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weathercocks. They stood with gable end to the street, and to the door of each was attached a knocker combining the ornamental and the useful, as it was usually formed of some strangely devised animal head. Some few buildings were of yellow and black brick, placed so as to form fantastic designs, and having fixed to them figures of iron that chronicled the date of their erection. Some few, too, were of stone, but they were rare indeed, and witnessed to the dwelling-place of wealthy townsmen.
It was at the Feast of Candlemas, in the year 1653, that Governor Stuyvesant proclaimed the new city. But with the stubbornness, the belief in the justice of his measures, the absolute determination to be governor in fact as well as in name that marked him, he would not follow the directions of the Dutch West India Company under whom he held office. He refused to permit the people to elect their officers, and simplified matters very much by appointing them himself. After he had appointed them he told them as briefly as might be, and with a force that could not be misunderstood, that though they held office it would be well for them to understand that his own power as governor was not thereby one whit lessened. He explained that he would preside at all their meetings and advise them in all matters, both great and small. So, although the city got its charter, it was a boss rule from the start, a precedent from which New York was to suffer many and many a time thereafter, often struggling in the grasp of far less capable and honest men than Peter Stuyvesant.–From “Story of the Birth of New York,” by Charles Hemstreet, in “The Churchman,” May 2, 1903.
We belong to a nation of "great readers." We devour popular novels with an unfailing appetite and a literary range which extends from the known to the unknown and does not necessarily discriminate greatly between Mrs. Ward and Bertha M. Clay.
We are fast becoming an out-of-doors people. Not only our heroines and heroes of fiction but our “real folks” sigh continually for “the open.” Nature, to many of us, is a deity to be approached with bared head, thick shoes, and rolled-up sleeves; to be propitiated with golf clubs and fishing rods; to be entertained with athletic sports of varying kinds and degrees; and in return for our devotion she bestows on us a hearty appetite for beeksteak, and lends increased zest to a soothing pipe in hours of meditation or stupor.
We are a practical people, much inclined to believe that there are few things in heaven or earth which cannot be reduced to a scientific formula.
Yet outside this world of superficiality and robustness and “common sense," there is another universe whose meanings no formulas can ever express, whose bounds can never be measured by sea or star or space, a world of immortalities that differs from the other as "the consecration and the poet's dream” differ from the multiplication table, and it is as true of this world as of the other that "to him that hath shall be given.”—Mrs. Martha Baker Dunn, in the May “Atlantic."
OVERWORRY NOT OVERWORK. One of Many Reasons Why College Girls Need Stimulus of
Athletics. College girls sometimes break down. So do society butterflies, and wage-workers, and hundreds of other girls who have not the wisdom or experience to establish a just relation between their physical incomes and outgoes. But it is overworry much oftener than overwork that sends the college girl or her non-collegiate sister into nervous prostration. Just here is the saving grace of athletics, that sugar-coated ounce of prevention that prevents the bitter pound of cure. In the rush and whirl of some exercise that uses every muscle and requires each instant the judgment of an alert mind, there is no room for the little blue demon of worry that eats into the foundations of health; the perplexing problem is forgotten; the player gains her poise and takes up the next task with a freshened brain.
The physical benefits of judicious athletics are almost axiomatic. But they are not all. In the education of girls the incidental lessons of college contests are not to be despised—the value of patient work for an uncertain end, the sweetness of effort for the class, the grateful weariness of victory, and the pleasure of a just reward.-From Alice Katharine Fallows's “Athletics for College Girls,” in the May “Century."
THE BROAD JUMPER. Go at It Systematically to Get the Best Results. Every schoolboy thinks that he can broad-jump, and so he can to a certain degree. But this event is one which should be gone at systematically to get the best results. The jumper should first carefully notice his stride on going up to the take-off, so that he
can mark off a distance (say 25 yards back), and by stepping on this mark with one of his feet as he runs by he will be sure to strike the take-off when he comes to it. The jumper cannot be sure of getting his best efforts into his jump unless he is practically sure of hitting the take-off. After this has been acquired, the athlete can get to work.
In this run the jumper's highest speed should be reached at about 10 or 12 feet before the take-off, so that he can gather himself for the jump. After leaving the take-off he should shoot out and up. He must have elevation or his efforts will be in vain. He should go into the air at an angle of at least 45 degrees. A good way to get this elevation is by placing a hurdle in the jumping-pit and jumping over it. The jumper should gather himself together as he goes through the air, and at the finish, just before alighting, he should force himself on by a spasmodic effort with his arms and body. The legs should also be held forward so that they will strike the ground at the farthest possible distance. Practice will show how far out the feet can be thrown without the athlete's falling back into the pit. It must be remembered that the greater the speed the farther out the feet can be thrown with safety. A great deal of practice is necessary to become a good broad jumper, but this is an event which it is not well to practise too frequently, as it is very hard on the legs. The broad jumper will therefore not expect to get at his best during the first season.—From G. W. Orton's "Training for Interscholastic Athletics," in May “St. Nicholas."
THE IDEAL NURSE. ' A nurse generally arrives in time of crisis, the patient is turned over to her, the family draw a long breath of comfort and relief, confide in her amazingly, question her about the doctor, the treatment, the patient's condition, her experience in similar cases, and unhesitatingly make her privy to their most personal affairs. ...
Besides possessing unblemished courage and professional skill, a nurse should be prepared to sweep, keep a room in order, arrange flowers, read aloud, write notes, unobtrusively quiet such family jars as might affect her patient. She must understand what to do herself, what should be left to servants, remembering that this will vary in every household. She must be quick to see when her presence is necessary, when she is in the way. She can allow herself no personal habits as to bed or board, no private existence or amusement while at a case, and when the patient is safely through the exciting period of illness, she has to settle down with good grace to the tedium of convalescence, never resenting the inevitable withdrawal of intimacy as the family resume a normal habit of life, and no longer make her the recipient of every thought and emotion.-Mary Ross, in the May “Atlantic."
CHILDREN WERE CHEAP. In a Scotch church an old minister, who was very deaf, was very anxious to introduce some new hymn books into the church, and asked his precentor to give out the notice immediately after the sermon. The precentor, having a notice of his own, gave cut that members of the congregation wishing to have their children baptized were to send their names into the vestry. The old minister, thinking that it was the notice about the hymn books, stood up, and said :
“And I wish to say, for the benefit of those who have not any, that they may be had in the vestry any afternoon, between the hours of 3 and 4. Ordinary little ones at a shilling each, and special little ones, with red backs, at one and three.”
"Don't you go an' git sorry fer yerself. That's one thing I can't stand in nobody. There's always lots of other folks you kin be sorry fer 'stid of yerself. Ain't you proud you ain't got a harelip? Why, that one thought is enough to keep me from ever gittin' sorry fer myself.”-From “Lovey Mary," "The Century."
PROCTOR'S ATTRACTIONS. Notwithstanding the fact that spring is rapidly turning to summer, the quality and quantity of the attractions at Mr. Proctor's various houses have not changed, nor will they change in the general excellence that has become characteristic of the various companies. Many sterling comedies have been negotiated for the summer season, and among these several that have not been produced in this country as yet. In the vaudeville field many big novelties and feature acts have been engaged for the summer season. Mr. Proctor's New York City houses are now undergoing alterations whereby they will be the coolest theatres in town when the hot season comes.
The forthcoming revival of "On the Wabash,” at Proctor's Fifth Avenue Theatre, promises to be a notable one, alike as to its cast and in the elaborateness of the stage settings. It will be interesting, also, as bringing back to Broadway this very popular play by
Joseph Arthur, who in this piece forsook the exciting field of melodrama for the quieter walks of rural comedy.
One of the best known aspirants for stellar honors in the theatrical world this season is Miss Lottie Williams, a comedienne who has achieved fame from Maine to California in a variety of parts from “Little Eva” to “Juliet." The vehicle for which she is the magnet this season is a new sensational comedy drama entitled "Only a Shop Girl," from the pen of Marie Wellesley Sterling, author of “On the Suwanee River," etc. The play deals with life as we know it to-day, among the masses employed in the big department stores of the larger cities, and the trials and temptations of our young people of the present generation who are subjected to the wiles and pitfalls of New York City.
HE NEVER SPOKE AGAIN.
The following story is told of a ventriloquist, now famous, but at the time of this happening so hard up he used to walk between cities where he was to appear. On one of these tours he came to Philadelphia on foot, and on the road he picked up a miserable little dog “because it looked so much like he felt.” The story will explain what became of the dog.
The first house he came to was a saloon, and, of course, he wanted a drink. He had no money, but went in anyway to see what he could do. The proprietor, a German, said:
"Well, what will you have?"
He said: “I'll take a little whisky," and then, turning to the dog, he asked :
“What will you have?"
The German was so surprised he almost fainted. He looked at the dog a moment, and then asked:
"What did you say?"
Hans thought it wonderful that a dog should be able to talk, and asked who had trained him, how long it had taken, etc., and wound up with:
“How much you take for him?”.
"Oh,” said Mr. Ventriloquist, “I wouldn't sell him at any price, but I am a little hard up now, and if you will lend me $50 I'll leave him with you till I bring the money."