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NICK BABA'S LAST DRINK
AND
OTHER SKETCHES.
BY
GEO. P. GOFF.
* * * * *
Pro captu lectoris habent sua fata libelli.
* * * * *
ILLUSTRATED.
* * * * *
LANCASTER, PENNA.:
INQUIRER PRINTING AND PUBLISHING COMPANY
1879.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1879, by
GEO. P. GOFF,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. C.
TO THE
"RAYMOND HALL" SHOOTING CLUB,
THIS
VOLUME IS INSCRIBED.
PREFACE.
THE KIND PARTIALITY OF INDULGENT FRIENDS HAVING INDUCED ME TO GATHER
TOGETHER THESE SCATTERED FRAGMENTS, INDITED AS A RECREATION FOR MY
LEISURE MOMENTS, I GIVE THEM THUS COLLECTED, WITH THE HOPE THAT THE
SAME FAVOR WILL BE EXTENDED TO THEIR IMPERFECTIONS AS HAS SO OFTEN
BEEN SHOWN TO THEIR AUTHOR.
CONTENTS.
NICK BABA'S LAST DRINK.
TRIP TO CURRITUCK--ILLUSTRATED.
HAUNTED ISLAND.
LEGEND OF BERKELEY SPRINGS--ILLUSTRATED.
NICK BABA'S LAST DRINK,
AND OTHER SKETCHES.
NICK BABA'S LAST DRINK.
It was Christmas Eve, and the one narrow main street of a small
country town was ablaze. Extra lights were glowing in all the little
shops; yet all this illumination served only to make more apparent the
untidy condition of the six-by-nine window panes, as well as the goods
therein. Men and women were hastening homeward with well-filled
baskets which they had provided for the festive morrow. All the
ragged, dirty urchins of the village were gathered about the dingy
shop windows admiring, with distended eyes and gaping mouths, the
several displays of toys and sweetmeats.
Their arms buried quite to their elbows in capacious but empty
pockets, they cast longing looks and wondered, as they had no
stockings, where Santa Claus could put their presents when he had
brought them. To all this show and preparation there was one
exception: one place shrouded in total darkness--it was the shop of
Nick Baba, the village shoemaker. That was for the time deserted; left
to its dust, its collection of worn-out soles, its curtains of
cobwebs, and its compound of bad, unwholesome odors. This darkness and
neglect was about to end, however, and give place to a glimmer of
light.
Nick now came hurrying in and, quickly striking a light, placed
between himself and a flickering oil lamp a small glass globe filled
with water. He sat down upon his bench and commenced work in earnest
on an unfinished pair of shoes. He hammered, and pulled, and
stretched, and pegged, and sewed, and all this time, had there been
any one present, they might have observed that, though Nick worked so
diligently, he was unhappy, and a prey to the bitterest reflections.
All in the village had commenced their merry-making, while he sat
there alone, forgotten, and in despair. His neighbors had plenty--he
was penniless, and could take nothing to his home but regrets for the
past. The rickety old door now creaked on its rusty, worn-out hinges,
and admitted a creature as strange looking as it was unexpected. It
moved straight toward Nick, and perched itself upon a three-legged
stool close beside him. This mysterious thing could not be pronounced
supernatural, and yet it was as unlike anything human as is possible
to imagine. It was more like some fantastic figure seen in a
dream--the creation of a disordered brain. It may be that it was a
goblin--Nick thought it one. It was only about two feet high; a mass
of dark-brown hair streamed down its back, partially concealing a
great hump, and thence flowed down to its heels. Its head was round as
a ball and topped out by a velvet cap of curious shape and
workmanship, with a broad projecting front which shaded a pair of
lustrous red eyes, set far back beneath the forehead--almost lost
there. Its breast was sunken, and the head settled down between the
shoulders, created an impression of weakness, as if, for example, it
should speak, that a small piping voice would come struggling up from
below. Baba looked up with alarm, but the goblin greeted him with a
smile, and said, "Merry Christmas, Nick," in a deep, strong and not
unmusical voice, which came boldly up and out from its parted lips.
"How do you know my name?" inquired the cobbler, "and why do you mock
me by such a greeting?"
"Baba, my friend," replied the Goblin, "I was just thinking that if
all the acts of your life had been as good and as humane as your
mechanical skill is perfect, you would not now be floundering in the
meshes of vice and dissipation. You are making a good pair of shoes
there."
The shoemaker worked away without raising his head, but responded
spitefully, "Where is the use of making them good?--I get no pay for
them."
"Why, who," inquired the occupant of the three-legged stool, "is so
ungenerous as to want such shoes without paying for them?"
"They are," answered the busy workman, "for the owner of this
miserable shanty, and he complains because I am only six months behind
with my rent--a most unreasonable man. If he does not get his shoes
to-morrow, he will turn me out; I must have some place to work, and so
am forced to do the bidding of this grasping landlord."
"Ah, it is you who are unreasoning," exclaimed Baba's visitor,
sorrowfully; "it is you who are in fault. If you would but remain away
from the tavern and the vile associates whom you meet there, all would
be well with you, you might redeem yourself."
Nick felt this rebuke so very keenly that he turned savagely toward
the one who had dared to tell him so plainly of his degradation, and
demanded. "Who are you, and why have you disturbed the quiet of this
mean hovel to insult me in my misery?"
"Because I wish to serve you," answered it of the waving brown hair.
"You cannot serve me. I will drive you out," threatened the now
infuriated cobbler; "I will throw you from the window--I will kill
you."
The red eyes of the Goblin danced and twinkled in their caverns; a
merry, careless laugh came bubbling forth as it answered, "I will not
leave your shop, nor will you throw me from the window, nor yet kill
me, Nick Baba. Why, you silly fellow, the sharpest tool on your bench
cannot draw blood from me, and that blackened lapstone, if driven with
all the force of your great arm through my seeming substance, would
leave me sitting here still, not to mock, but to try and save you."
The baffled and stricken shoemaker looked up and muttered. "Then you
are not human, you are a demon. But, after all," added Nick,
softening, "whether you are of this world or of some other, you are
right in what you say."
The Goblin made no reply, and Nick continued, "I have sunk very low,
indeed, but I cannot shake this habit; it clings to me so firmly, that
I have not only forfeited the regard of my neighbors and friends, but
I even loathe myself."
"Why not make an effort, Nick? You can if you will."
"Yes, yes," responded Nick, "it is easy enough to say give it up, but
you have never felt this accursed appetite for strong drink; this
constant craving for more; this inward sinking sensation, as if the
parts of the body were about to separate, impelling the victim on in a
career of sin and shame. You know nothing of all this."
"No, I confess I do not," acknowledged the Goblin, "but I think any
man may resist it, if he will make the trial."
"Ah, you might as soon expect," pursued Nick, "to see the starving man
cast bread from him, as to hope for the drunkard to resist liquor when
the frenzy of this appetite is on him."
"But you have not tried, Nick."
"Yes, I have tried and failed, and tried again and then failed."
"Keep on trying," said velvet cap.
"A glass of liquor," resumed Baba, "is a trifling thing, and it is
very easy, you think, to cast it into the gutter. But I tell you,
whoever and whatever you are, that this sparkling and seductive drink
is the pygmy that binds the giant to the post with a thread, and
lashes him with thongs of fire.
"Try again," urged the Goblin, "I am sure you can regain all that you
have lost."
"No, no," moaned Nick, "I am too low down; I am an absolute slave to
rum."
"Baba," commanded the Goblin, "take up the shoe you have nearly
finished, look into the sole and tell me what you see there. It is a
mirror of the past."
Nick took the shoe from the floor and gazed at it intently for a few
seconds. He was agitated, and his powerful breast heaved as only a
strong man may be moved--he wept.
"What do you see? Speak!" said his tormentor.
"I see," responded Nick, mechanically, "a scene of seven years ago. It
is the image of a fair-haired, blue-eyed girl before the altar in her
wedding garments. I am there also, vowing to protect her; to stand up
and battle with the world for her; to be a barrier between her and
want. But I have not done it--I have been recreant to every principle
of honor or manhood, God help me."
"Now, Nick," said the conjuror, persuasively, "pick up the other shoe
and tell me what you see there. That is a mirror of the present."
"I see," groaned Nick, "in place of that fair-haired girl at the
church, then all happiness, a prematurely old woman, faded and
disheartened. Three ragged children cling to her scanty clothing. They
beg of her mere bread to keep off hunger. She has none to give
them--she draws them closer to her, and folding them in her emaciated
arms, kisses them. She gives them all she has--a mother's love."
"What more do you see," demanded the magician: "tell it all."
"Oh! maddening sight," sobbed Nick; "I see myself staggering from the
ale-house and reeling into what should be a home, where gaunt
starvation stalks the floor; where the hearth is fireless, and where a
starving family die upon a pallet of straw."
"You have seen it all," said the wizard. "It is bad."
"Yes, and the picture is as true as it is terrible. What demon
prompted you to come here to-night with your diabolical machinery, to
show me to myself so much blacker than I thought I was?"
Nick's queer little companion peered through the misty, uncertain
light of the cobbler's workshop with his sharp restless red eyes, but
remained quiet.
Nick, his head in a whirl of excitement, then placed his face in his
open palms, and resting his elbows upon his knees, looked down at the
floor covered with scraps of soiled leather. Soon these scraps
commenced to move and assume weird shapes. They changed to hundreds of
little red, blue and green devils, no more than a few inches high,
which capered over the floor in troops. They ran up Nick's back, and
hiding in the mass of black hair, twisted and knotted it until their
victim winced, and then with hilarious shouts dropped to the floor and
went clattering away. Returning, they played hide and seek in and out
of the old worn boots and shoes which littered the floor. Then the tub
wherein the shoemaker wet his leather, burst its hoops and the water
ran out over the floor in streams of fire. The light was out and
darkness enveloped Nick and his companion. The wind went howling by,
and flung gusts of hail against the cracked and broken windows. Baba,
shivering from the cold, straightened himself up and looked for his
patron.
He could not see him, but he did perceive two balls of fire close to
him--the red eyes were still upon him.
Nick was thankful even for this, as any companionship at that moment
was better than none. The silence was at length broken by the Goblin
remarking, "You must have passed a fearful ordeal during the last few
moments."
"Has the time been so short?" inquired Nick; "it seemed almost an age
to me. This is not the first occasion, however, that I have passed
through it, and I fear the time may come when nature will break down,
and then I shall either do myself an injury or harm some one else--I
know it."
"I hope not," said the wizard. "Good-bye, I must go."
"Do not leave," implored the half-frightened Baba, "but remain with me
until I have quite finished my work. I believe I am growing to be a
coward, for I dare not be alone to-night. You are such an odd-looking
manikin," continued Nick, "and have spoken so fearlessly to me, that I
am beginning to like you. Do stay."
"Well," consented the Goblin, "I will remain as long as you wish; my
time is of no value; beside, if I can persuade you to reform and be a
sober man, it will be worth an eternity of waiting."
Nick said, "Thank you, I will try," and went on with his work.
Neither spoke for some time, when Baba suddenly exclaimed, "There,
they are finished at last, and are as good a pair of shoes as man ever
trod in. I suppose now that I may occupy this den for a while longer."
"Baba, my good man," solicited Nick's friend, "as we are about to
part, will you give me your promise never to drink rum again? You will
then be happy, I am sure."
Hesitatingly the cobbler agreed that he would not taste the accursed
stuff again; but made it a condition that his new-found friend should
accompany him as far as where he lived in such wretchedness.
"I have no objection," replied the Goblin, "if you will not walk too
fast, for I cannot keep pace with you."
"Why, I will carry you," said the grateful Nick, and seizing the
little conjuror in his arms, walked off with him easily.
When they had proceeded about half the length of the street, at the
other end of which Nick lived, they came to the village dram-shop.
Forgetting all that had passed, the willing shoemaker stopped and
listened. He could hear the clinking sound of glasses ringing on the
night air, mingled with the maudlin shouts and songs of his boon
companions. The old feeling returned; he grew weak in his resolution,
and, turning to the Goblin, said, "Just come in and have one drink
with me--the last one." Immediately the imprudent Nick was thrown
violently to the ground, the houses trembled, and their shutters
rattled from their fastenings. The whole town seemed falling into
ruins. Nick was startled into wakefulness, and a sweet, cheery voice
called, "Nick, Nick, are you going to lie in bed all day? It is a
bright Christmas morning and the children are half frantic to show you
the presents Santa Claus has brought them."
"My dear, are you sure I am Nick Baba, the village shoemaker, and that
you are his wife?"
"Certainly. Why ask such a question?"
"Then I have had a frightfully vivid dream," explained he to his wife,
"for I seemed to have fallen back into my old habits of intemperance
and to have dragged you down with me, where I had hoped never to see
you again."
"Nick, dear, it was but a dream. Remember you took your last drink
just three years ago; do you feel strong enough yet to resist it?"
"Yes, I do; and now that I am sure it was only the nightmare, I will
hasten and join you and the children at breakfast."
* * * * *
A TRIP TO CURRITUCK.
On a Monday, in the month of November, we started on our annual trip
to the marshes of North Carolina. We left Washington armed and
equipped, and met, at Norfolk, four of our party who had left New
York the previous week. They had been spending a few days in Princess
Anne County, quail shooting, where they had labored hard with no
success to speak of--the birds were few, the ground heavy, and they
quit that locality, perfectly willing never to return to it. They
arrived in Norfolk heartily sick of that excursion. We got the traps
all together and made a start for our favorite sporting grounds; where
the merest tyro may do satisfactory execution, and come in at night
with a keen appetite for the next day's sport.
While waiting for the quail party to return, we strolled through the
old city of Norfolk, with its quaint houses and curiously-winding
streets, and wandered into the old-time burial place surrounding St.
Paul's church.
[Illustration: ST. PAUL'S CHURCH, 1739.]
This is one of the oldest places of worship in the United States; it
was erected before the Revolution, and is built of imported brick,
laid alternately, red and black. The figures, giving the date of
erection, 1739, are rudely worked into the wall--projecting far enough
to make the design perfectly plain. When the town was burnt by the
British, 1775, only the walls of this sacred edifice were left
standing. The enemy relieved it of a very fine marble baptismal font,
and also of the communion plate, which were carried to Scotland. On
the gable end of the building, still fast in the wall, may be seen a
cannon ball which was fired from the British ship, Liverpool. The
church stands in the customary grave yard of those days, and contains
the remains of persons interred as early as 1700. Near the door stands
the tomb-stone of Col. Samuel Boush, who gave the land on which this
house of worship stands. Many of his relatives also rest there. Some
of the stones, marking places of interment, are covered with mosses
and creeping plants; the inscriptions on others are almost obliterated
by the ravages of time; still others have fallen or been broken, and
now lean in every direction over the last earthly resting-place of
those who thought to tell coming generations who reposed beneath. This
is one of the weaknesses of mankind, but it is vain.
Let them pile up costly and lofty monuments--reaching heavenward; let
the artist cut their names and virtues deep into the enduring granite;
let the mechanic, with all his skill, set the foundations, yet the
lettering will perish and the stone will crumble. Parasitic plants
will fasten upon them; beneath their destroying grasp names and dates
will disappear, and generations yet to come will be unable to tell
whether they look upon the grave of a prince or upon that of a
peddler--the narrow house of him who retired to the straw pallet of
poverty, will not then be known from that of him who reclined upon the
silken couch of affluence--
"Death levels all ranks,
And lays the shepherd's crook beside the sceptre."
[Illustration: ST. PAUL'S CHURCH, 1878.]
"On it, time his mark has hung;
On it, hostile bells have rung;
On it, green old moss has clung;
On it, winds their dirge have sung;
Let us still adore thy walls,
Sacred temple, Old St. Paul's."
Our party assemble, and we find the little steamer Cygnet at her
wharf, looking as neat and trim as the graceful bird after which she
is named. Newly painted, she was about to start on the first trip of
the season.
Half-past six was the hour of departure, but a heavy wet fog hung over
this city by the sea, and we were obliged to await its disappearance.
At length the sun struggled through the clouds, and the mist cleared
rapidly away. We hauled out and steamed slowly up the Elizabeth River,
then past the Navy Yard, with its tall smoking chimneys, its long rows
of yellow buildings, its leaning derricks, its neat and trim little
square, domineered over by a lordly flag-staff, whose base is guarded
by cannon captured from the enemies of the Republic, and its
dismantled ships--relics of past naval architecture. As we pass, the
shrill cry of the boat-swain's whistle is heard on ship-board, piping
all hands to breakfast, mingled with the music of the busy clinking
hammers forging chains and anchors. A few miles above this naval
station human habitations cease, scarcely a living thing greets the
eye--we are in almost entire solitude.
The eagle is seen grandly floating on the air, or poised ready to
strike a defenceless animal or crippled bird. The buzzard, of
loathsome aspect, perched upon a blasted tree, waits for his gorged
appetite to sharpen, that he may descend and fatten upon some putrid
carcase. The river, narrow and tortuous, rolls its black waters
between low and marshy banks, flat, and running back to thin growths
of stunted pines and other badly nourished trees. As we go on, the
senses are now and then refreshed by the sight of a clump of pines,
which have persisted in growing tall and straight, with tufts of
bright green foliage waving gracefully in the wind. For many miles
this is about the description of country we pass through.
At Great Bridge we enter the locks of the Chesapeake and Albemarle
Canal. A battle was fought here in 1775 and the British defeated. Here
are the Company's houses, well constructed and neatly painted--a
credit to the corporation as well as to the guiding spirit. The
substantial locks and well kept dwellings and offices, like the gilded
signs over the doors of the haunts of vice, are pleasant to look upon,
but they do not tell of that which is within. If the passage up the
river is dismal, what shall we say of the journey through this canal.
It is a dreary sameness cut right through a great swamp, merely wide
enough to admit the passage of two vessels, with only a dull damp
settlement here and there--a country store and the inevitable porch,
with its squad of frowsy, unkempt idlers.
[Illustration: COUNTRY STORE.]
The country store and post-office is the same everywhere: it belongs
to every clime and nationality--it is a human device and speaks an
universal language. It is generally overflowing with all sorts of
commodities, from a hand-saw to a toothpick--is well stocked with
calico and molasses, rum and candles, straw hats and sugar, bacon and
coal oil, and gun-powder and beeswax. It is the rallying point for all
the mischief-making gossips to collect, for the settlement of the
affairs of the nation, and, failing in that, to set the neighbors by
the ears.
Leaving the canal, we go out into another river: a bright spot breaks
upon us--a lumber station with new, fresh-looking piles of sawed
lumber. The banks of this stream are just as low, marshy and
uninteresting as the one we have passed through, and more crooked.
There are perhaps a few more trees--some oaks, and we observed a tree
with its crimson and yellow autumn foliage, backed by a clump of
pines, looking beautiful against the dark green, like sunlight
illumining a gloomy spot.
After winding through the channel for a few hours, we enter Currituck
Sound. This shallow sea takes its name from a tribe of Indians which
once owned the adjacent lands. It is quite a large sheet of water,
though not deep, about fifty miles long, and nearly ten at the widest
part. It is dotted with small, low, sedgy islands, marshes and swamps.
After enduring the approaches to it, quite an enlivening scene is
presented. Persons are seen on the shore of the mainland, and boats
are moving about in various directions. Huge groaning windmills, with
tattered sails, guard the shore and torture the Indian corn into
bread-stuff. Now for the first time the traveler begins to realize
what it is to see wild fowl. The water seems black with ducks and
geese, and dazzling white with the graceful swans. The latter sit in
great flocks on the shoals, for miles in length. As the steamer
approaches, they arise in such vast numbers as to nearly blacken the
heavens with a rushing sound like the coming tornado. Arriving as near
our destination as the vessel can take us, we disembark, landing on a
strong platform built far out from the shore. For a half hour we are
busy getting our traps from the bait--guns, dogs, ammunition, boxes,
bags, bales, bundles, baskets and barrels. We had left nothing
unpurchased which could contribute to the comfort of the inner or
outer man--especially the former. Now we transfer everything to a
small boat, sent from the beach miles away, to meet and convey us to
our journey's end--our home for a few weeks, where we must conform to
the customs of the natives as near as possible. We do not reach the
Hall until the twilight has faded into darkness. The water is too
shallow to allow even this small craft to approach the shore near
enough to enable us to land, so carts are driven out to it, and the
baggage and provisions piled therein. The teams being loaded, us city
folks, with store clothes on, are carried ashore on the backs of our
amiable and hospitable friends. They have a contempt for dry places,
water being their element. Proceeding to the house, we are welcomed in
the warmest possible manner by our host and his ever busy and pleasant
daughter Nora. We are installed as a part of the family, for we have
been there before--we are not strangers. Nora and her sable assistants
had prepared an abundant and inviting meal for us, and we enjoyed it
with an appetite quickened by the sail across the Sound.
[Illustration: GOING ASHORE.]
[Illustration: RAYMOND HALL.]
After supper we made our arrangements for the first day's shooting,
and then retired--sinking into beds so downy as to induce sleep in a
few moments--and we do sleep just as soundly as if we had always been
wise and good and happy. The club house, "Raymond Hall," is an
ordinary frame one, situated on the shore of the Sound, a few rods
from the sea. It is surrounded by a tolerable growth of persimmon and
other trees; it stands alone, and at night is as silent as the halls
of death--not a sound being heard except the bark of the watchful
house-dogs. The wind murmurs about the angles of the house, and
through the branches of the trees, in dreary harmony with the roar of
the ocean. It is somewhat startling, for a few nights, to us denizens
of cities, to notice the entire absence of all precautions against
depredators--there are neither locks nor bolts. Life is primitive
here; all honor the head of the family, and bow to his will. The
people, young and old, are universally kind and respectful to those
strangers who sojourn among them, meeting them in a spirit of
frankness and exacting the same. We shoot whenever the weather is
suitable, and amuse ourselves at other times in various
ways--repairing boats, rigging decoys, cleaning guns, loading shell,
and making ready for a good day when it does come. We breakfast
between eight and nine o'clock, then, donning our shooting attire,
including rubber boots, which are indispensable, we go to the landing.
Wading out to our boats, laden with all the implements of destruction,
we depart for the day's sport. A small fleet of five sail starts in a
bunch like a flock of white-winged birds; the swiftest of them shoot
ahead, fading out in the distance; others disappear behind the islands
or into some of the numerous creeks, and for that day we are lost to
each other.
[Illustration: "PHELY."]
We meet again at night, however, and compare notes. The number of
birds each has secured, the good and bad shots, with other events of
the day, are all pleasant topics at supper. After the evening meal,
we plan the next day's business, and then, wearied, we seek our
feather beds and sleep too soundly even to dream. So we pass the days
in a sort of luxurious vagabondism. How very pleasant it is to be a
vagabond, when one may return to starched linen and the trammels of
civilization whenever one wishes!
Our club was composed of six persons: Mondray H. Charles, Rory
Theodoric, Jas. O'Kelly, Geo. H. Crege, H. H. Josephus and Geo. G.
Paullo. Two servants accompanied the party--Steve and Jacob, Steve is
a rattling, roaring fellow, who had never before been without the
sound of the breakers of his native Long Island, and was ready to
perform any act for his friends, from pitch-and-toss to manslaughter.
Jacob, the companion of Steve, is the very opposite in all things; is
a genteel fellow, wears a clerical necktie of immaculate whiteness,
and has the appearance of having studied for the ministry, and
graduated as a cook. His table is a marvel of neatness, and his
culinary experience has enabled him to set many a tempting dish
before us.
[Illustration: JACOB.]
[Illustration: BLIND.]
During our stay on the beach many amusing incidents occurred; we will
try and give some of them as they return to our memory. It may not be
uninteresting to know how and where we shoot, and so we give something
of a description. We draw lots for the choice; each selects the point,
or island, or strait, which, in his judgment will afford the best
shooting for the day, and there builds a blind. This blind is made by
breaking down the tall reeds, leaving a fence in front, next the
water, to secrete the gunner from the game. Behind this screen a sort
of nest is formed by matting down the reeds and marsh grass. It is
rendered more comfortable by spreading a rubber blanket, upon which
are arranged for use, guns, ammunition, lunch and a bottle--of water.
The decoys are placed out in long range, in such a manner as to make
them appear as natural looking as possible, and then we are ready for
business. Now here they come--a flock of seven geese, plump down among
the stool, but get up again with equal haste. Two of them are knocked
down with the breech-loader, one dead, the other only wounded--a third
stopped by the muzzle-loader. Theodoric was dreamily watching his
decoys as they danced about, when a bunch of sprig-tail swooped dawn,
hovering above the stool. He picked his bird, and dropped two with the
first barrel, and another responded to the discharge of the second.
They came tumbling down into the water--dead. One could not easily
imagine a duck's head capable of expression, but when they come
lively, alight among the dummies, and hear no quack of recognition,
they soon discover the fraud, and the frightened haste with which they
gather themselves up and attempt to make off, is expression all over.
Crege, who is one of the best amateur shots on Long Island, as a medal
now in his possession will attest, had taken his number twelve, and
walked the marshes for snipe. So far as the ducks were concerned, he
had missed the sport, but he brought in a bunch of forty-five English
snipe, which compared favorably with the success of the others. Crege
is a superior marksman, but he shoots much better when the boys gather
about the table at the club on a winter evening, where they talk their
shots over again, and trot their horses at impossible speed. O'Kelly
is one of the constitutionally chosen Senators for the great State of
New York, is a prime shot, an enthusiastic sportsman, and one of the
most genial of our friends. He had located on a distant island, and
expended powder and shot with his usual prowess--returning laden with
game. This was decidedly the best day we had had, and the score was as
follows: Charles, nineteen canvas-back, eleven teal, three geese and
twelve red-head, mallard and black duck; Theodoric brought in
sixty-five birds--canvas-back, red-head, sprig-tail and black-head;
O'Kelly, who had had surprising luck, counted fifty canvas-back, and
twenty-five common ducks. It was a good count, and the game was hung
up in the boat house with the other birds.
[Illustration: SNIPE SHOOTING.]
[Illustration: FIVE AT A SHOT.]
Many of the natives are professional gunners, and haunt the marshes
day and night, shooting for market, and thus making a living. If one
cannot shoot, one may resort to these people and purchase a boat load.
It is, however, a reprehensible practice.
There is no tide in the Sound except that which is caused by the wind,
and as high water and a stiff breeze are essential to good sport, it
is not possible to have good shooting every day. When the wind comes
from the right quarter it makes a full tide, and drives the fowl
nearer the shore and up into the creeks where they may feed.
It was getting toward the end of our sojourn; we had experienced
several quiet balmy days--no wind, low water, general listlessness.
"Should we have any more fun?" we asked, and went to bed. About
midnight the wind came howling through the trees, the weather became
cold, and the rattling windows responded to the hope of a good day
to-morrow. Getting our breakfast early, we selected our points and
hastened to the boats. Dark clouds, flying over a dull wintry sky,
denoted a steady blow--it was cheering. The blinds were quickly
reached, and decoys thrown out. Only a few birds were flying, the
fitful wind becoming higher and higher and then dying out entirely.
The clouds, however, soon drifted away, the sun appeared as bright and
beautiful as summer--almost persuading us to take off our coats.
Disheartened at the coquettish nature of the weather, we gave it up.
Not a bird to be seen--we took our bottles, and throwing our heads
back on our shoulders, tried to look through the bottoms of
them--they in turn gave out a gurgling sound of complaining emptiness.
We fell into a refreshing sleep; the hours passed away unheeded, until
we were awakened by the rustling of the reeds bending in the breeze,
whispering of the coveted blow. Heavy black clouds were gathering, and
soon old Boreas came cracking out from the right point of the compass.
This aroused the ducks in the open water to flight, and they came in,
seeking the shelter of the shore--a fatal protection. Charles, the
original explorer of the Sound as a sporting place, and founder of the
"Raymond Hall" Club, did some good work--taking them, right and left,
with each barrel, and dropping single blue-winged teal with unerring
aim.
Theodoric is the most amiable, patient friend imaginable; can conduct
a bank equal to any man in New York; and we all esteem him very much.
He labors under the mild hallucination, however, that he must be
constantly doing something, and nearly all this is expended in
cleaning his gun. Morning and evening it undergoes this polishing
process, and on Sunday he rests himself by giving it another wipe.
"It's a little leaded, you know, George," he remarks, and at it he
goes. Human nature may stand this, but guns won't.
On one occasion when he tried to jam a cleaning rod through it, larger
than the bore, it refused to go.
[Illustration: "I KNEW IT WOULD COME OUT."]
"You won't, won't you," said he, as he raised it aloft and brought it
down with all his might on the floor. It went in; but the gun bulged
just as any good gun will do, and the eruption yet stands on the
barrel, a monument of his determination.
Steve was called in, and a pulling match ensued. Steve had hold of the
gun and Thee firmly clenched the rod. The gun could stand the combined
strength of two powerful men no better than it could resist the
jamming of the rod, and they parted. Steve went backwards over Mary
Rogers, a dog, and took a moist seat in a tub of warm water, which had
been prepared for cleaning guns. Steve said the water was hot, while
our fastidious friend looked bland, gathered himself up from out a
pile of empty shells, mixed with scraps of red flannel and oil-rags,
and said "I knew it would come out."
Josephus, the great Canarsie fisherman, is not an enthusiast about
gunning, and left his sporting traps at home. He only went down for a
few days' fishing, and was prepared to take large numbers of bluefish.
Armed with a stout line and squid, he invited us over to see him do
it. The ocean was rough, and came rolling up in long heavy swells; the
fish were far out at sea. After getting his line arranged to his
satisfaction, he took firm hold of it a few feet above the squid; we
all looked admiringly on. By a series of dexterous gyrations about his
head he sent it flying a hundred feet out into the water--it was
beautifully done. Skillfully he hauled it in, hand over hand. The
squid followed, as bright and shining as when he had cast it out, but
no fish. He made ready again, and with that nonchalant air of a man
who feels perfectly sure that he can do just what he wants to, he gave
it that preparatory whirling motion again, and away it went.
The best efforts will fail sometimes, and the most skillful are often
doomed to disappointment--it was so in this case. The hook did not go
for a blue fish, but fastened itself in the leg of a too confiding dog
that stood looking curiously on, just as those canine friends of man
so often do. The misguided animal went howling away, and had to be
captured and the hook extracted.
[Illustration: A QUEER FISH.]
He felt sure he could do it, however, and he tried it again, with as
much preparation as before, and twice the determination; he missed the
sea altogether, and the barbed instrument buried itself into that
portion of male wearing apparel that comes in contact with the chair,
when one indulges in that agreeable and refreshing posture of sitting
down: they will need repairing.
Paullo is a good shot--with a knife and fork--and can look on at
others who are doing hard work, with more nerve and complacency than
any man who visits the Sound. He had been persuaded to go to a certain
pond where ducks were abundant and easy to shoot. This was good; he
put his decoys out and waited. A bird was coming down--it went among
the stool. It was a beautiful specimen of the feathered tribe, with a
bill like a crow. In some places it is known as a crow duck, but the
proper local name here is "blue-peter." Blue-peter seemed to have no
fear, but sported around and among the dummies, and tossed the bright
drops of water from its shining plumage. With the true feelings of a
sportsman, Paullo wanted the bird to have a fair chance, and so tossed
bunches of marsh grass at it--it would not fly. Picking up his gun he
fired, wounding several decoys.
[Illustration: BATTLE WITH BLUE-PETER.]
The battle raged all that day and the next, blue-peter diving at the
flash of the gun, and defiantly coming up and wailing for it to be
reloaded.
[Illustration: STRUCK IT WITH A CLUB.]
[Illustration: THE CONQUEROR.]
On the morning of the third day, our Nimrod was late. When he arrived,
the duck was there patiently waiting to renew the fight, and was
busily engaged picking the shot from the bottom of the pond, tossing
it up and catching it in its bill as it came down. With such a gunner
and such game, this might last a week. Strategy was resorted to, and
when blue-peter went under at the flash, our hero waded out and struck
it with a club as it came to the surface. The victory was not to the
duck. Late that evening Steve and Jacob were seen carrying from the
landing to the house the dead B. P., strung by the neck to the centre
of a ten-foot pole, one pall-bearer at each end, and the conqueror
leading the procession. On his arrival he was greeted by his fellow
members with that distinguished consideration which our people so
freely accord to actors of great deeds.
We remained on the beach four weeks, and had many pleasant days. We
have now returned to our respective homes, wearied in body but
refreshed in mind, well pleased with our trip, with each other, and
with a decided inclination for a repetition of the jaunt.
[Illustration: JOE CREED.]
We cannot leave the subject without paying tribute to our friend and
companion, Joe Creed. Joe is a large resolute dog of an amiable
disposition, a dirty yellow coat, and a small bright eye of the same
color. He has a keen sense of duty, but never leaves the blind until
he sees the game falling, when he proceeds to bring it in. He was
undoubtedly born for it. If two birds fall, with almost human
intelligence he gets both. Taking the farthest first, stopping on his
way in to pick up the other, he comes in with one swinging on each
side of his great shaggy head. They tell of him that he has been
caught stealing sheep. We do not believe it--it is a mistake; he may
have been in bad company, that is all. Joe was the property of a
gentleman on Long Island, and we trusted his exploits in the North
might vie with his achievements in the South.
"When some proud son of man returns to earth,
Unknown to glory but upheld by birth,
The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of woe,
And storied urns record who rests below;
When all is done, upon the tomb is seen,
Not what he was, but what he should have been;
But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend;
Whose heart is still his master's own,
Who labors, fights, lives, breathes for him alone,
Unhonored falls."
But Joe came to an untimely end; he was found shot to death. The
following was placed over his grave:
"Near this spot
Are deposited the remains of one
Who possessed beauty without vanity,
Strength without insolence,
Courage without ferocity,
And all the virtues of man without his vices."
_Born in North Carolina, March, 1875._
_Died at Jamaica, Long Island, March, 1876._
* * * * *
THE HAUNTED ISLAND.
"A jolly place," said he, "in times of old,
But something ails it now; the place is curst."
Far up the Potomac, in the shadow of the mountains, among the hundreds
of small islands which dot the river in that picturesque region, is
one which has the reputation of being haunted. It is but a few miles
above the ferry at the Point of Rocks, and is unknown to the thousands
of persons who are whirled past there every year in the railroad
trains.
This island is about fifty acres in extent, and is bordered with
stately oaks to the very river's edge--whose waters lave their roots;
its margin is paved with pearly pebbles, while the drooping branches
of the trees, festooned with tangled vines of every hue, hang down in
glorious clusters, toying with the blue stream which runs beneath. The
scenery here is truly enchanting. Islands of every size seem floating
in a charmed atmosphere; to pass one pleasing spot is but to disclose
another more beautiful than the last. Some are covered with a forest
growth; others cultivated, and waving in the summer breeze with yellow
ripening grain; and yet others are overgrown with varied shrubs,
filled with singing birds, and wild flowers breathing perfume.
I had been fishing--had fished the river from the ferry up above and
around the island. I was well satisfied with the day's sport, and was
sitting in the stern of the boat in a sort of day dream. Jasper, my
boatman, was gently guiding the little vessel to keep it from striking
the many projecting rocks, as well as to prevent it from gliding too
rapidly down the current. The river, changed to a dark green color,
from the reflected foliage, ran now deep and sluggish against the huge
boulders which stand defiantly up: now over shallow places, shining
with silver sand, fretting itself into white foam and flinging up jets
of spray as if in anger. Waking from my reverie, I said:
"Jasper, that is a tranquil-looking island; to whom does it belong?"
Jasper shook his woolly head as if he were puzzled, and with the air
of a person about to impart some awful secret, replied:
"Dat don't belong to nobody; dat's haunted."
"Haunted, Jasper! that is impossible. There are no such things as
haunted places."
"Well, massa," he replied, his faith still unshaken, "dat's what I was
tole long, long years ago when I was a chile. Ye could hear noises
comin' fum da like distress, and dem sounds war jined wid de talkin'
ob men."
"Very likely, but such sounds came from persons on the island, and
they were living, just as you and I are."
"Dar war sounds," answered my boatman, "but da warn't no people on dat
island. Dem sounds warn't ob dis world."
Such an opinion could not be weakened, for my dusky companion had been
raised in this local superstition and it was as firmly rooted as was
his faith in future forgiveness, and so I merely inquired:
"Is there a house there, Jasper?"
"Yes sar," said he, promptly, "da am a big squar one right in de
middle ob it."
"We must go and see what it looks like, and try to learn where those
sounds came from."
"S'cuse me, massa, dis chile don't set he foot on dat lan', kase ef he
do, he neber leabe it agin."
"Then if you are afraid," said I, tauntingly, "I will go alone; you
wait until I return."
"Massa," implored the frightened negro, "don't go; you neber kum back;
you is lost."
"Take me as near the shore as you dare go, and leave me there."
"Good-bye, massa; you is lost foreber."
Jasper took up the oar and pushed as near the shore as the shallow
water would permit; the keel of the boat grated on the sandy shore. I
stepped over the side of the boat and waded close up under the
overhanging branches, and forced my way through the dense growth which
shut this mysterious place from human sight. My black friend was
right; in the centre of the island stood the remains of a large stone
mansion, surrounded by what had once been a well-kept lawn. The grass
was growing green and rank, mingled with weeds, and both were
struggling for the mastery. Broken statues of costly marble and
workmanship were lying scattered about; great flower vases, shattered,
and green with the mould and moss of years, were covered with weak and
flowerless creepers.
The house is a two-story one with windows on every side, or rather
openings which had been windows at some former period. The dangling
remains of a heavy porch hung over the doorway, ready to fall and
crush the first careless intruder, while the massive oak doors stood
wide open as if to invite the victim within. The cornice was dropping
to pieces, and the woodwork had only the appearance of solidity--it
needed but the pressure of a hand to crumble into dust. The walls were
yet perfect, for they had been built of irregular sized stones, laid
up in cement, and so had outlasted the more perishable parts of this
costly structure. Inside the great doors was a wide hall of about
twenty feet, and its floors of hard wood had stood the test of time
remarkably. On one side of the hall was a room the whole depth of the
house; the ceiling was lofty, but the plaster had long since fallen
and become mere powder. It was empty; patches of mould had fastened
upon the walls, and a damp decaying odor pervaded the air; insects and
loathsome reptiles crept over the floor. On the opposite side of the
hall were two apartments, but not enough of either remained to divine
what had been their uses. In a small back room there yet was to be
seen a great open fire-place capacious enough to roll in a good-sized
tree; a swinging crane was bolted to the corner of the chimney,
supporting hanging hooks, blackened by soot; it had doubtless been the
kitchen. Having fully explored the lower part, I proceeded to the
upper story. As I mounted the stairs, they groaned under the unusual
weight, but were still strong enough to enable me to complete the task
I had undertaken. The upper floor was divided into four large
chambers. Three of them were given up to decay, and desolation peered
from every corner and crevice. Bats had made their nests in and about
the broken places, and hung in bunches from the ceiling; the twitter
of the young swallows could be heard plainly from the chimneys. I
passed on to the fourth room; that was not vacant. Although the sash
had long since dropped in pieces, and fragments of glass yet littered
the floor, this chamber was occupied; not indeed by any living thing,
but by the inanimate remains of a once proudly furnished mansion, and
also by yet one other object, which though not living had the power of
movement. In one corner stood an old fashioned high-post bedstead, of
the finest curled maple, curiously carved and ornamented. A sort of
frame held the tops of the posts together, from which still hung
threads of costly curtains intertwined with cobwebs, and stained with
dust and damp atmosphere. There were no chairs, no tables, but in
another corner of the apartment stood an antique writing-desk, with
metal handles to the drawers, and brass feet fashioned after the claws
of the lion, older than the bedstead which occupied the other corner.
Its polish and usefulness had passed away with the grandeur of this
silent habitation. Between two of the windows was a space of six feet
in width, reaching from the floor to the cornice. This was all
occupied by a life-size portrait of a female, which looked as fresh
and fair as the day it left the hands of the artist. All else about
this solemn place was weird and death-like; there she stood in her
loveliness, as if just attired for some merry-making; her rosy lips
seemed ready to break out into song and laughter and shout, to startle
this ghostly scene.