[Illustration:]
YOUTH
VOLUME 1 NUMBER 6
1902
AUGUST
_An_ ILLUSTRATED MONTHLY JOURNAL _for_ BOYS & GIRLS
The Penn Publishing Company Philadelphia
CONTENTS FOR AUGUST
FRONTISPIECE (Polly’s Letter) Ida Waugh PAGE
A BATTLE WITH A WINDMILL Frank H. Coleburn 197
WITH WASHINGTON AT VALLEY FORGE (Serial) W. Bert Foster 201
Illustrated by F. A. Carter
MARY LANE’S HIGHER EDUCATION Marguerite Stables 210
Illustrated by Ida Waugh
LITTLE POLLY PRENTISS (Serial) Elizabeth Lincoln Gould 214
A NOVEL WEAPON 220
HOW PLANTS LIVE Julia McNair Wright 221
Illustrated by Nina G. Barlow
A DAUGHTER OF THE FOREST (Serial) Evelyn Raymond 223
WOOD-FOLK TALK J. Allison Atwood 230
THE OLDEST COLLEGES 231
WITH THE EDITOR 232
EVENT AND COMMENT 233
OUT OF DOORS 234
THE OLD TRUNK (Puzzles) 235
IN-DOORS (Parlor Magic, Paper VI) Ellis Stanyon 236
WITH THE PUBLISHER 237
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Copyright 1902 by The Penn Publishing Company
[Illustration: POLLY’S LETTER (Page 218)]
YOUTH
VOL. I AUGUST 1902 No. 6
A BATTLE WITH A WINDMILL
By Frank H. Coleburn
Shortly after I left college, my father died, leaving me, his only son,
so well-nigh penniless that I was very glad, indeed, to accept the
position which Mr. Eller, an old friend of the family, offered me in
his vineyard.
My benefactor’s home was in southern California, a region where the
people’s livelihood depends upon grapes and wine-making.
One day, not long after my arrival, the big windmill, which supplied
the whole winery with water, got out of order and refused to pump.
Mr. Eller examined it carefully, but was unable to learn where the
difficulty lay. He came down from the tank much disturbed, for water
was a great necessity in that dry country.
“Harry,” he said to me, “you’re something of a mechanic, aren’t you?”
“I did pay a little attention to the study at one time,” I answered,
modestly.
“Well, I wish you would try what you can do in the way of fixing that
windmill.”
I promised that I would, and Mr. Eller left me.
After supper that night I secured a hammer and a chisel and started
for the windmill. I had need to make haste if I expected to accomplish
anything that evening, for the days were shortening and already
darkness was falling.
The windmill stood some two or three hundred yards from the house
directly behind the wine cellar. It was about seventy-five feet
high--from the base to the top of the wheel--but in that deceptive
twilight it looked like some giant finger reaching to the sky.
I stuck my tools in my coat pocket and began to climb the long ladder
which stretched to the top of the tank. From thence it would be easy to
reach and manipulate the wheel.
I made the ascent in safety, and after a little stood on top of the
rough boards with which the tank was covered. For some time I stood,
admiring the splendid view and wondering at the extent of country that
came under my gaze, until warned by the ever-increasing gloom that I
was out on business, not pleasure.
I forget just what was the matter with the wheel. Some simple
disarrangement of the machinery which took me but little time to
ascertain and less to remedy. Feeling certain that the mill would now
perform its duty as well as before, I turned to retrace my way. In
doing so I stepped upon a half-concealed trap-door, intended to be used
as a means of ingress into the tank in case of repairs being needed.
This door was old and rotten; its hinges were broken and it rested very
insecurely upon its foundation. Consequently, it was unable to retain
my weight and tilted suddenly. I fell with a prodigious splash into the
water beneath.
There were about two feet of water in the tank. I gurgled and sputtered
and struggled as though there were twenty. However, I quickly regained
my feet, dripping and shivering, and very much confused from my sudden
immersion, but uninjured. I was a prisoner, however.
The tank was about ten feet in height. The sides were perfectly smooth
and afforded no foothold. There was no ladder or other means by which I
could clamber out. I vowed that if ever I built a tank I would provide
in some way for such an emergency as the present.
About three and a half feet above my head was the supply pipe. It
extended a little ways into the tank. If I could only manage to reach
that I might possibly pull myself up and escape. I knew perfectly well
I could not reach it, but hope, like love, is blind to all obstacles,
and I jumped desperately for it. I failed, of course. I didn’t come
within a foot of it. However, after I had continued my effort for some
time I began to feel a comfortable warmth creep over that portion of my
body which was above water. Therefore, in lieu of anything better to
do, I kept on jumping.
By and by my teeth stopped chattering--somewhat--and I stopped leaping
altogether.
“Here’s a pretty mess,” I said to myself. “I wonder how long I’m to
be penned up in this place. Goodness knows my legs are tired enough
already without having to stand on them all night; and I can’t very
well sit down in two feet of water.”
It suddenly occurred to me that I possessed a voice of tolerable
strength and clearness, and that I might make good use of it upon the
present occasion. Accordingly, I gave utterance to a few of the most
startling shouts that probably ever assailed the ears of a mortal. But
they were unsuccessful so far as escape was concerned.
After I had shouted myself hoarse, I waited with patience for the
arrival of a relief party. At the end of five minutes it hadn’t come;
at the end of half an hour I didn’t believe it would come.
“Surely,” I thought, “they must have heard those war-whoops at the
house. At any rate it’s about time Eller started out to hunt me up. He
certainly don’t think it’s going to take me forever to fix his plaguey
windmill.”
I was becoming worried. The prospect of having to remain cooped up in
my present narrow quarters all night was by no means pleasant. The
expectation of having to stand for the next ten hours in two feet of
cold water was not pleasing to a person of my tastes. It might have
done for one of those old-time monks, who were always imposing penances
upon themselves for sins committed, but it was not suited to my
constitution. Most cheerfully would I have resigned my position to any
one expressing a wish for it.
It was now pitch-dark in the tank. The only light I obtained was the
feeble glow of the stars shining through the trap-door. I stood under
this, gazing up wistfully into the heaven so high above me. After a
time my eyes grew heavy, my head fell forward onto my breast, and,
strange as it may appear, I dropped off into a gentle doze. I was
awakened by a slight breeze fanning my cheek.
I opened my eyes dreamily. Overhead I could hear a deep, rumbling,
grating sound; something going up and down, up and down, as it were a
monstrous churn in motion.
“What can that be?” was my ejaculation. I was not left long in
suspense. A perfect deluge of the coldest kind of water came pouring
down over me, drenching me to the skin; giving me, in fact, a regular
shower-bath.
The stream continued without abatement, and I soon recovered
sufficiently from my momentary astonishment and confusion to move out
of the way. No one should say that I did not know enough to come in
when it rained.
As yet I was hardly awake. I stood to one side, getting splashed, and
stupidly staring at the supply pipe, which was belching forth water.
Then the solution of the problem flashed through my brain. The windmill
was pumping.
I was too startled at first to realize my peril. But gradually it
dawned upon me that the water was rising fast, and that if I did not
escape or relief did not come, in the course of a few hours I would be
drowned like a rat in a trap.
I thrust my hand into my trousers pocket and pulled out my knife.
The large blade was open in a second, and I was at work with all my
might trying to dig a hole through the side of the tank. I quickly
saw that my task was hopeless. The wood was soft, but the planks were
very thick, and it would be hours before I could produce the smallest
opening.
I must have something to occupy my attention, else I would go wild. So
I dug on till I broke my blade off short.
I dropped the useless knife into the water. It sunk with a dull splash.
I stood feeling the water slowly creep its way upwards. I calculated
that I had about an hour and a half of life left to me.
The water reached my waist. I threw myself against the walls of my
prison, shouting for help. But none came. The sound of my voice echoed
again and again into my own ears--it reached no others. I thought the
reverberations would never cease. It seemed to me as though the whole
world must have heard that despairing cry.
I listened--every nerve strained to catch some echoing shout. But the
only sound that broke the stillness was the steady, incessant splash,
splash, splash of falling water; and the heavy noise of that great pump
working overhead. I called and listened again. Still no answer.
My past life came up before me like a dream. I could see my mother--my
good mother--as plainly with my mind’s eye, as I had ever seen her with
the flush of life upon her cheek. I remembered the long confidential
talks we had together and the many times she told me to be good and
true and noble, and that was all she would ever ask. Then I recalled
many of the things I had said to her, and, strange to tell, there
dwelt in my recollection not the kisses I had given nor the love I had
bestowed upon her: I could call back only my unkind, cruel remarks, and
the heartbreaks I had caused her. I thought what a wretch I had been,
and did not believe that we could ever meet in heaven.
The water was up to my shoulders now, but I hardly noticed it.
My thoughts turned upon my father--so recently deceased. I remembered
his kind face, his noble brow, those premature wrinkles, and that
iron-gray hair. His failure, which had been the cause of his death, was
more the result of a lack of business instinct than anything else. His
tastes--like mine--had been wholly literary.
The water was up to my neck. Ugh! how icy-cold it was--right from the
bowels of the earth. It seemed to freeze my blood. Ah, how stealthily
it crept up, little by little, inch by inch. It knew it had a victim
in its grasp, and had no fear of being cheated of its prey. In another
moment it would be at my mouth; another instant and it would be all
that I could do to breathe on tiptoe; another short minute and--I
turned and furiously beat again upon my prison wall with both my
fists. What madness! my eyes were almost starting from their sockets;
I imagined that they had the strange, hunted look of a poor rat when
cornered. I could understand the feelings of the little creature now.
My hands fell nerveless to my side. They struck upon something hard in
either pocket of my coat. I thrust them in--almost unconsciously, and
drew forth--the hammer and the chisel.
I uttered a cry of delight, and in another moment I was chiseling away
for dear life under water. In no time I had hacked out two rude steps.
I formed another just above the surface of the water, another still
higher, and another as high as I could reach.
The water was to my nose. I dropped my tools and by the aid of nail and
hand and foot managed to draw myself up step by step, until I could
grasp the edge of the trap-door. Thus much accomplished, it was an
easy matter to lift myself out. I fell, panting and trembling in every
nerve, upon the rough board covering of the tank.
* * * * *
Mr. Eller had not heard my shouts for the simple reason that he had
been called by business into Fresno. The men slept in a house too far
distant from the windmill for my cries to reach. Thus it was that I had
been allowed nearly to yell my voice away without attracting attention.
I had had a pretty good scare it must be confessed; so good, indeed,
that I have forever ceased to emulate Don Quixote in any more
adventures with a windmill.
[Illustration: THE MORNING’S TRIAL]
WITH WASHINGTON AT VALLEY FORGE
By W. Bert Foster
CHAPTER XIV
The Occupation of Philadelphia
SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS.
The story opens in the year 1777, during one of the most critical
periods of the Revolution. Hadley Morris, our hero, is in the employ
of Jonas Benson, the host of the Three Oaks, a well-known inn on the
road between Philadelphia and New York. Like most of his neighbors,
Hadley is an ardent sympathizer with the American cause. When,
therefore, he is intrusted with a message to be forwarded to the
American headquarters, the boy gives up, for the time, his duties at
the Three Oaks and sets out for the army. Here he remains until after
the fateful Battle of Brandywine. On the return journey he discovers
a party of Tories who have concealed themselves in a woods in the
neighborhood of his home. By approaching cautiously to the group
around the fire, Hadley overhears their plan to attack his uncle for
the sake of the gold which he is supposed to have concealed in his
house. With the assistance of Colonel Knowles, who, although a British
officer, seems to have taken a liking to Hadley, our hero successfully
thwarts the Tory raid. No sooner is the uncle rescued, however, than
he ungratefully shuts the door upon his nephew. Thereupon Hadley
immediately returns to the American army and joins the forces under
that dashing officer, “Mad Anthony” Wayne. In the disastrous night
engagement at Paoli our hero is left upon the battlefield wounded.
The sun shining warmly upon his face through the rapidly-drying bushes
which during the night had partly sheltered him, was Hadley’s first
conscious feeling. Then he felt the dull pain in his leg where the
spent ball had become imbedded, and he rolled over with a groan. The
wood lay as peaceful and quiet under the rising sun as though such a
thing as war did not exist. Here and there a branch had been splintered
by a musket ball, or a bush had been trampled by the retreating
Americans. But the rain had washed away all the brown spots from
the grass and twigs, and the birds twittered gayly in the treetops,
forgetting the disturbing conflict of the night.
The boy found, when he tried to rise, that his whole leg was numb and
he could only drag it as he hobbled through the wood. To cover the
few rods which lay between the place where he had slept and the road,
occupied some minutes. The wound had bled freely, and now the blood was
caked over it, and every movement of the limb caused much pain.
Where had his companions gone? When the company rolls were called that
morning there would be no inquiry for him, for he was not a regularly
recruited man. He had been but a hanger-on of the brigade which was so
disastrously attacked during the night, and they would all forget him.
Captain Prentice was far away, and Hadley had known nobody else well
among Wayne’s troops. The fact of his loneliness, together with his
wound and his hunger, fairly brought the tears to his eyes, great boy
that he was. But many a soldier who has fought all day with his face
to the enemy has wept childish tears when left at night, wounded and
alone, on the battlefield.
However, one could not really despair on such a bright morning as this,
and Hadley soon plucked up courage. He got out his pocket knife, found
a sapling with a crotched top, cut it off the proper length, and used
it for a crutch. With this, and dragging his useless musket behind him,
he hobbled up the road in a direction which he knew must bring him to
the American lines, and eventually to Philadelphia. But such traveling
was slow and toilsome work, and he was trembling all the time for fear
he would fall in with the British.
He had not been many minutes on the way, however, when a man stepped
out of the brush beside the road and barred his way. Hadley was
frightened at first; then he recognized the man and shouted with
delight.
“Lafe Holdness! How ever did you come here?”
“Jefers-pelters!” exclaimed the Yankee scout. “I reckon I might better
ask yeou that question, Had. An’ wounded, too! Was yeou with that
brigade last night that got bamfoozled?”
“The British attacked us unexpectedly. Oh, Lafe! they charged right
through our lines and bayonetted the men awful.”
“I reckon. It’s war, boy--you ain’t playin’.” Meanwhile the man had
assisted Hadley to a seat on the bank and with his own knife calmly
ripped up the leg of Hadley’s trousers. “Why, boy, you’ve got a ball in
there--as sure as ye live!”
“It hurts pretty bad, Lafe,” Hadley admitted, wincing when the scout
touched the leg which was now inflamed about the wound.
There was a rill nearby, and to this the scout hurried and brought
water back in his cap. With the boy’s handkerchief he washed the dry
blood away and then, by skilful pressure of his fingers, found the
exact location of the imbedded bullet. “Oh, this ain’t so bad,” he
said, cheerfully. “We’ll fix it all right in no time. But ye musn’t do
much walking for some days to come. Yeou can ride, though, and I’ve
got a hoss nearby. First of all, I must git the ball aout and wash the
hole. Ye see, Had, the ball lies right under the skin on the back of
the leg--so. D’ye see?”
“I can feel it all right,” groaned Hadley.
“Well, it’s a pity it didn’t go way through. Howsomever, if you’ll keep
a stiff upper lip for a minute, I’ll get the critter aout. ’Twon’t hurt
much ter speak of. Swabbin’ aout the hole, though, ’ll likely make ye
jump.”
He opened the knife again and, before Hadley could object, had made a
quick incision over the ball and the lead pellet dropped out into his
hand. The boy did not have a chance to cry out, it was done so quickly.
“So much for so much,” said Lafe, in a business-like tone. “Nothin’
like sarvin’ yer ’prenticeship ter all sorts of trades. I ain’t no
slouch of a surgeon, I calkerlate. Now, lemme git an alder twig.”
He obtained the twig in question, brought more water, and then
proceeded, after having removed the pith from the heart of the twig,
to blow the cool water into the wound. Hadley cried out at this and
begged him to desist, but Lafe said: “Come, Had, yeou can stand a
little pain now for the sake of being all right by and by, can’t yeou?
It’s better to be sure than sorry. P’r’aps there warn’t no cloth nor
nothin’ got inter that wound, but ye can’t tell. One thing, there
warn’t no artery cut or ye’d bled ter death lyin’ under them bushes all
night. I ’spect many a poor chap did die in yander after the retreat.
Anthony Wayne’ll have ter answer for that. They say he’s goin’ ter be
court-martialed.”
Having cleaned the wound, Holdness bound it up tightly with strips torn
from the boy’s cotton shirt, and then brought up the horse which he had
hidden hard by. He helped the boy into the saddle and walked beside
him until they were through the American picket lines. The wounded
had been sent on to Philadelphia, for there were few conveniences for
field hospitals. “Yeou take that hoss and ride inter Philadelphy,
Had,” said Holdness. “Leave it at the Queen and take yourself to this
house”--he gave the wounded lad a brief note scrawled on a bit of dirty
paper--“and the folks there’ll look out for ye till the laig’s well.
I’ll git another hoss somewhere else that’ll do jest as well. Yeou
can’t go clean back to Jarsey with your laig in that shape.”
It was a hard journey for the wounded youth, and before he crossed the
Schuylkill and followed Chestnut Street down into the heart of the
town, he was well-nigh spent. He fairly fell off the horse in front of
the Indian Queen Tavern, and the hostler had to help him to the address
which Holdness had given him. Here the good man and his wife--Quaker
folk were they, who greatly abhorred the bloodshed of the war, yet were
stanch supporters of the American cause--took the boy in and cared for
him as though he was their own son. For a night and a day he kept to
his bed; but he could not stand it any longer than that. The surgeon
who was called to attend him declared the wound had been treated very
well indeed by the scout, and that it was healing nicely; so what does
Master Hadley do but hobble downstairs to the breakfast table on the
second morning, determined no longer to cause the good Quakeress,
Mistress Pye, the extra trouble of sending his breakfast up to him.
He was anxious to learn the news, too. Affairs were moving swiftly
these days in Philadelphia. The uncertainty of what the next day might
bring forth forced shops to close and almost all business to cease. The
Whigs were leaving by hundreds; even the men who held authoritative
places in the council of the town had departed, fearful of what might
happen when the redcoats marched in. And that Washington could keep
them out for long, after the several reverses the American troops had
sustained, was not to be believed.
A sense of portending calamity hung over the city like an invisible
cloud. A third of the houses were shut and empty. Many of the others
were occupied solely by servants or slaves, the families having flown
to the eastward. Hadley did not get outside the door of the Pye house
that day, for he was watched too closely. But early on the morning of
the 26th the whole street was aroused by the swift dash of a horseman
over the cobbles; and a cry followed the flying messenger:
“The British are coming!”
The people ran out of their houses, never waiting for their breakfasts.
Was the news true? Had the redcoats eluded the thin line of Americans
that so long had stayed their advance upon the town? Soon the truth was
confirmed. Congress had adjourned to Lancaster. Howe had made a feint
of marching on Reading, and when the Americans were thrown forward to
protect that town the British had turned aside and were now within
sight. They had surprised and overpowered a small detachment left
to guard the approach to Philadelphia, and--the city was lost! His
Excellency was then at Skippack Creek with the bulk of his army, and
the city could hope for no help from him.
Hadley, hobbling on a crutch, but too anxious and excited to remain
longer indoors, soon reached Second Street. From Callowhill to Chestnut
it was filled with old men and children. Scarcely a youth of his own
age was to be seen, for the young men had gone into the army. It
was a quiet, but a terribly anxious crowd, and questions which went
unanswered were whispered from man to man. Will the redcoats really
march in to-day? Will the helpless folk left in the city be treated
as a conquered people? Why had Congress, spurred on by hot-heads,
sanctioned this war at all? Many who had been enthusiastic in the cause
were lukewarm now. The occupation of the town might mean the loss of
their homes and the scattering of those whom they loved.
Here and there a Tory strutted, unable to hide his delight at the
turn affairs had taken. Several times little disturbances, occasioned
by the overbearing manners of this gentry arose, but as a whole the
crowds were solemn and gloomy. At eleven o’clock a squadron of dragoons
appeared and galloped along the street, scattering the crowd to right
and left; but it closed in again as soon as they were through, for
far down the thoroughfare sounded the first strains of martial music.
Then something glittered in the sunshine, and the people murmured
and stepped out into the roadway the better to see the head of the
approaching army of their conquerors.
A wave of red--steadily advancing--and tipped with a line of flashing
steel bayonets was finally descried. In perfect unison the famous
grenadiers came into view, their pointed red caps, fronted with
silver, their white leather leggings, and short scarlet coats, trimmed
with blue, making an impressive display. Hadley, who had seen the
nondescript farmer soldiery of the American army, sighed at this
parade. How could General Washington expect to beat such men as these?
And then the boy remembered how he had seen the same farmers standing
off the trained British hosts at Brandywine, and later at the Warren
Tavern, and he took heart. Training and dress, and food, and good looks
were not everything. Every man on the American side was fighting for
his hearth, for his wife, for his children, and for everything he loved
best on earth.
Behind the grenadiers rode a group of officers, the first a stout man,
with gray hair and a pleasant countenance, despite the squint in his
eye. A whisper went through the silent crowd and reached Hadley’s ear:
“’Tis Lord Cornwallis!” Then there was a louder murmur--in some cases
threatening in tone. Behind the officers rode a party of Tories hated
by every patriot in Philadelphia--the two Allens, Tench Coxe, Enoch
Story, Joe Galloway. Never would they have dared return but under the
protection of British muskets.
Then followed the Fourth, Fortieth and Fifty-fifth regiments--all in
scarlet. Then Hadley saw a uniform he knew well--would never forget,
indeed. He saw it when Wayne held the tide of Knyphausen’s ranks back
at Chadd’s Ford. Breeches of yellow leather, leggings of black, dark
blue coats, and tall, pointed hats of brass completed the uniform of
the hireling soldiery which, against their own desires and the desires
of their countrymen, had been sent across the ocean by their prince
to fight for the English king. A faint hiss rose from the crowd of
spectators as the Hessians, with their fierce mustaches and scowling
looks marched by.
Then there were more grenadiers, cavalry, artillery, and wagons
containing provisions and the officers’ tents. The windows rattled to
the rumbling wheels and the women cowered behind the drawn blinds,
peering out upon the ranks that, at the command of a ruler across the
sea who cared nothing for these colonies but what could be made out of
them, had come to shoot down and to enslave their own flesh and blood.
Hadley could not get around very briskly; but he learned where some
of the various regiments were quartered. The artillery was in the
State House yard. Those wounded Continentals, who had lain in the long
banqueting hall on the second floor of the State House, and who could
not get away or be moved by their friends, would now learn what a
British prison pen was like. Hadley shuddered to think how he had so
nearly escaped a like fate, and was fearful still that something might
happen to reveal to the enemy that he, too, had taken up arms against
the king. The Forty-second Highlanders were drawn up in Chestnut Street
below Third; the Fifteenth regiment was on High Street. When ranks were
broken in the afternoon the streets all over town were full of red or
blue-coated figures.
Hadley hobbled back to the shelter of the Pye homestead and learned
from the good Quaker where some of the officers had been quartered.
Cornwallis was just around the corner on Second Street at Neighbor
Reeves’s house; Knyphausen was at Henry Lisle’s, while the younger
officers, including Lord Rawden, were scattered among the better houses
of the town. A young Captain André (later Major André) was quartered in
Dr. Franklin’s old house. The British had really come into the hot-bed
of the “rebels” and had made themselves much at home.