Produced by Annie R. McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]
Copyright, 1896, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.
* * * * *
PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, OCTOBER 13, 1896. FIVE CENTS A
COPY.
VOL. XVII.--NO. 885. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.
* * * * *
[Illustration]
THE LOST HOMER.
BY WEBB DONNELL.
"Not back yet, Ned?" The tone hardly indicated that Mrs. Sinclair
expected an affirmative answer. The disappointed look on Ned's face told
its own woful tale.
"No, mother," said Ned, looking out of the window upon the valley
sloping to the Hudson, a quarter of a mile away. "No, he isn't back yet,
and I've given up all hope that he ever will come back."
Ned drummed dismally on the window-pane before he went on. "If Helen
'tossed' Fleetwing a hundred miles out at sea, the pigeon would have
been here before dark that day, for the steamer sailed at noon."
"Yes, one would think so," assented Mrs. Sinclair.
"Now it's the third day," went on the boy at the window, disconsolately.
"Helen either forgot to set the bird free until the steamer was too far
out for him to be able to fly back, or Fleetwing has been shot by a
pot-hunter. When can we hear from Helen, mother?"
"Well, the steamer is due at Queenstown next Friday," said Mrs.
Sinclair, "Then it will be six or seven days before her letter can get
back to us. I guess we will have to wait ten days longer, Neddie; but
I'm just as sorry as I can be about Fleetwing, dear."
"Yes, mother," said Ned, brightening at the sympathy.
"And we'll hope for the best," went on Mrs. Sinclair. "You know,
homing-pigeons have returned to their lofts after weeks of absence. We
won't give up Fleetwing till we hear from Helen, anyway."
"I know that some homers are out a long time from the loft and then get
back all right," said Ned, "but Fleetwing always attends strictly to
business. You know, he came straight home from the World's Fair flight
from Chicago, more than a thousand miles."
Ned Sinclair's hobby--most boys of fifteen have one or more--was
homing-pigeons. He had become interested in the subject through a visit
to a pigeon-loving uncle, who taught him the secrets of caring for
pigeons, homing and training them to make longer and still longer
flights to their loft from far-away points.
Ned's father had built for him a splendid loft in the chamber of the
stable, with a wire-covered "flight" stretching out over the green grass
at the side. Great pains had been taken in stocking the loft to get
only the best "strains" of homers, and the result appeared in the speedy
return of almost every bird that Ned had ever sent away to be liberated.
Very often a bird would be intrusted to a friend going upon a journey,
with a request that it be liberated at a certain hour and place.
Mr. Sinclair, too, had almost always taken a bird or two with him when
he went down to New York city on business, a hundred miles from home. It
had frequently happened that in an hour after being liberated from the
Grand Central Station the swift little homer would trip the
alighting-board at his own loft window, far up the Hudson, and so ring
the little electric bell that in the house announced a pigeon's arrival
home.
Then, later on, Ned had joined a Homing-pigeon Club in a near-by city,
and successively from the two-hundred, the three-hundred, and the
five-hundred mile "stations" his homers had flown home, making excellent
records for speed.
While the record made in the World's Fair flight was not at all
noteworthy for speed, Ned's birds did make the long distance, and
returned to their loft, though thoroughly tired out--something that
could not be said of many Eastern lofts that sent birds to Chicago for
that contest.
A few days before, Ned's sister Helen had started with a party of
friends for a trip through Europe. Ned had proposed that she take one of
his homers a hundred miles out to sea, then send a message back to them
from the steamer. He had selected the most reliable pigeon in the loft,
and had packed it carefully in a light basket. Then he had waited
patiently on the day the steamer sailed from New York for the tinkle of
the little bell that should tell of its return home.
Again and again he visited the loft, thinking the bell might have rung
in his absence from the house, but always to return disappointed. It was
not until Helen's hastily scribbled note from Queenstown arrived that
any clew to the mystery was given.
"Tell Ned," the note ran, "how sorry I am that I could not follow out
his directions about the pigeon. Beth was taken frightfully seasick
before we were down the bay, and I was so anxiously attending to her for
some hours that I entirely forgot about liberating Fleetwing and sending
a message home. When I did have a chance to think about it the steward
said we were two hundred and fifty miles out. Then I didn't know what to
do. I couldn't carry a homing-pigeon all over Europe with me, and I
hesitated about liberating it so far out for fear it might not reach
land, especially as the weather was not very clear. I had to decide
quickly, and so concluded the best thing to do was to set Fleetwing
free, but not to hamper him at all with a message tied to his flight
feathers. I 'tossed' the little fellow from the deck, and he went
straight up into the air, circled a moment, and then flew away
America-ward. I _do_ hope he got home safely."
"That explains it," said Ned. "Probably a thick fog came up, and
Fleetwing lost his way, and got exhausted before he could get to land.
That's the end of _that_ bird," he concluded, dismally.
But Ned was not altogether correct in his conclusions, though a fog did
gather over the sea soon after Fleetwing turned his breast landward, and
the bird did become nearly exhausted before he finally reached the
shore. But reach it he did, after a brave struggle in the air, and then
he did what exhausted homing-pigeons will sometimes do. He alighted at a
strange pigeon-loft in one of the towns above New York city. The sight
of other pigeons, homers like himself, and his own utterly wearied
condition, made him very willing to stop for rest, despite his strongly
rooted homing instinct. Then, as has been the case with many another of
his race, the charms of new comradeship caused him to linger in the new
quarters.
Two mornings later a man entered this loft and caught a half-dozen of
the pigeons, Fleetwing among the number. The man evidently did not keep
homing-pigeons for the love of it, since he did not know his birds by
sight, but took those that came first to hand. He packed the pigeons
carefully in a hamper, carried them out to the street, where a carriage
was in waiting, and was driven to the railway station.
A few hours later, with the hamper of homing-pigeons still beside him,
he went on board a great transatlantic steamship in New York and sailed
for Europe.
Two weeks later, while Ned Sinclair was hunting for a tennis-ball in the
bottom of the hall closet, he heard the pigeon bell ring loud and clear.
He started suddenly.
"What's that?" He said to himself, excitedly. "There's no pigeon out of
the 'flight'!"
He hurried out to the loft, tennis and all else but pigeons banished
wholly from his mind.
In the loft, pecking in a quite-at-home way at a pan of split-pease and
hemp seed was Fleetwing, the lost homer. Ned knew him instantly.
"Where under the sun--" he began, excitedly, but stopped on catching
sight of the bird's wing and tail feathers. They certainly had something
most unusual attached to them.
Ned caught the pigeon and investigated the mystery. The quills of two of
the flight feathers of each wing, and of three of the tail feathers, had
bits of thin oil-silk bound firmly about them, and these were tied with
strong silk threads.
It took but a moment to cut the thread and to unroll the silk from one
of the quills. Within were three small stones, that flashed and sparkled
in the light. The other feathers had similar revelations to make.
Here was an incident quite new to the homing-pigeon fancy. As a rule, it
may be said, homing-pigeons do not go flying about the country for weeks
at a time, finally returning to their own lofts loaded with what even to
the inexpert eye appeared marvellously like diamonds. The stones had not
yet been cut as for setting, but their quality appeared even in their
unfinished state.
It is small wonder that Ned was highly excited over the occurrence. His
delight at the safe return of his favorite homer, that he had given up
for lost, was quite over-balanced by his astonishment at the treasures
he had brought back.
He hurried from the loft to find his father and mother to show them the
stones. Very soon every member of the family was very nearly as excited
over the matter as was Ned.
"If it were a strange homer I should think it might be a case of
attempted smuggling," said Mr. Sinclair, remembering that the most
persistent and ingenious attempts are being made constantly to get
diamonds into the United States without payment of the high import duty,
"but that Fleetwing should become engaged in any such disreputable work
is perfectly inexplicable!" he continued, with a laugh.
"Are you sure it _is_ Fleetwing, Ned?" asked Mrs. Sinclair.
"I'm certain sure of that, mother," said Ned, fingering the pieces of
oil-silk. "I should know him anywhere; but to be perfectly certain about
it, I examined his seamless leg-band, and it has his loft number and my
initials."
As he spoke, smoothing out the pieces of silk in his fingers, Ned
suddenly started, and held one piece up to the light. It had a line of
writing across it that could be deciphered readily.
"Take at once to No. -- L---- Street," the line read.
Mr. Sinclair had already planned to go to New York city on business the
following day. Ho took the stones and the bits of oil-silk with him.
Some hours later an official of the United States Treasury Department
was looking them over most intently. He touched a button beside his
desk, and a messenger appeared.
"Ask Mr. Armstrong to come here a moment," he said.
When the expert appeared, the official handed the stones to him without
a word.
"They are diamonds of exceptionally fine quality," said Mr. Armstrong,
after a moment's examination.
"We shall have to condemn the property, Mr. Sinclair," said the Treasury
official, "as there can be no doubt that an attempt was being made to
smuggle them into the country. In fact, we had already discovered that
homing-pigeons were being used in this way, the birds being carried to
Europe, then brought back and liberated, with their burden of diamonds,
before reaching Quarantine. But how on earth your boy's homer became
pressed into this service," continued the official, "I can't conceive.
He deserves a medal, at any rate," he went on, "for flying straight to
his own loft with the diamonds."
The Treasury official picked up the bits of oil-silk.
"I feel quite hopeful," he said, "that with this clew we may be able to
break up this particular attempt to rob Uncle Sam of his just dues."
Ned was a very interested listener to the story his father had to tell
that night, and an exceedingly interested reader, a little later on, of
a letter that came from the national Treasury Department, enclosing a
handsome sum of money as his share of the value of the diamonds, since
Ned--or Ned's pigeon--stood in the place of the "informer," who is given
a generous share of the value that is thus turned in to the government
through his efforts.
The money made Ned's eyes sparkle. "Here's a pony, a dog-cart, and a
russet-leather harness," he shouted; and then, with a fine realization
of the eternal fitness of things, he rushed off to give Fleetwing an
extra dish of hemp seed.
PET SQUIRRELS.
BY JAMES STEELE.
The five varieties of squirrels that are found in North America are
commonly known as the red squirrel, the gray, the flying, the striped
squirrel or chipmonk, and the fox and black squirrels. These last two
are extremely rare, and are found only in the West. In the Middle and
Eastern States the red squirrel is the most abundant. He is to be seen
almost everywhere in the woods, and his noisy impudent call, which has
earned him the name of _chickaree_, is one of the most familiar sounds
in the woods and trees along the road-side. The larger and shyer gray
squirrel, although still abundant, is not so numerous or so often seen
as the red squirrel, and the flyers are still more rare. The chipmonk
finds his home among the stone walls and along the fences; he has little
value as a pet. The red and gray are easily caught and tamed, but the
flying-squirrel makes the best pet of all.
The red squirrel lives in a hole in the ground, or the hollow of a tree,
and both he and the chipmonk can be caught in an ordinary box-trap
placed upon the ground near their familiar haunts. They are usually easy
victims.
The gray squirrel, who lives in a nest that he builds himself, is much
more wary than the red squirrel or the chipmonk. The trap for him should
be set in his runway on the ground, or in the branches of the tree which
he frequents.
The flying-squirrel lives sometimes, like the chickaree, in a hole in a
dead limb, or he often takes the old abandoned nest of a gray squirrel
for his home, lining it with very much softer material than the former
occupant used. But most frequently he lives in the hollow of some limb.
While he does not really fly, in the time sense of the word, the curious
parachutelike folds of skin extending from the fore to the hind legs
enable him to make very long leaps, sometimes a distance of forty feet
from one tree to another, although this is unusual. He is the brightest
and most interesting of all the squirrels, and when once tamed he makes
the most affectionate and loyal pet.
A good way to catch a flying-squirrel that lives in a hollow
limb--usually an old woodpecker's hole--is to take a stocking, put it
over the hole, and then have some one beat with a stick upon the limb
below. Presently the little fellow will come plunging out, and, of
course, into the stocking, where he can be tied up, carried home, and
emptied, as it were, into the cage.
To tame a squirrel is no easy matter, especially if he is a very old
one. His bite is very severe, but when once tamed he can be handled with
impunity so long as he is not hurt.
To teach a squirrel to become accustomed to handling, however, requires
some patience. Every time he is fed it is well to make a little clucking
sound, or something he will recognize as a friendly call meaning
feeding-time. After having tamed him so that he will eat while you are
watching him, which he will sometimes do in one or two days, get him
accustomed to having your hand around the cage. Then lasso or noose him
around his body with a small cord, and take him out of the cage without
lifting him by the cord. Take care, for he will bite and sink his little
teeth almost through the bone of your finger if he has the chance.
Now take a glove that has been stuffed full of cotton, and stroke him
gently with it. If he attempts to bite, which he is almost certain to
do, give him a little tweak. Repeat this as often as he tries to bite,
and he will soon learn that if he sits still he is all right. Now feed
him from the thick glove. In a surprisingly short time he will give up
all idea of biting, and you can stroke him or pick him up with your
hand, and carry him about in your pocket. He will grow wonderfully
attached to you, and when once tamed thoroughly he will never run away;
although he may pay short visits to his mates, he will return to you.
But pray remember this, that his deadly enemy is the cat.
His cage should be made as much as possible of metal, and kept
scrupulously clean. It should be provided with an exercising wheel, or
treadmill, although when a squirrel is perfectly tame and permitted to
run about he will get all the exercise he needs on his little excursions
about the house or up in the trees.
Never give a squirrel any seasoned cake or soft bread to eat. Nuts,
grains, such as dried corn, and now and then a bit of apple, are enough
for him, and he should always have access to plenty of fresh, clean
water. Do not make the mistake of supposing that when your squirrel has
become on sufficiently good terms with you to be permitted to take
little trips among his old haunts he will forage for himself. When he
once becomes accustomed to being fed he speedily forgets how to find
food for himself in the natural way.
Squirrels are remarkably intelligent, and a whole book might be written
about them and their habits, after the manner in which Mr. Frank
Buckland wrote his celebrated volume about rats. A little incident that
happened to one of my own pet squirrels shows how intelligent they are,
and how appreciative of kindness. A little flyer that was seated on the
window-sill of an upper-story room suddenly disappeared. Thinking he had
gone out upon the roof, I called him in the usual way repeatedly, but no
squirrel came.
I searched for him for some time, and finally concluded that he had
decided to take a vacation. Three days after the little fellow had
disappeared I was sitting with my uncle upon the piazza, when we heard a
scratching noise, which appeared to come from a tin leader or rain pipe
that extended from the roof down the corner of the house to a cistern.
The pipe made a sharp angle at the piazza, and it was from this point
that the sound seemed to come. As soon as we began to talk the sound
stopped, to be repeated the moment we became quiet. I tapped the pipe
gently, and spoke, and the frantic scratching from the inside convinced
me of the truth at once. It was poor little "Chatters"; and now the
question was how to get him out.
At last the plan was suggested of removing a section of the pipe and
lowering a cord, which was done. I shall never forget the sensations I
felt when I lowered that miniature life-line. Presently I felt a tug,
and soon, sure enough, I could feel something climbing up. It was
suggested that it might be a rat, but in a moment a little squirrel's
head appeared, and "Chatters" gave one leap, landed on my shoulder, and
then quickly hid himself in my pocket. If any boy spends his summer in
the country, he will find more pleasure taming these little animals than
cruelly pursuing them with sling-shot or stones, or shooting them with a
rifle for the sake of so-called "sport."
THE REBELS DID NOT RUN.
A CUBAN WAR PICTURE.
BY THOMAS R. DAWLEY, JR.
Darkness turned to the gray of dawn and revealed the hazy outline of the
Cuban camp. An expanse of wood and bush and swamp, dotted here and there
with lofty palms. A labyrinth of winding paths guarded by impenetrable
thickets. Within an open space, far within, scattered with the palm-leaf
tents of the Cuban patriots, smouldered the camp-fires.
[Illustration: A GAUNT PEASANT MOUNTED ON A SHAGGY PONY.]
Maceo had crossed the Trocha! The word spread through the rebel camp,
and the camp bestirred itself. A gaunt peasant, mounted on a shag-headed
pony, brought the news, and it was voiced from mouth to mouth. The gray
fog lifted slowly. Through the dim haze the rebels saw the gaunt peasant
on his shag-headed pony as though fastened there.
Maceo had crossed the Trocha! The camp was impatient to hear the rest.
Nearly two months had passed since the rebel general had gone with his
army down into Pinar del Rio to fulfil his promise of marching from one
end of Cuba to the other. The Spaniards drew a line across a narrow part
of the island, and put their soldiers there, and called it the Trocha.
They said they had Maceo entrapped. He never could pass the Trocha.
The rebels had waited patiently, longingly, for the chief's return.
Morning after morning they had huddled over their fires, or those who
had blankets remained swathed in them until the sun came out and warmed
the steaming earth. Then the rebels foraged. They chewed sugar-cane for
breakfast, and stewed beef and sweet-potatoes for dinner. They begged
cigarettes from their comrades, and there were many who went without.
The Spaniards had not been after them for days, for they had gone off to
hold the Trocha or chase Maceo down in Pinar del Rio.
Occasionally the Havana papers found their way into the camp. They
brought news always discouraging. Maceo was continually fleeing before
the valor of Spanish arms. He would certainly be forced to throw himself
against the Trocha, where disastrous defeat awaited him. Once a battle
was fought, and, according to the papers, Maceo had left six hundred of
their comrades on the field. The camp doubted. A giant mulatto, who had
seen eight years' service in the last war, said the Spaniards lied! They
always lied!
Thus down the labyrinth of winding paths, through wood and bush and
swamp, the rebel camp had waited. And now Maceo had crossed the Trocha!
The peasant brought the news, and the peasant did not lie.
The morning mists rolled up and away. The camp-fires crackled with a new
vigor as their smoke followed the mists. The air was cool and crisp, for
Cuban winters know cold nights and mornings. Ill-clad rebels gathered
around the fires, while others refused to unwind themselves from
tattered blankets captured in the last raid. They looked over the fires
and through the smoke. The gaunt peasant was still there. He was big and
bony. He looked like a giant on the little dingy horse; his bones were
so big, and the horse was so little. And it seemed that his bones swung
on hinges, well oiled. He gesticulated wildly. His arms went up and
down, and his body turned from side to side. A rebel chief, tall and
dignified, with grizzled mustaches, stood by his brown tent and listened
carefully to every word he said.
Maceo had crossed the Trocha! The peasant did not lie. Once more he
threw out his arms wildly. Then he brought both palms down upon the
pommel of his saddle, and straightening his long arms, hunched his
shoulders upon them and rested there. He had finished.
The chief's whistle sounded through the camp. The rebel band was happy.
It had been in the swamp so long. It was impatient. It longed for a
move; anything for a move, and the chief's whistle meant that it was
going to move now.
The sun warmed the earth, and the camp rose. There was a hurrying to and
fro, a sound of cracking twigs and numerous voices. Sorry-looking nags
were pulled away from scattered heaps of cane-top fodder bordering the
camp, over which they had been chewing and dreaming all night.
A mule which did not propose to budge was called a rude name. Cubans are
not violent. They are not addicted to using harsh words. The Cuban
simply tugged at the mule's long halter-rope, called him by his wrong
name, turned and tugged again. The mule was obdurate. A half-naked black
spanked the animal suddenly. The mule relented and stepped quickly
forward, and the Cuban fell headlong. The half-naked black grinned with
a scared expression; another roared. The fallen rebel picked himself up,
and laughed too.
There was a jingling of bridle-bits and a rustling of saddle-gear; a cry
of impatience as a girth broke in the attempt to tighten it. A little
Major yelled an order to a distant subaltern. A Captain demanded his
spurs from an orderly; another his gun. The negro element worked
mechanically and said little.
The last rope was coiled, the last buckle tightened, and the men flung
themselves astride their saddles.
The rebel band was moving.
Two scouts with long machetes at their sides and carbines ready resting
upon their thighs galloped down the path. Others followed. They wound in
and around and through the wooded expanse. The path forked and twined
and forked again, leaving little islands of dense brush and scrubby
trees. The scouts followed these twining paths, each in his own way,
and the rebel band came scurrying on behind.
The many twining paths merged into a grove of guava-trees, and were lost
in the dry matted grass. Out came the scouts from between the islands of
brush. Into the guava grove they spurred their horses, bending here and
dodging there to escape the low branches, and out upon the open they
halted.
A long savanna spread before them. A scout urged his horse out upon the
plain, and he was followed by another. The two galloped to the right and
rose on a ridge overlooking a stretch of country beyond. There they
paused; and as one, bending in his saddle, peered into the distance, the
other shielded his eyes and looked too. Then they wheeled and rode up
and down the ridge. Nothing! Nothing but cane-fields, palm-trees, and a
tall chimney in the distance.
The halted ones advanced. In a reeling, waving line they came sweeping
over the plain. They wheeled to the left and they wheeled to the right,
and as the plain narrowed they wheeled together again, and plunged into
a road through a broad field of cane bearing the marks of repeated
forages.
Led by the tall grizzly chief, the rank and file emerged from the guava
grove and scurried into one long, ragged, irregular column aiming
straight for the road.
The road aimed for the tall chimney.
The grizzly chief could see his advance galloping on ahead, and his rank
and file came swinging on behind. The cane-field changed from green to
brown and black. It had been burned. Beneath the tall chimney could be
discerned rootless walls, charred riblike rafters, and broken sheds
grinning between dark green mango-trees.
Suddenly, where the road seemed to end between the mango-trees and a
gray wall, appeared two horsemen. The gallop of the advance changed to a
walk. It moved cautiously. Two little puffs of smoke and the crack of
distant rifles told that the enemy was there. The rebel band halted, and
the advance-guard came swinging back down the road.
A Lieutenant touched his hat and said, "Orders, my chief?"
"Tell them to spread out and reconnoitre! Maceo has crossed the Trocha,
and we must advance to meet him."
The Lieutenant spurred ahead and met the flying guard. It stopped. The
men looked over their shoulders worriedly as the Lieutenant delivered
his message.
"Maceo has crossed the Trocha." The words were like magic, and the men
turned and urged their horses into the burned field. The charred and
rotten cane broke beneath the horses' hoofs as they made a wide circle,
with the tall chimney for a centre. The horsemen at the end of the road
disappeared.
The rebel band advanced. Again the horsemen appeared at the top of the
road--two, four, six, eight, dozens of them. In rapid succession they
rode out from the gray walls and dark mango-trees. There was another
crack of rifles and puffs of blue smoke.
"Remingtons!" exclaimed the chief, as the advance-guard cautiously
halted in the wide circle which it had mapped out for itself. "A local
guerilla force!" And raising himself in his stirrups, the grizzly chief
turned to his men, and flourishing his long blade, shouted: "Scatter
out! Advance, and let them have it!"
To the sound of thumping hoofs and snapping canes the rank and file of
the rebel band went plunging through the field.
The guerrilleros drew up in one serried rank just where the ground
sloped into the cane-fields. They would meet the on-coming storm. They
knew the rebels would run; they always ran. And they raised their loaded
carbines and fired. As the smoke cleared away they saw a wide circle of
yelling rebels and their horses dashing through the cane. They stuffed
cartridges into their carbines and fired again.
Their shots were answered. They saw the puffs of smoke, they heard the
"ping! ping!" of rebel Winchesters, and they saw the circle growing
smaller as the horses grew larger. It seemed that they were monsters as
they reared above the cane, crushing it down with their heavy hoofs and
breasts. They saw gleaming steel flashing high in the sunlight, and they
heard the rebel cry, "Á la machete!"
"Crack! crack!" rang out the Spanish Remingtons. "Ping! ping!" answered
the rebel Winchesters, and a Spaniard cried, "I'm hurt!" as he swayed
from his saddle. A comrade caught him and swung him back, and the
serried rank could stand it no longer. It gave way--broke and ran.
Helter-skelter by the ruined buildings, through the yard, scampered the
frightened ponies. Down by a gaping broken wall the road commenced
again. With loose rein and unguiding bridle the horses reared and
plunged into one another, jolting the wounded man terribly. His carbine
clanked on the ground, and he knew his only chance was to hang on.
The fleeing Spaniards heard the rebel yells close behind them, and the
"ping! ping!" of their Winchesters. "Tack! tack!" the bullets struck the
gaping corner wall, and a long stretch of road lay before them.
In the distance a church tower, and red tile roofs spread beneath it.
The sunlight glinted upon them as it never had done before, and to the
fleeing Spaniards they seemed as though made of gold and silver. Would
they ever reach the sheltering cover?
And now rang out a fierce, exultant yell. The guerilleros knew that the
rebels had reached the corner wall. They dug their spurs frantically
into their horses' sides as they clung closer to their necks.
Again the rebel cry of victory rang out. But the distance was greater,
and the Spaniards knew that the band was not pursuing.
Maceo had crossed the Trocha! And that was the time the rebels did not
run.
[Illustration]
THE REASON WHY.
Now the football season's here
Our muscles we prepare,
And, 'though perhaps it may seem queer,
We cultivate our hair.
We don't do this, you must well know,
Because we have to, but
We let it sprout and tangle so
Because we have to butt.
IN THE OLD HERRICK HOUSE.[1]
[1] Begun in HARPER'S ROUND TABLE No. 879.
BY ELLEN DOUGLAS DELAND.
CHAPTER VII.
"Come, do hurry up, Elizabeth, and promise," urged Valentine. "The time
is going on, and the aunts will come home and catch us. You must be down
stairs as if nothing had happened when they do come. Of course I know
you are not going to give me away. If I had not thought I could depend
on you pretty well, I should not have come. We were good friends when we
were here before, and, after all, you are my own sister."
"I know, Val, and I want to help you," said Elizabeth, slowly; "but--"
"But what?"
"It does not seem right to deceive Aunt Caroline."
"Oh, what difference does that make? I am sure you used to deceive her
enough when you came to this room all the time and had the Brady girls
here, and everything else. You have changed very much, I think."
"I know I have changed. You see, I am a whole year older, and in a year
you learn lots of things, and I am sure it is not right to deceive any
one."
"I do call it a shame," exclaimed Valentine, walking about the room.
"Here have I come all this distance expecting to find a sister who would
help me, and now you go and turn your back on me. There is no use
expecting anything of a girl. There never was one that was worth
anything but Marjorie. I was going to tell you the whole story, and you
know you like to hear things."
"Oh, I know I do!" cried poor Elizabeth. "I am just crazy to hear. What
shall I do about it? I wish I had some one to advise me."
"Come, Elizabeth--there's a good girl! Don't tell, and I will begin
right away to explain. I know you won't, so I will tell you, anyhow! You
see, the other day at school--"
"Wait, wait, Val!" interrupted Elizabeth. "I must not hear, for if you
once tell me I shall have to keep to it, for it would be a bargain; but
if you don't I can decide later. I am going down stairs to think it
over."
Valentine, left alone, scarcely knew what to think.
"I am in for it now," he said to himself. "Who ever would have thought
of that meek little Elizabeth going back on me? I'm in an awful scrape,
and I have a good mind to run away now, only I might meet Aunt Caroline
on the doorstep, just as the Brady girls did. No, I have got to stick it
out, now that I am here, and perhaps after all Elizabeth will come
around. She is awfully curious to know what it is all about, that is one
thing, and it may bring her to her senses. It is awfully poky up in this
room all alone, and I do wish she would come back."
It was an hour and more before she did. Then the door was quietly
opened, and Elizabeth stood before him.
"Well, you are going to promise now, aren't you?"
"No, Val, I have come to suggest something. If you will come over to one
of the other rooms and hide, I will help you all I can. Aunt Caroline
would not find you if you were in one of the other rooms--the one next
to mine, for instance. Even that does not seem quite right, but it is
better than being here. I have been thinking it over, and I am sure it
is not right to have you here when Aunt Caroline told me never to come
into this room again, and I actually had to go to her desk to steal the
key. Will you come to one of the other rooms?"
"No. It has got to be this room or none. I might just as well go sit in
the parlor as be in any room but this. Great Scott! how the fellows will
laugh!"
"What fellows?"
"Never mind. Do you think I am going to tell you anything, Miss
Spoilsport, Tattletale, and everything else?"
"Oh, Val, I am so sorry! I do want to help you!" Elizabeth was crying
now.
"Oh, don't stand there blubbering! Go down and tell auntie all about it.
How Val came and made you steal the key, and made you open the door, and
made you do everything else. It was all his fault--oh yes!"
"Val, you are hateful!" cried Elizabeth, drying her eyes. "You know I am
not that kind of a girl at all. I am sure I want to help you, and I want
to know dreadfully why you came, but I know if I asked any one but you
whether I ought to have let you into this room, they would say no. Mrs.
Loring would, I know."
"And who is Mrs. Loring?"
"Patsy's mother."
"Oh, Patsy again! Everything is Patsy now. That is the reason you don't
want to help me, because you have got a new friend. Even your own
brother is of no account now."
"That is not a bit true, and you have no right to say it; and I don't
think you are a very good brother to ask me to do what is not right."
"But there is no harm in it, really, Elizabeth! I am not doing the room
any harm, and it can't possibly hurt Aunt Caroline to have me here.
Where is the wrong of it?"
"The key," persisted Elizabeth. "I ought not to have taken the key."
"Oh, nonsense! You got it, and that's all there is about it. You can't
undo what you have done, and now the best thing is to keep quiet about
it and it won't hurt any one. But if you were to go and tell it would
make a terrible fuss, and every one would be upset, and nobody would be
a bit better for it."
There seemed to be some truth in this reasoning. After all, it would be
easy to keep her aunt in ignorance, thought Elizabeth. She would never
do such a thing again; but now that it was done--
Valentine saw that his argument had some effect, and he hastened to
follow it up.
"And I do want to tell you all about it!" he added, craftily.
"Oh, Val," said Elizabeth, hurriedly. "I want to hear about it and I
want to help you. And, after all, it is too late about the room.
I--I--think I'll promise!"
"That you won't tell?"
"That I won't tell."
"Elizabeth, good for you! You're a brick! I knew you would come out all
right. I just knew it."
"But wait! I have not altogether promised. Only almost."
"Oh, it's the same thing. I'm sure of you now!"
And Valentine capered about the room in excitement, until Elizabeth
remembered that it was important that he should not be heard, and warned
him to keep still.
"After all, it is not a secret for always," he said. "In two weeks you
can tell them all about it if you want to. You see I am not binding you
down forever." This with an air of generosity.
"It will be harder to tell then than now," remarked Elizabeth. "But I
must go! I hear some one calling me. I'll tell you for certain when I
come back."
She slipped out of the room, and it was but just in time. Her aunts had
returned, and Miss Herrick wished to see her in the library. She met the
maid who was looking for her on the stairs. The library was directly
under the closed room, and Elizabeth wished that she could again warn
Valentine to be very quiet. He was so careless.
She found her aunt in an unwonted frame of mind. Miss Herrick put her
arm about Elizabeth and drew her to her side.
"I have been hearing very good accounts of my niece," she said. "I met
Mrs. Arnold this afternoon, and she told me that your teacher speaks
very highly of you, Elizabeth."
How this demonstration would have pleased Elizabeth yesterday, or even
this morning! Now she felt like a hypocrite.
"And she is very anxious that I should allow you to take
drawing-lessons." Here Miss Herrick paused and sighed heavily. "And you
wish to yourself, do you not, Elizabeth?"
It had been the dearest wish of Elizabeth's heart since she began
school, but now she felt as if she would be doing wrong if she were to
take advantage of her aunt's kindness.
"I--I don't know," she faltered.
"If that is not human nature," exclaimed Miss Rebecca, who had not
spoken before. "When you were not allowed to draw, nothing could keep a
pencil out of your hand, and now that you are given permission you don't
wish to do it."
"Oh, I do want to, Aunt Rebecca!" cried Elizabeth, recovering herself;
"I want to, dreadfully. Are you really going to let me, Aunt Caroline?"
"I suppose so. Mrs. Arnold put it before me in such a light that I could
not very well refuse. She says she has an excellent teacher, and if you
have so much talent, Elizabeth, it seems wrong not to give my consent.
But it is very hard for me to say yes! You must be a very good girl if I
do."
Elizabeth hid her face in her aunt's shoulder. If she had heard this
earlier she would not have yielded to Valentine's entreaties. It was too
late now. She had allowed him to stay in the locked room, she had almost
promised not to tell. There was a weight like lead on her heart.
"Stand up straight, Elizabeth," said Miss Herrick, her momentary
tenderness passing. "Naturally you cannot understand my repugnance to
the idea of your perfecting yourself in drawing and painting, and it is
not to be expected that you should. It is connected with events which
happened before you were born." Again she paused.
At any other time Elizabeth's curiosity would have been aroused, and her
indignation also, at the fact that there were more mysteries, but now
she paid no heed. If only she were not deceiving her aunt!
"There must be something queer about our family," she thought,
desperately, "that we are all the time hiding something from one
another. I do wish I were one of the Lorings. They never have any
mysteries or secrets, and it is so nice."
Suddenly there was a loud thump overhead. Miss Herrick started and
looked terrified. Elizabeth exclaimed aloud, and then again hid her face
behind her aunt. Even Miss Rebecca seemed stirred from her usual
indifference.
"What was that?" murmured Miss Herrick. "Was it--was it in the room
overhead?"
Miss Rebecca nodded. "It sounded so," she said.
"What can it be?"
They listened, but there was no further sound.
"Shall I go and see, Aunt Caroline?" asked Elizabeth, in a timid voice.
"You, child! Why should you go? If we hear anything more I will send
James. It is very strange."
"Perhaps the cat has been shut up somewhere," suggested Miss Rebecca;
"or probably one of the servants has been in one of the empty rooms
getting something. It does not necessarily follow that it is _that_
room, Caroline. I would not give it another thought."
"True, the box of oranges was put in the upper store-room. You are
right, Rebecca. Strange how my thoughts always fly to the one place when
I hear anything overhead. I suppose it was because we were talking about
the drawing-lessons when it happened."
And she relapsed again into thought.
"So the locked room has something to do with Aunt Caroline not liking to
have me learn to draw," said Elizabeth to herself. "I thought so. But,
oh dear, it will never do for Val to make so much noise! I must go and
tell him."
She slipped away very soon, and after going to her own room crept down
the short flight of stairs and along the passageway to the door of the
mysterious chamber. She found Valentine sitting on the floor, convulsed
with laughter.
"Did you hear me?" he asked, in a stage whisper. "I haven't dared to
move since. I upset a chair. Giminy! it scared me to death! And I
expected the whole family to march in the door the very next minute.
Didn't you hear me at all?"
"Hear you! I should think we did. It was a very narrow escape, and I
have come to tell you that you must be more careful. You had better not
stir at all, for we are in the library, right underneath. And oh, Val, I
do feel so guilty! Aunt Caroline is so kind, and says I can take
drawing-lessons, and here I am deceiving her! I suppose you would not
let me off now?"
"Well, I should like to see myself letting you off now! No, sir. You
have just the same as promised, and that is the end of it."
Elizabeth sighed deeply and was about to leave him, but he detained her.
"I say, Elizabeth, what about dinner? I'm awfully hungry."
"Hungry again? Why, I brought you a lot of things to eat."
"Gee whiz, girl! Do you think I can live for hours on crackers and cake?
Don't you think you can smuggle up some dinner for me?"
"I will try," said Elizabeth, though somewhat doubtfully; "but I don't
see how I am to do it."
"Put some things in a basket, and pretend they are for the Brady girls."
"I have not had anything to do with the Brady girls for ages," returned
Elizabeth, with some contempt. "Not since I ran away."
"Ran away? You ran away? Ho, ho! so you're not so awfully good after
all! What did you run away for?"
"I can't tell you. I can never tell you. And now I must go."
"Well, I like that," said Valentine, as he closed the door behind her;
"she ran away, and isn't going to tell me about it! But I hope she will
remember my dinner."
It was easy enough to remember his dinner, but not so simple a matter to
secure it. Elizabeth was so absorbed in thinking it over that she forgot
to eat anything herself.
"You are not eating a morsel," said Miss Herrick. "This will never do! I
had hoped that going to school and companionship with other children
would keep up your appetite. Don't you feel well?"
"Oh yes, Aunt Caroline, only I am not hungry. Perhaps, if you don't
mind, I could have something to eat later."
It was an inspiration. In this way she could get something for
Valentine. But she was doomed to disappointment.
"I do not approve of eating just before you go to bed," said her aunt.
"Eat now or not at all."
Elizabeth was quite desperate. She must take the chance of finding
something in the pantry. When dinner was over and her aunts had returned
to the library she slipped into the pantry. Unfortunately nothing had
been left there. All that she could find for Valentine were a few more
crackers and some bread. However, it would keep him from starving.
Her brother received them with small thanks, but they were better than
nothing. Then he wanted Elizabeth to stay with him, but this she would
not do.
"I must go down stairs again to say good-night, and then I must go to
bed," she said, firmly.
"Come here instead, and I will tell you the whole story," suggested
Valentine, who had no desire for a lonely evening.
"No, this is the last time I am coming to-night. I--I think, Val, I will
not hear your story at all. If I have deceived Aunt Caroline I have
deceived her, but I am not going to be paid for it. I have been thinking
it over. You are not to tell me. Good-night!"
It was half an hour later, and Valentine had come to the conclusion
that he might as well go to bed himself, when there was a faint tap at
the door. The room was lighted by but one candle--they had thought that
a gas-light might show beneath the door, and attract attention--and the
place was so gloomy and mysterious that when the knock came Valentine
was startled in spite of himself.
"It is ghosts, maybe," he muttered. "This room is so queer and uncanny."
The tap was repeated, and he moved cautiously to the door. There stood
Elizabeth, her dark eyes shining in the candle-light, and a deep color
burning in her cheeks. For a moment she said nothing. Valentine was the
first to speak.
"Good for you! So you have come to hear the story. Come in," he
whispered.
"No, I am not coming in. I have only come to tell you that--that--"
"What?"
An awful dread seized Valentine's heart.
"That I cannot give that promise. I am going down now. I have been
thinking and thinking, and I know it isn't right to deceive, and I don't
want to hide anything. There is too much hiding in our family. I am
going down now to tell Aunt Caroline you are here."
Valentine did not speak. She could scarcely see his face, for it was in
shadow, but somehow it frightened her.
"Oh, Val, say something! I am so sorry, but I must. Will you ever
forgive me?"
"No. You have the same as broken your promise."
He closed the door, and she turned and ran down stairs. Her aunts were
sitting as she had left them. Miss Herrick was writing notes at the
desk, while her sister read by the lamp on the table. The shelves which
lined the walls were filled with books, and the engravings and etchings
which hung above added to the sombre aspect of the room. It was
absolutely still except for the scratching of Miss Herrick's pen, and
for a moment or two Elizabeth stood there in the silence unnoticed.
"Aunt Caroline," she said at last.
It was in such a weak voice that no one heard her.
"Aunt Caroline!" she repeated.
"Yes," said Miss Herrick; but still her pen travelled swiftly across the
page. It was provoking to be interrupted.
"Aunt Caroline!" said Elizabeth for the third time.
"What is it, Elizabeth?" said her aunt, at last laying down her pen. "I
hear you, and I have answered. Don't stand there repeating my name like
a parrot. Why are you not in bed?"
"Because I have something to tell you. I could not go to bed. I--I have
something to tell you."
"So it appears. Suppose you tell me now, instead of this endless
repetition. Come, I have no time to waste."
"Aunt Caroline," said Elizabeth, drawing nearer, and standing with her
hands clasped behind her back, as she did when she had anything of
importance to say, "Val is here."
"Val? What Val? What do you mean?"
"My brother Val."
"Is here? Oh no! you are mistaken, Elizabeth. Let me feel your hands.
You ate no dinner, and you are feverish. Your eyes are very staring.
Rebecca, do you suppose the child is delirious, or is she walking in her
sleep?"
"I am not either, Aunt Caroline. I am not de--that long word, and I am
wide awake. Val is here. He came this afternoon, and he is up in the
locked room."
Miss Herrick rose to her feet, and even Miss Rebecca dropped her book.
"She is certainly ill. Rebecca, ring the bell for James to go for the
doctor."
[Illustration: "I TELL YOU I AM NOT ILL, AUNT CAROLINE," CRIED
ELIZABETH.]
"I tell you I am not ill, Aunt Caroline," cried Elizabeth. "Val came and
said that he wanted to hide, and that he must hide in that room. I got
the key from your desk--you left your desk unlocked--and I let him into
the room. It was very wrong, Aunt Caroline. I know it was wrong. And I
am so sorry. That is the reason I am telling you, because I ought not to
have done it. If you don't believe that he is here, come and see."
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
A VIRGINIA CAVALIER.
BY MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL.
CHAPTER XVIII.
The next day, the 31st of October, 1753, George set forth on his arduous
mission. He had before him nearly six hundred miles of travelling, much
of it through an unbroken wilderness, where snow and ice and rain and
hail at that season were to be expected. In the conference with the
Governor and his advisers, which lasted until after midnight, George had
been given _carte blanche_ in selecting his escort, which was not to
exceed seven persons, until he reached Logstown, when he could take as
many Indians as he thought wise. He quickly made up his mind as to whom
he wanted. He wished first a person of gentle breeding, as an
interpreter between himself and the French officers. He remembered
Captain Jacob Vanbraam, a Dutch officer, now retired, and living at
Fredericksburg, who might be induced to make the journey. Then there
were Gist and John Davidson. It was thought best, however, to take an
Indian along as interpreter for the Indians, as they might complain, in
case of a misunderstanding, that Davidson had fooled them. In regard to
the other three persons George concluded that it would be well to wait
until he reached Greenway Court, which was directly in the route of his
outward journey, as he would be most likely to find in that vicinity a
person better used to such an expedition than in the lower country.
Armed with full credentials by the Governor, and with a belt around his
body containing a large sum in gold and negotiable bills, George at
daylight took the road he had traversed the night before.