Produced by Annie R. McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]
Copyright, 1896, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.
* * * * *
PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, MARCH 31, 1896. FIVE CENTS A COPY.
VOL. XVII.--NO. 857. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "AT LAST I WAS MOVIN' BACK AN' FOR'ARD, LONGER AN'
LONGER."]
ONCE IN A THOUSAND YEARS.
BY JAMES BARNES
It was quite dark. The sun was not high enough as yet to shine down into
the long narrow crevice up which Professor Jensen and the two boys were
clambering.
A short distance ahead of them stalked John Coleman, the guide. He was a
tall thin man with drooping shoulders, and he carried the Professor's
camera, a heavy pick, and a long-handled shovel as if they were no more
than feather-weights.
Suddenly the little party turned around a steep wall of shale, and the
main cañon was in sight. The Professor paused and mopped his forehead.
"There, boys, there it is," he said, pointing with his finger.
Half-way up the steep side of the cliff, in what looked to be a long
narrow cleft in the steep descent of rock, stood the home and fortress
of the ancient cliff-dwellers, which the boys had come so many miles to
see.
From where they were they could make out nothing but some square windows
in what appeared to be a line of half-crumbling adobe houses that nearly
filled the huge shadowy recess.
George Lyman and Carter Randall were two boys of sixteen who had left
home some two months before under the charge of young Professor Jensen.
They were making a trip through Arizona and New Mexico in the search of
fossils and traces of the prehistoric inhabitants. "Bones and
battle-axes," George called them. Through their acquaintance with an
army officer at one of the forts they had heard of the guide Coleman,
who knew more about the habitations of the old cliff-dwellers than
probably any man in the region, for he had been one of the first
explorers up in the Glachens and the Black River country.
With this recommendation the Professor had engaged Coleman to guide his
little party into the Black River cañon, and show them how to reach one
or two of the more accessible fortresses that the strange, almost
unknown people had built ages and ages ago.
When they had reached the bottom of the arroyo, and were following the
shallow stream, John Coleman turned.
"Whar I'm goin' to take ye," he said, "lots of people have bin before.
It's most cleaned out o' relics, I reckin; but thar, see thar!" He
turned suddenly, and seized the Professor's arm. "Come here, a few rods
further," he went on, pointing at the same time, as he waded up the
stream to the opposite side of the cliff.
The village that the boys had first seen was nothing to that which now
was plain in sight, under a great beetling brow of stone, that thrust
out overhead a hundred feet or so into the cañon. It was fully one
thousand feet from where they stood straight up to the ledge upon which
this village stood. Sheer and straight it was, without a fissure or the
chance for a foothold below, and the overhanging mass above marked it at
once as inaccessible. The sides of the houses could be seen as they
stood there almost intact, the ends of the roof-beams were plain in
sight even to the naked eye, and through the field-glass a pile of
pottery could be made out standing near the entrance to one of the
larger dwellings.
The Professor gazed in astonishment. "It looks as if it were built
yesterday," he said.
"How did they get up there?" inquired Carter, as he plashed up
alongside.
"That's more than I can tell you," answered the Professor, slowly.
"Major Evans told me of this village, but probably the old method of
going there has been destroyed by time. In my opinion, no human foot has
been there in the last thousand years or more."
"I'd like to see what it's like," said George, looking up, with his
glass to his eye. "I'd like to get in there."
The Professor sighed. "Science would give a great deal to have you," he
replied; "but come on; we must hurry to reach the small one over
yonder." He pointed again to the ruins on the other side.
By careful climbing and careful stretching from point to point they at
last reached the smaller ledge and entered through the narrow opening
cut in the solid rock. It was as Coleman had reported; there was
evidence of many visitations before them. Under the thick stifling dust
they found nothing but some crumbling brick-work, bits of rough earthen
jars, and a sandal made of straw.
Professor Jensen was outspoken in his disappointment. It was evident
that the destroying power of nature besides that of man had been at work
long, long before him.
The village, unlike the one across the chasm, was in a very exposed
position, and rain and water had helped to work destruction; but over
there in front of them and some hundred feet above their heads was the
tantalizing fortress which they could not reach. What treasures it
possessed! The Professor sighed; a long trip of three or four days had
been next to fruitless.
Suddenly John Coleman turned and spoke to the Professor quite excitedly.
"Capt'in," he said, "take that big glass of yourn and look just inside
that window whar that rafter hangs." He pointed with his lean finger at
the opposite cliff, and his hand was trembling.
The Professor looked through his glass.
"See anything?" asked the guide, his voice almost quivering.
"Yes," said the Professor, "I see something red."
Coleman drew a long breath. "It's thar yet," he whispered. He turned and
looked at the group gathered about him as if frightened; then he spoke,
still beneath his breath, "I put it thar."
The Professor started. "You! you!" he began, but the guide interrupted
him.
"Yes, fifteen year ago las' spring I've bin thar" (with a wave of his
arm), "and I've seen things."
The boys stepped forward, and Professor Jensen lowered his glass and
glanced at the guide from head to foot.
"Tell us," he said, quietly, raising his hand to keep the boys from
speaking.
The tall man was fairly trembling now. "You won't believe me," he
faltered; "they never will."
Carter was about to say something, but the elder man suppressed him
again with a gesture. "We will believe you, John," he said, as quietly
as he had spoken before; "but how in the world, and where did you start
from?"
Coleman sat down and clasped his palms together, and the boys and the
Professor seated themselves quietly also, without a word.
"I'll tell you the hull story," began the guide, looking appealingly
from one to the other. "But I 'ain't told it for nigh eight years now."
"Go on," said Professor Jensen; "we will listen carefully; it may be
most important, John. Don't fear to tell it."
"Well," said the guide, beginning slowly, "you know I have lived and
hunted in this kintry for more'n eighteen years. I come here from the
East, an' I wa'n't older than either of you two boys." The three
listeners nodded.
"One day I was huntin' with a party up this here cañon when we
discovered this town, whar we be now, and t'other one 'cross the way. We
reached this one easy 'nough, as we done to-day, but some one had been
'fore us even then--I suspect as they was Injuns," he added,
parenthetically. "There was three others with me then, no good tellin'
their names, 'cause they're all dead, but thet comes in the story. We
was all young an' ventresome, and I sez to Bill Combs-- He was drowned
rite down thar!"
The guide broke off so suddenly that it was startling. He pointed with
his finger down to where the little stream was slowly running through
its sandy bed.
"I've seen it sech," said he, "an' I've seen it from bank to bank, a
roarin' tearin' river--'tis now at some seasons o' the year."
For a moment the Professor was afraid that the thread of the story was
going to be lost, but Coleman regained himself in half a moment.
"I was talkin' o' Bill Combs," he said. "We were standin' here whar we
be now, an' I sez, lookin' over thar, 'Bill, if you lo'ered a man over
the top of that ere cañon he could git opposite them houses and have a
good squint at 'em.'
"'I reckin no man dares try it,' Bill sez to me.
"'I can,' sez I."
There was a pause, and Coleman stirred the dust nervously with his foot.
"I reckin the traders at Arequitta thought as how that we was crazy," he
resumed at last. "But all the money Bill an' me had saved we put in
rope, an' six months after that we were right up thar." He pointed to
the top of the opposite cliff. "Three o' us, with three burros an' mor'n
a thousand feet of rope, an' it warn't none too much. They drove a stake
inter the ground, an' I tied the end of the rope 'round my arms, an'
they lo'ered me away.
"At first 'twas kinder easy crawlin' backwards over the steep rock, but
when I come to the edge an' looked up an' saw 'em so fur off, I tell you
I felt scared, an' under me I could see the water rushin' an' jumpin' so
far below. I couldn't hear no sound, but thar it was roarin' an'
tumblin' up agin the rocks. They shouted somethin' to me, but I couldn't
hear 'em, an' then I felt them payin' out the rope again. Well, sir,
thar I hung a-swingin', an' lookin' up I could see nothin' but the rope
comin' over the round top of the overhangin' rock foot after foot. I
felt myself goin' down, twisting first one way an' then t'other, until
all of a sudden thar was a jolt, an' I felt as if my arms were goin' to
come off the sokits, an' then I stopped quick. Thar I was, sir, not
mor'n forty feet from whar you see thet big house on the left, rite
opposite to it. I could look inside o' the winders an' see big bottles
settin' on the shelves, an' 'long on the ground was a basket full of
things that looked like gourds. I had some difficulty from turnin'
round, an' every now and then I'd swing about, for thar was quite some
breeze flyin' up the cañon. At last the rope twisted so that I could
hold myself quiet and still. The sun was nigh overhead by this time, an'
it kinder lit up the shadows back in the lidge; an' what you suppose I
saw there? Four skeletons, sitting with their backs agin the wall! They
was kinder 'rapped up in cloth, but I could make out their ha'r--it was
hangin' over their shoulders."
Coleman paused and clasped his hands.
"It was red, sir! Not black like the Injuns, but red, an' light colored
like a gal's. Just then I felt a movement on the rope, an' I knowed thet
they was tryin' to haul me up. I moved a few inches, and then come down
again. Two or three times I felt them heave, but every time back I come
to whar I was before. Then I looks up."
He paused.
"I never can forget it! Never, never," he said, half whispering. "The
rope was frayin' through over the edge o' th' rock; 'twould only take
two or three minits of thet sawin' to drop a plumb thousand feet onter
the rocks or down inter the river. Then an idee come into my head, an' I
swung myself to and fro much as you see children pumpin' in a swing. At
last I was movin' back an' for'ard, longer an' longer, until once or
twice I come within most jumpin' distance of the lidge; but I couldn't
git the rope from 'round my arms. Then suddenly I thought about my
knife, an' still swinging as hard as I could swing, I got it out; but it
slipped from my hand, an' down it went; I heard it ring agin the cliff.
I was goin' forward with a rush jest then, an' it looked as if the
houses was all comin' out to meet me, an' suddenly I didn't know nothin'
more."
The Professor was leaning forward expectantly, the boys had grasped
hands, great beads of perspiration stood on Coleman's forehead. But he
went on in a low even voice that never changed in its expression.
"When I come to I couldn't at first tell whar I was, but then I saw that
I was lyin' on my back all kivered up with dust in the middle of a lot
of brick pots an' rubbish, an' one of my feet was hangin' out over the
cliff.
"Thar's where I landed," he said, pointing across the cañon. "I wasn't
much hurt to speak on, an' I got up on to my feet an' looked 'roun' me."
"Well," said the Professor, excitedly, "go on! Go on!"
"It was a queer sight, I tell you," said the guide, resuming. "I had to
move careful, for everything tiched raised sech a dust that it 'most
strangled me. Thar was them four skeletons close up agin the wall--you
can't see them, for they're right behind thet pile o' stones. Jest to
the left was a big trough made o' wood, in which was some ears o' corn.
I couldn't tell ye what I'd seen, but thar was speers with stone heds,
and painted jugs, an' hangin' on a hook was a long cloth coat or
somethin'; it was fringed with claws o' bears, an' hanged by a string
was a big tooth, like o' which I never seen. There was a picture o' a
elephant or sompthin' on the wall, an' a big stick curled like a snake
with gold eyes--at least, it looked like gold. A heap o' truck was in a
corner; but inside the houses the dust was so thick an' stiflin' when I
tiched anythin', thet I'd hev to run out into the air to breathe. So I
found a flight of steps, an' goin' up them careful, I got to the roof of
thet big house. Thet lidge runs back mor'n a hundred feet, an' I went
further in. As I got used to the dryness an' the dark I could see some
more bodies--skeletons, at least twenty--sittin' close to the wall; they
was crouched up an' 'rapped about with rough cloth ban'ges; some was
sewed up in hides. An' then what do you s'pose I foun'?"
There was no answer, and he again resumed, quietly:
"A well, sir! A well, sir! dug into the solid rock, an' down about ten
or twelve feet, filled with water. I could hear it tricklin'. I bent
down an' looked in. Settin' on the edge was a cup, green an' shiny after
I rubbed the dust off it, an' smooth as any plate you ever see. It took
some trouble to get down to the water, but with a bit of rope thet I
found still 'round my shoulders I man'ged to get a drink; and then it
come to me how am I to get out of this place, anyhow?"
It was evident that the best way to get at the end of the story was to
let the man go on in his own manner, so after a pause, in which no one
spoke, he continued, his voice sounding monotonous in the dead silence:
"Strange to say, jest then I felt a current o' cool air a-comin' from
the back o' the lidge beyon' the wall. As I went further in the current
grew stronger, and the lidge narrowed down so thet I could jest squeeze
myself 'long by bendin' somewhat careful like. At last I came to a hole,
an' thar the air was so strong jest as if it war comin' up a chimney,
only it was as cold as ice. I put the cup into my pocket, an' sounded
the hole with my rope. It didn't go straight down, but sloped away, an'
I crawled in it, feet first. It was all pitch dark, but I could make my
way 'long, slippin' and pushin' with my elbows. All the time the draft
kept gettin' stronger, but seemed to me it was growin' warmer, too, and
then--"
Coleman had an exasperating way of stopping when he reached a most
exciting place. But now he went on quicker, his voice rising with a rush
of words.
"--I felt somethin' pilin' on my shoulders an' runnin' down my neck, an'
it was sand! sand! an' the draft an' wind began to die away. At first I
thought my head would be buried, for the sand ran over my shoulders an'
almost held my arms; but I found I could keep it back by workin'
careful, and all the time I was movin' down, feelin' my way with my feet
before me. It seems to me I must have gone 'long for hours, when all at
once I seed a little dot of light 'way down ahead. It give me hope, an'
I pushed 'long, the hole growin' summat bigger, an' the sand pourin'
past me so I had to fight to keep ahead of it. Jest as I could make out
the entrance plain, I seemed to slip an' slide 'long, fightin' with my
arms an' elbows to keep from stiflin', an' then know'd no more.
"When I come to agin I was lyin' on thet slope down thar, an' my clothes
was torn inter rags, an' thar was nothin' near me but sand an' shale,
an' no hole at all whar I could have come out of. I had to move careful,
for the groun' shifted easy when I turned, and thar was the river
a-roarin' at my feet. Thet's all the story," he continued, "an' it's
true."
"Where were the other men?" Professor Jensen asked.
"Thet's whar the strange part come in; no one heard tell on 'em again.
But I found Bill Comb's body rite over whar I pointed out. He may have
fell over the cliff for all I know, an' they all may hev been drowned
lookin' for him or me."
"What about the cup?" asked the Professor.
"Oh, I forgot!" said the guide, drawing out a leather wallet attached to
a string about his neck. "Thet's all that is left of it."
He put into the Professor's hand some fragment of earthenware. It was
glazed on both sides like the finest Chinese pottery. The Professor
sighed.
"Don't tell 'em I told you," said the guide. "I 'ain't dare to tell that
story for eight years, I reckin."
"What is that red thing over there you pointed out?" said Carter.
"Oh!" said the guide, quickly; "thet's a bandanna handkerchief. I tied
it thar when I first went in."
FRAIDIE-CAT.
I sha'n't tell you what's his name!--
When we want to play a game,
Always thinks that he'll be hurt,
Soil his jacket in the dirt,
Tear his trousers, spoil his hat,--
Fraidie-cat! Fraidie-cat!
Nothing of the boy in him!
Dasn't try to learn to swim;
Says a cow'll hook; if she
Looks at him he climbs a tree;
Scart to death at bee or bat,--
Fraidie-cat! Fraidie-cat!
Claims there're ghosts all snowy white
Wandering around at night
In the attic; wouldn't go
There for anything I know.
B'lieve he'd run if you said "scat!"--
Fraidie-cat! Fraidie-cat!
CLINTON SCOLLARD.
[Illustration: A MORTAR BATTERY.]
NEW YORK'S DEFENCES ON THE SOUND.
BY WILLIAM HEMMINGWAY.
One of the most interesting questions in a recent examination at the
Royal Naval Academy at Woolwich, England, was: "How would you capture
New York, approaching by way of Long Island Sound?" There is only one
question that interests us more, and that is, How would New York's
defenders along the Sound repel our enemy? The news from Washington that
thrilled this country only a few days ago, and the possibility that we
might after all really come to war, make the defence of the greatest
city of America a problem of the most intense concern to every one of
us.
Captain Howard Patterson told the readers of the ROUND TABLE, on March
13th of last year, how New York would be successfully defended from
Sandy Hook. The arrangements for removing a fleet of men-of-war from the
waters of New York Bay are so complete that no fair-minded invader could
really ask for more.
But suppose some one should declare war against us to-morrow, and
promptly send a fleet to take our richest city. Would the enemy walk
into the trap so thoroughly prepared for him at Sandy Hook? The chances
are rather that he would come down from Halifax and try to dodge in by
way of Long Island Sound, where he thinks that very little has been
prepared to check his advance. It is true, unfortunately, that the works
to the eastward of New York are not nearly so efficient as those to the
southward; yet there would be found in time of need enough men and guns
to drive back the most formidable invasion any one might undertake.
If you will look at your map of Long Island Sound you will find several
small islands scattered between Connecticut and the Long Island shore.
Chief among them are Fishers and Plum islands. Upon every one of these
islands mortar batteries will soon be placed, while the channels of the
Sound itself will be full of submarine mines ten yards apart. For years
the great drawback to the improvement of our coast defences has been the
childish confidence of certain inland Congressmen that "American
ingenuity" will always find a way to defend American interests. The
haste that is being made to fortify our coasts to-day shows how
ill-advised that confidence has been. If you speak about "American
ingenuity" to an army or navy man, he probably will glare at you and
turn purple. It has been their stumbling block for a very long time.
Still, we are not quite so unprepared as our enemies believe.
Imagine that the hostile fleet has arrived off the mouth of Long Island
Sound on its errand of destruction and plunder. Its array of ships
almost staggers belief. There are twelve battle-ships--veritable
mountains of iron and steel--armed with rifled cannon of prodigious
bore and wonderfully long range, as well as smaller guns of every
degree. With them have come twenty-four armed cruisers, twelve
torpedo-catchers--boats that run twenty-eight or thirty miles an
hour--and a swarm of ordinary torpedo-boats that one might well describe
as innumerable. The proud armada sails westward flaunting the enemy's
ensign and trailing plumes of black smoke like vast banners. The
attacking Admiral knows that beneath the dancing waters of the Sound
there are hidden mines of deadly power, awaiting only the pressure of an
electric key from the shore or the touch of a passing keel to blow his
great ships into fragments. He sends out scouts--that is, lines of
torpedo-boats twenty or thirty feet apart, trying to determine the
channel. It is the duty of the crews of these swift, light-draught boats
to drag for and explode the hidden mines, which are submerged at a depth
of twenty feet so as to strike only the keels of great ships.
Where are the forts that shall check the invaders? From the
conning-towers of the ships there can be seen no sign of fortification.
The little islands lie peacefully basking in the balmy sunshine. The
grass on their round-browed hills quivers gently in the breeze. But
behind every one of those hills is a modern fort--a gigantic circular
pit in the sand, with four arms running out from it at right angles. At
the end of each arm is a pit big enough to hold four rifled mortars.
These are short, wicked-looking guns that seem like long-range rifled
cannon sawed off half-way down the barrel. From the moment the
torpedo-catchers are within five miles the officers of the mortar
batteries are watching them with range-finders.
Four miles; three and three-quarters; three and a half--then comes a
thunderous uproar as if a mountain-side had fallen! The mortars on two
islands send showers of bursting shells that fall upon the group of
pretty white torpedo-boats, and blot them from the sea. The thing is
done with startling quickness. Before one can count half a hundred the
last vestige of the torpedo-destroyers has disappeared beneath the
waves. The batteries on Plum Island and Fishers Island have rained
destruction in an awful cross-fire.
[Illustration: Massachusetts. New York. Iowa. Texas. Indiana.
AMERICAN NAVY PROCEEDING UP EAST RIVER TO THE SOUND.]
The hostile Admiral sends out twenty torpedo-catchers in the wake of
their lost fellows. Let us assume that by hard work, great pluck, and
good fortune they have counter-mined and cleared the channel, and so
made the way safe for the big ships. The men in the mortar-pits are
almost unhurt at first. The opponents have had nothing to guide their
retaliatory firing but the clouds of smoke from the pits. At last they
get the range and silence the forts.
[Illustration: Governors Island. New York City. Hell Gate.
Willets Point. Fort Schuyler. Mortar Battery.
THE ENEMY'S FLEET APPROACHING THE NEW YORK END OF LONG ISLAND SOUND.]
The fleet passes on, only a little crippled, but still wary of mines in
the channel. The ships would be subject to a similar cross-fire from
mortar batteries on either side of the Sound at every narrow part of the
channel. Almost the entire journey down the Sound toward New York would
be under a heavy bombardment. There are at least six places where the
groups of mortars will be placed. It would not be proper to give their
location here. There are also very heavy batteries of this description
on Davids Island, which is a military post near New Rochelle, and on
Sands Point, Long Island, about sixteen miles east of New York. Then
there are the fortifications at Willets Point and Fort Schuyler still
nearer to this city, and at a point where the Sound is only
three-quarters of a mile wide.
If the enemy should live to come within range of these forts he would
find that his troubles were only now beginning in earnest. The great
16-inch rifled guns at Willets Point have a seven-mile range, up past
Stepping Stone Light and Execution Rock. They could easily dispose of
any number of torpedo-boats trying to destroy submarine mines. More
destructive than all these is the "dynamite gun," a tube of steel fifty
feet long, and with a bore of fifteen inches. This throws a long
cigar-shaped slug of explosive gelatine, more powerful than dynamite,
and weighing about two hundred pounds. The shell is driven out of the
gun by compressed air.
It is not at all likely that we could get together a fleet of
battle-ships of sufficient numbers to cope with the enemy's great
squadron. Still, the _Maine_, the _Texas_, and half a dozen other
fighting ships, each one of which is equal to anything in the foreign
navy, would be assembled in the Hudson River awaiting the arrival of the
invaders. As soon as the news of their progress down the Sound was
telegraphed to this city, they would steam up the East River, take their
stations within the arc of the forts at Willets Point and Fort Schuyler,
and add their broadsides to the defence of New York. Is there any fleet
in the world that could force its way past such an opposition? No
American thinks so.
RICK DALE.[1]
[1] Begun in HARPER'S ROUND TABLE No. 852.
by KIRK MUNROE.
CHAPTER XI.
A VERY TRYING EXPERIENCE.
"Stop her! Stop the boat, quick! Bonny is overboard!" shouted Alaric,
frantically, as he realized the nature of the catastrophe that had just
occurred through his awkwardness. As he shouted he sprang to the
jib-halyard, and casting it off allowed the sail to come down by the
run; his sole idea of checking the headway of a sailing craft being to
reduce her canvas.
He was about to let go both throat and peak halyards, and so bring down
the big mainsail also, when, with a bellow of rage and a marvellous
disregard of his lameness, Captain Duff rushed forward and snatched the
ropes from the lad's hands.
"You thundering blockhead!" he roared. "What d'ye mean by lowering a
sail without orders? H'ist it again! H'ist it, d'ye hear?"
"But Bonny is overboard," cried Alaric.
"And you want to leave him to drown? Don't ye know that if he's alive
he's drifted astarn by this time? Ef you had any sense you'd be out in
the dinghy looking fur him."
Alaric knew that the dinghy was the small boat towing behind the sloop,
for he had heard the young mate call it by that name, and now he needed
no further hint as to his duty. He had pushed Bonny overboard, and he
must save him if that might still be done. If not, he was careless of
what happened to himself. Nothing could be worse than, or so bad as, to
go through life with the knowledge that he had caused the death of a
fellow-being--one, too, whom he had already come to regard as a dear
friend.
Thus thinking, he ran aft, cast loose the painter of the dinghy, drew
the boat to the sloop's stern, and dropping into it, drifted away in
the darkness. He had never rowed a boat, nor even handled a pair of
oars, but he had seen others do so, and imagined it was easy enough.
It is not often that a first lesson of this kind is taken alone, at
midnight, amid the tossing waters of an open sea, and it could not have
happened now but for our poor lad's pitiful ignorance of all forms of
athletics, including those in which every boy should be instructed.
Without a thought for himself, nor even a comprehension of his own
peril, Alaric fitted the oars that he found in the bottom of the boat to
their rowlocks, and began to pull manfully in what he supposed was the
proper direction. He pulled first with one oar and then with the other;
then making a wild stroke with both oars that missed the water entirely,
he tumbled over backwards. Recovering himself, he prepared more
cautiously for a new effort, and this time, instead of beating the air,
thrust his oars almost straight down in the water. Then one entered it,
while the other, missing it by a foot or so, flew back and struck him a
violent blow.
Up to this time the lad had kept up a constant shouting of "Bonny! Oh,
Bonny!" or "Hello, Bonny!" but that blow bereft him of so much breath
that for a minute he had none left with which to shout.
Now, too, for the first time, he gained a vague idea of his own perilous
situation. There was nothing in sight and nothing to be heard save the
ceaseless dashing of waters and a melancholy moaning of wind. The sky
was so overcast that not even a star could extend to him a cheery ray of
light. The boy's heart sank, and he made another attempt at a shout, as
much to raise his own spirits as with any hope of being heard. Only a
husky cry resulted, for his voice was choked, and he again strove to
row, with the thought that any form of action would be better than
idleness amid such surroundings.
If his oars seemed vicious before, they were doubly so now that he was
wearied, and they stubbornly resisted his efforts to make them work as
he knew they could and ought. At length he let go of one of them for an
instant while he wiped the trickling perspiration from his eyes. The
moment it was released, the provoking bit of wood, as though possessed
of a malicious instinct, slid from its rowlock, dropped into the water,
and floated away. Alaric made a wild but ineffectual clutch after it
that allowed a quantity of water to slop into the boat, and gave him the
idea that it was sinking.
With an access of terror the poor lad sprang to his feet, and forgetful
of the object that had brought him into his present situation, screamed,
"Bonny! Oh, Bonny! Save me! Don't leave me here to drown!"
Then a spiteful wave so buffeted the boat that he was toppled over and
fell sprawling in the bottom. That was the blackest and most despairing
moment of his life; but even as it came to him he fancied he heard a
whispered answer to his call, and lifted his head to listen. Yes, he
heard it again, so faint and uncertain that it might be only the mocking
scream of some sea-bird winging a swift flight through the blackness.
Still the idea filled him with hope, and he called again with a cry so
shrill and long-drawn that its intensity almost frightened him. Now the
echoing hail was certain, and it came to him with the unmistakable
accents of a human voice.
Again he shouted: "Bonny! Oh, Bonny!" and again came the answer, this
time much nearer:
"Hello, Rick Dale! Hello!"
"Hello, Bonny! Hello!"
How could it be that Bonny had kept himself afloat so long? What
wonderful powers of endurance he must possess! How should he reach him?
There was but a single oar left, and surely no one could propel a boat
with one oar. He tried awkwardly to paddle, but after a few seconds of
fruitless labor gave this up in despair. What could he do? Must he sit
there idle, knowing that his friend was drowning within sound of his
voice, and for want of the aid that he could give if he only knew how?
It was horrible and yet inevitable. He was helpless. Once more was his
own peril forgotten, and his sole distress was for his friend. Again he
shouted, with the energy of despair:
"Bonny! Oh, Bonny! Can't you get to me? I'm in a boat."
Then came something so startling and so astonishing that he was almost
petrified with amazement. Instead of a weak despairing answer, coming
from a long distance, there sounded a cheery hail from close at hand:
"All right, old man! I'm coming. Cheer up."
What had happened? Was his friend endowed with supernatural powers that
enabled him to traverse the sea at will?
Alaric gazed about him on all sides, almost doubting the evidence of his
senses. Then, with a flutter of canvas and a rush of water from under
her bows, the tall form of the sloop loomed out of the blackness almost
beside him.
"Sing out, Rick. Where are you?"
"Here I am. Oh, Bonny, is it you?"
"Yes, of course. Look out! Catch this line."
The end of a rope came whizzing over the boat, and Alaric, catching it,
held on tightly. He was seated on the middle thwart, and the moment a
strain came on the line the boat turned broadside to it, heeled until
water began to pour in over her gunwale, and Alaric, unable to hold on
an instant longer, let go his hold.
He heard an exclamation of "Thundering lubber!" in Captain Duff's voice,
and then the sloop was again lost to sight.
Again Alaric was in despair, though he could still hear the shouting of
orders and a confused slatting of sails. After a little the sloop was
put about, and a shouting to determine the locality of the drifting boat
was recommenced. Still it seemed to Alaric a tedious while before she
approached him for a second time, and Bonny once more sung out to him to
stand by and catch a line.
"Make it fast in the bow this time," he called, as he flung the coil of
rope.
Again Alaric succeeded in catching it, and, obeying instructions, he
scrambled into the bow of the boat, where he knelt and clung to the line
for dear life, not knowing how to make it fast.
In a moment there came a jerk that very nearly pulled him overboard; and
the boat, with its bow low in the water from his weight, while its stern
was in the air, took a wild sheer to one side. Again water poured in
until she was nearly swamped, and again was the line torn from Alaric's
grasp.
"You blamed idiot!" roared Captain Duff. "You don't desarve to be saved!
I'll give ye just one more try, and ef you don't fetch the sloop that
time we'll leave ye to navigate on your own hook."
As the previous manoeuvres were repeated for a third time, poor
Alaric, sitting helplessly in his water-logged dinghy, shivered with
apprehension. How could he hold on to that cruel line that seemed only
fitted to drag him to destruction? This time it took longer to find him,
and he was hoarse with shouting before the _Fancy_ again approached.
"He don't know enough to do anything with a line, Cap'n Duff," said
Bonny, "So if you'll throw the sloop into the wind and heave her to,
I'll bring the boat alongside."
With this, and without waiting for an answer, the plucky young sailor,
who had already divested himself of most of his clothing, sprang into
the black waters and swam toward the vaguely discerned boat. In another
minute he had gained her, clambered in, and was asking the amazed
occupant for the other oar.
"It's lost overboard," replied Alaric, gloomily, feeling that the case
was now more desperate than ever. "Oh Bonny! Why--?"
"Never mind," cried the other, cheerily. "I can scull, and that will
answer just as well as rowing. Perhaps better, for I can see where we
are heading."
[Illustration: BONNY COMES TO THE RESCUE.]
Alaric had deemed it impossible to propel a boat with a single oar; but
now, to his amazement, Bonny sculled the dinghy ahead almost as rapidly
as he could have rowed. The sloop was out of sight, but the flapping of
her sails could be plainly heard, and five minutes later the young mate
had laid his craft alongside.
Captain Duff was too angry for words, and fortunately too busy in
getting his vessel on her course to pay any attention just then to the
lad whose awkwardness and ignorance had caused all this trouble and
delay.
"Skip for'ard," said Bonny, in a low tone, "and I'll come directly."
As Alaric, with a thankful heart, obeyed this injunction, he marvelled
at the size and steadiness of the sloop, and wondered how he could ever
have thought her small or unstable.
A few minutes later Bonny, only half dressed, joined him, and said, "If
you'll lend me your trousers, old man, you can turn in for the rest of
the night, and I'll stand your watch; mine are too wet to put on just
yet, and I think you'll be safer below than on deck, anyway."
Like a person in a dream, and without asking one of the many questions
suggesting themselves, Alaric obeyed. Earlier in that most eventful day
he had regarded that dark and stuffy forecastle with disgust, and vowed
he would never sleep in it. Now, as he snuggled shivering between the
blankets of the first mate's own bunk, it seemed to him one of the
coziest, warmest, and most comfortable sleeping-apartments he had ever
known.
CHAPTER XII.
A LESSON IN KEDGING.
For a long time Alaric lay awake in his narrow bunk, listening to the
gurgle of waters parted by the sloop's bow, but a few inches from his
head, and reflecting upon the exciting incidents of the past hour. It
had all been so terrible and yet so unreal. On one thing he determined.
Never again would he enter a boat alone without having first learned how
to row, and to swim also. How splendidly Bonny had come to his rescue,
and yet how easily! What was it he had called making a boat go with only
one oar? Alaric could not remember; but at any rate it was a wonderful
thing to do, and he determined to master that art as well. What a lot he
had to learn, anyhow, and how important it all was! He had longed for
the ability to do such things, but never until now had he realized their
value.
How well Bonny did them, and what a fine fellow he was, and how the
heart of the poor rich boy warmed toward this self-reliant young friend
of a day! Could it be but one day since their first meeting? It seemed
as though he had known Bonny always. But how had the young sailor
regained the sloop after being knocked overboard? That was
unaccountable, and one of the most mysterious things Alaric had ever
heard of. He longed for Bonny to come below, that he might ask just that
one question; but the mate was otherwise engaged, and the crew finally
dropped asleep.
Through the remainder of the night the sloop sailed swiftly on her
course, but she could not make up for that lost hour, and by dawn,
though she had passed the light on Admiralty Head, and was well to the
southward of Port Townsend, the very stronghold of her enemies, for it
is the port of entry for the sound, she was still far from the
hiding-place in which her Captain had hoped to lie by for the day.
However, he knew of another nearer at hand, though not so easy of
access, and to this he directed the vessel's course.
It did not seem to Alaric that he had been asleep more than a few
minutes when he was rudely awakened by being hauled out of his bunk and
dropped on the forecastle floor. At the same time he became conscious of
a voice saying:
"Wake up! Wake up, Rick Dale! I've been calling you for the last five
minutes, and was beginning to think you were dead. Here it is daylight,
with lots of work waiting, and you snoozing away as though you were a
young man of elegant leisure. So tumble out in a hurry, or else you'll
have the Cap'n down on you, and he's no light-weight when he's as mad as
he is this morning."
Never before in all his luxurious life had Alaric been subjected to such
rough treatment, and for a moment he was inclined to resent it; but a
single glance at Bonny's smiling face, and a thought of how deeply he
was indebted to this lad, caused him to change his mind and scramble to
his feet.
"Here are your trousers," continued the young mate, "and the quicker you
can jump into them the better, for we've a jolly bit of kedging to
attend to, and need your assistance badly."
Filled with curiosity as to what a "jolly bit of kedging" might be, and
also pleased with the idea that he was not considered utterly useless,
Alaric hastily dressed and hurried on deck. There the sight of a number
of Chinamen recalled with a shock the nature of the craft on which he
was shipped, and for an instant he was tempted to refuse further service
as a member of her crew. A moment's reflection, however, convinced him
that the present was not the time for such action, as it could only
result in disaster to himself and in extra work being thrown upon Bonny.
The sun had not yet risen, and on one side a broad expanse of water was
overlaid with a light mist. On the other side was a bold shore covered
with forest to the water's edge, and penetrated by a narrow inlet, off
the mouth of which the sloop lay becalmed.
Bonny was already in the dinghy, which held a coil of rope having a
small anchor attached to one end. The other end was on board the sloop,
and made fast to the bitts.
"When I reach the end of the line and heave the kedge overboard, you
want to haul in on it," said the young mate, "and when the sloop is
right over the kedge, let go your anchor. Do you understand?"
"Yes, I think so."
The tide had just turned ebb, and was beginning to run out from the
inlet as Bonny dropped the kedge anchor overboard, and Alaric, beginning
to pull with a hearty will on that long wet rope, experienced the first
delights of kedging. Captain Duff, puffing at a short black pipe, sat by
the tiller and steered, while the Chinese passengers, squatted about the
deck, watched the lad's efforts with a stolid interest.
At length the end of the rope was reached, and Alaric, with aching back
and smarting hands, but beaming with the consciousness of a duty well
performed, imagined his task to be ended.
"Let go your anchor," ordered Captain Duff.
When this was done, and the cable made fast so that the sloop should not
drift back when the kedge was lifted, Bonny heaved up the latter and got
it into the dinghy. Then he sculled still farther into the inlet until
the end of the long line was once more reached, when he again dropped
the small anchor overboard, and poor Alaric found, to his dismay, that
the whole tedious operation was to be repeated. In addition to what he
had done before, the heavy riding anchor was now to be lifted from the
bottom.
As the boy essayed to haul in its cable with his hands, Captain Duff,
muttering something about a "lubberly swab," stumped forward, and
showing him how to use the windlass for this purpose, condescended to
hold the turn, while the perspiring lad pumped away at the iron lever.
When the anchor was lifted, he was directed to again lay hold of the
kedge-line and warp her along handsomely.
Alaric made signs to the Chinamen that they should help him; but they,
being passengers who had paid for the privilege of idleness on this
cruise, merely grinned and shook their heads. So the poor lad tugged at
that heart-breaking line until his strength was so exhausted that the
sloop ceased to make perceptible headway.
At this Captain Duff, who was again nodding over the tiller, suddenly
woke up, rushed among his passengers with brandished crutch, roaring an
order in pidgin English that caused them to jump in terror, lay hold of
the line, and haul it in hand over hand.
Three times more was the whole weary operation repeated, until at length
the sloop was snugly anchored behind a tree-grown point that effectually
concealed her from anything passing in the sound.
"Nice healthy exercise, this kedging," remarked Bonny, cheerfully, as he
came on board.
"You may call it that," responded Alaric, gloomily, "but I call it the
most killing kind of work I ever heard of, and if there is any more of
it to be done, somebody else has got to do it. I simply won't, and
that's all there is about it."
"Oh, pshaw!" laughed the young mate, as he lighted a fire in the galley
stove and began preparations for breakfast. "This morning's job was only
child's play compared with some you'll have before you've been aboard
here a month."
"Which I never will be," replied Alaric, "for I'm going to resign this
very day. I suppose this is the United States and the end of the voyage,
isn't it?"
"It's the States fast enough; but not the end of the run by a good bit.
We've got another night's sail ahead of us before we come to that. But
you mustn't think of resigning, as you call it, just as you are
beginning to get the hang of sailoring. Think how lonely I should be
without you to make things lively and interesting--as you did last
night, for instance."
"I shall, though," replied Alaric, decidedly, "just as quick as we make
a port; for if you think I'm going to remain in the smuggling business
one minute longer than I can help, you're awfully mistaken. And what's
more, you are going with me, and we'll hunt for another job--an honest
one, I mean--together."
"I am, am I?" remarked Bonny. "After you calling me a pirate, too. I
shouldn't think you'd care to associate with pirates."
"But I do care to associate with you," responded Alaric, earnestly, "for
I know I couldn't get along at all without you. Besides, after the
splendid way you came to my rescue last night, I don't want to try. But
I say, Bonny, how did you ever manage to get back on board after
tumbling--after I knocked you into the water? It seems to me the most
mysterious thing I ever heard of."
"Oh, that was easy enough!" laughed the young mate, lifting the lid of a
big kettle of rice that was boiling merrily as he spoke. "You see, I
didn't wholly fall overboard. That is, I caught on the bobstay, and was
climbing up again all right when you let the jib down on top of me,
nearly knocking me into the water and smothering me at the same time.
When I got out from under it you were gone, and a fine hunt we had for
you, during which the old man got considerably excited. But all's well
that ends well, as the Japs said after the war was over, so now if
you'll make a pot of coffee, I'll get the pork ready for frying."
"But I don't know how to make coffee."
"Don't you? I thought everybody knew that. Never mind, though; I'll make
the coffee while you fry the meat."
"I don't know how to do that, either."
"Don't you know how to cook anything?"
"No. I don't think I could boil water without spoiling it."
"Well," said Bonny, pityingly, "you certainly have got more to learn
than any fellow old enough to walk alone that I ever knew."
The sloop remained in her snug hiding-place all that day, during which
her Captain and first mate devoted most of their time to sleeping. The
Chinamen spent the greater part of the day on shore, while Alaric,
following Bonny's advice, made his first attempt at fishing. So long as
he only got bites he had no trouble; but when he finally caught an
enormous flounder his occupation was gone, for he had no second hook,
and could not imagine how the fish was to be removed from the one to
which it was attached. So he let it carefully down into the water again,
and made the line fast until Bonny should wake. When that happened, and
he triumphantly hauled in his line, he found, to his dismay, that his
hook was bare, and that the fish had solved his problem for him.
In the mean time there was much activity that day on board a certain
revenue-cutter stationed in the upper sound, and shortly after dark,
about the time the smuggler _Fancy_ was again getting under way, several
well-manned boats left the government vessel to spend the night in
patrolling certain channels.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
MAPLE-SUGAR MAKING.
BY CHRISTINE TERHUNE HERRICK.
The advent of the sugaring season is looked forward to with joy by the
young people in those districts of New England where the sugar-maple
grows freely. When the sap begins to flow they know that there will be
fun galore, and they watch eagerly for the first mild days that will
encourage the farmers to get out the sugar-buckets.
There is something in their anticipation, too, besides the mere thought
of the regaling of their palates. The running of the sap means the end
of the winter, with all which that has implied of cold and dreariness
and isolation. True, there have been periods of glorious cold weather,
when coasting and skating and straw rides in great sleighs over
sparkling snow and under brilliant moonlight have made even life in
winter worth living, but these bright spots have been oases in long
deserts of dolefulness. There may be poetry and excitement in being
snow-bound; there are only monotony and discomfort in being slush-bound.
"When the ways are heavy with mire and rut,
In November fogs, in December snows,
When the north wind howls, and the doors are shut,
There is place and enough for the pains of prose."
And there are other trials unmentioned by the English poet which the
New-Englander knows only too well. Frozen water-pipes, frozen fingers
and toes, recurring colds caught in rooms that are too chilly for
comfort or close and over-heated by coal stoves, and many more
annoyances that, small enough when taken separately, make a formidable
sum total when they all come at once.
[Illustration: IN A SUGAR CAMP.]
But now the harbingers of spring are at hand. In sheltered places the
trailing arbutus has begun to show its fragile blossoms, that "take the
winds of March with beauty"; there is even here and there a stray
violet; the mosses in damp places are a deliciously vivid green, and the
grass is losing its sereness in hollows and on the edge of
water-courses. The bluebird has been in evidence for some days, the
song-sparrow's rippling note is heard, and there are rumors that a robin
has been seen. The ways are still "heavy with mire and rut," but there
is a not distant prospect of settled roads and good walking. There is a
suggestion of spring in the air, in spite of the drifts of snow in the
ravines and in the woods. The young people do not wish to see that snow
go too fast, for it is essential to a part of their fun. For how could
they "sugar off" without snow? Even the farmers would prefer hauling the
sledge that carries the store tub, in which they collect the sap, over
the snow than over the bare ground.
To the children and young people the thought of "sugaring off" is the
chief one connected with the maple-sugar season. That is unless they
live on farms and have to do their part in preparing the sap for market.
The time means something quite different to the farmer and his men, who
must tramp through snow and mud from tree to tree of the sugar orchard
that is generally scattered over hill and dale, and seldom within a
small radius, who must watch the sap-buckets and empty them before they
overflow, who must bring the sap from the tree to the sugar-house and
empty it into the great store tubs that await it. And even then their
work is but just begun, for the shorter the space between the time the
sap leaves the tree and its transformation into syrup and sugar, the
better will be the quality of these. So the sap must not stand long in
the store tubs before it is turned into the great evaporator over a
roaring fire, where it is to be changed from what appears to be slightly
sweetened water into thick, flavorous syrup. The improvement of methods
in sugar manufacture no longer render it necessary that the boiling sap
should be watched all night, as the sugar-makers had to do in the old
days, when the sap was boiled in a great kettle swung over an open fire
in the woods. Still the work is hard and absorbing, for the season is
short and no time can be wasted.
The women have their share of the toil. To them it falls to boil down
the syrup to the proper thickness for sending out as maple molasses or
as sugar in cakes. They "sugar off" frequently, but it is only to
ascertain whether the syrup has reached the stage where it can be taken
from the fire, stirred until it granulates, and then turned into the
little tins that mould it into the cakes familiar to us all.
That is what "sugaring off" means to the farmer and his wife. It means
something quite different to the young people who have been planning for
sugar parties long before the farmer thought of tapping his trees.
A sugar party is not a fall-dress affair. Evening clothes and low-cut
gowns would be decidedly out of place in the farm-house kitchen, where
the most important part of the entertainment comes off. The "best
Sunday-go-to-meeting" garments fulfil all the requirements of the
toilet.
A sugar party is very elastic so far as numbers are concerned. It may be
either small or large, although as a rule the old principle of the more
the merrier holds good here. Both sexes are represented, and the only
essential qualities in a guest are a social spirit and a good digestion.
The place to thoroughly enjoy sugar-making is on a farm where they
"sugar off" half a dozen times a day. It is the usual thing for a party
of young people to arrange for a visit to a farm-house in the height of
the sugar season, and they throw themselves into the fun of the hour
with an abandon which proves the injustice of the charge that we, as a
people, like the English, take our pleasure sadly. The girls and boys
inspect the flowing of the sap, form a merry escort around the sledge
that conveys the sap to the sugar-house, hang about the golden syrup
boiling and bubbling in the big evaporator, and it is a noisy and
jubilant crowd that gathers around the tin pans filled with snow, upon
which is poured the smoking syrup that is, by contact with the snow,
transformed into that delicious compound, "maple wax."
Three or four young people, each armed with a fork, may gather about a
small pan, where the syrup lies in golden arabesques upon the white
snow. It is very pretty to look at, very good to taste, and very sticky
to handle. Unless it has been boiled to a point of brittleness where it
snaps when touched by the fork--and this is unusual--it will cling to
the tines in a fashion that gives new and literal meaning to the words,
"Linked sweetness long-drawn out." The experienced sugar-eater has
learned enough to give a dexterous turn of the fork that twists the wax
about the prongs in a compact morsel, while the green hand struggles
with the strung-out portion that falls to his share, and is forced to
make desperate appeals for a knife or a spoon to break the tenuous
fragment.
Even when the wax is on the fork all trouble is not over. The next thing
is to eat it, and to achieve this operation with the grace and dignity
one would desire is well-nigh impossible. The subject of the experiment
looks at her fork and wonders whether it is better to nibble at the
sugar or to make one huge mouthful of the whole lamp of delight. Woe be
to her if she pursues the former course! Unless the sugar is
exceptionally crisp, she will find that she has attached to her teeth
one end of an unbreakable thread that stretches as do the fibres of a
stringy Welsh rarebit. She understands how the spider feels when he
spins a never-ending filament.
Under these circumstances she will probably find her chief consolation
in the spectacle of her neighbor, who has attempted to take all the
sugar on his fork at a single mouthful. He has sunk his teeth into the
sugar, and it holds them as closely as it adheres to the fork. He
struggles vainly to loosen his teeth or to withdraw the tines. Not until
he casts dignity to the winds, and taking the fork in both hands, drags
on it with main strength, does he release himself even partially. Then,
as the sugar melts in his mouth, he finds himself free once more.
It will readily be imagined that with such scenes as these taking place
all over the room there is no lack of fun. The amusement may not spring
from a very high mental source, but it is pure, innocent jollity, and
everybody enjoys it.
No one knows how much sugar he can devour, and live to tell the tale,
until he has been on a Vermont farm in sugaring-time. At each sugaring
off he will eat so much that he will declare he never wishes to see
maple-sugar again so long as he lives. Nevertheless, when the syrup is
ready to sugar off again, he is waiting to take his place among the rest
and eat and eat until he is once more satiated. And this performance he
repeats half a dozen times a day. Many persons claim that maple-sugar
thus eaten makes them drowsy, but the fresh outer air soon dispels such
sleepiness and gives them an appetite for more sugar.
One of the indispensable items of a sugaring off is a dish of pickles.
The palates that have been surfeited with the cloying sweetness crave
the relief of the acid. The advocates of the pickle-jar will assure you
that after a pickle or two one can eat as much sugar as if he had not
tasted it before, and a little observation and experiment leads one to
believe that the theory is correct.
A pleasant variety is made by sprinkling the meats of butternuts,
walnuts, or hickory-nuts on the snow, and covering these with the syrup,
thus making a toothsome maple nut candy.
All these dainties are sampled at different intervals during the day in
every household where sugar is made, but when evening comes there is
usually a gathering of the young people at one or another farm-house.
The country folk who have social instincts have little terror of long
walks, and they think nothing of tramping a mile or more "across lots"
over rough pasture-land, or along frozen roads, to a neighbor's where
there is to be a sugar party. At such a function there are no
refreshments demanded except the "maple wax" and pickles. Formality is
altogether lacking. The guests gather about a long table, on which stand
the milk-pans full of snow, and dip the syrup from the one big kettle
boiling on the stove.
When they have satisfied themselves with sweets for the time, at least,
they fall to playing games--such old-fashioned amusements as Twenty
Questions, Consequences, Dumb Crambo, or the livelier Fox and Geese and
Blindman's Buff. Occasionally Parcheesi, Lotto, and Backgammon will have
their devotees, and rarely there will be games of cards. The party does
not continue to a late hour. There must be a final sugaring off before
the assembly breaks up for the night and muffle themselves for their
long trudge homeward in the white moonlight or under the solemn stars.
AN "OLD-FIELD" SCHOOL-GIRL.
BY MARION HARLAND.
CHAPTER I.
Everybody spoke of it as an "old-field school"; but the only field in
sight was one hundred acres in extent and always under cultivation. On
the early October morning with which my story begins it was tender green
with fall wheat growing fast under the warm Virginia sunshine. A
"worm-fence" of rails separated it from the copse of sassafras and
chinquapin bushes and scrub-oaks, beyond which was the clearing lying
about the school-house door. Many generations of scholars had trampled
this area into dust that had not put forth a blade of grass in the
month's vacation just ended. But for two tough-lived aspens planted
close to the steps of the small building there was not a sign of
vegetation nearer to it than the belt of brushwood. The school-house was
built of hewn logs, chinked with bits of wood half as long and twice as
thick as a shingle. The spaces between these billets were filled in with
mortar in which there was much red clay and little lime. Sun, rain, and
wind had bleached the mortar to a dirty pink and darkened the logs to
grayish-black. Upon two sides of the one-roomed building were windows
running horizontally two-thirds of the way across the walls, and but one
pane deep. A log had been sawed out, and a single long sash fitted into
the space thus left. The sash hung from hinges made fast to the log
above it, and when closed was hooked down to hasps set in the lower log.
The inner walls and ceiling were plastered with the warmly colored
mortar used in filling up the chinks. As far up as a boy could reach by
standing upon a bench the mottled surface was covered with pencillings
and charcoal scrawls. There was but one movable desk; that stood at the
head of the room. It had a hinged cover with a padlock attached to it,
and a wooden arm-chair was beside it. The rest of the room was furnished
with backless benches of unpainted pine mellow-brown with age, a big
stove at the right of the teacher's chair, and a row of tall stools
ranged in front of a sloping shelf made fast to the wall behind the
desk. Upon these the scholars sat when they had their writing-lessons.
A locust--"a dry-weather fly," the people thereabouts called it--had
perched on the sill of the sunniest window, and sang shrilly. But for
his chirp the room was very still until two men pushed back the door and
strolled up the aisle. Their steps started up queer echoes, like
whispers and titters, that chased one another from one corner to
another; the locust stopped singing.
"Mrs. Duncombe sent a couple of women over yesterday to sweep and
scrub," said the elder of the men. "It all looks fairly decent, I
think."
He seated himself upon the teacher's desk, swinging one leg over a
corner of it, the other foot upon the floor, and looked around the room,
a smile half-humorous, half-pensive showing his white teeth and lighting
up his eyes. He had a noble face; his age may have been fifty; his hair
was iron-gray. As from the force of early habit he had pulled off his
hat at the door, and now held it in his left hand, while with his right
he tapped his boot with his riding-whip. This was Major Duncombe, of
Greenfield, a fine specimen of the Virginia planter of 1840.
"All the learning I carried with me to college was flogged into me
here," he went on, musingly. "Old Byars Lowton reigned supreme from this
desk then. I have heard my father say that when Byars applied for the
place, Colonel Barton, of Hurley, my nearest neighbor, said to him,
'Young gentleman, you are young and inexperienced. We should like to
know something of your proposed principles of government. How do you
mean to manage your school?' 'By switch and suasion, sir,' said Byars;
'_specially switch_.' The speech got him a berth he held for forty
years, and in all that time his hand never lost its cunning"--laughing
good-humoredly.
His companion had thrown himself into the wooden arm-chair, and while
listening to the Major made good use of his eyes in scrutinizing room
and contents. He smiled at the concluding sentence, a smile that curved
his mouth upward and drew his brows together, deepening a crease which
was always between them. "We shall not disagree there, I reckon," he
said. "Martinet practice in the school-room is the wisest in the
long-run."
He had a way of jerking out his words that agreed with the impression
his face and frown made upon a girl who sat upon the floor in a far
corner of the room, with a book upon her knees. She had made a nook for
herself by setting one bench upon the top of another, and, herself
unseen in the shadow, surveyed the two men through the space left
between the benches. She knew one well, and the other was undoubtedly
the new teacher who was to take charge of the school the next Monday.
Her father had said the day before that he was at Greenfield. He had
been in college with young Mr. Duncombe, and the families were old
friends.
He was shorter than the Major by half a head, and slight in build. His
head was large in proportion to the rest of the body; his forehead broad
and thatched with straight straw-colored hair; his eyes were large, and
a queer faint blue in color. When he spoke he pursed up his mouth and
wagged his head slightly from side to side; in walking he swung his arms
and held his head high. Like the instructor of the "switch and suasion"
story, he looked very young, not over two-and-twenty.
Unaware of the disapproving gaze of the mouselike eyes, the new-comer
resumed, "I was brought up in the old way myself, and see no reason to
depart from it."
The Major's eyes ran over the slight figure and twinkled roguishly.
"There will be some strapping fellows--pretty hard cases too--in the
school, who might not be easy to drive," he said. "They are tolerably
good boys in the main, if taken in the right way, with no more spirit
than one likes to see in lads of their age. You'll have no trouble with
the girls."
"I'm not so sure of that. They need flogging as much as their brothers,
sometimes more, and take advantage of the public sentiment that shields
them. As it does everywhere."
"I should hope so indeed!" answered the Major, promptly. "I have never
laid the weight of a finger upon one of my daughters. My boys"--the
twinkle returning to his eyes--"will tell you that I have licked them
out of their boots times without number. That is the reason they are so
well grown. Their sinews are strengthened and lengthened by exercise.
Eh? What is it?"
The stranger had started up and pointed to the distant corner. "Who is
that over there? Somebody has been eavesdropping!"
Before the terrified girl could scramble to her feet the two men were
looking down at her over the uppermost bench.
[Illustration: "DON'T LOOK SO SCARED, CHILD! WE ARE NOT HUNTING YOU."]
"Why! why! why!" uttered the Major. "Flea, is it you? What are you
skulking in the corner for like an old hare in a hollow? Don't look so
scared, child! We are not hunting you."
She was pulling herself up. She had been sitting with one foot doubled
under her, and it had gone to sleep. She dropped a courtesy, first to
the Major, then to his companion.
"I'm sorry, sir, but I didn't s'pose anybody would be here. I've often
been here before. To read all alone, you know. Mother doesn't mind."
"What book is that?--the Bible?"
"No, sir; Shakespeare."
"So-ho-o!" The Major reached a long arm over the upper bench and brought
up a large book that had lost the outer covers, the fly-leaves, and the
title-page. "Where did this come from?"
"Father bought it at Mr. Harrison's sale, year before last. One back was
off, and he said I might have it."
"And you've read the other back off since? How far have you got in it?"
"I've been through it twice and a half times."
"Twice and a half times, eh?"--with a whistle. "How old are you, may I
ask?"
"Twelve and a half, sir."
"You are fond of fractions, it seems. Flea, this is Mr. Tayloe, who is
going to teach you something besides Shakespeare next week. You saw Mr.
Grigsby this morning, Mr. Tayloe. This young lady who has read
Shakespeare twice and a half times and is twelve and a half years old is
his daughter."
The girl courtesied again; Mr. Tayloe nodded and pursed up his mouth.
The Major resumed his kindly raillery, dipping at random into the
dogeared book with the look and touch of one familiar with its contents.
"What have you been reading to-day, my fractional damsel?"
"King Henry Fifth, sir."
"Whose son was he?"
"King Henry Fourth's, sir."
The girl was now quite at home with him and her subject. Her sallow face
warmed and dimpled with enjoyment of the mock examination. She stood
erect, her arms crossed upon the upper bench, her eyes dancing with
amusement.
"Let me see. He was a nice, steady, well-behaved young fellow?"
"Very nice, sir, but he wasn't a bit steady. He was right wild before he
got to be King. After that he was _splendid_."
"Humph! Didn't he steal the crown from the old gentleman's head before
the breath was out of his body? I don't call that nice behavior."
"Because he thought his father was dead," cried the girl, forgetting
jest and herself in defence of her hero. "If he had been dead, the crown
would have belonged to his son. When Prince Henry found out that his
father was only in a faint and was coming to, don't you remember how he
knelt down and begged pardon, and said,
'There is your crown,
And He that wears the crown eternally--'
That meant God, you know,
'Long guard it yours?'
It wouldn't be fair to lay _that_ up against him, sir."
The Major laid the book gently upon the bench, sighing as he did it.
"You are right, my child," he said, in an altered tone. "An older book
than Shakespeare says, 'Remember not the sins of my youth.' We won't be
hard upon your dear Prince Hal. Your father tells me he is going to send
three of you to school."
"Yes, sir. Bea and Dee and me."
"_What!_" ejaculated Mr. Tayloe, with a short, sharp laugh. He had not
spoken during the Shakespearean talk, but fidgeted about the aisle,
inspecting the notches and initials cut in the benches, and frowning at
the inscriptions upon the walls. "And you called her 'Flea,' didn't
you?" he continued. "I never heard anything more ridiculous. Haven't
they Christian names?"
"Very Christian, I believe," answered the Major, invincibly
good-natured. "At least I can answer for Dee, who was christened
'David.' I was his godfather. And your name, Flea, is--"
"Felicia, sir," said the girl, as he hesitated, "and my sister's is
Beatrice."
Mr. Tayloe's laugh was almost a vulgar sniff, and he walked to the door,
as if impatient to be gone.
"Well, good-morning to you," said the Major to Flea. "We won't interrupt
your reading any longer. Mr. Tayloe is very much gratified to know that
he will have such an intelligent and industrious scholar. You will be a
comfort and a pride to him."
"Possibly Mr. Tayloe may take a different view of the case," observed
that gentleman, as they mounted the horses they had left tied to the
aspen-trees. "I am afraid that young person will have to forget a great
deal before she can learn anything. She is puffed up with the notion
that she is a prodigy. I would wager my head that she suspected we would
go to the school-house to-day, and planned to be found there with her
Shakespeare. But what could one expect from the child of a father who
turns an eleven-year-old girl loose in Shakespeare, and a mother who has
her daughters christened Felicia and Beatrice, and nicknames them Flea
and Bea?"
"Oh, come, now! you are hard upon my worthy overseer and his wife,"
rejoined the Major, diverted by the teacher's indignation. "They are
excellent folks who mind their own business, attend church regularly,
and mean to have their children well educated. Grigsby is a man of
remarkable intelligence for his position--a great reader and a clear
thinker. As to the nicknames, it is a trick of this region to deck up
children in fancy names, and then, as if they were ashamed of the
sentimentality, to make the high-sounding titles ridiculous by nicking
and contorting them. The more absurd the nickname the tighter it
sticks."
Mr. Tayloe made no immediate answer. They had left the copse flanking
the school-house play-ground, and were pacing between the banks of a
sunken red-clay road, topped by pines, when he broke the silence:
"The old-field school is a horrible leveller of social distinctions.
Where else would your children and Mr. Barton's meet, as equals, those
of an illiterate overseer? These things must be right in a so-called
republic, but I confess they go against the grain with me."
"They dry straight," said the Major, oracularly. "If the planter's
children cannot keep abreast, if not ahead, of the overseer's, they must
fall behind in the race. In this country every man ought to have a fair
chance."
When the sound of hoofs and voices died away upon her ears, Flea Grigsby
pushed aside her barricade and came out of her hiding-place. Her fear in
building it was that some mischievous boy or passing negro might peep in
at the school-house door and disturb her reading and thinking.
Now that she had left her shadowy nook, it could be seen that she was
tall for her age, thin, and dark. She had out-grown her frock of mixed
blue homespun--"Virginia cloth," as it was called. Children then wore
their skirts down to their heels. Flea's had been let down three times,
each letting-down registering itself in a band of unfaded stuff, yet the
hem left exposed a pair of slim ankles and bare brown feet. She had
shoes and stockings at home for Sunday and holiday wear, and her mother
had notified her yesterday that she was "getting too old to go to school
barefoot." At home she and three younger children ran upon naked soles
(except on Sundays) from the 1st of May to the 1st of November, and
revelled in their freedom from cramping shoes.
Her cheeks were burning and her heart was thumping with vainglorious
delight, such as she had never felt before. Major Duncombe--"the
illustrious Major Duncombe," as she called him in her quaint bookish
way--had pronounced her "industrious and intelligent." She hoped that he
would say it at his own supper-table that evening, and that her dear
Miss Em'ly would hear it. She could fancy how Miss Em'ly's eyes would
flash and her pretty mouth smile at praises of the scholar who "just
adored her."
Long afterward Flea recalled and thought it strange, in view of what
happened in later months, that she should have thought so much of Miss
Em'ly that October afternoon when she sat dreaming happily upon the log
door-step of the school-house, the hundred-acre field of wheat at her
right stretching away almost to the river, and before her, beyond the
play-ground and belt of brushwood, the dark forest, in the depths of
which she felt almost as much at home as in her father's house.
The day was unseasonably warm, and in the sultry stillness the
dry-weather flies were fiercely defying the threats of a cloud that was
rising from the west to swallow up the sun. The log door-step was quite
hot to the girl's bare feet. The leaves of the scrub-oaks were
red-brown, and those of the sumac scarlet, although there had been no
frost as yet, and the colors dulled as the sunshine left them. The aspen
leaves lay back against their stems, exposing their white linings. Every
breath of air was hushed, as if the unrolling cloud were a gray blanket
and suffocating the earth.
Presently a low growl of thunder seemed, as it passed, to deaden the
calm.
"We are going to have a shower," Flea said, aloud, looking up.
She did not budge. She could not get home before the rain, and she was
extremely comfortable where she was. Wrapping her bare arms about her
knees--another of her "ways"--she hugged herself and her fancies, caring
nothing for heat or threatening storm. From babyhood she had created a
world of her own, and lived in it at least half of the time. She called
this dreaming, for the lack of a better term, "playing ladies." Nobody
else knew of the play, much less of the "ladies" in it. She believed
that she had invented it, and in it she always took the chief part.
In her present day-dream Major Duncombe was a conspicuous actor, and the
school-room was the stage. Under the new teacher prizes would be
offered, and she would win them all. She had read of such things, and of
examination day. She would coax her mother into giving her a new Swiss
muslin frock--not an old one of Bea's. She had never had a really new
Sunday frock of her very own. Bea grew as fast as she, and could not be
outstripped. The frock would have a full "baby waist," low in the neck,
and short-sleeved. There must be a pink ribbon sash with fringed ends.
And perhaps her mother might buy for her a pair of India-cotton
stockings, and slippers with rosettes upon them. At the imagination she
hugged her knees the harder. She did not own a pair of "bought"
stockings. Bea had but two pairs, and wore them upon grand occasions.
Thus dressed, she would leave her modest seat in the school-room and
walk up the aisle when Major Duncombe, in his finest manner, called up
"Miss Felicia Grigsby" to receive, first one, then another of the
prizes offered for--say, reading, writing, history--and there ought to
be a fourth. Four were none too many. Oh, for Shakespeare, of course!
When all had been given, the Major would make a speech.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he would say, in his deep round voice, "as our
revered preceptor will bear me witness" (here he would bow to Mr.
Tayloe, who would bow and smile), "I told him six months ago that our
fair young friend here would prove herself the most intelligent and
industrious of his pupils. He is proud of her, ladies and gentlemen, and
you and I, and indeed everybody in this county is--(or would 'are' sound
better?)--justly proud of our distinguished citizen, Miss Felicia Jean
Grigsby."
Then she would courtesy very low and gracefully, and say, in a voice
mellow with emotion (another bookish phrase she had picked up), "You do
me too much honor, I assure you, sir."
A tremendous roar of thunder awoke her. At the ripping and rending of
the laden clouds the rain rushed down in a volume, washing out the view
of everything in the landscape except the nearest bushes and the
aspen-trees.