having almost ceased, we put on our rubber boots and went out to look
after the other horses. Old Browny we found in the lee of the sod house,
not exactly asleep, but evidently about to take a nap. The pony had
pulled up her picket-pin and retreated to a little hollow a hundred
yards away. We caught her and brought her back. By the light of the
lantern we found that the great stroke of lightning had struck the curb
of the well, shattering it, and making a hole in the ground beside it.
The storm had gone muttering off to the north, and the stars were again
shining overhead.
"What a stroke of lightning that must have been to do that!" said Ollie,
as he looked at the curb with some awe.
[Illustration: "THAT'S WHERE OLD BLACKY KICKED AT THE LIGHTNING AND
MISSED IT."]
"It wasn't the lightning that did that," returned his truthful Uncle
Jack. "That's where Old Blacky kicked at the lightning and missed it."
Then we returned to the wagon and went to bed. The next morning at ten
o'clock we drove into Yankton. We found the ferry-boat disabled, and
that we would have to go forty miles up the river to Running Water
before we could cross. We drove a mile out of town, and went into camp
on a high bank overlooking the milky, eddying current of the Missouri.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
A VIRGINIA CAVALIER.
BY MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL.
CHAPTER XI.
One night, some days after this, George was awakened in the middle of
the night by hearing persons stirring in the house. He rose, and
slipping on his clothes, softly opened his door. Laurence Washington,
fully dressed, was standing in the hall.
"What is the matter, brother?" asked George.
"The child Mildred is ill," answered Laurence, in much agitation. "It
seems to be written that no child of mine shall live. Dr. Craik has been
sent for, but he is so long in coming that I am afraid she will die
before he reaches here."
"I will fetch him, brother," said George, in a resolute manner. "I will
go for Dr. Craik, and if I cannot get him I will go to Alexandria for
another doctor."
He ran down stairs and to the stable, and in five minutes he had saddled
the best horse in the stable and was off for Dr. Craik's, five miles
away. As he galloped on through the darkness, plunging through the snow,
and taking all the short-cuts he could find, his heart stood still for
fear the little girl might die. He loved her dearly--all her baby ways
and childish fondness for himself coming back to him with the sharpest
pain--and his brother and sister, whose hopes were bound up in her.
George thought, if the child's life could be spared, he would give more
than he could tell.
He reached Dr. Craik's after a hard ride. The barking of the dogs, as he
rode into the yard, wakened the doctor, and he came to the door with a
candle in his hand, and in his dressing-gown. In a few words George told
his business, and begged the doctor to start at once for Mount Vernon.
No message had been received, and at that very time the negro messenger,
who had mistaken the road, was at least five miles off, going in the
opposite direction.
"How am I to get to Mount Vernon?" asked the doctor. "As you know, I
keep only two horses. One I lent to a neighbor yesterday, and to-night,
when I got home from my round, my other horse was dead lame."
"Ride this horse back!" cried George. "I can walk easily enough; but
there must be a doctor at Mount Vernon to-night. If you could have seen
my brother's face--I did not see my poor sister, but--"
"Very well," answered the doctor, coolly. "I never delay a moment when
it is possible to get to a patient; and if you will trudge the five
miles home I will be at Mount Vernon as soon as this horse can take me
there."
Dr. Craik went into the house to get his saddle-bags, and in a few
minutes he appeared, fully prepared, and mounting the horse, started for
Mount Vernon at a sharp canter.
George set out on his long and disagreeable tramp. He was a good walker,
but the snow troubled him, and it was nearly daylight before he found
himself in sight of the house. Lights were moving about, and, with a
sinking heart, George felt a presentiment that his little playmate was
hovering between life and death. When he entered the hall he found a
fire burning, and William Fairfax standing by it. No one had slept at
Mount Vernon that night. George was weary, and wet up to his knees, but
his first thought was for little Mildred.
"She is still very ill, I believe," said William. "Dr. Craik came, and
Cousin Anne met him at the door, and she burst into tears. The doctor
said you were walking back, and Cousin Anne said, 'I will always love
George the better for this night.'"
George went softly up the stairs and listened at the nursery door. He
tapped, and Betty opened the door a little. He could see the child's
crib drawn up to the fire, the doctor hanging over it, while the poor
father and mother clung together a little way off.
"She is no worse," whispered Betty.
With this sorry comfort George went to his room and changed his clothes.
As he came down stairs he saw his brother and sister go down before him
for a little respite after their long watch; but on reaching the hall no
one was there but William Fairfax, standing in the same place before
the hearth. George went up and began to warm his chilled limbs. Then
William made the most indiscreet speech of his life--one of those things
which, uninspired by malice, and the mere outspoken word of a heedless
person, are yet capable of doing infinite harm and causing extreme pain.
"George," said he, "you know if Mildred dies you will get Mount Vernon
and all your brother's fortune."
George literally glared at William. His temper, naturally violent,
blazed within him, and his nerves, through fatigue and anxiety and his
long walk, not being under his usual control, he felt capable of
throttling William where he stood.
"Do you mean to say--do you think that I want my brother's child to
die?--that I--"
George spoke in a voice of concentrated rage that frightened William,
who could only stammer, "I thought--perhaps--I--I--"
The next word was lost, for George, hitting out from the shoulder,
struck William full in the chest, who fell over as if he had been shot.
The blow brought back George's reason. He stood amazed and ashamed at
his own violence and folly. William rose without a word, and looked him
squarely in the eye; he was conscious that his words, though foolish,
did not deserve a blow. He was no match physically for George, but he
was not in the least afraid of him. Some one else, however, besides the
two boys had witnessed the scene. Laurence Washington, quietly opening
wide a door that had been ajar, walked into the hall, followed by his
wife, and said, calmly:
"George, did I not see you strike a most unmanly blow just now--a blow
upon a boy smaller than yourself, a guest in this house, and at a time
when such things are particularly shocking?"
George, his face as pale as death, and unable to raise his eyes from the
floor, replied, in a low voice, "Yes, brother, and I think I was crazy
for a moment. I ask William's pardon, and yours, and my sister's--"
Laurence continued to look at him with stern and, as George felt, just
displeasure; but Mrs. Washington came forward, and, laying her hand on
his shoulder, said, sweetly:
"You were very wrong, George; but I heard it all, and I do not believe
that anything could make you wish our child to die. Your giving up your
horse to the doctor shows how much you love her, and I, for one, forgive
you for what you have done."
"Thank you, sister," answered George; but he could not raise his eyes.
He had never in all his life felt so ashamed of himself. In a minute or
two he recovered himself, and held out his hand to William.
"I was wrong too, George," said William; "I ought not to have said what
I did, and I am willing to be friends again."
The two boys shook hands, and without one word each knew that he had a
friend forever in the other one. And presently Dr. Craik came down
stairs, saying cheerfully to Mrs. Washington,
"Madam, your little one is asleep, and I think the worst is past."
For some days the child continued ill, and George's anxiety about her,
his wish to do something for her in spite of his boyish incapacity to do
so, showed how fond he was of her. She began to mend, however, and
George was delighted to find that she was never better satisfied than
when carried about in his strong young arms. William Fairfax, who was
far from being a foolish fellow, in spite of his silly speech, grew to
be heartily ashamed of the suspicion that George would be glad to profit
by the little girl's death when he saw how patiently George would amuse
her hour after hour, and how willingly he would give up his beloved
hunting and shooting to stay with her.
In the early part of January the time came when George and Betty must
return to Ferry Farm. George went the more cheerfully, as he imagined it
would be his last visit to his mother before joining his ship. Laurence
was also of this opinion, and George's warrant as midshipman had been
duly received. He had written to Madam Washington of Admiral Vernon's
offer, but he had received no letter from her in reply. This, however,
he supposed was due to Madam Washington's expectation of soon seeing
George, and he thought her consent absolutely certain.
On a mild January morning George and Betty left Mount Vernon for home in
a two-wheeled chaise, which Laurence Washington sent as a present to his
step-mother. In the box under the seat were packed Betty's white
sarcenet silk and George's clothes, including three smart uniforms. The
possession of these made George feel several years older than William
Fairfax, who started for school the same day. The rapier which Lord
Fairfax had given him, and his midshipman's dirk, which he considered
his most valuable belongings, were rather conspicuously displayed
against the side of the chaise; for George was but a boy, after all, and
delighted in these evidences of his approaching manhood. His precious
commission was in his breast pocket. Billy was to travel on the
trunk-rack behind the chaise, and was quite content to dangle his legs
from Mount Vernon to Ferry Farm, while Rattler trotted along beside
them. Usually it was a good day's journey, but in winter, when the roads
were bad, it was necessary to stop over a night on the way. It had been
determined to make this stop at the home of Colonel Fielding Lewis, an
old friend of both Madam Washington and Laurence Washington.
All of the Mount Vernon family, white and black, were assembled on the
porch, directly after breakfast, to say good-by to the young travellers.
William Fairfax, on horseback, was to start in another direction. Little
Mildred, in her black mammy's arms, was kept in the hall, away from the
raw winter air. Betty kissed her a dozen times, and cried a little; but
when George took her in his arms, and, after holding her silently to his
breast, handed her back to her mammy, the little girl clung to him and
cried so piteously, that George had to unlock her baby arms from around
his neck and run away.
On the porch his brother and sister waited for him, and Laurence said:
"I desire you, George, to deliver the chaise to your mother, from me,
with my respectful compliments, and to hope that she will soon make use
of it to visit us at Mount Vernon. For yourself, let me hear from you by
the first hand. The _Bellona_ will be in the Chesapeake within a month,
and probably up this river, and you are now prepared to join at a
moment's notice."
George's heart was too full for many words, but his flushed and beaming
face showed how pleased he was at the prospect. Laurence, however, could
read George's boyish heart very well, and smiled at the boy's delight.
Both Betty and himself kissed and thanked their sister for her kindness,
and, after they had said good-by to William, and shook hands with all
the house-servants, the chaise rattled off.
Betty had by nature one of the sunniest tempers in the world, and,
instead of going back glumly and unwillingly to her modest home after
the gayeties and splendors of Mount Vernon, congratulated herself on
having had so merry a time, and was full of gratitude to her mother for
allowing her to come. And then she was alone with George, and had a
chance to ask him dozens of things that she had not thought of in the
bustle at Mount Vernon; so the two drove along merrily. Betty chattering
a good deal, and George talking much more than he usually did.
They reached Barn Elms before sunset, and met with a cordial welcome
from Colonel Lewis and the large family of children and guests that
could always be found in the Virginia country-houses of those days. At
supper a long table was filled, mostly with merry young people. Among
them was young Fielding Lewis, a handsome fellow a little older than
George, and there was also Miss Martha Dandridge, the handsome young
lady with whom George had danced Sir Roger de Coverley on Christmas
night at Mount Vernon. In the evening the drawing-room floor was
cleared, and everybody danced, Colonel Lewis himself, a portly gentleman
of sixty, leading off the rigadoon with Betty, which George again danced
with Martha Dandridge. They had so merry a time that they were sorry to
leave next morning. Colonel Lewis urged them to stay, but George felt
they must return home, more particularly as it was the first time that
he and Betty had been trusted to make a journey alone.
All that day they travelled, and about sunset, when within five miles of
home, a tire came off one of the wheels of the new chaise, and they had
to stop at a blacksmith's shop on the road-side to have it mended.
Billy, however, was sent ahead to tell their mother that they were
coming, and George was in hopes that Billy's sins would be overlooked,
considering the news he brought, and the delightful excitement of the
meeting.
The blacksmith was slow, and the wheel was in a bad condition, so it was
nearly eight o'clock of a January night before they were in the gate at
Ferry Farm. It was wide open, the house was lighted up, and in the
doorway stood Madam Washington and the three little boys. Every negro,
big and little, on the place was assembled, and shouts of "Howdy, Marse
George! Howdy, Miss Betty!" resounded. The dogs barked with pleasure at
recognizing George and Betty, and the commotion was great.
As soon as they reached the door Betty jumped out, before the chaise
came to a standstill, and rushed into her mother's arms. She was quickly
followed by George, who, much taller than his mother, folded her in a
close embrace, and then the boys were hugged and kissed. Madam
Washington led him into the house, and looked him all over with pride
and delight, he was so grown, so manly; his very walk had acquired a new
grace, such as comes from association with graceful and polished
society. She was brimming with pride, but she only allowed herself to
say,
"How much you have grown, my son!"
"And the chaise is yours, mother," struck in Betty. "Brother Laurence
sent it to you--all lined inside with green damask, and a stuffed seat,
and room for a trunk behind, and a box under the seat."
George rather resented this on Betty's part, as he thought he had the
first right to make so important an announcement as the gift of a
chaise, and said, with a severe look at Betty:
"My brother sent it you, mother, with his respectful compliments, and
hopes that the first use you will make of it will be to visit him and my
sister at Mount Vernon."
Betty, however, was in no mood to be set back by a trifling snub like
that, so she at once plunged into a description of the gayeties at Mount
Vernon. This was interrupted by supper, which had been kept for them,
and then it was nine o'clock, and Betty was nearly falling asleep, and
George, too, was tired, and it was the hour for family prayers. For the
first time in months George read prayers at his mother's request, and
she added a special thanksgiving for the return of her two children in
health and happiness, and then it was bedtime. Madam Washington had not
once mentioned his midshipman's warrant to George. This did not occur to
him until he was in bed, and then, with the light heart of youth, he
dismissed it as a mere accident. No doubt she was as proud as he,
although the parting would be hard on both, but it must come in some
form or other, and no matter how long or how far, they could never love
each other any less--and George fell asleep to dream that he was
carrying the _Bellona_ into action in the most gallant style possible.
Next morning he was up and on horseback early, riding over the place,
and thinking with half regret and half joy that he would soon be far
away from the simple plantation life. At breakfast Betty talked so
incessantly and the little boys were so full of questions that Madam
Washington had no opportunity for serious talk, but as soon as it was
over she said,
"Will you come to my room, George?"
"In a minute, mother," answered George, rising and darting up stairs.
He would show himself to her in his uniform. He had the natural pride in
it that might have been expected, and, as he slipped quickly into it,
and put the dashing cap on his fair hair, and stuck his dirk into his
belt, he could not help a thrill of boyish vanity. He went straight to
his mother's room, where she stood awaiting him.
The first glance at her face struck a chill to his heart. There was a
look of pale and quiet determination upon it that was far from
encouraging. Nevertheless, George spoke up promptly.
"My warrant, mother, is upstairs, sent me, as my brother wrote you, by
Admiral Vernon. And my brother, out of his kindness, had all my outfit
made for me in Alexandria. I am to join the _Bellona_ frigate within the
month."
"Will you read this letter, my son?" was Madam Washington's answer,
handing him a letter.
George took it from her. He recognized the handwriting of his uncle,
Joseph Ball, in England. It ran, after the beginning: "'I understand you
are advised and have some thoughts of putting your son George to sea.'"
George stopped in surprise, and looked at his mother.
"I suppose," she said, quietly, "that he has heard that your brother
Laurence mentioned to me months ago that you wished to join the King's
land or sea service, but my brother's words are singularly apt now."
George continued to read.
"'I think he had better be put apprentice to a tinker, for a common
sailor before the mast has by no means the common liberty of the
subject, for they will press him from ship to ship, where he has fifty
shillings a month, and make him take twenty-three, and cut and slash and
use him like a dog.'"
George read this with amazement.
"My uncle evidently does not understand that I never had any intention
of going to sea as a common sailor," he said, his face flushing, "and I
am astonished that he should think such a thing."
"Read on," said his mother, quietly.
"'And as to any considerable preferment in the navy, it is not to be
expected, as there are so many gaping for it here who have interest, and
he has none.'"
George folded the letter, and handed it back to his mother respectfully.
"Forgive me, mother," said he, "but I think my uncle Joseph a very
ignorant man, and especially ignorant of my prospects in life!"
"George!" cried his mother, reproachfully.
George remained silent. He saw coming an impending conflict, the first
of their lives, between his mother and himself.
"My brother," said Madam Washington, after a pause, "is a man of the
world. He knows much more than I, a woman who has seen but little of it,
and much more than a youth like you, George."
"He does not know better than my brother, who has been the best and
kindest of brothers, who thought he was doing me the greatest service in
getting me this warrant, and who, at his own expense, prepared me for
it."
Both mother and son spoke calmly, and even quietly, but two red spots
burned in Madam Washington's face, while George felt himself growing
whiter every moment.
"Your brother, doubtless, meant kindly towards you, and for that I shall
be ever grateful; but I never gave my consent--I shall never give it,"
she said.
"I am sorry to hear you say that, mother," answered George,
presently--"more sorry than I know how to say. For, although you are my
dear and honored mother, you cannot choose my life for me, provided the
life I choose is respectable, and I live honestly and like a gentleman,
as I always shall, I hope."
The mother and son faced each other, pale and determined. It struck home
to Madam Washington that she could not now clip her eaglet's wings. She
asked, in a low voice,
"Do you intend to disobey me, my son?"
"Don't force me to do it, mother!" cried George, losing his calmness,
and becoming deeply agitated, "I think my honor is engaged to my brother
and Admiral Vernon, and I feel in my heart that I have a right to choose
my own future course. I promise you that I will never discredit you; but
I cannot--I cannot obey you in this."
"You do refuse, then, my son?" said Madam Washington. She spoke in a low
voice, and her beautiful eyes looked straight into George's as if
challenging him to resist her influence; but George, although his own
eyes filled with tears, yet answered her gently,
"Mother, I must."
Madam Washington said no more, but turned away from him. The boy's heart
and mind were in a whirl. Some involuntary power seemed compelling him
to act as he did, without any volition on his part. Suddenly his mother
turned, with tears streaming down her face, and, coming swiftly towards
him, clasped him in her arms.
[Illustration: "MY SON, MY BEST-LOVED CHILD."]
"My son, my best-loved child!" she cried, weeping. "Do not break my
heart by leaving me. I did not know until this moment how much I loved
you. It is hard for a parent to plead with a child, but I beg, I implore
you, if you have any regard for your mother's peace of mind, to give up
the sea." And with sobs and tears, such as George had never before seen
her shed, she clung to him, and covered his face and hair and even his
hands with kisses.
The boy stood motionless, stunned by an outbreak of emotion so unlike
anything he had ever seen in his mother before. Calm, reticent, and
undemonstrative, she had showed a Spartan firmness in her treatment of
her children until this moment. In a flash like lightning George saw
that it was not that foolish letter which had influenced her, but there
was a fierceness of mother-love, all unsuspected in that deep and quiet
nature, for him, and for him alone. This trembling, sobbing woman,
calling him all fond names, and saying to him, "George, I would go upon
my knees if that would move you," his mother! And the appeal overpowered
him as much by its novelty as its power. Like her he began to tremble,
and when she saw this she held him closer to her, and cried, "Will you
abandon me, or will you abandon your own will this once?"
There was a short pause, and then George spoke, in a voice he scarcely
knew, it was so strange,
"Mother, I will give up my commission."
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
THE POLO PONY.
BY J. CONOVER.
The polo pony is becoming such an important and conspicuous feature in
modern life that a short article upon his nature, training, and habits
may be interesting to those who either hope to make his acquaintance on
his native range, or to import him for use in riding or driving, or in
playing that most exciting of all games.
The bicycle is said to be driving horseflesh out of the market, that
good horses, even thoroughbreds, are being _canned_ by the thousand, and
sent to all parts of the world. This may be a necessary and practical
use to which to put that noble animal, the friend and companion of man
from all ages; but one cannot help being thankful that the pony has so
far escaped this fate, and that the demand for these singularly
intelligent, plucky little beasts is growing rather than diminishing.
[Illustration: A COW PONY.]