Citation
Zigzag stories of history, travel, and adventure

Material Information

Title:
Zigzag stories of history, travel, and adventure selections of the best stories from the Zigzag series
Creator:
Butterworth, Hezekiah, 1839-1905
Estes & Lauriat ( Publisher )
University Press (Cambridge, Mass.) ( Printer )
John Wilson and Son ( Printer )
Place of Publication:
Boston
Publisher:
Estes and Lauriat
Manufacturer:
John Wilson & Son ; University Press
Publication Date:
Language:
English
Physical Description:
viii, 357 p. : ill. ; 21 cm.

Subjects

Subjects / Keywords:
Children -- Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Voyages and travels -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Adventure and adventurers -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Children's stories ( lcsh )
Children's stories -- 1896 ( lcsh )
Travelogue storybooks -- 1896 ( local )
Bldn -- 1896
Genre:
Children's stories
Travelogue storybooks ( local )
novel ( marcgt )
Spatial Coverage:
United States -- Massachusetts -- Boston
United States -- Massachusetts -- Cambridge
Target Audience:
juvenile ( marctarget )

Notes

Statement of Responsibility:
by Hezekiah Butterworth ; illustrated.

Record Information

Source Institution:
University of Florida
Holding Location:
University of Florida
Rights Management:
This item is presumed to be in the public domain. The University of Florida George A. Smathers Libraries respect the intellectual property rights of others and do not claim any copyright interest in this item. Users of this work have responsibility for determining copyright status prior to reusing, publishing or reproducing this item for purposes other than what is allowed by fair use or other copyright exemptions. Any reuse of this item in excess of fair use or other copyright exemptions may require permission of the copyright holder. The Smathers Libraries would like to learn more about this item and invite individuals or organizations to contact The Department of Special and Area Studies Collections (special@uflib.ufl.edu) with any additional information they can provide.
Resource Identifier:
024955022 ( ALEPH )
ALG3506 ( NOTIS )
26099790 ( OCLC )
05038605 ( LCCN )

Downloads

This item has the following downloads:

processing.instr

UF00085052_00001.pdf

UF00085052_00001.txt

0144.txt

0282.txt

0351.txt

0185.txt

0257.txt

0353.txt

0134.txt

0363.txt

0335.txt

0249.txt

0310.txt

0052.txt

0214.txt

0367.txt

0238.txt

0084.txt

0066.txt

0044.txt

0164.txt

0095.txt

0347.txt

0240.txt

0267.txt

0228.txt

0013.txt

0173.txt

0336.txt

0152.txt

0117.txt

0133.txt

0279.txt

0032.txt

0230.txt

0377.txt

0167.txt

0003.txt

0269.txt

0340.txt

0334.txt

0179.txt

0312.txt

0089.txt

0296.txt

0130.txt

0020.txt

0123.txt

0009.txt

0195.txt

0045.txt

0140.txt

0063.txt

0376.txt

0129.txt

0087.txt

0247.txt

0300.txt

0379.txt

0326.txt

0368.txt

0234.txt

0169.txt

0111.txt

0280.txt

0172.txt

0024.txt

0038.txt

0184.txt

0245.txt

0322.txt

0215.txt

0235.txt

0088.txt

0314.txt

0358.txt

0330.txt

0203.txt

0261.txt

0012.txt

0106.txt

0248.txt

0270.txt

0113.txt

0124.txt

0342.txt

0301.txt

0308.txt

0189.txt

0182.txt

0150.txt

0061.txt

0127.txt

0293.txt

0031.txt

0058.txt

0162.txt

0239.txt

0039.txt

0136.txt

0303.txt

0329.txt

0216.txt

0048.txt

0156.txt

0271.txt

0068.txt

0305.txt

0054.txt

0112.txt

0254.txt

0055.txt

0337.txt

0085.txt

0190.txt

0001.txt

0097.txt

0007.txt

0146.txt

0298.txt

0168.txt

0081.txt

0107.txt

0331.txt

0145.txt

0346.txt

0309.txt

0188.txt

0277.txt

0288.txt

0099.txt

0161.txt

0049.txt

0059.txt

0241.txt

0174.txt

0071.txt

0102.txt

0266.txt

0274.txt

0224.txt

0120.txt

0057.txt

0064.txt

0067.txt

0222.txt

0307.txt

0041.txt

0192.txt

UF00085052_00001_pdf.txt

0075.txt

0070.txt

0092.txt

0076.txt

0361.txt

0311.txt

0151.txt

0207.txt

0166.txt

0364.txt

0320.txt

0223.txt

0050.txt

0110.txt

0022.txt

0148.txt

0260.txt

0094.txt

0328.txt

0378.txt

0231.txt

0350.txt

0046.txt

0021.txt

0199.txt

0016.txt

0030.txt

0251.txt

0259.txt

0100.txt

0026.txt

0086.txt

0176.txt

0165.txt

0352.txt

0365.txt

0294.txt

0359.txt

0306.txt

0163.txt

0366.txt

0082.txt

0287.txt

0160.txt

0138.txt

0275.txt

0209.txt

0118.txt

0132.txt

0212.txt

0355.txt

0065.txt

0115.txt

0122.txt

0278.txt

0141.txt

0217.txt

0375.txt

0232.txt

0149.txt

0193.txt

0357.txt

0023.txt

0289.txt

0284.txt

0285.txt

0072.txt

0371.txt

0281.txt

0015.txt

0170.txt

0323.txt

0035.txt

0125.txt

0186.txt

0197.txt

0255.txt

0316.txt

0114.txt

0210.txt

0028.txt

0093.txt

0362.txt

0206.txt

0177.txt

0319.txt

0349.txt

0181.txt

0208.txt

0137.txt

0302.txt

0043.txt

0077.txt

0142.txt

0080.txt

0213.txt

0090.txt

0187.txt

0341.txt

0034.txt

0243.txt

0356.txt

0096.txt

0202.txt

0029.txt

0262.txt

0194.txt

0037.txt

0253.txt

0268.txt

0369.txt

0273.txt

0205.txt

0014.txt

0008.txt

0272.txt

0018.txt

0178.txt

0229.txt

0227.txt

0139.txt

0286.txt

0344.txt

0025.txt

0265.txt

0219.txt

0040.txt

0069.txt

0019.txt

0304.txt

0333.txt

0354.txt

0074.txt

0318.txt

0053.txt

0258.txt

0103.txt

0220.txt

0060.txt

0297.txt

0236.txt

0121.txt

0027.txt

0237.txt

0105.txt

0002.txt

0056.txt

0225.txt

0242.txt

0180.txt

0370.txt

0042.txt

0191.txt

0295.txt

0157.txt

0256.txt

0339.txt

0108.txt

0116.txt

0175.txt

0183.txt

0154.txt

0299.txt

0313.txt

0158.txt

0264.txt

0250.txt

0360.txt

0159.txt

0062.txt

0321.txt

0135.txt

0204.txt

0155.txt

0233.txt

0131.txt

0010.txt

0244.txt

0033.txt

0252.txt

0126.txt

0325.txt

0017.txt

0051.txt

0291.txt

0047.txt

0290.txt

0098.txt

0317.txt

0283.txt

0343.txt

0221.txt

0198.txt

0292.txt

0263.txt

0091.txt

0147.txt

0073.txt

0211.txt

0315.txt

0083.txt

0171.txt

0246.txt

0226.txt

0119.txt

0324.txt

0218.txt

0079.txt

0143.txt

0153.txt

0338.txt

0276.txt

0327.txt

0036.txt

0078.txt

0011.txt

0201.txt

0109.txt

0200.txt

0348.txt

0101.txt

0332.txt

0196.txt

0104.txt

0345.txt

0128.txt


Full Text
ne ie er peer =
Se
— =

Lea Se en
SS SS =
= Se :

ae OG
ees Sn Soe
fe en a een
Sn aN a Re
So ee SS SSS
SSS SSS
a a
a
ee =
Sree sa
ecenreomne aie

SS

:
|

Avert
ali
a
et
ie

so
Ae
Ht

; thi
ch Ca
SF Hall
iy y | Vir

ria 3 = SSeS
: = oe : = -
= eae
oS a ee ee

——— =

i
“&f
5 el
ce
F383
( P
aoe
rie
ee
Bet
reo
5
eg
i ir
Se fae
aah Y
3
BS

2
E
4
2
Bice s§

ee peeaes ane
peeeet ee eames
Fanpages = =
= SAE rere ners eee

so -













ZIGZAG STORIES



























Yi =f
Lipg.- EF yy Ye



























LOCO =











I
ELE GLZA





































































































A FRIGHTENED CAPTAIN.



ZVEZAG SEORITES

OF

History, Travel, and Adventure

SELECTIONS OF THE BEST STORIES FROM
THE ZIGZAG SERIES

BY

HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH

‘ILLUSTRATED

BOSTON
ESTES AND LAURIAT
PUBLISHERS



Copyright, 1896,

By Esres AND LAURIAT.

Gnibversity J3ress:

Joun WiLson Anp Son, Campripce, U.S.A.



CONTENTS.

.THE HARMONY CHIME... .

Tue BeLt-FounDER OF BRESLAU .

A FRIGHTENED CAPTAIN . . .

Tue LEGEND OF MARGUERITE AND THE ISLE OF DEMONS

Just Once More. .....
Tue Guost or GREYLOCK . .
Tue Frying DutcHMAN .. .

Kine FREDERICK AND THE IRISH GIANT

Tue MeEssaGE OF LIFE. . . .

A StrancE LEGEND OF THE First DideavenE

SIPPI. .
A REMARKABLE DISCOVERY . .
Aunt Heart Deicut’s Breau .
Tue OLp House on CAMBRIDGE
Tur BELL oF CAUGHNAWAGA .
Tue YounGa HUGUENOT, OR THE
JERRY Siack’s Monry-Pot . .
Tux Two Brass KETTLES . .
Cuasep By A Prarrie-Fire. .
Tue LitrLe Sioux’s WARNING .
LirtLtE Mook... . Sas
Tue “Doo-Lu SHaAp- Ure? Deedes
Tue TigEr-HUNTER OF MapRas
‘HE Map JacKAL .... .

. . . . . . .

Tue Two LittLte Boys THAT WERE SUPPOSED

Two Lirrte Bears . . .
Tue Barrtep King... .

°

.

Common .

.

.

.

OF THE

Country AUCTIONEER

67

179
184



v1 CONTENTS.

A MAN wuo sCARED AN ARMY. . . .

Srory oF SIEGFRIED AND THE NIBELUNG HEROES

Tue Mystrerious ARCHITECT ... .
Perer THE Witp Boy. . .... .

Tur OLp GERMAN Docrok WHO FELL ALL TO PrEeces.

THe Youne Oreanist: A Mystery.
THE UNNERVED Hussar . .....
TuE Forrest BLACKSMITH. . . . . .
A Romance or Norru CAaroLina. . .
Tur Inpian PROPHET . . . . . «4
AN OLp WASHINGTON GHost Story .
THREE BALLS OF YARN

A Moprern SAMSON, WHOSE Hair GREW AGAIN

AN Escape From PIRATES

Tur Mysterious Sack; ox, Two BusHets or Corn.

ics *
Caprain Krpp’s Treasure; or, THE Man wHo sarp “Scat
9

A Romance THAT Lost AN Emprre. .
A Srrance Tabe.— Monrerey . .«

‘LHD GOURD IEE METS 2: cmreegs nape esas
Aw UNWELCOME SHIPMATE . . . .
Tue Massacre oF CHICAGO. . .. .
A Sap Story or PeTer THE GREAT.

Oup Aut Bepair’s Story or MARATHON

Sir Francis Drakr AND HIS Sure or GOLD.

THE GoLpEN SHIP, AND THE Farr Brick House rn Green LANE,

BOSONS cere aaa Rare este cknts

.

f 99
4

Pacu

190

912

lot
ce

tO 1
Or kh Ww oo
BONE

to bo
DH Ol
on

313
315
322
329
339
344
348



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

5 Pace
WGPRIGHTENED (CAPTAIN oes ow a Alia hee eva eronusptece
BEnre LOWER GHENTA fee Se ee a Sa, le a ee ia a 4
TH ISLE OF SDEMONS@ 6 iog soe re ley fal se eva an ubiree ase, Ss 17
Tae Gost of GREYLOCK 6 6 6 ee 8 8 ee ee ees 35
“A Srrance ForM APPEARED ON THE Deck” . . . se « . 41
THRO ULRISH GLANT ctilece otis an or bu let ise ac tela Miao allel oles 9 es 50
Tue MessaGE OF LIFE - - »> + + # 6 © © © © # #8 #8 57

TRE Oe i ee eee Ya hae Wa Sci pag cen pens ome unm
De Soro’s Expedition IN FLORIDA . . - + ee ee » 63

De Soro SEEING THE Mississippl ror THE Firsr Tim be fc Ace OE
BURTAL TOR DE SOLO. coo oe, ea oe oe eo ee ee tee ie! 3s 66
THE SPANISH CAVALIER Go. tice) ne GS ePost den cares eee ien Velnate 6s
Aunt Heart Detiant’s BEAU. «© 6 ee 8 ee ee ee 77
DEACON MoorRE’S HOUSE 606600 eee ee 82
Tur OL_p CuurcH IN CAMBRIDGE
SRL GEASU GED O Nira see eae nee eine om Sree eton er a mver Hienires.dkeisremny emus 98

.
.
°
Mm
a

TRB OVEEROMISHS en ieee oo ee toe Ge at iontd ey auemey aque sitasin ecant 104
ASIN Ee Vado TTA G Koa Be te ayo at eee Siem ns dcle(y nema leu Meucneineltie lll
COASTS SIA GE REO Rit Vite i icodenr minerals Se olimtee en 1 sta olive laser emu eh Miers sasoe 113
TIMELINES SING Bete a pate cues ae itiosat onciesah marodireuinsi aie mentecanh eh euate 117
Jerry FINDS THE Money-PoT . - + © + + © © © © © © 120
Tur Crapock Mansion, MEpFoRD . + - + 6 © # © fF 8 1.95
IAAL DD DANGER MEE De eee cae aio (ations Sarncomaihed Uieasaeniaein stonita es 130
MHEPINDEMNS DREW, NBAR se! oe ce) ete el ceiic eey tet ice 136
UBEYNG LR MaIA SMR 13 0 Vel adeno enaelnomiess rmigere IMs uiysmn tle ne 138
CONT CHET SUNTET ae AGES Tz Derren ees Nors re eet colts ey(cotarome etcnecmenulenmsn rns 144
Guerre Oe ie ee at oem e ne vareta yo lairocmtuopaatie! Wen deseo macho 147
TA Tere eT O Keun ern ote pe ats eo) corer oa scene ore gs satin 152
“THE DECIDED-ON AMPUTATION” © 6 6 8 5 8 ef 8 hos 154



vill LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

Pace
RECO Os US LAD = UE Mimic Coatamor ccm edie oy Aaya oma eect St napa UR veegior Meana]I) G
‘©THE NEXT MOMENT I WAS KNOCKED HEADLONG”’’?. . . . . . 160
“T esprep Two FrLasuinc Orps IN THE Higu Grass” . . . . 167
Tue Two Bears BROUGHT INTO CouRT. . . . . . .. . . 182
Tur BEARS RECOGNIZING THE GOLDSMITH. . . . . . . . . 188
SBHE SOA CKSS ORS VVCENE GE BAKING sectseenaention sare nce sie Unicna tio iin Crater OS)
LGA VINGSHISGARMOUBEHUN Di aiccsth ails irae Sxcgeincn Net iauee wince Nera pear eEeO
“Tie Son oF THE MASON APPEARED AND EXPLAINED THE Secret” 189
‘©QN HE RODE, AS FAST AS BEFORE, WITH THE TREE IN HIS Hann” 195
“PHE MUR DERSO RZ OTEGRR TED ites cece arees ce eet ape rae ae far en ee oases ees 2 (il
THE:-MYSTERIOUS ARCHITECT. 1.8 feo Ss Rees Beng a ee ee A205
REGERSTHES WILDS BONS serarn Soe ee ee ele emg ae ena ren 52 OO
‘Tue Marip HAD CHANGED HER Minn” .. .. ... . . 213
‘*Tue Docror EN DéSHABILLE” . . . . . . 3... » » « Q14
Tue Docror FOLLOWED BY THE BEAR... .. .. . . - 218
Tue Docror CHASED BY THE BEAR... . . . ee ee 219
“s You HAVE DECEIVED Mr!’ saip THE Bripe” . . . . . . 221
‘“««Tr DOES NOT SOUND,’ SAID THE ORGAN-BUILDER”’?. . . . «227
“ FRANCOIS SEIZED IT AND OPENED IT”. . . 2. 2 4 we ee 282
ELA DSUNNER VED REIUSSAR aeueig rete. earn ucabentu Skate OAL et 2 aint aOR D),
GORFE THE REGICIDE AT JELADLEYE es str cad sete es cys OAL
MAL PEROMINCERELOUSRbatir ert ieee eee eae aE oe ee OUD
MONT CNT Mea cgtect aesearatareann Semreete ene scree tres oh Se it Ginnie eer neeunee arto ()



ZIGZAG STORLES

HISTORY, TRAVEL, AND ADVENTURE.

THE HARMONY CHIME.

Many years ago, in a large iron foundry in the city of Ghent,
was found a young workman by the name of Otto Holstein.
He was not nineteen years of age, but none of the workmen
could equal him in his special department, — bell-casting or
moulding. Far and near the fame of Otto's bells extended, —
the clearest and sweetest, people said, that were ever heard.

Of course the great establishment of Von Erlangen, in which
Otto worked, got the credit of his labors; but Von Erlangen
and Otto himself knew very well to whom the superior tone of
the bells was due. The master did not pay him higher wages
than the others, but by degrees he grew to be general super-
intendent in his department in spite of his extreme youth.

“Yes, my bells are good,” he said to a friend one day, who
was commenting upon their merits; “but they do not make the
music I will yet strike from them. They ring alike for all
things. To be sure, when they toll for a funeral the slow
measure makes them seem mournful, but then the notes are
really the same as in a wedding peal. I shall make a chime of
bells that will sound at will every chord in the human soul.”

“Then wilt thou deal in magic,” said his friend, laughing;
“and the Holy Inquisition will have somewhat to do with thee.
No human power can turn a bell into a musical instrument.”



bo

ZIGZAG STORIES.

“But I can,” he answered briefly; “and, Inquisition or not,
I will do it.”

He turned abruptly from his friend and sauntered, lost in
thought, down the narrow street which led to his home. It
was an humble, red-tiled cottage, of only two rooms, that he
had inherited from his grandfather. There he lived alone with
his widowed mother. She was a mild, pleasant-faced woman,
and her eyes brightened as her son bent his tall head under the
low doorway, as he entered the little room. ‘Thou art late,
Otto,” she said, “and in trouble, too,” as she caught sight of
his grave, sad face. :

“Yes,” he answered.. ‘When I asked Herr Erlangen for
an increase of salary, for my work grows harder every day, he
refused it. Nay, he told me if I was not satisfied, I could leave,
for there were fifty men ready to take my place. Ready! yes,
I warrant they ’re ready enough, but to be able is a different
thing.”

His mother sighed deeply.

“Thou wilt not leave Herr Erlangen’s, surely. It is little
we get, but it keeps us in food.”

“T must leave,” he answered. “ Nay, do not cry out, mother !
I have other plans, and thou wilt not starve. Monsieur Day-
rolles, the rich Frenchman who lives in the Linden-Strasse,
has often asked me why I do not set up a foundry of my own.
Of course I laughed,—I, who never have a thaler to spend ;
but he told me he and several other rich friends of his would
advance the means to start me in business. He is a great deal
of his time at Erlangen’s, and is an enthusiast about fine bells.
Ah! we are great friends, and I am going to him after supper.”

“ People say he is crazy,” said his mother.

“Crazy!” indignantly. “ People say that of everybody who
has ideas they can’t understand. They say J am crazy when
I talk of my chime of bells. If I stay with Erlangen, he gets
the credit of my work; but my chime must be mine, — mine



THE HARMONY CHIME. 3

alone, mother.” His eyes lighted with a kind of wild enthusi-
asm whenever he talked on this subject.

His mother’s cheerful face grew sad, as she laid her hand on
his shoulder.

“Why, Otto, thou art not thyself when thou speakest of
those bells.”

“More my real self, mother, than at any other time!” he
cried. “I only truly live when I think of how my idea is to be
carried out. It is to be my life’s work; I know it, I feel it.
It is upon me that my fate is woven inextricably in that ideal
chime. Itis God-sent. No great work, but the maker is pos-
sessed wholly by it. Don’t shake your head, mother. Wait
till my ‘Harmony Chime’ sounds from the great cathedral
belfry, and then shake it if you can.”

His mother smiled faintly.

“Thou art a boy, —a mere child, Otto, though a wonderful
genius, I must confess. Thy hopes delude thee, for it would
take a lifetime to carry out thine idea.”

“Then let it take a lifetime!” he cried out vehemently.
“Let me accomplish it when I am too old to hear it distinctly,
and I will be content that its first sounds toll my dirge. I
must go now to Monsieur Dayrolles. Wish me good luck,
dearest mother.” And he stooped and kissed her tenderly.

Otto did not fail. The strange old man in his visits to the
foundry had noticed the germs of genius in the boy, and grown
very fond of him. He was so frank, so honest, so devoted to
his work, and had accomplished so much at his early age, that
Monsieur Dayrolles saw a brilliant future before him. Besides,
the old gentleman, with a Frenchman’s vanity, felt that if the
“Harmony Chime” could be made, the name of the munificent
patron would go down to posterity with that of the maker. He
believed firmly that the boy would some day accomplish his
purpose. So, although the revolt of the Netherlands had be-
gun and he was preparing to return to his own country, he



4 ZIGZAG STORIES.

advanced the necessary funds, and saw Otto established in

business before he quitted Ghent.

In a very short time work poured in upon Otto. During
that long and terrible war the manufacture of cannon alone

made the fortunes of the workers in iron.























































































































































































































































BELL-TOWER, GHENT.



So five years from
the time he left
Von Erlangen we
find Otto Holstein
a rich man at
twenty-four years
of age. But the
idea for which he
labored had never
for a moment left
his mind. Sleep-
ing or waking, toil-
ing or resting, his
thoughts were busy
perfecting the de-
tails of the great
work.

“Thouart twenty-
four to-day, Otto,”
said his good
mother, “and rich
beyond our hopes,
When wilt thou
bring Gertrude
home tome? Thou
hast been betrothed

now for three years, and I want a daughter to comfort my
declining years. Thou doest thy betrothed maiden a grievous
wrong to delay without cause. The gossips are talking already.”

“Let them talk,” laughed Otto. “Little do Gertrude or I



THE HARMONY CHIME. 5

care for their silly tongues. She and I have agreed that the
* Harmony Chime’ is to usher in our marriage-day.. Why, good
mother, no man can serve two mistresses, and my chime has
the oldest claim. Let me accomplish it, and then the remainder
of my life belongs to Gertrude, and thou, too, best of mothers.”

“Still that dream! still that dream!” sighed his mother.
* Thou hast cast bell after bell, and until to-day 1 have heard
nothing more of the wild idea.”

‘No, because I needed money. I needed time, and thought,
too, to make experiments. All is matured now. I have re-
ceived an order to make a new set of bells for the great cathe-
dral that was sacked last week by the ‘Iconoclasts,’ and I begin
to-morrow.”

As Otto had said, his life’s work began the next day. He
loved his mother, but he seemed now to forget her in the fever-
ish eagerness with which he threw himself into his labors. He
had been a devoted lover to Gertrude, but he now never had
a spare moment to give to her, —in fact, he only seemed to
remember her existence in connection with the peal which
would ring in their wedding-day. His labors were prolonged
far over the appointed time, and meanwhile the internal’ war
raged more furiously, and the Netherlands were one vast battle-
field. No interest did Otto seem to take in the stirring events
around him. The bells held his whole existence captive.

At last the moulds were broken, and the bells came out of
their husks perfect in form, and shining as stars in Otto’s happy
eyes. They were mounted in the great belfry, and for the
test-chime Otto had employed the best bell-ringers in the city.

It was a lovely May morning; and, almost crazed with ex-
citement and anxiety, Otto, accompanied by a few chosen
friends, waited outside the city for the first notes of the Har-
mony Chime. At some distance he thought he could better
judge,of the merits of his work.

At last the first notes were struck, clear, sonorous, and so



6 ZIGZAG STORIES.

melodious that his friends cried aloud with delight. But with
finger upraised for silence, and eyes full of ecstatic delight,
Otto stood like a statue until the last note died away. Then
his friends caught him as he fell forward in a swoon, —a swoon
so like death that no one thought he would recover.

But it was not death, and he came out of it with a look of
serene peace on his face that it had not worn since boyhood. He
was married to Gertrude that very day, but every one noticed that
the ecstasy which transfigured his face seemed to be drawn more
from the sound of the bells than the sweet face beside him.

* Don’t you see a spell is cast on him as soon as they begin
to ring?” said one, after the bells had ceased to be a wonder.
“If he is walking, he stops short, and if he is working, the
work drops anda strange fire comes in his eyes; and I have
seen him shudder all over as if he had an ague.”

In good truth, the bells seemed to have drawn a portion of
Otto’s life to them. When the incursions of the war forced
him to fly from Ghent with his family, his regrets were not for
his injured property, but that he could not hear the bells.

He was absent two years, and when he returned it was to
find the cathedral almost a ruin, and the bells gone no one knew
where. From that moment a settled melancholy took possession
of Otto. He made no attempt to retrieve his losses; in fact,
he gave up work altogether, and would sit all day with his eyes
fixed on the ruined belfry.

People said he was melancholy mad, and I suppose it was the
truth; but he was mad with a kind of gentle patience very sad
to see. His mother had died during their exile, and now his
wife, unable with all her love to rouse him from his torpor,
faded slowly away. He did not notice her sickness, and his
poor numbed brain seemed imperfectly to comprehend her
death. But he followed her to the grave, and turning from it
moved slowly down the city, passed the door of his old home
without looking at it, and went out of the city gates.



THE WARMONY CHIME. ri

After that he was seen in every city in Europe at different
intervals. Charitable people gave him alms, but he never
begged. He would enter a town, take his station near a church
and wait until the bells rang for matins or vespers, then take
up his staff and, sighing deeply, move off. People noting the
wistful look in his eyes would ask him what he wanted.

“JT am seeking, —I am seeking,” was his only reply; and
those were almost the only words any one ever heard from him,
and he muttered them often to himself. Years rolled over the
head of the wanderer, but still his slow march from town to
town continued. His hair had grown white, and his strength
failed him so much that he only tottered instead of walked, but
still that wistful seeking look was in his eyes.

He heard the old bells on the Rhine in his wanderings. He
lingered long near the belfries of the sweetest voices; but their
melodious tongues only spoke to him of his lost hope.

He left the river of sweet bells, and made a pilgrimage to
England. Jt was the days of cathedrals in their beauty and
glory, and here he again heard the tones that he loved, but
which failed to realize his own ideal.

When a person fails to fulfil his ideal, his whole life seems a
failure, —like something glorious and beautiful one meets and
loses, and never again finds.

“ Be true to the dreams of thy youth,” says a German author;
and every soul is unhappy until the dreams of youth prove true.

One glorious evening in midsummer Otto was crossing a
viver in Ireland. The kind-hearted boatman had been moved
by the old man’s imploring gestures to cross him. ‘“He’s
mighty nigh his end, anyhow,” he muttered looking at the
feeble movements of the old pilgrim as he stumbled to his seat.

Suddenly through the still evening air came the distant
sound of a melodious chime. At the first note the pilgrim
leaped to his feet and threw up his arms.

“O my God,” he cried, “ found at last!”



8 ZIGZAG STORIES.

“Tt’s the bells of the Convent,” said the wondering man,
not understanding Otto’s words spoken in a foreign tongue,
but answering his gesture. “They was brought from some-
where in Holland when they were fighting there. Moighty
find bells they are, anyhow. But he isn’t listening to me.”

No, he heard nothing but the bells. He merely whispered,
“Come back to me after so many years, —O love of my soul,
O thought of my life! Peal on, for your voices tell me of
Paradise.”

The last note floated through the air, and as it died away
something else soared aloft forever, free from the clouds and
struggles of life.

His ideal was fulfilled now. Otto lay dead, his face full of
peace and joy, for the weary quest of his crazy brain was over,
and the Harmony Chime had called him to his eternal rest.

And, past that change of life that men call Death, we may
well believe that he heard in the ascension to the celestial
atmosphere the ringing of welcoming bells more beautiful than
the Harmony Chime.

THE BELL-FOUNDER OF .BRESLAU.

THERE once lived in Breslau a famous bell-founder, the fame
of whose skill caused his bells to be placed in many German
towers.

He had an ambition to cast one bell that would surpass all
others in purity of tone, and that should render his own name
immortal.

He was required to cast a bell for the Magdalen Church
tower of that city of noble churches, — Breslau. He felt that
this was opportunity for his masterpiece. All of his thoughts
centred on the Magdalen bell.



THE BELL-FOUNDER OF BRESLAU. 9

After a long period of preparation, his metals were arranged
for use. The form was walled up and made steady; the melt-
ing of the metals in the great bell-kettle had begun.

The old bell-founder had two faults which had grown upon
him, — a love of ale and a fiery temper.

While the metals were heating in the kettle, he said to his
fire-watch, a little boy, —

“Tend the kettle for a moment; I am overwrought: I must
go over to the inn, and take my ale, and nerve me for the casting.

“But, boy,” he added, “touch not the stopple; if you do,
you shall rue it. That bell is my life, I have put all I have
learned in life into it. If any man were to touch that stopple,
I would strike him dead.”

The boy had an over-sensitive, nervous temperament. He
was easily excited, and was subject to impulses that he could
not easily control.

The command that he should not touch the stopple, under the
dreadful penalty, strongly affected his mind, and made him
wish to do the very thing he had been forbidden.

He watched the metal in the great kettle. It bubbled, bil-
lowed, and ran to and fro. In the composition of the glowing
mass he knew that his master had put his heart and soul.

It would be a bold thing to touch the stopple, — adventurous.
His hand began to move towards it.

The evil impulse grew, and his hand moved on.

He touched the stopple. The impulse was a wild passion
now, — he turned it.

Then his mind grew dark; he was filled with horror. He
ran to his master.

“T have turned the stopple; I could not help it,” he said.
“The Devil tempted me!”

The old bell-founder clasped his hands and looked upward in
agony. Then his temper flashed over him. He seized his knife,
and stabbed the boy to the heart.



10 ZIGZAG STORIES.

He rushed back to the foundry, hoping to stay the stream.
He found the metal whole; the turning of the stopple had not
caused the metal to flow.

The boy lay dead on the ground.

The old bell-founder knew the consequences of his act, and
he did not seek to escape them. He cast the bell; then he
went to the magistrates, and said, —

“My work is done; but Iam a murderer. Do with me as
you will.”

The trial was short; it greatly excited the city. The judges
could not do otherwise than sentence him to death. But as he
was penitent, he was promised that on the day of his execution
he should receive the offices and consolations of the Church.

“You are good,” he said. “But grant me another favor.
My bells will delight many ears when I am gone; my soul is in
them; grant me another favor.”

‘Name it,” said the judges.

“ That I may hear the sound of my new bell before I die.”

The judges consulted, and answered, —

“Tt shall toll for your execution.”

The fatal day came.

Toll, toll, toll!

There was a sadness in the tone of the bell that touched every
heart in Breslau. The bell seemed human.

Toll, toll, toll!

How melodious! how perfect! how beautiful! The very air
seemed charmed! The years would come and go, and this bell
would be the tongue of Breslau !

The old man came forth. He had forgotten his fate in listen-
ing to the bell. The heavy clang was so melodious that it filled
his heart with joy.

“That is it! that is it; my heart, my life!” he said. “I
know all the metals; I made the voice! Ring on, ring on for-
ever! Ring in holy days, and happy festivals, and joy eternal
to Breslau.”



A FRIGHTENED CAPTAIN. 11

Toll, toll, toll!

On passed the white-haired man, listening still to the call of
the bell that summoned him to death.

He bowed his head at the place of execution to meet the
stroke just as the last tone of the bell melted upon the air. His
soul passed amid the silvery echoes. The bell rings on.

A FRIGHTENED CAPTAIN.

IT oncé heard a story of a company of Home Guards in a
Kentucky town. They met for parade under a pompous and
ambitious captain. The object of the organization was to pro-
tect the town from Morgan’s bands of foragers.

“Shoulder arms!” said he, imperiously. “ Ground arms!”
as loftily.

A negro appeared leaping into the parade ground, out of
breath, but swinging his hat.

“ Morgan — is — coming,” he stammered.

The captain gave one glance at his company, and shouted,
“Break ranks!” and break ranks they did, each seeking his
own safety.

It is a somewhat similar story that I find in the entertaining
book of which I have spoken.

William Johnson was one of the so-called order of the “ Lib-
erators of Canada.” A provisional government had been formed,
and he had been appointed Commander of the Fleet.

On the night of the 29th of May, 1838, says Chapin, the
English passenger steamer “Sir Robert Peel.” while on a trip
up the river, stopped at a wooding-station on Wells’ Island,
near the head of the stream; here it was boarded by Johnson,
at the head of a score or more of well-armed men, disguised in
Indian costume, who at once proceeded to put the passengers



12 ZIGZAG STORIES.

and crew, about forty in number, ashore, and then to fire the
boat, which was soon burned to the water’s edge. This act of
hostility towards one government and the violation of the neu-
trality of the other was productive of great excitement; a
reward was offered by the Governor of the State of New York
for his apprehension, and strenuous efforts were made by the
British military authorities to effect his capture.

When closely pursued, Johnson had a secret place of retreat,
that for a long time served as a place of concealment, and the
knowledge of the locality of which was known but to himself
and a few of his most trusted confederates. This was a cavern
upon one of the almost innumerable islands of the archipelago
of the river, sufficiently capacious to serve as a place of resi-
dence and concealment for a score of men, and whose entrance
it was very difficult for one not acquainted with the spot to
discover.

Stimulated by the rewards offered, or by a desire to gain the
plaudits that the consummation of the act would secure, as well
as probable promotion, a young and daring English officer,
Captain Boyd, then in Canada, but unattached, undertook the
project of effecting the capture of Johnson, and proceeded in a
cautious and systematic manner that promised success, if that
was possible.

Enlisting half a score of trusty men, to but a couple of whom,
however, he intrusted the secret of his mission, he quietly
started out upon a cruise among the islands in a yacht, under
the guise of a sportsman. This gave him sufficient excuse for
going well armed. Fortune at length rewarded the persever-
ance of Captain Boyd; and the secret of the outlaw’s retreat
was disclosed to him, as is believed, by one of Johnson’s band,
to whom a few gold pieces proved a stronger incentive than the
oath of fidelity given to his leader. He also became cognizant
of the fact that the disturber of the peace was sojourning at the
cave, accompanied by but half a dozen followers ; and by watch-



A FRIGHTENED CAPTAIN. 13

ing the opportunity Captain Boyd was enabled not only to sur-
prise him when there was but a single follower with him, but to
effect an entrance to the cavern unopposed, backed by his men,
who with presented rifles covered the two inmates.

The insurgent leader could not but manifest some trepidation
at first at this very unexpected intrusion, but almost at once
recovered his presence of mind, and in a firm voice demanded :

“Who are you? What means this?”

“Tam Captain Boyd, of the English Army, and you are my
prisoner!” was the prompt reply.

“Well, Captain, I will not dispute you,” returned Johnson,
coolly; “but come in, and we will talk the matter over.”

As he spoke, he pointed to a seat upon a kee at one side of
the cavern, which apartment was of about ten feet in width by
something less than forty in length.

The captain accepted the proffered seat, and at a glance sur-
veyed the strange room. The view that it presented was in
keeping with the character and pursuits of those whose home
it was. Rifles, powder-flasks, and bullet-pouches adorned the
walls; at the further end were couches formed of branches of
evergreens covered with blankets; at one side was a rude fire-
place, the smoke from which found its way upward through
a crevice in the rocks above, while the place was lighted by
day by the aperture of a hollow tree-trunk sunk through the
roof so skilfully that upon the outside it appeared to have
grown. there. ‘

The others remained at the entrance, with rifles held ready
to answer any possible demonstration on the part of the two
prisoners.

“It is a rule,’ resumed Johnson, as he took a bottle from
a shelf in the rock, “that all persons who visit Fort Wallace
shall partake of its hospitalities. We are plain people here,
and have no use for the luxuries of life, among which we rank
glasses ; so be kind enough to partake from the bottle.”



14 ZIGZAG STORIES.

The captain, astonished at and admiring the coolness of his
captive, courteously accepted it, and placed it to his lips ; but,
fearful of some ruse, permitted none of the drink to pass
them.

“ Your friends,” said Johnson, ‘ will they not partake?”

“No, thanks,” returned the captain, smiling involuntarily ;
“not upon this occasion!”

“ We have a little business to transact, and I suppose that you
are impatient, and that the subject is open for remark. To
commence, what do you wish of me?”

“To accompany me at once.”

“To what place, permit me to inquire?” and as he asked
this he seated himself upon the head of a barrel opposite to the
captain.

“To whatever place we may choose to convey you.”

“To Kingston, perhaps?”

“Quite likely.”

The captive appeared to reflect for a moment; then he
walked toward the fireplace and took from one of his pockets
a pipe.

“ No objections to my smoking, I suppose?” he inquired.

“None at all.”

The outlaw calmly proceeded to fill the pipe; then he took
from the embers a large coal and placed it upon it, and, return-
ing to his seat upon the barrel, proceeded to give a couple of
invigorating whiffs.

“Come,” spoke the captain, “I cannot delay longer; you
must come at once.”

Johnson calmly removed the pipe from his lips and held it
in his hand.

“T object to accompanying you to Kingston,” he said. “ This
barrel,” he continued, with a meaning glance, as he observed
the expression of surprise upon the countenance of the other,
and removed one of the boards of the lid, “contains powder ;



A FRIGHTENED CAPTAIN. 15

and this,” as he held the pipe over it, “is a coal! Shall we
make the journey?”

Brave as he was, it is feared that the adventurous captain,
as he quickly comprehended the situation, paled a little, while
his followers made a rapid movement toward the entrance of
the cavern, and sought safety in flight, save a couple, more
valiant than the rest, who remained at the door to keep John-
son and his single follower covered with their pieces.

A pause succeeded, — an unpleasant one for all, since a spark
from the coal, or the coal itself, was momentarily liable to fall
into the barrel of powder and usher them into eternity without
further warning.

Johnson was the first to speak. ‘You should have known,
Captain,” he said, “ that William Johnson could never be taken
alive; now we can treat on equal terms, —a life for a life, if
you so decide!”

“J confess myself beaten,” commenced the captain, rising as
he spoke.

“Keep your seat!” thundered Johnson, handling the pipe
menacingly.

The captain resumed his place upon the keg.

“ Now I will listen to you,” said the outlaw.

“I was about to say that I was willing to confess myself
beaten, and propose that we call this a draw, — we depart, and
you remain in peace.”

“That is satisfactory,” rejoined the other, “but hold a mo-
ment— Here, Sam,” addressing his follower, who stood a few
yards off, “hand me a coal from the fire.”

The man silently obeyed. Johnson received it, while the
others watched him apprehensively, and placed it upon the head
of the barrel, a few inches from the powder, where it gleamed
with vindictive brightness. “The pipe is in danger of going
out,” he said, in explanation, “and I wish to keep another in
readiness. Now, to continue, my terms are that you not only







16 ZIGZAG STORIES.

depart in peace, but that you give me your word of honor that
you will not again attempt to molest me in any manner unless
you should be called upon to do so in self-defence, — that you
will not disclose the secret of this retreat to any one, and that
you will require the same pledge from each of all your men.”

“T agree to them,” said the captain, promptly.

«And give me your oath upon it?” said Johnson.

“I do, upon the honor of an officer of the English army; and
now I suppose that we may depart?”

The captain, rising, left the cavern as soon as consistent with
official dignity, preceded by the two men who had remained at
the entrance. The remainder of the party were found a short
distance away, and, re-entering their boat, they took speedy
departure.

They were quickly followed from the cave by Johnson and
his follower, rifles in hand, who, somewhat distrustful in
regard to the good faith of their late captors, hurried to a spot
on the island whence such of their companions as were in the
vicinity could be summoned by signal to hasten at once to the
rendezvous.

The signal had hardly been displayed, andthe boat of Cap-
tain Boyd had not disappeared behind the nearest island, when
there was heard a loud explosion. The cavern was blown up.

THE LEGEND OF MARGUERITE AND THE
ISLE OF DEMONS.

BELLE IsLe and the Isle of Demons! The old French
voyagers and explorers welcomed the one and shunned the other.
Among the most thrilling tales told in the halls of French
noblemen was that of the Isle of the Devils, situated in the
tossing sea on the north of the New-Found-Land.



LEGEND OF MARGUERITE AND THE ISLE OF DEMONS. 17

The island lay as it were at the portal of the unknown
world, —a world of stupendous boundaries and resources, of
red nations and plumed chiefs, of cloud-swept mountains and
mighty water-courses. In the bosom of almost limitless forests
were sequestered clans. In the south were lands of perpetual
summer, festive peoples, and palaces of gold.

A NEAT
\ \\

AN ANS
SN



THE ISLE OF DEMONS.

The shores of Labrador and of Anticosti were dark and
gloomy, even in midsummer. Strange wild birds made their
nests there. The old explorers believed that they saw griffins
there, — great beasts that flew in the air, and that might bear

away a sailor from one of their ships.
2



18 ZIGZAG STORIES.

But the Isle of Demons was the satanic world. The island
has been known in recent geography and history under various
names, as Fishot, Thevet, Isle de Roberval. A very ancient
map gives a picture of the supposed inhabitants, — curious peo-
ple indeed, having wings, horus, and tas.

The woods were believed to be haunted. The principal
occupation of the interesting inhabitants of the island or islands,
who are depicted with heads, horns, and arms having wings,
seems to have been howling. These howlings were thought to
fill all the near regions of the seas.

“True it is,” says an old adventurer, — “and I myself have
heard it, not from one, but from a great number of sailors and
pilots with whom I have made voyages, —that when they
passed this way they heard in the air, on the tops of the masts
and about them, a great clamor of voices, like a crowd in a
market-place. Then they knew that the Isle of Demons was
not far away.”

The same sounds, it is said, may be heard near the island
to-day ; but the most superstitious sailor would not think of
attributing them to anything but the peculiar winds and cur-
rents of the air. The wildness of the sea and the mournful-
ness of the winds have not changed; but the world has grown
in intelligence, and in the light of science the demons, like
the griffins, have disappeared from the imaginations of the toilers
around the Banks.

There was a certain voyager, a nobleman of Picardy, known
in history as Sieur de Roberval. He was made a viceroy of
New France about the year 1542. He might as well have been
made viceroy of the air or the sea; but his titles in this new
capacity surpassed in pompous words those of any nobleman
in France. He was Lord of Norembega, Lieutenant-General
of Canada, and Viceroy of Canada, Hochelaga, Saguenay,
Newfoundland, Labrador, and other places of equal space on
paper. He was a man of hard heart; the best place for him



LEGEND OF MARGUERITE AND THE ISLE OF DEMONS. 19

would have been on the desolate Isle of Demons, which came
at last to bear his name.

He sailed out of the sunny harbor of Rochelle, in April, 1642,
having three ships and two hundred colonists, bound for the St.
Lawrence. In June he entered the harbor of St. John.

Among the passengers was a niece of Roberval, a young lady
of wonderful beauty, who was called Marguerite. She had
been loved, in the bright province whence she came, by a gen-
tleman who was ill-regarded by Roberval. When this gentle-
man found that her uncle was resolved to take her to the new
world, he also joined the expedition, determined like a true
lover to share the perils, fortunes, and fate of the lovely
Marguerite.

Out of the Bay of Biscay, on their way to the wonderful,
regions of the west, the lovers renewed their interviews, and
seemed to have little thought or care but for each other's
society. Roberval discovered the renewed affection with anger.

“T will leave you, Marguerite,” he said, “to die on the
Isle of Demons.”

«And I will share your fate,” whispered her lover in her
ear.

The attachment continued. The ship was moving north
toward the haunted isle. Winds began to whistle about the
tops of the masts, and the sounds were believed to be evil
spirits’ voices. Marguerite believed the superstition, and she
knew the fate that awaited her, and .began to pray to the
Virgin, who she thought would espouse her cause and shield
her from the dark spirits of the air.

The ship on which were Roberval and Marguerite drew near
the wild island. one summer day. Roberval cast anchor, and
compelled Marguerite to land, giving her, as a parting portion,
a certain amount of arms and provisions and an old Norman
nurse for an attendant.

Roberval had resolved to sail away in the fogs and shadows,



20 ZIGZAG STORIES.

and to take with him Marguerite’s lover for future revenges.
He was delighting in his power over the crushed Marguerite,
as she stood weeping on the windy shore, when a man leaped
overboard, and was lost in the foaming surf. He rose again, at
a point near the shore. The sailors and emigrants looked upon
the sea and rocks in dumb astonishment. The fugitive reached
the shore and joined Marguerite, and the three fled into the
piny forests whence no Frenchman or Indian would have dared
to pursue them. The fugitive was the lover of Marguerite.

The exiles built them a cabin overlooking the restless sea.
They heard the north winds in the pine tops at night, and
thought them the voices of demons. When the storms were
gathering the voices were fearful. Then the beautiful Mar-

guerite would kneel and pray to the Virgin.

Marguerite’s faith in the Virgin was her comfort now, and
that of her lover and companion. When the demons came to
destroy them, as the exiles fancied they often did as they heard
the winds and the howlings of beasts of prey, Marguerite
looked upward to the Virgin, and thought she saw a white
hand stretch out above her. Then all was peace.

The exiles gathered eggs and berries in summer, and nuts
in autumn. The woods were filled with game, and the sea
with fish; and they laid in a good supply of food for the winter.

The winter came. They had watched the sea for a sail, but
none had appeared. Strange gaunt-looking animals began to
prowl about the cabin, such as they had never seen in France.
They believed them to be demons.

When the howlings of these animals became fearful at night,
Marguerite would pray, and she would see the white hand; and
then the exiles would rest in peace and comfort.

Over Marguerite’s prayers, as she believed, dropped the
white hand of the Virgin like a heavenly lily, and the heaven
of her heart shone serenely over the wild skies and demon-
haunted islands and seas.



LEGEND OF MARGUERITE AND THE ISLE OF DEMONS. 21

Winter vanished. The soft spring came. The June roses
bloomed. A child was born to Marguerite. They were four
now, —five, if one could believe Marguerite’s own narrative of
the presence of the Virgin.

The hardships of the winter had broken the health of the
follower of her strange fortunes, and he did not have that faith
in the white hand that made Marguerite so strong and hopeful.
He grew thin, and, consumed by fevers, died in the summer
time, craving life for the sake of the mother and child.

The old Norman nurse and Marguerite made his grave where
they could watch it and guard it from the beasts and demons.
The burial was such as has seldom been seen, — two women
and the infant stood above the coffinless body, and the old
nurse wrung her hands, and the mother repeated the ancient
prayers. The beasts prowled around the cabin, the mysterious
voices were heard in the air; but Marguerite still trusted and
prayed, and looked hopefully out on the empty sea, and still
dreamed that she saw the white hand of the Virgin.

The child died. The grave was made beside the father’s.
The mourners were two.

The old Norman nurse died. There was but one to dig the
grave and one mourner now.

Marguerite was alone — alone, as she believed, with the
demons. But as often as they came, she prayed, and as often
the fancied white hand appeared.

Bears prowled around the cabin and tried to enter. She
thought them monsters. She says that she killed three that
were white.

She watched the three graves and the helpless sea. She again
saw the snows melt, and the birds return from the suns of the
south.

One day she saw afar a speck on the water. It was the boat
of some fishermen. She kindled fires and fed them. The boat-
men saw them, and came to the island. They carried Mar
guerite away.



22 ZIGZAG STORIES.

She returned to France and told her melancholy story to her
courtly friends, who welcomed her back. She died in peace,
led to Paradise, as she doubtless believed, by the white hand in
which she had trusted in her forest cabin,

What was the fate of Roberval ?

The Canadian winter followed him. With it came famine to
the colony, then pestilence. But misfortunes and disasters only
seryed to harden his heart. He governed with an iron hand.
He hung six men in one day; the whipping-post was kept in
constant use ; he banished some who displeased him to desolate
islands; others he put in fetters. The colony came to speedy
ruin. Roberval returned to France overwhelmed with his
calamities, even before poor Marguerite found her way back
over the sea.

Still ‘he retained the favor of the Court.

Years: passed. One night there was a murder near the
Chureh of the Innocents in the heart of Paris. The tragedy
sent a thrill of excitement through the streets. The dying
victim saw no white hand in the gathering shadows of death.
There was a red hand in his dreams; he must have felt the end
was but the fruit of his own deeds, the result of his own exam-
ple and conduct, whatever may have been the immediate cause
or whoever may have struck the blow. Tt was Roberval.

JUST ONCE MORE.

Iv was a cold night in January. Late in the afternoon the
snow had begun to fall, and now a sharp, cutting wind was
rapidly rising. The streets of M were all deserted, save by
those whom necessity forced to brave the blinding storm ; and
quiet would have reigned supreme throughout the town but for
the ceaseless roar of the ocean as it came rushing up the beach,





JUST ONCE MORE. 23

tossing sprays of white foam far up into the dark sky, and then
slowly retracing its way with a sullen moan.

The soft, ruddy light that shone through the large French
plate windows of Gilbert’s saloon suggested the warmth and
comfort within. Before the door of this saloon a young man
was standing, battling with his conscience. He remembered his
old promise to his mother never again to enter a gambling-
hall, but to-night the desire to try his luck just once more was
greater than he could resist. Just then a man opened the door,
and a merry peal of laughter was borne out into the storm.
That peal of laughter decided the contest for Fred Ashton ; and
stifling the small voice that was still pleading with his better
self, he pushed by the man in the door, hurried through the
outer saloon, and entered the room at the back.

“ Halloo, Ashton,” cried one of the men, “did you snow
down?” “17d begun to think you’d deserted your old friends
altogether,” said another, looking up from his cards. ‘Sit
down and make your miserable life more so,” said a third.
“ Better have a glass of something to warm you up,” said a
fourth. Fred drew a plush easy-chair up to the table, sat down,
and taking the wine, held it up to the light. How it foamed
and sparkled! He threw his head back against the soft cushion
of his chair and leisurely drained the glass. As he placed it on
the table, a voice from the other side cried out, ‘* Well, Ill be
bound if you haven’t beat me again, stranger.”

The speaker rose, and noticing Fred for the first time, came
round and gave his hand a hearty shake, saying, as he did so,
“ Why, Ashton, you’re just the fellow I wanted to see. Come,
have a game with this man; he’s beat me twice, but you’re
pretty good at cards, I believe.”

Mr. Leighton, the man in question, was about fifty years old.
He had sharp, irregular features and large gray eyes that seemed
keen enough to read one’s very thoughts. Fred put up a hun-
dred dollars against two, and soon both men were deep in the



24 ZIGZAG STORIES.

game. Fortune seemed to be on the side of Leighton, however,
and he won. In the second game Fred put up two hundred
dollars against three; but Leighton’s good fortune still contin-
ued, and Fred lost that also.

Fred began to grow excited, but his companion was quite
caln. *‘ Better try once more,” he said encouragingly. “ Sup-
pose you win, as you have a fair chance of doing, then we’d be
square, you know.” “Go ahead, Ashton; put up three hun-
ved dollars, — that ‘ll just cover the debt,” said some of the
men. “ All right, then, here goes,” Fred replied, as he finished
another glass of wine. Mr. Leighton was a professional gam-
bler. He understood cards perfectly, knew when and where to
cheat, and just how to do it. During the first part of the game
he laughed and jested a good deal, and played rather indiffer-
ently. Fred was fast getting the upper hands of the game.
His spirits rose, and he called for more wine. He was almost
sure of winning, when suddenly Mr. Leighton held up a card,
exclaiming, ‘ Well, well, well! ”

Fred Ashton sank back in his chair and closed his eyes as if
trying to shut out the terrible truth. “Iam ruined, ruined,”
he said with a groan. “ And I,” replied Leighton, looking at his
watch, and mimicking the young man’s despairing tone, “am
too late for the eleven o’clock train.” Fred rose from his chair,
mechanically put on his coat and hat, and was about to leave
the room, when Leighton came up to him. “I’m very sorry to
trouble you, young man,” he said; “ but I’m in a great hurry
for that money. I have some bills to meet next week, and
must have it by that time without fail.” So saying, he puta
small card into his hand, and walked away.

Once more in the open air, the intense cold revived his heavy
brain, and Fred was able to think clearly. There was only one
thing left. He could not pay the debt, and he would never go
to prison. With a mighty effort he crushed the voice that
reminded him of the money his employer had put in his safe the



JUST ONCE MORE. 25

day before. “He trusts me, and I will never betray that trust,”
he said to himself. He walked rapidly to the beach, and going
to the farther end of a covered pier that extended from the back
of one of the summer hotels, stood gazing into the water. “ My
life is all I have, and that’s not worth living,” he said, speaking
aloud, and with a strange ring in his voice. For a moment the
sea was still, as if it were aghast at the awful deed it was about
to witness.

The night was very dark, and in his excitement Fred did not
notice a tall man, who stood near him. He seized the railing,
and was preparing to make the fatal plunge when a firm hand
grasped his arm, and a deep voice close to his ear said, * Your
life is not your own to keep or throw away as may suit your
convenience. It is given to you for a divine purpose, and some
day you will be called upon to render up an account of it to the
Giver.” It would take too long to relate all that passed between
Fred Ashton and his rescuer. They went back to the hotel and
occupied the same room for the rest of the night.

Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore were sitting before a bright wood fire
in the handsomely furnished parlor of their residence on Chest-
nut Street. “Ido not know why,” Mr. Dinsmore was saying,
“but somehow my heart went out to the boy, he seemed to be
so utterly alone in the world.”

“You did just right, my dear,” said Mis. Dinsmore.“ T have
a noble husband, and I am proud of him. If our Harry had
lived,” she added gently, “he might have been led astray too.”

“T can hardly see how a boy with such a mother to care for
and advise him could be led astray,” said her husband. ‘“T tell
you what,” he exclaimed after a pause, during which he had
been gazing thoughtfully into the fire, “this is a hard world for
a boy without a mother. The home influence is everything. I
have had a long talk with young Ashton.” he continued, “and I
hope with some assistance and a good deal of encouragement to
make a man of him after all.”

%



Lo

6 ZIGZAG STORIES.

Mr. Dinsmore has long since given up the management of his
business, but it is faithfully carried on by Fred Ashton, who has
become one of the most upright and honorable of men. The
saloon and gambling-hall no longer hold out any inducements
for him; but after the day is over, he lays aside the cares of
business for the rest and quiet of a happy home, where a loving
wife and three merry children wait to welcome him.

THE GHOST OF GREYLOCK.

Tr was a clear evening late in December. I recall it well,
though I was a boy then. A gold star was shining in the fad-
ing crimson over the old New England town near Greylock like
a lamp in a chapel window. The woodland pastures were pur-
ple with gentians, red with cranberries, and yellow with frost-
smitten ferns. The still air echoed from the russet hills the call
of the chove-boy. The wains were rumbling home on the leaf-
less country roads. Stacks of corn-husks were rising here and
there, after late hours’ husking; and now and then a supper-
horn was blown from the door of some red farmhouses among
the orchards, far and near.

Over the country road, between the sunset and moonrise,
John Ladd, a farmer boy, was driving home a team of pump-
kins and shocks of stalks. These stalks were cut late in sum-
mer, and gathered into small bundles. The bundles were
themselves gathered into shocks, and these shocks were so tied
as to form a compact body about five or six feet high. A shock
of stalks in the evening resembled the form of a woman, or the
old-fashioned costume of a lady in short waist and large hoops.

In bringing home the pumpkins from the fields of corn in
which they commonly grew, it was a custom to load a few
shocks of stalks upon them, and to cover the pumpkins with



THE GHOST OF GREYLOCK. O

them in the barn cellar, or on the barn floor, as a protection
from the cold.

Johnny Ladd had learned a new tune, a very popular one at
that time, and he was one of those persons who are haunted by
the musical ear. Everybody was singing this new tune. The
tune was called, “ There’s a sound going forth from the mul-
berry trees,” and the words were very mysterious and sublime,
being taken, in part, from the inspirations of the old Hebrew
poets.

Johnny made the old woods ring with the new tune, —

“ What joyful sound is this I hear,
Fresh from the mulberry tops! ”’

A new tune turns the head of an impressionist, especially
when associated with such grand, poetic images as these; and
while Johnny’s voice was being echoed by old Greylock, the
boy lost his sense of sublunary things, and one of the bundles
of stalks tumbled off the load and landed in the middle of the
road without his notice, and stood there upright, looking like
the form of a woman at a little distance away in the dark. In
slipping from the load the shock had bent a few sheaves upward
on-one side; so it presented the appearance of a woman with
her arm raised as a gesture of warning.

The cart rumbled on with its singing young driver, leaving
this ominous figure in the middle: of ates road at the very top of
the hill.

Many of the old towns used to have a poor, homeless dog —
“nobody’s dog,” .or dog vagrant, a cur that farm-hands
“shooed,” boys stoned, women avoided, and no one owned or



cared to own. Cheshire had such a dog; he used to steal bones
from back-yards, and sleep under haystacks and shocks of stalks,
and run out of these. with his tail curled under him when he
heard any one approaching. This dog came trotting along the
road, soon after the shock of stalks had been left behind, and



28 AIGZAG STORIES.

thinking that the shock would be a good cover for the night,
crawled into it, curled up, and probably went to sleep.
The shock was left on smooth, shelving ground, and could
slip about easily; and whenever the dog moved the shock
moved, waving its spectral hand in a very mysterious manner.
Now just beyond this animated effigy on the top of the hill,
was a graveyard, and in it a year before had been buried an old
woman who had been found dead sitting in her chair. Her
erave had been visited by a local poet, who had written for her
gravestone the following biographical epitaph: —
“ As I was sitting in my chair,
Busy about my worldly care,

In one brief moment I fell dead,
And to this place I was conveyed.”

Such was the animated corn-shock, and the peculiar condition
of affairs on the top of the hill, when a party of philosophical
jokers met to pass the evening in the big travellers’ room of the
“ Half-Way Inn.”

This inn was kept by Freelove Mason, a buxom hostess whose
name was familiar to every traveller between Boston and Albany
in the pastoral days of the old New England stage-coach. She
was a famous cook, like Julien, of the good-living Boston inn,
whose name still lives in soups, and often heads the appetizing
list on menus.

The gray-coated old stage-drivers used to toot their horns on
approaching the elm-shaded valley of Cheshire, as a signal to
Freelove to have the afternoon dinner hot on the table when the
coach should stop under the swinging sign between the steeple-
like trees.

What stages they were, with their heavy wheels and flexible
leather gearing! They were painted green and yellow, with
sign letters in red, and the State of Massachusetts coat-of-arms
or rather seal on the door. The middle seat was supplied with
a broad leather band for a back, which was unhooked while the



THE GHOST OF GREYLOCK. 29

passengers of the back seat found their places. The driver's
seat was high and grand, with a black leather boot under which
were placed the mail-bags, and a dog that had been well edu-
cated in the school of growls, and that was sure to check any
impertinent curiosity in the conscientious exercise of his office.
A tall whip cut the air above the seat, protruding out of a round
pocket near the one high step. A tally-ho horn found a place
between the driver’s legs; and when it was lifted into the ai,
its blast caused the dogs to drop their tails, and the hares to
_prick up their ears, and the partridges to whir away, and the
farm hands to take breath amid their work.

It was an important hour in Cheshire when the grand Boston
coach dashed up between the two great Lombardy poplars, and
stopped at the horse-block in front of the Half-Way Inn. Dogs
barked, children ran, and women’s faces filled the windows
among the morning-glory vines. At the open door stood Free-
love always, on these occasions, her face beaming, her cap bor-
der bobbing, and her heart overflowing, and seeming to meet in
every guest a long-lost sister or brother. She knew how to run
a hotel; and nothing but prosperity attended her long and meim-
orable administration. ,

On this notable evening of which I speak, the principal char-
acters were Judge Smart, Billy Brown, — or “ Sweet Billy,” as
he was called, an odd genius, who was the ‘“ Sam Lawson” of
the Berkshire Hills, — Cameralsman, the stage-driver, and Blingo,
the blacksmith. I can see the very group now, as when a boy.
They were joined by Freelove herself, early in the evening, who
brought her knitting, and was eager to discuss the latest marvel
of the newspaperless times, and to add the wisdom of her moral
reflections upon it. She prefaced the remarks which she wished
to make emphatically —and they were frequent— with the
word “Lordy,” almost profane in its suggestions, but not ill-
intentioned by her. It was a common exclamation of surprise
in the old county towns.



30 ZIGZAG STORIES.

The short, red twilight had been followed by light gusts of
night winds, whirling leaves, passing like an unseen traveller,
leaving silence behind. Shutters creaked, and clouds flew hur-
riedly along the sky over the sparkling courses of the stars.

The conversation of the evening turned on the old topic, —
Were there ever haunted places? Judge Smart and Blingo,
the blacksmith, were of the opinion that there were no trust-
worthy evidences of supernatural manifestations to human eyes
and ears, and it required great moral courage at this time to
call in question the traditional philosophy of the old Colony
teachers and wonder tales.

“ There is no evidence whatever that there ever was a haunted
place in this country or anywhere else, and I do not believe
that any one ever knew such a place except in his imagination,
not even Cotton Mather himself, or that any one ever will.

‘¢¢ With those who think that there are witches
There the witches are;
With those who think there are no witches,
Witches are not there.’ ”

So said Blingo, the blacksmith.

Freelove started, but only said, * Lordy!” in a deep contralto
voice. Was it possible that such heresy as this had been uttered
in the great room of her tavern? room or some like mystery would be just a tavern; no more to
be respected than an ordinary! She let down her knitting-
work into her lap in a very deliberate way, and sat silent.
Then she said most vigorously to Blingo, the blacksmith, —

“So you have become of the opinion of the Judge and the
stage-driver? Look here, Blingo, I should think that you would
be afraid to doubt such things. I should. I should be afraid
that something awful would follow me, and whoop down yven-
geance on me, like an old-fashioned hurricane, —I should.
Mercy me, hear the wind howl! There it comes again. Lordy!”



THE GHOST OF GREYLOCK. , 31

The great sign creaked, and a loose shutter rattled, and a
shutter banged.

“Blingo, you may be an honest-meaning man, but don’t you
invite evil upon this house. I —”

“My good woman, don’t you worry. I just want to ask you
one question: If ghosts cry and shriek, as you say they do,
they can also talk, can’t they, now? Say?”

“T suppose so.”

“Well, why don’t they do it then, and tell what they want,
honest-like? There, now!”

There came another rush of wind and leaves, and many rat-
tling noises. Freelove seemed to have an impression that she
was called on to vindicate the invisible world in some way so
as to sustain the most friendly relations to it.

Sweet Billy Brown, the Cheshire joker, came to her assistance
in a very startling and unexpected manner, after one or two
more ominous bangs of a shutter. How odd he looked; his
face red with the fire, and his eyes full of roguery !

“ FBreelove,” said he, with lifted eyebrows and wide mouth.
—‘“Freelove, these are solemn times for poor, unthinking
mortals to make such declarations as these. Winds are blowin’,
and winders are rattlin’, and shutters are bangin’, and what
not. Hist! Just you listen now.”

He gave me a curious wink, as much as to say, “* Now watch
for a rare joke.”

“Did you know that old woman, she what died last year,
come November, come the 12th, sitting in her chair, bolt up-
right —so?” Billy straightened up like a statue. “ Did you
know what she answered? She answered some boys what was
a-whortelberryim’ in her graveyard !””

“ Answered?” said Freelove, with a bob of her cap-border.
“ Answered? Lordy! Did you say answered ?”

“Mercy me! Yes, answered. “Twas all mighty curious
and mysterious like. Them boys they just hollered right out



32 ZIGZAG STORIES.

there, up in that old, briery, burying graveyard on the windy
hill, ‘Old woman, old woman, what did you die of?’ And the
old woman answered — nothin’ at all.”

Billy gave me another peculiar look.

“Lordy! Did she? I always knew it was so. Nothing
ailed her; she had just got through.”

“But I haven't; that isn’tall. I have somethin’ more to
tell, — somethin’ to make your hair stand on end, as Shakespeare
says.”

Freelove felt of her wig.

“One night in October,” continued Sweet Billy, “a certain
young man that I might name was passing that place with his
girl, and he told the girl, as they were Dassine: what answer
the old woman had made the whortelberryin’ boys in her grave-
yard. And she says, says she, ‘I dast to ask that question ;’
and she went up to the wall, she did, and says she, says she
mighty pert and chipper-like, says she, ‘Old woman, old
woman, what did you die of?’ and just as true as I am sittin’
here, and the wind is blowin’, and the shutters are bangin’, the
old woman answered, just as she did before — nothin’ at all!”

Freelove’s cap gave another bob, and she said, “ L-o-r-d-y!
when Sweet Billy continued : —

“ And I, —yes, I ventured to ask her the same question one
night when I was passin’, and I, true as preachin’, got the same
answer myself, — nothin’ at all. You may believe it or not, —

1»

there, now.”

Freelove sat like a pictured woman in a pictured chair.

“T have always heard that that old graveyard was haunted,’
said she at last. “ Now let us be eect honest and sincere
with each other. You three men say that there is no such
thing as the appearance of spirits to living people. That is so.
If you, Judge Smart, and you, Cameralsman, and you, Blingo,
will go to-night up to the top of that hill and say those identical
words, I will give you all a hot supper when you return. It



THE GHOST OF GREYLOCK. 33

is in the brick oven now. People have seen strange things
there for forty years. Here is a test for you. There, now!
You’ve all got ears and eyes. Will you go?”

“J will,” said the Judge. “I wouldn’t think any more of
doing a thing like that than I would of going to the wood-pile
and speaking to the chopping-block.”

“Nor I,” said Cameralsman.

“ Nor I,” said Blingo.

“ Well, go,” said Freelove ; “ but promise me that if you should
see anything all in white, or if the old woman answers you as she
did the others, you will believe these ghost stories to be true.”

“Yes,” said the Judge, the stage-driver, and the blacksmith,
all in chorus.

There was a shout of laughter, and a swinging of arms and
putting on of overcoats; and the three men banged the door
behind them, and turned merrily toward the hill road, thinking
only of the hot supper they would have on their return. A
December supper out of an old brick oven in the prosperous
days of the Cheshire farmers was no common meal.

I followed them. I thought I saw the double sense of Sweet
Billy’s words, and I was full of wonder at his boldness. The
old graveyard had borne a very doubtful reputation for nearly
a generation, but Billy’s joke furnished a new horror to the
place of dark imaginations.

It was a bright, gusty December night. The moon was
rising like an evening sun behind the great skeletons of oaks
on the high hill. Now and then came a gust of wind breaking
the chestnut burrs, and dropping down showers of chestnuts.
The frosts were gathering and glimmering over the pastures.

Billy Brown was specially happy over his joke, and the play
upon words in the old woman’s supposed answer. He had told
the story in such a realistic way and tone that no one had seen
the point of it, which is at once obvious in print. The Judge
had a very strong feeling of self-sufficiency.

3



b+ ZIGZAG STORIES,

«I would not engage in this foolishness but for the supper,” said

he. “Three wise men of Gotham went to sea in a bowl!’”
‘Nor I,” said Cameralsman. ‘I would hate to be quoted
all over the town as having made such scatter-brains of myself.
The people would all be laughing at me, and if there is any-
thing that I can’t endure it is to be laughed at. There are
men who face battles that cannot stand a joke. I have seen
stormy weather on the old roads, but my legs would fly like
drumsticks in a cannonade, before the giggle of a girl. People
are governed by their imaginations, and that makes us all a
strange lot of critters.”

After these sage remarks we stubbed along the moonlit road,
the Judge leading. Once he stopped and said, “ What fools
we all are!” repeating Puck’s view of the human species.

“ That’s so,” said Cameralsman.

“You'll feel as full of wisdom as old King Solomon,” said
Billy, the joker. “ You will, now, when you hear that answer
comin’ up from the bowels of the earth, without any head or
tongue or body, or nothin’.”

The three men laughed.

A white rabbit ran across the road. We allstopped. White!
Was it a sign? Our imaginations began to be active, and to
create strange pictures and resemblances. There followed the
white streaks of the rabbit a gust of wind, overturning beds of
leaves. I was so excited that my forehead was wet with
perspiration.

“Cracky! There’s somethin’ strange somewhere. I can
feel it in the air,” said Billy. “My two eyes! What is that?”

We all stopped. The moon was rising over the oaks and
pines, and on the top of the hill stood what looked to us all
like the figure of a woman with an arm raised, mysterious and
silent, as in warning.

Under ordinary circumstances we would have seen there
simply a shock of stalks. But our imaginations were excited,
and we were in doubt.

























































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































THE GHOST OF GREYLOCK.









THE GHOST OF GREYLOCK. 37

«Tt ’s the old woman herself,” said Cameralsman.

“Come out to meet us,” said the Judge, sarcastically.

“Cracky, if I don’t believe it is,’ said Billy, with bending
form and staring eyes.

“ Judge?”

“What, Billy?”

“That was a joke.”

“What?”

“ Wot I said about the old woman, and that she would answer
nothin’ at all. But the graveyard 7s haunted. I’ve heard so
a hundred times.”

“Well, that figure is no joke, as you can see. But it is up
there that we shall have to go, and you too, Billy.”

“Oh, Judge, not now that I told you it was all a joke.”

“ But you must, Billy.”

“Why?”

“Do you want to be laughed at as a coward?”

There was a movement of the figure.

“Oh, Judge, look! I can see her hand move. Oh, heavings
and earth! let us try a race back to the tavern.”

“No, no; we must investigate. We'd lose our reputations
if we did not. A man must stand by his reputation whatever
may come.”

“Judge, these are solemn times. Anybody is welcome to
my reputation; I’d part with it now if I only could get back
to the tavern again,” said Billy.

The Judge pressed on. The rest followed unwillingly; Billy
lagging behind the others, but led on by force of example.

Our imaginations now made of the object a perfect old
woman, with a waving arm.

“Judge,” said Billy again.

“Come on, you coward!”

“She is warning us to turn back,” said Billy. “Don’t you
see? Back itis. Just look at the moon, Judge. Have n’t you



38 ZIGZAG STORIES.

any respect for the moon, nor for warnin’s, nor for me, nor for
nothin’? ‘Back,’ she says, ‘turn back. ”

We were now in full view of the object, our nervous fears
growing at every step. We all stopped again.

“Cameralsman,” said the Judge, “you have muscle; throw
a stone at her.”

Cameralsman picked up a stone and threw it with great force
towards the mysterious image. ©

The effect was surprising. The figure began to bob up and
down, and to move down the hill, turning round and round,
and waving its threatening arm. We all stepped back; Billy
crying, “The heavings have mercy on mortal man!” All the
nervous control we had left vanished. We were now mere
children of our fancies, victims of our fears.

The next event paralyzed us all. I can hear it now, A
wild, piercing, muffled cry, or shriek, rose from the figure, cut-
ting the air and echoing everywhere a wild, long, piteous howl.
It was repeated twice. Then the figure turned round and
round again, waving its long arm; then it seemed to bow over,
and, as it did so, a white form leaped into the air. A wild gust
of wind swept over the hill; the prostrate figure was borne into
the gulch by the wayside, and the white form was gone as
though it had vanished. The road was clear. The moon
seemed like the head of a giant rising over the hill, We were
all dumb with fear. Even the Judge spread his legs apart in
terror.

“Tt isn’t in mortal power to stand such a sight as that,” said
he. “The invisible world is after us. Run!”

We all approved his decision.

Run! We turned at the order, and I never saw nervous
energy so applied to the limbs of any human beings as it was
then. There came another gust of wind that carried away the
Judge’s hat. We didn’t stop for it. Billy stumbled once and
fell headlong, and rose covered with blood. But he only said,



THE GHOST OF GREYLOCK. 389

“ Heavings!” and bounded on again, his legs flying faster than
before. In this excited condition we returned to the inn, and
tumbled one after another into the door. Freelove met us
there, all excitement, with her usual inconsiderate exclamation.
The Judge was first to speak after the return.

“There are some things that make one wish for extraction
or annihilation,” said he; “and the invisible world has come
down from the firmament to terra firma.” This judicial an-
nouncement I have always thought a model of its kind. ‘The
wise men are confounded; I never really and truly believed in
such things before.”

“I wouldn’t stay in this neighborhood,” said Cameralsman,
“for all the taverns in America. I never really believed that
guch things happen; now I know. I am sure.”

“ Heaving forgive me!” said Blingo, the blacksmith, I am
a humbled man. I have all the evidences of my senses. ‘These
things are so.”

“Your supper is ready,” said Freelove, turning round and
round, like a top.

“Supper?” said the Judge. “I don’t feel as though I
would ever eat anything again.”

“If I only knew where there was any safe world to go to,
I’d go there,” said Billy. “I declare I would. This is about
the poorest world that I ever got into, —it is, now. Ghosts
aswingin’ their arms, an’ whirlin’ roun’, an’ shriekin’, an’
callin’ up the moon an’ winds, an’ disappearin’ right before
your eyes into the bowels of the earth. Oh, my! Why, any-
body who would doubt what we saw would doubt anything.
Heaving forgive me! Thisis my last joke. I’ve got through.”

Freelove flew about, all excitement. We agreed, the Judge
and all, that here was a supernatural event. How could we
have dreamed of a dog in a shock of stalks?

Here, at last, was a case of real ghost in old Greylock !



40 ZIGZAG SIORIES.

THE FLYING DUTCHMAN.

Many years ago, when the East Indies were regarded in all
European countries as the treasure islands of the seas, there
lived in Amsterdam, Holland, a Dutch sea-captain by the name
of Vanderdecken. He possessed great physical strength and
a spirit of daring; he had grown very rich by trading in the
Dutch colonies in the Indies, and very proud too with his
riches. He met and outrode many gales, and he came to
regard himself as a man of destiny, to whose will all things
were possible.

At this time there was a great Dutch city on the Straits of
Sunda, now decayed, but once a golden treasure-house in the
view of the sailors of the Netherlands. Vessels went out of
Amsterdam empty, but returned from the Java Sea laden with
fruits and treasures. In short, the sailor was looked upon as
a sea king who sailed for the Java Sea.

Of course there was no Suez Canal at this time, and the
burgomasters, as the mayors of the Dutch and Flemish towns
were called, went around the far Cape of Good Hope in their
voyages to gather the wealth of the Indian seas.

Vanderdecken was not a reverent man. He was proud of his
defiance of religion and the Church.

One day the pious people of Amsterdam were pleased with
the sight of a fine vessel in the harbor.

“¢ When does she sail?” was asked.

‘“« To-morrow,” was answered by the sailors.

“ To-morrow is Good Friday,” said the people. ‘Some ships
have sailed away on Friday, but they have ail been lost. Such
a thing as a ship sailing on Good Friday never was known.
What will become of her?”

The sailors themselves looked frightened, but said, —













an



“ A STRANGE FORM APPEARED ON THE DECK.”









THE FLYING DUTCHMAN. 45

“We can trust our captain for that.”

“Who is your captain?”

Vanderdecken.”

« Where is the ship bound for?”

“The Java Seas.”

The next day was Good Friday. Bells filled the April air, —
solemn bells, —and while they were ringing, the sails of the
ship arose, and the ship passed down the harbor and into the
sea.

Wondering eyes watched her. “What will become of her?
What will become of her?” asked all the people. Many
answered, “She never will return.”

The Dutch at this time controlled the wonderland of Borneo,
as to-day. The city on the Javan Sea to which their ships went
for treasure was called Bantam. This city declined on the rise
of Batavia.

Vanderdecken had a prosperous voyage until he reached the
Cape of Good Hope, when the ship encountered a most furious
gale. The weather was so fierce that the sailors began to fear
that evil spirits possessed the air. Days passed, and the gale
continued. The ship made no progress, but was tossed about
like a bubble.

A week passed, and still the winds lashed the waters. The
ship was driven hither and thither, and her bare cordage shrieked
in the ceaseless winds.

The sailors came to Vanderdecken, and asked, “ What does
this mean?”

“Mr. Captain,” said one, “you cannot defy God, — the
heavens are against us. Remember Good Friday.”

At this Vanderdecken grew very angry with winds, with the
sailors, and with fate.

“Howl on!” he said to the wild sky and white waves.
“Blow! beat! I will double the Cape if I have to sail to all
eternity. Howl! blow! beat!”



44 ZIGZAG STORIES,

A darkness came over the sea, and a strange form appeared
on the deck of the ship and stood by the Captain.

“JT have heard your vow,” said the mysterious figure. “ You
shall sail on forever.”

The word “forever” struck terror even to the proud heart
of Vanderdecken.

“ Who are you?”

“T raised the storm.”

“The Evil One?”

“So men call me.”

“TJ am to sail on forever?”

“ Yes, forever.”

“ And never come to port?”

“ Never.”

“ But will you not grant me some condition of release?”

Nox

“¢ Not one?”

“Yes, one,” said the dark figure with a sneer; “if you will
find one heart in the world that is always true, I will release
you. But that will never, never release you, for such a heart
never yet was found.”

“ Not in women ?”

“ Man nor woman.”

“But how can I find such a heart unless I go into port?”

“You may go into port once in seven years, under the
spell.”

The air grew darker.

“ Sail on forever!” said the figure. The darkness deepened,
and he was gone.

Time went on, and the ship was driven hither and thither
from one sea to another, by gale upon gale. The sails turned
red like blood, and the masts turned black. The sailors grew
white and thin, and the face of Vanderdecken came to wear a
look of unutterable sorrow and remorse.



THE FLYING DUTCHMAN. 45

Sometimes the fated Captain would meet a ship and try to
gend letters back to Holland; but the ships that received his
letters never came to port. His ship became the terror of
sailors, and no vessel that met him would take letters from him.

Every seven years he would enter some port, under the spell,
in search of one true heart. But under the spell he would have
to sail away again, each time more hopeless and in deeper
SOITOW.

So a hundred or more years passed; and his ship, like a
skeleton, was tossed about by the gales.

The ships of the sea all shunned him. It was regarded as
an evil omen so much as to see the “ Flying Dutchman,” as the
ship of Vanderdecken came to be called.

His relatives died, and his friends,—all of whom he had

loved. “Oh, that I might forget the past,” he would say, —
“the faces of those who loved me, my evil influence, and my evil
deeds !”

A sailor came to him one day, and said, —

“T will tell you a secret.”

“What?”

‘¢ How to find a true heart and get released.”

“ That would make you a friend to me, indeed. How?”

“Truth finds its own. Repent, and carry a true heart yow-
self, and you will find another true heart. Do not the same
elements find each other?”

There came over Vanderdecken a great change.

“ How will any one know that my own heart is true?” he
asked one day of the sailor.

“ The soul has its atmospheres and influences that are unseen.
Space does not bound them. Like thought finds like thought,
and like feeling like feeling, across the world. We meet people
in strange places whom we have met in the soul atmospheres
before, and we know them and they know us, though we have
never seen each other.”





46 ZIGZAG STORIES,

“You talk like a man of the world, and not like a doomed
wanderer of the sea.”

The ship with her red sails and black masts was driven away
from the hot seas towards the cold coasts of Norway. Seven
years since he had learned the secret of being true, to find in
others a true heart, had passed, and he again set foot upon the land.

In the old Norwegian seaport there lived a sea-captain named
Daland. He had a beautiful daughter, whose name was Senta.
The home of this merchant-captain had been enriched with
works of art from many lands, and among the pictures in the
room of his beautiful daughter was a portrait of the Flying
Dutchman.

The face in the picture was one of great sadness, as repre-
senting a penitent and broken spirit, and about the time of
Vanderdecken’s new purpose in life, which he may be supposed
to have adopted. The picture began to make a strange impres-
sion upon the beautiful Senta.

“Tell me about the Dutchman,” she said one day to her
father, soon after he had come into port.

“ He is doomed to safl forever.”

“Ts there no hope for him ?”

“‘ None, unless he can find a true heart to love him.”

“T love him, and I wish I could release him.”

“ But you have not a true heart.”

“Why?”

* No one has.”

“Did you ever know me to be untrue ?”

“No.”

“ A heart governed in all things by a sense of right cannot be
untrue.”

“ But how about your lover, young Eric? ”

“ He may love me, but I only respect him. I do not return
his love, and I have told him so, although it has cost me nights
of pain. Is not that being true? ”



THE FLYING DUTCHMAN. 4T

« And cruel?”

“No. Eric has worth, but it is not destined for me. I have
told him the truth.”

Vanderdecken, on entering the Norwegian port, found
another ship there which had just come in from the seas. It
was Daland’s. The two captains made each other's acquaint:
ance, and Daland invited Vanderdecken to share the hospitali-
ties of his home.

At the time that Vanderdecken entered the Norwegian port,
Senta was spinning among her maidens and singing to them
about the sea.

While she was so occupied, Eric, her lover, saw her father’s
sail coming into port, and hastened to her to tell her the joyful
news. She awaited her father with a thrill of unusual expecta-
tion and joy. She saw him approach the house, when, lo! a
stranger came with him.

But Eric, before Daland’s arrival, had pressed his suit and
asked Senta for her heart. She pointed to the face of the
Flying Dutchman on the wall, when Eric told her of a dream
that he had had, and of his heart’s sorrow.

The stranger was the Flying Dutchman; and the wanderer
of the seas knew the beautiful maiden, and she Knew hin,
although they had never met before.

The Flying Dutchman avowed his love for Senta, and she
announced herself to be his deliverer. Both were happy.

But amid the happiness and hope Eric came back to plead
once more with the maiden. The interview was one of agony,
and in the midst of it Vanderdecken chanced to come upon the
scene. Seeing the distress of the two, he believed that Senta
was untrue to him, and that he was destined again to drift over
the seas.

With a crushed heart, he ordered his ship to sea again, and.
the red sails went out with the tide.

When Senta found that he was sailing, she attempted to



48 ZIGLZAG STORIES.

follow him. The last scene is like that of Dido and Eneas.
Senta ascended a high rock,and watched the disappearing red sails.

“J will die true to him,” she said, and plunged into the sea.

The spell was broken. The phantom ship went down with
a thunder crash, and the sailors drifted upon the sea. The
dying Captain was borne on the tide into the arms of the dying
Senta, and their souls entered together the portals of immortal
hope.

KING FREDERICK AND THE IRISH GIANT.

A QUEER and testy man was Frederick William I., the second
king of Prussia, and the father of the renowned monarch, Fred-
erick the Great. He ascended the throne in 1713.

He assembled and drilled a great army in time of peace.
He was very proud of their numbers and discipline, and among
his queer ambitions was one that was very odd indeed. He
desired to have a certain corps of soldiers that should consist
wholly of giants.

So he sent his agents all over Europe giant-hunting.

A difficult task the agents had, for giants were not so numerous
in Europe as they are supposed to have been in very ancient
times, before history was written. But one of them met with
good fortune, as you shall presently be told.

One day, as one of the Prussian recruiting-sergeants was
visiting London in search of tall men for Frederick’s service,
his attention was called to a crowd in the streets.

He entered the crowd curiously, and to his amazement and
delight he there found on exhibition the tallest man he had ever
seen.

The man was an Irish giant. His head was covered with
thick yellow hair; his shoulders were broad. He rose above
the crowd like a tower among houses.



KING FREDERICK AND THE [RISH GIANT. 49

He had come to England to seek work. He was now out of
money, but he was still good-natured and merry. Fat people
usually ave cheerful, whatever may be their condition.

The recruiting-sergeant elbowed his way through the crowd,
ereatly excited thus to find the very man he had been so
diligently looking for.

He laid his hand on the Irishman’s sleeve.

“Come with me, come with me! I’m a soldier myself, and
T am always ready to help a comrade in distress.”

« But Oi’m not a soldier.”

“Aren't you? Why, you look like every inch a soldier; any
man would take you for one. You ought to be a soldier, sure.
But never mind that. Come and dine with me.”

“That I will,” said Pat, “and ye need not be after axing me
twice.”

The Irishman’s appetite was as great as his body, and when
he was well filled with a liberal meal, he was always credulous
and jolly and easy to be persuaded.

“You are a fine fellow,” said the sergeant; ‘a wonderfully
fine fellow. Did you never think of turning soldier?”

* An’ what should I turn soldier for?”

* For honor and glory.”

* A cannon ball would n’t be apt to mass me, sure; and what
good would honor and glory do me, when my head was gone,
clane gone intirely?”

“ For money.”

“ How much?”

“JT will offer you a safe position in the Prussian life-guards.
The king, I am sure, would pay four hundred pounds down for
a strapping fellow like you.”

“Four hundred pounds! Four hundred pounds! Do I hear
my own ears? Faix, I will not be long in choosing. Pat
O’Flannigan is the boy for yez.”

“Good. Can you speak German ?”

4



50 ZIGZAG STORIES.

“German, is it? Dutch-like? sorra a word of German can T
spake, if it were to save my life from the hangman.”

“Well, no matter. Three sentences are all you need to
know. I can teach you them.”

“© What be thez ?”

«“ When the king first sees you in the
ranks he will come to you and say, —

““¢ How old are you?’”’

« An’ what shall I say ?”

“+ Twenty-seven years.’




“Then he will
ask you how long
you have been in
the service.”

« Av what will
T say thin?”

ctesth ARTS eve
weeks.’

“Then he will

say, —

“* Are you pro-
vided with clothes
and rations,’ and
you will answer, —

**« Both. ”

“T think my head will hold that much.”

“J will try you. How old are you?”

“Twenty-seven years.”

THE IRIS GIANT. “How long have you been in the
service ?”

“ Three weeks.”

« Are you provided with clothes and rations? ”

“ Both.”

On the journey to Berlin the sergeant asked the happy recruit
these questions daily. He answered promptly and correctly.



KING FREDERICK AND THE IRISH GIANT. 51

About three weeks after his arrival, he appeared on parade in
the corps of giants for the first time. There were Arabs and
Danes, and Moors and Swedes in the brigade; giants from
almost all the countries of Europe,-— but Pat stood like a Saul
among them all.

The king saw him, and his face shone.

He beckoned to him to step forward.

Pat stepped forward proudly, and presented arms.

“T have n’t seen you before,” said the king. “How long
have you been in the service ?

« Twenty-seven years.”

The king stared.

“Twenty-seven years! I should have known it, had you
been in the service a week. How old are you?”

“ Phree weeks.”

“Three weeks! and been in the service twenty-seven years.”

The king turned purple with rage.

“Do you think I am a fool, or are you one youself?” he
shouted.

* Both.” : 8

“Seize that fellow!” said the king, looking as though he was
going to burst. “ Off with him to the euard-house !”

Pat remonstrated in Ivish, which was not understood. Hon-
or and glory and even money all looked cheap enough to him
now, and he wished himself back on good old English soil.

The officer of the guard happened to know Pat’s German
acquirements, and he at once rightly guessed the situation,
when the poor recruit was marched to the guard-house. He
explained the whole matter to the king, who, for once, had a
laugh that relaxed his usually clouded face.

The recruit was at once set at liberty.

“Paix,” said Pat O’Flannigan, “niver pretind to know what
ye don’t know: else it is a whoppin’ big blunder ye’ll be after
gettin’ into.”



52 ZIGZAG STORIES.

THE MESSAGE OF LIFE.

Twenty years ago I was one of many witnesses of a scene
that has left upon my memory an impress perhaps deeper than
that of any other occurrence of that stirring time. The sequel
of the story, which I leamed some months afterwards, is nar-
rated here with the principal event; and both together deserve
a larger audience than any that has yet heard them, because
they touch the heart and arouse those feelings of sympathy
which make the whole world kin.

It was in February, 1865. I was a staff-officer of a division
of the Union Army stationed about Winchester, Virginia; and
military operations being then practically over in that region, I
had succeeded in getting leave of absence for twenty days. The
time was short enough, at best, for one who had been long
absent from family and friends, and two days were to be con-
sumed each way in getting to and from my Northern home.
I lost no time in making the first stage of my journey,
which was a brief one, from Winchester to Harper’s Ferry, by
rail.

Reaching the latter place after dark, I found, to my great dis-
appointment, that the last train for the day for Baltimore had
left an hour before, and that the next train would start at five
o’clock on the following morning.

There was no difficulty in finding a lodging, poor as it was;
but there was trouble in getting out of it as early as I wished.
Previous experience warned me that the state of agreeable
excitement and anticipation that possessed me that night was
not favorable to sleep; and fearing a heavy slumber in the early
hours of the morning, when I should at last lose myself, I gave
a small reminder to the negro servant, and received his solemn
promise that he would arouse me at four o'clock.



THE MESSAGE OF LIFE. 58

The result was exactly what I feared. In a most exasperat-
ing condition of wakefulness I lay until it seemed certain that
the night must be half gone; but an examination of my watch
by the light of a match showed that the hour was but a few
minutes past ten. Is there anything more annoying than the
ineffectual effort to sleep, when Nature is fairly crying out for
sleep? Every noise of the night came to me with the most
painful distinctness,— the barking of a dog, the tramp of a
body of soldiers as they went their rounds relieving guard, the
laugh and song of some boisterous revellers, and even the musi-
cal ripple of the Shenandoah River just below me.

The long and vivid story of what had happened to me since
last leaving home passed through my thoughts, and only added
to their excitement. All the wise remedies for insomnia that
occurred to me were successively tried, and found wanting.
Again my watch was consulted; it marked half-past eleven.
Twice after this I heard the guard relieved; so that it must
have been later than two o’clock when sleep visited my weary
eyes. A rude disturbance at my door awakened me, and I
became dimly conscious of the voice of the negro outside.

“What is it?” I cried testily. “What do you wake me up
for at this time of night?”

“’Deed, sah, Ise sorry; “pon my honah, I is, sah! but de
train hab done gone dese two hours.”

It was even so. Broad daylight — seven o’clock in the morn-
ing — the train gone, and no chance to get out of Harper’s Ferry
till twelve more precious hours of my leave had passed, — this
was the unpleasant situation to which I awoke upon that dreary
February morning. To make the best of it, is the true philoso-
phy of life; in fact, it is folly to do anything else; but human
nature will assert itself, and I grumbled all to myself that morn-
ing, as most of my readers would have done in my place.

Breakfast over, I strolled around the queer old place, not to
see its sights, for they were very familiar to me, but merely to



o4 ZIGZAG STORIES.

~
while away the time. Of all the places in this land where man
has made his habitation, none is more remarkable from its natural
situation than this.

Here the Potomac and the Shenandoah unite and_ break
through the lofty barrier of the Blue Ridge; and Harper's
Ferry, located at the point of their confluence, is environed by
lofty mountains, up the steep side of one of which the village
seems to clamber and cling for support. From the lofty top of
Maryland Heights, opposite, a wonderful natural panorama may
be seen; and of this view Thomas J efferson wrote that it was
worth a journey from Europe to see it. But if you are set
down in Harper’s Ferry, at the base of these great hills, your
view is cramped and circumscribed in every direction.

T went back to the hotel after an hour’s stroll, wrote some
letters, read all the newspapers I could find about the place, and
shortly after eleven o’clock went out again. This time my ear
was greeted with the music of a band, playing a slow march.
Several soldiers were walking briskly past, and I inquired of
them if there was to be a military funeral.

“No, sir,” one of them replied, — “ not exactly. It is an
execution. Two deserters from one of the artillery regiments
here are to be shot up on Bolivar Heights. Here they come ees

The solemn strains of the music were heard near at hand,
and the cortege moved into the street where we stood, and wound
slowly up the hill. First came the band ; then General Steven-
son, the military commandant of the post, and his staff; then
the guard, preceding and following an ambulance, in which
were the condemned men. A whole regiment followed, march-
ing by platoons, with reversed arms, making in the whole a
spectacle than which nothing can be more solemn.

Close behind it came, as it seemed to me, the entire popula-
tion of Harper’s Ferry, —a motley crowd of several thousand,
embracing soldiers off duty, camp-fellows, negroes, and what
not. It was a raw, damp day, not a ray of sunlight had yet





THE MESSAGE OF LIFE. dO

penetrated the thick clouds, and under foot was a thin coating
of snow. Nature seemed in sympathy with the misery of the
occasion.

The spot selected for the dreadful scene was rather more than
a mile up the Heights, where a high ridge of ground formed a
barrier for bullets that might miss their mark. Arrived here,
the troops were formed in two large squares of one rank each,
one square within the other, with an open face toward the ridge.
Two graves had been dug near this ridge, and a coffin was just
in the rear of each grave. Twenty paces in front was the firing-
party of six files, under a lieutenant, at ordered arms; the gen-
eral and his staff sat on their horses near the centre.

Outside the outer square, the great crowd of spectators stood
in perfect silence. The condemned men had been brought from
the ambulance, and each one sat on his coflin, with his open.
erave before him. ,

They were very different in their aspect. One, a man of
more than forty years, showed hardly a trace of feeling in his
rugged face; but the other was a mere lad, of scarcely twenty,
who gazed about him with a wild, restless look, as if he could
not yet understand that he was about to endure the terrible
punishment of his offence.

The proceedings of the court-martial were read, reciting the
charges against these men, their trial, conviction, and sentence ;
and then the order of General Sheridan approving the sentence,
“to be shot to death with musketry,” and directing it to be
carried into effect at twelve o’clock noon of this day. The
whole scene was passing immediately before my eyes; for a
staff-uniform will pass its wearer almost anywhere in the army,
and I had passed the guards and entered the inner square.

A chaplain knelt by the condemned men and prayed fervently,
whispered a few words in the ear of each, wrung their hands,
and retired. Two soldiers stepped forward with handkerchiefs
to bind the eyes of the sufferers, and I heard the officer of the



D6 AIGLZAG STORIES,

firing-party give the command in a low tone: “ Attention !—
shoulder — arms!”

T looked at my watch; it was a minute past twelve. The
crowd outside had been so perfectly silent that a flutter and
disturbance running through it at this instant fixed everybody's
attention. My heart gave a great jump as I saw a mounted
orderly urging his horse through the crowd, and waving a yel-
low envelope over his head.

The squares opened for him, and he rode in and handed the
envelope to the general. Those who were permitted to see that
despatch read the following : —

Wasuryatoy, D. C., Feb. 23, 1865.
General Job Stevenson, Harper's Ferry.
Deserters reprieved till further orders. Stop the execution.

A. LIincoiy.

The older of the two men had so thoroughly resigned himself
to his fate that he seemed unable now to realize that he was
saved, and he looked around him in a dazed, bewildered way.

Not so the other; he seemed for the first time to recover his .
consciousness. He clasped his hands together, and burst into
tears. As there was no military execution after this at Harper's
Ferry, Ihave no doubt that the sentence of both was finally
commuted.

Powerfully as my feelings had been stirred by this scene, I
still suspected that the despatch had in fact arrived before the
cortege left Harper’s Ferry, and that all that happened afterward
was planned and intended as a terrible lesson to these culprits.

That afternoon I visited General Stevenson at his headquar-
ters, and after introducing myself, and referring to the morning
scene on Bolivar Heights, I ventured frankly to state my sus-
picions, and ask if they were not well-founded.

“Not at all,” he instantly replied. “The men would have
been dead had that despatch reached me two minutes later.”



HARM i iM
Mi .
ve
te ag



THE MESSAGE OF LIFE.









THE MESSAGE OF LIFE. 59

“Were you not expecting a reprieve, general?”

“T had some reason to expect it last night; but as it did not
come, and as the line was reported down between here and
Baltimore this morning, I had given it up. Still, in order to
give the fellows every possible chance for their lives, I left
a mounted orderly at the telegraph oftice, with orders to ride at
a gallop if a message came for me from Washington. It is well
I did! —the precaution saved their lives.”

How the despatch came to Harper’s Ferry must be told in
the words of the man who got it through: —

On the morning of the 24th of February, 1865, I was busy
at my work in the Baltimore Telegraph Office, sending and
receiving messages. At half-past ten o’clock,—for I had
occasion to mark the hour, —the signal C—A—L, several
times repeated, caused me to throw all else aside, and attend
to it.

That was the telegraphic cipher of the War Department;
and telegraphers, in those days, had instructions to put that
service above all others. A message was quickly ticked off
from the President to the commanding officer at Harper’s Ferry,
reprieving two deserters who were to be shot at noon. The
message was dated the day before, but had in some way been
detained or delayed between the Department and the Wash-
ington office.

A few words to the Baltimore office, which accompanied the
despatch, explained that it had “stuck” at Baltimore; that an
officer direct from the President was waiting at the Washington
office, anxious to hear that it had reached Harper’s Ferry, and
that Baltimore must send it on instantly.

Baltimore would have been very glad to comply; but the
line to Harper’s Ferry had been interrupted since daylight, —
nothing whatever had passed. So I explained to Washington.

The reply came back before my fingers had left the instru-



60 ZIGZAG STORIES.

ment. “You must get it through. Do it, some way, for Mr.
Lincoln. He is very anxious; has just sent another messenger
to us.”

I called the office-superintendent to my table, and repeated
these despatches to him. He looked at the clock.

‘‘ Almost eleven,” he said. “I see just one chance, —a very
slight one. Send it to New York; ask them to get it to Wheel-
ing, and then it may get through by Cumberland and Martins-
burg. Stick to ’em, and do what you can.”

By this time I had become thoroughly aroused in the busi-
ness, and I set to work with a will. The despatch with the
explanation went to New York, — and promptly came the reply
that it was hopeless; the wires were crowded, and nothing
could be done till late in the afternoon, if then.

I responded just as Washington had replied to me. It must
be done ; it is a case of life and death; do it for Mr. Lincoln’s
sake, who is very anxious about it. And I added for myself,
by way of emphasis, “For God’s sake, let’s save these poor
fellows!”

And I got the New York people thoroughly aroused as I was
myself. The answer came back, “ Will do what we can.”

It was now ten minutes past eleven. In ten minutes more
T heard from New York that the despatch had got as far as
Buffalo, and could not go direct to Wheeling; it must go on to
Chicago.

Inquiries from Washington were repeated every five minutes,
and I sent what had reached me.

Half-past eleven the despatch was at Chicago, and they were
working their best to get it to Wheeling.

Something was the matter; the Wheeling office did not
answer.

The next five minutes passed without a word; then —huzza!
— New York says the despatch has reached Wheeling, and the
operator there says he can get it through to Harper’s Ferry in time.



LEGEND OF FIRST DISCOVERER OF THE MISSISSIPPI. 61

At this point the news stopped. New York could learn
nothing further for me, after several efforts, and I could only
send to Washington that I hoped it was all right, but could
not be sure.

Later in the day the line was working again to Harpev’s
Ferry, and then I learned that the despatch had reached the
office there at ten minutes before twelve, and that it was
brought to the place of execution just in time.

A STRANGE LEGEND OF THE FIRST DIS-
COVERER OF THE MISSISSIPPI.

“THE country of gold lies before you; but there are dark
rivers to cross. I have learned these things from living among
the caciques.”

The Spaniard who uttered these words to Fernando de Soto
was stately and handsome, of middle age, and of unquestioned
bravery.

“J am sure that I can pilot you there.”

The cavalier gazed upon him.

“You. were left here in this land of Florida on the first ex-
pedition,” said De Soto. “That was ten years ago.”

eVies.7”

«And you have come to love these children of Nature and
the palm-lands ?”

“Yes, Sefior. Why have you brought these bloodhounds and
these chains?”

“To hold kings captive, as I have done before; to conquer
new Incas, and to guard them in their own temples. You say
that the temples of gold are on the hills of the Ocali.”

“I said that there were dark rivers to cross.”

“But what Indian girl is this that follows you?”



62 ZIGZAG STORIES.

“She is the daughter of a cacique and my wife.”

“ You must leave her behind.”

“She saved my life. Listen! My name is Ortiz, and I am
a trusty soldier. When I found myself left by the expedition,
I sought the friendship of the cacique. The old chief pitied
me, and received me as his son. I found him more humane
than our own people had been. I was happy fora time; but
these children of the palm-lands are jealous and superstitious,
and they at last began to distrust me and look upon me as
dangerous, and they sought to kill me.
I was brought before a council of their
wise men, and was condemned to die.
The cacique pitied me still, and sought
to save me; but the wise men were all
against me.

“The day for my death was appointed.
I was to be tortured.
built over fagots that were to be made
sacrificial fires. I was to be stretched
upon this scaffold, and to perish at a
fire-dance.

“The day came. I was led out, and
tied to the trees of the scaffold. The fires were kindled under
me, and the dance began. The painted savages circled around
me to the sound of war-drums and the blowing of shells. May
you never suffer such tortures as I then was made to feel! The
tongues of flame pierced my naked body like swords. My
nerves crept in agony. I thought of Spain, of my kindred and
my old home. I cried out for water.

“ The daughter of the cacique heard my cry. She fell down
before her father, and begged him to spare my life. The
cacique loved this beautiful girl. He listened to her; he ap-
peased the tribe, and unbound me, and gave me to the tender
princess as her slave.



DE SOTO.



LEGEND OF FIRST DISCOVERER OF THE MISSISSIPPI. 05

“¢She came to love me, as I served her faithfully. I arose to
honor among the people. I love this people; and if I leave
my wife here, I must return to her again. I must be true to
her on the honor of a conquistador.”

Fernando de Soto was a proud man. He had come from the



DE SOTO’S EXPEDITION IN FLORIDA.

conquest of the incarial realms, and his own share of the cap-
tured wealth had been millions. He had landed near Tampa,
with a cavalcade of golden cavahers.. He did not doubt that
another Peru lay before him.

The conquistadors, under the lead of Ortiz, marched up the
hills of the Ocali. The land blazed in the pure white sunlight ;
but no golden domes gleamed in the sun.

They chained caciques, and hunted the chief men of the
region with the bloodhounds. They compelled captive chiefs



64 ZIGZAG STORIES.

to guide them from one tribe to another. De Soto made slave
wives of beautiful princesses, and amid all his cruelty and
wrong-doing compelled masses to be said.

* The hills of the Ocali are not Peru,” he said to Ortiz.

“T said that there were dark rivers to cross.”

The conquistadors moved on. They came to dark rivers and
cypress swamps. One
after another of the
golden cavaliers began





INES SAO
OP" Sal ya
"Se




to sicken and die.

“ There are indeed
dark vivers to cross,”
said De Soto.






IAS





DE THE MISSIS-

SIPPI FOR THE FIRST TIME.

SOTO SEEING



The palm lances burned in the feverish heats. But the thirst
for gold led the conquistadors on. They came at last to the
banks of a majestic river. The volume of water showed that
it must be long. Masses were said. The visions of De Soto
were revived again: ** The river is dark and long.”

They crossed it, and lay down under the live-oaks streaming
with moss. The air was full of birds. There was beauty every-
where; but in all the brightness lurked poison, — the men sick-
ened and died.



LEGEND OF FIRST DISCOVERER OF THE MISSISSIPPI. 68

But the expedition moved on. The river that they had seen,
and discovered to be dark and long, was the Mississippi. In
the fevered palm-shades appeared no temples or incarial palaces.

They came at last to the dark land of cypresses through which
flows the Red River of the South. Here De Soto himself began
to feel the chill that had swept so many of the other adventurers
away.

He lay down amid burning heats, and was cold.

“ Ortiz, there are still dark rivers to cross?”

“Yes, cavalier; dark rivers lie in the way to the cities of
gold.”

De Soto shook. “The fever is on me.”

He lay burning and freezing in the cypress swamps. Prayers
were said, and the fiery days moved on. The sun rose in fire,
and set in what looked to be the conflagration of the world.
De Soto became oblivious to all. The fires of the fever were
consuming him. One flaming sunrise came, and he was
dead.

“He has crossed the dark river,” said Ortiz. They hollowed
a log for his body. But the savages were watching them.
They could not give the conquistador a burial that would
be undisturbed on the land, even amid the gray-bearded
cypresses.

«Let us sink him for his final rest in the dark river.” said
Ortiz.

They did so by night. Torches gleamed; silent prayers
were said. There were low beatings of oars; a rest in the
black river under the moon and stars; a splash; the dark river
opened, and a body went down. Tt was De Soto’s.

In a white temple in Havana, which is only opened once a
year, the picture of De Soto may be seen among the heroes of
the Great Discovery. On the 14th of November — Columbus
Day in Cuba —a great procession leaves the old faded cathe-
dval, in the wall of the altar of which Columbus’s remains are

2





66 ZIGZAG STORIES.

entombed, and amid chanting choirs, military music, and the
booming of the guns from the Castle, march to this white
temple, and here glorias ave chanted, and thanksgivings said.
The procession moves through the chapel, which is shaded by
a tree which is supposed to be a remnant of the grove where
Columbus himself stood. They look upon the pictured faces





BURIAL OF DE SOTO.

of the conquistadors on that one day; and the American, who
follows the banners and music, gazes also, and wishes in his
heart that some of these heroes whose bravery rendered such
services to his country had been better men. Character is
everything.



A REMARKABLE DISCOVERY.

Go
-1

A REMARKABLE DISCOVERY.

ANTOINE was one day stopping near the Falls of St. Anthony.
when he met some Indians who had come to sacrifice to the
god of the place. They told him of a lake some miles distant,
where they said lived a young hermit who did not grow old.
He asked them to conduct him to the hermit’s lodge.

They led him to a beautiful lake full of peninsulas and islands.
On the shores there were mounds, and among these mounds
Antoine was surprised to find a young and exceedingly hand-
some Spanish cavalier.

Antoine demanded of him, —

“Who are you that thus trespass on the dominions of his
Majesty, the King of France?”

“The world is wide,” answered the cavalier, in French. “If
I could have my wish I would not trespass upon any earthly
dominion, but would gladly leave this burden of flesh and be
with my wife and children, whose spirits live in more blessed
spheres than this.”

“You seem to be a very young man.”

“Tam hundreds of years old.”

“ How can that be ?”

“T accompanied Jean Ponce de Leon to Porto Rico. J was
then thirty years old. When De Leon resigned the office of
Governor of Porto Rico he had begun to grow old.

“There came to him some Indian sages who told him of the
Fountain of Youth.

“ De Leon never discovered that fountain. 7 did.”

“ When and where?”

* Listen.

“ After I heard the story of the sages, I continually longed
to plunge into the waters of that gifted fountain, and thus be



68 ZIGZAG STORIES.

enabled to live forever amid the noble and beautiful scenes of
these newly discovered lands.

“T left De Leon on April 3, 1512. About a week before, he
had discovered a new land that was wholly covered with flowers.




He took possession of it in the
name of Castilian sovereigns,
and called it Florida. It
seemed to me that such a para-
dise must contain the fountain
of which the Indians had told,
and I resolved never again to go
on board of the ships. I de-
serted as soon as I could sepa-
rate myself from the commander.
I did not find the fountain in
that flowery land.

“Then I began to wander. I passed along the coast, first
towards the north, then towards the west, then towards the
south. I came at last to a land full of ruins; it was beautiful
beyond description ; it seemed to have been a home of the
gods.

“Fountains were there, water-gods, naiads, and beautiful

THE SPANISH CAVALIER.



A REMARKABLE DISCOVERY. 69

temples, under the tropic trees. I bathed in them. I bathed in
every fountain I met, and I dipped myself in the Fountain of
Youth.”

* Where?”

“T cannot tell; nor can I tell which of the hundred fountains
in which I bathed was the magical fountain. One of them was,
for I have never grown old.

“Thirty years passed, when I saw on the coast a Spanish
vessel. I hailed her and was taken on board. I returned to
Andalusia, to the Gaudalquivir.

“My wife was old and withered. My children were seem-
ingly older than myself; they were gray. I told them my
story; they treated me with derision, and forced me away from
my own home.

“Then one by one they died. I saw the grave open again
and again until all my family were gone. 1 longed to go, too,
But I did not grow old.

“J retumed to America. I wished to flee from my land,
from society, from the face of man. I again deserted, and
ascended a great and unknown river. I left my canoe at
yonder falls. It went into decay a hundred years ago. I found
this beautiful lake and these green mounds in summer time.
I was sure society would never find me here, and here J built
my lodge and live.

“The beautiful summers and the cold winters come and go,
but I see only the faces of the red men. I am never hungry; I
am never cold. I have but one wish; it haunts me continually :
I would that I could die.”

The young courewrs de bois listened to the tale with intense
interest, and some of them plied every possible inquiry in
regard to what the hermit had said of the country where the
magical fountain had been found.

Four of these young men went into the forest and were never
heard of again.



70 ZIGZAG STORIES.

From time to time the visitors to Lake Minnetonka have seen
a strange figure in a boat on the lake. The oars of the boat fly
from them like wings. Should you see a flying boatman on the
lake, if you do not believe him to be the Spanish cavalier, you
may still allow this story to recall to your mind the old historic
associations of beautiful Minneapolis.

AUNT HEART DELIGHT’S BEAU.

ONE late autumn evening, during the exciting scenes of the
witchcraft delusion in the Massachusetts Bay Colony, there
came running into the primitive church of Weymouth, Mass.,
during a special evening service, a boy by the name of Ichabod
Cole. His hat was gone, his breath*spent. He threw his arms
aloft in nervous excitement, and his entrance stopped the meet-
ing, as he had evidently something thrilling to tell.

As soon as he could speak, he made a declaration that a
terrible creature had appeared to him as he was hurrying along
over the wooded Weymouth road by the sea toward his home.
He believed that the creature was the “Black Man,” as the Evil
Spirit was at that time called, and he had fled to the church for
refuge.

Were such an incident to happen to-day, a boy’s story
would be met only with ridicule; but then nearly every one
believed in witchcraft, and many persons had been sent to
prison and several put to death in the colony on the charge that
they had signed their names to a book brought to them by the
“Black Man,” and had met in witch circles in the forests, to
which it was asserted they travelled through the air. Giles
Corey, of Salem Farms, had been recently put to death in a
most cruel manner for refusing to plead in court to an amazing
charge of this kind. Several enfeebled old women had sguf-



AUNT HEART DELIGHT’S BEAU. 71

fered death under the charge of witchcraft in Salem and
Boston.

The delusion had begun with children, who seemed to have
been seized with a sudden mania for accusing queer and un-
fortunate people of dealing in wicked arts. The mania spread,
and became a mental epidemic. It was like the convulsions of
the Barkers and the Jerkers, an epidemic nervous disease,
which appeared at another time in the colony. Any one who
will read Cotton Mather’s + Wonders of the Invisible World”
will be amazed at the delusion that filled the whole colony at
the time, and that overcame the judgment even of the magis-
trates. Such was the state of the public feeling when the inci-
dent we have given happened.

There was a break in the meeting, and the boy was ques-
tioned by excited voices in regard to the creature that had
{frightened him. He could only say that it was black or gray,
and had eyes like fire. The good old minister, a man much
loved for his great heart and simple, blameless life, said, * Evil
times have fallen upon us also.” All saw that he literally
believed Ichabod Cole’s story, and a sense of helpless horror
and apprehension darkened every mind and sank into every
heart in that congregation.

Strange as it may seem, it is probable that in that little
assembly, holding its simple service by candle-light, there was
only one person who did not believe that the boy, Ichabod Cole,
had not seen the famous “ Black Man,” the Evil Ghost of the
troubled times.

That: one person was Aunt Heart Delight. A queer name,
you will say. Yes, now, but it was not queer at that time.
Prudence, Piety, and Charity were common names then, as
were Experience, Love, Hope, and Grace. Aunt Heart Delight
was so called by her venerable father on account of her cheerful
disposition when a little child.

Aunt Heart Delight Holden had grown up to womanhood



72 ZIGZAG STORIES.

a tall, stately woman, with a broad, high forehead and a heart
given to benevolence. She was very devout, but was without
superstition; and she clearly saw that the so-called witcheratt
in the colony was a mental delusion.

The meeting closed. Aunt Heart Delight went to the boy
at once, laid her hand upon his shoulder, and bent upon him her
serene face and quieting eye.

“Oh, Ichabod, Ichabod,” she said, “you too have lost your
head. You have seen nothing but what is perfectly natural and
can be accounted for. But you did not lose your heels, did you,
boy ?”

“My heels! Wot would I hev done had TI lost my heels?”

“You have seen a wildcat, or an owl in a hawk’s nest, or
some such thing; and the stories that are abroad have so
excited your head that you think you have seen something
else. I would be willing to face it with a good dog and gun.

3ut I do not blame you for running as you were unarmed.”

The people went out of the church reluctantly, as if afraid
to venture into the open air. The hunter’s moon was rising
yellow over the sea, glimmering on the middle waters of the
bay, and hiding in her own light the blue fields of the stars.
The great oaks were dropping their leathery leaves, and the
walnuts and chestnuts were breaking their shells and burrs.
There was silence in Nature everywhere, and a forest odor was
in the air. In the far woods was heard the hoot of the owl, and
in the distance the bark of a farm dog; except for these sounds
the air was painfully still.

The excited people thought it prudent not to return to their
homes by the road where the mysterious object had been seen,
so they took a circuitous path through the woodlands. The
way led to the homes of most of the people, but in an opposite
direction from those of serene Aunt Heart Delight and the
terrified boy, Ichabod Cole.

Aunt Heart Delight lived in a part of Weymouth which



AUNY HEART DELIGHTS BEAU. 73
became known as New Spain, on account of the wealth which
had been gathered there by the old sea-traders, and Ichabod
Cole dwelt on a branch road within a mile of the same
place.

For a short distance the same road was followed by all the
congregation, and as the colonists passed along through the
woodland, they continued to ply Ichabod with questions about
the mysterious creature that he had seen. Ichabod’s imagina-
tion worked more vigorously as he saw that his answers were
awaited with thrilling interest.

“How large was the creature?” asked credulous Deacon
Alden. “As large as a dog, Ichabod?”

“As large as a dog?” said Ichabod. “ He was large as an
—elephant!”

This was before the days of the itinerant menagerie, andl
Ichabod had never seen an elephant; but he knew that the
elephant was a very large animal.

“What kind of a tree was he in?” asked Aunt Delight.

“A tall pine-tree. I guess that he had just lighted. Tis
eyes were like coals of fire. Oh, it was awful!”

A creature as big as an elephant, with eyes lke fire, that had
alighted on a tall pine-tree, was a picture indeed to which the
adjective “awful” might not inaptly apply. And the awe-
struck company that heard this grotesque narrative presented
a quaint appearance in the old Weymouth woods. The men
had lanterns of perforated tin in their hands, and the women
foot-stoves. ‘The men wore pointed hats and thick capes, and
the women broad bonnets and plain cloaks. The lanterns were
not lighted, for the bright moon, like a night sun, made the
woods almost as clear as in daylight.

They came to a clearing, and here Aunt Heart Delight and
Ichabod, parting from the rest of the mentally afflicted company,
took the direct road to “ New Spain.”

“Tam afraid,” said Aunt Heart Delight, “that there may be



T4 ZAGZAG STORIES.

some wild animal lurking about in the woods, and that that is
what you saw.”

“IT am not afraid of no animal,” said Ichabod, “I am afraid
of something worse than that.” He looked up to Aunt Heart
Delight, furtively. “ Ain’t you?”

“No. A person with a clear conscience has nothing to fear
from any other world than this.”

Ichabod was silenced, but his imagination was glowing and
growing. The falling of a chestnut made him start. A rabbit
that ran across the road filled him with renewed terror. They
came near to the old farmhouses, and the barns with the stacks
of corn-husks. Here their ways parted.

* Good-night, Ichabod,” said Aunt Heart Delight.

The two stood in the open road under the full moon.

“Aunt Heart Delight,” said Ichabod, “may I ask you a
question?” His voice was grave, like that of a judge, very
grave and measured.

“Yes, Ichabod. What?”

“Aunt Heart Delight, oh, this is an awful night! the moon
and stars and everything all so scarey! Aunt Heart Delight,
may I ask you a question?” he repeated.

“Yes, yes, do not keep me here freezing to death. What is
it, Ichabod?”

“Aunt Heart Delight,” said the boy at length, timidly, “ did
you ever have a beau?”

* Oh, Ichabod!”

“May I see you home, and won’t you give me lodging in
the barn

“ Oh, I see, — you are afraid to go home alone. Well, I pity
you, and Ill go home with you.”

“T7ll be your beau,” said Ichabod, with spirit, an awful
burden rolling off his heart.

Aunt Heart Delight went home with him, and left him at
the door with a “ Good-night, Ichabod. When I want a beau,
J will send for you.”

9 ”



AUNT HEART DELIGHT’S BEAU. (d.

‘“*Thank ye, Aunt Heart Delight, and Ill always stick by
you and protect you whatever may happen.”

Aunt Delight smiled, and then Ichabod shut the door, and
she turned homeward alone.

Her way lay through some woodland oaks, the strong,
knotted arms of which had long buffeted the winds of the
sea. They arched the way between two hills, and through the
hollow flowed a running brook, now partly ice-bound. A loose
wall ran beside the road. As Aunt Heart Delight came to the
place, which was pleasant in summer, but very lonely in winter,
she heard a stone rattle on the wall. A heavy, dark object
appeared on the wall, and mounted the great trunk of one of
the oaks. She was alarmed, as she had reason to be, but
hurried by, and came safely to her home.

These events greatly excited the community.

But the public mind became gradually more quiet. There
was a high-minded, clear-sighted man in Boston, named Robert
Calef, who was an intimate friend of Aunt Heart Delight, and
had met her often during the prevalence of the witchcraft
delusion. He was honest and fearless, and his iron words
became a terror to those who had been engaged in persecuting
infirm people on the superstitious charge of “Signing the book
of the Black Man.”

In the terrible clouds of the witchcraft delusion this man had
walked with undimmed vision. He at last published a book in
London, which caused those who had been engaged in the
recent persecutions to ponder upon what they had done, and
in some cases to try to excuse their conduct. The book was
publicly burned on the green of Harvard College.

Hearing that Weymouth was in danger from the excitement
of a delusion, this man went to visit Aunt Heart Delight in her
lovely Weymouth house.

“When will this calamity end?” he asked of her one day.

“When some one shall accuse one of the magistrates of witch-



76 ZLIGZAG STORIES.

craft,” said Aunt. “They will all see the matter clearly
enough then.”

She was right. The accusing of the wife of one of the
colonial officers of the crime pierced the darkness. It came
like a lightning-flash.

“But what would you do if you were accused?” said
Calef.

“JT would compel my accusers to face the facts.”

Calef became persecuted in Boston for his bold words against
the prevailing superstition; and Aunt Heart Delight, after
years of benevolence and good-will, began to feel the chill of
public disapproval on account of her own views.

One day she was startled with a report that the boy, Ichabod

Cole, had accused her of dealing in the black arts. His cun-
ning story was that she was in secret communication with the
Black Man that he had seen in the tree, and that was why she
did not share the common fear. Soon after she was asked to
be present at a special meeting of the church, to be questioned
in regard to the matter. Beautiful and amiable as was her
character, her spirit was now aroused. She went to the meet-
ing. It was a winter’s night, and she returned home alone.
No one offered to accompany her.
' There was a light snow on the ground. Near the brook,
under the great oaks, she saw the same dark object that she
had met before. A woman of less strength of mind would
under these circumstances have believed it to be the famous
Black Man. It followed her. The night was dark with only
a dim starlight. Suddenly she turned and faced the creature.
He stopped and retreated. The form was dark and sinewy,
and the eyes shone like fire. She went on again. The creature
followed her. :

She faced him again, and afterward recollected that she said,
“ Whoever or whatever you may be, you are no gentleman.”

But the rebuke did not deter the creature from following





GHT’S BEAU.

AUNT HEART DEI









AUNT HEART DELIGHT’S BEAU. 79

her. She reached home safely, however, and passed the night
in prayer and tears.



Morning came, —a beautiful winter morning with sunbeams
in every crystal of snow. The margin of the great bay ght-
tered with ice. The stacks rose like white cones around the
glistening roofs of the barns. Aunt Heart Delight went out
at the first red rising of the sun to examine the tracks of the
creature that had followed her the night before.

They were plain in the snow. She followed them back until
she came in sight of the house where lived her * beau,” Ichal vod
Cole. She went directly to the house, and gave the door such
a rap as startled the household.

Ichabod Cole’s father came to the door. He seemed startled
to see his caller.

“J want to see the boy,” said Aunt Heart Delight, in a hard,
decisive tone. The man had never before heard her utter an
unpleasant word. .

Ichabod. was sent to the door. He came, trembling. He
knew that he had started evil reports about the eran woman,
and he also knew that she was a person who, though amiable,
was not to be trifled with.

She stood there tall and stately in the morning sun. Her
hair was uncombed, and fell over her shoulders from a quilted
hood. There was a set look in her usually pacific face that
would have made any one quail to confront.

“Tehabod, you promised to be my protector whatever might
happen. There are some tracks out here in the snow that I
want you to follow. Get your gun and come.”

Ichabod’s face was filled with terror.

“Get your gun and come. You are going to be my beau
now.”

There was something irresistible in the sarcastic command.
Ichabod obeyed. They came to the tracks.

“ What tracks are those, Ichabod?”



80 ZIGZAG STORIES.

“ T should think that they were —the Black Man’s.”

“Then you shall follow them until you find him. Go right
along.”

“Ob, Aunt Heart Delight! Suppose they should lead to the
witches’ circle.”

“Tam not afraid of any witches’ circle. You have been cir-
culating bad reports about me, Ichabod, and now you shall fol-
low those tracks until you come to the creature that made them.
Go!”

She pointed her arm out of her cloak. Ichabod dared not
disobey. The tracks led toward the woods.

When the two came to the margin of the wood, Ichabod
looked up to Aunt Heart Delight imploringly.

“(o right on,” she commanded. ‘“ Enough innocent people
have already been thrown into prison on false accusations. You
would like to go back and tell the people that IT have been in
conference with the ‘Black Man,’ and that you have seen his
tracks. You must go with me now. My character and maybe
my life are at stake. Goon! Into the woods. Go!”

They followed the tracks. The boy was less afraid of meet-
ing the animal than of incurring the further displeasure of
Heart Delight. They came at last to a frozen cranberry bog, in
the middle of which was a thicket of alder-bushes, and some
ereat trunks of decayed trees. The tracks led into the thicket.

They paused. There was a movement in the bushes.

“ What do you see, Ichabod?”

“A beast; oh, it is awful! I think it is the very one I saw
in the tree.”

“Use your musket and kill him.”

“ But if I should miss?”

“Fire! You must kill the beast. Fire, I say!”

Ichabod, though trembling, took deliberate aim and fired. A
large, lean creature leaped into the air and fell struggling to the
eround, and was soon dead.



THE OLD HOUSE ON CAMBRIDGE COMMON. 81

“Ts that the beast that you saw on the tree? Is that your
‘Black Man’? It’s a catamount, as you see. I will senda
cart and have it brought to the town. Go!” She held her
hand aloft and pointed toward his home.

Calef had been tried in Boston for accusing the magistrates
of false charges, and the case had been dismissed. People
began to see the awful mistake that had been made in the
colony. The people of Weymouth were filled with humiliation
at-the charge that they had made against Aunt Heart Delight.
They shunned her for a time, from the very rebuke that the
dignity of her presence gave them.

But her beautiful spirit came back. She forgave them all,
even poor Ichabod Cole, who, to the day of his death, she was
accustomed to call her “ beau,” and from the ridicule of which
appellation he never escaped in the happier days of the colony.
The top of the world to ye all!

THE OLD HOUSE ON CAMBRIDGE COMMON.

Ir was in July, 1843, and the evening before Washington
Allston’s funeral. I arrived in’ Boston late in the afternoon,
and immediately started for Old Cambridge, where I expected
to spend several days, attend the memorial service of the poet-
artist, and witness his interment in the historic churchyard.

The old house in Cambridge where I was to pass the night
stood near the colleges, on the very ground where the Shepard
Memorial Church now stands.

- My friend Kenyon, whom I was to visit, had told me some-
thing about the place. It had belonged to a family by the name
of Moore. Deacon Moore was a prominent man in colonial
days and during the Revolutionary period, and was the treas-
urer of Dr. Holmes’s church, as I shall soon have occasion more

particularly to explain.
6



82 ZIGZAG STORIES.

T had heard Kenyon say that from the windows of the house
a crowd of bright eyes had witnessed the cavalcade that con-
dueted Washington to Cambridge. The old elm stands only <
little distance from the place under which the young General,
in 1775, took command of the army.













































































































































































DEACON MOORE’S HOUSE.

Lombard poplars shaded the house in front, if I remember
rightly, — tall, spectral trees, on which the moonlight was fall-
ing. There were two porticos, between which the visitor was
expected to make a choice according to his social rank or sta-
tion; at least, it had been so in a former day, and the house
suggested still a colonial rather than a republican code of eti-



THE OLD HOUSE ON CAMBRIDGE COMMON. 83

quette. But I was not obliged to make choice between them,
as my friend was expecting me, and stood waiting for me in the
deep, cool shadows before the open door.

After supper we entered the roomy parlor, where the windows
were open and the lights turned low, and talked of our school-
days and old friends who were changed and gone.

My feelings were somewhat mellowed by the subject. There
was a stillness about the room, the house, and the colleges,
which impressed me; and I suddenly recollected that I had
heard Kenyon say, when we were school chums, that there was
some strange mystery associated with the place. I reminded
him of the remark, which began to awaken a deep curiosity in
my mind, and asked, —

“Was the mysterious person supposed to be old Deacon
Moore?”

He smiled faintly, and said: ‘“ You are tired and nervous, and
we will pass all that now; these old stories have not been
revived for years. Nearly every old house in Cambridge that
outdates the present century has its legend; and this, I believe,
is no exception to the rule of traditional ghost-lore, but in that
respect is rather a remarkable estate. But strange old, Deacon
Moore has ceased to walk nights, if indeed he ever was trouble-
some; and the mending of outhouses, doors, and fences is now
left wholly to carpenters. How the story of the deacon’s ghostly
wanderings used to unnerve me when I was a boy! I pity one,”
he continued, ‘who is subject to nervous fears. There is one
room in this house that I used to dread, though I cannot tell
why. My impressions, I have always noticed, have some asso-
ciation with reality. This impression —the dread, the fear, I
used to experience on spending an hour in that room — seems
to be causeless, and yet I have a feeling that more cause for it
may yet be discovered. But it will hardly do to dwell upon
this subject, for we are to spend the night in that very room.
There is little danger that the old nervous horror will return



84 ZIGZAG STORIES.

upon me again, especially in your company. I used to suffer
the most from it, if I remember rightly, when my mind was not
fully occupied, and when I had been excited with much com-
pany and suddenly left alone. The place was once my study
and sleeping-room, but I have not slept there now for many
years. It has been fitted up for me again, while a part of the
house is undergoing repairs.”

Kenyon rose to go into another room, asking to be excused
that he might speak with Mr. Gennison before the family
retired.

He was gone a long time ; and when he returned, he proposed
that we should go at once to our room, saying he knew I must
be tired.

The room was large, quaint, and old-fashioned; and there
was something in the remarks that Kenyon had made that
immediately interested me in it.

It was a still, lovely night; and the moon, now risen in full
splendor, covered the colleges and churches like a sea of haze,
and barred with long lines of light the uncarpeted floor. I do
not know but the moonlight heightened the effect of Kenyon’s
suggestions of some mysteriousness about the apartment, —
romance so frequently associates moonlight with what is myste-
rious; but, however this may be, my feelings impelled me
to ask further questions, although the subject had evidently
become distasteful to my friend now that we were in the
room.

“Did you once think the room was haunted?” I ven-
tured.

‘“No, not exactly that,” he said curtly; “still it used to seem
to me that there were shapes and objects in it that could be felt
rather than seen, — something wrong, something that ought not
to be. There will be many artists and literary men in town
to-morrow. We hardly appreciated Allston here; he led sucha
quiet, dignified, retired life.”



THE OLD HOUSE ON CAMBRIDGE COMMON. 85

“ Are there many old houses in Cambridge famous for legends
or ghost-lore ?” I resumed.

“Yes; there was the Vassall house (Longfellow’s), and the
Royal house at Medford, and —”’

“But this house, you said it held a first rank in old colonial
superstitions, I believe ?”

‘‘Not in colony times, but after that.”

“Was it reported to be haunted ?”

“Would you sleep more quietly if you knew?”

“Yes; truth is better than suspense.”

“ After Deacon Moore died some peculations were found to
have been committed.”

“Well?”

“ Well, the deacon was a very restless man before he died.
He had a strange habit of wandering about the premises nights,
with a hammer or hatchet in his hand, repairing outhouses and
fences, and making the ‘neighbors very unquiet at unseasonable
hours.” :

“Well?”

“ Well, after he died, it was discovered that he had been in
the habit of appropriating money to his own use from the church
treasury, and suspicion fell upon his character.”

“Well?”

“Well, the sounds continued.”

“ What sounds?”

“Oh, the hammering and the thumping and the driving of
nails in the night.”

“But you surely do not believe that any such disturbances
were caused by the disembodied spirit of Deacon Moore ?”

“No, I do not; I am not superstitious enough for that. The
deacon was a very singular man, I am told, especially in his last
days; and when suspicion fell upon his character after his
decease, he was just such a person as superstitious minds would
at that period expect to return in ghost form to haunt the place.



86 ZIGZAG STORIES.

And as his mending of buildings and fences nights was one of
his most annoying characteristics, it is not strange that natural
sounds occurring late at night should be attributed to his ham-
mer. ‘The event caused great excitement in its day, and ner-
vous people for a long period avoided the place in the night.

* But,” he continued, “although I do not believe any such
silly stories as the old people used to tell, I do believe in my
own impressions ; and I have had a fixed impression for years
that there is something wrong about the place, and when I am
in my most sensitive moods the mystery seems somehow to be
associated with this very room. You may think me over-sensi-
tive and credulous; but I suffered from vague nervous impres-
sions when I used to occupy the place. I have had an indistinct
dread of it since I left it, and I would not sleep in it again
to-night if you were not with me. I would not like to sleep in
a room where I knew some great crime had been committed;
not that I would expect to be troubled by the victims, Dut
because I am sensitive to the associations of a place. I would
rest better in a room where a good man was married than in
one in which a bad man died. With many it would make no
difference; but I cannot help this peculiar element implanted in
my nature.”

The old Cambridge clock struck the hour of twelve. We
ceased talking. The wind arose, tossing the newly leaved
branches of the trees and causing dark shadows to move with an
uncertain motion across the floor. With an unquiet feeling I
watched the shadows for a time, and then began to feel the
sweet influences of sleep.

The next night Washington Allston was buried in the old
Cambridge churchyard. Brown, the landscape painter, must
remember the scene; he was a pupil of Allston, and, if I re-
member rightly, was among the torch-bearers when the remains
were uncovered, and the moon breaking through the clouds
shone full upon the face of the dead.



THE OLD HOUSE ON CAMBRIDGE COMMON. ST

After the funeral I returned to the house, and inquired for
Kenyon. I found a note from him, saying that he had been
detained in Boston, and would probably be compelled to remain
there during the night. I am not superstitious; but the vision
of my sleeping-room and Kenyon’s dread impression of it imme-
diately rose before me, and Iam free to confess that I did not
enjoy the prospect of passing the night alone.

IT was lonesome without Kenyon, was tired, and I went to my
room soon after returning, thinking I would lounge in a very
inviting easy-chair, and read until I became too drowsy to be at
all influenced by the solitariness of the place or my constitu-
tional nervous fears. I say constitutional nervous fears; for I,
like Kenyon, was susceptible to more influences than I could
see, hear, or define; and I too had observed that impressions
received when I was highly sensitive almost always found some
counterpart in reality, or met with some rather remarkable
fulfilment.

It was a partly cloudy night, with an atmosphere full of fra-
grance, and a glorious moon. The few now living who attended
Washington the parting clouds, the shadows anon shutting out the soft
moonlight, the lights on the college grounds, the still, warm
air.

I leaned out of my window, as the first relief from my solitary
situation. Christ Church broke the view of the churchyard,
where the poet-artist had just been laid.

A strange subject forced itself upon my mind, —a subject
upon which, so far as I know, no books, essays, or poems have
ever been written, —the fate of the loyal refugees of Boston
and Cambridge during the Revolutionary War. Some of them
went to Barbadoes, a few returned to England; but many went
to Halifax.

Halifax at that time was a military town, though it had not
yet become an English fortress. Many of the movements of the



88 ZIGZAG STORIES.

English forces against the colonies were directed from Halifax.
The old provincial parliament of Halifax, a body hostile to the
American cause, met in 1770, and continued in session four-
teen years. Halifax then promised to become a great military
city.





























































































































































































































































































































































































































































THE OLD CHURCH IN CAMBRIDGE.

The Boston and Cambridge royalists, when they incurred
popular displeasure and found themselves in danger, fled to
Malifax over the easy water-vay. The phrase, “You go to
Nalifax!” as an expression of contempt and a suggestion of
profanity, became common among rude people.

Did these royalists ever return? But few of them. The



THE OLD HOUSE ON CAMBRIDGE COMMON. 89

democratic feeling was so strong during the period that immedi-
ately followed the war, that all who had opposed the American
cause were treated socially as traitors and enemies, and both
their property and their lives were in danger. At the close otf
the war most of the loyalists who had remained in Boston dur-
ing the conflict went to Halifax. The old city was largely
founded by English colonial loyalists and refugees.

The grand harbor of Halifax made her a naval port, and a
resort of the old defenders of the Red Cross on land and sea.
But Halifax has derived her fame and wealth from the peaceful
fishing-fields that lie spread out around and before her, rather
than from those of martial achievement. The heroes of her
ships have been men of peace.

But to return to my curious narrative.

I was wandering in dreams through the dim vistas of the
past, catching, as it were, glimpses of forms long faded and
gone, never to see the July sunshine or the green earth again,
when a sudden sense of some mysterious influence began to
steal over me. I can only describe it asa feeling that there
was something that ought not to be in or about the room. I
saw nothing, heard nothing; yet there seemed to be near me
the presence of something impalpable, a dark presence, an at-
mospherie chill and gloom. ‘I am growing nervous,” I thought ;
and I flung myself upon the bed.

Did I dream? I cannot say. I seemed to be dreaming, and
yet conscious of my dreams, — to have a double consciousness,
a double sense of things. The dark impalpable presence seemed
to descend, and then began a dream or semi-consciousness of
supposed circumstances that were extraordinary. It seemed as
if a mason was building a vault under the floor. J fancied I
could hear the rattle of bricks, the splash of mortar, and the
click of a trowel.

I started up; the dream passed away. It was a bright night,
and the wind breathed refreshingly through the trees. I was



Full Text


ne ie er peer =
Se
— =

Lea Se en
SS SS =
= Se :

ae OG
ees Sn Soe
fe en a een
Sn aN a Re
So ee SS SSS
SSS SSS
a a
a
ee =
Sree sa
ecenreomne aie

SS

:
|

Avert
ali
a
et
ie

so
Ae
Ht

; thi
ch Ca
SF Hall
iy y | Vir

ria 3 = SSeS
: = oe : = -
= eae
oS a ee ee

——— =

i
“&f
5 el
ce
F383
( P
aoe
rie
ee
Bet
reo
5
eg
i ir
Se fae
aah Y
3
BS

2
E
4
2
Bice s§

ee peeaes ane
peeeet ee eames
Fanpages = =
= SAE rere ners eee

so -




ZIGZAG STORIES
























Yi =f
Lipg.- EF yy Ye



























LOCO =











I
ELE GLZA





































































































A FRIGHTENED CAPTAIN.
ZVEZAG SEORITES

OF

History, Travel, and Adventure

SELECTIONS OF THE BEST STORIES FROM
THE ZIGZAG SERIES

BY

HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH

‘ILLUSTRATED

BOSTON
ESTES AND LAURIAT
PUBLISHERS
Copyright, 1896,

By Esres AND LAURIAT.

Gnibversity J3ress:

Joun WiLson Anp Son, Campripce, U.S.A.
CONTENTS.

.THE HARMONY CHIME... .

Tue BeLt-FounDER OF BRESLAU .

A FRIGHTENED CAPTAIN . . .

Tue LEGEND OF MARGUERITE AND THE ISLE OF DEMONS

Just Once More. .....
Tue Guost or GREYLOCK . .
Tue Frying DutcHMAN .. .

Kine FREDERICK AND THE IRISH GIANT

Tue MeEssaGE OF LIFE. . . .

A StrancE LEGEND OF THE First DideavenE

SIPPI. .
A REMARKABLE DISCOVERY . .
Aunt Heart Deicut’s Breau .
Tue OLp House on CAMBRIDGE
Tur BELL oF CAUGHNAWAGA .
Tue YounGa HUGUENOT, OR THE
JERRY Siack’s Monry-Pot . .
Tux Two Brass KETTLES . .
Cuasep By A Prarrie-Fire. .
Tue LitrLe Sioux’s WARNING .
LirtLtE Mook... . Sas
Tue “Doo-Lu SHaAp- Ure? Deedes
Tue TigEr-HUNTER OF MapRas
‘HE Map JacKAL .... .

. . . . . . .

Tue Two LittLte Boys THAT WERE SUPPOSED

Two Lirrte Bears . . .
Tue Barrtep King... .

°

.

Common .

.

.

.

OF THE

Country AUCTIONEER

67

179
184
v1 CONTENTS.

A MAN wuo sCARED AN ARMY. . . .

Srory oF SIEGFRIED AND THE NIBELUNG HEROES

Tue Mystrerious ARCHITECT ... .
Perer THE Witp Boy. . .... .

Tur OLp GERMAN Docrok WHO FELL ALL TO PrEeces.

THe Youne Oreanist: A Mystery.
THE UNNERVED Hussar . .....
TuE Forrest BLACKSMITH. . . . . .
A Romance or Norru CAaroLina. . .
Tur Inpian PROPHET . . . . . «4
AN OLp WASHINGTON GHost Story .
THREE BALLS OF YARN

A Moprern SAMSON, WHOSE Hair GREW AGAIN

AN Escape From PIRATES

Tur Mysterious Sack; ox, Two BusHets or Corn.

ics *
Caprain Krpp’s Treasure; or, THE Man wHo sarp “Scat
9

A Romance THAT Lost AN Emprre. .
A Srrance Tabe.— Monrerey . .«

‘LHD GOURD IEE METS 2: cmreegs nape esas
Aw UNWELCOME SHIPMATE . . . .
Tue Massacre oF CHICAGO. . .. .
A Sap Story or PeTer THE GREAT.

Oup Aut Bepair’s Story or MARATHON

Sir Francis Drakr AND HIS Sure or GOLD.

THE GoLpEN SHIP, AND THE Farr Brick House rn Green LANE,

BOSONS cere aaa Rare este cknts

.

f 99
4

Pacu

190

912

lot
ce

tO 1
Or kh Ww oo
BONE

to bo
DH Ol
on

313
315
322
329
339
344
348
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

5 Pace
WGPRIGHTENED (CAPTAIN oes ow a Alia hee eva eronusptece
BEnre LOWER GHENTA fee Se ee a Sa, le a ee ia a 4
TH ISLE OF SDEMONS@ 6 iog soe re ley fal se eva an ubiree ase, Ss 17
Tae Gost of GREYLOCK 6 6 6 ee 8 8 ee ee ees 35
“A Srrance ForM APPEARED ON THE Deck” . . . se « . 41
THRO ULRISH GLANT ctilece otis an or bu let ise ac tela Miao allel oles 9 es 50
Tue MessaGE OF LIFE - - »> + + # 6 © © © © # #8 #8 57

TRE Oe i ee eee Ya hae Wa Sci pag cen pens ome unm
De Soro’s Expedition IN FLORIDA . . - + ee ee » 63

De Soro SEEING THE Mississippl ror THE Firsr Tim be fc Ace OE
BURTAL TOR DE SOLO. coo oe, ea oe oe eo ee ee tee ie! 3s 66
THE SPANISH CAVALIER Go. tice) ne GS ePost den cares eee ien Velnate 6s
Aunt Heart Detiant’s BEAU. «© 6 ee 8 ee ee ee 77
DEACON MoorRE’S HOUSE 606600 eee ee 82
Tur OL_p CuurcH IN CAMBRIDGE
SRL GEASU GED O Nira see eae nee eine om Sree eton er a mver Hienires.dkeisremny emus 98

.
.
°
Mm
a

TRB OVEEROMISHS en ieee oo ee toe Ge at iontd ey auemey aque sitasin ecant 104
ASIN Ee Vado TTA G Koa Be te ayo at eee Siem ns dcle(y nema leu Meucneineltie lll
COASTS SIA GE REO Rit Vite i icodenr minerals Se olimtee en 1 sta olive laser emu eh Miers sasoe 113
TIMELINES SING Bete a pate cues ae itiosat onciesah marodireuinsi aie mentecanh eh euate 117
Jerry FINDS THE Money-PoT . - + © + + © © © © © © 120
Tur Crapock Mansion, MEpFoRD . + - + 6 © # © fF 8 1.95
IAAL DD DANGER MEE De eee cae aio (ations Sarncomaihed Uieasaeniaein stonita es 130
MHEPINDEMNS DREW, NBAR se! oe ce) ete el ceiic eey tet ice 136
UBEYNG LR MaIA SMR 13 0 Vel adeno enaelnomiess rmigere IMs uiysmn tle ne 138
CONT CHET SUNTET ae AGES Tz Derren ees Nors re eet colts ey(cotarome etcnecmenulenmsn rns 144
Guerre Oe ie ee at oem e ne vareta yo lairocmtuopaatie! Wen deseo macho 147
TA Tere eT O Keun ern ote pe ats eo) corer oa scene ore gs satin 152
“THE DECIDED-ON AMPUTATION” © 6 6 8 5 8 ef 8 hos 154
vill LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

Pace
RECO Os US LAD = UE Mimic Coatamor ccm edie oy Aaya oma eect St napa UR veegior Meana]I) G
‘©THE NEXT MOMENT I WAS KNOCKED HEADLONG”’’?. . . . . . 160
“T esprep Two FrLasuinc Orps IN THE Higu Grass” . . . . 167
Tue Two Bears BROUGHT INTO CouRT. . . . . . .. . . 182
Tur BEARS RECOGNIZING THE GOLDSMITH. . . . . . . . . 188
SBHE SOA CKSS ORS VVCENE GE BAKING sectseenaention sare nce sie Unicna tio iin Crater OS)
LGA VINGSHISGARMOUBEHUN Di aiccsth ails irae Sxcgeincn Net iauee wince Nera pear eEeO
“Tie Son oF THE MASON APPEARED AND EXPLAINED THE Secret” 189
‘©QN HE RODE, AS FAST AS BEFORE, WITH THE TREE IN HIS Hann” 195
“PHE MUR DERSO RZ OTEGRR TED ites cece arees ce eet ape rae ae far en ee oases ees 2 (il
THE:-MYSTERIOUS ARCHITECT. 1.8 feo Ss Rees Beng a ee ee A205
REGERSTHES WILDS BONS serarn Soe ee ee ele emg ae ena ren 52 OO
‘Tue Marip HAD CHANGED HER Minn” .. .. ... . . 213
‘*Tue Docror EN DéSHABILLE” . . . . . . 3... » » « Q14
Tue Docror FOLLOWED BY THE BEAR... .. .. . . - 218
Tue Docror CHASED BY THE BEAR... . . . ee ee 219
“s You HAVE DECEIVED Mr!’ saip THE Bripe” . . . . . . 221
‘“««Tr DOES NOT SOUND,’ SAID THE ORGAN-BUILDER”’?. . . . «227
“ FRANCOIS SEIZED IT AND OPENED IT”. . . 2. 2 4 we ee 282
ELA DSUNNER VED REIUSSAR aeueig rete. earn ucabentu Skate OAL et 2 aint aOR D),
GORFE THE REGICIDE AT JELADLEYE es str cad sete es cys OAL
MAL PEROMINCERELOUSRbatir ert ieee eee eae aE oe ee OUD
MONT CNT Mea cgtect aesearatareann Semreete ene scree tres oh Se it Ginnie eer neeunee arto ()
ZIGZAG STORLES

HISTORY, TRAVEL, AND ADVENTURE.

THE HARMONY CHIME.

Many years ago, in a large iron foundry in the city of Ghent,
was found a young workman by the name of Otto Holstein.
He was not nineteen years of age, but none of the workmen
could equal him in his special department, — bell-casting or
moulding. Far and near the fame of Otto's bells extended, —
the clearest and sweetest, people said, that were ever heard.

Of course the great establishment of Von Erlangen, in which
Otto worked, got the credit of his labors; but Von Erlangen
and Otto himself knew very well to whom the superior tone of
the bells was due. The master did not pay him higher wages
than the others, but by degrees he grew to be general super-
intendent in his department in spite of his extreme youth.

“Yes, my bells are good,” he said to a friend one day, who
was commenting upon their merits; “but they do not make the
music I will yet strike from them. They ring alike for all
things. To be sure, when they toll for a funeral the slow
measure makes them seem mournful, but then the notes are
really the same as in a wedding peal. I shall make a chime of
bells that will sound at will every chord in the human soul.”

“Then wilt thou deal in magic,” said his friend, laughing;
“and the Holy Inquisition will have somewhat to do with thee.
No human power can turn a bell into a musical instrument.”
bo

ZIGZAG STORIES.

“But I can,” he answered briefly; “and, Inquisition or not,
I will do it.”

He turned abruptly from his friend and sauntered, lost in
thought, down the narrow street which led to his home. It
was an humble, red-tiled cottage, of only two rooms, that he
had inherited from his grandfather. There he lived alone with
his widowed mother. She was a mild, pleasant-faced woman,
and her eyes brightened as her son bent his tall head under the
low doorway, as he entered the little room. ‘Thou art late,
Otto,” she said, “and in trouble, too,” as she caught sight of
his grave, sad face. :

“Yes,” he answered.. ‘When I asked Herr Erlangen for
an increase of salary, for my work grows harder every day, he
refused it. Nay, he told me if I was not satisfied, I could leave,
for there were fifty men ready to take my place. Ready! yes,
I warrant they ’re ready enough, but to be able is a different
thing.”

His mother sighed deeply.

“Thou wilt not leave Herr Erlangen’s, surely. It is little
we get, but it keeps us in food.”

“T must leave,” he answered. “ Nay, do not cry out, mother !
I have other plans, and thou wilt not starve. Monsieur Day-
rolles, the rich Frenchman who lives in the Linden-Strasse,
has often asked me why I do not set up a foundry of my own.
Of course I laughed,—I, who never have a thaler to spend ;
but he told me he and several other rich friends of his would
advance the means to start me in business. He is a great deal
of his time at Erlangen’s, and is an enthusiast about fine bells.
Ah! we are great friends, and I am going to him after supper.”

“ People say he is crazy,” said his mother.

“Crazy!” indignantly. “ People say that of everybody who
has ideas they can’t understand. They say J am crazy when
I talk of my chime of bells. If I stay with Erlangen, he gets
the credit of my work; but my chime must be mine, — mine
THE HARMONY CHIME. 3

alone, mother.” His eyes lighted with a kind of wild enthusi-
asm whenever he talked on this subject.

His mother’s cheerful face grew sad, as she laid her hand on
his shoulder.

“Why, Otto, thou art not thyself when thou speakest of
those bells.”

“More my real self, mother, than at any other time!” he
cried. “I only truly live when I think of how my idea is to be
carried out. It is to be my life’s work; I know it, I feel it.
It is upon me that my fate is woven inextricably in that ideal
chime. Itis God-sent. No great work, but the maker is pos-
sessed wholly by it. Don’t shake your head, mother. Wait
till my ‘Harmony Chime’ sounds from the great cathedral
belfry, and then shake it if you can.”

His mother smiled faintly.

“Thou art a boy, —a mere child, Otto, though a wonderful
genius, I must confess. Thy hopes delude thee, for it would
take a lifetime to carry out thine idea.”

“Then let it take a lifetime!” he cried out vehemently.
“Let me accomplish it when I am too old to hear it distinctly,
and I will be content that its first sounds toll my dirge. I
must go now to Monsieur Dayrolles. Wish me good luck,
dearest mother.” And he stooped and kissed her tenderly.

Otto did not fail. The strange old man in his visits to the
foundry had noticed the germs of genius in the boy, and grown
very fond of him. He was so frank, so honest, so devoted to
his work, and had accomplished so much at his early age, that
Monsieur Dayrolles saw a brilliant future before him. Besides,
the old gentleman, with a Frenchman’s vanity, felt that if the
“Harmony Chime” could be made, the name of the munificent
patron would go down to posterity with that of the maker. He
believed firmly that the boy would some day accomplish his
purpose. So, although the revolt of the Netherlands had be-
gun and he was preparing to return to his own country, he
4 ZIGZAG STORIES.

advanced the necessary funds, and saw Otto established in

business before he quitted Ghent.

In a very short time work poured in upon Otto. During
that long and terrible war the manufacture of cannon alone

made the fortunes of the workers in iron.























































































































































































































































BELL-TOWER, GHENT.



So five years from
the time he left
Von Erlangen we
find Otto Holstein
a rich man at
twenty-four years
of age. But the
idea for which he
labored had never
for a moment left
his mind. Sleep-
ing or waking, toil-
ing or resting, his
thoughts were busy
perfecting the de-
tails of the great
work.

“Thouart twenty-
four to-day, Otto,”
said his good
mother, “and rich
beyond our hopes,
When wilt thou
bring Gertrude
home tome? Thou
hast been betrothed

now for three years, and I want a daughter to comfort my
declining years. Thou doest thy betrothed maiden a grievous
wrong to delay without cause. The gossips are talking already.”

“Let them talk,” laughed Otto. “Little do Gertrude or I
THE HARMONY CHIME. 5

care for their silly tongues. She and I have agreed that the
* Harmony Chime’ is to usher in our marriage-day.. Why, good
mother, no man can serve two mistresses, and my chime has
the oldest claim. Let me accomplish it, and then the remainder
of my life belongs to Gertrude, and thou, too, best of mothers.”

“Still that dream! still that dream!” sighed his mother.
* Thou hast cast bell after bell, and until to-day 1 have heard
nothing more of the wild idea.”

‘No, because I needed money. I needed time, and thought,
too, to make experiments. All is matured now. I have re-
ceived an order to make a new set of bells for the great cathe-
dral that was sacked last week by the ‘Iconoclasts,’ and I begin
to-morrow.”

As Otto had said, his life’s work began the next day. He
loved his mother, but he seemed now to forget her in the fever-
ish eagerness with which he threw himself into his labors. He
had been a devoted lover to Gertrude, but he now never had
a spare moment to give to her, —in fact, he only seemed to
remember her existence in connection with the peal which
would ring in their wedding-day. His labors were prolonged
far over the appointed time, and meanwhile the internal’ war
raged more furiously, and the Netherlands were one vast battle-
field. No interest did Otto seem to take in the stirring events
around him. The bells held his whole existence captive.

At last the moulds were broken, and the bells came out of
their husks perfect in form, and shining as stars in Otto’s happy
eyes. They were mounted in the great belfry, and for the
test-chime Otto had employed the best bell-ringers in the city.

It was a lovely May morning; and, almost crazed with ex-
citement and anxiety, Otto, accompanied by a few chosen
friends, waited outside the city for the first notes of the Har-
mony Chime. At some distance he thought he could better
judge,of the merits of his work.

At last the first notes were struck, clear, sonorous, and so
6 ZIGZAG STORIES.

melodious that his friends cried aloud with delight. But with
finger upraised for silence, and eyes full of ecstatic delight,
Otto stood like a statue until the last note died away. Then
his friends caught him as he fell forward in a swoon, —a swoon
so like death that no one thought he would recover.

But it was not death, and he came out of it with a look of
serene peace on his face that it had not worn since boyhood. He
was married to Gertrude that very day, but every one noticed that
the ecstasy which transfigured his face seemed to be drawn more
from the sound of the bells than the sweet face beside him.

* Don’t you see a spell is cast on him as soon as they begin
to ring?” said one, after the bells had ceased to be a wonder.
“If he is walking, he stops short, and if he is working, the
work drops anda strange fire comes in his eyes; and I have
seen him shudder all over as if he had an ague.”

In good truth, the bells seemed to have drawn a portion of
Otto’s life to them. When the incursions of the war forced
him to fly from Ghent with his family, his regrets were not for
his injured property, but that he could not hear the bells.

He was absent two years, and when he returned it was to
find the cathedral almost a ruin, and the bells gone no one knew
where. From that moment a settled melancholy took possession
of Otto. He made no attempt to retrieve his losses; in fact,
he gave up work altogether, and would sit all day with his eyes
fixed on the ruined belfry.

People said he was melancholy mad, and I suppose it was the
truth; but he was mad with a kind of gentle patience very sad
to see. His mother had died during their exile, and now his
wife, unable with all her love to rouse him from his torpor,
faded slowly away. He did not notice her sickness, and his
poor numbed brain seemed imperfectly to comprehend her
death. But he followed her to the grave, and turning from it
moved slowly down the city, passed the door of his old home
without looking at it, and went out of the city gates.
THE WARMONY CHIME. ri

After that he was seen in every city in Europe at different
intervals. Charitable people gave him alms, but he never
begged. He would enter a town, take his station near a church
and wait until the bells rang for matins or vespers, then take
up his staff and, sighing deeply, move off. People noting the
wistful look in his eyes would ask him what he wanted.

“JT am seeking, —I am seeking,” was his only reply; and
those were almost the only words any one ever heard from him,
and he muttered them often to himself. Years rolled over the
head of the wanderer, but still his slow march from town to
town continued. His hair had grown white, and his strength
failed him so much that he only tottered instead of walked, but
still that wistful seeking look was in his eyes.

He heard the old bells on the Rhine in his wanderings. He
lingered long near the belfries of the sweetest voices; but their
melodious tongues only spoke to him of his lost hope.

He left the river of sweet bells, and made a pilgrimage to
England. Jt was the days of cathedrals in their beauty and
glory, and here he again heard the tones that he loved, but
which failed to realize his own ideal.

When a person fails to fulfil his ideal, his whole life seems a
failure, —like something glorious and beautiful one meets and
loses, and never again finds.

“ Be true to the dreams of thy youth,” says a German author;
and every soul is unhappy until the dreams of youth prove true.

One glorious evening in midsummer Otto was crossing a
viver in Ireland. The kind-hearted boatman had been moved
by the old man’s imploring gestures to cross him. ‘“He’s
mighty nigh his end, anyhow,” he muttered looking at the
feeble movements of the old pilgrim as he stumbled to his seat.

Suddenly through the still evening air came the distant
sound of a melodious chime. At the first note the pilgrim
leaped to his feet and threw up his arms.

“O my God,” he cried, “ found at last!”
8 ZIGZAG STORIES.

“Tt’s the bells of the Convent,” said the wondering man,
not understanding Otto’s words spoken in a foreign tongue,
but answering his gesture. “They was brought from some-
where in Holland when they were fighting there. Moighty
find bells they are, anyhow. But he isn’t listening to me.”

No, he heard nothing but the bells. He merely whispered,
“Come back to me after so many years, —O love of my soul,
O thought of my life! Peal on, for your voices tell me of
Paradise.”

The last note floated through the air, and as it died away
something else soared aloft forever, free from the clouds and
struggles of life.

His ideal was fulfilled now. Otto lay dead, his face full of
peace and joy, for the weary quest of his crazy brain was over,
and the Harmony Chime had called him to his eternal rest.

And, past that change of life that men call Death, we may
well believe that he heard in the ascension to the celestial
atmosphere the ringing of welcoming bells more beautiful than
the Harmony Chime.

THE BELL-FOUNDER OF .BRESLAU.

THERE once lived in Breslau a famous bell-founder, the fame
of whose skill caused his bells to be placed in many German
towers.

He had an ambition to cast one bell that would surpass all
others in purity of tone, and that should render his own name
immortal.

He was required to cast a bell for the Magdalen Church
tower of that city of noble churches, — Breslau. He felt that
this was opportunity for his masterpiece. All of his thoughts
centred on the Magdalen bell.
THE BELL-FOUNDER OF BRESLAU. 9

After a long period of preparation, his metals were arranged
for use. The form was walled up and made steady; the melt-
ing of the metals in the great bell-kettle had begun.

The old bell-founder had two faults which had grown upon
him, — a love of ale and a fiery temper.

While the metals were heating in the kettle, he said to his
fire-watch, a little boy, —

“Tend the kettle for a moment; I am overwrought: I must
go over to the inn, and take my ale, and nerve me for the casting.

“But, boy,” he added, “touch not the stopple; if you do,
you shall rue it. That bell is my life, I have put all I have
learned in life into it. If any man were to touch that stopple,
I would strike him dead.”

The boy had an over-sensitive, nervous temperament. He
was easily excited, and was subject to impulses that he could
not easily control.

The command that he should not touch the stopple, under the
dreadful penalty, strongly affected his mind, and made him
wish to do the very thing he had been forbidden.

He watched the metal in the great kettle. It bubbled, bil-
lowed, and ran to and fro. In the composition of the glowing
mass he knew that his master had put his heart and soul.

It would be a bold thing to touch the stopple, — adventurous.
His hand began to move towards it.

The evil impulse grew, and his hand moved on.

He touched the stopple. The impulse was a wild passion
now, — he turned it.

Then his mind grew dark; he was filled with horror. He
ran to his master.

“T have turned the stopple; I could not help it,” he said.
“The Devil tempted me!”

The old bell-founder clasped his hands and looked upward in
agony. Then his temper flashed over him. He seized his knife,
and stabbed the boy to the heart.
10 ZIGZAG STORIES.

He rushed back to the foundry, hoping to stay the stream.
He found the metal whole; the turning of the stopple had not
caused the metal to flow.

The boy lay dead on the ground.

The old bell-founder knew the consequences of his act, and
he did not seek to escape them. He cast the bell; then he
went to the magistrates, and said, —

“My work is done; but Iam a murderer. Do with me as
you will.”

The trial was short; it greatly excited the city. The judges
could not do otherwise than sentence him to death. But as he
was penitent, he was promised that on the day of his execution
he should receive the offices and consolations of the Church.

“You are good,” he said. “But grant me another favor.
My bells will delight many ears when I am gone; my soul is in
them; grant me another favor.”

‘Name it,” said the judges.

“ That I may hear the sound of my new bell before I die.”

The judges consulted, and answered, —

“Tt shall toll for your execution.”

The fatal day came.

Toll, toll, toll!

There was a sadness in the tone of the bell that touched every
heart in Breslau. The bell seemed human.

Toll, toll, toll!

How melodious! how perfect! how beautiful! The very air
seemed charmed! The years would come and go, and this bell
would be the tongue of Breslau !

The old man came forth. He had forgotten his fate in listen-
ing to the bell. The heavy clang was so melodious that it filled
his heart with joy.

“That is it! that is it; my heart, my life!” he said. “I
know all the metals; I made the voice! Ring on, ring on for-
ever! Ring in holy days, and happy festivals, and joy eternal
to Breslau.”
A FRIGHTENED CAPTAIN. 11

Toll, toll, toll!

On passed the white-haired man, listening still to the call of
the bell that summoned him to death.

He bowed his head at the place of execution to meet the
stroke just as the last tone of the bell melted upon the air. His
soul passed amid the silvery echoes. The bell rings on.

A FRIGHTENED CAPTAIN.

IT oncé heard a story of a company of Home Guards in a
Kentucky town. They met for parade under a pompous and
ambitious captain. The object of the organization was to pro-
tect the town from Morgan’s bands of foragers.

“Shoulder arms!” said he, imperiously. “ Ground arms!”
as loftily.

A negro appeared leaping into the parade ground, out of
breath, but swinging his hat.

“ Morgan — is — coming,” he stammered.

The captain gave one glance at his company, and shouted,
“Break ranks!” and break ranks they did, each seeking his
own safety.

It is a somewhat similar story that I find in the entertaining
book of which I have spoken.

William Johnson was one of the so-called order of the “ Lib-
erators of Canada.” A provisional government had been formed,
and he had been appointed Commander of the Fleet.

On the night of the 29th of May, 1838, says Chapin, the
English passenger steamer “Sir Robert Peel.” while on a trip
up the river, stopped at a wooding-station on Wells’ Island,
near the head of the stream; here it was boarded by Johnson,
at the head of a score or more of well-armed men, disguised in
Indian costume, who at once proceeded to put the passengers
12 ZIGZAG STORIES.

and crew, about forty in number, ashore, and then to fire the
boat, which was soon burned to the water’s edge. This act of
hostility towards one government and the violation of the neu-
trality of the other was productive of great excitement; a
reward was offered by the Governor of the State of New York
for his apprehension, and strenuous efforts were made by the
British military authorities to effect his capture.

When closely pursued, Johnson had a secret place of retreat,
that for a long time served as a place of concealment, and the
knowledge of the locality of which was known but to himself
and a few of his most trusted confederates. This was a cavern
upon one of the almost innumerable islands of the archipelago
of the river, sufficiently capacious to serve as a place of resi-
dence and concealment for a score of men, and whose entrance
it was very difficult for one not acquainted with the spot to
discover.

Stimulated by the rewards offered, or by a desire to gain the
plaudits that the consummation of the act would secure, as well
as probable promotion, a young and daring English officer,
Captain Boyd, then in Canada, but unattached, undertook the
project of effecting the capture of Johnson, and proceeded in a
cautious and systematic manner that promised success, if that
was possible.

Enlisting half a score of trusty men, to but a couple of whom,
however, he intrusted the secret of his mission, he quietly
started out upon a cruise among the islands in a yacht, under
the guise of a sportsman. This gave him sufficient excuse for
going well armed. Fortune at length rewarded the persever-
ance of Captain Boyd; and the secret of the outlaw’s retreat
was disclosed to him, as is believed, by one of Johnson’s band,
to whom a few gold pieces proved a stronger incentive than the
oath of fidelity given to his leader. He also became cognizant
of the fact that the disturber of the peace was sojourning at the
cave, accompanied by but half a dozen followers ; and by watch-
A FRIGHTENED CAPTAIN. 13

ing the opportunity Captain Boyd was enabled not only to sur-
prise him when there was but a single follower with him, but to
effect an entrance to the cavern unopposed, backed by his men,
who with presented rifles covered the two inmates.

The insurgent leader could not but manifest some trepidation
at first at this very unexpected intrusion, but almost at once
recovered his presence of mind, and in a firm voice demanded :

“Who are you? What means this?”

“Tam Captain Boyd, of the English Army, and you are my
prisoner!” was the prompt reply.

“Well, Captain, I will not dispute you,” returned Johnson,
coolly; “but come in, and we will talk the matter over.”

As he spoke, he pointed to a seat upon a kee at one side of
the cavern, which apartment was of about ten feet in width by
something less than forty in length.

The captain accepted the proffered seat, and at a glance sur-
veyed the strange room. The view that it presented was in
keeping with the character and pursuits of those whose home
it was. Rifles, powder-flasks, and bullet-pouches adorned the
walls; at the further end were couches formed of branches of
evergreens covered with blankets; at one side was a rude fire-
place, the smoke from which found its way upward through
a crevice in the rocks above, while the place was lighted by
day by the aperture of a hollow tree-trunk sunk through the
roof so skilfully that upon the outside it appeared to have
grown. there. ‘

The others remained at the entrance, with rifles held ready
to answer any possible demonstration on the part of the two
prisoners.

“It is a rule,’ resumed Johnson, as he took a bottle from
a shelf in the rock, “that all persons who visit Fort Wallace
shall partake of its hospitalities. We are plain people here,
and have no use for the luxuries of life, among which we rank
glasses ; so be kind enough to partake from the bottle.”
14 ZIGZAG STORIES.

The captain, astonished at and admiring the coolness of his
captive, courteously accepted it, and placed it to his lips ; but,
fearful of some ruse, permitted none of the drink to pass
them.

“ Your friends,” said Johnson, ‘ will they not partake?”

“No, thanks,” returned the captain, smiling involuntarily ;
“not upon this occasion!”

“ We have a little business to transact, and I suppose that you
are impatient, and that the subject is open for remark. To
commence, what do you wish of me?”

“To accompany me at once.”

“To what place, permit me to inquire?” and as he asked
this he seated himself upon the head of a barrel opposite to the
captain.

“To whatever place we may choose to convey you.”

“To Kingston, perhaps?”

“Quite likely.”

The captive appeared to reflect for a moment; then he
walked toward the fireplace and took from one of his pockets
a pipe.

“ No objections to my smoking, I suppose?” he inquired.

“None at all.”

The outlaw calmly proceeded to fill the pipe; then he took
from the embers a large coal and placed it upon it, and, return-
ing to his seat upon the barrel, proceeded to give a couple of
invigorating whiffs.

“Come,” spoke the captain, “I cannot delay longer; you
must come at once.”

Johnson calmly removed the pipe from his lips and held it
in his hand.

“T object to accompanying you to Kingston,” he said. “ This
barrel,” he continued, with a meaning glance, as he observed
the expression of surprise upon the countenance of the other,
and removed one of the boards of the lid, “contains powder ;
A FRIGHTENED CAPTAIN. 15

and this,” as he held the pipe over it, “is a coal! Shall we
make the journey?”

Brave as he was, it is feared that the adventurous captain,
as he quickly comprehended the situation, paled a little, while
his followers made a rapid movement toward the entrance of
the cavern, and sought safety in flight, save a couple, more
valiant than the rest, who remained at the door to keep John-
son and his single follower covered with their pieces.

A pause succeeded, — an unpleasant one for all, since a spark
from the coal, or the coal itself, was momentarily liable to fall
into the barrel of powder and usher them into eternity without
further warning.

Johnson was the first to speak. ‘You should have known,
Captain,” he said, “ that William Johnson could never be taken
alive; now we can treat on equal terms, —a life for a life, if
you so decide!”

“J confess myself beaten,” commenced the captain, rising as
he spoke.

“Keep your seat!” thundered Johnson, handling the pipe
menacingly.

The captain resumed his place upon the keg.

“ Now I will listen to you,” said the outlaw.

“I was about to say that I was willing to confess myself
beaten, and propose that we call this a draw, — we depart, and
you remain in peace.”

“That is satisfactory,” rejoined the other, “but hold a mo-
ment— Here, Sam,” addressing his follower, who stood a few
yards off, “hand me a coal from the fire.”

The man silently obeyed. Johnson received it, while the
others watched him apprehensively, and placed it upon the head
of the barrel, a few inches from the powder, where it gleamed
with vindictive brightness. “The pipe is in danger of going
out,” he said, in explanation, “and I wish to keep another in
readiness. Now, to continue, my terms are that you not only




16 ZIGZAG STORIES.

depart in peace, but that you give me your word of honor that
you will not again attempt to molest me in any manner unless
you should be called upon to do so in self-defence, — that you
will not disclose the secret of this retreat to any one, and that
you will require the same pledge from each of all your men.”

“T agree to them,” said the captain, promptly.

«And give me your oath upon it?” said Johnson.

“I do, upon the honor of an officer of the English army; and
now I suppose that we may depart?”

The captain, rising, left the cavern as soon as consistent with
official dignity, preceded by the two men who had remained at
the entrance. The remainder of the party were found a short
distance away, and, re-entering their boat, they took speedy
departure.

They were quickly followed from the cave by Johnson and
his follower, rifles in hand, who, somewhat distrustful in
regard to the good faith of their late captors, hurried to a spot
on the island whence such of their companions as were in the
vicinity could be summoned by signal to hasten at once to the
rendezvous.

The signal had hardly been displayed, andthe boat of Cap-
tain Boyd had not disappeared behind the nearest island, when
there was heard a loud explosion. The cavern was blown up.

THE LEGEND OF MARGUERITE AND THE
ISLE OF DEMONS.

BELLE IsLe and the Isle of Demons! The old French
voyagers and explorers welcomed the one and shunned the other.
Among the most thrilling tales told in the halls of French
noblemen was that of the Isle of the Devils, situated in the
tossing sea on the north of the New-Found-Land.
LEGEND OF MARGUERITE AND THE ISLE OF DEMONS. 17

The island lay as it were at the portal of the unknown
world, —a world of stupendous boundaries and resources, of
red nations and plumed chiefs, of cloud-swept mountains and
mighty water-courses. In the bosom of almost limitless forests
were sequestered clans. In the south were lands of perpetual
summer, festive peoples, and palaces of gold.

A NEAT
\ \\

AN ANS
SN



THE ISLE OF DEMONS.

The shores of Labrador and of Anticosti were dark and
gloomy, even in midsummer. Strange wild birds made their
nests there. The old explorers believed that they saw griffins
there, — great beasts that flew in the air, and that might bear

away a sailor from one of their ships.
2
18 ZIGZAG STORIES.

But the Isle of Demons was the satanic world. The island
has been known in recent geography and history under various
names, as Fishot, Thevet, Isle de Roberval. A very ancient
map gives a picture of the supposed inhabitants, — curious peo-
ple indeed, having wings, horus, and tas.

The woods were believed to be haunted. The principal
occupation of the interesting inhabitants of the island or islands,
who are depicted with heads, horns, and arms having wings,
seems to have been howling. These howlings were thought to
fill all the near regions of the seas.

“True it is,” says an old adventurer, — “and I myself have
heard it, not from one, but from a great number of sailors and
pilots with whom I have made voyages, —that when they
passed this way they heard in the air, on the tops of the masts
and about them, a great clamor of voices, like a crowd in a
market-place. Then they knew that the Isle of Demons was
not far away.”

The same sounds, it is said, may be heard near the island
to-day ; but the most superstitious sailor would not think of
attributing them to anything but the peculiar winds and cur-
rents of the air. The wildness of the sea and the mournful-
ness of the winds have not changed; but the world has grown
in intelligence, and in the light of science the demons, like
the griffins, have disappeared from the imaginations of the toilers
around the Banks.

There was a certain voyager, a nobleman of Picardy, known
in history as Sieur de Roberval. He was made a viceroy of
New France about the year 1542. He might as well have been
made viceroy of the air or the sea; but his titles in this new
capacity surpassed in pompous words those of any nobleman
in France. He was Lord of Norembega, Lieutenant-General
of Canada, and Viceroy of Canada, Hochelaga, Saguenay,
Newfoundland, Labrador, and other places of equal space on
paper. He was a man of hard heart; the best place for him
LEGEND OF MARGUERITE AND THE ISLE OF DEMONS. 19

would have been on the desolate Isle of Demons, which came
at last to bear his name.

He sailed out of the sunny harbor of Rochelle, in April, 1642,
having three ships and two hundred colonists, bound for the St.
Lawrence. In June he entered the harbor of St. John.

Among the passengers was a niece of Roberval, a young lady
of wonderful beauty, who was called Marguerite. She had
been loved, in the bright province whence she came, by a gen-
tleman who was ill-regarded by Roberval. When this gentle-
man found that her uncle was resolved to take her to the new
world, he also joined the expedition, determined like a true
lover to share the perils, fortunes, and fate of the lovely
Marguerite.

Out of the Bay of Biscay, on their way to the wonderful,
regions of the west, the lovers renewed their interviews, and
seemed to have little thought or care but for each other's
society. Roberval discovered the renewed affection with anger.

“T will leave you, Marguerite,” he said, “to die on the
Isle of Demons.”

«And I will share your fate,” whispered her lover in her
ear.

The attachment continued. The ship was moving north
toward the haunted isle. Winds began to whistle about the
tops of the masts, and the sounds were believed to be evil
spirits’ voices. Marguerite believed the superstition, and she
knew the fate that awaited her, and .began to pray to the
Virgin, who she thought would espouse her cause and shield
her from the dark spirits of the air.

The ship on which were Roberval and Marguerite drew near
the wild island. one summer day. Roberval cast anchor, and
compelled Marguerite to land, giving her, as a parting portion,
a certain amount of arms and provisions and an old Norman
nurse for an attendant.

Roberval had resolved to sail away in the fogs and shadows,
20 ZIGZAG STORIES.

and to take with him Marguerite’s lover for future revenges.
He was delighting in his power over the crushed Marguerite,
as she stood weeping on the windy shore, when a man leaped
overboard, and was lost in the foaming surf. He rose again, at
a point near the shore. The sailors and emigrants looked upon
the sea and rocks in dumb astonishment. The fugitive reached
the shore and joined Marguerite, and the three fled into the
piny forests whence no Frenchman or Indian would have dared
to pursue them. The fugitive was the lover of Marguerite.

The exiles built them a cabin overlooking the restless sea.
They heard the north winds in the pine tops at night, and
thought them the voices of demons. When the storms were
gathering the voices were fearful. Then the beautiful Mar-

guerite would kneel and pray to the Virgin.

Marguerite’s faith in the Virgin was her comfort now, and
that of her lover and companion. When the demons came to
destroy them, as the exiles fancied they often did as they heard
the winds and the howlings of beasts of prey, Marguerite
looked upward to the Virgin, and thought she saw a white
hand stretch out above her. Then all was peace.

The exiles gathered eggs and berries in summer, and nuts
in autumn. The woods were filled with game, and the sea
with fish; and they laid in a good supply of food for the winter.

The winter came. They had watched the sea for a sail, but
none had appeared. Strange gaunt-looking animals began to
prowl about the cabin, such as they had never seen in France.
They believed them to be demons.

When the howlings of these animals became fearful at night,
Marguerite would pray, and she would see the white hand; and
then the exiles would rest in peace and comfort.

Over Marguerite’s prayers, as she believed, dropped the
white hand of the Virgin like a heavenly lily, and the heaven
of her heart shone serenely over the wild skies and demon-
haunted islands and seas.
LEGEND OF MARGUERITE AND THE ISLE OF DEMONS. 21

Winter vanished. The soft spring came. The June roses
bloomed. A child was born to Marguerite. They were four
now, —five, if one could believe Marguerite’s own narrative of
the presence of the Virgin.

The hardships of the winter had broken the health of the
follower of her strange fortunes, and he did not have that faith
in the white hand that made Marguerite so strong and hopeful.
He grew thin, and, consumed by fevers, died in the summer
time, craving life for the sake of the mother and child.

The old Norman nurse and Marguerite made his grave where
they could watch it and guard it from the beasts and demons.
The burial was such as has seldom been seen, — two women
and the infant stood above the coffinless body, and the old
nurse wrung her hands, and the mother repeated the ancient
prayers. The beasts prowled around the cabin, the mysterious
voices were heard in the air; but Marguerite still trusted and
prayed, and looked hopefully out on the empty sea, and still
dreamed that she saw the white hand of the Virgin.

The child died. The grave was made beside the father’s.
The mourners were two.

The old Norman nurse died. There was but one to dig the
grave and one mourner now.

Marguerite was alone — alone, as she believed, with the
demons. But as often as they came, she prayed, and as often
the fancied white hand appeared.

Bears prowled around the cabin and tried to enter. She
thought them monsters. She says that she killed three that
were white.

She watched the three graves and the helpless sea. She again
saw the snows melt, and the birds return from the suns of the
south.

One day she saw afar a speck on the water. It was the boat
of some fishermen. She kindled fires and fed them. The boat-
men saw them, and came to the island. They carried Mar
guerite away.
22 ZIGZAG STORIES.

She returned to France and told her melancholy story to her
courtly friends, who welcomed her back. She died in peace,
led to Paradise, as she doubtless believed, by the white hand in
which she had trusted in her forest cabin,

What was the fate of Roberval ?

The Canadian winter followed him. With it came famine to
the colony, then pestilence. But misfortunes and disasters only
seryed to harden his heart. He governed with an iron hand.
He hung six men in one day; the whipping-post was kept in
constant use ; he banished some who displeased him to desolate
islands; others he put in fetters. The colony came to speedy
ruin. Roberval returned to France overwhelmed with his
calamities, even before poor Marguerite found her way back
over the sea.

Still ‘he retained the favor of the Court.

Years: passed. One night there was a murder near the
Chureh of the Innocents in the heart of Paris. The tragedy
sent a thrill of excitement through the streets. The dying
victim saw no white hand in the gathering shadows of death.
There was a red hand in his dreams; he must have felt the end
was but the fruit of his own deeds, the result of his own exam-
ple and conduct, whatever may have been the immediate cause
or whoever may have struck the blow. Tt was Roberval.

JUST ONCE MORE.

Iv was a cold night in January. Late in the afternoon the
snow had begun to fall, and now a sharp, cutting wind was
rapidly rising. The streets of M were all deserted, save by
those whom necessity forced to brave the blinding storm ; and
quiet would have reigned supreme throughout the town but for
the ceaseless roar of the ocean as it came rushing up the beach,


JUST ONCE MORE. 23

tossing sprays of white foam far up into the dark sky, and then
slowly retracing its way with a sullen moan.

The soft, ruddy light that shone through the large French
plate windows of Gilbert’s saloon suggested the warmth and
comfort within. Before the door of this saloon a young man
was standing, battling with his conscience. He remembered his
old promise to his mother never again to enter a gambling-
hall, but to-night the desire to try his luck just once more was
greater than he could resist. Just then a man opened the door,
and a merry peal of laughter was borne out into the storm.
That peal of laughter decided the contest for Fred Ashton ; and
stifling the small voice that was still pleading with his better
self, he pushed by the man in the door, hurried through the
outer saloon, and entered the room at the back.

“ Halloo, Ashton,” cried one of the men, “did you snow
down?” “17d begun to think you’d deserted your old friends
altogether,” said another, looking up from his cards. ‘Sit
down and make your miserable life more so,” said a third.
“ Better have a glass of something to warm you up,” said a
fourth. Fred drew a plush easy-chair up to the table, sat down,
and taking the wine, held it up to the light. How it foamed
and sparkled! He threw his head back against the soft cushion
of his chair and leisurely drained the glass. As he placed it on
the table, a voice from the other side cried out, ‘* Well, Ill be
bound if you haven’t beat me again, stranger.”

The speaker rose, and noticing Fred for the first time, came
round and gave his hand a hearty shake, saying, as he did so,
“ Why, Ashton, you’re just the fellow I wanted to see. Come,
have a game with this man; he’s beat me twice, but you’re
pretty good at cards, I believe.”

Mr. Leighton, the man in question, was about fifty years old.
He had sharp, irregular features and large gray eyes that seemed
keen enough to read one’s very thoughts. Fred put up a hun-
dred dollars against two, and soon both men were deep in the
24 ZIGZAG STORIES.

game. Fortune seemed to be on the side of Leighton, however,
and he won. In the second game Fred put up two hundred
dollars against three; but Leighton’s good fortune still contin-
ued, and Fred lost that also.

Fred began to grow excited, but his companion was quite
caln. *‘ Better try once more,” he said encouragingly. “ Sup-
pose you win, as you have a fair chance of doing, then we’d be
square, you know.” “Go ahead, Ashton; put up three hun-
ved dollars, — that ‘ll just cover the debt,” said some of the
men. “ All right, then, here goes,” Fred replied, as he finished
another glass of wine. Mr. Leighton was a professional gam-
bler. He understood cards perfectly, knew when and where to
cheat, and just how to do it. During the first part of the game
he laughed and jested a good deal, and played rather indiffer-
ently. Fred was fast getting the upper hands of the game.
His spirits rose, and he called for more wine. He was almost
sure of winning, when suddenly Mr. Leighton held up a card,
exclaiming, ‘ Well, well, well! ”

Fred Ashton sank back in his chair and closed his eyes as if
trying to shut out the terrible truth. “Iam ruined, ruined,”
he said with a groan. “ And I,” replied Leighton, looking at his
watch, and mimicking the young man’s despairing tone, “am
too late for the eleven o’clock train.” Fred rose from his chair,
mechanically put on his coat and hat, and was about to leave
the room, when Leighton came up to him. “I’m very sorry to
trouble you, young man,” he said; “ but I’m in a great hurry
for that money. I have some bills to meet next week, and
must have it by that time without fail.” So saying, he puta
small card into his hand, and walked away.

Once more in the open air, the intense cold revived his heavy
brain, and Fred was able to think clearly. There was only one
thing left. He could not pay the debt, and he would never go
to prison. With a mighty effort he crushed the voice that
reminded him of the money his employer had put in his safe the
JUST ONCE MORE. 25

day before. “He trusts me, and I will never betray that trust,”
he said to himself. He walked rapidly to the beach, and going
to the farther end of a covered pier that extended from the back
of one of the summer hotels, stood gazing into the water. “ My
life is all I have, and that’s not worth living,” he said, speaking
aloud, and with a strange ring in his voice. For a moment the
sea was still, as if it were aghast at the awful deed it was about
to witness.

The night was very dark, and in his excitement Fred did not
notice a tall man, who stood near him. He seized the railing,
and was preparing to make the fatal plunge when a firm hand
grasped his arm, and a deep voice close to his ear said, * Your
life is not your own to keep or throw away as may suit your
convenience. It is given to you for a divine purpose, and some
day you will be called upon to render up an account of it to the
Giver.” It would take too long to relate all that passed between
Fred Ashton and his rescuer. They went back to the hotel and
occupied the same room for the rest of the night.

Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore were sitting before a bright wood fire
in the handsomely furnished parlor of their residence on Chest-
nut Street. “Ido not know why,” Mr. Dinsmore was saying,
“but somehow my heart went out to the boy, he seemed to be
so utterly alone in the world.”

“You did just right, my dear,” said Mis. Dinsmore.“ T have
a noble husband, and I am proud of him. If our Harry had
lived,” she added gently, “he might have been led astray too.”

“T can hardly see how a boy with such a mother to care for
and advise him could be led astray,” said her husband. ‘“T tell
you what,” he exclaimed after a pause, during which he had
been gazing thoughtfully into the fire, “this is a hard world for
a boy without a mother. The home influence is everything. I
have had a long talk with young Ashton.” he continued, “and I
hope with some assistance and a good deal of encouragement to
make a man of him after all.”

%
Lo

6 ZIGZAG STORIES.

Mr. Dinsmore has long since given up the management of his
business, but it is faithfully carried on by Fred Ashton, who has
become one of the most upright and honorable of men. The
saloon and gambling-hall no longer hold out any inducements
for him; but after the day is over, he lays aside the cares of
business for the rest and quiet of a happy home, where a loving
wife and three merry children wait to welcome him.

THE GHOST OF GREYLOCK.

Tr was a clear evening late in December. I recall it well,
though I was a boy then. A gold star was shining in the fad-
ing crimson over the old New England town near Greylock like
a lamp in a chapel window. The woodland pastures were pur-
ple with gentians, red with cranberries, and yellow with frost-
smitten ferns. The still air echoed from the russet hills the call
of the chove-boy. The wains were rumbling home on the leaf-
less country roads. Stacks of corn-husks were rising here and
there, after late hours’ husking; and now and then a supper-
horn was blown from the door of some red farmhouses among
the orchards, far and near.

Over the country road, between the sunset and moonrise,
John Ladd, a farmer boy, was driving home a team of pump-
kins and shocks of stalks. These stalks were cut late in sum-
mer, and gathered into small bundles. The bundles were
themselves gathered into shocks, and these shocks were so tied
as to form a compact body about five or six feet high. A shock
of stalks in the evening resembled the form of a woman, or the
old-fashioned costume of a lady in short waist and large hoops.

In bringing home the pumpkins from the fields of corn in
which they commonly grew, it was a custom to load a few
shocks of stalks upon them, and to cover the pumpkins with
THE GHOST OF GREYLOCK. O

them in the barn cellar, or on the barn floor, as a protection
from the cold.

Johnny Ladd had learned a new tune, a very popular one at
that time, and he was one of those persons who are haunted by
the musical ear. Everybody was singing this new tune. The
tune was called, “ There’s a sound going forth from the mul-
berry trees,” and the words were very mysterious and sublime,
being taken, in part, from the inspirations of the old Hebrew
poets.

Johnny made the old woods ring with the new tune, —

“ What joyful sound is this I hear,
Fresh from the mulberry tops! ”’

A new tune turns the head of an impressionist, especially
when associated with such grand, poetic images as these; and
while Johnny’s voice was being echoed by old Greylock, the
boy lost his sense of sublunary things, and one of the bundles
of stalks tumbled off the load and landed in the middle of the
road without his notice, and stood there upright, looking like
the form of a woman at a little distance away in the dark. In
slipping from the load the shock had bent a few sheaves upward
on-one side; so it presented the appearance of a woman with
her arm raised as a gesture of warning.

The cart rumbled on with its singing young driver, leaving
this ominous figure in the middle: of ates road at the very top of
the hill.

Many of the old towns used to have a poor, homeless dog —
“nobody’s dog,” .or dog vagrant, a cur that farm-hands
“shooed,” boys stoned, women avoided, and no one owned or



cared to own. Cheshire had such a dog; he used to steal bones
from back-yards, and sleep under haystacks and shocks of stalks,
and run out of these. with his tail curled under him when he
heard any one approaching. This dog came trotting along the
road, soon after the shock of stalks had been left behind, and
28 AIGZAG STORIES.

thinking that the shock would be a good cover for the night,
crawled into it, curled up, and probably went to sleep.
The shock was left on smooth, shelving ground, and could
slip about easily; and whenever the dog moved the shock
moved, waving its spectral hand in a very mysterious manner.
Now just beyond this animated effigy on the top of the hill,
was a graveyard, and in it a year before had been buried an old
woman who had been found dead sitting in her chair. Her
erave had been visited by a local poet, who had written for her
gravestone the following biographical epitaph: —
“ As I was sitting in my chair,
Busy about my worldly care,

In one brief moment I fell dead,
And to this place I was conveyed.”

Such was the animated corn-shock, and the peculiar condition
of affairs on the top of the hill, when a party of philosophical
jokers met to pass the evening in the big travellers’ room of the
“ Half-Way Inn.”

This inn was kept by Freelove Mason, a buxom hostess whose
name was familiar to every traveller between Boston and Albany
in the pastoral days of the old New England stage-coach. She
was a famous cook, like Julien, of the good-living Boston inn,
whose name still lives in soups, and often heads the appetizing
list on menus.

The gray-coated old stage-drivers used to toot their horns on
approaching the elm-shaded valley of Cheshire, as a signal to
Freelove to have the afternoon dinner hot on the table when the
coach should stop under the swinging sign between the steeple-
like trees.

What stages they were, with their heavy wheels and flexible
leather gearing! They were painted green and yellow, with
sign letters in red, and the State of Massachusetts coat-of-arms
or rather seal on the door. The middle seat was supplied with
a broad leather band for a back, which was unhooked while the
THE GHOST OF GREYLOCK. 29

passengers of the back seat found their places. The driver's
seat was high and grand, with a black leather boot under which
were placed the mail-bags, and a dog that had been well edu-
cated in the school of growls, and that was sure to check any
impertinent curiosity in the conscientious exercise of his office.
A tall whip cut the air above the seat, protruding out of a round
pocket near the one high step. A tally-ho horn found a place
between the driver’s legs; and when it was lifted into the ai,
its blast caused the dogs to drop their tails, and the hares to
_prick up their ears, and the partridges to whir away, and the
farm hands to take breath amid their work.

It was an important hour in Cheshire when the grand Boston
coach dashed up between the two great Lombardy poplars, and
stopped at the horse-block in front of the Half-Way Inn. Dogs
barked, children ran, and women’s faces filled the windows
among the morning-glory vines. At the open door stood Free-
love always, on these occasions, her face beaming, her cap bor-
der bobbing, and her heart overflowing, and seeming to meet in
every guest a long-lost sister or brother. She knew how to run
a hotel; and nothing but prosperity attended her long and meim-
orable administration. ,

On this notable evening of which I speak, the principal char-
acters were Judge Smart, Billy Brown, — or “ Sweet Billy,” as
he was called, an odd genius, who was the ‘“ Sam Lawson” of
the Berkshire Hills, — Cameralsman, the stage-driver, and Blingo,
the blacksmith. I can see the very group now, as when a boy.
They were joined by Freelove herself, early in the evening, who
brought her knitting, and was eager to discuss the latest marvel
of the newspaperless times, and to add the wisdom of her moral
reflections upon it. She prefaced the remarks which she wished
to make emphatically —and they were frequent— with the
word “Lordy,” almost profane in its suggestions, but not ill-
intentioned by her. It was a common exclamation of surprise
in the old county towns.
30 ZIGZAG STORIES.

The short, red twilight had been followed by light gusts of
night winds, whirling leaves, passing like an unseen traveller,
leaving silence behind. Shutters creaked, and clouds flew hur-
riedly along the sky over the sparkling courses of the stars.

The conversation of the evening turned on the old topic, —
Were there ever haunted places? Judge Smart and Blingo,
the blacksmith, were of the opinion that there were no trust-
worthy evidences of supernatural manifestations to human eyes
and ears, and it required great moral courage at this time to
call in question the traditional philosophy of the old Colony
teachers and wonder tales.

“ There is no evidence whatever that there ever was a haunted
place in this country or anywhere else, and I do not believe
that any one ever knew such a place except in his imagination,
not even Cotton Mather himself, or that any one ever will.

‘¢¢ With those who think that there are witches
There the witches are;
With those who think there are no witches,
Witches are not there.’ ”

So said Blingo, the blacksmith.

Freelove started, but only said, * Lordy!” in a deep contralto
voice. Was it possible that such heresy as this had been uttered
in the great room of her tavern? room or some like mystery would be just a tavern; no more to
be respected than an ordinary! She let down her knitting-
work into her lap in a very deliberate way, and sat silent.
Then she said most vigorously to Blingo, the blacksmith, —

“So you have become of the opinion of the Judge and the
stage-driver? Look here, Blingo, I should think that you would
be afraid to doubt such things. I should. I should be afraid
that something awful would follow me, and whoop down yven-
geance on me, like an old-fashioned hurricane, —I should.
Mercy me, hear the wind howl! There it comes again. Lordy!”
THE GHOST OF GREYLOCK. , 31

The great sign creaked, and a loose shutter rattled, and a
shutter banged.

“Blingo, you may be an honest-meaning man, but don’t you
invite evil upon this house. I —”

“My good woman, don’t you worry. I just want to ask you
one question: If ghosts cry and shriek, as you say they do,
they can also talk, can’t they, now? Say?”

“T suppose so.”

“Well, why don’t they do it then, and tell what they want,
honest-like? There, now!”

There came another rush of wind and leaves, and many rat-
tling noises. Freelove seemed to have an impression that she
was called on to vindicate the invisible world in some way so
as to sustain the most friendly relations to it.

Sweet Billy Brown, the Cheshire joker, came to her assistance
in a very startling and unexpected manner, after one or two
more ominous bangs of a shutter. How odd he looked; his
face red with the fire, and his eyes full of roguery !

“ FBreelove,” said he, with lifted eyebrows and wide mouth.
—‘“Freelove, these are solemn times for poor, unthinking
mortals to make such declarations as these. Winds are blowin’,
and winders are rattlin’, and shutters are bangin’, and what
not. Hist! Just you listen now.”

He gave me a curious wink, as much as to say, “* Now watch
for a rare joke.”

“Did you know that old woman, she what died last year,
come November, come the 12th, sitting in her chair, bolt up-
right —so?” Billy straightened up like a statue. “ Did you
know what she answered? She answered some boys what was
a-whortelberryim’ in her graveyard !””

“ Answered?” said Freelove, with a bob of her cap-border.
“ Answered? Lordy! Did you say answered ?”

“Mercy me! Yes, answered. “Twas all mighty curious
and mysterious like. Them boys they just hollered right out
32 ZIGZAG STORIES.

there, up in that old, briery, burying graveyard on the windy
hill, ‘Old woman, old woman, what did you die of?’ And the
old woman answered — nothin’ at all.”

Billy gave me another peculiar look.

“Lordy! Did she? I always knew it was so. Nothing
ailed her; she had just got through.”

“But I haven't; that isn’tall. I have somethin’ more to
tell, — somethin’ to make your hair stand on end, as Shakespeare
says.”

Freelove felt of her wig.

“One night in October,” continued Sweet Billy, “a certain
young man that I might name was passing that place with his
girl, and he told the girl, as they were Dassine: what answer
the old woman had made the whortelberryin’ boys in her grave-
yard. And she says, says she, ‘I dast to ask that question ;’
and she went up to the wall, she did, and says she, says she
mighty pert and chipper-like, says she, ‘Old woman, old
woman, what did you die of?’ and just as true as I am sittin’
here, and the wind is blowin’, and the shutters are bangin’, the
old woman answered, just as she did before — nothin’ at all!”

Freelove’s cap gave another bob, and she said, “ L-o-r-d-y!
when Sweet Billy continued : —

“ And I, —yes, I ventured to ask her the same question one
night when I was passin’, and I, true as preachin’, got the same
answer myself, — nothin’ at all. You may believe it or not, —

1»

there, now.”

Freelove sat like a pictured woman in a pictured chair.

“T have always heard that that old graveyard was haunted,’
said she at last. “ Now let us be eect honest and sincere
with each other. You three men say that there is no such
thing as the appearance of spirits to living people. That is so.
If you, Judge Smart, and you, Cameralsman, and you, Blingo,
will go to-night up to the top of that hill and say those identical
words, I will give you all a hot supper when you return. It
THE GHOST OF GREYLOCK. 33

is in the brick oven now. People have seen strange things
there for forty years. Here is a test for you. There, now!
You’ve all got ears and eyes. Will you go?”

“J will,” said the Judge. “I wouldn’t think any more of
doing a thing like that than I would of going to the wood-pile
and speaking to the chopping-block.”

“Nor I,” said Cameralsman.

“ Nor I,” said Blingo.

“ Well, go,” said Freelove ; “ but promise me that if you should
see anything all in white, or if the old woman answers you as she
did the others, you will believe these ghost stories to be true.”

“Yes,” said the Judge, the stage-driver, and the blacksmith,
all in chorus.

There was a shout of laughter, and a swinging of arms and
putting on of overcoats; and the three men banged the door
behind them, and turned merrily toward the hill road, thinking
only of the hot supper they would have on their return. A
December supper out of an old brick oven in the prosperous
days of the Cheshire farmers was no common meal.

I followed them. I thought I saw the double sense of Sweet
Billy’s words, and I was full of wonder at his boldness. The
old graveyard had borne a very doubtful reputation for nearly
a generation, but Billy’s joke furnished a new horror to the
place of dark imaginations.

It was a bright, gusty December night. The moon was
rising like an evening sun behind the great skeletons of oaks
on the high hill. Now and then came a gust of wind breaking
the chestnut burrs, and dropping down showers of chestnuts.
The frosts were gathering and glimmering over the pastures.

Billy Brown was specially happy over his joke, and the play
upon words in the old woman’s supposed answer. He had told
the story in such a realistic way and tone that no one had seen
the point of it, which is at once obvious in print. The Judge
had a very strong feeling of self-sufficiency.

3
b+ ZIGZAG STORIES,

«I would not engage in this foolishness but for the supper,” said

he. “Three wise men of Gotham went to sea in a bowl!’”
‘Nor I,” said Cameralsman. ‘I would hate to be quoted
all over the town as having made such scatter-brains of myself.
The people would all be laughing at me, and if there is any-
thing that I can’t endure it is to be laughed at. There are
men who face battles that cannot stand a joke. I have seen
stormy weather on the old roads, but my legs would fly like
drumsticks in a cannonade, before the giggle of a girl. People
are governed by their imaginations, and that makes us all a
strange lot of critters.”

After these sage remarks we stubbed along the moonlit road,
the Judge leading. Once he stopped and said, “ What fools
we all are!” repeating Puck’s view of the human species.

“ That’s so,” said Cameralsman.

“You'll feel as full of wisdom as old King Solomon,” said
Billy, the joker. “ You will, now, when you hear that answer
comin’ up from the bowels of the earth, without any head or
tongue or body, or nothin’.”

The three men laughed.

A white rabbit ran across the road. We allstopped. White!
Was it a sign? Our imaginations began to be active, and to
create strange pictures and resemblances. There followed the
white streaks of the rabbit a gust of wind, overturning beds of
leaves. I was so excited that my forehead was wet with
perspiration.

“Cracky! There’s somethin’ strange somewhere. I can
feel it in the air,” said Billy. “My two eyes! What is that?”

We all stopped. The moon was rising over the oaks and
pines, and on the top of the hill stood what looked to us all
like the figure of a woman with an arm raised, mysterious and
silent, as in warning.

Under ordinary circumstances we would have seen there
simply a shock of stalks. But our imaginations were excited,
and we were in doubt.






















































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































THE GHOST OF GREYLOCK.



THE GHOST OF GREYLOCK. 37

«Tt ’s the old woman herself,” said Cameralsman.

“Come out to meet us,” said the Judge, sarcastically.

“Cracky, if I don’t believe it is,’ said Billy, with bending
form and staring eyes.

“ Judge?”

“What, Billy?”

“That was a joke.”

“What?”

“ Wot I said about the old woman, and that she would answer
nothin’ at all. But the graveyard 7s haunted. I’ve heard so
a hundred times.”

“Well, that figure is no joke, as you can see. But it is up
there that we shall have to go, and you too, Billy.”

“Oh, Judge, not now that I told you it was all a joke.”

“ But you must, Billy.”

“Why?”

“Do you want to be laughed at as a coward?”

There was a movement of the figure.

“Oh, Judge, look! I can see her hand move. Oh, heavings
and earth! let us try a race back to the tavern.”

“No, no; we must investigate. We'd lose our reputations
if we did not. A man must stand by his reputation whatever
may come.”

“Judge, these are solemn times. Anybody is welcome to
my reputation; I’d part with it now if I only could get back
to the tavern again,” said Billy.

The Judge pressed on. The rest followed unwillingly; Billy
lagging behind the others, but led on by force of example.

Our imaginations now made of the object a perfect old
woman, with a waving arm.

“Judge,” said Billy again.

“Come on, you coward!”

“She is warning us to turn back,” said Billy. “Don’t you
see? Back itis. Just look at the moon, Judge. Have n’t you
38 ZIGZAG STORIES.

any respect for the moon, nor for warnin’s, nor for me, nor for
nothin’? ‘Back,’ she says, ‘turn back. ”

We were now in full view of the object, our nervous fears
growing at every step. We all stopped again.

“Cameralsman,” said the Judge, “you have muscle; throw
a stone at her.”

Cameralsman picked up a stone and threw it with great force
towards the mysterious image. ©

The effect was surprising. The figure began to bob up and
down, and to move down the hill, turning round and round,
and waving its threatening arm. We all stepped back; Billy
crying, “The heavings have mercy on mortal man!” All the
nervous control we had left vanished. We were now mere
children of our fancies, victims of our fears.

The next event paralyzed us all. I can hear it now, A
wild, piercing, muffled cry, or shriek, rose from the figure, cut-
ting the air and echoing everywhere a wild, long, piteous howl.
It was repeated twice. Then the figure turned round and
round again, waving its long arm; then it seemed to bow over,
and, as it did so, a white form leaped into the air. A wild gust
of wind swept over the hill; the prostrate figure was borne into
the gulch by the wayside, and the white form was gone as
though it had vanished. The road was clear. The moon
seemed like the head of a giant rising over the hill, We were
all dumb with fear. Even the Judge spread his legs apart in
terror.

“Tt isn’t in mortal power to stand such a sight as that,” said
he. “The invisible world is after us. Run!”

We all approved his decision.

Run! We turned at the order, and I never saw nervous
energy so applied to the limbs of any human beings as it was
then. There came another gust of wind that carried away the
Judge’s hat. We didn’t stop for it. Billy stumbled once and
fell headlong, and rose covered with blood. But he only said,
THE GHOST OF GREYLOCK. 389

“ Heavings!” and bounded on again, his legs flying faster than
before. In this excited condition we returned to the inn, and
tumbled one after another into the door. Freelove met us
there, all excitement, with her usual inconsiderate exclamation.
The Judge was first to speak after the return.

“There are some things that make one wish for extraction
or annihilation,” said he; “and the invisible world has come
down from the firmament to terra firma.” This judicial an-
nouncement I have always thought a model of its kind. ‘The
wise men are confounded; I never really and truly believed in
such things before.”

“I wouldn’t stay in this neighborhood,” said Cameralsman,
“for all the taverns in America. I never really believed that
guch things happen; now I know. I am sure.”

“ Heaving forgive me!” said Blingo, the blacksmith, I am
a humbled man. I have all the evidences of my senses. ‘These
things are so.”

“Your supper is ready,” said Freelove, turning round and
round, like a top.

“Supper?” said the Judge. “I don’t feel as though I
would ever eat anything again.”

“If I only knew where there was any safe world to go to,
I’d go there,” said Billy. “I declare I would. This is about
the poorest world that I ever got into, —it is, now. Ghosts
aswingin’ their arms, an’ whirlin’ roun’, an’ shriekin’, an’
callin’ up the moon an’ winds, an’ disappearin’ right before
your eyes into the bowels of the earth. Oh, my! Why, any-
body who would doubt what we saw would doubt anything.
Heaving forgive me! Thisis my last joke. I’ve got through.”

Freelove flew about, all excitement. We agreed, the Judge
and all, that here was a supernatural event. How could we
have dreamed of a dog in a shock of stalks?

Here, at last, was a case of real ghost in old Greylock !
40 ZIGZAG SIORIES.

THE FLYING DUTCHMAN.

Many years ago, when the East Indies were regarded in all
European countries as the treasure islands of the seas, there
lived in Amsterdam, Holland, a Dutch sea-captain by the name
of Vanderdecken. He possessed great physical strength and
a spirit of daring; he had grown very rich by trading in the
Dutch colonies in the Indies, and very proud too with his
riches. He met and outrode many gales, and he came to
regard himself as a man of destiny, to whose will all things
were possible.

At this time there was a great Dutch city on the Straits of
Sunda, now decayed, but once a golden treasure-house in the
view of the sailors of the Netherlands. Vessels went out of
Amsterdam empty, but returned from the Java Sea laden with
fruits and treasures. In short, the sailor was looked upon as
a sea king who sailed for the Java Sea.

Of course there was no Suez Canal at this time, and the
burgomasters, as the mayors of the Dutch and Flemish towns
were called, went around the far Cape of Good Hope in their
voyages to gather the wealth of the Indian seas.

Vanderdecken was not a reverent man. He was proud of his
defiance of religion and the Church.

One day the pious people of Amsterdam were pleased with
the sight of a fine vessel in the harbor.

“¢ When does she sail?” was asked.

‘“« To-morrow,” was answered by the sailors.

“ To-morrow is Good Friday,” said the people. ‘Some ships
have sailed away on Friday, but they have ail been lost. Such
a thing as a ship sailing on Good Friday never was known.
What will become of her?”

The sailors themselves looked frightened, but said, —










an



“ A STRANGE FORM APPEARED ON THE DECK.”



THE FLYING DUTCHMAN. 45

“We can trust our captain for that.”

“Who is your captain?”

Vanderdecken.”

« Where is the ship bound for?”

“The Java Seas.”

The next day was Good Friday. Bells filled the April air, —
solemn bells, —and while they were ringing, the sails of the
ship arose, and the ship passed down the harbor and into the
sea.

Wondering eyes watched her. “What will become of her?
What will become of her?” asked all the people. Many
answered, “She never will return.”

The Dutch at this time controlled the wonderland of Borneo,
as to-day. The city on the Javan Sea to which their ships went
for treasure was called Bantam. This city declined on the rise
of Batavia.

Vanderdecken had a prosperous voyage until he reached the
Cape of Good Hope, when the ship encountered a most furious
gale. The weather was so fierce that the sailors began to fear
that evil spirits possessed the air. Days passed, and the gale
continued. The ship made no progress, but was tossed about
like a bubble.

A week passed, and still the winds lashed the waters. The
ship was driven hither and thither, and her bare cordage shrieked
in the ceaseless winds.

The sailors came to Vanderdecken, and asked, “ What does
this mean?”

“Mr. Captain,” said one, “you cannot defy God, — the
heavens are against us. Remember Good Friday.”

At this Vanderdecken grew very angry with winds, with the
sailors, and with fate.

“Howl on!” he said to the wild sky and white waves.
“Blow! beat! I will double the Cape if I have to sail to all
eternity. Howl! blow! beat!”
44 ZIGZAG STORIES,

A darkness came over the sea, and a strange form appeared
on the deck of the ship and stood by the Captain.

“JT have heard your vow,” said the mysterious figure. “ You
shall sail on forever.”

The word “forever” struck terror even to the proud heart
of Vanderdecken.

“ Who are you?”

“T raised the storm.”

“The Evil One?”

“So men call me.”

“TJ am to sail on forever?”

“ Yes, forever.”

“ And never come to port?”

“ Never.”

“ But will you not grant me some condition of release?”

Nox

“¢ Not one?”

“Yes, one,” said the dark figure with a sneer; “if you will
find one heart in the world that is always true, I will release
you. But that will never, never release you, for such a heart
never yet was found.”

“ Not in women ?”

“ Man nor woman.”

“But how can I find such a heart unless I go into port?”

“You may go into port once in seven years, under the
spell.”

The air grew darker.

“ Sail on forever!” said the figure. The darkness deepened,
and he was gone.

Time went on, and the ship was driven hither and thither
from one sea to another, by gale upon gale. The sails turned
red like blood, and the masts turned black. The sailors grew
white and thin, and the face of Vanderdecken came to wear a
look of unutterable sorrow and remorse.
THE FLYING DUTCHMAN. 45

Sometimes the fated Captain would meet a ship and try to
gend letters back to Holland; but the ships that received his
letters never came to port. His ship became the terror of
sailors, and no vessel that met him would take letters from him.

Every seven years he would enter some port, under the spell,
in search of one true heart. But under the spell he would have
to sail away again, each time more hopeless and in deeper
SOITOW.

So a hundred or more years passed; and his ship, like a
skeleton, was tossed about by the gales.

The ships of the sea all shunned him. It was regarded as
an evil omen so much as to see the “ Flying Dutchman,” as the
ship of Vanderdecken came to be called.

His relatives died, and his friends,—all of whom he had

loved. “Oh, that I might forget the past,” he would say, —
“the faces of those who loved me, my evil influence, and my evil
deeds !”

A sailor came to him one day, and said, —

“T will tell you a secret.”

“What?”

‘¢ How to find a true heart and get released.”

“ That would make you a friend to me, indeed. How?”

“Truth finds its own. Repent, and carry a true heart yow-
self, and you will find another true heart. Do not the same
elements find each other?”

There came over Vanderdecken a great change.

“ How will any one know that my own heart is true?” he
asked one day of the sailor.

“ The soul has its atmospheres and influences that are unseen.
Space does not bound them. Like thought finds like thought,
and like feeling like feeling, across the world. We meet people
in strange places whom we have met in the soul atmospheres
before, and we know them and they know us, though we have
never seen each other.”


46 ZIGZAG STORIES,

“You talk like a man of the world, and not like a doomed
wanderer of the sea.”

The ship with her red sails and black masts was driven away
from the hot seas towards the cold coasts of Norway. Seven
years since he had learned the secret of being true, to find in
others a true heart, had passed, and he again set foot upon the land.

In the old Norwegian seaport there lived a sea-captain named
Daland. He had a beautiful daughter, whose name was Senta.
The home of this merchant-captain had been enriched with
works of art from many lands, and among the pictures in the
room of his beautiful daughter was a portrait of the Flying
Dutchman.

The face in the picture was one of great sadness, as repre-
senting a penitent and broken spirit, and about the time of
Vanderdecken’s new purpose in life, which he may be supposed
to have adopted. The picture began to make a strange impres-
sion upon the beautiful Senta.

“Tell me about the Dutchman,” she said one day to her
father, soon after he had come into port.

“ He is doomed to safl forever.”

“Ts there no hope for him ?”

“‘ None, unless he can find a true heart to love him.”

“T love him, and I wish I could release him.”

“ But you have not a true heart.”

“Why?”

* No one has.”

“Did you ever know me to be untrue ?”

“No.”

“ A heart governed in all things by a sense of right cannot be
untrue.”

“ But how about your lover, young Eric? ”

“ He may love me, but I only respect him. I do not return
his love, and I have told him so, although it has cost me nights
of pain. Is not that being true? ”
THE FLYING DUTCHMAN. 4T

« And cruel?”

“No. Eric has worth, but it is not destined for me. I have
told him the truth.”

Vanderdecken, on entering the Norwegian port, found
another ship there which had just come in from the seas. It
was Daland’s. The two captains made each other's acquaint:
ance, and Daland invited Vanderdecken to share the hospitali-
ties of his home.

At the time that Vanderdecken entered the Norwegian port,
Senta was spinning among her maidens and singing to them
about the sea.

While she was so occupied, Eric, her lover, saw her father’s
sail coming into port, and hastened to her to tell her the joyful
news. She awaited her father with a thrill of unusual expecta-
tion and joy. She saw him approach the house, when, lo! a
stranger came with him.

But Eric, before Daland’s arrival, had pressed his suit and
asked Senta for her heart. She pointed to the face of the
Flying Dutchman on the wall, when Eric told her of a dream
that he had had, and of his heart’s sorrow.

The stranger was the Flying Dutchman; and the wanderer
of the seas knew the beautiful maiden, and she Knew hin,
although they had never met before.

The Flying Dutchman avowed his love for Senta, and she
announced herself to be his deliverer. Both were happy.

But amid the happiness and hope Eric came back to plead
once more with the maiden. The interview was one of agony,
and in the midst of it Vanderdecken chanced to come upon the
scene. Seeing the distress of the two, he believed that Senta
was untrue to him, and that he was destined again to drift over
the seas.

With a crushed heart, he ordered his ship to sea again, and.
the red sails went out with the tide.

When Senta found that he was sailing, she attempted to
48 ZIGLZAG STORIES.

follow him. The last scene is like that of Dido and Eneas.
Senta ascended a high rock,and watched the disappearing red sails.

“J will die true to him,” she said, and plunged into the sea.

The spell was broken. The phantom ship went down with
a thunder crash, and the sailors drifted upon the sea. The
dying Captain was borne on the tide into the arms of the dying
Senta, and their souls entered together the portals of immortal
hope.

KING FREDERICK AND THE IRISH GIANT.

A QUEER and testy man was Frederick William I., the second
king of Prussia, and the father of the renowned monarch, Fred-
erick the Great. He ascended the throne in 1713.

He assembled and drilled a great army in time of peace.
He was very proud of their numbers and discipline, and among
his queer ambitions was one that was very odd indeed. He
desired to have a certain corps of soldiers that should consist
wholly of giants.

So he sent his agents all over Europe giant-hunting.

A difficult task the agents had, for giants were not so numerous
in Europe as they are supposed to have been in very ancient
times, before history was written. But one of them met with
good fortune, as you shall presently be told.

One day, as one of the Prussian recruiting-sergeants was
visiting London in search of tall men for Frederick’s service,
his attention was called to a crowd in the streets.

He entered the crowd curiously, and to his amazement and
delight he there found on exhibition the tallest man he had ever
seen.

The man was an Irish giant. His head was covered with
thick yellow hair; his shoulders were broad. He rose above
the crowd like a tower among houses.
KING FREDERICK AND THE [RISH GIANT. 49

He had come to England to seek work. He was now out of
money, but he was still good-natured and merry. Fat people
usually ave cheerful, whatever may be their condition.

The recruiting-sergeant elbowed his way through the crowd,
ereatly excited thus to find the very man he had been so
diligently looking for.

He laid his hand on the Irishman’s sleeve.

“Come with me, come with me! I’m a soldier myself, and
T am always ready to help a comrade in distress.”

« But Oi’m not a soldier.”

“Aren't you? Why, you look like every inch a soldier; any
man would take you for one. You ought to be a soldier, sure.
But never mind that. Come and dine with me.”

“That I will,” said Pat, “and ye need not be after axing me
twice.”

The Irishman’s appetite was as great as his body, and when
he was well filled with a liberal meal, he was always credulous
and jolly and easy to be persuaded.

“You are a fine fellow,” said the sergeant; ‘a wonderfully
fine fellow. Did you never think of turning soldier?”

* An’ what should I turn soldier for?”

* For honor and glory.”

* A cannon ball would n’t be apt to mass me, sure; and what
good would honor and glory do me, when my head was gone,
clane gone intirely?”

“ For money.”

“ How much?”

“JT will offer you a safe position in the Prussian life-guards.
The king, I am sure, would pay four hundred pounds down for
a strapping fellow like you.”

“Four hundred pounds! Four hundred pounds! Do I hear
my own ears? Faix, I will not be long in choosing. Pat
O’Flannigan is the boy for yez.”

“Good. Can you speak German ?”

4
50 ZIGZAG STORIES.

“German, is it? Dutch-like? sorra a word of German can T
spake, if it were to save my life from the hangman.”

“Well, no matter. Three sentences are all you need to
know. I can teach you them.”

“© What be thez ?”

«“ When the king first sees you in the
ranks he will come to you and say, —

““¢ How old are you?’”’

« An’ what shall I say ?”

“+ Twenty-seven years.’




“Then he will
ask you how long
you have been in
the service.”

« Av what will
T say thin?”

ctesth ARTS eve
weeks.’

“Then he will

say, —

“* Are you pro-
vided with clothes
and rations,’ and
you will answer, —

**« Both. ”

“T think my head will hold that much.”

“J will try you. How old are you?”

“Twenty-seven years.”

THE IRIS GIANT. “How long have you been in the
service ?”

“ Three weeks.”

« Are you provided with clothes and rations? ”

“ Both.”

On the journey to Berlin the sergeant asked the happy recruit
these questions daily. He answered promptly and correctly.
KING FREDERICK AND THE IRISH GIANT. 51

About three weeks after his arrival, he appeared on parade in
the corps of giants for the first time. There were Arabs and
Danes, and Moors and Swedes in the brigade; giants from
almost all the countries of Europe,-— but Pat stood like a Saul
among them all.

The king saw him, and his face shone.

He beckoned to him to step forward.

Pat stepped forward proudly, and presented arms.

“T have n’t seen you before,” said the king. “How long
have you been in the service ?

« Twenty-seven years.”

The king stared.

“Twenty-seven years! I should have known it, had you
been in the service a week. How old are you?”

“ Phree weeks.”

“Three weeks! and been in the service twenty-seven years.”

The king turned purple with rage.

“Do you think I am a fool, or are you one youself?” he
shouted.

* Both.” : 8

“Seize that fellow!” said the king, looking as though he was
going to burst. “ Off with him to the euard-house !”

Pat remonstrated in Ivish, which was not understood. Hon-
or and glory and even money all looked cheap enough to him
now, and he wished himself back on good old English soil.

The officer of the guard happened to know Pat’s German
acquirements, and he at once rightly guessed the situation,
when the poor recruit was marched to the guard-house. He
explained the whole matter to the king, who, for once, had a
laugh that relaxed his usually clouded face.

The recruit was at once set at liberty.

“Paix,” said Pat O’Flannigan, “niver pretind to know what
ye don’t know: else it is a whoppin’ big blunder ye’ll be after
gettin’ into.”
52 ZIGZAG STORIES.

THE MESSAGE OF LIFE.

Twenty years ago I was one of many witnesses of a scene
that has left upon my memory an impress perhaps deeper than
that of any other occurrence of that stirring time. The sequel
of the story, which I leamed some months afterwards, is nar-
rated here with the principal event; and both together deserve
a larger audience than any that has yet heard them, because
they touch the heart and arouse those feelings of sympathy
which make the whole world kin.

It was in February, 1865. I was a staff-officer of a division
of the Union Army stationed about Winchester, Virginia; and
military operations being then practically over in that region, I
had succeeded in getting leave of absence for twenty days. The
time was short enough, at best, for one who had been long
absent from family and friends, and two days were to be con-
sumed each way in getting to and from my Northern home.
I lost no time in making the first stage of my journey,
which was a brief one, from Winchester to Harper’s Ferry, by
rail.

Reaching the latter place after dark, I found, to my great dis-
appointment, that the last train for the day for Baltimore had
left an hour before, and that the next train would start at five
o’clock on the following morning.

There was no difficulty in finding a lodging, poor as it was;
but there was trouble in getting out of it as early as I wished.
Previous experience warned me that the state of agreeable
excitement and anticipation that possessed me that night was
not favorable to sleep; and fearing a heavy slumber in the early
hours of the morning, when I should at last lose myself, I gave
a small reminder to the negro servant, and received his solemn
promise that he would arouse me at four o'clock.
THE MESSAGE OF LIFE. 58

The result was exactly what I feared. In a most exasperat-
ing condition of wakefulness I lay until it seemed certain that
the night must be half gone; but an examination of my watch
by the light of a match showed that the hour was but a few
minutes past ten. Is there anything more annoying than the
ineffectual effort to sleep, when Nature is fairly crying out for
sleep? Every noise of the night came to me with the most
painful distinctness,— the barking of a dog, the tramp of a
body of soldiers as they went their rounds relieving guard, the
laugh and song of some boisterous revellers, and even the musi-
cal ripple of the Shenandoah River just below me.

The long and vivid story of what had happened to me since
last leaving home passed through my thoughts, and only added
to their excitement. All the wise remedies for insomnia that
occurred to me were successively tried, and found wanting.
Again my watch was consulted; it marked half-past eleven.
Twice after this I heard the guard relieved; so that it must
have been later than two o’clock when sleep visited my weary
eyes. A rude disturbance at my door awakened me, and I
became dimly conscious of the voice of the negro outside.

“What is it?” I cried testily. “What do you wake me up
for at this time of night?”

“’Deed, sah, Ise sorry; “pon my honah, I is, sah! but de
train hab done gone dese two hours.”

It was even so. Broad daylight — seven o’clock in the morn-
ing — the train gone, and no chance to get out of Harper’s Ferry
till twelve more precious hours of my leave had passed, — this
was the unpleasant situation to which I awoke upon that dreary
February morning. To make the best of it, is the true philoso-
phy of life; in fact, it is folly to do anything else; but human
nature will assert itself, and I grumbled all to myself that morn-
ing, as most of my readers would have done in my place.

Breakfast over, I strolled around the queer old place, not to
see its sights, for they were very familiar to me, but merely to
o4 ZIGZAG STORIES.

~
while away the time. Of all the places in this land where man
has made his habitation, none is more remarkable from its natural
situation than this.

Here the Potomac and the Shenandoah unite and_ break
through the lofty barrier of the Blue Ridge; and Harper's
Ferry, located at the point of their confluence, is environed by
lofty mountains, up the steep side of one of which the village
seems to clamber and cling for support. From the lofty top of
Maryland Heights, opposite, a wonderful natural panorama may
be seen; and of this view Thomas J efferson wrote that it was
worth a journey from Europe to see it. But if you are set
down in Harper’s Ferry, at the base of these great hills, your
view is cramped and circumscribed in every direction.

T went back to the hotel after an hour’s stroll, wrote some
letters, read all the newspapers I could find about the place, and
shortly after eleven o’clock went out again. This time my ear
was greeted with the music of a band, playing a slow march.
Several soldiers were walking briskly past, and I inquired of
them if there was to be a military funeral.

“No, sir,” one of them replied, — “ not exactly. It is an
execution. Two deserters from one of the artillery regiments
here are to be shot up on Bolivar Heights. Here they come ees

The solemn strains of the music were heard near at hand,
and the cortege moved into the street where we stood, and wound
slowly up the hill. First came the band ; then General Steven-
son, the military commandant of the post, and his staff; then
the guard, preceding and following an ambulance, in which
were the condemned men. A whole regiment followed, march-
ing by platoons, with reversed arms, making in the whole a
spectacle than which nothing can be more solemn.

Close behind it came, as it seemed to me, the entire popula-
tion of Harper’s Ferry, —a motley crowd of several thousand,
embracing soldiers off duty, camp-fellows, negroes, and what
not. It was a raw, damp day, not a ray of sunlight had yet


THE MESSAGE OF LIFE. dO

penetrated the thick clouds, and under foot was a thin coating
of snow. Nature seemed in sympathy with the misery of the
occasion.

The spot selected for the dreadful scene was rather more than
a mile up the Heights, where a high ridge of ground formed a
barrier for bullets that might miss their mark. Arrived here,
the troops were formed in two large squares of one rank each,
one square within the other, with an open face toward the ridge.
Two graves had been dug near this ridge, and a coffin was just
in the rear of each grave. Twenty paces in front was the firing-
party of six files, under a lieutenant, at ordered arms; the gen-
eral and his staff sat on their horses near the centre.

Outside the outer square, the great crowd of spectators stood
in perfect silence. The condemned men had been brought from
the ambulance, and each one sat on his coflin, with his open.
erave before him. ,

They were very different in their aspect. One, a man of
more than forty years, showed hardly a trace of feeling in his
rugged face; but the other was a mere lad, of scarcely twenty,
who gazed about him with a wild, restless look, as if he could
not yet understand that he was about to endure the terrible
punishment of his offence.

The proceedings of the court-martial were read, reciting the
charges against these men, their trial, conviction, and sentence ;
and then the order of General Sheridan approving the sentence,
“to be shot to death with musketry,” and directing it to be
carried into effect at twelve o’clock noon of this day. The
whole scene was passing immediately before my eyes; for a
staff-uniform will pass its wearer almost anywhere in the army,
and I had passed the guards and entered the inner square.

A chaplain knelt by the condemned men and prayed fervently,
whispered a few words in the ear of each, wrung their hands,
and retired. Two soldiers stepped forward with handkerchiefs
to bind the eyes of the sufferers, and I heard the officer of the
D6 AIGLZAG STORIES,

firing-party give the command in a low tone: “ Attention !—
shoulder — arms!”

T looked at my watch; it was a minute past twelve. The
crowd outside had been so perfectly silent that a flutter and
disturbance running through it at this instant fixed everybody's
attention. My heart gave a great jump as I saw a mounted
orderly urging his horse through the crowd, and waving a yel-
low envelope over his head.

The squares opened for him, and he rode in and handed the
envelope to the general. Those who were permitted to see that
despatch read the following : —

Wasuryatoy, D. C., Feb. 23, 1865.
General Job Stevenson, Harper's Ferry.
Deserters reprieved till further orders. Stop the execution.

A. LIincoiy.

The older of the two men had so thoroughly resigned himself
to his fate that he seemed unable now to realize that he was
saved, and he looked around him in a dazed, bewildered way.

Not so the other; he seemed for the first time to recover his .
consciousness. He clasped his hands together, and burst into
tears. As there was no military execution after this at Harper's
Ferry, Ihave no doubt that the sentence of both was finally
commuted.

Powerfully as my feelings had been stirred by this scene, I
still suspected that the despatch had in fact arrived before the
cortege left Harper’s Ferry, and that all that happened afterward
was planned and intended as a terrible lesson to these culprits.

That afternoon I visited General Stevenson at his headquar-
ters, and after introducing myself, and referring to the morning
scene on Bolivar Heights, I ventured frankly to state my sus-
picions, and ask if they were not well-founded.

“Not at all,” he instantly replied. “The men would have
been dead had that despatch reached me two minutes later.”
HARM i iM
Mi .
ve
te ag



THE MESSAGE OF LIFE.



THE MESSAGE OF LIFE. 59

“Were you not expecting a reprieve, general?”

“T had some reason to expect it last night; but as it did not
come, and as the line was reported down between here and
Baltimore this morning, I had given it up. Still, in order to
give the fellows every possible chance for their lives, I left
a mounted orderly at the telegraph oftice, with orders to ride at
a gallop if a message came for me from Washington. It is well
I did! —the precaution saved their lives.”

How the despatch came to Harper’s Ferry must be told in
the words of the man who got it through: —

On the morning of the 24th of February, 1865, I was busy
at my work in the Baltimore Telegraph Office, sending and
receiving messages. At half-past ten o’clock,—for I had
occasion to mark the hour, —the signal C—A—L, several
times repeated, caused me to throw all else aside, and attend
to it.

That was the telegraphic cipher of the War Department;
and telegraphers, in those days, had instructions to put that
service above all others. A message was quickly ticked off
from the President to the commanding officer at Harper’s Ferry,
reprieving two deserters who were to be shot at noon. The
message was dated the day before, but had in some way been
detained or delayed between the Department and the Wash-
ington office.

A few words to the Baltimore office, which accompanied the
despatch, explained that it had “stuck” at Baltimore; that an
officer direct from the President was waiting at the Washington
office, anxious to hear that it had reached Harper’s Ferry, and
that Baltimore must send it on instantly.

Baltimore would have been very glad to comply; but the
line to Harper’s Ferry had been interrupted since daylight, —
nothing whatever had passed. So I explained to Washington.

The reply came back before my fingers had left the instru-
60 ZIGZAG STORIES.

ment. “You must get it through. Do it, some way, for Mr.
Lincoln. He is very anxious; has just sent another messenger
to us.”

I called the office-superintendent to my table, and repeated
these despatches to him. He looked at the clock.

‘‘ Almost eleven,” he said. “I see just one chance, —a very
slight one. Send it to New York; ask them to get it to Wheel-
ing, and then it may get through by Cumberland and Martins-
burg. Stick to ’em, and do what you can.”

By this time I had become thoroughly aroused in the busi-
ness, and I set to work with a will. The despatch with the
explanation went to New York, — and promptly came the reply
that it was hopeless; the wires were crowded, and nothing
could be done till late in the afternoon, if then.

I responded just as Washington had replied to me. It must
be done ; it is a case of life and death; do it for Mr. Lincoln’s
sake, who is very anxious about it. And I added for myself,
by way of emphasis, “For God’s sake, let’s save these poor
fellows!”

And I got the New York people thoroughly aroused as I was
myself. The answer came back, “ Will do what we can.”

It was now ten minutes past eleven. In ten minutes more
T heard from New York that the despatch had got as far as
Buffalo, and could not go direct to Wheeling; it must go on to
Chicago.

Inquiries from Washington were repeated every five minutes,
and I sent what had reached me.

Half-past eleven the despatch was at Chicago, and they were
working their best to get it to Wheeling.

Something was the matter; the Wheeling office did not
answer.

The next five minutes passed without a word; then —huzza!
— New York says the despatch has reached Wheeling, and the
operator there says he can get it through to Harper’s Ferry in time.
LEGEND OF FIRST DISCOVERER OF THE MISSISSIPPI. 61

At this point the news stopped. New York could learn
nothing further for me, after several efforts, and I could only
send to Washington that I hoped it was all right, but could
not be sure.

Later in the day the line was working again to Harpev’s
Ferry, and then I learned that the despatch had reached the
office there at ten minutes before twelve, and that it was
brought to the place of execution just in time.

A STRANGE LEGEND OF THE FIRST DIS-
COVERER OF THE MISSISSIPPI.

“THE country of gold lies before you; but there are dark
rivers to cross. I have learned these things from living among
the caciques.”

The Spaniard who uttered these words to Fernando de Soto
was stately and handsome, of middle age, and of unquestioned
bravery.

“J am sure that I can pilot you there.”

The cavalier gazed upon him.

“You. were left here in this land of Florida on the first ex-
pedition,” said De Soto. “That was ten years ago.”

eVies.7”

«And you have come to love these children of Nature and
the palm-lands ?”

“Yes, Sefior. Why have you brought these bloodhounds and
these chains?”

“To hold kings captive, as I have done before; to conquer
new Incas, and to guard them in their own temples. You say
that the temples of gold are on the hills of the Ocali.”

“I said that there were dark rivers to cross.”

“But what Indian girl is this that follows you?”
62 ZIGZAG STORIES.

“She is the daughter of a cacique and my wife.”

“ You must leave her behind.”

“She saved my life. Listen! My name is Ortiz, and I am
a trusty soldier. When I found myself left by the expedition,
I sought the friendship of the cacique. The old chief pitied
me, and received me as his son. I found him more humane
than our own people had been. I was happy fora time; but
these children of the palm-lands are jealous and superstitious,
and they at last began to distrust me and look upon me as
dangerous, and they sought to kill me.
I was brought before a council of their
wise men, and was condemned to die.
The cacique pitied me still, and sought
to save me; but the wise men were all
against me.

“The day for my death was appointed.
I was to be tortured.
built over fagots that were to be made
sacrificial fires. I was to be stretched
upon this scaffold, and to perish at a
fire-dance.

“The day came. I was led out, and
tied to the trees of the scaffold. The fires were kindled under
me, and the dance began. The painted savages circled around
me to the sound of war-drums and the blowing of shells. May
you never suffer such tortures as I then was made to feel! The
tongues of flame pierced my naked body like swords. My
nerves crept in agony. I thought of Spain, of my kindred and
my old home. I cried out for water.

“ The daughter of the cacique heard my cry. She fell down
before her father, and begged him to spare my life. The
cacique loved this beautiful girl. He listened to her; he ap-
peased the tribe, and unbound me, and gave me to the tender
princess as her slave.



DE SOTO.
LEGEND OF FIRST DISCOVERER OF THE MISSISSIPPI. 05

“¢She came to love me, as I served her faithfully. I arose to
honor among the people. I love this people; and if I leave
my wife here, I must return to her again. I must be true to
her on the honor of a conquistador.”

Fernando de Soto was a proud man. He had come from the



DE SOTO’S EXPEDITION IN FLORIDA.

conquest of the incarial realms, and his own share of the cap-
tured wealth had been millions. He had landed near Tampa,
with a cavalcade of golden cavahers.. He did not doubt that
another Peru lay before him.

The conquistadors, under the lead of Ortiz, marched up the
hills of the Ocali. The land blazed in the pure white sunlight ;
but no golden domes gleamed in the sun.

They chained caciques, and hunted the chief men of the
region with the bloodhounds. They compelled captive chiefs
64 ZIGZAG STORIES.

to guide them from one tribe to another. De Soto made slave
wives of beautiful princesses, and amid all his cruelty and
wrong-doing compelled masses to be said.

* The hills of the Ocali are not Peru,” he said to Ortiz.

“T said that there were dark rivers to cross.”

The conquistadors moved on. They came to dark rivers and
cypress swamps. One
after another of the
golden cavaliers began





INES SAO
OP" Sal ya
"Se




to sicken and die.

“ There are indeed
dark vivers to cross,”
said De Soto.






IAS





DE THE MISSIS-

SIPPI FOR THE FIRST TIME.

SOTO SEEING



The palm lances burned in the feverish heats. But the thirst
for gold led the conquistadors on. They came at last to the
banks of a majestic river. The volume of water showed that
it must be long. Masses were said. The visions of De Soto
were revived again: ** The river is dark and long.”

They crossed it, and lay down under the live-oaks streaming
with moss. The air was full of birds. There was beauty every-
where; but in all the brightness lurked poison, — the men sick-
ened and died.
LEGEND OF FIRST DISCOVERER OF THE MISSISSIPPI. 68

But the expedition moved on. The river that they had seen,
and discovered to be dark and long, was the Mississippi. In
the fevered palm-shades appeared no temples or incarial palaces.

They came at last to the dark land of cypresses through which
flows the Red River of the South. Here De Soto himself began
to feel the chill that had swept so many of the other adventurers
away.

He lay down amid burning heats, and was cold.

“ Ortiz, there are still dark rivers to cross?”

“Yes, cavalier; dark rivers lie in the way to the cities of
gold.”

De Soto shook. “The fever is on me.”

He lay burning and freezing in the cypress swamps. Prayers
were said, and the fiery days moved on. The sun rose in fire,
and set in what looked to be the conflagration of the world.
De Soto became oblivious to all. The fires of the fever were
consuming him. One flaming sunrise came, and he was
dead.

“He has crossed the dark river,” said Ortiz. They hollowed
a log for his body. But the savages were watching them.
They could not give the conquistador a burial that would
be undisturbed on the land, even amid the gray-bearded
cypresses.

«Let us sink him for his final rest in the dark river.” said
Ortiz.

They did so by night. Torches gleamed; silent prayers
were said. There were low beatings of oars; a rest in the
black river under the moon and stars; a splash; the dark river
opened, and a body went down. Tt was De Soto’s.

In a white temple in Havana, which is only opened once a
year, the picture of De Soto may be seen among the heroes of
the Great Discovery. On the 14th of November — Columbus
Day in Cuba —a great procession leaves the old faded cathe-
dval, in the wall of the altar of which Columbus’s remains are

2


66 ZIGZAG STORIES.

entombed, and amid chanting choirs, military music, and the
booming of the guns from the Castle, march to this white
temple, and here glorias ave chanted, and thanksgivings said.
The procession moves through the chapel, which is shaded by
a tree which is supposed to be a remnant of the grove where
Columbus himself stood. They look upon the pictured faces





BURIAL OF DE SOTO.

of the conquistadors on that one day; and the American, who
follows the banners and music, gazes also, and wishes in his
heart that some of these heroes whose bravery rendered such
services to his country had been better men. Character is
everything.
A REMARKABLE DISCOVERY.

Go
-1

A REMARKABLE DISCOVERY.

ANTOINE was one day stopping near the Falls of St. Anthony.
when he met some Indians who had come to sacrifice to the
god of the place. They told him of a lake some miles distant,
where they said lived a young hermit who did not grow old.
He asked them to conduct him to the hermit’s lodge.

They led him to a beautiful lake full of peninsulas and islands.
On the shores there were mounds, and among these mounds
Antoine was surprised to find a young and exceedingly hand-
some Spanish cavalier.

Antoine demanded of him, —

“Who are you that thus trespass on the dominions of his
Majesty, the King of France?”

“The world is wide,” answered the cavalier, in French. “If
I could have my wish I would not trespass upon any earthly
dominion, but would gladly leave this burden of flesh and be
with my wife and children, whose spirits live in more blessed
spheres than this.”

“You seem to be a very young man.”

“Tam hundreds of years old.”

“ How can that be ?”

“T accompanied Jean Ponce de Leon to Porto Rico. J was
then thirty years old. When De Leon resigned the office of
Governor of Porto Rico he had begun to grow old.

“There came to him some Indian sages who told him of the
Fountain of Youth.

“ De Leon never discovered that fountain. 7 did.”

“ When and where?”

* Listen.

“ After I heard the story of the sages, I continually longed
to plunge into the waters of that gifted fountain, and thus be
68 ZIGZAG STORIES.

enabled to live forever amid the noble and beautiful scenes of
these newly discovered lands.

“T left De Leon on April 3, 1512. About a week before, he
had discovered a new land that was wholly covered with flowers.




He took possession of it in the
name of Castilian sovereigns,
and called it Florida. It
seemed to me that such a para-
dise must contain the fountain
of which the Indians had told,
and I resolved never again to go
on board of the ships. I de-
serted as soon as I could sepa-
rate myself from the commander.
I did not find the fountain in
that flowery land.

“Then I began to wander. I passed along the coast, first
towards the north, then towards the west, then towards the
south. I came at last to a land full of ruins; it was beautiful
beyond description ; it seemed to have been a home of the
gods.

“Fountains were there, water-gods, naiads, and beautiful

THE SPANISH CAVALIER.
A REMARKABLE DISCOVERY. 69

temples, under the tropic trees. I bathed in them. I bathed in
every fountain I met, and I dipped myself in the Fountain of
Youth.”

* Where?”

“T cannot tell; nor can I tell which of the hundred fountains
in which I bathed was the magical fountain. One of them was,
for I have never grown old.

“Thirty years passed, when I saw on the coast a Spanish
vessel. I hailed her and was taken on board. I returned to
Andalusia, to the Gaudalquivir.

“My wife was old and withered. My children were seem-
ingly older than myself; they were gray. I told them my
story; they treated me with derision, and forced me away from
my own home.

“Then one by one they died. I saw the grave open again
and again until all my family were gone. 1 longed to go, too,
But I did not grow old.

“J retumed to America. I wished to flee from my land,
from society, from the face of man. I again deserted, and
ascended a great and unknown river. I left my canoe at
yonder falls. It went into decay a hundred years ago. I found
this beautiful lake and these green mounds in summer time.
I was sure society would never find me here, and here J built
my lodge and live.

“The beautiful summers and the cold winters come and go,
but I see only the faces of the red men. I am never hungry; I
am never cold. I have but one wish; it haunts me continually :
I would that I could die.”

The young courewrs de bois listened to the tale with intense
interest, and some of them plied every possible inquiry in
regard to what the hermit had said of the country where the
magical fountain had been found.

Four of these young men went into the forest and were never
heard of again.
70 ZIGZAG STORIES.

From time to time the visitors to Lake Minnetonka have seen
a strange figure in a boat on the lake. The oars of the boat fly
from them like wings. Should you see a flying boatman on the
lake, if you do not believe him to be the Spanish cavalier, you
may still allow this story to recall to your mind the old historic
associations of beautiful Minneapolis.

AUNT HEART DELIGHT’S BEAU.

ONE late autumn evening, during the exciting scenes of the
witchcraft delusion in the Massachusetts Bay Colony, there
came running into the primitive church of Weymouth, Mass.,
during a special evening service, a boy by the name of Ichabod
Cole. His hat was gone, his breath*spent. He threw his arms
aloft in nervous excitement, and his entrance stopped the meet-
ing, as he had evidently something thrilling to tell.

As soon as he could speak, he made a declaration that a
terrible creature had appeared to him as he was hurrying along
over the wooded Weymouth road by the sea toward his home.
He believed that the creature was the “Black Man,” as the Evil
Spirit was at that time called, and he had fled to the church for
refuge.

Were such an incident to happen to-day, a boy’s story
would be met only with ridicule; but then nearly every one
believed in witchcraft, and many persons had been sent to
prison and several put to death in the colony on the charge that
they had signed their names to a book brought to them by the
“Black Man,” and had met in witch circles in the forests, to
which it was asserted they travelled through the air. Giles
Corey, of Salem Farms, had been recently put to death in a
most cruel manner for refusing to plead in court to an amazing
charge of this kind. Several enfeebled old women had sguf-
AUNT HEART DELIGHT’S BEAU. 71

fered death under the charge of witchcraft in Salem and
Boston.

The delusion had begun with children, who seemed to have
been seized with a sudden mania for accusing queer and un-
fortunate people of dealing in wicked arts. The mania spread,
and became a mental epidemic. It was like the convulsions of
the Barkers and the Jerkers, an epidemic nervous disease,
which appeared at another time in the colony. Any one who
will read Cotton Mather’s + Wonders of the Invisible World”
will be amazed at the delusion that filled the whole colony at
the time, and that overcame the judgment even of the magis-
trates. Such was the state of the public feeling when the inci-
dent we have given happened.

There was a break in the meeting, and the boy was ques-
tioned by excited voices in regard to the creature that had
{frightened him. He could only say that it was black or gray,
and had eyes like fire. The good old minister, a man much
loved for his great heart and simple, blameless life, said, * Evil
times have fallen upon us also.” All saw that he literally
believed Ichabod Cole’s story, and a sense of helpless horror
and apprehension darkened every mind and sank into every
heart in that congregation.

Strange as it may seem, it is probable that in that little
assembly, holding its simple service by candle-light, there was
only one person who did not believe that the boy, Ichabod Cole,
had not seen the famous “ Black Man,” the Evil Ghost of the
troubled times.

That: one person was Aunt Heart Delight. A queer name,
you will say. Yes, now, but it was not queer at that time.
Prudence, Piety, and Charity were common names then, as
were Experience, Love, Hope, and Grace. Aunt Heart Delight
was so called by her venerable father on account of her cheerful
disposition when a little child.

Aunt Heart Delight Holden had grown up to womanhood
72 ZIGZAG STORIES.

a tall, stately woman, with a broad, high forehead and a heart
given to benevolence. She was very devout, but was without
superstition; and she clearly saw that the so-called witcheratt
in the colony was a mental delusion.

The meeting closed. Aunt Heart Delight went to the boy
at once, laid her hand upon his shoulder, and bent upon him her
serene face and quieting eye.

“Oh, Ichabod, Ichabod,” she said, “you too have lost your
head. You have seen nothing but what is perfectly natural and
can be accounted for. But you did not lose your heels, did you,
boy ?”

“My heels! Wot would I hev done had TI lost my heels?”

“You have seen a wildcat, or an owl in a hawk’s nest, or
some such thing; and the stories that are abroad have so
excited your head that you think you have seen something
else. I would be willing to face it with a good dog and gun.

3ut I do not blame you for running as you were unarmed.”

The people went out of the church reluctantly, as if afraid
to venture into the open air. The hunter’s moon was rising
yellow over the sea, glimmering on the middle waters of the
bay, and hiding in her own light the blue fields of the stars.
The great oaks were dropping their leathery leaves, and the
walnuts and chestnuts were breaking their shells and burrs.
There was silence in Nature everywhere, and a forest odor was
in the air. In the far woods was heard the hoot of the owl, and
in the distance the bark of a farm dog; except for these sounds
the air was painfully still.

The excited people thought it prudent not to return to their
homes by the road where the mysterious object had been seen,
so they took a circuitous path through the woodlands. The
way led to the homes of most of the people, but in an opposite
direction from those of serene Aunt Heart Delight and the
terrified boy, Ichabod Cole.

Aunt Heart Delight lived in a part of Weymouth which
AUNY HEART DELIGHTS BEAU. 73
became known as New Spain, on account of the wealth which
had been gathered there by the old sea-traders, and Ichabod
Cole dwelt on a branch road within a mile of the same
place.

For a short distance the same road was followed by all the
congregation, and as the colonists passed along through the
woodland, they continued to ply Ichabod with questions about
the mysterious creature that he had seen. Ichabod’s imagina-
tion worked more vigorously as he saw that his answers were
awaited with thrilling interest.

“How large was the creature?” asked credulous Deacon
Alden. “As large as a dog, Ichabod?”

“As large as a dog?” said Ichabod. “ He was large as an
—elephant!”

This was before the days of the itinerant menagerie, andl
Ichabod had never seen an elephant; but he knew that the
elephant was a very large animal.

“What kind of a tree was he in?” asked Aunt Delight.

“A tall pine-tree. I guess that he had just lighted. Tis
eyes were like coals of fire. Oh, it was awful!”

A creature as big as an elephant, with eyes lke fire, that had
alighted on a tall pine-tree, was a picture indeed to which the
adjective “awful” might not inaptly apply. And the awe-
struck company that heard this grotesque narrative presented
a quaint appearance in the old Weymouth woods. The men
had lanterns of perforated tin in their hands, and the women
foot-stoves. ‘The men wore pointed hats and thick capes, and
the women broad bonnets and plain cloaks. The lanterns were
not lighted, for the bright moon, like a night sun, made the
woods almost as clear as in daylight.

They came to a clearing, and here Aunt Heart Delight and
Ichabod, parting from the rest of the mentally afflicted company,
took the direct road to “ New Spain.”

“Tam afraid,” said Aunt Heart Delight, “that there may be
T4 ZAGZAG STORIES.

some wild animal lurking about in the woods, and that that is
what you saw.”

“IT am not afraid of no animal,” said Ichabod, “I am afraid
of something worse than that.” He looked up to Aunt Heart
Delight, furtively. “ Ain’t you?”

“No. A person with a clear conscience has nothing to fear
from any other world than this.”

Ichabod was silenced, but his imagination was glowing and
growing. The falling of a chestnut made him start. A rabbit
that ran across the road filled him with renewed terror. They
came near to the old farmhouses, and the barns with the stacks
of corn-husks. Here their ways parted.

* Good-night, Ichabod,” said Aunt Heart Delight.

The two stood in the open road under the full moon.

“Aunt Heart Delight,” said Ichabod, “may I ask you a
question?” His voice was grave, like that of a judge, very
grave and measured.

“Yes, Ichabod. What?”

“Aunt Heart Delight, oh, this is an awful night! the moon
and stars and everything all so scarey! Aunt Heart Delight,
may I ask you a question?” he repeated.

“Yes, yes, do not keep me here freezing to death. What is
it, Ichabod?”

“Aunt Heart Delight,” said the boy at length, timidly, “ did
you ever have a beau?”

* Oh, Ichabod!”

“May I see you home, and won’t you give me lodging in
the barn

“ Oh, I see, — you are afraid to go home alone. Well, I pity
you, and Ill go home with you.”

“T7ll be your beau,” said Ichabod, with spirit, an awful
burden rolling off his heart.

Aunt Heart Delight went home with him, and left him at
the door with a “ Good-night, Ichabod. When I want a beau,
J will send for you.”

9 ”
AUNT HEART DELIGHT’S BEAU. (d.

‘“*Thank ye, Aunt Heart Delight, and Ill always stick by
you and protect you whatever may happen.”

Aunt Delight smiled, and then Ichabod shut the door, and
she turned homeward alone.

Her way lay through some woodland oaks, the strong,
knotted arms of which had long buffeted the winds of the
sea. They arched the way between two hills, and through the
hollow flowed a running brook, now partly ice-bound. A loose
wall ran beside the road. As Aunt Heart Delight came to the
place, which was pleasant in summer, but very lonely in winter,
she heard a stone rattle on the wall. A heavy, dark object
appeared on the wall, and mounted the great trunk of one of
the oaks. She was alarmed, as she had reason to be, but
hurried by, and came safely to her home.

These events greatly excited the community.

But the public mind became gradually more quiet. There
was a high-minded, clear-sighted man in Boston, named Robert
Calef, who was an intimate friend of Aunt Heart Delight, and
had met her often during the prevalence of the witchcraft
delusion. He was honest and fearless, and his iron words
became a terror to those who had been engaged in persecuting
infirm people on the superstitious charge of “Signing the book
of the Black Man.”

In the terrible clouds of the witchcraft delusion this man had
walked with undimmed vision. He at last published a book in
London, which caused those who had been engaged in the
recent persecutions to ponder upon what they had done, and
in some cases to try to excuse their conduct. The book was
publicly burned on the green of Harvard College.

Hearing that Weymouth was in danger from the excitement
of a delusion, this man went to visit Aunt Heart Delight in her
lovely Weymouth house.

“When will this calamity end?” he asked of her one day.

“When some one shall accuse one of the magistrates of witch-
76 ZLIGZAG STORIES.

craft,” said Aunt. “They will all see the matter clearly
enough then.”

She was right. The accusing of the wife of one of the
colonial officers of the crime pierced the darkness. It came
like a lightning-flash.

“But what would you do if you were accused?” said
Calef.

“JT would compel my accusers to face the facts.”

Calef became persecuted in Boston for his bold words against
the prevailing superstition; and Aunt Heart Delight, after
years of benevolence and good-will, began to feel the chill of
public disapproval on account of her own views.

One day she was startled with a report that the boy, Ichabod

Cole, had accused her of dealing in the black arts. His cun-
ning story was that she was in secret communication with the
Black Man that he had seen in the tree, and that was why she
did not share the common fear. Soon after she was asked to
be present at a special meeting of the church, to be questioned
in regard to the matter. Beautiful and amiable as was her
character, her spirit was now aroused. She went to the meet-
ing. It was a winter’s night, and she returned home alone.
No one offered to accompany her.
' There was a light snow on the ground. Near the brook,
under the great oaks, she saw the same dark object that she
had met before. A woman of less strength of mind would
under these circumstances have believed it to be the famous
Black Man. It followed her. The night was dark with only
a dim starlight. Suddenly she turned and faced the creature.
He stopped and retreated. The form was dark and sinewy,
and the eyes shone like fire. She went on again. The creature
followed her. :

She faced him again, and afterward recollected that she said,
“ Whoever or whatever you may be, you are no gentleman.”

But the rebuke did not deter the creature from following


GHT’S BEAU.

AUNT HEART DEI



AUNT HEART DELIGHT’S BEAU. 79

her. She reached home safely, however, and passed the night
in prayer and tears.



Morning came, —a beautiful winter morning with sunbeams
in every crystal of snow. The margin of the great bay ght-
tered with ice. The stacks rose like white cones around the
glistening roofs of the barns. Aunt Heart Delight went out
at the first red rising of the sun to examine the tracks of the
creature that had followed her the night before.

They were plain in the snow. She followed them back until
she came in sight of the house where lived her * beau,” Ichal vod
Cole. She went directly to the house, and gave the door such
a rap as startled the household.

Ichabod Cole’s father came to the door. He seemed startled
to see his caller.

“J want to see the boy,” said Aunt Heart Delight, in a hard,
decisive tone. The man had never before heard her utter an
unpleasant word. .

Ichabod. was sent to the door. He came, trembling. He
knew that he had started evil reports about the eran woman,
and he also knew that she was a person who, though amiable,
was not to be trifled with.

She stood there tall and stately in the morning sun. Her
hair was uncombed, and fell over her shoulders from a quilted
hood. There was a set look in her usually pacific face that
would have made any one quail to confront.

“Tehabod, you promised to be my protector whatever might
happen. There are some tracks out here in the snow that I
want you to follow. Get your gun and come.”

Ichabod’s face was filled with terror.

“Get your gun and come. You are going to be my beau
now.”

There was something irresistible in the sarcastic command.
Ichabod obeyed. They came to the tracks.

“ What tracks are those, Ichabod?”
80 ZIGZAG STORIES.

“ T should think that they were —the Black Man’s.”

“Then you shall follow them until you find him. Go right
along.”

“Ob, Aunt Heart Delight! Suppose they should lead to the
witches’ circle.”

“Tam not afraid of any witches’ circle. You have been cir-
culating bad reports about me, Ichabod, and now you shall fol-
low those tracks until you come to the creature that made them.
Go!”

She pointed her arm out of her cloak. Ichabod dared not
disobey. The tracks led toward the woods.

When the two came to the margin of the wood, Ichabod
looked up to Aunt Heart Delight imploringly.

“(o right on,” she commanded. ‘“ Enough innocent people
have already been thrown into prison on false accusations. You
would like to go back and tell the people that IT have been in
conference with the ‘Black Man,’ and that you have seen his
tracks. You must go with me now. My character and maybe
my life are at stake. Goon! Into the woods. Go!”

They followed the tracks. The boy was less afraid of meet-
ing the animal than of incurring the further displeasure of
Heart Delight. They came at last to a frozen cranberry bog, in
the middle of which was a thicket of alder-bushes, and some
ereat trunks of decayed trees. The tracks led into the thicket.

They paused. There was a movement in the bushes.

“ What do you see, Ichabod?”

“A beast; oh, it is awful! I think it is the very one I saw
in the tree.”

“Use your musket and kill him.”

“ But if I should miss?”

“Fire! You must kill the beast. Fire, I say!”

Ichabod, though trembling, took deliberate aim and fired. A
large, lean creature leaped into the air and fell struggling to the
eround, and was soon dead.
THE OLD HOUSE ON CAMBRIDGE COMMON. 81

“Ts that the beast that you saw on the tree? Is that your
‘Black Man’? It’s a catamount, as you see. I will senda
cart and have it brought to the town. Go!” She held her
hand aloft and pointed toward his home.

Calef had been tried in Boston for accusing the magistrates
of false charges, and the case had been dismissed. People
began to see the awful mistake that had been made in the
colony. The people of Weymouth were filled with humiliation
at-the charge that they had made against Aunt Heart Delight.
They shunned her for a time, from the very rebuke that the
dignity of her presence gave them.

But her beautiful spirit came back. She forgave them all,
even poor Ichabod Cole, who, to the day of his death, she was
accustomed to call her “ beau,” and from the ridicule of which
appellation he never escaped in the happier days of the colony.
The top of the world to ye all!

THE OLD HOUSE ON CAMBRIDGE COMMON.

Ir was in July, 1843, and the evening before Washington
Allston’s funeral. I arrived in’ Boston late in the afternoon,
and immediately started for Old Cambridge, where I expected
to spend several days, attend the memorial service of the poet-
artist, and witness his interment in the historic churchyard.

The old house in Cambridge where I was to pass the night
stood near the colleges, on the very ground where the Shepard
Memorial Church now stands.

- My friend Kenyon, whom I was to visit, had told me some-
thing about the place. It had belonged to a family by the name
of Moore. Deacon Moore was a prominent man in colonial
days and during the Revolutionary period, and was the treas-
urer of Dr. Holmes’s church, as I shall soon have occasion more

particularly to explain.
6
82 ZIGZAG STORIES.

T had heard Kenyon say that from the windows of the house
a crowd of bright eyes had witnessed the cavalcade that con-
dueted Washington to Cambridge. The old elm stands only <
little distance from the place under which the young General,
in 1775, took command of the army.













































































































































































DEACON MOORE’S HOUSE.

Lombard poplars shaded the house in front, if I remember
rightly, — tall, spectral trees, on which the moonlight was fall-
ing. There were two porticos, between which the visitor was
expected to make a choice according to his social rank or sta-
tion; at least, it had been so in a former day, and the house
suggested still a colonial rather than a republican code of eti-
THE OLD HOUSE ON CAMBRIDGE COMMON. 83

quette. But I was not obliged to make choice between them,
as my friend was expecting me, and stood waiting for me in the
deep, cool shadows before the open door.

After supper we entered the roomy parlor, where the windows
were open and the lights turned low, and talked of our school-
days and old friends who were changed and gone.

My feelings were somewhat mellowed by the subject. There
was a stillness about the room, the house, and the colleges,
which impressed me; and I suddenly recollected that I had
heard Kenyon say, when we were school chums, that there was
some strange mystery associated with the place. I reminded
him of the remark, which began to awaken a deep curiosity in
my mind, and asked, —

“Was the mysterious person supposed to be old Deacon
Moore?”

He smiled faintly, and said: ‘“ You are tired and nervous, and
we will pass all that now; these old stories have not been
revived for years. Nearly every old house in Cambridge that
outdates the present century has its legend; and this, I believe,
is no exception to the rule of traditional ghost-lore, but in that
respect is rather a remarkable estate. But strange old, Deacon
Moore has ceased to walk nights, if indeed he ever was trouble-
some; and the mending of outhouses, doors, and fences is now
left wholly to carpenters. How the story of the deacon’s ghostly
wanderings used to unnerve me when I was a boy! I pity one,”
he continued, ‘who is subject to nervous fears. There is one
room in this house that I used to dread, though I cannot tell
why. My impressions, I have always noticed, have some asso-
ciation with reality. This impression —the dread, the fear, I
used to experience on spending an hour in that room — seems
to be causeless, and yet I have a feeling that more cause for it
may yet be discovered. But it will hardly do to dwell upon
this subject, for we are to spend the night in that very room.
There is little danger that the old nervous horror will return
84 ZIGZAG STORIES.

upon me again, especially in your company. I used to suffer
the most from it, if I remember rightly, when my mind was not
fully occupied, and when I had been excited with much com-
pany and suddenly left alone. The place was once my study
and sleeping-room, but I have not slept there now for many
years. It has been fitted up for me again, while a part of the
house is undergoing repairs.”

Kenyon rose to go into another room, asking to be excused
that he might speak with Mr. Gennison before the family
retired.

He was gone a long time ; and when he returned, he proposed
that we should go at once to our room, saying he knew I must
be tired.

The room was large, quaint, and old-fashioned; and there
was something in the remarks that Kenyon had made that
immediately interested me in it.

It was a still, lovely night; and the moon, now risen in full
splendor, covered the colleges and churches like a sea of haze,
and barred with long lines of light the uncarpeted floor. I do
not know but the moonlight heightened the effect of Kenyon’s
suggestions of some mysteriousness about the apartment, —
romance so frequently associates moonlight with what is myste-
rious; but, however this may be, my feelings impelled me
to ask further questions, although the subject had evidently
become distasteful to my friend now that we were in the
room.

“Did you once think the room was haunted?” I ven-
tured.

‘“No, not exactly that,” he said curtly; “still it used to seem
to me that there were shapes and objects in it that could be felt
rather than seen, — something wrong, something that ought not
to be. There will be many artists and literary men in town
to-morrow. We hardly appreciated Allston here; he led sucha
quiet, dignified, retired life.”
THE OLD HOUSE ON CAMBRIDGE COMMON. 85

“ Are there many old houses in Cambridge famous for legends
or ghost-lore ?” I resumed.

“Yes; there was the Vassall house (Longfellow’s), and the
Royal house at Medford, and —”’

“But this house, you said it held a first rank in old colonial
superstitions, I believe ?”

‘‘Not in colony times, but after that.”

“Was it reported to be haunted ?”

“Would you sleep more quietly if you knew?”

“Yes; truth is better than suspense.”

“ After Deacon Moore died some peculations were found to
have been committed.”

“Well?”

“ Well, the deacon was a very restless man before he died.
He had a strange habit of wandering about the premises nights,
with a hammer or hatchet in his hand, repairing outhouses and
fences, and making the ‘neighbors very unquiet at unseasonable
hours.” :

“Well?”

“ Well, after he died, it was discovered that he had been in
the habit of appropriating money to his own use from the church
treasury, and suspicion fell upon his character.”

“Well?”

“Well, the sounds continued.”

“ What sounds?”

“Oh, the hammering and the thumping and the driving of
nails in the night.”

“But you surely do not believe that any such disturbances
were caused by the disembodied spirit of Deacon Moore ?”

“No, I do not; I am not superstitious enough for that. The
deacon was a very singular man, I am told, especially in his last
days; and when suspicion fell upon his character after his
decease, he was just such a person as superstitious minds would
at that period expect to return in ghost form to haunt the place.
86 ZIGZAG STORIES.

And as his mending of buildings and fences nights was one of
his most annoying characteristics, it is not strange that natural
sounds occurring late at night should be attributed to his ham-
mer. ‘The event caused great excitement in its day, and ner-
vous people for a long period avoided the place in the night.

* But,” he continued, “although I do not believe any such
silly stories as the old people used to tell, I do believe in my
own impressions ; and I have had a fixed impression for years
that there is something wrong about the place, and when I am
in my most sensitive moods the mystery seems somehow to be
associated with this very room. You may think me over-sensi-
tive and credulous; but I suffered from vague nervous impres-
sions when I used to occupy the place. I have had an indistinct
dread of it since I left it, and I would not sleep in it again
to-night if you were not with me. I would not like to sleep in
a room where I knew some great crime had been committed;
not that I would expect to be troubled by the victims, Dut
because I am sensitive to the associations of a place. I would
rest better in a room where a good man was married than in
one in which a bad man died. With many it would make no
difference; but I cannot help this peculiar element implanted in
my nature.”

The old Cambridge clock struck the hour of twelve. We
ceased talking. The wind arose, tossing the newly leaved
branches of the trees and causing dark shadows to move with an
uncertain motion across the floor. With an unquiet feeling I
watched the shadows for a time, and then began to feel the
sweet influences of sleep.

The next night Washington Allston was buried in the old
Cambridge churchyard. Brown, the landscape painter, must
remember the scene; he was a pupil of Allston, and, if I re-
member rightly, was among the torch-bearers when the remains
were uncovered, and the moon breaking through the clouds
shone full upon the face of the dead.
THE OLD HOUSE ON CAMBRIDGE COMMON. ST

After the funeral I returned to the house, and inquired for
Kenyon. I found a note from him, saying that he had been
detained in Boston, and would probably be compelled to remain
there during the night. I am not superstitious; but the vision
of my sleeping-room and Kenyon’s dread impression of it imme-
diately rose before me, and Iam free to confess that I did not
enjoy the prospect of passing the night alone.

IT was lonesome without Kenyon, was tired, and I went to my
room soon after returning, thinking I would lounge in a very
inviting easy-chair, and read until I became too drowsy to be at
all influenced by the solitariness of the place or my constitu-
tional nervous fears. I say constitutional nervous fears; for I,
like Kenyon, was susceptible to more influences than I could
see, hear, or define; and I too had observed that impressions
received when I was highly sensitive almost always found some
counterpart in reality, or met with some rather remarkable
fulfilment.

It was a partly cloudy night, with an atmosphere full of fra-
grance, and a glorious moon. The few now living who attended
Washington the parting clouds, the shadows anon shutting out the soft
moonlight, the lights on the college grounds, the still, warm
air.

I leaned out of my window, as the first relief from my solitary
situation. Christ Church broke the view of the churchyard,
where the poet-artist had just been laid.

A strange subject forced itself upon my mind, —a subject
upon which, so far as I know, no books, essays, or poems have
ever been written, —the fate of the loyal refugees of Boston
and Cambridge during the Revolutionary War. Some of them
went to Barbadoes, a few returned to England; but many went
to Halifax.

Halifax at that time was a military town, though it had not
yet become an English fortress. Many of the movements of the
88 ZIGZAG STORIES.

English forces against the colonies were directed from Halifax.
The old provincial parliament of Halifax, a body hostile to the
American cause, met in 1770, and continued in session four-
teen years. Halifax then promised to become a great military
city.





























































































































































































































































































































































































































































THE OLD CHURCH IN CAMBRIDGE.

The Boston and Cambridge royalists, when they incurred
popular displeasure and found themselves in danger, fled to
Malifax over the easy water-vay. The phrase, “You go to
Nalifax!” as an expression of contempt and a suggestion of
profanity, became common among rude people.

Did these royalists ever return? But few of them. The
THE OLD HOUSE ON CAMBRIDGE COMMON. 89

democratic feeling was so strong during the period that immedi-
ately followed the war, that all who had opposed the American
cause were treated socially as traitors and enemies, and both
their property and their lives were in danger. At the close otf
the war most of the loyalists who had remained in Boston dur-
ing the conflict went to Halifax. The old city was largely
founded by English colonial loyalists and refugees.

The grand harbor of Halifax made her a naval port, and a
resort of the old defenders of the Red Cross on land and sea.
But Halifax has derived her fame and wealth from the peaceful
fishing-fields that lie spread out around and before her, rather
than from those of martial achievement. The heroes of her
ships have been men of peace.

But to return to my curious narrative.

I was wandering in dreams through the dim vistas of the
past, catching, as it were, glimpses of forms long faded and
gone, never to see the July sunshine or the green earth again,
when a sudden sense of some mysterious influence began to
steal over me. I can only describe it asa feeling that there
was something that ought not to be in or about the room. I
saw nothing, heard nothing; yet there seemed to be near me
the presence of something impalpable, a dark presence, an at-
mospherie chill and gloom. ‘I am growing nervous,” I thought ;
and I flung myself upon the bed.

Did I dream? I cannot say. I seemed to be dreaming, and
yet conscious of my dreams, — to have a double consciousness,
a double sense of things. The dark impalpable presence seemed
to descend, and then began a dream or semi-consciousness of
supposed circumstances that were extraordinary. It seemed as
if a mason was building a vault under the floor. J fancied I
could hear the rattle of bricks, the splash of mortar, and the
click of a trowel.

I started up; the dream passed away. It was a bright night,
and the wind breathed refreshingly through the trees. I was
90 ZIGZAG STORIES.

vexed at my own nervousness, and presently was half asleep
again.

But in that debatable condition between sleeping and waking
the same sounds seemed to be repeated, — the fall of bricks, the
splash of mortar, the click of the trowel. I tried to think of
Kenyon and old school-days. The click of the trowel became
fainter; I heard the clock striking twelve, and fell asleep.

Towards morning I was roused by a passing wagon in the
street. It could have been but a moment between sleeping and
waking, but in that moment the same vivid dream was repeated. °
I fancied I could hear the sound of masonry under the floor.

Fully awake, I heard nothing, and my sleep had been sweet
and undisturbed. Towards morning I found myself drowsy
again, when the click of the trowel again startled me. I started
up, threw myself into the arm-chair, and sat there undisturbed
until the morning began to redden in the east.

Kkenyon returned before noon, when I went with him to Bos-
ton, and took leave of him there.

I never forgot the impressions of that night, though I did not
tell Kenyon of them. I seldom recall dreams, and I cannot
relate any dream I ever had in my life, except that one so vividly
repeated. As I have thought of that, I have had a horror of
nervous disease, for it fixed in my mind the conviction that no
suffering could be more dreadful than nervous apprehension
and fear.

Many years passed before I saw Cambridge again. I have
not the exact date now, but it was the year when the building
of the Shepard Memorial Church began. The old Charles River
bridge had given place to a more substantial structure, as I
noticed when I passed. Kenyon was in Nevada, and the old
Moore house was uninhabited, and was soon to be taken down.
The land on which it stood was to be used by the Society of the
Shepard Memorial Church for their new building.

I was at my hotel one evening, when a newsboy entered the
hall, and said, —
THE OLD HOUSE ON CAMBRIDGE COMMON. O41

“ Journal! Traveller! Herald! Startling discovery! Two
bodies found in a vault of the old Moore house!”

I started to my feet. I bought a copy of each of the papers,
the Herald giving the most detailed and curious account. The
paper described the situation of the room; and I felt a nervous
perspiration steal over me, as I identified it as the very apart-
ment that Kenyon had occupied, and about which he had given
me such an unfavorable impression, and in which we had passed
the night together, and I had dreamed the one vivid dream that
stamped itself indelibly on my memory.

I immediately went to the place. The house was partly taken
down; anda great crowd of people were around it, and within
the admissible part of its ruins.

T went to my old chamber, forcing my way with an air of
special concern through the crowd. The floor was taken up;
under it was,an open brick vault. It was empty. Men and
boys were talking about the “bodies.” I received the most
unsatisfactory answers to my questions about the discovery, and
turned to the policeman who had taken charge of the place.

“« Where are the bodies?” I asked.

“ The old skeletons? They have been removed.”

“What is your opinion about them? Violence?”

“Well, the bones are so old you can’t tell. They may be,
for aught any one knows, a hundred years old. This is a very
old house, and they used to tell some curious stories about it a
very long time ago. People got the idea it was haunted; people
used to believe in such things more than they do now.”

« Did any two persons ever disappear mysteriously from Cam-
bridge society ?”

“ Not that I ever heard of.”

“But how could such a vault as this have been built without
exciting suspicion ?”

“JT don’t know.”

He presently added, “ Anatomies, perhaps.”
92 ZIGZAG STORIES.

“ But why were the skeletons hidden in such a room as this
under the floor? Why were they placed in a vault at all?”

“J don’t know. It all looks kind of mysterious.” And
with an easy air, that showed that mysterious things were not
unfamiliar to him, he walked slowly away.

The vault was nearly under the place where my bed had
been on the nights I had occupied the room, and where prob-
ably Kenyon’s bed had stood when the room was his study.

Old people associated the discovery with Deacon Moore.
The stories about his strange habits, and his supposed pecula-
tions from Dr. Holmes’s church treasury, and about the myste-
rious noises on the premises after his decease, were again revived,
and old New England superstition for a few days seemed to
start into new life in the town.
dence, throwing suspicion upon the eccentric deacon, was at
once made up; but it seemed to have but little basis in fact,
and the same suspicion would doubtless have fallen upon any
other singular person who might have long ago occupied the
house.

The leading incidents of this story are mainly true, and will
readily be recognized; and I would not, for the sake of height-
ening the effect of a plot, do injustice to the memory of one
who may have been a wholly innocent man. I can but re-
member, in associating tales and rumors with facts, that old
New England superstition threw a shade of suspicion over
many an innocent name.

It is a Cambridge mystery, and it gathers around it the gloom
and romance of nearly one hundred years. Who were these
people? Were they brought to their hidden tomb by the hand
of violence? If so, why were they placed in a vault in a
private house, where time would surely disclose the secret of
their burial and raise the darkest suspicions? Were they
anatomical specimens? Then why were they hidden at all?

The old Moore house is gone; the historic church of Dr.
THE BELL OF CAUGHNAWAGA. 98

Holmes is gone; and one of the finest of the churches of
Cambridge now raises its finger-like spire over the spot where
the mansion of the mysterious deacon once stood. I sometimes
pass the place in my evening walks; and the old tradition and
more recent mysterious discovery return to my mind vividly;
but it is all an association of the past,—of times dark and
ended, faded and gone.

I have but one theory that promises a solution.

Halifax, as I have said, was settled largely by royalists from
America during the War of Independence.

Among the latter were people who are known to have lived
a short time in the new city, but who often expressed a strong
desire to return to their friends in Boston. These people dur-
ing their stay at Halifax helped the British cause in many
ways, and incurred the bitter enmity of many of their old-time
friends in Massachusetts. Some of them disappeared mysteri-
ously from Halifax, and were never again heard of there. They
had relatives or friends who lived at Cambridge. Were the
bodies those of these refugees ?

It ends in mystery. A mysterious story it will always re-
main. I was led to associate the story with the refugees only
on account of my impressions that night, and that from the
circumstance that a part of my impressions was afterwards
proven true. The narrative at least will give you a glance at
old Halifax and the possibilities of old colonial times.

THE BELL OF CAUGHNAWAGA.

Nine miles above Montreal, on the river St. Lawrence, is a
quiet Indian village where lives the remnant of the old tribe
of Caughnawagas.

The houses of the village are simple, but in their midst
stands a massive stone church, colored by time. In the tower
94 ZIGZAG STORIES.

of the church hang two bells. One of these has a most remark-
able history.

Near the close of the first century of colonization Father
Nichols, a Catholic missionary, induced the Christian Indians
of the then great nation of the Caughnawagas to put aside a
certain portion of their game and furs for the purpose of pu
chasing a bell for his mission church. The Indians had never
seen or heard a church bell; but they were generous in meet-
ing the appeal, and the bell was ordered from iiance:

The priest and the contributors waited long and patiently
tor the arrival of the bell; but it did not come. ae length news
reached Montreal that the French ship on which the “Kell had
been placed had been captured by an English cruiser, and that
the bell had been taken to the port of Salem, Massachusetts,
and hung up in the belfry of the church at Deerfield, near that
port.

The Indians had looked ee the coming of the bell like the
advent of a god. They were greatly disappointed at its cap-
ture. Some of them said, —

“ Our warriors will one day bring hither the bell. The bell
is the Lord’s.” :

In 1704 the Marquis de Vaudreuil planned a hostile expedi-
tion against the New England colonies. He said to Father
Nichols, —

“T must have the aid of the Caughnawagas.”

“TJ will lead them myself, but on one condition.”

“Name it.”

“That you will recapture the bell in the town of Deerfield,
and allow us to bring it to Caughnawaga.”

“You shall have your wish. I will order the commander to
recover the bell.”

Father Nichols assembled the Indians, and preached to them
a crusade for the rescue of the bell.
His words were like fuel to a fire already kindled.
THE BELL OF CAUGHNAWAGA. 95

“The bell! the bell!” shouted the red crusaders. The idol
of brass was to them as the Holy Sepulchre to the Knights of
the Middle Ages, and they were impatient, if not to fight the
battles of the Lord who had forbidden the shedding of blood,
at least to fight in His name.

The expedition entered the English colonies in midwinter.
It was a long and perilous march, and the French troops suf-
fered and complained. The French soldiers knew that they
were engaged merely in a war of conquest, and winter chilled
the romance of such an expedition.

Not so with the Indian warriors. Father Nichols uplifted the
banner of the Cross, and a convert bore it before them through the
evergreens and over the white wastes of snow, and they advanced
on their snow-shoes as though they had received the commissions
of Heaven. Their watchword was “The bell! the bell!”

On the 29th of February Deerfield rose in sight over the
fields of snow, — the Jerusalem of the red crusaders.

Early in the morning of the Ist of March, in the midst of a
storm of high wind and driving snow, the army fell upon the
town. The people of Deerfield could hardly have been more
taken by surprise had an army descended from the clouds. An
attack by the French and Indians in the winter was unlooked
for by even the military towns of the colonies; -but Deerfield,
—what could have brought such an army here ?

The Indians fell upon the people, and a fearful slaughter
followed. The snow was crimsoned with blood. Forty-seven
persons were killed, and one hundred and twenty were made
prisoners. After the first flush of the barbaric triumph, the
Indian warriors, with their hands red with gore, cried, “ The
bell! the bell!”

Father Nichols led them to the church, and said to a French
soldier, “Go up and ring it.”

The bell rung out over the reddened snow in the crystal air
in which the storm of the morning was clearing.
96 ZIGZAG STORIES.

The Indians listened with awe. They dropped upon their
knees and uplifted their bloody hands in thanksgiving. Well,
well, it was strange! Ze Dewms have been sung in Chiistian
lands over deeds as dark as this; but towering above all such
scenes as these, the Sermon on the Mount lives, and will live
until all deeds of blood are remembered only as barbarisms,
however they may have been lauded.

The bell was placed on poles, and borne in triumph towards
Montreal. But the winter snows were yet deep, and March
was pitiless, and Father Nichols allowed the bell to be buried.
near the frontier, at a place to which it would be safe to return
for it in the late spring.

In the season of the birds and flowers and tender leaves,
Father Nichols again led an expedition for the recovery of the
bell. Canada awaited the return of the priest and his warriors.

The expedition came back in triumph. The Cross advanced
out of the forest. Behind it were two white oxen bearing the
bell on their yoke. The oxen and bell were garlanded with the
flowers of spring.

The bell was brought to Caughnawaga, and hung up in the
belfry of the Mission Church. A festival of rejoicing followed ;
and for years whenever the music of the bell was heard, the
Indians dropped on their knees in prayer.

The bell still hangs in the old tower above the St. Lawrence.
But its voice is not often heard, and it long ago ceased to be
regarded as the voice of a god.

»
THE YOUNG HUGUENOT. 97

THE YOUNG HUGUENOT, OR THE COUNTRY
AUCTIONEER.

I REMEMBER the scene well.

“Going, going, going! Once, do I hear it? Twice, do I
hear it? Three times, do I hear it? Gone!”

It was early June, —a shining morning, with dew and blos-
soms everywhere. The eaves of the stately old farmhouse ap-
peared through the trees. In the yard was a crowd of people,
and on a bench in the yard stood a jolly old auctioneer.

I recall the curious dialogue. It was like this : —

“And here is the family cradle. Who bids? How much
am I offered?

“ Fifty cents — one dollar —do I hear it?

“Fifty, fifty!

“One dollar —do I hear it? One dollar. Now a quarter.

“Do I hear the quarter? Going, going, at one dollar — do
I hear the quarter? Going, going —are you alldone? Going,
once, do I hear it?

“ Going, twice, do I hear it?”

“Going, three times, do I hear it? (In low tone.) Going,
going, going, going, going, etc. (ower and lower).

“Gone, Judge Tapley’s cradle for one dollar to — what's
your name, stranger? Dessalines.”

I had never attended a New England country auction, and
curiosity led me into the yard. The old auctioneer’s vocabu-
lary was musical and rather poetical. The crowd consisted of
orderly farmers in their working-clothes.

There was a pause in the sale. They were bringing down
furniture from the old garret. I sat down on the bench of an
old grindstone under a spreading elm-tree. The sunlight glim-
mered through the leaves as through a cathedral window. On

”

é
98 ZIGZAG STORIES.



THE AUCTION.

the lower limbs of the trees hung scythes. Above, the Balti-

more orioles were fluting and flaming. An old man sat on the

other side of the bench of the grindstone, leaning on a crutch.
“Pleasant mornin’, stranger. Be you one of Square Tapley’s
THE YOUNG HUGUENOT. 99

folks? No. I didwt know but you mought be. So the old
Square’s cradle has gone, before he is dead, —right before his
own eyes, too. Sold for a dollar. To that young feller they
call Dessalines. Curi’s kind of a name.”

“ Who was Squire Tapley ?” I asked.

“Who was he? He ain’t dead, stranger. They generally
have the funeral first, and the auction afterwards, but this time
they ’re havin’ the auction first; but the funeral, in my opinion,
will be pretty sure to follow. There is the Judge now—
Square Tapley — by the chamber window there.”

An old man leaned out of the open window and looked at the
auctioneer.
was white, scant, and uncombed; his mouth opened and shaped
words without sound or any emotional expression. A young
man came and stood beside him. He had a marked face and
was elegantly dressed.

“That is Tinley Tapley, the broker, the Judge’s son. I
wonder how he feels to-day.”

There was an anxious look in the young man’s face, and I
noticed that he bent his eye upon me suspiciously. I heard
him ask some unseen person, “ Who is that stranger?” And I
wondered why the appearance of a stranger at a public auction
should have excited his attention.

His face was what would be called handsome, but was heart-
less and unprincipled. I felt sure that character had moulded
it the impression of the soul, and had written upon it the secrets
of the inner life. The face of the soul always comes to the
surface at last.

“School books and law books!” shouted the round-faced
auctioneer; “Scott’s novels; the works of Fletcher; Methodist
hymn-book ; Family Bible —

“Eh, Squire, shall I put in the family Bible ?

“Yes, the old Bible, — Mrs. Tapley’s old books, all good as
new. The Squire always took good care of his things.
100 ZIGZAG STORIES.

‘How much am I offered? Start the lot, somebody. School
books, law books, and religious books.

“Two dollars.

* Three, do I hear it?

“Two dollars — who says three ?

“Going, once, do I hear it?

“ Twice, do I hear it?

“ Three times, do I hear it? (In low voice.) Going, g
going, going, going, etc.

“Going — gone to what’s your name again, stranger?
Dessalines. Sold to Dessalines for two dollars.”

There was a strange movement at the chamber window. The
old Squire leaned out and shook his cane in an agitated way.
His son laid his hand upon his arm firmly and drew it back. I
never shall forget the look that came into the old man’s face.
It was hitter beyond anything I ever saw. His eyelids dropped
and his lips curled.

Some of the people in the yard had noticed this mysterious
episode. I heard the question passing from mouth to mouth,
“Who is Dessalines?” No one seemed able to answer the
question except in one way: “The old Squire knows who
he is.”

I could but notice that there was something remarkable
about this young stranger, perhaps thirty or thirty-five years of
age, who had given his name to the auctioneer as Dessalines.
He was tall and well-formed, with a mild, dark eye; his face
mirrored his emotions, and had grown into a picture of
benevolence.

It was a face so beautiful in its beneficent expressions, so
serenely spiritual, as to win confidence at once, and to assure
you that some good angel of character lighted it from within.
It presented a strong contrast to Tinley’s.

I turned to the old man beside me, and asked, —

‘Who is Dessalines ?”

ong,
THE YOUNG HUGUENOT. 101

“T was just a-goin’ to ask you that question myself. As you
are a stranger, I didn’t know but that he might have come
along with you! You don’t know hin, then?”

“No. I have never been in this place before; I am spending
afew days at the Kino House in the town. I was taking a
walk, saw that an auction was going on here, stopped out of
curiosity, and that is all I know except what I have seen. He
does not seem to know any one here.”

“Tt seems as though he does, too. I’ve been watching him.
He seems to be kind o’ recognizin’ people by his looks. He
looked at me just now, and appeared to know me, though
he said nothin’. Strange that he should be here buyin’ a
cradle, — old Squire Tapley’s, too!”

“T should have thought the son, Tinley, would have bought
that cradle.”

“But hold, stranger! Don’t you know? He’s bankrupted,
—isn’t worth a dollar. Failed. J thought everybody knew
that, — Tinley, the New York broker. Why, it’s been in all
the papers. Ruined the Square, too. Ye see, the Square in-
dorsed Tinley’s papers ; that’s why this auction is here to-day.”

I began to grow interested in the history of this family,
hitherto as unknown to me as any people could be. The disap-
pointed face of the excited old man at the window, the weak
handsome face of the son beside him, and the mysterious figure
of Dessalines: made for me three contrasting pictures, — like
open books, written in characters that I could easily outline
and guess, but not quite translate or comprehend.

The sale went on. Noon came. The bread-cart men rode
up with jingling bells, and the farmers bought gingerbread and
buns, and ate them in the shade. The ospreys wheeled over-
head in the open sky, and now and then sweet-scented winds
came drifting through the apple-blossoms. The auctioneer was
asked into the house to dine with the Squire and Tinley.
Dessalines had disappeared.
102 ZIGZAG STORIES.

“Have you found out who that young man was?” said the
man with the crutch.

“No.”

The neighbors, seeing the farmer questioning me, began to
gather in a near circle around me.

“T'll tell you who he reminds me of,” said the old man,
addressing his neighbors. ‘ Fletcher.”

“ Who is Fletcher?” I asked.

“ You see that spire yonder?”

“Yes.” A golden vane on a white pinnacle shone over the
green sea of the tree-tops.

“ Well, Fletcher first started the society out of which that
church grew.”

“ But who was he?”

“ He was the son of a French Huguenot who died young,”
continued the old man, ‘“‘and the Square married the widow.
So the Square was his step-father.”

“Well?”

“ Well, the Square he was a money-making kind of man, and
he came to hate the boy. The Square used to say that he could
never make anything of him; that there was no business in
him.

“ Well, Tinley was born. The Square set the world by him,
and he used to treat the boy Fletcher shamefully.

“There was a great religious interest in the town about the
time Fletcher was sixteen years old, and Fletcher joined the
church and thought that he had a call to preach. The Square
always hated anything of that kind, and one day he turned the
poor boy out of doors, and forbade him to come back again,
even to visit his own mother.

“ His mother loved him; and she never saw a happy hour
after that day. She began to droop and lie awake of nights,
and at last her reason went out. She became violent, and they
took her to an insane hospital.
THE YOUNG HUGUENOT. 103

“Everybody pitied Fletcher, and this sympathy made the
Square hate him the more. He used to speak of him as ‘ that
worthless French fellow.’ Men always hate those whom they
injure. The selectmen offered the lad the district school; and
although the Square opposed the appointment, he began to
teach, and he put his mind and heart and conscience into his
work. We never had a teacher like Fletcher.

“One day, after he began to teach, there came riding up to
the school-house on horseback a man from the hospital, with a
message that made his face turn white. The man said to him,
leaning down from the horse and speaking through the open
window, ‘ Your mother is dying, and wishes you to come.’

“Fletcher sank down into a chair as though smitten. The
children began to cry. Then he dismissed the school, and
hurried towards the Square’s, and asked for the use of one of the
horses to ride to the hospital.

“¢T told you not to come here again,’ said the Square. ‘You
have made me trouble enough. I can’t gratify the whims of
a crazy wife. If she’d been dying, she would have sent
for me.’

“Fletcher walked to the hospital, a distance of seven miles.
It was as the messenger had said; the poor woman’s sufferings
were almost over. The scene between the mother and her son
made those who saw it shed tears like children.

“Fletcher, she said, ‘my own boy, the darkness has gone ;
and the doctor said that when the darkness went, I would die.
I’ve been praying for you, Fletcher.’ The boy took his mother’s
hand.

“<¢T’ve been praying God would make your life a blessing,
Fletcher. My boy, He has heard. I want you to make mea
promise, Fletcher. ’T is about the Square. *Tis a hard promise,
for he has not used you well. If ever sorrow comes upon him,
I want you to promise to be his son.’

“¢ Why?’
104 ZIGZAG STORIES.

“« For Christ’s sake. ’Tis a hard thing; but He said, “ Love
your enemies,” — you know the rest. His words are so beauti-
ful! And God has promised me in my spirit that He will bless
you. Will you promise ?’

*“¢ Oh, mother!’



THE BOY PROMISES.

“*Ts it yes, Fletcher ?’

coe Vie 7

*¢ Will you be to Tinley a brother, if trouble comes?’

ts Vies.’

“The peace of death came. Her crazed brain had entered
the endless calm. They brought home her body, and buried
THE YOUNG HUGUENOT. 105

it in the corner of the east meadow. It is a hay-tield now. His
mother’s sorrow and death made a feeling man of Fletcher. He
became unlike other people; he seemed never to think of him-
self. His mother’s influence appeared to be with him always
like an angel of good; people said, ‘He has his mother’s
heart.’

“He taught school here three years. He began a Sunday-
school in the school-house. It has changed into a church. The
old school-house is gone, and a new one has taken its place; but
his influence lives in the character of every scholar that it
touched. He multiplied good in others. Every sufferer found
in him a friend.

«Tinley, —do you want to know about Tinley? He never
seemed to have but one purpose in life, and that was to gratify
himself. But the Square used to say that he had business in
him, and that he would be a rich man one day. He spent his
Sundays in riding and his evenings at the Dilliard-saloon in the
village, where there was a bar.

“The Square let him have money, and he went to New York.
‘ Tinley will open your eyes one day,’ the Square used to say.

“He did open our eyes. He speculated. They said that he
was rich. He spent his summers at Saratoga and at the water-
ing-places. He came back here one summer, drove fast horses
and entertained gay people. The old Square seemed delighted
that his prophecy had proved true. Then he failed and opened
our eyes again. What you see to-day is the end of it all.”

The good. farmer, seeing that I was greatly interested,
went on : —

“ Tinley gave to the town a billiard-saloon. That would have
been well enough, but he put into it a bar. Tinley’s old com-
rades are all ruined or dead, and his gilded saloon is turning
out wrecks of character and paupers. His life has withered
whatever it has touched. He has no true friends. He is lost
to himself and to everybody.


106 ZIGZAG STORIES.

“ They tell two stories, —- the lives of those two boys. One’s
acts of good are helps to others, and one’s acts of wrong are
injuries to others; for we all of us live in others’ lives as well
as our own. Ah, well, stranger,” said the farmer, in conclusion,
“young folks cannot see things as older eyes see them. When
the making up of life’s account comes, it is less what we have
gained of this world than what we have surrendered that will
be the account that we shall most like to see.”

The old auctioneer came out of the house. A carriage was
driven into the yard, and two strangers alighted from it, hitched
the horse, and stood silently apart by themselves. They were
dressed differently from the townspeople. I was sure they
came from the city. I suspected that they were officers of the
law.

The auction went on. But the country people seemed to
lose all interest in the sale. They gathered together in little
groups and talked in low tones. In the afternoon women
came and filled the old house. I could see them whispering
together here and there, and watching every movement of the
four strangers on the premises, —the two officer-like men,
Dessalines, and myself. There was an air of mystery every-
where.

Dessalines returned about the middle of the afternoon, and
spoke to me.

“T have. been walking over the farm,” he said. “ There is
one place here that is more sacred to me than any other on
earth, —a grave in the meadow. It was hard to find it.”

And now the great sale of all is to be made, —the Tapley
farm itself.

The men gathered around the auctioneer. Heads filled the
windows. Dessalines and I stood outside the circle of men.
The two strangers whom I had taken to be officers were passing
about nervously from place to place. ;

The old Squire came out of the front door slowly, and stood
THE YOUNG HUGUENOT. 107

upon the piazza. He was alone. No one cared to share his
company in this critical hour of his life. His head was un-
covered, and his hair was white and thin. The declining sun
poured its light over the tree-tops. The green aisles of the old
orchard back of ‘the house grew shadowy. The martins came
back to the bird-houses beneath the eaves, and the doves cooed
in the dove-cotes. Nearly sunset.

“ Are you ready ?” asked the auctioneer.

The old Squire looked toward the open fields through the
opening in the locust-trees. The waving meadow where his
father and mother and wife slept was there. The family graves
were to go with the rest. Sunset.

“Are you ready?” The auctioneer now addressed the
Squire.

“ Wait — where is Tinley? I want him here.”

There was a stay in the proceedings. Men inquired for
Tinley; women looked for him in all the rooms.

But more anxious than the old man or the country-folks
appeared the two strangers. The latter entered the house and
went from room to room. A thrill of suspicion and excitement
ran through the crowd of people. Presently the men appeared
upon the piazza beside the old man, and one of them whispered
in his ear. Every eye was turned from the impatient auctioneer
upon the old Squire.

The Squire turned upon the strangers his cold gray eye.
The look that came into his face cannot be pictured. It was
as though hope —as though his very soul — had died then and
there. He stood still, with motionless lips; only his thin fingers
trembled.

I looked into the face of Dessalines. He laid his hand on my
arm.

“Ready all,” said the auctioneer.

“The Tapley farm and homestead, — the finest farm in Tol-
land. Buildings all in the best of order. You all know it, —-
how much am I offered?”
108 ZIGZAG STORIES.

«“ Two thousand dollars,” bid a farmer.

“Two thousand dollars. Worth five. Do I hear the three?
Three, do I hear it? .

“Two thousand dollars! Look out on the orchards and
meadows ; what more could any one wish? Two thousand
dollars.”

* Three.”

“Three I am offered. Four? Four? Do I hear the four?
Think how the old Squire has thriven here. Four? Do I hear
it? DoJ hear the four?”

* Four.”

“Four thousand dollars. Five? Do I hear the five? Four,
four; do I hear the five? Five, do I hear it? Are you all
done? Are you ready?

‘* Going — one.”

“ Four, one hundred,” bid one.

“Four, one. Four, one. Now, two.”

“ Two,” bid another.

“* Four?”

“ Kour.”

“ Nine?”

“ Nine.”

‘Four thousand nine hundred dollars. Do I hear the five ?
Five, five? Do I hear the five?”

“ Five thousand dollars.” :

The voice startled the people. It was a mild voice, a beauti-
ful voice, — that of Dessalines.

I felt his hand tremble on my arm. There was a pause, —
a painful silence, except that the birds were singing.

The old man stood as rigid as marble. He had not answered
the question of the officer beside him. He never would
now.

“ Five thousand dollars. Five, one? Are youall ready? Five
—once, do I hear it? Five— twice, do I hear it? Five thou-
THE YOUNG HUGUENOT. 109

sand dollars — your third and last chance — going, going, gone
for five thousand dollars, and sold to —”
He paused and repeated the old musical ditty —

1 ry
“ Good people, all give ear
To my ‘ Going, going, gone!’
I’m a country auctioneer,
And my goods are going, gone.

575
Prize well your blessings here,
For they soon will disappear ;

For Life ’s an auctioneer,
And his goods are going, gone.”

He added, amid an awful silence, “ Are you all done bidding?
“Going, going, once.

“Going, going, twice.

“Going, going, third and last chance —to Jean Dessalines
_ Fletcher.”

The white-haired old man stood like a figure of alabaster in
the red light of the sunset. His figure then seemed to shrink,
and his thin fingers clutched at the air. He tried to speak, but
simply said, —

“Gone.”

They bore him to his room paralyzed.

Dessalines moved slowly toward the house. His old neighbors
pressed upon him. They tried to grasp his hands. He entered
the house, and went to the chamber where lay the old Squire,
breathing heavily. The room, the door, the stairs, were filled
with people.

Presently the old Squire opened his eyes.

“Where is Tinley?” he asked in an apprehensive tone, like
one awakened from a fearful dream.

“He has escaped,” said the old housekeeper. Then she
added in a low tone to Fletcher. “The two strange men
accused him of forgery.”

The Squire bent his eyes upon Fletcher.
110 ZIGZAG STORIES.

‘You will let me die here?”

“Yes, futher, and live here.”

* Then you forgive me?”

“ As the All-Merciful has forgiven me.”

“ Did you say father ?”

“ Father.”

The old man turned his face upon the pillow. He was a child
again.

JERRY SLACK’S MONEY-POT.

Jerry — I can see him in fancy now as he used to sit on his
fence swinging his heels through the broken pickets which he
never found time to mend.

He was a philosopher — Jerry. He dreamed golden dreams
as he used to sit among the weeds in his garden. He wondered
why the Roman wormwood over-topped the corn and sent to
oblivion the potatoes. :

“It is the mysteriousest thing in nature,” he used to say, —
“what a different kind of luck comes to different folks in the
world, and where it comes from. T can plan, but I cannot turn
my plans into gold like other folks who do mot seem to me to
have near as much sense. There is always a peaked look to
things inside of my house and out of it, and yet there ain’t a
man in the town that likes to see things neat and trim and
prosperous better than I do. This is a very mysterious world,
and the poorer one grows, the more strange it all appears.
Poorer, did I say? I meant older. The fact is you can’t caleu-
late, as Shakespeare says, you can’t calculate ; you ain’t sure of
anything unless you get a bone in your throat and can’t get it
up nor down.”

The last remark was one of Jerry’s favorite remarks, — one
of his “wise saws,” he called it. It was his way of saying that
there is nothing sure but death and taxes,


JERRY SLACK’S MONEY-POT. 111

Samuel Dyer was a thrifty farmer. He used to join the
other young farmers after his daily work in a room adjoining
the post-office and there discuss
agricultural affairs. These ac-
tive young men, after talking
over their own affairs, occasion-
ally gave a thought or two to the
concerns of their neighbors, and
poor Jerry Slack’s unthrifty
ways not unfrequently furnished
a point for a joke.













eT? \ EE
> Raa
g

~~



Tt was planting time,
the first beautiful
weather of spring. The
hill-sides were growing
green again ; the blue-
birds were in the trees ;
there were echoes from
the fields that sounded
strangely clear, and a
warm light in the
orchards that seemed
signally bright. The
doors of the cribs

JERRY SLACK.
112 ZIGZAG STORIES.

stood open; boys were seen riding the work-horses in the
lanes.

After one of the mild days when everything in the earth and
air seemed to prophesy of the verdure about to appear, the
young farmers met in the usual place, and discussed the best
preparations for sowing the early grains.

Old Farmer Martin sometimes met with the young men ; he
was the patriarch of the company.

“I do hate to see Jerry’s land,” said he, suddenly, after most
of the farms in the town had received due criticism. “ There
is his four-acre lot, it just grows up to white-weed and burdock,
and it is as productive a piece of ground as can be found in the
whole township.”

« I know it,” said James Redpath, “ and that pasture of his,
too. It would keep three or four cows if he would only clear
it of stones, and puta good wall around it.”

« And things in the house are the same as they are out of
doors,” said Farmer Martin. “ His wife and children would
hardly know new clothes by sight, and his credit at the grocer’s
is as worn out as the clothes of his family. I pity his children.”

“J often think of Jerry,” said James, “ J wonder if anything
short of a coat of tar and feathers would awaken in hima decent
amount of energy.”

« Don’t let us forget,” said Samuel Dyer, “ that Jerry is one
of the best hearted men in the town, — generous, always willing
to watch when you are sick, always says something feeling when
you are in trouble. I never heard him speak ill of any one in
my life; he has a charitable eye for people’s faults, and likes
to see everybody prosperous. The fact is, he’s puzzled his
brains all his life in trying to find out the secret of success. I
could teach it in a much easier way than by tar and feathers.”

“How?” chorused the other speakers.

“JT have a plan; will you help me a

“Go ahead; we'll help you,” was the answer; and the
JERRY SLACK’S MONEY-POT. 118

result was that the next evening, when ploughing was done
and the horses put up, Jerry Slack caught sight of Sam ap-
proaching his house very cautiously, hiding mysteriously behind
bushes and posts, peeping out as if he wished to see Jerry, but
did not want to be seen by any one else, and at last, when Jerry’s
head appeared through the broken hinged door, beckoning to
him to come out.



1

“4 MESSAGE FOR ME

« What’s happened?” said Jerry. Sam retreated, still beck-
oning, till he had drawn Jerry quite out of sight of the house,
and into a dark corner where the eaves of the barn and the wood-
shed met, and there at last he spoke.

“Tsay, Jerry,” in a hollow whisper, “ do you believe in spirits.
and revelations, and such?”
114 ZIGZAG STORIES.

Jerry’s hair began to stiffen under his hat, for the super-
natural was precisely what he did believe in, and with a very
thrilling kind of faith too.

‘“« T — why yes, I do,” he stammered.

“Well, I’ve got a message for you from one of em, but I
thought I’d just ask your views before I made it over,” said
Sam.

“ A message for me!” said Jerry, a thrill of amazement run-
ning through his veins.

«“ Yes,” returned Sam, in a deeper whisper; ‘a money-pot !”

“ A money-pot !” gasped Jerry; “in my field!”

Sam drew Jerry closer to him until he had brought his ear
directly in range of his mouth.

“JT was — down — there!” he whispered, pointing stiffly
toward a strip of woods that rose dark against the twilight sky
a quarter of a mile away, “in the big hollow tree, with the
scarred white branch pointing to the house where old Betty the
fortune-teller died. That is the place to go if you want ques-
tions answered. Shall we go?”

Jerry glanced at the eastern sky; the edge of the moon was
just visible. “Yes, come,” said Jerry, hoarsely.

Sam grasped his arm, and without another word they crept
away toward the wood, entered it, and over crackling twigs and
slippery pine-needles made their way to the scarred and lonely
tree.

“ Hush!” said Sam, and laying two sticks crosswise on the
top of a tall stump, he crossed his own and Jerry’s hands above
them and stood as if he were turned to stone. “Hush!” he
said again.

At last the silence was broken.

There were one, two, three low, echoing raps against the
inside of the hollow tree, and then a strange, muffled voice
issued from the same retreat : —
JERRY SLACKS MONEY-POT. 115

“Go — NOME — AND — SLEEP — IN — PEACE — TO-NIGHT:
ARISE — AND — SEARCH — WITH — MORNING — LIGHT —
FURTHER — DIRECTIONS — CAREFUL — MIND —

AND — GOLDEN — TREASURE — YOU — SHALL — FIND.”

Jerry gasped and stood silent, and Sam did not stir, but not
another word came from the oracle.

“We'd better go,’ whispered Sam at last, and slowly and
silently they retraced their steps over the crackling twigs and
slippery carpets to Jerry’s door.

“T’ll be here in the morning,’
again; and Jerry crept into the house, but with prospect of any-
thing but “a peaceful night;” for how could he sleep in the
very face of such promises of good fortune, and if he should he
awake, contrary to order, what could he expect?

However, lazy people are always tired, and Jerry slept at last,
and never waked till the first streak of light from the east shone
over his eyes. He sprang up with a confused idea that some-
thing had happened, and a low whistle from Sam Dyer cleared
his confused recollections. He slipped the rickety bolt, and
gazed eagerly into Sam’s face.

“JT’ve found ’em!” said Sam, “the ‘further directions’ !
come and see!”

Jerry followed Sam, who led him to the great barn-door, half
of which was shut, and the other half, splitting away from its
hinges, swung helplessly out toward the yard. On the closed
half some unknown hand had written : —

> said Sam, in a hollow whisper

“Opry! Osbry! Osry!
AND FAIL NOT TILL THE LUCKY DAY!”

A line was drawn under this, and a little way below Jerry
read in the same characters : —

“PLOUGH THE NORTH SIDE OF YOUR FALLOW FIELD NINETY FURROWS
FROM EAST TO WEST, AND PLOUGH THE SOUTH SIDE NINETY FURROWS
FROM WEST TO EAST!”
116 AIGZAG STORIES.

Jerry looked at Sam in mute surprise.

* But my plough’s got one handle off and the prow bent,” he
said pitifully.

“Never mind,” said Sam, “17H help you mend it.”

“ But the old mare, — she’s been lame these two years.”

* That ’s bad,” said Sam; “but Ill let you have my grays
foraday. “LT won't do to trifle with a money-pot at stake.”

« But I can’t run a two-horse plough alone,” groaned Jerry.

“ Well, there ’s your sixteen-year-old boy Tom; give him the
lines, and I’l spell him an hour or two if he gives out.”

« The harness ’s broke, too,” continued Jerry ; but Sam would
not listen, and the next morning brought the wondrous sight of
Jerry, the grays, the mended plough, and Tom, all moving from
east to west across the neglected field.

The ninety furrows were ploughed at last, and yet no money-



pot.

“Why, what did you expect?” said Sam. “A thing that’s
worth having is worth waiting for, and you’re going to be led
on by degrees. I knowed that from the beginning. Wait for
another message on the barn-door;” and Jerry went to sleep
once more and waited for the mysterious disclosures of the
morning light.

The oracle had spokenagain. ‘“ Obey! Obey! Obey!” stood
undisturbed upon the door, but this time the directions beneath
read : —

‘¢ PLANT FREELY WITH THE BEST OF EarLy Rose,
AND WAIT UNTIL THIS DOOR SHALL MORE DISCLOSE!”

“And where am JI to get so many bushels of Early Rose as
that there field would swallow up?” groaned Jerry.

“I’ve got some of my seed potatoes left over,” said Sam ;
“and I'll let you have ’em. What’s a few potatoes to expec-
tations like yours?”

The potatoes were planted, but still no money-pot appeared.




























































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































THE MESSAGE.



JERRY SLACK’S MONEY-POT. 119

“T can’t stand it,” he said to Sam; “I’ve a clear mind to
borrow a spade and set Tom to turn the whole field over three
feet deep. What's the use of waiting forever for what might
just as well be had to-day? Spirits knows a good deal, I dare
say, but *twouldn’t be strange if their notions of time were a
little loose.”

“ Now, I’d just advise you to be a little skittish how you
meddle with this piece of business,” said Sam, with a warning
shake of the head that pierced to Jerry’s soul and marrow ;
“there’s money in the right place now, as sure as the *varsal
hills, but once you begin going contrary to orders, and 1 would n’t
answer for the consequences.”

So Jerry calmed down and waited again. It was slow work,
but at last the barn-door glistened with fresh chalk, and Jerry
found imperative commands that the earth round every hill of
potatoes should be loosened and have its weeds cut out with a
hoe. Once more Jerry and Tom went to work, and with many
a groan from Jerry and an occasional helping stroke from Sam
the work was well and quickly done. A few weeks passed,
and at last, beneath the sacred “ Obey! Obey! Obey!” which
had never stirred, appeared directions for one more hoeing, and
beneath them a few words which sent hope and courage tingling
to Jerry’s very finger-tips : —

‘s WHEN NEXT YOU FIND A SUMMONS HERE,
Tur HIDDEN TREASURE SURELY SHALL APPEAR.”

No more groaning this time. Jerry flew over the field with a
will, his hat square on his head at last, and his hoe keeping
time to such quick music that Sam’s had no need to come in,
and then there was nothing to do but to wait for the last won-
derful revelation.

It came at last, and representatives from nearly all the fami-
lies in the village were there to witness the concluding scenes.

Every one for miles around had heard some whispers, at least,
120 ZIGZAG STORIES.

of the lonely tree and the ghostly chalking on the rickety barn-
door, and spades and hoes were dropped for that day, and the
fence round Jerry’s field bristled with almost every shade and
shape of horse and vehicle tied to its posts. The last directions
on the barn-door had been to begin digging at the outer lines of
the field and proceed systematically,
thus reducing the square by each row
of potatoes in turn. The potatoes
were to be made over to Sam Dyer,
and by the time the middle of the
field was reached, ¢f not before, the
treasure should be found. Sam,
James Redpath, and two others had
come to help. Tom was working
like a veteran, but Jerry was ahead
of every one of them, and making
the earth fly as if the witches were
there indeed.

“ He’s gone clean mad,” muttered

Farmer Martin.
One row of potatoes after another
was torn open to a good
depth, and the ground hur-
riedly examined. No
treasure yet.

“Where ’s the money-
pot? Bring on the money-
pot!” voices began to

JERRY FINDS THE MONEY-POT. shout, and faster and

faster worked Jerry’s

spade. One by one Sam Dyer’s wagons were filling up with
potatoes and moving off to a corner of the field.

“Getting up to the middle row!” “Short furrows this
time!” “Their hoes’ll clash pretty soon at this rate!” “Look











JERRY SLACK’S MONEY-POT. 12)
at Jerry! Sheet lightning has got into him!” were some of
the remarks heard on every hand, and still no money-pot. The
workers began to drop off, as the narrowing square left room
for only Jerry, Tom, Sam, and Jim, one to each side.

Jerry was working like a beaver, and only three hills of pota-
toes to the square now. Suddenly he left his row and struck
into the very centre. .

Hark! Jerry’s spade had clashed upon something with a
sound of metal! The voices of the visitors ceased; the crowd
could hear the clinking now. He stooped, pulled, tugged, and
lifted something up!
side; Jerry was holding a rusty iron pot, lined with hard silver
dollars, in his hands! For one moment it seemed as if the old
fence would come down with the hurrahs and hat-swinging that
shook it, and then there was a rush for Jerry. Two stout fel-
lows mounted him on their shoulders, the rest fell into line, and
with shouts and cheers the bewildered hero was *“ toted,” money-
pot and all, triumphantly home to the front gate of the broken
fence.

Great was the excitement for a few days; but after a few
weeks the mystery began to clear, and a pretty plain story to
rise up in its place. The ring of gossipers sat in their old place
in the post-office one evening, when the door opened and in
came Jerry himself. ¥

“ Look here, Sam Dyer!” he said, “hollow trees and old
stumps and raps are all well enough in their way, but I’d just
like to ask you if the hull of that there money-pot business
was n't this: I worked lke a good fellow all summer at potato-
raising, and then sold my crop to you, and you gave me good
market price for it, when ’t was dug?”

The shout that went up was answer enough, and from that
day till the snow came Jerry was busy clearing the stones from
his useless pasture and transforming them into a solid, handsome
wall.
122 ZIGZAG STORIES.

The next year saw pasture and potato-field both blossoming
like the rose, the old house tidying up, and Jerry himself be-
coming such a model worker that the neighbors used to laugh
as they went by, and nod to each other with a knowing wink.

THE TWO BRASS KETTLES.

I was introduced to them in an wnexpected way, and I did
not soon recover from the intense curiosity excited by my first
impressions of them.

I had gone to the old Minot House, in Dorchester, Massachu-
setts, to take dinner with my aunt. We two, my aunt and I,
had wandered over the old house, up the huge stairway, and
down into the cellar. Suddenly Aunt opened the door of an old
pantry, on the floor of the porch, and said, “ Child, look here!”

“ What, Aunt?”

“The Two Brass Kettles.”

Two enormous brass kettles met my eyes. They were turned
over on the floor, and each would have held the contents of a
half-barrel.

“Those are the ones, my dear.”

“What ones, Aunt?”

“The ones that saved the two children from the old Indian
strageler.”

‘ What Indian straggler?” I asked with intense interest.

“ Oh, the one in King Philip’s War. Didn’t you ever hear
the story?”

“No, Aunt.”

“Well, I’ll get Uncle Zebedee to tell it to you after dinner.
Come.”

“But what could any one do with such kettles as these?
Where did they hang them?” I continued.
THE TWO BRASS NETTLES. 125

Lo
os

“Come here, and I will show you.”

She swept away, and I shut the door of the dark room,
which was lighted only by opening the door, and followed her.
We went into the kitchen. She pointed to an enormous fire-
place, and said, “ There, child!”

“ But, Aunt, how did the Two Brass Kettles save the chil-
dven?” I asked again.

“Oh, they crawled about all over the floor here, there, and
yonder,” pointing.

“Which crawled about, the kettles or the children, Aunt?”

A din here fell upon the air, and echoed through the great,
fortress-like rooms. It was the huge bell for meals.

“Come, child, let’s go. Uncle Zebedee will tell you all
about it.”

In a moment we were in the dining-hall. How grand it all
seemed! The sideboard was full of baked meats and steaming
pies. Over it hung a flintlock gun or a blunderbuss. The
room had been decorated for the occasion with creeping-jenny,
and boughs loaded with peaches that had been broken off by
a September gale. There was a whitewashed beam across the
room, on which were great hooks and staples. The table was
oak, and the chairs were of a curious old pattern. At the head
of the table was a great chair, and in it sat Uncle Zebedee,
a good old man, now nearly ninety years of age.

After the family were seated, Uncle Zebedee was asked to
say grace. He had a habit of saying “and” after ending a
sentence, and this made another sentence necessary, often
when he had nothing more to say. It was so even in his prayers,
and was very noticeable in his story-telling. There usually fol-
lowed an “and” when the story was done.

It was a queer structure,— the old Minot House in Dor-
chester. It was really a brick house encased in wood, — a fort
house it was called. It was built in this way to protect the
dwellers against rude Indian assaults. There is but one house
124 ZIGZAG STORIES.

standing that resembles it, —the Cradock Mansion in Medford.
There were many such houses in the old colonies, but one by
one they grew gray with moss and vanished. The Minot
House eee was burned about tw enty years ago, after standing
about two hundred and thirty years.

The old people of Dorchester and Neponset must remember
it. Itvose solemn and stately at the foot of the high hills over-
looking the sea meadows. The high tides came into the thatch
margins near it, and went out again, leaving the abundant
shell-fish spouting in the sun. The fringed gentians grew amid
the aftermath of the hay-fields around it. The orioles swung
in the tall trees in summer-time; and ospreys circled arid
screamed in the clear sky over all.

But the orchards, — here were the fulness and perfection of
the Old New England orchards! The south winds of May
scattered the apple-blossoms like snow over the emerald turf,
and filled the air with fragrance. The earliest bluebirds came
to them, and there the first robins built their nests. How
charming and airy it all was in May, when the days were melt-
ing into summer; and how really beautiful and full of life were
all of these venerable New England homes !

After the old house was iameas I visited the place, and
brought away a few bricks as a souvenir of a home of heroic
Teun =tet happy memories, too, if we except a single
tragedy of the Indian War. The great orchards were gone,
the old barns and their swallows; only the well remained, and
a heap of burned bricks, and the blackened outline of the cellar
wall.

It was a house full of legends and stories, — wonder tales
that once led the stranger to look upon it with a kind of super-
stitious awe. It had its historic lore, and like all great colonial
houses, its ghost lore: but the most thrilling feeend associated
with the old walls was known as the Two Brass Kettles. The
legend may have grown with time, but it was well based on










































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































THE CRADOCK MANSION, MEDFORD.





THE TWO BRASS KETTLES. 127

historic facts, and was often told at the ample firesides of three
generations of Dorchester people.

The dinner, like Uncle Zebedee’s prayer, seemed never to
end. After the many courses of food there was an “ and,” —
“and” pies and apples and nuts, and all sorts of sweetmeats.

“Uncle Zebedee,” I piped.

“ Well, dearie.”

“ Aunt said that you would tell us the story of Two Brass
Kettles after dinner.”

“Why, dearie, yes, yes. I’ve been telling that story these
eighty years, come October. Didn’t you never hear it? I
thought all little shavers knew about that. The Two Brass
Kettles, yes.

“They ’re in the old cupboard, now. Bring them out, and I
will tell you all about ’em. I sha/n’t live to tell that story
many more years. Maybe I shall never tell it again.”

The servants brought out the two kettles into the kitchen,
where we could see them through the wide dining-room door.

“Put ’em in the middle of the floor before the window,” said
Uncle Zebedee. “There, that will do. That is just where
they were when the Indian came.

* You see the window,” he added.

It had a great deep-set casement. Grape-vines half-curtained it
now on the outside, and the slanting sun shone through them,
its beams glimmering on the old silver of the table. It was past
the middle of the afternoon of the shortening days of autumn.

“You have all heard of Philip’s War,” began Uncle Zebedee,
leaning forward from his chair on his crutch. “ Everybody
has; it destroyed thirteen towns in the old colony, and for two
years filled every heart with terror. Philip struck here, there,
and everywhere. No one could tell where he would strike next.
The sight of an Indian lurking about in the woods or look-
ing out of the pines and bushes usually meant a mascree
[massacre ].
128 ZIGZAG STORIES.

“One Sunday in July, in 1675, the family went to meeting,
leaving two small children, a boy and a girl, at home, in the
charge of a maid named Experience. The kitchen then was as
you see it now. The window was open, the. Two Brass Kettles
had been scoured on Saturday, and placed bottom upward on
the floor, just as you see them there.

“Tt was a blazing July day. The hay-fields were silent.
There was an odor of hayricks in the air, and the bobolinks,
I suppose, toppled about in the grass, and red-winged black-
birds piped among the wild wayside roses, just as they do now.
I wish that you could have seen the old hay-fields in the long
July afternoons, all scent and sunshine; it makes me long for
my boyhood again, just to think of them. But I never shall
mow again.

“Let me see, —the two children were sitting on the floor
near the two kettles. Experience was preparing dinner, and
had made a fire in the great brick oven, which heated the
bricks, but did not heat the room.

“ Well, on passing between the oven and the window, she
chanced to look toward the road, when she saw a sight that
fixed her eyes, and caused her to throw up her hands with
horror, just like that.”

Uncle Zebedee threw up both hands, like exclamation points,
and let his erutch drop into his lap.

“Well, the maid only lost her wits for a few moments. She
flew to: the window and closed it, and bolted the door. Then
she put one of the children under one of the brass kettles, and
the other child under the other kettle, and took the iron shovel,
and lifted it so, and waited to see what would happen, and — ”

Uncle Zebedee lifted his crutch, like an interrogation point,
and we could easily imagine the attitude of the excited. maid.

« And — where was I?”

“The children were under the Two Brass Kettles, and the
maid was standing with the fire-shovel in her hand so —” said
Aunt. “La, I’ve heard that story ever since I was a girl.”
THE TWO BRASS KETTLES. 129

“ Yes, yes; I have it all now,” said Uncle Zebedee. “She
was standing with the fire-shovel up so, when she discovered
that the Indian had a gun, —a gun.

* You see that old flintlock there, over the sideboard? T used
to fire it off every Fourth of. July, but the last time I fired, it
kicked me over once —don’t you never fire it, children. It
always kicked, but it never knocked me over before. I don't
think that I am quite as vigorous as I used to be, and-—”

“What did the maid do with the gun?” asked Aunt.

* The gun, — yes, that was the gun, the one up there. The
gun was up in the chamber, then, and she dropped the shovel
and ran upstairs to find it. But it was not loaded, and the
powder was in one place and the shot in another, and in her
hurry and confusion, she heard a pounding on the door, just
like that.”

Uncle Zebedee rapped on the old oak table with startling
effect, and then, after a moment's confusion, continued, * She
loaded the gun, and went down to the foot of the stairs, and
looked through the latch-hole of the stair door, so, — and, —
yes, and the Indian was standing at the window. ‘That window.
His two eyes were staring with wonder on the Two Brass
Kettles. He had probably never seen a kettle like these
before, and he did not know what they were.

“While he stood staring and wondering, the kettles began
to move. ‘Two little hands protruded under the bail of each of
them, like turtles’ paws, for the kettles stood on their ears,
which lifted them a little way from the floor. One of the
children began to creep and to ery, moving the kettle. The
other began to do the same. The cries caused the kettles to
ving. Two creeping kettles!| They looked like two big beetles
or water turtles, and such the Indian might have thought them
to be, but they bellowed like two brazen animals, and — did you
ever hear a child cry under a kettle?” said Uncle Zebedee,
with a curious smile.
130 ZIGZAG STORIES.

We all confessed that we never had.

“Then, child, you just get under one of those kettles and
holler. You need n’t be afraid, — there ain’t no Indians now
‘to do ye any harm. Holler loud!”

I did so.



AN INDIAN ALARMED.

“Do you hear that?” said Uncle Zebedee. “You never
heard such a sound as that before. Hollow as a bell. Just

like a man with lungs of brass and no body. There, let an-
other little fellow try it.”

Another child was placed under one of the kettles, and
THE TWO BRASS KETTLES. : 131

uttered a continuous cry. The sound rang all over the
room.

“There,” said Uncle Zebedee, “did any one ever hear ay-
thing like that? It rings all over the room, seary-like.

ce Well, the children did not know about the Indian, and
they began to creep toward the light of the window, mov ing
the reais like two enormous beetles, and crying and making
the kettles rumble and rumble all around, boom- oom-oom, ee
like that. The Indian’s black eyes glowed like fire, and he
raised his gun and fired at one of the kettles. But nothing
came of it; the shot did not harm the child under the kettle.
It ere oneal both of the children, and made them cry the
louder and louder, and scream as though they were frantic.
‘Ugh!’ said the Indian, ‘Him no goot.’

“The kettles were all alive now, moving and echoing. He
was more puzzled than before. What kind of creatures could
these be with great brass backs and living paws, and full of
unheard-of noises like those? ‘Ugh! ugh!” said he, just like
that. The kettles kept moving and sounding, and the Indian
grew more and more excited as he watched them. Suddenly
he threw up his great aia and turned his back, and — now it
all goes from me again.”

“He said ‘Ugh!’ and threw up his arms and turned his
back,” prompted Aunt.

“And the maid opened the stair door and fired,” continued
Uncle Zebedee; “she drew quickly back, and waited for the
family to return. The children continued to cry. But they
were safe, as they could not overturn the kettles, and bullets
could not reach them. The family came in an hour in ereat
alarm. They had seen human blood in the road, but no Indian.

“A few days afterward the Indian’s body was found in some
hazel-bushes by the brook. It was buried in the meadow there,
and — ”

“The Indian’s grave,” said Aunt, prompting.
132 ZIGZAG STORIES.

« Yes, I used to mow over it when I was a boy, and —”

“That is all, Uncle Zebedee,” said Aunt. “You’ve got
through now.”

“Yes, I’ve got through now. I don’t think that I shall ever
tell that story again — and —”

There was something pathetic, and yet beautifully prophetic,
in the continuance. The slanting sun shone through the old
window, and the chippering of birds was heard in the fields.

Uncle Zebedee neyer did tell the story again. The final con-
junction of his long peaceful life came soon after he told the
tale to me. The violets and mosses cover him in the old Dor-
chester burying-ground. The old house is gone, the two kettles,
the gun, and even the gray stone from the field that rudely
marked the Indian’s grave.

CHASED BY A PRAIRIE-FIRE.

I was travelling with an emigrant and his family in a prairie
schooner, as the large covered wagon in which pioneers move
is called. The emigrant had a large family of children, whom
he called Mercy Ann, Ned, Bob, Tom, Kit, and Nick. He also
had a babe, to become some future Congressman, perhaps, from
the West.

I pitied the mother. She was a true, good woman; nearly
ull pioneer mothers are.

One night I was roused from my slumbers by the children,
who were awake, and the older of whom seemed greatly
excited.

“ Q-o-0-0! Inever did! Mercy Ann, get up and Look!”

A second small, dark face, the exact counterpart of the first,
peered into the starlight, and another low, wondering voice
exclaimed, —
CHASED BY A PRAIRIE-FIRE. 138

“Never did JZ, neither. Ned, get up!”

Ned rolled hastily over, disturbing Bob, who leaped erect,
hitting his head against a saucepan, which fell heavily into the
upturned face of sleeping Tom. A terrified bounce precipitated
Tom across the stomach of little Nick, who eried out distress.
edly, calling forth from the next wagon the query, —

“ What’s the rumpus, children ?”

“The prairie’s all afire!” exclaimed a chorus of voices.
“And it’s steerin’ straight this way,” added Bob.

“ And we’re so scared,” said Merey Ann and Kit, huddling
close together with chattering teeth.

“Hear it roar,” shouted Ned, excitedly.

The father put his head through an opening at the back
of the tented wagon, listened intently for a moment, and
replied, —

“Fudge! it’s nothin’ but the wind ye hear a roarin’. The
fire ’s miles away, and a crick or sunthin’ else ‘ll stop its course
long enough afore it scorches us. Pack yourselves away ag’in
and stop yer cacklin’ afore ye set the wee una squallin’,
and rouse the mother up. Go ter sleep, go ter sleep,” he
grumbled, drawing in his head and goon relapsing into sleep.

The “cacklin’” subsided into mysterious whispers, and the
little emigrants “packed” themselves, but not to sleep. Six
small faces were framed within the narrow opening of the
tented wagon, and the starlight quivering over them revealed
a pictured medley, — blended terror and admiration, eacer
excitement and awe.

“It’s like the very biggest sea on fire,” said Mercy Ann.

“ And the tide a comin’ in on fire, too,” said Kit,

‘An’ wolcanoes busthin’ up all over it,” said tongue-tied
Tom.

“Red ’n’ yaller ’n’ purple ‘n’— My! I see —y-e-a-s, °s
true’s I’m an emigrant, I do — squads ’n’ squads of soldiers all
afire, marchin’ ’n’ countermarchin’. Ye needn't gigele, Bob
134 ZIGZAG STORIES.
Fillerbuster — guess I know what ‘t is to march °n’ counter-
march,” said Ned, in a growing whisper.

“He ain’t gigelin’; hesth’s shakin’ with skeer,” interposed
Tom,

“ Ain’t no such thing! I’m tryin’ not to sneeze ’n’ rouse
daddy ag’in,” said Bob, elbowing Tom wrathfully. “Yes, I
see the soldiers now; thousan’s ’n’ thousan’s on ’em, right down
at the edge of the tide. Cricket! how their legs go! They ’re
playin’ crack the whip.”

» “That fire’ rout the wolvthes ’n’ snakthes ’n’ prairie
dogths,” said Tom

“Look! look! up yonder ’s all afire too. Ave there prairies

-in the sky?” whispered Kit, in amazement.

Wonderful! Above the purple blackness that overhung the
burning prairie burst a crimson glow. Was it a watchfire set
on high to lure the footsteps of that mystic host, marching and
countermarching down by the edge of the sea?

“ Must be on the high land we came over to-day,” said Ned.
“ Did ye mind how tall and dry the grass was up there? Wild
hosses could n’t outrun that fire. Hark! Hear that!”

“ Prairie wolves,” whispered the children, huddling closer
together.

“Back to yer nests, all on ye!” whispered Ned, excitedly,
seizing the old sharpshooter. “I7Il mount guard, *n’ defend
the camp, ’n’ watch the fire.”

Kit and Nick crept into a bedquilt together, and shaped
themselves into a tight, round roll, that shook like a bowl of
disturbed jelly. Bob and Tom lay down upon the straw and
engaged in courageous whispers, and trembled in their boots.
But the distant growling died away, and only the wind made
noises in the tall, dry grass. The children stopped trembling
and began to wink. Pretty soon they stopped winking and
began to sleep.

The stars quivered on through the night; the watchfire in
CHASED BY A PRAIRIE-FTRE. 135

the sky burned brighter and brighter; the mysterious soliiers
marched nearer and nearer, while the tired little picket
slumbered.

Something more than the roaring of the wind roused our
sleeping senses at length. The cattle were breaking camp.
The baby’s face was all aglow. The fire was coming upon us.
I saw that we were in danger.

“ For the horses!” shouted the emigrant, in a hoarse, excited
voice.

“They ‘ve broken camp with the cattle,’
to the bellowing, neighing herd escaping over the prairie.

“ Lord, pity us!” groaned the father, with a wild, white face.
“Tt’s comin’ fast. Run fer yer lives!” he cried, snatching the
baby from the mother’s grasp, and driving the children before
him like a herd of frightened deer.

But, alas! what was frail human strength when measured by
that of the Fire Spirit? Faster and faster rolled the flames,
and slower and slower grew our speed. The baby became a
burden in his father’s arms. The mother sank breathless upon
the grass, and the children dropped sobbingly around her.

“Heaven have mercy on us! We can’t go no further,” said
the father, in a dry, choked voice. “Say yer prayers, childrun,
and speak a word fer poor wicked daddy, fer he can’t.” A sob
choked away the rest of the sentence, and the father folded his
arms in mute despair, looking down upon his family with the
fear of a dreadful doom written on his countenance.

But a shout of hope arising from the lips of Ned reanimated
the despairing family. Right into the glow of the oncoming
flames dashed four horsemen, weird and wild enough in ap-
pearance to seem the leaders of the fire soldiers, but they were

> cried Ned, pointing

human riders.

“Tnjuns!” muttered the father, with a gleam of hope light
ing up his face.

“ They ‘ve spied the wagons, and are makin’ for ’em,” said

Ned.
136 ZIGZAG STORIES.

“ Well, they ‘re welcome to all they can get; though Heaven
knows all we have on arth is in the wagons,” said the father,
sadly. “Can we make ‘em hear, think ye?”

“Now boys ‘Il shout with ye, daddy. Now, then — Hip!”
cried Ned, raising his voice lustily, joined by all the rest.



THE INDIANS DREW NEAR.

The “hello” reached the ears of the Indians. They wheeled
about in the direction whence it came, listened until it was
repeated, held a hurried consultation, then turned again and.
were soon engaged in loading down the ponies with the contents

of the wagons.
“ There ‘ll be little chance for us with all the ponies packed
CHASED BY A PRAIRIE-FIRE. 137

with plunder. I’m afeared the red skins’ greed will turn out
stronger than their pity,” said the father, anxiously.

The fire was now hard upon the wagons, but the Indians
worked fearlessly and fleetly, until a great portion of the goods
were tied up in quilts and blankets, and placed upon the
ponies; then leaping astride the plunder, they dashed along
toward the place where we were waiting in breathless suspense.
The children trembled with new terror on seeing the Indians
draw near, with their scarlet blankets flying in the wind, and
their dark faces making fierce pictures in the flickering fire-
light.

“They ‘ll scalp us, they will!” cried Kit, clinging to her
mother’s neck, faint with fright.

“Hush, darlin’; theyll save your life, maybe,” said the
mother.

The Indians halted to reconnoitre the group, one of them
counting upon his fingers the number of the family, and shak-
ing his head doubtfully at his companions.

“For the love of mercy, save the mother and children.”
pleaded the father, with imploring gestures.

The Indians disputed together in unintelligible gibberish,
measuring the distance of the oncoming flames, and viewing
first the emigrants and then their plunder in an undecided
manner. Suddenly, one of the company seemed to have hit
upon a plan that was assented to by all but one, in whose breast
avarice proved stronger than pity. With a disapproving grunt
he spurred his pony and hurried away, leaving his companions
heaping fierce execrations upon his retreating head. The re-
maining three dismounted, and in a twinkling threw the
plunder to the ground and began hoisting the mother and
children to the ponies’ backs, one of the Indians holding up two
fingers and saying, “ No,” by a significant shake of the head.

“One of ye’ll have to stay behind with daddy, he means ;
there ain’t room fer all. Go, Ned, ver the biggest: mother I
138 ZIGZAG STORIES.

need ye most. Which one ‘ll stay with daddy?” said the
father, in a faltering voice.

The children looked into each other’s pale faces. Mercy
Ann and Kit stretched up their arms beseechingly to their
mother. “JZcan’t! I can’t!” cried Bob, springing frantically
on to one of the
ponies.

Tom, little
tongue-tied Tom,
who had trem-
bled in his boots
at the distant
growling of
wolves, stood
out the hero of
the night, with
the spirit of .a
Casabianea shin-
ing in his face.

“T’ll sthay
with daddy,”
he said, slipping
down from his
place behind his
mother into his
father’s arms.

“ God bless ye,
my brave sonnie!



“PASTER, FASTER, Boy!” Yell stay with
daddy, will ye?”
The Indians pointed to the baggage, made backward gestures
with their hands, and the ponies dashed away.
“T)’ ye think they will come hack for uth, daddy? They
made ath if they would with their handths. We might run a
little wayths.”
THE LITTLE SIOUNS WARNING, 139

“No, no, my boy; daddy’s lame, ye know. We couldn't
get fur, and they might lose us if we left the plunder. They ‘Il
have to git here very soon if — don’t ye see em comin’, Tom?
Yer eyes are sharper ’n mine.”

“ No; and the fire ith comin’ stho fasth. If God had made a
crick right over there! Maybe there iths a crick, daddy! We
didn’t sthee the hill. You know the alwayths mosth is.”

A cry of hope interrupted Tom. “I didnt see it! Likely’s
not — perhaps the good Lord — run, Tommy — can’t ye keep
up with lame daddy? Faster, faster, boy!”

On, on, over the hill. What was there below? Only a creek
making music all to itself down among the rushes at the bottom
of the ravine, —but the river of life it was to the father and
little boy, who soon rested safely on the other side. It was that
to which the Indians had mysteriously pointed.

The fire stopped there. From some safer place the Indians
saw that it had been arrested, and soon out of the smoke they
came returning the mother and babe, the children and haggage.
And then, with nothing in the world left but his family, the
emigrant knelt down and gave thanks to God.

THE LITTLE SIOUX’S WARNING.
A STORY OF THE SIOUX WAR.

Ix the summer of 1862, while we were living in the new
State of Minnesota, an experience fell to my lot which I regard
as one of the most remarkable that I have ever met.

i was asmall girl at the time, my tenth birthday coming in
that same month of August in which these extraordinary events
occurred, and on the very day — the 18th — on which the terri-
ble Sioux massacres of Minnesota broke out at the Lower Agency,
as the station was called, and which soon desolated such a large
portion of that fair land with fire and blood.
140 ZIGZAG STORIES.

We lived at Lac Qui Parle, or rather quite close to it, for we
were a full mile from the place, where at that time the devoted
missionary, Amos Huggins, and his young wife and two children
were stationed.

There were only three of us,—father, mother, and myself.
We had moved to Minnesota three years before, the prime object
of my parents being to improve their health, for both were threat-
ened with consumption. At the same time, they felt a natural
eagerness to try their fortunes in a new country, where there
always seems to be more cause for encouragement than at home.

The first year father and mother were much benefited, but
not long after, father began to fail. I was too young to notice
the signs at the time, but I recall them now. I remember how
he used to take his chair out front in pleasant weather and sit
there during the balmy afternoons, so still, with his eyes looking
off at the blue horizon or into the solemn depths of the vast
stretch of wilderness, which came down to a point scarce a
stone's throw from our door.

He would sit there so long and so quiet, that sometimes I
thought he was asleep, and would steal softly up to him; but
when I did so, I could notice that his eyes were wide open,
though he did not seem to know what was going on around
him. Mother used to steal to the door sometimes and peep
quietly at him, and then raise her finger and shake her head in
a warning way for me not to disturb him, and then her white,
sad. face would disappear in the door again.

Then again she would sometimes come out and sit down
beside father, and, taking his hand in hers, they would talk long
and earnestly in low tones. I was too young, I repeat, to under-
stand all this at the time, but it was not long afterwards that
the truth came to me.

Father was steadily and pare declining in health, and he
knew he was doomed. to die; ; but the same climate which was
thus killing one of my parents was healing the other, for mother


THE LITTLE SIOUNS WARNING. 141

became strong and robust, and the seeds of the dreadful disease
soon left her system altogether.

There is nothing which makes us feel so hopeful as strong,
sturdy health; and when mother felt the lite-blood bounding
through her veins, and her strength increasing, she could not
quite fully realize that it was different with father.

She tried to encourage him, and really believed his weakness
was only temporary. ‘There were times when he caught a little
of her hopeftlness, and thought it possible he was going to get
well. Consumption, I am sure, is the most deceptive of all ail-
ments in this respect.

But these self-deceptions did not last long. He saw that
death had marked him for its own, and a deep melancholy set-
tled over him, which in reality hastened the ravages of the disease.
He became touchingly tender and loving to mother and me and
when he was not sitting in front of the house, in his deep, sor-
rowful reveries, or if the day was stormy, at the window, look-
ing out into vacancy, he was fondling and caressing one of us.

IT remember that more than once I saw tears in his eyes,
though I could not tell why; for he and mother agreed to keep
his fears, or rather his certainty of what was fast coming, from
ime, and I never once suspected that death was already looking
into our window upon. us.

Scarcely a day passed that I did not see some of the Indians
who were scattered through that section. The Sioux seemed to
be everywhere, and in going to and coming from the Agency,
they would sometimes stop at our house.

Father was very quick in picking up languages, and he was
able to converse quite intelligently with the red men. How I
used to laugh to hear them talk in their odd language, which
sounded to me, for all the world, just as if they were grunting
at each other like so many pigs.

But the visits used to please father and mother, and I was
always glad to see some of the rather dilapidated and not over-
142 AIGZAG STORIES.

clean warriors stop at the house to get something to eat and to
talk with father.

T recall one hot day in June, when he was sitting under the
single tree in front of the house, his chair leaning back, his feet
resting on the seat of another, while he was looking away off
towards the setting sun, as though striving to pierce the blue
depths of space, and to catch just one glimpse of the wonderful
world beyond. I was in the house helping mother when we
heard the peculiar noises which told us that father had an abo-
riginal visitor. We both went to the door, and I passed out-
side to laugh at their queer talk.

Sure enough, an Indian was seated in the other chair, and he
and father were talking with great animation.

The Indian was of a stout build, and wore a hat like father’s,
—the ordinary straw one, — with a broad red band around it:
he had on a fine black broadcloth coat, with silk velvet collar,
but his trousers were shabby and his shoes were pretty well
worn. His face was bright and intelligent, and I watched it
very narrowly as he talked and gesticulated in his earnest way
with father, who was equally animated in answering him. Their
discussion was of more than ordinary importance.

The Indian carried a rifle and revolver, — the latter being in
plain sight at his waist, — but I never connected the thought of
danger with him as he sat there in converse with father.

I describe this Indian rather closely, because he was no other
than the celebrated chief Little Crow, who was at the head of
the frightful Minnesota massacres which broke out within the
succeeding sixty days, and who even then was perfecting his
plans for one of the most atrocious series of crimes ever perpe-
trated in our history. Little Crow was a thoroughly bad Indian,
who would have accepted food with one hand while he drove
the knife into the heart of his friend with the other.

The famous chieftain stayed till the sun went down. Then
he suddenly sprang up and walked away at a rapid, shuffling
THE LITTLE SIOUNS WARNING. 145

svalk in the direction of Lac Qui Parle. Father called good-by
to him, but he did not make a reply, and soon disappeared in
the woods, through which his path led.

The sky was cloudy, and it looked as if a storm was coming ;
so, as it was dark and blustering, we remained within doors the
rest of the time. There was no thunder or lightning, but a fine
drizzling rain began falling, and the darkness was intense. Tt
was really impossible to see anything at all beyond the range of
the rays thrown out by the candle burning on the table near the
window. The evening was well advanced, and father had
opened the Bible, with the purpose of reading a chapter before
prayers, as was his rule, when there came a rap upon the door.

It was so gentle and timid that it sounded like the pecking of
a bird, and we all looked inquiringly in the direction, uncertain
what it meant. The next moment it was repeated, and then it
kept on in a way which no person would do who knew anything
about knocking.

“Tt is some bird, scared by the storm,” said father, * and we
may as well admit it.”

Isat much nearer the door than either of my parents, and
instantly sprang up and opened it. As I did so, T peered down
in the gloom and rain for the bird, but sprang back the next
moment with a low ery of alarm.

“ What ’s the matter?” asked father, hastily laying down his
Bible and walking rapidly towards me.

“It isn’t a bird; it’s a person.” As I spoke, a little Indian
girl, about my own age, walked into the room, and looking in
each of our faces, asked in the Sioux tongue whether she could
stay all night.

I had closed the door and we gathered around her. She had
the prettiest, daintiest moccasons, though her limbs were bare
from the knee downward. She wore a large shawl about her
shoulders and down almost to her ankles, while her coarse black
hair hung loosely below her waist. Her face was very pretty,
144 ZIGZAG STORIES.

and her eyes were as black as coal and seemed to flash fire upon
whomsoever she looked. JI never beheld a more animated

countenance.
Of course, her clothing was dripping with moisture, and her
call filled us all with wonder. She could speak only a few







“Tp isNn’r A BIRD.”

words of English, so her face lit up with pleasure when father
addressed her in the Sioux tongue; and straightway a lively
conversation began between them.

As near as we could find out her meaning, her name was
Chit-to; and father gathered from her that she lived with her
parents at Lac Qui Parle. There were several families in a
THE LITTLE SIOUX’S WARNING. 145

spot by themselves, and they had begun a carouse that day ;
that is, they had supplied themselves plentifully with fire-water,
and were all drinking at a fearful rate and just the same as if
they were white men.

At such times the Indian is dangerous, and these carousals
nearly always end in crime and murder. Little Chitto was
terrified almost out of her senses; and when she saw the
knives, tomahawks, and pistols doing their deadly work, she
fled through the storm and darkness, not caring where she
went, but only anxious to get away from the dreadful scene.

Entering, without any intention on her part, the path in the
woods, she followed it until she caught the glimmer of the light
in our window, when she hastened to it and asked our
hospitality.

I need scarcely say it was gladly granted. My mother re-
moved the damp clothes from the little Sioux girl, and replaced
them with some warm, dry ones belonging to me. At the
same time, she gave her hot, refreshing tea, and did everything
in her power to make her comfortable.

In this Good Samaritan work I did all I could, as was natural
in one of my tender years. I removed the little moccasons
from the wondering Chit-to’s feet, rubbed the latter with my
hands to bring back the circulation, kissed her dark cheeks,
and while flying about in the aimless manner peculiar to child-
hood, I was continually uttering expressions of pity which,
though in an unknown tongue, I am quite sure were under-
stood by Chitto, who looked the gratitude she could not
express.

When father read the Bible, she listened in her wondering
way, and then, as we all knelt and prayed to God, she imitated
our movement, though it cannot be supposed that she under-
stood what it meant. Then she began to show signs of drowsi-
ness and was put to bed with me, falling asleep as soon as her
head touched the pillow.

10

.
146 ZIGZAG STORIES.

I lay awake a little longer and noticed that the storm sub-
sided. The patter of the rain was heard no more upon the
roof, and the wind blew just as it sometimes does late in the
fall. At last I sank into slumber.

I awoke in the morning and saw the rays of the sun entering
the window. Recalling the incidents of the previous evening,
I turned over quickly to see and speak to my young friend.
To my surprise she was gone, and supposing she had risen a
short time before, I hurriedly dressed myself and went down to
help keep her company.

But she was not there, and father and mother had seen
nothing of her. The investigation that father then made
showed that she had no doubt risen in the night and stolen
away. Very likely she was afraid of the vengeance of her
parents for fleeing, and, as the rainfall had ceased, she hastened
back through the woods to their wigwam.

There was something curious and touching in the fact that
she had groped about in the darkness, for she could not have
used a light, until she found her own clothing, which she
donned and departed without taking so much as a pin that
belonged to us.

We all felt a strong interest in Chit-to, and I was sensible
of something akin to strong friendship. Father allowed me to
go with him a few days later when he visited Lac Qui Parle,
and he made many inquiries there for the little girl, but he
could find out nothing. No one seemed to know to whom we
referred, and we went home — especially I did —very much
disappointed, for I had built up strong hopes of taking her out
with me to spend several days. I was sure that it would n’t
take us more than a couple of days to learn each other’s
language. At any rate, we would learn to understand each
other in that time.

We went several times after, and neglected no effort to.dis-
cover Chit-to; but we did not gain the first clew.
THE LITTLE SIOUX’S WARNING. 147

On the afternoon of August 19, father was sitting in his
accustomed seat in front of the house, and mother was engaged
as usual about her household duties, while I was playing and
amusing myself as a girl of my age is inclined to do at all times.

The day was sultry and close, and | remember that father was



CHIT-TO.

unusually pale and weak. He coughed a great deal, and sat a
long time so still that I thought he must be asleep.

“ Mother,” said I, “what is that smoke yonder?”

I pointed in the direction of Lac Qui Parle, the stretch of
woods lying between us and the station. She saw a dark
column of smoke floating off inthe horizon, its location being"
such that there could be no doubt it was at the Agency.
148 ZIGZAG STORIES.

“There is a fire of some kind there,” she said, in a low voice,
as if speaking to herself, while she shaded her eyes with her
hand, and gazed long and earnestly in the direction.

“The Indians are coming, Edward,” she called to father;
“they will be here in a few minutes!”

As she spoke, she darted into the house and came forth with
father’s rifle. Knowing how weak he was, she intended to use
it herself.

Brief as was the time she was away, it was long enough for
a galloping horse to come in view. Suddenly a splendid black
steed thundered from the wood, and, with two or three tre-
mendous bounds, halted directly in front of me. As it did so,
I saw that the bareback rider was a small girl, and she*was our
little Sioux guest, Chit-to.

She made a striking picture, with her long black hair stream-
ing over her shoulders and her scant dress fluttering in the
wind. Her attire was the same as when at our house, excepting
she had not the cumbersome shawl.

“ Why, Chit-to,” said I, in amazement, “ where did you come
from?”

“Must go— must go—must go!” she exclaimed, in great
excitement. ‘Indian soon be here!”

So it seemed that in the few weeks since she had been at our
house, she had picked up enough of the English tongue to make
herself understood, though it is not impossible that she knew
enough when our guest, but chose to conceal it. It is very hard
to fathom all the whims and peculiarities of the Indian race.

“ What do you mean?” asked mother, as she and I advanced
to the side of the black steed upon which the little Sioux sat;
“what are the Indians doing ?”

“ They burn buildings — have killed missionary — coming dis
way!” ,

Chit-to spoke the truth, for the Sioux were raging like de-
mons at that very hour at Lac Qui Parle, and one of their first
THE LITTLE SIOUX’S WARNING. 149

victims was the good missionary, Amos Huggins, whose wife
and children, however, escaped through the friendliness of some
of the Sioux.

“ What shall we do, Chit-to?”

“ Get on horse — he carry you.”

« But my husband; the horse cannot carry all three of us.”

“ He hide in wood.”

My poor distracted mother scarcely knew what to do. All
this time father sat like a statue in his chair. A terrible suspi-
cion suddenly entered her mind, and she ran to him. Placing
her hand upon his shoulder, she addressed him in a low tone,
and then gave utterance to a fearful shriek, as she staggered
backward.

“© Heaven! he is dead!”

Such was the fact. The shock of the news brought by the
little Indian girl was too mach, and he had expired in his chair
without a struggle. Mother would have swooned but for the
imminence of the danger. The wild ery which escaped her was
answered by several whoops from the woods, and Chit-to became
frantic with terror. :

“Indian be here in minute!” said she.

Mother instantly helped me upon the back of the horse and
then followed herself. She was a skilful equestrian, but she al-
lowed Chit-to to retain the bridle. The horse moved off on a
walk, and the whoops were heard again. Looking back I saw a
half-dozen Sioux horsemen emerge from the wood and start on a
trot toward us, spreading out as if they meant to surround us.

Several shots were fired which must have come close to us,
but just then Chit-to gave the horse rein, and he bounded off at
a terrible rate, never halting until he had gone two or three
miles, by which time I was so jolted that I felt as if I should die
with pain.

Then, when we looked back, we saw nothing of the Indians,
and the horse was brought down to a walk; and finally, whe:
150 ZIGZAG STORIES.

the sun went down, we drove into a dense wood, where we
stayed all night.

I shall not attempt to describe those fearful hours. Not one
of us slept a wink. Mother sat crying, moaning, and weeping
over the loss of father, while I was heart-broken, too. Chit-to,
like the Indian she was, kept on the move continually. Here
and there she stole as noiselessly through the wood as a shadow,
while playing the part of sentinel.

At daylight we all fell into a feverish slumber, which lasted
several hours... When we awoke we were hungry and miserable.

Seeing a settler’s house in the distance, Chit-to volunteered to
go to it for food. We were afraid she would get into trouble,
but she was sure there was none and went.

In less than an hour she was back again with an abundance
of bread. She said the house was deserted, the occupants hav-
ing, no doubt, become terror-stricken; but the Sioux had not
visited it as yet.

We stayed where we were for three days, during which we
saw a party of Sioux warriors ride up on horseback and burn the
house and out-buildings whete Chit-to had obtained the food for
us,

It seemed to mother that the Indians would not remain at Lac
Qui Parle long, and that we would be likely to find safety there.
Accordingly, she induced Chit-to to start on the return. Poor
soul! she was yearning to learn what had become of father’s
body. When we reached the house nothing was to be seen of
it, but she soon discovered a newly made grave, where she had
reason to believe he was buried. As was afterwards ascertained,
he had been given a decent burial by orders of Little Crow
himself, who doubtless would have been glad to protect us had
we awaited his coming.

We rode carefully through the wood, and when we emerged
on the opposite side our hearts were made glad by the sight of
the white tents of United States soldiers. Colonel Sibley
was encamped at Lac Qui Parle, and we were safe at last.
LITTLE MOOK. 151

Chit-to disappeared from this post in the same sudden fashion
as before; but I am-happy to say that I have seen her several
times since. Mother and I were afraid her people would punish
her for the part she took in befriending us, but they never inter-
fered with her at all. Probably the friendship which Little

_ Crow evinced toward our family may have had something to do
with the leniency which they showed her.

LITTLE MOOK.

THERE once lived a dwarf in the town of Niceu, whom the peo-
ple called Little Mook. He lived alone, and was thought to be
rich. He had a very small body and a very large head, and he
wore am enormous turban.

He seldom went into the streets, for the reason that ill-bred
children there followed and annoyed him. They used to cry
after him, —

“Little Mook, O Little Mook,
Turn, oh, turn about and look!
Once a month you leave your room,
With your head like a balloon :
Try to catch us, if you can ;
Turn and look, my little man.”

I will tell you his history.

His father was a hard-hearted man, and treated him unkindly
because he was deformed. The old man at last died, and his
relatives drove the dwarf away from his home.

He wandered into the strange world with a cheerful spirit,
for the strange world was more kind to him than his kin had
been.

He came at last to a strange town, and looked around for
152 ZIGZAG STORIES.

some face that should seem pitiful and friendly. He saw an
old house, into whose door a great number of cats were passing.
“Tf the people here are so good to cats, they may be kind to me,”
he thought, and so he followed them. He was met by an old
woman, who asked him what he wanted. He told his sad story.

“TJ don’t cook
any but for my
darling pussy
cats,” said the
beldame 3 “ but
I pity your hard
lot, and you may
make your home
with me until
you can find a
better.”

So Little
Mook was em-
ployed to look
after the cats
and kittens.

The kittens, |
am sorry to say,
used to behave
very badly when
the old dame
went abroad;
‘and when she
came home and
found the house
in confusion, and bowls and vases broken, she used to berate
Little Mook for what he could not help.

While in the old lady’s service he discovered a secret room in
which were magic articles, among them a pair of enormous
slippers.



LITTLE MOOK.
LITTLE MOOK. 153

One day when the old lady was out the little dog broke a
crystal vase. Little Mook knew that he would be held respon-
sible for the accident, and he resolved to escape and try his for-
tune in the world again. He would need good shoes, for the
journey might be long; so he put on the big slippers and ran
away.

Ran? What wonderful slippers those were! He had only
to say to them, “Go!” and they would impel him forward with
the rapidity of the wind. They seemed to him like wings.

“J will become a courier,” said Little Mook, “and so make
my fortune, sure.”

So Little Mook went to the palace in order to apply to the
king.

He first met the messenger-in-ordinary.

“What!” said he, “you want to be the king’s messenger, —
you with your little feet and great slippers!”

“ Will you allow me to make a trial of speed with your swift-
est runner?” asked Little Mook.

The messenger-in-ordinary told the king about the little man
and his application. é

“We will have some fun with him,” said the king. “ Let
him run a race with my first messenger for the sport of the
court.”

So it was arranged that Little Mook should try his speed
with the swiftest messenger.

Now the king’s runner was a very tall man. His legs were
very long and slender; he had little flesh on his body. He
walked with wonderful swiftness, looking like a windmill as he
strode forward. He was the telegraph of his times, and the
king was very proud of him.

The next day the king, who loved a jest, summoned his court
to a meadow to witness the race, and to see what the bumptious
pygmy could do. Everybody was on tiptoe of expectation,
being sure that something amusing would follow.
154 ZIGZAG STORIES.

When Little Mook appeared he bowed to the spectators, who
laughed at him. When the signal was given for the two to
start, Little Mook allowed the runner to go ahead of him for a
little time, but when the latter drew near the king’s seat he
passed him, to the wonder of all the people, and easily won the race.

“THE DECIDED-ON AMPUTATION.”



The king was
delighted, the
princess waved
her veil, and
the people all
shouted, “Huzza
for Little
Mook!”

So Little Mook
became the royal
messenger, and
surpassed all the
runners in the
world with his
magic slippers.

But Little
Mook’s great
success with his
magic slippers
excited envy,
and made him
bitter enemies,
and at last the

king himself came to believe the stories of his enemies, and
turned against him and banished him from his kingdom.

Little Mook wandered away, sore at heart, and as friendless
as when he had left home and the house of the old woman.
Just beyond the confines of the kingdom he came to a grove of

fig-trees full of fruit.
LITTLE MOOK. 155

He stopped to rest and refresh himself with the fruit. There
were two trees that bore the finest figs he had ever seen. He
gathered some figs from one of them, but as he was eating them
his nose and ears began to grow, and when he looked down into
a clear, pure stream near by, he saw that his head had been
changed into a head like a donkey.

He sat down under the other fig-tree in despair. At last he
took up a fig that had fallen from this tree, and ate it. Imme-
diately his nose and ears became smaller and smaller and _re-
sumed their natural shape. Then he perceived that the trees
bore magic fruit.

“Happy thought!” said Little Mook. “I will go back to
the palace and sell the fruit of the first tree to the royal house-
hold, and then I will turn doctor, and give the donkeys the
fruit of the second tree as medicine. But I will not give the
old king any medicine.”

Little Mook gathered the two kinds of figs, and returned to
the palace and sold that of the first tree to the butler.

Oh, then there was woe in the palace! The king’s family
were seen wandering around with donkeys’ heads on their
shoulders. Their noses and ears were as long as their arms.
The physicians were sent for and they held a consultation.
They decided on amputation; but as fast as they cut off the
noses and ears of the afflicted household, these troublesome
members grew out again, longer than before.

Then Little Mook appeared with the principles and remedies
of homeopathy. He gave one by one of the sufferers the figs
of the second tree, and they were cured. He collected his fees,
and having relieved all but the king he fled, taking his homeo-
pathic arts with him. The king wore the head of a donkey to
his latest day.
156 ZIGZAG STORIES.

THE “DOO-LU SHAD-UEE.”
A TIGER STORY TOLD BY HUGH THE LINEMAN.

“T oncE had charge of the repairs of a section of track on
the Madras Railway between the stations of Jooa and Kuppur-
pore, in the Deccan, five hundred and twenty miles up from
Madras,” said Old Hugh, one evening. “I had eight miles in
charge; it is a fine line, all steel rails, and the road-bed is kept
in splendid order. It is owned by an English company; all
the material is brought out from England.
costs €80,000 to the mile, while Yankees would build it for
$20,000; for it is a good country to run a line through, mostly
level, and not at all ledgy or marshy.

“Tt astonished me, in a country so thickly populated, to see
so much game; there were a great many deer and wild cattle.
The natives rarely have energy enough to hunt.

“Tigers were pretty numerous thereabouts. As we went
along the track on the hand-car I often had glimpses of them
in the edges of the thickets. The Englishmen hunt them.

“Commonly the tigers in this quarter of India are shy; they
run at sight of a man, and are no more to be feared, ordinarily,
than a black bear in the United States; but now and then a
tiger gets to be what the natives in this district call ‘ doo-lu
shad-uee,’ — that is, an eater of man’s flesh, —— when he becomes,
without exception, the most dangerous, bloodthirsty brute in
the world.

“The natives here never fear a tiger unless he has become
‘doo-lu shad-uee.’

“When they hear that one of these man-eaters is about, a
perfect panic spreads. The people will not so much as venture
outside of their villages.
THE “DOO-LU SHAD-UEE.” 157

“Such a tiger will grow so bold in a week or two that he
will dash right into a village and seize the first native he sees;
he will even rush into the huts and drag the poor wretches out
of their beds. Human biood he is determined to have.

“It is thought that such tigers get their first taste of human
blood accidentally. They are not by any means common. I
had never even heard of one until I had been at Jooa five
months or more; and I was subsequently told a ‘doo-lu shad-
uee’ tiger had not been known thereabouts before for ten
years.

“Going to the station early one morning, in order to make
the usual trip along the line before the express went up, I
found my four native track-men waiting for me with the hand-
car on the rails; but I noticed that they were much disturbed
and excited about something, —so much so that they even for-
got their usual kindly, polite, ‘salam’ to ‘ boss-sahib,’ as they
called me.

“Their names, by the way, were Karem, Buksh, Gulab Sing,
Neendo Sing, Ummed Lodianah; Gulab and Neendo were
brothers, fine young fellows. These Hindu laborers always
become very much attached to a foreman who treats them
well. They are quick to understand orders, and have very
mild, affectionate dispositions.

“IT said ‘Good-morning, and ‘Go ahead, boys,’ but they
hesitated; then Karem spoke.

“¢ There is an eater of man’s flesh come to Sukooah, sir,’ said
he, very gravely. Sukooah is a little hamlet betwixt Jooa and’
Kuppurpore, near the line.

“+ An eater of man’s flesh? What’s that?’ said I.

“«¢ A tiger doo-lu shad-uee, sahib,’ Ummed explained. ‘A
monster !”

“They went on to tell me, with frightened looks, that he
had seized a woman but the evening before, and that the folks
at Sukooah were all shut up close in their houses for fear of him.
158 ZIGZAG STORIES,

“*Nonsense!’ I said. ‘Go ahead. He won’t touch us.’ I
thought it a matter of no account. But it was plain to see



that the men were much
alarmed. As we came
up near Sukooah, and
after passing it, their
eyes scanned the bushes ;
and once or twice where
we stopped to put in a new ‘tie’ or drive a few fresh spikes,
they seemed in real terror, peeking this way and that like fright-
ened hares.



A “)00-LU SHAD-UEE.”
THE “DOO-LU SHAD-UEE.” 159

“But we saw nothing, neither that morning nor during the
week, of the tiger; there were reports, however, every day of
its having caught men and women at Sukooah. When one
of these man-eaters has made a successful foray into a village,
it will rarely leave that particular vicinity till killed.

“ But this was the first time that I had ever heard of their
habits. I supposed that the stories were vastly exaggerated,
and the subject did not bear with much weight on my mind.
I did not even think it worth while to carry my carbine on the
hand-car.

“But not more than three or four months after, I had ample
proof of the ferocity and boldness of these abnormally fierce
brutes. Coming back over the section from Kuppurpore station,
I had stopped to put in a new rail, not more than a mile from
Sukooah. After getting off the hand-car, we waited ten or
fifteen minutes for the express to pass, then unhung the old
rail and laid in the new one which we had brought along on
the car.

“Karem and Gulab were holding it in place with their bars.
Ummed was driving spikes with a sledge, and Neendo had
stepped to the car where I stood, for more spikes.

“Suddenly, and as quick as a flash of light, a tiger burst
from the thicket back twenty yards, perhaps, from the rails,
and came, as it seemed to me (for I saw him when he started),
with one bound into our midst. He seemed to shoot like a
dart close to the ground, —one long yellow streak. The crea-
ture seized Gulab, who stood back to him; he was gone with
the poor fellow down the bank and into some brush on the
other side of the track almost as quickly as he had rushed out.
Not a sound did the beast make till he caught Gulab; then
he gave the ugliest, worst-sounding growl that I ever heard.

“TI caught up a crowbar and gave chase; Ummed and Karem
came on after me with their sledges. But I might as well have
tried to chase a whirlwind. The animal ran faster than a horse :
160 ZIGZAG STORIES.

I had two glimpses of it at a distance, racing on from thicket to
thicket, getting farther off every moment.

“The ‘through Bombay freight’ was due now in a few
minutes ; I had to hasten back to set the rail. So paralyzed with
fright were my poor fellows, that I had to drive the spikes myself.





























































































































































































































































































































“THE NEXT MOMENT I WAS KNOCKED HEADLONG.”

We had seen the last of the luckless Gulab. Another man,
named Musik Kyasth, was hired to go on the section in Gulab’s
place; and I need hardly state that thenceforward I carried my
gun and kept a sharp eye out, —as sharp as did the hands, who
lived and worked in constant fright.

“Three or four days afterwards, we saw a tiger cross the
THE “DOO-LU SHAD-UEE.” lod

track fifteen or twenty rods ahead of us. He turned, facing us,
hearing the car coming. Standing up, I fired at him, at which
he trotted down the bank and was out of sight when we passed.

“ Meantime, if rumors were true, not less than eight persons
had been killed, three or four of them dragged out of their huts,
either in the early evening or morning.

“T think it was on the following Monday morning that we
had our second experience with this bloodthirsty creature.

“Some new ties were needed to be put in ata culvert half a
mile or thereabouts below the place where the tiger had seized
Gulab. On the north side of the tracks were thickets within a
few rods, but on the south side only a few scattered bushes
amid grass knee-high.

“So, while the men worked in the little culvert, I stood on
the track close to them with my carbine cocked, and watched
the thickets on the north side, facing in that direction.

“On asudden, Ummed and Karem gave a shout and sprang
towards me, one with his bar, the other with a shovel. I thought
they were going to assault me.

“ The next moment I was knocked headlong by a tremendous
blow from behind, and heard the same ugly growl. The tiger
seized Musik, the new man, and dragged him, despite his strug-
gles, into the thicket long before I could regain my legs and fire.

“] think the brute’s first aim had been for me; but he leaped
at me with such violence that he fairly pitched me head-fore-
most into the culvert among the others.

“Ummed saw the animal start from behind a little bush on
the south side of the track, where he had lain watching us,
while I was watching the jungle on the other side.

“Pursuit was useless with any hope of saving Musik’s life.
I had the culvert patched up, then went down to Jooa and got
the depot-master. He and I together reconnoitred the thickets
for several hours, hoping to be able to shoot the monster; the

thickets were very dense and thorny.
u
162 ZIGZAG STORIES.

“The sun getting up high and hot, we went back. to Jooa,
and telegraphed to Madras for some of the officers of the garri-
son to come up and hunt the tiger. In an hour or two we
received word that five or six of them would come the next day
on the mail train.

“But meantime I hit upon a stratagem for entrapping the
animal. It was suggested to me by stories which my old grand-
father used to tell of catching bears in what he called a ‘ log-fall.’
The depot-master and I, with the section hands, set to work and
built a hut of old ties, boards, and brush up near the culvert.
Tnside the hut we made an effigy to resemble a Hindu laborer
as closely as possible. This ‘dummy’ we placed some five feet
inside the doorway, and over the intervening space we set up a
‘dead-fall’ consisting of six old rails betwixt two pairs of stakes
having a drop of near five feet; the foot of the prop supporting
this mass of iron rested on a roundish cobble-stone set on a log
beneath.

“A ‘trip line’ was then strung from the prop across the door-
way of the hut. Later in the day a goat was killed, and after
dragging it along the track each side, we threw it into the hut
behind the dummy. My idea was that if the tiger were to
come along and sight the effigy inside the hut, he would rush in
to seize it and spring the dead-fall.

“But the contrivance stood as we had left it when we went
up past it next morning.

“ At three that afternoon the hunting-party from Madras
came. There were a colonel, a major, two captains, and a leu-
tenant, with three servants, a pack of hounds, and many breech-
loading rifles and smooth-bores. Word was sent out to gather
a party of fifty or sixty natives for ‘ beaters,’ and the grand hunt
was set for the following morning at four o’clock.

“The party camped in the station building that night. There
were high anticipations of an exciting episode. At daybreak
the hunt was called, and the whole party mustered. We took
THE TIGER-TUNTER OF MADRAS. 1638

our distinguished guests up the line on the hand-car and a small
‘flat’ used for carrying rails.

* As we passed my humble device for trapping the tiger, I
pointed it out, merely for the sake of furnishing them a little
amusement; and the Major ran down the bank to look at it.

“But aloud exclamation from that martial gentleman drew
us all after him.

“Lot there lay the man-eater, a great sleek black and yellow
mottled brute, with his big tongue out and a ton of steel rails
across his back, dead! The Nimrods stared.

“ Our visitors went back to Madras on the express disgusted,
but took the tiger’s skin. I rather thought that it belonged
to me.

“We had no further trouble there with tigers. Some six
months afterwards, however, I participated in a very singular
tiger-hunt at Moosurie, an account of which I may be able to
give in a future story.”

THE TIGER-HUNTER OF MADRAS.
TOLD BY HUGH AINSLEE AT AGRA.

WHILE sitting in the little depot at Jooa, one afternoon, in
conversation with the station-agent, “Freight No. 13” from
Madras came on to the siding opposite to wait for the Bombay
Express to pass. Attached to the long train of rice-cars were
several flats, some with “daks ” on them, others with palanquins,
and on the hindermost a very odd-looking object which at once
attracted our attention, —the more that there seemed to be a
man. inside it.

“ What have you got on that rear car, Fales ?” my friend the
agent called out to the conductor of the freight.
{64 ZIGZAG STORIES.

29

“You’ve got me now!” replied that official, with a laugh.
“ That ’s a nondescript. No name on it. Billed to Yullodian.
Walk up and see for yourselves, gentlemen. That is the ship-
per inside; name, Geeter Zoom Joogr, by trade a tiger-killer.
But you won't find him talkative.”

The “nondescript” was a round cage-like structure, some
twelve feet in diameter by six or seven in height. The bottom
was of heavy black timber, and the flat top of the same, but not
quite so massive ; while the sides were of thick, straight, brown
bamboo rods or bars, set upright like stanchions in the black
bed-pieces, with spaces betwixt them four or five inches wide.
In short, it was a heavy round cage, made years and years ago,
and of curious workmanship.

But the old native inside it was a still greater curiosity. He
was arrayed in a dirty blue cotton frock, and drawers, or trous-
ers, of the same stuff. His feet were bare, —such feet! They
were so shrunken and bony, and of such shiny wine-brown
hue, as to give one the idea that they had been calcined over a
slow fire.

The man was bareheaded, too, and, what is not common
among Hindus, his hair, thin and in part gray, was braided in a
queue down his back.

The tightness of the skin across his brows gave to his counte-
nance a strangely mummified expression, hardly relieved by the
deep, dull black eyes and coarse thin eyebrows; while the lower
part of his face curiously marked with still coarser crinkled
hairs, too scattering to be termed a beard.

His general complexion was like an old, withered walnut.
From the elbow down, his arms were bare; and they seemed
mere parcels of bone and sinew bound tightly up in sun-dried
hide; while his lean fingers like claws terminated in nails an
inch or more long. Indeed, in the matter of personal appear-
ance, Mr. Geeter Zoom Joogr was one of the very strangest,
unhuman human beings I have ever chanced to meet in any
country.
THE TIGER-HUNTER OF MADRAS. 165

Set against the side of the cage were two short spears, or
lances, five or six feet in length, with handles of some black
wood, and thin, sharp, slender points of bright steel which shone
like silver. These blades, or points, were of themselves nearly
or quite two feet long; altogether very ugly-looking implements.

I did not find him at all communicative. He sat on a cane
stool, with his back to the bars of the cage, and solaced the
fatigues of his journey with an enormous pipe.

My knowledge of Hindustani was not sufficient to make much
impression on him at first. A few stolid responses were all that
T could elicit from him.

He said, or rather admitted, that he was going to Yuloodian
to kill a tiger; and that killing man-eating tigers was his busi-
ness. Fifty rupees was his price for killing a dangerous tiger.

He had made this his business for twenty years, since the
Sepoy war.

I felt very curious to know how the old man hunted, and
asked permission to go up to Yuloodiah and participate in the
hunt. To this request he made no reply for a while, but upon
my urging it several times, at length said, “ The sahib can suit
himself.”

Just then the express whistled in; and as soon as it had
passed, the freight, and with it Old Geeter and his cage, moved
on.

Late in the afternoon, after my duties on the section were
over for the day, I went up on the “ way freight” to Yuloodian,
taking my Remington carbine and a stock of cartridges.

It was one of those little Hindu villages, of perhaps two
hundred souls, where the people were persecuted by a tiger, —
a state of things hard to conceive of in America. But in India,
where Buddhism prevails to some extent, it is contrary to re-
ligion to kill any creature, even tigers and venomous snakes.

It was dusk when I got off at Yuloodian. The agent said
that Old Geeter had arrived at three o’clock with his cage, and
166 ZIGZAG STORIES.

that a party of natives with a bullock team had drawn it off to
the village, half a mile away. Thither I proceeded on foot and
alone. None of the natives were astir. The huts were all
closed and dark. The people had shut themselves up at twilight
for fear of the tiger ; for the savage beast now for several weeks
had been accustomed to enter the hamlet at night, prowling
around as it pleased. Twice it had seized persons within their
very doors.

But by dint of knocking and shouting I learned where the
tiger-slayer had located his cage. I had only to follow the
street, or rather path, leading through the hamlet and out at a
gate into the open country beyond. No one would venture
forth at this hour to guide me; but the distance was not more
than three hundred metres beyond the gate in the stake-fence
enclosing the hamlet; and I came upon the cage after a few
minutes. It was set on the ground in the high “rayche ” grass,
a few paces from the jungles and thorn thickets which skirted a
“sarkee ” (creek).

Feeling a little uncertain as to how Old Geeter might re-
ceive me, or how he might act if I came upon him by surprise,
I called out, “ God be with you!” several times in Hindustani.
I did not wish him to mistake me for a tiger, by any means.
Perhaps I called more loudly than I need have done. ‘God
be with you!” responded the old man in a low tone; but it
was with an inflection and emphasis not in the least in keeping
with those words.

I ventured to draw nigher, however. Old Geeter was in his
cage, sitting silent and on the look-out, like a spider in his den.
This cage was his place of business, as one might say.

After some parley I was admitted through a little trap-door -
in the top, which was securely buttoned down again; but my
reception was a most ungracious one. He grumbled ominously,
in the native tongue, of my disturbing the night and breaking
his spells.
THE TIGER-HUNTER OF MADRAS. 167

Besides our two selves in the cage, there was the carcass of
a goat to attract the tiger. Hour after hour of the damp, warm,
dark night we sat crouched motionless there. Old Geeter
neither spoke nor moved; but I could hear him breathe. Once
we heard a short, querulous roar which I supposed to be that
of a tiger at a distance; but no tiger came near.

Day broke at last, and when it had grown fairly light, we



IT ESPIED TWO FLASHING ORBS
IN THE HIGH GRASS.”

got out and went to the village, where the people had now
begun cautiously to look forth from their doors. Several as-
serted that they had heard and even seen the “karachu”
(vavager) about the hamlet during the hours of darkness.

I went back down to Jooa on the early morning “ Mail” from
Bombay, for my duties did not admit of my being absent a day ;
but I arranged with Old Geeter to join him again that night.
168 ZIGZAG STORIES.

I may as well confess that I had to win his consent by a present
of a few rupees.

As I thought over his method of tiger-killing, it occurred to
me that I could improve upon it. During my experience as a
“curreio” in Brazil, I had often on my weekly journeys made
use of a “bird-call” for wayside hunting; and I had that
identical old whistle still in my chest.

My first plan was to imitate the bleating of a kid with it,
thinking thus to attract the tiger; but reflecting, after a few
trials, that this was: a tiger with a taste for human flesh, I
began to counterfeit the crying of a child, which I found no
very difficult matter when once I had got the right key for it.

I said nothing to Old Geeter of my trick when I reached
Yuloodian that evening, but joined him as before.

The night was very still. Several times the weird cry of a
devotee in the distant village of Razotpore came faintly to our
ears, over many miles. The stars shone down with a misty
lustre. It was very damp, yet warm.

Once a cloud of green, sparkling fireflies came, and drifting
in betwixt the stout bars of the cage, fairly lighted it up with
their glinting fires. Later a dolefully howling pack of jackals
swept past us, eight or ten rushing up to sniff the goat’s blood.

Midnight drew on, and for a long time all was utterly silent,
save that an “ayshee’”? came near and “blew” shrilly several
times, impatiently stamping its sharp hoofs on the dry turf.

Then came a sound new, strange, and terribly realistic in this
old land of an unprogressive race. With a ponderous roar and
wide-spread jar and tremor of the staid old soil} a lurid red
flashing of hot furnace doors, and the belching out of fire-lit
steam and smoke, the long, heavily loaded “ Freight No. 17”
from Madras went past. For miles and miles its thunderous,
forceful rush and the echoes of its peremptory whistle and loud
bell were borne back to us. Everything of nocturnal mystery
and old-time legend and superstition, conjured up by the silence
THE TIGER-HUNTER OF MADRAS. 169

and darkness, seemed shivered by it. It was an hour ere Old
India and night had again regained possession of themselves
round Yuloodian.

Then once more, like a wail from dead, misguided millions,
eame the melancholy ery of the devotee, in his solitary and
painful vigil; and not long after we heard the gruff bari, or
erunt, of a prowling tiger from across the “sarkee.”

With that I softly drew out my “call,” and began crying and
sobbing like a child in distress.

Old Geeter started and uttered alow exclamation; then, as
quickly divining my motive, he sat down again in his former
listening posture.

Several times I imitated the ery of Hindu children,
“ Maumay, maumay, maumay;”, then sobbed on as some little
one lost in the jungle might do.

Presently my old confrére whispered, “ Beesh /” (“ Hush!” )
“ Beesh ! Tarku zo!” (“ Hush! The beast hears! ”)

I had heard nothing, and continued.to hear not a sound; but
the old native was grasping one of his spears, crouching on his
knees, every muscle braced. ;

Five or ten minutes passed.

I fancied the old man’s ears were hardly so sharp as he
thought them. But on a sudden a low, eager snuffle, as when
some carnivorous beast scents a gory morsel, broke the stillness.
Looking intently through the darkness in that direction, 1
_espied two flashing orbs in the high grass.

Slowly, stealthily, and with scarcely a rustle of the dry stalks,
those green-tinted, fiery eyes were coming nearer.

The carcass of the goat was hung up against the cage bars,
inside it.

When within twelve or fifteen yards, the creature seemed to
fly at one bound from out the grass against the side of the cage,
uttering a low intense growl.

The cage rocked violently. I was thrown to one side; but
170 ZIGZAG STORIES.

Old Geeter, better prepared for the shock than I, kept his
crouching position; and as the tiger clung, growling and tear-
ing at the carcass, he thrust out his spear, giving it a slight
Pet

Astonished at the sharp prick, the great brute bounded off
to one side, then, with a savage roar, sprang against the cage
again, its eyes flashing, growling horribly, the picture of veno-
mous wrath. The air was stifling with its musky breath. It
wrenched and tore at the cage with its griping claws. The
bamboo bars sprung -and cracked frightfully.

But this was the chance Old Geeter had waited for. Before
I could take aim, or fire, he lunged with all his force, driving
that long acute lance-point out betwixt the bars deep into the
tiger’s exposed breast.

With a loud agonized cry, strangely in contrast with its deep
bass growl and roar, the beast leaped backwards to the ground.
It was the animal’s mortal cry; and I never saw a more fearful
death-strugele.

Time and again it bounded high into the air, tumbling heavily
down only to leap upward again. Its frightfully hideous cries
might have been heard a league off.

It must have been some minutes ere death relieved the
animal’s dying pains; nor did we venture forth till it lay Lmp
and breathless. Daylight showed it to be a very sleek yellow
and black mottled tiger of the largest size. It had fattened
on human flesh; not less than enineen persons, including chil-
dren, had been its victims during the month it had eee the
village.

I remained to see the people of the hamlet come out at sun-
rise to exult over the “karachu.” They performed a kind of
thanksgiving dance. Old Geeter remained with them,— to
collect his pay, I presume.

Two days later, I saw him pass Jooa in his cage on a freight
train; he looked as grim as ever.
THE MAD JACKAL. 171

THE MAD JACKAL.
A TALE OF A BUDDHIST TEMPLE.

“Drap Hindu! Where —where? There — there!”

Every one who has resided in India will understand what. is
meant by the above exclamatory phrases; the fancied utterances
of an animal with which all travellers in Hindostan are but too
familiar, — the pheal, or jackal.

Though by nature a cowardly creature, the Indian jackal
fears not to approach the habitations of man, where it is ina
manner tolerated for its services as a scavenger. And wher-
ever troops are in cantonment or on the march, it accompanies
them, often in large numbers, skulking around the camp and
making night hideous with its wildly mouwmnful * wa-wa-wa.”

But the soldier hates it for something besides its howling.
He knows the brute to be ravenous as the wolf itself; and
that it will not only eat up the scraps of meat left by the
bivouac fire, but himself, should he be overtaken by death and
not securely interred. It will even enter the walled cemetery,
tear up the bodies recently buried, and devour them, though
ever so far gone in decomposition.

Like its near congener, the hyena, it is the veriest of pol-
troons, and a child may puta full pack of them to flight. Yet
there are occasions when the Indian jackal is a creature to be
dreaded even more than the tiger itself; and I have known one
to keep a whole regiment of soldiers in mortal fear for the most
part of a night. I myself was once constrained by the same to
pass as irksome an hour as I ever remember.

In India, of course, it was when, a young subaltern gazetted
to the 11th Hussars, I had just joined my regiment, to find it
on the eve of setting out upon a scouting expedition. On the
172 ZIGZAG STORIES.

\
afternoon of the second day we halted near the outskirts of
a native village, where there was excellent camping-ground ;
a clear water stream, with a stretch of pasture on which to
picket our horses. We had an eye also to fowls, fresh eggs,
and other e¢ ceteras likely to be obtained in the village as an
adjunct to the ordinary rations of a regiment en route.

Captain Congers, who commanded the troops to which I was
attached, the first Heutenant, and myself messed together on
the march; and as soon as we were out of our saddles we
despatched a couple of servants to the village for such prey in
the way of tidbits as they could pick up.

Almost immediately, and to our surprise, they came back
empty-handed, with the explanatory report that the villagers
were all shut up in their houses in such a state of affright that
not one would venture out, much less do marketing! More-
over, there was loud lamentation in several families, as though
each had lost one or more of its members!

The cause of all this was of course made known to our emis-
saries, who in turn told us a mad pheal had run a-muck through
the village and bitten some eight or ten of the people, — men,
women, and children.

As the occurrence had just taken place and the rabid animal
was still believed to be in the village or its precincts, we little
wondered at our purveyors returning as they had done. Others
sent on a similar errand came back with like rapidity and
equally light-laden.

Though somewhat annoyed by the disappointment, we of
course could not blame them, and did not, though I myself, new
to Indian life, was half inclined to laugh at their fears. But
my brother officers regarded it in a different light, Captain
Congers saying, as we discussed our evening “meal, — more
frugal from this sinister circumstance, — that a jackal in a state
of rabies is quite as dangerous as a mad dog; sometimes more,
since it will not only bite all who come in its way, man or
THE MAD JACKAL. 73

beast, but go out of its way to get at them,efollowing up its
victim with implacable pertinacity. “ And its bite,” added he,
“is nearly always fatal ; hydrophobia is almost certain to ensue.
I have myself known of many cases of men going mad from it;
of horses, too, becoming infected and tearing others to the
destruction of half a troop. While serving in the Central
Provinces, where jackals are specially abundant, I had a valu-
able charger bitten by one. The horse went mad, and set upon
the ‘syce’ who had charge of him with hoofs and teeth, man-
gling the poor fellow in a fearful manner, so that he died in
the greatest agony.”

While we were still seated at supper, and I was receiving
this information strange as new to me, we became aware of
a commotion in the camp, —a confused rushing to and fro, with
cries proclaiming alarm. The place of our private bivouac was
some distance from that occupied by our men; and the night
now on, a dark one, hindered us from seeing what caused the
fracas. We learned it, however, by hearing only three words,
but enough to explain all, for more than one voice was repeat-
ing them in tones of terror, —

“The mad jackal! The mad jackal!”

We sprang to our feet with as much alacrity as if the rabid
brute were already beside us. But it came not our way; nor
were we even favored with a sight of it, though for over an hour
after the camp was kept in a state of scare, as great as if su-
prised by the approach of a human enemy. Now it was “ Mad
jackal!” here; now there ; anon at some different and distant
point, as could be told by shots and the shouts of those pursu-
ing it. Yet after all this, the chased creature escaped destruc-
tion in the darkness, no one knowing where it was or whither
gone.

« Just possible,” observed Captain Congers, when tranquil-
lity had to some extent been restored and we were smoking a
cheroot by our bivouac fire, — “just possible it was n’t the mad


174 ZIGZAG STORIES.

jackal, after all. More likely some other, as there must be
scores of them prowling about the camp.”

‘Pardon, Sahib Capen!” interposed one of our native attend-
ants in waiting. “It de madee pheal for shoo; same dat bitee
pleepuls in da village.”

“ How know you that, my man?”

“De tail tell um so, sahib. Him no none gottee,—only
leetle bit tump. De village pleepuls told me da one dat bit um
hab no tail.”

Certainly this was ground for believing them, and far too
satisfactory. We had heard that the jackal chevied about the
camp was almost tailless; and to learn it was so with that
which had made havoe among the villagers, placed its identifi-
cation beyond doubt.

It was not till a late hour that the camp became quieted
down and confidence re-established. Even then many remained
under a sense of insecurity; for, knowing the dangerous brute
to be still at large, each naturally supposed it might stray his
way and take a snap at him. So for a long while but few went
to sleep; most of those who did doubtless to dream of mad
dogs.

But there was something besides to keep us awake, — a drench-
ing down-pour of rain that came on just as we were about to go
to rest. As we were on scout and in lightest marching order, a
small officer’s tent to each troop was all the canvas we carried.
This barely served the captain himself, though, of course, we
subs were entitled to a share of it; but in the warm tropical
nights had preferred swinging our hammocks to trees and sleep-
ing sub Jove.

This night it was different, and we would have all squeezed
into the tent, but that before supper my fellow-lieutenant and I,
strolling some way into the woods, had noticed an old building
in which there was a large room apparently rain-proof. A
Buddhist temple or something of the sort we supposed it to be.
THE MAD JACKAL. 175

Remembering it now, we had our hammocks transported
thither and hung in the aforesaid room, which, sure enough,
proved weather-proof. Luckily, we found hooks on the walls,
though the two to which mine was hung were so high up I had
some difficulty in mounting into it.

Ags it had been a long day’s march, we were both much fa-
tigued and soon fell asleep. Nor did either of us awake till the
bugles were sounding the “ Reveille,” hearing which my brother-
officer sprang from his swing-couch and hastened to equip him-
self; as he did so, crying out to me, “ Up, old fellow! Look
sharp! Our colonel’s the greatest martinet in all the Indian
army, —a very epitome of pipeclay,—and Captain Congers
ditto. If we’re not at roll-call to a second, well get black
looks or something worse.”

Saying which, he slipped into his tunic, — the only garment
either of us had taken off, — buckled his sabre-belt, clapped on
his “ busby,” and was out of the room before I had time to get
well awake.

By nature of a somewhat somnolent habit, and then Httle
accustomed to military promptness, moreover on that particular
morning feeling unusually drowsy, I lay still awhile, regardless
of the caution given me, even till I heard the “ Assembly”
sounded. Then, rousing myself, I sat up in the hammock, with
legs over the edge, preparatory to springing out of it. Just
then I became sensible of a strange smell pervading the room,
—a fetid, powerful odor, such as might proceed from a combi-
nation of fox and pole-cat.

Casting my eyes below, I at once learned the cause. The
room had but one window, a small aperture unglazed; and just
inside this, where it had entered, was an animal the sight of
which sent a cold shudder through my frame,— for it was a
jackal, without a tail, or but the stump of one.

Its jaws were wide apart, with tongue protruded; its eyes
apparently on fire, its whole body panting and quivering in such


176 ZIGZAG STORIES.

a way as clearly to proclaim it mad. I could have no doubt
about this; nor any of its being the same which had caused
lamentation in the village and consternation in our camp. The
absence of tail was evidence unmistakable.

Still in the hammock, which was in violent oscillation from
my effort to rise erect, I had no hope to escape being seen by it.
In fact, it saw me already, —had seen me before I saw it, —
and with eyes on me still, seemed gathering itself for a bound
upward.

«As my legs were dangling down, I drew them up with a
quick jerk, but not an instant too soon; for the beast did
make its bound, passing the spot just vacated by my pedal ex-
tremities, which, had they been still there, would certainly have
been seized by it.

The disappointment seemed to cause it surprise; as, for some
time after, it stood in a dark, distant comer of the room, quiet
and cowering. But I knew it would not long remain so, and
felt certain the attack would be renewed.

Defensive weapon I had none; my pistols and sabre were
suspended against the wall only a few feet beyond my reach.
But they might as well have been miles away, since I dared not
descend to the floor, and otherwise I could not get at them.
There was, therefore, but the alternative of standing upon the
defensive, and for this I had nothing save my tunic. Luckily, I
had hung it on the slinging gear of the hammock close at hand.

Meanwhile I had got upon my knees, and steadily balanced,
with the netting and my blanket well up around me. So fold-
ing the tunic shield-fashion I awaited the onslaught of the
jackal.

As yet I had uttered no shout; instead, kept silent, as though
I had lost the power of speech. This partly because I had no
hope of being heard. The walls were thick, and the door, a
massive structure, with self-shuiting hinges, had slammed to
behind my brother-officer as he went out; while the little hole
THE MAD JACKAL. Lise

of a window opened upon the woods, the side opposite to that
on which lay the camp. Shout loudly as I might, it was not
likely I would be heard; all the less at such a time, with every
one hurrying to answer the roll-call.

But I had another reason for keeping still and preserving
silence. If not further irritated, the animal might go out again,
as it had entered, and leave me unmolested.

Alas! it did not, instead, the very opposite. Just as I had
got poised on my unsteady perch, a fresh spasm of madness
seemed to come over it, and again it rose, and rushed at me
open-mouthed.

ITmet it with the folded tunic, and buffeted it back to the
floor, several times so foiling it in rapid repetition. Then it once
more retreated to the dark corner, and there was an interregnum
of rest, as if by an armistice agreed to between us.

How long this lasted, I cannot tell: for the fear that was on
me hindered calm reflection. I remember listening with all
ears, in hope to hear voices outside. But as I had been myself
shouting at loudest while in actual conflict with the jackal, and
no one came, my hope was not a high one. I remember, too,
thinking of whet my fellow-sub had said; and what a reckoning
I would have with both colonel and captain. Even if I escaped
in time to appear on parade, what a tale to tell! An officer of
Hussars held to his hammock —as it were, besieged in his bed
—hy an animal no bigger than a fox, a cowardly creature oft
chased by children! I should be ridiculed, laughed at beyond
measure. .

My unpleasant reflections were brought to an abrupt ending
by the jackal once more becoming excited and making a fresh
attack on me. Just as before, it sprang up at me in successive
attempts, which fortunately, as before, I succeeded in repelling.
My tunic of scarlet cloth proved protective as a coat of scale-
armor.

Our second conflict terminated very much as the first, with

12
178 ZIGZAG STORIES.

an interval of rest succeeding; only that in this my adversary,
instead of returning to the dark corner, squatted down along
the floor just under me. It was within convenient reach of
sword-thrust; and how I wished at that moment to be as near
to my sabre! With it in hand, I could have cut the Gordian
knot in an instant. But it was not to be.

Wellnigh despairing of escape, with my eyes wandering
around the room, a thought flashed across my brain, inspir-
ing me with a hope. In the hammock late vacated by my
fellow-lieutenant, was his blanket, a large double one, within
easy reach of my hand. Stretching out I seized hold of it, then
spreading it out to its fullest extent, let it down upon the
squatted jackal.

The result was all I could have wished for, even better than
I expected. Under the blanket the brute had got entangled,
and was struggling to free itself, as a badger tied up in a bag,
But I waited not to witness the finale, instead, jumped down
from the hammock and rushed out of the room.

Never were two hundred yards of space more quickly passed
over by pedestrian than those that separated my sleeping-place
from the camp. The most noted professional runner could not
have done it in better time. And never did officer present him-
self on parade-ground in such guise as I, —coatless, bootless,
even without “busby,” that crown of glory to the Hussars.

My comrades were about to break out in a roar of laughter ;
the colonel, on the other hand, was ready to receive me ina
different fashion. But seeing the state of excitement I was in,
all stayed to hear the explanation.

It was easily given and as easily understood. The mad jackal
was fresh in every mind, as also the knowledge of its having
escaped. As a consequence, there was now a tail-on-end rush
towards the old ruin, with a determination to put an end to the
creature that had caused so much trouble.

Its destruction was accomplished without any difficulty, I
TWO LITTLE BOYS. 179

myself being its destroyer. Armed with my tiger-rifle, through
the aperture of the open window, I was able to get good sight
on it, and send a bullet through its disordered brain.

It had done damage enough as we learned afterwards, most
of the villagers bitten by it dying of hydrophobia ; while the
result of the “raggia” through our own camp was the loss of
several horses, though luckily the men, both soldiers and camp-
followers, escaped the fearful infliction.

For myself, I could never afterwards look at a jackal — little
feared as these brutes are — without a creeping sensation of the
flesh, a belief in their being above all animals dangerous and to
pe dreaded.

Since that day many a tiger have I killed, but never encoun-
tered one with such fear as I felt when face to face with that
tailless jackal inside the ruined shrine of Buddha.

THE TWO LITTLE BOYS THAT WERE SUPPOSED
TO HAVE BECOME TWO LITTLE BEARS.

In the flowery land of Persia there once lived a goldsmith of
great skill, and a painter of great renown. The two became as
intimate as brothers, and finally each solemnly promised the
other that he would be true to him in all things, and never do
anything without his consent.

Having made this agreement, they started on a journey, and
at last came to a convent, where they were received as guests.
It was not a Mohammedan convent; but the monks placed so
much confidence in the newly arrived artists as to disclose the
places where they kept the golden and silver ornaments that
were emblems of their faith. The artists were greedy of gain,
and one night they stole all of these gold and silver images, and
180 ZIGZAG STORIES.

fled to a country of the Islamites, where they took up their
abode.

Now any man who will act dishonestly towards a stranger
will prove as untrue to afriend. Each of these friends,.- knowing
that the other was wanting in principle, became jealous of the
common treasure. But they agreed to put the gold and silver
images into a box, and to spend only as much money, and that
by mutual consent, as their necessities required.

Now the goldsmith fell in love with an amiable lady, and
married her, and he found his expenses much increased. The
wife bore her husband two sons, of whom he was very fond and
very proud.

One day, when the painter was absent from the town, the
goldsmith opened the box containing the treasures, and took one
half of the gold and silver, and concealed it in his own dw elling.

When the painter returned, he discovered the theft. He
questioned the goldsmith about it, but the latter denied all
knowledge of the robbery, and declared his own innocence.

The painter was a shrewd man, and had a wonderful faculty
of discovering secrets. He suspected the goldsmith of robbing
the box, but nore ed not to make his suspicions known until he
should farther put them to the test.

He had two bear cubs, which he had tamed, and which he
was accustomed to feed from his own hands. In his yard was
also a figure made of wood, and this figure he carved and
painted so that it exactly resembled the goldsmith. He put this
figure in a hidden place to which the cubs could go, and had the
cubs thereafter fed by food put into the hand of the image.
The cubs seemed to think that the figure was a man, and they
became greatly attached to it. When hungry they would rub
themselves against its legos, lick its feet, and act as a dog or cat
would do in a like situation.

One day the painter invited the goldsmith and his two little
boys to pay him a visit, and pass the night with him, which
TWO LITTLE BOYS. 181

invitation was accepted. In the morning he took the little boys
out to see his place, and shut them up in an outhouse, where
their father would not be likely to find them.

“IT must depart early,” said the goldsmith to the painter.
“Where are the boys?”

“« A strange thing has happened, which has greatly astonished
me, and which I hesitate to tell you, it will give you so great a
shock.”

«Pray tell me at once what it is! I hope nothing has hap-
pened to the lads?”

“Indeed, there has!”

“ What?”

“They have become changed!”

“ How ?”

‘Into two little bears!”

“ Impossible!”

“Yes; while they were running about, all at once each turned
into a little bear. Look out of the window into the yard.
There they go now!”

The people of the East are very superstitious; and a man
with a guilty conscience is superstitious whether he live in the
North, South, East, or West. When the goldsmith saw the two
little bears, he believed the painter’s word.

‘Why do you think this happened?”

“T think it must have been on account of some great sin. Is
their mother a good woman?”

‘One of the best.”

“ Have you anything on your own conscience ?”

“Nothing,” said the goldsmith, choking.

‘There they go!” said the painter; “just see them!”

The goldsmith shut his eyes at what was to him a horrible
sight.

“J shall take this case to the cadi,” said the goldsmith.

“JT will go with you,” said the painter.
182 ZIGZAG STORIES.

The cadi heard the goldsmith’s story with astonishment, and
said, —

“ What can this mean? Never did such a thing happen since
the coming of Mohammed. What proof have you of this amaz-
ing story?”



































THE TWO BEARS BROUGHT INTO COURT.

“T will bring the two little bears into court, and we will see
if they will recognize their father,” said the painter.

The little bears were brought into the court. The painter
had cunningly kept them hungry over night, and when he put
them down, they ran at once to the astonished goldsmith,
TWO LITTLE BOYS. 183

climbed his legs, and licked his feet, as they had been accus-
tomed to do with the image.

The cadi was greatly affected. The goldsmith was almost
beside himself with grief and pity.

“Oh, my poor little b— boys — bears — ”



THE BEARS RECOGNIZING THE GOLDSMITH.

Not knowing whether they were boys or bears, he again re-
verted to the cause of the dreadful misfortune.

“T have caused all this!” he said. “Iam a thief! I stole
the images!”

The painter seemed greatly shocked at this confession,
184 ZIGZAG STORIES.

“Let us take the bears home,” said he, “and pray, now that
you have confessed your sin, that they may be changed into
boys again.”

“Oh, that this might be!” said the goldsmith.

“You will put back the treasures into the box again?”

“Tf Allah will but pardon me.”

The painter, on his return, shut up the little bears privately,
and told the goldsmith to pray.

The goldsmith prayed, uttering dismal groans.

I will go and see if your prayers have been answered,” said
the painter.

They had.

The painter presently appeared, leading by the hand the two
little boys.

“Allah ‘be praised!” said the goldsmith. “My prayers are
accepted !”

The astonished cadi soon summoned the painter before him,
to question him in regard to these wonderful things. The
painter related the true story, and was commended for his
wisdom. He might have been commended by a Mohammedan
cadi, but he would hardly have been praised for his artful
duplicity by a Christian judge. It is not a commendable thing
to practise deceit, even to gain a knowledge of the truth. But
this is a rather curious story, and happily illustrates Oriental
character.

THE BAFFLED KING.

RHAMPSINITUS was one of the most magnificent of the
ancient Egyptian monarchs. He was the father of Cheops,
who built the Great Pyramid at Memphis for a tomb.

He was richer than any of the kings who had been before
him. So vast was his treasure, that he caused a stone house
THE BAFFLED KING. 185

to be built for it, and ordered the mason to construct it in such
a way that he (the king) only would know how to enter it.

The commission was too great a temptation for the honesty
of the master mason. He fitted a certain stone in the outer
wall so that it might be removed by any
one who knew the secret.

The mason, soon after finishing the royal





THE SACKS OF WINE LEAKING.

treasure-house, was stricken down
with a mortal sickness. He called his two sons to him, and con-
fided to them the secret of the movable stone.

The king visited his treasure-house often, to see that the
seals were secure. One day he discovered that though the
seals were secure, a considerable sum of money in one of the
vaults was gone.

A few days passed, and he discovered a further loss; and
again and again. It was a great mystery to him. How could
186 ZIGZAG STORIES.

money be taken from the vaults by human hands while the
seals were secure ?

He set a man-trap, and so arranged it that if any one entered
the vault he would be secured.

At night the two sons of the mason came to rob the vault
again, and one of them was caught.

“ My brother,” said the captive, “I am a prisoner. Cut off
my head, or both of us will be ruined. The loss of my head
will save you.”

The brother did as advised. When the king came to visit
the vault, he was astonished to find in it a man without a head.

The king left the body in the vault, but set a guard. The
body, in Egypt, was held to be the future home of the soul. Its
loss or destruction was regarded as the greatest possible calamity,

“The friends of the thief will try to recover the body,”
thought the king. “When they come for it, I will arrest them.”

When the mother of the dead thief learned the fate of her
son, she was in great distress, and said to the other, —

“Secure his body, or I will myself go to the king and reveal
the whole mystery. The treasures of Egypt are of less value
than the body of my son.”

The thief was at his wits’ end. He loaded some asses with
skins of strong wine, and drove them towards the palace. Just
before he reached the treasury-building, he loosened the necks
of the skins so that the wine might leak. In this manner he
appeared before the sentinels, seeming to be in the greatest dis-
tress, running from one leaking wine-skin to another, and call-
ing for help.

The sentinels came to his assistance, but drank so much of
the wine in their endeavors to fasten the necks of the skins that
they lost their senses, and became dead-drunk. While they
were in this condition, the thief secured the body of his brother.

The king was more astonished than ever when he found that
the body was gone. He at first knew not what to do.














LEAVING HIS ARM BEHIND,



THE BAFFLED KING, 189

He issued a proclamation. He had a very beautiful daughter.
In the proclamation he gave permission to any man to court her
who would answer her first questions ; one of her first questions
was to be, —

“ Do you know who was the thief who robbed the treasury?”





“HE SON OF THE MASON APPEARED AND EXPLAINED THE SECRET.”

Many suitors came. The thief concluded to go; but he first
had made for him a false arm.

When the beautiful princess asked him the leading question,
he answered, —

sel dows

“ What is the most wicked thing that you ever did?”
190 ZIGZAG STORIES.

“T robbed the royal treasury.”

“What the most clever?”

“J secured the dead body of my brother who helped me.”

“How ?”

“JT made the sentinels drunk.”

The princess seized him by the arm, and held the arm; but
the man vanished. She found in her grasp nothing but an arm.

The king was amazed. He issued another proclamation,
offering free pardonto the man who would explain to him all
these mysteries. His life and his treasures were all in danger
from such a foe. He must make him a friend, and turn his
craftiness from ways of evil to some royal good account.

The son of the mason appeared, and explained the secret of
the chain of mysteries. Herodotus says that Rhampsinitus gave
the princess in marriage to him, which ought not to be true,
for he deserved only the punishment of a common thief. But
cunning was coin in Egypt in those days, and right and wrong
were very little regarded.

A MAN WHO SCARED AN ARMY.

ABRIDGED FROM “OLD DECCAN DAYS.”

ONCE upon a time, in a violent storm of thunder, lightning,
wind, and rain, a Tiger crept for shelter close to the wall of an
old woman’s hut.

At this moment a Chattee-maker, or Potter, who was in search
of his donkey which had strayed away, came down the road.
The night being very cold, he had, truth to say, taken a little
more toddy than was good for him, and seeing, by the light of a
flash of lightning, a large animal lying down close to the old
woman’s hut, he mistook it for the donkey he was looking for.
A MAN WHO SCARED AN ARMY. 191

So running up to the Tiger, he seized hold of it by one ear, and
commenced beating, kicking, and abusing it with all his might
and main.

“You wretched creature!” he cried, “is this the way you
serve me, obliging me to come out and look for you in such
pouring rain and on such a dark night as this? Get up instantly,
or I’ll break every bone in your body!” So he went on scold-
ing and thumping the Tiger with his utmost power, for he had
worked himself up into a terrible rage. The Tiger did not
know what to make of it all.

The Chattee-maker, having made the Tiger get up, got on his
back and forced him to carry him home, kicking and beating
him the whole way, for all this time he fancied he was on his
donkey ; and then he tied his fore-feet and his head firmly
together, and fastened him to a post in front of his house, and
when he had done this he went to bed.

Next morning, when the Chattee-maker’s wife got up and
looked out of the window, what did she see buta great big
Tiger tied up in front of their house, to the post to which they
usually fastened the donkey? She was very much surprised,
and running to her husband awoke him, saying, —

“Do you know what animal you fetched home last night?”

“Yes; the donkey, to be sure,” he answered.

“Come and see!” said she; and she showed him the great.
Tiger tied to the post. The Chattee-maker at this was no less
astonished than his wife, and felt himself all over to find if the
Tiger had not wounded him. But no! there he was safe and
sound, and there was the Tiger tied to the post, just as he had
fastened it up the night before.

News of the Chattee-maker’s exploit soon spread through the
village, and all the people came to see him and hear him tell
how he had caught the Tiger and tied it to the post; and this
they thought so wonderful that they sent a deputation to the
Rajah, or King, with a letter to tell him how a man of their
192 ZIGZAG STORIES.

village had, alone and unarmed, caught a great Tiger and tied
it to a post.

When Rajah read the letter he also was much surprised, and
determined to go in person and see this astonishing sight. So
he sent for his lords and attendants, and they all set off together
to look at the Chattee-maker and the Tiger he had caught.

Now, the Tiger was a very large one, and had long been the
terror of all the country round, which made the whole matter
still more extraordinary; and all this being represented to the
Rajah, he determined to confer all possible honor on the valiant
Chattee-maker. So he gave him houses and lands, and as much
money as would fill a well, made him a lord of his court, and
conferred on him the command of ten thousand horse.

It came to pass, shortly after this, that a neighboring Rajah,
who had long had a quarrel with this one, sent to announce
his intention of going instantly to war with him; and tidings
were at the same time brought that the Rajah who sent the
challenge had gathered a great amy together on the borders,
and was prepared at a moment’s notice to invade the country.

In this dilemma no one knew what to do. The Rajah sent
for all his generals, and inquired of them which would be will-
ing to take command of his forces and oppose the enemy. ‘They
all replied that the country was so ill-prepared for the emer-
gency, and the case was apparently so hopeless, that they would
rather not take the responsibility of the chief command. The
Rajah knew not whom to appoint in their stead. Then some of
his people said to him, —

“You have lately given the command of ten thousand horse
to the valiant Chattee-maker who caught the Tiger; why not
make him commander-in-chief ? A man who could catch a Tiger
and tie him to a post, must surely be more courageous and clever
than most.”

“ Very well,” said the Rajah, “IT will make him commander-
in-chief.” So he sent for the Chattee-maker and said to him,
A MAN WHO SCARED AN ARMY. 193

“In your hands I place all the power of the kingdom; you
must put our enemies to flight for us.”

“So be it,” answered the Chattee-maker; “but before I lead
the whole army against the enemy, suffer me to go by myself
and examine their position, and, if possible, find out their
numbers and strength.”

The Rajah consented, and the Chattee-maker returned home
to his wife, and said, —

“They have made me commander-in-chief, which is a very
difficult post for me to fill, because I shall have to ride at the
head of all the army, and you know I never was on a horse in
my life. But I have succeeded in gaining a little delay, as the
Rajah has given me permission to go first alone and reconnoitre
the enemy’s camp. Do you therefore provide a very quiet
pony, for you know I cannot ride, and I will start to-morrow
morning.”

But before the Chattee-maker had started, the Rajah sent
over to hima most magnificent charger richly caparisoned, which
he begged he would ride when going to see the enemy’s camp.
The Chattee-maker was frightened almost out of his life, for
the charger that the Rajah had sent him was very powerful and
spirited, and he felt sure that even if he ever got on it, he
should very soon tumble off; however, he did not dare to refuse
it, for fear of offending the Rajah by not accepting his present.
So he sent back to him a message of thanks, and said to his
wife, —

“T cannot go on the pony, now that the Rajah has sent me
this fine horse; but how am I ever to ride it?”

“Oh! don’t be frightened,” she answered; ‘ you ve only got
to get upon it and I will tie you firmly on, so that you cannot
tumble off; and if you start at night, no one will see that you
are tied on.”

“Very well,” he said. So that night his wife brought the
horse that the Rajah had sent him to the door.

13
194 ZIGZAG STORIES.

“ Indeed,” said the Chattee-maker, “I can never get into
that saddle, it is sc high up.”

“You must jump,” said his wife.

So he tried to jump several times, but each time he jumped
he tumbled down again.

“T always forget when Iam jumping,” said he, “ which way
I ought to turn.”

“Your face must be toward the horse’s head,” she answered.

“To be sure, of course,” he cried; and giving one great jump
he jumped into the saddle, but with his face toward the horse’s
tail.

“ This won’t do at all,” said his wife, as she helped him down
again; “ try getting on without jumping.”

“ T never can remember,” he continued, “ when I have got my
left foot in the stirrup, what to do with my right foot or where
to put it.”

“That must go in the other stirrup,” she answered; “let me
help you.”

So, after many trials, in which he tumbled down very often,
for the horse was fresh and did not like standing still, the
Chattee-maker got into the saddle; but no sooner had he got
there than he cried, “Oh, wife, wife! tie me very firmly as
quickly as possible, for I know I shall jump down if I can.”

Then she fetched some strong rope and tied his feet firmly
into the stirrups, and fastened one stirrup to the other, and
put another rope round his waist and another round his neck,
and fastened them to the horse’s body and neck and tail.

When the horse felt all these ropes about him he could not
imagine what queer creature had got upon his back, and he
began rearing and kicking and prancing, and at last set off full
gallop, as fast as he could tear, right across country.

“Wife, wife!” cried the Chattee-maker, “ you forgot to tie
my hands.”

“Never mind,” said she; “ hold on by the mane.”


y 5 }
lu) u



“ON HE RODE AS FAST AS BEFORE, WITH THE TREE IN HIS HAND.”

A MAN WHO SCARED AN ARMY. 197

So he caught hold of the horse’s mane as firmly as he could.

Then away went horse, away went Chattee-maker, — away,
away, away, Over hedges, over ditches, over rivers, over plains,
— away, away, like a flash of lightning, — now this way, now
that, —on, on, on, gallop, gallop, gallop, — until they came in
sight of the enemy’s camp.

The Chattee-maker did not like his ride at all; and when he
saw where it was leading him he liked it still less, for he
thought the enemy would catch him and very likely kill him.
So he determined to make one desperate effort to be free, and,
stretching out his hand as the horse shot past a young banyan-
tree seized hold of it with all his might, hoping that the resist-
ance it offered might cause the ropes that tied him to break.
But the horse was going at his utmost speed, and the soil in
which the banyan-tree grew was loose; so that when the
Chattee-amaker caught hold of it and gave it such a violent pull,
it came up by the roots, and on he rode, as fast as before, with
the tree in his hand.

All the soldiers in the camp saw him coming, and, having
heard that an army was to be sent against them, made sure that
the Chattee-maker was one of the vanguard.

“See!” cried they; “here comes a man of gigantic stature on
a mighty horse. He rides at full speed across the country, tearing
up the very trees in his rage. He is one of the opposing force ;
the whole army must be close at hand. If they are such as he,
we are all dead men.”

Then, running to their Rajah, some of them cried again,
“Here comes the whole force of the enemy,” —for the story
had by this time become exaggerated, “ they are men of gigantic
stature, mounted on mighty horses; as they come they tear up
the very trees in their rage. We can oppose men, but not mon-
sters such as these.”

These were followed by others, who said, “ Tt is all true,” —
for by this time the Chattee-maker had got pretty near the
198 ZIGZAG STORIES.

camp. ‘ They’re coming! they’re coming! Let us fly! let us
fly! Fly, fly for your lives!” And the whole panic-stricken
multitude fled from the camp (those who had seen no cause for
alarm going because the others did, or because they did not care
to stay by themselves), after having obliged their Rajah to write a
letter to the one whose country he was about to invade, to say
that he would not do so, and propose terms of peace, and to sign
it and seal it with his seal. Scarcely had all the people fled
from the camp, when the horse on which the Chattee-maker was,
came galloping into it; and on his back rode the Chattee-maker,
almost dead from fatigue, with the banyan-tree in his hand.
Just as he reached the camp, the ropes by which he was tied
broke, and he fell to the ground. The horse stood still, too
tired with his long run to go farther. On recovering his senses,
the Chattee-maker found, to his surprise, that the whole camp,
full of rich arms, clothes, and trappings, was entirely deserted.
In the principal tent, moreover, he found a letter addressed to
his Rajah, announcing the retreat of the invading army and
proposing terms of peace.

So he took the letter, and returned home with it as fast as he
could, leading his horse all the way, for he was afraid to mount
him again. It did not take him long to reach his house by the
direct road, for whilst riding he had gone a more circuitous
journey than was necessary, and he got there just at nightfall.
His wife ran out to meet him, overjoyed at his speedy return.
As soon as he saw her, he said, —

“ Ah, wife, since I saw you last I’ve been all round the
world, and had many wonderful and terrible adventures. But
never mind that now; send this letter quickly to the Rajah by
a messenger, and send the horse also that he sent for me to ride.
He will then see, by the horse looking so tired, what a long ride
I’ve had; and if he is sent on beforehand, I shall not be
obliged to ride him up to the palace door to-morrow morning,
as I otherwise should, and that would be very tiresome, for most
SIEGFRIED AND THE NIBELUNG HEROES. 199

likely I should tumble off.” So his wife sent the horse and the
letter to the Rajah, and a message that her husband would be at
the palace early next morning, as it was then late at night.
And next day he went down there, as he had said he would ;
and when people saw him coming, they said, “ This man is as
modest as he is brave; after having put our enemies to flight, he
walks quite simply to the door, instead of riding here in state, as
another man would,” — for they did not know that the Chattee-
maker walked because he was afraid to ride.

The Rajah came to the palace door to meet him, and paid him
all possible honor. Terms of peace were agreed upon between
the two countries, and the Chattee-maker was rewarded for all
he had done by being given twice as much rank and wealth as
he had before; and he lived very happily all the rest of his life.

STORY OF SIEGFRIED AND THE NIBELUNG
HEROES.

THE early nations of Europe seem to have come out of the
northwest of Asia. The Celts or Gauls came first; other tribes
followed them. These latter tribes called themselves Dewtsch,
or the people. They settled between the Alps and the Baltic
Sea. In time they came to be called Ger-men, or war-men.
They lived in rude huts and held the lands in common. They
were strong and brave and prosperous.

They worshipped the great god Woden. His day of worship
was the fourth of the week; hence Woden’s-day, or Wednesday.

Woden was an all-wise god. Ravens carried to him the news
from earth. His temples were stone altars on desolate heaths,
and human sacrifices were offered to him.

Woden had a celestial hall called Valhall, and thither he
transported the souls of the brave ; hence the name Valhalla.
200 ZIGZAG STORIES.

There were supposed to be water gods in the rivers and elves
throughout the forest. The heavens were peopled with minor
gods, as well as the great gods, and the spirits of the unseen
world could make themselves visible or invisible to men as they
chose.

Most great nations have heroes of song sung by the poets,
like those of Homer and Virgil. The early German hero was
Siegfried, and the song or epic that celebrates his deeds is called
the Nibelungen Lied. Its story is as follows : —

In the Land of Mist there was a lovely river, where dwelt
little people who could assume any form they wished. One of
them was accustomed to change himself into an otter when he
went to the river to fish. As he was fishing one day in this
form he was caught by Loki, one of the great gods, who imme-
diately despatched him and took off his skin.

When his brothers Fafner and Reginn saw what had been
done, they reproved Loki severely, and demanded of him that
he should fill the otter’s skin with gold, and give it to them as
an atonement for his great misdecd.

“TJ return the otter skin and give you the treasure you ask,”
said Loki; “but the gift shall bring you evil.”

Their father took the treasure, and Fafner murdered his
father to secure it to himself, and then turned into a dragon or
serpent to guard it, and to keep his brother from finding it.

Reginn had a wonderful pupil, named Siegfried, a Samson
among the inhabitants of the land. He was so strong that he
could catch wild lions and hang them by the tail over the walls
of the castle. Reginn persuaded this pupil to attack the ser-
pent and to slay him.

Now Siegfried could understand the songs of birds; and the
birds told him that Reginn intended to kill him: so he slew
Reginn and himself possessed the treasure.

Serpents and dragons were called worms in Old Deutsch, and
the Germans called the town where Siegfried lived Worms.
SIEGFRIED AND THE NIBELUNG HEROES. 201

Siegfried had bathed himself in the dragon’s blood, and the
bath made his skin so hard that nothing could hurt him except
in one spot. A leaf had fallen on this spot as he was bathing.
it was between his shoulders.

Siegfried, like Samson, had a curious wife. His romances
growing out of his love for this woman would fill a volume.



THE MURDER OF SIEGFRIED.

She had learned where his one vulnerable spot lay. But she
was a lovely lady, and the wedded pair lived very happily
together at Worms.

At last a dispute arose between them and their relatives, and
the latter sought to destroy Siegfried’s life. His wife went for
counsel to a supposed friend, but real enemy, named Hagen.
202 ZIGZAG STORIES.

“ Your husband is invulnerable,” said Hagen.

“Yes, except in one spot.”

«“ And you know the place?”

“ Yes.”

“Sew a patch on his garment over it, and I shall know how
to protect him.”

The poor wife had revealed a fatal secret. She sewed a
patch on her husband’s garment between the shoulders, and now
thought him doubly secure.

There was to be a great hunting-match, and Siegfried entered
into itas a champion. He rode forth in high spirits, but on his
back was the fatal patch.

Hagen contrived that the wine should be left behind.

“ That,” he said, “will compel the hunters to lie down on
their breasts to drink from the streams when they become
thirsty. Then will come my opportunity.”

He was right in his conjecture.

Siegfried became tired and thirsty. He rode up to a stream.
He threw himself on his breast to drink, exposing his back, on
which was the patch, revealing the vulnerable place.

There he was stabbed by a conspirator employed by Hagen.

They bore the dead body of the hero down the Rhine, and
lamented the departed champion as the barque drifted on. The
scene has been portrayed in art and song, and has left its impress
on the poetic associations of the river. You will have occasion
to recall this story again in connection with Drachenfels.

THE MYSTERIOUS ARCHITECT.

In the thirteenth century —so the story goes — Archbishop
Conrad determined to erect a cathedral that should surpass any
Christian temple in the world.

Who should be the architect ?
THE MYSTERIOUS ARCHITECT. 203

He must be a man of great genius, and his name would
become immortal.

There was a wonderful builder in Cologne, and the Arch-
bishop went to him with his purpose, and asked him to attempt
the design.

“It must not only surpass anything in the past, but anything
that may arise in the future.”

The architect was awed in view of such a stupendous under-
taking.

“Tt will carry my name down the ages,” he thought ; “I will
sacrifice everything to success.”

He dreamed ; he fasted and prayed.

He made sketch after sketch and plan after plan, but they
all proved unworthy of a temple that should be one of the
grandest monuments of the piety of the time, and one of the
glories of future ages.

In his dreams an exquisite image of a temple rose dimly
before him. When he awoke, he could vaguely recall it, but
could not reproduce it. The ideal haunted him and yet eluded
him.

He became disheartened. He wandered in the fields, ab-
sorbed in thought. The beautiful apparition of the temple
would suddenly fill him with delight; then it would vanish
as if it were a mockery.

One day he was wandering along the Rhine, absorbed in
thought.

“Oh,” he said, ‘that the phantom temple would appear to
me, and linger but for a moment, that I could grasp the
design.”

He sat down on the shore, and began to draw a plan with a
stick on the sand.

“ That is it,” he cried with joy.

“Yes, that is it, indeed,” said a mocking voice behind him.

He looked around, and beheld an old man.
204 ZIGZAG STORIES.

“That is it,” the stranger hissed; “that is the Cathedral of
Strasburg.”

He was shocked. He effaced the design on the sand.

He began again.

“There it is,” he again exclaimed with delight.

“ Yes,” chuckled the old man. “That is the Cathedral of
Aiiens.”

The architect effaced the picture on the sand, and produced
another.

“ Metz,” said the old man.

He made yet another effort.

“« Antwerp!”

“Oh, my master,” said the despairing architect, “you mock
me. Produce a design for me yourself.”

“On one condition.”

“ Name it.”

“You shall give me yourself, soul and body!”

The affrighted architect began to say his prayers, and the old
man suddenly disappeared.

The next day he wandered into a forest of the Seven Moun-
tains, still thinking of his plan. He chanced: to look up the
mountain side, when he beheld the queer old man again; he
was now leaning on a staff on a rocky wall.

He lifted his staff and began to draw a picture on a rock
behind him. The lines were of fire.

Oh, how beautiful, how grand, how glorious, it all was!

Fretwork, spandrels, and steeples. It was—it was the very
design that had haunted the poor architect, that flitted across
his mind in dreams but left no memory.

“Will you have my plan?” asked the old man.

“T will do all you ask.”

‘“ Meet me at the city gate to-morrow at midnight.”

The architect returned to Cologne, the image of the marvel-
lous temple glowing in his mind.






















THE MYSTERIOUS ARCHITECT.
PETER THE WILD BOY. 207

“TJ shall be immortal,” he said; “my name will never die.
But,” he added, “it is the price of my soul. No masses can
help me, doomed, doomed forever !”

He told his strange story to his old nurse on his return home.

She went to consult the priest.

“Tell him,” said the priest to the old woman, “ to secure the
design before he signs the contract. As soon as he gets the
plan into his hand let him present to the old man, who is a
demon, the relics of the martyrs and the sign of the cross.”

At midnight he appeared at the gate. There stood the little
old man.

“Tere is your design,” said the latter, handing him a roll of
parchment. “Now you shall sign the bond that gives me
yourself in payment.”

The architect grasped the plan.

“Satan, begone!” he thundered; “in the name cf this cross,
and of Saint Ursula, begone!”

“Thou hast foiled me,” said the old man, his eyes glowing in °
the darkness like fire. “But I will have my revenge. Your
church may in time be completed, but your name shall never
be known in the future to mankind.”

PETER THE WILD BOY.

In the year 1725, a few years after the capture of Marie le
Blane, a celebrated wild girl in France, there was seen in the
woods, some twenty-five miles from Hanover, an object in form
like a boy, yet running on his hands and feet, and eating grass
and moss, like a beast.

The remarkable creature was captured, and was taken to
Hanover by the superintendent of the House of Correction at
Zell. Tt proved to be a boy evidently about thirteen years of
208 ZIGZAG STORIES.

age, yet possessing the habits and appetites of a mere animal.
He was presented to King George I., at a state dinner at
Hanover, and, the curiosity of the king being greatly excited,
he became his patron.



PETER THE WILD BOY.

In about a year after his capture he was taken to England,
and exhibited to the court. While in that country he received
the name of Peter the Wild Boy, by which ever after he was
known.

Marie le Blane, after proper training, became a lively, bril-
liant girl, and related to her friends and patrons the history of
PETER THE WILD Loy. 209

her early life; but Peter the Wild Boy seems to have been
mentally deficient.

Dr. Arbuthnot, at whose house he resided for a time in his
youth, spared no pains to teach him to talk; but his efforts met
with but little success.

Peter seemed to comprehend the language and signs of beasts
and birds far better than those of human beings, and to have
more sympathy with the brute creation than with mankind.
He, however, at last was taught to articulate the name of his
royal patron, his own name, and some other words.

It was a long time before he became accustomed to the habits
of civilization. He had evidently been used to sleeping on the
boughs of trees, as a security from wild beasts, and when put
to bed would tear the clothes, and hopping up take his naps in
the corner of the room.

lie regarded clothing with aversion, and when fully dressed
was as uneasy as a culprit in prison. He was, however, gen-
erally docile, and submitted to discipline, and by degrees
became more fit for human society.

He was attracted by beauty, and fond of finery, and it is
related of him that he attempted to kiss the young and dashing
Lady Walpole, in the cirele at court. The manner in which
the lovely woman received his attentions may be fancied.

Finding that he was incapable of education, his royal patron
placed him in charge of a farmer, where he lived many years.
Here he was visited by Lord Monboddo, a speculative English
writer, who, in a metaphysical work, gives the following
interesting account :—

“Tt was in the beginning of June, 1782, that I saw him in
a farmhouse called Broadway, about a mile from Berkhamstead,
kept there on a pension of thirty pounds, which the king pays.
He is but of low stature, not exceeding five feet three inches,
and though he must now be about seventy years of age, he has

a fresh, healthy look. He wears his beard; his face is not at
14
210 ZIGZAG STORIES.

all ugly or disagreeable, and he has a look that may be called
sensible or sagacious for a savage.

“ About twenty years ago he used to elope, and once, as I
was told, he wandered as far as Norfolk; but of late he has
become quite tame, and either keeps the house or saunters
about the farm. He has been, during the last thirteen years,
where he lives at present, and before that he was twelve years
with another farmer, whom I saw and conversed with.

“ This farmer told me he had been put to school somewhere
in Hertfordshire, but had only learned to articulate his own
name, Peter, and the name of King George, both which I heard
him pronounce very distinctly. But the woman of the house
where he now is—for the man happened not to be home —
told me he understood everything that was said to him con-
cerning the common affairs of life, and I saw that he readily
understood several things she said to him while I was present.
Among other things she desired him to sing ‘Nancy Dawson,’
which he accordingly did, and another tune that she named.
He was never mischievous, but had that gentleness of manners
which I hold to be characteristic of our nature, at least till we
become carnivorous, and hunters, or warriors. He feeds at
present as the farmer and his wife do; but, as I was told by an
old woman who remembered to have seen him when he first
came to Hertfordshire, which she computed to be about fifty-
five years before, he then fed much on leaves, particularly of
cabbage, which she saw him eat raw. He was then, as she
thought, about fifteen years of age, walked upright, but could
climb trees like a squirrel. At present he not only eats flesh,
but has acquired a taste for beer, and even for spirits, of which
he inclines to drink more than he can get.

“The old farmer with whom he lived before he came to his
present situation informed me that Peter had that taste before
he came to him. He has also become very fond of fire, but has
not acquired a liking for money; for though he takes it he does
PETER THE WILD BOY. 211

not keep it, but gives it to his landlord or landlady, which I
suppose is a lesson they have taught him. He retains so much
of his natural instinct that he has a fore-feeling of bad weather,
growling, and howling, and showing great disorder before it
comes on.”

Another philosopher, who made him a visit, obtained the
following luminous information : —

“ Who is your father?”

“ King George.”

“ What is your name?”

“ Pe-ter.”

“ What is that?” (pointing to a dog).

“ Bow-wow.”

“What are you?”

“ Wild man.”

“ Where were you found ?”

“ Hanover.”

“Who found you?”

“ King George.”

About the year 1746 he van away, and, entering Scotland,
was arrested as an English spy. His captors endeavored to
force from him some terrible disclosure, but could obtain noth-
ing, not even an answer, and it was something of a puzzle to
them to determine exactly what they had captured.

They at last resolved to inflict punishment upon him for his
obstinacy, but were deterred by a lady who recognized him and
disclosed his history.

Tn his latter years he made himself useful to the farmer with
whom he lived, but he required constant watchfulness, else he
would make grave blunders. An amusing anecdote is told of
his manner of working when left to himself.

He was required, during the absence of his guardian, to fill
a cart with compost, which he did; but, having filled the cart
in the usual way, and, finding himself out of employment, he
212 ZIGZAG STORIES.

directly shovelled the compost out again, and when the farmer
returned the cart was empty.

But poor Peter, with all his dulness, possessed some remark-
able characteristics. He was very strong of arm, and wonder-
fully swift of foot, and his senses were acute. His musical gifts
were most marvellous. He would reproduce, in his humming
way, the notes of a tune that he had heard but once, —a thing
that might have baffled an amateur.

He also had a lively sense of the beautiful and the sublime.
He would stand at night gazing on the stars as though trans-
fixed by the splendors blazing above. His whole being was
thrilled with joy on the approach of spring. He would sing all
the day as the atmosphere became warm and balmy, and would
often prolong his melodies far into the beautiful nights.

He died aged about seventy years.

THE OLD GERMAN DOCTOR WHO FELL ALL TO
PIECES.

ONCE upon a time there lived in the city of Vienna an old
German doctor, descended from a once famous Dutch family
by the name of Van Tromp. He possessed wonderful wisdom
and skill, and had become very rich. He was a very sad man.
Ne had never married, and people said that was the reason why
he was so sad. He was often seen walking alone on the Prater,
as the long park in Vienna is called, but never on the bright
days of the public festivals, when nearly all of the people of
the city throng the shadowy avenues. He was never seen at
the opera, and seldom in any of the public places.

In the summer he used to leave the city quietly, sail down
the Danube, and spend a few weeks at some quiet Hungarian
town among the hills.
THE OLD GERMAN DOCTOR WHO FELL ALL TO PIECES. 213

The Doctor had had a strange history. It had been his fate
to be again and again disappointed in affairs of the heart. He
had arranged his marriage ceremony some five times, but in
each case a cruel disappointment befell him between the time
of the engagement and the expected marriage. In Holland,
his promised
bride ran away
from him with
a fellow who
had much
brighter eyes
and a prettier
nose. This
might have
been borne,
for the girl
was unworthy
of him. He
left Holland,
and went to
Berlin. Here
his affections
revived. He
courted, and
thought he
had won, the
heart and the
hand of a
lovely maiden;
but on the way to the church, as they were passing a regiment
of returning soldiers, the girl beheld an old lover, whom she
thought was dead, and she would not go with Van Tromp any
further, and he returned to his lodgings very disconsolate in-
deed. He then went to Weimar, the Athens of Germany ; and,



























“mH MAID HAD CHANGED HER MIND.”
214 ZIGZAG STORIES.

on the banks of the Ilm, his affections again revived, and he
courted another lovely creature, who, in the city of Goethe
and Schiller, ought to have been very true to him. She was a

a

7
|

peasant girl,
pes. i | hy and had been
i i courted by a
very hand-
some lad who
was too poor
tomarry. But
soon after she
had given her
promise to
Doctor Van
Tromp, a for-
tune fell to
her, and her
mother came
to the poor
man one day
to tell him
that the maid
had changed
her mind.
Then the Doc-
tor had to re-
sume his trav-_
els again all
alone; and
this time he
came to Lintz
on the Danube, a town famous for its beautiful women.
Here he made his fourth courtship. He offered his hand to
one of the fairest of Lintz’s daughters, and was accepted. One





“THE DOCTOR EN DESHABILLE.”
THE OLD GERMAN DOCTOR WHO FELL ALL TO PIECES. 215

day they set out for an excursion on the Danube. The boat
started just after the lady had passed on board, leaving the
Doctor behind. He was a nimble jumper, and he determined
to make an heroic effort to reach his bride. He leaped towards
the boat, and fell into the water. When the boat returned at
night, the bride did not return. ‘The Doctor had made a fright-
ful figure in swimming ashore, and the people on the boat had
all laughed at him. But why the bride did not return to her
high-jumping lover was a mystery.

He went now down the Danube to Vienna, and here he
courted a high-bred lady, the wife of an Austrian officer who
had been missing for years. He led this lady to the altar; but,
just as the ceremony was about to begin, the officer appeared,
and fell upon poor Doctor Van Tromp and wounded him so
that he was obliged to have one arm amputated. In his efforts
to get away he also broke his leg, and a wooden one had to be
substituted, all of which was very unfortunate indeed.

The Doctor was never handsome. He was too tall for a
Dutchman, and was not fat enough for an attractive German.
His nose was very long, and his many disappointments had
caused his hair to fall off and his teeth to fall out, and his flesh
to cleave very closely to his bones. But he was a man of great
medical skill, and, after he had been in Vienna a few years, he
was sought for by the nobility in critical cases, and he grew very
rich.

In one of his summer excursions among the hills of Hungary,
he met a lovely peasant girl who lived in a cottage with an old
grandmother, and his oft-blighted affections again revived. The
old lady was full of aches and pains, and she found the company
of the Doctor most delightful; and the young lady said she
would do her best to try to love him for her poor old grand-
mother’s sake.

The Doctor determined to make sure of a marriage this time.
He had come to the conclusion that his lack of personal beauty
216 ZIGZAG STORIES.

had had much to do with his former misfortunes ; and, as he was
now rich, he decided he would repair himself up, and make of
himself an irresistibly handsome man.

As he was a very spare man on account of his many disap-
pointments, he provided himself with paddings and corsets, and so
rounded out his form that he looked like an Austrian grand duke.

As his hair was nearly gone, especially since the last attack,
he crowned himself with an immense wig, such as appears in the
pictures of German virtuosos.

He procured one of the finest sets of teeth ever made in the
Austrian capital.

He gloved his wooden hand, and he made up for his wooden
foot by a great gold-headed cane. As his eyes had become weak
from the heroic treatment of his battered body in the surgical
hospital, he purchased a pair of gold-mounted goggles. He also
bought an immense cloak, and on the cape of this he fastened
the various diplomas and medals that his study and skill had se-
cured to him in all the various cities of his successive disap-
pointments.

When he went abroad now, arrayed in all these rare articles,
he was indeed a wonder. Faces filled the windows and doors.
The children stopped in the street, as though the grand duke
were passing. The sadness passed away from his face; hope
lighted it up with smiles again, and smoothed out the wrinkles.
What would have said his four faithless brides could they have
seen him now!

He determined, as I said, to make a sure marriage this time.
When he went to propose to the pretty and dutiful Hungarian
maiden, he asked, —

“ Have you a lover?”

“No.”

“Did you ever fall in love before ?”

“No; I never was in love.”

“ Have you been acquainted with any soldiers oa
1

=

we

THE OLD GERMAN DOCTOR WHO FELL ALL TO PIECES.

cNOS”

«“ You have no relations to leave you a fortune?”

“No.”

“Then,” thought the Doctor, “I have only not to take the
maiden away from her home before the wedding-day, so that no
such accident as the boat and wharf unexpectedly parting happen,
and I am sure of a modest little wife to share with me my for-
tune and glory. I will take the bride and her grandmother to
Vienna, and I will spend my last years amid the delights of a
loving home.”

The wedding day was appointed. The house in Vienna was
furnished. The maiden had invited the simple Hungarian peas-
ants of her acquaintance to attend the ceremony, and receive
her parting expressions of affection.

So, one morning in early autumn, the Doctor, arrayed in his
paddings, his wig, his wooden arm and leg, his dentistry, his
gogeles, his cloak, his medals, and his cane, left Vienna, and,
taking the boat down the Danube, landed at the little Hungarian
town.

It was nearly evening, and, full of blissful anticipation, he set
out for the bride’s house, taking a somewhat secluded path over
the hills.

Now in that country there were bears.

As the Doctor walked over the hills, he tried to sing. How
blessings brighten as they are about to fly! It was a pretty
German song he began to sing: perhaps it was associated with
his former sad experiences, —

“ Flow can I leave thee,
Queen of my loving heart,
Dearer to me thou art

Than aught beside.”

The sun was sinking in a sky all purple and amber, and the
shade of night was slowly creeping over the eastern hills.
218 ZIGZAG STORIES.

Now, a bear on a near hill-side heard the singing, and, seeing
a curious figure plodding along, stood up on its haunches to hear
and see what must have appeared to him a prodigy. He doubt-
less viewed the Doctor much as the boy looks upon the elephant
when the menagerie passes. ‘The big wig, the flying cloak, the
heavy cane, and the echoing song evidently excited Bruin’s
curiosity ; and, when the Doctor had sailed by full of happiness,
the bear eame out of the wood into the road, and trotted along




behind him. Whether
or not he had any evil
intent, I cannot tell;
perhaps he was lone-
some, and wanted com-
pany.

Presently the Doc-
tor, in the midst of the

THE DOCTOR FOLLOWED BY THE BEAR.

pretty German melody, heard the pat of feet behind him, and
looked around. His song ceased very suddenly, or, rather,
ended in some very wild German adjectives, of which we have
no translation, as we have of the song.

He lifted his cane with staring eyes.

He flapped his great coat and all of its medals, like wings.

Bruin appeared very much astonished. He stopped, and
stood up again on his haunches.

The Doctor exclaimed, —
THE OLD GERMAN DOCTOR WHO FELE ALL TO PIECES. 219

“The Fates are adamant!”

He started to run.

He lost his gold-mounted goggles.

Bruin ran, too, — after the Doctor.

So the Doctor did not stop to pick up his goggles. THe would
have picked up a live coal as soon.

His wig caught in one of the branches of the forest trees.

m7
eon



THE DOCTOR CHASED BY THE BEAR.

The Doctor looked around, and caught another glimpse of
Bruin, and he did not stop to recover his wig. He only said, —
“The Fates are brass!”
And while struggling up the hill, he felt his stays unlace.
“Now I am undone!” he exclaimed. “It seems as though
the Fates are iron!”
As he reached the top of the hill, a high wind struck him.

His teeth began to chatter, and presently dropped out, and then
220 ZIGZAG STORIES.

his cloak, with its medals, was lifted into the air, and went fly-
ing to some unknown place.

But the cottage of the bride was now in sight before him.
Oh, place of refuge! The bear was also in sight behind him!
Oh, dreadful apparition! The bear had until now waddled
along in an uncertain way, but he suddenly quickened his pace.
So did the Doctor; he flew, bounding up and down.

The bride now came to the door, expecting to see the bride-
groom. She saw a spectral-looking object approaching, followed-
by the bear.

She closed and barred the door,

“Look out, granny,” she said, “ and tell me what you see.”

* Bad luck, bad luck to ye, my daughter, and bad luck to us
all! It is a wizard!”

Presently the door was shaken, filling the bride and wedding
guests with terror. The old crone sat wringing her hands, and
erying, * Bad luck, bad luck to us all! It is the fiend!”

Presently a sound was heard upon the roof, then in the
chamber, and soon a fearful-looking object, without hair or.
teeth, with only one arm, with one foot twisted around, and with
humps all about him, descended the stair, and exclaimed, —

“T have come!”

“Who are you?” cried the affrighted bride.

“Tam your lover! I have come to be married! ”

“You have deceived me!” said the bride. “You are not the -
man who courted me!”

* He has been transformed by some bad spirit!” said the old
woman. “ Where’s your hair, and teeth, and arm, and leg, and
other parts of your body?”

“TI do declare,” said the Doctor, “I have left myself all along
the way, and have fallen all to pieces!”

* And there is not enough left of you to make a bridegroom
for my daughter’s daughter. I pray you, begone!”

Then the peasants accompanied the sorrowful Doctor back to




























































































































































































“YoU HAVE DECEIVED ME!’ SAID THE BRIDE.”



THE YOUNG ORGANIST: A MYSTERY. 223

the little town on the Danube, and the next day he returned to
Vienna, believing that Fate intended him for a single life, and
resolving to struggle against his destiny no more.

THE YOUNG ORGANIST: A MYSTERY.

Tue towns on the Rhine are all famous for their organs, and
proud of the eminent organists they have had in the past. Each
town points with pride to some musical legend and history.

The story I have to tell is associated with an ancient provin-
cial town.

It is now hardly more than a small town, and possesses not
above a thousand inhabitants: but in the latter part of the last
century it was more than ten times its present size, and its
church, now in ruins, was then one of the most beautiful ever
seen in that part of the country.

This church was finished in the year 1795, and was for a long
time the great object of curiosity for miles around. It was of
the Gothic and Romanesque style of architecture, and was not
only finely proportioned on the exterior, but had within a mag-
nificence of decoration that astonished one more and more the
longer he gazed upon it.

The church, unlike some of the older ones standing at that
time, had a magnificent organ. This had been paid for by a
separate subscription, raised in small sums by the common
people, and, having been built by skilful workmen in Bordeaux,
was at length set up in the church amid considerable enthusiasm
and excitement.

But who should play this grand instrument? How should a
competent organist be selected?

The people were greatly interested in the matter, and dis-
cussed it on the corner of the vwes, in the brasseries or taverns ;
224 ZIGZAG STORIES.

and for a period of six or eight weeks you might be sure, if you
saw more than two people talking earnestly together, that they
were deliberating upon the choice of an organist.

Since the people, both high and low, had so freely contributed
for the purchase of the organ, it was thought very proper that
they should be allowed to choose a person to play it. And, the
decision being thus left to the multitude, the most feasible plan
that was suggested was that all should go, on an appointed day,
to the church, and should then listen to the playing of the
various candidates.

There were, in all, nearly a score of aspiring musicians in and
near the town; and each of these, hoping for a favorable de-
cision for himself, gave no end of little suppers and parties, so
that the influential ones among the townsmen fared sumptuously
from all.

3ut out of the entire number there were two between whom
the choice really lay. These were Baptiste Lacombe and Raoul
Tegot.

The former of these had lived in the town only five years.
He had come from Bruges, so he said; and although he aston-
ished everybody by: his skill, he had not been liked from the
first. He was very reserved and parsimonious, and his eye
never met frankly the person with whom he talked. But no
harm was known of him, and he found in Tranteigue plenty of
exercise for his art. :

Raoul Tegot, on the contrary, was a native of the town; and,
together with his young son, Francois, was beloved by all. He
had married one of the village maidens, and had been so incon-
solable at her death, which occurred when Francois was a baby,
that he never thought more of marriage, but devoted himself to
his child and his art.

He was certainly a very able musician, and, being so univer-
sally liked, many people urged that a public performance be dis-
pensed with, and that he be elected at once. But although
THE YOUNG ORGANIST: A MYSTERY. 225

Baptiste Lacombe was not liked his shill found many adinirers ;
and, besides, it was flattering to the worthy country-folk to think
of sitting solemnly in judgment at the great church; and so the
proposed plan was adhered to.

Finally, the weeks of anticipation came to an end, the ap-
pointed day was at hand, and, according to the arrangements
previously made, at nine o’clock in the forenoon the three great
doors of the church were swung open, and the throng, orderly
and even dignified, entered and filled the edifice.

The seats, which in French churches and cathedrals are mov-
wble, had all been taken away, and the crowd quite filled the
whole space. All male inhabitants of the town who were over
twenty years of age were to vote, and each. the town officials
and the poorest artisans alike, had one ballot.

The great and beautiful crgan took up nearly the whole of
the large gallery over the entrance, and extended up and up
into the clear-story until it was mingled with the supports of the
roof.

In the organ-loft the candidates were crowded together in
eager expectation, and the glances that passed from one to an-
other were not the kindliest.. Each of them had been allowed
several hours, at some time during the past week, for practice
on the instrument; and each doubtless considered himself de-
serving of the position.

Presently, when all was. still, Monseigneur Jules Emile
Gautier, a very learned gentleman of the town, who had been
chosen for that purpose, ascended two steps of the stairway
which curved up and around the richly carved pulpit, and
announced the name of the person who was to begin.

T should not be able to give, in detail, the progress of the
trial: for the history of the affair is not minute enough for that.
sut suffice it to say that the last name on the list was Raoul
Tegot, and the name immediately preceding it was that of
Baptiste Lacombe.

15
226 ZIGLZAG STORIES.

At length, in his turn, Monsieur Lacombe, his iron-gray hair
disordered, his hands rubbing together nervously, and his eyes
flashing — as was afterwards remarked upon — with a malicious
fire, stepped forward and along to the organ-seat, and for a few
moments arranged his stops.

Then he began lightly and delicately, creeping up through
the varied registers of the noble instrument, blending the beau-
tiful sounds into wonderful combinations, now and then working
in a sweet melody, and then again upward until the grand har-
monies of the full organ rolled forth. There was something
mysterious and awe-inspiring in the effort. It seemed to the
people that they had never heard music before.

The music ceased. The people came back to their prosaic
selves again, looked in each other’s faces, and said, with one
breath, “ Wonderful !”

Gradually they recovered their sober judgment, and then,
mingled with the murmurs of admiration, were heard the remarks,
“ That is fine, but Raoul Tegot will make us forgetit!” “Yes,
wait until you hear Raoul Tegot:”

Soon Gautier ascended the two steps of the pulpit, and called
the name of their kind, generous townsman.

All waited breathlessly. All eyes were turned towards the
organ-loft. The musicians there looked around and at each
other. But poor Raoul Tegot could not be seen.

Where was he? The people waited and wondered, but he
did not come. Monsieur Baptiste Lacombe was greatly excited,
and was wiping the perspiration from his heated face. ‘ Per-
haps he was afraid to come,” he ventured to remark to a man
near him, at the same time looking out of a window.

Several noticed his agitation; but they only said, “ Ah, mon
Dieu, how he did play! No wonder that he is nervous.”

The disquiet and confusion in the nave and aisles increased.

A messenger had been sent to look for the missing man; but
he could not be found.








“ce

IT DOES NOT SOUND,’ SAID THE ORGAN-BUILDER.”



THE YOUNG ORGANIST: A MYSTERY. 229

What was to be done?

Finally, some friends of Monsieur Lacombe made bold to urge
his immediate election, declaring that he had far surpassed. all
competitors; and they even hinted at cowardice on the part of
Raoul Tegot.

This insinuation was indignantly denied by Tegot’s friends,
who were very numerous but helpless; they knew their friend
too well to believe him capable of such conduct. He was, they
said, probably detained somewhere by an accident.

But, wherever he was; he was not present; and when a vote
was taken, hastily, by a showing of hands, Monsieur Baptiste
Lacombe had ten times as many ballots as any other person, and,
of course, poor Monsieur Tegot, not having competed, was not
balloted for at all.

The people dispersed to their homes; some in vexation that
their favorite had not appeared, others in a little alarm at his
strange absence. Young Francois Tegot had not seen his father
since early morning, and could not conjecture where he might
be.

The next day the missing organist did not appear, and his
friends began to inquire and to search for him; but they were
wholly unsuccessful.’ A little boy said that he had seen him go
into the church with Monsieur Lacombe early that morning ;
but Monsieur Lacombe said, very distinctly and with some
vehemence, that the missing man had left the church an hour
later to go to a cottage at the edge of the town, where he was
to give a lesson in singing.

So the affair lay wrapped in mystery. There were many sur-
mises, but nothing definite was known. A few expressed sus-
picion of the rival candidate; but the suspicion was too great
to be thrown rashly upon anybody. Thus no progress in the
inquiry was made. A human life did not mean so much in
those stormy days after the Revolution as formerly; and the
mysterious disappearance, without being in the least cleared up,
230 ZLGZAG STORIES.

evadually faded from men’s minds and passed out of their
conversation.

Months and years passed away, and nothing was known of
the poor man. His son, now come to the years of manhood,
always declared that his father would not have been absent from
the trial willingly ; and he firmly believed that he had met with
a violent death. More than this he would not say; but some-
times when he looked towards Monsieur Baptiste Lacombe, —
still the respected organist of the church, —his eyes were
observed to flash meaningly.

There was to be a grand fete in the church, and great prepa-
ration was made. As the organ needed repairs, it was decided '
to repair it thoroughly; and one of the builders from Bordeaux
was sent for.

He was to come on Thursday; but he chanced to arrive the
day before, and was to begin work early the following morning.
That night a light glimmered ont of the darkness of the gallery
of the church. ,

Two days passed. The repairing of the organ went on; but
there was much to be done, and it might take a week. One
afternoon, as Francois passed through the centre of the village,
two men came hurriedly out of the town-house, and hastened
away towards the church. It was the organ-builder, very much
excited, and one of the officials of the town. The young man,
venturing on his well-known skill as an organist, followed them,
and the three entered the building. A few worshippers were
at the great altar, and the sacred edifice seemed unusually quiet
and peaceful.

The organ-builder seemed too agitated to answer the ques-
tions that the town official asked him, but led the way quickly
to the organ-loft. “Put your foot on that pedal!” he said
excitedly, pointing to a particular one of the scale.

The officer was too bewildered to comply, and Francois did it
for him.
THE YOUNG ORGANIST: A MYSTERY. 231

“Now try the next one!” said he.

Francois did so, but no sound came, only a queer, intermit-
tent rumbling, like a bounding and rebounding.

“Tt does not sound,” said the organ-builder. ** Follow me
and I will show you why.”

“It never has sounded since the great trial-day, years ago,”
muttered the young man. But he followed on.

They clambered upa rickety staircase, a still more rickety
ladder, and came to a platform at a level with the top of the
organ; and all around them, reaching up out of the dim light
below, were the open pipes. Passing hurriedly around, on a
narrow plank, to the back of the organ, their agitated guide
paused before a row of immense pedal pipes, and, without allow-
ing his own eyes to look, he held the light that he carried for
the others.

Both looked down into the cavernous tube that he indicated,
and both started back in surprise and fear.

“It isa man’s legs!” gasped the frightened town official.

After the first moment of surprise had passed, they began to
get back their wits; and the young man advised that they send
for several strong men and lift out the pipe.

This seemed sensible, and in a half-hour the men were at hand
and the pipe was drawn down to the level of the organ-loft and
laid horizontally. The workmen had been informed of the
nature of their work, and all were under intense excitement.
The pipe was very long, and the body was at least five feet
from the top. One of the workmen reached ina pole having
a hook at the end, and the next minute drew forth the dead
body of the sinister old organist, Baptiste Lacombe.

There was a pause of silent horror. Nobody cared particu-
larly for the dead man, but the manner of his death was terrible.

“ How did it happen?” whispered one.

“Pethaps it was suicide,” answered another.

They began more closely to examine the huge tube. Francois
932 ZIGZAG STORIES.

Tegot, who, although thus far cooler than the others, now seemed
unable to stand, pointed to the hand of the dead man, which
was tightly clenched upon a small cord. One of the workmen
approached, and with some difficulty drew out the line ; and a
new thrill of expectation went through the silent company
when they saw, attached to the end of the line, an old leather
bundle covered with dust.



“PRANCOIS SEIZED IT AND OPENED IT.”

Young Tegot now seemed to master himself by a great effort,
and, motioning the workmen back, he advanced, and, lifting
the bag tenderly out into a more convenient position, he said
solemnly, as if to himself, “I have long suspected something
was wrong, and now I shall know.”

Then he examined the bag, and at length took from his pocket
a knife and carefully cut open one side.
THE YOUNG ORGANIST: A MYSTERY. 233

Despite the fact that he expected the revelation that now
came, he started back, for the opening revealed a piece of
cloth, —a coat which even the town official could recollect. to
be the coat of the long-lost organist, Raoul Tegot, Francois’s
father.

The young man stepped back and sank again into his seat.
and the others, coming forward, laid the bag quite open, and
drew forth a watch and an embroidered vest; in a pocket of
the coat was found a purse. “Here is an odd treasure,” said
one of the workman, holding up a locket of dull gold.

Frangois seized it and opened it. The color forsook his face
and his eyes filled with tears. He simply said, —

“¢ My mother.”

The town official now whispered to the surprised organ-
builder, that the villanous Lacombe had killed poor Tegot on
the morning of the trial, and had secreted the body in some
unknown place and hidden the valuables here. Frightened
by the fear of discovery, he had attempted to remove the treas-
ures, had fallen into the pipe, and had thus met a horrible
death.

“There is nothing secret,” said Francois, “but shall be
revealed. Sin is its own detector, and its secrets cannot rest.”

The excitement among the townspeople was for many days
even greater than it had been at the time of Tegot’s disappear-
ance, and many and bitter were the reproaches heaped upon the
wicked organist’s memory.

Frangois was immediately chosen organist, and held the posi-
tion during his entire life.
334 ZIGZAG STORIES.

THE UNNERVED HUSSAR.

A MAN once entered the vaults of a church by night, to rob
a corpse of a valuable ring. In replacing the lid he nailed the
tail of his coat to the coffin, and when he started up to leave,
the coffin clung to him and moved towards him.

Supposing the movement to be the work of invisible hands,
his nervous system received such a shock that he fell in a fit,
and was found where he fell, by the sexton, on the following
morning.

Now, had the fellow been honestly engaged, it is not likely
that the blunder would have happened; and even had it
occurred, he doubtless would have discovered at once the
cause.

But very worthy people are sometimes affected by supersti-
tious fear, and run counter to the dictates of good sense and
sound judgment.

A magnificent banquet was once given by a lord, in a very
ancient castle, on the confines of Germany. Among the guests
was an officer of hussars, distinguished for great self-possession
and bravery.

Many of the guests were to remain in the castle during the
night; and the gallant hussar was informed that one of them
must occupy a room reputed to be haunted, and was asked if
he had any objections to accepting the room for himself.

He declared that he had none whatever, and thanked his host
for the honor conferred upon him by the offer. He, however,
expressed a wish that no trick might be played upon him, saying
that such an act might be followed by very serious consequences,
as he should use his pistols against whatever disturbed the
peace of the room.
THE UNNERVED HUSSAR. 235

He retired after midnight, leaving his lamp burning, and,
wearied by the festivities, soon fell asleep. He was presently
awakened by the sound of music, and. looking about the apart-
ment, saw at the opposite end, three phantom ladies, grotesquely
attired, singing a mournful dirge.

The music was artistic, rich, and soothing, and the hussar



THE UNNERVED ILUSSAR.

listened for a time, highly entertained. The piece was one of
unvarying sadness, and, however seductive at first, after a time
lost its charm.

The officer, addressing the musical damsels, remarked that
the music had become rather monotonous, and asked them to
change the tune. The singing continued in the same mournful
cadences. He became impatient, and exclaimed, —

* Ladies, this is an impertinent trick, for the purpose of fright-
236 ZIGZAG STORIES.

ening me. TI shall take rough means to stop it, if it gives me
any further trouble.”

He seized his pistols in a manner that indicated his purpose.
But the mysterious ladies remained, and the requiem went on.

“ Ladies,” said the officer, I will wait five minutes, and then
shall fire, unless you leave the room.”

The figures remained, and the music continued. At the
expiration of the time, the officer counted twenty in a loud,
ineasured voice, and then, taking deliberate aim, discharged both
of his pistols.

The ladies were unharmed, and the musie was uninterrupted
The unexpected result of his violence threw him into a state of
high nervous excitement, and, although his courage had with-
stood the shock of battle, it now yielded to his superstitious
fears. His strength was prostrated, and a severe illness of some
weeks’ continuance followed.

Had the hussar held stoutly to his own sensible philosophy,
that he had no occasion to fear the spirits of the invisible world,
nothing serious would have ensued. The damsels sung in
another apartment, and their figures were made to appear in the
room occupied by the hussar, by the effect of a mirror. The
whole was a trick, carefully planned, to test the effect of super-
stitious fear on one of the bravest of men.

In no case should a person be alarmed at what he suspects to
be supernatural. A cool investigation will show, in most cases,
that the supposed phenomenon may be easily explained. It
might prove a serious thing for one to be frightened by a night-
cap on a bedpost, for a fright affects unfavorably the nervous
system, but a nightcap on a bedpost is in itself a very harmless
thing.
ty
x

THE FOREST BLACKSMITH,

THE FOREST BLACKSMITH.

Wuen I first heard old Ephraim, the pedler of watches,
say, “ Boys, I can tell you a story a great deal stranger than
that, and you won’t know any more when I’ve got through than
when I began,” my curiosity was greatly excited. By * that,”
he referred to the old story of Goffe the regicide, and the ap-
pearance of the so-called Angel of Deliverance at the attack on
Hadley, Massachusetts, during the Indian War. That was old
Ephraim’s favorite story. It embraced the incidents of the
Judge’s cave, the stone cellar at Guilford, the secret chamber at
Hadley, and the appearance and vanishing of the white stranger
during the old battle ; no story heretofore had ever held me like
that.

The itinerant story-tellers, such as lived in old colony times,
are gone, like the minstrels of the days of the old English
barons. A quaint class of people they were, these old New
England story-tellers, — the pack-pedlers, the tin-pedlers, the
tinkers, the wandering revival preachers, the huskers, and the
fortune-tellers. The bread-cart man must be munbered among
them; he carried the gossip of the town from house to house on
Saturdays, usually with an old horse and red cart, and a jingle,
jingle, jingle of bells. The old lady who earned her living by
going visiting, and the travelling dressmaker, whose tongue was
as pointed as her needles, belonged to the same class.

They are all gone; but I think that no better stories were
ever told than those by the old-time entertainers as they sat
before the great logs of the grand colonial fireplaces. They
were often colored, it is true, by superstition, for the travelling
tradesmen were a superstitious race, who feared the unseen more
than the seen; but even the marvels of ghost-lore had a spiritual
meaning, and illustrated goodness and peace, and the terror of
I38 AIGZAG STORIES.

evil, and there was the substance and philosophy of truth under-
lying them all.

It was the habit of most of these wandering story-tellers to
remain over night at the farmhouses on their way. This habit
enabled them not only to relate stories, but to collect them, and
their best stories grew by repetition.

My youth was spent in an old colonial house at Warren, Rhode
Island, near Swansea, Massachusetts, in view of Mount Hope, and
amid the scenes of the early tragedies of the Indian War. The
Baptist and Quaker founders of Rhode Island came to these
plantations, and the exiles from Boston during the period of per-
secution and the witchcraft delusion. I have been a reader of
stories for many years, but I still retain a vivid memory of the
strong and subtle fascination of the old colonial fireside tale.

There was an old pedler by the name of Ephraim Pool, whose
wonder-stories I distinctly recall. He lived in Guilford, Con-
necticut, and was accustomed to wander through the Connecticut
River Valley in summer, and through Providence, and thence by
Bristol Ferry to Newport, in winter. He was consequently at
Hadley, Massachusetts, during one part of the year, and at the old
towns of the Mount Hope lands in winter, — two dramatic points
in the old tragedies of the Indian War.

He sold watches and snuff-boxes, and cleaned and repaired
clocks. He used to be called the Clock Doctor. He was an
habitual snuff-taker, and used to pass the snuff-box often during’
the telling of a story.

I can see him now. ** Here [ am!’

9

he used to say. ‘ Come
to set your clock all right again. The time will come when you
won't see old Ephraim any more. Time will go on just the
same after old Ephraim Pool has ceased to travel; yes, time will
go on, but I don’t believe clocks will ever go on half so well
again. Have a pinch of snuff?”

To new listeners, the unexpected end of these customary
introductory and very solemn words seemed very odd and comr
THE FOREST BLACKSMITT/. 2389

cal. The snuff-box was old Ephraim’s inseparable companion,
and he punctuated with it all that he had to say. We used to
light two candles instead of one when old) Ephraim came, set a
row of apples to roast before the fire on the great brick hearth,
sit down on the red settle, and ask the genial and much-travelled
snuff-taker for stories. The story that had the greatest interest
for us was the attack of the Indians on Hadley, Massachusetts,
in the valley of the Connecticut, during King Philip’s War, and
the sudden appearance and dlisdppearaie e of a so-e all ed Angel of
Deliverance. The story in its historical relations is well known.
It fascinated Sir Walter Scott, who tells it vividly in * Peveril
of the Peak.” It charmed Southey also, for it is highly poetic
and spiritual in its suggestions, and the | musy singer of Grasmere
and Windermere had planned a long poem upon it, when his
mind failed. Tt is at once one of the. atlas thrilling and remark-
able tales of American folk-lore. I well recall how old Ephraim
used to tell it, — before the great fire, with his handkerchief
spread over his knee.

“T am not so young as T was,” he would begin; ‘my beard
erows a little whiter, just a little, every year, and I set the
clocks a little nearer the time, — the time for all of us. (ITave
a pinch of snuff?) Yes; well, as I was saying, TP shai t be
about here many more winters, so J shall have to please you this
time, and I like to tell that old story right here, where the In-
dian War began. But, boys, [ can tell you a story a great deal
stranger than thet, and you won't know any more when I’ve
got through than when I began. But first let me tell you the
story of old Hadley.

“Hadley, at the time of my story, was a little village in the
woods. It was a Sabbath day in early fall when it all happened,
and the people had gathered in the church. Old Nehemiah
Solsgrace had just begun to pray, when a woman rushed into
the church, with wild eyes and hair streaming, without bonnet
or shawl, and shrieked, ‘The Indians! the Indians!’ just like
240 ZIGZAG STORIES.

that. (Have a pinch of snuff?) The prayer stopped, and all
started up. In the silence there was heard a cry in the distance
that would have pierced your soul. It was the war-whoop.

* The men seized their guns, for men went armed everywhere
that doleful year, even to church. They rushed out-doors, and
heard another wild cry, nearer now, and more fierce and defiant.
What should they do?

“In the midst of the confusion appeared a wonder such as
had never been known in New England before. There came
stalking into the streets —from what place no one knew, but
many believe from another world —a tall man like one of the
old patriarchs. No one among the defenders, so far as known,
had ever seen him before. His garments were of skins; he
curried a sword which he flourished aloft (just like this); his
hair was long and gray, his beard white and flowing, and he had
the air of a leader of armies.

“He shouted, and his voice seemed to fill the village, —
‘Behold in me the Captain of Israel. Follow me.’ The people
were awe-struck, but the men followed him. Out of the town
went the white stranger, making a semicircle around the Indian
warriors, unseen by them, and soon appeared behind the enemy,
to their surprise and terror. The Indians, thinking they had a
foe both before and behind them, fled in confusion.

“The white stranger returned to the village, followed by the
men. ‘Bring me a cup of water,’ he said, ‘and let us offer
thanks for this great victory to God, who sent me to be the
Angel of Deliverance.’

“All knelt down. He prayed in trumpet tones; it was a
thanksgiving of such thrilling and lofty language as the people
never had heard before. It ended with, ‘ Be still There was
a deep silence, and when, one by one, they looked up, the white
stranger was gone. (Have a pinch of snuff ?)”

We usually spent an hour or more in asking questions to clear
up this remarkable recital. Uncle Ephraim then would slowly






















































































































































































































LEY.

+ THE REGICIDE AT HAD

OFFE

G



THE FOREST BLACKSMITH. 243

tell us that the white stranger for many years was believed to be
an Angel of Deliverance sent from another world; but he really
was Major-General Goffe, one of the judges who had condemned
to death Charles I., and who sought refuge in America, and was
hidden in different places, once in a cave on the top of a hill
near New Haven, once in a stone cellar at Guilford, and finally,
for many years, in a secret chamber in Hadley, Massachusetts,
where he was when the Indians fell upon the place.

“ But the other story?” we asked eagerly.

“Tt was something like this, only a great deal more strange,”
he said. “There were all kinds of strange things that hap-
pened and were expected to happen in old colony times, when
people were fleeing from kings and parliaments and persecu-
tions; but this took place not more than thirty years ago. I
never tell the story of Goffe without thinking of the other, for
there is a likeness between the two, as you shall see.

“ T was a young man when it happened, but the scenes are all
as vivid as daylight in my mind still. The old Mount Holyoke
Female Seminary was a power then, under Mary Lyon, of blessed
memory. I used to stop at several farmhouses in’ Holyoke. In
one of my journeyings I was surprised to find not far from the
village, in the woods, a new blacksmith-shop and a small
cottage.

“«¢ Who lives there?’ I asked of a farmer by the way.

“A stranger,’ said he. ‘They call him the Forest Black-
smith.’

“ Seeing my curiosity, he continued, ‘ Name is Ainsley. Came
here kind o’ mysterious like. People don’t know much about
him. He isn’t very handy.” The last remark was meant. to
imply a lack of experience or skill in his work.

“The shop was merely a covered frame and forge. The cot-
tage was small, and seemed to consist of two rooms. In the
doorway stood a woman with white hair, and a handkerchief
crossed on her breast. Her face fixed itself on my mind like a
244 ZIGZAG STORIES.

picture; I can see it now. It was a quiet face, full of trouble.
You may not understand that, but it was so. It was a beautiful
face, that seemed to hide a weary, sad heart.

“The next summer, as I was coming up the valley, and trav-
elling along the old Holyoke road, a storm overtook me one
afternoon near the Forest Blacksmith’s. The clouds darkened
and settled down upon the mountains, and a heavy rain, min-
eled with hail, began to fall. I hurried along to the black-
smith’s shop, found the man there, and sat down by the fireless
forge.

“¢ You will allow me to rest until the storm is over?’ said I
to the man, who was not at work.

«Certainly, friend, certainly. You are quite welcome; make
yourself at home. It will all be over in an hour. Go into the
house, if you like.’

“The gentlemanly mildness of his tone and politeness of
manner surprised me. It seemed strange amid such rude and
simple belongings. I accepted his invitation, hoping to sell
something to the woman, and went into the house.

“The woman with white hair received me very politely, but
cautiously. She moved back and sat down in a great arm-chair,
the only comfortable article of furniture in the room.

“ The chair had a stuffed leather cushion. I noticed that she
did not leave the chair during my stay, which lasted two hours.
As I rose to go, I noticed again the heavy, stuffed leather
cushion.

“Another year passed, and I came to the blacksmith’s shop
again one day, just at nightfall, early in September. The
golden-rods were blooming about the door, and flocks of birds
were gathering for migration. The low sun blazed behind the
reddened trees, the sunbeams gleaming here and there among
the branches and twigs. I hailed Blacksmith Ainsley, and
asked him if he would keep me over night.

“¢JT wish I had better accommodations,’ he said. ‘I like to
THE FOREST BLACKSMITH. 245

oblige a stranger, but I am not situated now as I wish I were.
Ask wife.’

“I went to the door. The white-haired woman opened it
with a questioning look, moved back to the same arm-chair,
sat down, and offered me a rude seat. I repeated the question
that I had asked the blacksmith.

“* Heaven forbid that I should not offer hospitality,’ she said.
‘ But we have only two rooms, this and the other, and only two
beds, here and yonder. Could n’t you go farther? It hurts me
to say it; I never in my life turned away a stranger when I
could help it.’

“*T will give you little trouble,’ said I. ‘I am very tired.
Just let me lie down on the bed in the other room and give me
a bit for breakfast, and I will pay you handsomely.’

“*Tt isnot the pay about which I am thinking,’ said she.

“I knew that. Her eye moistened, and her lip quivered.

“* Well, you may stay,’ said she. ‘It is not like me to say
no. She then became silent.

“The sun set. Shadows fell across the way. The old black-
smith came in and lighted a tallow candle. It was dry weather,
and the blacksmith was speaking of the effects of the drought
on the crops and cattle, when there was a sudden sound of
horse’s feet at the door.

“*Some one come to get shod,’ said the blacksmith. The
expression is not to be taken as it runs, but it was a common
one.

“He opened the door. I can see him now. What a change
came over him! His face turned pale, and an expression passed
over it of utter helplessness and hopelessness, as though life had
been stricken from his soul.

“ His wife started up, and then she sank back into the chair
again with an expression of intense anxiety and terror.

“The stranger came stalking in without any invitation. He
was aman with a hard, determined face. He held his whip in
his hand, and looked around.
246 ZIGZAG STORIES.

“+ What brings you here,’ said the blacksmith.

- “*T must pass the night here, said the man. ‘I have
travelled far, and have business here. I wish you would care
for my horse?’

“+ But, stranger, I cannot accommodate you,’ said the black-
smith. ‘I have but one spare room, and that we have promised
to this man who is sitting here.’

“¢Can you give me a bit to eat?’ he asked, turning to the
woman. She did not move. as

“+ Get the stranger something,’ she said to her husband. The
man looked at her rudely.

«¢Are you lame, that you do not rise and accommodate me
yourself?”

“ The old woman made no reply.

“¢Here, husband, you are perhaps tired; sit down here and
I will wait upon the stranger.’ The blacksmith sat down in the
arm-chair.

“¢Tt would be better courtesy, I’m thinking, if you were to
offer me that chair, tired as I am. Perhaps you do not know
that I am an officer of the law,’ said the man, brutally.

“The woman set the table. I could see that her hands
trembled as she handled her dishes.

“ ¢Supper is ready,’ said she, at last.

“She passed to the arm-chair which her husband offered
her.

“*Do you not usually have grace before meat?’ said he.

“¢Yes,’ said the old woman. ‘ Are you a godly man?’ There
was a hopeful tone in her voice.

“«T want you to say grace, said the stranger to the
blacksmith.

“The blacksmith rose. ‘Kneel,’ said the stranger, ‘and you
too,’ turning to the woman. We all knelt down.

“The old blacksmith’s voice began to offer thanks in a tremu-
lous way, but it grew firm. Suddenly the light was blown out.
THE FOREST BLACKSMITH. 247

The stranger started up, and walked about heavily in the dark.
What did it mean ?

“ went on to finish the prayer, showing in this a reverent sin-
verity that has always been a mystery to me. At length he
rose from his knees, and stumbled about for a leht.

“The old woman sank back into the chair. As she did so
she uttered such a cry of distress, ending with the words, ‘It
is gone, William; it is gone! !?

“¢ What?’

“When the lamp was lighted, the stranger had left the room.
The chair was there, but the cushion was gone. The woman
wailed helplessly, ‘Oh! oh! after all these years!’ She knelt
down by the chair and cried like a clild.

“ another world, Amy,’

“T turned from this pitiable scene to look for my pack. It
was where I had placed it. There were sobs from the woman,
and intervals of silence, for an hour. I then went to bed, hav-
ing first put my pack under the bedclothes at my feet. IT was
tired, but did not fall asleep until toward morning.

“ When I awoke, it was broad day. The sun had. risen, and
the tinged leaves of the forest were glimmering in the light,
warm wind. How beautiful everything looked through the
little window! TI rose, dressed, pulled my pack from the bed,
and then went out to the other room. No one was there. The
table still was set as on the evening before, with the food upon
it. The great chair was there, without its cushion. There was
no fire.

“T opened the outer door. The shop was empty; there was
a dead silence everywhere, except the call of the jays in the
walnut-trees.

“J started toward the village, but stopped to repair a clock
and take breakfast at a farmhouse. At the village I examined
248 ZIGZAG STORIES.

my pack, when another mystery appeared; I found that my
watches were gone.

“TI summoned a sheriff, and went back. The house was
empty; everything remained as I had left it in the morning.

“The next year I came again to the place. It was deserted,
as when I last saw it. No one knew who the occupants had
been, or why or whither they had gone. I have asked myself a
thousand times, What was in the leather cushion? Were the
forest blacksmith and his old wife honest people? Who was the
mysterious stranger? Why did he come?

“ You know as well as I do, boys. (Now I will have another
pinch of snuff.) People do not vanish now as they used to do;
times have changed. As I told you ’t would be, you don’t
know any more now than when I began.”

A ROMANCE OF NORTH CAROLINA.

WHEN I wasa young gil, and quite wild over the “ Waverley
Novels,” you can fancy my delight at my dear little grand-
mother’s looking up, with her bright brown eyes, and saying,
“JT knew her, — your beautiful Flora!”

“* You knew her?”

“T have sat on her knee, and she once kissed me,” said
Grandma.

“Then it was true about her?”

“In a measure,” said Grandma, taking up her knitting again.
“The idea of her was true. You might say she sat for the
portrait. Her real name, you know, was Flora Macdonald.”

“Oh, was she like the story ?”

“That I can’t quite say. I was so young, I can hardly
remember how she looked,” said Grandma. “I kept only the
sensation that she was something beautiful and grand. I heard
A ROMANCE OF NORTH CAROLINA. 249

them talking about her, and I trembled when she touched
me.”

“Was she tall and dark and pale, with drooping curls and
proud glances? And did she sing about Highland heroes, and
adore Prince Charlie ?”

“ A gentleman who was entertained by her in Scotland says
she was a little woman, mild and well-bred. The legend of her
in North Carolina, where she went to live, is that she was
dignified and handsome. As for the rest of your questions, I
rather think that at that time she talked of seasickness and the
weather during her voyage; and if she adored anybody, I
suppose she adored her husband.”

“ Her husband? Why, Flora went into a convent!”

“In the story. In real life she married an officer, and went
to live in North Carolina, as I told you before. But she stop-
ped in Nova Scotia, either going or coming; for it was there
she visited my uncle, good old Judge Des Champs, and there
I sat upon her knee.”

“ And what was the truth about her, Grandma?” I asked
in woful disappointment. “ Wasi’t any of the story true?
Tell us, can’t you? Tell us, please now, just how it was.”

“Well,” said Grandma, “you have read about Charles
Edward the Pretender?”

“Oh, yes, of course. He is the prince in the story.”

“The prince in the story, and the prince in history. For all
that is known of him then, I have no doubt that at that time
he was as lovely a gentleman as the prince in the story. His
mother was a Sobieski, you know,—an heroic race, long de-
scended from heroes in old Poland; and he was one of the
Stuarts, who had a way of taking all men’s hearts.

“Gallant and gentle and noble, self-forgetting, dauntless,
beautiful, in those early days a superb fellow, people felt that
they could die for him, —and die they did. Just think what
a career he had in his youth! In Venice he was received with
250 ZIGZAG STORIES.

royal honors. When France was going to invade England at
a time when England was half unprotected, he was sent for
to take command of the army.

“He embarked with Marshal Saxe, the greatest soldier of his
day; and the throne of his grandfather was just within his
reach, when a furious tempest rose, and raged a week, and sank
the vessels, full of troops, to the bottom, and threw him back
upon the coast. The French would not try again; and it was
ul his friends could do to prevent the prince from setting sail
for Scotland alone in a fishing-boat.

“ When, after a while, he did arrive with his seven friends in
Scotland, the clans flocked about him, and he had at first some
splendid successes. He ‘drew his sword’ and ‘threw away
the scabbard,’ as he said, and prepared to invade England.

“But at last,” said Grandma, after a little pause, ‘there
came an end to all his efforts in the disaster at Culloden, where
the field was lost through the sullen pride of the Macdonalds.”

“Why, how could that be?”

“The Macdonalds, you know, were an immense clan; and
it happened that they had been placed on the left of the army,
but they had claimed it as their right, ever since the service
they had done at the battle of Bannockburn, that they should
charge on the right; and so they refused to charge at all, and
lost the prince the day.

“The poor chevalier! What must his wrath and despair
have been when he saw so great a cause ruined by so petty a
whim? But at that, he and his adherents fled for their lives;
for they had been defeated, and defeat made them guilty of
high-treason, and their lives were the forfeit if they should be
captured.

“A hundred and fifty thousand dollars was the price set upon
the head of the prince by the British Government. Five
months he wandered in the wild passes of the Highlands,
hiding in caverns, under crags, among the gorse and heather,
A ROMANCE OF NORTH CAROLINA. 251

slipping in a skiff from island to island, starving, perishing
with cold, in rags, hunted everywhere, and every pass guarded
by the Duke of Cumberland’s troops!

“Tt was only the love of the people, of the common people,
which saved him. How they used to sing songs about him!
And, a generation later, how I used to sing them myself!

“That kiss of Flora Macdonald’s made me espouse the cause
of the Jacobites, as the supporters of the house of Stuart were
called. ‘Charlie is my darling, the young Chevalier,’ and
‘What’s a’ the steer, Kimmer?’ and ‘Come o’er the stream,
Charlie,’ and ‘Wha’ll be king but Charlie?’ and ‘Flora Mac-
donald’s Lament,’ and all the rest.”

“ Well, it happened that Flora was on a visit in the neigh
borhood of one of his hiding-places. It was proposed, all
other ways having failed, that the prince should put on the
clothes of some woman, and be passed off as her waiting-
maid, —he had already played the part of servant to Malcolm
McLeod.

“Tt was a daring undertaking, with all the scrutiny the
British watch-dogs never dropped a minute. The officer from
whom Flora had to obtain a passport was Flora’s father-in-law.
He had no idea what he was doing when he gave her a safe con-
veyance for herself, her young escort, Neil Macdonald, Betty
Bourke, a stout Irishwoman, and some others.

“ Betty Bourke was the prince; and it must have been a
great trial to a modest and timid young girl to carry out such
an. imposition; but she was rewarded by the love of a
whole people. They sailed for the Isle of Skye one bright
June day.

“ When they landed, they went to the house of the Laird of
Sleite, which was full of hostile soldiers eager in the search for
the royal prize; and Flora told her secret to the kind lady of the
house, who straightway helped her along on her way home to
Kingsburg.
252 ZIGZAG STORIES.

« And she at last saw the prince safely through ; and his last
words to her were: ‘ Farewell, gentle, faithful maiden! May
we meet again in the Palace Royal!”

“Young Neil Macdonald followed him to France, and his son
became by and by one of Napoleon’s marshals. But great was
the anger of the British Government when it was found that
Charles Edward had escaped.

“They knew the thing could only have been managed by a
woman ; suspicion fell on Flora, and she was arrested, together
with Malcolm McLeod and others, carried on board of a man-of-
war, and changed from one vessel to another, until she had been
nearly a year on shipboard, before being taken to London and
thrown into prison to stand a trial for high-treason.

“ How cruel for the brave, sweet girl! But her youth, her
beauty, her courage, began to create what you might call a reac-
tion in her favor, especially as she had not previously been on
the prince’s side, either in respect to his claims to the throne or
his religion.

“ The king himself — it was George IJ. —asked her how she
dared save the enemy of his crown and kingdom, and she
replied, —

“¢T only did what I would do for your Majesty in the same
condition, — I relieved distress.’

“ And it all ended by their sending her home with Malcolm
McLeod. It was about four years afterward that she married
Allan Macdonald. It seems, when your hear her story, as if half
the people of Scotland were Macdonalds.

“In 1775, being in some trouble for money, and hearing how
well his country-people who had emigrated were getting along
there, Allan Macdonald followed them to North Carolina; and
there he settled with his wife at Fayetteville, where the ruins of
their house may yet be seen, I believe, unless recently removed.

“The vast difference between the chills and mists of the
Scotch Highlands and the balmy air in which she found herself,
A ROMANCE OF NORTH CAROLINA. 258

I should think must have been very striking to Flora; she must
have enjoyed the wonderful fruits and flowers at what seemed
to her untimely seasons, and in the coldest months the great
wood-fires furnished by the pitchy forests, that still seem inex-
haustible, I am told.

“They only lived a little while in Fayetteville, before they
moved to Cameron Hill, twenty miles distant. They had no
sooner established themselves there than the Revolution began.
It must have seemed to Flora as if a state of rebellion and war-
fare were the natural state of man, or as if she were fated never
to escape it.

“The chief of the Macdonald clan among the North Carolina
emigrants had been given, whether through policy or not, a
commission as general in the British king’s army. The Stuart
strugele being over and done with, there probably appeared to
him no reason why he should not take it. He summoned all
loyal Highlanders to meet under his standard, and march with
him to join General Clinton.

“They did so, fifteen hundred strong, but were met by the
rebels against King George, — and in no State was the feeling
that led to our independence more ardent than in North Caro-
lina, — and Caswell and Moore routed them in a desperate fight;
and among those taken prisoner was Flora’s husband.

“When Captain Macdonald was at last released, his land was
confiscated, his property gone, his hopes shattered; and he took
his wife and shipped for Scotland. It was on the’ way home, in
this British ship, that they encountered a French frigate ; and
of course there was a sea-fight.

“ But Flora Macdonald did not go below then, and spend her
time between screaming and praying, as some women might
have done. She stayed on deck through the whole action, bind-
ing up wounds, encouraging and helping, and presently she had
her arm broken for her pains.

“«T have hazarded my life,’ she said, ‘for the House of Stuart
254 ZIGZAG STORIES.

and for the House of Hanoyer; and JI do not see that Iam a
great gainer by either of them.’

“But she was satisfied in having the French frigate beaten,
and she reached Scotland at length in safety. She must have
been a woman of iron nerves, I think. She had five sons, all of
whom were soldiers. And when she died at last, her shroud
was made of the sheets in which the Prince Charles Edward
had slept at Kingsburg.

“You see, if you have your story of Lady Arabella Johnson
here, they have quite as good a one of their Flora Macdonald
down in the old North State, which, perhaps you may not know,
claims to be the first of the thirteen on whose shores the English
landed, and the first in which the old colonists threw off the
British yoke.”

THE INDIAN PROPHET.
A TALE OF ALABAMA.

“ ECONOCHACA!”

The name looks strange. Its history is more strange than the
name. I have found in American history no events more weird
and remarkable than those associated with this place.

It was a city of refuge, modelled after the Israelitish cities in
form and government. It was a hidden city, and was built
upon the left bank of the Alabama, in what is now Lowndes
County. No path or trail led to it. The Indian who reached
it, whatever may have been his danger, was safe. It was holy
ground.

It was built by Weathersford, an Indian warrior, who was at
one time the idol of his race. Tall, straight, and kingly, with
dark eyes and electric glance, he seemed born to command. He
was a savage, yet he possessed the heroic virtues of a Spartan,
THE INDIAN PROPHET. 255

and a martyr’s spirit that would have been noble in the early
Christians.

When this wonderful man had built his hidden city, he pre-
pared to dedicate it.

There lived among the Shawnees a brother of the great Te-
cumtha, who claimed to be a prophet.

His birth was wonderful. [He was one of three children born
of the same mother at the same time, and regarded with awe
from their natal day.

One day in his early years. he fell upon the ground as one
dead. His body was borne away for burial. As the Indians
were preparing for the last rites, he suddenly started up.

“JT have seen the Land of the Blessed,” he exclaimed. ‘Call
the people together that I may tell them what I have seen.”

The nation was called to assemble. He rose up before them,
told them of his celestial visions, and virtually announced him-
self to be a prophet.

He was believed to have performed miracles. Corn as big as
meal-bags sprung from the earth at his bidding, and pumpkins
as large as wigwams came into the maize-fields at his call.

His appearance at a council of the Creeks just before that
nation declared war was terrible and awful.

“You shall see,” he said, “the arm of Tecumtha, like a white
fire, stretched forth in the sky.”

A comet soon after appeared, and the Creeks believed it to be
the spirit arm of their chief, pointing them to war.

“You do not believe that the Great Spirit has sent me forth,”
he said to a sceptical warrior. ‘You shall believe it. I go to
Detroit. When I arrive there. I will stamp my foot upon the
ground. You shall hear it in Alabama. When I stamp my
foot, your houses shall fall.”

The Prophet went to Detroit. Strangely enough, at the time
of his arrival, an earthquake shook Alabama, and the houses
were seen to totter and reel to and fro.
256 ; ZIGZAG STORIES.

“Tecumtha has arrived in Detroit! Tecumtha has arrived
in Detroit!” said the affrighted Creeks.

The Prophet might have learned from the English the near
approach of the comet, but that the earthquake should have ful-
filled his prediction is one of the most curious and mysterious
events of Indian history.

Weathersford sent for the Prophet to dedicate the hidden city
of refuge.

It was summer. The blue Alabama rolled quietly along
under the shadows of the green forests. In the open square of
the Holy City smoked an altar, or altars; and the Prophet stood
by them, dressed in royal attire, and offered up human sacrifices
to the heavens.

What a scene it must have been when the fires died, and the
moon arose, and feathery beings formed rings and danced to the
barbarous music of their primitive instruments !

From these awful rites Weathersford prepared to go forth like
a firebrand and exterminate the whites. He was surprised by
the latter and defeated, but himself escaped alive.

One day at sunset there appeared at the American camp an
Indian. He folded his arms in the presence of General Jackson,
and said, —

“T am Weathersford. I have nothing to request for myself.
Kill me if you wish. I have come to beg of you to rescue the
Indian women and children who are now starving in the woods.
Your people have driven them to the woods without an ear of
corn. I have come to ask peace for my people, but not for
myself.”

Jackson was astonished at such Roman heroism.

“T am a soldier,” continued the chief; “I have fought, and
would fight now, but my people are gone. Once I could animate
my warriors to battle, but I cannot animate the dead.”

General Jackson could not order the execution of such a man,
but set him free.
AN OLD WASHINGTON GHOST STORY. 257

Weathersford became a respected citizen of Alabama. He
married; and one of the generals with whom he had contended,
Samuel Dale, acted as groomsman at his wedding.

What became of the Prophet ?

He had so great faith in his powers that he at last announced
that he would render the Creek warriors invulnerable. He
assembled them, and went through fantastic incantations, and
declared that no power on earth could harm them. Believing
this, the Creeks went forth to battle.

One by one the invulnerable warriors exposed themselves to
the enemy. One by one they fell. They thought that they
had been changed into gods, but found that they were but men.

The Prophet became distrusted. His supernatural power
over the Creeks diminished; and he at last fell in battle in Can-
ada on the Thames, showing that he, like the others, could be
wounded, and suffer death like a common man.

His history is worthy of a novel, a poem, or an opera.
Among the dark mysteries of the past there is no dusky figure
at once so inexplicable and poetic as that of the Prophet.

AN OLD WASHINGTON GHOST STORY.

OnE keen December day, a few years after the war, I arrived
in Washington to spend a few weeks with a friend who was
making his home at this old Van Ness mansion, near the White
House, and adjoining the grounds where the Washington Mon+
ument now stands. The mansion is almdst a ruin now, and its
beautiful grounds are broken and faded, but it was in its glory
then, with its quaint porticos, its halls and gardens and beauti-
ful trees. .

In the same yard with the fine house, which had been associ-
ated with the best social life of many administrations, stood the

17
258 ZIGZAG STORIES.

so-called Marcia Burns’s cottage, in which Sir Thomas Moore was
entertained in Jefferson’s days, on the occasion of his unhappy
visit to Washington. In this cottage lived Davie Burns, the
stubborn Scotchman whom General Washington compelled to
sell his plantation for the site of the city.

“Your position,” said Davie Burns to Washington, ** makes
you feel that all is grist that comes into your hopper. W ng
would you have re I should like to know, if you had n’t ’e
married the Widow Custis ?”

I had loved the songs of Tom Moore in my boyhood. My
mother used to sing them. The “Last Rose of Summer,” the
“ Vale of Avoca,” “ The Harp that once through Tara’s Halls,”
came ringing back in memory; and after an hour with my friend
in the Van Ness hall, I went out into the yard, and sat down on
one of the benches, and looked at the little gray cottage where
the famous author of “ Lallah Rookh” and the “Loves of the
Angels” had been entertained when the city was new.

An old negress came sauntering by. With my Northern free-
dom I said to her, —

« Auntie, this all seems to me a place of mysteries !

« A place of mysteries, dat is wot it is, Massa Nof, —dat am
wot itis. Dat am de suller [cellar] whar dey was goin’ to prison
Linkem [Lincoln] in de las’ days ob de war. Wot you think
of dat, Massa Nof? De ’spirators didn’t intend on killin’ him
at first; dey had planned to “duct him,’an’ jus’ hide him in dat
dar suller. An’ den a still boat was to come ober de ribber, like
de white hosses, wid s¢iJ oars, movin’ up an’ down so séz/, am’
dey were to steal him away, an’ hold him fora ransom. Dat
story sort o’ haunts dat suller yet. It nebber happened, but de
ghost of it all am dar jus’ de same.

“Dar be some ghosts dat nebber happened, Massa Nof. De
white hosses ain’t de only ghosts that come round here o’ nights.
Marcia Burns, she come on summer nights, when de roses all
hang in de dews in de thin light ob de moon, an’ de mockin’
bird am singin’ his las’ song.

oP)
AN OLD WASHINGTON GHOST STORY. 259

“De white hosses, dey come on Christmas nights, — six white
hosses on seven Christmas nights, — Massa Nof, widout any
-heads on dem an’ dar necks all smokin’. It may be you’ll stay
ober Christmas time, Massa Nof, an’ see’em wid your own eyes.”

Of what was this old negress talking? Her eyes dilated as
she spoke of the six white “hosses,” and she raised her arm
and looked like a seeress.

“ What are the six white horses?” I asked. “JT never heard
of them before.”

“You didn’t! Now dat am strange! IT must call you Massa
Up-Not. Eberybody knows about ’em here. Dey am ghosts, —
jus’ ghosts. Dey are de ghosts ob de six white hosses dat all
dropped right down dead wid broken hearts on de night dat
Marcia Burns, as dey call Mrs. Van Ness, gabe up her soul to
de angels. Dat am wot dey am.”

My friend came out of the house. The old negress heard the
door close, and gave her head a toss, and with an air of mystery
moved away.

“Tt is rather cool for you to be sitting here,” my friend said.
“You need your overcoat. We have kindled the fires.”

“Dwight,” said I, “what is it the old negress has been tell-
ing me about six white horses ?— one of the oddest things I
ever heard.”

“ Oh, nonsense, Herbert. An old Christmas tale; the negroes
believe it yet. I am going to the station; will be back soon.
You had better go in. There’s a chill in the air.”

He passed out of the gate.

I did not go in. The ancient place seemed to throw over me
aspell. I had heard that the early Presidents used to be enter-
tained here; that Marcia Burns Van Ness was a kind of Wash-
ington saint; that she founded the orphan asylum, and that the
government stopped on the day that she was buried.

“The government stopped,” I said to myself, absently, “ but
did the six white horses really fall down dead?”

”
260 ZIGZAG STORIES.

“ Dat dey did.”

The words seemed to come out of the air. I looked up, and
the old negress again stood before me. She was on her way to
some place outside the gate.

« An’ Massa Up-Nof, jus’ you let me tell you somethin’: De
white hosses am a mystery, but dar ama mystery 0b de mystery.
I'll tell you some day, I will.”

She passed out of the gate. The sun was settings the last
breeze seemed to die, and I sat in the silence trying to picture
to myself the past of this most wonderful place.

Dwight refused to talk to me about the six white horses. I
went to Fortress Monroe to spend a week or two, and while
there I wrote to a lady in Georgetown, who well knew the his-
tory of the Van Ness place, and asked her about the legend of
the six white horses. The return letter intensely interested
me. It was as follows : —

GrorcGetTowN, December 20.

Dear Hersert, — Scrapbooks, old notes, a few letters from friends
living near Seventeenth Street in Washington, bring to me about
the same data you seem to possess.

The “headless horses ” number “str,” because General Van Ness
drove to his dest coach six, when guests were many and distinguished.
He died at the age of seventy-six. He married the beautiful Marcia
Burns when he was thirty; he was then a New York member of
Congress. During all those years he gave annually a large, gay,
fashionable entertainment to all of Congress, during the holidays.
They were the Christmas events of society.

On the anniversary of that event, the six headless horses are said
to appear “to this day”! They are seen at twelve o’clock at
night, any or all nights during Christmas week. (You know, in the
South, the Christmas revelry lasts all the week.) An old lady of
eighty tells me, “The horses do gallop round and round the mansion
in Mansion Square, and sometimes stop right in front of the old
pillars of the porch and rock to and fro and moan and sigh. They
AN OLD WASHINGTON GHOST STORY. 261

are white as snow, with smoke and mist and white flame, like burn-
ing brandy, going upward from their shoulders.”

They stop in their midnight gallops and listen at the door for the
old voices of George Washington, Hamilton, Clay, Jefferson, the
Taylors, and hundreds of distinguished men of that time. They
come over the river, as most of the men are buried there. The
unseen spirits of the great dead hover about the grounds, and make
the aspen-trees shiver, the willows moan, as the horses dash past.

Old Mr. Van Ness comes with his own horses, and it is his spirit
appearing in them. :

‘om Moore spent one week there, and comes generally at Christ-
mas time, his voice repeating verses composed for the beautiful
Marcia Van Ness, and as repeated at one entertainment to her, is
still heard as the clock strikes twelve.

One old man says, “ Dey los’ dere heads [the horses] when ole
massa was put in de big, gran’ mos-lem!” (The mausoleum now
stands in Oak Hill Cemetery. We see it often.) “ An’ dey lay in
de dus’; an’ when dey was seen nex’ day, smoke was dere heads,
like onto de day ob jedgment.”

Another theory says: “The six beautiful, fiery horses died of
grief, and were buried on the place. A rise in the Potomac River
washed them far away. ‘The next Christmas they returned ‘like
death on the pale horse,’ in bodily form, with cloudy heads, and the
general’s eyes flashing through the smoke and flames. Sometimes
the very faces of the guests appeared plainly.”

Montgomery Blair used to say that the six headless horses did
appear to the servants annually, and that his own slaves had re-
peated to him their stories “ until he himself believed them.”

The lonely Taylor family of “ ‘The Octagon House,” whose collec-
tion of curios are now in the Corcoran building, told funny stories
of the “ ghosts,” credited up to the eighties : —

“Six headless horses gallop round the old house and grounds
annually ; always white and large, and with heads of jive. The
servants run, and more courageous, intelligent persons spend the
night trying to hold the horses. They fly past them, and dissolve
before their eyes! A noise of rushing wind and voices in the dis-
tance, a splash in the water, and all is still.”
262 ZIGZAG STORIES.

One note of 1885 says: ‘The headless horses are, of course, a
myth, but few of the neighbors care to pass a night in the place,
near Christmas time. We have hidden behind the brick wall, but
found it a ghostly spot.”

The story had grown with the letter, and my imagination
erew. The incidents of the smoking necks of the horses, of
Tom Moore’s songs at Christmas at the midnight hour, of the
terrified servants, and the dissolving spectres, all fixed them-
selves on my mind, and haunted my sleeping and waking
dreams. On the 24th of December I returned to Washington,
to pass the holidays with my friends at the old Van Ness house.

As I passed the gate into the great garden, I met the old
negress again. ;

“De land! am you come back? Don’t you be frightened
now; you listen right now to wot yo? Auntie Wisdom’s gwine
to say. Dar ama mystery ob de mystery. I’se found it out, I
dun has.

“¢Dem beliebs dat dar are witches,
Dar de witches are;
Dos dat tink dar ain’t no witches,
Dar ain’t no witches dar.’

Now, Massa Up-Nof, don’ you be *fraid. I’ tell you somethin’
befo’ you go. Dar’s got to be a mental mind to see dem tings;
de ’maginations got to hab eyes; you ’member now wot yo’
Auntie Wisdom says, an’ don’ you get scared at anyting dey
tells you. Dar’ll be libely times about midnight. Glad to see
ye. But I mus’ hurry on; wot Massa Blair, he say, if he heard
me talkin’ dis way wid a gent’man from up Nof! No account
nigger like me. But I’se yer true frien’, I’se am! I likes
peoples wot live up Nof!”

It was a beautiful night. The Capitol seemed to stand in the
air like a mountain of marble, and when the moon rose and il-
AN OLD WASHINGTON GHOST STORY. 263

lumined the grand porticos of the nation’s halls, the air, as it
were, became rene henied: as if it helda celestial palace of light.
The Capitol by moonlight is one of the most beautiful scenes on
earth. It rivals the visions of the Taj, and impresses the imagi-
nation as the very genius of American destiny.

There was a gay party in the old house on that Christmas
eve. Amid the social entertainments I once or twice heard an
allusion to the “six white horses,” as aes the legend were
merely a joke. The guests departed by eleven o’elock, and a
half hour later I found mnyself in the guest-chamber, looking out
of the window on Marcia Burns’s cottage, the evergreens, and
the Potomac. The house became still, but sounds of merriment
from time to time broke on the air from the negro quarters. I
wondered where Auntie Wisdom might be, and, but for the im-
propriety, I would have been glad to talk with her as the critical
hour of twelve drew nigh.

A shriek rent the air at this point of my mental recitation. It
came from the negro quarters. The yard was soon filed with
coloured servants, and among them was Aunt Chloe, the woman
of wisdom.

« Comin’, comin’, comin’, on de wings ob de wind!” the old
negress began to exclaim in a wild, high, gypsyish tone, bowing
backwards and forwards and waving her hands in a circle. The
negroes around her seemed beside thetpelvas with terror.

What was coming ?

T looked out on the Potomac over the motionless trees. On
the margin of the river was rising a thin white mist, which
formed itself into fantastic shapes as it rolled along and broke
over the marshes in the viewless currents of the air. One of
these mist forms began to condense, and drift toward the gardens
of the house.

“ Comin’, comin’, on de winds! The Revelations am comin’,
an’ wot’s gwine to sabe us now?”

I aneed the window. The clocks were striking twelve in the
church towers.
264 ZIGZAG STORIES.

“The Powers above sabe us!” shrieked Aunt Chloe. “ Fall
upon yo’ knees. The dead are upon ye all. You that has bref,
rend de skies!”

“ Jerusalem and Jericho!” cried a negro who was called
Deacon Ned. He seemed to think that in the union of these
two words was a prophylactic virtue, and repeated them over
and over again. Then a cry went up, which might have reached
the skies, had the celestial scenery been as near as it appeared
on that still December morning. Deacon Ned followed the
piercing cry with the startling declaration : —

“De yarth am comin’ up an’ de hebens am comin’ down !”

With this thrilling announcement in my ears, I left my room,
and went down into the hall, and out into theair. A Christmas
carol from the chimes of some unknown tower was floating
through the sky like an angel's song.

Aunt Chloe, the woman of occult wisdom, rose up when she
saw me.

“Oh, Massa Up-Nof, dey is comin’! Wot you say now?”

“Where?”

‘“* Dere — on’ ye see “em? Clar as de mornin’! Hain’t ye
got de clar vision ?”

She pointed wildly to one of the forms of the night mist, and
stood with one arm raised and white-orbed eyes.

‘Don’ ye see dat white hoss dar, widout any head, an’
smokin’? An don’ ye see dem five white hosses dat am bein’
created behind him ?”

Then she pointed again toward the marshes, and I saw them.

There, as plainly as I ever saw anything, was a white horse
without a head, his neck smoking. Behind him were five other
white horses rising from the marshes.

“You see, now ?”

“Yes.”

“You hab de clar vision? Wot did I tell ye!”

SOI Se ea
THREE BALLS OF YARN. 265

“You can’t discern dese tings widout de seein’ eye. Wot
did I tell ye!”

The forms rolled over the marshes, and through the outward
shrubbery of the gardens, and disappeared, dissolving as they
approached the higher part of the city. The negroes stood like
statues.

“Tt has passed by,” said Deacon Ned. “ Bress de Laud!”

* Aunt Chloe,” said I,“ you said there was a mystery of the
mystery. What is it? I must know.”

She heaved a deep sigh, but as of relief, and then said, slowly,
* Massa Up-Nof, nobody sees em as hosses until dey are told
dat dey be horses. Den dey hab de seein’ eye. Do ye see?”

“T see.” IJ did, indeed.

“ Dey was hosses; warn’t dey now, Massa Up-Nof?”

“Yes, Aunt Chloe, I saw them as plainly as I saw the
President’s horses on Inauguration Day.”

The negroes disappeared in the shadows.

I slept serenely, and when I awoke, all the Christmas bells
were ringing. There was a mystery of the mystery, and that
key will unlock many doors.

But I shall never forget the impressions made upon my mind
that night at the old Van Ness house; and wherever Christmas
may find me, that haunting memory will always return again.
No American Christmas story ever made such a vivid impres-
sion upon me, or left in my mind so many suggestive lessons.
And the story is substantially true.

THREE BALLS OF YARN.
BUZ-Z-Z-Z.
“¢ My wheel goes round: my hopes are dead ;
And wild blows the wind over Marblehead.’ ”
It was the spinning-wheel cf Dame Guppy, of Marblehead.
Steadily it had been going for three days.
266 ZIGZAG STORIES.

“What can it mean?” said Mary Glover. “Oh, I get so
tired of the sound of it!”

The girl opened the door of Dame Guppy’s room. The
wheel was flying like the foam around the rocks of Marblehead,
and making ‘a noise like the March winds against the cliffs.
Dame Guppy was singing to her wheel. Pretty Mary Glover
knew the song well! It was the old sea rune of the New
Scotland sailors.

“Mary, are you here?” said the tall spinster.

“Yes, Aunt Roxana. What makes you spin so, and look so,
and sing so?”

“Why do I spin so? Because I’ve had a letter from your
father, —a war letter. The soldiers’ feet are freezing in the
snow. Go away now. I can’t spend time in talking.

“¢ My wheel goes round; my hopes are dead ;
And wild blows the wind over Marblehead.
My wheel goes round.’”

Who was Mary Glover?

She was the daughter of General John Glover, and lived in
a house which may be standing to-day on Glover Square,
Marblehead.

John Glover was at the Falls of the Delaware, with his
famous marine regiment. He was the friend of Washington,
and is known in history as the hero of Trenton. His muffled
oars twice saved the American army,— once on Long Island,
and again when they beat the frozen waters of the Delaware
on that dark Christmas night about which every school-boy
knows. It was John Glover who executed Major André, and
wept while his stern men performed the tragedy. One may
see his bronze statue on Commonwealth Avenue, Boston, ‘The
Minute-man of Marblehead.”

A rugged little man he was, with a brave, warm heart, but
THREE BALLS OF YARN. 207

with a tongue that spoke roughly and plainly at all times, even
to Washington himself, and often when his friends wished that
it could be silenced. He used rough adjectives too, when
excited, this warm-hearted and fearless General John Glover.
The tender heart and fearless tongue he had inherited from old
Jonathan Glover, his father, the intrepid benefactor of the
wind-haunted seaport town.

John Glover, the general, or the “ Minute-man of Marble-
head,’ as he was called, had a maiden relative called Dame
Roxana, or Aunt Roxana, who was said to be “a little touched
in mind.” It was this lady whose spinning-wheel had been
going three days. She was a very benevolent woman, and
usually very cheerful, but lately she had grown grave and sad,
and with this change had come the spinning.

There was a lull in the sound of the wheel. .The rolls of
wool were spent. During the two following days, Roxana
Guppy was busy in her room, and a few days after this period
of stillness an odd event happerfed in the domestic history of
the truth-speaking Glover family. It was this : —

Dame Roxana went into the room where the family were
sitting one Saturday evening, with something folded in her
oldtime apron. What could it be? Not a spring lamb, for it
was winter; she had sometimes folded weak spring lambs in
her apron in this way. Not goslings, although she had some-
times mothered goslings in this way also. Not treasure; the
mysterious commodity was too large for that, although Dame
Roxana was said to be “well off” by the good fisher people of
the town: “ Well off, a little touched in mind, but not crazy.”

The family at this time consisted of six children, and Mary
Rawson, —an attractive girl whose parents were dead, and whio
had been appointed a home by the selectmen in the leading
family of the town. Mary Glover and Mary Rawson had be-
come warm friends, and both had a strong feeling of affection
for stately Dame Roxana Guppy.
268 ZIGZAG STORIES.

“ There,” said Dame Roxana, “I am going to give these two
girls presents that ought to make them happy.”

She stood tall and thin in the light of the dipped candle,
holding up her apron. Her cap border rose high above her
forehead, and its two “strings” fell back over her shoulders.
There was a forced smile on her face, and an unusual bright-
ness in her black eyes. The two Marys were filled with curi-
osity. They did not dare to ask what the presents were, but
waited for what she had to say.

“Tf you do good and make others happy,’
Roxana, “ you will be happy yourself.”

“ Yes,” answered the girls.

They had heard Aunt Roxana repeat this trite truth many
times, and it did not interest them. They were eager for what
was to follow.

“That is the way to find the key to happiness,” she con-
tinued. “We gain in this world by giving, and selfishness
shuts the door of life.

> continued Dame

«This ae night, this ae night,
Every night and a’.’”

She looked sharply at Mary Glover and then at Mary
Rawson.

“Yes, I think you realize it;” and then a kindly look came
into her troubled face. ‘ Now, girls, see what I have in my
apron; here are three balls of yarn.”

The girls looked into the slowly opened apron and saw three
great balls.

“How large they are!” said Mary Glover.

“Such great balls!” responded Mary Rawson.

“It would take a long time to knit that ball,” said Mary
Glover.

« Yes,” said Aunt Roxana, “the balls are large.” Her face
lighted up like her old self; then she gave her cap border an
energetic bob as she continued : —
THREE BALLS OF YARN. 269

“Here, Mary Glover, I am going to give you this ball to
knit for the army. When you have knit all of the yarn on it,
I think you will find one of the keys of happiness. At any
rate you will have the pleasant consciousness of having helped
those who are suffering. I have had a letter from the army
on the Delaware. I cannot tell you what is in it; but the men
need stockings.”

“Thank you,” said Mary Glover.

“ And here. Mary Rawson, is a ball for you. Knit the yarn
on it in the same way, and for the same reason, and maybe by
it you will find one of the keys of happiness too.”

“Thank you,” said Mary Rawson.

“Now. this third ball I have spun for you,” said the Dame
to Mrs. Glover. “Knit it for John Glover, true man that he
is. He will need stockings soon. Now, good-night all.”

Straight as an arrow, with her cap border bobbing like a
plume, Dame Guppy moved out of the room. The whole
family looked at one another, then the boys began to laugh,
for pretty Mary Rawson's face had assumed an expression of
disappointment and chagrin.

“A generous gift,” said she, tossing up the immense ball.
“Iam to knit all this for nothing. The pleasure of doing good
is to find me one of the keys to happiness, is it? If anybody
should undertake to knit all the yarn in such a ball as that, and
live through it, I should think she would be happy. I should
be, I know. Dame Guppy always was queer, and this is
queerer than ever.”

The two girls went to their own room, taking with them the
two balls of yarn.

“What are you going to do with yours? ” asked Mary
Rawson, when they were by themselves.

“Knit it, of course. It will help the soldiers, for they are
suffering. I’ve no doubt that Aunt has heard more than she
has told us. She has worked hard to card the wool and spin
270 ZIGZAG STORIES.

the yarn; besides, she has always been good and kind to me.
I wouldn’t hurt her feelings for the world, and I know there
is much need of the stockings in the army. Shall you knit
yours?”

“Yes, I’ll knit one pair of stockings and then, —do you
know what I’ll do? I’ll heave it. So you see I'll get rid of
the work, get a beau, and get my ball of yarn back besides.”

There was an odd custom in Marblehead at this time. It
was the “ heaving ” of a ball of yarn by fishermen’s daughters.
Any such custom could not find a place in the social life of
to-day, but it was not considered improper then. When a
fisherman’s daughter was pleased with one of the young men
of the town whom she would wed, she tossed a ball to him,
sometimes on the street and sometimes out of the window as
he was passing the house. This was commonly done on early
evenings, on holidays, and especially on training days.

If he picked up the ball and returned to her with it, the two
were likely to become engaged to be married, and the wedding
that followed often lasted a week. If he did not return the
ball of yarn, no discredit was attached to either party; but the
girl was sometimes laughed at and often carried a heavy heart.

The custom was much like that of Saint Valentine’s day, only
more serious, —a rude thing, indeed, according to the ideas of
propriety to-day, — but not held to be so then in the little pro-
vincial town. ‘To heave a ball of yarn was to invite a young
man’s attention with an honorable intent, and no more evil
came of this odd custom than any more modern and discreet
way of expressing sentiment. Throwing a ball became at last
a kind of provincial play.

Mary Glover’s needles flew, and a bundle of stockings for
her brave husband were soon knit. Her daughter’s needles
also plied as rapidly. Mary Rawson knit one pair of stockings,
and then she said to her young friend, —

“That ’s all the knitting T shall do; as to the rest, I Il toss
THREE BALLS OF YARN. 271

it to Prince Fortunate, when he comes galloping along, and
time will unriddle all the rest.”

One bleak December day, when the sky was steel, and the
keen winds blew the sea-gulls hither and thither, and churned
the tides around the wave-eaten rocks, there rode into Marble-
head a handsome courier, with a military cap and sash. No one
in the village knew why he came, but those who saw him sup-
posed that he had been sent from the American army. Ie
sought the selectmen, and at evening mounted his horse again,
to ride away. The red sunset was glimmering over the dark
sea amid billowy clouds. The long moan of the beaches was
heard on every hand. There were faces at the windows in
the zigzag lanes.

As the officer passed the house of General Glover, he looked
toward the window as if he would like to stop, but instead
rode slowly on. Before he had fully passed the house, a window
was thrown open; a beautiful young face appeared, and a large
ball of yarn was thrown after the rider. Then the window was
closed, the bright face disappeared, and a green curtain was
dropped. The retnces stopped, dismounted, picked up the ball,
and rode away.

Several eyes in the gabled houses that stood at irregular
angles about the roads had seen this incident, and knew what
hand had thrown the ball. The throwing of a ball to a stranger
did not belong properly to the allowed provincialisms, and it
was criticised as bold and unmaidenly even then. The news of
it flew through the town, and excited curiosity as to what would
be the result.

“T have thrown my ball of yarn,” said Mary Rawson to Mary
Glover that night.

“To whom?”

“To the young officer who came to town to-day.”

ct ou I’m sure you do not know what you have thrown
away.”
272 ZIGZAG STORIES.

*“ What do you mean? Not my good name?”

“JT hope not; but I found something in the middle of my ball
of yarn, and so did mother in hers. I am sure there was some-
thing in yours.”

“ Why did n’t you tell me?” asked Mary Rawson, excitedly.

“ We have but just found the articles inside the balls, after
the yarn had been all used in knitting stockings.”

“ Articles! What were they?”

“ A gold chain and a key was in mine. There was a purse in
Mother’s and some poetry.”

Mary heard with large eyes.

“« And —”

ow. hat?

“ Dame Roxana said that the key would fit a certain box in
her room, and that I might open the box on my wedding day,
and have all I found in it.”

“Oh, I wonder what was in mine!” exclaimed Mary, in
a tone that showed she was disappointed and angry with
herself.

That evening the tall form of Dame Guppy confronted Mary
Rawson.

*“ You threw away the ball I gave you?” said she.

“ Yes, but I did n’t know what was in it.”

“Your character was in it, and I fear you have thrown that
away. The act shows how little heart and conscience you
have.”

“ But, Aunt, what was in the ball?”

“JT shall never tell you; only this, — yourself was in the
ball.”

‘But the young officer will return it.”

“To me, if to any one,” said the eccentric woman. ‘The
ball was given you for the soldiers, and you were not to have
the contents unless the yarn was knit by you. See?
THREE BALLS OF YARN.

Kt
-I1
qa

“ Every night and a’,
Sit thee down and put them on,
And may Christ save thy sa’,

« ¢ Tf hosen and shoon thou hast given nane,
Every night and a’,
The winnies will prick thee to the bane,
And may Christ save thy sa’.’

“TJ will tell you, Mary, you will be given eyes to see one day
that men and women gain by giving, and that selfishness closes
the doors of life. Remember, —

«“¢ This ae night, this ae night,
Every night and a’,
Fire and sleet and candle-light,
And may Christ save thy sa’.’ ”

What was in Mary Rawson’s ball of yarn? Would the young
officer ever return it to her? The two questions haunted the
girl.

Months passed. General Glover and the Marbleheaders
piloted Washington across the Delaware and became the heroes
of Trenton. The brave Marblehead regiment became known
throughout the colonies. But General Glover's family gave
him anxiety, for they were very poor.

“A few days ago,” he wrote to General Washington, from
West Point, in January, 1781, “I received a letter from my
daughter, the purport of which has caused me much anxiety.
My affection for my helpless children urges the necessity of
making them a visit before the campaign opens, for they are
suffering. My daughter of eighteen has the care of the other
children. They live in Marblehead, where food is dear, and 1
have not received any pay for twenty months.”

That was a grand celebration of Independence Day, when,

in 1784, the old bell of Marblehead rang out over the summer
18
274 ZIGZAG STORIES.

sea for the return of the survivors of Valley Forge and .Tren-
ton. The vessels in the harbor blossomed with flags; the men
who had marched over frozen clods with broken shoes and
stockingless feet to the shores of the Delaware were there.
Over the house of General Glover floated the grand old battle-
flag. Cannon boomed from the rocks; the people filled the
streets, dressed in holiday attire.

There came riding into the town, early in the morning of
that day, the same courier who had visited the place on a secret
mission just before the battle of Trenton. It was Lieutenant
Blythe, a trusted courier under General Glover. He marched
that day by the side of the general. The people had heard his
history, and remembered what had occurred as he rode past
General Glover’s house on his last visit to Marblehead. He
had a fine, manly face, and was cheered wherever he appeared.

His coming filled Mary Rawson with hope, pleasure, and yet
with a kind of apprehension and terror.

After the long silence, in which she had felt the chill of
public opinion, had her day of triumph come at last?

“Hurrah for the stocking-knitters!” shouted some of the
men of the regiment as they marched past the house of Gen-
eral Glover, and saluted the women in the door.

Mary Rawson answered the shout with a wave of a hand-
kerchief, and at the same moment felt a hand upon her shoulder,
and a voice in a tone of reproof said, —

«“ ¢ Tf thou hast hosen and shoon,
Every night and a’,
Sit thee down and put them on.’ ”

It was Aunt Guppy, tall and scornful, with a red handkerchief
plaited over her breast, and a cap border starched higher than
ever.

That afternoon, just before the officer was to leave town, he
asked General Glover, “Can I see Mary Rawson?”
THREE BALLS OF YARN. 275

“ Certainly.”

The two were introduced in the parlor and were soon left
there by themselves.

“Miss Rawson,” said the officer, “will you allow me to say
that I found a chain and key in the ball of yarn which I have
been told you threw after me when I was last in Marblehead?
I was told by the general what the throwing of a ball of yarn
implied, and let me assure you, I was not insensible to the com-
pliment; but I have not hesitated as to what I ought to do.
You will pardon me, I hope, but I have to return to you the
chain and key, as in honor Iam bound to do, and there I must
leave the matter; I cannot do more. JI should have been better
pleased had you knit the ball for our soldiers, who were at that
time suffering greatly.”

The girl started back with a resentful look, her cheek turn-
ing pale and her lips colorless.

“You may see to-day what the sufferings of the American
soldier have done for this nation,” he added. He drew back
the curtain. The sea-breeze was moving the cool boughs of
the trees, and the flag was floating above the green, full of sun-
shine, beauty, and peace.

The eyes of the two fell silently upon the flag. There it
unfolded its stars and threw out its triumphant folds on the free
air.

“This is the only response I can make,” he said. “ Here is
the key.”

Mary turned away with a white face, saying, —

“<« This ae night, this ae night,
Every night and a’,
Tf hosen and shoon thou hast given nane,
Every night and a’,
The winnies will prick thee to the bane,
And may Christ save thy sa’.’
276 ZIGZAG STORIES.

“Iam justly punished. Aunt was not responsible for all her
eccentricities ; but if she was, I am sure of the truth of what
she so often said, that we gain in this world by giving, and
selfishness shuts the door of life.”

A MODERN SAMSON, WHOSE HAIR GREW AGAIN.

SUNDAY was a still day in old New England a century ago.
People did not ride much nor walk far. It was a still day, even
in haying time.

There were few farmers then who regarded labor in the hay-
field on the Sabbath as a work of necessity. This idea was of
later growth, when farm life on that day began to show greater
activity.

How still it was in those old sacred days in the fiery mid-
summer weather! The church bell rang at ten o’clock, and its
notes echoed among the hills and along the valleys. The
swarths of cut grass lay as the scythes of the mowers had left
them on Saturday. No dinner horn blew; the bells of no bread-
cart man came jingling lazily along from house to house; no ox-
cart rumbled over the roads.

After church the hired men rested in the half-filled haylofts in
the barn or under the shadows of the trees, and, perhaps, dis-
cussed the morning sermon, or told the old wonder-tales of the
farms and inns. If clouds gathered in the afternoon, the deacon
would stand in his door, and shade his eyes, and say, —

“T guess there’s goin’ to be a shower, and the hay will get
a wettin’,” and would retire to his lounge with peace of con-
science, leaving the ricks and windrows of hay to the mercy of
the sky.

It was such a Sabbath afternoon that the Widow Stillwell sat
in the door of her cottage, and looked out on the fragrant fields
A MODERN SAMSON, WHOSE HAIR GREW AGAIN. 277

and green woods. Her son, Gideon, or “ Gid,” as she called
him, had just returned from church.

“ There’s cold victuals on the table, Gid,” she said. “The
coffee is cold, ’cos I ain’t goin’ to kindle any fire to-day.
There’s milk and mush and corn’ beef, and swamp tarts, and
wild strawberries and cream, and that’s enough. What did the
preacher preach about?”

“ Samson !”

“Sho —did he? That was a powerful subject. Where was
the text? You tell me, and Ill find it, and after dinner I'll
talk with you about it, and you must n’t go to sleep while your
old mother is talkin’. You'll think of me some day, when I am
dead. Where was it, Gid?”

“T don’t know where, Mother, but I recollect the words:
‘ And the Philistines took him and put out his eyes, and brought
him down to Gaza, and he did grind in the prison-house.’”

“Good for ye, Gid! What a memory you have got! That
does yer old mother’s heart good. ‘Did grind in the prison-
house.” Ill get the concordance and look it up. You'go and
get your dinner.”

Gideon sat down at a scoured oak-table in the long porch, to
a cold Sunday dinner. The door was open, and a hen with a
brood of chickens came in, and he fed them.

“ What you doin’, Gid?”

“ Oh, nothin’, Mother.”

Mrs. Stillwell appeared and saw the hen and chickens,
and raised her apron and said, “Shoo;” then added, “* And
he did grind in the prison-house ;’ that’s a mighty improvin’
text.

“No matter how good folk a man may have, if he don’t do as
he ought to do, he will one day find himself at the mill grindin’,
with his eyes put out. Eh? I’ve seen a lot of folks grindin’
in my day. Yes, Gid, grindin’, grindin’, grindin’, grindin’.

“Sin puts out the eyes of its servants, and sends them all
278 ZIGZAG STORIES.

grindin’, grindin’, grindin’ at the mill, and a sorry spectacle they
are at last.

“There’s "Squire Brown’s son; he’s just drinked up his
father’s farm, and the Philistines have got him; he’s grindin’,
grindin’, grindin’. There ’s Ned Gray, he that ran away with
the Gratlin gal; he was heady; he’s grindin’. The Philistines
have got him.

“Gideon, that’s a mighty improvin’ text. Be careful that
the Philistines don’t ever get you.”

“ But, mother —”

“What, Gid?”

“ The parson, he said ‘ howbert.

“ Howbeit what, Gid?”

“¢ Howbeit the hair of his head began to grow after he was
shaven.”

“Yes, but he wasn’t what he used to be. Don’t you ever be
a howbeit man, Gideon. Have ye eaten all ye want? Well, let
us go and set down in the keepin’ room, and talk. Ill wash
the dinner dishes to-morrow.”

The widow found the text of the sermon in the Book of
Judges, and began to give her views upon it. In the midst of a
very earnest exhortation she dropped her spectacles and lifted
her hands.

“ Asleep, Gid? Well, the poor boy has worked hard during
the week.”

She gazed out of the window under the morning-glories. An
old guide-post stood at the corner of the ways.

“ Poor boy,” she said to herself, “I wonder what course he
will take. There are clouds in the sky, and the robins are
singin’, and I’ll go out and see that the cows come up to the
apple pasture, so that Gideon will not have to hunt for them if
it comes on to rain.”

She went out. The clouds passed, and the Sabbath echoed to
the golden coronation of a long twilight.

999
A MODERN SAMSON, WHOSE HAIR GREW AGAIN. 279

Gideon Stillwell was a bright boy. The widow said that he
“favored his father,’ who came to be at last a justice of the
peace. In the Friday evening conference meetings, and at the
winter evening debating societies at the schoolhouse, Gideon’s
voice always awakened expectation, and at the “speaking
schools,” that held weekly evening sessions at the schoolhouse,
he was always received with great cheering when he stepped
upon the platform, and honored with greater cheering when he
stepped down. At an early age, after attaining his majority, he
was elected field-driver and pound-keeper at the town meeting,
and at the age of twenty-five he arrived at the high honor of his
father, in being made a justice of the peace. ‘These were days
that made the widow’s heart glad.

3ut there was a barter store in the neighborhood, where all
kinds of commodities were sold, and to this Gideon began to go
to spend his evenings, to play checkers and joke and _ talk.
Here he learned to drink Lquors and treat, and became intimate
with some young men who, like the favorite hero of the drink-
ing song of the time, * Rosin the Beau,” believed in having a
merry time in the world. To use the refrain of one of their
songs as a picture : —

« To-night we ’ll merry, merry be,
And to-morrow we’ll get sober.”

On holidays these jovial fellows became a terror and a nui-
sance to the community, and they made it a habit to celebrate
the evening before the Fourth of July by a frolic, or, as they
termed it in country language, by “ going off on a spree.”

This change of habits led to a great change in Gideon. The
community were very charitable towarls his weaknesses and
lapses, because he was a widow’s son, and his father had been a
good man, and his own life had opened in such a promising way.

“T’m sorry,” said the old parson, “ but let us be kindly. He
280 ZIGZAG STORIES.

will return to his Father’s house again; ” and, with this chari-

table, spiritual figure, he rested the case with hope.

Independence Day, after the victory of Commodore Perry on
Lake Erie, was for several years celebrated with great enthu-
siasm in all American cities and towns. The bands played
“The President's March;” floral chariots, with young girls
representing goddesses, led triumphal processions; arches
spanned the streets, and the country people gathered about the
gingerbread carts in the towns. The nights blazed with bon-
fires; tar barrels made lurid the sky, and bells and cannon
awoke the morn and saluted the sunset. It was a day of fire
and noise — the one great day that voiced the exultant political
spirit of the time. America stood for liberty in the view of
those good times; and liberty was destined to topple all
thrones and crumble all crowns, and lead the world to ultimate
equality of rights, to a unity of brotherhood and never-ending
peace.

The young orator was usually the hero of these unexampled
celebrations. He was sometimes a minister, sometimes a lawyer
or college student. He usually began his oration with “Ladies
and Gentlemen: We have assembled here to commemorate
the days on which our fathers fought, bled, and died.” Then
the eagle began to fly.

Next in honor to the orator was the reader of the Declara-
tion of Independence, who gave that document of Jefferson to
the public in an oratorical tone, which was a kind of heroic
chant. The grand language, “ When, in the course of human
events,” was thrown on the air like the voice of a trumpet;
the arraignment of George III. rose and fell in stately tones,
and the effectiveness and eloquence of the reading was a
subject of comment for weeks after the event.

It was in one of these grand patriotic years that Bristol, the
town in which the Widow Stillwell and her son lived, had voted
at the town meeting to hold a celebration on the coming Fourth
A MODERN SAMSON, WHOSE HAIR GREW AGAIN. 281

of July, and had chosen the then justices of the peace and the
old Orthodox clergyman to act as a committee.

The committee appointed the young Episcopal clergyman of
the place as orator, and, at the advice of the parson, Gideon
Stillwell to read the Deciaration of Independence.

A part of the committee made objection to this last nomination.

“ Gideon has a grand voice,” said the parson.

“But his conduct on past Independence Days has not been
an honor to the town,” said one. ‘ He carouses.”

“This will save him. This will save him,” said the old
parson. “ This honor will go right to his heart, and make a
‘man of him. And,” he added kindly, “it will cheer the heart
of his mother. The widow is a good woman — a good family ;
they helped burn the ‘ Gaspee.’”

This last touch appealed to local patriotism, and the com-
mittee unanimously voted that Gideon Stillwell should read
the Declaration.

Gideon received this intelligence of this crown of honor with
a divided heart. He had spent his evenings much at the store
of late, and he and his comrades had agreed to have a frolie on
the night of the Fourth, and had formed a strange plan to
startle the town.

On the old farms around the town there were, in midsummer,
old stacks of hay that had been left over from the foddering
seasons. With the exception of the tar-barrel, there is nothing
that will fill.the sky at night with such a lurid light as the
burning of an old haystack. It was the secret plan of the jolly
fellows who met at the country store to set fire to all of the
old haystacks on the farms around the town on the evening
of the Fourth, and then to assemble in the old place and enjoy
the excitement of the joke, and have a drunken carousal,

If Gideon Stillwell accepted the high honor offered him for
the Fourth, he must at once break away from his old comrades
and all association with this unlawful escapade.
282 ZIGZAG STORIES.

The sensation of the proposed frolic had been a delightful
prospect to Gideon’s mind. But the town had appealed to his
better nature, pride, and honor. He thought of his mother, his
Revolutionary ancestry, and his future; and he accepted the
invitation, and began to rehearse the eloquent reading out in
the barn and in the woods.

Poor Widow Stillwell used to listen to these rehearsals at
the door. She delighted to hear “created free and equal,” and
‘inalienable rights,” and “life and liberty and the pursuit of
happiness” soaring like eagles over mountain tops into the
air. She shut the door softly when “ these States are and of a
right ought to be free and independent,” and sometimes sat
down and covered her face with her apron, saying, “ Oh, that
I should ever be blessed by being the mother of a boy like
that!”

The town of Bristol contained the county jail. In the yard
there had been placed a curious machine for the discipline of
stubborn prisoners, called a treadmill. Prisoners were not
numerous in the county, and there really seemed to be no
especial need of this English instrument of torture; but other
officers of prisons were building them to meet the wants of
difficult cases, and the officers here were public-spirited men,
and did not like to be wanting in any of the improved methods
of discipline and compulsory reform.

These treadmills were constructed on the principle of the
old-fashioned horsethreshing-machines. The culprit who was
placed in one was compelled to tread until he was released.

This clock-work motion soon became very tiresome, painful,
and exhausting. The officers of prisons called the discipline
“the breaking of the will.’ Most prisoners so disciplined
promised obedience after a very short experience. Of all dis-
couraging inventions to subdue crankiness and_perverseness,
the treadmill was one of the most effective.

Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes, in his early years, once wrote a
A MODERN SAMSON, WHOSE HAIR GREW AGAIN, 283

treadmill song, which used to be found in old readers and
speakers : —
“ The stars are rolling in the skies,
The earth rolls on below,
And we can feel the rattling wheels
Revolving as we go.
Then tread away, my gallant boys,
And make the axle fly;
Why should not wheels go round about
Like planets in the sky?” ‘

The treadmill as a prison punishment has long disappeared
from penal institutions in England and Aierica.

The evening of the Fourth of July came after a blazing day
on the blue bays and green hay-fields. The jolly jokers met
early at the store. In an old ill-starred moment of weakness
Gideon had consented to meet with them, although he had de-
clined to go with them. The party were in high spirits, and
were enjoying their fun in anticipation.

* Gideon,” said one, go.”

“ But the reading at the church?”

“No one outside of the party will ever know how you spent
the night, and you may be sure that none of us will tell.”

“But if we were to be detected? It would ruin my name,
and be a disgrace to the town.”

“ We are not going to be detected.”

“TI might get over-excited and heated, and drink too much,
and that would unfit me for to-morrow.”

“ We will see to that. We will not let you get drunk.”

“T’m heady when I have been drinking; my judgment is
warped; I do things that Iam sorry for. A little liquor brings
out all that is bad in me. When I am half drunk T am fit only
for crime. - You know how itis. You ought not to tempt me
to-night, of all nights. Everything in my life depends upon my
keeping straight to-night.”
284 ZIGZAG STORIES.

“But, Gideon, drink a little with jovial comrades.”

* Take a little just to wet your whistle,” said one.

He did; and then he took a little more to keep it company.
’ Presently he began to grow jovial, and slap his companions on
their backs and knees.

He looked out of the door on the green woods that the hills
lifted into the air. The moon was rising, shield-like and dusky,
like the sun coming up again.

“It’s a staver of a night,” said he; “just the one for a lark.
Boys, I’ll go.”

The moon rose over the dewy hills and glimmering bays. At
about eleven o’clock four great fires, like columns of flame, rose
into the air from as many farms. The sky became smoke, then
turned into a wannish glare, and the whole heavens seemed to
become a sheet of flame.

The church bells in the town began to ring. People rushed
out of their houses, both in the town and country. At midnight
the whole population was in the streets or roads.

“Tt is only haystacks,” said a fireman on horseback, as he
rushed back to the town from the farms.

But a more serious event happened. One of the burning
stacks communicated its flames to a large barn, and the burning
barn set fire to an old historic farmhouse. As soon as the
larkers discovered this serious result and began to comprehend
that their joke was a crime, they stole back to the store.

The early morning found them here intoxicated, and the
selectmen and town constables also found them here. The
officers rushed in to arrest them, when their eyes fell upon
Gideon.

They paused. Their hearts were full of chagrin, mortifica-
tion, and sorrow.

“We must do our duty,” said the constable.

The men were arrested and led amid wondering, humiliated
throngs to the county jail.
A MODERN SAMSON, WHOSE HAIR GREW AGAIN. 285

Once in the jail yard they began to throw off the cloud of
drunken stupor, and see their position.

They refused to enter the jail; rough words followed, and
then resistance was made to officers, and a fist fight put the cus-
todians of the peace at bay.

The constable sent for help. Strong men came; still the
prisoners resisted.

“ Force them down, and put them into the treadmill,” said
the sheriff.

There followed a rough handling of the stack burners, but
the officers were soon masters of the place, and the jolly party
of the night before found themselves on the revolving cylinder,
at the mercy of the common jailer. At the head of this sorry
row, who had started a motion that they could not stop, was
the appointed reader of the Declaration on this day of national
honor, Gideon Stillwell.

The jail yard was surrounded by a fence, and over this the
heads of boys began to rise.

“They’re in the treadmill. Here’s a sight; run, hurry,
oh, oh, they are in the treadmill!”

So shouted a pioneer in the discovery of this strange, odd
scene. Boys ran, men ran, and even girls and young women
ran, all who could mounted to the top of the fence, some shout-



ing, some jeering, some laughing, and some crying.

The treadmill here was a kind of shed, with stalls for five or
six prisoners, and a rail on which the culprits leaned.

Tf ever a man’s face wore an expression of agony, horror, and
despair, it was that of Gideon Stillwell on the glowing forenoon
of Independence Day. He heard the boys jeering on the fence,
and he knew that his disgrace would be the talk of the town for
a generation. He could not do anything to mitigate the humili-
ation of his position.

The high windows and the voofs of the houses around the jail
yard filled with people. Gideon heard voices in the air, crack-
286 ZIGZAG STORIES.

ers and horns, and lhe knew what it meant. But he was in the
wheel, and the wheel went round and round, and every revolu-
tion made his bones ache and ery out for rest.

One of his fellows began to rail and scold. This caused a
great outcry to go up from the fence.

The church bell pealed out on the air. Gideon heard it. It
was the bell that he had expected would call him to his place of
honor.

“ Now, Gideon, give us the Declaration.”

At this the boys all along the fence waved their hats and
cried, “Three cheers for Independence!”

Another cried, “ Three cheers for Washington, Commodore
Perry, and Gideon ;” which was followed by “ Three cheers for
Gideon’s Band!”

This last volley was repeated amid shouts of laughter. All
was excitement, merriment, and sorrow.

Suddenly there fella silence. The faces were turned back-
ward to the long street, and one boy said, ‘ She’s coming,” and
all ceased to jeer. The windows became silent and the house-
tops. One could hear the robins sing. But the wheel went
round.

An old woman on a crutch was coming down the street towards
the jail. All eyes were fixed upon her, and many eyes began to
fill with tears. She hobbled slowly along under the elms, her
gray hair flying on the light wind out of a funnel-shaped bonnet.

She came up to the fence, and said, —

“ Boy, get down, and let me see.”

The boy addressed dropped upon the ground. The old woman
raised herself on her crutch, and slowly lifted her gray head
above the fence. There was silence as deep as the air.

Her eyes were dim, but she saw it all. Her gaze was fixed
on Gideon, who was near her. And the wheel went round.

*“ Grindin’, Gideon ?”

The wheel went round.
AN ESCAPE FROM PIRATES. 287

“¢And the Philistines took him and put out his eyes, and he
did grind in the prison-house.” Oh, Gideon, do you remember ?”

The wheel went round.

“Gideon, I am in ‘the chamber over the gate, and I wish
that I were dead.”

The wheel went round.

“ Grindin’, grindin’, grindin’.”

The wheel went round.

“ Mother?”

«What, Gideon ?”

“ Howbeit, his hair began to grow after he was shaven.”

“+ Howbeit ?? Gideon, I will forgive ye. Yer old mother’s
heart is all that is left you now in the world. When you get
through grindin’ at the mill in the prison-house, come home,
Gideon. I’ll mortgage my place, and pay yer fine. And now
T’ll hobble back and pray. Tam all that is left to ye, and God
is all that is left to me.”

A bell rang. The wheel stopped.

And Gideon — his hair erew again. He lived down his dis-
grace and became a worthy citizen, and was forgiven by the
kind community.

He and his old mother sleep among the slated memorials of
the old churchyard near the the green, under the elms, where
the orioles sing in the summe?-time.

AN ESCAPE FROM PIRATES.

Ir a feeling of superstition with regard to unlucky vessels
were ever pardonable, it must surely have been so in the case of
the brig “ Crawford,” owned first at Freetown, Massachusetts,
and afterwards for many years at Warren, Rhode Island.

Tt would seem as if no nervous person, acquainted with her
288 ZIGZAG STORIES.

history, could have trod her decks in the still midnight watches
upon the ocean, without a creeping sensation of dread.

The writer has a distinct recollection of this little fullxrigged
brig, as a vessel which figured prominently among the notable
craft of his boyhood. There were dark stains on her deck which
had the appearance of iron rust, but which all knew were not
ivon rust. She had been the scene of a tragedy that, with its
associations, was one of the most remarkable upon record.

Her whaling voyages from Warren, of which she made a
number, were all unfortunate in a pecuniary sense. From one
of them, after an absence of fourteen months, she returned with-
out having taken a drop of oil, —her captain having actually
been obliged to purchase a supply for the binnacle lamp at some
foreign port.

But the one dreadful event of her history had occurred while
she belonged to Freetown. In fact, it was chiefly in conse-
quence of this that she was sold to her purchasers in Warren, —
her original owners feeling that they could no longer bear to
look upon her.

It was, I think, about 1829, that the “ Crawford” sailed for
the West Indies, under the command of a Captain Brightman,
whose crew consisted of his two mates, a cook, and three fore-
mast hands.

Her outward cargo was disposed of at Havana, and she was
nearly ready for the homeward voyage when four Spaniards
came on board, seeking for a passage to the United States.
They were villanous-looking fellows, with swarthy faces and
flashing black eyes.

The mate advised Captain Brightman not to accept them, and
urged his objections with some force. The captain himself hesi-
tated at first; but the thought of the passage-money was too
tempting, and he finally consented to take the strangers on board.

One of the four passengers could speak English, but his com-
panions knew only Spanish. After the brig had been at sea a
AN ESCAPE FROM PIRATES. 289

few days, the cook detected this man, whose name was Tardy,
in the act of sprinkling some white substance on a quantity of
food in the galley. Tardy explained that the article was a kind
of seasoning well known in Cuba, and that he wished the officers
and crew to try its flavor.

The cook scraped off as much of it as he could; but, although
the fact of his doing so shows that he must have had a suspicion
of foul play, he unfortunately did not make known the incident
until too late. He may have thought that his knife had removed
all danger.

Immediately after eating, the captain and chief mate were
taken violently ill The foremast hands also felt some bad
effects from their meal, though in a less degree; but the second
mate escaped, as his duties on deck had kept him from eating
with the captain. As to the four passengers, they, of course,
had taken care not to touch the food on which the white powder
had been sprinkled.

Tt was now that the terrified cook told the mate what had
oceurred in the galley. But in a few moments his voice was
silenced forever. He was struck down by the murderous
pirates, who, seeing that their work was but half accomplished
by the poison, at once proceeded to complete it with their knives.

The captain and chief mate they killed in the cabin; the cook
and one of the foremast hands were murdered close by the wind-
lass, on the forward part of the deck ; while another sailor was
killed as he stood at the wheel.

Meanwhile, the second mate, whose name was Durfee, and a
man named Allen Bicknell, of Barrington, Rhode Tsland, who
were now the only survivors, ran aloft, in the forlorn hope of
thus saving their lives. The pirates fired at Bicknell with pis-
tols, wounding him as he stood in the foretop.

Tardy now hailed the second mate, promising to spare his life
if he would come down, as they required him to navigate the

vessel. He accordingly descended, and was not harmed. See-
19
290 ZIGZAG STORIES.

ing the officer in present safety, Bicknell, the poor sailor, already
wounded, asked if they would spare him also. Upon receiving
a reply in the affirmative, he came painfully down the rigging;
but the moment he reached the deck he was killed.

The vessel was now entirely in the possession of these mon-
sters, and the feelings of Durfee must have been indescribable,
as he realized the extent of the tragedy and his own dreadful
situation.

He knew, of course, that the pirates would never, if they
could help it, permit him to leave the vessel alive. It might
serve their purpose to spare him for a time, but unless he should
be able to hit upon some manner of deliverance, the fate of his
shipmates must at last be his.

The bodies of the victims were thrown into the sea, and the
four murderous scoundrels then commenced searching the cabin,
being apparently aware that she had on board a considerable
amount of money. This they brought on deck and divided, all
the while talking rapidly in Spanish.

Tardy now informed the second mate that the brig must be
taken to South America. Durfee well knew that should he
carry the wretches to that part of the world, his own doom
would be sealed the moment they reached its shores. He sought
for some excuse to land elsewhere, and fortunately found one.

“J can take you to South America,” he said. “ but for such a
voyage we must have more water. We have only enough to
last for a short time, and we may be sixty or seventy days on
the passage.”

Tardy uttered a Spanish oath or two, and then asked if a sup-
ply could not be obtained by entering some inlet of the coast
where there would be no danger of capture.

“Yes,” replied Durfee, glad that the pirate had anticipated a
proposition which he himself had intended to make. ‘We
could run in at night and get out before morning. Then we
should be all ready for a voyage to South America or anywhere
else.”
AN ESCAPE FROM PIRATES. 291

Tardy flourished his knife fiercely before the face of his help-
less prisoner, thus indicating what would be done in case of the
least attempt at deception. Durfee’s nerves had already suffered
terribly, and it was only by the greatest effort that he could
maintain anything like an appearance of calmness.

Hastily running over in his thoughts the various inlets of the
coast, he resolved upon making for Chesapeake Bay. He was
far, however, from telling the pirates of his decision, but led
them to suppose that the destination was some obscure nook
among islands and promontories. It was fortunate for him that
they knew nothing whatever of the coast, and were ignorant even
of the existence of the wide water sheet which he had in mind.

He used to relate that while the vessel was running on the
course he had chosen, and he was filled with the most dreadful
anxiety lest his plans should, after all, miscarry, Tardy would
come to him, and with oaths, boast of the murders he had
cominitted.

Great was Durfee’s anxiety as the brig made the land. Soon
his fate would be decided. He thought with a sickening sensa-
tion of the pirates’ threats, but he thought, too, of the fort at Old
Point Comfort; and upon this his hope rested. Tt must, of
course, be approached at night; and luckily the Spaniards were
as anxious for the cover of darkness as was he himself, so that
he was permitted to keep off shore until past sunset.

Then the little brig stood in’ under all sail. With a fine
breeze she passed Cape Henry, and continued her course up the
bay. It was for Durfee an hour of unspeakable suspense. At
any moment the pirates might take alarm, and he felt almost a
surprise to find that they did not do so. Here and there could
be seen distant lights, but the shores were hidden in darkness,
and the evil-eyed wretches, wary as they were, seemed not to
suspect treachery.

Being for the time in command, as navigator and pilot, the
anxious officer was at the wheel, while his unwelcome compan-
ions stood ready to shorten sail and let go the anchor at his bid-
292 ZIGZAG STORIES.

ding. It may well be imagined that he measured with every
nerve alert each inch of the way.

The brig’s yawl hung at the stern davits. He had made sure
that its tackles were in running order. How near to the fort
would he dare to approach before bringing the brig to?

Presently he directed his dangerous crew to take in the light
sails and the courses. Tardy repeated the order in Spanish, and
it was obeyed.

“Let go the topsail halyards,” was the next command; and
down came the top-sail yards upon the caps.

Clearing his throat for another effort, Durfee felt that his
heart-throbs were almost suffocating. Nevertheless, he was able
to command his voice.

“Stand by to let go anchor!” he cried, feeling that in another
moment he would know his fate. The four pirates ran to the
windlass.

“Let go!”

There was a splash under the bow, and a swift paying out of
the cable. Just then Durfee sprang over the taffrail and into
the boat, lowering it instantly, and with a violent push sent it
spinning from under the brig’s counter; then, seizing an oar, he
commenced sculling with all his might. As he did so, he heard
the Spaniards rushing aft, but they were too late to get more
than a glimpse of him in the darkness.

The grim fortress at Old Point Comfort was not a quarter of
mile distant. Durfee’s calls drew the attention of the sentries,
and in a few minutes there were lights gleaming from a row of
port-holes, with the black muzzles of cannon looking threaten-
ingly forth into the darkness, and a dozen soldiers were at once
ordered to board the vessel. On reaching her, they found only
three of the pirates on deck. These were at once made prison-
ers. Hurrying into the cabin, they found Tardy lying dead
upon the floor. Struck with despair at the impossibility of
escape, he had chosen to die by his own hand rather than to
await the inevitable halter.
THE MYSTERIOUS SACK. 293

His three accomplices were tried and hanged at Norfolk.
They died protesting their innocence, and declaring that the
entire guilt rested upon their dead confederate.

As to poor Durfee, the second mate, after the dreadful scenes
he had passed through, he was never really himself. His ner-
vous system had been thoroughly shattered.

Who can wonder that painful thoughts were always associated
with the “Crawford,” or that a gloom should seem to invest
even the old Warren wharf where she used to lie?

THE MYSTERIOUS SACK; OR, TWO BUSHELS OF
CORN.

FARMER Brown was shelling four bushels of corn on the cob,
which, according to the mathematics and tabular weights and
measures of old New England days, would make two bushels of
corn for the purpose of the farm bin or the miller. He was
shelling the four bushels of corn by use of a common cob in
his right hand, which cob he used to remove the kernels by
pressure. This oldtime way of shelling corn made the hands
hard and horny, and the muscles of the wrist strong. Woe be
to the culprit who should have fallen into the hands of a profes-
sional corn-sheller! He might as well have been bound with
withes of hornbine. ‘The boy who felt the withy grasp of such
a left hand, and the application of a button-wood rod by such a
right hand, was sure to have his memory permanently quick-
ened, and the lesson usually proved effectual. Such farmers,
from their lordly dialogues with their oxen, had strong voices as
well as hands, and when one of them said, “ Boy,” it meant
much. And “boy” was just the word that Farmer Brown said
while shelling corn.
294 ZIGZAG STORIES.

Harry Brown, the “boy,” started. “ Boy” was a word of
command from the generalissimo of the farm.

sein? 24

Mrs. Brown was sitting in the armchair by the stand, knitting
by the tallow candle. Mr. Brown was shelling corn because he
had nothing else to do; and Mrs. Brown was knitting because
she had nothing else to do; and Harry Brown was studying a
music-book by good old William Billings, of Stoughton, because
he sang in the choir of Hard-Scrabble Church, — which is a real
name, and not one made up for story-telling purposgs. Harry
had been drawling “ Do, mi, sol, do,” when the word of com-
mand came.

“ Boy, seeing as it is now almost Thanksgiving time, I’m
going to do just the right thing —”

Mrs. Brown dropped her needles. What was goimg to happen ?
She was a thrifty, fugal woman. Was Mr. Brown going to
give away something out of their hard earnings and savings?
If so, what, and to whom? No unworthy person, she hoped.

“Tye been thinking over this bushel of corn; T always do a
deal of thinking when I am shelling corn.”

“ What you been thinking about, Eben ?”

“ About the sermon that Elder Leland preached on the text,
‘For if ye love them that love you, what reward have ye; do
not even the publicans so?’ Now, Peter Rugg has not used
me just right, and I am going to make him a present of two
bushels of corn. And, boy, you shall carry it over to him to-
morrow morning on horseback.”

Mrs. Brown’s cap border lifted. She dove at the snuffers,
and snuffed the candle with a spiteful dive at the long black
wick.

“Eben!”

“ Well, Eunice ?”

“Peter Rugg just gets his living by doing nothin’, don’t
he?” :
THE MYSTERIOUS SACK. 295

“Yes, but he is sick now; and you know the text. There’s
no merit in doin’ just what you want to do, and havin’ your own
way and will, and lookin’ for reward, Elder Leland says — ”

« And Peter Ruge’s wife, she goes a-visitin’ for a livin’, and
eats up everybody’s plum-cake and apple-sass —”’

“Yes, yes! but Peter was shiftless — born so, tired-like — and
she had to eat something ; and he’s sick now.”

“Well, I don’t approve no such doin’s. I don’t believe in
encouragin’ idleness. If a man will not work, neither shall
he eat! There now, Eben!”

“Do, mi, sol, do,” sang Harry.



“The morning sun shines from the east,
And spreads its glories to the west.”

He was practising the ‘Ode on Science,” — the crowning attain-
ment of all musical efforts in these simple singing-school days.

“Well, I do declare, Eben, I hope if you send two bushels of
corn, of your own shellin’ too, to that shiftless Peter Rugg — I
do hope —”

“ What, Eunice?”

“That it will never get there.”

“Sho! Eunice; that ain’t the right sperit, — when our barns
and cribs are full too, and Peter is the only real poor person in
the town too; and he’s the only one in all the world that has 1’t
used me quite right too. Ill have to send it to him, or else be
very poor and mean in soul, and carry about with me a feelin’
that I haven’t done my duty, and been grateful for all my
blessin’s. Eunice, I’m goin’ to do it anyhow.”

“ Well, all that I’ve got to say is that I do hope that the
grist will never get there.”

“ Now, boy, you may go to singin’-school.”

Harry slipped away with the parallelogram of an “ American
Vocalist” under his arm. The singing-school made great pro-
296 ZIGZAG STORIES.

gress on the “Ode on Science” that night, and Harry had
descended into those deep and cavernous regions of solemn
bass foundations with the ambition of a basso profundo.

The moon was hanging over the dark shoulders of Greylock,
and the lights glimmering on Stafford Hill, as he returned. It
was a crisp night, with a gleam of frost crystals everywhere in
the bare harvest fields, the blue gentian pastures, and alluvial
cranberry meadows. He continued to sing; he could not help
it, — the piece haunted him. Nothing at all so wonderful as
the accomplishment of that piece by the singing-school had ever
before come into his experience. The words, too, were magical
to him, —like a new world. So in the new creations of the
poet and composer, he jogged along, singing, until he came to
the graveyard where Captain Joab Stafford and the heroes of
Bennington lie buried, and then he continued to whdstle the
same tune.
pen when he was passing a graveyard.

The next morning Harry received the same peremptory sum-
mons to attention, —‘“ Boy!” Now, this was not intended in
this strange case to be reproachful toward Harry, but to let
prudential Eunice understand that in this case of casuistry his
mind was made up.

“ Boy, bring the old roan horse; and I will put on his back
the two bushels of corn.”

Eunice heard the order, and she knew that the laconic word
was meant for her ears. She said nothing, but went on grind-
ing coffee, pounding locker, mixing johnny-cake, straining milk,
boiling potatoes, breaking eggs, “ settin’” the table, “shooing ”
the hens from the doorstep, feeding the dog, and ‘“scatting ”
the cat; and all those varied and multiple duties that fall to
the experience of a thrifty farmer’s wife for the sake of being
supported.

The sun rose red over the valley and intervales. The blue
jays seemed to blow about screaming, and the crows cawed in
THE MYSTERIOUS SACK. 297

the walnut-trees. The conquiddles had ceased to sing; but
there was a chipper of squirrels everywhere. One could hear
the old mill-wheel turning in the distance two miles away.
The trees on Park Lane, the scene of the Mason farms, were
blazing like an army with crimson oriflammes, and fat turkeys
were gobbling around every farmhouse for miles. This was the
farm region of the famous Cheshire cheeses, — one of which,
weighing more than twelve hundred pounds, had been pre-
sented to President Jefferson, Elder Leland acting as envoy
for the merry farmers, and preaching all the way to Washington
and back while executing the curious commission.

After breakfast Harry brought the sorrel horse to the door,
and Eben, whose benevolent heart had prompted him to a duty
in spite of itself, put on his back the two bushels of corn so as
to form a kind of saddle, one bushel on one side, and the other
on. the other.

“Take the corn to the mill,” said Eben; “have it ground,
then take the meal to Peter Ruge, and be sure to tell him that
L sent it.”

Harry was no idiot boy like that in Wordswortls tale of Betty
Foy; but this morning his wits went wool-gathering. The Ode
on Science ” and his musical triumphs of the night before had
quite turned his head, and he started off singing, —

“The morning sun shines from the east,
And spreads its glories to the west.”

This was literally true. The morning was bright and the air
exhilarating, and the mountains in all the over-floods of glory
most inspiring. After singing the * Ode on Science,” Harry
essayed “ Majesty,” and he made the woods ring with :—

“On cherub and on cherubim
Full royally he rode,
And on the wings of mighty winds
Came flying all abroad.”
298 ZIGZAG STORIES.

He made even the chipmunks run, and the grave jays stop to
listen.

He was a happy boy, a very happy boy. It was a long way
from the red house and barn of Eben Brown's farm to the great
wooden mill-wheel on the Housatonic; but Harry did not urge
the roan horse, who had no disposition to be urged. Why
should one travel fast when everything is bright and beautiful?

Eben had tied the bag tightly the night before, after he had
reduced the four bushels of corn to two. He picked up every
kernel of corn that he had chanced to scatter over the floor, and
put it into the bag.

Now, in the house there were mice,
all the family were in the other world of dreams on the night
before, one or two of these mice had explored the kitchen, and
finding not so much as a single kernel of corn, after all the
vigorous shelling, had each gnawed a little hole, one in either
end of the bag, and had made a dainty meal, and slipped away,
leaving the two little holes. The motion of the sorrel horse,
as he walked mathematically along, began to shake out the corn
through either end of the bag, slowly at first, but very freely at
last, unperceived by Harry, whose mind was on wings in the
far-off musical sky.

As he went on singing and whistling, and sifting the corn
unperceived, a strange annoyance befell the felicitous knight
of the two bushels of corn. The hens ran after him from the
farmhouses the great flocks of turkeys gobbling, the waddling
geese quacking. He passed the great dairy farms under the
cool shadow of Greylock and the Park Lane Ridge. Every-
where there followed him great flocks of poultry, — hens, ducks,
geese, and turkeys; they grew to be almost an army at last
cackling, quacking, gobbling.

But Harry did not stop to investigate the cause of all this
gathering of wings and bills behind him. The fowl all seemed
happy; so was he. It was a bright and happy morning.



sly mice. And when
THE MYSTERIOUS SACK, 299

Once or twice he shook his fist at some new flocks of turkeys
that came flying and gobbling down from an old stone wall.

“Don’t you gobble at me!”
singing.

The composite army of farm fowl left him at last, and he
came in sight of the foaming mill-wheel that was tossing the
cool waters of the Housatonic near the grand old orchards of

he said, and then went on,

what was once one of the New Providence farms. New Provi-
dence is a vanished village now. Its churches and inns used
to be on Stafford Hill, but Cheshire village has taken its place.
One cannot so much as find New Providence on the map. It
was settled by the Masons and Browns and Coles from Swansea,
Massachusetts, and Coventry, Rhode Island. The colony went
to Sackville, New Brunswick, first, but finding the climate too
rigorous, followed their pastor, Elder Mason, to the Berkshire
Hills, and founded Cheshire under the name of New Providence.

Suddenly Harry ceased singing. The horse’s hack began to
grow hard. He thought that he would adjust the bag and
make his position easier. He clasped the bag



amd what a
look of amazement must have come into lis face! there was
nothing in it, not so much as a single kernel of corn!

Harry had heard of witches and things bewitched, of people
casting an evil eye, of the awful ghost story that Elder Leland
used to tell. He recalled his mother’s wish, aud wondered if
that had not bewitched the bag. Wad the bag untied? He
looked to see. No there was the string. His heart thumped,
and he felt hot flashes and cold shivers creep over him.

He stopped the horse. Crows cawed aboye him. The mill-
wheel turned and turned before him. Why should he go
forward? He had nothing for the miller; and what, oh, what
could he say to the miller if he went to the mill with an empty
bag ?

He would retrace his way, and see if that would offer any
clew to the appalling mystery ; but it offered none. There was
300 ZAAGZAG STORIES.

not so much as a kernel of corn in the road, and the turkeys
and geese and ducks and pullets everywhere seemed contented,
with full crops and fat sides. They did not even gobble or
quack or cackle. The world all seemed serene and happy.

What should he say to his father? And to his mother?

And what would the world say now? And Elder Leland,
who had been visited by a ghost and had heard voices from
the sky?

So toward the red farmhouse Harry Brown turned his horse’s
head in wonder and amazement. He thought of the awful
Indian tales and ghost tales of old Swansea, from which the
early settlers had come; of witches riding on broomsticks in
the air, and “spells” and “evil eyes” and all sorts of imagi-
nary mysteries. In this frame of mind he rode up under the
how-glass elm in front of the house, and his father came to
the door.

“Did he receive it well, sonny?” asked Eben, with a beam-
ing face.

“It is gone,” said Harry, with a doleful face.

“ What: gone?”

“The grist.”

“Sho! Where?”

Here Eunice’s white head appeared. She threw her apron
over it and listened anxiously.

“Tt disappeared.”

“ Where ?”

“Into the air.”

“ How?” j

“ Spirits.”

“ Boy!”

“ There, Eben,” said Eunice, “mind what I told you! The
universe is agin ye. You could n’t get a grist to Peter Ruge’s
if you were to go yourself. ’T would be flying in the face of
Providence. The powers are agin ye. I used to know all
about spells and such things in old Swansea.”
CAPTAIN KIDD'S TREASURE. 301

“We'll see; we'll see,’* said Eben.

That evening Eben shelled out two more bushels of corm. In
the morning he brought out the old roan horse, and put a bag
with the corn on his back. He then went to the barn and
brought a stiff button-wood rod which he had used for various
purposes of discipline and correction.

“ Boy!”

“Sir?”

“ Mount that horse.”

Harry mounted as before.

“Go to mill, Ill follow.”

The pilgrimage was performed with alacrity and safety. The
meal was carried to poor Peter Rugg, and received with a grate-
ful and penitent heart. Eben returned home happy; but what-
ever became of that first bag of two bushels of corn was always
a wonder to Harry, to Eunice, and their friends.

Eben’s expectations were realized in regard to Peter Ruge.
The good act restored his better will and heart, and made him
a true friend for life. Eben used to tell the story, and say,
« Always follow your better will, and do your duty, though the
universe be agin ye.” And so T will close by saying, “The
top of the world to ye all.”

CAPTAIN KIDD’S TREASURE; OR, THE MAN
WHO SAID “SCAT!”

“JT wounp have been a fine lady to-day, riding in a chariot
about Ipswich town, I would, if only Husband had been level-
headed like me, an’ had never said ‘Scat!’ for it was just that
drove away all our good fortune. Yes, ar-a-me! Husband he
just said ‘Scat!’ he did, and he drove away all our good for-
tune, an’ I never forgave him, an’ I didm’t give him any peace
302 ZIGZAG STORIES.

of his life after that, I didn’t; an’ now, ar-a-me! I’m a poor
lone widder livin’ alone, an’ too poor to hire a carriage to go to
the funeral of my own kin. Oh, it makes my heart turn sick to
think of what I might ’a’ been if Husband had n’t just said that
one word ‘Seat!’ it does. Ar-a-me! ar-a-me!”

In such words as these Goody Alder used to repeat some por-
tion of the history of her life almost daily. Her husband, Good-
win Alder, had been a cordwainer and digger of shell-fish; and
the two had lived happily together on a sandy road. that wound
around the Ipswich coast and overlooked Cape Ann, until a
dveam of riches came into their small cottage, and, despite its
morning-glories, the house never witnessed a day of peace after
that.

It was near the close of the last century when this happened,
while yet superstition shadowed the coast towns of New Eng-
land, and especially those around blue Cape Ann. ‘The wonder
tale of this period was of Captain Kidd, who was believed to
have buried treasures along the coast.

A whole fleet could hardly have carried the treasures that
this degenerate son of the old Scottish minister, who “sunk his
Bible in the sand as he sailed, as he sailed,” was supposed in the
popular imagination to have buried. The shores of Mount
Hope Bay and Cape Ann were thought to abound with his
covered booty, — the spoils of the Spanish main and the English
seas; and the problem of how to find these treasures was often
discussed by young and speculative minds by the great winter
fires.

While these stories of Kidd and his buried treasures were
glowing in the vivid imagination of the coast people, young

Goodwin Alder dreamed a remarkable dream three times. Had
he dreamed it once only, it would not have disturbed his peace,
but he dreamed it three nights; and in the unwritten opinion of
the times, to dream the same dream three times was a certain
sign that what it revealed was true, and should be heeded.
CAPTAIN KIDD’S TREASURRF. 303

He did not speak of his dream to his busy wife on the first
day after it had disturbed his sleep, but after the same vision



THE PROVINCE ILOUSE.

had come to him the second time, he said to her at the break fast-
table, —

“Goody, I dreamed a strange dream last night, and it’s the
second time I’ve dreamed it. I think it is going to be a sign.”
304 ZIGZAG STORIES.

“The second time? Why, what was it?”

“J dreamed that I had found some of the Kidd treasure on
Cape Ann.”

“Oh, Goodwin, an’ if you should dream it again to-night, I’m
sure it'll be a sign. What was it? If it comes true, maybe
I'll be like Lady Phipps, Sir William’s wife, you know; he was
one of the twenty or more poor children of one family up north
in the woods, an’ when he was grown up, he courted a widow,
am’ he told her that she should live in a ‘fine house in Boston
town.’ An’ he discovered a sunken treasure-ship in the Spanish
main, an’ they made him governor, they did; an’ she lived in
the Province House, she did, all just as grand as the grandest of
"em. Tell me what it was; I can’t wait a moment, I can’t. It
seems as if I should fly.”

“Well, Goody, I dreamed it was night, an’ the moon was full
an’ the tide was out, an’ a dark-looking man rose out of the sand
an’ came to me an’ turned around an’ beckoned me to follow
him. I dreamed I went after him, an’ we came to a place on
the shingle covered with thatch. An’ he said to me, ‘ Dig here,
an’ you mind you don’t speak; don’t you speak a word.’ An’
then IT woke up. An’ last night I dreamed that same dream
agin.”

Goodwin that day was a very absent-minded man. He went
to bed early in the evening, but the dream did not recur. In
fact, he was so excited that he hardly went to sleep at all; but
the following night he slept soundly, and the same dream came
to him, as it could hardly fail to do under the exciting circum-
stances; and as you may infer, the next morning there could
have been few more excited people in the world than Goodwin
and Goody Alder.

‘« Husband,” said Goody, “now you remember and not speak ;
you remember!”

“Of course I shall. I won’t speak to General Washington
himself; if he come a-riding upon a white horse where I was a-
CAPTAIN KIDD'S TREASURE. 805

digging, I would n’t. Men can keep their tongues still; they
ain’t like women.”

“ Now, don’t you be over-sure. If you speak, I’m sure the
spell will be broken, it will, an’ you'll lose the treasure. Ill go
with you when you go to dig. I don’t dare to trust you.
Ar-a-me!”’

“You go with me? No, you won’t. You’d spoil it all.
Don’t you know a woman can never hold her tongue? If you
were to see a sail, you would say ‘Oh!’ or ‘Look!’ an’ if you
were to stub your toe, you’d cry, ‘Ara-me!’ or something.
No, I’ll go alone.”

“ When are you goin’ ?”

“On the full of the moon at low tide. I know the place.
It’s the thatch patch. Don’t you know, you can see it from
the door?”

They went to the door. It was a summer day. The morn-
ing-glories were in bloom, and hung drying their dew and slowly
closing in the sun. Before them stretched the sea; upon it
here and there was a sail. The white sea-gulls were wheeling
high in the air, or flapping their wings just above the waves.

The surf, in a long curved line, was breaking in a sort of
rhythmic music like a pendulum-beat of the sea. It was a wide
desolation all, but the sun was so bright that it was very beauti-
ful. The two looked across the sea meadows. The thatch
patch was there, partly covered by the high tide of the full sea.
Beyond was a reef of brownish-black rocks on which the waves
were dashing.

“You see it?”

“Yes, yes! I see it. Now you mind, don’t you speak a word,
whatever happens. See if you can keep your head shut just
once in your life. What a blessin’ it would be, it would, if —
you were only dumb!”

The long-wished-for night came. The two saw the red moon

rise above the far oaks of the porphyry cliffs as they looked
20.
306 ZIGZAG STORIES.

from the open door. The fireflies flitted around the hillsides
and their spikes of firs, and the lights glimmered in the fishers’
cottages along the gray ledges.

The tide went out. Goody moved about restlessly on her
hobnailed shoes, her kerchief pinned tightly across her breast,
saying, “ Ar-a-me !”? —a byword she had made from the sound
of the sea.

The big house cat lay on the braided mat before the door.
She was fat and sleek, and well she might be, for the coast was
full of shell-fish, and she ran after the shell-fishers like a dog,
and was generally a welcome companion. The old clam-diggers
fed her with broken clams while they were digging. The skip-
pers all knew her, — lazy, fat, purring and mewing old Tabby
Alder.

Half-past eleven! Goodwin arose. He took his lantern, and
put a Bible in his pocket, the latter a protection, as he expressed
it, “’gainst the sperits of the air who bode no good to men.”
At the door he took his spade, and turning to Goody, said, —

“Tt’s dreadful solemn business, Goody, but I shall do it.
Here, here ’s the cat. Call her back; don’t let her follow me.
She might mew and spoil it all.”

“Now, Goodwin, for the life of you, don’t you speak a word.
Shut your mouth; there, keep it shut. Now, you mind; if you
don’t, Ill never give you any peace of your life, I won’t.”

She watched him from the door as his dark figure went away
toward the great glimmering waste of sand and sea. She heard
the waves breaking on the long coast. It seemed the very night
to her when evil spirits might be abroad on mischief. Then she
stood, nervous, and staring across the waste for a time. She
turned at last, and said: “Pussy! pussy! here, pussy!” but
pussy had disappeared. She closed the door, for the salt air was
cool, and sat down to wonder at what the event of all these
mysterious things was to be. I used to know her, for I once
lived in Ipswich.
CAPTAIN KIDD’S TREASURE. 307

I can almost hear her tell the rest of the story now, as the
old folks used to repeat it to me when a boy, and act it, with
her peculiar dialect, which was curious from the emphatic repe-
tition of the subject and predicate at the close of some of her
sentences, and the sea-sound, “ Ar-a-me.”

“ Well, I waited an hour, I did,’ she used to say; ‘and it
was the longest hour I ever knew, when I heard Goodwin ery,
It pierced my heart, for I knew he hadn't got the treasure, he
had n’t, but that something had got him. It made me think of
the old Boston story of the Devil and Tom Walker, it did; and
my hair began to creep around on my head. Ar-a-me !

“I went tothe door and listened. It was calm and still, it all
was. Ina minute or two, I heard the cry again; I can hear it
now: ‘Help! Help! Help! Help?!’

“T threw my apron over my head and ran over the salt
meadows toward the sea. The tide was coming in, it was. [
could see that, I could; and way down in the thatch fields, I
could just see Husband’s head above the thatch.

“Well, I flew, I just did. And when I got to the thatch
patch, I found Goodwin almost buried in sand and water, and
the tide was coming onto the thatch at every breaking of the
surf. Yes, it did. Ar-a-me!

“¢Help! help me out,’ he said, gasping, ‘I’m sinking, I
shall drown!’

“Well, you see, I’m a strong woman, I am, if I am small.
An’ I just took his hand, and I gave a strong pull, and then
another; and then another, and then a wash from the sea loos-
ened the sand, and pretty soon I pulled him out, I did, an’ he
was the most scared and discouraged-lookin’ man you ever did
see. Yes, he was. Ar-a-me!

“¢ Where’s the treasure?’ says I. ‘Where is it?’

“He looked kinder bewildered, he did; and then he said,
‘Did n’t I tell yer to keep that cat at home? Why didn’t yer
do it? It is all your own fault.’
308 ZIGZAG STORIES.

“ «What, for massy sake, has the cat to do with it?’ says I.

““«She made me lose the treasure after Id found it.’

“*She did? She did? I don’t believe it!’

“Yes, she did! I came to something hard as I was a-
diggin’, just as I dreamed it in my dream; an’ I was diggin’
away as fast as I could to find out what it was, when down
came tumbling that cat into the hole, mewin’ as loud as she
could mew, an’ I — I —’twas all your fault —I jest said
“Scat!” and that broke the spell; and then the sand began
to give way at the side an’ under my feet, an’ the water to rush
inter the hole, an’ I thought I was bein’ buried alive, an’ I
begun to holler; an’ the old cat is down there now. ’T was all
your own fault, Goody.’

“Well, we went home. He looked sheepish enough, he did ;
an’ I begun to lose my temper an’ scold, I did, an’ somehow, I
never stopped scoldin’ for the ten years that he lived, an’ then
he died. Ax-a-me!

“T never was satisfied with anything after that, I never was!
I had had my expectations raised so high. I had set my heart
on.a tall house in Boston town, I had, and there my husband
was only a cordwainer an’ clam-digger. He might ’a’ been a
governor, like William Phipps, if he had n’t’a’ just said ‘Scat!’
he might. There, now! it ought to be a warnin’ to everybody
just to keep their wits about ’em — just think of that. A-ra-me!”

“But did you never search for the treasure again?” people
used to ask.

“Yes, that we did, of course we did. But it was quicksandy
there in that there spot, an’ — we never found the treasure, but
we found the cat; she was dead. Yes, she was. Ar-a-me!

“J was so dissatisfied that after Husband died, seein’ I was n’t
Lady Phipps, nor nobody at all, that I went over to Lynn to
see Moll Pitcher, the fortune-teller, I did, an’ I told her my
story; and I said, ‘ You are a seer, you are; and I want you
to tell me just how I can find the riches of Cape Ann, for I
shall never rest happy till I do.’
A ROMANCE THAT LOST AN EMPIRE. 309

“ Oh, you should have seen her! She just rose wp so, she did;
and ‘Goody,’ said she, —‘ Goody, do you think I am a fool?
If I knew where the treasures of Cape Ann are hid, Td go and
dig ’em up myself; anybody would.’”

Poor Goody Alder! JI always think of her whenever I see
the little cottage of Moll Pitcher in the suburbs of Lynn, or
gaze upon the long, low reaches of Ipswich town. The old
dwellers on Plum Island recall the story, and tell it with that
of Henry Main, the pirate, who is supposed to be forever trying
to coil a rope of sand off Ipswich bar.

Henry Main’s story is not true, but this in its principal facts
is, though poor scolded Goodwin Alder was never any nearer
Captain Kidd’s treasures than any of you, except in the creations
of his own brain, excited by the superstitions of the times.

A ROMANCE THAT LOST AN EMPIRE.

Ix 1759 the famous expedition of General Wolfe and Admiral
Saunders arrived in front of Quebec, which was under the
command of the brave Montcalm. It was June. The troops
were landed, and the city and fortress of Quebee were invested.

The summer passed; but the Gibraltar of the North, now
impregnable, was like a knight clad in mail. The Lilies of
France, in the red summer mornings and evenings, waved peace-
fully over the Fortress of St. Louis, as though the fifty vessels
of war, the fifteen thousand sailors, and nine thousand soldiers
were a thousand miles away.

September came. The English commanders had the convic-
tion that the capture of the fortress was impossible, and the
sailors and soldiers were losing all confidence in the success of
the expedition.
310 ZIGZAG STORIES.

One September night, beautiful as all nights of the September
moons are on the St. Lawrence, General Wolfe and Admiral
Saunders held a consultation on board of the flag-ship.

“Some new plan must be adopted, or the siege abandoned,”
was in substance the conclusion of each.



MONTCALM.

A petty officer entered, and handed a communication to
General Wolfe. It was marked Private and Important.

The General opened it, and said to the Admiral, —

“Here is a curious communication from a Captain Robert
Stobo, of Halifax. He was once, he claims, detained at Quebec
A ROMANCE THAT LOST AN EMPIRE. 311

as a hostage, having been made a prisoner of war by the
French. He has information that he deems important, which
he wishes to communicate.”

«“ Where is he now?”

“On board the vessel.”

“ Let us listen to him.”

A person of fine appearance was admitted.

He was courteously received.

“Well, Captain, what have you to say?” asked General
Wolte.

“ For a number of months I was a resident of Quebec, a
prisoner on parole. My life was a lonely one for a time, but I
at last became acquainted with a beautiful French lady, of
high social position, and we became deeply attached to each
other. We used to meet and walk upon the Heights of
Abraham, and she made known to me a secret path that leads
from the Plains of Abraham to the river. It is the only path
that can be followed up and down the Heights. An army
could ascend the Heights by it at night, marching in single file.
T have come from Halifax to put you in possession of my chart
of the Heights and of this secret path.”

General Wolfe took the chart, and with the Admiral ex-
amined the Lovers’ Path.

The captain was dismissed with expressions of gratitude.
All that night the two officers studied the defile that the beanti-
ful French habitante had disclosed to her lover.

« Admiral,” said General Wolfe, at last, “I am disposed to
try it.”

It was the night of September 12, described as glorious by
the old chroniclers. General Wolfe passed from vessel to
vessel, and addressed his men.

The Lovers’ Path, like a picture, was impressed on his mind
as in a dream.

« 312 ZIGZAG STORIES.

he said, and added, “I would rather be the author of that
one poem, Gray’s Elegy, than gain the glory of defeating the
French to-morrow.”

The oars beat the swiftly flowing tide. The Heights dark-
ened the air above. Wolfe gazed upward. He repeated: —

“«The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth, e’er gave,
Await alike the inevitable hour.
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.’ ”

At one o'clock on the morning of the 13th, Wolfe led his
silent army, marching in single file, up the Lovers’ Path.

The result is told in history, in pictures, and in monumental
works of art.

But the path of glory brought to Wolfe his “inevitable
hour.” Leading the charge, he was three times wounded.

“Support me,” he said. “Let them not see me drop.”

They brought him water.

“They flee,” said the officer on whose breast he was leaning.

“Who?” asked the dying man.

“The enemy.”

“God be praised, — I die happy.”

The elaborate and heroic monument to Wolfe in Westminster
Abbey, and the tall shaft to his memory in the garden of the
Terrace of Quebec, can hardly fail to recall Gray’s pensive
reflections in connection with the splendid achievement that
gave to England an empire as large as Europe, and that made
him immortal.

Stobo was rewarded by New England with one thousand
dollars and by honors from the Crown. But the French-
woman’s name was never known.
A STRANGE TALE.—MONTEREY. 313

A STRANGE TALE.— MONTEREY.

THE city of Monterey, in the State of Nuevo Leon, Mexico,
is very beautiful in situation. The mountains lift their heads
in fantastic forms around it; the San Juan, a tributary of the
Rio Grande, flows by it. Its suburbs are full of walled gardens
and orange orchards.

The city is white, and stands upon a plain some sixteen
hundred feet above the sea-level. As seen from a near hill on
which is the ruined Bishop’s Palace, and one of the scenes of
the Battle of Monterey, it recalls the old cities of the Orient.
It is a growing city, of less than twenty thousand inhabitants ;
it is becoming Americanized, as are all the Mexican cities near
the American border. The battle of Monterey was fought on
the 24th of September, 1846. The scars of the battle may yet
be seen in the hill region crowned by the Bishop’s Palace, which
is a picturesque ruin that the traveller sees wherever he may
be on the plain.

It is a patriotic city. It is related that when Juarez came
to Monterey and slew the spirit of the people, he said, ‘ Dismiss
the Guard, —I am protected by loyal hearts,” or words with
this meaning.

Monterey is rich in historic tales and legendary lore. One
of the stories well known here is worthy of art or the drama.
It relates to two brothers from over the border.

These two young men were greatly attached to each other,
were patriotic after their own view of patriotism, brave, and
chivalrous. One of them was married, and the other single.

They became involved in a movement for the independence of
Northern Mexico, and joined a company of revolutionary
volunteers. The insurgents were pursued by the Mexican
314 ZIGZAG STORIES.

national troops, and defeated near Ensalada. They were taken
prisoners and condemned to death.

The Mexican commanding officer after a little time changed
the sentence against the captives, and ordered that one in five
should die, and that the men to be executed should be drawn
by lot.

The method of lot-drawing on this occasion was dramatic and
strange. There were to be put into a dark sack as many beans,
or frijoles, as there were prisoners. The condemned men, pro-
bably blindfolded, were to draw each a frijol from the sack.
But one out of five of the beans was black, and the men who
should draw these black beans were to suffer the death penalty.

It must have been an awful moment to the man who had
drawn a black frijol when his bandage fell from his eyes, and
he opened his hand and saw in it his fate.

The two brothers were blindfolded, and drew frijoles from
the dark sack. The single man drew a white bean, and was
filled with joy at his escape from death; but his brother drew
a black frijol, and his joy vanished at the terrible disclosure.

His love for his brother was flamed by the misfortune. “I
have no wife,” he thought; “he has. I have less to live for
than he.” He clasped his brother’s hand, and exchanged the
frijoles. He showed the officer the black bean that he had
taken from his brother, and asked to die in his stead.

He was shot. After he fell, his body was left on the ground.
In the night he recovered consciousness, for the wound was not
mortal. He rose up, and attempted to escape and hide in the
mountains, but was captured, and again shot, dying the death
of a hero, having loved his brother more than himself.
THE GOURD HELMETS. 315

THE GOURD HELMETS.

A YOUNG shipmate of mine, named Montrose Merton, once
related to me a queer adventure which he had met with u pon
his first voyage.

“It happened two years ago, when I was seventeen,” said
Mont. “Perhaps you may have heard of the brig * Rainbow,’
and how and where she was lost. I was in her at the time.

“We had been freighting about the West Indies for nearly
a year, going from port to port with whatever invoice could
be picked up, till finally, at Havana, we were ordered over to
the little Mexican town of Laguna, where we were to take in
a cargo of logwood.

“So we ran over toward the place, and got into the Bay of
Campeachy; but the brig never arrived at her port. J SUppose
it was a piece of carelessness on the captain’s part; but, at all
events, she struck on a reef, and that was the end of her.

* After a few thumps, away went both masts over the side,
and she was very soon full of water. We got off with the yawl
and long-boat, saving only our money and clothing, and the
next day reached Laguna, where we came under the care of
the American consul.

** However, we were in no real distress, as all of us had some
specie, and a very little of this would go along way in such
a sleepy port as that old Mexican town.

“We, before the mast, had been permitted to buy and sell
some little ‘ventures’ at the ports the brig had visited, and I
for one, had nearly a hundred dollars.

“The consul was a Mr. Clark, from Connecticut, where he
had once been a school teacher. He was a fine man, and he
had a son named Richard, who, as it happened, was of my own

4
316 ZIGZAG STORIES.

age to a single day.’ That, I suppose, was what people would
call a ‘singular coincidence.’

“Dick Clark seemed as glad to see me as if I had been his
own brother, though I was an entire stranger to him. He said
T was the first American boy he had set eyes on for a whole
year, though he had now and then been refreshed with the sight
of a few live Yankee men, who had come there after logwood
in vessels flying the dear old stripes and stars.

“We quickly struck up a warm friendship, and Dick said if
I would remain at the place for a time, we would have some
fine sport hunting wild animals and exploring the neighboring
shores.

“He showed me a dugout that he owned, —a sort of double-
ender, about twenty feet long and four feet wide, made from
a single tree. Of course it was rather clumsy, as boats go3
but then it had been burned down, and hewn down, and
chiselled down a great deal thinner and better than you would
suppose it could have been. Dick had some tools, and he had
given it the finishing touches himself.

“Tt had a sail and oars and a set of paddles, and there was a
canvas cover that could be drawn over about half the length
of the hull, so that two or three fellows could sleep under it,
if they should happen to be out all night.

“The town was certainly the dullest spot of earth it was ever
my fortune to light upon. It smelt of logwood everywhere,
just like a dye-house. Nobody thought of dealing in anything
else.

“ The inhabitants had more time than they knew what to do
with, and I don’t believe a single one of them was ever ina
hurry in his life. No wonder that Dick felt lonesome, I
thought.

“ As to myself, the case was different. Being at liberty to go
or stay, as I pleased, I could feel quite easy and contented; and
so I fell in with his proposition at once. In a few days the rest
THE GOURD HELMETS. 317

,
of the ‘ Rainbow’s’ crew went over to Havana in a Spanish brig,
but I remained behind.

“Dick owned a very good gun; but, as it was the only fire-
arm of a modern pattern that he knew of in the place, it seemed
at first as if I should have to take up with some old Mexican
flintlock. But, finally, I was lucky enough to get a double-
barrelled fowling-piece from the skipper of a Dutch bark which
was loading with logwood for Rotterdam, and on the next day
we started out. Laguna stands on one of a chain of islands at
the mouth of Lake Terminos, and we took an oblique course for
the main shore, where we hoped to find some large game. Dick
thought we should be likely to meet with tapirs, ant-eaters, sloths,
eluttons, and perhaps a bear, besides standing a fair chance of
stirring up a jaguar or a herd of peccaries.

“Thad seen a good many jaguars behind the bars of cages,
but peccaries I knew nothing about, except that they were a
sort of small swine. I found, though, that Dick had a real
dread of them. They were worse than the jumping toothache,
he said, and always looking for a fight. Out of a full hundred,
you might kill all but one, yet the hundredth fellow would come
right on just as if nothing had happened, clashing his ugly tusks
and bristling all over like a little fury.

“ After reaching the mainland, we coasted along the shore for
two days, sometimes ranging the woods or pampas, at other
times off on board our dugout.

“ Now and then we would come upon a camp of logwood cut-
ters, and next there would be an unbroken forest or a wide
plain, with no human being in sight.

“Our object was to get as many specimens as possible of the
skins of curious birds and animals to be carried home as trophies.
We wanted, above all things, a jaguar skin, not only for its
beauty, but because it could n’t be had without the danger of
risking our own skins in getting it.

“We killed a sloth, an armadillo, two ant-eaters, and a tapi,
318 ZIGZAG STORIES.

all very strange looking creatures, besides bagging two large
monkeys and a number of splendid parrots and cockatoos.

“ On the third day, while going very quietly through a strip
of forest, we got a prodigious start from two ocelots that sprang
out of a hollow tree not twenty feet from us. We shot both of
them dead on the spot, and they were the most beautiful animals
I ever saw. Even the African leopard isn’t so handsome.

“They measured about three feet in length, and I have the
skin of one of them now.

“ However, that day ended our hunt and made us willing to
go home, for it was then that the adventure happened that I
started to tell you about.

“Within the tropics, you know, everything of the vegetable
kind has a rank growth, and Dick and I had several times come
upon a species of gourd nearly as large as a peck measure. We
had seen, too, a number of dry ones floating upon the water
close to the flocks of fowl.

“ Dick said he had heard that the natives, by putting the shells
on their heads and wading up to the chin, often got right in
among the birds, so as to catch them by the legs.

« Here was an idea, and what fine fun it would be to act upon it!

“We discovered a shallow little cove by the lakeside, with
hundreds of fowls swimming about in it, and it seemed to us
that here was just the place for our experiment. There were a
few gourds drifting near the flock, and this encouraged us, for
it showed that the birds would n’t take alarm at our helmets.

“A line of reeds by the water kept us from being seen; and
so, leaving our dugout just without the cove, we went looking
for gourds to fit our heads.

«Finding two enormous ones, we made eye-holes and mouth-
holes in them, and then jammed them over our crowns till they
covered our faces completely ; then stripped of everything but
our duck trousers, we stood ready for the trial.

“ But, dear me, what a spectacle we should have made if there
THE GOURD HELMETS, 319

had been anybody to see us! As we stood there in the blazing
sun, barefooted and bare-shouldered, with our heads feeling as
big as bushel baskets, we laughed till I thought we should scare
all the ducks out of the cove.

“We were about twenty rods from the water, and just as we
began to move toward it, there came some queer little squeaks
and grunts from among the trees behind us. We stopped and
listened.

“*QOogh, oogh, oogh! quee, quee, quee!’ There was a rust-
ling of grass and brushwood, and then, good gracious, if we saw
one ugly little snout bearing down upon us, we saw two or
three hundred! It was a living wave of tusks and bristles.

“ ¢ Peccaries, pecearies!” Dick yelled. ‘We must run for it!’

“We still had our guns with us, intending to leave them on
the bank while we waded after the ducks; but to have fired
just then at that legion of black little demons would simply
have been to waste time, and just then we needed all the time
there was.

“ With our helmets on and our chests and shoulders bare, we
sprang away like a couple of wild colts. What the peccaries
thought we were with the heads we had on, I don’t know. It
was no doubt the first time they had ever seen the new kind of
animal they were in chase of.

“The open ground behind us was fairly alive with the savage
little wretches ; and how we did run, while they came streaming
after us, pulling up with all the power of their stout legs!

“We plunged through the line of réeds and into the water,
wading off until it was up to our waists before turning to fire.
We had the advantage of them now, for, although they were
every one swimming for us, we could touch bottom, while they
could not.

“We gave them the contents of our four barrels, and saw
that number of them turn keel up; but all the others came
straight on, and we were obliged to spring away in lively style,
320 ZIGZAG STORIES.

wading along as fast as possible, or they would have had us
sure enough.

“They chased us out of the little cove and away around to
our boat, though we reloaded and fired a number of times before
getting there.

“ Once we crossed a deep place where we had to swim, and
here they came within an ace of catching us, because it was
difficult to carry our guns and make headway at the same
time.

“We forgot all about our gourdshell helmets, but floundered
“and aoinehad along, looking through the eye-holes like a couple
of Cur de Lion’s crusaders right from Palestine. In fact, it
was no time to think of our headgear with a whole army of pec-
caries at our heels.

« A dozen or two of them had got into shoal water, where
they could touch bottom; and when we reached the dugout they
were almost up with us.

“ We grabbed it by the gunwale; but before the clumsy craft
was fairly afloat, we had to spring in and defend ourselves with
the oars.

“The little scamps crowded alongside, squealing and snap-
ping their jaws, till it seemed as if they would come right in
upon us, in spite of all we could do.

“But we managed to push the boat afloat; and just then
something happened that must have surprised them as much as
it did us.

“There was a roar and a swaying of the reeds, and, before
we could even think, a big jaguar leaped right upon the dug-
out’s bow. He was a powerful fellow, with a great spotted
head, and with claws that seemed to sink into the very gunwale.

“But it wasn’t Dick or me that was wanted. In an instant
he whipped up the nearest peccary from the water and was off
with a bound. We could see the tall reeds waving, where he
sprang through them up the bank.
THE GOURD HELMETS. 321

“The entire herd gave chase to him, and in three minutes
there was n’t a pig in sight.

“We got off into deep water as soon as possible, and then
examined our guns and ammunition. Our powder, being in
tight flasks, was not much damaged, but the guns were dripping
wet, and we had to let them dry in the hot sun before reload-
ing. But, first, we took of our false heads, and it made us think
of Ichabod Crane and the headless horseman.

After the guns had become dry we loaded them and pulled
into the cove, in order to pick up a dead pig or two. We had
got out of the boat and were dragging one of the slain peccaries
from among the reeds, when we heard close to us a growl that
fairly lifted our hair.

* Our guns were up in an instant, and the ‘ bang!’ they made
was but a single sound. Through the smoke we saw a large
creature tip over backwards and le with its paws in the air,
while two smaller ones scurried away.

“We had killed a female jaguar, and it was her eubs that had
run off. They stopped just beyond the line of reeds, and we
shot them both very easily.

“Tt must, we thought, be a rather good day for jaguars, for it
was plain that this one could n’t be the same that had boarded
our dugout, though she answered our purpose just as well.

“ The skins of the mother and cubs were perfect beauties, and
we lost no time in taking them off.

“The next day we got back to Laguna. An American ves-
sel had arrived there in the mean time, and in her I sailed for
home.

“T have never seen Dick Clark since, but you may be sure
that neither of us will ever forget the day we wore those gourd-
shell helmets.”
322 ZIGZAG STORIES.

AN UNWELCOME SHIPMATE.

Hap the reader seen the big snake-skin which we brought
home from South America on board the bark “ Cayman,” he
would probably have wished to know how we became possessed
of such a trophy. This I can best relate by describing our
voyage.

We had been lying for some weeks at Port of Spain, in the
island of Trinidad, which is close to the South American coast,
when our vessel was ordered to the river Orinoco, there to load
with various products of that region. Our immediate port of
destination was the city of Angostura, two hundred and forty
miles from the ocean, and in the very heart of Venezuela, so
that we looked forward to the trip with no little interest.

A run of a day and night from Port of Spain brought us off
the Boca de Navios, the principal mouth of the Orinoco; and
then with everything set before the brisk trade wind, we began
to stem the mighty current.

Yet, in spite of her broad wings, the bark’s progress was
tediously slow. There was no steam-tug to give us a lift on
our way, and, although the breeze was directly over the quarter,
we could not make a mile an hour against the stream at the
best ; while on many occasions, as the wind slackened, it became
necessary to anchor in order to hold our own. In this manner
we worked along day after day and night after night.

But the vast river itself was magnificent. Four or five miles
wide, and crowned on each bank with a seemingly endless
forest, it gave us a profound conception of Nature’s grandeur.

And then how deep it was, too! Almost like the sea we had
left behind, so that our fellows grumbled at the prodigious
amount of chain they had to handle in our many anchorings,
though these were always made near one shore or the other.
AN UNWELCOME SHIPMATE. 323

At such times we could see troops of monkeys and flocks of
beautiful birds among the trees; and once we had a plain view
of a jaguar as he made his way along the bank, occasionally
stopping to look at us.

The captain and mate both fired at him with their revolvers,
but were unable to hit him, and he finally disappeared very
leisurely in the dark woods.

With our many delays, and our slow creeping against a cur-
rent that was so often stronger than the wind, it took us eigh-
teen days to accomplish the two hundred and forty miles of
river passage; but at last we reached Angostura, and once more
stepped on shore.

It required a considerable time to collect all the numerous
articles of our cargo; and when they had all been stowed on
board, we could have supplied a tannery with hides, a dye-house
with indigo, an India-rubber factory with caoutchoue, a grocery
with cacao, or a drug-shop with sarsaparilla, ipecac, and Peru-
vian bark; for all these articles were down on our invoice.

After so long a sojourn at the sultry Venezuelan town, there
was an exhilaration in once more tumbling the furled topsails
from the yard, and feeling that the stanch bark beneath our
feet was at last in motion, bound for the open sea and for home.

It would take us four or five days to get out of the Orinoco ;
for, although the current was now in our favor, the trade wind
was against us, so that we should have to make continual tacks
from side to side of the river, in order to keep our sails full and
avoid coming to a standstill.

But we were off for the dear land of the north, and every one
was happy. Even old Tommy, the captain’s big white cat,
seemed to purr more affectionately than usual as he rubbed
himself against the legs of our wide trousers and twisted his
lithe form into all manner of graceful shapes. Tommy was a
great favorite in both cabin and forecastle.

We had another pet, also,—a large, gray parrot, which
324 ZIGZAG STORIES.

hung in a cage by the mainmast, and which had been procured,
cage and all, of an English shop-keeper at Port of Spain.

Poll was an everlasting talker. She would cry out, “ Hight
bells; call the watch; pump ship!” as plainly as any one.
And, although at first afraid of the cat, she had got used to
him, and would call, “ Tommy, Tommy! Come here, old ship-
mate!” in the most familiar manner imaginable.

Sometimes Tommy would obey the summons, whereupon Poll
would drop bits of cracker for him, squalling in a kind of bois-
terous delight to see him pick them up. The season of flood in
Venezuela had commenced, and in passing down the Orinoco
we found it much higher than while ascending it. The trees
on its banks now rose directly out of the water, which reached
we knew not how far back into the forest. We seemed to be
sailing on a long lake, shut in by green walls that had no visible
foundation. The wind was in our teeth, but, with the friendly
current all the while sweeping us along as it crossed our keel,
we got on swimmingly.

But on the third day an odd accident happened. We had
made a tack somewhat close to the shore, when, just as we were
upon the point of going about, our rudder became wedged by a
stick of driftwood, of which there were large quantities floating
down the river.

Finding the helm unmanageable, we let go an anchor in
hopes of bringing the vessel up; but, in spite of this, she went
straight in among the trees, snapping off her jibboom, fore-top-
mast, and main-top gallant-mast.

Here was a tangle, indeed! Vines, branches, and broken
spars were all mixed together!

Nevertheless, as we were still afloat, our case was by no
means desperate. It is not unusual for the Orinoco to swell
twenty feet above its banks, and we judged that this depth of
water was still beneath us.

The bark had run over her anchor, and by heaving at the
AN UNWELCOME SHIPMATE. 825

cable, as it passed under her bows and not beyond the stern, we
could hope to move her. But an abundance of cutting and
clearing must first be done, and, as night was at hand, it would
be vain to think of getting out of the scrape before another day.

Our fore-topmast, which had broken just above the cap, had
dropped down till its lower end rested upon the deck, while the
upper part, with all its hamper, was supported by the trees
against which it leaned. The main-top gallant-mast hung to
the branches by its rigging, and the jibboom lay under the bows.
We succeeded in unbending the fore-topsail, but this was about
all we could accomplish before dark. The sail was badly torn,
and we piled it in a heap forward.

Meanwhile the mosquitoes put us ina torment. Out on the
river we had never been troubled with them, but here in the
thicket they swarmed by millions. That night the officers
smoked the little pests out of the cabin, and then fortified the
entrance with netting, while we before the mast took up our
quarters in the top, where —as mosquitoes seldom get much
above a ship’s deck — we were left in peace.

A lantern was hung on the main-stay, and, from our position
aloft, we were to keep a one-man watch for possible contingen-
cies. Some of us were in the fore-top and others in the main.
My own lookout, which was in the early part of the night,
passed without incident, and it was near daybreak before any-
thing disturbed us, when, all at once, it came to be understood
that some unknown creature was stirring on board the vessel.

Instantly we were all wide awake and peering down from the
tops with startled faces, while we hurriedly questioned each
other as to what it was, where it was, and who had the last
watch. The lantern did not light up the deck very well, and
the shadows had a weird look to us.

“T gee it!” said one of our fellows, at length, in a frightened
undertone. “Look! There it is under the port bulwarks.
It’s a big snake. Keep still, or hell be up here in a jiffy!”


326 ZIGZAG STORIES.

We could all see it now, though in the dim lantern-light its
hideous proportions were indistinct. Sometimes, indeed, it
seemed as if there were two snakes; but we presently con-
cluded that there was only one, and he a monster.

At intervals he would be wholly lost to sight, and again
some portion of his horrid folds would be visible as he crept
~ slowly about the deck, which was well lumbered with wreckage.

At last he went over the bows and disappeared in the dark-
ness, though whether he had gone down into the water or had
got hold of a thigk-leaved tree that was close to the bowsprit,
we were unable to say. At all events, we slept no more that
night, and were extremely glad to see the daybreak.

In the morning the officers heard our story with great in-
terest, shuddering to think what would have been their situa-
tion had the monster chosen to come through the mosquito
netting and explore the cabin.

It made us creep all over to recall the night’s experience, and
we determined to get the bark out of her berth that day, if work
would accomplish it.

We sat “ Turk-fashion,” on the forward part of the deck to
eat our breakfast, while near us lay the fore-topsail in a pile, as
it had been left the evening previous.

The white cat, Tommy, climbed upon the heap of canvas.
The next moment he bounded off upon the deck, and with back
and tail bristling, whirled around to look behind him.

At the same time there was a movement of the pile, and as
we sprang to our feet, the head and neck of a great serpent
shot out from the folds of the sail.

An instant of frozen terror, and then how we tumbled over
each other! Some ran into the galley, and others into the
small house on the booby-hatch. The officers were at breakfast
in the cabin. Nobody fled aloft, — we knew better than to do
that, — at least, nobody did so except Tommy, and he, following
the instinct of his race, sprang into the main rigging.


AN UNWELCOME SHIPMATE. 327

His terrible enemy was rushing after him, and had actually
mounted above the bulwarks, when Poll’s loud screaming from
her cage appeared to attract his attention. The poor bird was
in great fluster.

“Oh, what’s the matter now?” she cried.

And this query was followed by a succession of wild outeries
that showed her to be dreadfully frightened.

The snake had raised himself for nearly his whole length up
the shrouds, but he now stopped, and craning his thin, tapering
neck toward the parrot, uttered a frightful hiss.

He had seen that Tommy was too nimble for him, while
Polly’s flutterings and squallings had put him in mind of other
prey.

Down he came from the rigging, making straight for this new
object, when “crack, crack!” went the captain’s revolver from
the cabin door.

He fired two shots and missed with both. Then the mate
discharged three bullets, with no better success.

The snake, paying not the least attention to his human ene-
mies, struck the cage violently with his frightful jaws, knocking
it from its place, but retaining his hold of it as it fell.

Half a minute more, and parrot, cage and all would have been
travelling down that living lane had not the two officers im-
proved in their markmanship. Two of their balls just then
struck the reptile, one in the head, the other in the neck, and
their effect was instantaneous.

At once disabled, the monster thrashed about in sickening
contortions, lashing the deck fearfully, while his two assailants
emptied the remaining chambers of their weapons with the
steadiest nerve they could muster.

But there was no need of more shots. The furious writhings
became less and less, at length ceasing altogether, though the
snaky tail showed signs of life for more than two hours.

Then the limp, horrible body was stretched out and measured.
328 ZIGZAG STORIES.

We found it to. be twenty-eight feet long and about twenty-two
inches around in the largest part. The serpent was of the boa
family, and checkered with black and yellow.

Probably there had been two of them on board in the night,
one crawling away as we had seen at the time, and the other
wriggling himself into the loose pile of canvas.

All the shots fired by the captain and mate had been discharged
from the companion-way, with the road of retreat well open
behind them.

They now stripped off the mottled skin, while we sailors stood
looking on, shuddering at the bare thought of touching the
hideous thing.

We could reef topsails in the blackest squall that ever blew,
but we wanted nothing to do with a snake.

Pretty Poll remained unharmed, in spite of her rough usage,
though her cage was sadly battered and bent. It was some
hours before she got over her fright, however, and she would
keep screaming, —

“Throw him overboard — throw him overboard! I’m most
scared to death!”

As for Tommy, he came down from aloft when all was over,
but his eyes still looked big and wild, and his tail indicated an
unsettled state of mind.

We got the vessel out of her bad predicament before another
night, and, anchoring in the river, proceeded to repair damages.
After a few days our broken spars had been replaced by others,
and the sails again bent, so that everything was ship-shape.

Then we beat through the Boca de Navios, and three weeks
later arrived safely at New York.

Such is the history of the snake-skin which we brought home
in the bark “Cayman.” It was afterwards stuffed, and, for
aught I know, is still on exhibition as a curiosity.
THE MASSACRE OF CHICAGO. 329

THE MASSACRE OF CHICAGO.

AFTER we had left the bank, the firing became general. The
Miamis fled at the outset. Their chief rode up to the Potto-
wattamies and said, —

“You have deceived the Americans and us. You have done
a bad action, and,” brandishing his tomahawk, “I will be the
first of a party of Americans to return and punish your treach-
ery.” So saying, he galloped after his companions, who were
now scouring across the prairies.

The troops behaved most gallantly. They were but a hand-
ful, but they seemed resolved to sell their lives as dearly as pos-
sible. Our horses pranced and bounded, and could hardly be
restrained as the balls whistled among them. I drew off a little,
and gazed upon my husband and father, who were yet unharmed.
I felt that my hour was come, and endeavored to forget those I
loved, and prepare myself for my approaching fate.

While I was thus engaged, the surgeon, Dr. Van Voorhes,
came up. He was badly wounded. His horse had been shot
under him, and he had received a ball in his leg. Every muscle
of his face was quivering with the agony of terror. He said to
me, “Do you think they will take our lives? I am badly
wounded, but I think not mortally. Perhaps we might pur-
chase our lives by promising them a large reward. Do you
think there is any chance?”

“Dr. Van Voorhes,” said I, “do not let us waste the few
moments that yet remain to us in such vain hopes. Our fate is
inevitable. In a few moments we must appear before the bar
of God. Let us make what preparation is yet in our power.”

“Oh! I cannot die,” exclaimed he, “I am not fit to die,
J had but a short time to prepare — death is awful!”



if
3830 ZIGZAG STORIES.

I pointed to Ensign Ronan, who, though mortally wounded
and nearly down, was still fighting with desperation on one
knee.

“Look at that man,” said I; “at least he dies like a
soldier.”

“Yes,” replied the unfortunate man, with a convulsive gasp,
“but he has no terrors of the future, — he is an unbeliever !”

At this moment a young Indian raised his tomahawk at me.
By springing aside, I avoided the blow which was intended for
my skull, but which alighted on my shoulder. I seized him
around the neck, and while exerting my utmost efforts to get
possession of his scalping-knife, I was dragged from his grasp by
another and an older Indian.

The latter bore me struggling and resisting toward the river.
Notwithstanding the rapidity with which I was hurried along, I
recognized as I passed them the lifeless remains of the unfortu-
nate surgeon. Some murderous tomahawk had stretched him
upon the very spot where I had last seen him.

I was immediately plunged into the water and held with a
forcible hand, notwithstanding my resistance. I soon perceived,
however, that the object of my captor was not to drown me, for
he held me firmly in such a position as to place my head above
water. This reassured me, and regarding him attentively, I
soon recognized, in spite of the paint with which he was dis-
guised, the Black Partridge.

When the firing had nearly subsided, my preserver bore me
from the water and conducted me up the sand-banks. It was a
burning August morning, and walking through the sand in my
drenched condition was inexpressibly painful and fatiguing. I
stooped and took off my shoes to free them from the sand with
which they were nearly filled, when a squaw seized and carried
them off, and I was obliged to proceed without them.

When we had gained the prairie, I was met by my father,
who told me that my husband was safe and but slightly wounded.
THE MASSACRE OF CHICAGO. 331

They led me gently back toward the Chicago River, along the
southern bank of which was the Pottowattamie encampment.
At one time I was placed upon a horse without a saddle; but
finding the motion insupportable, I sprang off. Supported partly
by my kind conductor, Black Partridge, and partly by another
Indian, Pee-so-tum, who held dangling in his hand a scalp,
which by the black ribbon around the queue I recognized as
that of Captain Wells, I dragged my fainting steps to one of
the wigwams.

The wife of Wau-bee-nee-mah, a chief from the IHinois River,
was standing near, and seeing my exhausted condition she seized
a kettle, dipped up some water from a stream that flowed near,
threw into it some maple sugar, and stirring it up with her hand
gave it to me to drink. This act of kindness in the midst of so
many horrors touched me most sensibly, but my attention was
soon diverted to other objects.

The fort had become a scene of plunder to such as remained
after the troops marched out. The cattle had been shot down
as they ran at large, and lay dead or dying around. This work
of butchery had commenced just as we were leaving the fort. I
well remember a remark of Ensign Ronan, as the firing went on.
“Such,” turning to me, “is to be our fate, — to be shot down
like brutes!”

“ Well, sir,” said the commanding officer, who overheard him,
“are you afraid?”

“No,” replied the high-spirited young man, “I can march up
to the enemy where you dare not show your face ; > and his sub-
sequent gallant behavior showed this to he no idle boast.

As the noise of the firing grew gradually less, and the strag-
glers from the victorious party came dropping in, I received con-
firmation of what my father had hurriedly communicated in our
rencontre on the lake shore; namely, that the whites had surren-
dered after the loss of about two-thirds of their number. They

1 Just by the present State Street Market.
3832 ZIGZAG STORIES.

had stipulated, through the interpreter, Peresh Leclerc, for the
preservation of their lives, and those of the remaining women
and children, and for their delivery at some of the British posts,
unless ransomed by traders in the Indian country. It appears .
that the wounded prisoners were not considered as included in
the stipulation, and a horrible scene ensued upon their being
brought into camp.

An old squaw, infuriated by the loss of friends, or excited by
the sanguinary scenes around her, seemed possessed by a demo-
niac ferocity. She seized a stable fork and assaulted one miser-
able victim, who lay groaning and writhing in the agony of his
wounds, aggravated by the scorching beams of the sun. With
a delicacy of feeling scarcely to have been expected under such
circumstances, Wau-bee-nee-mah stretched a mat across two
poles, between me and this dreadful scene. I was thus spared
in some degree a view of its horrors, although I could not
entirely close my ears to the cries of the sufferer. The fol-
lowing night five more of the wounded prisoners were toma-
hawked.

The Americans, after their first attack by the Indians, charged
upon those who had concealed themselves in a sort of ravine,
intervening between the sand-banks and the prairie. The latter
gathered themselves into a body, and after some hard fighting,
in which the number of whites had become reduced to twenty-
eight, this little band succeeded in breaking through the enemy,
and gaining a rising ground, not far from the Oak Woods.
The contest now seemed hopeless, and Lieutenant Helm sent
Peresh Leclerc, a half-breed boy in the service of Mr. Kinzie,
who had accompanied the detachment and fought manfully on
their side, to propose terms of capitulation. It was stipulated
that the lives of all the survivors should be spared, and a ran-
som permitted as soon as practicable.

But in the mean time a horrible scene had been enacted. One
young savage, climbing into the baggage-wagon containing the
THE MASSACRE OF CHICAGO. 333

children of the white families, twelve in number, tomahawked
the children of the entire group. This was during the engage-
ment near the Sand-hills. When Captain Wells, who was fight-
ing near, beheld, he exclaimed, —

“Ts that their game, butchering the women and children?
Then I will kill too!”

So saying, he turned his horse’s head, and started for the
Indian camp, near the fort, where had been left their squaws
and children.

Several Indians pursued him as he galloped along. He laid
himself flat on the neck of his horse, loading and firing in that
position, as he would occasionally turn on his pursuers. At
length their balls took effect, killing his horse, and severely
wounding himself. At this moment he was met by Winnemeg
and Wau-ban-see, who endeavored to save him from the savages
who had now overtaken him. As they supported him along,
after having disengaged him from his horse, he received his
death-blow from another Indian, Pee-so-tum, who stabbed him
in the back.

The heroic resolution of one of the soldiers’ wives deserves
to be recorded. She was a Mrs. Corbin, and had from the first
expressed the determination never to fall into the hands of the
savages, believing that their prisoners were always subjected to
tortures worse than death.

When therefore a party came upon her to make her a pris-
oner, she fought with desperation, refusing to surrender, although
assured, by signs, of safety and kind treatment, and literally
suffered herself to cut to pieces rather than become their
captive.

There was a Sergeant Holt, who early in the engagement
received a ball in the neck. Finding himself badly wounded
he gave his sword to his wife, who was on horseback with him,
telling her to defend herself. He then made for the lake, to
keep out of the way of the balls. Mrs. Holt rode a very fine
334 ZIGZAG STORIES.

horse, which the Indians were desirous of possessing; and they
therefore attacked her, in hopes of dismounting her.

They fought only with the butt-ends of their guns, for their
object was not to kill her. She hacked and hewed at their
pieces as they were thrust against her, now on this side, now
on that. Finally she broke loose from them, and dashed out
into the prairie. The Indians pursued her, shouting and laugh-
ing, and now and then calling out, —

“The brave woman! do not hurt her

At length they overtook her again, and while she was en-
gaged with two or three in front, one succeeded in seizing her
by the neck behind, and dragging her, although a large and
powerful woman, from her horse. Notwithstanding that their
guns had been so hacked and injured, and even themselves cut
severely, they seemed to regard her only with admiration. They
took her to a trader on the Illinois River, by whom she was
restored to her friends, after having received every kindness
during her captivity.

Those of the family of Mr. Kinzie who had remained in the
boat near the mouth of the river were carefully guarded by Kee-
po-tah and another Indian. They had seen the smoke, then the
blaze ; and immediately after the report of the first tremendous
discharge sounded in their ears. Then all was confusion. They
realized nothing until they saw an Indian come towards them
from the battle-ground, leading a horse on which sat a lady,
apparently wounded.

“That is Mrs. Heald,” cried Mrs. Kinzie. “That Indian
will kill her. Run, Chandonnai,” to one of Mr. Kinzie’s clerks,
“take the mule that is tied there, and offer it to him to release
her.”

Her captor by this time was in the act of disengaging her
bonnet from her head, in order to scalp her. Chandonnai ran
up, offered the mule as a ransom, with the promise of ten
bottles of whiskey as soon as they should reach his village.
The latter was a strong temptation.

1?
THE MASSACRE OF CHICAGO. 835

“But,” said the Indian, “she is badly wounded, —she will
die. Will you give me the whiskey at all events?”

Chandonnai promised that he would, and the bargain was
concluded. ‘The savage placed the lady’s bonnet on his own
head, and after an ineffectual effort on the part of some squaws
to rob her of her shoes and stockings, she was brought on board
the boat, where she lay moaning with pain from the many
bullet-wounds she had received in both arms.

The horse she had ridden was a fine spirited animal, and,
being desirous of possessing themselves of it uninjured, the
Indians had aimed their shots so as to disable the rider without
injuring her steed.

She had not lain long in the boat, when a young Indian of
savage aspect was seen approaching. A. buffalo robe was hastily
dvawn over Mrs. Heald, and she was admonished to suppress
all sound of complaint, as she valued her life.

The heroic woman remained perfectly silent, while the savage
dvew near. He had a pistol in his hand, which he rested on the
side of the boat, while with a fearful scowl he looked pryingly
around. Black Jim, one of the servants, who stood in the bow
of the boat, seized an axe that lay near, and signed to him that
if he shot, he would cleave his skull, telling him that the boat
contained only the family of Shaw-nee-aw-kee. Upon this the
Indian retired. It afterward appeared that the object of his
search was Mr. Burnett, a trader from St. Joseph’s, with whom
he had some account to settle.

When the boat was at length permitted to return to the man-
sion of Mr. Kinzie, and Mrs. Heald was removed to the house,
it became necessary to dress her wounds.

Mr. Kinzie applied to an old chief who stood by, and who, like
most of his tribe, possessed some skill in surgery, to extract
a ball from the arm of the sufferer.

“No, father,” replied he, “I cannot do it, —it makes me sick
here,” placing his hand on his heart.
336 ZIGZAG STORIES.

Mr. Kinzie then performed the operation himself with his
penknife.

At their own mansion the family of Mr. Kinzie were closely
guarded by their Indian friends, whose intention it was to carry
them to Detroit for security. The rest of the prisoners remained
at the wigwams of their captors.

The following morning, the work of plunder being com-
pleted, the Indians set fire to the fort. A very equitable dis-
tribution of the finery appeared to have been made; and shawls,
ribbons, and feathers fluttered about in all directions. The
ludicrous appearance of one young fellow who had arrayed him-
self in a muslin gown and the bonnet of one of the ladies, would,
under other circumstances, have afforded matter of amusement.

Black Partridge, Wau-ban-see, and Kee-po-tah, with two other
Indians, having established themselves in the porch of the
building as sentinels, to protect the family from any evil the
young men might be excited to commit, all remained tranquil
for a short space after the conflagration.

Very soon, however, a party of Indians from the Wabash
made their appearance. These were, decidedly, the most hostile
and implacable of all the tribes of the Pottowattamies.

Being more remote, they had shared less than some of their
brethren in the kindness of Mr. Kinzie and his family, and
consequently their sentiments of regard for them were less
powerful.

Runners had been sent to the villages to apprise them of the
intended evacuation of the post, as well as of the plan of the
Indians to attack the troops.

Thirsting to participate in such a scene, they hurried on;
and great was their mortification, on arriving at the river Aux
Plaines, to meet with a party of their friends having with them
their chief Nee-scot-nee-meg, badly wounded, and to learn that,
the ‘battle was over, the spoils divided, and the scalps all
taken,
THE MASSACRE OF CHICAGO. 337

On arriving at Chicago they blackened their faces, and pro~
ceeded towards the dwelling of Mr. Kinzie.

From his station on the piazza Black Partridge had watched
their approach, and his fears were particularly awakened for
the safety of Mrs. Helm (Mr. Kinzie’s step-daughter), who had
recently come to the post, and was personally unknown to the
more remote Indians. By his advice she was made to assume
the ordinary dress of a French woman of the country; namely,
a short gown and petticoat, with a blue cotton handkerchief
wrapped around her head. In this disguise she was conducted
by Black Partridge to the house of Ouilmette, a Frenchman
with a half-breed wife, who formed a part of the establishment
of Mr. Kinzie, and whose dwelling was close at hand.

It so happened that the Indians came first to this house, in
their search for prisoners. As they approached, the inmates,
fearful that the fair complexion and general appearance of Mrs.
Helm might betray her for an American, raised a large feather-
bed and placed her under the edge of it, upon the bedstead,
with her face to the wall. Mrs. Bisson, the sister of Ouilmette’s
wife, then seated herself with her sewing upon the front of the
bed.

It was a hot day in August, and the feverish excitement of
fear and agitation, together with her position, which was nearly
suffocating, became so intolerable that Mrs. Helm at length
entreated to be released and given up to the Indians.

“I can but die,” said she; “let them put an end to my misery
at once.”

Mrs. Bisson replied, “Your death would be the destruction
of us all, for Black Partridge has resolved that if one drop of
blood of your family is spilled, he will take the lives of all con-
cerned in it, even his nearest friends; and if the work of mur-
der commences, there will be no end of it, so long as there
remains one white person or half-breed in the country.”

This expostulation nerved Mrs. Helm with fresh resolution.
22
3388 ZIGZAG STORIES.

The Indians entered, and she could occasionally see them
from her hiding-place gliding about, and stealthily inspecting
every part of the room, though without making any ostensible
search, until, apparently satisfied that there was no one concealed,
they left the house.

All this time Mrs. Bisson had kept her seat upon the side of
the bed, calmly sorting and arranging the patchwork of the
quilt on which she was engaged, and preserving an appearance
of the utmost tranquillity, although she knew not but that the
next moment she might receive a tomahawk in her brain.

From Ouilmette’s house the party of Indians proceeded to
the dwelling of Mr. Kinzie. They entered the parlor, in which
the family were assembled with their faithful protectors, and
seated themselves upon the floor in silence.

Black Partridge perceived from their moody and revengeful
looks what was passing in their minds, but he dared not
remonstrate with them. He only observed in a low tone to
Wau-ban-see, —

“ We have endeavored to save our friends, but it is in vain, —
nothing will save them now.”

At this moment a friendly whoop was heard from a party of
new-comers on the opposite bank of the river. Black Partridge
sprang to meet their leader, as the canoes in which they had
hastily embarked touched the bank near the house.

“Who are you?” demanded he.

«A man. Who are you?”

«A man like yourself; but tell me who you are,” — meaning,
“ Tell me your disposition, and which side you are for.”

“Tam the Sau-ga-nash!”

“Then make all speed to the house, —your friend is in
danger, and you alone can save him.”

Billy Caldwell! — for it was he — entered the parlor with a

1 Billy Caldwell was a half-breed, and a chief of the nation. In his
reply, “I am a Sau-ga-nash,” or Englishman, he designed to convey, “I am
A SAD STORY OF PETER THE GREAT. 339

calm step, and without a trace of agitation in his manner. He
deliberately took off his accoutrements, and placed them with
his rifle behind the door, then saluted the hostile savages.

“How now, my friends! A good day to you. I was told
there were enemies here, but Iam glad to find only friends.
Why have you blackened your faces? Is it that you are
mourning for the friends you have lost in battle,” purposely
misunderstanding this token of evil designs, “or is it that you
we fasting? If so, ask our friend here, and he will give you
to eat. He is the Indians’ friend, and never yet refused them
what they had need of.”

Thus taken by surprise, the savages were ashamed to acknow-
ledge their bloody purpose. They therefore said modestly that
they came to beg of their friends some white cotton in which
to wrap their dead, before interring them. This was given to
them with some other presents, and they took their departure
peaceably from the premises.

A SAD STORY OF PETER THE GREAT.

Prrer the Great, the upbuilder of the Russian Empire, was
born in Moscow, June 9, 1672. During his minority the grand-
duchess Sophia, an ambitious, crafty, and withal terrible woman,
acted as regent. She was his half-sister. He was obliged to
rebel to depose her from the throne, a seat which she greatly
liked; but he at last obtained the imperial power, and shut her
up in a convent.

Peter was a far-seeing man; he had some great virtues, but
was naturally brutal, sensual, and passionate. Once, when he

a white man.” Had he said, “I am a Pottowattamie,” it would have been
interpreted to mean, “I belong to my nation, and am prepared to go all
lengths with them.” ;
340 ZIGZAG STORIES.

was absent from the country, the Guards rebelled and joined
a conspiracy to place Sophia again on the throne. Peter, hear-
ing of the plot, hurried back to Moscow, crushed the rebellion,
and caused some two thousand of the Guards to be beheaded.

He was so enraged at this revolt that he cut off many of the
heads of the condemned men with his own hand. At one time,
while half intoxicated at a banquet, he ordered twenty of the
prisoners to be brought into the hall, and caused them one by
one to be laid upon the block for him to execute. He took a
glass of brandy after each execution. In an hour he had cut
off the heads of twenty men.

Peter kept a jester to lighten his heavy spirits, and no mon-
arch ever more needed the stimulant of cheerfulness to make
him a merciful man. The jester’s name was Balakireff.

One day Balakireff asked permission of Peter to attach him-
self to the Guards of the Imperial Palace. The Czar consented,
but added, —

“For any remissness of duty you will receive the same
punishments as they.”

“T will do my best,” said Balakireff.

One night the Czar sent him wine from his table. He drank
freely, and when the palace became still, fell asleep, as Peter
supposed he would, at his post.

The punishment of a Guard for sleeping at his post was
death.

Peter drew the jester’s sword from its belt, and carried it
away.

When Balakireff awoke, he was greatly terrified at finding
his sword gone, for he knew his crime had been discovered.

He had a false sword, made of wood, and he hung this by his
side and appeared at parade the next morning.

Peter appeared at the parade also. He presently began to
storm about the untidy appearance of one of the men, and,
apparently in a towering passion, exclaimed, —
A SAD STORY. OF PETER THE GREAT. 341

“Captain Balakireff, draw your sword and cut that sloven
down.”

The poor jester put his hand on the hilt of the wooden sword.

He looked upward reverently, as though unwilling to do so
dreadful a deed.

“ Merciful Heaven!” he said. “Let my sword be turned to
wood.”

He drew the sword, and gazed at it as though a miracle had
been wrought upon it.

The Czar fell into a fit of laughter, and Balakireff was
allowed to escape punishment.

What a state of society do these anecdotes reveal, when any
one’s life was at the caprice of a brutal sovereign!

Peter’s ambition was to advance Russia in mechanical arts,
in the industries that produce wealth, and in military and
naval greatness. He invited to his country skilled engineers,
architects, and artillerymen from Austria, Venice, Prussia, and
Holland. He himself visited the countries where the arts of
civilization were making the most rapid progress. In disguise
he travelled over Prussia and Holland; and at Amsterdam he
worked for a time as a common shipwright. He afterwards
visited William IIT. of England.

His curiosity was excessive. He wished to understand every
art that he might transplant it in his own empire. One day,
chancing to meet a lady on the street who had a fine watch, he
called to her, —

“Stop, stop, and let me see it.”

Peter had a son named Alexis, whom he expected to be his
successor, and who had all of the bad and none of the heroic
qualities of his father.

The wise man in the Hebrew Scriptures said that those who
indulge in vice shall at last be holden by “the cords of their
own sins.” Indulgence in vice produces habits, and these
habits become the governing power of life. The evil-doer
becomes bound, self-imprisoned. His will power is lost.
3842 ZIGZAG STORIES.

We do not know of a more painful illustration of this truth
than that furnished by Alexis. He inherited a love for sensual
company and the intoxicating cup; and before he reached man-
hood he had so educated his evil passions that he came to care
for nothing but further indulgence in vice. His excesses ruined
his health, took away all resolution and ambition.

The Czar, seeing him tending to ruin, resolved to bring about
a charge in his character. He took him with him on his
journeys to foreign capitals, and showed him the triumphs of
art. But Alexis cared for none of these things; while his
father was seeking to cultivate in him a feeling of national
pride, he was only looking about him slyly for some occasion
for a debauch.

The throne of all the Russias was less to him than the weak-
est opportunity to indulge his depraved passions.

His father chose a wife for him,— a lovely Polish princess,
—thinking this would lead to reformation. But Alexis soon
abandoned his beautiful wife for the company of an ignorant
slave that he had purchased, named Afrosinia. The princess
lived alone, in utter neglect, while Alexis was drinking and
carousing with Afrosinia and his companions in vice. She
died at last of a broken heart.

Peter was in despair.

He said to Alexis, —

“ My reproofs have been fruitless. I have only lost my time
and beaten the air. You do not so much as try to grow better.
I will give you one trial more: if you do not improve your
conduct, I will cut you off from the succession to the throne.”

Alexis cared little for thrones or crowns. He answered, —

“If it is your majesty’s pleasure to deprive me of the crown
of Russia, your will be done. I even request it, as I do not
think myself fit for the government. My memory is weakened.
My mind and body are much decayed by the distempers to
which I have been subject.”
.A SAD STORY OF PETER THE GREAT. 3438

But although Alexis knew his vices were hurrying him to
ruin, he did not seek to check their force. He resolved to
follow them as long as he could, and then retire from the sight
of the world to a convent.

There was a handsome peasant girl in Livonia by the name
of Martha Rabe. She was left an orphan early, and was cared
for by the parish clergyman.

There was a pie-boy in Moscow by the name of Alexander.
In order to attract customers he used to sing songs. One day
Peter heard him singing. He called him to him, and asked
him how much he would take for the cakes, pies, and basket.

“T will sell you the cakes and pies, but the basket is not my
own. I must return it to its owner. Still, your majesty can
command me to give it up.”

Peter was pleased with the answer, took the boy into his
service, and at last made him Prince Menzikoff. Thus began
a great and powerful Russian family.

Prince Menzikoff took Martha Rabe into his service. The
Czar chanced to see her and was enamoured of her. He at last
married her, and she beeame Catherine I. of Russia. A son was
born of this union; and Peter determined that this ‘son, now
that Alexis had proved himself utterly unworthy, should become
his successor, unless Alexis would at once reform.

These facts of history read more like fiction than many won-
der tales do. But we have now to give you the picture of the
end of poor Alexis.

Peter wrote to him :—

“Hither change your conduct, and labor to make yourself
worthy of the succession, or else take the monastic vow.”

Alexis answered : —

“T shall enter upon a monastic life.”

On receiving this answer Peter resolved to visit him, and try
once more to awaken his resolution and self-respect.

When Alexis heard he was coming, he took to his bed and

ȴ
344 ZIGZAG STORIES.

pretended to be sick. He received his father in this way. Soon
after the Czar had departed he was found carousing with his
profligate associates.

The Czar went to Copenhagen. During his absence Alexis,
taking with him his favorite slave, Afrosinia, fled to Vienna.
Peter compelled the Austrian emperor to send him back; he
gave him over toa council of state for trial; the council con-
demned him to death as a traitor, and the Czar was not unwill-
ing the sentence should be executed.

The day of execution was at hand. Alexis trembled at the
prospect of death. The past was a long career of shame; the
future was dark, and the manner of the exchange of worlds to be
terrible. His fears wrought upon him until he fell down in an
apoplectic fit.

The Czar was sent for; he entered the room, and Alexis
knew him. The latter began to weep.

“T have sinned against God and man,” he said. “I hope I
shall not live. I am unworthy to live.”

He soon sank into the sleep of death. The Czar and Czarina
attended the funeral; and a sermon was preached on the occa-
sion from the text, “ O Absalom, my son! my son Absalom Ie?

At the death-bed of Alexis even Peter was seen to weep.
They were hopeless tears. Well would it have been if the
father had set for his son a better example in his youth, for the
faults of the son were those of the father, except that the one
had a fiery ambition, and the other lacked all heroic feeling. It
was a case of evil producing its own fruit.

OLD ALI BEDAIR’S STORY OF MARATHON.

THoucut has wings; it can go back to the past. Let us fly
back over the events of thousands of years, to the Athens of the
philosophers, poets, and heroes.
OLD ALI BEDAIR’S STORY OF MARATHON. 345

What is the scene? The city is white with temples. Over
all rises a hill, with temples, — a mountain of marble so bright
that it dazzles the eye.

There are palaces, gardens, statues everywhere.

The -city isa camp now. There are armed men hurrying to
and fro, and sentinels in bright armor. Anxiety is in every
face.

It is not like a camp of to-day; it is even less savage, and
more splendid and poetic.

Trumpets sound; the soldiers are putting on their armor;
grooms are leading out restive horses; captains and generals are
shouting their commands.

Everywhere are tents. Some of these are marked by ensigns;
and in them men of noble stature are putting on their breast-
plates, helmets, and swords. The armor is of polished brass.
The heroes come out and stand in the doors of their tents, glit-
tering in the sun, and seeming, indeed, more like gods than
men.

“ Miltiades !”

The soldiers are armed with spears. These are very heavy,
and some twelve feet long.

The trumpets sound again. The chiefs take their shields of
brass.

The common soldiers form ; they have shields of leather, and
are armed with spears.

It is a glorious morning; the mountain peaks glow in the
sun. The people of the city are in the streets; there is agitation
everywhere.

To-day will begin another siege of Troy,” said one of the
old heroes. “The days of Hector and Priam have returned
again.”

“The sea is white with sails,” said another. “So say the
messengers. Such an army never before darkened the shores of
Attica.”
346 ZIGZAG STORIES.

“ He has landed, — the Great King,” passed from lip to lip.

soWhere 27

«« At Marathon.”

Trumpets, glittering chiefs, and a hurrying army. Solemn
and grand is the march from Athens to Marathon. Wives,
children, and relatives view, with tears, the departing army.

“They will never return again,” passed from lip to lp.
“What are they to the hosts of the King of Persia, — the king
of all the earth?”

“Battles are won by valor, not numbers,” said the sages.
“ They will come back again, and bring joy to the temples of the
gods and heroes.”

The gay plumes and glittering chiefs disappeared from view.
The trumpets became only faint echoes from the hills. Prayers
and offerings filled the temples of the gods.

“Tf we are defeated, Athens is lost,” was repeated everywhere.

Women wailed in the streets, —

“© Athens, Athens, thy life is in the heroes; thy hope is in
the strength of their spears. May the gods fight with the
heroes to-day, O Athens, Athens!”

The little army of Greeks occupy the heights in sight of the
sea. There on the calm blue waves floated the armaments of
Persia, that had come to overwhelm Athens and the free States
of Greece. Behind were the green hills and the marble city.

The Greek army is small. There is no grand array of cay-
alry, no sweeping curve of glittering chariots and charioteers.
It is men who are to fight to-day. The period of spectacular
armies has not yet come.

The Persian army is drawn up in battle array along the
shore. It is vast and splendid, and behind it is the fleet. It is
composed not only of Persians, but of warriors from the many
nations over whom Persia bears sway. Its chiefs are confident
of victory. The Persian king believes that Athens is already
within his power.
OLD ALI BEDAIR’S STORY OF MARATHON. 347

The army is bright with champions in armor, with chariots
and charioteers. The soldiers are armed with javelins. They
have shields of immense surface, some of them so large as to
cover the whole body.

The Persian army are spread out, and fill a great field. The
Greeks are drawn into solid compact columns. The one army
seems vastly larger than it is; the other much smaller.

The Persians have drawn up a large part of their fleet to the
shore. They will need it there in case of retreat. Yet they do
not dream of disaster. What can the little Greek army of in-
fantry on the heights do against all this armament of champions,
of cavalry, of chariots, and ships? The Persians are a hundred
thousand strong; the Greeks but ten thousand.

There are solemn ceremonies in the Greek camp. The shout
goes up :—

“ Miltiades! Athens!”

The Greek orators address the soldiers.

“ Miltiades!”’

An altar smokes, and a sacrifice is performed.

“ Athens !”

A song arises, —a song to the gods for the liberties of Greece.
All is ready now for the army to descend upon the plain. The
march begins; the soldiers cheering their hero, —

“ Miltiades !”

Like the sweep of an eagle the Greek army rushes down upon
the Persian host, shouting the names of gods and heroes. It is
compact, resolute, desperate. A Greek.to-day must be equal to
ten Persians. .

The Greeks run upon the scattered army of the Persians,
uttering fierce cries. The Persians are thrown into a panic.

The Persians move backward towards the sea. The Greeks
deal death and destruction everywhere. The Persians fly
towards their ships. Six thousand are slain, while only about
two hundred of the victorious Greeks fall.
348 ZIGZAG STORIES.

Greece is Victorious. Messengers fly back to Athens.
Women and children rejoice. There are thanksgivings in the
temples of the gods. Athens has withstood Asia. Greece is
free.

Marathon is thenceforth to be the watchword of heroes.

«The flying Mede, his shaftless broken bow,
The fiery Greek, his red pursuing spear;
Mountains above, earth’s, ocean’s, plain below;
Death in the front, destruction in the rear.”

SIR FRANCIS DRAKE AND HIS SHIP OF GOLD.

Sir FRANCIS DRAKE once lived on a beautiful estate upon
the Tay, but he was born upon the Tavy. His father was poor,
and had twelve children, and he hardly could have believed, had
an astrologer told him so, that any one of his twelve children
would ever become a knight. Young Francis’ life was passed
among the sailors of the seaport towns, like that of any common
sailor-boy. But he was what would be called a bright boy, and
he found a warm friend in the owner of a vessel; and when this
friend died, he left to him his vessel, and the young man’s for-
tune began with the gift.

While coasting on the shores of England he chanced to hear
of the wonderful exploits of Hawkins in the New World.
Francis seems to have been all ears and imagination, and to
have had perfect confidence that he could do what any one else
had done. Boys who reap golden fortunes commonly have
golden dreams, and with it a strong will to turn their imagin-
ings into solid events. He resolved to go to Plymouth, and to
join one of the expeditions of Hawkins to the Spanish Main.
He did so, and failed, returning poorer than when he started.
But his imagination and will did not fail; and as long as these
SIR FRANCIS DRAKE AND HIS SHIP OF GOLD. 349

last there is a hope of the success of any man. He fitted out a
ship of his own; and as England was hostile to Spain at this
time, he began to plunder the Spanish Main. A sea-robber or a
pirate he would be called to-day ; but robbing the seas of hostile
nations was not so badly regarded at that time. He became
such a successful sea-robber that he was made an admiral, or
vice-admiral, with great powers. Queen Elizabeth once ban-
queted on board one of his ships, and made him a knight, as you
have seen in the pictures of old histories. You well know how
he defeated the Invincible Armada of Spain. He was made a
member of Parliament, and built a beautiful estate, on which he
lavished the spoils of Peru and the treasures of the Indies.

But my story does not so much concern the wonderful career
of the knight, as an incident of it that shows how greedy is poor
human nature, and how little people understand the selfishness
there is in the human heart.

The New World was at this time regarded as one vast store-
house of gold and gems, and the return of a ship from these rich
regions was an event that occasioned the greatest excitement
in the port to which she came. The whole country turned out
at such times to see her enter the harbor. Men went away poor,
and returned in ships fullof riches. As the spoiling of Peru had
enriched Spain, so the spoiling of the Spanish Main in turn en-
riched England. The story of the Incas and their wealth had filled
all Europe; and though the golden empires of the Incas no longer
existed, people still regarded South America and the islands of
the Spanish Main as places of mountains of mines and valleys of
treasures. To them the very name of America meant gold.
Sir Francis was the discoverer of California,! and the first to
find gold there. He would have found gold there or anywhere,
had there been any to find, as you may well believe. To him
gold was the world, and few men ever gained a larger share;
and he was the first to sail around the golden world and to find
out how great and rich it was.

1 It had been visited before by an adventurer at the time of Cortez.
350 ZIGZAG STORIES.

Among the great conquests of Sir Francis Drake on the
Spanish Main was the surprise and capture of Nombre de Dios,
near the isthmus of Darien, a town rich with treasures, which
he plundered, loading his ship with spoils. After this exploit
he crossed the isthmus and saw the Pacific, and then prepared to
return to England with his treasures, expecting to reach the
port of Plymouth late in the summer.

It was August 9, 1573. The good people of Plymouth had
made their way to church, and many of them had become drowsy
under the sermon in the sultry air. The minister was giving
them a long discourse, possibly on selfishness and the evil of
laying up treasures on earth and conforming to the world. The
great sea stretched away from the mouth of the Plym, a gentle
breeze perhaps breaking the languid air. Suddenly, amid these
tranquil surroundings, a British flag was seen rising above the
sea. The church clerk saw it first, and was startled, and grew
worldly-minded, and whispered his discovery to the beadle.

“T will slip out and see,” said the beadle. And he quietly
vanished, saying as he went, “I will return in a few minutes.”

But the beadle did not return.

The flag rose higher, and came more distinctly into view.
The clerk whispered to one of the vestrymen, “I think that
there is a ship coming into port.”

“JT will slip out and see,” said the vestryman. And he too
vanished, saying, “I will be back soon.”

But he did not come back.

The other vestryman was partly asleep, when the clerk
touched him.

“There is a ship coming into port,” said the clerk.

“« What of that?” whispered the vestryman, drowsily.

“Tt may be laden with gold — from the Americas.”

“Gold! gold! Where’s my hat?” And he too vanished,
promising to be back soon.
SIR FRANCIS DRAKE AND HIS SHIP OF GOLD. 351

The boys heard the whispered word “ gold,” and gazed from
the open window toward the sea. “A ship of gold,” said one.
In a moment he was gone, and all the others followed him.

The good old rector became disturbed, and he may be sup-
posed to have grown very emphatic at this point against
worldliness.

« A ship of gold!” whispered one to another.

“ A ship of gold!” it ran through the church.

“Sir Francis Drake and a ship of gold,” was the low-voiced
murmur.

As often as the good rector bent down his head to quote the
Scriptures, one after another of the men slipped out of the door.
The women followed; for when did there ever appear a sight of
good fortune that the women did not follow the men to see it?

The old rector wondered that every time he raised his eyes
from the good Book his congregation should look so thinned.
Where had they gone? What had happened?

At last, after scrutinizing a very hard passage, he raised his
head and found the church empty, —all except one old man
who was blind, and one old man who was deaf, and one old
sailor who was fast asleep.

“Where is my congregation gone?” exclaimed the rector.
“What have they done? What has come to pass?”

“T heard something said of a ship of gold,” said the blind
man. ‘Where is the door?” And he too felt his way toward
the open street, and tried to follow the crowd. |

The good rector was now left to preach to the deaf man and
the sleeping sailor. But the deaf man could see. ‘The congre-
gation had gone, and not for nothing, he well knew. There
must have been something wonderfully powerful to cause them
to leave, — something to be gained somehow, he reasoned.

“JT cannot hear, anyhow,” he said to the parson; “so I will
go and see what has happened.”

The old rector went on with his discourse.
852 : ZIGZAG STORIES.

Presently the sailor awoke, and found the church empty. He
stared about him, wondering if he had lost his senses. “ What
has happened?” said he.

“ Gold,” answered the parson.

“Gold! Where? where?”

“They are crying in the streets, ‘A ship of gold! a ship of
gold!’ Do you not hear them?”

“ A ship of gold, and you preachin’ about the old patriarchs!
Why did you not wake me up before?”

The sailor made a few strides, and the church was indeed
empty.

“It is evident that it is the will of the Lord that I should go
too,” said the rector. “The empty benches do not need a
preacher.” So the good rector took off his gown and followed
his flock to the wharves, and looked out on the summer sea.
And the ship of gold came slowly in, and the people hailed the
returning adventurer.

That night the pastor and his people had sufficient relief from
the hot day’s excitement to think. They consulted together,
and agreed that a Sunday had been lost, and that it was a great
mystery how there should be so much worldliness in the world.

For many years the little port of Plymouth was wont to recall
the lost Sunday of Francis Drake and his Ship of Gold.

THE GOLDEN SHIP, AND THE FAIR BRICK
HOUSE IN GREEN LANE, BOSTON.

I oncE heard Charlie Noble say that it is will that makes a
fortune, and genius that finds gold; and that a boy can become
anything that he chooses. This is partly true. New England
has had few romances. The strangest events that ever happened
to any one man in colonial times in New England are those I
THE GOLDEN SHIP AND THE FAIR BRICK HOUSE. 858

am about to relate, and will seem to illustrate and confirm
Charlie’s hopeful and helpful, but somewhat too promising
theory.

In the middle of the seventeenth century there lived at Wool-
wich, in the wilderness of Maine, a family consisting of a man,
his wife, and twenty-six children. This is not a fairy story.

The family was poor. The children grew up in ignorance.
What could a boy out of such a family and such a place ever
expect to become?

One of the boys was named William. He was put to tending
sheep, and his youth was spent largely in the pastures.

While thus engaged, the beautiful things of nature — the for-
ests, the springtime, the moon and stars at night — all impressed
him with the thought that this was a world of many sides, re-
sources, and opportunities, and that there might be some good
fortune in the world for him. He became restless. He was
ambitious to learn to read and write.

He bound himself to a ship-carpenter at the age of eighteen,
and learned of his employer to read and write. He found out
from his books that his impression in the pastures was right,
that the world 7s wide and full of great opportunities.

In 1678 he came to Boston. He there meta rich lady much
older than himself, who took a kindly interest in him, and to
whom he gave his affections. Here was an opportunity to
secure a good-hearted wife and a fortune at the starting-point,
and the young sheep-tender improved his opportunity.

His wife intrusted him with her means; he went into business,
and failed, or at least lost all he had, and became as poor as he
had been in Maine.

“ Never mind, never mind,” said he to his wife; ‘one day I
will have a fortune of my own, and then I will make up for
all, and I will build you a fair brick house in Green Lane in
Boston.”

In 1684 this restless young man heard of a Spanish ship that

23
354 ZIGZAG STORIES.

had been lost near the Bahama Islands, and which had contained
a large amount of gold and silver. He began to dream of golden
ships lying at the bottom of the sea, and to make plans for the
recovery of this particular one; and he hoped to build out of the
treasure a fair brick house for his wife, in Green Lane, Boston.

He went to England, full of golden visions. He procured a
ship, and went to Bermuda; but he failed to secure the sunken
treasure, and returned poor; and Mrs. Phipps must have felt
that her prospect of living in a fair brick house was unpromising
indeed.

But William still believed in himself. He had chanced, as it
would seem, to hear of another Spanish treasure-ship, or galleon,
that had been cast away near Porto de la Plata. This ship had
been freighted with immense riches, and had lain under the
waves for fifty years.

William dreamed again. He did not let any feeling of self-
depreciation stand in the way of the fulfilment of his plans, and
he did not go to idlers with his story, but went boldly to King
James, who at that time had great need of money. The king
listened to his glowing scheme, and gave him a vessel called the
“Rose Algier” to make the attempt to recover the ship of gold.

The golden dreams of one affect others, and the crew of the
“Rose Algier” began to dream. They thought that there was
a yet shorter way to fortune than searching for sunken ships.
It was to capture such ships as they met on the sea. The men
advised William to become a pirate.

William would not listen to their proposal. He had an honest
heart. The crew mutinied and overcame him; but the ship at
last sprung a leak, and he was returned to England, with no
nearer prospect of the fair brick house in Green Lane than
before.

But he did not lose faith in himself even then. On his last
voyage he had met with a Spaniard, an old man, who recalled
the place where the Spanish ship had been wrecked. William
THE GOLDEN SHIP AND THE FAIR BRICK HOUSE. 355

again went to the king, asked for another vessel, but was
refused.

A vessel for the purpose was, however, furnished him by the
Duke of Albemarle, who had given an itching ear to William’s
dreams and schemes. William again sailed from England, and
arrived at Porto de la Plata, still thinking, I have no doubt, of
the promise he had made to his good wife after losing her for-
tune, of the fair brick house in Green Lane.

Guided by the directions given by the aged Spaniard, Wil-
liam proceeded to the foaming reef in a boat, taking with him
some expert Indian divers. The latter examined the sea-bottom
about the reef, but discovered nothing; and doubt and disap-
pointment began to enter our adventurer’s heart at last.

The water near the reef was transparent, and William could
see the rocks beneath. Looking down into one of the- deep
crevices of the rocks where the surface was calm, he saw a
curious sea-plant, and he said to one of the Indian divers, —

“Go down and bring it up.”

The diver plunged. When he came up, he appeared greatly
excited.

“ What have you found, — gold?”

“No. There are cannon sunken among the rocks.”

Cannon! William’s heart leaped. He knew that the guns
were those of the old Spanish ship.

The English crew danced about the deck at the discovery.

“Down!” said Captain William again to the diver.

Down went all of the divers. They were gone long. They
were hunting among the cannon and the old ship’s relics. They
came up. One of them hada great lump of ore. It proved to
be silver, and worth a thousand dollars.

“Thanks be to God!” said Captain William. “Our fortunes
are now made!” He doubtless thought of his good wife, and
wondered what she would say.

The iron hooks and rakes were put to work. All of the metal
356 ZIGZAG STORIES.

and treasure that had formed a part of the galleon and her
cargo were brought up. There were bags of gold and silver,
plate and jewels of old Spanish grandees, sacks of coin, that
broke open upon the deck, and caused the English sailors to
shout with delight and to leap about like men demented. In
fact, one of the sailors lost his reason, and ever after chatted
like an idiot about sunken ships and bags of gold.

The value of the rescued treasure was about $2,000,000.
Captain William returned it all honestly to the duke, and the
latter gave him, as a reward, a fortune amounting to £16,000,
or $80,000.

The king was so much pleased with his perseverance and
success that he made him a knight.

He was Sir William Phipps now, and as such was happy to
share his good fortune with his lady, who had never dreamed of
so much riches and honor. The Duke of Albermarle sent to
Mrs. Phipps a magnificent golden cup; and Sir William, as
soon as he was able, on returning to America, built for her a
fair brick house, in Green Lane, or elsewhere in Boston.

His career was like one of the heroes of the Arabian Nights.
The French held Canada, and the French colonies were hostile
and dangerous to those of New England. One of the nearest
and most interesting of these colonies was Acadia, which has
since figured in romance and poetry. Sir William resolved on
making an expedition, in the interest of England, to conquer
and render powerless this colony; and he hoped also to add
to his riches and fame. He was successful; and when he
returned to Boston, there was no man in the colony more
distinguished than Sir William Phipps.

But his greatest honor was yet to come. William and Mary
came to the English throne. England was still hostile to France
and her colonies; and when it fell to the new king to appoint a
governor for Massachusetts, whom should he commission but the
super-serviceable hero of Acadia, Sir William Phipps ?
THE GOLDEN SHIP AND THE FAIR BRICK HOUSE. 357

So in the old Province House Sir William sat down in
knee-breeches, and ruffles, and waistcoat bedizened with gold,
gorgeous as one of the old Spanish grandees whose treasure
he had gained; and by him sat Lady Phipps, as resplendent as
a court duchess, and very proud of her husband.

Sheep-tender Phipps, Carpenter Phipps, Captain Phipps, Sir
William Phipps, Governor Phipps, General Phipps, died sud-
denly, in England, at the age of forty-four or five.

Sir William was not able to accomplish all that he wished:
he was once ambitious to capture the Fortress of Quebec, and
attempted it, but had to retire. Still I cannot say what he
might have done had he persevered.

THE END.


Be a et Os HO Sa oe ee
Be as DY yd REY) ae ie Ee ee Ue WME ca ie
MS oe pre

VB BO ah tis VE Binet