CHAPTER I.

[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]

Copyright, 1895, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.

* * * * *

PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, DECEMBER 17, 1895. FIVE CENTS A

COPY.

VOL. XVII.--NO. 842. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.

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[Illustration]

CHRISTMAS ON MAJUBA STATION.

BY RICHARD BARRY.

December on the Majuba coast, and the day had been the hottest of the

month, as the log-book entry showed.

It was a few minutes past sundown, and the awnings that had covered the

decks of the old steam-frigate _Sumter_ were being taken in to allow a

freer passage for any air that might begin to stir with the nightfall.

The barefooted sailors trod gingerly about, carefully avoiding the

metal-work on the hatch combings and the soft blotches of pitch that had

bubbled up through the deck seams. The only sounds were the chattering

of a large monkey that was swinging himself to and fro in the

heat-slackened shrouds, and the discordant squawking of some tame

parrots on the forecastle.

A group of officers lolled against the after-rail, and three or four

youngsters, a little apart from them, had just finished a whispered

conversation. But for some minutes there had not been a loud word spoken

throughout the ship. There was one thought present in the minds and

hearts of all, from the Captain, ill and half delirious with fever below

in his close sweltering cabin, to Midshipman Bobby Seymour, who had had

a lump in his throat for the past twenty-four hours--one thought, over

and over--home, home, home.

It was the early evening of the night before Christmas. A sagging

wind-sail, that hung down the forward hatchway like a huge empty trouser

leg, swayed a little, and the movement caught the junior Lieutenant's

eye.

"The land breeze! Feel it?" he said, lifting his hand as if to enforce

silence.

Warm, and almost fetid with an indescribable odor, a breath had crept

softly across the water from the low-lying African coast--a breath

redolent of swamps, of strange unhealthy products of the overheated

earth, suggestive of fever that burned into the bones.

"I don't like it," said Bobby Seymour, wriggling his small shoulders. He

spoke in a half whisper. "I wish I was at Irvington with the river all

iced up, the sleigh-bells jingling-jangling everywhere, and--"

"Oh, I say, quit, please, won't you?" interrupted the boy at his elbow.

"It's hard enough to stand things as they are. What wouldn't we all

give--" Then he shut his lips firmly without finishing his sentence.

"Hear that surf!" he added, after a moment's silence.

Borne on the slight air from the eastward came a deep sound like the

booming of a thousand giant drums.

"It doesn't look like any landing to-morrow," remarked Midshipman

Seymour, wisely.

Just then the thin musical notes of a concertina drifted out from the

forecastle.

"'Be it never so humble, there's no place like home,'"

chanted a voice.

"They have it there too," said Bobby Seymour to himself. "Why shouldn't

they?"

But the song died away almost as soon as it had begun. In fact, it had

been more like a deep-chested musical sigh than anything else.

"I wonder if we couldn't get the Kroomen to sing something jolly for us

to-night?" suggested one of the larger midshipmen.

"I think the old man is too ill to stand much celebrating just now,"

spoke up another. "But I say, Remson, let's see if one of us can't get

ashore to-morrow and get something fresh to eat. I'm sick of this old

hooker, anyhow. Might as well be docked in Portsmouth, for all the good

we're doing here."

This was fact. Watching for slave-traders under such restrictive orders

from the government at Washington as precluded the faintest possibility

of making a capture was far from exciting, and, besides, the goings on

at home had produced a feeling of uneasiness on shipboard, for this was

the troublous winter of '60-1.

It was little wonder that things were doleful on board the old _Sumter_

this particular Christmas eve, and so it passed like the evening of any

other day.

But Bobby Seymour, when he awakened the next morning, gazed up at the

huge deck beams of the steerage, and suddenly remembered something.

He slid out of his hammock and scrambled over to the chest that had his

initials on the lid. He opened it, and dug out a neatly tied package

from a corner. It was addressed to him with his full title, and was

inscribed "Not to be opened until Xmas day."

He crawled over to an open port, and sitting down on the deck, deftly

undid the wrapping. But he paused for a minute before he looked to see

what it contained, and his eyes took on the sightless expression of deep

thoughts far away as he gazed out over the sea.

The sun was flaming above the tree-tops on the distant shore, and the

warm morning breeze fluttered the hair of his tousled curly head.

But Bobby did not see the sun or feel the breeze. He saw a wide stretch

of snow-covered lawn, with the pine branches that lined the driveway

weighted down, and each elm and apple bough all a-sparkle in a case of

ice, and the sleigh bells "jingle-jangling" everywhere. He knew how his

skates looked, hanging up on the nail behind the door, and his

hockey-stick, and his sled. He could smell the hot buckwheat cakes and

hear his little sisters laughing.

"They'd just be taking down their stockings," he said, a quiver coming

to his eyelid.

In truth, Midshipman Bobby Seymour was nothing but a boy, and not a very

tall one. He looked even younger than he really was as he sat there on

the deck hugging his bare knees up to his chin, the still unopened

package held tightly under his arm, and if a tear did roll down his

cheek, and all the way down his neck beneath his collar, it was nothing

to be ashamed of.

"Mr. Seymour," broke in a voice that brought back the heat and the smell

of the ship quite suddenly. "Mr. Jephson wishes to see you on deck as

soon as possible, sir."

Bobby made a dash at his eyes with the back of his hand, and looked up

at the big red-mustached orderly. "Very good; be up there right away,"

he answered.

Then he arose and hurried into his things, only glancing into the

package, and catching sight of two or three letters and some mysterious

objects done up in tissue-paper.

As he came on deck he walked quietly aft and touched his cap. Mr.

Jephson, the executive officer, saw him.

"Ah, Mr. Seymour, merry Christmas!" he remarked, much as if it was the

usual thing to say. "I have some work for your boat's crew, sir. Just

step here a minute."

Bobby hastened to the quarter-deck.

"There, do you see that," said the Lieutenant, pointing towards the dark

green line of coast--"that white thing floating there, a mile or more

from shore?"

"Yes, sir," said Bobby, squinting his little sleepy eyes.

Mr. Jephson picked up his sea-glasses. "In my mind it will help clear up

the meaning of that glare to the westward two nights ago," he said. "I

think it's a bit of wreckage, or an overturned boat that is drifting

in." The Lieutenant spoke slowly as he adjusted the binoculars. Then he

turned, and added, quickly:

"Get your coffee; see that the men get theirs; lower away the cutter;

pick that up or find out what it is, and come back to the ship. You will

be here by breakfast-time."

"Aye, aye, sir," Bobby answered.

All hands were turning out as he entered the steerage, but he heard few

"Merry Christmases," and the coffee tasted bitterer than ever. All at

once an idea seized him, and he thrust the precious package into his

jacket. He could read the letters anyhow as he rowed back to the ship.

In another moment he was stepping through the gangway.

"Don't go too close to the white water, youngster," said one of the

junior officers, who had come on deck, "or you'll be a Robinson Crusoe

before you know it."

"Thank you, sir," replied Bobby, as he hastened down the companion

ladder. He had to make a leap of it into the cutter, where the men were

waiting for him, in no pleasant frame of mind at the prospect of a long

pull so early. In another minute they were heading shorewards. On board

the ship, so used had every one become to the slow rolling, that it was

hard to believe that such a sea was running. But from the boat the

ground-swells seemed great hills, so smooth that an oar left a swirl in

the green water as a paddle might in a mill-pond.

They had rowed some distance, now climbing up slowly, then coasting down

with a rush, before Bobby caught sight of the floating object gleaming

on the top of a great lift of sea a mile nearer the shore; he pointed it

out to the coxswain, and sat down to read his letters.

As he drew the package from his breast he became conscious that it would

not be quite comfortable to open it with twelve pairs of curious eyes

gazing at him, so he brought forth only two of the letters with an

affectation of carelessness, tied up the rest of the little bundle, and

thrust it back into his jacket again.

Sitting there in the stern-sheets of the cutter, with the scorching

African sun overhead, and the "thrim-thrum" of oars in his ears, once

more his thoughts jumped back to the snow and the sleigh-bells as he

opened the first little note. It was written in lead-pencil on very

fancy paper, all posies and forget-me-nots. Nor was it written exactly.

Most of the words were printed in capital letters, the I's carefully

dotted, and the T's laboriously crossed. The lump came into Bobby's

throat as he read it slowly.

"DEAR BROTHER ROBERT" [it began],--"I made this for you all myself.

Merry Christmas. I have a kitten and its name is--"

The boat had given such a sickening downward swoop that Bobby looked up

suddenly. Never had he seen such a wave in all his short experience. And

the sensation! It reminded him of the time he was tossed in a blanket at

Annapolis. Yet the water's surface was smooth and oily--not the sound of

a ripple--dead silence.

The men slackened in their stroke as another came on astern and raised

them upwards. When at its summit Bobby looked towards the shore.

Nothing but a succession of green ridges. But suddenly a line of white

like a rip in a great cloth stretched along against the mass of foliage

above the beach. Then down the cutter raced.

Midshipman Seymour felt that the eyes of his crew were all upon him; he

had detected a frightened glance or two, and the bowmen were looking

over their shoulders.

"Steady, there!" he said, crumpling the letters into his pocket as he

stood up. Then his spirits rose. Only a few hundred feet further on

floated the mysterious object, rising in plain sight; it was a heavy

chest, with lettering of some sort on it.

"Oars!" he shouted, and the men rested, glancing uneasily at their

companions on the thwarts. Bobby looked back at the ship.

It scorned incredible that they could have covered that distance in such

a space of time.

"In bow there, with your boat-hooks!" he shouted. But before the men

could get to their feet an expression of horror crossed every face.

Three or four cried out in fear. Once more Bobby turned, and a sick

feeling came all over him.

The coxswain leaned forward. "We're going to catch it, sir," he

whispered, and he made as if to kick off his shoes.

Full half a mile seaward one of the tall waves had broken at its height,

and widening and frothing, it spread out in a mass of glistening

smother. The sight made the little midshipman think of an army of white

horses rising at a great green hedge.

The water around the boat began to clop noisily against the gunwales,

and the wave crests on either hand danced and tottered uneasily. Then,

pitching down into a hollow, the white horses disappeared for an

instant, and nothing could be seen but a green wall in front. But the

charge was coming--nearing; they could hear the roaring of it now.

"Steady, men!" said Bobby. "Coxswain, it's too late to turn her; we'll

have to ride it in." Even to himself his voice sounded strange and deep.

He forgot he was a boy. Was not he responsible? Were not they all

looking to him to bring them safely through? He was an officer.

It was not customary for the regular crew of any ship to make a landing

on this part of the African coast. For this service a tribe of hardy

blacks, Kroomen they were called, provided expert boatmen to any ship on

coast station. They knew how to ride the surf, and the best man-o'-war's

man was but a novice to them. But for the last three days even the

blacks had declared the surf too heavy for safe landing, and now Bobby

and his cutter were going to try it, much against their wills.

As the broken roaring water rushed down upon them the noise drowned even

his thoughts, and as it caught the boat full astern each man held his

breath. But the oars pulling furiously kept the cutter's nose in the

right direction, and catching the impetus, she tore shoreward like a

runaway engine. After the first shock it was exciting. Bobby even forgot

the danger. He noticed the unlucky chest turning over and over in the

foam, and peering ahead he became aware for the first time that they

were nearing the outlet of a small river that debouched into the sea.

The surf was running high up on the beach, and frothing across a bar at

the river's mouth, where a little island made a delta on each side. No

sooner had he noticed this when he saw something else--a score of naked

black figures running up the sand. Now the Majuba tribes are cannibals.

Bobby's heart stood still. To provide a Christmas dinner to a lot of

hungry savages was not a pleasant prospect.

"Pull, port! hold, starboard!" shouted the young commander. The men bent

to their oars, and, wonder of wonders, with a great heave and a twist

the cutter crossed the bar, and shot up on a wave between the green

shelving banks of an unknown river, where a white man's boat had never

been before. Keeping well to the centre of the stream, the cutter at

last reached smooth water, and Bobby found himself standing up, his

knees trembling slightly, and not one hundred yards away a horde of the

evilest-looking wild black men he had ever set his eyes on. Something

had to be done, and to take advantage of their surprise was his first

thought. "Why not sing?" he murmured out loud. They were waiting for

some demonstration, evidently.

But as the rest of this narrative would make a long story in itself, it

is best to let Midshipman Seymour tell it shortly, as he did in the

letter to his sister Dorothy, which he wrote three days later.

"DEAR LITTLE SIS [it ran]--You will have to write again and tell me

the name of the kitten, for I have lost your beautiful letter

before I could finish reading it. And the fine bead-work

pin-cushion, full of the very sharpest pins, I had to give away,

and Jack's six-bladed knife, and Nell's fancy-work purse, and

mother's silk handkerchief, and grandma's silk gloves, and the

package of rock-candy; in fact, everything you sent me now belongs

to a great ugly cannibal king whose name is Matagoolah. But all

this means a story, so I will tell it as quickly as I can. On

Christmas day I was sent out from the ship with my boat's crew to

pick up something that was floating in the water. It proved to be a

chest from the slaver _Nightingale_ that had burned up 'way out to

sea. As we rowed along we were caught in the surf, and by good luck

were carried up a little river that no one knew existed. I tell you

your red-headed brother was very badly frightened when he saw a lot

of savages standing on the bank. I thought, 'Oh, if grandma could

only see me now!' The savages were so astonished that they did not

do anything, and I thought I'd make believe I came to see them on

purpose.

"So I signaled out an old fellow who appeared to be a chief, and

making my very best bow, I began to sing, very solemnly and loudly,

'Haul the bow-line; well I love my darling,' and the men all joined

in the chorus. Then I thought of the only presents I had--which

were yours--and rowing up close, I had four of the crew carry me

ashore, where I presented everything I had to the chief, singing

the only thing that came into my head--'Hail Columbia!'--at the top

of my voice. It was quite funny. When he saw the pin-cushion he was

so delighted; and as he received one thing after another he began

to grin and chatter. But the rock-candy! My! when he tasted it I

was afraid he was going to eat me up for joy! He gave some orders,

and all of his men threw down their spears and fell flat on their

faces. So I ordered my crew to come ashore, which they did, pretty

well frightened.

"Now what to do I did not know; but looking towards the ship, which

was some three miles out to sea, I saw a puff of smoke, and I knew

they were firing one of the big guns as a signal to call back the

other boats, so I lifted up my hands and waved them; then as the

report came I bent down low, and all of my men did the same. This

time the chief himself fell on his knees! But what will you suppose

I saw also? The big chest that I had started out to get! It was

rolling up in the surf near the beach. At once I began to make

motions as if I were hauling something in with a rope, and told

four of my crew to go fetch the chest from the sea. When they

plunged in and brought it out the savages looked scared to death.

And breaking it open, what do you suppose it contained? Why, beads

and knives and trinkets, a big brass crown--in fact, a complete

trader's outfit, enough to have bought fifty slaves and more. That

settled it. The king would have given me the heads of half his

people.

"Well, to make it short, we were feasted and treated, and I am

afraid prayed to for two days. I kept a flag flying from a

tree-top; the trees are not tall, but I knew they could see it from

the ship, and yesterday they managed to land three boats with more

presents for my black friends, and took us off. But I really

believe that it was your 'Merry Xmas' pin-cushion that saved our

lives. Make me another, tell me the name of the kitten, and whether

you are having good coasting; and take lots of love and kisses for

all.

"From your loving brother,

"ROB."

And this is the story of a rather unusual Christmas day, and explains

the reason why Bobby Seymour was given the title of "Envoy Extraordinary

to his Majesty King Matagoolah, Ruler of the Majubas."

THE FREYS' CHRISTMAS PARTY.

BY RUTH McENERY STUART.

There was a great sensation in the old Coppenole house three days before

Christmas.

The Freys, who lived on the third floor, were going to give a Christmas

dinner party, and all the other tenants were invited.

Such a thing had never happened before, and, as Miss Penny told her

canary-birds while she filled their seed-cup, it was "like a clap of

thunder out of a clear sky."

The Frey family, consisting of a widow and her brood of half a dozen

children, were as poor as any of the tenants in the old building, for

wasn't the mother earning a scant living as a beginner in newspaper

work? Didn't the Frey children do every bit of the house-work, not to

mention little outside industries by which the older ones earned small

incomes? Didn't Meg send soft gingerbread to the Christian Woman's

Exchange twice a week, and Ethel find time, with all her studies, to

paint butterflies on Swiss aprons for fairs or fêtes?

Didn't everybody know that Conrad, now but thirteen, was a regular

solicitor for orders for Christmas trees, palmetto palms, and gray moss

from the woods for decorative uses on holiday occasions?

The idea of people in such circumstances as these giving dinner parties!

It was almost incredible, but it was true, for tiny notes of invitation

tied with rose-colored ribbons had been flying over the building all the

afternoon. The Frey twins, Felix and Félicie, both barefoot, had carried

one to each door.

They were written with gold ink on pink paper, and a water-colored

butterfly poised in mid-air somewhere on each one, while at the left

lower end were the mysterious letters "R.S.V.P."

The old Professor who lived in the room next the Frey kitchen got one,

and Miss Penny, who occupied the room beyond. So did Mademoiselle

Guyosa, who made paper flowers, and the mysterious little woman of the

last, worst room in the house--a tiny figure whose face none of her

neighbors had even seen, but who had given her name to the baker and

milkman as "Mamzelle St. John."

And there were others. Madame Coraline, the fortune-teller, who rented

the hall room on the second floor, was perhaps more surprised at her

invitation than any of the rest. No one ever asked her anywhere. Even

the veiled ladies who sometimes visited her darkened chamber always

tiptoed up the steps as if they were half ashamed of going there.

The twins had a time getting her to come to the door to receive the

invitation, and after vainly rapping several times, had finally brought

a parasol and hammered upon the horseshoe tacked upon the door, until at

last it opened just about an inch. And then she was invited.

But indeed it is time to be telling how the party originated.

It had been the habit of the Frey children, since they could remember,

to save up spare coins all the year for a special fund which they called

"Christmas Money."

The old fashion of spending these small amounts in presents for one

another had long ago given place to the better one--more in the

Christmas spirit--of using it to brighten the day for some one less

blessed than themselves.

It is true that on the Christmas before the one of this story they had

broken the rule, or only strained it, perhaps, to buy a little stove for

their mother's room.

But a rule that would not stretch enough to take in such a home need

would be a poor one indeed.

This year they had had numerous schemes, but somehow none had seemed to

appeal to the stockholders in the Christmas firm, and so they had

finally called a meeting on the subject.

It was at this meeting that Meg, fourteen years old, having taken the

floor, said: "Well, it seems to _me_ that the _worst_ kind of a

Christmas must be a lonely one. Just think how nearly all the roomers in

this house spent last Christmas--most of 'em sittin' by their lone

selves in their rooms, and some of 'em just eatin' every-day things! The

Professor hadn't a thing but Bologna-sausage and crackers. _I

know--'cause I peeped._ An' now, whatever you all are goin' to do

with _your_ money, _mine's_ goin' right into this house, to the

roomers--_some way_."

"If we knew what we could do, Meg?" said Ethel.

"If we knew what we could do or _how we could do it_," interrupted

Conrad, "why, I'd give my eighty-five cents in a minute. I'd give it to

the old Professor to have his curls cut."

Conrad was a true-hearted fellow, but he was full of mischief.

"Shame on you, Buddy!" said Meg, who was thoroughly serious. "Can't you

be in earnest for just a minute?"

"I am in earnest, Meg. I think your scheme is bully--if it could be

worked; but the Professor wouldn't take our money any more'n we'd take

his."

"Neither would any of them." This was Ethel's first real objection.

"Who's goin' to offer 'em money?" rejoined Meg.

"I tell you what we _might_ do, maybe," Conrad suggested, dubiously. "We

_might_ buy a lot of fine grub, an' send it in to 'em sort o'

mysteriously. How'd that do?"

"Twouldn't do at all," Meg replied. "The idea! Who'd enjoy the finest

Christmas dinner in the world by his lone self, with nothin' but a

lookin'-glass to look into and holler 'Merry Christmas' to?"

Conrad laughed. "Well, the Professor's little cracked glass wouldn't be

much of a comfort to a hungry fellow. It gives you two mouths!"

Conrad was nothing if not facetious.

"There you are again, Buddy! _Do_ be serious," said Meg. And then she

added, desperately, "The thing _I_ want to do is to _invite_ 'em!"

"Invite! Who? What? When? How? Where?"

Such was the chorus that greeted Meg's astounding proposition.

"Why, I say," she explained, nothing daunted, "let's put all our

Christmas money together and get the very best dinner we can, and invite

all the roomers to come and eat it with us. _Now I've said it!_ And I

ain't foolin', either."

"And we haven't a whole table-cloth to our names, Meg Frey, and you know

it!" It was Ethel who spoke again.

"And what's that got to do with it, Sisty? We ain't goin' to eat the

cloth. Besides, can't we set the dish-mats over the holes? 'Twouldn't be

the first time."

"But Meg, dearie, you surely are not proposing to invite company to

dine in the kitchen, are you? And who'd cook the dinner, not to mention

buying it?"

"Well, now, listen, Sisty dear. The dinner that's in my mind isn't a

society-column dinner like those Momsy writes about, and those we are

goin' to invite don't wear out much table-linen at home. And they cook

their own dinners, too, most of 'em--exceptin' when they eat 'em in the

French market, with a Chinaman on one side of 'em and an Indian on the

other.

"_I'm_ goin' to cook _ours_, and as for eatin' in the kitchen, why, we

won't need to. Just see how warm it is! The frost hasn't even nipped the

banana leaves over there. And Buddy can pull the table out on the big

back gallery, an' we'll hang papa's old gray soldier blanket for a

portière to keep the Quinettes from lookin' in; and, Sisty, you can

write the invitations an' paint butterflies on 'em."

Ethel's eyes for the first time sparkled with interest, but she kept

silent, and Meg continued:

"An' Buddy'll bring in a lot of gray moss and _latanier_ to dec'rate

with, an'--"

"An' us'll wait on the table!"

"Yes, us'll wait on the table!" cried the twins.

"But," added Felix, in a moment, "you mustn't invite Miss Penny,

Meg,'cause if you do F'lissy an' me'll be thest shore to disgrace the

party a-laughin'. She looks thest ezzac'ly like a canary-bird, an' Buddy

has tooken her off till we thest die a-laughin' every time we see her. I

think she's raised canaries till she's a sort o' half-canary herself.

Don't let's invite her, Sisty."

"And don't you think Miss Penny would enjoy a slice of Christmas turkey

as well as the rest of us, Felix?"

[Illustration: "SHE OUGHT TO EAT CANARY-SEED AND FISH-BONE."]

"No; I fink she ought to eat canary-seed and fish-bone," chirped in

Dorothea.

Dorothea was only five, and this from her was so funny that even Meg

laughed.

"An' Buddy says he knows she sleeps perched on the towel-rack, 'cause

they ain't a sign of a bed in her room."

The three youngest were fairly choking with laughter now. But the older

ones had soon grown quite serious in consulting about all the details of

the matter, and even making out a conditional list of guests.

When they came to the fortune-teller, both Ethel and Conrad hesitated,

but Meg, true to her first impulse, had soon put down opposition by a

single argument.

"It seems to me she's the special one _to_ invite to a Christmas party

like ours," she pleaded. "The lonesomer an' horrider they are, the more

they belong, an' the more they'll enjoy it, too."

"Accordin' to that," said Conrad, "the whole crowd ought to have a dizzy

good time, for they're about as fine a job lot of lonesomes as I ever

struck. And as for beauty! 'Vell, my y'ung vriends, how you was

to-morrow?'" he continued, thrusting his thumbs into his armholes and

strutting in imitation of the old Professor.

Meg was almost out of patience. "Do hush, Buddy!" she protested, "an'

let's talk business. First of all, we have to put it to vote to see

whether we _want_ to have the party or not."

"I ain't a-goin' to give my money to no such a ugly ol' party," cried

Felix. "I want pretty little girls with curls an' wreafs on to my

party."

"An' me, too. I want a organ-grinder to the party that gets my half o'

our seventy cents," echoed Félicie.

Meg was indeed having a hard time of it.

"You see, Conrad"--the use of that name meant reproof from Meg--"you

see, Conrad, this all comes from your makin' fun of everybody. But of

course we can get an organ-grinder if the little ones want him."

Ethel still seemed somewhat doubtful about the whole affair. Ethel was

in the high-school. She had a lofty bridge to her nose. She was fifteen,

and she never left off her final g's as the others did. These are, no

doubt, some of the reasons why she was regarded as a sort of superior

person in the family. If it had not been for the prospect of painting

the cards, and a certain feeling of benevolence in the matter, it would

have been hard for her to agree to the party at all. As it was, her

voice had a note of mild protest as she said:

"It's going to cost a good deal, Meg. How much money have we? Let's

count up. I have a dollar and eighty-five cents."

"And I've got two dollars," said Meg.

"How is it you always save the most? I haven't saved but ninety cents."

Conrad spoke with a little real embarrassment as he laid his little pile

of coins upon the table.

"I reckon it's 'cause I've got a regular plan, Buddy. I save a dime out

of every dollar I get all through the year. It's the best way. And how

much have you ponies got?"

"We've got seventy cents together, an' we been a-whiskerin' in our ears

about it, too. We don't want our money put-ed in the dinner with the

rest. We want to see what we are givin'."

"Well, suppose you buy the fruit. Seventy cents'll get bananas and

oranges enough for the whole party."

"An' us wants to buy 'em ourselfs, too--hey, F'lix?"

"Yes, us wants to buy 'em ourselfs, too."

"And so you shall. And now all in favor of the party hold up right

hands."

All hands went up.

"Contr'ry, no!" Meg continued.

"Contr'ry, no!" echoed the twins.

"Hush! You mustn't say that. That's just what they say at votin's."

"Gee-man-tally! But you girls're awfully mixed," Conrad howled with

laughter. "They don't have any 'contr'ry no's' when they vote by holdin'

up right hands. Besides, Dorothea held up her left hand, for I saw her."

"Which is quite correct, Mr. Smartie, since we all know that Dolly is

left-handed. You meant to vote for the party, didn't you, dearie?" Meg

added, turning to Dorothea.

For answer the little maid only bobbed her head, thrusting both hands

behind her, as if afraid to trust them again.

"But I haven't got but thest a nickel," she ventured, presently. "F'lix

says it'll buy salt."

"Salt!" said Conrad. "Well, I should smile! It would buy salt enough to

pickle the whole party. Why, that little St. Johns woman goes out with a

nickel an' lays in provisions. I've seen her do it."

"Shame on you, Buddy!"

"I'm not jokin', Meg. At least I saw her buy a _quartie's_ worth o'

coffee and _quartie's_ worth o' sugar, an' then ask for lagniappe o'

salt. Ain't that layin' in provisions? She uses a cigar-box for her

pantry, too."

"Well," she protested seriously, "what of it, Conrad? It doesn't take

much for one very little person. Now, then, the party is voted for; but

there's one more thing to be done before it can be really decided. We

must ask Momsy's permission, of course. And that is goin' to be hard,

because I don't want her to know about it. She has to be out reportin'

festivals for the paper clear up to Christmas mornin', and if she knows

about it, she'll worry over it. So I propose to ask her to let us give

her a Christmas surprise, and not tell her what it is."

"And we know just what she'll say," Conrad interrupted; "she'll say, 'If

you older children all agree upon anything, I'm sure it can't be very

far wrong or foolish'--just as she did time we put up the stove in her

room."

"Yes, I can hear her now," said Ethel. "But still we must _let_ her say

it before we do a single thing, because, you know, _she mightn't_. An'

then where'd the party be?"

"It would be scattered around where it was last Christmas--where all the

parties are that don't be," said Conrad. "They must be the ones we are

always put down for, an' that's how we get left; eh, Sisty?"

"Never mind, Buddy; we won't get left as you call it, this time,

anyway--unless, of course, Momsy vetoes it."

"Vetoes what, children?"

They had been so noisy that they had not heard their mother's step on

the creaking stairs.

Mrs. Frey carried her pencil and notes, and she looked tired, but she

smiled indulgently as she repeated, "What am I to veto, dearies--or to

approve?"

"It's a sequet! A Trismas sequel!"

"Yes, an' it's got owanges in it--"

"--An' bananas!"

"Hush, you ponies! And, Dolly, not another word!" Meg had resolutely

taken the floor again.

"Momsy, we've been consulting about our Christmas money, and we've voted

to ask you to let us do something with it, and not tell you a thing

about it, only"--and here she glanced for approval at Ethel and

Conrad--"only we _ought_ to tell you, Momsy dear, that the surprise

isn't for you this time."

And then Mrs. Frey, sweet mother that she was, made just the little

speech they thought she would make, and when they had kissed her, and

all, even to Ethel, who seemed now as enthusiastic as the others, caught

hands and danced around the dinner table, she was glad she had

consented.

It was such a delight to be able to supplement their scant Christmas

prospects with an indulgence giving such pleasure.

"And I'm glad it isn't for me, children," she added, as soon as the

hubbub gave her a hearing, "I'm very glad. You know you strained a point

last year, and I'm sure you did right. My little stove has been a great

comfort. But I am always certain of just as many home-made presents as I

have children, and they are the ones I value. Dolly's lamp-lighters are

not all used up yet, and if she _was_ to give me another bundle this

Christmas I shouldn't feel sorry. But our little Christmas _money_ we

want to send out on some loving mission. And, by-the-way, I have two

dollars which may go with yours if you need it--if it will make some

poor body's bed softer or his dinner better."

"Momsy's guessed!" Felix clapped his hands with delight.

"'Sh! Hush, Felix! Yes, Momsy, it'll do one of those things exactly,"

said Meg. "And now _I_ say we'd better break up this meeting before the

ponies tell the whole business."

"F'lix never telled a thing," chirped Félicie, always ready to defend

her mate. "Did you, F'lixy? Momsy said 'dinner' herself."

"So I did, dear; but who is to get the dinner and why you are going to

send it are things mother doesn't wish to know. And here are my two

dollars. Now off to bed, the whole trundle-bed crowd, for I have a lot

of copy to write to-night. Ethel may bring me a bite, and then sit

beside me and write while I sip my tea and dictate and Meg puts the

chickens to roost. And Conrad will keep quiet over his books. Just one

kiss apiece and a hug for Dolly. Shoo now!"

So the party was decided.

* * * * *

The Frey home, although one of the poorest, was one of the happiest in

New Orleans, for it was made up of cheery workers, even little Dorothea

having her daily self-assumed tasks. Miss Dorothea, if you please,

dusted the banisters round the porch every day, straightened the rows of

shoes in mother's closet, folded the daily paper in the rack, and kept

the one rug quite even with the front of the hearth. And this young lady

had, furthermore, her regular income of five cents a week.

Of course her one nickel contributed to the party had been saved only a

few hours, but Dorothea was only five, and the _praline_ woman knew

about her income, and came trudging all the way up the stairs each week

on "pay-day."

Even after the invitations were sent, it seemed to Dolly that the

"party-day" would never come, for there were to be "three sleeps" before

it should arrive.

It was Ethel's idea to send the cards early, so as to forestall any home

preparation among the guests.

But all things come to him who waits--even Christmas. And so at last the

great day arrived.

Nearly all the invited had accepted, and everything was very exciting;

nor was the situation without its difficulties.

Even though she was out every day, it had been so hard to keep every

tell-tale preparation out of Mrs. Frey's sight. But when she had found a

pan of crullers on the top pantry shelf, or heard the muffled

"gobble-gobble" of the turkey shut up in the old flour-barrel, or smelt

invisible bananas and apples, she had been truly none the wiser, but had

only said: "Bless their generous hearts! They are getting up a fine

dinner to send to somebody."

Indeed Mrs. Frey never got an inkling of the whole truth until she

tripped up the stairs a half-hour before dinner on Christmas day, to

find the feast all spread.

The old mahogany table, extended to its full length, stood gorgeous in

decorations of palmetto, moss, and flowers, out upon the deep back

porch, which was converted into a very pretty chamber by the hanging

curtain of gray.

If she had any misgivings about it, she betrayed them by no single word

or look, but there were bright red spots upon her usually pale cheeks as

she passed, smiling, into her room to dash into the dinner dress Ethel

had laid out for her.

To have her poverty-stricken home invaded by a host of strangers was

striking a blow at the most sensitive weakness of this proud woman. And

yet the loving motive which was so plain through it all, showing the

very spirit in her dear children for which she had prayed, was too

sacred a thing to be chilled by even a half-shade of disapproval.

"And who are coming, dear?" she asked of Meg, as soon as she could trust

her voice.

"All the roomers, Momsy, excepting the little hunchback lady and Madame

Coraline."

"Madame Coraline!" Mrs. Frey could not help exclaiming.

"Yes, Momsy. She accepted, and she _even came_, but she went back just

now. She was dressed terribly fine--gold lace and green silk, but it was

old and dowdy; and, Momsy, her cheeks were just as red! I was on the

step-ladder tackin' up the Bethlehem picture, Sisty was standin' on the

high chair hanging up the star, and Buddy's arms were full of gray moss

that he was wrappin' round your chair. But we were just as polite to her

as we could be, and asked her to take a seat. And we all thought she sat

down; but she went, Momsy, and no one saw her go. Buddy says she's a

witch. She left that flower-pot of sweet-basil on the table. I s'pose

she brought it for a present. Do you think that we had better send for

her to come back, Momsy?"

"No, daughter, I think not. No doubt she had her own reasons for going,

and she may come back. And are the rest all coming?"

"Yes'm; but we had a time gettin' Miss Guyosa to come. She says she's a

First Family, an' she never mixes. But I told her so were we, and we

mixed. And then I said that if she'd come she could sit at one end o'

the table and carve the ham, while you'd do the turkey. But she says

Buddy ought to do the turkey. But she's comin'. And, Momsy, the turkey

is a perfect beauty. We put pecans in him. Miss Guyosa gave us the

receipt and the nuts, too. Her cousin sent 'em to her from his

plantation. And did you notice the paper roses in the moss festoons,

Momsy? She made those. She has helped us fix up _a lot_. She made all

the Easter flowers on St. Joseph's altar at the Cathedral, too, and--"

A rap at the floor announcing a first guest sent the little cook

bounding to the kitchen, while Ethel rushed into her mother's room, her

mouth full of pins and her sash on her arm.

She had dressed the three little ones a half-hour ago; and Conrad, who

had also made an early toilet, declared that they had all three walked

round the dinner table thirty-nine times since their appearance in the

"dining-room." When he advanced to do the honors, the small procession

toddling single file behind him, somehow it had not occurred to him that

he might encounter Miss Penny, the canary lady, standing in a dainty old

dress of yellow silk just outside the door, nor, worse still, that she

should bear in her hands a tiny cage containing a pair of young

canaries.

He said afterward that "everything would have passed off all right if it

hadn't been for the twins." Of course he had forgotten that he had

himself been the first one to compare Miss Penny to a canary.

By the time the little black-eyed woman had flitted into the door, and

in a chirpy, birdlike voice wished them a merry Christmas, Felix had

stuffed his entire handkerchief into his mouth. Was it any wonder that

Félicie and Dorothea, seeing this, did actually disgrace the whole party

by convulsions of laughter?

They were soon restored to order, though, by the little yellow-gowned

lady herself, for it took her but half a minute to say that the birds

were a present for the twins--"the two little ones who brought me the

invitation."

Such a present as this is no laughing matter, and, besides, the little

Frey children were at heart polite. And so they had soon forgotten their

mirth in their new joy.

And then other guests were presently coming in, and Mrs. Frey, looking

startlingly fine and pretty in her fresh ruches and new tie, was saying

pleasant things to everybody, while Ethel and Meg, tripping lightly in

and out, brought in the dishes.

As there was no parlor, guests were received in a corner of the

"dining-room." No one was disposed to be formal, and when the old

Professor entered with a little brown paper parcel, which he declared,

after his greetings, to contain his dinner, everybody felt that the

etiquette of the occasion was not to be very strict or in the least

embarrassing.

Of course Mrs. Frey, as hostess, "hoped the Professor would reconsider,

and have a slice of the Christmas turkey"; but when they had presently

all taken their seats at the table, and the eccentric guest had actually

opened his roll of bread and cheese upon his empty plate, over which he

began to pass savory dishes to his neighbors, she politely let him have

his way. Indeed, there was nothing else to do, as he declared, declining

the first course with a wave of his hand, that he had come "yust for the

sake of sociapility."

"I haf seen efery day doze children work und sing so nize togedder yust

like leetle mans und ladies, so I come yust to eggsbress my t'anks for

de compliment, und to make de acquaintance off doze nize y'ung

neighbors." This with a courtly bow to each one of the children

separately. And he added in a moment: "De dinner iss very fine, but for

me one dinner iss like anudder. Doze are all externals."

To which measured and kindly speech Conrad could not help replying, "It

won't be an external to us, Professor, by the time we get through."

"Oho!" exclaimed the old man, delighted with the boy's ready wit. "Dot's

a wery schmart boy you got dhere, Mrs. Vrey."

At which exhibition of broken English the twins, who were waiting on the

table, thought it safe to rush to the kitchen on pretence of changing

plates, while Dorothea, seated at the Professor's left, found it

necessary to bite both lips, and to stare hard at the vinegar-cruet for

fully a second, to keep from laughing. Then, to make sure of her

self-possession, she artfully changed the subject, remarking, dryly,

"My nickel buyed the ice."

This was much funnier than the Professor's speech, judging from the

laughter that followed it. And Miss Dorothea Frey's manners were saved,

which was the important thing.

It would be impossible in this short space to give a full account of

this novel and interesting dinner party, but if any one supposes that

there was a dull moment in it, he is altogether mistaken.

Mrs. Frey and Ethel saw to it that no one was neglected in conversation;

Meg and Conrad looked after the prompt replenishing of plates, though

the alert little waiters, Felix and Félicie, anticipated every want, and

were as sprightly as two crickets, while Dorothea provoked frequent

laughter by a random fire of unexpected remarks, never failing, for

instance, to offer ice-water during every "still minute"; and, indeed,

once that young lady did a thing that might have proved quite terrible

had the old lady Saxony, who sat opposite, been disagreeable or

sensitive.

What Dorothea said was innocent enough--only a single word of two

letters, to begin with.

She had been looking blankly at her opposite neighbor for a full minute,

when she suddenly exclaimed,

"Oh!"

That was all, but it made everybody look, first at Dolly and then across

the table. Whereupon the little maid, seeing her blunder, hastened to

add:

"That's nothin'. My grandma's come out too."

And then, of course, everyone noticed that old lady Saxony held her

dainty hemstitched handkerchief quite over her mouth. Fortunately Mrs.

Saxony's good sense was as great as her appreciation of humor, and her

twinkling eyes, as she shook her finger threateningly at Dorothea, gave

everybody leave to laugh. So "Dolly's terrible break," as Conrad called

it, really went far to making the dinner a success--that is, if

story-telling and laughter and the merry clamor such as distinguish the

gayest of dinner parties the world over count as success.

[Illustration: THE ITALIAN ORGAN-GRINDER ARRIVES.]

It was while the Professor was telling a funny story of his boy life in

Germany that there came a rap at the door, and the children, thinking

only of Madame Coraline, turned their eyes toward the door, only to see

the Italian organ-grinder, whom, in the excitement of the dinner party,

they had forgotten to expect. He was to play for the children to dance

after dinner, and had come a little early--or perhaps dinner was late.

Seeing the situation, the old man began bowing himself out, when the

Professor, winking mysteriously at Mrs. Frey, and gesticulating

animatedly, pointed first to the old Italian and then to Madame

Coraline's vacant chair. Everybody understood, and smiling faces had

already shown approval when Mrs. Frey said, quietly, "Let's put it to

vote. All in favor raise glasses."

Every glass went up. The old Italian understood little English, but the

offer of a seat is a simple pantomime, and he was presently declining

again and again, bowing lower each time, until before he knew it--all

the time refusing--he was in the chair, his plate was filled, and Dolly

was asking him to have ice-water. No guest of the day was more welcome.

None enjoyed his dinner more, judging from the indications. And as to

Meg, the moving spirit in the whole party, she was beside herself with

delight over the unexpected guest.

[Illustration: THE PROFESSOR NOT ONLY SANG BUT DANCED.]

The dinner all through was what Conrad called a "rattlin' success," and

the evening afterward, during which nearly every guest contributed some

entertainment, was one long to be remembered. The Professor not only

sang, but danced. Miss Penny whistled so like a canary that one could

really believe her when she said she always trained her young birds'

voices. Miss Guyosa told charming folk-lore anecdotes, handed down in

her family since the old Spanish days in Louisiana.

The smiling organ-grinder played his engaged twenty-five cents' worth of

tunes over and over again, and when the evening was done persistently

refused to take the money until Felix slipped it into his pocket.

The Frey party will long be remembered in the Coppenole house, and

beyond it, too, for some very pleasant friendships date from this

Christmas dinner. The old Professor was just the man to help Conrad with

his German lessons. It was so easy for Meg to send him a cup of hot

coffee on cold mornings. Mrs. Frey and Miss Guyosa soon found many ties

in common friends of their youth. Indeed, the twins had gotten their

French names from a remote Creole cousin, who proved to be also a

kinswoman to Miss Guyosa. It was such a comfort, when Mrs. Frey was kept

out late at the office, for the children to have Miss Guyosa come and

sit with them, telling stories or reading aloud, and they brought much

brightness into her life too.

Madame Coraline soon moved away, and, indeed, before another Christmas

the Freys had moved too--to a small cottage all their own, sitting in

the midst of a pretty rose garden. Here often come Miss Guyosa and the

Professor, both welcome guests, and Conrad says the Professor makes love

to Miss Guyosa, but it is hard to tell.

One cannot keep up with two people who can tell jokes in four languages,

but the Professor has a way of dropping in as if by accident on the

evenings Miss Guyosa is visiting the Freys, and they do read the same

books--in four languages. There's really no telling.

When the Frey children are playing on the _banquette_ at their front

gate on sunny afternoons, the old organ-grinder often stops, plays a

free tune or two for them to dance by, smilingly doffs his hat to the

open window above, and passes on.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

FOR KING OR COUNTRY.[1]

A Story of the Revolution.

BY JAMES BARNES.

CHAPTER IX.

THE MESSENGER FROM STATEN ISLAND.

[1] Begun in HARPER'S ROUND TABLE No. 836.

For a long time George lay awake underneath the pier, worrying more and

more about Carter. At last he decided that it was better to take the

brightest view of things, and that there was no use borrowing trouble,

taking all into consideration.

"He may have hailed and I not heard him," he reasoned, sensibly, putting

it out of his mind; and looking out, he saw that the fog had cleared

away, the anchor lights of the fleet shone brightly, and their

reflections flashed in the waters of the bay.

While watching he fell asleep again. But he was soon awakened by

footsteps that literally sounded in his ears. The planks of the pier

were only a few inches above his head, and some sand fell through the

cracks upon him. It had been daylight for two hours or more, and it was

stifling hot in his cramped hiding-place.

The sounds that had aroused him had been made by a party of sailors

coming ashore from some of the boats that were tied to the landing. On

the beach below a number of small craft were drawn up, and some Jack

Tars and a few soldiers were digging in the sand for clams.

"Jupiter, but I'm hungry," murmured the young Yankee soldier, "and as

dry in my throat as a sooty chimney!"

Something that was said above his head rang so well with his thoughts

just then that he made a sudden movement, and almost broke his nose

against a beam.

"What have ye in th' bottle, Jock, my lad? Douse my pipes! but have ye

got into the Admiral's cellar?"

"Nothin' but cold spring water, messmate," was answered, cheerily. "But

I fain 'twere what had once been inside this bit of glass. I'm sick of

the mealy wet they give us on the _Roebuck_."

"Water's water the world over, when it comes to drinkin'," was the

answer. "I wouldn't spoil the thirst I have on me for my morning's grog

for the best spring water in this curst land we've come to."

"Hist! here," said the water-drinker; "I've got something else, me

hearty, that will make your tongue curl. It's a meat pie and a big hunk

of cheese. I prigged it out of the kitchen window up at the big house

yonder."

"Let's off where we can get a taste and smell, messmate. It will be hard

to take with us."

"Stay! here comes the Captain! Hide your prog; we'll come back for it.

Don't be caught red-handed, man!"

George saw the bottle and a bundle wrapped in an old bit of straw

matting thrust under the boards of the pier.

The two men hastened to the float and joined five or six of their

companions, who were waiting there.

Presently a man with a cocked hat came down, walking quickly. He gave a

few curt orders, and the sailors manned one of the boats and pulled for

the first of the outlying vessels.

"Necessity knows no law," said George, reaching out with the boat-hook.

He skilfully rolled the bottle towards him. It had once contained

Madeira. Then he hooked on to the bundle, and soon landed the meat pie

and the cheese. This done, he poked the matting outside in full view.

"Three good meals here," he said, munching away flat on his back. "Now,

how to get out of this."

There were only two plans left--to wait until dark and try to obtain

possession of one of the boats, or go inland and attempt to find a

friend in one of the island farmers. He decided on the former.

It would take too much space to detail the conversations he overheard,

or to tell of the chagrin of the sailor-men when they found out that

some one had unearthed their spoils. They laid the blame on a

landing-party from another vessel, however, and their language was that

generally accredited to pirates; but it seemed to ease their minds in a

measure. While they were declaring in several different languages that

they would catch the thief George smiled in his hole in the sand, and

commenced his mid-day meal.

His range of vision was somewhat constricted on account of his narrow

quarters, but he could see everything plainly that went on seaward.

The sailors and soldiers appeared to crack rough jokes and grumble

rather than carry on coherent intercourse, and so far as news went,

nothing could be gleaned.

About five o'clock in the afternoon George heard something at last that

made him strain every nerve to listen. His heart thumped against his

ribs.

"Pardon me, my Lord," a rich voice spoke, "but to-night would be the

time. Look at yonder clouds. The Yankees would hardly expect us to land

in the face of such threatening weather. 'Twould be a trick worthy of

their own invention."

"There will be a storm, Cornwallis," answered a good-natured drawl. "I

hate to start the ball rolling to the accompaniment of Jove's music, and

I think rain dampens ardor. But it is as my brother says."

"What think you, my Lord Howe?" asked the one addressed as Cornwallis.

"If it storms, land twenty thousand troops. The rebels will not come to

terms--deluded fools! Let's have no more temporizing." This was said in

low firm tones that showed the speaker was accustomed to authority.

"Land it is," replied Cornwallis. "I doubt if they have a sentry posted.

Phoebus Apollo! Look at the front of that black cloud. Hurry, sirs, or

we will not make the ships before it be upon us."

Three gentlemen in silk stockings--for George could see their

well-shaped legs before he caught a glimpse of anything else--walked

down the pier. The sailors lounging about sprang up to attention; a

soldier who had been playing leap-frog with a companion froze stiff with

his hand to his sweltering forehead.

"Out oars! Give way!" and two big barges left the float, Cornwallis in

one, and the two other distinguished figures in the second.

"Lord Howe and his brother, the General, that's who you are," whispered

George. "And you are going to land twenty thousand troops on Long

Island, eh? Oh, if Washington only knew! and I am going to let him into

the secret, gentlemen, if the good Lord will prosper me."

He lay back again and proved for darkness, for his plans were now well

formed.

A few yards up the beach lay a ship's dingy--the smallest boat swung at

her side or stern quarters. Stoutly built and bluff in the bows, it was

made for weather. Extending over the gunwale was a pair of new oars. The

little boat had been hauled up on the sands to be calked and painted.

The job had been finished early in the morning. All day had George cast

covetous eyes at her.

Now as if in answer to his prayer, it had grown dark suddenly, as if the

night had sprung forward some five hours. There was great to do out on

the water.

Signals climbed up and down the halyards. Drums tapped, and on shore

trumpets answered one another, it grew darker and darker, and, be

joyful! the tide was coming in strong, rippling against the pier-head

and creeping up the beach. All of the boats had been called back to the

fleet; but the dingy was left, and George's hopes rose. All his chances

lay in her.

The pier was deserted, and he loosened his limbs from their temporary

grave, and worked his head and shoulders out and looked around. "There

lies the city," he said. At this moment a great seam of fire ran across

the cloud and hurled itself down at the earth. A burst of thunder

followed. This was the bolt that had felled the elm so close to his

friend Carter.

George crawled out and stumbled. He was so stiff that his knees hurt him

when he moved. Now the wind came, and the rain began that wonderful

downpour; the lightning flashed incessantly. George hid alongside the

dingy. He caught momentary glimpses of the nearest ships getting out

stern anchors.

Now was the time for moving. The rain fairly stung him as he stood up

and applied his shoulder to the dingy's bow. He dug his bare toes into

the sand, and the muscles knotted in his arms and back. But the boat

moved not so much as a finger's breadth. Again he took fresh hold, and

strained until his ears pained and the cords of his neck were tense as

bow-strings.

The small boat ploughed backwards, the tide caught the stern; then the

rest of the launching was easy.

Many a sailor in that great fleet could not have done what this

deep-chested boy of sixteen had accomplished by sheer strength.

As the dingy floated, George waded after her, and giving a final push,

tumbled over the side. The current swept him up the shore. Even if seen

by the big sloop-of-war that lay nearest to him, he reasoned that in the

midst of all the bustle on board no one would think of putting after a

drifting boat. He shipped the tiller, and kept well out of sight until

the pitching and tossing told him he was getting into deeper water.

When he raised his head he was surprised to see what a distance he had

travelled, and he thanked the lightning; it enabled him to keep his

course. By stepping one of the oars in the mast-hole he increased his

speed perceptibly.

It was manifest that Lord Howe meant what he said, for now and then he

saw crowded boats running before the gale straight for the Gravesend

beach. Rolling and plunging, the dingy made headway to the north.

* * * * *

Washington was holding a conference with his officers in the big room of

the Kenedy House. Lately it had been rumored that Howe was going to up

anchor and make sail for Philadelphia.

The storm raging without at times compelled a pause in the conversation.

It was nearly midnight when a rapid knocking on the door followed the

lull caused by a tremendous thunder-clap.

An officer thrust his head in from the hallway. "Pardon me, your

Excellency," he said, "but there's a well-nigh drowned youth here, who

claims he has come from Staten Island and bears news of importance."

"Show him in at once," said Washington, pushing back from the

map-covered table.

Some of the officers half arose as a bedraggled figure entered.

Barefooted, clad only in his shirt and trousers, with a big smooch of

black paint covering half his face, the messenger drew himself up at

attention.

"Well, sir," said the General, "what have you to tell, my lad?"

"I have just come from the British fleet," was the reply. "They are

landing twenty thousand men on Long Island near Gravesend, your

Excellency."

In a few words he told his story, and great was the excitement. In

obedience to an invitation, the bearer of the tidings had sat down in a

corner of a big sofa. The water dripped from his soaked clothing.

"Here, one of you gentlemen take this brave lad and find him something

warm and dry to wear," spoke the Commander-in-chief, kindly.

One of the aides arose. "I have nothing but a spare uniform," he

remarked, as the two went out into the hall and climbed the stairs to a

little room on the third floor.

In a few minutes they returned, each dressed in the full uniform of a

lieutenant.

Three cannon had fired in quick succession, and as they entered they

roared again from the Battery.

Most of the officers had disappeared. Two were despatched to inform the

Convention at White Plains. But near the door stood one who had

evidently just come in out of the storm. It was John Clarkson,

commanding the Tenth New Jersey Foot--George's own Captain.

Washington was standing; he took a step nearer as the two young men came

into the room. "I have seen you somewhere before, my lad," he said,

"have I not?"

"Yes, General," was the response. "You did me the honor of speaking to

me."

"I remember," said the Commander-in-chief; "your name is Frothingham,

and you have a sister and aunt. Am I not right?"

"Yes, General."

"You are now a sergeant," went on Washington.

"Yes, your Excellency."

"I have in my hand your commission as Lieutenant."

George almost fell, and so overcome was he that he could not reply.

Captain Clarkson hurried up and grasped his hand. "God bless you, my

boy!" he said, much affected.

"I pray you will accept the loan of the uniform," said the young aide.

"There will be no time to get another."

At first George demurred, but his new friend insisted.

"You will honor it," he said, showing his fine teeth in a gracious

smile. "No need of further thanks."

A tall dark man spoke up. "I have a vacancy in my regiment. May I have

this young man to fill it?" he asked.

Washington smiled. "You are hereby assigned to Colonel Hand's regiment

of rifles," he said. "Now, gentlemen, there is work before us on Long

Island."

George, huddled under a canvas tent an hour later, in the clumsy boat

that was ferrying him and some of his brother officers across the East

River, glanced at the lace on his cuffs.

"I never thought of asking his name," he said, out loud. "What a dolt I

am!"

One thing had begun to weigh on his mind increasingly. He had heard no

news of Carter. He breathed a fervent prayer that he would see his

friend again.

The next day was the 23d of August.

When the young Lieutenant crept out of the hay of a small barn early in

the morning--for he had joined his new command the night before through

all the storm--he walked to the brow of a little hill that overlooked

the marshes and meadows in the direction of Gravesend. The branches of

the trees along the hill were filled with men watching intently

something that was going on below. George climbed a short distance up a

small oak.

There they were--the British! It seemed to him thousands upon thousands.

Their red coats gleamed, and occasionally a musket or a sword flashed in

the distance; the different bodies of troops moved like red caterpillars

across the meadow and along the beach. Numbers of boats were drawn up on

the sand; many more were shuttling back and forth to the vessels in the

bay; three large frigates were anchored quite close in shore.

He looked at the men about him. It hardly seemed possible that these

lads, many scarcely older than himself, in gray yarn stockings and

patched coats, would be able to stand for an instant against that brave

array. Oh, if his brother William were only here beside him! and yet he

heaved a sigh of relief, for who could tell what was going to happen?

A bugle sounded, and the men ran back to the clearing and formed in

line. Their faces were pale, and there was little talking. A feeling of

unreality was in George's mind; he could scarcely believe that there was

going to be a battle. As yet he had not heard a death-dealing shot fired

in all his life, and he did not know that it seemed to have a different

sound from that of a gun discharged in practice or in sport.

Soon the regiment was on the move. They drove before them, as they made

their way along the ridge of hills, all the cattle and live-stock that

could be gathered in from the surrounding farms.

Looking back, they could see columns of smoke rising from the direction

of New Utrecht and Gravesend. Some cannon-shots were also heard, and

every heart beat quickly with excitement.

At last they reached the spot where the road crossed the Flatbush

meadows and wound up the valley. It was known as Central Pass. Here

coats were thrown aside, and with spades and improvised picks and

shovels a long redoubt was thrown up along the ridge. For three days

they toiled incessantly, felling trees and making escarpments of

sharpened stakes.

It had rained almost incessantly, and it seemed to George that his new

clothes would never get dry again. He had slept each night upon the

soaked ground, and his hands and feet were sore and blistered.

It was nine o'clock in the morning. The redoubt had been finished, and

the men, after an early parade, were cooking their breakfasts over

little smoky fires in the thickets. Suddenly the booming of two guns was

heard behind them.

For a day or so there had been random shots in front, but what did these

two lone reports mean? The soldiers jumped to their arms. A bugle had

rung clearly and sharply at the bottom of the hill. It was a strange

call it played.

"Steady!" was the word that came down the line. "Keep your fire until

they are close to us. Aim low. Keep cool."

Such were the instructions that were passed along by the officers.

Colonel Hand had stationed himself behind George's company. He was

standing so close that the latter could overhear what passed.

"I know not what those two guns mean," said Colonel Hand to a Major

Chauncey, "but signals of some kind, I judge they must be, from

Sullivan's forces over to the eastward."

But little did he know that it was those two signal-guns that had set on

foot the action, and that the sound had caused a feeling of exultation

to run through the English lines.

Now at the bottom of the hill could be seen moving troops; strange tall

hats extended above the shrubbery, and a line of brilliantly uniformed

soldiers burst out into the meadow. The green coats, the white and red

facings, and the glitter of brass told who they were.

"The Hessians!" exclaimed Major Chauncey. "Steady, lads. We can lick the

Dutchmen."

On they came. The clicking of the locks could be heard along the

redoubt. The men, trembling, but cool under the influence of their

commander, were settling themselves in easy positions for taking aim,

when suddenly a spreading volley was heard in the rear.

What could it mean? Surely there were none of the enemy behind them. Why

should the forces be firing?

"Here, some one climb a tree! Take this glass!" shouted Colonel Hand.

George stepped forward. It was no effort for him to make his way up into

the branches; but he did not need the glass, and his heart stood still.

He could hardly form the words that were upon his lips. What he had seen

was this: Gleams of red flaring here and there along the hill-side

behind them.

"We are surrounded," he shouted down, and slid through the branches with

a crash.

Some of the riflemen were sent back to meet the new forces in the rear,

but by this time the firing had commenced along the line, and the

Hessians were swarming up the hill. So confused now became events that

George could only see what happened close to him, and even of that his

recollections were most vague.

A tall form burst through the bushes, and a great red-bearded face

thrust itself over the redoubt. In an instant the forms seemed to be all

around him. The shouts varied, first in one direction and then another.

He could never forget the horror with which he saw a tall Hessian draw

back his bayonet at a young figure on the ground.

Twigs snapped and crackled all around, the bullets ripped through the

leaves of the trees, and the first thing the young sergeant knew he was

standing breast-high in a thicket, and before him stood a green-coated

foreigner who was breathing hard from the charge through the brush, and

who held at George's throat the point of a bayonet.

Captain Clarkson's company was at the extreme left wing. A little brook

ran down the hollow, and most of the fighting had been at the front and

to the left.

George scarcely noticed the shrieks and cries for mercy and the groans.

His eye was upon the figure standing in front of him, and the blade of

the roughly made sword he carried was grating against the bayonet that

was thrusting at him viciously. Twice he parried, and then his opponent

lunged again. The hilt and the musket came together with a clash.

George lost his footing, tripped over a fallen branch, and fell

backwards; but so great was the force of the lunge the green-coated

soldier had levelled at him that the latter too lost his balance and

pitched forward. Both fell over the bank of the little brook and rolled

down into the shallow water. They were now out of sight of the fighting

and locked in each other's arms. The Hessian snapped with his teeth like

a cornered dog, and with his fingers tried to close about George's

throat. But the boy was strong and wiry, and the man was tired from his

sharp run up the hill. Over and over they went in the sand and pebbles,

the young American silent, but the Hessian grunting and cursing in his

foreign tongue. At last George was on top, and his hand closed about a

large stone. He struck the man a heavy blow between the eyes, and the

latter relaxed his hold. He lay there with his body half in the muddy

waters of the brook.

George looked about him. The firing had now grown less and less, but the

shouts were still heard, and occasionally a bullet whistled through the

trees. Stooping, he picked up his dented sword, and without a glance at

the figure of the senseless German, made his way down the stream. He

crawled under the corner of a rail fence, and lay there in the ferns

trying to get his breath.

It was evident that Colonel Hand's brave forces had been destroyed; the

Americans had been driven back and defeated.

As night came on George moved from his hiding-place, and crawling on his

hands and knees, made his way again to the top of the incline. And now

his experience "playing Injun" at Stanham Mills came into good use. He

knew that the Americans must be to the northward.

Occasionally, as he went through the bushes, he stumbled across the

victims of the Hessians' fury, and, strange to say, again a feeling of

unreality came over him, his mind was so fixed on his own dangerous

position.

Watch-fires were on every side. Once or twice he had, unseen, crawled

across the beat of a British sentry, and in this way he entered the

American lines. In fact, he did not know he was there until he saw the

heavy earth-works, and heard a voice exclaim quite close to him:

"New York is lost, but we can whip them in New Jersey, I can promise

you."

George knew that voice in an instant. He arose from behind the stone

wall along which he had been crawling--for he had long since been in

among the houses. "Colonel Hewes!" he said. "Oh, Colonel Hewes!"

The party gathered about the fire in the road-side started.

"Who's there? Who called me?" inquired the one who had been speaking.

"I, George Frothingham," was the reply.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

THE LITTLE GOOSE'S DREAM.

A little goose eight months old--just old enough to be a very lively

goose, and not of a sufficiently mature age to be a Christmas

goose--stood upon the bank of the old mill-pond, lost in as pensive a

reverie as it is possible for a little goose of ordinary intelligence to

indulge in. She felt very sad and sore in spirit--sad, because the pond

was frozen as stiff as the dignity of a prime minister, and sore,

because she had but a short time before flopped down off the bank for a

swim, only to experience, upon coming in contact with the ice, a shock

that almost snapped her little wish-bone in twain. So the poor little

goose stood upon one foot while she buried the other in her plumage that

she might rub the sore spot. And while she stood in this position she

became drowsy in the Christmas-flavored air, and thrusting her head

beneath her wing fell asleep.

And while she was lost in slumber, she dreamed that she was a little toy

goose in a shop window on a busy thoroughfare. The window was dressed

for the Christmas season, and the poor young goose felt very humble and

out of place in the society of so many toy animals of a superior order.

Instead of being able to waddle about, she was fixed in a stationary

position upon an inclined platform, which worked up and down, after the

manner of an accordion, and created a sound which the maker believed

children would accept as a faithful imitation of the anserine voice. Now

this little toy goose was quite indignant to think that her notes were

so unnatural, for they were really no more like those of a goose than a

locomotive whistle is like a cornet solo. Still, the little goose

determined to make the best of the situation, and it is only fair to say

that her vanity was greatly tickled when she saw the children coming

from school pause at the window and look at her eagerly. A few days

before Christmas the little toy goose felt very sad and lonely when a

fat man with great white whiskers came in and purchased her for some

little boy, for she had become very fond of a toy ostrich, an old

companion in the window, and had always cherished the fond hope that

they might be purchased by the same person. And it almost made her cry

when she was wrapped in a piece of brown paper and thrust into the

darkness of the valise of her purchaser. Out of the store she went, she

knew not where until she was removed from her paper wrapper in a small

country house and set on a nursery mantel-piece, beside the clock, whose

ticking made her so nervous that she couldn't find the rest she so

greatly needed. A cotton lamb and a woollen doll, however, reminded her

of the shop window, and she would probably have felt perfectly happy if

she could only have forgotten her old friend the toy ostrich.

Fortunately, while thinking of the ostrich and the bitter pangs of

enforced separation, the clock stopped, and she fell asleep. In the

morning she was taken with the other Christmas toys (which the fat man

with the white whiskers had left) right into bed by Reginald, who made

her squeak with great delight.

And when he took her into the bath-room she fairly yearned to be in the

tub with him and his tin steamboat.

"Oh, how I want to swim!" thought the little goose, as she looked at the

dimpled water, and envied the happy steamboat. "But then I must remember

that I am made of pasteboard, and that if I should go into the water it

would surely result in my having my paint washed off, even if I should

not turn into pulp and sink. But some day I shall be a great big goose--

No, I shall not, because I don't grow. I shall always be the same size

and age--"

Here she was interrupted by Reginald's little terrier, who came into the

room and commenced to paw her about playfully on the white pine floor.

He accidentally scratched out one of her eyes, and this made her sadder

than ever, because she could only see what was going on on one side of

her. And what made it worse, her eye could not be restored with glue,

because it had fallen through a knot-hole. A day or two later the little

toy goose was placed upon the dining-room window-sill in such a position

that she could look out on the barn-yard. There she saw geese wandering

around at will as their fancies directed them. And it made her feel that

it was indeed a sorry lot to be a pasteboard, stationary toy goose,

instead of being a real live specimen hatched under fortune's star. She

saw them talking in a most sociable manner, just as little Reginald's

mother and the other members of the church sewing society talked when

that body met in the library down-stairs.

Then the little goose tried to close its eye upon a tragedy without, but

couldn't, because it was not, and never had been, in the enjoyment of

eyelids. So she had to look on while the coachman chased the flock. He

finally caught a large lordly gander, and chopping his head off, started

with him towards the kitchen. The others set up such a cackling as has

never been heard since the geese were instrumental in saving Rome from

the invading Gaul.

And the cackling was so intense that it woke the little goose from her

dream, and she heard all her sisters and brothers and uncles and aunts

flapping their wings and cackling at a great rate. And when she saw

Michael carrying an axe in one hand and a gander in the other towards

the house, her tender soul heaved with emotion, and two tears coursed

down her cheeks like twin pearls as she observed,

"Alas! they have gone and killed poor Uncle William to play the star

part at the Christmas feast!"

R. K. MUNKITTRICK.

[Illustration]

The Little Giant.

By Thomas Dunn English.

CHAPTER I.

Once upon a time, in the country of the giants, there lived a young man

who was the mock of all his companions because he was somewhat deficient

in the qualities of a first-rate giant. He was very little, being not

seven feet high, while not one of his kinsfolk were less than ten; he

had so little bodily strength that he could scarcely lift an ox; and he

was so slow in his movements that his companions, in derision, called

him Gofaster. Although that was not his name, it clung to him, and he

was never known by any other. He had some merits, however; for he was

not only sensible and full of truthfulness and honor, but so

good-natured and kind-hearted that he was ever ready to do a good turn

to others, and would not harm even the meanest creeping thing.

[Illustration: GOFASTER FALLS IN WITH THE COWARDLY GIANTS.]

It chanced one day that Gofaster fell in with some giants who were great

cowards, but who took advantage of their superior strength to cuff him

and tweak his nose. As he had the heart of a lion, he fought them

lustily. But their numbers and strength were too much for him, and so

they overcame him and beat him severely. Then they carried away his cap,

his jerkin, and his shoes, leaving his head, back, and feet bare, and

his body bruised.

Poor Gofaster, so soon as his tormentors had gone, wandered into the

woodland in no very pleasant frame of mind. Bewailing his unhappy lot,

he came across a wretched hut with a low door, through which he entered

by stooping. He found there no occupants nor sign of human habitation

but a small heap of clothes, which lay upon the earthen floor. Examining

these, he found them to consist of a cap, a jerkin, and a pair of shoes.

They all seemed too small for him, but on trying them on they fitted

admirably.

"They are just what I want," said he, "and it is good fortune to find

them. On second thoughts, however, I shall put them off, for they are

not mine, and I must not, because of my need, rob another."

"You may take them and welcome," said a voice. "I have no use for them

for eleven months, and before that time you can return them to me, as

you will then have other garments to wear."

"But who are you," said Gofaster, "and where are you?"

"I am a Phooka," said the voice, "and my name is Shon. I am condemned to

be invisible for eleven months of the year, and banishment from Wales,

from whence I came, is also my penalty."

"But what was your fault?" asked Gofaster.

"My fault is like yours," said the goblin: "I am naturally too

good-natured. The Phookas, to whom I belong, are not only full of

mischief, but ill-natured in the pranks they play upon men. I am

mischievous also, but never to any one's hurt or serious annoyance.

Hence it is that the King of the Phookas has banished me from Wales for

three years, and my term will not expire for a twelvemonth. He has also

condemned me to be visible for only one month in the year. I have

watched you for months. I am the little old man whom you helped out of a

ditch to your own discomfort. I sympathize with you in your distress,

and, if you take my counsel, will bring you to good fortune."

"That is very kind of you," said Gofaster. "But how?"

"A thousand miles from here, in the far north," replied the Phooka, "in

the city of Huperborea, there reigns a King named Jornet, who has an

only child--a daughter called Amber. The Huperboreans are what you would

call dwarfs, being under five feet in height, with the exception of the

King, who is three inches taller than any of his subjects. He married in

the country of the giants where you live, and his daughter, though much

smaller than her mother, is within two inches of your height. She is

beautiful, intelligent, and affectionate, but no one of the princes

around have sought her hand, because of her height. Her father has been

enraged at this, and declares that the first man coming to his country,

though he be a private gentleman, if taller than she, provided he does

three things for the benefit of the state, shall be her husband and

succeed to the crown. Many have tried, having heard of these conditions,

but have done nothing worthy of the prize; besides, none of them found

favor in the eyes of the Princess Amber, and that is a part of the

conditions. You shall go, and you shall win."

"But how am I to get there, so great a distance? and how am I to support

myself when there? and what am I to do if I were to get there?"

"Listen," said the Phooka. "The clothes you have assumed have magic

powers. The cap is the cap of intellect, and makes you see clearly and

determine correctly. When in doubt, state the case in your own mind;

when you have come to what you should do, the cap will bind itself

tightly to your head. The jerkin is the jerkin of strength. While you

wear it you will have four times the strength of other men. The shoes

are the shoes of endurance. So long as they are on your feet you will be

able to bear any toil without fatigue. As for means to support you,

place your hand in your pocket and draw out a purse which it contains."

Gofaster obeyed, and drew out a small silken purse. "Why, this," he

said, "contains but one coin--a broad gold piece."

"Take out the coin and put it in your pocket." And Gofaster obeyed.

"Why," said the giant, "there is another piece in the purse."

"Do with that as you did with the other." And Gofaster did so.

"Well," said the giant, "there seems to be another still."

"As often as you draw out," said the goblin, "from that inexhaustible

treasury it will be replaced by another. And now I can transport you to

Huperborea. You could not get there without my assistance, for between

that country and this there are hundreds of miles of eternal ice and

snow, with a very short season of growth of stunted herbage, with few

animals that you could kill for support; and those who have tried to

visit this great open sea, which skirts the Huperborea kingdom, have

either been obliged to turn back or have perished miserably. I have the

power to transport you thither. How will you go? Above, below, or

between?"

Gofaster said to himself, "Which shall it be? Shall I go upward or on

the ground--that seems best--or midway?"

When he uttered to himself "midway" the cap clasped itself tightly to

his head, so he answered, "Midway."

The goblin gave a hollow laugh. "The cap has counselled you wisely," he

said. "Had you said above, I should have carried you so high that you

would have almost died of terror before we ended our short journey. Had

you said on the ground, you would have been dragged over rocks and

bushes, so as to get there much hurt, and I would have had no power to

change this. But as you have said midway, you will have a swift and

pleasant journey. Let us depart."

[Illustration: THE JOURNEY TO HUPERBOREA.]

Gofaster felt something take his hand and lead him out of the door. Then

he was drawn upward slightly, and forward, with great speed but no

discomfort. It was noon when they started. They passed over lakes,

rivers, and mountains, the weather changing to somewhat more chilly from

what they had departed; and it seemed as though they must have gone the

whole night through without his knowing it, for when they gently touched

the ground at the end of the journey there appeared to Gofaster the rays

of the morning sun.