THE LIBERTY TEA
As Nathalie was ably seconded by the rest of the Liberty Cheerers,
Van—he claimed he was a chump at story-telling—began the story of
Lovewell, the Ranger, by saying that it was like one of the old Norse
_Sagas_, for it had been told and retold by the mountaineer’s fireside
for many generations.
“When the white settlers were being harassed in the early times by
marauding bands from the neighboring tribe of Sokoki Indians,” said the
young soldier, “John Lovewell, a hardy ranger, set out from the Indian
village of Pigswacket, now Fryeburg, near North Conway, and made his
way, with forty-five of his followers, to Ossipee. Here they built a
fort, and his scouts having found Indian tracks, they pushed farther on
to a lake by whose shores they encamped for the night. The following
morning, while trailing an Indian in the woods, Paugas, an Indian
chieftain, whose name was a terror to every white settler on the
frontier, stole up behind the rangers, to their encampment, which
unfortunately they had left unguarded, and counted their packs. Finding
that they were only thirty-four in number, the Indians placed themselves
in ambush in the woods near, and when the rangers returned it was to be
surrounded by the redmen, while the air was filled with their deadly
fire and hideous warwhoops.
“Here, by this little lake, under the very shadow of Mount Kearsarge,
fifty miles from any settlement, was fought one of the bloodiest battles
in Indian warfare, as the loyal rangers fought for their lives. They
finally compelled the Indians to flee, but not before Lovewell and many
of his men had been killed. The survivors made their way back to the
fort at Ossipee, only to find it empty, for the guard, on hearing that
Lovewell and his band had been killed, had deserted it.
“After many incredible hardships,” continued Van, “twenty emaciated men
finally reached the white settlement, many of them only to fall dead
from wounds, or from hunger and exhaustion. But, practically, Lovewell’s
band had won a great victory, for Paugas had been killed, and the
remainder of the tribe forsook their strongholds among the foothills,
and the white settlers were molested no more.”
Van also related how a ranger, the only remaining one of three brothers
who had set forth with Lovewell, when one of his brothers fell dead at
his feet from the wounds inflicted by the savages, had started for their
village, only to find his other brother’s body riddled with bullets.
“Determined to be revenged, he pursued the Indians to the mountain
fastnesses, where the defeated tribe, under the chief Chocorua, still
lingered. He finally sighted the chieftain, who had ascended a high
mountain to see if the white men had departed. As he started to descend
he was confronted by the ranger, who, with his gun in hand, slowly
forced the Indian back, step by step, until he stood on the verge of the
precipice where he had been standing. As the chieftain saw that his end
had come,—as he had no alternative between the precipitous cliff and
the white man’s weapon,—with a cry of bitter defiance he leaped from
the pinnacle, to be dashed to pieces on the rocks below. Hence the name,
Chocorua Mountain.”
A mountain romance was now told by Janet, in the story of Nancy Stairs,
a native of Jefferson, who had fallen in love, and become engaged to a
farm-hand. On the eve of the wedding the girl’s lover disappeared,
carrying with him a small sum of money, her _dot_. How Nancy set forth,
to overtake him at a camp many miles away, walking at night through the
dark woods, clambering over rocks and fording the Saco, finally to reach
the place where he had encamped, to find it deserted, aroused the
sympathies of all. “Finally,” continued Janet, “the girl sank exhausted
on the banks of a brook, to be found some time later in the calm repose
of a deathless sleep, almost buried under the snow, under a canopy of
friendly evergreen that stretched above her.
“But Nancy had her revenge,” smiled the storyteller, “for when the
farm-hand heard of her fate he lost his reason, and tradition tells us
that, on the anniversary of her death, the mountain-passes through which
she pushed, in her weary pursuit of her lover, resound to his cries of
grief.”
Nita’s contribution to the Liberty Cheer was a little tale of an Indian
maiden, who was so beautiful that no hunter was found worthy of her.
Suddenly she disappeared, and was never seen again, until one day an
Indian chief, on returning from the chase, told how he had seen her
disporting in the limpid waters of the river Ellis, with a youth as
peerless as she. When the bathers saw the chieftain they had immediately
vanished from sight, thus showing the girl’s parents that her companion
must have been a mountain-spirit. From now on they would go into the
wilds and call upon him for a moose, a deer, or whatever animal they
chose, and lo! it would immediately appear, running towards them.
Danny’s story was about some white settlers captured by the Indians on
their way to Canada. When they came to the banks of a beautiful stream,
one of the captives, a mother with several children, from a babe in arms
to a girl of sixteen, gathered her little ones about her in dumb
despair. She had toiled through trackless forests, forded swollen
streams, climbed rocky heights, slept on the cold, bare earth, and then,
when she had refused to obey the commands of an Indian chieftain, from
lack of strength, she had been goaded with blows, or the gory scalps of
two of her children, which still hung from his belt, had been flourished
menacingly before her eyes.
As she stood on the banks of the river, feeling that her reason would
forsake her from anguish, she suddenly heard one of the Indians ask her
oldest daughter to sing. The girl stood speechless with amazement, not
knowing what to do for a moment, and then there floated out through the
vast solitudes of these lonely mountains a curiously fresh young voice,
as the girl chanted the sublime words of the psalmist in the plaintive
river-song.
There was a slight pause, and then Danny’s voice, sweet and clear, to
the accompaniment of the soft strains of Tony’s violin, was heard as he
chanted:
“By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down, yes, we wept,
when we remembered Zion.
“We hanged our harps upon the willows in the midst thereof.
“For there they that carried us away captive required of us a
song; and they that wasted us required of us mirth.”
Tony’s hands lovingly fingered his bow, and the music, like the rippling
flow of the river Ellis, continued its sweet low murmur, as the little
newsie told how the magic charm of these beautiful words must have
touched some chord in the savage breasts, for, as the girl ceased, the
fiercest Indian caught the babe gently from the mother’s arms and
carried it across the river. One of his companions also softened, and,
picking up another child, bore it safely over the stream.
Nathalie chose the familiar Willey story, about the family who lived in
an inn on the side of Mount Willey, at the entrance to the great Notch.
“In 1826,” said the girl, “one evening in June they heard a queer,
rumbling noise, and hurried out to see an avalanche of stones and
uprooted trees making its way with great speed down the mountain.
Fortunately, before it reached the house it swerved one side, and the
Willeys, believing it quite safe, returned to the house, and, as time
passed on, carelessly forgot the warning that had been given them.
“In August a severe storm occurred, which raged with indescribable fury
for a day and a night, the rain falling in sheets, while the Saco
overflowed its banks, thus creating a state of general upheaval. Two
days later, a tourist traveling through the Notch arrived at the inn, to
find it uninjured, but deserted, with the exception of a half-starved
dog who was whining dismally. He made his way to Bartlett, and the
mountaineers, hurrying to the scene, finally discovered the bodies of
Mr. and Mrs. Willey and two hired men, who were buried in a mass of
wreckage not far from the inn. The bodies of the children were never
discovered.
“It is supposed,” explained Nathalie, “that they had all rushed out on
again hearing the rumbling noises, and had evidently tried to seek the
shelter of a cave near. But they were too late,” she ended with a
pathetic sigh, “for the avalanche was upon them before they reached it.
If they had only remained in the house they would have been saved.”
A little later, as Philip and Van became engaged in a conversation about
the war, a topic of which they never seemed to weary, Nathalie and Nita,
with arms intertwined in long-cemented _camaraderie_, wandered to the
high, jutting rock which Nathalie called “Heaven’s window.” Here in awed
silence they gazed at the faraway, scintillating blue peaks, huge
escarpments, and yawning mountain crevasses towering above the alpine
meadow, that, rich in many shades of verdure, darkened with
cloud-shadows, and cut with ribbon-like trails of forest foliage, were a
“Wondrous woof of various greens.”
In the sun-dyed splendor it was like a cloth of gold, a wondrous
tapestry woven by Nature in her most majestic mood, a picture that held
them with the calm of its infinite beauty.
Suddenly Nita, who never was quiet very long, cried: “Oh, Nathalie, you
must tell us what you meant when you said that you had a big idea. Don’t
you remember, it was when Janet made Philip stop his story?”
“I don’t know as it is a very big idea,” replied her companion, “for its
bigness depends, as Dick says, on whether we make a go of it or not. I
spoke of it then, not only because I had just thought of it, but because
I wanted to second Janet, for Philip was as white as a ghost.
“You know,” she continued slowly, “the afternoon teas at the Sweet Pea
Tea-House have not been very well attended lately. I presume the minds
of the people have been diverted by some new form of amusement. I’m
awfully sorry, too, for I think my dear Sweet-Pea ladies need the money.
Now what do you think of having Philip tell the rest of his story some
afternoon at the Tea-House? We’ll get Jean to tell his story, too, and
the boys can sing patriotic songs; and then, there’s Tony, with his
violin. I think we can get up a real good entertainment, and we can call
it a Liberty Tea.”
“Oh, Nathalie, that’s a peach of an idea!” Nita’s blue eyes glowed
enthusiastically.
“You see,” returned her friend, “it would attract the people to the
Tea-House again, and also bring Philip into notice. I think his story
would interest every one, and it might get him a few more pupils.”
As the little party wended their way down the trail, they were busy
making plans and devising ways to make Nathalie’s “big idea” feasible.
They had broached the subject to Philip,—Nathalie being careful not to
make it appear as if he would gain by the performance,—and he had
readily consented to do his part. Janet, too, was won over, and as for
the children, they were in a beatific state at the idea of appearing on
a platform, and “speaking a piece,” as Sheila called it.
Miss Whipple, when the idea was suggested to her, Nathalie making it
appear that Philip would derive great benefit from it, heartily favored
the plan. So, for the next two days Nita and Nathalie were as busy as
bees, drilling the children, making posters to feature the event at the
different hotels, and then motoring to each one, and tacking them up,
after getting the desired permission, so that the affair would be well
advertised.
The boys and Van Darrell, with the help of some friends of Nita’s at the
Sunset Hill House, the morning of the event decorated the Tea-House with
greens, goldenrod, and flags. Sam assisted by erecting a small platform
so gaudily festooned with red, blue, and white bunting that Nita said it
was a regular “call to the colors,” as she stood off and surveyed his
work. Chairs, rustic seats, in fact, everything that could be used for a
seat was now brought into the room, while the veranda was not only
decorated with bunting and Japanese lanterns, the posts being twined
with the national colors in crêpe paper, but filled with small
tea-tables and chairs.
At the hour designated for the performance to begin—to the girls’
delight, the room was crowded—Janet began to play softly on the piano,
suddenly breaking into “Hail Columbia,” then a patriotic march,
following these selections with “The Royal March of Italy,” the
“Lorraine March” and several other well-known favorites either of the
Americans or the Allies, ending with France’s adored march, “Sambre et
Meuse.”
The boys, in their khaki suits, each one carrying his gun, now marched
before the audience. They were headed by Sheila, who, as a little
Goddess of Liberty, acted as the color-bearer. As she stepped to one
side of the stage and stood at attention, the boys saluted the flag and
then repeated the oath of allegiance.
Sheila now fell in line, and they went through a manual-of-arms, and
then, amid loud applause, broke into the “Red, White, and Blue.” This
was followed by a number of patriotic airs, and the national anthem,
when all rose to their feet and joined in the singing with patriotic
fervor. After a short pause Danny started to whistle “La
Marseillaise”—Janet playing the accompaniment on the piano very
softly—as the children joined in, coming out with startling effect with
the words:
“To arms! Ye warriors all!
Your bold battalions call!
March on, ye free!
Death shall be ours,
Or glorious victory!”
Van Darrell now appeared in front of the little platform—he had
modestly refused to ascend it—and introduced Mr. Philip de Brie as a
British soldier, a member of “Kitchener’s mob,” known as the greatest
volunteer army in the world. As Philip stepped forward in response to an
enthusiastic ovation he bowed courteously, but with a certain diffidence
of manner that showed that this was a more trying ordeal than being
under fire at the front.
The personal part of Philip’s story was quickly told,—how he came to
join the army,—the audience cheering lustily when he claimed he was an
American, while a tenseness seized them as he related his strange
experience while lying in a shell-hole, and the revelation the
apparition of the White Comrade had brought to him.
Their interest continued as he told how, in the British offensive south
of the Somme, he and his company, with four machine-guns, had cleaned
out a Prussian machine-gun nest that had been making havoc with their
men. They peppered the enemy so severely, he asserted, while playing a
crisscross game with their guns, that the only remaining German gunner
was captured, surrounded by his dead comrades.
When their ammunition failed, and they attempted to return to their
lines under a fierce artillery fire, with bursting shells and shrapnel
flying around them, they were compelled to take refuge under a bridge,
where they remained for four hours under a fierce gas attack. He was
again cheered as he told how, in another attempt to regain the
firing-line, a bomb exploded, killing several of their men, and how,
when their lieutenant was missed, noted for his bravery and daring, he
started out to find him.
This recital was made graphic as he told of crawling on his stomach to
dodge a bomb, or wiggling along to peer into shell-pits, and how, when a
flare was thrown up by the enemy, illuminating the battlefield like some
big electric show, he suddenly found himself, as it were, back to the
wall,—for he had no ammunition,—desperately fighting a big, husky
German who was fumbling in his pocket, evidently for a hand-grenade.
Another cheer, and then almost a groan went through the room as Philip
continued, and told how, as he tried to get him by the throat, he made a
lunge at him and thrust his bayonet through his arm. The German finished
off his work by knocking him on the head with his rifle, finally leading
him, dazed and blinded, behind the German lines, a prisoner.
The neglect he received in the field and base hospital and the horrible
treatment he was compelled to witness, as endured by the wounded
prisoners, was received with a storm of hisses. How he was pronounced
cured, although he had been rendered dumb, either from nerve-shock or
the force of the blow on the head, and then taken to a German
prison-camp, and crowded in with hundreds of men in a wooden shed, with
a flooring of mud four inches thick, aroused renewed indignation. Here,
with no blankets, no ventilation, overcoat, or personal belongings, he
slept on a straw tick, with insufficient food, and that of such a
horrible quality that he grew emaciated and covered with boils.
When some of the prisoners were transferred to another camp Philip told
how he had the good luck to be one of them, and how, when the train was
struck by a bursting bomb, crashing in the roof when going at a speed of
thirty miles an hour, he, with two other prisoners, climbed up and
jumped to the ground, one man being killed.
This was the beginning of his race for life, in which he dodged guards
and sentries, cut his way through barbed wire, and hid in a forest for
three days, and, after many other thrilling adventures, finally came to
a field within a few miles of the British lines.
“Here,” Philip continued, “as we lay concealed in a dugout under a bank,
we heard a familiar whirr, and looked up to see an air-battle taking
place between a French and Boche plane. With taut breath I watched the
planes circle round and round in the air, while keeping up a steady fire
at one another, until the French plane began to drive its enemy back and
back, until they were directly over the British entrenchments. Then we
heard the rat-tat-tat, and knew that one of the planes had been fired
upon from below. Suddenly it burst into flames, lunged to one side, and
then, in a long sweep through the air, began to circle downward like a
great flash of fire, sending forth a shower of sparks as it fell. And
then I screamed from sheer joy, for I recognized that it was the Boche
plane that had fallen. It is needless to say that my speech had
returned.”
After telling how they had regained the British lines, and how he had
finally reached a hospital in London, where he remained for some weeks
in a miserably depressed state of mind, on learning that his mother had
died during his absence, Philip finished his story by telling how he
came to sail for America. He told of his search for his grandmother, and
how he came to live in the little cabin on the mountain. From the
plaudits that greeted him, as he bowed and retired from the platform, it
was evident that his story had been greatly enjoyed by his listeners.
When Tony a moment or so later, in his old velveteen vest, with his
violin under his arm, and his velvety black eyes aglow in a beatific
smile, bobbed a funny little bow to his audience, he was warmly
received. But a sudden hush succeeded as the little violinist, with his
instrument tucked under his chubby chin, fingered the bow lovingly as he
moved it over the strings, evoking such sweet, rich music that the
violin seemed like some enchanted thing.
Surely this little slum lad, with no training to guide him, of his own
volition could not have produced such ravishing melody as floated
through the room. As he played his face lost its smile, and there came a
play of expression, now tender and sad, now dreamy or grave, in accord
with the varied moods of the music, as he played on and on with a
passion, a rich tenderness, every note in tune, that seemed almost
marvelous. When he ended with a vehement little shake of his head—that
sent his waving hair flying about—in much the same manner that great
musicians affect, it brought down the house in loud applause.
As an encore he played several Italian airs, weird, dreamy music,
finally ending with “Traumerei,” Schumann’s “Dream Song.” No, he didn’t
play it all, only snatches, and these were not always rendered according
to the score, but he held his audience in a hushed stillness, until,
with a little shake of his bow, and a low bow, he turned and ran quickly
from the platform.
Sheila hid her face in Nathalie’s skirt when her turn came to ascend the
platform and speak her “liberty piece.” Nathalie was in the throes of
despair, for fear that she was going to fail her, when Tony leaned
forward and teasingly whispered, “Oh, Boy!” This reminiscent remark
caused the little lady’s head to go up, and her chin, too, and in angry
defiance she marched up on the platform. As Nathalie, who was sitting
down in the front row of chairs, gave her the cue, her little treble was
heard repeating James Whitcomb Riley’s poem “Liberty,” her voice ringing
out loud and clear when she came to the stanza:
“Sing for the arms that fling
Their fetters in the dust
And lift their hands in higher trust,
Unto the one Great King;
Sing for the patriot home and land,
Sing for the country they have planned;
Sing that the world may understand
This is Freedom’s land!”
It was pathetic to see the little empty-sleeved Jean, as he straightened
up his slender form, and, in an attempt at bravery, hurried on the
platform. Without waiting for the accompanist,—forgetting to greet his
audience in his fright,—he burst into the words of Belgium’s national
anthem, “Brabanconne,” singing it with a verve and spirit,—as he stood,
with his one hand nervously clinched in front of him and his eyes
uplifted,—that showed that the soul of Belgium was not dead.
This impassioned appeal from the boy as he ended, and stood in mute
bewilderment, his eyes again haunted by that look of hopeless terror,
aroused the audience to prolonged applause. Philip now stepped to his
side, and, as he laid his hand reassuringly on the little shoulder, the
refugee began his pitiful tale.
His arm had been cut off, he told, by a German soldier, who had made his
mother cry, when he had rushed up and pounded him with his fists to make
him desist. The soldier had dragged his mother away, and then he had
been told that she had died. There was a quiver to the lad’s voice as he
related this sorrowful incident, but he winked his eyes together to keep
back the tears.
Two days later, with his aged grandparents, he had been driven to the
town square, and there a soldier had shot his grandfather because the
old man had rebuked him for dragging the boy’s grandmother roughly
about. She had shrieked and fallen, to be trampled in the crush, for
when they picked her up she was very white, and had never opened her
eyes again. When all the women and children were herded together like
cows, and driven along a road, with a big German soldier pointing his
gun at them, Jean had suddenly run away, as fast as he could, and he had
run and run with his eyes shut, for he was afraid of the bullets that
came whistling on all sides of him.
Finally he had fallen from exhaustion, and then he had crawled into the
dark cellar of a shelled house. Here he had remained for a long time,
going out at night to a battlefield near and taking what food he could
find from the knapsacks of the dead soldiers. At last he could find no
more food, and then he had wandered on, walking wearily along for miles
and miles, until he had become part of those fleeing throngs of refugees
that blocked the roads for many long miles, sleeping on the roadside at
night. Sometimes he would have a little bread, or a piece of cheese
given to him, and then for days he went hungry. Finally he reached a
town, where a lady with a red cross on her white cap had cared for him
in a hospital. But the Germans shelled the hospital, and they said the
lady was killed, and then— Well, he had gone on again, walking at
night, alone, from place to place, when no one could see him, while
hiding in the woods by day.
On learning that he was not far from the French army, he had struggled
on until he was within a short distance of their lines, where he hid in
a forest. When a dark still night came, he stealthily crept into No
Man’s Land, and, on his hands and knees, worked his way from hole to
hole, quickly wiggling into one if he heard the slightest sound, until
he reached the French sentry, who pointed his gun at him and told him to
halt.
He was so frightened when he saw that gun aimed at him that he burst
into tears, but a moment later attempted to sing “La Marseillaise,” so
as to let the soldier know that he was not a German. The soldier took
him behind the front, where a regiment of artillery not only fed and
cared for him, but adopted him as their “kid mascot,” as Philip
interpreted it, when it was learned that his father, who was fighting in
the Belgian army, had been captured and carried a prisoner to Germany.
When the regiment had left for service at the front he was delivered
into the hands of Father Belloy, a French priest, who finally gave him
to a kind lady, who had brought him, with a number of other children, to
America. As the little lad finished his story, he turned to rush from
the stage, and then, as if inspired by a sudden thought, he threw up his
one hand and lustily cried, “Vive la Belgique!”
A second more and the audience, caught by the contagion of this cry, and
the appeal to their sympathies by the Belgian’s story, broke into
enthusiastic clapping and cheering, mingled with loud hurrahs for
Belgium. It was at this point that a guest from the Sunset Hill House
jumped to his feet, and proposed that a silver collection be taken up,
to be divided between the American-British soldier, the little Sons of
Liberty, and the ladies of the Tea-House, who had so kindly given it for
the entertainment of the guests.
This suggestion was heartily seconded, and while Van and the gentleman
were passing the hat, into which flowed a goodly collection of silver
coins, the little Sons of Liberty appeared, and, as a finish to the
entertainment, gave them a sing-song. The old, sweet songs, the songs
that lie very near to the heart of every Anglo-Saxon, were sung by these
clear childish voices, Danny either singing or whistling, while Tony
accompanied them on his violin, with Janet, Nathalie, and Nita,—even
the audience at times,—proving good seconds in this musical song-feast.
“Annie Laurie,” “The Blue Bells of Scotland,” “Wearing of the Green,”
“My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean,” “Mother Machree,” “Dixie,” were given,
followed by the new war-songs, as, “Keep the Home Fires Burning,” “Pack
up Your Troubles in Your Old Kit Bag,” “There’s a Long, Long Trail,”
“Over There,” and, as a grand finale, “The Star-Spangled Banner,” when
the audience rose and joined in with patriotic fervor.
And then Miss Mona, Janet, Nathalie, Nita, the two soldiers, and even
the little “Sons of Liberty” were all busy serving tea, out on the
veranda, to the many guests, who all declared that they had not only
enjoyed Philip’s and Jean’s stories, but the children’s singing.
Two days later, Nathalie was darning her boys’ socks on the veranda,
when Nita drove up in her car. She was so excited that she began to
shout that she had good news to tell, as soon as she caught sight of
Nathalie’s brown head.
“Oh, Nathalie,” she continued, all out of breath, as her friend hurried
to meet her, “what do you think? The manager up at the Sunset Hill
House,—you know he is a dear—has asked Mr. de Brie and the whole crowd
who took part at the Liberty Tea, to come to the hotel next Saturday
night and repeat the performance. And he says there will be another
silver collection. And, oh, isn’t it just the dandiest thing that lots
of the girls want to join the French class!” And then the young lady, in
the exuberance of her joy, fell upon the neck of her friend and began to
kiss her with hearty unction.