Chapter IX: Getting the Author’s Mood (5)

There were strings of fluffy white stuff drooping around him. His twigs held little gold nuts and pink rosy balls and silver stars. He had little pink and white candles in his arms, but last and most wonderful of all, the children hung a beautiful white floating doll angel over his head! The Little Fir Tree could not breathe for joy and wonder. What was it that he was now? Why was this glory for him? After a time every one went away and left him. It grew dusk and the Little Fir Tree began to hear strange sounds through the closed doors. Sometimes he heard a child crying. He was beginning to be lonely. It grew more and more shadowy. All at once the doors opened and the two children came in. Two of the pretty ladies were with them. They came to the Little Fir Tree and quickly lighted all the pink and white candles. Then the two pretty ladies took hold of the table with the Little Fir Tree on it and pushed it, very smoothly and quickly, out of the doors, across a hall and in at another door. The Little Fir Tree had a sudden sight of a long room with many little white beds in it, of children propped up on pillows in the beds, and of other children in great wheel chairs and others hobbling about or sitting in little chairs. He wondered why all the little children looked so white and tired; he did not know he was in a hospital. But before he could wonder any more, his breath was quickly taken away by the shout those little white children gave. “Oh, Oh! M—M—” they cried. “How pretty!” “How beautiful!” “Oh, isn’t it lovely?” He knew they must mean him, for all their shining eyes were looking straight at him. He stood straight as a mast and quivered in every needle for joy. Presently one weak little voice called out, “It’s the nicest Christmas tree I ever saw!” And then, at last, the Little Fir Tree knew what he was; he was a Christmas tree! And from his shiny head to his feet he was glad, through and through, because he was just little enough to be the nicest kind of a tree in the world.

A CHIP OF THE OLD BLOCK

BY JULIET WILBUR TOMPKINS

The two were amazingly, even absurdly alike, as they faced each other across the library table. The very scowl that lay heavy on the girl’s forehead was an obvious inheritance from the parental scowl opposite.

“I’m a self-made man, Paula—plain Western goods. It’s too late to teach me fancy values. I don’t go a hang on anything but facts. Some folks can put a paper frill around a mutton chop and call it lamb, but that ain’t my way. I see things as they are.”

“Well, I’m the daughter of a self-made man, and of a New England school-teacher too; if you can beat that combination for seeing things, as they are—”

“It’s your notion that you see this young feller as he is?”

“I do. And he has got just the things that you and I haven’t and need.”

“He has, eh? You might mention one or two.”

“Ancestry.”

“Oh, pshaw!”

“Well, then, a sense of humor.”

“A—what?” If she had said a “top-knot,” he could not have looked more amazedly disgusted.

“A sense of humor. And he’s got common sense too. He’s poor and alone in the world and not awfully practical, but I tell you, father, there’s stuff in him that we hustlers have got to get into our families sooner or later, if we’re going to the top. And—I—am.”

“H’m. On sixty dollars a month?”

“If necessary. Oh, I don’t pretend that Ralph has done much in business yet. Few men have, at nineteen.”

“At nineteen I had been at work seven years, and had been raised six times, both in salary and position. This young feller tells me he has been at work three years, and has been raised once—in salary only.”

“And that once was since he became interested in me; there is one thing you have got to take into account, father—that Ralph with me will have a very different career from Ralph without me.”

“But, Paula, is that just your notion of a husband?”

“Ralph is just my notion of a husband.”

“Well, I’m sorry, but he ain’t mine, and that settles it. You’ll live to thank me for it.”

“Well, here’s fair warning: I don’t give him up.”

“Oh, I guess you will.”

“You are trying to make the worst mistake of your life, father,” she said reasonably. “Now a mushy daughter would give in and let you repent it later; but I think it’s a lot better to save you from it, and _you’ll_ live to thank me yet.”

“I’ll live to take you East and leave you there with your Aunt Jennie, till you’ve got sense, if I hear any more of this.”

“Well, then, you won’t hear any more about it.” And she went out.

“The little cuss!” he muttered. Then he sat down and wrote a letter beginning, “Dear Jennie,” and ending, “For heaven’s sake, wire that you will take her, or she’ll be off with him—by the front door and in broad daylight, understand. She’s a straight little cuss. What an everlasting shame she wasn’t a boy!”

Even as he signed: “Your aff. Bro.,” the massive front door banged; but he was too absorbed to notice it. Paula, calm and serious, carrying a suit-case, took a car for the station where a young man was nervously pacing the platform. He stood watching her for a moment before she saw him. The clear red of her cheeks was no deeper than usual, her blue eyes were unclouded, in all her handsome, well-dressed person there was not one hurried movement. She even paused to compare her watch with the station clock. An irrepressible laugh brought the color back to his face. “Oh, Paula, so you are here,” as he hurried to meet her. “You elope as calmly as you would go shopping.”

“It’s a far more sensible proceeding! Have you the tickets?”

“Not yet, dear Paula, I want you enough to commit almost any crime—you know that, and yet I can’t quite square it with myself—this running away with a man’s daughter. And—such a rich man, confound it! I’ve been awake all night thinking over one thing. You swept me off my feet yesterday; but to-day—”

“But, Ralph, I gave father fair warning. And this happens to be a case where he is wrong and I am right. I don’t think that just because I’m—I’m fond of you, but I can see, you know, just what you have got, and what the other men I know haven’t got, better than father can. He will see it too, some day, and thank me—I told him so. I’m not really eloping, since eighteen is the age for a girl in this state. And the fact that you’re not of age yet doesn’t matter, for you haven’t any parents or guardians to object. And father needn’t give us any money—we can get along with yours and mine. Now the train is due in three minutes and, of course, you needn’t marry me if you don’t want to. But if you do, you’d better get the tickets.”

Three hours later the two emerged from a cab in front of an imposing courthouse and followed endless lengths of unclean, tessellated pavement until they reached a door bearing the significant sign: “Marriage Licenses.” The clerk had the engraved forms out before anything coherent had been said. He was a hurried, dry little man, who appeared suffering to say, “Step lively, please!” at every pause.

“Parents or guardian’s consent?”

“I have no parents or guardian.”

“Can’t issue license to you then.”

“What?—why—why not?”

“Law of the state.”

“But I am of age!”

“Oh, yes, you can get married all right, but he can’t.”

“But what can we do?”

“Wait two years, or get a guardian and obtain his consent.” And Cupid turned firmly back to the papers on his desk.

They went out into the corridor and, finding a bench in a windowed recess, dropped helplessly down on it while Ralph gave voice to his personal opinion of the state law.

“Swearing isn’t going to help, Ralph,” said Paula decidedly. “Now we’ve got to consider everything.”

“But the old fool—when I haven’t a soul who could raise the least—”

“Yes, dear. Now suppose we take up each possibility in turn. It’s half-past twelve, and there isn’t a train back till five-twenty, too late to head off my letter to father.”

“Oh, it would be too flat!”

“And yet we don’t know a soul in this city, and we can’t stay here unmarried.”

“I was a beast, an ass, to get you into such a mess. Perhaps some sort of a minister could marry us without a license. I know they do in some states.”

“Go ask him.” But he came back dejectedly.

“Can’t be done; I ought to be hanged!”

“Well, suppose we go and get lunch. I want a cup of coffee and a ham sandwich.”

They found it near by, at a marble counter, and presently took up their problem with renewed courage.

“Of course, we can’t stay here unmarried. If we don’t find a way before five-twenty—we must go back—and father will probably take me East by the next train.”

“And quite right. I wouldn’t let my daughter marry a blithering idiot who could get her into a scrape like this.”

“I shouldn’t mind father’s rage, but I should hate his crowing. I can’t bear to be beaten like this, but of course, if you don’t try to think, we might as well go back to the station.”

“But what can thinking do against a set of darn fool state laws?” he burst out. “If I had only had the sense to set up a guardian—” He broke off at her gasp of excitement. Her eyes were fixed on space, big with a growing idea, for a breathless moment; then she turned to him radiant, both fists clenched on the counter.

“Ralph, I’ll adopt you! Anybody of age can adopt anybody who isn’t. Then I will give my consent and there we are!”

He stared at her speechlessly; then he hid his face in his hands and gave way to wild laughter.

“Have you anything against it?”

“No—no! Nothing!”

“Come on, then. We shall have to hurry.”

“The Court,” to whom they were referred for information, proved to be a huge, middle-aged, kindly person. If marriage was difficult under the state laws, adoption was comparatively easy.

“Now what is the very shortest time in which it could be done?”

“Oh, it need not take much time. A couple of weeks would be ample.”

Two pairs of dismayed eyes consulted each other.

“Couldn’t you do it in less?”

“Why, I don’t know. If the circumstances were extraordinary—”

“Couldn’t you do it before five o’clock to-day?”

“To-day?”

“We came down here to be married, but were refused a license because I am not of age, and hadn’t anybody to give consent. But if this lady, who is of age, could legally adopt me before the marriage bureau closed, then, you see, she could give the necessary consent.”

The Court laughed until his whole bulk was a heaving frame of merriment. But he was absorbed again in an instant, and after a moment’s deliberation he took down their names and ages and wrote briefly:

“And you say the child is willing?”

“He seems to be.”

Half an hour later, Paula Dennison had been formally appointed guardian of her future lord and master, and had given her written consent to his marriage. The Court himself conducted them to the license bureau, explained matters to the dry little clerk, dryer and more hurried than ever, witnessed the marriage, kissed the bride, escorted them down-stairs, and put them into a cab.

The Court was still standing to smile after the departing carriage when another came lurching up from the direction of the station. Even before it could stop, a middle-aged man had burst out and was striding up the steps with dark and concerted purpose on his flushed face. The Court stared at him, at first absently, then with dawning suspicion—chin, blue eyes, carriage—surely such a resemblance could not be a mere coincidence! After a brief hesitation he discreetly followed, and suspicion grew to conviction as the man turned to the marriage license bureau. The Court, lurking in the shadow of the open door, heard him demand whether a young woman named Dennison had tried to get married there to-day.

“Married fifteen minutes ago.”

“But they couldn’t be—the boy wasn’t of age. ’Tain’t legal. You had no right to issue a license. Why, I’ll have you—”

“The applicant had the written consent of his guardian.”

“But he hadn’t got a guardian—I found that out before I started. He was fooling you. It’s a—”

Paula’s written consent was laid before his eyes.

“The lady took out papers of guardianship, and so her consent was valid.”

“Adopted him? Adopted him and then married him! The little cuss! Adopted him, by golly! Oh, why wasn’t she a boy? Oh, well, I guess it’s all right. Adopted him! And I never thought of that!”

THE HONOR OF THE WOODS

ANONYMOUS

The principal character of this story is John Norton, an aged trapper and scout in the Adirondacks, who is adored by the people for his bravery and courage. And although he has not rowed in a race for over forty years, he has decided to enter a free for all contest, to be pulled on the Saranac. He does this, because guides have brought him word that “perfessionals” are to pull. And he thinks it would be an “eternal shame if them city boasters beat the men born in the woods and on their own waters too.” Another important character in our story is a young boy, of whom John Norton always speaks as “the Lad,” a good-hearted, simple-minded boy, whom the trapper has befriended and who worships the old man. At the hotel all is expectation. A great crowd has gathered in anticipation of the morrow’s races, for the guides had brought word that “Old John Norton was not only coming, but that he was going to enter the race.” The thought that they were going to see this celebrated man stirred the people with a feeling of intense curiosity.

In the crowd were several aged men who remembered the fame the trapper had as an oarsman fifty years ago. And one of their number closed a heated verbal debate about the merits of the various contestants with, “I tell you, sir, there ain’t a man on God’s green earth kin beat John Norton at the oars.” On the other hand the professionals had their backers—college boys, English tourists, lawyers, clergymen, and bankers. Thus stood the feeling when a boat, with the Lad at the oar and the trapper at the paddle, came out from behind an island into plain view of the hundreds that were watching for it. As the boat came on talking ceased, and amid a profound silence it drew up within fifty feet of the landing. Suddenly an old man leaning on a stout stick flourished it in the air, and exclaimed in a voice that shook with the intensity of his emotion, “John Norton, he saved my life at the battle of Salt Lakes forty years ago. Three cheers for John Norton!” Then such a cheer arose as to burst the stillness into fragments and, thrice repeated, rolled its roar across the lake and against the distant hills, until their hollow caverns resounded again, while on the instant a hundred white handkerchiefs, waved by whiter hands, sprang into sight and filled the air with their snowy flutterings. For one instant the color came and went in the face of the surprised trapper. He then arose and stood at his utmost height. Meanwhile the eyes of the great multitude had time to take in his splendid proportions, and the grave majesty of his countenance. He then settled back and the boat moved toward the landing. It was high noon on the Saranac, and a brighter day was never seen. The lake had not stirred a ripple, and the air was that cool, fragrant air so good to breathe in a race. The “free for all” was to be pulled at one o’clock. The entries were closed the evening before, and stood seven in all: the three professionals, the brother guides, known as Fred and Charley, the old trapper and the Lad.

The boats were already in position. The course ran straight down the lake to a line of seven buoys, so that each boat had its own buoy to turn around and thence pull back again. The length of the course was just four miles, a longer race by half than was ever before pulled on those waters. The boats were by no means the same length and width—the Lad’s was by far the heaviest.

The number of spectators was a wonder to all; where all the people came from was a mystery. The long piazza of the hotel, the wharf, even the roof of the boathouse swarmed with human beings. The shore on either side was lined with spectators for the distance of half a mile.

“Now, boys,” said the trapper, “ye must remember that a four-mile race is a good deal of a pull, and the goin’ off ain’t half so decidin’ as the comin’ in. I don’t conceit that we can afford to fool any time, for them perfessionals have come here to row, and they look to me as if they had a good deal of that sort of stuff in them; but it won’t do to get flustrated at the start, and if ye see fit to follow I’ll set ye a jegmatical sort of a stroke that will send us out to the buoys yonder without any rawness in the windpipe or kinks in the legs. But still if ye don’t think yer a-pullin’ fast enough take yer lick, fur in such a race as this is likely to be, a man should follow his own notions and act accordin’ to his gifts.”

“Do you think we will win, old trapper?” asked Fred. “I dunno, boy, I sartinly dunno, but I don’t like yer oars, especially that left one. There’s a kink in the shank of it that hadn’t orter be there.”

“Your oars are big enough to hold anyway and I hold you will win.”

“Thank ye, boys, thank ye; yis, I sartinly shall try, for it would be a mortal shame to have that prize to go out of the woods, an’ if nothin’ gives way I’ll give ’em a touch of the stuff that’s in me, the last mile, that’ll make ’em get down to work in earnest, but if anything happens I have great hopes of the Lad there, for his gifts are wonderful at the oars and—”

“_Ready there_,” came the clear voice of the starter; “ready there for the word.”

“Aye, aye, ready it is,” replied the trapper. “Now, Lad, if anything happens to me and you see I can’t win, John Norton will never forgive you if you don’t pull like a sinner runnin’ from jedgment.”

“Ready there, all of you; _One_, _two_, _three_, GO.”

The oars of the professionals dropped on the water as if their blades were controlled by one man, and their stroke was so tense and quick that the light boats fairly jumped ahead. The trapper and the Lad had been slower to get away and were a full length behind before they got fairly into motion. The Lad was the last to get started and so careless and ungainly was his appearance that the crowd, who cheered at the passage of the others, laughed and groaned at him. For forty rods the race continued without change in the relative position of the boats.

The oars flashed, dropped and flashed again, as the professionals swept their oars ahead. Some rods behind the trapper and Fred were rowing side by side, stroke for stroke, long, steady and strong.

“Yis, yis, I understand; but don’t ye worry, four miles is four miles. Still if yer a-gittin’ narvous we’ll lengthen out a little jest to show ’em we ain’ more’n half asleep.” So saying the old man set his comrades so long and sharply pulled a stroke that the two boats doubled their rate of speed and came up even with the boats ahead. “There now, I guess we’ll ease up a leetle, for the time to really pull ain’t come yet. I tell you, boy, that rifle is a-goin’ to stay here in the woods. There’s the Lad back there can beat us both, but he won’t try ’cause he thinks it would tickle an old man like me to win the prize. Easy, boy, easy, let ’em git ahead if they want to, the comin’ in is what decides the race.” Thus the boats rushed on their way, while the multitude watched with eager eyes the receding racers. The party of the trapper was in the ascendant, for the spurt he had made revealed the tremendous power of the man and showed that old age had not weakened his enormous strength. At last a man who stood on the edge of the boathouse called out: “They have turned the buoys; the professionals are ahead.”

“How far behind is John Norton?”

“He and the guides are four rods astern at least.”

“Where is the Lad?”

“Oh, he’s out of the race; he’s fully ten rods behind the trapper and Fred.” By this time the boats were plainly in view—the contestants were barely a mile away.

“Now, boys,” said the trapper, “the time has come for us to show the stuff that’s in us. Are ye ready for the stroke, boys?” A groan of pain interrupted the trapper. The oars of Charley were trailing—his strength had given out and his nose was bleeding profusely. “Never mind,” whispered the trapper to Fred, “you must win this race if your whole family dies—all right, long and quick now.” The young man obeyed. He threw the full force of his strength on the oars. The sudden vigor was too much for the wood; there was a crash and the guide was thrown on his side. The trapper was now thoroughly aroused. The boats were within a hundred yards of the home-line and the Lad was fully fifteen astern. The roar of the crowd was deafening, but through it a voice arose: “John Norton, now is your time, pull.”

The old man gathered himself for a supreme effort, and then occurred a catastrophe so overwhelming that it hushed the roar of the crowd. He had torn the rowlocks from the gunnels. For a moment there was silence; even the professionals intermitted a stroke; but the Lad turned his face ahead. The old man arose and stood erect in the boat. He shook the heavy oars in the air as if they had been reeds and shouted in a voice that sounded awful in its intensity: “Now, Lad, row for the sake of John Norton, and save his gray hairs from shame. Pull with every ounce of strength the Almighty has given you, or the honor of the woods is gone.”

It was worth a thousand miles of travel and a year of life to see what happened. The Lad suddenly sat erect and his stroke lengthened to the full reach of oar and arm. His boat seemed to spring into the air, it flew on the top of the water, and, as it passed the trapper, he shouted wildly, “Go it, Lad, go it, Lad, the honor of the woods be on ye! Give it to ’em, give it to ’em, ye’ll beat ’em yit, sure as judgment day.”

Except his voice, not a sound was heard. Men clutched their fists till the nails cut the skin of their palms. One of the professionals fainted unnoticed, another threw up his oars, crazed by the excitement, while the third pulled in grim desperation; but he pulled in vain, for the Lad’s boat caught him within fifty feet of the line and shot across it half a length to the front. And then there arose such a shout as had not been heard that day. “Three cheers for the Lad, three cheers for the Lad,”—and the honor of the woods was saved.

TRAVERS’ FIRST HUNT

BY RICHARD HARDING DAVIS

Young Travers, who had been engaged to a girl down on Long Island for the last three months, only met her father and brother a few weeks before the day set for the wedding.

The brother was a master of hounds near South Hampton; the father and son talked horse all day and until one o’clock in the morning, for they owned fast thoroughbreds, and entered them at Sheepshead Bay, and other race tracks.

Old Mr. Paddock, the father of the girl, had often said that when a young man asked for his daughter’s hand, he would ask him in return, not if he _lived_ straight, but if he could _ride_ straight; and that on his answering in the affirmative, depended her parent’s consent.

Travers had met Miss Paddock and her mother in Europe. He was invited to their place in the fall when the hunting season opened, and had spent the evening most pleasantly and satisfactorily with his fiancée in the corner of the drawing-room. But as soon as the women had gone, young Paddock joined him and said: “You ride, of course?”

Travers had never ridden, but had been prompted what to answer by Miss Paddock, and so said there was nothing he liked better. As he expressed it, he would rather ride than sleep.

“That’s good!” said Paddock. “I’ll give you a mount on Satan to-morrow morning at the meet. He is a bit nasty at the start of the season, and ever since he killed Wallis, the second groom, last year, none of us care much to ride him; but you can manage him, no _doubt_. He’ll just carry your weight.”

Mr. Travers dreamed that night of taking large, desperate leaps into space on a wild horse that snorted forth flames, and that rose at solid stone walls as though they were hay-racks. He was tempted to say he was ill in the morning, which was, considering the state of his mind, more or less true, but concluded as he would have to ride sooner or later during his visit, and if he died breaking his neck, it would be in a good cause, he determined to do his best.

He didn’t want to ride at all for two excellent reasons: First, because he wanted to live for Miss Paddock’s sake, and second, because he wanted to live for his own sake.

The next morning was a most forbidding and doleful looking morning, and young Travers had great hopes that the meet would be declared off, but just as he lay in doubts the servant knocked at his door with his riding things and his hot water.

He came down-stairs looking very miserable indeed. Satan had been taken to the place where they were to meet, and Travers viewed him on his arrival there with a sickening sense of fear as he saw him pulling three grooms off their feet.

Travers decided that he would stay with his feet on solid earth just as long as he could, and when the hounds were thrown off and the rest had started at a gallop, he waited, under pretense of adjusting his gaiters, until they were well away. Then he clenched his teeth, crammed his hat down over his ears, and scrambled up on the saddle. His feet fell _quite_ by _accident_ into the stirrups, and the next moment he was off after the others, with an indistinct feeling that he was on a locomotive that was jumping the ties.

Satan was in among and had passed the other horses in less than five minutes, and was so near the hounds that the whippers-in gave a cry of warning. But Travers could just as soon have pulled a boat back that was going over the Niagara Falls as Satan, and it was only that the hounds were well ahead that saved them from having Satan run them down.

Travers had to hold to the saddle with his left hand to keep himself from falling off, and sawed and sawed on the reins with his right. He shut his eyes whenever Satan jumped, and never knew how he happened to stick on; but he did stick on, and was so far ahead that in the misty morning no one could see how badly he rode. As it was for daring and speed he led the field, and not even young Paddock was near him from the start.

There was a broad stream in front of him—and a hill just on the other side. No one had ever tried to take this at a jump, it was considered more of a swim than anything else, and the hunters always crossed it by the bridge on the left. Travers saw the bridge and tried to jerk Satan’s head in that direction, but Satan kept right on as straight as an express train over the prairies. Fences and trees and furrows passed by and under Travers like a panorama run by electricity, and he only breathed by accident. They went on at the stream and the hill beyond as though they were riding on a stretch of turf, and though the whole field sent up a shout of warning and dismay, Travers could only gasp and shut his eyes. He remembered the fate of the second groom and shivered.

Then the horse rose like a rocket, lifting Travers so high in the air that he thought Satan would never come down again, but he did come down with his feet bunched on the opposite bank.

The next instant he was up and over the hill and stopped, panting, in the center of the pack that was snarling and snapping around the fox. And then Travers showed that he was a thorough-bred, even though he could not ride, for he hastily fumbled for his cigar case, and when the others came pounding up over the hill, they saw him seated nonchalantly on his saddle, puffing critically at his cigar and giving Satan patronizing pats on his head.

“My dear girl,” said old Mr. Paddock to his daughter as they rode back, “if you love that young man and want to keep him, make him promise to give up riding. A more reckless and more brilliant horseman I have never seen; he took that double jump at the gate and at the stream like a centaur, but he will break his neck sooner or later, and he ought to be stopped.” Young Paddock was so delighted with his future brother-in-law’s riding that that night in the smoking room he made him a present of Satan before all the men.

“No,” said Travers gloomily, “I can’t take him; your sister has asked me to give up what is dearer to me than anything next to herself, and that is my riding; you see she is absurdly anxious for my safety, and she has asked me never to ride again, and I have given my word.”

A chorus of sympathetic remonstrances rose from the men.

“Yes, I know,” said Travers, “but it just shows what sacrifices a man will make for the woman he loves.”

MARY’S NIGHT RIDE

BY GEORGE W. CABLE

Mary Richling, the heroine of this story, was the wife of John Richling, a resident of New Orleans. At the breaking out of the Civil War she went to visit her parents in Milwaukee. About the time of the bombardment of New Orleans, she received news of the dangerous illness of her husband, and decided at once to reach his bedside, if possible. Taking with her her baby daughter, a child of three years, she proceeded southward, where, after several unsuccessful attempts to secure a pass, she finally determined to break through the lines.

About the middle of the night Mary Richling was sitting very still and upright on a large, dark horse that stood champing his Mexican bit in the black shadow of a great oak. Mary held by the bridle another horse, whose naked saddle-tree was empty. A few steps in front of her the light of the full moon shone almost straight down upon a narrow road that just there emerged from the shadow of woods on either side and divided into a main right fork and a much smaller one that curved around to Mary’s left. Off in the direction of the main fork the sky was all aglow with camp-fires. Only just here on the left there was a cool and grateful darkness.

She lifted her head alertly. A twig crackled under a tread, and the next moment a man came out of the bushes on the left and, without a word, took the bridle of the led horse from her fingers and vaulted into the saddle. The hand that rested for a moment on the cantle grasped a navy-six. He was dressed in dull homespun, but he was the same who had been dressed in blue. He turned his horse and led the way down the lesser road.

“If we’d of gone three hundred yards further, we’d a run into the pickets. I went nigh enough to see the videts settin’ on their horses in the main road. This here ain’t no road; it just goes up to a nigger quarters. I’ve got one of the niggers to show us the way.”

“Where is he?” whispered Mary, but, before her companion could answer, a tattered form moved from behind a bush a little in advance and started ahead in the path, walking and beckoning. Presently they turned into a clear, open forest and followed the long, rapid, swinging strides of the negro for nearly an hour. Then they halted on the bank of a deep, narrow stream. The negro made a motion for them to keep well to the right when they should enter the water. The white man softly lifted Alice to his arms, and directed and assisted Mary to kneel in her saddle with her skirts gathered carefully under her; so they went down into the cold stream, the negro first with arms outstretched above the flood, then Mary and then the white man, or let us say plainly the spy, with the unawakened child on his breast. And so they rose out of it on the farther side without a shoe or garment wet, save the rags of their dark guide.

Again they followed him along a line of stake-and-rider fence, with the woods on one side and the bright moonlight flooding a field of young cotton on the other. Now they heard the distant baying of housedogs, now the doleful call of the chuckwill’s widow, and once Mary’s blood turned for an instant to ice at the unearthly shriek of a hoot-owl just above her head. At length they found themselves in a dim, narrow road, and the negro stopped.

“Dess keep dis yer road fo’ ’bout half mile an’ yo’ strike ’pon de broad main road. Tek de right, an’ you go whar yo’ fancy take you. Good-by, Miss. Good-by, Boss; don’t yo’ fergit yo’ promise to tek me throo to de Yankees when you come back. I feered yo’ gwine fergit it, Boss.”

The spy said he would not, and they left him. The half mile was soon passed, though it turned out to be a mile and a half, and at length Mary’s companion looked back as they rode single file with Mary in the rear, and said softly, “There’s the road.”

As they entered it and turned to the right, Mary, with Alice in her arms, moved somewhat ahead of her companion, her indifferent horsemanship having compelled him to drop back to avoid a prickly bush. His horse was just quickening his pace to regain the lost position when a man sprang up from the ground on the farther side of the highway, snatched a carbine from the earth and cried, “Halt!”

The dark, recumbent forms of six or eight others could be seen enveloped in their blankets lying about a few red coals. Mary turned a frightened look backward and met the eye of her companion.

“Move a little faster,” said he, in a low, clear voice. As he did so, she heard him answer the challenge, as his horse trotted softly after hers.

“Don’t stop us, my friend; we’re taking a sick child to the doctor.”

“Halt, you hound!” the cry rang out; and as Mary glanced back three or four men were just leaping into the road. But she saw also her companion, his face suffused with an earnestness that was almost an agony, rise in his stirrups with the stoop of his shoulders all gone, and wildly cry, “Go!” She smote her horse and flew. Alice woke and screamed.

The report of a carbine rang out and went rolling away in a thousand echoes through the wood. Two others followed in sharp succession, and there went close by Mary’s ear the waspish whine of a minie-ball. At the same moment she recognized—once, twice, thrice—just at her back, where the hoofs of her companion’s horse were clattering, the tart rejoinders of his navy six.

“Go! lay low! lay low! cover the child!” But his words were needless. With head bowed forward and form crouched over the crying, clinging child, with slackened rein and fluttering dress, and sunbonnet and loosened hair blown back upon her shoulders, Mary was riding for life and liberty and her husband’s bedside.

“Go on! go on! They’re saddling up! Go! Go! We’re going to make it! Go-oo!” And they made it.

PEABODY’S LEAP

A LEGEND OF LAKE CHAMPLAIN

Many are the places, scattered over the face of our beautiful country, whose wild and picturesque scenery is worthy of the painter’s pencil or the poet’s pen. Some of them, which were once celebrated for their rich stores of “legendary lore,” are now only sought to view their natural scenery, while the traditions which formerly gave them celebrity are buried in oblivion. Such is the scene of the following adventure—a romantic glen, bounded on the north side by a high and rocky hill which stretches itself some distance into Lake Champlain, terminating in a precipice, some thirty feet in height, and once known by the name of “Peabody’s Leap.”

At the time of this adventure, Timothy Peabody was the only white man that lived within fifty miles of the place, and his was the daring spirit that achieved it. In an attack on one of the frontier settlements his family had all been massacred by the merciless savages, and he had sworn that their death should be avenged. The better to accomplish this dread purpose, he had removed to this solitary place and constructed the rude shelter in which he dwelt, till the blasts of winter drove him to the homes of his fellow-men, again to renew the contest when spring had awakened nature into life and beauty. He was a man who possessed much rude cunning, combined with a thorough knowledge of Indian habits, by which he had always been enabled to avoid the snares of his subtle enemies. Often when they had come with a party to take him, he escaped their lures, and after destroying his hut, on their return homeward some of their boldest warriors were picked off by his unerring aim—or, on arriving at their settlement, they learned that one of their swiftest hunters had been ambushed by him, and fallen a victim of his deadly rifle. He had lived in this way for several years, and had so often baffled them, that they had at last become weary of the pursuit, and, for some time, had left him unmolested.

About this time, a party of Indians made a descent on one of the small settlements, and had taken three men prisoners, whom they were carrying home to sacrifice for the same number of their men that had been shot by Peabody. It was towards the close of day when they passed his abode; most of the party in advance of the prisoners, who, with their hands tied, and escorted by five or six Indians, were almost wearied out by their long march, and but just able to crawl along. He had observed this advance guard, and let them pass unmolested, for he suspected there were prisoners in the rear, and intended to try some “Yankee trick” to effect their rescue. He accordingly followed on in the trail of the party, keeping among the thick trees which on either side skirted the path. He had proceeded but a short distance before he heard the sharp report of a rifle apparently very near him, and which he knew must be one of the Indians who had strolled from the main body to procure some game for their evening meal. From his acquaintance with their habits and language, he only needed a disguise to enable him to join with the party if necessary and, aided by the darkness which was fast approaching, with but little danger of detection. The resolution was quickly formed, and as quickly put into operation, to kill this Indian and procure his dress.

He had got but a few paces before he discovered his intended victim, who had just finished loading his rifle. To stand forth and boldly confront him would give the savage an equal chance, and if Tim proved the best shot, the party on hearing the report of two rifles at once would be alarmed and commence a pursuit. The chance was, therefore, two to one against him, and he was obliged to contrive a way to make the Indian fire first. Planting himself, then, behind a large tree, he took off his fox-skin cap, and placing it on the end of his rifle, began to move it to and fro. The Indian quickly discovered it, and was not at a loss to recollect the owner by the cap. Knowing how often the white warrior had eluded them, he determined to despatch him at once, and without giving him notice of his dangerous proximity, he instantly raised his rifle, and its contents went whizzing through the air. The ball just touched the bark of the tree, and pierced the cap, which rose suddenly like the death-spring of the beaver, and then fell amid the bushes. The Indian, like a true sportsman, thinking himself sure of his victim, did not go to pick up his game till he had reloaded his piece, and dropping it to the ground, was calmly proceeding in the operation, when Timothy as calmly stepped from his hiding-place, exclaiming—“Now, you tarnal kritter, say yer prayers as fast as ever you can.”

This was a short notice for the poor Indian. Before him, and scarcely ten paces distant, stood the tall form of Peabody, motionless as a statue—his rifle to his shoulder—his finger on the trigger, and his deadly aim firmly fixed on him. He was about to run, but he had not time to turn around, ere the swift-winged messenger had taken his flight; the ball pierced his side—he sprang in the air, and fell lifeless on the ground.

No time was now to be lost. Peabody immediately proceeded to strip the dead body and to array himself in the accouterments, consisting of a hunting shirt, a pair of moccasins, or leggins, and the wampum belt and knife. A little of the blood besmeared on his sunburnt countenance served for the red paint, and it would have taken a keen eye in the gray twilight and thick gloom of the surrounding forest to have detected the counterfeit Indian. Shouldering his rifle, he again started in pursuit, and followed the band till they arrived in the glen, where their canoes were secreted. Here they stopped, and began to make preparations for their expected supper, previous to their embarkation for the opposite shore. The canoes were launched and their baggage deposited in them. A fire was blazing brightly and the party were walking around, impatiently waiting the return of the hunter.

The body of Timothy was safely deposited behind a fallen tree, where he could see every motion, and hear every word spoken in the circle. Here he had been about half an hour. Night had drawn her sable curtain around the scene or, in other words, it was dark. The moon shone fitfully through the clouds which almost covered the horizon, only serving occasionally to render the darkness visible. The Indians now began to evince manifest signs of impatience for the return of their comrade. They feared that a party of the whites had followed them and taken him prisoner, and at last resolved to go in search of him. The plan, which was fortunately overheard by Timothy, was to put the captives into one of the canoes, under the care of five of their number, who were to secrete themselves in case of an attack, massacre the prisoners, and then go to the assistance of their brethren.

As soon as the main body had started, Peabody cautiously crept from his hiding-place to the water and, sliding in feet foremost, moved along on his back, his face just above the surface, to the canoe which contained the rifles of the guard. The priming was quickly removed from these, and their powder-horns emptied, replaced, and the prisoners given notice of their intended rescue, at the same time warning them not to show themselves above the gunwale till they were in safety. He next, with his Indian knife, separated the thong which held the canoe to the shore, intending to swim off with it till he had got far enough to avoid observation, then get in, and paddle for the nearest place where a landing could be effected. All this was but the work of a moment, and he was slowly moving off from the shore, as yet unobserved by the guard, who little expected an attack from this side. But, unfortunately, his rifle had been left behind, and he was resolved not to part with “Old Plumper,” as he called it, without at least one effort to recover it. He immediately gave the captives notice of his intention, and directed them to paddle slowly and silently out, and in going past the headland, to approach as near as possible, and there await his coming.

The guard by this time had secreted themselves, and one of the number had chosen the same place which Timothy himself had previously occupied, near which he had left his old friend. He had almost got to the spot, when the Indian discovered the rifle, grasped it, and springing upon his feet, gave the alarm to his companions. Quick as thought, Tim was upon him, seized the rifle, and wrenched it from him with such violence as to throw him breathless to the ground. The rest of the Indians were alarmed, and, sounding the war-whoop, rushed upon him.

It was a standard maxim with Timothy, that “a good soldier never runs till he is obliged to,” and he now found that he should be under the necessity of suiting his practice to his theory. There was no time for deliberation; he instantly knocked down the foremost with the butt of his rifle, and bounded away through the thicket like a startled deer. The three remaining Indians made for the canoe in which the rifles were deposited, already rendered harmless by the precaution of Timothy. This gave him a good advantage, which was not altogether unnecessary, as he was much encumbered with his wet clothes, and before he reached the goal he could hear them snapping the dry twigs close behind him. The main body likewise got the alarm, and were but a short distance from him when he reached the headland. Those who were nearest he did not fear, unless they came to close action, and he resolved to send one more of them to his long home before he leaped from the precipice.

“It’s a burning shame to wet so much powder,” he exclaimed; “I’ll have one more pop at the tarnal red-skins.” Tim’s position was quickly arranged to put his threat in execution. His rifle was presented, his eye glanced along its barrel, and the first one that showed his head received its deadly contents. Another, and still another Indian, were thus disposed of, and then, taking a deep breath, Timothy made the leap. The water was deep and it seemed a long time before he came to the surface, but in a moment he struck out for the canoe. The whole party of Indians by this time had come up, and commenced a brisk fire upon the fugitives. Tim stood erect in the canoe, shouting in the voice of a stentor, “Ye’d better take care, ye’ll spile the skiff. Old Plumper’s safe, and you’ll feel him yet, I tell ye!”

Peabody and the rescued prisoners were quickly lost in darkness, and, taking a small circuit, effected a landing in safety. Many a man’s life verified his last threat, and Peabody lived to a good old age, having often related to his friends and neighbors the adventure which gave to this place the name of “Peabody’s Leap.”

DONA MARIA’S DEFIANCE

[Philip the Second, king of Spain, murdered his own brother, Don John of Austria. Dona Maria Dolores de Mendoza, betrothed to the slain man, discovers that her innocent father has taken the blame upon himself for this atrocious crime in order that his king might not be branded before the eyes of the world. Thus the beautiful woman comes before her king with a great purpose: First, to have her father released from prison; and second, to express her personal hatred for the murderer of her lover. The king is alone when she enters.]

_Philip._ Be seated, Dona Dolores. I am glad that you have come, for I have much to say to you and some questions to ask of you. In my life I have suffered more than most men in being bereaved of the persons to whom I have been most sincerely attached. One after another those that I have loved have been taken from me, until I am almost alone in the world that is so largely mine. My sorrows have reached their crown and culmination to-day in the death of my dear brother. I know why you have come to me; you wish to intercede for your father. It is right that you come to me yourself.

_Dona Dolores._ I ask justice, not mercy, sire.

_Philip._ Your father shall have both, for they are compatible.

_Dona Dolores._ He needs no mercy, for he has done no wrong. Your majesty knows that as well as I.

_Philip._ I cannot guess what you know or do not know.

_Dona Dolores._ I know the truth.

_Philip._ I wish I did. Tell me; you may be able to help me sift it. What do you know?

_Dona Dolores._ I was close behind the door. I heard every word. I heard your sword drawn and I heard Don John fall, and then it was some time before I heard my father’s voice taking the blame upon himself lest it should be said that a king had murdered his own brother in his room unarmed. Is that the truth, or not? I came in and found him dead. He was unarmed, murdered without a chance for his life, and my father took the blame to save you from the monstrous accusation. Confess that what I say is true. I am a Spanish woman and would not see my country branded before the world with the shame of your royal murders; and if you will confess and save my father I will keep your secret for my country’s sake. If you will not, by the God that made you I will tell all Spain what you are, and the men who loved Don John of Austria will rise and take your blood for his blood, though it be blood royal, and you shall die as you killed, like the coward you are. You will not? Then—

_Philip._ No, No! Stay here; you must not go. What do you want me to say?

_Dona Dolores._ Say, “You have spoken the truth.”

_Philip._ Stay—yes—it is true—I did it—for Spain—For God’s mercy do not betray me.

_Dona Dolores._ That is not all. That was for me, that I might hear the words from your own lips.

_Philip._ What more do you want of me?

_Dona Dolores._ My father’s freedom and safety. I must have an order for his instant release. Send for him. Let him come here at once as a free man.

_Philip._ That is impossible. He has confessed the deed before the whole court. He must at least have a trial. You forget to whom you are speaking.

_Dona Dolores._ I am not asking anything of your majesty. I am dictating terms to my lover’s murderer.

_Philip._ You shall not impose your insolence on me any further. I shall call help—