FOOTNOTES:

"When icicles hang by the wallAnd Dick the shepherd blows his nailAnd Tom bears logs into the hallAnd milk comes frozen home in pail,When blood is nipp'd and ways be foul,Then nightly sings the staring owl,Tu-whit;Tu-who, a merry note,While greasy Joan doth keel the pot."When all aloud the wind doth blowAnd coughing drowns the parson's sawAnd birds sit brooding in the snowAnd Marian's nose looks red and raw,When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,Then nightly sings the staring owl,Tu-whit;Tu-who, a merry note,While greasy Joan doth keel the pot."

"When all aloud the wind doth blowAnd coughing drowns the parson's sawAnd birds sit brooding in the snowAnd Marian's nose looks red and raw,When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,Then nightly sings the staring owl,Tu-whit;Tu-who, a merry note,While greasy Joan doth keel the pot."

Among the gossips there would be much talk of wonders, appearances, mysterious occurrences,and charms; and the children listened with all their ears, you may be sure. Perhaps one of Mistress Shakspere's friends possessed the power that some people in Warwickshire still are said to possess, of charming away warts by a touch and some murmured invocation; or curing toothache and all other aches and pains. There are plenty of people now who, after your second cup of tea is finished, will take the cup, twist the grounds around three times, turn it mouth downward in the saucer, and then, by looking at the tea-leaves which still stick to the bottom of the cup, will undertake to tell you what is going to happen—of presents you will receive, or people who are coming to see you. And many Warwickshire women still believe firmly that whooping-cough can be charmed away by the patient walking nine times over running water.

"THE HEDGE-ROWS WERE FULL, AS THEY ARE TO THIS DAY, OF WILD APPLES, WILD PEARS, AND 'CRABS.'""THE HEDGE-ROWS WERE FULL, AS THEY ARE TO THIS DAY, OF WILD APPLES, WILD PEARS, AND 'CRABS.'"

The boys' games of those days were much the same as they are to-day. Each game then, as now, had its regular season in the year. In the season for marbles, no one would dream of playing anything else. "Knuckle-hole" is still the favorite game in Warwickshire. The standing-up game, pitching the taw from a mark scraped across the ground, is, I am told by competent authorities, rather going out of fashion; but it is still played. The marble season lasts through the late winter, much to the distraction of mothers, who have to clean and mend their sons' nether garments, which are worn with kneeling and plastered with mud at that time of year. Then comes the spinning-top, whip-top, and peg-top time. Later again there is tip-cat for the boys, and hop-scotch for the girls.

On the corn-bins in the Warwickshire ale-house stables we can still find the lines rudely cut for "nine men's morris." This, in Shakspere's day, was a favorite game, and one much in vogue among the shepherd boys in the summer, who cut a "board" in the short turf and whiled away the long hours by playing it. Little Will must often have gone to watch his father play "shovel-board" at the Falcon tavern, in Stratford, on the board upon which tradition says he himself played, in later life. And at home, he and his brother must have played "push-pin," an old game which is still played in remote parts of the country. Two pins are laid on the table; the players in turn jerk them with their fingers, and he who throws one pin across the other is allowed to take one of them, while those who do not succeed have to give a pin. This is the game Shakspere alludes to in "Love's Labour's Lost," when he says, "And Nestor play at push-pin with the boys."

Little Will knew a great deal about sport. All his allusions to sporting or woodcraft are those of a man who had been familiar with such things from his childhood. He and Gilbert must have set plenty of "springes, to catch wood-cocks," and dug out the "earth-delving conies" that swarmed in the commmonland of Welcombe, those dingles that in later years he fought so hard to preserve from inclosure.

BOYS FISHING IN THE AVON—OPPOSITE THE WEIR-BRAKE.BOYS FISHING IN THE AVON—OPPOSITE THE WEIR-BRAKE.

They must have fished many a time, as the Stratford boys do to this day, in the slow waters of the Avon, sitting quietly intent for hours upon the steep clay bank

"to see the fishCut with her golden oars the silver stream,And greedily devour the treacherous bait."[C]

Then who can doubt that he often watched the hunting of the hare? Each line in his wonderful description of the hunted hare is written by a thorough sportsman and a keen observer of nature. How the purblind hare runs among a flock of sheep or into a rabbit-warren, or "sorteth with a herd of deer" to throw out "the hot scent-snuffing hounds." How they pause silent till they have worked "with much ado the cold fault cleanly out," and then burst into music again.

Of deer, Shakspere knew much—too much for his own comfort. In his childhood, there were herds at Fulbrooke,—and when he was older, at Charlecote, at Grove Park, and at Warwick. And probably there were a few roe in the wilder parts of the Forest of Arden, which came down within three miles of Stratford, and covered the whole ofthe country north of the Avon, out to Nuneaton and Birmingham. We can fancy how the boys stole out to watch the Grevilles and Leycesters and Lucys and Verneys on some great hunting party, and whispered to each other,

"Under this thick-grown brake we'll shroud ourselves,For through this lawnd anon the deer will come."

But the time of all others in the year that we connect most closely with Shakspere is the sweet spring-time, when the long cold winter—very long and very cold among those undrained clay-lands of Warwickshire—had come to an end. How closely little Will watched for

"daffodils,That come before the swallow dares, and takeThe winds of March with beauty";

and for

"violets, cowslips, and pale primroses."

We can fancy the little boys hunting in some sheltered nook in the Welcombe woods for the first primroses; and climbing up Borden Hill just beyond Shottery, perhaps with Anne Hathaway from the pretty old house in the orchards below, to the bank—the only one in the neighborhood,—

"where the wild thyme blows,Where oxlips, and the nodding violet grows";

or wandering over the flat sunny meadows along the Avon valley, picking cowslips, and looking into each tiny yellow bell for the spots in their gold coats,—

"Those be rubies, fairy favors,In those freckles live their savors,"—

as they brought home baskets of the flower-heads for their mother to make into cowslip wine.

Spring, in this Stratford country, is exquisite. The woods are carpeted with primroses and wild hyacinths; while in the "merry month of May" the nightingale swarms among the hawthorn trees white with blossom.

On every village green there stood a painted May pole—one is still standing at Weston, near Stratford; and May-Day is still kept in Warwickshire with a "May feast" upon old May-Day, the 12th of May. Every one knows how the prettiest girl in the village was chosen Queen o' the May, and how all joined in the "Whitsun Morris-dance."

A BUNCH OF COWSLIPS.A BUNCH OF COWSLIPS.

Long Marston,—"Dancing Marston," as it has been called ever since Shakspere's time,—a few miles from Stratford, was famous till within the memory of man for a troop of Morris-dancers, who went about from village to village, strangely dressed, to dance at all the feasts. Shakspere probably had the Marston dancers in his mind when he wrote of the "three carters, three shepherds, three neat-herds, three swine-herds," that made themselves all "men of hair," and called themselves "Saltiers," at the sheep-shearing feast which pretty Perdita presided over, in "The Winter's Tale." The sheep-shearing feast, which came when roses were out on the hedges and in the gardens, must have been a merry and important time for the Shakspere boys. John Shakspere was, of course, specially interested in the price of atod of wool, for wool-stapling was part of his trade. Perhaps William himself was sent by his mother to buy the groceries for the feast, and stood conning the list as he makes the clown do, in "The Winter's Tale."

In the spring-time, too, came the peddler with all his wonders and treasures:

"Lawn as white as driven snow;Cypress black as e'er was crow;Gloves as sweet as damask roses;Masks for faces and for noses."

Those last must have pleased the little boys more than all the rest of the peddler's goods. And perhaps it was from this very peddler that Will Shakspere bought the pair of gloves which, after the fashion of the day, he gave to Anne Hathaway at their betrothal.

But the great event of the year in the quiet country town was Stratford "Mop" or statute fair, on the 12th of October. The market-place was filled, as it is to this day, with clowns and mountebanks, wrestlers, and rope-dancers at their "rope-tricks." Oxen and sheep were roasted whole. A roaring trade was driven by quack doctors and dentists. All the servants in the country came and stood around to be hired, as the farm-hands and the maids for the farm-houses still do—the carters with a bit of whipcord in their hats; the shepherds with a lock of wool; the laborers with a straw. And next day, we need not doubt, there were many candidates for the town stocks, as there are now for the police court. There were bear-baitings, too, and bull-baitings—those cruel sports which have only been abolished in Warwickshire within the last hundred years. But in Shakspere's day bear-baiting was a popular and refined amusement. During Queen Elizabeth's visit to Kenilworth, in 1575, there was a great bear-baiting in her honor, of which a curious and most sickening account still exists. And when Shakspere went to London his lodgings were close to the bear-garden, or "Bear's College," at Southwark, whither all London flocked to see the poor beasts tormented and tortured.

There was, however, one amusement which, from his earliest years, must have delighted little Will Shakspere above all others—I mean a visit from the players. That he inherited his love for the drama from his father is more than probable; for it was during the year of John Shakspere's High Bailiffship that plays are first mentioned in the records at Stratford. According to the custom of the day, when the players belonging to some great nobleman came to a town, they reported themselves to the mayor to get a license for playing. If the mayor liked them, or wished to show respect to their master, he would appoint them to play their first play before himself and the Council. This was called the Mayor's Play, every one coming in free, and the mayor giving the players a reward in money. Between the autumns of 1568 and 1569,

"The Queen's and the Earl of Worcester's players visited the town and gave representations before the Council, the former company receiving nine shillings and the latter twelve pence for their first performances."

And there is little reason to doubt that our little Will, then between five and six years old, was taken to see them by his father, the mayor, as a little boy named Willis was taken at Gloucester that same year, being exactly William Shakspere's age; and, standing between his father's knees, Master Will probably there got his first experience of the art in which he was to become the master for all ages. We wonder what that first play was—some quaint, rude drama probably, such as the one little Willis saw at Gloucester, with plenty of princes and fair ladies, and demons with painted masks, and the "Herod" in red gloves, of the "Coventry Mystery" players.

Not only in Stratford, but in most of the towns roundabout, there are various records of players giving performances. When little Will was eleven years old, Queen Elizabeth came on her celebrated visit, in 1575, to Lord Leycester at Kenilworth; and as all the country flocked to see the great show, it is probable that the boy and his father were among the crowds of spectators and saw some of the plays given in the Queen's honor.

A year or two later, troubles began to multiply at the house in Henley street. John Shakspere got into debt. The farm at Ashbies was mortgaged. His daughter Anne died in 1579; and two years before her death, young William, then thirteen, was taken from school and apprenticed—some accounts say to a butcher—or, as seems more probable, to his own father, to help him in his failing wool-trade.

For the next five years nothing is known about Will Shakspere. Then we find him courting Anne Hathaway in the pretty old brick and timbered cottage at Shottery, its garden all full of roses and rosemary, "carnations and striped gillyvors." A year or two later, he is stealing one of Sir Thomas Lucy's deer,—writing a lampoon on the worthy justice,—and flying to London from his wrath, to hold horses at the door of the Globe Theater before he joined the Lord Chamberlain's players, and became known to all posterity as Mr. William Shakspere, Writer of Plays.

FOOTNOTES:[A]2d Henry IV., Act 5. Scene 1.[B]2d Henry VI., Act 2, Scene 1.[C]"Much Ado about Nothing," Act 3, Sc. 1.

[A]2d Henry IV., Act 5. Scene 1.

[B]2d Henry VI., Act 2, Scene 1.

[C]"Much Ado about Nothing," Act 3, Sc. 1.

Tricycles had become an every-day affair in Sherridoc, and since the formation of the Girls' Club, lady tricyclers were not an extraordinary sight. So Charlotte, or "Charley" Van Rensselaer, as she was called, and her brother Starrett excited but little comment as they wheeled swiftly down Haymarket street, moving noiselessly and easily through the throng of carriages and other vehicles, until, as the houses grew less frequent and the pavements stopped altogether, they rolled through the suburbs of the town and so into the open country, without stay or pause.

For they were making time. The club itself, thanks to the failure of the express company to deliver Charley's new "Columbia" when promised, had several hours' start on the road; and Starrett, like the obliging brother that he was, had remained behind in order that Charlotte need not ride alone nor the club be longer delayed by waiting for her.

Charley Van Rensselaer, her cousin Cornelia, or "Corny" Hadwin, and their warm friends Mattie Hyde and Arno Cummings, were four bright and active young girls of from thirteen to sixteen, who composed the Girls' Tricycle Club. Little by little they had won first the interest and then the consent of their somewhat conservative parents to this novel but exhilarating exercise, and having now become expert riders, they were off for a long run of eighty miles down Cape Cod from Sherridoc City to Curtin Harbor, where their parents had summer cottages. Faithful and clever Joe Marston, Mr. Van Rensselaer's colored servant, and an expert tricycler, had gone ahead with the club as guide and commissary-general, and Starrett Van Rensselaer, Charley's younger brother, was invited to accompany them as an escort, on the odd-looking "Royal Mail" he had borrowed for the trip,—bicycles not being allowed.

And now the door-yards broaden out and the houses become still more rambling. There are wide-spreading orchard boughs, and cool woody spaces here and there between the farms. Now a youngster scampers into the house shrieking, "Ma, Ma! Oh, come here, Ma! Here's a girl a-ridin' three wheels at once!" and Charley, looking back, perceives the urchin's sisters and cousins and aunts peering at her from the door. Starrett too looks back, and laughs.

"You'll have to get used to that," he says.

"I expect to," responds Charley serenely; "but you must remember that four of these things have gone on before us on this same road and they must have taken off a little of the novelty."

Over the brow of Haymarket Hill they go, and the long steep sweep into the valley of the Owassee lies before them. Charley, with her feet on the "rest," commences to descend. An amazed cow grazing by the roadside makes a charge on the singular vehicle, but the girl never flinches, and with one hand on the steering-bar and the other on the brake she avoids every stone, every rut, every gully in the road. The irate cow, after nearly plunging on its nose down the first steep incline, pauses to recover its senses and then returns slowly up the hill. Starrett waves it a laughing adieu. "Sensible bovine that," he says; "she knows that a stern chase is a long chase."

"My, though!" exclaims delighted Charley, "we're just flying, Starrett! Aren't we?"

They are indeed. The bushes whiz past,—the wind sweeps their faces,—trees, stones, fences flit by like phantoms. Charley feels like a bird on the wing. Such exhilaration is there in a good tricycle "coast" downhill!

But it is not all such pleasure; for, a few miles farther on, they become acquainted with the other side of the story, as they go toiling up the long ascent of Comstock Hill, a sandy and winding incline that leads to the highlands of Fisherville.

"If it weren't for the sand," said Charley as she pushes her tricycle before her, "I would test the new 'power-gear' on my 'Columbia' by riding up Comstock Hill. But, dear me, I believe there are not three yards of solid earth on this road!"

"Never mind, we're more than half-way up," said Starrett, consolingly.

"Do you suppose it's sandy like this near Curtin Harbor?" inquired Charley.

"I haven't the least idea," Starrett replied. "If it is, we can branch off and take the cars at Minot Station."

"The cars? Why, Starrett Van Rensselaer!" exclaims Charley. "Why, I wouldn't take the cars—not for anything—unless—well, unless I were fairly driven to it."

And now they both draw a long breath, for the crest of Comstock Hill is won.

"Look behind you, Starrett," says Charley. "Did you ever see a prettier picture?"

Starrett acknowledges he never did. The low-lyingvalley is green and fair. The Owassee stretches like a silver ribbon across the picture, and there is not a human being in sight save these two tricyclers who take all this summer beauty into their impressible young hearts.

On they go, through Fisherville and into the open country again. Truly no grass grows underneath those flashing wheels. The new "Columbia" has the oil well worked in by this time, and the "Royal Mail," with its queer one-sided "steerer," seems undisturbed by any ordinary roads. The freshening wind is behind them; the blue sky, cloud-flecked, above; and all around, bird-song and the rustle of blowing grass and bending boughs.

"This is grand, Charley!" cries Starrett; "so much better than horseback riding—and I've tried both."

"You don't tire yourself much more, and you're sure your horse won't run away with you," Charley assents, whizzing along beside him. "I feel strong enough for a good long run yet, and we ought to catch up with them easily, before long."

The winding, woody road brings them suddenly to a hill-top. To the right, below, lies a wide expanse of velvety marsh meadow, with its vivid and variegated tints of green, olive, and reddish-brown, and occasional intersections of tottering, moss-grown fence; there is a starry glimmer as of lilies in the frequent pools that give back the glory of the sun. To the left are seen the dark, still reaches of a lake that winds in and out in the cool shadow of high woody banks. An old ice-house stands lonesome and gray on its margin.

The brother and sister halt on the brow of the hill, to enjoy a view that may be one of the memories of a lifetime; then the wheels roll slowly toward the descent. The slope is steep and winding; they do not "coast" with feet on the rest above the steering-wheel. It is not desirable to capsize or collide with any up-coming vehicle. So they glide warily on, with hands on the brakes, until the bottom is reached. But here a crazy guide-post at a fork in the road misleads them by pointing in the wrong direction for the Wareham road. But by great good luck, they strike a shady wood track, full two miles long, which cuts off five miles from the road they should have traveled, and which, so Starrett says when he recognizes it, will bring them just so much nearer the club. Dismounting at last, a pine-covered knoll, with a brook bubbling below, attracts them; and, seated on the brown pine-needles, the brother and sister talk over their adventures, and wonder how far ahead the others may be. Suddenly Starrett, who faces the road, drops his hands to his side with an exclamation of surprise.

"What now?" says Charley, looking quickly around, A glance makes her a partner in Starrett's astonishment; for, over the main road they have just now regained, come one, two, three, four tricycles, their glittering spokes flashing in the sun. They see Joe Marston's dusky face and stalwart figure, and behind him they catch the flutter of garnet and blue—the colors of the club. Occasionally a head in the procession turns to look expectantly behind.

Starrett and Charley keep close in the shade of the pines, restraining a laugh with difficulty.

"Here is a good place to stop, Joe," cries Cornelia Hadwin. "It's cool and shady, and we can see the road. I think they should have caught up with us by this time. Can anything have happened,—do you suppose?"

"Dunno, miss," answers Joe with a grave face. But as he dismounts to wheel his machine up the knoll, he stops short with a sudden smoothing out of all the perplexed lines from his dark brow. "Hi, dar!" he exclaims. "Look-a yer, Miss Corney!"

Cornelia does look, and so do all the rest. There is a perfect chorus of shrieks and laughter, a babel of voices, a torrent of questions.

"Oh, we travel, I assure you!" says Starrett. "We took a flying leap and came in ahead of you."

"How did it happen? When did you pass us?" These and countless other questions follow. Then all is explained, and at five o'clock the merry six are on the road again, rolling along in lively style.

So, in single file, with Joe in advance, and Starrett bringing up the rear, the club rides through the main street of Wareham, down the long slant to the bridge over the Wareham river. The evening mist hangs low along the stream; the bridge seems to stretch across the rushing tide and end abruptly in mid-air. The soft, grayish opaque cloud hides the farther shore from sight.

There are heads at doors and windows, and people on the street stop to gaze. At first the girls feel a little abashed at so much attention. But nobody is discourteous; Joe rides steadily on, and there is nothing to do but to follow.

"I suppose we do look queer to them," says Mattie Hyde.

"Oh, well, you are missionaries, you know," says Starrett assuringly. "Perhaps your club may be the means of introducing tricycles into many of the places we shall pass through."

"That's one of our objects, of course," observes Charley.

"If girls and women knew what comfort one can take with a tricycle, half the battle would be won," says Arno Cummings timidly.

"THE BUSHES WHIZ PAST,—TREES, STONES, FENCES FLIT BY LIKE PHANTOMS.""THE BUSHES WHIZ PAST,—TREES, STONES, FENCES FLIT BY LIKE PHANTOMS."

"It isn't altogether that, Arno," says Charley, who, as the originator of the club, has her advanced theories to support. "A good many would like to, but don't really dare. You know that Shakspere says 'Conscience doth make cowards of us all.' I think that custom makes us cowards, too."

"Custom will be on our side, though, by and by," declares Mattie Hyde. "Doctor Sawyer told Mamma the other day that he would prescribe the tricycle rather than medicine for many of his patients. He said that the machines are much used in England, and that they are gaining ground in this country, though not so rapidly as he could wish."

But even this knowledge of the healthfulness and desirability of the tricycle does not make a hard piece of road any easier. After a night's rest at the hospitable house of an aunt of Mattie Hyde's, the club find themselves, next day, among the "Sandwiches," as Starrett facetiously dubs the town of that name which is divided into North, East, South, and West Sandwich. And there they come upon a wooded tract that sorely taxes their endurance and presents the most formidable obstacle they have yet encountered. The sand is impassable; it closes completely over the wheel-tires, and, after a short space of arduous labor, the club come to a dismayed standstill.

"What on earth are we to do?" queries Corny Hadwin in despair.

No one answers her. The boughs wave softly overhead; the small cloud of dust their efforts have raised floats slowly away and settles on the scant herbage underneath the pines. Near at hand sounds the shriek of the "up" train. They are not far from the railroad.

"Shall we give it up and take to the train?" Starrett asks, as they catch the sound of the locomotive.

"Dear me, we mustn't do that!" exclaims Charley. "Let's dismount and push the machines a little way. Perhaps the wheeling is better just ahead."

But it is not. The ruts are strewn with straw, shavings, and chips; everything indicates that the woods are extensive, and that others before them have found the sand a tribulation.

"Oh, this is the worst of all!" groans Corny.

"But we'll not give up, nevertheless," declares little Arno Cummings, developing unexpected grit in the emergency. "I shouldn't like to tell themat Curtin Harbor that we had to take to the cars to get around a difficulty."

Joe mops the perspiration from his dusky brow, and then stops to listen. A creak, a rumble, and a tramp, tramp are heard behind them. "Dar's sumfin a-comin!" says Joe.

The "sumfin" soon appears in sight,—a big, empty, four-horse wagon, making its unwieldy way in their direction. The same idea occurs to everybody at once.

"There! He'll carry us!"

WITH JOE IN ADVANCE, THE CLUB RIDES THROUGH WAREHAM.WITH JOE IN ADVANCE, THE CLUB RIDES THROUGH WAREHAM.

Carry them! Of course he will—for a consideration. And almost before the driver has recovered from his evident astonishment at this vision of six tricycles in the heart of the Sandwich woods, the riders and their machines are safely in the big cart, and on their way through the sandy tract, which, they now learn, is several miles in extent.

It is impossible for the horses to go faster than a walk for the whole distance. The sand is a constant clog, and scarcely a breath of air can penetrate the close piny ranks on either side the narrow road. It is a slow and somewhat crowded ride, but the club tells stories, sings and jokes and answers the curious inquiries of their teamster, to whom a tricycle is a thing unknown till now. But in due time, the young folk have bidden him good day, and are speeding on toward Barnstable. The air grows salty, strong, and bracing.

"It's like a breath of new life," says Starrett; and soon they are rolling between the long row of grand old trees that line Barnstable's quiet main street. At the hotel they stop for dinner and a noonday rest.

It is four in the afternoon when they remount. The lady boarders, who have taken quite an interest in the young tricyclers, bid them farewell with all manner of good wishes, and one gray-haired society lady remarks, "Those girls are sensible; and their mothers are sensible too. Give young people the delights of nature and the freedom of outdoor sports, and keep them from late parties, and the whirl of folly and fashion. I've seen too many young lives warped and twisted and weakened in the endeavor to 'keep up' in fashionable society. Yes, those girls are sensible."

And, wheeling still, by hill and dale, the "sensible" girls and their escort roll merrily into old Yarmouth, with its broad, shady streets and big, substantial, old-fashioned houses. Quaint and picturesque indeed it is, with quiet nooks and corners, breezy streets, time-stained wharves where lie battered fishing craft and the smarter boats devoted tothe summer visitors who have found out the beauties of the town. Here, too, Arno Cummings has an uncle, a bluff and breezy old sea-captain, who gives the whole party a hearty welcome; and at his house, the club spend two nights and the day between—a day of shade and shine, with the sea wind blowing everywhere. They explore the old town from end to end. They come continually upon pictures,—now a broad grassy lane with its moss-grown fences flanked by rising pastures of brownish grass; now a long slope ending in a rocky outlook over the blue sea; now a brown cottage nestled in among trees and hills. And on the second morning after their arrival, they bid the hospitable Captain Cummings adieu, and pass, single file, over the great drawbridge across the inlet that cuts Yarmouth in two, and so spin along through the succession of little towns which, leaving Yarmouth, almost join together into one. Such are the "Dennises"—divided as usual into North, East, South and West,—and the "Harwiches," where at Harwich proper the tricyclers bid farewell to the railroad which has kept them company at short intervals all the way down.

"Six miles to Curtin Harbor." So says the lazy youth at a cross roads store, and away they spin, while the spires and houses of Harwich disappear behind the trees.

And now how the wind blows! And all around the horizon the sky has that watery appearance that betokens the nearness of the sea. There is a peculiar, bracing freedom in the wild, salt wind; the very sway of the brown grass, the swing of the odorous wild pinks that nod in the corners of old mossy fences have a life and freshness that one misses greatly in tamer, more settled districts. For now they are plunging bravely into the long stretch of sand barrens and pine woods that, with only an occasional house, stretch for many a mile between Harwich and Curtin Harbor.

But here, in the afternoon, a sudden shower overtakes them. They can no longer pick their dainty way by the roadside, but must keep the middle track or run the risk of upsetting. There is scarce a quarter of a mile of level ground to be found. The pine woods close in upon them, and when at the summit of a hill they anxiously look for some other shelter than the thronging pines, they can see nothing but the long, winding, lightish streak of road and the endless outlines of monotonous pine-trees on either side against the dark sky.

"Six miles to Curtin Harbor!" cries Starrett at last. "That boy's a fraud. I believe it's sixty."

"Reckon dey're Cape Cod miles, Mas'r Starrett," says Joe. "Dey say down yer, yo' know, dat one on 'em 's equal to two ob good trav'lin' in any uthah part ob de worl'."

If it were only clear now, coasting merrily down these hills would be royal fun, but in this state of the weather caution is necessary. A halt is called for consultation. The six composedly dismount and sit down on the clumps of "poverty grass," beneath the doubtful shelter of the pines.

"Well, now," asks Starrett, "what are we going to do? I know you girls are tired and drenched; you needn't deny it. And there's no sign of a house this side of Jericho or Jerusalem."

Suddenly Charley has an idea. "O girls," she says, "let's camp out, right here! We're not badly off, for we all have our waterproof cloaks; but you've all been longing for an adventure, and here's one for afinale. We'll at least make a tent and have supper. It'll be just splendid!"

The club vociferously acquiesce. Joe alone, dubious, shakes his head. But he is outvoted and overruled.

A quantity of pine boughs are piled, by Joe and Starrett, tent-fashion, across and around four of the tricycles; a heap of dry leaves, carefully collected, makes a fragrant couch, whereon the young ladies compose themselves, wrapped and snugly covered with shawls and capes from the "luggage-carriers." Lastly Joe spreads the rubber waterproofs securely over the wheels and boughs, and the young campers are completely sheltered.

A rummage in the lunch-boxes and "luggage-carriers" of the six machines brings to light half a dozen soda crackers, two bananas, six pieces of gingerbread, a slice of dry cheese, three apples, and—this is Joe's surprise!—a small can of chicken.

A chorus of delight greets this last discovery, and Joe is at once besieged.

"Now, yo' jes' sot down, ef yo' please, young ladies," says Joe, holding the can above his head. "I'll 'tend to yo' d'reckly. Yo' jes' gib me de tings and I'll serve supper in fus'-class style."

When the chicken,—delicately served on the soda crackers,—the apples, bananas, and gingerbread are distributed, and the cheese toasted—in a fashion—at one of the lamps, the merry six leave not a crumb to tell the tale. It is true that a conscious vacancy still exists in the six hungry stomachs—such appetites have these young wheelers; but they are refreshed and no one thinks of complaining.

The merry meal finished, weariness and the patter of rain incline the girls to rest, and soon silence falls upon the camp, broken only by the sighing of the wind among the dark pine boughs, and the occasional chirp of some sleepy bird.

Then Starrett, also, wrapped in his waterproof coat, throws himself down to rest beneath the shelter of a friendly pine close by.

Joe, left alone as the sentinel, falls to thinking over the situation, wondering where they are andwhether they have missed the right road. He walks about uneasily and then stands looking up and down the stretch of road. The tricycle lamp, which he has lighted to dispel the gloom, casts a yellow gleam over the tent and Starrett's shrouded figure, while beyond and all around are the pines with their swaying branches and the long black vistas between. Joe walks back and forth, in the rain, vainly trying to think in which direction they are to proceed.

"DE YOUNG GEMMAN AN' I MAKE DIS TENT TO KEEP DE YOUNG LADIES DRY.""DE YOUNG GEMMAN AN' I MAKE DIS TENT TO KEEP DE YOUNG LADIES DRY."

He has been wondering thus for perhaps five minutes, when he becomes aware of a pair of fiery eyes watching him from the shadows. Joe starts. He does not know what peculiar class of wild beasts inhabits Cape Cod, but there are the eyes plainly enough. He stops and stands motionless. The eyes move, come boldly forward, and Joe, now doubly astonished, sees full in the glare of the tricycle lamp—a big grayish cat!

And the cat has a nickel-plated collar with a ribbon attached. Joe knows that even on Cape Cod no wild beasts roam about, in summer storms, with nickeled and be-ribboned collars, but what can a cat be doing away in the depths of a pine forest? And then he suddenly concludes that the cat's home can not be far away. The gray cat comes purring about his knees. Joe is fond of cats, so he takes it in his arms and fondles its wet fur, and it proves to be company for him and really helps him to forget the discomfort of the rain.

At about seven o'clock in the evening, however,the rain slackens, the clouds scatter, and rifts of light appear through the trees. And just as Joe is thinking of rousing the club for another "spin," he hears a whistle and a heavy step from across the road. Then an old farmer fellow of about forty-five, in search of a lost cow, comes to an abrupt and amazed halt at confronting among the pines Joe, the gray cat, Starrett's recumbent figure, the tent, and the glimmering tricycle wheels. He stands speechless until Joe's voice breaks the spell.

"Good-ebenin', sar," says Joe. "Can you tell me if dis is de road to Curtin Harbor?"

"Curtin Harbor!" exclaims the farmer, with his eyes still full of mute amazement. "No, it's not. 'T any rate not the direct one. If you've come over from Harwich, you've gone two miles out of yer way. You should have taken the other road, back there by the old school-house."

"Dar's whar I missed it!" cries Joe, slapping his knee. "I was suah I did sumfin' wrong somewhar, but I couldn't locate it, to save me! I'se much obliged."

"You can cut across to the main road by crossing my field yonder and going up by the house just beyond——"

"Hi, den dere is a house over yar!" says Joe.

"Why, certainly," says the farmer, "not more than forty rods from here." And when Joe finds how very near he has been to a comfortable farmhouse he says he feels "like kickin' hisself."

"But," says the visitor, still eying the camp. "How did it all happen. Are you traveling on foot?"

"No, sar; on tricycles," explains Joe, proudly; "we are de Girls' Tricycle Club, all de way from Sherridoc, wid Mas'r Starrett an' me along to look arter 'em and see 'em safe down to Curtin Harbor. We los' de track back yondah, an' de young gemman an' I jes' rig up dis tent for to keep the young ladies dry an' gib 'em a chance to rest till de shower was ober."

The farmer's surprise grows to interest.

"And so this is a tricycle," he says. "And did the young ladies ride those things all the way from Sherridoc?"

"All de way, sar," answers Joe, proudly, "'cept when we wus stuck in de Sandywiches and had to be carted froo wid a team."

After the good man's curiosity has been satisfied, and Starrett has summoned the girls to appear, the worthy farmer strolls off after his lost cow, first inviting the club to the farm to another supper. One by one, the girls emerge from their camp, but when they hear how near to a house they have been during the rain, great is the laughter.

"I don't care, though," cries Cornelia Hadwin; "we've really had a sort of a camping-out time, and I'm glad of it."

After hearing Joe's report, the club determines to push on at once to Curtin Harbor in the early evening, without accepting the hospitable invitation to supper at the farmhouse.

The two miles to the main road are quickly traversed, and before long the club wheels around a long curve in the road, and the blue expanse of Curtin Harbor lies beneath them. The clouds are gone by this time; the rising moon shoots slantwise through a few thin, dissolving folds, and brings out ripples of gold and silver on the long seas. There seems to be a breeze that stirs the water to darker ruffles beyond the head-land, but where the young folk sit on their tricycles, enjoying the beauty of the scene and the salty damp of the evening air, not a blade of the coarse, silvery beach-grass stirs; every spire and blade stands in sheeny silver in the mellow light.

Below the beach-road branches off a long winding descent to the quiet cottages which lie in the evening glow, seemingly fast asleep.

"Now, girls, for a good coast!" cries Starrett. "Here goes!"

And away indeed he goes, over the brow of the hill, rolling swiftly, and removing his feet from the pedals as his machine gathers way. Away also they all fly after him, merry as larks, waking all the echoes of the shore with their light-hearted shouts and laughter. The tricycle lamps flash out upon the seaward road, and soon it comes to pass, that as Charley's wheels whiz flashing into the wide, grassy dooryard of a certain pleasant little summer abode, a hand lifts the window curtain, and a voice, with a ring of irrepressible gladness but a great pretense of gruffness, calls out:

"Is this my noisy daughter, who has been running wild for a week over all the roads on Cape Cod?"

"Oh, Papa!" cries Charley, gleefully, "we've had a perfectly charming trip!"

And so says the entire club. And they pass a vote of thanks to Joe for taking faithful care of them, and to Starrett for his excellent escort duty. And now when the story of their eighty-mile ride is told, everybody votes tricycling a wonderfully health-giving and delightful exercise, and the first long trip of the Girls' Tricycling Club a grand success.

My neighbor's morning-glories riseAnd flutter at her casement;Mymorning-glories' lovely eyesPeep just above the basement.And both our morning-glories strewWith loveliness the railing,And thrust their starry faces throughThe vines about the paling.But when at last the thrifty sunA work-day world arouses,Hers gather up their dainty skirtsAnd vanish in their houses.They draw their silken curtains close,There's not a soul can find them;And mine run up the school-house path,And shut the door behind them!

My neighbor's morning-glories riseAnd flutter at her casement;Mymorning-glories' lovely eyesPeep just above the basement.

And both our morning-glories strewWith loveliness the railing,And thrust their starry faces throughThe vines about the paling.

But when at last the thrifty sunA work-day world arouses,Hers gather up their dainty skirtsAnd vanish in their houses.

They draw their silken curtains close,There's not a soul can find them;And mine run up the school-house path,And shut the door behind them!

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