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Sailing Sunny Seas

The Knockabout Club Along Shore

The Knockabout Club in the Tropics

The Knockabout Club in the Woods

Aunt Martha’s Corner Cupboard

Copyright 1909

BY

ELLA WHEELER WILCOX

PROLOGUE

We two make home of any place we go;

We two find joy in any kind of weather;

Or if the earth is clothed in bloom or snow,

If Summer days invite or bleak winds blow.

What matters it if we two are together?

We two, we two, we make our world, our weather.

We two make banquets of the plainest fare;

In every cup we find the thrill of pleasure;

We hide with wreaths the furrowed brow of care,

And win to smiles the set lips of despair.

For us life always moves with lilting measure;

We two, we two, we make our world, our pleasure.

We two find youth renewed with every dawn;

Each day holds something of an unknown glory.

We waste no thought on grief or pleasure gone;

Tricked out like Hope, Time leads us on and on,

And thrums upon his harp new song or story.

We two, we two, we find the paths of glory.

We two make heaven here on this little earth;

We do not need to wait for realms eternal.

We know the use of tears, know sorrow’s worth,

And pain for us is always love’s rebirth.

Our paths lead closely by the paths supernal;

We two, we two, we live in love eternal.

SAILING SUNNY SEAS

‘‘Were it not for the Star-in-the-East, we would take a little voyage to Cuba; but as it is, I suppose it would not be wise.”

It was Himself who spoke, long and long ago; in the late glow of a honeymoon two full years and more old, and bright with the added light of a newly risen Star-in-the-East.

Now I had never journeyed farther than from the middle West to the Atlantic Coast, and south to Florida, and this suggestion of a sea voyage to summer lands and foreign shores fell like the call of a robin in mid-winter, on my ears. Himself had but given utterance to a passing thought, but he was forced into serious consideration of the voyage by my persistence.

Consulting Those - Who - Are - Supposed - To - Know, he was told to gratify my desire. “She is young and robust and the voyage will do her good, since she longs for it,” they said wisely.

And so it happened that on a snowy day in February, Himself and I set forth on a none too large steamship, from the port of New York, bound for the harbor of Havana, on my first ocean voyage. A gay party of interested friends saw us off, and our cabin was filled with fruits and flowers and books and magazines, when we reached it.

Those five days on shipboard were marred by only a few hours of indisposition. The memory of that brief period of discomfort is gone, but the happy excitement of the other hours and days of that first sea voyage remains, to be called again to mind when recollection wills.

Strangely enough I do not remember one fellow voyager, or how many or how few there were. But I recall the kind solicitude of the good stewardess who made me her special care, and the watchful tenderness and hardly concealed anxiety in the eyes of Himself, I still see.

One morning from my berth I heard Himself call my name. “See your scarf hanging by the porthole,” he said. “It is carrying on a dangerous flirtation with the wind. He is telling it to come out and see the world, and not hide itself in this small cabin. I think I will save the poor thing before it goes to its ruin.’’ And he reached for my pretty blue scarf and saved it from being blown out to sea.

That afternoon while he was playing a game of cards in the smoking room, I sat in the ladies’ cabin and turned into verse his pretty conceit— of the “Sea Breeze and the Scarf.”

THE SEA BREEZE AND THE SCARF

Hung on the casement that looked o’er the main,

Fluttered a scarf of blue,

And a gay, bold breeze paused to flatter and tease

This trifle of delicate hue.

“You are lovelier far than the proud skies are,’’

He cried with a voice that sighed;

“You are fairer to me than the beautiful sea,

Oh, why do you stay here and hide?

“You are wasting your life in that dull, darkroom;

(And he fondled her silken folds)

“O’er the casement lean, but a little, my queen,

And see what the great world holds.

“How the wonderful blue of your matchless hue

Cheapens both sea and sky.

You are far too bright to be hidden from sight:

Come fly with me, darling, fly!’’

Tender his whisper and sweet his caress,

Flattered and pleased was she;

The arms of her lover lifted her over

The casement out to the sea.

Close to his breast she was fondly pressed,

Kissed once by his laughing mouth—

Then dropped to her grave in the cruel wave,

While the wind went whistling south!

However slight their claim to literary excellence, these verses have always been dear to me from their association.

The approach to Havana occurred in the morning, and the sight of Moro Castle, and the white walls of the city in the background, with a blue, blue sea in the foreground and the yellow tropic sunshine over it all, affected me like a strong wine; I was dizzy with excitement and joy.

I had dreamed that I might sometime see such places, and one dream—my first sea dream—had come true. Born and bred on a Wisconsin prairie, I loved the sea as only inland and mountain born souls can love it.

My month in Havana is a mingled memory of mental exaltations and physical discomforts. Cuba was suffering under Spanish misrule at that time, and had only dreamed of freedom, while it had reached a point of audible discontent, the beginning of insurrection.

The hotels were dirty and ill kept; the beds, instruments of torture; the food a menace to health. But I bore all these miseries with the courage of youth and enthusiasm, because I was charmed with the climate, with the quaint narrow streets and odd little shops, and with the beautiful faces under lace mantillas peeping from behind mysterious “jealousies”; and the naked little children playing in the streets, clothed only in shoes and innocence, fascinated me.

One day of that month stays like a distinct picture on the somewhat denuded walls of that room in the mansion of memory; one of those simple, uneventful experiences which will sometimes haunt the heart to the end of life.

We took a car and went along the sea front, to a wonderful little rustic cafe, an arbor of vines growing over trees. And there we ordered refreshments and sat long over cooling ices and talked of the days when the Star-in-the-East would become a brilliant fixed planet; and something fell on my hand and I was startled, seeing my first chameleon—a pretty little lizard—gazing at me with bright round eyes. In after years I grew to love this animal and to regard it as my benefactor, especially in Honolulu, where it is a foe to mosquitoes.

Then there was another day when we went out and saw the one kind act to animals in Cuba; the bathing of the work horses in the sea. A stalwart man bestrode the leader, and rode bravely into the water, leading a chain of twenty or more, until all were swimming and snorting in the salt billows. Poor beasts, it was their few brief minutes of respite from hours of misery and abuse. Everywhere I had to shut my eyes in Cuba to escape the sight of cruelty to animals.

One night we visited the Chinese theatre and sat in a box reserved for strangers.

We did not, naturally, understand the Chinese language; yet the play was so realistic that it was impossible to miss the story. Indeed its realism savored of the Clynic; and was so frank and undisguised that Himself blushed (the first and last and only time I ever knew it to happen!)

Then one day he left me in the hotel to write letters, and said he would be gone several hours. When he came back he was white and ill, and the look in his eyes was one of mingled humiliation and pain.

“I was persuaded against my will,” he said, “to go and witness a bull fight. I stayed but a few moments, perhaps a half hour, but it was a half hour among devils in hell. I cannot bear to think of it. It is incredible that such cruelty can interest men and women. They say it is greatly patronized here by tourists, American and English. I feel ashamed that any of my time and money went to the support of such a monstrous relic of barbarism.”

Four years after the Spanish war we visited Havana again. What a change!

A Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals had been established and the bull fight was forbidden by law.

The streets were cleaner; better buildings were replacing the old ones; the hotels were neat and well kept, the beds comfortable, the food excellent. The work of that great man and martyr to duty, Colonel Waring, was everywhere evident in the freedom from dirt and disease which Havana enjoyed for a season under American management.

But alas! with the advance of cleanliness and comfort, much of the picturesque had receded. The mantilla had given place to the plumed and flowered New York hat, and the distinctive beauty of the Cuban and Spanish type was frequently hidden and disfigured by the dreadful commonplaceness of the American shirt waist costume.

The American visitor was not received with graciousness in Cuba at the time of our second visit, 1904. At this time I wrote of the conditions existing there as follows:

“That Americans are unpopular in Cuba, he who runs may read. In hotels, in public conveyances, in the shops, one may see it and hear it and feel it illustrated daily. The more educated and cultivated the Cuban, the more refined and subtle his methods of showing his disapproval; the more ignorant, the more unveiled and outspoken his dislike.

“In public places the Cuban man regards the American woman with a certain insolent familiarity of glance; the Cuban woman’s expression is critical and often contemptuous, and the children on the streets are not infrequently openly disagreeable. There is a certain condescension of manner in the hotel and shop attendants toward the Americans that is hard to bear and impossible to resent—particularly so, as not one native born and bred Cuban in ten speaks one word of English.

“Sojourning in a hotel which has been packed all winter with Americans, I find not one waiter who knows what the word orange means and not one chamberman (for there are no chambermaids) who understands the word hath, or laundry. An interpreter is sent for regularly, each time these words are employed. In the shops it is the same. Unlike the native French, the Spaniard or Cuban does not seem able to translate gesticulations. He is absolutely incapable of grasping your meaning unless you speak the Spanish tongue.

“A gentleman who speaks six different languages fluently told me this morning that he was in absolute despair regarding the business projects which brought him here from Europe. ‘It is necessary for me to visit many places and see many business men,’ he said, ‘and invariably I must seek an interpreter. Rarely do I find an establishment where any language save Spanish is understood.’ The unpopularity of Americans, I am told, is largely due to the conduct of our soldiers stationed here during and after the Spanish War. One battalion particularly, composed of the riff-raff of the States, in its rank and file, insulted Cuban women, and was so continuously and persistently obnoxious to the citizens in its utter lack of decency that an impression of American manners was made upon the Havana mind which will require more than a decade to eradicate.

“Naturally, the more intelligent and cultivated the Cuban man or woman, the broader the view and the better the understanding of the situation. I have encountered a few residents of Havana, who realize and appreciate the debt all Cuba owes America, and who know how unjust it is to judge an entire country by a regiment or battalion of its soldiers. But the tourist here is, nevertheless, made to suffer daily and hourly annoyances from the depredations and misdemeanors of that much glorified and vaunted being—the American soldier!”

One night a party of us drove through the streets where law permits immorality to dwell unmolested.

Often I have heard the question discussed among people interested in the welfare of the human race:

Whether it was better to set apart a portion of the city for the occupancy of women of open immorality, or whether the interests of the race were better served by driving them from house to house, and temporarily purifying a neighborhood only to have the vice plague break out anew in another locality.

Since this old social evil has, like leprosy, found no cure yet in the history of the world, which is the wiser treatment to follow?

But after that night’s drive through the streets of Magdalens in Havana, I have never in my own mind lacked an answer.

No words can describe the sickening horror and profound sadness of a community of abandoned women, shameless, and unafraid of police interference, sitting in open doors and windows like human spiders in their webs, waiting for the passing fly. Little girls scarcely in their teens, brazen with sin; faded and battered old creatures, simulating a gayety

they could not feel; and all along the narrow street, block upon block of small houses on either side, crowded together filled with these wretched and depraved beings lost to ideals of love, wifehood, and motherhood, thinking only of selling themselves to the highest bidder.

What vibrations of sin, sickness and despair, of animal passion, jealousy and greed, must go forth from such a centre as that! Better a thousand times to scatter such a population over larger space, to compel it to hide its face, and dissipate its strength by moving from house to house and from neighborhood to neighborhood, than permit it to gather evil force in such a community.

Less horrible and less saddening was the visit we paid one day to the Leper Hospital in Havana.

All my early ideas of that dread malady were changed by the experience of talking with nurses, doctors, and attendants who had taken care of lepers for many years.

Leprosy is not a contagious disease like smallpox or scarlet fever. Its infection must enter the blood through carelessness or lack of cleanliness before it can be contracted. Among those who had performed the laundry work for the lepers of Havana for fifteen years, no case of infection had occurred. Antiseptics and scrupulous care were used, and the same rule was observed by the nurses. What a misfortune that fear and unkindness are cultivated in human nature by ignorance of facts like these.

An average of 99 people in 100 in America think of a leper as a creature whose very presence contaminates the air; as one who must be kept at a distance and fed through iron bars. There are few records of cruelty extant (since the days of Salem witchcraft superstition) more shameful than that of the treatment accorded a poor wretched leper in 1905 who endeavored to travel from Mexico to New York, in order to sail for his home in Syria.

He was thrust from trains, driven into fields, and pursued like a savage wild beast or dangerous cobra, and all this in a Christian land by Christian people!

The death of good Father Damien on the Lepers Island of Molakai, from leprosy, did much to still further incite fear in the public mind of the contagious nature of the disease. But while in Honolulu I learned the details of this case. Father Damien was a great, good, unselfish soul; but he was a man of careless personal habits, untidy in his clothing, and often neglectful of his bath. Living among the lepers as he did, and ministering to their bodily as well as spiritual needs, it was not strange that his careless habits caused the dread malady to bring an untimely end to his noble career.

It was infection, not contagion, however. Father Damien had failed to remember that “Cleanliness is next to Godliness,” and he paid the price of such forgetfulness. The saint, as well as the sinner, suffers the penalty of a broken law of nature. Clean streets, clean homes, clean bodies, clean minds, clean food, clean thoughts and clean aspirations would rid the world of all diseases leprosy included.

But because such a large proportion of the world lacks habitual and systematic cleanliness, lepers and victims of tuberculosis and all other scrofulous maladies should be kept apart from the general world until cured. It is kinder to them and safer for the race. Instead of prison hospitals with small gardens, however, these sad souls should be given a domain as they are in the Hawaiian Islands, where they can experience such comforts and solace as may be found in human companionship, while enjoying the best care of skilled physicians and nurses, to lessen their unutterable misfortune.

One cannot fail to be stirred by the nobility existing in human nature when we see good men and women devoting their lives to the care of lepers. A sweet woman, “Sister Margaret,” had been for fifteen years in the leper hospital of Havana, she told me. It was a joy to her to hear the English language spoken. She was originally from New York, of Irish parentage, a sweet-souled sister of charity.

Of all the shocking and sad sights I saw in that hospital, nothing impressed me so frightfully as a bevy of little children (under twelve years), a sufficient group to form a school, all victims of leprosy. They were laughing and playing, unconscious yet of the horrible destiny which in all probability awaited them, a lingering death in life, death by inches.

The day before my visit a man had died of some sudden malady—pneumonia, I think— who for thirty-four years had been immured in the leper hospital slowly rotting away.

It is fortunate that the minds of the little children I saw there, could not, or did not, draw conclusions from this occurrence of what fate might be theirs through all the years of youth, maturity, and into old age.

Oh, when will science turn its attention to the wonderful hidden secret powers lying unused in the universe, powers which will yet be used to cure all diseases, leprosy included.

That day shall yet come!

“And the Star-in-the-East? It rose only to set: never to shine again on our mortal vision. Yet somewhere in the eternal heavens it glows.

JAMAICA

The great Creator, shaping sun and star,

Heard an archangel speaking thus: “I dreamed

I saw another Paradise afar,

And all about it sapphire waters gleamed.”

The Maker smiled. At his divine behest

The angel’s dream, like some lush rose uncurled,

To bloom forever on the warm sea’s breast,

The beautiful Jamaica of the world.

JAMAICA

There had been journeys by land and sea to Florida, to New Orleans, to California, to England, France, Belgium and Holland, before the next visit was paid to the West Indies.

The weather was unusually severe and cruel in New York; heavy snows set in early in December, and blizzards and bleak and cold rains alternated for two months, making life for man and beast a continual warfare with the elements.

It was early in February when Himself broke the glad tidings to me, saying, “If you care to go, we will sail next week for a month in Jamaica.” I did not know much about Jamaica, only that it was one of the West India Islands under English government; but my pulse leaped at the thought of a voyage into summer lands with Himself, at this time of the year.

He was weary with that incessant battle which our competitive system forces upon men of business; and burdened with those small cares and worries which destroy comfort by day and sleep by night, like the hair shirt of the religious fanatic.

But so soon as the date of our sailing was fixed, and once aboard the “Admiral Schley,” plying between Philadelphia and Port Antonio, life assumed for both of us the aspect of a school holiday. It was such a trim little steamer: and our state rooms were cosy, our corner of the deck secluded and restful, and every hour led us farther and farther away from the rigors of the north climate and the realities of practical life.

“Business” became an obselete word; there was nothing in our present or our immediate future but pleasure and relaxation.

With such a mental atmosphere, and with the staunch little ship plunging forward and over seas that changed from cold gray to ardent azure and dazzling green, and into tropical warmth, what could one do but sing!

And so these little verselets came to be written and have their place here, in this personal record of southern sea travels, rather than in any book which lays claim to literary merit.

HOLIDAY SONGS

Holiday Song I

Sailing away on a summer sea,

Out of the bleak March weather;

Drifting away for a loaf and play,

Just you and I together;

And it’s good-bye worry, and good-bye hurry,

And never a care have we;

With the sea below and the sun above

And nothing to do but dream and love,

Sailing away together.

Sailing away from the grim old town

And tasks the town calls duty;

Sailing away from walls of gray

To a land of bloom and beauty,

And it’s good-bye to letters from our lessers and

our betters,

To the cold world’s smile or frown.

We sail away on a sunny track

To find the summer and bring it back,

And love is our only duty.

Holiday Song II

Afloat on a sea of passion

Without a compass or chart,

But the glow of your eye shows the sun is high,

By the sextant of my heart.

I know we are nearing the tropics

By the languor that round us lies,

And the smile on your mouth says the course is south

And the port is Paradise.

We have left gray skies behind us,

We sail under skies of blue;

You are oft with me on lover’s sea,

And I am away with you.

We have not a single sorrow,

And I have but one fear:

That my lips may miss one offered kiss

From the mouth that is smiling near.

There is no land of winter;

There is no world of care;

There is bloom and mirth all over the earth,

And love, love everywhere.

Figure 1 – Jamaica.

Our boat is the barque of Pleasure,

And whatever port we sight,

The touch of your hand will make the land

The Harbor of Pure Delight.

The good Captain of this little ship was very friendly and social with his guests, and one day we were asked to go on the bridge and watch the taking of the sun by the sextant, a process which had always been a great puzzle to me until that day. And then another little verse come to life—

_______________

TAKING THE SUN

Let me take the sun, dear;

Turn your eyes this way.

(Poor the record and the score;

Twenty thousand leagues from shore—

Head winds blow, and skies are gray;

Better luck tomorrow.)

Let me take the sun, dear;

As along we sail.

(Slow the course still seems to be;

Winds abeam, and rough the sea;

And I almost fear a gale;

But, why trouble borrow?)

Let me take the sun, dear,

Lift those eyes of blue;

Ah! at last we’re making time;

Winds are fair and waves sublime;

Tropic lands are right in view,

So farewell to sorrow.

When the flying fishes began to leap from the water and soar above the waves in flocks, great excitement prevailed among the passengers; and we two were among the most excited.

We were living in an atmosphere of that wonderful poem of Kipling’s, “On the Road to Mandalay.”

A fish flew upon the deck and was carried off by one of the crew, and afterward we secured it, all mounted, as a souvenir for our Bungalow- on-the-Sound.

The skies grew more lustrous, the sea more rainbow colored, the sun hotter, and the captain and officers appeared in white duck and the ladies in lawns and straw hats.

Life seemed to have become a June morning in youth for all of us. It was a glorious afternoon when we sailed into the most exquisite harbor on earth—Port Antonio. Indelible is the impression made upon me by that first view, as we anchored in front of the old Titchfield Hotel situated on its noble eminence and surrounded by royal palms, with the majestic background of the Blue mountains in the distance. There were five distinct colors in the waters of the bay; there was tropical verdure everywhere and summer, and joy, and life was good; yet I grieve to say that we allowed this rapturous state of mind to be sunk in irritation and nervousness over the two hours delay caused by the health officer who had reported a case of sickness in the crew. It was only malaria, but it compelled us all to land in the dark. Perhaps the very late landing gave the greater zest to our morning awakening. Rising at the first break of day to look out of the window, the overwhelming beauty of this tropic scene seemed a compensation for every dark and dreary hour that life had ever known in the past.

The old Titchfield Hotel is now replaced by a more commodious one; the most artistic and restful inn on earth. It is like a quiet wood, through which green roadways lead, always into peaceful nooks. Yet there was an individuality about the old Tichfield which cannot be duplicated. The dining room was built about a mango tree; from whose branches hung luscious fruit, and vines and flowering plants were everywhere visible.

Porcelain baths with hot and cold water were not included in its conveniences, but there was always the sea, which looked like a monstrous pousse cafe in a coral tub, and the water was always at eighty degrees. A homey air pervaded the hotel, and those days we spent there linger in the memory like a pleasant week end in a hospitable country mansion.

We drove to Blue Hole; ten miles of exquisite panoramas; and there we met Dame Fisher, the notable colored woman who is a prosperous business woman and property holder, and we succeeded in gaining permission to kodak her daughter, famous throughout the island for her beauty. There were drives to Swift River and Moorestown, each more wonderful than the other, and life seemed dyed in opalescent hues; and there was no world of care, and nothing commonplace, from horizon to horizon, or from dawn till dawn.

The market sights at Port Antonio were curious and interesting. The optimistic patience and courage of the peasants seemed pathetic as we saw them in our drives, trudging joyously over twenty miles of mountain and valley to bring a shilling’s worth of produce to market; and trudging cheerfully back again at the close of the day, with their small purchases.

They were like children, these Jamaica peasants; and they greeted us always with pleasant words and smiles, and ofttimes tossed bunches of

Figure 2 - Jamaica.

Figure 3 - Jamaica. -- Going To Market..

flowers into our carriage. The tremendous weights they carried on their heads, easily poised, surprised us. Once we saw a medium sized man walking to market with a live hog on his head; the feet tied so he could not move, and the mouth gagged so he could not squeal.

Poor pig! he was like a small manufacturer in the grasp of the trusts; and the same fate, practically, awaited him.

When the month was over, and business again stood in the foreground and sternly beckoned, we went like slaves before a lash, back into the chill weather and the biting winds of March to take up the realities of life again.

As we sailed past the old Hotel Titchfield in mid-afternoon, a group of new-made friends stood on the terrace calling “Good-bye—bon voyage—come again,” through the megaphone.

The “Buckman” which bore us away was one of the old “fruiters,” badly balanced and poorly provided for the comfort of passengers, and it gave us one of our worst sea experiences. There was scarcely a dozen of us, and Himself and I were almost the only good sailors outside the crew, able to keep other than a horizontal position during the hard five days of huge seas and high winds which we faced in that rolling tub of a boat.

Never was a poem written under more difficult conditions than “The Problem’’ which is given below.

Sitting in the room which served as a ladies’ cabin I was obliged to tie my limbs about the table leg to keep myself from falling to the floor as the ship lurched from side to side. A few lines of the poem were scratched off as the boat dipped to the left, and the next stanza would find me pitched almost on my back, with the table above me as I completed the line, before the starboard side of the ship came up again.

The writing of the verses proved quite as much of a problem as the subject, which had been suggested by my first close study of the African race.

THE PROBLEM

Out of the wilderness, out of the night,

Has the black man crawled to the dawn of light.

Beaten by lashes and bound by chains,

A beast of burden with soul and brains,

He has come through sorrow and need and woe,

And the cry of his heart is to know,—to know.

You took his freedom and gave it again

But grudged as you gave it, ye white faced men.

Not all of freedom is being free

And a dangerous plaything is liberty

For untaught children. In vain do you say:

“We gave what he asked for, place and pay

And right of franchise.” All wrong, all wrong,

He was but a child to be led along

By the hand of love. Has he felt its touch?

Nay, you gave unwisely, and gave too much,

But gave not the things that his groping mind

Was reaching up in the dark to find.

They were love and knowledge. Oh, infinite

Must be the patience that hopes to right

The wrongs that are hoary with age, and brought

To the level of virtues by mortal thought.

And greater than patience must be the trust

In the ultimate outcome of what is just.

And in and under, and through and above,

Must weave the warp of the purpose of love.

Red with anguish his way has been,

This suffering brother of dusky skin.

For centuries fettered and bound to earth,

Slow his unfolding to freedom’s birth.

Slow his rising from burden and ban

To fill the stature of moral man.

You must give him his wings, ere you tell him to fly,

You must set the example and bid him try.

Let the white man pay for the white man’s crime,

Let him work in patience and bide God’s time.

Out of the wilderness, out of the night,

Has the black man crawled to the dawn of light.

He has come through the valley of great despair,

He has borne what no white man ever can bear;

He has come through sorrow and pain and woe,

And the cry of his heart is to know—to know.

JAMAICA—AGAIN

Four years passed (during which the second trip to Cuba had been made) when we followed the leading of our hearts, and sailed again to Jamaica, this time for the winter.

A wonderful thing had happened. Another dream had come true. “Business,” my only rival, was displaced. A life of strenuous labor was rewarded by a season of relaxation.

Oh, the joy of it, as we sailed away on December 20th, knowing that we had the whole beautiful winter ahead of us in summer lands, to dream, rest, saunter, read and write, and do as impulse and fancy willed.

When we reached Port Antonio it was just sunset of a cloudy Christmas day. Over against Blue Mountain Range was piled a bank of purple clouds, changing into splendid gold and red, and dyeing the water of the little bay to a deep rose hue, as we disembarked at the Titchfield pier.

It seemed as it might to a wandering soul reaching Paradise at twilight.

Keeping the memory of the old Titchfield in mind, despite the fact that we knew it was replaced by a new structure, the first experience in the beautiful new hotel was one of disappointment and disapproval. Where was the old rural simplicity, where was the mango tree growing up in the center of the dining room?

Where were the old “homey” porticos, with neighborlike people sitting about? all lost in splendid spaces of elegance and comfort. We were as unreasonable in our disapproval as the complaining parents of a daughter who comes home from college, a modish and cultured young woman, instead of the shy, awkward girl in calico who went away.

Even after we enjoyed the luxury of a hot bath, and the delicious food served in the spacious treeless dining room, we still lamented the lost old rookery.

In fact, the full appreciation of what this new American hotel meant to tourists in Jamaica, did not come to us until we had made a tour about the island, and returned to finish the season in its comfortable and costly arms. On that return it appeared to me just as it has seemed ever since, a spacious wood, with mottled green roadways leading everywhere into cool grottoes: artistic: restful: delightful.

On New Year day the hotel was crowded, and Jack London and his bright, agreeable young wife were among the guests. We four—the Londons and Himself and I—went over to the bathing beach for a wonderful swim in water a little too warm to be stimulating, but so beautiful and enticing that it was hard to leave it.

Two days later we were traveling companions for a half day; we on our way to Moneague, in the mountains, the Londons setting forth on an equestrian trip across the island.

Admiring the virility and force of Jack London’s intellect before meeting him, if not always agreeing with his views of life and humanity, the brief personal acquaintance proved an interesting surprise.

One cannot read London without picturing a man of aggressive and dominating qualities, strong willed and intolerant of the follies and foibles of the conventional world, and of the injustice of accepted industrial conditions.

However these feelings possess him, his charming personality does not betray aggressiveness or intolerance; nor do the lines of his palm indicate that bold defiance of conventions which one associates with him. A boyish face, an almost fragile form, a sensitive nature as delicately tuned as a wind harp, a gentle manner, and a winning magnetism—that is the memory Jack London left with us.

Earnest, honest, heartily alive to the joy of life, loving the sea with a lover’s passion, and happy to eat and sleep in the saddle, he was fortunate in the companionship of a young wife of similar tastes, eager and ready to follow the untrammeled course of life which he had laid out for himself.

Yet they impressed me as imprudent children, who needed a wise guardian, and in Jack London’s palm the life line is short; shorter in the right than in the left, too, showing that he is wasting his vital forces. After eight hours in the saddle one day, the Londons came back to the hotel and found us just leaving for the bathing beach. “Oh, wait until we get our suits and go along with you!” cried the impetuous young author. “But,” I suggested, “a sea bath,—especially one accompanied with strenuous diving and swimming such as you indulge in,—should not be taken when the nervous system is tired. After eight hours in the saddle in this tropical climate, you must be fatigued.” “Not a bit of it,” he replied. “We are fresh as the morning.” “But maybe we ought to rest a bit before going over to the beach,” Mrs. London said. “We will see how we feel after we get to our room.” And that evening she confessed to me that they slept two solid hours after removing their riding habits, which proved the fact that they were

Figure 4 – Jamaica.

Figure 5 - Jamaica.

fatigued and needed rest instead of added exercise. I would not like to be obliged to follow an itinerary made out by Jack London. The Londons found their horses waiting for them at Spanishtown, and left us there. We went on to our destination, Moneague, high up the Mount Diablo Range.

It was a ten mile drive after we left the train; a drive of winding ascents and magnificent views, a continually changing kaleidoscope of tropical splendor.

At the summit of one of the highest peaks spread a level plateau surrounded by a gently sloping valley, and beyond this valley in every direction were stately mountain ranges covered with riotous verdure of shaded greens.

The Moneague Hotel stood on this plateau and commanded the superb view and caught the mountain winds from every window and portico.

Here we passed a happy, peaceful month, living on simple country fare, palatable and nutritious, finding excellent service, and enjoying the best sleep imaginable.

Reading and writing, our regular occupations, were varied by drives to points of interest, “The Fern Gully” drive being one of the most memorably beautiful experiences of our lives.

It was our first sight of ferns twenty feet high, and with leaves many feet in diameter. A trip to Sylvan Falls, too, disclosed scenes of astonishing beauty.

Our mornings were given to books and letters, in our cool roomy apartments, opening out on a vine shaded portico. Many poems for magazines, and many prose articles, were written here. Among them were the following verses of local color:

MONEAGUE

A lovely princess, throned in high estate,

And like a watchful army in command,

The stately mountains round about her stand,

While the four winds of earth upon her wait.

Great orchestra of birds make glad her hours,

And nature brings her gifts of fruits and flowers

OCHO RIOS

So fair this spot, the story of its fame,

Into the still far mountain fastness came.

Eight wondering rivers heard, and sought in glee

This tropic marvel by a sapphire sea.

And, gazing, all went mad with love, men say,

And flung themselves in Ocho Rios Bay.

Now, in the voice of Roaring River Falls,

The mountain fastness for its rivers calls.

copyText, calendar Description automatically generated

THE COLLEGE OF THE FUTURE.

THE

Knockabout Club

Alongshore

THE ADVENTURES OF A PARTY OF YOUNG MEN ON A
TRIP FROM BOSTON TO THE LAND OF THE
MIDNIGHT SUN

BY

C. A. STEPHENS,

AUTHOR OF “THE KNOCKABOUT CLUB IN THE WOODS,” “THE YOUNG MOOSE HUNTERS,”
“CAMPING OUT,” ETC.

FULLY ILLUSTRATED.

BOSTON:
ESTES AND LAURIAT.
1883

Copyright, 1882

By Estes and Lauriat.

All Rights Reserved.

THE

KNOCK-ABOUT CLUB ALONGSHORE.

A NEW KIND OF COLLEGE.

THE following circular, which many readers will recognize at a glance as an “old acquaintance,” has probably been the source of more letters from and between boys and young men than any other similar topic which could be cited: —

“The Steamship College.” A Plea. — We complain that we have no means of securing that right education of which, as American boys, we feel the need.

We have no American college, distinctively so, and such as our distinct national character demands for us. The existing colleges and universities are but so many imitations of European schools. So faithfully, indeed, have the colleges in the United States been modelled from the Old World schools, that they seem rather to be foreign importations than the growth of our own educational wants. Such colleges (the successors of the monasteries) do not give us the training we need — cannot be made to do it. The course of study enforced is to a great extent antiquated and futile to us: we refer to the excessive and disproportionate recitation of Greek and Latin, Metaphysics and abstruse Mathematics.

Worse still, these institutions are often located in some retired little town where the student is quite isolated from the world: this condition being in opposition to our need, which requires for our education direct contact with, and knowledge of, the world. The theory that mental discipline is best secured on a high stool in a dark room, is not now so cogent as it may have been a century ago.

The unprofitable manner in which students at the colleges spend their time is a matter of notoriety. The sentiment of the great body of students touching the studies pursued is bad, to the extent of being morally pernicious. So lax a sentiment would of itself demand a radical change for its reformation.

Nor are our young men sent to the German universities to much better purpose. Their moral tone as American citizens is almost certain to be impaired by a foreign education. We want not to be indoctrinated with European political ideas or modes of living.

Our Scientific schools, as conducted, have, for obvious reasons, failed to provide any adequate substitute.

Our Commercial schools are not designed to furnish a liberal education.

To give to American boys this requisite liberal education, all the scientific discoveries of the age should be brought to contribute their aid: the steam engine on land and sea, the telegraph, photography, the microscope, the telescope, the spectroscope: all should be utilized and made to do service.

Added to these, the “Conservation and Correlation of the Natural Modes of Motion,” as they stand related to mind and life, should be truthfully taught and no longer suppressed as heretical. Than this doctrine, nothing offers a more perfect scheme of intellectual discipline: it is the mind’s natural food.

Travel abroad, too, is a great educator. Combined with judicious reading and memorization, foreign travel is a means of education now most needed by young Americans.

The ocean is the great highway round the world. Steam is the best motor on this highway.

Hence we propose, in place of the present stationary colleges, a steamship, fitted up and appointed as a college in all respects; provided with the appliances for scientific instruction and a corps of efficient instructors who will not hesitate to teach what is true because it is not sectarian. Upon such a steamship — which we make bold to term The Future American College — we should wish to make four extended annual voyages, to combine study with actual observation of men and things, in place of the four years of sedentary study at the Greek and Latin colleges.

To fit us for the Steamship College, we should wish, —

First, to have the eye and ear thoroughly trained — in connection with the study of Physiology — in order to secure all possible accuracy of sensory perception, out of which alone can come correct observation.

Second, an acquaintance with the first principles of mathematics; the elements of English grammar and rhetoric, to secure the correct composition of sentences and paragraphs; the outlines of physical and political geography, together with a concise and well-connected knowledge of history.

These we have deemed the essentials of preparation.

To call the attention of educators and those liberally-educated gentlemen of wealth (in whose hands the higher education of youth must ever remain) to our wants, as set forth in the Steamship College plan, One Hundred American Boys unite in presenting this petition.

Young America took to this plan at once. The boys of our land instinctively hailed it everywhere with enthusiasm. If old America had been equally responsive, the “Steamship College” would be afloat to-day.

There were not lacking people who ridiculed the idea. A College, or a Scientific School, which should go steaming around the world, combining foreign travel and instruction, was held to be by some an unheard-of innovation which could by no means succeed. One very dictatorial critic argued that seasickness would offer a well-nigh insurmountable obstacle. Another that parents would never trust their sons to the risks of the annual cruise, for four years. Still another, that the young men would grow “dissipated” from visits to foreign ports and unsettled in their “religious convictions” etc.

In short, it was the old story: conservatism, comfortably settled in its groove, did not want to stir out of it. Then, too, there were all the incumbents of generously endowed professorships of Greek, Latin and Theology. They would not, could not, go to sea. What was to become of the genus “Prof.?”

The failure of the Woodruff Expedition, so called, — an outgrowth of our plan, which meant well, but started wrong, — did not help our cause at all, and gave such as were inclined to cavil a chance to get in with their venerable “I told you so.”

In short, the club of young men who tried to found a Maritime University soon learned, — albeit to their great disappointment, — that all grand ideas must have time to grow in the public mind.

But it is only a question of time. Year by year the conviction deepens among Americans, that to plant a boy for four years in some

Figure 1 A Little College Town.

dull little college town is not the most profitable way for him to spend those four of his best years. Surprisingly little comes of it in the way either of general culture or special fitting for the business of life.

While our public schools are pre-eminently American, our colleges are singularly un-American. In fact, they are more medieval than the universities of Europe from which they were modelled. In accordance with this antiquated mode of education, young Americans are still pent up in some little town or village for four years, to study books in which, for the most part they take no interest and have little faith. The result in four-fifths of the cases is that undergraduates do little bona fide studying, smoke steadily, and for necessary amusement, go on small “rackets,” and dip into silly local dissipations, or waste energy and moral character in hazing each other and making bad puns, — all this under the erroneous public supposition that they are acquiring culture and mental discipline. Nine college men out of every ten will agree with me that the whole business is a mild failure. At the end of this four years, with his diploma in his pocket, the young man has to be sent abroad, or put to study with some practical professional man, architect, or civil engineer, for two or three years, before he is really good for anything. Certain practical professional men say that they would rather have taken the young man fresh from the high school; that his college “culture” is rather a disadvantage than an advantage.

Now, it is not that a “higher education” is not desirable, but that our faulty, antiquated mode of giving it works badly and defeats itself.

Books, conned and recited from, are not sufficient to educate a young man in the modern sense. Observation and experiment must give tone and practical import to study.

Travel abroad, accompanied by well guided observation, — such as we hoped might be secured in the “Steamship College” idea, — is the method needed. Four years thus spent, it was thought, would prove the best possible training for young Americans.

For the Classic Authors and Ancient History, a year in the Mediterranean; for modern languages and modern science, Europe and the United States; for natural history, biology, geology, etc., a cruise round the Pacific; and for general geography, the world’s resources, and ethnic history, an extended cruise round the world. To this plan for a maritime university, the youth of the country, as has been said, responded with an instinctive enthusiasm. Objections came from our seniors. But no objection, save one, has held ground, or can. This one objection which we have thus far combated in vain is the — cost.

Figure 2 Club House.

Ah, for the squandered millions which aristocratic, empty-headed, young patriciandom is yearly spending on its elegant vices which end in dry rot of muscle and brain.

Three millions of dollars a year in pugs and poodles and their blankets!

Seventeen millions of dollars in fast horses and horse racing!

Twenty-three millions of dollars in club-houses and sumptuous private maisons de joie! — tasteful beastliness.

Forty-two millions of dollars for the best cigars and wines — the only know equivalent of which is a brain softened and whirling round of a morning.

But not a dollar for the Steamship College.

The money of the country tends now more and more to run together into those chance pools termed great fortunes. We see at present but the beginning of this millionaire formation. There will follow a stern and terrible (to the rich) commune which will level all present laws of inheritance. Justly. Great fortunes are not largely the result of the accumulator’s merit. Accident of birth and luck do more than he. No child of a millionaire can deservedly inherit more than ten thousand dollars. The bulk of all great fortunes should go into Public Education and Public Works for the benefit of all. Until such ideas can gain ground, the Steamship College will remain a plan.

But meantime, reader, accompany a little club of young men who are trying to put the plan in practice on an humble scale, commensurate with their means.

Figure 3 Discovery of the Open Polar Sea.

CHAPTER I

ALONGSHORE NORTH-EAST. — AN EXPERIMENTAL TOUR. — “RIKE” DROPS OUT. — OUR NEW COMRADES.

The Knock-About Club (we hope the name will prejudice no one against our plan) has already filed a claim to public recognition in a volume, published last season, containing a current narrative of the “Tour of Six Young Men in the Wilds of Maine and Canada.” This trip was largely experimental, one object being to practically test bicycles as a means of locomotion in connection with the proposed steamship—the bicycle for land travel and the steamer for the ocean. Thus, if the class, on visiting, in their steamship, a seaport city like Philadelphia, or Alexandria, or San Francisco, should wish to go thence to the anthracite coal region, to the Pyramids, or to the Yosemite, it had been suggested that both desirable physical exercise would be gained and economy served by each member of the class owning a bicycle and making such inland tours on them.

Our experience demonstrated that this plan is available and enjoyable for routes on which there are good roads, and on such routes only. Where there are too many hills of 20°, or sand, or mud, the bicycler’s “lot is not a happy one.” For much of England and France, where the highways are almost uniformly good, bicycles might prove a desirable means of locomotion, and agreeably alternate with the inactivity of a week at sea.

A TELEGRAM.

The present tour Along Shore northeast, to embrace Grand Manan, Nova Scotia with Acadia, Cape Breton, Newfoundland, Labrador and Greenland, was planned last season. We wished to see the fisheries and seal hunting Of those waters, get a glimpse of the “Huskies,” visit the old Norse ruins of Greenland, and also the enormous glaciers which debouch into the Greenland fiords, to form that majestic procession of icebergs which every year comes drifting southward.

To hit on the most available mode of making this trip, as also the least expensive, was the subject of much inquiry and discussion with us. Negotiations were set afoot in various directions. To secure some vessel and crew, built for, and used to those northern waters, seemed the safer course. The sealing steamers of Newfoundland, a class of powerful and very stanch propellers, built on purpose for seal hunting in the ice, were early thought of; and a somewhat lengthy correspondence both by letter and telegraph, on the part of our acting secretary, Mr. Dearborn, bore fruit at length in the following definite telegram:

St. John’s, N. F., Feb. 17, 1881.

Harold S. Dearborn, Commonwealth Avenue, Boston.

Will take party proposed on sealing cruise and to Greenland as by your letter, for four thousand three hundred dollars, to leave St. John’s on or about the 4th of March.

[Signed] T. L. Mittens, Captain Str. Morse.

It seemed a good offer. So at least our secretary thought; and an hour later telegrams were speeding to the absent members of the club, calling a “meet” at once.

Karsner, whom the reader may remember as “Karzy,” also as “our artist” and the “boy,” was at his home in Cincinnati. “Moses O” (Davis), our Hoosier comrade, was in Chicago. Freeland Stein, our member from the Quaker City, mineralogist to the club and the hero of a night of hard roosting in the old fir on the Tschistama, watched by “lucivees,” was at Pittsburg, where he has of late inherited a property in coal and iron.

Mr. Wayne (“Rike”) was in New York. He alone of the Club failed to respond by telegram and in person on the third day after. Instead, on the fourth day, there was received a letter, — a long, long letter, — wherein, with vast excuse and plethoric apology, he “feared” he might not be able to join us. We had already feared as much, too, and knew the reason, though he fancied we did not. He deserves exposure, perhaps pity. Metaphorically, a shaft from Cupid’s bow-gun had wounded him so dangerously that he was unable to leave the metropolis, where, during the past winter, he had been in society much too freely for a student.

Only to think of it: the man who braved the raging moose wardens of Madawaska and the roaring caribous of Lac St. Jean, to fall a victim to a — society belle!

We have read his elegy as a clubsman and sung his requiem.

Only nineteen, too! In five or six years he will probably be bald-headed, if alive, and the father of one sickly infant. We see him, in our mind’s eye, wheeling it in a rattan baby carriage, sucking a bottle, up and down the bare flags of West 23d St, and round on to the Avenue; while anon, a thin peevish voice salutes him from the second story window with, — “Roscoe darling, don’t you see the rug is all untucked round baby!” Contemplating such a picture we forgive him — and good bye.

During December last, we made what will seem perhaps an unusual addition to our club, in the guise of a theological student from a prominent northeastern Divinity School of the Orthodox sect, who wrote us, respectfully asking to be enrolled as a member of our New Educational League, above the signature of Herman C. Garland.

None of us having ever met Mr. Garland, we conceived of him rather as a “lean and haggard young man,” tall, spare, hollow-chested and wasted from the midnight searching of commentaries; severe of mien and perchance pump-handled of gesture. Something in the precise wording of the letter and the angular character of his handwriting, helped on this premature conception of him.

“Don’t Suppose he is asking to join us from a sense of duty, do you?” queried Stein, “to sort of chaplain us and do missionary work upon us?”

Figure 4 "Roscoe Darling."

“I wouldn’t dare say,” quoth the puzzled secretary.

We had this letter under consideration for several days.

“Well,” said Moses O. at last. “Suppose we write and tell him to give us a call; and then we can hear him talk, and get a good, square look at him. We can tell then whether he would be likely to enjoy us, or we him.”

“Oh, the more the merrier!” laughed Karzy. “Refuse nothing. Take in all that apply. Romulus and Remus, when they founded their little settlement on the Tiber, made it a city of refuge, and took all that came, and asked no questions.”

“Nevertheless, I want no blue-meated sectarianism aboard our ship,” argued Stein.

“Well, well, gentlemen,” said Moses O., “time enough to decide that after we’ve heard the young man. Never judge a man till you’ve heard his story. That’s my motto.”

“A very good motto, Moses,” cried the secretary. “Live by it.” And he proceeded to write a note of invitation to Mr. Garland.

Mr. Garland called as invited, and instantly defeated, by his personal presence, our nascent prejudice against him; not by anything he said, but rather by what he was. He said, indeed, but little, and seemed rather bashful; but he was such a rosy-faced, fresh little fellow, and looked so downright good and unassuming, that we “took to” him long before he opened his mouth. We knew by the way he bore himself that it would always take coaxing to get anything like an opinion from him on matters of religion. Yet, as he stood, he was one of Nature’s quiet arguments for truth and moral worth. It was enough to see him, to feel the argument; and all the time he was quite unconscious of it. That is the beauty of the genuine article of moral worth in a person’s character. It shines out from day to day, unspoken; a reflection from good, yellow gold. So be they are the true metal, persons have no need to preach. Our best sermons are from simple, unobtrusive souls who would never think of telling you what is right, or what is wrong.

Our theological friend looked to be hardly older than “Karzy,” sixteen, but was really almost twenty-one. After half an hour’s conversation, we gave him a hearty welcome to our league, and explained somewhat of our plans and hopes to him.

Still another member joined himself to us, Mr. Macumber Brett, of San Francisco, a relative of our Secretary, Mr. Dearborn. Mr. Brett came east a few years ago as a technology student, and subsequently studied medicine for a year, but became much interested in certain special researches in natural history and biology. His motive in joining this year’s tour was that he might observe the habits, and if possible determine the longevity of seals, a question of some interest to naturalists. A young man of independent means, Mr. Brett is able to devote himself at leisure to such scientific topics as interest him.

In January we hoped that two old friends and original promoters of the Steamship College plan, Mr. G. W. Burleigh and Mr. Warren Readway would be able to make the tour. But business affairs prevented.

Upon the twenty-second of February everything was ready for the trip to St. Johns, Newfoundland; a cold season of the year for setting our faces seaward and northward. But under no other conditions could we join the annual seal hunt to the ice. Sea chests were packed and sea boots bought, along with quantities of thick woollen underwear and the densest and thickest of “reefer” overwear, massive ulsters and fur caps, with no end of thick wool socks and gloves.

Our armory of breech-loaders, etc. was the same as last year, with the addition of three “elephant rifles,” so called, of English make which we thought might match the large “seal guns ” of the Newfoundland men. We had also in view a possible encounter with white bears.

Figure 5 At the Wharf.

Our departure was set for the sailing of the Carroll for Halifax next day. On that forenoon we received a letter from Gerald S. Forney of New York, but some time recently a cadet at the National Military Academy at West Point, making application for a membership and expressing the writer’s wish to join any proposed tour for the current year. Not thinking it likely he would be able to come upon such short notice, Mr. Dearborn simply telegraphed him that we were to leave next day by the Carroll for St.Johns. With military promptitude, our would-be new comrade forwarded himself by the night express to Boston; and on our repairing to the wharf where the Carroll lay, next forenoon, we saw a hale, well-knit and erect young stranger scrutinizing us with a speculative eye from the steamer’s after deck. We could but admire his pluck when he announced himself in a business-like way as our correspondent of yesterday, and asked to be allowed to make such pecuniary arrangements as would be satisfactory to us. It does not take long to make “all straight” with young men of such mettle.

We could but laugh at the odd fortune which had given us, on such short notice, members, at least embryo members, from three of the great professions, to wit, theology, medicine and war-making.

Figure 6 The Mirage.

\

CHAPTER II

AT SEA. — KARZY’S TOOTHACHE. — IN THE “BRIDE’S CHAMBER.” — SQUEAMISH. — SOME ANTIDOTES FOR SEA-SICKNESS. — A WESTERN GIANT. — “THAD.” — TOOTH-PULLING EXTRAORDINARY.

The Carroll sailed that afternoon. The weather was cold and raw, the sky gray and chilly; not a favorable time for expatiating on the grandeur of ocean, or the beauty of marine sunsets. We kept pretty close, and were at times a little “squeamish.” The sea was not very rough; yet the steamer rolled a good deal.

In addition to this discomfort, too, our junior comrade, Karzy, had a tooth ache, or rather a jaw ache. The lad is cutting his “understanding teeth,” and has found it a painful business. All the season he has been a sufferer at intervals; and as his” wisdom teeth” are still to come, he has not a cheery prospect in that direction. In fact, teeth of all kinds, except artificial ones, — are a doubtful blessing to Americans. We cut them with much wailing and imbibing of soothing syrup. Then begins the struggle of getting rid of them. At a low estimate a fellow suffers more than enough in this struggle to die decently a dozen times. Indeed, from the moment the dentist first gets his clutch on you, at the age of eleven, and begins his well-nigh endless job of chipping, digging and filling, up to the time he gets the last “root,” at twenty-nine, a person has endured all the agony of vivisection and a couple of gallows executions thrown in.

Figure 7 Sunrise on the Fishing-Grounds.

What the future of American teeth is going to be, it would be difficult to predict. It might save some thousand foot-pounds of pain to kill the embryo teeth in children’s gums with the electric probe, at the start, and let future generations “gum it,” or live on mush and beef-wine. Many hold that teeth are not an ornament, really, but rather a disfigurement, associating man with the carnivora. But there seems to be a popular prejudice that a good sound set of teeth are a handsome feature.

There is on the Carroll a state-room called the “bride’s chamber;” but in an entire absence of brides at this time of the year, they put our cherry-cheeked “theolog” in it; and here next day the club held synod and told stories to kill time and laugh. For if you can only keep laughing you will not be much sick; it is impossible to feel “tickled” and sick at the same time. I do not attempt to explain this on any other ground than that it is not easy to do two things at once. Our comrade Brett asserts, however, that laughter is in and of itself antagonistic to nausea, and perhaps it is. Herewith are subjoined certain of the yarns told that day as, —

ANTIDOTES FOR SEA-SICKNESS.

TOLD IN THE BRIDE’S CHAMBER.

We had been joking Moses O. on the old subject of his size, and his not being able to get into the upper berth; our comrade is now plump six feet and an inch, and weighs a hundred and ninety-four; which, for a youth of nineteen, is certainly “portly.” But Moses asserted that in Indiana he was not deemed at all remarkable on this account. “Why just over the line in Ohio,” said he, “we have a farmer who I seven feet eleven inches in his stockings and over eight feet as he ordinarily walks about in his boots. His wife is about seven feet.”

“Easy now, Moses,” cautioned Harold. “Remember we are at sea, on a stormy ocean, and in an old, crazy steamer!

Figure 8 "Ain't He a Whale!"

“Truth!” exclaimed Moses. “I have seen the man.”

“Was it by daylight or candle-light?” Harold was inquiring, when the Cadet corroborated the story. “That is so,” said he, “I’ve seen the man, too. His name is Captain Martin Van Buren Bates. He is none of your lanky, abnormally developed men, either, but thick and muscular in proportion. He looks his height and more too. When I first set eyes on him I thought surely he was ten feet! He served in the Civil War; though how he ever took part in a battle without some ball hitting him is more than I can understand. It is said, — he says himself in fact, — that he owed his life one day to his great size. He, with a squad of his men, was surprised by a whole company of the enemy. Just then the Confederate prisons were boiling over full of Union soldiers, and the “rebs” did not care to take more prisoners. Instantly, on coming through the brush, they took aim to shoot, and the “butternut ’ in front of Bates had his finger on the trigger, when the captain’s immense stature dawning upon him, he slowly lowered his rifle, exclaiming,

‘Thunder! ain't he a whale! Let's keep him!’

And keep him they did.”

In the way of repartee and puns, Harold told the following of the professor of Mathematics at the university where he studied during the freshman and sophomore years. Some of the boys in the class got “down” on the professor, and, for a prank, sawed the legs of his chair one morning — sawed them almost off, so that the slightest hitch in the chair, on sitting down, would cause them to break and result in a grand “spill” of Professor S. The professor was a very prompt man. Punctual on the dot, he walked in and took his chair on the little raised platform behind his desk, but had scarcely called the roll of the class and opened “Calculus,” when snap — crash! — down he went in a heap,

Figure 9 No Giggling.

and fairly rolled off the side of the narrow platform, with both his stumpy little feet up much higher than his head.

Not so much as a snort or a giggle betrayed that the highly-amused class had even noticed his fall. All sat gravely scrutinizing their text-books. The professor got up with a dusty back, and glancing around said slowly, but with the intensity of inward rage, —

“Young gentlemen, some of you, I see, have tried to furnish me (pointing to the broken chair legs) with a worse understanding than your own. But that is impossible.

The “Theolog” matched this with a story of Professor Hadley of Greek grammar reputation, at Yale. One of the freshmen who had not yet cut his “wisdom teeth” (this for Karzy) had taken spite against the professor on account of some rebuke he had received. To revenge himself he wrote in large letters the unhandsome word jackass on a bit of white pasteboard and placed it upon the text-book on the professor’s desk, just prior to recitation. The professor came in, saw the inscription and taking it up — holding it so all could see it — said, “Young gentlemen, one of your number has left his card here. Wishes to speak with me, perhaps. I shall be happy to see him here — after recitation.”

It is needless to say that Mr. Jackass did not remain for an interview.

The scribe was next betrayed into a rather lengthy account of a very peculiar lad named Thad Thompson, whom he used to know, and to whom the world owes something as an inventor. One of his recent patents, “a fly wheel churn,” lately noticed in the newspapers, had called to mind a famous “windmill churn” which was one of his boyish exploits.

Thad, as a boy, was a droll, undersized little fellow, “very small of his age,” as the folks said. He had a funny way of holding his face a little askew; and there was always in his eyes an odd, half-serious, inquisitive, investigative expression.

It was not in his nature to perceive the ridiculous side of things. He had no ear for a joke. And it was lucky for him that he had not, since the neighboring boys were always cracking them at his expense. But I do not think he ever fairly realized the fact, or knew that he was any different from the rest of us.

Figure 10 Blue Fishers.

Thad was not by any means a fool, only “queer”. He had no near relatives. During his boyhood he lived with Deacon Willis’ family. There was some distant relationship between them, I believe; but his parents were either dead, or else had bound him out to live with the deacon, it matters little which.

The deacon and his wife “Aunt Sally,” had much trouble with Thad, and at times used to whip him severely.

Not that Thad was in any way saucy or rebellious — on the contrary, he was one of the mildest, kindliest of boys — but he “puttered round,” the deacon said, and was “slower than stock still.”

Aunt Sally often declared that Thad never earned his board. Very likely this was true, for he was a boy who never realized the value of time. He was in his element when he could invent a new way of doing anything — some little job of work, perhaps, which any one could do in ten minutes, — even if he was half a day or all day doing it.

That was what puzzled and disturbed the deacon, who was a stanch old farmer, and had only one way of doing his work, and thought it must always be done in that way and in no other.

As for Aunt Sally, she was an alert, determined little woman, nervous and fretful, and always in a hurry. Ah, me! the breath Aunt Sally spent in trying to hurry up Thad!

Thad’s windmill churn was a standing joke throughout the neighborhood. All through his boyhood at the deacon’s, it was one of Thad’s household duties to do the churning. Aunt Sally had a dairy, and, during the summer, churning was necessary two or three times a week.

She used an old-fashioned barrel churn, the “dash” of which played up and down. Aunt Sally had no faith in crank churns.

It was pretty hard work for a slight lad like Thad. No doubt he turned the matter over in his mind a great many times as he tugged at the churn dash, under the deacon’s shed, on the hot July mornings.

At length he conceived the idea of churning by wind power. Well aware, however, of the deacon’s deep-rooted aversion to “wild idees,” Thad prudently waited till the second week in September, when the deacon would be obliged to attend court as a juror for a week or more.

During this brief time, Thad set at work to erect a windmill on the roof of the shed.

It had sails of birch bark, I remember; its arms were fully seven or eight feet long. At the other end of the shaft he affixed a crank, and to the crank a jointed rod (to convert circular motion to vertical), that played down through the roof of the shed.

Aunt Sally knew that Thad was “puttering round,” as she said, making something or other; but, of course, did not suppose that he had any designs on the churn, when, after pouring in the cream on the next morning, she trundled the churn out to him.

No sooner was Thad alone with the churn, and the door closed between him and Aunt Sally, than he proceeded to test his new motive power. With a piece of strong twine he secured the lower end of the rod to the churn dash, then pulled out the pin, and started up the machine. There was a strong breeze from the northwest. Round went the sails; up went the crank. Unfortunately, it was too long jointed. The first lift on the dash knocked off the head of the churn, and sent the “buttercup” into the roof.

Dismayed at this sure evidence of motive power, Thad laid hold of the furiously plunging dasher, and with both hands tried to stop it. But it would go; he couldn’t hold it.

The cream flew! His face was smeared. His eyes were full. His clothes were covered with it. But he held on nobly.

Hearing the racket, out ran Aunt Sally with a shrill “Sakes alive, Thad! What for massy sake are you about?”

“It’s all right, grandma’am,” panted Thad. “Grandma’am, it’s all right; only the crank j’int is a leetle too long.”

But Aunt Sally cared no more for “crank j’ints” than for the handle of the Great Dipper. She thought only of the loss of her cream, and in her indignation she gave the boy such a cuffing as he never forgot, and the cream about his ears made it fit all the closer.

Seeing that the invention was dangerously unpopular, Thad wanted now to take down the windmill, before the deacon came home. But Aunt Sally wouldn’t allow it. She declared it should remain, so that the deacon might see with his own eyes the black enormity of the scheme.

The deacon came home, and so far forgot his dignity on looking at the result of Thad’s invention, that by the time the boy was fairly out of his hands, the windmill had become a sore subject in his memory.

Tying the cattle’s tails together was another of Thad’s luckless schemes.

He did the barn chores. As the deacon had a considerable herd of cattle, it was something of a task to water them and clean the barn every morning.

Thad was almost always late to school in the winter. Scores of times did the rest of us boys call for him, and help him to do his chores, so that he could go to school with us. Thad was slow, and always just so far behind, for the chores were really too hard work for such a small boy.

The deacon owned a two-year old bull, which the boys called “Padduck.” He was as surly, unruly, and ugly a little brute as ever ate hay.

The cattle were tied with wooden bows in a lean-to running parallel with the threshing floor of the barn. Little Padduck was tied at the lower end of the lean-to, next to the horse-stalls, which were boarded up high.

He was the worst creature to unbow and let out I ever saw; and I used often to help Thad turn out the cattle. Go to untie him, and he would leap and strike with his horns, and, swinging round sidewise, press us up against the horse-stall.

Figure 11 An Earing.

Thad, in his patient, plodding way, would work for fifteen minutes trying to unbow him. Generally, when we called for him on our way to school that winter, we would find him trying to turn out Padduck.

One morning Padduck was so ugly that none of us could untie him. He would press up against the horse-stall so spitefully that it was as much as one’s life was worth to go beside him, even if lucky enough to get past his heels without a kick.

We all gave up trying, and stood watching the animal at a safe distance. We could have slaughtered the brute with a good relish.

It was then that Thad proposed tying Padduck’s tail to the tail of a large three-year old steer that was standing next in the row, so that the bull could not swing round against us.

“I set out to do it yesterday morning,” said Thad.

To seize hold of the two tails and tie them together by the long, stiff hair, was but the work of a minute for us. This first knot slipped, however.

“That wasn’t the way,” said Thad. So we held them for Thad to tie, secretly tickled, and expecting that fun would follow.

Thad spliced the two tails as handsomely as a sailor would splice a broken cable. To make it the firmer, he took an old whip-lash, and wound that around the splice. This took him some minutes, but, when done, it was warranted to hold.

Figure 12 Tough Tails.

“Let him reef now!” cried Thad.

And they did reef. But the splice held fast. Padduck could not now swing against us without swinging the big steer; and the steer seemed inclined to swing the other way.

We now managed to untie him.

Out leaped the ugly little bull. He got his fore feet over thedoorsill. There he hung and dug in his hoofs. The steer in the barn began to bawl! Padduck roared!

They tore about so furiously that we did not dare to loosen the splice, but Thad untied the steer. Once free, the steer dragged his smaller companion back into the barn.

Then they tried to fight. Down went the threshing-floor boards! The stanchions were broken. There was a fearful racket and bellowing.

We got out of the way as best we could, and Thad took refuge in the haymow.

At this juncture, out rushed the deacon, with his spectacles on his head, for he was in the midst

of family prayers when the bellowing and stamping began. Thad, having the stock to attend to before school, was not kept in to morning devotions.

After one attempt to seize the steer by the horns, even the deacon was glad to jump out of the way. A moment later, however, the animals broke loose. Something gave way. It must have been, I think, the hair on Padduck’s tail; for the splice was left on the steer. Both the frightened creatures rushed out into the barnyard, and snorted.

Meantime we boys had withdrawn a little one side, and assumed the attitude of disinterested spectators. The deacon turned excitedly to Thaddeus. But Thad was absorbed by a single aspect of the fracas. “Hokey, grandpa! wa'n't them tough tails!” he exclaimed.

At that the rest of us laughed, and the deacon looked at Thad as if he did not quite know whether to laugh at him or cut him in two with the hay-knife.

It all ended, I believe, with the usual orthodox whipping; the deacon being a firm, and, as I have no doubt, sincere believer in the use of the rod — in heroic doses.

By way of making it “pleasant for Karzy’s toothache,” Moses O. told of some very extraordinary teeth-pulling, up in the Michigan “pineries” where Moses’ paternal relative was conducting lumbering operations a few years ago, and where Moses himself had spent a part of the winter of 1879.

We have all heard of the stern old Puritan who, enraged by toothache, tied one end of a good hempen line to the tooth, the other to a beech plug, and having loaded the latter into his matchlock, fired off both plug and tooth. But Moses’ stories beat the Puritanic method; and he says they are true.

MOSES O. DISCOURSES ON PULLING TEETH.

If ever the toothache attacks a fellow at a disadvantage, it is when he is deep in the wilderness, forty miles from any settlement.

Lumbermen always dread the toothache. It most frequently comes on after a month or six weeks’ use of salted food, just when the deep snows have fairly blockaded the camp.

In a gang of from twenty to thirty men, some will almost always at about this time be troubled with toothache, particularly at night after being in the cold air all day. Of course the pain has to be borne, and generally is, in sullen silence.

But sometimes — as everybody knows — there comes a toothache that can't be borne; and such a toothache was poor Jase McCaverick’s, a French Canadian “chopper.”

Jase began to complain one Sunday night, just as a raw, chilly storm was setting in. Such teeth as he had, too! It did not seem as if such great firm grinders could ever ache.

Monday and Tuesday the pain grew worse. Not a wink of sleep could he get; but being a man of iron will, he did not leave off work till Friday afternoon, when he came into the camp and sat down on the “deacon’s seat,” with his hand to his face.

His countenance was haggard and his eyes looked dull and lifeless. The foreman, whose name was Robert Andros, had come in with him.

“Rob,” said the suffering giant to the foreman, “I wish you’d take them air ox-pinchers of yourn and see if you can’t haul the old thing out.”

A pair of ox-pincers is a terribly rude thing for dentistry. But as nothing better could be done, Andros got the pincers and went at the tooth.

Indeed such a pair of pincers could hardly have been got into a small mouth; but Jase’s mouth was a big one, corresponding with the rest of his body.

After some preliminary manoeuvring, the tooth was gripped and the struggle begun, — gently at first, — more energetically, as pull after pull failed to start the recusant grinder.

Andros was a large muscular man, and soon got on his mettle. He pulled and yanked Jase all over the shanty. In the tussle they broke the table-leg and knocked down all the tinware. Evidently there wasn’t room inside the hut for so energetic an operation. So they went out doors — Andros hot and excited, Jase pale but decided. He sat down on a stump. Andros got another hold, and the tussle recommenced. Jase was sometimes on his knees, sometimes on his back, Andros jerking with all his might. Possibly he might have got it out, had the pincers held on well; but they slipped. At length, slipping off suddenly, they caught Jase’s tongue, pinching it excruciatingly. Jase got up with a horrible grimace.

Figure 13 There Wasn't Room Inside the Hut.

“Rob,” said he, holding on to his jaw, “if you’ll say squar’, I will.”

“Agreed,” said Andros, panting. “Might as well try to haul one of them pine stumps out o’ the frozen ground.”

The tooth, seemingly enraged by this rude attack, resumed aching wit terrible “jumps.” Hitherto the pain had been severe, but steady.

Jase lay in the bunk; but when those agonizing “jumps” came, he would leap to his feet and rush frantically about, smiting his face with his fist. He was in this condition when the men came in from work at dusk.

There was in the company an old Province logger, named Remmick. After supper, I heard this old fellow saying something about fish-lines and the grindstone in a low tone to two of the French boys.

“Jase,” said Remmick, a few minutes after, “I’ll take that air tooth out for ye, ef ye say so.”

Remmick and Andros were by no means on good terms. Jase glowered at Remmick awhile, then said, —

“Haul it out, ole man, ef ye can; an’ ef ye kill me so much the better.”

“Wal, I ken tak’ it out; about the other part — that I can’t say,” rejoined the old woodsman.

He then produced a strong fish-line, made either of linen or silk. Jase laid his head down, and with the back of his knife-blade, Remmick succeeded in working three nooses round the tooth. Then he twisted the lines into one still stronger cord.

The old man next drew one end of the mess-table up to the camp door, and told Jase that he wanted him to lie flat on his back on the table, with his head up against the door.

Jase was in no mood to be curious; he flung himself on the table, threw back his head and shut his eyes.

Remmick then took hold of the line, gently and unobserved by Jase, and threw the end of it up over the top of the door.

Meantime, the two French boys had slipped outside, where a new grindstone for the axes, which had never been hung, stood against the shanty. The stone weighed about two hundred pounds. The two boys set a saw-horse close to the door, and taking the grindstone between them, stood on the horse.

When the end of the line came over the door, they tied it to the end of the grindstone, through the hole in the centre.

Remmick had his left hand on Jase’s forehead. “Steady, Jase,” said he; “I’m going to pull it — now!” and he threw his whole weight on Jase’s head.

At the word now, the two boys promptly dropped the grindstone, — and out flew that tooth and flipped over the top of the door!

Jase, suddenly made aware of some Titanic and superhuman process, leaped to his feet and glared around.

But the tooth was out, and after awhile Jase calmed down and felt better; but it’s a wonder the jaw was not broken.

Occasionally it happens that the foreman of a gang is thoughtful enough to take a “turnkey” or a convenient pair of nippers into the woods with him for the purpose of pulling teeth, not only those of the men, but those of the oxen as well

For indeed, the teeth of the cattle often get so sore the animals cannot eat, and no doubt ache severely. A man of nerve and good judgment can generally pull both human and bovine teeth without much difficulty.

Now and then, however, as all dentists know, there is a man with a regular gorilla’s jaw, at the bottom of which the teeth appear to be clinched and riveted, as if put in by nature for immortal life.

Now those who are thus favored often ruin their teeth by silly feats, like that of taking up a barrel of pork by the chimbs with them, or chewing up glass tumblers; and when such teeth do ache, the possessors are made to feel the full penalty of abusing a great blessing.

Such a man was Ceeph Bonnet, a Canadian, who worked in one of our gangs. He was no more than five feet and four inches tall, but weighed a hundred and ninety-eight pounds. The substance of the fellow was not fat; it was pure brawn. He was a perfect Northern mandrel, in chest, neck and head, with the massive protruding jaw of a Pongo; teeth double all round, — solid ivory. Why, he could crack the thigh-bone of a beef-ox with those teeth!

Ceeph was one of the pork-barrel lifters. He would climb up a rope twenty feet from the ground, then take it in his teeth, let go with his hands, and hang there and swing. And he would also take the pole of an axe betwixt his teeth, and make a visible dint (Q. E. D.) in the iron.

He kept at such practices till the age of thirty-five; and then he was one evening much astonished by an attack of toothache — the first he had ever felt. The day of reckoning had dawned.

The man was quite unused to bearing pain, and it broke his courage down astonishingly. There was a settlement where a physician lived only thirteen miles below; and, after three days of excruciating agony, Ceeph went down there to have the tooth out.

He found the doctor, and they had a pretty lively time together, it was said. After a good deal of twisting and yanking, the doctor got out of breath and out of temper, and told Ceeph to go and be hanged! he couldn’t get his tooth out.

The man of medicine further expressed it as his opinion that nothing less than a can of dynamite, well placed under that tooth, would hoist it.

Ceeph came back and moved about for a week, wretched, sleepless, and savage.

About that time, the company’s scaler,” Matt Pillsbury, came to survey the “cut” of logs. Pillsbury was a queer fellow, — a rattle-head, — full of fun, and reckless.

“What’ll ye give me, Ceeph” said he, “to h’ist out yer old tooth for ye — so quick ye’d never know ’twas in there?”

Ceeph didn’t believe he could pull it.

“Pull it!” exclaimed Matt. “Let me see.” And he cajoled Ceeph into letting him look at it.

One of the men had brought a fiddle into camp. Matt pounced on the fiddle and took off its biggest string. This he succeeded, after some trouble, in looping twice round that big eye-tooth. The ends he tied to a strong cord which we used for a clothes-line.

Figure 14 "Brace Hard, Ceeph!"

“Now, Ceeph,” said Matt, “I must get ye where ye can brace yer feet;” and he hauled the big table endwise to the wall, and had Ceeph lie down flat upon it, with his feet set against the logs in the side of the camp.

“I shall have to go outside to pull,” said Matt, and picking out some of the moss between the logs, he poked the end of the line out through the chink.

This was just after dinner. Matt had already sent four or five of the men outside.

They had got a white-ash pole, as large as a man’s ankle, stuck one end of it under the heavy log sill of the camp, and then, by main strength, four or five of them had bent the other end upward and backward against the camp. A strong rope round one of the camp-logs held this rude catapult in position.

Matt, having got Ceeph placed, whipped out and tied the end of the tooth line to the top end of the “spring-pole.”

Ohlsen, the foreman, had come along. “Look here, Matt,” he said, “that never’ll do! Why, man alive, you’ll yank the fellow’s head off.”

“I’ll risk him!” says Pillsbury; and in fact, before the foreman had time to remonstrate, Matt had cut the “hold-back.”

“Brace hard, Ceeph!” he shouted through the crack; and the next instant, I saw the pole spring, and out snapped the clothes-line, catgut, and tooth, through the chink!

We all rushed in to learn the meaning of a strange noise we heard, and found Ceeph tearing round like a fresh-branded bullock. Braced as he was, it had jerked him over, and knocked his head against the logs. His skull was nearly cracked, and it was a wonder it had not broken his neck.

THE

Knockabout Club

In the Tropics.

THE ADVENTURES OF A PARTY OF YOUNG MEN IN
NEW MEXICO, MEXICO, AND CENTRAL AMERICA.

By

C. A. STEPHENS,

AUTHOR OF “THE KNOCKABOUT CLUB ALONGSHORE,” “THE YOUNG MOOSE-HUNTERS,” “CAMPING OUT,” ETC.

FULLY ILLUSTRATED.

BOSTON:
ESTES AND LAURIAT,
301-305 Washington Street.
1884

Copyright, 1883,

By Estes and Lauriat

Figure 1 - A Memory of Mexico.

THE KNOCKABOUT CLUB IN THE TROPICS.

____________

Diagram Description automatically generated with medium confidenceWHEN, WHY, AND WHERE.

TIME: Nov. 19th, the season following the cruise of the "Knockabout Club Alongshore,” to Greenland in June, and its return to Boston in September.

Place: Drawing-room car Las Cruces, Santa Fé Railroad, en route for the city of Mexico via Santa Fé, El Paso, and Chihuahua.

The idea of combining study and travel in place of a mere book education, was first broached and put in practice by the Camping-Out Club in 1872.

Later, the Steamship College Association attempted it on a grander scale. The present Knockabout Club has been acting on the same idea now for two seasons past, as recorded in the two preceding volumes of this series of travels.

The main points of the scheme will be readily apprehended from the following record of the proceedings of the club immediately on meeting for the trip, at La Junta, Colorado. For since some members of our fraternity hail from California and some from Massachusetts, this obscure little junction on the plains was the most convenient place of rendezvous for the tour of Mexico.

From this point to El Paso, the exclusive use of the car had been secured by the party for seven days, if desired, it being our intention to see whatever was of interest in New Mexico first, and in Old Mexico later.

On this trip our hearts were gladdened by the presence of that former promoter and pioneer of the Steamship College idea, Mr. G. W. Burleigh, whom some of our readers may remember as “Wash.” It was he who — by common acclamation — made the informal opening speech as soon as we were comfortably" fixed” in the Las Cruces.

“Well, gentlemen,” said he, "here we are, and every man of you — if I know myself and can read your faces, knows what he is here for. It is to prove to the American public that our plan of getting an education is the correct one — prove it by ourselves as an illustration of it. That may not sound modest, if our scribe records it in his book, but it is business, nevertheless. So many theories are broached to the public every year that we cannot expect people to hail them all with transports of joy. It is only the theories that are proved to be correct which command attention. All great ideas, too, must have time to take root and grow in the public mind. It was so with railways; it was so with the telegraph; and it will be so with our new plan of education. Its utility and its superiority will have to be demonstrated before our people will accept it. Thus far the idea has had to push its own way to public notice. Ten years ago four boys (Raed, Wade, Wash, and Kit) set off afoot and alone to the Maine woods, studying and making notes on natural history, botany, and geology as they travelled. At night they camped out and cooked their own food. At the end of their tour they came back hale, hearty, and with the feeling that they had taken in a good deal; that they had learned more than if they had been in a college for the same time. Out of this experience, in time, grew the project for a steamship college, — a “college” that should combine travel and study in the most world-wide sense. They worked at this idea and tried to raise the necessary million of dollars to fit out a steamship. But the time was unfortunately chosen. The commercial panic of 1873—74 paralyzed everything. The enterprise came to a standstill; and the Woodruff expedition, — an imitation of the Steamship College plan, — which meant well, but was badly managed, gave the public an erroneous impression of our undertaking, which by no means helped it forward.

Figure 2 - "Well, Gentlemen, Here we are."

“But a great idea will not die. You, gentlemen, took it up, and are, in a practical and common-sense way, putting it to test, and giving the public the net results of your experience. No better plan could have been chosen. You are doing wisely. Slowly but surely you will win public opinion to this mode of educating boys; and the boys of the next generation will thank you for it. The age of dull, dreary text-books is passing; a better method of teaching is coming in. You, gentlemen, are its pioneers.

“I know your plans and methods for this tour of Mexico, I think, but I shall be glad to hear them stated clearly.”

In response, our Club president, Mr. Dearborn (whom former readers may remember as "Harold”), said: —

“Our plans are very simple. We have no constitution or by-laws. We are merely to keep our eyes open as we go, see all we can and make a note of all worth remembering, or which bids fair to be of any use to us in after-life. As we journey, different members of the Club will stop at different places for a few hours, or a day, in order that the whole ground may be covered and as many objects of interest seen as possible. Every evening, or every second or third evening, as most convenient, we are to confer and compare notes. Each one will then tell what he has seen and noted, so that mutually we may each get the benefit of what the whole Club has observed.

“Out of all this the scribe is to select what he deems the most interesting, which is to be published in book-form for the express purpose of interesting other young men and boys in our mode of education.

“As I have said, we have no fixed rules. In fact, I have stated about all there is to state by way of a curriculum. Briefly, it is to travel abroad, see everything worth seeing and take it in, so that it can always be of use.”

“One thing more,” Brett remarked. “It is a matter of secondary importance, perhaps; but it is one that has been several times suggested and agreed on. Each one is advised to have at hand some really good book, some standard history, scientific work, or novel of the better class, to read at odd hours. This in addition to newspapers and magazines, which every one reads, of course, and which really form one of the best helps to education that the times afford.”

“It has sometimes been talked, too,” remarked Davis, (Moses O.) “that different members of the Club should direct their attention specially in different lines of observation. For example, Brother Stein has sometimes looked after the mineralogy and geology of a country, having a taste, personally, for those things. On the other hand, Forney, who has had the advantages of a West Point course of study, attends to the military matters and looks up the forts and soldiers. For a like reason, Mr. Garland, whose previous studies have been of a theological nature, makes a specialty of the churches, religion, and morals of the people. While Karzy attends to the pictures, statuary, and art matters generally; also makes pictures for the published account of the tour, and intends taking photographic views, if I rightly construe the purport of that little portable camera which adorns his hips at odd hours. In this way a profitable division of labor, or rather of eyesight, is proportioned off; and the results thus far have been, to speak conventionally, of a highly satisfactory character. In other words, it works well.”

“Yes, it works well in Moses’ opinion,” Karzy observed. “For in the way he has divided the labor of eyesight, you will observe that he has taken no share to himself. That suits Moses.”

“If I have arrogated no part of this responsibility to myself it is from my modesty, I am sure,” insisted Moses. "Besides, I have a share and a heavy one; I have the whole Club to lookout for. I have to labor with railway conductors and intimidate sleepy car-porters and hotel-clerks. I have to get bargains in cars, and, generally speaking, stand between the great, hard-fisted world and my more ethereally minded fellow-clubsmen. Why, I hired this car for seventy dollars when our worthy president was just going to pay a hundred and ten. I got 'circus rates' for the whole Club, when our friend, the scribe, was just on the point of paying regular fare. Same thing at the hotels, too. Do you call that no share, my boy? Why, my dear fellow, if you were to let these Western railroads and hotels have their own sweet will with us we should reach the far-famed city of the Montezumas only to enter a third-class poor-house, if they have them. Without arrogance, as I said, I deem myself the financial backstay of the whole Club. It is my business to see that nobody beats us, and, well, to beat the other side as much as is consistent with the dignity of the Club. I’ve got a gauge on that. It is my sphere to level all obstacles which get in our way. In fact, to use a railroad tern, I’m the cow-catcher of this party; and I don’t spare myself. For instance, at Denver, where I obtained 'circus rates’ at the hotel there for the party, the clerk had the impudence to ask me if I were the clown. Now, in all fairness, I judged that to be a joke and a too personal one to let him get away with and still command his highest respect, which I was bound to have, of course. I took time. I looked him all over, his diamond pin and all; then I reached over slowly and putting my hand confidentially on his shoulder, drew him over toward me, with an amount of physical power which I think our friend Stein here would have estimated at three hundred foot-pounds. I fairly raised him on to the register and whispered in his ear, “Yes, marm, I’m just that, and if you are not satisfied about me, I will give you (here I put about three hundred foot-pounds more) a perfectly satisfactory guarantee?

“ ‘All right! all right!'’ said he. ‘That’s all right!’ and I eased him back. You see how I have to work.”

“Yes,” said Harold, “Moses is all he claims to be, ay, more. He is more than the backstay he is the backbone, and a big one. But there is another matter. When we first began our series of trips and tours, we were nicknamed the Knockabout Club by outsiders, who only partially comprehended our motives for travel. That name stuck to us and we adopted it. But there are certain members who objected to the name, as sounding too rough-and-tumble, and as calculated to give the public an erroneous idea of our scheme of self-education. One member wishes the Club to be rechristened as The Athenian Club, because, he says, we are like the ancient Athenians, in that we are on the lookout constantly to hear or find out some new thing.”

“I suggest in all seriousness, gentlemen, that we be called the Athenian Club,” said Karzy. "I like that name far better.”

Some discussion followed. Several other names were suggested. But the majority did not believe it worth the while to change the name. This sentiment was fairly well expressed by Moses O., who said: —

“Let folks call us what they like. If we are all right, fair, square, and honorable, and put our idea through, we shall make any name they choose to call us respectable. We are no dilettantes, anyhow. The Knockabout Club is a good enough name for us. It’s like a stiff brown paper cover; it will wear well and won’t show dirt. A nicer one, with ferns and lilies on it, might get soiled.”

So the matter of the Club name was tabled for the present.

CHAPTER I.

IN NEW MEXICO. — ADOBE PEOPLE. — EL PASO. — THE CLUB IN SYNOD. — A GROUND SWEAT. — A CHINESE FUNERAL. — SANTE FE. — OLD SPANISH MINING. — TURQUOIS. — KARZY’S STORY OF TURLEY’S MILL. — IN A KANSAS PARLOR. — A DROLL MINE. — MILLIONS OF THEM? — INDIANS, BOYS, AND BATS. — A BEE STORY. — BEARS. — A SORELY TROUBLED DUTCHMAN.

FROM La Junta, five hours across the plains, and through the outlying spurs of the Rockies, brought us to the long tunnel (700 meters), where the railway pierces the "divide" and crosses the boundary between Colorado and New Mexico. Immediately we reached the flourishing new town of Raton (the word means mouse), situated in the midst of characteristic New-Mexican scenery: plains bounded all around by tall, saw-tooth peaks, now clad in snow. Snow, indeed, was seen lying to the depth of three and four inches on the ground beside the track. This was on the 19th of November. It must be borne in mind that New Mexico lies at an elevation of from five thousand to seven thousand feet above sea-level.

The Americans here are either miners and stock-raisers, or railway employees. There is, moreover, a kind of ground population of mongrel Mexicans who live in adobe huts, at scattered ranches and in old mission hamlets. The external characteristics of these indigines are squalor, stagnancy, and perennial small-pox. Once seen is seen enough. Of all the animal species which old Mother Earth has from time to time produced, the genus “Greaser” is about the dullest and most hopeless.

The larger New-Mexican towns—Las Vegas, Santa Fé, Albuquerque, Socorro — are at present in a curious state of transition from "Greaser” lethargy to West-American push and rush. Whether the "Greaser” can be waked up into a citizen is the standing problem in these parts just now. There are bets on it even. No one can quite say as yet. He looks very tired, very sleepy. It is, in truth, a tired race.

Karzy and Mr. Garland stopped off at Raton — to explore. Moses, Harold, "Wash,” and the scribe left the car at Las Vegas and went up to the hot-springs, distant six miles. These hot sulphur springs are becoming within the last two years a notable resort for invalids. But our party went merely to see the place and get a good dinner at its really fine hotel. A good dinner and a comfortable hotel are not yet so common in New Mexico as to be objects of indifference. Stein, Brett, and Forney continued on to Santa Fé and Albuquerque ; and it was not till the twenty-fourth of the month, five days after, that we all met again, at El Paso, on the frontier.

El Paso, situated as it is at the gateway of travel and trade into Mexico, will no doubt be one of the leading cities of the Southwest in the not distant future. But it is located in a terribly dreary region, a desert, which stretches east and west from Middle Texas to Fort Yuma. Little or no rain, a pitiless summer sun, and dust blizzards, so dense that a man may get lost in his own door-yard, are the climatic features.

As the car was still at our service, we thought it as well to lodge in it and have our food brought from a restaurant. It was on the car, therefore, that we had our first dinner together, and then proceeded to compare notes and tell what each had seen and heard in New Mexico.

Harold, acting as chairman for the time, opened the “synod” by asking Moses O. what he knew; “What do you know to-day, Moses?” was his question.

“I demur to such a question,” Moses objected, “because it carries the injurious insinuation that I possibly do not know anything.”

“True,” said Harold, “very properly objected. Well, then, what have you seen?”

“I’ve seen a man take a ground sweat,” replied Moses.

“A ground sweat! That sounds serious,” Brett said.

“Not very serious; on the contrary, it was rather laughable,” said Moses; whereupon he discoursed to us as follows on the subject: —

A GROUND SWEAT

Now and then, we hear of a sick person who, seized by some instinctive impulse, has had himself buried to the chin in the ground; and either from the corrective properties resident in the bosom of Mother Earth, or from the energetic action of his faith, a cure has followed on the whim.

The earth, meaning the fresh clean ground, is undoubtedly surcharged with electric and vital forces, since all forms of life are seen to rise from its surface.

At Las Vegas we witnessed a more practical and systematic application of the ground-cure idea. Here at the foot of the mountains, on the south banks of the Rio Gallinas, are numerous hot sulphur springs, where from time immemorial the Mexican people had been wont to bathe for various diseases. An extensive bathhouse has been erected within the past year, into which the hot water from the various springs, to the number of eighteen or twenty, is brought, and the accommodations greatly enlarged for taking both tub and vapor baths, for the purification of diseased organisms.

The earth below the springs through which the mineral waters trickled down to the river has been found to be very strongly impregnated with these chemical elements, which the water brings up from deep in the earth. Of late, the idea of giving invalids a “ground sweat,” so to speak, in this chemically strong earth, has entered the minds of physicians, and been put in practice, with good results, it is alleged.

Figure 3 - The Peaks of Las Vegas

On the day of our visit the bath-house, or rather the bath-shed, presented truly singular spectacle. Four long, deep bath-troughs of deal planks were here set in a row. Each was filled to the brim with black mud of the consistency of thick treacle, and of a temperature of from ninety-eight to one hundred and six degrees. At the hour when we entered the shed each of the troughs had at one end what looked to be a human head set on a little brown rubber pillow.

And they were heads! Immediately they began to smile, then to talk. Nor were they dissevered heads. The bodies to which they belonged were simply down in the black mud out of sight. The heat can be increased to as hot as the person can bear. A strong odor of sulphur emanates from the mud; and on the whole the association of ideas and odors was hardly pleasant, and had a purgatorial suggestion. Yet for persons in limbo the bathers seemed quite merry; they talked, joked, laughed. Often they remain in the mud for an hour or more, and come out in a somewhat parboiled condition, but much regenerated physically, as they seemed to think. The superintendent told us of several apparently wonderful cures; and if ever any of you are so unfortunate as to be troubled with ailments of an obscure nature, I should be inclined to advise a ground sweat.

“We will think of it,” said Harold.

Figure 4 - A Ground Sweat

“Santa Fé is really a rather interesting old town,” said Stein. It is the second oldest town in the United States, I believe, if not the first.

Before the building of railroads west of the Mississippi it was the headquarters and point of departure for all the wagon-trains, which then carried on the trade of the north Territories. In fact, our route down into New Mexico was along the old 'Santa Fé Trail,’ or wagon-road.

Figure 5 - Sante Fé

“The Spaniards came up here from their then newly conquered vice-royalty of Mexico, as early as the middle of the sixteenth century. The Indian population – of which the present Zunis and Pueblos are the feeble descendants -- then numbered hundreds of thousands.

“The Spaniards set them all to work in the mines, getting out silver; and there is little doubt that the conquerors secured millions of dollars worth of this metal. These early miners knew nothing of the high explosives; they transported their ores on the backs of mules and men, hundreds of miles, to be smelted in the most primitive manner, yet wealth flowed into the lap of Spain in such profusion as to

Figure 6 - On the Line of the Railroad

astonish all Christendom. At present, one miner can do as much work in a day as a score could have done two centuries ago in the same time.

“I visited an old turquoise mine near Santa Fé, where vast numbers of these then precious gems were worked out. This old mine is in what the Indians called Mount Chalchuitl, which is the native name for turquoise.

“The rocks which form Mount Chalchuitl are distinguished from those of the surrounding and associated ranges by their white color and decomposed appearance, closely resembling tuff and kaolin, and living evidence to the observer, familiar with such phenomena, of extensive and profound alteration; due probably to the escape through them at this point of heated vapor of water, and perhaps of other vapors and gases, by the action of which the original crystalline structure of the mass has been completely decomposed or metamorphosed, with the production of new chemical compounds. Among these the turquoise is the most conspicuous and important. In this yellowish-white and kao-lin-like tufaceous rock the turquoise is found in thin veinlets or little balls of concentrations called 'nuggets,' covered with a crust of nearly white tuff, which within consists generally as seen on a cross fracture of the less valued varieties of this gem, but occasionally afford fine sky-blue stones of higher value for ornamental purposes. Blue-green stains are seen in every direction among the decomposed rocks; but the turquoise in masses of any commercial value is extremely rare, and many tons of the rock may be broken without finding a single stone which a jeweller, or virtuoso, would value as a gem.

Figure 7 - A Native

“One is deeply impressed, on inspecting this locality, with the enormous amount of labor which in ancient times has been expended here. The waste of débris excavated in the former workings cover an era of at least twenty acres. On the slopes and sides of the great piles of rubbish are growing large cedars and pines, the age of which — judging from their size and slowness of growth in this very dry region — must be reckoned by centuries. It is well known that in 1680 a large section of the mountain suddenly fell in from the undermining of the mass by the Indian miners, killing a considerable number; and it was this accident which caused the great rebellion of the Pueblos and the expulsion of the Spaniards in that year, two centuries since.

Figure 8 - Ancient Mexican Vase

“The irregular openings in the mountain called 'wonder-caves’ are the works of the old miners. It was this sharp slope of the mountain which fell. In these chambers, which have some extent of ramification, are found abundantly the fragments of ancient pottery, with a few entire vessels, some of them of curious workmanship, ornamented in the style of color so familiar in the Mexican pottery. Associated with these were numerous stone hammers, some to be held in the hand and others swung as sledges, fashioned with wedge-shaped edges and a groove for a handle. A hammer weighing over twenty pounds was found, to which the wyth was still attached, with its oak handle — the same scrub oak which is found growing abundantly on the hillsides — now quite well preserved after at least two centuries of entombment in this perfectly dry rock.

“The stone used for these hammers is hard, tough hornblende. With these rude tools and without iron or steel, using fire in place of explosives, these patient old workers managed to break down and remove the incredible masses of these tufaceous rocks which form the mounds already described.

Figure 9 - Pueblo Interior

That considerable quantities of the turquoise were obtained can hardly be questioned. We know that the ancient Mexicans attached great value to this ornamental stone, as the Indians do to this day.

“The familiar tale of the gift of the large and costly turquoise by Montezuma to Cortez for the Spanish crown, as narrated by Clavigero in his history of Mexico, is evidence of its high estimation.

“It is not known that any other locality in America has furnished turquoise in any considerable quantity; the only other place being that Columbus district in Nevada discovered by Mr. J. E. Clayton, and is not yet worked.

“Chemically turquoise is a hydrous aluminum phosphate. Its blue color is due to a variable quantity of copper oxide, derived from associated rocks. It is found that the Cerrillos turquoise contains 3.81 per cent, of this metal, formula phosphoric acid 32.26, alumina 47.0, water 20.5.”

“For your incidents and those facts which you have taken pains to make exact and scientific, we are greatly obliged, Stein,” said Harold. “And now Karzy, what have you seen or heard, of interest?”

“I don’t know that it will at all interest you; but I have heard and written out, at some length, the story of a New-Mexican pioneer who seems to have been a rather remarkable man, and whose fate was a sad one. But as I said, I fear you will find it but tiresome.”

“Well, the proof of the pudding is in the eating,” observed Moses. "Go ahead with your little story. Anything historic should be of some value.”

Whereupon Karzy read an account of—

THE STORMING OF TURLEY’S MILL.

The stirring and often sanguinary annals of New Mexico, in her earlier days, contain nothing more thrilling, nor more apt to inspire pity and indignation, than the fate of one of her first American settlers, named Turley.

Turley settled in the Territory as early as 1837. He made his home not very far from Santa Fé, on a small river known as the Arroyo Hondo; and here, within a few years, he had by far the most flourishing rancho in the whole Taos district.

Figure 10 - A Mexican Cart

Herds of cattle, goats and sheep fed on the slopes of the Sierra. Innumerable hogs swarmed in his corrals; while broad, enclosed fields produced great crops of corn and wheat.

With true Yankee enterprise, Turley built a heavy dam on the Hondo, which gave him water-power for a large grist-mill, the only one in that section. In so remote a country everything had to be home-made, and Turley seems to have been a man of boundless ingenuity. He contrived looms and spinning-wheels as well as mill- stones. In fact, his rancho contained within its corrals all the industries of a town. All the things necessary to comfortable civilized life were made there, and made in profusion.

Figure 11 - Street Scene in Taos.

His wife was a Mexican; and the Americans in his employ had, many of them, also married Mexican wives. Rosy children, uniting the fair complexions of the Anglo-Saxon with the darker tint of their Mexican mothers, played along the Hondo, making its banks echo to their juvenile merriment.

Many Mexicans and Pueblo Indians worked for Turley, and were always so well fed and well paid, that a contest often arose among them for a chance to hire at the grand rancho del Americano.

Turley is still further mentioned as being one of the most jolly, good- natured fellows in existence; one of those big-hearted men who endear themselves to all about them, — hearty, bluff, manly souls, yet with the tender hearts of women.

His kindness and generosity were unlimited. No hungry Mexican or Comanche Indian (even when at war) was ever turned away from Turley’s. He fed all alike, and treated every man who came to him, whether savage or civilized, as a brother. If a wanderer could but make his way to Arroyo Hondo he was sure of welcome and aid.

Such was Turley when the political difficulties between Texas and Mexico, which finally terminated in the Mexican war, broke out. All the American settlers of New Mexico were in jeopardy as to their lives and property. Turley, however, took no precautions, believing that the service he had rendered the people would be a sufficient safeguard, and deeming himself, indeed, a citizen of the country.

One morning in December, that year, a man named Otterbees, in Turley’s employ, who had been sent to Santa Fé a few days before, suddenly made his appearance at the gate of the corral, and in great alarm announced that the Mexicans and Pueblo Indians had risen and massacred Governor Bent and all the other Americans in the place.

“And they are on their way here this very moment!” concluded Otterbees. “Fly for your lives!”

“Fly!" exclaimed Turley, contemptuously. “I’m a citizen of New Mexico. I’ve lived by its laws, and treated every man in it as if he were my own brother. They won’t hurt me.”

“You don’t know them 'Greasers’ yet!” cried Otterbees. “But you soon will!” he added, and spurring his horse galloped off.

But Turley would not believe in the danger; or if danger there were, he was resolved to stand by his property.

There were at that time nine Americans at the mill, — pioneers and hunters, — all dead shots. They closed the gates of the corral and prepared their arms.

None too quickly! For within less than two hours an uproar of wild shouts was heard, and immediately several hundred Mexicans and Indians made their appearance in the road, armed with guns, lances, bows and arrows. Among them were several Mexican officers.

Advancing to the gate, they shouted for Turley, who at once stepped forth and asked what was wanted.

“Give up the rancho and all the Americans in it,” said an interpreter. “Your own life shall be spared, but every other American in Taos dies to-day.”

Figure 12 - Pueblo of Taos

“My own life!” shouted Turley in great anger. “Do you think I would give up my countrymen to have their throats cut?” Never! Do your worst; I’ll fight you with my last breath!”

Then was seen the full extent of Mexican ingratitude. “Maten los Tejanos! Maten los burros! — Kill the Texans! Kill the jackasses!” was the cry.

The mill and other enclosed buildings lay at the foot of a gradual slope of the Sierra, which was covered with cedar scrub. In front, about twenty five yards below the corral, ran the Hondo. The banks were steep and broken. In the rear was some garden ground, enclosed by lower fences. In this plat a wicket gate opened from the main corral.

The crowd of Indians and Mexicans surrounded the place on all sides, and keeping in cover of the cedar and broken ground opened a brisk fire of bullets and arrows whenever any one within the corral showed himself.

But the defenders, meantime, were not idle. If an Indian or a Mexican exposed himself in the scrub there whistled a ball from an unerring rifle, and within the first hour numbers of the attacking party were shot down. The windows of the mill and still-house were blocked with wheat in bags, leaving only loop-holes through which to fire. The stock of ammunition, however, was not large, there being but about sixty shots for each man.

The afternoon passed in this way and darkness set in. All night the nine Americans stood at their posts, watching every manoeuvre of their enemies with grim determination. Firing went on by spells whenever one party caught sight of the other. Fresh props were set at the gates, and every window and door was barricaded still more strongly. Turley was everywhere, and his constant word was, “Cheer up, men! We may beat ’em off yet!”

In the morning it was found that the Mexicans had effected a lodgment in the horse-sheds, which stood a little apart from the other buildings, but one end of which adjoined the side of the mill. Protected by the shed, they were striving to break a hole through the wall of the mill.

But the great strength and thickness of the adobes and logs of which it was composed resisted their efforts completely. At length, finding their position in the shed of no use to them, they seemed anxious to get out of it.

To get out, now that it was light, however, they were obliged to cross an open space of a few yards, to gain cover of an angle of the corral fence. Two or three darted across unhurt. Then, the attention of the defenders being called to their ruse, a man named Albert covered the spot with his rifle; and the next one who started to run across was shot on the instant, and fell dead in the centre of the open space.

It chanced to be a Pueblo chief, and immediately one of his followers dashed out and attempted to drag the body away. Again Albert’s rifle poured forth its deadly contents on the instant, and the Indian, struck to the heart, fell upon the body of his expiring chief.

Nothing daunted, however, another rushed out, and still another; but both fell, mortally wounded, under the unerring aim of the pioneers.

After a pause of a few moments, three Indians darted out together, and seizing their chief by the arms and head, had lifted the body off the ground, when three puffs of smoke blew from the barricaded windows of the mill, followed by the loud cracks of as many rifles. The three daring Pueblos leaped wildly into the air, and fell upon the ghastly heap which already encumbered the little open plat.

Up to this time the defenders had suffered no loss. As if maddened by this exhibition of marksmanship, both Indians and Mexicans raised a yell, and rushing forth from their coverts, ran up close to the mill, all firing at once.

Eight or nine of them were shot; but two of the Americans were mortally wounded at the same instant. One died in a few minutes; but the other, who was shot through the lower part of the body, suffered great agony.

They bore him into the still-house and laid in a large bin of wheat, that being the softest couch to be found. All day he lay there, moaning piteously; for the remaining seven did not dare to leave their posts to attend him.

About midday the attack was renewed more fiercely than before, the Indians having grown furious from so many baffled attempts, and the loss of so many of their warriors. The little garrison withstood it bravely, never wasting a shot, but firing coolly and only when a fair mark was presented to their certain aim.

Not more than ten shots now remained to them, however; and to add to the danger of their situation the Indians succeeded in firing the roof of the mill with blazing- arrows. It flamed up fiercely and bade fair to involve the whole rancho in destruction.

But at this juncture Turley hoisted the gates of the sluice, letting water into the basement, and with the aid of buckets they partially extinguished the fire. Coals and blazing brands fell about them, however; and fire was constantly breaking out from this cause in the lower part of the mill, which was only put out by vigorous efforts.

While thus employed the assailants battered a gap in the corral, and in their blind fury shot and speared the hogs and cattle, which had been shut up since the day before. A few volleys drove them back again; but these reduced the ammunition of the Americans to three or four rounds.

A successful defence through another night being now hopeless, they held council, and agreed that as soon as darkness fell, each man should attempt to cut his way out as best he could and take to the Sierra as a last chance.

Acting on this plan, Albert and another man, just at dusk, dashed out at the wicket-gate that opened into the garden, firing their rifles full in the faces of the Mexicans. In the confusion Albert threw himself under the log fence, among high weeds. While lying there unobserved he saw his comrade shot down but a few steps off.

Figure 13 - A Mexican Hacienda.

Crouching motionless under the fence till the darkness had deepened, Albert was able to creep unnoticed into the cedar scrub, and thus he gained the Sierra. Two days later he reached the American settlement on the Greenhorn, nearly dead with thirst and fatigue.

Turley himself made his way out through the sluice of the mill, and keeping under water all but his head, went some distance up the Hondo. The next morning, as he was following a trail some miles to the northward, he met a mounted Mexican whom he had often befriended, named Lorando. This man had but recently spent a fortnight at the mill on a visit to Turley.

Thinking he might confide in the Mexican, Turley told what had occurred. “You see what a strait I’m in, Lorando,” said he. “Let me have your horse. Here is my gold watch. I’ll swap with you.”

With a perfidy worthy of Judas, Lorando professed friendship, but refused to give Turley the horse, on the plea that he might be found out by so doing. But he told Turley to hide during the day at a deserted rancho nearby, and that the following night he would come to him with food and a mule.

This Turley was induced to do, for he supposed that he had bound Lorando to him by so many benefits that he could not find it in his heart to doubt him.

Lorando rode straight to the mill, which the Mexicans were now plundering, and informed them of Turley’s whereabouts.

As soon as night came thirty of the inhuman wretches, with Lorando at their head, rode to the place where Turley was concealed. Stationing the gang about the yard, Lorando went to the door and called to the American. On the unfortunate man’s coming out, they fired on him and he fell, stricken with a score of balls.

Thus perished Turley, — a man worthy of a better fate.

Of the four other brave defenders of the mill, only two escaped, and they, too, almost by a miracle, later in the evening, and made their way northward.

“Well told, Karzy, but just a little too long,” said Harold.

“So I was afraid,” replied Karzy penitently. “Now, Mr. President, as a specimen of proper brevity, please give us one of your experience. Make it just as short as — it ought to be.”

“The sarcasm is deserved, Karzy,” said Harold good humoredly. “And it is all the sharper that I have been so indolent as to see but little worth telling. In fact, the most interesting thing I have seen since starting on this trip was in a lady’s parlor up in Kansas.”

“In a lady’s parlor!” exclaimed Moses. “That sounds romantic. But I fear it is only a repetition of some of those experiences which brother Harold had while on our bicycle tour down East.”

“No, brother Moses, quite another thing, I assure you. Listen, please. It is of interest as being one of the beginnings of a great future industry. As I came through Kansas, I left the railway at Lawrence and took a buggy ride down into the country, to look up a cousin of mine who has located in that quarter. On my way I got lost and had to beg a dinner at a farm-house away out on one of those boundless expanses which they call a county. There was but a single lady—I mean one lady — at the house. She entertained me very kindly, however, and after dinner and some current conversation, asked me if I would not like to take a look into her parlor. I thought that was sort of funny, but of course I said 'yes'’ and 'delighted I’m sure.’

“She opened the door, and, expecting to see the usually monotonous stuffed furniture, the bric-a-brac, the cabinet organ, the stereopticon, the photograph album, and the autograph album, for which I was already inwardly conning an appropriate sentiment from Tennyson, I looked in.

“Now if there is one thing more than another in which American ladies show an utter lack of originality it is in their parlors. All are after one model. If ever anywhere you find one differing from the standard, it is from the shape of the house or some other circumstance over which the lady herself had no control, and which you are sure to find her lamenting from a full heart.

“Judge of my surprise, then, to see three long tables covered with fresh green leaves, which somehow seemed all in motion! Even the window seats and the chairs were laden with green leaves and sprays, and as to the floor, it was covered with bare twigs. To my look of abject astonishment the lady laughed merrily. ‘How do you like my furniture?’ she said.

Figure 14 - Pueblo Restored.

Something still more odd — for a parlor — had arrested my attention. It was a great green worm, somewhat like a maple-worm. It lay among the green leaves and was feeding on them. There were scores, hundreds, thousands of these great worms!

“ ‘What are these, madam ?’ I asked.

“ ‘My silkworms,’ she said.

“ ‘And this foliage?’

“ ‘Mulberry leaves from these hedges round my garden. I bring in bushels of them every day. See the bare stems on the floor!’

“ ‘I began to comprehend.

“ ‘Yes,’ continued the lady, 'I started two years ago. George — that’s my husband — laughed at me at first. He works hard; but unless it is a better year than last, I shall clear more off my cocoons than he will off his farm corn. I get seventy cents a pound for the cocoons. What’s the good of a parlor shut up from one week’s end to another!’ she exclaimed. 'I have little time to sit in one. So I’ve decorated mine 'with mulberry leaves! and I have my attic and spare chamber all full of worms too. It is really pretty work to feed them.’

“ ‘Well, this is, indeed, a new departure,’ I said, — ‘an original idea?’

“ ‘No, I got it from the Mennonites, those Russian refugees who came to Kansas eight or ten years ago. They brought silk culture here, and imported the mulberry shrubs from Southern Russia. Their women reel the silk off the cocoon, but that takes a great deal of skill and practice. I prefer to sell my cocoons to the factory folks.

“Surely, I thought, here is a hint for many a lady with a meagre family purse and a shut-up parlor. For the business requires little or no capital for starting.”

“And now, Mr. Burleigh, what adventures have you met with of late?”

“No adventures,” said Wash. "I met an old schoolmate, however, at Las Vegas.”

“Well, that was pleasant, no doubt.”

“Yes, it does seem good to meet an old chum. John Coombs and I were at the same school, as boys, and were at one time room-mates. I ran plump against him at the Plaza Hotel, but had not seen him for six years. He is located in Texas. 'I’m working a mine over there,’ he said. ‘A mine!’ I replied. ‘Gold or silver?’

“ ‘Neither.’

“ ‘What, — copper ?’ I asked.

“ ‘No.’

“ ‘Oh, coal, then.’

“ ‘Wrong again; and it isn’t iron, nor quicksilver, nor tin, nor plumbago,’ said he.

“ ‘Some metaphorical mine, I suppose; some bonanza in stocks, some horse ranch, some ostrich farm,’ I said.

“ ‘No, no; a real bona-fide mine. I’m getting out five tons of ore every day. Good ore, too; runs fifty dollars to the ton.”

“Of course I grew curious, hearing that. A fellow cannot travel here in New Mexico and Colorado without getting a touch of the mining fever. You know how it is yourself. This mining malaria is in the air out here. But not another word about his mine could I get out of John. ‘Come over to see me,’ said he. ‘It’s worth your while, really.’ That was all he would say; he was only there for a few hours.

“I kept thinking about it all that evening; and next morning I looked up the trains and found that I could get round in three days. So I sent John a telegram and set off into Texas; there’s where I’ve been.

“At D------ (the station where John had told me to get off if I came) I found him waiting for me with a wagon and two mules, and a ride of ten or twelve miles across the rolling prairie up into the Llano estacado brought us to his place. It was dark by the time we arrived; but I saw what looked to be a derrick and windlass for hoisting ore out of a shaft, also two or three sheds full of barrels and boxes.

Figure 15 - Mining in the Southwest

“John was keeping bachelor’s hall, with a Chinaman to cook for him, in a small board cottage near by. We had a very nice dinner and talked of old times at school till nine or ten o’clock. By that time, feeling pretty sleepy, I was ready to turn in. As yet John had said nothing of his mine. I concluded that he was keeping it all till the next day. My bunk was a comfortable one; and I slept soundly till about five o’clock the next morning, when I was awakened by a singular roaring noise. At first I thought that it was the wind — that a 'norther’ had swept down upon us. But it sounded too steady for the wind. I lay and listened to it for some moments.

“John was up, moving about at the further end of the room. At length I called to him. 'Whatever is that noise?’ I said. ‘Is the chimney afire?’

“Oh, no,’ said he. 'That’s my mine. It is sucking in now. At night from five to seven it blows off. From daybreak till after sunrise it sucks in’

“ ‘You must have a queer kind of engine,’ I remarked.

“ ‘Oh, it’s not the engine at all. It’s the mine.’

“ ‘Look here, John, haven’t you given me taffy enough about this mine?’ I observed.

“ ‘No taffy at all,’ protested my friend. ‘Come out and see it suck in.”

“I hastily dressed and followed him forth. The moment we opened the door and stepped out, the roaring noise was increased tenfold. It was still dark. The stars shone; the morning star had risen golden bright; while over the post oaks, off to the west, a segment of pale old moon hung like a whitish feather. But that noise! the whole air seemed to whirr to it, — to flutter deafeningly as when a train stops and the engine is very hot after a long run; you know what a strange detonating sort of noise the steam will make. This made me think of it. And all out to the left of the windlass frame there seemed to be a dense black cloud, which I took to be smoke, rising to the very zenith!

Figure 16 - Bats Going Out

“John led the way out past the shed, for a hundred metres or more, till we came to the edge of a chasm, or cañon, in the limestone strata, several hundred feet wide and of unknown depth. Down into this chasm, at our very feet, the vast, black cloud, roaring, whizzing, was descending — not rising — rushing downward like water into the vortex of a tunnel, with a maelstrom-like force and velocity which was absolutely terrific! It gave me the same feeling, the same sense of power, as when years ago I first stood at the foot of Niagara and looked up at the plunging torrents of green water.

“ ‘For heaven’s sake, John, what is this thing?’ I shouted.

“ ‘Why, bats!—bats! Don’t you see them! All down under here is a bat-cave — acres and acres of it. This cave is my mine. It’s sucking in, now. The bats are going to roost. It’s the guano, bat-guano, that I’m getting out. The floor of the cave is bedded with it. In some places it is ten feet deep, solid guano, and there’s acres and acres of it. I’ve never half explored the cave yet.’

“ ‘And these are all bats!’ I exclaimed.

“ ‘All bats. There are millions of them. They go out of the cave at nightfall in just such a stream, to catch flies, gnats, mosquitoes, what not in the way of insects, worms, and grubs, and come back at daybreak, as you see. Always just so, except in case of a heavy storm, and two or three weeks of the coldest winter weather, when they seem to hibernate and hang dormant from the roof of the cave.’

“It had grown a little lighter, and I saw now that the roaring, whirring cloud was indeed composed of bats. Above the noise of their wings I could now distinguish a multitudinous, mournful squeaking. There were thousands, yes, millions of them; and the velocity with which they shot down into the chasm from high up in the sky was absolutely appalling.

“How they managed to turn at the bottom of the chasm and dart laterally into the mouth of their cavern, I cannot understand. To look up into the cloud was like looking up into a dense, driving snowstorm. Overhead the air was full of them; and they came down each with a sharp zerp-zerp! It was wonderful, gentlemen, — about the most wonderful thing I ever witnessed. And that torrent of bats continued to whizz down like that for more than two hours steadily!

“It was only at sunrise that the cloud thinned off; and even then detached and scattered bands of them kept coming at intervals, till half past seven or eight o’clock.

“After breakfast we put on some old oilcloth suits, and taking each a lantern, went down by a circuitous path into the chasm, and came along to the mouth of the cave — a large, irregular orifice eight or ten feet in height, by thirty or forty in width, opening back into darkness, over great black bowlders. Numbers of bats were still flitting about; but it was not till we had scrambled into the cave fifty or sixty feet that we began to see them hanging in patches to the rocks overhead. The squealing was here incessant; and on thrusting up a lantern, hundreds of them would go flapping and scurrying along. Each bat hung to the roof by his claws, head downward. The further we went back into the cave, the denser grew the patches of bats, till at length the rocks above were seen to be covered with one continuous coat of them, often two or three thick; and in places they hung in festoons.

“Meantime the dropping of their ordure was incessant and sounded like rain. I saw, too, that the bottom of, the cavern was alive with beetles and grubs, which seemed to be pulverizing the guano, which glistened in the light as if full of bits of mica. My friend said that this appearance was owing to the undigested wings of the insects upon which the bats feed. The entire place had a very strong odor of ammonia, with which the guano is powerfully impregnated — hence its value as a fertilizer. For it is for shipment as a fertilizer for worn-out soils that my friend is getting out the guano. At present there is a good market for it.

“Counting four hundred bats to the square yard — a low estimate — we reckoned that there were twenty millions of bats in those parts of the cave which we explored that day!

“No doubt that the bats have made this and scores of other similar caves which are known to exist in this section their habitat for ages. The great deposits of guano would seem to indicate as much.

“ ‘Do they breed here? ’ I asked.

“For answer, John held up his lantern to a little cranny in the pitted, rough limestone roof; and I saw, back in a little hole, a most curious sight, — a female bat suckling four little pinkish-colored young, seemingly but a few days old. For as you know, the bat is a kind of winged mouse and brings forth its young as do mice.

“Every crack and hole is alive with just such pigmy families,” my friend said.

I remained till night, and saw the innumerable troop depart on their nocturnal hunt after insects. Shortly after five o’clock they began to issue forth, in little squads at first, but soon with the same torrent-like rush with which I had beheld them come in at dawn; with this difference, however, in the morning they had seemed to return from a great height and to drop, or rather shoot down, to the mouth of their cave. But at eventide they rise out of the chasm and move off in a solid column close to the surface of the prairie. As far as I could see, they kept in this dense array; and my friend tells me that on several occasions when out in the country he has met this dusky column, moving swiftly on, yet still keeping together, at a distance of seven or eight miles from the cave.

How many billions of flies, gnats, and mosquitoes they snap up during a night I may safely leave to your conjecture, gentlemen. To me it was one of the most striking and interesting phases of animal life which I have ever witnessed; and I hope some naturalist will ere long make the habits of one of these innumerable bat-swarms a matter of careful study.

“Oddly enough,” said Mr. Garland, “I have heard a bat story, with which there was connected an Indian adventure. A young man, named Gillespie, up at Raton, told it. As to the bats, I thought the story an exaggeration at first; but after what Mr. Burleigh has himself seen, I see no reason to doubt it. This man, Gillespie, said that not very long after his parents moved into Texas (they came from New Jersey in 1872, I think he stated) he and his brother had a very narrow escape from some Indians. But I will try, if I can, to give the story in his words:—

My folks (he said) had located in the northern part of Kinney County, very near, if not over, the line in" the Bexar territory,” as it is called, on a branch of the Nueces River. Further south the branch is dry toward the latter part of summer for miles and miles; but there are springs of good sweet water up here, which have not failed as yet.

My father had prospected these springs while out with a land-locating party the previous year; and, liking the place pretty well, he drove up a hundred and thirty head of cattle that fall, built a house during the winter, and moved in the following spring.

There is a good growth of mesquite, post-oak, and a few walnut trees about the spring heads. Our first house was built of mesquite logs, and the cattle- pens were set with mesquite and oak posts.

The timber is all in the valley, or cañon, as it is called, of the branch; the valley, or bottom, varying from half a mile to a mile in width. Bluffs, and, in some places, cliffs, a hundred feet and more, wall in the bottom on both sides. Back of the bluffs is the high plains land.

Through the spring and early part of summer the cattle are pastured up here, where the feed is then fresh. But later in the season, when the droughts set in, and through the winter, we depend on the bottom down in the cañon, along the branch, for feed and shelter for the stock from the northers.

One afternoon, near the last of June, — we had moved here in April, — my younger brother, Morris, thirteen years old, and I set off up the branch, taking each a tin bucket to gather cherries and "drool plums.” The plums are nearly as large as pomegranates, and when they grow in fertile spots are quite well- flavored.

From two or three miles up the branch there is a considerable stretch along the bottom where fires had run ten or twelve years before. Wild-cherry, briars, and plums had now got in here; some of the finest wild cherries I have ever seen, almost as large as cultivated cherries, in fact, very dark red, and not at all bitter or puckery.

The cañon up there was narrower than down where the springs were; and from where we were getting the cherries it was not more than ten or fifteen rods to the foot of the crumbling sandstone crags which on that side enclosed the little interval.

Flocks of pigeons, and sometimes wild turkeys, came into the bottom at this time of year, and I had brought a shot-gun belonging to my Uncle Sidney. I could not find the cap-box, and so had only the charge in the gun, which was but a small single-barrelled piece.

We had gathered one bucket full of the drool plums, and had the other nearly filled with cherries, when we were not a little astonished at hearing the plaintive "blart" of a calf a little way off up the cañon; at least, it sounded exactly like that, yet all the cattle, as we supposed, were four or five miles below and on the prairie.

Figure 17 - Going to the Table Lands

“It’s one of our little bossies strayed away from the old cow!” exclaimed Mot; and upon that we left our cherries and started to find the calf.

We went some little distance calling, “Boss! boss! co-boss!” But the bush clumps and great clusters of dagger-grass were so thick there that it was difficult to see ahead much. At length Mot went out close to the crags, while I kept along by the branch through tall raspberry briars.

We had not been separated long, however, when I heard the same plaintive “baa-a-a-a!” again, out near where Mot was, as I thought. Upon this I turned to go to him, but had hardly taken ten steps when I heard him give a loud screech! Then another and another, as if frantic with fright. I cocked my shot-gun and ran to help him, for I thought most likely he was frightened by a rattler.”

In a moment he came plump against me round a great bunch of cactuses, running swiftly and pale as death. Before he could speak an old Indian in a calico shirt, with a long rope halter in his hand, came in sight in full chase after him.

That was the kind of calf we had heard blart!

The shot-gun was all cocked, and without a second’s thought I fired at the Indian. The turkey-shot, no doubt, hit him, for he stopped short and dropped his rope.

Just then another Indian, a young fellow, not full grown, came in sight from behind a clump of bushes. He had a gun. Other redskins set up a yell not far off when they heard me fire.

The instant I had fired I turned and ran after Mot, and threw the shot-gun into some briar bushes.

We struck into an old cattle-path, through the thickets along the foot of the crags, and ran for dear life for eighty or a hundred rods, when, to our dismay, we heard the Indians racing past us through the cherry trees off a few rods to our right. They had outrun and gone past us.

With this we turned and ran back the other way, dreadfully scared and out of breath, and coming presently to a dark hole under the overhanging rocks clambered into it—to hide.

In our flurry and fright we did not at first think of our tracks along the moist ground at the foot of the crags. Then it came into my mind that the Indians would see them and certainly find us; and I did not dare to leave our hiding-place for fear they might already have returned in search of us.

The hole into which we had crept was six or eight feet broad, but so low we had been obliged to bend to enter it. On first getting in amongst the damp, mossy rocks, we could not see anything it was so dark; but after being in there a few minutes, I began dimly to discern that the aperture led back further, over and among other rocks. So we clambered back — as our eyes became accustomed to the gloom, forty or fifty feet, where the air was very chilly and damp. We could stand up here, and as we groped back still further, came where we could not touch the rocks overhead.

We were in a cave. Our feet on the rocks raised strange echoes; even our whisperings were mysteriously repeated about us. I thought, too, that I heard a curious hissing and faint squeaks like mice.

“O-o-gh, — something soft flapped in my face!” Mot cried out; but ere we had time to think much of these things we heard the Indians outside. First a whoop which had a strange, far-off sound, then a darkening of the light at the mouth of the cave, and a scraping noise on the outer rocks, as if some of them were crawling in.

They had found our hiding-place.

For some minutes we heard them talking. Then the hole darkened again. There was another scraping noise, and soon one of the savages came in sight, crawling over the great bowlders in the low opening of the cavern, with his gun in his hand.

I felt sure he could not see us; but we moved slowly away and groped along for a number of yards. Coming to where there were some loose stones under foot, I took a good large one in each hand and stood still.

The Indian came crawling in, reaching up his hands this side and that, till he came where the passage was broader and higher. Here he stood upright, and thrusting out his gun to feel his way, came forward, step by step.

I stood still till he had come within thirty feet of me, and then I threw at him with all my might one of my big stones.

It hit him full in the chest, fairly knocking him off his feet on the slippery rocks. His gun flew out of his hand, and went clattering on the bowlders; and the way that redskin scrabbled up and went out over the rocks, and along that hole, was far from slow, I promise you! I let my other stone fly after him. When he had got nearly out, he gave a yell, and the others outside yelled.

We did not see or hear anything more of them for some minutes, and hoped they had concluded not to attempt to enter the cave again; but they were not so easily thrown off. Before a long time had passed we saw one of them crawling into the mouth of the cave, with a torch in one hand and a gun in the other. Behind him came another redskin.

Mot crept in back of the great bowlder against which we stood, and I got more stones to throw; but with their torches the Indians would soon have hunted us out, had it not been for a most singular thing which suddenly occurred.

Figure 1 - Father Time as an Organ-grinder

THE

Knockabout Club

IN THE WOODS.

THE ADVENTURES OF SIX YOUNG MEN IN THE WILDS

OF MAINE AND CANADA.

BY

C. A. STEPHENS,

AUTHOR OF u CAMPING OUT,” “LEFT ON LABRADOR,” “FOX HUNTING,” “ON THE AMAZONS,”
“THE YOUNG MOOSE HUNTERS,” ETC.

FULLY ILLUSTRATED.

BOSTON:
ESTES AND LAURIAT.
1882.

Copyright, 1881,

By Estes and Lauriat.

All Rights Reserved.

THE

KNOCK-ABOUT CLUB.

INFORMALLY.

If our railroads, factories, flour-mills, and machine-shops were perfect in construction, they would give forth, instead of thunderous and terrible noises, a grand, sweet music. Music is the synonym for perfection.

Last night I heard one of the most remarkable musical geniuses of this century set forth the above idea at great length, and it did seem as if he made his point.

“Well, what of it?” do you ask?

That was what I myself asked, after the lecturer had finished speaking.

“What of it?” I said. “This may be true. But what have we young fellows of this generation got to do about it? Locomotives, trip-hammers, and fog-horns do not make sweet music; they make a grievous noise, and will go on doing so.”

“Not forever,” replied the orator, with a grand air of prophecy. “Din, uproar, discord, and crime are the index of imperfection and error. The physical and moral forces are correlated. It is the mission of Enlightened Man to reform and bring the world into harmony. We all are, or should be, workers to this end. Nature ordains this. We are happy or unhappy as we work for good music or for a racket.”

“But many youngsters like a ‘racket,’ said a listener.

“That is because they are temporarily wrong-headed,” replied the musician.

“But how shall we get to work to bring about this universal good music?” I inquired. "Give us a practical idea, one we can work on. What shall I do?”

“First and always, get knowledge. Second, put your knowledge into effect to the best of your judgment. This is a duty. Travel abroad. Get knowledge. Come home, and put it into effect.”

Pondering this, I fell asleep at last, and later on dreamed that Father Time, as a great organ-grinder, stood turning the crank of the world. It was a huge hand-organ and an enormous mill, combined. Time, hoary and gray, but with muscles like Atlas, had hung up his old scythe, and was turning, turning, with a mighty Titanic swing. Creation resounded to the grand yet sweetly-solemn strains.

It was Pinafore. "I’m called little Buttercup, dear little Buttercup.”

As the venerable Monarch of the Ages turned on, things kept dropping out into the great universal meal-box beneath. First there came a Czar of Russia along with a lot of Nihilists, all ground fine. This batch was followed by Chancellor Bismarck with his Jews and Jesuits, ground finer still. I thought that it was on a foundation of this sort, stamped down hard like macadam, that New Europe was to be built.

Then there dropped out a lot of coarse-cracked American politicians: a very corrupt, bad-smelling grist indeed. A voice like fifty millions of people shouting together, cried, "Amen ! Grind ’em finer!”

But just then the grand old mill turned out a batch of strange and wonderful discoveries. New motors did the world’s work. Electric lights gleamed from top to bottom of it. In the midst of the glorious illumination there popped out The Knock-about Club!

That waked me; and I remembered that it had recently fallen to my lot to record the doings of this Knock-about Club and introduce it to the reader. So I arose in haste (it was already eight o’clock), and got my pen.

Why is it that there is always something so inherently awkward about introductions, manage them deftly as you can? At the outset a question of etiquette troubles me: Can I properly introduce the Club? For, being a member, it will infallibly be held by some that I am committing the ludicrous solecism of introducing myself, without so much as a letter of introduction!

True, I can urge that writers and historians are commonly accorded the privilege of introducing their characters, but must needs admit that it is a privilege they very often abuse by bringing to the reader’s acquaintance some very queer people, to say the least. So much so that, for my own part, I am sometimes of the opinion that no writer should presume to introduce to his readers characters whom he would hesitate to present to his personal friends.

But on this latter point I am happy to say that I can stand before the public with an easy and limpid conscience. My fellow-clubsmen are irreproachable. Each one carries a certificate of moral character in his face and bearing. Reader, — particularly ye young lady reader, — they are nice young men, whatever may be thought of the name of the Club.

On the former point, and just as I was setting off to take Madam Grundy’s opinion, or that of some of her leading representatives, our artist called and offered me a sketch in pencil of the Club en route for The Woods, or rather on our journey “Down East.” It occurs to me to offer a picture, which is to a certain extent true as a photographic likeness, as an informal introduction.

Informal in this case, as the reader will observe, means on a bicycle: that light and airy hermaphrodite betwixt feet and wings when the road isn’t too sandy.

The locality selected by our artist-comrade for his introductory effort is a turn of the carriage-road shortly after crossing the Massachusetts State line into New Hampshire, at a point where a guideboard says, “Exeter 11 miles.”

Figure 2 - The Club at the Cross-road.

Here we are, young ladies and gentlemen, hat in hand; and with the aid of a few brief explanatory remarks, I hope we shall be able to find ourselves sufficiently well acquainted to journey on together in quest of knowledge and adventures. That, I may add, was the object of the Club’s present tour: to see everything worth seeing, to hunt, to fish, to camp out and have a good time.

Our Club was quite an impromptu affair. Six months ago, not one of us, save in a single instance, knew, or had ever heard, of the other members. We first became acquainted on the occasion of the “Bicycle Meet” at Boston, last summer, when we were for the week the guests of our present Captain, Mr. Harold S. Dearborn. Finding that our ideas ran in similar channels, we then agreed to spend our summer vacation together, and go down East on our bicycles — our object being, at first, to test whether a country tour on bicycles was practicable or not. When we left Boston, on the 28th of June, we had no idea of taking so long a trip as we were finally led to do. But the farther we went the better we enjoyed it, and so in the end had come nigh penetrating to Hudson Bay itself! — not on our bicycles, however; though we ran out a spoke from the “Hub” of a hundred and ninety miles on these, to begin with.

As a running accompaniment to our artist’s picture, I am advised to subjoin a few facts as to the personnel of the Club.

At the head of the file, so politely doffing his straw helmet, is Captain H. S. Dearborn, citizen of Boston, Junior in college, in his twentieth year, and an enthusiastic amateur sportsman, base-ball player, and sculler; withal, a good shot. Strong point, U. S. History and Biographies of Eminent Statesmen. Special weakness (as far as observed), a certain moth-like attraction toward a pretty face: in other words, has an intense admiration for beauty.

Following the Captain, comes Roscoe C. Wayne, citizen of New York city, eighteen years old, fitted to enter college this year, afflicted with a rich parent, a small, silky moustache, and a belief that New York is all, or almost all, of America. Chiefly remarkable for being a good fellow generally, and liberal with his cash. No special weakness thus far discovered. Fairly level-headed, and prides himself on that.

After him Freeland Stein, who hails from the great city of the white shutters, marble doorsteps, and a Public Building, also marble; a thin, thoughtful youth of seventeen, yet a remarkably good bicycler, who took to his machine as naturally as a duck to water. Said to be threatened with half a million, almost any day now. Strong point, mineralogy. Has a very fine cabinet of specimen ores, crystals, gems, etc., already collected. In connection with his penchant, the following story is told of him when eighteen months old. One day he was missed, and only found after a lengthy search, sitting in a neighboring alley, crying bitterly. The cause of his young grief was, apparently, his inability to get on his feet, owing to the load he had put in his apron, the corners of which he held tightly clutched up. Being inspected, the apron was found to contain one cobble-stone, weight two pounds, two lumps of coal, two ditto of coke, eleven potsherds of stone china-ware, and about twice that number of broken glass bits. He resisted, and screamed loudly when the nurse went to scatter this treasure, and had ultimately to be carried home with the whole collection intact. What is still more curious, he says he distinctly remembers the incident — which suggests the inquiry whether any reader, distinctly or otherwise, remembers an event occurring in his eighteenth month!

Next follows Mr., or perhaps better, Master Frey Karsner of Cincinnati, our special artist, and a cousin-german of our captain. “Karzy” is the boy, being but just turned fifteen. We think he possesses genius, and he sometimes appears to think so himself, having, like Artemus Ward, an enjoyable appreciation of his own peculiar talent. Karzy wished to go to Italy this year, to pursue his art studies, having graduated from the High School of his native city a year ago. It is a question of dollars and cents, I believe. I have little doubt that a bicycle is much better for him than a palette. But his heart longs after Rome and its studios. In fact, he looks somewhat like a Roman, and his nose is wholly Roman.

Next to last trundles Moses O. Davis, a landed proprietor from one of the rural counties of the Hoosier section. Moses doesn’t take much stock in colleges and the like, but goes in for living in a large sense. Nothing excites Moses O., not even the Indiana election last fall. “Corn grows all the same,” Moses says. The matter of another fellow’s getting awfully mad with him seems always to impress Moses as a jolly little joke: a thing to laugh at in a large, lazy way. Nobody ever saw Moses himself mad yet. There is a bet in the Club that he cannot get mad. Moses says he would like to see the man that gets him mad. He rides a fifty-six inch wheel, and is correspondingly big all over, but not yet very mature, and is probably still under eighteen. As to the matter of his age and birthday, Moses says there were so many of them in the family, that he believes the old lady forgot to set it down. He plays a cornet, and is the bugler to the Club; also plays the fiddle; but plays an autophone best of all, and remarks of this latter instrument that it is a great saving of a fellow’s brains, and “makes mighty interesting music.”

Bringing up the rear is “No. 6,” or, “the scribe,” whom the artist — following nature and fact, as he says — figures as just recovering an upright position from one of his ordinary attitudes of misfortune. It is mortifying, but cannot be helped. It must be allowed that it often happens. The Club attributes it sometimes to scribe’s palsy, sometimes to the bewildering deflection of light through his eyeglasses.

CHAPTER I.

DOWN EAST ON A WHEEL

A bicycle is indeed an odd-looking vehicle; and to see half a dozen fellows dashing along on them at the rate of fifteen miles an hour, is pretty sure to attract the undivided attention of people not accustomed to the sight.

“Look a there, Hiram!” we heard one farmer, in a potato-field killing bugs, sing out to another gathering green pease the other side of the line wall. “Gosh a’ mighty! Only see them fellers agoing it atop of them wagon wheels! What for ‘nation’ sake be they a-settin’ on?”

Another time, as we were passing through M----- Plantation, far up in Maine, in the “greenback” region, we had got an early start one morning, and were trundling along in the wheel ruts; and our captain, in the exuberance of his spirits, had put on a spurt and gone ahead. It was about sunrise. There were farms scattered here and there along the road; and the good folks were at this hour just rousing out to milk their cows. Dearborn’s bicycle was a nickel-plated one; and as he darted noiselessly along the road, an old farmer standing at the corner of his barn with two tin milk-pails on his arm, caught sight of him, and stopped short in the middle of a mighty yawn. Probably his eyes were not yet fairly open. His old lady was coming along the path from the house with another pail.

“Marm!” he sang out to her, “there goes old Split-huf himself, straddle of a streak o’ lightnin’, I vum! See his old forked tail glisten!”

Before Dearborn had got fairly past and round the turn, the rest of us hove in sight, in full chase.

“And, marm!” shouted the old man, “here comes another of ’um! — twin brother to him! — and another! — and another ! Run marm — get the Bible!”

“Marm” disappeared, but whether for the holy volume or a bumper of hot water, we did not remain to learn.

The great annoyance is meeting teams. Now, a bicycle has just as good a right on the public highway as any other vehicle. But the public has not yet come to quite believe that it has. Drivers of teams often act as if they thought that a bicycler had no rights whatever which they ought to respect. It was our policy to carefully avoid all quarrels on this point. Almost always, the horses would prick up their ears, and often show signs of alarm. In all such cases, we at once dismounted and stood quietly by our machines. The teams would then generally pass us without further trouble. But it is necessary for the bicycler to have both patience and discretion. Especially should he use care and courtesy when meeting carriages driven by ladies. Frequently in the country, the farmers’ wives and daughters will be met, driving to and from the village store. A Down-East farmer’s horse is often a very ticklish animal, seldom more than half broken from a colt, and addicted to shying at every new object it sees. Frequently it is the farmer’s pet beast, — never allowed to carry over three persons in the wagon, and they must all walk up the hills, — and in the matter of keeping and usage, sometimes fares better than the farmer’s wife.

One day we met a rackety old express wagon drawn by a fat, rough-haired, gray mare, and driven by an elderly woman whose face was mostly concealed within the depths of a very extraordinary bonnet. The mare saw us, stopped and began to back and prance; while the poor old lady shook the reins, crying out to her horse and to us in a very thin, distressed voice, “Whoa, dear! Whoa, dear! Du pray, young men, git them frisky-lookin’ things o’yourn out o’the road! Dolly’s so timid of ’em!”

In a moment we were off, and “Rike ” taking “Dolly” by the bit, led her past — much to the old aunty’s relief. “I dunno who you be,” she said to him, “but I’m sure I’m very much obleeged to ye.”

Another day, while passing through the town of G-----, we met aTartar.

It was quite early in the morning, and the road none too good. Presently we saw a man coming toward us, driving a flock of sheep. Not wishing to scatter the flock, we dropped off our bicycles and stood aside for them to pass. As the man came nearer we saw that there was one of the sheep which he was not driving exactly, but wheeling it like a wheelbarrow; that is to say, he had the sheep’s hind-legs in his hands, and was making the creature walk before him on his forelegs. It struck us as being a very odd performance. It was a large ram, with big, curling horns.

“That’s one way to drive a sheep!” Rike observed.

“Wal, it’s a good way,” replied the farmer, who was an oldish man in a drilling frock, and a very much sweated and stained palm-leaf hat.

“A rather cruel way, I should say,” said Rike.

“You think so?” queried the old fellow, with a grin and a broad stare at our vehicles.

“Yes, I do,” exclaimed Rike, somewhat emphatically.

“Wal, now,” drawled the old man, with a quizzical look on his puckered face, “if you think I’d better, I’ll let him down. I’ll do most anything to obleege sech a nice-looking lot o’ young fellers” — and he let the sheep’s hind-legs drop.

The animal straightened up, stamped one foot, and shook his head, as if the unnatural position he had been in had caused a rush of blood in that direction. Then he took a step toward us, and before we had the least thought of dodging, gave Rike a tremendous knock which pitched him sprawling into the sand between the wheel-ruts.

The rest of us scrambled to get our bicycles out of the way. And of all the haw-haws, I never heard anything beat that old fellow’s in the drilling frock.

Rike jumped up, but before he could get off his knees to his feet, the ram took him again from behind, and sent him his whole length. And again that heartless old barbarian doubled up and laughed. One might have heard him half a mile off.

Figure 3 - The Ram Took Him Again and Sent Him His Whole Length.

At this we began to bestir ourselves to rescue our man. Moses O. seized a fence-pole, and in another moment would have broken the ram’s back, had not the old farmer, breaking off in the midst of his laugh, shouted, “Avast you!” and running adroitly up, again grabbed the ram’s hind-legs.

Rike had got up. He was covered with dirt and much ruffled in temper.

“You are a mean old party!” he exclaimed. “If you were not quite so old and gray, I would punch your head for you!”

“O, wal now!” drawled the ram-wheeler. “If ye think best tu, ye needn’t stan’ fer that a mite. I ain’t so old yit that I ask enny favers of ye.”

He was such a queer, tough old specimen, and so ready for a fracas, that we laughed — all but Wayne.

“Come along, Rike,” said Moses O., " or you’ll get the worst of it again!”

We got our comrade remounted and moved on. The last we saw of the old farmer and his ram, he was wheeling the beast up to a pair of bars leading into a pasture beside the road.

Our nearest approach to an accident, which, however, resulted in nothing worse than a ludicrous tumble, happened one afternoon on the old country road in the town of W—. After climbing a pretty steep hill, there is here a long descent to northward. We had to toil up the hill on foot. But as the descent from the top did not look very formidable, we mounted, and with our brakes well in hand, started to run down. At the foot of the descent there is a moderately sharp turn in the road, round a clump of thick white maples; and on the lower side of the turn, just round it, stands a small district schoolhouse. School was in session at the time, and the door stood open.

We bore down in grand style, at the rate of a mile in three minutes, or less, and were soon nearing the turn. All would have gone well enough had we not had the misfortune to meet a very large load of hay, just coming round the turn, drawn by a yoke of oxen. We did not see the load till within fifty yards of it. The road was but a narrow one. There was but one thing for us to Ho.

“Skip the gutter, Charlie!”

“Sauve qui peut!”

“Gee, Buck!” yelled the bare-armed teamster who was driving with a pitchfork. But his gee-ing came all too late to do us any good.

Figure 4 - On the fly

We were already in the ditch. There was a tangled mass of rank raspberry bushes, bull-thistles, and mugwort across the gutter on the lower side. “Karzy,” Moses O., and “No. 6,” went into that — on the fly. Stein, a few lengths ahead, brought up in the schoolhouse wood-pile; while the captain went plump into the schoolhouse entry — came very near riding bodily into the arms of the school-mistress, a very comely young woman, who was coming to the door to see what was going on.

It was all the work of about three seconds; and meantime, Rike, who saw his best chance on the other side of the road, had shot along the gutter past the off ox, and went clear of the load, all right. But his rapid passage frightened the steers. In spite of their driver’s yells they sheered suddenly into the little open yard of the schoolhouse, and came near lodging the high load against the house. The woodpile stopped them, too; but the doorway was completely blockaded with the rack-cart and hay, so that our friend Harold and his bicycle were shut in there along with the school-mistress and her pupils for some minutes. What they said to each other has not yet transpired. He did not seem to us to make such prompt efforts to get out as one might have supposed he would under the circumstances.

Yet no visible harm was done — to any one; and we parted from our suddenly-formed acquaintance with mutual civilities, some five minutes later. But the captain was observed to look back wistfully, as we trundled away.

At Berwick, where we were very pleasantly entertained over a two days’ rain-storm, the old people told us many stories of the early settlement of the town, called by the Indians Newichawannock, and some thrilling incidents of the Indian war. Here one of the most heroic deeds of American history was performed by a young lady, whose name has been suffered to be forgotten. The savages were menacing Saco, and Captain Wincoln, of Berwick, with all the men of the place, marched to the assistance of the Saco settlers. While they were gone, a party of Indians suddenly attacked the house of John Zozier, where there were gathered for safety, fifteen women and children.

These all sat at the table eating supper, when the Indians were seen approaching by a young woman of seventeen or eighteen, who gave the alarm, and, closing the outer door, held it fast, while the others escaped at the rear of the house. The savages cut through the door with their tomahawks, but still the brave girl held fast, and it was not till one of them had reached in and repeatedly struck her with his knife and hatchet, that they could gain an entrance. The girl fell at her post — dead, as the Indians thought.

Finding that the house was empty, and that the others had fled, the savages gave chase, but were only able to overtake two small children, whom they killed on the spot.

The girl, who had thus bravely barred the door, lay senseless for many hours, but was found next day by some of Wincoln’s party, who had returned, and was taken to the garrison-house. Ultimately she recovered from her wounds. It is a loss to our history that the name of such a heroine should have been forgotten.

Here, and at Scarborough and Falmouth, the Indians committed terrible atrocities. At the latter place, on the Presumpscot River, remote from neighbors, lived a settler named John Wakely, with his family, in a log-house which he had lately built. Being, as they thought, on good terms with the Indians, they had cleared land and planted crops.

Without warning, the house was attacked at noon, one day, by eight savages, and the entire family murdered in the most brutal manner, with the exception of one little girl, whom they took away into captivity, and who lived with them several years.

New Gloucester, a day’s ride farther to the north-east, was also the scene of many tragic incidents during the Indian wars. But we shall remember it best from our visit, of an hour or so, to the very interesting Shaker village there.

Figure 5 - Massacre of the Wakeley Family

At South Paris, where we arrived on the 7th of July, we stopped for a day to visit Mount Mica, famous the world over among mineralogists for its wonderful red and green tourmalines. Our comrade Stein had quite looked forward to this trip as one of the “lions” of the tour — for him; and he has prepared a brief history of the locality, which we are permitted to insert.

MOUNT MICA.

WHAT THE HAMLIN BOYS FOUND THERE.

On the last day of November, 1820, two boys, named Elijah Hamlin and Ezekiel Holmes, — names destined later in life to become familiar throughout this country, — were searching for minerals along the foot of Streaked Mountain, in the town of Paris, Maine. They were students at the village academy, and had then just begun the study of Mineralogy.

The boys had been tramping through the woods all the afternoon, having found little of interest save a few fragments of rose-quartz. Just as the sun was setting, they emerged from the forest upon the brow of a hill facing west. Here, tired from their long walk, they sat down for a few minutes to rest and enjoy the surpassing beauty of the scenery.

The chill of snow was already in the air, and, rapt as the two youths had been in the grandeur of the landscape, a shiver warned them to depart before the sunlight faded out.

Young Holmes ran down the hill to return to the village. Hamlin was following him more leisurely, when a vivid gleam of green caught his eye flashing from an object amid the loose red dirt, on the root of an upturned tree.

Advancing quickly to the spot, he perceived a fragment of a clear, green crystal lying in the loose earth. Its gem-like flash told him that it was no common stone, and he grasped it with a thrill of delight.

What wonder that the next moment he made the woodland resound to his excited call after “Zeke” to come back?

And Zeke was not long coming back. At sight of the crystal his keen eye sparkled, and he fell to searching the earth about the root and beneath the leaves with that innate eagerness which always characterizes the born mineralogist.

But twilight, rapidly fading into darkness, descended upon the searchers, rendering one stone indistinguishable from another.

“Never mind!” said Zeke. “We will come up again in the morning.”

Figure 6 - "Zeke! Zeke! Come Back!"

But during the night a storm gathered. At daybreak it was snowing heavily, and a thick white mantle lay on all the surrounding hills. Winter had come; nor did the snow thaw until the next April.

During all these months the two students did not speak to any one of their possible discovery. Often, as the spring advanced, they turned their eyes toward the hill, and as soon as its crest was bare, they set off to visit it again.

From the tree-root, where Hamlin had found his crystal, they went up to the exposed ledge at the very crest of the hill. Here a rich sight met their astonished eyes. Upon that bare ledge, and in the loose earth about its edges, they found over thirty almost perfect crystals, which from their great beauty and transparency rank as true gems. They found also a great number of imperfect crystals. In a word, our two students had discovered the now widely famous Mount Mica — so named from the quantities of mica which subsequent blasting has thrown out.

The crystals were those wonderful green and red tourmalines which have since gone to adorn some of the choicest collections in both Europe and America, and even to be set in kingly diadems. But neither of the boys then knew their value.

Professor Cleveland, of Bowdoin College, was then known as the leading mineralogist of the United States. To him the boys addressed a letter, and inclosed with it some of the smaller crystals.

The professor at once replied, assuring them that their specimens were both rare and valuable. With boyish generosity they made up a package containing some of the finest of the crystals, and sent it to the professor, intrusting it to the late Gov. Lincoln, then a member of Congress, who was about setting off for Washington.

At that early day, much of the journey to the national capital had to be performed on horseback. The governor took the package, but either he lost it en route, or else it was stolen from him. It never reached its destination.

There is little doubt that by some secret agency these tourmalines found their way into the cabinets of certain European mineralogists.

During the two following years, a great many crystals and fragments were picked up about the ledge. Thus far, however, no attempt had been made to blast. But in the spring of 1823, Cyrus and Hannibal Hamlin (the same who has since been Vice-President of the United States), both younger brothers of Elijah, and then aged thirteen and fifteen, determined to explore the hill and its ledges.

As few, if any, specimens could be found around the ledge, they bought a pound of powder, and borrowing some blasting tools, attacked the principal ledge with great spirit.

Figure 7 - Drilling Holes in the Lodge.

It is no easy task for lads of this age to drill and blast rock. Unless properly held, the drill soon sticks fast in the hole.

The safety fuse had not then been invented. All blasts had to be loaded with a wire inserted in the hole, which was afterwards pulled out. This tiny channel was then primed with powder, which was commonly fired by a train of swingletow, — a dangerous business at best.

The two boys drilled five holes in the ledge, which they loaded and blasted out, one after another. The surface of the ledge had looked gray and weather-worn. But the explosions threw out great pieces of bright-colored lepidolite, broad sheets of mica, and glittering fragments of quartz; and the last blast opened down to a soft spot in the ledge where the rock had become decomposed.

Digging in this with the points of their drills, they broke through into a cavity which would have held, perhaps, two or three bushels. This dusty hole was partly filled with what seemed to be sand.

Thrusting in his hand, Hannibal groped in the loose stuff a moment, then drew out something which, glittering in his fingers, proved to be a magnificent tourmaline crystal, of a rich green color, and clear as a gem.

“Hurrah!” shouted the lad. “Hurrah! We’ve found a handsomer one than ’Lige did!”

Well might the boy hurrah. They had found the most beautiful tourmaline which the earth has ever yielded, perhaps. It was a perfect crystal, perfect at each faceted extremity, and finely formed. In length it was two and a half inches, by two inches in diameter — a huge, clear, dark-green gem.

Scratching away with renewed eagerness, the boys soon emptied the “pocket” of its contents. From it they took out over twenty crystals, of varying colors and tints, but mainly red and green. Some of these were fully three inches long and an inch in diameter, banded, or rather clouded, red, white, and green. Of these splendid gems they took out enough to nearly fill a two-quart basket; while an ox-cart was required to enable them to get home their fine specimens of mica and lepidolite. Altogether, this “find” far surpassed those found by their older brother, Elijah. The lads were jubilant, for, boy-like, they had prosecuted the blasting less for the love of beautiful specimens than for the money they expected to realize from the sale of the stones.

They had learned from Elijah the names of several eminent mineralogists, both of Europe and America. To these they at once addressed letters, stating what they had to sell. And from time to time thereafter, Cyrus, who had meanwhile bought out Hannibal’s interest, sold the most of the gems. What sums he received for them it is now impossible to ascertain; for not many years afterwards he removed to Texas, where he died. But it is likely that he received, in those early days, but a comparatively trifling price for the crystals.

This is all that is really known of the fate of those wonderful tourmalines. They were dispersed over the world. Some of the finest are said to be in the famous Imperial Collection of Minerals at Vienna.

In 1825 Professor Shepard, then a young and enthusiastic mineralogist, obtained some fine tourmalines here. And after him, the ill-fated Professor Webster found one or two beautiful crystals.

Here Professor Addison Verrill, of Yale College, prosecuted some of his boyhood researches in mineralogy, finding on one occasion a very fine nugget of tin weighing several pounds.

A great many persons have searched and blasted the ledges; and it is believed that crystals might still be obtained by further mining. But nothing obtained here of late can compare with those exquisitely beautiful gems which the Hamlin boys found.

Dr. A. C. Hamlin, a relative of the family, possesses what is probably the finest collection of Mount Mica tourmalines in this country. One of his crystals is remarkable for having a red and green shaft, surmounted at its faceted “point” by a snow-white crown — a veritable queen of crystals.

Mount Mica is scarcely a mountain, in the usual sense, but simply a ledgy hill in a pasture. Great heaps of broken stone attest to the vigorous search which later mineralogists have made. On the occasion of our visit I was able to secure nothing finer than a good, clear specimen of lepidolite and a bit of green tourmaline, the fragment of a crystal. But the ledges look as if they might be hugging hidden treasures within their stony bosoms.

CHAPTER II.

ROUGHER AND WILDER GREW THE WAY.

If we had been as expert riders as some of whom we have recently read, who crossed a broad, raging river on the “stringers” of a dismantled bridge, or had we possessed bicycles specially fitted to run on railroads, we might have got forward from this point much more comfortably on the rails of the Grand Trunk Railway. The wagon-road was so bad that it is a lasting monument of what a bicycle can do, that we covered the distance, nine miles, from South to West Paris.

But a charming bit of scenery repaid us for our effort: Snow’s Falls, on the Little Androscoggin River. A farmer living hard by, (at whose place we pulled up for a draught of water,) told us the following story as to the origin of the name.

Over a hundred years ago, when the whites first began to come into this region, two hunters, named Snow and Jackson, went to the Falls one afternoon, either to fish or to set traps. They came up the left bank of the river, and had been peering about the ledges round the cataract for some minutes, when they espied three Indians on the other side, sitting on the rocks, with their guns and tomahawks. Both the whites instantly cocked their pieces and took aim at the redskins, but one of the Indians, discovering¹ them at the same moment, started up, and in broken English shouted, “Quarter! Me 'want quarter!”

“Quarter, you red skunk!” cried Snow, contemptuously. “I’ll halve ye, and the devil may quarter ye!” With that he fired, and shot the Indian. But one of the other savages, firing at the same instant, mortally wounded Snow himself, who died within a few hours. Jackson escaped.

Figure 8 - Snow's Falls One Hundred Years Ago.

The scenery, both from Mount Mica and henceforward all along our route, was wonderfully good, sometimes really grand, with a certain peculiar and picturesque wildness, which one might travel far to find excelled.

The farmer told us still another story of one of the early settlers here, a rather exciting tale, but one he assured us was true in every particular; and he pointed out the farm where this settler had made his first clearing. I had heard the story previously, or one much like it, and I think that many writers have made it the foundation for a thrilling back- woods tale. The following is the true version, as told in the locality where the adventure occurred.

CHASED BY A CATAMOUNT.

One spring morning the settler, whose name was Jackson, set off on a twenty-mile tramp to his nearest neighbor’s cabin, in what is now the town of Rumford, to procure potatoes with which to plant a burnt patch which he had recently cleared. His route lay through the woods and was marked by a line of “spotted” trees. Having procured the potatoes, he started for home. It was afternoon already; but he had planned to travel only a part of the distance that day, and, spending the night in the woods, to reach home early in the following forenoon.

About half-way between his neighbor’s cabin and his own, at a point where is now situated one of the villages of the town of Woodstock, familiarly known as “Pinhook Village,” was a rude camp, erected by trappers whose mink, sable, and otter lines were set all the way from New Gloucester to the Androscoggin River in Rumford.

Here Jackson decided to pass the night. It was late when he reached the camp. Throwing from his back the bag that contained the potatoes, he

Figure 9 - A Maine Lake.

gathered wood for his fire, got his supper, and was about making preparations to lie down to sleep, when he was startled by a loud, savage scream from back in the forest toward the river. In an instant he knew his peril, and his hair almost stood on end. The rude camp in which he had purposed passing the night was a mere bark shelter from the rain, and no protection against the assaults of any strong animal. He was unarmed; he had not taken with him even the axe, which is so often carried by backwoodsmen. The beast had smelled his fried pork.

What was he to do? That scream he knew too well, so merciless in its shrillness and strength. No wonder that the Indians called the beast that uttered it the “devil,” and that the settlers adopted the name. It was the well-known panther of our northern woods.

The frightened man felt that his only hope was in flight. Grasping his bag of potatoes, and a smaller bag which contained his food, he set off toward his solitary home and ran for several miles, hearing nothing of the animal, and beginning to hope that it had been content to drive him from the camp.

But by and by that dreadful scream again reached his ears; and he knew then that the animal had given chase. With increased speed he rushed forward.

In a few moments the piercing shriek of the pursuing catamount rent the air again. The animal seemed to be in the trees just behind; and fearing lest it should spring upon him next moment, and feeling the dire necessity of making more haste, the poor fellow dropped his precious bag of potatoes. Relieved of this burden, he went on as rapidly as the trail and darkness would allow.

For a considerable time he heard no more of the panther. The bag of potatoes had at least awakened the creature’s curiosity sufficiently to cause it to stop to examine it. A gleam of hope now came to the settler. He had little that the panther would eat; but if the beast could be detained by that which was not food, he might, by dropping such articles as he wore, gain time for escape.

Forward he sped. But ten miles is a long stretch. Could he accomplish it before the panther would spring upon him? His heart beat wildly as minute after minute passed. Then again the sharp scream pierced the still night-air of the forest. So near did it seem, that he almost expected the panther would leap upon him from the trees. His little bag of provisions was next dropped; and for a time it was evident that the fierce beast had relinquished the chase. But it was only for a time. Again the startling cry was heard in the distance, then nearer. In an agony of fear, Jackson dropped his hat, and when the panther again drew near, his coat, and finally his vest.

This was the last article of clothing which he could remove while continuing his flight. As this was thrown away, the agonized man felt that his last hope was gone. On, on he rushed. The panther, uttering at intervals its fierce screams, followed after. Why the creature delayed its attack seems unaccountable. Perhaps it found no good position from which to make its leap. Perhaps it was playing with its prey. Possibly it was too cowardly to spring upon the man unless sure of an advantage. With desperate energy the settler fled on. His strength was giving out.

The clearing about his cabin at last came into view. Behind him he heard the quick leaps of the panther. Must he perish just within sight of his home?

With a last effort of despair he nerved himself for a final struggle. In a few moments the woods ahead of him became brighter. He had reached the clearing.

But between him and his home lay the river. This must be forded. He leaped the bank and plunged into the stream. As he urged his way through the water, the panther came to the clearing, and bounding across it, leaped into the stream scarcely twenty yards behind him. But here the settler had the advantage. His progress through the water was faster than that of the panther; he gained a little on his pursuer. A little back from the opposite bank of the river stood his cabin. What if, even at its door, the maddened animal should overtake him!

As he reached the bank, he shouted to his wife at the top of his voice. She heard him cry out. Alarmed, and assured that danger must be at hand, she flew to the door and opened it. Up the bank at a headlong run came the settler, and gasping for breath, sprang into the house — staggered, then fell prostrate upon the floor.

Quick as thought, his wife shut the door and dropped the bar into its socket. Next moment, with a shock that made the cabin tremble, the catamount bounded against the door.

It was some time before the measures employed by his wife brought Jackson back to consciousness. Such terrible exertion as he had made would have cost a less hardy man his life.

Next morning Jackson’s hair, which had been dark brown, or black, was found to have turned white — either from the fright or his over-exertion. His little boy, six years old, said that he saw the colt look in at the window-pane two or three times after his “pa” ran home that night. No doubt the panther was lurking about the cabin.

By the next day, however, Jackson was able to be astir, and wishing to get, if possible, the clothing he had thrown away, he went over the trail which had been the scene of his terrible flight. This time, with proper arms, he felt that he would not be unwilling to meet his pursuer. On reaching the place where he had dropped one after another of his garments, he found them torn into shreds by the panther’s claws. The provision-bag had been rent open and the food devoured, while the potatoes were scattered around the spot where they had been dropped.

Rougher and hillier grew the road — hills such as metropolitan bicyclers never dreamed of. The day was hot. Climbing so many long hills made us very thirsty. We had frequently to call at the farm-houses for water; there was none elsewhere.

Our worthy captain in particular seemed to be a great sufferer for water; he called at about every other house. But we began to observe that in this matter he was influenced much by the faces he saw at the open windows and doors. If a fair young pink-and-white face chanced to be seen at a window, the captain was always very thirsty. He would call — for water — alone if the rest of us did not care to. Indeed, he seemed to prefer calling alone; and now and then he would not catch us up for a mile or two.

Chaff failed to bring him to order. The Club grew scandalized. Naturally the others did not like the idea of his running a monopoly which their modesty forbade to them; and this feeling culminated toward night in the biggest joke of the tour, a double-dyed, practical joke.

Dearborn was behind — for the fourth or fifth time — when the rest of us came to where the road forked, and a rather tall guideboard, with outstretched finger, said, “Bryants Pond 3 Miles.” We had planned to stop at this village overnight. The glance of Moses O. was observed to dwell, in a contemplative sort of way, on that guide-board after reading the inscribed information. “I have it!” he exclaimed with a lazy laugh. “Just hold my machine, Karzy. I’ve a trick worth all of his!”

(His referred to Captain Harold.)

“O Moses! what is it?” we asked.

“Look sharp!” said Moses O.

He “shinned up” that guide-post, and wrenching off the board with one tug of those Hoosier arms, tacked it by the protruding nails to the other side of the post. The index-finger now pointed along the other road.

“That will fetch him, I reckon,” Moses remarked. “See?”

Figure 10 - Moses O. Turning the Guide-Post.

We saw, inwardly consented, and proceeded onward without I delay.

We reached the tavern at the village by the Pond, washed, and I sat down out on the piazza, to rest and wait for supper. The captain had not come. By and by we ate supper. Still he did not arrive. We began to fear that he might have missed his way. It was not till twilight had begun to fall that our belated one put in his appearance.

“Well, wherever have you been?” the others all shouted in a chorus of reproach. “We’ve been very uneasy about you — very!”

Dearborn carried it off pretty well. Whether he took it all in or not, we could not tell.

He had met some very agreeable people back along, he said, and hoped we would all excuse him.

He seemed tired, and lay down on a settee, as not much disposed to talk.

After a time, Moses O. slyly beckoned the rest of us into the hall. He had taken the cyclometer off the captain’s bicycle. It indicated for that day a little over twenty-seven miles. Those on the others, belonging to the rest of the Club, marked but fifteen and a half.

No further allusion was ever made to the circumstance. But our comrade was seldom thirsty after that.

Figure 1 - Aunt Martha's Corner Cupboard - Frontispiece.

Aunt Martha’s

Corner Cupboard.

CHAPTER I.

THE CORNER CUPBOARD.

I am afraid that Charley and Richard Knight gave their master a great deal of trouble.

The school they went to had just broken up for the Christmas holidays, and neither of them had won a prize. Indeed, they were never likely to do so, judging from the way in which they went on.

They were good-tempered lads, and favorites with their playmates. If they had a cake sent them from home, they always shared it with the rest of the school. And they were first and foremost at every game that was played. Their blue eyes were always twinkling with fun; and if they had been sent to Mr. Birch’s Academy merely to enjoy themselves, it would have been all very well.

But it is of no use mincing the matter: they were the most idle lads in the school. Nobody could make them learn their lessons—not even Mr. Birch, though he was very strict, and now and then gave them a caning.

It was a pity they were so idle. Their father was a learned man, and wished them to follow in his steps. It made him very unhappy when they came home without a prize; and always by the next post, a long letter from the schoolmaster to complain that he could not make them work.

Their mother tried to excuse them, and said it was “time enough yet.” But their father was of another opinion, now that Richard had turned twelve; and he used to shake his head, and look very sad.

This cold, snowy Christmas the boys were not going home. It was a promise that they should spend the holidays with their Aunt Martha; and her old-fashioned carriage was at the door to take them.

They had not the least objection, for they were very fond of Aunt Martha, as indeed was everybody that had ever seen her.

She lived in a house with gable ends, just as you turn into the village. It was a very old house, and was said to have been built in the reign of King John. It was quite covered with ivy; and there was a large garden, but the snow had hidden everything in it

The rooms were large, but very low. The one that Aunt Martha liked the best had the morning sun upon it, and looked into the garden. And here she had her work-table, and her basket of knitting, for her eyes were not very good, now she was getting old. And here she sat all the day long.

Close by was her corner cupboard, that she kept locked up, and the key was on a bunch that she carried in her pocket. She never left her cupboard open, because it had so many things in it

The boys knew the cupboard by heart. Out of it came sweet cakes, and honey and sugar; and tops and marbles, and all the things they liked. And there were no tiresome spelling-books, or grammars, or anything of the kind, to plague them.

But you must not suppose that Aunt Martha was an ignorant lady. Far from it. She knew a great many things indeed, and she did not like the thought that her dear little nephews should grow up to be dunces, which was most likely to be the case.

Of course, she did not presume to think she could teach them so well as Mr. Birch, who understood Latin and Greek, and had kept a school twenty years. But she had a scheme in her head to teach them something.

Not that she intended them to learn lessons in the holidays—that would-have been extremely unkind. The knowledge she meant to give them was not to be found in their lesson-books, thumbed and dogeared as they were; for an idle boy can wear his book out without using it. No; the lore she was thinking about was contained close by, in her corner cupboard.

It seemed to Aunt Martha—for she was a lady of lively imagination—as if everything in that cupboard,—her china, her tea, her coffee, her sugar, even her needle,—had a story to tell, and a most entertaining one too. Had not many of the things been in foreign parts, where are great palm-trees, and monkeys, and black men, and lions, and tigers?

And if they had not been abroad, they were sure to have something to relate that the boys had never heard of.

The boys loved to hear stories told them. There was a time, just when it got dusk, before the lamp was lighted, or the tea and plum-cake brought in. Charley and Richard would have played about all day long, and pelted each other with snow-balls, and made slides on the pond, and scampered up and down the lane, till their legs, young as they were, began to feel tired. And then it was nice to sit on the hearth-rug before the fire, and hear Aunt Martha tell a tale.

Now, Aunt Martha had prepared a great many tales, and had them, so to say, at her finger-ends. She had not to make them up as she went on, or that would have spoiled everything. Indeed, I almost think she had learned them by heart.

She hoped that when her dear little boys had heard all the curious things she was about to relate, it would make them want to read for themselves.

Charley and Richard had no idea of the trouble their good aunt was taking on their account, and they did just as they had always done. They trundled their hoops, and threw snow-balls, and scampered about to their heart’s content. And when, at last, their legs began to ache, good old Sally, who had lived with Aunt Martha for nearly thirty years, fetched them in, took off their wet boots and put on dry ones, and brushed their hair, and washed their faces, and sent them into the parlor to their aunt.

“She’ll have a story to tell, I warrant,” said old Sally, who was a little in the secret.

Now, everything happened just as it ought to do.

The boys wanted a story as much as ever, but, like the rest of the world, they wished for something new.

They were thoroughly acquainted with “Jack the Giant-Killer,” and entertaining as he had once been, they were by this time a little tired of him.

They knew “Cinderella” and “Little Red Riding Hood” by heart, and they did not want to hear them over again. Not that they could get really tired of such delightful stories, but they “might lie by,” Charley said, “for one Christmas, and something else come out.”

Aunt Martha was quite willing—indeed, this was just what she had been planning for. Her dear old face brightened up, and looked as pleased as could be, when Charley settled himself on the rug, and Richard brought a stool and sat close by, their merry blue eyes fixed intently upon her.

Then Aunt Martha began to relate her first story – “The Story of the Tea-Cup.”

Figure 2 - Worcester Jug.

Figure 3 - Chinamen

CHAPTER II.

THE STORY OF THE TEA-CUP.

ROME,” as I daresay you have heard it said, “was not built in a day.”

People who use the expression, mean by it that nothing of any value can be done without a great deal of time and trouble.

The tea-cup seems a simple thing, and you use and handle it very often, and your tea out of it every afternoon. But perhaps you have never been told its whole history “from beginning to end,” as the story-books say, and do not know that it takes a vast amount of labor, and sets numbers of persons to work, before it can become a cup at all.

I will speak of the best china, that is kept on the top shelf in the cupboard, and only comes out on high days and holidays. It is very superior, let me tell you, to the blue and white cups and saucers in the kitchen, that have no gold rim round them, and did not cost nearly so much money.

The word china will remind you of a country a long way off, where the gentlemen have great plaits of hair hanging down their backs, that look like tails, and the ladies hobble about in little shoes turned up at the toes.

Figure 4 - Mandarin Vase

The Chinaman drinks a great deal of tea, because he likes it, and the tea grows in his country. And the teacups are always being handed about on little trays, that everybody may have some. So the Chinaman has a great deal of practice in making tea-cups, and can do it remarkably well.

I am sorry to say he is not of an open disposition, and likes to keep everything he knows to himself.

He would not tell the people who lived in other countries how he made his cups, though they were very curious to know, and asked him over and over again.

There is a town in China where a great many potters lived, and made their beautiful cups. The streets were quite crowded with the potters, and boat-loads of rice came every day for them to eat.

Figure 5 - Decorating Chinese Pottery.

There was a river close by the town; and when the cups and pots were finished, they were packed and sent away in the boats. The potters’ furnaces were always burning to bake the cups, so that at night the town looked as if it were on fire.

The potters would not let a stranger stay all night in the place, for fear he should find out the secret of the cup-making. He was obliged either to sleep in one of the boats, or to go away till the next morning.

But it happened that two strangers had been on the watch for a long time, and at last they thought they had found out the secret.

Figure 6 - Chinaman Baking his Cups.

One day they bought some great squares, or bricks, that were being sold in the market and carried off by the potters. They felt quite sure this was the stuff the cups were going to be made of. Now the bricks were sold on purpose to be used in the potteries. They were made of a kind of flint called petunse, that looks bright and glittering, as if it had been sprinkled with something to make it shine. And the Chinaman collects it with great care, and grinds it to powder, and makes the bricks of it.

The two strangers carried the bricks home to their own country, and set to work to make cups.

But, alas! they could do no kind of good. They were like a workman who had left half his tools behind him. For they wanted another substance to mix with the petunse, and that was called kaolin.

Now kaolin was dug by the Chinaman out of some deep mines, that he knew very well, and often went to.

It lay about in little lumps, and he picked it out, and made it into bricks just as he had done the other.

And he laughed very much when he heard what the “barbarians,” as he called them, had been trying to do. For he did not pity them in the least.

“They think themselves very clever,” he said, “to make a body that shall be all flesh and no bones.”

He meant that the kaolin was hard, and could not turn to powder when it was burnt as the petunse did; so that it was like bones to the cup, and made it firm. Indeed, without it the cup was too soft, and did not hold together.

I should not have told you this long story if it had nothing to do with the best china. But people can get a kind of clay out of Cornwall, in England, that does quite as well as the Chinaman’s bricks, and the best china is always made of it. People come a long way to look for the “porcelain clay,” as it is called; and they dig it out of the earth, and carry it to a great building that is, in fact, a porcelain manufactory, where all kinds of cups and saucers, and jugs and basins are constantly being made.

And as soon as the clay got there, it was thrust into a machine, where it ran upon a number of sharp knives that work round and round, and have been set there on purpose to chop it to pieces. When it had been chopped long enough, it was turned into a kind of churn, and churned as though it were going to be made into butter. Indeed when the churning was over, the person who had churned it called it "clay-cream.”

Figure 7 - Interior of a Pottery.

Other matters, such as flint and bone, were now mixed with it. But, in order that they might work in harmony, one with the other, the flint and the bone had each to be ground to a fine powder, and then made like itself into “clay-cream.”

The two creams, in two separate vessels, were carried to a room called “the mixing-room,” and put into a pan of water and stirred well about.

They were stirred until they were quite smooth, and without an atom of grit.

But as cups could not be made of the clay-cream, it had to be made solid again. And it was boiled over a fire until the moisture was dried up, and it was very much like dough. A man now began to slap and beat it, and cut it in pieces, and to fling the pieces one on the other with all his might And when he had slapped it long enough, he said it was quite “ready for the potter.”

The potter was called “a thrower,”—and a good name for him.

He flung a ball of the clay on a little round table before him, with such force that it stuck there quite fast.

The table was called a whirling table; and well it might, for it began to whirl round and round as fast as could be.

The reason why it whirled, was because a long strap went from it to a wheel in the corner, that a boy was turning. When the boy turned his wheel, the table turned as well. And as the table went round, the potter began to pinch, and pat, and work the clay about with his fingers and thumb, and gave it what he called “a shape.”

He could do just what he liked with the clay, and could make it into any shape he pleased.

He had some tools to help him, such as little pegs and bits of wood, with which he scraped it on the outside and pressed it on the inside, until he had brought it into the form of a cup. And all the while the wheel kept going round and round, until it was enough to make you giddy.

At last the wheel stopped, and so did the table. And the clay was taken off, to all intents and purposes a cup.

Aunt Martha had scarcely time to finish the last sentence before there was a tap at the door, and old Sally came in with the tea-things.

Now, the best china had been taken down and carefully dusted; for Christmas was looked upon as a high day and a holiday, and Charley and Richard were company, as a matter of course. As their heads were still running upon cups and saucers, they jumped up and began to look at them, and to talk about “flint” and “clay,” and “kilns,” in a very learned manner, and one that made old Sally smile.

Aunt Martha was very much pleased, for she saw that her story had been carefully listened to, and had not gone in at one ear and out at the other, as such instructive stories do sometimes go.

And she was more pleased still, when her little nephews asked her a great many questions, and wanted to know more about “the tea-cup.”

She did not tell them any more just then; for she was a wise old lady, and she wished to keep their curiosity awake, and not let them have too much of the subject at once.

So she talked about something else all tea-time, and then she had out puzzles and bagatelle, and a great many other games, to make the evening pass pleasantly. But old Sally told her that when the boys went to bed, and she fetched away their candle, they were talking very fast about “the tea-cup.”

And the next afternoon, when they had given over running about, and their hair had been brushed, and their faces washed, they ran into the parlor where their aunt was sitting, and asked her to go on with her story, for they wanted to know a great deal more.

Now it was rather early, and Aunt Martha had hardly finished her afternoon’s nap. But she did not like to keep the little boys waiting. So she roused herself up, put a log of wood on the fire,—for it was very cold,—and when Charley and Richard had settled themselves, she began, or rather went on with—“The Story of the Tea- Cup.”

CHAPTER III

HOW THE TEA-CUP WAS FINISHED.

The cup was, as I told you, taken off the wheel. It was then set aside to dry; and very soon it reached what the potter called “ the green state”—though he had better have said the “ hard state,” for it was getting gradually harder. It was next taken to the turning lathe, and had all its roughness smoothed away, and its appearance very much improved. Still, the cup was by no means so handsome as it is now; and it had no handle.

The Chinaman makes his cup without a handle; and when tea-cups were first used in this country, they had- no handles, and were very much smaller than they are now. People in those days could not afford to drink much tea at a time, it was so dear and so scarce.

Figure 8 - The Potter at his Lathe -- Making a Vase.

But fashions are always changing, and in our days every cup must have a handle.

The handle was made separate from the cup, and fitted on afterwards. It was nothing but a strip of clay cut the proper length, and pressed into a mold to make it the right shape. The man who has to do it, takes a great deal of pains to make it fit very neatly.

The parts where the handle was to join the cup were wetted with a certain mixture of clay and water, to make them stick; and they did so at once.

The cup was now put into a square box or case, with sand at the bottom. Other cups were placed in with it, though care was taken to prevent them from touching each other. Another box, just like it, and full of cups, was set over it, so that the bottom of one box made a lid for the other. All the boxes, piled up in this way, were put into an oven, called “the potter’s kiln.” It was in the shape of a cone, and with a hole at the top to let the smoke out.

The Chinaman is at the trouble of putting each cup into a separate box, in order, as he says, that its delicate complexion may not be spoiled by the fire!

Figure 9 - Teapot in Blue and White Jasper.

When the cup is taken from the box, it is pure white, and nearly transparent. It is not yet thought worthy of the name of porcelain, and is merely called “biscuit china.”

People were a long time before they found out how to paint pictures on the cup, or to give it its beautiful gloss.

The surface of the cup was not hard enough to hold the colors, and wanted a coating upon it that is called “enamel.”

No one in England knew how to make the enamel, though the Chinaman did. But a potter named Bernard Palissy tried again and again to make it. Indeed, he spent all his time in trying first one thing and then another.

He made cup after cup, and coated them over with what he thought was the right thing; but not one of them would do. And at last he became so poor that he had no wood left to heat his furnace—just at the time, too, when more cups were ready to go into it.

He wanted wood to such a degree that he became quite frantic, and felt that he must put something into his furnace, he did not care what. And he ran into the room where his wife was sitting, and snatched up the chairs and tables as if he had been crazy, and ran with them to his furnace.

Poor Madame Palissy wrote a book about her troubles, at which I do not wonder. It is a comfort to know that he succeeded at last, and earned a great deal of money. But many improvements have been made in tea-cups since his time.

Before the pictures are painted on the cup, it is nicely cleaned, to remove any atom of dust; and then it has to be glossed, or, as it is called, “glazed.” The stuff that gives it its gloss, and makes it shine, looks like thick cream, and is kept in wooden troughs in a room called “the dipping room.”

A man dips the cup into the trough, and turns it about in such a way that every part shall be coated, and yet every drop drained out.

It is now put on a board, and, with other cups, again baked, but in a cooler oven than before. When it comes out of the oven it shines with the beautiful gloss you see.

But it is not finished; for it is a bare cup, without any pictures of flowers or fruit, or figures like those on the best china.

It is taken to a room where there are long tables, and a great many windows to let in the light.

People sit at the tables, with brushes and colors before them, and are busy painting the cups.

Figure 10 - Saucers Packed for Baking.

In China one man paints nothing but red, another paints nothing but blue; and so on. But here, in the painting-room, there is a little difference. One man paints flowers, another leaves, another      fruit, and another figures.

The colors they use are obliged to be made of metals—such as gold, iron, and tin—for nothing else can stand the heat of the furnace, in which the cups have once more to be baked. Indeed, the painter now and then pops his cup or his saucer into the kiln to see how the colors will stand, before it is quite finished.

When the cup has been painted, and baked for the last time, it is taken to another room still, where there are a great many women and girls busy at work.

Each girl sits with her face to the light, and takes a cup in one hand, and a stone called an agate in the other. She rubs the parts of the cup that are intended to look like gold with the stone until they become of a brilliant gloss, and shine as if they were gold.

There is a place in Staffordshire in England, called “the Potteries,” where cups and pots have always been made.

In old time they were very rough-looking things, and had neither gilding nor gloss. But the people who used them were just as rough, and so was the country round.

The roads were very bad indeed, and full of deep ruts, so that no carriage could go over them. There were no towns or factories, and the potter lived in a little thatched cottage like a hovel.

He had a shed where he worked at his wheel and baked his pots. He dug the clay out himself, and his boys helped him to “throw” and “press,’ and do all that was wanted to be done.

When he had finished making his pots, his wife used to bring up the asses from the common, where they were grazing, and get them ready for a journey. She put panniers on their backs, filled with her husband’s pots; and then she set off, over the bad, rutty roads, to the towns and villages to sell them.

That part of Staffordshire is still called “the Potteries;” but it is very much improved—and has great towns, and factories, and good roads, and is not at all what it used to be.

One of the towns is called Burslem; and a potter named Wedgwood lived there. He spent all his life in making the cups of a more beautiful kind than had ever been made before. They were of a cream color; and instead of the ugly figures that were in fashion then, he painted them with flowers and fruit, as we see them now.

One reason why he got on so well, was because he took so much pains, and would not let anything pass unless it was perfect. If a cup came off the wheel with the slightest fault in it, he would break it to pieces with his stick, and say, “This will not do for me.”

Charley and Richard were so interested in what Aunt Martha had been telling them, that old Sally tapped at the door twice before they heard her. And then, when she had brought in the tea, and the muffins hot out of the oven, they could neither eat nor drink for talking about “the tea-cups.” And Richard began to wonder what Aunt Martha’s next story would be about, and tried to make her tell him. But she did not think this would be wise; and all he could ascertain was that the subject of it would come out of her corner cupboard.

It was clear, however, that the story had done them good; for the next morning, Charley and Richard, instead of spending every moment in play, walked up and down the garden-walk, talking about the clay, and the glaze, and the enamel—things they had known nothing about before.

But their greatest pleasure was to come; for strolling out by the gate into the lane, they spied, all at once, some bits of broken pot. You would have thought they had found something very precious indeed, they were so pleased. They picked them up, and carried them off in triumph into the old tool-house, where Charley at once set to work with a great stone to pound them to powder. He had nearly broken them up, to mix with some clay that Richard brought out of the ditch, when the thought struck him that these blue and white pieces of pot were not like Aunt Martha’s best china. He would go in and ask her if they were.

Aunt Martha was seated at her worktable, in the parlor, when the boys, with dirty hands, came running in. She sent them out again to wash their hands, and then told them that Charley was right. Her best cups and saucers had the patterns painted on them, and required a deal more skill to make than these.

Common blue and white cups—such as Charley had a bit of in his hand—were managed in quite another way. A paper, with the pattern printed on it, was wrapped round each cup. The cup was rubbed for a long time, and then set in water. The paper soon peeled off, but the blue marks were left behind.

Richard and Charley wanted to know a great deal more; but Aunt Martha would not answer any of their questions. So they went back to the tool-house again, to play at potters. What delightful work it was! so delightful, that Charley made up his mind to be a potter as soon as he was old enough,—and if his father would let him.

Richard said, if he was a potter he ought to go to China; and then he remembered his dog’s-eared geography in his desk at school, and thought when he got back he would look into it, and see if it said anything about China. He should like to know a little more than Aunt Martha had told them.

That afternoon old Sally had to keep the boys from going into the parlor too soon; for their faces were washed and their hair brushed half an hour before the usual time.

But good Aunt Martha was ready; and when she heard their feet pattering along the hall, she got up and opened the door. Then Charley settled himself on the hearthrug, and Richard fetched a stool; and the boys were as still as mice while Aunt Martha told them—“The Story of the Tea.”

Figure 11 - Tea Plant in Flower.

CHAPTER IV

THE STORY OF THE TEA.

A tea-cup is not of much use, if it is kept only to look at. It wants to be filled with good strong tea.

I wonder what people did before tea was brought to England and America; for it does not grow, as you know, in these climates. It grows in China, where the beautiful cups are made on purpose to hold it. And it was sipped by emperors on their thrones, and by their grand mandarins, many years before we knew anything about it. And even now, the best of the tea is kept at home for the benefit of the Court, and it is only the next best that finds its way into our tea-pots.