(eBook PDF) Image Operators: Image Processing in Python download
(eBook PDF) Image Operators: Image Processing in Python download
Python download
https://ebookluna.com/product/ebook-pdf-image-operators-image-
processing-in-python/
https://ebookluna.com/product/ebook-pdf-digital-image-processing-global-
edition-4th-edition/
https://ebookluna.com/download/digital-image-processing-using-matlab-ebook-
pdf/
https://ebookluna.com/product/ebook-pdf-digital-image-processing-4th-
edition-by-rafael-c-gonzalez/
Feature extraction and image processing for computer vision Fourth Edition
Aguado - eBook PDF
https://ebookluna.com/download/feature-extraction-and-image-processing-for-
computer-vision-ebook-pdf/
(eBook PDF) Radiographic Image Analysis 5th Edition
https://ebookluna.com/product/ebook-pdf-radiographic-image-analysis-5th-
edition/
https://ebookluna.com/download/riemannian-geometric-statistics-in-medical-
image-analysis-ebook-pdf/
https://ebookluna.com/download/handbook-of-robotic-and-image-guided-
surgery-ebook-pdf/
(eBook PDF) Deep Learning for Medical Image Analysis by S. Kevin Zhou
https://ebookluna.com/product/ebook-pdf-deep-learning-for-medical-image-
analysis-by-s-kevin-zhou/
https://ebookluna.com/download/handbook-of-medical-image-computing-and-
computer-assisted-intervention-ebook-pdf/
Contents
vii
viii Contents
4.3.5 PNG.................................................................................................. 65
4.3.6 Other Compressions......................................................................... 65
4.4 Summary....................................................................................................... 65
PART V Basis
xv
xvi Python Codes
xxi
Software and Data
Software and data used in this text are available at:
https://jmkinser49.wixsite.com/imageoperators
Software and images copyright (c) Jason M. Kinser 2018. Software and images provided on this
site may be used for educational purposes. All other rights are reserved by the author.
xxiii
Discovering Diverse Content Through
Random Scribd Documents
The Project Gutenberg eBook of Harper's Round Table, May
19, 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.
Author: Various
Language: English
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HARPER'S ROUND TABLE, MAY 19,
1896 ***
JACK HOWARD'S SURPRISE PARTY.
A MYSTERY.
THE AMERICAN NIGHTS' ENTERTAINMENTS.
DOROTHY'S PROBLEM.
AN "OLD-FIELD" SCHOOL-GIRL.
RICK DALE.
THE CORONATION OF A CZAR.
PRACTICAL GOLF.
A LEAF PROM AN DIARY.
SOMETHING ABOUT BUDS.
THE EDUCATED GOOSE.
FROM CHUM TO CHUM.
INTERSCHOLASTIC SPORT.
BICYCLING.
STAMPS.
THE PUDDING STICK.
published weekly. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, MAY 19, 1896. five cents a copy.
vol. xvii.—no. 864. two dollars a year.
JACK HOWARD'S SURPRISE PARTY.
It was the critical moment in the famous sham battle of Easter Monday. The bicycle corps
was a mile and a half away, and the signal post had been captured by the enemy. Unless
the corps could be brought into the action the day was lost, and the wood road running
back of the "Cardinal's Nob" offered the only possible means of communication. But could
the message be conveyed in time? Colonel Howard turned to his son Jack, who stood
anxious and silent at the front handle-bars of the Arrow, a modern racing quad, geared
to 120, and stripped down to the enamel. The inspection seemed to satisfy him, and
hastily scribbling a few lines on a page torn from his note-book, he handed the order to
his son.
"Get this through if you possibly can," he said, briefly, and turned again to his field-
glasses.
A moment later and Jack and his crew were carrying the Arrow down the steep sides of
the "Nob" to the wood road that ran below. The road was in splendid condition, hard and
smooth as a racing-track, and the boys were all picked riders, and bound to hold on to
their grips until the tires began to smoke.
"It will be a scorch, fellows," said Jack, as he swung himself into his saddle; "but let her
run off easily until we can get to pedalling all together. Now, then, hit her up!"
The Arrow jumped forward like a hare as the long chain tightened and the riders bent
over to their work. It took Jem Smith, No. 2, a moment longer to find his left pedal, and
then the eight legs began to go up and down with the mechanical regularity of so many
piston-rods. Once fairly into the long rhythmical swing, every ounce of power told, and
the tense spokes hummed merrily as the speed increased and the road-bed slipped away
beneath the rapidly revolving wheels. Jack Howard had his cap drawn well down over his
eyes, and his hands were tightly clinched on the front handle-bars. So long as the way
was smooth and the crew were pumping in strict time the Arrow steered with the
certainty and quickness of a racing sloop; but every now and then a shallow rut or a half-
hidden stone would cause the long machine to swerve like a flying horse, and it would
take all of Jack's strength, even with the assistance of No. 2, whose handle-bars were
coupled to the steering head, to keep the Arrow steady on her course. Above all, it was
necessary that every rider should pay strict attention to the business in hand, or rather
under foot. Uneven pedalling meant lost power and hard steering, while a slipped pedal
might result in an ugly fall and a general smash-up.
Three-quarters of a mile from the "Nob" there was a gate across the road, with the
approach on a curve that was also slightly down-grade. As was only prudent, speed was
reduced, and the Arrow rounded the turn well under control. Luckily so, for the gate was
closed. This was rather odd, for the bicycle corps had passed over the road only an hour
before, and it had been understood that they should leave the gate open. The loss of
time was vexatious, but there was nothing to do but to stop. The Arrow ran slowly up to
the obstruction, and Jack called to Dick Long, the end man, to jump off and swing the
gate aside.
"Hands up!" came with startling distinctness from the high, thickly wooded slope that
bordered the road on either side, and Jack looked up straight into the barrel of a
regulation army carbine that for the moment yawned as wide as the muzzle of a
hundred-ton gun. It was the enemy, sure enough, a sergeant with a dozen men, and the
Arrow had walked straight into the trap. Resistance was as impossible as it was hopeless,
for the boys had strapped their carbines securely to the framing of the quad, and the
surprise had been complete.
"You're captured," said the umpire, who had accompanied the ambuscade. "Hand over
your despatches to the sergeant and stand at attention."
It was a dreadfully mortifying situation for the boys, but their captors were inclined to be
magnanimous.
"It's not your fault, Jack," chuckled the jolly sergeant, as he took the precious despatch;
"it was just a little game of strategy in which we happened to hold the high cards."
After all, it had been a desperate chance, and Jack was philosopher enough to abide by
the result. And besides that he had faith enough in his father to feel assured that he
would pull through somehow, and that his confidence was not misplaced those who have
read "The Battle of Easter Monday" will remember.
The umpire hurried away for the actual field of battle, and the sergeant and his party
took up their post again at the gate. It was stupid work playing prisoner, and Jack hinted
as much to the sergeant. If they couldn't see the battle it was a pity to lose such a fine
afternoon for a ride, and it was not likely that they would be able to borrow the quad
again.
"Well," said the sergeant, good-naturedly, "I don't know that I have any right to do it, but
I'll release you on parole, with the understanding that you go in the opposite direction
from the battle-field, and that you report at the armory this evening and turn in your
rifles and cartridge-belts."
The terms were too easy not to be accepted, and though the boys were naturally
disappointed in not being able to see or take part in the fight, it was something in the
way of consolation to have a twenty-mile spin on the Arrow.
"Let's go to Queenston," suggested Jem Smith, as the Arrow rolled slowly back along the
wood road.
It was a good fifteen miles away to the old college town, but the roads were unusually
good for so early in the year, and the scenery was more than enough to make up for the
steepness of the hills.
"And take luncheon at Rock Hill," added Jack. "Is it a vote?" and no one dissenting, it was
so ordered.
It was a glorious afternoon for a spin, and the boys enjoyed the novel experience of four-
in-hand riding. But since the Arrow was geared up for racing on a level track, it was hard
work hill-climbing, and nobody was sorry to see in the distance the gray towers of
Queenston. A mile away from town and Jack called a halt. The stretch of road
immediately before them had been broken up preparatory to macadamizing, and it was
clearly unrideable. Nobody liked the idea of trundling the long machine into town; but, on
the other hand, they had set out for a run to Queenston, and it would not do to give up
within sight of port. And, moreover, through the town lay the shortest road back to
Fairacre.
"What's that road?" asked Dick Long, pointing to a carriage drive that entered the woods
at right angles to the highway.
Jack's eyes brightened. "I remember it now," he said. "It's a private road that runs back
of the college and brings us out on University Square. There can't be any objection to our
using it."
There was a locked gate to prevent intrusion, but the Arrow was quickly hoisted over the
fence, and Jack and his crew were in the saddle again.
It was evident that the road had not been used for a long time, for it was overgrown with
grass, and the old wheel-tracks were hardly discernible. But it was fair riding, for the turf
was thick and firm, and as it was early in the spring, it had only just begun to grow. Half
a mile in and the Arrow was running swiftly and noiselessly through the thickest part of
the college wood. The university buildings were but a quarter of a mile or so away, but it
was only occasionally that they showed through the leafless trunks of the great oaks and
chestnuts. Here and there a chipmunk scuttled away through the dry rustling leaves, and
once an early robin piped up with an original spring poem. The silence and stillness
seemed almost primeval; it might have been the first Sunday morning after the creation
of the world; a laugh or an idle word would have broken the spell. And then—
"Hold hard!" came in a tense whisper from Jack, and his crew mechanically bore back on
their pedals. The Arrow had stopped at the brow of a gentle declivity that widened out at
the bottom into a little glade, which was now the scene of a drama that looked perilously
like a tragedy to the startled eyes of the new-comers. In the middle of the open space
stood a rude structure of rough stones some three feet high and six long, and upon it
was stretched the figure of a man bound and gagged. At a little distance were grouped a
dozen masked forms armed with odd-looking axes, and listening attentively to an
incomprehensible harangue on the part of the one who appeared to be their leader.
The boys looked at each other with white faces. Ku-Klux? White Caps? It was possible.
Whatever it was, it looked ugly enough in all conscience.
Jack Howard began to unstrap his carbine from the framework of the Arrow.
"Our cartridges are all blanks," whispered Dick Long, hurriedly.
"I know it," returned Jack, fumbling with nervous haste at the mechanism of the breech-
block, "but I'm not going to stand here and see murder done."
"But what can we do?"
"See that your magazines are full, be ready to ride the Arrow so as to get that stone pile
between us and the crowd, and, above all, let nobody fire until I give the word. It's
twelve to four, and the only chance is to bluff them."
It seemed like a dream to stand there waiting for the moment of action, the motionless
figure stretched upon the stones, the sunlight flickering upon the grim-looking axes of
the twelve masked men, the monotonous, unintelligible drone of the speaker. And yet
there was a something in the picture that made it terribly alive, for all that this was the
year of Our Lord 1896, and the bells in the college chapel were even now ringing the call
for evening prayers.
Jack and his crew were sitting motionless in their saddles, Dick Long, the rear man,
standing ready to give the necessary shove-off.
The speaker had stopped talking, and had taken his stand at the head of the line of
masked men. In his hands he held an antique-looking urn, and at a signal the others
advanced one by one. As the first man passed he dropped into the urn a small object
that looked like a bean. But there could be no mistake about the color—it was black.
Another followed, and then another, until all had passed and cast their vote, if vote it
was. The chief solemnly emptied the contents of the urn upon the ground. Every bean
was black.
The leader drew from beneath his cloak a long, glittering, crescent-shaped knife, and
held it high above his head.
"Your sentence, then"—he looked inquiringly at the immovable silent figures that stood
about him in a circle.
"Death!" came in muffled tones from the first mask, and "Death!" echoed the next, and
the next, until all had spoken.
The circle parted, and the executioner moved slowly towards the altar and the victim.
"Now!" shouted Jack, and the Arrow flashed down the slope as though sped from some
gigantic bowstring. In an instant the boys had dismounted, and were kneeling under
cover of the stone-work with their rifles at their shoulders. There was a moment of
surprise and confusion among the masked figures, and the man with the knife pulled up
sharply.
Jack snatched off his cap and tossed it into the air. It fell some twenty feet away, an
improvised dead-line between the two parties.
"Keep back of that or we fire," he said, tersely.
The line of masked men wavered for an instant, and then the leader held up his hand
and stepped forward.
"This doesn't concern you," he said, quietly.
"Maybe not," retorted Jack, "but we are going to make it our business. Keep back!" and
he raised his rifle.
The masked man made an impatient gesture. "I tell you again," he said, coldly, "that this
is no affair of yours. You had better take my advice, and hop the twig as fast as you can."
"And suppose we don't choose to profit by your friendly warning," returned Jack, jauntily.
"What then?"
One of the masked figures stepped up to the leader, and whispered something in his ear.
The chief nodded affirmatively, and turned again to Jack.
"We know well enough where you came from," he said, confidently, "and you can't bluff
us with blank cartridges."
There was an involuntary movement of surprised consternation among the boys, which
the masked man was quick to perceive and take advantage of.
"This isn't any sham battle," he continued, with a sneer. "I'll give you while I count ten to
clear out. One, two—"
Jack turned hurriedly to the boys. "Remember, now, hold your fire, no matter what I do."
"Eight, nine, ten. Come on, you fellows!" and the man in the mask threw down his knife
and jumped for Jack. There was a sharp report, and the leader stopped short, staggered,
and fell.
It was all over in an instant. The masked figures had scattered in all directions, and Jack
was cutting the cords that bound the prisoner. And by all that was wonderful, if it wasn't
Tom Jones, a Fairacre boy, and a member of the Sophomore Class at Queenston College.
The boys stared at him, open-mouthed.
"Take out the gag; he's trying to speak," said Dick Long, excitedly.
The gag was quickly removed, and Tom sprang to his feet.
"Well, you are a fine set of blooming wooden-heads," said Mr. Jones, reproachfully.
The boys looked at him in astonishment. Under the peculiar circumstances the remark
savored of ingratitude, to say the least.
"Perhaps you would have preferred that we had not interfered," said Jem Smith, with
sarcastic politeness.
"I wish to goodness you hadn't," was the disconcerting reply. "Well, old man, are you
much hurt?" Tom Jones had hurried to where the wounded man was lying propped up
against a tree, and was bending over him with anxious solicitude. His mask had fallen off,
and his face looked familiar enough, though nobody could place him exactly.
"See here, Jones," said Jack Howard, with a desperate effort to shake off the growing
conviction that the whole affair was nothing more than an ugly dream, "what does all this
mean, anyhow? Haven't we just pulled you out of a pretty tight place—saved your life, I
mean?"
"No, you haven't," answered Tom, snappishly.
"You've gone and interfered with my initiation into the Order of Ancient and Royal Druids,
the best secret society in the college, and you shot in the leg the Captain of the
university team, and the only decent half-back we have this year. That's what you've
done."
"Oh, my leg!" groaned the sufferer, feebly. "There's a hole bored clear through it, and it's
bleeding like one o'clock."
And then Mr. Jones, who had been examining the injured member, did a very remarkable
thing. He deliberately bestowed upon his wounded superior a couple of hearty kicks, and
then proceeded to assist him to his feet.
"Get up, Phil, and don't make an ass of yourself. Here's the fatal bullet that laid you low."
He picked up something from the ground, and showed it first to Captain Phil and then to
Jack. The latter nodded, took it, and stowed it away in his pocket. A few words in
undertone followed, and then the football Captain laughed and held out his hand to Jack.
"I wish you fellows would come up to the college and have some tea," he said, heartily.
"Sure you haven't the time? Well, then, remember that I'll expect you over for the first
baseball game of the season next Saturday—and your friends too."
"You're sure that you're all right again?" inquired Jack.
Captain Phil turned a handspring with remarkable agility, and came up smiling, to the
manifest astonishment of three or four of his late companions in crime, who were
cautiously making their way back to the scene of battle, in the evident expectation of
having to perform the last sad offices for their late leader.
"Straight as a string and sound as a bell," announced Captain Phil, cheerfully. "But just
wait, young fellow, until you enter Fresh, in the fall, and I can get a chance to tackle you
on the twenty-yard line. That ought to square things between us."
Jack laughed, and with another hearty shake of the Captain's hand, he sprang into his
saddle, and the Arrow was quickly speeding towards Fairacre again.
"He ought to make a rattling quarter-back," said Captain Phil, reflectively, to Tom Jones.
"A fellow with his nerve is just the man we want to fill Robinson's shoes."
And Jones nodded an oracular assent.
Half a mile down the pike, and Jem Smith's curiosity could no longer be restrained.
"Well, if you must know," said Jack, finally, "here's the fatal bullet. It just occurred to me
to slip it in my rifle-barrel in the hope that it might do some execution if it came to actual
hostilities. Of course it was only a bluff to make them think that your guns were really
loaded with ball cartridge, and it worked just that way. Of course, when it broke against
his leg, and he felt the ink running down—"
"What are you talking about?" said Jem, impatiently; "and what is this little rubber cap,
anyhow?"
"All that's left of a brand-new stylographic pen," answered Jack, mournfully.
A MYSTERY.
BY CLARA LOUISE ANGEL.
I know of a dry little, sly little man
Who comes o'er our threshold whenever he
can;
Though little, he cares for the sunshine and
light;
He haunts our big library when it is night.
BY EMMA J. GRAY.
"It fell upon a day in the balmy month of May" that the M. S. D's went for an out-of-door
frolic.
Who were the M. S. D's? Merry Sons and Daughters. The society had been incorporated
the year before; there were no dues, no president, secretary, treasurer, or by-laws; there
was but one qualification—being merry. No long faces among the members of that
society; no boys or girls who always want things done their way. No, that style of person
was not eligible, nor selfish folks, or any other kind of disagreeable people.
The M. S. D's were stanch, true-hearted, and sunny, their greatest joy being forgetfulness
of self. They were always merry because they were always happy; and they were always
happy because they trod evil underfoot, and thought out great thoughts white and
godlike, thoughts that shone with the clear and steady light that reflected good-will on
all.
Therefore, when the society went for a day's fun it was the gayest of roving, a complete
El Dorado of enjoyment; and an outing in the blithesome month of May to them meant a
full and happy one.
For some reason the usual parties had been omitted this year, and therefore none of the
girls had been crowned Queen, and none of the boys had paid their respects to the
Court.
So when they reached the "happy independence grounds," as the boys dubbed them,
because everybody was to do as they pleased when they got there, it was most amusing
that each one seemed to have the same desire to gather handfuls of blossoms, weave
crowns, hunt for four-leaved clover, and listen to bird calls. And thus it was that soon
were gathered blue violets from the meadow, and dandelions, buttercups, and daisies
from among the long waving grass that covered field after field through which these
Merry Sons and Daughters laughingly ran.
And then followed the butterfly hunt; just to see if anybody could really catch one of
these "ne'er-do-weel" fellows. But their fragile painted wings carried them so safe and
rapid that when a hand was almost over the petal tip that held the happy fellow, he
would up and away in the breezy blue, and ride on graciously out of sight, or sometimes,
as through a desire to tempt his pursuer, skim over the clover blossoms, and finally light
again on a bunch of daffadown-dillies, or possibly make a round of all the sweet May
blossoms.
"What the Dandelions said" was then played, which is the old game so familiar to all from
babyhood—that of blowing the soft down of the ripened dandelion to learn "How old am
I?" Blow once, one year old; blow twice, two years, and so on, until all the downy stuff
has gone. The number of times the blows have been given before the down has
altogether disappeared indicates the age.
And then the players ran at utmost speed to the babbling brook, which was a short
distance off; and having first torn the dandelion stems into quarters by splitting the
tubular stem from tip to flower, they laid them in the cool flowing water, and watched
them curl until all were tightly rounded; then shaking off the gathered drops, they firmly
fastened these curls to their hats, together with the bunches of clover, buttercups,
violets, strawberry blossoms, or whatever else fanciful taste dictated.
This pastime was soon followed by the "Daisy Catch." Both
girls and boys stood in a group, with the exception of one girl,
and to her was given a bunch of daisies. There was also a
tree selected as a place of safety, after which the other girls
then counted ten, allowing ten seconds for the count. During
the counting the girl ran wherever she pleased, but the
moment ten was spoken the boys raced after her. The idea
was to "tag" her while the flowers were in her hand. If she
was "tagged," the girl must then throw the daisies, as if they
were a ball, to the boy tagging her. If he caught them, the
game would proceed as before, by reversing the players; but
if he did not catch them, the girl could try over again. The girl
could also demand another chance if, when fearing she would
be tagged, she threw her daisies away and caught them
again before any of the boys did. Whenever the game was
repeated it commenced regularly from the beginning, the
players taking the same position as at the start. On the way
back from the brook everybody's attention was drawn to a
pair of yellow-birds that had braved the yet unsettled
atmosphere, and were building a very pretty home for themselves near the top of a
blackberry bush, when all of a sudden a cat-bird's song was heard, and knowing that he
was very shy, all breathlessly kept quiet. And then how uneasy the little yellow-birds
became! The young people wondered what it all meant; but afterwards they saw both
the yellow-birds fly off for fern down or other soft stuff with which to line their nest, and
this disappearance was evidently what the cat-bird desired, for no sooner had the birds
gone than, quietly and cautiously, and yet rapidly, as if seizing opportunity much after the
manner of other thieves, he approached and stole all the building materials he could
possibly carry from their pretty home.
This sight reminded the boys of a game called "Keep It." It was nothing more nor less
than an echo, and those who knew lightly closed each hand so that the first two fingers
touched the thumb. Then putting one hand on top of the other, and calling through the
column thus made, trumpet fashion, the noise was greatly accelerated, and, "Keep it,
keep it," were the words over and over again repeated in the uncanny peculiar way that
echo repeats sound. The children then ran in various directions, laughingly trying to get
ahead of each other, and discover who could make the clearest and loudest echo.
But the great feature of the day was the boat-race, and this was an impromptu
amusement, for the boys had planned the girls should botanize, tell stories, or anything
that they liked, while they went fishing; and with fishing in mind the boys had many a
secret conclave beforehand, as each one was trying to get all the fishing points possible,
and many and various were the ones received, everybody agreeing, however, that all the
fishermen must understand both shoving and sculling a boat before attempting to fish in
that particular water, as it was winding, narrow, and full of all sorts of rushes, meadow
grasses, and snags in variety, and if rowing was attempted, fishing would be
impracticable. Then, too, there should be a slight wind blowing from the southwest, and
a cloudy sky. So as fishing was the uppermost thought, the boys were sure the weather
would be right when they got there, and therefore came laden with bait, tackle, and
fishing-baskets in abundance, for they had assured their mothers they would bring home
a lot of shining fat fellows for supper. A few, too, of the more skilled had refused to bring
bait, saying, with an important toss of the head, they only fished with flies; and no
sooner had the M. S. D's gotten to their destination than these fishermen ran to the
water to watch the sort and color of flies the fish were mostly jumping for.
So it was a genuine disappointment when, at ten o'clock in the morning, the sun shone
unusually hot and the water was as smooth as a mirror, for not even a perceptible zephyr
was stirring.
Therefore it was that the girls begged the boys not to attempt fishing, that it would be
only a great waste of time, and to further quote their words, "when it gets cooler, as it's
bound to after a while, let's have a boat-race"—for there was a clear space of water
where such could be held.
This was a happy suggestion, and immediately the race was arranged. The girls who did
not care to row were to act as umpires; and a grand stand was selected, which was
nothing more nor less than a massive irregular rock over which a tangle of vines ran
luxuriously, and for canopy there was a wide-branched locust-tree.
There would be three races—one
between the girls, another between the
boys, and the third between the girls and
boys together, and they were to be given
in the order indicated. Two willow-trees
which conspicuously over-hung the
water, and so could not be mistaken,
were selected as the points that would
start and end the race, the prow of the
boat being even with the centre of the
tree-trunk at starting, and the stern of
the boat being even with the centre of
the tree-trunk on closing. Only one
person would be in a boat at a time, and
no person could have a second chance.
As the water was too narrow to allow for
all the boys or all the girls to try at once,
it was decided that two boats only should
row, and then two more, and so on. After
the race was over, the victors would be
obliged to row again, two and two, as at
the first, and so determine the winners.
When the winning girl and the winning
boy were known, they would race together, and thus the champion rower would be
discovered. Whoever was champion was to be rewarded with a wreath of laurel, after the
fashion of the great Roman victors; laurel was not very plentiful in this section, but the
boys were confident that by a run of a mile or so they could find some, and if they
couldn't they would use oak leaves, and tell the hero they were meant for laurel. In any
case, the wreath must be made and at the grand stand before the race opened; at this
stand, also, the coronation would take place.
Providing for the race led to the gathering of numberless flowers, with which the boats
were decorated, and later, as they sped over the water, they seemed a part of a great
picture—over and around them air and clouds, exquisite colorings of matchless reds,
yellows, violets, pinks, and greens, soft reflections of the same in the water and the
distance, and, added to all, the ambition of the rowers and the contending emotions of
those who watched the pretty play. One boat was very simply trimmed. It was carpeted
with mosses and wreathed around with fern leaves; another was so daintily decorated it
seemed as if it was a fairy boat; and yet another style was richly and gayly covered, as
though it was at the disposal of a grandly beautiful queen, and almost, unconsciously we
turned to look if Cleopatra was near. This boat was canopied with apple blossoms; the
branches were held in place between the narrow strip of wood that forms the border of
the lining and the boat herself. But this boat was not among the winners; it was top-
heavy, and therefore too difficult to steer and row. The shades of night were indeed fast
falling when the M. S. D's reached home again. The sunburnt faces, joyous laughter, and
light-hearted confusion of voices told their own story.
DOROTHY'S PROBLEM.
I've only a single quarter left
Of all my allowance, that looked so large
On last pay-day, when dear mamma
Said, "Now, you must neither borrow nor
'charge,'
But keep out of debt, and never forget
That dollars are made of single cents."
I'm sure I've tried, but it's very hard
To keep to the rule of your good intents.
M. E. S.
AN "OLD-FIELD" SCHOOL-GIRL.[1]
BY MARION HARLAND.
CHAPTER IX.
note was brought to Mr. Grigsby at noon of the next day. It was from
Major Duncombe.
"My dear Mr. Grigsby,—As you did not come to my house last night, I
take it for granted that your negro man did not deliver the message
sent to you by Mr. Tayloe, who met him on the road yesterday
evening. I write now to ask you to meet Mr. Tayloe and myself at
half past three o'clock to-day at the school-house, for the discussion
of important and confidential business. As the days are short, may I
suggest that you be punctual to the hour named?
"Yours truly, C. S.
Duncombe."
Mr. Grigsby had not seen the Major in his morning round of the plantation, never omitted
except in very stormy weather. He had made it to-day with a clouded brow and heavy
heart. Dick had affirmed upon his knees, the tears bursting from his frightened eyes, that
he had no idea how "Miss F'lishy" got into the cart, or when, or where. He also declared
that he had not left the vehicle for a minute during the journey. Flea was raving in
delirium. The doctor, summoned at midnight, said that she was on the verge of brain-
fever. Except for the scratches and the wetting, she had apparently sustained no external
injury. Dee was laid up with a violent sick headache. His mother was positive in the belief
that both of the children had "ketched" some anonymous disease somewhere and
somehow.
"It didn't stand to reason [her reason] that the two on 'em would 'a' come down at oncet
in exac'ly the same way unless 'twas somethin' ketchin. Flea mus' 'a' been off her head
when she run away into the woods and got into the cyart while Dick was a-noddin'. That
nigger could sleep 's well a-walkin' 'long as a-lyin' down."
When Mr. Grigsby arrived at the school-house Major Duncombe's buggy was already
there, Nell, his bay mare, standing patiently under an aspen-tree. Her master and Mr.
Tayloe were in the house, the Major in his usual seat on the corner of the desk, the
schoolmaster tramping from side to side of the room. He stopped at the overseer's
entrance, and eyed him frowningly, without speaking. Major Duncombe said "Good-day'"
civilly, but gravely. Something unpleasant was in the air, and Mr. Grigsby was certain it
had to do with him before the Major opened the conversation.
"We asked you to meet us here, Mr. Grigsby, because, as I wrote to you, the matter we
have in hand is confidential. I must request that, whatever may be the outcome of our
talk, the facts of this interview shall remain confidential between us three."
"Your wishes shall be obeyed to the letter, Major Duncombe."
The employer was formal; the hireling was stiff. His conscience was void of offence, and
he would not behave like a man on trial.
"To begin with what you are already aware of," continued the Major, "we have been
annoyed of late by the discovery that a regular system of thieving is going on upon this
plantation. You know, too, how unsuccessful have been our efforts to track the thieves. I
told you yesterday, that besides the depredations in the poultry-yard and the loss of an
occasional sheep or pig from the fields, one of the smoke-houses was entered Thursday
night, and four or five hams stolen. Night before last the laundress carelessly left out in
the garden a quantity of valuable lace and handkerchiefs which had been laid on the
grass to bleach in the sun. In the morning everything was gone, also several linen pillow-
cases and towels from the line in the yard."
"I had not heard of this last robbery," said Mr. Grigsby, when the speaker paused as for a
reply.
The Major's gravity deepened. As he went on he avoided Mr. Grigsby's eye.
"The information was purposely held back for reasons that will appear presently. We
agreed, you may recollect, that the guilty parties were most probably the Fogg family.
Also that they were aided and abetted by some of my negroes who have access to the
keys and are familiar with the habits of the household. My fear now is that the Foggs
have made use of other and more unlikely tools. To speak plainly, Mr. Grigsby, I am afraid
that they have tampered with your second daughter, and that the freedom she has been
allowed in the Greenfield house and grounds has been used by them for their vile and
wicked purposes—"
"Major Duncombe!"
The overseer's lank form was drawn up to full height; his deep-set eyes were alight with
angry and resentful amazement.
"You are surprised and displeased, Mr. Grigsby, and no wonder. This is a most unpleasant
task to me. I like the child. She has the elements of a noble character in her. But I have
positive proof of her intimacy with the Fogg tribe. She stops at the house on her way to
school; she sits upon the porch and chats familiarly with them on summer afternoons.
The elder Fogg woman boasts of her intimacy with your family. Yesterday, after school,
Mr. Tayloe asked your daughter, who had been kept in for insubordination and
impertinence, to bring him a drink of water from the spring. I met Mrs. Fogg going to the
school-house as I was riding by at the same hour, but thought no more of the
circumstance until Mr. Tayloe came home last night and told me a shocking story. He was
sitting at his desk writing, his watch and chain laid upon his silk handkerchief on the desk
beside him, when your daughter, coming up behind him, dashed pail, water and all, over
him, and ran away as fast as she could go to the woods. He gave chase, but could not
overtake her. Returning to the school-house, he found that his watch and chain and his
handkerchief were gone. There seems to be no doubt that your daughter snatched them
when she blinded him for the instant with the water. Her confederate must have been
waiting for her outside."
The overseer's face was gray and rigid. He cleared his throat as he began to speak.
"I must have very strong evidence—direct evidence of my child's guilt before I believe all
this, sir."
Mr. Tayloe spoke for the first time. He addressed the Major, not the last speaker.
"What more does the man want than my word?"
The father wheeled sharply upon him.
"Did you see her throw the water upon you? Did you look to see whether or not the
watch was upon your desk when you started to run after the child? Might not the woman
whom Major Duncombe saw have entered the school-house while you were in the
woods? Major Duncombe, my daughter came home last night raving with fever, scratched
by briers, and covered with swamp mud. She has raved all day of the cruelty and
injustice of her teacher. There's another side to the story, sir"—the hand that held his
cowhide whip went up above his head and came down hard upon the desk—"and as sure
as I am a live man, and there is justice on earth or in heaven, I mean to get at the
bottom of this thing!"
He turned abruptly and stalked to the door. Warm moisture hung upon his sandy
eyelashes and made the lids smart. He could not have uttered another word to save his
life or his child's reputation.
The Major looked perplexedly at his companion, who shrugged his shoulders and pursed
up his mouth disdainfully.
"What else did you expect from him?" he asked, taking no pains to lower his voice.
Mr. Grigsby came back as abruptly as he had left. He had got himself in hand, and spoke
in his usual dry, somewhat harsh voice.
"Major Duncombe, I am at your service as soon as I have your commands. Do you advise
a search of the Fogg premises? As a magistrate, you can make out a warrant and qualify
me to serve it. The son from Norfolk is at his mother's just now. It might be well to make
the search before he gets away. As to my daughter—if there is any doubt as to her ability
to appear as an accomplice, you can satisfy yourself on that head by a visit to my house.
Perhaps a search of my premises might be expedient."
"By no means! It is not to be thought of!" cried the Major, impulsively. "I hope you
understand, Grigsby, how plaguedly disagreeable this whole proceeding is to me—to us. I
am so sick of it that I would not go a step further were I the only party that has been
robbed. As to having the poor little girl up, it is all nonsense. I pledge myself for that."
"Even should her guilt be proved?" Mr. Tayloe jerked in the question, his horse-shoe smile
sinking the roots of his nose into his face. "Would there be law or equity in such a
course?"
"Pooh, pooh!" retorted the Major, impatiently. "We don't put the law upon babies in this
part of the world. Mr. Grigsby, if you will ride along with us as far as my office, we will
make out the necessary papers, and also send for a couple of constables. Dan Fogg is an
ugly customer to handle."
The river mists were unfolding over the landscape as a cool evening crept stealthily upon
the heels of a warm day. They lay low upon the meadows, and sagged over the banks of
the sunken road beyond the school-house. The three men had gained higher ground
where the carriage road was level with the surrounding country, when the eye of the
horseman, who rode behind the gig, was attracted by a gleam of light twinkling across a
wide field. It was like the glimmer of a fire-fly, but his quick wits told him it had no right
to be there. He watched it keenly while it flashed and vanished, always at the same
height from the ground. Hiding on a stone's-throw further, he caught sight of it again. It
was stationary, and he had fixed the location in his mind. He rode up to the side of the
gig.
"Major Duncombe, it is well at this time not to overlook anything suspicious. And a light
in that old cabin over yonder is suspicious. If you please, I will alight when we get nearer,
and go on foot across the fields to see what it means."
"Better pull down a panel of fence, and let us drive into the field," suggested the Major.
"I'll go with you, leaving the horses with Mr. Tayloe."
About a hundred yards from the haunted house they alighted, and approached it
cautiously from the back. The light twinkled at intervals through a crevice at the side of
the chimney. Guiding their course by it, the men trod lightly upon the withered herbage
until they stood at the front and only door. Here all was dark, but by laying their ears
against the door they could detect muffled movements within, as of some one walking
about and dragging something on the floor. The Major knocked loudly with his loaded
whip. All was instantly still.
"Who is in here?" he called. "Open the door! I am Major Duncombe."
No answer.
"Do you hear me?" he said again. "Open the door, or we will break it down."
After another long minute, he whispered in Mr. Grigsby's ear: "Put your shoulder against
it, and when I say, 'Now!' drive it in. Are you ready? Now!"
Under the force of their united strength and weight the crazy door went down as if made
of pasteboard, and with such surprising suddenness that both men fell in with it on the
floor. A man leaped over them as they lay there, and rushed off into the darkness. Mr.
Grigsby was the first to find his feet. He struck a match and held it high to look around
the room.
"There's nobody here!" he said. "That fellow was holding the door, and let it go purposely
to throw us when we threw our weight against it. Ha! here's his lantern."
It was on the floor, and, when lighted, revealed a disorderly heap of stuff collected about
a big carpet-bag, open, and partly packed. Without further ado Mr. Grigsby picked it up
by the corners and emptied it upon the floor. At the very bottom were the missing lace
and handkerchiefs, and, rolled up carefully in a
white silk handkerchief, Mr. Tayloe's watch and
chain. A roll of pillow-cases and towels was near
by. Beyond was a stout sack of oznaburg
containing four hams. A roll of homespun
flannel, a box half full of candles, a bag of corn
and one of oats, with articles of lesser value,
were piled in the corners of the cabin. The
haunted house was the cleverly chosen hiding-
place of the booty collected during several
weeks, perhaps for months.
"I wonder how long this has been going on?"
said the Major, giving a long whistle as he
stared about him. "No need of a search-warrant
now for the Fogg house. They were too smart
to store their plunder there. They are a sharp
set! Not a negro would come within gun-shot of
this place after sunset. Did you get a glimpse of MR. GRIGSBY EMPTIED THE BAG
the rascal who played us such a shabby trick?" UPON THE FLOOR.
"No, sir."
Mr. Grigsby was busy with the lantern that just at that moment went out, leaving them in
total darkness but for the dying daylight that found entrance through the open door.
When the candle in the lantern was rekindled, the blaze made the overseer's face look
ghastly, and his high cheek-bones threw his eyes into shadows. They seemed to have
sunken further back into his head. When he spoke his voice was husky, as if the yellow
fog without had settled there.
"If you will take charge of the watch I'll ram the laces and linen into the bag and carry it
to the gig"—stooping to gather them while he talked. "Then I'll prop up the door for to-
night. The rest of the things can be sent for to-morrow."
After the place was closed he strolled on ahead of the Major and tucked the carpet-bag
under the seat of the gig, making no reply to Mr. Tayloe's impatient queries.
"Have you any other orders for me to-night, Major?" he asked, looming up tall and dark
in the twilight when his employer was in his seat.
"Nothing more, thank you, Grigsby," said the Major's lively, hearty voice. His good humor
was thoroughly restored by the excitement of the adventure. "We may well be satisfied
with our evening's work. And, I say, Grigsby, if there's anything any of us can do for the
little girl, you know how gladly we would do it. Emily will be down in the morning to see
her."
"Thank you, sir."
The reply came back as he was moving toward his horse, and was hardly audible.
"An uncivil cur!" commented Mr. Tayloe, "I wonder that you keep him."
"I might go further and fare a million times worse. It's natural he should be sore and
surly just now. If any man had said one-tenth of one of my girls that I said of that bright
little daughter of his I'd be as savage as a bear."
"I submit that there is some difference between your daughters and his," observed Mr.
Tayloe, dryly. "But what have you found?"
"For one thing, your watch and chain."
The schoolmaster heard the story to the end without interrupting the narrator. Then he
sneered openly.
"I'll wager my head against a turnip that that impudent vixen put the watch there herself.
I'm not sure that she isn't responsible for the laces and handkerchiefs too. Doesn't it
strike you as rather odd that her father should ferret out the stolen goods on this
particular evening?"
"Oh, come, now, Tayloe, that is carrying your detective genius too far! Grigsby is an
honest man if ever there was one. It is more odd that this nest of thieves was not
unearthed before. Grigsby only needed to be put upon the scent. A canny Scot has a
nose like a pointer-dog's if once you wake him up."
The canny Scot was wide awake at this present moment, rolling his horse up in a part of
the road where the banks shut him away from possible observation, he struck a match
and examined more closely a piece of paper he had picked up, unnoticed by the Major, in
the hut. It had lain open, the written side up, in the middle of the floor. At the first glance
he had read nothing but his daughter's name, yet had recognized instantly the lost
report, and instinctively secreted it. The match burned long enough for him to verify his
first impression.
"October 31,
184-.
"Felicia Jean Grigsby: Lessons, usually fair. Conduct—room for improvement! James
Tayloe."
The date was the day before yesterday, when her mother had scolded the girl for
loitering on the way home. He recalled the haste and heat with which Flea had answered,
while confessing that she had lost the report—she could not say where.
How came she to be inside of that locked door? He had vowed to get at the bottom of
this matter. Was he there now?
Flea was worse when her father got home. Her cheeks were purple and glazed with fever,
her eyes wild and sightless. Her head rolled restlessly on the pillow; her fingers picked
tufts of wool from the blanket while she crooned over and over what her mother
described as "outlandish stuff." Her aunt, who had established herself as head nurse, had
learned the lines by heart already:
"It stands beside the weedy way;
Shingles are mossy, walls are gray:
Gnarled apple-branches shade the door,
Wild vines have bound it o'er and o'er.
The sumac whispers, with its tongues of
flame,
'Here once was done a deed without a
name.'"
At the fourth repetition, in her father's hearing, the girl laughed aloud—the hollow,
mirthless peal of madness.
"I made that poem! It's all about the haunted house, you know. Mrs. Fogg says nobody
but just we two dares to go there. She says the devil has been seen there. I say he lives
in the school-house. Eighteen hundred and forty-four into three thousand six hundred
and eighty-eight. Why, father, that's just twice and none over. Now I've got to climb to
the top of the haunted house on a ladder made of noughts, noughts, noughts!"
Her rambling subsided into whispers. She fell to tracing figures and drawing lines upon
the counterpane, her brows knitted, her lips moving fast.
"That is worse than the singing," said Mrs. McLaren, aside, to her brother. "She will work
at that sum for an hour at a time. It is wearing her out. Heaven forgive that teacher!"
The father did not say "Amen."
[to be continued.]
RICK DALE.
BY KIRK MUNROE.
CHAPTER XXV.
Our website is not just a platform for buying books, but a bridge
connecting readers to the timeless values of culture and wisdom. With
an elegant, user-friendly interface and an intelligent search system,
we are committed to providing a quick and convenient shopping
experience. Additionally, our special promotions and home delivery
services ensure that you save time and fully enjoy the joy of reading.
ebookluna.com