Produced by Annie R. McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]
Copyright, 1896, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.
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PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, JUNE 9, 1896. FIVE CENTS A COPY.
VOL. XVII.--NO. 867. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.
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THE FEAST OF KING RED COAT.
ONE OF THE OLD SAILOR'S YARNS.
BY W. J. HENDERSON,
AUTHOR OF "SEA-YARNS FOR BOYS," "AFLOAT WITH THE FLAG," ETC.
[Illustration]
It was a morning of yellow fog. The whole world appeared a sheet of
shifting, silent ochre. Up beyond the bluff the sallow outlines of the
houses faded upward into sinuous curves of restless mist. The sands of
the beach looked like a reflection of the fog that wrapped the sea in
its curtain of gold. The old pier jutted out an uncertain brown line
with sparkles of silver along its wet columns, like the flashes of big
guns seen through their own smoke. The swells loomed suddenly out of the
yellow curtain with a quick flash of light along their crests, a curving
of brown shadows in their hollows, and then a plunge into hissing fields
of mellow foam. It was one of those blinding mornings of dead gold, when
the fog hangs low over the earth, and the brilliant sun, shining in a
clear sky above, forces its intolerable glory downward through the mist.
The human eye is helpless on such a day, and seeks vainly for a moment's
relief among the sombre shadows in the crannies of the ground. It was
just the sort of a day to tempt the Old Sailor to sit on the end of the
pier and try to look through the fog. So Henry and George walked down to
the old meeting-place, and there they found him gazing into the water
with a meditative countenance. As usual, he did not look up when he
heard their footsteps, but broke into one of his silent laughs. The
boys, without saying a word, sat down beside him, and presently he
exclaimed:
"W'ich the same you is great navigators. 'Cos w'y, ye can steer straight
fur this 'ere pier in thick weather without no obserwations wotsomever,
relyin' on dead reckonin' an' general sagaciousness."
The boys held their peace; and presently their friend spoke again:
"But that are not so easy fur to do at sea. Leastways ef it was, Cap'n
Philander Montgomery Boggs, of the Al Kamakh an' Kangaroo liner _Queen
O' Spades_, wouldn't 'a' made Wakaufoo w'en he were a-steerin' fur Al
Kamakh, w'ich the same are on the west coast o' Hindoostan, as any one
can tell wot are bin there, an' this 'ere old sailor are him."
"Won't you please to tell us about that?" asked George.
"Wot d'ye s'pose I are a-doin'? Singin'?"
George looked so humble at this rebuke that the Old Sailor burst into
another of his hearty, silent laughs, vainly tried to see through the
fog once again, and then exclaimed:
"Pickle me in a tin box full o' oil fur a bloomin' sardine ef this here
ain't the werry identical kind o' day wot it happened on. I were in
Calcutter, w'ich the same it ain't no sort o' place at all. I landed
there from a consid'able v'yage, an' had five hundred dollars a-comin'
to me, an' I got 'em, too. So I laid out to have a good time in
Calcutter. I staid there a month, an' at the end o' that interestin'
period I didn't have nothin' left o' my five hundred 'cept a linen
duster an' a black eye."
"Why, how was that?" exclaimed Henry.
"My son," said the Old Sailor, solemnly, "that 'ain't got nothin' to do
with this 'ere yarn wot I'm a-tellin' of. An' also it ain't perlite fur
to try fur to switch gentlemen off the course. Now where were I?"
"In Calcutta, sir," said George, with grave respect.
"An' not so werry good, too. Bein' as how I were on my beam ends, I made
shift to see as how I could git afloat ag'in. So I walked down to the
docks. Down in the big dry dock I see the _Queen o' Spades_ jess ready
to git out. I axed a few questions, an' I larned that she'd been
undergoin' repairs an' were to sail fur Al Kamakh the next day, with a
scratch crew. I'd bin in Al Kamakh oncet, an' I thort as how, not bein'
a werry pertikler pusson, I'd jess as lief go there ag'in. So I went
aboard the _Queen o' Spades_ an' interjooced myself to Cap'n Philander
Montgomery Boggs. An' he sez to me, sez he, 'Ye jess come right. My
second mate he went ashore yistiddy, an' he never come back, an' now he
can't come back nohow; an' you can have his berth ef you want it.' An'
me wantin' putty much anythin', havin' nothin' to speak on 'ceptin' the
linen duster an' the black eye aforesaid, I took that berth.
"The next day we got under way. The reg'lar run o' the _Queen o' Spades_
were from Al Kamakh to Kangaroo, Australey, an' she'd bin a-repairin' at
Calcutter 'cos there weren't no dock big 'nuff to hold her atwixt that
an' London. She were called the _Queen o' Spades_ 'cos she dug so many
holes in the bottom o' Al Kamakh Bay a-goin' in an' out, she drawin'
twenty-seven feet of water, an' the bay havin' only twenty-nine feet in
the channel, an' it weren't much o' a channel at that. Fact is, the Al
Kamakh an' Kangaroo line, owin' to the permisc'ousness o' their steamers
about hittin' ground, were gin'rally knowed as the Overland Route.
Howsumever that 'ain't got nothin' to do with this 'ere yarn wot I'm
a-tellin' yer. Waal, we 'ain't got no such steamers here as them. W'y,
the _Queen o' Spades_ are six hundred and fifty feet long, an' are got
four smoke-stacks, each one hundred feet high, an' big enough around fur
to march a company o' soldiers through in full front. An' they don't
carry only one mast jess fur signalling an' they make twenty-two knots
an hour all the time, 'ceptin' goin' to harbors, w'en they sometimes
don't make no knots at all; 'cos w'y, they're aground. An' the cabins is
all full o' gold an' diamond fancy-work an' stained glass winders till
ye'd think ye was in a palace. They has to have 'em like that 'cos the
most passengers is Indian princes an' rajahs an' bunnias an' jampanis
an' khitmatgars an' things goin' down to Australey to drink the waters
for jungle fever; an' them fellers all has to have a floating palace, or
else they go home an' start a new war with England, an' so Tommy Atkins
has to git killed some more.
"Waal, we didn't have no heaven-borns aboard w'en we steamed out o'
Calcutter, 'cos the ship'd bin a-repairin', an' were goin' back to Al
Kamakh under a short crew--jess 'nuff to work her around--an' she were
to git her reg'lar people w'en she got there. But she were all
purwisioned, 'cos she were to sail right off from Al Kamakh. So we
hustled her right out to sea an' turned her up to putty nigh twenty
knots right off. Cap'n Philander Montgomery Boggs, sez he to me, sez he,
'We are a-goin' to make a werry fine passidge.' An' him bein' Cap'n o'
the ship an' me second mate, I didn't say nothin', but I were putty
pertickler sure that either him or the clouds in the nor'west was
mistook. It turned out as how it were him. I've noticed that it
gin'rally are that way. Clouds is seldom mistook. They gin'rally knows
w'ether they be goin' fur to rain or blow, while sailor-men sometimes is
out o' their course on that p'int.
"Waal, we hadn't bin to sea more'n a day w'en it come on to blow from
the nor'west. I dun'no' but I've told ye that I bin to sea a good many
years. Anyhow, I never seed it blow harder. It blowed so hard that the
ship laid right over onto her side, an' then she slid off to leeward so
fast that she couldn't be brought head to the seas. So the Cap'n decided
that he'd have to let her run afore it, w'ich the same he done. An' w'en
she was afore it, the wind would cut the tops off the seas astarn of her
an' send 'em whizzin' over the deck in solid blocks o' flyin' water, an'
they'd fall into the sea ahead o' her an' kick up back waves that rolled
in over the bows jess as if we was a-takin' the seas head on. The water
were three feet deep on deck all the time, an' the crew went about in
the dingy. I 'ain't never seed nothin' like that in all my sper'ence at
sea; but then ye can't most allus gin'rally tell wot'll happen in the
Injun Ocean; 'cos w'y, it ain't no decent, ordinary ocean, but a sort o'
heathen place, fit only fur razor-backs an' piccaroons.
"Howsumever, there we was a trollopin' off to the south-east at a rate
o' speed that were puffickly disgustin'. The gale blowed itself out in
about eighteen or twenty hours, an' the old man sez he to me, sez he,
'Now I reckon we'd better climb back to where we b'long.' So he puts her
head due nothe. But bless ye! it went an' fell flat calm, an' then sot
in with a yaller fog with sun behind it, jess like this here werry
identical one this mornin'. The Cap'n he were putty mad, and he jess
ordered full speed kep' up, 'coz he sez, sez he, 'I 'ain't got no more
time fur to go buggaluggin' aroun' here,' jess like that, him bein'
Cap'n Philander Montgomery Boggs o' the _Queen o' Spades_. Lookouts was
doubled forrard, o' course, but we hadn't bin runnin' ahead fur more'n
four hour w'en scrape, bump, biff! we was hard an' fast agroun'. The
Cap'n he danced on one leg, an' talked Greek; but there we was. An hour
later the fog lifted, an' wot d'ye think we saw?"
"Rocks and reefs all around you, with the sea breaking over them!"
exclaimed Henry.
"Not so werry good," responded the Old Sailor. "The _Queen o' Spades_
had run plumb straight into a small harbor, sort o' horseshoe shaped,
with a long narrer p'int runnin' out on each side. There she were stuck
fast in the sand, an' a werry consid'able number o' half-nakid savidges
standin' on the shore a-grinnin' an' wavin' spears. Putty soon a big
canoe started out from the shore an' come towards the ship. In the starn
o' her there were a werry tall savidge wearin' a werry big red coat with
one epaulet. Cap'n Philander Montgomery Boggs sez he to me, sez he:
'That are the chief, an' he are a-wearin' the coat o' some English
ossifer wot's bin wracked here.' An' that bein' werry plain fur to see,
I didn't say nothin' at all. Waal, w'en the canoe got close 'nuff we
could see that them was the werry thinnest an' starvedest lookin' lot o'
savidges ever knowed. W'y, their ribs stuck out so their sides looked
like old-fashioned washboards, an' their faces looked like overgrowed
English walnuts. They pulled up the canoe a few yards off an' made signs
that they was hungry, an' they looked it. So the Cap'n, seein' that we
was there thort as how we'd better make friends with 'em, an' he inwited
the King--the feller in the red coat--to come aboard an' git some grub.
The steward sot out a fine lunch in the first-cabin saloon, an' the
Cap'n he showed the King aroun' while it were a-gettin' ready. We soon
found out as how that there King could talk consid'able English, but he
wouldn't tell where he larned it. Waal, I wish you could 'a' seed that
there King eat. The steward put out a lunch for six, an' blow me fur
pickles ef the bloomin' one-epauletted cannibal didn't eat it all, an'
holler fur more.
"'Give poor savidge puddin',' sez he.
"'Look a-here, Kingsy,' sez the Cap'n, 'how long is it sence you filled
your hold?'
"'Werry poor island dis,' sez the King--'werry poor. Eat nuts an' wild
berries. Poor savidge werry hungry.'
"'Steward,' sez the Cap'n, 'fill him up solid. Give him some o' those
doughnuts ye make fur the babbus in Al Kamakh.'
"Waal, byme-by the King got 'nuff, an' went ashore. He hadn't bin there
an hour afore we seed a hull regiment o' savidges to work astarn o' the
ship. They was drivin' logs down into the water, an' droppin' big rocks
in an' shovellin' sand.
"'By the great hook block!' yells the Cap'n, 'they're a-buildin' a
breakwater astarn o' us so's we can't git out o' this 'ere trap!'
"An' that were wot they was a-doin'. Nex' thing we knowed canoes
commenced fur to come off ag'in, an' the hull of the King's court come
aboard. There was Squilli Gee, keeper o' the Red Coat; Solo Primo, lord
high berry-picker; Effie Tombi, nut-cracker to his Majesty; Toto Poto,
lord high admiral o' the canoe fleet; an' Kala Poobi, secretary o' the
palace. They was mostly joints, ribs, an' cheek-bones, them fellers, an'
all they wanted was a square meal. Squilli Gee informed us most politely
that ef we didn't feed 'em they would fill us full o' holes. So we fed
'em. Them fellers numbered jess thirty, an' they stowed away purwisions
fur a dinner fur a hundred fust-cabin passingers. They went ashore, an'
at six o'clock in the evenin' the King comes off ag'in, bringin' his
wife an' fam'ly. There were jess eight o' his wife, an' the hull o' 'em
weighed about 600 pounds. There was thirty-seven o' his fam'ly, all so
thin that w'en they stood sideways ye couldn't see 'em. One o' 'em fell
through a scupper into the sea, an' he were so thin he couldn't float;
so he were drowned. An' wot d'ye s'pose the bloomin' King sez?"
"Why, what did he say?" asked George.
"'Let him go,' sez he; 'I got more on 'em now than I kin feed,' sez he,
jess like that, him bein' a miseraceous savidge, with more ribs 'n a
line-o'-battle ship. Waal, that there fam'ly o' the King's they could
give the court p'ints on eatin'. Howsumever, the Cap'n he sez, sez he:
"'Steward, fill 'em all up full to the hatches. Byme-bye we'll get the
hull island fed, an' then all on 'em'll go to sleep. Then we kin go an'
knock over that there breakwater, an', ef the tide sarves, mebbe we kin
git out o' this cussed trap.'
"That sounded all right, but it didn't work no more'n a tramp will. Them
bloomin' savidges wouldn't go to sleep a bit. They kep' right on pilin'
up stuff astarn o' us, an' we knowed that every rock they dumped in were
a-makin' the channel wuss an' wuss. The nex' mornin', bright an' 'arly,
off comes the King an' his blessed court fur breakfast. An' wot d'ye
think?"
"What?" demanded both boys, eagerly.
"Them fellers was thinner than they was the day afore! Cap'n Philander
Montgomery Boggs sez he to me, sez he, nothin'. 'Cos why, he were so
knocked aback as he couldn't say any thin' 'ceptin' nothin', w'ich the
same he said. An' I agreed as how there were nothin' else to be said.
"'Poor savidge werry hungry,' sez the King. 'Give poor savidge
mutton-chop, beefsteak, veal-cutlet, ham an' egg, fried sausidge, liver
an' bacon, quail on toast, poached egg, graham roll, and chocolate.'
"'Wee-ow-ow!' yelled the court, jumpin' up an' down an' lickin' its
chops.
"'Look here, Kingsy,' sez the Cap'n, 'how long d'ye think this 'ere are
a-goin' to last?'
"'Big ship; much grub; eat fur month,' sez the King, sez he.
"'An' wot'll ye do arter ye eat all we got aboard?' asked the Cap'n.
"'Oh, poor savidge werry sorry then, werry sorry,' sez the King, sez he,
lookin' fur all the world as ef he was a-goin' to cry; 'but have to eat
sailor then.'
"'Wee-ow-ow!' sez the court, werry mournful.
"'May I never see blue water ag'in!" sez the Cap'n.
"'Werry likely you won't,' sez the King, an' with that he jess blubbered
an' cried like a babby.
"Waal, them bloomin' beggars eat enough to sink a lighter, an' then they
went ashore an' sent off the fam'ly. The steward he were jess about half
crazy; an' the head cook he really were a ravin' lunatic, an' jess
didn't do nothin' but dance around yellin' orders to cook things. Nex'
day it were the same thing all over ag'in, and nex' day, too. All the
time that one-epauletted King kept his gang a-workin' on that
breakwater, an' inside o' a week it were puffickly certain the _Queen o'
Spades_ were shut up in that bloomin' little harbor fur to stay. Waal,
to make sight o' land at the other side o' this 'ere yarn wot I'm
a-tellin' ye, I'll say that this 'ere sort o' thing kep' a-goin' fur
three weeks, an' then the steward he went to the Cap'n, an' he sez to
he, sez he, 'There ain't more'n another three days' grub aboard.' An'
the Cap'n, sez he, 'Arter dark to-night we'll put that into the boats
an' go to sea, an' leave the _Queen o' Spades_ here till we can send a
gunboat arter her.' Half an hour later the King come aboard ag'in, an'
he were so thin now that the red coat hung around him like a wet rag,
w'ile his blessed court looked like a section o' picket-fence turned up
on end. Them fellers was just wastin' away a-carryin' sich loads o' good
grub. W'en the King see the Cap'n he went up to him with tears in his
eyes, and sez he to he, sez he:
"'My dear, dear brother, poor savidge see man put food in boat. You go
to go away at night. Don't. My canoes catch you, an' then we eat you all
the sooner.'
"An' with those words the King commenced cryin' an' shakin' his head,
an' the court set up another wee-ow-owin' like a convoy o' cats in a Noo
Yawk aryway. Waal, we made up our minds we'd got to die, and yet none on
us didn't want to die 'less he were obleeged to."
The Old Sailor paused as if overcome by his recollections, and George
said, in a suppressed tone,
"But you didn't die, did you?"
"My son," answered the Old Sailor, "I ain't no ghost; I'm a peaceable,
hard-workin' sailor-man. An' may I never live to see a four-horned
grampus ag'in ef this 'ere ain't the circumstigious picooliarity o' our
escape. The next mornin' the hull sea an' sky was a sickly green; the
sun were a sort o' greenery-yaller; an' it were dead calm, with a big
swell outside. The Cap'n sez he to me, sez he, 'We're a-goin' to have a
fearful gale or a hearthquake or somethin'.' He hadn't more'n got them
words out o' his mouth w'en we seed the hull island rockin' an' shakin',
an' heerd a termenjous rumblin', like a freight train goin' past. 'Look!
look!' yelled the quartermaster. An' lookin' w'ere he p'inted, we see
astarn o' us a wave fifty feet high rollin' in from the sea. It come
right on over old Kingsy's breakwater, an' pickin' the _Queen o' Spades_
up as though she were a yaller chip, it carried her right over one o'
the p'ints o' the harbor an' into the deep water outside.
"'Hooroar!' yells the Cap'n. 'Full speed ahead, an' we'll see w'ether
his Royal Red Coat's canoes'll catch us now.'
"And off went the old _Queen o' Spades_ at twenty knots an hour, and in
two days we was in Al Kamakh."
"And well out of it," said Henry.
"I dun'no'," said the Old Sailor; "'cos why, the steam-ship company
wanted to make Cap'n Philander Montgomery Boggs pay fur the grub he fed
the savidges; an' w'en I left they was a-fightin' over it in the courts
yet."
SONG.
BY MARIE L. VAN VORST.
Show me the place where the white heather grows,
Kind little fairies in bonnets of blue.
Why don't you tell, when they said that you knew?
Nobody knows!
Show me the place where my little dream goes--
(I wake in the morning the sky is so blue)--
They said that you sent it. I thought that you knew.
Nobody knows!
What have you done with my pretty red rose?
It fell like the down on the thistle I blew.
They said you bewitched it--oh, say, is it true?
Nobody knows!
THE AMERICAN NIGHTS' ENTERTAINMENTS.
THE ROSE FESTIVAL.
BY EMMA J. GRAY
Beneath a most capricious sky Mabel stood sedately wondering whether or
not she could wear her white tulle frock this afternoon and not have it
forever ruined, when all in a moment the sun disappeared, the leaves of
the trees rustled, and Mabel's hitherto sedate face saddened dolefully.
Had not her mother happened near there surely would have been a shower
of tears, for she had counted so very much on going to the festival. But
mothers know how to manage, and putting her arm around Mabel's
shoulders, she caressingly said: "Don't cry, whatever you do; wait for
that when you _know_ you cannot go; perhaps this afternoon will just
glisten with sunshine, and then think of all the tears you'll have
wasted! Why, only look here; there are cobwebs in the grass"--and
Mabel's mother stooped to examine, thus making herself quite sure she
was not mistaken--"and you know, dear, what they say, 'that cobwebs in
the grass is a sure sign of a clear day.'" And so it was that Mabel's
tears never really got beyond her eyelashes, and her long doleful face
changed into blushes of sudden delight.
When the afternoon came, the cobweb test was proved true, for the dew
fogs stole away in line and column, the warm, rich, gladsome sunshine
leaped over hill, lawn, and road, and gave a tint of amber, purple, or
rich red rose, according to the way the trees leaned or their stately
branches swayed and curved.
The country was the majestic Berkshire section; and Mabel, who had but
just entered her teens, was with her mother visiting her Aunt Lucretia
in her country home.
[Illustration]
Aunt Lucretia had no children, and didn't understand them very well, and
Mabel's visit thus far had been rather unsatisfactory. But about two
weeks before she was thrown all in a flutter because of an invitation to
a Rose Festival, given by the daughter of "the richest man in the
place"--so Aunt Lucretia explained, and with a positive shaking of her
head from side to side, continued, "It would be an elegant affair, she
knew, and she was much flattered that her niece had been remembered,"
etc. Besides Mabel, her aunt, uncle, and mother had been invited, the
only difference in the character of the invitations being that to hers
were added the rather informal words, "All the young people will
personate favorite roses." And as she would surely be considered among
the young people, and as the Cornelia Cook rose was Mabel's favorite, it
took not a little ingenuity on the part of her mother and aunt to
indicate this rose in her costume. But it was deftly, as also simply,
arranged at last by fastening a bunch of these rose-buds on the top of
each sleeve, edging the waist close to the neck with rose-buds also, and
dropping a few at uncertain distances over the skirt--"as though she'd
been caught in a shower of roses," was her uncle's pleasant criticism.
So that it was no wonder, in consideration of the so far disappointing
visit, dainty apparel, and the prospect of a gay party, that Mabel's
blue eyes had looked anxiously for sunshine through the cloudy sky of
the early morning.
It was shortly after three o'clock when the impatient Mabel stepped into
the landau that was to convey her aunt, uncle, mother, and herself to
the festival; and the horses, feeling the exhilaration of the charmed
atmosphere, pranced and cantered along so rapidly that the few miles
that lapsed between were soon over, and Mabel was at once bewildered
with beauty and gayety. Already several emptied carriages had their
wheels rolling towards home, while others had gone back of the broadly
grand and altogether captivating gray-stone house to accept the
hospitality of the stables graciously offered to their owners.
Just as Mabel was ushered into the bower of roses, which was the lawn's
substitute for a reception-room, she overheard some one saying to her
hostess:
"Queen rose of the rose-bud garden of girls,
Come hither, the dances are done.
In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls,
Queen lily and rose in one.
Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls,
To the flowers, and be their sun.
The Red Rose cries, 'She is near; she is near!'
And the White Rose weeps, 'She is late!'"
"All right, papa, I'll come at once;" and then, with a bow, smile, and
hand-clasp for Mabel, she added, "You come with me, for you are a
stranger here, and we will lead the opening dance together." Then
throwing her head back merrily, so that her curls touched her fathers
arm, she laughingly continued: "What a papa--'the dances are _done_!'
They haven't commenced; nor will they until I start them"; and with the
gay raillery which her father so thoroughly understood, added, "I shall
punish you by asking you to help mamma to receive, not only for
yourself, but for me too."
[Illustration]
And then, with a winning smile towards the incoming guests, following
close one after the other, and seemingly a perfect prism of color--for
so smart and catchy were their gowns, frocks, and parasols--she tripped
off merrily, holding Mabel's hand tight meanwhile, to where the
musicians were hidden behind the clump of tall snowball bushes, and a
moment later the dances began.
[Illustration]
It was a rare sight, a revel of beauty. The older folks watched from
garden chairs, and seats made softly comfortable with the abundance of
mellow-tinted rugs and downy dainty-covered pillows. The boys could only
represent roses by wearing their favorites as boutonnières, but the
girls' frocks, sashes, and broad-brimmed hats were very suggestive, and
marvels of exquisite color.
All the roses came to the festival--the Austrian in its brilliant
yellow, Jacqueminot in its deep red; even the little Primrose came,
though it was a question as to her right; however, we were not sorry to
see her, for the delicious lilac-colored costume was a pleasing contrast
and a set-off to the others. The hostess personated a Moss-rose Bud. Her
frock was pink tulle over the palest of pink satin. She wore a girdle of
rose-buds, rose-buds around her neck and arms, and her Leghorn hat was
encircled with the same flower. This hat she sometimes wore, but oftener
than otherwise it was suspended from her arm by its pink satin strings,
and in this respect her guests would often copy her.
During the afternoon the hostess filled her hat full of rose-buds, and
somehow she managed to keep it replenished, notwithstanding that she
gave to each of her older guests a bouquet, repeating while doing so, as
she rapidly walked from one to the other:
"Gather ye rose-buds while ye may;
Old Time is still a-flying.
And the same flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow will be dying."
There was a succession of archways on the lawn, built about ten feet
apart--the frames, twelve feet high and six broad at their widest, being
temporary, and only strong enough to support the various vines, mosses,
and rose climbers with which they were covered. Through these arches
various games were given, among them,
NAMING THE ROSES.
The musicians played something between a march and a reel, and
immediately each boy signalled out the girl that matched his rose, and
keeping time to the music, they walked through the first arch, and so on
to the second, thus in rotation going through all. It was quite a long
procession, for each couple kept about two feet back of the other. When
all had thus passed through the last arch, they joined hands, thus
forming a circle, and commencing with the first couple, entered the ring
two by two. Two only being in at a time, when they came out the two that
followed them in the march went in, and so on. When in the circle the
boy asked the girl, "Which rose are you?" she answered. "Tell me, and
I'll tell you." Oftener than otherwise his answer was, "I don't know,"
though once in a while he made a correct guess. When his answer was
right, he asked the girl the language of her rose; but if he had made a
mistake, he was obliged to leave the girl in the ring and stand under
one of the arches; if the girl could not answer his question, she had to
stand under an arch. If the boy left the ring before inquiring the
roses' language, those forming the ring put the same question, and if
the girl did not properly reply, she had to pay the same penalty as when
not replying to the boy. When both questions were answered correctly,
the boy and girl again joined the hands of the others forming the
circle. When each couple has left the ring the game was concluded.
Among the rose-buds and their meaning are: White rose-bud, girlhood; red
rose-bud, loveliness; white and red together, unity.
Another game was,
FINDING THE HARE.
The hare was nothing more nor less than a box made in exact copy of a
hare, about six inches long. When opened it was found to be full of
rose-colored and rose-flavored confectionery.
The company were told that a hare was hidden between two arches, and
whoever found it was the owner. It was a most bewitching sight to see
the merry hunt--such laughing faces, half hidden at times with long
fluffy curls or broad-brimmed hats.
The florist had taken up a piece of sod, and underneath it, wrapped in
white waxed paper, he laid the hare. When he replaced the sod, the
hare's head was the only part left out, and the grass blades were so
thick and long that it took considerable patience and sharp eyes to
discover it.
The games closed with a visit to
THE PROPHETIC ROSE.
In the first archway was placed a huge rose made of tissue-paper of a
deep red color, the petals being darker at the centre. The guests were
told the darker petals belonged to the boys, and the girls should visit
the rose first. Each girl in turn stepped towards the rose and broke off
a petal. On the reverse side she read her fortune; for delicately pasted
to the rose petal was a white one, and on this the girl's fortune was
written. Everybody read their fortune aloud, for all were as interested
to learn the future of their friends as their own. When the girls had
finished, the boys followed in similar manner. Some of the fortunes
were:
"Thou drawest a perfect lot."
"You will be wondrous happy."
"Mistress of the Manse."
"A curate--never slack in duty."
The last dance was the wreath quadrille, at which every one was
presented with a wreath of moss-rose buds. The girls immediately bared
their heads and put theirs on, while the boys hung theirs on their arms.
The games, dances, and all the merry play stopped at five o'clock, when
under the trees was served a tempting and plentiful refreshment on
tables but just large enough to seat from four to six people. The table
covers were white satin damask bordered with natural roses, some with
red roses, others with pink or yellow, while in the centre of each lay a
solid triangle of roses, the same variety used for bordering.
Lemonade was served in rose-colored glasses; iced cakes were encircled
with roses; some were left white, but others represented American Beauty
or La France varieties, and the ice-cream and ices were in the prettiest
of rose devices, one favorite being an overturned basket of Mermet
roses.
When Mabel returned to Aunt Lucretia's she was very tired. "For, only to
think of it, mamma, I was in everything. And wasn't you surprised to see
me lead the dances?"
"I was glad, for Aunt Lucretia's sake. You were the stranger, and
therefore had special honor."
[Illustration]
COMING.
Coming soon the long vacation,
When we'll throw our tasks aside,
And on wings the dancing hours
O'er our gleeful heads will glide.
Coming soon the merry season,
When we need not even look
Oh! for weeks and weeks together
At the inside of a book.
AN "OLD-FIELD" SCHOOL-GIRL.[1]
[1] Begun in HARPER'S ROUND TABLE No. 857.
BY MARION HARLAND.
CHAPTER XIII.
Six years had passed since Major Duncombe's sudden death. He was the
most popular man in the county, and beloved by high and low, yet the gap
made by his going was apparently filled.
Robert, the eldest son, inherited the homestead, and at his marriage,
two years later, his mother went to live with her daughter Eliza, who
had married a Richmond lawyer. By the terms of her father's will Emily
Duncombe received a valuable farm, embracing the house that had been
built for the overseer.
Robert Duncombe would gladly have retained Mr. Grigsby in his employ,
but the thrifty Scotchman had other views for himself. For years he had
been putting aside money for the purchase of a home for his family, and
a small plantation a few miles back from the river happened to be for
sale about the time Major Duncombe died. Mrs. McLaren advanced a
considerable sum to make up the necessary amount for the purchase. At
the date at which our story reopens the Grigsbys had lived for five
years and a half in the comfortable brick house attached to the Oatley
farm. Perfect June days had come again. Bees were riding the red
clover-tops, and everything that could blossom had burst into bloom as
the birds into song. The great fields of oats, from which the place took
its name, ruffled before the breeze as green billows are rocked and
crisped by sea-winds; the soft blue of the sky was unclouded, and
heaven's own peace was upon the face of the earth.
Something--and much--of this was in Felicia Grigsby's mind as she rode
dreamily through the familiar scenes the day after she had returned home
"for good." That was the way her father put it, and she echoed it
heartily. Not cheerily as yet. Aunt Jean had joined husband and child in
the world that makes up for the losses and mistakes of this. Flea's new
black dress told that the grief of parting with her best friend was
still fresh in her heart. Mrs. McLaren's property was divided equally
between her brother, her namesake niece, and her nephew David.
Nobody called him "Dee" now. The diminutive did not suit the stalwart
youth of seventeen who rode beside his sister to-day, and did most of
the talking for the first hour. He was tall for his years, and well knit
together, with a frank face his sister thought handsome.
"You were disappointed that I didn't go to college," he was saying, "but
I was cut out and made up for a farmer, and nothing else. The smell of a
ploughed field is the sweetest perfume in the world to me. When I see my
crops growing, I feel my soul growing with them. Where will you find
anything in town equal to that, now?"
They were on the top of a hill overlooking the fertile river-lands
backed by a line of forest. The noble James, full to the brim after the
May rains, glittered in the sun, and made a golden rim for the picture.
"We have the 'sweet fields,' the 'living green,' and the 'rolling flood'
of the hymn," said Flea, softly. "Our Virginia is a bonnie country. I am
thankful that it is 'my ain countree.' Why, there are the roof and
chimneys of the old house! I did not know they could be seen from here.
How strange it seems that we should be living anywhere else! How much
stranger that Miss Emily should be living there!"
"The house is twice as big as it used to be," replied David. "That
fellow made it his business forthwith to alter it as much as he could.
You can't make him madder than by speaking of it as 'Grigsby's', or,
worse yet, the 'overseer's house.' It is 'Broadlawn' now, if you please,
and the model place of the neighborhood. But the old name sticks to it,
and all the closer because it frets him. I never speak to him. I cut him
upon principle. I promised myself over six years ago to thrash him as
soon as I got big enough, and I'm on the lookout for an excuse to do
it."
"When the time comes, give him a lash or two in my name--there's a dear
boy! All the same, he did us a good turn without meaning to. If he had
been half decent with us we might have staid in the Old-Field school for
years. When it and the Old-Field schoolmaster are things of the past
nobody will believe that such abuses existed in a Christian community. I
am sorry for the Tayloe children."
"Red-heads, all three of them," said David. "With tempers to match, so I
am told. You wouldn't know their mother. She has broken terribly."
"Who can wonder at it? I'd like to ride around that way, if you don't
mind: by the school-house and the spring, and by what was the Fogg
place, and see the short-cut we used to take coming home from school.
Heigho! How long ago it all seems!"
She said "Heigho" again, and with a sadder intonation, in crossing the
bridge from which she had been shot. No other picture of the past
haunted her so persistently to-day as the vision of the "Miss Em'ly" of
her childish adoration. They visited the empty school-house, disused for
two years. The shingles were warping and loosening like neglected teeth;
the door hung by one hinge; the steps were rotting into holes. Flea
rode up close to the door and looked into the deserted room. Benches
were gone, and the teacher's desk and chair. She had seen Miss Emily
there but once, yet she recalled more vividly than any other image that
of the pretty girl in her blue riding-habit and cap, and how she had
befriended the forlorn little victim of a tyrant's temper.
Since the incident of the arbor she had not spoken or thought of Miss
Emily when she could help it. Memories such as those that visited her
now took the sting out of what had happened there, and made her gentler
in judgment. Far down in her heart the old-time tenderness awoke and
stirred.
"You say she has changed very much?" she puzzled David very much by
asking, as the horses turned in at the branch of the main road leading
to the overseer's house.
David stared for a moment.
"Who is 'she'? Oh, you mean Mrs. Tayloe! More than anybody can believe
without seeing her. Maybe we _will_ see her as we go by."
"I hope not," said Flea, nervously. "I'd rather recollect her as she was
at her best."
Nevertheless she brought the horse down to a slow walk in passing the
gate; her eyes lingered wistfully upon house and grounds. The dwelling
had been raised to two full stories; it was painted white and had green
blinds; a porch covered with vines ran across the front and two sides.
The turf of the yard was like green velvet, and three little negroes,
two girls and a boy, dressed as for company, were picking up leaves and
twigs about the front steps.
"Look at that, will you?" exclaimed David. "He is training them to be
house servants. They are scrubbed within an inch of their lives, and put
into their best clothes every morning, and put through a sort of drill
out there. They mustn't speak, unless when spoken to, while they are
there, and if they overlook a single straw or get their clothes dirty
they are whipped. Will you look at the poor little rascals, now?"
The pickaninnies, the oldest of whom could not have been ten, drew up
into a row, holding each other's hands, and as the riders were opposite
to them, dropped a comical little courtesy all at once. They were as
solemn as owls, and there was a mournful air about the whole performance
that kept the young Grigsbys from laughing.
"I feel more like crying," Flea declared when they were out of hearing.
"It is worse than dancing dogs and trained canaries. I sha'n't get their
patient eyes and their every-day Sunday clothes out of my head for a
week."
David's reply was checked by the patter of feet behind them. The boy
they had seen was tearing up the road at the top of his speed.
"Please, ma'am! please, suh!" he panted, "mistes say you mus' please
come back an' see her. She say to tell you marster done gone to de
Cote-house for all day, an' she can' let you go by 'thout seein' her,
'pon no 'count."
Flea and David exchanged glances and turned their horses about. Mrs.
Tayloe was leaning over the gate, waiting for them. David had said truly
that they would never have known her. The auburn hair was faded to the
color of a half-burned brick, and the gloss was gone; the blue eyes were
sunken, yet seemed larger than of old in the thin face, and gave her the
look of a hunted thing--a look that went to Flea's heart. She sprang
from her horse into arms held eagerly to receive her.
"Miss Emily! dear Miss Emily!" The words were choked by a gush of
feeling which she tried to cover up with a laugh. "Mrs. Tayloe, I mean!"
"Don't call me that, child. I wish I could be a girl again--like you!"
holding her at arm's-length and gazing admiringly at the graceful figure
and glowing face. "I saw you go by from the window, but I wouldn't have
known you if your brother hadn't been with you. You've just _got_ to
stay to dinner. There's nobody here to-day to be afraid of. When the
cat's away the mice will play."
She talked fast in a high, unnatural key. Voice and laugh had few
familiar tones to the listeners. Flea hastened to say that their mother
expected them home to dinner, and that their sister would come down the
river early in the afternoon.
"She married a Richmond man, didn't she?" ran on the hostess. "_Such_ a
pretty girl as she was! Cecily! go tell your daddy to fix a nice snack
on a waiter, and bring it out here for this lady and gentleman--you
hear? and to be _mighty_ quick about it. Sit down, both of you. It's a
heap pleasanter here than in the house. Mr. Tayloe can't _bear_ to eat
out-of-doors, or I'd _always_ have breakfast and supper on the porch.
It's one of his hundreds of notions, and I _daren't_ have so much as a
biscuit eaten out here when he is at home. He was cut out for an old
maid, and a fussy one at that. The very baby is afraid to cry where he
can hear her. What a goose your pretty sister was to get married!"
"She doesn't think so," smiled Flea.
"Wait awhile, and you'll see. That is, if she tells the truth. Most
women don't. I've got to the point where I don't _care_. How
good-looking you are, Flea! Not exactly pretty, but stylish, and that's
better. Beauty doesn't count for _anything_ after a woman is married."
David had not sat down, and looked so uncomfortable while his hostess
talked that his sister came to his help.
"You'd like to look at the garden and stable, I know, David. We will
excuse you; but don't be gone long. I can stay but half an hour or so."
"I'll send for you when the snack comes," cried Mrs. Tayloe after him as
he went down the steps; and to Flea, "Now we can have a comfortable,
confidential chat."
David had said she had "broken." Flea thought that "frayed" would be the
better word. The high, gay spirits had fled with youth and beauty. Her
temper was quick, her husband's was violent. Their quarrels were the
talk of the neighborhood, and a rumor was gaining ground that the wife
was partially insane.
Grown-up Flea had never breathed to a living soul one word of what had
happened in the summer-house six years ago. She was as loyal to those
she loved as when the child had refused to tell how she got the scratch
on her cheek. When flushed by heat or exercise a thin white sear, hardly
wider than a hair, still showed the line the shot had taken. It was
distinct now, and Mrs. Tayloe stroked it with a finger which was no
longer plump and soft.
"I declare you'll carry that scar to your _grave_! What a _game_ little
thing you were! And how _shamefully_ I treated you the last time I saw
you! I was just _crazy_ over that man--the biggest fool that ever lived.
I've paid for it since! Oh, I've _paid_ for it!"
A scarlet spot flashed out upon each cheek; her voice arose until it
cracked.
"If I had _only_ listened to you that day, I would have been a happier
and a better woman. Poor, dear papa said I was bewitched, and I _really_
think I was. Mr. Tayloe has quarrelled with my brothers, and not _one_
of them ever comes near me. Robert told me once to provoke the man to
strike me, and _then_ my brothers would make the law step in. But there
are the children, you see. I _can't_ disgrace them."
"Dear Miss Emily," pleaded Flea, her eyes full of tears, "don't talk of
these things. You are not well, and thinking of old times excites you.
Where are the children? I want to see them. They must be a great comfort
to you."
Mrs. Tayloe shivered at intervals, hysterically. She caught her breath
at every other word.
"Comfort! They are a part of my _torment_. He will manage them to suit
himself. Do you know that he whipped my little Lizzie when she was only
a _month_ old for crying with the colic? She was the oldest, you know,
and her father said he couldn't begin discipline _too_ early. He whipped
her with a willow switch. My mother told him he was a _brute_, and he
turned her out of the house--the house my father gave me!
"Set that down on the table here, Hampton, and you, Ned, tell Mr. David
Grigsby that the snack is ready."
"He never eats between meals," said Flea, taking the chair Mrs. Tayloe
pushed up to the table, "and I ought not; but I am so hungry, and
everything looks so tempting, that I cannot refuse."
It was a lavish luncheon, and Mrs. Tayloe took a childish delight in
pressing her delicacies upon the visitor.
"Hampton," she said, after a while, with a touch of her girlish
vivacity, "go get a bottle of that shrub your master makes such a _fuss_
over. I _must_ have Miss Grigsby taste it. Here is the cupboard key."
When it was brought she went on with the same feverish gayety:
"He made it himself four years ago, and he gets stingier and stingier
with it every year. It really is _mighty_ good, though I wouldn't tell
him so to save his life. He'd _kill_ me if he knew I'd touched it."
"Don't have it opened--please!" begged Flea, checking the hand that held
out the corkscrew to the butler. "I really would rather not drink it. I
don't care for liquor of any kind."
Mrs. Tayloe shook her hand off with a shriek of laughter.
"I believe you are _afraid_ of him to this day. Hampton won't tell on
us. It isn't the _first_ secret he and I have kept from our lord and
master. Open it!" to the grinning man. "Now fill two glasses--one for
Miss Grigsby and one for me. Take yours, Flea! I'll give you a toast.
_Single_ blessedness forever, and confusion to all husbands!"
Her elbow was grasped from behind as she lifted the glass above her
head. Flea had set hers down, untasted, having seen who was coming up
through the hall from the back door. At the same moment David Grigsby
hurried around the corner of the house. He had had a glimpse of Mr.
Tayloe as he rode into the stable-yard by way of a plantation road, and
hoped to reach the porch in season to get his sister away without
encountering him.
The youth stopped short, confounded by what he saw. The wife tried to
rise from the table, but was held down in her chair by the hand pressed
upon her shoulder. The other hand did not relax the clutch upon her
elbow. The sleeve of her dress had fallen back when she raised the
glass, and David saw the flesh whiten under the cruel fingers. Flea
gathered up her skirt and retreated to the steps, pausing there as if
reluctant to leave her friend in the power of the angry man. His face
literally blackened; his eyes were livid; the sneer that drew the
corners of his mouth upward lifted the lips from strong sharp teeth like
a hound's.
"So-ho!" he hissed between them. "This is what goes on while I am away!"
He got no further. David and Flea never agreed in their accounts of what
happened next. The brother thought that the wife's struggle was to free
herself from the savage grip upon her elbow. Flea saw the look of hate
and fear with which the frantic woman dashed glass and liquor into her
husband's face. He did not move so much as to wipe the red streams from
his eyes. He spoke slowly and in deadly calm: "You have been taking a
lesson from your distinguished visitor, have you?" glancing with his
evil smile at the horror-stricken girl. "Let her take one in return from
this!"
He raised his hand to strike her, but David saw the motion, and bounded
up the steps.
[Illustration: THE YOUNG FARMER DRAGGED THE MASTER DOWN THE STEPS.]
The young farmer dragged the master of the house by the collar down the
steps, thence along the gravel walk to the road. A blind instinct of
what was conventional in such cases warned him not to beat a man on his
own premises. Once upon the highway David stayed hand and whip no
longer. Holding the elder and smaller man down upon the ground, he then
and there paid off old and new scores. His whip was new and tough, the
arm that wielded it was lusty. Every lash from David's whip cut through
the light cloth of coat and vest, and cut the shirt into ribbons down to
the skin.
* * * * *
Felicia Grigsby was a married woman with a David and a Jean of her own
when she told me the story of her Old-Field school-days. Even then she
was unable to describe without deep emotion the cruel scene I have just
sketched.
"No," she said, in answer to my exclamation of indignant horror, "his
wife did not leave him even after that. The act of infamous cruelty
seemed to subdue her utterly. I never saw her again. I dared not visit
her, and she never went beyond her yard gate, even to church. It was
said she had fallen into a gentle melancholy. I am thankful, for her
sake, that it was gentle. Her children loved her dearly. I hope they
brought some balm to the wounded spirit.
"The youngest was ten years old when his mother died. The week after her
burial her husband sold the plantation through a real-estate agent to my
brother David. A month later he left the county and State, and removed
to Louisiana. I hear that he has grown rich there on a sugar plantation.
He says that the climate of Virginia did not agree with him. That was
lucky for him--and for Virginia."
THE END.
RICK DALE.
BY KIRK MUNROE,
AUTHOR OF "SNOW-SHOES AND SLEDGES," "THE FUR-SEAL'S TOOTH," "THE 'MATE'
SERIES," "FLAMINGO FEATHER," ETC.