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 CONTENTS IN DETAIL

TITLE PAGE

COPYRIGHT

DEDICATION

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

FOREWORD

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

INTRODUCTION
Who Is This Book For?
What Does “Simple” Mean?
What’s in This Book?
What’s NOT in This Book
How to Read This Book
About the Vocabulary
Theory Recaps
Objective or Opinionated?
The Examples
What About a Project?
Prerequisites
PART I: THE PYTHON ENVIRONMENT
CHAPTER 1: THE PYTHON PHILOSOPHY
What Is Python, Exactly?
Myths: What Python Isn’t
Myth #1: Python Is Merely a Scripting Language
Myth #2: Python Is Slow
Myth #3: Python Cannot Be Compiled
Myth #4: Python Gets Compiled Behind the Scenes
Myth #5: Python Is Unsuitable for Large Projects
Python 2 vs. Python 3
Defining “Pythonic” Code
The Zen of Python
Documentation, PEPs, and You
Who Calls the Shots?
The Python Community
The Pursuit of the One Obvious Way
Wrapping Up

CHAPTER 2: YOUR WORKBENCH

Installing Python
Installing on Windows
Installing on macOS
Installing on Linux
Installing from Source
Meet the Interpreter
Interactive Session
Running Python Files
Packages and Virtual Environments
Creating a Virtual Environment
Activating a Virtual Environment
Leaving a Virtual Environment
Introducing pip
System-Wide Packages
Installing Packages
requirements.txt
Upgrading Packages
Removing Packages
Finding Packages
One Warning About pip . . .
Virtual Environments and Git
The Whole Shebang
File Encoding
A Few Extra Virtual Environment Tricks
Using a Virtual Environment Without Activating
The Alternatives
The Line Limit Debate
Tabs or Spaces?
Quality Control: Static Analyzers
Pylint
Flake8
Mypy
Style Janitors: Autoformatting Tools
autopep8
Black
Testing Frameworks
An Exhibition of Code Editors
IDLE
Emacs and Vim
PyCharm
Visual Studio Code
Sublime Text
Spyder
Eclipse + PyDev/LiClipse
The Eric Python IDE
Wrapping Up

CHAPTER 3: SYNTAX CRASH COURSE

Hello, World!
Statements and Expression
The Importance of Whitespace
Doing Nothing
Comments and Docstrings
Docstrings
Declaring Variables
What About Constants?
Mathematics
Meet the Number Types
Operators
The math Module
Logic
Conditionals
Comparison Operators
Boolean, None, and Identity Operators
Truthiness
Logical Operators
The Walrus Operator
Ellipsis
Strings
String Literals
Raw Strings
Formatted Strings
Template Strings
String Conversion
A Note on String Concatenation
Functions
Classes and Objects
Error Handling
Tuples and Lists
Loops
while Loop
Loop Control
for Loop
Structural Pattern Matching
Literal Patterns and Wildcards
Or Patterns
Capture Patterns
Guard Statements
More About Structural Pattern Matching
Wrapping Up
CHAPTER 4: PROJECT STRUCTURE AND IMPORTS
Setting Up the Repository
Modules and Packages
PEP 8 and Naming
Project Directory Structure
How import Works
Import Dos and Don’ts
Importing Functions from Modules
The Problem of Shadowing
The Trouble with Nested Packages
Beware of Importing All
Importing Within Your Project
Absolute Imports
Relative Imports
Importing from the Same Package
Entry Points
Module Entry Points
Package Entry Points
Controlling Package Imports
Program Entry Points
The Python Module Search Path
What Really Happens
Wrapping Up

PART II: ESSENTIAL STRUCTURES

CHAPTER 5: VARIABLES AND TYPES
Variables According to Python: Names and Values
Assignment
Data Types
The type() Function
Duck Typing
Scope and Garbage Collection
Local Scope and the Reference-Counting Garbage Collector
Interpreter Shutdown
Global Scope
The Dangers of Global Scope
The nonlocal Keyword
Scope Resolution
The Curious Case of the Class
Generational Garbage Collector
The Immutable Truth
Passing by Assignment
Collections and References
Shallow Copy
Deep Copy
Coercion and Conversion
A Note About Systems Hungarian Notation
Terminology Review
Wrapping Up

CHAPTER 6: FUNCTIONS AND LAMBDAS

Python Function Essentials
Recursion
Default Argument Values
Keyword Arguments
On Overloaded Functions
Variadic Arguments
Keyword Variadic Arguments
Keyword-Only Parameters
Positional-Only Parameters
Argument Types: All Together Now!
Nested Functions
Closures
Recursion with Closures
Stateful Closures
Lambdas
Why Lambdas Are Useful
Lambdas as Sorting Keys
Decorators
Type Hints and Function Annotations
Duck Typing and Type Hints
Should You Use Type Hinting?
Wrapping Up

CHAPTER 7: OBJECTS AND CLASSES

Declaring a Class
The Initializer
The Constructor
The Finalizer
Attributes
Instance Attributes
Class Attributes
Scope-Naming Conventions
Nonpublic
Public
Name Mangling
Public, Nonpublic, or Name Mangled?
Methods
Instance Methods
Class Methods
Static Methods
Properties
Setting Up the Scenario
Defining a Property
Property with Decorators
When Not to Use Properties
Special Methods
Scenario Setup
Conversion Methods
Comparison Methods
Binary Operator Support
Unary Operator Support
Making Callable
More Special Methods: Looking Ahead
Class Decorators
Structural Pattern Matching with Objects
Functional Meets Object Oriented
When to Use Classes
Classes Aren’t Modules
Single Responsibility
Sharing State
Are Objects Right for You?
Wrapping Up

CHAPTER 8: ERRORS AND EXCEPTIONS

Exceptions in Python
Reading Tracebacks
Catching Exceptions: LBYL vs. EAFP
Multiple Exceptions
Beware the Diaper Anti-pattern
Raising Exceptions
Using Exceptions
Exceptions and Logging
Bubbling Up
Exception Chaining
Else and Finally
Else: “If All Goes Well”
Finally: “After Everything”
Creating Exceptions
A Gallery of Exceptions
Wrapping Up

PART III: DATA AND FLOW

CHAPTER 9: COLLECTIONS AND ITERATION
Loops
while Loops
for Loops
Collections
Tuples
Named Tuples
Lists
Deques
Sets
frozenset
Dictionaries
Check or Except?
Dictionary Variants
Unpacking Collections
Starred Expressions
Unpacking Dictionaries
Structural Pattern Matching on Collections
Accessing by Index or Key
Slice Notation
Start and Stop
Negative Indices
Steps
Copy with Slice
Slice Objects
Slicing on Custom Objects
Using islice
The in Operator
Checking Collection Length
Iteration
Iterables and Iterators
Manually Using Iterators
Iterating with for Loops
Sorting Collections in Loops
Enumerating Loops
Mutation in Loops
Loop Nesting and Alternatives
Iteration Tools
Basic Built-in Tools
Filter
Map
Zip
Itertools
Custom Iterable Classes
Wrapping Up

CHAPTER 10: GENERATORS AND COMPREHENSIONS

Lazy Evaluation and Eager Iterables
Infinite Iterators
Generators
Generators vs. Iterator Classes
Closing Generators
Behavior on Close
Throwing Exceptions
yield from
Generator Expressions
Generator Objects Are Lazy
Generator Expressions with Multiple Loops
Conditionals in Generator Expressions
Nested Generator Expressions
List Comprehensions
Set Comprehensions
Dictionary Comprehensions
Hazards of Generator Expressions
They Quickly Become Unreadable
They Don’t Replace Loops
They Can Be Hard to Debug
When to Use Generator Expressions
Simple Coroutines
Returning Values from a Coroutine
Sequence of Behavior
What About Async?
Wrapping Up

CHAPTER 11: TEXT IO AND CONTEXT MANAGERS

Standard Input and Output
Revisiting print()
Revisiting input()
Streams
Context Manager Basics
File Modes
Reading Files
The read() Method
The readline() Method
The readlines() Method
Reading with Iteration
Stream Position
Writing Files
The write() Method
The writelines() Method
Writing Files with print()
Line Separators
Context Manager Details
How Context Managers Work
Using Multiple Context Managers
Implementing the Context Management Protocol
The __enter__() Method
The __exit__() Method
Using the Custom Class
Paths
Path Objects
Parts of a Path
Creating a Path
Relative Paths
Paths Relative to Package
Path Operations
Out-of-Place File Writes
The os Module
File Formats
JSON
Other Formats
Wrapping Up

CHAPTER 12: BINARY AND SERIALIZATION

Another Random Scribd Document
with Unrelated Content
The Project Gutenberg eBook of Harper's Round Table, April
21, 1896
 This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other
parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may
copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License
included with this ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in
the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are
located before using this eBook.

Title: Harper's Round Table, April 21, 1896

Author: Various

Release date: March 21, 2018 [eBook #56802]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Annie R. McGuire

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HARPER'S ROUND TABLE, APRIL 21,
1896 ***
 THE BATTLE OF BRICK CHURCH.
A PLUCKY YOUNG TENDERFOOT.
DRILLING A GREAT ARMY IN WINTER.
ON THE CELLAR-DOOR.
AN "OLD-FIELD" SCHOOL-GIRL.
RICK DALE.
EXPLORING NEW-FOUND RIVERS.
AN HOUR IN BICYCLELAND.
THE MILKY WAY.
FROM CHUM TO CHUM.
INTERSCHOLASTIC SPORT.
STAMPS.
BICYCLING.
THE PUDDING STICK.
THE CAMERA CLUB.

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

published weekly. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, APRIL 21, 1896. five cents a copy.
vol. xvii.—no. 860. two dollars a year.
 THE BATTLE OF BRICK CHURCH.
BY L. A. TEREBEL.
What the Lincoln Cadets called their "armory" was a large low hall in the basement of the
Brick Church. Here they drilled three times a week during the winter and spring; and here
they kept their brightly polished guns in racks ranged along the wall; and here their
drums and bugles were stacked in a pyramid in one corner; and old Tom, the janitor, was
their "armorer." On the walls, in polished oak frames, hung photographs of groups of
officers that had commanded the cadets in years past, and one picture of the entire
battalion of sixty boys drawn up in parade formation in the park; and over the door, in a
gold frame, was a fine steel engraving of Abraham Lincoln that had been presented to
the corps by Mr. Dunworthy, the president of the Board of Trustees of the Brick Church,
and the chief patron of the cadets. Opposite the door, at the other end of the room, was
a closet with glass doors, in which the battalion's colors and the stars and stripes and the
markers' flags were kept securely locked at all times when not in use.
The first sergeants had not yet called upon their men to fall in, and the cadets were
standing about the hall in groups, pulling on their white gloves and arranging their belts,
for they intended to make a brave show that night because Mr. Dunworthy was coming in
later to review the battalion. It was early, however, and Mr. Dunworthy need not be
expected until after the meeting of the Trustees, which was being held in the vestry-room
upstairs.
"Perhaps he won't come, anyway," said Captain Tom Taylor, who commanded Company
A.
"Why not?" asked Adjutant Dale, as he struggled with his gold aigulets.
"His men have been on strike for pretty near a week now, and Mr. Dunworthy has been
obliged to stay at the mills until all hours," continued Taylor.
"And I saw in the papers to-day the men were beginning to get ugly," put in a diminutive
Lieutenant in short trousers. "The police had to be called to clear the yard in front of the
mills."
"I wish those Poles would stay in Poland," remarked the Adjutant; but just then there
was a blast from the bugle, and a great stamping of feet and scattering of groups put an
end to further discussion of the strike at Roland and Dunworthy's mills.
For those who are not so well informed as the cadets, however, it may be well to state
that the trouble at the iron-mills was wholly restricted to the Polish element among the
workmen. Most of these fellows were hard characters, employed at the furnaces and in
the puddling shops. In all, they numbered about one hundred and fifty. Few of them
could speak English, all were ignorant, and a majority had seen the inside of the town
jail. But as they were the only class of men that the mill-owners could obtain to do that
class of work, they had to be employed. The difficulty which had resulted in the present
strike was of long standing. The men had made certain demands, and these demands,
after a brief delay, had been granted. And the Poles, thinking then that any request of
theirs should be acceded to, immediately asked for further benefits, and when these
were refused they left their work. Some of the worst threw stones, and one of the stones
hit the superintendent. Three men were arrested and locked up in the jail. This seemed
to make the Poles very angry, and they became so demonstrative that, as the Lieutenant
had said, the police had to be called in to drive them out of the yard in front of Mr.
Dunworthy's office.
All these occurrences made it necessary for Mr. Dunworthy to remain late at the mills,
and consequently he was forced to send a note to the church saying that he would be
unable to be present at the trustees' meeting that evening. Old Tom, the janitor, was sent
down stairs to inform the cadets. Old Tom had served in the cavalry during the war, and
he wore a decoration on his breast for gallantry at Vicksburg. So when he entered the
drill-room he stood very erect, and marched up to Major Jack Downing, a tall, good-
looking young man, and saluted in proper military style, then waited for permission to
speak. When he announced that Mr. Dunworthy was not coming, there was an audible
hum of disappointment in the ranks.
"Never mind," said Major Downing, quickly; "we will go on with the parade just as if he
were here."
Old Tom saluted and withdrew. He went up stairs and stood on the front steps of the
church, looking up at the clear starlit April sky. Presently, however, his reveries were
interrupted by the sound of many feet and a sort of distant humming noise, and looking
down the avenue, he saw a crowd of men approaching. He thought at first it was a body
of street-cleaners or some other gang of night-workmen; but as they came nearer he
recognized them as Poles, iron-workers from the mills. There must have been a hundred
or more, and half of them carried bludgeons. They did not pass by the church, as old
Tom had thought they would, but, seeing him standing there, they paused, and one
bearded fellow, who spoke English fairly well, asked, "Is this the Brick Church?"
"Yes," answered the janitor, curtly.
"Is Dunworthy inside?"
"Mr. Dunworthy is not here to-night," continued old Tom.
The crowd grumbled.
"Come off!" shouted another. "We know he's here; he's at a meeting.
"He is not," replied the janitor: and seeing that the men were gradually crowding in from
the sidewalk through the iron gates, old Tom went down to them, and said:
"See here, you fellows, I tell you Mr. Dunworthy is not here, and you have got to get out.
You are disturbing the meeting."
"Ah-h-h-h!" shouted the crowd, like an angry sea; and a piece of sod, torn up from the
grass-plot in front of the church, knocked off the janitor's hat. This angered the old
cavalryman, and he gave the men nearest to him a vigorous shove, and tried to close the
gates. He was unwise in this, for the Poles seized him, and soon there was a general
fight, in which old Tom was the target for every Polander's fist and foot.
Of course it is not to be expected that all this could have happened without attracting the
attention of the gentlemen in the vestry room and of the boys in the armory. Several of
the officers had run to the top of the stairs as soon as they heard the approach of the
Poles, and when they reported to the Major, the latter at once ordered "Fix bayonets!"
and drew his men up in column of twos facing the staircase. He had barely completed
this formation, during which two of the trustees had urged the boys not to show
themselves upstairs, when the Adjutant shouted from the doorway,
"Come on, fellows; they're killing old Tom!"
There was a swaying in the ranks, as if the impulse of all had been to rush; but Jack
Downing shouted:
"Steady! Company A, forward, double time, march!"
Captain Taylor repeated the order sharply, and leaped in the van of his men, reaching the
top of the staircase just in time to see half a dozen stones and bricks fly through the
church doors.
He could hear Jack Downing below shouting orders to the other two companies. Taylor
called to his men to form fours, and marched them straight down the steps toward the
gateway. The other cadets followed close behind up the narrow staircase, and the Major
sent one company to the left of Taylor's rear, and one to the right, so as to attack the
strikers in three parallel columns.
The appearance of uniforms and bayonets from the church was a big surprise to the
Polanders. They were so startled that they fell back to the middle of the street, leaving
poor old Tom almost senseless on the sidewalk. Two non-commissioned officers of C
Company helped him to his feet, and led him back into the vestry-room, where a
corpulent old gentleman was telephoning madly for the police.
But in the mean time there were lively times in the street. The Poles, partly recovered
from their surprise, snarled like animals, and spoke hard words in their own hard
language, and many of them threw sticks and stones at the cadets. Jack Downing got his
forces out into the street, where there was room to manœuvre, and formed a sort of
wedge of bayonets with which he charged straight into the centre of the crowd. The iron-
workers fell back like sheep, and as soon as he had the mob divided the young strategist
wheeled one company against one section, and another company against the other
section, and kept Company A in front of the church as a sort of reserve.
The Poles only threw two volleys of stones, and were then apparently so surprised at the
advance of the cadets that they did not notice these were merely boys and only half their
number. But they did notice that their opponents were disciplined, and that they carried
shining bayonets pointing straight out in front of them; and when they saw a phalanx of
these coming down the street they turned about and ran.
The Lincoln Cadets did not pursue. They halted on the street corners and formed
skirmish-lines. But even this was unnecessary, for as they did so they heard the gongs of
the patrol wagons, and soon a score of policemen were in the neighborhood of the
church—and not a Pole in sight!
The young Major drew his three companies up into battalion formation on the sidewalk
then, and one of the trustees stood on the steps of the church and made what the
Adjutant afterward characterized as a "regular spread-eagle, star-spangled-banner,
Fourth-of-July speech." He ended by inviting the battalion to a near-by restaurant, where
he ordered served for them just exactly the kind of an evening feast they would have
ordered if they had had the doing of it themselves. Old Tom (with a black eye) sat at the
head of the table, and after the cakes and the ice-cream had been slaughtered even
worse than the Poles, he told stories of his own fighting days, and as he closed he said
he had seen many battles, but none he cared more to remember than the "Battle of Brick
Church."
 A PLUCKY YOUNG TENDERFOOT.
BY PAUL HULL.
Harry Brown had the cowboy fever, and this is the way that the disease originated.
During the early spring Harry's uncle had been a guest with the Brown family for several
weeks, during which time the boy had been regaled with stories of wild Western life and
adventure until his dreams suggested a panorama of prairie-land, cowboys, a whole
menagerie of savage animals, and an endless procession of gayly bedecked and
hideously painted Indians galloping furiously across the plains.
Uncle Joel had taken a great fancy to his sister's child, and having a boy of his own about
the same age, he proposed to the somewhat startled parents to carry the lad away with
him for the summer, and give him an outing on his ranch, where he would have the
companionship of his sixteen-year-old cousin Frank, whom he had placed at school in
Chicago for the winter, and for whom he intended to call when on his way back to
Wyoming.
After considerable pleading and argument, Harry's mother at length allowed herself to be
almost persuaded that if he went he would not be converted into a long-haired,
swaggering, pistol-shooting citizen, and that hostile bands of redskins were not in the
habit of lying in ambush around the ranch for the purpose of scalping its inmates several
times a day; so at last she hesitatingly added her consent to that of her husband's.
During the remaining week of Uncle Joel's stay in New York the poor man was subjected
by the anxious mother to such a running fire of cross-questioning, and so made to feel
the awful responsibility that he was incurring by taking Harry away from his comfortable
home, where he was tenderly cared for, to place him among strangers and savage beasts
and wild and uncouth cowboys, as well as blood-thirsty Indians, that he would have
gladly gone back on his contract, even if it was calculated to cost him a dozen of his best
steers.
The time set for the departure arrived, and, being a Saturday, Harry was escorted to the
depot by a large delegation of his school-mates, who gazed enviously at their companion
striding along at the side of his rich cowboy uncle, who had been elevated into a hero in
their minds by reason of the startling tales of Indian adventure in which, according to his
nephew's account, he had been a most prominent actor. It is safe to say that Harry's
imagination was responsible for the gaudy coloring of some of the stories, and that the
rate at which his uncle was reputed to have cleaned out the red men whenever an
uprising took place proved conclusively that the savages were either so thick in Wyoming
that they interfered with one another's walking, or that they were wise enough not to go
upon the warpath very often—otherwise that territory would have been depopulated of
its natives long before.
After two days of anticipation, Harry stepped off the train at Chicago to greet a lad whom
he had seen on the platform from the car window, and whose resemblance to Uncle Joel
permitted no doubt as to his relationship. Frank had been written to some days previous
concerning the companion that had been selected for him for the summer, and had been
anxious to meet his cousin, so, as he expressed himself to a school-mate, "to size him up
and see what stuff he was made out of."
For a moment after Uncle Joel had introduced them, in his bluff but kindly way, the boys
held back just a trifle, as though measuring one another according to individual
standards; then a mutual smile of pleasure and satisfaction lit up their faces, and they
shook hands heartily and walked off arm in arm, to the gratification of Mr. Williams, who
heard them exchanging confidences and speculating over the coming vacation.
The ride from the foot of Lake Michigan to the city of Cheyenne was full of novelty and
excitement for the Eastern boy, whose previous travelling had never carried him beyond
the limits of the Empire State.
On the morning of the day that the train rolled into the capital city of Wyoming, Mr.
Williams pointed to a natural and lofty pyramid of rocks situated a few hundred feet away
from the track, telling them to take in the situation quickly, as the train would shortly
round a curve and hide it from view.
Harry asked his uncle if there was a history connected with the scene, and learning that
his suspicious were well founded, begged for the story. Mr. Williams began in the
orthodox fashion:
"A long time ago, when I was a young fellow about twenty-three years of ago, I first
came out to this part of the country as a member of a railroad surveying party. One
awfully hot August afternoon we had worked our stakes along until we reached the big
mass of rock that I pointed out to you a few minutes ago. As there was a promise of a
thunder shower, according to the big black clouds soaring up out of the northwest, and
as we were all knocked up with the heat, our chief gave orders to unhitch the cattle and
to camp under the shade of the rocks.
"We had two good guides and Indian-fighters in our outfit, and being in a hostile country,
of course they were always on the alert for Indian signs and ambushes. Although we had
had several attacks from the hair-lifting individuals, the same had always been made
when we were prepared for them, owing to the warning given by our guides. Well, why it
was that they were so careless on that day I speak of I cannot say, unless the burning
heat of the forenoon had taken away their shrewdness and caution.
"As far as the eye could reach in every direction there was nothing but rolling prairie,
except right against our backs, where the bare and ragged rocks went up almost straight
into the misty, heat-charged atmosphere. As we intended to remain in camp for the
remainder of the day and coming night, sentinels were stationed on the four sides of the
rock, and the mules and horses were allowed to crop the parched grass in the vicinity as
far as their picket-ropes would allow them to wander, it being intended to drive them
within the square of wagons before dark, so as to make them secure against a stampede.
"About four o'clock the storm came sweeping across the prairie, and for about an hour
the thunder rolled and cracked and the lightning flashed as it knows how to do in
Wyoming; then when it seemed to be dying away, there came a blinding flash of fire in
our faces and the most awful crash I ever heard. It stunned us all for a moment, so that
when something came pitching down from the rocks just over our heads and fell with a
thud on the sodden grass a few feet away, we imagined it to be a piece of the cliff
detached by the last concussion. After that the rain ceased and the sun shone out. Then
it was that we discovered the thing in front of us to be a Cheyenne warrior. After the first
look there was no use in seeking for signs of life in him, for his face was as black as that
of a negro's, and one side of him was horribly burned. It didn't take us long to reason
that he had been hidden away among the rocks, spying on us, and that the last lightning
bolt had been attracted to him by the steel tomahawk in his belt. Well, after that we
pulled out on the open prairie and kept a close watch on that pile of rock for the
remainder of the afternoon and night, for we didn't know how many more of the heathen
there might be in hiding up there; but nothing further happened, and in the morning we
said good-by to it with a big feeling of relief."
At Cheyenne, Mr. Williams's foreman and several ranch hands were in waiting with saddle
horses for the party. During the two days that the party remained in the city Frank gave
Harry some valuable lessons in horsemanship, and after about a week's experience, in
which time he became hardened to the saddle, Harry found no greater enjoyment than in
galloping about the range on the back of a fiery young horse that his cousin had raised,
and which he presented to him "for keeps," as he expressed it.
Now Frank Williams was a kind-hearted young fellow, and during the fortnight that he
and Harry had been thrown together a mutual affection had grown between them; but
Frank was brimming over with mischief, and he conceived a plan for having a laugh at his
"tenderfoot relation," as Harry was called by the cowboys.
The few Indians who appeared in the vicinity of the ranch belonged to a peaceable tribe
of Cheyennes, but when the opportunity came Frank intended for the time being to
mentally transform these demoralized and decidedly lazy individuals into the most
frenzied and blood-thirsty creatures that his imagination was equal to. The cowboys were
taken into the secret, and a mysterious visit was made by one of them to the Indian
camp, where the chief, who delighted in the high-sounding title of "Dog-with-two-tails,"
was pleased to dispose of several feathered head-dresses and a quantity of colored
pigments for a suspicious-looking black bottle, which the noble savage patted
affectionately and stowed away inside his dirty shirt.
Several days after this Frank asked his cousin to take a canter with him to a somewhat
remote point of the range where the men were branding the young cattle. As they rode
across the undulating prairie, sweet and fresh in the early summer sunshine, Frank
explained to his cousin that the Indian outbreaks were always timed to take place when
the winter was over. Then he went on to state, with a shade of worry on his face, that
although there had been no trouble for some time, it was well to be on guard constantly,
for the uprisings generally took place when they were least expected. He kept on in this
strain until the branding-place was reached; then Harry became so interested in the
round up and sorting of the cattle that he failed to notice several of the cowboys
disappearing into the small woods close at hand.
After a time the boys started on their ten-mile ride for home, allowing their horses to jog
along easily, while Frank profited by the occasion to further dilate concerning the
uncertainty of their savage neighbors, and the recklessness of even riding over the range
unless prepared for emergencies.
They had ridden about two miles, when their ears were suddenly saluted with the most
infernal series of yells that ever disgraced the human throat. Looking back in the
direction of the sound, the boys saw, not more than a quarter of a mile away, coming
down on them at top speed, five savages in full war paint and feathers, brandishing their
rifles, while they continued to utter such unearthly screams and howls that Harry
afterward admitted that his hair developed a tendency to lift his cap clear of his head.
"They've broken out!" yelled Frank. "Spur for home or they'll have our scalps!"
The next instant the two boys were frantically driving their heels into the sides of the
speeding horses, while behind them the Indians redoubled their yells and swept furiously
along in pursuit.
All of a sudden Harry saw Frank's horse, which was a little in advance, step in a hole,
pitch on his knees, and send its rider flying out of the saddle. Harry reined up by the side
of his cousin, but Frank never moved or responded to the excited appeal for him to jump
up and get on behind.
What was to be done? Back there, only an eighth of a mile away, the redskins were
tearing along on their trail, and here, helpless and unconscious, lay his companion.
"I'll never leave him for those fiends to butcher," muttered Harry, pale with fear, but with
his teeth set hard and a look of determination on his youthful face. Then he unslung his
gun, dismounted from his horse, brought the piece to his shoulder, ran his eye along the
barrel until the head of one of the Indians was in line, and pulled the trigger.

THE REPULSE OF THE PRACTICAL JOKERS.

With the report the savages turned their horses and took the back trail, and were soon
out of sight.
"The miserable cowards," thought Harry, "to run away from a boy!"
"Harry," said a very shamefaced lad sitting on the ground a few feet away, and rubbing a
big lump on the back of his head, "you can put up your gun; there's no danger. I tried to
play a joke on you, and the joke came on me. I'm glad that you only had bird-shot in that
gun of yours, because you might have killed one of father's cowboys. But I say, Harry,
dear old fellow, it was awfully brave of you to stand by me when I was knocked silly by
that tumble, and I appreciate it just as much as though it was all real work instead of a
joke; and—and—oh! I say Harry, old fellow, don't say anything about it, and if any one
ever dares to call you a tenderfoot again when I'm around, why, I'll brand him with the
jolliest, biggest iron that we've got on the ranch!"
 DRILLING A GREAT ARMY IN WINTER.
The effectiveness of any of the great European standing armies depends, above all
things, upon their being able and ready to take the field at a moment's notice. This
theory is taught in most of the military schools abroad, and it is an excellent one; but
there are many and almost insurmountable difficulties to overcome in putting it into
practice. Still, in order to reach the highest efficiency, troops are trained to manœuvre in
all weather and at all seasons, especially in France and Germany and Russia. The
Russians, having more winter weather, perhaps, than the other nations of Europe, were
the first to recognize the value and importance of drills on snow and ice, and have
trained their armies to take the field in the depth of winter.
Germany has followed this example, and during the winter months the various corps of
her vast army carried on mock warfare in various parts of the empire. Extreme cold is, of
course, a great obstacle to the mobilization of troops. It is not always possible to secure
lodgings for soldiers in towns and villages, especially in times of peace, when the
necessity is not absolute; and the alternative of sleeping in tents, with the snow lying
deep on the ground and the thermometer below zero, seems at first thought
impracticable. And yet it has been shown, by the recent manœuvres of the German
troops, that with dire precautions men suffer no ill effects from this exposure. The tents
which have been found to be the most useful are very small, and have proved warmer
than the larger ones. The temperature inside the canvas is generally about ten degrees
higher than outside, to begin with, and rises when occupied by soldiers. The men are
also kept warm by having hot coffee served to them at intervals of two hours throughout
the night. The chief object, of course, of winter manœuvres is to accustom soldiers to
sleep in tents during severe weather, and to learn to know the conditions which winter
campaigning imposes.
 A MOCK ASSAULT ON A FORT IN WINTER.
A detachment made up of several battalions of Pioneers and Grenadier Guards was sent
across country on a long march during one of these manœuvres, in an attempt to
surprise and capture a fortress. The attack was to be made entirely without the aid and
support of artillery. The troops arrived before the fortress in the evening, and were
immediately ordered to the attack, the plan being to take the place by assault. The
bastions and ramparts, of course, were covered with snow, and the water in the moat, if
there was any, was frozen hard. They approached as quietly as they could, with the
intention of crossing the moat, but before they could get their scaling-ladders into
position the garrison had been alarmed by the sentries, and immediately opened fire
upon the attacking party. Search-lights were also brought into play to throw their glare
into the moat, where the Grenadiers had gathered in order to climb the ramparts. But in
spite of this the Guards scaled the inner defences, being protected by the Pioneers, who
were drawn up on the other side of the moat, and kept up such a constant fire on the
garrison that these troops were unable to prevent the approach of the Grenadiers. As
soon as the latter had successfully climbed the ramparts, they in turn opened a hot fire
upon the defenders, while the Pioneers crossed the moat behind them. And when the
whole attacking force had thus surmounted their greatest obstacle, they made a rush
over the inner defences of the fortress and captured it. This is only one of the many kinds
of winter manœuvres that the German troops practise. Sometimes whole army corps are
sent to capture a city or to take possession of a line of railroad; and if the snows are so
heavy that these roads are impassable, the railway corps of the German army can
construct a road made of light steel tracks across country over the ice and the drifts. In
this way they keep up communication with their base of supplies.
 ON THE CELLAR-DOOR.
We fellows held a meeting, and Tommy had the
floor;
Ned Parks was in the chair, sir, on Charley's cellar-
door.
We'd voted for a lot of things and ruled some others
in,
When Tommy's mother sent for him, which made no
end of din.

'Twas in the middle of his speech, but Tommy had to

go,
For if your mother sends for you, you haven't half a
show.
The thing that we complained of was that neither
just nor kind
Is the way a fellow's mother veers, and dares to
"change her mind."

Old Tommy said his mother said that he might spend

the day
A-playing by that cellar-door; then would not let him
stay,
But thought of errands he must run, and broke our
meeting square
In two just at the height of fun, and I tell you
'twasn't fair.

Grown people have such funny ways. If we should

change our mind
When we had made a promise, why, they wouldn't
be so blind,
They'd call it fibbing, if you please, or something
worse than that,
A small black word of letters three; I've heard them
plain and pat.

But we left our ruined meeting and went to playing

ball,
And kicked it well, with might and main, there by
Tom's mother's wall;
For we couldn't bear to stand around the dreary
cellar-door
When Tommy's mother changed her mind just when
he had the floor.

M. E. S.
 AN "OLD-FIELD" SCHOOL-GIRL.[1]
BY MARION HARLAND.

CHAPTER V.
Every hour of that black Monday cast Flea into deeper darkness. Because she was found
wanting in arithmetic she was put, in all her classes, with girls whose ignorance she
despised. For two years she had studied the same lessons with Bea, and recited them as
well. Yet Bea smiled sweetly down upon her from the head of the "big girls'" bench, and
Flea swelled with angry mortification between Lucy Wilson, who could not read to herself
without whispering the words, and Emma Jones, whose recitation of, "Vermont is a small
ro-mantick and pictures-quee State," was one of last session's jokes. At "play-time" Mr.
Tayloe went to Greenfield, less than half a mile distant, for a comfortable luncheon. As
soon as he was out of sight every tongue was loosened. The boys whooped and raced to
and fro; the girls knotted together in groups under the trees and upon the steps to eat
their snacks and discuss the incidents of the morning.
Flea slipped away unperceived, luncheon-bag in hand, to the welcome cover of the
woods. She thought she was glad that nobody stopped or stayed her. Really the
indifference of her mates to what she had endured and what she now suffered pierced
her with a new sorrow.
"Nobody cares! nobody cares!" she cried aloud, plunging into the forest until the voices
of the shouting boys could not be heard. She was alone at last. Casting herself down in
the friendly shade, she let all the waves of wounded feeling, the billows of wounded
pride, go over her head.
Up to this morning she had been a happy child, making much of her few and simple
pleasures. She liked everybody she knew in her small world, and loved nearly everybody.
She had never been guilty of a wilful unkindness; hatred and revenge were unknown
passions. The unpleasant smile that curved the schoolmaster's lips so far upward as
partly to close his eyes would have straightened into a laugh of genuine amusement had
he watched, from behind the tree-boles, the look that settled upon the face, blotched
with weeping when, by-and-by, the girl sat up, her knees drawn up to her chin, her arms
gripping her legs. She had cried her eyes dry. She believed that she could never cry again
—certainly not in that man's presence. No! not if he were to beat her to death!
"If he ever strikes me I will kill him!" she muttered, her lips curling back from the locked
teeth. "It would be as right as father's killing that snake. I hope I shall have a chance to
pay him back some day. I am in his power now, but a time may come! A time may
come!"
She was genuinely miserable, yet she could not help being melodramatic. She was still
living in her story, but the complexion of the story was changed. Yesterday she would not
have harmed the meanest thing that lived. This morning to make and to see others
happy was the purest joy she knew. Her heart seemed to this dreadful day to have been
a placid pool, clear because it had never been stirred up from the bottom. This man—the
first creature she had ever hated—had brought to the top such mire and dirt as she had
never dreamed were there.
By-and-by she ate her luncheon. She was only a child, and with childhood the sharpest
edge of the sharpest grief is soon dulled. When her hunger was somewhat appeased she
became critical of the remnants of her "snack."
"Cold batter-bread!" turning it over with the tips of her fingers. "I wonder who mother
thinks cares for cold batter-bread?"
Batter-bread is a mixture of Indian meal, milk, and eggs beaten light and baked in a
mould. When hot and fresh it is puffy and delicious. In cooling it becomes heavy and
sticky. Flea's misery was settling into crossness, very much after the fashion of the bread.
She took one bite out of the solid chunk, and tossed the rest as far as she could send it
over the bushes. It was aimed at the creek that flowed a dozen yards away, but fell short
and landed in the sand. Flea could see it lying there while she crunched a crisp ginger-
cake with teeth that snapped pettishly upon it.
"I'll tell mother not to put cold batter-bread into my snack to-morrow," she resolved.
At the thought a home picture arose in her mind. Of her mother, with tired eyes and
wrinkled forehead, the baby tugging at her skirts and whining to be taken up, while the
busy housewife stood at the dining-room table, cutting ham and buttering bread, and
selecting the nicest ginger-cakes for her daughters' midday meal. She had forgotten
nothing, not even the clean napkin, although Calley was teasing her on one side and
baby on the other, and Dee was asking everybody where he could have put his slate, and
Chaney was waiting, a wooden bread-tray on her hip, for "Mistis to give out dinner." Flea
concluded that she had a good mother. If she did scold sometimes, she had reason
enough for it, and Flea at least, whatever might be said of the other children, richly
deserved all the fault-finding she got at home. Her mother had said to herself when she
cut and buttered that slice of batter-bread,
"How my hungry little girl will enjoy this at play-time!"
And the ungrateful little wretch had thrown it away.
The Flea Grigsby who ten minutes ago was planning revenge and even murder got up
meekly, crept under the hazel and sweet-gum bushes, picked up the despised chunk,
carried it back to her seat at the foot of a hickory-tree, and proceeded to eat it. Every
mouthful went against palate and stomach. The butter had soaked into it and left it
clammy. The sand stuck to it, and Flea could not brush it quite clean. The gritty morsels
set her teeth on edge, and reminded her of stories she had read of penances done for
sins committed—hair-cloth shirts, and peas in one's shoes, and floggings upon the naked
shoulders, and all that. The stories helped her to persevere until the last crumb was
swallowed. The task was further lightened by meditation upon her mother's many sterling
virtues. For instance, how she took especial pains to give the children who went to school
something to eat that was a little better than the children left at home would have. She
said "studying was hungry work."
In reality Mrs. Grigsby had said, "stedyin' is mighty hongry work." Flea would not think of
that or other peculiarities that had sometimes made her ashamed of her mother. Her
mother was not to blame that her parents had not sent her to school for as many years
as she meant to send her children.
At this point of her musings something bitter and burning arose in the girl's softened
heart.
"Poor mother!" she muttered. "Wouldn't she be mad if she knew what has happened to-
day? As for father, he'd be ready to mash him like he did the moccasin."
The rule quoted as "a good law" by Major Duncombe, never to tell tales out of school,
was one of the first lessons learned by every boy and girl of that school. Traditions of
awful floggings administered by former teachers for violations of the rule were familiar to
all. A large majority of parents were in the league with the schoolmasters in this matter.
Many fathers not only refused to listen to their children's complaints, but punished them
for bringing them. Boys actually carried for weeks the marks of the whip, and took pains
to hide them from their parents lest they might be obliged to tell how they got them. A
tell-tale was despised everywhere. To tell tales out of school branded boy or girl as for a
disgraceful crime.
If Flea had battles to fight, she must fight them single-handed. The authority of the Old
Field schoolmaster was what she had learned in Olney's geography to call "absolute
despotism."
"He's worse than Turkey and China," she said, drawing the strings of her "snack-bag"
viciously tight. "He's meaner and crueler than a satrap—or—a Mameluke!"
The sound of voices and laughter broke in upon her gloomy reverie. Peeping between the
overhanging boughs she saw what made her crouch lower in her covert.
The creek was wide, and at this season shallow at this point. When swollen by winter and
spring rains it was so deep and swift that a bridge had been built over it high above the
present level. Coming from the direction of Greenfield, two women and a man had just
reached the bridge. They were Miss Emily and Miss Eliza Duncombe, and Mr. Tayloe. He
was on his way back to school, and the young ladies had walked part of the way with
him. The party stopped on the bridge and leaned over the railing.
"If Miss Emily had seen him this morning, she wouldn't let him stand so close to her,"
reflected Flea. "She'd sooner push him into the water."
Miss Emily had no present intention of doing anything of the sort. She seemed upon the
best possible terms with her brothers' teacher. He had a gun upon his shoulder. The
woods were full of game, and he might knock over a bird or "an old hare" in his walks
back and forth to the school-house. In the noon stillness Flea could hear what Miss
Emily's high-pitched voice was saying:
"I tell you I can shoot beautifully. Just let me try."
And in answer to something he said: "I dare you to hit that stump in the water over
yonder. The stump with the red leaves on it."
Mr. Tayloe raised the gun and fired. The leaves flew in every direction, and the shot
pattered in the water.
Miss Emily clapped her hands and screamed with delight; there was a confused chatter
for a moment, all three talking together, while Mr. Tayloe reloaded the gun and handed it
to the young lady.
"She ain't aiming it right," thought Flea,
regretfully, as Miss Emily raised the short
fowling-piece awkwardly but boldly to her
shoulder, and laid her cheek down upon the
stock. There was a report, and a rain of bird-
shot fell, not in the water this time, but upon
the clump of bushy shrubs in which Flea was
hiding, and she felt a sharp cut across her
cheek. With a cry she could not quite stifle she
rushed away into the woods, too much
frightened to do anything but fly from the
chance of a second shot.
She did not hear the shout of laughter from
the bridge.
"You peppered a pig that time, Miss Emily,"
said the teacher to the unskilful sportswoman.
"You did not come within fifty feet of the
WITH A CRY SHE COULD NOT stump. It's lucky the pig was so far off. I heard
QUITE STIFLE, SHE RUSHED AWAY him squeal as he scampered into the woods.
INTO THE WOODS. So you did hit something after all. That's a
good one!"
He went off into another fit of laughter.
The blood was oozing from the cut when Flea stopped running, and she put up her hand
to feel how much she was hurt. It was a mere scratch, for the shot was light and almost
spent by the time it reached her. Her fright over, her spirits arose with a bound. A happy
thought had entered her ever-active brain.
Major Duncombe had no patience with carelessness in the use of firearms. She had seen
him angry but once in her life, and that was when one of his boys pointed an empty gun
at his brother. The father had laid his riding-whip smartly about the boy's shoulders, and
forbidden him to touch a gun again for a month.
"I would cowhide any man who aimed even a broomstick at me," he said. "'Gun' and 'fun'
should never go together except in a rhyme."
Miss Emily would be scolded by her father and made fun of by everybody else, and feel
dreadfully besides if anybody ever found out what she had done. Flea would lock up the
secret in the recesses of her own heart, as any other heroine would, for the sake of the
beloved object. She hoped the scratch would leave a scar—just a tiny thread of a scar—
that would not disfigure her, and would always be a token of how much she loved her
dear, dear Miss Emily.
"It would be a badge of merit—an honorable scar!" she said, aloud. "I am glad, glad it
happened!"
A quarter-mile from the school-house, the hill on which it stood fell away abruptly in a
bank out of which a clear little spring ran through a pipe into a trough below. There Flea
paused to wash her face and hands, and to rinse the handkerchief she had used to
stanch the blood. She even took pains to make herself look more tidy than usual, wetting
her "Shetland-pony" forelock, and combing it back with the round comb which she wore
for the first time that day. Then she smoothed her apron, and swinging her luncheon-bag
around and around as she went, she tripped blithely up the slope into the clearing that
made the play-ground. At the same instant the figure of the teacher came into view from
the opposite quarter, and there was a rush and a scuffle among boys and girls to get into
the school-room before he arrived.
Thus it happened that nobody noticed the raw scratch crossing Flea's left cheek, about
an inch below the eye, until the dictionary class was called up to recite. Much attention
was paid in the Old Field school to spelling and definition, the text-book being Walker's
Dictionary. Two columns of words and definitions under the head of A were assigned to
the class of five girls and six boys, who had been busy studying the lesson ever since the
beginning of the afternoon session. For no reason except that it pleased him to put down
in every way the girl to whom he had taken a dislike, Mr. Tayloe placed Flea Grigsby at
the foot of the row ranged in front of his chair. The scholars stood while reciting, their
hands close to their sides, their chins level, and shoulders back. When a word was
misspelled, or a wrong definition given, it was passed down the line until somebody
supplied the proper spelling and meaning, and went above those who had failed.
Flea mounted steadily and rapidly in this exercise, spelling being one of her strong points.
She was the fourth from the head of the class when the word "adolescence" was given
out. The first one who tried it put in two d's, the second left out the first c, the third
spelled the word right, but had forgotten the meaning. Flea instinctively cast her eyes
down, and tried with all her generous might not to look elated as the trial in which she
knew she would succeed drew nearer and nearer.
"Felicia Grigsby!" said the teacher.
"Ado—"
"Instead of staring that ink-spot out of countenance, suppose you have the politeness to
look at me when I speak to you." He broke off to stare at her. "What have you been
doing to your face?"
Flea put her hand up to her wounded check, and felt that it was wet. The water had
checked the bleeding for a while, but now specks of blood, like tiny beads, were starting
out along the line of the cut. Her blush at the discovery looked to the master like the
confusion of guilt.
"Can't you speak?" he said, roughly. "You are usually over-ready with your tongue. With
whom have you been fighting, now?"