the day competed, and a great success was scored. From this time the club may be regarded as having established itself on a firm footing financially and otherwise. Shortly afterwards it joined and became a prominent member of the N. A. A. A. A., but has now, however, thrown in its fortune with that of the Amateur Athletic Union.

Meanwhile, in its private life, the club was thriving. The membership increased, and more accommodation was needed. Room after room was added on the floor beneath the gymnasium, among them being a billiard-room, card-room, music-room, with piano and other instruments, and an office for committee meetings. The original policy of an admixture of social attractions was thoroughly carried out, and receptions, skating parties, and a varied round of amusements followed each other in quick succession, all serving to maintain the interest.

So matters moved smoothly and pleasantly until the roller-skating craze infected the city, and as the seductive influences of the slippery floor, and the novelty of the fashion made themselves felt, gradually the attendance at the club fell off, and it seemed as if a period of darkness were in store for it. And indeed to the determined spirits who, by their devotion, tided matters over, a deep and lasting debt is owed. This danger, although at the time it looked really great, soon disappeared. One by one the rinks closed, members of the club returned to their proper allegiance, and affairs resumed their former prosperity.

In the latter part of 1885 an epidemic struck Jersey City--it was a “club fever.” All the men in the city were either organizing or joining clubs. Clubs were formed for almost every purpose, social, intellectual, literary, athletic, bowling, etc. The social element so strongly developed by the ten or a dozen rinks, had to find an outlet, and the movement flowed clubward. Among the first to recognize and direct this curious fever was the Jersey City Athletic Club, and as a consequence its membership filled up so rapidly that in November, 1885, its rooms were entirely inadequate for the uses of its members, and it was decided to build a club-house.

The scheme for the enlargement of the premises had a very modest beginning, for in the spring of 1885 a demand for further accommodation in the matter of bowling alleys had been put forward. To meet this the proposition was made that two alleys should be built on some land adjoining the Alpha Rink. This by no means met with general approbation, and it became evident that the membership was falling off, and that the club was being deserted for its more enterprising rivals, notable among which was the Palma Club, which had just completed a new building. When, therefore, the “club fever” broke out, a club meeting was held, and a proposition made that a committee be appointed whose duty it should be to raise the large sum of $25,000 for building purposes. Though the scheme was much derided, the committee was formed, and comprised the following gentlemen: Messrs. J. C. Appleby, C. H. Dickson, H. Hartshorne, and E. R. Grant. When this prompt and timely action became known, it enlisted so many desirable recruits that in six months from the inception of the building scheme the membership had trebled, in spite of the fact that in the city four other large and well-appointed clubs offered their attractions.

The plans were finally passed, and ground purchased for a sum of $5,000, while the building to be erected was to cost $20,000. On the first night the amount subscribed was $6,000, and thus assured of the success of the venture the various committees perfected their work, and on Thanksgiving Day, 1886, the building was finished. Then the question arose how the completed building was to be furnished. The solution of the problem proved easier than might have been expected. The ladies came graciously to the rescue. A fair was organized to raise the necessary funds, and the good work which had been done during the months of preparation was apparent when, after the close of the fair, which was open for ten days, the sum of $8,000 in cash remained as a monument to its success.

The new club-house stands at the corner of Crescent and Clinton Avenues--almost the highest portion of “The Heights”--upon the brow of the hill. The site is superb, commanding from the eastern windows and tower a magnificent view of New York harbor and the surrounding country. The style of architecture is modern Queen Anne. The basement and first and second stories are of undressed brown-stone, and the upper stories wood, with a slate roof. The tower forms a notable feature; a roomy piazza on one side of the house and a large porch are popular parts of the house in summer. The entrance is very spacious, and opens into a large vestibule, and this again leads to a wide hall running through to the billiard-room.

In the basement are the bowling-alleys, six in number, fitted with all the latest improvements, and built by the best makers in the costliest style. In fact, so well is their construction carried out, that the claim that they are among the best of their kind in America is fully justified. The active use to which they are put every night vouches for the interest displayed in the pastime by the members. On the left of the bowling-alleys is the wheelroom, which affords storage for a large number of wheels, and gives easy egress to the street through the side-doors.

On the first floor, the offices and the card-room are on one side of the hall, and on the other the parlor and the library. The last now contains some three hundred volumes of standard books, and additions are constantly being made; in addition, a large supply of monthly and weekly periodicals is taken. A large open grate is a feature of this room; the furnishings are throughout easy and luxurious, while its situation, being in the base of the tower, allows the light to enter from three sides, rendering it most comfortable and suitable for its purpose. The entire wing is occupied by the billiard-room, which contains four billiard and two pool tables. The room is lighted directly from three sides and indirectly from the fourth, and therefore has the best facilities for lovers of the game to display their skill with the cue. Off this room are coat-rooms, etc., and a complete barber’s shop.

On the next floor is the gymnasium, which is one of the finest in the country. From the floor, which measures eighty by fifty feet, there is a space of forty feet to the peak of the roof. Every kind of apparatus that has been invented for exercise and to further muscular development is represented, while the lofty rafters make the swinging rings, climbing ropes and poles a notable feature. Off the gymnasium and in the wing are the spacious locker-rooms and baths. Around three sides runs a spacious gallery, and on the mezzanine floor is situated the large music-room, at the back of the gallery, and looking out on the gymnasium. On the fourth side is the stage--while the gymnasium itself makes a splendid auditorium. It is used on the occasion of club performances, and having a seating capacity of 800, with the large gallery and music-room as a foyer, it makes an ideal amateur theatre; and again, when the annual receptions are held, it makes a capital ball-room--all the apparatus being removable. The stage itself is replete with every convenience--handsome drop-curtain, scenery, etc.--and there is a fine wardrobe of costumes. The method of construction permits the wings to be run out when occasion demands, and while not in use the stage is lifted back against the wall, and the proscenium shuts up flat against the stage, much like the closing of an accordion, so giving the entire floor except a few feet for other purposes.

The value of the club’s property amounts to about $45,000, and its income reaches $18,000, a sum large enough to allow considerable addition each year to its possessions, besides paying current expenses. The membership, which has a limit of 650, reaches 625. The original object of the club has been fully attained, for it has added greatly to the social life of the city. An element of its success has been the absence of internal dissension; all work together for the common good, sinking personal differences, and never allowing them to hamper any public project. The rules are strict: no liquor can be brought into, sold, or drunk in the house; no gambling or games of chance are allowed by the State laws, and are also prohibited by the club rules under penalty of expulsion.

The bowling team is the club’s joy and pride. At the close of the season of 1886-7, however, the team was last on the list, having won only four out of twelve games. This was to be expected, as the alleys had been in use only a few months; but in the season of 1887-8 the team won ten out of a possible fourteen games, and gained thereby the championship of the Amateur Bowling League. This league is composed of the Jersey A. C., New York A. C., Orange A. C., Brooklyn A. A., Roseville A. C., Elizabeth A. C., and Palma Club. Of these the Elizabeth Club had never been beaten on their own alleys until the Jersey City Club lowered their colors, rolling the highest score in the tournament upon their alleys in contest with them. The tournament commenced in November, 1887, and the twelve scheduled games were finished with a tie for first place between the Jersey City, New York, and Palma Club. The Jersey team won the deciding games in good style, defeating successively the Palmas and the New Yorks, and winning ten out of fourteen games.

After the tie was made, the three clubs drew as to who should play first, the J. C. A. C. drawing the bye. The New Yorks played the Palma Club, the latter winning. This left the J. C. A. C. to play the Palma Club upon the alleys of the N. Y. A. C., and it was a game worth recording. At the end of the third frame the Palma score was 102 pins ahead, and it looked as if the game was won. Neither score changed much until the end of the sixth frame, when the score of the J. C. A. C. began to show a little improvement. By this time the excitement was growing, and the spectators began to be interested. All eyes were strained upon the pins at the end of the alleys as one of the crack bowlers carefully poised the huge ball in mid-air, taking careful aim, when suddenly, with an eerie screech, a wild-eyed, consumptive cat, with arched back and bristling fur, darted like a streak of darkness diagonally across the alley. All the boys shouted, and were convulsed with laughter at the strange apparition, coming from nowhere and disappearing as mysteriously as it had come. The claims of the rival clubs were loud as to the significance of the visitant, the Palmas claiming it as their mascotte, the J. C. A. C. boys claiming it as a “hoodoo” for the Palma score, and so it proved. By this time the excitement had spread all through the house, and the men swarmed down into the alleys.

Slowly the score began to change its aspect, until, by the final frame, when the Palmas had finished their play, they were eleven pins ahead of the J. C. A. C., who had one more man to roll. When on the first ball he made a “strike,” counting ten, he was seized by the enthusiastic team and carried around upon their shoulders. Each of his following shots proved to be a “strike,” and brought up the score of the J. C. A. C. to a total of 43 pins above that of their opponents. A large model of the cat, done in cotton, five times the size of the original, with heroic verses telling of its famous run, and its “hoodoo” influence, is one of the proud possessions of the club, and adorns its rooms.

Among other trophies are the prizes for a match contest between the Orange A. C. and the J. C. A. C. The team is composed of Messrs. A. M. Ryerson, captain, F. Cavalli, J. H. Curran, O. D. Stewart, A. H. Brown, E. R. Grant, G. E. Hogg, J. A. Davis, E. Klein and H. W. McLellan. Bowling tournaments between the members of the club for prizes help to promote good play and develop champions.

The baseball team has won a number of local victories, and interests a large number of members. Having, however, no regular grounds to practice on, the team contents itself with playing against local club nines.

The club is extremely strong in wheelmen, having among its members 75 per cent. of the Hudson County Wheelmen, who form the largest and strongest cycling organization in New Jersey, and one which is hand in hand with the J. C. A. C. It was proposed at one time to amalgamate, but the H. C. W., not wishing to lose their identity, compromised by nearly all becoming members of the J. C. A. C. Among their wheelmen, Charles E. Kluge possesses a world-wide fame. His records on the “Star” and tricycle, and latterly upon the crank machine, are well known, while his world record for twenty-five miles stands unrivaled. Others who have carried the club’s name to the front upon the racing-track are E. P. Baggot, E. M. Smith, W. P. Smith, and C. A. Stenken. On the whole, however, the members are more devoted to rolling up mileage on the road than rolling down Father Time on the track.

The achievements of the athletes of the J. C. A. C. belong rather to its past history than to its present. For the first years of its existence the club gave spring and fall games and their success was unquestioned. The novelty, however, wore off and the great difficulty in reaching the trotting track, which was the only available ground, prohibited an attendance sufficient to make them a financial success. So, after money had been lost steadily for the sake of the sport for some years, the games were abandoned, although the club athletes continued to score successes in the field and on the track. Among these were Hugh McMahon, whose best on record at the hurdles stood for a number of years, A. D. Stone, G. Y. Gilbert, and Charles Lee Meyers. A feature of the club athletics consists of runs from the house across country and return, and a series of races in its gymnasium, such as obstacle and potato races.

In the spring of 1885 it gave an entertainment which brought together all the noted athletes of the day as performers, among them being L. E. Myers, F. P. Murray, Robt. Stall on the rings, G. Y. Gilbert, and many others of the same class.

In 1887 the Boxing and Wrestling Championships of America were given under the auspices of the club and in its gymnasium.

The original idea, which has been mentioned before as existing in the minds of the originators of the club, has been well carried out. In order to obliterate from the minds of the ladies the inherent prejudice against all men’s clubs, the rooms were at first thrown open to them every Thursday evening, a dance was given every month, and a ladies’ class formed in the gymnasium. The result of this diplomacy was made apparent when the furnishing of the new club-house had to be accomplished. After their noble efforts in this cause, the question arose how to recompense them for their devotion, and how to place them in possession of all the club privileges without cost (for the club’s gratitude could do no less), and yet not make them members.

This difficult problem was solved by giving up to the ladies the afternoons of Tuesday and Thursday of each week and also Thursday evening, and having an informal dance once each month. At these times all privileges are free to ladies, and numerous groups enjoy themselves bowling, playing billiards, pool, cards, and often getting up an impromptu dance in the gymnasium. This feature is naturally one of the most attractive to the members, and among the ladies themselves the club is a very popular place. It has not so far interfered in the smallest degree with the exercise of the members’ privileges, as they can use all the club’s advantages on these occasions, courtesy of course giving preference to the fair sex, and indeed it has been of unexpected benefit to the club. Ladies, by telling their friends of the beauty of the club-house and the enjoyment to be obtained on its ladies’ days, have induced their male friends to join the club. A grand ball is given annually to the ladies, the first one in the new club-house being in honor of the ladies’ services during the fair. In January, 1888, Governor Green and all his staff of State officials honored the Club Ball by their presence.

Another prominent characteristic of the club is musical ability. Almost the first action of the club after its organization was to give an entertainment which took the form of a minstrel show, with only the members as performers. These shows grew better year by year, until in the fall of 1885 the club produced “The Mikado,” which had a run of two nights and splendid success. These plays were given in a local theatre and were “in black,” with most of the dialogue localized. In the fall of 1887, having its own theatre, the club took a step forward and produced “Erminie,” in black, with a remarkably successful run of four nights. Shortly after this the club orchestra was organized, and is now one of the notable features of every entertainment. In April of last year, “Patience” was produced for three nights, but this time with the assistance of the wives, sisters and sweethearts of the members, and exactly as written, with every detail. Such a splendid success was scored that its repetition was almost a necessity, so it was again given the month following, making four performances. The entire performance was marked throughout by the most careful attention to artistic effect, and in this it was quite a triumph.

In such ways the club has retained the sympathy and co-operation of the ladies. For instance, when “Patience” was produced, they contributed a major part of the attraction by splendid singing and acting.

The club is in the height of its prosperity. While the substantial reasons for its existence continue, there seems no doubt of its standing and permanency.

MY BOAT.

The frolic waves are dancing bright Across the moon’s broad path of light: My lovely boat-- A swan afloat, Holds o’er the waves her long white throat: From either side The waters glide In silver flashes of laughing foam, And she skims the sea In an ecstasy Of joy, returned again to home.

Arthur Cleveland Hall.

ON A CANADIAN FARM IN MIDWINTER.

BY W. BLACKBURN HARTE.

By decree of the inexorable res angusta domi, I left my native England in the last days of the year of grace 1886, for Canada, with the determination of becoming a farmer. I was a cockney to my backbone, and had not the slightest idea of farming, but still I was young and hopeful, and I imagined that this happy consummation would take but a very short time to accomplish. Many a night, while lying in my bunk during the passage across the Atlantic, I built châteaux en Espagne innumerable, and galloped over limitless acres of which I held the freehold. Alas! my castles have since been irretrievably mortgaged to Doubt and Despair, and if the reader will give me his kind attention while I relate my experiences, we will together watch these castles of cards topple to the ground.

Upon my arrival at Montreal I at once advertised for a situation on a farm, for I had more ambition than capital or collateral security, and consequently was unable to immediately blossom forth into a landed proprietor. To my great delight I received three or four answers from farmers in different parts of the country, each of whom represented that his farm was situated in the very heart of the garden of Canada, and desired me to come on without delay. Subsequent experience led me to the conclusion that Canada was one immense garden--of snow, and remarkably well ventilated. After a little thought, I decided to place myself and accompanying transcendent abilities at the disposal of a gentleman--evidently a public philanthropist--who, judging from the friendly warmth of his communication, appeared to have been anxiously looking forward to my arrival on this continent.

The next day I boarded a train going east, and after a two hours’ journey arrived at my destination, which was only fifty miles from the metropolis. I had reason later to thank my stars that I had not decided to begin my career as a farm-hand in the neighborhood of the “Rockies,” because in that case my return to civilization would have been well-nigh impossible, considering the state of my exchequer. The name of the village was Knowlton, in the province of Quebec. Some of my readers are doubtless acquainted with the locality.

A negro conductor passed through the car and announced in stentorian tones, first in French-Canadian patois, and then in English, the name of the station, and looking out of the window I saw a noble edifice which appeared to have been blown together, “promiscuous-like,” on a very windy day, and then tarred over. This was the waiting-room and station-master’s sanctum combined; in fact, it was the station. There was not the ghost of a platform, but a low fence surrounded the rear of the shanty. The station-master, as I afterwards found out, was a man of exceedingly portly dimensions, and was greatly impressed with a sense of his own importance, so there was little room in the shanty for aught else beside himself and the stove.

The whole population of the place, about twenty-five or thirty persons all told, counting one or two of the canine genus, were assembled in the yard to witness the train come in. This appeared to be the only dissipation of which the villagers were at any time capable. They looked like so many badly packed bundles of cloth, and spoke a villainous gibberish, which would confound the natives of La Belle France. I fancy I was looked upon as a sort of natural curiosity. Certainly I was the “observed of all observers” upon that occasion, and caused no little diversion. I stood and watched the departing train until it was out of sight, and then sat down upon my chest. To confess the truth, I did not feel in the best of spirits. The prospect seemed less inviting now that I was, as it were, plumped down, out of all civilization, upon the scene of my new labors.

My benefactor, the farmer, now approached me, and introduced himself by suddenly bawling in my ear, “Now then, young feller, get up, and take hold of t’ other end of this box. Great Scott! what a terror, anyway. What ’ev you got in it, anyhow?”

Mr. Wiman, for that was the gentleman’s name, had never seen me before in his life, but he jumped to the conclusion that I was “his man,” because, as he afterwards explained to me, I looked “so English, you know.” I guessed, too, that a stranger in those parts was rather a rara avis.

We carried the box to his sledge, which he had kindly brought down to drive me up to the farm. Taking a seat beside him, I inquired what distance his place was from the village.

“Well, I guess it’s something over five miles--more or less,” was his reply.

We drove on for a long time in silence, and I began to think that there was a considerable difference between a five-mile drive in the “old country” and a similar distance in Canada. I ventured to hint as much to Mr. Wiman. He burst into a hearty laugh.

“Bless yer! I should jist reckon there is a difference. That’s all! We keep up with the times on this side ’ev the water. This ’ere is a live country, sir--a live country!”

I did not quite understand how the advanced state of the country should so materially alter the mileage, but kept my own counsel. I could not help, however, reflecting that despite the fact that I was now in a land of enlightenment and progress, I had never seen such a dismal, dreary landscape in my life. Nature in her sterner aspects cannot so quell the soul of man as when she presents herself in merely bleak desolation. There was nothing but snow, which almost blinded me with its dazzling whiteness, and certainly added to the depression of my spirits.

At last Mr. Wiman drew rein at a wayside auberge and told me to wait a few minutes until he returned. This was comforting. The atmosphere was not 90° in the shade--it was 20° below zero! I jammed my hard felt hat down over my face, under the impression that by getting my head into it as far as possible I should keep my ears from dropping off. Foolishly enough, I had neglected to purchase a fur cap when in Montreal, and now bitterly repented my want of forethought.

The first quarter of an hour did not seem so very long, as my mind was occupied with hundreds of conflicting thoughts, and those inevitable “first impressions” which chill one’s cherished hopes. But when a “few minutes” slowly dragged itself into a good half-hour, it struck me that the Canadian method of reckoning the flight of time must be conducted on the broad basis which characterized the mileage. I rubbed my hands with snow to keep them warm and prevent them from freezing, and jumping off the sledge I paced rapidly up and down, under the veranda in front of the hostelry, to induce circulation. I had read something and heard more about the climate in this part of the world, and was afraid that unless I was extremely careful I should coagulate into one complete block of ice. At last my patience was exhausted, and I determined to go in quest of my employer. I found him, the centre of a small circle of convives assembled around the stove, discussing in broken French and English, thick with authority and liquor, the question of commercial union.

I nervously asked him when he intended to resume his journey. He replied by pointing to a vacant seat, and asking me to take “something hot.” I was half frozen, and readily accepted the offer.

“Sorry--hic--sorry I forgot you,” he said, with a cheerful smile.

“Don’t mention it,” I replied politely. “I’m still alive.”

In another hour or so the party broke up, leaving Mr. Wiman decidedly none the better for his potations. In fact, he was wholly unfit to have charge of the horse.

He took my arm, and staggering out into the cold again, we found the horse lying down in the snow, almost stiff, and the sledge overturned. It was dark. In Canada there is no twilight. It is a sudden transition from day into night, and I began to wish myself back in Montreal. However, after many kicks and objurgatory coaxings, the poor beast was induced to stand up, and righting the sledge and replacing my belongings, we again took our seats. Mr. Wiman then handed the reins to me with instructions to drive “home,” and fell fast asleep on my shoulder. I did not, of course, know the road in the least, but the horse did. He had been left for a “few minutes” on many occasions before. I could not refrain from inwardly making comparisons between the brute and his master, not altogether favorable to the intelligence of the latter. I also did not forget to thank God for the brute’s endowment, as otherwise we should in all probability have been buried beneath the snow, which, in some places, was over ten feet in depth. As it was, the ride was not unattended with danger, as it was hard to see the track in the dark, and every now and again the poor animal slid up to his neck in the snow, and only extricated himself after severe struggles. The farmer awoke at intervals, when the sledge was almost overturned, but he kept his seat wonderfully. This, of course, was the force of long habit. I have heard of tipsy sailors preserving their equilibrium in the same marvelous fashion. Wiman would then encourage the horse with a few sanguinary expressions, and again relapse into the land of Nod. As this may be getting wearisome to the reader, I will only mention one other incident of that memorable drive.

Just in front of the homestead we encountered a very large drift, and as the horse endeavored to scramble through it, the sledge upset and deposited both of us at least a couple of feet under the snow. I was the first to get my head above the surface, and began to search for my companion and my box. I found the son of Bacchus coiled up quite content. After sundry kicks he realized his position, and clutching the sledge with both hands, instructed me to let go the traces and free the horse. This I did, and, after many attempts, the unfortunate beast regained his feet.

In a few minutes more we were safe in the barn, and having watered and fed the horse, we made our way into the house, which, from what I could make of it, was simply another barn of somewhat greater pretensions. But even this looked very inviting after my late experience of the Canadian roads.

The floor of the kitchen, sitting-room and drawing-room--a domestic combination, which we now entered--was almost covered with snow that had entered through the doors on either side. An enormous stove or range was placed in the centre of the room, and the walls were decorated with pictorial representations, mostly culled from the Christmas issues of various illustrated periodicals. A deal table, a kitchen dresser, sparsely laden with crockery of assorted patterns and culinary utensils, and a few rickety chairs, completed the inventory of furniture.

Mr. Wiman pointed to a plate of hash which stood upon the table--which, it is almost unnecessary to mention, was quite innocent of a cloth--and told me “to get outside of it.” I did not require a second invitation, but fell to like a hungry wolf.

Just then a female voice from an adjoining room shrieked out, “Is that you, Nathan?” to which the gentleman in question, who was tugging at his boots in a fruitless endeavor to remove them, responded in the Canadian affirmative, “Yah.”

“H’ain’t you ’toxicated?”

“Yah.”

“As usual,” resumed the voice, not angrily, but with a philosophical mixture of sadness and good-humor.

“Yah.” Wiman had a fondness for this peculiar monosyllable. “Come and take off these darned boots. They don’t mind me.”

At this frank confession I could not help laughing aloud. This brought Mrs. Wiman, for it was she, to the door, attired in a dilapidated dressing-gown and a pair of very masculine carpet slippers, with an old hussar undress uniform jacket thrown over her shoulders, the whole surmounted by a huge nightcap. Her strange appearance did not tend to decrease my mirth. The good woman, however, was not in the least indignant at my rude behavior, and, indeed, seemed to enter into the joke herself. I introduced myself, and was then asked a great many questions respecting the art of milking, etc., to which I replied with some diffidence, as my knowledge of such matters was not very extensive. As a boy, I remember gazing in at the entrance of a dairy in our street by the hour together, dreaming of green fields and babbling brooks, but I had never seen any cows there. The principal object that attracted my attention was--what? I won’t disclose. The joke is too ancient.

When I had finished my sumptuous repast it was nearly one o’clock in the morning, and Mrs. Wiman took up a candle, minus a candlestick, and showed me up to my room, which was on the next and top floor. I stuck the candle on the floor in the farther corner of the room, out of the wind and snow, which again made its appearance through the half-wrecked window. There was no furniture of any kind in the room, with the exception of a low truckle-bed.

I was then left alone, as I thought, but on looking towards the bed I noticed that it had already an occupant, who reminded me of what Robinson Crusoe must have looked like after having been deprived of his barber for a twelvemonth. I crept silently into bed, generously giving my companion the greater half of it, and laid awake, thinking over the events of the past few hours, until it was almost daylight, when I fell into a troubled sleep. I seemed to have been asleep only a few minutes, however, when an alarm clock, which I had not noticed standing in the recess of the window before retiring, began to make its presence known in a very demonstrative manner. I sat up and rubbed my eyes, invoking anything but blessings upon the devoted head of the inventor of these execrable “utilities.” My partner turned over and uttered a groan, and then becoming aware of my presence, he said, “Thank ’evin you’ve come at last.” Somehow I could not find it in my heart to echo this sentiment.

“Why?” I asked.

“’Cause, I’ll be able to leave now.”

“Oh. But how is it that you are going?”

“I guess you’ll soon find out why. Anyway, there’s no time for talking on this ’ere farm. Shove on yer things and foller me.”

This was not very encouraging, but I did not hazard any further remarks, and was soon ready to follow my Job’s comforter. I began to think that life on a Canadian farm was not all couleur de rose. When we reached the kitchen, he lit a couple of lanterns, and we stepped out into the yard, nearly up to our waists in snow. That fellow Thomson, who sang of the sluggard and enlarged upon the advantages of early rising, never put his theories into practice. If he had tried getting up at four ~A. M.~ in picturesque Canada, in the depth of winter, he would have tuned his lyre to a different strain.

We then went into the stable, and Jim (my partner) gave me a bucket to fetch some water for the horses, also a shovel with which I was to find the pump. This was not an unnecessary precaution. The pump was situated somewhere about one hundred yards from the barn. The wind had been very boisterous during the night, and the snow had drifted in deep reefs over a mile long, and the pump was completely buried. Finding that I was not very successful in my search, Jim joined me, and by our united efforts we at last discovered it. I am certain that no old-time Californian miner was ever more delighted at striking gold than I was when we found that pump. I thought I should lose my ears before we uncovered it.

On returning from this voyage of discovery we were met by Mr. Wiman, who told me to follow him and “milk.” The cow-barn was at the far end of the yard, and housed over fifty head of cattle. Another tramp through the snow! I noticed that this place was far warmer even than the house, which I rightly attributed to the animal life within its walls. This “milking” was a practical test of my abilities which I had not been looking forward to with any great eagerness. I will pass over this experience, which even after this lapse of time makes a cold sweat start out upon my brow. Suffice it to say, that after one hour of pulling and tugging, with great beads of perspiration rolling down my cheeks, to the utter disgust of the cow, and at great personal risk, I succeeded in obtaining sufficient lacteal fluid for, at least, one cup of tea. By this time breakfast was ready for me; I was ready for breakfast, and the meeting was adjourned.

The pièce de résistance was the hash of the previous evening, re-hashed; but farm work does not foster one’s epicureanism, and I ate like an alderman. When I had finished my meal I drew my chair up to the stove and produced a pipe, thinking that an hour was allowed for each meal. I was soon informed to the contrary, however, by Mr. Wiman, who burst into a hearty laugh.

“Ah, that’s English, don’t cher know? It won’t wash out ’ere. I’d advise you to follow Jim, and larn ’ow to ’itch on a team for drawing bark. We don’t di-gest our food in this country, yer know. It’s got ter take its chance.”

The next thing to be done was to water the cattle, which was no easy task. The spring, or watering-place, was in the centre of the field adjoining the yard, at a distance of half a mile, and was only distinguishable by a tree which stood close to it. We procured a shovel and hatchet, and after a great deal of shoveling we came upon the trough, which was filled with solid ice at least a foot in thickness. I suggested that a little dynamite kept upon the premises would be a handy article in winter, at which witticism Jim surrendered all the smile that was left in him after a protracted spell of farm-labor. At last we broke the ice sufficiently for two cows to drink at once, and Jim told me to run up as fast as my legs would carry me and turn out six cows, as otherwise the water would freeze again. The reader may think that this verges upon exaggeration, but I can assure him, or her, that on more than one subsequent occasion I had to break the ice a second time within the space of a quarter of an hour.

When all the cows had been watered, there was “clearing-out” to be done. This was not a particularly clean occupation, but it was, at all events, far warmer. Then came feeding, which with our careful management took a great deal of time and a surprising amount of hay. Jim was always thinking of his master’s best interests. He explained this carelessness by confiding to me that he had worked for twelve months for “glory,” that is, without remuneration, beyond bed and board. He said that this was the only way in which he could get a portion of his arrears from his respected employer. I had also agreed to come upon the same terms during my novitiate, and had indeed paid a small premium, but I had not anticipated such a lengthy term of apprenticeship.

Wiman now entered and announced dinner, a call to which we quickly responded. Mrs. Wiman appeared to have quite a genius for making hashes; indeed, she was a rustic Soyer. As I had by this time learned to expect, the chief dish was a resurrection of the morning’s meal, with sundry vegetable additions. I was very hungry, but I must confess indulged in irritants (i. e., pepper and salt) to an extent which would have put to shame an Anglo-Indian with a cast-iron interior. Pastry was a sybaritic innovation which had not then found its way into this part of the Dominion.

We passed the afternoon in much the same way as the morning, and worked until 7.30 ~P. M.~, when we supped on bread and cheese and went to bed.

The next day was Sunday, a day which in the dear “old country” is usually kept holy, with an exemption from all toil not absolutely necessary. My first Sabbath on the farm had almost slipped away before I remembered what the day was. Thinking that the farmer had also made a mistake, I mentioned the matter to him. He seemed quite surprised at my religious scruples, which he regarded as another evidence of British insular retrogression, and remarked that all days were alike to him. And so it proved, for we spent the whole of that afternoon ploughing snow, which drifted again almost as quickly as it was furrowed.

In the evening Jim broached the subject of his resignation to the “boss,” who blankly refused to accept it, and informed him that if he wanted to go he must walk to the station, as he would see him--ahem’d--before he would allow him the use of a horse and sleigh. As I have said before, the village was considerably over five miles from the farm, and to walk there through the snow was out of the question. It meant almost certain death.

But Jim avowed his intention of performing this feat, and very early on the following morning he rose, packed up his scanty wardrobe, and departed.

Just before daybreak, about two hours after Jim’s exit, the infernal clock rang out my doom. Upon reaching the barn I hung my lantern upon a hook in the beam above, and sitting down upon my milk-stool, commenced operations upon one of the cows.

Suddenly I heard a voice at my elbow. “I can’t go through that wood--it’s haunted.” A little bit scared myself, I turned round abruptly, and in the dim light encountered the white face of the adventurous Jim. Pulling myself together, I rather hastily demanded what uneasy spirit could find pleasure in being out in such beastly weather.

“Well, you come with me, and see if there ain’t a ghost.”

Curious to know what had frightened the fellow, I took down the lantern, and together we sallied forth into the snow. We had hardly reached the middle of the meadow when a dark object came rushing towards us, and a sepulchral “bur-bur” sent Jim flying back in the direction of the barn.

“There it is!” he cried, in a voice full of terror.

I held the lantern aloft and shouted, “Who’s there?”

“Bur-bur,” was the reply. Then I ascertained the name and condition of this perturbed spirit. It was a calf! It suddenly dawned upon me that I had noticed the barn door was open when I first came down, and I immediately came to the conclusion that Jim had let the ghost out himself when he went in to put on his boots, which he was in the habit of leaving in the barn when his day’s work was over.

When Jim received a personal introduction to his ghost, he grew as courageous as Bob Acres before he came into actual contact with pistols and cold lead, and shouldering his bundle again he started forth, just as daylight was dawning in the east. I gave him my pouch of tobacco to render his journey less irksome, and that was the last I ever saw or heard of poor Jim.

The weather for the next three weeks was comparatively fine, and I got along far better, and sometimes managed to find time to indulge in the luxury of a “farmer’s holiday,” viz., chopping wood. Mr. Wiman seemed to be, on the whole, very well satisfied with me, and encouragingly informed me that he had no doubt but that I should get into working order by the time work commenced, which, in his opinion, was not until the spring, when ploughing, etc., began. This was something of a revelation to me. In my intense ignorance of farm matters I had imagined that there was already plenty to do.

It now became forcibly evident to me that I was not intended for a farmer. A daily communion with nature appeared every day less like the celestial “all beers and skittles” I had previously conceived it to be. The smoky London I had left became by comparison with my present surroundings a very seventh heaven of felicity. I began to long once more to relapse into a unit in one of the world’s great loveless hives. I communicated my desire to Mr. Wiman. He would not hear of my leaving him until the expiration of three months, vowing that I had agreed to stay for that term, and threatening that if I attempted to leave without his sanction, he would “have the law of me.” I had made no such agreement, but I saw that it would not help me to make a disturbance, and so restrained my natural indignation at such treatment. However, I determined to seek pastures new, and prepared my traps for flight at the first opportunity which offered itself.

I had not long to wait. A few days after my skirmish with the “boss,” he had to attend to some very important business at a neighbor’s farm about two miles farther east. Now or never was the time to escape. I immediately began my preparations by harnessing the best horse in the stable to a sledge. Everything was packed, so there was only the transfer of my chest from my room to the sledge. But how should I accomplish this without arousing her ladyship’s suspicions? The fates were propitious. I had barely finished harnessing the horse, when Mrs. Wiman’s stately form emerged from the house, with a hatchet in her hand.

“Where are you off to?” she inquired.

“Oh, I’m going to the wood to draw bark,” I replied, leisurely surveying the straps to disarm suspicion.

“S’pose you’ll be back in time for dinner,” she said, picking her way across the yard and entering the corn-bin, where a plentiful supply of killed cow was always kept.

“Oh, yes,” I answered. “And I guess when I return I’ll be jolly hungry, so please cut off a double dose for me,” I added, venturing upon a little joke as a kind of farewell. Then I darted across the yard, and went up to my room--I don’t know how many stairs at a time--and, by a herculean effort, shouldered my box, hurried down again, almost breaking my neck in my haste, and had it on the sledge before I had breath enough to say “Jack Robinson.” I was just in the act of covering it over with some sacks when Mrs. Wiman reappeared with a huge piece of raw flesh in her hand. She comprehended the situation in a flash.

“So you are a-going to draw bark, are yer? Not to-day, my beauty!” I cannot lay much claim to this distinction, and so remained modestly silent. Men cannot receive flattery with the same brazen effrontery which characterizes the least beautiful members of the softer sex.

“Now just take that ’orse out, afore I come and ’elp yer,” she continued. “And be lively about it, my fine feller.”

I was now fairly seated ready to start, and catching up the reins I lashed the horse, and we plunged out of the yard.

“Stand away, there, ma’am. Look out, or there’ll be a circus on this farm!”

* * * * *

What a drive that was! The snow began falling in heavy flakes, and I had only a very slight acquaintance with the road, but we went like the wind. Here we go through a drift! Capsized?--no, another miracle in our favor. The horse stumbles--he’s down? No, Providence again! Shall I be too late for a train? I have not the least idea of the time-table, but drive as if a whole legion of excited women in old huzzar jackets, with streaming hair and vengeance in their hearts, were after me.

Ah! there’s the lake, and over yonder is the railway station. The wind blows in my teeth; my blood tingles with excitement, and the horse, entering into the spirit of the affair--bolts! Yes, I have lost all control over him. He throws up his head, sniffs the keen air, and taking the bit between his teeth, tears through the snow, scattering it in clouds on either side, like a thing possessed. Here is another dilemma. Supposing he should take it into his head to gallop on right past the station, and return home by a short cut known only to himself. I hardly know now whether I should accentuate this period with a mark of interrogation or exclamation. I think a very large? would be the most suitable, as somewhat expressive of the chaos of horrors presented to my mind as the possibility of such a contingency arose. I cannot express what my feelings were at that moment; I leave the reader to draw his own inferences from the--?

The station at last! Thank Heaven! The runaway tears into the yard, but not deeming himself capable of clearing either the fence or the shanty, he comes to a dead standstill. I’m saved! I rush into the shanty, where I find the station-master fast asleep in his chair. My hurried entrance awakes him, and he starts up red in the face with anger and surprise, at such a display of energetic impatience in his private domain.

“What do you want, young man?” he asks, severely.

“I want a ticket for Montreal. When does the next train start?”

“Is that all ye disturbed me for? Well, I guess,” he replied, with provoking deliberateness, again settling himself comfortably in his chair, “I guess you’re afraid of being late, ain’t you? I likes punctual young men, that I do!”

“When does the train start?” I cried, angrily.

“Well, I rather think she’s got to get here first. But, if all’s well, she’ll start from this ’ere dee-pôt in three hours’ time.”

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