[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]
Copyright, 1897, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.
* * * * *
PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, JANUARY 19, 1897. FIVE CENTS A
COPY.
VOL. XVIII.--NO. 899. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.
* * * * *
[Illustration]
A CHRISTMAS BUCK.
BY HON. THEODORE ROOSEVELT.
Throughout most of the ranch country there are two kinds of deer, the
black-tail and the white-tail. The white-tail is the same as the deer of
the East; it is a beautiful creature, a marvel of lightness and grace in
all its movements, and it loves to dwell in thick timber, so that in the
plains country it is almost confined to the heavily wooded river
bottoms. The black-tail is somewhat larger, with a different and very
peculiar gait, consisting of a succession of stiff-legged bounds, all
four feet striking the earth at the same time. Its habits are likewise
very different, as it is a bolder animal and much fonder of the open
country. Among the Rockies it is found in the deep forests, but it
prefers scantily wooded regions, and on the plains it dwells by choice
in the rough hills, spending the day in the patches of ash or cedar
among the ravines. Fifteen years ago the black-tail was very much more
abundant than the white-tail almost everywhere in the West, but owing to
the nature of its haunts it is more easily killed out, and now, though
both species have decreased in numbers, the white-tail is on the whole
the more common.
My ranch-house is situated on a heavily wooded bottom, one of the places
of which the white-tail are fond to this day. On one occasion I killed
one from the ranch veranda, and two or three times I have shot them
within half a mile of the house. Nevertheless, they are so cunning and
stealthy in their ways, and the cover is so dense, that usually,
although one may know of their existence right in one's neighborhood,
there is more chance of getting game by going off eight or ten miles
into the broken country of the black-tail.
One Christmas I was to spend at the ranch, and I made up my mind that I
would try to get a good buck for our Christmas dinner; for I had not had
much time to hunt that fall, and Christmas was almost upon us before we
started to lay in our stock of winter meat. So I arranged with one of
the cowboys to make an all-day's hunt through some rugged hills on the
other side of the river, where we knew there were black-tail.
We were up soon after three o'clock, when it was yet as dark as at
midnight. We had a long day's work before us, and so we ate a
substantial breakfast, then put on our fur caps, coats, and mittens, and
walked out into the cold night. The air was still, but it was biting
weather, and we pulled our caps down over our ears as we walked toward
the rough low stable where the two hunting ponies had been put
overnight. In a few minutes we were jogging along on our journey.
There was a powder of snow over the ground, and this and the brilliant
starlight enabled us to see our way without difficulty. The river was
frozen hard, and the hoofs of the horses rang on the ice as they
crossed. For a while we followed the wagon road, and then struck off
into a cattle trail which led up into a long coulee. After a while this
faded out, and we began to work our way along the divide, not without
caution, for in broken countries it is hard to take a horse during
darkness. Indeed, we found we had left a little too early, for there was
hardly a glimmer of dawn when we reached our proposed hunting-grounds.
We left the horses in a sheltered nook where there was abundance of
grass, and strode off on foot, numb after the ride.
The dawn brightened rapidly, and there was almost light enough to shoot
when we reached a spur overlooking a large basin around whose edges
there were several wooded coulees. Here we sat down to wait and look. We
did not have to wait long, for just as the sun was coming up on our
right hand we caught a glimpse of something moving at the mouth of one
of the little ravines some hundreds of yards distant. Another glance
showed us that it was a deer feeding, while another behind it was
walking leisurely in our direction. There was no time to be lost, and
sliding back over the crest, we trotted off around a spur until we were
in line with the quarry, and then walked rapidly toward them. Our only
fear was lest they should move into some position where they would see
us; and this fear was justified. While still one hundred yards from the
mouth of the coulee in which we had seen the feeding deer, the second
one, which all the time had been walking slowly in our direction, came
out on a ridge crest to one side of our course. It saw us at once and
halted short; it was only a spike buck, but there was no time to lose,
for we needed meat, and in another moment it would have gone off, giving
the alarm to its companion. So I dropped on one knee, and fired just as
it turned. From the jump it gave I was sure it was hit, but it
disappeared over the hill, and at the same time the big buck, its
companion, dashed out of the coulee in front, across the basin. It was
broad-side to me, and not more than one hundred yards distant; but a
running deer is difficult to hit, and though I took two shots, both
missed, and it disappeared behind another spur. This looked pretty bad,
and I felt rather blue as I climbed up to look at the trail of the
spike. I was cheered to find blood, and as there was a good deal of snow
here and there, it was easy to follow it; nor was it long before we saw
the buck moving forward slowly, evidently very sick. We did not disturb
him, but watched him until he turned down into a short ravine a quarter
of a mile off; he did not come out, and we sat down and waited nearly an
hour to give him time to get stiff. When we reached the valley, one went
down each side so as to be sure to get him when he jumped up. Our
caution was needless, however, for we failed to start him; and on
hunting through some of the patches of brush we found him stretched out
already dead.
This was satisfactory; but still it was not the big buck, and we started
out again after dressing and hanging up the deer. For many hours we saw
nothing, and we had swung around within a couple of miles of the horses
before we sat down behind a screen of stunted cedars for a last look.
After attentively scanning every patch of brush in sight, we were about
to go on when the attention of both of us was caught at the same moment
by seeing a big buck deliberately get up, turn round, and then lie down
again in a grove of small leafless trees lying opposite to us on a
hill-side with a southern exposure. He had evidently very nearly
finished his day's rest, but was not quite ready to go out feeding; and
his restlessness caused him his life. As we now knew just where he was,
the work was easy. We marked a place on the hill-top a little above and
to one side of him; and while the cowboy remained to watch him, I drew
back and walked leisurely round to where I could get a shot. When nearly
up to the crest I crawled into view of the patch of brush, rested my
elbows on the ground, and gently tapped two stones together. The buck
rose nimbly to his feet, and at seventy yards afforded me a standing
shot, which I could not fail to turn to good account.
A winter day is short, and twilight had come before we had packed both
bucks on the horses; but with our game behind our saddles we did not
feel either fatigue, or hunger, or cold, while the horses trotted
steadily homeward. The moon was a few days old, and it gave us light
until we reached the top of the bluffs by the river and saw across the
frozen stream the gleam from the fire-lit windows of the ranch-house.
SINGING IN THE FACE OF DEATH.
When the great hurricane swept over Apia Harbor, in Samoa, seven years
ago, and wrecked the six American and German war-ships that were
gathered there, the world was thrilled with the story of the heroism of
the sailors on the United States man-of-war _Trenton_. Of all the
incidents of that memorable disaster, the one which will live longest in
the memory of readers is the bravery with which the men of the _Trenton_
faced death. Their vessel had snapped her anchor chains, and was
steadily drifting toward the rocks, but the men lined the rigging and
gave rousing cheers to the British ship _Calliope_, which, with all
steam on, was headed for the open sea. The _Trenton_'s band was also
ordered on deck, and to the strains of "The Star-spangled Banner" the
old ship went to her death. As she passed the _Vandalia_, over which the
waves were breaking, the _Trenton_'s men cheered the few survivors in
the rigging, and the feeble shout that came in response was the saddest
feature of the disaster. When the _Trenton_'s band struck up, amazement
fell upon the Americans and other foreigners on shore who were trying to
save the lives of those whom the current brought to the beach. Then,
when the strains of the national air were recognized, a great shout went
up, and men wept to think of heroism that laughed at death.
A similar incident of bravery in the face of death comes from the coast
of China, and the crew of the German gun-boat _Iltis_ were the heroes
who showed genuine courage when all hope of safety was gone. The _Iltis_
left Che-foo on July 23, passed Wei-hai-wei--made memorable by the
defeat and suicide of old Admiral Ting, of the Chinese navy--and rounded
the Shan-tung peninsula. As the vessel passed the northern point of the
promontory the wind freshened to a gale, and with all sails furled the
ship held her way to the south, parallel to the coast. The storm was
soon recognized as a typhoon of great violence; the driving sleet and
the thick darkness confused the look-out, and the strong currents
carried the ship near to the rocky shore. Without warning the vessel
struck, and remained hard and fast on a sunken rock. The engine-room
filled rapidly, and all hands were warned to come on deck. There they
saw that the prospect was hopeless, as every wave helped to stave in the
strong steel plates. Rockets were sent up, but no response came from the
shore; no boat could live in the wild seas which washed over the doomed
vessel. The commander, Lieutenant-Captain Braun, ordered all the men
aft, and gathering them around him, called upon them to give three
cheers for the Emperor. These were given with a will, and a moment after
the masts went overboard, smashing the officers' bridge, and then the
ship parted.
The Captain and the greater part of the crew were on the after-part of
the ship, which still remained high out of the water. When it was seen
that the wreck would last but a few minutes more, gunner Raehm addressed
the crew and begged them to join in singing the Flaggenlied, or
flag-song. This stirring song was then sung to the accompaniment of the
roaring breakers and the howling storm. Its final verse, in German, is
as follows:
Und treibt des wilden Sturms Gewalt
Uns an ein Felsenriff,
Gleichviel in welcherlei Gestalt
Gefahr droht unserm Schiff:
Wir wanken und wir weichen nicht,
Wir thun nach Seemanns Brauch,
Getreu erfüll'n wir uns're Pflicht
Auch bis zum leztzen Hauch,
Und rufen freudig sterbend aus,
Getreu bis in den Tod:
"Der Kaiser und die Flagge hoch!
Die Flagge schwarz, weiss, roth!"
Freely rendered into English this reads:
And shout the might of wild, wild storms
On to a reef us drive,
And dangers menace--'t matters not
From where--our ship and life,
Our posts we never will desert;
And sailorlike and true
Until the last breath goes from us
We will our duty do.
And, joyful dying then we shout
United true in death--
"The Kaiser and our standard _hoch_!
The flag black, white, and red!"
The survivors, with tears in their eyes, described the singing of this
battle chant, in which the poet described the fate of the _Iltis_ and
the doom of her crew. The last verse had just been roared out with a
will when the stern of the vessel heeled over, and a moment later the
whole after-half of the ship plunged from the rocks, carrying down to
death officers and men, except two sailors, who reached the shore. Those
on the other half of the wreck remained for thirty-six hours without
food, when they were rescued by the Chinese. Only nine men were saved,
making eleven in all who reached the shore out of a total of
seventy-seven men and officers.
GOLF WITHIN-DOORS.
BY W. G. VAN TASSEL SUTPHEN.
The true and zealous golfer is not to be deterred from his favorite
sport by the ordinary accidents of the weather, and indeed it is one of
the great merits of golf that it can be played under almost any
atmospheric conditions. Baseball, cricket, tennis, croquet, and archery
are poor fun on a very windy day, while a wet one makes play impossible.
And then these games have each of them a recognized season, and as
winter comes on bat, bow, and ball must be laid aside for good. Football
and hockey are independent so far as rain and cold are concerned, but
the exercise is too violent a one to be continued into the warm days of
spring and summer.
Golf, on the other hand, is restricted to no particular season, and it
is one of the rules governing medal competitions that competitors may
not discontinue play on account of bad weather. Of course on abnormally
warm days any sort of physical exertion may become a burden, and in very
cold weather stiffened fingers and frozen "lies" do not conduce to good
scoring. But there is only one thing that really puts an end to the
game, and that is a heavy fall of snow. With a light sprinkling of an
inch or two, very good golf may be played by using red balls and having
the putting-greens carefully swept, for the snow serves the purpose of a
universal tee, and a special ruling may be enacted allowing the player
(in the event of the ball being buried) the privilege of lifting or of
lightly brushing the snow aside. Among the pines of Lakewood, New
Jersey, golf is played all through the winter, for on that sandy soil
the snow lies but a short time, owing to the mildness of the climate and
the proximity of the ocean. But of course Lakewood is an exceptionally
favored spot for these northern latitudes. In and around New York city
there is generally enough snow by New-Year's day to stop play, and golf
at the big clubs is virtually at an end after the holidays and through
the months of January, February, March, and April. Even after the snow
has disappeared the frost must be allowed to get entirely out of the
ground before play is resumed, or the course, and particularly the
putting-greens, may be ruined.
[Illustration: FIG. 1.]
We must therefore admit that golf may have its "close" season, at least
for places that lie north of Mason and Dixon's famous line, but no
golfer worthy of the name is content to entirely abandon all attempts at
practice. If he can do nothing better, he will at least try "putting"
into tumblers laid on their sides on the dining-room floor, or he will
find some pretext to steal away to the attic for a few trial swings at a
mythical ball. Inventive genius has appreciated this unquenchable
craving on the part of the enthusiastic golfer, and several ingenious
appliances have been patented and put upon the market, by the use of
which he may keep up his practice in putting, approaching, and even
driving.
In Fig. 4 is shown an apparatus called _Linka_. Inside the machine is a
powerful spring pulley-wheel, and over this runs a stout cord with an
ordinary golf-ball attached at the free end. When the ball is teed and
struck away, the propelling force is communicated through the spring to
a self-registering dial. So many pounds of pressure indicate so many
yards in distance, and the scale is graduated in five-yard divisions
from zero up to 225 yards. Fifteen or twenty feet of clear space is
ample for the use of the machine.
[Illustration: FIG. 2.]
For practice in approaching the putting-green there is the stand shown
in Fig. 3. It consists of three concentric hoop-nets, and the accuracy
of the shot is determined by the particular hoop into which the ball is
played. Of course a free ball is used, and the weak point in the
apparatus is that it does not indicate the distance covered (a point
which in real play is quite as important as accurate direction). But it
may be arbitrarily assumed that a ball in the smallest hoop has been
laid within a foot of the hole, while the middle and outer rings may
stand for six and fifteen feet respectively.
A cheap and effective substitute for the approaching-stand is the simple
target depicted in Fig. 2. It may be painted either upon canvas or
roughly sketched out in chalk upon the barn door. The canvas should be
eight feet square, and provided with guy-ropes and ring-bolts for
attaching to the floor and ceiling. If the lower edge of the canvas just
touches the floor, the centre of the target and the "bunker-line" will
consequently be three feet above it. (The use of the bunker-line will be
explained further on.) The diameter of the outer circle should be four
feet; of the middle one, two and a half feet; and of the inner ring, one
foot. The bull's-eye, which represents the hole proper, should be four
inches in diameter. As before, a ball striking in the outer ring is
supposed to lie fifteen feet from the hole; one in the middle ring, at
six feet; and one in the inner ring, at one foot. A ball that strikes
the bull's-eye is assumed to be in the hole. A ball on the line is
credited to the _inside_ division.
[Illustration: FIG. 3.]
For putting there has been devised the stand shown in Fig. 1. It is
nothing but a circular convex piece of tin with a hole in it. The tin
has a diameter of eight and a half inches, and that of the hole is two
and a half. The convexity is such that the depth of the hole is
three-quarters of an inch. It looks easy, but nevertheless it takes a
good deal of skill to "putt" a ball up the slope and safely into the
cup. If the direction be not accurate the ball will fall off, and if the
force be too great it will run completely over the hole in a very
irritating manner.
Now all of these appliances may afford amusing practice, and there is no
reason why they should not be so used in combination as to give much of
the variety and excitement of a regular round of the links. Granted the
use of the attic or that of the barn floor, and we may at once proceed
to set up our miniature course of in-door golf. The principal expense
will be in the purchase of the driving-machine, which costs several
dollars at the shops; but we will assume that a small club has been
formed, and that the cost of the several pieces of apparatus is to be
equally divided among the playing members. The substitute for the
approaching-stand (Fig. 3) may be gotten up very cheaply, and the
putting-stand can be bought for fifty cents.
[Illustration: FIG. 4.]
It is essential that there should be enough of clear space to allow a
full swing with the driving-clubs. Fifteen feet will do, but eighteen or
twenty will be better. The ball attached to the driving-machine must
have a free course in front of it of at least a dozen feet, for
otherwise its full force will not be communicated to the spring, and the
dial will not register correctly. The machine itself is placed a little
to one side, so as not to interfere with the club, and the ball should
be teed about a yard in front of it. After the tee shot, when the ball
is supposed to be on the ground (as in actual play), we may use an old
door-mat as a substitute for turf, and we will call this the
"driving-pad."
In playing approach shots a free ball is used, and it may be placed on
the "driving-pad" and about fifteen feet from the approaching-stand or
canvas target. In the middle of the floor should be a mark for the
placing of the putting-stand during the process of "holing out." A chalk
line should be drawn from this mark fifteen feet long, with cross marks
at the one, six, and fifteen foot points. So much for the mechanical
apparatus; now for the course itself.
[Illustration 1: No. 1.--Ball in earth bunker or fence, drop five yards
back and add one stroke. Ball in sand, play off bare floor. No. 2.--Ball
in "Serpentine," drop five yards back and add one stroke. No. 3.--Ball
in pond is lost. Tee again and add two strokes. No. 4.--Ball in sand
bunker, drop five yards back and add one stroke.]
Suppose that our course is to be a nine-hole one, we must provide
ourselves with some sheets of stout wrapping-paper, a three-foot rule,
and an assortment of colored pencils. Each imaginary "hole" must now be
sketched out upon a separate sheet, after the fashion shown in the plan.
The sheet should be three feet long, and a convenient scale of
measurement will be a quarter-inch to five yards. Five inches will
therefore represent 100 yards; seven and one-half inches, 150 yards; ten
inches, 200 yards; and so on. Thirty inches is equivalent to 600 yards,
which should be the maximum. The putting-greens should be thirty feet,
or ten yards, square. A line should be drawn from tee to centre of the
putting-green, and each ten-yard point along it should be marked by a
red dot with the number underneath, 10, 20, 30, and so on. A circle
fifty yards in diameter is drawn around the hole, and the space enclosed
is called the "approaching-zone." Water hazards may be indicated by blue
shading, the ordinary earth bunker by red, stone walls by black, and the
tees and putting-greens by green. Everything should be drawn accurately
to scale, and the artistic appearance of the little map will be improved
by introducing hole and line flags in the proper colors. On an
eighteen-hole course red flags are used for the nine outgoing holes, and
white ones for the incoming ones. Red and white flags are used to
indicate the line of play at blind holes, and green flags may mark the
boundaries of the course.
Any boy who has a practical knowledge of golf, and who is possessed of
reasonable ingenuity, may lay out in this manner a series of holes
which, if properly varied, will make the play very interesting. The
principal difficulty is the proper arrangement of the hazards, and this
will be largely determined by the average driving ability of the club
members. Generally speaking, a bunker must never be so situated as to
spoil a really good drive. Hazards are intended to punish bad shots and
not to injure good ones. Accordingly we may place a hazard ten yards
from the tee, or any distance between that and 100 yards. But a bunker
160 yards from the tee would be in just the place to trap a really good
drive, while the topped or short one would go unpunished. Side hazards
will not be required on our in-door course, as there is no way of
determining the "slice" or "pull" of our drives. Each player must be
provided with a stick-pin to mark his progress on the map, and these may
be distinguished by dipping the heads into different colors of melted
sealing-wax. The maps of the holes are tacked up on the wall in regular
succession as the play goes on. And now we are ready for the actual
match, and we will suppose that we are playing the "Longfellow hole."
M. and N. are the players, and M. has the "honor." This being his tee
drive, he is allowed to use a rubber or some other kind of artificial
tee, and of course he plays with the ball attached to the
driving-machine. The dial shows that he has driven 115 yards, and has
therefore carried the earth bunker. He sticks in his pin at the 115-yard
point, and N. has his turn. We will suppose that N. tops his ball, and
the dial shows that his ball has travelled only 50 yards. He sticks in
his pin at that point on the map. N. being the farthest from the hole,
must now play again, and this time he must not use a tee, but must
simply place the ball on the "driving-pad." As he is fifty yards from
the bunker he will probably use his brassie, and this time he gets in a
good shot of 130 yards, which will advance him to the 180-yard point.
The play goes on in this manner until both balls have been played inside
the "approaching-zone" or fifty-yard circle. Then the driving-machine is
set aside, and the approach shot is made with a free ball, and at the
stand (Fig. 3) or target (Fig. 2). As before explained, a ball in the
bull's-eye means that the player has holed out, if in the smallest ring
he is one foot from the hole, and six and fifteen feet away for the
middle and outer rings respectively. A ball that misses the target
altogether is held to be "foozled," and must be taken back and played
again (counting a stroke each time) until the player has succeeded in
hitting the bull's-eye or one of the numbered rings. And particularly
note this: if, as in this case, there is a hazard between the player's
ball and the green, the ball must not only hit the target, but it must
do so above the horizontal mark called on the diagram (Fig. 2) the
bunker-line. Failing in this, the player is held to be in the bunker,
and must add a penalty stroke to his score, and try again, until he does
succeed in hitting the target above the bunker-line. The balls being now
within holing-distance they are placed at their respective marks (one
foot, six feet, or fifteen feet from the putting-stand), and holed out
in the ordinary manner.
The small type under the plans give specific directions for the playing
of each hole, and may be varied at discretion. In sand the player must
drive off the bare floor instead of from the pad, and for a heavy lie or
long grass an old bear-skin (or other long-haired skin) rug may be
substituted. The half-circles mean that a ball driven beyond the marked
figures is out of bounds and lost.
Finally, in the event of a long shot that exactly covers the distance to
the hole, the player may be considered to have holed out in that shot.
M. is 110 yards from the green. He drives, and the dial indicates
exactly 110 yards. M. is down by a lucky fluke, and does not have to do
any approaching or putting.
It is hardly worth while to make any argument against the assertion that
all this is not golf. Of course it is not golf, but it is as near to it
as we are likely to get within the limits of our four walls. Driving
with the machine is good practice for the "long game," even though it
cannot help us in correcting that dreaded "slicing" and "pulling." But
these last, again, are principally matters of a faulty aim; it is the
eye that needs correction. Practice with the approaching-target may
teach us the sense of direction with our wrist shots, and we can leave
the distance problem for our open-air play. The putting will train both
eye and hand. Finally, the game is a practical one, and with a little
ingenuity and intelligence in laying out the imaginary course, it may
serve very well by way of amusement during the winter afternoons and
evenings when the mercury without is hovering around the zero mark and
the snow lies deep upon the links.
THE MIDDLETON BOWL.
BY ELLEN DOUGLAS DELAND.
CHAPTER II.
While Miss Joanna Middleton was imparting the news of her startling
discovery to her sisters in the house, Teddy and her aunt Thomasine were
walking as swiftly as possible toward the lower end of the garden.
Theodora's face betrayed that she was greatly excited, and she held her
aunt's hand tightly, and almost dragged her along in her haste to get
there.
"My dear Teddy," said Miss Thomasine at length, while she fairly gasped
for breath, "I am not accustomed to walking so fast. I--I really must
stop for a moment."
"Oh, do excuse me, Aunt Tom! I never thought. You see, I am so used to
running."
They stopped, and stood facing each other for a moment.
"What have you under your apron?" asked Miss Thomasine.
Theodora's face grew redder still, and she cast down her eyes. This was
unusual, for the child had a frank, fearless habit of fixing her brown
eyes upon those of the person to whom she was speaking which was very
winning. Her face had a way of showing every emotion which she might be
feeling, and her aunt saw at once that something was the matter.
"Are you so troubled about the kitten, Teddy, my dear?" asked Miss
Thomasine. "Do you begin to feel sorry that you fought the boy?"
"I'm not a bit sorry, Aunt Tom. I'm glad, glad, _glad_! But you needn't
look so disappointed; the sorry feeling may come later. It usually does
after I've been naughty, but sometimes not for a good while. For
instance, when I've been naughty in the morning I very often don't begin
to feel sorry till toward sunset. I suppose I begin to think then of
that verse in the Bible about not letting the sun go down on your wrath.
So perhaps late in the afternoon I may begin to feel a little bit sorry
about Andy Morse, though I don't know. But are you rested yet, Aunt Tom?
I do want to get to the funeral, but not unless you are quite ready,"
she added, politely.
"Suppose you take my other hand," said Miss Thomasine, "and I will hold
my sunshade in this one."
For some reason this arrangement did not appear to please Theodora.
However, she put both of her hands under her apron, and after a curious
sound of the clatter of china, she produced her right hand and gave it
to her aunt.
"What have you there, Teddy, my dear? What are you hiding under your
apron?" asked the gentle little lady.
"Oh, nothing much, Aunt Tom. At least--that is--yes, there is something,
but--well--I would rather not tell you what it is, if you don't mind."
Soon they turned a corner, and reached the spot where the six Hoyt boys
were awaiting them.
"We thought you were never coming, Ted! What kept you so long?" shouted
Paul, who was the eldest, and therefore master of ceremonies. Catching
sight of Miss Thomasine, he stopped abruptly. "Aren't you going to have
a funeral?" he asked. "We've got everything ready."
"Oh yes, we're going to have it," responded she; "Aunt Tom came with me
to see how we do it. I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, but I really
could not get here before; and now I must speak to Arthur a minute. You
other boys just entertain Aunt Tom, please. She would like to rest. What
a lovely grave, and what sweet flowers! Arthur, come here a minute."
They walked a short distance away, and then disappeared behind some
currant-bushes. The other boys appeared to be unequal to the task of
entertaining Miss Thomasine, so a profound silence reigned, making
plainly audible the murmur of Theodora's voice.
"Hurry up there," said Paul, impatiently. "If you want me to help with
this funeral you must come quick. What are you talking about, anyway?"
"Never mind," replied Teddy, running into sight, followed by Arthur.
"It's a secret, and you mustn't ask."
Her aunt noticed that both hands were now visible, and that she carried
nothing in them; but Miss Thomasine soon forgot that she had felt any
curiosity in the matter, and turned her attention to the proceedings of
these very remarkable children. She also forgot that she had been
deputed by her sisters to stop these proceedings, and became wholly and
at once an interested spectator.
"We will start from here and walk once around the garden," said Teddy,
"and we will make quite a long procession, for there are so many of us.
I wish we had some music. We might pretend that the poor dear kitten was
a soldier."
"So we will," cried Clement. "I'll get my drum quicker than a wink."
Before he had finished speaking he was over the garden wall.
"And get my trumpet," shouted Raymond.
Presently Clem returned, and all was now ready. Upon the boys' express
wagon reposed a pasteboard box, in which had been placed the kitten,
more honored in its death than in its short, unhappy life. Yellow
daisies, asters, and golden-rod were heaped upon the cart in magnificent
profusion, but the handle was draped in black.
Arthur and Walter acted as horses, and subdued their natural speed to a
funereal gait; Clem and Raymond marched before, one beating his drum
with measured rat-tat-tat, the other blowing long and melancholy wails
upon his Fourth-of-July horn. On either side the cart walked Paul and
Charlie, while close behind came Theodora and her aunt Thomasine.
"You will make a perfect chief mourner," whispered Teddy, "for your hat
is so black and so is your cape. I shall hold my handkerchief to my
eyes, so."
"But, my dear," expostulated Miss Thomasine, "I really cannot. I do not
approve. Remember, it is only a kitten."
"Yes, yes, I do remember. That poor dead kitten! Please come, Aunt Tom!
Don't spoil it all, and try to look as sad as you can!"
And before Miss Thomasine really knew it, the procession had begun to
move and she was in it. Around the garden they walked, and finally
returned to their starting-place, where the grave had been already dug.
Paul and Charlie attended to this part of the ceremonies, the musicians
blew and beat a parting salute upon their instruments, Theodora mopped
her dry eyes, and the horses, when all was over, relieved their feelings
by running away.
"Wasn't it fun?" exclaimed Teddy. "I never did like anybody so much as
you boys, and you do a funeral beautifully. Do you really have to go
back now, Aunt Tom? I wish you could stay here and play with us. Charlie
is going to let me try his bicycle, and I'd like you to see me."
"Oh, my dear child," cried Miss Thomasine. "It will never do in the
world. You must not--indeed you must not! If you knew the feeling that
your aunts and I have about bicycles."
"But they are not dangerous, Aunt Tom. Indeed, _lots_ of people ride
them."
"It is not the danger so much as the-- Well, my dear, you must never do
it without asking your other aunts. A lady on a bicycle!"
"But I'm not a lady; I'm only a child. Besides, lots of ladies ride
them. I've seen them in Alden over and over again."
"It does not seem to me as if they can be real ladies. But come into the
house and ask your aunt Adaline. I cannot take any more responsibility.
I feel uncomfortable now about that funeral. I do not know what your
other aunts will say."
"Oh dear!" grumbled Theodora; "it is such a bother to have to ask so
many people what I can do. If it were just you, Aunt Tom, I shouldn't
mind, but five are such a lot, and you all think everything is so
dreadful. I am sure mamma would let me ride a wheel." Her aunt made no
reply, and they walked toward the house. "There, I suppose I ought not
to have said that," added Teddy, penitently, after a moment's pause. "It
was disrespectful, I suppose. But oh, Aunt Tom, if you only won't all
say I can't ride a wheel, it is all I ask!"
They found the door standing open, and from the sound of voices it was
evident that some one was in the parlor, and immediately the parlor door
was opened a crack, and at it appeared Miss Melissa, beckoning
mysteriously to her sister.
"Come!" she whispered. "Thomasine, the-- My dear sister, be prepared! a
cruel blow!"
"What do you mean, Melissa?" cried Miss Thomasine, her nerves quite
unstrung by the performance in which she had so recently taken part, and
also by her late altercation, if so it could be called, with her niece.
"Come!" repeated Miss Melissa, and her sister went into the
drawing-room, almost expecting to find that there had been a death in
the family.
Theodora ran up stairs. "They have found it out! they have found it
out!" she thought, and flying to her room she closed and bolted the
door. Ten minutes later her name was called from without.
"Miss Theodora, are you there?" It was Mary Ann, one of the maids. Teddy
did not speak nor move.
"Miss Theodora," said Mary Ann again, tapping at the door and rattling
the handle as she spoke. "I think, miss, you had better let me in. Your
aunts want to speak to you."
Slowly Teddy rose from the bed, where she had flung herself, and
reluctantly opened the door. Her dark hair, which was cut short across
her forehead and hung in a wavy mass behind, looked sadly dishevelled,
and her face showed unmistakably that she had been crying. "What do they
want me for?" she asked.
"A terrible thing has happened, miss," replied Mary Ann, in an awed
whisper; "the Middleton bowl is broke--the Middleton bowl as was worth
hundreds of dollars, I've heard tell, that folks has been comin' from
all over the country to see ever since I've lived here, and that's goin'
on fifteen years."
"But why do they want me?" asked Theodora, showing no surprise when told
of the calamity, as Mary Ann noted.
"Because, miss, _some_body has broke it, and as it ain't one of the
ladies themselves, it must have been either you or some of the help. So,
miss, if 'twas you and you don't tell it, some of us has got to suffer."
"Mary Ann," said Teddy, stopping short at the stairs, "must I really go
down? Can't I run away? Won't you help me to run away, Mary Ann? I'll
give you something nice if you will."
"La, miss, don't talk and look so wild! You just tell 'em you did it
quite accidental, and they'll forgive you. The Miss Middletons is real
ladies, and they won't scold, but they'll take it awful hard if you try
to deceive 'em. Just tell 'em you did it."
"I can't possibly do that. Oh, Mary Ann, I wish I were in South America
with my father and mother!"
She had reached the parlor door by this time, and there she paused.
Presently, summoning all her courage, she pushed it open and entered.
"Poor little miss!" said Mary Ann to herself. "Of course she did it, and
I'm real sorry for her."
And then she went off to the kitchen to tell the other frightened
servants that there was no doubt as to who was guilty.
The parlor was a very large room, and Venetian-blinds at the seven long
windows shut out the light of day as much as possible. Two of them, at
one end of the room, had been drawn up this morning, however. As has
been said, the parlor was furnished in old-fashioned mahogany. There
were eight-legged tables, quaintly shaped shelves and cabinets,
Chippendale chairs, and even an ancient piano, made in the style of
eighty years ago.
The Misses Middleton were modern in one respect only; their drawing-room
was filled with bric-à-brac. There were lacquered-ware tea-poys from
Japan and quaint idols from India, while rare old bits of china filled
every available space. Near one of the windows stood a Chinese table. It
was curiously carved, and the top was inlaid with bits of wood and ivory
in the shapes of mysterious Chinese symbols, and upon this table had
always rested, in honor and apparent security, the famous Middleton
bowl.
The walls were lined with rare old paintings, and portraits from the
hands of Sully, Stuart, and even of Sir Joshua Reynolds and
Gainsborough, looked down upon the five descendants of the ancient race
of Middleton this September morning when they sat, drawn up in battle
array, to receive their niece.
Slowly she walked into the room, and with downcast eyes and burning face
she stood before her aunts. They were seated in a semicircle, their
backs turned toward the windows, where the shades had been raised;
therefore the light streamed full in the face of Theodora.
"What have you to say for yourself, Theodora?" asked Miss Middleton, in
an impressive voice.
There was no reply. Miss Thomasine looked unhappy, and covered her face
with her handkerchief, and Miss Melissa again made use of her salts.
Miss Dorcas began to knit nervously, but Miss Joanna stared straight at
Theodora through her gold-rimmed spectacles.
"Have you nothing to say, Theodora?" asked Miss Middleton, after a
pause.
"No, Aunt Adaline."
"You have not told her why she has been called, sister!" exclaimed Miss
Thomasine. "Perhaps she knows nothing about it."
"Is that probable after what you told us?" asked Miss Middleton,
austerely. "However, I will humor you. Theodora, you have seen the
Middleton bowl?"
Involuntarily Teddy's eyes turned toward the now empty Chinese table,
and then were dropped again.
"Yes, it stood there," continued Miss Middleton, "and at ten o'clock
this morning it was still there, for I saw it myself. At a quarter past
eleven, when your aunt Joanna came down to dust the parlor, the
Middleton bowl was gone! Not a trace of it left but this small piece of
china to show that it had ever been there."
Theodora glanced up again, and saw a triangular bit of china, an inch or
two long, which her aunt held in her hand and then laid upon the table.
"You know the value of that bowl. You have been told that your
great-grandfather brought it home, and that there is said to be but one
like it in the world. Now that other is the only one. The Middleton bowl
is no more."
She paused, and her sisters, more than one of them, sobbed audibly. Miss
Middleton, Miss Joanna, and Theodora herself alone were dry-eyed.
"Have you anything to say for yourself?" asked Miss Middleton, for the
third time.
And again Theodora replied, "No, Aunt Adaline."
Miss Middleton's foot moved impatiently. "You must say something,
Theodora. In plain words, did you break the bowl?" There was no answer.
"Very well. You would have saved yourself in our esteem if you had
confessed at once that you broke it, and that it was an accident, as I
suppose it was. We should have forgiven you, great as the loss is. Now
you are attempting to hide it. I am only thankful that you are not
actually denying the fact, but I suppose you realize that it would be
useless. The evidence is too strong against you."
"What do you mean, Aunt Adaline?"
"Your aunt Thomasine will explain."
"Oh, sister!" murmured Miss Thomasine. "I almost wish I had not told
you; but you took me so by surprise that the words came right out before
I knew it. Poor little Teddy! I am sure she did not mean to break it."
"I beg you will not call her by that ridiculous boy's name, Thomasine!"
interrupted Miss Joanna. "And you are doing your best to encourage her
to keep silence. I think you and sister Adaline are entirely too
lenient. If I had _my_ way, I should soon force her to confess."
Teddy, who had almost cried while her aunt Thomasine was speaking, now
raised her head and gazed defiantly at Miss Joanna. "_I did not break
the bowl_," she said, in a loud, clear voice.
"Oh, Theodora!" exclaimed the five aunts, in a chorus of dismay.
"I did not break the bowl," she repeated.
"But, my dear, the pieces which you carried under your apron to the
garden?" murmured Miss Thomasine, greatly aghast at the turn which
affairs were taking.
"How do you know I did?" asked Theodora, her face, which had become
pale, again growing red.
"I--I thought I heard them clatter, but I may have been mistaken."
"The only thing to do," said Miss Joanna, "is to go to the garden
ourselves, and find what is left of the bowl. You said, Thomasine, that
she appeared to have placed the pieces among the currant-bushes. Then we
shall discover whether or not you were mistaken. You are painfully weak
and indefinite, and I am glad that I, for one, always know what I am
talking about. Do you not agree with me, Adaline, that it would be well
for us to go?"
Miss Middleton acquiesced, and the five sisters made themselves ready
for their walk. They were arrayed in garden hats and black silk
mantillas, and each one carried a sunshade. Even in the midst of her
misery Theodora wondered at their dressing so exactly alike, and why
they all wore gloves that were too large for them.
[Illustration: SLOWLY THEY WALKED, TWO BY TWO, ALONG THE PATH.]
Slowly they walked, two by two, along the path which led to the garden,
the maids watching them from the kitchen windows, and John, the hired
man, pausing in his work among the sweet-pease to stare after them in
astonishment. He also had heard of the calamity which had befallen the
household, but he did not know the connection between that and the foot
of the garden, and he never before had seen his mistresses walk there at
high noon (as it was according to the old dial), though he had lived
with them, and hoed their potatoes for twenty years.
Two by two they went, Theodora and her aunt Thomasine in front, the
other aunts behind, down the very path over which had passed that
delightful funeral procession so short a time before.
"I wish I were that kitten!" thought Teddy, miserably. "I would rather
be stoned than this! I suppose there is no way out of it. I've got to
show them where I hid the pieces. If I only hadn't left that little bit
which I never saw at all, they would have thought the bowl was stolen.
They never would have dreamed of my breaking it. How foolish I was!"
One of the Hoyt boys, looking over the wall, saw the approach of the
Middleton ladies, and summoning all his brothers who were available,
they leaned upon the wall and watched the proceedings with intense
interest. Arthur alone, when he saw them coming, dropped the rake which
he had been using and fled toward the barn.
"She's only a girl, after all," he said to himself, indignantly. "She
can't keep it dark. I told her they'd never guess it if she only held
her tongue, and now she has given it away!"
Then his curiosity as to what would happen next overcame his apparent
desire for flight, and he returned to his brothers on the garden wall,
from the top of which could be had a fine view of the Misses Middletons'
currant-bushes. When he arrived at this point of vantage he found that
the ladies had reached the object of their walk, and that they stood in
a row upon the path.
"Now," said Miss Joanna, with sarcasm--"now we shall see whether
Thomasine was mistaken or not!"
She closed her sunshade with a vicious snap, and proceeded to poke with
it under the bushes. Theodora watched her for a moment in silence.
"You needn't do that, Aunt Joanna," she said; and walking to a little
distance, she stooped and thrust her hand into the mass of green weeds
and dead leaves which had accumulated there. Almost immediately she drew
forth two pieces of broken china. "Here they are," she said.
Miss Middleton took one piece and Miss Joanna the other. Without a word
they turned toward home. Miss Melissa and Miss Dorcas followed, and then
Miss Thomasine, holding Theodora by the hand, fell into line behind.
They walked away as slowly as they had come.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
A LOYAL TRAITOR.
A STORY OF THE WAR OF 1812 BETWEEN AMERICA AND ENGLAND.
BY JAMES BARNES.
CHAPTER XIII.
A FRENCH LEAVE-TAKING.
I could well write a book describing the two months of my life that I
spent as an English prisoner of war; but as this is to be a record of my
adventures alone, I fear me I would take up too much time if I should
allow this fact to leave my mind.
We were awakened early in the morning, and orders were given us to get
our baggage ready, as we were going to be transferred from the frigate
to one of the prison-ships. The order to get our "baggage" must have
been a bit of sarcasm, as there was none of us who possessed a spare
shirt to his back.
Our breakfast was doled out to us on the upper deck, and we hastened
down the gangway. Such a multitude of bumboats and small craft I had
never seen as surrounded the vessel. There was a great hubbub on all
sides, and our departure, being such a small number, created little
comment. A launch was waiting for us, and one by one we jumped into her
stern-sheets.
I almost forgot I was a prisoner in looking about me, for it all was
new. I saw more ships gathered together than I had ever seen in the
whole course of my life. Some were twice as large as the 74
_Plantagenet_ that I had seen from the deck of the _Minetta_.
We rowed under the stern of a great vessel pierced on one side for sixty
guns.
"This is the sort of a craft," said Sutton, pointing, "that Nelson and
their Admirals won battles with. She could swing the _Young Eagle_ at
her side; eh, youngster?"
And well she could, I think, for it struck me that she was more of a
floating fort than a sailing craft. Sheer-hulks and vessels outfitting
crowded the inner harbor, and the constant hammering, tapping, and
picking of an army of calkers filled the air.
When we reached the gangway on the port side we climbed up to the tall
gallery. I had to smile. We might have been royal personages making a
visit, for such ceremony I have never seen equalled. We passed between
two files of marines and were inspected by three different groups of
officers. They asked questions, and for some time seemed to be quite
confident that Sutton was an Englishman. In this belief they were
somewhat shaken when they saw his tattoo decorations, however.
At last our names were taken, and we passed below into the foul-smelling
air of the 'tween-decks. Five or six hundred men were confined on board
this ship, and as the guards had a generous portion set apart for
themselves, the prisoners were much crowded. But we were not going to be
kept here long; and although the time seemed to go slowly and was
certainly most tedious, only a week elapsed before we were informed that
we were going to be taken to a large prison near the town of Bristol.
On the twelfth day we were landed on the dock in Plymouth, and the dry
ground felt odd to our feet, I can tell you. As luck had it, Sutton,
Craig, and myself were in the first draft. It took us several days to
travel from Plymouth to Bristol, being closely guarded by a squadron of
cavalry and a battalion of infantry on the route.