upon the thought of a naval or military career until it had become a
part of his life. He foresaw that the same strange weakness on his
mother's part which kept him from joining the navy might keep him out of
the army. True, if there should be war between the French and English in
the Northwest it would be his duty to defend his country, and no
pleadings could keep him back then; but that was only a contingency.
And, in any event, he could not again ask the help, in getting a
commission, of the only persons who could serve him--his brother
Laurence, and Lord Fairfax--after this unfortunate ending of his first
attempt. And, worst of all, he was not sure that he was right, and he
was very sure his mother was wrong. That of itself was a staggering
blow. He had always fancied his mother perfect, and her weakness, her
blind partiality for him over the rest of her children, at once
shattered his ideal. She was a true and devoted mother, but in a great
emergency she showed a tender unwisdom that seemed foreign to her
character. George did not love her any the less for this, but he
realized that after this he must think and act for himself. She had not
thought of how far he was committed in the matter, or that his brother
Laurence might be justly offended at his course--she only thought of the
anguish of giving him up. It was all hard and inscrutable to the boy,
sitting with rigid face and dry eyes, gazing before him and seeing
nothing. He did not know how long he sat there. He heard Betty's light
step, and lighter tap upon the door, and she called him softly through
the key-hole.
"Go away, dear Betty," answered George; "I can't see anybody just now."
It seemed to him days, not hours, before he heard the bell for dinner.
He gathered himself together and went down stairs. Betty almost cried
out when she saw him, he was so haggard. His mother saw it too, and it
made her heart ache; but in her heart she felt that it was better to
have him as he was than to say good-by to him forever, which she was
firmly persuaded would be the case had he gone in the navy. Madam
Washington, being naturally a woman of great integrity, was not at ease
in her mind. She had not forgotten the light in which she would appear
before Laurence Washington and Lord Fairfax. She read again and again
that letter from Joseph Ball, which George had appalled her by calling
both ignorant and foolish. She had been taught to think brother Joseph a
monument of wisdom, but she was not so sure of it after having acted on
his advice in this great event.
At dinner both George and his mother were perfectly composed and
polite. Neither the children nor the servants knew that anything was the
matter, until Betty betrayed it. But little Betty's heart was so full
for George's disappointment that she could not eat her dinner, and tears
dropped upon her plate. Towards the last of the dinner one of the little
boys suddenly exclaimed,
"Brother, I saw you in your uniform this morning; are you going to wear
it every day?"
At this Betty burst into a loud sob, and getting up from the table,
rushed to George and threw her arms about him. George rose and led the
weeping girl out of the room. Usually such an infraction of discipline
and table manners as George and Betty leaving the table without
permission would have been strictly prohibited. But their mother saw
that these two young souls were wrought up to the keenest distress, and
as she had gained her victory she could afford to be magnanimous.
"Betty," said George, hurriedly, when they got out of the room, "put on
your hood, and let us go into the woods. It makes one feel better, when
one is sad, to go into the woods."
The day was dull and overcast as the boy and girl, hand in hand, tramped
across the fields to where the fringe of cedars formed the advance-guard
of the woodlands. George held Betty's hand very tightly in his. _She_
understood him, at least.
They said but little until they were well in the heart of the woods, and
had sat down upon a fallen tree. Then George, laying his head on Betty's
shoulder, burst into tears, and cried as if his heart would break.
No creature was ever better formed to feel for others than sweet little
Betty. She had never seen George weep like that; but she was not
frightened or disconcerted. She only laid her wet cheek against
George's, and sighed so deeply that he knew that his burden lay as heavy
on her heart as on his. Presently, when he had become more composed,
Betty spoke:
"Brother, hard as it is, I am glad of one thing--nobody can say anything
to you about it, after you have said that you gave way to our mother,
for no boy, or man either, can let anybody in the world find fault with
his mother."
"Yes, Betty," answered George, sadly. "I will not be such a poltroon as
to let any one say my mother has not acted right."
[Illustration: "SHE MEANT TO ACT RIGHT," SAID BETTY.]
"She meant to act right," said Betty; "but--" Betty paused, and the
brother and sister looked into each other's eyes and said no more, but
each understood the other.
"Of course," sighed Betty, "it would have been the hardest thing in the
world to have you go away; but if you wanted to go, dear George, and it
was best for you, _I_ would have given you up; and I would have tried
not to cry when you went away, and I would have thought of you every
single day while you were away, and if you had not come home for ten
years or twenty years, I would have loved you just as much as ever."
George had always loved Betty dearly, but he felt now, at the hour of
his cruelest disappointment, what it was to have that tender sister, to
whom he could reveal his whole heart. Much as he loved his brother
Laurence, deeply as he revered Lord Fairfax, and with all his love and
reverence for his mother, he felt obliged to keep up before them a manly
fortitude; but Betty was young and inexperienced, like himself, and,
because of that, in some ways she was nearer to him than anybody else.
The two sat there until late in the afternoon, and so quiet were they
that a squirrel came boldly out of his hole and hopped past them, and a
robin, with a weak little pretence of a song, in spite of the wintry
weather, swung within reach of them. It was nearly sunset before they
took their way homeward. George, like all boys, was not glib of tongue
in expressing his emotions; but when they got to the edge of the woods
he kissed her, and said:
"Betty, I don't know what I would have done if it hadn't been for you
this miserable day."
The little sister's loyal heart grew almost happy at this.
A hard task remained for George. He had to write to his brother Laurence
and to Lord Fairfax, announcing what he had done. They were not easy
letters to write, but he carefully refrained from any hint of blame upon
his mother.
Madam Washington, having gained her heart's desire, could not now do too
much for George. He was already far advanced beyond Mr. Hobby's school,
and his mother determined to have a tutor for him. Nothing was too good
for him now; his tutor must be a university man, with every
qualification in family and manners as well as learning. But there was
no such person within reach, and communication in those days being slow
and uncertain, there seemed no immediate chance of finding one. George
went his way calmly, but with his disappointment eating into his heart.
He studied surveying, in which he was already proficient, with Mr.
Hobby, but he did nothing else. Even his beloved hunting and shooting
palled upon him. He would spend the day at work, having Mr. Hobby's help
in the afternoon, and at night he would work out at home what he had
done during the day. Mother and son never failed in courtesy and even
affection for each other; indeed, Madam Washington lavished affection
upon him in a manner hitherto unknown to him; but there was a little
shadow between them.
Heretofore George had not escaped being lectured for his youthful
shortcomings, but no fault was ever found with him now. Even Billy's
laziness was excused, and he might be as idle as he pleased; like his
young master, he enjoyed a complete immunity from fault-finding. This
was not a natural or a healthy way for the mother and son to live; and
one day, when George walked in and laid a letter from Lord Fairfax in
his mother's hand, saying, simply, "I think I should like that, mother,"
Madam Washington, with one sharp pang, felt that they must part--at
least for a while.
The letter was brief, and had no mention of the warrant in the navy, by
which George subtly understood that Lord Fairfax knew it was a delicate
subject, and would say nothing about it. The Earl wrote, however, that
he had determined to have his lands across the mountains surveyed during
the coming summer, and offered George for it a sum of money so large
that to the boy's unsophisticated mind it seemed a fortune. But Lord
Fairfax stipulated that George should have a license from the State of
Virginia, as his surveys would no doubt often be called in question, and
there must be a recorded proof of his efficiency.
Madam Washington sighed deeply, yet there was no doubt that he must go.
He would be sixteen within a few days, and he was already as developed
in mind and body as a young man of nineteen. Her plans for his further
education seemed impossible to realize, and it was plain there was but
one thing to do--to let him go. She told him so that night, and the
first gleam of sunshine came into his face that she had seen since the
day after his return home. Betty's comment was like her.
"If you want to go, George, I want you to go; but it will be doleful at
Ferry Farm without you."
George immediately made preparations for his examination in surveying,
and having passed it successfully and got his certificate, he was ready
to start on his journey as soon as the spring should open. He wrote to
his brother Laurence, stating his plan, and saying he would spend a
night at Mount Vernon on his way. Laurence had shown the same
consideration for George's feelings that Lord Fairfax had, and, in reply
to the letter returning the midshipman's warrant, had merely said that
he regretted he had not known of Madam Washington's determination
sooner. One sentence at the end touched George: "Your little niece is
well, but she is but a frail child, and I have a presentiment that Mount
Vernon will never come to any child of mine. For that reason, as you
will some day be master of this place, I would like to have you here as
often and as long as your mother can spare you. My own constitution is
delicate, and nothing is more probable than that you will have Mount
Vernon for your own before you are of age."
Madam Washington made the preparations for George's departure with a
steady cheerfulness that belied her sad heart. She herself proposed that
he should take Billy along. She offered him such a considerable sum of
money that George knew she must be depriving herself of many things,
and refused to take it all. In every way there was a strong though
silent purpose to make up to him for her one moment of weakness. George
felt this, and when, on the morning of his departure, his mother bade
him good-by, with a smile on her pale lips, he felt a softening of the
heart towards her that lasted not only during this separation, but
through all the coming years, with their tremendous events.
Little Betty wept torrents of tears, protesting all the time. "Dear
George, I am glad for you to go--I don't want you to stay--I can't help
crying a little, though."
George held her in his arms with a full heart, and wished that he had
words to tell her how much she was to him; but Betty understood well
enough. When the last farewells were said, and George was out of sight
of his mother's brave smile and Betty's tears, a sudden revulsion of
feeling came to him, as it does to all healthy young natures. He had got
to the very extremity of his despair, and there was a strong reaction.
He was essentially a boy of action, and action was now before him.
Indeed, he was no longer a boy, but a man, with responsibilities upon
him that seldom fall to young people of his years. He had his surveyor's
license in his pocket, and upon the use he made of it might depend not
only issues of property, but of peace and war; because he knew that the
unsettled state of the frontier was the real reason why Lord Fairfax
meant to have the wild lands in his grant surveyed. The day was bright,
it was in the spring-time, and he was well mounted on a good horse.
Billy, riding a stout cart-horse and carrying the saddle-bags, was
behind him, and Rattler was trotting by his side. Things might be worse,
thought George, as he struck into a canter, and wondered that his heart
was so blithe. He would see his brother and sister that night, and
little Mildred, and in a few days more he would be again at Greenway
with the Earl and Lance; and he would have all the books he wanted to
read, and fencing whenever he liked. He wondered how much he had
forgotten of it; he had not fenced since leaving Mount Vernon at
Christmas. But neither had he read or done anything else, it seemed to
George, so blank was the time from the day he came home until then.
Billy hankered after the flesh-pots of Mount Vernon, where things were
conducted on a much grander scale than at the simple Ferry Farm
homestead. George heard him chuckling to himself, and turning in the
saddle, asked,
"What pleases you so, Billy?"
"Tuckey, suh," answered Billy, promptly, "wid sassages roun' dee
necks--an' oshters an' sp'yar-ribs an' chines an' goose, an' all dem
t'ings dee black folks gits in de kitchen at Mount Vernon."
It was a good forty-five miles to Mount Vernon, but George made it by
eight o'clock that night.
His brother and sister were delighted to see him, and little Mildred had
not forgotten him. After a traveller's supper, George told them all his
plans. He passed quickly over the giving up of his midshipman's warrant,
merely saying, "My mother begged me not to leave her for the sea, and I
consented. But," he added, after a pause, "it nearly broke my heart."
He was distressed to see his brother looking so pale and thin, and still
more so at the despondent tone Laurence took about himself. He would
have had George go into the study, and there with him discuss the
present state of the place and its future management, as if he were
certain that one day it would be George's; but this the boy refused.
"No, brother," he said, "I can only inherit Mount Vernon through
misfortune to you and yours; and do you suppose I like to think about
that? Indeed I do not; and I neither think nor care about what you do on
the place, except that it shall be for your own satisfaction."
The next morning George was off, much to the regret of his brother and
sister, and also of Billy, who had promised himself a regular carnival
in the Mount Vernon kitchen.
The road was the same that George had taken nearly five months before,
on his first expedition to Greenway Court. Then it had been at the fall
of the leaf, and now it was at the bursting of the spring. Already the
live-oaks and poplars were showing a faint and silvery green, and in
sheltered sunny spots grass was sprouting. The water-courses were high
from the melting of the snow, and fording them was not always without
difficulty, or even danger. At every mile that George travelled his mind
and heart gained a better balance by quick degrees. He was sorry to be
parted from his mother and Betty, but he was at a time of life when he
must try his own strength, and he was the better for it. He stopped at
the same taverns that he had halted at when with Lord Fairfax. Billy
proved himself to be an excellent hostler as well as valet, and George
did not mean to forget mentioning to his mother, when he should have an
opportunity of sending a letter, how extremely useful Billy was. On the
fourth day, being well up in the mountains, they came to Lord Fairfax's
coach-house, as it was called; but instead of stopping, George pushed on
to Greenway Court, much to Billy's disgust, who had no taste for long
journeys on traveller's fare. On a March night, that, although cool, had
a touch of spring in the air, and under a glorious moon, George rode up
to the door at Greenway Court, and joyfully dismounted. Lord Fairfax did
not know the exact day to expect him, but knew he would arrive about
that time. When George's loud rat-tat resounded upon the great oak
doors, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to have them opened
by old Lance, who said, as if he had seen George half an hour before:
"Good-evening, Mr. Washington; my lord is expecting you. Billy, take the
horses around to the stable."
George walked in, and almost ran into the Earl's arms. Lord Fairfax was
overjoyed to see him, and although he did not say much, his pleasure
shone in his eyes. George's room was ready for him; there was a fine
young half-thoroughbred in the stables that was waiting for George's
saddle and bridle to be put on him; Lance had some bears' paws for his
supper whenever he should arrive; there were some books on surveying
imported from England for him. Had he been Lord Fairfax's son and heir
he could not have been received with greater consideration. The Earl
could not do enough for him. It was:
"Lance, is Mr. Washington's room prepared for him?"
"Yes, sir. It has been ready for a week."
"And, Lance, Mr. Washington will probably want you in the morning in the
armory."
As soon as supper was over, George displayed proudly his license as
surveyor, and would have plunged into the affair of the surveys at once,
but Lord Fairfax gave the first intimation then that he did not consider
George a full-fledged man.
"Never mind for to-night, George. Very young gentlemen like you are apt
to go at things like a hunter at a five-barred gate, but you can wait
awhile. Besides, you must go to bed early after your journey, so as to
get sleep--a thing that growing boys cannot do without."
George felt several years younger at this speech, and blushed a little
for his mannish airs, but the Earl's advice about going to bed was
sound, and in five minutes after finding himself in the great high-post
bed he was sleeping the sleep of healthy and active boyhood.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
THE JUJUBE MAN.
BY ALBERT LEE.
At the foot of Spice Lane, in Carameltown,
Lives a funny little jujube fellow;
His body is red and his legs are brown,
And his hands and his feet are yellow.
This jujube man has a nice little farm,
With a rooster, a hen, and a hog,
All well watched over and kept from harm
By a little red jujube dog.
But the jujube man does not like the heat,
For it almost makes him melt,--
And his head bends over 'most down to his feet,
And his toes bend up to his belt.
[Illustration: Map]
THE VOYAGE OF THE "RATTLETRAP."
BY HAYDEN CARRUTH.
IV.
We were a good deal disappointed in not getting over into Nebraska,
because we had seen enough of Dakota, but there was no help for it. A
log had got caught in the paddle-wheel of the ferry-boat and wrecked it,
and there was no other way of crossing.
"Old Blacky could swim across," said Jack, "but Browny would go to sleep
and drown."
[Illustration: TOP HEAVY WITH HATS.]
It is rather doubtful, however, about even Blacky's ability to have swum
the river, since it was a half-mile wide, and with a rather swift
current. In the afternoon we walked back to Yankton and bought the
biggest felt hats we could find, with wide and heavy leather bands. We
knew that we would now soon be out in the stock-growing country, and
that, as Jack said, "the cowboys wouldn't have any respect for us unless
we were top heavy with hat."
We were camped on the high bank of the river, opposite a farm-house. It
was getting dusk when we got back to the wagon, with our heads aching
from our new hats, which seemed to weigh several pounds apiece. Jack, as
cook, announced that there was no milk on hand, and sent Ollie over to
the neighboring house to see if he could get some. Ollie returned, and
reported that the man was away from home, but that the woman said we
could have some if we were willing to go out to the barn-yard and milk
one of the cows. The others decided that it was my duty to milk, but I
asked so many foolish questions about the operation, that Jack became
convinced that I didn't know how, and said he would do it himself. We
all went over to the house, borrowed a tin pail from the woman, and went
out to the yard.
We found about a dozen cows inside, of various sizes, but all
long-legged and long-horned.
"Must be this man belongs to the National Trotting-Cow Association,"
said Jack, as he crawled under the barbed-wire fence into the yard.
"That red beast over there in the corner ought to be able to trot a mile
in less than three minutes."
He cautiously went up to a spotted cow which seemed to be rather tamer
than the rest, holding out one hand, and saying, "So, bossy," in oily
tones, as if he thought she was the finest cow he had ever seen. When he
was almost to her she looked at him quickly, kicked her nearest hind
foot at him savagely, and walked off, switching her tail, and shaking
her head so that Ollie was afraid it would come off and be lost.
"Can't fool _that_ cow, can I?" said Jack, as he turned to another. But
he had no better luck this time, and after trying three or four more he
paused and said:
"These must be the same kind of cows Horace Greeley found down in Texas
before the war. When he came back he said the way they milked down there
was to throw a cow on her back, have a nigger hold each leg, and extract
the milk with a clothes-pin."
But at last he found a brindled animal in the corner which allowed him
to sit down and begin. He was getting on well when, without the least
warning, the cow kicked, and sent the pail spinning across the yard,
while Jack went over backwards, and his new hat fell off. There was one
calf in the yard which had been complaining ever since we came, because
it had not yet had its supper. The pail stopped rolling right side up,
and this calf ran over and put his head in it, thinking that his food
had come at last. Jack picked himself up and ran to rescue the pail. The
calf raised his head suddenly, the pail caught on one of his little
horns, and he started off around the yard, unable to see, and jumping
wildly over imaginary objects. Jack followed. A cow, which was perhaps
the mother of the calf, started after Jack. The family dog, hearing the
commotion, came running down from the house and began to pursue the cow.
This wild procession went around the yard several times, till at last
the pail came off the calf's head, and Jack secured it. Then he picked
up his hat, the brim of which another calf had been chewing, rinsed out
the pail at the pump, and tried another cow.
This time he selected the worst-looking one of the lot, but to the
surprise of all of us she stood perfectly still, only switching him a
few times with her tall. As soon as he got a couple of quarts of milk he
stopped and came out of the yard. Ollie and I had, of course, been
laughing at him a good deal, but Jack paid no attention to it. As we
walked toward the house he said:
"Well, there's one consolation; after all of that work and trouble the
woman can't put on the face to charge us for the milk." A moment later
he said to her, "I've got about two quarts; how much is it?"
"Ten cents," answered the woman. "Didn't them cows seem to take kindly
to you?"
"Well, they didn't exactly crowd around me and moo with delight,"
replied Jack, as he handed over a dime with rather bad grace.
That evening a neighbor called on us as we sat about our camp fire, and
we told him the experience with the cows.
[Illustration: THE COW THAT WORE A SLEIGH-ROBE, AND KICKED WITH ALL FOUR
FEET.]