The hunters started the next morning, shortly after an early breakfast.
“Papa, when do you expect to be back?” asked Lulu, as she helped her
father with the last of his preparations, some anxiety showing itself
in her tone.
“Toward evening, daughter; I can’t set the hour,” he answered cheerily.
“Better not expect us too soon, lest it should make you feel lonely
and disappointed. Your better plan will be to keep yourself busy with
reading, writing, sewing—as you prefer, and you may take a walk about
town with Marian, if you choose, but don’t go outside of it.
“Perhaps you will find letters at the post-office after the mail comes;
maybe have the pleasure of handing me one from your mamma when I get
back. Now good-by, my darling.”
He held her in a close embrace for a moment, kissing her tenderly two
or three times, released her, and was gone.
Max was following, with a hasty “Good-by, Lu,” but she ran after him,
calling, “Max, kiss me, let me kiss you. Suppose the bear should get
hold of you and hug you so tight that I’d never have a chance to do it
again,” she added, laughing to hide an inclination to cry.
“Just imagine now that he has hold of you,” Max said, throwing his arms
round her and squeezing her so hard that she screamed out, “Oh, let me
go! you’re bear enough for me!”
“Bears must be allowed to hug, for ’tis their nature to,” he said, with
a laugh, giving her another squeeze and a resounding kiss. “Good-by, I
must be off now, to catch up with papa.”
Lulu hurried out to the porch to watch them mount and ride away, her
father throwing her a kiss from the saddle, then went back, rather
disconsolately, to her work of sorting over the clean clothes and
giving them the needed repairs.
She had finished that and begun upon her badges, when Marian came in
with some sewing, and asked if she might sit with her and hear the
promised story of the signing of the Declaration.
“Yes, indeed! I’ll be glad of your company and glad to tell the story;
for it’s one I like very much,” said Lulu.
“Thank you,” Marian said, “but before you begin, may I ask what those
pretty badges are for? You forgot to tell me what you were going to do
with the ribbons.”
“Oh, so I did! These are our national colors, and I’m making badges of
them for the mission-school children to wear on the Fourth. I’m glad
you think them pretty. Now for my story:
“It was in Philadelphia it all happened, on the 4th of July, 1776. But
I must go back and tell of something that happened before that.
“Of course you know about the Pilgrims coming over from England and
settling in the wilderness that America was then, so that they might
be free to worship God as they thought right; and about the settling
of all the others of the thirteen colonies; and how King George the
Third and the British Parliament oppressed them, taxing them without
representation, passing that hateful Stamp Act, and so on, till the
people couldn’t stand it any longer.
“They just wanted to make all they could off the American people and
give them nothing in return. But the Americans wouldn’t stand it; they
weren’t the sort of stuff to be made slaves of; so when a tax was put
on tea they said they wouldn’t buy any; they would sooner go without
drinking tea than pay that tax.
“Great ship-loads were sent over, but they wouldn’t let it be landed,
and at last they grew so angry that they boarded a ship loaded with tea
and lying in Boston harbor, and threw the chests of tea into the water.
“That was the Boston ‘tea-party’ that is so often spoken of in talking
about the struggle between the colonies and Great Britain. That
happened in 1773; then the next year—1774—there was another tea-party
or something like it, though not exactly, in New Jersey. It was at a
small place called Greenwich on the Cohansey.
“A brig named the Greyhound, commanded by Captain Allen, came up the
river to Greenwich, and on the 22d of November landed her load of tea
there.
“It was put into a cellar not very far from the wharf, and somebody
that saw it ran and told some one else.
“The news spread very fast. People were astonished and angry; they had
never expected such a cargo to come there, and they had no notion of
letting it stay; for most of them were quite as patriotic as the Boston
people.
“So a party of them disguised themselves, assembled together in the
dusk of the evening, got the chests of tea out of that cellar, carried
them to an old field, piled them up there and set them on fire; burned
them entirely up.”
“Quite as good a way to get rid of them as by throwing them into the
sea, I think,” commented Marian. “But wasn’t any one punished for it?”
“Not that I ever heard or read of,” replied Lulu. “I suppose nobody who
would have wanted to tell knew who the men were that did the deed.”
“I think they had something of the spirit of our Scotch folk of early
times, who would never submit to be ruled by the English,” remarked
Marian.
“Yes; papa has told me that a good many who did good service to their
country in the Revolution, were of Scotch, and Scotch-Irish descent. He
says it is a race that never would brook oppression.
“Well, the next spring after the burning of the tea at Greenwich—that
is on the 19th of April, 1775—the war began—with the battle of
Lexington. Still, most of the Americans didn’t think of anything but
forcing the English government to treat them better; but the fight went
on; the British had no idea of giving up their oppressive doings, and
soon the wise ones among the Americans began to see that there was no
way to get their rights but by separating from England and setting up
for themselves; and that was what brought them to writing and signing
the Declaration of Independence.”
“But who did it? the officers of your army who were fighting the
British?”
“No, oh, no! it was the Continental Congress assembled at Philadelphia.
They appointed a committee to draw up the paper, and when it was read
to them every one voted for it; then, one after another, each of the
fifty-six members present signed his name to it.
“It was a very dangerous thing to do, for the English king and his
government would call it treason, and put the signers to death if they
could catch them. So the people were quite afraid the hearts of the
congressmen would fail them when it came to the signing, and the thing
be given up.
“A great crowd was gathered on the day of the signing, in the street
outside of the State House, where Congress met, and there they waited,
oh, so anxiously, to hear that the deed was done.
“There was a bell at the top of the State House, and the ringer was
there ready to let the crowd know by ringing the bell when the signing
was done. He was an old man, and down on the landing by the stairs
leading to the belfry sat a little blue-eyed boy who was to call up the
news to him.
“All was very quiet indoors and out; the crowd listening for the
news—the old man and the little boy also—and the congressmen feeling
very solemn because of the great risk they were running, and the
necessity for taking it if they would save their country.
“There was a death-like stillness in the room while one after another
went from his seat to the table and wrote his name at the bottom of the
paper; and when all had signed, oh, how still it was for a moment! till
Franklin broke the silence by saying: ‘Now, gentlemen, we must all
hang together, or we shall surely hang separately!’
“I suppose somebody then stepped to the door and spoke to the little
boy. The old man in the belfry was saying sadly to himself, ‘They’ll
never sign it! they’ll never sign it!’ when all at once the little boy
clapped his hands and shouted, ‘Ring! ring!’
“The old man was all ready, with the bell-rope in his hands, and he did
ring without waiting one instant, and with the first peal the great
crowd in the street below set up a wild ‘Hurrah! hurrah!’ almost going
wild with joy.
“Then people farther off heard and caught up the shout, and I suppose
not many minutes had passed before everybody else in the whole city
knew that the Declaration was signed.”
“And everybody was glad?”
“Everybody but the Tories, I think. No doubt there were some of them
even there.”
“But it seems to me the rejoicing was premature, as they could not be
certain of winning in the fight that was hardly more than begun.”
“Perhaps so; but they had been so very patient and borne repeated
wrongs till they felt that they could bear no more, but would fight on
till death, if victory didn’t come before that.
“Oh, I must tell you of a strange coincidence in connection with the
bell that rang to tell that the deed was done! It had been cast years
before, and there was a motto on it that couldn’t have been made more
suitable to what it did on that 4th of July, if all the doings of that
day had been foreseen.
“Oh, I’d forgotten that I’ve read that the declaration was only adopted
on the 4th of July and proclaimed on the 8th.”
“But what was the motto?” asked Marian.
“It was a verse from the Bible,” Lulu answered. “‘Proclaim Liberty
throughout all the land, to all the inhabitants thereof.’ Wasn’t it a
strange coincidence!”
“Very, I think,” Marian replied. “I’d like to see that old bell. I
suppose they keep it in memory of that time?”
“Yes, oh yes, indeed! I’ve seen it; when we were in Philadelphia not
very long ago, Papa took me to the State House or Independence Hall—it
gets both names—and showed me the old bell (it isn’t in use, because
it has a large crack in it: but they keep it for people to see), and
the Declaration—the very paper those brave men signed—and the pen they
wrote their names with, and a great many other things connected with
revolutionary and colonial times. Did you ever hear of Patrick Henry?”
“No, never. Who was he?”
“I think you will like to hear about him because, though born in
America, he was the son of a Scotchman. He lived in the times
we’ve been talking about, and was one of our very patriotic men and
greatest orators. He was a Virginian, and in 1765—ten years before the
Revolutionary War began, and when George the Third was oppressing the
colonies so, and had the Stamp Act passed—he belonged to the House of
Burgesses.
“They were debating about the Stamp Act, and Patrick Henry was wanting
resolutions passed declaring that no one but the House of Burgesses and
the governor had a right to lay taxes and imposts on that colony.
“Some of the other members were very much opposed to his resolutions
and grew very angry and abusive toward him; but he wouldn’t give up
to them; he went on with his speech and said some brave words that
startled even the patriots and have been famous words ever since. They
were:
“‘Cæsar had his Brutus, Charles the First his Cromwell, and George
the Third’—just there he was interrupted by cries of ‘Treason!
treason!’—‘may profit by their example,’ he added. ‘If this be treason,
make the most of it.’”
“That was fine!” Marian exclaimed, her eyes shining. “I’m thinking he
was a worthy descendant of some of our Scotch heroes. But did they pass
his resolutions?”
“Yes; by a majority of one.”
“Ten years after that—just a few weeks before the battle of Lexington,
that began the war—he was talking in a convention at Richmond, in
Virginia. He wanted to organize the militia and make the colony ready
for defence against Great Britain; but some of the others were very
much opposed.
“He made a grand speech to them, trying to convince them that what
he wanted done was the wisest thing they could do, and in it he
said some brave words which I admire so much that I learned them by
heart,—committed them to memory, I suppose would be the more proper
expression.”
“Oh, say them over to me!” entreated Marian, her eyes sparkling with
enthusiasm, “I dearly love to hear brave, bold words that speak a
determination to be free from tyranny of man, whether he would lord it
over soul or body, or both.”
“So do I,” said Lulu, “and no one was more capable of saying such words
than Patrick Henry. These are the ones I spoke of.
“‘There is no retreat but in submission and slavery. Our chains are
already forged. Their clanking may be heard on the plains of Boston.
The next gale that sweeps from the north will bring the clash of
resounding arms. I know not what course others may take, but as for me,
give me liberty or give me death.’
“I think the convention couldn’t hold out against such brave and
eloquent words, for they passed his resolutions without any one saying
a word against it.”
“I’m proud that he was a Scotchman’s son,” Marian said.
“And I that he was a native-born American,” said Lulu.
“And your government is really a free one, though the Mormons say so
much against it?” queried Marian.
“Yes, indeed! But I wish it had broken up Mormonism long ago.”
“So do I,” responded Marian, almost fiercely, “Yes, before it had time
to get well started and could send out its missionaries to deceive
folks in other countries and persuade them to come over here, where the
women, at least, are nothing but slaves!”
Lulu looked at her in surprise and sympathy, for she detected in her
tones a bitter sense of personal wrong.
“Was that how you came to emigrate to this country, Marian?” she asked.
“Are you and your mother Mormons?”
“_I’m_ no Mormon!” exclaimed the girl, through her clenched teeth.
“But they made one of my father, and led him to break my poor mother’s
heart, so that I hate him—I that used to love him next to her—and
would never set eyes on him again if I could help myself.”
“Hate your own father!” cried Lulu, aghast at the very idea. “Oh, how
can you?”
“He isn’t like yours,” Marian returned, in quivering tones: “if he was
I’d love the very ground he walks on. He used to be kind, but now—he’s
cruel and heartless as—I’d almost said the father o’ lies himself!”
“Oh, Marian, what has he done to grieve your mother so?”
“What the Mormons teach that every man ought to do if he wants a high
place in heaven; taken other wives.”
“Why!” exclaimed Lulu, “that’s very, _very_ wicked! They send men to
the penitentiary for doing it.”
“They deserve worse than that,” said Marian, her eyes flashing. “I’m no
Mormon, I say again. Do you know they teach the women that they can’t
go to heaven unless they have been married?”
“I know better than that,” Lulu said emphatically; “for the Bible says
‘Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ and thou shalt be saved.’ And I know
some very good Christian ladies who have never been married. I don’t
see how anybody who believes the Bible can be a Mormon.”
“No, nor I,” said Marian; “for a good many things they say one
must believe, are directly the opposite of what the Bible says. For
instance, that the blood of Christ doesn’t atone for all sin, but
some sins have to be atoned for by shedding the sinner’s own blood. I
think that—beside contradicting the Scriptures—it is the same thing as
saying that Jesus’ blood is not of sufficient value to pay for all the
wickedness men have done, and buy their salvation, if only they choose
to accept it as a free gift at his hands, believe in him, and love him
with all their hearts, so that they will be his servants forever.”
“But,” said Lulu, “I know that is the way the Bible tells us we may
be saved, and the only way, and I’ll believe the Bible—God’s own
word—though every human creature should contradict it.”
“So will I,” Marian said firmly. “I’ll never forget the good teaching
of my minister and Sunday-school teacher in old Scotland. Everything
they taught they proved by Scripture; and from them I learned that
man’s teachings are not worthy of the smallest consideration, if they
do not agree with the teachings of God’s word.”
“And I’ve learned the same from papa. How good our Heavenly Father was
to give us His holy word, that we might learn from it just what he
would have us believe and do! I feel sorry for the poor heathen who
haven’t it, and I want to do all I can to send it to them.”
“Have you ever read anything of Scotland’s martyrs, who laid down their
lives for the love of Jesus and his word?” asked Marian.
“Yes, indeed; and papa has told me about them; as well as of martyrs
who suffered in other parts of the world. How strange it is that men
should want to persecute each other so, and pretend they do it to
please God, who is so kind and merciful. You know the Bible says he
proclaimed himself to Moses:
“‘The Lord, the Lord God, merciful and gracious, long suffering, and
abundant in goodness and truth, keeping mercy for thousands, forgiving
iniquity and transgression and sin, and that will by no means clear the
guilty.’”
“How do you explain that?” asked Marian; “I mean the not clearing the
guilty, yet forgiving iniquity, transgression and sin?”
“For Jesus’ sake, you know,” returned Lulu. “Papa explained it to me,
saying ‘God’s law does not call him guilty for whom Christ has borne
the punishment.’”
“Ah, yes, I see; Christ takes the sinner’s guilt and gives him of his
righteousness; and to try to add some of our own is like fastening
filthy rags on a beautiful white wedding garment; and what better is it
to try to pour some of the sinner’s own polluted blood into that pure
fountain opened for sin and uncleanness?”
“Not one bit better, and Mormonism cannot be a true religion; indeed,
there can be but one true religion, I know—that which teaches salvation
through the blood and righteousness of Christ.”
But the dinner hour was approaching, and Marian found she must go to
her mother’s assistance.
Lulu spent most of the afternoon alone, but amused herself with writing
letters to Evelyn and Gracie. Marian went with her to the post-office
to mail them when done, and to Lulu’s great satisfaction there were
letters from home for her father, for Max, and for herself.
“One of these is from Mamma Vi,” she said to Marian, “and I’m so glad
I shall have the pleasure of handing it to papa; of course he’s always
very glad to get her letters.”
“Your mamma, did you say?” asked Marian.
“My young step-mother,” explained Lulu. “She’s not old enough to be my
own mamma. My mother had been dead two or three years when papa married
again.”
“It’s all right, then,” Marian commented, with some bitterness of tone,
thinking of Mormon teaching that a man may have many wives living at
the same time, “I never heard of any religion that teaches it is wrong
for a man to marry again after his wife is dead.”
They had entered the house and passed on into the sitting-room. At that
moment there was the sound of horses’ hoofs on the street and some
seemed to pause at Mrs. McAlpine’s gate.
“Oh, I do believe they’ve come back!” cried Lulu, in joyous tones,
“Yes, I hear papa’s voice,” and she ran to meet him, Marian’s eyes
following her with a wistful, longing look.
The captain had just stepped across the threshold as his little
daughter came flying to him, crying, “Oh, papa, I’m so glad you’re
safely back again! I was so afraid you might get hurt.”
He bent down, caught her in his arms, and giving her a loving kiss,
said, “Yes, I have been taken care of and brought back unhurt. My
little girl should have trusted me to our Heavenly Father’s care, and
not tormented herself with useless, unavailing fears.”
“It was foolish and wrong,” she acknowledged. Then catching sight of
her brother, “Oh, Maxie, I’m glad to see you safe, too!”
“Are you?” he returned, in a sportive tone. “I was beginning to wonder
if it made any particular difference to you.”
“Oh, did you see any bears?” she asked, as they moved on into their own
rooms.
“Yes,” answered her father, and Max added, “Papa shot him; right
through the heart, so that he fell dead instantly.”
“I was almost sure papa would be the one to shoot him,” Lulu exclaimed
with a look of triumph. Then with a sudden change of tone, “Papa,
you’re very tired, aren’t you?”
“Rather tired, daughter, and have a slight headache,” he answered.
“Were there any letters for me?”
He was taking off his coat, preparatory to ridding himself of the dust
gathered during his ride.
“Yes, sir; one of them from Mamma Vi,” replied Lulu. “Papa, won’t you
sit down in this easy-chair while you read it, and let me stand beside
you and brush your hair gently to see if that won’t help your head?”
“Yes, dear child; I shall enjoy having you do so, if you do not find it
too wearisome.”
“It won’t tire me at all, papa,” she asserted with warmth, “and
there’s nothing else I enjoy so much as doing something to make you
comfortable.”
“My own dear little loving daughter,” he responded, giving her a look
that filled her heart with gladness.
Max, no less ready than Lulu to wait upon their father, had seized a
clothes-brush and the captain’s coat, and carrying them to the window
was giving the coat a vigorous shaking and brushing.
“Thank you, my dear boy,” the captain said, as Max presently brought
the garment to him, looking much better for what it had just gone
through; “truly I think no man was ever more fortunate in his children
than I am in mine.”
“If there’s anything good about our conduct, papa, I think your
training deserves all the credit of it,” replied Max; “your training
and your example, I should have said,” he corrected himself.
“If so it is by God’s blessing upon it all in the fulfillment of his
promise, ‘Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old
he will not depart from it.’ I hope, my children, you will never depart
from it in youth or in later days.”
“I hope not, papa,” said Lulu. “Now please sit down and let me try
to help your poor head. I’ll brush very softly. There, how does that
feel?” after passing the brush gently over his hair two or three times.
“Very soothing, darling. You may go on while I open and read my
letters.”
There were several home letters, and they enjoyed them together as
usual, the captain reading aloud, while Lulu continued her labor of
love, and Max attended to his own toilet—brushing his clothes and hair
and washing hands and face. There was nothing of the dandy about the
lad, but he liked to be neat; for his own comfort, and because it
pleased his father to see him so.
By the time the letters were disposed of and the tea-bell sounded
out its summons, the captain was able to assure Lulu that his head
was almost entirely relieved. He gave the credit to her efforts, and
rewarded her with a kiss.