needs--and it was necessary to economize in candles, for any day a
raid from the royal army might take away both cattle and sheep,
and then where would the tallow come from for the annual fall
candle-making? There was a rumor--Abram had brought it home that very
day--that the royal army were advancing, and red coats might make
their appearance in Hartland at any time. Arthur and Dorothy were
talking about it, as they turned the roasting fork.
"Wish I was a man," said Arthur, glancing towards his mother, who was
sitting in a low splint chair knitting stockings for her boy's winter
wear. "I'd like to shoot a red coat."
"O Arty!" exclaimed Dorothy reproachfully; "you're always thinking of
shooting! Now _I_ should like to nurse a sick soldier and wait upon
him. Poor soldiers! it was dreadful what papa wrote to mamma about
them."
"Would you nurse a red coat?" asked Arthur, indignantly.
"Yes," said Dorothy. "Though of course I should rather, a great deal
rather, nurse one of our own soldiers. But, Arty," continued the
little elder sister, "papa says if we must fight, why, we must fight
bravely, but that we can be brave without fighting."
"Well, I mean to be a hero, and heroes always fight. King Arthur
fought. Papa said so. He and his knights fought for the Sangreal,
and liberty is our Sangreal. I'm glad my name is Arthur, anyhow, for
Arthur means noble and high," he said, lifting his bright boyish face
with its steadfast blue eyes, and glancing again towards his mother.
She gave an answering smile.
"I hope my boy will always be noble and high in thought and deed. But,
as papa said, to be a hero one does not need to fight, at least, not
to fight men. We can fight bad tempers and bad thoughts and cowardly
impulses. They who fight these things successfully are the truest
heroes, my boy."
"Ah, but mamma, didn't I hear you tell grandmamma how you were proud
of your hero. That's what you called papa when General Montgomery
wrote to you, with his own hand, how he drove back the enemy at the
head of his men, while the balls were flying and the cannons roaring
and flashing; and when his horse was shot under him how he struggled
out and cheered on his men, on foot, and the bullets whizzed and the
men fell all around him, and he wasn't hurt and"--Here the boy stopped
abruptly and sprang impulsively forward, for his mother's cheek had
suddenly grown pale.
"True grit!" remarked Abram to Basha, in an undertone, as she paused
in her walk to and fro by the spinning-wheel to join a broken thread.
"But there never was a coward yet, man or woman, 'mong the Heaths,
an' I've known 'em off an' on these seventy year. Now there was ole
Gineral Heath," he continued, holding up the axe helve and viewing it
critically with one eye shut, "he was a marster hand for fightin'. Fit
the Injuns 's though he liked it. That gun up there was his'n."
"Tell us about the 'sassy one,'" said Arthur, turning at the word gun.
"Youngster, 'f I've told yer that story once, I've told yer fifty
times," said Abram.
"Tell it again," said the boy eagerly. "And take down the gun, too."
Abram got up as briskly as his seventy years and his rheumatism would
permit, and took down the gun from above the mantel-piece. It was a
very large one.
"Not quite so tall as the old Gineral himself," said Abram, "but a
purty near to it. This gun is 'bout seven feet, an' yer gran'ther was
seven feet two--a powerful built man. Wall, the Injuns had been mighty
obstreperous 'long 'bout that time, burnin' the Widder Brown's house
and her an' her baby a-hidin' in a holler tree near by, an' carryin'
off critters an' bosses, an' that day yer gran'ther was after 'em with
a posse o' men, an' what did that pesky Injun do but git up on a rock
a quarter o' a mile off an' jestickerlate in an outrigerous manner,
like a sarcy boy, an' yer grand'ther, he took aim and fired, an' that
impident Injun jest tumbel over with a yell; his last, mind ye, and
good enough for him!"
"I like to hear about old gran'ther," said Arthur.
As Abram was restoring the gun to its place upon the hooks, a sound
was heard at the side door--a sound as of a heavy body falling against
it, which startled them all. The dog Cæsar rose, and going to the door
which opened into the side entry, sniffed along the crack above the
threshold. Apparently satisfied, he barked softly, and rising on his
hind legs lifted the latch and sprang into the entry. Abram followed
with Basha. As he lifted the latch of the outer door--the string had
been drawn in early, as was the custom in those troublous time--and
swung it back, the light from the fire fell upon the figure of a man
lying across the doorstone.
"Sakes alive!" exclaimed Abram, drawing back. But at a word from the
mistress, they lifted the man and brought him in and laid him down on
the braided woollen mat before the fire. Then for a moment there was
silence, for he wore the dress of a British soldier, and his right arm
was bandaged. He had fainted from loss of blood, apparently--perhaps
from hunger. Basha loosened his coat at the throat, and tried to force
a drop or two of "spirits" into his mouth, while Mrs. Heath rubbed his
hands.
"He ain't dead," said Basha, in a grim tone, "and mind you, we'll
see trouble from this." Basha was an arrant rebel, and hated the
very sight of a red coat. "What are you doing here," she continued,
addressing him, "killin' honest folks, when you'd better 've staid
cross seas in yer own country?"
"Basha!" said Mrs. Heath reprovingly, "he is helpless."
But Basha as she unwound the tight bandage from the shattered arm,
kept muttering to herself like a rising tempest, until at length the
man having come quite to himself, detected her feeling, and with great
effort said, "I am _not_ a British soldier."
"Then what to goodness have you got on their uniform for?" queried
Basha.
Little by little the pitiful story was told. He was an American
soldier who had been doing duty as a spy in the British camp. Up to
the very last day of his stay he had not been suspected; but trying to
get away he was suspected, challenged, and fired at. The shot passed
through his arm. He was certain his pursuers had followed him till
night, and they would be likely to continue the search the next day,
and he begged Mrs. Heath to secrete him for a day or two, if possible.
"I wouldn't mind being shot, marm," he said, "but you know they'll
hang me if they get me. Of course I risked it when I went into their
camp, but it's none the pleasanter for all that."
Now in the old Heath house there was a secret chamber, built in the
side of the chimney. Most of those old colonial houses had enormous
chimneys, that took up, sometimes, a quarter of the ground occupied
by the house, so it was not a difficult thing to enclose a small
space with slight danger of its existence being detected. This chimney
chamber in the Heath house was little more than a closet eight feet by
four. It was entered from the north chamber, Abram's room, through a
narrow sliding panel that looked exactly like the rest of the wall,
which was of cedar boards. An inch-wide shaft running up the side
of the chimney ventilated the closet, and it was lighted by a window
consisting of three small panes of glass carefully concealed under the
projecting roof. In a sunny day one could see to read there easily.
A small cot-bed was now carried into this room, and up there, after
his wound had been dressed by Basha, who, like many old-time women,
was skilful in dressing wounds and learned in the properties of herbs
and roots, and he had been fed and bathed, the soldier was taken; and
a very grateful man he was as he settled himself upon the comfortable
bed and looked up with a smiling "thank you," into Basha's face, which
was no longer grim and forbidding.
All this time no special notice had been taken of Dorothy and Arthur.
They had followed about to watch the bathing, feeding and tending,
and when Mrs. Heath turned to leave the secret chamber, she found
them behind her, staring in with very wide-open eyes indeed; for, if
you can believe it, they never before had even heard of, much less
seen, this lovely little secret chamber. It was never deemed wise in
colonial families to talk about these hiding-places, which sometimes
served so good a purpose, and I doubt if many adults in the town of
Hartland knew of this secret chamber in the Heath house.
The panel was closed, and Abram was left to care for the wounded
soldier through the night. It was nine o'clock, the colonial hour for
going to bed, and long past the children's hour, and Dotty and Arthur
in their prayers by their mother's knee, put up a petition for the
safety of the stranger.
"_Would_ they hang him if they could get him, mamma?" asked Arty.
"Certainly," she replied. "It is one of the rules of warfare. A spy is
always hung."
In the morning, from nine to eleven, Mrs. Heath always devoted to the
children's lessons. Arthur, who was eleven, was a good Latin scholar.
He was reading _Cæsar's Commentaries_, and he liked it--that is, he
liked the story part. He found some of it pretty tough reading, and
I need not tell you boys who have read Cæsar, what parts those were.
They had English readings from the _Spectator_, and from Bishop
Leighton's works, books which you know but little about. Dotty had
a daily lesson in botany, and very pleasant hours those school hours
were.
After dinner, at twelve, they had the afternoon for play. That
afternoon, the day after the soldier came, they went berrying. They
did this almost every day during berry time, so as to have what they
liked better than anything for supper--berries and milk. Occasionally
they had huckleberry "slap-jacks," also a favorite dish, for
breakfast; not often, however, as flour was scarce.
They went for berries down the road known as South Lane, a lonely
place, but where berries grew plentifully. Their mother had cautioned
them not to talk about the occurrence of the night before, as some one
might overhear, and so, though they talked about their play and their
studies, about papa and his soldiers, they said nothing about _the_
soldier.
[Illustration: "Tell Me, My Little Man," Said He, "Where You Saw the
British Uniform."]
They had nearly filled their baskets, when a growl from Cæsar startled
them, and turning, they saw two horsemen who had stopped near by,
one of whom was just springing from his horse. They were in British
uniform, and the children at once were sure what they wanted.
"O Arty, Arty!" whispered Dorothy. "They've come, and we mustn't
tell."
The man advanced with a smile meant to be pleasant, but which was in
reality so sinister that the children shrank with a sensation of fear.
"How are you, my little man? Picking berries, eh? And where do you
live?" he asked.
"With mamma," answered Arthur promptly.
"And who is mamma? What is her name?"
"Mrs. Heath," said Arty.
"And don't you live with papa too? Where is papa?" the man asked.
Arthur hesitated an instant, and then out it came, and proudly too.
"In the Continental army, sir."
"Ho! ho! and so we are a little rebel, are we?" laughed the man. "And
who am I? Do you know?"
"Yes, sir; a British soldier."
"How do you know that?"
"Because you wear their uniform, sir?"
"You cannot have seen many British soldiers here," said the man. "Did
you ever see the British uniform before?"
"Yes, sir," replied Arty.
"And where did you see it?" he asked, glancing sharply at Arthur and
then at Dorothy. Upon the face of the latter was a look of dismay, for
she had foreseen the drift of the man's questions and the trap into
which Arty had fallen. He, too, saw it, now he was in. The only
British uniform he had ever seen was that worn by the American spy.
For a brief moment he was tempted to tell a lie. Then he said firmly,
"I cannot tell you, sir."
"Cannot! Does that mean will not?" said the man threateningly. Then
he put his hand into his pocket and took out a bright gold sovereign,
which he held before Arthur.
"Come, now, my little man, tell me where you saw the British soldier's
uniform, and you shall have this gold piece."
But all the noble impulses of the boy's nature, inherited and
strengthened by his mother's teachings, revolted at this attempt to
bribe him. His eyes flashed. He looked the man full in the face. "I
will not!" said he.
"Come, come!" cried out the man on horseback. "Don't palter any longer
with the little rebel. We'll find a way to make him tell. Up with
him!"
In an instant the man had swung Arthur into his saddle, and leaping up
behind him, struck spurs to his horse and dashed away. Cæsar, who had
been sniffing about, suspicious, but uncertain, attempted to leap upon
the horseman in the rear, but he, drawing his pistol from his saddle,
fired, and Cæsar dropped helpless.
The horsemen quickly vanished, and for a moment Dorothy stood pale and
speechless. Then she knelt down by Cæsar, examined his wound--he was
shot in the leg--and bound it up with her handkerchief, just as she
saw Basha do the night before, and then putting her arms around his
neck she kissed him. "Be patient, dear old Cæsar, and Abram shall come
for you!"
Covered with dust, her frock stained with Cæsar's blood, a pitiful
sight indeed was Dorothy as she burst into the kitchen where Basha was
preparing supper.
"O mamma, they've carried off Arty and shot Cæsar, those dreadful,
dreadful British!"
Between her sobs she told the whole fearful story to the two
women--fearful, I say, for Mrs. Heath knew too well the reputed
character of the British soldiery, not to fear the worst if her boy
should persist in refusing to tell where he had seen the British
soldier's uniform. But even in her distress she was conscious of a
proud faith that he would not betray his trust.
As to Basha, who shall describe her horror and indignation? "The
wretches! ain't they content to murder our men and burn our houses,
that they must take our innercent little boys?" and she struck the
spit into the chicken she was preparing for supper vindictively, as
though thus she would like to treat the whole British army. "The dear
little cretur! what'll he do to-night without his mamma, and him never
away from her a night in his blessed life. 'Pears to me the Lord's
forgot the Colonies. O dearie, dearie me!" utterly overcome she
dropped into a chair, and throwing her homespun check apron over
her head, she gave way to such a fit of weeping as astonished and
perplexed Abram, one of whose principal articles of faith it was that
Basha couldn't shed a tear, even if she tried, "more'n if she's made
o' cast iron."
It indeed looked hopeless. Who was to follow after these men and
rescue Arthur? There was hardly any one left in town but old men,
women and children.
Mrs. Heath thought of this as she soothed Dorothy, coaxed her to eat a
little supper, and then sat by her side until she fell asleep. She sat
by the fire while the embers died out, or walked up and down the long,
lonely kitchen, wrestling, like Jacob, in prayer, for her boy, until
long after midnight.
And now let us follow Arthur's fortunes. The men galloped hard and
long over hills, through valleys and woods, so far away it seemed
to the little fellow he could never possibly see mamma or Dorothy
again. At last they drew up at a large white house, evidently the
headquarters of the officers, and Arthur was put at once into a dark
closet and there left. He was tired and dreadfully hungry, so hungry
that he could think of hardly anything else. He heard the rattling of
china and glasses, and knew they were at supper. By and by a servant
came and took him into the supper room. His eyes were so dazzled at
first by the change from the dark closet to the well-lighted room,
that he could scarcely see. But when the daze cleared he found himself
standing near the head of the table, where sat a stout man with a red
face, a fierce mustache, and an evil pair of eyes.
He looked at Arthur a moment. Then he poured out a glass of wine and
pushed it towards him: "Drink!"
But Arthur did not touch the glass.
"Drink, I say," he repeated impatiently. "Do you hear?"
"I have promised mamma never to drink wine," was the low response.
It seemed to poor Arthur as though everything had combined against
him. It was bad enough to have to say no to the question about the
uniform, and now here was something else that would make the men still
more angry with him. But the officer did not push his command; he
simply thrust the glass one side and said, "Now, my boy, we're going
to get that American spy and hang him. You know where he is and you've
got to tell us, or it will be the worse for you. Do you want to see
your mother again?"
Arthur did not answer. He could not have answered just then. A big
bunch came into his throat. Cry? Not before these men. So he kept
silence.
"Obstinate little pig! speak!" thundered the officer, bringing his
great brawny fist down upon the table with a blow that set the glasses
dancing. "Will you tell me where that spy is?"
"No, sir," came in very low, but very firm tones. I will not tell
you the dreadful words of that officer, as he turned to his servant
with the command, "Put him down cellar, and we'll see to him in the
morning. They're all alike, men, women and children. Rebellion in the
very blood. The only way to finish it is to spill it without mercy."
Now there was one thing that Arthur, brave as he was, feared, and that
was--rats! Left on a heap of dry straw, he began to wonder if there
were rats there. Presently he was sure he heard something move, but
he was quickly reassured by the touch of soft, warm fur on his hand,
and the sound of a melodious "pur-r." The friendly kitty, glad of a
companion, curled herself by his side. What comfort she brought to
the lonely little fellow! He lay down beside her, and saying his _Our
Father_, and _Now I Lay Me_, was soon in a profound sleep, the purring
little kitty nestling close.
The sounds of revelry in the rooms above did not disturb him. The
boisterous songs and laughter, the stamping of many feet, continued
far into the night. At last they ceased; and when everything had been
for a long time silent, the door leading to the cellar was softly
opened and a lady came down the stairway. I have often wished that
I might paint her as she looked coming down those stairs. Arthur was
afterwards my great-grandfather, you know, and he told me this story
when I was a young girl in my teens. He told me how lovely this lady
was.
Her gown was of some rich stuff that shimmered in the light of the
candle she carried, and rustled musically as she walked. There was
a flash of jewels at her throat and on her hands. She had wrapped a
crimson mantle about her head and shoulders. Her eyes were like stars
on a summer's night, sparkling with a veiled radiance, and as she
stood and looked down upon the sleeping boy, a smile, sweet, but full
of a profound sadness, played upon her lips. Then a determined look
came into her bright eyes.
He stirred in his sleep, laughed out, said "mamma," and then opened
his eyes. She stooped and touched his lips with her finger. "Hush!
Speak only in a whisper. Eat this, and then I will take you to your
mother."
After he had eaten, she wrapped a cloak about him, and together they
stole up and out past the sleeping, drunken sentinel, to the stables.
She lead out a white horse, her own horse, Arthur was sure, for the
creature caressed her with his head, and as she saddled him she talked
to him in low tones, sweet, musical words of some foreign tongue. The
handsome horse seemed to understand the necessity of silence, for
he did not even whinny to the touch of his mistress' hand, and trod
daintily and noiselessly as she led him to the mounting block, his
small ears pricking forward and backward, as though knowing the need
of watchful listening.
Leaping to the saddle and stooping, she lifted Arthur in front of her,
and with a word they were off. A slow walk at first, and then a rapid
canter. Arthur never forgot that long night ride with the beautiful
lady on the white horse, over the country flooded with the brilliancy
of the full moon. Once or twice she asked him if he was cold, as she
drew the cloak more closely about him, and sometimes she would murmur
softly to herself words in that silvery, foreign tongue. As they drew
near Hartland, she asked him to point out his father's house, and
when they were quite near, only a little distance off, she stopped the
horse.
"I leave you here, you brave, darling boy," she said. "Kiss me once,
and then jump down. And don't forget me."
Arthur threw his arms around her neck and kissed her, first on one
cheek and then on the other, and looking up into the beautiful face
with its starry eyes, said:
"I will never, never forget you, for you are the loveliest lady I ever
saw--except mamma."
She laughed a pleased laugh, like a child, then took a ring from her
hand and put it on one of Arthur's fingers. Her hand was so slender it
fitted his chubby little hand very well.
"Keep this," she said, "and by and by give it to some lady good and
true, like mamma."
"Will you be punished?" he said, keeping her hand. She laughed again,
with a proud, daring toss of her dainty head, and rode away.
Arthur watched her out of sight, and then turned towards home. Mrs.
Heath was still keeping her lonely watch, when the latch of the outer
door was softly lifted--nobody had the heart to take in the string
with Arty outside--the inner door swung noiselessly back, and the
blithe voice said, "Mamma! mamma! here I am, and I didn't tell."
All that day, and the next, and the next, the Heath household were in
momentary expectation of the coming of the red coats to search for the
spy. Dorothy and Arthur, and sometimes Abram, did picket duty to give
seasonable warning of their approach. But they never came. In a few
days news was brought that the British forces, on the very morning
after Arthur's return, had made a rapid retreat before an advance of
the Federal troops, and never again was a red coat seen in Hartland.
The spy got well in great peace and comfort under Basha's nursing, and
went back again to do service in the Continental army, and Dotty used
to say, "You did learn, didn't you, Arty, how a person, even a little
boy, can be a hero without fighting, just as mamma said?"
[Illustration: Teddy the Teazer, A Moral Story with a Velocipede
Attachment, by M.E.B.]
TEDDY THE TEAZER
A MORAL STORY WITH A VELOCIPEDE ATTACHMENT
He wanted a velocipede,
And shook his saucy head;
He thought of it in daytime,
He dreamed of it in bed,
He begged for it at morning,
He cried for it at noon,
And even in the evening
He sang the same old tune.
He wanted a velocipede!
It was no use to say
He was too small to manage it,
Or it might run away,
Or crack his little occiput,
Or break his little leg--
It made no bit of difference,
He'd beg, and beg, and beg.
He wanted a velocipede,
A big one with a gong
To startle all the people,
As they saw him speed along;
A big one, with a cushion,
And painted red and black,
To make the others jealous
And clear them off the track.
He wanted a velocipede,
The largest ever built,
Though he was only five years old
And wore a little kilt,
And hair in curls a-waving,
And sashes by his side,
And collars wide as cart-wheels,
Which hurt his manly pride!
He wanted a velocipede
With springs of burnished steel;
He knew the way to work it--
The treadle for the wheel,
The brake to turn and twist it,
The crank to make it stop,
My! hadn't he been riding
For days, with Jimmy Top?
He wanted a velocipede!
Why, he was just as tall
As six-year-old Tom Tucker,
Who wasn't very small!
And feel his muscle, will you?
And tell him, if you dare,
That he's the sort of fellow
To get a fall, or scare?
They got him a velocipede;
I really do not know
How they could ever do it,
But then, he teased them so,
And so abused their patience,
And dulled their nerves of right,
That they just lost their senses
And brought it home one night.
They bought him a velocipede--
O woe the day and hour!
When proudly seated on it,
In pomp of pride and power,
His foot upon the treadle,
With motion staid and slow
He turned upon his axle,
And made the big thing go.
Alas, for the velocipede!
The way ran down a hill--
The whirling wheels went faster,
And fast, and faster still,
Until, like flash of rocket,
Or shooting star at night,
They crossed the dim horizon
And rattled out of sight.
So vanished the velocipede,
With him who rode thereon;
And no one, since that dreadful day,
Has found out where 'tis gone!
Except a floating rumor
Which some stray wind doth blow.
When the long nights of winter
Are white with frost and snow,
Of a small fleeting shadow,
That seems to run astray
Upon a pair of flying wheels,
Along the Milky Way.
And this they think is Teddy!
Doomed for all time to speed--
A wretched little phantom boy,
On a velocipede!
M.E.B.