The Silica Gel Pseudomorph
And Other Stories

BY

EDWARD HART,

Author of “Our Farm in Cedar Valley.”

EASTON, PA.

THE CHEMICAL PUBLISHING CO.

1924

Copyright, 1924, by Edward Hart

To Harvey Washington Wiley,

Scholar, Teacher, Poet, Writer and Speaker,

Fearless Publicist, Lifelong Friend.

I have a boy who loves to have me tell him stories. True stories usually need modification and adornment if they are to remain interesting, and so many stories told him were embellished. These stories have been written for my own amusement at night while others were sleeping or as a rest between more serious tasks. Some of these are true, some partly true and some are products of the imagination.

Edward Hart.

October 1, 1924

CONTENTS

The Silica Gel Pseudomorph

South Jersey is a very sandy country. There are miles and miles of sand there. Some of it is very pure white sand used for making glass and for molding sand. Some of this sand has sharp edges but most of it is rounded as if the grains had rolled around until the edges were worn away. Mr. Kummel has written a paper about this sand in the Report of the New Jersey State Geological Survey for 1906. His paper is entitled “The Glass Sand Industry of New Jersey.” It is a very interesting paper though you might not think so from the title.

There are also very large beds of green and red sand. The green sand is especially interesting because it contains such immense amounts of alumina, iron and potash. If our chemists can only find cheap methods for extracting these substances we shall have enough to last us forever.

The most curious thing about this green sand is that it is still forming in the water along our coasts. Here the limestone shells of dead foraminifera are slowly filling up with the green substance as their bodies decay. The shells are slowly dissolved by the sea water at the same time, so that the green sand grains give a perfect cast of the inside of the shells.

I became interested in this sand while I was in college. The professor sent me down to Mullica Hill to get a load of it to experiment with. He wanted to find a way to work it. At Mullica Hill I heard that a farmer by the name of Peter Norman had a pit on his farm. One of the loafers there offered to go along and show me the way. I told him he might go if he would get the farmer to let me have a load of sand for nothing and help me load. This he promised to do. On the way he informed me that Norman’s daughter, Euphemia, had taken a notion to him and that probably they would jine up. I said I was looking for a wife myself and if I liked her looks I would take her along, but I must be sure first that she was a good cook. He looked me over as if I were some kind of an insect and asked me how much I weighed. I told him all of fifty tons.

When we got to the house Euphemia came to the door herself. I must say she was a fine looking girl with very mischievous eyes. She said her father was down at the other end of the farm and my friend had better go and get him. Then she giggled. When he had gone she looked at me and giggled some more. Said I might go ahead and take all the sand I wanted. I asked her if she was sure her father would be willing and she said: Sure! She said she would show me the pit and got on the seat beside me. As we drove along she told me that one of her girl friends had told Sim she was gone on him.

I said, “yes, so he told me.”

“Did he?” says she, “the poor simp!”

“If you go about breaking hearts like that,” said I, “you’ll get in jail next. I understand that the sheriff has been instructed to jug all the flappers.” This made her giggle some more.

She stood by the side of the pit while I threw the sand into the truck. After I had been digging a bit my shovel struck something that felt like rubber. It was round like a rubber ball as I uncovered it and larger than a canteloupe. I tried to throw it out, but it seemed to be fastened to something at one side. I went on digging and was getting interested when I heard some one shouting, and there was the farmer coming as fast as he could, waving his arms and shouting with all the breath he had left. When he reached the pit he was puffing and blowing so he could hardly speak, but he made it plain that he was cross because I had dug without permission, said I had no business to do it, it was trespass, and he had a great mind to have me arrested.

I said that his daughter had allowed me to dig but this did not seem to satisfy him. Euphemia told him I wasn’t hurting anything and he needn’t make a goose of himself, so he quieted down. Asked what the round ball was? I told him I didn’t know and he got a shovel and dug too. After awhile the girl said:

“Why it looks like a man!”

It did, too. We went on digging and uncovered his legs and then his feet. They were feet all right, but he was the queerest looking thing you ever saw. After he was uncovered we turned him over and I declare he had a nose, mouth and ears; it was a man! But the oddest looking man you ever saw. His body was nearly transparent; like cloudy glass. You could see all his bones through this. He looked like stiff jelly with pieces of cotton in it. We looked at him and then at one another.

“Well, I vum,” said Papa.

“Did you ever,” said Phemy.

“Geewhitakers,” said Sim.

The farmer brought out a wide board and we rolled him on it. Then I nailed narrow boards on the side, so that he was in a kind of a trough. There he lay, glistening in the sunlight. When I looked up I saw that Euphemia was giggling again.

“Why the laugh?” said I.

“Don’t you think he looks funny? I never expected to see a man’s bones like that.”

It hadn’t struck me that way before but it was funny, and I had to laugh too. Just then the man sneezed. Euphemia gathered up her skirts, for she had on a long dress, not one of the bathing suits the flappers wear on the streets nowadays, and made a bee line for the house. I felt kind of scary myself. It isn’t every day, I can tell you, that you dig up a jelly corpse and have him sneeze just as life-like! Pop Norman by this time was as white as a sheet. But what the corpse did next certainly made me stare. He opened one eye, and after looking around a bit, confused-like, he looked at me, and winked. I certainly was flabbergasted. Then he opened the other eye and sat up. Then the farmer scooted. The corpse began to talk to himself in some kind of outlandish jabber. I thought it sounded like Spanish but it came out like lightning and I couldn’t get it. I had studied Spanish at college but I was not very well acquainted with it. After saying the same thing over three or four times he turned to me and said it again—slowly, and quite imperiously. He was asking where his clothes were. I said I didn’t know but would enquire. I went to the house and found Euphemia very badly scared and the old man drinking blackberry brandy. He called it a cordial. I insisted that he get some clothes for the stranger and we picked out an old suit I thought might fit. I took these out to the Spaniard but he was much displeased with them and said he was not accustomed to such garb. I told him it was that or nothing and the girl was coming so finally he put them on. He seemed to be about as spry as ordinary people, and his manner was very polite.

Euphemia got over her fright after awhile and came downstairs but she seemed quite shook up. After awhile the Spaniard tried to talk to her but of course she couldn’t understand until I translated for her. After awhile she seemed to like to hear what he said. His talk was quite high-flown, and after every few words he would put his hand on his chest and make a low bow. This seemed to suit Euphemia.

It was getting on towards evening and I was obliged to leave but I asked Euphemia to take care of him and I promised to bring a Spanish book so she could make out what he said, and I told him to stay here until I got back. He promised to do so and I went away.

When I told the professor about my glass man he smiled and smiled. He said the Spaniard must be a silica gel pseudomorph, and he was surprised and delighted he or it could talk Spanish, and when he said this he grinned like a Cheshire cat. I got a Spanish dictionary and phrase book at the college bookstore and went back next day. I found he was trying to explain the difference between ser and estar. It struck me that was a funny thing to do, but he seemed rather touchy, so I gave her the books and went back to college. I was very busy the rest of the term and couldn’t get away, but as soon as possible I went back. They were out riding the old man said, and he seemed rather put out.

When they came back I tried to tell her about the green sand, but she didn’t seem to be interested and he yawned; so, after talking to the old man for awhile I came away. She didn’t ask me to come again. He was polite but quite formal.

I saw no more of the Normans nor of my Spanish friend for a month. I was in Trenton one afternoon and was walking on the street when who should I run into but the Normans. They were staying with an aunt of hers and I went with them. We sat up pretty late that night while Euphemia told me about the Spaniard. She said she wondered I hadn’t heard about it; part of it, it seemed, had got into the newspapers.

She told me she soon got so she could talk Spanish pretty well. It was not difficult except that miserable ser and estar. They both meant the same thing and you were pretty sure to use the wrong one. I told her it was like the old lady who knew the difference between soldier and shoulder but never could tell which was which. She said the Spaniard talked all the time. He was so polite that at first she liked him pretty well, but he never seemed to like her father and didn’t treat him very well. He claimed to be a hidalgo, which appeared to be some kind of a nobleman. He was terribly stuck on himself. He was a ferocious eater and kept her cooking most of the time. He was always asking for dos huevos fritas or carne de vaca. “He kept me fryin eggs or Dad runnin to town for meat all the time. I believe he could eat a gallon of soup, and it took so much butter to fry the papa fritas that we had none left for anything else. He was fond of fish, too, and was always askin for them. This got so bad that Dad and I concluded we had better take him down to the shore where fish don’t cost so much. By this time something got the matter with him. It had been rather cool and moist up to this time but by the time we were ready to start there was a hot dry spell. Before this you could see everything inside his head except where the bones were in the way. But now white patches like snow began to grow on his face, and pretty soon he began to look like a snow man. His face was perfectly white without a trace of color. It was frightful. I kinda liked his looks before that. You needn’t laugh; you like the good lookin women best, and I don’t see any reason why we shouldn’t like the good lookin men.”

“If he didn’t get what he wanted at once he flew into an awful rage, and it was pretty fierce, I can tell you, to have Snow White rampagin around. So we took him to the shore, or at least we started for the shore. He had a sword that the blacksmith had made for him out of an old scythe of Dad’s and belt around him to hold it. I said we might be arrested for carrying such things around, but Dad said you could not carry concealed weapons, but nothing was said about other kinds, and there was nothing concealed about that sword. So we started off in the wagon, and he sat in the front seat with Dad. Pretty soon I noticed that little white scales was driftin down from him on the floor. It was hot that day but he didn’t seem to feel it in any other way, but all the time those little white scales kept siftin down ’till the floor was all white. I didn’t like to say anything for fear of hurtin his feelings but I got mighty nervous.

“We had been on the way about an hour when he spied some oranges in a store we was passin, and he got out, went in and took them. Didn’t stop to pay, just took them and came out. The store keeper came out and said, politely, that he had forgotten to pay, but Snow White flew into a rage and began to swear frightful. He pulled out his sword and chased the store keeper into his store. Then we drove on, but by this time Dad and I were scared stiff. About an hour later we passed through Swedesboro when a little fellow with a star on his coat came up and told us we were his prisoners. The Spaniard jumped out and ran at him with the sword. The constable was plucky; he pulled out a pistol and fired at the Spaniard, but he didn’t hit him, and the Spaniard chased him a ways down the road. We drove on then but more scared than before. I asked the Spaniard if he wasn’t afraid of being put in jail but he said no, they wouldn’t dare touch a hidalgo.

“Pretty soon we came to a cross road and somebody yelled at us from a clump of bushes ‘Surrender in the name of the law.’ But that didn’t frighten him. He just jumped out and charged that clump and drove the two men in it down the road. By this time we were almost to Pennsgrove. I was so scared that I got off and ran down a side street and Dad after me. We didn’t see any more of him but we was told he drove in as large as life and met the Sheriff, with two deputies. He chased them and cut one of them pretty bad. Then he ran to the wharf, jumped on a fishing boat, cut the cable and started down the river. The revenue cutter got after him and they fired a shot at the boat. This made her fill and she went down but they managed to pull him out. Of course he got very wet. They took him to the jail, gave him some dry clothes and put him in a cell. They captured Dad and me too, but after they had asked us a lot of questions they concluded we wasn’t to blame and let us go. I went to see the Spaniard next day and, say, he was a sight! All the white scales was gone but they had been thicker in some places than in others, and where they had been thickest there was a kind of a pit on his face like a man who had small pox. He looked fierce, but the water had made him look like glass again. There was no snow white stuff on him at all.

“They took him before a J. P. that day and he told them he was a Spanish nobleman who was willing to die for Spain. He said he had sunk many English ships and killed many English and that he was going to do it some more.”

“Now, I don’t know what you think,” Euphemia said to me, “but I think that fellow had been thrown overboard from some ship and was petrified on the bottom of the sea and covered with sand. When you dug him up he just came to life again. He must have been a bird when he was alive, and so he just went on being a bird when he came back to life.”

“Well, the Justice of the Peace thought he must be crazy so he sent him to the asylum. But he didn’t stay there long. He broke loose one night, made for the shore, killed two men who was sleepin in a small vessel, pulled up the anchor and put to sea and hasn’t been heard of since.”

Peep-Chick Mountain

Over in that funny state called New Jersey there is a mountain called Peep-Chick Mountain, or something like that, and this is the story of how it got the name:

There was once a band of robbers who lived in a cave on the side of this big mountain. They stole sheep and pigs and chickens from the farmers who lived in the valley. Once they had no bread, and the chief robber said: “Go and steal all the eggs you can find and we will trade them for bread at the store.” So they all went out to steal eggs except one. He was a red-headed robber and he said: “I think I am for Direct Action. I don’t believe in this roundabout business of stealing eggs and then trading them for bread. Besides I should like to have some pie and cake also.” So he went down to the road and hid in some bushes.

Pretty soon a big automobile came whishing by. “Go along whisher!” said the robber, “I can’t eat you.” Then a truck came rumbling by. “Get along, rumble bumble,” said Red Head. Then along came a baker’s cart. “Hi!” said Reddy, “Here’s the Staff of Life!” So saying, he pulled out his pistol and fired at the tire. There was a bang and rattle, just as if a pane of glass had fallen on the sidewalk, and the baker’s cart began to wabble and pound on the road. “Ho!” said the baker’s boy who was driving, “there goes a tire.” He got down and went around the car. Just then Reddy came rushing up.

“Hands up for pie!” said he.

The baker’s boy was so frightened that he ran and jumped into the canal, swam across and hid behind some trees. The robber fired several shots after him but they only splashed the water and scared the boy. Then Reddy unfastened a bag which had been wrapped around him and shoved in pies, cakes, loaves of bread and doughnuts as fast as he could. When this was full he filled another bag. Then he tied the two together, flung them over his back and made off as fast as he could.

Presently the watchman spied Red Head coming up the hill with his bags of pies, bread, cake and doughnuts. It was misty and he loomed through the fog like a donkey carrying sacks.

“Hey, Jack!” called the watch, “Ohe, Ohe!”

“Ohe yourself!” said Red Head fetching him a slap over the head. But he struck hard and lost his balance, fell and rolled down the hill. The other robbers rushed out and grabbed him, but soon discovered that it was Red Head and let him go.

“I know what your eggs will look like,” said the chief.

When they turned the bags inside out they found the pies, cake, doughnuts and bread all mashed together. There was blackberry pie making a red streak and lemon custard making a yellow streak, with doughnuts flattened out and loaves of bread between. The juice of the pies had been soaked up by the bread and cake.

“Hey!” said the chief, “What have we here?”

“That,” said Reddy, “is pie-cake-doughnut-bread.”

“It looks it,” said the chief, “but I believe we can eat it.”

So they sat down and ate some; and, sure enough, it was good.

In the meantime the other robbers who had gone out had stolen all the eggs they could find and put them in another cave near by. There were 503 dozen in all. Now it happened that there was a hot spring in one corner of the cave where the eggs were stored and after they had lain there long enough they began to hatch out. One morning when the robbers came out of their cave they heard a great rustling and peeping all over the hillside. There were 5798 peeps moving through the grass and among the trees and crying: “peep! peep!”

“Goodness!” said the robber chief, “look at our eggs! they are hungry.”

That night they stole a feed grinder from a farmer in the valley and several bags of corn. Three robbers shelled corn, three drove the mill, three fed the corn and three made mush of the meal and fed it to the peeps. The other robbers stole the corn and carried it up the mountain. In about two weeks they were tired out. “We are not robbers any longer,” they said, “this is work!” so they all ran away. By this time the peeps had become chicks and begun to eat grasshoppers and crickets and were able to take some care of themselves; but the foxes, weasels, skunks and minks had a fine time eating them as they scattered over the mountain side. Bye and bye the farmers caught them until there were no more left; but the mountain is called Peep-Chick, or something like that, to this day.

Round Valley

They called it Round Valley because it really was round, hemmed in by very high hills, except on the west; here there was an opening through the hills, down the middle of which flowed a mill stream which drained the valley. Part way down the gap between the hills was a mill dam; and a short distance below the dam was the mill. The miller was a little Gnome who lived in the mill with his wife and daughter. The mother had once been beautiful, but hard work had made her old before her time. Her face was wrinkled; there were crow’s feet in the corners of her eyes; her steps were slow and feeble and her hair was growing gray.

The daughter was a very beautiful and charming girl; she was happy-hearted. She moved around quickly, helping her mother wash the dishes, sweep the floor, put wood on the fire, take up the ashes, milk the cow and feed the pigs and chickens. As she did these things she often smiled, and anyone who took the trouble to watch her could easily see that she had happy thoughts.

There were many Little People living in this valley. You seldom saw them but often heard them. In one place below the mill the water fell over some rocks, and here, if you listened, you could hear some of them saying: “Urgle, urgle, urgle,” just as plain!

Some lived in the branches of the pines and cooed: “Whoo, whoo, whoo,” and others called from the dry grass: “z-z-z.” Everywhere their voices could be heard, but very soft and low—for they were Little People.

Every day the Gnome worked in the mill—pouring grain into the hopper, tying up the bags of flour and writing in a big book in one corner of the mill. His clothes were always full of flour, and though he banged them with his hands and shook himself before going into the house, he was always gray or white. He was always busy, and seldom came into the house except for meals; but he appeared to be interested in his work and quite cheerful.

One evening the sky became dark earlier than usual, and a mist fell over the valley; then the wind rose and the rain began to fall. It was a dismal night out of doors, but within the miller’s house it was bright and cheerful. The window panes shone in the light from the bright fire burning in the fireplace; the curtains over the windows drooped gracefully and were clean and white; there was a bookshelf filled with new books with golden titles and a shelf filled with flowers in pots in one of the windows. The room was clean and dry and warm as the miller and his wife and daughter sat down to their evening meal.

As they sat eating and talking there came a knock at the door and the daughter went to open it. A dark-eyed Stranger was standing on the threshold. “Come in quickly,” said the girl, “the wind is driving the dead leaves and the rain into the house. You are very welcome; come and share our meal!”

The Stranger muttered his thanks and drew a chair to the fire. The mother went upstairs and presently came down again. “You are very wet,” said she. “I have laid out a suit of my husband’s in the room above. Go up and put it on! It will keep you warm and dry until your own is ready.” So saying she opened the door of the stairway and stood aside to allow the Stranger to pass.

In a short time he came down and ate a hearty meal; but his face was far from cheerful. He appeared to be gloomy and glum; he said little and looked at no one. “He is tired,” said the mother to her husband, “take him up to the guest room!”

In the morning the visitor appeared to be more cheerful than before. He was still gloomy and glum, however, as he ate his breakfast. He had come down late and the miller had gone to his work in the mill. The mother was in the kitchen, and the daughter sang as she waited on him, poured water on the flowers and drew back the curtains to let more light into the room.

“Why are you sad?” said she, “see what a beautiful morning! The fleecy clouds are sailing over the hills; the mill stream is shouting for joy and the birds are singing.”

“Why should I be happy?” said he, “My wife and child are dead; I am not well and I have lost my money. Why should I rejoice?” So saying he looked gloomier and glummer than before.

“Oh, you poor man,” said the girl, “I am so sorry.” So saying she brought in another plateful of hot cakes and put a jugful of maple syrup on the table; but still she kept on singing, for her heart was filled with joy.

“It is very pleasant here,” said the Stranger. “If you do not mind I will stay a few days. I have enough money left to pay my board.”

“You must settle that with my mother,” said the girl. “It is rather lonesome here sometimes, but you will be very welcome to stay as long as you like.” So saying she ran off to tell her mother. “Oh, mother!” said she, “I think it will be splendid to have him here; he is so sad; and he has lost his wife and child and his money; and his health is poor, too. I am so sorry for him.”

“That is too bad,” said her mother, “We must be good to him and perhaps he will become more cheerful.”

At first the Stranger wandered up and down the stream, hunting in the woods or fishing in the brook. Presently he tired of this and began to help the miller. Very soon he spent most of his time in the mill. In the evening he and the daughter would sometimes take a walk through the woods or over the hills. As he worked in the mill and grew tired and hungry, and slept in the clean, sweet country air, lulled by the voices of the Little People, he grew stronger and happier; the frown left his brow; he began to smile, and presently to hum a tune.

One day the miller did not feel very well, and he went to lie down on his bed, leaving the mill in charge of the Stranger. A few days later this happened again. Presently the Gnome laid down every day, and then he became so weak that he must stay in bed all day, while the Stranger took care of the mill alone. They sent for the Doctor who said he must stay in bed until he got better. But he got no better; he grew worse each day. One day he called the Stranger to him and said: “I feel very sick, and I believe I shall soon be going to a far country; will you take care of my wife and daughter when I am gone?” “Yes,” said the Stranger, “I will do all I can. You have all been good to me and I will do my best to return your kindness.”

Then the old miller turned his face to the wall and died. And they buried him beneath the whispering pines. And the daughter said: “Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do?” “Let me help you bear it,” said he. Then she looked at him and smiled through her tears.

After the miller died the mother was very lonely, and she often said that she would like to go to him. Presently she, too, sickened. Every day she grew worse, and finally she died and was laid to rest beneath the spreading pines beside her man.

After the funeral they sat before the fireplace. She was crying and his eyes were wet. “What can I do?” said she, “I have no one to love me and care for me.” “Yes you have,” said he, “I promised your father I would take care of you, and I love you very much. It will not be hard work for me to love you and care for you.”

“Oh,” said she, “I am so glad you love me, I have loved you for a long time.” Then she kissed him, shyly.

In a few days they were married. She cared for the house and he ran the mill. She is a good housewife and sings as she works and he is a good miller and sings as he runs the mill. They often kiss. I have noticed that when he kisses her he grows younger but as she kisses him she grows older. They grow happier every day.

Mont L’Hery

To Angelo Catto, Archbishop of Vienna, from Philip de Comines, Lord of Argenton:—

In the Memoirs which I have written, my good Lord Archbishop, at your desire, I have spoken of an occurrence of little importance, it may appear, and which was of small note among the great and mighty events which took place then and thereafter. None the less, though I have there written but a few words, (as thinking the relation of my own small affairs of little value) matters of great import to me and mine transpired which I shall here set forth, that you may, if you see fit, relate them to my dear daughter, Joan, when I am no more.

In these Memoirs I have related that after the battle of Mont l’Hery the horse I bestrode was old and tired, which thrusting by accident his head into a bucket of wine, drank it and was thereby become lustier and more serviceable than he was before. I have also there set down that on the third day after the battle we took up our quarters in the village of Mont l’Hery and that the inhabitants were in such consternation at our approach that they fled, some into the church steeple, and some into the castle, which held out against us and was not taken.

I have not set down the events of the first and second days after the battle because, as you shall see, I could not know much of them, being away on my own affairs.

After I had mounted this old, tired horse which I had ridden for several days, I laid the reins upon his neck as was my wont. Straightway he began to gallop, and when I sought to rein him in I found the bit between his teeth, and he on a mad run. We burst through the ranks of the men-at-arms, whereat I suffered not a little, being without armour at the time, and galloped hard into the village. As we turned at the church my old horse stumbled and fell and I was thrown violently into a meadow at one side of the way.

Of what happened next I know only as it was related to me thereafter. For a long time, it appeared, my wits were wandering. Then I opened my eyes to look into the eyes of a young maid bending over me anxiously. She smiled and said: “I am glad, good sir. You were as one dead. It was an ugly fall.”

“Where am I?” I asked.

“You are in the house of my aunt’s nurse,” she replied. “She lies sick in the room above. I had come to visit her and saw you fall. I fear some of the King’s men saw you also and will do you a mischief.” With that there came a knocking at the door and hoarse voices shouting: “Open in the King’s name!”

She opened the door and I heard loud voices talking. Three archers were there, sent, they said, to bring me to the Castle, but the maid denied them. She averred I was in great pain and unfit to be moved. There was much said that I did not fully hear (my wits not yet being fully returned), but presently she closed the door and came back.

“I have staved them off for awhile,” she said, “but you must get back your wits as soon as may be, for they will come again.” But I was in a maze at the beauty of her and said no word. She seemed like an angel to my sleepy eyes; for by now I felt dead tired and of a mind to sleep. This she saw and said: “Sleep, fair Sir! I will fend them from you.” At which I dropped off to sleep to dream of yellow-haired angels singing; and when I awoke, of a truth she was singing in the chamber above. In a few minutes she returned quietly and, seeing I was awake, said: “I have now two patients, fair Sir, I pray you tell me how you do?”

“I am stronger,” I replied “but my arm pains me, and methinks a bone may perchance be broken.”

“Not so,” said she, “but it is much bruised.”

Again there was a knocking at the door, and when she opened a rough voice enquiring for me.

“He has been sleeping and is better, but he has been much bruised and must stay the night.”

“Nay, Nay!” said the archer, “that must not be. I am bidden to bring him straight to the Castle.”

“He is my patient,” she replied, “and I tell thee I will not have him moved, Count or no Count.”

“You must even have your way, Lady,” said he, “But I see a heavy reckoning to be paid if he come not soon.”

“I will answer,” said she.

When she returned: “I am beholden to you, Lady,” I said, “for your too great kindness. But I must not lead you into danger. That would be a poor return. Let me be led to the Count.”

“How say you?” she replied, “would you put your head in the noose? I tell you the Count is bitterly angry with the Count de Charolois and will hang all his men.”

“I care not,” said I, “I will not see you led into danger through my fault;” so saying, I sought to rise but fell back almost fainting.

“See,” said she, “was I not right? You are unfit to go, and I will not have you go until you are fit!” Here her eyes flashed and she stamped her little foot fiercely.

I slept but poorly that night and a fierce fever consumed me. In the morning she was much distressed and vowed again I should not be moved. Shortly there came another knock and a voice saying:

“You little vixen! What matter if he die of a fever or be hanged?”

“Hanged he may be,” she replied, “and you will, but he must come to his trial well. And you do force him to it I shall have your own head sooner or later, and that I vow!”

“I warn you the King shall hear of this!” he said.

“Let him,” she said, “and let him do his worst. I have cared for many wounded, and I have yet to ask whether they be rich or poor, or of high or low degree.”

’Tis said the Count was in awe of his Countess and of her niece, my nurse. However this may be I know not. I do know that I was not more disturbed that day.

On the morrow I was still feverish having passed but a poor night. In the morning she visited me again, saying: “Fair Sir, I see but one way by which I may save you from that murderer at the Castle. He is my uncle, and were you but husband of mine he dare not touch you. Have you a mind to wed?”

Verily, this I had not thought of, but the thought left me warm and not cold. And yet I must hesitate for her sake. I dare not lest she regret. So I said:

“Truly, my Lady, the honor you speak of is far beyond my just deserts. Did I think you truly willing I should hurry on the match. But should you regret, nothing would be left for me but death. Let me therefore die the death at the hand of this dread Count rather than you should grant so great a boon and then repent.”

“Say no more,” said she. “I have said you shall not be harmed, and by God’s word no harm shall befall you.” So saying, without more ado, she sent for the priest who said mass and married us.

Great was the wrath of the Count, her uncle. But what was done could not be undone. When he was gone she turned her face to me in shame. “What must you think of me?” she said.

“If you will but trust me,” said I, “you will see that I think well of you. Before that you thus sacrificed your future for me I thought you an angel. My life shall be devoted to winning and keeping your love.”

“How do you know I do not love you now?” said she—and fled.

When our army came up and I was well again she had disappeared. I saw her no more for months, being detained from pursuing her by the war which came to an end but slowly. After that I had served King Louis at Peronne and had been taken into his service I heard much of her, but do what I would, could never come near her. At last, despairing, I went to the King and confessed my plight and sought his Majesty’s assistance. “What would you?” said the King.

“Do but let me see her, your Majesty,” said I, “that I may at least have speech of her.”

“That I will do right gladly,” said he.

About a week thereafter I was sent for to the Royal Cabinet and entering found the King with my wife. “Did I not promise to bring you together?” said the King. “Take now thy wife, de Comines and teach her her duty. You may withdraw!”

I offered my hand to my Lady and we withdrew to an antechamber. Here she would fain have left me, but I said: “Lady I am your humble slave. Will you not listen to me?”

“Nay,” said she, “I have said and done unmaidenly things and I am ashamed. Let me withdraw.”

“Not so,” said I, “your acts were acts only of pity which I would fain turn into acts of love if you will only listen.”

“Men speak well of you,” said she, “they tell me you are kind of heart and merciful and will spare my shame. But I ask not for pity. I will not be companion to a man who does not love me without pity, that I may be triumphant and without shame.”

“That you may well be,” said I, “if you will but listen.”

“It is not ears but eyes shall convince me,” said she.

“Set me any task,” said I.

“Nay,” she replied, “let me but see you. Do not pursue me. Let me see you in your daily work. I am to be Lady in Waiting to the Queen, and I may see you thus.”

“You are harsh,” said I, “What have I done to be treated so unkindly?”

“I will not listen,” said she, stopping her ears with her fingers and running away.

For weeks thereafter I was condemned to see her daily but scarcely to speak to her. The King and Queen sought to throw us together but failed because she would not. At last I despaired. I went to the King and asked that I might be allowed to depart to my estate in Flanders so that I need no longer be on the rack. To this the King replied: “Do but let me speak to her again!” to which I gave consent.

The next day I was sent for again to the King’s Cabinet, and entering found her again. “Why will you not put an end to this severity?” said the King, turning to her. “The poor fool pines daily. He loses flesh. He sulks. He is as one distraught. Mend him or break him, but torture him no longer.”

“He is my own husband,” said she, her eyes flashing defiance.

“Surely,” said the King, “treat him therefore as a man and not as a dog. Now leave me. I am weary of your quarrel.”

Again we departed; as we reached the anteroom she whispered: “May I not do as I please with you?”

“You may indeed,” said I, “but trample no longer upon my heart, I beseech you.”

“Thou art but a poor fool,” said she, “why not make me be good since I have loved thee from the first? Do I not love thy eyes and thy curly hair and thy straight back and even thy coat and hat. Surely I love thee, thou blind goose!”—and fled again. But this time I was too quick. I caught her and I have held her ever since, and with her good will as she declares and I believe. She has been my willing slave and I hers. Hath any man ever had a more devoted mate? Did she not visit me each day I spent in the iron cage at Loches? In rain, in fog, in sleet, in sunshine; still she came, and she is mine and I am hers, forever.

Death Valley

Away out in California, near the Nevada line, lies a lonely valley. No one lives in this valley very long; it is a very lonesome place. In the winter the thermometer goes down below freezing point at night and rises to eighty degrees during the day. This is the pleasant time of year. In the spring and fall violent wind storms sweep over the desert, for it is a desert—the Mohave Desert—and in the summer the hot wind blows, drying up every drop of moisture and baking the country as if it had been placed in a baker’s oven. The few who must stay there get a leather-like skin from the heated wind and the glaring sun, with never a cloud to hide its pitiless rays. Sagebrush and greasewood are found here and there, and in the infrequent river bottoms a few willows are seen. Fissure springs, from deep faults in the earth’s crust let out small streams of water from sources far remote; sometimes fit to drink; sometimes loaded with salts in solution and sometimes hot. Such a spring is that which gives rise to Willow Creek which rises among the niter hills of the Great Basin and empties into the Amargosa River a short distance below its source. Alas for the name! The Amargosa “River” turns out on examination to be a stream scarce large enough to turn a mill. After a run of less than 25 miles it sinks into the sands to rise no more. Shortly below this place we find Saratoga Springs and “Lakes.” These “Lakes” are perhaps 10 feet in diameter. All along the banks of the Amargosa the water as it evaporates rapidly in this thirsty land leaves a white crust of salt, soda and borax. In many places, scattered over the desert, deposits of mixed salts have been left by evaporated water which glisten in the sun from a distance. As the weary traveler walks through them the alkali rises in fine white clouds burning throat and nostril and biting the skin into sores.

Over this desert roams the dismal coyote—always hungry, an Ishmaelite. Kangaroo rats swarm in rocky spots; the side-winder threads his snaky way; and lizards and tarantulas scuttle to their holes to escape the traveler.

In 1849 the Bennett family wandered into this valley and perished, giving to the valley its name. All along the wagon tracks—for there are no roads—bottles, tin cans and the skeletons of abandoned animals mark the progress of civilization and the survival of the fittest. It is a weary land; over 400 feet below sea level; bounded by the black rocks of the Funeral Range on the northeast, the Kingston Range on the north, the Shadow Mountains on the southeast, the Avawatz Mountains on the south and the Telescope Range on the west. These mountains rise in some places to a height of 10,000 feet. The springs are far apart, from 30 to 90 miles, often with a very small flow and hard to find. At Cave Wells, for example, the traveler in search of water goes into a hole in the side of a cliff and descends a few steps to the margin of a shallow pool with no apparent overflow.

“When does your uncle come for you, Jack?” said her friend.

“To-morrow morning,” Jack replied.

Next morning her friend was getting breakfast when a knock sounded on the door. When the door was opened, a wiry, pale-faced man stood in front of her.

“Where is Jack’s kid?” he enquired.

“Upstairs in bed,” was the reply.

Without a word he brushed by her, mounted the stairs, opened the door, bent over the half-awakened girl, put his arms around her and kissed her.

“Is your name Jack, too?” he enquired. “You are a mighty nice-looking boy and I will love you and look after you for his sake. Now I must go. We will leave for the west at 10 to-morrow morning. I am ordered to the desert to spend the winter there in the out of doors for the sake of my health. Get yourself a corduroy suit with high-laced boots. Here is some money. I will be here for you at nine-thirty. Good bye till then!” So saying, he turned, rushed down the stairs and out of the house.

“Did you ever see such a whirlwind?” said Jacqueline. “He thinks I am a boy, and he will be disappointed and not let me go. What shall I do?”

“Go as a boy,” said her friend. “You are slim and can easily pass as a boy. I will help you get ready. Come along!”

Next morning when Uncle appeared Jack was ready, dressed in corduroy knickers, stout, high-laced shoes, short, thick corduroy coat and felt hat.

“Well, come along!” said Uncle, “We have just time to make the train.”

At Salt Lake City they outfitted for the desert. Five burros were bought, two for riding and three for packing. Jack’s burro was called Jenny. Jenny was a canny animal. She grunted at every step. Her progress might in some measure be likened to that of a drove of pigs, except that her grunts lacked the solidity and conviction which characterize the grunt of the real porker. Mexico is the real land of the burro. Here they are used to such an extent as freighters as to threaten the existence of the railroads. The Mexican will load his burros to their full capacity and at the stopping places let them graze. No food is provided except what they can pick up. If there should be no food and the animal starves he buys another since this is the cheapest plan.

They carried a light rifle and two Colt’s revolvers, or “Guns” as they are called in the west. There was a tent, two blankets, a bucket, a frying pan, two large canteens, a spade, pick, axe, plenty of coffee and tea, canned baked beans, hard bread, bacon, butter and lard, some flour and feed for the burros.

Neither one could bake or shoot but Uncle remarked that there would be time enough to learn and plenty of teachers. Notwithstanding his quick and sometimes almost rough manner, Jack soon discovered that Uncle was growing fond of her and was really very kind. At first she was very tired as night drew near after a hard day’s riding over the rough trails. They went slowly of necessity, for the burro is not a fast goer and dislikes hurry to an extreme. As the days went by she found her strength growing. He, too, appeared to benefit. They ate plain food, drank nothing but water, and coffee or tea, and retired early and slept soundly. Occasionally they stopped at a settlement, ate a square meal, renewed supplies, had a bath and made ready for another trip.

In this way the winter passed rapidly. Jack learned to shoot, and, profiting from the directions of a good-natured miner, after several failures, they learned to make fair bread.

Jack’s greatest trouble was her cowardice, because she felt sure her Uncle would detest in a boy what he might condone knowing her to be a girl. She made desperate efforts and finally succeeded in controlling her fears moderately well. The dislike she had for shooting was never overcome.

Most of all she enjoyed the evenings by the camp fire when the exertions of the day had not been so great as to compel early hours. Here she looked into his heart and found it clean and good.

There were plenty of indications that all the men one might meet were not of his kind. Bottles innumerable left along the way testified to the fact that though the desert might be dry the travelers were not.

They traveled down the post road from Milford to Delmar and from there struck across country, intending to cross the Hiko, Paranaga and Belted Ranges and strike the Amargosa Desert to the south. These ranges cover a very rough and broken country, and progress was slow and difficult. Several times they were lost, and only the compass finally enabled them to escape from the mountain tangle. The greatest difficulty was in the supply of water for the burros. Their own supply could easily be carried. Several times the burros were saved from death by the finding of one or two barrel cactus which were cut up and fed to them as both food and drink.

With all his good nature Uncle made her toe the mark. He did not believe in spoiling boys. They were generally lazy and he was determined Jack should do her full share of the work, but he did not always remember this. Being naturally lazy she resented being driven. She much preferred to lie around and read, or to lie abed and see him get breakfast, but he usually routed her out. He was anxious that she should grow strong and made her work in order that she might do so but uncomplainingly and as a matter of course he shouldered the heaviest part of the load. It may be imagined, therefore, that her regard for Uncle grew greater day by day. There was bread to make and he made it; the water grew short and he went without; the burros strayed and he went after them,—not grudgingly but without complaint. She had heard of him through her father’s talks many and many a time. She had learned of his goodness to her father; and here he was, unselfishly giving to her all he could give, freely and as a matter of course. Such conduct makes a friend of any generous-minded soul. It slowly converted her regard into devotion. She began to look for opportunities to serve him. To do anything for him became a joy.

They were nearing the Amargosa and were sitting at the camp fire one evening when he said: “Jack, you are the very nicest boy I ever knew. I thought your father was the finest man on earth but I have lost him forever. I have found you instead. I am selfish and I would like to have you both; but, oh, my dear boy! I am so glad to have found you.” Jack said nothing but she turned her face to conceal the tears.

They had been many days on the road. That afternoon they crossed the Funeral Range into Death Valley. The rocks of this range are black, rough, crumbly and forbidding. It is a bad climbing ground for the rocks are rotten and afford very insecure support. As they were slowly and painfully groping their way down into the valley a rock upon which he was standing gave way and he came sliding down in an avalanche of stones and dirt. She saw at a glance that he was headed for a precipice and without hesitating a second threw herself in the way. He was stopped but she slid many feet, turning over and over and landed against another rock, just on the edge of the precipice, covered with stones and dirt. Hastily he tore the spade from the pack, rushed down and uncovered her. Her coat was torn and her shirt in rags. She was unconscious as he laid her on the ground and cleaned the dirt from hands and face and gave her water to drink. Slowly she came out of the daze to find him anxiously bending over her.

“Were you hurt?” said she.

“No,” he replied, “see whether any of your bones are broken.”

They camped at Saratoga Springs and from there traveled by easy stages to Daggett and thence to Los Angeles. All the way he was quiet, and she viewed him with apprehension. On the way east he sat beside her in the Pullman.

“Why did you not tell me you were a woman?” said he.

“I was afraid you would not take me, and I wanted to go.”

“Well, it’s too bad. I suppose now I must send you off to live with some one else.”

“Please don’t do that Uncle, I couldn’t bear it.”

“What can I do then? Get my sister to live with us?”

“Why yes, I suppose so. There are evil tongues. We must have some one.”

His sister saw at once that she must play the rôle of huckleberry, and felt no great eagerness, but good-naturedly consented at last, firmly resolved to aid fate as much as possible so that she might go back to her own work.

The play began with taking them to the theatre twice a week when sister was careful that Jack should sit next to brother. It continued by taking them to the country for the summer. Then they came back to the city again and missed the long walks and the pleasant companionship of the afternoons with nothing to do but exchange ideas. Then Uncle was called to Chicago on business for a week. This lengthened to two weeks. On returning he was so glad to see her that he kissed her and she impulsively returned the kiss and fled. How could a lonesome bachelor long resist such a combination of youth, beauty and love. There was a quiet wedding soon in which two hearts as well as two hands were united. They are not lovers, they are chums. He knows her thoughts and she his—they like each other.

The Professor’s Story

When I was in college one of my professors was a rather old man who was fond of telling about his travels. He told me about several trips he had taken. Some of these stories were very interesting, for he had gone into many places outside the tourist’s ordinary routes in order to study subjects in which he was particularly interested. One of these trips was a visit to Rome. It was taken to attend a Congress of Chemists that assembled there in the Palace of Justice, or Palazzo de Giustitia as the Italians call it, located on the right bank of the Tiber near the Castel de St. Angelo. His daughter, a beautiful girl of 21, accompanied him on the trip. They traveled on the Red Star Line to Vlissingen, or Flushing, and up the Scheldt to Antwerp.

The Congress was held in term time and he was limited to an absence of six weeks. There were two things which he particularly wished to see during this time. One of them was the iron mines of Elba. The ores found in these mines are hematites and contain some of the finest crystals of hematite that have ever been discovered. Elba was also, you will remember, the home of Bonaparte after he had been expelled from France for the first time. Here he ruled in petty state from the fifth of May, 1814, to the twenty sixth of February, 1815.

The second, and indeed the chief, object of his trip was to see the boracic acid soffioni at Lardrello. Here, it had been stated, jets of steam break forth from the earth in which small amounts of boracic acid are contained. This steam is carried into water, the boracic acid condensed with the steam, and the dilute solution thus obtained evaporated at a low temperature so as not to again volatilize it. Ammonia and sulfureted hydrogen are also present and considerable amounts of ammonium sulfate come into commerce from this source. These statements which were so varied in character as to cause some suspicion of exaggeration had aroused his curiosity, only to be completely satisfied by first-hand information such as could be best obtained by a visit.

From Antwerp they traveled to Brussels and from there to Rome by express, by way of Milan. They expected to find it warm in Italy and left their heavy clothing at Antwerp to await their return. They traveled through the Italian Alps, however, and suffered from the cold until Rome was reached. The journey from Brussels was begun in the evening and the second night was passed on the way from Milan to Rome. No seats together were to be had in the train from Milan. The daughter found a good seat in the compartment reserved for women where there was room also for her father and where he joined her. Whenever the conductor came around he remonstrated with the Professor; but as the latter was comfortably established this was met by a stare of no comprehension and the slipping of a lira into the conductor’s hand which ended the argument until the next conductor came around when the process must be repeated. It was, however, uniformly successful.

They approached Rome on the afternoon of a beautiful day in May. The whole surroundings were picturesque in the extreme. Black masses of masonry perched upon the hilltops, marking the sites of cities and towns, spoke eloquently of the reign of lawlessness only just passing away. They passed remains of tombs and caverns excavated in the hillsides—the marks of past civilizations. Everywhere, inside and outside of Rome, were foundations of buildings of the oldest masonry upon which a second structure had been erected, to be in turn destroyed and serve as the foundation of another erection, but still leaving visible remains. This was the country and these the places where Julius and Augustus Caesar lived and reigned, where Cicero spoke, where Cataline conspired, over which Hannibal roamed at will and where Fabian tactics were born. This was the land of the two Plinies, of Scipio the conqueror of Carthage, of Dante and Virgil; the sense of its antiquity grew and became overpowering.

They thought Italy the most beautiful country they had ever seen, “Why,” said the Professor, “As we traveled along I saw Narcissus Poeticus growing in the fields.”

They stopped at the Royal Hotel and were visited by a valet who proposed that he should take care of them during their stay, to which they assented. They occupied three rooms, two bedrooms and a sitting room. In the sitting room of a morning breakfast was prepared by the valet while they were dressing. Then they sat down to breakfast, the valet waiting on them. Lunch was served downstairs, but dinner was the great event of hotel life. The guests were expected to be on time but if delayed they murmured a perfunctory excuse to the Major Domo which was smilingly accepted. The cooking here was elevated to the dignity of a fine art. It was marvelous and sometimes spectacular; as when at the conclusion of a meal an ice was placed in a dish and this in another larger dish held high upon the waiter’s outstretched hand, came in surrounded by blue flames, produced by pouring a little strong liquor into the outer vessel and setting fire to it. Upon another evening, after dinner, the guests were entertained with a very wonderful musical performance carried out by two men and a woman, the latter a very beautiful and accomplished Italian. It soon dawns upon the traveler that the modern Italian is descended from widely differing tribes, few of whom even look alike. Those we know best are swarthy, with black hair and wonderful eyes. There are many types beside this, and not a few light skins and blue eyes.

The Congress was divided into sections. The presiding officer of each section had been selected because of his accomplishments as a linguist. This was necessary, because there were four official languages in which papers might be presented and discussed: Italian, French, German and English. Two of the presiding officers were Germans: Georg Lunge, an accomplished technical chemist, who had been petted until his sense of proportion had been lost and he had become arrogant, and Wilhelm Ostwald, an equally accomplished and much more learned man and a great physical chemist, who was always polite and never was able to forget that he was a gentleman, first. But the sessions were found uninteresting by comparison. Rome itself was so absorbing. They soon gave up the sessions entirely and devoted all their time to exploring the city. The first trip was to the Colosseum. Here they secured a guide—quite an old man, with an English all his own—who declared that: “He was a Roman citizen and p-r-r-r-oud of it.” The Professor did not blame him in the least for this feeling. The old man proved to be a wonderful mine of information, most of it apparently accurate. He explained how the naval battles and other water scenes were managed, how the crowds were protected from the sun and from rains, how the various orders of Romans came in and reached their seats, and showed them the dens where wild beasts were kept. In answer to a question as to how the stones of the amphitheatre were joined without mortar, he took them to a place where a broken corner showed the method of joining by means of a short iron rod leaded into both stones. While they were talking and the Professor was sketching he turned his head and found a policeman with sword and musket overlooking the performance, and especially the sketching, which it seemed was forbidden. But the guide set them at ease by remarking, pointing to the policeman: “a friend of mine.”

Another afternoon was devoted to the famous Forum Romanum, the scene of so many speeches and so many triumphs, and, especially remembered, the speech of Antony over Caesar’s dead body, reported by Shakespeare, and repeated and varied in interpretation by so many of the masters of the tragic art.

A third excursion was to the catacombs on the Appian Way. They were greeted here by a priestly-looking crowd of men one of whom enquired, pointing at them: “English?” Answered in the affirmative they were motioned aside until enough English had accumulated to make up a party and the burly and not over clean guide led them around. The catacombs were disappointing. The galleries are narrow, tortuous and unattractive. The remains of the art of that period though no doubt interesting as showing how art arose decayed and died, were not interesting to a modern. The conclusion was still more unattractive; for, on trying to find their conveyance they discovered that it had disappeared and they must find their way back afoot. But it was evening; they were walking over the road so many conquerors had trodden; under the soft Roman twilight with the monuments of the great dead on both sides of the way; they were glad the driver had fled and left them to walk.

One day was stolen for a swift excursion to Naples to see the museum. Here they stopped at Bertolini’s Hotel, which is situated on the side of a hill far above the city level, with a splendid view. This is reached by going through a doorway into a tunnel at the end of which is a lift. At the top a splendid hotel with this superb view of the bay and of Vesuvius.

There was not time for a thorough examination of the treasures of the museum, but enough was seen to verify and enlarge some statements the Professor had made in a history he was then writing. The examples of metal working were very illuminating, showing as they did in some magnificent examples from Pompeii how little modern art excelled the art of that day except in speed and cheapness of working.

Returning to Rome they discovered that the trip to Elba and to Lardrello had been abandoned because of a strike among the employes on the railway and steamboat; but the Professor declared that he had come to see Lardrello and he would walk there if necessary. The next day they started for Pisa. Most of the route lay along the rocky coast of the Mediterranean through the most beautiful scenery in the world. The road runs along a shelf on the rocks with many tunnels. And the smoke! Ah, the smoke! Oh, the smoke! It gets into the eyes, the nose, the mouth, the ears, over the face and down the back. There is no avoiding it and no escape is possible. They arrived at Pisa about 11 P. M. and were met at the hotel by the proprietor with the question: “You would like a room?” “Yes, two rooms.” A shrug, and then: “I do not know what I shall do; we have but two rooms; one has three beds and the other four beds.”

“The answer is easy,” said the Professor, “My daughter will take the room with three beds, I will take the room with four beds.” When they were escorted to the rooms by the proprietor, the head porter, the maid and the facchini or porters and the doors were opened on the overflowing hospitality of seven beds for two travelers, a hearty laugh broke from every throat; a laugh is the same in all languages.

Pisa is not very inspiring. The famous leaning tower leans because the foundations were poor, and the Baptistery is built of old tombstones and other stolen pieces of marble from which the thieves had not decency enough to chisel away the inscriptions. This thievery seems to have been a habit in the days which we see through the fogs of romance.

The next day they turned back and retraced their steps for part of the way to Cecina where they transferred to the road to Volterra. This town is situated on the frowning heights above the railway station, where a crowd of people; drivers, porters and others was assembled. The Professor accosted a hack driver in English. To this there was no reply but a shrug of the shoulders. Then he tried German, French and Latin in succession, all in vain. As they were about giving up in despair a voice from behind them, or from Heaven, said: “You would like to go to Lardrello? You are interested in boracic acid?”

“I have come all the way from America to see it,” said the Professor, “so you may judge whether I am interested.” Introductions followed and cards were exchanged. Their friend was Prince Conti, son-in-law of Count Lardrello and the manager of the works. He told the driver what was required; gave him instructions where to take the travelers for the night and what they would like to eat and promised to meet them at the works next day. He too, it seemed, had been attending the Congress and was just returning.

They traveled over a beautiful country covered with olive orchards, with pale yellowish-green foliage, to a country inn. Here everything was primitive and old-fashioned to the last degree, but clean. There were tile floors and the beds were of wrought iron in filagree,—beautiful pieces of workmanship.

Next morning they reached the works in a desolate valley over which clouds of steam hovered. They were met and welcomed by the Prince who apologized for not being able to open the Palace for them as the family were away and the servants dispersed for the summer.

The natural soffioni, they discovered, had failed to give a sufficient yield and were now supplemented by wells sunk as are petroleum wells in Pennsylvania. One of the new developments had been the striking of steam at a pressure of sixty pounds in some of the wells. These wells were capped and the steam led through a boiler containing a purifying agent to remove the sulfureted hydrogen, after which it was used to run a steam engine which in turn actuated mills to grind the boracic acid and borax produced. After going through the works the Prince was good enough to present the young lady with a bouquet of flowers and they said good-bye. The use of steam from Mother Earth to run a steam engine was, the Professor said, an entirely new idea not used, so far as he knew, anywhere else in the world, and suggested a possible method of keeping alive in those times we may possibly expect as our fuels disappear. It may then be necessary to drive deep wells to tap the supply of heat now lying far below the surface in most places and only reaching through the crust in a few.

My Friend Zahn

I am a very ordinary person with some rather remarkable acquaintances. It is my purpose to give here some account of these men and women—for they are of both sexes—and incidentally to describe some of the remarkable discoveries they have made.

It was my good fortune to become well acquainted with several of these personages—for they are remarkable enough to be so called—while I was a student in a mid-western college for both sexes. Being a man of sufficient means and a bachelor with a taste for scientific studies, I have had leisure to attend many scientific conventions; and here I have been able to make the acquaintance of many other persons of brain power and industry sufficient to lead them to eminence. I flatter myself that I have, by reason of an agreeable personality, obtained an unusual knowledge of the work they have accomplished. I will admit that some of these men and women have a very limited supply of polished manners, and one or two are almost without any of the qualifications necessary in a member of polite society.—But this will develop as the story progresses.

I first met Samuel Zahn as a fellow freshman. His was a most engaging personality, for he is kind, witty and brainy. He took the lead in the class from the first day in college and was the most popular member. Needless to say he was at once chosen President of the class, and President he remains to this day. He is over six feet tall, with large limbs and a big head; since leaving college he has gained weight and improved in appearance. I visited him at his home in a large western city five years ago and we spent several days together, talking far into the nights; and during this time he had much to say about various phases of his work in biology, of which he is an enthusiastic student.

“Why is it Brown,” he enquired, “that all living beings must grow old and die? This is true of all plants and all animals. There must be some chemical reason for this universal fact.

“Before following out my line of reasoning, Brown, perhaps I should first recall your attention to the method of scientific discovery. We are accustomed, as you are aware, when traveling into new ground to form first an hypothesis as an explanation of the facts known to us. Beginning with this hypothesis, we first reason out the consequences which must follow if the hypothesis should be the real explanation. We then proceed to test these consequences by experiment. We then reason out other necessary consequences of the hypothesis and proceed further with our tests. If the results of our tests confirm the hypothesis it presently becomes a theory and in course of time a law.

“I have formed a great many hypotheses to account for the ageing of plants and animals, but under the test of experiment these have all broken down one after another. Recently, however, it occurred to me that perhaps the ageing might be due to the formation of resinous substances in the tissues by the combination of two substances one contained in the food the other in the tissues. You will remember that the insoluble resin, bakelite, is formed by the union of an aldehyde and a phenol under suitable temperature conditions. If, now, the aldehyde like body formed part of the tissue, and the phenol were contained in the food and passed unchanged into the circulation, we should have slow combination and the formation of hard material—perhaps also material in the form of fibers and therefore flexible—within the tissues, which would cause them to harden and stiffen, inducing the other changes we ascribe to old age.

“If now these phenol bodies are contained in the plant and animal juices constituting our foods they must be contained in those that are short lived in largest amount, and it should be possible to bring on old age much more rapidly by feeding short lived plants. For this purpose I used first oat straw, but I found this did not produce the desired effect. On further consideration it seemed unlikely that it should: for the ripe, and therefore dead, straw would contain only the resin and neither aldehyde nor phenol. I therefore used green oat straw and found that this brought on old age rapidly when fed to dairy cows with no other food. I then tried various additions to the green oat straw with the object of finding some substance capable of uniting with and destroying the phenol. This I have at last succeeded in finding; and I am now in possession of a reagent which will so far destroy any of these phenols contained in food, that old age is indefinitely arrested. This as you will see places a dreadful responsibility in my hands. This is not the Secret of Perpetual Youth exactly, for I cannot so far restore youth to the aged—I can only arrest decay. By feeding this antidote to a baby it may remain a baby forever. Or it may be allowed to reach any desired age and then forced to cease developing indefinitely. I will confess to you that I feel dismayed by this heavy responsibility. What do you think I should do? What is my duty?”

“This is such an extraordinary story, Zahn,” I replied, “that I think, in fairness, you should first give some proof that you are not in error in thinking your discovery a real one; and since considerable time must necessarily pass before any satisfactory demonstration of this kind can be made perhaps we had better not further discuss the matter at present.”

“Spoken with your usual clearheadedness,” he rejoined. “I must confess, however to a certain amount of disappointment in your lack of faith in accepting my conclusions.”

To this I made no rejoinder, thinking that the less the subject was discussed the better.

He then informed me that he had invited two friends to lunch with us. “I am much interested in them,” he said, “because I believe they are much interested in each other. They are very interesting people, and I want you to know them.”

Shortly before one they arrived. The man was approximately about fifty years of age and rather above the medium height; he was well-built and walked like a soldier. His hair was only slightly gray; his nose was straight and well-formed. There was about him a certain air of gentility, and his manner was pleasant and courteous. The lady was at least twenty years younger. She was the most beautiful creature I had ever met, and her manner was alert and full of charm. They came in together, and there was no possibility of doubting their interest in each other. But they were both so genuinely interested in their host and in me that this mutual understanding seemed pleasant to both of us. He was introduced as John Valient, a successful lawyer and she as Helen Henderson.

At table we were waited on by Mrs. Frains, Sam’s housekeeper, a dear, motherly old lady with white hair, kind eyes and a fair complexion. Sam introduced her to us, and treated her as in every way an equal. Miss Henderson sat at his right, Valient at his left and I opposite.

During the meal Sam informed us that he had recently given some attention to nutrition and had come to the conclusion that condiments played a much more important rôle than had hitherto been assigned to them. He had studied these therefore with some attention and had compounded one which he thought we would find very agreeable. He proceeded to extract a bottle from a near by closet; from a medicine dropper inserted through the cork he dropped a single drop upon our fish.

“It is very strong,” he remarked, “and more than a single drop would be too much. If you wish I will give a bottle of it to each one of you provided you will promise to use a single drop at each meal until it is all used. According to my calculations this will take a little over nine years, for there are 500 cubic centimeters in the bottle and each cubic centimeter is equal to twenty drops.”

After eating the fish, which was delicious, we readily promised and received each a bottle. I may remark here that I became very fond of the relish, and now, after the lapse of five years, the bottle is nearly half full, thus showing how accurate were his calculations.

“I wish,” said Miss Henderson to Zahn, “that you would tell Mr. Brown about your agricultural catalysts. I think this a very entertaining story.”

“Why certainly,” he replied, “I shall be delighted.”

“You must know, Brown,” he said, addressing me, “that there are a large number of chemical substances which are called catalysts. I can best illustrate what this means by giving two examples. If potassium chlorate be heated it melts and begins to give off bubbles of oxygen gas. If, however, we first pulverize the chlorate and add to it a mere pinch of very finely powdered manganese dioxid and mix the two very thoroughly and then heat the mixture, oxygen will again come off but at so low a temperature that the chlorate does not even melt, and much more rapidly.

“In the manufacture of ‘Crisco’ and other lard substitutes from liquid oils by pumping hydrogen through the oil in closed vessels, so long as only these two substances are present no combination takes place and the pressure increases. But if a small amount of finely divided nickel be added combination at once begins, the melting point of the oil rises and the pressure falls.

“We once supposed that many chemical substances found in minute amount in the ashes of plants were not of importance, but it has lately been asserted that this is not true and that manganese in particular plays an important part in plant economy, acting as a catalyst. I have verified this fact and have proceeded to examine the action of different manganese compounds in order to determine which is most active. The acetate functions well, the hydrosol better but colloidal manganese is by far the best. In any considerable amount this acts as a violent poison but in homeopathic doses it functions as a vigorous stimulant. Using this reagent as a hypodermic I have obtained astonishing results. I have one stalk of Indian corn on my farm treated in this way which measures forty feet in height and has seven ears, each over a foot long and perfectly set, with grains well on toward ripeness. Watermelons the size of hogsheads are readily produced and we have canteloupes, cucumbers and tomatoes as large as nail kegs. I have used the kohl rabi for several years as a source of winter forage for my cattle, slicing them before feeding. Treated in this way heads as large as barrels are readily grown, as much as forty tons per acre being an ordinary yield. I have in consequence been able to quadruple the size of my herd without devoting more acreage to the growing of forage. I have not entirely succeeded in increasing the oat and wheat crop because of the difficulties in the way of successful wholesale hypodermic injection. I have made a somewhat promising beginning, however, by successfully inoculating chrysanthemum with the aid of the aphis which preys on them. You know that this aphis punctures the outer cuticle with his proboscis and drinks the sap. Acting on this knowledge I have first sprayed the aphis with a dilute colloidal manganese and dried them rapidly with a current of warm air. The colloid adheres to the outside of their beaks and gently stimulates. When the beak is inserted the plant at once is inoculated. The aphis is then destroyed by the application of whale oil soap or other appropriate insecticide and the plant develops to an enormous size producing blossoms as large as a lady’s summer straw hat. They are indeed marvelous.

“I have also begun some experiments upon animals but the effect here seems to be even more poisonous. Another idea has, however, occurred to me which gives promise of a very great success. You know that caffein is a mild stimulant to the human race, and acting on this lead I have tried a number of stimulants, winding up with virulent poisons. One of these containing arsenic combined with strychnine, cocaine and selenium has been injected into calves from my herd which are now, at six weeks, as large as their mothers. Unfortunately this growth has been accompanied by the development of a disagreeable odor which makes them unpleasant neighbors. I fear I shall be forced to find a substitute for the selenium in order to avoid this but I have no doubt of final success.”

During this recital any conversation had become impossible; in fact we were reduced to a state of coma and walked from the table like well-trained somnambulists without uttering a word.

In the evening I accompanied Zahn to a lecture he was to deliver before the Society of Facultative Anaerobists. It appeared that these people had associated themselves for the purpose of further studying those organisms which develop either in an atmosphere of oxygen or of one devoid of it. In the latter case they decompose some substance contained in the solution and assimilate the oxygen it contains. The lecture was to be delivered at the society headquarters over a grocery store. The entrance was on a side street in the rear. There was a light over the entrance and the hall was gained by mounting a steep pair of stairs. We found the assembled anaerobists busily at work under the chairmanship of a lanky individual in corduroy trousers. Upon our entrance the proceedings were at once suspended to allow the lecture to proceed. Zahn was escorted to the platform with much deference and began as follows:

“Fellow Truthseekers:—It is with some hesitation that I venture to appear before you to make my small contribution to your proceedings. I am well aware of the labors of some members of this illustrious society, and feel considerable diffidence in appearing before you. I shall confine my remarks to two themes: The first will be a contribution to the technology of inoculation. I have had considerable experience of the difficulty and danger of inoculating savage animals, and the first part of my paper merely describes the technique which I have found successful in such cases. I have here an inconspicuous gun which enables us to effect inoculation at a distance and with ease and certainty. The projectile consists of a hollow needle with two sheet metal flanges surrounding it acting like a piston in the cylinder of the gun. The inoculating liquid is sucked into the needle by its capillarity. On inserting a metal sphere filled with liquefied carbon dioxid into this cylinder and pressing this trigger, a needle penetrates the capsule, liberates the carbon dioxid, which instantly is converted into gas and drives the projectile from the gun. The needle has sufficient force to penetrate the skin until the first of the flanges is reached. This instantly stops it and the shock forces the liquid into the wound. The outside of the needle should first be coated with an antiseptic to prevent the entrance of skin bacteria.”

This contribution was greeted with great applause and the gun was seized by a female with a black eye which she declared had been due to the hoof of a mule—fortunately unshod. After the confusion had partly subsided the chairman rapped for order and Zahn proceeded to read his second paper:

“You are of course aware,” he began, “that during the world war the supply of glycerin became insufficient and that it was discovered that the addition of some sodium sulfite to a sugar solution which was seeded with the yeast plant altered the direction of the fermentation and caused the formation of large amounts of glycerin—sometimes as much as 30 per cent of the product. No careful study of the effect of this addition upon the yeast plant itself seems to have been made. I have now taken up this study and have reached some startling conclusions. Such organisms so produced seem to have lost many of their original characteristics. Ordinary saccharomyces cerevisae, for example, grown under these abnormal conditions will no longer produce normal yeast fermentation. The progeny of the original cells break, and we have the same sort of variation that is ordinarily obtained in raising plants from seed. By varying the nature of the disturbing substance; that is by replacing the sodium sulfite by other reagents, I have succeeded in producing still other modifications which have interesting properties economically important.

“On this slide, which we will now project by the lantern, we have a photograph of an organism capable of turning waste molasses into ethyl chloride which is much used as a local anaesthetic and may be used instead of ether. It is necessary to add sufficient salt to the solution to supply the chlorin and the sodium remains behind as sodium carbonate supplying that necessary product of the chemical industry at a price defying competition.

“Here we have the photograph of another modified organism capable of absorbing carbon dioxid from mixed gases containing it and building up starch in sunlight much after the manner of chlorophyl in the plant. The synthetic starch so produced differs in no particular from that found in plants and is obtained in large amount very cheaply from the waste gases given off by our stoves and furnaces. The supply of such material is very large and the starchy food that in this way may become available destroys at once all possibility of future famine and all necessity of raising wheat, oats, barley, potatoes or other starchy foods. I hope before long to be able to announce the discovery of other forms able to produce albumen and other proteids directly from the atmospheric nitrogen, so as to solve for all time the possibility of future starvation.”

This paper was greeted by cheering and immense enthusiasm. The chairman in proposing a vote of thanks said that the society had now amply justified the hopes of its founders and that this would long be marked as a red letter day in its history.

I walked home with Zahn tired with so many wonders. The next morning I overslept and was late for my train so that there was no opportunity for any further conversation. I have not seen my host since that time until last week. I then made a singular and most distressing discovery.

I had noticed that most of my shirts were frayed at the wristbands. I needed some new shirts and proceeded to select them. Judge my surprise when I discovered that my old friend Zahn was waiting on me! I of course accosted him by name, only to be met by a blank stare and a firm denial of acquaintance. He assured me that his name was Smith and that he knew no one by the name of Zahn. I asked for the proprietor of the store and told him my story only to be greeted by an incredulous stare. The proprietor assured me that Smith came to the store under that name with fine recommendations from previous employers, and that they had no doubt whatever that he was as represented. I can only suppose that Zahn had lost his mind through overstudy and with it his memory. I have noticed that neither I myself nor either of the other participants in that famous lunch, now five years ago, appears a day older, and I am dreading the exhaustion of my bottle and the slow onset of old age.

Just Samuel Jones

Samuel Jones was an energetic as well as a very careful young man. He had inherited a small sum of money from his father. It was his purpose to use so much of this as was necessary in completing his education; the remainder was to be carefully invested as a nest egg for the reserve he intended to create which he spoke and thought of as The Dam. The idea back of this name was that if the Dam were big enough and were full it would keep the mill going for some time should the springs run dry.

Sam was careful in other ways also. He laid careful plans each morning so that no time need be wasted. If the day was cool he put on a heavy suit; if cloudy he wore rubbers and carried an umbrella. If the temperature rose suddenly after such a beginning and the sun shone brightly, he had at least done his part and this consoled him for the suffering he must endure. This disposition subjected Sam to the ridicule of his unmarried sister, Tilly, who acted as his housekeeper. Tilly was of a very different build. No one ventured to call Tilly careful—she was conspicuously careless. She had a pretty foot and loved to buy new shoes, but she often dressed in a hurry, and her shoes, having been discarded in a hurry, were not readily matched. In consequence, she sometimes appeared at breakfast with a shoe upon the right foot and a slipper on the left. This impropriety filled Sam with anguish. Perhaps this difference in disposition was one of the reasons for their affection, for they were very fond of each other and they led a very happy life.

Sam had a poor opinion of college men. Part of this low rating was no doubt prejudice and part was due to the fact that he was not a college man himself. He saw very clearly, however, that many college men acquire only a fine polish. The process fails to get enough paint on the rough wood of the foundation to hide the coarse grain which shows through in all its crudity. He had also taken note of his own rather brusque manner, and laid it, correctly, to the lack of those opportunities which come to the college man unsought. Anxious to repair this defect he became precise and a trifle stilted. This Tilly was not slow to notice and criticize. Tilly loved college boys and their ways. She listened with attention to their songs and was up on all their pranks. Their escapades amused her and she forgave their faults. She knew them well for they lived in a college town.

Back of all Sam’s spur to action was a love of chemistry. He became enamoured of it in High School where Steele’s Fourteen Weeks was the text-book. Beginning by pouring vinegar on baking soda in his mother’s kitchen, he had managed to study carefully a good many chemical substances so that his knowledge was much broader and deeper than that obtained by most college students. As the lumberman notices all the straight trees large enough for sawing so Sam tagged all objects with formulae. Water was H₂O; vinegar C₂H₄O₂; Cream of tartar (CHOH COOH, CHOH COOK); and sugar C₁₂H₂₂O₁₁. After the death of their mother Sam had fitted up a laboratory in the attic and hung out the shingle of an analytical chemist. The income obtained in this way being too small he conceived the idea of adding to it by the concoction of various specialties, and Jones’ Talcum Powder, Jones’ Velvet Cream and Jones’ Tooth Paste made their appearance on the shelves of neighboring druggists and were spoken of in terms of praise by those who had used them. These had been supplemented by various perfumes which found favor with the weaker sex and became the foundations of a business which was steadily increasing. Into this scene of happiness and peaceful prosperity Fate dropped several bombs.

Bomb the First

Sam and Tilly loved the movies. They formed a background of romance to their prosaic lives. They read, eagerly, all they could find in print about the stars of moviedom and were well acquainted with the features of the prominent actors. Twice a week they attended, rain or shine. As this involved long walks in bad weather they had, with the dawn of prosperity, invested in a Ford.

It was a windy night in October. There was a threat of rain in the air as the sullen clouds drifted past over the moon. As they returned to the car, which had been left in a side street, a tiny muffled wail greeted them: “Gracious! it’s a cat,” said Tilly. “Good Lord! it’s a baby!” It was wrapped in an old, frayed, woolen blanket. They took it home—what else could they do?—and Tilly unwrapped it in her warm room. It was clean and warm and dry, and its clothing, though of the plainest material and somewhat worn, was also clean. Tilly declared it was a darling. She sent Sam for a bottle and some of the best milk, fed the child and covered her warmly in a large arm chair which was pushed against the bed so that she might hear the little one move in the night. Tilly declared the little girl had aristocratic features. She fell violently in love with her and declared she would not give her up. Sam smiled and agreed. He seldom opposed Tilly, though he felt somewhat doubtful of the propriety of keeping the baby. The little one grew apace. She soon became the central sun of the household about which Sam and Tilly revolved—two obedient satellites.

The household duties soon became too great for Tilly, and Elizabeth Tillicum was sent for. Elizabeth was a New Jersey product, redolent of the hills that border the Delaware. Her hair was sandy—the color of New Jersey sand. Her eyes were blue—the color of the blue water of the Atlantic which rolls over the New Jersey sand beaches, though this water is often green; and her freckles were—just plain brown freckles. I am not saying Elizabeth was beautiful—she was not. She agreed with everyone; she was quite unable to contradict; indeed her acquiescence was almost slavish. In size she was opulent. It seemed doubtful when she sat down whether some portion of her anatomy might not spill over on the floor but this never actually happened. With all her disposition to conciliate she persisted in moving slowly, and all the alleged work that she performed was performed at a uniform slow speed. Some critics averred that she did not work—she lolloped. They said that when she did do work it was so poorly done that it must first be undone and then done over again. However this may be, Elizabeth steadfastly, slowly and pleasantly pushed her way through the world. But she was not a bomb, she was not even a torpedo.

Very few people can be reformed by preaching at them, object lessons are more effective. Her own carelessness was well known to Tilly and made her secretly admire Sam’s precision and half despise Elizabeth’s sloppy work. The coming of the baby brought a change. Tilly read up on the care of babies in a volume entitled “The Feeding and Care of Children.” This learned work explained the overwhelming importance of cleanliness. It detailed the various minute bugs which lurk in the air, water and soil ready to seize and carry off the unsuspecting child. From a heedless maiden, Tilly was rapidly transformed into the veriest martinet, watching for the least speck of impurity to pounce upon and destroy it. Everything the baby ate was sterilized, and the bottles, spoons and plates scalded assiduously. Toward this campaign of cleanliness the baby herself manifested a cynical indifference. She threw the bottle on the floor. She drew her spoon through her hair, and after crawling through all the dirt attainable, rubbed her grimy hands over her half-cleared plate and then thrust the chubby paws down her throat. Such behaviour was anathema maranatha and filled Tilly with despair.

Sam was at first far from being charmed by the dirt and disorder which the child insisted upon, but she soon vanquished him. Her velvet skin, lovely color and wide open smile would have melted a stone, and Sam soon became her slave. In return she manifested an ardent preference for his society; crowed when he came home, howled when he left, insisted on sitting in his lap, thrust her fingers into his eyes, nose and ears, pulled his hair and showed not the slightest regard for his privacy or the ordinary courtesies of life. Sam was reformed in spite of himself. For the sake of peace he put up with rumpled hair, moist and slimy kisses and greasy fingerprints on his coat. Such is the mollifying discipline babies hand around in humanizing their elders.

The naming of the baby had been a dreadful ordeal, and nearly ended in a rupture between Sam and Tilly.

“We do not know her name,” said Sam, “so we had better give her one which is merely descriptive; then when her real name is divulged there will be less temptation to ignore it. I propose to call her Monday October Jones until we discover her real name. This is descriptive of the day of the week and the month she came to us.”

“She shall have no such barbarous name,” said Tilly. “You may as well call her Man Friday at once. I will not have any such name. She is going to have a pretty name. Monday October Jones: the idea! I shall call her Arma:

Arma virumque cano

Trojae qui primus ab oris

Don’t you remember that pretty verse Jimmy Case sings?”

Tilly’s words had an air of finality. She had been a bit uncertain herself until Sam put in an oar. There was another rhyme which sang through her consciousness making her undecided. It was:

Gaudeamus igitur

Juvenes dum sumus

that she had heard the college boys sing. But on the whole she inclined toward Arma, for Gaudeamus did not sound like a female. So the baby was named Arma Virumque Jones.

Arma was a romantic little soul. She thirsted for the unusual and wonderful. As she grew to girlhood she invested those dear to her with imaginary virtues. Tilly was a lovely and stately lady and Sam the personification of all that was noble and good. She was a beautiful girl, with curly brown hair and a clean mind. With her twelfth birthday began her affairs of the heart. Her first flame was a beautiful Italian boy who dwelt in an old house in the alley. This flame was quenched when she encountered him after he had consumed a larger ration of garlic than was usual. The next conflagration was started by the grocer’s boy, but this was quenched when she overheard him swear. This was followed by a passion for a young and rather dull divine who never dreamed of his conquest, so that it died of inanition.

Bomb the Second

The three were sitting in the living room one evening in June. Sam and Tilly were reading and Arma was getting out her lessons, when a resounding knock on the door was heard, and a great big, strong, jolly man burst in, shook hands with Sam and noisily proclaimed how glad he was to see “this darn old fraud” once more.

Sam’s face lighted with pleasure as he welcomed him and introduced him as “Billy Gesundheit, my old friend and comrade in Pittsburgh.”

“My word, what a name!” thought Tilly, “But what a fine looking man. He seems too good to be true.” This was during her trip upstairs to inspect the guest room where he was to spend the night.

Sam had lived two years in the smokehouse city as chemist to a young struggling steel plant. Before he left this puny infant industry had begun putting on the seven league boots of manhood. At this time Gesundheit was a hearty young workman to whom Sam took a fancy. This was vigorously reciprocated; Sam was carried off to Billy’s home and introduced to his widowed mother who was a wonderful housekeeper. She became interested in Sam at once—for was he not a friend of her Billy?—sewed on his buttons, darned his socks, and wound up by taking complete possession. Sam soon moved into their spare room and, as the homely phrase has it, “she ate him and slept him.”

Billy informed them that he had risen in rank considerably since Sam’s departure and was now acting as manager of the works. He had come to New York on business and must soon leave for home; he expected to make frequent visits, however, and here he looked at Tilly, and he would not fail to visit them as often as possible. He also informed them that to-morrow was a holiday for them; he was to take entire charge, manage all details and pay all expenses; all they need do was to enjoy themselves as much as possible.

After breakfast next morning Billy produced a map of the city for each member of the party. “A taxicab is coming at eight,” he began, “to take us to the place where our excursion starts. I’m going to walk part of the way; the rest of you may do so or ride, just as you please.”

“Where are we going?” said Tilly.

“We are going to circumnavigate the city,” said Billy. “I doubt whether you know your own town. Most people do not. If we first go around it, and then go through all the streets and alleys you will know it on the outside at least. After we get through we will quiz one another on the names of the streets and alleys and their location. It is good fun and has a use beside.”

For about a mile the city line ran along the middle of a highway. It was not a well paved highway. There were stones, tin cans and piles of rubbish to be dodged. Then the line led through an orchard. Here Billy got out, inviting the others to go with him, but only Tilly accepted the invitation. The others followed the road, agreeing to wait for the pedestrians at a point further along, while the foot passengers gracefully climbed the fence. They had not gone more than a few hundred feet among the trees, which were old and decayed, before they caught sight of a house ahead. Sitting on the back porch in a hickory rocking chair was an ancient lady, clad in calico, rocking gently to and fro while knitting a pair of socks. As the travelers drew near, she looked up and said:

“I’m knitting these socks for my son. He don’t like wool next his skin, so I use cotton, but I have an awful time getting the right kind of thread. If the thread is too coarse, he says they look like gunny bags and if it is too fine the socks are not warm enough. He is very pertickler, my son is. Maybe you know him; his name is Winterbottom; first name Jeremiah, after his father. He’s well known in Wilmington. Don’t you know him?”

“No,” said Billy, sitting down on the edge of the porch and making room for Tilly beside him, “I don’t know him but I hear he is a very fine man. I hope you will tell us more about him. What is his business?”

“Making flat irons. What’s yours?”

“I make iron and steel.”