Harper's Round Table, August 20, 1895 Part 7

A large cla.s.s of plants are beggars and thieves. This is a hard thing to say of them, but, what would you call them when they press their roots into the bark of other plants and suck their sap, which is the same to the plant as life-blood? Why can't they dig in the soil for themselves?

Some of these plants wear fine clothes, and look innocent enough. There is the beautiful yellow fox-glove. Many times I have seen it, tall and showy on hill-sides and in woods. But they were root-parasites, that is, fastened by their roots on the roots of other plants, sucking juices dishonestly. The delicate purple gerardia sometimes does the same thing.

So, you see, appearances are deceptive, and in plants, as well as people, you cannot always tell character from the outside.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE PUDDING STICK]

This Department is conducted in the interest of Girls and Young Women, and the Editor will be pleased to answer any question on the subject so far as possible. Correspondents should address Editor.

It does not surprise me to find a number of bright girls asking for directions about the entrance to the difficult road of authorship. It is quite common for young people to think that nothing on earth can be so delightful as to write songs and stories, and have them published for the world to read. The fact, dear girls, that many of you overlook, is that no trade or profession or business is ever learned without time, study, and effort--what I might call the serving of an apprenticeship.

Very few authors succeed at the beginning, although there is a contrary impression. Even those who seem at once to achieve eminence have really been getting ready for their work all their lives. You can see what I mean if you will read Miss Alcott's _Life and Letters_, or Mrs.

Burnett's story of _The One I Knew the Best of All_, or, better than either, a charming little essay by Robert Louis Stevenson, in which he describes the books he read as a boy, and the pains he took to cultivate a good and clear style.

It is perfectly right for any reader of the ROUND TABLE to wish to become an author. In days to come the youthful Knights and Ladies for whom Kirk Munroe, Ellen Douglas Deland, W. J. Henderson, Captain Charles King, and your friend of the Pudding Stick are now writing, will be grown men and women, and some of them will be furnishing the literature of the next generation. I cannot say too strongly to all my correspondents, who are interested in this subject, be patient, be fearless, be thorough. Do not be in haste to send some busy editor the story which you have just written. Never send anything to an editor until you have written it four or five times over, and are satisfied that it is the very best thing that you can do, and that it is expressed in the briefest possible compa.s.s. A very good school for aspiring young authors is found in the beautiful little amateur papers which many young people publish for circulation among their friends. The several school and college literary papers are also excellent fields for beginners in journalism. Among the rising authors of the day I know a half-dozen whose first laurels were gained in school and college magazines.

I would like to suggest that some of you who belong to Round Table Chapters should try the plan of having a little paper in connection with your Chapter. You could easily appoint one member of the Chapter the editor, then different girls and boys could furnish contributions. In every neighborhood there are a great many interesting things happening from day to day, so that your local column might be very spicy and entertaining. You could give your paper an attractive name, and should any of the members possess a typewriter you could have as many copies made each week as you have subscribers. Perhaps somebody among your friends has a little hand-press on which the little paper could be printed. Subscribers would be willing to pay two or three cents for a number of the paper, and thus you could have a little fund over expenses for the charities of the Chapter. Wouldn't that be charming? I cannot enter into all the little details of such an enterprise, but if any of you shall adopt this suggestion I hope to hear all about it, and to know whether you think that it pays. I once knew a family in which a little home paper was kept up for years, each brother and sister in turn acting as editor, and different members of the household copying out the matter. They had a serial story, which ran on in the most exciting way for a long time, and on Sat.u.r.day evenings father, mother, children, and friends always a.s.sembled to read and listen to the new number. This paper was called _The Busy Bee_.

A few sentences ago I said, let me know if you think it pays. Speaking of payment, do not make the mistake of supposing that I princ.i.p.ally mean payment in dollars and cents. The money one earns by writing is the smallest part of the pleasure it gives. Several girls inquire of me what price they ought to put on their poems and stories, and what sort of letter they should send with a contribution when addressing an editor.

All that is really necessary in the case is to write your full name and post-office address plainly at the top of your opening page, in the right-hand corner. In brackets at the other side you may, if you choose, write "offered at usual rates." Be sure always to write only on one side of your paper, to send a folded and never a rolled ma.n.u.script, to have it typewritten, if you can; if not, to have your writing very legible, and to send an envelope addressed to yourself, and enough stamps to pay return postage should your ma.n.u.script be declined. The stamps may be loose, or may be attached to the envelope, as you prefer. As a rule the first contributions of young people are worth very little money, and it is not good form to set a price on what you write unless you are an author of a.s.sured reputation. You must remember that publishers pay for work according to its market value, just as we pay for sugar and soap, and calico and note-paper, chairs, and tables, or anything else we buy.

When you go to a shop you always try to get good value for the money you give in return for goods. It is the same with articles and poems which are offered to the press. Hundreds and thousands of people are writing, and you must expect to face difficulties and have a struggle before you find your place, even if you are very well prepared for it.

I would like the Chapters of the ROUND TABLE which have paid me the honor of naming themselves for me to write me a letter through their secretaries. I have a reason for asking this favor. I would also like to receive copies of amateur papers, published by young people who read the ROUND TABLE.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Signature]

ON BOARD THE ARK.

BY ALBERT LEE.

CHAPTER III.

Tommy often wondered afterwards why it was that he did not feel frightened when he found himself so close to this great congress of wild animals. But at the time he did not feel in the least alarmed, and he and the ex-Pirate sat together for some time under the oak planning as to what they had better do. Perhaps Tommy felt no fear, because all the animals seemed to be on such good terms with one another, and so gave evidence that they would not harm any one else. The little boy noticed the Lion and the Lamb lying down together; the Fox was playing tag with the Geese ("Fox and Geese, I suppose," thought Tommy); the Red Wolf was strolling about, arm in arm, with a bearded Goat and his kids; and half a dozen Mice were having all sorts of fun with an old Tom Cat who wanted to sleep.

"I guess the only thing for us to do," remarked the ex-Pirate at last, "is to just walk over and go aboard. There's no use sitting here any longer. We have not any umbrellas, and it is liable to begin to rain at any moment. Let's try our luck."

"Perhaps it would be best for us to walk around to the other side,"

suggested Tommy. "There doesn't seem to be so many animals there."

His companion approved of this, and they started off together, making a circuit which soon brought them to the other side of the huge house-boat. There were scarcely any beasts in sight, and so they boldly approached the great craft which towered high up above their heads. When they had come quite close, the ex-Pirate's keen eye caught sight of a small port-hole near the stern, and after calling Tommy's attention to it they decided to try to get in that way. The port-hole was very narrow, and it was with the greatest difficulty that the two managed to squeeze through. But they succeeded, nevertheless, and found themselves in a sort of dark chamber where there was a ladder that led to the upper regions of the Ark.

"We're all right now," said the ex-Pirate. "Do you think this will be too much for you?"

"What?" asked Tommy, who did not quite understand.

"The ladder."

"Not a bit. Why?"

"It's more than you."

"How do you mean?" asked the little boy, now somewhat puzzled.

"You are a lad, aren't you?" said the ex-Pirate.

"Yes."

"Well, this is a ladder."

There was not anything that Tommy could very well answer to any such statement; but then he had long since given up any idea of following the peculiar arguments and reasonings of the ex-Pirate. Yet in order to show him that, even if the ladder was more than he, he was certainly equal to climbing it, he seized the rungs and clambered up. It ended at a trap-door which, when lifted, opened into a very large room that appeared to occupy the entire length of the Ark.

"Aha!" exclaimed the ex-Pirate. "This is where they have the boxing-matches."

"Will they have any?" asked Tommy, eagerly, and his eyes opened very wide.

"I don't know," returned the ex-Pirate, "but this is the spar-deck."

"How did you get here?" suddenly asked a familiar voice from behind them, which so startled Tommy that he almost stepped into the open trap.

When he looked around he saw, to his great joy, that it was the Sheep.

"Oh, we just came," answered the ex-Pirate, quickly. "Things come and things go, you know."

"Yes, I've heard that before," interrupted the Sheep. "But if Noah catches you, he'll put you ash.o.r.e."

"But we don't want to go ash.o.r.e," said Tommy, who at seeing his old friend the Sheep had entirely recovered from his momentary alarm.

"Well, I'm very busy now," continued the latter, "and the animals will be coming in pretty soon. If you want to see them, you had better go up to the other end of the Ark and sit on a rafter over the entrance. But don't let the Bull see you. He's in a mighty bad humor. Good-by," and the Sheep trotted off and disappeared almost as suddenly as he had come.

"Guess we'd better do that," said the ex-Pirate, meditatively. "We don't want to get put out." So they walked to the other end of the big room, being very careful to make as little noise as possible, and when they came to the large arched entrance with the heavy bolted doors the ex-Pirate helped Tommy climb up a post, and the two slid out on a rafter, from which they could obtain a first-rate view of anything that might happen. Just below where they sat, and directly opposite them, was a window with a small counter in front of it and the words "Ticket Office" painted over it. Below the counter, nearer the floor, was another window, only smaller--"for the little animals, I suppose,"

thought Tommy. When their eyes had become accustomed to the semi-obscurity of their surroundings they found that they were not the only occupants of balcony seats. A few feet away from them sat a Gopher.

He wore a pink sun-bonnet, and looked somewhat timidly at the intruders.

As soon as the ex-Pirate saw him, he said: "What are you doing up here?

Why aren't you outside?"

[Ill.u.s.tration: "WHAT ARE YOU DOING UP HERE? WHY AREN'T YOU OUTSIDE?"]

"Lost my ticket," answered the Gopher, timorously.

"Lost your ticket?" repeated the ex-Pirate.

"Yes, sir," continued the little animal, meekly. "Not exactly lost it. I put it in my mouth, and forgot, and swallowed it. I've got it inside."

"Oh," said the ex-Pirate. "Well, you'll get it back as soon as we start."

"Please may I stay?" asked the Gopher.