THE CAPITULATION
"I'd like to know how it's all going to end."
Mrs. Rickards drew a deep sigh of perplexity and looked helplessly over at
Ma, who was placidly knitting at her husband's bedside. The farmwife's
bright face had lost nothing of its comeliness in spite of the anxieties
through which she had so recently passed. Her twinkling eyes shone
cheerily through her glasses, and the ruddy freshness of her complexion
was still fair to see. A line or two, perhaps, had deepened about her
mouth, and the grayness of her hair may have become a shade whiter. But
these things were hardly noticeable.
The change in Rosebud's aunt was far more pronounced. She had taken to
herself something of the atmosphere of the plains-folk in the few weeks of
her stay at the farm. And the subtle change had improved her.
Rube was mending fast, and the two older women now spent all their spare
time in his company.
Ma looked up from her work.
"Rube an' me have been discussin' it," she said. "Guess we've settled to
leave the farm, an' buy a new place around some big city. I don't rightly
know how the boy 'll take it. Y' see, Seth's mighty hard to change, an'
he's kind o' fixed on this place. Y' see, he's young, an' Rube an' me's
had a longish spell. We'd be pleased to take it easy now. Eh, old man?"
Ma glanced affectionately at the mighty figure filling up the bed. The man
nodded.
"Y' see, things don't seem hard till you see your old man's blood
runnin'," she went on. "Then--well, I guess I ain't no more stummick fer
fight. I'd be thankful to God A'mighty to end my days peaceful."
Mrs. Rickards nodded sympathetically.
"You're quite wise," she said. "It seems to me you've earned a rest. The
courage and devotion of all you dear people out here have been a wonderful
education to me. Do you know, Mrs. Sampson, I never knew what life really
meant until I came amongst you all. The hope, and love, and sympathy on
this prairie are something to marvel at. I can understand a young girl's
desire to return to it after once having tasted it. Even for me it has its
fascinations. The claims of civilization fall from one out here in a
manner that makes me wonder. I don't know yet but that I shall remain for
a while and see more of it."
Ma smiled and shook her head at the other's enthusiasm.
"There's a heap worth living for out here, I guess. But----"
"Yes. I know what you would say. A time comes when you want rest for mind
and body. I wonder," Mrs. Rickards went on thoughtfully, "if Seth ever
wants rest and peace? I don't think it. What a man!"
She relapsed into silent admiration of the man of whom she was speaking.
Ma noted her look. She understood the different place Seth now occupied in
this woman's thoughts.
"But I was not thinking about the affairs of this farm and the Indians so
much as something else," Mrs. Rickards went on presently, smiling from Ma
to Rube and back again at Ma.
The farmwife laid her knitting aside. She understood the other's meaning,
and this was the first mention of it between them. Even Rube had turned
his head and his deep-set eyes were upon the "fine lady."
"Yes, I was thinking of Seth and Rosebud," she went on earnestly. "You
know that Rosebud----"
Ma nodded.
"Seth's ter'ble slow," she said slyly.
"Do you think he's----"
"Sure." The two women looked straight into each other's eyes, which smiled
as only old women's eyes can smile when they are speaking of that which is
the greatest matter of their lives.
"I know how she regards him," Mrs. Rickards went on. "And I tell you
frankly, Mrs. Sampson, I was cordially opposed to it--when I came here.
Even now I am not altogether sure it's right by the girl's dead
father--but----"
"But----?" Ma's face was serious while she waited for the other to go on.
"But--but--well, if I was a girl, and could get such a man as Seth for a
husband, I should be the proudest woman in the land."
"An' you'd be honored," put in Rube, speaking for the first time.
Mrs. Rickards laughingly nodded.
Ma sighed.
"Guess Seth has queer notions. Mighty queer. I 'low, knowin' him as I do,
I could say right here that that boy 'ud ask her right off, only fer her
friends an' her dollars. He's a foolhead, some."
Mrs. Rickards laughed again.
"In England these things are usually an inducement," she said
significantly.
"Seth's a man," said Ma with some pride. "Seth's real honest, an'--an',
far be it for me to say it, he's consequent a foolhead. What's dollars
when folks love? Pshaw! me an' Rube didn't think o' no dollars."
"Guess we hadn't no dollars to think of, Ma," murmured Rube in a ponderous
aside.
"Wal? An' if we had?" Ma smiled defiantly at her "old man."
"Wal, mebbe we'd 'a' tho't of 'em."
The farmwife turned away in pretended disgust.
"And you don't think anything will come of it?" suggested Mrs. Rickards,
taking the opportunity of returning to the matter under discussion.
Ma's eyes twinkled.
"Ther' ain't no sayin'," she said. "Mebbe it's best left to Rosie." She
glanced again at her sick husband. "Y' see, men mostly has notions, an'
some are ter'ble slow. But they're all li'ble to act jest so, ef the
woman's the right sort. Guess it ain't no use in old folks figgerin' out
fer young folks. The only figgerin' that counts is what they do fer
themselves."
"I believe you're right," responded Mrs. Rickards, wondering where the
farmwife had acquired her fund of worldly wisdom. Ma's gentle shrewdness
overshadowed any knowledge she had acquired living the ordinary social
life that had been hers in England.
Ma's worldly wisdom, however, was all on the surface. She knew Seth, and
she knew Rosebud. She had watched their lives with loving eyes, prompted
by a great depth of sympathy. And all she had seen had taught her that
both were capable of managing their own affairs, and, for the rest, her
optimism induced the belief that all would come right in the end. And it
was out of this belief she reassured her new-made friend.
Meanwhile the little blind god was carrying on his campaign with all the
cunning and crushing strategy for which he is justly renowned. There is no
power such as his in all the world. What he sets out to do he accomplishes
with a blissful disregard for circumstances. Where obstacles refuse to
melt at his advance, he adopts the less comfortable, but none the less
effective, manner of breaking through them. And perhaps he saw the
necessity of some such course in the case of Seth and Rosebud. Anyway, he
was not beaten yet.
The last of the refugees had left the farm. Seth had been assisting in the
departure of the various families. It was a sad day's work, and no one
realized the pathos of it more than the silent plainsman. He had given his
little all to the general welfare, but he had been incapable of saving the
homes that had been built up with so much self-denial, so much thrift. All
he could do was to wish the departing folk Godspeed with an accompaniment
of cheery words, which, perhaps, may have helped to lighten the burden of
some of them. The burden he knew was a heavy one in all cases, but heavier
in some than others, for Death had claimed his toll, and at such a time
the tax fell doubly heavy.
It was over. He had just seen the last wagon drop below the horizon. Now
he turned away with a sigh and surveyed the ruin around him. He walked
from place to place, inspecting each outbuilding with a measuring eye.
There were weeks of labor before him, and all labor that would return no
profit. It was a fitting conclusion to a sad day's work.
But he was not given to morbid sentiment, and as he inspected each result
of the siege he settled in his mind the order of the work as it must be
done. A setback like this had only a stimulating effect on his spirit.
The summer lay before him, and he knew that by winter he could have
everything restored to order.
At the barn he made the horses snug for the night, and then, taking up his
favorite position on the oat-bin at the open doorway, lit his pipe for a
quiet think. He was wholly responsible while Rube was ill.
Sitting there in the golden light of the setting sun, he was presently
disturbed by the approach of light footsteps. It was an unusually gay
voice that greeted him when he looked up, and eyes that were brighter, and
more deeply violet than ever.
Had he given thought to these things he might have realized that there was
something artificial in Rosebud's manner, something that told of unusual
excitement going on in her bosom. But then Seth, with all his keenness in
other things, was not the cleverest of men where women were concerned.
Ma's opinion of him was wonderfully accurate.
"Oh, Seth, I just came to tell you! Fancy, no sooner is one excitement
over than another begins. I've just learned that Pa and Ma are going to
give up this farm. We are going further west, out of the Indian territory,
and Rube's going to buy a new farm near some city. Just fancy. What do you
think of it?"
For once Seth seemed taken aback. His usual imperturbable manner forsook
him, and he stared at the girl in unfeigned astonishment. This was the
last thing he had expected.
"We're quittin' the farm?" he cried incredulously.
"That's precisely it," Rosebud nodded, thoroughly enjoying the other's
blank manner.
"Gee! I hadn't tho't of it."
The girl broke into a laugh, and Seth, after smiling faintly in response,
relapsed into serious thought. Rosebud eyed him doubtfully for some
moments.
"You're not glad," she said presently, with a wise little nod. "You're not
glad. You don't want to go. You love this place and what you've helped to
make it. I know. So do I."
The man nodded, and his dark face grew graver.
"This is our home, isn't it?" the girl continued, after a pause. "Just
look round. There's the new barn. I remember when you and Pa built it. I
used to hold the wood while you sawed, and made you angry because I always
tried to make you cut it crooked--and never succeeded. I was very small
then. There's the old barn. We use it for cows now. And do you remember
when you pulled down the old granary, and built the new one in the shape
of an elevator? And do you remember, Ma wouldn't speak to us for a whole
day because we pulled the old hen-roost to pieces and established the hogs
there? She said it was flying in the face of Providence having the smelly
old things so near the house. And now we're going to leave it all. We're
farmers, aren't we, Seth? But Pa is going in for cattle."
"Cattle?" exclaimed Seth.
"Yes. But I'd rather that than another grain farm after this one. I don't
think I could ever like another grain farm so well as this."
Rosebud had seated herself at Seth's feet, with her back to him so that he
could not see her face. She was dressed in a simple dark gown that made
her look very frail. Her golden hair was arranged in a great loose knot at
the nape of her neck from which several unruly strands had escaped. Seth
noted these things even though his eyes wandered from point to point as
she indicated the various objects to which she was drawing his attention.
"Yes, it is home, sure, Rosie," he said at last, as she waited for his
answer. "Yes, it's home, sure. Yours an' mine."
There was a long pause. Rosebud leant against Seth's knees; and presently
she raised one arm till her elbow rested upon them. Then she supported her
head upon her hand.
"But I think it's right to go; Ma and Rube are getting old. They want
rest. Rube's got a goodish bit of capital, too," she went on, with an
almost childish assumption of business knowledge. "And so have you. Now
how much will buy a nice ranch?"
The girl had faced round and was gazing up into Seth's face with all the
bland innocence of childhood in her wide open eyes. The gravity she beheld
there was profound.
"Wal, I'd say around twenty thousand dollars. Y' see, stockin' it's heavy.
But Rube wouldn't think o' that much. Mebbe he'd buy a goodish place an'
raise the stock himself. I 'lows it's a money-makin' game--is stock. It's
a good business."
Seth had gained some enthusiasm while he spoke, and the girl was quick to
notice the change.
"I believe you're beginning to fancy the notion," she said, with a bright
flash of her eyes.
"Mebbe."
Seth's reply was half shamefaced. Rosebud removed her arm from his knees
and turned away, idly drawing vague outlines upon the dusty ground with
her forefinger. She was smiling too. It was partly a mischievous smile,
and yet there was something very nervous about it. She was thinking,
thinking, and found it very hard to say what she wanted to.
"I wonder if you'd help me to do something I want to do very much?" she
asked at last. "Something very, very particular?"
"Why, sure," was the ready answer. "That's how it's allus bin."
"Yes, I know. It's always been like that. But this is something much
harder." Rosebud smiled a little wistfully into the strong face above
her.
"You ken gamble on me."
"Of course I can. I know that."
Another silence fell. The girl continued to draw outrageous parallelograms
in the dust. Seth smoked on, waiting for her. The last rays of the setting
sun were shining athwart the golden head which his dark eyes were
contemplating.
"You see, I want to buy Pa and Ma the finest ranch in Montana," she said
at last. "You see, I've got lots of money," she went on, laughing
nervously. "At least I shall have. I'm rather selfish, too, because I'm
going to live with them, always, you know. And I'd like to live on a
ranch. Pa could own it, and you could be foreman and partner. And--and I
could be partner too. Quite a business arrangement. Pa and you would work.
That's your share of the capital. I should only find the money, and do
nothing. You see? I talked it over with--er--some one, and they said that
was quite a business arrangement, and thought I was rather clever."
Seth removed his pipe and cleared his throat. Rosebud had not dared to
look at him while putting forward her scheme. Her heart was beating so
loudly, that it seemed to her he must hear it.
"Wal," he said slowly, "it's not a bad notion in some ways, Rosie. Ther's
jest the matter o' myself wrong. I 'lows you'd make a han'some return to
Rube an' Ma. Guess you needn't to figger on me though. I'll stand by this
old farm. I ken work it single-handed. An' I kind o' notion the Injuns
around here someways."
"But we couldn't do without you."
Seth shook his head. As she beheld the movement, Rosebud's lips quivered,
and a little impatient frown drew her brows together. She felt like
shaking him for his stupidity.
"Well, I'm just going to do it, Seth. And--and I'm sorry I said anything
to you about it. I shall buy it for Rube without telling him. And you'll
help me?"
"Sure."
"Quite sure?"
"Nothin' more certain."
The girl's impatience had passed. A demure smile had replaced the frown,
as she stared out at the flaming western sky. Presently she went on with a
great assumption of calmness.
"I'm in a bit of a difficulty, though. You see, I want to do the thing at
once, and I can't because I haven't got the money yet. I want to know if
there isn't some means of arranging it. You see I only have a certain
income at present. Later on, I shall get the whole fortune. It's that
silly business about getting it when I'm married. And, of course, I'm not
married yet, am I?"
"No."
Rosebud felt a desperate desire to run away. But she had never realized
how difficult Seth was before. His uncompromising directness was enough to
upset any one, she told herself.
"Well, I must raise the money now. You see, now."
"Can't be done. You see, the dollars ain't yours till you marry. Mebbe
they'll never be yours. Mebbe you won't never marry. I guess every female
don't allus marry. No, can't be done, I guess."
"No--o. I never looked at it like that before. No. The money isn't mine,
is it? So, of course, I can't do it. Oh, Seth, I am disappointed!"
The girl's face had dropped, and there was something almost tragic in her
tone. Seth heard the tone and it smote his heart, and made him long to
take her in his arms and comfort her. He hated himself for what he had
said.
"Why, little Rosie," he said gently, "I was only jest lookin' straight at
it. Guess them dollars is yours. It's jest a question o' gettin'
married."
The girl had turned away again. The sky was fast darkening, and a deep
grayness was spreading from the east. And now, without turning, she said
quietly--
"Yes, I must get married. But there's no one wants to marry me."
Seth drew a deep breath and stirred uneasily.
There was another long pause while Rosebud sat silently and unconsciously
listening to the thumping of her own heart, and Seth tried hopelessly to
relight a pipe in which all the tobacco had burnt out.
Suddenly Rosebud faced round. The growing darkness concealed the deep
flush which had now taken possession of her cheeks, and spread even to
brow and throat.
"But I do want that money, Seth," she said in a low tone. "And--and--you
said--you promised you would help me."
There was a sharp sound of an empty pipe falling to the ground. Two strong
rough hands were suddenly thrust out and rested in a steady grasp upon the
girl's rounded shoulders. They slid their way upward until her soft cheeks
were resting in their palms.
Rosebud felt her face lifted until she found herself gazing into the man's
dark eyes which, in the darkness, were shining with a great love light.
Her lids drooped before such passionate intensity. And her heart thrilled
with rapture as she listened to his rough, honest words.
"Little Rosie, gal, you don't jest know what you're sayin'. I hadn't meant
to, sure, but now I can't jest help it. My wits seem somehow gone, an' I
don't guess as you'll ever forgive me. Ther's only one way I ken help you,
little gal. 'Tain't right. 'Tain't honest, I know, but I guess I'm
weak-kneed 'bout things now. I love you that bad I jest want to marry you.
Guess I've loved you right along. I loved you when I picked you up in
these arms nigh seven years ago. I loved you when I bandaged up that
golden head o' yours. An' I've loved you--ever since. Rosie, gal, I jest
don't know what I'm sayin'. How ken I? I'm daft--jest daft wi' love of
you. I've tried to be honest by you. I've tried to do my duty by you--but
I jest can't no longer, 'cos I love you----"
But he abruptly released her, and blindly groped on the ground for his
pipe. He had suddenly realized that his actions, his words were past all
forgiveness.
He did not find his pipe. Rosebud was kneeling now, and, as he stooped,
his head came into contact with hers. In an instant his arms were about
her slight figure, and he was crushing her to his breast in a passionate
embrace.
"Oh, God! I love you, Rosie!" he cried, with all the pent-up passion of
years finding vent in the exclamation.
Her face was raised to his; his lips sought hers, soft and warm. He kissed
her again and again. He had no words. His whole soul was crying out for
her. She was his, and he was holding her in his arms. Cost what it might
afterward she was his for this one delirious moment.
But the moment passed all too swiftly. Reason returned to him, and his
arms dropped from about her as he realized the enormity of his offence.
"Child--little Rosie," he cried brokenly, "I'm crazy! What--what have I
done?"
But Rosebud did not go from him as he had expected she would. She did not
stir. Her face was hidden from him, and he could not see the anger he
expected to read there. She answered him. And her answer was meek--very,
very humble.
"You've let go of me," she said in a low voice. "And--and I was so
comfortable--so--so--happy!"
"Happy?" reechoed Seth.
She was in his arms again. Night had fallen and all was still. No words
were spoken between them for many minutes. Those rapturous moments were
theirs alone, none could see, none could know. At length it was Rosebud
who looked up from the pillow of his breast. Her lovely eyes were shining
even in the darkness.
"Seth--dear--you will help me? You will be my--partner in the ranch?"
And the man's answer came with a ring of deep happiness in his voice.
"Yes, Rosie, gal--if you'll make it partners for--life."
Somehow when he came to look back on these moments Seth never quite
realized how it all came about--this wondrous happiness that was his. But
then--yes, perhaps, he was "ter'ble slow," as Ma Sampson had said.
* * * * * *
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GOOD FICTION WORTH READING.
A series of romances containing several of the old favorites in the field
of historical fiction, replete with powerful romances of love and
diplomacy that excel in thrilling and absorbing interest.
DARNLEY. A Romance of the times of Henry VIII. and Cardinal Wolsey. By G.
P. R. James. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis.
Price, $1.00.
In point of publication, "Darnley" is that work by Mr. James which follows
"Richelieu," and, if rumor can be credited, it was owing to the advice and
insistence of our own Washington Irving that we are indebted primarily for
the story, the young author questioning whether he could properly paint
the difference in the characters of the two great cardinals. And it is not
surprising that James should have hesitated; he had been eminently
successful in giving to the world the portrait of Richelieu as a man, and
by attempting a similar task with Wolsey as the theme, was much like
tempting fortune. Irving insisted that "Darnley" came naturally in
sequence, and this opinion being supported by Sir Walter Scott, the author
set about the work.
As a historical romance "Darnley" is a book that can be taken up
pleasurably again and again, for there is about it that subtle charm which
those who are strangers to the works of G. P. R. James have claimed was
only to be imparted by Dumas.
If there was nothing more about the work to attract especial attention,
the account of the meeting of the kings on the historic "field of the
cloth of gold" would entitle the story to the most favorable consideration
of every reader.
There is really but little pure romance in this story, for the author has
taken care to imagine love passages only between those whom history has
credited with having entertained the tender passion one for another, and
he succeeds in making such lovers as all the world must love.
CAPTAIN BRAND, OF THE SCHOONER CENTIPEDE. By Lieut. Henry A. Wise, U.S.N.
(Harry Gringo). Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis.
Price, $1.00.
The re-publication of this story will please those lovers of sea yarns who
delight in so much of the salty flavor of the ocean as can come through
the medium of a printed page, for never has a story of the sea and those
"who go down in ships" been written by one more familiar with the scenes
depicted.
The one book of this gifted author which is best remembered, and which
will be read with pleasure for many years to come, is "Captain Brand,"
who, as the author states on his title page, was a "pirate of eminence in
the West Indies." As a sea story pure and simple, "Captain Brand" has
never been excelled and as a story of piratical life, told without the
usual embellishments of blood and thunder, it has no equal.
NICK OF THE WOODS. A story of the Early Settlers of Kentucky. By Robert
Montgomery Bird. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis.
Price, $1.00.
This most popular novel and thrilling story of early frontier life in
Kentucky was originally published in the year 1837. The novel, long out of
print, had in its day a phenomenal sale, for its realistic presentation of
Indian and frontier life in the early days of settlement in the South,
narrated in the tale with all the art of a practiced writer. A very
charming love romance runs through the story. This new and tasteful
edition of "Nick of the Woods" will be certain to make many new admirers
for this enchanting story from Dr. Bird's clever and versatile pen.
For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the
publishers
A. L. BURT COMPANY, 52-58 Duane St., New York.
GOOD FICTION WORTH READING.
A series of romances containing several of the old favorites in the field
of historical fiction, replete with powerful romances of love and
diplomacy that excel in thrilling and absorbing interest.
WINDSOR CASTLE. A Historical Romance of the Reign of Henry VIII, Catharine
of Aragon and Anne Boleyn. By Wm. Harrison Ainsworth. Cloth 12mo. with
four illustrations by George Cruikshank. Price, $1.00.
"Windsor Castle" is the story of Henry VIII., Catharine, and Anne Boleyn.
"Bluff King Hal," although a well-loved monarch, was none too good a one
in many ways. Of all his selfishness and unwarrantable acts, none was more
discreditable than his divorce from Catharine, and his marriage to the
beautiful Anne Boleyn. The King's love was as brief as it was vehement.
Jane Seymour, waiting maid on the Queen, attracted him, and Anne Boleyn
was forced to the block to make room for her successor. This romance is
one of extreme interest to all readers.
HORSESHOE ROBINSON. A tale of the Tory Ascendency in South Carolina in
1780. By John P. Kennedy. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J.
Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.
Among the old favorites in the field of what is known as historical
fiction, there are none which appeal to a larger number of Americans than
Horseshoe Robinson, and this because it is the only story which depicts
with fidelity to the facts the heroic efforts of the colonists in South
Carolina to defend their homes against the brutal oppression of the
British under such leaders as Cornwallis and Tarleton.
The reader is charmed with the story of love which forms the thread of the
tale, and then impressed with the wealth of detail concerning those times.
The picture of the manifold sufferings of the people, is never overdrawn,
but painted faithfully and honestly by one who spared neither time nor
labor in his efforts to present in this charming love story all that price
in blood and tears which the Carolinians paid as their share in the
winning of the republic.
Take it all in all, "Horseshoe Robinson" is a work which should be found
on every book-shelf, not only because it is a most entertaining story, but
because of the wealth of valuable information concerning the colonists
which it contains. That it has been brought out once more, well
illustrated, is something which will give pleasure to thousands who have
long desired an opportunity to read the story again, and to the many who
have tried vainly in these latter days to procure a copy that they might
read it for the first time.
THE PEARL OF ORR'S ISLAND. A story of the Coast of Maine. By Harriet
Beecher Stowe. Cloth, 12mo. Illustrated. Price, $1.00.
Written prior to 1862, the "Pearl of Orr's Island" is ever new; a book
filled with delicate fancies, such as seemingly array themselves anew each
time one reads them. One sees the "sea like an unbroken mirror all around
the pine-girt, lonely shores of Orr's Island," and straightway comes "the
heavy, hollow moan of the surf on the beach, like the wild angry howl of
some savage animal."
Who can read of the beginning of that sweet life, named Mara, which came
into this world under the very shadow of the Death angel's wings, without
having an intense desire to know how the premature bud blossomed? Again
and again one lingers over the descriptions of the character of that baby
boy Moses, who came through the tempest, amid the angry billows, pillowed
on his dead mother's breast.
There is no more faithful portrayal of New England life than that which
Mrs. Stowe gives in "The Pearl of Orr's Island."
For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the
publishers
A. L. BURT COMPANY, 52-58 Duane St., New York.
GOOD FICTION WORTH READING.
A series of romances containing several of the old favorites in the field
of historical fiction, replete with powerful romances of love and
diplomacy that excel in thrilling and absorbing interest.
GUY FAWKES. A Romance of the Gunpowder Treason. By Wm. Harrison Ainsworth.
Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by George Cruikshank. Price, $1.00.
The "Gunpowder Plot" was a modest attempt to blow up Parliament, the King
and his Counsellors. James of Scotland, then King of England, was
weak-minded and extravagant. He hit upon the efficient scheme of extorting
money from the people by imposing taxes on the Catholics. In their natural
resentment to this extortion, a handful of bold spirits concluded to
overthrow the government. Finally the plotters were arrested, and the King
put to torture Guy Fawkes and the other prisoners with royal vigor. A very
intense love story runs through the entire romance.
THE SPIRIT OF THE BORDER. A Romance of the Early Settlers in the Ohio
Valley. By Zane Grey. Cloth. 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson
Davis. Price, $1.00.
A book rather out of the ordinary is this "Spirit of the Border." The main
thread of the story has to do with the work of the Moravian missionaries
in the Ohio Valley. Incidentally the reader is given details of the
frontier life of those hardy pioneers who broke the wilderness for the
planting of this great nation. Chief among these, as a matter of course,
is Lewis Wetzel, one of the most peculiar, and at the same time the most
admirable of all the brave men who spent their lives battling with the
savage foe, that others might dwell in comparative security.
Details of the establishment and destruction of the Moravian "Village of
Peace" are given at some length, and with minute description. The efforts
to Christianize the Indians are described as they never have been before,
and the author has depicted the characters of the leaders of the several
Indian tribes with great care, which of itself will be of interest to the
student.
By no means least among the charms of the story are the vivid
word-pictures of the thrilling adventures, and the intense paintings of
the beauties of nature, as seen in the almost unbroken forests.
It is the spirit of the frontier which is described, and one can by it,
perhaps, the better understand why men, and women, too, willingly braved
every privation and danger that the westward progress of the star of
empire might be the more certain and rapid. A love story, simple and
tender, runs through the book.
RICHELIEU. A tale of France in the reign of King Louis XIII. By G. P. R.
James. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price,
$1.00.
In 1829 Mr. James published his first romance, "Richelieu," and was
recognized at once as one of the masters of the craft.
In this book he laid the story during those later days of the great
cardinal's life, when his power was beginning to wane, but while it was
yet sufficiently strong to permit now and then of volcanic outbursts which
overwhelmed foes and carried friends to the topmost wave of prosperity.
One of the most striking portions of the story is that of Cinq Mar's
conspiracy; the method of conducting criminal cases, and the political
trickery resorted to by royal favorites, affording a better insight into
the statecraft of that day than can be had even by an exhaustive study of
history. It is a powerful romance of love and diplomacy, and in point of
thrilling and absorbing interest has never been excelled.
For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the
publishers
A. L. BURT COMPANY, 52-58 Duane St., New York.
GOOD FICTION WORTH READING.
A series of romances containing several of the old favorites in the field
of historical fiction, replete with powerful romances of love and
diplomacy that excel in thrilling and absorbing interest.
A COLONIAL FREE-LANCE. A story of American Colonial Times. By Chauncey C.
Hotchkiss. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price,
$1.00.
A book that appeals to Americans as a vivid picture of Revolutionary
scenes. The story is a strong one, a thrilling one. It causes the true
American to flush with excitement, to devour chapter after chapter, until
the eyes smart, and it fairly smokes with patriotism. The love story is a
singularly charming idyl.
THE TOWER OF LONDON. A Historical Romance of the Times of Lady Jane Grey
and Mary Tudor. By Wm. Harrison Ainsworth. Cloth, 12mo. with four
illustrations by George Cruikshank. Price, $1.00.
This romance of the "Tower of London" depicts the Tower as palace, prison
and fortress, with many historical associations. The era is the middle of
the sixteenth century.
The story is divided into two parts, one dealing with Lady Jane Grey, and
the other with Mary Tudor as Queen, introducing other notable characters
of the era. Throughout the story holds the interest of the reader in the
midst of intrigue and conspiracy, extending considerably over a half a
century.
IN DEFIANCE OF THE KING. A Romance of the American Revolution. By Chauncey
C. Hotchkiss. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis.
Price, $1.00.
Mr. Hotchkiss has etched in burning words a story of Yankee bravery, and
true love that thrills from beginning to end, with the spirit of the
Revolution. The heart beats quickly, and we feel ourselves taking a part
in the exciting scenes described. His whole story is so absorbing that you
will sit up far into the night to finish it. As a love romance it is
charming.
GARTHOWEN. A story of a Welsh Homestead. By Allen Raine. Cloth, 12mo. with
four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.
"This is a little idyl of humble life and enduring love, laid bare before
us, very real and pure, which in its telling shows us some strong points
of Welsh character--the pride, the hasty temper, the quick dying out of
wrath.... We call this a well-written story, interesting alike through its
romance and its glimpses into another life than ours. A delightful and
clever picture of Welsh village life. The result is excellent."--Detroit
Free Press.
MIFANWY. The story of a Welsh Singer. By Allan Raine. Cloth, 12mo. with
four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.
"This is a love story, simple, tender and pretty as one would care to
read. The action throughout is brisk and pleasing; the characters, it is
apparent at once, are as true to life as though the author had known them
all personally. Simple in all its situations, the story is worked up in
that touching and quaint strain which never grows wearisome, no matter how
often the lights and shadows of love are introduced. It rings true, and
does not tax the imagination."--Boston Herald.
For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the
publishers
A. L. BURT COMPANY, 52-58 Duane St., New York.