young men and maidens danced gayly to the sound of old Michael's
fiddling, and of them all no maiden was so fair as Evangeline, no youth
so handsome as Gabriel. Thus was the morning passed, and soon the
church-bells and the beat of drums summoned the people to the appointed
meeting-place. The women were bidden to wait in the churchyard, while
the men thronged into the church. The guard came marching from the
English ships, and, when they had entered the sacred building, the heavy
doors were fastened and the crowd waited eagerly to hear what was
coming. Speaking from the steps of the altar, the Commander said: "You
are summoned here to-day by his Majesty the King's command, and he has
given me a painful duty to perform. The will of our monarch is that all
your lands, dwellings, and cattle be forfeited to the crown, and that
you yourselves shall be transported to other lands. And now I declare
you my prisoners."
Loud was the clamor of sorrow and anger which uprose at these words and
Basil the blacksmith shouted wildly: "Down with the tyrants of England!"
In the midst of the angry tumult the door of the chancel opened and
Father Felician entered the church. Ascending the steps of the altar,
the good priest made a gesture to command silence and all were subdued
by his noble words: "Even of our enemies let us say, 'O Father, forgive
them!'" Then he calmly conducted the evening service, and never were
prayers more earnestly said than on that dreadful night.
For four days the men were imprisoned in the church, while their
womenfolk, sick with sorrow, waited in their homes. On the fifth day a
long procession of women and children came, driving in ponderous wagons
laden with their household goods, down to the seashore. Then the church
doors were unbarred, and, pale with grief and imprisonment, the Acadian
peasants marched to the harbor under the escort of soldiers. Evangeline
was on the watch for her dear ones; to her lover she whispered words of
encouragement, and strove to cheer her father, though sadly affrighted
by his dejection and the way he seemed suddenly to have grown much
older.
At the place of embarking the greatest confusion prevailed. Small boats
plied between the shore and the ships and thus wives were torn from
their husbands and mothers, too late, saw their children left behind.
Half the task was not finished when night came on. Basil and Gabriel
were among those who were taken to the ships, but Evangeline and her
father were left standing in despair on the shore.
Fires were kindled on the beach, and Father Felician wandered from group
to group, consoling and blessing the poor homeless people. As he paused
where Evangeline and her father were encamped, a sudden flare filled the
sky behind them. All eyes were turned in that direction, and the whole
village was seen to be in flames. Overwhelmed with sorrow the priest and
the maiden gazed at the scene of terror, but Benedict uttered no word,
and, when at last they turned to look at him, he had fallen to the
ground and lay there dead. Separated from her lover and now alone in the
world, the poor girl's courage at length failed her and her grief was
piteous to behold.
The next morning the old farmer received a hasty burial on the seashore,
and the remainder of the exiles were carried to the ships and
transported to far distant lands.
[Illustration]
PART II
Many years had passed away since the burning of the village of
Grand-Pré, and the exiles had been scattered far asunder. Among them a
maiden, patient and meek in spirit, waited and wandered. Sometimes she
lingered in towns, at others she passed through the country and wandered
into churchyards, gazing sadly at the crosses and tombstones, but never
did she remain long in the same place. It was Evangeline searching for
her lover, and, though many sought to dissuade her from her quest, and
urged her to listen to the wooing of her faithful suitor Baptista
Leblanc, the notary's son, she only answered sadly: "I cannot, for
whither my heart has gone, there follows my hand." And in all her doings
she was upheld and cheered by her faithful friend, the priest Felician.
Wherever she went she asked for news of Gabriel, and at last she found
out that he and his father had become famous hunters, and had been met
with on one of the vast prairies, but she was never able to trace his
movements.
[Illustration]
Still she journeyed onward and onward till, one May, she joined a band
of Acadian exiles who were sailing in a cumbrous boat down the broad
river Mississippi. They were seeking for their kinsmen who, it was
rumored, had settled down as farmers in that fertile district. Day after
day the exiles glided down the river, and night after night they
encamped on its banks and slept by the blazing camp-fires which they
kindled. One night--if only Evangeline had known it--a boat rowed by
hunters and trappers, Gabriel among them, passed by close to their camp.
But the exiles' boat was hidden among the willows and they themselves
screened from sight by thick shrubs, so the hunters sped northward and
their passing was unheeded. Only when the sound of their oars had died
away, the maiden awoke and said to the priest: "Father Felician,
something tells me that Gabriel is near me. Chide me not for this
foolish fancy."
"Not far to the south," answered the faithful priest, "are the towns of
St. Maur and St. Martin, where many of our kinsfolk have settled. There
in that beautiful land, which its inhabitants call the Eden of
Louisiana, the bride shall surely be restored to her bridegroom."
Full of hope, the travelers continued their journey, and presently
arrived at a herdsman's house which stood in a lovely garden close to
the river. The owner himself, mounted on horseback, was watching his
numerous herds which were grazing in the meadows around him. As he
turned towards his house, he caught sight of the maiden and the priest
coming toward him. With a cry of joy he sprang from his saddle and
hastened towards them, and then the travelers saw that it was none other
than Basil the blacksmith. You can imagine how cordial were the
greetings, how numberless the questions and answers that passed between
them. Only Evangeline grew silent and thoughtful when Gabriel did not
appear, and at length Basil said, "If you came by way of the lakes, how
is it that you did not meet my son's boat?"
"Gone, is Gabriel gone?" murmured Evangeline piteously; she could not
hide her disappointment, and shed bitter tears.
"Be of good cheer, my child," returned honest Basil, "it is only to-day
he went from here. He grew moody and restless ever thinking of thee,
till at length he could no longer endure this quiet existence. Therefore
I let him go among the Indians, hoping thus to divert his mind from his
troubles. Early to-morrow thou and I will set out after him, and I doubt
not but we shall overtake him and bring him back to his friends."
A sound of many voices was now heard, and the other travelers came up
joyously led by Michael the fiddler, who had lived with Basil since
their exile, having no other task than that of cheering his companions
by his merry music. Basil invited all the travelers to sup with them,
and greatly did they marvel at the former blacksmith's wealth and many
possessions. When they were seated at the table, Basil told his friends
of the beauty of the country and the fertility of the soil, and, when he
added that land might be had for the asking, they all resolved to settle
there and help to form the new Acadian colony.
On the morrow, according to his promise, Basil set out to overtake his
son, and Evangeline went with him. Day after day they journeyed onward
through a wild and desolate country, but could hear no tidings of the
traveler. At length they arrived at the inn of a little Spanish town,
where they heard that Gabriel had left that very place the previous day
and had set out with his horses and guides for the prairies.
Basil and Evangeline determined not to give up their search, and, hiring
some Indian guides, they followed in the direction which Gabriel had
taken. One evening as they were sitting by their camp-fire, there
entered an Indian woman whose face bore the marks of heavy grief. She
was returning from the far distant hunting-grounds, where her husband
had been cruelly murdered by a hostile tribe. Touched by her sad story,
the white people offered her food and a night's shelter, which she
gratefully accepted. After the evening meal was over, Evangeline and the
stranger sat apart, and the maiden, in her turn, related to the other
the story of her lost lover and her other misfortunes.
Early the next day the march was resumed, and as they journeyed along,
the Indian woman said: "On the western slope of these mountains dwells
the Black Robe, Chief of the Mission. He talks to the people of their
Heavenly Father and they give heed to his teaching."
Then said Evangeline: "Let us go to the Mission, for there good tidings
await us."
So they turned their steeds thither, and just as the sun was setting
they reached a green meadow by the riverside. There the preacher knelt
in prayer and with him a multitude of people. The travelers joined
reverently in the prayers, and when the service was over, the priest
came to welcome the strangers and offered them shelter and a share of
his frugal meal of wheaten cakes and spring water. Afterwards they told
the priest their story, and he said: "Only six days ago Gabriel sat by
my side and told me this same sad tale, then he continued his journey.
He has gone far to the north, but in autumn when the hunting is over he
will return to the Mission."
Then Evangeline pleaded: "Let me remain with thee, for my soul is sad
and afflicted." This seemed to the others a wise thing to do, so thus it
was arranged. Early on the morrow Basil returned homewards and
Evangeline stayed on at the Mission.
Slowly and wearily the days passed by, and Evangeline lived and worked
at the Mission till autumn drew on. But still Gabriel did not come, and
the maiden lived on there till the following summer. Then a rumor
reached her ears that Gabriel had encamped in a far distant forest, and
Evangeline took leave of her friends at the Mission and set forth again
to seek her lover, but when she reached the hunter's lodge she found it
deserted and fallen to ruin.
[Illustration]
And now her weary pilgrimage began anew. Her wanderings led her through
towns and villages, now she tarried a while in mission tents, now she
tended the sick and wounded in the camp of a battlefield. As the years
went on, her beauty faded and streaks of gray appeared in her dark hair.
She was fair and young when she began her long journey, faded and old
when it ended in disappointment.
At length poor Evangeline grew weary of wandering through strange places
and resolved to end her days in the city founded by the great preacher,
Penn. Here other of the Acadian exiles had settled, and Evangeline felt
that there was something homelike in the pleasant streets of the little
city and the friendly speech of the Quakers.
There for many years she dwelt as a Sister of Mercy, bringing hope and
comfort to the poor and suffering ones. Then it came to pass that a
terrible pestilence fell on the city and thousands perished. The poor
crept away to die in the almshouse, and thither by night and day came
the Sister of Mercy to tend them.
One Sabbath morning Evangeline passed through the deserted streets and
entered the gates of the almshouse. On her way she paused to pluck some
flowers from the garden, that the dying might be comforted by their
fragrance. As she mounted the stairs she heard the chime of church-bells
and the sound of distant psalm-singing, and a deep calm came over her
soul, for something within her seemed to say, "At length thy trials are
ended!"
Suddenly, as she was passing down the wards, she stood still and uttered
a cry of anguish. On the pallet before her lay an old man with long gray
hair, and, as she gazed, she saw that this was none other than her
lover, Gabriel. She knelt by his bedside and the dying man opened his
eyes and tried to whisper her name, but his strength was spent, and with
one last look he passed away from her.
Evangeline's weary quest was over; sweetly and patiently she took up her
life again and henceforth lived only for others. And now, in the little
Catholic churchyard of this far-away city, side by side the lovers are
sleeping.
_The
Falcon
of
Ser
Federigo_
Not far from the fair town of Florence lived a wondrously beautiful
maiden named Monna Giovanna. Of lovers she had no lack, but the two whom
she most favored were gallant Ser Federigo, and his rival, Ser Enrico.
Ser Federigo had inherited a great fortune and large estates from his
father, and, anxious to win favor in the sight of his lady, he lavished
his wealth in costly banquets and tournaments, never stopping to
consider whether she would approve of his extravagance. So reckless was
Ser Federigo that at last all his fortune was spent, and in order to
obtain fresh supplies he sold his estates, reserving only one small farm
for himself, and wasted all that money also.
Monna Giovanna by no means approved of her wooer's extravagance--she
refused his gifts, and disdained his banquets. "A spendthrift will not
make a prudent husband," thought she, and so she married the more
careful Ser Enrico, and for some years lived very happily with him in a
distant land.
Meanwhile Ser Federigo, become a sadder and wiser man, retired to his
little farm on the outskirts of the city, taking with him his falcon,
the only creature which remained true to him, for all his former friends
shunned him in his poverty.
One hot summer's morning, weary from working in his plot of garden, Ser
Federigo sat on a wooden bench beneath the shelter of his cottage eaves
thinking dreamily of the past and of the happiness which might have been
his, while the falcon by his side was dreaming also. Suddenly he started
up on his perch, shook his bells, and looked eagerly at his master as if
to say, "Ser Federigo, shall we not go a-hunting?" But his master's
thoughts were far away, and he did not stir. Presently he looked up in
amazement. Peeping through the trellis he saw a lovely child, a boy with
golden tresses and large wondering eyes. Without a glance at the man,
the child walked straight up to the bird and said coaxingly, "Beautiful
falcon, I wish I might hold you on my wrist, or see you fly."
Ser Federigo started, for the child's voice seemed strangely familiar to
him, and, laying his hand gently on the shining head, he asked, "Who is
your mother, my fair boy?"
"Monna Giovanna," replied the child. "Will you let me stay a little
while and play with your falcon?"
"Indeed I will, my child, but first tell me, where do you live?"
"Just beyond your garden wall," was the reply. "In the great house
hidden behind those tall poplar trees."
So the boy chattered on, and Ser Federigo took him on his knee and told
him stories of the noble falcon, and soon all three became close
friends.
As the days went on Ser Federigo set himself to find out why it was that
his lady had returned to her native land, and he discovered that Monna
Giovanna had been left a widow after a few years of marriage, and that
she had come with a friend and her only child to pass the summer quietly
in her grand villa overlooking the Arno. Rarely, or never, did the widow
lady go beyond the grounds of her villa. Clad in sable robes she paced
her stately halls, or read and worked with her friend, her one delight
to see her boy growing in health and strength and watch over this
treasure still left to her.
The boy loved his free country life and spent the days racing up and
down the terraces, chasing the screaming peacocks or climbing the garden
trellises to pluck the ripe fruit. But his chief pastime was to watch
the flight of a swift falcon which sometimes soared into sight above the
tall poplars, and at others swooped down to earth at his master's call.
The child had often wondered who the bird's master might be, and one
morning he found out that the pair he sought dwelt in the little
cottage-farm a short distance from his own home.
The child came several times to see the falcon. Suddenly his visits
ceased, but Ser Federigo had no inkling of the reason. The widow's only
child had fallen ill, and was pining away from some unknown malady. His
mother would not be comforted; she saw her darling already lying dead
before her distracted gaze, and no physician could give her any hope for
his cure. Sitting by the invalid's bedside she cried to him, "Is there
anything I can do to comfort thee, my child?"
At first the child remained silent, but when she besought him again and
again to tell her if there was anything on earth she could obtain for
him which might cause him to forget his suffering, he replied, "Yes,
there is one thing I want. I pray you give me Ser Federigo's falcon for
my own!"
The astonished mother could make no reply. Even for her darling's sake
she felt she could not ask such a favor from the lover she had once
treated with scorn. Besides, though she knew that any request of hers
would be at once granted by him, she knew also that the falcon was
renowned as the finest bird throughout the countryside, as well as being
the joy and pride of his master's heart. But the boy was fretful and
restless, and, fearing to thwart his whim lest his life should depend on
it, the poor mother promised to go and ask for the falcon on the very
next day.
"Will you promise faithfully to go, mother?" asked the boy.
"I will, indeed," replied the distracted lady, and, soothed by her
words, the child fell into a refreshing sleep.
The morrow was a bright September day, and Monna Giovanna felt hope
revive within her heart as she gazed on her child still peacefully
sleeping. The birds were singing sweetly and the dew lay heavy on the
grass as two lovely ladies, clothed in hoods and cloaks, passed through
the garden-gate into the woods, where the trees had just donned their
autumn dress of russet and gold. One of these ladies had her rich dark
hair closely covered by her hood. Her eyes were wet with tears, but her
face was only made more beautiful by its look of deep sorrow. Her
companion was a young girl who walked with light steps, her hood thrown
back, and her hair shining with its wealth of gold; her cheeks were
tinted like the apple-blossom, and her heart full of joyous thoughts.
These were Monna Giovanna and her friend, who, with thoughts intent on
their errand, hastened towards the little farm.
They found Ser Federigo digging the ground like Adam of old, and when
he beheld these fair ladies, his garden seemed to become a second Eden
and the river, flowing by, like the stream which watered Paradise.
[Illustration]
Beautiful as was Monna Giovanna's young companion, Ser Federigo had no
eyes for anyone but his dear lady, who, at first doubtful as to how she
should begin her errand, soon raised her stately head and addressed him
in kindly tones.
"Ser Federigo," said she, "I and my companion come hither to see you in
friendship, trusting by this means to make some amends for my unkindness
to you in the past. In former days I would not so much as cross the
threshold of your door; I refused your banquets and rejected your gifts.
But this morning I am here, self-invited, to put your generous nature to
the test, and therefore ask if we may breakfast with you beneath your
vine?"
Humbly Ser Federigo made reply: "Speak not of your unkindness to me, for
if there is within me any good or generous feeling it is to you I owe
it, and this gracious favor you do me in seeking me here is sufficient
to outweigh all my sorrows and regrets of former years."
After a little further talk had passed between them, Ser Federigo asked
his guests to wait in his garden for a brief space while he went to give
orders for breakfast. As he entered his cottage his thoughts dwelt
regretfully on the gold and silver plate and the ruby glass which had
once been his, and it vexed him sorely that his humble abode was lacking
in every luxury.
Matters were even worse than the poor host had anticipated; he searched
every cupboard and ransacked every shelf, but could find nothing. Then
he summoned the maid and asked why it was that provisions had failed
them. "The Signor forgets that he did not hunt to-day," replied the
girl. "We have nothing but bread and wine in the house, and fruit from
the garden."
Then suddenly the falcon shook its bells and looked knowingly at his
master as much as to say, "If anything is wanted, I am here!"
"Yes, everything is wanted, my gallant bird," cried his master, and
without more ado he seized hold of the poor creature and wrung its neck.
Grieved as he was at being forced to sacrifice his only friend, his
master had no time to mourn his untimely end. Hastily a snow-white cloth
was spread on the rough table, and on it was laid a loaf of bread
flanked by purple grapes and fragrant peaches; in the midst of these a
flask of wine wreathed with bright autumnal flowers, and finally the
falcon, stuffed with cloves and spice, was cooked and served to eke out
the humble banquet.
When all was ready the lady and her companion entered the cottage, and
to Ser Federigo's dazzled gaze everything seemed transformed. The little
room became a stately banqueting-hall, the rustic chair on which his
lady sat was transformed into a throne, and the poor falcon seemed a
peacock or a bird of paradise.
When the repast was ended they rose and passed into the garden again,
and then Monna Giovanna spoke in this wise to her host: "Though you are
too courteous to show surprise that I come to you in this friendly
manner after we have been parted so many years, I know you must wonder
at my reason for doing so. You have no children, so you cannot know the
anguish a mother feels when her child is lying ill, nor how eager she is
to anticipate his every wish. My only child is dying, Ser Federigo, and
I have come to beg of you the one thing which may save his life. It is
your falcon, your only treasure, that I beseech you to give my child,
though it grieves me to the heart to demand such a precious gift from
your hands."
Ser Federigo listened with tears of love and pity in his eyes, then
sadly answered, "Alas, dear lady, how gladly would I have granted what
you ask had you but expressed this wish one short hour ago. But,
thinking I could best do honor to my guests by sacrificing what was most
dear to me, I slew my gallant falcon to provide you with a fitting
repast."
Slowly the lady turned aside her head, grieved to think that this noble
knight had slain his cherished falcon for her sake, and yet glad of this
proof of his devotion. But her mind was now filled with alarm, for she
must return empty-handed to her sick child; so, taking a hasty farewell
of their host, the ladies sadly made their way homewards.
The mother's fears were only too well founded. Three days later Ser
Federigo heard the tolling of the passing-bell from the chapel on the
hill, and, as he breathed a prayer, "Alas! her child is dead," he
murmured.
But happier times were in store for the bereaved lady and her faithful
lover. Touched by his devotion Monna Giovanna plighted her troth with
Ser Federigo, and by Christmas time the little farm was deserted, and a
wedding-feast was held in the grand villa on the hill. Once more Monna
Giovanna sat upon the rustic chair which had been brought from the
cottage, but something had been added. On the chair-back was perched a
wooden image of the gallant falcon, and round the cage Ser Federigo had
caused this inscription to be carved: "All things come round to him who
will but wait."
* * * * *
THE TOMMY TIPTOP SERIES
By RAYMOND STONE
A new series for outdoor boys. Every lad who likes Baseball, Football
and other outdoor sports is going to be a friend of Tommy Tiptop--that
is, if he reads these stories, and he would if he knew what was in store
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Never was there a boy like Tommy Tiptop for doing things. Tommy could
not be still a minute, and although only ten years of age he organized a
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things too numerous to mention.
TOMMY TIPTOP and HIS BASEBALL NINE
Or, The Boys of Riverdale and Their Good Times
TOMMY TIPTOP and HIS FOOTBALL ELEVEN
Or, A Great Victory and How It Was Won
TOMMY TIPTOP and HIS WINTER SPORTS
Or, Jolly Times on the Ice and in Camp
Quarto size, 128 pages, 8 full-page illustrations, beautiful colored
picture on the cover. _Price 40 cents per copy._
_For sale at all book stores or sent postpaid upon receipt of price by
the publishers._