Project Gutenberg's Harper's Round Table, August 11, 1896, by Various This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. Title: Harper's Round Table, August 11, 1896 Author: Various Release Date: March 2, 2019 [EBook #58997] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HARPER'S ROUND TABLE, AUG 11, 1896 *** Produced by Annie R. McGuire AN AMERICAN THERMOPYLÆ. THE PRESIDENT'S PRIVATE LIFE. AN EXPLANATION. THE VOYAGE OF THE "RATTLETRAP." A VIRGINIA CAVALIER. CROSSING THE XUACAXÉLLA. THE WAR IN CUBA. THE PIPER. WHAT THE BEE TOLD ME. INTERSCHOLASTIC SPORT. STAMPS. BICYCLING. THE CAMERA CLUB. CAPTAIN JACK AND THE CANNIBALS. HARPER'S ROUND TABLE Copyright, 1896, by Harper & Brothers. All Rights Reserved. published weekly. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, AUGUST 11, 1896. five cents a copy. vol. xvii.—no. 876. two dollars a year. [Pg 989] AN AMERICAN THERMOPYLÆ. BY KIRK MUNROE. "My!" exclaimed Bryce Gordon, with a deep sigh, as he softly closed the Greek history over which he had been intently poring for the last fifteen minutes, "I want to go and see that place some time." "What place?" asked his army uncle, Captain Frank Gordon, looking up from the evening paper. "The Pass of Thermopylæ," answered Bryce, who had just been reading of Leonidas and his wonderful battle with the hosts of Xerxes. "That is the kind of place I want to visit whenever I have a chance to travel," he continued, with flashing eyes, "and I should think Greek boys would be awfully proud of it. I only wish we had a Thermopylæ in this country; but there doesn't seem to be any such thing nowadays." "Doesn't there?" replied his uncle, laying down the paper. "Then I am afraid you are better posted concerning old Greek history than in that of the United States; for I know of a Thermopylæ in which, only sixty years ago, a handful of Americans made as glorious and heroic a defence against overwhelming numbers as was ever recorded." "You do?" cried Bryce, excitedly. "Where is it? Tell me about it, quick! Please do!" "Yes, tell us," pleaded Jackanapes, May, and little Miss Blue, who, scenting a story from afar, had made a magic appearance, and were now clustered about Captain Gordon's chair like so many hungry bees about a honeycomb. "Well," laughed their uncle, good-naturedly, "I see that I am in for it, and suppose I must do as my tyrants command. So here goes. To begin with, did any of you ever hear of the Alamo?" "Seems to me I have," answered Bryce; "but I can't remember what it is." The faces of the others were so blank that it was evident the word held no meaning for them. "I didn't much think you would know anything about it," continued their uncle; "for it belongs to American history, which, of course, is not half so important as that of the old Greeks and Romans. The Alamo, then, is, or rather was, an old Spanish mission located in a cottonwood grove that gave it its name—for Alamo means cottonwood—near the San Antonio River in southwestern Texas. On an opposite bank of the stream stood the Mexican town of San Antonio, built of low flat-roofed adobe or stone houses, and containing at the time of my story very few Americans, though in other parts of Texas these already formed an important part of the population. Texas was then a Mexican state, and Mexico itself had but recently thrown off the yoke of Spain. In its struggle for liberty the American residents had rendered such splendid service, that when freedom was finally gained they were granted many especial privileges by the Mexican government. These were highly prized, and everything went smoothly, until General Santa Aña headed a revolution, overthrew the existing government, and made himself Dictator. "Hating Americans, and jealous of their increasing power, Santa Aña began to withdraw their privileges, and declared that Texas, disappearing as a separate territory, should thereafter belong to the older Mexican state of Coahuila. Worst of all, he replaced the civil with a military government, and ordered that all citizens should be disarmed. Of course the free-born sons of fathers who had fought at Lexington and Yorktown—for these things happened in 1834—would not [Pg 990] submit to such oppression, and the first thing Santa Aña knew the state of Texas was in open revolt, declaring itself to be an independent republic. As San Antonio was its most important city, the Mexican General Cos was ordered to fortify and hold it against the rebels; but one thousand Texans under General Edward Burleson marched against him; and three hundred of them, led by brave old Ben Milam, captured the place after a three days' fight from house to house, and from street to street. General Cos and his two thousand soldiers were allowed to retire to Mexico as paroled prisoners of war, who solemnly promised never again to take up arms against the Texans. "Soon after this, General Burleson's army scattered to different points where there seemed a chance of more fighting, until only eighty troops, under command of Colonel James Bowie, inventor of the famous bowie-knife and son-in-law of the Mexican Governor, remained to defend the city. These troops had not received one cent of pay, were poorly clad, and possessed but little ammunition. Early in February, 1835, Colonel Bowie, worn out by his efforts to obtain re- enforcements and make adequate provision for the defence of his important post, fell sick of a fever, and Colonel William Travis, who had just arrived with thirty-five men, assumed command. Soon afterwards the renowned David Crockett arrived from Tennessee with thirty more men, so that the garrison now numbered one hundred and forty-five. "On the 22d of February the Mexican Dictator appeared before San Antonio with an army of 4000 regular troops, and marched straight into the town, the Texans crossing the river and retiring before him to the ruinous old Alamo Mission, which they hastily barricaded, and so converted into a rude fortress. They carried fever-stricken Bowie with them, and, as they retreated, gathered up a few bushels of corn and a few beef cattle, which formed their sole stock of provisions. "From this place of refuge, when Santa Aña demanded its unconditional surrender, Travis replied with a cannon-shot. He knew that the longer he could hold the Mexican army in check the more time would be allowed the men of Texas to gather and organize for the defence of their homes. Upon receiving this defiant reply, Santa Aña displayed blood-red flags from every church-tower in the town, to signify death without quarter to the rebels, and began a furious bombardment of the Alamo. This was continued almost without intermission, by night as well as by day, until the 6th of March, or through two weary weeks. During that time Travis managed to despatch several couriers in different directions, with urgent messages imploring assistance. In every message he wrote, 'We are determined neither to surrender nor retreat, but will maintain our position to the bitter end.' "Every now and then the little garrison made desperate sorties for the destruction of some galling battery or to seize a few supplies, and during those twelve fearful days whenever a Texas rifle was fired a Mexican soldier fell dead. In the early morning of the 1st of March a great shout of rejoicing rang out from the battered mission, for Captain John Smith, who, with thirty men, had hastened from Gonzales to the assistance of his friends, had succeeded in passing the enemy's line and gaining the shelter of the fort. Now the bombardment became so fierce that all the outlying walls of the mission were demolished, and only its stout stone church remained standing. Into it the Texans retired, barricading every entrance and repairing every breach. "Shortly before sunset on the evening of the 3d the fire of the batteries suddenly ceased. Two thousand fresh troops, the army of General Cos, which had been captured and paroled at this very place, had retraced their steps, and now, in violation of their pledged word, were prepared once more to fight against their conquerors. While they were being welcomed with acclamations and every form of rejoicing by the Mexicans, the grim walls of the Alamo were witnessing one of the most solemn and pathetic scenes of history. In their dim shadow Colonel Travis paraded his handful of heroes in single file, and addressed them in substantially these words: "'My brave comrades, stern necessity compels me to employ the moments afforded by this probably brief cessation of conflict in making known to you the most interesting, yet the most solemn, melancholy, and unwelcome fact that humanity can realize. Our fate is sealed. Within a few days, perhaps a few hours, we must all be in eternity. Our provisions are gone, our ammunition is nearly spent, and our strength is almost exhausted. My calls for assistance remain unanswered, and the probabilities are that our couriers have been cut off. The enemy surrounds us in overwhelming and ever-increasing numbers. Then we must die, and have only to choose such method of death as may best serve our country. Shall we surrender, and be deliberately shot? Shall we try to cut our way out through the Mexican ranks, and be butchered before we can kill twenty of our adversaries? I am opposed to either plan, but leave every man of you to his own decision. Should any one choose to surrender, or attempt to escape, he is at liberty to do so. My own choice is to remain in this place, and die for my country, fighting so long as breath shall remain in my body. This will I do even if you leave me alone. Do, then, as you think best; but remember that no one of you can die with me without affording me comfort in the hour of death.' "Here Colonel Travis drew his sword, and with its point traced a line on the earthen floor extending the whole length of the motionless file. Then resuming his position in front of the centre, he said: "'Now let every man who is willing to remain here and die with me cross to this side of that line. Who will be the first? Forward! March!' "Tapley Holland leaped the line at a bound, exclaiming, 'I am ready to die for my country!' And in another instant every man, save one, of that heroic file had followed him and stood beside their gallant leader. Every wounded man who could move crawled or tottered across the fatal mark. Colonel Bowie, too weak to lift his head, called out feebly, 'Don't leave me behind, boys!' and in a moment four men had lifted his cot over the line. The other helpless ones begged that they too might be lifted across, and finally only Moses Rose remained behind. He stood alone, with his face buried in his hands. Travis, Bowie, and Crockett all spoke to him kindly, and asked him if he were afraid to die. When he answered that he was, and believed in the possibility of an escape, they bade him go in peace. So he left them, scaling a rear wall of the church, dropping to the ground outside, and finally escaping, after eluding innumerable dangers. It is from him alone that we have a description of that memorable scene, for of all that devoted band whom he left in that gloomy fortress no man was ever again seen alive beyond its walls." "Then he was the Aristodemus of your American Thermopylæ," interrupted Bryce, who was listening with breathless attention to this tale of modern heroism. "Yes," replied Captain Gordon, "only he was more of a coward than Aristodemus, for the latter did not escape until after his comrades had been killed, and, if you remember, was himself killed in battle the following year, after performing more valorous deeds than any of his fellow Spartans." "I suppose Moses Rose was more truly a coward," admitted Bryce; "but lot's not stop to talk about him now, Uncle Cap. What became of the splendid fellows he left in the fort? Did they finally surrender, or were they captured, or what?" "They neither surrendered nor were made prisoners, but fought with the stubbornness of desperation for three days longer. At length, on the 5th of March, Santa Aña, believing the Americans to be too exhausted to offer a serious resistance, ordered the Alamo to be carried by assault at daylight of the following morning. At that hour the thunder of bombardment was again stilled, and as though the silence were a signal, dark masses of Mexican infantry, provided with scaling ladders, and driven to their deadly work by a pitiless cavalry pressing close on their rear, rushed at the walls of the devoted church. "Less than one hundred of the defenders were left to resist those thousands; but three times did this handful of dauntless fighters repel their swarming assailants, and three times did the furious Mexican General drive them back to the assault. At length the defenders had fired away their last grain of powder, the crowding Mexicans forced an entrance, and after another hour of the most terrific hand-to-hand fighting and awful slaughter, the Alamo was theirs. At nine o'clock two murderous discharges of double-shotted grape and canister from a cannon planted in the doorway of the room used as a hospital, and filled with helplessly wounded Americans, ended the bloody tragedy, for of Travis's noble band no man remained alive. So terribly had they fought that five hundred and twenty Mexicans were killed in that final assault, and as many more were wounded, while, including all who had fallen beneath the unerring Texas rifles during the siege, the Alamo had cost Santa Aña over two thousand men. "In his rage at this stubborn resistance the Mexican General ordered the bodies of the heroic defenders to be burned just outside the Alamo, and so thoroughly was this work accomplished that by sunset of that dreadful day naught was left of them save a mound of wind-blown ashes and an undying memory." "I think that is the very finest thing I ever heard of!" cried Bryce, nearly choked with emotion; "and now I know that I am prouder of being an American than any Greek boy can be of his country. But what happened after that, Uncle Cap? Did Santa Aña keep right on and conquer the whole of Texas?" "How could he when the Texans had such a glorious example to follow as that of Travis and Bowie and Crockett, and those who fell with them, and such a battle-cry as 'Remember the Alamo'? No, indeed, he did not conquer Texas, and I think your history will tell just how long it took the Texans to sweep everything before them, and win an independence that they maintained for nine years before joining themselves to the great American republic, and becoming one of the United States." "And what became of the Alamo?" "It still stands, or rather the old church does, facing the principal plaza of the beautiful, wide-spread city that has grown around it since Travis and his men won for it a glorious immortality." "Can any one see it, and go inside and touch its walls?" "Certainly he may." "Then," said Bryce, glowing with enthusiasm, "that is the very first place in all the world that I mean to visit just as soon as I set out on my travels." THE PRESIDENT'S PRIVATE LIFE. Aside from the arduous official duties of the President of the United States, it is interesting to note some of the pleasure and profit that accrue from his term of four years. With an income of $138 a day, or $50,000 a year, paid by the strongest bank in the country, the United States Treasury, he may or may not leave office with a snug fortune of perhaps $100,000, depending on whether his expenditures have been of an extravagant nature. Many Presidents have taken office as poor men, but with the money they have saved during their term, and the influence that the office has brought them in business pursuits afterwards, they have died comparatively rich. The country instals the President in the White House—a magnificent residence—and surrounds him with every convenience. With an appropriation that Congress makes every year most of the expenses of this establishment are paid. [Pg 991] The following is a fair idea of the many incidentals that come free to a President: Every bit of linen, bedding, towels, and such things is furnished. He is shaved by the White House barber. His table is spread with the finest, daintiest damask, set with the most exquisite china, and bountifully supplied with flowers from the White House conservatories. If he sends a telegram, it is done from an instrument in the White House, for which the government pays. His stationery, postage, etc., cost him nothing. Should he desire a game of billiards, there is a beautiful table at hand; or if he wants to take a drive, his stables, which the government pays the rent for and takes care of, are amply equipped. When he enters his business office, a man is stationed at the door to open and close it; and a private secretary, to whom the government pays a salary of $5000 a year, assists him with his correspondence. The services of a type-writer are also furnished. He is protected from the curious by a number of private watchmen. Should he want a cruise, a magnificent steam-ship from the navy is placed at his disposal. There are many other things that cost him nothing, such as the culinary arrangements, his steward, who does the marketing, the many fancy delicacies sent him by enterprising firms. This, by-the-way, is a sort of nuisance, for it seems to be the desire of every manufacturer of some new eatable or drinkable to get it into the White House. Things of value that find their way there are never accepted. Lately the bicycle manufacturers have tried to get President Cleveland to ride a wheel, and have offered the most extravagant inducements to both the President and Mrs. Cleveland. One firm said they would present Mrs. Cleveland with a gold bicycle studded with gems if she would ride it. The President has to give state dinners and state receptions, but the expenses of these yearly probably do not exceed $7000 or $8000. The Marine Band always supplies the music, and the flowers come from the conservatory. It is seldom necessary to decorate the reception-rooms of the White House, so that these affairs, although of elaborate and ceremonial nature, are still inexpensive. Upon his retirement to private life, the influence that his Presidential office has given him enables him to secure large sums in payment for whatever he may do, such as a lecture, an article in a periodical, or, if he practises law—which most of our ex-Presidents have done—such fees as $10,000 are no uncommon thing. AN EXPLANATION. "I do not smile when I'm in bed," The little baby softly said, "Because my smile's so very wide, 'Tis sure to fall out on one side, And oh, how madly I should scold To find my smile out in the cold!" THE VOYAGE OF THE "RATTLETRAP." BY HAYDEN CARRUTH. I. Perhaps we were pretty big boys—Jack and I. In fact, I'm afraid we were so big that we haven't grown much since, though it was ten years or more ago that it all happened. But Ollie was a boy, anyhow; he couldn't have been more than a dozen years old, and we looked upon him as being a very small boy indeed; though when folks saw us starting off, some of them seemed to think that we were as boyish as he, because, they said, it was such a foolish thing to do; and in some way, I'm sure I don't know how, boys have got the reputation of always doing foolish things. "They're three of a kind," said Grandpa Oldberry, as he watched us weigh anchor. "Their parents oughter be sent fer." Well, it's hard to decide where to begin this true history. We didn't keep any log on this voyage of the Rattletrap. But I'll certainly have to go back of the time when Grandpa Oldberry expressed his opinion; and perhaps I ought to explain how we happened to be in that particular port. As I said, we—Jack and I—were pretty big boys, so big that we were off out West and in business for ourselves, though, after all, that didn't imply that we were very old, because it was a very new country, and everybody was young; after the election the first fall it was found that the man who had been chosen for county judge wasn't quite twenty-one years of age yet, and therefore, of course, couldn't hold office; and we were obliged to wait three weeks till he had had his birthday, and then to have a special election and choose him again. Everybody was young except Grandpa Oldberry, and he really wasn't old. But I was trying to account for our being in the port of Prairie Flower. Jack had a cheese-factory there, and made small round cheeses. I had a printing-office, and printed a small square newspaper. In my paper I used to praise Jack's cheeses, and keep repeating how good they were, so people bought them; and Jack used, once in a while, to give me a [Pg 992] "I'M TIRED OF MAKING POOR CHEESES." cheese. So we both managed to live, though I think we sometimes got a little tired of being men, and wished we were back home, far from thick round cheeses and thin square newspapers. One evening in the first week in September, when it was raining as hard as it could rain, and when the wind was blowing as hard as it could blow, and was driving empty boxes and barrels, and old tin pails and wash-boilers, and castaway hats and runaway hats and lost hats, and other things across the prairie before it, Jack came into my office, where I was setting type (my printer having been blown away, along with the boxes and the hats), and after he had allowed the rain to run off his clothes and make little puddles like thin mud pies on the dusty floor, he said, "I'm tired of making poor cheeses." "Well," I answered, "I'm tired of printing a poor newspaper." "Let's sell out and go somewhere," continued Jack. "All right," I said. "Let's." So we did. Of course the Rattletrap wasn't a boat which sailed on the water, though I don't know as I thought to mention this before. In fact, a water boat wouldn't have been of any use to us in getting out of Prairie Flower, because there wasn't any water there, except a very small stream called the Sioux River, which wandered along the prairie, sometimes running in one direction and sometimes in the other, and at other times standing still and wondering if it was worth while to run at all. The port of Prairie Flower was in Dakota. This was when Dakota was still a Territory, and before it had been cut into halves and made into two States, and left on the map like a green paving-stone lying on top of a yellow paving-stone. So, there being no water, we of course had to provide ourselves with a craft that could navigate dry land; which is precisely what the Rattletrap was—namely, a "prairie schooner." "I've got a team of horses and a wagon," went on Jack, that rainy night when we were talking. "You've got a pony and a saddle. We've both got guns. When we drive out of town some stray dog will follow us. What more'll we want?" "Nothing," I said, as I clapped my stick down in the space-box. "We can put a canvas cover on the wagon and sleep in it at night, and cook our meals over a camp-fire, and—and—have a time." "Of course—a big time. It's a heavy spring-wagon, and there is just about room in it behind the seat for a bed. We can put on a cover that will keep out rain as well as a tent, and carry a little kerosene-oil stove to use for cooking if we can't build a fire out-doors for any reason. We can take along flour, and—and—and salt, and other things to eat, and shoot game, and—and—and have a time." We became so excited that we sat down and talked till midnight about it. By that time the rain had stopped, and when we went out the stars were shining, and the level ground was covered with pools of water. "If it was always as wet as this around here we could go in a genuine schooner," said Jack. "Yes, that's so. But what shall we call our craft?" "I think Rattletrap would be a good name," said Jack. "I don't think it is a very pretty name," I replied. "You wait till you get acquainted with that wagon, and you will say it's the best name in the world, whether it's pretty or not. You don't know that wagon yet. The tongue is spliced, the whiffletrees are loose, the reach is cracked, the box is tied together with a rope, the springs creak, and the wheels whobble, lean different ways, and never follow one another." "Do they all turn in the same direction?" I asked. "I don't believe they do. It would be just like one to turn backward while the other three were going forward." "We'll call our craft the Rattletrap, then. Good-night." "Good-night," said Jack; and we parted, each to dream of our approaching cruise. In a week we were busy getting ready to start. I found, when I looked over the wagon as it stood back of the cheese- factory, that it was much as Jack had described it, only I noticed that the seat as well as the springs creaked, and that a corner was broken off the dash-board. But we set to work upon it with a will. We tightened up the nuts and screws all over it, and wound the broken pole with wire. We nailed together the box so that the rope could be taken off, and oiled the creaking springs. We had no trouble in finding a top, as half the people in the country had come in wagons provided with covers only a year or so before. We got four bows and attached them to the box, one at each end, and the other [Pg 993] IN A WEEK WE WERE BUSY GETTING READY TO START. two at equal distances between. These bows were made of hard-wood, and were a quarter of an inch thick and an inch and a half wide. They ran up straight on either side for two or three feet, and then rounded over, like a croquet-wicket, being high enough so that as we stood upright in the wagon-box our heads would just nicely clear them. Over this skeleton we stretched our white canvas cover, and tied it down tightly along the sides. This made what we called the cabin. There was an ample flap in front, which could be let down at night and fastened back inside during the day. At the rear end the cloth folded around, and was drawn together with a "puckering-string," precisely like a button-bag. By drawing the string tightly this back end could be entirely closed up; or the string could be let out, and the opening made any size wanted. After the cover was adjusted we stood off and admired our work. "Looks like an elephant on wheels," said Jack. "Or an old-fashioned sun-bonnet for a giantess," I added. "Anyhow, I'll wager a cheese it'll keep out the rain, unless it comes down too hard," said Jack. "Now for the smaller parts of our rigging, and the stores." On the back end we fastened a feed-box for the horses, as long as the wagon-box was wide, and ten or twelve inches square, with a partition in the middle. We put stout iron rings in the corners of this, making a place to tie the horses. On the dash-board outside we built another box, for tools. This was wedge-shaped, about five inches wide at the top, but running down to an inch or two at the bottom, and had a hinged cover. We put aboard a satchel containing the little additional clothing which we thought we should need. Things in this line which did not seem to be absolutely necessary were ruled out—indeed, for the sake of lightness we decided to take just as little of everything that we could. We made another box, some two feet long, a foot deep, and fourteen inches wide, with a hinged cover, which we called the "pantry," for our supply of food. This we stood in the wagon with the satchel. Usually in the daytime after we started each of these rode comfortably on the bed back of the seat. This bed was a rather simple affair, made up of some bed- clothing and pillows arranged on a thick layer of hay in the bottom of the wagon-box. Our small two-wick oil-stove we put in front next to the dash-board, a lantern we hung up on one of the bows, and a big tin pail for the horses we suspended under the wagon. "Since you're going to be cook," I said to Jack, "you tend to getting the dishes together." "They'll be few enough," he answered. "I don't like to wash 'em. Tin mostly, I guess; because tin won't break." So he put a few knives and forks and spoons, tin plates and cups, a frying-pan, a small copper kettle, and a few other utensils in another box, which also found a home on the bed. Other things which we did not forget were a small can of kerosene; two half-gallon jugs, one for milk and one for water; a basket of eggs; a nickel clock (we called it the chronometer); and in the tool-box a hatchet, a monkey-wrench, screw-driver, small saw, a piece of rope, one or two straps, and a few nails, screws, rivets, and similar things which might come handy in case of a wreck. "Now for the armament and the life-boat," said Jack. For armament Jack contributed a double-barrelled shot-gun and a heavy forty-five-calibre repeating rifle, and I a light forty-four-calibre repeating rifle, and a big revolver of the same calibre (though using a slightly shorter cartridge), with a belt and holster. This revolver we stored in the tool-box, chiefly for use in case we were boarded by pirates, while the guns we hung in leather loops in the top of the cover. In the tool-box we put a good supply of ammunition and plenty of matches. We also each carried a match-box, a pocket compass, and a stout jack-knife. "Now, how's your life-boat?" asked Jack. I led her out. She was a medium-sized brown Colorado pony, well decorated with brands, and with a white face and two white feet. She wore a big Mexican saddle and a horse-hair bridle with a silver bit. "She'll do," said Jack. "In case of wreck, we'll escape on her, if possible. She'll also be very handy in making landings where the harbor is poor, and in exploring unknown coasts." All of this work took several days, but when it was done the Rattletrap was ready for the voyage, and we decided to start the next morning. "She's as prairie-worthy a craft as ever scoured the plain," was Jack's opinion; "and if we can keep the four wheels from starting in opposite directions we'll be all right." But where was Ollie all this while? The fact is I had forgotten about Ollie. And who was Ollie, anyhow? Ollie was Jack's little nephew, and he lived back East somewhere—I don't remember where. The nearer we got ready to start, the more firmly Jack became convinced that Ollie would like to go along, so at last he sent for him to come, and he "THEY'LL ALL BE SCALPED BY INJUNS," SAID GRANDPA OLDBERRY. arrived the night before our start. Ollie liked the idea of the trip so much that he simply stood and looked at the wagon, the guns, the pony, and the horses, and was speechless. At last he managed to say, "Uncle Jack, it'll be just like a picnic, won't it?" The next morning we started as early as we could. But it was not before people were up. "Where be they going?" asked Grandpa Oldberry. "Oh, Nebraska, and Wyoming, and the Black Hills, and any crazy place they hear of," answered Squire Poinsett. "They'll all be scalped by Injuns," said Grandpa Oldberry. "Ain't the Injuns bad this fall?" "So I was a-reading," said the Squire. "And in the hills I should be afeared of b'ar." "Right," returned Grandpa. "B'ar and sim'lar varmints. And more 'specially boss-thieves and sich-like cut-throats. I disremember seeing three scalawags starting off on such a fool trip since afore the war." [to be continued.] A VIRGINIA CAVALIER.[1] BY MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL. CHAPTER IX. The remaining time of George's stay at Greenway Court sped on rapidly—too fast for Lord Fairfax, who realized every day how close the boy had got to his heart. As for Lance, a real friendship had grown up between him and George, and the old soldier thought with keen regret of the impending departure. Black Bear had remained at Greenway until his wound was well on the way to recovery, but, as Lance said, "an Injun can walk on a broken leg and climb a tree with a broken arm," so that when Black Bear considered himself recovered a white man would have thought his cure scarcely begun. Lord Fairfax found out that the Indian was the son of Tanacharison, one of the few chiefs who were friendly to the English and unfriendly to the French. On finding this out the Earl sent for Black Bear and had a long talk with him. With most Indians the idea of sparing an enemy seemed the extreme of folly; but Black Bear was of superior intelligence, and it had dawned upon him long before that the white men knew more than the red men about most things. And when he himself became the object of kindness, when he recalled George's remembering to give him water in his agony, and Lance's endeavors to cure his wound, the Indian's hard but not ignoble heart was touched. His father was reported among the wisest of the chiefs, and he had warned his tribe against taking either the French or the English side, as it was not their quarrel. Lord Fairfax found that in Black Bear, an uneducated savage who could neither read nor write, he had a man of strong natural intelligence, and one worth conciliating. He came to Greenway Court with blood and fire in his heart, and he left it peaceably inclined, and anxious for the friendship of the whits men. On the eve of his departure he said to George: "White brother, if ever you are in the Indian land and want help, call on Black Bear, or Tanacharison, the great chief who dwells on the other side of the mountains where the two rivers come together, and you will be heard as quickly as the doe hears the bleat of her young." Next morning Black Bear had disappeared, and was no more seen. The time came, about the middle of December, when George left Greenway Court for Mount Vernon. It was in a mild spell of weather, and advantage had to be taken of it to make the journey, as the roads were likely to be impassable later in the season. He was to travel on horse-back, Billy following him on a mule and carrying the portmanteau. The night before he left he had a long conversation with Lord Fairfax in the library. The Earl gently hinted at a wish that [Pg 994] "I CHARGE YOU NEVER TO DRAW IT IN AN UNWORTHY CAUSE." George might remain with him always, and that ample provision would be made for him in that event; but George, with tact and gratitude, evaded the point. He felt a powerful attachment towards Lord Fairfax, but he had no mind to be anybody's son except his father's and his mother's son. The Earl's last words on parting with him that night were: "I desire you to promise me that, in any emergency of any kind—and there will be many in your life—you will call on me as your friend if not your father." George answered, with gratitude in his heart, "I will gladly promise that, my lord; and it is great encouragement to me to feel that I have such a friend." Next morning, after an early breakfast, George's horse and Billy's mule were brought to the door. All the negroes were assembled to bid him good-by. Cæsar hoped he would come back soon, but not for any more fights with Indians, and each had some good wish for him. After shaking hands with each one, George grasped Lance's hand. "Good-by, Lance," said he. "I never can thank you enough for what you have taught me; not only fencing, but"—here George blushed a little at the recollection of his first fencing lesson—"teaching me to control my temper." "You were the aptest scholar I ever had, Mr. Washington," answered the old soldier; "and as for your temper, I have never seen you anything but mild and gentle since that first day." George then went to the library to find the Earl. He had meant to say something expressive of gratitude, but all through his life words failed him when his heart was overflowing. Lord Fairfax, too, was silent for a moment; but taking down the smaller of the two swords over the mantel-piece, he handed it to George. "This sword," he said, "I wore in the service of the Great Duke. I give it to you as being worthy to wear it, and I charge you never to draw it in an unworthy cause." "I promise you, my lord," was all that George could say in reply; but Lord Fairfax, who was a good judge of men, knew all that was passing in the boy's heart. The two wrung each other's hand; and George, going out, mounted his horse and rode off, with Billy trotting behind on the mule, and Rattler running at his heels. For the first few miles George felt the keen regret which every sensitive young soul must feel at leaving a place and persons dearly loved. At the point on the mountain-side where, on his way to Greenway, the Earl had stopped and showed him his first view of the house, George stopped again, and looked long and sadly. But once turned from it, and out of sight of it, his mind recovered its spring. He remembered that he was on the way to Mount Vernon, and would soon be with his brother Laurence and his sister-in-law, whom he dearly loved. Then there was little Mildred, a baby girl when he had been at Mount Vernon a year before. He wondered how big she was then. And Betty would be there, and he would hear from his mother, and see her soon after Christmas. On the whole, what with these pleasant prospects, and fine clear December weather, and a good horse to ride, George began to whistle cheerfully, and presently called back to Billy: "How do you like the notion of Christmas at Mount Vernon, Billy?" "I likes it mightily, suh," replied Billy, very promptly. "Dee ain' no Injuns at Mount Vernon, an' dee black folks git jes as good wittles in de kitchen as de white folks gits—tuckey, an' graby, an' all de pudden dat's lef over, an' plenty o' 'lasses, an' heap o' urr things." George travelled much faster than the lumbering coach in which he had made the best part of his first journey, and he had continuous good weather. On the fourth day, in the afternoon, he shouted delightedly to Billy, "There is the blue water, Billy!" and pointed to a silver line that glittered in the wintry sun. It was the Potomac, and a few miles' riding brought them to Mount Vernon. As George rode up to the broad front porch a girlish figure flew out of the door, and Betty clasped him in her arms. He knew he had always loved Betty, but until then he did not fully realize how dear his only sister was to him. Then there was his brother Laurence—a handsome, military-looking man, but pale and slight in comparison with George, who was a young Hercules in development—and his sister-in-law, a pretty young woman of whom he was fond and proud. And toddling about was little Mildred, whom Betty had taught to say "Uncle George," in anticipation of his arrival. All were delighted to see him; and his brother Laurence, telling him that Admiral Vernon, his old friend, for whom he had changed the name of the plantation to Mount Vernon from Hunting Creek, was visiting him, was for presenting him then and there to the Admiral. But Betty interposed. "Wait until George has changed his clothes, brother, for I am sure he looks much better in his blue cloth jacket and his brocaded waistcoat, made of our mother's wedding-gown; and I want the Admiral to think well of him at first, and— [Pg 995] oh, George has a sword! He thinks he is a man now!" George blushed a little, but he was very willing, boy like, to tell of how Lord Fairfax gave him the rapier, and Laurence and Mrs. Washington and Betty were all delighted, except that Betty wished it had been the one with the diamond hilt, which caused George to sniff at her ignorance. "That was a sword that anybody could buy who had money enough; but this is a sword that has seen service, as Lord Fairfax told me. He wore it at Bouchain." As Betty had never heard of Bouchain before, she very wisely held her peace. But she soon dragged George off up stairs to the little room which was his whenever he staid at Mount Vernon, and where Billy had preceded him with the portmanteau. George was full of questions about his mother and everybody at Ferry Farm, and Betty was full of questions about Greenway Court and Lord Fairfax, so they made but little headway in their mutual inquiries. Suddenly, as George glanced out of the window towards the river, he saw a beautiful black frigate lying at anchor. It was near sunset of a clear December evening, and a pale green light was over the river, the land, and the sky. Every mast was clearly outlined, and her spars were exactly and beautifully squared in true man-of-war style. The union-jack flying from her peak was distinctly visible in the evening light, and the faint echo of the bugle came softly over the water, and died among the wooded hills along the shore. George stood motionless and entranced. It was the first ship of war he had ever seen, and the beauty and majesty of the sight thrilled him to the core of his heart. Betty chattered on glibly. "That is the frigate Bellona. The Captain and officers are here all the time, and some of them are brother Laurence's old friends that he served with at the siege of Cartagena. I expect some of them will be here to supper to-night. Besides Admiral Vernon, who is staying here, are Mr. William Fairfax and his son William," and Betty rattled off a dozen names, showing that the house was full for Christmas. After Betty went out, when George, with Billy's assistance, was putting on his best clothes, he could not keep his eyes from wandering to the window, through which the Bellona was still seen in the waning light, looming up larger as the twilight fell. Presently he saw a boat put off with several officers, which quickly made the Mount Vernon landing. When he was all dressed, with his fine white brocade waistcoat and his paste knee-buckles, he dearly wished to wear his sword, as gentlemen wore swords upon occasions when they were dressed for ceremony. But he felt both shy and modest about it, and at last concluded to leave it in his room. When he went downstairs he found the lower hall brightly illuminated with wax candles and a glorious fire, and decked with holly and mistletoe. It was full of company, several officers being present in uniform, and one tall, handsome, gray-haired officer stood before the hearth talking with Mrs. Laurence Washington. George guessed that to be Admiral Vernon, and his guess was correct. As he descended the last steps, and advanced to where Mrs. Laurence Washington stood, every eye that fell upon him admired him. His journey, his intercourse with a man like Lord Fairfax, and his fencing lessons had improved his air and manner, graceful as both had been before. Mrs. Washington, laying her hand on his shoulder, which was already on a level with the Admiral's, said: "Let me present to you my brother, Mr. George Washington, who has come to spend his Christmas with us." Admiral Vernon glanced at him keenly as he shook hands with him. "My brother has just returned from a visit to the Earl of Fairfax, at Greenway Court, my father's relative"—for Mrs. Washington had been Anne Fairfax of Belvoir. "The Earl has been most kind to him, and honored him by giving him the sword which he wore at the siege of Bouchain." "I believe he entered the town," said Admiral Vernon. "I have often heard of the adventure, and it was most daring." "Why have you not the sword on, George?" asked his sister. "Because—because—" George stammered, and then became hopelessly embarrassed. "Because he is a modest young gentleman," said the Admiral, smiling. George was introduced to many other persons, all older than himself; but presently he recognized William Fairfax, a cousin of his sister's, who had been at Mount Vernon with him the Christmas before. William was a merry youngster, a year or two older than George, but a foot or two shorter. The two boys gravitated together, and, as young gentlemen in those days were expected to be very retiring, they took their places in a corner, and when supper was announced they made up the very tail of the procession towards the dining-room. At supper the three young people—George and Betty and William Fairfax—sat together. The conversation was gay and sprightly until the ladies left, when it grew more serious. "Close up, gentlemen, close up!" cried Laurence Washington, cordially, motioning them to take the seats left vacant by the ladies. George and William Fairfax rose to leave the room then, as boys were not expected to remain on those occasions, but Laurence stopped them. "Stay, George and William; you are both old enough now to be company for men; and especially I desire an account from you, George, of how affairs are progressing at Greenway Court. I hear my Lord Fairfax had to repel an attack from the Indians within the last month. That, Admiral," he continued, turning to Admiral Vernon, "is one of the pleasures which Lord Fairfax exchanged for a residence in England." "How does he stand it, Mr. Washington?" asked Admiral Vernon. "Does he remain in his eyrie among the mountains because he is too proud to acknowledge his loneliness?" "I think not, sir," answered George. "He has a very large, comfortable house, much like a fortress. It is well furnished with everything, including books; my Lord Fairfax is the greatest reader I ever saw. He does not lead an idle life; on the contrary, he takes great interest in public affairs, and is lieutenant of the county. Especially is he concerned about our northwest boundary, and is preparing to have his lands west of the Alleghany Mountains surveyed, I believe, as much in the interest of the country as of his own, for the French are encroaching on that side." Although George spoke with the greatest modesty, it was evident that he understood his subject. It was a deeply interesting one to all present, as it was perfectly well known that the first serious collision between the French and English in America would mean war between France and England. Admiral Vernon and the other officers asked many questions about the temper of the Indians towards the English, the disposition of the French forts, and other matters, to all of which George gave brief but intelligent answers. After an hour spent in conversation at the table the scraping of fiddles was heard in the hall. "Come, gentlemen," cried Laurence, "the ladies are waiting for us; we cannot be so ungallant as to remain here longer." The large room to the right of the entrance had been cleared for dancing, and there, too, were wax candles shining amid Christmas greens, and a Christmas fire blazing on the hearth. On two planks placed across two wooden "crickets" sat Yellow Jake and Lef'-hand Torm, the negro fiddlers, tuning up their instruments and grinning from ear to ear. In every window merry black faces peered with beady eyes and shining ivories; for under the mild and patriarchal rule in Virginia in those days the negroes were considered as humble members of the family, who had a share in all its pleasures, as in all its sorrows. There were many ladies present in hoops and powder, and with stiff brocades that rustled as they walked, and great fans, which they used in dancing the minuet as the gentlemen used their cocked hats. George, in his heart, thought his sister Anne the handsomest of them all, and that in a year or two Betty would be a charmingly pretty girl. As it was, Mistress Betty, in her white sarcenet silk, looked a picture of modest and girlish beauty. She loved to dance; and when George came up, as the gentlemen were selecting their partners, and said, with a smile, "Come, Betty, nobody here wants to dance with a girl and boy like you and me, so we will have to dance together," Betty jumped for joy. "If I had waited, William Fairfax would have asked me to dance," she whispered to George; "but I would much rather dance with you, because you are so much taller and older-looking, and William is such a boy!" William, however, was very gladly accepted later in the evening, when George, on being noticed by the other ladies, who admired his graceful manners and fine appearance, neglected Betty for them, after the manner of very young gentlemen. The first dance was a minuet de la cour, the most graceful and dignified of all dances. Mrs. Washington, dancing with Admiral Vernon, took the head of the room, and motioned George and Betty to take the place opposite to her. The minuet was formed, the fiddlers gave an extra flourish, and the dance began, while the gentlemen bowed so low to every lady that they swept the floor with their cocked hats. Among them all no couple were more graceful and dignified than the boy and girl. Betty danced with the utmost gravity, making her "bow, slip, slide, and pirouette," in the most daintily careful manner. George's noble figure and perfect grace were well adapted to this charming dance, and many compliments were paid both of them, which made Betty smile delightedly and George turn red with pleasure. When the stately minuet was over, the fiddlers struck into Betty's favorite, the "Marquis of Huntley's Rigadoon," which was as jolly and harum-scarum as the minuet was serious and dignified. Betty in her heart liked the rigadoon best, and whispered to George that "William was good enough for the rigadoon." William therefore came forward, and the two had a wild romp to the music of two energetic fiddlers. George was rather shy about asking the ladies, all of whom were older than he, to dance; but having made the plunge, he was accepted, and afterwards poor Betty had no one to depend upon but William Fairfax, who was equally ill off for partners. No one was gayer or more gallant than the gray- haired Admiral Vernon, and the veteran sailor and the boy George divided between them the honors of the evening. The dance stopped early, as the next day was Christmas, and they were sure to be ro...