[Illustration]
YOUTH
VOLUME 1 NUMBER 5
1902
JULY
An ILLUSTRATED MONTHLY JOURNAL for BOYS & GIRLS
The Penn Publishing Company Philadelphia
CONTENTS FOR JULY
FRONTISPIECE (Independence Hall) PAGE
THE DOUBLE PERIL George H. Coomer 157
LITTLE POLLY PRENTISS (Serial) Elizabeth Lincoln Gould 161
THE FENCE MAN Mrs. F. M. Howard 166
WITH WASHINGTON AT VALLEY FORGE (Serial) W. Bert Foster 170
Illustrated by F. A. Carter
MIDSUMMER DAYS Julia McNair Wright 179
Illustrated by Nina G. Barlow
A DAUGHTER OF THE FOREST (Serial) Evelyn Raymond 181
FOURTH OF JULY W. F. Fox 187
WOOD-FOLK TALK J. Allison Atwood 188
WITH THE EDITOR 190
EVENT AND COMMENT 191
OUT OF DOORS 192
IN-DOORS (Parlor Magic, Paper V) Ellis Stanyon 193
THE OLD TRUNK (Puzzles) 195
WITH THE PUBLISHER 196
* * * * *
YOUTH
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Copyright 1902 by The Penn Publishing Company.
[Illustration: INDEPENDENCE HALL]
YOUTH
VOL. I JULY 1902 No. 5
THE DOUBLE PERIL
By George H. Coomer
“Nonsense,” said Uncle Hayward; “how people do like to be scared! If a
real Bengal tiger had made his escape anywhere within twenty miles of
here, the whole country would have been up in arms before this time.
I’ve no faith in the story.”
“Well, they are not quite sure of it,” replied the neighbor who had
given the information, “but they think so. The steamer was sunk and
some of the animals were drowned, but it is believed that the big tiger
escaped in the darkness and got ashore.”
“What sort of a show was it?” inquired uncle; “a large menagerie?”
“No, I believe not,” was the answer; “only a few animals that some
company had hired for the season--a tiger, a jaguar, a pair of
leopards, and a few monkeys--that’s what they tell me. The steamer had
a heavy cargo, and went down very suddenly.”
“And they think the tiger made for the woods, eh?” said uncle. “When
did it happen, do you say?”
“Night before last--about five miles down the river. ’Twas a small
steamer going up to Macon. There was no one lost, I hear.”
“Well,” remarked uncle, “a Bengal tiger would be an interesting
neighbor, that’s certain; and I don’t believe he would be long in
making his presence known. However, such stories generally require a
good deal of allowance. As likely as not, there was no tiger aboard of
the steamer, after all.”
“Oh, I reckon there was,” said the neighbor; “but then, of course, we
can’t tell; people like excitement, and when such a rumor gets started
it grows very fast.”
“Yes, that’s true; we shall have a whole menagerie ashore here before
night. When I was a boy, in Maine, there was a story that a lion and an
elephant had made their escape from somebody’s show and taken to the
woods. And, dear me! it spread like the scarlet fever! The children ran
all the way to school and all the way back; and the big girls actually
cried in the entry, they were so frightened. Some of the mischievous
boys would make ‘elephant tracks’ in the road, and this added to
the panic. But we never could hear of any showman who had lost such
animals, and all on a sudden the thing came to nothing. I guess the
tiger story will end in the same way.”
“Why, father,” said Cousin Harold, the fourteen-year-old boy of the
family, “I don’t see why it isn’t likely enough to be true. I almost
hope there is something in it, though I shouldn’t want him to be
killing people’s cattle and things. Just think of it--a big Bengal
tiger, and right here in Georgia, too! How I should like to have a
chance at him with my gun!”
“Why, Harold,” said his mother, “how you talk. If I believed such a
creature to be anywhere in the neighborhood, I’d shut you up in the
smoke-house rather that let you go into the woods.”
“What, and make bacon of a poor fellow?” replied the young lad, gayly.
Uncle Hayward and his family were New England people, who had settled
in Georgia near the Ocmulgee River, where I was now paying them a
really delightful visit. Harold and myself, being very fond of hunting,
spent much time together in pursuit of the various kinds of game to be
found in the region. Many an old “mammy” and many an “Uncle Remus” was
made the happier by the gift of some fat ’coon or juicy ’possum which
we brought down from the tall timber.
Inspired as we were with all the enthusiasm of young sportsmen, the
thought of an escaped tiger had a pleasing excitement for us. We
were, therefore, a little disappointed when another of our neighbors,
stopping for a few minutes as he passed the house, made very light of
the rumor, saying it was only a foolish story to frighten people.
“A tiger would soon make ugly work among the cattle,” he remarked, “and
it would be no joking matter to have one about the neighborhood.”
“That’s true,” replied Uncle Hayward. “I don’t know, though,” he added,
“but I’d risk my big Jersey with him. I’m thinking ’twould be about
‘which and t’other’ between the two, as the saying is.”
Harold and I could subscribe to this opinion very heartily, for it was
not more than a week since that dangerous old Jersey had chased us out
of his pasture, bellowing at our heels as we ran. Nevertheless, he was
a noble fellow to look upon--just as handsome as a horned creature
could be. What a thick, strong neck he had, what a broad, curled front,
and what shapely flanks! Most of the time he spent browsing in the
large pasture some little distance from the house, and it required a
good measure of courage upon the part of the trespasser to cross this
area.
No wonder, then, that Harold and myself made a wide detour, when, half
an hour later, armed with our shotguns, we set out for the woods beyond
the Jersey’s domain. But it is needless to say that our minds were more
taken up with the thought of the tiger than with the fear of our former
enemy. It was just possible that a great, stealthy, tawny shape might
be prowling through the very timber in which we were; and I will not
deny that it required little in the way of sight or sound to set our
hearts beating faster than usual on that day.
After killing a wild-cat, a raccoon, and a number of large fox
squirrels, we turned our steps homeward, not at all sorry to have
made no startling discovery in confirmation of the rumor which had so
interested us in the morning. The truth was, that the deeper we were in
the woods the less pleasure we found in calling up the image of that
escaped tiger!
We were just nearing the Hayward plantation, Harold with the wild-cat
slung over his shoulder and I with the ’coon upon mine, when on a
sudden our attention was arrested by a strange, long-drawn noise, like
the cry of some large animal. It resembled the call of a great cat, but
was deeper and more thrilling than any cat-note that we had ever heard.
I need not say that it startled us; and when, in a few moments, it was
repeated, with the addition of a sort of scream, we looked at each
other with blanched faces: when, clutching our guns more firmly, we
started into a run. I think we had never realized till then that two
boys of fourteen, armed only with light shotguns, could be no match for
a royal tiger, just escaped from his cage and hungry for prey.
Pray, dear reader, do not condemn us hastily, for you would have run,
too.
Our course took us directly across the pasture where the big Jersey had
his range. He was lying down for the time, and we almost stumbled over
him. Springing up and lowering his sharp horns, he took after us with a
kind of yelling roar that bespoke anything but a friendly intention.
We dropped our game and bounded on like a couple of young greyhounds:
but we were far out from the nearest fence, and saw that he must soon
overtake us with his mad, thundering rush. Right ahead of us stood a
scrub oak, with branches near the ground, and into this we sprang just
in time to avoid those terrible horns which would have tossed us like
wisps of straw.
He was so close upon us that it was impossible to secure our guns,
and we dropped them at the foot of the tree, where they fell rattling
between two small rocks, which fortunately protected them from his
trampling hoofs.
Then he besieged us in true form, walking all about our fortress, with
a hoarse, frightful bellowing that sometimes grew to a shriek, and
tearing up the earth with his horns till his whole body was coated with
turf.
“Well,” said Harold, “we are safe enough in this tree, but who wants to
be kept here all night? He is so apt to roar that, even if father or
any of the work folks should hear him, they might not come to see what
the matter was. Besides, it’s a long distance to the house, and the
hill yonder is right in the way.”
So we remained watching our savage jailer, quite forgetting for the
moment the sounds we had just heard from the woods. How long would the
old fellow continue to bellow and fling up the dirt? I was asking some
such question when my cousin uttered a quick exclamation.
“Oh, see! look yonder!” he cried; “there’s the tiger now!”
I looked where he pointed, and my heart gave a thump that was almost
suffocating.
There, creeping close to the ground, was a powerful yellow shape,
marked with jet-black stripes. The ears were flattened, and the long
tail, reaching straight out on a level with the body, had a wavy motion
that I distinctly remember to this hour. Warily, silently, and just
upon the point of making a spring for his victim, the fearful creature
was stealing upon the unsuspicious bull.
Though half paralyzed by the scene, we still retained some presence of
mind. Perhaps a shout might delay the attack, and we gave one with all
the power of our throats.
The monster seemed to hesitate, raising his head a little, as he
crouched in his tracks, and at that moment the old Jersey discovered
him.
In an instant a change came over the scene. Tossing his head in a kind
of fierce surprise, the horned brute faced his foe; then, dropping his
sharp bayonets to a lower level, he plunged toward the intruder.
Evidently the tiger was unprepared for this, but with remarkable
quickness he seemed to take in the situation. Without an instant’s
hesitation, he bounded over to a large boulder which lay near by, and
with the greatest agility leaped lightly to its top, where he stood
regarding the Jersey with wide-open jaws.
“Now’s the time,” said Harold, excitedly; “we must hurry and get our
guns.” And down we went hustling through the thick limbs of the oak.
It was our first impulse to fire at the tiger from the ground where we
stood, but, as the bull kept directly in the way, it was evident that
this would not answer; and, besides, our very terror restrained us; it
might be easier to fire than to kill.
Getting back into the tree with our guns, both of which contained heavy
charges of buckshot, we quickly posted ourselves so as to improve the
first opening for a fair aim. The tiger still crouched upon his rock
of refuge, roaring close in the face of his enemy, yet hesitating to
spring upon him; while the strong-necked old Jersey shook his curly
head and fairly screamed at the yellow brute he was not quite able to
reach.
A bull’s voice in a rage is a strange mixture of frightful sounds, even
more so than a tiger’s.
We had our guns leveled, watching our opportunity. Presently the
striped terror sprang up from his crouching posture, raising himself
threateningly upon his hind feet, with his tawny breast fully exposed.
Since then I have often seen an angry tiger rear himself in the same
way against the bars of his cage. There could not have been a fairer
mark for us, and both our guns spoke at once with a “bang!”
Through the smoke we saw the great brute tip fairly over and fall upon
his back. Then, convulsively, he bounded straight up from the rock two
or three times, and at last, plunging forward, landed directly upon the
bull’s horns.
[Illustration: HIS HORNS PIERCED THE TAWNY SIDE]
The next moment, heavy as he was, he was hurled ten feet in the air,
and when he fell it was only to be tossed again. A dozen or twenty
times he was thus thrown aloft, although after the first minute he was
evidently as dead as he ever could be.
After this the old Jersey appeared to enjoy much in pitching him along
the ground to a considerable distance, following up the body as it
fell, and sending it on before him as if it had weighed no more than a
dead cat.
We were glad to witness this performance, as it occupied the old
fellow’s whole attention, and so gave us an opportunity to slip away
unnoticed, which we very quickly did.
No grass grew under our feet as we ran over the high ground between us
and the house, which, as the plantation was quite large, was nearly a
mile distant.
With scarcely breath enough to relate our story, we told it, to
the astonishment of Harold’s parents, whose thankfulness for our
escape, when they had learned how narrow that escape had been, was
inexpressible.
It required a considerable force of men and boys to recover the body
of the slain tiger in face of the bull’s threatening demonstrations;
but it was nevertheless secured and brought home. It was then found,
upon examination, that our charges of buckshot had undoubtedly done the
business for the fierce brute, so that he must have been nearly dead
when caught upon those stout horns.
“A tiger in the State of Georgia,” said Uncle Hayward; “a true Bengal
tiger! Well, I must own that I was wrong; I thought this morning it was
only a silly story. Boys, you and the bull have done a great thing for
the community!”
“But, oh, the peril!” said Harold’s mother: “suppose we had known it at
the moment! It was a double danger.”
“Yes, mother,” replied Harold; “it was double, but it was that very
thing which saved us. If we hadn’t waked up the Jersey, the tiger would
have had us very soon.”
LITTLE POLLY PRENTISS
By ELIZABETH LINCOLN GOULD
CHAPTER XIII
POLLY AND THE MINISTER
SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS.
Polly Prentiss is an orphan who, for the greater part of her life, has
lived with a distant relative, Mrs. Manser, the mistress of Manser
Farm. Miss Hetty Pomeroy, a maiden lady of middle age, has, ever since
the death of her favorite niece, been on the lookout for a little
girl whom she might adopt. She is attracted by Polly’s appearance and
quaint manners, and finally decides to take her home and keep her for
a month’s trial. In the foregoing chapters, Polly has arrived at her
new home, and the great difference between the way of living at Pomeroy
Oaks and her past life affords her much food for wonderment.
Sunday was usually a hard day for Polly. In the first place there were
good clothes to be put on and taken care of, and then there was sitting
still in church! Sitting still was the most difficult thing in the
world for Polly.
“In the Manser pew I could wriggle, because it was ’way back and nobody
downstairs saw me, but I guess I’ve got to behave just like grown folks
to-day,” said Polly, anxiously, as she put on the brown cashmere frock
Sunday morning. “But if I listen to the minister most of the time, and
think about Eleanor when I get tired listening, perhaps I can do it.”
It was not so hard after all, for the minister had a pleasant, boyish
face, and he used simple language, which Polly could understand.
Besides that, his sermon was short--the shortest one Polly had ever
heard; she wondered if by any chance the minister could know about
those yellow cakes he was to have for dessert, and felt in a hurry to
taste them. Miss Pomeroy had seen him the day before.
“He looks as if he liked to eat good things,” thought Polly, as the
minister read the closing hymn, “and Miss Pomeroy may have told him
there was citron in them. His cheeks are as red as mine were--redder
than mine are to-day.”
This was comforting, and, moreover, it was true. Polly had been out of
doors very little for the last week, and, besides that, although she
was not unhappy, the thought of Eleanor was continually before her,
and the fear of falling below an unknown standard made her anxious and
troubled many times in the day. So the roses in Polly’s cheeks did not
bloom as brightly as they had at Manser Farm, and the little girl was
greatly encouraged.
During the service she could not turn around to see her old friends
up in the dimly lighted gallery, and when the benediction had been
pronounced Miss Pomeroy said she and Polly would sit quietly in the pew
until the minister came out. The little girl looked disturbed, and Miss
Pomeroy laid her hand on Polly’s with a smile.
“You needn’t be afraid of the minister, my dear,” she said, kindly, “he
likes children, and has two little sisters at home.”
Polly smiled faintly in return. When the minister came, and they had
all walked slowly down the aisle together, there was no sign of the
Manser wagon, but Polly was sure she could hear it way up the road; it
had a peculiar rattle, not to be mistaken for any other. The little
girl had a sober face as she climbed up into the seat beside Hiram,
with the minister’s help.
“I’m grateful I’ve got you instead of the preacher,” said Hiram, facing
straight ahead, as soon as Miss Pomeroy and the minister were fairly
launched in conversation. “I’ve always been to church, and I’m a
member, but I’m scared of speaking to ’em; it don’t make any difference
whether they’re young or old. What’s the matter, honey? Don’t you tell
me without you’re a mind to.”
“I thought perhaps I’d see the Manser Farm folks,” said Polly. “I
thought maybe Uncle Blodgett would want to wait, and Aunty Peebles. I
don’t know as Mrs. Ramsdell came if her rheumatism was bad.”
“She was there,” said Hiram, quietly, “I know ’em all by sight, and
once in awhile I have a little talk with Mr. Manser when we’re taking
the horses out of the sheds. But to-day Mrs. Manser hurried him up, and
hustled the three old folks into the wagon as if something was after
her. I shouldn’t have dared to offer Mis’ Ramsdell anything unless
I’d wanted it bit in halves, when she got in,” said Hiram, with a low
chuckle. “She spoke her mind good and free, too: I don’t recall ever
hearing any one speak freer. She was all for waiting to see you.”
“Then I think Mrs. Manser was real mean,” said Polly, with flushed
cheeks. “I don’t suppose she meant to be, but I think she was!”
Hiram reached out his big brown hand and gave Polly’s fingers a
sympathetic squeeze.
“I expect we are about as naughty as we can be, both of us,” he said,
softly, “but I take real comfort in it once in a while. That Manser
woman’s no favorite of mine, nor ever was. I can’t abide her.”
“She took care of me for seven years,” said Polly, with a spasm of
loyalty, forgetting how little of the care had really come on Mrs.
Manser’s shoulders, “and I do try to love her.”
“Love don’t always come by trying,” said Hiram, tranquilly, “but I
suppose it’s no harm to give it a fair chance. And as for those old
folks of yours, you shall see ’em next Sunday, if I have to tole Mr.
Manser down behind the sheds and keep him there.”
Then Hiram puckered his lips and softly whistled “Duke Street” all the
rest of the way to Pomeroy Oaks, while Polly sat beside him, much
cheered and comforted.
Dinner was an exciting meal to the little girl. It was the first time,
as she told Arctura afterward, that Polly had even seen a minister
eat. This minister not only ate with great heartiness, but he talked a
good deal and frequently smiled across the table at her, and he had a
jolly laugh. Polly was glad of that for more than one reason. Arctura
had covered the scratch on her nose with a long, broad strip of black
court-plaster, and this decoration made her naturally prominent feature
more noticeable than ever. She carried her head very high, and bore
the dishes in and out with a stately tread, but her eyes twinkled so
when she looked at Polly that the little girl had much ado to keep a
straight face.
When the dessert came, Polly held her breath while the minister ate
his first mouthful of a yellow cake; he had chosen it instead of one
of Arctura’s “snowflakes.” Miss Pomeroy had tasted one the day before
and pronounced it delicious. The minister ate every crumb, and when the
plate was passed to him a second time, he laughed boyishly.
“These are almost too good,” he said. “I should like to compliment the
cook.”
Miss Pomeroy smiled at Polly.
“My little guest made them,” said she.
“Dear me,” said the minister, heartily. “I shall have to tell my
sisters about this when I go home. One of them must be just about
Mary’s age; she is eight years old.”
“Oh, but I’m going on eleven,” said Polly, eagerly, “only I’m small for
my age, sir.”
“Indeed, that’s very surprising,” and the minister smiled most
cordially at the little cook. Polly was perfectly delighted when Miss
Pomeroy suggested that instead of a nap she might take a walk with the
minister and show him the grounds. Miss Pomeroy was to drive him back
to Deacon Talcott’s house late in the afternoon.
“I will take my nap as usual, Mary, if you think you can look after Mr.
Endicott,” she had said, and the minister and Polly exchanged a glance
of much confidence and friendliness.
They walked about, hand in hand, and there was no doubt that Polly
entertained the minister.
“Miss Pomeroy tells me she hopes you will stay with her for always,”
the minister said, as they stood together looking down at the brook in
a place where it tinkled over some stones. Polly gave a little cry of
delight and squeezed the minister’s hand.
“Oh, did she say it that way?” she asked, earnestly.
“Why, yes,” said the young man, smiling down at her, “didn’t you know
it?”
“She’s a beautiful, kind lady,” said Polly, shaking her brown curls
till they danced, “and I do truly love her, but she’s so tall and quiet
I shouldn’t like to ask her questions all the time, and I have to ask
her a good many--about my clothes and ever so many other things. Now
if it was you, I shouldn’t be a bit afraid, because your eyes look so
young and happy,” said the little girl, frankly. “Miss Pomeroy has sad
eyes, and I’m always afraid I’ll make them sadder. Don’t you see?”
“I think I do,” said the minister, gently, “but I am sure you will help
Miss Pomeroy’s eyes, and not hurt them, by talking freely to her.”
“Yes, sir,” said Polly, doubtfully. “Do your little sisters like to
read, Mr. Endicott? I am reading a book called ‘Seesame and Lilies,’ by
Mr. Ruskin.”
“Phew!” said the minister. “That’s a fine book, Mary, but I should say
it was a little old for you. Who chose it--Miss Pomeroy?”
“No, sir, I chose it myself,” said Polly, proudly, “off the shelf where
all the little books are, under the window. Miss Pomeroy said I could
choose.”
“When we go in the house,” said the minister, as they started on
together, swinging hands, “I’ll show you a book to read; I saw it on
one of the shelves. It’s a big book, but the stories are short. If I
were in your place, Mary, I’d read one of them to-morrow. My little
sisters love them all.”
So it came about that when Miss Pomeroy and the minister drove away
they left on the piazza a little girl whose heart was almost gay, for
the book the minister had chosen, and which Miss Pomeroy had told Polly
she might keep in her own room, was full of delightful pictures, and
on the cover was printed in gold letters. “Wonder Stories, by Hans
Christian Andersen.”
“And mind you try to remember them just as you do the sermon on
Sunday,” the minister had said, as he parted from Polly, “for they
are sure to give you happy thoughts.” And Polly, running to Arctura,
who was seated on the south porch in a chair that rocked with a loud
squeak, cried joyfully:
“Oh, Miss Arctura, the minister has chosen a book for me, one that his
sisters love! And I’m not going to read another word in ‘Seesame and
Lilies’ till I’m most grown up! For Miss Pomeroy said ’twas a wise
thought and an inper--impterposition of Providence!”
CHAPTER XIV
IN THE WOODS
Polly’s worry about being satisfactory to Miss Pomeroy had departed
with the minister’s words, down by the brook, but as she lay in bed
the next morning, listening to the birds out in a big elm tree, the
branches of which came near one of her windows, she had some sober
thoughts.
“The reason Miss Pomeroy is going to adopt me,” said Polly, to herself,
“is because she thinks I’m like Eleanor. I’m not like her, inside,
of course, but I’m trying to be. Now, don’t you be a selfish girl,
Polly Prentiss. You’ve got a beautiful home with a lovely, kind lady,
that does things for you all the time, and Miss Arctura and Mr. Hiram
besides, just as good as they can be, and the kittens to play with,
and Daisy out in her stall, and you can go off into the woods this
afternoon, and take the book that the minister’s sisters love, and
perhaps they’ll let you go again some other day.
“And all you’ve got to do,” said Polly, severely, to herself, “is to
stop wanting to run outdoors morning, noon, and night, and wanting to
play with a doll, and wishing somebody’d call you Polly, and not mind
having to eat so much, or lying down on this bed that gets so hot in
the afternoon, and stop being lonesome for the folks at Manser Farm,
and learn how to mend your clothes. I guess that’s about all, and it
isn’t much for a girl that’s going on eleven.”
Polly had a delightful time that afternoon. Arctura had taken in the
snow-white clothes from the line, and informed the little girl that she
had no intention of ironing that day, and would make an excursion into
the woods with her.
“I’ve got a crick in my back,” Miss Green announced, when Polly
descended from her hour on the bed, “and what I need is to get right
down close to nature. I’ll take my old gray shawl and pick me out a
good place to sit in the sun, and I’ll knit on Hiram’s socks while you
run around and see what you can see. Perhaps you can get up a bouquet
to fetch home to Miss Hetty, who knows? And when you feel so minded you
can sit on the shawl alongside of me, and read me out a story, maybe.
It’s a pity Miss Hetty can’t be with us, but she’s no hand to walk; she
hasn’t been overly strong for ten years back, though she can do all
that’s required.”
Polly felt disloyal to Miss Pomeroy, because it was a relief to know
Arctura would be her only companion. Her little heart was full of
affectionate gratitude, but the tall mistress of the house inspired
a good deal of awe as well, while with Arctura Polly had a sense of
comradeship, in spite of the difference in years, and was not afraid to
chatter like a magpie.
By three o’clock the pair were deep in the woods, and Arctura was
enthroned on her gray shawl, spread on a rock that stood like a table
in an open space between giant pines. She had four knitting-needles
and a ball of flaming red yarn in her hands, and looked the picture of
contentment.
“Now,” she said, drawing out a big silver watch from the front of her
gown, and placing it beside her on the shawl, “it’s only a few minutes
past three. You lay your book down here and don’t let me see you again
for an hour, or as near that as you can judge by your feelings. Don’t
stray so far you can’t get back. I’ll holler once in awhile so’s to
keep track of you, but you caper round and see what you find.”
Polly trotted off obediently, and found all sorts of treasures. If she
had not been obliged to respond to Arctura’s loud “Ma-a-a-ry!” three or
four times, it would have seemed to the little girl that she was all
alone in a new world, for the pine grove was unlike the woods through
which Polly had wandered in that far-away time when she lived at Manser
Farm. Those were birches and scrubby oaks, with an occasional hemlock,
and you had to look out for slippery tree-roots, and scratching
underbrush, and boggy places. But this wood had a soft brown carpet
of needles, and a border of beautiful ferns, and here and there were
little cones, and clumps of stems that had belonged to “Dutchman’s
pipes.”
In a little while there would be “wake-robins” and “Solomon’s seal,”
and many other wild wood flowers. Polly saw the first signs of a
venturesome “lady’s slipper.” She gathered long trails of Princess pine
and looped them around her waist, and she picked some of the prettiest
ferns to take home to Miss Pomeroy. There were several cleared places,
like the one which held Arctura’s throne. Polly named one the library
and another the parlor, and in still another there were some stones
which made her think of pillows.
“So I shall name that the bedroom,” she said to Arctura when the call
“Ti-i-i-mes up!” had brought her running back, “and this I think we’d
better call the dining room, don’t you?”
“Seems a sensible name to me,” said Miss Green, approvingly. “Now
suppose you read me out a story. I just looked into your book while you
were off, and here’s one that my eye lit on; suppose we have that.”
The story was “The Ugly Duckling,” and the words were so easy that
Polly read on and on, scarcely ever having to stop for Arctura’s help.
When she had finished it, she drew a long breath and shut the book.
“Isn’t it a beautiful, interesting story, Miss Arctura?” she asked,
eagerly, and her friend nodded with great vigor before she spoke.
“It’s what I call fair,” said Arctura, with decision, “and that’s what
I like in real life or in a story. And that’s why I expect that the
poor folks that get hurt and slammed around and put upon in this world
are going to have crowns of gold and harps of silver and songs of
everlasting praise and joy in the next one; or whatever those things
stand for, to ’em. We’ll have another of those stories next time we
come out a pleasuring together, won’t we?”
Polly assented with joy, and all through the talk that followed, while
she told of her morning’s trip to the village, those delightful words
“next time” rang out their lovely promise in Polly’s happy ears.
She and Arctura walked home arm in arm, although that meant that Polly
had to stretch up, and Miss Green to reach down, but the path was broad
enough for two, and they sang “Marching Through Georgia,” and stepped
gayly along to the brisk measures.
“Slow walking, except for those that have infirmities and are obliged,”
said Arctura, “is a trial of the flesh and spirit, or it might be, if
it ain’t,” and little Polly, with more color in her cheeks than had
been there for days, looked joyfully up at her.
“Oh, Miss Arctura,” she said, fervently, “you do have such splendid
ideas!”
“Don’t try to flatter an old lady of fifty-four, child,” said Miss
Green, shaking her ball of yarn at Polly with pretended severity.
“You turn your mind on those clouds; see how the wind’s backing round
through the north? I can smell the east,” and she sniffed with her nose
well in the air. “We’re in for rain to-morrow, I do believe. It’ll be
just the day for you to write that letter you’re going to send with
the candy, and there’s a number of matters you can help me about, and
if you’ve got any mending to do maybe we’ll find time to sit down
together, and I’ll relate that story about the Square and me.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Polly, as they marched up the driveway, “and I’ve
got to practice with Mr. Hiram, you know. I expect it will be a grand
day!”
[TO BE CONTINUED]
* * * * *
Think not of far-off duties,
But of duties which are near;
And, having once begun to work,
Resolve to persevere.
--Anonymous.
The Fence Man
By Mrs. F. M. Howard
“Mamma, what is the great, high fence for?” asked a childish voice. “Is
the man afraid we’s will go into his yard?”
“I do not know, dear. It was there before we came.”
“Maybe he thinks we’ll steal his cherries.” Horace straightened
himself, scornfully.
“Huh, I guess we can buy our cherries if we want any,” said Rodney,
with flashing eyes.
“Perhaps other boys have not thought so,” interposed the mother’s
gentle voice; “and since the fence was there before we came, and so
cannot have any possible reference to us, we will not harbor ill will
against our neighbor because of it.”
“Young-ones,” muttered a surly voice on the other side of the high
board fence. “Just my luck to have a pack of young-ones unloaded on me.
Just one degree worse than the widder’s long tongue, I’ll venture. I’m
glad the fence is good and high, and I’ll put a row of pickets on top
of it if they go to climbing.”
Old Mr. Harding dropped down on a garden seat, wiping the moisture from
his heated brow with a warlike bandana. He had been putting out late
tomato plants, and his back ached; possibly his heart ached, too, for
he was old and lonely. He could have told to a mathematical nicety,
had he had the mind to do so, just why the ugly board fence divided
him from his neighbor, of the quarrel between himself and the fiery
widow, who owned the cottage where the children had come to live, over
a boundary line, the matter of a foot or less of ground between the two
places.
A quarrel is like a tumble weed in its capacity for growing in size,
and, tossed back and forth by the windy tongues of the Widow Barlow,
who gloried in “speaking her mind,” and old Mr. Harding, who cherished
his right to the last word as religiously as a woman, the original
difference had grown to be a very serious thing, indeed.
“I’ll fix her!” he had exclaimed, after the last tilt of words which
occurred between them. “I’ll put up a fence so high she can’t scream
over it, and if she comes inside my yard I’ll buy a dog.”
He thoroughly enjoyed that bit of spite work, and amused himself
immensely in overseeing the ungainly structure as it went up,
completely obstructing the objectionable widow’s view on the east side.
She had no redress, for he had given her the benefit of the disputed
line, and a man could put up bill boards on his property if he wished
to, and he hugged himself to think of her rage and disgust.
He did not in the least overestimate it, and he heard with glee
from the neighbors and the housekeeper the savage onslaughts on his
character which she was making, and it was not long before a moving van
backed up before her door, a “To rent” sign appeared, and Mr. Harding
was alone with victory. He was soured in the operation, it must be
confessed. No man can habitually nurse hatred and spite in his bosom
without becoming contaminated.
When gentle, soft-voiced Mrs. Harding was living, with her generous
heart and hand, her noiseless, unostentatious way of settling a
difficulty, it would have been quite impossible for him to have
indulged in such an exhibition; she would have loved him out of it
insensibly, and have so limbered the widow’s acrimonious tongue with
the oil of kindness that the quarrel would have died at birth; but
it was a sorry day for him when the better part of himself was laid
away under the green in the cemetery, and he was quite free to be his
untrammeled self.
Some way the mother’s voice, as it floated over the top of the ugly
fence, reminded him of her. It was such a gentle, loving voice, with a
flute-like clearness in it which made every word audible.
They had never had any children, he and the wife who would have made
such a tender mother, but he imagined she would have spoken to them
just as this mother was speaking if she had been surrounded by active,
questioning lads and lasses, and his surly mood softened as he heard
them chattering over the treasures of broken china they were finding in
the widow’s refuse heap.
“We’ll build the playhouse right here. The big, high boards will make
such a nice back,” said little Barbara.
“Maybe the man won’t like us to drive nails in his fence,” Rodney
suggested.
“But this side of it is ours,” laughed the mother, softly. “He can only
claim one side of even a nuisance; but you must be careful not to annoy
him with too much noise.”
One side of a nuisance. How truly it was a nuisance, for Mr. Harding
did not admire stockades himself. He had seen the inside of one in war
times, and he had very nearly lost his life in trying to escape from
it. He had an old wound in his leg yet that made him crosser on damp
days than in dry weather, and here he was erecting stockades in his old
age, to keep people out instead of in. It took all his self-control to
keep from being ashamed.
Day after day he heard the childish prattle, and the pounding of nails
as the building of the playhouse went on, sometimes with wrath, at
other times with an almost eager curiosity to see and hear the little
flock at their pretty play.
One day it rained, and silence reigned in the garden. His wound twinged
and prickled all day, and he was in a furious mood toward evening as
he went to straighten up some weak-backed plants that the rain had
lopped over. A kitten was frisking about in a bed of choice strawberry
plants--a saucy, disrespectful kitten which had evidently braved the
terrors of the stockade, as he had done himself in the years gone by.
He hated cats almost as he hated loud-voiced widows--perhaps he was
thinking of the Widow Barlow, and of the joy it would be to take her
as he was taking the kitten (loving little creature, it had never felt
the touch of hatred, and didn’t know enough to run away), and, with one
twist of his avenging arm, sling her over the fence. The kitten went
over, legs and tail wildly outstretched, and little Barbara was at the
window.
“Oh, mamma, he threw my darlin’ kitty right over the fence,” he heard
her shriek, sobbingly, as she ran out and picked up her pet. “Kitty,
kitty, is you killed?” she cried, breathlessly, as the little creature,
stunned for a moment by its fall, closed its eyes and lay limply in her
arms as she ran into the house.
“Mean old thing. If I was a man, I’d thrash him,” said Horace, doubling
his little fists savagely.
“No, no, little ones; we must love him into kindness,” Mrs. Manning
observed, gently. “He is a poor, lonely old man with no one to coax
him into nice ways. See, Kitty isn’t hurt. Give her some milk and she
will soon be quite happy again,” and in ministering to the kitten the
children forgot their revengeful thoughts: but over the fence an old,
cross-grained man went into his finer house with a mean feeling in his
heart which even the thought of the Widow Barlow could not change to a
comfortable complacency.
The rain cleared away and the family were very busy in the garden. The
small plat on the south corner, away from the baleful shadow of the
fence, was full of the roses and shrubs which the Widow Barlow had
planted and tended so carefully, and they were already full of buds.
Mrs. Manning was exceedingly fond of flowers, too, and her bay window
on the west side was full of choice plants.
There was a Papa Manning, but he went early and came late from his
work, too early and late to enter the story as an active factor; one of
those busy men who do business in the city and live in suburban towns
for the sake of health and purer air for the children; but Mr. Harding
did not know this, and supposed his new neighbor to be a widow, and
cherished suspicions accordingly which not even her sweet voice could
quite allay.
“Oh, mamma, come quick. The man has fallen,” screamed Barbara one day,
as she ran in to her mother, her golden curls flying, her blue eyes
full of fright.
“What man, Barbie dear?” Mrs. Manning was in the kitchen making bread,
and a man was an indefinite ingredient to enter into the delicate
operation without proper credentials.
“The old man, mamma. The fence man--he fell right down and groaned.” A
neighbor in distress--that was quite another matter, and Mrs. Manning
ran out hastily, drying her hands on her apron.
“I’ve sprained my ankle, I guess,” growled Mr. Harding, nursing his
wounded leg with a white face full of angry impatience. “Just a bit of
a stone, but enough to turn that confounded weak bone of mine. I feel
like a baby, ma’am, to be upset by such a trifle.”
“Lean on me, sir, and I will help you to rise,” said Mrs. Manning; but
at the first attempt the poor old gentleman nearly fainted.
Fortunately, there were men near at hand, and soon Mr. Harding was
carried into his home by strong hands, and a physician summoned.
It would be an exaggeration to say that Mr. Harding submitted to
suffering with sweet resignation. In his best days gentle Mrs. Harding
needed all her stock of patience to endure him when he was ill, and his
natural proclivities had been reinforced by years of loneliness and
self-indulgence. The housekeeper was at her wits’ end, and strongly
inclined to resign her situation before the end of the first week.
“Sure, ma’am, he’s that cranky there’s no living with him at all,” she
confided to Mrs. Manning, who had brought in a bit of her own delicate
cookery to tempt his capricious appetite. “I make his toast and his
coffee of a mornin’, and he’s ready to eat me when it’s on his table
because the coffee ain’t a-bilin’ and a-sissin’ hot, an’ the egg maybe
has been cooked ten seconds longer than his wife used to cook it for
him.”
“Let me go in and prepare his table while you get the food ready,” Mrs.
Manning suggested. She had waited on just such an invalid once in her
lifetime, and had ideas.
“All right, ma’am. I’ll be right glad of a little help, for he do try
my patience all to frags.”
Mrs. Manning ran home quickly, and returned bringing a dainty tea cloth
and a bouquet of her window flowers in a delicate glass vase, and,
going into the dining room, she soon had the little invalid table a
very poem of neatness and elegance.
“Mrs. Harrihan never set that table, I’ll be bound,” he said, gruffly,
as Mrs. Manning carried it to his bedside.
“Mrs. Harrihan is busy and I am helping her a little,” replied Mrs.
Manning, gently. “Let me raise the shade and make you more comfortable
for your dinner.”
The window looked out upon the staring high fence, over which the roof
and chimney of her own little cottage was visible, and Mr. Harding’s
wrinkled face had the grace to gather a flush.
“Are you a widow, ma’am?” he demanded after a few moments, during which
she had moved about the untidy room, picking up the morning papers,
which he had slung away after reading them, and turning with deft hands
the furniture into more home-like positions. Mrs. Harrihan was a good
housekeeper but a poor home maker.
“A widow? Dear me, I hope not. Haven’t you seen Mr. Manning frolicing
with the children evenings? He comes in the back way, as it saves a
block in coming from the station.”
No, Mr. Harding had not observed a man about the place, and for an
excellent reason--the fence shut off his view of the charming domestic
life of his neighbors completely, and for the first time since its
erection he wished it was back in the lumber yard. He had the grace
to thank her, and to ask her to come again, after Mrs. Harrihan’s
entrance with his dinner, saying that it would taste better with the
flowers to look at, and Mrs. Manning poured his tea and buttered his
toast, with a great pity for him in his loneliness in her warm heart.
It was the flowers at last which accomplished the downfall of the
spitework fence. Acting on the hint of his pleasure in the bouquet on
his dinner table, Mrs. Manning kept him supplied with them in liberal
measure.
Mrs. Barlow’s roses were now in riotous bloom, and every day a fresh
bouquet brightened the sick room. On account of the old wound, the
injured ankle did not readily yield to treatment, and for weeks
Mr. Harding was an unwilling prisoner, forced to look out at that
unyielding expanse of pine until his very soul was sick of it.
He told his grievance in full detail to Mrs. Manning one day with an
apologetic air, not willing that his cheery little neighbor, whom he
was beginning to respect so much, should think that he indulged in high
board fences as a matter of taste.
She heard the story of the Widow Barlow’s delinquencies smilingly, and
contrived to throw such a wide mantle of charity, trimmed with humor,
over the matter that Mr. Harding actually laughed--and at his own folly.
Even little Barbara lost her fear of “the fence man,” and, after
bringing him several bouquets by way of visits of sympathy, she one
day made him a social call with the kitten in her arms, also a ball
and string with which to show off its accomplishments, and old Mr.
Harding actually smiled, and forgot that he hated cats in watching the
frolicsome little creature chasing its tail, the ball, or Barbara as
she ran with the string.
One day there was the sound of pounding and rending on the Harding
premises, and all the children ran excitedly to see.
Carpenters were tearing the spite fence down, and Barbara was in
despair for her playhouse, but her childish heart was comforted,
for Mr. Harding had given orders, and, when the workmen reached the
spot, the boards were sawed down and shaped to match the rest of the
structure, and with the dearest little window cut in, to the child’s
great delight.
With the fence went every vestige of Mr. Harding’s crustiness toward
his new neighbors. Not since his wife’s death had he been so genial
and friendly, and the children were a constant source of interest and
delight. It even came to pass, through Mrs. Manning’s mediation, that
the matter of the boundary line was at last compromised without serious
friction, and Mr. Harding really came to confess, to himself, that even
the Widow Barlow was not so utterly, so irrevocably bad as she might be
after all.
WITH WASHINGTON AT VALLEY FORGE
By W. Bert Foster
CHAPTER XII
Hadley gets better Acquainted with Col. Knowles
SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS.
The story opens in the year 1777, during one of the most critical
periods of the Revolution. Hadley Morris, our hero, is in the employ
of Jonas Benson, the host of the Three Oaks, a well-known inn on the
road between Philadelphia and New York. Like most of his neighbors,
Hadley is an ardent sympathizer with the American cause. When,
therefore, he is intrusted with a message to be forwarded to the
American headquarters, the boy gives up, for the time, his duties at
the Three Oaks and sets out for the army. Here he remains until after
the fateful Battle of Brandywine. On the return journey he discovers
a party of Tories who have concealed themselves in a woods in the
neighborhood of his home. By approaching cautiously to the group
around the fire, Hadley overhears their plan to attack his uncle for
the sake of the gold which he is supposed to have concealed in his
house.
The words Brace Alwood uttered were enough to rivet Hadley to the
spot, and, almost within a long arm reach of the men lounging about
the fire, he crouched and listened to the dialogue which followed. The
reason stated by Brace for the presence of the Tories in this place
naturally startled and horrified Ephraim Morris’s nephew. When the old
man was well-known to be a strong Royalist, why should these fellows be
plotting to attack him? At once Hadley was sure that they were after
the money which rumor said Miser Morris kept concealed in his house.
Remembering the incident of the night at his uncle’s house, Hadley
doubted if the men would gain what they hoped for; but Uncle Ephraim
was old and alone, and there was no telling what these rough fellows
might do to gain their ends.
“You’d better make sure the old man is alone, Alwood,” suggested one
of the others, as Brace and his younger brother took seats in the
circle around the fire. “There used to be a boy with Miser Morris--his
nevvy, was it?--who might make us trouble.”
Brace Alwood laughed harshly. “We ought to be a match for an old man
and a boy, I reckon--though Lon, here, tells me Had Morris is pretty
sharp.”
“He made me and Black Sam pole him across the river one night when he
was carrying dispatches to the army,” Lon admitted. “An’ he pretty near
broke my arm just before he left these parts last, too.”
“What army was he carrying dispatches to?” demanded the first speaker.
“Washington’s, of course.”
“But the old man is for the king, you say--worse luck!”
“That doesn’t say the boy is,” Brace remarked. “He’s a perky lad, I
reckon.”
“He may do us harm, then--in slipping away and rousin’ the farmers, I
mean.”
“He’s with the army now,” said Lon.
“And there’s nobody with the old man?”
“Not a soul.”
“Well, we’ll likely have an easy time of it. If he’s got as much as
they say hid away in the house, this night’s work will pay us fine.”
“And settle some old scores, too,” added Brace. “Colonel Knowles will
be revenged on the old scoundrel, I reckon.”
“Ah! I remember what you told us,” said the first man, thoughtfully.
“His Honor is too loyal a man to appear in this matter, though, I take
it?”
Brace laughed shortly. “No doubt--no doubt. He comes here to get
something out of Miser Morris; but the old fox gives nothing away--not
him!”
Hadley had heard enough to assure him that the Tories were actually
going to attack his uncle, Royalist though he was. With silent tread he
crept away from the place, crossed the pasture to the road, and getting
on Black Molly’s back, sent her flying toward the inn. He was fearful
for Uncle Ephraim’s safety, but it was useless for him to ride and warn
the old man. He must arouse the farmers--or such of them as were at
home--and bring a band to oppose the men with Brace Alwood. There would
be some lack of enthusiasm, however, when it was learned that the Tory
renegades were attacking one of their own kind; it was a case of “dog
eat dog,” and most of the neighbors would scarce care if the old man
was robbed.
But Hadley rode swiftly toward the Three Oaks Inn, determined to raise
a rescuing party at all hazard. It was evening and the men usually
centered there to hear the news and talk over the war and kindred
topics, and the boy was quite confident of getting some help. Besides,
what he had heard while lying hidden in the grove made him believe that
Colonel Creston Knowles was partly the cause of this cowardly attack
by the Tories upon Uncle Ephraim, and if the British officer was still
at the inn the boy determined that he should not go unpunished for
instigating the crime.
The American farmers about the inn had borne with the British officer
more because he was Jonas Benson’s guest than aught else. Before being
sent by Lafe Holdness on this last errand to the army, Hadley knew that
many of the neighbors spoke threateningly of the British officer, who,
apparently, knew no fear even in an enemy’s country. If they should be
stirred up now, after the disaster to the American forces, when feeling
would be sure to run high, Colonel Knowles would find himself in very
dangerous quarters. For the moment Hadley did not think of the danger
to Mistress Lillian. He was only anxious for his uncle’s safety and
enraged at Colonel Knowles for the part he believed the officer had in
the plot to rob--and perhaps injure--the farmer.
In an hour, so Brace Alwood said, they would attack the lonely
homestead of the man whom the whole countryside believed to be a miser.
Hadley had good reason to know that his uncle was possessed of much
wealth, whether rightfully or not did not enter into the question now;
but the money was no longer in the house--of that he was confident.
Enraged at not finding it, the Tories might seriously injure Ephraim
Morris. With these tumultuous thoughts filling his brain, the boy rode
into the inn yard, let Black Molly find her old stall herself, and was
on the steps of the inn before those in the kitchen had time to open
the door, aroused though they had been by the rattle of the mare’s
hoofs.
“It’s a courier!” cried some one. “What’s the news?”
“It’s that Hadley Morris!” exclaimed Mistress Benson, showing little
cordiality in her welcome. Jonas was not in evidence, and there was no
other men in the kitchen.
“Where is Master Benson, madam?” demanded Hadley of the innkeeper’s
wife. “I want him to help me--and all other true men in the
neighborhood. There is a party of Tories up the road yonder, and they
are going to attack Uncle Ephraim’s house and rob him this very night.”
“Tories!” gasped the maids.
“King’s men!” exclaimed Mistress Benson. “And why should they wish to
plague Master Morris, Hadley? He is loyal.”
“That Brace Alwood is at their head. They are bent on robbery. Nobody
will be safe now, if they overrun the country. Where is Master Benson,
I say?”
“He is gone to Trenton,” declared one of the frightened women. “There
is no man here but Colonel Knowles’ servant.”
“Then he is here yet?” cried the boy, and pushing through the group
of women, he entered the long hall which ran through the inn from
the kitchen to the main entrance. His coming had evidently disturbed
the guests. Colonel Knowles stood in the hall by the parlor door, a
candlestick held above his head that the light might be cast along the
passage, his daughter, clinging to his sleeve, stood behind him.
“Whom have we here?” demanded the British officer.
“It is Hadley Morris, father!” exclaimed the girl, first to recognize
the youth.
Hadley approached without fear, for his indignation was boundless.
“It is I, Colonel Knowles,” he said, his voice quivering with anger.
“I have come back just in time to find that, unable to bring my uncle
to such terms as you thought right, you have set Brace Alwood and his
troop of villainous Tories upon the old man. But I tell you, sir, I
will arouse the neighborhood, and if Uncle Ephraim is injured, you
shall be held responsible!”
The officer took a stride forward and seized the boy by the arm. He
waved the crowd of women back. “Return to your work!” he commanded.
“Mistress Benson, call William.” Then he said to Hadley: “Master
Morris, step into the parlor here and tell me what you mean. I am in
the dark.”
Hadley began to think that perhaps he had been too hasty in his
judgment. He stepped within the room. He did not speak to the officer’s
daughter, but she stared at him with wide open, wondering eyes. Then
in a few sentences he told how he had discovered the plot against his
uncle.
“Who are these Alwoods?” demanded the Colonel, when he had finished.
“Alonzo Alwood is the boy who came here once to see you, father,”
Lillian interposed, before Hadley could reply. “Do you not remember?
He told you that Master Morris was about to carry dispatches to Mr.
Washington again, and asked you to help stop him in his journey.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Hadley. “He did try to halt me. But your servant, sir,
stopped him. Have I to thank--?”
“Mistress Lillian, sir,” said the Colonel, shortly, but a smile
quivered about his mouth. “I am in the enemy’s country, as you advised
me once, Master Morris, and I would not be a party to the young man’s
plan. So this Brace Alwood is his brother?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And they connect my name with their raid upon that--that old man?”
“They do, sir.”
“Then to prove to you, Master Morris, that I am not in their
confidence, or they in mine, I will ride back with you.” At the instant
the man-servant entered. “William, saddle my horse and one of the bays
for yourself--instantly! I will join you at once, Master Morris. If
you have other men in the neighborhood on whom you can depend in this
emergency, arouse them.”
Hadley, feeling that his impulsiveness had caused him to accuse Colonel
Knowles wrongfully, ran out again without a word. While William, as
silent as ever, saddled the officer’s black charger and another animal
for himself, the boy took the saddle off Black Molly and threw it upon
one of the other horses in the stable. Then he clattered over to the
nearest neighbor’s house and routed out the family. But the only men
folk at home were two half-grown boys, and when their mother learned
that there were Tories in the neighborhood she refused to allow them to
leave her and the younger children. So he rode on to the next homestead
and brought back with him to the inn but one man to join the party.
Colonel Knowles and his servant were awaiting their coming in the road
before the door of the Three Oaks.
“Lead on, Master Morris!” commanded the officer. “You know the way by
night better than I.”
“But there are only four of us,” began Hadley, doubtfully.
“We can wait for no more if what you have told me is true. They will be
attacking the old man by now.”
The quartette rode off at a gallop and little was said until they
turned into the farm path which led through the pastures and fields to
the Morris homestead. Then the neighbor was riding nearest Hadley’s
side and he whispered: “Hey, Morris, suppose this should be a trap?
Suppose the Britisher should be playing us false?”
Hadley tapped the butt of the pistol beneath his coat. “Then he’ll get
what’s in this first--and do you take William,” the boy whispered.
“But I do not believe Colonel Knowles will play us false. These Tory
blackguards are nothing to him.”
The ring of the horses’ hoofs announced their coming before they were
within shot of the house, around which the rascals under Brace Alwood
had assembled. But no shots were fired, for Colonel Knowles was ahead
and his mount was recognized by Lon in the light of the huge bonfire
which had been built in front of the farmer’s door. Part of the Tories
were already inside the house, ransacking the dwelling from cellar
to garret, while Ephraim was tied hard and fast to one of his own
chairs, and Brace Alwood, with cruel delight in the farmer’s terror,
was threatening to hold the old man’s feet in the flames on the hearth
if he did not divulge the hiding place of his gold. Colonel Knowles’
coming struck the entire party of marauders dumb.
“What are you doing here, you scoundrels?” exclaimed the officer,
almost riding into the farmhouse in his rage, and laying about him with
the riding whip he carried.
The men shrank away in confusion. Even Brace Alwood, the bully, was
cowed. “The old miser’s got more money than is good for him,” whined
Alwood. “And his nephew is off with the rebels--”
“Sirrah!” exclaimed the colonel, sharply. “Here is his nephew with me.
And it matters not what his nephew may be, in any case; the man himself
is for King George, God bless him!--or so I understand.”
“Yes, yes, Master!” squealed the farmer from the chair where he was
tied. “I am for the king. I told these villains I was for the king. It
is an outrage. I cannot help what my rascally nephew is--I am loyal.”
“And as for his money,” continued the colonel, savagely, “you’d work
hard and long before you got any of it--and what you got would likely
not be his, but belong to those whom he has robbed!” At that Uncle
Ephraim recognized his rescuer, and he relapsed into frightened
silence. “Come out of that house and go about your business!” commanded
the officer. “Let me not find any of you in this neighborhood in the
morning; and think not I shall forget this escapade. Your colonel shall
hear of it, Alwood.”
Somebody released the farmer from his uncomfortable position, and he
followed the bushwhackers to the door, bemoaning his fate. The men
clattered out and, evidently fearing the power of Colonel Knowles,
hurried away toward the river. When Uncle Ephraim saw his woodpile
afire, he rushed out and began pulling from the flames such sticks as
had only been charred, or were burning at one end, all the time railing
at the misfortune that had overtaken him. The neighbor looked on a
minute and then said, brusquely:
“I’ve little pity in my heart for such as you, neighbor Morris--a man
that will take sides against his country.”
“And I’ve little pity for you, either,” Colonel Knowles declared,
when the first speaker had ridden away, “for you are a dishonest old
villain!”
He and William wheeled their horses and followed the bridle path
back to the highway; but Hadley, much troubled by what he had heard,
remained to help put out the fire in the woodpile. His uncle did not
speak to him, however, but when the last spark was quenched by the
water which the boy brought from the well, he went into the house and,
fairly shutting the door in his nephew’s face, locked and barred it!
“Well!” muttered Hadley, “I don’t need a kick to follow that hint that
my company’s not wanted,” and he rode back to the inn, feeling very
sorrowful. Evidently his uncle was angry with him. But more than all
else was he troubled by the words he had heard Colonel Knowles address
to Ephraim Morris. The British officer had broadly intimated that the
farmer was a thief!
On his return to the inn he was so tired that he did not think of
supper, and, instead of going into the house, tumbled into his couch
in the loft and dropped to sleep almost instantly. The next morning
Master Benson did not arrive, and the mistress of the inn met Hadley
with a very sour face and berated him well for the manner in which he
had burst in upon her guests the night before.
“You are spending more than half your time with Washington’s ragamuffin
army,” quoth she; “you’d better stay with them altogether. I cannot
have my guests disturbed and troubled by such as you.”
Hadley was inclined to take her berating good-naturedly, for he knew at
heart that she was a kindly woman, and that, when Jonas was at home,
she would not dare talk so. But she had really engaged a neighbor to
perform his tasks, and, learning that Jonas was not expected back for
a week or more, Hadley saw that it was going to be very unpleasant for
him in the neighborhood meanwhile. Even his uncle did not care for his
company, and he could not eat the bread of idleness at the Three Oaks
Inn. There were three or four men starting to join Washington’s forces,
and he determined to accompany them, sorry now that he had returned at
all.
He did not feel at liberty to take one of the Bensons’ horses this
time, and so started afoot for the vicinity of Philadelphia. The roads
were full of refugee families, and, although he could not learn of any
real battle having been fought, the country people had evidently lost
all hope of Washington staying the advance of the British. Hadley and
his comrades traveled briskly, reaching the vicinity of Warren’s Inn
early on the morning of the 16th and joined General Wayne’s forces just
as the downpour of rain which spoiled the operations of that day began.