deep dust at the side of the road. It suddenly rolled over on itself and I called to the boys to watch the fun. We got off, hitched our horses, and approached cautiously, for I had seen a battle of the same kind before. There they were—five huge, hairy, dirty, black creatures, as large as the palm of Dicky’s hand, all locked in deadly combat. They writhed and struggled and embraced, their long, curling legs fastening on each other with a sound that was actually like the cracking of bones. It takes a little courage to stand and watch such a proceeding, for you feel as if the hideous fellows might turn and jump for you; but they were doubtless absorbed in their own battle, and we wanted to see the affair to the end, so we took the risk, if there was any. At last they showed signs of weariness, but we prodded them up with our riding-whips, preferring that they should kill each other, rather than do the thing ourselves. Finally, four of them lay in the dust, doubled up and harmless, slain, I suppose, by their own poison. One, the conquering hero, remained, and we dexterously scooped him into a tomato-can that Jack had tied to his saddle for a drinking-cup, covered him up with a handkerchief, and drew lots as to who should carry him home to Dr. Paul.
Knowing that the little beasts were gregarious, we hunted about for a nest, which we might send to you after ousting its disagreeable occupant. After much searching, we found a group of them—quite a tarantula village, in fact. Their wonderful little houses are closed on the outside by a circular, many-webbed mesh, two or three inches across, and this web betrays the spider’s den to the person who knows the tricks of the trade. Directly underneath it you come upon the tiny circular trap-door, which you will notice in the nest we send with these letters. You will see how wonderfully it is made, with its silken weaving inside, and its bits of bark and leaves outside; and I know you will admire the hinge, which the tarantula must have invented, and which is as pretty a bit of workmanship as the most accomplished mechanic could turn out. We tore away the web and the door from one of the nests, and then poured water down the hole. The spider was at home, came out as fact as his clumsy legs would carry him, and clutched the end of the stick Jack held out to him. Then we tumbled him into the tomato-can just as he appeared to be making for us. The two didn’t agree at all. One of them despatched the other on the way home—the same hero who had killed the other four; but, on hearing his bloody record, Aunt Truth refused to have him about the camp; so we gave him an alcohol bath, and you shall see his lordship when you come. As Dr. Paul says, they have been known to clear fourteen feet at a jump, perhaps you will feel happier to know that he is in alcohol, though their bite is not necessarily fatal if it is rightly cared for.
The girls have been patronising the landscape by naming every peak, valley, grove, and stream in the vicinity; and as there is nobody to object, the names may hold.
We carry about with us a collection of strong, flat stakes, which have various names painted on them in neat black letters. Jack likes that kind of work, and spends most of his time at it; for now that Dr. Paul has bought a hundred acres up here, we are all greatly interested in its improvement.
Geoff has named the mountain Pico Negro, as I told you, and the little cañon on its side is called the Giant’s Yawn. Then we have—
Mirror Pool,
The Lone Stump,
Field of the Cloth-of-Gold,
Cosy Nook,
The Imp’s Wash-Bowl,
Dunce-Cap Hill,
The Saint’s Rest, and
Il Penseroso Fall (in honour of Dicky, who was nearly drowned there).
If anybody fails to call these localities by their proper names he has to pay a fine of five cents, which goes towards beautifying the place. Dr. Paul has had to pay two fines for Bell, three for Aunt Truth, and seven for Dicky; so he considers it an ill-judged arrangement.
Our encampment is supposed to be in the Forest of Arden, and Jack has begun nailing verses of poetry on the trees, like a second Orlando, save that they are not love-poems at all, but appropriate quotations from Wordsworth or Bryant. And this brings me to our thrilling rendition of the play ‘As You Like It,’ last evening; but it is deserving of more than the passing notice which I can give it here.
One thing, however, I must tell you, as the girls will not write it of themselves—that, although Bell carried off first honours and fairly captivated the actors as well as the audience, all three of them looked bewitching and acted with the greatest spirit, much better than we fellows did.
Of course we didn’t give the entire play, and we had to ‘double up’ on some of the characters in the most ridiculous fashion; but the Burtons helped out wonderfully, Scott playing Oliver, and Laura doing Audrey. They were so delighted with the camp that Aunt Truth has invited them to come again on Saturday and stay a week.
At the risk of being called conceited I will also state that we boys consider that the stage management was a triumph of inventive art; we worked like beavers for two days, and the results were marvellous, ‘if I do say so as shouldn’t.’
Just consider we were ‘six miles from a lemon,’ as Sydney Smith would say, and yet we transformed all out of doors, first into an elegant interior, and then into a conventional stage forest.
A great deal of work is available for other performances, and so we do not regret it a bit; we propose doing ‘As You Like It’ again when you are down here, and meanwhile we give diversified entertainments which Jack calls variety shows, but which in reality are very chaste and elegant occasions.
The other night we had a minstrel show, wearing masks of black cambric, with red mouths painted on them; you should have seen us, all in a dusky semicircle, seated on boards supported by nail-kegs: it was a scene better imagined than described. This is certainly the ideal way to live in summer-time, and we should be perfectly happy and content if you could only shake off your troublesome cough and come to share our pleasure. We feel incomplete without you; and no matter how large our party may grow as the summer progresses, there will always be a vacant niche that none can fill save the dear little Saint who is always enshrined therein by all her loyal worshippers, and by none more reverently than her friend,
Philip S. Noble.
III. The Knight of the Spectacles Takes the Quill
This paper is writ unto her most Royal Highness, our beloved Gold Elsie, Queen of our thoughts and Empress of all hearts.
You must know, most noble Lady, that one who is your next of kin and high in the royal favour has laid upon us a most difficult and embarrassing task.
In our capacity as Director of the Court Games, we humbly suggested the subjects for the weekly bulletin which your Highness commanded to be written; but, alas, with indifferent success; for the Courtiers growled and the Ladies-in-waiting howled at the topics given them for consideration.
On soliciting our own subjects from the Privy Councillor and Knight of the Brush, Lord John Howard, he revengefully ordered me to ‘edify’ your Majesty with wise utterances; as if such poor, rude words as mine could please the ear that should only listen to the singing of birds, the babbling of brooks, or the silvery tongue of genius!
When may your devoted subjects hope to see their gracious Sovereign again in their midst?
The court is fast drifting into dangerous informalities of conduct. The Princess Bell-Pepper partakes of the odoriferous
